Categories > Celebrities > Panic! At The Disco > Ryden For Dummies
The place was empty, with the exclusion of the band and a pair of mismatching men behind an unwashed countertop. Before us were shelves lined with cellophane-wrapped CD cases, most of which produced by bands and singers I never had heard of before. Or just didn't bother acknowledging.
"Norah Jones, eh?" Ryan asked, flipping a single, plastic box over to glance at the other side. "The forums have been talking about her."
"You know, Ryro, you really shouldn't be reading those." I replied, continuing down the aisle.
"Especially when they plot you having sex with Brendon." Spencer interjected, laughing slightly as his own words clung in the air. "I mean-"
"Are you done, Spencer?" Ryan asked, sliding the Norah Jones album back onto the rack. "Because, quite frankly, you really should shut up."
A fly hovered inches from my ear canal. It would distance itself, flitting off to pace a row of unknown band posters before returning, it's buzzing maximizing in sudden sound, to the premises of earshot.
"Haha, Avril Lavigne, Ryan. Still have a crush on her?" I asked, flinging him another CD to turn over and over in his hands. He, however, had other plans, for it ended up crashing into the back of my head and ricocheting off a shelf, onto the floor.
"That ended four years ago, asshole." Ryan hissed, proceeding to flick me just behind the ear, forcing the fly to flee.
"You never know, Ryan, old crushes tend to be relived." I replied, massaging my ear lobe. "And that hurt."
"You deserved it for being so fucking childish, Brendon. She's hot, but I don't obsess over her anymore." He continued to defend himself. "Why should I when I have a girlfriend unlike you, 'Bren-Bren'? The teenie fan girls may obsess over you the most, my dear friend, but as of yet you're still a virgin!"
"That is only because you are a man whore and I'm not!" I exclaimed, wagging a single finger before his face. "Man. Whore."
"Man whore? Hah! That's good. Real fresh. Where'd you learn that one," One of the two men behind the counter asked, approaching us "hotshot?"
"Up the road, not across the street!" I answered, smirking. "Know who we are?"
"Oh, don't, Brendon. I've had enough near-fan girl rapings for one day." Ryan whined, his face screwed up as he winced.
"That'd be the day, Ry." Spencer stated, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We are-"
"Oh my God... Are you Panic! At The Disco?" A girl asked, clad in the same sort of lime green uniform as the other male clerks.
"Oh Jesus..." The male clerk shook his head. "These guys?" He asked, gesturing toward a band poster on the wall.
"I personally think you're sellouts," The girl continued, her head cocked to one side. "My sister's the one that loves you guys." She walked up to me and placed her finger directly into my sternum. "And especially you, Brendon Boyd Urie."
"Umm..." I mustered, watching her as she pushed by to return to the counter which had been placed at the far corner of the room. "Cool?"
"See? And you're still a virgin. Pity, pity..." Ryan taunted, thumbing through, alas, scores upon scores of vintage-style records.
"Zach called." Jon stated, appearing from behind a couple of magazine racks. "That taste-testing convention's starting in an hour."
"Sweet. But, why is he only calling you, Jacob?" I questioned, referring to his middle name.
"Maybe because I'm the only one who bothered giving him my number?" He suggested, raising an eyebrow.
"Ah, true."
---
The room, however small and crammed with other, sweating people, was drenched in the aroma of coffee and espresso beans. More than once had my shoes been scuffed, my tongue scalded, and my hoodie stained with caffeine-based beverages.
Suddenly, a hand came down on my shoulder, forcing me to spill, alas, more coffee to the floor. "Brendon?" Someone asked, her voice soft, but pitched high.
"Who are you?" I asked, laughing at how stupid that must have sounded. There stood the receptionist, her hair a tawny blond and flowing midway down her upper arm.
"Ren Evans. You are Brendon Urie, right?" She asked, her voice cracking with uncertainty at my surname. Scottish origin, you see.
Within me, something clicked, as if I had momentarily resembled a jigsaw puzzle, nearly finished in all aspects. Except for one piece and, at that moment, it materialized and fit with great precision and ease, into its respected position, location.
I had found the boy standing somewhere feet from an elevator. He had been holding a cup of coffee just as the rest of us. His eyes moved in short, rapid intervals as the same caffeine that shot through my veins shot through his. His movements had been shaky, uncertain, faltering as he turned, his eyes scanning the many faces in a search of something I'm to this day not quite sure of. However, no matter in how many regards he was the same as me, us and the guy to my right, he had been different. Completely and so much in a way that he could hardly have been considered in the same category.
"Brendon?" I asked, allowing a hand to rest on his shoulder, inches from his neck. He jumped, a dark fountain appearing over the rim of the cup in his hands as the liquid escaped from its thin, flimsy constraints to collect in pools on the carpet.
"Who are you?" He asked, a laugh escaping him. Smirking, I cocked my head to the side, fixing my eyes on his. They were deep, endless containments of mass, formless, and seeming to go on for an eternity over again.
"Ren Evans," I stated, allowing my gaze to fall to his lips. They had been the same size, if not smaller, when we had first acknowledged each other in that cluttered auditorium. "You are Brendon Urie, right?"
