Do You Know What It Feels Like?

Friday, 8:47 PM.
Phoenix, Arizona.

It is an undeniable fact that there are various types of people in the world. Before beginning the events of this section of our spectacular tale, let me, first, enumerate three. There are the awfully nice ones – the kind of people who seem excessively keen on ensuring other people’s well being, without initially stopping to think of their own, causing them to place themselves in situations that are frequently dangerous, and, sadly, senselessly unnecessary. Secondly, there are the nicely awful people, who cruelly enjoy watching, or, if they feel especially cruel on that particular occasion, instigating events that lead to other people’s humiliation and emotional demise, with no consideration whatsoever. And, lastly, there are the completely and utterly oblivious types, who, unfortunately, tend to get caught up in nasty predicaments caused by the former two.

Here, we will encounter all three kinds, and witness what sort of a pickle they got themselves into.

“Oh, God, it’s so hot.” Andy Wentz complained, rolling up the sleeves of her black “Fall Out Boy” hoodie. She looked up at the stage, where Panic! At the Disco was just finishing their performance as opening act. “Fan me, will you?”

“Fan yourself.” Taylor rolled her eyes. She couldn’t help but think it was ridiculously insensible of her best friend to come in a semi-thick hoodie and jeans, considering they were basically out in the desert. “What the hell were you thinking, anyway, coming to a show in cold-weather clothing?”

“I was going for the ‘not-a-slut’ look, if you know what I mean.” Andy shot back, her lips turning down into a frown. “You should try it out sometime.” She gazed disapprovingly at Taylor’s attire, which contradicted her blooming sense of propriety in such a crowded, man-filled area. What loose-minded weirdo would wear just shorts, flip-flops and an oddly designed bright orange tank top that was only held up by two thin strings knotted behind her neck, in some sort of rushed attempt to ribbon it, all in a place where someone could just pick you up and drag you to God-knows-where to perform God-knows-what? It was pure madness.

“Excuse me?” Taylor huffed, clearly offended by such an implication. She glanced down at what she had donned earlier that evening, and could see no wrong in it. “I’m guessing you’re just bitter because you obviously didn’t think about wearing something a little more appropriate for the state.”

“Bitter is not the word. I do regret my decision about the hoodie, but at least I didn’t deck myself out in some sort of semi-whore outfit, Tay. Because, seriously?” She whipped the ends of the top’s string lightly. “This is a no-no.”

“Go away.” The other girl groaned, swatting Andy’s hands back. The younger Wentz grinned teasingly.

“Good thing I still love you even though you hurt me deeply by your lack of modesty.” She feigned sanctity on her expression, and quickly poked Taylor’s side with an accompanying giggle.

“Hey!” Taylor exclaimed, stepping back to avoid the poised fingers of her companion. Presently, she bumped into the person standing behind her, and swiveled around, apology written all over her face.

“Oh, sorry!” She yelled over the music, to a boy of about sixteen, who’d had his arm lifted with a camera since the opening song. He glanced at her quickly, did a double take, and gazed back at his camera dazedly.

“Look what you made me do!” She insisted at her friend, who was smiling cheekily back at her, with no remorse. With a gesture, she turned her attention back to the stage, where Panic! meant to play their final song.

“This has been an amazing night, Phoenix!” Brendon was saying into the microphone. “And we wanna end it on a good note, so we changed up our setlist a bit tonight. Once again, we’re Panic! at the Disco, thanks for having us, we love you, and good night.

‘Is it still me that makes you sweat; am I who you think about in bed?”

Taylor and Andy grinned widely as the crowd cheered louder than they had all night – obviously, everyone knew this song, as they played it on the radio six times a day, on a regular basis.

‘Think of what you did, and how I hope to God he was worth it-‘

Brendon looked out into the crowd, scanning through all the faces. Taylor and Andy, standing only a few feet away from the stage, caught his attention immediately. Taylor lifted her hand and waved, joy dancing on her features.

He turned away.

Her heart sank as her hand did, and she stared on at his eyes which refused to meet hers. She’d come to understand that what had happened had scarred him badly. He avoided saying more than just a ‘good morning’ to her when they crossed each other, but more often than not, he was spending time in front of the television, or disappearing into the venue before the show started.

Sighing softly, she spared a short glance at Andy, who was unaware of much of the predicament her relationship with Brendon faced. It was like their love lives were some sort of wheel of fate – that whenever one of them was up in cloud nine, the other was crawling through the mud. It took no genius to deduce that she was enjoying her time with Gabe – what with all the dates, the disappearances, the making out anywhere and anytime, it was impossible not to consider that she very well may become the next addition to the Saporta family.

And falling for the Spanish – no, sorry, Uruguayan – boy had cured her of her baffling infatuation with Ryan Ross, which turned out to be quite beneficial. It was clear no one was happier than the younger Wentz, finally free of any stray thoughts or desires for the young Ross’ affections, content in the arms of the six-foot Latino man that now took care of her every whim.

And where was Taylor in terms of her progress?

