Fiction: The Stress of Forced Harmony (1,070 words)
I had a stressful Wednesday, and wrote this during my lunch. It is what it is.
Disclaimer:
The following piece of short fiction isn't an actual story, more a short set of mutually-related ideas. It's also very much not true. Please skip it if it's about you.
Oh, and for anyone who doesn't already know, this is Ryan Ross. He's the guitarist for Panic! at the Disco, and he writes the lyrics. Brendon Urie is the lead singer. He can play several instruments as well. Aren't they pretty? The other two guys in the band are the drummer, Spencer Smith, and the new bassist, Jon Walker. This is Ryan's cult.
The Stress of Forced Harmony
by stungunbilly
Panic! at the Disco real person fiction.
Summary: Ryan has to work at it, too.
These are things Ryan knows about Brendon.
Brendon is different than his press. Which is to say, he is more than his press, because some of the stories are true. He snorts sometimes, not often, he feeds his head with Ryan and what he laughingly calls “Ryan’s cult”, but it’s playful. He’s an occasional partier, but for the most part he’s always working, trying to tame his voice and his hands to his will.
[Shifting lights from the Strip kaleidoscope in Ryan‘s eyes through the windows of the moving limousine. A blue reflection off the mirror in Brendon’s hands alerts him, and the white glimmer of a smile snares his attention. Brendon leans close to murmur unnecessary words into his ear on a hot and sibilant breath. He shivers, takes the proffered line. His face feels frozen into an assumed mask of unconcern as Keltie squeezes his hand in warning.]
The girls are true. Or; they aren’t like the press tales, and Ryan thinks Bren‘s probably gay, which makes him a liar, but. They are as true as sweat and skin and insistence can make them. There are orgasms on faces when bodies cannot bring them, there are words dirty enough to overcome a certain lack of real passion, but there are no striking fists or egomaniacal rages and excesses.
[The club is stifling, Ryan is damp with sweat, and Brendon’s shirt is plastered to his body. Sweat drips down his pale neck and flicks off the ends of his blue-black hair. He is glowing, glitter-covered, eyes wide and dark. Ryan breathes in panting breaths, what would be humiliatingly loud gasps, but the music covers him.]
The child-like innocence is a huge lie, one he perpetuates and loves, because Brendon worries like a cynical old man. His adolescence and early adulthood are a grafted-together monstrosity of hard labor and forced smiles. Every waking moment, a core of fear is lurking beneath Brendon’s practicing, his posturing, his attempts at ease.
[“*Fuck* you, Ross, there is no way anybody can make it from that chorus to the first note of this verse in a quarter-beat. I’m not a machine, you just. Write something fucking sing-able!” Brendon snarls at him, voice raspy and over-strained. Ryan just huffs, clenching his jaw tight against the sharp things he wants to spit. He draws himself to his full height, pulling his spine into the coldly erect stance that always brings Brendon around to try again.]
One of the most common symbols for his family’s religion is the beehive. Bees conform, bees work hard daily, with no personal expectations and only the merest skimming of the fruits of their efforts. Bees do not join rock bands or kiss other bees.
[Brendon’s phone is ringing as they punch in the security code on the bus. He answers it, hanging back and laughing into the receiver as he says hello. He is always giddy right after the show.
But he goes silent, and Ryan hangs back to watch his face close up, his mouth go first tight and then pale. Brendon meets his eyes, fakes a tiny smile. *Mom*, he mouths, and turns away to talk in private.]
The thing is, now he is apostate, and, not outcast, never that, but. He is the wrong size and shape for the hive entrance, or some other metaphor for being unable to return home without leaving important parts of himself behind. He is apostate, but he was once the perfect worker bee. He is the prodigal son, but instead of washed up in a foreign land, he is successful and beloved and popular, as long as he works hard enough, smiles enough, wears the right clothes, dates the right people.
