Stained

Brendon’s not entirely sure how he ended up here, being steered towards the toilets and into a cubicle by a man whose name he can’t remember. He thinks it begins with a g, or maybe a j? He remembers dancing with him, if the sliding and grinding and general crotch-thrusting they were doing could be considered dancing. He remembers drinking, lots and lots of drinking, and the lines around Spencer’s eyes and mouth getting tighter and tighter until he finally muttered something incomprehensible under his breath and stomped off to flirt with pretty girls on the other side of the club.

(Not that Brendon cared. Not that he even really noticed. Spencer’s a grown man, he can flirt with whomever he likes.

But Brendon has a sneaking suspicion that Spencer’s abandonment of him for younger, prettier, beboobed pastures may have had something to do with the way he didn’t protest at all when the man grabbed his hand, fingers encircling his wrist like a manacle, and tugged him away from the dance floor.)

He’s had enough drinks to have gotten to that point where he feels loose and relaxed, but something about this is setting off alarm bells in his head. He wants to stop, he wants to say no, but his tongue is too heavy in his mouth and the man is too strong and it’s far, far too easy to just let himself be led.

The cubicle door swings shuts behind them and the man kisses him, sloppy and wet, before pulling away to give Brendon a crooked grin. “Gonna fuck you so hard you’ll be feeling it for days,” he murmurs, with this hungry look in his eyes that makes something in Brendon quake with fear.

His own eyes widen and he starts shaking his head firmly, mumbling, “No, no, I don’ wanna-”

The man kisses him again, muffling his protests, but this time he forces his tongue through the seam of Brendon’s lips and he’s left in no doubt that the man will make good on his promise. Brendon starts struggling then because this is not what he wants, this is not what he wants, but the man is bigger and stronger and has him pinned against the wall and Brendon cannot physically move more than a centimetre in any direction.

He doesn’t give in, though; if anything, he struggles harder, wriggling relentlessly in the man’s grip. The man pulls away from Brendon’s mouth long enough to slap him across the face and hiss, “Keep fucking still, slut.” Brendon’s head rocks back on impact, slamming into the wall, and the stars explode with the pain and dance behind his shuttered eyelids like fireflies in the dark.

The man takes advantage of his distraction to worm a hand between them and grasp at the front of Brendon’s jeans. Brendon squirms away but the man’s other hand is pressed flat against his chest and he’s still got him pinned, so Brendon doesn’t get very far before the man’s tugging his jeans inexpertly over his hips and down his legs.

He doesn’t bother with fingers or lube and Brendon knows this is going to hurt, he knows it with a sharp aching panic that’s trying its hardest to claw its way out of his chest, but he still isn’t prepared for it when the man shoves his hips up with a muffled groan. The pain whites out behind Brendon’s eyes and he gasps, forcing his gaze to focus on the wall behind the man’s head so he can think about something, anything, which isn’t the violation of his body by a man he doesn’t even know.

There’s writing scrawled all over the wall in various colours of permanent marker, quotes and lyrics and badly rhyming poetry that largely revolve around the various things you can do in a toilet cubicle and was probably made up on the spot. Some of them are downright silly – I’M HAVING SEX! sticks out to him as a prime example – but a few are kind of meaningful, in a twisted sort of way. When the man’s thrusts get harder and sharper and more erratic, Brendon fixes on one message and mouths the words over and over like a mantra: if life is just a waste of time and time is just a waste of life, let’s all get together and have the time of our lives.

It seems like an eternity later when the man’s hips still and he gasps out a string of curses as he spills into Brendon and finally, finally pulls out with a wet, dirty plop. Without the man to hold him up, Brendon slithers to the ground, boneless, and collapses against the wall. Everything hurts, everything aches, and he doesn’t even notice the man leaving until he hears the door creaking shut behind him.

Brendon shudders, then, when he knows he’s alone; he shudders and shakes even though it sends tremors of white-hot agony down his spine every time he moves and he tries to cry but his eyes are too dry for tears. Instead, he just lies there, splayed out across the plaster, until he gives in to the blackness hovering at the corners of his vision and closes his eyes.

