skoosiepants (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
skoosiepants) wrote2007-08-04 06:22 pm
skoosiepants) wrote2007-08-04 06:22 pm
Entry tags:
Anywhere You Let It Go: Part IV
previous part
[Part IV]
The surprise is that no one knows whose wedding it is. There are paparazzi at the door, lining the sidewalks behind a police barrier, there’s buzz, and Brendon can hardly believe nothing’s been leaked yet, but they don’t know. It’s going to be huge. It’s going to be magnificent and shocking and the kind of show he’s always, always wanted to do, except.
Except he feels kind of sick to his stomach and achy all over.
Except Spencer’s hovering at the back of the church, watching wide-eyed as the florists rush around, Ryan and Adrian barking dueling orders at them, almost down to a catfight right in the middle of the aisle - which, hey, would be hilarious, and Brendon’s really hoping it’ll come to that - and he’s pale and shaky and not exactly what Brendon would call happy. Brendon really wants Spencer to be happy.
“I don’t actually want to get married,” Spencer says to the air, to anyone, to the plush red carpet. He sounds kind of desperate. No one seems to be paying any attention to him.
Except Brendon, of course, because Brendon always pays attention to Spencer, and he slips his hand into his, linking their fingers together. He whispers, “I want to meet your parents, Spence,” into his ear.
Spencer turns to look at him. “What?”
Brendon grins. “I’m not sure I want to get married, either.”
“Then what the fuck—”
Brendon leans up into him, presses their lips together. He backs off a little after a second and says, close to his mouth, “I want to meet your mom and dad. I want to kiss you on a park bench in the middle of June, and I want to hold your hand, like, every second of every day.”
Spencer swallows. “Brendon—”
Brendon kisses him again, longer, slower, with some tongue, even, until he feels Spencer loosen up against him, slide a hand along the back of Brendon’s neck. When he pulls away this time, he leans his forehead against Spencer’s shoulder. He sighs, he laughs a little, and says, “I want to walk out of this church right now—”
“Without the ponies?” Spencer asks, and Brendon can hear the smile in his voice.
“We’ll walk out together,” Brendon goes on, ignoring him, “and this won’t be our wedding anymore, and maybe, maybe one of those reporters out there will catch a glimpse of us and know, and that’s. That’s how I want us to be.”
“You’re a romantic,” Spencer says, but he’s breathless and his fingers are tight around Brendon’s.
“I want you to be happy, Spencer Smith,” Brendon says. He tilts his head, opens his eyes wide and juts his lower lip out, just the tiniest bit. “Be happy with me?”
*
With Charlie fit over his hip, Patrick knocks twice and then pokes his head through the door. Adrian’s in her slip, hair pulled up in a messy topknot, one shoe on and one shoe waving around in a vaguely threatening manner as she yells into her cell.
She spots Patrick and mouths ‘I’m going to kill Ryan.’
Patrick smiles. Ryan and Adrian haven’t been able to agree on anything, undermining each other at every opportunity. He finds that funnier than he probably should.
Charlie signs more and then mommy, because even though he’s just over a year old, he’s yet to say anything other than Da, toast, Hemmy, and no. He’s fully aware of what other words mean, knows exactly what you’re saying, but he’s stubbornly silent most of the time, using simple signs and nonsense noises to gain attention.
Adrian slaps her cell shut with a groan and presses the antenna into her forehead hard enough to leave a mark. “Everything is completely out of control,” she says.
“Exactly how Brendon wants it, then.” Charlie’s squirming now, ready to leap out of his arms, and he passes him to Adrian with a roll of his eyes. “You volunteered for this, you know,” Patrick reminds her. He’s still not sure why, except her eyes had lit up at the prospect, and until Ryan had stalked in, vetoing just about everything she’d already planned on and dressing pretty much the entire bridal party in green crushed velvet, she seemed to have been having fun.
“Hey, kiddo,” Adrian says, kissing Charlie’s cheek. “Don’t you look handsome?”
Charlie signs more again, with a little whine.
“There’s some Cheerios left in his bag,” Patrick says. “And your hair’s a little…” He trails off, because Adrian’s staring at him and it’s kind of scary. Especially since it looks like something got caught in her hair and died.
“What, Patrick? My hair’s what?”
Patrick rocks back on his heels, hands in his pockets. “Nothing.”
