![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Fic: This is Not the Story of Your Life
This is Not the Story of Your Life
Brendon/Spencer, Jon/Ryan, Pete/Patrick, Frank/Gerard | 4200 words | PG-13
Patrick says, softly, "I'll still have this, right? I mean...I won't forget it all, will I?"
It's not really Brendon's place to tell him how time passes here. No one ever explained it to him, and he'd spent a long time feeling bitter about it until he realized that it wasn't that no one wanted to explain it--it's that no one *could*.
"It's different for everyone," he finally replies slowly, and it's not a lie.
Notes: An AU very, very loosely based on the song "Hotel California" by The Eagles. I started this fic way back in September after watching the acoustic performance over and over late one night. I've always thought the song was about being stuck between life and death (even though the band has stated that the song is about the dark side of Hollywood), and this story somehow came out of that interpretation. It's death!fic, only...not.
Tons of thanks to everyone I threw bits and pieces of this at over the last several months, and to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
siryn99 and adellyna for the beta work.
"The boundaries between life and death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where one ends and where the other begins?"
~ Edgar Allen Poe
As the sun sets he walks out onto the balcony and looks out into distance; rolling desert hills smooth and almost comforting in the dying light. The air is dry and warm, and there is a constant skim of wind against his skin. He takes a deep breath, sucks the air into his lungs, feels his ribs expand and contract. He closes his eyes and sees the fading red through filtered black; he doesn't open them until the sun is completely gone from sight.
A cool hand touches his elbow. "They're starting the party. We'll be late."
Brendon blinks and stares down his hands curled around the wood of the balcony's railing. After several long moments he finally looks over his shoulder at Ryan and says, "Thanks. I'll be down in a minute."
Ryan nods, and Brendon turns back to see the last of the sun disappear into the curved line of the desert horizon.
It always looks the same.
Tonight they're celebrating a new guest, who arrived earlier this morning. There hasn't been anyone new in five months.
Patrick is small and smiles hesitantly, like he's not sure if he should or not. He ducks his head, hiding behind the brim of his hat when Brendon shakes his hand, which is still warm.
"Settled in yet?" Brendon asks.
"I...think so?" Patrick laughs nervously. "My room's huge, and I don't feel like I have enough stuff for it--"
"You'll get used to it." Brendon still remembers when stuff mattered to him, too.
Patrick is soon pulled away by hands eager to touch him and welcome him into the fray. Pete looks especially enamored; he gets Patrick to laugh more than once with words whispered in his ear and ridiculous faces he pulls when a lame eighties song begins to play over the speakers.
"He hasn't done that since Ryan arrived."
Brendon looks over as Spencer leans against the wall beside him, arms crossed, a wine glass filled with water dangling from his right hand. He nods again at Pete. "It's kinda sweet, in a way."
"You heard his story yet?" Brendon asks. The doors from the ballroom into the courtyard stand open several feet away, letting in the cooling desert summer air. The wind ruffles Spencer's hair; it's already getting long again, and Brendon wonders if he should tell him to cut it, if he even notices.
Spencer shrugs. "Something about a truck, maybe? There might've been a girl involved, too, I can't remember all the details. William told Jon, but he was kind of sketchy about it."
It doesn't matter, anyway; eventually, they'll all know the story like they know their own names. But for now, the thrill of mystery threads its way through the party, like a drug settling itself into veins starving for stimulation.
Patrick's genuinely smiling now, his strange celebrity status beginning to sink in. The vague, hazy look in his eyes gradually fades, and Brendon knows he's starting to settle, that irresistible sensation of belonging spreading through him.
Another song is playing--a loud, fast rush of guitars and bass and drums. It goes into the chorus before Patrick pauses and blinks slowly as he gazes up at the speakers. He frowns slightly, as if he's seen someone he can't quite place.
Brendon sighs and leaves the ballroom.
He remembers his first night here, at the hotel. A storm had been raging, dark, fierce sheets of rain pelting his car as he'd pulled into the parking lot, too tired to drive any further. Brendon didn't know how far he'd driven, or how long he had until he arrived at his destination; he only knew that he was tired, bleary-eyed to the point of hallucination.
And Brendon had thought the hotel was just that, a figment of his imagination conjured out of desperation. But he'd braved the downpour and stumbled from his car into the lobby, soaked to the bone. He stood dripping onto the black and white checkered marble, and then...the lights had flickered and gone out, and a warm, feminine voice whispered, "It's good to see you, Brendon. Let's get you dried off."
Brendon doesn't remember much after that moment, only that he had awakened in a bed nearly too soft to be real with his clothes fresh and dry. On the nightstand beside the bed sat a folded piece of parchment paper--an invitation requesting his presence in the master ballroom at eight o'clock.
There had been a soft knock at the bedroom door; Brendon sometimes wonders now why it hadn't been Spencer. Instead, Jon stood in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back, his hair falling in his eyes as he'd smiled gently at Brendon.
"Hey," he'd said, like they were old friends meeting up for dinner. "Ready?"
"I--"
"Jon." He held his hand out for Brendon, and when their palms met, Brendon couldn't help thinking how cold Jon's hand felt.
"I'm--"
"Brendon. From Las Vegas, right?"
His mouth had dropped open, which made Jon laugh.
"I've never been. But gambling's not really my thing." He tugged on Brendon's hand, pulling him through the doorway and into the hall. "C'mon, they're all waiting for you downstairs."
"Who--who's waiting?"
Jon had simply smiled. "Everyone." He winked at him, then lead him down the winding staircase to the ballroom.
