Let Each Who is Worthy Part 2

[mokuyoubi]

When Jon first met Ryan, he had a pretty clear idea that all the batting of lashes and shy smiles were leading him straight into Ryan’s bed. Jon had been totally down with that plan. He’s still certain that, if on that first night he’d gone back with Ryan to his place and Spencer hadn’t been there, they’d have totally fucked.

If Jon had fucked Ryan then, he might have messed things up good. He’d read it wrong at first, when he’d seen the look Spencer had given them that night, when they’d stumbled in giggling and clutching each other’s arms. At the time, Jon had thought Spencer was jealous because he had a thing for Ryan. Now he gets that it’s a little more complicated than that.

Jon knows, knows that the only thing keeping him from getting both Spencer and Ryan into bed with him—at the same time, please, thanks—is Ryan Ross. Spencer isn’t going to go without Ryan, and but Jon can tell from the look in Spencer’s eye when he watches Jon and Ryan together, he’s totally down for kinky threesomes.

It’s frustrating because every time Jon feels he’s gained some ground with Ryan it’s lost all over again. He’d thought he’d done a good job getting past the weird hang-ups Spencer and Ryan had about touching—they were fine cuddling with each other but got tense and uncomfortable when Jon had first tried to be a part of it.

But now, when cuddling is a go, there are suddenly all new issues. Jon has never been a bitchy kind of guy. It isn’t in his nature. Yet. It’s like Spencer and Ryan are rubbing off on him or something (in every way except the way he wants).

Jon doesn’t think he’s worked himself up to their level yet, but he’s definitely gotten used to taking cheap shots, saying anything to get under their skin—to hurt. It’s so out of character for him that it makes him uncomfortable, but he’s not ready to give them up yet.

This is their third Wednesday at the Pavilion and Jon’s starting to get a little discouraged about finding a singer. Ryan isn’t making that easy. Jon gets that Ryan’s protective of his lyrics. He’d known just what a gift Ryan had given, when he’d first handed his lyrics over to Jon for him to read. The two of them, they’d had a sort of instant connection in a lot of ways.

Ryan’s expecting that same connection with their singer. Jon knows it would be ideal, but he’s practical about it. They’ve heard some pretty good singers, some who would sound great with what they’ve written.

Spencer’s not pushing the issue yet, though, so Jon’s keeping his mouth shut. Spencer knows Ryan better than Jon could ever hope to, and though it might seem like he’s overindulgent, he always calls Ryan on his shit when it goes too far, when Ryan’s being too unreasonable.

Tonight Ryan’s by the door but he’s no longer on the automatic defensive, and Jon’s even seen him swaying a little with the music from time to time. Spencer gives Jon a little smile to suggest that he’s noticed, too. Jon’s been working on a beer since they arrived and Ryan didn’t even bat a lash when Spencer took the glass for a sip. Jon almost counts that as a bigger win than the music thing.

Spencer has not only given his implicit approval, but he helps in lots of little ways. Like drinking from Jon’s glass, even though Jon doesn’t think Spencer has any particular overwhelming desire to drink. “I could get you one, too,” Jon offers.

Spencer licks his lips, chasing the taste, and Jon sort of wants to just pin Spencer against the wall, but resists the urge and keeps his face blank. Ryan keeps his eyes fixed on the stage, like this conversation isn’t going on around him. “How are you even going to get it?” he asks, betraying his indifference. “How’d you get that one?”

“I have my connections,” Jon says, wiggling his fingers. “I am a scene kid, you know. I used to play this place when I was sixteen, and I was getting drinks then, too.”

“I always wanted to try a Long Island,” Spencer says.

“Ryan?” Jon asks.

Ryan shoots him a sharp smile, not nice, but not brittle either. “I’m good with my soda, thanks,” he says acidly.

Jim is at the bar and he’s been serving Jon drinks since before Jon had a driver’s license. He’s subtle enough about it that there’s never been any trouble. “When are you gonna get back up there?” Jim asks, as he’s mixing Spencer’s drink.

Jon shrugs, swallows his beer. He looks in the direction of his band long enough for Jim to follow his gaze. “Yeah, I’ve seen ‘em,” Jim acknowledges. “Don’t seem like your normal type.”

“We might surprise you,” Jon says. Then he gives Jim a wry smile. “If we ever get our shit together.”

“You know,” Jim says, “Jack’s been looking for a new bass player since Kyle went away to school.”

Jon takes Spencer’s drink with maybe a little more force than necessary. But he knows Jim’s not the only one of his friends who’s going to have this sort of initial reaction to Panic!

Jim doesn’t look impressed. “Whatever, dude. I’m just saying, your little emo friends aren’t going to be that well received here.”

“They might surprise you,” Jon repeats, and walks off before he can get into it with Jim. He doesn’t want to fight with the guy; they’re friends, and he can’t blame Jim for the way he’s talking. Ryan does have a sort of ridiculous wardrobe of ruffled shirts and floral vests, and his pose and makeup scream emo kid.

Jon slides an arm around Ryan’s waist and passes Spencer’s drink in front of him. It’s gratifying, the way Ryan gets right in Jon’s space, taller but so much skinnier, pressing close to Jon’s side. “You smell like beer,” Ryan says, and wrinkles his nose. Jon wants to kiss it, right on the tip.

“Let’s get out of here,” Jon says. Jim’s words keep cycling through his head, and it isn’t like Ryan’s going to suddenly change his mind during the last few acts left tonight.

Spencer makes a face. “I just got my drink,” he says.

“So chug it,” Jon says, and then they both watch, in frozen amazement, as Ryan plucks the drink from Spencer’s fingers and takes a long sip through the straw.

“What?” Ryan asks, at their expressions. “I’m not going to let him chug it all. He’ll get sick.”

Jon never thought it would be so easy. He stops gaping, and Spencer takes it all in stride, sipping back and forth with Ryan while a really embarrassing middle-aged guy tries to cover The Stones.

“You okay?” Jon asks, as they’re walking down the street towards the train station. Spencer’s eyes are a little sparkly, but other than that there’s no notable difference from normal. Ryan, on the other hand, can’t seem to walk in a straight line. Jon doesn’t mind, if it gives him an excuse to keep close to Ryan’s side. Spencer gets Ryan’s other side, helping him along.

“I’m fine,” Ryan says, in that over-exaggerated sort of way people get when they don’t want you to know they’re drunk. He keeps raising his knees too high as he walks. “I’m not drunk.”

Spencer gives Jon an indulgently amused grin over Ryan’s head. “I meant more like, you okay with having a drink?” Jon explains.

Ryan purses his lips thoughtfully and tilts his face back to the sky. “I think,” he says at length, “that I need more time to process it.” That doesn’t sound bad, Jon figures. Spencer’s small smile echoes that thought.

