146 - a
conjuring up our melancholy
Panic/My Chem (Ryan/Mikey, Pete/Mikey)
26,280 words, rated R. This fic is the sequel to anything please (except for defeat), the fic I wrote for bandombigbang last year. It would probably be a good idea to read that first, but what you really need to know is that it's an alternate timeline au, in which Brian, and My Chem, signed Panic instead of Pete. This fic follows Warped Tour '05, AKA The Summer Of Like. A world of thanks goes to kawaii_tenshi27, for betaing this for me, and to moorfaerie for the read-through and additional comments. All remaining errors are mine and mine alone. The title is a lyric from I Know, by Dear And The Headlights.

Also, fucking massive thanks to lone_wo1f for the fanmix, and to clayeer for the fanart. Both of you are amazing, and I wish I could hug your creations to my chest and never, ever let go.

Ryan’s standing with Mikey in front of My Chem’s bus, and watching the way the smile pulls at Mikey’s lips when he sees Pete. The way Mikey waves back, long-fingered hand still pale this early in the summer.

Ryan feels a pang he doesn’t want to identify. It’s just easier that way.


conjuring up our melancholy

Ryan knows that Warped is going to be different when he first sees Pete Wentz. Pete’s teeth are too big for his face, for his wide, wide smile, but Ryan already knows that from the magazines and blogs. Smudged eyeliner and flat-ironed bangs. Everything Ryan sometimes still thinks he wants to be.

Ryan’s standing with Mikey in front of My Chem’s bus, and watching the way the smile pulls at Mikey’s lips when he sees Pete. The way Mikey waves back, long-fingered hand still pale this early in the summer.

Ryan feels a pang he doesn’t want to identify. It’s just easier that way.


+


With My Chem headlining Warped Tour, Ryan’s not surprised that Brian asks them if they want to go. It just – makes sense. Brian could swing it, and even playing on one of the side stages would be plenty big enough for them.

“I’m not your boss,” Brian says. “I’m not going to tell you what you should or shouldn’t do.” He runs a hand through his hair, scratching the back of his head the way he does when he doesn’t actually want to give them a choice, but knows that he should. That it’s his job to. “That being said, it’s good exposure.”

Brendon looks at Ryan and waggles his eyebrows. Ryan just turns to look at Spencer. Spencer meets his eyes, but they don’t say anything. They don’t have to.

Spencer says, “Yes.”

And that’s that.


+


Brent’s teching for some shitty band in Northern California called Aces or Deuces or something like that, halfway through a West Coast tour, and he’s enjoying the fuck out of it. Ryan knows because he calls them more often than Ryan had thought he would, considering. Ryan’s not sure if Brent will want to know the news, but he texts him anyway. He feels bad for leaving Brent out, even when he’s not technically in anymore.

shit dude, he types, were fucking playing warped. b happy 4 us.

He stares at it for four minutes before pressing the send button. It takes Brent about two and a half to send a response back.

fuck, ry, thats awesome!!!!

Ryan assumes from the number of exclamation points that Brent holds no grudges. He thinks he should know this by now, but somehow he can’t convince himself. He’s not surprised.

Brendon played the bass on the album. Sometimes Ryan still wishes they’d asked Brent if he wanted to.


+


Mikey texts him at 4 AM. Ryan doesn’t get it until after he wakes up at 10 and gets coffee. It’s only once he’s mostly awake that he hears the plaintive beeping of his phone every 45 seconds, and realizes that it means he’s missed a call or text. He takes a sip of his coffee and flips his phone open.

yr in, right?

That’s all it says. Ryan’s gotten texts from Mikey almost every day since their last tour ended and Panic went into the studio. Half the time it’s just pictures of random shit Mikey’s seen during the day – funny street signs, graffiti, oddly shaped litter, other people’s pets – and the other half it’s truncated, non-sequitur sentences that Ryan’s pretty sure are designed to be confusing. Ryan’s gotten sort of used to it, but he’s still never sure if he’s answering the way Mikey wants him to.

4 warped? y.

Ryan leans back against the counter, and flips his phone shut. They’re meeting at the practice space at noon to start figuring out a set list. Brendon, Ryan knows, is already sure what he wants, but with only half an hour every day, they have to be careful.

Not that they’ve played for longer, really, they just. Have more to choose from.

good. Mikey texts in response, seven minutes later. dont want to forget yr face. >:(

Ryan closes his phone without answering, an audible snap in the empty kitchen. He listens to himself breathe and tries not to wonder if Mikey means it.


+


The practice space is familiar, nostalgic. Ryan’s still not sure he wants to be there.

“What is it, Ross?” Spencer asks, seated behind his drum set, and Ryan doesn’t have to look over to know he’s rolling his eyes. Or, if he isn’t, that he wants to.

“Nothing,” Ryan says, because. It’s not really anything.

“What, Ryan,” Brendon says, sitting on a padded stool with his bass. He idly plucks at the strings, fingers pressing chords onto the frets, but it’s not hooked up to an amp, so the sound is almost inaudible. “Like you think you can get out of this conversation? We know that face.”

“I, in fact, have lots of experience with that face,” Spencer adds.

“I just – don’t want to be here, okay? I’m happy we’re leaving soon.” Ryan crosses his arms over his chest, self-conscious. “It’s weird. Backward.”

“Tour starts in three weeks,” Spencer says, tapping his drumsticks against his knee. “Think you’ll be okay for that long?”

“Shut the fuck up, Spence, I’m fine,” Ryan says, and doesn’t think about his house. His father who is only there half the time, grunting at him when they cross paths in the kitchen. Ryan doesn’t think he’s even told his father that they’re leaving again.

“Whatever, Ross,” Spencer says. “Then get out your fucking guitar. We’ve got practicing to do.”


+


Ryan spends as little time in his house as he possibly can. Spencer’s parents are used to him hanging around, which sometimes makes him feel included and sometimes makes him feel like he’s intruding. Spencer always rolls his eyes when Ryan says anything about it, so he doesn’t bother, anymore.

He spends a lot of time driving, too. Sitting on the hood of his car with a notebook on his lap. Sometimes Brendon or Spencer comes with him, and sometimes he’s alone.

