All Hail The King || Brendon Urie x Reader

VIII

The morning light that wedged itself through the curtains prove themselves blinding as you open our eyes, the action much more difficult than you last remember it being. Trying to stretch your heavy muscles, you find that to be laborious as well.
After a few minutes — which may have been an hour for all you knew — you managed to roll onto your side, weakly shielding your eyes from the sun. As your vision adjusted, you took in the large, white curtains that covered the window. The ends just barely brushed against the plush looking carpet. You flex your fingers.
Looking at your hand, you realize it's buried beneath the pillow holding your head, the sheets soft against your skin. Then, a much scarier realization hits you, and you jump up; the sudden, uncoordinated motion makes you slide off the edge of the unfamiliar bed with a resounding thump. Holding your breath, your fingers dig into the floor.
A low voice barely comes through the door and you scramble to find something sharp or heavy — something to protect yourself with. Your eyes land on your silver heels which sit next to the nightstand. Frantically, you snap the heel off the shoe, aiming the makeshift weapon at the door as it swings open.
A tall man — easily over six foot, but not ridiculously muscular — sweeps his long, but not untamed, brown hair away from his face. Regardless of the motion, a piece still manages to fall into his electric blue eyes. His jaw, a couple days past being shaved, drops when he sees you're awake.
"Hey, I uh-"
He shifts forward, hands outstretched, and your grip tightens until you're shaking. "You stay right fucking there!" He nods, hands held up. "How do I get the hell out of here?!"
"Look," he says cautiously, "my name is Dallon, okay? I'm a friend-"
"I don't care who you are! Where the fuck am I?!"
He moves closer and you back yourself against the window, your free hand brushing the cold pane. There was something distantly familiar about Dallon, but you weren't about to sit down and discuss the feeling.
He easily blocked the only door out. The other door was cracked open, allowing you to briefly take in the marble countertop of the bathroom. You could lock yourself in, but while he may not be ripped, you couldn't imagine him having serious trouble kicking the wood in. You dare a glance out the window.
You were on the second floor. Granted there was a good stretch of green grass to cushion your fall more than cement would, you couldn't guarantee you'd land safely.
"Y/N, I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm just-"
You had let him get too close; he stands at the foot of the bed, no more than ten paces
away. Although he could easily make that three or four given how long his legs are.
"How do you know my name?" You ask, but you're not sure if you want the answer.
Irritation seeps into his eyes. "I need you to listen to me, alright?! I'm not gonna hurt you! I just need you to cooperate!"
Great, you think snidely, now I've pissed him off.
Pissed or not, you did not like how cooperate fell off his tongue; sharp and flared at its edges. You look at the window again. Fingers stretching for the latch, you unlock it, and hoist it up.
"Shit!" Dallon's irritation suddenly vanishes as he lunges forward. You duck beneath his arm, scrambling across the bed and towards the door. The handle slams against the drywall.
"What the hell is-"
You ram straight into a firm chest and his breath leaves him in a quick rush. You back up, heart pounding, eyes searching for another way out, almost finding it when: "Y/N?"
You lock eyes with the man you'd nearly tackled. You ask breathlessly, "Brendon?"
Dallon comes tumbling out of the bedroom, one hand on the door frame as he swings around. You jump, spinning to slash at him, nerves having wound you up.
The skin on Dallon's palm is sliced by your broken heel. He hisses, and before you can shove him away, Brendon wraps his arms around your waist and yanks you back against his chest. You thrash, adrenaline making your brain fuzzy.
"Please refrain from killing my friends," he jokes weakly, grunting when your elbow jabs his stomach. He wrestles the heel from your hand. Through gritted teeth, he mutters, "They're limited as is."
Heart still pounding, you finally recognize Dallon. He was with Brendon last night at Vices. You could remember his hand raising his glass in a toast. The same hand that was now bleeding thanks to you.
You sink in Brendon's hold, covering your mouth. "Oh god, I'm so sorry."
"Why don't you go get that cleaned up, Dal," Brendon says, already guiding you towards the room you came from.
"Ah," he shrugs, waving him off, "I've had worse."
Despite his words, he walks in the opposite direction, holding his injured hand carefully. Brendon pulls away, only his fingertips brushing your exposed back. You were still in last night's dress. The door latches shut with a soft click.
"I didn't realize he was-" you drag a hand down your face- "God, I'm such an idiot."
"No, you're not," Brendon soothes, his voice gentle. "I actually expected a lot worse. How much of last night do you even remember?"
"Oh my god, Macie! She was with me-"
"I know," he cuts in, arm blocking you from the door which you'd jumped for. "She's here too. She's okay."
You relax, brows twitching together as he fidgets. "But?"
"But," he yields, shoulders dropping, "She wasn't happy about coming here. In fact, she about clawed my eye out for even suggesting it. Here, sit."
He gestures towards the bed, moving towards the dark oak dresser, opening the third drawer. You pick distractedly at the white sheets.
"And, um-" he moves to a different drawer- "Where is here?"
Closing both drawers, he walks towards a closed door, opening it to reveal a closet. He answers over his shoulder, "My house."
Brendon disappears from view for a moment, coming back with a shirt draped over his arm. "And this is...?"
He looks over the clothes as he walks towards you. His shiny leather shoes stop just inches from your toes, and your gaze lifts to his eyes. He offers you the outfit.
"My room," he replies simply.
Taking the clothes from him, you mumble a simple oh, your fingers brushing his. You look at the headboard, trying to ignore the smirk that tugs at his lips. Brendon clears his throat.
"You should shower," he says softly. "We can talk about last night when you've cleaned up a bit, okay?"
You chuckle weakly, "What? Can't look at me while I'm a mess?"
"No, I-" his hand lifts towards your face, his fingers barely brushing your cheekbone as you look at him. His eyes have a sadness in them; deeply rooted in the past and branching out into what sits before him. "I don't want to."
Your heart wrenches in your chest and you so badly want to wrap him in a hug, holding him tight as your hand runs through his fluffy hair. But you don't. You only look down at the clothes, trying to ignore the way his hand lingers midair longer than it should.
Funny how you keep trying to ignore him, and how terribly you keep failing.
You stand up, now close enough to smell his cologne. His eyes flick between yours. "I'll, uh, just come find me when you're done."
All you can manage is a nod. Brendon mirrors you, before backing up, turning, and leaving without another word. You stand there dumbly, looking around.
So I spent the night in his room, you think. I wonder where Brendon slept?
The sudden image of Brendon curled up next to you in the same bed, one arm thrown lazily over your waist, his lips parted slightly pops into your head. You imagine his hair all tousled and his face relaxed. You weren't sure if the idea was supposed to be a good or a bad one.
Even if that was the case, (but you seriously had your doubts, all things considered), you'd rather it be Brendon than a stranger. But was there even a difference anymore?