Categories > Celebrities > Panic! At The Disco > Troubled Times and Doubled Rhymes
Reality, distorted with pain and inconsequential anger, blurred into focus. The term of agony became my only concern. Fragments of time melted into each other, feinting seconds, minutes and hours as one, undistinguishable mass. Silence, singed with the after-thought of discomfort and exhaustion, enveloped my semi-conscious body. Wherever, whenever, however I was had been unknown, for even which way was up had evaded my knowledge, leaving me extraordinarily disoriented.
Unintentionally, I shifted my arm farther across the stiff expanse upon which I lay. Something thick, palpable and liquid became restless, drifting over my abdomen. A cube, cold and strange, trailed up my groin—
“Jesus!” I screamed, dragging my numbed body back. Before me had been a tarnishing bath tub, waves of chilled water venturing in several directions at once. Across the surface grouped many small vessels, clear, transparent and frozen. Footsteps, quick and muffled, sounded from somewhere outside, soon punctuated by a nearby door crashing open.
“Sleeping Beauty? Have you finally awoken?” Jon inquired; his voice altered drastically by the bathroom’s plastic and tile walling.
“What the fuck is this?” I demanded, flailing my hands through the freezing water, “what the hell?”
“You passed out hours ago, Bren,” Ryan reasoned calmly, “you have hematomas everywhere from last night—you fell more than once—and the ice will minimize the swelling.”
“Plus, you vomited all over your clothes, dude,” Jon added thoughtfully, as if relaying from a list.
An explosion of pain, hot and venomous, detonated somewhere within my skull. Splotches red, blearing and monotonous, blinded my range of vision and accompanied the eruption of agony. Rivets of freezing water rolled from my forearms as I rested my thumbs to my temples.
“Jon, get me the aspirin,” Ryan murmured, his head appearing in the stall, his expression a peculiar depiction of concern. Jon departed soon after, the sound of him rifling through an overly-filled duffle bag disturbing the fragile silence soon after, “You okay, Bden?”
“Not counting my damn head ache, I guess so, Ry,” I replied softly, subconsciously playing with the hair that clung to my forehead. He nodded before leaving briefly to follow Jon out of the bathroom, possibly with some correlation to the elusive pain killers.
---
“Damn, Brendon, you look like shit,” Jon commented truthfully, typing into his laptop with an awkward ferocity.
“Yeah, I feel like it as well,” I smirked, “I’ll remember to be just as kind to you the next time you have a savage hangover, Jon.”
“Brendon, you nearly drowned yourself in Budweiser. You were getting so shitfaced; anyone would have thought you’d just been dumped over the phone. Honestly, I would be surprised if you don’t have permanent liver damage after last night.”
“I just talked to Pete,” Ryan said, desperate to change the subject.
“How is he?” I inquired halfheartedly, less than curious on our famously pampered friend’s wellbeing during my current state.
“Great. He said that people are wondering why we’ve missed our last tour venue.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes, and that the band that had substituted for us were pure crap,” he smirked, eyeing the fact that I was clad in but a towel, “you really should get dressed.”
“Eh, I’ll wait until I can think straight before squeezing into my jeans, dude,” I grinned, taking note to my remising head ache, “that wasn’t aspirin, was it?”
“No, it was an ibuprofen: a much stronger, prescribed pain killer. Spencer was given them once he had started suffering from the daily migraines months ago,” Ryan replied simply, returning to his book.
“Speaking of Spencer, where is he?” I asked, instinctually cocking my head to the side in anticipated wonder.
“There,” Jon pointed to a silent, unmoving mass of blankets seemingly vacant atop the aging mattress, “seems like Ryro and I were the only ones with self-control last night.”
“Only had one beer, huh?”
“Three, but I am slightly more tolerant than you, little ‘Bren-Bren,’ as our little teenie fans call you,” he gripped his hair, his face contorting with sudden aggravation, “one of these days, I will shave this crap off.”
“Oh, c’mon, ‘Jwalk;’ that will upset our teenie fans!” I exclaimed, the dull pressure of forgotten pain eagerly attempting to travel through my body, “anyway, what happened last night?”
“Not much,” Ryan paused, previous events undoubtedly playing through his sophisticated little mind, “you made yourself into a bit of a fool in front of Ren.”
“Hell yeah!” Jon closed the computer to devote his entire self to the conversation, “you proved the crap I said to be true—”
“What?”
“—Of course, you were completely shitfaced, so I guess it didn’t actually mean anything.”
“I repeat: what?”
“I recommend that you go to her for that, Brendon,” Ryan advised, his gaze fixed intently on the rather thick novel in his hands, “in the mean time, we’ve got to think of something to do, and Jon?”
