Last First Kiss [Brallon+Completed]

1: House Of Cards

We, as humans, are like cameras. Through a variety of experiences we capture the important moments, and discard the little details. We focus on memorable times throughout our short existence, and hold them dearly in a scrapbook we can metaphorically call our life. Although not every picture we take comes out precise, but instead blurry. We discard these blurry memories, and keep them in the back of our mind.

These blurry pictures are like fuzzy TV static, or the stains in your kitchen sink from when your ex smashed their bottle of whiskey into the sink. Even worse is the constant reminder that because the picture is blurry, you'll never see what you were trying to capture in the frames of your lens. Like the sound of the fuzzy TV static, ringing in your ears minutes after you've already turned the TV itself off. Worse than the stains in your expensive LA hotel room sink from the expensive whiskey is the stench of the whiskey fogging up your room for days to come. No matter how many fans you put on, or how many doors you open, the stench lingers, reminding you of what you did wrong.

Brendon is a blurry picture. He's the fuzzy TV static buzzing in my ears. He's the whiskey stains in my sink. Worse so, he's the stench of whiskey; lingering in the air, even though he's long gone. Because I had no names, but he had plenty. Despite the names running down his wrist, revealing who he's fallen in love with, he insisted he doesn't feel emotions. He had no room to speak, since his pale wrists gave away the scars of past lovers, and mine were clean, clear, and fresh. I never focused on love before him.

I focused on poetry, and constellations. I love stars. He was an artist, and a piece of art in itself, but he didn't view himself with such kind words. He viewed himself as the summary of a book, that nobody with a life actually reads. He saw himself as the wind; everywhere, changing Earth a little every day, but not able to be seen by passersby. But he was art to me.

He was art that I took time to paint. He was art that I took time perfecting, only to land a flaming arrow through the center of the canvas. And while I could tear out the arrow, and patch the holes up, the masterpiece will never be as joyful to view as before. It'll never be the same.

I never let his words affect me, not until I fell too deep below the surface, and what was once just a dip in a pool, turned into a tsunami of pain, and loss. I sank too deep to tell which way was up, and which direction was North. I let him toss me around within his heart, like the ocean tosses a ship around on the surface of a sea, without doing anything to stop it.

But not even the intricate words I speak can express how I felt when I first lied eyes on him. No poetic metaphor can begin to touch the powerful emotion I felt in the pit of my stomach when he handed me a Pina Colada that night in Spencer's Slammer; in which my own best friend, Spencer, had dragged me down to to get me off my ass.

Brendon was the better side of me. With my sour comments towards anything beautiful, such as dew on a rose pedal, Brendon was the rose pedal. Yet he wasn't ready to accept the responsibility of being my rose pedal. Whether that was a reference to The Beauty and The Beast or not will remain unknown; I hate Disney, but he didn't.

But when I saw Brendon, I was almost sure I was the beast, while he was beauty. At the time I wasn't aware of how mixed my head was, and frankly, I wouldn't take my time with Brendon away and exchange it for anything.

Because although he'd leave me crying on my dorm floor, and lead to grades dropping quicker than my smile when he told white lies, there were too many good memories piecing together the broken memories. You can't fix bullet holes with bandaids, so he never tried to fix what he did wrong. Sadly, I played along with it.

What happened was like a case of the butterfly effect. One simple action triggered a storm, but if I were to go back in time and change it, I'd be as inexperienced as before. In this case, it was his smile. When he smiled, genuinely, his right eye squinted more than the left, and I soon learned to recognize the difference between his real smile, and his fake.

He wasn't aware of it, but I was a house of cards, and he was the pebble in the pit of my stomach. He killed two birds with one stone the day he handed me the Pina Colada. It was the cute kind, too, with the slices of pineapple holding onto the rim of the glass, and the tiny umbrella desperate for it to be summer. Maybe if I'd made him aware of how I was a house of cards, he'd been more careful with how rough he tossed me around in his heart. I was complicated to build up, but one fuck up would send me tumbling down, and all efforts would be lost.

This here is the story of how Brendon Urie pushed me past the point of no return, and how I let it happen. Call it a love story if you'd like, but it's not one of those love stories you find on the shelf of your elementary school library. No, this one is complex. It's as complex as the emotions that I'm sure flooded through Brendon when he (just as well) lay his own eyes on me, and decided I was his personal teenage dream.