"Oh, fuck, Bren-" Dallon's knees were weak as Brendon sucked purple marks onto the younger's skin, and his fingernails raked over the elder's bare shoulders, leaving marks that would stay there for days. His teeth sunk into his lower lip, and Brendon pushed him harder against the wall, tugging at the hem of his shirt.

The shirt was soon on the floor, and Brendon's mouth found his, making his pulse race as it always had. He wanted Brendon to touch him, needed Brendon to touch him, because without Brendon touching him, he'd have to touch himself, and that was nowhere near as fun.

And then there was a knock at the door, and Dallon groaned as Brendon pulled away.

"B, leave it." He gasped, but Brendon was already making his way towards the door, biting his lower lip and running his eyes over Dallon's far-too-clothed state.

"It'll only be the postman or something." Brendon replied, opening the door.

It wasn't the postman.

It was Spencer.

And Brendon's hair was a mess, his shirt was nowhere to be seen, and his pants were halfway over his ass.

Brendon didn't even try to hide the fact that he'd been almost-fucking Dallon Weekes in the hallway, and Spencer's face went from confused to hurt in about 1.3 seconds. Brendon might've laughed, if he didn't fucking care so much.

The silence stretched too long, neither of the three daring to speak. Dallon had nothing to say, and neither did Brendon, but Spencer, he had plenty to say; he just didn't know which order to say it in.

"I was going to ask you why you weren't answering your phone." Spencer spoke slowly, his eyes flickering from Brendon, to Dallon, and then back again. He was angry, so fucking angry, and Brendon was kind of scared of that anger. "But the answer is obvious."

Neither answered, and one would've thought that Brendon might've felt guilty, but Brendon wasn't guilty - he didn't feel such an emotion, never allowed it to cross his mind.

Spencer took a deep breath, closing his eyes, and when he opened them again, they were full of tears. "I hope you catch something." He spat. "Both of you."

Then he turned on his heel and stormed off, everything he'd planned to say forgotten, everything he'd wanted to do tossed to the dust. To him, Brendon Urie didn't matter anymore. Falling in love with the world's most conceited man didn't matter. Getting over this was the only thing that mattered to Spencer, and that was okay.

And Brendon? He slowly closed the door, walked towards the boy in the hallway, and, ignoring the words that fell from his perfect lips, he sunk to his knees and removed him of his jeans.

~

Ryan wasn't too sure why he was going to a bar, of all places, but right now he didn't really care. Nobody was around - his friend (singular, because he didn't really have any friends besides Pete) was busy patching things up with the guy he'd been seeing for God knows how long, and Ryan had nothing else to do apart from spend his hard-earned money on booze.

The place was bright and loud and everything Ryan should've loved yet despised, and there were too many people, way too many people, yet he found himself slipping inside and heading straight towards the bar.

There was a forlorn-looking stranger sat on a stool, looking like he'd had about thirteen too many beers already. But a second glance told Ryan that he wasn't just some stranger, he was Spencer Smith, ex-boyfriend of one of the men he hated most in the world (except that hatred wasn't quite hatred anymore, but that wasn't the point).

"Hey." Ryan said, sitting beside the troubled man. He ordered a drink as Spencer raised his head, and his face screwed up in disgust.

"Well, well, well. It's Ryan Ross." He slurred, pushing his hair back from his face.

"Yeah." Came the reply, as the model sipped at his beer. "It's me."

"Tell me something." He paused. "How good is he?"

"What?"

"Brendon. I wanna know. I mean, I already know, but I wanna hear it from the point of view of one of the bitches he cheated on me with."

"I -"

"I could ask any guy in this bar, I'm sure they'd know..." he gestured wildly to the space around him, alcohol-glazed eyes on Ryan but not quite focussing. "...but you're closest. So tell me: how good is he?"

Ryan slowly set his drink onto the counter, licking his lips. "Listen, Spencer...I never slept with Brendon."

Spencer scoffed. "Bullshit. He's hot, you're hot - I'll admit, I was a little jealous when he told me he was doing a photoshoot with you. It was all he talked about for weeks. Well, when we were actually talking...he's not usually around..."

"He's an asshole, dude; I'd never even think of him like that, never mind actually sleep with him."

Spencer's eyes narrowed, and Ryan tried to look as sincere as he could. But he had that problem, the one everyone had when they were telling the absolute truth: he always looked like he was lying.

