12 sold out dates out of 14. Sold out. And they'd only been signed for about a year. Nevertheless, something was charming about looking fresh-faced and naïve to the criticism of the music industry. Ryan wasn't sure how they survived so many people - who weren't going to be the ones playing this music, mind you - giving them 'helpful tips,' steering them toward a more mainstream genre of music, recommending different ways to mix. Yeah, they could have probably been a lot more professional when it came to actually putting the first full album together, but Ryan couldn't imagine himself ever making something people would play as background music to a party. Pop was good for certain occasions, and they touched on it to make sure people would listen all the way through without getting bored, but what was more important was making something personal to him lyrically and soundwise.

Ryan was, oddly, the lead singer, lead guitarist, and sole writer, except occasionally he let the drummer take a look at his drafts because he was so transparent that Ryan could immediately tell when something needed to be changed. Best friends tend to find your faults better, anyway, and based on the fifteen different versions of each song on the album, Spencer had no problem being honest. It used to be just the two of them in a basement, hiring some underclassman to provide instrumentals when they wanted a horn or whatever and couldn't figure it out themselves, posting recordings online that garnered attention quickly. Ryan was ambitious, if nothing else; the validation from total strangers who just stumbled upon their demos was probably responsible for him actually getting them signed. They went through other band members like candy. Usually they just didn't mesh well with the two founders who were connected at the hip.

Their following was way more predictable, though; of course an online blog like his was a platform with a specific audience, so Ryan anticipated the simultaneously morose and overly excitable types to show up if ever they played stage shows. When they did, he was lucky enough to find that people not just in his social circle had taken an interest, but also people who seemed like they would never listen to this by choice in their life. He had a front row seat to the expressions changing, mood shift of an audience as the performances progressed. Although overly ambitious and way beyond starry-eyed, Ryan still had the modesty not to believe their luck. He blamed it on the theatrics, at least half of it anyway. He had much bigger plans, more detailed and thought out, but as things were now, they'd only been in the public eye long enough for him to throw a few baroque-but-gothic decorations here and there prior to a show, should the venue allow it. He got ahead of himself constantly, but putting in the time and money for the aesthetic of a show wasn't their priority as of yet.

As much as said ambition might be associated with confidence, Ryan was still young. He was always sort of terrified of standing in front of a crowd of people and exposing his thoughts, his soul, his efforts at writing something that didn't turn people away. He was afraid that there wouldn't be a second album. He was afraid they'd never win an award, or hear themselves on the radio, but more importantly he was afraid he'd never get the letters he wrote to his favorite musicians about "their music changing his life" or "saving him." It was kind of dramatic, but still; it meant they'd reached someone. When Ryan actually started getting serious about writing lyrics he wasn't necessarily doing it for anyone but himself - some thoughts were too harsh and painful when said out loud, so they lived through the pen. And then they got crammed into a metaphor, then another, etc., but eventually he came to the conclusion that this could get to someone else, too. Not that a 13-year-old was writing anything too profound, but.

That's all that really ran through his mind during these pre-show rituals. Fear, anxiety, then things to shove it down, like the imaginary fan who'd really appreciated their stuff, and could you sign this, please? Setting up didn't distract him much, and he didn't like tuning or testing the amps out in the open, 'cause then people were looking at him with no music to hide behind. Real weird. If he could control the setlist he'd start with softer songs, ease people into their kind of unusual sound; as it were he knew that the first song needed to demand people's attention. Time to Dance, then The Only Difference..., London Beckoned Songs..., so on. Sins was the fan favorite, unsurprisingly. When they landed on personal ones, like Camisado or Nails, he burned out quick - the first show he knew his voice cracked countless times and he was already self-conscious of his singing ability. Thankfully, they were such newbies that their shows stayed short, left out songs that weren't fast enough for the disengaged audiences. They got through 7 songs every show at most, the setlist changing with the correcting scratch-out of a Sharpie sometimes, and other times the seventh song - an encore if they were lucky enough to get it - was just a cover.

