Chapter Text
Settling on his hotel, knowing he barely could make it there was an achievement he didn't think of winning. Especially when he took for granted that Argentina, as warm as it sounded, didn't speak English.
I mean, what was he supposed to know? He thought English was widely learned here, but it didn't seem like it anywhere he went.
The pastry store girl, as asian as she seemed, didn't understand a single word so he had to resort to signs.
Brendon looks over at the table, the freshly baked, sugary pastries resting on a thin cardboard platter. The paper film carefully set aside with its box, the “dulce de leche” sticking out the dough, it was perfect, but he wasn't craving such things. One bite, and he wouldn't stop until he had the entire pastry. Instead, he buried himself deeper on the leather couch, as uncomfortable as it felt to lay on, it was refreshing from his heated walk all over La Plata; a crowded city, big and rich in Italian gastronomy, and beautiful girls of course.
But he wasn't in Argentina just to shoot his shot with pretty girls or eat until he gave out; he was at the peak of his career.
Panic! at the Disco can't be doing better and he's genuinely excited about the deal he was about to make with this studio.
Not only the payment can be great, but knowing he worked so hard to get this far and it turned out perfect had him stoic.
Yes, it was hard, a hell of a journey, but he finally climbed all the way up so his music can reach Latin America and spread wider all over these countries. He knew that if Argentina agreed first, the rest was easy… and that happened.
So why was he so worried?
Looking out the window, the perfectly clear sky reminded him of the various Argentinian flags he saw everywhere. They seemed as patriotic and proud of themselves as his country did, though the people were different in a way.
Again, he covers his face, tracing his fingers over his stubble. The hair on his face was fighting to grow, he didn't have time to shave, maybe he can do it later…
later?
he jumps out the couch, checking the clock on the wall and then his. Fuck. It was barely 3 pm, and he still wasn't working to get a song ready.
Worst thing, he didn't know how he was going to learn spanish or something in the meanwhile.
He quickly ran and rummaged through the calendar hung on the wall, ignoring the cute puppies playing in the photoshopped field, the radioactive green grass could be blinding him if he were paying attention.
Three months left. Brendon sighed, and took out his book off his backpack, laying there next to the glass table.
Looking around, he only had the essentials out. Such as hygiene products, and instruments. Yup, essentials…
He looks down, a picture of his family.
He holds it dearly, feeling the paper and the quality of the polaroid, seeing the colors catch the sun and turn it into shapes over the ink.
He wanted to feel something, but he couldn't, so instead he sighs, shoving the photo down to the back of his equipment, ignoring it for now.
Taking his book and a common, parker pen with him.
He didn't want to take an expensive, great quality one, so he had to stick with the regular, worst one he had.
He could've taken a Bic one, he didn't mind those, they were good enough in terms of fluidity and writing but he wanted something to show off; something that screamed “hey, I'm here and I'm famous” or more like "I'm just an ordinary dude" or whatever. People wouldn't get on his business anyway.
He was only two scribbles deep, and he had over four words crossed already. Ink pooling on his mind too, feeling trapped over nothing. Maybe he can try adding that… but he feared that it was a normal everyday thing, so he carried on and tried aiming for something he didn't know about.
He was trapped in four walls, he felt censored. Maybe a walk outside could help him recollect his thoughts and meet his ideas once for all.
He stood up and snatched his keys, the book and the pen carefully set under his arm; he'd be mortified if he lost that notebook. That was his whole life scribbled on paper, some ink smudges, coffee drops and tears, or dramatic spills and cigarette ashes on some pages.
The elevator was okay, he didn't know what he expected, studying every inch of the hotel, maybe something non-American but that made no sense even to him.
Maybe he was craving familiarization. This didn't look at all something America would have. He missed his country, he needed Los Angeles badly.
Once outside, he stuffed the silly looking copper keys in his pocket and hurried outside without a word for reception, not even a Hi or Goodbye, and the two old ladies didn't like that. They rolled their eyes, and continued reading the colorful enough newspaper.
Brendon felt hit by a truck, the people and the heat smacking him across the face. He felt lost, and he seemed lost too because he could feel many eyes on him.
Did he look American? Or maybe he had something on his face? Whatever it was, people had no word on his business; heading south, or whatever direction he felt like he was going, he could find a park divided by the huge, almost dramatic-looking street.
He looked around, a little confused and dazed, but he crossed it just fine mimicking the young redhead girl walking her ugly little dog around.
He could get used to this. No, he could get used to anything. He was just talking bullshit.
Once in the park, the checkered cement floor felt refreshing as it held his shoes. It wasn't dirty or anything, he hoped; though the large amount of trash and wrappers he found around was crazy to him.
