Chapter 1: I'm Only Looking for a Revolution
Chapter Text
You're in a car with a beautiful boy,
and you're trying not to tell him that you love him, and you're trying to
choke down the feeling, and you're trembling, but he reaches over and
he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your
heart taking root in your body, like you've discovered something you
don't even have a name for.
SEPTEMBER 13 - OCTOBER 31, 2001
It’s ninety-seven degrees and his AC is out. The passenger side window is rolled down, but he hesitates to do the same to his own because of the crack in the glass. It’ll probably be okay, but he swears it’s getting bigger.
He was directed to head to the Desert Inn and then turn right on Sands Avenue, head past the golf course, and find the red apartment building. It’s convenient because it’s only ten minutes from the Gold Coast, but the traffic on Las Vegas Boulevard is hell at this time of day. He wishes that his car was moving so that he could get some air circulating, idly wondering if the gold lapel pin hanging from the rear-view mirror will melt. He would have avoided the Strip but missed his turn earlier.
To his left is the Mirage and on his right is a couple arguing about something outside of the Venetian—they don’t look like locals and they're probably fighting about money. He eyes the traffic light. There might be time to take his bellman jacket off. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he only has time to unbutton half of it before the light turns green. He groans, accelerates, and steers with one hand. It’s not like the line of cars he’s in is going very fast.
Treasure Island. Palazzo. Jacket off. Desert Inn. Sands Avenue. Golf course.
As he’s able to speed up on the less busy road, an upset rises in his stomach. There’s something so nerve-wracking about going to a stranger’s house. He sounded nice enough on the phone, but still. Once paranoid, always paranoid.
Once he’s to the backside of the golf course, an array of apartment buildings come into view. They’re all in the motel style that is common in the city, the same as the type he lives in where the rent is cheaper. Luckily, the red one isn’t hard to spot and there’s plenty of parking available.
Sands Avenue, golf course, red building, door one hundred and three.
He rolls up the window and drapes the jacket over the steering wheel in a feeble attempt to keep the sun from heating it up. Before he gets out, he looks at the pin hanging from the mirror again. It’s a little piece of Sam’s Town that he carries with him everywhere he goes. A redundancy he keeps around should he ever be separated from home again. He lifts the hopeful token from where it hangs on the mirror and places it in his pocket. Just in case.
He steps outside and locks the car, forgetting that he has yet to take his keyboard out of the backseat. New plan of action: unlock the car, take out the keyboard, carefully prop it up against the car, shut the door and lock it again, locate door one hundred and three. Once he’s sure he’s ready, he picks up the keyboard (it’s awkward to carry) and heads to the door that’s furthest on the right. He’s glad it’s on the ground level, otherwise he would have to lug the keyboard up the stairs, something he wants to avoid since he’ll have to do it when he gets back home anyway.
He knocks on the door.
There’s a commotion inside before the door opens. On the other side stands a man who looks mostly normal other than his clearly bleached hair. It’s cut shorter than his, but that’s not saying a lot.
The man stares at him, looking him up and down as if he’s trying to find any clear red flags. “Brandon?”
“Right,” he says and instantly regrets it. Why couldn’t he have said something normal? “And you’re Dave.”
The corner of Dave’s mouth quirks up for a split second before the man can get it under control. All that Brandon knows about him is that he’s twenty-five, plays guitar, and is desperate to start a band. “You sure you’re over eighteen?”
“Um,” Brandon readjusts his grip on the keyboard, “I have my ID if you want it. My real one.”
Dave’s eyebrows shoot up, “Well, at least you’re honest. C’mon in.” He ushers Brandon inside the apartment, which seems to lack any feminine touch if he’s going by his immediate first impression. “You want something to drink? Money’s tight, but I’ve got tap water and beer.”
He decides that the most un-offensive place he can set his keyboard is on the couch, “A beer would be nice right now.” The apartment is open concept like his on the other side of town is, probably so that it seems bigger than it actually is. He turns back to Dave, who’s holding two beers and giving him an inquisitive look.
“Aren’t you twenty?” He asks.
“I’ve got my fake ID with me as well, if you want it.”
Dave snorts, and takes out a bottle opener, “Yeah, you’ll do.”
Brandon takes the bottle when Dave hands it to him, “Huh?”
“You should have seen some of the other people who answered my ad,” he says, taking a seat in a recliner. Brandon follows suit and sits next to his keyboard on the couch. “You’re pretty normal. Too normal. Are you from Vegas?”
“Yes,” he says, probably too quickly. Probably suspiciously quick. “I’m from Henderson.”
Dave nods, half understanding, “Is that the suburb with all the golf courses?”
“Yeah,” Brandon answers, “are you from here?”
He has the audacity to laugh, “Hell no! I’m from Iowa. Where it’s normal.”
Brandon hums, “Oh. I guess I wouldn't know,” he definitely knows but Dave doesn’t need that information, “Vegas seems pretty normal to me.”
“Well anyway, let’s get down to business. You been in a band before?” He asks.
“Yeah,” he says carefully. “They… we broke up a few months ago.” He shrugs, picking at the dead skin by his nails, “Just didn’t work out.”
“Well I guess it works out good for us then,” Dave takes a sip of his beer, “I see you’ve brought a keyboard.”
“Oh! Yeah, I played synth in my last band. It was a, uh, synth pop band.” He perceives the subtlest notion of judgment on Dave’s face, so he continues, “But I wanna make rock, now. I saw Oasis a couple months ago and it totally changed how I saw things.”
Dave furrows his brow, “At the Hard Rock? I was at that show, too.”
Brandon sips at his beer, “Oh, really? That’s crazy. After I saw them I started looking around for someone to start a band with ‘cause I don’t have many friends in town. I was having a real hard time, though, so I was real surprised to see that you mentioned The Beatles in your ad. All the bands in town play is nu-metal these days.” He becomes aware that he’s bouncing his leg and stops himself.
“So you’re serious about this?” Dave asks, setting his bottle down on the coffee table. He leans in close when he asks.
Brandon nods, invigorated, “I want to be big.”
Dave grins and stands to retrieve a guitar propped up in the corner next to an amp, “Then let’s get started.”
They talk about their influences for a while before Dave starts to show off some licks he’s been working on recently. He’s an amazing guitarist and Brandon can’t help but be a little intimidated. Still, Dave seems to be a nice guy and doesn’t comment on his playing ability—if he had anything to say at all. They spend an hour or two together and as the time passes, he feels himself relax more and more. Or maybe that was just the beer. Regardless, they’ve both got a good feeling about working together. Brandon mentions that he can also play bass, and Dave urges him to bring it next time they meet up, seeming relieved.
Dave helps him with the keyboard as he leaves, asking about what hotel he works at as they walk. “Gold Coast, huh? What are the hours like?”
Brandon unlocks his car and opens the back door for him, “Oh, normal eight hour shifts. I like to work in the morning but sometimes I get stuck on the graveyard shift.”
“Ah,” Dave slides the keyboard in, “I sell shoes at Desert Passage.”
Brandon can hardly believe it, “You’re joking. I worked at Josef’s there last year.”
Dave snorts, “I can’t imagine you serving fine French cuisine.”
He shuts the door, “My hair used to be shorter.”
It’s at this point that Dave points out his cracked window, “What’s up with that?”
Brandon huffs, “I don’t even know how it happened. I drove past the El Rancho construction zone and I guess I got hit by a stray rock or something. It’s dumb. I can’t afford to fix it.”
“You know, they’re going to start imploding Desert Inn next month,” Dave points to the hotel that looms in the distance. “If you’ve got luck that bad, maybe you should take a detour.”
“Jesus,” he kicks at a rock on the pavement, “I hate it when they do that. It’s just a waste of money and the loss of a landmark.”
“Well, be careful,” Dave fishes around in his pocket for something, “I almost forgot, the sight of your window was so distracting.” He takes out a cassette tape and hands it to him, “I’ve got a couple of concrete ideas on here. Just a few songs, but listen to them and see if you’ve got any ideas for them… you’ve got a cassette player, right?”
“Of course!” He fakes offense, “I can’t afford CD’s, either.”
Dave laughs, “They must be paying you in casino tokens, then.” He pats the hood of his car lightly, “Well, I’ll see you soon.”
“Right,” Brandon affirms. He’s about to get in until he remembers something, “I don’t have a cell phone so if you call while I’m at work I won’t answer, but you can leave me a message.”
Dave stops in his tracks, “How about you call me when you’ve got some ideas from the cassette and I’ll work on finding us more members?”
“Yeah,” he stuffs his hands in his pockets, “I’m not good at networking so… you do that.” With that, they bid each other farewell with the promise of getting back to each other in the next week. Brandon gets in his car and rests his head against the steering wheel. The jacket is hot.
After a few moments of rest, he takes the pendant out of his pocket and hangs it back up. The sun is setting now, and in the rear-view mirror he can see the Desert Inn. The windows should be lighting up by now, but they’re all dark.
He throws the bellman jacket into the passenger seat and starts the car, ejecting whatever cassette he already has in it. It’s Depeche Mode’s first album—it came out the year he was born. Next, Brandon inserts Dave’s cassette and hits play before retrieving a carton of cigarettes from the glove box. As the first song starts, he lights a cigarette and puts the car in drive.
The last track on the cassette immediately interests him once he gets to it. It stands out in a way that the others don’t for a reason Brandon can’t discern. Once he’s back at his apartment, he takes the cassette and heads inside. But he’s forgotten his keyboard. Back outside, back inside, keyboard on coffee table. He’s got laundry to do and he should probably eat but he’s just too excited about the prospects of being in a new band to do anything but obsess over Dave’s song. He doesn't even change out of his work pants.
He bought a notebook—a nice one—a few months back after he saw Oasis so that he could seriously start writing songs, but he hasn't gotten very far. Artists make it seem like something just comes to you all of the sudden and that’s it. A song. But looking over the few pages of notes he already has, there’s nothing in there he likes. If anything, he’s embarrassed of them now. He hasn’t written lyrics since—
Well, since he got cheated on.
He sighs. He’d rather not think about that.
The last occupied page contains the most recent thing he wrote (from immediately after the incident) and it’s not half bad. The best he has at the moment, anyway. There are a few chords scrawled at the top but he ignores them, instead electing to put the cassette into his tape player to see if he can piece the two together.
Dave didn’t give him any chords to work with, so he has to figure them out himself by singing the note and building it up from there, rewinding the tape so often that he’s worried he may wear it out. Once he’s got the chords blocked out, he turns his attention to the words.
It comes together a little more fast-paced than he had originally anticipated, but it sounds okay. It’s certainly a song.
Just like his songwriting book and keyboard, the bass in his closet hasn't been touched in a while. He realizes now that it may be because of his current apathy towards anything that isn't going to work or to a bar. This has made him more sad than anything else and he now wonders if he’s still got the wine he smuggled from the Gold Coast.
Best not. He needs to be on his A-game for this.
He started learning bass while he was in his last band because between their little trio, none of them could play any stringed instruments. Brandon had learned a few chords on guitar thanks to his brother, but he wasn’t good enough to play it. Just to know how it worked in theory, but that still made him the best candidate for the instrument. So they all pitched in a little to get Brandon a low-end bass for the betterment of the band. And the cheapest amp they could find.
He hooks everything up in the living room and settles back onto the couch. He’ll just try to play along the best he can until he can figure something out. And when that fails he’ll write the bassline on his keyboard and then figure out how to play that on his guitar instead.
He finds himself back at Dave’s apartment about a week later, keyboard and bass with him this time. He’ll have to make two trips so he grabs his bass first since it’ll be easier to knock that way. But when he knocks, it isn’t Dave who answers. Instead it’s a Black man who is much taller than Brandon was expecting, so he takes half a step back. He wasn’t expecting to meet someone new today so he’s a little shocked—he usually likes to prepare for these things.
“You’re the guy in Dave’s band?” He asks. Brandon figures he sounds nice enough.
“Uh, yeah, and you are..?”
“Dell,” he steps out of the way and beckons Brandon inside, “the roommate.”
“Ah, I see,” Brandon nods. “Do you play music, too?”
Dell shuts the door behind him, “I work at Southern Nevada Optical.”
Brandon blinks, “Well if I need my eyes checked I know where I’ll go.”
“Brandon!” Dave appears from the hallway. “I see you’ve met Dell.”
“How have things been?” He asks, setting his case down. He’ll go get his keyboard once all of the pleasantries have been exchanged.
Dave huffs and goes to grab his guitar, “Just awful. Bad news after bad news.”
Well, that’s no good. “What’s happened?”
He’s messing with the settings of his amp for a moment before sitting down, the instrument cable stretching across the living room, “Got laid off. And The Strokes album got delayed a week.”
“What?” Brandon says, sounding outraged, “It got delayed?” He glances behind himself when he hears Dell snort—the man now has a small smile.
Dave looks at him, dumbfounded, “Good to see where your priorities lie.”
“I’m gonna go get my keyboard,” he says and promptly leaves the room. Dell laughs as he makes his exit.
Dave’s picking at his guitar when Brandon returns. He sets his keyboard on the floor (he needs to buy a stand) and sits in front of it. He’d like to use the coffee table like he does at home but he and Dave aren’t close enough for him to be comfortable asking the man to move his stack of magazines yet.
“Sorry about the job,” he mutters as he unwraps the keyboard’s power cable.
“It’s a good thing you don’t still work there” Dave says, “probably would have happened to you, too.”
“I didn’t realize it was that bad.” He had heard from the higher-ups at the hotel that tourist season might be a little calmer next time around, but he didn’t think it would be so bad that a shoe salesman would lose his job.
“It’ll be fine,” Dave says nonchalantly, “I’m sure to get a new one in the Christmas rush.”
Brandon takes a deep breath, “Well, I figured some stuff out.”
Dave leans forward, “Oh?”
“I already had some words,” he takes a folded piece of paper out of his pocket—it had belonged to his notebook but he declined to bring it because he was worried Dave might snoop. “And then I wrote a chorus—it may not be any good but I’m a little out of practice.” He hands the sheet over. “And I figured out a synth part. And the bass, like you asked.” He watches as Dave reads the words that resonate so deeply with his heart. “I forgot to say, I did it based off one on the cassette.”
As he pulls the cassette out, Dave speaks, “You wrote this?”
“Um, yes.” He responds.
Dave nods—Brandon hopes he does it as a form of approval. “Something fucked up happen to you?”
Brandon’s never told anyone other than his family, “Yeah.”
“Well, alright,” Dave shrugs, “let’s see what you’ve got.”
Brandon rocks the CD back and forth in his hands. When’s not looking at the disc, he’s impatiently eyeing Dave who continues to peruse the rest of the “New Release” selection.
“You almost ready?” Brandon pesters and eyes the clock above the cash register.
“What? You got work later?” Dave doesn’t look up as he speaks.
“No,” Brandon starts picking at the plastic wrap of the CD.
“Just impatient, then?” Dave turns around empty-handed and nods toward the register, “Let’s go.” Brandon starts toward the check-out then turns his head back to Dave,
“I’m paying, right?”
“I was hoping since you’re the one with a job right now.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Brandon chuckles, “I figured.”
Within five minutes, the two men are back in Dave’s car. Brandon starts peeling the plastic off while Dave ejects the CD from his radio. Dave slides the disc into the CD holder that sits on his sun visor.
“Where did you wanna listen?” Brandon asks as he cracks open the album.
“Oh,” Dave freezes, “I thought you were opening it now to listen in the car?”
“Oh! Uh, no. I’m just excited,” Brandon admits, slightly embarrassed, “Unless you want to do it in the car—up to you.”
“Honestly, I’ve been itching to use my stereo again. Wanna listen at my place?” Dave pulls the car into reverse before Brandon answers.
“Sure!” Brandon starts looking over the album booklet and chuckles, “That was my preference I just didn’t wanna invite myself over.”
“Guess we’ll have to do a sesh at your place someday,” the guitarist turns the car towards the parking lot’s exit.
“I don’t think we’d both fit,” Brandon jokes and lets go of the CD to grab the pack of cigarettes in his pocket instead, “You mind?” Dave lifts his fingers off the steering wheel dismissively before pulling onto the main street. Brandon lights his cigarette and rolls the window down.
Within ten minutes of leaving the Virgin Megastore, Dave pulls into his apartment complex’s parking lot. In an even shorter amount of time, Dave is busting open the CD case in front of his small sound system.
“Be careful with that thing, dude,” Brandon laughs, although there’s truth in his concern. As far as he knows this could be the album of the century. Dave pops the CD in his stereo system and watches it load. Brandon starts picking at a string on the sofa while keeping his attention on the stereo’s display screen.
“You know this thing can hold five discs at a time?” Dave hits pause as soon as the display blinks ‘Track 01 - 00:01’.
“You told me last time we were here,” Brandon furrows his brow, “why’d you pause it?”
“I’m grabbing a beer, you want one?” Dave has already started walking toward the kitchen when Brandon agrees. It’s not long before Dave walks back in with two uncapped Heineken bottles. Brandon has his hand outstretched for an awkward amount of time, more eager to listen than anything else.
“Let’s do this, my friend,” Dave hands Brandon the bottle and turns back toward the stereo. He presses play, the display finally stops blinking, and the first track begins.
It’s simple, almost sweet. The sound of a tape reeling opens the song before leading into a basic drum beat. The vocals come in and after the first few lines, Brandon starts to feel envious. It’s not like there’s only one way to sound, but he definitely doesn’t sound this good.
“Broody…” Dave says as the track finishes out, “in a good way.” Brandon just nods and chuckles.
The second track starts and Dave seems immediately intrigued by the guitar by the way he taps his thumb against the neck of the bottle in rhythm. Brandon chooses to take a swig of his instead. By the time the chorus starts, Brandon is dumbfounded.
“Oh my God, dude,” he grabs the CD case from the coffee table and flips it over to read the title, “‘The Modern Age’. This is… wow.”
“It really is. And we’re only two deep,” Dave shakes his head and takes a sip.
They listen to the next two songs in silence, all the while Brandon’s sense of self-worth takes a harsh beating. He wonders if Dave is feeling the same way but chooses not to speak on it just yet.
During the fourth track, Brandon starts focusing on the lyrics mostly. Some are harder to distinguish than others given the singer’s voice. One line goes, “Now my fears, they come to me in threes,” and Brandon feels corny when it gives him chills. He grabs the case again and opens the booklet to find the name of the vocalist.
“Julian Casablancas,” Brandon reads aloud and looks at Dave.
“Yeah, man,” the guitarist nods, “you didn’t know?”
“Nah, I mean,” Brandon feels slightly embarrassed now, “I’ve only heard people talking about the EP. Didn’t look much into it past that.”
“His voice is insane, right?” Brandon nods with defeat, “If it makes you feel better, he comes from a rich daddy. Same with the lead guitarist. Remembering that keeps me sane.”
“How do you know all this shit about them already?” Brandon looks at Dave bewildered.
“I read shit,” Dave shrugs and takes another sip, “I’ve got connections.”
“What connections, exactly?” Brandon laughs and notices the next song starts behind their conversation.
“If I told you, they wouldn’t be my connections anymore,” Dave snickers and puts his feet up on the coffee table.
“You’re full of shit, dude,” Brandon rests the CD case back on the table. He’s going to stop looking at it until his incredible jealousy fades. There’s got to be a filler track or a dud somewhere in here.
But there isn’t. At the start of the seventh track, Dave comments on how similar the guitar sounds to American Girl by Tom Petty. A few moments later, Dave confidently states that no, this is American Girl by Tom Petty. Brandon doesn’t think he would have noticed, or at least not on the first listen. Right now, he’s too busy wondering if he and Dave’s songs are garbage.
Toward the end of this song, Dell walks in through the front door with a quick, “Hey.”
“Hey, man,” Dave answers and Brandon simply nods towards the door.
“Whatcha guys listening to?” Dell asks and throws his keychain on the table by the door.
“The new Strokes album,” Dave responds and Brandon clarifies.
“The Strokes’ first album,” Brandon briefly tunes out the music to turn toward Dell, “it’s crazy.”
“In a good way?” Dell sits himself down on the loveseat next to Dave.
“In a ‘too good’ way,” Dave adjusts himself to give Dell more room. There’s more space on Brandon’s couch but he’s grateful Dell chose the spot next to Dave.
For the remainder of the album, the three of them sit and silently absorb the music. Well, they are mostly silent; the songs are occasionally interrupted with a curse in disbelief or a “did you hear that?” Dave and Brandon both get another beer before the penultimate track while Dell declines.
When the last song ends, the album restarts and Dave walks over to the stereo. He doesn’t bother taking the disc out, just opting to turn the volume down a bit. On his way back to the couch, Dave releases a long, exaggerated sigh.
“So,” Dave plops himself onto the loveseat rather harshly, “I’m angry at how good that was.”
“Yes! Me, too!” Brandon extends his arm toward Dave in agreement, “It’s weird to love and hate something like this.”
“I mean, they’ve put in work, no?” Dell contends, “They didn’t get this good in a day.”
“Maybe not, but they do have daddy’s money!” Dave stands up, grasping his bottle at the neck, “Kinda hard to fail when you have that backing you.”
“Money doesn’t necessarily mean talent, though,” Brandon sits back and crosses his legs, “they’ve got both.”
“I guess,” Dave pauses, “but money does get you better producers, agents. Y’know, the fucking… the connections and shit!”
“That’s not talent ,” Dell reasons.
“What about your connections, Dave?” Brandon smirks as he tips the bottle against his lips.
“Shut up,” the guitarist laughs, “okay, whatever. They have the talent, too—sure, obviously.”
The three men sit quietly for a moment while the album plays faintly from the speakers. Brandon hesitates, then can’t stop himself.
“Where does that leave us, though?” Dave quirks an eyebrow at Brandon, “I want to think we have talent, but we sure as shit don’t sound like that.”
“C’mon now,” Dell chuckles, “You didn’t even know what ‘that’ sounded like until today.”
“I dunno, Dell,” Dave shakes his head slowly, “I feel like we’ve gotta do better than what we have.”
“Agreed,” Brandon nods and puts his beer on the coffee table. With his hands free, he runs his hands through his hair gently. The warmth of his drinks rests in his temples and cheeks.
“You guys shouldn’t want to sound like another band, though,” Dell’s attempt to be the wise, older voice of reason is gracious, but Brandon isn’t in the mood.
“We don’t want to sound like them,” Brandon defends and Dave nods, “it’s not about their sound it’s… I don’t fucking know what it is.” He laughs somewhat hopelessly.
“It’s the quality, I think. That was songwriting , man,” Dave takes another sip and notices his bottle is now empty.
“Exactly,” Brandon points to Dave with a snap, “it’s how practiced and professional it feels. Our shit, at least so far, doesn’t feel anywhere near that.”
“Maybe,” Dell pauses for a beat, “I’d just hate for you two to scrap what you have just because you listened to an album. But, I know I don’t have much sway.”
“I mean, we probably won’t throw all of it away,” Brandon looks at Dave for approval, but he only wears a slightly doubtful face, “C’mon, we’ve got some good ones in there.”
“No, no—you’re right,” Dave rubs at his brow, “I’m just feeling like shit over this now… man! Fuck The Strokes!” Brandon and Dell both laugh. Brandon picks up his beer again and takes a heavy sip. He feels his cigarettes burning a hole in his pocket.
“I just know you’ve been working hard on the stuff you have now. Ultimately, just do what feels right,” Dell stands up off the loveseat. The older man heads toward the kitchen, “I don’t feel like making dinner. I’m gonna go grab some take-out menus.” Once Dell is out of the room Brandon turns to look at Dave who is already staring back at him.
“So, what’s the plan?” Brandon thinks he knows the answer, but he needs to make sure they are on the same page, “Scrap it?”
“Ugh,” Dave sighs and nods solemnly, “That’s what I’m thinkin’, Brando.”
Brando. It’s the first time Dave has called him that and it makes him smirk.
“I’m free after three tomorrow, can you meet then?”
“Sounds like a plan. But tonight, after that,” Dave points to the stereo, “I’m gettin’ drunk.”
They’re in Dave’s car again, on their way to The Lakes. Brandon hasn't been to this particular neighborhood since he was a kid and was invited to a classmate’s birthday party. Back then, money was tight in Henderson and the prospect of someone having a swimming pool in a manicured backyard was laughable. Brandon’s parents couldn't even afford to make the front lawn look nice.
They’ve got their instruments in the back, sans his keyboard. He’d like to have it to hide behind, but he still doesn’t have a stand for it and Dave says it’ll be a logistical nightmare. They’ve talked about it and both agree that getting a new, smaller synth with more controls would be good for the band but that sort of thing costs money that neither of them have. They’re still trying to get a band together at the moment, though, so they won’t worry about that until they have more than one song and are actually playing shows. If they get to that point.
“I’ve got a new idea for a song,” he says once the song playing over the radio ends. “You know, really digging into my heartbreak.”
“If it works, it works,” Dave responds. Sure, it works, but Brandon thinks it’s been seriously bumming him out. At least, more than he had been when they met. “Which side did he say it was on?”
“The right,” Brandon answers.
“All these houses look the same,” Dave says, “but at least it’s close to us.”
“Well, it is a planned community—they built it in the eighties. Lots of families so I don’t think we have to worry about being murdered.” At least, he hopes not.
Dave glances at him, “That’s not something I often worry about.”
“You should.”
He hasn’t spoken to their prospective drummer yet—Dave is better at that sort of thing than he is. Sure, part of his job is answering the phone but he can turn himself off under those circumstances. If he fucks up on the phone concerning band business, that has real repercussions. Dave said he sounded normal enough, though.
Dave squints at mailbox numbers, “Is that the right house?”
“You need glasses,” Brandon comments. “Yes, I think so.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Dave says, but Brandon knows he doesn’t mean it.
Matt’s house is, as Dave said before, an exact copy of the ones on either side of it. A two-story family home, Brandon feels like he’s seven and at a birthday party again. They grab their gear and head up the walkway, Dave ringing the doorbell when they make it to the doorstep. A doorbell. He knows it’s not a sign of wealth but he still thinks of it as one.
The man who answers the door has shoulder-length brown hair, thus beating Brandon out for the ‘longest-hair in the band’ superlative. He looks nice enough—well adjusted—so Brandon forces himself to relax a little.
Matt smiles warmly at them, “You guys must be the band, judging by the guitars,” he gestures inside, “come on in.” It looks nice inside. New, even.
“I’m Dave,” his bandmate says, shaking Matt’s hand before centering the attention onto him, “and this here is Brandon.”
Matt shakes his hand as well, “Jeez, how old are ‘ya, Brandon?”
The slight twang in Matt’s voice clashes with Brandon’s accent, “Twenty.”
“Well, alright,” he shrugs. “Let me show you to the drum room—y’all want anything to drink?”
Matt leads them to his garage once he grabs a bottle of water for both of them. He’s got a nice looking drumkit and Brandon listens to Matt and Dave’s conversation as they set up their guitars. Matt’s been drumming for a good while, apparently. He’s not into European music as much as he and Dave are and was just looking for a band to play in that wasn’t nu-metal. He’s into sports.
Brandon’s not really looking forward to singing in front of him, but he supposes that’s something he’ll just have to get used to. He’s already grown accustomed to Dave and that didn’t take as long as he thought it would, so that’s a good sign.
“Brandon mostly plays keys but that’s something we’re still working out,” he hears Dave say.
Mostly. Hm.
“You’re quiet, aren’t ‘ya?” Brandon looks up—Matt is staring at him.
“Oh, sorry, just thinking a lot,” he says. “Don’t mean to be weird.”
Thankfully, Dave jumps to his defense, “He’s a good guy. We haven’t known each other for long, but he’s good. Real sweet.”
“Oh, thanks,” Brandon says, sarcastic.
Dave turns his attention back to Matt, “You wanna just jump in and play whatever? Get a feel for the vibe?”
“Sure, man,” Matt takes a seat at his drumkit and grabs his sticks.
“Alright then,” with that, Dave gives Brandon one last look and starts playing his arpeggiated chords. After one measure, Brandon adds in whole notes, simple in nature but clearly well-practiced. He’s been sure to do as much so that he doesn’t embarrass himself anytime soon.
Matt joins in sooner than Brandon had expected him to, but that just means there will be another barrier of sound protecting his voice from unwanted scorn. But as he starts singing, something clicks into place.
Sometimes—he has noticed—when music is in perfect harmony, all of the instruments blend together and it sounds different. He can’t explain it, but hearing a beat to the song he and Dave wrote makes everything seem much more real. He can only imagine how much better it would sound with a harmony instrument to glue it all together, like his keyboard.
By the end of the song, he’s fully aware that he’s smiling as they play the bridge. They’re only a few weeks into being a band and he’s already imagining what it would sound like sung back to him.
Eventually, the sadness seeps back in. To be able to share his little triumph with another person—someone who would really care—would be all he wants. All that’s left is the reminder that he used to have someone like that, but maybe she didn’t really care either.
After their little jam session, Dave gives Matt the same cassette he had given Brandon when they first met, only this time Brandon is featured on a few tracks. Well, Dave forgot the cassette in the car, so he steps out to get it. This leads to a very unwanted query from Matt.