There’s a party going on at Blossom’s when they get back to apartment building. Unsurprisingly the door has been left open and the party is spilling into the hallway. “Jon! Guys! Come on in,” Harry shouts.

One thing he can say for their apartment block, all the students are pretty cool. Actually, with the exception of crazy ballerina lady, everyone’s pretty cool. No one is too cliquey, and the parties are all inclusive. In fact, it looks like a couple of the Mormon kids are hanging out. One is dancing with Sarah in the corner and another’s on the couch, playing PS2 with Blossom and Aaron.

“Maybe next time,” Jon says. He and Spencer get Ryan up the stairs fairly easily. It’s sort of adorable, how much of a lightweight Ryan is.

“It isn’t even your place, and you’re more popular than we are,” Ryan mutters into Jon’s neck, while Spencer unlocks the door.

Jon tucks him closer and kisses his hair. “I can go home, if you want,” he offers.

Ryan makes a drunken sound and nudges Jon in the gut with his elbow. He’s lost some of his precision and his restraint. It really fucking hurts. “Shut up,” Ryan says. “You know we want you here.”

Jon knows. Well enough that while he’s still officially living out of his parent’s place he hasn’t spent the night there in at least two weeks, and that was just because his mom was getting on his case about coming by for dinner. He should be looking for his own apartment, but he’s holding out hope that when Spencer and Ryan’s lease is up in June they’ll maybe be getting a bigger place for the three of them together.

Spencer tugs Ryan’s sheets down while Jon helps Ryan get his shoes off and they dump him into bed. There’s a moment when Spencer’s brushing his hand over Ryan’s forehead, a fond expression on his face, when Jon can imagine just what it would be like for all of them to be going to bed together.

“It was better tonight,” Spencer says, over beers on the sofa. “I think he likes that Jesse guy that’s been there the past two weeks. Give him another month or two. We might actually be a real band come Spring Break.”

“I’ll toast to that,” Jon says, and Spencer clinks their bottles together cheerfully.

Jesse does have a pretty nice voice; rich and smooth. Maybe he doesn’t have the greatest range, but they can work with that. He’s never going to be a William or a Patrick, but then, who is? Jon’s heard from a few people that Jesse’s been looking for a band. It could definitely work.

Yet…It doesn’t seem like the big revelation Jon had thought it would. There’s nothing clicking suddenly into place when he thinks of Jesse singing their songs. Jon tries to tell himself that he’s just been spending too much time around Ryan Ross, with all his absurd ideas of fate. Jesse will work just fine.



Brendon has mixed feelings about p-days. For one thing, it’s really nice to wear something other than a suit and loafers. But Brendon has survived so long by following a strict schedule set first by his parents and the Church, and then by the mission house. That’s how he functions, and it keeps him from having to think too much about anything.

P-days are all his, to do with as he pleases. Except Brendon isn’t sure what would please him. Most days he wanders around aimlessly, buys groceries, goes to museums, or just rides his bike, exploring. It makes him feel uneasy, like any minute, without the safety of his schedule, he’s going to slip and…fall, do something wrong, something he shouldn’t.

So Brendon has taken to making his own schedule for himself on his p-days. Elder Felps teases him about it mercilessly, but Brendon doesn’t really care what his companions think of his habits. He’s not the one breaking rules left and right, and lots of people keep schedules for their lives. It isn’t like he’s doing anything unusual.

Every p-day, Brendon makes himself sleep in. Of course, saying he’s going to sleep in and actually doing it are two different things, so it usually means he just makes himself stay in bed, even though he’s awake, until eight a.m.

Sometimes after breakfast, he goes grocery shopping, other days he just walks through the park. He tries to allow himself some time without thought, while he feeds the ducks and watches the children playing. Luckily he’s young enough that that’s not creepy yet. It’s nice, though, seeing them have fun. Sometimes it even makes him smile a little bit. He thinks being married won’t be so bad, if it means he gets to have his own children. If he can make them happy.

He has lunch at a little deli next door to the Starbucks by his apartment, and then spends some time in the pet store across the street. His parents have never been fond of pets, but Brendon thinks that once he has his own apartment, he’d like a dog. Something not too big, but not one of the tiny, yippy ones, either.

Each week, he picks a new destination to visit. First Navy Pier, then Millennium Park, then the planetarium. If it’s far enough, he’ll take the El, which he actually really enjoys.

Chicago has an amazing skyline, and Brendon likes to watch the city whip by in a blur. Plus, it’s a lot warmer than riding his bike. He doesn’t even mind the press of bodies, and he particularly likes the stations where people are performing or selling things.

This p-day he has decided to visit the aquarium. He’s run out of pills, which makes him a little jittery and nervous, but he drops off his prescription on his way to the aquarium. Everything will be fine when he goes back to his missionary work the next day.

The aquarium is good, for a while. It’s calming. Brendon likes the way the animals look, swimming, and the strange, moving shadows the water casts over the rooms. It makes him feel like he’s under water, too. Pressed down, held in place.

Brendon’s never been to the ocean, but he thinks he’d like it. He thinks about floating on the waves, drifting down and down. People say drowning is a peaceful way to go. He thinks it would just feel like falling asleep and dreaming forever.

By four, though, the fact that he didn’t take his medicine has caught up with him. He can’t stop moving. He remembers before he went on the drugs, when he had to constantly be doing something, even if it was just tapping his toe or twirling a pencil or something. It had always annoyed everyone—his teachers, his parents, his classmates. Brendon’s so much better behaved, the teachers had said, when he’d gone on the Adderall.

Despite the need to be active, it’s almost nice—it’s that same feeling of freedom he often time gets at night, like he’s breathing clean, fresh air and it’s wonderful. That feeling, however, is tinged with fear over what he might do.

Suddenly, he becomes aware of all the opportunities available in the city around him. Chicago is full of life and culture and it’s all buzzing around him as he leaves the aquarium. The days are growing steadily longer as January comes to a close, but it’s still getting dark.

A new sort of energy takes Chicago in the evening, different from daytime. During the day it’s no less intense, but it’s all related to work, commerce, money exchanging hands, students going to school. Now everyone’s finishing with work for the day, getting ready for the nightlife. He passes more than one bar on his bike ride, watches people begin to gather and feels an itch beneath his skin.

That’s the only excuse he can give, how distracted he is, for running his bike into the side of a moving taxicab. It takes him a second to process it; one second he’s biking, the next he’s sprawled on the pavement, watching the spokes of his wheel spinning next to his head.

