Photography Verse Part Three- Daguerreotype i
Brendon is pure energy, always has been, to the chagrin of his parents, elementary teachers, anyone who meets him. Always has been, always will be.
He grows up in a full nest, enveloped in hugs and laughter and talking (and Not Talking About Certain Things), full of safety nets a city wide.
When he’s a little over fifteen, he begins to spread his wings a bit, testing the wind: his small weight against the thermals of new ideas and perceptions.
Brent starts talking to him about music, books, movies, comics, Tony Hawk and Mark Hoppus. Brent slows him down, attention focused for the first time in a long stretch of living. Brendon is fascinated, soaking up what Brent says like a sponge.
Brent talks to him, but what’s more is he listens back to Brendon, not just about beats and countermeasures but about everything else on his mind. They spend time together outside of school, at Brent’s house, at parks, just hanging out, learning how to talk to each other.
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A few months into their friendship (and Brendon’s crush, but he doesn’t like to think about it, think about it like that, anyway) Brent invites him to his band practice because Brent thinks he would fit, would help them get they sound they need. Brendon is hesitant, resistant, but lets Brent talk him into the idea.
Brendon likes being needed, holds it close to him all week. That Brent would think so highly of his talent that he would invite Brendon- he knows it’s not like that, but he likes to pretend. He stops himself from going further on that thread.
Ryan and Spencer were intimidating, no doubt about it.
The basement was musty and old looking, with a water mark in the corner. Ryan and Spencer had been standing together, heads bent. Maybe they had been talking.
Ryan glared slightly at him while Spencer just looked blankly past him. Brendon shrinks behind Brent a little after the introductions.
The chords weren’t difficult to pick up, and neither were the words, when Ryan started singing. Ryan’s untrained voice grated faintly and Brendon couldn’t help himself; started singing with Ryan, under him.
Brendon isn’t sure how long it takes, but the music and Ryan stop dead.
Ryan turns to Brendon, stares openly, hungrily, intently at him.
Brendon glances at Brent for help, to say they’re sorry. But Brent isn’t looking at him, isn’t even touching his bass.
Ryan starts talking, asking Brendon all kinds of questions about training and range and saying things about ‘talent’ and ‘brilliance’. Brendon blinks dazedly under this bombardment, wilting slightly, so confused.
Soon enough Ryan was done and wanted him to sing again. So he did, emotions swirling as the music limped, edged to life again by Spencer.
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He allowed himself to be buoyed by this small victory, that he had been accepted by Brent’s friends, that he was one of them. He took more hours at the Smoothie Hut, came to practice with unflagging enthusiasm.
His parents are less than pleased by the time he’s spending with Brent on this ‘project for band class’ and the strain it’s putting on his schedule. But they have no room to talk, not when he’s doing everything he’s supposed to do by rote.
Everything seems to fly past him: learning all of Ryan’s words, getting a surly Spencer to smile and laugh at his joke, juggling work hours and practice time with history essays.
The practices get better once they learn how to fit together, tidy little roles to fill that they can even out their combined quirks.
Brent always focused on him, but with the band drawing lines of Us against the Outside World, a switch flicks on, the look in his eyes changes from interest (polite and otherwise) to something more intense. Something more … deliberate and wanting.
Ryan does his best to fill Brendon up with Palahniuk, Hemingway, Rimbaud, cummings, MAC and Forever 21. Brendon’s mind spins, flies away under the overload, but he respects why Ryan has to do it.
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His parents catch him in his new clothes (powder pink slim fit tee and dark blue denim skinny jeans. All of it from the Junior’s sections.) as he comes in after practice late one evening. They catch him in his new clothes and makeup. Ryan had some new techniques he had wanted to try and they hadn’t cleaned all of it off. Brendon’s eyes were a swirl of pink and red and purple, lined in black.
They prayed together because Brendon still couldn’t say no to that, such a small request. They prayed into the night, releasing him after four or so hours. Brendon blearily trudged into the shower, thinking of Brent’s shy smile as he washed himself. He fell into bed only to be woken up by his alarm clock two hours later.
He goes to school in a frenzy, all tight skin and seemingly useless energy. He has tests to take, essays that are do, a double shift at work that will surely cut into practice time.
Practice is tense: Ryan correcting him, Spencer and Brent watching them. Brent talks to him after, voice soothing. Spencer is smoothing down Ryan’s ruffled feathers just like Brent.
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He gets an apartment because it’s more practical than living at home, (this is what he tells himself because remembering what he and his parents said that night makes him dry heave if he hasn’t eaten anything yet) its closer to school and work and their practice space. Closer to Brent, but he doesn’t let himself think further.
Brent kisses him in his ratty apartment when they’re supposed to be studying, fingers griping his shoulder, nose pressed against his cheek. Brendon knows he moaned and curved himself against Brent. Warmth blushes from Brent, cozy and inviting Brendon in.
