Fic: Misheard Lyrics
title: misheard lyrics
characters/pairing: Brendon and Spencer, with a special appearance by Pete Wentz as a lamprey.
rating: PG-13 for cussin'
summary: they've done nothing but talk for a month, and then suddenly it stops
disclaimer: lies. blatant lies and untruths. Any resemblance between this story and real events or persons, living or dead is on them, not me.
author's note: ...but its inspired by stuff like this how Pete has some well-documented impulse-control issues and he and Brendon are totally tour-BFF. And maybe Spencer is elsewhere when some of this BFFing happens. 1300 words.
written for bandom-flashfic's "misunderstandings" challenge
The weather was ominous. Everyone was expecting biblical rain to start any second, and the bands were all grumpy and crammed into too few rooms after the gates opened, no one wanting to have to make a run in from a bus or an outbuilding through a downpour.
Pete ambled down the hall, and swerved into the space they'd carved out. He shook Dallon's hand - like he had literally every fucking time that he'd seen him since the tour started - punched Spencer in the arm, and then draped himself over Brendon's shoulders. He spent 30 seconds slapping Brendon's hands out of the way until he gave up and let Pete knot his tie. When Pete was done mangling neckwear, he kissed Brendon on the cheek, patted him on the head, and left, shouting out well-wishes to them and everyone else backstage, and something about rain at weddings. Hopefully he was heading back to his own band, but far away from Spencer's was good enough.
Which made him feel like a piece of shit, because he loved Pete. Pete had been great, really, through all the press and the fan outrage and the label meetings. Pete was his friend. He still wished that Pete, with his goddamn Patrick and his goddamn Journey, would go the fuck away.
Brendon pulled his tie loose, bouncing a little on his toes, and smoothed out the disaster Pete had made of it before starting over, and then poked at his hair until after Ian and Dallon left. He turned away from the mirror with a sparkling grin that faded when he met Spencer's eyes. "What?" he said, uncertainly, and then repeated himself with a little irritation in his tone and a wrinkle in his forehead when Spencer didn't respond.
"You know it's just Pete, right?" There was barely a question in Spencer's voice, because seriously, they should have had t-shirts made up that said "It's just Pete." or signs that they could flash for commentary. "You remember that it's just Pete," he added wearily, because Spencer had really hoped that he was done counseling people about keeping an appropriate distance from Pete Wentz.
Brendon mostly looked confused. "Yeah man, sure," he said and then pushed away from the counter.
The problem was, if someone was trying to seduce Brendon, that would be the perfect way to do it. It wouldn't matter if Pete was just being Pete, and it wouldn't matter if Brendon said there was nothing going on.
If Pete Wentz was raised by wolves, he thought (with a mental apology to Mrs. Wentz. She must've tried.) Brendon Urie was obviously raised by a litter of puppies. So except for the dog-like tendencies, they really had very little in common. Now that they're all together again on tour, Spencer spent most of his time waiting for Pete to get a little too wound up and rip Brendon's throat open. Figuratively, he hoped, although literally was not out of the question, either. It was possible that Spencer was Old Yeller in this scenario, because he also spent a lot of time hoping for someone would shoot him and put him out of his misery.
Whatever. Spencer was not one for elaborate metaphors. He just needed some space, so that he didn't punch Pete in the face, and some time to get used to the Brendon-shaped hole next to him.
"Hey," he said, because clearly what his shitty mood needed was a new bad idea, "I don't think I'm going to go to the St. Louis show."
That got Brendon's attention. "What?" he yelped, and when Spencer just shook his head at Brendon's pout he changed tactics to guilt, "It's for charity, Spence, don't be a loser."
"Well I'm not feeling all that charitable at the moment, man," Spencer said. "I'm tired," he said, and it was none of Brendon's business if he left out the 10 different ways he could have finished that statement.
Like how he was tired of trying to decide whether he wanted to sit in the audience and watch Brendon perform, or hide backstage somewhere he wouldn't have to watch Brendon-and-Pete being the friends that Brendon-and-Spencer weren't at the moment.
