Fic. Seriously. IDEK, guys...
Jun. 7th, 2009 03:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mokuyoubiTitle: The Morgan Monfrey Affair 1/?
Author: Mokuyoubi
Rating: PG-13 (for now)
Band: Panic, with very small cameos by some members of TAI and CS
Pairing: Spencer/Ryan/Brendon, Jon/Brendon, Jon/Ryan, Panic GSF (Brendon/OFC, implied Spencer/Ryan)
Summary: AU of the 80's movie American Dreamer (not that you need to have any clue what that is, as this is only based on it in the loosest since imaginable). Bored house-husband Brendon Urie spends his spare time reading the world famous Morgan Monfrey mystery novels. He just never imaged he’d end up living one of them…
“Don Gabriel Saporta,” Morgan hissed.
“The Uruguayan ambassador?” Spencer asked.
“He’s the snake that tried to run me down,” Morgan said.
“Why would he try to kill you?” Spencer said, following Morgan’s gaze across the room to where Saporta was chatting with Ambassador Blackinton.
AN: I don't usually do WIPs, but this is one I'm definitely going to finish. Actually, at the rate it's being written, it might be pretty quick, but who knows when I might be sidetracked, especially with BBB coming up. Anyway, enjoy the crack, or blame Muse for making me write it...
“Dmitri,” Morgan said, brown eyes big and earnest, “someone’s always trying to kill me.”
Morgan Monfrey eyed the passengers of the train subtly from behind his newspaper. There was the seductive Countess Clarion conversing with the oil baron Doyle. Towards the back of the car was Mrs. Marcus Courtney. Across the aisle from her, dining with a gaggle of beautiful woman was Daniel Ventura, accomplished businessman with attachments to the Italian mafia.
Any of them could be responsible for the disappearance of the Monroe girl. Certainly Ventura was the most likely suspect, but Morgan was not ready to rule the others out of hand. None of them had any morals to speak of, he knew from experience.
Rebecca Monroe had seen a woman in her early thirties—tall, with long dark hair and olive skin. The Countess was nearing her sixties, and Mrs. Courtney was fair skinned and kept her blonde hair chin length. It was possible that any one of them could have used an accomplice, paid off one of their many lackeys.
“What are you thinking, Morgan?” Dmitri asked.
Morgan didn’t spare a glance for his partner, murmuring out of the corner of his mouth. “Patience,” he said.
At the opposite end of the train a man in a finely tailored suit stood, placing his napkin neatly by his plate. He was thin and slight, for as tall as he was, and moved with a peculiar grace. “Do we know him?” Dmitri asked, following Morgan’s gaze.
A smile spread unbidden over Morgan’s lips. As the man slipped through the door connecting the dining car to the sleeping cars, Morgan stood as well. “Morgan?” Dmitri said.
Morgan followed the man in time to see him pass through one sleeping car into the next. Dmitri was close behind, a comforting presence at Morgan’s back. The man climbed the stairs to the observation car. Evening had fallen, but the car was still full, several people enjoying an after-dinner cigarette over conversation.
“Does he look familiar to you?” Morgan asked and Dmitri tilted his head, considering.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looks like Count Renalo,” Dmitri said, “but he doesn’t have a son.”
“No,” Morgan agreed, moving forward again. “But he does have a daughter,” he added under his breath.
The man looked up as Morgan approached, but his eyes betrayed nothing. “May I help you?” he asked coolly.
Morgan’s hand shot out grabbing the man by his close cropped hair. A woman nearby gasped, and Dmitri hissed, “What are you doing?”
“Dmitri,” Morgan said, smiling smugly. “You know I always get my woman.” He tugged hard on the hair and it came away in his hand, the wig giving way to long, silky brown hair. “Even when she’s a man.”
“I finished the story I was working on,” Brendon said.
Tamarie barely spared him a look. “Terrific,” she said, voice bland.
“You know, the top prize is an all-expense-paid trip to Paris for two, for a week,” Brendon said. “It could be like a second honeymoon. You know, if we’d had a first one.”
Tamarie sighed, putting down her fork and knife, and took a long drink from her water glass. “What are the odds of winning something like that?” she wondered rhetorically.
Nevon and Payson stared at their plates in silence and Brendon fiddled with his napkin, the table cloth, anything to keep him from looking at Tamarie’s disappointed expression.
“I suppose,” Tamarie said at length, tone bitter, “the important thing is you’re doing something you like to do.”
Brendon bit down hard on his tongue until he tasted blood and the rest of dinner passed in silence. Afterwards Tamarie went to her office and Payson and Nevon to their rooms to do homework.
Doing the dishes was Brendon’s second favourite part of his day. Cooking required too much attention, and cleaning was just a pain, but dishes were different. It was a mindless activity and he found it relaxing, hands in the warm, lemon-scented water.
Most of the time he was content. Happy, even. Every night after dinner, though, Brendon felt wound too tight, uncomfortable from sitting at the table across from Tamarie and her disapproving frown, her cold words.
He wouldn’t let himself think about her right now. Not in this time. It was his, and his alone. He packed away the leftover casserole and put the pan to soak while he worked on their dinner plates, and thought instead of his story.
It was good, solid writing. He’d read enough of the Morgan Monfrey novels to capture Ross’s style without seeming like a copy-cat. Brendon wasn’t delusional. He didn’t think he had what it took to be a novelist. Maybe, though, he had what it took to win this contest.
After finishing the dishes and taking down the laundry he’d pinned up earlier, Brendon tidied up the living room and dining room. He hung up Tamarie’s jacket and put her kicked off shoes neatly in their place in the cabinet by the front door.
The boys were both in Nevon’s room playing a video game. Brendon stood in the doorway, hands on hips, until they noticed him. “I know that if I look, all your homework will be finished,” he told them. They looked at him with wide eyes and nodded their heads in unison.
