Us
Title: Us
Author: Telis (theaerosolkid)
Rating: G
Pairing: None (shock, horror!)
Summary: Brendon remembers the beginning.
Word Count: 881
Disclaimer: It's all fake; standard disclaimers apply.
A/N: This one wrote itself, in about fifteen minutes; it's unbetaed, and I'm sorry if it shows. Otherwise, I really like it and I hope you do too. For we_are_cities March 27.
Brendon knows what it’s like to be the outsider. He knows what it’s like to feel replaceable, like a fill-in. When Brent mentioned that his band was looking for a guitarist, he shrugged and said, All right. Let’s give it a shot, see who it goes. He remembers so clearly standing there, self-conscious in his stupid dorky polo shirt. Ryan looked him over, nodding slightly to Spencer before saying, Okay, then, let’s see what you’ve got. And his palms were sweaty and he felt awkward in his skin with three pairs of eyes staring him down, inscrutable, judging him. He winced, offered weakly, "I’m sorry. I can do better."
"No," Ryan said, wonder in his face and eyes. "That was actually really good. Fuck. You might be a better guitar player than me."
When he sang 'Camisado' for the first recording - the one that didn't make it onto the PureVolume page - he didn't know what it was about, and he was certain that it showed.
"That sucked out loud," he remarked. Ryan's knuckles whitened against the steering wheel, silent. "You need to talk to me, Ross," he tried again. "I know you don't really know me, like, at all. But. I'm a good guy. I can keep a secret. There's stuff about me that you don't know, too, but if I'm going to be singing about what you're feeling then I wanna actually understand it."
"Give it time," Ryan said softly. Brendon thought that was the wisest thing he'd ever heard, and he repeated it to himself, quietly, like a benediction.
"What about your mission?" his mother had cried when he broke the news to her.
"You don't understand," he'd yelled. "Mom, this is something a million people would die for! Do you have any idea - we've got a record deal, Mom, and we're still in high school, and we get to write all our own music and you're mad at me!? Shouldn't you be proud!?"
"Faith is worth dying for," she'd said, deadly serious. "God is worth dying for, not this. Brendon, think about it! You're too young!"
"So I'm old enough to go through hell for two years, all on my own, with a bunch of perfect strangers in a place I've never been to, where they speak a language I don't know, to be cut off from everything I've ever known, but not old enough to be a fucking musician? Do I have this right, is that how you see it?" He was breathing hard. "This isn't something that can just be put on hold. It's now or never, okay?"
And the next day he'd come home from practice, late, to find his things packed up and in the entryway to the house. His father stood there, calm, "If you're not going to go on a mission, then you're not a part of this family any more. This is your last chance. Make your choice, Brendon. We'll always love you, but if you're going to turn your back on your religion, then you're going to turn your back on your family, too."
"Fuck you," Brendon spat, and spun around to go running after Ryan, driving away. He spent the night at Ryan's house, and understood for the first time what those songs were about, and worked himself almost to death the next few months, just enough doubt in the back of his mind to force him to finish high school before they record. He stayed up nights studying, struggling, and lived in an apartment all by himself, paying the rent all by himself, paying for most of the rehearsal space's rent all by himself, and when they got successful, he called his parents.
"I forgive you," were the first words that came out of his mouth, before he said hello, even.
"I know," his mother said. "Do you see what we meant?"
"I can have faith, still," Brendon insisted, and it's an argument for another day. His parents flew the whole family out to see them perform in Canada, of all places, and when they left, his father embraced him and told him he was proud - but not sorry.
"You needed it," he said. "You needed to be alone."
People don't understand, Brendon thinks, what being Mormon is all about. It's not just a religion. It's a culture, and everything that implies. At first, he doesn't know how to believe in God when it doesn't mean self-deprivation. He spends some time getting to know Spencer and Ryan and Brent, getting closer with Spencer and Ryan until it's clear that Brent just doesn't fit. They forge ahead, cut him away, and Brendon feels sick. He's reminded of being kicked out. He's uncomfortable about it, and calls his father.
"Did it hurt?" he asks.
"More than anything," he answers, "would you like me to pray with you, now?"
"Dad-"
"You sound like you need it." Brendon sighs.
"Our Father, who art in Heaven," he begins, and it's like being home, only better.
So when Jon joins the band and is nervous, Brendon understands. "It's weird," Jon says, uncomfortable. "I don't know where I fit, and I wish I did. What am I supposed to do? Help me out, buddy, talk to me, Brendon."
Brendon regards him carefully. "Give it time."
