[fic] Potential & Limitless Grace - index + part 1/4
Potential & Limitless Grace
Band(s): Panic at the Disco, with appearances by FOB, Cobra Starship, Jack’s Mannequin, TAI … and others
Pairing(s): Shane/Brendon, some Ryan/Jac and Brendon/Audrey
Word Count: 36,067
Rating/Warnings: NC-17. Also, Dylan is a boy dog in this just because it is an AU.
Summary: Their audition with Pete is a disaster. Panic might have potential, but it’s not enough for them to get a record deal.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Epilogue
Bonus Content!
FANART
ART by mondegreen (+ bonus art by me)
FANMIXES
potential & limitless grace by battleofhydaspe
credo quia absurdum by adellyna (unofficially!)
bonus mix by battleofhydaspe i guess
Beta work by starsfell, matchsticks_p and delendas, feat. Mormon-checking by elucreh. Special thanks to dreamofthem for not letting me leave shit out, except the stuff that needed to be. I can’t thank any of them enough for their efforts in whipping this thing into shape - chasing down typos, questioning inconsistencies, and generally being the most helpful kids this side of the sun.
Title comes from Young Marks by The Mae Shi. This whole thing is one big love letter to pop (and not so pop) culture, so watch out for copious media references.
Con-crit is more than welcome.
See me!
My hair is dripping with nectar-
Starlings carry it
On their black wings..
- "A Love Song",William Carlos Williams
-
Once, when Brendon is very, very young his parents take him on vacation to Hawaii to visit his mother’s parents for a week. This is before - and when - his parents decide that his grandparents are a bad influence on the children, and before Brendon has learned to use his voice, and before Brendon has ever loved anyone outside of his family.
On the plane ride to the big island, Brendon, who is five, crawls across his big brother’s and his mother’s laps to stare out the window, fingers pressed to the thick plexiglass, the fog of his breath ebbing and waning against the windowpane. He looks down at the big, blank wash of blue and the lighter blue above it and the wisps of cloud, and he spends a lot of time sitting there while his mother holds a magazine above his back and turns the pages. Then he gets bored and starts fidgeting and drawing things in the mask of steam that his breath leaves and his mother says, “Brendon, quit it. Get back in your seat.”
He sits down again, kicking his feet and humming. His brother ignores him until Brendon starts poking him, slowly at first, then faster.
His brother tells him, “Stop.” Brendon doesn’t, and his brother pulls his headphones off and looks at Brendon with narrow eyes and his mouth curved downward, and Brendon is cowed. Brendon sits back in his seat and looks at the back of the seat in front of him. He looks to the left. His mom is still lazily paging through the magazine. The jet engines are loud but Brendon can hear the crisp sound of the pages being turned above it clearly.
There’s a glossy picture of a woman. On the facing page, a bottle of perfume. His mother flips the page. A city skyline with a box of text imposing on it, and on the facing page a wall of text with a picture of a smiling chef breaking in between paragraphs.
To the right, on the other side of the aisle, are Brendon’s big sister and his dad and his even older brother. His eldest brother is thirteen, and almost in high school. Brendon started school this year. He wonders what high school is going to be like.
A flight attendant walks past and Brendon’s hand catches on her skirt. She turns and looks at him, startled, and smiles once her eyes register him. “Did you need something, honey?”
“How long until we get there? I wanna see Grandma,” Brendon says.
“Soon,” the woman says. “Four more hours.”
“Four whole hours?” Brendon pouts. “How come?”
“Hawaii’s a long, long way from Salt Lake City.” She laughs. “It would take a whole lot longer if you had to swim! Think of it this way. At least you don’t have to worry about the sharks.”
“There’s sharks? Hawaii has sharks?”
“Some,” she says. There’s a ping, and she looks up. “Someone else needs me, okay? You let me know if you need anything else, sweetie.”
“Okay,” Brendon says. “Bye.”
Brendon settles back in his seat and closes his eyes and imagines things, then he opens his eyes again and says, “Mom, Mom, I want to draw stuff. Can I have some paper?”
His mom sighs and reaches under the seat and gives him crayons and paper, and pulls his tray table down for him, and Brendon sits and draws until the plane jolts.
A voice crackles to life from somewhere, omniscient and omnipresent, and Brendon listens because the man speaking sounds very, very wise and very, very concerned. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve encountered a little unexpected turbulence,” he says. “Please fasten your seatbelts and remain in your seats; it’s going to be a bit of a bumpy ride here.”
The sky outside is darker than Brendon remembers it. Brendon’s brother leans over and fastens his seatbelt for him, pulling it snug before fastening his own. Brendon’s mother puts her magazine away and folds her hands in her lap, left hand on top. Her wedding band shines.
The plane hops and bucks, shivering in the empty sky like it’s trying to shake water from its feathers. The wind howls in response.
A baby in the back of the plane cries, but Brendon wraps his tiny hands around the arm rests and looks straight ahead and is very, very brave. He’s not a baby so he’s not going to cry.
The captain apologizes for the inconvenience. His voice is humble - “Just stay calm, folks. I’m hoping I can get us through this.”
Brendon’s mom takes his brother’s hand and his brother takes his and she tells them to pray, so they do, and Brendon and his sister hold hands across the aisle and his sister is holding on to his father’s hand and his father is holding on to his brother’s hand and Brendon closes his eyes and smiles and listens as his mother and father talk to God.
-
When they make it to Hawaii, his dad says it’s a miracle and his mom says every day is a miracle and the two of them laugh and lean in to each other like they’re sharing a secret. Brendon feels proud, seeing the two of them, and he holds on to one of his dad’s fingers and follows along after them into a big van that takes them away from the airport. He sits with his siblings until they get to the hotel.
Brendon asks, “Why aren’t we staying with Grandma and Grandpa?”
“They don’t have enough room for all of us,” his mother explains. “They’re very old and have a small little house that’s just right for them, but not for all of us.”
“Okay.” Brendon nods.
Kara says, “It’s ‘cuz they’re poor, isn’t it?” Kara’s older than Brendon is, and smarter, too.
“They’re not poor.” Their mother frowns. “They’re just retired. They have to live on what they have left.”
“Besides, there’s nothing wrong with being poor,” Brendon’s oldest brother says.
“You have to judge a society on how they treat their poor and disabled,” their father says.
Brendon looks out the window. There’s sand, but also palm trees and bright flowers. A bird seems to hover in place as the van whips past it. The weather here is calm and bright, as if the storm that shook their plane never happened.
When they get to the hotel, Brendon’s grandparents, who he’s only ever seen in pictures, are waiting there. They wrap his mother up in their arms, folding her into a hug, and then do the same to his oldest brother and his older brother and to Kara. His father stands a few steps back and shakes their hands.
Brendon looks up at them, very seriously, and holds his hand out and says, “Hi, I’m Brendon.” His grandfather shakes his hand solemnly, but his grandmother laughs - her laugh sounds like his mom’s, only more tired - and bends down to hug him, his face buried against her chest. She smells like dust and flowers.
Brendon’s mom and grandfather argue in hushed tones a few steps removed from everyone, but then they’re back with smiles on and they all go out to dinner and Brendon eats a fish he’s never heard of and fruit he hasn’t seen before and he doesn’t remember any of the names, but he remembers for years how good it all tastes.
One afternoon, they all go to his grandparents’ house and Brendon plays outside while the adults talk, and he plays on his own because his siblings have all found their own things to do.
A little girl from the house across the (dirt, Brendon marvels) road comes out and stares at him for a while, until he smiles and says, “Hi, what’s your name?”
She introduces herself, and years later, Brendon can’t remember her name, but he remembers her gap-toothed smile and the dark fall of her hair. He remembers the curve of her neck and shoulder as she looks down from a tree that he scrambles up only after she’s well off the ground and laughing at him.
They sit up in the tree and look up at the sky and she points at clouds and he names what they look like - a duck, a rabbit being eaten by a ghost, Yoshi, a limousine.
His parents call him in for lunch, and he invites her with him and splits half of his food with her because there isn’t enough extra. He’s hungry later, but it’s okay.
They play together again the next few days, and when Brendon finally has to leave she presses a kiss to his cheek and tucks a flower behind his ear. The flower blooms big and bright orange, and when he touches it to investigate his fingers come away dusted with pollen that he later licks away.
It’s sweet, and Brendon wants more, so even though his parents are calling for him he asks the girl to show him where the flowers are from and they go and gather more and then finally Brendon decides he has enough and says goodbye, and years later he wishes he knew that girl’s name.
They never go back, though. He runs back to his grandparent’s house and falls. He’s cushioned by petals smashed under his arm, blue and orange flower stains pressed into his skin instead of bloody scratches. A few flowers are still intact, including the first one, so he only cries a little at the fall.
The drive back to the hotel that night is quiet, and his mother washes him off and douses his arm in alcohol when they get back to their hotel room, and the next morning they pack up and Brendon has to leave all the flowers behind except one he sneaks in between the pages of a coloring book.
-
“Yeah, well, fuck him anyway,” Brent says, when Pete Wentz doesn’t sign them. “We don’t need them.”
Ryan says, “We still have a chance. He said we’ve got a lot of promise.”
“Like that helps.” Spencer leans against the hood of his car looking out at the desert. Brendon’s leaning against one of the tires, eyes closed.
“We could try again. We’ll be better next time.”
Brent says, “Yo, Brendon, are you going to take up their offer to sing on one of their songs?”
Brendon opens his eyes and looks up. Brent’s sitting on a rock. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“You should.” Ryan kicks up a spray of sand with one immaculate sneaker. “It would help get our name out there, at least, even if they’re not going to sign us.”
“I’d need to get my parents’ permission to go all the way to LA, first, though.”
“We could talk to them.” Ryan’s standing, arms folded. He looks down at Brendon. “Any of us. If you needed back-up.”
“I don’t think they’d listen to - well, any of you guys,” Brendon laughs. “You’re leading me astray. I bet they’ll be happy when they find out.”
Spencer says, “They’re just worried about you. But fuck ‘em, right? They don’t know. It’s okay. They’re doing their best.”
“I guess.” Brendon shrugs, getting to his feet and dusting off his pants. He looks out - at the road, stretching one way, and the expanse of the desert, stretching everywhere except behind them where it’s broken by the gradual climb of suburban homes and then the sky-piercing brilliance of the Strip, and he runs the other way just because he can, because there’s too much energy in his growing limbs and he’s restless and disappointed and because he’s young and he can.
So: Brendon runs until he’s tired, and then he walks back, hands in his pockets. Spencer meets him part way, laughing and asking, “What the fuck was that about?”
Brendon shrugs, grinning. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”
“You’re such a spazz.” Spencer shakes his head, but he sounds fond, and Brendon’s glad for his friends.
“Don’t hate.” They walk back, and Brendon tries to follow his own footsteps as they go. He doesn’t even remember some of the stumbles that stretched his footprints sideways.
Spencer snorts and they head back over to the car. Ryan’s looking up at the sky and Brent’s texting someone by the time they get back.
Brent looks up from his phone. “Can we go back soon? My parents wanted me to come with them to the grocery store later.”
“Yeah, no problem.” Spencer shrugs, and they all pile back into his car. Brendon calls shotgun and elbows Ryan out of the way to get it.
The drive isn’t all that long - Spencer goes fast on the empty desert road until they’re back in the suburbs, and then it’s not that far to Brent’s place, and Brent’s place isn’t far from Spencer’s.
“Are your parents going to want you back early or anything?” Ryan asks as they pull away from Brent’s house.
“I don’t know, I can probably get away with staying out a bit.”
“I’m probably just going to do my homework when I get back.” Spencer makes a face but keeps his eyes on the road. “I’ll drop you off, no worries.”
“Okay.” Brendon slumps down a little further in his seat and rolls down the window.
“Motherfucker,” Ryan says. “Put the window up, the wind’s fucking up my hair.”
“Well, excuse me, Princess,” Brendon says, laughing. No one else laughs. He frowns. “Man, didn’t you guys ever see that Zelda cartoon?”
“No,” Spencer says.
“You’re the only one who watches TV shows about video games, dude, sorry.”
Spencer snorts. “You watched Pokemon, Ryan, don’t front.”
“That was when I was a kid.”
Spencer grins. “You played the card game, too.”
“I was a kid.”
“You were in seventh grade, man,” Spencer says. He pulls the car to a stop. “I’m just saying you don’t get to talk.”
Brendon says, “I’m going to like, force you guys to watch that show sometime, though. I’ll tape your eyes open.”
“Like in Clockwork Orange?” Ryan asks.
“Uh. Sure.” Brendon nods. “Like in that thing.”
Ryan rolls his eyes and waves a hand. “Go home and educate yourself or something.” Brendon gets out of the car, and Ryan does too, surprising Brendon with a quick hug before he gets back in and takes back the front seat.
