Hopeless Haze - Vol. I: Hot Fuss (Chapter One)
Volume I: Hot Fuss
Chapter One: Stupid on the Streets of London
Brandon was nervous. He sat restless in his dreadfully uncomfortable airport chair, trying to calm himself down by humming a Morrissey song. That always seemed to help whenever he felt scared or anxious about something. He looked to his left to see his bandmate, Dave, nodding his head along to some song in his headphones that Brandon could faintly hear due to the volume of the music. Dave didn't seem too phased by the situation at hand, which kind of made Brandon feel better, but not by much. Across from him sat Mark, who seemed to be incredibly interested in the book he was reading. Mark wasn't very expressive, but he could tell he liked the book because he was reading it the whole cab ride to the airport. Next to Mark sat a snoring Ronnie, whose mouth hung slightly agape. Brandon gave a small smile to the sight of his band’s sleeping drummer, who seemed to be drooling on himself. Brandon snapped out of his hopeless haze when Dave nudged him on the arm.
“You okay, Bran?” Dave asked with a concerned look on his face.
Brandon stared at Dave for a moment, half because he was still so afraid of his oncoming flight to London, and half because he wasn’t used to Dave being so compassionate. “Hm? Oh, I’m fine. Don't worry about me. You should not be worrying about me. I am completely, one hundred percent, A-okay. In fact-”
“He’s nervous about the trip,” said Mark, not looking up from his book. Brandon’s head jerked in Mark’s direction when the usually quiet man spoke. He had been exposed. When the young man looked back to his left, he noticed Dave’s raised eyebrows.
“This…” Brandon paused, trying to think of a good lie. “This is not true.”
“Brandon,” a new voice added in. “This is the reason you were a bellboy and not a professional gambler. You can't lie for shit.” Oh, Ronald was awake now. Brandon was about to reply when a woman on the intercom spoke.
“International flight two-nineteen, Las Vegas to London, will be boarding in thirty minutes.”
All eyes turned to Brandon as he took a sudden intake of air. Ronnie took this as a cue to try to either calm the boy down or change the subject. “Brando,” he started. “Have you had anything to eat today? Maybe a bottle of water or something?”
Brandon replied quickly, “I have had five cans of coke.” Dave muttered something under his breath and put his head in his hands, letting out a long sigh.
“How about I take you to get a bottle then? You must be thirsty.” Brandon did not want to move from the spot he was currently sitting in. He didn't want to be any closer to the plane that he was certain he would die inside in approximately forty-five minutes. But he was thirsty and he would be alone with Ronnie, so what more could he possibly lose. Brandon flashed Ronnie a quick, not-so-reassuring smile, stood from his incredibly uncomfortable plastic chair, and followed the older man out of the waiting area that Brandon liked to call his own personal purgatory.
Brandon knew that thousands of people flew around the world every day and were fine. Brandon knew that planes were said to be safer than cars. But that does not mean that he can just waltz into an airport and hop in his shitty third class seat and not worry about dying in a fiery crash or drowning out at sea.
Brandon did not understand how Ronnie could be so calm in the situation at hand. Dave was understandably calm since he was actually from Iowa and Brandon doubted that Dave would bother to drive the long road to Nevada. Then again, he also didn't seem like the kind of person to just throw out the money to take a plane. It was at this point that Brandon realized he hardly knew anything about Dave other than the fact that he was from Iowa and a few other random things, like his favorite movies. Brandon also assumed that Mark had been in a plane before because the tall man was from Texas. That made sense. The only thing that Brandon knew for sure was that none of them had ever left the country.
After a quick and silent walk to closest place that sold bottled water, Ronnie and Brandon returned to the terrible plastic chairs where their other two bandmates sat. Brandon simply listened to the chatter of his other friends while he slowly sipped on his overpriced water and fiddled with the cap in his hand.
“International flight two-nineteen, Las Vegas to London, will be boarding in ten minutes.”
If the waiting area was purgatory, Brandon was sure he was in hell now.
“Well!” Dave exclaimed with a slap of the knee, “That’s us!” The guitarist stood and grabbed his duffle bag from the seat next his own, which made Brandon jump in surprise due to the bag’s loud contents.
