When Brendon was writing songs, he never really thought how the lyrics would affect the rest of the band, then his close friends who would hear the music first, then the wider audience- it was more simple with the fans, because Brendon had never really spoken about his troubles with addiction in the past in public, but with his friends, they all knew. When they heard lyrics like ‘i’m not as think as you drunk i am’, ‘we’ll stay drunk, we’ll stay tan’, ‘champagne, cocaine gasoline’ and ‘drunk pre-meds and some rubber gloves’, amongst many others, they all kind of cringed, knowing the connotations and immediately growing concerned about Brendon, but didn’t say anything, because they knew he’d immediately be on the defensive. Maybe it was his way of coping, they thought. Brendon himself didn’t really know why he wrote about it so much, because even when he sang songs like ‘don’t threaten me with a good time’ live, though a kind of bitter taste rose in the back of his mouth, he almost felt... Wistful. He didn’t really talk about it, but it was hard to tell people who were worried about him that he actually did enjoy partying, and getting wasted, and everything that came with it in the heat of those moments. Maybe this was dangerous- it wasn’t like he didn’t know what it would do to him if he started again, but he missed it, sometimes, on Saturday nights when his friends were just having a few drinks like people normally did, or New Years, when he had to stay home or it was too much for him, or at events he attended of any kind that served alcohol. It was difficult for him- it would be so easy to just order a drink, down it quickly, and nobody would notice. But he knew that one would turn into three, then six. He knew that. But sometimes he didn’t particularly care.

Brendon often pondered talking about this with Ryan, but he knew it wouldn’t go down well, because he wouldn’t understand. Plus, he didn’t seem to care much about the explicitly alcohol-orientated lyrics he brought forward in most songs, even in the song he’d written for their wedding. ‘Share one more drink with me’- ironic, considering their circumstances. All this considered, he stayed quiet about it, and poured it all into his songs, to almost relive memories. Brendon tried not to think about it too much. Lately, though, he’d felt more defensive over his music, and this was why he wanted the band to himself- he’d be free from disapproval, frustration amongst band members, criticism, and those typical concerned glances he got whenever he even mentioned a memory, or rather a few broken pieces of a memory, to do with the time when he’d gone out to party like how his songs described. Brendon hated it, he wanted out. Or rather, he wanted them out. He loved the band, Sure, but he’d kind of made up his mind. The fact he was maybe being a little- no, very- selfish didn’t occur to him. It wasn’t just his band.

[i]Bullshit.[/i] Brendon blinked back into reality, wincing just slightly. [i]More like you’re not letting any of us do anything.[/i] Scowling, he bit his lip, looking away to steel himself and then turning back with purpose. [b]”Sorry, which album has performed the best? The one you wrote, ten years ago, or the one I wrote last year?”[/b] A low blow, Sure. But Brendon felt like he needed to back himself up. [i]Consider the possibility that your ‘creative direction’ isn’t- isn’t the best one to take.[/i] No, he thought immediately, wringing his hands and watching Ryan intently. He never intended this to go as it did, but it was too late to take anything back or back out. Brendon had to push on, even if he knew now from Ryan’s expression and voice that he was angry. It was alarming, though, when Ryan stood up- was he going to leave? Brendon raised a hesitant eyebrow and opened his mouth as if to say something, but Ryan beat him to it. 

[i]Sure. You think you’re better off flying solo, go ahead. You’ll return out of material eventually; you can’t write about your personal tragedy like it was a party forever. I’m out.[/i] Brendon bristled visibly, his shoulders tensing and his expression shifting from annoyance to obvious anger, his jaw clenching as if trying to hold his tongue. But he didn’t. [b]”You can’t say that as someone who’s written about the same fucking person for over ten years. [i]That’s[/i] pathetic.”[/b] In the moment, he didn’t regret it. [b]“And, ‘personal tragedy’? You know there’s a reason those songs are happy, right?”[/b] His voice was uncharacteristically venomous, and he waited for a few heartbeats until what he’d said finally reached his own ears, and his stomach dropped. He felt distantly sick.