The cab driver gets out, making a lot of noise, asking if he’s okay. Brendon’s head feels a little strange, but then again, he could attribute that to the lack of meds. He gets to shaky feet and surveys the damage. The front wheel and handlebars of his bike are bent all out of shape.

Now that it’s clear Brendon hasn’t been hurt, the cabbie is shouting at him, waving his arms around frantically. “Sorry,” Brendon says, righting his bike. “I’m really sorry.”

Brendon considers taking the El, but people don’t like it when people bring bikes on the trains, and he doesn’t want to make anyone angry. Instead, he ends up walking the bike back, lifting the weight off the front wheel. It gets darker as he goes, and he doesn’t even notice the car pacing him until the window rolls down and someone calls his name.

“Brendon,” Jon calls. “You doin’ okay?”

“Jon!” Brendon stops walking, balancing the seat against his hip. “What are you doing here?”

“Offering you a ride?” Jon says. “What happened to your bike?”

“Taxi got on the wrong side of me,” Brendon says. He can’t explain the grin that’s tugging on his lips, something that can’t be described as anything other than flirty. He’s noticed that Ryan is attractive, but how has he never noticed how good-looking Jon is?

It’s gotten completely dark out while Brendon’s been trying to get his bike home, and he feels giddy and jittery all over, so he doesn’t even try to argue when Jon double parks and hops out of his car to help wrangle the bike into the trunk.

“Are you alright?” Jon asks, when they’ve both settled in the front seat. His eyes are focused on Brendon’s bouncing knee.

“Good,” Brendon says instantly. “I’m good. Hey. Can we stop by the Walgreens down the street from the apartment?”

Jon gives him a hesitant little smile. “Yeah, sure.” They ride in silence for a few miles, the only sound that of the radio. Brendon lets his eyes fall closed and just drinks it in. It’s the first music he’s heard in months that isn’t church hymns or something overheard in a store or on the street.

“Are you actually a Mormon?” Jon asks, after a few minutes. “Because Spencer thought you were, but your friends don’t seem like I’ve heard about Mormons.”

“We are,” Brendon answers honestly. Some people get embarrassed by being Mormon, but Brendon has never understood that. Even when he wasn’t sure he wanted to be a Mormon anymore, he was never embarrassed by it. “My companions don’t really do what they’re supposed to.”

“What’s that all about, anyway?” Jon asks. “Is it true you guys aren’t allowed to drink like, coffee and soda and things like that?”

Brendon might take offence to that question from some people, but Jon sounds curious. He doesn’t seem like he’s trying to be mean. “That’s why I didn’t have any, that day Ryan invited me up,” Brendon says. He notices Jon’s expression and shrugs. “It isn’t a big deal. I’ve never had either one, so it isn’t like I feel like I’m missing anything.”

“Yeah, but…” Jon stops, looking amazed. Brendon gets it. Most people are like that.

“What else aren’t you allowed to have?” Jon asks, darting him a glance at a red light. Brendon appreciates for the first time that it actually seems to take longer to get from one place to another in a car, here, because of all the traffic.

Brendon thinks about it for a second, wondering what’s okay to say, and what would just freak someone out. He lifts up his left hand, ticking off the points on his fingers as he lists, “No alcohol, no tobacco, no hot drinks, fruit ‘only in its season,’ meat only sparingly, and only in times of famine or cold.” He smirks to himself, knowing plenty of Mormons who have adapted the rules to fit their lifestyles.

“That’s pretty hardcore, man,” Jon says, eyeing Brendon sympathetically. It’s a nice, gentle expression.

“Or, like, the opposite of hardcore,” Brendon says, flashing a bright grin at Jon. His face pulls with the expression, so unused to it. After a second, he tones it down, but it still feels good, the stretch. He feels like he’s smiling all the way down to his toes and he never wants to stop

“You’re in a pretty good mood for a guy who just totalled his bike,” Jon says. He’s got a hesitant happy look of his own, as if Brendon’s mood is infectious.

Brendon shrugs. He couldn’t really care less about his stupid bike right now. “You know what,” he says, watching the storefronts pass in a blur. Jon’s car smells like stale cigarettes.

Jon gives him a look to show he’s listening.

“I think I might like to try some coffee. Maybe,” Brendon says. He’s wanted to try it for years, since back in high school when all the other kids came to class with paper cups full, and right now Brendon can’t think of a single good reason why he shouldn’t. He isn’t the one who believes the strange, restrictive rules set forth in the Words of Wisdom.

“You work at the Starbucks near our place, right? You probably know what’s good.”

“Are you—are you sure?” Jon asks. “I mean, like, I wasn’t trying to make fun or anything. Like, you don’t have to drink coffee.”

Jon might be one of the sweetest people Brendon’s ever met. It’s too early to tell yet, and maybe it’s just Brendon’s general goodwill, but it seems like a safe bet. “No,” Brendon assures him. “I really want to try it.”

“Well,” Jon says, tonguing the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. It’s sort of inexplicably hot. “If you’re going to have your first cup of coffee, it shouldn’t be at Starbucks.”

Brendon bounces excitedly in his seat. “You gonna take me some place?” This is turning into the best p-day ever.

They end up at a trendy little shop several blocks north of their apartments, closer to campus. It takes up two storefronts, and there are two counters inside, one for tea and the other for coffee, with a pastry case between.

Brendon had known, in a way that was unavoidable living in America, that there were a lot of different flavours of coffee, and ways of fixing it, but seeing them listed before him is a little mindboggling. There are three chalkboards, written on in bright colours, listing the specials along with the ingredients to “make your own.”

“Um,” Brendon says.

Jon takes one look at him and cracks up. “Let me order for you,” he says, and Brendon puts himself in Jon’s hands. It is a wise choice. Jon comes back with something that might have been coffee in a past life. Now it’s caramel and vanilla and delicious.

“So,” Jon asks. “What’s with the rebellion?”

Brendon slowly twists the cup on the table top, watching the steam rise. “I don’t know if I’d call it a rebellion. I mean, maybe what my companions are doing could be considered a rebellion. But I wanted to try some coffee. I don’t see why it has to be about my religion.”

“Fair enough,” Jon says, in that easy way that Brendon is ready to assume is his general attitude towards everything.

“Maybe a non-violent resistance,” Brendon allows. He takes another sip of the coffee, letting the flavour wash over his tongue before he swallows down the mouthful.

“So, like, what is your mission all about, anyway?” Jon asks. “The other guys don’t seem to talk about it much.”

Brendon eyes him dubiously. “Do you really want to know about this, or are you just being polite?”

“I think it’s interesting,” Jon says. “I’ve never met a Mormon before, really. I like to understand a different point of view.”

