Mr Thompson's Pub and Cabaret

Ryan and Jon had left. No one ever talked about it all that often, but Brendon could tell there was an unsettling feeling over everyone else. Who would write the music and the lyrics? Who would play guitar and bass? The people who were once there helping out a great deal were now gone. But in their place, he hired two others.

For bass, he hired a guy named Dallon Weekes, who had previously been in a band, but had decided it wasn't working out the way he would have wanted, and they called it quits. And on guitar, he hired a guy named Ian Crawford, who was an amazing guitarist with lots of talent.

Without Ryan around, Brendon had resorted to writing his own lyrics. There was no one else whose opinion mattered as much to him as much as Vera's, so one day, he stopped by her apartment with his notebook in hand. Standing there, waiting for her to answer made him nervous, which was a feeling he didn't get all too often about little things like this.

"Brendon, hey. What's up?" Vera asked, once she opened up the door.

"I wrote a few songs, and I want you to look over them and tell me what you think," he replied, passing the notebook to her.

She looked at it, then back up and smiled. "Alright, I will. Come in." She waved him inside and went to go sit at her couch, opening the notebook and her eyes scanned the page. "The one with the post-it notes are the ones I think would be good for the cabaret," he told her, mainly because he was paranoid about all the others. They were ones he hadn't finished, or wasn't as comfortable with.

"I led the revolution in my bedroom and set all the zippers free, we said 'no more war, no more clothes', give me peace, oh kiss me," Vera recited, with a slight smirk playing on her bright red lips. "Kinky," she said, looking up, an eyebrow shooting upwards.

Brendon laughed quietly, leaning against the wall. "Just keep reading." He wouldn't let her know that maybe bits and pieces of that song were inspired by the time it had been the two of them alone that one night after Mr. Thompson's death, when they had almost given into temptation. Well, if Vera's common sense hadn't gotten the better of them, this song would have completely described the scene, rather then what could have happened, and what should have been.

"Oh, I like this one," she said, draping herself over her couch, a bit of her red dress falling over the cushions. "If I wake in the morning I only need two more miracles to be a saint, everything I promised everyone I'd be, well I just ain't." A sudden look of realization washed over her face, and she glanced back up at him again. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, her voice quiet as she took his hand and set him down next to her on the couch, her head resting against his thigh.

He shrugged. "I don't know. I think it was slightly inspired by you. The way everyone used to treat you for the longest time, how they always wanted to you act this way or that way..." His voice trailed off, and he glanced down at her. She was still smiling.

"Brendon, these are all really good. Really, really good. I think they'd be perfect for the cabaret," she said, her voice quiet.

"They're still not as good as any of Ryan's lyrics were," he muttered, shaking his head. The whole time he'd been comparing himself to Ryan, the way he wrote, the words he said. He kept finding himself thinking "would Ryan write this?"

Vera pursed her lips. "You're never going to get anywhere if you keep comparing yourself to Ryan, Bren," she said, taking his hand again and gave it a squeeze. She was right, he just hated to admit it.

"Well it's hard not to. You knew the way he was, the way he wrote. I can't do that, no matter how hard I try. Everything I come up with sounds so cheap compared to what we used to have, and people are going to notice."

"Cheap?" Vera sat up, and crossed her arms over her chest. "Brendon, these lyrics are not cheap. So you don't write the same way Ryan did, or does, or whatever the fuck he's doing now. That doesn't matter. You're not Ryan. You're Brendon. You're a completely different person, and you write the way you write. Listen to this: They said if you don't let it out, they're gonna let it eat you away, I'd rather be a cannibal, baby, animals like me don't talk anyway. I love that lyric, right there."

Brendon shook his head. "You weren't supposed to read that one."

"Why not?" she asked. "What makes this one different than all the others?"

"It's not finished," he replied, feeling insecure about her holding the notebook now.

She groaned and ran a hand through her hair. "Brendon, do you think that matters to me? Do you think that I care whether or not it's finished? No, I don't. I care about the context, the depth of it all, and I can tell you're putting your feelings into these songs. They aren't just whatever just happens to come to mind."

"Well maybe I mind that you're reading the unfinished songs," he responded, defensively.

"Why?" She threw her arms out to her side, her eyebrows furrowing together.

"Because I didn't say you could."

Vera looked like she was about to crack. She stood up. "Because you didn't say I could? Well you never said I couldn't. How the hell was I supposed to know? It's not like I can fucking read your mind," she cried out, pacing back and forth. She was getting angry. "God dammit, Brendon. I'm your girlfriend. Don't you expect support from me? Isn't that what you want? Isn't that why you came here?"

Brendon remained silent, and Vera took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. She shook her head and then looked away, turning towards the window. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "It's just...you mean so much to me, and I want you to know that. I don't want you to think I'm just here to be here."

He stood up and set his hands on her shoulders. "Don't apologize," he murmured into her ear. "I shouldn't have been so stuck-up to you. You don't deserve it. And you're right. I did come here for your opinion. I love you, Vera."

She rested her head against his. "I love you too."