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Reblog this post with the third gif in the gif search of your favorite movie

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Panic! At The Disco Vices & Virtues Aesthetic

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Show in Lawrence,3:30

I actually really like Nicole and maybe even more than Dallon…idk

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important.

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Pretty. Odd. Literature Masterlist

Table of contents:

Quotes

Themes

Poets and Authors

Appendix

Used Quotes: 

Track #3 She’s a Handsome Woman

“..Beat backbones Grazed the poem and made it strange I wasn't born to be a skeleton...”

This connects to: 

Arthur Rimbaud: A Season In Hell: Delirium I: The Foolish Virgin

"...”I am a widow... - I used to be a widow... - oh, yes, I used to be very serious in those days, I wasn't born to become a skeleton!”... “ 

On the Quote and my additions:

A Season in Hell was a self-published work, that is in a way different from Rimbaud’s previous work. It is a also a bit harder to understand, so it’s worth knowing that he was under the influence of alcohol, hashish and possibly opium. It is more visible in some chapter than other. 

The Foolish Virgin is about a girl confessing being charmed by the Infernal Bridegroom, who, as you might think does not come of as a gentleman. 

“..."I listen to him turn infamy into glory, cruelty into charm.” ...” is what she says about him.

It might be a representation of the relationship between Rimbaud and Verlaine.

Not being born to be a skeleton speaks about being born and dying and putting an emphasis on the living in between. 

 Track #7 Northern Downpour

Hey moon, please forget to fall down Hey moon, don't you go down You are at the top of my lungs Drawn to the ones who never yawn

Jack Kerouac: On the Road

“...They danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!..”

On the Quote and my additions:

The quote above is what inspired this post, and I ran into it before the tenth page. It is the most known part of the book and one of the most famous quotes of Beat prose.

I think that this quote is about appreciating strangeness the others might find unappealing, and chasing after it, even if that may cost someone ‘normally’ desirable things such as diamonds, luxury.

 It’s appreciating simpler things in life, or the experience of life and filling it with as much as you can, going after the most interesting people.

On the Road is mostly Kerouac writing about things that are at least partially real, stories that happened to him, and you could also think about Pretty. Odd like a tour journal in songs. 

  Track #15 Northern Downpour

“... We must reinvent love. Reinvent love, reinvent love...”

In connection with: 

Arthur Rimbaud:  A Season In Hell: Delirium I: The Foolish Virgin

"..."He says: "I don't love women. Love has to be reinvented, we know that. The only thing women can ultimately imagine is security. Once they get that, love, beauty, everything else goes out the window: all they have left is cold disdain, that's what marriages live on nowadays. Sometimes I see women who ought to be happy, with whom I could have found companionship, already swallowed up by brutes with as much feeling as an old log. ...”

More to be added later.

Themes:

The Sun, the Moon and the Stars:

The Sun, the Moon and the stars were almost always been a common theme in literature in literature.

To name a few examples where they are used: 

Shakespeare’s Romeo compares Juliet to all three things, but one of the most well known lines from the play is:

But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, one of the Romantics didn’t shy away from the sky symbolism either. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner is a great example. Not that it would be much of a surprise, the romantics were in a strong connection with nature. 

   All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon. 

Not that it would be much of a surprise, the romantics were in a strong connection with nature. 

 The Sun and the Moon and their contrast was also often mentioned in the works of the Symbolists. Here are a few lines from the recently mentioned Arthur Rimbaud, from the poem titled Eternity. 

It has been found again. What ? – Eternity. It is the sea fled away With the sun. 

Walt Whitman often described sunsets in several poems, one of which is titled On the Beach at Night, in which he also mentions a constellation.

Up through the darkness, While ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading, Lower sullen and fast athwart and down the sky, Amid a transparent clear belt of ether yet left in the east, Ascends large and calm the lord-star Jupiter, And nigh at hand, only a very little above, Swim the delicate sisters the Pleiades.

I think it’s worth pointing out that almost all of the quotes I choose also mention the sea. In fact, these themes frequently go hand in hand. 

But what is supposed to be the meaning of the Sun, the Moon and the Stars?

The Solar-Lunar polarity has roots in mythology and astrology, and they even appear in divination. 

 The Sun is traditionally masculine, while the Moon is it’s feminine counterpart. Most languages, such as French give them their pronouns accordingly. (This is what might explain the genders of the Sun and the Moon in When the Day Met the Night.) 