“What’s in that thing?” Brandon shrieked, “Broken glass?” Dave shot Brandon a cheeky smile and jiggled the bag once more, making it jingle like bells.
“That, dear Bran, is a secret.” He pulled the bag’s strap around his neck.
“I didn't know they allow broken glass on planes.” Ronnie stated simply, also picking up his bag. Ronnie then noticed that Brandon was still sitting in his seat, his long fingers spread across his face in shock. “C’mon Brando,” Ron said, grabbing the younger man’s wrist and leading him closer to the terminal. “It’s all good.”
“No, Ronald,” Brandon said in a monotonous voice. “I can't. I physically can't.” Ronnie grinned, he had a plan.
“I can help with that,” Ronnie turned and winked back at Dave and Mark, who gazed at him suspiciously. Ronnie grabbed Brandon around the waist, and much to Brandon’s protest, began to carry him to the terminal. Ronnie then shifted Brandon’s position to that of one a husband would carry his newlywed wife, so Brandon instinctively put his arms around Ronnie’s neck. Brandon immediately became very flustered, but after attempting to kick Ronnie for a couple seconds (which he failed to do because he had such short legs) he tired himself out and let Ronnie carry him to his impending doom. He nuzzled his head into Ronnie’s chest, trying to hide from the plane. As the band walked to what Brandon considered his impending doom, Ronnie and the frightened man caught a couple of stares. Brandon didn’t see any of these considering his head was burrowed in the drummer’s chest; and if Ronnie saw any he showed no notice to the judgemental travelers at the airport.
Brandon’s fate could not be avoided. The four friends eventually made it to the ticket booth; Mark and Dave got through fine, but the woman standing at the booth raised a brow at the sight of the two men.
“Tickets please,” she stated simply after deciding not to comment on the obvious and a moment of hesitation. Ronnie flashed the dark-haired woman a smile and handed her the ticket which he already had prepared in his hand. The woman scanned the ticket but did not let Ronnie pass. “What about him?” She questioned.
“Who, Bran Flakes here? He’s tired.” Ronnie responded, not seeing a problem with his current situation.
The woman sighed, “he needs a ticket.”
“Oh!” the drummer exclaimed before looking down to the small singer in his arms and whispering, “Brando, where’s your ticket?”
Brandon humphed and responded lazily, “back pocket.”
Brandon shut his eyes again and tried to ignore the rest of the world. He suddenly wished it was the 1970’s so the he could smoke on the plane and try to relax; Brandon then realized that he could die and that it was banned for a reason, so he settled on finding a drink on the plane instead.
Ronnie grimaced and shifted Brandon’s weight to one side, then slid his hand down Brandon’s pants until he found the pocket, and more importantly, the ticket. As he grabbed the ticket he purposely gave Brandon’s ass a squeeze then handed it to the ticket woman, who didn’t seem to notice what had just happened. She wordlessly scanned the ticket before letting Ronnie pass.
As he walked down the tunnel, Ronnie decided to break the silence. “Brandon,” he said. “You do realize I can’t carry you into the plane, right? You have to actually do that part yourself.” Brandon whined but made no attempt to leave Ronnie’s grasp. Ronnie stopped in his tracks, “I'm serious, Brando. You gotta let Papa Vannucci go.”
Ronnie’s phrasing must have done the trick because when he uttered those words Brandon made a noise of disgust and promptly jumped out of Ronnie’s arms. The two men continued the rest of the walk to the plane in silence, but the atmosphere around them was tense. Ronnie led Brandon to their seats and proceeded to put their bags in the overhead bin. Once he was done, the drummer noticed Brandon was fearfully sitting in the window seat. “Do you wanna switch?” He asked. Brandon opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. After a moment of indecisiveness, the man shook his head; he felt so terrible that even moving to change seats might of been too much for him to handle. Ronnie shrugged and sat next to Brandon in the middle seat, hoping that the man in the isle wouldn’t arrive so that he and the younger man could have the row alone-his wish came true.
After a long while of them sitting in silence, it was announced that the plane would be taking off momentarily. Brandon wanted to die. As the plane jolted forward and began to accelerate down the runway, many thoughts ran through Brandon Flowers’ head. Would he even make it to London? Would he drown in the sea without anyone ever knowing his name? Would he ever get married? Would he live to have children? It was then and there that Brandon decided he didn’t want to be famous for being dead. When the plane began to ascend into the air, he went to grab the armrest between Ronnie and himself, but he didn’t realize that Ronnie’s arm already occupied that space. Brandon ended up grabbing his band mate's hand and he held on for dear life. To comfort the man, Ronnie squeezed back.
