[fic] One Summer Last Fall
One Summer Last Fall
Brendon/Ryan, Ryan/HIS GIRLFRIEND; r, 13287 words.
Fall Out Boy never existed, so life is pretty tough for Ryan Ross. (set in the same universe as (many things lacking names). all you need to know is patrick doesn't talk much.)
disarm-d did a fantastic job as beta/sounding-board, so props to her.
Brendon's a little touchy-feely, and it's starting to creep Ryan out. There's any number of reasons for this; for one, he's not really used to having some dude hanging off of him at all hours of the day and night. Then there's the part where Ryan's grasp of heterosexuality is tenuous at best, and Brendon isn't making his internal dilemmas any easier.
It's usually okay when Ryan's driving, since Brendon's usually asleep for that, and Spencer and Brent are good company. It's okay when Brendon's driving, because then Ryan's too busy fearing for his life.
And when Ryan's in the front seat and Spencer or Brent are driving, that's okay, too, because even though Brendon's usually awake, he's also usually distracted by whoever's sitting next to him. He'll talk to Ryan sometimes, but he can't be as tactile, and gets distracted doing things like trying to count the number of cows by the roadside. That's fine.
But when they're both in the backseat and Brendon's being hyperactive and invading his personal space constantly even though they've got an entire bench -- when Brendon's doing shit like putting his feet on Ryan's lap or nuzzling Ryan's shoulder and begging him to share his headphones -- then it's kind of a problem.
The thing is, when Brendon's falling asleep with his face smushed up against the window, leaning awkwardly against the door in a way that's bound to leave his neck hurting, that's a problem too. "Hey, hey, Brendon," Ryan says. "Don't fall asleep like that."
"Mmph?" Brendon rubs at his eyes. "S'not very comfortable, I guess, yeah?"
"That's what I was figuring," Ryan says. "You're gonna hate yourself when you wake up, you sleep like that."
Spencer, in the front seat, snores.
Brendon frowns, trying to find a way to get more comfortable. "Oh, hey, can I," he says.
"Yeah," Ryan says, and ends up with Brendon's head on his lap. Brendon's curled up on his side, awkwardly, feet pressed up against the door and knees bent sharply. "Is that seriously more comfortable?"
"Least my neck isn't getting raped," Brendon says, sleepily. "Night, Ryan."
When Ryan's sure Brendon is asleep, he lets himself stroke Brendon's hair. He leans against the door for a while himself, watching Brendon smile in his sleep.
Outside the window, the moon is keeping pace with their steady progress, following them as they roll down the endless highway.
-
When they're finally finished getting their shit out of Schuba's, Brendon cracks his knuckles and looks in the back of the trailer. "We got everything, right?"
"Yeah, I think so," Jon says. "I checked. Not a pick left on the stage. Man, there's a lot in there."
"We're efficient," Spencer says.
Ryan says, "A well-oiled machine."
"What kind of machine? Like, a simple machine? Are we a pulley, or a system of pulleys, or are like one of those robots they've got in Japan that put cars together?"
"I don't think it matters," Spencer says, "but I say we're a system of pulleys."
"Definitely." Crossing his arms across his chest, Ryan looks between Brent and Brendon like he's daring them to challenge him.
Brent says, "Yeah, yeah. Pulleys. We've got, what, three weeks before our next tour?"
Ryan nods. "Pretty sure. Right around that."
Jon closes up the trailer, clicks the lock shut. He's got the key on a ball chain, and keeps it around his neck. "Cool, sweet. So I'm good to go, right?"
"Unless you wanna come back, hang with us for a bit," Ryan says.
Brent says, "Hey, next tour. You free in three weeks? We're gonna need a roadie."
Brendon says, "Seriously, if you wanted to come along, that'd be awesome. Plus, like, you could double as our personal photographer, and then triple as our coffee maker! You're like a Swiss Army Knife, Jon Walker. Come with us. You'd be pretty much the sexiest Swiss Army Knife ever."
"The scissors in those things kinda suck," Spencer says. He pulls his keychain out of his pocket, shuffling through the mess of random objects and keys to get his Swiss Army Knife free. He pulls the scissors out and snips impotently at the air. "Seriously, I have proof."
"What? Don't think he'll cut it? Oh, he will. Cut it like a string." Brendon says, "Come on, J Walker. Jon W. Oh, oh, J W, you could be in a boyband with that name!"
"Oh my god, no, shut up," Jon says. "I don't know. You guys are cool, but I should maybe spend some actual time back home. I might as well get paid to make coffee, you know?"
"We'll pay you in cookies and love," Spencer says.
"And cash money," Brent adds.
"Oh, that too." Spencer shrugs.
Ryan says, "I think we should pay him in gift certificates to big-box electronics stores."
"Yeah, that'd be good. I mean, as much as I love making free coffee, Brent." He's smiling when he says it; Brent, when he found out Jon used to be a barista, started asking for weird stuff all the time. Jon does the best he can.
"Huh," Brent says, monotone. He wanders off, hands in his back pockets.
"Brent, come on," Ryan says, jogging after him. "That's not what he meant."
Brendon says, "Come on, Jon Walker. You're our favorite." He says, "At least talk to Spencer."
"What?" Jon's kind of lost, now.
Brendon says, "I got a water gun, I've got to make sure that those two understand the seriousness of the situation. And I mean, we gotta water Brent or he'll never grow musically."
"What are you talking about?" Spencer says, but Brendon's already bolted and doesn't bother to answer.
Jon says, "So are you guys serious about next tour?"
