What Happens On Tour [12/15]

[fuelledbydecay]

Title: What Happens On Tour...
Author: fuelledbydecay
Pairings: Ryden, some sides
POV: 3rd Person, Brendon
Rating: PG- 13
Warning: Slash, Drug use, Swearing, Sexual References etc.
Summary: Tours can leave you emotionally and physically strained and on the brink of collapse, but when you add tension and lust to that mix will you still be standing or will you fall over into a unknown world where boundaries are blurred and chaos is normality?
Disclaimer: This is completely fictional, all characters own themselves (Apart from Ryan he is totally mine). The plot is the work of my own imagination, so any haters don't get too carried away. I know its all in my head and in their beds.
Beta: The wonderful Shannonmuffins<3 quitethejoke

Previous Chapters


12. Solutions

He's going to do it. He convinces himself that this is the only way to end the madness he's been plagued by for weeks, maybe even months. As soon as it's done he can move on, forget the whole idea and tell Pete if he was right. Part of him already screams out that he knows the answer, that this won't help him in anyway, but that part of him is obtuse. No one needs to know about it. It can all just be pushed under a rock for the rest of time as soon as it's over; but that tiny, tiny part of him is still persistent yelling that whatever lives under rocks always do pull their big ugly heads out at some time.

Whatever excuses he tells himself they still don't stop his hand from shaking around the cord of the microphone, minute tremors that send it quivering over his bottom lip as he sings, unable to completely hide the unevenness in his word-perfect chorus. His eyes fall shut, voice belting words that right now he has very little faith in. The audience below him, always below when really he should be falling at their feet, still cry out euphorically whenever he permits them to, flailing and rejoicing when he locks eyes on them, smiles genuinely into their faces, or on the rare occasion he gets carried away and sticks out and arm or a leg for a million eager fingers to pull, and stroke, and tug, and caress. He feels secure in himself knowing that they want him. That after everything is said and done, they'll still worship him and praise him. No matter what- they'll want him.

His lithe feet lead him over to Jon, who smiles tiredly at him, sweat dropping from his face, peeking out from under dark hair. He places his hand firm and tight on Jon's shoulder, never breaking the string of phrases falling from his mouth, clamping his fingers to give a reassuring squeeze before darting off across the stage again. He slides past the piano, vacant after he exited it two songs previous, suddenly tempted to sit on to of it, legs crossed at the ankles and sing a spontaneous, "Happy birthday Mr. President" but he reigns in the urge, twirling over cables and swiping an affectionate hand over the keys before he's back in the centre of the stage, hips swaying in time to the beat.

The nerves in his stomach are hatching into newborn butterflies, thrashing and twisting, spreading their wings and thrumming against his chest with every moment longer that he stands there, unsure and wrecked. He spins again, shaking sweat from the ends of his raven hair, hearing screaming fans as his heated hand curls up the end of his damp shirt, pink skin flushed and alive. His eyes lock on fiery gold. He thinks of home and safety, and forbidden fruit before he looks back at the crowd, smile faltering on his lips.
He barely notices when the set finishes, convulsing nervously as he exits the stage, hyperaware and overheated. He changes quickly, too wound up to stand still in a shower for any prolonged moment. By the time he's back at the side of the stage his hands are shaking over his third bottle of beer, the liquid inside thrashing audibly against its glass confines, betraying him.

Pete catches his eyes, dark orbs asking, Are you still going through with it?

Brendon nods once and then Pete's out of sight throwing himself across the stage, mouthing lyrics as he goes. The silent question keeps on being repeated whenever Pete gets the chance to glance sideways, but Brendon never changes his answer. He can't back out now. Not now.

He waits through the encore, makes sure Pete's distracting everyone just like he promised he would before heading outside. He can hear the laughter, taste it on his tongue, as he steps outside finding a handful of fans huddled and whispering excitedly at the front of the venue waiting for band members to surface. He stands to the side, in the shadows, eyes skimming over potential candidates before one actually meets his gaze and smiles warmly.

She slips out of her group subtly and tip-toes over, brown hair falling into her face to hide the rosy blush spreading across high cheekbones. Her nervous half-wave and timid smile are kind of sweet as she comes to a stop in front of him, clicking the heels of her ballet pumps together (and suddenly Northern Downpour lyrics are flooding Brendon's mind).

