FIC!
Title: Taste Of Blood On Your Tongue
Summary:"Then, he laughs, because the idea of ever showing these to Tom is insane. Here it is, the apocalypse according to Jonathan Jacob Walker." Pretty much the end of the world."
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Thank yous to for the prompt, and to , ,, and for beta-ing and hand-holding.
It was supposed to be a joke, no more, no less; he's spent years bragging about the Cobra, and hell, this seemed like a way to ratchet that Cobra obsession up a notch. The guys and Victoria went for it; Will went for it; and Pete, Pete practically hugged him when he pitched it, then ran off to plan. The fans went nuts, guessing what surprises they had in store and what the merch would be like. Everything was going well. Great, even.
He wonders if believing in fate would have changed how things ended, but he's getting ahead of himself. This is a story. It has a beginning, a middle, and an end. It is not a game of leap frog. It starts with the concert at the end of the world, a marketing gambit sure to pay off, evolves to frenzied news reporters and falling bombs and last chances and maybe goodbyes and reaches a climax with the end of the world. And the end? Does it end with him? Maybe.
***
It promises to be the biggest concert ever, everyone off DecayDance, some of the FBR kids, plus My Chemical Romance and This Is Ivy League (Gabe said they had to play, because the Cobra said so). Gabe takes full credit for it, and when he gets so full of himself Nate chucks a drumstick at him, Ryland asks if the credit shouldn't really go to the Cobra.
They decide to hold the show in the biggest field they can find. They plan for everything: rain, wind, snow. Vendors are signing up by the dozens. Every industry magazine is covering this; even Rolling Stone's commended them on it. YouTube, AOL, and MSN have all agreed to stream the concert, as well as MTV and VH1.
The tickets go on sale, thousands of them. They're cheap, because Pete thinks this is revolutionary and that everyone who wants to get in should be able to. They make plans to stream it on the internet, to make DVDs and CDs, to make it the show of the century.
Then the first blurb works its way across the airwaves on the six o'clock news a week before the show; the talking head shouting about nuclear armageddon seems foreign and distant and surreal. But then it grows. It grows and slithers and take on a life all its own until, on the day of the concert, in between sets, people are listening to HAM radios and checking cell phones to be updated on the ever-deteriorating headlines. Gerard even stays away from "Famous Last Words", just in case there's any chance the title could jinx the situation. By the time Cobra gets on, there's talk of calling family members, just in case something happens. Gabe can tell the crowd's nervous, can feel it in the air around him; he's not sure whether it's this new-found energy that's making the hair on his arms prick up or some other force beyond his comprehension. He eyes Alex and Victoria. He can tell right away that they can feel it too.
The first bomb drops as Cobra exits, stage left.
The panic is like a tsunami, starting towards the back of the crowd and rushing towards the stage. Pete has handled crowd issues before, but never like this. He can only watch this, and suddenly he understands what God must feel like. It's horrifying, and makes his stomach eat at itself. People are screaming, people are crying, and he doesn't know what to do. He sits there, at the center of the stage, and watches. It vaguely occurs to him that he should call Ashlee, call his mom, his siblings, call someone, and even though his phone is there in his pocket, there's an odd disconnect between thought and action, and he lets it sit there.
Mikey is not panicking. Not in the least. What would make anyone think Mikey Fuckin' Way was panicking? Would it be the sweat beading under his skin that's slowly swelling his palms? Or the fact that he's maybe pressing Alicia into the door of the bus a little harder than he really should be? No, Mikey is not panicking.
Alicia pulls back, her fingers still tangled in his hair. "We gotta call home. This sounds like it could be the real --"
Okay, Mikey thinks, I might be panicking. Just might be.
Brendon jiggles his foot as he waits for the call to connect. "Hi, Mom; hi, Dad. I'm sure you've seen the news. Just wanted to tell you guys that I love you. Be sure to tell the girls too. Okay? I love you. Be safe. I'll see you when I get home." He hates answering machines. He hates bombs. He hates war. He hates not knowing if they're even alive and he hates knowing the statistics. He hates picturing the ragged shadows the casino walls form against the usually starry Vegas sky. He wonders how it looks knowing a bomb has been dropped on it. And he thinks he is going to vomit.
