hazeofthecity

Silence in Sunset R-15
Brendon Urie/Pete Wentz|Panic at the Disco/Fall Out Boy*



Dance is the movement of the universe concentrated in an individual.

~ Isadora Duncan



The clouds slowly float over the sea blue sky, exposing the sun, bathing the room in the orange glowing light of sunset, reddish rays of twilight pouring on the floor.

He's standing in the middle of the room with a bottle of booze in the one hand and a cigarette in the other. He's moving to the music that's playing on the radio on the night stand. It's slow and soft, almost tiring. It's just another warm summer day they've spent lazily in Brendon's room, smoking pot and drowning in whatever they had found while rummaging through his parents' mini bar.

Brendon himself is lying idly on his bed, one hand draped over his belly, the other one hanging loosely over the edge, an almost finished cigarette between his middle and index finger. He takes a drag every now and then, letting it burn down more than actually smoking it. He knows perfectly well that some of the heavy smokers would probably slap him for wasting a cigarette like this, but he has enough money to afford this lavish luxury.

The late rays of sun are falling in a square patch thorugh the window, warming the space from his knee to his shins, while the rest of his body is bathed in the cool shadows.

He likes to watch Pete dance, not because he's a great dancer or has much rhythm, but because he opens himself completely up to the melody and the sounds cascading from the speakers. His eyes are closed; he's dancing with himself, carefree and for the world to see. If they'd only look at him like Brendon does.

He takes a sip of his booze, a drag of his cigarette, sways his hips, cradles himself lightly - repeat.

He's not sure if it comes from the alcohol or the weed they hit earlier. He doesn't care, he loves the way Pete moves, sways with the sound. To Brendon it seems like the music comes from Pete's body and not from the stereo speakers next to him, every fiber sending its individual sound to the outside, creating a soft song together, a pleasure for every ear to hear.

He stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray, lying on his side as he pillows his head on his arms to continue to watch his companion move. It takes quite a while until Pete opens his eyes. His cigarette is finished and he stubs it out by pressing the tip between his index finger and thumb. It sends a shudder down Brendon's spine, but he's just hard-boiled like that.

Their eyes lock and as if it's an unspoken agreement Pete sits the bottle down as Brendon sits up on his bed. Moving with the same fluent motions over toward Brendon, he takes a seat beside him. Without a word he leans in, his lips pressing lightly on Brendon's, remaining there for a long moment.

He pulls away, his eyes searching for the other's. A smile spreads across his face as Brendon leans in again, reconnecting their mouths, his tongue gently running over Pete's bottom lip, asking for permission to enter Pete's mouth. His wish is almost immediately granted as his lover slowly parts his lips. Delicate fingers reach up, cupping the eldest boy's cheek, slightly rough, because he didn't feel like shaving this morning, but Brendon doesn't mind, because it's Pete and that's just reason enough to not care about such irrelevant things like beard stubble.

He tastes like smoke and the sharp bite of Southern Comfort, that he's been drinking a few moments before, but Brendon barely notices that, seeing as he tastes just the same. At some point he's not even sure which tongue or mouth belongs to him anymore, because it all just feels equally familiar, warm and right.

Pete's hand pushes under Brendon's wife beater, running his palm flat over the smooth skin while his lips ravish the younger man's mouth, tongues rolling together, stroking each other, sliding over teeth rows, and the roof of the other one's mouth. It's not hesitantly or searchingly, for they both know each other perfectly.

Pete knows that his mouth on Brendon's ear, no matter if it's his lips brushing along his earlobe or his tongue flicking over the outer shell of it, elicits these small shivers that are followed by goose bump that rise quickly all over the pale flesh. He pushes the thin cotton fabric further and further up, exposing inch by inch of creamy skin, until the wife beater is discarded, landing in a messy pile on the floor, that soon grows by the time they peel the rest of the clothing off their bodies. Jeans, socks and boxer shorts all joining the wife beater on the ground.

The little patch of sun, that had previously been warming the lower third of Brendon's bed is now steadily creeping towards the edge, merely falling on the soles of Pete's feet and Brendon's toes, that are curling and flexing, soles pressing down on the mattress.

The sounds that fill the room are barely loud enough to drown out the music that is still playing, only occasionally does a moan cover over the gentle voice of the singer, fading out with a small sigh and nails sink slowly into pliable skin, leaving red, crescent shaped marks between shoulder blades.

Brendon's inner thighs press tightly against Pete's hips, almost like a vice, his back arching up and pressing his chest forward until it he can feel his heart thumping against his rip cage. He tips his head back and his mouth falls open, remaining in this position for a moment or two, before he eases back on the bed, his eyes are half lidded, lips still parted.

It doesn't take long until the older male's giving a stifled noise and suddenly can no longer support the weight of himself on his arms, and presses down against Brendon almost heavily, head buried in the graceful slope of his neck, panting warm and moist against his neck.

Brendon's hand reaches idly up, placing the tips on his fingers on the knob of Peter's spine, where his neck meets the blade of his back, brushing feather-lightly over the skin and he swears he can hear his counterpart purr, lowly, furtively against his shoulder.

The room turns dark as the sweat on their skin cools down and they subconsciously press even tighter together, Pete's hand reaching to the right to tug the tangled sheets around them that Brendon has pushed up against the wall in a messy pile when he had gotten up that morning.

They shuffle a bit, naked skin against naked skin, warm, and a little sticky, but there're no attempts to move away from each other. Their legs remain tangled together and their arms curve around shoulders and sides, fingertips trailing lightly over veterbras and dimples on lower backs, eye lids growing heavy as the last slim rays of sunlight expire.



[x] Comments and concrit are encouraged and appreciated.

* - I do not own the characters used in this story.