FicWad

"So," Ren began, her eyes roaming about the cafe's simple atmosphere before returning to focus on mine. "You're a rockstar now, huh?"

"I guess you could say that." I replied, laughing carelessly. "You don't believe me, do you?"

"This sounds more like an episode of Punk'd than life, but I suppose I have to." She smiled, twirling a single lock of hair between her fingers.

"Why'd you pick this place, anyway?" Oddly enough, when Ren had said that she knew the "perfect place," she meant a coffee shop when we both had already consumed twice the healthy limit of caffeine.

"It's quiet. It's not on the main strip, so it's not too busy. The donuts aren't that bad either." She then stopped, gazing off over my shoulder, all animation leaving her face. "It's odd, actually. I mean, my high school friend's famous."

I smirked, looking down at the floor to my left, playing the words over and over in my hands. "Maybe. I never really expected to become what I have."

"I don't think anyone ever does," Ren bit down on lip, her eyebrows furrowed, before continuing. "Not the realistic ones, anyway."

"I see what you mean." I looked out, over the parking lot, through a window situated in the wall to my right, Ren's left. The tar, mostly deteriorated in parts, now shown in glistening sheets of water which reflected the dull sky back at itself, the clouds stained gray and tinged in muted tones. "It's pouring outside."

"It always seems to be lately." She sighed, resting her chin on the back of one hand. "Most people hate it, I don't."

"I haven't really given it much thought." I replied absently, both of our gazes now fixed on the ever-more soaking car park.

"Maybe you should, Mr. Rockstar." Ren grabbed my arm and led me to the doors.

"You are insane." I laughed as the first drop of rain landed on my cheek, soon followed by many.

"Do not fear insanity," She shouted over the sound of water against the metal hoods of more than just one car. "Embrace it!"

"The wetness doesn't bother you?" I asked, watching as she jumped directly into a puddle, its less-than-pristine contents reaching up and drenching her pants.

"Not at all." She replied, bringing her arms up, level to her shoulders. A genuine smile graced her lips and clung there, as if something more powerful than rain and the emotion it caused gluing it to the spot.

"What are your band mates' names?" Ren turned, walking backwards, to face me. Her face shimmered, coated in rain, and outlined by her hair, which had been equally as wet. A single car passed, its tires drawing up a wave of liquid which had somehow reached me.

"What the f*?" I demanded, analyzing the filth now seeping into my clothing. "Anyway, their names are Ryan, who you can call George just to piss him off, Spencer and Jon, short for Jonathan."

"Very nice, suburban names." She observed in a song-song voice. "Yours is different though."

"Not really." I replied, frustration still coursing its way through my body.

"Yes really! I don't know anyone else by the name of 'Brendon,' at least, not personally, anyway."

Eventually, we reached the hotel, its structure looming and encased in hundreds of rain-swept windows. "Come to our hotel room and dry up." I suggested, pulling open the door and gesturing inside.

"Are you sure? I don't want to be too much of a problem." She smirked, playing with the hem of her shirt.

"Why the hell would you be?" I asked, not really wanting an answer. Without waiting for a reply, I stepped inside and across the lobby to an elevator, Ren at my heels.

"But I don't have any extra clothing." She reasoned, the sliding metal doors closing behind her.

"Burrow one of my shirts. You wouldn't have a problem wearing boxers, would you?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Depends," She grinned, sliding a wrist band up and down her arm. "Would they be clean?"

"Of course not," I laughed, the doors now opening to reveal one endless corridor. "Everyone knows girls prefer dirty boxers over clean ones."

"Ya never know. Some may."

---

"Let us try... Door number three." I joked, my knuckles rapping against the cheap, fake wood of what I had hoped to be our hotel room's door.

"Room service!" I yelled, grinning at Ren who was now hardly able to suppress her laughter.

"Brendon, the fucker..." Could have been heard from somewhere inside. "Hey, asshole! The door's open!"