"Hey," she whispers shyly, tugging at the hem of her t-shirt.

"Hi".

Her smile widens so dramatically at that one syllable it's pretty unreal. There's silence for a moment. Brendon takes the time to take in her appearance; her willowy frame, her coy manner- he just needs her to be profound and then he's pretty sure she's ticked all the boxes that Pete had said. Only when he goes over the criteria in his head, he realizes that Pete may have, totally on purpose, told him to pick up someone who was, basically, a female version of Ryan. Somehow the thought isn't too outrageous to him; considering it's about as close to sleeping with Ryan as he's ever going to get.

"So how come you're out here alone?"

He pulls his eyes back up to meet hers, a heavy shrug heaving his shoulders up and then plummeting them back down. "Just needed some air. How old are you?"

He knows he's being obvious but he doesn't care. He can tell as soon as her eyes widen that fraction of a millimeter that she knows exactly where he's headed with it but he really can't bring himself to be ashamed. He needs this. She laughs, a quiet tinkle that barely disrupts the air. She answers through her smile. "I'm 22."

"You wanna, maybe, come back to -uh- my bus?"

He catches the smell of strawberries as she flicks her head backwards to look at her friends, clearly weighing out both options. Her smile is brighter then anything Brendon's seen all day as she swivels back around to face him, placing her tiny fingers into his outstretched hand and letting him lead her across the parking lot to Panic's bus.

Brendon really, really, really deserves a medal for being celibate this long. No one under the age of 30 should ever, ever have to live without getting laid at least once a day. Its been months since he's had to seduce someone into a one night stand, and he thanks God he didn't have to do much wooing because his chat up lines are stale (Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?) and apart from buying a person a drink he really doesn't have a clue.

So he's entitled to have sex on the kitchen table if he wants to, entwined naked bodies saying "fuck you" to the stupid band rule. And, okay, yeah he feels like a total hypocrite after the drama he caused when Ryan did it, but he tells himself it's easier to clean the table then it is to clean the couch. Besides it's not like anyone's going to find out about it. What they don't know can't hurt them.

Except Jesus Christ, why is he even thinking along these lines at all when he's having sex? He's pretty sure not even the nerds in high school think about cleaning up the evidence and how shitty it is when he made a big deal out of it when Ryan did it only now he's doing exactly the same thing. Guilt can come afterwards. So now he focuses on deep thrusts, the burning drag of nails clawing down the skin of his back. He makes sure the heavy pants and desperate moans are just about the only things that fill his ears, and that the collarbone his face is buried deep into is just about the only thing he can see.

And, so being out of practised totally gives him an excuse for not holding back. But he still tries. Right up until his stomach flips in terror as the bus' door flies open and Ryan appears at the top of the steps, eyes wide and frozen, and it's really not the image of Ryan there, in front of him that sends his body shivering, convulsing, quaking into bliss, a loud, wild moan dripping from his lips before he can stop himself.

It's only then that the meaning of Ryan's presence shatters the after glow, mind churning as he pulls out and grabs for his boxers, his pants, hell his fucking clothes.

The girl stutters out a thousand apologies, tugging her t-shirt over her head before she's even caught her breath. Brendon hands over her underwear, blushing ruby red, eyes fixed on the sweat-slicked table top, growing increasingly frightened under Ryan's glare. The girl repeats the word "sorry" again once she's fully clothed, pecking Brendon's cheek timidly before snatching her pumps that lay by the couch and leaving.

The door echoes shut louder then anything Brendon has ever heard, except maybe the heart that's jammed itself at the top of his throat. Maybe that's the reason why right now he's convinced he's suffocating.

"Double standards. Huh, Bren?"

"Ry, I'm really sorry, okay. It's been a really long time, and I feel really bad about it now. I know I shouldn't have done it after you know, making a big deal out of it when you did it but I just- I just..."

He just what?

The air seems to solidify under the weight of absolute nothingness. His blood feels like ice within his veins, like his hearts stopped trying to pump it round his body now. His brain is in complete overdrive words and thoughts colliding so fast he can't even work out what he actually thinks, apart from "Oh God, Ryan just saw me orgasm" and at a time like this he really, really should have something less petulant and more diplomatic in his mind.

