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threedimensions
threedimensionsDimensions: [1-2]
Timeline: January 2012; Summer 2012; Summer 2013; October 2016; April 2017
Title: Dealer's Choice 4/4: Ambitus
Summary: Of Brandon's relationship with drugs; the highs and the lows
~3.5k
Notes: ambitus - range between the highest and lowest note
January 2012
"No," Brandon says this time, when Toddball asks if that's all he needs once they've squared up his usual supply and the payment for same. "This mid shit is fine for everyone else, but I want the better shit this time, too—like what you got me a couple of weeks ago."
(He's kind of wondered if how absolutely, unbelievably stoned they were that day had been what made him actually say it. To ask that. Brandon had taken the last of that good shit over to her house that first time, and he honestly doesn't know if it was pot-induced horniness or what that had gotten them started, but he knows it helped. It has always helped before with any initial awkwardness and nerves.)
"I told you that was all I had of that."
"And I told you that I didn't fucking believe you then, and I don't now. Come on, you prick. I'm, like, your best customer."
"You think you're the best at goddamn everything."
"I usually am. Go get it. I want at least..." He pauses, thinking, and gives two options for quantity. People like choices; he likes it when the selections they're debating between are all things he wants.
Toddball glares at him. He's gotten a lot better in the last couple of years; less paranoid, fewer obvious visual or auditory hallucinations. He hasn't mentioned getting help or being on medication in any way, but they're not exactly friends—still, Brandon is almost positive one or both of those things has happened and is continuing, or he probably would have sought a different source years ago after getting sick enough of having the gun pulled on him. As it is, he hasn't seen it in over a year, and instead of getting it or muttering something about his irritating current customer to 'that one' only he could see, Toddball only rolls his eyes and says, "Why don't you suck my dick before you make fucking orders at me."
Brandon gives him the finger. "What dick? Will you just get it, dude? I have places to be."
(They're not exactly waiting for him to show up right now, not yet, but Katelan did oh-so-casually mention to him that he could come over and hang out with them again today, and he's really just waiting for Mark to text him. He doesn't know if it's actually going to happen today, but it could. They had gotten close last time, and this will help ease things along.)
"You got enough money?"
Brandon gives him a look that he knows is bitch, please, but he'll never, ever admit it. "Who the fuck are you talking to? C'mon, hurry the fuck up, I don't have all day."
"Fuck you, asshole, like I sit around waiting for you to show up and that fills me inside," Toddball scoffs, then looks at him levelly and names a figure. Brandon shrugs and nods, and finally the other man gets up and goes into his other room, so Brandon puts the bag he's already gotten into his backpack and gets out the rest of the money he's brought along this time. He waits in the silent kitchen, glad that he's trusted enough now to be left alone; it's also been at least a year since he's been forgotten. It helps that he's got it timed almost perfectly now and shows up every two-and-a-half weeks within two days either way, so his regular plug always has stock and supply and is ready for him. The additional treats or different strains are definitely a plus as well, almost any time he wants something other than his usual order. Todd comes back with a smaller bag, and Brandon can smell it before he sees it.
(He saves the really good shit for the next few times he gets a text or a call and meets them at her place. One day a week or so later, it takes only a few hits each, and he knows by the way that he looks at him and almost dives in, slowly but unshakably, that this time—their third time—is going to be good. He likes it now—wants it more. Brandon does too; he's out of his mind and also horny and it's fucking fun to share this with someone else, with him.
It's so good, so fucking good. Every touch, every taste, being squeezed and held onto as they move, back and forth and up but no down, only up and up.)
Later, Katelan wants to buy some, and he offers the regular shit, but she asks for more of what he'd brought. No.
"That was all I have," Brandon tells her, which is true because he's left the rest at home in a different hiding spot than his regular stash. Katelan makes a face and sighs, asking then for a couple grams of what he normally deals out. She asks if he'll get in more of that stuff soon, and he says maybe, but he knows that she can't really afford it, and he's not giving her a discount.
(He sees Mark looking at him out of the corner of his eye as he gets it out of the inside pocket of his coat, but he doesn't say anything as Brandon takes her money. He knows he'll continue sharing with him. Brandon will share anything with him—anything he wants.)
.
Summer 2012
The shit Jack gets is far fucking better than anything Brandon usually gets his hands on, even from either Germy or Toddball. Not that he can't go for the sort of shit that makes you vacuum the front lawn instead of just zoning out and chilling, but he sells to teenagers and 20s mostly, and who has the money for it?
