Categories > Celebrities > Panic! At The Disco > You're Cloaked In Red, I'm Drenched In Blue
It’s finally morning.
He’s safe.
Brendon hears the door crack open, squeaking loudly at the hinges. His butler, Norton, walks in stiffly. He wheels in a silver cart, so old it looks medieval. On it, a small china teapot, some cream and sugar bowls, and some dainty teacups lined with bland silver and grey swirls. A matching set.
Brendon wonders what the delicate china glass would look like shattered against the wall, smashed into pieces. He wonders if the hot liquid from the pot would splash against the ancient flowery wallpaper, staining it and melting it off, dripping dirty brown droplets.
Norton gives him an apprehensive glance. “Young master? Your tea...”
Of course he would be looking at him weirdly. Since to others, Brendon is more than off his rocker. Anyone who could glare so intensely at a tray that carried nothing but morning breakfast that it might as well have been his most hated enemy had to be a little out of his mind.
Hiding his little bear under his covers, Brendon tears his eyes away from the tray. They’re so cold and distant. Big black half-moons that only get bigger each passing day line them from underneath.
He doesn’t look at Norton. Avoiding eye contact is a thing he’s managed to do a lot these past weeks.
He absently pets the bear with his chilled fingers.
Norton waits for the reaction. It will go either way. One, Brendon will blow up at him, angry and almost frightfully violent. Or he will be perfectly hostile. He certainly hopes it’s the latter, but that doesn’t seem too promising at the moment. These past days his master had been jumping from one mood to the next without warning. Still, Norton doesn’t feel the need to be overly friendly; he's only here to serve, after all. He doesn’t really have a care for the boy to be honest, no matter how tragic his past.
“I don’t want it.” Brendon snaps, eyes still menacing and refusing to meet his butler’s. “Just leave it here.”
‘Spoiled brat! Doesn’t even say thank you. I’m not going to spoon feed it to him like a damn baby! I might as well have warmed up some milk in a bottle and poured it down his fucking throat!’ Norton scowls in his mind. He keeps his features polite as he exits, however, and feels great satisfaction with his new thoughts. Most of them including how to defile Brendon’s
next meal.
-
Lunch is no different, really.
Brendon doesn’t touch anything on his plate. Not the slightly disturbing fruity coloured juice that sits at the edge of the tray. Not the once steaming bowl of vegetable soup that now lays cold and unappetizing in the dish, the peas and carrots turn soggy. Not even the double chocolate cake that Brendon had once adored, because he used to get it every day.
The cook even used to put smiley faces in the icing to make him laugh. The days when he could actually talk to people without biting their heads off or frightening them half to death with his antics, his frights. Now the cook won’t even look him in the eyes for more than a couple of seconds before hastily looking away and making up a poorly thought up excuse about getting back to the stove to finish the cherry pie.
Brendon isn’t stupid.
He knows that nobody wants to be around him. They treat him like he’s a bomb waiting to go off, that just by talking to him for more than a minute that he’ll blow up on them. Unleash his bitter mood and frosted atmosphere onto them. They think his mood swings are contagious.
So, he spends his time avoiding people, holed up in his room, only leaving to go to the rest room and shower. Sometimes he’ll have the place to himself, where he can just lounge around the mansion without having to worry about anyone coming and seeing him, but somehow, the fact that he’s completely by himself doesn’t make him feel any better. And Sonnet, his ever loving stuffed animal, is his only company.
But Brendon is tired of talking to something that won’t ever answer back.
-
“He has to eat something.” the cook says worriedly, “He’ll give in eventually. Just don’t talk to him, he might get upset.”
The housing staff all nod, each looking rather worn and weary. Obviously, this isn't the first time something like this has come up.
The maids complain that they don't want to go and clean the bedroom whilst Brendon is in it, and want to wait until he goes somewhere else to do their job. But it seems that he never leaves his bedroom anyway, so they are left with no work to do.
The butler is in a foul mood, and snarls at them all as they try to figure out what's wrong. It's getting so bad that people are starting to back away from him as well. Apparently he can’t take it, the gardener overheard him muttering to himself earlier, saying “I can’t take care of that fucking brat anymore. I swear...”
The maids agree. Their voices are nasty. Together they gossip, as they lazily watch the staff meeting. They aren’t paying attention to the cook anymore, and instead are starting their own conversation. And, it isn’t a very polite conversation either. They talk about what a spoiled child Brendon was, and how they can't take another tantrum. Like he's a mere child they have to take care of. They speak like they are going to quit soon and find a real house to clean.
The cook just sighs, exasperated, and walks back to the kitchen. She's muttering. She's probably worried that the duck is going to burn.
Little does everyone know, Brendon watches them the entire time. He listens quietly as they all insult him. He sits on top of the stairs, barefoot. Still in his pyjamas, with Sonnet clutched to his chest. He looks down at the bear, eyes no longer menacing. Instead, they flood with big, sparkling tears. He swallows loudly, and blinks rapidly. His throat hurts, and he has to contain a gasp. It feels as if someone has just punched him in the gut.