Anyway. Those were the motions. Ryan was at the front of the stage, not quite centered but closer to their current bearded bassist (who he relied on most of all for backup - his vocals were admittedly kind of better than Ryan's, which didn't add up at all). Their cue came from the sounds of equipment getting plugged in, feedback that somehow formed a melody, before launching in to the first song. Ryan's only real crowd interaction came from a shy 'hey' as he came onstage, and, on the better days, he'd let them sing for him. His role as lead guitar got passed on to whichever unlucky bastard was off at side stage occupying bells or piano scores, so on. It was their last show, this one; he had to. So, after stumbling through a rearranged setlist, Ryan turned round and let the rest of them know he'd mentally replaced Nails with Build God. Probably should've discussed that first - but what the hell. Again, the last show had to be different, unexpected.

After a brief intermission where they reoriented themselves, Ryan leaned in close to the stand, lowering his voice and holding his fingers over the neck of his guitar. "It's these substandard motels on the -" All three on stage, and the audience members who were ready for it, hurriedly sang a 'la-la-la' for him while he just grinned against the mic. "...corner of 4th and Fremont Street." He was moving his guitar round so it hung backwards when they came to habit of decomposing, jumping down to the barrier (not quite jumping but stepping - it was a small stage and his legs were, like, three fourths of his height) by very, and picking whoever got the mic as he drawled out eyes. The entire front row seemed to already know the lyrics, or at least most of them; he didn't like taking bets, though, and it would suck to hold it to someone who had no idea, so he picked the most confident looking face already singing along anyway to kick them off into the chorus. "Along with the people in..." Ryan held the microphone faux-dramatically out to a guy with about the best candid smile he'd ever seen, radiating enthusiasm, and time didn't stop or anything, but he definitely wished he wasn't busy right now just to strike something up.

Brendon rather generously described himself as a singer, when in fact, he was just a guy working at an Italian restaurant for decent pay and singing to himself when there weren’t many customers to maybe get himself a little extra in the ways of tips than usual. He did kareoke, if only for the opportunity to perform, and sometimes sang properly for Joey’s evening rush a few days a week, but other than that- nothing. It wasn’t like Brendon was shy, or that he didn’t realise the full extent of his talents- in fact, he was extremely confident, with a natural flair for performance and the dramatic, with an inborn charisma that tended to captivate anybody he spoke, or sang, to. Joey, his boss, but also his stand-in father figure and possible closest friend, always told him he should do something with that talent, but Brendon just hadn’t done it yet. He’d always told himself he was just young, he didn’t need to have anything figured out yet, but. It was his dream. To do what he loved to make a living.

It was men like Ryan Ready who made him doubt that he was making good progress in his life- they were more or less the same age, Ryan a year older or something, and he was the lead singer, guitarist and lyricist of his own band, a band that had risen frighteningly quickly to the spotlight thanks to the internet and its army of fans, that counted Brendon amongst its ranks. He had written his own theoretical songs and lyrics before, but they were nothing compared to the abstract nature and complexity of Ryan’s songs. He admired him, and was in awe of his talent- though his voice wasn’t the strongest as it went technically, and his range wasn’t as broad as Brendon’s and other singer’s, it had an edge when the lyrics were raw, and was almost honey-soft when the song so demanded. His entire aesthetic, Ryan’s sort of stoic and half-shy persona- Brendon adored that too. He was maybe a little obsessed.

As such, he had attended a show already, this was his second- and this time, he’d managed to get all the way to the front so he was against the barrier, hair something of an endearing mess, sticking to his forehead from the heat, eyes shining from the stagelights, breathless from singing along. It was the last song- Brendon expected Nails For Breakfast, because of the last setlist, but he was instead greeted with Build God, to his delight. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would sound like recorded with his voice, so when he sang, he did it with purpose. It was gritty, it was some weird genre he couldn’t quite describe and didn’t want to attempt to like many critics had, giving it ridiculous names like ‘cabaret emo pop’ or ‘baroque pop-punk’ and everything in between. He just wished he’d been part of it- it was what he yearned to do, and even more, he wanted to be on that stage so people could see what a multi instrumentalist and talented singer like Brendon could do.

