FicWad

The halls were long, too long, and seemed to go on forever, sloping downward and abruptly turning left, down a flight of stairs, then to the right. The air was thick and oppressive with outdated air fresheners, you know, the ones that claimed not to just mask the odor, but to eliminate it, when masking was precisely all they ever ended up doing. The carpet underfoot was slightly plush, dyed a deep maroon and laced with a repetitive, almost Argyle print.

Beside me were three boys, one appearing to be chubby, but was really just as skinny as the rest of us, one hardly consisting of any body fat whatsoever, and one actually at the legal drinking age, something that made up the vast division between him and us.

"I don't understand," I stated, running my gaze down the length of the hallway. "I don't understand why they make these damned things so long."

"I don't understand what was going through their minds when they made an imposter, and a bad one at that, form of Argyle for carpeting. It's absolutely hideous." Ryan, the incredibly skinny boy who could most likely consume half the universe and still have room to bear, stated, a look of pure disgust seeming to be burned into the very fabric of his expression. Quite frankly, the boy was teetering on the edge anorexia.

"And what is this smell? It's absolutely horrible." Jon, the twenty-one year old, stated. "Looks like it needs your vanilla-scented deodorant."

"Shut up, Jonathan." Ryan retorted, shooting him a look drenched in death.

"Did you guys see the uniform that the hotel receptionist was wearing? It looked like something I could only expect to see my grandmother in." Spencer, ah, the one with boyish face and thicker build, commented, breaking off from the topic of air fresheners, carpeting, and hallway lengths, but only succeeding in adding to the list of complaints.

The hotel receptionist had been a blonde, and a pretty one as well, with a body that, in a matter of weight, could easily rival that of Ryan. She had seemed peculiarly familiar, as if I'd seen her face far too many times in the past to imagine. Although, I'd seen thousands of female faces during the duration of the past few months, so it could easily have been any of those, screeching, roaring fans.

"Yeah! Is it just me, or does this whole damn hotel have a complete lack of style?" Ryan demanded, grimacing, and receiving a murmur of agreement from Spencer.

"Gotta love the flip-flops, by the way, Jon," I stated, staring down at the thin flaps of rubber that usually clung to the feet of our bassist. "Very sweet."

"Thanks, Bden, I try, I try." He stated, flipping non-existantly long hair, obviously imitating the model in which we had to pose beside a few weeks prior. Julie Henderson, by name.

Eventually, seeming to of lasted the better part of an eternity, we arrived at our hotel room. Jon had insisted on carrying the card key, saying that only he was responsible enough to keep from losing it, when, ironically enough, he had already lost it three times by now. The inside was just as terrifically drab as the outside; the mattress had been adorned with a floral design, much as every other had, wrapped in a comforter and topped, as if by slightly sour whipped cream, a thin, white sheet with a coffee stain characterizing its base.

"Why are we still in this hotel anyway?" Spencer wondered aloud, possibly to no one at all. Possibly to everyone.

"Flights, remember? We can't get a freaking flight to anywhere, not to mention our tour venue." I explained, proceeding to flop uninterestedly onto the bed and study the ceiling. Apparently, there were sixty-seven squares with eight halves, for good measure, on it, the halves created when a wall would cut one off, leaving it mismatching against the other, fully-formed four-sided polygons. "The sad part is, however, the fact that this entire complex is booked. Every last room. Leaving us with this ratty two-star compartment, if that."

"Hey, I think it's actually quite nice. Sort of, well, homey, ya know?" Jon asked. He was now in a chair by the far wall, pouring over some fan mail.

"I guess, in its own, slightly dilapidated sort of way." I answered, sitting up. Outside, rain fell from the sky in buckets, landing against the window panes in a collective heap. It was times like these when people would get to know people. It was times like these when friends got to know friends better. It was times like these when the fears you once held as a child were rehashed, revived, back, and with a vengeance.

Thunder struck, ripping through the sky and ending with one resounding vibration that broke more than one sound barrier somewhere far away, into the abyss of a dismal and depressing landscape. This sort of sound hit Spencer to his core, of course; he always had been the one easiest to frighten.

"Jesus Christ!" He gasped, clapping his hands to the walls as if he had expected everything to crumble away, possibly caused by some vehement earthquake or something.