"What? Oh, yeah," Spencer says. "Uhm. I mean, I'd -- we'd really like it if you wanted to stick around. And some of our new stuff, I mean, we could use an extra guitar player. Like, you'd only have to do rhythm guitar, but if you wanted to, you could."
"Yeah, hey?" Jon smiles, sticking his thumbs through his belt loops.
"Yeah," Spencer says, with this smile that's half-nervous, like he's a little scared. "We always used to have our friend Trevor do the rhythm guitar, but then he didn't want to go on tour with us; he's, you know, he wants to go to med school or something. But yeah. Unless you don't feel like doing that much work or don't wanna be on the road or whatever. That's cool."
"No, yeah," Jon says. "I'd like that, actually."
-
They're in the middle of playing a home show to eighty seven kids and three parents not including their own (Ryan counts) a week before their next tour when Brendon decides it's time to mess everything up. Ryan's saying, "Okay, we've only got two more songs after this one. Just wanted you guys to know that lying --"
Brendon cuts him off. "Hey, so have you guys ever had the kind of dream where you're, like, running through a field of flowers and shit toward your girlfriend or boyfriend or whoever, it's sunny, everything's wonderful, and you hug each other and spin around and all that, real romantic-like?"
Ryan says, "No, dude. This song is totally not that dream. This is a song about sex."
Brendon says, "No, no. This, guys," and he turns, wide-eyed, back to the audience, "this is a song about hardcore, angry, nasty, X-rated fucking." He waits for maybe three beats more, and Ryan's about to punch him in the head when he starts singing. Ryan decides better of it.
Ryan's thinks that's obnoxious, messed up their timing and they probably won't have time to finish up their last song now, but whatever, they'll keep playing. Brendon doesn't say anything before the next two songs. Ryan doesn't either; he even ignores the "you suck!" from the audience, though that's partly because one of their fans promptly starts an argument. They're third out of maybe five bands playing tonight, but nobody in particular is headlining. Most of the kids are here for them, which is a nice change of pace.
So Ryan manages to forget about it, is back into the groove by the middle of their last song. Things are going well and the crowd seems to be digging it. Some girls are even dancing unironically, though maybe drunkenly.
Then Brendon goes down on his knees in front of Ryan, clutching his microphone tight in one hand. With the other, he's carressing the curves of Ryan's guitar.
As they're breaking down, Ryan whispers harsh, "What the fuck was all that tonight?"
Brendon says, "You said you wanted drama, right? I made it dramatic."
"I meant more, like. Something planned? Something like a play or a Vegas show, with actual thought put into it. You know. Something we all knew about. Maybe a little less with the spontaneous decisions to go down on my guitar."
Brendon says, "Can we get finished breaking down our gear before we have this discussion?"
"Eh."
But Ryan waits until they've got everything shoved into the back of the van again. Jon's sitting in the back of the trailer restringing Ryan's guitar and tuning it, and Spencer's sitting on top of their amp watching him, talking about -- Ryan doesn't actually pay enough attention to figure out what they're talking about.
"I wanted less talk and more rock," Ryan says.
Brent says, "Seriously, dude, that was pretty gay."
"Whatever." Brendon moves things around in the trailer for no reason. Probably he's just working off post-show energy, which he always has way too much of. There's still music blaring loud from the venue. "They loved it, dude. It worked, right? They paid attention."
"Yeah, and they probably think we're all fags now."
Spencer says, "Who gives a shit what they think? The music is what matters anyway."
Brendon says, "They can feel free to think that about me all they want. I mean, they'd be right, you know." He's got this bad habit, whenever he's saying something serious, to get all overdramatic and make stupid faces. Ryan's starting to think it's maybe because he hopes he can play it all off as a joke later.
Jon looks up. "Wait, what?"
"The fuck," Ryan says. "Why didn't you tell us?"
Brent says, "Wait, wait, are you serious? You don't fuck around about something like that, man. That's fucked up."
"I'm not fucking around," Brendon says, voice faux-bright. "Seriously, I haven't even got laid in months, how could I be fucking around?"
"I don't want to know about that. That's gross." He sticks his fingers in his ears, sings, "La la la, not listening to Brendon talk about buttsex."
Ryan says, "Why didn't you say anything before?"
Spencer says, "Hey, no, it's cool. I'll kick Brent's ass if he's not cool with it."
Ryan just says, "You didn't even tell us."
Brendon calls shotgun, so Brent refuses to drive. No one else will either, not even Brendon, since he called shotgun. Ryan says, "Okay, look, Brent, shut the fuck up. Brendon, sit in the back with me. Come on."
Brendon's energy is finally running out, and he's twitchy but exhausted and half-asleep and maybe kind of upset. Brendon looks at him, and he just looks tired. Then he pulls this wide-eyed look, lets his mouth drop open, feigning shock. "Aw, Ry-ry," Brendon says, grinning now. His voice is quiet but not quite a whisper. They all pile into the van. "What a good little peacemaker. Takin' one for the team."
Ryan says, "You could have said something. It's fine, I just didn't know. I'm surprised, is all."
"But it doesn't matter, riiight," Brendon says, still with this goofy look on his face. Brent starts driving, but they're still an hour out from home. Spencer turns the radio on, real low.
"Well," Ryan says. "Well, no." He drops his voice -- "Hey, what did I tell you about sleeping up against the window? You'll break your neck and then we won't have a singer anymore, and that'd really suck. Come on."
Brendon beams at him, then curls up like a kitten. Ryan says, "Sorry I've got, you know, such bony thighs."
"You're a better pillow than the door," Brendon mumbles. "It's okay. Just remember to eat sometimes. I'm gonna make you a sandwich sometime, or take you out, either way."