Brendon smiled. “In that case, get ready to have your butts kicked,” he said, and dropped to the floor beside them, grabbing another controller.
Nevon rolled his eyes. “No way. You’re going down this time,” he said.
This was Brendon’s favourite part of the day. The mornings were a rush of activity, making sure the boys had their lunch, their homework, show and tell or science project or permission slip. By the time the boys got home in the afternoon, Brendon had lessons and then he was starting on dinner. Often they helped him, but this time, just the three of them having fun, Nevon and Payson telling him about their days, this was what made Brendon’s life worth it.
Predictably, Brendon won. Payson kept running off cliffs on accident, and though Nevon was becoming a formidable opponent, he still wasn’t up to Brendon’s level. Sometimes Brendon went easy on them, but he didn’t believe in always letting them have their way. He didn’t want them growing up spoiled.
“So, you gonna read us your story for bed?” Nevon asked, when the television had been turned off for the evening.
Brendon bit his lip, thinking of what Tamarie would say. The two of them had dramatically different ideas on how to bring up their children, mostly stemming from the fact that Brendon had gone inactive in the Church shortly after Payson’s birth. But Tamarie would never know, and frankly, Brendon didn’t care.
When he finished reading, Nevon regarded him dubiously, one brow arched high. Payson just looked confused. Brendon sighed. “That bad, huh?” he asked.
Payson frowned and climbed into Brendon’s lap, toying with Brendon’s hands. “I think it’s awesome, Dad. Morgan is so smart and cool. Just, why is Dmitri always with him. He never helps. Plus Morgan always gets the girl. Why isn’t Dmitri jealous about that?”
“Dmitri has…other interests,” Brendon said delicately.
“You mean he’s a homo,” Nevon muttered.
“Hey!” Brendon snapped. “Where did you—you can’t say that!” Nevon shifted uncomfortably, crossing his arms over his chest. “You can’t call people that, Nevon.”
“Why not?” Nevon asked, and kicked at his comforter petulantly. “Kids at school say it.”
“That doesn’t make it alright,” Brendon said.
“What’s a homo?” Payson murmured.
“You are,” Nevon said meanly.
“Hey!” Brendon shouted. He never raised his voice with his children, but this was too much. “Chance Nevon Urie. I never want to hear you use that word again, do you understand me. No more games for a week.”
“That’s not fair!” Nevon said, sitting upright.
“It isn’t fair to call people that. There’s nothing wrong with being a homosexual and making fun of people like that is just cruel,” Brendon said.
“That’s not what Mom says,” Nevon said. There was something shifty about his expression and the way he was holding himself that suggested he was sorry for what he said, but too proud to admit it or apologise.
“Your mother—” Brendon took a deep breath, struggling to find words suitable for tiny ears. He worked hard to counter the worst of the miseducation that went on when the boys went to church, but obviously it didn’t always work how he meant. He decided to take a different approach.
“You know, Erin and Bethany would be really hurt to hear you say something like that,” Brendon said, naming two of his piano students who had occasionally babysat for the boys before Tamarie had found out they were a couple.
Nevon’s face went white. “I didn’t mean them,” he said.
“What about Erin and Bethany?” Payson asked, tugging on Brendon’s shirt. “What’s a homo?”
Brendon would have said before now that Payson was too young to have this conversation, but he would have thought the same thing about Nevon, and apparently that was wrong. “It means that Dmitri loves other men, and it means that Erin and Bethany love each other.”
“Yeah,” Payson said, waiting for more.
Brendon smiled. “And there’s nothing wrong with it. You can love whoever you want to love. No matter what your mother says, or the Church says, or anyone else. No matter what I say.”
Payson nodded gravely and Nevon kicked at his comforter again. “I think it’s time for bed,” Brendon said. He lifted Payson off his lap and sat him on his feet by the bed. “Go brush your teeth. I’ll be in to tuck you in in a few minutes.”
When Payson had gone, Brendon turned back to Nevon. “I didn’t mean it,” Nevon said, when Brendon didn’t say anything. “I’m sorry. I know. Just, the kids at school call me a homo sometimes, because Mom works and you cook and clean and stuff, and they say you are, and that me and Payson are, too.”
“Kids at school are mean and stupid,” Brendon said. Seriously. What were fourth graders coming to? Brendon hadn’t started getting that sort of teasing until junior high, at least.
Brendon tucked in Nevon first and then Payson, staying with his younger son until he was asleep. Payson was going through a rough time, Nevon being in a different school for the first year since Payson had started. Nevon had always been around to protect Payson from the other children, and Payson was so quiet and shy. He’d been having bad dreams, climbing into Brendon and Tamarie’s bed. Tamarie had said it had to stop.
Once the children were down, Brendon hurried to ready himself for bed. He’d prefer to stay up with the new Morgan Monfrey book; he’d just reached the middle and was dying to know what happened next. He wasn’t willing to risk being awake when Tamarie came in, though.
Normally it wouldn’t matter, but with her thirty-second birthday approaching, she’d begun mentioning how she’d always wanted three kids. They hadn’t tried in a very long time and Brendon was absolutely, definitely not going to bring another child into this family. He loved his sons more than anything in the world, but he didn’t want to subject another child to this failed experiment of a marriage, and all the conflict and stress that came with it.
Sometime after midnight he was stirred awake by a noise in the master bathroom and then Tamarie crawled into bed. Brendon held himself tense and still, but Tamarie stayed on her side of the bed, and after a few minutes, Brendon fell back to sleep.
It was Friday, which meant Nevon had soccer and Payson had Boy Scouts, so they couldn’t catch the bus home. Brendon had to rearrange his piano schedule every school year to accommodate the boys’ schedules and Tamarie’s. He knew as soon as Nevon reached junior high, he’d probably only be able to hold lessons on the weekend.