-
In the living room, Brendon’s parents have a big piano up against the wall. It was there long before Brendon learned to play, and he’s sure it will be there long after he’s left home, something he’s getting more and more anxious for.
For now, though, he’ll sit at the piano bench sometimes for hours on afternoons when the band doesn’t have practice, and work on his own little songs. He doesn’t plan on ever playing any of what he does at home for the band; they wouldn’t get it, he’s pretty sure, or at the least Ryan would yell at him for not spending more time working on material for the band.
Ryan’s started cracking down on them all since Pete Wentz told them they had potential. Brent complains sometimes, and for Brendon trying to get there from the ward house on Sundays can be a hassle, but overall he’s still glad to have the band. He’s confident enough.
Kara and his parents are at temple one afternoon, but Brendon didn’t get a recommend. His parents like to remind him of this every time they go, which is more often since Brendon’s last recommend expired.
His band doesn’t have practice and he finished his homework an hour ago, so Brendon sits at the piano bench and lets the house flood with music that slowly rises until it’s spilling out of cracked windows. He closes his eyes and lets the music wash over him and it sticks to his skin and gets caught under his fingernails.
He shakes himself off when he’s done playing and spends the afternoon scrubbing at the stains the music has left on the walls, and for weeks after keeps finding little strains of it here and there - trapped behind curtains, between the leaves of houseplants, in the backs of drawers.
When his parents get home, his mom makes dinner and tells him to go wash his hands first before really looking at him. Then she takes his hands and lifts them close to her face to examine them, to peer at the grime under his fingernails, and all she can do is shake her head and sigh. “It doesn’t have to be like this, Brendon,” she says. “You know everyone would love if you could come to temple, but you’re never going to be let back if you keep doing this.”
-
Brendon flies out to LA on his own. Spencer’s parents pay for the trip, because Brendon lies and says his parents wouldn’t pay. The truth is, he didn’t ask.
Exploring the studio takes up most of his time - the singing doesn’t take too long, and Patrick is busy most of the time. Joe’s pretty cool, and Brendon hangs out with him and talks guitars for a while.
He mostly just wanders and lets himself get lost. The recording goes really well. He’s in awe of the professional equipment, the infinite expanse of knobs on the mixer and the delicacy of the microphones and the big, high-ceilinged rooms where they track each instrument in turn.
Brendon can’t wait until his band gets to record someplace like this.
They’ve got him doing backup on two tracks, which is one more than planned, but Brendon’s not going to turn down the offer. After finishing the first, he runs into Pete in a hallway.
Pete says, “You really are gonna be good some day. You guys just aren’t there yet. No hard feelings, right? I really respect what you dudes are doing.”
Brendon shrugs, offering up a smile because there’s nothing else he’s willing to give just now. “I know we kind of botched it when we were playing for you, but we’ll be fucking incredible by at least our second album, I swear. It’s just like, Spence had to babysit, and -”
“Yeah, I know, but you can’t make excuses at a show.” Pete puts an arm around Brendon’s shoulder and grins. “You’ve just got to get a little more experience under your belts, learn a little responsibility. Keep your heads above water.”
“Yeah.”
“Next time we play Vegas, we gotta have you guys open for us.” Pete laughs. “As long as you all aren’t too pissed I couldn’t sign you or whatever.”
“Yeah, no, of course, that would be awesome.” Brendon shakes his head, then nods, then bends over laughing because he can’t figure out what else to do. “Shit, yeah, dude. I - well, I’ve got to talk to the other guys first, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“But that would be sweet, man,” Brendon says.
Pete grins, then spots one of his entourage walking past and jumps on the guy’s back and shouting something about revenge, and Brendon feels very alone. He can’t wait to go home.
There’s still another song to go.
-
His first night alone in a Los Angeles hotel room, Brendon dreams he is sitting next to his five year old self as a plane is going down over the Pacific. He’s seated with his family: Brent is sitting on his other side, and across the aisle are Ryan and Spencer and someone Brendon has never met.
On the intercom, the captain is saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” as everything shakes. The oxygen masks drop down and Brendon makes sure his five year old self’s mask is on first. When he reaches for his own its petals come apart in his hands and he is left drowning in sound. Everyone seems so calm and unconcerned; Ryan is playing an acoustic guitar as the plane sinks deeper and deeper beneath the waves. Brent is not drowning, but waving.
The stranger in this dream takes his hand and pulls him to the surface and Brendon can breathe again.
When he awakes it is undramatic. He doesn’t sit up gasping for breath, just lies quietly on his side and squints his eyes open. It’s only ten minutes before his alarm is set to go off. Sunlight is already creeping sluggishly through the windows. He rolls to his feet, ignoring the chill of a carpet wet with dew, and goes to make sure he gets first shower. He’s under the spray and feeling smug before he realizes he didn’t have any competition for the honor.
-
Their first show is at the VFW, and five kids from their high schools show up. One is Ryan’s girlfriend, who’s brought her two best friends. One is a kid in Spencer’s math class who has nothing better to do tonight. The last is a boy from Brendon’s drama class who spends the whole show staring up at him, this piece of a smile working at his mouth from time to time.
Brendon grins back down at him but has to look away. He has to keep focused. They’re the first of six bands, so not a lot of other people are here, but there are still maybe ten strangers milling around in the back and a few guys from the other bands hanging around so they all try to give it their best to win what converts they can. Two of the kids hanging around come up two songs into their four-song set. One girl dances, briefly, until she is distracted by conversation with one of her friends.
There’s a smattering of applause when they finish, and Ryan disappears with his girlfriend while the other guys break down their equipment. The boy from Brendon’s drama class offers to help carry a few things outside, and Brendon shrugs and lets him, because they don’t want to hold the next acts up any more than necessary and if Ryan’s going to be like that then they’re not going to turn down outside help.
Brendon’s trying to figure out the geography of the back of the van. He stands, holding the case for one of Spencer’s drums in his arms, and tries to remember where it goes. He has a diagram in his pocket, but his hands aren’t free.
Years later, Brendon can’t remember the name of the boy from his drama class, but he does remember the brush of his knuckles against Brendon’s stomach before pulling out the diagram of how to load the van, and the stiff sweep of his hair like a crow’s wing, and the feeling his voice leaves in the pit of Brendon’s stomach.
Years later, Brendon will feel bad because the boy from his drama class keeps coming to shows and standing towards the front - not always the front row because eventually the front row will fill with vicious teenagers who will elbow aside any rivals - and he won’t ever remember his name. But for now, Brendon knows his name, and knows the feeling of his knuckles brushing against his stomach in that brief moment.
Brendon’s eyes are dark and half-closed, and he feels his mouth pull up in a smile. He gets the drum loaded into the van and touches the boy’s arm and says, “Hey, thanks.”
Then Brent drops two heavy amps to the ground, bending over with his hands braced against his knees and panting heavily. “How the fuck did we ever get these into there in the first place? Jesus.”
Brendon takes the diagram, says, “Uh, I think - that first one goes in its side over here. Wait, no, other side, because that wheel well. Yeah, like that.”
“Ugh,” Brent says. “This shit is heavy. I can’t wait until we’ve got roadies or whatever.” He laughs. “And groupies. Did you see that Linda chick Ryan’s girlfriend brought? I bet she wouldn’t even know guys like us existed if we weren’t in a band.”
“What, are you implying I’m not an incredibly suave chick-magnet?” Brendon raises his eyebrows, faux-affronted.
The boy from Brendon’s drama class waves, saying something about his ride being here, and Brendon ignores him in favor of heading back into the venue to help Spencer carry the last of their stuff outside. Venue security doesn’t want to let him back in at first, even though - if they completely ignored the fact that he was just up on stage singing for twenty minutes - there’s no way they could have missed him unloading earlier and reloading now.
-
They’re too young to play most Vegas venues, which relegates them to high school gyms and a nearby VFW post for a while, since they’re not quite big enough and haven’t made friends enough to play any of the limited all-ages venues even as openers. They start laying down inroads, though, making friends with people who have slightly more connected friends who know people with connections.
Brendon gets a job at a smoothie stand in the mall, which crunches his free time down to nothing - he is always either practicing or at work, or doing his homework, and he goes through the motions of attending ward meetings and hardly pays any attention to family home evening activities and never makes the time to try to interview for another temple recommend.
“I have to finish high school, Mom,” Brendon finds himself saying. “You don’t want me to fail, do you? If I fail, I’ll never get into college, and if I don’t get into college you know I’m going to have to leave with my band.” He doesn’t say how he plans to leave with his band anyway, whether or not he gets accepted into college.
“Which is more important to you,” his mother asks - “this band you’re in now, or all of eternity? You’re still so young, Brendon, don’t throw it all away.”
“Mom.”
He hugs her, burying his face against her shoulder. She smells like her mother, like dust and flowers, and Brendon breathes in and when he lets go he steps away and knows he is going to have to find a new place to live soon.
He knows he’s still welcome, but - he can’t. He doesn’t say this to her.
“I love you, Brendon.”
“Yeah,” Brendon manages. His voice is rough.
-
They have a show the same night that he moves out. He doesn’t tell his parents what he’s doing - he has Ryan sign the lease for him, because he’s a minor and doesn’t want his parents to know until he is gone and there is nothing they can do.
There’s barely enough time for him to throw his stuff on the floor of the apartment before he’s got to get over to Spencer’s to help load up gear for the show.
Brendon’s already tired and sweaty when he gets there.
Brent laughs. “What the hell have you been doing all day, man?”
Brendon shrugs.
“Moving.”
“Shit, dude, you didn’t tell me your family was moving. Where are you guys going? It’s not - you can’t quit --”
“It’s not.” Brendon pauses and laughs. “I got this sweet little apartment, dude, they’re not going anywhere. It’s still in the district so I’m not even changing schools or whatever. I’m just moving.”
“What? Why?”
Brendon still tells Brent most things, so why he didn’t tell him or Spencer about this, he’s not sure. “Thought it’d be cool.”
“Is it something with your parents?” Spencer asks. “You could have stayed in the guest room at my place or something.”
“I wouldn’t want to take Ryan’s bed,” Brendon says. It sounds a little harsher than he meant it to.
Spencer doesn’t answer that. Ryan turns on the car radio.
-
Brendon’s apartment is very small - he likes to say it’s two rooms, but Ryan argues that the bathroom doesn’t count. There’s a little half-wall blocking a little of the kitchen but even most of that is open to the living room, which is also the dining room, which is also his bedroom. He has a futon he found in the alley behind his apartment in a stroke of luck, and a sleeping bag he’d planned on using until he could afford a mattress, and a little folding chair. He has a toaster that he bought for five dollars, and after the night’s show everyone - including Ryan’s current girlfriend, a different one now - goes back to his apartment and they have a party, sort of.
Mostly, Spencer helps him unpack and Brent stares at the toaster while he makes toast and Ryan and his girlfriend make out on Brendon’s futon.
“Dude, not on the futon.” Brendon’s putting clothes into a little plastic chest of drawers but he stops to glare at Ryan. “I have to sleep there.”
“Aren’t you going to sleep in the bedroom?” Ryan’s girlfriend asks. (Years later, Brendon won’t remember her name, but he will remember what it was like to kiss her, and how small and soft her breasts were under his clumsy hands, the two of them sharing the cramped space of Brendon’s bathroom while Ryan slept outside on the floor of the main room. Ryan never finds out, or at least never says anything.)
“Dude, I gave you guys the grand tour. Did you see a bedroom?”
“Oh,” she says.
Ryan says, “You should have gotten a place with a bedroom. Besides - wait, did you think I was going to have sex on your futon? While everybody’s here? Gross.”
“Hey, I don’t know what you’re into.” Brendon shrugs. “You could have gotten into all kinds of wild and crazy things in college, with your, you know, exposure to the big, wild world out there.”
-
One of Spencer’s little sisters offers Brendon her TV. It’s pink and has Disney princesses on it, and she says, very seriously, that she’s too old for it and Brendon should have a TV because he’s a grown-up now.
Brendon grins. “So you’re too old for it, but I’m not? I’m, like, ten years older than you. How does that even work, dude?”
“But you don’t even have one at all, and that means you can’t watch the news at night.”
“Yeah, Brendon, you can’t even watch the news,” Spencer snorts. He lowers his voice, leaning over to whisper, “She’s been gunning for a new one for months now anyway. Just take it.”
“Well,” Brendon says, exaggerated. He leans down to look her face to face, eyes wide and expression solemn. “Since I’m a grown-up, I guess I’d better be gracious and accept your offer, little miss. I wouldn’t want to miss the nightly news.”
Spencer’s sister looks smug.