Ryan, not even sure just what he's referring to, says, "Yeah, it's okay." The radio, so-so-quiet, is playing Oasis.
Brendon mumbles, eyes closed now, "Gonna wine and dine you, Ryan Ross."
"Uh-huh, you do that." Ryan pats his head.
--
Brent's answer to pretty much any problem, even if it's one that's only in his head, is selective amnesia. Every now and then, though, he tries to talk Brendon into sleeping with the chicks who stick around after shows.
Tonight, they're in Tulsa, just got done playing at a church of all places, and Brendon's just turned another girl down -- not that she was even propositioning any of them, she was just talking about the music and asking when they'd have an album out. Brent says, "Seriously, I don't know if I could take it if we were any more popular. Like, I mean I guess we probably will be. We're good and all. But it's just weird, you know, strangers knowing our names?"
"At least we don't get mobbed on the streets," Spencer says.
"Only in record stores," Ryan adds.
"There's some pretty hot music snobs out there, you guys," Brendon says. "I don't even mind. What I would mind is if all our fans were, like, twelve year olds or something. At least they're old enough to get it."
"Yeah, some of those chicks are pretty hot," Brent says.
"Oh, god, I know," Ryan says, ignoring Brent. "I still wish we could afford the fucking windmill, though."
"Not the windmill again, Christ," Spencer says. "We don't need a windmill."
"It's part of Ryan Ross' vision, Spence, of course we need it."
Brent says, "I don't get it."
"You wouldn't," Ryan says.
"Is it some tilting at windmills thing? Like, Don Quixote-style? Seriously, why would we even have a windmill?"
Brendon says, "The Vision."
"Shut up," Spencer says.
"Just tellin' it like it is," Brendon says. "Don't make me shank you."
Ryan sighs, heavily. "Listen to the man, seriously. Shut up."
"Whatever you say, boss." Brendon's expression is this weird combination of huge smile and puppy-dog eyes. He kisses Ryan on the temple, then puts an arm around his shoulder and squeezes way too tight.
"Hate you," Ryan mumbles. Not just melting against Brendon's side right there takes considerable effort, and he gives up quick. Just because Brendon's gay or whatever, that doesn't mean he should avoid physical contact. He doesn't want things to be weird.
"I hate both of you," Spencer declares.
Brent says, "I think I need a drink. I'm gonna go find Jon. Seriously, the fuck, guys."
--
Jon says, "Brent Wilson. Wait, no. Brent. Your full name isn't as awesome to say. Brendon's isn't either, actually. Brendon Urie? Eh. Spencer and Ryan have that alliteration thing going on, it's pretty sweet."
"I should change my name," Brent says. He's maybe a little drunk, admittedly. Just a little. It's just that Jon's a good drinking buddy. "Get a fake name, Avenged Sevenfold-style. Haha, how awesome would it be if I just had this name that was totally metal?"
"Oh, yes, yes, do this," Jon says. "You have to. You could be, like. Benny Chaos. You have to have a cutesie first name and a metal-ass last name, and it's hard to make Brent cutesy. I think that's close enough."
Brent growls, headbanging to absolutely nothing. His hair's flying every which-way.
"You could totally be a metalhead. Dude, dude, we should. You should dress up like you're in a metal band. Don't ride with us, come late and just show up like that, seriously. Don't give Ryan a chance to bitch."
"I don't know." Brent frowns. "How do metal bands even dress? Crappy metal band t-shirt, I don't know. Spiked wristbands. Yes."
--
"Brent, where the fuck were -- what the fuck are you wearing?"
"I'm fucking metal," Brent says, deadpan. He looks like he just got through robbing a Hot Topic.
"Oh, Jesus," Ryan says. "No. Jon, Jon, you have to play bass tonight, this isn't on."
"Oh, come on," Jon says. "No way. This is hilarious."
"It really kind of is," Brendon says. Then their cue comes on.
Ryan looks like he wants to cry. Just before they go out, Brendon gives him a hug, and it's not enough to fix the fact that Brent's being a douche but it does make things a little better. Brendon's able to laugh about it.
By the time they're on stage, Ryan doesn't mind quite as much.
--
Ryan says, "Maybe we could all wear crazy shit on stage. We could have a theme. I say next show we're pirates."
"Yarrrr!" Brendon pumps a fist in the air, throwing up the devil horns.
"As long as we're not Don Quixote," Brent says.
"Dude, I should write a song about that," Ryan says. "That'd be -- you know. Something less personal. A little more story-telling."
"What, a song about pirates? That'd be pretty fucking sweet, man."
"No, Don Quixote. Though a sea shanty could be interesting. No, Don Quixote, that's what I'm saying."
Brent says, "We're not going to have a windmill, though, right? That's so Spinal Tap it hurts."
"You're the one who wanted to be so fucking metal," Ryan says reproachfully.
"Spinal Tap, man," Brent says. "Do you want Spencer to spontaneously combust?"
Brendon says, "I dunno, it could be cool."
"Hey," Jon says. "I'm not gonna allow anybody to spontaneously combust. I like the band too much."
Brent says, "Eh, drummers are replaceable."
"More replaceable than, like, bassists?"
"Hey, hey," Brent says.
"C'mon, we're all expendable," Ryan says. "But we've got synergy."
"Synergy? Man, just say we work well together. That synergy shit is bullshit."
"Way to use shit twice in one sentence," Brendon says. "Plus that's not even what synergy means."
"Ryan's the one who writes the lyrics. I don't have to be articulate, I just play the bass."
"The drummer's supposed to be the incoherent one," Spencer says. "I think we got it backwards, you guys. I have to start playing bass, stat."