"I'm tired too, okay, but I'm fucking trying!" Brendon snapped. "I'd like to see you make up a whole new show from scratch. It's hard. And lonely." He scrubbed his hands against his pants, stretched his fingers out, snagged a pick from the counter and clicked it against one of his nails in a nervous rhythym. He did just about everything with his hands short of reaching over to touch Spencer, and Spencer found himself missing three bandmates, not just two. "It's not easy, putting on a whole show by myself. I like it when I just get to sit there and sing."
Someone called their 5 minutes, and they had to wrap it up, one way or the other.
"You sure you're up for being a rock star tonight?" Spencer asked, even though it was stupid to push it further.
"I'm fucking trying," Brendon said again, quieter. "I didn't know it would be like this."
"Well if you wanted to go off on your own, you missed your chance when we renegotiated the contract." He didn't mean it any more than Brendon meant he didn't want to front a band, but the words were out there and there was no time to fix it before they went on, even if he knew how.
The space around Brendon solidified, and for the rest of the show there was a buffer zone between Brendon and the rest of his band, between Brendon and Spencer, that he couldn't get through.
On the bus that night, Brendon played the opening chords of New Perspective, over and over, and it clashed with the music of the DVD menu left looping in the background.
This new-and-improved Panic! at the Disco could suck Spencer's balls. That exclamation point was false advertising, is what it was.
~
"I had a dream that we had to ride ponies to record our new tracks," Brendon said the next morning, and it probably wasn't the strangest thing Spencer was going to hear that day, but it was enough to get him to look up from his phone.
"Not elephants?" It didn't matter. It was just important to say something.
"Of course not," Brendon responded. "The ceilings in the studio are far too low."
Spencer rested his arm along the back of the couch, and beckoned Brendon over with a twitch of his fingers. Brendon shifted in his not-at-all-casual lean against the cabinets for another 30 seconds before giving in and curling up next to Spencer on the couch.
"You said we had to be professional," Brendon mumbled. "You said it was important. I'm trying," he said.
"I meant don't tell reporters that you're producing midget porn, you idiot, not don't hug me."
"I'll always like hugging you best," Brendon said, slouching down until his head rested on Spencer's arm. "Pete won't let me make him a pretty princess."
"Neither will I," Spencer lied.
characters/pairing: Brendon and Spencer, with a special appearance by Pete Wentz as a lamprey.
rating: PG-13 for cussin'
summary: they've done nothing but talk for a month, and then suddenly it stops
disclaimer: lies. blatant lies and untruths. Any resemblance between this story and real events or persons, living or dead is on them, not me.
author's note: ...but its inspired by stuff like this how Pete has some well-documented impulse-control issues and he and Brendon are totally tour-BFF. And maybe Spencer is elsewhere when some of this BFFing happens. 1300 words.
written for bandom-flashfic's "misunderstandings" challenge
The weather was ominous. Everyone was expecting biblical rain to start any second, and the bands were all grumpy and crammed into too few rooms after the gates opened, no one wanting to have to make a run in from a bus or an outbuilding through a downpour.
Pete ambled down the hall, and swerved into the space they'd carved out. He shook Dallon's hand - like he had literally every fucking time that he'd seen him since the tour started - punched Spencer in the arm, and then draped himself over Brendon's shoulders. He spent 30 seconds slapping Brendon's hands out of the way until he gave up and let Pete knot his tie. When Pete was done mangling neckwear, he kissed Brendon on the cheek, patted him on the head, and left, shouting out well-wishes to them and everyone else backstage, and something about rain at weddings. Hopefully he was heading back to his own band, but far away from Spencer's was good enough.
Which made him feel like a piece of shit, because he loved Pete. Pete had been great, really, through all the press and the fan outrage and the label meetings. Pete was his friend. He still wished that Pete, with his goddamn Patrick and his goddamn Journey, would go the fuck away.
Brendon pulled his tie loose, bouncing a little on his toes, and smoothed out the disaster Pete had made of it before starting over, and then poked at his hair until after Ian and Dallon left. He turned away from the mirror with a sparkling grin that faded when he met Spencer's eyes. "What?" he said, uncertainly, and then repeated himself with a little irritation in his tone and a wrinkle in his forehead when Spencer didn't respond.