He finally realizes. He really doesn’t have anyone that cares about him anymore.
He’s safe.
Brendon hears the door crack open, squeaking loudly at the hinges. His butler, Norton, walks in stiffly. He wheels in a silver cart, so old it looks medieval. On it, a small china teapot, some cream and sugar bowls, and some dainty teacups lined with bland silver and grey swirls. A matching set.
Brendon wonders what the delicate china glass would look like shattered against the wall, smashed into pieces. He wonders if the hot liquid from the pot would splash against the ancient flowery wallpaper, staining it and melting it off, dripping dirty brown droplets.
Norton gives him an apprehensive glance. “Young master? Your tea...”
Of course he would be looking at him weirdly. Since to others, Brendon is more than off his rocker. Anyone who could glare so intensely at a tray that carried nothing but morning breakfast that it might as well have been his most hated enemy had to be a little out of his mind.
Hiding his little bear under his covers, Brendon tears his eyes away from the tray. They’re so cold and distant. Big black half-moons that only get bigger each passing day line them from underneath.
He doesn’t look at Norton. Avoiding eye contact is a thing he’s managed to do a lot these past weeks.
He absently pets the bear with his chilled fingers.
Norton waits for the reaction. It will go either way. One, Brendon will blow up at him, angry and almost frightfully violent. Or he will be perfectly hostile. He certainly hopes it’s the latter, but that doesn’t seem too promising at the moment. These past days his master had been jumping from one mood to the next without warning. Still, Norton doesn’t feel the need to be overly friendly; he's only here to serve, after all. He doesn’t really have a care for the boy to be honest, no matter how tragic his past.
“I don’t want it.” Brendon snaps, eyes still menacing and refusing to meet his butler’s. “Just leave it here.”
‘Spoiled brat! Doesn’t even say thank you. I’m not going to spoon feed it to him like a damn baby! I might as well have warmed up some milk in a bottle and poured it down his fucking throat!’ Norton scowls in his mind. He keeps his features polite as he exits, however, and feels great satisfaction with his new thoughts. Most of them including how to defile Brendon’s
next meal.
-
Lunch is no different, really.
Brendon doesn’t touch anything on his plate. Not the slightly disturbing fruity coloured juice that sits at the edge of the tray. Not the once steaming bowl of vegetable soup that now lays cold and unappetizing in the dish, the peas and carrots turn soggy. Not even the double chocolate cake that Brendon had once adored, because he used to get it every day.
The cook even used to put smiley faces in the icing to make him laugh. The days when he could actually talk to people without biting their heads off or frightening them half to death with his antics, his frights. Now the cook won’t even look him in the eyes for more than a couple of seconds before hastily looking away and making up a poorly thought up excuse about getting back to the stove to finish the cherry pie.
Brendon isn’t stupid.
He knows that nobody wants to be around him. They treat him like he’s a bomb waiting to go off, that just by talking to him for more than a minute that he’ll blow up on them. Unleash his bitter mood and frosted atmosphere onto them. They think his mood swings are contagious.
So, he spends his time avoiding people, holed up in his room, only leaving to go to the rest room and shower. Sometimes he’ll have the place to himself, where he can just lounge around the mansion without having to worry about anyone coming and seeing him, but somehow, the fact that he’s completely by himself doesn’t make him feel any better. And Sonnet, his ever loving stuffed animal, is his only company.
But Brendon is tired of talking to something that won’t ever answer back.
-
“He has to eat something.” the cook says worriedly, “He’ll give in eventually. Just don’t talk to him, he might get upset.”
The housing staff all nod, each looking rather worn and weary. Obviously, this isn't the first time something like this has come up.
The maids complain that they don't want to go and clean the bedroom whilst Brendon is in it, and want to wait until he goes somewhere else to do their job. But it seems that he never leaves his bedroom anyway, so they are left with no work to do.
The butler is in a foul mood, and snarls at them all as they try to figure out what's wrong. It's getting so bad that people are starting to back away from him as well. Apparently he can’t take it, the gardener overheard him muttering to himself earlier, saying “I can’t take care of that fucking brat anymore. I swear...”
The maids agree. Their voices are nasty. Together they gossip, as they lazily watch the staff meeting. They aren’t paying attention to the cook anymore, and instead are starting their own conversation. And, it isn’t a very polite conversation either. They talk about what a spoiled child Brendon was, and how they can't take another tantrum. Like he's a mere child they have to take care of. They speak like they are going to quit soon and find a real house to clean.
The cook just sighs, exasperated, and walks back to the kitchen. She's muttering. She's probably worried that the duck is going to burn.
Little does everyone know, Brendon watches them the entire time. He listens quietly as they all insult him. He sits on top of the stairs, barefoot. Still in his pyjamas, with Sonnet clutched to his chest. He looks down at the bear, eyes no longer menacing. Instead, they flood with big, sparkling tears. He swallows loudly, and blinks rapidly. His throat hurts, and he has to contain a gasp. It feels as if someone has just punched him in the gut.
He finally realizes. He really doesn’t have anyone that cares about him anymore.
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