Jon Walker is not going to consciously evaluate the inappropriateness of this response, because it's up there. Most people would be calling home, calling friends, panicking, or vomiting. He's fucking taking pictures. He wants to call Tom, and maybe he will before the bombs drop on Chicago, but if he doesn't so be it. But the panic and the energy and the sheer horror is all out in the audience and Tom will kick his ass if he doesn't capture it. He snaps Pete, sitting there on stage, Brendon talking on the phone, foot jiggling, and Ryan standing, blinking, trying to process.
Then, he laughs, because the idea of ever showing these to Tom is insane. Here it is, the apocalypse according to Jonathan Jacob Walker.
When they've all played their final encore, three more bombs have fallen. One in Moscow, one in Paris, and one in Queens, New York. Gabe vomits. He's sober and he's not ill, and until today, he didn't think it was possible to vomit from an emotion. He's thinking of his parents, trying to wrack his brain for the last thing he told them, and like the asshole he is, he can't remember. He's hoping it was something important, something meaningful like "I love you" or "Thank you for everything you've done", though he severely doubts it was the latter.
Andy Hurley is annoyed. The fall of civilization was supposed to restore nature, not leave it fucked beyond repair. Now there are god knows how many people dead, but soon, that won't matter. The detritus will kill them all, even if no other bomb falls, meaning no civilization, no comics, and no pristine planet. This is severely uncool.
Alex can see the way this is going to end, and he's already detaching himself from it. He can't put himself in the middle; if he does, he'll just shut down and that won't do anyone any good. So he blinks, and reaches for his glasses (because if his contacts would pick anytime to be a pain in the ass it would be as the world ends).
People are running out from all sides of the field towards the parking lot. Victoria wonders where they think they're going. She wonders where she thinks she's going. She's never been particularly religious or spiritual and the end of the world is not a particularly convenient time to ponder such things. Instead, she packs up her keytar and goes to stand by Nate.
Patrick stands behind Pete, tapping his shoulder. "Come on, Pete. Pete, we gotta go. Pete? Pete? Can you hear me?" He hates when Pete goes wandering in his head; it takes valuable time to snap him back to reality, time they don't have. Vaguely, Patrick pictures Pete sitting there as the bombs explode, silhouetted against the nightmarish mushroom cloud. It seems like Pete would belong there, and the thought horrifies Patrick.
Carden is already back on the bus, cigarette dangling out of his mouth, rooting through his bag, looking for their last bottle of Jack Daniels'. He's scrubbing at the corners of his eyes, willing himself not to cry. He 's willing himself not to think of how it will feel to have the bomb hit Chicago, to know everything he's known will become melted, and twisted, will turn to dust, along with the faces of people who will never know what hit them as parents cling to children who cling to their pets and stuffed animals. He can't let himself cry. He is not going to think of couples curled together, fingers laced or of old people saying their prayers. He is, however, going to get smashed, too smashed to think or wonder or feel. He is going to go with everyone back to the hotel and drink himself to death before the bombs burn the flesh from his bones, and his bones from the earth.
***
In a hotel room, clean and sterile, made to factory perfection and marred only by suitcases, two people listen to the radio and to the bombs falling. Ryland Blackinton never thought his life would end like this. He never imagined it would end with bombs all around and a crackly radio and Alex next to him, trying to sleep and failing horribly.
Alex rolls over to face him. "You know, I've already picked out my famous last words. And I'm saying that like I'm announcing I've picked out my wedding vows. What the fuck, right?"
Ryland would answer, would ask what they are, but there is a knock at the door, and he is fairly certain it isn't housekeeping. And when he opens it to find Victoria standing there, concert clothing clad and wrapped in a blanket, he understands that there is more there than simple panic and fear in the look on her face. And so two becomes three lying on a bed, listening to a dying radio in what could be the center of a dying world.
Three becomes five when Nate and Gabe slide in through Gabe's spare room key. No one's even bothered to ask how he acquired it, because now it doesn't even matter. Nate lies across Alex's legs, mumbling under his breath, and pressing his hands to his eyes, like trying to push them back into his skull. The popcorned ceiling watches them all.
When the last radio wave has faded into a memory, Guy Ripley takes over as an at the scene correspondent, reporting on the end of the world until Victoria grins and sniffles, burying closer into his side. For a moment, he is grateful; grateful that he is surrounded by these people, grateful that it all comes down with them around him. He is grateful for the slim chance that his mom and brothers got the message that he loves them all and grateful that Alex is there to actually hear it.
