Waxen Bones, Gossip Lips, and a Candled Pose.

Macon, Georgia is a neat, sleepy little town with sleepy little houses pegged on neat asphalt roads, the occasional truck or sedan or minivan bought cheap from the nearest used car dealership being the only thing that every disrupts the quiet. Everyone knew everybody else’s neighbors plus their grandmothers and second cousins and always sent the local boys to bake brownies whenever the rare new family moved in. It was cozy and familiar and sometimes you just wanted to leave so everyone would get out of your goddamn hair and keep their noses in their own business for once. But once you left, you sure did miss it.

Meet Brendon Urie, the latter of the two scenarios. Brendon Urie, meet Atlanta.

Brendon Urie is the kind of kid you see at every impromptu show for every impromptu band at every impromptu little club, the one you talk and joke with for hours on end, the one you wish you’d snagged his number but you never did. Sweet and unassuming and just enough bad-boy flair to tickle your heartbeat a little bit, Brendon Urie is a charmer extraordinaire. He’s perfected the look of a nerdy scene kid to a frame-worthy art form, when he is in fact just another hormonal, mischief-brewing teenage deviant. The sweet-‘n-nerdy façade is just a cheap ploy to reel them in. He has these cute little glasses with red frames and faux-bed head (the ‘faux’ part enters where he spends almost an entire hour positing every strand of black hair to achieve that artfully delicious, just-rolled-of-bed-oh-look-how-cute-I-am perfection), huge brown eyes and even huger pink, pout-perfect lips. Plus pale skin, tight biceps, and an ass to bring all the other, not-so-worthy little scene kids to their knees.

Now standing in front of a gleaming public school, windows Windex-ed so clear that sometimes the stoner kids walk into them after a smoke sesh behind the cafeterias, brick walls clean of any graffiti, and all the various cliques and groups and such huddled together, Brendon Urie kind of (really) misses little Macon, Georgia.

He spies a nifty looking group sprawled in front of what he guesses is the auditorium, and he drops to a squat next to them, and pokes the nearest girl, a firebrand petite-little-thing who spins around when the tip of his finger meets her shoulder.

“Uh, hi there,” the girl says (Brendon names her Cute Redhead in his head). “Can I help you?”

A boy behind her – an epic-looking boy, with a short patch of dark hair and a Hispanic-looking complexion, wearing neon yellow pants and a purple hoodie – steps up and rests his elbow on her head like an armrest, cocking his hip as he leans.

Brendon fixes the brightest, most dazzling smile he knows on his too-perky-for-8-o’clock little face and says, “Yeah I was just wondering what the heck a new kid is supposed to do around here? I am so lost. So, so lost. Lost-er than Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. Lost-er than Harry Potter at Hogwarts. Lost-er than –”

“You knew to Holland Lakes or new to Atlanta?” the boy cuts him off (Brendon names him Mister Skyscraper in his head).

“Both. I’m from Macon. Macon, Georgia –”

“Yeah, we know where Macon is, hon,” Cute Redhead steps in.

They both step back and study Brendon for a moment longer, drinking in all of his 68-and-a-half inches of devious, charming, mind-blowing attractiveness. “So kid, what’s your name?” Skyscraper finally asks.

“Brendon,” he says simply, rocking back on his heels. “What’s yours?”

“Gabe. This is Hayley,” he says, curling an arm around Cute Redhead. Gabe and Hayley. Hayley and Gabe. Brendon will probably forget their names in a few minutes, but hey, it was nice while it lasted. “Nice to meet you, dude,” Gabe continues, sticking out his hand for Brendon to shake. Brendon shoos the arm aside with a callous hand and envelopes him in a tight, one-armed man-hug instead. Gabe raises his eyebrows at Hayley over Brendon’s shoulder but doesn’t push him away. Then Brendon proceeds to do the same to Hayley.

“Real friends hug,” Brendon says seriously. Oh, small-town-boy, you got a lot of growing up to do.

---

“Alright, quiet down. Since it seems we have no more volunteers…Ryan Ross will be our next victim. Oops, did I say victim? Ryan, step up, please.”

Ms. Greenbaum is crazy. Crazy green eyes, crazy crooked grin that haunts you in your sleep.

Ryan Ross shimmies through the row of desks, his skinny hips barely missing the crooked stacks of books that poke out over the surface, and he stumbles over a few splayed out feet. The hand clutching his paper shakes.

He turns to face the class, bones rattling, knees clapping together like cymbals, ripped fingernails tracing over his meager little biceps, squeezing for comfort. He coughs to rouse the saliva in the back of his throat, stir some feeling in his limbs. He hates public speaking.