-
He sets the TV on the floor until he can go out to the convenience store for a box of Crayola crayons. When he gets back, he draws himself a bookshelf and night stand in Wisteria - the color matches his favorite hoodie - and a TV stand in Bittersweet.
-
The show with Fall Out Boy goes really well, even the part where Brendon ends up covered in feathers with his pants pulled down. He’s still not sure how that happened but he’s laughing about it for days afterwards.
Even at graduation, while he’s sitting watching the rest of his class walk, he has to try hard to keep himself from laughing until it’s his turn. He manages not to trip. He manages to keep his head held high.
He manages to have still not picked a school, even though a couple approved him. He’s favoring UNLV, because that’s where Ryan and Spencer are going - Brent’s doing community college, apparently, with plans to finish his bachelor’s at a real university after getting his associate’s, because he couldn’t get a scholarship and his parents didn’t want to take out loans to get him through.
Brendon knows where his parents want him to go even though he doesn’t talk to them very often anymore. He’s considering taking a semester off.
He’s thinking about the mini-tour they’ve got planned instead of listening to the closing speaker at graduation. Wherever he is, he ends up distracted, but for a little while at least he’s going to be spread just a little less thin. He can feel himself relaxing already - balancing his job and the band is going to be a lot easier than balancing his schoolwork and his job and the band, and taking his family out of the equation makes everything easier. That’s what he tells himself and it works out pretty well most days.
After the graduation ceremony, as he’s talking to Brent, his parents come over. Brendon didn’t even know they were attending. He’s not surprised, exactly, but it feels strange seeing them.
Brendon’s mom’s eyes are red like she’s been crying. Brendon gives her a strained smile. “Hey, Mom.”
She pulls him into a tight hug, not saying anything.
-
His parents ask him to move back in with them, but he doesn’t. He’s only just now getting used to living alone.
What’s weird is - he thought it would be great not having to clean up other people’s messes, not having to race for the shower in the morning, being able to hang around naked or in his boxer shorts all day whenever he wanted.
The worst thing about his apartment is little things - he doesn’t mind cleaning. Learning how long it takes a gallon of milk to go bad and how to fold his linens was easy. He’s not very good at cooking for himself yet, but he’s gotten better. What bothers him about living alone is how the sink is always just as clean as he leaves it in the morning. His apartment smells almost sterile, not like the dust and flowers of home. There’s only one toothbrush in the holder he took from home. The refrigerator looks empty with only food for himself in it; the tub never gets clogged by his sister’s hair.
It’s like, when he leaves - on errands or for work or practice - his apartment enters a state of suspended animation, and never quite wakes up even when he’s there.
Some nights, Brent or Spencer or Ryan will crash on his floor, hanging out and playing video games on the little pink TV that they have to sit right in front of to see properly. Brendon will complain when they move his shit, but secretly he’s glad of it every time he finds his spices out of order or toothpaste in the bathroom sink or a balled up receipt that didn’t quite make it to the trashcan.
-
They post on Craigslist - up-and-coming local band looking for help with video! in lowercase type. Going through the band e-mail’s inbox the next morning is pretty frustrating. There are a couple of photo students who have never shot film but really want to try, and a couple people just asking what band they are. A few people send headshots and ask if they can be extras, and a few more send naked pictures for reasons no one in the band can figure out.
“Seriously, that chick’s hot, but what the fuck?” Brent wonders, leaning over Ryan’s shoulder at the computer. “Or, wait, do you think whoever sent it shot the video of the naked chick? I don’t get it.”
“Maybe ‘band’ is a code-word for ‘we really want you to make porn with us’ on Craigslist,” Ryan says. He shrugs, pausing the video but not closing it as he goes back to scrolling through the rest of the responses.
“Ooh, hold up, this guy’s actually got a website,” Brendon says.
“Probably going to want way too much money, then.” Brent laughs. “We’re doomed, guys. Let’s just film ourselves running around in the desert or something.”
“We might as well not even have a video, then,” Ryan says. “Hey, and his website isn’t an abortion. Nice.”
-
After sending him the lyrics and a good-quality copy of “I Write Sins Not Tragedies,” they meet up with the filmmaker that weekend to discuss the concept and treatment. Shane’s a pretty cool dude, even though he vetoes Ryan’s idea of having the wedding filled with mimes.
“I get the visual metaphor you’re going for,” Shane says, “but it’s a little, I don’t know, heavy-handed?”
“You mean retarded,” Brendon stage-whispers.
Ryan shoots him a glare. “You said you liked the idea.”
“I liked the hat part.” Brendon shrugs. “Look, hey. Mr. Valdes. What’re you thinking?”
“Please, please, dude, don’t call me Mr. Valdes. You’re making me feel old.”
-
They shoot the video outdoors in a park that is dusty and dry with summer heat. The colors are supersaturated, everything just a little more than real.
Brendon doesn’t wear a hat. This girl, Jac, who Ryan’s been stalking on the Internet for the past forever takes a trip out to Vegas - on her own money - to star as the bride, which is probably a bigger deal for the band than it is for her. She has more Myspace friends than they do, and promises to post a slew of Myspace bulletins once it’s done.
She’s already blogged about traveling out to meet a good friend of hers.
Ryan still has a girlfriend, but sleeps with Jac anyway, the night before they start filming. As they’re standing around waiting to start shooting, he’s with his girlfriend, arm around her waist and smiling fondly. Jac doesn’t say anything.
Brendon kind of wonders just what it is that goes through Ryan’s head sometimes.
Jac’s friend Audrey comes out too and acts as an extra, which is nice. Some of their fans turn out for it. Spencer’s dad plays the priest, and one of Spencer’s aunts plays Jac’s mother.
The afterparty defaults to Brendon’s apartment, because there’s nowhere else to go. Ryan’s dad is home and his dorm room is tinier even than Brendon’s apartment, and his roommate is kind of a dick. Spencer’s house is bigger, but his little sisters live there and his parents don’t want the partying to keep them up.
Brendon’s the one who could get evicted for being too loud, but somehow they’re all still hanging out at his place with the stereo up. His futon is folded up against the wall and he put his sheets away in the closet, folded neatly up on the shelf.
Jac and Audrey bring alcohol - they have fake IDs - and Ryan doesn’t even complain in front of them. He sulks in a corner with Spencer for a while, but then his girlfriend distracts him.
Audrey has a red Solo cup in her hand and she sits down on the edge of the futon. Brendon sits next to her, and their knees knock together. She smiles at him, shifting her weight towards him. The cushion sinks under her.
“Jac tells me you guys wanted to do something with, like - mimes or something at first, huh?”
“Oh, god, yeah. That was all Ryan’s idea, I swear. He’s a madman. Crazier’n a bedbug,” he says, gesturing wildly and pitching his voice low.
“How crazy are bedbugs? I don’t think I’ve ever even seen one.”
“Are you implying I have?”
“What, in a fine, high-class apartment like this? Never.” Her lips thin in a small-toothed grin. Their knees are pressed tight together, a warm seam in between them.
Brendon looks down at his feet, then over at hers. She has pink heels on. He looks up at her, and she’s still smiling, so he looks away until she lifts a hand to trace light fingers against his jaw and turn him towards her. She leans up, her eyes closed. Brendon draws in a breath and thinks about saying something. He glances around, briefly, and his eyes meet Shane’s. Shane is leaning against a wall near the door talking to one of the guys he brought to help film.
So: Brendon closes his eyes and kisses Audrey. Her hand tightens at the back of his neck, fingers tangled up in his hair. He needs to get a haircut soon. He twists around and puts a hand on her knee - she’s not wearing tights and her skirt is short, so he’s touching her skin. Her leg is cool and smooth and dry, and somehow not as soft as he was expecting.
Her lips part against his, and she makes a tiny, tiny sound. She smells a little like the sweat of a long day outside in the sun, and a little like cotton candy and sweetness.
Audrey mumbles a “hey” in between one slow kiss and the next, and pushes him back, climbing onto his lap. He leans back against the cushion, bracing his hands on her hips. She is slight and bony but not fragile.
She is a living system of bone and blood and muscle, her composite parts made of cells made of atoms made of quarks. She is one of God’s crowning achievements and Brendon is bored. Audrey is breathing heavily. Brendon leans back. His eyes are closed.
They stop kissing, a mutual decision made at about the same time. She says, “What time is it?”
“Uhm.” Brendon shrugs, opening his eyes. “I’m not sure. It was something like ten, last time I checked.”
“My phone’s in my purse,” she says by way of explanation as she shifts off his lap and leans down to find her purse, dropped on the floor amidst the weeds. He can just barely feel her radiated heat but they’re not touching anymore.
“Ten thirty,” she says. “It’s still early. I should see what Jac’s up to.” She lifts her voice a little - Jac is across the room, and even with the music it’s easy to be heard. “Jac!”
Brendon gets up and turns the stereo down because the sound feels suddenly oppressive. Brent and Spencer are hanging out talking to Shane and the camera guy so Brendon goes and talks to them the rest of them the night.
“Way to go, bro,” Brent says, giving him the thumbs up.
“I know, right?” Brendon laughs. “Man, if you guys weren’t here I totally could have scored.”
“You should ask her to stay.” Brent elbows him in the side. “Offer to let her sleep on your couch.”
“The couch is my bed.” Brendon pauses, then grins, waggling his eyebrows. “Classy, man, classy. I’ll be sure to ask you for all my dating advice from now on. You couldn’t even get Spencer’s mom to take you to prom.”
Spencer says, “Don’t ever talk about that again.”
Brent says, “Look, dude, she’s a MILF, okay?”
“No,” Spencer says. “You’re disgusting.”
Shane laughs. “I’m working for literal children.”
“Pff, we’re all graduated by now,” Brendon says. “That makes us total adults. We could be drafted.”
Shane grins. “Uh-huh.”
“Unless you want to argue that the military is sending children off to fight and die in foreign conflicts,” Brendon says. “You could do that. If you wanted. Wouldn’t make you a big hit at parties, though.”
Brent snorts. “You’re the one who brought it up, asshole.”
-
The next morning, when Brendon wakes up alone at eleven in the morning, it hits him: he is done with high school. He’s in an unsigned rock band, friends with the guys in Fall Out Boy, just shot his first music video, and still works at Smoothie Hut. He still has yet to reply to any of his college acceptance letters. He’s thinking pretty seriously about learning to cut hair even though the only people to let him anywhere near their hair with scissors have been his family and himself.
The few open spaces of his apartment are occupied by Solo cups. He finds one in the bathroom and peers down into it as he’s brushing his teeth, blandly amused by the beginnings of plant-life sprouting in the alcohol. He wouldn’t have thought that would be a good environment, but then, his apartment seems to give rise to life in defiance of expectations on a regular basis. He empties the cup into the toilet before taking a piss, then drops the cup unto his vine-covered trashcan.
After he showers, he picks the mushrooms growing in the corner of his bathroom by the radiator and scrubs at the places where they’d sprung up, then weeds the dewy carpet around his bed.
He doesn’t have work today so he gets his keyboard out of the closet and plugs it into an outlet. He has to unplug his lamp to do it, but there’s enough light from outside that it doesn’t matter yet. He sits crosslegged on the floor, leaning over the keyboard with his headphones plugged in. It’s when he plays music out loud that things get most out of control - when he practices on headphones, it’s just a feedback loop, the output hooking back into the input in an endless cycle that’s sometimes hard to break.
This time it’s broken externally by the buzzing of his phone, and when he answers it’s hard to keep the fingers of his free hand from moving against the air. “Hey, so we were going to go by Shane’s studio and check out what kind of footage we’ve got to work with,” Ryan is telling him, and Brendon is trying not to pull more music from the air.
“Okay, sweet,” Brendon says. “You need a ride?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“I’ll be right over,” Brendon says.
-
The video ends up netting them some buzz on a few indie music blogs that didn’t give a shit when they first posted the track, but Brendon can’t blame them. The mix is a little tighter on this version, and the video - the video’s really good. It manages to be clever.
People start asking about when the album’s going to come out.
They start writing new songs, and then somehow they find themselves touring at teeny-tiny venues. They play a couple of acoustic shows at coffee shops, shows where Spencer sits sullenly on a stool tapping a tambourine against his thigh while Brendon croons into a microphone set up above his keyboard and Ryan sits awkwardly strumming his guitar.
Brent buys an egg-shaker.
Most of the shows are actual shows, though, and they go as far as Portland and Seattle and back around to Denver. Shane comes along, which makes the driving even easier to handle. He tends to take longer shifts than anyone, and when he’s not driving he’s taking pictures.
In Oregon, Brendon is up early in the morning. They parked overnight at a truck stop, and he gets out and leans against the side of the van and looks out at the grassy median leading down to the highway. A light fog drapes itself across the ground, twining itself around the sparse trees.