"You should shower."

"Ryan, please- I-I- I'm sorry, alright."

Ryan shakes his head, presses his lips firmly shut and leaves, slamming the door behind him. Brendon showers, just like Ryan told him too, ignoring the hot prick of tears at the corners of his eyes. By the time he comes out there's no scent left on him, no physical sign that he's gotten laid, which he thinks is probably a good thing.

While he's sinking down onto the couch, legs tucked up to his chest, arms cradling himself Pete's flying through the door, looking clearly distressed, panting hard. He crosses the space quickly, slumping down into the vacant space next to Brendon before slinging an arm over the young singer's shoulder.

"I just saw Ryan. He didn't say much, but ya know; I got the picture. Fuck. I'm really sorry. I tried to stop him, Bren. I really did. But he wouldn't let it go."

"I fucked everything up." Brendon sobs, burying his face into Pete's side, moulding himself to the bassist for comfort, needing the contact.

"Bren," Pete says firmly, nudging him gently as if by some small miracle this might just knock some sense into him. "You're single and you had sex. How does that mean you fucked everything up?"

"Because I have. You didn't see him. He was so angry Pete".

"Why?"

Brendon blinks. One, twice. He pulls himself up to look into Pete's dark eyes, finding nothing revealing their at all. "What?"

"Why?" Pete repeats. "Why is he angry at you?"

"B-because I broke the rules, because I was a hypocrite- do you want me to go on?"

Pete rubs a small soothing circle into Brendon's back before springing back to his feet, straightening his Clandestine hoodie and ruffling his hair, muttering something along the lines of "some people are so fucking blind." Only Brendon can't be sure because the words seem cracked and distorted to him at the moment. The bassist smiles. It's warm and genuine under the pressing glow of artificial lights and stagnant air.

"We're all hanging out in our bus. You should stop moping here and have some fun."

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Brendon wakes up to blue skies and a clouded mind. There's warmth beating down on his bare skin, sweat already coating it with liquid beads. He glances around at the blackened floor and parked cars with vague recognition, familiarity humming below his confusion. A shadow falls across his face as he stares aimlessly, blocking the sun from his bleary eyes.

"Hi." Jon beams, sitting down next to him.

He props himself up on his shoulder's, self-consciously checking that at least he has pants on. He has. Jon continues to smile knowingly at him, eating a cream cheese bagel that ignites a fiery grumble from his empty stomach.

"Jon, do you know why I'm sleeping in the middle of a parking lot and missing my t-shirt?"

His friend chuckles around his food, brown eyes laughing. "It might be because after a few drinks Will decided you were a buzz kill and made everyone vote to have you kicked off the bus."

Brendon blinks. "I'm a buzz kill?"

The effortless smile balancing precariously on Jon's lips seems to become a little more work as he chomps through another piece of bagel, painstakingly slow as he swallows it. "You got a bit difficult after you lost the bet."

His stomach clenches. "What bet?"

He can tell from the way that Jon grows weary in a way he never does that this is probably something he doesn't want to know. The question hangs, suspended in air as Jon weighs out his options. It's excruciating.

"We had this bet that if Spencer could beat me at rock, paper scissors you'd have to kiss Ryan onstage tonight."

He's getting the first plane out of town and joining a convent. Right now.

"And you let him win?!"

The temperature drops ten degrees between them; Brendon shivers involuntarily against the comprehension, curses alcohol and Pete fucking Wentz. Jon chucks away the last of his bagel as if his appetite has suddenly evaporated into the sweltering heat, his expression screams apology but Brendon wants a verbal response.

"I'm sorry. Joe's been training him to, like predict an opponent's attacks and everything. The guy's a total ninja."
"Who else knows?" he asks.

"Who doesn't know?" Pete counters from behind them, enviously fresh-faced and fully clothed. Brendon's allowed to hate him right now.
His stomach drops. He fights for control. A broken it'sjustabetit'sjustabetit'sjustabet repeats in his head, spirals, twists, jolts. Does he have any composure right now? He's not sure. Can Jon and Pete see him panic? Again, he's not sure. He blinks, breathes and actually manages a small smile.