“Alright Ryan, who is your story on?”

Ryan’s tongue pokes out from his teeth to flick at his lips, before quickly retreating back into his mouth. He scratches his nose and coughs lightly again.

“Um, my – uh, m-my dad,” he stutters. He hates himself so much in that second. Some girl with bleached blonde hair cut in typical scene kid fashion and a headband digging a thin pink welt into her forehead giggles behind her hand, and something in her eye glints evil, Ryan thinks.

“Your dad is your hero? Very refreshing – very, very refreshing. Alright, go ahead, Ross.”

He goes. It’s a stumbling go that makes his skin flush scarlet, all the way down his neck, creeping into his plain, black v-neck. He keeps his right arm curled around his back, holding onto his hip the entire time, and his other arm folds into his chest, fingers trembling on the paper so hard sometimes the words become a blur, and he never, not once, looks up.

--

Brendon Urie sits with his new friends at lunch that day, Gayley and Habe or whatever their names are. They buy him lunch (“I left my money on the countertop. Darn my pre-elderly Alzheimer’s, darn you.”) for which he of course is eternally grateful. (“You know, this is a landmark in our relationship, Gayley and Habe. Real friends help each other in times of need.”) He meets Travis, another epic-looking boy like Gabe, except black instead of Hispanic or Uruguayan or Jewish or all of those things or whatever the heck Gabe is. Travis has a monstrous fro that he wears in a little tuft of ponytail, and he still manages to look imposing. Brendon is impressed.

“So, new boy, where you from?” Travis asks, gesturing to Brendon by stabbing the air in front of his face with his fork. Brendon’s eyebrows spring to his hairline in brief surprise, before assuming babble position.

“Macon. Macon, Georgia. It’s a sleepy little town right smack in the middle of this here grand state, you’ve probably heard of it. We’re known for our peanuts and peaches, among other things, I could list them if you want, like –”

“Shut up,” Travis says. Brendon shuts up. For about a second or so.

“So, Gayley, Habe, and Fro-Man – I forgot your name, lo siento – that’s Spanish for “sorry” in case you didn’t know, I mean, heck, you could be in French or Latin or German or some snooty, throaty, phlegm-y language like that, I don’t know why though, Spanish is much sexier —”

“My name is Travis, not Fro-Man. And do you ever shut up?”

“If the mood strikes me.”

Travis feels the urge to teeth at something so he stuffs his finger in his mouth and gnaws at it, shaking his head.

“Is he alright?” Brendon asks.

“He does that when he gets stressed or annoyed,” Hayley says. “He’s quitting smoking, you see. And now he always needs to bite stuff.”

“Here man, take this, stop gnawing on yourself like you’re some kinda retarded gorilla,” Gabe says, then laughs at his own joke. That’s the kind of person he is. He shoves a stick of Juicy Fruit across the table to Travis.

“Travis is sucking on his finger again, I see?” says a voice behind Brendon, pulling up a chair beside him. The boy is brown-haired and warm-eyed, with a muscle-threaded teddy bear kind of body and an easy smile, with a canary yellow tee shirt and dark jeans and flip flops.

“Hi, I’m Brendon,” Brendon says, sticking out his hand to shake.

“Hi Brendon, I’m Jon,” Jon says, taking Brendon’s hand between his own and shaking firmly. “You’re new, I’m guessing?”

“That I am, kind Sir Jon, straight out of Macon, Georgia.”

Hayley mouths to Jon, ‘Oh my god, he is so cute’ and Jon smiles and wiggles his eyebrows.

“How the hell did you get mixed in with these screw-ups?”

Brendon shrugs. “I dunno man, I just decided they looked nifty so I poked Cute Redhead over here and introduced myself. Easy as pie.”

--

William Beckett is class president and for good reason. Straight A’s, a full schedule of extracurriculars which include French Club, Latin Club, Student Council, National Honors Society, and Beta Club, a perfectly robotic and finely-tuned suck-up attitude for the teachers, a fantastically queer relationship with the principal, and practically no friends to speak of.

Save for Ryan Ross. Ryan Ross is only his friend because the principal declared him one of Beckett’s “homework assignments”: befriend the loner-boy.

William slides in the booth in the corner next to Ryan, who is picking listlessly at a slice of pizza. William pushes an apple onto Ryan’s tray and sits back, staring. Ryan has his hair fixed like a curtain over his left eye, like a chocolate fountain that stops at his nose, and he keeps his right eye tucked neatly behind a fan of eyelashes.

“So…I heard you um, I heard you got in a fight this morning. With uh, Pete and those guys.”

