Tourist - (B.U.)

America's Suitehearts

"How does it feel to have your new album surpass some modern legends that have been around decades longer than you've even been making music?"

Brendon took a sharp inhale and drummed his fingers along the wooden panel where he was being interviewed at. He pretended to think for a moment, raising his eyebrows and blowing out a deep breath, laughing nervously as though he had never been faced with such an ego-inflating question. "Gah, it's humbling. That's for sure. I'm just a small town boy you know? I was born in red rocks, Utah and somehow stumbled into this ill fated life of, well you know what it's like-" Brendon paused and shared a moment  with the interviewer, both of them smiling at one another like they had some unexplainable secret about glamour and glory bonding them together.

I scoffed from my seat against the wall.

"Oh, boy do I know," the interviewer winked at Brendon and gave him a firm handshake before signing off. "Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Urie and I think I speak for all of us when I say we are extremely excited for the release of Vices & Virtues; This has been Brendon Urie from Panic! at the Disco, and you're listening to KIIS-FM."

Brendon gave everyone in the room, the tech officials, scrambling assistants, producers of the talkshow, etc, a heart-warming smile as he removed the large headphones and graciously accepted their faux commendations.

He reciprocated with equally fake smiles, followed by phrases of "no problem," "it was my pleasure," and "I'll definitely be back!"

The same bull shit he force feeds to every synthetic fan of the music he creates. But he was the biggest fool of them all. He was America's pop-punk sweetheart.

I gave him a soft smile as he motioned with one finger for me to stand up from my slouched over position on the leather chair, a gesture that he made sure only I could see, and I of course abided to his request, standing slowly and correcting my posture as he gripped his fingers around my hip, pulling me into his cold, studded leather jacket.

"Thanks again so much for having us!" Brendon waved at the room and kissed the top of my head, lovingly:

"Say thank you, Elizabeth," he whispered into my hair before turning back to the room and showing off his white, commercialized teeth.

"Thank you for letting me sit in on Bren's interview," I looked at Brendon when I used his old nickname and smiled generously at him. If he wants me to act the perfect girlfriend then I'll do it and more, damnit. I'll jump through hoops for you, baby.

He scowled at me, knowing the game I was playing, but didn't let his true emotions show as he waved goodbye, saying a couple more thank you's and leading me into the hallway of the radio station.

Our tense walk to the elevator was completely silent except for the sound of my high heels Brendon forced me to wear clicking against the gold-speckled white tile.

What was the point? Of the high heels, I mean. I was now towering dangerously close to his height, and I knew he hated the idea of anyone being taller than his measly 5'10, so I chose the heels that made me just an inch shorter. I'll hear hell about it when we get home, I'm sure.

He slipped his fingers into my palm, as though I wouldn't recognize his calloused touch, but just this once, I let him get away with it.

I wrapped my own hand around his and even started to swing our hands back in forth between us, something we used to do when we were still in love, oops.