"Compared to you Ryan was actually good natured about it," Pete informs him, wearing another t-shirt with the heart-bat insignia and, Jesus, does he even have any clothes that he didn't design himself?

It's the singer's turn to blink stupidly again, lashes slamming over his pale cheek. "He was?"

"Hell yeah," Sisky says, suddenly emerging from The Academy's tour bus. He seems ridiculously happy for no apparent reason. Brendon wishes he could have that sort of unwavering enthusiasm. He used to but it's disappeared over the years.

Jon nods erratically, seeing that this route may actually prevent Brendon from physically attacking him later on. He appears to be clinging to that hope. "Yeah, he just said that even if it was really stupid and the fans would probably die of heart attack but a bets a bet."
"That doesn't really sound all that encouraging to me, Jon."

The bassist shrugs, picking himself up from the floor, dusting invisible dirt from his jeans. It's a smart move to get out of hitting distance. He might lose a limb if Brendon has anything to do with it. Maybe then he won't be able to participate in rock, paper, scissors and lose again if he hasn't got any hands to play with. The idea is a hundred kinds of amusing to Brendon. His fingers twitch to destroy. But he doesn't- he has self control (and also a physical disadvantage).

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Bill declares that they eat out for food for a change. This translates as "The Academy are starving to death with nothing in their cupboards and really, really need food." Whatever the reasons behind his spur of the moment outing everyone complies without a word of protest, filing sadly to the closest McDonalds like ducklings. And William Beckett is the fucking duck.

Brendon hangs at the back, feeling oddly stupid. He watches from a distance as Bill swings open the glass door, all smiles and, well, legs as he ushers his fellow musicians inside, like if they even think about not coming in (like Brendon had been planning on doing) he's going to manhandle them. Which is totally just an excuse for Bill to manhandle just about anything he can get his hands on. He's not picky- Brendon should know. Brendon wonders if he's ever been done for sexual assault, eyeing the way the other singer touches people he assumes it's probable.

There's air conditioning hitting his face before he realizes he's stepped inside. Apparently he managed to scurry past Bill intact. Which isn't really all that surprising consider Bill only ever goes after the people he hasn't conquered yet. Brendon tries not to let it get to him. If he thinks about it it's actually pretty flattering. Flattering, yeah. He'll just roll with that.

His head jerks up as he looks for a booth, his eyes locking on a girl ogling at him. He smiles warmly, noting the "Northern Downpour" t-shirt draped over her shoulders as she leans over to whisper excitedly at her parents. Neither seem to be too thrilled with whatever she's got to say; they both continue to dissect their burgers like they don't know what to do with them.

"Earth-to-Brendon," Spencer calls, snapping his fingers exaggeratedly as he wiggles his butt into the leather of the booth he has decided to reside in. Jon and Ryan follow him automatically because heaven forbid any of them sit with anyone who isn't in the same band.

He suppresses his need to laugh, bites down hard with his tongue, and then realizes this is no laughing matter. He actually has to sit across from Ryan knowing that the guitarist is going to be seething. But this shouldn't be any different from usual. He's used to having Ryan angry at him. It's a common occurrence when on tour. He's pretty much got the whole act down to a T. He knows how to endure Ryan's biting comments and deathly glares, and he can put up with every suggestion he gives being trampled into mush and then handed back to him. He never takes it personally. Ryan's just angry.

He also hasn't told anyone about Brendon breaking the rules. So Brendon owes him big time, and if that means putting up with a lot of shit, well he'll just have to.

Ryan lifts his head slightly, his shirt tugging upwards to reveal milky white skin that almost glows under the artificial lighting. Brendon tells himself he's not looking at the unblemished skin as it runs under the shirt, flooding over an expanse of- right, not looking. Instead he focuses on the shape the shirt makes as it frames the skin. A polygon. An irregular polygon. A- what the fuck are they called? An irregular pentagon. He smiles proudly to himself and glances back over at the girl he had seen when they had come in. She's still sitting there having resigned herself to the fact her parents just don't care about who the hell it was who just walked into McDonalds. She looks longingly over at them, fingers curling sadly over the hem of her t-shirt.

In an instant he's on his feet again, his three other band mates staring at him like maybe he's lost his sanity. He feels guilty for never informing them he was lacking in that department from the beginning. He crosses the linoleum floor quickly, ignoring how his friends are gawping after him. They should know it's rude to fucking stare.