"I promise you, I have not once fucked Brendon Urie."

"But what about that kiss?"

"I didn't even know that was going to happen. He was being a prick, as usual, and..."

"He just walked up and kissed you?" Ryan bit his lower lip and nodded, while Spencer sighed miserably. "That's what happened with me. He was trying to flirt, and I let him, and...I fell for it. I fell for it all. I fell for him." He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes, smudging his makeup. "I'm such an idiot. I want to hate him, there's nothing I want more in the world than to hate him, but I just fucking can't."

As he downed the rest of his drink, Ryan sipped at his and chose his words carefully. "Does Brendon...does he care?"

"No, of course not." He waved the barman over. "Double vodka and coke please." The barman nodded and left to get the drink. "Brendon doesn't give a shit; if it's not about getting laid for a shoot, or getting laid for real..." He shook his head, shrugging, as the barman handed him the drink. "...Brendon Urie doesn't give the slightest fuck about anything or anyone."

"Why do you think that is?" Ryan asked, only just coming to the end of his first drink.

Spencer shrugged again. "I dunno, I don't - I don't know, I...when I met him, he was already this rising star, and he never talked about himse- actually, that's a lie, he always talked about himself, but not in the way I wanted him to. He would go on and on and on about how good his partner was, how crap the shoot was, how fucking fantastic he looked...but I knew nothing about him."

Ryan hesitated before speaking again. "He's a dick, Spence. He's not worth it."

He snorted. "No, he's not."

The night wore on, and Spencer got more drunk, and Ryan sat there and looked after him and made sure he didn't puke. He was on a roll, bitching about Brendon, telling Ryan every single little thing about the pornstar that he hated, and Ryan sat there and listened, unable to believe half of it.

"Hey, hey Ryan. Wanna know the best part?" he giggled. "He's not even that big!"

"Am I not?"

Spencer gasped and turned around, and Ryan jumped, his heartbeat racing as he saw Brendon stood behind them. He didn't look happy, his arms folded, an eyebrow raised as he waited for an answer.

Spencer didn't give him a verbal answer. He gave him a physical one, in the form of a punch to the face.

However, he didn't stop at one; he delivered three blows to Brendon's perfect face before someone pulled him away. Brendon was more stunned than anything, unable to believe that yes, Spencer really would do such a thing. He didn't understand. He was an asshole, but still...

Ryan recognised the guy that had immediately rushed over to Brendon as the guy he'd been sleeping with, Dallon, and he wondered briefly if this could get any fucking worse.

"Dallon, take him home." He ordered, ignoring the stricken look on the younger's face and pushing him towards Spencer.

"Fuck off! Fuck off!" Spencer screamed, lashing out at Dallon, and Ryan grabbed his shoulders, leaning in close.

"Oi. C'mon. Don't beat up the poor kid." He said softly, glancing towards Brendon, whose face was just about covered in blood from the nose down. "Save that for when you're sober."

The drunk man grinned and allowed himself to be pulled away by the second-most hated man in the world. Ryan, meanwhile, sighed and beckoned Brendon to follow him out of the bar. The second they stepped out, however, there was the infuriating click of cameras and familiar yells.

"Look, it's Brendon!"

"Why's he bleeding?"

"Is that Ryan Ross?"

"It is!"

"Ryan!"

"Ryan!"

They were forced to endure the stares and the photographs from the five or so paparazzi that were stood outside the bar, as Ryan called a cab for them both. It was raining, and Brendon was bleeding, and there was no way they could walk back to Ryan's like this.

The cab arrived five minutes later, and by the time they got to Ryan's, Brendon's sleeve - his brand new, white shirt sleeve - was saturated with the sticky, red liquid. The model paid the driver an extra fifty dollars to not tell journalists where they went, and then the two clambered out, heading straight up to Ryan's apartment.

"Does it hurt?" He asked, turning on the lights as he travelled through the apartment, and he heard a scoff behind him.

"Duh."

"You mean, the great Brendon Urie is capable of feeling physical pain?"

"Of course I -"

"And there was me thinking the only pain you could suffer was to your-" Ryan turned around and the words caught in his throat as he saw that Brendon had taken off his shirt, and dear God would he stop being so fucking hot?

His eyebrows arched, and he was still to die for even when he looked like a rabid vampire. "My what?"