Despite every fabric of Brandon’s being telling him not to look out the window, he did. He stared out the window and became awestruck looking at the American horizon. In the distance he saw his beloved city of Las Vegas, and even further past that, Brandon saw mountains waiting for him past the desert range. For some reason that he could not understand, some of Brandon’s anxiety vanished- but not for long.
One hour into their ten hour flight, Brandon was still nervous. He had been tapping his index finger against his knee for what seemed like an eternity Ronnie pitied the synth player and after ten minutes of deep contemplation, Ronnie had a plan.
“Hey,” he said softly to Brandon, catching his attention. “I’ll be back in a second, okay? I won’t be long.” Brandon ceased his tapping for a moment before nodding and continuing his habit. Brandon’s empty gaze returned to the chair in front of him, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ronnie stand and leave for the front of the plane. After a few minutes, Ronnie arrived back to his seat with a brown paper bag.
“What's that, Ron?” Brandon asked, voice a little hoarse due to lack of use.
“The solution to your problem.” Ronnie replied, pulling the sack’s contents out and revealing a half-bottle of red wine. “There’s about three glasses in here, so hopefully you’ll just get tipsy and fall asleep.” He said, handing the glass bottle to Brandon. “You never had that much of a tolerance to alcohol though, so be careful. I don't want you to get shitfaced and wake up with a killer headache.”
Brandon awkwardly held the fancy bottle in his hand, “you want me to drink all of this? Alone?”
“Well I didn't wanna go straight for the vodka.” Ronnie explained, but Brandon was still skeptical.
“What if I wake up before we land?” He asked, holding the bottle to his face so that he could read the label.
“You and I both know that you didn’t sleep at all last night, Bran. I highly doubt you’ll wake up before we arrive.” Brandon’s cheeks flushed with color, so he decided to change the subject.
“Red wine?”
“It does the deed faster.” Ronnie said, not breaking eye contact with his younger friend. “I’m trying to help you, Brandon. I want to make you feel better.” Brandon arched a brow before carefully popping off the bottle’s cork.
“What the hell, then. It’s worth a try.” Brandon took a swig of the wine and leaned back slightly in his seat, relaxing his tense body. Within an hour, he became tipsy enough to forget his current plight and after another thirty minutes (which Brandon spent most of sleepily giggling at Ronnie) he dozed off with a slight smile on his face, finally at peace.
Luckily, Brandon didn’t wake up until Ronnie gave a light shove to his shoulder. The singer looked around groggily before turning his gaze to the window next to him. Outside the plane, it was pitch-black save for the lampposts lining cobblestone streets in the distance and the runway lights. Brandon then glanced to his red wristwatch to check the time: ten o’clock; that didn’t seem right. Thankfully, Ronnie spared Brandon from any further confusion by explaining the situation.
“The watch is wrong,” he said, grabbing his and Brandon’s bags from the overhead bin. “We went ahead five hours- it’s really three in the morning.” Ronnie placed the bags in the vacant seat in the middle of the row and unzipped the one belonging to Brandon, then put the unfinished bottle of wine between a few layers of the younger man’s clothes. Brandon unbuckled his seatbelt and stood for what felt like the first time in days; he stretched his arms and felt refreshed, if not a little tipsy. “Now what?” he asked.
Ronnie yawned, “check in at the hotel, sleep-” he picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder “C’mon, kid. Get your stuff and let’s go.” Brandon shrugged and put on his messenger bag, taking a moment to fiddle with the strap so that it laid flat across his chest; he then looked to Ronnie, ready to follow him out of the metal death trap. It was incredibly hectic, but the friends managed to make it out in one piece and found their other two band mates at the bag retrieval area. The feat was wasn’t very hard considering that both Dave and Mark were well over six feet tall. After waiting for about twenty minutes (which consisted of a wide awake Brandon trying to start a conversation between his three older friends; he failed miserably, though, because said friends were tired) they found all of their gear and suitcases. Dave volunteered to find a payphone so they could call a cab, but Ronnie went instead because he knew Dave was tired and he didn’t want the guitarist to go off on the poor man that would happen to answer his call. This left Brandon alone with Dave and Mark; despite his somewhat excessive attempts at small talk Brandon still couldn’t get more than a couple of words out of the men. Eventually Ronnie returned and broke the silence, “It’ll be here in twenty minutes.”
