kalpurna

So last night I went to the Empires record release show even though I wasn't that interested in them and ha ha um here's some fic.

I wish I was kidding.

Tom Conrad/Sean Van Vleet, ~1800 words, PG-13, unbetaed.

Open Up Your Eyes



Tom knows he shouldn't stalk the Empires Livejournal community as hard as he does, but he can't resist it. He loves hearing what people think of them, of what they're doing, and he loves the voices of each different human being who's heard something in his music that touched them. It's cheesy, but sometimes you have to embrace the cheese for all it's worth. And thus the stalking.

But knowing it's his own fault for looking doesn't stop Tom from seething a little when he sees that someone's posted a link with the caption "Sean slutting it up as always." What the fuck is that? Tom's never even seen Sean hitting on a girl very hard, for fuck's sake. People on the internet, Jesus. His friends' sexual habits aren't up for discussion, especially when they're as blameless as Sean Van fucking Vleet, especially on his own band's community.

He clicks the link anyway. Of course.

Surprisingly, it's just a youtube video of Sean singing. Huh, he thinks, and almost closes the tab before he realizes that he's never watched Sean sing on stage from this angle. How could he? He's always off to the side catching glimpses of Sean's ear, there's no way for him to see what an audience member sees. This is actually a pretty cool opportunity, he thinks, and that's when the camera refocuses.

Sean's got his lips actually brushing the microphone. You'd think it would cause some kind of sound problem, but the sound is phenomenal, Sean's voice coming through his tinny speakers like a carillon. His body is curled against the microphone stand, the smooth metal brushing against his sweaty shirt and pressed firmly against his - Jesus, Tom thinks, and suddenly sees what the girl with the link had meant. It would be obscene even without the look of rapture on his face.

Sean licks his lips quickly between words and Tom can't quite tell if his tongue missed the mic or not. He's leaning forward to try and see better when the video ends and he's left blinking at a freezeframe.

Okay, he thinks, wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans. Okay. That was. Interesting.



At practice the next day, he can't seem to stop looking at Sean, and maybe that's what makes him notice how attentive Al is for the first time - their eyes keep meeting looking at the same person. It's a little weird, Tom thinks. Al's a good friend of his, but it's a little weird the way he can't seem to take his eyes of Sean. That can't be comfortable for Sean, can it? It's weird, it's like - he doesn't think "like a middle-schooler with a crush" but he doesn't finish the thought either.

He kicks at his pedals a little and catches Max's frown out of the corner of his eye. Max doesn't like it when people disrespect their equipment. Sometimes Max can be kind of self-righteous, Tom decides, and goes outside for some air.

He makes it all the way through two thirds of practice before he says something, which he's pretty proud of, because he's not always good at holding his tongue.

"Does Sean have something on his face?" he asks, more snidely than he means to. Everyone blinks around for a moment before they realize he's directing the question at Al, who gives him a look of confusion so profound that Tom's embarrassed and has to look at his feet. "You're just - whatever, it's nothing, keep playing."

They do, but no one stops looking at him like he's a freak, and Sean wipes at his face self-consciously with a sleeve which makes Tom feel like a giant dick. Which he is. So that works out.

It's a relief when practice is over, and he can't remember the last time he thought that.



By the time the weekend comes, Tom's decided that there's some kind of electromagnet inside Sean Van Vleet that a malevolent spirit has decided to turn up to full strength. A spirit who, you know, likes science. Whatever. It explains the way he can't take his eyes off him, and even more than that, it explains why Ryan cannot keep his goddamn grabby hands off the poor guy for two seconds at a time. At one point he comes around a corner to find Ryan actually hanging off Sean's shoulders like a monkey.

Besides constantly feeling like an iron filing, Tom also has to deal with constantly feeling like a fucking tool, because when he's the only one who sees something wrong with everyone's behavior towards Sean, he's man enough to admit that he might be the problem. Al actually approaches him and explains haltingly that he likes to be able to watch Sean for cues, and he didn't want to "step on any toes, or, um, I don't know. I mean." Tom shrugs a lot and fiddles with his camera until Al goes away. He doesn't know what the fuck is wrong with him these days.

Man up, he tells himself. Stop acting like a toddler with a toy. Just because he's your friend, that doesn't mean no one else gets to touch him. Also, what the fuck?

Ryan drapes himself across Sean like a throw rug and Tom goes outside to smoke his fourth cigarette.