Still, Friday was Brendon’s day with his boys. Just them, and no Tamarie for the entire afternoon. He picked them up at school, listening to Nevon ramble about the game of dodge ball during recess, and Payson’s story about how Jake Miller had gotten into another fight again. They went for ice cream and then to the movie rental place, where they were each allowed to pick a movie that Brendon would watch with them.
In the grocery store Payson and Nevon rushed down each aisle, trying to beat each other to the item Brendon named. The winner got to ride on the back of the cart, and when no one was in the aisle with them, Brendon would push really fast.
It was close to six before they got home, but that was alright, because on Friday nights, they ordered pizza and Brendon took a rest from cooking and cleaning. The boys helped carry in the bags. Tamarie was home, but didn’t offer her help, staying in her study. She’d brought the mail in and left it on the kitchen island. It was Brendon’s job to take care of the bills.
He and the kids put away the groceries and he called the pizza parlour before sending them off to pick which movie to start with. That finished, he began to sort through the pile of mail. Gas bill, junk mail, junk mail, water bill… At the bottom of the pile was a small, thin envelope, yellow with red writing. Brendon frowned and ran his thumbnail under the lip, tearing it open.
For a moment, Brendon didn’t realise what he was seeing. There was only one sheet of paper, addressed to him at the top, saying something about accepting or declining his prize. He thought it was just some junk mail, like Publisher’s Clearing House, until the name Ryan Ross caught his eye halfway down.
Brendon’s heart caught in his throat and he had to take a deep breath before he went back to the beginning of the letter to read.
Mister Urie,
Congratulations! Your piece has been selected for the Grand Prize from over 30,000 submissions received. You have until October 1st to accept, either by phone or mail. If confirmation is not received, the prize will be given to the 1st runner up. If you do accept, you and a guest will be treated to an all-expense-paid trip to Paris, France, from October 28th through November 5th, where you will stay in the luxurious Hotel Arvor Saint Georges, experience the beauty and the culture of the city, and be the Guest of Honour alongside Ryan Ross at a banquet celebrating the most recent Morgan Monfrey novel. Furthermore, your manuscript will be included in the next Morgan Monfrey novel!
We look forward to hearing from you, Mister Urie.
Sincerely,
Goman and Hillsack Publications
On the back of the sheet was a detailed list of his prize, as well as the numbers and address for contact. Brendon’s hands shook and he stood frozen to the spot for several moments.
“Dad,” Payson called, coming into the room. “Are you coming in to watch with us? Nevon said we could watch mine first.” He frowned at Brendon. “Dad, are you okay?”
Brendon released the paper and it fluttered to the countertop. He knelt on the floor and pulled Payson into a tight hug. “I won,” he said, voice almost a whisper. “I won.”
“I knew you would, Dad,” Payson said, and sounded so sure. He petted Brendon’s hair, a habit kept from infancy. “You’re the awesomest.”
Brendon laughed, or maybe sobbed. This sort of thing didn’t happen to him. He did the housework and shopping and spent his afternoons mating socks. He didn’t win prizes.
He jerked Payson closer and Payson squeezed tight. Payson called out, “Nevon, come on, you gotta hear!” and soon Nevon was part of their hug, too, bragging about his novelist father.
“So you and Mom are gonna be gone for a whole week?” Payson asked.
“Who’re you going to get to watch us?” Nevon asked. “Please not Grandma Wiloni and Grandpa Alverice. They make us sing gospel songs all night and don’t even have a TV and it smells like medicine at their house.”
Brendon chuckled. “I think Aunt Kara would be happy to have you guys for a little while, and you could spend some time with your cousins.” He’d have to fight Tamarie over it, but Kara was better able to take care of them than Tamarie’s parents anyway.
He was barely able to sit still through the movies and sighed in relief when Nevon fell asleep in his lap shortly into the second movie. Payson was too tired to keep his eyes open and kept yawning.
“We’ll finish tomorrow, promise,” Brendon said, and kissed Payson’s forehead. Payson just yawned and nodded his agreement.
Since they didn’t have school and Nevon mumbled his sleepy approval, Brendon agreed they could both sleep in Nevon’s room. He frankly didn’t care what Tamarie said about it. Brendon had shared a bed with his brothers and his sister before, and his parents had never been bothered when Brendon was too upset or scared to sleep alone.
Tamarie was sitting up in bed when Brendon came in. The sheets were covered in papers from work, and she looked tired and stressed out. Brendon bit back a sigh and sat on the edge of the bed, touching her ankle lightly. “Hey,” he said softly. “I’ve got good news.”
Tamarie set aside her papers and looked at him with weary expectation. She was still beautiful, but Brendon rarely appreciated it. He did in this moment, her shiny black hair falling down from its braid, the smooth, olive skin of her collarbone left bare by her nightgown.
“I won the contest,” Brendon said, unable to keep the disbelief and excitement from his voice.
“What contest?” Tamarie said, smiling a little like she was trying to be interested and failing miserably.
“The Morgan Monfrey contest,” Brendon said.
“Oh.” Tamarie’s voice was bland. She didn’t approve of the novels, from the amount of sex in them, to the nature of the genre, to the fact that Dmitri was gay. “Well, what have you won?”
Brendon couldn’t stop the grin that split his face. He didn’t even mind that she obviously hadn’t paid attention when he’d first told her. “Tamarie, they are going to fly us to Paris, for nine days, we’ll stay in this gorgeous hotel. There are tours and dinners and they’re having a banquet in my honour! They’re going to publish my manuscript in the next book!”
Tamarie looked away from Brendon’s face. “Paris? When?”