Dave threw his head back and groaned, “that’s so long.” He drew a long sigh before continuing, “let’s go outside and wait, then. I could use some fresh air.” Dave picked up his duffle bag (which Brandon heard jingle again) and guitar case then headed for the door. Brandon followed the man’s example by grabbing his own instrument case and stuck close to Ronnie on the long walk to the exit.
“You know…” Brandon whispered to Ronnie. “We should do something fun.” Ronnie shot Brandon a confused glance and he could tell just by looking into the singer’s dark eyes that he wasn’t entirely himself at the moment; Ronnie must of bought some strong wine. Whoops.
“Brandon, we’re going to the hotel and then we’re going to sleep.” Ronnie explained while keeping a steady pace.
Brandon frowned, “but I'm not tired!” He whined loudly, somehow not catching the attention of the other two men.
“What do you want me to do about it?” Ronnie asked quietly. “Bran, it’s nearly four. There isn’t anything to do.”
“You don’t know that,” Brandon insisted. “We could walk around the city-I don't think we’ll get murdered. And even if someone does jump us, we’re from Vegas. We can handle it.”
Ronnie rolled his eyes, “Brandon, I don't think you could take a mugger-”
“Or,” Brandon interjected excitedly. “Or we could find a nice bar-”
Ronnie cut the singer off, “Brandon, I am not taking you to a bar.” He looked directly into the young man’s eyes, “You’re already drunk.” Brandon looked offended.
“I'm not drunk!” he said, just loud enough for Dave to hear. With a confused scowl, the curly-haired man glanced over his shoulder at the cause of the outburst but said nothing.
“Okay, fine then, you're not drunk--just a little tipsy. I’m still not taking you to a bar.” Brandon looked disappointed for a moment, but his face brightened again when he noticed the exit doors in the distance.
“Then can we just walk around the city for a little bit? This is where so many of my idols are from- I want to see it” Brandon’s wide eyes bore into Ronnie’s and the drummer couldn’t help but melt. Ronnie knew Dave wouldn’t take him and that Brandon wouldn’t ask Mark to go (even though Mark would probably say yes- no matter how tired he was). Before Ronnie could respond to the question, Brandon spoke again. “Just a little bit, Ron. You can sleep in tomorrow and I won’t complain about it, promise.” Using his free hand, Brandon held open one of the double doors for Ronnie, “we can call a cab later and meet Mark and Dave at the hotel.”
“A taxi is gonna cost money,” Ronnie reasoned. Brandon sighed in exasperation.
“I have money, Ronald.” Ronnie leaned against the airport’s stone wall and contemplated for a moment before making his decision.
“If Mark and Dave are okay with it I’ll go with you.” Brandon jumped in excitement and scurried over to the other two men to ask for permission to go. Ronnie didn’t hear the whole conversation, but did catch a few looks from Dave; he couldn’t tell if the expression on the guitarist’s face was one out of confusion or concern, so Ronnie just shrugged to the man. In return, Dave strode over to the wall Ronnie was leaned against while Brandon stayed by Mark and watched the encounter in confusion.
“He kept asking me if I would go with him so I caved-we won’t be out long” Ronnie explained. “He slept during almost all of the flight so I imagine if I run him around for a bit I’ll be able to tire him out again.”
Dave stood for a moment, soaking in Ronnie’s words, then spoke. “Promise me you won’t take him to a bar and get him drunk.” Ronnie was taken back by Dave’s compassion that had seemingly come out of nowhere. The first time he had met Dave and Brandon, Dave certainly didn’t come off as caring for the younger man. To Ronnie, it didn’t seem like Dave gave a shit about what Brandon did. That, of course, was in the beginning, and Ronnie eventually came to understand Dave’s and Brandon’s complex relationship, but what Dave had to say to Ronnie still slightly caught him off guard.