"Get your lazy asses up and open it for me!" I commanded. An elderly woman, at least in her mid-seventies, had been taking her merry stroll down the corridor, but now turned, her eyes accusing, her expression suggesting that she had been more than ready to pounce, pummeling away at me with her flimsy little cane, at any moment. She, however, continued on, chewing the event over with a rant about "kids these days."

"Us lazy? You can't even open the door!" The voice, most likely Ryan's, hissed, another tuning in with his own laughter.

"Apparently neither can you!" I bit back, feinting ferocity. Finally, I broke down. "Fine, fine, you guys make me do everything around here."

Once the door was open, everyone stopped what they were doing, if they were doing anything at all, which it seemed none of them had been. Ryan, again engrossed in his novel, looked up, his eyebrows raised in an expression filled with more than just a few questions. Jon and Spencer, who had been playing Dance Dance Revolution now stared on in mixed confusion.

"Guys, this is Ren Evans. Some may remember her from-"

"High school." Spencer suggested, finishing my introduction.

"Yes, Spence." I led Ren farther into the hotel room before continuing. "Ren, this is Ryan, Spencer and Jon." I finished, gesturing to the respective person as I announced their identities.

"Peace out." Jon offered, sounding more like a stoner and less like my band mate.

"Hey." Spencer replied, offering her his hand. "It's nice to see you again."

"You too." Ren smiled, grasping his hand and giving it a brief handshake. It did its job, anyway.

"Nice to meet you, Ren." Ryan waved, resuming his read without a second thought.

Ren's POV

To say the least, I looked odd. Brendon's shirt, a peculiar shade of blue and sporting "Pure Joy" across the front, clung awkwardly in some areas, billowing in others. His boxers weren't any more normal either, imprinted with the depictions of several different fruit variations. I, however, chose to stick with my bare minimum underneath these: panties.

I sighed; I'd just-I suppose met wouldn't be the right word, but close- found this kid again and I was already wearing his boxers. The typical, high school friendship? Hardly.

After glancing back at my reflection in the opposing mirror for the last time, I departed from the bathroom. On one of the two beds sat Brendon, cross-legged and cradling what appeared to be a slightly weathered acoustic guitar. His gaze traveled up and down my body, sizing up how very ridiculous I looked in my current outfit.

"Never looked better and you can't stand it." Brendon cooed, smirking, his fingers playing across several random strings.

"Where'd your bandies go?" I asked, shifting my weight from one side to the other, feeling less than comfortable with all circumstances under consideration.

"Buying some damned game that came out yesterday." He answered, now seeming to pluck the strings in a semi-relevant order. "Sit down."

I obeyed, taking a seat on a whicker chair, a single loose twig scratching up against my thigh.

Suddenly, his eyes went blank, as if he had come to focus on something very distant. "Hold on." Brendon stated absent mindedly, setting the instrument down on the mattress beside him. Revealing a cell phone from within a pocket of his jeans, which were now balled in a wad on the floor, he left the room, walking out into the corridor. His voice soon reverberated through the walls, droning on about needing a red bull, for whatever purpose.

Silently, I slid from the chair and approached the bed, the guitar laying unattended on its side. Pulling it into my arms, the pure complexity of the instrument and the means in which play it seemed to grow in its all-encompassing mass.

"That," Brendon began, standing in the doorway, how long he had been there I hadn't been sure. "Is my first guitar."

"Can you teach me?" I had asked, looking up in foolishly hopeful eyes. Brendon simply smirked, rubbing the underside of his chin with one hand.

"Sure, why not?" He made his way over to the bed, to where I sat, and took a spot just behind me. "Now," He began, lacing his arms over mine, finding the apparently correct positions for the guitar. "Press down on these strings."

I gasped as the sensitive tissue of my left ear and shoulder came in contact with his breath, the vibrations caused by every word, every sound he uttered. Brendon had continued on, saying something about the name of each chord, but this newfound sensation had rendered my span of concentration useless, only consciously taking note to each time his skin came in contact with mine... and to how very hot the guitar had become beneath my fingertips.

[a/n: I'm thoroughly satisfied with how I ended the chapter. >3 Sexual? NEVAR!]