Posing in a Ballroom

Chapter 1

Gunfire.

The drug dealers were getting blown up to little pieces of flesh and blood and guts and insides, and Spencer's lips curled upwards in the artificial glow as he stared up at the screen. His thumbs pressed buttons furiously, his brows furrowed in concentration. He was going to win. He was going to finish the mission, get to the next level, and life would be so, so fucking sweet –

Spencer jumped when the ringing of his Sidekick cut through the air, his thumb slipping from the control in his hands. An explosion came from the stereo system followed by the death rattle of his character.

"No!" Spencer protested. "No, no, no! Aw, man... fucking fuck."

Spencer's piercing blue eyes shot an angry glare at the flashing Game Over as he dug out his Sidekick to see which asswipe had just allowed the drug syndicate to kill his undercover FBI agent. The called ID said Bro, and Spencer wasn't as upset as he had been.

"Bren," he answered the call and leaned back on the couch. "What's up?"

Spencer was greeted with a wave of noise: masculine shouts and feminine cries, the thumping of techno music, and he could almost smell the sweat of the place Brendon was in. He expected to hear his stepbrother's voice come through loudly and gleefully, probably asking Spencer to get to whatever party Brendon was at. But, instead, he heard a weak, scared voice, saying, "Spencer? Spence?"

Spencer sat up straighter on the big, leather couch, taking his feet off the shiny coffee table in front of him, adrenalin immediately pushing through. "Brendon? Are you okay?"

He could count the seconds flying by, his heart tightening in worry, before Brendon whispered a lost sounding, "No."

Spencer shot up from the couch, keeping his calm. "I'll come get you. Where are you at?"

Brendon made a strangled, confused sound at the other end before concluding, "I drove here."

"I'll come get you," Spencer repeated, and Brendon hung up on him.

Spencer ran to his room to grab a jacket before dialling another number and heading out of the massive condo. "Fuck," he muttered, wondering what the hell it could be this time. The limousine was waiting for the young man out front by the time the lift had gotten Spencer to the ground floor. The doorman held the door open for him to Fifth Avenue, seemingly not at all fazed that Spencer was leaving at such a god forsaken hour.

Their new chauffer, Tom, was holding the door of the limousine open. It was three in the morning, and Spencer just and just noticed that he had woken up the family's employer but found it hard to care. He made himself comfortable in the backseat, the darkened windows giving him the privacy he needed. Tom turned around once he got to the driver's seat and said, "The GPS in Mr. Urie's car shows he is in the Bronx, sir."

"The Bronx? The fucking Bronx?" Spencer asked with distaste before sighing. "Well, let's drive to the fucking Bronx then. Step on it."

The blond chauffer nodded dutifully, and Spencer closed his eyes, fighting off a headache. Trust Brendon Urie to get fucked up in the Bronx and end up calling Spencer in the middle of the goddamn night. The night hardly made a difference because they were nocturnal by habit, but Spencer knew Brendon. It took a lot to scare the kid, and Brendon had definitely sounded scared on the phone. The drive seemed to take forever, especially after they'd left Manhattan, with the buildings getting shabbier and shabbier, the neighbourhoods shittier and shittier. Spencer kept drumming the window, watching drops of rain roll down it on the other side.

Eventually, Tom pulled the car aside and pointed at a black Mercedes parked across the street. "There's his car, sir, and Mr. Urie himself is probably in that house right there," Tom said helpfully. "Should I go get him?"

"No," Spencer said, "I'll do it."

Brendon had called him, not Tom. Brendon liked their new chauffer a great deal, maybe a bit too much to Spencer's liking. He exited the vehicle, pulling his jacket tighter around him. The street had two rows of houses on both sides, and bass was breaking through the walls of the one where the loud party was keeping the entire neighbourhood awake. Spencer sighed, put on his sunglasses for privacy, and passed a number of young people smoking on the stairs leading into the house. He couldn't understand how Brendon found these low class parties with fucking random ghetto kids, or at least this was the case that night. It must have been the attention Brendon got. All the women and men tended to go a little bit insane because the Brendon Urie was getting shitfaced with them. Most of the time, Spencer enjoyed the lifestyle just as much.

Spencer's father, David, had lectured the two of them since they were ten-years-old about the dangers of strangers. They could be kidnapped and held for ransom. They could be tortured and killed. They could not go out roller-skating in Central Park like normal kids, they could not do whatever the hell they liked. They had both bought David's rant for years before realising that, actually... they could do whatever the hell they liked. As long as Spencer made sure he and Brendon were both safe.

The house in the Bronx was not safe, which was why Spencer was determined to find Brendon and go. People were dancing in the living room, and the place smelled of cheap beer. Brendon was nowhere to be found. Spencer decided to try the bedrooms, pushing drunken girls out of his way as he went upstairs.

To make the snooping around less obvious, he grabbed a bottle of Budweiser with him. He eyed the bottle, taking a sip. A bottle would be, what? One hundred, two hundred calories? Looking around for his stepbrother had his heart racing, so he might get away with drinking half of the bottle and keep a status quo. He took a sip but regretted it instantly, so he put it away and focused his energy on finding Brendon.

After one quick look through the house, he began to worry again. He stopped to ask a beautiful, blonde girl, Brendon's type, if she had seen Brendon around.