He hates how this feels like home, and at the same time, utterly stifling.

how many wks til warped, again? he texts Mikey at 12:52 AM, sitting with his ass on the cold metal hood of his car, feet propped up on the front bumper.

too many, Mikey replies at 12:53, though it’s three hours later there. Ryan wonders why Mikey’s even awake.

Ryan sighs and stuffs his phone into his pocket. He’s got too much time.


+


Gerard calls him three days before they leave, and it’s a little unexpected. Ryan hates talking on the phone unless forced, but Gerard mostly sucks at texting, so Ryan usually ends up waiting for him to call. It means they don’t talk as often as Ryan maybe wishes they did. He thinks he’s a little pathetic for caring, but, well. It’s Gerard. It’s hard not to care.

“Ryan?” Gerard asks, even though he’s the one who called.

“Hey, Gerard. What’s up?” Ryan’s on the couch in Spencer’s living room, waiting for Spence to get out of the shower. They have to get to the practice space, and Spencer’s mom needs the car. Ryan doesn’t mind carpooling.

“Haven’t talked to you in a while,” Gerard says, and Ryan wonders if he’s drawing, now, with the phone pressed to his ear. His voice has that faraway sound to it, like he’s not paying complete attention to anything.

“I’m seeing you in three days,” Ryan says, and Gerard laughs.

“Oh, right. Yeah. True.” Gerard pauses, and Ryan waits. He figures that if Gerard called, it was probably for a reason, but Ryan doesn’t know what to say. If he should keep the conversation going or not. It’s not exactly his strongest suit. “When does the album drop? For real, I mean?”

“Oh, uh. Next month,” Ryan says. They’d wanted to release it as soon as they were done, but, well. Ryan’s not going to pretend that he understands the finer points of marketing. So they’re touring on Warped when the album comes out. Until then, it’s word of mouth keeping them going. “Why?”

“Remind me when it does?” Gerard asks, and Ryan smiles. He’s glad that Gerard can’t see it.

“Yeah, sure. You know you can just get Brian to get you a copy, right?” Ryan’s planning on escaping from Warped on the 11th, the day it drops, and buying his own copy from a Wal-Mart, or something. So he can say he actually bought his own album.

“I know,” Gerard says. “Still.”

“Yeah,” Ryan says. “Okay.” He’s pretty sure he’s never going to completely understand Gerard. He doesn’t actually mind.


+


Piling back in the van feels almost like coming home, in some ridiculous, soppy way. Ryan’s never really felt completely at home anywhere, but the van probably comes closest. He just can’t keep Brent’s ghost out of his mind – how he’d put his feet up on the dash and talked about his mother’s macaroni and cheese like it was sacred, how he’d slept in the back row, shoes discarded onto the floor. Ryan’s used to Brent not being in the band, but he still doesn’t have a hold on the fact that Brent’s not here.

Spencer’s driving, first, and now that there are only three of them, Brendon and Ryan can have their own row each, almost long enough to lie down in. It’s like having a bed, sort of, though an uncomfortable one.

“How long is the drive?” Brendon asks, knees propped up on the back of the row in front of him.

“Like, 30 hours. A long time. Why do you think we’re leaving a day early?” Spencer doesn’t even bother to look over his shoulder, just keeps his eyes on the road. Ryan’s sitting in the passenger seat, and twists a little in his seat so that he can see Brendon’s face.

“Figured you guys were just anal,” Brendon shrugs. Ryan can’t help snorting, and Brendon’s expression turns a little sheepish. “What? You know I’m right. I’m in a band with two of the most compulsive people I’ve ever met.”

Ryan just shrugs. He’s not exactly going to deny it, but driving from Vegas to Columbus, Ohio couldn’t possibly take less than a day, all told. No matter how fast Spencer drives. They’re still in a huge, dirty van. He turns back around, facing the front so that he can more easily look out the window. They haven’t been back in Vegas for that long, but he can’t say that he’s sorry to be leaving already.


+


Spencer drives for about eight hours before he pulls over at the next rest stop and parks. He pulls the keys out of the ignition, and throws them to Ryan, sliding out of the driver’s seat.

“I’m going to piss, get some snacks, and take a walk. You up for driving next?” Ryan glances at the keys in his hands, and shrugs, nodding. Spencer doesn’t actually need him to say anything.

It’s closing in on 5:00 PM, and Ryan’s glad that it’s June. The sun won’t be going down for a while, yet. Brendon’s already trotted into the 7-11, following Spencer’s lead. He’s probably going to come back with four Slim Jims and a box of chocolate-covered donuts, if Ryan knows Brendon’s eating habits on the road.

Ryan walks over to the edge of the parking lot, and leans back against the payphone booth. It’s missing the phone receiver, and seems like it’s been that way for a while – it’s covered in dirt and notes in black sharpie. Most people have cell phones, nowadays, so Ryan can understand why it just stagnates, but it’s still sort of. Sad.

He takes a picture of the outside corner with his cell phone camera, a note scrawled in messy handwriting, saying nothing but being here just reminds me of how far away I am from where I want to be. He sends it to Mikey, with text at the bottom that says 22 hrs 2 go.

He didn’t write the note, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t understand the sentiment.


+


Because the tour hasn’t started yet, they decide to spring for a motel room. They stop at 2 AM just outside of Lawrence, Kansas, and Ryan takes the time to crack every joint he can manage – fingers, toes, and spine. His hip pops hollowly when he slides out of the driver’s seat, and Brendon winces mid-yawn.

“Gross, Ross. I know you’re a bony fuck, but do you have to remind us so viscerally?”

Spencer just snorts, and heads into the lobby to see about a room. They probably won’t have real beds again until their next day off, which is after the second show. It’s not that long to wait, really, but the longer they’re on tour, the more it’ll matter. Sleeping in the van is fine, when necessary, but it also tends to be uncomfortable. Seatbelts just aren’t meant to be slept on.

Ryan yawns, catching it from Brendon, and leans back against the side of the van. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, checking for texts – he hadn’t checked at all while he was driving. He knows that he doesn’t have the concentration to do both at once.

He has five texts waiting for him in his inbox. Two are from Mikey, two are from Brent, and one is from Brendon, oddly enough. Mikey sent him a picture of a hot dog stand, and the essential question of dude, why is relish extra? that shit is awesome but not worth it.

Brent’s first text says, at least the heat in our van worked, followed quickly by, whatev, this is ca, who needs it.

