Chapter Text
peter wentz (ex_peteisacr991) wrote in falloutboylove,
@ 2004-11-28 14:02:00
whoompthereitis.
hey buddy from panic at the disco whats your email address
Ryan can’t have read that correctly. Peter Wentz? Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III is acknowledging that Ryan exists on the internet and not just from being flagged down after a Fall Out Boy show? Acknowledging Ryan’s band? In the year 2004? Pete hasn’t acknowledged Ryan’s existence since before Fall Out Boy took off and they would talk on AIM.
“What’s up?” Spencer asks. He’s always quick to answer the phone, thank God.
“Pete asked for my Email address,” Ryan says. He sounds so calm. He’s nailing this.
“Who?”
“Pete Wentz. From Fall Out Boy. He said, ‘hey buddy from panic at the disco whats your email address’ in the Fall Out Boy forum on LiveJournal.”
“No, he didn’t,” Spencer laughs.
“He did! I’m dead serious, dude, I’m looking at it right now. Go look.”
There’s a minute of silence before Spencer is saying, “Oh my God.”
“I’m not going insane, am I?” Ryan asks, because he worries sometimes that he might be. “That’s definitely him.”
“No, it is,” Spencer says. “Dude, holy shit. What do we do?”
“You call Brendon and I’ll call Brent?”
“Good idea. See you.”
Ryan should be nervous as he sets his phone down, but he isn’t. He’s calm. He’s a little giddy, but the reality isn’t settling on his shoulders just yet.
ex_i_amcland189
2004-11-28 04:15 pm UTC
hey pete, my email is [email protected]
Ryan doesn’t know it yet, but years from now, he will regret this. Or maybe he won’t. Maybe, on the laundry list of things Ryan goes on to fuck up, Pete is the one thing he gets right. No, that doesn’t sound quite right either. Maybe Ryan was always meant to lose.
He’s getting ahead of himself. Forgive him, he begs. He’s never been very good at keeping his head in the right place at the right time. Maybe Ryan should start from the beginning. Well. You’ve seen the beginning. The beginning of the beginning of the end then, perhaps, is a better place to go.
After only a couple days of Emailing back and forth, Pete drives up to Vegas to hear Panic at the Disco play. That’s, what, a five hour drive? Just to hear Ryan and Brendon play a few songs.
Ryan still feels cautiously optimistic on the day Pete is coming to visit. They’re having a regular rehearsal and Ryan’s personal hero is going to swing by to listen. It still kind of feels like a scam, so Ryan is going about his day like normal.
Normal, up until he and Brendon are meeting Pete Wentz at a hotel.
“Dude, I think I’m gonna throw up,” Brendon says as they get out of the car in the hotel parking lot.
Ryan agrees, but one of them has to pretend to be normal. “We’ll be fine.”
“I keep feeling like we’re going to go in, and he’s not going to be there because this was all an elaborate prank,” Brendon huffs out in one breath.
Ryan agrees once again, but he has to be pretending he’s normal in case this isn’t a prank. “We’ll be fine,” he repeats as he gets the door for Brendon.
Not a prank. Pete Wentz is there in the hotel lobby. Not a prank. The nerves are real now. Pete Wentz is here, in front of them. Be calm, Ryan. Be cool. You’ve played it so cool every time you’ve spoken to Pete. You can do this.
The Cheshire Cat hasn’t seen them come in. He’s talking to a man he’s got with him, and Ryan’s knees feel weaker the closer he gets. It’s one thing talking to Pete at a Fall Out Boy concert because you’re there to see him, but he’s here to see Ryan. That’s too much pressure.
The boys are a little too stunned to speak up as they’re walking over, so they’re lucky that Pete notices them and warmly says, “Hey.”
Ryan is mentally hyping himself up enough to shake Pete’s hand, but Brendon beats him to the punch.
“Brendon Urie,” he says, shaking Pete’s hand with a smile. “Thank you for coming to hear us, it’s such an honor.”
Pete smiles back. “Pete Wentz. And it’s no problem. Your demos rock.”
“Thank you,” Ryan cuts in. He gets a handshake too. Yeah, this is nothing like talking to Pete after a Fall Out Boy show. “Ryan Ross.”
“What up, Blink Exists?” Pete teases, smiling up at Ryan — the “up” part isn’t new — and then, he looks a little puzzled. “Oh, I remember you.”
Ryan feels about as weak in the knees as a straight guy can in this situation. “Yeah, I’ve seen Fall Out Boy a couple times.”
“The fanboys are easy to remember,” Pete says with a nod and that smile of his. Ryan bets that’s true. The fangirls come a dime a dozen and they’re insufferable. They’re always all over Pete, trying to get into his pants like they don’t give a fuck that he’s the most poetic lyricist in rock right now.
Ryan gives the most charismatic smile he can muster. At least, he hopes it’s charismatic. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Pete laughs. He nods his head toward the guy next to him. “This is Dan. He’s our tour manager.”