Brendon’s cell phone rang with a shrill ring tone. Brendon stretches to get it, flips it open. Ryan is outside, in the street and wanted in for some hurried practice time.
Brent rolls his eyes, smirking, promising for ‘later’. They’ve been ‘studying’ like that for a few weeks now.
Ryan stalked around the room, agitated, eyes ringed in glittery purple to hide the natural purple just under it. He goes over chord changes on his guitar and goads Brendon into practicing his scales. Brent writes everything down, on the edge of Ryan’s attention span, pen scribbling music notes and word changes down.
Brendon’s patience is being sapped dry. Ryan opens his mouth to say something. Brendon turns. “I get it. I’m singing it how you want me to.” Ryan almost frowns. “You’re off with the enunciation in nine different places. She cheated on you, get it?”
There are more words then, words that determine whether or not Brendon actually understands the band’s concept. Whether or not Brendon actually understands Ryan’s words and what Ryan is trying to say. These loud, low blow words keep Brendon in the band. They are necessary.
Ryan leaves shortly after that, calm as you please. Brendon wouldn’t expect Ryan to show what he’s feeling to complete strangers when the people he knows best can manipulate the meaning with far better accuracy.
Brent looks at him straight on. Brendon slumps onto the grungy couch, slides at Brent’s side. “Ryan’s high strung, he needs this, wants it to be perfect.” Brent tells him, arm curled around Brendon. “It’s hard … sometimes, to understand him.” Brendon says then. But he’s going to try, because he needs this, too.
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The thing is, he does understand where Ryan is coming from. They both need this, need to get away from the living ghosts plaguing them, far away.
After that a few days later, Brent asks him out on a date. It’s mildly surprising, since making out on a couch isn’t the same as wanting to be seen in public with someone or declarations of undying, everlasting love. Different ends of the spectrum, really.
It’s some bad comedy, but it’s them in the cool darkness with chocolate and popcorn and hands touching.
They go to a park after that, and they find it has a swing set in it.
Brendon rushes to it gleefully while Brent takes his time. He joins Brendon carefully, mindful of the moving seat in the breeze. His eyes are downcast, pinched together in thought. He can tell Brent’s had something on his mind for awhile, just needed the time to sort everything out, find his words. The right ones.
“Brendon, do you. It’s just. Ryan seems to be better suited for you. Like the two of you would work out better. People always want Ryan.” Brent says haltingly.
What? Clearly Brendon had missed something here.
“I didn’t go out on a date with Ryan. I haven’t as much as kissed him. I don’t think he’s better suited for me. I’m not experimenting with dudes. There’s only you.” Brendon snaps angrily.
“I thought you just wanted to see the movie and get practice kissing someone.” Brent actually sounds confused. Like the thought that Brendon wanted him, to do things with him like see a movie and kiss, didn’t even cross his mind.
Brendon stands up off of the swing. He goes in front of Brent, takes a hold of Brent’s face gently but firmly.
“I thought when we made out all those times you knew I wanted to do that with you. And only you. And I still want to do that with only you. Do you understand now?” Brendon says, intent clear as possible.
“Oh” Brent says quietly.
“Just so we’re clear, since I really do like you, be my boyfriend?” Brendon asks, eyes wide and smiling like the sun.
Brent blinks and then grins. “Yes” Brent breathes, inching forward. He kisses Brendon like that; sitting perched on a swing set as Brendon cups his face. Brendon flushes happily, moaning softly. He pulls away, pulls Brent up. “Come on. Let’s go back to my place.” Brendon says, leering slightly.
They get in the door in a rush of tossed keys and wandering hands. Brendon locks the door behind them.
Brent pushes him toward the couch and down on it, hands snaking up his shirt and taking it off of him. Brendon couldn’t be happier, kisses his way down along Brent’s jaw.
They grind together, licking and gasping through it, rough denim making everything feel more so.
After.
After, Brent rolls on his side, looks at Brendon. The floor is cool against Brendon’s bare, hot back. Brendon smiles warmly at Brent.
“I’m glad you talked to me about us,” He starts slowly “I wouldn’t have done anything more if you hadn’t.” he continues onward.
“But you can still go after Ryan if you wanted to. He’s better at this, more widely talented. I’m … I’m just a chubby, crappy bassist who’s sad for no reason most of the time.” Brent stops, looks away from Brendon at this admission.
Brendon … understands more about Brent’s situation now.
“I think you’re perfect, Brent Wilson. And nothing will ever change that.” Brendon says fiercely. He reaches out, takes a hold of Brent’s left hand. He kisses it softly, looking at Brent straight in the eyes.