"Your ego." The model grumbled, pointing to the couch and grabbing a cloth from the kitchen. "Your ridiculously big ego." Brendon simply rolled his eyes. "I take it you know how to deal with a nosebleed?"

"Of course." Came the reply, and Ryan left him to it while he got himself a glass of water. "Why don't you have any pictures of yourself up?"

Ryan was still in the kitchen, and he shook his head. "Because I'm not narcisisstic."

"Oh yeah, sure you aren't." By the time Ryan had re-entered the living room, Brendon was in just his boxers, and Ryan had to close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose a moment. "Okay, the bleeding's stopped. You got any wipes?"

Ryan reluctantly retrieved some makeup wipes he had lying around, and he handed the packet to Brendon, sitting beside him as he did so. "I...I buy every issue I'm in..." He admitted, and Brendon paused in the removal of his own blood. "They're in a shoebox under my bed."

"Can I see?"

Ryan shrugged. "Maybe one day."

"Oh come on."

"No, some of them are embarrassing."

Brendon grinned. "So long as they don't have your come stains on, I think we'll be good."

"Oh shut up." Ryan punched his arm. "That's gross, and also weird."

"Oh yeah? I bet you don't have a lot of sex, do ya?" Ryan stayed silent, and the asshole practically hooted with laughter. "I bet you're a little virgin, aren't you?"

"No I'm not." The elder attempted to lie, blushing furiously.

"Yes, you so totally are!" The makeup wipe was discarded as Brendon's blood-free face moved closer to his. "You're a little virgin, aren't you, Ryan Ross."

He spoke slowly and quietly, and it took a few seconds longer than expected for Ryan to reply. "No, no I'm not." He stammered, and Brendon smirked. "I'm not a virgin!"

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

"Fuck off!"

"How many guys?"

"What?"

"How many guys have you fucked? Or had fuck you?"

Ryan plucked a number from the air. "Six?" He tried to sound convincing, but it sounded more like a question, causing Brendon to laugh. "Oh come on, fuck off, this isn't fair -"

He tried to stand but Brendon grabbed his hands and pulled him back down. He landed on the couch with a thump, hiding his face behind his hair, and a whine left his throat.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry." Brendon snickered, and Ryan scowled right at him. He didn't appreciate having his sex life - or lack thereof - questioned, even by Brendon fucking Urie, and he was more than a little bit pissed off. So he was sulking. Like a teenager. Because he could. "How many guys have you kissed?"

Ryan groaned, trying to get his hands back to be able to slap the pornstar sat opposite him, to no avail. "Shut up, for fuck sake! It's not even any of your business!"

"Aren't I allowed to be a little bit curious?"

"No. And who says it's just guys?"

Brendon grinned. "I read your interviews."

"You bastard!" He knew he shouldn't have answered that question about his sexuality, he knew that it was perfectly within his right to lie, or even decline answering. But he hadn't. He'd answered 'gay', and he was never going to live it down.

"Oh calm your pretty little face, Ry. It's called being interested." The model remained silent. "What, has nobody been interested in your life before?"

"Only interviewers and journalists." He grumbled.

Brendon didn't reply for almost a minute, and it was then that Ryan realised that they were still holding hands, and neither seemed to want to let go.

"I was your first kiss, wasn't I?" The pornstar said, and Ryan almost growled at him.

"Will you stop assuming things? You don't know shit, and -"

"Will you shut up a minute?" He shut up. "There we go. You're not as annoying when you're not speaking."

"Could say the same about you."

"Yeah, but I'm fucking amazing."

"Debatab-"

And then Brendon was kissing him, and Ryan's insides were on fire, and it wasn't for a fucking camera this time, and even though he didn't know why Brendon was kissing him, he didn't care why.

The apartment could've caught fire, the world could've ended, the journalists could've been there, and Ryan wouldn't have given a single fuck, because he was kissing Brendon Urie, and it felt so fucking good.

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Jfc I should be revising or doing coursework but I'm not and ughhhhhh why am I doing this smh -.- ah well, I've still got a few more days, right?

I'm so into patd rn, idk why, but I am, and that's probably why I'm working so hard on my Ryden fics at the moment, so...*shrugs* yeah!

I hope you like the chapter, and don't forget to go like my Facebook page (if you want, of course...)(link is on my profile, yo!) :3

Thanks Pete,

-xøcharr <3