[ The Process ] - William Beckett & Brendon Urie - Oneshot

Sometimes love is virtually the last thing on my mind. Sometimes lust is all that matters, even if it means that Brendon cries in our steamy bathroom after he showers, and I can hear him whisper to himself. Short words, they are, with adjectives like "fucking" and nouns like "hate." Once in a while as I twirl my tangle of keys around my fingers half-heartedly, I can hear him throw in a verb like "kill." That's when I know I need to leave.

That's when I put my cigarette back to my lips and I just turn around to leave.

It hurts though, to be honest. Travis calls my cell phone which I have on vibrate. It's just a text and I text him back, over the sobs of my boyfriend in the bathroom, and I tell him that I'll meet him later. It's hard to just walk out when Brendon is crying. It's hard. I don't want to hurt him anymore.

What is he doing here? He doesn't deserve to be in this apartment full of pain, where lies run down the walls. He doesn't deserve to come home to stacked dishes in the sink and empty bottles of alcohol spread around the kitchen. No... Brendon deserves something much more glorious. But when he walks out of the bathroom and doesn't look at me, just dabbing his eyes with his fingers, I know that he doesn't know what he wants. Not for dinner, not for the rest of this stage of his life.

I ask him what he's doing as he wanders over to the kitchen counter and rummages through some envelopes and junk mail. He says, "Nothing."

I go over to him and wrap my arms around his bare waist, still somewhat humid and wet from his shower, but he smells so amazing. I can see him hastily shove away the mail, which is undoubtedly full of overdue bills to pay. Some of the papers are colorful and I wonder if that really is the bank's saddest attempt to get us to pay up. We won't. We just can't. It's just not in these cards that I've dealt us.

Brendon sniffs back some tears that I know are threatening to fall. I know he's about to cry again and yet I can still just hold him like this, like it's part of the daily routine. It is. Did I mention that Brendon doesn't deserve this? What Brendon needs is a boy to hold him no matter what, and to wipe away his tears when he needs it most. Me? I just brush it off. I can't stand to see him cry anymore. Not because I hate hurting him, but because it's becoming another part of the loathed nine-to-five routine.

And my hands spring off of his skin, and he jumps a little, maybe after becoming relaxed by my touch. He turns around quickly, his brown eyes fearful that I'm going to leave. I watch him, and he makes me so sad. He's bringing tears to my eyes now so I whisper, "Don't do this, baby."

But his eyes aren't what are watching me. His lips are all that want attention. His eyes get all the action in this apartment; all the crying, the swelling, the energy it takes to stay open at night. But his lips, they don't do a thing. All he wants is for me to kiss him. Just fucking kiss him, William, what the hell could it hurt? And it's like holding a bag of puppy chow in front of a starving puppy...and then walking away with it. I feel like the worst person in the world. No. I am. I'm going to hell for this one.

I take two steps back and hope that in some alternate world of forgiveness, maybe this can be a step forward. I look into his pretty brown eyes and whisper, "I don't love you, Brendon. Not anymore."

He knows where I'm going, but maybe he had some doubt. Maybe he thought I really was going to hang out with my band for a while and maybe I'd really be home by ten like I always say. Maybe I just crushed all his hope. Maybe this is the end.

Brendon kind of collapses onto the counter and he cries toward the cheap linoleum floor. Even when he's crying (though it shouldn't matter, because he always is these days), he's beautiful. He's fucking flawless. Absolutely gorgeous. So why do I cheat on him? Why do I have to hurt him like this? I could have a perfect life. I could have it made. But it doesn't matter. Because there's a pack of cigarettes and an equally beautiful boy named Travis waiting for me at the apartment eight blocks down.

So I shoot some more smoke out from between my lips because Brendon hates it. It stings his already flaming eyes. And I leave that apartment once again, closing the door in the same old style, where I can hear the sobs escape from behind the paper-thin door. I listen for a second or two, then I leave, down the squeaking elevator, through the doors to the building, and into my beat up car.

Travis is more than discontent with me when I finally ring the door to his little home. It's an adorable house and it must look like an awful sin to what we do in it close to every night. The way the cute country curtains Travis' mom bought for him sway so well with the way our clothes drop to the floor. And the central air conditioning hums in unison with our moans and the lights are dimmed to the exact degree to bring out the biggest contrast of our skin. And there in the kitchen, we make love like it's all that can save us. Like it's all that keeps us going.