--
It's almost time for soundcheck. "Oh, no. No. You didn't," Ryan says. "You didn't."
"It seemed like a good idea when I was drunk, and -- no, no, hear me out, ow! -- and then it seemed like a good idea when I was sober, too, and come on," Brendon says, holding his arm out, twisted at the shoulder to show off the top of his arm better. The skin is still shiny with Vaseline and red with countless tiny pinpricks. The ink shades across his arm and, closer to the elbow, seems like it's coming out of his skin, like this row of piano keys is embedded in his arm and trying to escape. "Come on, dude. It's. We do music, it's my life. It's our life."
"Yeah, and when you're thirty and the band doesn't exist and you can't participate in Hawaiian shirt day at your inevitable office job? What then?"
"Do they make long sleeved Hawaiian shirts? Oh, man, that'd be the only thing worthwhile about -- that's saying the band's gonna split up. And that I'm not going to be doing music for the rest of my life. You can't just. You're giving up in advance."
"Half the point of Hawaiian shirts is that they're short sleeved." Ryan sits down on their amp and tunes his guitar. Theoretically, he could get Jon to do this, but Jon does enough already.
"What about the giving-up thing? Forget the Hawaiian shirts for a minute."
Ryan says, "I'm just saying. I mean, it's bound to happen eventually. It happens to, like, every band ever. The Beatles?"
"The Red Hot Chili Peppers," Brendon says. "Nirvana."
"Nirvana didn't break up because Kurt Cobain died. I hate to break it to you. Not to shatter childhood dreams or anything. Santa Claus doesn't exist, either."
"Yeah, well, the Foo Fighters are still together, right? So, Nirvana never broke up."
"I'm not going to kill myself," Ryan says.
"Well, that's good, I wasn't worried about that before you said it."
"I'm just saying," Ryan says. "I'm not going to be our Kurt Cobain or whatever."
"Except you write the songs."
"This is -- Brendon, what the fuck."
"I have no idea." Brendon says, "So, uh, let's stop arguing, or whatever it is we're trying to do here."
"Yeah," Ryan says. "Yeah, okay."
"So about those Hawaiian shirts."
--
So they get to this point where half-assed journalists from magazines and websites that are only borderline obscure, those people want to actually interview them. They get to this point where they have over two thousand friends on Myspace.
They get to this point where a label, tiny and stunted as it is, picks them up, and they get to rerecord everything they had on their self-released EP and they get to add some more songs and put a few unreleased tracks on a compilation, and then suddenly, somehow, they have an album of their very own.
They play a show on the night their album is released, and kids actually buy the thing, kids line up at the merch booth to buy their album before they even go on. They're headlining. They have time to hang around the venue and watch the fact that there's kids buying their album.
Up on stage, in the middle of But It's Better If You Do, Brendon decides that he and Ryan need to share a microphone. His, as far as Ryan knows, is working just fine. Ryan's used to the molestation of his guitar, but sharing a microphone, that's a strange new way of invading his personal space.
Ryan's just harmonizing, sort of, doing a little backup. The whole I'm exactly where you'd like me you know bit, that's his to sing. Only Brendon's singing along. Brendon's grinning at him. He should be at the keyboards right now, but he's not. Apparently this was planned, is some kind of conspiracy, because Jon's on keyboard. Ryan didn't think Jon even knew how to play keyboard. They get to this instrumental bit. Ryan, he's focusing really hard on his guitar, like his life depends on it (and really, it does, this is his sole source of income right now) and then it's back to vocals and guitar, and then, then, Ryan's not quite sure what happens, exactly.
They're going back and forth on the praying for love and paying in naivete, and then Ryan really isn't sure what makes him do it, maybe it's the part where Brendon is right there, grinning and flushed and sweaty, full of this incredible exuberance he always gets on stage, and Ryan. Ryan maybe kisses him, kind of. The crowd cheers, probably for the song, which is over now. Ryan backs away from the mic stand awkwardly.
Then Brendon steals the keyboard back from Jon and they're covering Karma Police, and Ryan thinks, oh, okay.
After that, sharing the microphone becomes kind of a thing. Ryan eventually decides that he doesn't mind, not if it works. And it does.
--
They're lying on the floor of Brendon's apartment, not really doing anything. Brendon hasn't been able to afford much furniture so far, and neither of them wants to use the recliner he picked up off the side of the road that one time; it's not all that comfortable, and Ryan's pretty sure if he took it, Brendon would try to take up whatever space he didn't, and that could get awkward.
Brendon says, "I'm really, really bored. When're Brent and Spencer getting back with the bagels?"
"I don't know. Where's Jon?"
"I don't know," Brendon says.
"Exactly."
Ryan rolls onto his side and props himself up on one elbow as he examines Brendon's arm.
"What, you decide it's not retarded?" Brendon says. Ryan shrugs, running his fingers along the keys. Then he looks up.
"What was that?"
"What?"
"I thought," Ryan says, and he pokes at C sharp. "No, I was right."
Brendon says, "No, what? The neighbors have really shitty soundproofing. Well, I mean, the building does."
Ryan flops back over on his back again. "Was that stain always there?"
"No," Brendon says. Which one of them initiates it, he's not sure, but somehow there are now multiple points of warm contact in between them, their shoulders and legs pressed together. Ryan hooks a foot over Brendon's ankle. They just lie there, staring at the ceiling. "Damn." The stain is huge and amoeba-shaped and exactly the same color as Brent's special coffee. Brendon kind of wants some, now, looking at it.
Brendon kind of wants to be anywhere but here, because while it's nice, just being still, the urge to move, to act, is almost impossibly strong. And he knows he shouldn't.