Brendon’s just says, so bored r we there yet.

“You texted me while I was driving?” It doesn’t sound quite as incredulous as he thinks it should. He’s just not as surprised by Brendon these days, he supposes.

“Yeah,” Brendon says, and shrugs. He’s kicking at bits of gravel with the toes of his converse, hands shoved into the back pockets of his jeans. “I got bored, what can I say?”

“Don’t you have anyone else you could be texting?”

Brendon just shrugs. Maybe Ryan shouldn’t have said that. There’s Brent, sure, and maybe one or two of his siblings, but Brendon was never really a social butterfly. Someday, Ryan’s going to learn to keep his mouth shut.

“Guys!” Spencer’s standing in the doorway to the lobby, holding the glass door open with one hand. “Gonna get in here anytime soon? I got us a room.” Spencer’s hair is still mussed from where he was sleeping, slumped in the passenger seat with his cheek pressed to the window.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Ryan says, “be right in.”


+


Ryan and Spencer share one bed, that night, leaving the other for Brendon. They’ve shared beds on tour before, on family vacations in a variety of locations. It’s nothing new or interesting.

They fight over the bathroom, Brendon shoving Spencer away from the sink so he can spit out toothpaste and saliva, Ryan sitting on the closed toilet, waiting for a chance to wash his face. He’s really going to want a shower in the morning. Warped isn’t known for its cleanliness, and Ryan wants one last day of clean hair and skin before he resigns himself to tour life.

Later, curled up on the bed next to Spencer, he listens to the sound of Spencer’s small snores, Brendon’s snuffling breaths.

He finds it easier to fall asleep than it has been in a long time.


+


Brian’s in Columbus with My Chem well before they arrive. Ryan gets a call from him at around two. They still have several hours of driving to do, but the show doesn’t actually start until the next day. They are supposed to get to the venue before sundown, though.

“Where are you guys?” Brian sounds like he’s smoking. Ryan’s not at all surprised.

“I have no idea.” Brendon’s driving, and Spencer’s bent over the radio, trying to find decent music. They’re going to have to pick up a tape adapter. Ryan’s not sure how long they’ll last without access to their iPods while they drive. “We’ll be there in like, four hours, I think.”

“Fine,” Brian says. “We’re already here. Think about half the tour’s shown up already.”

Ryan looks out the window, tapping his foot against the floor. “Yeah, well, half the tour lives much closer to Columbus than we do.”

“You probably could’ve flown, you know. Rented a van here.” Brian’s voice fades as he pulls the phone away from his face, presumably to take a drag from his cigarette.

“It’s more annoying to drive,” Ryan says, “but also more cost efficient. You think Spence was going to let us waste money?” Spencer glances over his shoulder, hand still on the seek/search button, and raises an eyebrow. Spencer didn’t really care either way, in actuality. It was mostly Ryan’s idea that they drive the whole way. Spencer had just shrugged the way he does to most of Ryan’s suggestions.

Brendon was sort of enamored with the idea of a road trip, just the three of them. Ryan hadn’t wanted to bring up that that was essentially what this entire summer was going to be.

“Sure, whatever,” Brian says. He sounds vaguely amused. “Hold on.”

Ryan waits while the phone crackles, low conversation that he can’t make out, and then a familiar voice on the line.

“Hey,” Mikey says, voice as inscrutable as ever. Ryan leans back against the window, and pulls his feet up onto the seat, tucking his knees up against his chest.

“Hey.” He’s not sure what to say, exactly. This is why he sticks to texts. They don’t have to be instantaneous the way phone conversations really should be. “Are you – you’re there already, right?”

“Yeah,” Mikey says. “Pulled up half an hour ago.”

“We’ll be there by dinnertime.”

“You should find us when you get here. I know Gerard’s really looking forward to it.”

Ryan can’t help the way he smiles, then. It’s dumb, but – he can’t help it. “Sure,” he says. “I’ll see you then.”


+


So, Ryan knows that Warped is going to be different when he first sees Pete Wentz.

Ryan’s leaning back against My Chem’s bus, hands shoved into his pockets, and when Mikey cuts himself off mid-sentence, he looks up from his shoes. Mikey’s smiling, sketching a wave, and Pete’s laughing broadly.

“Well, if it isn’t Pete Wentz,” Mikey says blandly, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s still smiling, Ryan can tell. It’s hard to tell Mikey’s emotions from his voice, but it always sounds like he’s smiling when he is.

“Hello, Mikey Way,” Pete says, and trots over to the bus. “And who’s this you’ve got with you?”

“Oh, this is Ryan. Ryan Ross. He plays for Panic! At The Disco,” Mikey says, and shrugs. Pete looks over at him with a raised eyebrow.

“That name sounds familiar,” Pete says, “but I don’t remember where I heard it.” He doesn’t say it in a mean way, Ryan knows this logically, but Ryan might also be a little oversensitive. Pete holds out his hand, though, and Ryan shakes it – Pete’s grip is callused and firm. Ryan tries to force himself not to tense up, but he’s not sure he manages it.

Ryan shrugs, and tries to be nonchalant. “Our album hasn’t dropped yet. Not until next month.”

Pete nods, mostly polite, and turns back to Mikey. Ryan doesn’t know if Pete actually means it as a dismissal or not, but Ryan doesn’t really feel like sticking around much anymore. Brendon’s on My Chem’s bus already, and Ryan hasn’t actually said hi to Gerard or Brian yet.

“I’m gonna go say hi to Gerard, okay, Mikey?” Mikey shoots him a smile and a nod, and Ryan adds. “It was nice to meet you, Pete.”

He’s not sure, yet, if it actually was.


+


Gerard’s drawing on the bus, so it’s Frank who opens the door.

“Hey there, Ross, long time no see,” Frank says, and latches onto him. It’s half a hug and half just moving him onto the bus. Sort of a normal Frank maneuver.

“Hi, Frank,” Ryan says, and lets himself be hugged. Brendon’s laughing at him, loud and raucous, but Ryan doesn’t particularly mind. He still gives Brendon the finger behind Frank’s back.

Frank lets go, after a while, and gives him a nod, the kind that says, I acknowledge and approve of your presence, which Ryan thinks is sort of a funny thing to do after hugging someone. Most nods are meant to be cool and aloof. Frank is neither of these things.

“Hey, Ryan,” Gerard says, and actually looks up from his sketchbook.

“Hi.” Ryan doesn’t really want to interrupt Gerard. Frank and Brendon have already returned to whatever street fighter martial arts game it was they were playing before Ryan got here. Ryan sits gingerly on the edge of the couch and tries not to look over Gerard’s shoulder too noticeably. “What’re you drawing?”

“Character ideas for this comic thing,” Gerard says, as vague as usual. “It’s like. Superheroes. Only not.”

“Oh,” Ryan says. The drawing seems to be some kind of man with a gorilla for a body. It’s pretty cool looking. “What’s his name?”

“Dunno yet,” Gerard says, and shrugs. “Also, Brian’s looking for you. Maybe by your van? I don’t even know where that is, yet.”

“Yeah, and you’ll have to figure it out all over again every day,” Frank says, eyes still glued to the TV.

“Least you guys have central air, or whatever,” Brendon says, leaning far to the right instinctively as he tries to direct his avatar. “I can just imagine how sticky the van’s going to get. All those leather seats.” He shudders dramatically, and Ryan can’t help but roll his eyes.

“Whatever, you’ll live,” Frank says. He’s sitting cross-legged, shoulders hunched. “We did.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Brendon says. “Road warriors, the lot of you.”

Ryan snorts. At least some things haven’t changed.


+


Brian doesn’t actually find them until he returns to My Chem’s bus. Ryan’s still holed up inside. He wants to go find Mikey, but he doesn’t really want to risk running into Pete again. He’d probably just be in the way.

“Oh, you’re here,” Brian says, surprised. Ryan watches to see how close his pointy eyebrows get to his hairline. Pretty close.

“Yeah, just hanging out.” The bus is more comfortable than their van, and Gerard and Frank don’t seem to mind. Ray hasn’t come out of the back lounge yet, and Bob’s somewhere else.

“I figured you were off somewhere with Mikey, actually,” Brian says, and shrugs. Ryan shrugs back.

“Maybe later,” he says. He’d try to pretend he isn’t waiting for a text, but there are things Ryan is better at than self-denial.

“What about Brendon and Spencer?”

“I think they’re checking out the other bands? Spencer likes to know who he’s dealing with. Brendon’s keeping him company.” Ryan twists his phone between his fingers, turning it over and then over again. He’s just barely resisting the urge to flip it open and closed, despite how annoying he knows that is.

Brian shrugs again, like that makes sense. It really does.

“They’ll report back at some point.” It’s not like Ryan’s new at being alone. Plus, he never minds hanging around with Gerard. As long as Gerard doesn’t mind him hanging around.

“We’ve been keeping him occupied, Brian, don’t worry,” Gerard says, and smiles. Brian rolls his eyes, but in the way he always does at Gerard – like he’s exasperated, when really he’s charmed despite himself.

“So, you know how the Warped thing works, right? You play at a different time every show? Et cetera, et cetera?” Brian raises his eyebrows at Ryan, and it’s Ryan’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Yes, Brian, I’m not completely new to Warped. I’ve actually attended a few times, even.” Brian snorts at the sarcasm in Ryan’s voice. Ryan doesn’t really mind Brian checking in with them, honestly. It’s sort of good to know that someone’s looking out for them.

“Well, okay then. Hey, Frank, you wanna hand me a controller? It’s time for me to kick your ass.”

“That’s what you always say,” Frank says, laughing. “And yet, you’ve never managed it.”

“Shut up and hand it over, kid.” Brian settles cross-legged on the floor. Gerard’s already turned back to his notebook. Ryan turns his cell over in his hands again and just watches.


+


Brendon’s slightly tipsy when he gets back to the van that night. Neither Ryan nor Spencer are sleeping yet, which is fortunate given how much noise Brendon makes when he pulls the van door open. He stumbles, giggling, and then clambers up into the van, slamming the door behind him.

Ryan had returned to the van a few hours earlier, finding Spencer already there, sitting in the passenger seat with a book.

“You’re back,” Ryan had said. “Where’s Brendon?”

“He found a party,” Spencer said with a shrug. “I didn’t feel like drinking, so I told him I was coming back.” Ryan didn’t say anything. He’d just climbed into the front row and leaned back against the window. He could see the side of Spencer’s face, hear him sigh when he put his book down. “He’ll be back, eventually,” Spencer said.

“I know,” Ryan had said. “Tell me about the people you met.”

Now, Brendon collapses almost bonelessly into the second row and says, “You guys missed an awesome party.”

“Looks like it,” Ryan says, and raises his eyebrows. Spencer’s turned halfway around in the seat, watching Brendon. “Have fun?”

“Yeah,” Brendon says, and yawns. “Pete Wentz was there. He asked me about you.”

“About me?” Ryan asks, watching Brendon’s eyes slide halfway closed. “Why?”

Brendon shrugs. “Who knows. Mikey was with him. Maybe that’s why.” He yawns again. Brendon’s never been a big drinker, so it’s probably the alcohol getting to him.

“Go to sleep, Brendon,” Spencer says, most likely thinking the same thing. Ryan watches Brendon’s eyes close.

“Kay,” he says. It doesn’t take long for his breathing to even out.

“You got something going on with Pete Wentz?” Spencer asks, grinning at Ryan.

“I have no fucking idea,” Ryan replies.


+


Their set is at 11:45 on one of the side stages. It sucks, a little, to go on so early, since it means waking up early, but Ryan doesn’t mind having the time afterward to see the other sets. There are a lot of bands worth seeing.

They open with Tacks for Snacks, and Ryan doesn’t notice until halfway through the song that Pete’s watching from the side of the stage. When Ryan sees him, their eyes catch, and Pete smiles. Ryan almost misses his next cue. He spends the rest of the set staring at his guitar strings and not much else.


+


Pete catches up with Ryan once they get off the stage.

“Hey, yo, Ryan,” Pete says, grabbing Ryan’s elbow. Ryan’s got to help move their shit from the stage, but he doesn’t pull away yet. Spencer rolls his eyes and slings his towel over his shoulder; Brendon raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything.

“Hi, Pete,” Ryan says.

“Mikey played me some of your demos. These versions are better.” Pete’s grin is wide, showing his massive teeth.