“Nice to meet you,” Brendon says.
Dan smiles and says, “You too.”
They exchange handshakes with Dan. This is the most serious thing Ryan has ever been a part of. He’s not sure how serious this even is, but he’s shaking hands with people. Then, he’s taking people to Panic’s rehearsal space. They’re taking his car, apparently.
Before they get in, Brendon stops to ask, “Did either of you want shotgun?”
Pete laughs and says, “Don’t worry about it. We can sit in the back.”
“Sorry about the mess,” Ryan says, cringing a little. His car isn’t that bad, but he’s a teenage boy who hangs out with teenage boys. It’s kind of a mess.
“Dude,” Pete says with a mock-accusatory look, “I’m in Fall Out Boy. ‘Mess’ is my middle name.”
“Have at it then, I guess.”
Pete grins before he gets into the car. He has a nice grin. Ryan is going to think about it too often for far too long. That’s beside the point. It’s 2004. There’s time before all of that. Right now, Ryan can only think about how nervous he is.
Pete and Dan make casual conversation on the drive. Every couple of minutes, Ryan shares an anxious glance with Brendon. At least, if this crashes and burns, Brendon will be here too. Something that keeps Ryan sane is remembering that his best friends will always be around to support each other.
The rehearsal space isn’t much as far as real bands go, but it’s spacious enough. All the boys chip in on rent, so they can afford a decent one. There’s not much more introduction to make. Ryan cuts to the chase. “So, did you want us to—”
Pete waves his hand and Ryan shuts his mouth. “Do whatever you guys normally do at practice,” he says. “Pretend I’m not here.”
“We’ll try,” Brendon says.
Pete, instead of finding himself a chair like Dan does, takes a seat on the floor near the wall and crisscrosses his legs. Just pretend he isn’t there, Ryan tells himself. Just do what you were going to do anyway.
“‘Boys Will Be Boys,’” Ryan reminds Brendon, grabbing his guitar and sitting down.
Brendon gives a halfway-frantic nod, then takes the chair next to Ryan’s. He grabs his guitar and they roll into the song. It goes well, Ryan thinks, for a band that’s never had a live show. They’re not bad. They’ve survived an entire song without any catastrophes.
Ryan swallows and they move on to the next one. Performing “Relax, Relapse” for Pete feels almost too personal. It’s fine. He’s already heard the demo. Maybe he won’t associate the words with Ryan so much when they’re coming out of Brendon’s mouth. Part of Ryan, the one that’s greedy, is fine with it. That song is some of Ryan’s best work.
“Yeah,” Ryan says.
Just pretend Pete isn’t here. He’s heard the song before. It’s a good song. Ryan is a good guitar player. He’s a good guitar player that always feels pale in the face when someone hears his personal thoughts for the first time. Maybe that’s why he sings his backing vocals so quietly when Brendon is performing the real words. It’s probably why he hopes Brendon’s annunciation gets lost in the melody when he’s singing, “The bruises and contusions will remind me what you did,” with his entire chest.
Instead of worrying over what Pete thinks of him, Ryan focuses on the music. That’s what he’s always been the best at. Ignoring your alcoholic dad sure is easy when you’ve got strings under your fingers. None of the rationalization matters because Pete is already looking at him when the song ends. Ryan can’t tell what he’s thinking.
Ryan has seen weird things, but Pete Wentz looking serious and deep in thought is a new one. It’s a challenge now. The next song they play is “Nails for Breakfast, Tacks for Snacks” because Ryan isn’t a coward. After that one, Pete has more of a smile than a calculating scowl.
“Dude, you sound way better in person,” he says to Brendon with a chuckle.
Brendon buffers for a second, cocking his head to the side. “Thanks?”
“You’re welcome.” Pete gets up from the floor and makes his way over to Ryan, saying, “You guys are really good.”
“Thanks,” Ryan says.
The unthinkable happens. Pete Wentz, Chicago hardcore royalty, the face of Fall Out Boy, the best writer in the game, and Ryan’s biggest role model, adds, “I want to sign your band to my label.”
Ryan’s chest feels heavy. How does that work? Does Pete even have the authority to be doing this? After three acoustic songs? By a band that’s never done a show before? More importantly, who cares?
“Okay,” Ryan breathes.
“I have to ask my parents,” Brendon says with big eyes.
“Okay,” Pete says, a little taken aback. The clarity of how young Brendon is must be hitting him. “That’s cool. Take your time. Obviously, I still have to talk some things over with my people, and I want you guys to think about it first, but I just wanna be transparent and let you know that’s what I’m thinking.”
Ryan nods. “Yeah, we’ll talk about it.”
“Cool,” Pete says, “I’ll give you my phone number.”
The beginning of the beginning of the end.
i_amclandestine (ex_i_amcland189) wrote,
@ 2004-12-15 22:19:00
bombing finals. writing instead.this weekend.l.a. road trip. today a semi truck with bees crashed on the freeway, bees everywhere.
Yes, you read that right. Trip to LA. Also, a semi truck of bees really did crash. Bees everywhere. That’s beside the point. Trip to LA? Ryan must be dreaming. But he isn’t. He’s really here, in the real studio Fall Out Boy is recording their next record in, next to Pete fucking Wentz. All five feet and six inches of him. Patrick Stump is here too — Ryan doesn’t want to guess how tall he is — chatting with Brendon, who’s barely containing his excitement because Patrick fucking Stump is talking to him.
Fall Out Boy’s new record is set to come out in May and they want Brendon’s voice on it. Pete was even nice enough to invite all of Panic to sit in on the recording. The rest of Fall Out Boy aren’t here, but Ryan is star-struck anyway getting to be in their studio.
The atmosphere is slightly less professional than Ryan expected it to be. He knows that Pete can be a bit of a menace at shows, but it apparently is not just a public persona. Pete, while remaining appreciative of Patrick’s talent, heckles him at every possible opportunity. Patrick will show Pete his middle finger and then move right on every time.
Patrick seems like a great guy. Perfectly harmless. Eye level with Brendon’s shoulders and wearing a fedora. He’ll demonstrate each part at a time with his beautiful voice and have Brendon repeat it. The song is called “7 Minutes In Heaven” and Ryan is enthralled. It’s like watching da Vinci paint the Mona Lisa.
In the corner of Ryan’s eye, he finds Pete looking at him. He turns his head with expectant eyes.
“You look like you’re having fun,” Pete muses with a smile. He’s got great teeth.
Ryan smiles back. “I am.”
“Good.”
They’re staying in “corporate housing” while they’re in LA because Pete and the rest of his band still live primarily in Chicago. Ryan kind of expected the four of them to have homes in multiple major cities and this is a bit of a reality check on how big his stars really are. Except for Patrick, who declares he’s going home after they finish recording.
“He has an apartment here,” Pete explains. “Thinks he’s the shit.”
“Thanks, Pete,” Patrick says on the way out.
“Love you!” Pete calls out. Patrick slams the door. “He loves me.”
The boys laugh. They’re too giddy not to laugh at every joke Pete makes. They say goodbye to the producers (Ryan makes sure he shakes everyone’s hands so they can start with a good reputation here) and they’re off.
Pete takes them all with him to the complex he’s staying in, which he informs them has a hot tub. “The Hollywood kids like to get wasted and hang out there all night, but I’m not giving you alcohol.”
“Aw man,” Brent jokes.
“I’ll give you guys alcohol when you’re over 18 and your parents can’t get mad at me,” Pete compromises.
Ryan shrugs. “I’m 18, I just don’t drink.”
Pete laughs and pats Ryan on the shoulder. “That’ll change.”
Ryan doesn’t think it will.
“Is the hot tub still on the table?” Brendon asks.
Pete pauses. “Did you guys bring anything to swim in?”
The boys exchange a round of looks with each other.
They end up getting into the hot tub in nothing but their underwear. They call it “man soup.” Pete mentions at least two separate times that Ryan’s Email address is [email protected] and how stupid it is. He’s actually a really nice guy, party animal persona be damned. Five sober, half-naked dudes hanging out in a hot tub for hours, talking about their favorite rock bands. It’s so lame. It’s a little embarrassing. Ryan is having the best time ever.
Another thing about Pete is his ink. He’s covered in tattoos, which Ryan has always thought is really cool, but the tattoo in the center of his faint v-lines, just above his waistband — the one of the bat with a heart that’s half-skull — keeps distracting Ryan. It isn’t that he doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t like the feeling he gets when he looks at it. He can’t stop taking glances at it.
Ryan does his best to focus harder on the Jack Skellington tattoo on Pete’s forearm instead. It’s less weird to be looking at a beloved character than another guy’s lower region. When he is tuned into the conversation, which is most of the time, he has fun. It’s cool getting to pick Pete’s brain about what really goes on behind the scenes of the music business. Ryan never thought he’d be the type to make it in this arena, but if anyone can get him there, it’s Pete Wentz.
Ryan’s life will never be the same. He’s made sure of that by skipping his exams. Every single one. He could have just dropped out, but his dad won’t allow that unless Ryan loses his scholarship — which, guessing from the envelope George barges into Ryan’s room with, he probably has.
“What the fuck is this?” he asks.
Ryan sets his book down. “I don’t know.”
Say what you want about Ryan’s decision making skills, but his gut feeling is always right. Sometimes something is about to happen and his body knows before his brain does. His dad hands him the envelope and folds his arms.
The letter is from the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. Ryan doesn’t need to open it to know what it’s going to say. He checks anyway so his dad has less reason to flip out. Yeah, Ryan’s academic scholarship is gone. He shrugs.
“That’s it?” George asks. “You don’t have anything to say for yourself?”