She believed she was more probably backtracking on the meter, at this point in time.

Whereas Andy had completely sorted out her emotions, Taylor had completely let them run wild. It was not a matter of choice, but she wished she could hold in whatever it was that seemed to take over her when she was with Patrick. She couldn’t bring herself to deny that there was something more than a desire for friendship that existed in the back of her mind, but it was completely ludicrous to even suggest. That getting in the way, plus frequent verbal battles (more, on her part, admittedly) with the boy she supposedly ‘loved’ had basically made every day she woke up to a walking, shining hell.

“Yo, Taylor. Wake the fuck up, it’s a concert, not a seminar.” Andy hollered in her ear, jolting her thoughts back to reality. Taylor blinked up at her friend, who stared at her like she was sprouting a couple more heads.

“Sorry. I spaced out.” She admitted, shaking her head slightly.

“No shit, dipshit.” Andy laughed, shoving her lightly.

‘Let’s get these teen hearts beating. Faster, faster!’

It was a domino effect, and so inevitable. Kids were chanting, girls were crying, cliques were moshing, dudes were pushing – and someone had tugged on Taylor’s shirt.

How could it not have happened?

Looking back, it most probably wasn’t intentional – probably just some adolescent trying to make her way to the front to shout out in vain that she wanted to have Brendon’s babies. But the consequences were still the same.

Taylor screamed as she wrapped her arms instinctively around herself, in some futile attempt to cover up – but the damage was done.

“Andy,” she called out, her expression horrified. “Andy, help!”

“Wha – Tay! This isn’t Girls Gone Wild, are you crazy?”

“Shut up and help me!” She cried, her face shining a lovely ruby red. “Tie it back up!”

“Okay, but you’ll have to let go, I can’t do it if you’re going to just hold it down.” Andy replied worriedly. Taylor’s eyes widened in pure terror.

“Are you shitting me?” She exclaimed. “No fucking way!”

“Fine, stand there naked for all I care!” Andy frowned. “It’s not like anyone will care, Tay, everyone’s watching the show!”

With a whimper, Taylor turned her back resolutely, and lowered her arms.

A flash of white light in the dark blinded her momentarily. Purple blotches appeared around her field of vision, and her eyes blurrily landed on the boy she’d bumped into earlier. His mouth was twisted into what could only be interpreted as a wicked smile, his camera turned to her, the glow of the flash only beginning to fade.

She realized.

“Don’t-!” She shrieked, lunging instinctively at him – a cry escaped Andy’s lips as the strings were jerked violently out of her grasp. Taylor clutched at her top with one hand, the other reaching out to the camera the teenager held over his head, out of her reach.

“Oops, it was an accident, I promise.” He mocked, a malicious glint in his eye. “Guess this is going on the internet tonight.”

“Look, please, just-“ She pleaded, tears forming in her eyes, her shame showing through the strong quiver in her bottom lip.

“Where the shock sets in, and the stomach acid finds a new way to make you g- yo, what’s going on down there?”

Loud feedback echoed through the area, as Brendon dropped his microphone and jumped off the stage. Ryan and Jon stared at him in utter bafflement, their last notes still hanging in the air.

“Break it up, what’s going on here?” He made his way through the crowd, ignoring the multitude of girls clawing at his arms and torso. He stopped in front of Andy with a questioning look, and the little Wentz pointed at the sorry sight that was her best friend, tear streaks staining her face. His eyes darted from her tortured features to that of the sixteen year old boy’s smug expression, camera in hand.

“Nothing. Just enjoying the show.” The boy smirked widely at Brendon, who raised his eyebrows high, and looked back at Taylor, who hiccupped and hugged herself tighter.

“Uh huh, I bet you are.” He snatched the camera from the teenager’s grasp, and began to click through the album.

“Yo, man, what the fuck, you can’t just do that – Yo!” The boy growled in rage as Brendon relentlessly deleted the single scandalous picture in the device.

“And you can’t just take perverted pictures of anyone you meet, asshole.” Brendon shot back, tossing the camera expertly back to its owner.

“Bren…”

He turned, and stared down at the girl he believed his heart pumped for. Immediately, his stony expression softened to that of concern, and he ran a thumb lightly across her cheek.

“You have to be more careful.” He murmured into her ear – the first thing he’d said to her that was edged with the same loving tone he had carried before they had argued. Slowly, he turned her around, and retied her top with gentle care.

“I thought you were still angry.” She muttered, embarrassed beyond belief. He cast her a long, sad look, and shook his head slowly.

“I’m not angry. Just…” He sighed, and picked up the microphone again. “Be careful.” With that, he turned on his heel, and walked away. People had begun to stare – even the teenager, whose camera hung loosely from his wrist.

“Bren!” Taylor called out. He stopped in his tracks, but did not turn around, his posture only describable by the adjective ‘cold’. “Thank you.”

His lips twitched, like he was on the brink of saying something, but, instead, they formed a resolute line, and he hauled himself back onstage.