And in a way, it completely is.

When I leave Travis' house, I always feel dirtier than any human can possibly feel. Dirtier than the children walking the streets in third world countries. Dirtier than the average businessman that gets blowjobs before heading to the office, after eating cereal with the wife and kids. I'm minimally comforted though by the way the stars twinkle tonight. They can dance off my still slightly sweaty skin. They are so beautiful and clean and untouchable. Everything I wish I was. I've grown to hate this skin that my bones so wearily hold up. I hate these hands that experiment with everything; the kind of hands that touch every single shirt they pass in the department store, even if it's the most hideous thing on the racks.

It starts to rain on the way home, concealing the stars with lively clouds. I can barely focus on my driving, but I am more attentive than I've ever been, subconsciously achieveing the perfect amount of suggested feet between me and the car in front of me. My mind is so blank, yet so subconsciously alive. All that I can do is compare and contrast. What does Travis have that Brendon doesn't have? What does Brendon have that Travis doesn't have? Who has a better fuck? Who tells me they love me more?

Brendon is probably still crying. With every kiss I left on Travis' skin, he probably cried harder. He's so sick of this. I'm so sick of this. But Travis... Travis loves me so much. He doesn't cry when I touch him or cower away when I yell at him. We work it out. Brendon... Brendon is so scared. He loves me so much that he's afraid. He sits in his corner all night and knows that he could be out with another boy too. But revenge isn't quite Brendon's thing. He loves me that much, enough to hold on for so long, enough to wait for me.

So as I pull into the parking lot of our apartment, I realize something. I don't want to do this anymore.

As I ride the elevator up to our floor and walk down our hall, I can feel my hips sway in that slutty fashion that I've grown used to. That loose carriage that shows that I really don't give a damn. And anyone can get a fuck out of me. Anyone.

I straighten out my posture as I stick the key in the keyhole, hating everything about my body right now. Everything in my head. I only know one thing and that's that I have never longed for Brendon Urie's kiss as much as I do right now. That kiss that's so fucking intimate that it makes me feel like the shy teenager I was, blushing at a single touch and my heart racing from a few soft words. That kiss that never implies anything other than our unbelievable love. His lips that just loved being against mine, like mine were his brick wall to lean against. I never knew that bricks could fail so easy.

I close the door behind me as I realize that what I really care about is Brendon's love. It's what puts me to sleep at night and wakes me up in the morning and that's enough. I never knew it, but really, that is all I know.

I turn around to put my keys on the kitchen counter when I suddenly feel a strong, fierce ringing in my ears. Deep inside the ringing, I hear the words "Your eyes, they're lying." Because when I glance at our small living room, the rug is stained a different color, violent red. Brendon's body is face down on the rug. Brendon is laying in a pool of blood on the floor.

I don't move a muscle, wondering if my bodily functions have shut down. So this is shock, baby. This is hate. This is regret. This is seeing your boyfriend dead in your apartment, a gun laid inches away from his outstretched arm.

And I cry, because as I get dangerously closer to his dead body, I realize that Brendon's blood has soaked not only his body. But at least a dozen bright and cheerful cards are spread around him, stained red. "Happy Birthday" most of them say. And yes, most of my organs have definitely shut down. This whole regret thing, it must be medical. Bodily. I can feel it in every vein beneath my skin. Every blood cell, every contracting muscle. "Regret" doesn't even begin to explain this.

Brendon turned twenty years old today. And then he put a gun to his head.

Someone's clockwork is off. All he wanted was a kiss. All I wanted was his forgiveness. We could have been perfect, as good as new. But could we have that? No... this is what we get. And like in the horror movies that Brendon so often watched with me as an excuse to cuddle, I drop to the floor, drenching myself in his blood, just to push back his hair and expose his white face. And I lay with him, noting the way the thunder rolls.

The script might not be perfect, but it's got audiences screaming and romantics weeping. Either way, I didn't get to kiss him goodbye.
You're the echoes of my everything -->
Um, yeah. I warned you about the depressing thing 0=]
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