Brendon remembers champagne and laughter and a chorus of overlapping voices saying welcome. He remembers meeting Spencer, and how he didn't shake Brendon's hand, only tapped his shoulder and said, not unkindly, "Dazed isn't really a good look for you, but you'll get over it," and Jon, who stood not far behind Spencer, laughed.
No one really explained anything to him that night, but Brendon never thought to ask. It was as if the whys and hows didn't matter; his last thought as he'd fallen into bed that night, buried under soft sheets lining plush blankets of dark blue was that somehow, he'd found his destination.
He finds Patrick wandering the halls on the fifth floor, slowly opening doors at random and peeking inside.
"Lost?" Brendon asks him, and Patrick flushes slightly.
"No, I...was looking for a piano. Or keyboard, something just to make music on?" He laughs, ducking his head. "I feel like I haven't touched an instrument in weeks."
Brendon wants to tell him it's more than likely been longer than that, but instead he smiles and says, "Come with me."
At the end of the hall on the fourth floor is a tiny room with no windows, barely large enough to hold the single upright piano that's covered in a fine layer of dust. As far as Brendon knows, he's the only one that ever plays it.
Patrick runs his hand over the keys and plays a soft C chord. "Who tunes it?" he asks.
"No one. It doesn't need it." Sometimes Brendon finds himself wishing the notes would eventually slide of tune and become sour and dissonant; maybe then he'd stop trying to remember all the songs that no longer come as easily to him as they once did.
Brendon stands over Patrick's shoulder, watching the way Patrick's hands fit into the chords of a simple version of "Hey Jude". He eventually sings the chorus, his voice low and careful, and Brendon feels a hard tug of jealousy that Patrick still remembers all the words.
When Patrick finishes, Brendon says, "You played a lot?"
"Yeah, I did." His shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath. "I was in a band." He looks over his shoulder. "You?"
Brendon shakes his head. "I just loved the piano."
He starts to leave the room, because he knows Patrick is far from done, until Patrick says, softly, "I'll still have this, right? I mean..." He taps his thumb against a G. "I won't forget it all, will I?"
It's not really Brendon's place to tell him how time passes here. No one ever explained it to him, and he'd spent a long time feeling bitter about it until he realized that it wasn't that no one wanted to explain it--it's that no one could.
"It's different for everyone," he finally replies slowly, and it's not a lie. He tries to smile, but it only makes Patrick sigh and look back down at his hands splayed over the keys.
Brendon leaves him alone.
Spencer's in the library, curled up in an armchair with a huge leather-bound copy of Moby Dick.
"He kills the whale," Brendon says, nudging Spencer's knee with his own.
"Yeah, but I keep thinking eventually something will change up, you know?" He doesn't look away, but the corner of his mouth quirks up. He's read this book at least ten times since Brendon's been here.
"Your brain's not that powerful, dude."
"So you think." Spencer finally glances up and narrows his eyes at him. "You okay?"
He shrugs. "I showed Patrick the piano."
Spencer closes the book. "Want to go for a walk?"
He doesn't need to answer; Spencer is already out of the chair, saying, "Come on, the terrace should be empty," as he curls his hand lightly around Brendon's wrist.
The two that have been here the longest are Jon and Gerard. Brendon doesn't know who arrived first, or when, but none of the others have the same look of faded melancholy in their eyes, resigned yet just shy of being unhappy. Once, Brendon had asked Jon where he'd be if he could go back, and Jon had grinned ruefully and replied, "Nowhere. I belong here," as he'd slung an arm around Brendon's shoulders. Brendon believed him.
Every so often Brendon will see Gerard out on the balcony off the main ballroom during a welcoming party, eyes distant and his body still; like Jon, there's an aged feeling to Gerard, even though neither one of them appear old in the least. He'll stand on the balcony, unmoving, until someone, usually Frank, comes up behind him and cups his elbow, letting him know it's time for the welcome speech, which has always been Gerard's duty ("Some call it death, but I call it fate--now or later, we'll all meet here eventually. So tonight, let's all drink to fate." Brendon has it memorized word for word.).
But the difference between Jon and Gerard is that Gerard has Frank. Brendon doesn't know how to define it, really, but he's never had to; everyone knows it. Frank arrived at the hotel not long after Spencer--according to Spencer, he was "so utterly calm about everything, it's like he didn't even blink"--and somehow, he'd gravitated to Gerard. They're never far from one another, and while Brendon has never seen anything as overt as a kiss between them, there are times he's caught Frank watching Gerard with a look in his eyes that's ten times more intimate than any kiss.
"I remind him of someone he knew," Gerard had said quietly one evening as he and Brendon had watched the sun set (Brendon had been new enough at the time to still believe the colors would change). "I'm not, of course, but." He'd sighed. "It's nice to remember what it's like to be wanted, y'know?"
And for some reason Brendon thought of Spencer and the way he kept to Jon, watching him, always careful of his moods.
"Do you love him?" Brendon had asked Spencer abruptly the following night after dinner. Because he’d still been new, he tended to ask things as soon as they came to him.
Spencer had blinked at him, coming to a full stop in the hallway leading from the dining room. "What?"
"Jon. You love him, right? You're like the Frank to his Gerard."
He shook his head slowly. "No, I'm not. Jon doesn't..." Spencer had rubbed at his neck, and his sad, wistful expression gave him away. "He doesn't believe in that. Not anymore."
"Why not?"
"Because he's been here too long," Spencer whispered, and then he'd walked on ahead of Brendon, not looking back.