“Forgive me for asking,” he says as Brandon packs up his and Dave’s gear, “but are you two… you know?”
“Huh?” Brandon’s brow furrows as he peers up from his spot on the floor.
“You know,” Matt repeats, “gay?”
Brandon freezes, then shifts a little on his knees, “No,” he mutters.
“It wouldn’t matter to me if you were,” Matt continues, “you know, as long as it stayed in your little bubble.”
Brandon repeats himself, this time a little louder, “No. Why even ask?”
Matt shrugs, “Dave’s got that atomic blonde hair, though I guess that’s normal in our community. And you…” he raises a hand and motions to his earlobe. Brandon exhales through his nose and instinctively moves the hair behind his ear to the front so that it covers the little hoop that hangs from his lobe. Matt continues, “I’m sure you get that a lot, though.”
The worst part is that Matt isn’t even saying it in a mean, judgmental way. He’s just asking. And Brandon’s getting all defensive because-
“I’m not gay,” he says, shaking his head a little.
“Well, alright,” Matt nods, “sorry I asked.”
The apology doesn’t make him feel much better right now because he knows he’ll end up thinking about Matt’s comments when he’s trying to sleep tonight. He likes his piercing. He’s had it since he made his grand return home and he’d rather not get rid of it. But if one more person comments on it he thinks he just might.
Once Dave is back with the cassette, the tense air that Brandon is imagining in the room dissipates. For now he’ll just try to focus on the fleeting feeling he had when they were all playing together.
Matt does join the band, and he and Dave carpool to his house in The Lakes a few times a week because that’s where the drum kit is. They still write together at Dave’s apartment but Brandon finds himself missing their time there as the weeks progress. Matt is nice enough, though. Maybe Brandon’s just bad at making friends.
Brandon’s at work now, wandering the halls to do room checks and hoping that everyone has checked out at the appropriate times so that he doesn’t have to confront anyone. He’s got his clipboard—he’s doing the rounds. He glances at his list of rooms to check to insure he’s at the right one and knocks three times, announcing that he’s from the front desk. Guests are supposed to use the complimentary door hangers to mark that they’ve left, but nothing hangs from the knob. After a few moments, he knocks again. Nothing.
Pressing his ear to the door, he can’t hear much movement at all. He grumbles, because this means he has to use his master key to see what’s going on. Hopefully these people are actually gone.
He unlocks the door and steps inside, and there's-
He turns right back around and leaves, locking the door back behind him. Continuing down the hall, he pulls out his walkie-talkie. “Uh, doing room checks and I’ve got three ladies, um, going at it in 709.” He gets to the elevator, realizes his mistake, then turns back around.
He returns to the door and fills out a bill to slide under the door, wondering if the late fee is worth it for these women. “Anyway,” he turns back around, “just letting the cleaning crew know.”
Thankfully, that was the last room on his list and he can return to the breakroom for lunch before he has to return to desk-duty. He hasn’t brought anything with him today, so he’ll just order some wings from the TGI Fridays downstairs.
In the elevator, Brandon looks at his reflection in the mirror. He needs a haircut. And a nap.
As he’s heading back to the breakroom, he’s stopped by Amanda at the front desk. She’s got the phone for him and chuckles at him when he groans at her.
“Dave, I swear to God-”
“ Nice to hear from you too, Brando. ” He can practically hear Dave smiling. “ You kinda dropped off the face of the Earth .”
“I’m trying to get those extra hours so we can record soon.” He sits at an empty chair behind the desk. “Sorry I was unavailable the other night.”
“ It’s all good, man. I’d be doing the same if I could land a job. ”
“We’re hiring,” Brandon says. “Well, the food court is. We could be Gold Coast buddies.”
“ Just ‘cause you’ve been a busboy your whole life doesn’t mean I’ve gotta be. ”
“Is there a reason for this call?” Brandon asks, checking his watch. “Not to be rude but I’m trying to take my break right now and if you’re not gonna get a room, then-”
“ Right, right, I get it, ” Dave says. “ I’m going out tonight, if you wanna come with…? ”
“Is it something special?” Brandon’s stomach growls. He hopes that Dave hasn’t heard it.
“ A club on Maryland is having some Halloween thing tonight and we haven’t gone out in a while, so I thought I’d ask. ”
Brandon thinks about it for a moment. He’s tired and wants nothing more than to go home and rest once his shift is over, but it really has been a while since he and Dave have hung out.
“Yeah, alright,” he says. “I’ll be off at three.”
“ You wanna come over around seven and hang out a little before? Dell just brought home a fuck-ton of candy. ”
Brandon smiles to himself, “That sounds great.”
“You sure this isn’t a costume party?”
“Dude, it’s a club. At most there’s gonna be a freak in fangs drinking a Bloody Mary.”
Well, that makes him feel slightly better. As long as Dave is there he’ll probably be okay. “And are you gonna, uh, get fucked up? ‘Cause I was gonna get fucked up. And we shouldn’t be driving if-”
Dave shrugs it off, “Dell’s gonna get us by one.”
“Oh, cool,” Brandon nods, “cool.”
“You don’t have work tomorrow, do you? ‘Cause that would suck,” Dave finally spares him a glance while they are at a stoplight.
Brandon shakes his head a little too aggressively, “No, no, that would be horrible.”
With that, they continue on their way to whatever bar Dave is taking him to. He’s never gone to a party like this with somebody else before so when Dave had asked him to tag along, he was actually excited. He’s never actually gone to something like this on purpose—every time he’s ended up at a party it was because he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Well, this isn't even a party. It’s halfway to a party. An event. A function.
But Dave is here, so it’ll be okay. Granted, Dave is a little crazy sometimes but it almost always works out.
When they pull up to the club, Brandon is pleasantly surprised to find out that it’s one he's been to before. That makes him slightly less anxious about the fake ID situation he’s got going on. It would be horribly embarrassing if they got turned away at the door just because he’s twenty-and-a-half. Well, twenty-and-a-quarter but who’s counting?
Before he can get out of the car, Dave stops him: “You tell me if you want to leave early.”
Brandon scoffs, “Dude, I’m fine.”
“I’m just making sure ‘cause I know how you can get sometimes.” Dave looks deadly serious at the moment. Brandon’s just trying to figure out what that’s supposed to mean.
“I’ve literally been here before,” Brandon laughs. This either satiates him or he decides to drop the subject entirely.
He calms his nerves as they approach the door, knowing that if he’s visibly anxious he’ll have less of a chance getting in. He’s done this many times in the last few years, but just as it always is with him, it never seems to get any better.
It’s fine though—they get in no problem. The music is the first thing that hits him once they’re inside. He’s certain it’s a dance remix of the Monster Mash. It’s the most corny thing he’s ever heard, but it makes him smile. The place is almost packed and the heat hits him as Dave drags him deeper into the fray.
The night goes smoothly for the most part—at least at the beginning. He’s excited to just let go with his friend for a while and forget about the band. In the time that they’ve known each other, they’ve never gone out drinking before. Needless to say, they both end up enabling each other. Maybe a little too much.
Things don’t take a turn until a little under two hours later. After another round of shots with Dave, Brandon looks up and finds that Matt has shown up.
“Oh, shit!” Dave gets excited, his eyes darting between Brandon and Matt, “Bro, what are you doin’ here!”
“Was just in the neighborhood,” Matt slurs. Either he’s been pre-gaming or he’s been here as long as they have and they just didn’t notice. It’s at this point that he directs his attention to Brandon, “How the fuck’d you get in, man?”
“Oh,” he eyes his drink—he’s not even quite sure what it is, at this point. “Y’know.”
Dave slings his arm around him and pulls him in, “Brando’s got chops, lemme tell ‘ya!” He clinks his glass against Brandon’s, “Fuckin’ champion of the world over here.”
“How’s the search goin’?” Matt asks, making Dave immediately grimace.
The guitarist shakes his head and takes a sip of his drink, “No business tonight.”
Matt scoffs and leans up against the bar, “You’ve gotta find a bassist sooner than later dude, times runnin’ out.”
Brandon finds himself straightening up a little. He cranes his neck to look at Dave, who’s staring dead on at Matt. “Wha-?”
Matt barks out a laugh, interrupting Brandon, “You still haven’t fuckin’ told him?” Dave’s gaze becomes increasingly clear as if he’s trying to communicate telepathically with Matt, but they’re all too drunk to understand.
Brandon jabs Dave with his elbow to get his attention, “Are you replacin’ me?”
Just as Dave snaps out of it to respond, Matt continues: “Your bass sucks ass, dude. Shoulda’ seen it comin’.”
“No!” Dave objects, squeezing Brandon tighter, “Well, yeah, but it’s not like that!”
“You think I suck?” Brandon asks, genuinely hurt. “Dude, what the fuck?”
“Jesus, Matt,” Dave huffs, “puttin’ words in my mouth. No, it’s ‘cause you should focus on synth.”
Brandon downs the rest of his drink, “I can do both!” Dave just shakes his head and returns his attention to Matt.
“Fuckin’ uncalled for man, that was just mean,” he looks back to Brandon, “you wanna bail, dude?”
Brandon’s head swims with this new information. Has Dave been looking for a new replacement this entire time? Sure, Brandon knows that he’s nowhere near the best bassist in Vegas, but he was getting better. Dave had never said anything to him about it before so this was all very unexpected.
Well, not completely unexpected. Not with what happened in his last band.
“Yeah, we’re outta here,” Dave takes Brandon’s empty glass and sets it on the bar. “Thanks for fuckin’ nothin’, man.”
Brandon is dragged out of the club the same way that he was dragged in a few hours earlier. It’s not cool by any means outside, but the stark difference between the temperature in the club and the one in the parking lot shocks him. Dave escorts him to the car, where he says that they will wait until Dell shows up. He’s ushered into the car, Dave shutting the door behind him before getting in himself.
“Man, forget him,” he says, slamming his door shut and looking to Brandon, “shit, you’re not gonna cry are you?”
“What?” Brandon instinctively wipes at his eyes to make sure he’s not actually crying, “No!”
“You know that’s okay, I won’t judge you!” He starts the car so that he can turn the radio on, “There ‘ya go.”
“I mean,” he adjusts himself so that he’s facing Dave, sitting sideways in his seat. “Are you gonna replace me?”
Dave objects again, “No! It’s you and me in this shit, Brando. This is our damn band!”
He needs a cigarette, he decides. He begins to pat his pockets, “Then what's all this bassist talk about?” Once he finds his pack, he makes quick work of finding his lighter. Dave rolls the windows down the second Brandon lights one.
“You’re a damn good keyboard player. So fuckin’ good—it’s crazy. I want you to do that.” He seems earnest, at least.
“You don’t think I suck at bass?” Dave hesitates. “Oh, come on!”
“You don’t suck!” Dave reaffirms, “It’s just that we should play to our strengths!”
“Are you just trying to be nice?”
“Listen,” he places a hand on the center console, “I can play piano, too, but you don’t see me doing that ‘cause you’re better. Doesn't mean I suck at piano. You’re the best bassist we have right now.”
Brandon exhales with little regard to the fact that Dave is right in front of him, “I guess.”
“I’m tryna convince Dell,” he explains once he’s moved out of Brandon’s path. “Then we won’t have to deal with someone new.”
“Dell doesn’t even play bass. You’re tryin’ to replace me with someone who can’t even play bass,” Brandon mopes, digging his elbow into the console and propping his head up with a fist.
Dave looks at him seriously, “I would never replace you. We are in this for the long run.” When Brandon continues to pout at him, he continues, “I’m not goin’ back to Iowa.”
Brandon really doesn’t want to go back to Utah, either. “Okay.”
Dave smiles, “We good?”
He returns the gesture, “Yeah.” They sit together quietly for a moment longer, “We didn’t get as fucked up as I wanted to.”
“I’ve got beer in the fridge and you can sleep on the couch.”
“Do you wanna watch The Shining ?”
“Yeah, okay.”
Chapter Text
NOVEMBER 2001 - MAY 2002
He’s recorded before, obviously. At his old bandmate’s house when they were working on a song for a local variety CD. Of course, he only played keys back then but he nailed his part in two takes. This was before he even played bass for the band, and also before the band was the one that kicked him out. Because there was a name change. And they didn't really kick him out, per say, it was more of a quiet pilgrimage away to a place he couldn't follow. Everyone had been aware of this at the time and there wasn’t much of a goodbye. Keyboard players are kind of expendable, especially when there are three of them in your band and you’re moving to LA. Brandon is now the only keyboardist in his band. So that means they can’t get rid of him—at least short notice.
Should he just get out of the car and knock on this door? Or should he just walk in? They have an appointment, if you could call it that. And Dave is already here because he’s parked next to his empty car. He should have waited until he got there to go in. It’s just rude.
Brandon sighs and gets out of the car, grabbing his bass before heading to the door. He goes straight in because he figures that’s less awkward than knocking and subsequently being told it wasn’t necessary. There’s no one in the lobby, so he continues through an open door to the left.
That’s how he finds Dave and Matt conversing with a stranger, Matt and the other man taking no notice of him until Dave points out his arrival.
“You must be the other one!” The man shakes his hand. He’s about as tall as Dave is, and Brandon really wishes that people would stop being taller than him. “I’m Michael, the engineer here at Kill The Messenger. You’re Brandon?”
“Like Michael Valentine,” Brandon says. “Yes, that’s me.”
Michael half-chuckles, “No, uh, Michael Sak. You can call me Mike.”
“Oh!” Brandon straightens, “No, I know that. I know Michael so obviously you’re not him.” He sets his bass down and joins Matt on a little couch—they’re in a console room, so it seems, and everything looks too professional and expensive.
Dave, standing at the console and inspecting a bunch of boxes with knobs, scoffs at him. “You know Michael Valentine? Your first local show was two months ago.”
“We’ve hung out before,” Brandon says, annoyed. “I knew him from a guy in my old band.” Really, he and Michael only hung out a few times and only ever when his bandmates were also there. He’s probably got his phone number somewhere but it’s not memorized and the only time they’ve ever been alone together was an occasion when Brandon was too drunk to get home on his own.
Dave just shrugs, completely unaware at how needlessly defensive he’s just made Brandon. “Well, let’s get to work, then. Time is money.”
Time is, indeed, money. Brandon has been picking up extra shifts for a month to help pay for this.
Mike nods and sits down at the console—the commander’s chair. “You guys are the only ones in my books today. Just a reminder: $500 an hour and access to anything you’d like but if you break it, you buy it.” He says it completely seriously. “I’m just joking. So what are we doing today?”
Dave takes a seat on the arm of the couch, “Brightside and Desperate, right? We can knock that out in a couple hours.”
“You recording this live or are we dubbing?” Mike spins around in his chair and pulls up a ProTools session, the amount of shortcut keys he uses in a split second making it hard to keep track of what’s going on.
“Live?” Dave faces his bandmates, “Then we overdub bass, vocals, and some guitar fills. That sound like a plan?”
Matt agrees and it sounds swell to Brandon, though he admits that he doesn’t know any better. Dave seems to be completely comfortable with what’s going on so he’ll just latch onto that. Mike asks which song they’re doing first, how many tracks they’ll need, and what the BPM is—Dave answers all but the last question, which goes to Matt. Man, he really has no idea what’s going on, huh?
They head into the recording room and Brandon is shown the synths on hand while Dave is setting up everything else. He immediately gravitates to a MicroKorg that has a pitch shifter and all the bells and whistles he could possibly want. It’s beautiful.
Brandon’s keyboard at home simply isn’t up to snuff for this type of thing. And it’s big. And hard to carry around—the thing has sixty-four keys for crying out loud. Which is why it is absent at the studio today.
Mike gives him the overview on a couple different settings before he goes to do actual work, though he doesn’t really need to because Brandon’s demoed one at Guitar Center with Dave before and is fully aware of its hardware capabilities. It doesn’t take him long to find the voice setting he wants to use for the song.
They do three takes to ensure they have what they need, Brandon singing under his voice as a warm-up for what's to come. When he gets to the second verse, he just sings the first one again. It’s what he’s been doing for months now and hasn't been able to come up with anything better since, so it’ll have to do. He was supposed to work on it last night but there was a rerun of “Pretty in Pink” on TV.
After they decide on the best take, it’s Brandon’s turn to punch in the bass part. Dave’s already set up his guitar in the recording room so it isn't long before he’s waiting for his count-in to start playing. He doesn’t like the click track. Dave says he’ll get used to it.
It’s weird to be alone in the recording room, the rest of his band watching from the other side of a glass partition. He wipes his palms on his jeans and gets started after a count of eight clicks, playing whole notes until the chorus where he matches the drums with quarters. He’s done this plenty of times now, so he turns his attention to the band by the time of the second verse. Behind the glass, Matt is talking animatedly about something while Dave listens with furrowed brows. That’s no good.
At the end of his take, he asks if he did any good. Dave gives a thumbs up and Matt informs him via talkback mic that they’ll just do two more takes so that they have the same amount of everything. Once he’s done and back in the console room, Dave tells him that he did a good job before heading out to record more guitar parts.
Dave plays virtuosically, as per usual.
“You know,” Matt says once Dave has started. “I don’t know why we didn’t just get Dave to record the bassline as well.”
Brandon huffs next to him on the couch, “Because it’s my part.”
“I know, I know,” Matt tries to placate him but it just comes off as passive aggressive. “But people are gonna listen to this, man. We’re trying to get noticed with this. I know you’ve heard it before but how are you gonna play two instruments at once on stage?”
“It’s not like you could do any better.” Brandon grumbles. Matt exhales loudly and settles deeper into the couch. It makes Brandon smirk—he’s won, for now.
He feels sorry for Mike, who must be feeling very awkward by this point. He should probably charge them a fee for ruining the vibe. In an attempt to salvage the situation, he turns to Brandon, “So our vocal booth is that little closet there,” he points to a door with a window in it. “There’s a couple different ways to go about recording depending on what you want. You could run it all the way through a couple times if you want to save time, or we could record each part a couple times individually.”
Before Brandon can ask about the pros and cons of each, Matt weaves his way into the conversation. “This is just a demo, no need to go crazy with it.”
“Yeah,” Mike agrees. “Just doing a couple of full takes will probably save you guys some money. We can patch in something easily if something egregious happens.”
“Alright, then,” Brandon gets more comfortable on the couch and waits for Dave to finish what he’s doing. It’s exciting to be here doing this, but he wishes that it felt more natural. More safe.
The rest of the day continues the same way. Brandon records the vocals and cracks a grin when he hears it played back over the music with a fuzzy effect added on top. That sounds real. He’s not the most confident in his abilities, but it feels good. Dave is equally excited about it, which makes him feel even better.
After they wrap on the recording of Mr. Brightside, they take a short break to prepare for Desperate. That one’s a little more nerve-wracking because he’ll be playing more keys in it than he did in the last song, but it goes well. He would even dare to call it fun. Except when his voice starts hurting.
They’ve got nearly five hours on the books once they’re done, which means that Brandon is now over $800 in the hole, but he supposes it’ll be worth it as long as something comes from it.
Matt leaves first, leaving Brandon and Dave the loiter in the parking lot for a little bit. They talk about a little of everything, from how the session went to what music will be coming out this week. Then, just as Brandon is about to leave, Dave stops him.
“What are your December plans?” He asks.
Brandon blows out a sigh, “My folks are kinda bothered about my lack of presence at Thanksgiving last week.” He had been working, earning money for the recording session. “So I promised I’d come to Christmas. I’m supposed to be leaving late next week.”
Dave imagines the dates in his head, “How long will you be gone?”
“The 27th,” he replies. “Getting Christmas off was a nightmare.”
Dave nods, understanding. He had only gotten a new job a few weeks ago in preparation for Black Friday. “I was gonna set up another recording date for the 30th, if that works for you.”
“I’ll have to see,” he leans against his car. “I’ll peek at the schedule tomorrow when I head in.”
“If you could come see me once you’re home, though, I think you’ll be pleased,” Dave grins at him. “Where are you going, anyway? Your family doesn't live in Vegas?”
“Oh!” Shit. “They moved out, uh, recently. Utah.”
“Ah,” Dave breathes. “Anything interesting happening there?”
Brandon shakes his head, “Nope. It’ll probably snow, which is cool I guess. They’ve actually got seasons there.”
“If you’re gone when I get the mix back I can email it to you,” Dave offers. “But other than that, I guess we’ll be on a little break. I think Matt is going to his fiancé's parents' place for Christmas, anyway.”
Brandon frowns, “What about you?”
Dave scoffs, “You think I’ve got the money for that? I’m twenty-five, bud. It’s okay.”
“Right,” he feels a little foolish now. “I’ll call you later when I know about the 30th.”
And with that, they part ways.
Brandon cannot, in fact, make it to record on the 30th. With the Christmas rush and New Years, it’s just not possible. Dave pencils in the 5th of January and they call it a day.
His Christmas in Utah goes well enough—his brother had been there, which pleased him greatly. They don’t see each other very often anymore and Brandon would be the first to admit that he doesn’t call anyone as often as he should. It was good, though, because Brandon got Dave’s email of the Mr. Brightside mix while he was there. It may have taken a literal hour to download, but his brother had been able to listen to it.
And he was so proud.
It had snowed, as was expected, and that left Brandon feeling mixed emotions. There were good and bad memories associated with it, but he could leave anytime he wanted now. Things weren’t as dire as they were before. It was fine.
Once he’s back home, he spends a day acclimating back to his usual surroundings before he goes to see Dave. At this point, he doesn’t even knock before he enters the man’s apartment because he’s been there so often. Dave, playing his guitar on the couch, perks up once Brandon walks through the door.
“Oh, goodie, my favorite guy is here,” he says, putting his guitar aside. “You want a drink? I’m getting us drinks.”
Brandon chuckles and takes a seat at his usual spot. It feels good to be wanted like this. He’s pretty sure that the two weeks he’s been away is the longest that he and Dave have been apart since they met. Once the man returns, they make small talk about what they’ve been doing during the break for a little bit until Dave deems that it’s time to get to business.
“I’ve got good news and bad news,” he says.
“Oh Lord.”
Dave continues, “And the bad news is kinda multifaceted, not all bad, but I’ll tell it to you first because the good news after will make you feel better.” Before Brandon has time to be anxious about it, Dave spills the beans. “Dell finally agreed to jump on bass.”
“Oh,” Brandon says. “I see.” He knows that they’ve talked about it a few times and that he’s not necessarily being replaced, but it still doesn’t feel good.
“But you’re good, right?” Dave asks. “It’s still you and me in charge of all this. Now you can focus on keys and lyrics.”
“Uh-huh,” he says slowly. “Where is Dell?”
“Work. But you’re okay?”
“I’m not super pleased about it but,” he sighs. “I guess I’ll survive.”
Dave claps his hands together and stands, “Good, good, okay. Time for the main event,” he heads to the back bedroom and returns with a rather large gift wrapped box.
“What is this,” Brandon says immediately once the box is placed in front of him.
“It’s your ‘sorry about the bass situation’ gift.” Dave returns to his seat and sips at his beer. “So go crazy, Brando.”
He cannot deny that this is very exciting once he squashes down the feeling of guilt he gets when he realizes that he hadn’t gotten Dave a gift. The gift wrap is incredibly nice and Brandon can only imagine that Dave had it done at a mall kiosk. He tears off a sliver of paper and-
“No, Dave, no. Dave, no. No. Dude-”
Dave chortles, grinning huge. “Just open it, man.”
He can’t believe what he’s seeing as he cautiously tears away more paper, “This is too expensive-”
“Well, you needed it,” Dave interrupts.
“I can pay you back!”
Dave shakes his head, “No you won’t.”
It’s a damn MicroKorg. Brandon can’t believe it.
“I got it on Black Friday,” Dave continues. “So it wasn't that bad. Even got a case for it—I got a good deal.”
He finishes tearing the paper off and stares at the box—it’s pristine. In all of his contemplation about buying one, he never considered getting it brand new. Dave urges him to open it up so that they can get a good look at it, which Brandon is happy to do. The instrument is so beautiful that it brings tears to his eyes and Dave is kind enough to not mention it to him.
Dave tells him that they’re in it for the long haul, now, and that he should get to practicing his parts for Under the Gun and Replaceable for when they record next week.
So, yeah. Maybe his demotion as the bassist doesn’t hurt so bad anymore. He’ll get over it.
Brandon has to wait two whole days before he can show off his favorite sounds on his new keyboard. He’s been fiddling with it whenever he’s had a free moment, just waiting to show Dave at their next rehearsal.
Finally, at Matt’s house, he hopes he’s not boring his other bandmates with his gushing. Dave should have expected it after all.
“So, I’m thinking we use this on the next one,” Brandon plays out the small part he’s been tweaking with gratuitous use of his pitch bender. He repeats through it twice while humming a half-completed melody and then looks at Dave. “Something like that, I dunno.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the guitarist nods and looks at the keyboard, “That’s tight.”
“Is this one of our songs?” Matt questions from behind the two of them. Brandon sometimes forgets the drummer’s presence until he opens his mouth.
“Not a full song yet,” Brandon turns to look at Matt sitting at his drum set with an incredulous look on his face. “I just wanted to show you guys.”
“Nah, it’s cool,” Matt yawns and rubs his forehead. “I just thought maybe we could stick to the songs we’ll be playing .”
Dell walks back into the room from his bathroom break with his interest piqued. He motions to Brandon at the synth, “I liked whatever you were just doing.”
“Thanks,” Brandon basks in the reassurance for a second. “I’ve been playing around with it since I got this.”
“Since I got it for you,” Dave teases and plucks at a few of his strings.
“Yes, Dave,” Brandon deadpans and looks back toward Dell. “I don’t have a name or anything yet but I’d love to see what we can make of it.” Dell nods as he puts his bass strap over his shoulder.
“Wanna play through it again?” Dell asks and Brandon smirks. He fights the urge to look at Matt, fearing any negative reaction from the drummer. Instead, Brandon takes to the keys again. After he’s run through the part for a few measures, he looks to Dell.
“It’s a little pop-y,” Matt remarks as Brandon finishes. He must notice the look on Brandon’s face because he immediately starts defending himself, “It’s not bad! It sounds dope but it’s just a little… frilly?”
“Frilly?” Brandon thinks he knows what Matt means, but he’d like to see Matt dig himself a deeper hole.
“Think of Under the Gun, right? How would that,”—Matt points to the synth with his drumstick—“fit next to Under the Gun?”
“They don’t have to be next to each other,” Brandon has to keep his voice calm so as not to let on how frustrated he truly is. “And it’s just an idea right now. I was just messing around.”
“Exactly, so we should just rehearse the songs that we’ll be playing,” the smirk on Matt’s face makes Brandon wish he had the courage to punch him. Not that he would, of course—that’s embarrassing. But sometimes, it would be helpful.
“Let’s just play,” Dave interrupts Brandon’s brief rage. “I’ll do anything to stop a catfight.”
Brandon tears his eyes away from Matt to nod at Dave. There’s a heavy silence between all four of them that Brandon feels guilty about. He doesn’t think he’s overreacting but people that overreact tend to do that, so he keeps his mouth shut.
“We’re starting with Brightside?” Dell asks to finally cut through the tension. Dave confirms almost immediately. Brandon wonders if he was trying to keep him from opening his mouth again.
They run through Mr. Brightside three times making small notes to each other in between each round. To Brandon’s relief, everything is civil and Matt doesn’t seem to mind the comments he has for him. After the third time, they all look at each other with a mutual agreement—it sounds solid. Not only good but solid , like a live act should.
The four of them jump into Under the Gun next and Brandon pushes Matt’s previous comments out of his head. The Killers can’t be pigeon-holed into one sound; that’s a very important thing to Brandon. If Matt can’t understand that, Brandon isn’t afraid to find someone who does.
Speaking of the drummer, Brandon notices him slipping up on the tempo at some points during the first run-through. Brandon doesn’t slow down for him and Matt eventually finds his way back to rhythm before the end of the song. Before he can say anything, Matt speaks.
“Sorry, sorry,” he’s waving a hand apologetically. “I got tripped up. Let’s do it again.” Brandon appreciates that he doesn’t have to correct him because he’s sure he’d have bitched him out.
During the second run, Matt’s playing is steadier but still lagging. It’s distracting because it hadn’t been much of an issue before today. If anything, Matt used to speed and it would be easier for the others to match. The drag makes the whole set sound awkward. When they finish, Brandon doesn’t wait for Matt to speak.
“Dude, what is up with you today?” Brandon scoffs.
“Jesus, calm down. This is why we rehearse,” Matt’s half-assed excuse only makes Brandon more frustrated.
“Okay? But you don’t usually slow us all down,” Brandon looks to Dave and Dell for some reassurance.
“C’mon, we all have off-days,” Dell tries to mediate. Sometimes the way he talks comes across like he’s talking down on the rest of them. Brandon thinks it’s because he’s the oldest, but he may just think that because he’s the youngest.
“It’s not an off-day. I-” Matt laughs but nobody else gets the joke. “Okay, full disclosure?” The three others just stare at him, though Brandon looks the most bewildered. “I ate a pot brownie right before you guys showed up and it started to kick in at the end of Brightside.”