“Hey,” Shane says. “Want to go grab breakfast?”
“Sure,” Brendon says. He hadn’t realized Shane was up yet. “The other guys aren’t gonna wake up for forever, probably.”
“Yeah, I’d say we wait, but the sun’s hardly even up.”
Brendon says, “They’re just gonna miss out on meeting the sweet-ass truck stop babes.”
“I was thinking they’d miss out on the sweet-ass truck stop bacon, but whatever works.”
“Thinking about truck stop babes gets me through the day.”
“You let me know how that works out for you,” Shane says, laughing.
They’re walking a little too close as they head inside and their arms brush, so Brendon makes the conscious effort to keep a distance. He ducks his head, grinning. The woman who greets them has her graying hair up in a bun. Shane nudges him, and Brendon rolls his eyes.
When they’re seated and waiting for coffee, Shane whispers, “Sweet ass truck stop babes.”
“Hey, now, you don’t know what a chick like that’s like in the sack,” Brendon says back. “The, you know, quiet desperation of small towns.”
“The quiet desperation of - right. Aim high, little man, aim high.”
“It’s like Ryan always says. Shoot for the moon, and even if you miss you’ll land among the stars.” Brendon snorts, covering his face with one hand briefly as he laughs. “Man, seriously, I love it when he pretends he’s being original.”
“Oh, thank god,” Shane says. “I wasn’t sure if you guys knew or not.”
“Yeah, no, the Palahniuk thing especially,” Brendon says. “Yeah. He doesn’t front about that, at least. Just anything he thinks is obscure.”
“I can’t wait until he discovers The Beatles,” Shane muses, fiddling with his camera as he waits for the waitress to come back with their coffee.
Brendon laughs, startled, and Shane takes a picture of that moment. “Oh, shit, shit, you’re right. I’d - I have to let him find them for himself, though. When he thinks he’s, you know, made some big discovery. Man. Yeah.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Shane says.
Brendon finishes laughing and leans his elbows on the table, resting his head against one hand as he turns to look out the window. “I mean, I love the shit he writes anyway - I wouldn’t be in the band if I didn’t - but yeah. No. Ryan’s a good guy.” He glances at Shane for a second, mouth turned up, before looking out the window. “Sometimes I forget that he’s older than me, is all, you know?”
“Hmm.” Shane sits back, and smiles and thanks their waitress when she finally brings their coffee. He orders eggs and toast and bacon. Brendon gets pancakes with fresh blueberries and bananas and whipped cream on top, a big pile of them, with hash browns and two eggs on the side, and it ends up being nearly more than he can eat.
He’s just finishing when Brent and Ryan and Spencer trail their half-asleep ways into the diner and shove into the booth next to him, Brent on his side and Ryan and Spencer across the table and leaning sleepily into each other and crowding Shane.
Brendon offers Shane a hapless shrug before turning his attention back to his food.
Brent steals his spoon and starts eating what’s left of his hashbrowns. “You guys are assholes,” Brent declares. “Getting food without us.”
“Didn’t want to wake you up, is all,” Shane says. “Figured you needed your beauty sleep.”
“Especially Ryan,” Brendon says.
“Shut up,” Ryan says. Then: “Do you think they’ve got a power outlet in the bathroom? I need to straighten my hair. It’s getting weird again.”
“You’ve got to let me cut that shit sometime, man,” Brendon says. “Seriously, it looks godawful.”
“Shut up,” Ryan says.
“If you don’t want to be sexy, that isn’t my fault,” Brendon says.
“You wouldn’t know sexy if it bit you in the ass,” Ryan says.
“That doesn’t make your hair less gross, Ross.”
“He’s kind of right,” Spencer says. “Just a little.”
Brent says, “More than a little.”
Ryan’s shoulders slump, defeated. He leans his head on Spencer’s shoulder. “Fine, whatever. Chop my hair off. I’ll sue you if you cut an ear off, though.”
“It’s a hazard of the trade,” Brendon says, waggling his eyebrows. “At least I wouldn’t bite it off Mike Tyson-style.”
“I wouldn’t put it past you.”
“Man.”
Spencer says, “That wouldn’t be very vegetarian. Biting someone’s ear off, I mean.”
Brent frowns. “Does it count as hurting an animal if it’s a person, though? Like, what about - is breast milk vegan?”
“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?” Shane wonders, laughing.
Ryan says, “Brent. I don’t want to know what goes through your head. We don’t need those insights.”
Brent holds his hands up, defensive. “I was just wondering. It was related, okay?”
Brendon says, “I’ve got scissors in my bag, anyway. We could get this shit over with here and now.”
-
Ryan emerges from the truck stop bathroom shivering and new, hair still damp but clean and shorter now than it was before. They did the best they could to clean up the hair from the floor and to brush the excess from Ryan’s shoulders.
Ryan keeps lifting a hand to touch the back of his neck, now made vulnerable and bare. “I don’t know if I like it or not,” he says, gruffly.
“Thank God.” Spencer throws an arm around Brendon’s shoulder. “You just saved our reputation.”
“Seriously,” Brent says.
“Brent, man, I’m not sure you’re allowed to say anything about Ryan’s haircut,” Spencer says.
“Maybe later,” Brendon says.
Brent shrugs. “I can just go to Supercuts or something. I’ll wait until you get through, like, hairdresser school or whatever.”
“If I go,” Brendon says.
Shane looks surprised, briefly, but doesn’t say anything.
Ryan drinks the last of Brendon’s coffee and pours more from the pot left sitting at their table, and once Shane and Brendon have paid they all leave. The others grab snacks from the convenience store attached to the restaurant and they’re on the road again, driving for hours to the next show in the next town.
-
They release a 5-song EP with the video as a bonus, with a few of their older songs rerecorded in better quality and a few new ones. Getting that out and finished eats up months.
At least the cover photography is cheap; they get Shane to do it, and Shane’s willing to wait to get a cut because Shane has other work on a regular basis and he’s a nice guy like that.
It’s after the songs are recorded, while they’re waiting to get the tracks mastered and then the actual CDs and cases printed and ready for distribution, that things seem to take the longest. It only took a few days out in LA to record everything. Now it’s a matter of months.
They keep working on new things. After their second Portland show, Ryan discovers that there’s a world beyond pop-punk - Shane whispers to Brendon once, in the back of the van, “Countdown ‘till The Beatles,” and Brendon can’t help but laugh even though Ryan’s mid-sentence and Brendon’s pretending to listen.
Ryan says, “What? I hope you’re not about to argue that Picaresque is bad.”
“No, no,” Brendon says. “It’s a good album. Mariner’s Revenge Song, man.”
“I think we should do some songs like that.”
Spencer rolls his eyes. “What, songs about people getting eaten by whales?”
“What the fuck are you guys talking about?” Brent wonders.
“Oh, shut the fuck up, don’t tell me you haven’t listened to that. I burned you a fucking copy, man,” Ryan says. “It’s genius.”
“You mean, you’re glad you found someone who likes using big words as much as you do,” Spencer says.
“He’s literate,” Ryan says. “There’s nothing keeping pop music from being literate and intelligent.”
“Maybe we should just do a concept album and get it over with,” Brendon says.
“No, seriously, that’s a great idea,” Ryan says, actually sounding excited. Shane starts laughing. “I mean it. We could tell a story across the, you know, the span of the album.”
“Panic! At the Disco presents, some album about whales and shit. Hell yeah.” Brendon pauses. “As long as the concept isn’t more Palahniuk.”
“No, no, that’s played out. We’ve already done Palahniuk. He’s a genius, but we’d be retreading old ground there,” Ryan says. “Wait, shit, did I miss the exit?”
“Fuck,” Spencer says. “I was kind of hoping we could actually make sound check.”
“Look, we just have to turn around and get off in the other direction.”
It ends up not being that easy because their exit doesn’t exist in the other direction, so they have to turn around twice to finally get off the Interstate, and they roll up fifteen minutes late.
-
In the desert outside of Las Vegas, someone has built a factory with locked doors and locked gates that doesn’t seem to have any employees. It’s a clean cement construction, squat and hunkered down amidst the sand and scrub brush, with a paved road leading up to and disappearing into it.
The factory makes ink and at night its smokestacks spit out forgotten words, staining the blue sky black like a bruise deepening before the dawn makes it better.
The ink made here doesn’t fade once it hits paper, sucks in sunlight and chews it up into more darkness.
Ryan uses it to write his lyrics.
-
Ryan borrows Brendon’s van to go grocery shopping.
Brendon’s van is not back the next day. Ryan doesn’t answer his phone, so Brendon calls Spencer.
“He went to visit Jac or something,” Spencer says. “His girlfriend broke up with him.”
“Motherfucker,” Brendon says. “Can you give me a ride to work, dude?”
“I’ve got family shit all day, man, I’m sorry,” Spencer says. “Did he seriously take your car?”
“Yeah, dude,” Brendon says sullenly. “To California. He’d better at least get groceries while he’s there.”
“I’ll yell at him, don’t worry,” Spencer says. “I’ve got shit I can guilt him with, no problem. Uh. You could - see if Brent’s free?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Brent is not free.
Shane is, though. Brendon hasn’t talked to Shane much lately since the last mini-tour, so that’s kind of nice to hang out with someone he doesn’t see constantly.
“You got your car stolen by a kid who wears pinstripe pants,” Shane says cheerfully as Brendon gets in the car. “At least you’ll have a good story for the grandkids.”
“I’m just scared he’ll get distracted by, I don’t know, a radio ad using a big word and end up running my van off the road.” Brendon buries his face in his hands, sinking back in the seat. “Fuck. He’s usually good about this stuff.”
“He seriously didn’t mention anything that would imply he was about to, you know, go walkabout with the van?”
“Not a word. Said he needed to go buy groceries.”
“Dude needs a chaperone or something,” Shane says. “The mall, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So hey, your apartment kind of sucks.”
“Oh, thanks,” Brendon says. “I try.”
“And my roommate’s getting married,” Shane continues. “You didn’t let me finish.”
“Sorry, dude, I’ve gotten used to Brent hating on the place, is all,” Brendon says.
“When’s your lease up?”
“I’m going month to month right now.” Brendon shrugs. “Didn’t really feel like bothering with a lease. It’s easier.”
“Yeah, I feel that,” Shane says. “I’m just saying, I’m looking for a roommate, and my apartment is way less shitty than yours. The AC works, like, ninety percent of the time and everything.”
“The high life, huh?”
“Even got a patio,” Shane says.
“Post on Craigslist or something, it can’t be too hard to find somebody,” Brendon says.
Shane snorts. “That’s a good way to get someone crazy. No, dude, look, what are you paying in rent each month? Mine’s - half is like five fifty a month, with utilities. Higher in summer. I’d rather live with somebody I actually know.”
“Oh,” Brendon says. “Uh. Yeah, my place is like six hundred. So that’d be good. I - sure, yeah.”
“Sweet, dude.” Shane pauses. “I mean, maybe you should actually come by and see the place, first, but yeah.”
“That’s probably a good idea.” Brendon nods. “Okay. After - shit, can you pick me up from work? Sorry.”
“Fuck knows when Ryan’ll come home.” Shane nods, turning on the radio and flipping through stations idly as he drives. “Like, you’d hope soon, since he stole your car and all? But who knows. He’s a weird kid.”
Brendon goes to work. The day is long - it’s a Monday, and even though it’s summer it takes until late afternoon for the sluggish traffic to pick up and then it’s a hassle getting everything done in time.
He spills part of someone’s smoothie on the floor, just enough to make him almost trip, and one of the girls working with him laughs and doesn’t help him clean it up.
It gets so busy that he almost forgets his car’s been stolen until they’re closing and one of the girls is saying, “Ugh, my mom’s got all this shit to do today, so she said she was probably going to be late. It sucks. I seriously can’t wait until I can buy a car.”
“Yeah, not having one - shit,” Brendon says. “Shit. My car got stolen. I forgot.”
“You forgot?” she asks, laughing. “How do you forget that?”
“It got busy, I don’t know.”
“Do you need a ride?”
“Nah, one of my friends said he could pick me up,” Brendon says, rinsing off a soap-covered blender before pulling out his phone to text Shane.
“From your band?”
“Our photographer.”
“You guys have a photographer?” she laughs.
“We travel in style.” Brendon grins, and leans up - she’s just taller than him, her shoes a bit raised - to whisper in her ear. “Seriously, we need it. You should see the vest Ryan just got. Nobody can talk him out of wearing it to the next show; you should come. It’s got roses. I’ll put you on the guest list.”
She smiles. “When is it?”
“Next week,” Brendon says. “Hopefully Ryan’s back in town by then.”
“Where is he?”
“Uh - vacation, I guess. In LA. He’s the one who stole my car.”
