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For: @Felonymelanie2003
Requests: The reader has something called Conversion(I'll get to an explanation) and thinks that they are worthless. Brendon tries to prove that they are the opposite. Now, Conversion is a physical manifestation of stress and/or anxiety. It's like when you have to give a presentation in front of a room full of people multiplied by 1000. Some people experience tic-like symptoms(which is what I have), some people's legs don't work properly, and some people experience other things.
REQUESTS ARE CLOSED.
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Note: While I tried my best to make this imagine as precise as possible, I do not personally suffer from Conversion, so please don't attack me if something is inaccurate. I tried.
And thank you to mikeywaystambourine for helping me with this.
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The moisture in your mouth evaporated as you chanced a look through the side curtain at the crowd you were meant to perform in front of tonight. You'd heard from one of the crewmembers that it was a sold-out show, meaning that the arena was packed to capacity. Twenty thousand people in attendance, twenty thousand potential 'boo!'s coming your way.
The scratchiness in your throat was what eventually got you to pull away from the curtain. You walked over to the catering section and grabbed a bottle of water, chugging the entire thing down.
You breathed out heavily once you were done, setting your palms flat on the table and closing your eyes to steady yourself. Already there was a quiver working its way up your arms, causing it to shake slightly.
Just one night, you thought. Please, can I just have this one night?
One of the stagehands called out for you and even though they were only a couple feet away, their voice sounded distant. Doubtful thoughts crept their way into your mind, their poison trying to coerce you into giving up right then and there.
But you somehow found the will to block them out, and started for the stage area, attempting to swallow the massive lump in your throat as you did so.
When you reached them, the stagehands decked you out in all of the necessary equipment that was required for you to perform. You stood silent and unmoving as they worked on you, bar the way your teeth were sinking into your bottom lip as you tried to mask the tremor in your limbs, which had developed rapidly.
Somehow, you ended up locking gazes with Brendon, and the singer gave you a beaming smile and a huge thumbs-up; you couldn't help but smile back, and you felt significantly calmer afterwards.
You were part of a new band recently signed by Fuelled By Ramen – you were the lead singer, too – and as part of your debut, you were set to tour with Panic! as the opening act for the Pray for the Wicked tour; tonight was opening night.
All of that was absolutely wonderful and you were beyond ecstatic about it all. The only problem was that you suffered from a relatively strong case of conversion, something that was now coming into play big time, making going out onto that stage to perform in three minutes seem virtually impossible.
Up until now, you'd thought that you had it under control; you were able to perform in front of Brendon and the touring members, as well as most people back at the label and on the crew – this had lulled you into what you now recognised as a false sense of security, and now all of your repressed symptoms were catching up to you, culminating in one giant wave of anxiety.
The worst part of it, of course, was that the anxiety manifested itself in physical displays – such as the tremor in your limbs that had yet to cease, and the way your vision was beginning to blur.
Looking around at all of the faces belonging to the family of people that had been nothing but loving towards you and your band, you realised that it would be almost too easy to tell them that you weren't able to perform, and you knew that they would understand and call up the replacement opening act that they kept on standby.
In retrospect, that's what you should've done. But the yearning to prove yourself to everyone – especially yourself – was overpowering, and soon enough you found yourself being met with raucous applause as you walked onto stage with that tremor still coursing through you.
You kept the microphone in a death grip as you stood behind the mic stand, eyes nervously scanning the crowd as you waited for your guitarist to finish up your band's introduction.
"Now, I'm gonna hand over to this lovely lady right here," he turned to beam at you, extending a hand in your direction to show the crowd who he was referring to, "Miss (Y/N) (Y/L/N), everybody!"
The audience cheered in response but once again, their hoots and hollers seemed like only distorted vibrations to you as your anxiousness reached a new peak. You knew that what came next would almost definitely result in the medical staff having to carry you off stage, so before that could happen, you apologised into the mic before walking yourself off.
Ignoring the confused questions from crew members and questioning chants from the distancing crowd, you sped-walked your way down the corridors to the dressing rooms, barging into one soon after.
"Okay," you breathed shakily, pacing the room and shaking your hands out as you closed your eyes; you needed to relax yourself, "okay, okay."
Much to your displeasure, someone entered the room not a minute later, just as you slid down the wall and sat yourself on the floor. You tossed a tired look at the unwelcome intruder.
"Brendon, please go away."
The singer walked closer, scoffing. "Uh, actually, this is my dressing room so..." He joined you on the floor. "What's up? Talk to me."
You didn't respond, choosing instead to nibble on your bottom lip and look around the room at anything that wasn't Brendon. The singer sighed softly, letting his head hang down; it was then that he noticed the way your hands were trembling, and realisation dawned on him.
He carefully reached out and took your hands in his, covering them completely with his own and rubbing his fingers along yours to try and calm you down.
"The conversion, huh?" You nodded in confirmation and he shifted closer, allowing you to lean on his shoulder before continuing. "I thought you said you were fine to go on tonight."
"I thought I was," you managed to get your words out despite the ever-present lump in your throat, "But then I saw the crowd and...I'm so sorry, Brendon. I wanted so badly to perform tonight, but instead I went and fucked it all up."
"Hey, no." He brought a hand to your face and gently tilted your chin to get you to look at him. "Look, I know that you probably feel really shitty about dropping out of the performance, but believe me when I tell you that no one is gonna hold it against you. And if they do, I'll fire them."
His words managed to get a laugh out of you, and he smiled at the fact.
"I mean it," he insisted with a playful grin, "I know how hard it gets for you, and you should be proud of yourself for even managing to get yourself out there. Who cares if you didn't perform? Being that courageous is an achievement in itself. And hey," he gestured to himself and scoffed, "I know you're talented as fuck, you know you're talented as fuck, and I guarantee you that everyone out there knows it as well."
He pushed himself up from the floor so that he was standing in front of you and dusted himself off. Then, he held out both hands for you to take and gazed down at you expectantly.
"Don't ever question your worth because of your condition; it happens to the best of us. But you are better than it and you can beat it; I've seen you do it. You've just gotta believe in yourself the way that I believe in you."
You fought the urge to start bawling your eyes out at the singer's sentiment and reduced your emotions to a grateful smile instead as you slipped your hands into his outstretched ones and allowed him to help you up.
He helped brush the dust off of you, too, paying careful mind not to touch you inappropriately – a gesture that made you smile to yourself.
"Now, to make up for the fact that the fans didn't get to hear you sing as the opener," he cocked his head to the side and smirked, now holding his arm out for you to link yours in, "(Y/N), will you be my Miss Jackson?"
"It would be my honor."
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Thank you for reading x