Ryan puts the letter back in the envelope and sets it on his nightstand. “I’m dropping out anyway. I already talked to my counselor.”
“You’re not dropping out,” George says. “You’re going to call your counselor and retake your exams.”
“No, I’m not. I’m an adult. You can’t make me.”
George takes a second. Ryan doesn’t usually talk back about the important things. “If you want to live under my roof, you’re going to retake your exams. You have been going to school, basically for free, and you’re not just throwing that away over nothing.”
“Dad, I basically have a record deal,” Ryan says. “Do you know how insane that is? Fall Out Boy is on that label and they’re really popular, and we have to take the opportunity while we’re young enough to make it work.”
George scoffs. “I don’t care if the Fall Out Boys want to throw their lives away to play the guitar! My son is going to college!”
“I’m dropping out!” Ryan shouts.
“Like hell you are,” George says, grabbing Ryan by his collar. Ryan holds his breath. He doesn’t want to know what his dad smells like up close. “Call your counselor.”
“No.”
“Fine.” Ryan is let go of and shoved back into his bed. “Get out.”
Ryan’s lips part. “What?”
“If you’re not going to school, you can get out of here.”
“Wait, seriously?” Ryan asks.
“Do I look like I’m fucking joking?” George spits. “Pack up your shit. Come back when you’re ready to act like an adult.”
Calm before the storm is one thing. Ryan wonders why no one ever talks about the calm after the storm. It leaves his hands shaking every time.
The first thing Ryan shoves into his bookbag after he’s dumped all his textbooks is the books he actually likes. His Palahniuk, his Coupland, his poetry collections, then he grabs some clothes and a handful of other things he’ll need to get by.
The first thing Ryan does once he leaves the house, guitar case strapped to his back and his bookbag awkwardly slung on one shoulder, is call Spencer.
“Sup.”
“Hey, could I stay the night at your place?” Ryan asks.
“Yeah, I’ll go tell my mom,” Spencer says. He and his family always let Ryan get away with this kind of thing. Over the years, it’s become normal for Spencer’s family to give Ryan somewhere to stay for a week or so at a time. “Is everything okay?”
Ryan holds his phone between his ear and his shoulder while he shoves his things into the passenger seat of his car. “Not really. My dad just kicked me out.”
“What?” Spencer snaps.
“Yeah, he said I’m out if I’m not going to school.”
“Oh my God. Okay. Yeah, I’ll go talk to my mom right now. Are you okay, like, physically?”
“I’m fine physically,” Ryan says. “I’m on my way.”
“Okay, good. I’ll see you soon, man.”
“See you.”
The boys are in LA again in January. It’s a nice change of pace from living in Panic’s rehearsal space and trying to write songs at the speed of light. Even as a former creative writing major, Ryan is reading more than ever before. He’s also dirtier than ever before. His “home” has no shower and no air conditioning (thank God it’s winter) so he’s only getting to shower regularly when one of his friends’ families lets him crash at their house for a little while. LA is a nice change of pace.
This is the second or third time they’ve made the trip down. Pete reached out to Ryan (Ryan only experienced a normal amount of butterflies in his stomach) and invited Panic back to re-record their demos so the versions floating around online are cleaner.
They aren’t officially signed yet, but Ryan doesn’t think Pete would invest this much into the band if he wasn’t planning on making money off of them. Pete’s been saying that they’ll probably be signed in the spring, and that’s fine with the boys. They won’t be able to do much as a band until the end of this school year anyway, which is the main reason Ryan has been stuck living in the rehearsal space, waiting for them to graduate high school so they can be a band for real.
In any case, Ryan likes LA. He’s been thinking about moving the band down there if/when they take off. Whatever. He’s trying not to get ahead of himself. It’s hard though, when Pete is raving about them on social media. Most notably, that weekend, he makes a blog post with a picture of Spencer working on a demo:
in the lab with the scientists in panic
Posted by petewentz on January 15, 2005 at 9:01pm
your next favorite band. i promise.
God, Pete is really going to sign them. Everything is going to change.
February comes and Ryan is still in limbo. His Gameboy Advance and his stack of books keep him and his guitar company. He’s been writing up a storm and doing a lot of thinking about his ex-girlfriend that cheated on him. Maybe Panic’s debut album will have her crawling back to him and he’ll turn her down.
Ryan isn’t thinking about her right now. He’s waffling about a line in a song because he can’t tell if it’s absolute corny trash or if he’s killing it. The easiest course of action is to do what he’s been encouraged time and time again to do when he hits a wall: ask Pete.
The texts aren’t often because Ryan feels bad enough leeching off the Smiths’ family plan and doesn’t want to use up too much. He texts Pete, “hey man, is this any good? i genuinely cant tell haha” followed by a couple lines from his notebook.
Pete usually responds within an hour or two, but he doesn’t this time. Ryan doesn’t want to badger Pete like an annoying fangirl because Pete is probably busy with recording or crowd surfing or something. It doesn’t become worrying until it’s been a few days.
“Have you guys heard from Pete lately?” Ryan asks at practice on day four of radio silence from the guy who’s supposed to be signing them to his label.
Brendon shrugs. “I don’t talk to him as much as you do.”
Brent and Spencer shake their heads.
“Okay, well, I texted him about lyrics a few days ago and he hasn’t gotten back to me,” Ryan explains.
“He’s probably just busy,” Brent says.
“It’s been four days,” Ryan says.
“Do you think he’s okay?” Spencer asks.
Brendon pulls an amused face. “The richest guy we know? Yeah, I think he’s doing okay.”
“Whatever,” Ryan mumbles. “I’ll give him a call later.”
Ryan gives Pete a call later. Pete doesn’t pick up. Luckily, Patrick answers the first time Ryan tries his number.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Patrick, it’s Ryan.”
“Yes, I remember. What’s up, man?”
“Sorry if I’m being really annoying, I was just wondering if Pete is okay? Or, like, if I did something wrong? I texted him a couple days ago about a song and he hasn’t answered and he won’t pick up when I call.”
There’s a pause. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Pete’s okay, he’s just gonna be away from the phone for a little while. But he’ll be back soon, don’t worry.”
“Okay, cool,” Ryan says. Whatever the fuck that means. Ryan knows it isn’t his place to ask.
“Is it anything I could help you with?” Patrick asks.
Ryan appreciates that offer. Truly, he does. It’s an honor coming from Patrick, but he needs help with lyrics. The reason Patrick and Pete are inseparable is that neither of them can do the other one’s job. Ryan needs Hammerstein, not Rodgers.
“Don’t worry about it,” Ryan says. “Thank you so much though, I really appreciate you.”
“No problem.”
“I’ll see you later.”
“Bye.”
Ryan sets his phone aside and groans into his hands. How did he end up half-starving and sleeping on Panic’s beat up couch? And where the fuck is Pete Wentz?
Ryan gets a call back after a couple more days. He’s thrilled to see Pete’s name on his screen, but he waits until the fourth or fifth ring to pick up because he thinks Pete deserves to be kept waiting for just a little.
“There you are,” Ryan says when he answers.
“Hey, man,” Pete starts, and he sounds exhausted, “I’ve been away from the phone for a bit, it’s nothing to do with you.”
“That’s good to know.”
“Yeah, Patrick told me you called him. I’m sorry I freaked you out.”
“It’s okay, he was reassuring,” Ryan says. “I just had a lyric dilemma but I worked it out, don’t sweat it. Is everything okay?”
Pete takes a second. “Mostly, yeah. I promise I don’t do this regularly. It was just a weird week.”
“Are… you okay?” Ryan asks. He hopes he’s not crossing any boundaries.
“I’m surviving,” Pete says. “I’m looking into getting you guys officially on Decaydance soon, so that’s exciting.”
“Oh. Awesome.”
“Right? It’s crazy that they’re letting me do this because I’m like, a total jackass, but I’ll take it.”
Ryan laughs. “You know, I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
“I think you and I are gonna get along,” Pete says. Ryan can hear his smile. He pictures it and he smiles back.
It’s a similar sentiment when the boys are down in LA a couple weeks later to sign a few things. They’re signing things. They’re going to release a record by the end of the year. Panic at the Disco is going to make seven albums under this label. It’s real.
Pete takes the boys out for lunch that Sunday before they’re heading back up to Vegas. The usual “is this even happening?” tension isn’t there. Panic at the Disco is a real band and Pete believes in them. It’s all real. He walks them to their car and everything, wishing them a safe trip home.
“Thank you again for all of this,” Ryan says, offering his hand.
Pete shakes it, his smile a little blinding. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
i_amclandestine (ex_i_amcland189) wrote,
@ 2005-3-15 19:12:00
panic at the disco are such sellouts
sooooo, its official. we signed to decaydance/fueled by ramen!
we’ve got alot of work to do for this record. i’ll be pretty much hibernating and only coming out when something super important comes up that i think you all should hear about
wishusluck
Eat shit, George Ross.
A couple of hours go by before Ryan’s attention is brought to a LiveJournal post of Brendon’s making the same happy announcement, but including “any donations to the ‘brendon is a helpless, hopeless bum’ fund would be greatly appreciated.”
Ryan calls him immediately. He hears the call go through and doesn’t give Brendon a chance to greet him. “Hey, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
“...what?”
“‘Brendon is a helpless bum’ fund? Is that funny to you?”
“My parents kicked me out.”
Ryan feels his blood run cold. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Brendon says. “You didn’t know.”
“When did this happen?”
“A few hours ago. I was gonna send you a text soon, I just wasn’t sure how to bring it up. I told them I don’t want to be a Christian anymore and that the band is serious to me and they kicked me out.”
Ryan is at a loss for words. He’s at least a legal adult living the bum life. Brendon is still in high school for fuck’s sake.
“I’d offer you a place to stay if I had one,” Ryan says.
Brendon laughs. “Look at us. We’re officially tortured artists.”
“You could say that again.”
Ryan is in limbo for a little longer. The other boys are still 17 and their parents want them to finish high school, so they’re balancing class with band practice while Ryan is balancing band practice with trying not to go insane.
In other news, Panic at the Disco is now Panic! at the Disco. Somebody wrote it like that a singular time, and it spread like wildfire. It also doesn’t help that in addition to Pete’s game of getting ridiculous things printed on shirts (ex: “Pete Wentz is so 2004,” “STUMP CLUB,” “I KILLED PETE WENTZ,” etc.), there’s a picture going around of him onstage with a “PETE! AT THE DISCO” shirt. So, yeah. The exclamation point isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
The internet, unlike Pete, doesn’t seem to think Panic! has much potential. The boys anticipated that, given that they still have yet to play a live show. People already have all kinds of assumptions of what kind of band they are, and some people are already calling themselves fans. Ryan can’t say he’s all that excited about either end of the spectrum. Dick-obsessed teenage girls who believe with their entire hearts that everything Pete touches turns to gold or diehard fans of Fall Out Boy’s actual music who think Ryan is a poser? Ryan doesn’t know which is worse.
At least he talks to Pete regularly. That’s pretty cool. Pete will call him at least once a week to check in on how the music is coming and they’ll go back and forth on some lyrics — sometimes Pete even runs his own lyrics by Ryan because he thinks Ryan is a good writer!
This time, Ryan answers the phone with, “Hey, Pete! at the Disco.”
“Hey, Blink Exists.”
Ryan sighs. “I walked into that.”
“How are the heathens?”
“The heathens?” Ryan asks through a smile.
“Yeah, your herd of cats.”
Ryan leans back into the couch. “That’s a good way to describe them.”
“Price of being the oldest,” Pete says.
“God, right? Spence keeps asking me to help him with his trig homework.”
Pete hums. “Oh yeah. Many a day, I helped Joe with his government homework.”
“You helped with government homework?” Ryan asks.
“Yeah, man. I was gonna be a lawyer.”
“No way.”
Pete laughs. “My dad’s a lawyer, so I was going to college for poli-sci before the band picked up. I dropped out senior year.”
“I bet your dad loved that,” Ryan jokes.
“He was actually super cool about it,” Pete says. “He was kind of pissed at me for dropping out so late in getting a degree, because I only had like, a quarter left, but he said he was proud of me for going after what I wanted.”
“Oh. That’s good.”
“Don’t sound too sad. You’re gonna be rocking out on MTV and your dad will turn around.”
Ryan picks at a hangnail. “I doubt that, but I appreciate the sentiment.”
“Well, if nothing else, you’ll get some good lyrics out of it,” Pete says.
“Yeah,” Ryan chuckles. “I guess so.”
“So, how are the heathens?”
“They’re good. They’re all on track to graduate.”
“Awesome, because I’m trying to get you guys recording by June.”
“Awesome,” Ryan breathes.
Ryan, despite everything, is happier than he knew he was capable of. This is because he’s still in the beginning of the beginning of the end. In five years, he’ll wish he could shake himself by the shoulders and scream, “For the love of God, Ryan, hang up the phone!” In ten, he’ll shrug and accept that the papers were already signed.
Brendon, after several weeks of crashing on friends’ couches and trying to find apartments that he’ll be able to afford on his part-time Tropical Smoothie Cafe salary (good luck with that, Ryan joked), receives a letter from his parents. One that puts tears in his eyes — one that tells him how much they love and support him. They’re proud of him.
“That’s really nice of them,” Ryan says with a soft smile.
That night, Ryan bawls his eyes out alone on the rehearsal room floor and nearly considers smashing his guitar into the piano.
Spring brings good things: confirmation that Panic! at the Disco’s first studio album will be recorded in June, Brendon graduates high school, Brent and Spencer are on track to finish school online within weeks, and to top it off, Fall Out Boy’s From Under the Cork Tree comes out. It’s the perfect album.
On the flip side, Ryan has been posting breakup lyrics on LiveJournal again. He’s doing great. He’s not still bitter about getting cheated on, if that’s what you’re thinking. Ryan doesn’t care at all that nobody wants anything to do with him after they get to know him.
He hopes there’s someone for him, as strange as he is.
The band sets aside one last weekend for LA before they start on the album for real. They’re staying at a motel this time because Pete is living in a tiny apartment when he’s in Cali now — but he told them not to tell anyone about that, so don’t tell anyone — instead of the usual corporate housing and doesn’t have the space for four extra people.
