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He'll only spread them, alone, on the roof of the tour bus. Zack would skin him alive if he knew, but Brendon, he doesn't. He can't care. Not when they're open, wide, red and brown and black and white, mixed together, a blur of muted autumnal colors. Not when they're free from the harness he has to wear on stage and especially not when the wind blows through them like that, ruffling feathers in a way that makes Brendon shiver.

Brendon wishes he didn’t have to hide them, because they’re beautiful. He wishes someone would tell him, yeah. He’s beautiful.

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Couldn't get it out of my head, goddamnit. Sorry!