Ryden Oneshots

Tabula Rasa

After many months, Ryan had grown used to interviews.  Usually the questions were the same.  Uncreative and banal.

            When they first started out, the idea of strangers asking him questions unnerved him.  He liked to keep things secret, to himself.  The first official interview that Panic did was a disaster for Ryan.  He shut himself down completely and stared at the ground as Spencer handled the questions.

            In time, Ryan learned that interviewers rarely had tough questions to ask.  “When did the band start?” they would ask.  “How long have you known each other?” they would ask.

            Ryan learned that instead of keeping his mouth shut and eyes diverted, it was better to handle the answers himself.  That way he could shield what he wanted, control the situation.  It had become common in interviews for Ryan to answer the questions, his cool monotone voice glazing over just the tiniest bit of information, giving them all just enough.

            “What’s the story with Brent’s departure?”

            “It was mutual; it was what was best for the band.”

            “Do you ever miss home?”

            “We’re happy doing what we love.”

            After many months, Ryan had learned how to answer succinctly.  He wasn’t rude, but he didn’t feel the need to throw in adjectives or imagery.  It was an interview.  Nothing more.

* * * *

            Ryan was frustrated.  For some reason, their manager scheduled an interview right before a big performance.  “Feel free to continue getting ready,” the interviewer said when Ryan explained the predicament.  “I don’t want to get in the way.  I’ll just see what you go through before a show and ask you some questions, alright?”

            He sighed and said “alright”, grabbing a stick of eyeliner and lining his eyes in a dark purple.  The interviewer watched Ryan in the mirror, his face reflecting over Ryan’s right shoulder.  Ryan ignored his stare and concentrated on smudging the color into perfection.

            “So, Brendon,” the man began.  Chris was his name.  He had told them to call him Chris.  “Are you excited about the show?”

            Ryan allowed his eyes to dart from his own reflection in the mirror, from his hand that was now drawing spirals from his eyes, to where Brendon was sitting.  He saw Brendon give a wide smile.  The fake smile he often gave when he knew he was supposed to seem happy.  “Of course!  I’m always really keyed up before a show.”

            Brendon’s eyes met Ryan’s in the mirror and Ryan gave him a wry smile.  He almost laughed.  Keyed up.

            The interviewer nodded.  “What’s your favorite part of performing?”  Ryan could see that Chris was holding a tape recorder in his hands.  Somehow he would have felt better if it was a pen and a pad of paper was lying nearby. That he could respect.  That he could relate to.

            Brendon took a sip of his water.  Room temperature, a little warmer in fact.  It soothed the vocal chords.  “I like it all,” Brendon said.  “I mean, I love music.  I love signing and dancing and just being in the moment.  It’s all great.”

            “I wonder,” Chris said, “is it strange for Brendon to be singing your lyrics, Ryan?  Especially the ones about your father.  It’s rather personal, isn’t it?”

            The movement of Brendon’s quick jerk of the head drew Ryan’s eyes to him in the mirror.  Ryan calmed himself down, took a deep breath, and answered.  “Music is always personal.”  It wasn’t a real answer, he knew that, but Ryan wasn’t going to answer that question.  Not for some stranger.  Not for random readers of a random magazine.