***

Brendon wakes to blinding pain and a familiar voice calling his name. It sounds concerned, worried, even, and Brendon takes a minute to wonder why anyone would worry about him, what could possibly have happened, but then it all comes flooding back like a bad dream and he leans over to retch into the toilet. Wiping his mouth, he settles back against the wall, suddenly more exhausted than he’s ever been in his entire life.

The voice gets louder, more frantic, and it doesn’t sound like it wants to hurt Brendon, so he croaks out, “In here.” His voice cracks and he coughs a few times to clear his throat.

The door’s shoved open a few seconds later and Spencer’s standing there, staring down at him in horror. “Brendon,” he says, strangled and hoarse, “what happened?”

Brendon’s half-naked and there’s blood and semen coating his thighs and the floor and the walls and it’s exactly what it looks like, but he has the sudden inexplicable desire to deny it all, to pretend this is nothing so he doesn’t have to die of shame.

The look in Spencer’s eyes tells him he knows, though, that the question was just reflex. The look in Spencer’s eyes, it’s disgust and horror and pity all rolled into one and Brendon hates it, hates seeing that look aimed at him, so he glances away, back at the writing on the wall. Spencer squats down, reaching out to touch Brendon’s arm but he flinches away, gasping with the sudden jolt of pain the movement causes.

“Hurts,” Brendon murmurs, in answer to the question Spencer hasn’t asked. “Everything hurts.”

Spencer’s eyes flash with something familiar. (It takes Brendon a moment or two to recognise it from when people would make fun of Ryan or Ryan’s clothes or Ryan’s lyrics and Spencer would get pissy and protective and dispatch the offender with his patented glare or a cutting put-down.

Brendon’s certain – well, ninety per cent certain – Spencer’s never looked at him like that before.)

“Who did this, Bren?” Spencer asks. Brendon isn’t fooled by his level tone of voice. He recognises a pissed-off Spencer when he sees one. “Was it that guy, the one you were dancing with?”

Brendon laughs, but it’s not a very nice sound. “Doesn’t matter. Come on, let’s just go.”

He tries to sit up but Spencer grabs his wrist to stop him. Brendon’s entire body goes stiff and Spencer drops his hand abruptly. He doesn’t even have the energy to feel guilty.

“Bren,” Spencer says, his voice so soft and gentle something breaks in him, just a little, “of course it matters. Tell me what happened. Please. Did you... did you want this?”

Brendon’s throat closes up and he blinks a few times before shaking his head dumbly. Spencer sucks in a breath.

“I was asking for it,” Brendon whispers, because he feels like he should. “It was my fault.”

“Don’t fucking say that,” Spencer says fiercely, his eyes burning. “You didn’t deserve this, Brendon, you weren’t asking for it, god.” Brendon bites his lip, hard, so he doesn’t start crying. “If this is anyone’s fault, except for the son of a bitch who did this to you, it’s mine. I should have been there, I should have been taking care of you.”

“I’m a big boy,” Brendon says, stung, “I can take care of myself.”

Spencer’s eyebrows quirk, but he doesn’t mock Brendon like he normally would. “Do you remember his name?” he asks instead.

“Spencer-”

Spencer ignores him. “We could always ask one of the bartenders, he seemed like a regular, they’d probably know who he-”

“Spencer,” Brendon repeats, louder this time. Spencer falls silent. “I don’t want anyone else to know about this.”

“But-”

“No, Spence,” Brendon says, with a sudden burst of fierceness that leaves him exhausted, and he slumps back against the wall. (He doesn’t want the headlines, the explosion on the internet that would surely follow if the world found out what had happened to him. He has enough of that already from the split. He doesn’t want to think about what it’d be like if the vultures got hold of something like this.)

Spencer’s quiet for a few seconds before he says, softly, “Okay. If that’s what you want. Come on, let’s get you home.”