[Spencer says, “Brendon. You can see anyone you want, it doesn’t matter. We can handle it.” Brendon just frowns more, shakes his head. “Honestly,” Spencer says again, but even though Spencer is looking right at him when he does it, Ryan can’t help meeting Brendon’s eyes with a blank stare. He feels cold all through his body, even in his bones, but he also feels his stomach unclench when Brendon says “No. I won’t put this thing at risk like that.”]
Ryan likes the fear he sees in Brendon’s eyes, because it’s a signal that Brendon is his. There will be no running off to pursue a solo career, no moving in on Ryan’s business connections, and all the yelling in the studio will continue to end with Ryan’s words sung just the way he wants them. Ryan has some minor talent himself, but he sees and recognizes the star inside Brendon, and it belongs to him as long as Brendon fears losing his acceptance.
[His words, *his* words, are ringing all through the packed, darkened stadium. The crowd is a sea of high school girls who know his name now, who chant his lyrics and hang his face on their walls. Brendon is moving around the stage, taking up that vast, unknowable space, shining in his white costume and his sudden flourishes. The strings feel right under Ryan’s hands for the first time, his calluses caress them so carefully as he counts the beats and stays in time.]
The status quo may be something Ryan complains about, but, loneliness and bad press aside, he loves it. He has people hanging on his every word, he can buy certain kinds of justice, and his friends who are his family won’t have to go off to college or distant careers to make a living. It’s all he wants, the little family he’s grafted together.
[Jon’s got his hand to his head as they leave the stage. He smiles, a movement of lips only. Brendon gives him a fierce, proud look, wraps his arm around Jon’s shoulder and Ryan can’t stop seeing the previous year’s show in his memory. Brendon lay so still when the bottle hit him, like it wasn’t really happening, and Ryan couldn’t stop playing. He looks to Spencer for his cue, but Spencer is staring at the ground. ]
Almost all he wants. There are a few things he hasn’t got yet that he will probably always yearn after without hope. He wants someone to fix the wrongs of his childhood. He wants to be able to be anonymous at will, without giving up his fame. And he wants all of Brendon.
These are things Ryan knows about himself.
©
Disclaimer:
The following piece of short fiction isn't an actual story, more a short set of mutually-related ideas. It's also very much not true. Please skip it if it's about you.
Oh, and for anyone who doesn't already know, this is Ryan Ross. He's the guitarist for Panic! at the Disco, and he writes the lyrics. Brendon Urie is the lead singer. He can play several instruments as well. Aren't they pretty? The other two guys in the band are the drummer, Spencer Smith, and the new bassist, Jon Walker. This is Ryan's cult.
The Stress of Forced Harmony
by stungunbilly
Panic! at the Disco real person fiction.
Summary: Ryan has to work at it, too.
These are things Ryan knows about Brendon.
Brendon is different than his press. Which is to say, he is more than his press, because some of the stories are true. He snorts sometimes, not often, he feeds his head with Ryan and what he laughingly calls “Ryan’s cult”, but it’s playful. He’s an occasional partier, but for the most part he’s always working, trying to tame his voice and his hands to his will.
[Shifting lights from the Strip kaleidoscope in Ryan‘s eyes through the windows of the moving limousine. A blue reflection off the mirror in Brendon’s hands alerts him, and the white glimmer of a smile snares his attention. Brendon leans close to murmur unnecessary words into his ear on a hot and sibilant breath. He shivers, takes the proffered line. His face feels frozen into an assumed mask of unconcern as Keltie squeezes his hand in warning.]
The girls are true. Or; they aren’t like the press tales, and Ryan thinks Bren‘s probably gay, which makes him a liar, but. They are as true as sweat and skin and insistence can make them. There are orgasms on faces when bodies cannot bring them, there are words dirty enough to overcome a certain lack of real passion, but there are no striking fists or egomaniacal rages and excesses.
[The club is stifling, Ryan is damp with sweat, and Brendon’s shirt is plastered to his body. Sweat drips down his pale neck and flicks off the ends of his blue-black hair. He is glowing, glitter-covered, eyes wide and dark. Ryan breathes in panting breaths, what would be humiliatingly loud gasps, but the music covers him.]