He smiles at her, though, because they’re a lot better, the two of them, since she’s stopped nagging him about Pete, and since Pete’s practically moved in with him, and since Patrick’s admitted that Adrian had been completely right all along, and is clearly ‘the goddess of all things romantic,’ and that Patrick was a ‘lowly peon, a brainless slave to his fruitless denial’ – there’d been a script, and the worst part was that he’d had to say it in front of her mom and Andy – and the teasing Adrian, the Adrian who bakes him pie and eats pints of ice cream with him, is back in Patrick’s life.
Only at a much smaller dose, because Pete’s kind of scarily possessive.
“Patrick,” Adrian says, snapping her fingers in front of his face.
Patrick blinks. “Yeah?”
She’s got her cell phone out again, and Patrick thinks, if the pitch is any indication, the loud, tinny voice on the other end is Ryan. “Patrick, this is important, okay? Do you know where Brendon and Spencer are?”
*
“So he calls me for, like, advice,” Joe says, taking a hit off the spliff he’s graciously sharing with William in the coat closet at the back of the church. “Advice from a successfully married man and all. Dude, I’m like. I had a three year anniversary last month. I’m totally old and wise.”
William – decked out in the same velvet sport jacket as Joe, with the addition of a circlet of gerber daisies on his head - is lounging against the wall in between a dark brown trench coat and the brass umbrella stand, legs stretched out in front of him. He smiles. “Joseph,” he says, “you give the world’s worst advice.”
“I know.” Joe laughs, because he gives fucking terrible advice. Everyone knows it, though, so it’s not like they can blame him. He’s totally not scared of Ryan Ross.
“S’long as I look pretty, though,” William says with a shrug. He finishes the joint, inhaling deep, then letting smoke curl out of his nose as he slips into an even more boneless sprawl. There are white and green ribbons tangling in his hair, spiraling down from his official flower girl headpiece and tumbling over his shoulders. He’s in charge of Charlie, too, the little ring bearer.
Joe’s not so sure smoking up was a good idea, when he remembers that. He’s probably the worst godfather ever. Worse even than that time he’d lost Hemmy for three days, only to find out that Patrick had taken him while he’d been hotboxing Pete’s bathroom. The problem, Joe figures, is that his wife is entirely too strict.
He pats William’s foot. “The prettiest,” he says. “Prettier than Spencer, even.”
William frowns at that, though, and murmurs, “Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.”
Joe isn’t going to touch that one.
*
“Our lovebirds are escaping,” Pete says, stepping out behind the church, watching Brendon and Spencer skulk across the parking lot. They’d gone out the front, apparently, which was surprising, but now they’re darting furtive glances towards the back of the chapel. Luckily, the doorway’s hidden in shadows from the bell tower and the late afternoon sun.
Gabe grins at Pete, a little evil around the edges. “Don’t worry,” he says as a car door slams in the distance. He waves a hand, fingers wiggling. “I disabled their ride.”
Pete nods, and there’s an attempt to start up an engine, the whir-whir-whir resulting in a weak thunk. “They’ll go for Ryan’s next,” he says idly, leaning back against the stone next to Gabe and crossing his arms.
“All taken care of.”
Gabe has many and varied talents, hidden depths of deception, so Pete doesn’t bother to ask what, specifically, he’s done to their cars - he hopes it’s something he can fix, but even if he can’t, Pete knows that wouldn’t have actually stopped Gabe from tampering with them. “You have a vested interest in this ceremony?” he asks, eyebrow arched.
Gabe shrugs. “Hey, true love and all, right?” His tone is only half mocking, since Gabe sometimes apparently likes to think he has a romantic soul. Pete’s pretty sure those are the times he sings about his basement.
Pete straightens up from the wall, tugs on his snazzy velvet jacket and clears his throat. “If you wanna collect them when they’re done trying to jack everyone’s cars?”
Gabe gives him a loose salute. “Sure thing, Pete.”
Pete is off to find his Patrick and his Charlie-bear, hoping to avoid all contact with the devil woman, whose innate evilness is apparently only exacerbated when forced into proximity with Ryan Ross, mandroid.
Pete thinks Patrick definitely had something to do with those two collaborating – although collaborating’s probably not quite the right term for it; the only thing they agreed on was that Pete wasn’t allowed to help, but, whatever - since Patrick occasionally holds these really awesome grudges, and there was that whole ‘Adrian is a queen among women’ speech, and Ryan still has the cookie-hiding incident to pay for.