“Don’t worry about that,” Ronnie responded. “I've already talked to him about that. No bars.” Dave nodded, stuffing his hands into his pockets when he felt the cold English air. The two stood in a somewhat comfortable silence for a short moment before Dave spoke again.
“I worry about him sometimes.” He said, casting his gaze to Brandon, who was putting on a grey sweatshirt that he had retrieved from his suitcase. “You haven’t known him as long as I have and…” He paused. “Just take care of him, okay?”
Ronnie nodded and put his hand over his heart, “I swear I won’t take Brandon to a bar.”
Dave smiled, “Good. Now, forget we ever talked about this.” He turned back to Brandon’s direction to call him and Mark over. Brandon happily pranced over and Mark followed behind at a normal pace. The four of them stood in a spread-out circle and Dave fished through his wallet for a scrap piece of paper.
“What are you doing?” Brandon asked as Dave dove deeper into his wallet, trying to find a blank piece of paper of adequate size.
“You need the address and the room numbers, don’t you?” Dave said without looking up from is task.
“Oh.” Brandon stated. Ronnie heard Dave chuckle before calling Brandon a dumbass, but Brandon didn’t seemed to be bothered by it all. Ronnie assumed that Brandon had become so accustomed to Dave’s behavior that he could tell when the guitarist was actually being serious.
“Does anyone have a pen?” Dave asked when he finally found a good piece. Before Ronnie or Brandon could even look for something to write with, Mark had already somehow spawned one out of thin air. Dave didn’t think anything of it and plucked it from the bassist’s fingers to write with, using his wallet to write on. He quickly scrawled the address and two numbers, one of which was circled. Dave pointed at the circled number, “this one is your’s, Ronnie. You’re with Mark.”
“We’re sharing rooms?” Ronnie asked.
“We couldn’t afford four,” was all that Dave responded with. Ronnie thought that answer was good enough so he didn’t press on any further.
“Will you two be okay on your own? If you need us to help load the taxi we can stay until he gets here.” The drummer offered.
“Nah,” Dave swatted the cold air. “We’ve got it.” It was then when Dave noticed that Brandon had put his bag back on after putting the sweatshirt on. “You want me to take that, Bran?” Brandon looked confused for a second before he realized what Dave was talking about.
“Sure,” he said, taking his neatly folded hands out of the long center pocket of the sweatshirt. “Just give me a second.” Brandon turned away slightly and began digging through his bag; he sneakily pulled out the half-bottle of wine (which was only a quarter full) and stuffed it into his center pocket where it was not at all inconspicuous. The conversation continued on without Brandon but Ronnie noticed Dave’s face fall when he glanced back at the singer. Ronnie turned to see what had upset have and noticed that Brandon had put a fresh carton of cigarettes in his front pant pocket. Ronnie didn’t really understand why Dave hated Brandon’s smoking habit so much but he decided not to comment on it and the conversation continued. Brandon took the bag off and laid it at his feet on the cold cement.
“Ready?” Ronnie asked him; Brandon nodded. “Well, I’ll see you guys later then. Don’t let the cab driver murder you.”
“Oh,” Dave said in an almost evil fashion, “we won’t.” Ronnie had accepted that Dave was a freak a long time ago, so he didn’t say anything back to Dave’s comment. He and Brandon started down the sidewalk in the direction that Dave had said the hotel was in. After they were out of their other band mate’s sight, Brandon broke the silence.
“Do you have a lighter?” He asked out of nowhere. Ronnie didn’t smoke and had no other reason to carry a lighter, so he shook his head. “Damn,” Brandon responded. “Maybe we’ll come across a twenty-four hour store that would sell them.”
Ronnie chuckled, “when I think of London the last thing that would pass through my mind is a dirty twenty-four hour convenience store.” Brandon gave a short laugh to this.
“I guess you’re right,” the singer said, “I won’t get my hopes up.” Part of Ronnie was happy that Brandon had misplaced his lighter because he didn’t particularly enjoy the smell of cigarette smoke. “I'm not that upset about it though,” Brandon continued. “I brought the wine with me.” Ronnie’s head whipped back to Brandon’s direction in shock.
“Why did you do that?” He asked, noticing the bump over Brandon’s abdomen.
