Ryan Ross awoke the following day with a large grin plastered across his face.  It had taken the best part of an hour and much frantic shower-based masturbation to eradicate the monster erection he was left with after playing with Brendon but Ryan was glad he had managed to contain himself.  Denial was an important part of the process and this was one process Ryan was determined to see through to the end.

He rolled on to his side and stared at the wall where eight hours previously his cock-sure band mate had stood, arms bound behind him in leather, grinding like a whore and moaning like a bitch.  God I’m good thought Ryan Ross.

His eyes perused the floor and fell upon Brendon’s white shirt which lay in a crumpled heap exactly where it had been discarded the night before.  Messy puppy, mused Ryan, and went back to sleep.

* * * *

Some hours later he was woken by the sound of cars and realised sluggishly that the bus was on the move.  Brendon would usually have skipped into his room before now, excitable as a child at the thought of moving to a new city and keen for Ryan to help him plot their route on his map (Geography, amongst many other academic subjects, was not Brendon’s strong point).  A flash of concern crossed Ryan’s face.  In the cold light of day, without the post-show high and the lazy intoxication of the weed could Brendon handle it?  Could Brendon’s ego handle it?  Shit, I should probably go check on him.

* * * *

A few minutes later Ryan had pulled on a blue T-shirt and some jeans and made his way out of his bunk into the lounge area of the bus, where the guys tended to congregate for their downtime.  It was an unwritten rule, which all except Brendon adhered to, that if one of the guys was in their bunk then they probably wanted to be on their own.  Ryan was surprised then to find the lounge a hive of activity.  Their keyboard player Eric was engaged in an intense game of Buckeroo with Jon and one of the security guys, while their tour manager chatted loudly on the phone about riders and billing and other shit that Ryan didn’t care about.  In front of the TV Spencer stood rigid, his mouth contorted into a look of obsessive concentration as he stared at Guitar Hero and tried to keep up.  And there on his knees, plastic guitar clutched in his hands, dorky glasses perched on his nose was Brendon Urie.

“Yes!  Ha!  Take that mother fucker!”  Yelped Brendon all of a sudden, as the song came to an end and the scores were revealed.

Yeah.  He seems fine.

“Fuck!”  Scoffed Spencer.  “Best of three?”

“Well if it isn’t Ryan Ross!”  Came Jon’s voice upon noticing his friend standing in the doorway.  Brendon’s neck whipped round and his eyes met Ryan’s with a look of terror, before his mouth broke into an enormous grin and he jumped to his feet.

“Ryaaaaan!”  He squealed, with more than the usual enthusiasm.  “Wanna play me?  Spencer sucks.”

“Fuck you, Urie.”

“No thanks Bren,” Ryan answered calmly “I wouldn’t want to humiliate you.” 

Brendon’s face flushed immediately scarlet and he turned away before the others could notice.

“Buckeroo?”  Said Ryan moving to the couch.  “Now there’s a man’s game.”

* * * *

Their arrival at the next venue meant the usual chaos with everyone’s energies focused on a mutual goal.  Brendon ordered the other guys around and charmed the caterers while Ryan tuned his guitars and tried to keep his nerves under control.  By sound check Brendon had consumed three cans of Red Bull and was strutting around seeing how many expletives he could work into Ryan’s lyrics and by showtime the singer was fully immersed in his onstage persona. 

“Break a leg, Ryro.”  He smirked as Ryan passed him on the way to the stage, and he smacked the guitarist lightly on the bottom.  Business as usual then, thought Ryan.

* * * *

“Anyone would think you were trying to provoke me.”  Ryan said into Brendon’s ear as they left the stage.  Certainly Brendon had redefined the meaning of the words ‘slightly camp’ when he had fallen on his knees mid song and gesticulated wildly at Ryan’s crotch. 

“Now why would I do a thing like that?”  Brendon answered, flinging a sweaty arm over his band mate’s shoulder.

“Because you’re a whore, Brendon.”  Came the response and Brendon’s insides leapt as Ryan cast the arm off and strode away to the dressing room. 

* * * *

Usually by the time Brendon got out of the shower the dressing room was deserted and he was able to moisturise in peace and strike poses in the mirror to his heart’s content.  This time, though, something was a little different.  On the table in front of the mirror was a pile of neatly folded clothes with a small package on top and an envelope.

My Dearest Darling Slut

Read the familiar girlie handwriting on the outside of the envelope.  Brendon felt his cock twitch instantly against the towel that was tied around his waist and caught sight of the goofy lop-sided grin that the words had evoked in the mirror.  Jesus fuck Urie, get it together!

He took a seat in front of the neat stack of items and picked up the envelope, slitting it open with trembling fingers.  Inside a neatly folded piece of paper torn from Ryan’s notebook:

I can only assume that your little stunt on stage tonight was an invitation for more of the same.  You’re a greedy boy aren’t you? 

I picked out some clothes.  Put them on.  Then open the package and put that on too.  There aren’t any shoes.  I want you to walk across the grass to the bus in your bare feet.  There’s dew on the ground already and I want you to feel it between your toes. 

Brendon rubbed his hands across his face and then read the letter twice more.  Dress first, then open the package.  Dress first then open the package.

Ten seconds later the brown paper that had been wrapped so carefully lay in tatters on the dressing room floor and a still towel-wrapped Brendon, was turning a black leather dog collar around in his hands, a pale pink flush rising in his cheeks.  A silver tag in the shape of a heart hung from a D-ring on the front of the collar and read:

Hi my name is

BRENDON

If you find me please call my owner

And on the reverse: Ryan Ross’ mobile number.  That fuck.

* * * *

Brendon shivered as his feet turned numb.  No kidding there was already dew on the ground.  And it was fucking freezing.  Brendon felt like a prize pony as he trekked across the grass to where the bus was parked.  The shirt Ryan had picked out for him was baby pink, crazy tight and didn’t quite cover his belly button.  The jeans were his favourites and he had been quietly impressed that Ryan had chosen them.  Boy’s got taste.  There had been no underwear at all included in Ryan’s little care package and Brendon was reluctant to put the sweaty tight briefs he’d worn for the show back on so he had zipped up his jeans with extra care and prayed to all things holy that they didn’t ride too low.  Finally Brendon had stood in front of the mirror and carefully buckled the leather collar around his throat, adjusting the silver heart to face the right way.  Even on the loosest setting the collar was restrictive and Brendon tugged nervously at it, trying to make it sit in a more comfortable position.

He glanced nervously from left to right as he approached the bus.  If he bumped into someone he wasn’t sure he’d be able to explain the collar away, especially if that particular someone decided to read what was written on the tag.  It suddenly occurred to Brendon that Ryan might not be alone on the bus.  What if he was sitting in the lounge area, surrounded by guys from the tour, and this turned out to be part of some cruel joke?  No.  Ryan Ross wouldn’t do that.  Mind you until yesterday he couldn’t imagine Ryan Ross wrapping a leather belt around his wrists either but hey, things change.

In a rare moment of clarity Brendon suddenly realised that this was a test.  He had two choices:  Climb aboard the bus, face his doubts and find out the answer to the myriad of questions that had plagued him since the events of yesterday.  Or turn around, unbuckle the collar and discard it in the nearest waste bin; head back to the dressing room, find something, anything else, to wear and try to find a way to resume the simple friendship that the two boys once shared.  He’s making me choose. 

Brendon’s hand closed on the handle of the bus door and pulled it open.  Silence.  A good start.  He climbed the steps into the darkness of the lounge area and groped his way towards the bunks.  Please be alone, please be alone, please be alone.