Far Too Young To Die // brallon

two

It's warm when Brendon wakes up. He feels quite nice underneath the blanket, legs tangled with someone else's. There's a hand in his hair, another on his hip, and his hand is resting on someone's chest. Half of his body is rested on the other, in fact. 

He remembers last night very quickly and how Dallon is the one who's holding him. His grip is loose, so Brendon's mind flips the situation.

He forced him to stay and sleep with him, he's probably gonna wake up and be so uncomfortable and it'll be awkward forever.

Brendon pushes himself carefully out of bed, rubbing his tired eyes. He finds his coat and grabs his wallet, but leaves his phone, kicking it when it falls to the floor from grabbing his wallet. It lands beneath the bed and he puts on his shoes. He goes to the bathroom to find the little metal friend he hides from the rest of the band, and puts it in his front jean pocket. He avoids looking in the mirror as he turns off the lights.

He leaves the hotel room, hurrying out of the hotel itself and down the street. No one is walking down the streets. They're not in Vegas, they're not just in a place where everyone is awake. High off of the bright lights and drugs being your best friends. Brendon stopped paying attention as to where they are, stopped counting the days since they've been on tour, but he does know one thing: 

It's been 3 and a half years since he fell in love with Dallon. Met August of 2009, wrote many songs about him without anyone knowing -- though Spencer did suspect that they're about Ryan -- and is continuing to write songs about him. Small, unfinished choruses and bridges, nothing fully making sense. Though, that makes sense in the end. Nothing makes sense. Not his love for Dallon, not his lyrics, not his thoughts, nothing. 

Brendon reaches into his pocket and pulls out the pack of cigarettes, then sighs when he realizes that he's out. He throws it away in a garbage outside of a small convenient store, then walks in while already feeling on edge. The worker behind the counter is focused on something on the television, so Brendon takes a deep breath and makes his way to the correct aisle.

He looks over his shoulder repeatedly, scared that someone will see him. He's not sure who, but someone. Maybe Dallon, maybe Luke, either way, he's anxious.

He grabs two small packages of gauze roll bandages and keeps his head low, putting them on the counter. 

Brendon pays for them and a pack of cigarettes and is soon walking back out into the chill February air, making his way towards a motel. A man outside eyes him down as he walks across the street, watching him check into a room.

It doesn't take long for him to get inside a room and slides his jeans down to his knees as he sits on the bed. Locked door, TV on a random channel, curtains pulled together, blade in between fingers. 

"I deserve this," Brendon whispers, bringing the blade to his thighs. He begins to cut, adding 5 each time he thinks of Dallon. He cuts and cuts and cuts, then moves to his arms until his arms and thighs are all bloody. He grabs the bandages and wraps it all up, blood smearing and bleeding through the white. He doesn't bother cleaning it up, because when he takes it off, the dried blood will make it hurt and in his mind he deserves the pain. 

He pulls his jeans back up and rolls his sleeves back down, grabbing his lighter. He reaches for the cigarettes, but instead lights the lighter. He keeps it lit for about 30 seconds, then presses it against the palm of his left hand. Brendon gasps and holds his breath, whimpering from the pain. He does it repeatedly; Light the lighter, keep it lit, burn his hand, repeat.

He stops and finally lights a cigarette, shaky fingers bringing it up to his lips. He's crying and shaking. It's been a while since he cut. He doesn't cut too deep, they don't leave noticeable scars that way.

He looks around after a few minutes whilst rocking back and forth and sighs. They're not here for tours, they're here for meetings. Luke has been tempted to send Brendon and Dallon out somewhere alone to get some songs written. They have a few already: Girls/Girls/Boys, Vegas Lights, Miss Jackson, Collar Full, and This Is Gospel. The last two were a little weird for Brendon because Dallon helped with them but didn't realize that Brendon wrote them with him in mind. 

Brendon has a few more that he hasn't really told the others about yet. Girl That You Love, Nicotine, The End Of All Things, and Casual Affair. He needs one more, no one would be happy with 9 songs on an album. 

He rustles around the drawer for a notepad and a pen, beginning to get at work. He has created a small tune and has some random lyrics in mind, so he starts writing them down. This is gonna be a while.

When Dallon wakes up, he feels cold but also a little agitated. There's a phone ringing, so he stands up.

"Brendon, your phone is ringing," he says tiredly, but quickly realizes that he's not in the room or the bathroom. He locates the phone, reaching under the bed and grabbing it. Luke's calling. He answers it.

"Brendon, I—"

"Brendon's not here," Dallon says tiredly while he rubs his eyes. He looks at the bed, then the clock. It's 8:46 AM. Brendon woke up and left at 5:15, but no one knows that. 

"What? Well, where is he?"

"I don't know, he's never left without his phone before," Dallon says, worry starting to fill him. "Does Spencer know?"

"No, he's the one who was asking me."

Dallon's heart sinks. No one knows where he is. 

"Oh," is all he can say. "What... what do we do?"

"I guess we just stay here and wait. I mean, he has to come back eventually."

"Okay, yeah. Well, if I see him I'll tell you." 

They end the call and Dallon sighs worriedly.

"Oh, Brendon, what did you get yourself into now?"