She covers her mouth with her hand but that does little to cover up the laughter.
next
Band(s): Panic at the Disco, with appearances by FOB, Cobra Starship, Jack’s Mannequin, TAI … and others
Pairing(s): Shane/Brendon, some Ryan/Jac and Brendon/Audrey
Word Count: 36,067
Rating/Warnings: NC-17. Also, Dylan is a boy dog in this just because it is an AU.
Summary: Their audition with Pete is a disaster. Panic might have potential, but it’s not enough for them to get a record deal.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Epilogue
Bonus Content!
FANART
ART by mondegreen (+ bonus art by me)
FANMIXES
potential & limitless grace by battleofhydaspe
credo quia absurdum by adellyna (unofficially!)
bonus mix by battleofhydaspe i guess
Beta work by starsfell, matchsticks_p and delendas, feat. Mormon-checking by elucreh. Special thanks to dreamofthem for not letting me leave shit out, except the stuff that needed to be. I can’t thank any of them enough for their efforts in whipping this thing into shape - chasing down typos, questioning inconsistencies, and generally being the most helpful kids this side of the sun.
Title comes from Young Marks by The Mae Shi. This whole thing is one big love letter to pop (and not so pop) culture, so watch out for copious media references.
Con-crit is more than welcome.
See me!
My hair is dripping with nectar-
Starlings carry it
On their black wings..
- "A Love Song",William Carlos Williams
-
Once, when Brendon is very, very young his parents take him on vacation to Hawaii to visit his mother’s parents for a week. This is before - and when - his parents decide that his grandparents are a bad influence on the children, and before Brendon has learned to use his voice, and before Brendon has ever loved anyone outside of his family.
On the plane ride to the big island, Brendon, who is five, crawls across his big brother’s and his mother’s laps to stare out the window, fingers pressed to the thick plexiglass, the fog of his breath ebbing and waning against the windowpane. He looks down at the big, blank wash of blue and the lighter blue above it and the wisps of cloud, and he spends a lot of time sitting there while his mother holds a magazine above his back and turns the pages. Then he gets bored and starts fidgeting and drawing things in the mask of steam that his breath leaves and his mother says, “Brendon, quit it. Get back in your seat.”
He sits down again, kicking his feet and humming. His brother ignores him until Brendon starts poking him, slowly at first, then faster.
His brother tells him, “Stop.” Brendon doesn’t, and his brother pulls his headphones off and looks at Brendon with narrow eyes and his mouth curved downward, and Brendon is cowed. Brendon sits back in his seat and looks at the back of the seat in front of him. He looks to the left. His mom is still lazily paging through the magazine. The jet engines are loud but Brendon can hear the crisp sound of the pages being turned above it clearly.
There’s a glossy picture of a woman. On the facing page, a bottle of perfume. His mother flips the page. A city skyline with a box of text imposing on it, and on the facing page a wall of text with a picture of a smiling chef breaking in between paragraphs.
To the right, on the other side of the aisle, are Brendon’s big sister and his dad and his even older brother. His eldest brother is thirteen, and almost in high school. Brendon started school this year. He wonders what high school is going to be like.
A flight attendant walks past and Brendon’s hand catches on her skirt. She turns and looks at him, startled, and smiles once her eyes register him. “Did you need something, honey?”
“How long until we get there? I wanna see Grandma,” Brendon says.
“Soon,” the woman says. “Four more hours.”
“Four whole hours?” Brendon pouts. “How come?”
“Hawaii’s a long, long way from Salt Lake City.” She laughs. “It would take a whole lot longer if you had to swim! Think of it this way. At least you don’t have to worry about the sharks.”
“There’s sharks? Hawaii has sharks?”
“Some,” she says. There’s a ping, and she looks up. “Someone else needs me, okay? You let me know if you need anything else, sweetie.”
“Okay,” Brendon says. “Bye.”
Brendon settles back in his seat and closes his eyes and imagines things, then he opens his eyes again and says, “Mom, Mom, I want to draw stuff. Can I have some paper?”
His mom sighs and reaches under the seat and gives him crayons and paper, and pulls his tray table down for him, and Brendon sits and draws until the plane jolts.
A voice crackles to life from somewhere, omniscient and omnipresent, and Brendon listens because the man speaking sounds very, very wise and very, very concerned. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve encountered a little unexpected turbulence,” he says. “Please fasten your seatbelts and remain in your seats; it’s going to be a bit of a bumpy ride here.”
The sky outside is darker than Brendon remembers it. Brendon’s brother leans over and fastens his seatbelt for him, pulling it snug before fastening his own. Brendon’s mother puts her magazine away and folds her hands in her lap, left hand on top. Her wedding band shines.
The plane hops and bucks, shivering in the empty sky like it’s trying to shake water from its feathers. The wind howls in response.
A baby in the back of the plane cries, but Brendon wraps his tiny hands around the arm rests and looks straight ahead and is very, very brave. He’s not a baby so he’s not going to cry.
The captain apologizes for the inconvenience. His voice is humble - “Just stay calm, folks. I’m hoping I can get us through this.”
Brendon’s mom takes his brother’s hand and his brother takes his and she tells them to pray, so they do, and Brendon and his sister hold hands across the aisle and his sister is holding on to his father’s hand and his father is holding on to his brother’s hand and Brendon closes his eyes and smiles and listens as his mother and father talk to God.
-
When they make it to Hawaii, his dad says it’s a miracle and his mom says every day is a miracle and the two of them laugh and lean in to each other like they’re sharing a secret. Brendon feels proud, seeing the two of them, and he holds on to one of his dad’s fingers and follows along after them into a big van that takes them away from the airport. He sits with his siblings until they get to the hotel.
Brendon asks, “Why aren’t we staying with Grandma and Grandpa?”
“They don’t have enough room for all of us,” his mother explains. “They’re very old and have a small little house that’s just right for them, but not for all of us.”
“Okay.” Brendon nods.
Kara says, “It’s ‘cuz they’re poor, isn’t it?” Kara’s older than Brendon is, and smarter, too.
“They’re not poor.” Their mother frowns. “They’re just retired. They have to live on what they have left.”
“Besides, there’s nothing wrong with being poor,” Brendon’s oldest brother says.
“You have to judge a society on how they treat their poor and disabled,” their father says.
Brendon looks out the window. There’s sand, but also palm trees and bright flowers. A bird seems to hover in place as the van whips past it. The weather here is calm and bright, as if the storm that shook their plane never happened.
When they get to the hotel, Brendon’s grandparents, who he’s only ever seen in pictures, are waiting there. They wrap his mother up in their arms, folding her into a hug, and then do the same to his oldest brother and his older brother and to Kara. His father stands a few steps back and shakes their hands.
Brendon looks up at them, very seriously, and holds his hand out and says, “Hi, I’m Brendon.” His grandfather shakes his hand solemnly, but his grandmother laughs - her laugh sounds like his mom’s, only more tired - and bends down to hug him, his face buried against her chest. She smells like dust and flowers.
Brendon’s mom and grandfather argue in hushed tones a few steps removed from everyone, but then they’re back with smiles on and they all go out to dinner and Brendon eats a fish he’s never heard of and fruit he hasn’t seen before and he doesn’t remember any of the names, but he remembers for years how good it all tastes.
One afternoon, they all go to his grandparents’ house and Brendon plays outside while the adults talk, and he plays on his own because his siblings have all found their own things to do.
A little girl from the house across the (dirt, Brendon marvels) road comes out and stares at him for a while, until he smiles and says, “Hi, what’s your name?”
She introduces herself, and years later, Brendon can’t remember her name, but he remembers her gap-toothed smile and the dark fall of her hair. He remembers the curve of her neck and shoulder as she looks down from a tree that he scrambles up only after she’s well off the ground and laughing at him.
They sit up in the tree and look up at the sky and she points at clouds and he names what they look like - a duck, a rabbit being eaten by a ghost, Yoshi, a limousine.
His parents call him in for lunch, and he invites her with him and splits half of his food with her because there isn’t enough extra. He’s hungry later, but it’s okay.
They play together again the next few days, and when Brendon finally has to leave she presses a kiss to his cheek and tucks a flower behind his ear. The flower blooms big and bright orange, and when he touches it to investigate his fingers come away dusted with pollen that he later licks away.
It’s sweet, and Brendon wants more, so even though his parents are calling for him he asks the girl to show him where the flowers are from and they go and gather more and then finally Brendon decides he has enough and says goodbye, and years later he wishes he knew that girl’s name.
They never go back, though. He runs back to his grandparent’s house and falls. He’s cushioned by petals smashed under his arm, blue and orange flower stains pressed into his skin instead of bloody scratches. A few flowers are still intact, including the first one, so he only cries a little at the fall.
The drive back to the hotel that night is quiet, and his mother washes him off and douses his arm in alcohol when they get back to their hotel room, and the next morning they pack up and Brendon has to leave all the flowers behind except one he sneaks in between the pages of a coloring book.
-
“Yeah, well, fuck him anyway,” Brent says, when Pete Wentz doesn’t sign them. “We don’t need them.”
Ryan says, “We still have a chance. He said we’ve got a lot of promise.”
“Like that helps.” Spencer leans against the hood of his car looking out at the desert. Brendon’s leaning against one of the tires, eyes closed.
“We could try again. We’ll be better next time.”
Brent says, “Yo, Brendon, are you going to take up their offer to sing on one of their songs?”
Brendon opens his eyes and looks up. Brent’s sitting on a rock. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“You should.” Ryan kicks up a spray of sand with one immaculate sneaker. “It would help get our name out there, at least, even if they’re not going to sign us.”
“I’d need to get my parents’ permission to go all the way to LA, first, though.”
“We could talk to them.” Ryan’s standing, arms folded. He looks down at Brendon. “Any of us. If you needed back-up.”
“I don’t think they’d listen to - well, any of you guys,” Brendon laughs. “You’re leading me astray. I bet they’ll be happy when they find out.”
Spencer says, “They’re just worried about you. But fuck ‘em, right? They don’t know. It’s okay. They’re doing their best.”
“I guess.” Brendon shrugs, getting to his feet and dusting off his pants. He looks out - at the road, stretching one way, and the expanse of the desert, stretching everywhere except behind them where it’s broken by the gradual climb of suburban homes and then the sky-piercing brilliance of the Strip, and he runs the other way just because he can, because there’s too much energy in his growing limbs and he’s restless and disappointed and because he’s young and he can.
So: Brendon runs until he’s tired, and then he walks back, hands in his pockets. Spencer meets him part way, laughing and asking, “What the fuck was that about?”
Brendon shrugs, grinning. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”
“You’re such a spazz.” Spencer shakes his head, but he sounds fond, and Brendon’s glad for his friends.
“Don’t hate.” They walk back, and Brendon tries to follow his own footsteps as they go. He doesn’t even remember some of the stumbles that stretched his footprints sideways.
Spencer snorts and they head back over to the car. Ryan’s looking up at the sky and Brent’s texting someone by the time they get back.
Brent looks up from his phone. “Can we go back soon? My parents wanted me to come with them to the grocery store later.”
“Yeah, no problem.” Spencer shrugs, and they all pile back into his car. Brendon calls shotgun and elbows Ryan out of the way to get it.
The drive isn’t all that long - Spencer goes fast on the empty desert road until they’re back in the suburbs, and then it’s not that far to Brent’s place, and Brent’s place isn’t far from Spencer’s.
“Are your parents going to want you back early or anything?” Ryan asks as they pull away from Brent’s house.
“I don’t know, I can probably get away with staying out a bit.”
“I’m probably just going to do my homework when I get back.” Spencer makes a face but keeps his eyes on the road. “I’ll drop you off, no worries.”
“Okay.” Brendon slumps down a little further in his seat and rolls down the window.
“Motherfucker,” Ryan says. “Put the window up, the wind’s fucking up my hair.”
“Well, excuse me, Princess,” Brendon says, laughing. No one else laughs. He frowns. “Man, didn’t you guys ever see that Zelda cartoon?”
“No,” Spencer says.
“You’re the only one who watches TV shows about video games, dude, sorry.”
Spencer snorts. “You watched Pokemon, Ryan, don’t front.”
“That was when I was a kid.”
Spencer grins. “You played the card game, too.”
“I was a kid.”
“You were in seventh grade, man,” Spencer says. He pulls the car to a stop. “I’m just saying you don’t get to talk.”
Brendon says, “I’m going to like, force you guys to watch that show sometime, though. I’ll tape your eyes open.”
“Like in Clockwork Orange?” Ryan asks.
“Uh. Sure.” Brendon nods. “Like in that thing.”
Ryan rolls his eyes and waves a hand. “Go home and educate yourself or something.” Brendon gets out of the car, and Ryan does too, surprising Brendon with a quick hug before he gets back in and takes back the front seat.
