CASUAL AFFAIR; brendon urie

Chapter Twenty-Eight

"Florrie?"

"Hm?"

"What's wrong?"

"Hm."

"Florrie."

"Hm-"

Brendon snapped his fingers in front of my face, suddenly, breaking me out my reverie. "I, uh ... what?" I blinked, focusing back in on his big brown eyes, pouted lips, a frown creasing his brow.

"You seem distracted." He said, his tone concerned, the hand that he'd been using to hold my jaw a moment ago as he'd kissed me, still poised in the air after he used it to snap. He seemed to notice it hovering there too, and curled it into a fist, lowering it. "Is everything ok?"

I could feel the strap of the bra Brendon had undone through my shirt, forgotten now, sliding down my arm, and it gave that awkward tickling sensation. "Fine," would it be appropriate to reach behind and do my bra back up? "Everything's dandy."

Brendon stuck his tongue in his bottom lip and gave me a look that said I wasn't fooling anybody. "Mm hm, and I was born yesterday." He clucked his tongue. "What's up?"

"That's the second time someone's asked me that." I reached behind me as subtly as I could, but my fingers were fumbly and kept missing or slipping, so I gave up.

"You're avoiding the question." He smiled softly.

"Like ... I know your anatomy like the back of my hand," I chuckled once, blushing a little. "But I don't know your favourite flavour of ice-cream."

He looked confused. "Why would you..." he shook his head, smiling a little, still puzzled. "Vanilla."

I shook my own head a little, looking down at the hands I'd now clasped on my lap. "Do you get what I'm trying to say?"

"I ... think so." I could hear the smile in the next part he spoke, teasing. "You're just a terrible explainer."

I looked back up at him again. Really looked. One arm was crooked and pressed against the headrest that he leant against, the other hand in a loose fist resting on the knee of the leg I'd hooked over his own. In the dark of the evening, and the back of the car, his eyes were big and dark. He hadn't shaved in a couple of days. His hair was a tousled mess. And the first three buttons of his plaid shirt were undone, revealing a small tease of the skin underneath. And he was giving me an expectant look.

Shut up my brain said, whispering urgently. Shut up, and just go back to kissing that pretty son of a bitch. The lady parts giggled their agreement. Those two were agreeing on a more regular basis recently. That probably should have worried me a little. "Do you know how many pairs of socks with owls on I own?" like the complete idiot I was, I lost the guts to say it, and went in a stupidly random direction.

There was that adorably confused look again. "Florrie, I ... don't think I follow..."

"Do you think we should stop?" I blurted out. I looked away, avoiding his gaze, tightening my hands into a ball. "What we're ... doing?"

The effect was instant on Brendon. Confusion. Then hurt, which he quickly tried to mask with impassive nonchalance. "You mean ... sleeping together?"

That last statement ... just struck me as strange. In all the time I'd been with Brendon, and the amount of time we'd ended up spending in the company of one another... Never once had either of us called it 'sleeping together'. Sex, yes, more colourful terms, yes. But sleeping together ... it implied a whole lot more than it meant. Sleeping together had the idea of enough trust to be comfortable enough to call it that. To ... not just get dressed and go when the deed was done. And I suppose that progressively ... The first few times, one of us made small talk before leaving. Then after that, we'd get dressed, even helping each other and messing around - 'where's my sock?' 'you're wearing it.' 'no, my other one. I have two feet.' And I'd throw his sock at his face. He'd chuck his shirt at me. We'd descend into a clothes fight - and we'd end up talking about stuff, maybe even having a beer, or coffee, before leaving.