The child-like innocence is a huge lie, one he perpetuates and loves, because Brendon worries like a cynical old man. His adolescence and early adulthood are a grafted-together monstrosity of hard labor and forced smiles. Every waking moment, a core of fear is lurking beneath Brendon’s practicing, his posturing, his attempts at ease.
[“*Fuck* you, Ross, there is no way anybody can make it from that chorus to the first note of this verse in a quarter-beat. I’m not a machine, you just. Write something fucking sing-able!” Brendon snarls at him, voice raspy and over-strained. Ryan just huffs, clenching his jaw tight against the sharp things he wants to spit. He draws himself to his full height, pulling his spine into the coldly erect stance that always brings Brendon around to try again.]
One of the most common symbols for his family’s religion is the beehive. Bees conform, bees work hard daily, with no personal expectations and only the merest skimming of the fruits of their efforts. Bees do not join rock bands or kiss other bees.
[Brendon’s phone is ringing as they punch in the security code on the bus. He answers it, hanging back and laughing into the receiver as he says hello. He is always giddy right after the show.
But he goes silent, and Ryan hangs back to watch his face close up, his mouth go first tight and then pale. Brendon meets his eyes, fakes a tiny smile. *Mom*, he mouths, and turns away to talk in private.]
The thing is, now he is apostate, and, not outcast, never that, but. He is the wrong size and shape for the hive entrance, or some other metaphor for being unable to return home without leaving important parts of himself behind. He is apostate, but he was once the perfect worker bee. He is the prodigal son, but instead of washed up in a foreign land, he is successful and beloved and popular, as long as he works hard enough, smiles enough, wears the right clothes, dates the right people.
[Spencer says, “Brendon. You can see anyone you want, it doesn’t matter. We can handle it.” Brendon just frowns more, shakes his head. “Honestly,” Spencer says again, but even though Spencer is looking right at him when he does it, Ryan can’t help meeting Brendon’s eyes with a blank stare. He feels cold all through his body, even in his bones, but he also feels his stomach unclench when Brendon says “No. I won’t put this thing at risk like that.”]
Ryan likes the fear he sees in Brendon’s eyes, because it’s a signal that Brendon is his. There will be no running off to pursue a solo career, no moving in on Ryan’s business connections, and all the yelling in the studio will continue to end with Ryan’s words sung just the way he wants them. Ryan has some minor talent himself, but he sees and recognizes the star inside Brendon, and it belongs to him as long as Brendon fears losing his acceptance.
[His words, *his* words, are ringing all through the packed, darkened stadium. The crowd is a sea of high school girls who know his name now, who chant his lyrics and hang his face on their walls. Brendon is moving around the stage, taking up that vast, unknowable space, shining in his white costume and his sudden flourishes. The strings feel right under Ryan’s hands for the first time, his calluses caress them so carefully as he counts the beats and stays in time.]
The status quo may be something Ryan complains about, but, loneliness and bad press aside, he loves it. He has people hanging on his every word, he can buy certain kinds of justice, and his friends who are his family won’t have to go off to college or distant careers to make a living. It’s all he wants, the little family he’s grafted together.
[Jon’s got his hand to his head as they leave the stage. He smiles, a movement of lips only. Brendon gives him a fierce, proud look, wraps his arm around Jon’s shoulder and Ryan can’t stop seeing the previous year’s show in his memory. Brendon lay so still when the bottle hit him, like it wasn’t really happening, and Ryan couldn’t stop playing. He looks to Spencer for his cue, but Spencer is staring at the ground. ]
Almost all he wants. There are a few things he hasn’t got yet that he will probably always yearn after without hope. He wants someone to fix the wrongs of his childhood. He wants to be able to be anonymous at will, without giving up his fame. And he wants all of Brendon.
These are things Ryan knows about himself.
©