Brendon has had people ask before, and usually when he begins to talk, their eyes glaze over. Jon, however, pays rapt attention as Brendon explains that his parents expected him to go on a two year mission before going to college for his business degree, and how he’s almost half-way through, and what the work entails.

“If you just moved here, where were you before?” Jon asks.

“They assigned me to Brazil first, because I spoke Spanish and French pretty well, so they decided I could pick up Portuguese. I did. It’s a really interesting language. I knew an exchange student from Brazil in high school. Anyway…” He wonders how much he should get into about Brazil, but Jon seems genuinely interested and Brendon hasn’t had anyone to talk to about it.

So he tells Jon about the small village of Tapauá and how depressing and dismal it was there, but also he tells Jon about other things—things he’s realising even as he speaks, that hadn’t occurred to him while he was in Brazil, as affected by the drugs as he’d been.

They’re the little things that managed to give him pleasure—helping the children with their homework and playing soccer with them in the evenings, helping at the clinic, going with the doctor to even smaller villages further from the cities.

“That’s pretty awesome,” Jon tells him, in all sincerity. “You’re like, eighteen years old and you’re out there doing shit—er, stuff, and helping people. Most people your age are out partying and wasting their time.”

“I guess,” Brendon says. “But I wasn’t really helping them.” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I was preaching at them. They didn’t need that. There are other ways I could have helped, if I hadn’t had the Church telling me what to do.

“Besides, Elder Link said you and Ryan and Spencer were a band, right?” Brendon asks. “I don’t think that’s a waste of time. I think music is really important. I think it can help people, too. It’s probably the only thing I really miss about being on my mission.”

“You’re not allowed to listen to music?” Jon asks, a sort of muted horror on his face.

“Not really supposed to, no. I mean, even back home there are lots of things we’re not allowed to listen to. But when we’re on our mission, we aren’t supposed to be distracted from what we’re doing.”

Brendon supposes that shows just what an excellent job the drugs were doing, because it’s only now that he’s hit by just how much he’s missed music. His fingers itch to touch an instrument.

“Before I left home, I used to play piano everyday. It gave me time to be by myself, relax. At school I played drums, which was nice, but I really like piano better. I mean, sometimes I messed around with guitar, but only ever on my own. I’m not very good at it.” Which is a shame, because Brendon actually likes guitar.

Jon chuckles. “Dude, you speak three languages and play three different instruments, and you’re gonna go to BYU for a degree in business?”

Brendon shrugs. “It isn’t like I have any choice,” he says, and is pleased that his voice is devoid of bitterness. He might have resented it once, but he’s come to accept that his parents have already decided the path his life will take.

Jon doesn’t say anything to that, but Brendon can tell he wants to. The easiness between them evaporates at once and a tense, uncomfortable silence falls between them. “I should probably be getting to Walgreens before the pharmacy closes,” Brendon says.

They part at Brendon’s door, the rest of the ride having passed in awkward, stilted small talk. Still, Jon stops Brendon before he’s closed his door behind him. “Hey,” Jon says. “If you ever want to talk. Or just hang out, whatever…” he shrugs towards the stairs.

Brendon manages to summon a real smile. “Thanks,” he says, and means it.

Most of his good humour has dissipated, now that the reality has come back to him. One good day doesn’t change anything. His circumstances are exactly what they were yesterday, and they’ll be the same tomorrow. So he drank coffee and flirted with a boy he thought was cute. Already he feels a vague thrum of regret over it all.

Brendon is reminded all over again why his parents insisted he go to a counsellor in the first place. Without the medication, without the guidelines that have been set for him, he does things like this.

He forces himself to go to bed early, even though the caffeine is making him jittery. He doesn’t want to think of what else he might do if he stays awake. There is music playing from a few floors up, and the lure of it is almost overwhelming. Instead, he puts a pillow over his head and forces his mind to go blank, and eventually it works.



Brendon wakes up and he doesn’t feel any pain. His jaw isn’t tight, his fist isn’t clenched, his arm hasn’t gone numb. It takes him a second to realise it’s because he’s lying on his back, one arm over his stomach, one tossed casually to the side. His whole body feels loose and relaxed, and he feels like he’s actually slept for the first time in ages.

It’s brilliant.

Then he gets up and goes into the bathroom and takes his meds. He showers and gets dressed and sits down for breakfast and the familiar, muted despair pours over him slowly but surely. It weighs down on his shoulders until he’s slumping over his Bible, entirely focused on the words before him and nothing else.

At church that morning he prays for repentance for his moment of weakness. He watches the Aaronic priests, younger than Brendon, and no doubt more pious, too. They go through the motions of preparing and dispersing the Sacrament as Brendon did when he was their age. The tray is passed from Brother Nebbitt into Brendon’s hands and he has to refuse it. He is unfit to partake of it as he is. He vows to be worthy again. Yearns for it, silently and achingly.

“Look,” Elder Mathis says later that evening, “I don’t want you thinking we’re friends or anything, but there’s a difference between being making the choice to be good and being too drugged out to have the choice.”

Brendon blinks slowly at him because he doesn’t quite understand what Mathis is saying, and can’t process it. Mathis sighs. “You know how during pre-existence, in the war between heaven and hell God wanted mankind to have free will to make mistakes and overcome them, and Satan wanted no free will so that no souls could be lost and everyone could come back to heaven after they were finished on Earth?

“And, like, it’s a little hypocritical of you to look down on what we do when the only reason you’re being so good is because you have those fucking pills that keep you down all the time. I mean. You could basically say those pills are like Satan’s influence, you know?”

It takes a few minutes for Brendon’s brain to get past the part where Elder Mathis just implied that Brendon was under Satan’s influence. When Brendon finally understands what it is that Mathis was trying to say, Mathis has already gotten up from the table and left the room.

After he’d been caught smoking a joint, Brendon’s parents had dragged him to the church counsellor who’d referred them to a Mormon psychiatrist in the area. She’d spoken in a soft soothing tone about what was normal for a teenager, never once coming right out with any of the religious stuff, but it had been all very implicit.

By the time she’d prescribed him his meds, the exhilaration of rebellion had passed, replaced with cold, gripping fear of what would happen if he didn’t clean up his act. His parents had made it clear that if he wasn’t a member of the Church, he wasn’t a member of their family. It had been easy to buy into what his psychiatrist was telling him when it was what he needed to hear at the time.

Brendon doesn’t think his will has been taken from him. He knows that even without the medicine his little rebellion would have come to an end. There’d never been any reason for it to continue. He’d never had friends or anything outside of his family and the Church. Nothing else to which he could turn.

But now, he thinks…he considers how he felt in Brazil, how often his actions had been contrary to his thoughts. Maybe he could be helping people in real ways, ways that mattered, and instead he’s going door to door trying to sell people on a faith he doesn’t even really have.