Brent blushes, looks away again. There’s a grin lurking in the corners of his mouth. Brendon wants to tease it out from its hiding place. Kiss it out. So he does. Brent lets him.
They sleep on his bed, which is an old mattress on the floor in the other room.
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It figures that Ryan would finally internet stalk Pete Wentz into coming to see Panic! play, get that interaction, the same night Brendon and Brent had their first date.
It’s weird being in Spencer’s garage without him there to be part of this, but they’ll make do. They have to.
Brendon’s nerves are staging a revolt. Ryan is hawk intense and Brendon can tell Brent’s palms are sweaty by the way he’s holding his bass.
Pete is watching them from the couch Brendon did his best Freddie Mercury impression off of a week ago after he drank an entire 20˚ Mountain Dew bottle by himself. Pete’s smile is plastered on and he’s tracking their movements with his eyes. There’s a reason Pete’s made it, and it’s because he’s got amazing analytical skills along with great luck.
Signing the contract with the fancy pen that accompanies it is more nerve wracking. But Brent and Spencer are both flanking him, and with Ryan at the end next to Spencer, it feels right. Their presence is calming and he can at least breathe easier.
Brendon doesn’t feel guilty breaking his crooked backroom deal lease or giving the few meager possessions in it away. Everything truly important is tucked away in Spencer’s garage for safekeeping.
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Being in Maryland is like being stuck in quicksand. The air seems thick, like with moisture to his Vegas lungs. The drop in elevation makes time slow down somehow, like tree sap ebbing out into the world. The sounds at night, in the strange darkness are foreign to his ears. The ground feels odd, soft. Lacking in clay and dust.
They have a deadline to make the album and Ryan doesn’t let them forget it. Worry is edged into the new lines of his face, the set to his shoulders. Spencer glares his way through Fever and keeps breaking his drumsticks.
Brendon watches Spencer watch Ryan, watches Ryan watch Spencer back. He wonders how long it’ll take for them to see what he does. They think they’re being subtle.
Brent seems downcast, but Brendon figures it’s just from the stress. Brent’s always been low key in everything he does. Low key and lonely, which is why Brendon sat with him the first say of school and talked about Mozart while Brent politely listened.
Brent gets paler, stops wanting to eat at mealtime. He becomes a night owl, records all of his Ryan-approved bass parts by himself.
Brendon isn’t sure how to approach this new Brent.
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He just soldiers on through all the considerations and adjustments Ryan wants, is directing them through. Brendon knows he’s the most prized, most heavily wielded instrument Ryan has at his disposal, forget the pricey equipment that colluding with Pete has given them, and gave them access to in the first place.
Brendon still pauses before he swears, before he drinks Mountain Dew, countless little gestures of a thing he knows he’s not welcome to anymore. He only pauses, though.
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Touring is the wildest, most insane and frightening and intoxicating thing Brendon has ever done. He can’t get enough. The van is cramped with people and machines. The van is rotting from the inside out and he’s almost gotten them killed five times now because of his driving skills but none of those things matters because it’s the four of them living out a communal need, want, desire. Thirst.
Touring with The academy Is… is like the first tour only more so.
They swear, drink like fishy sailors and spend their time with every pretty boy or girl they please. They are brash and kind and a thrill to hang out with over Grand Theft Auto and Texas Hold’em. Brendon spends more and more of his time on TAI’s bus, gets frog marched back to his own bus after TAI is done, drunkenly stumbling in the darkness by Tom and a tech named Jon.
Ryan becomes nervous in an entirely different way: painting his face up in beautiful war paint, as if eye shadow and lip gloss were the perfect armor against the assholes in the crowds and in the music review sections of Blender and Spin.
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Europe is mind blowing in the way the Brendon’s never really had anything to compare it to. Except maybe watching as Ryan talked about Palahniuk and Nietzsche in Spencer’s grody basement.
Spencer thrives on being at the top of his game. He takes on this glamazon persona, polite as can be until you realize the tone he was talking to you in while wearing skinny jeans and having perfect eyeliner. He’s the epitome of professionalism onstage and off.
Brent reverts back into himself more, if that was possible, as if shrinking to the back of the stage and at photo shoots will mask the fact that he’s suddenly famous now. He rarely talks anymore. He’s loosing weight, gets a pinched look on his face that can’t be shaken, shocked into a smile or a laugh.
Brendon would know, since he’s tried everything from practical jokes to fake cynicism to ambushing him behind buses, kissing the curve of his jaw pressed against hot metal. Brendon works on shredding the habits of his past on TAI’s bus. Sisky always deals him in, forgetting the look Carden sends out. He drinks a little of what’s offered to him by everyone. Onstage he sloughs off his inhibitions with the Lucent dancers, slithers over to Ryan, becoming something else entirely.
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Part Three- Daguerreotype ii