Jack, apparently. He always has it and he's very willing to share with Brandon when they're together; he sees at once that Jack uses it to self-medicate from what can otherwise be debilitating anxiety and PTSD issues and probably a host of other things. While it makes Jack calmer, easier to talk and to hang out and even to be physical, it puts Brandon out to the moon, and he loves it.
Jack doesn't want to expound on his source, and Brandon doesn't want to press him, so it doesn't become part of his normal stock. Jack's willing to get extra for him, for his own personal use, and Brandon occasionally passes some of that on to Mark and Kylen, but they're it. He's still everyone's guy, and although he still calls on Toddball for his supply for the rest of them, his guy is now Jack. In every way.
.
Summer 2013
He's so busy with the band, managing their gigs—keeping track of where and when, and trying to get them more, more, as often as they can play they will—and rehearsals and keeping up with their online presence, that he doesn't notice for a while that the dozens of calls and texts he used to get each month have severely dropped off. He hasn't seen Toddball in a couple of months either, having to just let Jack know when he's getting low. Jack has gotten used to his close friends more and generally always gets enough for Mark, Kylen, Andrew, Keith, Luke, and Delta with what he usually gets for them (though the only one he will give to directly is Andrew), and he even gets mid for them, as they can't really afford the potent lab-grown shit he gets for himself and Brandon. His source has turned out to be a local online friend whom he's never actually met in person, as they only deal via drop-off exchange method, which has made Brandon wonder about that person's true identity, but Jack's satisfied enough to keep it up, and he more or less becomes the source.
Brandon's still the guy, but only for his small circle now, and really, he's kind of just a middleman between his friends and Jack. He notices when hanging out with Kieran one day that he has a pretty good-sized bag, and when he packs the bowl and they pass it, Brandon smiles. It's not Jack's and it's not Toddball's—they must have a different guy now. He's a little surprised to find that it doesn't bother him—he's gotten pissy with other people that have tried to edge in on their group in years past—but he has so much going on these days that he doesn't need it. He doesn't need the money, and he doesn't need the attention or the accolades; he has the band, which is in a lot of ways a purer high than he can ever get from smoking. (Or anything else.)
They've just finished with their E.P. and are waiting to hear back from the label that had shown interest in them, and dreaming of how far they can go—how big they can be—makes him realize that his naive fantasies of being a cool teenaged drug lord had been short-sighted at best and fucking idiotic at truth. This is what he wants, and now that it's looking like it's possible, he throws everything he has into it.
He's getting ready to go on stage at a late summer celebration near the lake one night when his phone chimes: a text from Germy with two question marks. A couple of years ago, this would have gotten him excited for the prospect of not only something more, but something new, something great. He texts back an X instead of a checkmark without even thinking about it; then, as he puts his phone on airplane mode and stuffs it in his pocket, taking his Les Paul from Kylen and throwing the strap over his shoulder, he looks at his bandmates to make sure that they're ready, too. Andrew is adjusting his wireless amp receiver from where it hangs from his back pocket, Keith is anxiously twirling one drumstick in between his fingers (but he looks okay, just wanting to get started versus waiting), and Mark looks over at him and grins.
"You good?" he asks.
"So good," Brandon says back.
"Play good or don't come back," Kylen says encouragingly, and he gives her the finger when she beams at him.
The radio DJ that's been announcing each band calls them as up next and the crowd roars in happy anticipation. Mark and Andrew shift a little and Brandon walks past them, grinning as he ascends the steps up to the platform; he always goes first, Mark right on his heels, then Andrew and Keith. He stops downstage right, his favorite place, holding up a hand to Luke and Delta while Mark goes center and Andrew to his left. Their friends and the rest of the people with all eyes on them cheer, and as Mark greets them and introduces their first song, Brandon sees a couple of people wearing shirts that are prints of their band name and logo on them. He doesn't recognize them, so they're not in their close friend group that has followed them for years and have come as support.
Fans. Their fans.
They are the guys, and as Mark begins the rhythm riff of the first song on their E.P., the crowds' hands and phones come up, applauding them and videoing them. Brandon joins in the lead line a few measures later and he hears more cheers, and as he looks out into their exciting, adoring faces, he's happier than he can ever remember being.
.
October 2016
Brandon nods as he listens to Ashley; she talks quickly as she goes through each point on her phone, messages and itinerary updates and offers or changes for their scheduled appearances. It's late and they've just gotten on the bus, where they'll be all night as they head for the next city; they've been playing almost every afternoon or evening, staying busy with photoshoots and interviews and meetings with management and fans, and all of it has him going almost every minute from the time he wakes up every day. He loves every second of it.