"Heh, yeah." Brendon replied, biting down onto the side of his cheek. "You look familiar."
"I should, Mr. Urie, because we went to school together." I grasped his preoccupied wrist and led him to a less crowded corner beside the reception desk.
His face lit up when I turned around to resume facing him. "Ding!" I exclaimed, sticking out my index finger "Light bulb?"
"You were in my classes. And that fucked up assembly as well."
"Yes I was. It had taken me a while to recognize where the hell you came from, but," I smiled triumphantly. My realm of concentration abandoned him, finding shelter instead in the ceiling directly above us, for a single pencil stuck out, like a flag marking unexplored territory, from the base of one panel. "I got it eventually."
"Can we take this outside?" He asked, his thumb piercing the air to his right as he gestured toward the hotel's rotating doors. The exit.
"Yeah." I nodded, following him as we pushed through a group of gaggling teenagers and one, rather elderly man, his beard coming down in thin, disorganized white tendrils.
"So," He began, leaning against the structure's outer wall, his eyes dropping to his feet which were, again, in those enormous Nikes. "What happened to you after high school?"
"College, which wasn't precisely for me." I shifted my weight from one side to the other.
"I don't think college is really for anyone exactly," Brendon suddenly looked up at me, his expression sober, unlike what I had remembered in school. "People just attend those fancy ass universities because of, most likely, society."
"True. I went a year and am going back in a few months." I stated, playing with the hem of my shirt. "You can't run away from school forever."
"I guess."
"Whatever became of you?" I asked, raising my eyebrows. He sighed, bringing a hand up to massage his jaw, just below one ear.
"Really, really long story." Brendon began, staring off over the death trap known as Las Vegas during rush hour.
A navy blue Mercedes-Benz passed us on its way to wherever it had been going, a dent characterizing its left fender. Once I had noticed he was not about tell whatever tale there was behind his post-high school career, I stated "We have time."
"Oh? Well, you know that band I had been part of? Ry-"
"Oh. My. God. Are you Brendon Urie?" A teenaged girl no older than fifteen demanded, appearing to have materialized out of some translucent breeze. An expression of discomfort briefly graced Brendon's features as he studied this girl, his lips pressed together solemnly.
"Why do you guys even ask anymore?" Brendon turned toward her suddenly, his voice bitter, cold. "You know who I am and, if you hadn't, you wouldn't be standing here right now."
"Douche bag..." She muttered, continuing down the esplanade.
"Again, a long story." He repeated, most likely after taking account to my entirely clueless expression.
"Do tell," I stepped backwards away from the wall, gesturing for him to do the same. "But not here, I have the perfect place."
"Norah Jones, eh?" Ryan asked, flipping a single, plastic box over to glance at the other side. "The forums have been talking about her."
"You know, Ryro, you really shouldn't be reading those." I replied, continuing down the aisle.
"Especially when they plot you having sex with Brendon." Spencer interjected, laughing slightly as his own words clung in the air. "I mean-"
"Are you done, Spencer?" Ryan asked, sliding the Norah Jones album back onto the rack. "Because, quite frankly, you really should shut up."
A fly hovered inches from my ear canal. It would distance itself, flitting off to pace a row of unknown band posters before returning, it's buzzing maximizing in sudden sound, to the premises of earshot.
"Haha, Avril Lavigne, Ryan. Still have a crush on her?" I asked, flinging him another CD to turn over and over in his hands. He, however, had other plans, for it ended up crashing into the back of my head and ricocheting off a shelf, onto the floor.
"That ended four years ago, asshole." Ryan hissed, proceeding to flick me just behind the ear, forcing the fly to flee.
"You never know, Ryan, old crushes tend to be relived." I replied, massaging my ear lobe. "And that hurt."
"You deserved it for being so fucking childish, Brendon. She's hot, but I don't obsess over her anymore." He continued to defend himself. "Why should I when I have a girlfriend unlike you, 'Bren-Bren'? The teenie fan girls may obsess over you the most, my dear friend, but as of yet you're still a virgin!"
"That is only because you are a man whore and I'm not!" I exclaimed, wagging a single finger before his face. "Man. Whore."
"Man whore? Hah! That's good. Real fresh. Where'd you learn that one," One of the two men behind the counter asked, approaching us "hotshot?"
"Up the road, not across the street!" I answered, smirking. "Know who we are?"
"Oh, don't, Brendon. I've had enough near-fan girl rapings for one day." Ryan whined, his face screwed up as he winced.
"That'd be the day, Ry." Spencer stated, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We are-"
"Oh my God... Are you Panic! At The Disco?" A girl asked, clad in the same sort of lime green uniform as the other male clerks.
"Oh Jesus..." The male clerk shook his head. "These guys?" He asked, gesturing toward a band poster on the wall.
"I personally think you're sellouts," The girl continued, her head cocked to one side. "My sister's the one that loves you guys." She walked up to me and placed her finger directly into my sternum. "And especially you, Brendon Boyd Urie."