“Oh my God,” Brandon rolls his eyes and rubs at his temple.
“Don’t be so dramatic! It’s a rehearsal!” Matt is chuckling as he says it but, again, meets no response from the others.
“To be fair, you couldn’t have waited until after?” Dave responds. Again, Brandon is grateful because he was going to say something much less coherent.
“I didn’t think it was going to be that strong,” Matt places his sticks on the snare and rubs his face. When he drops his hands he must not like the way Dave, Dell, and especially Brandon are looking at him, “What? I’m sorry! I really didn’t know it would be noticeable.”
“Well it is,” Brandon’s voice cuts like a knife. “It’s really fucking noticeable.”
“Oh yeah, Brandon. You and Dave have never drank while we rehearsed, not once ever ,” Matt retorts with his arms crossed.
“A few beers is not the same as an edible,” Dave counters. If Brandon weren’t so angry he’d rejoice over the agreement.
“Can we just run through it again?” Dell finally speaks up and he sounds exhausted. Brandon is suddenly embarrassed that this poor man has to witness this.
“We can if you can pull your weight,” Brandon stares at Matt who shoots daggers back.
“I think I can manage, kiddo,” Matt snatches his sticks off the snare and the rattle echoes in the room. The pet name boils Brandon’s blood and he feels seconds away from throwing a cymbal over.
“I need a smoke first,” Brandon reaches for the pack of cigarettes in his back pocket.
“But I’m the one holding us up… right,” Matt shakes his head. Once again, Dave saves the day.
“Jesus Christ! Brandon: go smoke. Matt: stop being an ass, and don’t get high before a practice again. Please,” Dave looks at the two of them but Brandon’s already heading to the door.
Once he’s outside, Brandon lights his cigarette immediately. He tries to let the feeling quell some of his anger—smoke in, smoke out, breathe in, breathe out. It doesn’t work. He sees a rock beside him and kicks it like a child. That doesn’t work either.
As his cigarette burns lower and lower, he realizes he has to go back inside soon. He can take longer than he needs to, but then Matt wins. At least that’s how he thinks of it.
Brandon looks up toward the sky and closes his eyes. Just get through the rehearsal , he thinks to himself. You don’t have anyone else, just work with what you’ve got .
He ashes the cigarette on the cement step below him and doesn’t bother to pick up the butt off the ground. With another deep Brandon, he opens the door and decides to keep his mouth shut.
Brandon stares into the bathroom mirror while his fingers grip the sink’s edges. He knows he can’t stay in there for much longer, although he’s not quite sure how long he’s been in there. It was more of a split-second decision to get away from everyone else than a bathroom break. He’s still pee-shy, but that’s not the issue right now.
He and Dave are currently undertaking the first steps to becoming a real band: a show. It’s just the two of them because this is only a trial run and, well, Brandon would be more comfortable that way anyway.
He inspects his hair in the mirror—he’s not exactly sure if it looks good or not. He and Dave bleached chunky patches of it on a whim the other day in honor of the first show, but he’s still not used to it. That, the makeup, and his earring certainly make him look… special.
Brandon can hear the band warming up for their first song; the band that will be playing before him and Dave. Walking into the bathroom had only made his nausea worse, and dousing some water on his face only made him worry that he compromised his make-up.
The band’s first song begins, although it's muffled by the heavy bathroom door. Brandon suddenly feels guilty about leaving Dave alone with all those random people. But Dave isn’t like him, really. Dave can talk to strangers comfortably. Once Brandon realizes he’s just making excuses for being a shitty friend and bandmate, he steps away from the sink with a sigh.
Lacing his fingers together behind his neck, Brandon tilts his head back far enough to squish his knuckles together. He sits with the ache for a moment or two. His eyes are closed as he breathes out once, twice, and then a third time. Reluctantly, Brandon opens his eyes and brings his head forward. Staring at the bathroom door, he feels a sudden rush of adrenaline that would be a shame to waste. He strides over and pulls the door open like he was never afraid in the first place. But just as soon as it came over him, that adrenaline dissipates; he’s just a twenty-year-old standing outside of a cafe’s bathroom, aimless and awkward.
Dave is only a few feet away from him. Once he notices Brandon’s reemergence, he pulls a whiskey nip out of his inner suit pocket and holds it out to Brandon as he approaches him.
“You gonna make it?” Dave wears a smile that serves more to frustrate Brandon than welcome him.
“I don’t know,” Brandon grabs the small plastic bottle and takes to it like water. It should burn his throat but it doesn’t; his flesh feels hotter than the drink. “Aren’t you nervous?”
“What?!” Dave has to shout and lean over, which sucks because Brandon doesn’t feel like repeating that question.
“I asked if you were nervous!” He raises his voice towards Dave’s ear. Glancing down at the empty miniature bottle, Brandon wonders if he could ask Dave for another. His hand is shaking, so he tucks the trash into his back pocket and lets his hand rest out of Dave’s sight.
“Not really, maybe a little,” Dave straightens himself out and looks back toward the stage. Brandon takes this time to scan the crowd, though it makes the nausea creep further up his torso. He redirects his attention to the stage to look on with Dave.
The band that’s playing is a trio, and that’s being gracious considering the drummer has played the same rhythm on his Cajon for their entire set. They’re doing it acoustic, which makes Brandon worry that he and Dave have missed some sort of memo. He remembers a few acts back when someone was using an electric guitar, but then he worries they also missed the memo.
Dave interrupts Brandon’s panic by turning around with an eyeroll. Brandon feigns a smile in response, though he agrees with the sentiment—these guys suck. He would make fun of them with Dave if he wasn’t worried that some karmic force would terrorize their own set if he spoke poorly of the band. The nameless singer draws out his last line and meets scattered, unenthusiastic applause—the sound of pity.
“Thank God there’s a three song cap,” Dave claps slowly and then whistles, which may seem like praise to anyone besides the two of them. The singer starts speaking but Brandon can’t be bothered to listen.
“You’re sure we’re next?” Brandon is unsure which answer he’d prefer. On one hand, the thought of playing within the next few minutes makes his bones feel like static. On the other hand, it may not be so bad to perform after these guys.
“Yeah, dude! I’ve checked the sign-up sheet like three times,” the band’s last song begins right as Dave finishes speaking. The static-feeling flares into Brandon’s fingertips. “We should probably get closer to the stage, yeah?” Brandon simply nods and tucks his lips into his mouth.
As Dave starts walking, Brandon pats the empty nip in his back pocket. He’s lucky enough to have gotten a drink from Dave but he would kill anyone in this place for another—except for Dave (probably).
Brandon starts scanning the crowd again as if he’ll be able to tell who will hate them and who will love them. It only makes him feel worse, but there’s not much else to look at anyways.
He tries to rationalize the situation a bit. Their set will be fifteen minutes at the most. Fifteen minutes is nothing. Even if they bomb or the equipment fails or Brandon pukes in front of everybody, it will be fifteen minutes or less.
Brandon does feel like he’s going to throw up, though. Not in a hyperbolic way, but in a stomach-gurgling, mouth-watering way. He knows the shot made it worse and feels misdirected annoyance toward Dave. But he’s forced to put those feelings on hold because the band has just finished their last song. They introduce themselves but Brandon is too busy watching Dave grab his guitar from its stand. Brandon scurries to Dave’s side.
“I don’t know,” is all Brandon can manage to say. He’s perfectly aware that it doesn’t make any sense.
“Wha-?” Dave’s eyebrows furrow as he pulls the guitar strap over his shoulder.
“I,” his voice croaks, so he clears his throat. “I can’t.”
“God,” Dave rolls his eyes. He places his hands on Brandon’s shoulders, “You cannot overthink this.”
“How the fuck am I supposed to do that?!” Brandon isn’t truly mad but he’s certainly jealous of Dave’s calmness. “I don’t know how you don’t care!”
“I do care, dumbass!” Dave spits out; Brandon knows he deserves that. “Of course I’m a bit jittery but… dude, it's just an open-mic.”
“And?” Brandon can see the band cleaning up their gear in his peripheral vision and curses them for going acoustic.
“This doesn’t make or break us,” Dave reasons. He takes one hand of of Brandon’s shoulder and motions it to emphasize his words. “There’s no, fuckin’... no industry people in the crowd or-or cameras here. These are family and friends and people with nothing better to do tonight.”
“We can’t go any further if we suck at our first show,” Brandon is trying to sound assertive, but he can tell he’s coming across as childish.
“I love you, man, but that’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said,” Dave smiles out of his mouth’s side. “ No one is good at their first show. Look, I’m a little nervous because I don’t want to embarrass myself; I think you’re nervous because you think this is the last show we’ll ever play.”
Brandon pauses to digest Dave’s words. He’s not wrong but it doesn’t make Brandon feel any better.
“Maybe,” Brandon stutters out and watches the last member of the trio walk off the stage. “I really think I’m gonna fuckin’ puke.”
“You could do a cool GG Allin thing if you do,” Dave teases with a smirk.
“Who’s that?” Brandon desperately wants Dave to distract him by any means necessary.
“I’ll tell you after the show,” Dave nods his head towards the stage. “Now or never, B.” Brandon stares at the stage, then to Dave, then to his keyboard that sits a few feet away.
“Let’s go,” Brandon surrenders. Dave squeezes his shoulders before dropping his hands and heading onto the stage.
Carrying his MicroKorg (stand included) onto the stage makes Brandon feel exposed; he’s as aimless and awkward as ever. He spends as much time as he can plugging his keyboard in and fiddling with the position of the stand. The chatter of the crowd reminds him that some people couldn’t care less about he and Dave’s presence. When he tests out some of the keys, the chatter ebbs a bit to his dismay. Dave plays a few notes on his guitar and the crowd starts turning their attention back toward the stage.
Brandon steps away from his keyboard and rubs a flat palm across his cheek. His skin is already dewy from a thin layer of sweat. He cracks his knuckles and looks down toward the front of the stage. There’s a small space in between the mess of cords and cables that sits a foot or so away from any audience member. Brandon decides that will be where he pukes. It shouldn’t hit anyone or ruin any equipment, and if he ducks down it could be quick enough before anyone can snap a photo of him blowing chunks.
With his splash-zone chosen, Brandon backs up a bit and turns to his left to look at Dave. Dave nods at him and a smile grows on his face.
“You good?” Dave mouths. Brandon takes a deep breath and hears the pounding in his chest even more so than before. Brandon nods and turns back to his keyboard. He and Dave had agreed that he’ll introduce the band before the first song and before they leave the stage. Brandon has been workshopping what he would say for a few days now, and far too frequently for any sane person. He clears his throat before approaching the microphone.
“Hello!” Brandon is impressed at his own faux-confidence. He sounds strong and steady, though his fingers tremble. “We are The Killers…”—the audience acknowledges their name with a few claps and whistles—“and we’re gonna love ya to death!”
The crowd chuckles, some wear wide smiles. Brandon has blown his chance before their first song starts. He can’t dwell on it for too long because Dave dives into the Mr. Brightside riff a moment later.
Fifteen minutes, Brandon reminds himself. Then, he starts singing.
Their set is fine. Brandon is certainly not ecstatic about it, but it was fine . The crowd cheered after all three songs and a few people reacted to the Travis cover. A few more people complimented them as they were taking their equipment to Dave’s car. No one seemed overly enthusiastic, but no one seemed overly critical either.
Brandon feels incredibly neutral, which is almost worse than feeling disappointed.
Now, he and Dave sit on the older man’s couch with a bottle of wine on the coffee table in front of them. Dave had insisted on wine because it felt more “celebratory”. Brandon isn’t so sure that the show was anything worth celebrating but he’ll take free wine any day.
“I dunno,” Dave says after a sip. “I think you’re overthinking it.”
“Hmph, ‘course I am,” Brandon reaches for the bottle to refill his glass.
“Dude, that was a good first show,” Dave has said this maybe eight or fifty times now. Brandon has lost count.
“You said no one has a good first show,” Brandon knows he’s being bratty but it’s Dave’s fault for choosing wine—it gives him an attitude.
“Fuck off! You know what I mean,” Dave’s foot pushes at Brandon’s shin as a smile grows on his face. “It was a lot better than most first shows, okay?” Brandon nods slowly; he’s still not convinced. He takes a sip and enjoys the warmth.
“You did great,” Brandon looks at Dave, who rolls his eyes. “What? I mean it. You sounded great.”
“Thanks,” Dave sits up a bit taller. “But if I were to say that you sounded gre-” Brandon waves a hand dismissively.
“I was okay at best. Did you hear my voice crack at the end of Brightside?” Dave huffs a laugh and Brandon does the same. Brandon puts on an overly whiny voice on, “I neeevee- eueue -r.” Dave’s face scrunches in a laugh while his head falls back a bit. Brandon smiles and looks down at his feet before taking another sip.
“It wasn’t that bad,” Dave reasons. There’s a brief pause between them before the guitarist speaks again, “Nevertheless, our first show: down. Watch out world.”
“I gotta fix our intro if we wanna see the world,” Brandon’s face warms remembering the words he said.
“What? The ‘love you to death’ thing? People liked it!” Dave’s voice has raised an octave, so his words fail to convince Brandon. “I liked it!”
“They laughed,” Brandon tries to chuckle off his embarrassment. “I didn’t want laughs.”
“It was funny!” Dave raises his glass to his lips before deciding to continue, “It’s good to be funny.”
“I want to be cool,” Brandon admits while Dave rolls his eyes. “What?”
“If you want to be ‘cool’, you’ll never be cool,” Dave looks at Brandon like he just said the most prophetic thing since Plato was alive.
“What do you mean?”
“I dunno,” Dave closes his eyes and rests his head against the back of the couch, “I’m fuckin’ exhausted and now I’m a little drunk.” Dave opens one eye to peek at Brandon, “Just trust me?”
“I’ll try,” Brandon smiles and nods.
“My God, fully suited up,” Dave says when Brandon arrives at their meeting spot—Walgreens. “I mean, I’ve seen the pants but.. that jacket. ”
“Oh, leave it,” ushers Dave out of his car so that they can hurry inside. “I’m running late and didn’t have time to change.”
“Our little bellboy,” Dave says fondly. “It’s kinda cool. Kinda military. If you had some shoulder pads, maybe we could make something of it.”
Unlike Dave, the patrons of Walgreens don’t care about Brandon’s hotel uniform. It’s only because Dave isn’t from around here, which can be a blessing and a curse. Blessing because he makes Brandon feel more at home, somehow. With his questions about the city that Brandon knows all the answers to. It’s a curse because Dave is still a little bit of a tourist, and tourists are annoying.
“New hotel drama?” Dave asks eagerly as they head to the makeup aisle. “I love hearing all the gossip.”
“What makes you ask?” Brandon wonders. He’s trying to find the right shade of black eyeliner pencil.
“Your lateness, I suppose.”
Brandon shrugs, “Nothing much happened. There was a surprise meeting just as I was about to leave because, well,” he grimaces when the memory comes back to him. He makes a finger-gun with his hand and raises it to his temple, “Someone, you know.”
Dave looks horrified—an apt reaction, Brandon supposes. “Jesus Christ, are you okay?”
Brandon snorts, “Me? I’m fine. I’m not the one who did it. It happened in one of the rooms. But we had to have a talk with the managers, like we always do when this happens.”
Dave shudders and turns his attention to an eyeshadow display, “Does that happen a lot?”
The palette that Dave is inspecting catches Brandon’s eyes with its glittery pigment, so he swatches it on his wrist. “I mean, I guess it does. You know, with so many people coming here to get rich off the casinos, when it doesn’t go well they have nothing left for them I guess. It’s a shame. Messy, too. What’s a good way to apply general face glitter, do you think?”
Dave thinks for a moment, “Something for it to stick to, I guess. Foundation?”
“I’ll worry about it later, then,” Brandon says. “That’s not the worst I’ve seen though. Once a man got bludgeoned by a hooker he refused to pay and I heard it over the walkies. The weapon was her shoe.”
“What did you do?” Dave asks.
“Nothing.” Brandon says, finally deciding on an eyeshadow palette he likes. “I was on my lunch break.”
“Yeah, alright. I’m glad I just sell clothes now,” Dave snorts. “Hey, have you heard from Matt?”
Brandon continues down the aisle and spots a selection of highlighter palettes, “I don’t talk to him.”
“You two still aren’t getting along?” Dave asks, sounding disappointed. “You don’t just click with people. You need to make an effort-”
“I’m not going to a UNLV game with him,” Brandon mumbles. “And we clicked.”
Dave sighs, “Well, I haven’t heard from him.”
Brandon pauses what he’s doing, “But, the show.”
“I know.” Well, that’s no good. “I guess we won’t know unless he calls us. Man, we really need cell phones.”
“Would he have called Dell?” Brandon asks.
“I dunno,” Dave shrugs. “I guess I’ll see when I pick him up at the clinic here in…” he glances at his wristwatch. “God, shit.”
Brandon chuckles, “I’ll see you at the venue?”
Dave unloads the items he picked up into Brandon’s arms, tells him that he’ll pay him back later, and runs off. It makes Brandon smile.
Once he’s found everything that he needs to, he checks out at the front and heads out.
Ten miles away and twenty minutes later, Brandon is back to waiting in his car. The sun visor is flipped down so that he can accurately apply his eyeliner and he’s feeling slightly winded after having to change out of his bellhop uniform in the car.
Brandon thinks that if he gives tonight’s show much thought, his hands will go numb. This is the band’s seventh or eighth show and it barely gets easier each time. Dell tells him that there’s been improvement, but he can’t see it.
He’s in a parking lot on Maryland Avenue, a nice area with plenty of college students roaming around. Brandon can’t help but feel a pull to them as they pass by. High School was hard enough and he’s pleased to never have to take another test for the rest of his life, but there’s something missing. Sure, he’s friends with his coworkers, but he hasn’t really had someone for a long time. For the past few months, Dave has been that someone. He’s hesitant to say it, but it’s true. Dave gets him in a way that no one else has since he moved back home a few years ago. But Dave says that people don't click, so maybe Dave doesn’t like him as much as previously thought.
Brandon sighs. He misses his brother.
A horn honks, startling him out of his thoughts. He looks to his left, peering over the slash of duct tape he has put over the crack in his window. Dave and Dell are here now, Dave laughing in the cab of his car while Dell gets out. Brandon quickly finishes up his makeup before getting out to join them.
“Man, you spook easy,” Dave says once he joins Brandon and Dell. “Still no Matt?”
Brandon shrugs, looking around the parking lot. Matt’s very conspicuous red truck is nowhere to be found. “I’ve got nothing.”
Dave looks perturbed, but he is momentarily distracted, “Is that the vest we found at the place on Sahara?”
“Uh,” Brandon looks down at what he’s wearing—it’s just jeans, a band shirt, and the aforementioned white vest. “Yeah, I think so.”
“You should have seen his getup earlier, Dell. We should go back to that store sometime,” Dave’s scrutinizing his outfit now, “especially after prom season.” He’s dressed in a chrome shirt, black blazer, and dark wash jeans. Dell has a sensible polo on. “We’re not late yet, technically, so we’ll give him a few more minutes.”
Brandon blows out a sigh and leans against his car, “What are we playing tonight?”
“Brightside,” Dave says without a moment's thought. “Under the Gun. You wanna do I’ve Got This Feeling?”
“How many are we doing?”
“Six.”
Brandon hums, “Yeah, okay. Dell?”
The man shrugs, “I’d be cool to try out On Top.”
Dave seems to agree, but looks to Brandon for confirmation. The youngest groans, “That one’s really synth heavy, though.”
“You play synth,” Dave deadpans, “that’s your job. You love doing the whammy part at the end.”
“That isn’t a whammy.”
“You don’t know what a whammy is.”
“That’s a pitch bender.”
“You’re a pitch bender.”
Brandon stares at him. Dell has to turn around to compose himself. “Fine, we’ll do it.” The three stand in silence for a few moments, the quiet accentuated by other cars passing and the sound of Dave kicking a rock.
Dave decides to make a big fuss, “Oh, fuck it,” he turns to get his guitar case out of the back seat, “he can just meet us there.” This kicks both Dell and Brandon in gear to get their instruments.
Brandon has started keeping a blanket in the back of his car so that he can make some feeble attempt to hide his keyboard since a few weeks ago, he caught a man peering into his windows for a little too long for it to just be curiosity. He really needs to not have another broken window. Or another stolen car.
Dave and Dell both look so natural with their instrument cases, but Brandon feels like a wobbling baby deer with his. It’s much too big for him, and he’s not excited to cross the road with it. He trails behind the other two men as they begin to leave due to their height on him and the fact that Dave is a speed-walker when he’s fired up like this. It’s stressful, especially with four lanes of traffic in the mix. Once they get to the other side everything is smooth sailing as they walk to the venue.
“You got your cell?” Dave asks as they head down the sidewalk. The question is undoubtedly aimed at Dell because he’s the only one with a cell phone.
“Yeah,” the man responds, fishing the phone out of his pocket with his free hand and giving it to Dave. “You gonna call Matt?”
“I sure fuckin’ hope so,” Dave dials a number and puts the phone up to his ear. “He’s been getting on my last nerve lately, bein’ late and shit.”
Evidently, Matt doesn’t answer because Dave doesn’t say anything else. When they get to the building they head to the second floor where the venue is. It’s quiet up there, save for the crowd, because the next band is setting up. Before Dave can lead them backstage, Brandon stops him by tugging on his jacket sleeve.
“Hey, can you get me a drink?”
Dave wrinkles his nose at him, still annoyed about the Matt situation, “Use your fake.”
Brandon glances back at the bar, “What if they know and they kick us out?”
Dave huffs, his gaze shifting from Brandon to the bar—he’s still trying to get into contact with their drummer, “Get Dell to do it, I’m busy right now.”
Brandon hides his annoyance, instead giving Dell a pair of puppy eyes. He’s gotta lay it on thick with him since he’s so much older than he and Dave, and Dell has had reservations about Brandon drinking in the past for whatever reason.
Dell’s eyes bore into him, but he eventually relents. He passes his bass case to Brandon, “What do you want?”
Brandon ignores his resigned tone and squints at the bar, “Do they have Fireball?”
“I’m gonna get you a Bud Light,” Dell deadpans.
“Oh, come on,” Brandon whines.
Dave snaps the phone shut for the time being and hooks an arm around one of Brandon’s, “You come on.” They shuffle—very awkwardly thanks to Brandon holding two instrument cases—to the stage door, where Dave introduces himself to a bouncer. The burly man then checks a list and makes Dave show him his ID before he allows them to pass, Dave taking a moment to tell the man that Dell is also with them before they go. As Brandon has come to find out, these backstage areas are never very glamorous. There’s just enough room for them to put their stuff down, along with a gross old couch.
“You go and make sure there’s a DI up front for the keyboard. And a stand,” he plops down on the nasty couch and puts the phone to his ear again, “I’m gonna figure this out.”
Brandon puts both of his cases next to where Dave put his, out of the way, and then finds the entrance to the stage. He doesn't want to intrude on the other band, so he stays out of the way by peeking out from behind a curtain. He spots the little black box labeled ‘KEYS’ quickly but rather than retreating back to Dave, he decides to stay a moment to observe the opening band. He’s not sure of their name, but the woman on stage catches his attention. It’s not like there are no female-fronted bands in Vegas, but with the current nu-metal scene it’s been less common.
As he moves on to check out the rest of the band, he locks eyes with the man standing near the drum kit. He doesn’t have much to do, as Tremorz has a kit set up for the night, so maybe that’s why he notices Brandon’s creeping. The man furrows his brow at Brandon but he can tell that it’s in a more joking manner than an inquisitive one. Brandon, ever the socially anxious, bolts.
He heads back to the greenroom and finds Dave firing off at the phone: “...so you can just FORGET it if you’re gonna keep fucking bailing. I swear to God, this is your last fucking chance. If you can’t find it in yourself to show up in the next thirty minutes, you’re OUT! No, you know what? You ARE out! We are tired of dealing with your shit and I’m not just talking about showing up to practice wasted. Who the fuck wears a football jersey to a gig? AND you’re a dick to Brandon—which is ridiculous and we don’t need that energy in the band! You’re fuckin’ FIRED!”
He slams the phone shut and puts his hands on his hips, huffing.
“Uh,” Dave whips around upon hearing Brandon’s voice, “was that him?”
Dave is red in the face, but flushes further when he realizes all that Brandon has heard, “That was his voicemail.”
“Oh,” Brandon scuffs his shoe on the floor, avoiding Dave. He decides to just bite the bullet and sits on the couch, “Well… just like that, huh?” Dave sighs, deciding to sit next to Brandon. The couch is actually more of a collapsed loveseat, their shoulders touching. “Now what?”
“We played our first show without drums, we can do it again,” Dave says, “plus with Dell, we’ll manage.”
Brandon nods, nervous. He wishes that Dell would get back with that beer. “He really was a dick.”
Dave shrugs noncommittally, “Should’a just dropped him after Halloween.” The lights go down outside and the crowd cheers. Dave opens his mouth to continue, but is interrupted when Dell returns with the drinks. He’s gotten two and hands one each to Brandon and Dave. “Oh, goodie,” Dave says. “Well, we just fired Matt.”
Dell stares, dumbfounded, “What?”
Brandon, who immediately began to down his beer, comes up for air, “I had no say.”
“Oh, you’ve never liked the guy,” Dave says, drinking his beer like a normal person. “You’re just too nice to do anything about it.”
“Are we still on?” Dell asks. Dave replies with the same answer that he gave Brandon. “Okay, I guess. Sure.”
They simmer in the fact that they are now a trio and not a quartet. The absence of drums makes Brandon even more anxious about the show, but the fact that Dave is so sure of his decision is calming to him. The thought of no longer having to deal with Matt’s little jabs is relieving as well.
In the meantime before their set, the band finalizes the order of the setlist and prep themselves for a quick setup when the time comes. It really all just depends on how quick the other band can tear their stuff down.
As usual, the time just before and during the show goes by so quickly that Brandon can hardly remember living it.
But there’s always an immeasurable relief once the show is over. There’s also a high that comes with it and knowing that you’re actively living the dream, but the relief comes first. He helps pack up the gear with the guys and heads to the greenroom, but it is not as empty as he had hoped.
It’s that man from before.
He stops in his tracks, which leads Dave to bump into him.
“Oh, come on, dude-” he stops, looking up. “Shit, Vannucci?”
The man seems surprised that Dave knows his name, “Um, yeah? How’d you know?”
Dave and Dell get past Brandon so that they can continue to put their stuff up, “I’ve seen you around at some shows here and there—like Romance Fantasy. I knew the drumming today sounded too good to be true. I hear you’re the best in town.”
The drummer rubs at the back of his neck, bashful, “Oh, I dunno,” he sticks a hand out to Dave, “I’m Ronnie.”
Come to think of it, Brandon has heard the name before. He’s eerily familiar, too, but he can’t place where he’s seen him before. Maybe it’s what Dave said and he just recognizes him from a show.
“Dave,” the guitarist replies. He then points to his other bandmates, “And this is Brandon and Dell.”
“Nice to meet you all,” Ronnie grins. He looks to be around the same age as Dave, but there’s a youthfulness about him. “I just wanted to talk to you guys ‘cause I really liked your show.”
“Well damn!” Dave exclaims, “That means a lot coming from you.”
If Ronnie is uncomfortable at Dave’s infinite praise, he doesn’t show it. “I thought you guys had a drummer, though? Where was he?”
Dave scoffs and Dell rolls his eyes, “Lost ‘em. Or, he lost us. It was last minute. Guess we’re on hiatus, now,” Dave suddenly gets an evil glint in his eye, “too bad you’re taken.”
“Oh!” Ronnie is surprised, “Daphne Major? No, that was just me subbing in for the night for my friend. I’m not in any band right now.”
Dave turns back to Brandon and makes a shocked face at him before winking and turning back, “But what about your other acts?”
Ronnie shrugs, “Deals fell through. Everyone’s feeling kinda jaded right now and I’m just trying to focus on getting a degree at the moment.”
“Oh, college boy,” Dave jokes, “sure we can’t persuade you to the dark side?”
Ronnie seems to fight off the notion in his head like he really wants to join the band, but knows he shouldn't. His eyes wander to Brandon, who is suddenly feeling very shell-shocked. He can’t help but note that Ronnie looks a little sad now.
“I really can’t,” he says. Brandon finds himself growing disappointed even though he doesn’t know the guy. “But!” He pulls out a scrap of paper and scribbles something down with a pen that he miraculously has, “the semester is over so I could help you find a new drummer, if you want. Or I could sub in for you sometime ‘cause I like your songs—they’re fun.” He hands the paper to Brandon, not Dave. The move strikes him as incredibly odd because he hasn’t said a single word this entire time.
“Oh, for sure,” Dave nods enthusiastically. He motions for Ronnie to hand him the pen so that he can give the drummer his number as well. “Just know the offer is always open.”
Dave and Ronnie share a few more parting pleasantries, but Brandon is too busy staring at the paper to even notice when the man leaves.