-
In the living room, Brendon’s parents have a big piano up against the wall. It was there long before Brendon learned to play, and he’s sure it will be there long after he’s left home, something he’s getting more and more anxious for.
For now, though, he’ll sit at the piano bench sometimes for hours on afternoons when the band doesn’t have practice, and work on his own little songs. He doesn’t plan on ever playing any of what he does at home for the band; they wouldn’t get it, he’s pretty sure, or at the least Ryan would yell at him for not spending more time working on material for the band.
Ryan’s started cracking down on them all since Pete Wentz told them they had potential. Brent complains sometimes, and for Brendon trying to get there from the ward house on Sundays can be a hassle, but overall he’s still glad to have the band. He’s confident enough.
Kara and his parents are at temple one afternoon, but Brendon didn’t get a recommend. His parents like to remind him of this every time they go, which is more often since Brendon’s last recommend expired.
His band doesn’t have practice and he finished his homework an hour ago, so Brendon sits at the piano bench and lets the house flood with music that slowly rises until it’s spilling out of cracked windows. He closes his eyes and lets the music wash over him and it sticks to his skin and gets caught under his fingernails.
He shakes himself off when he’s done playing and spends the afternoon scrubbing at the stains the music has left on the walls, and for weeks after keeps finding little strains of it here and there - trapped behind curtains, between the leaves of houseplants, in the backs of drawers.
When his parents get home, his mom makes dinner and tells him to go wash his hands first before really looking at him. Then she takes his hands and lifts them close to her face to examine them, to peer at the grime under his fingernails, and all she can do is shake her head and sigh. “It doesn’t have to be like this, Brendon,” she says. “You know everyone would love if you could come to temple, but you’re never going to be let back if you keep doing this.”
-
Brendon flies out to LA on his own. Spencer’s parents pay for the trip, because Brendon lies and says his parents wouldn’t pay. The truth is, he didn’t ask.
Exploring the studio takes up most of his time - the singing doesn’t take too long, and Patrick is busy most of the time. Joe’s pretty cool, and Brendon hangs out with him and talks guitars for a while.
He mostly just wanders and lets himself get lost. The recording goes really well. He’s in awe of the professional equipment, the infinite expanse of knobs on the mixer and the delicacy of the microphones and the big, high-ceilinged rooms where they track each instrument in turn.
Brendon can’t wait until his band gets to record someplace like this.
They’ve got him doing backup on two tracks, which is one more than planned, but Brendon’s not going to turn down the offer. After finishing the first, he runs into Pete in a hallway.
Pete says, “You really are gonna be good some day. You guys just aren’t there yet. No hard feelings, right? I really respect what you dudes are doing.”
Brendon shrugs, offering up a smile because there’s nothing else he’s willing to give just now. “I know we kind of botched it when we were playing for you, but we’ll be fucking incredible by at least our second album, I swear. It’s just like, Spence had to babysit, and -”
“Yeah, I know, but you can’t make excuses at a show.” Pete puts an arm around Brendon’s shoulder and grins. “You’ve just got to get a little more experience under your belts, learn a little responsibility. Keep your heads above water.”
“Yeah.”
“Next time we play Vegas, we gotta have you guys open for us.” Pete laughs. “As long as you all aren’t too pissed I couldn’t sign you or whatever.”
“Yeah, no, of course, that would be awesome.” Brendon shakes his head, then nods, then bends over laughing because he can’t figure out what else to do. “Shit, yeah, dude. I - well, I’ve got to talk to the other guys first, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“But that would be sweet, man,” Brendon says.
Pete grins, then spots one of his entourage walking past and jumps on the guy’s back and shouting something about revenge, and Brendon feels very alone. He can’t wait to go home.
There’s still another song to go.
-
His first night alone in a Los Angeles hotel room, Brendon dreams he is sitting next to his five year old self as a plane is going down over the Pacific. He’s seated with his family: Brent is sitting on his other side, and across the aisle are Ryan and Spencer and someone Brendon has never met.
On the intercom, the captain is saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” as everything shakes. The oxygen masks drop down and Brendon makes sure his five year old self’s mask is on first. When he reaches for his own its petals come apart in his hands and he is left drowning in sound. Everyone seems so calm and unconcerned; Ryan is playing an acoustic guitar as the plane sinks deeper and deeper beneath the waves. Brent is not drowning, but waving.
The stranger in this dream takes his hand and pulls him to the surface and Brendon can breathe again.
When he awakes it is undramatic. He doesn’t sit up gasping for breath, just lies quietly on his side and squints his eyes open. It’s only ten minutes before his alarm is set to go off. Sunlight is already creeping sluggishly through the windows. He rolls to his feet, ignoring the chill of a carpet wet with dew, and goes to make sure he gets first shower. He’s under the spray and feeling smug before he realizes he didn’t have any competition for the honor.
-
Their first show is at the VFW, and five kids from their high schools show up. One is Ryan’s girlfriend, who’s brought her two best friends. One is a kid in Spencer’s math class who has nothing better to do tonight. The last is a boy from Brendon’s drama class who spends the whole show staring up at him, this piece of a smile working at his mouth from time to time.
Brendon grins back down at him but has to look away. He has to keep focused. They’re the first of six bands, so not a lot of other people are here, but there are still maybe ten strangers milling around in the back and a few guys from the other bands hanging around so they all try to give it their best to win what converts they can. Two of the kids hanging around come up two songs into their four-song set. One girl dances, briefly, until she is distracted by conversation with one of her friends.
There’s a smattering of applause when they finish, and Ryan disappears with his girlfriend while the other guys break down their equipment. The boy from Brendon’s drama class offers to help carry a few things outside, and Brendon shrugs and lets him, because they don’t want to hold the next acts up any more than necessary and if Ryan’s going to be like that then they’re not going to turn down outside help.
Brendon’s trying to figure out the geography of the back of the van. He stands, holding the case for one of Spencer’s drums in his arms, and tries to remember where it goes. He has a diagram in his pocket, but his hands aren’t free.
Years later, Brendon can’t remember the name of the boy from his drama class, but he does remember the brush of his knuckles against Brendon’s stomach before pulling out the diagram of how to load the van, and the stiff sweep of his hair like a crow’s wing, and the feeling his voice leaves in the pit of Brendon’s stomach.
Years later, Brendon will feel bad because the boy from his drama class keeps coming to shows and standing towards the front - not always the front row because eventually the front row will fill with vicious teenagers who will elbow aside any rivals - and he won’t ever remember his name. But for now, Brendon knows his name, and knows the feeling of his knuckles brushing against his stomach in that brief moment.
Brendon’s eyes are dark and half-closed, and he feels his mouth pull up in a smile. He gets the drum loaded into the van and touches the boy’s arm and says, “Hey, thanks.”
Then Brent drops two heavy amps to the ground, bending over with his hands braced against his knees and panting heavily. “How the fuck did we ever get these into there in the first place? Jesus.”
Brendon takes the diagram, says, “Uh, I think - that first one goes in its side over here. Wait, no, other side, because that wheel well. Yeah, like that.”
“Ugh,” Brent says. “This shit is heavy. I can’t wait until we’ve got roadies or whatever.” He laughs. “And groupies. Did you see that Linda chick Ryan’s girlfriend brought? I bet she wouldn’t even know guys like us existed if we weren’t in a band.”
“What, are you implying I’m not an incredibly suave chick-magnet?” Brendon raises his eyebrows, faux-affronted.
The boy from Brendon’s drama class waves, saying something about his ride being here, and Brendon ignores him in favor of heading back into the venue to help Spencer carry the last of their stuff outside. Venue security doesn’t want to let him back in at first, even though - if they completely ignored the fact that he was just up on stage singing for twenty minutes - there’s no way they could have missed him unloading earlier and reloading now.
-
They’re too young to play most Vegas venues, which relegates them to high school gyms and a nearby VFW post for a while, since they’re not quite big enough and haven’t made friends enough to play any of the limited all-ages venues even as openers. They start laying down inroads, though, making friends with people who have slightly more connected friends who know people with connections.
Brendon gets a job at a smoothie stand in the mall, which crunches his free time down to nothing - he is always either practicing or at work, or doing his homework, and he goes through the motions of attending ward meetings and hardly pays any attention to family home evening activities and never makes the time to try to interview for another temple recommend.
“I have to finish high school, Mom,” Brendon finds himself saying. “You don’t want me to fail, do you? If I fail, I’ll never get into college, and if I don’t get into college you know I’m going to have to leave with my band.” He doesn’t say how he plans to leave with his band anyway, whether or not he gets accepted into college.
“Which is more important to you,” his mother asks - “this band you’re in now, or all of eternity? You’re still so young, Brendon, don’t throw it all away.”
“Mom.”
He hugs her, burying his face against her shoulder. She smells like her mother, like dust and flowers, and Brendon breathes in and when he lets go he steps away and knows he is going to have to find a new place to live soon.
He knows he’s still welcome, but - he can’t. He doesn’t say this to her.
“I love you, Brendon.”
“Yeah,” Brendon manages. His voice is rough.
-
They have a show the same night that he moves out. He doesn’t tell his parents what he’s doing - he has Ryan sign the lease for him, because he’s a minor and doesn’t want his parents to know until he is gone and there is nothing they can do.
There’s barely enough time for him to throw his stuff on the floor of the apartment before he’s got to get over to Spencer’s to help load up gear for the show.
Brendon’s already tired and sweaty when he gets there.
Brent laughs. “What the hell have you been doing all day, man?”
Brendon shrugs.
“Moving.”
“Shit, dude, you didn’t tell me your family was moving. Where are you guys going? It’s not - you can’t quit --”
“It’s not.” Brendon pauses and laughs. “I got this sweet little apartment, dude, they’re not going anywhere. It’s still in the district so I’m not even changing schools or whatever. I’m just moving.”
“What? Why?”
Brendon still tells Brent most things, so why he didn’t tell him or Spencer about this, he’s not sure. “Thought it’d be cool.”
“Is it something with your parents?” Spencer asks. “You could have stayed in the guest room at my place or something.”
“I wouldn’t want to take Ryan’s bed,” Brendon says. It sounds a little harsher than he meant it to.
Spencer doesn’t answer that. Ryan turns on the car radio.
-
Brendon’s apartment is very small - he likes to say it’s two rooms, but Ryan argues that the bathroom doesn’t count. There’s a little half-wall blocking a little of the kitchen but even most of that is open to the living room, which is also the dining room, which is also his bedroom. He has a futon he found in the alley behind his apartment in a stroke of luck, and a sleeping bag he’d planned on using until he could afford a mattress, and a little folding chair. He has a toaster that he bought for five dollars, and after the night’s show everyone - including Ryan’s current girlfriend, a different one now - goes back to his apartment and they have a party, sort of.
Mostly, Spencer helps him unpack and Brent stares at the toaster while he makes toast and Ryan and his girlfriend make out on Brendon’s futon.
“Dude, not on the futon.” Brendon’s putting clothes into a little plastic chest of drawers but he stops to glare at Ryan. “I have to sleep there.”
“Aren’t you going to sleep in the bedroom?” Ryan’s girlfriend asks. (Years later, Brendon won’t remember her name, but he will remember what it was like to kiss her, and how small and soft her breasts were under his clumsy hands, the two of them sharing the cramped space of Brendon’s bathroom while Ryan slept outside on the floor of the main room. Ryan never finds out, or at least never says anything.)
“Dude, I gave you guys the grand tour. Did you see a bedroom?”
“Oh,” she says.
Ryan says, “You should have gotten a place with a bedroom. Besides - wait, did you think I was going to have sex on your futon? While everybody’s here? Gross.”
“Hey, I don’t know what you’re into.” Brendon shrugs. “You could have gotten into all kinds of wild and crazy things in college, with your, you know, exposure to the big, wild world out there.”
-
One of Spencer’s little sisters offers Brendon her TV. It’s pink and has Disney princesses on it, and she says, very seriously, that she’s too old for it and Brendon should have a TV because he’s a grown-up now.
Brendon grins. “So you’re too old for it, but I’m not? I’m, like, ten years older than you. How does that even work, dude?”
“But you don’t even have one at all, and that means you can’t watch the news at night.”
“Yeah, Brendon, you can’t even watch the news,” Spencer snorts. He lowers his voice, leaning over to whisper, “She’s been gunning for a new one for months now anyway. Just take it.”
“Well,” Brendon says, exaggerated. He leans down to look her face to face, eyes wide and expression solemn. “Since I’m a grown-up, I guess I’d better be gracious and accept your offer, little miss. I wouldn’t want to miss the nightly news.”
Spencer’s sister looks smug.