“The end of October. I know it’s short notice, but we’re talking about Paris, Tam!” They’d been so young when they’d married, and Tamarie already three months pregnant. They’d gone straight from living with their parents to moving into their home, and had never been on a trip together until they took the boys to Colorado last winter.
“Brendon, I can’t take time off work right now.” Tamarie picked her papers back up. “Maybe if we saved up, in another year or two…”
Brendon stared at her in disbelief, jaw hanging open a little. She didn’t acknowledge him further. “Fine,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. “It’s alright. I’ll go on my own, then. Kara can help you out with the kids while I’m gone. Pick them up when she gets hers. I can make extra food and put it in the freezer, and you can just heat it up for dinner.”
Tamarie’s eyes flashed, but she didn’t argue the point. “Very well,” she said. “You have to do what you have to do.”
Brendon went down the living room to read his book and give Tamarie time to calm down. By the time he went back upstairs, Tamarie was finishing her work, tucking it away in her briefcase.
“Do you want to?” Brendon asked, gesturing to the bed. He felt vaguely guilty, and at least he could give her this.
“I guess,” Tamarie said, shrugging.
It made him sick to his stomach, but if anything had stuck with him from his days of being a good Mormon boy, it was performing his husbandly duties. At least she didn’t put up a fuss when he got out a condom. Maybe she’d given up on wanting their third. It would certainly be a weight off Brendon’s shoulders.
When he slept that night, he dreamed of being Morgan Monfrey. How much different life would be… Brendon wouldn’t trade his children for the world, but in his dreams he didn’t have children. He didn’t have a wife. He had a devoted best friend, an exciting career, lovers in every major city in the world… In his dreams, Brendon mattered.
Brendon called the next day and accepted his prize, still functioning in disbelief. He was told he would receive a package within a few days, containing his plane tickets, hotel reservation information, and itinerary. The woman on the other end of the line seemed confused when he told her he’d only need one plane ticket. She encouraged him to find someone to bring along, but Brendon politely and firmly turned her down.
He bought some French lessons on CD at Barnes and Noble and put them on his iPod, listening as he went about his daily chores. He’d had a bit of French in High School, but mostly forgotten it. Now, he stumbled over the pronunciations, sounding like an idiot with marbles in his mouth, or something. He was infinitely thankful for the fact that the people he’d be interacting with would all speak English.
Tamarie came home on the 27th, watched Brendon lay his suitcase out on the bed and begin to fill it, and said, “You’re seriously going to do this, aren’t you?”
Brendon took a long time going through his sock drawer so he wouldn’t have to look at her. Or maybe he didn’t want her to see his face. It took an unreasonable amount of effort not to sigh, but Tamarie hated when he did that.
“I’ve spoken to Kara. She’s going to pick the kids up from school tomorrow and take them for the weekend. I’ve labelled everything in the fridge and freezer, and left instructions on how to heat everything up.”
“I know how to cook,” Tamarie snapped. “I went to Young Women’s.”
Brendon chose to ignore her. “Kara’ll make sure they get off to school on Monday morning, and Mrs. Stamper offered to meet them at the bus and keep them at her place until you get home in the evenings.”
“This is so irresponsible, Brendon,” Tamarie said. “I can’t believe you’re actually going to leave me—your children—and go frolicking around Paris!”
“How is it irresponsible? I’ve taken care of everything. I’m not just leaving you,” Brendon argued, trying to keep his voice even. “I wanted you to come with me. You’re the one who said I had to do what I had to do.”
“That’s because I expected you to make a rational decision,” Tamarie said.
“Tamarie,” Brendon said slowly, “I’ve made the decision, I’ve accepted the prize, and I’m leaving tomorrow. Kara will help out, and everything will be fine. I’ll be back in a little over a week.”
Tamarie went to her study and didn’t come out again the rest of the evening. Brendon finished packing, helped the boys with their homework, and tucked them in for the evening.
“I’m gonna miss you,” Nevon said.
“I wish it was Mom going and you were staying with us for a week. That would be a bunch of fun,” Payson said, and Brendon felt a mixture of pleasure and despair to hear him say so.
“It’ll be lots of fun,” Brendon said. “You love staying at Aunt Kara’s. Joe and Beth are excited about seeing you. I’ll be back before you know it. And next time I promise I’ll take you both with me.”
Tamarie gave Brendon the silent treatment when she finally came in to bed, but he didn’t mind. He made a point of reading his Morgan Monfrey novel in the bed, leaving his bedside light on when she turned off the overhead light. In the book, Morgan had uncovered a cocaine smuggling plot concerning French government officials and the murder of a member of the clergy.
Brendon simmered with excitement, knowing that in just two days, he’d be meeting Ryan Ross. He wondered if Ryan was anything like his character. If so, who was his Dmitri? He could barely sleep, with all the thoughts circling in his head, and on repeat, I’m going to Paris, I’m going to Paris, I’m going to Paris…
Author: Mokuyoubi
Rating: PG-13 (for now)
Band: Panic, with very small cameos by some members of TAI and CS
Pairing: Spencer/Ryan/Brendon, Jon/Brendon, Jon/Ryan, Panic GSF (Brendon/OFC, implied Spencer/Ryan)
Summary: AU of the 80's movie American Dreamer (not that you need to have any clue what that is, as this is only based on it in the loosest since imaginable). Bored house-husband Brendon Urie spends his spare time reading the world famous Morgan Monfrey mystery novels. He just never imaged he’d end up living one of them…
“Don Gabriel Saporta,” Morgan hissed.
“The Uruguayan ambassador?” Spencer asked.
“He’s the snake that tried to run me down,” Morgan said.
“Why would he try to kill you?” Spencer said, following Morgan’s gaze across the room to where Saporta was chatting with Ambassador Blackinton.