Notes:
Comments and kudos are very much appreciated :)
Chapter 3: Come Humor Me
Chapter Text
MAY - JULY 2002
“I just think a little press will help them get their name out there, y’know?” Ronnie leans with his back against the kitchen counter’s edge as he continues to pester, “What other pressing issue do you have to write about, hm?”
“That’s not it, dude. I just don’t know if they’ll let me write about a band no one knows about.”
“Well, what happens if you guys become the newspaper that makes them the biggest band in Vegas?” Ronnie points finger guns at his roommate with a goofy open-mouthed grin. He really only knows how to charm through humor, but Ted’s known him too long for it to work every time, “That’s gotta get you a pay bump or something, yeah?”
“Not how it works, man. I’m sorry.”
Ted is one of Ronnie’s roommates and long-time friends, and he currently works as a writer at the Las Vegas Mercury . The paper covers the typical current events and what-not, but their main focus is on the arts scene in Vegas. Rather, that’s the main reason people their age read the Mercury over other papers.
Ronnie and Ted used to be in a band together, only recently disbanded, called Expert on October. After they were written about in the Mercury , Ronnie definitely noticed a few more heads at their next show. This was before Ted even wrote for the paper, so its outreach must count for something.
After seeing The Killers perform at Tremorz the other night, Ronnie thought they could use a publicity boost. There was an earnestness in their performance that Ronnie felt he hadn’t seen in a long time, and they managed to show it without a drummer. If anything, going onstage without a drummer is the definition of sincerity, albeit ballsy as hell.
That thought weighed on Ronnie’s head a bit in recent days, he can’t deny it. They don’t have a drummer , he would think to himself, you could offer again . He’s been trying to shake the idea from his head because it’s selfish—you don’t just invite yourself into someone else’s gig.
But, a good favor could go a long way.
“Look,” Ronnie concedes as he watches Ted stir his coffee, “at the very least, could you just ask your boss? You can’t lose your job for asking, can you?”
“No, I suppose not.” Ted steps back from the counter and sips from his mug, “But say I get the green light, what if I don’t want to write about… what was their name again?”
“The Killers.”
“Yeah, what if I don’t want to write about The Killers?”
“I mean you have that right, of course, this is America.” Ronnie ponders, “But what if I offer to take the trash outside for a whole month?” Ted chuckles curtly, “Okay, two months. And if you say no, I’ll tell the other guys you passed up an opportunity for the whole house.”
“Jesus, you’re desperate,” Ted laughs again, “Sure, okay. I’ll ask.”
“Thank you, man,” Ronnie smiles and lands his palm on Ted’s shoulder, “I really don’t think you’ll regret it. They were cool.”
“Just don’t expect me to praise them like gods, if they’re weird or assholes I’m writing about them like that. I describe what I’m shown, not what my roommate tells me.”
“Hey, freedom of the press,” Ronnie’s hands are raised at chest-level with his palms out defensively, “do as you please, Capote.”
“He wasn’t even a journa- whatever, I gotta get ready.” Ted looks at the clock on the stove, “You do too, don’t you have work in fifteen?”
“Fuck,” Ronnie looks down at his pajamas, “time flies when you’re a begging man.”
Eight hours later at quarter-past-six, Ronnie is still in his work clothes while he eats Chinese food out of the carton. Ted walks in the front door, giving Ronnie a reason to look up from his lukewarm meal.
“What’s poppin’, Theodore?”
“Don’t call me that,” Ted kicks his shoes off at the door, “where are the guys?”
“They went to see the new Star Wars while we were at work. Don’t you think they should die for that?”
“What the fuck? Yeah!” Ted walks over and plops down on the couch next to Ronnie, “Guess this is what we get for not being freeloaders.” Ronnie chuckles through a bite of food.
“So,” Ronnie starts after a few moments of silence between them, “did you ask the boss man?”
“Yeah, I did.” Ted pauses for too long, making Ronnie stare up from his near-empty container.
“Well, what gives? Tell me.”
“You were being serious about the trash?” Ted muses with a smirk, earning an eye roll from Ronnie.
“Yes, Jesus… quit it with the suspense.”
“He said yes. Actually, he was happy at the idea of getting some new meat in the July issue.”
“Mmm... gross,” the two men laugh, “you’re welcome for the brilliant idea.”
“Shut up,” Ted yawns, “you gotta set up the interview time, though. Just let me know when they’re free. The sooner the better, our editor’s meeting is at the end of the month and that would be the one day I couldn’t leave work to do it.”
“Sure thing, I’ll call Dave tonight and get back to you ASAP,” Ronnie feigns a big, goofy smile, “thank youuuu.”
“You’re so weird for this, y’know? You aren’t even in the band.”
“Yeah, I honestly don’t know,” Ronnie shakes his head, poking the bottom of the lo mein container with his fork, “it just felt like something I had to do. Well, something I had to get you to do. So thanks.”
“I’m gonna hop in the shower,” Ted stands up from the couch with a stretch, “if Jason and Caleb come back, tell them they suck.”
“Will do, bud.”
Ronnie decides he might as well try and get ahold of Dave now while it's on his mind. He heads to his room and plops down on the side of his bed next to the phone on his nightstand. He digs his wallet out of his pocket and pulls out the piece of paper with Dave’s number scrawled on it. Ronnie starts bouncing his leg while the line rings, and rings, and rings. Finally, Dave’s voicemail answers:
“Hey, it’s Dave. Sorry I’m not home right now, leave your number and I’ll hit you back soon. For emergencies or Killers quandaries, try calling the Banana Republic in Desert Passage or the front desk at the Gold Coast. See ya…”
Ronnie ponders for a second, wondering if it’s really urgent enough to bother Dave at work. Furthermore, which one does Dave work at? Ronnie would bet money that the singer worked at Banana Republic, but he also couldn’t see the Gold Coast letting Dave be the guy that greets new arrivals.
Worst case scenario: Dave isn’t at either and Ronnie would just have to leave a message on his home phone. Deeming this as a non-threatening situation, Ronnie decides to try Banana Republic since Dave mentioned it first.
Ronnie has the mall’s directory number memorized from his time working the petty carts at Desert Passage, and a few minutes later the phone is ringing.
“Thank you for calling Banana Republic, how may I help you today?’ It’s a joyful voice, but a woman’s.
“Hey! I was looking to talk to Dave if he’s there,” Ronnie starts bouncing his leg again, “you can tell him it’s Ronnie, uh, Ronnie Vannucci.”
“Sure thing, one moment.”
Ronnie’s eyes wander to his bedroom’s ugly popcorn ceiling while the hold music plays. It’s not a bad apartment, but it sure is an ugly one. Maybe a year from now he’ll be somewhere else, somewhere without roommates or popcorn ceilings.
“Heyo, Vannucci!” This pulls Ronnie out from his brief reverie.
“Hey, man! I was looking to ask about an interview my friend wants to do with your band,” a little fib could go a long way.
“What, dude? An interview? That’s craz- oh, one second Ronnie…” he trails off, and Ronnie hears murmuring about fitting rooms, “Sorry for that, it’s kinda packed in here right now. We got this chino sale going on.”
“Oh, no worries at all. You can call me back when you’re home if that works better for you.”
“No, no I don’t want to forget. An interview sounds amazing. Uh… you know, Brandon’s working at the Gold Coast right now and it shouldn’t be too busy. No one really checks in at this time. You want the front desk number?”
“Uh,” Ronnie feels a wave of unease but can’t stop himself from responding, “yeah that’d be great.”
“Awesome, you gonna write it down?”
“Yeah, uh, one sec,” Ronnie opens the drawer of his nightstand and grabs a pen, wedging the phone between his shoulder and cheek, “go for it.” He has no paper, so he readies the pen’s tip on the back of his hand.
“It’s 702… 367… 7111, you got that?”
Ronnie repeats the number back to him, “Is that right?”
“Bingo,” Dave says quickly, “alright I gotta let you go, there’s a crazy line now. Thanks for calling, I’m stoked!”
“Of course, have a good day, man.” Ronnie barely gets the last word out before the line goes dead. He stares at the number on his hand and sighs.
Brandon didn’t say a word to him that night at Tremorz, making it harder for him to want to initiate a phone call right now. He was different from other lead singers that were quiet; Ronnie could tell Brandon’s silence came from shyness, not arrogance. Ronnie saw it when he first laid eyes on Brandon in the wings of the stage the other night, peeking behind a curtain. Ronnie was going to walk over and say hi, but Brandon fearfully stepped back into the shadows before he could take his first step.
If there’s any time to redeem that ‘hi’, it’s now. But, God, he’s nervous. It pisses him off a bit, honestly, Ronnie doesn’t get nervous. Not about phone calls, at least.
Ronnie slowly dials the number and puts the phone to his ear once more, biting the corner of his pinkie nail as the line rings. His leg is still bouncing, faster now as each ring means he’s closer to an answer.
“ Hello, this is the Gold Coast! How can I help you today? ” Ronnie doesn’t recognize the voice, not that he’d be able to anyway.
“Hey! Is, uh, is Brandon there?”
“ Yes, this is him speaking! What can I do for you, sir? Are you looking for a room? ” Ronnie can hear the familiar insincerity of Brandon’s customer service voice and it makes him smirk.
“This is Ronnie from the other night at Tremorz. Dave gave me this number to reach you at.”
“ Oh, hey Ronnie... ” Brandon pauses for a few seconds, too long to be comfortable, “ Um, would you mind holding for a sec? ” Brandon’s hospitality voice has melted away and he sounds much less robotic, though his talking voice is breathier than Ronnie imagined.
“Of course, take your time.”
“ Thanks ,” Brandon chuckles and Ronnie waits for the hold music to start, but it doesn’t. He hears Brandon mutter some things, but he’s too far away from the receiver to pick up what it was. After another silence that lasts a bit too long, Ronnie hears the phone being picked up again.
“ Hey, man! Good to hear from you, what’s up? ” Brandon’s voice is steadier and the slightest bit deeper.
“Not much, really. Long story short, my roommate Ted works for Las Vegas Mercury and-”
“ Oh? I read that every Monday! Sorry to interrupt, that’s just cool ,” Brandon blurts out.
“No, no it’s okay,” Ronnie chuckles and continues, “but yeah he does pieces for the music column and he’s interested in an interview with you guys.”
“ Really? ” Brandon waits a beat, “ Why? Wait—no that’s not what I meant... ”
“No, I know what you mean,” Ronnie stalls and thinks of a small white lie, “he was also at the Tremorz show and thought the band sounded dope! His boss has been wanting some new artists in the scene for one of their July issues and you guys seemed like the right fit.”
“ Oh, wow… ” Brandon honestly sounds taken aback, as if he’s starting a rehearsed acceptance speech, “ that’s crazy. I’d love to, did Dave say he wanted to ?”
“Yeah! Yeah, he gave me this number so that I could get the ‘okay’ from you. I hope you’re not too busy.”
“ Nah, not really. It’s pretty dead right now, ” Brandon breathes out loud enough for Ronnie to hear, “ God, an interview feels so weird. I’m feeling like, I dunno, like fuckin’ Danny Elfman or something .”
“Danny Elfman?” Ronnie inquires with a smile spread across his face, “You like Oingo?”
“ You really shouldn’t get me started ,” Brandon laughs, “ but yes—HUGE Oingo Boingo fan .”
“Nice, they’re cool.” Ronnie feels eased enough to lay down on his bed, fiddling with the phone wire in his hand.
“ No, they are most definitely not cool ,” Brandon responds, making Ronnie laugh.
“Well, at least you know. They’re talented, though, no doubt about that,” Ronnie forgets the reason he called, “you don’t find a lot of Oingo fans in Vegas, I must say.”
“ Yeah, it’s good for my ego for sure .”
Ronnie laughs again—this guy is funny. Like, actually funny. Ronnie, as self-indulgent as it is, notices when people truly make him laugh. When you’re unwillingly deemed the “funny one” your whole life, it becomes impossible not to notice these things. But damn, Brandon is funny.
“I never got the chance to tell you how much I liked the show,” Ronnie mentions, “I know I told Dave who was next to you, but you especially were really great.”
“ Oh, gosh, ” Brandon laughs in a way Ronnie is unsure he’s ever heard before, “ I don’t know about that. Thank you, though .”
“I get it, man. It’s tough out there,” Ronnie begins tapping his fingers rhythmically on his chest as he stares at the ceiling, which doesn’t seem as ugly anymore. “But you’re in a really good spot, even if you have some room to improve.”
“ Lots of room to improve, dude. I can hardly listen to our songs when we play them back ,” Brandon scoffs, “ but again, thank you .”
“You guys are recording?” Ronnie asks through a smile, “How exciting.”
“ Yeah, it’s been a bit rocky here and there but we're getting somewhere- aw, shit… ” Brandon trails off, “ my manager’s eyeing me down, I think he knows I’m not talking to a customer. ”
“I can pretend to be one,” the drummer jokes, earning a chuckle from Brandon.
“ I’ll have to let you go, could we finish this talk tonight? ”
“Of course,” Ronnie sits up, “what time will you be home?”
“ My shift ends at 10 but I gotta shower and eat once I get home. I’ll call you back no later than midnight, I hope. ” Ronnie begins to respond but Brandon continues, “ Unless that’s too late, I can get back to you another time .”
“No, no! Midnight is perfect. Sorry that I did this during your shift, I just wanted to be able to tell Ted as soon as possible,” Ronnie doesn’t know why he’s upset this phone call is ending.
“ Oh, don’t apologize. You made my shift a bit less miserable ,” Brandon clears his throat, “ Alright, I gotta go for real now. It’s been so nice to talk to you… Ronnie Vannucci .”
“Pleasure’s all mine, Brandon… “ Ronnie raises his inflection at the end, asking without explicitly asking.
“ Flowers… Brandon Flowers .”
“Is th-”
“ No, unfortunately it is not a stage-name ,” Brandon concludes, “ bye-bye now, talk to you soon. ”
“Sure thing, Brandon Flowers.”
It isn’t until Ronnie puts the phone back down that he notices the warmth in his cheeks, He jumps off his bed and turns on his fan in vain.
Entering the living room once more, he smells weed and hears laughing coming from his other roommate’s door. The drummer bounds up the stairs to Ted’s closed bedroom door and knocks.
“Are you dressed?”
“Yeah, come in.”
Ronnie opens the door just to step in enough to lean on the doorframe. Ted is at his desk with a notebook and a large open book.
“So,” Ronnie starts, “I just got off the phone with Brandon, the singer, and the band’s on board with the interview.”
Ted leans back in his chair, “What happened to Dave?”
“Oh, he just redirected me to Brandon ‘cause he couldn’t really talk.”
“He better work on that before the interview,” Ted smirks.
“You should write Sunday comics instead, smartass.” Ronnie straightens his back and mirrors Ted’s half-smile.
“Did he say when they’d be available?”
“Nah, not yet,” Ronnie steps forward a bit and crosses his arms, “Brandon’s gonna call back when he’s out of work to clear that up.”
“You called him at work?” Ted scoffs.
“Well, yeah. Dave said I could. He just works front desk at the Gold Coast,” Ronnie remembers the customer service voice fondly.
“Quite the rockstar, huh?”
“Quit being so snippy. Your boss wants the interview, dude,” Ronnie sounds more defensive than he thought in his head.
“Hey, I’m really just joking. I’m happy I don’t have to find my next material myself.”
“Yeah, you’re welcome for that,” Ronnie nudges Ted’s shoulder with his fist.
“I’m not thanking you, man.”
“You will when they’re big,” Ronnie turns at his heel and is almost out the door when he stops and turns back, “oh, and a few more things…”
“What is it?”
“I may have told him that the interview was your idea,” Ted’s chuckle cuts through Ronnie’s words, “and that you were at the Tremorz show.”
“Yeah,” Ted leans back over his notebook, “I’m not sure how you’d explain to them that it was your plan.”
“Just don’t act like you have no idea who they are when you meet them and we’re golden,” Ronnie chucks a single thumbs up as he backs out of the door.
“Whatever you say,” Ted waves the hand holding his pen, “close the door, please.”
“What are you even doing?” Ronnie squints at the desk with a hand on the doorknob.
“Taking notes on the way this dude is writing. Just for, y’know, improvement or whatever.”
“Nerd,” Ronnie draws the door shut, “goodnight, Teddy bear.” The door is shut before Ronnie can hear whatever Ted says about the goofy nickname.
Ronnie bounds down the stairs and plops himself down on the couch. The sound must have alerted his roommate, because the bedroom door to his right opens.
“Hey, Ron,” Caleb’s head peeks out from behind the door, “wanna smoke?”
“Uh,” Ronnie glares at the clock on the cable box. It’s barely eight o’ clock now, so he’s got some serious time to kill before Brandon calls back, “Yeah, sure.”
“Attaboy,” Caleb opens the door wider and the smell grows stronger. Ronnie sits up from the couch with a soft grunt,
“If you mention anything about Star Wars , I’m ripping your dicks off.”
“You’re not getting anywhere near my dick, buddy,” his other roommate, Jason, declares from behind the door.
The next four hours are still painstakingly slow. Ronnie hangs around with Caleb and Jason for almost two hours, just talking about nothing and filling the room with stifled coughs. Jason starts getting on Ronnie’s nerves, so he eventually retires back to his room. He’d prefer to watch something in the living room, but doesn’t want to deal with his roommates laughing in the background.
Ronnie decides to put on one of his favorite CDs, At San Quentin by Johnny Cash, and takes out his small practice pad. He drums along loosely to the live songs, zoning in and out of a daydream where he’s playing in front of an audience. Ronnie doesn’t think he’s as good as people say, but he’s getting better. He hopes he is, at least. He wants to play for bigger crowds, crowds that care and sing back to the band. Crowds that recognize a song by the sound of his drums or the first notes of the guitar.
Ronnie doesn’t have a place in Daphne Major and his most recent bands have fallen apart. He’s felt like he’s been in limbo for months now, just waiting for some shift to happen. Not fame or success, necessarily. Just something different.
But here, in his warmly-lit room and a subtle daze still working at his head, he can pretend his practice pad has cymbals and a snare. He can make believe that he’s Mr. Cash’s unworthy drummer. Ronnie wouldn’t mind; he dreams of having a frontman to look up to one day. Someone who wants it as bad as he does.
Nevertheless, after thirty-four minutes, the CD stops and Ronnie puts down his sticks. He looks at his alarm clock and it’s only 10:43. God , life is so dull sometimes.
Ronnie goes into the kitchen and makes himself a sandwich, moreso to waste time than feeling “the munchies”. He opens a beer and flips through a copy of Rolling Stone on the kitchen island. He’s careful to wipe his fingers on a napkin before each turn of the page because it’s technically Ted’s magazine as he’s the one with the subscription.
Does Brandon still have the paper with his number on it? Will Brandon get home and realize he can’t find it? Will Brandon simply forget about the call? Ronnie only wonders because he’s starting to feel tired. It’s not even that late, work just always wears him out. Smoking didn’t help either, and now he’s wondering if he’s staying up for no reason.
Ronnie returns to an article about U2 and tries to clear his thoughts. It’s not worth worrying about, it’s just a phone call. Yet, he can’t help the weird feeling of disappointment he gets when he thinks of not talking to Brandon that night. He doesn’t want to leave Ted hanging, after all. And now he’s worrying again.
Ronnie takes the paper plate that’s been empty for over ten minutes now and tosses it in the trash. He swigs his beer back, half-empty now, and stares at the couch, contemplating watching something.
Then, the phone rings. It startles Ronnie a bit, as the clock only reads 11:17.
“That’s for me!” Ronnie yells to his roommates before darting into his room. He grabs the ringing phone, hunched over his nightstand, “Hey, it’s Ronnie.”
“ Hi! It’s Brandon. I’m glad you’re still up ,” the voice on the phone is airy and slightly giddy, but there’s a sense of exhaustion behind it.
“I would hope so, it’s not even midnight. You’re back earlier than I was expecting,” Ronnie lays on his bed and twirls the cord around his finger unconsciously.
“ Oh, yeah. I just grabbed something from the food court for dinner. I called as soon as I was dressed ,” Brandon chuckles, “ so, what else do I need to know about this interview? ”
“Uh, we just need a time you guys would be available. The sooner, the better since Ted’s boss wants it out for their last July issue.”
“ I don’t know about Dave’s schedule but I can check in with him tomorrow morning, ” Brandon pauses, “ I work a graveyard shift 10pm-2am a lot. Today was just a fluke, I covered someone’s shift because they took mine for our last show.”
“So, I was just lucky to catch you on the phone today, huh?”
“ Yeah,” Brandon huffs out a laugh , “yeah, you really were .”
“Do you think, like, three or four in the afternoon would work? I want you to get enough sleep.”
“ That’d be perfect. I know Dave usually has Wednesdays and Thursdays off. I’ll ask him tomorrow about next week if that’s not too soon, ” Brandon yawns through his last few words.
“I think that’d work well, I’ll ask Ted when we hang up,” Ronnie doesn’t want Brandon to think he’s ready to leave the call just yet, “how was work?”
“ Oh, work? Work was… well, it was fine, ” Brandon chuckles again and Ronnie’s starting to think it’s a nervous habit, “ Nothing special. ”
“Your sleep schedule must be screwed now,” Ronnie smirks to himself and doesn’t know why.
“ You would think, but it feels like I’m perpetually tired sometimes ,” Brandon pauses for a second, briefly leaving Ronnie to wonder if he should speak again, “ Do you work, or is music the full-time gig? ”
“God, no. I wish,” Ronnie rubs at his eyebrow with the side of his hand, “I’m a wedding photographer at the Little Chapel of the Flowers.”
“Oh, that’s cool! What’s it like there? ” Brandon sounds truly intrigued, unlike most of the locals who hear this.
“Uh, it’s work, I suppose. The best part is meeting the different people who come through.”
“ A lot of whackos, I presume? ” Brandon laughs, once again.
“You’d think, yeah. But there’s just as many couples who are looking for a cheap wedding. They’ve been together for years and just don’t see the point in extravagance. It’s nice, in a way.” Ronnie wants to make Brandon laugh again, “But not nearly as interesting as the dudes who come in with a new wife every few months.”
“ Oh gosh ,” Brandon chuckles airily and Ronnie smirks in success, “ do you like taking the pictures at least? ”
“Yeah, I love my camera and working with it. I mean, weddings aren’t my favorite things to take pictures of but I can’t complain too much. There are definitely worse things to be doing.”
“ But you do want to do music full-time? Like, in an ideal world? ” Brandon sounds like he’s smiling, but that could just be his voice.
“Of course. I really can’t think of anything I’d rather do,” Ronnie feels a small sadness inside him as he says this.
“ Me, too! I totally agree, man. A lot of people in the scene are cool with just doing it for fun—which is nice and all. But I’ve always felt crazy for wanting more, ” Brandon breathes out loud enough for the phone to pick it up, “ It’s just nice to hear that someone feels the same, I guess. ”
“My old bands were kinda like that. We had a lot of fun but when that drive for success, or whatever you wanna call it, dwindled we just kinda fell apart.”
“ Oh, yeah. Dave was telling me you were in Expert on October, right? ”
“I sure was,” Ronnie winces a little, “have you listened to us?”
“ Not personally, no. Sorry ,” Brandon chuckles, sounding actually nervous this time.
“No, no I’m grateful for that, actually. There’s one track on our album where we’re goofing around and it embarrasses me a bit.”
“ Well, you just ensured that I’ll definitely be listening to it sometime soon, ” Brandon says slyly.
“Goddamn it,” Ronnie laughs and Brandon joins him, “guess I dug myself that hole.”
“ You sure did. I heard about you guys when I was a senior in high school .”
“Jeez, how old are you, then?” Ronnie worries for a moment that he’s prying, or being a dick, or both.
“ I’ll be twenty-one soon, ” Brandon says in a slightly defeated voice that Ronnie can’t understand.
“Oh, wow! You’re a baby, dude. Any big plans for the birthday?”
“ Uh, not really. I’ve had a fake ID since I was sixteen, so. Nothing too special to me, I suppose ,” Brandon is quick to speak again, “ how old are you ? ”
“You should never ask a lady their age, Mr. Flowers,” Brandon laughs in that strange way of his on the other end, “I’m twenty-six.”
“ Damn, you don’t seem that old. Not that you’re old! I mean li- ”
“No, no. I get that a lot. Maybe it’s my youthful charm, ‘cause it’s definitely not my hairline.” This makes Brandon cackle, “You laughed a bit too hard at that one, man.” Ronnie is laughing almost as hard now. It’s not even that funny, really. He just feels good.
Suddenly, Jason’s voice breaks through from the living room, “Ronnie! Are you still on the fucking phone, man?”
“One sec,” Ronnie utters to Brandon and covers the microphone to yell back at Jason, “Yeah! What’s the problem?!”
“I’m trying to call Stacy! Can you hurry it up, please?!”
“It hasn’t even been five minutes, dude! Chill out!” Ronnie rolls his eyes and returns to the phone call slightly embarrassed, “Sorry about that. This fuckin’ roommate of mine.”
“ Oh, don’t worry about it. How many do you have? ”
“Three, but I only like two of them unfortunately,” Ronnie hopes Jason can’t hear him, but he also doesn’t really care, “How about you?”
“ Me? Oh, I live alone. Just a shitty one-bed, one-bath ,” another signature chuckle follows.
“Enjoy it while you have it, man. I wish I was alone sometimes, not that I could afford it.”
“ I hardly do ,” Brandon yawns again, “ I think I’ll let you go. It sounds like someone else wants to use the phone. ”
“Oh,” Ronnie questions the disappointment that fills his chest. He sits up, “Sure thing. Give me a call back if you get a date out of Dave. I’ll be sure to mention it to Ted.”
“ Of course, I’ll give him a call as soon as I’m awake, ” Brandon assures, “ and you give me a call if you wanna entertain me at work again .”
“With those hours? Fat chance, bud.”
“ I can’t blame you, ” Brandon pauses, “ Thank you for letting us know about the interview, really. ”
“Hey, it’s the least I could do. I’m excited for you guys,” Ronnie believes every word he says.
“ Thanks ,” the last breathy chuckle of the night comes over the phone’s speaker, “ have a good night, Ronnie. Sleep well .”
“You too, talk to you soon.”
“ I hope so, see you later! ”
The line clicks and the dull hum of the dropped call rings in Ronnie’s ear. He hopes that Brandon meant the last part as a promise more so than a nicety. He smiles to himself and rubs his face with both hands. With a sigh, he plops the phone down on its holder and calls out,
“Jason! Phone is open!” Ronnie switches to a whisper, “Fuckin’ asshole.”
Three weeks later, Brandon watches from the window as Dell leads Dave to his car—the older man not taking much care to make sure that Dave doesn't hit his head as he gets in. He glances back to check the clock—it’s getting very late now—and by the time he’s looking out the window again, Dell is pulling out of the parking lot.
He’s about to return to the couch and maybe turn the TV on before he decides that he should grab the phone, just in case. And that bottle of whiskey that Dave had left on the counter, half empty.
Oh, Dave’s probably going to be pissed at him when he wakes up. Maybe he should have another drink-
But he’s all alone now.
You were alone before, what little reason he still has says to him. But Brandon had been asleep, then, and he wasn’t drunk. Oh! Right, the drink-
What if you choke on it?
Oh, what the fuck? Brandon half-sighs, half-whimpers. He would just go back to bed but he’d had a few too many drinks and heard that you could have a heart attack if you drank too much. He thinks that happened to his dad once. But if he’s gonna die, might as well do it while he’s asleep.
He pours the drink anyway. All the ice that was in his glass before has disappeared somewhere and getting more would require moving, so he doesn’t. He’ll just sit and drink and not think about choking ‘cause maybe that will make him a little less anxious.
Oh, this is so dumb.
He eyes the phone and wonders if he should call someone. It’s not like they would be able to help him anyway and begging Dell and Dave to come back would be too embarrassing. Everyone else he really knows doesn't live in Vegas exceeeeept…
Brandon frowns at the phone. What the hell, might as well.
He dials a number he’s called a few times in the past few weeks, enough to have it memorized. They’ve been talking more lately, ever since the band needed help finding a new drummer. It’s been nice to have another friend, if you could call it that. They’ve never hung out, but chatting on the phone feels right. As the phone rings, he sets his glass back down on his coffee table and he leans back on the couch. He really wishes he could have a smoke.
“Hello?” A groggy voice answers.
“Ronnie?” He asks.
“No, who the fuck is this?”
Brandon pouts, “It’s Brandon.”
“Man, you’ve got some nerve calling this late.”
“Can you go get Ronnie, pretty please?”
“Everyone’s asleep.”
Brandon huffs and sits up a little straighter, “Listen, asshat, I need to talk to Ronnie so if you could please-”
“Jesus! Fine! When he gets pissed at me for waking him up I’ll be sure to tell him it was you,” there’s a thud—presumably the phone being put down. Brandon really wishes that Ronnie would have just answered so he didn’t have to go through that.
“Brandon?” He hears after a minute.
“Oh, thank God,” Brandon sighs and slumps back over.