Ryan had arrived after Brendon, and his reception had been guarded and quiet, as most suicides are; unlike most, they're arriving by choice.
"This isn't what I expected," he'd said to Brendon, frowning at the champagne flute in his hand.
"What, you were wanting pearly gates and a choir of angels?" Brendon asked.
Ryan had rolled his eyes. "I'm an atheist, dude. I guess I just wasn't expecting...anything." He'd sipped his drink carefully and nodded at Pete, who'd been the only one besides Brendon to smile at him the whole evening.
"If you, um, don't mind me asking..." Brendon started fidgeting; he'd hated asking newcomers their story.
"Why'd I do it?" Ryan sighed. "I was stupid and in love and she broke my heart--actually, more like eviscerated it. I...had a moment of weakness." He'd set his mouth in a very firm line, and that was the one and only time Brendon saw regret in his eyes.
"Well. The food is really good here, at least." Brendon had smiled crookedly and laid a hand on Ryan's arm, squeezing gently.
Ryan looked down at his arm. "Your hand's freezing," he'd said, and then he surprised Brendon by smirking at him. "That, for some reason, I expected."
The terrace is quiet and dark, and the air smells like late summer. Just once, Brendon wishes he could smell early spring.
"What did Patrick think of the piano?" Spencer folds his arms over the stone wall looking out over the courtyard, shaking the hair out of his eyes. He voice is careful.
"He loved it. He played 'Hey Jude.'" Brendon hops up onto the wall, left thigh brushing up against Spencer's arm. "I haven't heard that song in forever."
Spencer nods, looking out into the distance. "Although I was always partial to 'Sgt. Pepper's.'" He hums a few nondescript notes; Brendon squints at him in the dark and tries to imagine Spencer from before, with shorter hair and a life, singing along to Beatles' songs in his car on the way to work.
“So are you gonna learn to share?” Spencer eventually asks. “Or was this a one-time deal for the new guy?”
Brendon laughs. “When have you ever known me to be a selfish bastard?”
“I’ve never known you to share your piano.” He grins and punches Brendon’s leg gently. “But that’s good. Pete would eventually show it to him anyway.”
“Probably.” Although they both know Pete likes Brendon too much to do anything behind his back.
Spencer goes very quiet for a moment. “So what made you show him?”
Brendon shrugs. “He looked lost.”
They sit in silence for a moment, and Brendon catches himself straining to hear the sounds of a highway.
“That’s reason enough,” Spencer says softly as he taps the knuckles of his left hand against the seam of Brendon’s jeans.
Brendon doesn’t know where the piano came from; he only knows there was a day when Jon had grabbed his arm and said, “C’mere, I want to show you something,” and lead him down the fourth floor hallway to the tiny room. He didn’t tell anyone right away, not even Spencer, even though he had no reason to assume no one else knew about it. But it felt like his, and for the first time since Brendon had arrived at the hotel, he had ownership of something real, or as real as it would ever be.
Then Ryan came, and for some reason no one could explain, he still had his acoustic guitar with him. The only time Brendon saw him without it in those first few days was the night of his welcoming party.
It was during Ryan’s second night at the hotel that Jon finally saw the guitar, and a slow recognition flared in his eyes. Even though they’d barely spoken, Jon had still walked right up to Ryan and held his hand out tentatively.
“Can I?” Jon asked, and Ryan had smiled.
“Sure,” he’d replied, shrugging off the shoulder strap and handing it to him. “You played, too?”
Jon bit his lip as he curled his left hand around the fret board, fingertips forming half memories of chords as his right hand ghosted over the strings. “It was a long time ago.” He’d attempted a chord of sorts, but it came out stuttered and dissonant.
Ryan shook his head. “Here...” And he’d leaned over Jon and fitted his hands over Jon’s, coaxing him into the right notes. “Better?”
“Sorry, I’m, uh, rusty,” Jon had laughed, and Brendon watched as he’d blushed. He had never imagined Jon to be the kind that blushed.
Spencer had seen it, too, and had quickly looked away. “Wanna shoot some pool?” he asked Brendon over his shoulder, already halfway out of the room.
“It’s different, Spence,” Brendon had called as he’d followed him down the hall. “It’s different, Jon hasn’t seen a guitar in ages--”
“It doesn’t matter.” Spencer spun around and glared fiercely. “None of it does. Jon knows it better than any of us.” His cheeks were just as pink as Jon’s. “Now, are we gonna play pool or what?”
Brendon had wanted to tell Spencer that it didn’t mean he’d had been wrong about anything, but he knew it wasn’t what Spencer wanted to hear. So he’d nodded and said, “Sure. I’ll take solids."
Spencer shot back, “Like fuck you will,” but there was no bite to it at all.
Three days later, he’d taken Spencer to his piano.
“I take requests,” he said with an over-earnest grin, which managed to make Spencer laugh.
“Yeah?” Spencer had traced his initials in the dust along the hood before wiping it clean. “Can you play The Imperial March?”
Brendon stared down at his hands on the keys for a moment, picturing the music in front of him, the pattern of the notes. In the end, he picked out the main chorus with his right hand. Spencer laughed harder and gave him a high-five when Brendon finished.
“Awesome. John Williams would be proud, dude.” He leaned against the piano and beamed at Brendon. “So, Jaws? Or no, wait, Indiana Jones.”
It was almost sunset by the time the two of them left the room.
He’s never seen Ryan and Jon kiss. He doesn’t know if he wants to, because he knows a part of his brain will wonder if maybe it would’ve been Spencer had Ryan not come along.