-
He sets the TV on the floor until he can go out to the convenience store for a box of Crayola crayons. When he gets back, he draws himself a bookshelf and night stand in Wisteria - the color matches his favorite hoodie - and a TV stand in Bittersweet.
-
The show with Fall Out Boy goes really well, even the part where Brendon ends up covered in feathers with his pants pulled down. He’s still not sure how that happened but he’s laughing about it for days afterwards.
Even at graduation, while he’s sitting watching the rest of his class walk, he has to try hard to keep himself from laughing until it’s his turn. He manages not to trip. He manages to keep his head held high.
He manages to have still not picked a school, even though a couple approved him. He’s favoring UNLV, because that’s where Ryan and Spencer are going - Brent’s doing community college, apparently, with plans to finish his bachelor’s at a real university after getting his associate’s, because he couldn’t get a scholarship and his parents didn’t want to take out loans to get him through.
Brendon knows where his parents want him to go even though he doesn’t talk to them very often anymore. He’s considering taking a semester off.
He’s thinking about the mini-tour they’ve got planned instead of listening to the closing speaker at graduation. Wherever he is, he ends up distracted, but for a little while at least he’s going to be spread just a little less thin. He can feel himself relaxing already - balancing his job and the band is going to be a lot easier than balancing his schoolwork and his job and the band, and taking his family out of the equation makes everything easier. That’s what he tells himself and it works out pretty well most days.
After the graduation ceremony, as he’s talking to Brent, his parents come over. Brendon didn’t even know they were attending. He’s not surprised, exactly, but it feels strange seeing them.
Brendon’s mom’s eyes are red like she’s been crying. Brendon gives her a strained smile. “Hey, Mom.”
She pulls him into a tight hug, not saying anything.
-
His parents ask him to move back in with them, but he doesn’t. He’s only just now getting used to living alone.
What’s weird is - he thought it would be great not having to clean up other people’s messes, not having to race for the shower in the morning, being able to hang around naked or in his boxer shorts all day whenever he wanted.
The worst thing about his apartment is little things - he doesn’t mind cleaning. Learning how long it takes a gallon of milk to go bad and how to fold his linens was easy. He’s not very good at cooking for himself yet, but he’s gotten better. What bothers him about living alone is how the sink is always just as clean as he leaves it in the morning. His apartment smells almost sterile, not like the dust and flowers of home. There’s only one toothbrush in the holder he took from home. The refrigerator looks empty with only food for himself in it; the tub never gets clogged by his sister’s hair.
It’s like, when he leaves - on errands or for work or practice - his apartment enters a state of suspended animation, and never quite wakes up even when he’s there.
Some nights, Brent or Spencer or Ryan will crash on his floor, hanging out and playing video games on the little pink TV that they have to sit right in front of to see properly. Brendon will complain when they move his shit, but secretly he’s glad of it every time he finds his spices out of order or toothpaste in the bathroom sink or a balled up receipt that didn’t quite make it to the trashcan.
-
They post on Craigslist - up-and-coming local band looking for help with video! in lowercase type. Going through the band e-mail’s inbox the next morning is pretty frustrating. There are a couple of photo students who have never shot film but really want to try, and a couple people just asking what band they are. A few people send headshots and ask if they can be extras, and a few more send naked pictures for reasons no one in the band can figure out.
“Seriously, that chick’s hot, but what the fuck?” Brent wonders, leaning over Ryan’s shoulder at the computer. “Or, wait, do you think whoever sent it shot the video of the naked chick? I don’t get it.”
“Maybe ‘band’ is a code-word for ‘we really want you to make porn with us’ on Craigslist,” Ryan says. He shrugs, pausing the video but not closing it as he goes back to scrolling through the rest of the responses.
“Ooh, hold up, this guy’s actually got a website,” Brendon says.
“Probably going to want way too much money, then.” Brent laughs. “We’re doomed, guys. Let’s just film ourselves running around in the desert or something.”
“We might as well not even have a video, then,” Ryan says. “Hey, and his website isn’t an abortion. Nice.”
-
After sending him the lyrics and a good-quality copy of “I Write Sins Not Tragedies,” they meet up with the filmmaker that weekend to discuss the concept and treatment. Shane’s a pretty cool dude, even though he vetoes Ryan’s idea of having the wedding filled with mimes.
“I get the visual metaphor you’re going for,” Shane says, “but it’s a little, I don’t know, heavy-handed?”
“You mean retarded,” Brendon stage-whispers.
Ryan shoots him a glare. “You said you liked the idea.”
“I liked the hat part.” Brendon shrugs. “Look, hey. Mr. Valdes. What’re you thinking?”
“Please, please, dude, don’t call me Mr. Valdes. You’re making me feel old.”
-
They shoot the video outdoors in a park that is dusty and dry with summer heat. The colors are supersaturated, everything just a little more than real.
Brendon doesn’t wear a hat. This girl, Jac, who Ryan’s been stalking on the Internet for the past forever takes a trip out to Vegas - on her own money - to star as the bride, which is probably a bigger deal for the band than it is for her. She has more Myspace friends than they do, and promises to post a slew of Myspace bulletins once it’s done.
She’s already blogged about traveling out to meet a good friend of hers.
Ryan still has a girlfriend, but sleeps with Jac anyway, the night before they start filming. As they’re standing around waiting to start shooting, he’s with his girlfriend, arm around her waist and smiling fondly. Jac doesn’t say anything.
Brendon kind of wonders just what it is that goes through Ryan’s head sometimes.
Jac’s friend Audrey comes out too and acts as an extra, which is nice. Some of their fans turn out for it. Spencer’s dad plays the priest, and one of Spencer’s aunts plays Jac’s mother.
The afterparty defaults to Brendon’s apartment, because there’s nowhere else to go. Ryan’s dad is home and his dorm room is tinier even than Brendon’s apartment, and his roommate is kind of a dick. Spencer’s house is bigger, but his little sisters live there and his parents don’t want the partying to keep them up.
Brendon’s the one who could get evicted for being too loud, but somehow they’re all still hanging out at his place with the stereo up. His futon is folded up against the wall and he put his sheets away in the closet, folded neatly up on the shelf.
Jac and Audrey bring alcohol - they have fake IDs - and Ryan doesn’t even complain in front of them. He sulks in a corner with Spencer for a while, but then his girlfriend distracts him.
Audrey has a red Solo cup in her hand and she sits down on the edge of the futon. Brendon sits next to her, and their knees knock together. She smiles at him, shifting her weight towards him. The cushion sinks under her.
“Jac tells me you guys wanted to do something with, like - mimes or something at first, huh?”
“Oh, god, yeah. That was all Ryan’s idea, I swear. He’s a madman. Crazier’n a bedbug,” he says, gesturing wildly and pitching his voice low.
“How crazy are bedbugs? I don’t think I’ve ever even seen one.”
“Are you implying I have?”
“What, in a fine, high-class apartment like this? Never.” Her lips thin in a small-toothed grin. Their knees are pressed tight together, a warm seam in between them.
Brendon looks down at his feet, then over at hers. She has pink heels on. He looks up at her, and she’s still smiling, so he looks away until she lifts a hand to trace light fingers against his jaw and turn him towards her. She leans up, her eyes closed. Brendon draws in a breath and thinks about saying something. He glances around, briefly, and his eyes meet Shane’s. Shane is leaning against a wall near the door talking to one of the guys he brought to help film.
So: Brendon closes his eyes and kisses Audrey. Her hand tightens at the back of his neck, fingers tangled up in his hair. He needs to get a haircut soon. He twists around and puts a hand on her knee - she’s not wearing tights and her skirt is short, so he’s touching her skin. Her leg is cool and smooth and dry, and somehow not as soft as he was expecting.
Her lips part against his, and she makes a tiny, tiny sound. She smells a little like the sweat of a long day outside in the sun, and a little like cotton candy and sweetness.
Audrey mumbles a “hey” in between one slow kiss and the next, and pushes him back, climbing onto his lap. He leans back against the cushion, bracing his hands on her hips. She is slight and bony but not fragile.
She is a living system of bone and blood and muscle, her composite parts made of cells made of atoms made of quarks. She is one of God’s crowning achievements and Brendon is bored. Audrey is breathing heavily. Brendon leans back. His eyes are closed.
They stop kissing, a mutual decision made at about the same time. She says, “What time is it?”
“Uhm.” Brendon shrugs, opening his eyes. “I’m not sure. It was something like ten, last time I checked.”
“My phone’s in my purse,” she says by way of explanation as she shifts off his lap and leans down to find her purse, dropped on the floor amidst the weeds. He can just barely feel her radiated heat but they’re not touching anymore.
“Ten thirty,” she says. “It’s still early. I should see what Jac’s up to.” She lifts her voice a little - Jac is across the room, and even with the music it’s easy to be heard. “Jac!”
Brendon gets up and turns the stereo down because the sound feels suddenly oppressive. Brent and Spencer are hanging out talking to Shane and the camera guy so Brendon goes and talks to them the rest of them the night.
“Way to go, bro,” Brent says, giving him the thumbs up.
“I know, right?” Brendon laughs. “Man, if you guys weren’t here I totally could have scored.”
“You should ask her to stay.” Brent elbows him in the side. “Offer to let her sleep on your couch.”
“The couch is my bed.” Brendon pauses, then grins, waggling his eyebrows. “Classy, man, classy. I’ll be sure to ask you for all my dating advice from now on. You couldn’t even get Spencer’s mom to take you to prom.”
Spencer says, “Don’t ever talk about that again.”
Brent says, “Look, dude, she’s a MILF, okay?”
“No,” Spencer says. “You’re disgusting.”
Shane laughs. “I’m working for literal children.”
“Pff, we’re all graduated by now,” Brendon says. “That makes us total adults. We could be drafted.”
Shane grins. “Uh-huh.”
“Unless you want to argue that the military is sending children off to fight and die in foreign conflicts,” Brendon says. “You could do that. If you wanted. Wouldn’t make you a big hit at parties, though.”
Brent snorts. “You’re the one who brought it up, asshole.”
-
The next morning, when Brendon wakes up alone at eleven in the morning, it hits him: he is done with high school. He’s in an unsigned rock band, friends with the guys in Fall Out Boy, just shot his first music video, and still works at Smoothie Hut. He still has yet to reply to any of his college acceptance letters. He’s thinking pretty seriously about learning to cut hair even though the only people to let him anywhere near their hair with scissors have been his family and himself.
The few open spaces of his apartment are occupied by Solo cups. He finds one in the bathroom and peers down into it as he’s brushing his teeth, blandly amused by the beginnings of plant-life sprouting in the alcohol. He wouldn’t have thought that would be a good environment, but then, his apartment seems to give rise to life in defiance of expectations on a regular basis. He empties the cup into the toilet before taking a piss, then drops the cup unto his vine-covered trashcan.
After he showers, he picks the mushrooms growing in the corner of his bathroom by the radiator and scrubs at the places where they’d sprung up, then weeds the dewy carpet around his bed.
He doesn’t have work today so he gets his keyboard out of the closet and plugs it into an outlet. He has to unplug his lamp to do it, but there’s enough light from outside that it doesn’t matter yet. He sits crosslegged on the floor, leaning over the keyboard with his headphones plugged in. It’s when he plays music out loud that things get most out of control - when he practices on headphones, it’s just a feedback loop, the output hooking back into the input in an endless cycle that’s sometimes hard to break.
This time it’s broken externally by the buzzing of his phone, and when he answers it’s hard to keep the fingers of his free hand from moving against the air. “Hey, so we were going to go by Shane’s studio and check out what kind of footage we’ve got to work with,” Ryan is telling him, and Brendon is trying not to pull more music from the air.
“Okay, sweet,” Brendon says. “You need a ride?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“I’ll be right over,” Brendon says.
-
The video ends up netting them some buzz on a few indie music blogs that didn’t give a shit when they first posted the track, but Brendon can’t blame them. The mix is a little tighter on this version, and the video - the video’s really good. It manages to be clever.
People start asking about when the album’s going to come out.
They start writing new songs, and then somehow they find themselves touring at teeny-tiny venues. They play a couple of acoustic shows at coffee shops, shows where Spencer sits sullenly on a stool tapping a tambourine against his thigh while Brendon croons into a microphone set up above his keyboard and Ryan sits awkwardly strumming his guitar.
Brent buys an egg-shaker.
Most of the shows are actual shows, though, and they go as far as Portland and Seattle and back around to Denver. Shane comes along, which makes the driving even easier to handle. He tends to take longer shifts than anyone, and when he’s not driving he’s taking pictures.
In Oregon, Brendon is up early in the morning. They parked overnight at a truck stop, and he gets out and leans against the side of the van and looks out at the grassy median leading down to the highway. A light fog drapes itself across the ground, twining itself around the sparse trees.
“Hey,” Shane says. “Want to go grab breakfast?”
