Death of a Bachelor || Brendon Urie

Impossible Year

He wanted to scream.

Brendon's heart thundered in his chest and sweat prickled on the back of his neck.

"We need to talk." His manager's words played over and over again in his head with an unsettling repetition that could only be compared to a damaged record.

"We need to talk." Brendon hated those four words. He had hated those words since the day his grandfather died, as his mother came into his room in the middle of the night, "We need to talk." He had hated those words since the day his parents kicked him out of the house, sitting him down on the couch, speaking in unison,"We need to talk." And he hated those four words more than ever now, because he had no clue what was to come, but he was positive it wasn't going to be good.

So for these reasons, all he wanted to do was scream and scream and never stop screaming, just to release this terrible ache of uncertainty.

From the very beginning there had been something different about that day.

It started with the weather. As he stepped outside he glanced around at the air that hung dark and heavy over Brendon's shoulders. Then came the unexpected phone call, the somber tone in his manager's voice, the unnerving feeling that had followed him all morning. The anxiety had been chasing him ever since... or was it all in his head? In the past months, his thoughts had been consumed with the vicious media, and likewise the media was consumed by him... at this point they seemed to blur together completely. He was learning to always expect the worst from people.

The drive to his manager felt like a child's dreaded walk to the principal's office. Silence settled in the car, leaving more room for his anxious thoughts to fill. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel to get rid of it. It was unbearable. Brendon couldn't take it anymore, as he flicked on the radio in an attempt to drown everything out.

"... More leaked photos of Panic! at the Disco's lead singer Brendon Urie have been --"

Brendon slammed his hand back against the panel. His heart raced, as he ran his hand through his hair, and pushed his foot down harder onto the gas pedal. God! Would he ever catch a break?

Swerving the car carelessly into the lot, he parked the car, trudged into the building, and slid timidly into the conference room. The sick dread wouldn't leave him.

His manager, Harvey, was already there. He was seated on one end of a long conference table and staring at Brendon expectantly under bushy, overgrown eyebrows. His meaty hands sat interlaced over a large filing folder.

"Hey, Harvey," Brendon greeted. He tried to force a smile in a measly attempt at lowering the tension. Harvey's scowl only intensified.

"Sit down."

That was enough to make Brendon's perturbation and frustration escalate. He shifted in his seat, his palms already becoming hot and itchy. He set his jaw and watched the large man across the table.

For a long moment, Harvey just glared at him. Brendon shifted uncomfortably under Harvey's classic death stare. His dark eyes blazed and his entire face twisted into a terrifying grimace.

Suddenly he pushed his large hands against the table, scraping the chair against the floor with a piercing shriek. Brendon watched as his manager stood, clutching tightly to a large stack of papers. He hit them against the desk to straighten them out.

"Brendon," he began, his voice low.

"Harvey," Brendon countered.

Harvey flung the papers onto the table with a thunderous bang, causing Brendon to jump in his seat, "Have you taken a look at your record sales lately?"

Heat raced across Brendon's skin. He glanced down at the papers, "Isn't that your job?"

Harvey's eyes narrowed. "I don't think you have the right to act like a smart ass right now. Do you even get what's going on, Brendon? Your sales have taken a plunge. No, not even a plunge -- they may as well have disappeared altogether. You're down fifty percent." His grimace became a smug grin. "Hell, you can hardly afford me now."

Brendon could feel his world falling away from him. His eyes widened and his mouth went dry. He looked up in complete bewilderment. "Wait... what?"

Harvey crossed his arms, wheezing out a dry, humorless laugh in response.

"Harvey, stop. I'm serious. What are you talking about?" Brendon demanded.

"See for yourself."

Brendon grabbed the stack of papers, flipping through them rapidly, his heart pounding in his chest. His eyes scanned the papers for any sort of chart, a set of numbers, something. With every page he raced through, his pulse seemed to go faster. Page after useless page fell to the floor. Finally, his eyes landed on a large chart of numbers, with a single five digit number circled in red ink: 23,500.

"What is this? This isn't my fault!" Brendon flung the remaining papers across the desk. "Harvey, you know I'm not the one responsible for this. The music for this album was my best yet, and you know that." He cradled his head in his hands. "It's the media! The media has been all over me! It's not my fault, none of this is my --"

Harvey pounded his fist against the desk. "You're telling me that all of these-" He turned to a file cabinet and whipped out another folder, waving it around as he spoke, "- aren't your fault?"

He shoved the folder across the table, allowing the large stack of magazine articles, newspaper clippings, and printed web pages to scatter across the glass surface. There had to be at least fifty. The headlines were all similar, but equally cruel: "Band: Panic! At The Disco's Lead Singer Caught With Illegal Substances", "Brendon Urie Faces Harassment Charges: Read Victim's Statement", "View Photos of Panic! At The Disco's Frontman, Brendon Urie, Gone Wild".

Brendon crossed his arms, and clenched his jaw, turning his head to stare at the floor. "It's all fake. Total bullcrap. They just want to watch successful people fall, Harvey. It's the way all reporters are. All that stuff, it's just... they're just photoshopped lies, and tabloid rumors."

"Is that really your excuse, Brendon? That's all you have to say for yourself?" Harvey gathered up the articles, reading them off one by one, "Drugs. Harassment. Alcohol. Alcohol. DWI. Potential Jail Time. Drugs. Charges. More Harassment. Good God, Brendon." He let out a long huff and stuffed all the papers back into the folder. "You're losing all control. Your live performances are atrocious, your interviews are embarrassing, and the only thing you ever care about anymore is where your next high is coming from. You need to get your act together."

Brendon stared up at Harvey, who towered over him. As he took in his manager's intimidating size, Brendon felt himself shrinking. "Look, whatever. It's easier said than done." But even as he spoke, he knew Harvey was right. Even so, he wasn't ready to take responsibility for his own actions.

"Listen, Brendon. I'm trying to help you out here." Harvey sat back down in his chair, rubbing his temples. Looking back at Brendon, he adjusted his suit jacket and cleared his throat, "The paparazzi is making more and more money off of you as we speak. You get that, don't you?

Brendon looked at the ground shamefully, messing with the rings on his hands.

"I like you, Brendon, I really do. You know I'd never try and do something to screw you up. And I'm tired of seeing your name dragged through the mud."

Brendon looked up to see Harvey smirking, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he leaned forward.

"So here's what I think we ought to do," Harvey spoke quietly, looking over his shoulder as if someone could be listening in on their conversation, "I figure, if they're playing dirty, so are we. Let's fight fire with fire. Let's beat them at their own game."

Excitement rushed through Brendon's veins. Harvey's plot sounded perfect, and he knew that in the end, he'd be getting exactly what he wanted most of all: revenge. It was time to get back at those spineless reporters. It was time to make his comeback.

Brendon smiled, "I'm listening."