Brendon has only seen one kiss in his entire time at the hotel, and it happened last week, just before breakfast. He’d come trudging down the stairs from his room, blurry-eyed and barely conscious, and there, at the bottom of the stairs, were Pete and Patrick standing nose to nose, Patrick one step above Pete. They’d been whispering to each other, and Patrick had ducked his head and laughed at something Pete had said. Pete grinned, and then he’d cupped a hand over Patrick’s cheek and leaned up to kiss the corner of Patrick’s mouth. It was gentle, easy, and every inch of Patrick’s skin had gone pink, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he’d leaned closer and kissed Pete back, lining their mouths up more fully. It was still quick and fairly innocent, but Brendon caught the way Pete’s hand slid down Patrick’s chest before linking their hands together.
He wants to believe he’s only forgotten what it’s like to kiss someone like that, but the truth is, Brendon never kissed anyone like that before. He’s never had someone look at him the way Frank looks at Gerard, or flush with happiness whenever he walks into a room the way Patrick does with Pete.
Weeks slip into months (or maybe it’s days into weeks--no one is ever for sure) and soon they’re welcoming another newcomer. Bob Bryar’s story filters through the hotel--freak fire accident, instantaneous, his hand is still blackened and everything--and by the time evening rolls around in time for the party, he’s already acquired the usual celebrity status.
Brendon introduces himself, and he nearly laughs at how frightened Bob looks, even with his size and stern look. He tucks his right hand against his side and shakes with his left, eyes downcast and shy.
"We're not gonna bite," Brendon says gently.
"Yeah, I know." He pulls his hand back, and suddenly glances up when Greta walks by and pats his arm.
"I'm glad you've settled in alright," she says in her smooth, calming voice. Brendon rarely sees her mingle at the parties; Greta is the first one to greet new guests, the first one to learn their story as she helps them get acclimated to their rooms. By the time the welcoming party rolls around, she knows more about them than anyone else in the hotel.
Bob blinks a few times, and then very slowly smiles. "I am, thanks," he whispers, his eyes never leaving her as she floats on by, laughing sweetly at the way Bob's cheeks flush.
"At least he doesn't look like he's going to claw his way out of here anymore," Spencer says with a smirk later as he and Brendon watch Frank try to coax Bob into a tentative conversation while Bob attempts to be subtle as he gazes longingly at Greta across the room.
"Do you ever wonder if it's easier for some here?" Brendon slumps a little further down the wall, elbow pressed against Spencer's. He tries to keep his voice light and casual. "Like...maybe before Bob would never let himself look at a girl like Greta, you know?"
Spencer tips his head back and stares at the luminous crystal chandelier hanging over the ballroom. "I hadn't really thought about it. Besides, that doesn't even make sense." He doesn't look over at Brendon, and there's a note of sadness in his voice.
"Before is before, Spence. We're not supposed to be the same people."
"I know that." He folds his arms over his chest, moving his arm away from Brendon's. "Of course I know that. Maybe that's what makes it harder sometimes."
Brendon bites his lip for a moment and doesn't say anything when he spots Ryan and Jon at the far corner of the room, heads bowed together and laughing. Jon cups the back of Ryan's head and pulls him closer, then kisses Ryan's temple.
Brendon still doesn't say anything when he reaches over and tugs Spencer's hand free, slowly lacing their fingers together. Spencer's palm is cold, as cold as his own.
He doesn't pull away, and Brendon almost laughs in relief.
They stay like that, hands held between them as they take in the party around them, not saying a word, not looking at one another. Eventually Brendon whispers, "I feel like some Jurassic Park." He gives Spencer's hand a tiny squeeze.
Spencer nods. "Me, too." He looks over at Brendon, and while his smile is hesitant and small, it's real. Brendon can almost close his eyes and imagine Spencer smiling like that before he came to the hotel, when he wasn't too scared to want someone who may not want him back.
They leave the party without notice, sneaking out the side door that leads to the stairs. The halls are quite and dark, and soon Brendon can see the door to the little fourth floor room standing open ahead of them.
"Patrick's at it again," Brendon says with a laugh and pulls Spencer after him.
But Spencer doesn't move. He tightens his fingers around Brendon's and stands there in the middle of the hall, eyes narrowed. He's frowning a little.
Brendon licks his lips and swallows. "Spence?"
He frowns harder, and then whispers, "Fuck," under his breath before leaning in and brushing his mouth over Brendon's. He only lingers for a few seconds, and when Spencer ducks his head to break the kiss, their lips make a slick noise that sounds very loud in the darkened hallway.
Brendon refuses to breathe until Spencer speaks. He doesn't have to wait long.
"I." Spencer clears his throat and chews at his lower lip, making it shinier and possibly redder if the lightning weren't so dim. "I never thought I'd do that here. Ever." He scrubs at his hair, and his voice drops into a whisper. "I've been here long enough to know better."
"No, you haven't." He cups Spencer's cheeks and kisses him again, close-mouthed and gentle. His heart is pounding harder than he can ever remember; it all feels brand new. "No one here even knows what 'better' is."
When he leans back, Spencer's no longer frowning, and even in the semi-dark, Brendon can see the flush in his cheeks.
He slides his hand down Spencer's chest, mimicking the same move he saw Pete do to Patrick, and he hopes Spencer remembers what it means, what it promises. Brendon fits their hands together once more and tips his head toward the little room with the piano inside.
"Let me play for you. Whatever you want," he whispers, and he doesn't care if Spencer asks for something he can't recall the notes for anymore. He'll find a way to remember.