The first bomb drops close enough for them to hear it; it's not atomic, but it is a bomb, nonetheless.
Gabe's pacing grows faster, and the words under his breath catch in his throat. He runs a hand back through his hair as Nate shouts in frustration.
"I spent God-knows-how-long in church and I can't remember one word of one prayer for the absolution of sins. Fucking wonderful."
Gabe breaks his walk to face Nate for a moment. "I'm pretty sure I've got us all covered, even you goyem." Before anyone can ask what he means, he's returned to the stream of words under his breath, bubbling away, catching every now and then like water on the craggle of a rock.
"Holy Mary ... Mother of God ...pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of death. Amen." Nate settles, like something from deep within has come out. He falls asleep soon after, and it occurs to Gabe that he looks like he's already dead. He shakes his head, and goes on with the kaddish. " May there be abundant peace from Heaven," he breathes out, and looks at the small assembled group before him. They are patchwork and piecemeal; they have seen tour like battle and now a battle like a family. He'll miss them. He'll miss waking up to coffee and dirty socks and Alex cooking; he'll miss Victoria's looks and Nate's commentary; he'll miss Guy Ripley and the BBC World Action News; he'll miss drunken dance parties and "Guilty Pleasure" for every talk show host. But there isn't anything he can do. He startles when a knock on the door fractures the silence, when Joe tells him Pete wants to see him upstairs. He looks at his band, his friends, almost all asleep curled around each other. He'll choose to remember them like this, like the way they were on tour, like the way the were when the cameras weren't on. He won't think of how they'll be.
When Gabe leaves, off to attend to some bit of business, a barely awake (or is it barely living, because that last bomb was awful close-sounding?) Alex turns to an almost sleeping (or is it almost dead?) Ryland and poses a question. "Don't you want to know my famed final last words?"
Ryland nods, just wanting to sleep.
"I love you."
***
Brendon is not talking, not thinking, not bouncing, and wonders if he's even still breathing, or no, this is some warped form of the afterlife. He feels for a pulse and finds it still throbbing under his skin, though it might be an illusion. His mind isn't his safe place anymore; there is no Disney, there are no fairy tales; there are regrets and grievances and things he would have said, could have said, should have said all along. And it's simmering and bubbling and he feels like he is going to burst, turn into a bomb himself and take everyone else out with him.
Ryan continues to be Ryan and Brendon debates strangling him. Everything they know is gone and he continues on, monotone as always. Their family is dead, and there's George Ryan Ross, sitting there with a notebook open, scribbling lyrics. Not even a goodbye note that will magically survive the destruction, but fucking lyrics. For songs that will never be written, no less. Brendon wants to snatch the notebook from his hands and open the window and offer it to the kings of war and queens of destruction in the futile hope that it will save someone, somewhere. Failing that, he'd just like to rip it up and stomp on the pieces, make Ryan feel something.
Even before they had lost the television signal, when they saw the pictures, saw the ruins of home, Ryan sat emotionless. Spencer Smith sat down and cried, and Brendon dialed frantically at a dead phone, but Ryan Ross sat there. And Brendon wants to hurt him for it. He doesn't care that maybe this is impaired Ryan's way of expressing things, he wants him to show it. He does not care that maybe Ryan is not capable of this; the world is ending and all Brendon Urie wants is for Ryan Ross to prove he is not totally emotionally stunted.
And because the world is ending, and because George Ryan Ross is clearly not capable of emotions, and because he is livid and scared and feels like there is only now, Brendon Urie gets angry. And Brendon Urie reaches down and pulls the notebook from Ryan's hands and starts tearing. Blindly. Without thinking. This is real guttural instinct. And he supposes it is the same guttural instinct that causes Ryan to punch him in the face. And he's even willing to conjecture that the guttural force is what causes Spencer to start shouting at them. He is however, entirely certain that it is not a guttural force that causes the hotel to sway and creak and that it is, in fact, a bomb. And, even faced with death, Ryan is not showing any emotion and Brendon is not going to say he's sorry. He will die with it on his head, goddammnit. He will not die, however, with Spencer walking out into the hallway into eternity on his conscience. Because Brendon's getting up and walking after him.
Ryan just sits and watches and wonders how the hell he ended up with the fucked psyche.
***
Ray is sitting in his room, with his guitar. He's called his family, said his Hail Marys and Our Fathers and now the only thing he has left to say goodbye to is his guitar. Which he has always intended to be buried with, though truth be told, he never thought he'd practically have to bury himself.