Pete does invite the boys to hang out at his apartment for a bit. He’s very committed to this “cool older brother” thing he’s got going on. He takes them out for lunch first, routinely telling Ryan, “Here, try some of this.” Ryan knows what Pete is doing, subtly trying to stuff more food in the homeless guy’s mouth, and Pete knows that Ryan isn’t going to stop him because he really does need to eat more. No one says anything about it out loud. Not in front of Ryan, at least.
Pete has a quaint apartment. It’s neater than most people would expect a rock star’s living space to look, but Ryan isn’t all that surprised. Pete is a hygienic enough dude to have no hair on his torso (that tattoo is still haunting Ryan for whatever reason — he’ll worry about it later, probably over the course of the weeklong road trip ahead) and he reads enough classic literature to constantly reference it in his work, so he seems like the type of person to keep a tidy apartment. Ryan doesn’t know why he’s telling you this. Sorry.
They lounge around Pete’s living room and he gives them a business-casual talk about their next handful of weeks. The band is beginning their trip to Maryland tomorrow. They’ll have about a month and a half to finish writing and then record the album, where they’ll be living in close quarters and maybe starting to hate each other. Pete says that hating each other in that situation is normal and that they’ll laugh about it someday. He fills them in on proper studio etiquette because “If you guys act like little jerks and embarrass me, I’ll call your parents and get you grounded,” he talks them through what to expect, how to regroup in case things go off the rails, how to stay calm, all of that.
Brent and Spencer head back to the motel shortly after Pete is done talking about anything important so they can get some of their last few online assignments done. Brendon hangs out a little longer because Pete and Ryan are talking lyrics and Brendon is starting to take some interest in helping Ryan write. By sunset, it’s just Pete and Ryan on the couch together.
They’re bouncing ideas around of what obscure concepts would be good to write songs about. Pete is having more fun with it than Ryan because he isn’t taking it seriously. Ryan thinks it could be fun to explore with some whimsical music, but Pete has always been specific in his writing. Every verse of his is its own poem.
Pete is wearing a hoodie today, so there aren’t any cool tattoos to look at. Ryan’s fixated on Pete’s mouth. Yikes. He just likes the way it looks when Pete’s sharp canine teeth peek out. Pete’s smile is so sharp.
Ryan doesn’t realize he’s spacing out until Pete is waving a hand in front of his face. “Am I talking too much?”
“No, you’re fine,” Ryan says. This is embarrassing.
There’s a grin on Pete’s face. “Ross, are you thinking about kissing me?”
Ryan scoffs. How can he just say that? Ryan can’t look at him, so he stares at the wall instead.
“Oh my God, you so are,” Pete laughs. “Come here.”
“What?” Ryan asks, eyes darting back to Pete’s.
“What?” Pete returns casually. He scoots closer to Ryan. “I’ll kiss you if you want me to.”
Ryan’s mouth hangs open. Is he on drugs? This can’t be a real thing that’s happening, and even for a hallucination, it’s pretty ridiculous.
Pete doesn’t kiss him, just raises his eyebrows. “Do you want me to?”
“I don’t know,” is all Ryan can manage. He kind of wants to. Like, really, really wants to.
“Well, I’m not gonna kiss you if you’re not gonna like it,” Pete says with a shrug.
Pete is about to draw back. Ryan kisses him. It’s short and a little timid, the way you kiss someone in whatever this dynamic is anymore. Pete stares at Ryan’s lips for a second, then cups his face with one hand and kisses him.
Wait a second. Ryan tries to speak up but it gets caught up in the press of Pete’s lips, coming out like a garbled hum. Pete lets up so Ryan can ask, “Don’t you have a girlfriend?”
Pete’s hand is still on Ryan’s face. “Do you care?”
“Not really,” Ryan admits.
Kissing Pete is interesting. It’s the same as kissing a girl but completely different. Pete has stubble on his chin and his fingertips are calloused. One of his hands moves to Ryan’s waist. No one’s ever done that to him before. He supposes, in a small apartment that’s just a piece of a big world that’s about to get a hell of a lot bigger, that there are a lot of things he’s never experienced. God almighty, he’ll experience them.
For now, Ryan is just on a couch, making out with a world famous rockstar. Said rockstar moves his hands even lower, reaching for purchase under Ryan’s knees to pull Ryan into his lap, and that’s enough experiencing for one day.
Ryan breaks the kiss and removes his hands from Pete’s sides. “I— Sorry.”
Pete looks confused as he loosens his grip. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Ryan says. He shifts away from Pete. “Sorry. I think I’m gonna go.”
“Okay,” Pete says carefully. “Are you sure you’re good? I wasn’t trying to—”
“It’s fine,” Ryan says. He rushes to the door and adds, “I’ll— Um. See you soon?”
Pete looks like he just watched someone run over a puppy with a bike. “Yup.”
“Are you guys ready to have fun?” Spencer asks at 9 in the morning in the motel parking lot.
Brendon snickers, Brent groans, and Ryan says, “Yeah, I can’t wait to find out what a room of four guys smells like after a month of band practice.”