***

Brendon stares out of the window for the entire duration of the cab drive back to their apartment, a seat-sized space between him and Spencer. When they pull up, he gets out of the car and waits while Spencer pays the fare. For once his entire body is still, stiff and tense against the yellow metalwork of the cab. Brendon doesn’t have any energy for that, either.

Spencer gets out and Brendon detaches himself from the cab and it drives off. Brendon hangs back, trudging after Spencer, but he deliberately slows his pace down too until they’re both in step with each other, keeping pace until they reach the front door.

Inside, Spencer takes Brendon’s coat and hangs it up with his own while Brendon stands in the middle of the hallway and stares at his shoes.

“You should probably clean up,” Spencer says, coming up to Brendon from behind. Brendon nearly jumps out of his skin and Spencer withdraws sharply, face crumpling with guilt. “I’ll just, uh, I’ll just run you a bath.”

“It’s okay,” Brendon says quietly, toeing the ground at his feet. He hopes Spencer can’t see how close he is to crying. “I can do it myself, it’s fine.”

“Brendon, come on,” Spencer says, something desperate in his voice. “Please, just let me take care of you.”

“I’m fi-fine, Spence, Spencer, I’m fine, just- just-” Brendon’s breath hitches on a sob and he breaks off, fists to his eyes.

There’s an awful, awkward silence for a few moments before Spencer says, quietly, “I’ll just go run that bath. Back in a sec.”

Brendon doesn’t even wait until he’s gone to sink to the ground and hug his arms around his knees, shoulders shaking.

***

“I’ll just be out here,” Spencer says, when he’s finished filling the bath. Brendon looks up and tries to smile, but it feels strange stretched over his lips so he stops. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”

Brendon nods, getting slowly to his feet. It still hurts to move, but he’s getting better at controlling the whimpers of pain.

“Do you want me to call your parents?” Spencer asks. “Your mom?”

Brendon shakes his head vehemently. “I don’t want anyone to know. Anyone.”

Spencer regards him for a few, silent moments before saying, gently, “They won’t be ashamed of you.”

“I know,” Brendon says. “I just- I don’t want them to know. They’d want me to- to do something about it and I can’t, Spencer, I can’t, I just wanna-” He breaks off, breathing in deeply before continuing. “I just want to forget this ever happened. Please, Spence?”

Spencer still looks torn, but after a minute of an obvious internal struggle Brendon can read in the creases of his face, he only nods. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”

Brendon nods back, arms hugged tight around his middle, and traipses into the bathroom. He sticks a tentative finger into the bath to check the temperature – warm but not scalding, just how he likes it.

He strips off slowly, pulling his shirt up and over his head, tugging when it gets stuck somewhere around his ears. He peels off his jeans and boxers in one go, perching on the toilet seat to wriggle carefully out of them. The socks are the last to go, kicked off onto the haphazard pile of clothes in the middle of the bathroom, and Brendon is naked. He doesn’t want to see the palm shaped bruises on his hips or the dried stickiness on his thighs so he gets into the bath straight away, lowering himself carefully into the water.

He leans back and closes his eyes, still curled up in one corner of the bath. The water’s nice, soothing, even, and the bubbles are soft and gentle on his skin. He sinks down into the bath until he’s fully immersed in the water except for his face.

He lies there for a few moments, noises gurgling in his ears the way they do when you’re underwater. He wants to stop feeling sticky and bloody and dirty and used, but he thinks it’ll take more than a loofah and some soap to get rid of that, so he just lies there, soaking in his own grime.

The gurgling in his ears changes, gets louder, sounds more like discernible words, or rather, a discernible word. Brendon lifts his head, shaking the water out of his ears so he can hear properly.

“Brendon?” Spencer’s saying, and it doesn’t sound like before, exactly, but there’s an edge of panic to his voice that makes Brendon’s stomach churn. “Hey, Brendon? You okay in there?”

“Yeah,” Brendon calls back. “I’m fine, don’t worry about me.”

Spencer mutters something, but it’s muffled by the wooden door between them. He says, louder, “Just checking you hadn’t drowned or something.”