"Okay," Spencer says, and lets Brendon tug him down the hallway.
Brendon/Spencer, Jon/Ryan, Pete/Patrick, Frank/Gerard | 4200 words | PG-13
Patrick says, softly, "I'll still have this, right? I mean...I won't forget it all, will I?"
It's not really Brendon's place to tell him how time passes here. No one ever explained it to him, and he'd spent a long time feeling bitter about it until he realized that it wasn't that no one wanted to explain it--it's that no one *could*.
"It's different for everyone," he finally replies slowly, and it's not a lie.
Notes: An AU very, very loosely based on the song "Hotel California" by The Eagles. I started this fic way back in September after watching the acoustic performance over and over late one night. I've always thought the song was about being stuck between life and death (even though the band has stated that the song is about the dark side of Hollywood), and this story somehow came out of that interpretation. It's death!fic, only...not.
Tons of thanks to everyone I threw bits and pieces of this at over the last several months, and to
siryn99 and adellyna for the beta work.~ Edgar Allen Poe
As the sun sets he walks out onto the balcony and looks out into distance; rolling desert hills smooth and almost comforting in the dying light. The air is dry and warm, and there is a constant skim of wind against his skin. He takes a deep breath, sucks the air into his lungs, feels his ribs expand and contract. He closes his eyes and sees the fading red through filtered black; he doesn't open them until the sun is completely gone from sight.
A cool hand touches his elbow. "They're starting the party. We'll be late."
Brendon blinks and stares down his hands curled around the wood of the balcony's railing. After several long moments he finally looks over his shoulder at Ryan and says, "Thanks. I'll be down in a minute."
Ryan nods, and Brendon turns back to see the last of the sun disappear into the curved line of the desert horizon.
It always looks the same.
Tonight they're celebrating a new guest, who arrived earlier this morning. There hasn't been anyone new in five months.
Patrick is small and smiles hesitantly, like he's not sure if he should or not. He ducks his head, hiding behind the brim of his hat when Brendon shakes his hand, which is still warm.
"Settled in yet?" Brendon asks.
"I...think so?" Patrick laughs nervously. "My room's huge, and I don't feel like I have enough stuff for it--"
"You'll get used to it." Brendon still remembers when stuff mattered to him, too.
Patrick is soon pulled away by hands eager to touch him and welcome him into the fray. Pete looks especially enamored; he gets Patrick to laugh more than once with words whispered in his ear and ridiculous faces he pulls when a lame eighties song begins to play over the speakers.
"He hasn't done that since Ryan arrived."
Brendon looks over as Spencer leans against the wall beside him, arms crossed, a wine glass filled with water dangling from his right hand. He nods again at Pete. "It's kinda sweet, in a way."
"You heard his story yet?" Brendon asks. The doors from the ballroom into the courtyard stand open several feet away, letting in the cooling desert summer air. The wind ruffles Spencer's hair; it's already getting long again, and Brendon wonders if he should tell him to cut it, if he even notices.
Spencer shrugs. "Something about a truck, maybe? There might've been a girl involved, too, I can't remember all the details. William told Jon, but he was kind of sketchy about it."
It doesn't matter, anyway; eventually, they'll all know the story like they know their own names. But for now, the thrill of mystery threads its way through the party, like a drug settling itself into veins starving for stimulation.
Patrick's genuinely smiling now, his strange celebrity status beginning to sink in. The vague, hazy look in his eyes gradually fades, and Brendon knows he's starting to settle, that irresistible sensation of belonging spreading through him.
Another song is playing--a loud, fast rush of guitars and bass and drums. It goes into the chorus before Patrick pauses and blinks slowly as he gazes up at the speakers. He frowns slightly, as if he's seen someone he can't quite place.
Brendon sighs and leaves the ballroom.
He remembers his first night here, at the hotel. A storm had been raging, dark, fierce sheets of rain pelting his car as he'd pulled into the parking lot, too tired to drive any further. Brendon didn't know how far he'd driven, or how long he had until he arrived at his destination; he only knew that he was tired, bleary-eyed to the point of hallucination.
And Brendon had thought the hotel was just that, a figment of his imagination conjured out of desperation. But he'd braved the downpour and stumbled from his car into the lobby, soaked to the bone. He stood dripping onto the black and white checkered marble, and then...the lights had flickered and gone out, and a warm, feminine voice whispered, "It's good to see you, Brendon. Let's get you dried off."
Brendon doesn't remember much after that moment, only that he had awakened in a bed nearly too soft to be real with his clothes fresh and dry. On the nightstand beside the bed sat a folded piece of parchment paper--an invitation requesting his presence in the master ballroom at eight o'clock.
There had been a soft knock at the bedroom door; Brendon sometimes wonders now why it hadn't been Spencer. Instead, Jon stood in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back, his hair falling in his eyes as he'd smiled gently at Brendon.
"Hey," he'd said, like they were old friends meeting up for dinner. "Ready?"
"I--"
"Jon." He held his hand out for Brendon, and when their palms met, Brendon couldn't help thinking how cold Jon's hand felt.
"I'm--"
"Brendon. From Las Vegas, right?"
His mouth had dropped open, which made Jon laugh.
"I've never been. But gambling's not really my thing." He tugged on Brendon's hand, pulling him through the doorway and into the hall. "C'mon, they're all waiting for you downstairs."
"Who--who's waiting?"
Jon had simply smiled. "Everyone." He winked at him, then lead him down the winding staircase to the ballroom.
Brendon remembers champagne and laughter and a chorus of overlapping voices saying welcome. He remembers meeting Spencer, and how he didn't shake Brendon's hand, only tapped his shoulder and said, not unkindly, "Dazed isn't really a good look for you, but you'll get over it," and Jon, who stood not far behind Spencer, laughed.
No one really explained anything to him that night, but Brendon never thought to ask. It was as if the whys and hows didn't matter; his last thought as he'd fallen into bed that night, buried under soft sheets lining plush blankets of dark blue was that somehow, he'd found his destination.
He finds Patrick wandering the halls on the fifth floor, slowly opening doors at random and peeking inside.
"Lost?" Brendon asks him, and Patrick flushes slightly.
"No, I...was looking for a piano. Or keyboard, something just to make music on?" He laughs, ducking his head. "I feel like I haven't touched an instrument in weeks."
Brendon wants to tell him it's more than likely been longer than that, but instead he smiles and says, "Come with me."
At the end of the hall on the fourth floor is a tiny room with no windows, barely large enough to hold the single upright piano that's covered in a fine layer of dust. As far as Brendon knows, he's the only one that ever plays it.
Patrick runs his hand over the keys and plays a soft C chord. "Who tunes it?" he asks.
"No one. It doesn't need it." Sometimes Brendon finds himself wishing the notes would eventually slide of tune and become sour and dissonant; maybe then he'd stop trying to remember all the songs that no longer come as easily to him as they once did.
Brendon stands over Patrick's shoulder, watching the way Patrick's hands fit into the chords of a simple version of "Hey Jude". He eventually sings the chorus, his voice low and careful, and Brendon feels a hard tug of jealousy that Patrick still remembers all the words.
When Patrick finishes, Brendon says, "You played a lot?"
"Yeah, I did." His shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath. "I was in a band." He looks over his shoulder. "You?"
Brendon shakes his head. "I just loved the piano."
He starts to leave the room, because he knows Patrick is far from done, until Patrick says, softly, "I'll still have this, right? I mean..." He taps his thumb against a G. "I won't forget it all, will I?"
It's not really Brendon's place to tell him how time passes here. No one ever explained it to him, and he'd spent a long time feeling bitter about it until he realized that it wasn't that no one wanted to explain it--it's that no one could.
"It's different for everyone," he finally replies slowly, and it's not a lie. He tries to smile, but it only makes Patrick sigh and look back down at his hands splayed over the keys.
Brendon leaves him alone.
Spencer's in the library, curled up in an armchair with a huge leather-bound copy of Moby Dick.
"He kills the whale," Brendon says, nudging Spencer's knee with his own.
"Yeah, but I keep thinking eventually something will change up, you know?" He doesn't look away, but the corner of his mouth quirks up. He's read this book at least ten times since Brendon's been here.
"Your brain's not that powerful, dude."
"So you think." Spencer finally glances up and narrows his eyes at him. "You okay?"
He shrugs. "I showed Patrick the piano."
Spencer closes the book. "Want to go for a walk?"
He doesn't need to answer; Spencer is already out of the chair, saying, "Come on, the terrace should be empty," as he curls his hand lightly around Brendon's wrist.
The two that have been here the longest are Jon and Gerard. Brendon doesn't know who arrived first, or when, but none of the others have the same look of faded melancholy in their eyes, resigned yet just shy of being unhappy. Once, Brendon had asked Jon where he'd be if he could go back, and Jon had grinned ruefully and replied, "Nowhere. I belong here," as he'd slung an arm around Brendon's shoulders. Brendon believed him.
Every so often Brendon will see Gerard out on the balcony off the main ballroom during a welcoming party, eyes distant and his body still; like Jon, there's an aged feeling to Gerard, even though neither one of them appear old in the least. He'll stand on the balcony, unmoving, until someone, usually Frank, comes up behind him and cups his elbow, letting him know it's time for the welcome speech, which has always been Gerard's duty ("Some call it death, but I call it fate--now or later, we'll all meet here eventually. So tonight, let's all drink to fate." Brendon has it memorized word for word.).
But the difference between Jon and Gerard is that Gerard has Frank. Brendon doesn't know how to define it, really, but he's never had to; everyone knows it. Frank arrived at the hotel not long after Spencer--according to Spencer, he was "so utterly calm about everything, it's like he didn't even blink"--and somehow, he'd gravitated to Gerard. They're never far from one another, and while Brendon has never seen anything as overt as a kiss between them, there are times he's caught Frank watching Gerard with a look in his eyes that's ten times more intimate than any kiss.
"I remind him of someone he knew," Gerard had said quietly one evening as he and Brendon had watched the sun set (Brendon had been new enough at the time to still believe the colors would change). "I'm not, of course, but." He'd sighed. "It's nice to remember what it's like to be wanted, y'know?"
And for some reason Brendon thought of Spencer and the way he kept to Jon, watching him, always careful of his moods.
"Do you love him?" Brendon had asked Spencer abruptly the following night after dinner. Because he’d still been new, he tended to ask things as soon as they came to him.
Spencer had blinked at him, coming to a full stop in the hallway leading from the dining room. "What?"
"Jon. You love him, right? You're like the Frank to his Gerard."
He shook his head slowly. "No, I'm not. Jon doesn't..." Spencer had rubbed at his neck, and his sad, wistful expression gave him away. "He doesn't believe in that. Not anymore."
"Why not?"
"Because he's been here too long," Spencer whispered, and then he'd walked on ahead of Brendon, not looking back.
Ryan had arrived after Brendon, and his reception had been guarded and quiet, as most suicides are; unlike most, they're arriving by choice.
"This isn't what I expected," he'd said to Brendon, frowning at the champagne flute in his hand.
"What, you were wanting pearly gates and a choir of angels?" Brendon asked.
Ryan had rolled his eyes. "I'm an atheist, dude. I guess I just wasn't expecting...anything." He'd sipped his drink carefully and nodded at Pete, who'd been the only one besides Brendon to smile at him the whole evening.
"If you, um, don't mind me asking..." Brendon started fidgeting; he'd hated asking newcomers their story.
"Why'd I do it?" Ryan sighed. "I was stupid and in love and she broke my heart--actually, more like eviscerated it. I...had a moment of weakness." He'd set his mouth in a very firm line, and that was the one and only time Brendon saw regret in his eyes.
"Well. The food is really good here, at least." Brendon had smiled crookedly and laid a hand on Ryan's arm, squeezing gently.
Ryan looked down at his arm. "Your hand's freezing," he'd said, and then he surprised Brendon by smirking at him. "That, for some reason, I expected."
The terrace is quiet and dark, and the air smells like late summer. Just once, Brendon wishes he could smell early spring.
"What did Patrick think of the piano?" Spencer folds his arms over the stone wall looking out over the courtyard, shaking the hair out of his eyes. He voice is careful.
"He loved it. He played 'Hey Jude.'" Brendon hops up onto the wall, left thigh brushing up against Spencer's arm. "I haven't heard that song in forever."
Spencer nods, looking out into the distance. "Although I was always partial to 'Sgt. Pepper's.'" He hums a few nondescript notes; Brendon squints at him in the dark and tries to imagine Spencer from before, with shorter hair and a life, singing along to Beatles' songs in his car on the way to work.
“So are you gonna learn to share?” Spencer eventually asks. “Or was this a one-time deal for the new guy?”
Brendon laughs. “When have you ever known me to be a selfish bastard?”
“I’ve never known you to share your piano.” He grins and punches Brendon’s leg gently. “But that’s good. Pete would eventually show it to him anyway.”
“Probably.” Although they both know Pete likes Brendon too much to do anything behind his back.
Spencer goes very quiet for a moment. “So what made you show him?”
Brendon shrugs. “He looked lost.”
They sit in silence for a moment, and Brendon catches himself straining to hear the sounds of a highway.
“That’s reason enough,” Spencer says softly as he taps the knuckles of his left hand against the seam of Brendon’s jeans.
Brendon doesn’t know where the piano came from; he only knows there was a day when Jon had grabbed his arm and said, “C’mere, I want to show you something,” and lead him down the fourth floor hallway to the tiny room. He didn’t tell anyone right away, not even Spencer, even though he had no reason to assume no one else knew about it. But it felt like his, and for the first time since Brendon had arrived at the hotel, he had ownership of something real, or as real as it would ever be.
Then Ryan came, and for some reason no one could explain, he still had his acoustic guitar with him. The only time Brendon saw him without it in those first few days was the night of his welcoming party.
It was during Ryan’s second night at the hotel that Jon finally saw the guitar, and a slow recognition flared in his eyes. Even though they’d barely spoken, Jon had still walked right up to Ryan and held his hand out tentatively.
“Can I?” Jon asked, and Ryan had smiled.
“Sure,” he’d replied, shrugging off the shoulder strap and handing it to him. “You played, too?”
Jon bit his lip as he curled his left hand around the fret board, fingertips forming half memories of chords as his right hand ghosted over the strings. “It was a long time ago.” He’d attempted a chord of sorts, but it came out stuttered and dissonant.
Ryan shook his head. “Here...” And he’d leaned over Jon and fitted his hands over Jon’s, coaxing him into the right notes. “Better?”
“Sorry, I’m, uh, rusty,” Jon had laughed, and Brendon watched as he’d blushed. He had never imagined Jon to be the kind that blushed.
Spencer had seen it, too, and had quickly looked away. “Wanna shoot some pool?” he asked Brendon over his shoulder, already halfway out of the room.
“It’s different, Spence,” Brendon had called as he’d followed him down the hall. “It’s different, Jon hasn’t seen a guitar in ages--”
“It doesn’t matter.” Spencer spun around and glared fiercely. “None of it does. Jon knows it better than any of us.” His cheeks were just as pink as Jon’s. “Now, are we gonna play pool or what?”
Brendon had wanted to tell Spencer that it didn’t mean he’d had been wrong about anything, but he knew it wasn’t what Spencer wanted to hear. So he’d nodded and said, “Sure. I’ll take solids."
Spencer shot back, “Like fuck you will,” but there was no bite to it at all.
Three days later, he’d taken Spencer to his piano.
“I take requests,” he said with an over-earnest grin, which managed to make Spencer laugh.
“Yeah?” Spencer had traced his initials in the dust along the hood before wiping it clean. “Can you play The Imperial March?”
Brendon stared down at his hands on the keys for a moment, picturing the music in front of him, the pattern of the notes. In the end, he picked out the main chorus with his right hand. Spencer laughed harder and gave him a high-five when Brendon finished.
“Awesome. John Williams would be proud, dude.” He leaned against the piano and beamed at Brendon. “So, Jaws? Or no, wait, Indiana Jones.”
It was almost sunset by the time the two of them left the room.
He’s never seen Ryan and Jon kiss. He doesn’t know if he wants to, because he knows a part of his brain will wonder if maybe it would’ve been Spencer had Ryan not come along.