AN: I don't usually do WIPs, but this is one I'm definitely going to finish. Actually, at the rate it's being written, it might be pretty quick, but who knows when I might be sidetracked, especially with BBB coming up. Anyway, enjoy the crack, or blame Muse for making me write it...
“Dmitri,” Morgan said, brown eyes big and earnest, “someone’s always trying to kill me.”
Morgan Monfrey eyed the passengers of the train subtly from behind his newspaper. There was the seductive Countess Clarion conversing with the oil baron Doyle. Towards the back of the car was Mrs. Marcus Courtney. Across the aisle from her, dining with a gaggle of beautiful woman was Daniel Ventura, accomplished businessman with attachments to the Italian mafia.
Any of them could be responsible for the disappearance of the Monroe girl. Certainly Ventura was the most likely suspect, but Morgan was not ready to rule the others out of hand. None of them had any morals to speak of, he knew from experience.
Rebecca Monroe had seen a woman in her early thirties—tall, with long dark hair and olive skin. The Countess was nearing her sixties, and Mrs. Courtney was fair skinned and kept her blonde hair chin length. It was possible that any one of them could have used an accomplice, paid off one of their many lackeys.
“What are you thinking, Morgan?” Dmitri asked.
Morgan didn’t spare a glance for his partner, murmuring out of the corner of his mouth. “Patience,” he said.
At the opposite end of the train a man in a finely tailored suit stood, placing his napkin neatly by his plate. He was thin and slight, for as tall as he was, and moved with a peculiar grace. “Do we know him?” Dmitri asked, following Morgan’s gaze.
A smile spread unbidden over Morgan’s lips. As the man slipped through the door connecting the dining car to the sleeping cars, Morgan stood as well. “Morgan?” Dmitri said.
Morgan followed the man in time to see him pass through one sleeping car into the next. Dmitri was close behind, a comforting presence at Morgan’s back. The man climbed the stairs to the observation car. Evening had fallen, but the car was still full, several people enjoying an after-dinner cigarette over conversation.
“Does he look familiar to you?” Morgan asked and Dmitri tilted his head, considering.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looks like Count Renalo,” Dmitri said, “but he doesn’t have a son.”
“No,” Morgan agreed, moving forward again. “But he does have a daughter,” he added under his breath.
The man looked up as Morgan approached, but his eyes betrayed nothing. “May I help you?” he asked coolly.
Morgan’s hand shot out grabbing the man by his close cropped hair. A woman nearby gasped, and Dmitri hissed, “What are you doing?”
“Dmitri,” Morgan said, smiling smugly. “You know I always get my woman.” He tugged hard on the hair and it came away in his hand, the wig giving way to long, silky brown hair. “Even when she’s a man.”
“I finished the story I was working on,” Brendon said.
Tamarie barely spared him a look. “Terrific,” she said, voice bland.
“You know, the top prize is an all-expense-paid trip to Paris for two, for a week,” Brendon said. “It could be like a second honeymoon. You know, if we’d had a first one.”
Tamarie sighed, putting down her fork and knife, and took a long drink from her water glass. “What are the odds of winning something like that?” she wondered rhetorically.
Nevon and Payson stared at their plates in silence and Brendon fiddled with his napkin, the table cloth, anything to keep him from looking at Tamarie’s disappointed expression.
“I suppose,” Tamarie said at length, tone bitter, “the important thing is you’re doing something you like to do.”
Brendon bit down hard on his tongue until he tasted blood and the rest of dinner passed in silence. Afterwards Tamarie went to her office and Payson and Nevon to their rooms to do homework.
Doing the dishes was Brendon’s second favourite part of his day. Cooking required too much attention, and cleaning was just a pain, but dishes were different. It was a mindless activity and he found it relaxing, hands in the warm, lemon-scented water.
Most of the time he was content. Happy, even. Every night after dinner, though, Brendon felt wound too tight, uncomfortable from sitting at the table across from Tamarie and her disapproving frown, her cold words.
He wouldn’t let himself think about her right now. Not in this time. It was his, and his alone. He packed away the leftover casserole and put the pan to soak while he worked on their dinner plates, and thought instead of his story.
It was good, solid writing. He’d read enough of the Morgan Monfrey novels to capture Ross’s style without seeming like a copy-cat. Brendon wasn’t delusional. He didn’t think he had what it took to be a novelist. Maybe, though, he had what it took to win this contest.
After finishing the dishes and taking down the laundry he’d pinned up earlier, Brendon tidied up the living room and dining room. He hung up Tamarie’s jacket and put her kicked off shoes neatly in their place in the cabinet by the front door.
The boys were both in Nevon’s room playing a video game. Brendon stood in the doorway, hands on hips, until they noticed him. “I know that if I look, all your homework will be finished,” he told them. They looked at him with wide eyes and nodded their heads in unison.
Brendon smiled. “In that case, get ready to have your butts kicked,” he said, and dropped to the floor beside them, grabbing another controller.
Nevon rolled his eyes. “No way. You’re going down this time,” he said.
This was Brendon’s favourite part of the day. The mornings were a rush of activity, making sure the boys had their lunch, their homework, show and tell or science project or permission slip. By the time the boys got home in the afternoon, Brendon had lessons and then he was starting on dinner. Often they helped him, but this time, just the three of them having fun, Nevon and Payson telling him about their days, this was what made Brendon’s life worth it.
Predictably, Brendon won. Payson kept running off cliffs on accident, and though Nevon was becoming a formidable opponent, he still wasn’t up to Brendon’s level. Sometimes Brendon went easy on them, but he didn’t believe in always letting them have their way. He didn’t want them growing up spoiled.
“So, you gonna read us your story for bed?” Nevon asked, when the television had been turned off for the evening.
