You Clicked Your Heels And Wished For Me
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Hamilton, P!ATD
Ships: John Laurens/Brendon Urie
Warnings: Fan/Idol, age gap, implied sex, homophobic henry laurens, crack
Jack, I love you but your Panic at the disco obsession is getting out of hand. I don’t know if I can keep doing this. I think we need a break.
John scoffs and lets his gaze rise over the top of the paper, glaring daggers at his boyfriend across the classroom. Doesn’t Alex understand? Panic! At The Disco isn’t just a band, not to him. It’s a lifestyle. Before he can write back, the teacher passes by and snatches the paper from him.
“Laurens, I have told you to stop passing notes how many times?” Asserts Mr. Washington. John deflates as he adds, “Go to the principal’s office, young man.”
“But-”
“No. Buts.”
The walk to the principal’s office is long and dreadful.
Principal George’s actual last name is Frederick, but he makes everyone call him George because the last principal was also named Frederick. Whatever. Sure. John sits in his office and twiddles his thumbs until the principal arrives, kicking his feet up on his desk as he un-crumples the paper he and Alex had been passing.
“I wish, my dear Laurens, that I could convince you by action rather than words…” Principal George reads aloud in his pompous English accent, bringing one hand up over his mouth and blushing. “Oh my. You cannot be passing notes of such a nature in class… I’m afraid I’m going to have to call your father.”
“What?!” John yips. “But I didn’t even write that! And I’m 18, you can’t-”
Principal George picks up the phone and starts dialing.
When John gets home, his dad isn’t pleased. Henry Laurens is in his home office, door left open and allowing anyone coming down the hallway a glimpse into the largest collection of bald eagle paraphernalia in the entire US senate. Consequently, John can’t come down the hallway unseen.
“Jack,” Henry commands. “Come here.”
Begrudgingly, John comes into his father’s office and sits at the antique magnolia-wood desk. A statue of an eagle stares at him with a US flag clutched in its talons.
“You know the rules of this house, son. I am not going to tolerate homosexual sin under my roof.”
Calling it a house is a little bit like calling Panic! At The Disco a band John likes; it’s true, but a bit of an understatement. John rolls his eyes. Henry gets mad.
“You are grounded, young man. And that means you are not going to the Panic! At The Disco concert this Friday, you hear me?!”
“What?!” John balks. “I’m an adult, I paid for the tickets, I pay for gas, what do you mean I can’t go?!”
“I mean you can’t fuckin’ go, you stupid faggot!”
Henry throws a bald eagle shaped mug at him. John manages to avoid it and quickly ducks out of the room. He knows who he’s voting for in the midterms…
If Henry thought he could get in the way of John Laurens and his beloved band, he was dead fucking wrong. That night, John throws his supplies into a bag- this consists of his phone, his wallet, and a can of Monster- and pushes open his bedroom window. He pops the screen out and makes his escape.
John knows he can’t take his car, because it’s in his dad’s name and he knows Henry would raise hell if he saw it missing…
But they do live in South Carolina.
And if South Carolina is famous for one thing other than racism or Myrtle Beach, it’s horses.
And they have a lot of fucking horses. But John has a favorite, and that’s Brutus. John saddles up and takes the reins; Brutus whinnies and they ride into the night, singing This Is Gospel the whole way to the concert. Well, John sings; Brutus is a horse.
So, maybe John can ride a horse to the Panic! At The Disco concert with little more than odd looks from motorists… but as it turns out, the venue doesn’t have horse parking. He leaves his horse in the nearest open field on the side of the highway and continues on foot.
When he gets to the concert, John’s a little late. But that’s okay because he doesn’t care about the openers- he just wants to see his beloved Beebo. John shoves his way to the front of the crowd, pressed up against the barrier as the bass line of Don’t Threaten Me With A Good Time fills the room. He’s been dreaming of this for so long. And then Brendon Urie walks out onto the stage and starts singing, his angelic voice like champagne on a Friday night. He’s beautiful, and this night’s already everything John dreamed of.
Halfway through the show, Brendon starts singing Nine In The Afternoon, and John swears he makes eye contact with him.
“Into a place where thoughts can bloom
Into a room where it's nine in the afternoon”
Brendon sings, suddenly getting on one knee at the edge of the stage and reaching out to hold John’s hand over the barrier as they sing in tandem.
“And we know that it could be
And we know that it should
And you know that you feel it too
'Cause it's nine in the afternoon
And your eyes are the size of the moon”
John blushes, starstruck, as Brendon lets go of his hand and steps away, winking. There’s a promise in that gaze; later tonight. John knows it.
John stays where he is, parked starry-eyed at the barrier long after the show is over and the venue has cleared out. Just as he’s starting to question himself, wondering if that wanting stare had been all in his mind, someone taps his shoulder. Startled, John whips around, coming face to face with the man, the legend, Brendon Urie himself.
Brendon smirks.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“Beebo…” John breathes out, incredulously.
“In the flesh.” He stows his hand into his jacket pocket for lack of something better to do with it. “You looked like you would have killed to be here tonight.”
“I nearly did,” John concedes, because he really had considered homicide before thinking of the horse plan.
“It means the world, you know. I really appreciate die-hard fans like you, screaming every word from your soul.”
John feels his heart flutter. His mouth is dry and he can’t quite muster up words, but that’s okay. He doesn’t need to; Brendon Urie takes his hand in his and offers, “Come backstage. I want to give you a night you won’t forget.”
John feels his face flush with heat, something more than the ambient warmth left over from a room full of moving bodies, as Brendon escorts him past security and into the backstage area. The hallway iss narrow, intimate.
As they walk, Brendon asks, “What’s your name?”
“John,” John answers sheepishly. “Or Jack, if you’d like.”
“ Jack. I do like it.”
“Your tour bus is so big ,” John comments almost without thinking, as he walks through the door and takes in the sight. It’s a little messy on the inside, clothes piling on a chair and a half-glass of milk left ominously on the table, but it’s nothing too disastrous.
Brendon nods, solemn quiet lasting a poignant moment before he admits, “It’s too big. I get lonely in here.”
The back of the tour bus is smaller, more intimate, as John sheds his worn Panic! tee and runs his hands, reverently, over his idol’s body. He turns the back of that bus into a chapel, gets on his knees and worships him. Truthfully, John holds more faith in Brendon Urie than he ever held in God; still, he prays throughout the act that this night may never end.
The afterglow is sweet, but it’s dampened by worry.
“My dad’s gonna kill me,” John mutters, reaching for his pants- fighting his unwillingness to leave with harsh, cold reality.
“Will he really?” Brendon questions softly.
“He doesn’t really like that I like your band. Or that I’m gay.” John sighs, deflates a little. “I wasn’t even supposed to come tonight, I was grounded but I had to come see you. I don’t want to go home and face him.”
“You know, I’m tempted to say I don’t really like your dad.” Brendon wraps his arms around John, bare skin pressing to his back. John shudders- Brendon’s touch is like a drug to him, fights his rational thoughts. Brendon hums, then appends, “He can’t control you forever, you know. Nobody says you have to go.”
“But you’ll be in another city tomorrow.”
“You could come with me, Jack,” Brendon reiterates, reaching forward and intertwining his fingers with John’s. “They can’t stop you.”
John smirks as he weighs his options. “You’re right. They can’t.”