“We’ve gotten better since recording those.” Brent’s bass playing is still on the demos. Sometimes Ryan has a hard time listening to them.

“Yeah,” Brendon says, hooking his chin over Ryan’s shoulder. “Just wait until you hear the album.”

Pete looks at Brendon, and then back at Ryan. He’s still smiling.

“I’m looking forward to it, believe me.” Pete’s voice isn’t insincere, as far as Ryan can tell. Ryan’s not sure why he doesn’t want to like Pete – after all, Pete’s always been one of his musical idols. “Oh, hey, anyway,” Pete continues, “we should hang out. I’m pretty sure there’ll be a party by our bus tonight. Come chill.”

Brendon’s elbow digs into Ryan’s back, and Ryan doesn’t have to be able to see Brendon’s face to know what that means.

“Yeah, sure,” Ryan says. “We’ll see you later.”


+


Ryan watches Fall Out Boy’s set that afternoon. He knows all the words to every song, and can’t help mouthing along, standing off to the side of the stage. Pete’s definitely charismatic, that’s for sure.

During Saturday, he gets a text from Mikey - haven’t seen u much – 2nite? fob party?

Ryan stares at his phone and sighs. If he wasn’t already going to go, it looks like he would be now.


+


There always seem to be several parties going on at once on Warped. Ryan passes at least two on his search for Fall Out Boy’s bus. He hears Pete’s loud laughter before he actually sees the party, sitting on the dusty ground in front of the bus. There are already eight or ten discarded beer cans and what looks like a handle of vodka is being passed around.

“Ross!” Pete says, loudly, and waves him over. Mikey’s standing, leaning against the back wheel, holding a can of beer in one hand. He waves with his free hand, and smiles a little. Ryan can’t help but wonder if Mikey ever really grins, and if he’ll ever see it. He lets Pete grab him by the wrist and drag him around, introducing. Ryan won’t remember anyone’s name, probably, but he doesn’t think anyone will blame him.

“Hey, Pete,” he says, belatedly.

“Hey,” Pete says, grinning, and punches Ryan on the arm. “Grab a beer, take a seat, have fun.” Ryan manages a smile, and grabs a beer from the cooler – it’s Coors Lite, but he’s not expecting class at a party taking place in a parking lot, outside of a bus. He sits down on the fringe of the group and tries not to watch Mikey talk to Pete.


+


He’s on his third shitty beer and feeling a little buzzed when he realizes that he’s been arguing with one of the dudes from The Academy Is… about art history for something like two hours. And that he doesn’t even mind.

“Look,” the Butcher says, leaning forward as if to confide something, “I’m really drunk. I don’t know how many more facts I can make up about Warhol. Truce?”

Ryan smiles. “Truce,” he says.

“Cool.” the Butcher stands then, and stretches his arms over his head. “I’m going to find some place to piss. Let’s continue this discussion on more sober ground, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ryan says, and watches the Butcher amble off. Pete’s off to one side leaning his head on Bill Beckett’s shoulder, talking loudly enough that Ryan can hear the tone of his voice, but softly enough that he can’t make out the words. Most of the rest of the group has disbanded and wandered off elsewhere. Ryan could probably go back to the van, but he’s feeling pretty comfortable, even with his ass on the cold pavement.

“Hey,” Mikey says, and sits next to him, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. He sits kind of like a dead spider; long limbs tugged in as close to his torso as possible, all sharp edges and angles.

“Hey,” Ryan says, and finishes his beer. He lines the can up neatly next to the other two, and looks at them all in a row. He’s not that tipsy, really – he doesn’t drink much, but his tolerance isn’t exactly nonexistent, either – but he’s feeling a little looser than he might otherwise. “Having fun?”

“I’m drunk, so, yes,” Mikey says, and smiles, one side of his mouth quirked up. He holds his alcohol well. Ryan can barely tell that he’s been drinking at all; he seems a little freer with his expressions, but other than that he’s almost the same.

“Hm,” Ryan says, lips pressed together. He doesn’t know exactly what to say to that. He wants to ask what Gerard thinks of the fact that Mikey still drinks, but he knows that it’s none of his business. He wonders if Mikey goes back to the bus drunk.

“Gerard knows I still drink,” Mikey says, like he’s read Ryan’s mind. Maybe Mikey could just tell from the expression on his face, but Ryan doesn’t like to think that he’s that easy to read.

“I didn’t ask anything,” Ryan says. “It’s not my business.” Mikey’s still smiling that half-smile, so it doesn’t seem like he minds, but Ryan can’t always tell with Mikey.

“I know,” Mikey says. “Because you have tact. Still.” He sighs, and sprawls back on the asphalt, staring up at the sky. His head almost hits a discarded bottle of vodka and his left hand is perilously close to toppling Ryan’s neat line of cans, but Ryan’s just watching the shadows of Mikey’s jaw and the line of his throat. “You were probably wondering, though,” Mikey adds. The light catches his Adam’s apple and the side of his neck as he talks, and Ryan watches the muscles move under his skin.

“Well, yeah.” Ryan shrugs, though he’s pretty sure Mikey can’t see it from this angle. “Sorry.” He’s not going to lie. He still thinks that he has no reason to ask about it, but if Mikey’s going to volunteer the information freely, he’s not going to say no, either.

“He tries not to mind, and I try not to come back smelling like alcohol. It’s a working compromise.” Mikey lifts one shoulder in half a shrug, which looks awkward given his position on the ground. “Does that bother you?”

Ryan opens his mouth, and almost says, Me? What the fuck does my opinion matter?, but decides against it. This conversation isn’t really about him, anyway. “Not especially,” Ryan says. “Should it?”

Mikey just shrugs again. Ryan looks over to the bus, and Pete appears to have fallen asleep, still leaning on Bill. Pete’s a pretty good host, all things considered. Ryan didn’t even have to pay for any of the booze.

“I’m glad I came to this party,” Ryan says. He’s surprised. He’d figured he’d show up, feel excluded, and leave after fifteen minutes. Spencer told him he was being a pessimistic asshole, as usual, but that wasn’t really a surprise, coming from Spencer. He’s probably never going to live it down.

“Me too,” Mikey says. “I mean, I’m glad that you came.”

Ryan smiles. “Thanks.”