They are the two sides of a spectrum, but usually neither of them represents negative things, even though the Moon is associated with darkness and mystery. Together they symbolize total balance. 

Think about the stars as something in between, the lanterns of the night sky, often meaning hope. 

Traveling:

On poets and authors:

The Beat Generation: 

The Beat Generation was a literally movement after World War II, starting in the 1950′s. It borrows inspiration from jazz music, the works of Walt Whitman, symbolist poetry and romanticism among many things.

Some of its Key figures were Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, and  William S. Burroughs. Their most famous wokrs being Ginsberg’s Howl from  1955-1956, Kerouac ’s On the Road published in 1957 and Burroughs’ Naked Lunch that was published in 1959.

The movement's themes included, but weren’t limited to sex and sexuality, drug use, spiritualism and Buddhism.

Beat works influenced many musicians and postmodern writers. 

Look at the word Beat for a second and think about music. What those that remind you of? The Beatles? Well, in that case I have news for you. There was a relation between the two groups, a friendship, even. Among many things it led to a collaboration between Ginsberg and Paul McCartney and some interesting stories such as Allen Ginsberg hanging a hotel’s ‘Do not disturb’ sign on his private part during his birthday party just before John Lennon and George Harrison arrived. 

The two groups also mirror each other to some level in themes, the writing process and even in life style. 

You can more about the similarities and the relationship between the Beats and the Beatles here.

The Beatles influence in Pretty. Odd. is obvious, and finding a Beat quote among the lyrics isn’t shocking.

You don’t agree with the Beats, you don’t  necessarily like or understand them. they are controversial and play an important part in post-modern literature, and even music. And apparently even in Pretty Odd.

Arthur Rimbaud, Paul Verlaine and their relationship:

Appendix: 

This list is incomplete and will be added to over time. It might be expanded while you are reading. I accept all unplanned quote additions and theories. (Even ones I don’t agree with)

Sources: 

https://www.britannica.com/art/Beat-movement

http://www.beatdom.com/the-beats-and-the-beatles-two-sides-of-the-same-coin/

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Drowning In Indigo

Originally posted here

The late-autumn weather found Paris and now it’s raining, dark clouds are marching on the morning sky.

A half-empty bottle, broken pencils, white, stainless paper sheets. A thin man is shivering on the balcony, his hair in one hand, a cigarette in the other. The raindrops are ice cold and he is freezing, his thin white shirt is soaked and it's sticking to his back.

In movies every single house in Paris has a view at the Eiffel Tower, but in reality that's bullshit. He can only see clouds, busy streets with seas of umbrellas and dirty blues, not the green gardens under the bright sky they show on photographs.

Paris isn't a lie, but it has many faces and Ryan Ross can see more than tourist attractions and postcard-perfect marble towers.

He knocks on the glass door again after gracefully throwing his cigarette down, trying to get someone's attention. “Jon, let me the fuck in” He shouts, but no one answers. Fucking Jon locked him out by accident and fell asleep. Again. Ryan is going to kick his ass if he gets back in, if he doesn’t die because of pneumonia. If he does, he is going to make sure to kill Jon, so they have to bury them together.

Suddenly, his phone rings, and he glares at it for a second, brows furrowed, before picking it up with a hand, shaking because of the cold. Or tries to pick it up, but his wet finger slips on the screen and he lets out a frustrated grunt. Well, Spencer can wait, and literally no one else calls, so it's probably not a big deal.

Thankfully, his ringtone is loud enough to wake Jon up, who emerges from the house as soon as the music stops. He blinks at Ryan, confused. “What.” Ryan just grunts, and pushes past him, burying his face in his hands. “I’m going to take a shower, pick up if Spencer calls. And try to sound...Less high.” He slams the bathroom door behind himself, and stops in front of the dirty bathroom mirror, ignoring the pink sticky note beside the sink.

He takes in the sight; his wet hair sticking to his forehead, face pale as a ghost, and the remains of makeup he doesn’t even remember putting on. Maybe he wore eyeliner the night before, but he can’t really recall anything, his memories are only filled with empty papers, cherry red lips, white sheets, braided blonde hair, and bits of his usual ‘we could be in love, and it would amazing, but we are not’ speech.