Spencer wrinkles his nose up.
“You started it,” Ryan says. They reach their van and Brendon is about to open the driver’s side door. “I can take the first shift if you want.”
Brendon looks at him a little funny. “Since when do you drive first?”
“Do you want to do it?” Ryan asks.
Brendon tosses him the keys.
Ryan tries to distract himself with anything he can. Driving proves to be a big help when they’re still in the city, but once they’re on the highway and all Ryan has to do is drive straight, Pete’s hand is on his cheek again. He needs to stop thinking about how he regrets not getting onto Pete’s lap because it was all he could think of last night. He needs to stop thinking about it.
At least he has five straight days of cross-country driving to get caught up in. Maybe they’ll invent a road trip game. At least Maryland will be a nice change of scenery from desert.
It’s Hell. Ryan thinks, and this is coming from a former Catholic school boy, that the “Maryland welcomes you” sign on the state border should be changed to “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” That’s a joke. But Ryan is fucking exhausted.
They’re sleeping in an apartment with one bedroom with bunk beds and surviving off of junk food. Now, at a glance, it isn’t far off from how Ryan has been living since he dropped out, but it’s different when there are three other people in there with him. In some ways, the apartment manages to be worse than Panic!’s rehearsal space. There are bugs, the toilet doesn’t work all the time, the dumpster outside has unreadable writing that Brent swears is in blood, and again, there are four boys sharing one room.
They don’t get a single day off, they’re sweaty, they’re gross, everything is gross, Ryan keeps thinking about making out with Pete, and when he isn’t thinking about that, he’s thinking about getting cheated on, and if he isn’t thinking about that, he’s either daydreaming about ending up on MTV or jumping off of the tallest building in College Park. 50/50 odds between those last two. Both are appealing.
Anything is appealing, really. Anything but this. This: Ryan wanting to rip his hair out because he has to finish writing half of this album in a week. They came to Maryland with half of the album written and ready to go, and now they have a week of pre-production to write the rest. Maybe Ryan should go back to being a Christian and see if the big guy can do him a solid. That’s also a joke, because if God were nice to Ryan, these songs wouldn’t have any reason to exist.
Writing music and lyrics in the same room as Brendon attempting to come up with melodies has Ryan wondering how the fuck Pete and Patrick can stand each other, let alone be best friends. Probably because they split the work between music and lyrics. Too bad Brendon couldn’t identify a metaphor if it stabbed him in the face.
Matt, their producer, is a bit of an angel. Not only is he the one who pays for the band’s apartment, he can take Ryan’s half-baked-yet-brain-fried ideas and piece them into cohesive songs. Talk goes around of “What if people don’t like this?” and it turns into “People already don’t like us. We’re going to make a record that we like.” That’s something Ryan can get behind.
i_amclandestine (ex_i_amcland189) wrote,
@ 2005-6-27 19:12:00
de biasi de de biasi
hello hellooo. i’m in maryland right now, today is the first day of tracking drums which also happens to be the first day i’ll be able to be on the internet. first of about four total. anyways we did preproduction for the past 7 days and the squiz is convinced we are ready to begin bringing the rock. ooooooooooh
yea im a nerd. maryland is pretty nice i guess. we met a rapper named Dibiasi at danny’s sub shop, he’s from North Carolina. he’s street. thinking about having him do some guest vocals on our record. his manager “Big Easy” wants us to tour with him. so yea that has probably been the funniest and most awesome thing to happen since we’ve been here. i wear the same clothes almost everyday and have been getting lazier and lazier, started with just wearing basketball shorts everyday…then the same shorts…then same shorts and shirt…then not showering..then not combing my hair.. so if i were famous, this is what i would do to not get noticed in public. but it’s probably gotten so bad that i do get noticed in ways like “look at that poor homeless kid, we should feed him” okay i think i’m done. i’ve said to much.
i miss you.you know who you are
If nothing else, Ryan has some alone time when he gets to shower. You know, on the days he has enough energy to take a shower. He’s been a little extra worked up all day, head in the clouds, thinking about strong hands under his knees and what would have happened if he hadn’t run off.
Maybe he’ll never know.
When Ryan wraps a hand around himself as he’s leaned up against the wall of the shower, he thinks about it. Not in a lot of detail, because that’s never fun. Just vague things about Pete that Ryan has either theorized about or seen online. This isn’t the first time he’s done this, and he hopes every time that it’s going to be the last, but he knows in his heart that it won’t be. Not now that he knows what Pete’s hands feel like.
Or— God, his lips. How the spiky hair on his chin would feel on Ryan’s skin if he was kissed all over. Too specific. Too specific. Though, it stays specific enough that Ryan is, in fact, thinking of Pete’s hands when he comes with one palm covering his mouth.
He goes on with his shower, dries off, and gets ready for bed. Can’t wait for tomorrow.