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

"Only two weeks baby, only two weeks," he cooed as he kissed his fiance's head softly, smiling slightly.
"That's two weeks too long," she pouted, pulling him into a tight hug. He sighed, because he really had to be going, otherwise he'd miss his flight, but this was the last time he'd see her for a short while, so cut her some slack and gave her a big squeeze, a kiss and a rose - always the romantic.
"I'll call you as soon as I land. I love you," he smiled and let go of her, waving and walking in the direction of his fellow band mates, gulping as he saw the sadness in her eyes, taking note never to look back when this happened again, because he wouldn't be able to leave.

He feigned happiness as he saw Spencer and slung his arm around his drummer, beaming, following him to passport control.
"I take it she said yes?" whispered Spencer as they emptied their pockets, walking through the scanner.
"She said yes." he laughed. "I'm an engaged man. You'd never think it, but yes, I'm engaged."
"I never thought someone like you would get married. Wouldn't suit your lifestyle. Plus not to Rebecca,"
"What do you mean by that?" he asked, a little unnerved, gathering up his scanned belongings and walking towards the departure lounge, hands stuffed in his tight jean pockets.
"I mean," he paused and waited until they were both sat down, and Brendon had had his Red Bull fix. "I mean she's so... perfect, y'know? She's extremely intelligent, beautiful, a devout Christian, she wants to be the perfect wife to you, cooking, cleaning, raising the kids. You're not. You don't like sitting down and talking about politics. You love to jump around the stage, you love to drink, you love to curse, hell, you love sex. She's waiting until marriage,"
"And I respect that,"
"No doubt you do." he nodded. "But she's not your type."
"What is my type?" he asked, tapping his fingers on his knee, that was smothered by tight jeans, which Rebecca disproved of, but he hated wearing anything else.
"Dude, she wears cardigans,"
"Only to church!" he squealed.
"Oh, because that makes it better," he scoffed, rolling his eyes. Spencer knew Rebecca was all wrong for Brendon, but he didn't want to say it outright. They cared for each other, that much was blatant, but she was too perfect. Which was a nice way of saying she was boring. She lived a routined life, but Brendon was sporadic. It didn't make sense for them to marry. Sure, they'd have beautiful children, and they'd be grade A students, but that really didn't matter to Brendon. Unfortunately he couldn't see that; it was masked by Rebecca and his desire to make his parents proud for once.
"Leave it, Spencer. I love her and she's wonderful to me,"
"Any girl that makes you get your fix via your hand is not wonderful."
Brendon hit Spencer's arm, scowling. He was a little sick of everyone teasing him about his relationship with Rebecca, and how she left him devoid of sex. His hand suited him just fine, he lied to himself.
"You still haven't told me what my type is," he mumbled as their ticket numbers were called and they got the perforated sections ripped off, then walked through the tunnel to the plane, turning left to first class.
"You know what your type is," he responded, scanning the aisles and finding the correct seats, choosing the window one.
"Well blatantly I don't," he said, raising his eyebrows, sitting down.
"Someone more exciting! Someone who doesn't do the same day in, day out. Someone who, I don't know Brendon, I don't know. You're not going to listen, even if I had the answer." he said, sighing and sinking down in his seat, plugging in his iPod and shuffling it to drown out Brendon's awkward silence. He was only a few seconds into the song before his band mate tapped his shoulder.
"Do you mean who I think you mean?"
Spencer bit his bottom lip and sat up slightly, nodding.
"She's not marriage material, you know that," he said, almost like it had been drilled into his head; something that was an automatic response.
"Yes, but Brendon, neither are you."