“ You-” Ronnie sounds tired as well, “ Jason said you were drunk.”
“Yeah, listen, I just wanted to talk to you.”
Ronnie yawns, “At two in the morning?”
“I-” this is going poorly, “I’m sorry, I just needed to talk to someone-”
“Hey, hey,” Ronnie says, hushed, “it’s okay. What are you doing?”
“Uh,” he glances around his apartment, “I’m just at home, right now.”
“You didn’t have a show tonight?” Ronnie asks, sounding perplexed.
“No, not this week.”
“So what are you doing up?”
“Dave came and-” oh God, Dave, “well he woke me up ‘cause we had a… it’s complicated.”
“Is Dave okay?”
“Oh, Dave’s peachy!” He grumbles, “But he’s gonna be so fuckin’ pissed at me tomorrow ‘cause he took two days off work for this but I didn’t know he meant today , you know?”
“Right,” Ronnie says, “is Dave still there?”
“No, he just left with Dell.”
“ So why not go back to sleep?”
“‘Cause today’s my birthday,” Brandon explains.
“Oh, happy birthday!”
“I try, you know,” Brandon says, “I really wanted to have a good day but-”
“The day hasn’t even started, man,” Ronnie says. “You’ve still got time.”
“No, I wish it would just be Saturday already. I don’t know if I can- I’ve got this feeling, like, something bad is gonna happen?”
Ronnie is silent for a moment, “Are you okay?”
Brandon takes a leap of faith, “Will you come over?”
“I…” Ronnie sighs, “I don’t know where you live.”
“You know the Desert Pine Villas,” Brandon is quick to answer, “off over there on Rochelle?”
“ You live at Desert Pine?”
“No, I live behind it. At Sea Fox.”
He hears Ronnie snort, “ Sea Fox?”
“On Spencer Street. 2B.”
“Okay.”
“That’s on the second floor.”
“I know, Brandon.”
“Okay… are you- how long, do you think?” He looks to the door and wonders if he remembered to lock it.
“Let me put some pants on and then I’ll head out.”
“Can you stay on? Just until you leave?”
“Sure man,” there’s another thumping noise as Ronnie sets the phone down and puts it on speaker, “what do you wanna talk about?”
Brandon decides to tell Ronnie about a new song he’s just started writing about a girl who gets murdered by her boyfriend. Ronnie takes an interest in it and by the time he’s done getting dressed, Brandon feels a little more okay than he did before. That is, until he has to hang up. Ronnie promises that he’ll be there in less than twenty minutes and tells him that he should turn on the TV or something. Luckily for him, the remote is on the coffee table so he’s able to switch it on and lay down on the couch. The news is on from where he was watching it before he went to bed, so he changes it to the next channel. It’s a soap opera in Spanish which he only understands a quarter of.
He’s so involved in it that by the time Ronnie knocks on his door fifteen minutes later, it makes Brandon jump. Brandon answers it quickly, happy to finally have someone there to keep him company. There Ronnie is, wearing sweatpants and a UNLV marching band shirt—his savior.
“Oh, thank God,” Brandon moves aside to let him in. Once Ronnie is inside, he locks his door and pulls on the knob three times just to be sure.
“You weren’t lying when you said this place was small,” Ronnie says as he looks around. He turns back to Brandon, “you still doing good?”
“Do you want a drink?” Brandon motions to the whiskey on the table, “Since you’re here?”
“Oh,” Ronnie glances at the bottle, “I don’t really drink like that.”
Brandon squints at him, “Really? I’ve got beer, too.”
Ronnie chuckles and follows Brandon to sit on the couch, “No, I’m good, man. How old are you today?”
“Twenty-one,” he grimaces.
“What?” Ronnie smiles at him, “You don’t like your birthday?” Brandon shakes his head but otherwise says nothing. “So, Dave came over?”
Brandon groans, “He came over and woke me up. I thought we were going out tomorrow night but I guess we misunderstood each other so he just showed up and was banging on my door at midnight with Dell and I really thought that someone was trying to get in and kill me.”
“Oh,” Ronnie says.
“Yeah, so it turns out Dave wanted to go out tonight and go bar hopping since I don’t have to use my fake anymore and he had it all planned out that we were going to go to all of our favorite places and I just shut him down so he’s probably gonna be pissed.”
“Why not just go out tonight?” Ronnie asks.
“‘Cause…” Brandon pauses. The reason is embarrassing. “Well, ‘cause I just don’t want to.”
“Fair enough,” Ronnie shrugs. “Then what happened?”
“Well Dave wanted to pregame so he brought over this bottle of whiskey for shots and I’ve got beers in the fridge that we had. So he stayed over just until I called you.”
“I hope he didn’t drive,” Ronnie says, concerned.
“No, that’s what Dell was for.” Brandon leans back on the couch. “And Dave wanted us to invite Buss to the pregame ‘cause we need to bond more but I didn’t want a kid in my apartment, you know? What if something happened? That’s my name on the lease.”
“Is that your new drummer Brian?” Ronnie asks. “How old is he?”
“Fuckin’ sixteen.”
Ronnie reacts to this physically, “Really? I don’t blame you, dude. When I was sourcing drummers, he must have lied about his age. You’re saying Dave was gonna get him drunk?”
“Well, Buss has drank before. I had beers at sixteen so… whatever, but Dell didn’t like it either.” He eyes the bottle of whiskey again. “I think that was my birthday present.”
“I would have gotten you something if I had more time,” Ronnie says.
“I don’t mind Buss drinkin’ ‘cause he can do whatever he wants, you know? But I don't want it taking place here ‘cause if he dies I might get sued by his parents.”
“How noble of you,” Ronnie says dryly.
Brandon nods along, “And! We had that out of state show last week. Did you hear about that? Buss was drinkin’ with us then as well.”
“Was that in LA?” Ronnie mirrors Brandon and gets more comfortable.
“Yeah, he went in Dell’s car and I heard he slept the whole way up,” Brandon pulls his legs up on the couch. “‘Cause it was me and Dave and Corlene in a van that Dave had rented for the gear—do you know her? Corlene Byrd?” Ronnie nods. “That’s good. She’s cool. She’s kinda like our manager. Anyway, that’s a five hour drive for this fuckin’ show that no one showed up to. It was on Fathers’ Day. Did you know that? The kid missed Fathers’ Day ‘cause he was hamming it up to an audience of four in Los Angeles with three old men that he knows for whatever reason. I even did his makeup for him.”
“You’re only five years older than him,” Ronnie points out.
“So that night we had a shitty motel room on the outskirts of the city ‘cause there was no way Dave was gonna drive back after that. There were only two beds and Corlene got one ‘cause she’s a woman and Buss got the other ‘cause he’s a kid and no one wanted to share with him. Corlene said I could share with her but only me, which I thought was strange. But I felt weird about that still so it was just me and Dell and Dave left over.”
“Okay,” Ronnie is grinning huge, Brandon notices.
“So there was a tiny couch in there and Dell got that ‘cause he’s—he’s fuckin’ thirty or something I don’t even know how old he is—and his back was gonna hurt if he slept in the floor. So Dave was on the floor between the beds and I slept in the bathroom.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“‘Cause me and Dave were hammered and it looked good at the time. And there were only so many pillows in that room so I didn’t have one so I slept with my head on a rolled up towel. And I used a towel as a blanket.”
Ronnie nods, “How did that go?”
“I actually liked it. I dunno but something about being in the tub with the curtain drawn all curled up made me feel safe. Like a coffin. Until Dave turned the showerhead on to wake me up the next morning.”
“Well, sorry your show went bad.”
Brandon exhales deeply at the memory, “Yeah, that sucked. I think we need a new new drummer.”
Ronnie furrows his brows, “Did Brian do something wrong?”
“No,” Brandon crosses his arms. “I just can’t wait two years for him to grow up. What if something happens to him?”
“Right, you mentioned that,” Ronnie says, looking conflicted. “You’re gonna break the kid’s heart. It’s only been a month.”
“I don’t know how he expects to stay in the band when school starts back in August. Are you hearing me? It’s ridiculous. Kid’s got school. In August.”
Ronnie yawns, “I mean, I can try to find you another but indie drummers are hard to come by in this town.”
“You should just join the band.” Ronnie snorts. “I’m serious!”
“I know you are,” Ronnie says. “And I love your music. But I’m trying to get this degree. I’ve given up trying to be a star, Brandon.”
“Well, that’s dumb,” Brandon remarks. “My brother gave up his dream and look where it got him.”
“You have a brother?”
“Texas. He lives in Texas. He was gonna be the next Tiger Woods,” he sighs.
“I’m sorry, man,” Ronnie says. “Hey, why don’t you get in bed? You seem tired.”
“How about you just play with us sometime?” Brandon yawns. “It might be fun. You don’t have to join or anything if you don’t want to—I just wanna play with you.”
“I, um, sure. We can do that,” Ronnie nods. But we can figure that out tomorrow. You should go to bed.”
Brandon pauses, “Well, now that you’ve mentioned it…”
Ronnie smiles, “Yeah, your little California story tired us all out.”
Brandon freezes, “Are you leaving?”
Ronnie blinks at him, then looks at the clock, then looks back at him, “I mean, I guess I don’t have to?”
“That would be great,” Brandon stands, sluggish, and walks to his linen closet. “I got a quilt. You like quilts?”
“Uh, sure,” Ronnie replies, sounding very unsure.
Brandon grabs the quilt and a pillow and brings them back to the couch, “This is a nice couch—you’ll like it.”
“Better than a bathtub,” Ronnie comments.
“I don’t know about that,” Brandon watches and Ronnie props the pillow up on one end of the couch. “I guess I’ll just go, then.”
Ronnie unfolds and spreads out the blanket, “You gonna be okay?”
“Oh, uh, yeah,” he had almost forgotten what day it was with Ronnie here. “I just… don’t want to be alone.”
“That’s okay, man,” Ronnie smiles. He’s so nice.
“You’re so nice,” Brandon says.
And Ronnie doesn’t have a comeback for that one.
Brandon fixes his hair in the reflection of his driver’s side window. That stupid bellhop hat is the ugliest and most annoying part of his work uniform. The only remnant of the Gold Coast on his person are the pleated black slacks that are shrinking more with every wash.
Ronnie had left him a note last week. Brandon doesn’t really remember inviting him over in the first place but apparently Ronnie wants to play with him and Dave. Dave was very excited by this prospect, of course, because they’ve been trying to land this deal for a while. So, despite Brandon’s protesting, he’s decided to sit this one out. Because apparently he and Ronnie are closer friends than Dave is and he doesn’t want to “ruin it.” This is probably the most important thing the band has done since their first show and Brandon’s flying solo.
Deciding his hair is as decent as he’ll get it, Brandon faces Ronnie’s house. There’s a front door, but the garage is also wide open with the lights on. Inside of it he sees a drum kit, an electric bass, a few small amps, and weathered upright piano backed against the rightmost wall. Brandon has two options—front door or the door inside of the garage. He really doesn’t want to ring the doorbell, but knocking may be too quiet. If he knocks on the garage door, it will be much too quiet. Plus, Ronnie could come around front and see Brandon staring at the closed door like an idiot.
Luckily, Ronnie makes the decision for him. He steps out of the inner garage door with a smile,
“Hey, man!” He walks towards Brandon without losing his smile, “How y’doing?”
“Good, good!” Brandon points to his car over his shoulder, “Am I parked alright? ‘Cause I can move if I need to.”
“All good. One of my roommates is gone for a few days so we have more space than usual,” Ronnie gestures towards Brandon’s car, “Is there anything you need to grab from there?”
“Oh, uh,” Brandon breathes out a single, nervous laugh, “No, actually. It’s embarrassing but I just came from work and I don’t like keeping my keyboard there during my shift.”
“Not embarrassing at all. It’s Vegas, after all.”
“Yeah,” Brandon nods, “I got my car stolen once.”
“No shit?” Ronnie pauses and Brandon worries that he’s made it awkward, “Well, you’re in luck ‘cause I don’t think anyone will want to steal this one.” Brandon laughs and looks back at his beat-up sedan, window crack and all.
“You’re not wrong,” he looks back at Ronnie who is still smirking, “She’s busted but I love her.”
“Easiest things to love are often the most busted, my friend,” Ronnie waves his hand toward the garage, “Come on in, get comfy.”
The garage has a hominess to it that reminds Brandon of being a kid. The lights are warm with small flies crashing into them; there’s a dartboard that looks mostly abandoned. A faint hum radiates off an old white Fridgidaire. There are two spots on the surface that look especially worn, more so from damage than time.
“You can afford to run two fridges?” Brandon notes with a smirk.
“Eh, it’s not too bad,” Ronnie walks over and pats the front of the freezer door, “My parents handed it down to us and we decided to make it a drink fridge. You want one?”
“N-” Brandon tilts his head before he finishes his phrase, “What do you have?”
“Uh,” Ronnie opens the door, “I grabbed a twelve pack of Budweiser last night after work. The rest is my roommates’ stuff, but I’m sure they’d be down to share.”
“A beer is perfect. Thank you!” Ronnie appears from behind the refrigerator door a few moments later with a red can. He walks over and hands it to Brandon, “I thought you ‘didn’t really drink’.” Brandon smiles, hoping the comment doesn’t come off as snarky.
“I don’t. I grabbed them for you,” Ronnie smiles back, “I’m surprised you remember me telling you that.”
“You would be—you aren’t a professional drinker,” Brandon pops the tab of his beer.
The hiss of the can almost mutes Ronnie’s laugh.
“Do you pride yourself in that?” Brandon shrugs through a sip. His eyes follow Ronnie as the older man walks over to the drumset, “You can have a seat at the piano if you want.” Brandon turns around and pulls the bench toward himself, only a few feet away from the piano. He’s about six feet away from Ronnie, though it feels awkwardly far.
“Bear with me, I don’t have any ideas about how the drums should sound,” Brandon sits down and tugs at his shirt so it doesn’t cling to his stomach.
“Looks like we’re on the same page,” Ronnie pulls two drumsticks out of the small plant pot he uses as a holder.
“I’m really sorry Dave couldn’t make it. He’s better at this stuff,” Brandon confesses and takes another sip.
“I’m sure you’re just fine,” Ronnie twirls one stick between his fingers. With his arm slightly raised, Brandon notices the small sliver of skin that pokes out of the bottom hem. Brandon wishes he didn’t swear himself to ill-fitting t-shirts. Even now, the white undershirt he wears for work fits more like a hand-me-down. Confidence—it’s on his to-do list.
“So,” Brandon clears his throat, “There’s a few songs we have that we wanna workshop the drums on. I’m mainly gonna use the piano for the melody ‘cause I haven’t finalized the keys for them yet.” Ronnie nods and continues twirling his drumstick.
“Do you want me to listen first and then play-through with me? Or I can try to jump in whenever I feel something?”
“Uh, whatever feels right? Brian will hop on sometimes but, between me and you, he’s never really on-time when he does that,” Brandon mutters as if Brian was outside.
“Gotcha,” Ronnie smirks and stops twirling, “Play me one and I’ll let you know what I come up with after.” He raises his eyebrows as he says this, asking for Brandon’s explicit approval.
“Sounds good,” Brandon feels his stomach twist slightly, “Although, I was kind of hoping I could hide my voice behind you.”
“Please,” Ronnie rolls his eyes and faces his kit, “You’re so hard on yourself. Just throw it at me.”
Brandon nods and stands from the piano bench. He scoots its wooden legs back in front of the upright and places his beer at the foot of the piano. He stretches out his arms and fingers, then straightens his back out. Brandon graces his fingers on top of the off-white keys, some of them adorned with small cracks. He tests out a few of the notes to get his bearings. It’s mostly in-tune, which is good because he wouldn’t know where to start if it weren’t. With a deep breath out, he turns his head back toward Ronnie.
“Ready?”
“On your mark, maestro.”
Brandon smiles to himself and begins to play. He’s grateful he’s facing away from Ronnie because his voice is shaky for the first few lines. It feels so vulnerable, much more than when he first sang one-on-one with Dave. Singing alone to Ronnie makes his lyrics sound corny, or over-dramatic. Nonetheless, Brandon pushes through. His voice grows steadier as he continues and he’s thankful he decided against his post-work cigarette.
As the song approaches its end, Brandon is reminded that Ronnie is going to talk about it. He briefly considers improvising an outro to avoid the interaction further, but he concedes. Brandon plays the final chord and then drops his hands. He starts turning around but Ronnie is already talking,
“You’ve got pipes!” The drummer wears a giddy smile.
“Thanks. I should have warmed up,” Brandon hopes the red in his cheeks isn’t as obvious as it feels, “What did you think?”
“I think you’re super talented,” Ronnie rocks from side to side on his swiveling drum-stool. Brandon hates taking compliments, but at least Ronnie’s feel sincere.
“Again, thank you.” Brandon stretches a hand toward the drums, “But I meant for the drums.”
“Oh! Yeah,” Ronnie drags his drumstick over his snare, “I have some ideas. I’ll go whenever you’re ready.”
“Sweet!” Brandon smiles; he hasn’t felt this excited since he first played with Dave. He can’t quite figure out why. Maybe having two less-than-adequate drummers before meeting Ronnie took some of the glamor out of rehearsing and performing.
“I’ll try not to overpower you, but these things are loud as you know.”
“Overpower all you’d like,” Brandon turns back toward the keys. “I’m just happy I don’t have to face you.”
“Same here. My drumming face is known to scare people,” Ronnie teases a cymbal with his stick and it makes a soft hiss. Brandon smiles to himself once more and waits a beat before starting the song again.
Ronnie comes in within the first measure and he’s generously on time. Brandon can tell he’s holding back for volume’s sake but he can imagine what it would sound like at a show. Ronnie’s not afraid to ride the hi-hat and it compliments the song really well. Brian tends toward clunkiness, but Ronnie sounds practiced. Brandon hadn’t considered that rock drums could be precise until now. A few times throughout the song, he has to remind himself to move to the next chord. Listening to Ronnie play is so easy.
They finish the run through and Brandon turns around,
“I loved that!” Brandon fights the inflection in his voice when he speaks again, “Fuck yeah, dude!”
“Eh,” Ronnie looks wary but smiles nonetheless. “Thanks. It was pretty simple. I can totally expand on that if you’d like.”
“Oh,” Brandon feels embarrassed but it’s hard to articulate why. “I mean, whatever you think would work best.”
“Why don’t we run through it a couple more times?” Ronnie shrugs and gives Brandon a look that suggests he’s in control of the decision.
Of course he’s in control. He’s just not used to it, and it feels weird considering Ronnie is actually practiced.
“Yeah! That sounds good,” Brandon turns back toward the piano. He makes a silent vow to himself to be more confident for the rest of the rehearsal, or at least pretend to be. “You ready?”
“Only when you are.” Brandon hears the soft click of Ronnie’s drumsticks against each other. With a deep inhale, Brandon rests his fingers atop the keys and feels his chest expand. He presses down on the first chord and lets his voice do the rest.
Brandon’s more relaxed this time; he notices when his voice steadies only after a word or two. Ronnie’s rhythm sounds mostly the same thus far, but Brandon admits he’s more focused on not messing up.
They agree on a third run-through and that’s when Brandon feels it meld together. He doesn’t understand how an old piano and drums can sound like that, but they do. It’s Ronnie that’s doing most of the work, really. Brandon wishes he knew more about percussion so that he’d have the words for it. He worries he’ll undersell Ronnie when he tells Dave about tonight. But Dave already knows how good Ronnie is; Brandon just wishes he could hear it with their song.
They keep at this for hours. Brandon wants to see what Ronnie can do on other songs but doesn’t want to seem suspicious, so eventually they just start riffing. Brandon takes a break from singing to try out some new key parts on the piano while Ronnie works around them. They talk every ten minutes or so until eventually their conversations are longer than the breaks in between. Brandon fights the urge to ask about Ronnie’s experience in the Vegas scene, though he knows he’d probably tell him all about it. Instead, they just talk about the area in general. The usual ‘have you ever been to…’ and ‘you know the place at the corner of…’. He’s jealous that Ronnie knows the city so well. Even after four years back in Vegas, sometimes the locals make him feel like he’s learned hardly anything.
There’s a brief ebb in the conversation’s flow that Ronnie mediates quickly.
“I’m having a lot of fun but I’ve gotta come clean,” the drummer holds his palms up in surrender. Brandon’s heart jumps a bit in his chest, fearing that Ronnie knows this “jam session” is more of a secret recruitment mission. Brandon has foolishly gotten his hopes up that Ronnie would join, and if Ronnie isn’t interested he is fully prepared to beg. “I’ve been starving for the last hour or so.”
“Oh!” Brandon laughs with a little too much relief. He realizes he hasn’t eaten since his lunch break and should take up Ronnie’s offer. He should also respond before the silence is too long, “Yeah, me too. Did you want to grab something?”
“Have you had Samurai Sam’s?” Ronnie gauges Brandon’s reaction but the younger man can only tilt his head a bit.
“I actually never have. I usually go to Osaka when I want Japanese,” Brandon nods. Ronnie wears a small smile while he listens to Brandon speak. It makes him want to look away, but he can’t bring himself to. “You wanna go?”
“Yeah, if you’re alright with that,” Ronnie stands up from his stool. “It’s no Osaka but it’s cheaper and closer.”
“I trust your judgment,” Brandon smiles at Ronnie. He’s finding it hard to stop, “Sorry, do you mind if I just smoke first?”
“Yeah, that’s fine. I gotta go grab my keys and stuff anyways,” Ronnie starts toward the door to his house.
“I can drive if you’d like?” Brandon doesn’t know why he feels the need to offer but he does anyway.
“You’re the guest , my friend,” Ronnie notes as he passes Brandon on his way to the door. “I’ll be right back.”
Brandon lights his cigarette once he’s outside of the garage. He feels gross smoking now, more so than usual. He wants to quit; maybe he’ll try soon. When Ronnie walks back outside a couple minutes later, Brandon drops the lit cigarette to the ground and puts it out prematurely.
“You could have finished, you know?” Ronnie closes the garage door behind him. He still has that small smile on his face.
“Too hungry to care, I guess,” Brandon watches Ronnie walk to the driver’s side of the only truck in the driveway and follows him. Before he opens the passenger door, he fights at the smile that’s pulling at his lips.
Brandon rocks on his heels while he reads the menu above the registers. There’s a couple in front of them still ordering, so he relaxes knowing he has a bit longer to decide. He casts a side glance at Ronnie’s profile while the older man ponders the menu.
“You know what you want?” Ronnie asks without looking away. Brandon pauses and his mind goes blank.
“Uh no,” he amazes himself with his incompetence, “I’m not picky I guess.”
“Good to know,” Ronnie turns his eyes towards Brandon as the couple in front of them starts paying for their meal.
“Do you?” Brandon hopes at least one of them has their shit together.
“I usually get the Teriyaki Chicken combo. Comes with rice, veggies, and a drink,” Ronnie cracks his knuckles and faces back toward the register.
“That sounds good,” Brandon was considering that option, really he was. Sometimes he feels weird about restaurant chicken when the pieces are too lumpy, so he didn’t want to waste money on odd-looking chicken. Ronnie deciding it’s a safe bet solidified his choice.
“White or fried rice?” Ronnie takes a step toward the open counter.
“Fried, thanks,” Brandon follows Ronnie’s movement.
“Good boy,” Ronnie says in a transatlantic accent that makes Brandon chuckle and roll his eyes. There’s a small flutter in his stomach, too, though he thinks it’s just his hunger.
Ronnie orders for both of them, which Brandon doesn’t mind considering the other man is more of a regular than he is. When the cashier says their total, Brandon pulls his wallet out in vain; Ronnie has already handed over a $20 bill.
They stand at the pick-up window and make small conversation. Honestly, it smells so great in there that Brandon can’t focus on much besides his upcoming meal. It’s only a few more minutes until they’re holding their dishes. They find a small booth to drop their plates off while they fill up their drink cups.
Back at the booth, Brandon pulls his wallet out again.
“Does $10 cover it? With the tip?” Ronnie is shaking his head in the middle of Brandon’s words.
“It’s all good. Don’t worry about it, man,” Ronnie dismissively waves his hand before grabbing his fork.
“That’s very nice of you, but I really don’t mind,” Brandon places the bill on the table with an airy chuckle. He also picks up his fork, desperate to finally eat.
“Come on,” Ronnie says with a piece of chicken hanging dangerously on his fork, “When was the last time you had dinner bought for you?”
Brandon thinks while he chews his first bite. It tastes incredible, so he nearly forgets Ronnie’s comment at all. He doesn’t care who paid for it at this point, he’s just grateful. But Brandon does try to remember the last time he had someone buy food for him and he doesn’t come up with much. He has to admit that it feels good. He doesn’t get paid enough for some of the shit he has to deal with, so he might just let this one slide. Brandon swallows and responds,
“That’s a good point,” Brandon uses his fork to point at the bill to his left, “but I’ll keep it there if you change your mind.” A small smirk grows on Ronnie’s face while he chews.
“I doubt I will,” Ronnie gently slides the bill back toward Brandon, and the two continue their meal.
They make small talk here and there, but both seem more interested in their food. Considering they both skipped dinner, this feels like the best food either of them have had in awhile. They talk about that briefly, which brings up some other favorite local restaurants. Even though it’s surface-level stuff, Brandon feels more comfortable than he usually does in mundane conversations. Ronnie is just easy to talk to without forcing it. He has an endearing presence: goofy but genuine, smart but modest. When Ronnie claims he isn’t “that good” at drums, Brandon has to roll his eyes and laugh.
Their conversation slows a bit, but it doesn’t feel awkward. The spaces between their sentences get longer as their plates get lighter. Brandon feels his day’s work creeping onto him and the familiar ache in his muscles. Sleep sounds wonderful, though he isn’t eager to leave just yet.
“So,” Ronnie’s voice piques Brandon’s attention, “tell me more about yourself.” Brandon finishes chewing his bite before he responds,
“Is this a job interview?”
“No, smart-ass,” Ronnie smirks and pokes a piece of broccoli with his fork, “This is what humans do when they are getting to know each other.”
It’s nice that Ronnie wants to learn about him and not just what his favorite restaurant is, but the question stresses him out a bit. Truth is, Brandon has trouble knowing where to start. The last time someone asked about his personal life was his ex-girlfriend. Or, that’s the last time he can really remember. Dave was smart enough to figure out that “something fucked up” happened to Brandon, but that’s about it in recent history. Again, he doesn’t know where to start.
“Well, what do you want to know?” Brandon pops another piece of chicken into his mouth and quirks an eyebrow.
“Okay,” Ronnie puts his fork down and sits back. Brandon suddenly realizes Ronnie is giving him his full attention and it unnerves him further, “Where did you grow up? Here?”
“Uh, yeah. Here,” Brandon would feel bad for lying if Ronnie didn’t give him such an easy opening. It’s not so much lying as it is omitting, he reasons, “You?”
“Born and bred,” Ronnie sips his water then sets it back down gently, “Spent some time in California as a kid but ended up back here.” Brandon wishes he had California instead of Utah, but he knows jealousy isn’t a good look on him.
“Woah,” Brandon notices he didn’t finish chewing his bite and reddens. He swallows and points his fork toward Ronnie, “How was that?”
“Oh,” Ronnie scoffs and puts his hands behind his head, “Gorgeous, fun… it’s where I got into music, honestly.”
“I can imagine. What kind?”
“We’ll get to that another time,” Ronnie returns his posture toward his food, “This is about you, remember?” Brandon didn’t even realize he was trying to deflect the attention off his childhood, “How’d you get into music?”
Brandon thinks about it for a moment. His brother comes to mind first. Without Shane, he wouldn’t know The Cars or The Smiths or The Cure. But if he’s being honest with himself, it started way before that.
“My grandma’s old piano. When I was a kid I played around on it. It wasn’t until I was about eight that I started picking up on songs,” he sees Ronnie’s interest and chooses to elaborate, “Mainly Elton John, stuff like that.”
“You a Rocket Man?” Ronnie quirks an eyebrow with a smile. It’s reminiscent of the same look he gave Brandon that night at Tremorz.
“Maybe,” Brandon smiles back but hardly realizes, “Or a Starman, possibly.”
“Noted,” Ronnie nods before grabbing his fork again.
“Did you always play drums?” Brandon feels it’s his turn to do some digging and hopes Ronnie doesn’t turn the question back around.
“More or less,” Ronnie tilts his head as he chews on a bite. After he swallows, he looks at Brandon again, “I started banging on shit when I was a toddler. I would go down to the laundry room with some wood ladles from the kitchen and-” Ronnie uses his fork to recreate his childish drumming pattern. With every imaginary smack, he utters a quiet “ch” sound, “Eventually, my parents were pissed enough that I was ruining their washing machine and their fridge, so they bought me a cheap little kit.”
“The same fridge in your garage now?” Brandon scoffs when Ronnie nods, “That’s adorable.”
“Well,” Ronnie says with a tilted head, “can’t forget your roots, no?”
“No,” Brandon fakes a laugh, “No, you cannot.”