Author: Telis (theaerosolkid)
Rating: G
Pairing: None (shock, horror!)
Summary: Brendon remembers the beginning.
Word Count: 881
Disclaimer: It's all fake; standard disclaimers apply.
A/N: This one wrote itself, in about fifteen minutes; it's unbetaed, and I'm sorry if it shows. Otherwise, I really like it and I hope you do too. For we_are_cities March 27.
Brendon knows what it’s like to be the outsider. He knows what it’s like to feel replaceable, like a fill-in. When Brent mentioned that his band was looking for a guitarist, he shrugged and said, All right. Let’s give it a shot, see who it goes. He remembers so clearly standing there, self-conscious in his stupid dorky polo shirt. Ryan looked him over, nodding slightly to Spencer before saying, Okay, then, let’s see what you’ve got. And his palms were sweaty and he felt awkward in his skin with three pairs of eyes staring him down, inscrutable, judging him. He winced, offered weakly, "I’m sorry. I can do better."
"No," Ryan said, wonder in his face and eyes. "That was actually really good. Fuck. You might be a better guitar player than me."
When he sang 'Camisado' for the first recording - the one that didn't make it onto the PureVolume page - he didn't know what it was about, and he was certain that it showed.
"That sucked out loud," he remarked. Ryan's knuckles whitened against the steering wheel, silent. "You need to talk to me, Ross," he tried again. "I know you don't really know me, like, at all. But. I'm a good guy. I can keep a secret. There's stuff about me that you don't know, too, but if I'm going to be singing about what you're feeling then I wanna actually understand it."
"Give it time," Ryan said softly. Brendon thought that was the wisest thing he'd ever heard, and he repeated it to himself, quietly, like a benediction.
"What about your mission?" his mother had cried when he broke the news to her.
"You don't understand," he'd yelled. "Mom, this is something a million people would die for! Do you have any idea - we've got a record deal, Mom, and we're still in high school, and we get to write all our own music and you're mad at me!? Shouldn't you be proud!?"
"Faith is worth dying for," she'd said, deadly serious. "God is worth dying for, not this. Brendon, think about it! You're too young!"
"So I'm old enough to go through hell for two years, all on my own, with a bunch of perfect strangers in a place I've never been to, where they speak a language I don't know, to be cut off from everything I've ever known, but not old enough to be a fucking musician? Do I have this right, is that how you see it?" He was breathing hard. "This isn't something that can just be put on hold. It's now or never, okay?"
And the next day he'd come home from practice, late, to find his things packed up and in the entryway to the house. His father stood there, calm, "If you're not going to go on a mission, then you're not a part of this family any more. This is your last chance. Make your choice, Brendon. We'll always love you, but if you're going to turn your back on your religion, then you're going to turn your back on your family, too."
"Fuck you," Brendon spat, and spun around to go running after Ryan, driving away. He spent the night at Ryan's house, and understood for the first time what those songs were about, and worked himself almost to death the next few months, just enough doubt in the back of his mind to force him to finish high school before they record. He stayed up nights studying, struggling, and lived in an apartment all by himself, paying the rent all by himself, paying for most of the rehearsal space's rent all by himself, and when they got successful, he called his parents.
"I forgive you," were the first words that came out of his mouth, before he said hello, even.
"I know," his mother said. "Do you see what we meant?"
"I can have faith, still," Brendon insisted, and it's an argument for another day. His parents flew the whole family out to see them perform in Canada, of all places, and when they left, his father embraced him and told him he was proud - but not sorry.
"You needed it," he said. "You needed to be alone."
People don't understand, Brendon thinks, what being Mormon is all about. It's not just a religion. It's a culture, and everything that implies. At first, he doesn't know how to believe in God when it doesn't mean self-deprivation. He spends some time getting to know Spencer and Ryan and Brent, getting closer with Spencer and Ryan until it's clear that Brent just doesn't fit. They forge ahead, cut him away, and Brendon feels sick. He's reminded of being kicked out. He's uncomfortable about it, and calls his father.
"Did it hurt?" he asks.
"More than anything," he answers, "would you like me to pray with you, now?"
"Dad-"
"You sound like you need it." Brendon sighs.
"Our Father, who art in Heaven," he begins, and it's like being home, only better.
So when Jon joins the band and is nervous, Brendon understands. "It's weird," Jon says, uncomfortable. "I don't know where I fit, and I wish I did. What am I supposed to do? Help me out, buddy, talk to me, Brendon."
Brendon regards him carefully. "Give it time."