He was leaning against the barrier grinning, blinded by circling spotlights, eyes only on the frontman as the song started. Brendon naturally knew the lyrics off by heart, and sang in perfect time, but loud, and with an almost unnatural understanding of the lyrics in his tone, as if he had been there when it had been written, like it was his song. When Ryan actually caught his eye during the chorus, he faltered slightly, kind of starstruck when the mic was held out for him, but he pulled himself together hastily so to not miss the opportunity. He even reached out to take hold of it. ...Inside, what a wonderful caricature of intimacy-“ His voice sounded like someone else’s. ”Inside, what a wonderful caricature of intimacy...” Grinning, he finally made direct eye contact with Ryan, and almost forgot to breathe. Had he really just done that? Brendon cursed himself for being so over the top.

Directly after, though, he continued singing, because Ryan hadn’t taken it back. He sang in a voice that was more smooth, seductive, more appropriate for the song, almost explicitly sultry. “...Tonight tenants range from a lawyer and a virgin, accessorising with a rosary tucked inside her lingerie...” He took a breath. “She’s getting a job at the firm come Monday, the Mrs. will stay with the cheating attorney, moonlighting aside she really needs his money, a wonderful caricature of intimacy-” Feeling like he’d hogged the mic, he offered it back, but now he was really hot and bothered from the situation and the song, and you could see it in his dilated pupils and his parted lips.

They weren't particularly good live despite how happy Ryan had been with the record. He'd been playing guitar and writing longer than he sang, so he didn't sound very strong when he had to, dropped his voice too quiet when he wasn't completely focused. It's not that he was a bad singer, not at all; when you touched on the subjects his band's lyrics tended toward, you needed a confident voice to accompany it. Ryan couldn't even muster up the courage to ask servers for extra condiments, or something, so it was even more difficult to put on a convincing show without the editing "prowess" of Spencer in a rented-out recording studio. Thankfully the theatrics of it all helped get them by without being, like, pelted with tomatoes, and he was at least not as weak sounding as he was at the first show. At the time he wasn't familiar with the acoustics of a room and whether a crowd of people affected it and exactly how far his mouth should be from the mic and - well. Basically he'd matured, forcibly, in a very short amount of time, although he still felt fifteen and powerless. Funny how that worked.

It'd been on their to-do list to put together a real band before the first tour, and they had actually gotten through plenty of trials and interviews. Very few bass players fit the sound they needed. Even fewer got along with them individually. More importantly, they knew Ryan couldn't keep on singing - too late for the first record but for the next one they'd be ten times better, if they found the right person. He was kind of in denial about it, though, pushing aside Spencer's suggestions and his invitations to the studio while they heard applicants, until he realized he was being an asshole. Then Ryan was actually at terms with their (more accurately, his) shortcomings and he participated in giving everyone that came in a solid 'maybe, we'll call you,' still taking lessons on the side. Thank god the label funded these things; they'd have starved to death by now or had to move into Ryan's car, which wouldn't do much for their image.

It got a little easier to ignore the more than slight distinction between the album and the live performances with each night, but that was probably unfair to people who'd only come to one show. As such, they overcompensated. The songs were instrument-heavy, and the sound guys deliberately lowered his volume in favor of the guitar. Visually they'd tried to hang on-theme decor up and at least slightly dress accordingly; Ryan swore by a very homeless French boy look, Spencer refused to do anything in particular besides a button-up and eyeliner, Jon did not participate whatsoever. Their instruments all fit the scheme of the record's cover as well, and maybe it wasn't exactly perfect, but they'd stumbled their way this far. No regrets now. And besides - there was still that vision he could execute when they got their shit together a little more. Not that the first-time stumbly band stuff wasn't totally building character, but Ryan was truly sick of watching YouTube tutorials on how to use all the new equipment again like, an hour before they were meant to go on.

Sometimes he wondered if letting individual audience members into that unplanned, clumsy mess if only for a few seconds was unfair. Maybe they should've just handed out packets full of lyrics, real elementary school classroom-like. Other times, he knew someone who wanted to be here from just a look. Not someone just trying to get out of the house, or to drink in the back and not pay them any mind, or those who had nothing better to do and managed to land a cheap ticket - someone who knew them and who waited for their show date and took ridiculous commutes to get there. They were too young in their career for anything too serious in those terms, probably, except for the first couple hundred who happened upon his online demos and stuck around since then. Ryan had no idea what category of people who deliberately got here, full intention, that this guy fit into, but he wore it well. He had energy still despite keeping up with every song before, was probably sweating more than the band, hadn't broken away as far as Ryan could tell. All this mixed in with just generally being cute, well. The split-second choice of who to share the mic with wasn't hard to make.