He thinks of how in high school he’d been so desperate for a friend, or even a kind word—anything other than the teasing and taunting that came from being the awkward, slightly effeminate, weirdo religious band geek. He thinks of the casual way with which Ryan had invited him upstairs, and the easy kindness Jon had shown by helping Brendon when he could have just driven by and Brendon never would have known better. Taking Brendon out for coffee and actually listening to what Brendon had to say.

Brendon can’t remember the last time someone’s listened without an expectation of what it is Brendon will say—the same old spiel about faith and piety, and his testimony. He talks all day long and never says what he truly believes, but Jon listened and it felt good to be heard.

Brendon thinks about it all night. He skips dinner, Mathis’ words working at his nerves, turning his stomach into an anxious, writhing mess. He feels the meds begin to wear off and then it becomes worse, because he can think more clearly, and doesn’t that just prove what Mathis said?

Only Brendon refuses to believe it. He has his free will, and he can prove it. Probably two months ago he wouldn’t have even considered what he is considering now. But in comparison with how his companions behave, what he’s thinking is innocent. It’s against the rules, yes, but it seems so insignificant in the grand scheme of things. He works so hard and denies himself so much. He can have this, and he can prove Mathis wrong.

He already studies more than is required, spending his evenings locked in his room with his book. He goes to sleep early by anyone’s standards. It wouldn’t hurt, and no one would even need to know. Even if his companions noticed, they wouldn’t say anything.

He could go upstairs, like Jon had suggested. He could talk to Jon more, prove that it wasn’t just the lack of medication that had made their conversation easy. In a way it wouldn’t even be anything against the rules. He and Jon had talked about Mormonism. He could pass it all off as educating Jon, even if they both knew it would never lead to Jon’s conversion. Maybe, maybe he could even listen to some of the music Jon and the others made in their band.

Brendon feels giddy just from the thoughts running through his mind. He falls asleep rationalising it, convincing himself it can’t do any harm. When he wakes up on his side with his arm numb and his mouth dry, he decides it doesn’t matter one way or the other what harm it might cause—it can’t be worse than the harm he’s already doing to himself.

It isn’t rebellion, he tells himself. It’s survival.



Ryan and Spencer come home to find Brendon sitting on the front steps again and Ryan asks, “Are your roommates like, dickheads, or something?”

Brendon frowns and Ryan can almost see the gears in his head turning, trying to make sense of what’s been said. Finally he straightens his shoulders a little. “No. I mean, I’m not locked out. It was just…stuffy inside, and I was waiting for Jon to get home.”

Ryan feels his brows shoot up, but he can’t help it. “He should be getting back soon,” he says cautiously. He really shouldn’t be offering, but Jon said Brendon was an okay guy, so he’s willing to take the chance. “Wanna wait for him upstairs?”

Brendon looks back and forth between Spencer and Ryan and bites his lip, and the totally inappropriate thought that it’s always the religious ones runs through Ryan’s head as he contemplates how nice Brendon’s full bottom lip would feel between Ryan’s teeth. He shakes his head to rid himself of the thought. He’s got enough on his plate as it is.

“Yeah, that might be alright,” Brendon says, at length, and follows Ryan up. He even takes off his jacket this time. He’s not wearing his usual suit, just a loose pair of jeans and a sweatshirt that looks a couple sizes too big.

“Aren’t you supposed to wear a suit all the time?” Spencer asks. Ryan gives him a glare, because really.

Brendon looks uncomfortable, which Ryan is beginning to think is his default. He crosses his arms over his chest, and Ryan notices how thin and delicate his wrists look, framed by the huge sleeves of his sweatshirt. “I, uh…” he shifts on the spot and stares at his tennis shoes.

“We don’t care what you wear,” Spencer interrupts, and Ryan, sort of inexplicably, wants to snap why’d you even bring it up in the first place, then. He doesn’t. Instead, he goes to the kitchen.

“Would you like some water?” he asks Brendon.

“Ah…actually, if you have some coffee…” Brendon says.

Ryan doesn’t let his surprise show. There’s something familiar about Brendon’s request, something that makes Ryan think of himself, and how much he appreciated the fact that Jon and Spencer just didn’t say anything we he took his first drink. “I’ll start a pot,” he says.

“You guys just get finished with school?” Brendon asks. His voice is slightly strained, but Ryan appreciates the effort. He has some idea of what it must cost. “What are you studying?”

Spencer pauses in the process of unpacking his book bag on the dining table to give Brendon a look of consideration. “Undecided,” he says at last. “I’ve been taking some pre-reqs so far. A few courses I’m interested in. I think I might declare International Studies. Maybe French. I’ve been taking the first year for my language requirements.”

“That’s really cool,” Brendon says, even if he doesn’t sound that enthusiastic. When Ryan chances a look, Brendon looks sincere. Interested, even. “If you needed a tutor, I could help.”

“In French? Really?” Spencer asks.

Brendon shrugs, turning his feet out, staring at the floor. “I mean, yeah. If you needed.”

Spencer narrows his eyes. Ryan knows that look. He just isn’t sure what makes him want to shield Brendon from it. He doesn’t even know this kid. “Jon said something about you being on a mission in Brazil before you came here.”

“We go wherever we’re called,” Brendon says.

“But they don’t speak French in Brazil,” Spencer points out. To the casual observer it might not be obvious that he’s being a dick.

“No,” Brendon agrees. “If you’re called to another country, some place you don’t know the language, you get lessons before you leave. I spent six weeks doing language lessons.”

Spencer puts his hands on his hips. “You learned Portuguese in six weeks?” he asks.

Brendon’s mouth is turning steadily down at the corners. “Well. Not all of it. But it was an intensive course, you know, and going helped. The immersion aspect.” He looks pleadingly at Ryan. “What are you studying?” he asks.

Ryan leans in the doorway, feeling himself relax as the scent of the brewing coffee begins to fill the air. It’s been a long day. “Jon and I are the Fine Arts kids, who are going to waste four years getting our degrees in Art and Literature and then depend on Spencer to keep us in the mode to which we’ve grown accustomed.”

Spencer snorts. “So, cheap coffee and ramen, and egg crates for bookshelves?” he asks and Ryan gives him an affectionate smile and bumps their hips together in answer.
　
Brendon has the faintest hint of a smile on his lips watching them. “You guys been friends a long time?” he asks.

“Too long,” Spencer says.
Ryan hip checks him a little harder this time and says, “Don’t front.” Ryan sees the wistful, almost longing in Brendon’s expression as he watches them. Ryan recognises it from seeing it in the mirror often enough.

“We always put on something to do our homework,” Ryan says. “Are you allowed to watch with us?”

