Tripping Down 12 Steps Into Malibu

Brendon Urie

Brendon stumbled out of the driver's seat of his car. Not bothering to take the keys from the ignition or even close the door after himself.

He felt hot. Like he was tap dancing, shoeless on coals burning in the fires of hell. It was the middle of January. There was no reason he should be sweating the way he was. His entire face felt like it was dripping.

His heartbeat could be felt in his ears. And it was beating too fast. Way too fast. His heart, not his ears. His ears couldn't beat. But they felt like they were.

His breaths were coming twice as fast as his heart was beating. It felt like he was beginning to hyperventilate. His brain couldn't keep up with the speed of his breathing. It was making him light headed.

The spinning in his head had to be what was causing the churning in his stomach. Either that, or the fact that he hadn't eaten anything in two days. Or was it three? He couldn't remember. He did remember what he'd eaten though. Gas station nachos. The thought made him even more nauseous.

A shuffling from behind him snapped his mind away from his sick stomach. His eyes snapped in every direction at once but it was too dark out to see anything clearly. Someone was watching him. Someone was after him! He needed to get in the house.

He ran, well tried to run, down the cement path to his front door. His legs wobbled and his head kept twisting and turning. But he did eventually make it to the door. He knew he didn't have his key so he didn't even try to look for it. Instead he tried his luck with the doorknob. He twisted it and it pushed open. Thank the fucking lord.

He slammed the door shut before   whoever was chasing him could come in. He wanted to lock it but his hands couldn't remember how. He settled for just slapping him palm against the cool glass of the door's window.

A light flicked on, illuminating the entire room. It burned his dilated pupils. Even through the dark sunglasses he was wearing. He spun around to face the rest of the house.

His eyes searched the bright room before they finally landed on Dallon. He was sitting in the chair next to the end table. His hand was resting on the top next to the lamp. He uncrossed his legs and stood up.

"Where have you been?" The sadness in his voice made Brendon nervous.

"I went to the store." His voice was high pitched and the words were spoken too quickly.

"It took you three days to go to the store?"

Three days? That wasn't so bad.

He chuckled. "Those lines at Target are a bitch, huh?"

"Brendon!" Dallon wasn't in the mood for jokes apparently. "I know where you were. I just want you to be honest with me."

"I was at Target."

"You were out getting high!"

"No I wasn't!"

But the itch in his nose distracted him from the lie. He sniffed deeply and reached up to scratch it. Making himself look ever bit like the coke addict he was.

"I was worried sick-"

"I'm a got damn adult." He snapped. Barely blinking at the mood shift. "I don't have to explain myself to you!" He stormed off in a random direction.

"Oh, yes you do!" Dallon followed after him. "I'm your boyfriend!"

"Exactly." He skidded to a stop and spun around to face him. They were too close. Brendon didn't like it. "You're my boyfriend. Not my fucking father."

"I never said I was your father!" Dallon yelled.

"Then stop acting like it!"

He swung his arm out in agitation. He needed to hit something. Anything. And he did. He had no idea what he smacked. But the satisfying sound of a glass shattering made him smile.

Dallon flinched at the sound. He took an instinctive step away from him.

"That was my father's vase." He cried out. "You need to leave. Now."

Brendon's mouth dropped open. "No. I don't want to leave."

"Well you obviously don't want to stay either."

"I do! I do want to stay!" Another mood change. "Please! I love you!"

"No you don't." He snatched the glasses from Brendon's face. "You love your drugs."

"I love you. Please Dallon." He could feel the warm tears stinging his bloodshot eyes. "Please." He wrapped his arms around the taller man.

"You need help." Dallon didn't know why he was crying. He was just hurt.

"Then help me. Please." The sobs were as pathetic as his pleas for help. Brendon didn't want help.

"I'm going to get you help." Dallon hugged. "And I mean it this time." He rubbed his hand up and down his back. Leaning over to press his lips against his sweaty forehead. "I mean it."