He really, really shouldn't.
part two
Brendon/Ryan, Ryan/HIS GIRLFRIEND; r, 13287 words.
Fall Out Boy never existed, so life is pretty tough for Ryan Ross. (set in the same universe as (many things lacking names). all you need to know is patrick doesn't talk much.)
disarm-d did a fantastic job as beta/sounding-board, so props to her.
Brendon's a little touchy-feely, and it's starting to creep Ryan out. There's any number of reasons for this; for one, he's not really used to having some dude hanging off of him at all hours of the day and night. Then there's the part where Ryan's grasp of heterosexuality is tenuous at best, and Brendon isn't making his internal dilemmas any easier.
It's usually okay when Ryan's driving, since Brendon's usually asleep for that, and Spencer and Brent are good company. It's okay when Brendon's driving, because then Ryan's too busy fearing for his life.
And when Ryan's in the front seat and Spencer or Brent are driving, that's okay, too, because even though Brendon's usually awake, he's also usually distracted by whoever's sitting next to him. He'll talk to Ryan sometimes, but he can't be as tactile, and gets distracted doing things like trying to count the number of cows by the roadside. That's fine.
But when they're both in the backseat and Brendon's being hyperactive and invading his personal space constantly even though they've got an entire bench -- when Brendon's doing shit like putting his feet on Ryan's lap or nuzzling Ryan's shoulder and begging him to share his headphones -- then it's kind of a problem.
The thing is, when Brendon's falling asleep with his face smushed up against the window, leaning awkwardly against the door in a way that's bound to leave his neck hurting, that's a problem too. "Hey, hey, Brendon," Ryan says. "Don't fall asleep like that."
"Mmph?" Brendon rubs at his eyes. "S'not very comfortable, I guess, yeah?"
"That's what I was figuring," Ryan says. "You're gonna hate yourself when you wake up, you sleep like that."
Spencer, in the front seat, snores.
Brendon frowns, trying to find a way to get more comfortable. "Oh, hey, can I," he says.
"Yeah," Ryan says, and ends up with Brendon's head on his lap. Brendon's curled up on his side, awkwardly, feet pressed up against the door and knees bent sharply. "Is that seriously more comfortable?"
"Least my neck isn't getting raped," Brendon says, sleepily. "Night, Ryan."
When Ryan's sure Brendon is asleep, he lets himself stroke Brendon's hair. He leans against the door for a while himself, watching Brendon smile in his sleep.
Outside the window, the moon is keeping pace with their steady progress, following them as they roll down the endless highway.
-
When they're finally finished getting their shit out of Schuba's, Brendon cracks his knuckles and looks in the back of the trailer. "We got everything, right?"
"Yeah, I think so," Jon says. "I checked. Not a pick left on the stage. Man, there's a lot in there."
"We're efficient," Spencer says.
Ryan says, "A well-oiled machine."
"What kind of machine? Like, a simple machine? Are we a pulley, or a system of pulleys, or are like one of those robots they've got in Japan that put cars together?"
"I don't think it matters," Spencer says, "but I say we're a system of pulleys."
"Definitely." Crossing his arms across his chest, Ryan looks between Brent and Brendon like he's daring them to challenge him.
Brent says, "Yeah, yeah. Pulleys. We've got, what, three weeks before our next tour?"
Ryan nods. "Pretty sure. Right around that."
Jon closes up the trailer, clicks the lock shut. He's got the key on a ball chain, and keeps it around his neck. "Cool, sweet. So I'm good to go, right?"
"Unless you wanna come back, hang with us for a bit," Ryan says.
Brent says, "Hey, next tour. You free in three weeks? We're gonna need a roadie."
Brendon says, "Seriously, if you wanted to come along, that'd be awesome. Plus, like, you could double as our personal photographer, and then triple as our coffee maker! You're like a Swiss Army Knife, Jon Walker. Come with us. You'd be pretty much the sexiest Swiss Army Knife ever."
"The scissors in those things kinda suck," Spencer says. He pulls his keychain out of his pocket, shuffling through the mess of random objects and keys to get his Swiss Army Knife free. He pulls the scissors out and snips impotently at the air. "Seriously, I have proof."
"What? Don't think he'll cut it? Oh, he will. Cut it like a string." Brendon says, "Come on, J Walker. Jon W. Oh, oh, J W, you could be in a boyband with that name!"
"Oh my god, no, shut up," Jon says. "I don't know. You guys are cool, but I should maybe spend some actual time back home. I might as well get paid to make coffee, you know?"
"We'll pay you in cookies and love," Spencer says.
"And cash money," Brent adds.
"Oh, that too." Spencer shrugs.
Ryan says, "I think we should pay him in gift certificates to big-box electronics stores."
"Yeah, that'd be good. I mean, as much as I love making free coffee, Brent." He's smiling when he says it; Brent, when he found out Jon used to be a barista, started asking for weird stuff all the time. Jon does the best he can.
"Huh," Brent says, monotone. He wanders off, hands in his back pockets.
"Brent, come on," Ryan says, jogging after him. "That's not what he meant."
Brendon says, "Come on, Jon Walker. You're our favorite." He says, "At least talk to Spencer."
"What?" Jon's kind of lost, now.
Brendon says, "I got a water gun, I've got to make sure that those two understand the seriousness of the situation. And I mean, we gotta water Brent or he'll never grow musically."
"What are you talking about?" Spencer says, but Brendon's already bolted and doesn't bother to answer.
Jon says, "So are you guys serious about next tour?"
"What? Oh, yeah," Spencer says. "Uhm. I mean, I'd -- we'd really like it if you wanted to stick around. And some of our new stuff, I mean, we could use an extra guitar player. Like, you'd only have to do rhythm guitar, but if you wanted to, you could."