“No,” Brendon says. “But I want to anyway.” He sounds grimly determined.

“Maybe something PG rated?” Ryan offers.

“Right,” Spencer says and rolls his eyes. “What do we own that’s rated lower than R?”

Ryan digs around through their collection until he finds a copy of Lilo and Stitch that he’s pretty sure must belong to Jon, because he sure as hell knows it doesn’t belong to him or Spencer. Brendon’s eyes light up a little at seeing it, though, so Ryan figures that works.

They’ve just got through the opening scene, Brendon and Spencer sharing the couch while Spencer works on his calc homework, and Ryan spread out on the floor with his most recent colour theory project when Jon comes home. A huge smile spreads over his features when he recognises the music, and it gets even bigger when he sees Brendon.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Jon said, settling on the sofa between Spencer and Brendon.

Brendon holds his coffee mug in two hands, staring into it as if it holds the answer to the universe, or something. “I wasn’t sure I was going to, either,” he says. Another tiny smile tugs at his lips. “This coffee is way different from the stuff you got me the other night.”

“That’s because Ryan blows at making coffee,” Jon says in a stage whisper. Ryan purses his lips and flips Jon off over his shoulder.

They lapse into silence over the movie and Brendon starts singing along with the song that plays. His voice is too low to discern pitch or anything, but he pronounces all the words clearly, like he knows what they mean. Spencer notices it. “You speak Hawaiian, too?” he asks, sounding unimpressed.

“That’s awesome,” Jon says earnestly and Brendon colours.

“I…not really. I mean, my mom’s Hawaiian, so I heard my grandparents speak it sometimes. You know. I know some words, nothing big.”

Ryan isn’t buying it. Neither are the others. “You’re like some kind of prodigy, huh?” Jon asks, grinning. Brendon very pointedly stops singing along and doesn’t start again for the rest of the movie.

“I guess he’s not so bad,” Ryan says later, when Brendon’s excused himself before dinner.

Jon’s frowning though. “He was different, the other night,” he says. “I think—he asked me to stop by the pharmacy. I think he might be taking something that makes him…different.”

Ryan thinks he might be able to understand that. Too often, living with his father, he saw how medication could change a person’s entire demeanour. He thinks about what it might mean, that Brendon decided to visit them, when Brendon had said he hadn’t been certain about it. Brendon’s eyes had got suspiciously moist during the movie at the point where Stitch said he was lost.

“It’s not your job to fix everyone, Jon,” Spencer says, somewhat crossly.

“I’m not trying to fix anyone,” Jon says placidly. “I don’t think anyone needs fixing.” He smiles and Spencer grumbles and disappears down the hall. “He mentioned he liked music. I was thinking about inviting him along on Wednesday.”

Ryan arches a dubious brow. “You think he’ll actually go?”

“I can ask,” Jon teases.

“Well…about Wednesday…”

Jon looks at him evenly, and there isn’t anything suggestive about the way he says, “Yes?”

“I thought maybe we could talk to that guy, Jesse,” Ryan says. Just talk, of course. He has a nice voice, and maybe they could just jam sometime, get a feel for each other, but for all Ryan knows, Jesse could be a total ass. A lot of the people on the Chicago scene seem to suffer from serious personality problems.

“Jesse’s pretty cool. He was in a band same time as me, in high school. We did some shows together.” Jon’s doing that fake casual thing he does that makes Ryan intensely curious.

“You ever gonna tell us about those old bands of yours?” Ryan asks him. He likes the way Jon’s hair falls in his eyes, wants to reach out and push it back. He settles for snuggling up to Jon’s side.

Jon puts his arm around Ryan’s waist and lays his head on Ryan’s. “Some day,” Jon says, half-joking, half-serious, and it makes Ryan want to know even more. “Some day pretty soon, probably.”

“You’re a tease, Jon Walker,” Ryan murmurs sleepily.

“Yep,” Jon agrees. Ryan can hear the smile even if he can’t see it.

There’s work to be done—his colour project is only three quarters of the way finished, and he has to read three short stories before tomorrow. But Jon is soft and warm and when Spencer comes back down the hall and flops on Ryan’s other side, joining the cuddle pile, it’s settled for Ryan.

Ryan falls asleep to Empire Records on the television and Jon’s fingers in his hair, Spencer’s breath steady on the strip of skin between Ryan’s pyjama bottoms and t-shirt. In the dim, hazy place between sleeping and wakefulness, just before he finally dozes off, he forgets Brendon isn’t there anymore, and imagines what it would be like to have a fourth body in the pile, how someone else would fit.



Anna stares at Brendon all throughout dinner, gaze heavy and unnerving. Brendon tries to distract himself by conversing with the rest of the family, but he’s painfully aware of her eyes following his every move.

After dinner, the family moves around clearing the table and setting up games to play in the living room, and somehow Brendon ends up cornered by Anna in the hallway. “I’m gay,” Anna says, and for a moment Brendon’s too frozen with shock to say anything.

Finally he settles on, “How do you know for certain?”

Anna gives him a dark look. “I know, okay. It isn’t some phase or whatever. My friend Rose, the one I told you about. We’re in love.”

Brendon can’t do anything but stare. Anna shifts and crosses her arms over her chest and stares back. “Have you…” Brendon takes a deep breath. “You know, sometimes it is difficult to distinguish between friendly love and romantic love. Sometimes we get so close to a friend that we get confused.”

“I’m not confused!” Anna snaps. “We’ve done stuff, me and Rose.”

“Anna!” Brendon looks around them worriedly, half-expecting one of her family members to be eavesdropping. “Anna, you can’t tell anyone else, okay? If you tell, they’ll—you won’t be able to be a member of the Church anymore, you know?”

Anna frowns. “I don’t want to be a member of the Church anymore,” she says. “I don’t want to have anything to do with it. How can you?”

Brendon straightens defensively. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demands.

“I can tell you’re not happy. You don’t want to be doing this. If everyone at church didn’t have their heads so far up their asses, they could see as well as I can how gay you are.”

“Shut up!” Brendon hisses. “Shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not—I’ve never. And you better not do it anymore, either. If someone catches you, or finds out—it isn’t just you at risk, but Rose, too. You have to pray, both of you, and you shouldn’t see each other any more.”

“I can’t believe what a hypocrite you are,” Anna says.

“I’ve never done anything!” Brendon whispers back urgently.

“Then you’re a coward, too,” Anna says. “You’re miserable and you tell me to just pray? So I can be as unhappy as you?” She gives him a disgusted look and disappears upstairs.