Absently, he plucks out "Mama", and thinks of his own. He takes some small superfluous solace in knowing he spoke to her, and feels terrible for the guys (and girls) who didn't get the chance. His stomach knots for the boys of Panic and for Gabe, and his fingers tighten on the neck of the guitar to keep from being ill. He almost grins as a bomb falls right right where the sound effects should be.
***
Michael Guy Chislett feels guilty. He hasn't lost any family. He got to call his parents and aunts and uncles. He got to say everything he needed to, got to tell them he loved them, unlike almost everyone else. He feels selfish, too, for wanting the chance to say goodbye to those he didn't. He wants to say goodbye to his friends in Chicago, in New York. He wants to say goodbye to Carden, who's just passed out and whose pulse Butcher can't find.
He wants to go out dramatically, not huddled in a hotel room with Butcher and Siska and a dead body, who formally went by the title Mike Carden. He wants to Townsend a guitar, to see home one more time, to hug his mom.
He even feels guilty that when the bomb drops so close, he breathes a sigh of relief.
***
Pete stands staring at the gathered faces around him: Gabe and William, Gerard and Greta, Jon and Haley, Patrick, Joe and Andy. He has nothing to say. For the first time in his life, Pete Wentz has nothing to say. He wants someone else to handle this, to put out the press release about the bombs falling all around them and the people dying out in the streets.
"Pete," William starts, "I've gotta go be with the guys. Something's wrong with Carden. And I want to be there if something happens. When something happens."
Pete stares at him processing. He doesn't know what to do. William is abandoning him and he doesn't know what to do. The anger and fear are kicking apart his stomach and he doesn't know what to do.
So, he shouts. And "shouts" isn't even the right word for it, because there is no real accurate term for when Pete devolves from Pete to a 5'7" mass of emotion. Everyone stares, startled, and Pete realizes he has made a gaff.
And then Patrick tells him to calm down, tells William to go, lets William out the door, and the others start to follow him. The not-Pete feels the rage to his stomach, the outrage to his intestines, and the livid hue to his cheeks. And the not-Pete does the unforgivable as his final act. He punches Patrick, in the stomach and storms out over the figure still gasping for air as the bomb drops right next door.
***
Gabe still isn't sure how he got Will out. He remembers smoke and screaming and the ceiling getting closer and just shoving William down the stairs. He remembers fleeting thoughts of the others and of Patrick on the floor. But mainly he remembers the heat.
The bomb was atomic and Gabe still can't decide whether he adores or abhors the universe for that. It's given them more time, but did they really want it? Gabe has seen people die horrible deaths, but never like this. Never like William.
They sit on the stage, the stage where twenty-four hours ago, they had rocked out to a packed and panicked crowd. He pushes William's hair away from his face and feels William grow warmer against his shirt. He wonders if it's impossible to explode from your own internal heat, and if William will. They watch the sunset; it's the same color as William's cheeks, as the skin on his hands, too burned to use. Gabe thanks some higher power that he's too delirious to feel anything.
William's losing his strength faster than Gabe can steady his; he decides to lay them down on the stage. William curls into his side, mumbling, and shifting, trying to be comfortable. He licks the burnt skin of his lips with a tongue that shouldn't be able to still move and winces when the spit hits the open sores. Gabe tightens his arms around him. He doesn't even want to run the chance that William will die with no one there, with no physical comforts.
William stirs, and claps him on the shoulder. He announces that the party was fantastic, best they've ever thrown, and should do it again sometime. Gabe almost laughs, tells him he's delirious and to go to sleep. William asks to stay the night, because he's drunk and a danger and shouldn't be on the road. Gabe kisses his forehead in response.
Night is falling faster than he imagined it would and William is settling under his chin. Gabe tries to get his thoughts in order, because he knows he's next and would prefer to die with something in mind other than the garbage littering the ground. He sifts through images and thoughts, though words and sounds and feelings. He picks his band, as they were last night and as they had always been; he picks William, lying in his arms, and the William who was vibrant and lively; he picks his family, and warmth, and home; and he picks tonight, because regardless of circumstance, the sunset was gorgeous, the best he's seen in years.
Next to him, William's breath hitches and Gabe realizes this is the end; in his mind, he races for the words Nate whispered before, but can only return to the kaddish. He sees a blinding flash and clings tighter to William. Let the end do its worst; que sera sera.