And there’s the unbelievably annoying headache, another souvenir from yesterday, one of the few things that keeps the frown on his face.

It’s not that he is unhappy, no. He just needs a change. Something big, not just a change of scenery, something that will make him grab the pen again; Just thinking about it makes the room spin again.

He sighs and unbuttons his shirt, tosses it aside, then quickly pulls of the rest of his clothes, impatient to finally get in the shower. The warm water hits his skin the same way the rain did, but it’s more pleasant, it gives him a chance to relax. Then his hand grabs a shower gel subconsciously, and he doesn't pay much attention to it until the smell of roses hit him. He glances at the bottle, he doesn't remember buying it, but then- Oh, of course. Z must've left it there last week, it's not the first time something like that happens. Ryan grunts, and throws it aside, after realizing that he had been using way too much of it. He doesn't even know why, maybe he tried to wash away his guilt, but was ashamed of doing so, or maybe- He mentally scolds himself for overthinking things, this just a shower gel, and he doesn't want to smell like a girl. That's it. There's nothing else behind it.

He steps out of the shower with a sigh and wraps one of the towels around his hips. The pink piece of paper seems to glow beside the sink and Ryan dumbly blinks at it for a second before reading it. All it says is: ‘Thanks for the night. Lunch on Wednesday? -Z’ He takes it and throws it away as soon as he exits the bathroom. Jon raises an eyebrow at him, but he just shrugs, and elegantly strolls through the apartment, paying no attention to the cold air hitting his bare skin. He puts on clothes fit for home, warm, loose-fitting and would probably be useless against the the storm outside. He is not planning to spend more than a couple minutes outside anyway. And maybe if the rain is going to stay as heavy as it currently is he might consider to quit smoking.

He gets comfortable on the couch with a cup of tea and a book he already read, and is about to ask Jon to roll him a joint, when the entry phone rings, ruining his perfect, relaxed silence.

He picks it up, and says the first thing that comes to his mind “Bonjour, va t’en.” Jon chuckles behind him and Ryan sends him a dirty look. No one can blame him, he had a rough night, and writer’s block is bitch, of course he is going to be moody. He is about to hang up, when a familiar voice answers. “Croissant for you too, Ryan” And oh. Spencer. How did he even get here? And why?

Spencer lived in London, but they kept in touch. They used to be attached by the hip since they were five, they grew up together in Las Vegas, then they went to a British collage together. Spencer stayed there, but Ryan moved to Paris after he finished school.

It wasn't uncommon that they visited each other, but these visits were never unexpected.

But now, Spencer just appeared at the door, he still doesn’t speak French, and Ryan has no idea how he got there. Not that he cares, Spencer is still his best friend, Ryan would never mind him being around.

“I'll let you in, but only if you are not hiding tea in your bag.” He can almost hear Spencer roll his eyes. “It's your favourite tea, Ry. And I brought shortbread too.” “The dog shaped ones?” “Yes.” “Then please come in.”

Ryan presses the button and turns around with a grin, which quickly fades when he realizes he has no idea where he put his keys. After three minutes of running around and cursing Jon (and himself) for being disorganized Ryan manages to find what they've been looking for, under the couch.

When he finally opens the door, Spencer is already standing there, and he seems to be texting. When he notices Ryan his face brightens, and he pulls his childhood friend into a hug.

Jon waves at Spencer from behind Ryan's back, and Spencer waves back, but doesn't let go of his friend.

It’s not picturesque or poetic or anything; it’s just two friends meeting after a long time apart.

They spend the rest of the day with talking, and laughing at each other's accents. Then around midnight Spencer asks him if he remembers when they did Urbex in highschool and college, and Ryan knows where this is going.

It's about the catacombs, obviously, and thankfully Jon listens to them talk and offers Spencer a "tour", since he considers himself an expert. Ryan just rolls his eyes, because seriously, the catacombs are not that fun.

Well, at least that's what he thinks. He doesn't know what's waiting for him down there, but he is going to find out soon enough.

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Ryan Ross on Instagram

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Friend: What are you doing on your phone

Me, who is reading a really kinky gay smut: Uh, Pinterest

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Our printer doesn’t work, so I asked my friend to print out a couple things for me.

This happened.

I’ve made a mistake.