The lights flickered, resembling a candle caught in a breeze, just enough wind to die the flame down dramatically, just enough stillness to keep it from going out entirely. And then, as if to disobey my metaphor, everything went off. Everything, leaving us in the very dim lighting reflected through the windows. Darkness streaked across the room in weary shades, catching the already less-than-perfect décor in black and white, with the exception of the occasional intermittent burst of grey.

"Wouldn't they have generators though?" Ryan asked, running a single hand through his hair which was thick and brown, sticking up awkwardly at the top and sloping down dangerously close to one eye. "I mean, this is a fire hazard of sorts, isn't it?"

"You'd think." I replied, pacing the room. I'd never exactly been comfortable in complete darkness, and this wasn't an exception, despite the fact you could manage the image of your hand before your face.

"Are you afraid of the dark, Brendon?" Spencer asked, thumbing absently at a pull in the fabric of a chair in which he had landed himself.

"Not exactly, I just find it discomforting. There is a difference."

"Bullcrap, there is no difference. You are, aren't you?" Spencer apparently thought he had caught onto something great. I wouldn't have been surprised if he were to have asked for a prize at that very moment.

"Spencer, I am not afraid of the dark, I'm just uncomfortable in it." I continued to correct him, refusing to back down to his immaturity.

"You are, you are, you-" And, thank God for it, he was interrupted by the room suddenly filling back up with light. I sighed, turning toward the television set where Spencer had insisted on connecting the Play Station 2, but then completely forgetting about it being there.

"I'll be right back. I'm going to go get some soda down at the lobby. Anyone want to come?" I asked, rubbing the back of my neck hesitantly. It had been wet with perspiration, as was the rest of my body.

"Nah, I'm good." Jon waved his hand lazily in the air, signaling my departure. I crossed the room, pulled open the door and was greeted by those off-white halls which I had come to hate with such passion.

-------

Ren's P.O.V.

I glanced at my watch. On it was the time displayed digitally: 5:37. My shift would eventually end in two hours and twenty-three minutes, leaving me to walk to my car, which was parked somewhere in the masses of other vehicles, and return home to a mother and ailing father. Okay, sure, maybe ailing is too dramatic of a word for it; he only had a cold, but sometimes he acted as if his health had grown terminal, refusing to go to work, and sometimes, to even remove his ass from the couch.

My outfit had been just as plain and boring as ever. Everything seemed to be plastered with the most disgusting shade of red ever thought of: a sort of rusted-over maroon, and this also included myself as well. The Hamilton Inn's fashion sense had always seemed to evade my comprehension. Always.

A soft movement erupted as a boy appeared from within one of the two elevators. He had dark hair, almost black, and was clad in mainly pastels, with the exception of his skinny jeans, which were stained navy, and his enormous Nikes, which were red and white. This boy was no ordinary boy, either, and I'm not talking about supernatural powers or anything of the like; I'm talking about his identity. I knew him. And there was no way around it. Problem was, however, I didn't know from where I recognized him.

He made his way across the lobby, obviously unaware of my presence, and approached a pair of soda machines. "They don't work," I called, playing with a loose piece of siding glued to the table. "They're empty."
"Where can I go about getting Pepsi then?" He asked, taking a few steps toward the counter on which I sat.

"Umm... Upstairs there should be a couple. Try them, they should be stocked." I bite my lip tenderly, testing its flesh. I knew him, I could have bet my life on it.

"Thanks." He replied simply before turning on his heel and heading back the way he had come, the elevator.

Once he'd reached the thick, slightly-tarnished sliding metal doors, he stopped. As the enormous mechanism on the other side slid by each level approaching the ground floor, one by one, it would ring. Of course, this wasn't its initially intended purpose for the abrupt "DING!", but this is just how it ended up, for nothing in this hotel worked properly, or at least, that's how it seemed. Everything had its quirks, but this place had too many to count and they, more often than not, turned into a mess, like an unraveled ball of yarn.

Suddenly and completely out of all that was cerulean and turquoise, I knew who he was. He was... he was...--

"Brendon!" I screamed, causing my hair to fall forward from my shoulders, outlining my face. Well, my timing had always been off in a way. And so, because of this, I missed him.


--Was it good? Was it bad? Review and I just may continue. :33--