Brendon bit his lip, thinking of what Tamarie would say. The two of them had dramatically different ideas on how to bring up their children, mostly stemming from the fact that Brendon had gone inactive in the Church shortly after Payson’s birth. But Tamarie would never know, and frankly, Brendon didn’t care.
When he finished reading, Nevon regarded him dubiously, one brow arched high. Payson just looked confused. Brendon sighed. “That bad, huh?” he asked.
Payson frowned and climbed into Brendon’s lap, toying with Brendon’s hands. “I think it’s awesome, Dad. Morgan is so smart and cool. Just, why is Dmitri always with him. He never helps. Plus Morgan always gets the girl. Why isn’t Dmitri jealous about that?”
“Dmitri has…other interests,” Brendon said delicately.
“You mean he’s a homo,” Nevon muttered.
“Hey!” Brendon snapped. “Where did you—you can’t say that!” Nevon shifted uncomfortably, crossing his arms over his chest. “You can’t call people that, Nevon.”
“Why not?” Nevon asked, and kicked at his comforter petulantly. “Kids at school say it.”
“That doesn’t make it alright,” Brendon said.
“What’s a homo?” Payson murmured.
“You are,” Nevon said meanly.
“Hey!” Brendon shouted. He never raised his voice with his children, but this was too much. “Chance Nevon Urie. I never want to hear you use that word again, do you understand me. No more games for a week.”
“That’s not fair!” Nevon said, sitting upright.
“It isn’t fair to call people that. There’s nothing wrong with being a homosexual and making fun of people like that is just cruel,” Brendon said.
“That’s not what Mom says,” Nevon said. There was something shifty about his expression and the way he was holding himself that suggested he was sorry for what he said, but too proud to admit it or apologise.
“Your mother—” Brendon took a deep breath, struggling to find words suitable for tiny ears. He worked hard to counter the worst of the miseducation that went on when the boys went to church, but obviously it didn’t always work how he meant. He decided to take a different approach.
“You know, Erin and Bethany would be really hurt to hear you say something like that,” Brendon said, naming two of his piano students who had occasionally babysat for the boys before Tamarie had found out they were a couple.
Nevon’s face went white. “I didn’t mean them,” he said.
“What about Erin and Bethany?” Payson asked, tugging on Brendon’s shirt. “What’s a homo?”
Brendon would have said before now that Payson was too young to have this conversation, but he would have thought the same thing about Nevon, and apparently that was wrong. “It means that Dmitri loves other men, and it means that Erin and Bethany love each other.”
“Yeah,” Payson said, waiting for more.
Brendon smiled. “And there’s nothing wrong with it. You can love whoever you want to love. No matter what your mother says, or the Church says, or anyone else. No matter what I say.”
Payson nodded gravely and Nevon kicked at his comforter again. “I think it’s time for bed,” Brendon said. He lifted Payson off his lap and sat him on his feet by the bed. “Go brush your teeth. I’ll be in to tuck you in in a few minutes.”
When Payson had gone, Brendon turned back to Nevon. “I didn’t mean it,” Nevon said, when Brendon didn’t say anything. “I’m sorry. I know. Just, the kids at school call me a homo sometimes, because Mom works and you cook and clean and stuff, and they say you are, and that me and Payson are, too.”
“Kids at school are mean and stupid,” Brendon said. Seriously. What were fourth graders coming to? Brendon hadn’t started getting that sort of teasing until junior high, at least.
Brendon tucked in Nevon first and then Payson, staying with his younger son until he was asleep. Payson was going through a rough time, Nevon being in a different school for the first year since Payson had started. Nevon had always been around to protect Payson from the other children, and Payson was so quiet and shy. He’d been having bad dreams, climbing into Brendon and Tamarie’s bed. Tamarie had said it had to stop.
Once the children were down, Brendon hurried to ready himself for bed. He’d prefer to stay up with the new Morgan Monfrey book; he’d just reached the middle and was dying to know what happened next. He wasn’t willing to risk being awake when Tamarie came in, though.
Normally it wouldn’t matter, but with her thirty-second birthday approaching, she’d begun mentioning how she’d always wanted three kids. They hadn’t tried in a very long time and Brendon was absolutely, definitely not going to bring another child into this family. He loved his sons more than anything in the world, but he didn’t want to subject another child to this failed experiment of a marriage, and all the conflict and stress that came with it.
Sometime after midnight he was stirred awake by a noise in the master bathroom and then Tamarie crawled into bed. Brendon held himself tense and still, but Tamarie stayed on her side of the bed, and after a few minutes, Brendon fell back to sleep.
It was Friday, which meant Nevon had soccer and Payson had Boy Scouts, so they couldn’t catch the bus home. Brendon had to rearrange his piano schedule every school year to accommodate the boys’ schedules and Tamarie’s. He knew as soon as Nevon reached junior high, he’d probably only be able to hold lessons on the weekend.
Still, Friday was Brendon’s day with his boys. Just them, and no Tamarie for the entire afternoon. He picked them up at school, listening to Nevon ramble about the game of dodge ball during recess, and Payson’s story about how Jake Miller had gotten into another fight again. They went for ice cream and then to the movie rental place, where they were each allowed to pick a movie that Brendon would watch with them.
In the grocery store Payson and Nevon rushed down each aisle, trying to beat each other to the item Brendon named. The winner got to ride on the back of the cart, and when no one was in the aisle with them, Brendon would push really fast.
It was close to six before they got home, but that was alright, because on Friday nights, they ordered pizza and Brendon took a rest from cooking and cleaning. The boys helped carry in the bags. Tamarie was home, but didn’t offer her help, staying in her study. She’d brought the mail in and left it on the kitchen island. It was Brendon’s job to take care of the bills.