Brendon makes excuses to leave early, and tells Brother Fry that he’s going to be busy in the coming weeks and won’t be able to come over. He feels badly about lying to the Frys because they’ve been so kind to him, but he doesn’t know how he can face Anna after that conversation.

It’s still early when Brendon gets home, but he just wants to crawl in bed and hide from the world for the rest of the night. It isn’t even the first time anyone’s guessed he’s gay. People at church are really oblivious, but the kids at school never were, and Brendon’s always been tiny and dressed strangely and too weird in a way that couldn’t be explained away by his being a freaky religious kid.

He’s almost sick with nerves over the whole thing. He’s never done anything, but sometimes his thoughts alone seem like enough to condemn him. His parents know, of course, though he’s never told them and they’ve never brought it up. It’s been an understanding between them—they know and he doesn’t act on it, and he’ll get married one day and it won’t be an issue any more.

But Anna…she’s so young, and to have already acted in such a way. Brendon can’t decide if he’s scared for her or envious of her, and that worries him a lot. She called him a coward, but there’s so much more to it than that.

Brendon’s parents expect so much of him and it isn’t as he’s ever had anyone else in his life, anyone else who loved him or offered him anything like what his family and the Church offered. Besides, the Church knows of the temptation of homosexuality. They speak of the strength required to overcome it. Brendon has been strong. He has resisted.

Unbidden, Elder Mathis’ words come to Brendon’s mind, asking how much of that resistance is due to him and how much his interest in such things has been curbed by his medication. It doesn’t make any sense, because the drugs don’t have anything to do with sexual drive.

But, his mind supplies traitorously, the meds make you tired and depressed and you don’t feel like doing much of anything, let alone going out and meeting guys.

Brendon puts his hands over his ears, like he can block out his own thoughts, and curls up in a ball on his bed. He remembers when he was younger and it didn’t matter what anyone at school said or did, Brendon could always smile in the mirror and honestly say that he loved who he was and he loved his life. These days, Brendon doesn’t like to look in the mirror at all.

There’s a knock on the front door and it takes a few minutes for Brendon to process, and then to realise he’s the only one home. He makes himself get out of bed and stumble down the hall, opening it to find Spencer staring at him with a vague expression of surprise.

Brendon looks down at himself—pants hanging low on his hips, shirt wrinkled, messy, and too small from where Elder Link shrunk it in the laundry by accident. He isn’t sure what Spencer is staring at, but it makes him uncomfortable.

“Yes?” he asks.

“Sorry,” Spencer says, in a dazed voice, and looks up at Brendon’s face. “Um.” He pauses, like he can’t remember what he meant to say. “Oh. I was working on a paper for my French class…a composition on a controversial subject. I was wondering if you could look over it for me.”

That’s a pretty big surprise, because when Brendon offered his help, he’d been pretty sure that Spencer really wasn’t interested. Still, Brendon likes to help people. He could almost pretend he was just fulfilling his obligation. You know, if he hadn’t just been up there yesterday drinking coffee and watching movies.

“You weren’t sleeping were you?” Spencer asks belatedly.

“No. I’m fine. It’s fine. Come on, let’s go look at your paper.” He slides on his slippers and gets his glasses off the table. On his way out the door he grabs his keys from their hook by the door and follows Spencer upstairs.

Stepping into the apartment, Brendon gets the impression that this is what home is supposed to feel like. It’s strange, because he’s been up here a few times now, but it’s different, somehow.

There’s soft music playing—something catchy and indie—unobtrusive but so nice, as musically starved as Brendon has been. Something’s cooking, mingling with the smell of roasting coffee and it smells amazing.

The place isn’t as messy as Brendon’s own apartment is, thanks to his companions, but it isn’t compulsively clean like his parents’ home. This place feels lived in; comfortable.

“The guys went out to pick up more garlic bread—Ryan always makes the ones we buy to go with dinner and never gets new to replace it,” Spencer says, in that fond tone he has that makes Brendon wonder about the relationship between Ryan and Spencer.

“Usually I’m okay writing the compositions, but this one is a bit more technical than the others. Before we’ve just written about our hobbies and families and stuff.” Spencer picks up a sheet of lined paper from the coffee table and looks at it for a moment. “We had to write about a sensitive politic issue from our own country. I hope this is alright for you to read.”

Brendon raises a brow and takes it from Spencer’s hand. He can see at once why Spencer is asking about Brendon’s reading it. The opening line reads, L’homosexualité est un sujet très débattu, parce que beaucoup de gens dissent qu’il est dibolique, mais les gens qui sont homosexuels dissent il est naturel.

Brendon refuses to let his surprise show on his face and takes a seat on the sofa, clearing his throat. Spencer sits beside him, giving him an appraising look. “It isn’t going to be a problem, right?”

“No,” Brendon says, too quickly. “No, I mean. I don’t have a problem with…I mean, I don’t know a lot of gay people, or anything. But the Church is understanding about such things.”

Spencer raises a brow. “Really?” he asks. Brendon suddenly realises that Spencer’s trying to get some sort of reaction out of him. It should make him angry or embarrassed, but he doesn’t feel much of anything except disappointment.

“Well. The Church thinks homosexuality is a sin, but they also believe that it is something that can be fought. Overcome, you know? So if you pray a lot, and don’t act on it, then the Church can help you,” Brendon explains.

“And that’s what you think?” Spencer asks sharply. “That it’s an affliction? Like, a disease?”

“I—” Brendon stops abruptly. He can’t believe this is happening to him a second time this evening. It feels like God’s playing some huge practical joke on him, or something. “Spencer,” he says, and feels tired. “I didn’t come up here to preach at you, or fight with you about morals. I can help you with your paper, though, okay?”

Something passes over Spencer’s face, like regret. “Okay,” Spencer agrees. “Please. Thank you.” A frown settles between his brow and Brendon almost reaches out to smooth it away. He himself always has a frown there; he knows how it aches.

“Do you have a pencil, or something?” Brendon asks. Spencer passes him a mechanical pencil and Brendon begins to make marks. He’s used to doing this, did it all throughout school. Everyone knew he was good at French and if he did their work for them, the jerks at school would leave him alone for the most part.

“Hey,” Spencer interrupts after a second. He scoots closer to look over Brendon’s shoulder and Brendon pauses. “Just. I mean. Could you tell me why it’s wrong? I wanna learn this stuff.”

“Oh.” Brendon blinks a few times and scans back up the page to his first correction. “Well, with the pronominal verbs, you want the past participle to agree in gender and number with the subject. And here, in the passé, you conjugate mourir with the auxiliary verb être instead of avoir. It’s one of the Dr. Mrs. Vandertramp verbs.”

Spencer frowns. “I’m always forgetting those,” he mutters.