+


Ryan wakes up at 10 AM the next day to a text from Pete.

so hngovr, it says, send hlp

Ryan’s not sure how Pete got his number, but apparently he’s fair game for texting now that Ryan showed up to his party. Ryan’s not sure how he feels about this, yet, so he doesn’t bother to answer. It’s still early, anyway, and they’re not going on until 4:15 PM.

They’d left after Ryan got back from the party. It was just after 1 AM, but the drive from Columbus to Milwaukee was seven and a half hours long, and they didn’t have a driver to do the driving for them. Brendon had been sleeping already in the back row of the van, so Spencer had agreed to drive the first half, until Ryan was sober enough. Ryan slept the first four hours, and then drove from Lafayette to the Marcus Amphitheatre. He’d put Taking Back Sunday into the CD player, and listened to Tell All Your Friends quietly through the front speakers to keep himself awake, while Spencer climbed into one of the back rows for a few hours of shut-eye. They got in around 8:30, so by the time Pete texted him, he’d only been sleeping for an hour and a half.

Ryan snorts. It’s certainly going to be an interesting summer in terms of sleeping patterns. Ryan wonders how they’re going to fare on the days they perform early in the day.


+


He wakes up for good just before noon, and shucks his dirty shirt, pulling a mostly clean one over his head. He changes into a new pair of boxers, but wears the same jeans. They have a day off between Milwaukee and Maryland Heights, and Ryan’s already looking forward to a shower.

Spencer’s still sleeping, but Brendon’s already gone.

where r u?, he texts to Brendon, and then, after some thought, forwards the same message to Brent, who he hasn’t heard from in a few days.

Brent’s response is quick. driving 2 seattle, he says, shouldn’t txt behind wheel sry. l8r

Brendon takes slightly longer, and his just says, merch tent. selling shirts to tiny girls. help?. Ryan snorts, but they don’t really have a crew, so Brendon’s either bored or swamped, neither of which is very good. Brian had said that, since they didn’t really have someone to do merch for them, they could sell shirts and demos at My Chem’s tent for the time being. When Ryan had asked Gerard, he hadn’t seemed to mind, and had even drawn them a sign to tape to the front of the tent to advertise where they were.

It takes Ryan ten minutes to find Brendon and the tent. He’d left a note for Spencer, taped to the steering wheel, where he’d see it, and left the van as quietly as possible. It’s already hot outside, sunny and bright. It’s not quite as hot as Ryan’s used to, but it’s more humid. Brendon’s sitting in a folding chair behind My Chem’s merch table. He doesn’t seem very busy.

“Help you with what, exactly?” Ryan asks, ducking under the table. Brendon shrugs.

“Bored. Dudes from My Chem are probably still sleeping, or whatever, and you were obviously awake.”

Ryan rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t actually mind. “Sell anything?”

“Mostly My Chem shirts and buttons and things, but I’ve been talking our band up to anyone who’ll listen, pretty much. Sold a few demos. Some of them promised to check out our show, but who knows, right?”

“We’ll just have to see, I guess,” Ryan says, and looks at the demos piled on the folding table. He’ll be relieved when the album comes out for real. Less than a month now, if he thinks about it. He’s not expecting it to sell much, but he will be relieved to put the demos away.

“Y’know, Ross, we’re going places. Just got to keep trucking,” Brendon says, and stretches his feet out, leaning back in the chair.

“Yeah,” Ryan says. He never thought they’d even be here, honestly.


+


Ryan mans the merch table for another hour, because he’s got nothing better to do, and he doesn’t mind it. Brendon wanders off to get breakfast, but Ryan’s only alone for half an hour or so before My Chem’s merch dude, Dan, gets back from the food tent and takes over. Ryan wonders if he brought a book on this tour. Probably.

“Ryan.” Ryan looks up, and Mikey is standing in front of the merch table, both hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. Ryan wonders how he’s not hot.

“Hey, Mikey.” He’d walked halfway back to the van with Mikey after the party, before they’d gone their separate ways. They hadn’t talked much more. It wasn’t awkward, but Ryan had wondered what Mikey was thinking about. He hadn’t asked.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here. Brendon’s playing Halo again with Frank, and he said he left you here just after noon.”

Ryan shrugs. “Nowhere else to be until four. Figured I’d be helpful instead of bored.”

“Well, I’m hungry. Warped always makes me want corndogs, but they don’t actually sell them at most of the venues. Sadly. Lunch?” Mikey raises his eyebrows behind his glasses and lifts his shoulder questioningly.

“I could eat,” Ryan says.


+


They end up on the grass way back from one of the main stages, sharing chicken fingers and French fries. Ryan’s cross-legged, squeezing catsup packets out onto each bite of chicken. Mikey’s eating his plain, which Ryan finds kind of weird, but he’s not really one to talk.

Mikey’s sitting on his hoodie so as not to get grass on his jeans, though why he’d care at this point, Ryan’s not sure. Ryan’s sweating, eating hot food on a hot day, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

After they finish, Mikey says, “Want to go watch Fall Out Boy play?”


+


Fall Out Boy is playing on the other main stage, and, though they could stand side stage, Mikey and Ryan stand behind the main crowd to watch the show.

“I used to listen to Fall Out Boy all the time,” Ryan says, in between humming along and mouthing the words. He can’t dance, and can’t see himself moshing without either hurting himself or the people around him, but Mikey’s just standing there, his hands stuffed in his pockets, so Ryan doesn’t really feel bad about it. He tries to imagine Mikey dancing, and can’t really see it.

“Makes sense,” Mikey says. “Sometimes you do that play on words thing in your lyrics that Pete does.” Ryan turns to Mikey in surprise, and Mikey smiles that half-smile again. “What? I listen to your demos all the time, dude. Why do you think I played them for Pete? They’re good.”

“Didn’t know you listened that closely.” Onstage, Pete’s leaning into Patrick’s shoulder, but Ryan’s watching Mikey – his quirked smile, his raised eyebrow.

“I know every word to all three songs, just ask Gerard. The album better come out soon, just to give me something else to listen to.”

Ryan’s not sure what his expression looks like, but whatever it is, it makes Mikey laugh, loudly and slightly goofily.

Finally, Ryan says, “I’ll see what I can do.”