Summary:"Then, he laughs, because the idea of ever showing these to Tom is insane. Here it is, the apocalypse according to Jonathan Jacob Walker." Pretty much the end of the world."
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Thank yous to for the prompt, and to , ,, and for beta-ing and hand-holding.
It was supposed to be a joke, no more, no less; he's spent years bragging about the Cobra, and hell, this seemed like a way to ratchet that Cobra obsession up a notch. The guys and Victoria went for it; Will went for it; and Pete, Pete practically hugged him when he pitched it, then ran off to plan. The fans went nuts, guessing what surprises they had in store and what the merch would be like. Everything was going well. Great, even.
He wonders if believing in fate would have changed how things ended, but he's getting ahead of himself. This is a story. It has a beginning, a middle, and an end. It is not a game of leap frog. It starts with the concert at the end of the world, a marketing gambit sure to pay off, evolves to frenzied news reporters and falling bombs and last chances and maybe goodbyes and reaches a climax with the end of the world. And the end? Does it end with him? Maybe.
***
It promises to be the biggest concert ever, everyone off DecayDance, some of the FBR kids, plus My Chemical Romance and This Is Ivy League (Gabe said they had to play, because the Cobra said so). Gabe takes full credit for it, and when he gets so full of himself Nate chucks a drumstick at him, Ryland asks if the credit shouldn't really go to the Cobra.
They decide to hold the show in the biggest field they can find. They plan for everything: rain, wind, snow. Vendors are signing up by the dozens. Every industry magazine is covering this; even Rolling Stone's commended them on it. YouTube, AOL, and MSN have all agreed to stream the concert, as well as MTV and VH1.
The tickets go on sale, thousands of them. They're cheap, because Pete thinks this is revolutionary and that everyone who wants to get in should be able to. They make plans to stream it on the internet, to make DVDs and CDs, to make it the show of the century.
Then the first blurb works its way across the airwaves on the six o'clock news a week before the show; the talking head shouting about nuclear armageddon seems foreign and distant and surreal. But then it grows. It grows and slithers and take on a life all its own until, on the day of the concert, in between sets, people are listening to HAM radios and checking cell phones to be updated on the ever-deteriorating headlines. Gerard even stays away from "Famous Last Words", just in case there's any chance the title could jinx the situation. By the time Cobra gets on, there's talk of calling family members, just in case something happens. Gabe can tell the crowd's nervous, can feel it in the air around him; he's not sure whether it's this new-found energy that's making the hair on his arms prick up or some other force beyond his comprehension. He eyes Alex and Victoria. He can tell right away that they can feel it too.
The first bomb drops as Cobra exits, stage left.
The panic is like a tsunami, starting towards the back of the crowd and rushing towards the stage. Pete has handled crowd issues before, but never like this. He can only watch this, and suddenly he understands what God must feel like. It's horrifying, and makes his stomach eat at itself. People are screaming, people are crying, and he doesn't know what to do. He sits there, at the center of the stage, and watches. It vaguely occurs to him that he should call Ashlee, call his mom, his siblings, call someone, and even though his phone is there in his pocket, there's an odd disconnect between thought and action, and he lets it sit there.
Mikey is not panicking. Not in the least. What would make anyone think Mikey Fuckin' Way was panicking? Would it be the sweat beading under his skin that's slowly swelling his palms? Or the fact that he's maybe pressing Alicia into the door of the bus a little harder than he really should be? No, Mikey is not panicking.
Alicia pulls back, her fingers still tangled in his hair. "We gotta call home. This sounds like it could be the real --"
Okay, Mikey thinks, I might be panicking. Just might be.
Brendon jiggles his foot as he waits for the call to connect. "Hi, Mom; hi, Dad. I'm sure you've seen the news. Just wanted to tell you guys that I love you. Be sure to tell the girls too. Okay? I love you. Be safe. I'll see you when I get home." He hates answering machines. He hates bombs. He hates war. He hates not knowing if they're even alive and he hates knowing the statistics. He hates picturing the ragged shadows the casino walls form against the usually starry Vegas sky. He wonders how it looks knowing a bomb has been dropped on it. And he thinks he is going to vomit.