Brendon finds himself relaxing a little. Going into teaching mode is safe and comfortable. “Me too. Or well, I had a lot of trouble with them at first. Once you start using them a lot, it becomes habit, though. Plus, a lot of your grammar is really advanced for the beginner’s level.”

“I want to learn it,” Spencer says, flushing a little in the cheeks.

“Yeah,” Brendon agrees. “When I was a kid, I was really excited about learning French and Spanish. I wanted to travel all around Europe writing and performing songs and French lais. I was heartbroken when my history teacher told me troubadours weren’t around so much anymore.”

Spencer cracks a smile, the first real one he’s ever given Brendon, and it is warm and a little stunning. “Lais, seriously?” he asks.

Brendon has to look away quickly, because the smile on Spencer’s face makes Brendon’s stomach flip, and makes him think of what Anna said. “I may have been a huge dork in high school,” Brendon says, and turns his attention back to the paper quickly.

When Jon and Ryan stumble through the front door breathless and pink-faced from the cold, Brendon and Spencer have mostly finished proofing the paper. They’ve stopped to discuss several grammar points, but Spencer didn’t have many mistakes in the first place.

“About time,” Spencer grumbles. Brendon notices the questioning look Ryan sends to Spencer and the answering jerk of Spencer’s head. “Dinner’s ready, as soon as you’ve got that cooked.”

“Five minutes,” Jon promises, and disappears into the kitchen.

“You can stay for dinner, if you’d like,” Spencer says, his tone calculated. “I made pasta.”

Brendon’s not really hungry. Sister Fry makes amazing meals. But Brendon is lonely and doesn’t really trust himself alone with his thoughts right now, so he accepts. All throughout dinner, he’s aware that Spencer and Ryan are staring at him with the same intensity as Anna had, earlier. He wonders about what it is they’re seeing. About how everything he’s tried so hard to keep safe and hidden suddenly seems to be written across his face for everyone to read.

Jon invites him to stay later for a movie, but Brendon is tired and he isn’t sure he can stand much more scrutiny right now. Jon sees him to the door and says, “So, we’re going out to a club tomorrow night. Open mic night. It isn’t anything too crazy. Thought you might like to check it out. Just for the music. No peer pressure or any of that shit.”

Brendon finds himself managing a genuine smile in response. “That sounds really cool, Jon, but I just can’t right now. That’s...too much, you know? I’m trying to figure some things out, about what I’m doing and I—”

“It’s cool,” Jon interrupts, putting a hand on Brendon’s shoulder. Brendon wants to relax under that touch, let Jon melt away all the stress and tension and worry and anxiety. There’s something warm in Jon’s eyes that says he’s not only able to help, but willing.

Brendon must stare a long time, because eventually Jon’s hand tightens just a little. “You know if you need to talk about it, I’m here,” he says. “I might not know a lot about what you’re going through, but I’m happy to listen.”

“You’re really awesome, Jon Walker,” Brendon whispers, all weary and distantly happy at the same time. “Thank you,” because he can’t accept yet, but he doesn’t want to close the door, either.

Before going to bed he gets out his medication, dividing the capsules into two separate bottles. He can’t do this all at once. He’s not brave enough, nowhere near strong enough. But maybe he can take it step by baby step.

Part Three

Comments

[maddylonglegs.livejournal.com]

This is brilliant. I'm enjoying Brendon's slow rebellion. I'm also amused by the mention of Vandertramp verbs. I didn't know they were used outside my school!

[moku-youbi.livejournal.com]

haha. I'm so behind on lj. Forgive the lateness. I think Vandertramp is used everywhere, though you'd think someone could come up with something better...

Glad you're enjoying it!

[trinity_clare]

I was going to wait until the end to comment, but oh my god, Dr. Mrs. Vandertramp. Heaven preserve me from horrible French class mnemonic devices. *nostalgic*

[moku-youbi.livejournal.com]

I've tried to repress most of what happened in seven years of French class, but that particular thing has stuck with me. I guess it served its purpose...

[j-plash.livejournal.com]

Guh. This is insanely good. A few lines that *killed* me:

It makes him feel uneasy, like any minute, without the safety of his schedule, he’s going to slip and…fall, do something wrong, something he shouldn’t.

This rang so true, and was so heartbreaking, and made the nervous tension eating at Brendon without the meds dulling him so real and so present.

He thinks being married won’t be so bad, if it means he gets to have his own children. If he can make them happy.

*Killed* me. So real and true and helplessly tragic. The resignation is always the saddest thing to me. The desperate fight to be someone else, the resignation to never really finding happiness. And this felt so true to that and so true to canon Brendon.

People say drowning is a peaceful way to go. He thinks it would just feel like falling asleep and dreaming forever.

Just perfect. Nothing to say but *perfect*.

I am really, really enjoying this. Creative and compelling and beautiful.

[moku-youbi.livejournal.com]

Dude, your feedback is made of amazing, I just want you to know :D

I was sort of remiss in my last post. Are you Mormon/ex-Mormon? It isn't something you ever think of, until you meet one Mormon, and then it is so surprising how many people in your life you find have been or still are Mormon.

Thank you so much for all your kind words. I have a lot of conflicting emotions about how this fic turned out, but the first few chapters are really close to my heart, and it's so nice to hear that you like them.

[j-plash.livejournal.com]

Nah, I'm not (it's not so common here, though I do still stumble upon it surprisingly often). One of my main research areas for my degree is LGBTIQ high school students (as part of education faculty research), and in the last year or so I've been focusing on non-school elements, particularly religion, in the realisation and acceptance and coming out processes.

I pretty quickly got drawn into studying Mormon experiences in particular, partly 'cause they're so intense, sometimes almost like extreme versions of what you find in other religions, and also 'cause there's a relatively large amount of existing research to work with and organised groups willing to talk to researchers, compared to in other religions. So I've been pretty immersed for most of this year in just talking to lots of people and reading lots of interviews where it's harder to find people (people still living within the church on the compromise, bishops, etc).

I think I probably have a slightly skewed viewpoint, though--possibly those who've had harsher experiences are more likely to make themselves available to talk, and sociological studies tend to be centred in the western states where they have more people to work with. So I don't know so much about the eastern states or about more lax groups who don't see it as a problem as much, I guess 'cause those people don't have so much reason to talk about it.

If that makes sense? :P

[moku-youbi.livejournal.com]

That sounds really cool. If you're interested, I could see if my girlfriend would talk to you. I'm pretty sure she would.

[j-plash.livejournal.com]

Hey, sorry for immense reply lateness :S Totally lost track of email during finals :S I'd love to talk to her if she's up for it. That'd be awesome. My email's i.am.here.and.i.am.j@gmail.com :) Thanks so much for thinking of it :)