Ryan doesn’t look up. William’s voice is cautious, effective, gentle – but no. Ryan doesn’t look up and he won’t. He fiddles with his napkin in his lap, shredding it into long, white slices that flutter to the ground like scraps of broken airplane when he lets them slip through his fingers.

“A fight implies that both parties were involved and engaged in the actual pain-giving. Therefore, that was not a fight. It was an attack,” Ryan says quietly, and looks up, flicking his head so that the curtain parts to the side, and he tucks the strands of hair behind his ear. William stares at the block of mottled purple and cobweb of icy blue veins that blister over Ryan’s left eye. An attack.

William wishes he never had to befriend Ryan Ross. William wishes that he could go on like before, pretending that everything in his perfect school was running smoothly, that everyone got along. Ryan Ross taught him reality, a reality he wasn’t ready for. Not yet.

--

In P.E, Brendon hangs out with Jon and Jon’s friends Spencer and Tomrad (Brendon doesn’t think that’s his real name – what respectable parents would name a child Tomrad? – but he goes with the flow anywho) and this tiny kid with big hazel eyes and a sweet, goofy smile with lots of names (Sisky? Siska? Adam T. Siska? Sisky Business? Brendon is so confused). Plus the most harmless-looking kid ever who for some reason is called “The Butcher.” The only slightly menacing thing about the Butcher might be his tattoos, but they’re not menacing tattoos. They’re happy tattoos. And he seems to have a problem with clothing – he threw a minor temper tantrum when the coach wouldn’t let him play football in his Superman boxer shorts (“It’s queer, Mrotek! Queer!”).

After P.E, he goes to art, which he has with the Butcher and Jon. Jon is into photography, and the Butcher is a fantastic drawer. Brendon just likes the clay a lot. It’s mushy in his fingers. He likes that.

Instead (the “mushy in his fingers” explanation didn’t really jive with the art teacher), the Butcher helps him draw some basic cartoon characters. In the end, Brendon decides he likes making up his own characters better. Mostly villains. Jon disappears in the dark room for the whole period. But it’s okay, because Brendon has the Butcher. Butcher is hyper like he is and has a curly little brown fro and tattoos that peak out from beneath his skinny, painted-on shirts, and he’s thin and long with happy blue eyes, and he tells entertaining stories about Chicago and how it totally pwns Atlanta’s ass. If Atlanta and Chicago ever got into a fight, “Atlanta would be street-mush and Chicago would be like – man, Chicago would be like a boxer, like Mike Tyson. Atlanta would get its ear bitten off by Chicago, that’s how much pwnage I’m talking about.”

Brendon talks about Macon, the sleepy streets, the nosy neighbors, the school built of graffitied trailers, his best friend Patrick (“like a teddy bear, doughy and adorable. He’s impossible to dislike. I dare someone to dislike him.”), the Starbucks he and his friends hung out (“it made us feel so high society and artsy – we’d wear fake glasses and emo scarves and talk about fine films like Superbad and Talladega Nights.”). The Butcher loves Talladega Nights – he’s the only one besides Brendon who understands the genius of Will Ferrell comedy.

After art, Brendon goes to Chemistry. None of his new friends are in the class with him, but it’s alright. He meets this boy named Sean Van Something, who apparently is best friends with Tomrad. Sean likes to sing like Brendon, and they both have Guitar III after Chemistry. Sean and Brendon sing together while they play – Sean is soulful and emotional and kind of beautiful when he sings, where Brendon sings like he talks, melodramatic and engaging.

--

Ryan Ross’s Guitar III class is his favorite class of the entire day. The weight of a warm acoustic guitar humming in his lap, rough, love-hardened strings meeting the calluses of his fingertips – that’s the most friend he’ll ever need.

There’s a new boy in his class – a dark-eyed boy decked out in neon named Brendon. The boy sits with that Sean kid in the corner, and when Ryan leaves the comfort of his own little universe as he’s playing guitar, he listens to them sing “Hey Jude” together. Sean sings with his eyes closed, flinging his head and hair about in tune with the slow, steady down strokes of his guitar. Brendon sings with his eyes open, biting a full bottom lip when he’s caught his breath, feet fidgeting restlessly – but it’s rehearsed, practiced, pronounced. There is rhythm. He looks up for a moment and meets Ryan’s eye, like he knows they’re being watched.

Ryan blushes like he does, pulls a meek bottom lip into his mouth, hides behind his hair, wishes like always that just once, he wouldn’t get caught.

--

The day ends. Brendon decides it was a good one. He likes his new friends, he likes the school, his teachers, this city. He drives himself home in his big, forest-green Jeep, blasting the soundtrack to Disney’s Aladdin and singing along.