Brendon has only seen one kiss in his entire time at the hotel, and it happened last week, just before breakfast. He’d come trudging down the stairs from his room, blurry-eyed and barely conscious, and there, at the bottom of the stairs, were Pete and Patrick standing nose to nose, Patrick one step above Pete. They’d been whispering to each other, and Patrick had ducked his head and laughed at something Pete had said. Pete grinned, and then he’d cupped a hand over Patrick’s cheek and leaned up to kiss the corner of Patrick’s mouth. It was gentle, easy, and every inch of Patrick’s skin had gone pink, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he’d leaned closer and kissed Pete back, lining their mouths up more fully. It was still quick and fairly innocent, but Brendon caught the way Pete’s hand slid down Patrick’s chest before linking their hands together.
He wants to believe he’s only forgotten what it’s like to kiss someone like that, but the truth is, Brendon never kissed anyone like that before. He’s never had someone look at him the way Frank looks at Gerard, or flush with happiness whenever he walks into a room the way Patrick does with Pete.
Weeks slip into months (or maybe it’s days into weeks--no one is ever for sure) and soon they’re welcoming another newcomer. Bob Bryar’s story filters through the hotel--freak fire accident, instantaneous, his hand is still blackened and everything--and by the time evening rolls around in time for the party, he’s already acquired the usual celebrity status.
Brendon introduces himself, and he nearly laughs at how frightened Bob looks, even with his size and stern look. He tucks his right hand against his side and shakes with his left, eyes downcast and shy.
"We're not gonna bite," Brendon says gently.
"Yeah, I know." He pulls his hand back, and suddenly glances up when Greta walks by and pats his arm.
"I'm glad you've settled in alright," she says in her smooth, calming voice. Brendon rarely sees her mingle at the parties; Greta is the first one to greet new guests, the first one to learn their story as she helps them get acclimated to their rooms. By the time the welcoming party rolls around, she knows more about them than anyone else in the hotel.
Bob blinks a few times, and then very slowly smiles. "I am, thanks," he whispers, his eyes never leaving her as she floats on by, laughing sweetly at the way Bob's cheeks flush.
"At least he doesn't look like he's going to claw his way out of here anymore," Spencer says with a smirk later as he and Brendon watch Frank try to coax Bob into a tentative conversation while Bob attempts to be subtle as he gazes longingly at Greta across the room.
"Do you ever wonder if it's easier for some here?" Brendon slumps a little further down the wall, elbow pressed against Spencer's. He tries to keep his voice light and casual. "Like...maybe before Bob would never let himself look at a girl like Greta, you know?"
Spencer tips his head back and stares at the luminous crystal chandelier hanging over the ballroom. "I hadn't really thought about it. Besides, that doesn't even make sense." He doesn't look over at Brendon, and there's a note of sadness in his voice.
"Before is before, Spence. We're not supposed to be the same people."
"I know that." He folds his arms over his chest, moving his arm away from Brendon's. "Of course I know that. Maybe that's what makes it harder sometimes."
Brendon bites his lip for a moment and doesn't say anything when he spots Ryan and Jon at the far corner of the room, heads bowed together and laughing. Jon cups the back of Ryan's head and pulls him closer, then kisses Ryan's temple.
Brendon still doesn't say anything when he reaches over and tugs Spencer's hand free, slowly lacing their fingers together. Spencer's palm is cold, as cold as his own.
He doesn't pull away, and Brendon almost laughs in relief.
They stay like that, hands held between them as they take in the party around them, not saying a word, not looking at one another. Eventually Brendon whispers, "I feel like some Jurassic Park." He gives Spencer's hand a tiny squeeze.
Spencer nods. "Me, too." He looks over at Brendon, and while his smile is hesitant and small, it's real. Brendon can almost close his eyes and imagine Spencer smiling like that before he came to the hotel, when he wasn't too scared to want someone who may not want him back.
They leave the party without notice, sneaking out the side door that leads to the stairs. The halls are quite and dark, and soon Brendon can see the door to the little fourth floor room standing open ahead of them.
"Patrick's at it again," Brendon says with a laugh and pulls Spencer after him.
But Spencer doesn't move. He tightens his fingers around Brendon's and stands there in the middle of the hall, eyes narrowed. He's frowning a little.
Brendon licks his lips and swallows. "Spence?"
He frowns harder, and then whispers, "Fuck," under his breath before leaning in and brushing his mouth over Brendon's. He only lingers for a few seconds, and when Spencer ducks his head to break the kiss, their lips make a slick noise that sounds very loud in the darkened hallway.
Brendon refuses to breathe until Spencer speaks. He doesn't have to wait long.
"I." Spencer clears his throat and chews at his lower lip, making it shinier and possibly redder if the lightning weren't so dim. "I never thought I'd do that here. Ever." He scrubs at his hair, and his voice drops into a whisper. "I've been here long enough to know better."
"No, you haven't." He cups Spencer's cheeks and kisses him again, close-mouthed and gentle. His heart is pounding harder than he can ever remember; it all feels brand new. "No one here even knows what 'better' is."
When he leans back, Spencer's no longer frowning, and even in the semi-dark, Brendon can see the flush in his cheeks.
He slides his hand down Spencer's chest, mimicking the same move he saw Pete do to Patrick, and he hopes Spencer remembers what it means, what it promises. Brendon fits their hands together once more and tips his head toward the little room with the piano inside.
"Let me play for you. Whatever you want," he whispers, and he doesn't care if Spencer asks for something he can't recall the notes for anymore. He'll find a way to remember.
"Okay," Spencer says, and lets Brendon tug him down the hallway.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Page 1 of 2