"Yeah, hey?" Jon smiles, sticking his thumbs through his belt loops.
"Yeah," Spencer says, with this smile that's half-nervous, like he's a little scared. "We always used to have our friend Trevor do the rhythm guitar, but then he didn't want to go on tour with us; he's, you know, he wants to go to med school or something. But yeah. Unless you don't feel like doing that much work or don't wanna be on the road or whatever. That's cool."
"No, yeah," Jon says. "I'd like that, actually."
-
They're in the middle of playing a home show to eighty seven kids and three parents not including their own (Ryan counts) a week before their next tour when Brendon decides it's time to mess everything up. Ryan's saying, "Okay, we've only got two more songs after this one. Just wanted you guys to know that lying --"
Brendon cuts him off. "Hey, so have you guys ever had the kind of dream where you're, like, running through a field of flowers and shit toward your girlfriend or boyfriend or whoever, it's sunny, everything's wonderful, and you hug each other and spin around and all that, real romantic-like?"
Ryan says, "No, dude. This song is totally not that dream. This is a song about sex."
Brendon says, "No, no. This, guys," and he turns, wide-eyed, back to the audience, "this is a song about hardcore, angry, nasty, X-rated fucking." He waits for maybe three beats more, and Ryan's about to punch him in the head when he starts singing. Ryan decides better of it.
Ryan's thinks that's obnoxious, messed up their timing and they probably won't have time to finish up their last song now, but whatever, they'll keep playing. Brendon doesn't say anything before the next two songs. Ryan doesn't either; he even ignores the "you suck!" from the audience, though that's partly because one of their fans promptly starts an argument. They're third out of maybe five bands playing tonight, but nobody in particular is headlining. Most of the kids are here for them, which is a nice change of pace.
So Ryan manages to forget about it, is back into the groove by the middle of their last song. Things are going well and the crowd seems to be digging it. Some girls are even dancing unironically, though maybe drunkenly.
Then Brendon goes down on his knees in front of Ryan, clutching his microphone tight in one hand. With the other, he's carressing the curves of Ryan's guitar.
As they're breaking down, Ryan whispers harsh, "What the fuck was all that tonight?"
Brendon says, "You said you wanted drama, right? I made it dramatic."
"I meant more, like. Something planned? Something like a play or a Vegas show, with actual thought put into it. You know. Something we all knew about. Maybe a little less with the spontaneous decisions to go down on my guitar."
Brendon says, "Can we get finished breaking down our gear before we have this discussion?"
"Eh."
But Ryan waits until they've got everything shoved into the back of the van again. Jon's sitting in the back of the trailer restringing Ryan's guitar and tuning it, and Spencer's sitting on top of their amp watching him, talking about -- Ryan doesn't actually pay enough attention to figure out what they're talking about.
"I wanted less talk and more rock," Ryan says.
Brent says, "Seriously, dude, that was pretty gay."
"Whatever." Brendon moves things around in the trailer for no reason. Probably he's just working off post-show energy, which he always has way too much of. There's still music blaring loud from the venue. "They loved it, dude. It worked, right? They paid attention."
"Yeah, and they probably think we're all fags now."
Spencer says, "Who gives a shit what they think? The music is what matters anyway."
Brendon says, "They can feel free to think that about me all they want. I mean, they'd be right, you know." He's got this bad habit, whenever he's saying something serious, to get all overdramatic and make stupid faces. Ryan's starting to think it's maybe because he hopes he can play it all off as a joke later.
Jon looks up. "Wait, what?"
"The fuck," Ryan says. "Why didn't you tell us?"
Brent says, "Wait, wait, are you serious? You don't fuck around about something like that, man. That's fucked up."
"I'm not fucking around," Brendon says, voice faux-bright. "Seriously, I haven't even got laid in months, how could I be fucking around?"
"I don't want to know about that. That's gross." He sticks his fingers in his ears, sings, "La la la, not listening to Brendon talk about buttsex."
Ryan says, "Why didn't you say anything before?"
Spencer says, "Hey, no, it's cool. I'll kick Brent's ass if he's not cool with it."
Ryan just says, "You didn't even tell us."
Brendon calls shotgun, so Brent refuses to drive. No one else will either, not even Brendon, since he called shotgun. Ryan says, "Okay, look, Brent, shut the fuck up. Brendon, sit in the back with me. Come on."
Brendon's energy is finally running out, and he's twitchy but exhausted and half-asleep and maybe kind of upset. Brendon looks at him, and he just looks tired. Then he pulls this wide-eyed look, lets his mouth drop open, feigning shock. "Aw, Ry-ry," Brendon says, grinning now. His voice is quiet but not quite a whisper. They all pile into the van. "What a good little peacemaker. Takin' one for the team."
Ryan says, "You could have said something. It's fine, I just didn't know. I'm surprised, is all."
"But it doesn't matter, riiight," Brendon says, still with this goofy look on his face. Brent starts driving, but they're still an hour out from home. Spencer turns the radio on, real low.
"Well," Ryan says. "Well, no." He drops his voice -- "Hey, what did I tell you about sleeping up against the window? You'll break your neck and then we won't have a singer anymore, and that'd really suck. Come on."
Brendon beams at him, then curls up like a kitten. Ryan says, "Sorry I've got, you know, such bony thighs."
"You're a better pillow than the door," Brendon mumbles. "It's okay. Just remember to eat sometimes. I'm gonna make you a sandwich sometime, or take you out, either way."