Jon Walker is not going to consciously evaluate the inappropriateness of this response, because it's up there. Most people would be calling home, calling friends, panicking, or vomiting. He's fucking taking pictures. He wants to call Tom, and maybe he will before the bombs drop on Chicago, but if he doesn't so be it. But the panic and the energy and the sheer horror is all out in the audience and Tom will kick his ass if he doesn't capture it. He snaps Pete, sitting there on stage, Brendon talking on the phone, foot jiggling, and Ryan standing, blinking, trying to process.
Then, he laughs, because the idea of ever showing these to Tom is insane. Here it is, the apocalypse according to Jonathan Jacob Walker.
When they've all played their final encore, three more bombs have fallen. One in Moscow, one in Paris, and one in Queens, New York. Gabe vomits. He's sober and he's not ill, and until today, he didn't think it was possible to vomit from an emotion. He's thinking of his parents, trying to wrack his brain for the last thing he told them, and like the asshole he is, he can't remember. He's hoping it was something important, something meaningful like "I love you" or "Thank you for everything you've done", though he severely doubts it was the latter.
Andy Hurley is annoyed. The fall of civilization was supposed to restore nature, not leave it fucked beyond repair. Now there are god knows how many people dead, but soon, that won't matter. The detritus will kill them all, even if no other bomb falls, meaning no civilization, no comics, and no pristine planet. This is severely uncool.
Alex can see the way this is going to end, and he's already detaching himself from it. He can't put himself in the middle; if he does, he'll just shut down and that won't do anyone any good. So he blinks, and reaches for his glasses (because if his contacts would pick anytime to be a pain in the ass it would be as the world ends).
People are running out from all sides of the field towards the parking lot. Victoria wonders where they think they're going. She wonders where she thinks she's going. She's never been particularly religious or spiritual and the end of the world is not a particularly convenient time to ponder such things. Instead, she packs up her keytar and goes to stand by Nate.
Patrick stands behind Pete, tapping his shoulder. "Come on, Pete. Pete, we gotta go. Pete? Pete? Can you hear me?" He hates when Pete goes wandering in his head; it takes valuable time to snap him back to reality, time they don't have. Vaguely, Patrick pictures Pete sitting there as the bombs explode, silhouetted against the nightmarish mushroom cloud. It seems like Pete would belong there, and the thought horrifies Patrick.
Carden is already back on the bus, cigarette dangling out of his mouth, rooting through his bag, looking for their last bottle of Jack Daniels'. He's scrubbing at the corners of his eyes, willing himself not to cry. He 's willing himself not to think of how it will feel to have the bomb hit Chicago, to know everything he's known will become melted, and twisted, will turn to dust, along with the faces of people who will never know what hit them as parents cling to children who cling to their pets and stuffed animals. He can't let himself cry. He is not going to think of couples curled together, fingers laced or of old people saying their prayers. He is, however, going to get smashed, too smashed to think or wonder or feel. He is going to go with everyone back to the hotel and drink himself to death before the bombs burn the flesh from his bones, and his bones from the earth.
***
In a hotel room, clean and sterile, made to factory perfection and marred only by suitcases, two people listen to the radio and to the bombs falling. Ryland Blackinton never thought his life would end like this. He never imagined it would end with bombs all around and a crackly radio and Alex next to him, trying to sleep and failing horribly.
Alex rolls over to face him. "You know, I've already picked out my famous last words. And I'm saying that like I'm announcing I've picked out my wedding vows. What the fuck, right?"
Ryland would answer, would ask what they are, but there is a knock at the door, and he is fairly certain it isn't housekeeping. And when he opens it to find Victoria standing there, concert clothing clad and wrapped in a blanket, he understands that there is more there than simple panic and fear in the look on her face. And so two becomes three lying on a bed, listening to a dying radio in what could be the center of a dying world.
Three becomes five when Nate and Gabe slide in through Gabe's spare room key. No one's even bothered to ask how he acquired it, because now it doesn't even matter. Nate lies across Alex's legs, mumbling under his breath, and pressing his hands to his eyes, like trying to push them back into his skull. The popcorned ceiling watches them all.
When the last radio wave has faded into a memory, Guy Ripley takes over as an at the scene correspondent, reporting on the end of the world until Victoria grins and sniffles, burying closer into his side. For a moment, he is grateful; grateful that he is surrounded by these people, grateful that it all comes down with them around him. He is grateful for the slim chance that his mom and brothers got the message that he loves them all and grateful that Alex is there to actually hear it.
The first bomb drops close enough for them to hear it; it's not atomic, but it is a bomb, nonetheless.