"Hey." He beams when he reaches the table, giving the girl a half wave. Her parents don't bat an eyelid. His lips urge to spill out a, "Hey, do you mind if I just take your underage daughter and maybe steal her innocence?" just to see if they actually react but he's afraid they might actually take him seriously, and the last thing he wants to do is terrify a fan. That is so not how he rolls.

Her hands freeze over the cup in her hand, her mouth partly open like she was on the verge of saying something but for the life of her can't remember what it was. That's fine. She's shocked. He'll just mutter on without her taking part in the conversation.

"So, I saw your t-shirt," he continues, nodding to the item in what he hopes to God is not a way that can be taken as perverted, "and I was wondering if maybe you wanted me to sign it?"

It didn't sound so egotistical in his head.

She blinks once, twice. Then out of nowhere she smiles, grins at him ridiculously and hands him a pen she just happened to have lying on the table. He signs his name, well, it's more like an illegible scribble but she'll know who it's from and hands her back the pen. He chats with her a while about music. Always about music. She informs him that she will be attending the night's performance (which reminds him of the stupid bet) and he says he hopes he'll see her there, then returns to his booth to find that Jon -being the completely awesome person that he is, no joke- has already ordered his food and has it waiting for him.

Spencer is still gaping at him like he's sprouted another head and Ryan seems to be contemplating shovelling food into the drummer's open mouth.

"The fuck was that?" Spencer finally wheezes, hand darting out to grab the polystyrene cup in front of him.

Brendon shrugged. "She had a 'Northern Downpour' t-shirt on. I was being polite."

"You could have told us!" Spencer protests; tongue flicking out to direct the straw to his mouth as he takes a long sip from the cup in his hands.

"Why?"

Spencer slams the cup down onto the table, causing some of it to jerk out of the straw and coat the table top. Ryan shuffles out of the way of any falling liquid, sending silent death glares at his best friend who clearly doesn't care as he shuffles out of the booth and starts to march towards the girl. "Because I want to sign her t-shirt too!"

Jon chuckles and jumps up too. "Unfortunately, I'm not above such childish behavior either. Ryan you coming?"

Ryan looks up from where he's pretty much torn apart what Brendon thinks might have been a burger and fries. He's not sure. It could be, like, a ferret for all he knows. The guitarist gazes at Jon then flicks his eyes to Brendon then back at Jon. He parts his lips and shakes his head. "I'll be there in a minute."

Jon leaves them and the awkward silence is instantaneous. It feels like the only thing Brendon's ever known. If it wasn't awkward he would probably end up running for the hills but he's not bitter enough to ignore the irony. He sees it alright.

Ryan reclines in his chair causing the faux leather to squeak and chaff against his barely there legs. His face, his mouth, his eyes seem unfamiliar as he glares across at Brendon who is in the process of preparing himself for the big black hole that's going to come and swallow him any minute now.

"I know about the bet."

Any minute now...

"I-uh-yeah. It w-wasn't my f-fault. Jon-Spencer-them," Brendon babbles and he's pretty sure the last sentence didn't even make sense. He was in the middle of trying to shift the blame because he knows it wasn't his fault this time round. It's kind of refreshing to not be to blame for once.

Ryan nods across from him, lips pursed. "As long as you get it over with in five seconds, I don't mind."

Any fucking minute now....

"I, uh, okay."

The guitarist leans forwards and for a minute Brendon thinks his fingers look like the ones that baby aye aye had on that nature program he had been watching when nothing else was on. And, Jesus, those aye ayes really freak him the fuck out with their big yellow eyes and creepy fingers- but right, not important.

"I mean it Brendon, five seconds."

And then Ryan's disappearing from the booth and sauntering over to the girl that Spencer and Jon are talking to, and signing her shirt. Her parents still haven't looked up once and Brendon thinks that maybe they can sneak her on tour and adopt her.

Oh, right, here comes the big, black hole to swallow him, only it's too fucking late now.

A/n: Sorry. I hadn't realised how long it's been since I updated and since the whole walking out thing last week I haven't really felt like posting etc but I am now so I hope you didn't mind the wait (: