
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5242877.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F, M/M
  Fandom:
      Panic!_at_the_Disco, Fall_Out_Boy
  Relationship:
      Brendon_Urie/Dallon_Weekes, Spencer_Smith/Jon_Walker, Sarah_Orzechowski/
      Breezy_Weekes
  Character:
      Brendon_Urie, Dallon_Weekes, Ryan_Ross, Shane_Morris, Patrick_Stump, Pete
      Wentz, Spencer_Smith, Jon_Walker, Andy_Hurley, Joe_Trohman, Original
      Characters, Sarah_Urie, Sarah_Orzechowski, Breezy_Weekes, Linda_Ignarro
  Additional Tags:
      1968, olympic_au, Gymnast_AU, Shane_Morris_is_a_dickbag_as_always,
      Homophobia, career-ending_homophobia, mild_and_brief_abuse, Eventual
      Smut, its_like_the_gay_olympics, for_real, Brendon_is_17_when_the_story
      starts, but_nothing_serious_happens_until_he's_18
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-11-19 Chapters: 1/? Words: 1720
****** Knowing How It Ends ******
by PutAnotherX
Summary
     When Brendon Urie's private gymnastics coach retires, he needs a
     replacement and fast. In come Dallon Weekes, the golden boy of the
     1960 Olympics in Rome and bad boy of the 1964 Olympics in Tokyo. A
     huge scandal that ended his own career as a gymnast, but that doesn't
     mean he isn't still the best there is. Temperamental, demanding, and
     mysterious, Dallon pushes Brendon harder than he's ever been pushed
     before. Meanwhile, Brendon becomes obsessed with discovering why
     Dallon's career ended the way it did. No one will tell him, and no
     one seem to want to talk about it at all, least of all Dallon. Little
     does Brendon know the secret that forced Dallon to give up the only
     thing he'd ever known is just about the only thing they have in
     common beside their flawless back hand springs.
     Can they get to the Olympics and beat Ryan Ross and his coach Shane
     Morris to get the gold medal?
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Villa Park, Orange County, California
April 18th, 1967
Brendon picked at the hem of his sweater vest, watching as the brown argyle
pattern stretched and shrank. His mother pulled his hand into her lap and
intertwined her fingers with his.
“Don’t fidget, dear,” she whispered. He rolled his eyes. “Mr. Weekes was so
kind to come all this way just for an interview; you should give him your full
attention.” Her dazzling white smile seemed all but invisible to the man in
question, as his unaffected demeanor remained the same. He was perched stiffly
on the olive green loveseat opposite Brendon and his parents. Although his face
was blank, his eyes seemed to bore into Brendon, making him want to squirm even
more.
Brendon’s father tapped his cigar against the ashtray. “How many gold medals
did you say you got in ‘60?” he asked between puffs.
“Four,” Mr. Weekes answered.
Boyd grunted. “And in ’64?”
“Four again.”
Boyd grunted again, going back to his newspaper and taking long drags from his
cigar. Brendon could tell his father liked Mr. Weekes. They certainly seemed to
like using few words, anyway. Brendon’s mother, on the other hand, obviously
had some concerns. Brendon didn’t blame her one bit. Everything about Mr.
Weekes was somber and morose, from his shiny black shoes to his all-black suit
to his unkempt black hair. He was certainly handsome, but a permanent scowl was
etched on his face.
“How old are you, Mr. Weekes?” she asked.
“22.” Not a hint of inflection seeped into his voice, but Grace kept her usual
charm. “23 in May.”
“Our Brendon’s just turned 17 a few days ago,” she offered, “but just after his
birthday, his coach told us he was retiring. Can you imagine?”
“Must’ve been a shock.”
Brendon saw his mother’s smile waver for just half a second.
“Mr. Weekes,” she began tentatively, “I’m sure you’re very qualified, but why
should we let you train our son? You don’t seem to like people very much, and
you of all people must know of your reputation.” Brendon was taken aback by Mr.