"Brendon Urie is here?" she shrieked, eyes widening. She took a firm hold of Spencer's arm. "Oh my god! You're his brother! You're Spencer Smith!"

Deciding the girl was useless, Spencer shrugged her off quickly. She was shouting something about an autograph after him, which had Spencer rolling his eyes. An autograph? He didn't even fucking do anything. His only claim to fame was a set of celebrity parents. And on nights like these, he couldn't care less about the fame; he only wanted to find his stepbrother.

Spencer knew how to be safe, how to recognise potential danger. Brendon? Well, Brendon wasn't very bothered about those things.

When Spencer finally found him, Brendon was lying on a couch in the basement. Brendon's Sidekick was in his lap, and Spencer was surprised no one had stolen it already. The young man's head was resting on the arm rest, mouth gaping open and eyes closed. He hadn't seen Brendon in a day or two. They both had been on a roll with a new party every night, but Spencer had gotten tired and needed a break. Spencer had to shake Brendon almost violently before getting a reaction, and he tried to ignore how relieved he felt when his blue eyes met a pair of brown ones.

"There you are," Brendon slurred slightly.

Spencer stared at the state that was Brendon Boyd Urie: a beautiful man of twenty-one with some girl's lip gloss on his cheek, beer stains on his Calvin Klein shirt, his jeans unzipped, but hey, at least his dick wasn't out. Brendon's dirty hair was stuck to his skull, his eyes disorientated and skin in cold sweat.

Spencer pulled Brendon to sit up, and Brendon wrapped his arms around Spencer's strong shoulders. Spencer sighed and asked, "You taken anything?"

Brendon shook his head. "No..."

"You sure?"

"Not tonight. I... I passed out earlier. When I woke up... I got scared," his stepbrother replied in a weak, hoarse voice.

"You okay?" was Spencer's second question. Brendon's expression darkened, but he nodded nonetheless. "Okay," Spencer sighed.

If Brendon didn't want to talk, there was nothing he could do about it. Besides, Brendon was in no condition to talk, and this didn't seem to be anything serious. Spencer had seen worse. Fuck, had he seen worse.

He pulled them to stand and zipped Brendon up, buckling the belt for him. Brendon rested his forehead on Spencer's shoulder for balance. The messy appearance was familiar enough for Spencer to visualise a beautiful scenester giving Brendon head just an hour before.

"Let's get you home," Spencer suggested and brushed stray hair behind Brendon's ear.

Brendon's face paled, and he shook his head, pulling back slightly. "I don't - I don't wanna go, I –"

"Shh," Spencer soothed him quickly. "No one else is home. Grace and dad went to Hawaii, remember? Went over there for New Year's."

Brendon focused his glassy eyes, trying to comprehend Spencer's words. "She's not home?"

"No, won't be for a week," Spencer said reassuringly. When Brendon had this glassy look in his eyes, he looked the most like his mother, Grace. Spencer never pointed it out because he knew Brendon hated nothing as much as being told he was similar to his mother, in any way or form. Brendon wasn't like his disaster of a mother, even if the tabloids claimed otherwise.

Brendon calmed down, and Spencer began to drag him out, embracing the fact that doing so probably burned that one sip of Budweiser out of his system. And luckily for Spencer, no one tried to stop them from leaving. A handful of party-goers patted Brendon's back like they were best friends, hollering after them to say it was a shame they were leaving. Brendon only groaned against Spencer's neck, and Spencer was more than grateful that the paparazzi seemed to have a more interesting scandal occurring somewhere else and that Brendon's incident in the Bronx would pass without ending up in gossip columns.

Tom opened the door to the limousine, greeting them with, "Good morning, Mr. Urie." Spencer didn't appreciate the sarcasm in Tom's tone at all, but Brendon only nodded.

"Make sure Brendon's car gets driven home," Spencer instructed Tom.

"I'll make sure that it does," Tom nodded.

Spencer got back inside the long, black car and sighed in relief once Tom pulled away from the curb. Brendon wound himself around Spencer, almost sitting in his lap and still hiding his head in Spencer's neck.

"Thanks for coming to get me," he whispered.

Spencer ran his fingers through Brendon's hair, pulling him closer. "Always," he assured Brendon.

Brendon nuzzled his neck affectionately, hot, alcoholic breath moving up to Spencer's lips. Spencer hesitated, shying away with a familiar mix of desire and guilt.

"Spencer," Brendon whispered in a hurt tone, pushing closer. Spencer looked back at his stepbrother, and Brendon kissed him with wet lips. The kiss wasn't erotic as it wasn't friendly, but Spencer felt Brendon smile into it. Brendon pulled back and closed his eyes as he leaned against Spencer, and Spencer could feel his lips tingle from the kiss, and he exhaled shakily. He brushed Brendon's hair with his nose, knowing he could keep Brendon safe, always. He would go to any length to keep him safe.

Spencer noticed Tom's eyes flickering on the review mirror, and at that moment, he didn't care how compromising they looked. He reached for a button on the side panel, making the black screen come in between the driver and the passengers.

These types of moments, when the shining lights of New York City were too bright for them, were moments meant for Brendon and Spencer alone.