"You know it's just Pete, right?" There was barely a question in Spencer's voice, because seriously, they should have had t-shirts made up that said "It's just Pete." or signs that they could flash for commentary. "You remember that it's just Pete," he added wearily, because Spencer had really hoped that he was done counseling people about keeping an appropriate distance from Pete Wentz.
Brendon mostly looked confused. "Yeah man, sure," he said and then pushed away from the counter.
The problem was, if someone was trying to seduce Brendon, that would be the perfect way to do it. It wouldn't matter if Pete was just being Pete, and it wouldn't matter if Brendon said there was nothing going on.
If Pete Wentz was raised by wolves, he thought (with a mental apology to Mrs. Wentz. She must've tried.) Brendon Urie was obviously raised by a litter of puppies. So except for the dog-like tendencies, they really had very little in common. Now that they're all together again on tour, Spencer spent most of his time waiting for Pete to get a little too wound up and rip Brendon's throat open. Figuratively, he hoped, although literally was not out of the question, either. It was possible that Spencer was Old Yeller in this scenario, because he also spent a lot of time hoping for someone would shoot him and put him out of his misery.
Whatever. Spencer was not one for elaborate metaphors. He just needed some space, so that he didn't punch Pete in the face, and some time to get used to the Brendon-shaped hole next to him.
"Hey," he said, because clearly what his shitty mood needed was a new bad idea, "I don't think I'm going to go to the St. Louis show."
That got Brendon's attention. "What?" he yelped, and when Spencer just shook his head at Brendon's pout he changed tactics to guilt, "It's for charity, Spence, don't be a loser."
"Well I'm not feeling all that charitable at the moment, man," Spencer said. "I'm tired," he said, and it was none of Brendon's business if he left out the 10 different ways he could have finished that statement.
Like how he was tired of trying to decide whether he wanted to sit in the audience and watch Brendon perform, or hide backstage somewhere he wouldn't have to watch Brendon-and-Pete being the friends that Brendon-and-Spencer weren't at the moment.
"I'm tired too, okay, but I'm fucking trying!" Brendon snapped. "I'd like to see you make up a whole new show from scratch. It's hard. And lonely." He scrubbed his hands against his pants, stretched his fingers out, snagged a pick from the counter and clicked it against one of his nails in a nervous rhythym. He did just about everything with his hands short of reaching over to touch Spencer, and Spencer found himself missing three bandmates, not just two. "It's not easy, putting on a whole show by myself. I like it when I just get to sit there and sing."
Someone called their 5 minutes, and they had to wrap it up, one way or the other.
"You sure you're up for being a rock star tonight?" Spencer asked, even though it was stupid to push it further.
"I'm fucking trying," Brendon said again, quieter. "I didn't know it would be like this."
"Well if you wanted to go off on your own, you missed your chance when we renegotiated the contract." He didn't mean it any more than Brendon meant he didn't want to front a band, but the words were out there and there was no time to fix it before they went on, even if he knew how.
The space around Brendon solidified, and for the rest of the show there was a buffer zone between Brendon and the rest of his band, between Brendon and Spencer, that he couldn't get through.
On the bus that night, Brendon played the opening chords of New Perspective, over and over, and it clashed with the music of the DVD menu left looping in the background.
This new-and-improved Panic! at the Disco could suck Spencer's balls. That exclamation point was false advertising, is what it was.
~
"I had a dream that we had to ride ponies to record our new tracks," Brendon said the next morning, and it probably wasn't the strangest thing Spencer was going to hear that day, but it was enough to get him to look up from his phone.
"Not elephants?" It didn't matter. It was just important to say something.
"Of course not," Brendon responded. "The ceilings in the studio are far too low."
Spencer rested his arm along the back of the couch, and beckoned Brendon over with a twitch of his fingers. Brendon shifted in his not-at-all-casual lean against the cabinets for another 30 seconds before giving in and curling up next to Spencer on the couch.
"You said we had to be professional," Brendon mumbled. "You said it was important. I'm trying," he said.
"I meant don't tell reporters that you're producing midget porn, you idiot, not don't hug me."
"I'll always like hugging you best," Brendon said, slouching down until his head rested on Spencer's arm. "Pete won't let me make him a pretty princess."
"Neither will I," Spencer lied.