Weekes' smile. Was that actually charming? Impossible.
“Mrs. Urie,” he said, “as far as I’m concerned, you’re not looking for a coach
based on personality or reputation. You’re looking for a coach to take your son
to the Olympics. And I can do that. With me, he can be an American hero. We’re
not talking about bronze or silver. We’re talking about gold. Brendon is a
great athlete. I can make him the best.”
________________________________________
“Hello, Mrs. Smith,” Brendon greeted. “Is Spencer home?”
Ginger Smith smiled her 1000-watt smile at him, standing in the elegant foyer
of the mansion. The Smith family was the only one in Villa Park that was
wealthier than the Uries. Spencer and Brendon had best friends since they were
in diapers, and Brendon needed his friend now more than ever.
“He’s in his room, go on up.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Smith,” he called behind him as he darted up the stairs. He
didn’t bother knocking on Spencer’s door as he pushed it open and threw himself
dramatically on the bed. Spencer had his Johnny Cash record playing and his
homework out on his desk.
“My life is over,” Brendon whined to him.
Spencer sighed. “What is it now?”
“Mom and Dad are signing a contract with my new coach right now.”
Spencer shot Brendon a look, but he turned back to his homework. “That sounds
like a good thing.”
“It would be,” Brendon agreed, “if he wasn’t so creepy. He only wears black,
and he only smiled once.”
Spencer sighed again and gave up, closing his textbook. “Is that all?” he asked
as he turned his wooden desk chair to face Brendon.
“He’s going to be living with us,” Brendon said, not quite a whisper, but much
more serious than he had been before. “Telling me what to eat and when to go to
bed and what I’m allowed and not allowed to do.”
“There has to be something good,” Spencer said, “if they’re doing this. They
must believe in you.”
Brendon squeezes his eyes shut and nods. “They think I can make it,” he said.
“They think I can go to the Olympics.”
________________________________________
“Again,” Weekes demanded after Brendon finished another back hand spring.
Brendon groaned.
“Seriously?” he panted. “This is the millionth time today!” He could barely
talk through his deep, gasping breaths.
“Again.” A deep scowl has found its way to Weekes’ face, but Brendon was
growing accustomed to seeing it. “Until it’s flawless every time.”
“That’s impossible!”
“Only if you let it be.”
________________________________________
“Seriously, Spence, he’s crazy,” Brendon complained, twisting the phone cord
around his finger. Spencer couldn’t hide his laughter. “He is!” Brendon
insisted, and he barely resisted the urge to slam his hand on the kitchen
table. “My body is still sore from the first day. He won’t let me drink soda,
and I have to have four glasses of milk every day. After that, it’s all water.
No alcohol. He even asked my dad to start smoking outside. He’s got some looney
theory about how it damages your lungs or something.”
“I don’t know, Bren,” Spencer argued. “He’s just trying to help you. He really
wants you to succeed.”
“I have a theory about that,” Brendon said, ignoring Spencer’s noises of
protest. “He’s gotta just be doing this so people will worship him again.”
“Whatever you say, Urie.” Brendon nearly jumped out of his skin as Weekes
appeared behind him, and the yelp that escaped him was undignified at best.
“But if you’re not in the car ready to go in twenty minutes, I’ll go train Ryan
Ross.” Weekes was gone as quickly as he appeared, slinking into the living
room.
“Was that him?” Spencer asked. He didn’t bother trying to hide his giggles this
time.
“No,” Brendon said. “It was Santa Claus.”
“Who’s Ryan Ross?”
“Just another Olympic hopeful, you know the drill.”
Ryan Ross was not just another Olympic hopeful. Ryan Ross was Brendon’s biggest
competition. He had years of experience on Brendon because he was older and had
started younger. The way everyone talked about Ross made it sound like it was a
done deal that he would be going to the Olympics. Even though more than one
gymnast would qualify for the team, Brendon couldn’t help the knot that tied in
his gut whenever Ross was mentioned.