+


Ryan finally texts Pete back after he and Mikey part ways – Mikey back to his bus, and Ryan to find Spencer.

yr hangover didnt seem to hurt yr show, he texts, and doesn’t expect an answer anytime soon.

u saw the show?, Pete responds, less than a minute later, and Ryan stares at his phone in surprise. Pete is a fast texter.

mikey & i watched u from the crowd

mikeys a good kid, Pete says, but Ryan’s not sure exactly what Pete means by the comment, or why he’s saying it to Ryan, so Ryan doesn’t say anything back. He wonders if that’s going to be a pattern with Pete.


+


Spencer is leaning back against the front wheel of the van, reading a book, which Ryan is pretty sure is his. He feels a little badly that he hasn’t spoken to Spencer yet today, and it’s after 3 PM.

“You haven’t been here all day, have you?” Ryan asks, sitting down next to Spencer.

“Nope,” Spencer says, marking his place with a bookmark – Spencer doesn’t dog-ear his books unless he’s read them more than once – and puts the book down on his lap. “I’ve been around.”

“Okay,” Ryan says. “I was pretty scarce today, sorry.”

Spencer snorts. “Whatever, Ryan, I’m fine. I’m perfectly capable of finding my own fun.”

“Okay,” Ryan says again.

“Thanks for the concern, though.” Spencer punches Ryan in the arm and stands, tucking the book under his arm.

“We should probably get to the stage. We’re on soon.”


+


Brendon’s driving that night when Brent calls Ryan.

“Not driving anymore?” Ryan says, when he answers the phone.

“Nope, not my turn,” Brent says. “Thankfully.”

Someone in the background says something that sounds like, “For everyone involved, really.”

“Seriously, one near miss –” Brent says, possibly to Ryan and possibly to whomever else is in the van with him.

“Brent, you are terrifying behind the wheel. We’re never letting you drive at night again.”

“Whoever that is has a point,” Ryan says. “You are a terrifying driver.”

“Shut up, Ryan,” Brent says, but he doesn’t sound angry. “How’s Warped?”

Ryan’s just kind of happy to hear Brent’s voice. He doesn’t have that many friends, and he’d rather get along with Brent, in the end, than be in a band with him. Ryan leans back against the window, stretching his legs out along the seat, and starts talking.


+


Brendon drives most of the way to Maryland Heights, but they don’t have a show the next day, so there’s not much of a rush. They stop for the night outside Springfield, Illinois, mostly because Brendon’s been driving for four hours, and he sees a laser tag place by the side of the road.

“You guys,” he says, when they pull into the motel parking lot. “Tomorrow. Laser tag. We’re doing it.”

“There’re only three of us, Brendon,” Spencer says, “that’s not going to be that interesting. We’d probably wander around and never find each other.”

“Spence, I’m pretty sure you don’t know what fun is. We’ll fucking, I don’t know, invite other people to come. Everyone on the tour is going to the same fucking place.” Brendon pauses, and taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “No, y’know what? I’m calling Frank.” And he does.

Ryan’s actually sleeping for the entirety of this conversation, but Spencer recounts it for him a few minutes later, in excruciating detail, after they’ve gotten into their room for the night. Ryan’s not really against laser tag, as a rule. He’s not very good at it, though.


+


Ryan doesn’t expect anyone to show up for laser tag except the three of them. Which he would be fine with, actually. But the next morning, he wakes up at noon to a missed call from Gerard, and a text from Frank, which just says, lets do this shit.

He brushes his teeth and takes a fucking shower, which is awesome, and puts on clean-ish clothes. They’ve only been on tour for three days and he’s already stopped expecting to have clean things. Brendon’s already awake, showered, and dressed, but Spencer’s just waking up when Ryan gets out of the bathroom. He points the empty bathroom out to Spencer, and then calls Gerard back.

“So, where is this place we’re going,” Gerard says instead of any sort of greeting.

“Uh. I have no idea. Two blocks away from the motel where we are? Like, right off the highway, at some strip mall.”

“Well, that’s helpful.” Gerard doesn’t sound particularly sarcastic, even when he is sarcastic.

“Sorry, I’ve never really explored Illinois,” Ryan says, and sticks the phone between his shoulder and ear as he pulls on his socks. “Brendon didn’t tell Frank?”

“I have no idea,” Gerard says, cheerfully. He’s probably already had an entire pot of coffee. “I don’t even care, really, but Bob and Frank are all gung-ho, and Brian didn’t even complain that much, which means he’s looking forward to it, so.” Then he turns away from the phone and yells for Frank, who says something muffled in return. “Whatever, we’ll figure it out.”


+


In the end, Ryan tells Brendon to call Frank, they exchange directions of some sort, and then Brendon makes Ryan drive there because he “drove the whole way here, Jesus, it’s like four miles, Ross.” Brendon sometimes cares strongly about very odd and occasionally obnoxious things.

My Chem’s bus is already in the parking lot when they get there, and Bob, Frank, and Brian are all outside milling around and smoking cigarettes. Gerard is sitting on the asphalt, tapping his fingers against his knees and ashing his own cigarette as he talks to Ray, who is leaning over him, gesticulating. Mikey’s not outside the bus.

Brendon and Frank vote themselves as team captains, unsurprisingly, and proceed to pick their teams by playground lottery, alternating selections. Brendon’s team is Spencer, Ryan, and Brian, though Brendon picks Brian before he picks Ryan, presumably to keep Frank from getting him, if the way Frank scowls is anything to go by.

“Traitor,” Frank says, stubbing his cigarette out under his shoe and crossing his arms. “I’m gonna kick your ass.”

“We’ll see, little man,” Brian says. He’s grinning. “Put your money where your mouth is.” Ryan’s never known anyone who actually says shit like that in real life, but Brian’s actually a frightening human being, so he pulls it off alright.

Bob, Ray, and Gerard end up on Frank’s team. Gerard is the only one picked after Ryan, but he doesn’t seem that offended by it. Mikey, apparently, isn’t on My Chem’s bus at all. Ryan takes his weapon, and doesn’t ask any questions.


+


Ryan really does suck at laser tag. They don’t have any sort of strategy, and Ray is some kind of laser tag freak of nature, or maybe he’s following Ryan, or something, because he’s probably shot Ryan at least twelve times. Ryan doesn’t really care, because he captured Frank, for a while, anyway, and he’s sweaty, and tired, and it’s actually pretty awesome.

