Categories > Celebrities > Panic! At The Disco > Troubled Times and Doubled Rhymes
The room had grown cold. Cars, specked with the droplets of early morning dew, raced this way and that, most likely in fault of their untimely commutes. Fog, a chilled mist, crawled up one side of the window pane, obscuring my view.
The lifeless carcass of some sort of insect lay unattended upon the windowsill, its exoskeleton but a mere memento of what it once had been and what it had become during its shortened lifetime.
A soft melody found its way across the expanse of the below parking lot, high key and cheerful. A single, weathered water bottle (its label torn, clinging to its side like a false reminder of perfection) played about the tar in its sequence of impossible happiness, for it was only an inanimate object, soulless and stupid in more than just one circumstance.
A single dog, shabby and emaciated, its fur riddled with mange, ventured an esplanade adjacent to the hotel, its muzzle kept low to the ground, most likely searching for a trace of digestible food. Or maybe shelter. Maybe both, maybe neither. Maybe.
Behind me, someone stirred, mumbling incoherently before slipping back into their prior state of the whimsical security of unconsciousness, of sleep. To my left, sprawled about the floor in a tangled mess of blankets, lay Brendon. He had agreed to take an unsettled position on the carpet, allowing me to take the mattress. He moaned, his voice filling the room suddenly before abandoning it, the walls and volume of it all succumbing back into its virtual silence.
His chest, smooth and undisturbed (with the exception of the intermittent rib), rose and fell, never seeming to stray off beat. Both arms had been splayed out from his body, configuring him in such a way that had allowed him to cover twice the amount of space than had previously been intended. His expression had been that of pure tranquility, unadulterated beauty. If it hadn't been the complicated assortment of sheets and bedding below him, taking on an undistinguishable pattern, one might have come to the conclusion that he had been that way throughout the duration of the night, not a single thing disturbing him from his slumber, although the aforementioned wreck of cotton had told an alternate, completely different story.
"You're staring at me." Brendon spoke suddenly, forcing my body into shock. His facial expression hadn't faltered, for only his lips moved, forming the words.
"What? I am not!" I defended, pouting slightly.
"Are too." He replied, laughing at how open I had displayed my utter stupidity.
"Am not." I continued, false temper inflating inside of me. "Besides, how could you know if I am or am not staring at you?"
"I'm psychic!" He announced, sitting up and stretching.
"You're not psychic," I concluded, smiling deviously. "You're an ass."
"Hey, at least I don't stare at people." Brendon returned, his own face darkening into an innocent shade of mischief and malice.
"I wasn't-"
"Shut up..." Ryan grunted, his right hand waving a bit as to signal for silence. I sighed, slapping at a miscellaneous bug flitting through the stuffy air of the hotel room.
"How can you guys be up so fucking early?" Spencer whined, the pillow, in which he had most likely been drooling on, muffling his speech.
"You mean earlier than you, Spence?" Brendon inquired, turning toward Spencer's form which had been laying somewhere between a bed and a nightstand. "That's easy: you're known for waking up at six in the afternoon, lazy ass."
"Just shut the fuck up." Jon commanded, pounding one fist against the wall. "Or I'm a gonna kill you."
"Tip for life, Ren," Brendon stated, getting up and stopping at the point where the living room became the bathroom. "Never wake the band up early."
The lifeless carcass of some sort of insect lay unattended upon the windowsill, its exoskeleton but a mere memento of what it once had been and what it had become during its shortened lifetime.
A soft melody found its way across the expanse of the below parking lot, high key and cheerful. A single, weathered water bottle (its label torn, clinging to its side like a false reminder of perfection) played about the tar in its sequence of impossible happiness, for it was only an inanimate object, soulless and stupid in more than just one circumstance.
A single dog, shabby and emaciated, its fur riddled with mange, ventured an esplanade adjacent to the hotel, its muzzle kept low to the ground, most likely searching for a trace of digestible food. Or maybe shelter. Maybe both, maybe neither. Maybe.
Behind me, someone stirred, mumbling incoherently before slipping back into their prior state of the whimsical security of unconsciousness, of sleep. To my left, sprawled about the floor in a tangled mess of blankets, lay Brendon. He had agreed to take an unsettled position on the carpet, allowing me to take the mattress. He moaned, his voice filling the room suddenly before abandoning it, the walls and volume of it all succumbing back into its virtual silence.
His chest, smooth and undisturbed (with the exception of the intermittent rib), rose and fell, never seeming to stray off beat. Both arms had been splayed out from his body, configuring him in such a way that had allowed him to cover twice the amount of space than had previously been intended. His expression had been that of pure tranquility, unadulterated beauty. If it hadn't been the complicated assortment of sheets and bedding below him, taking on an undistinguishable pattern, one might have come to the conclusion that he had been that way throughout the duration of the night, not a single thing disturbing him from his slumber, although the aforementioned wreck of cotton had told an alternate, completely different story.
"You're staring at me." Brendon spoke suddenly, forcing my body into shock. His facial expression hadn't faltered, for only his lips moved, forming the words.
"What? I am not!" I defended, pouting slightly.
"Are too." He replied, laughing at how open I had displayed my utter stupidity.
"Am not." I continued, false temper inflating inside of me. "Besides, how could you know if I am or am not staring at you?"
"I'm psychic!" He announced, sitting up and stretching.
"You're not psychic," I concluded, smiling deviously. "You're an ass."
"Hey, at least I don't stare at people." Brendon returned, his own face darkening into an innocent shade of mischief and malice.
"I wasn't-"
"Shut up..." Ryan grunted, his right hand waving a bit as to signal for silence. I sighed, slapping at a miscellaneous bug flitting through the stuffy air of the hotel room.
"How can you guys be up so fucking early?" Spencer whined, the pillow, in which he had most likely been drooling on, muffling his speech.
"You mean earlier than you, Spence?" Brendon inquired, turning toward Spencer's form which had been laying somewhere between a bed and a nightstand. "That's easy: you're known for waking up at six in the afternoon, lazy ass."
"Just shut the fuck up." Jon commanded, pounding one fist against the wall. "Or I'm a gonna kill you."
"Tip for life, Ren," Brendon stated, getting up and stopping at the point where the living room became the bathroom. "Never wake the band up early."
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