"Umm..." I mustered, watching her as she pushed by to return to the counter which had been placed at the far corner of the room. "Cool?"
"See? And you're still a virgin. Pity, pity..." Ryan taunted, thumbing through, alas, scores upon scores of vintage-style records.
"Zach called." Jon stated, appearing from behind a couple of magazine racks. "That taste-testing convention's starting in an hour."
"Sweet. But, why is he only calling you, Jacob?" I questioned, referring to his middle name.
"Maybe because I'm the only one who bothered giving him my number?" He suggested, raising an eyebrow.
"Ah, true."
---
The room, however small and crammed with other, sweating people, was drenched in the aroma of coffee and espresso beans. More than once had my shoes been scuffed, my tongue scalded, and my hoodie stained with caffeine-based beverages.
Suddenly, a hand came down on my shoulder, forcing me to spill, alas, more coffee to the floor. "Brendon?" Someone asked, her voice soft, but pitched high.
"Who are you?" I asked, laughing at how stupid that must have sounded. There stood the receptionist, her hair a tawny blond and flowing midway down her upper arm.
"Ren Evans. You are Brendon Urie, right?" She asked, her voice cracking with uncertainty at my surname. Scottish origin, you see.
Within me, something clicked, as if I had momentarily resembled a jigsaw puzzle, nearly finished in all aspects. Except for one piece and, at that moment, it materialized and fit with great precision and ease, into its respected position, location.
I had found the boy standing somewhere feet from an elevator. He had been holding a cup of coffee just as the rest of us. His eyes moved in short, rapid intervals as the same caffeine that shot through my veins shot through his. His movements had been shaky, uncertain, faltering as he turned, his eyes scanning the many faces in a search of something I'm to this day not quite sure of. However, no matter in how many regards he was the same as me, us and the guy to my right, he had been different. Completely and so much in a way that he could hardly have been considered in the same category.
"Brendon?" I asked, allowing a hand to rest on his shoulder, inches from his neck. He jumped, a dark fountain appearing over the rim of the cup in his hands as the liquid escaped from its thin, flimsy constraints to collect in pools on the carpet.
"Who are you?" He asked, a laugh escaping him. Smirking, I cocked my head to the side, fixing my eyes on his. They were deep, endless containments of mass, formless, and seeming to go on for an eternity over again.
"Ren Evans," I stated, allowing my gaze to fall to his lips. They had been the same size, if not smaller, when we had first acknowledged each other in that cluttered auditorium. "You are Brendon Urie, right?"
"Heh, yeah." Brendon replied, biting down onto the side of his cheek. "You look familiar."
"I should, Mr. Urie, because we went to school together." I grasped his preoccupied wrist and led him to a less crowded corner beside the reception desk.
His face lit up when I turned around to resume facing him. "Ding!" I exclaimed, sticking out my index finger "Light bulb?"
"You were in my classes. And that fucked up assembly as well."
"Yes I was. It had taken me a while to recognize where the hell you came from, but," I smiled triumphantly. My realm of concentration abandoned him, finding shelter instead in the ceiling directly above us, for a single pencil stuck out, like a flag marking unexplored territory, from the base of one panel. "I got it eventually."
"Can we take this outside?" He asked, his thumb piercing the air to his right as he gestured toward the hotel's rotating doors. The exit.
"Yeah." I nodded, following him as we pushed through a group of gaggling teenagers and one, rather elderly man, his beard coming down in thin, disorganized white tendrils.
"So," He began, leaning against the structure's outer wall, his eyes dropping to his feet which were, again, in those enormous Nikes. "What happened to you after high school?"
"College, which wasn't precisely for me." I shifted my weight from one side to the other.
"I don't think college is really for anyone exactly," Brendon suddenly looked up at me, his expression sober, unlike what I had remembered in school. "People just attend those fancy ass universities because of, most likely, society."
"True. I went a year and am going back in a few months." I stated, playing with the hem of my shirt. "You can't run away from school forever."
"I guess."
"Whatever became of you?" I asked, raising my eyebrows. He sighed, bringing a hand up to massage his jaw, just below one ear.
"Really, really long story." Brendon began, staring off over the death trap known as Las Vegas during rush hour.
A navy blue Mercedes-Benz passed us on its way to wherever it had been going, a dent characterizing its left fender. Once I had noticed he was not about tell whatever tale there was behind his post-high school career, I stated "We have time."
"Oh? Well, you know that band I had been part of? Ry-"
"Oh. My. God. Are you Brendon Urie?" A teenaged girl no older than fifteen demanded, appearing to have materialized out of some translucent breeze. An expression of discomfort briefly graced Brendon's features as he studied this girl, his lips pressed together solemnly.
"Why do you guys even ask anymore?" Brendon turned toward her suddenly, his voice bitter, cold. "You know who I am and, if you hadn't, you wouldn't be standing here right now."
"Douche bag..." She muttered, continuing down the esplanade.
"Again, a long story." He repeated, most likely after taking account to my entirely clueless expression.
"Do tell," I stepped backwards away from the wall, gesturing for him to do the same. "But not here, I have the perfect place."
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