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I Would Trade This World For A Stroke Of Your Brush - Chapter One

Originally Posted Here

Urban Exploration is like owning a city without being in control of it. It’s like being the part of the city, the brain of it, the legs that carry the time forward. Watching everything get bigger and better, but choosing to ignoring it, turning to rust and finding beauty there. That’s how Brendon would describe it.

But in reality it’s mostly just running and cursing.

Because okay, Brendon expected his phone to die after taking a couple shitty photos, because visiting the old factory was an  impromptu idea, he could walk past the building when he saw it, and there were no gates or fences, and climbing through one of the windows wasn’t exactly hard either.

What he didn’t expect was to run into a really angry looking guard in a (strangely new-looking) corridor.

Turns out one of the wings was still in use, while the rest of the factory was abandoned and Brendon happened to find that wing by accident.

He really shouldn’t go into buildings without preparing.

And now he is running.

He’s thinking about how he should’ve charged his phone that morning or brought his camera with himself to work. He only took ten photos in there and most of them requires a lot of editing and they aren’t that interesting either. Well, the followers of his blog might not be thrilled.

Brendon takes a mental note to come back with actual equipment later as he jumps out the window. His feet slips on the wet grass and he lands on his butt.

Brendon thinks this definitely didn’t go according to his plan, then he realizes he didn’t have a plan in the first place, so he just stands up, acknowledges his now ruined jeans and walks away with a shrug.  

He comes back the next day at night and stays until the sun comes up. He finds a ladder to the rooftop around four AM, the old, rusty metal cuts his hand, but he climbs up anyway.

He pulls a beer out of his backpack and sits at the edge of the roof, his legs dangling. The night is dotted with white lights, flickering neons and small lives, the city is breathing by itself, moving like a wave, dragging down the bored youth, drowning them in parties and glitter. Then he watches the scenery turn into something different, something grey, and tired, and apathetic. He imagines men and women waking up early, putting on their suits, their dress, their uniform and starting to work, for their money, for their boring life.

The city is a hive.

But Brendon isn’t part of it. And he wouldn’t change this world of rust and adrenaline to anything, he doesn’t want to live a life without exploring -it’s part of him-

He takes a picture of the early sunlight shining through the green glass bottle.

It becomes the header image of his blog the next week and everyone loves it.

He doesn’t. It’s a great picture, sure, but after a while it makes him feel as empty as the bottle itself, the city became as boring as the people in it, it’s not bright and exciting anymore, no, it’s just hollow.

He needs a change.

He moves to Salt Lake City in May.

Okay, so squatting is either the best or the worst thing he ever tried.

Sleeping in abandoned building is even more terrible than what he expected, but it makes him feel like a struggling, starving artist, and that’s really cool, his notebook is filled with new lyrics and he feels as creative as ever. And Thompson Springs is definitely worth exploring, ghost towns are always worth it.

Sure, there are a few really weird people living there, but they rarely come out and never bother the explorers.

So naturally when Brendon walks into an old café, he doesn’t expect to find a man in the corner, drawing, his feet on the table, a wooden drawing pad in his lap. He is actually kinda cute and if Brendon ignores the red pastel crayon on his cheeks he doesn’t look like a murderer at all. He squints at his paper, then looks out the huge dirty window. He doesn’t notice the younger man, so Brendon just shrugs, sits down in front of him and pulls out a Pop Tart from his bag and starts eating it, wondering if the strange artist will notice him. After a couple seconds the man glances at the window again and catches a glimpse of Brendon’s reflection. He lays his drawing on the dirty table, puts his feet on the ground and raises a questioning eyebrow at the eating boy in front of him.

“Sorry, I didn’t notice you there.”

Brendon just smiles in return, waves, his mouth still full.

“Do you- Do you live here? I mean in this town. I know I shouldn’t be here, but you know-” Brendon finally shallows and cuts him off.

“No, not really. I mean technically I’ve been living here for three days, but I guess that doesn’t count either. I understand you, by the way, places likes this are...inspiring.” He flashes a perfect, white grin. The stranger huffs and raises his other eyebrow. Brendon is not sure if he’s surprised, amused, or simply interested.

“Are you homeless? You don’t look like you are.”

And really, at this point Brendon wants to laugh, but he can’t, it’s just not funny anymore.

“Nah, I have an apartment in Salt Lake City, I’m doing urbex and I wanted to try squatting , but I gave up at the first night, I’ve been sleeping in my car since. I’ve been eating cold Pop Tarts, granola bars and cereal for days, I”m out of clean underwear, I want a shower and the whole thing sucks.”