“Sure,” Brendon says. He hadn’t realized Shane was up yet. “The other guys aren’t gonna wake up for forever, probably.”
“Yeah, I’d say we wait, but the sun’s hardly even up.”
Brendon says, “They’re just gonna miss out on meeting the sweet-ass truck stop babes.”
“I was thinking they’d miss out on the sweet-ass truck stop bacon, but whatever works.”
“Thinking about truck stop babes gets me through the day.”
“You let me know how that works out for you,” Shane says, laughing.
They’re walking a little too close as they head inside and their arms brush, so Brendon makes the conscious effort to keep a distance. He ducks his head, grinning. The woman who greets them has her graying hair up in a bun. Shane nudges him, and Brendon rolls his eyes.
When they’re seated and waiting for coffee, Shane whispers, “Sweet ass truck stop babes.”
“Hey, now, you don’t know what a chick like that’s like in the sack,” Brendon says back. “The, you know, quiet desperation of small towns.”
“The quiet desperation of - right. Aim high, little man, aim high.”
“It’s like Ryan always says. Shoot for the moon, and even if you miss you’ll land among the stars.” Brendon snorts, covering his face with one hand briefly as he laughs. “Man, seriously, I love it when he pretends he’s being original.”
“Oh, thank god,” Shane says. “I wasn’t sure if you guys knew or not.”
“Yeah, no, the Palahniuk thing especially,” Brendon says. “Yeah. He doesn’t front about that, at least. Just anything he thinks is obscure.”
“I can’t wait until he discovers The Beatles,” Shane muses, fiddling with his camera as he waits for the waitress to come back with their coffee.
Brendon laughs, startled, and Shane takes a picture of that moment. “Oh, shit, shit, you’re right. I’d - I have to let him find them for himself, though. When he thinks he’s, you know, made some big discovery. Man. Yeah.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Shane says.
Brendon finishes laughing and leans his elbows on the table, resting his head against one hand as he turns to look out the window. “I mean, I love the shit he writes anyway - I wouldn’t be in the band if I didn’t - but yeah. No. Ryan’s a good guy.” He glances at Shane for a second, mouth turned up, before looking out the window. “Sometimes I forget that he’s older than me, is all, you know?”
“Hmm.” Shane sits back, and smiles and thanks their waitress when she finally brings their coffee. He orders eggs and toast and bacon. Brendon gets pancakes with fresh blueberries and bananas and whipped cream on top, a big pile of them, with hash browns and two eggs on the side, and it ends up being nearly more than he can eat.
He’s just finishing when Brent and Ryan and Spencer trail their half-asleep ways into the diner and shove into the booth next to him, Brent on his side and Ryan and Spencer across the table and leaning sleepily into each other and crowding Shane.
Brendon offers Shane a hapless shrug before turning his attention back to his food.
Brent steals his spoon and starts eating what’s left of his hashbrowns. “You guys are assholes,” Brent declares. “Getting food without us.”
“Didn’t want to wake you up, is all,” Shane says. “Figured you needed your beauty sleep.”
“Especially Ryan,” Brendon says.
“Shut up,” Ryan says. Then: “Do you think they’ve got a power outlet in the bathroom? I need to straighten my hair. It’s getting weird again.”
“You’ve got to let me cut that shit sometime, man,” Brendon says. “Seriously, it looks godawful.”
“Shut up,” Ryan says.
“If you don’t want to be sexy, that isn’t my fault,” Brendon says.
“You wouldn’t know sexy if it bit you in the ass,” Ryan says.
“That doesn’t make your hair less gross, Ross.”
“He’s kind of right,” Spencer says. “Just a little.”
Brent says, “More than a little.”
Ryan’s shoulders slump, defeated. He leans his head on Spencer’s shoulder. “Fine, whatever. Chop my hair off. I’ll sue you if you cut an ear off, though.”
“It’s a hazard of the trade,” Brendon says, waggling his eyebrows. “At least I wouldn’t bite it off Mike Tyson-style.”
“I wouldn’t put it past you.”
“Man.”
Spencer says, “That wouldn’t be very vegetarian. Biting someone’s ear off, I mean.”
Brent frowns. “Does it count as hurting an animal if it’s a person, though? Like, what about - is breast milk vegan?”
“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?” Shane wonders, laughing.
Ryan says, “Brent. I don’t want to know what goes through your head. We don’t need those insights.”
Brent holds his hands up, defensive. “I was just wondering. It was related, okay?”
Brendon says, “I’ve got scissors in my bag, anyway. We could get this shit over with here and now.”
-
Ryan emerges from the truck stop bathroom shivering and new, hair still damp but clean and shorter now than it was before. They did the best they could to clean up the hair from the floor and to brush the excess from Ryan’s shoulders.
Ryan keeps lifting a hand to touch the back of his neck, now made vulnerable and bare. “I don’t know if I like it or not,” he says, gruffly.
“Thank God.” Spencer throws an arm around Brendon’s shoulder. “You just saved our reputation.”
“Seriously,” Brent says.
“Brent, man, I’m not sure you’re allowed to say anything about Ryan’s haircut,” Spencer says.
“Maybe later,” Brendon says.
Brent shrugs. “I can just go to Supercuts or something. I’ll wait until you get through, like, hairdresser school or whatever.”
“If I go,” Brendon says.
Shane looks surprised, briefly, but doesn’t say anything.
Ryan drinks the last of Brendon’s coffee and pours more from the pot left sitting at their table, and once Shane and Brendon have paid they all leave. The others grab snacks from the convenience store attached to the restaurant and they’re on the road again, driving for hours to the next show in the next town.
-
They release a 5-song EP with the video as a bonus, with a few of their older songs rerecorded in better quality and a few new ones. Getting that out and finished eats up months.
At least the cover photography is cheap; they get Shane to do it, and Shane’s willing to wait to get a cut because Shane has other work on a regular basis and he’s a nice guy like that.
It’s after the songs are recorded, while they’re waiting to get the tracks mastered and then the actual CDs and cases printed and ready for distribution, that things seem to take the longest. It only took a few days out in LA to record everything. Now it’s a matter of months.
They keep working on new things. After their second Portland show, Ryan discovers that there’s a world beyond pop-punk - Shane whispers to Brendon once, in the back of the van, “Countdown ‘till The Beatles,” and Brendon can’t help but laugh even though Ryan’s mid-sentence and Brendon’s pretending to listen.
Ryan says, “What? I hope you’re not about to argue that Picaresque is bad.”
“No, no,” Brendon says. “It’s a good album. Mariner’s Revenge Song, man.”
“I think we should do some songs like that.”
Spencer rolls his eyes. “What, songs about people getting eaten by whales?”
“What the fuck are you guys talking about?” Brent wonders.
“Oh, shut the fuck up, don’t tell me you haven’t listened to that. I burned you a fucking copy, man,” Ryan says. “It’s genius.”
“You mean, you’re glad you found someone who likes using big words as much as you do,” Spencer says.
“He’s literate,” Ryan says. “There’s nothing keeping pop music from being literate and intelligent.”
“Maybe we should just do a concept album and get it over with,” Brendon says.
“No, seriously, that’s a great idea,” Ryan says, actually sounding excited. Shane starts laughing. “I mean it. We could tell a story across the, you know, the span of the album.”
“Panic! At the Disco presents, some album about whales and shit. Hell yeah.” Brendon pauses. “As long as the concept isn’t more Palahniuk.”
“No, no, that’s played out. We’ve already done Palahniuk. He’s a genius, but we’d be retreading old ground there,” Ryan says. “Wait, shit, did I miss the exit?”
“Fuck,” Spencer says. “I was kind of hoping we could actually make sound check.”
“Look, we just have to turn around and get off in the other direction.”
It ends up not being that easy because their exit doesn’t exist in the other direction, so they have to turn around twice to finally get off the Interstate, and they roll up fifteen minutes late.
-
In the desert outside of Las Vegas, someone has built a factory with locked doors and locked gates that doesn’t seem to have any employees. It’s a clean cement construction, squat and hunkered down amidst the sand and scrub brush, with a paved road leading up to and disappearing into it.
The factory makes ink and at night its smokestacks spit out forgotten words, staining the blue sky black like a bruise deepening before the dawn makes it better.
The ink made here doesn’t fade once it hits paper, sucks in sunlight and chews it up into more darkness.
Ryan uses it to write his lyrics.
-
Ryan borrows Brendon’s van to go grocery shopping.
Brendon’s van is not back the next day. Ryan doesn’t answer his phone, so Brendon calls Spencer.
“He went to visit Jac or something,” Spencer says. “His girlfriend broke up with him.”
“Motherfucker,” Brendon says. “Can you give me a ride to work, dude?”
“I’ve got family shit all day, man, I’m sorry,” Spencer says. “Did he seriously take your car?”
“Yeah, dude,” Brendon says sullenly. “To California. He’d better at least get groceries while he’s there.”
“I’ll yell at him, don’t worry,” Spencer says. “I’ve got shit I can guilt him with, no problem. Uh. You could - see if Brent’s free?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Brent is not free.
Shane is, though. Brendon hasn’t talked to Shane much lately since the last mini-tour, so that’s kind of nice to hang out with someone he doesn’t see constantly.
“You got your car stolen by a kid who wears pinstripe pants,” Shane says cheerfully as Brendon gets in the car. “At least you’ll have a good story for the grandkids.”
“I’m just scared he’ll get distracted by, I don’t know, a radio ad using a big word and end up running my van off the road.” Brendon buries his face in his hands, sinking back in the seat. “Fuck. He’s usually good about this stuff.”
“He seriously didn’t mention anything that would imply he was about to, you know, go walkabout with the van?”
“Not a word. Said he needed to go buy groceries.”
“Dude needs a chaperone or something,” Shane says. “The mall, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So hey, your apartment kind of sucks.”
“Oh, thanks,” Brendon says. “I try.”
“And my roommate’s getting married,” Shane continues. “You didn’t let me finish.”
“Sorry, dude, I’ve gotten used to Brent hating on the place, is all,” Brendon says.
“When’s your lease up?”
“I’m going month to month right now.” Brendon shrugs. “Didn’t really feel like bothering with a lease. It’s easier.”
“Yeah, I feel that,” Shane says. “I’m just saying, I’m looking for a roommate, and my apartment is way less shitty than yours. The AC works, like, ninety percent of the time and everything.”
“The high life, huh?”
“Even got a patio,” Shane says.
“Post on Craigslist or something, it can’t be too hard to find somebody,” Brendon says.
Shane snorts. “That’s a good way to get someone crazy. No, dude, look, what are you paying in rent each month? Mine’s - half is like five fifty a month, with utilities. Higher in summer. I’d rather live with somebody I actually know.”
“Oh,” Brendon says. “Uh. Yeah, my place is like six hundred. So that’d be good. I - sure, yeah.”
“Sweet, dude.” Shane pauses. “I mean, maybe you should actually come by and see the place, first, but yeah.”
“That’s probably a good idea.” Brendon nods. “Okay. After - shit, can you pick me up from work? Sorry.”
“Fuck knows when Ryan’ll come home.” Shane nods, turning on the radio and flipping through stations idly as he drives. “Like, you’d hope soon, since he stole your car and all? But who knows. He’s a weird kid.”
Brendon goes to work. The day is long - it’s a Monday, and even though it’s summer it takes until late afternoon for the sluggish traffic to pick up and then it’s a hassle getting everything done in time.
He spills part of someone’s smoothie on the floor, just enough to make him almost trip, and one of the girls working with him laughs and doesn’t help him clean it up.
It gets so busy that he almost forgets his car’s been stolen until they’re closing and one of the girls is saying, “Ugh, my mom’s got all this shit to do today, so she said she was probably going to be late. It sucks. I seriously can’t wait until I can buy a car.”
“Yeah, not having one - shit,” Brendon says. “Shit. My car got stolen. I forgot.”
“You forgot?” she asks, laughing. “How do you forget that?”
“It got busy, I don’t know.”
“Do you need a ride?”
“Nah, one of my friends said he could pick me up,” Brendon says, rinsing off a soap-covered blender before pulling out his phone to text Shane.
“From your band?”
“Our photographer.”
“You guys have a photographer?” she laughs.
“We travel in style.” Brendon grins, and leans up - she’s just taller than him, her shoes a bit raised - to whisper in her ear. “Seriously, we need it. You should see the vest Ryan just got. Nobody can talk him out of wearing it to the next show; you should come. It’s got roses. I’ll put you on the guest list.”
She smiles. “When is it?”
“Next week,” Brendon says. “Hopefully Ryan’s back in town by then.”
“Where is he?”
“Uh - vacation, I guess. In LA. He’s the one who stole my car.”
She covers her mouth with her hand but that does little to cover up the laughter.
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