All Hail The King || Brendon Urie x Reader

IX

After your shower, you slipped into the fresh clothes (blushing when you realized just how big Brendon's shirt was on you), and stepped into the hallway. A quick glance around the hall told you this wasn't the same place as before. This one felt a little more real.
The gray carpet that was in Brendon's room gave way to a scuffed up wood floor which led all the way to the staircase that dropped into the living room. One cushion on the couch — on the right side, but dipping towards the middle — is sunken in its place, showing its use.
Little trinkets and photos line the walls. A portrait of Frank Sinatra hangs across from the slick piano, the black and white picture kept safe in a frame. A book lays face down on the coffee table, it's old dog-eared pages looking like the poor plant next to it; a colorful container holding an aging and almost forgotten memory. You let your fingers glide over the white wall, finding yourself in the kitchen.
While there was no Elizabeth, seeing Brendon sitting at the island, his head resting in his hand as he gazes out the window let an odd calm wash over you. Before you can admire how nicely the sunlight catches his hair, he turns, sitting up straight.
"I-" his eyes travel the length of your legs, his lips parting slightly. His fingers twitch. "Do you want anything? Water? Something to eat?" He's up and out of his seat, abandoning his own coffee as he opens the fridge. "I could make you something? I've got eggs, bacon, toast-"
"Just a water, please."
He presses his lips together, obviously a little disappointed in your answer, but grabs a glass anyways. You tug at the hem of your — his — shirt.
He hands you the water, gesturing to the seat next to his. "Here, sit."
"No," you say firmly. Brendon's brows raise. "I have questions and for all things holy, do not lie to me."
The soft look in his eyes disappears, taking shelter behind carefully constructed walls. He crosses his arms, leaning against the counter. You can see his hand twist in the crook of his elbow, and you know he's fidgeting with his rings.
"Fine," he says cautiously, holding up a finger, "but you can't talk about business. Anything else is free game."
"Why? Is that a family thing too?" It's out before you can stop it, and while Brendon's expression sours, he takes it in stride.
"Yes. Next?"
You bite your tongue, feeling your anger start to simmer. "Last night at Vices. Why were you there?"
"Dallon wanted go out," he replies, shrugging. "I agreed."
"Then how'd you know the bartenders name? And why did she tell you how much I'd drank?"
"I frequent the establishment, and I'm sure she was just as worried."
Your untouched water is set on the counter rather harshly, neither of you flinching. Your head was pounding.
Were you worried? You want to spit out. Did you even give a shit or was this just a ploy to protect your image?
"What happened to Jack?"
Every muscle in Brendon's body seems to wind up. His voice drops to a harsh snarl, "He's been taken care of."
"And-" you clear the lump from your throat, shifting your weight- "What does that mean?" You weren't sure if you wanted to know, and the dark look Brendon sends promises you don't. You glance at your bare feet. "Oh."
Brendon sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look, he'll live, okay? But if he ever sets foot near Vices again, I can't promise anything." He drops his hand. "If he comes near you — hell, if he even so much as looks at you — I will personally break his jaw."
You can't say you'd ever seen this side of Brendon; the side that was utterly pissed. And since when did he become so concerned with your well being?
"I won't hold you back," you mumble, clenching and unclenching your fists. "I just- why are you so upset?"
Brendon stands up straight, brows knit tightly over his eyes, his mouth ajar. "Why am I-" he shakes his head, arms untangling themselves. "Why wouldn't I be? He drugged you and would've done God knows what if I wouldn't have been there–"
"I just don't understand why you care so much!" He opens his mouth, but you don't let him interject. "You're all pissed off about some piece of shit guy — which I seem to have a long history of — and I cannot, for the life of me, understand why! How important could I possibly be to you?"
"Has it ever occurred to you that maybe — just maybe — you mean the fucking world to me?!"
"No, because if you cared about me, you wouldn't have left me!" The fight drains from him, leaving behind a soft, hurt glint in his eye and he's never looked more like a kicked puppy. Your shoulders shake and you realize you're crying. "You wouldn't have disappeared and- and never called or let me- let me know you were okay!  And then Mom-" you shake your head- "I needed you, and you were gone!" You voice cracks. "You were- you were g-gone and I never got- I never got to say goodbye."
You use your sleeve to wipe away your tears, choking back sobs. Brendon reaches out to touch you. You step back, pointing an accusing finger at his chest.
"And you don't get to do that," you snap weakly. "You don't get to sweep in and be some hero as if the last two decades didn't happen!"
"I know," he says quickly, voice strained with emotion, "but let me try. Please." You shake your head weakly, unconvinced. Gently, he cups your face, ducking into your line of sight. "I would've given anything to have stayed. I fought my parents tooth and nail but they-" he clenches his jaw, debating whether or not he should finish his sentence. "They shipped me off anyways. East coast with no way home."
You set your hands on his chest, needing something to steady yourself and too easily falling back into old habits. "But they said you were with some uncle in Vancouver. Said you wanted away from everything — everyone."
"They lied." He shakes his head, clenching his jaw. "They were disappointed in their fuckup of a son. They wanted a hard ass who could take over the family business, and I wasn't it." His hands relax. You watch his eyes flick rapidly between three points behind you, away from your face. "I wanted out and they buried me deeper."
You both let yourselves stay like this; wrapped up in each other, standing so close you can see the lines etched in his face, the scars. You bring your hand up to his brow, fingers ghosting over the faded skin where it was once broken.
You felt selfish. You felt like a selfish little kid. Throwing a temper tantrum because you didn't get your way when he had it worse. Sure, at first you were worried what had happened and what he was thinking, but then, as his parents kept repeating the same song, it started to sound like you were to blame. Your pride refused to believe it, so you turned your nose up, and knew it was something with him. He must've done something wrong. He must not be thinking right.
But of course, the anger faded with time, and you only wanted him back, but angry or not, you truly believed he was gone.
Your inhibitions crumble as you stand on your toes, wrapping your arms around his neck, and pulling into a hug. A kiss may have been acceptable if this were some cliché film, but Brendon wasn't complaining. He even moves his arms around your lower back, holding you tightly against him.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles into your hair. "For all of it."
Your nails dig into his shirt. "I've missed you," you confess.
A puff of air pushes out his nose, a weak breath of a laugh, but when speaks, his voice trembles, "I've missed you too, darlin."