Patrick can be sort of devious. It’s one of the things Pete loves best about him.
*
Ryan is only slightly worried when he can’t find Spencer. And by slightly, he means a really fucking lot. “Have you seen the grooms?” he asks Jon, because Jon is just standing there, grinning stupidly.
He scratches the back of his neck. “I think they left?”
“They left,” Ryan deadpans. He’s thinking of killing someone. He’s pretty sure he can get away with it; pin it on Adrian, maybe, who’s like a tiny screeching harpy. Or one of those half-man half-goats, with the hooves and horns and the horrible taste in fabric.
Jon grins wider and says, “Walked right out the front doors.”
“Of course.” There are times when Ryan wishes they all never met, that he’d stayed in Vegas, ended up a lounge singer on the Strip with big hair and bigger dreams. There are times when Ryan thinks that would’ve been awesome.
And then Jon does that thing that he does; that indescribable sparkling-eye thing that’s even more potent than his grin.
“Damn you, Jon Walker,” Ryan says, trying very hard to scowl. He shifts his weight onto his hip, tugs off his hobo gloves and tosses them onto the podium where the guestbook is open and waiting. He really likes their matching jackets, too, and now what’ll they do with them?
“I make you a better man,” Jon says mock-earnestly, clasping Ryan’s shoulder.
Ryan would argue that, except he’s pretty sure it’s true.
*
Brendon is giggling by the time they figure out that none of their cars are working, and that it’d be tricky lifting any other keys without getting caught.
Spencer thinks it’s kind of funny, too.
“You know what we have to do,” Brendon says, schooling his face into what he probably thinks is a sober expression, but really just makes him look constipated.
“I really don’t,” Spencer says, and then Brendon is tugging him back around the corner of the church, towards the front, and Spencer digs his heels in and says, “Oh, no way. Nuh-uh, Brendon. No.”
Brendon’s kind of strong for his size, though, and Spencer’s suddenly blinking at the press again, Brendon behind him, hands firm on his shoulders, grinning against the back of his neck.
He sing-songs, “My little pony, my little pony—”
“Brendon,” Spencer hisses, because there is no way, no fucking way he’s escaping on one of the ponies Brendon hired for the day. There are three of them, sorrel and plump and big enough to hold them, really, except Spencer is not using them to run away from their wedding, oh my god.
They have pink and white ribbons in their manes, braided through their tails, and they. They glitter in the sun. They’re prancing, right there on the sidewalk.
“We’re little, we can share one,” Brendon murmurs, laughter in his voice. “It’ll be sweet.”
Spencer can feel his resolve weakening in the wake of Brendon’s Mischief Boy tone, the same damn endearing one that’d gotten Spencer to say yes to all this, this marriage, in the first place, but he still protests, “We can’t.”
“Ponies, Spencer Smith,” Brendon says, poking his side. “Ponies.”
Brendon and his fucking weird hoofed animal fetish.
People are yelling at them now, shouting their names, camera flashes are going off, and sooner or later Ryan’s gonna hear the commotion and come running out to slaughter them.
“You’re so going to pay for this,” Spencer mutters.
He takes Brendon’s hand, pulls him so they’re even in front of the first pony – “Sprinkles,” Brendon tells him, practically bouncing out of his shiny dress shoes – and the weird thing is, the really odd or maybe just appropriate thing is that this is all Spencer ever really wanted. Brendon’s hand in his, open and unafraid and happy, and the ponies are, like, his concession to Brendon.
If he thinks about it like that, it’s not so hard to grab the polished bridle crossing Sprinkles’ cheek, to smile over his shoulder and say, “You first.”
**
The day Brendon and Spencer didn't actually get married was the day Pete and Patrick started thinking about it.
Or, well, Pete started thinking about. Gabe sort of elbowed him in the ribs and laughed about what an awesome idea it was, and Pete sent Patrick this scary-ass grin, and Patrick could practically read his mind on that one.
Patrick had his doubts about how, “fucking fantastic it’ll be, seriously, Patrick, marriage,” because he’d already tried that once, and with the notable exception of Charlie, it hadn’t been all that successful. But maybe he was willing to let Pete try to convince him. Maybe he was willing to be convinced.
Fin.
Alternate Gratuitous My Chemical Romance Ending
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Page 2 of 3