Gabe's pacing grows faster, and the words under his breath catch in his throat. He runs a hand back through his hair as Nate shouts in frustration.
"I spent God-knows-how-long in church and I can't remember one word of one prayer for the absolution of sins. Fucking wonderful."
Gabe breaks his walk to face Nate for a moment. "I'm pretty sure I've got us all covered, even you goyem." Before anyone can ask what he means, he's returned to the stream of words under his breath, bubbling away, catching every now and then like water on the craggle of a rock.
"Holy Mary ... Mother of God ...pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of death. Amen." Nate settles, like something from deep within has come out. He falls asleep soon after, and it occurs to Gabe that he looks like he's already dead. He shakes his head, and goes on with the kaddish. " May there be abundant peace from Heaven," he breathes out, and looks at the small assembled group before him. They are patchwork and piecemeal; they have seen tour like battle and now a battle like a family. He'll miss them. He'll miss waking up to coffee and dirty socks and Alex cooking; he'll miss Victoria's looks and Nate's commentary; he'll miss Guy Ripley and the BBC World Action News; he'll miss drunken dance parties and "Guilty Pleasure" for every talk show host. But there isn't anything he can do. He startles when a knock on the door fractures the silence, when Joe tells him Pete wants to see him upstairs. He looks at his band, his friends, almost all asleep curled around each other. He'll choose to remember them like this, like the way they were on tour, like the way the were when the cameras weren't on. He won't think of how they'll be.
When Gabe leaves, off to attend to some bit of business, a barely awake (or is it barely living, because that last bomb was awful close-sounding?) Alex turns to an almost sleeping (or is it almost dead?) Ryland and poses a question. "Don't you want to know my famed final last words?"
Ryland nods, just wanting to sleep.
"I love you."
***
Brendon is not talking, not thinking, not bouncing, and wonders if he's even still breathing, or no, this is some warped form of the afterlife. He feels for a pulse and finds it still throbbing under his skin, though it might be an illusion. His mind isn't his safe place anymore; there is no Disney, there are no fairy tales; there are regrets and grievances and things he would have said, could have said, should have said all along. And it's simmering and bubbling and he feels like he is going to burst, turn into a bomb himself and take everyone else out with him.
Ryan continues to be Ryan and Brendon debates strangling him. Everything they know is gone and he continues on, monotone as always. Their family is dead, and there's George Ryan Ross, sitting there with a notebook open, scribbling lyrics. Not even a goodbye note that will magically survive the destruction, but fucking lyrics. For songs that will never be written, no less. Brendon wants to snatch the notebook from his hands and open the window and offer it to the kings of war and queens of destruction in the futile hope that it will save someone, somewhere. Failing that, he'd just like to rip it up and stomp on the pieces, make Ryan feel something.
Even before they had lost the television signal, when they saw the pictures, saw the ruins of home, Ryan sat emotionless. Spencer Smith sat down and cried, and Brendon dialed frantically at a dead phone, but Ryan Ross sat there. And Brendon wants to hurt him for it. He doesn't care that maybe this is impaired Ryan's way of expressing things, he wants him to show it. He does not care that maybe Ryan is not capable of this; the world is ending and all Brendon Urie wants is for Ryan Ross to prove he is not totally emotionally stunted.
And because the world is ending, and because George Ryan Ross is clearly not capable of emotions, and because he is livid and scared and feels like there is only now, Brendon Urie gets angry. And Brendon Urie reaches down and pulls the notebook from Ryan's hands and starts tearing. Blindly. Without thinking. This is real guttural instinct. And he supposes it is the same guttural instinct that causes Ryan to punch him in the face. And he's even willing to conjecture that the guttural force is what causes Spencer to start shouting at them. He is however, entirely certain that it is not a guttural force that causes the hotel to sway and creak and that it is, in fact, a bomb. And, even faced with death, Ryan is not showing any emotion and Brendon is not going to say he's sorry. He will die with it on his head, goddammnit. He will not die, however, with Spencer walking out into the hallway into eternity on his conscience. Because Brendon's getting up and walking after him.
Ryan just sits and watches and wonders how the hell he ended up with the fucked psyche.
***
Ray is sitting in his room, with his guitar. He's called his family, said his Hail Marys and Our Fathers and now the only thing he has left to say goodbye to is his guitar. Which he has always intended to be buried with, though truth be told, he never thought he'd practically have to bury himself.