Ryan usually let them do their thing however long they wanted, probably make their friends laugh by saying something definitely not lyrical, so he awaited whatever show his new favorite audience member was going to put on - and simultaneously prayed that he didn't have debilitating participation anxiety. It seemed that way for a second, him frozen and Ryan grinning encouragingly behind the lyrics, but he practically sprung into action to finish the chorus. Ryan's grip on the microphone went slack but he just sort of hovered in the same position, completely caught off guard. It wasn't just that he sounded great objectively but Ryan was briefly not so sure he'd even written his own lyrics anymore. Like, he was nervous to sing some lines, and it was audible. This fan he'd never said a word to before, however, grasped them entirely, lilted and perfected whatever key he sang in to fit the storyline of Build God. Ryan was torn between just being purely impressed and envy. The former sounded a little more healthy.

The chorus ended and Ryan held his gaze, kind of not even wanting the mic back, because now he was very interested. His nerves disappeared, it seemed like, able to focus on the singer rather than the uproar of the rest of the audience trying to voice their approval and sing with him at the same time. Whoever he was, though, he deserved an arena, not some shitty half-bar half-stage scene, to cheer him on. It went too quickly and Ryan almost wanted to just let him keep it, come on stage and join the band, would you, but this wasn't the best timing. Suddenly it was reality again, and while his bandmates and the crowd covered the prolonged 'yeah,' he struggled to express to the clearly exhilerated fan that that was the best thing ever and now he didn't know what to do with himself. Instead of talking underneath all the noise like he fully intended to, feeling the start of words but not hearing them, he just opted to give him the most bewildered, delighted expression he could. Not hard to do when it was pretty genuine, actually.

"And- not to mention..." Ryan got back up quickly, already trying to breeze past it by giving the same look to his bandmates, and was firmly stuck in his head for the rest of the song, basically. Here were the facts: they needed a singer, that just happened, someone practically fell into their lap. Unknown: was he already in a band, was he single, who was he interested in... That wasn't quite directly correlated to the band, but. Priorities. He was very cute even when he looked like he just got off a gigantic rollercoaster - especially then, actually, and holy fuck, it was raindrops on roses and Ryan had to consciously stop wondering how he'd go about finding this guy afterward and instead get through the very intense guitar parts. No problem, that, but his voice still shook slightly towards the end of Build God, and he could see it now. Someone with certainty doing that instead; it'd be nice.

Ryan didn't give his full attention to the farewells, either, meandering to the very edge of the stage with everyone who worked on the show trailing unceremoniously behind them just to give a bow. It took him no time to put on his uncharacteristic stage voice. "Thank you for believing in us! Before we say goodnight - round of applause for the brave soldier who took on my lyrics, yeah? Thank you." He wanted to go all Ellen and jump back down and hold up his mic, "what's your name," "when are you getting signed," but he didn't. Instead he laughed behind the sound of the last cheers and whistles and hoped some random strangers showered him with the compliments he couldn't just shout over. Ryan and his bandmates hurried off to avoid feeling the wrath of the building owner, not bothering to fit in a shower or anything before carrying whatever equipment they could grab and fitting it into the storage hooked up to their kind of dingy van.

Considering that was up to crew and Ryan kind of wanted to recalibrate in the coolness of the outside air, though, he just leaned against the side of the van, taking off layers until he was in a v-neck and could rub at the shadow on his eyelids to smudge it around. They weren't quite so far in their career where people might actively look to meet them unless they happened upon the band at the bar, or something. Nevertheless, all three band members sprung to action when a little group came round, Jon and Spencer moving ahead to greet them while Ryan hung back, let them test the waters first.

