I Might Be Holding Your Hand, but I'm Holding It Loose.

“I wish you weren’t so bitchy to her all the time,” sighed Brendon, tapping his fingers to an in sync beat with his heart, on the steering wheel. They’d come to a halt; traffic.
“You defend me, then you defend her. Okay, I’ll try harder next time, Mr. Emotional See-Saw.” she scowled, sinking in the passenger seat.
“Look, Emma. What do you want me to do here? I don’t understand what you dislike about her. If you’re jealous then sure, the least you could-”
“I’m going to spit in your face if you use that phrase again,” she stated, cool and collected. “I dislike her because of her smarmy attitude and ways towards you. She’s a conniving,” she paused. “I’m not sure it’s even legal for me to say what I’m about to say. Plus, she’s homophobic! How does that make you feel, huh?”
“I’m not bisexual any more, it was just a period that I can now safely but behind me because of my now normal hormones,” he mumbled, sounding recited and rehearsed.
“That’s bullshit.” she grumbled, putting her feet up on the dashboard. He didn’t mind but Rebecca sure would. “You’d so do Matt Smith.”
He bit his plump bottom lip, shaking his head, struggling as he did so. “N-No... I don’t see how men can find him attractive. He’d be cool to hang with, maybe have a beer. Talk to him about what it’s like to be The Doctor, y’know,”
She smiled to herself. “Brendon Urie, if you were given the chance, are you saying you wouldn’t want Matt Smith to fuck your ass raw?”
He whimpered slightly, cursing immediately after. “Stop it!” he shouted. “Just, stop it!”
“Stop what? Trying to make you better?”
“Better in what instance, hey? Better as in, you want the ‘old’ me back? It’s not going to happen Ezme. Grow up and face it,” he sighed, pushing his hands through his hair, wishing they could move out of the traffic jam. Somehow if the scenery moved it might make the atmosphere a little less tense. There would be something to stare at, to shy away from. Just something.
“I hate it when you take that tone, Brendon,” she admitted, sliding her feet back down out of courtesy.
“Yes, well I hate it when you use my full name. I hate that it angers me every time you pronounce each syllable perfectly, making the word sharp and edgy. I hate it that you kiss some other woman, who I know you know next to nothing about, and have the audacity to bring her in when she could leak our album,”
“Heads up,” she interrupted. “No one would ever want to leak that.”
“And I hate you’re petty remarks, to me and to Rebecca!” he shouted, growing increasingly angry with each statement and as the car horns became louder. They felt like they were trying to overpower him.
“They’re all justified.”
“No, no they are not!” he screamed, face reddening and knuckles whitening as they tightened around the wheel. “I wish I could swerve off the road and crash, killing...” he muttered under his breath. Emma edged closer, so her lips were nearby his ear.
“That wouldn’t be the first thing you’ve killed.”
“Don’t you dare bring him into this,” he growled fiercely. “Don’t you dare. And I was not the reason for his death!”
“What was then, Brendon? What was? The doctor said it was due to abnormal stress levels that made me inhabitable. You made me stressed, therefore you killed our son.”
“I did not kill anybody,” he repeated. “You were out at college all the time, I was out at work all the time. All I wanted was to see you more, but we ended up fighting all the time. Your miscarriage could have been natural, or induced by something else...” he offered, trying to reassure himself more than anything.
“Yes, but it wasn’t. That’s the issue. I hope it toys with what little conscience you have for the rest of your natural born life. Brendon Boyd Urie – murdered his own son.”

“You don’t think I think about this nonstop? Fuck you, Emma. I wanted our son. I wanted for him to be born and bring us back together again. Sure, it would have been stressful, but we could have dealt with that. He was unexpected but it could have been our miracle child.” he paused, licking his lips.

“You could have taught him how to read, and get him into decent literature, make him intelligent. Together we could have taught him skating and rollerblading, and then I could teach him guitar, drums, bass. Whatever he wanted. If he didn’t like music then that would be fine, we’d find his forte, and by God we’d love him to pieces. And as he grew older, we could have got married – he could have been our little page boy. We could have another kid after that, and we’d live in Santa Monica, like we’ve always wanted. We’d have a garden, with flowers running up the walls and intertwined between trellises. White flowers, because you like white flowers. There’d be a little swing set for the kids, and we’d have a dog and two fish, called Ringo and Morrisey. As the kids got older they could choose what pet they wanted.”

The traffic eased up and he started the car again.

“My conscience toys with me every minute of every day, Emma. That’s why I cry when I see you, or when Rebecca brings up the prospect of kids. I want kids, so much, but knowing I’ve killed one already, before it even had the chance to live, it destroys me. I’m not capable of being a father if I’ll cause this much pain and aching.”