Ryan, not even sure just what he's referring to, says, "Yeah, it's okay." The radio, so-so-quiet, is playing Oasis.
Brendon mumbles, eyes closed now, "Gonna wine and dine you, Ryan Ross."
"Uh-huh, you do that." Ryan pats his head.
--
Brent's answer to pretty much any problem, even if it's one that's only in his head, is selective amnesia. Every now and then, though, he tries to talk Brendon into sleeping with the chicks who stick around after shows.
Tonight, they're in Tulsa, just got done playing at a church of all places, and Brendon's just turned another girl down -- not that she was even propositioning any of them, she was just talking about the music and asking when they'd have an album out. Brent says, "Seriously, I don't know if I could take it if we were any more popular. Like, I mean I guess we probably will be. We're good and all. But it's just weird, you know, strangers knowing our names?"
"At least we don't get mobbed on the streets," Spencer says.
"Only in record stores," Ryan adds.
"There's some pretty hot music snobs out there, you guys," Brendon says. "I don't even mind. What I would mind is if all our fans were, like, twelve year olds or something. At least they're old enough to get it."
"Yeah, some of those chicks are pretty hot," Brent says.
"Oh, god, I know," Ryan says, ignoring Brent. "I still wish we could afford the fucking windmill, though."
"Not the windmill again, Christ," Spencer says. "We don't need a windmill."
"It's part of Ryan Ross' vision, Spence, of course we need it."
Brent says, "I don't get it."
"You wouldn't," Ryan says.
"Is it some tilting at windmills thing? Like, Don Quixote-style? Seriously, why would we even have a windmill?"
Brendon says, "The Vision."
"Shut up," Spencer says.
"Just tellin' it like it is," Brendon says. "Don't make me shank you."
Ryan sighs, heavily. "Listen to the man, seriously. Shut up."
"Whatever you say, boss." Brendon's expression is this weird combination of huge smile and puppy-dog eyes. He kisses Ryan on the temple, then puts an arm around his shoulder and squeezes way too tight.
"Hate you," Ryan mumbles. Not just melting against Brendon's side right there takes considerable effort, and he gives up quick. Just because Brendon's gay or whatever, that doesn't mean he should avoid physical contact. He doesn't want things to be weird.
"I hate both of you," Spencer declares.
Brent says, "I think I need a drink. I'm gonna go find Jon. Seriously, the fuck, guys."
--
Jon says, "Brent Wilson. Wait, no. Brent. Your full name isn't as awesome to say. Brendon's isn't either, actually. Brendon Urie? Eh. Spencer and Ryan have that alliteration thing going on, it's pretty sweet."
"I should change my name," Brent says. He's maybe a little drunk, admittedly. Just a little. It's just that Jon's a good drinking buddy. "Get a fake name, Avenged Sevenfold-style. Haha, how awesome would it be if I just had this name that was totally metal?"
"Oh, yes, yes, do this," Jon says. "You have to. You could be, like. Benny Chaos. You have to have a cutesie first name and a metal-ass last name, and it's hard to make Brent cutesy. I think that's close enough."
Brent growls, headbanging to absolutely nothing. His hair's flying every which-way.
"You could totally be a metalhead. Dude, dude, we should. You should dress up like you're in a metal band. Don't ride with us, come late and just show up like that, seriously. Don't give Ryan a chance to bitch."
"I don't know." Brent frowns. "How do metal bands even dress? Crappy metal band t-shirt, I don't know. Spiked wristbands. Yes."
--
"Brent, where the fuck were -- what the fuck are you wearing?"
"I'm fucking metal," Brent says, deadpan. He looks like he just got through robbing a Hot Topic.
"Oh, Jesus," Ryan says. "No. Jon, Jon, you have to play bass tonight, this isn't on."
"Oh, come on," Jon says. "No way. This is hilarious."
"It really kind of is," Brendon says. Then their cue comes on.
Ryan looks like he wants to cry. Just before they go out, Brendon gives him a hug, and it's not enough to fix the fact that Brent's being a douche but it does make things a little better. Brendon's able to laugh about it.
By the time they're on stage, Ryan doesn't mind quite as much.
--
Ryan says, "Maybe we could all wear crazy shit on stage. We could have a theme. I say next show we're pirates."
"Yarrrr!" Brendon pumps a fist in the air, throwing up the devil horns.
"As long as we're not Don Quixote," Brent says.
"Dude, I should write a song about that," Ryan says. "That'd be -- you know. Something less personal. A little more story-telling."
"What, a song about pirates? That'd be pretty fucking sweet, man."
"No, Don Quixote. Though a sea shanty could be interesting. No, Don Quixote, that's what I'm saying."
Brent says, "We're not going to have a windmill, though, right? That's so Spinal Tap it hurts."
"You're the one who wanted to be so fucking metal," Ryan says reproachfully.
"Spinal Tap, man," Brent says. "Do you want Spencer to spontaneously combust?"
Brendon says, "I dunno, it could be cool."
"Hey," Jon says. "I'm not gonna allow anybody to spontaneously combust. I like the band too much."
Brent says, "Eh, drummers are replaceable."
"More replaceable than, like, bassists?"
"Hey, hey," Brent says.
"C'mon, we're all expendable," Ryan says. "But we've got synergy."
"Synergy? Man, just say we work well together. That synergy shit is bullshit."
"Way to use shit twice in one sentence," Brendon says. "Plus that's not even what synergy means."
"Ryan's the one who writes the lyrics. I don't have to be articulate, I just play the bass."
"The drummer's supposed to be the incoherent one," Spencer says. "I think we got it backwards, you guys. I have to start playing bass, stat."
--
It's almost time for soundcheck. "Oh, no. No. You didn't," Ryan says. "You didn't."