“Then why are you still here?”

A faint smile is tugging at his lips, and looks really close to losing it and laughing at Brendon. Pastel boy is playing a dangerous game and he doesn’t even know it.

“I have no fucking idea, dude. I-” The stranger chuckles, but Brendon continues anyway “I...write. Lyrics. Songs. I wanted to be a musician, but it never worked out. It’s easier to write, to think in the middle of nowhere” He is drumming with his fingers on his knee. They awkwardly stare at eachother for a while, and okay, maybe Brendon gets lost in Pastel boy’s blue-gray eyes. They remind him of the dirty city sky in the afternoon. He decides he likes them.

“Want a Pop Tart?”

“Sure.” Brendon pulls out a half-empty box of blueberry Pop Tarts and hands it to the other man.

“So, uh, can I see what you are drawing?”

“It depends” The stranger says as he bites into the pastry. Brendon looks at him questioningly, they chew for a couple seconds before he gets an answer.

“It depends on if I can see your lyrics.”

And okay, that’s not what Brendon expected, but he fishes out his notebook and slides it to Pastel boy, who in exchange hands him a slightly heavy folder probably full of drawings.

Most of them are sketches of streets, buildings or bridges, but there are portraits, unfinished comic strips, colorful still lives and studies of hands and noses and ears. The colors are amazing, and Brendon is fascinated. It’s like getting lost in a swirls of rainbows and rainy mornings and decaying buildings.  It’s pretty and grotesque and new and exciting.

“Wow.” Pastel boy says from the other side of the table. Brendon smirks and mutters a “Same” but when he looks up the man is not looking at his lyrics, no, he is staring at him and Brendon has to look away and his eyes find the pastel drawing on the table and it’s a montage of streets in Thompson Springs and it’s unfinished, and the colors make no sense and the whole thing looks like someone spilled paint and coffee over it, but it’s beautiful. It’s simply beautiful.  When he looks up again he feels his cheeks heat up, it’s embarrassing and weird, because they met in the middle of nowhere, but he wants to know more about Pastel boy.  He tries to play it cool and tries to make the whole thing a bit more normal by introducing himself.

“I’m Brendon. Brendon Urie.” He jumps to his feet so fast he nearly knocks over the table. Pastel boy stands up, (That’s when Brendon notices how tall he is) and shakes his bandaged hand. It hurts, but it doesn’t matter.

“I’m Dallon Weekes”

“Cool, nice to meet you, but I guess we are already over that. So. Wanna take this conversation to a café that’s actually open?”

Dallon furrows his eyebrows and Brendon can see he’s thinking. If he says no Brendon is going to die right where he is standing.

“Sure. How about next Tuesday at nine at the Starbucks near Sugar House? You mentioned you live in Salt Lake City I was thinking if-”

“Cool, yes, let’s do it.”

And that’s when Brendon realizes he is still gripping and shaking Dallon’s hand it’s getting awkward. Maybe he should just go home and sleep, all those hours spent awake are not doing good for him.

He doesn’t let go for a while, just stares at their hands.

Dallon starts laughing when Brendon blushes, and okay, now it really is awkward.  

“You are a really interesting person Brendon. I hope to see you again.” Pastel boy says as he starts packing his things. Brendon can’t help but beam at him.

Dallon waves at him as he exist and watches the tall man in the dark clothes disappear at the end of the street.

Well...Tuesday is going to be something different.

When Dallon went to Thompson Springs he didn’t expect to be asked out by a random and apparently really hot stranger.

It was weirder than anything his mind ever conjured up, so when Brendon doesn’t show up on Tuesday he is not surprised.

He’s been waiting for him in Starbucks for thirty minutes now and Brendon is nowhere to be found, and Dallon is not sure how he feels about it. Because really, what did he expect from a man who met him in an abandoned town and is way out of his league? Seriously, Brendon looks like a blessing on two legs.

So he just sits there, sketching something on the napkin in front of him and thinks about ordering a coffee for himself when someone gently touches his shoulder. When he turns he finds himself face-to-face with chocolate brown eyes and a wide, warm smile.

Brendon’s still has the bandage on his hand, and now there is a fresh red scar on his left cheek and a disgusting white cast on his wrist.