The last straw is when he snaps at Max, because oh my God, it's Max. What the fuck is he going to do? Beam rays of genius at Sean? When you are threatened by Max, Tom tells himself, you have a problem, and you need to seek help. He gets out his cell phone and calls Jon Walker.

"Hey, Jon," he says, when Jon picks up, warmth flooding him at the comforting sound of the smile in Jon's answer.

"Tomrad! What's up, my man? The new band still treating you like gold, I hope?"

"Yeah, they're great," Tom says, hunching over a little. "Um... I'm not treating them so well. Actually."

"Okay," Jon says, understandingly. Jon Jacob Walker could be understanding at a psychopath with a clown suit on.

"I think I shouldn't have watched this video," he mumbled.

"Okay," Jon says, again. "What video?"

After Tom's explanation, Jon hums thoughtfully into the phone, but doesn't offer any words of wisdom. "Have you talked to Sean?" he asks.

"Not so much, no."

"Do you know what you need to talk to Sean about?" Jon prompts. Tom shakes his head and then remembers that Jon can't see him.

"Not really?"

"Um, okay, I think you need to work on that first." Jon sounds like he's laughing behind his hand. Jon has been hanging out with bad influences, Tom thinks darkly. If Ryan Ross is on speakerphone Tom is seriously going to fuck some shit up.

Ryan Ross chooses this moment to chime in. "Tom!"

"Yes?" he asks, fumbling for his sunglasses. He feels like he can handle this conversation better with sunglasses on.

"It's awesome to hear from you! It's been too long, dude, we missed you!" Brendon Urie adds, with totally inappropriate levels of excitement. Oh my God, these kids are so weird.

"Yeah, um," he says, and is interrupted again.

"You need to get your head out of your ass." It's Spencer this time. His voice is not unkind.

To Tom's eternal gratitude, the charms of group therapy with Panic at the Disco are cut short at that moment by the entrance of Sean Van Vleet himself, live and in person.

"Why are you wearing sunglasses?" Sean asks.

"Long story," says Tom.



The thing is that Tom's not an idiot. He knows that the whole situation is about him being attracted to Sean, and about him not knowing that for a while. But he's been attracted to plenty of people, and his whole band is, not to put too fine a point on it, fucking gorgeous. His last band wasn't shabby either. It's not the attraction that's the problem, it's something else, and if he doesn't figure out what... well.

He's still working on it when their next show rolls around.

The opening bands are great, the venue small, and the crowd pumped. Everything is smooth as a dream, not one fucked-up-chord among them. Tom falls to his knees at a crescendo, closing his eyes to lose himself in the guitar, and then he opens them and looks out at the crowd.

There are four or five girls at barrier who are staring at Sean with - literally - open mouths and glazed eyes. And now that he's seen it from the front, now that he's seen that stupid fucking goddamn video, he knows what it is that they're looking at.

He completely fucks up the guitar line. It's bad enough that even Sean glances back at him, and Tom picks himself up in one motion, turning his back on the rest of the band while he gets himself back together.

He plays the rest of the show like a machine, waiting grimly for the applause to die down so that he can catch Sean's eye and nod backstage. Sean hesitates, looking out at the kids that want to meet the band, but he nods and follows after tossing the setlist out at the crowd. Tom finds a corner out of the way and turns around.

"What's up?" asks Sean, crossing his arms. His face is sweaty, and his hair is pushed out of his face in a way that makes him look like a nineties boybander.

"Sleep with me," Tom blurts out and then actually claps his hand to his mouth like a fucking cartoon character. Sean looks like he's been hit with an Acme anvil.

"You - what the fuck? Wait. What?"

"Don't sleep with other people," Tom says, words spilling from his mouth without his permission. "Don't sleep with other people. Sleep with me."

"I - okay," says Sean, face still shocked.

"I meant, I mean - wait, okay?"

"Okay," Sean repeats, more firmly. "Give me an hour with the fans. I'll meet you at your car." He's already backing away.

"My car?" Tom asks stupidly.

"An hour," Sean says.



Light is at always its best in the morning, clear and soft and gentle. Watching it steal across the curves of Sean's shoulder and eyelashes, Tom feels a bizarre combination of aesthetic artist's appreciation and sheer caveman possessiveness.

"Hey," Sean murmurs, not opening his eyes, and quirks the corner of his mouth up minutely.

"Hey," Tom whispers back. Sean stretches and Tom can't help leaning over to kiss his arm. "Hey. Don't do this with other people."

"You are so fucking creepy," Sean huffs sleepily.

He's learning to accept that.