"It seemed like a good idea when I was drunk, and -- no, no, hear me out, ow! -- and then it seemed like a good idea when I was sober, too, and come on," Brendon says, holding his arm out, twisted at the shoulder to show off the top of his arm better. The skin is still shiny with Vaseline and red with countless tiny pinpricks. The ink shades across his arm and, closer to the elbow, seems like it's coming out of his skin, like this row of piano keys is embedded in his arm and trying to escape. "Come on, dude. It's. We do music, it's my life. It's our life."
"Yeah, and when you're thirty and the band doesn't exist and you can't participate in Hawaiian shirt day at your inevitable office job? What then?"
"Do they make long sleeved Hawaiian shirts? Oh, man, that'd be the only thing worthwhile about -- that's saying the band's gonna split up. And that I'm not going to be doing music for the rest of my life. You can't just. You're giving up in advance."
"Half the point of Hawaiian shirts is that they're short sleeved." Ryan sits down on their amp and tunes his guitar. Theoretically, he could get Jon to do this, but Jon does enough already.
"What about the giving-up thing? Forget the Hawaiian shirts for a minute."
Ryan says, "I'm just saying. I mean, it's bound to happen eventually. It happens to, like, every band ever. The Beatles?"
"The Red Hot Chili Peppers," Brendon says. "Nirvana."
"Nirvana didn't break up because Kurt Cobain died. I hate to break it to you. Not to shatter childhood dreams or anything. Santa Claus doesn't exist, either."
"Yeah, well, the Foo Fighters are still together, right? So, Nirvana never broke up."
"I'm not going to kill myself," Ryan says.
"Well, that's good, I wasn't worried about that before you said it."
"I'm just saying," Ryan says. "I'm not going to be our Kurt Cobain or whatever."
"Except you write the songs."
"This is -- Brendon, what the fuck."
"I have no idea." Brendon says, "So, uh, let's stop arguing, or whatever it is we're trying to do here."
"Yeah," Ryan says. "Yeah, okay."
"So about those Hawaiian shirts."
--
So they get to this point where half-assed journalists from magazines and websites that are only borderline obscure, those people want to actually interview them. They get to this point where they have over two thousand friends on Myspace.
They get to this point where a label, tiny and stunted as it is, picks them up, and they get to rerecord everything they had on their self-released EP and they get to add some more songs and put a few unreleased tracks on a compilation, and then suddenly, somehow, they have an album of their very own.
They play a show on the night their album is released, and kids actually buy the thing, kids line up at the merch booth to buy their album before they even go on. They're headlining. They have time to hang around the venue and watch the fact that there's kids buying their album.
Up on stage, in the middle of But It's Better If You Do, Brendon decides that he and Ryan need to share a microphone. His, as far as Ryan knows, is working just fine. Ryan's used to the molestation of his guitar, but sharing a microphone, that's a strange new way of invading his personal space.
Ryan's just harmonizing, sort of, doing a little backup. The whole I'm exactly where you'd like me you know bit, that's his to sing. Only Brendon's singing along. Brendon's grinning at him. He should be at the keyboards right now, but he's not. Apparently this was planned, is some kind of conspiracy, because Jon's on keyboard. Ryan didn't think Jon even knew how to play keyboard. They get to this instrumental bit. Ryan, he's focusing really hard on his guitar, like his life depends on it (and really, it does, this is his sole source of income right now) and then it's back to vocals and guitar, and then, then, Ryan's not quite sure what happens, exactly.
They're going back and forth on the praying for love and paying in naivete, and then Ryan really isn't sure what makes him do it, maybe it's the part where Brendon is right there, grinning and flushed and sweaty, full of this incredible exuberance he always gets on stage, and Ryan. Ryan maybe kisses him, kind of. The crowd cheers, probably for the song, which is over now. Ryan backs away from the mic stand awkwardly.
Then Brendon steals the keyboard back from Jon and they're covering Karma Police, and Ryan thinks, oh, okay.
After that, sharing the microphone becomes kind of a thing. Ryan eventually decides that he doesn't mind, not if it works. And it does.
--
They're lying on the floor of Brendon's apartment, not really doing anything. Brendon hasn't been able to afford much furniture so far, and neither of them wants to use the recliner he picked up off the side of the road that one time; it's not all that comfortable, and Ryan's pretty sure if he took it, Brendon would try to take up whatever space he didn't, and that could get awkward.
Brendon says, "I'm really, really bored. When're Brent and Spencer getting back with the bagels?"
"I don't know. Where's Jon?"
"I don't know," Brendon says.
"Exactly."
Ryan rolls onto his side and props himself up on one elbow as he examines Brendon's arm.
"What, you decide it's not retarded?" Brendon says. Ryan shrugs, running his fingers along the keys. Then he looks up.
"What was that?"
"What?"
"I thought," Ryan says, and he pokes at C sharp. "No, I was right."
Brendon says, "No, what? The neighbors have really shitty soundproofing. Well, I mean, the building does."
Ryan flops back over on his back again. "Was that stain always there?"
"No," Brendon says. Which one of them initiates it, he's not sure, but somehow there are now multiple points of warm contact in between them, their shoulders and legs pressed together. Ryan hooks a foot over Brendon's ankle. They just lie there, staring at the ceiling. "Damn." The stain is huge and amoeba-shaped and exactly the same color as Brent's special coffee. Brendon kind of wants some, now, looking at it.
Brendon kind of wants to be anywhere but here, because while it's nice, just being still, the urge to move, to act, is almost impossibly strong. And he knows he shouldn't.
He really, really shouldn't.
part two