Title: One night stand(off)
Fandom: My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Characters: Brendon Urie/Gerard Way
Rating: Teen
Length: 1,808 words
Content notes: Contains swearwords, allusions to internalised homophobia, angst
Author notes: Title stolen(ish) from Fall Out Boy's Thnks fr th mmrs
Summary: Gerard's too tired and too done to be dealing with someone else's morning after regrets. Assuming that's what this is...

The soft brush of lips against his temple tickles, and it’s that more than anything else that drags Gerard out of sleep; conditioning from too many years of Mikey needing to resort to desperate measures to rouse him kicking in. He opens his eyes, blinking blearily, and immediately wishes that he hadn’t. The curtains are still blessedly drawn in his room, but he’s never gotten around to buying the blackout blinds he keeps promising himself, and the light that’s bleeding in around the edges has that sharp tint that’s reserved for disgustingly early mornings. A beam of it is falling directly across his pillow, and by extension also directly over his face. It stabs in straight through his eyeballs to create a sensation that Gerard suspects is akin to having red-hot needles driven directly into his brain. The whole experience is enough to make him painfully nostalgic for his basement.

He groans, screwing his eyes shut and making an uncoordinated grasp for the curtain in a desperate attempt to make it stop, and his flailing arm smacks against something warm, soft and solid that makes him stop in his tracks, completely nonplussed for a second, before he remembers.

Oh, right. The kiss. Someone kissed him.

Gerard squints up at the guy – because it’s definitely a guy – who he’s only just realising is not Mikey. He has the same shock of dark hair and similar enough wire-rimmed glasses, sure, but where Mikey’s hair is artfully and painstakingly styled, this guy’s is just rumpled. He’s tiny where Mikey is tall, and clearly active where Mikey is still; even in the dim half-light, Gerard can see how he’s almost vibrating, rocking back on his heels without moving from his spot, and although most of his face is indistinguishable in the shadow, he’s biting down on his bottom lip with enough of an exaggeration that Gerard can’t miss it.

He doesn’t seem dangerous, but. Gerard has no idea what he’s doing here, standing over the bed like a reluctant serial killer. He should probably be more concerned than he is, but it’s early, his head feels like there’s a jackhammer pounding away at the back of it, and his mouth’s furry and gross, like something crawled in there and died while he was sleeping. He needs at least one coffee and a smoke before he has any chance of getting a full-blown panic going.

Plus which, he’s running through the night before in his head and, sure, his memories are pretty hazy – in Gerard’s experience, an obscenely excessive number of shots will do that – but he’s getting snapshots. Of Frank giggling, Mikey rolling his eyes and Ray smiling indulgently, sure, and a club with an appalling exorbitant entry fee that he’d have balked at paying if he’d been even halfway to sober. There was a band too, he thinks, raw and primal and brimming with a feral energy that they’d used to drag the crowd screaming into the night with them. He’d lost Frank and Mikey to the pit, maybe, and Ray to god only knows what, but he’d found…something. No, not something. Someone, with dark eyes and a blinding smile; someone who was a brightly enthusiastic stream of consciousness that had been inexplicably charming in the club, and equally inexplicably hot as fuck later, when they’d tumbled down together onto his crumpled bedsheets.

Unless his memories are lying, which is always a possibility, there is only one inescapable conclusion. Gerard got lucky last night.

“Shit,” the guy – Brendon, his name is Brendon; Gerard’s hit with a memory of Brendon’s voice loud in his ear over the heavy bass and throbbing drums, his arm a comfortable weight around Gerard’s waist, and his breath hot and wet against Gerard’s cheek – half-whispers. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to wake you. I just, I’ve got to go.”

Gerard pushes himself up clumsily onto his elbows, before he reaches out again and finally tugs the curtain across the offending sunbeam with a sigh of relief. His bedside lamp is much softer, deliberately so, and Gerard clicks it on with a profound gratitude to his past self, who had clearly been thinking about mornings just like this when he’d set it up. Brendon’s staring at him, wide-eyed and wary now that the light has caught him, and his mouth is twisted a little unhappily.

Gerard sighs, just a long, heavy breath out through his nostrils, as something cold and heavy sinks low in his stomach. He’d been caught up enough in last night’s memories that he hasn’t really considered the implications of this morning’s sneaking. Admittedly, it’s not the first time he’s had that type of look aimed at him, but he’d kind of been hoping the last time was behind him. He gets that he’s maybe not the greatest catch once the booze wears off, but whatever. Morning after regrets are still the absolute fucking worst, and he’s really not in the mood for the awkward brush-off dance today.

Not when he can still feel the aching reminder of Brendon’s thumbs digging hard into his hipbones.

“You want coffee?” It’s what he means to ask, but the connection between his brain and his mouth is still caffeine deprived, and what comes out is more “C’ffee?” with a half inquisitive, half-hopeful lift. Brendon just scrubs a hand through his messy hair, and laughs, a little shakily and nothing like the full, delighted laugh Gerard hazily remembers from last night.