“Okay, Phoenix, where were we?”
x

Monday, 10:26 AM
Phoenix, Arizona

“Hey, man, are you okay? You look kind of beat.” Jon commented as Brendon walked into the studio the aforementioned morning. No, no, friends, not a recording studio – in fact, young Brendon Urie had seen too much of those in the past few months. So, good ol’ Peter Wentz had arranged a Panic! at the Disco photo shoot, not only to alleviate them of the headache of a stuffy little soundproof room, but also to promote their debut album, A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out. It was… oh, what did he call it?

Ah, yes. Hitting two birds with one stone. Or some wise shit like that.

“Yeah. I just had a shitty sleep.” His big, albeit puffy eyes surveyed the room slowly – There was Ryan on the couch, his stick-thin legs crossed into what could only be the start of a pretzel, Andy beside him, yawning her oxygen away, Spencer, getting his hair fixed, and Pete, on his mobile, his lips moving impossibly fast.

“Then you should get some make up on, because you do really kind of look like shit.” Jon said kindly, as he could. Bren’s face did not move to express his anger or humor – if he had any to spare for the day, it was more probably locked up and shoved deep, deep down in the recesses of his brain. His expression remained politely, eerily blank, as he made his way over to the make-up artist, who clucked and reprimanded him gently about damaging her raw material.

“Look who’s finally awake.” Pete shut his mobile and pocketed it, approaching the deadpan Brendon. Brendon tried to smile, but it came out as a sort of pained grimace. “We thought you’d gone into a coma. Your girl got so bored trying to wake you up that she just gave in and went shopping.”

Oh, right. That was probably the really noisy, touchy-feely alarm clock he’d thought he’d dreamed about.

“Since when?” He managed to croak, his voice sounding completely unlike him.

“A couple of hours ago, I guess. Don’t think she’ll be back anytime soon.”

“Oh.” Brendon frowned, then looked at the couch again. “So why is Andy here?”

“Coz, like you, she was too lazy-ass to wake up. So, just like the rest of us, minus Patrick, she got ditched.” Pete replied wisely.

“Fuck you, Pete.” She called out, looking sour. “I wanted new pair of shorts.”

“You don’t need a new pair of shorts.” He rolled his eyes. “Half you shit’s in my bag.”

“Don’t blame me for bringing clothes to coordinate with. Besides, I’m not the only Wentz who wears girl’s pants – whose to say they’re even mine?”

A couple of sniggers were heard. Satisfied, Andy leaned her head against the wall, and closed her eyes. This part of the conversation concluded, Brendon pressed on.

“Patrick’s with her?”

“Yeah, so don’t worry. If anyone needs protecting, it’s that little man.”

“Yeah, haha.” How not hilarious, he found the situation, to actually have to enunciate his effort to sound nonchalant. Pete, however, was either too stupid or too ignorant (or, as Andy enjoyed informing everyone, he was a perfect mixture of both failures) to notice, and pulled out his phone as it began to vibrate again, walking away. Brendon reached out for his own, and pushed the buttons of a number he’d come to know by heart.

“Hello?” The slightly muffled voice greeted as the ringing ceased.
“Tay, where are you?”

“Oh, hey, Bren! Look, I’m sorry I left you this morning, but I just really needed to have a go-out.” Taylor didn’t sound very apologetic – in truth, if it weren’t for the fact that they were on speaking terms again, he never would have thought that the tank-top issue had been more than just a stupid dream.

“Okay, but where are you?”

“I’m here with Patrick in the-“

“Why?”

“Well, because I wanted to go.” She said haughtily. “So?”

“So? Tay, are you kidding?” He frowned deeply. “You promised.”

“I – I know, Bren, but, honestly, it’s just a photo shoot…”

“I have to go.” He cut her off curtly, shaking his head in utter disbelief. He heard a whooshing sound on the other end – she was sighing.

“Baby, don’t be like that, just –“

“I’ll see you when you get back.” And he tore the gadget away from his ear, pressing the bright red button. Call ended.

“Okay, guys, come on. Tight schedule here, tight schedule!” A thin man entered the room, clapping his hands. Brendon actually thought he could give Ryan a run for his money. “Where are my stars? Oh, goody. Line them up here, please!”

Panic! at the Disco shuffled to the white, brightly lit floor – four awkward looking boys with way too eccentric clothes for casual wear, huddling to fit into the frame.

“Good, good! Now, just feel it – I want that energy up! You there, in the middle!” He pointed a slender finger at Brendon, whose head snapped up. “More energy, please! Come on, now, smile like you mean it!”

The camera clicked and clicked, and their creative director continued spewing creative photo genius advice. Brendon tried to hide his shaking hands, tried staring directly into the lens, tried giving off the energetic, sexy vibe people always praised him for having onstage. Instead, he felt like he couldn’t even control his muscles – he was almost as dead-feeling on the outside as he was, definitely, on the inside. With one last mental slap, he shoved his nerves to force his lips to turn upward, his eyes to go alight.

Smile – like you mean it.