When the mic was held in his direction, extended forwards as the lead singer leaned in to offer it to him, Brendon was at odds for a moment as of what to do. He was sure some of his friends were elsewhere in the audience- Dallon he had convinced to come along, but had lost during the first five minutes when he went to find a drink and never came back- and he hesitated for milliseconds before picking up the chorus where Ryan left off. For a few moments he regretted taking it so seriously, being so dramatic about it, singing it like it was his own song- he should have just shouted ‘I love you, Dallon’ into the mic or something. Now, though, he could see the shock crossing Ryan’s face, and felt his stomach twist. Was this a good surprise, or a bad one? He felt like flinging the mic back in his direction, but then he noticed that awe had crossed the frontman’s features, too, and felt suddenly even more motivated. He was going to make the most of this- he might never get the opportunity to sing for this large an audience ever again.

So maybe he’d kind of religiously listened to this song. Ryan was- what? A year older than him? And the imagery created by the lyrics to Build God were incredible, complex, dirty motels juxtaposed with raindrops on roses, everything tied together as a caricature of intimacy. He was intrigued by what went on in Ryan’s head, what possibly inspired him to write this song, whether he was writing in hypotheticals or from experience with such things and places. Probably the former, but still, Brendon wondered where he conjured up the attention to detail, right down to the intoxicatingly awful scent of such places that he was describing. Brendon wished he could write like that, so he guess he kind of compensated by oversinging, and projected his admiration through subtle lilts, displaying his own attention to detail and appreciation of the lyrics through his own area of expertise- singing.

And Ryan clearly appreciated it- when Brendon continued into the second verse, the astounded expression on the frontman’s face told him everything, the way his grip on the mic went slack and he let Brendon go wild. When he finally gave it back, he seemed reluctant to take it, and when he did he made sure to first look as delighted as possible with that rendition of the song and Brendon felt his heart racing- from the adrenaline, the applause around him, from Ryan’s clear praise and the general exhilaration he got from performing. Brendon decided that this was what he wanted to do, and what he would do. He’d make it to where Ryan Ready was and higher. He had the talent, the charisma, the intense presence, the mercurial qualities- all he needed was a chance, and a great deal of luck. Brendon sang along to the rest of the song with equal enthusiasm, wondering in the back of his mind whether he’d be able to express his appreciation for the band in person. Ryan looked distracted, too- or maybe it was his imagination.

When the song ended, Brendon joined in the appreciation by cheering and clapping along with almost childish enthusiasm, a bright, wide grin betraying his exhilaration, his eyes crinkling up at the corners as he brushed his hair back, unsticking it from his forehead. Thank you for believing in us! Before we say goodnight- round of applause for the brave soldier who took on my lyrics, yeah? Thank you. As cringeworthy as it sounded, Brendon’s heart skipped as some applause erupted again. He leaned against the barrier as if to catch his breath and looked up to try and catch the lead singer’s eye again, but they were already laughing and leaving the stage. Brendon exhaled, hot and bothered and a hundred thoughts racing through his mind, his heart still loud in his chest. When everybody started clearing out, he made a beeline to the venue’s slightly dingy bathroom, steadying himself in front of a mirror and trying to tidy himself up a bit, noticing how his lips were red and his face was flushed. His hair, thankfully, obediently fell back into place. He rolled his shoulders back. He knew his next move.

In theory, seeking out the band by their tour bus was an easy move. They all seemed like pretty chill guys. In practice, it was slightly daunting, even if it was partly because he had the biggest, typical crush on the frontman. He hung back from the rest of the modest crowd of people waiting to greet them, and noted how Ryan also similarly hung back from his bandmates, while Spencer and Jon moved forwards to greet the herd. Brendon hesitated- then realised his nervousness was dumb. He was a naturally confident person. This guy was basically his age. He had been clearly impressed by his singing. Inhaling, he did move forwards, shrugging off his jacket to try and cool off. Expertly dodging the crowd, and the preoccupied Spencer and Jon, he approached, wearing an easy smile, but still feeling his heart skip. ”Ryan? Hey. I’m the guy you gave the mic to. ...My parents thought it was a catchy name, but it hasn’t really come in useful til now.” He was grinning at his own joke, offering his hand, but thinking very different thoughts. He wondered if it was obvious.