“Did I mention I also free-run?”

And Dallon can't  help but laugh, because he doesn’t even know Brendon, but he is pretty sure Urie means ‘dork’ in at least ten foreign languages.

Brendon orders two lattes for himself and before Dallon could ask, he explains that he spent most of the night at the hospital, waiting for a doctor who takes care of his broken wrist, and he was late because he overslept. The amount of sugar he puts in the cups should be enough to cause diabetes, but Brendon still says his coffee is bitter.

“Or maybe you're just too sweet for it”

Dallon says while sipping his own cappuccino.

Brendon doesn't blush, just grins at Dallon who takes that as a compliment.

And really, Brendon is just as strange, talkative and forward as the first time they met, he talks for both of them and he is so happy about discussing as unimportant things as the weather like he haven't talked to anyone in ten years.

They joke around for a while, Brendon shows his best Gollum impression and Dallon shows off his most inappropriate jokes, then pretends he didn't say anything and they didn't laugh. It's fun, until the barista kindly asks them to leave, and when Dallon glances at his watch he sees it's already half past two.

“I was thinking about buying some pencils and crayons and I'm pretty much out of the big canvas, and maybe if you come with me I can buy you lunch”

Brendon's eyes are shining brighter than the sun.

“Or maybe you could buy some sharpies instead and decorate this ugly ass cast.” He suggests.

They end up in a small restaurant a couple hours later, waiting for their food.

The colorful sharpies are scattered on the table and Dallon is concentrating as he draws flowers on the cast that match the tattoos on Brendon’s left arm.  

Brendon is on the point where he doesn’t know what’s prettier: The flowers or the man creating them. He should probably snap out of it, he’s not even sure if Dallon thinks this is actually a date. Well, he probably does, since they’ve been flirting for the past couple hours, but still, Brendon shouldn’t be allowed to stare at him with puppy eyes or imagine him naked.

Not like Brendon cares about what he’s not allowed to do…

Dallon draws a last line and lightly touches Brendon’s arm above the cast. His fingers are cold and soft and it sends a shiver down Brendon’s spine. He licks his lips unintentionally, and he is aware of the blue eyes following his every movement, and after a long second that feels like hours he looks up and smirks. The waitress breaks the the tension between them.

They eat in silence for a while, then Brendon pipes up.

“One of the things I miss from Chicago is the pizza. It’s not not just a myth, the dough it totally better there, trust me”

“So you are from Chicago then?”

Dallon immediately regrets the question when the younger man’s smile fades for the first time that day.

“Last week when you asked me if I was homeless… I am, in a sense.” He laughs bitterly. “I mean I have an apartment, I pay for the rent and everything. But nothing feels like home. I lived in twelve different states in the past three years, and I just get bored, there is no place that makes me want to stay.” And okay, maybe he shouldn’t have said that, because Pastel boy actually looks sad and maybe there is pity in his eyes too and Brendon wants to fix it, even if he barely knows the man, and he shouldn’t give him false hope.

“But I guess I’ll stick around for a little longer this time” He says and even fakes a smile, and he expects Dallon to say something funny or reassuring, but he doesn’t expect a kiss.

And okay, this is way better than anything he could’ve said. And Dallon tastes like strong coffee, maple sirup and well… pepperoni, but he doesn’t care and kisses back right before the older man pulls away.

When they part, and they are both blushing, their eyes shining, lips swollen. Someone clears his throat behind them, but they can’t hear it, because nothing exists in that moment.

Dallon lazily blinks at Brendon and buries his face in his hands.

“I’m sorry, I’ve never done this, don’t think I run around, kissing strangers all the time.”

Brendon finds the whole situation comical and strange at the same time. It’s least as amazing as Dallon himself.

“Dude” He laughs “Dude, you don’t sound like you are sorry.”

“Okay, I take that part back”

They smirk silently at each other, the air still feel heavy and their skin still craves the touch.

“Do you want to see my atelier tomorrow? We could continue whatever this was.”

“Fuck yeah.”

“Meet me here at eleven, then.” He waves over the waiter, but he doesn’t look away for a second. He reaches for Brendon’s hand again and grabs one of the sharpies and scribbles his phone number on the cast.

“A final touch before I leave.”

And that’s the moment when Brendon decides, that maybe he doesn’t have to lie about sticking around.