Their conversation dies out for a moment, and Brandon does not welcome the silence. He is hesitant but after a few seconds of quiet chewing, he surrenders to his discomfort.
“If you don’t mind me asking, why did Expert on October fall through?” Brandon curses himself for picking what could possibly be a sore subject, “It was just shocking to hear after you guys did so well around town.”
“Honestly? It’s not that interesting,” Ronnie laughs and pushes his plate to his right. He sits back and crosses his arms.
“No Oasis-style blowout?”
“Not nearly enough money comin’ in for that,” Ronnie rubs the back of his head with a smirk, “There was just a difference in dedication. I wanted to practice every single day, even if only for half an hour before work, y’know? The other guys saw it as a hobby. I wanted it to be our top priority, y’know?”
“Absolutely, that’s how me and Dave are,” Brandon nods and looks down at his plate. He didn’t realize he was almost done, “Do you guys still hang out?”
“Hang out? Two of them live here with me. We’re all good, it would have been worse if we stayed together.”
“I get that,” Brandon pauses and clears his throat, “My old band fell through, too. Well, actually, they kinda just kicked me out? Not quite sure if they’re still playing.”
“Really? Fuck, man. I’m sorry,” Ronnie’s eyes have softened. He really is listening, which Brandon feels is rare for this city, “I’d kill to have a frontman like you.”
“Thanks,” Brandon pushes his plate to the side like Ronnie did a few moments ago, “I wasn’t on vocals, I just did keys—very poorly. It was just a weird time. I was going through some stuff that I couldn’t shake off, and I think it showed in my effort.”
“It’s not easy to separate yourself from outside bullshit. Good thing you’re the singer now,” Ronnie taps his temple, “Get that gunk out of there.”
“I’m trying, don’t worry,” Brandon chuckles and adjusts his fringe. He doesn’t know why Ronnie cares so much about what he has to say, but he does know it makes him feel comfortable. Maybe too comfortable, “I got cheated on.” Ronnie’s face drops; his mouth is slightly parted and his eyebrows close together.
“Oh, fuck,” Ronnie leans forward and holds his head on his hand, “I’m so sorry, Brandon.”
“Eh,” Brandon swats a hand and scoffs, “I’m mostly over it, now.” He’s not.
“Still,” Ronnie shakes his head gently, “that fucks you up for awhile, sometimes forever.” Ronnie quickly holds out a hand defensively, “Not to scare you.”
“Trust me, I’m fucked up for the foreseeable future,” Brandon assures with a smile, “But I am much, much better than I was right after it happened. I mean, I saw it happen, dude.”
“You saw the affair?!” Ronnie raises his voice and looks around shamefully despite the place being near-empty, “Sorry… you saw it?”
“Yeah, but ‘affair’ isn’t the right word for it,” Brandon feels the anger beneath his skin but continues speaking, “I had a suspicion, saw her car bumper-to-bumper with another at her apartment,” at this Ronnie groans. “I know… so, a few days later I got a bad feeling and decided to go to the bar we liked a lot. I walk in and—like a damn movie—I see her kissing another dude.”
Ronnie leans back in his seat and crosses his arms. Brandon appreciates the dramatics considering no one else seems nearly as upset when hearing this story.
“That’s awful,” Ronnie shakes his head again slowly, “Did you beat the shit out of him?”
“No, no. I immediately had to throw up outside,” Ronnie leans forward again with a pout on his face, “And second of all, this dude was bigger than me. Only by a little but I’m sure he could have crushed me. I’m not very agile.” Brandon attempts to lighten the mood with another laugh, but Ronnie’s expression remains grim.
“Oh, Brandon,” he sounds mournful, “that’s heart-breaking.”
“You’re telling me.” Ronnie laughs and uses his hand to prop his head up once again. Brandon smiles at him. He often finds himself smiling and laughing when he’s uncomfortable, but that’s not the case right now. Despite the topic at hand, he feels pretty safe.
“I’m sorry,” Ronnie follows this up with a groan, “Jesus Christ, man.”
“What? You’ve never been cheated on by a woman out of your league with a man out of her league?” Brandon smirks as he sips his Coke.
“Fortunately, I have not,” Ronnie sighs, “There was this one guy who was a total asshole and then kind of a stalker but that’s it.”
“Ugh,” Brandon’s face shrivels in disgust, “Like he was stalking your girl?”
“Oh,” Ronnie laughs, “No, I was dating the guy.” Brandon notices the blush creeping into Ronnie’s face and wants to slam his own face on the table. It doesn’t matter that Ronnie dates men, but what the fuck does he say now?
“Oh! Yeah, cool,” he’s such a fuck-up, “But, ‘cool’ not because it’s uncommon. Cool that you’d tell me! Not that you should be ashamed to te-”
“Oh my God,” Ronnie is laughing, which Brandon prays is a good thing, “Dude, you’re fine.” Ronnie pats Brandon’s hand twice. The touch is warm and gentle. It’s a stark difference from the embarrassment flooding through Brandon.
“I’m sorry,” Brandon laughs, this time it is because he’s nervous. “It’s not a big deal like I made it seem. I just feel like a dumbass.”
“You shouldn’t,” Ronnie sits back and rolls his tongue into his cheek, wearing a slight smile. “I don’t let on to it much.”
“Yeah but that’s fine,” Brandon doesn’t understand why he can’t just keep his mouth shut, “You don’t have to act any different than you do.”
“Are you telling me how to be gay?” Ronnie lifts an eyebrow. His blush has mostly subsided while Brandon’s has only gotten worse.
“No, no,” Brandon opens his mouth to continue defending himself but Ronnie interrupts him.
“I’m joking! I’m joking!” Ronnie waves his hand. His smile is wide and bright, clearly unbothered. Brandon needs to chill out, “You’ve gotta calm down.” Exactly, Ronnie.
“Okay, okay,” Brandon finally feels his skin trying to cool down. He lets out a deep breath, “Sorry for being… I dunno, the way I am.”
“Pssh!” Ronnie rolls his eyes, “That was the best reaction I’ve gotten from a straight guy our age.” Brandon doesn’t know why ‘straight’ feels like a dig in this context. Well, probably because he still feels like a fuck-up.
“That’s good, I guess. Not for you, but for me.”
“Yeah,” Ronnie’s smile cuts through the tension, “I guess I should have said ‘your age and my age’.”
“We’re not that far apart, no?” Brandon adjusts himself in his seat, thankful that the conversation has changed directions.
“I’m twenty-six, man,” Ronnie tilts his head, “We’ve been over this.”
“We have?” Brandon just can’t stop embarrassing himself tonight, “When?”
“On the fuckin…” Ronnie twirls his hand trying to find the rest of his sentence, “on the phone when I called about the interview.” He’s very charming, even when correcting Brandon.
“Oh! Yeah, yeah,” Brandon nods and crosses his arms, “I guess it was easier to believe before I knew you more. You don’t seem much older than me.”
“I think it’s actually the opposite,” Ronnie points at Brandon, “I think you are more mature than you realize.” The implication behind this tugs at Brandon’s heart for a moment, but he doesn’t let Ronnie see.
“No! Really?” Ronnie nods with a growing grin, “Huh… Well, I don’t think so.” Brandon starts stacking their near-empty plates and puts the utensils on top. He’s avoiding eye contact, although he doesn’t mean to.
“You used to work in food service?” Ronnie quips once the clatter of dishes and metal subsides.
“Yeah. For awhile I only worked food service, really,” Brandon can’t keep his eyes averted much longer before it becomes evident. He meets Ronnie’s gaze and sits back, “You?”
“A little bit. I jumped around a lot,” Ronnie mirrors Brandon’s position as he sits back.
“Anything interesting?” Brandon often wonders what else there is if the band doesn’t work out. At least Ronnie’s in school and could do something with his degree. A lifetime of restaurants or retail is a thought that haunts Brandon often.
“More or less,” Ronnie shrugs, “I’m a photographer at the Chapel of Flowers now but I’ve been a waiter, a salesdude, a downtown cart driver-”
“You did petty carts? Where?” Brandon feels the smile forming on his face before he can control it.
“Desert Passage at the Aladdin,” Ronnie tries to continue but Brandon cuts him off.
“I worked at Desert Passage!” His hand rests on his chest, as if concerned that Ronnie forgot he was talking about himself, “I was a server at Josef’s!”
“No shit,” Ronnie’s voice is steady but his smile gives way to his interest, “Fine dining with hair like that?”
“It was a bit shorter then,” Brandon unconsciously palms at the back of his head. The motion puts an image in his head, “Did you have, like, a kinda-mullet-looking thing going on?”
“A ‘kinda-mullet-looking thing’?” Ronnie laughs and rubs at his jaw in thought, “Sorta, I guess? I had a small fringe and it was longer in the back.”
“Yeah!” Brandon points at the man in front of him, “Yeah, I think I remember you. You wore big shirts and shorts almost every day.”
“Jesus, man! You aren’t holding back,” Ronnie sits up straighter but doesn’t lose his smile, “If I had seen you around I’d probably have some shit to say, too.”
“You definitely would,” Brandon sees his bumbling eighteen-year-old self struggling to remember the French cuisine from the menu. He’ll have to tell Ronnie about meeting Danny Elfman while serving. Another time, though; he sees Ronnie repositioning as if he’s ready to leave.
They drop their dirty dishes off at the counter and head out the door. Walking to Ronnie’s truck, Brandon catches himself looking at how the moonlight and lamplights cast across Ronnie’s back. He carries himself with a certainty that Brandon has yet to find.
Once they reach the truck, the drummer looks at Brandon and flashes a goofy smile. As much as he fumbled the brief conversation about Ronnie’s ex-boyfriend, Brandon feels very comfortable with him now. Considering that this was their first real opportunity to talk to each other, Brandon hopes it’s grounds for a friendship. Even if he and Dave are not-so-discreetly scouting a new drummer, he doesn’t want this to be just a business thing. Ronnie feels too sincere for that kind of thing.
The ride back to Ronnie’s place is mostly quiet with a backtrack of the UNLV radio station. Brandon’s head rests on the window and admires the exceptionally clear sky tonight. He lets his eyes close with the hum of the road against his temple soothing him.
When Ronnie’s truck pulls into his driveway, Brandon feels the exhaustion tugging all over his body. Despite his drive back home being brief, it feels like a whole trek until he can fall asleep. Sleep. He stretches at the thought and grunts softly despite himself.
“You tired?” Ronnie asks through a smile while he unbuckles.
“Super fuckin’ tired,” Brandon rubs his face and yawns.
“What time do you have work tomorrow?” Ronnie asks and returns Brandon’s yawn. Brandon’s always loved that humans do that.
“7 A.M.,” Brandon winces and Ronnie scoffs, “I was dreading the drive back just now.” There’s a pause and Brandon rests his head against the seat.
“If you want you can crash here?” Ronnie offers and Brandon tilts his head towards him. “It’s not ideal, I know, but you do seem beat .” Brandon doesn’t realize it until now, but he was hoping Ronnie would offer.
“Oh, I don’t want to intrude,” Brandon shakes his head, “Thank you, though.”
“It’s not intruding at all,” Ronnie assures and it sounds like he means it, “It’s, what, two in the morning? I really don’t mind.”
“I mean only if you’re sure it’s cool.” Brandon often worries about being too needy.
“It’s totally fine,” Ronnie reaches for his door handle. “My roommates really won’t give a shit.”
“Even if there’s a stranger on their couch when they wake up?” This makes Ronnie laugh and Brandon smiles in response. Ronnie’s face changes into a look of surprise,
“Oh! You don’t even need to crash on the couch if you don’t want to,” Brandon lifts his eyebrows a bit. “My roommate’s gone. I could sleep in his bed if you wanted to take mine? It’s clean, I swear.” There’s a little too much conviction in that last part but Brandon appreciates the guarantee despite how funny it is.
“That sounds good,” he speaks through a chuckle. “Will your roommate mind that, though?”
“Oh, Ted?” Ronnie scoffs and opens his door, “He’s harmless. And… he’ll never know.” He draws out the last word and dons a faux-mysterious face. Ronnie hops out of the truck and shuts the door behind him, leading Brandon to do the same. He grabs the jacket of his work uniform from his car before he scurries to meet Ronnie at the front door.
Ronnie’s place is a dream compared to Brandon’s. It’s still small, but there’s much more warmth in the space. A decent-sized TV in the living room with a couch and a recliner! The kitchen is at least double the size of Brandon’s, despite Ronnie’s still being rather small.
Walking into Ronnie’s room, Brandon is immediately drawn to the wooden crate of records on the floor. He points to it and looks at Ronnie with a smirk.
“Sorry, I would have cleaned up more if I knew we’d be hanging out in here,” Ronnie shuts the door behind him. Brandon shakes his head with a laugh considering how tidy the room actually is.
“Not that,” Brandon approaches the wooden crate with a coy smile, “Can I look-y?” He doesn’t think he’s ever said “look-y” before. Ronnie lays out his hand as if saying “go ahead” and Brandon wastes no time draping his jacket over Ronnie’s desk chair. He gets on his knees in front of the crate and begins his digging.
“It’s mostly stuff I took with me from home. I want to buy more but I’m afraid they’ll be old news soon,” Ronnie sits down in the chair that Brandon can see in his right periphery.
“All the more reason to collect,” Brandon flicks through the records slowly. Ronnie has them organized alphabetically and it reminds Brandon that he should sort his out sometime soon. He passes through the albums and notes the names he recognizes—ABBA, Aerosmith, Anthrax, Bad Brains, B.B. King, Built to Spill. Brandon’s impressed with the expanse of genres before he even gets to the Cs. But then he does reach the Cs and he pulls out a twelve-inch with a small gasp.
“Is this an original pressing?” Brandon faces the album toward Ronnie unaware of the way his mouth stays open in awe.
“Yeah! My dad didn’t let me take their debut with me so I went with Door-to-Door ,” Ronnie uses his foot to rock himself in the desk chair. The smile that pulls at the side of his mouth is inviting, “You a Cars fan?”
“Dude,” Brandon is looking at the backside of the record, “”Just What I Needed” saved my life,” Brandon quickly looks at Ronnie, “Not to be dramatic, or anything. But, yeah The Cars changed everything for me.” Brandon hopes his explanation quells any concern Ronnie may have.
“You wanna throw it on?” Ronnie nods toward the record player that barely fits in his tiny room.
“No,” Brandon slides the vinyl back into its spot, “I’m not done testing you.” He resumes his perusal and Ronnie laughs.
“This is a test? A test for what?”
“Taste, obviously,” Brandon’s sass pulls a laugh from Ronnie. Feeling rather proud of himself, Brandon breaks into a smile while still facing the records.
“Obviously,” Ronnie repeats quietly with amusement. Brandon may have appreciated his tone more if he hadn’t just found one of his favorite albums of all-time (again).
“ Head on the Door ?” He doesn’t bother to pull this one out. Brandon turns toward Ronnie who nods with a closed grin.
“Absolutely,” Ronnie points to the record, “Do you know how fuckin’ hard it is to find people around here who like The Cure?”
“Of course I do. Fuckin—have you seen the way I dress onstage?” Brandon knows he’s joking but feels defensive about his misplaced love for new-wave. Nonetheless, Ronnie laughs with a clap of his hands. Brandon feels a little too satisfied making Ronnie laugh. He’s got to be careful not to over-do it. Or maybe he could just act like a normal person for once.
“Yeah, I like it,” Ronnie says once he’s calmed down. The earnestness in his voice makes Brandon’s fingers still. “I like your hair, too. It’s different.”
Brandon feels his face heat up, so he busies himself with the records again. “Thank you,” he says. He’s pretty sure Ronnie has been the first person to comment on his chunky highlights. At least, the first person whose opinion Brandon cares about.
“There’s some Depeche Mode in there, too,” Ronnie says, yawning as he finishes his sentence. Brandon hopes that the compliment hasn’t made him feel weird.
“Okay, okay,” he stands up with his palms outfaced in surrender, “You pass the test.”
“Oh goodie!” Ronnie spins in his desk chair to face Brandon more directly, “Couldn’t afford another detention.” Brandon shakes his head with a laugh and feels a warmth return on his face, “You can sit on the bed if you like.”
“Oh, thanks,” he obliges and sits on the well-made, navy blue comforter, “I can’t believe you consider this a dirty room.”
“It’s not dirty but it’s not clean,” Ronnie crosses his arms as Brandon begins taking his shoes off. The feeling brings him closer to the edge of sleep, especially with the mattress now beneath him.
“You’re never gonna see my place, then,” he looks up for a second to smile at Ronnie before returning to his second shoe.
“I have seen your place,” Ronnie’s voice travels as he stands up. Brandon notices his heartbeat all of a sudden.
“When—,” Brandon vaguely remembers talking to Ronnie on his couch. He searches his mind for the occasion. “Oooh, my birthday?”
“There you go,” Ronnie laughs at him but with an affection that makes Brandon smile. “I don’t blame you. You were pretty drunk.”
“Yeah,” Brandon squints a bit while looking up at Ronnie. “Did you sleep over? I got your note. Obviously.”
“Yes, on the couch. With your blanky,” Ronnie rags playfully.
“Sorry, that couch is shit. I should have offered you the bed,” Brandon shakes his head with a smirk.
“And where would you have slept? The shitty couch? On your birthday?” Ronnie leans back against his dresser with his arms crossed.
“In the bed!” Brandon laughs, “It would have been a slumber party.”
“How cute,” Ronnie says in a voice that borders on schoolgirl. “But I don’t share beds with straight guys. It gets messy.”
Brandon thinks about it for a moment, though he probably should have thought about it longer. He spent years and years fighting the words that are bouncing around in his head, but now they just spill out.
“Who said I was straight ?” Brandon immediately thinks his heart might stop. Ronnie stares at him for a second and then drops his head with a laugh. When he looks back up his face is redder than it was before.
“You’re not?” Ronnie shifts in the spot where he stands.
“I didn’t say I wasn’t straight, but I never said I was. That’s all,” Brandon smirks up at him like he doesn’t feel a small panic building inside of him.
“Wow. You’re a tricky one,” Ronnie steps away from the dresser. “I’m gonna take some stuff and get ready for bed. I can come back in a bit to make sure you’re all set, if you’d like.”
“How else would I say goodnight?” Brandon means to sound more humorous than anything, but notices his tone is lower than normal. At least, he thinks it sounds lower. It’s different enough that it makes him feel weird. He probably wouldn’t feel this way had he not said whatever the hell he just said.
“Good point,” Ronnie says with his back turned as he grabs some clothes from his dresser. Brandon notices the way his t-shirt is snug around his biceps—drummers have it so easy. When he turns around, Brandon is quick to avert his gaze to a poster beside Ronnie’s dresser. Ronnie gives a phony salute to Brandon as he heads toward the door and walks out. With the door closed, Brandon examines the room from his spot on the bed. It’s cozy, though definitely the room of a college student. There’s posters, a notebook on the desk with assorted pens, a small trash can begging to be emptied.
Next to Ronnie’s dresser is a bookcase. It’s not much taller than the dresser, but the three shelves are loaded with knick-knacks and little tokens of Ronnie. Personal pieces that Brandon should definitely not look at, especially the very first time he is in this man’s house.
But, Ronnie should have known better than offering him the bedroom. After he’s sure he can still hear the bathroom fan running, Brandon quietly sits up from the bed and crosses a few feet over to the bookcase and starts perusing.
On the top shelf, there’s a few CDs and some mixtapes with a small layer of dust on them. A framed picture of—what Brandon assumes is—Ronnie’s family that implies Ronnie is the oldest of four brothers. It looks like a much older photo, especially considering Ronnie’s long hair. There’s a used drumstick that looks like Ronnie might have gotten at a show. There’s a well-loved candle and a small lighter next to it.
The second shelf is a little more cluttered. There’s two books that Brandon doesn’t bother looking at. A crappy pair of sunglasses that Brandon can’t fathom a backstory for. Some casino tokens catch Brandon’s eye but he stops himself from looking at them. There’s a black-beaded bracelet and a leather bracelet stacked utop each other.
Brandon tunes his ear back toward the bathroom and hears the water running now. He may be a dirty, rotten snooper but he’s not a bad snooper.
He then moves to the last shelf and pushes away the thought that he’s an awful person. There’s a Polaroid camera stuffed toward the back with a crack in the plastic. Resting between the camera and the left edge of the shelf is a small stack of photos. There’s an unused lanyard for UNLV that Brandon feels a want for. Next to this is a small cup holding pencils that look forgotten about. He’s not looking at the pencils, but rather the rainbow-swirl silicone bracelet resting around them. Brandon is almost positive about what it is, but gives in and reaches for it anyways.
Brandon rotates the bracelet to read the white lettering—”LV PRIDE ‘00 - OPEN HEARTS, OPEN MINDS!” Brandon smiles softly as he rolls it over in his hands. His fingers trace where the inked letters have faded a bit. Brandon wonders if Ronnie used to wear it regularly. He wonders if Ronnie goes to every Pride. He imagines Ronnie at the parade and feels a sudden isolation that he doesn’t understand. He wonders if this year’s Pride already happened.
The contemplation quickly comes to an end when Brandon notices the bathroom fan has shut off. With a silent curse, he places the bracelet back where it was and backs away from the bookcase as if it were ablaze. Brandon thinks he’s been as quiet as possible but still feels nervous when he sits back on the bed, as if he is about to be caught. But Ronnie takes longer than he was expecting. His eyes trail back to the bracelet that stands out amongst its less-tempting counterparts. A minute or so later, two small knocks on the door pull his attention away.
“Come in,” Brandon scoots back toward the pillows more as the door opens.
“I don’t think I’ve ever knocked on my own door before,” Ronnie enters with a smile and a glass in his hand, “I brought you some water if you want it.”
“Oh!” Brandon reaches out once Ronnie is closer, “Thanks, man.”
“Don’t mention it,” Ronnie steps back from the bed as Brandon takes a sip, “anything else you need?” Brandon swallows and puts the glass down on the nightstand.
“I think I’m all set,” Brandon smiles up at Ronnie who smiles back, “Thank you so much for letting me crash here. I know it’s kind of unnecessary.” Brandon moves himself backward to get under the covers, and is again shocked at how clean Ronnie’s sheets are.
“My pleasure,” Ronnie points to the nightstand, “You want me to set that for you?” Brandon is reminded that he has to be at work in nearly four hours and wants nothing more than to call out. If he sleeps in, he can no-call no-show. He hasn’t done that, yet. Remembering that his rent is due next week, Brandon concedes.
“Sure. Could you do 6:00, please?” Brandon nuzzles deeper into the bed with a small sigh.
“God, dude. You really shouldn’t have stayed up this late,” Ronnie starts clicking the buttons on the plastic.
“ You should have been more dull,” Brandon’s eyes feel heavier in the comfort of a bed.
“I’ll do my damnedest next time,” Ronnie sets the clock back down before walking back to the door. He’s in a snug white tank top and gym shorts that come to his middle thigh. Brandon stops looking at Ronnie’s sleep clothes in time to catch him opening the door, “Goodnight.”
“Goodn-oh! Wait,” Brandon blurts out and Ronnie stops in his place, “Do you mind if I sleep in my underwear? I don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“You know I wouldn’t have known if you never asked me?” Ronnie’s mouth curls into a grin as Brandon feels a wave of shame topple him, “But no, I don’t mind at all.”
“Okay, cool,” he fights the urge to self-deprecate himself and just finishes what he intended to say, “Goodnight, Ronnie.” Ronnie flicks the light switch but only after he throws a curt wave toward Brandon.
Once the door is shut, Brandon unbuckles and shimmies out of his dress pants. He kicks them off until they slide onto the floor from under the cover. With a sigh, Brandon rolls onto his side and faces away from the alarm clock. He doesn’t want to see the time before he falls asleep because it never helps.
Yes—he should have gone home and went to bed earlier, but he can’t bring himself to say he regrets anything about tonight. Brandon knows he’ll be miserable tomorrow, but tonight he was happy.
Chapter Text
JULY 2002
Brandon’s not exactly sure what wakes him up, because it certainly isn’t Ronnie’s alarm clock he had set the night before. He blinks his eyes open slowly until the blurs of light focus into the shapes and colors of Ronnie’s humble little room. Any semblance of drowsiness is shocked away once he reads the clock on the nightstand—6:47 A.M.
With many muttered curses, Brandon whips the covers off of his body and stumbles to his feet. He grabs the black slacks he discarded on the ground before falling asleep, practically jumping into them as his belt smacks against itself with every move. The sound, coupled with his quick movements, suddenly brings his throbbing headache to attention. Morning-Brandon curses last-night-Brandon for choosing to stay up so late, but he hopes that chugging the cup of water on the nightstand will bring him some relief. What connection sleep and water have, Brandon can’t tell you.
Using Ronnie’s mirror, Brandon straightens his white t-shirt out and tucks it into his pants before clasping his belt as quickly as possible. He flattens out the side of his head where his hair lost its battle with the pillow, cursing under his breath again that he doesn’t have a comb on him. For a moment he considers looking for one in Ronnie’s room, but decides it would take too much time.
Brandon snatches his work jacket off of Ronnie’s desk chair and slides his arms into it. He doesn’t bother to button it just yet, he can always do that as he’s walking in. Before leaving Ronnie’s room, he gives himself one last look in the mirror while patting himself down—keys, cigarettes, wallet. He looks exhausted and miserable, an appearance that opposes the formality of his work uniform.
Walking away from the mirror, Brandon spots a notebook and pen on Ronnie’s desk. He really doesn’t have time, but he feels like he owes Ronnie something after stealing his bed for the night. Brandon flips through the filled pages, briefly noting words like “cadential extension” and “diatonic” as the pages flutter by. In the margins of the notebook, there are small pen doodles that catch Brandon’s eye. If he wasn’t in such a rush, he might examine the blue and black shapes more closely. Instead, he finds the first blank page and begins to scrawl.
Brandon drops the pen on the desk, leaving the notebook open to the page he had just used. His handwriting is atrocious, he would have tried harder if he were given more time. He finally turns toward the door, grabbing the knob and whipping it open. He thought everyone in the house would still be asleep, so he’s embarrassed when there’s a man in the kitchen cooking breakfast, now looking at Ronnie’s bedroom door with a furrowed brow.
“Oh, God,” Brandon feels his cheeks warm, “I’m sorry, I didn’t think anyone would be up just yet.”
“Yeah,” the man grunts out, turning off the heat under his eggs, “Ronnie usually doesn’t care to mention me when he has someone over.” Brandon chuckles loosely, only half-listening to the roommate.
“I hope our talking didn’t keep you up last night,” Brandon jogs over to the door where his shoes are, “if I knew you had to be up early I would have tried to be quieter.”
“The talking doesn’t bother me as much as the,” the man motions in the air with his spatula and snickers, “forget it.”
“Sorry, anyways,” Brandon bends down to tie his dress shoe.
“What’s your name?”
“Brandon,” before moving to his other shoe, the singer looks up at the man biting into his toast in the kitchen, “what about you?”
“I’m Jason,” he says through a bite of food, then uses the toast to point at Brandon, “you’re the one Ted interviewed, right?”
“Yeah! Yeah,” Brandon can’t help but be a little excited at the mention of his band’s interview, “he’s a cool guy.”
“Sure,” Jason chuckles, “he had some fun things to say about you.”
“Oh,” Brandon attempts another chuckle but it comes out more like a sigh. He stands up and adjusts his sleeve, “like what?”
Jason shrugs, “You’ll read soon enough.”
“Yeah… yeah I guess so,” there’s an uneasiness in Brandon’s gut that leaves him just about ready to run out the door. He glances at the clock on the stove behind Jason, 6:54 A.M, “I’m gonna be late to work. It was nice to meet you, Jason.”
“Maybe I’ll see you again,” Jason produces a half-assed wave with his free hand, “maybe you’ll be the new favorite.”
Holding the doorknob, Brandon turns to Jason with confusion, “I’m sorry, what?”
“Nothing,” Jason laughs with a swat of his hand, “aren’t you gonna be late to work?”
Brandon denies Jason another goodbye and steps out the door, squinting once faced with the intense summer-morning sun. The singer hops in his car, turning the engine over and rolling his windows down. He backs up and peels out of the driveway, making his tires cry out for a second when he suddenly speeds off.
A few minutes down the road, Jason’s words are still plaguing Brandon’s mind. He thinks he knows what he was referring to, especially since Brandon walked out of Ronnie’s room, but nothing between them happened. Correcting Jason wouldn’t have done anything except made him look defensive, right? Nevertheless, who is Jason to care about what Ronnie does in his free-time? And who is Brandon to care that Ronnie seems to have guys over considerably often? Well, he doesn’t care. Brandon remembers that Jason was the roommate that Ronnie complained about, and his previous grievances now make more sense to him.
Brandon grabs the pack of cigarettes in his inner coat pocket, tossing them on the passenger seat momentarily. He digs in the same pocket for his lighter but finds nothing. As his car approaches a red light, Brandon takes the opportunity to pat his pants pockets three times over. Then, he remembers the last place he saw his lighter: Ronnie’s dresser.