When he gets home, his mom is making Kraft Mac n’ Cheese, Brendon’s favorite. Maddie and Evan, Brendon’s twin siblings, are sitting on the ground in the living room. Maddie is playing loudly with a pink Barbie-sized convertible, “vroom vroom” noises and all, while Evan sits quietly, curled in the corner with his thumb in his mouth, and big, autumn-green eyes fixed on the antics of Scooby Doo.

“Hey, ma!” Brendon shouts from the living room, around settling in the couch next to his baby brother. He pulls Evan into his lap and plucks the thumb from his mouth. “Evan, didn’t we tell you that thumb-sucking is a bad habit? That’s for little kids. You’re not a little kid, right? You’re six now, you’re a big kid!”

Evan looks up at him with huge, apologetic eyes. “Sorry,” he says, quiet.

“Brendon, since when do you call me “ma”? What are you, a Chicago mobster now or something?” his mom shouts from the kitchen.

“Oh Evan, it’s okay, I’m just saying,” Brendon says, and then, “no, but I totally met a Chicago mobster at school today named the Butcher! Just kidding, he’s the farthest thing ever from a mobster, but he is from Chicago and has tattoos and a cool fro and appreciates the comedic genius that is Will Ferrell.”

His mom emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her jeans. “So you made friends?”

“Of course! Lots of them! There’s Gabe, and Hayley, and Travis and Jon and Sean, and the Butcher of course, and that Sisky kid, and some other ones too I think. They’re cool, you’re gonna meet them.”

Brendon’s mom laughs, accustomed to her son’s overwhelmingly outgoing personality. “Sounds good. And would you please tell Evan to keep his thumb out of his mouth or it’s gonna shrivel up like a raisin? He’s really gotta stop that.”

Brendon follows his mom back into the kitchen, where they’re free from the danger of eavesdropping twins. “Yeah, okay. And I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Brendon lowers his voice, “have you found a new job yet?”

Brendon’s mom looks nothing like Brendon, save for the body-type (compact, strong, and an envy-inducing apple bottom). She’s blonde and tan with big hazel eyes like the twins. Brendon is an exact copy of his father, except his father was shorter but stockier, with the same almost-black hair and big, long-lashed dark eyes and pale skin. But Brendon’s mom looks like Brendon when she is asked a question she doesn’t like – she can’t guard her feelings. She’s an open book, like Brendon. There are no secrets in this house.

“Brendon, I – I don’t mean to worry you, but I don’t want to lie to you either –”

“Just tell me the truth, mom. I’m not gonna like, freak out, plus I deserve to know –”

“No. No, I have not found a job. But I’m looking!” she says in earnest. “I spent all day flipping through the paper. I have the part-time shift at that little Italian restaurant, Ippolito’s, they even bumped me to assistant manager, but. It’s still not quite enough.”

“I’ll get a job.”

“Brendon, you’re not getting a job.”

“Yes I am.”

“Brendon, you’re not getting a job, you have school, you’re still just a kid, you’re too spazzy and excitable, you’d break something.”

Brendon cracks a smile at this because it’s so true, but then quickly becomes all indignant again. “Mom, c’mon, I could just make little flyers for to do like, handy jobs and stuff, like lawn mowing and dog walking and stuff like that. C’mon, please, I wanna help!”

Brendon’s mom takes one look at his face – his open, honest, eager little face – and her mouth spits the ‘yes’ before it reaches her brain.

--

When Ryan finally gets home so much later than he intended, his dad is waiting for him on the stairs, so anxious, with an ice pack and warm blanket for his shivering son. Ugly splotches of black and blue are splattered across Ryan’s flesh like a canvas – ugly pain masks his eyes, salt and water streak white cheeks.

Ryan’s dad wants to know what happens, he wants to help, he wants to cry, he begs his son to tell him why he’s like this – a mess, a breaking, staining mess – but never gets an answer. Still, he persists. One day, Ryan will come to. Until then, an ice pack and blanket is the only solace he can offer – tight, warm embraces, dropping kisses on Ryan’s soft, brown hair, cradling him in his arms like a child.

Ryan is tired of asking for help. Ryan is sick and tired of needing help, too.

--

Brendon lays in bed with dreams in his eyes before they even shut – he envisions big, amber brown eyes from across the room with faint guitar music playing in the background – an image stained somewhere in the dark, deep depths of a recent memory.

The city sleeps, the ghost colors of brown-eyed boys twinkle as conscience dies. Amber, caramel, almost black like licorice, but faded and clear with lucidity and fragmented memory. It’s the ragged cusp of sleep in a new town, a new era.