“Can’t,” he says quickly, with just a shade of regret that Gerard wasn’t expecting. “They’ll- I mean, it’s not a good idea. I really do need to go.”

There’s an urgency to his voice that Gerard can’t square with this early on a Sunday morning. Seriously, who the fuck needs to be anywhere urgently at this godforsaken time of day? As far as Gerard’s concerned, Sunday mornings are for sleeping, sleeping, coffee, and then maybe more sleeping.

Then again, who’s he to judge? Maybe Brendon’s a heart surgeon on rota for today; how would Gerard even know? He’s pretty sure they didn’t spend that much of last night talking about their life goals and aspirations. Not if the ache in his jaw and the faint burn around his mouth are any indication.

“’Kay,” is all he says, thick with sleep and his eyes slipping half-closed again, and, honestly, he’s expecting Brendon to take it as permission to bolt given how hard he’s vibrating on the spot, but Brendon hesitates, twisting his fingers in front of him like he’s trying to tie his knuckles into an intricate knot. He looks torn; conflicting emotions flittering across his expression, and Gerard is way too tired for this shit, but he’s fairly sure he catches regret again, dismay and, maybe, is that… longing?

It’s enough to make him wonder, briefly, whether Brendon’s morning-after regrets have anything at all to do with him, but that’s just wishful thinking. Gerard’s not a kid anymore, and he doesn’t need to fall down that rabbit hole again. If Brendon wants to go, Gerard needs him to just go. In his experience, the hurt fades quicker if the band-aid comes off fast.

He forces one eye fully open, quirks his mouth in a smile he’s pretty sure comes out crooked, and waves his hand at Brendon permissively. “S’fine, go. Imma go back t’sleep.”

He has no idea what it is about what he said, but it clearly resonates with Brendon. He finally stills, his mouth thinning to a resolute line, and he’s obviously settled some shit that needed settling in his head. Gerard’s all for it - whatever Brendon needs to do to get his show on the road is fine with him - and he’s expecting Brendon to make a move for the door. He’s not expecting Brendon to step forward, fist his fingers into the cotton of Gerard’s shirt, and kiss the hell out of him.

Brendon kisses like he’s dying of thirst and Gerard’s a cool drink of water; hungry and intense and determined. He’s a whirlwind contradiction; a hard press of soft lips, the teasing flick of his tongue against the seam of Gerard’s mouth interspersed with sharp nips on Gerard’s bottom lip. Gerard flails for a heartbeat, caught off guard and scrambling to catch up, before he latches on in turn, one hand on Brendon’s shoulder, the other curling around the back of his neck, where the fuzz of his hair tickles delightfully against Gerard’s fingertips. Brendon tilts his head, just a fraction, but an undeniable request, and Gerard just… gives in, letting his mouth fall open.

It can’t be that pleasant; Brendon’s got a minty fresh hint to his breath that suggests he at least hunted down Gerard’s toothpaste before he woke him, whereas Gerard’s own mouth tastes like ass, and his morning breath must be killer. Brendon seems utterly undeterred though, clearly going all in and kissing with a fervour that’s so good it hurts. Gerard can’t stop himself from kissing back, clumsy and uncoordinated, but there, and it’s obviously what Brendon was looking for, because he hums happily against Gerard’s mouth in a way that makes Gerard’s lips buzz and his eyes roll back, and just kisses him harder. It seems to go on forever, while simultaneously lasting no time at all, and Gerard’s powerless to stop the way his whine chases after Brendon when he finally pulls back. He doesn’t want it to be over; he’s half hard in his shorts, and they’re both panting hard, breath mixing as Brendon’s eyes slip closed with a shudder that makes Gerard’s cock twitch.

“Whatever you think this is about, later, it’s not you,” Brendon says fiercely, his breath and his words washing hot and insistent over Gerard’s lips. “You’re amazing, okay, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have- I just, I couldn’t-”

He pulls back enough to look at Gerard, his eyes wide and searching, but all Gerard can do is meet his gaze blankly, until Brendon drops his eyes, stepping away from the bed and leaving nothing but cold air in his wake. Gerard can’t process; his mind is reeling, like every circuit in his brain is misfiring at the same time, and his thoughts are scattered like ashes in a stiff breeze. He’s missing something here, he knows he is, but he’s too sleepy and too hungover, his whole body still thrumming from the aftermath of that kiss, to work out what it is. He’d figured this was a blow-off; it had looked like a blow-off, with Brendon creeping out of his room under the cover of dawn, but…

No-one kisses like that as a blow-off. Jesus, even Gerard’s toes are tingling.

He’s not quick enough. By the time he’s convinced his brain to come back online and give him half a chance of figuring this out, Brendon’s already gone.