“Yes, Ryan?”
“No alcohol this time, the children in the room can’t take it,” he raised his eyebrows, picking his face up from the book to give me a frail smile, “and no Luv-It Custard, Brendon.”
Unintentionally, I shifted my arm farther across the stiff expanse upon which I lay. Something thick, palpable and liquid became restless, drifting over my abdomen. A cube, cold and strange, trailed up my groin—
“Jesus!” I screamed, dragging my numbed body back. Before me had been a tarnishing bath tub, waves of chilled water venturing in several directions at once. Across the surface grouped many small vessels, clear, transparent and frozen. Footsteps, quick and muffled, sounded from somewhere outside, soon punctuated by a nearby door crashing open.
“Sleeping Beauty? Have you finally awoken?” Jon inquired; his voice altered drastically by the bathroom’s plastic and tile walling.
“What the fuck is this?” I demanded, flailing my hands through the freezing water, “what the hell?”
“You passed out hours ago, Bren,” Ryan reasoned calmly, “you have hematomas everywhere from last night—you fell more than once—and the ice will minimize the swelling.”
“Plus, you vomited all over your clothes, dude,” Jon added thoughtfully, as if relaying from a list.
An explosion of pain, hot and venomous, detonated somewhere within my skull. Splotches red, blearing and monotonous, blinded my range of vision and accompanied the eruption of agony. Rivets of freezing water rolled from my forearms as I rested my thumbs to my temples.
“Jon, get me the aspirin,” Ryan murmured, his head appearing in the stall, his expression a peculiar depiction of concern. Jon departed soon after, the sound of him rifling through an overly-filled duffle bag disturbing the fragile silence soon after, “You okay, Bden?”
“Not counting my damn head ache, I guess so, Ry,” I replied softly, subconsciously playing with the hair that clung to my forehead. He nodded before leaving briefly to follow Jon out of the bathroom, possibly with some correlation to the elusive pain killers.
---
“Damn, Brendon, you look like shit,” Jon commented truthfully, typing into his laptop with an awkward ferocity.
“Yeah, I feel like it as well,” I smirked, “I’ll remember to be just as kind to you the next time you have a savage hangover, Jon.”
“Brendon, you nearly drowned yourself in Budweiser. You were getting so shitfaced; anyone would have thought you’d just been dumped over the phone. Honestly, I would be surprised if you don’t have permanent liver damage after last night.”
“I just talked to Pete,” Ryan said, desperate to change the subject.
“How is he?” I inquired halfheartedly, less than curious on our famously pampered friend’s wellbeing during my current state.
“Great. He said that people are wondering why we’ve missed our last tour venue.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes, and that the band that had substituted for us were pure crap,” he smirked, eyeing the fact that I was clad in but a towel, “you really should get dressed.”
“Eh, I’ll wait until I can think straight before squeezing into my jeans, dude,” I grinned, taking note to my remising head ache, “that wasn’t aspirin, was it?”
“No, it was an ibuprofen: a much stronger, prescribed pain killer. Spencer was given them once he had started suffering from the daily migraines months ago,” Ryan replied simply, returning to his book.
“Speaking of Spencer, where is he?” I asked, instinctually cocking my head to the side in anticipated wonder.
“There,” Jon pointed to a silent, unmoving mass of blankets seemingly vacant atop the aging mattress, “seems like Ryro and I were the only ones with self-control last night.”
“Only had one beer, huh?”
“Three, but I am slightly more tolerant than you, little ‘Bren-Bren,’ as our little teenie fans call you,” he gripped his hair, his face contorting with sudden aggravation, “one of these days, I will shave this crap off.”
“Oh, c’mon, ‘Jwalk;’ that will upset our teenie fans!” I exclaimed, the dull pressure of forgotten pain eagerly attempting to travel through my body, “anyway, what happened last night?”
“Not much,” Ryan paused, previous events undoubtedly playing through his sophisticated little mind, “you made yourself into a bit of a fool in front of Ren.”
“Hell yeah!” Jon closed the computer to devote his entire self to the conversation, “you proved the crap I said to be true—”
“What?”
“—Of course, you were completely shitfaced, so I guess it didn’t actually mean anything.”
“I repeat: what?”
“I recommend that you go to her for that, Brendon,” Ryan advised, his gaze fixed intently on the rather thick novel in his hands, “in the mean time, we’ve got to think of something to do, and Jon?”
“Yes, Ryan?”
“No alcohol this time, the children in the room can’t take it,” he raised his eyebrows, picking his face up from the book to give me a frail smile, “and no Luv-It Custard, Brendon.”
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