With the light still red, Brandon searches his center console and glovebox for a spare, albeit less-important, lighter. He finds nothing. His eyes glance to the clock on the radio, 6:59 A.M.
“Fuck!” Brandon slams a fist on his console before resting his head on his steering wheel for a moment. With a deep sigh, he centers himself—it’s not a big deal. He’ll buy a lighter at work and take a smoke break as soon as the morning rush is over. When it dies down, he’ll call Ronnie to ask about his lighter.
A car honking behind him signals to Brandon that the light has changed, so he starts accelerating as his head lifts slowly off the wheel.
Brandon pulls into the employee parking lot at 7:06 A.M. He speed-walks through the parking spaces, buttoning his jacket as he goes. His uniform’s hat is tucked under his arm, likely getting more and more unsightly with each step. He looks, feels, and probably smells like death. Additionally, Jason’s stupid fucking voice won’t get out of his head. And yet, he hopes Ronnie will want to do it again soon.
Ronnie tucks in the last corner of Ted’s bedspread and smooths out the creases, leaving it just as tidy as his roommate left it. He yawns and stretches before making his way to the bedroom door with a lazy gait.
Making his way downstairs, Ronnie spots his bedroom door ajar. He moves past the living room, slowing his pace as he approaches his room. He knows Brandon has most likely left, but Ronnie keeps his footsteps light just in case he overslept.
To no avail, Ronnie’s bed is empty and unmade. Ronnie closes the door behind him and checks his alarm clock, 10:06 A.M. He tries to remember when Brandon said he had to be at work—was it seven? Eight? Either way, he pities the younger man for the lack of sleep he got.
Then, Ronnie notices the open notebook on his desk. With a smirk already forming on his face, Ronnie approaches his desk to read:
Thank you so so much for letting me spend the night. I had a lot of fun!! Please call if you want to do it again soon :) Sorry I left so early and didn’t make your bed. I’m going to be late for work. Thank you again + have a good day!!!
At the bottom of the note is a signature, as if Brandon was practicing his autograph. Ronnie shakes his head with a smile, then closes the notebook. He takes a step away from the desk, then stops, and opens the notebook to that page again. He carefully rips the note out by the serrated edge. Ronnie folds the notebook paper in half, then in half again, and places it on his nightstand; he’ll find a safer place for it later. He’s just sentimental, he’ll be the first to admit it. Or, who knows? That autograph could be worth thousands one day.
Ronnie grabs a clean shirt and sweatpants from his dresser and drapes them over his shoulder. He heads back into the common area, where he notices Jason on the living room couch.
“Oh shit, I didn’t notice you before.”
“Nah, I just got out here. I was in the shower,” Jason points over Ronnie’s shoulder, “you’ll wanna wait for the water to heat up again.”
“Guess so,” Ronnie tries to hide his true annoyance. At least he doesn’t have work. Ronnie walks into the kitchen, placing his clothes on the kitchen counter for now. He opens the fridge and grabs the orange juice, which only has a few sips left. If his roommates didn’t want him to drink it right out of the carton, they shouldn’t have left less than enough to put in a glass. Ronnie shuts the fridge with his foot and turns back toward the living room.
“I met your little friend this morning,” Jason says from the couch. He pauses a beat and then looks at Ronnie with a smirk at the side of his mouth.
“Oh, yeah?” Ronnie stomachs his frustration at first, choosing to assume Jason isn’t being an asshole to him immediately after he wakes up.
“Yeah, he seems nice,” Jason looks back at the TV, “I can definitely see what Ted was talking about, though.”
“Ted talked to you about Brandon?” Ronnie caps his orange juice, suddenly feeling more protective of Brandon than he needs to be.
“Only a few things here and there. Ted liked him just fine, said he’s a nice guy. Just,” Jason does a ‘so-so’ motion with his hand, “you know, a little out there.”
“I don’t know,” Ronnie shrugs and remembers last night fondly, “I like him.”
“I’m sure you do,” Jason looks at Ronnie again.
“No,” Ronnie laughs and swats a hand out, “no, not like that. He’s just a friend.”
“You don’t have to lie, dude. I’ve gotten used to you and your boy toys,” Jason chuckles after this and Ronnie feels a heat burn in his chest.
“You wouldn’t call him a fucking ‘boy toy’ if that were true,” Ronnie crosses his arms.
“Don’t get all pissy, Ron, I’m just trying to say you don’t have to pretend he’s just a friend,” Jason’s speaking with a sincerity that would be welcome if he wasn’t completely wrong and, also, a total asshole.
“I’m not pretending, dude. Why would I start lying now after I’ve already had other dudes over?”
“You tell me!” Jason laughs in disbelief, or annoyance—it’s hard to tell, “The kid came out of your fuckin’ bedroom.”
“I slept in Ted’s bed. You’d have noticed if you paid attention to anything,” Ronnie regrets letting Jason get to him. He’ll use it against him in the future like he always does. But it feels different this time; Jason doesn’t know how harmless Brandon is. He shouldn’t even be saying his name, it feels dirty when it comes out of his mouth.
“Sorry, I try not to pay attention when you have one of them over.”
Ronnie steps toward the couch, arms still crossed, and stands over Jason, “What do you mean by ‘them’, Jason?”
“Jesus, you know what I mean…” Jason looks up and Ronnie with disdain painting his face, “Take a step back, dude.”
Caleb steps out of his room upstairs, “What the fuck are you guys fighting about now?”
The one thing Ronnie wanted to avoid was this situation becoming a whole thing, but it’s too far gone at this point.
“Nothing,” Ronnie waves a hand dismissively toward Caleb but it’s no use since he’s already heading downstairs.
“Ronnie is trying to act like he didn’t hook up with the guy who slept over last night,” Jason says matter-of-factly.
“Which I didn’t,” Ronnie doesn’t give Caleb a chance to pry before he can defend himself, “I slept in Ted’s bed and Brandon slept in mine.”
Caleb nods and sits down on the last stair, “And why do you care so much, Jason?”
Ronnie flashes Jason a toothy smile because he can’t help it, no matter how childish he looks. This whole fight has been childish anyways.
“It’s not that I care, I was trying to tell Ronnie that he could be more open to me about his hook-ups,” Jason says as though he’s the victim now, like he was hosting an innocent conversation before Ronnie ruined it.
“Okay, but if they didn’t hook-up then there’s nothing to be more open about?” Caleb says with a confused look and a hand held out in front of him.
“Thank you!” Ronnie ponders what he’s about to say next after the conversation he and Brandon had last night, “He’s not even gay, man.”
Jason scoffs, “Yeah, alright.”
“You met the guy for two fucking seconds, what would you know?” Ronnie imagines the interaction that went down this morning and winces at the thought of Brandon being alone with Jason.
“Yeah, why were you up?” Caleb motions to Jason.
“I woke up early and went for a run,” Jason shifts in the couch, “I was making myself some breakfast when this guy rushes out of Ronnie’s room with his hair all a mess and his clothes wrinkled—”
“Oh, don’t fucking start with this again, dude,” Ronnie has to turn around away from the couch, becoming more afraid that he’ll punch Jason square in the face if he doesn’t shut up.
“Ronnie, you exaggerated this whole thing. You always do,” Jason pauses and rubs the back of his head, “you fit the drama-queen stereotype to a fucking tee.”
Ronnie turns around and looks at Jason’s smug, arrogant face on the couch and starts walking toward it again. He must have his thoughts written on his face because Caleb jumps from his spot on the staircase and holds an arm out across Ronnie’s chest.
“Okay, you guys need to calm the fuck down. You’re acting like kids,” Caleb looks between the two men. “Just stay away from each other for the rest of the day.”
“Fine by me,” Jason lifts his palms in the air as if to surrender.
“Don’t act so innocent, asshole,” Ronnie spits out.
“Ronnie, just let it go for now,” Caleb reasons, “we still got nearly a year on the lease. Can you wait to strangle each other until then?”
“I’m not letting him touch me,” Jason murmurs from the couch.
“Just shut up!” Caleb yells toward him, “It was a joke—God, I feel like your fucking mother!”
Ronnie turns around and heads to the kitchen. He snatches his clothes from where he left them on the counter and looks back at the two men in the living room, “I’m gonna shower.”
Right after Ronnie speaks, Jason stands up and walks into his room, slamming the door behind him.
“You two are ridiculous sometimes,” Caleb says. Ronnie begins to speak, “No. We’ll talk after you’ve calmed down.”
Ronnie is about to open his mouth again, but decides Caleb is right. He suddenly feels embarrassed that he considered hitting Jason. He’s never been in a fight, meaning he’s never won a fight either. Something about that man talking about Brandon despite knowing nothing about him, it cut right through to Ronnie’s gut. He heads to the bathroom with his clothes bunched in a tight ball under his arm.
“Hey, Ron?” The drummer turns around towards Caleb. His roommate lowers his voice, “For the record, I’m on your side. But again, let’s just talk about it later when he’s at work.”
Ronnie nods in response, “Thanks, man.”
After he closes the bathroom door behind him, Ronnie stands at the sink with his hands gripping the countertop. He doesn’t look at his reflection, just the gross soap-scum and toothpaste remnants in the sink. He needs to get out of here. If something doesn’t change soon, he’s worried he won’t be able to recognize himself anymore.
Ronnie remembers the note Brandon left him and lets out a small laugh. He stands up straight and rubs his palms over his face. Maybe he’ll call him tonight.
He doesn’t even have to do that, though, because Brandon calls him around dinner instead. He hates how giddy he is about it as he picks up but is excited at the same time. From his spot at his desk, he pushes his door shut as he says hello.
“ Hey man, ” Brandon says. Ronnie can hear the thud of keys being set down. “ Calling for two reasons, actually, I just got back from Dave’s place. I wanted to talk earlier but there were so many people at work today. ”
“Practice go well?” He asks.
Brandon huffs and throws himself down, presumably on his couch, “ It was fine. Well, it wasn’t, but you know. ”
Ronnie frowns, “What happened?”
“ Buss didn’t show. Dave says he went and got grounded or something. ”
“Did he tell you that?”
“ He sent an email, ” Brandon scoffs. “Said his parents didn’t like him in all the bars—even though we try to play at all-ages places. ”
The prospect of Brandon’s band losing another drummer wasn’t something Ronnie often tortured himself with. It must just be incredibly poor luck. “Did his parents not know?”
“We damn well thought they did!” Brandon sighs. “ It’s just- well, I won’t say. ”
But Ronnie wants him to say, so very badly. “You can tell me anything,” he says.
“I know,” Brandon responds quick enough that it almost surprises Ronnie. “The kid won’t last. All of us know it and it’s horrible to play with his emotions. We won’t get anywhere like this.”
Ronnie hums in agreement, “What are you going to do about it?”
“ You know what we want .”
Ronnie’s unconscious smile slowly fades. He knew it would come to this—it always does. “I’m sorry. You know I’m trying to get my degree right now—I’m gonna be a teacher.”
Brandon is quiet. In the short time that they have known each other, Ronnie still hasn’t gotten used to the silences. Brandon almost always says what’s on his mind, usually without thinking before he opens his mouth, and when he doesn’t it gives Ronnie pause.
“ I think I might have left my lighter at your house, ” Brandon eventually says. “ It’s gold. I didn’t get a smoke break today. ”
Ronnie knows that he doesn’t mean it this way, but his mind tricks him into imagining something unforgiving in Brandon’s voice. Almost like it was Ronnie’s fault that the lighter got lost and he didn’t get his break. He spins in his chair to give his room a lookover and spots the lighter sitting on his dresser.
“Yep, there it is,” Ronnie stands to grab it and observes the engraving on it—the Gold Coast logo. “I can bring it over, if you’d like.”
“ No, that’s okay. ” Ronnie tries not to be disappointed by it. “ I’ve got a spare. ”
“What was the other reason you called?” He asks, hoping that a change in conversation will raise his newly soured mood.
“ Oh, that, ” Brandon says, “Bowie’s new album. I wanted to know if you wanted to listen with me on Tuesday night. ”
Ronnie stares ahead, a little dumbfounded. “Oh, sure! Yeah, I’d love to. I’ll bring your lighter and everything.”
“I’m glad, ” Brandon says, and he leaves it at that.
They hang up a little bit later and Ronnie can’t help but feel weirdly empty after the whole affair. He pockets the lighter and heads back downstairs, wishing that Ted was back from his trip so that he could just talk to him about the whole situation. Or maybe talk to him so that he could forget about it for a little bit.
He stops by the backdoor and looks out—the sky is a beautiful pink-orange. Figuring that some fresh air might do him some good, he steps out and heads for the porch swing they have set up. Or, the previous owners set up.
He’d like to join the band, but he’d hate to leave his degree unfinished. Then again, they currently had a high school kid in their band, so it’s not like Brandon and Dave cared about that sort of thing. He could realistically see himself doing both, but eventually one would take importance over the other. And if it’s school, he doesn’t know if he can do that to Brandon.
The door slides open and Ronnie looks up to find Caleb there, the man stepping forward to sit with Ronnie on the swing.
“Jason’s an ass,” he says. Ronnie snorts—obviously he knows that. “Wish we hadn’t got stuck with ‘em.”
“If he pulls another stunt like he did today, I can’t promise it won’t get ugly,” Ronnie grimaces.
Caleb shakes his head slightly, “You’re not like that,” he bites his lip, “do you like him?”
“Who?” Ronnie asks. “Jason? Not at the moment, no.”
“No,” his friend responds, “the guy you had over.”
Ronnie huffs, “I didn’t do anything with him-”
“I know,” Caleb gives him a placating look. “Calm down. I’m just asking if you like him.”
And Ronnie doesn’t know. Rather, he wishes that he didn’t know because then he could just drop it and pretend it never happened. Pretend that Brandon hadn’t given him excitement that his life hadn’t seen in a good while. “He’s a Brit-pop wannabe from the desert,” he says, “he’s ridiculous. And a little sad, I think.”
“Well,” Caleb says, “there you go.”
Ronnie’s truck hums to a stop as he pulls into a parking space in front of Brandon’s apartment. He glances at the clock on his radio: 7:28, right on time. He contemplates getting out and knocking on the door but decides to give Brandon the full two minutes before doing so.
But Brandon doesn’t need it. Ronnie notices the curtain move but before he can see Brandon looking through the linen, the singer walks out the front door with a small wave. Ronnie returns the gesture, donning a smile as he unlocks the car. Brandon turns the key in his doorknob, tugs on it just to be sure, then turns around and walks down the complex’s stairs. Ronnie notices the subject of their meet in Brandon’s left hand as he approaches the car, CD still plastic-wrapped as evident by the lowering sun’s reflection glistening across it.
“Hell-o!” Brandon says in a near sing-song voice as he opens the passenger door, closing it behind him shortly after.
“Hey, man,” Ronnie’s grinning as he gestures to the CD that now sits in Brandon’s lap, “you seem excited.”
“God, I had to hold myself back all day,” Brandon clicks his seatbelt in, signaling to Ronnie that he can back the truck out of the small parking lot, “I knew if I opened it I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.”
“I hope it doesn’t disappoint,” Ronnie is palm-steering as he finishes his reverse and puts the truck back in drive, “you really didn’t have to wait for me if you wanted to hear it that bad-”
“Oh,” Brandon swats his hand, “nah that’s bull, I didn’t mind at all. And listening with someone else is always better, too. That way you can tell me if it’s actually good, rather than me convincing myself it is because... well, because it’s Bowie.”
“You’ve got it all planned out, huh?” Ronnie smiles and takes a glance to Brandon while checking the right side for oncoming cars.
“Yeah,” Brandon chuckles and unconsciously looks out to the right, as well, “but if you shit talk David Bowie we could have a problem.”
“Wow,” Ronnie laughs as he pulls out onto the street, “are you threatening my free speech?”
“Maybe,” Brandon says through a smile, “how was work?”
“Eh,” Ronnie shrugs, “new day, same bullshit as they say. My boss is a fucking dick.”
“He sounds like it, what’d he do today?”
“He just gets mad at me for being a person, I swear,” this makes Brandon chuckle, “I’m telling you! Today, this has been a problem with him before, but today I was ‘talking to the couple too much’.”
“What?” Brandon says in disbelief but still has a smirk on his face, “Like, just having a conversation with them?”
“Well, we probably spent ten minutes talking. But, ten minutes, tops! And that’s besides the point—they’re getting married, I’m taking their pictures, who cares if I want to get to know them? Isn’t that just a normal thing to do?”
“Of course it is,” Brandon agrees, “and he was mad at you for it?”
“Yeah!” Ronnie reaches a red light and turns to Brandon as the truck stops, “He pulled me aside after the couple left to get ready in the back and was all like ‘You’re not paid to make friends blah blah your job is to make them look nice’ and all this other bullshit. Of course he can shoot the shit with them all he wants ‘cause he can overcharge them if they go over their time slot, but God forbid I help him out with that by trying to make the couple more comfortable.”
“Jesus, that’s fucked up,” Brandon pulls something out of his pocket, “oh wait, sorry, can I smoke in here? Totally cool if not, I can wait ‘til we stop.”
“Feel free,” Ronnie looks over and sees the pack of Parliaments on Brandon’s lap, “the guys smoke in here all the time—oh! Your lighter! It’s in my pocket.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Brandon says, leaning over to take the lighter before Ronnie can do it himself. He then pulls a cigarette out of the carton and places it between his teeth, lighting it with practiced ease, “But please, continue.”
“Nah, that’s basically all that happened. Today, at least,” Ronnie looks over to Brandon blowing out the first plume of smoke. He doesn’t notice that the light turns green so Brandon points at it, “I didn’t mean to unload all that on you, how was your day? Anything crazy at the Coast?”
“I wish,” Brandon says before removing the cigarette from his lips, “the morning-to-afternoon shift is always when the tourists check in. More tips but much less eventful than the graveyard regulars.” The singer takes another drag, then ashes it out the open window, “I can never tell what I like more.”
“What? Between more money and 4 A.M. psychos?” Ronnie responds as he takes a left.
“Well, yeah obviously the money wins but God,” Brandon shakes his head before taking another hit, “the 6 A.M. to 9 A.M. spell is time-stoppingly boring. I was about ready to pull the fire alarm.”
“Shoulda given me a call,” Ronnie smiles as he looks over to Brandon who returns the grin with a playful eyeroll.
“Yeah, I’m sure a phone call at seven o’ clock would have been amazing for you,” Brandon ashes the Parliament again, “Where are we going, by the way? For all I know we’re heading to Reno.”
“No, much smaller than that. You know that strip mall they’re building off Paradise?” Brandon nods as he blows out, “They’ve got the parking lot done. The construction team and highway department keeps a lot of their cars, trucks, and equipment shit there overnight. We can just park there and I doubt anyone will bother us. It should be empty, we can blow my speakers right the fuck out if you want.”
“Sounds good,” Brandon looks over to Ronnie, “thanks for driving. Something about having a first listen in a car feels right, better than just sitting alone on the couch and playing it out of the speakers.”
“Don’t mention it, I agree actually,” the drummer smiles, “makes it feel like, I dunno, like a whole experience rather than just a playback.”
“Exactly!” Brandon exclaims, “See, you understand. A lot of people wouldn’t.”
“Happy to be a weirdo with you,” Ronnie’s truck slows as he pulls into the construction-slash-parking lot, “and here we aaare.”
“Oh, shit. I haven’t even opened the thing yet.”
Ronnie peruses the lot for a good place to park amidst the few construction vehicles scattered about. He settles on a spot that puts a backhoe between his truck and the road, just in case any bored cops are looking for a target. But it’s nighttime in Vegas, so their luck is pretty much guaranteed.
When Ronnie puts the truck in park, he switches the power to accessory, looks over to Brandon, and stifles a laugh. The younger man is practically nibbling at a corner of the CD to break through the shrink-wrapped plastic.
“Y’know, if you’re hungry we can grab something to eat first,” Ronnie says through a smile that goes unnoticed by Brandon.
“Oh, I’m good. Thanks, though!”
“Alright,” Ronnie chuckles softly and decides not to point out the joke that flew right over Brandon’s head. A successful bite allows Brandon to pull the remaining plastic off the album. He wears a goofy grin as he opens it up and reveals the disc inside. Ronnie doesn’t notice how long he’s staring at Brandon’s smile until it opens,
“Here she is,” the singer gently pops the CD out and holds it by the edges between the index and thumb of both his hands. Brandon puts on a faux stoic look and faces Ronnie with the CD in hand, imitating a deep-voiced radio advertisement announcer, “Heathen by David Bowie.” Ronnie lets out a loud “whoo!” in response, causing Brandon’s façade to break with a string of dorky giggles. Ronnie notices for the first time that one of Brandon’s front teeth hangs lower than the other, forming the most endearing but genuine smile. He tries not to look for long, but can tell he’s failing.
“Throw her in, baby!” Ronnie bellows, suddenly joining in Brandon’s excitement. He forgot this album was even coming out until Brandon mentioned it to him, but Brandon has a way of making you want to mirror whatever he is feeling. Ronnie has trouble explaining it even in his own head, so he pushes the thought out for the time being.
Brandon loads the CD into the player that had been ejected prior to Ronnie leaving for Brandon’s apartment. As the disc reads, it is only then that Ronnie realizes they are still buckled, so he unclasps his seatbelt first while Brandon follows right after. Ronnie can’t help but notice Brandon is an inch or two closer to him after he does so.
The first song, ‘Sunday’, starts and Brandon is smiling, looking eagerly at Ronnie. It was beautiful to see someone like this—completely enamored in the anticipation of new art. But Brandon wears it outwardly with pride in this moment, as if he knows Ronnie takes joy in seeing him this way. He doesn’t know this, of course, but the sentiment is there all the same.
‘Sunday’ is atmospheric, with droning synth and heavy reverb. It’s spacey and sad, and right up Brandon’s alley.
“This is dope, this is so fucking cool,” Brandon babbles out.
“For sure,” a drum fill that closes the song starts right as Ronnie speaks up, “oh, that’s sick.”
“You drummers, all the same…” Brandon jokes through a smirk. Ronnie lands a playful punch to Brandon’s shoulder in response.
‘Cactus’ is next, and it’s a funky one. A blend of some western-twang acoustic guitar and cosmic synth. Ronnie notes that he likes the combination and Brandon nods enthusiastically. ‘Slip Away’ comes after, starting out with some haunting piano accompanied with Bowie’s signature broody cadence. The piano fades into a more cohesive melody before the sermon-like chorus begins. A vibrato-heavy sliding synth part comes in at the end of the chorus that makes Brandon groan. In a good way, of course. He’s eating this up.
‘Slow Burn’ starts with a pop-y synth that Ronnie is sure Brandon will comment on, but the singer is focused on something else.
“Do you hear that bass?” Brandon remarks, averting his gaze to Ronnie with a focused look. The drummer hones in on the sound and smirks,
“That’s nice, that’s chunky,” Ronnie mimics the bass’ rhythm with his mouth.
“Yeah, dude. That’s…” Brandon chuckles, “wow.”
Ronnie has to restart the truck briefly when it shuts off from idling. It’s not good to keep his battery running like this, but he couldn’t care less right now.
The next few songs beget similar reactions from Brandon. Ronnie is loving the album, too, but it’s hard to focus on the songs when he’s so in tune to Brandon’s responses to them. It’s not a bad thing, not in the slightest. He loves seeing Brandon like this; there’s a vulnerability in this kind of passion that Ronnie does not take lightly. He would never tell him, but Ronnie feels honored to be sharing these moments with him. His mind keeps coming back to this word, but it’s true—this is beautiful.
During the seventh track, Ronnie becomes aware that Brandon has moved closer to him gradually over the past twenty-five minutes. The truck doesn’t have a console, meaning Brandon could scoot all the way over to Ronnie if so inclined. Ronnie doesn’t want to think about why the thought of this makes his chest flutter, so he distracts himself as the eighth track starts.
“A ‘Gemini Spacecraft... what’s your zodiac sign?”
“I’m a cusper, actually,” Brandon says with a sense of pride, “June 21st falls on the gemini-cancer threshold.”
“So, what star sign do you consider yourself, I guess?” Ronnie smirks watching Brandon get ready to reply.
“Cancer, but I won’t act like I don’t have any Gemini in me. Well, I actually have no idea what I’m even talking about,” Brandon makes a hitched-breath chuckle that is so uniquely his.
“No, me neither,” Ronnie rubs the back of his neck, “I know I’m an Aquarius, anything beyond that is totally lost on me.” The last minute of the song plays out and the ninth begins, ‘5:15 the Angels Have Gone’. The name on the scroll display of the dashboard sticks out to Ronnie first, but he is soon paying attention to the slow, classically simple drum pattern. He begins mimicking the rhythm on the steering wheel and Brandon looks over.
“You likin’ it so far, huh?” Brandon has a very pleased, but almost devilish smile on his face.
“Hard not to, I guess. He’s the king,” Ronnie knows the answer to his next question, but asks it anyway to see the man smile, “how about you?”
“Oh, this is a hit album for me.” Brandon adjusts himself in the seat, unconsciously bringing himself closer to Ronnie. Only unconscious to him, Ronnie notices.
They sit mostly in silence for the rest of the song, occasionally pointing out moments they especially liked. Ronnie loves the way Brandon articulates his favorite parts; they’d be nonsensical if you didn’t feel music the way Brandon did, but Ronnie feels like he does. At least when Brandon talks about it, it’s all he can think about.
‘Everyone Says ‘Hi’’ marks the tenth track on the album, and Brandon’s head is bobbing gently as he follows along. By the end of the first chorus, Brandon reaches for the volume knob for the first time since they’ve gotten in the truck. He only turns it down two or three notches, then turns to Ronnie.
“Do you… let me know if this is offensive to ask you this specifically-”
“I cannot wait to hear what you have to say right now that would make you lead with that,” Ronnie interjects while wearing a toothy grin.
“Shut up,” Brandon chuckles, “I was gonna ask if you think any of his songs are about men? And not in the character, Ziggy-type-of-way. Like, as a love song.”
“Oh,” Ronnie ponders this for a second, “I mean, probably yeah. He does use ‘she’ a lot, though.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean much does it?” Brandon argues, “You gotta think even if he’s open about himself that he still understands a love song that’s blatantly about a man, sung by a man, won’t do as well as one about a woman.”
“Yeah, true…” Ronnie locks eyes with Brandon, “what’re you asking for? Looking for songwriting advice?”
“No, no.” Brandon laughs this off, then pauses for a second. He hesitates for a second, a shy smile forming on his face, “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Well,” Ronnie doesn’t want to pry, despite the feeling growing in his stomach, “if it ever became a thing that you wanted to write about, I don’t think you should refrain from it.”
“Nah, it’s nothing like that, really. I was just kinda curious, I guess.”
“Curious for a reason though, no?” Ronnie nearly winces as he wonders if he’s gone too far, but Brandon doesn’t seem uncomfortable.
“Uh, yeah... true.” Another breathy chuckle precedes Brandon’s next words, “But I’m not too worried about it right now. I’ve never even kissed a guy let alone had enough substance to write a song about one.” He sounds defeated, his words less than woeful but deeper than want.
“You know, dudes always say that like it’s different from kissing a girl,” Ronnie starts, trying to smirk away any tension that might be building, “It may have been awhile since I did it, but I didn’t think kissing a chick was any different when it came time for my first kiss with a dude. Other than the fact that, y’know, I wasn’t into it with the girl.”
“Bullshit,” Brandon laughs and turns his body towards Ronnie, “I doubt you remember it enough to have a fair comparison.”
“Hey, at least I’m talking from a place of experience,” Ronnie is trying not to overthink the way Brandon turned to face him, so he jokes the way he always feels he has to, “have you even kissed a girl ?”
“Asshole,” the song changes over but neither of them comment, “you say ‘dudes always say that’ like you make a hobby of turning straight guys gay.”
“Hey now, Vannucci doesn’t kiss and tell,” Ronnie’s jokes are still less out of comfort and more out of defense, but Brandon laughs all the same. There’s a brief silence, then broken by a stutter from Brandon.
“I- You know, I want to. I just… whenever I imagine a date with a guy, it all seems nice until that moment comes. I would freeze up, I know it.”
“No, it makes sense. Trust me,” his words ring through Ronnie’s head, “it’s the first big step forward into uncharted territory. It’s okay to be nervous about it.”
“Thanks, but I know it’s okay to be nervous.” Brandon shakes his head and looks down, his classic move when his thoughts are moving too fast for his mouth, “I just don’t want to be.”
Ronnie knows he’s going to say it. There’s almost no way he can stop it from coming out of him.
“If you’re really that nervous about it, I could help you sometime.” Brandon’s head slowly comes back up to face Ronnie. His features are softened and the only light coming into the car is from the lamppost a few spots away from the truck, “As a friend, I swear . I really, really don’t mean that in a creepy way. It’s just an offer and it can stay that way. But if you’re that freaked out about trying things with guys, I want you to know that you could practice the first step with someone who… someone who actually cares about you. I don’t know.”
Brandon stares at Ronnie for a moment with his lips slightly parted. A soft smile forms there before he speaks again, “That’s really the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“God, I fucked up,” Ronnie wears a grimace, “I’m sorry, dude. That was so corny!”
