All Hail The King || Brendon Urie x Reader

II

Abandoned glasses frequent the tables, the last of the guests — yourself included — moving towards the door, bracing themselves against the storm with umbrellas and overcoats. You're just beneath the awning when your phone rings, the splatter of rain touching the end of your dress. Pulling it out of your clutch, you quickly hit answer at the sight of your boyfriend's name.
"Hey Tom, what's-"
A woman's moan cuts you off. Your jaw falls open, your body rigid and unmoving. Worse yet, Tom's voice cuts through the receiver.
"Oh fuck," he groans. There's a sharp slap, followed by another moan of his name. Suddenly, you snap out of your trance, anger boiling just below your skin. Hanging up, you turn on your heel heading back inside the large house, feeling tears well up in your eyes.
"Excuse me," you say, voice cracking. A boy no older than twenty looks up from his cleaning. "Could you tell me where the restroom is?"
He nods, pointing across the ballroom floor. "Down that hallway, third door on your right."
You tip your head in thanks, not trusting yourself to speak. Your heels click with every step across the marble floor. A tear dares to slip down your cheek, and you quickly wipe it away, praying no one sees. You open a door, not to the bathroom, but to a modern parlour.
Large windows overlook the valley just beyond the neatly trimmed hedge, the distant strike of lightning illuminating the miles of forest. You place a trembling hand on the back of the gray sofa, using it to stabilize yourself. Screaming through gritted teeth, you throw your phone to the floor, watching it bounce harmlessly on the area rug. The lack of destruction only makes you angrier.
"What's this?"
You look over your shoulder at Brendon who stands in the doorway. You cast your eyes away, straightening your shoulders as you move away from him. For a moment, there's only the patter of rain and your shaky breathing. You clear your throat, summoning your voice.
"Nothing," you say hoarsely. You swipe your fingers under your eyes, flicking away the unwanted tears. "I'm fine, Mr. Urie."
He releases a long breath through his nose. You don't move as he steps behind you, placing a warm hand between your shoulder blades. Another crack of lighting against the darkness, a rumble of thunder moving across the sky.
"You don't look fine," he objects quietly.
You turn your head, daring yourself to meet his eye. "Then quit looking."
His lips part slightly, a tiny puff of air brushing across your face. You put distance between the two of you, deciding to collect your abandoned phone. You shove it back in your clutch, not wanting to even look at it.
"Miss L/N-" you roll your eyes "-I believe it'd be best if you stayed, if only for tonight."
"And why's that?"
"Because you're clearly upset about something." You sigh, shaking your head. "And this storm is only supposed to get worse."
"I'm sure I'll be staying with you," you scoff hotly.
Again, he sighs, unmoving as you purse your lips, your fingers ghosting over your hair. Your eyes drift to the mirror hung to your right, watching as Brendon quietly walks up behind you. He places his hands on your hips, turning the two of you to face your reflection. His lips press against your neck, his breath warm as it passes over your skin. You hate the shiver that drops down your spine.
"Stay," he murmurs. Your gaze wanders across your dress, starting from the bright red chiffon near your feet, fading into black the higher it goes. The asymmetric neckline sits nicely on your chest. At the bottom, a thin layer of thule holds red jewels, glittering brightly with every little movement, but becoming less frequent with the ombré. You realize, with a rush of blood to your cheeks, that Brendon is staring, patiently awaiting your answer. His voice is low and smooth.
"They say eyes are the windows to the soul." He exhales, fingers twitching. You glance at his face, quickly finding yourself caught in his features . "And I can see the crack in your heart."
You shake your head, your breath trembling. "I've nothing to mourn over. He wasn't really mine anyways."
He slowly straightens. His left hand moves from your waist, gingerly cupping the opposite side of your face, his thumb ghosting over your jaw as he guides you to look at him. His brows sit low over his eyes, a crease pressing into his skin. Your throat feels tight.
Licking his almost chapped lips, his voice tumbles with the thunder. "Then give me one good reason why you need to leave."
Your gaze drops, focusing on the steady rise and fall of his chest. You become painfully aware of the ache that has take residence in your knuckles. Brendon's fingertips move into your hairline, his pointer finger moving in slow circles just behind your ear. Your eyes flutter closed, letting your head sink further into his hand, too hurt to give a damn about the tears falling freely down your cheek and dripping off your chin to the floor. Shaking your head is almost too easy.