He and the kids put away the groceries and he called the pizza parlour before sending them off to pick which movie to start with. That finished, he began to sort through the pile of mail. Gas bill, junk mail, junk mail, water bill… At the bottom of the pile was a small, thin envelope, yellow with red writing. Brendon frowned and ran his thumbnail under the lip, tearing it open.
For a moment, Brendon didn’t realise what he was seeing. There was only one sheet of paper, addressed to him at the top, saying something about accepting or declining his prize. He thought it was just some junk mail, like Publisher’s Clearing House, until the name Ryan Ross caught his eye halfway down.
Brendon’s heart caught in his throat and he had to take a deep breath before he went back to the beginning of the letter to read.
Mister Urie,
Congratulations! Your piece has been selected for the Grand Prize from over 30,000 submissions received. You have until October 1st to accept, either by phone or mail. If confirmation is not received, the prize will be given to the 1st runner up. If you do accept, you and a guest will be treated to an all-expense-paid trip to Paris, France, from October 28th through November 5th, where you will stay in the luxurious Hotel Arvor Saint Georges, experience the beauty and the culture of the city, and be the Guest of Honour alongside Ryan Ross at a banquet celebrating the most recent Morgan Monfrey novel. Furthermore, your manuscript will be included in the next Morgan Monfrey novel!
We look forward to hearing from you, Mister Urie.
Sincerely,
Goman and Hillsack Publications
On the back of the sheet was a detailed list of his prize, as well as the numbers and address for contact. Brendon’s hands shook and he stood frozen to the spot for several moments.
“Dad,” Payson called, coming into the room. “Are you coming in to watch with us? Nevon said we could watch mine first.” He frowned at Brendon. “Dad, are you okay?”
Brendon released the paper and it fluttered to the countertop. He knelt on the floor and pulled Payson into a tight hug. “I won,” he said, voice almost a whisper. “I won.”
“I knew you would, Dad,” Payson said, and sounded so sure. He petted Brendon’s hair, a habit kept from infancy. “You’re the awesomest.”
Brendon laughed, or maybe sobbed. This sort of thing didn’t happen to him. He did the housework and shopping and spent his afternoons mating socks. He didn’t win prizes.
He jerked Payson closer and Payson squeezed tight. Payson called out, “Nevon, come on, you gotta hear!” and soon Nevon was part of their hug, too, bragging about his novelist father.
“So you and Mom are gonna be gone for a whole week?” Payson asked.
“Who’re you going to get to watch us?” Nevon asked. “Please not Grandma Wiloni and Grandpa Alverice. They make us sing gospel songs all night and don’t even have a TV and it smells like medicine at their house.”
Brendon chuckled. “I think Aunt Kara would be happy to have you guys for a little while, and you could spend some time with your cousins.” He’d have to fight Tamarie over it, but Kara was better able to take care of them than Tamarie’s parents anyway.
He was barely able to sit still through the movies and sighed in relief when Nevon fell asleep in his lap shortly into the second movie. Payson was too tired to keep his eyes open and kept yawning.
“We’ll finish tomorrow, promise,” Brendon said, and kissed Payson’s forehead. Payson just yawned and nodded his agreement.
Since they didn’t have school and Nevon mumbled his sleepy approval, Brendon agreed they could both sleep in Nevon’s room. He frankly didn’t care what Tamarie said about it. Brendon had shared a bed with his brothers and his sister before, and his parents had never been bothered when Brendon was too upset or scared to sleep alone.
Tamarie was sitting up in bed when Brendon came in. The sheets were covered in papers from work, and she looked tired and stressed out. Brendon bit back a sigh and sat on the edge of the bed, touching her ankle lightly. “Hey,” he said softly. “I’ve got good news.”
Tamarie set aside her papers and looked at him with weary expectation. She was still beautiful, but Brendon rarely appreciated it. He did in this moment, her shiny black hair falling down from its braid, the smooth, olive skin of her collarbone left bare by her nightgown.
“I won the contest,” Brendon said, unable to keep the disbelief and excitement from his voice.
“What contest?” Tamarie said, smiling a little like she was trying to be interested and failing miserably.
“The Morgan Monfrey contest,” Brendon said.
“Oh.” Tamarie’s voice was bland. She didn’t approve of the novels, from the amount of sex in them, to the nature of the genre, to the fact that Dmitri was gay. “Well, what have you won?”
Brendon couldn’t stop the grin that split his face. He didn’t even mind that she obviously hadn’t paid attention when he’d first told her. “Tamarie, they are going to fly us to Paris, for nine days, we’ll stay in this gorgeous hotel. There are tours and dinners and they’re having a banquet in my honour! They’re going to publish my manuscript in the next book!”
Tamarie looked away from Brendon’s face. “Paris? When?”
“The end of October. I know it’s short notice, but we’re talking about Paris, Tam!” They’d been so young when they’d married, and Tamarie already three months pregnant. They’d gone straight from living with their parents to moving into their home, and had never been on a trip together until they took the boys to Colorado last winter.
“Brendon, I can’t take time off work right now.” Tamarie picked her papers back up. “Maybe if we saved up, in another year or two…”
Brendon stared at her in disbelief, jaw hanging open a little. She didn’t acknowledge him further. “Fine,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. “It’s alright. I’ll go on my own, then. Kara can help you out with the kids while I’m gone. Pick them up when she gets hers. I can make extra food and put it in the freezer, and you can just heat it up for dinner.”
Tamarie’s eyes flashed, but she didn’t argue the point. “Very well,” she said. “You have to do what you have to do.”
Brendon went down the living room to read his book and give Tamarie time to calm down. By the time he went back upstairs, Tamarie was finishing her work, tucking it away in her briefcase.
“Do you want to?” Brendon asked, gesturing to the bed. He felt vaguely guilty, and at least he could give her this.
“I guess,” Tamarie said, shrugging.