Usually Ryan actually hung behind to help crew while his more social bandmates went along - he felt kind of bad they lugged all this equipment around to not play it themselves - but he was still, decidedly, stuck in his head. He'd assumed it would be a long time before people actually took to critical analysis of their songs, breaking them down to truly appreciate them, which was generally the case for most bands; they'd break up or just retire, and then people were interested in the songs. Tonight he was given proof that that was definitely not the case for them, or if it was, then they had at least one deviation. Ryan was grateful for that - not just someone getting it, but someone who took the time to. Sometimes the words were such nonsense that there was no point in trying to understand, which probably scared off other fans who just came for noise and a tune to be stuck in their head, to be fair. And maybe he was blowing this out of proportion, but he swore he could hear it all, and sort of see it although he thought the singer definitely needed more space to perform beyond his vocals.

He sensed that his bandmates caught on to him withdrawing into his own thoughts, particularly Spencer who didn't really know what the hell was happening but knew how to tell when Ryan was out of it. How inappropriate would it be to straight-up approach someone they didn't know at all and ask first about business? He felt like he had a particularly small timeframe to get the guy signed if he even was interested and not already playing for another band, just because if he hadn't been noticed yet, well. He would be sometime soon for sure, and Ryan just wanted to get there first. And maybe he sort of harbored a little crush, the kind you get when you, like, order the same coffee as someone else and they go to get it at the same time as you and they're kinda cute so your thoughts just carry off into thinking about what color walls you'd paint your shared apartment. Actually, definitely not a universal feeling. Maybe he'd just ignore it until it went away if he did end up getting the guy to join them.

Still, there was the way they'd go about it that bothered him. 'Mind dropping everything and coming in to meet our label so we can show you off?' or 'I got one good first impression from you and now I think you were pretty much destined to sing these words'? Sounded kind of like an asshole or an idiot. Ryan figured that literally no other human overthought about this, likely just jumped to polite conversation first, so he dropped it. He distracted himself by coming up just near his bandmates with bottled water from their tour bus - not like they needed the apocalypse-supply they had anyway - and leaving it up to Spencer or Jon to actually offer them out to each overexerted fan that approached. He still wasn't used to people knowing his name before he knew theirs, much less this entire situation. He tried not to come off as too unfriendly, smiling at whoever looked nervous to encourage them, but unfortunately the followthrough of actually talking was an issue.

The thinness of the gathering was good, because he saw his new favorite singer almost immediately, half-smiling in an effort to encourage conversation, half pretending to look preoccupied so it didn't seem like he was waiting for him (which was definitely a part of his standoffishness this time). Ryan definitely didn't want to come off too absorbed at first, after all, but he still had the best rendition of their chorus he'd heard yet playing on repeat, so it was hard to act right. Fortunately, the stranger wove through people with relative ease, and Ryan noted a lot of differences from the face he'd seen in the crowd. It looked like he'd cleaned up a little, like the show was just a moderate workout, and for the first time he was visible apart from a bunch of other jumping, overwhelming audience members. Safe to say he looked even better outside of such a nervous situation; Ryan strove not to be too obvious about looking, still.

Ryan? Hey. Thank god, he started them off. Ryan was so focused on the distinctions from the audience member he handed the mic off to, to the literal dream standing outside, he hadn't even thought of what to say. I’m the guy you gave the mic to. ...My parents thought it was a catchy name, but it hasn’t really come in useful til now. Ryan laughed, short and in surprised bewilderment, wondering whether he could hear 1,000 more cheesy jokes just because he'd been so damn charming about it. "How convenient," he replied easily, instantly made less nervous by 'the guy you gave the mic to's good humor. Ryan shook his hand informally, probably playing it off like they were totally familiar all too soon, but tried to talk before he let himself worry about that more. "That, paired with the fact that you looked like the only one who knew all the lyrics... perfect candidate." Vaguely self-deprecating, painfully true. Ryan straightened his shoulders and put his hands in his pockets, like they were suddenly too cold without that funny little handshake.

"Of course I recognised you. Any other names you go by?" Ryan's smile was gentle, and it felt necessary; if this guy thought he needed clarification then he certainly didn't fully grasp how remarkable he was. "I've never heard anyone sing our songs like that - or any song, actually." Ryan paused, suddenly nervous again, 'cause he really did want to show his appreciation, but it seemed there was no non-weird way to deliver that. "It sounds like you wrote the lyrics, you know? I mean, I know I only heard a little, but." He paused, considering this segue. "Are you in a band, or solo, or...?"