You stay like this for a long moment; one of Brendon's arms wrapped around your waist while the other moves soothingly over your skin, close enough to feel his warm breath fan across your face.
"C'mon, darlin," he murmurs, taking in a controlled breath. His fingers slip to the crook of your neck and down to your wrist. You pray he can't feel you shiver. But his gaze follows the path of his fingers, silently admiring the raising of the hairs on your arms, his lips twitching faintly upwards.
Offering his arm, you retreat from his embrace, letting your hand fall to the crook of his elbow. You don't flinch at the crash of thunder. You'd never admit this to him, but you almost miss his warmth. Almost.
Returning to the hallway, Brendon guides you back towards the ballroom. The young man who had tried pointing you in the right direction looks up from his cleaning, tipping his head at Brendon. The man walking next to you returns the gesture.
"We'll be having a guest tonight," he says, his voice composed. Brendon slows to a stop.
The boy glances from you to Brendon, his green eyes flicking back and forth with something you can't quite place. Brendon's face must change slightly because the boy straightens.
"Would you like the South room set up?"
Even through his suit, you can feel the muscles in Brendon's arm wind up, fingers clenching the same way his jaw does. "No," he replies curtly, "North wing. Next to the study."
The shock on the boy's face is unmistakable, but it's gone as soon as it appears. He offers a quiet yessir and, again, tips his head before quickly climbing the stairs, taking a right and disappearing down the hall.
Releasing a slow breath, Brendon regains the soft smile that you'd nearly forgotten. He detours towards the leftover but untouched drinks. Handing one to you and keeping one for himself, he raises the glass in a half-baked toast.
"To dumb sons of bitches," he almost laughs. Your brows crease together, tilting your head to the right. It was odd to hear him swear so casually but in a weird way, it suited him.
The urge to scream still curdles just below the surface of your skin. But the familiarity of Brendon's features — still so very soft in the empty room, molten chocolate eyes catching the light — has the pain fluttering.
You raise your glass. "May they learn from their mistakes."
Not breaking eye contact with Brendon, you bring the glass to your lips, tasting the fine champagne. He does the same, but the slight twitch of his brows doesn't go unnoticed. Lowering the drink, you look about the place, briefly wondering how he'd managed all of it.
The house was gorgeous with its marbled floors, the contrast of the dark and rich red carpet covering the stairs eye catching. The building seemed large, but from the looks of it, that space was mostly taken up by the ballroom you stand in.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Brendon says, lowering his glass. "To think I used to hate this place."
A short laugh escapes you against your will. Shock flickers in Brendon's eyes as you cover your mouth. You drop your hand, regaining some sort of composure.
"You, um–" he raises his glass but doesn't take another drink– "You never did say why."
His elbow drops, pulling the rim of his glass away from his lips, a frown tugging at the very edges of his mouth. "It's just a family thing."
The bitterness of the night presses down on your lungs, leaving the taste of the champagne stale on your tongue. You have half a mind to spit it out.
It's a family thing.
Never did you think one phrase could piss you off the way this one did. Brendon's eyes remain trained on the floor, and for a moment, you think he's oblivious to the shit storm building up in you, but then you notice his fingers fidgeting with his rings. He never could quite tame that tick.
Before you absolutely lose it, the boy comes back, clearing his throat from the top of the stairs. Brendon finally looks up.
"I can show you to your room," he offers, that strange everything is fine aura returning to him.
You purse your lips, setting the only half empty glass down on the table. "No need," you reply, standing straight. "I'll be fine on my own."
His jaw tightens but the fire doesn't quite reach his eyes. The urge to say something is written all over his face and the smile the pulls at your lips only intensifies that.
Turning on your heel, you leave Brendon behind. You only slow your stride when you're out of sight, tucked away behind the corner of the hall.
There's a small shuffle downstairs, and you can imagine Brendon dragging a heavy hand through his hair, nose twitching upwards into a snarl.
"Son of a bitch," he hisses.
Your smile widens, a rush of vicious glee helping you hold your head high.
You wanted a dance, Urie. Let's fucking dance.