“No, God no…” Brandon almost cuts off his words, “I mean it. I promise you it’s okay. I’m not weirded out, I swear. Please don’t apologize.”
“Okay, well…” Ronnie laughs nervously, a near-perfect mimic of Brandon’s usual cadence, “yeah. That’s out there now.”
Another silence suffocates the truck. Bowie is no more than background noise to the pounding in Ronnie’s ears. He feels it might just stop when Brandon speaks again,
“Would you right now?”
“Kiss you?”
“Yeah,” Brandon’s smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, “kiss me.”
Their eyes are fixed on each other. It’s almost too much, but Ronnie can’t look away.
“Yeah, absolutely. But I need to know you truly want to, not that you’re just doing it because I offered.”
“I want to,” Brandon nearly whispers, and the mood shifts fast enough to give Ronnie tunnel vision.
“Show me, then,” Ronnie matches Brandon’s volume, “you have to start so I know you’re okay with it.”
Brandon takes a deep breath, lets out one last hitched laugh, and moves himself closer to Ronnie so that the outside of their thighs are touching. The singer meets Ronnie’s gaze again, pupils wide and cheeks flushed enough to see in the dimly lit car. Ronnie feels the pull in his chest as Brandon leans forward with closed eyes.
Brandon’s lips are soft, incredibly soft. They kiss that way, too. A gentle press against Ronnie’s, as if anything else would shatter him. He can’t remember the last kiss that felt like this. It’s a strange sensation—Ronnie’s entire body is warm with want while his lips rest on a sweet softness. He’s certain he’s never felt a touch like this before, like a rain cloud that will never lose a drop but lingers above in all its weight.
Once Brandon seems comfortable, Ronnie begins to move his lips slowly; he still wants Brandon to lead, but knows the younger man wants some guidance. Brandon follows gracefully, matching the gentle pace like the artist he is.
Brandon rests a hand on Ronnie’s knee, he assumes to steady himself, but then he pulls away. The cold air that meets Ronnie’s lips leaves him with an emptiness he wasn’t expecting. He was doing this as a friend, and now he sees Brandon in front of him with no other thought in his mind but kissing him again. Ronnie’s certain he would do it forever if he asked.
They idle in front of each other’s faces, no more than a few inches apart. Ronnie’s gaze falls to Brandon’s lips, the object of his undoing. He watches as the corner lifts into a faint smirk, then Brandon leans forward again.
This kiss is heavy; the cloud has opened and Ronnie has no choice but to surrender to its force. If there was a choice, he still wouldn’t have it any other way.
Brandon leads again, but he’s less gentle now. There’s still a tenderness there that is so distinctly Brandon, but coupled with a heat that wasn’t present in their first touch. Ronnie hopes it’s desire fueling this force, but nothing will take him out of this moment.
Ronnie returns this kiss with a matched intensity. He only goes where he knows Brandon can follow because he is completely at the will of the singer’s movements. There was nothing that could have prepared him for this, but he knew this as soon as he offered. He didn’t have the thought that maybe his offer was more so for himself than for Brandon until he realizes when they stop, he might never stop thinking about this.
It’s then that Ronnie notices the faint smell of cologne on Brandon, clearly faded from his day at work but still lingering enough for him to notice. It’s mixed with the scent of cigarette smoke and a faint sweetness he can’t describe. It’s all Brandon, and it’s all perfect.
Ronnie moves a hand to the back of Brandon’s head, hoping the younger man will stop him if it’s too far. But Brandon responds by placing both of his palms to the sides of Ronnie’s face; his thumbs resting right by the corners of Ronnie’s mouth while his fingers cover the length of his jawline. Brandon tilts his head with a sigh as he deepens the kiss. Ronnie returns the sigh and wraps his free hand gingerly around Brandon’s wrist. He can feel the man’s pulse beating at the same pace, if not faster, than his own.
Their rhythm continues for a while, both men letting small breaths escape from their mouths occasionally. Brandon’s thumb strokes Ronnie’s face ever so slightly, but enough that Ronnie feels a feather-light flutter creep up his stomach and into his chest.
Then, Brandon pulls away. His hands still linger on Ronnie’s face for an extra moment before they settle in the crease where their thighs meet. It’s only then that Ronnie realizes the album is over, and the last few seconds of their exchange had been in total silence. Brandon must have noticed; Ronnie would tell himself that was the reason he pulled away first. There was no place to retreat, no song to comment on to distract them from what happened.
The first song starts again, as if providing a reminder of how their night began, right at the moment they would have to decide how it was going to end. The music may be back on, but the silence between the two men cuts through the sound somehow.
“Well,” Brandon backs himself away only a few inches but it makes Ronnie realize that their moment truly is over. After that first word, Brandon starts laughing. Not his usual breathy chuckles, real giddiness this time. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, but Ronnie doesn’t have the strength to do the same. He just joins in on Brandon’s laughing, full of disbelief and a creeping sense of fear.
“Well, what?” Ronnie finally manages to get out. His voice is still low, a feeble attempt at keeping himself in the memory of their kiss.
“That was… is it too much to say that it was kind of... amazing?” Brandon looks at Ronnie, biting his lower lip after he finishes speaking.
“No, no. Yeah, that was…” Ronnie trails off. There’s a thousand things he wants to say, and each one would scare Brandon off— “That was the best kiss I’ve ever had”, “You are so beautiful”, “I’ve wanted to do that for a little while now I just couldn’t admit it to myself”, “Do you want to do it again?”, “Do you want to come over to my place?”, “Do you still like me, even now?”, “Will you still like me when you realize I would do this all night if I could?”, “You are so goddamn beautiful”. He can’t say any of it, but thankfully Brandon intercepts,
“We’re both speechless, so that counts for something,” Brandon is wringing his hands, “Did I do okay?”
“You were phenomenal, honestly,” Ronnie answers with his full honesty, but Brandon chuckles, “no, really. You were great. Perfect.” Brandon is fighting a smile as he stares at his hands, but the pull of his closed-lip grin is clear on his cheeks. The silence returns, deeper this time. Ronnie knows he should turn the car on and head out, but his arms feel glued to his side.
“I think I’ll have to re-listen to those last three songs, huh?” Brandon mutters. It makes Ronnie laugh, hard. A real release of the clusterfuck of emotions flying through his mind at a mile a minute.
“Yeah, probably…” Ronnie looks at the clock, 8:42, “we can put them on for the ride home. Might not get all three but it’s something.”
“Nah, the radio’s fine for now. I’m not really in the headspace to listen closely right now, I guess.” Brandon scoots over a bit more and reaches for his seatbelt. Ronnie wonders if he never brought up the ride home how long they might have stayed there.
“No... no me neither.” Ronnie says with a half-chuckle as he grabs his own seatbelt and clicks himself in. He switches the radio from the disc to the UNLV station he keeps on his first preset. The rumble of the engine turning over breaks through music, “Do you have work tomorrow?”
“Yeah, 6 A.M. again. It’s a good time to head out so I can get some sleep,” Brandon says. Ronnie wishes he felt the same way, “Do you?”
“No, thankfully.” Ronnie doesn’t realize he’s already at the parking lot’s exit; he’s still replaying the kiss in his head and he’s starting to worry it will never stop. As he takes a right onto the road, he notices Brandon is bouncing his leg. He does this a lot, but Ronnie never had to worry about the reason until now.
It’s only an eight minute drive but the traffic has gotten worse since they were on the road earlier. The nightly rush of hopeful winners, though most of them will be losers by the time they leave. The risk is part of the fun; it doesn’t feel like so much of a risk when you win, but that one loss could crush you. Even still, Ronnie is jealous that the gamblers have only two fates—win or lose—after every chance they take. He’s never been into gambling, but at least there’s clarity there. When you lose a game of blackjack, you know your place. Ronnie can’t tell if he regrets the chance he took just yet, but he’s not excited to learn.
They hit a red light, backed up by at least twelve cars in front of them. Ronnie’s just getting used to the terrible quiet between them when Brandon speaks up,
“You’re not going to tell anyone are you?” His words are so soft, but the worry is clear as day. Ronnie turns to face Brandon, who does not return the gaze.
“Of course not,” Ronnie matches Brandon’s sincerity, “I would never.”
“It’s not that I’m embarrassed, or even that I regret it,” Brandon sighs before he continues, “it’s just… we have so much to work on with the band and everything. We can’t have any distractions or do anything that will screw up the… dynamic, or whatever.” The singer’s waving his hand in a circle as he searches for his last words.
“I agree, for sure,” Ronnie silently begs the light to turn green, “I’m not even in the band, I’d hate to complicate anything for you guys. I’m sorry if I already did.” Ronnie’s prayer is answered and the light turns, leading the train of cars in front of them toward the strip.
“No, no. Don’t talk like that,” Brandon held his hand up in protest before resting it in his lap again, “I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t want to. If anything, we hold the same blame. Blame’s a bad word for it… you know what I mean.” Ronnie does, so he acts like that word didn’t humiliate him more than he already felt.
“Yeah, fair enough,” Ronnie bargains, “I promise you I won’t tell a soul. I wouldn’t do that to you, or the band.” The light turns yellow with two cars ahead of them, then red right as Ronnie approaches the stop line. He must be being punished.
“Our little secret then?” Brandon looks over and Ronnie meets his gaze, both their faces illuminated with the red glow of the traffic light above them. Brandon pulls a one-sided smirk waiting for his answer.
“Yeah,” Ronnie smiles back, “our little secret.” Brandon sends a subtle nod in his direction and faces the road again; Ronnie could swear Brandon’s eyes lingered on his lips for half a second, but he’s in no place to say for sure.
Maybe half a minute later, the light turns green. They’re only a half mile from Brandon’s apartment now, a three minute drive if they’re lucky. The silence returns, but it’s less excruciating now. If Ronnie can find any comfort in this situation, at least Brandon doesn’t seem to hate him. He’ll take what he can get.
Ronnie pulls into the apartment complex’s parking lot and Brandon unbuckles. He pats his pockets, presumably checking for his cigarettes and lighter.
“Thanks for doing this, again. I had a great time,” Brandon smiles and puts his closed fist up.
“Me too, don’t mention it.” Ronnie meets Brandon’s fist with his own, returning the younger man’s smile. Brandon grabs the door handle and pushes it open, “Oh! Don’t forget your CD.” Ronnie hits eject on the CD player before Brandon can respond.
“Oh, gosh. Thank you,” Brandon grabs the disc and pops it into its case. He opens the door fully now, steps out with a small hop, and closes it behind him. He gets half a step away from the truck before he turns around, returning to the rolled down window. Brandon leans on the door with his arms crossed, “Hey, if you’re off of work, I think Dave and I are going to jam and talk over some stuff together tomorrow night. I’d love you to be there, only if you can of course.”
Ronnie thinks about it for a moment, “Yeah, I should be free. I’ll call you tomorrow?” He’d really just like to see Brandon again.
“Sounds good,” Brandon backs away from the door, “hope to see you then. Have a good night, Ronnie.”
“You, too. Don’t pull the fire alarm at work.”
“No promises,” Brandon chuckles as he turns towards the stairs and chucks up a peace sign behind his back. The singer unlocks his door and disappears behind it a moment later.
As soon as Brandon’s out of sight, Ronnie’s body eases up for the first time since Brandon pulled away from his face. He lets his head drop slowly to rest against the steering wheel with a sigh.
Brandon opens the door for him when he knocks. It’s been nearly twenty-seven hours since they listened to Heathen in the car. Ronnie smiles at him when their eyes meet and Brandon busies himself with looking away and holding the door open, shutting it behind him when he enters.
“Where’s Dave?” Ronnie asks, observing the empty living room. Brandon’s keyboard case is sitting against a wall, untouched.
“Bathroom,” Brandon says and promptly disappears into the kitchen. Ronnie decides against following him, if only for Brandon’s sake.
Dave appears moments later and seems decidedly more pleased to see him than Brandon did. He tries to think back on the last time they saw each other and comes upon the realization that it hasn’t been since the night at Tremorz. Sure, they’ve spoken on the phone, but Dave’s plans to stop by the night Brandon slept over had fallen through. All of his business with the band since their initial meeting had gone through Brandon.
He asks what held Dave up the other night, Dave replying, “Oh, so sorry about that. I heard it went well!” A nonanswer. He wonders if that’s something he and Brandon have in common. The relationship is odd, he must admit. Talking to Brandon makes it seem like he and Dave bicker more than anything else and the only thing holding them together is their love of New Wave and the ambition to be famous.
Dave motions for him to sit—which he does—and he decides to ask another question. “Is your bassist around?”
Dave props his feet up on the coffee table, “He moved out a little while ago, but he’s all good.”
Ronnie hadn’t even been aware that the man was Dave’s roommate. Off in the corner with the rest of their gear, a lonely bass sits untouched. He figures that’s not the best sign.
Brandon returns with three bottles of beer, handing one to Dave without a word and placing the next on the table in front of Ronnie. With Dave sitting in the recliner, the only open spot for Brandon is next to Ronnie.
“You two sure drink a lot,” Ronnie comments, “and I live with a bunch of college students.” Brandon and Dave share a look and shrug. “So, things not going good with the kid?”
“Straight to business, I see,” Dave grins.
“I just figured since no ones got any instruments out and there are no drums.” It’s a shame too, because Ronnie really would like to play with them for real sometime. That’s not much of a concern now, though—he’s pretty sure he knows where this is going.
“He’s not half bad,” Brandon starts.
Dave interrupts him, “He’s got school next month. I’m sure mommy-dearest doesn’t want him skipping out on homework and I’m not helping him with his algebra.”
Ronnie winces, “Does he know you’re gonna drop him?”
Dave simply says, “We haven’t lined up our replacement yet.”
There it was. Ronnie figured this was about him replacing Buss. Since what happened between him and Brandon last night, he’d been thinking about the prospects of the band. He’s fully aware that if they’re gonna take off in any capacity, they’re gonna need a competent drummer. One who likes New Wave. And there’s only one person in that Venn diagram that he knows of. It feels disingenuous to be considering it after the events of last night, but he can’t help but want more.
“How often do you guys practice?” He asks.
Dave sits up a little straighter and Brandon perks up beside him. “Everyday we can, whether it be before or after work,” Dave says.
“I’ve got class next month, too, you know,” Ronnie mentions.
“Well, you’re considerably more flexible. And an adult.”
He’d like to. There were a lot of things he’d like to do but he knows he can’t have his cake and eat it, too.
Brandon finally speaks up, “Why don’t you just do it? What’s stopping you?”
He would never admit it aloud, but the thing stopping him was Brandon himself.
“I…” they’re both looking at him intently now. “Give me one day. I want to, but I need to…” his gaze wanders to Brandon, “sort some things out.”
“Oh, thank God!” Dave claps his hands together, startling Brandon. “I knew we’d get ‘ya.”
“I know I just got here but the sooner I get out of your hair, the sooner I can get this figured out,” Ronnie says. He stands, taking notice of his untouched beer, “Brandon, I brought your lighter but I think I left it in the car.”
Brandon frowns at him, “But you-” he catches on. “Oh, alright.” He follows behind, “Be right back, Dave.”
“It’s all good,” Dave says. “Thank you, Ronnie.”
Ronnie feels a little guilty about his current situation, especially because Dave has no involvement in what’s about to make or break his band. He says goodbye to the guitarist and heads out, glad that Brandon didn’t make a scene about the lighter.
They walk out to his truck, “We need to talk before I commit to this,” Ronnie says.
“I know,” Brandon responds, but Ronnie doesn’t think he actually gets the magnitude of the situation.
“You want to grab a drink after you wrap up with Dave?”
Brandon stuffs his hands in his pockets, “Sure. What were you thinking?”
Ronnie is waiting outside already by the time that Brandon shows up, no doubt because he got held up for longer than expected by Dave. There’s something so nerve-wracking about being alone with him now as they reunite and make their way into the bar wordlessly. The final job interview—a screening to be sure that Ronnie doesn’t go and fall in love any time soon.
They get their drinks (just a beer for Ronnie but Brandon orders a Long Island, which endears him to the man) and decide to sit in a secluded booth at the back of the room. Ronnie knows that neither of them want to start the conversation because it probably won’t be a very good one, but he tries anyway. He asks if Brandon has listened to the last three tracks of Heathen yet because it's adjacent to the actual topic at hand. At least, what Ronnie assumes the topic is.
He seems a little more loose than he had earlier, possibly due to him having another drink with Dave. “Oh, I was going to this morning but I forgot to put the CD in my car,” Brandon answers. He’s gotten to his drink quickly, Ronnie notes, as he usually does. Either he’s thirsty or he really doesn’t want to talk. “What are you going to tell Dave?”
Straight to business once again, Ronnie supposes. “I’ll say yes—you already know that,” he says. “I would have said yes back at his place if not for…” he trails off. Brandon is staring into his drink. “Do you want me in this band?”
Brandon jumps to respond, “Yes! You know I do. We’ve been trying to get you since we met.”
“Right,” Ronnie sips at his drink, “we need to just get out with what this is actually about.”
“Okay,” Brandon nods. “Okay, you- listen, if we’re gonna- if-” he huffs, “if you’re gonna-” he takes a long swig of his drink. “If you’re gonna be in this band, this can’t be a thing.”
“A thing?” Ronnie asks. He cannot deny that Brandon is equally cute and frustrating.
“A weird thing,” he clarifies. “Like, you’re my friend. I’ve told you things I haven't even told Dave. But if there’s some weird thing between us then the band might implode.”
Ronnie knows that Brandon doesn’t mean to be cruel. He lacks tact—as he often does—and he doesn't know what he’s doing. This subject is out of his depth. He takes a napkin from its holder and tears it into tiny pieces.
“I want you in on this. I think we can make it if we have you involved but-” his hands still before starting again, “last night was a one time thing.”
Right. There we go.
“How does that make you feel?” Ronnie shouldn’t ask, but he does anyway.
Brandon loses focus for a moment, like he’s an oracle looking into a crystal ball. He’s weird like that. “I will do whatever it takes to succeed.”
Ronnie knew that this would be the outcome but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. He wishes that he had never even suggested that they kiss last night because now he’s just going to end up heartbroken one way or another. Maybe if he hadn’t then he would have been able to just go on pretending that he didn’t have feelings for the other man.
He wishes he knew if Brandon liked him.
“I mean,” Brandon starts again, “I enjoyed myself. Don’t get me wrong, I liked it too, but… I can’t risk losing the band if something were to go south.” He pauses and what he says next haunts Ronnie, “Like, I just got out of a long and rough relationship. I don’t think I’m ready for something yet, let alone with… what if I’m just confused?”
Ronnie can feel himself deflate. He wants to grab Brandon by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. Tell him he’s not confused. Tell him that straight guys don’t make out to David Bowie because they’re confused.
“I get attached easy,” Brandon continues, “so… yeah.”
“You haven’t kissed Dave, though,” Ronnie points out.
Brandon is immediately grossed out and even looks a little annoyed at the point, “Okay, but Dave’s not gay. And he’s my best friend.” He shakes his head, “I don’t want to get into the logistics of my… well, whatever. You know.”
“So now what?” Ronnie asks. “You wanna just pretend it didn’t happen?”
He’s not serious, but Brandon doesn’t get the memo. “Oh, that’s good actually. That’s a good plan.” He puts both of his elbows up on the table, “So, we’ll just put a pin in it. After tonight, pretend it never happened. And then if the band doesn’t take off maybe we can open it back up.”
“And if the band does take off?”
“Well, maybe we’ll have forgotten about it by then.” Ronnie knows that he won’t forget for a very long time. “Maybe I’ll have myself figured out. Maybe we’ll be seeing other people. There’s lots of possibilities.”
He had already given up on getting famous a year ago when his previous bands didn’t work out, so while it was an appealing prospect again, he’s not hanging onto it like Brandon is. The point is that if Ronnie could say no to the band and yes to Brandon, he just might. But Brandon isn’t offering.
“You shouldn’t have to go on waiting on someone forever, Ronnie. You should be happy, too.”
Ronnie nods, knowing that there’s no use in continuing to convince Brandon otherwise. He doesn’t want to force him to outright say no. “What time should I call Dave?”
Brandon sighs and settles into his seat—Ronnie hadn’t noticed that he wasn’t entirely comfortable. “He’ll probably sleep until noon before work.”
“I’ll have to call tomorrow night, then. I’ve got a couple to shoot around two. So unless you talk to him before then…”
Brandon shakes his head, “No, probably not. I’ve got to catch up on some sleep since it’s my day off.”
“That’s fine,” Ronnie nods. He finishes his beer and Brandon, who has long since finished his drink, begins to stand.
“Well, it’s late, you know?” He grins big, “I can’t believe it. The Ronnie Vannucci. In my band.”
Ronnie stands as well and forces out a little laugh, “I’m excited, man.”
“Not excited to deal with Buss but I’ll probably make Dave handle that, honestly.” Ronnie can’t help but feel bad for the poor kid whose spot he’s stealing, but he says nothing. They both deal with their tabs and head out, saying short goodbyes and Brandon awkwardly offering his hand to shake as if they have just made a transaction. They kinda have, seeing as Brandon is now his boss/coworker in a way, but it’s still funny.
Right as he turns to head to his truck, Brandon calls out to him.
“Listen,” he says, kicking a loose rock in the gravel. “There’s someone out there for you, Ronnie, but that person isn’t me.”
Ronnie wishes he could make him understand how wrong he is.
Brandon smiles, “I’m just no good.”
“I think you’re the best there is,” Ronnie says. Because it’s true and Brandon deserves to hear it. The man sighs and waves sillily before retreating to his car, Ronnie watching every step until he’s made it back. Brandon slides into his car and a few moments pass before Ronnie notices the flash of his lighter.
He doesn’t stay any longer. There’s really no point in torturing himself over the could-be’s anymore because it’s all over. He’ll just have to play his role and be the drummer. If that’s what Brandon wants, then that’s what he’ll get.
Notes:
We hope you enjoyed reading this! For now, we're back to working on Volume I. Let us know what you think!
Chapter 5: Index
Notes:
Welcome to the Index. We do a lot of research to make HH and so we know a lot of obscure, weird details. The purpose of the Index is to make this info easy to find and also so that you can tell which weird details are real, and which are ours. This'll be updated weekly with every new chapter.
Chapter Text
Chapter I - I'm Only Looking for a Revolution
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Brandon writing Mr. Brightside
- (X) - "This was literally the first song that me and Dave [Keuning], our guitar player, wrote. We didn’t have a drummer yet but he gave me a cassette, and it had a few demos with complete songs of him singing, and then there would just be these riffs that he had — so he basically had the guitar for “Mr. Brightside,” and the pre-chorus. I had an idea already of this sort of monotone, linear delivery, and it just fit so well over his guitar line. So I slapped a chorus on it, and it was written pretty quickly."
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Meeting Matt
- (2:36) "I still remember playing it at a drummer’s house. We went to his house and he had the drums set up in his living room. And I was on bass and Dave was on guitar. And I remember the hairs on my arm standing up. It was the first time I had heard it with a beat and it was an incredible moment for me."
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Brandon and Dave at Virgin Megastore
- (X) - "‘I was thinking about this recently because people keep talking about their albums of the decade and I always say Is This It [by The Strokes] is an obvious choice for me – we had about 15 songs and I thought we were ready to make an album, and then Is This It came out,’ he begins, by way of explanation. ‘Me and Dave [Keuning] went to Virgin Megastore in Caesars Palace and bought it the day it came out. We got in my car, put it in and drove around Las Vegas listening to it – and it just devastated me, it was so good. I went into a depression for weeks and weeks. We threw away every song except for ‘Mr Brightside’ and basically started over. So we definitely had our learning period; we still feel like we’re learning."
Chapter II - Went Off Like a Shotgun
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Recording at KTM
- (X) Even before they put their new band onstage, Flowers and Keuning were eager to record, so in the fall of 2001, just a few weeks after coming onboard, Norcross and Star found themselves laying down drum and bass parts at Mike Sak's Kill the Messenger studio in Henderson. Star contributed to two songs, "Replaceable" and "Under the Gun" (the latter of which would be rerecorded for a B-side and eventual inclusion on 2007's Sawdust rarities collection); Norcross played on those and two others, "Desperate" and a catchy number titled "Mr. Brightside."
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(X) “I think we dropped, like, $2,500 on the recording,” Norcross says.
“I remember having butterflies a little bit going in, being nervous,” Flowers notes. “It was the first time paying for studio time. The red light’s on. The clock’s ticking. You only have so much time to make these demos. It felt thrilling just to be in there, in a studio, doing it.”
That time crunch inadvertently spawned the somewhat-unorthodox song structure of “Brightside,” where the second verse repeats the first.
“That comes from procrastination,” Flowers acknowledges. “One of the memories I do have of being at Kill the Messenger is being in the vocal booth and having the lyrics on paper, looking at an unfinished second verse and that clock’s ticking. You paid for it. It’s like, ‘What do you do? Mumble through this, the second verse?’ I opted to just sing the first verse again. It ended up sticking.”
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Cafe Roma
- (X) Flowers and Keuning first played live together in January 2002, as a duo at Café Espresso Roma on Maryland Parkway across from UNLV. Star was there to lend support as Flowers sang in public for the first time in his life. "They got up there and did a couple songs," he remembers. "You could tell Brandon was nervous."
- (1:33) “We played an open mic night at a cafe that was across the street from UNLV, the college. We had our slot and we played 3 songs. I say this and people think I’m making it up but I was looking for a spot on the floor to throw up. I just didn't think I was gonna make it through. I was totally open after that gig to have another singer.”
- We’re gonna love you to death
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Walgreens
- (4:04) We wore makeup—a lot of makeup was happening. I was really into the New York Dolls and so I gave that a shot. So we would go to Walgreens and pick up eyeliner and eye shadow and lip gloss and stuff like that on the way to the bars that we were playing at.
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Daphne Major
- I was asked to play an emergency gig for my roommate who had a band. I had never heard this band. I winged this gig and it happened to be with The Killers. It was one of their first gigs. Dave and Brandon had the band before Mark and I joined. That’s when I met Dave and Brandon and struck up a friendship. At the time I wasn’t interested in being in a band. I was really focused on finishing school. Being in a band was almost the furthest thing in my mind. When I heard them I was like WOW, this is something I can really relate to as far as being influenced by the same songwriters and bands and musicians. (X)
- “That’s when I met Brandon and Dave because they were also on the gig as The Killers, and it was one of their first gigs. Their drummer was horrible and I was in music school and I knew a bunch of different drummers. My nose was to the ground; I just wanted to get a degree and a job and I wanted to grow up a bit. Turned Out a Punk Podcast Ep. 263 (56:50 - 57:40)
- But I knew that they were special . . . I would see Brandon and he would just be, at that time, he would shout a lot. He would just be shouting and just giving it. And he would be wearing, like, makeup and they had this, like, crazy glam thing going on. And I was like ‘Damn! Finally something is different. Something is different here’.” Turned Out a Punk Podcast Ep. 263 0:58:30 - 1:00:40
Chapter III - Come Humor Me
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Ronnie pushing an interview
- Days & Ages pg 57 - Ronnie would no doubt have mentioned The Killers to the gaggle of musicians he shared a house with in Vegas, including the highly respected multi-instrumentalist Ted Sablay, a man considered the best musician in Vegas, who also wrote music journalism for the Las Vegas mercury. Come July, Ted had secured space in the paper for an interview with the band.
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Samurai Sam's
- (X) / (X) I was asked to join and I said “Why don’t we play together first?” I forget what happened, but Dave couldn’t make it over so me and Brandon went to my house and I had an old upright piano and we played for hours and hours and got some teriyaki chicken afterwards and it was as easy as that.
Chapter IV - Once for Good Luck
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Ted’s Article
- The Killers also embrace aspects of glam-rock fashion, wearing glitter and eye shadow. In a city where every third motorist proudly adorns his or her vehicle with that pissing Calvin sticker, isn't this vaguely androgynous approach, well, dangerous?
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Heathen
- (X) "Everybody's making a big deal out of Bowie's new stuff, but 'Heathen' is the shit . . . It's the last great Bowie record - I'm not afraid to say it. It's awesome. We stole the bassline from 'All These Things That I've Done' straight from 'Slow Burn' and on 'Everything Will Be Alright', I was really trying to do a 'Heathen'-style song."
- (9:22) Brandon: "Then Bowie had a new record out at the time called 'Heathen' and we were definitely into that" / Ronnie: "'Heathen', man... I remember that record."
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Ronnie joins the band
- "And one of them—Brandon or Dave—said, ‘Why don’t you just join? Why don’t you just be our drummer?’. I was like ‘I don’t know. Are you guys… do you wanna practice every day?’ They were like ‘Yes!’ … I was not expecting an everyday rehearsal scenario, and that’s what we did.” Turned Out a Punk Podcast Ep. 263 (56:50 - 57:40)
- Days & Ages pg 76 - “One day I got a call from Dave and Brandon. One of those weird three in the morning conversations. And Brandon says ‘Well why don't you just do it?’ Brandon's lack of tact sometimes is really cool.”
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