It made him sick to his stomach, but if anything had stuck with him from his days of being a good Mormon boy, it was performing his husbandly duties. At least she didn’t put up a fuss when he got out a condom. Maybe she’d given up on wanting their third. It would certainly be a weight off Brendon’s shoulders.
When he slept that night, he dreamed of being Morgan Monfrey. How much different life would be… Brendon wouldn’t trade his children for the world, but in his dreams he didn’t have children. He didn’t have a wife. He had a devoted best friend, an exciting career, lovers in every major city in the world… In his dreams, Brendon mattered.
Brendon called the next day and accepted his prize, still functioning in disbelief. He was told he would receive a package within a few days, containing his plane tickets, hotel reservation information, and itinerary. The woman on the other end of the line seemed confused when he told her he’d only need one plane ticket. She encouraged him to find someone to bring along, but Brendon politely and firmly turned her down.
He bought some French lessons on CD at Barnes and Noble and put them on his iPod, listening as he went about his daily chores. He’d had a bit of French in High School, but mostly forgotten it. Now, he stumbled over the pronunciations, sounding like an idiot with marbles in his mouth, or something. He was infinitely thankful for the fact that the people he’d be interacting with would all speak English.
Tamarie came home on the 27th, watched Brendon lay his suitcase out on the bed and begin to fill it, and said, “You’re seriously going to do this, aren’t you?”
Brendon took a long time going through his sock drawer so he wouldn’t have to look at her. Or maybe he didn’t want her to see his face. It took an unreasonable amount of effort not to sigh, but Tamarie hated when he did that.
“I’ve spoken to Kara. She’s going to pick the kids up from school tomorrow and take them for the weekend. I’ve labelled everything in the fridge and freezer, and left instructions on how to heat everything up.”
“I know how to cook,” Tamarie snapped. “I went to Young Women’s.”
Brendon chose to ignore her. “Kara’ll make sure they get off to school on Monday morning, and Mrs. Stamper offered to meet them at the bus and keep them at her place until you get home in the evenings.”
“This is so irresponsible, Brendon,” Tamarie said. “I can’t believe you’re actually going to leave me—your children—and go frolicking around Paris!”
“How is it irresponsible? I’ve taken care of everything. I’m not just leaving you,” Brendon argued, trying to keep his voice even. “I wanted you to come with me. You’re the one who said I had to do what I had to do.”
“That’s because I expected you to make a rational decision,” Tamarie said.
“Tamarie,” Brendon said slowly, “I’ve made the decision, I’ve accepted the prize, and I’m leaving tomorrow. Kara will help out, and everything will be fine. I’ll be back in a little over a week.”
Tamarie went to her study and didn’t come out again the rest of the evening. Brendon finished packing, helped the boys with their homework, and tucked them in for the evening.
“I’m gonna miss you,” Nevon said.
“I wish it was Mom going and you were staying with us for a week. That would be a bunch of fun,” Payson said, and Brendon felt a mixture of pleasure and despair to hear him say so.
“It’ll be lots of fun,” Brendon said. “You love staying at Aunt Kara’s. Joe and Beth are excited about seeing you. I’ll be back before you know it. And next time I promise I’ll take you both with me.”
Tamarie gave Brendon the silent treatment when she finally came in to bed, but he didn’t mind. He made a point of reading his Morgan Monfrey novel in the bed, leaving his bedside light on when she turned off the overhead light. In the book, Morgan had uncovered a cocaine smuggling plot concerning French government officials and the murder of a member of the clergy.
Brendon simmered with excitement, knowing that in just two days, he’d be meeting Ryan Ross. He wondered if Ryan was anything like his character. If so, who was his Dmitri? He could barely sleep, with all the thoughts circling in his head, and on repeat, I’m going to Paris, I’m going to Paris, I’m going to Paris…
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Date: 2009-06-06 07:19 pm (UTC)Never read American Dreamer, but it reminds me a lot of the Secret Life of Walter Mitty.
It was great brain candy; I hope you do write more of this :D
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Date: 2009-06-07 03:50 am (UTC)American Dreamer is actually a film. I think '83 or '84. I don't think it's very well known. I only know it because it's my mom's favourite. It's really a lot of fun though. I recommend it.
I don't know the Secret Life of Walter Mitty, but now I am intrigued.
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Date: 2009-06-07 04:12 am (UTC)'Secret Life' (complete story here (http://www.all-story.com/issues.cgi?action=show_story&story_id=100)) is by James Thurber, one of my favorite American short story writers. It was also a movie (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0039808/) starring the late, great Danny Kaye. Definitely worth reading and watching if you have the time, and I will be checking out American Dreamer XD
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Date: 2009-06-06 08:14 pm (UTC)I love how you're not afraid to use Other/Original Characters. This is the only fandom ever in which there aren't enough of them.
I can't wait for more! And I am really looking forward to your bbb <3
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Date: 2009-06-07 03:52 am (UTC)I must admit I was hesitant to use original characters--especially a wife and children--but it wouldn't be nearly the same without them. And now I sort of love Nevon and Payson (and their horrible names).
More should be coming this week--probably at least two more parts--and then my BBB will be posted before you know it!
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Date: 2009-06-06 08:30 pm (UTC)But, eeeeee, brendon! so adorable.
Also, Brendon with kids? My heart!!!! <3
Really no idea what American Dreamer is, but i like this so far! would like more!
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Date: 2009-06-07 03:54 am (UTC)Brendon with kids has to be the best thing ever. This fandom needs way more baby fic.
There will be more soon! Either tonight or tomorrow, probably.
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Date: 2009-06-07 04:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-07 04:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-07 04:23 am (UTC)Looking forward to the next chapter!
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Date: 2009-06-07 03:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-07 05:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-07 04:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-07 09:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-07 04:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-07 04:05 pm (UTC)