Get me Out of My Mind (Brendon Urie)

19. There's a million ways it could go

       

And so, Brendon takes me to the room where the "magic happens", as he so, uh, politely puts it.

No, that is not a room full of top hats from which Rabbits appear or a room filled with potions and magic wands (though in all honesty, either would be amazing- and if Brendon did have magic powers it would explain many things, namely the fact that he is more attractive than any human being should be). It is also not some kind of sexual innuendo, as one might expect saying 'this is where the magic happens' could be, especially given the way Brendon accompanies it with a villainous eyebrow-waggle. (And no of course I am not disappointed by it not being an innuendo, not at all why would you ask such a question... um....)

No, this turns out to be the room where the hairdresser who wants to be a rock star, which I remember calling him on our first date, makes music.

(Again, the phrase makes music is not an innuendo- why is everything I think sounding so dirty to me at the moment?  I'm sure my mind didn't used to be full of innuendos and I one hundred percent blame Brendon for the fact that it seems to be now.)

Brendon literally has a music studio in his house. He has mentioned his interests in music to be before, many times, but he has failed to mention this little detail. The room is decorated in a dark gray that I assume is meant to be for 'acoustics', but since I know next to nothing about music (okay, okay, that's an exaggeration; I do know one thing about music, that one thing being that I hate Justin Bieber) I can't be sure.

There are all sorts of fancy equipment in here, which is quite terrifying because it means there is a very large risk that I will break something that is probably worth more than every single piece of furniture I own. (To give myself some credit, however; A: I could break anything, no matter how expensive of cheap it is, and B:  a lot of people pay more money for an armchair than I did for all my bedroom furniture.)

"You have a music studio in your apartment," I say bluntly. Brendon chuckles from behind me.

"Really? I didn't notice."

I should respond in kind to his sarcasm, and deliver a frighteningly witty response that will have Brendon gaping in awe. But, because that sort of thing is far beyond the range of things Erin can do without failing horrendously, I merely repeat myself.

"You have a music studio in your apartment. The most interesting thing that's in my apartment is... well, Claire." And Claire, beautiful and elegant as you may be, I don't know if you quite compare to a whole music studio in an apartment.

This is almost as big as Brendon's bedroom, but instead of the large (and, I now know from experience, very comfortable... ahem) bed, this is filled with things that I couldn't even try to name, and things that I do recognise but that I wouldn't dare touch anyway because it probably would end in catastrophe. Things like guitars.
I remember when Claire dragged me (kicking and screaming, I might add) on a camping trip with her and a handful of our friends (They all loved it. I stayed awake the entire night alternating between panicking that a bear was stalking our tent  and sneaking out to the fire to make myself more s'mores), and someone brought an acoustic guitar. I, because I make terrible life decisions that I immediately regret, had asked if I could try playing it, but all that resulted in was accidentally snapping a guitar pick in half, and me complaining for about two hours about how much my fingers hurt from it. And then there was the noise that I made, which probably scared off ninety percent of the birds in the camping reserve and sent them flying south about four months too early.

That was my most recent encounter with a guitar- just one guitar. And Brendon has about six different guitars in here, in a range of different kinds.  I have a horrible feeling that this may not go well.