A Paradoxical Pair ➫ Brallon

two

{don't start the song yet!!!}

purity

[pyoo r-i-tee]

noun

freedom from foreign or inappropriate elements; careful correctness.

"Why the fuck is it so goddamn hot one second, and freezing the next?" Brendon whined, running his hand through his sweat-soaked dark hair.

"Language, son. We don't use the Lord's name in vain around here." Father Urie warned, smoothing out the wrinkles in his black high-collared shirt.

Brendon rolled his eyes exasperatedly. "If you insist. Why the frick is it so gosh diddly darn warm here one sec-"

Father Urie shot him a disapproving look. "Brendon, Missouri is a much better place for you than California. We've talked about this."

Brendon sighed dramatically. He could already feel an endless speech bubbling at the back of his father's throat. It was boring enough to be stuck in church listening to sermons for hours on end, but it was much worse when the preacher came home with you.

"Missouri's part of the Bible Belt, as they call it. The influence of Christ is stronger here than it was back in Los Angeles." Father Urie droned, as he polished the lenses of his tortoiseshell glasses. "This whole, erm, homosexuality phase you're in will leave you by the end of the school year."

Brendon massaged his temples gingerly with the tips of his fingers. "Oh yes, just moving to the side of the country with more rednecks is going to turn me straight. Nice try, Dad." he shot back.

Father Urie cleared his throat, his eyes locked on his only son accusingly. "California is overrun with sinners. Prostitutes, marijuana users, and homosexuals." He spat, as if he was reciting a string of foul curse words. "You chose this path, and now you're going to find your way out, whether you like it or not."

Brendon pulled up his tight black skinny jeans slightly, grinning to himself. He loved agitating his father, who was all bark and no bite.

"Does my butt look good in this?" He asked brazenly, turning around so that his back faced his father. "I heard that Clearwater's crawling with hot guys."

Father Urie looked away immediately, covering his eyes with a quick sweep of his left hand.

"Your mother and I, we're just trying to help you. We love you very much, and we don't want you to suffer any more from this horrible affliction." He explained in a professional-sounding voice.

Brendon snickered loudly. "The only time you suffer as a gay guy is when you bottom. But it's worth it."

Father Urie buried his face in his hands with what could only be described as secondhand shame. "See you later, have a good day." He announced, in a feeble attempt to steer the conversation in the opposite direction.

"Yeah, see you." Brendon slid his arms into the sleeves of his green and white Letterman jacket and tossed his pin studded backpack over his shoulders. He grabbed his brown-bag lunch from the granite countertop and ran off.

He climbed onto his beat-up turquoise bike in the safety of the front yard and dug through his backpack to find his Walkman CD player. His hand closed around the slick plastic surface of the grey and black rectangle.

"Which mixtape today?" He muttered to himself, as he thumbed through an album of CDs encased within plastic dividers. "Aha!" He extracted a silvery disk with the outline of California drawn on it with colorful Sharpies. It glinted with the colors of the rainbow under the light of the morning sun.

He popped the disk into the Walkman, plugged in his headset, and sped off down the street.

{start the song now!!}

Brendon's eyes scanned the rows of houses up and down Ocean Avenue. It was as if someone had tossed one of them into a photocopier and produced sixteen identical ones. Each house was painted the same off-white tone and had six windows, a front door, a wooden porch, and an overgrown lawn restrained by a picket fence.

Within a few minutes, Brendon arrived at Clearwater High; his hair tousled by the wind and his head bobbing to the beat of That's All I Need by The Dirty Heads.

After locking his bike to the steel rack at the front of the school, he whipped his schedule out of his backpack. "English 4, Mr. Armstrong." He read aloud.

"Uh, hey. I have him too." A nervous voice rang out over the music pumping through his headphones. Brendon pressed the pause button and slid his headphones off his ears.

"I'm new here, the name's Urie. Brendon Urie. Or you could call me Agent 69 if you want." He winked mischeviously at the taller boy, whose prominent features were frozen into a mask of despair.

"Nice meeting you, I'm Dallon." He smiled a weak, quivering grin, which wiped itself off his face in a matter of seconds. "I had Armstrong last year too. He's chill."

Dallon looked immaculate. His Nirvana t-shirt was crisply ironed, and he wore a navy blue flannel shirt over it. His jeans were a consistent shade of black, unlike Brendon's torn and faded pair. His dark brown waves were tamed into a hairdo that was reminiscent of a news anchor's. 

Cute, but in a dorky way, Brendon decided.

"I'm surprised I got into AP English. I'm not even that good at it." He pondered aloud.

Dallon stared at the cracks on the asphalt intently. "Armstrong's class isn't really about the work. We just end up beguiling the period away with activities and projects, I guess."

"Wow, big words." Brendon teased. Color rose to Dallon's cheeks.

"I-It means to pass time in an enjoyable manner." He explained, an undertone of pride in his voice. "He's also the band director, I'm assuming you're into music." He motioned towards the various band logo patches on Brendon's backpack and glanced at his Walkman briefly.

Brendon's eyes lit up with excitement. "Oh really? That's fucking dope. I sing and play a few instruments."

"Oh cool. You guys would totally get along. I mean, I barely know you but I feel like you'd like him." Dallon grinned.

He glanced at his wristwatch. "Fifteen seconds until the bell rings. We better get going."

A few moments after the words left his lips, the screeching of the bell sliced through the chatter-filled air.

Here we go again, Brendon thought to himself. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: this is so long and drabbly, sorry.