Brendon laughs softly. “I was just lying in the water. Couldn’t hear you. Sorry.”

“You scared me for a minute there,” Spencer says, and if he was trying to sound light and careless, it’s sort of ruined by the way his voice cracks in the middle. “Don’t do that to me, okay?”

“I won’t,” Brendon says quietly. “’m sorry, Spence.”

“It’s okay,” Spencer says, a beat too late. “I just worry, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Brendon says, leaning back against the side of the bath, “I know.”

He gets out sometime later, when the water’s almost freezing and his mottled skin has shrivelled up like a prune. Spencer set out one of the big towels, the really, really fluffy ones, and Brendon is stupidly grateful as he wraps it around himself, resisting the urge to just melt into its softness.

Spencer scrambles to his feet when the door opens and Brendon steps out, offering him a tentative smile. Brendon smiles back, and it doesn’t feel like his face is going to split in half this time.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, shifting the towel closer around his body. “I... thank you.”

“It’s fine,” Spencer says immediately, even though it isn’t, Brendon knows it isn’t. He appreciates the lie, though. “Is there anything else you need? Anything I can get you?”

Brendon shakes his head. “Just wanna sleep.” Spencer nods, understanding. “G’night, Spence.”

“’Night Bren,” Spencer says softly, his voice following Brendon as he trudges into his room.

***

Brendon lets out a guttural moan, body twisting and jerking in his sleep. There are hands all over him, pressing into his skin, grabbing at him. He tries to twist away from them, free himself from their grip, but the hands are robust and resilient and relentless and he can’t move.

“Brendon?”

And then all of a sudden he’s there, the man with the fiery eyes and burning smile and searing hands and it’s happening again and everything hurts so much Brendon could scream with the pain and-

“Brendon!”

Brendon’s eyes fly open and he rockets forward, propelled into Spencer’s warm, strong, safe arms. He doesn’t even try and squirm away, he just buries his head in Spencer’s shoulder and clings to him, shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. Spencer rubs circles into his back, murmuring nonsense into Brendon’s ear, that it’s okay, he’s here, he’s going to look after him, everything’s going to be okay.

Brendon pulls away after a few minutes that feel like hours, wiping at his eyes. “’m sorry,” he mumbles, gaze fixed on the wall behind Spencer’s head. If he squints, he thinks he can see words written there, just for a moment.

“No, Brendon, don’t,” Spencer sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Seriously, you have to stop apologising for things that aren’t your fault, okay?”

Brendon’s silent for a few moments, then: “Sorry?”

He looks up at Spencer, who’s staring at him in horror, and promptly dissolves into helpless, hysterical giggles. Spencer starts laughing too, after a moment, and for a while it’s just the two of them leaning into each other, laughing themselves stupid over nothing at all.

But then the laughter subsides, and Brendon doesn’t move from Spencer’s side. “Could you... stay with me?” He reaches out, hesitant, and covers Spencer’s hand with his. “I don’t wanna be alone, not tonight.”

Spencer exhales, slowly, before lifting his head to smile at Brendon. “Sure,” he says, squeezing his hand, “whatever you want.”

Brendon’s lips twitch into something that might be a smile and he lies down, watching as Spencer positions himself carefully on the opposite side of the bed. Brendon makes a face and shuffles across to him, getting a fistful of Spencer’s shirt and pulling him close so he can bury his head in his neck and inhale.

“Brendon?” Spencer asks, deliberately neutral. “Is this okay?”

Brendon makes a vague noise of affirmation into Spencer’s skin and he relaxes, arms coming up to wrap loosely around Brendon.

“Wanna be safe,” Brendon mumbles, eyes closing of their own accord. “You make me feel safe.”

“Okay,” Spencer whispers, stroking gently down Brendon’s side, “okay.”

Brendon falls asleep like that, curled up into Spencer like a foetus in the womb, warm and safe and protected, the pain in his body dulled to nothing but a faint, lingering ache.