“Might as well, you know? There’s not much left. I thought we could celebrate.” the singer replied, which, in his wine-muddled brain, made perfect sense.
Ronnie watched as Brandon removed the bottle from his pouch, “what exactly are we celebrating?”
Brandon shrugged and removed the cork from the bottle, “It’s someone’s birthday somewhere.” Then the singer leaned his head back and took a swig from the bottle. Ronnie had to admit, it was kind of funny. Brandon held the bottle out to Ronnie but before the drummer could take it, Dave’s words repeated in his head. He wasn’t really breaking his promise, was he? Ronnie said he wouldn’t take Brandon to a bar-nothing about sharing a bottle of wine on the street. Ronnie smiled at Brandon and took the bottle, tasting it’s elegant flavor. Dave would probably never find out anyway, and if he did Ronnie decided that he actually hadn’t done anything wrong.
The pair strolled down the street, passing the bottle between them until it was all gone. Ronnie had a high tolerance to alcohol so he wasn’t affected by the liquor very negatively, but the same could not be said for the younger man in his presence. If Brandon hadn’t have had over half the bottle earlier, he would've probably been fine. Ronnie wouldn’t classify Brandon as drunk (because he knew drunk Brandon and this was not him), but if they had anymore to drink he would be. Every once in awhile the singer’s words would slur and he would find his path straying into Ronnie’s; but Ronnie didn’t think it was very serious. He wouldn’t even say that Brandon would have a terrible hangover whenever he woke up later, maybe just a mild headache.
The two had probably been walking for around thirty minutes when Brandon stopped dead in his tracks. Ronnie, too, stopped and looked back at Brandon with his head tilted in confusion.
“What is it?” Ronnie asked the singer when he made no indication that he was going to move.
“Is that…” Brandon started, “a photo booth?” Ronnie turned back around and looked at the machine that Brandon was pointing at. Tucked away in a corner by the entrance of what looked to be a shopping mall, a photo booth sat, calling out to Brandon. “We have to, Ron. We gotta.” Ronnie chuckled at Brandon’s strangeness and shrugged.
“Yeah,” Ronnie said, stepping back to Brandon and grabbing his hand, “I guess we gotta.” He led Brandon over to the machine and studied the sign on it; luckily for them, it also happened to take American money. After digging in his wallet for a moment, the drummer pulled out a five dollar bill and fed it into the machine (which took it on his first try; Ronnie really must've been lucky that day). He ducked into the booth and Brandon followed in after. When the singer sat at the bench, his hand immediately went to press the start button, but Ronnie stopped him.
“We need to figure out what we’re gonna do,” He explained. “We only get four, after all.” Brandon thought for a moment before replying.
“We’ll just do what feels right in the heat of the moment.” Brandon said seriously, looking deep into Ronnie’s eyes. The drummer decided that this was the most hilarious thing to ever happen to him, but he stifled a laugh in order to play along with whatever game Brandon was playing.
“Sounds good to me!” Ronnie exclaimed as he let go of the singer’s wrist, letting Brandon’s finger hit the big button in the center of the console.
The first picture went off without a hitch. It consisted of Ronnie staring straight into the camera and Brandon looking dramatically above it. The only odd thing about the photo was how Brandon had placed his hand right on top of Ronnie’s chest.
The next picture was Ronnie’s favorite. He had smiled for the camera this time, but just as the photo was taken, Brandon grabbed the drummer’s head and placed a gentle kiss on Ronnie’s left temple. It was completely unexpected, but Ronnie still loved every second of it. The third picture caught this perfectly, with both of them gleaming into the camera. Caught off-guard, neither of them really knew what to do for the fourth picture; so Ronnie placed his fist next to Brandon’s chin and stroked his thumb against the singer’s cheek. Once they were done taking the pictures Brandon giggled and proclaimed how much fun he had. Ronnie nodded in agreement and tore the strip of photos out of the machine, then scooted out of the small booth after Brandon.
“Now what?” Ronnie asked after they were both out. Brandon yawned- which meant Ronnie had succeeded.
“I dunno,” He said, sounding tired. “I guess we can head to the hotel now. I’m starting to get cold. I'm not ‘customed to this kind of weather.”
“What time is it?” Ronnie asked, peering down to Brandon’s red watch that still told the incorrect time.