She stayed silent until they pulled up outside her block of apartments. He reached over and unlocked the door, pushing it open, indicating for her to get out.
“Brendon, come in with me for a bit,” she smiled slightly. “I won’t keep you long.”
“I’ve already had my ego deflated enough for today, thank you,” he mumbled, licking his lips as he always did when nervous.
“I’ll be nice, I promise. I have Oreos and ice-cream; I can make you an Oreo milkshake?”
He smiled shyly, checking his watch then shutting off the engine, darting out of the car and locking it. He bounded up the stairs behind her, as he wasn’t quite sure where he was going. Usually he would storm ahead, but Emma always kept a good pace.
She ushered him into her pad, shutting the door swiftly behind her and walking to the kitchen. Brendon was very cautious of his every move, removing his shoes and relinquishing in the feeling of the fluffy carpet between his toes. Rebecca liked hardwood floors.
“It’ll only be a minute,” she nodded, scooping some vanilla ice-cream into the blender, pouring in a little milk and finally adding the Oreos. She blitzed it together, waited until it was combined, then poured into two glasses. He sighed in pleasure at the first sip.
“I missed these,” he nodded, perching himself on the bar stool. She sat the other side of the bar, passing him a straw, because that way he would make it last longer. He still had his childish idiosyncrasies.
“What else,” she said, swirling the concoction around her glass. “Had you named him?”
“I was thinking Sebastian. It has a Greek origin and I come from a Greek background, so,” he smiled. “Plus I like names you can shorten, so we could call him Seb. And we could get him all the crab toys from The Little Mermaid – that would be so cute!” he chimed.
She smiled back, but was petrified. It was like this was still real to Brendon, he was still going to have a son, he could still do all those wonderful things with her, for her, for his family. It’d affected him in ways incomprehensible.
He slid his hand across the bar, curling his fingers over hers, looking only at their digits. His thumb traced her knuckles in swirls. “You could still give me that son,” he mumbled. “We could still have a son.”
“We’d have to have sex for that to work, Brendon.”
“I know,” he nodded, his brown orbs not leaving their stare. “That’s fine, I can deal with that. As long as a son is produced I don’t care what way we have to do it.” he said truthfully.
“Wait a few months, you’ll be married, you can have a son with your wife,” she urged.
“I want our son. I want an Emma and Brendon baby. I want to make it up to Seb,” he said in the same, light tone, almost fumbling over his words, but not quite.
“Rebecca-”
“She can’t give me kids.” he finally spat out. “She’s infertile. She won’t tell me, but her parents had the courtesy to say so. And she’s had sex before. Not with me, no, she still keeps it up she’s a virgin to me,” he nodded, spreading out her hands and going around each finger with his thumb.
“Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know. Her expectations are too far-fetched, too idealistic. She’s had sex many times, unprotected, to try and get herself pregnant, to prove the doctors wrong. Turns out they were absolutely correct.” he licked his lips. “She was so unstable when I met her, as was I, from separating from you. She could never have kids and I could never have you, so we befriended each other, and before you know it we’re dating. It’s secretive, though. We don’t tell each other much. I didn’t tell her about you, she didn’t tell me about her infertility.”
“Why did you date her, then?”
“Company,” he shrugged. “Someone to cuddle at night. Someone to claim to love, to watch crappy TV shows at midnight with when my insomnia gets bad.”
“We used to do that,” she smiled slightly.
“That’s because we’re both shit sleepers.” he chuckled. “We’d be perfect for a baby,”
“We would,” she agreed. “And you’re so good with kids, I remember when your nieces and nephews used to come round, they simply adored you,”
“I adored them too. It’s a mutual thing. Kids are very sensitive, if you’re upset, they pick up on it and have some empathy. They cuddle your legs despite the fact you’re about three times the size of them, they’re the bigger, better person. You’ll tell them things are fine, but they know, they know it’s not. You can see it in their curious eyes,” he nodded, curling her fingers into her palm.
“You really want a kid, don’t you,” she said quietly, stating something she already knew.
“More than you could ever imagine.”
“Then you’ll get a child, Brendon,” she sighed, retracting her hands. “Fate will place you with a child. Whether it be through adoption, or surrogacy, you’ll have a child with your love,”
He nodded ever-so-slightly, blink and you miss it. His lips formed a heart and they pulsated like a beat with quivers. He was going to cry and they both knew it. It didn’t seem right for her to comfort him, but she’d never been one to do what seemed right. Living in the moment seemed much more applicable.
She walked around and curled her arms around his body, fingers dancing across the fabric smothering his skin, her warmth an attempt to stop the flow of sorrow. “Things will be fine,”
“Don’t you do it too,” he whispered, trying to wrestle out of her grip. She took the hint and backed away, but he stood up and hugged her properly. It was too awkward beforehand.
“Do what?”
“Don’t you lie to me too. Everyone says it’s going to be okay, but I know it’s not going to be. I’m not going to have kids; I want my own flesh and blood to be a part of them, not some orphan nobody wanted. It’s harsh, and spiteful, I’m fully aware of both of these things, but I don’t want to adopt,” he sobbed quietly.
“Hey, shh,” she cooed, stroking the back if his head softly, playing with tufts of hair. “I’ll help you through this. I think you need to see a counselor Bren, you’re mind is doing some horrible things to you, and you really don’t deserve it.”
“Wh-what did you say?” he stuttered.
“I think that counseling may he-”
“No, you called me Bren!” he smiled, covering his mouth with his hands. “You called me Bren.”
“So I did,” she smiled back.
“Not Brendon, but Bren. You can call me Bear, and Bdon, and bastard, and anything you want, but please, please help me,” he begged, pulling her close again, taking fistfuls of her shirt in his hands. He thought by gripping tightly the tears would not fall. His hypothesis proved wrong.
“I will,” she murmured. “I’m going to help you.”