Archaic ||Peterick||

The King Of Swingers

Patrick pushed the door open,with a creak. Music was coming from within. Someone shouting. A male voice.

"From the top! Always from the top! Because that's where we're trying to get you to! You cannot go on if you continue like this..."

Patrick ignored the rest of the rant, and walked down a service corridor, past the dressing rooms. He poked his head into one. It was empty. Walking up to the next one, though, he found the confirmation that this was the place that he would find who he was looking for. As if that was ever in any doubt. An earth-shattering note thundered down from the stage. A C7. Patrick smiled to himself. This was definitely the place.

He followed the sounds of the argument that came next.

"It was fine!"

"You were sharp! From the top, please."

"No way! This is bullshit! It was fine!"

"From the top."

"I would, but I don't fucking need to, it was fine!"

"Language"

"Oh for fuck's sake, like you give a shit about that."

"I'm warning you..."

"Warning me about what? Some non-existent voice crack? This is fucking ridiculous."

"Well, if it's so ridiculous then stop wasting my time."

"Fine! I don't give a shit! It's not like I even need vocal coaching!"

Patrick stopped backstage, and watched as the singer in question turned on his heel and stormed toward the opposite wing. Patrick turned around, too, and waited beside the door to the corridor connecting the left and right wings. It nearly hit him in the face when it swung open with blinding force. The person who walked through it, all the while cursing to himself under his breath, missed Patrick completely, and stormed up the stairs. Patrick followed him up to the dressing room, and walked in behind him. Still, even after the door was closed, the strop continued. Patrick sighed.

"Brendon..."

He finally looked around, his hair a mess, tears threatening to spill from his almond eyes down his cheeks.

"When the fuck did you get here?" he asked, taking his white converse off and kicking them under his chair. He was still very annoyed. Patrick dragged a chair over and sat down.

"A few minutes ago."

"So you heard that son of a bitch? Oh my god, was I sharp? Have I ever been sharp?"

"Yes, yes and yes, many, many times."

"Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhh"

"Just telling the truth."

"I'd really rather you lied to me."

"No can do. You were sharp, you're sharp quite often."

Brendon groaned.

"Piss off, I'm Mark Zuckerberg."

Patrick laughed at the sheer absurdity of the statement. Brendon smiled.

"Seriously though, it's not like you could do any better." he said. Patrick nodded.

"You just keep telling yourself that."

Brendon rolled his eyes, and pulled on a pair of carmine red boots with black lace frills around the shoelaces. The golden aglets were little symbols, one a heart, one a cherry, one a pair of lips, and one a mirror. Typical.

He stood up. The boots were high-heeled, with a black block heel that rose him up an extra three inches to six foot. They were tight, leather, and stopped about a quarter of the way up his thigh. There was a slight gap where his skin was shown. A brown freckle, a colour somewhere between his eyes' hue and his hair's, sat just below the hem of the black sparkly hotpants he had on.

Brendon threw his blue tee off, and onto the bench. Patrick stepped back a bit as he sprayed on an extra coat of deodorant. Spray tended to make his asthma act up. Brendon picked up a smart white shirt, so well ironed that the edges seemed to have an outline, and put it on. He closed the buttons incredibly quickly, and pulled a red tie on around the collar, tightened to his tonsils. A black suit jacket, with silver detailing and a rose on the breast pocket.

"Debonair." Patrick said. Brendon flipped his hair and set about combing it into the usual bouffant in front of his mirror.

"You know it." he grinned, flicking a few extra strands out of his eyes. When he was finished, he turned around in his swivel chair, to face Patrick, who was examining some of the posters on the walls.

"So. What are you here for then? I know you didn't just come to see me perform. Anyone else would but..."

"I'm not anyone else." Patrick said, sitting beside Brendon's pile of assorted clothes. Brendon nodded.

"Exactly."

"I came to ask a question."

"Ask ahead." Brendon said, returning to combing his quiff at the red 50's style mirror to scoop up the stray hairs that had escaped from his style. Patrick checked his nails.

"Do you know where Will's is gone to?"

"The suicide store? As in 'Dying to Die' Will's?"

"The very one."

"Patrick, suicide is not the answer. Knee implants maybe."

Patrick tutted.

"Very funny. All your height's in your forehead anyway, Breadbin. And your kinky boots."

"And the hair. Don't forget the hair"

"And the hair. So. The store."

"Oh yeah. So, like, last time I was there, it was on 4th Avenue, and it was actually really hilarious because I walked in there, and Will and his boyfriend were just there, making out, and I was like 'Well don't let me stop you,' and they didn't even flinch so I j-"

"Brendon."

"What?"

"Where is it now?"

"Oh, now? I don't fucking know. The store front is facing the west side of Central Park, that's all I can tell you."

"Wow. Very helpful."

"Sorry."

"It's fine. Thanks anyway."

"No problem. Just promise me I won't hear about your death from Will next time I go over?"

"It's not for me. It's for a friend."

"Fair enough. Hey, it's 7 now, it might be an idea to get there before nine?"

"Oh, yeah. Thanks Bren."

"No trouble."

Patrick stood up, and smiled as he closed yet another door behind him.