“Four I think,” Brandon said after staring at his wrist for way longer than it actually took to read the time.
“That sounds right.” Ronnie responded. “I think I saw a phone booth back on the sidewalk. C’mon, I’ll call a cab.” After a few minutes of walking in the direction Ronnie thought he saw the payphone, they found it. Brandon leaned against the pole as Ronnie called the number that a chart on the phone said went to a taxi service. After another ten minutes of waiting the cab arrived. Ronnie opened the door for Brandon and then climbed in after him. About ten minutes into the ride the singer leaned over and rested his head in the crook of Ronnie’s neck; Ronnie instinctively (and in part due to his wine-drinking and tiredness) put his arm around Brandon and pulled him closer to his body. They stayed like that for the remainder of their thirty minute ride, only stopping when Ronnie discovered he didn’t have enough money to pay the driver and Brandon had to sit up to pull his wallet out. Ronnie heard Brandon mutter something about how he was supposed to pay for all of it but Ronnie chose to ignore him; the drummer had decided to willingly forget about Brandon’s promise to pay for the whole ride.
The hotel was beautiful, but the two band mates were so tired that they chose to ignore it for the time being. Ronnie pulled of the slip of paper that Dave had given him (which, under further investigation, turned out to be a receipt from Guitar Center) and led Brandon to the elevator. After pressing the button that lead to the tenth floor, Ronnie realized he still had a problem: Dave. If Dave was still awake he might notice Brandon’s… current state; Ronnie didn’t want the hot-tempered guitarist to get angry at either of them.
Ronnie turned his gaze to Brandon, who was humming a song he didn’t recognize; the singer was blissfully unaware of the conversation he had had with Dave. Ronnie suddenly felt incredibly guilty. If Dave was awake and noticed that Brandon was more under the influence than when he had left, Dave would inevitably become angry with Brandon and Brandon wouldn’t even know why. Even though Ronnie still hadn’t broken his promise, he imagined that Dave was implying not to let drink anything as well as not letting him go into a bar.
Ronnie was taken out of his thought when the elevator bell dinged. Once more he checked the room numbers Dave had written and led Brandon to the door that he was staying at. Luckily, their rooms were directly across from each other. Ronnie glanced to the crack between the floor and door of Dave and Brandon’s room and sighed in relief when he saw no lights on in the room.
“Listen,” Ronnie whispered to Brandon, putting a hand on his shoulder. “When you go in you need to be really quiet. You can’t wake up Dave, okay?” Brandon nodded and yawned for about the fifth time since they entered the hotel. Ronnie handed Brandon they key to his room that he had retrieved in the lobby before heading up. Brandon turned to put the key in the door, but struggled to do so with his shaking hands. Ronnie reached over to help but remembered the strip of photos in his pocket.
“Wait,” he whispered again, reaching into his pocket to give the strip to Brandon. “You can keep these.” Brandon brightened and gladly took the pictures, admiring them as Ronnie reached past him to unlock the door. The drummer turned the key slowly-as if any sound, no matter how quiet, could wake the sleeping lion inside.
“Thanks for taking me out tonight, Ronald,” Brandon whispered. Ronnie suddenly felt like he was on a date. “I really appreciate it.” Before he could think of a response, the singer stood on the balls of his feat and took Ronnie’s head in his hands, planting a short kiss to the tip of the drummer’s nose (he was aiming for his forehead but was too short to manage such a feat). Ronnie stood shocked for a moment until Brandon spoke again.
“Goodnight,” Brandon promptly turned and quietly entered the room he shared with Dave. Ronnie was confused. Did Brandon like him more than he put on? Brandon had kissed him twice within the past hour or so. Was he just still feeling the affects of the wine in his system? Or was it something more? Ronnie then remembered what happened in the cab; when the singer had leaned against him and they fit together like two puzzle pieces. The drummer’s heart fluttered when he imagined being romantically involved with Brandon. It was then and there-standing in a dark hotel hallway at four A.M.-when Ronnie Vannucci realized he had it bad for Brandon Flowers. Maybe tomorrow he could work up the courage to talk to Brandon about what had happened that day, but now he only wanted one thing: sleep (second only to Brandon, of course). He turned and unlocked his own hotel door, disappearing inside.