The Drunk History of Panic! At The Disco

I haven't been to a party in an embarrassingly long time. It's not that I'm antisocial or lack friends, I just have so many projects and things I'm doing and any spare moment I have is used to pause and breathe. So the window for parties is left very small. I walk in confidently, though, and immediately begin to head over to talk to Mikey and Patrick and some of my other workaholic, have-actually-been-in-a-caffeine-induced-coma-before friends. But the very second the front door closes behind me, I hear a lively burst of voice from somewhere in the crowd on the other side of the living room.

"Dibs!" Some more chatter around the disembodied voice. "No, Spencer. I called dibs. I get this one, fucker!" I assume the voice is talking about food or something and continue on my quest to talk to Mikey about how to perfect the bassline for this one song, but I'm interrupted prematurely.

I feel someone sidle up to me, pressing into my forearm. I look down because he's much shorter than me, but most people are. His hair is good, so at least it's not some tasteless dumbass getting in the way of my work. He has a shiny red tailored suit jacket and tight black pants. Like, emo teenager black pants. He looks good, though.

He smiles up at me in this charming way that could derail almost anyone from whatever they were doing. Almost anyone. Hopefully not me. "Hello?"

"Hey," he says, lifting his chin up to seem taller. "How you doing?"

Despite my best efforts, I laugh. This guy's an idiot, but in a fun way. "Doing fine. You?"

"I was doing okay with the booze, but I'm doing even better now that I'm talking to a hot guy." Add a smirk, and the stupid line is complete.

"Well I'm glad I could be of assistance. But I was actually going to-"

"So what's your name?"

It takes me a moment to figure out if he's actually interested or if someone over there is making him do this as a dare. It seems too over-the-top to be real. But his smile and genuine energy convince me of the reality of his motives. "Dallon. What about you?"

"Brendon." He punctuates every sentence with a blinding smile. "So, Dallon," he says so naturally it seems like he's always known me. "What do you do for a living? How do leave your mark on this dazzlingly stupid planet?"

"I'm a bassist. I travel around with solo artists on tours and play at shows. It's pretty great. I'm trying to do some of my own stuff though. You know, find some guys to play with all the time."

"Well, as it happens, I am in need of a bassist!" He claps his hands together and then drags them down my arm, pulling me over to the closest wall to talk more, I presume. "We could play together, Dallon," he says, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"You work fast, don't you?"

"Life's too short to work slow."

"I suppose," is all I can get out before I can't talk anymore because my lips are busy doing other things. Mostly being on Brendon's. His lips are big and soft and just generally pleasant and I find myself sighing sadly as he pulls away.

"I wasn't joking about needing a bassist."

I smile and push him away lightly. "You just kissed me so I'd play for your shows?"

"No," he says, biting his lip. "I kissed you in hopes of securing a future of... other, more enticing things with you."

"Uh huh, well I guess life's too short."

"It is, indeed, Dallon. Take this decision seriously but make it," he snaps his fingers up at my face. "Now."

"Yeah, I'll play with you. You got a band?"

"Kind of. We can look for others."

I smile at how this guy I've known for mere minutes has already gotten under my skin. "What's this supposed band called?"

"Well, let's come up with it now. Drunk band names are the best band names."

"You're drunk?"

"My friends say I act the same when I'm sober. Don't worry, you aren't missing out on much on normal days."

"Alright, well, Brendon. What comes to mind? It's your thing, anyway."

"Well," he strokes his chin as if he has any sort of facial hair. Then, finally, he comes to a conclusion.

"Panic! At The Disco."