Brendon and Brian seem to be offensive players, and Spencer stays on the defensive, but Ryan just keeps getting lost and wandering away. He runs into Gerard about an hour into the game and after they shoot at each other a few times, Gerard yells, “Truce?” into the black lit darkness.

“Uh,” Ryan says. It’s not like either of them are hitting anything. They both have awful aim. “Sure. Why not.”

He’s pretty sure it’s against the rules, but he doesn’t actually care. They sit against one of the walls, and put their rifles over their laps.

“I suck at these games,” Gerard says. He’s breathing a little hard, but he doesn’t sound too put out. It’s too dark for Ryan to see his expression. “Too much running and aiming and being tense the whole time.”

“I wasn’t even good at regular tag.” Ryan shrugs.

“Yeah, dude, the getting picked last thing? Happened to me all the time in gym class. Flashbacks to high school, man.”

Ryan laughs. “Me too. Let’s get lunch after this, okay?”


+


The strip mall also includes a shitty diner attached to the laser tag place, so they get lunch there. It’s order at the counter, but the place is empty, so there’s not much of a wait. They have corndogs on the menu, and Ryan thinks of Mikey. He orders a grilled cheese sandwich with tomato and a side of French fries, and sits next to Gerard at the table.

“Dude, there’re fucking mirrors on the ceiling,” Gerard says when he sits down. Ryan looks up and sees himself staring back. He looks kind of disheveled and a little flushed. He hadn’t even been running that much.

“So, where’s your brother?” Ryan asks, looking back down at Gerard. He tries to keep his voice light, and he thinks he manages relatively well.

“Mikey’s crashing on Fall Out Boy’s bus,” Ray says, sliding into the booth across from Gerard and Ryan. Brendon and Spencer are still ordering. Bob, Brian, and Frank seem to be forgoing food altogether in return for nicotine. Gerard, though also a smoker, seems to be putting more stake in food for the moment. Frank will make them come inside, eventually, if only because he’s never been one to pass up greasy diner sandwiches.

“Yeah, he’s been hanging with Pete a lot, lately,” Gerard says, and waggles his eyebrows in a suggestive manner. Ray snorts, and pops a French fry into his mouth.

“Oh,” Ryan says. He can feel his stomach tighten unpleasantly. “Good for him, I guess?” Gerard and Ray crack up, and Ryan tries on a half smile.

Brendon comes over then, and begins to talk loudly about how much his team had kicked their team’s asses. Ryan doesn’t mind letting the topic change again.

When Spencer squashes in next to Ryan on the bench and asks, “Hey, you okay?” Ryan just nods and takes a bite of his sandwich.


+


Still, when he leaves, he takes a picture of the sign on the front of the building which says, “Joe’s Laser Tag and Lunch,” in big black letters, and sends it to Pete and Mikey. He writes, in the text box, u guys missed out.

Gerard hands him a diner napkin before they leave, and Ryan looks at it when they pile back into the van. It’s a picture of him grinning at Frank, who is gesturing expansively with his fingers. It’s just a sketch, but it’s a pretty good one – he’d even scribbled in the barest contours of Frank’s tattoos. Underneath, written in Gerard’s pointy scrawl, it says, cheer up, emo kid. Ryan almost laughs, and carefully puts it in between the pages of one of his notebooks.


+


The next few days are hotter than it’s been so far, and Ryan can’t stay inside the van for any length of time without feeling like he’s going to bake. There’s no point in wasting gas by leaving the engine running and the a/c on, so they instead decide to spend as little time as possible there. They play early at both Maryland Heights and Bonner Springs, which makes for a few tense and sleep deprived driving trips – it’s only a four hour drive between the two, but after a long, hot day, it feels a lot longer. Spencer snaps at Brendon twice, and they end the trip in total silence. Ryan tries to sleep through the whole thing, but the heat makes him restless.

Luckily, they have another day off between Bonner Springs and Dallas, which is good, since the drive is over eight hours long. Not as bad at the drive to Columbus had been at the beginning, but not a drive they want to make between the hours of 10 PM and 6 AM.

Ryan spends a lot of time on My Chem’s bus, out of the heat. Gerard tends not to go out as much as his bandmates, for reasons Ryan is unsure of. Maybe he’s afraid of the temptation, given the amount of drinking on the tour in general. Ryan doesn’t ask, though. He just sits on the couch, and listens to Gerard explain the concept of his comic book – characters rendered mostly in sketch, and a plot almost entirely in his head. Ryan doesn’t mind listening. Brian sits at the table with his laptop, occasionally glancing over at them, and Ray comes out of the back lounge every few hours to play them the riffs he’s transferred over to his laptop. It’s a relaxing way to spend the day.


+


Ryan gets a text from Pete while they’re somewhere in Oklahoma. He thinks that they’re close to Oklahoma City, but he’s not really sure.

“Where are we?” he asks, and Spencer snorts from the driver’s seat.

“Does it matter?” Spencer’s voice is dry and amused. It’s one of the expressions Ryan likes most.

“Not really. Pete was asking.” The text actually says where r u were at the venue & partying, but Ryan doesn’t think that Spencer would care that much.

“We’re about thirty miles outside Oklahoma City. So, a little more than halfway, probably.”

“What’s in Oklahoma City, anyway?” Brendon asks, and reaches over to turn up the music – they’re currently playing some jazz shit that Spencer stole from his parents, but Brendon really likes it, so he keeps slowly turning it up. It’s pretty much what always happens when Brendon sits in the passenger seat.

“I have no fucking clue,” Spencer says. “I’ve never been there.”
Brendon turns around to roll his eyes dramatically at Ryan.

It’s still hot, the a/c half-heartedly cooling the front seats and then trickling to nothing by the time it reaches the back of the van. Ryan can feel his skin sticking to the seat, and he wonders if it’s going to squeak when he tries to move. He wishes that he owned more tank tops.

The next highway sign says Oklahoma City: 25 miles, and Ryan gets a picture text from Mikey. A mostly empty bottle of Jack and an open notebook filled with scrawled, illegible words. There’s no accompanying note; Ryan doesn’t know what to think.

enjoy the party, he says, and then stuffs his phone back into his pocket.