After a few nights of this new tour, the stage starts to invade Brendon’s dreams. It takes too long to cool down, cold showers and towels on his head and chilling with the guys and the darkness of his bunk can’t – as magic and heavenly and delicious as they all are – can’t take the sparks out of his veins and the fire from his bones. Even when he manages to get his toes to stop twitching and his fingers to settle down, he only falls into half-dreams of bright lights and ecstatic unfamiliar faces in the darkness and the beat.
“Oh, hey.” Jon doesn’t have to look up to know it’s Brendon; his barefoot pad and eye-rubbing and quiet aura of puppy-ish weariness is an empathic signature. Jon half expects him to intone, like a child, ‘I want a glass of water’.
“Dude,” Brendon says, and it’s sleep-slurred and pathetic enough to make Jon glance up from his bass. “Can you throw me that soda?”
Jon yanks his headphones down around his neck. “You trying to wake up or what? It’s three.”
“I know.” Brendon turns that last round syllable into a moan, and covers his eyes. His hair is sticking up in strange places and he’s sagging like a wilting plant, haemorraging psychic distress. “I can’t sleep.”
Before Jon can think, he’s already struggled out of his headphones and guitar strap, ditching them on the couch and practically vaulting the cluttered coffee table to pull Brendon into a hug. Brendon slumps into him, winding his arms around Jon’s neck and nuzzling his face into the curve of Jon’s shoulder, all warm and pliant.
“Come on,” Jon murmurs into Brendon’s hair (tickling his nose, but soft on his lips), and makes to move back toward the couch (arms still around Brendon’s waist), but Brendon doesn’t move.
“Come on.” Firmer this time.
Jon sighs (hyperbole) and tightens his grip on Brendon and hauls him, feet dragging, backwards across the carpet. He can feel Brendon smile into his neck and resists the urge to drop him.
Suddenly, the seat of the couch hits the back of his knees and he can’t stop himself folding backwards, Brendon’s weight toppling him, and then all the wind is being crushed out of him and he’s smothered between sofa cushions and a hundredweight of lead singer in t-shirt and boxers.
“Shit, ow.” Brendon squirms backwards and raises himself off Jon on his elbows. “Ow!”
“Ow.” Brendon makes hurt eyes at Jon and cradles his forehead in one hand. “Hit my head on your bass.” There’s something vaguely accusatory in his tone, but Jon leaves it alone. His knee is between Brendon’s legs, after all. He doesn’t want to get provoked.
“C’mere.” He reaches up to steady Brendon’s head between his hands, and pretends to examine his forehead. Brendon’s breath – hot and morning-flavoured – is going up his nose. His eyebrows are halfway up his forehead, awaiting Jon’s prognosis. Jon tilts his head to one side and makes a face; then grins. “You’ll be fine, Urie, you big baby.” To emphasise it, he pulls Brendon’s head down (not far to go anyway) and plants a big wet kiss on the injured area.
Something about the way Brendon tilts his head up to look him in the eyes, and their noses brush – and the intensity of shared breath and the proximity of their smiles – Jon can almost feel the curve of Brendon’s lips in his own body – and he’s suddenly very aware of Brendon’s weight on him, ribs and hips and legs, and wondering if this might not be just the thing – since he couldn’t find Morpheus either tonight and there’s always been something irresistible about Brendon anyway – and experimentally he slides his knee up between Brendon’s legs and angles his hips up against Brendon’s – and Brendon closes his eyes; lets a hiss of breath escape – so ...
Jon pulls Brendon’s head back down and kisses him, slowly and carefully, hands slipping up into Brendon’s hair, thumbs lightly tracing the curve of his ears. A moment passes; then a noise from the back of Brendon’s throat reverberates through Jon, and he’s being kissed back, hard.
After a few more nights, Brendon finds he has no trouble sleeping. He’ll bounce down all fevered from the stage, sweat sticking his hair and his clothes to his skin and heaven is a bottle of cold water in his hands, down his throat; and with a towel around his neck and his shirt inexplicably missing, Jon’ll appear from nowhere and grab him around the waist and yank him into a kiss just as hot and sweaty as he is.
The thing that lulls Brendon to sleep these days is Jon’s arms around him, and the memory of his kiss.