Absently, he plucks out "Mama", and thinks of his own. He takes some small superfluous solace in knowing he spoke to her, and feels terrible for the guys (and girls) who didn't get the chance. His stomach knots for the boys of Panic and for Gabe, and his fingers tighten on the neck of the guitar to keep from being ill. He almost grins as a bomb falls right right where the sound effects should be.
***
Michael Guy Chislett feels guilty. He hasn't lost any family. He got to call his parents and aunts and uncles. He got to say everything he needed to, got to tell them he loved them, unlike almost everyone else. He feels selfish, too, for wanting the chance to say goodbye to those he didn't. He wants to say goodbye to his friends in Chicago, in New York. He wants to say goodbye to Carden, who's just passed out and whose pulse Butcher can't find.
He wants to go out dramatically, not huddled in a hotel room with Butcher and Siska and a dead body, who formally went by the title Mike Carden. He wants to Townsend a guitar, to see home one more time, to hug his mom.
He even feels guilty that when the bomb drops so close, he breathes a sigh of relief.
***
Pete stands staring at the gathered faces around him: Gabe and William, Gerard and Greta, Jon and Haley, Patrick, Joe and Andy. He has nothing to say. For the first time in his life, Pete Wentz has nothing to say. He wants someone else to handle this, to put out the press release about the bombs falling all around them and the people dying out in the streets.
"Pete," William starts, "I've gotta go be with the guys. Something's wrong with Carden. And I want to be there if something happens. When something happens."
Pete stares at him processing. He doesn't know what to do. William is abandoning him and he doesn't know what to do. The anger and fear are kicking apart his stomach and he doesn't know what to do.
So, he shouts. And "shouts" isn't even the right word for it, because there is no real accurate term for when Pete devolves from Pete to a 5'7" mass of emotion. Everyone stares, startled, and Pete realizes he has made a gaff.
And then Patrick tells him to calm down, tells William to go, lets William out the door, and the others start to follow him. The not-Pete feels the rage to his stomach, the outrage to his intestines, and the livid hue to his cheeks. And the not-Pete does the unforgivable as his final act. He punches Patrick, in the stomach and storms out over the figure still gasping for air as the bomb drops right next door.
***
Gabe still isn't sure how he got Will out. He remembers smoke and screaming and the ceiling getting closer and just shoving William down the stairs. He remembers fleeting thoughts of the others and of Patrick on the floor. But mainly he remembers the heat.
The bomb was atomic and Gabe still can't decide whether he adores or abhors the universe for that. It's given them more time, but did they really want it? Gabe has seen people die horrible deaths, but never like this. Never like William.
They sit on the stage, the stage where twenty-four hours ago, they had rocked out to a packed and panicked crowd. He pushes William's hair away from his face and feels William grow warmer against his shirt. He wonders if it's impossible to explode from your own internal heat, and if William will. They watch the sunset; it's the same color as William's cheeks, as the skin on his hands, too burned to use. Gabe thanks some higher power that he's too delirious to feel anything.
William's losing his strength faster than Gabe can steady his; he decides to lay them down on the stage. William curls into his side, mumbling, and shifting, trying to be comfortable. He licks the burnt skin of his lips with a tongue that shouldn't be able to still move and winces when the spit hits the open sores. Gabe tightens his arms around him. He doesn't even want to run the chance that William will die with no one there, with no physical comforts.
William stirs, and claps him on the shoulder. He announces that the party was fantastic, best they've ever thrown, and should do it again sometime. Gabe almost laughs, tells him he's delirious and to go to sleep. William asks to stay the night, because he's drunk and a danger and shouldn't be on the road. Gabe kisses his forehead in response.
Night is falling faster than he imagined it would and William is settling under his chin. Gabe tries to get his thoughts in order, because he knows he's next and would prefer to die with something in mind other than the garbage littering the ground. He sifts through images and thoughts, though words and sounds and feelings. He picks his band, as they were last night and as they had always been; he picks William, lying in his arms, and the William who was vibrant and lively; he picks his family, and warmth, and home; and he picks tonight, because regardless of circumstance, the sunset was gorgeous, the best he's seen in years.
Next to him, William's breath hitches and Gabe realizes this is the end; in his mind, he races for the words Nate whispered before, but can only return to the kaddish. He sees a blinding flash and clings tighter to William. Let the end do its worst; que sera sera.