Losing no time and ignoring the variety of puppies walking and running around, he sat on a green bench. The paint was cracking and chapped around the edges, a few graffiti scribbles on the back too that he chose to ignore.
Opening his book, he felt lightheaded. He decided to fly, and so he let his hand freestyle on the pages, opinions and thoughts on the sheets as he finally could morph that into poetry and music. Something pleasant for the ear.
He didn't even look up when a young boy sat next to him, but his gasp did awaken him.
“Perdón pero- ¿Esa es una lapicera Parker?" The brunette spoke with sparks in his eyes, and Brendon felt his stomach flip in guilt and pressure as he tried to understand him. "Digo, o sea, quería saber dónde la habías comprado” He said again with an awkward, almost apologetic smile. Brendon returned it, and looked at his pen, the one the stranger was pointing at.
Gaining courage, he spoke “I'm sorry, no comprendo.” It came out sloppy, but the guy's face twisted in surprise, and he nodded.
"Your pen, I mean." The stranger tried again, and Brendon's eyes lit up.
“Oh shit, you know English, dude?" They shared a laugh, and the guy nodded. “Yeah, it's a Parker pen if you meant that. Just a regular pen.” Brendon shrugs, but the other boy had all his attention poured on the metallic tool with the blueish bottom, a leaf-like symbol engraved on the back. He pressed on top and the tip hurried inside. Brendon then handed it to the boy with a smile, sweet as ever.
The stranger's eyes lit up, and he gasped as he inspectioned the simple pen. Brendon thought he was causing a bit of a scene there, checking the weight and engravings, and quality tests that he didn't comprehend because he was normal.
“How much for this one?" Brendon's lips fell into a surprised, silent protest and they curled again awkwardly. "I'm- I collect pens, sorry. I didn't introduce myself properly.” He extends his hand, a fingerless glove guarding his palm or rather condemning it for how hot it was outside. How could he fucking wear that? He was already sweating under the sun. “My name is Ryan.”
Brendon felt betrayed. Was Ryan just another American playing him some sick joke?
“Dude, are you faking being Argentinian or something? Ryan what?” He questioned, but Ryan just awkwardly giggled as he held Brendon's hand for a moment after the weak handshake.
"My full name is Jorge Ryan Rosas. If that helps my case.” He wink playfully, with those poor expressions he had going on his face. Brendon nodded.
"My name is Brendon. Brendon Boyd Urie.” Ryan's head tilted, and his eyebrows raised slightly. Brendon didn't know if he was actually surprised or sarcastic. He knew argentinians were sarcastic as fuck.
“What are you giving me that look for, Ryan?" he joked, enjoying the way his name rolled on his tongue.
"Nothing. Hey, aren't you like.. famous or anything? I might have seen your face somewhere.” He pointed at his face and did a little twirl with his finger.
One thing Brendon knew about Argentinians was that they used their hands a lot to speak, like an extension of their voices. He liked that, it was cute and it made them seem like they had a soul.
Not that they didn't do it, but Argentinians were more… dramatic about it.
Back to the question, Brendon nods.
“I'm a musician, my band is called Panic —with a little exclamation mark— at the Disco." Ryan nods, a little “oh" sound escaping his lips. " Ya heard of them?” He nods even quicker, but his eyes drift back to the cheap Parker pen.
"That's cool, yeah I think I've heard some of it.. Might need to revisit, you know.”
"Keep it.”
Ryan's eyes darted up, finding Brendon's. "Huh?”
“Keep the pen, I mean.. I got another one I think"
Ryan's eyes lit up like a toddler receiving a rainbow lollipop three times the size of its own head, and he nodded.
Brendon smiles in return, scooting closer.
"What can I do in return, Brendon?” The R rolling on his tongue like a Russian stereotype. He didn't expect that, but he didn't think much of it either. “I have a BIC for you if you... still need to write."
Brendon's attention drifts to Ryan's covered hand, looking closely as he takes a normal blue BIC with a little black pompon glued on top.
He chuckles, looking up at Ryan, but dropping it when he notices that he wasn't kidding. “Wow, that's good. Thank you!" He smiles apologetically, testing the pen with a small scribble on top of a random page of his book. “It’s better. You're a savior!"
Again, they share a laugh, Brendon can notice everything Ryan does around.
He's not expressive, his hands speak more for himself than his face or half-slurred words only he could catch…
He was bold, interesting and sensible. He could take some of his soul and humanity and morph it into inspiration..
Later that day he returned to the hotel with a new contact on his phone, and a few playful doodles on old pages with light navy blue ink, a contrast to his usual jet black ink.