FEVERISH [RYDEN] [REPOST]

BATHROOMS, BEDROOMS, AND BLUNTS

When Ryan Ross, Spencer Smith, and Brent Wilson arrived at Pete Wentz's apartment the next day, they were greeted with the sight that was probably from a dream.

Brendon Urie leaned over Pete's kitchen counter, a beer and blunt in his hand like his new mentor, laughing hysterically at something Pete had said.

"Brendon?"

"Ohmigod Ryan! You aren't going to believe this!" Brendon called, dropping the blunt onto the floor and running up to the boy. Everything that Ryan was seeing he wasn't believing, but what Brendon said next made what Ryan was seeing seem even more like a dream.

"I was talking to Pete, and he said that we should record as soon as possible! Remember how I said that we'd gotten signed, well, Pete just hast to make a label first. Then we can make a record!" His face alight with childlike glee, Brendon wrapped his arms around Ryan and Spencer. Brent backed up.

"Brendon," Ryan started, pausing slightly. How had this happened? People spend years, months, lifetimes trying to do this, and Brendon just had one good night with Pete Wentz and now he was creating a record label for them?

"Yeah?"

"Nothin." Ryan pulled him in close, smothering the boy in his chest.

Behind them, Pete smiled.

"Okay, well, Brendon, do you want to grab your bag so you guys can head to the airport? It's just in the back room there..." Pete started, his eyes fixed on the center of Ryan's face.

The floor creaked as Brendon turned to go to the back room.

The flat shifted as Pete walked up to Ryan, gripped his fore-arm slightly, and whispered into his ear.

"I need to talk to you."

Now, as Ryan Ross was a relatively tall, leather jacket wearing, mildly intimidating man, it did come across quite odd that the 5'6", t-shirt and basketball-short clad man would be so assertive.

Ryan stepped into the bathroom after him, watching anxiously as he shut the door.

"Sit." Pete patted the rim of the bathtub, motioning for him to take a seat. "Let's have a chat."

Ryan shuffled after him, slipping onto the edge of the bath. He pulled his knees up close to him, fidgeting his fingers as he met the elder man's eyes.

"Tell me about his home life."

"What?" This was not what Ryan was expecting, a statement instead of a question, a question about Brendon instead of the music.

"The kid, Brendon. Tell me about his home life. He lives with his family?"

"Yeah. Um, I mean, he's a high schooler. He lives at home."

Pete clucked his tongue.

"So, he didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?" Ryan's eyes widened slightly, raising his face to meet Pete's.

"That they kicked the kid out."

The color drained out of Ryan's face, the bottom lip that he had bit down on slipping out of his teeth's grasp.

"What? Are you kidding?"

His voice came out sharp, cutting through the air in between them.

"Yeah. They kicked the kid out. He told me he slept under a bridge. Talk to him."

This was all that Pete said, standing up and brushing off his lap as to not stoop himself as low as to sit on the bathtub any longer.

"No, wait, hold on-"