Mr. Weekes seemed to know exactly how Brendon felt about it, and often made
empty threats about going to train Ross when Brendon misbehaved.
“I gotta go, Spence,” he said. “I’ll see you tonight.”
________________________________________
Brendon was. A little tipsy. A little. He wasn’t drunk. He leaned over to talk
in Spencer’s ear.
“I’m not drunk,” he said too loudly, making Spencer flinch.
“Okay,” Spencer said agreeably. He let Brendon hang on him, but most of his
attention was on some new kid. Brendon thought his name might be Jim. Jon.
Jon, definitely Jon. This might be Jon’s party.
Suddenly, his stomach fluttered. He could feel bile rising in his throat.
“Spence,” he croaked. “I’m gonna hurl.” He felt Spencer stiffen.
“One minute,” Spencer told Jon. Leading Brendon by the hand, he elbowed his way
through the crowded living room. Every few feet he would yell something else
like, “Move it, people,” or, “Future Olympian coming through,” until they got
to a kitchen with a back door. Brendon felt a millisecond of relief as the
crisp May air caressed his skin. Then the contents of his stomach began their
exodus, and it was all he could do to try and focus on Spencer’s cool, firm
hands moving in soothing circles over his back and pushing his normally neatly
combed hair back from his sweaty forehead.
Brendon swore up and down in his mind that he’d never drink again.
________________________________________
“Dallon,” a worried voice called, interrupting his first pleasant dream in a
month. “Dallon, Dallon, wake up.”
“Grace?” he rasped, still half asleep. “What time is it? What’s wrong?” He
blinked and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.
“It’s a quarter to midnight,” she whispered. “Brendon’s bed is empty.” Dallon’s
mouth set into his trademark scowl.
“Go back to bed, Grace. I’ll take care of him,” he told her.
And so Dallon sank into the mustard yellow lounge chair in the living room with
a newspaper. Mr. Urie never did the crosswords right. His back was facing the
front door, but the sliding glass of the patio door in front of him would act
as a mirror. Not to mention the heavy oak door always creaked no matter how
slowly it was opened.
At 1:30 in the morning, Dallon had fixed five crosswords (he didn’t understand
how Mr. Urie could mess them up that badly or why he felt the need to use pen)
and composed 13 different obituaries for Brendon in his head. The door
squealed. Without moving his head, Dallon spotted Brendon stumbling into the
foyer reflected on the patio door. He let him get to the bottom stair before he
spoke.
“Good morning, Brendon,” he greeted as cheerfully as he could muster, standing
to face his frozen form.
“Good morning, Mr. Weekes,” Brendon slurred.
Excellent, Dallon thought self-pityingly. Late and drunk as a skunk.
“Do you know what time it is, Brendon?” he asked.
Brendon hesitated, still poised to escape up the stairs to his room. “Time for
bed?” he guessed.
“I imagine so,” Dallon agreed calmly. “Because I’ll be getting you up at 6
o’clock sharp for training, and I don’t care if I have to haul your ass out of
bed. Do you understand me?”
Brendon’s shoulders slumped, and he turned to face Dallon. “Yes, Mr. Weekes,”
he said. His face was flushed, dark hair sticking up at ridiculous angles, eyes
filled with a mirth that even getting caught couldn’t quite stomp out. But his
mouth was what really made Dallon’s mind flip. Brendon’s wide, full lips were
red and swollen, and Dallon could easily call to mind several activities that
could have caused it. Several he suddenly wished he could try with Brendon.
He snapped back to reality.
“This will not happen again.”
The only problem was that he didn’t know if he was talking to Brendon or
himself.
End Notes
     I'm sorry if this got weird in places i just. its 2 am here and i'm
     posting this anyway and i'll try to fix it after class tomorrow.
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