The others are tired tonight, though, and Mark and Keith head right for the bunks while Andrew sits on one of the couch/bench things and starts texting someone. Brandon's almost ready to go to sleep too, but while his body is worn out, his mind starts to pick up pace again when Ashley goes through their current chart standings—"Crawl" has just made a top ten!—and he's back in his second-usual state of excitedly-exhausted versus his primary state of just excited.
He throws his empty soda bottle at Andrew, who has slumped down and is dozing, and it startles him awake. "Holy fuck, 'Crawl''s top ten!" Brandon tells him, his eyes wide. He wants to wake the others, but Keith will care more about sleeping right now, and Mark had looked so dead in the lounge after they'd gotten off stage that he'd be lucky to wake him if the bus was on fire.
"Whoa," Andrew says, sounding dazed. It could be that he's half-asleep, though. "I need to call my grandparents and that girl that made fun of me in middle school." He holds his hands out toward Brandon's computer, which he's just pulled out of his backpack. "Gimme that. I also have to write a ten page post acknowledging my bar soap for making me Zestfully clean enough to get this far in my career. Hashtag 'topten', hashtag 'thankyou'."
Brandon leans forward and takes his boot off so that he can throw it at Andrew, who is smirking and making fun of him. "Fucker." But he gets his point. He eases off his other boot and leans back a little. "Anything else?" he asks Ashley.
"Oh, yeah." She digs in her little drawstring bag and hands him a sandwich baggie of fifteen or so joints. "Refill."
His attention is on point again. "Fuck yeah, thanks."
So is Andrew's. "You're the best," he tells Ashley, watching Brandon take one out of the bag and looking at it like he's been starving and is visualizing a chicken leg. "And you," he says to Brandon when he looks doubtfully at him.
Brandon rolls his eyes then and puts the joint back in the bag. "No, dude...we should probably just get to sleep. We're both beat and it'll be wasted if we just fall asleep right away."
Andrew sighs. "I guess. But it's been, like, a whole day."
"I'm sorry," Ashley says sympathetically. "I had to go through one of the soundcheck guys. If I knew you were experiencing such withdrawal, I would have flashed my boobs a time or two for you."
"Sobriety is a pretty shitty experience," Andrew agrees. "And—since I missed it—?"
She shrugs. "No. But I will tell your girlfriend you asked."
"Knew I shouldn't have brought her," Andrew says, and sighs dramatically. "All the boobs I could have seen otherwise."
"Leave her alone, dick," Brandon says. He still has one boot he can throw. Andrew snickers again but decides to go on to his own coffin-like bunk thing or try to squeeze in with Liona.
Brandon puts his shit away too, including the pot Ashley has scored for them into the inside pocket of his backpack. Along with everything else that makes being in a legit band that has three albums out and is co-headlining a tour with the Fun Size guys fucking amazing, it's a nice side perk to have the guy come to him instead of the other way around. The others can pretty much get it from anyone at any time, and he doesn't know if it's just habit or what, but once he gets it from Ashley, the others always come to him. He doesn't mind; he still likes being the guy. As long as they keep going, and keep rising, it's what he'll always be.
.
April 2017
He spends a lot of time down in the studio these days. He's working, mostly—writing songs by himself, listening to new stuff, talking to people online. It's tough to get things going sometimes, hard to fit the pieces together alone. Does that bass line work with the rhythm guitar riff, or is it too distracting? (Is he just too distracted himself?) When he's inside, headset on and trying to come up with a lead to the rhythm blasting into his ears, he often glances to the window in the control room, which is always empty because—well. He's getting started on his own this time, which is okay, but...not ideal, not what he wants. (Not what he's missing.)
At one point, he sees his phone screen light up with a message, but he's in the middle of playing and ignores it from where it flashes on top of the amp. Half an hour or so later, he looks around at the window again and sees Jack there, though hanging back; Xander is a little in front of him, backpack slung over one shoulder. The Guy. Delivery, not DiGornio. He nods and turns the receiver for the amp off, puts the headset on a chair and his guitar in the stand.
"Hey," he greets as he comes out into the control room.
"Sup," Xander says boredly, rolling his eyes and little and glancing around, unimpressed. He always tries too hard to sound disinterested in the studio, the recording equipment, the band, Brandon himself. Brandon doesn't mind. He makes eye contact with Jack for a second, giving him a quick smile to thank him for letting Xander in, and Jack turns to go back upstairs.
Brandon switches the recording equipment off, locks the computer screen, and opens a hand toward the other, empty chair by the mixing board, offering the kid to sit down. Xander does and Brandon deals with his contact quickly, getting enough for him and Jack first, then having him weigh out some extra for Kylen and a couple of others. As he watches him quickly and efficiently work his scale, getting bags and joints out of his backpack and dividing up specific orders, Brandon sees other shit nestled in the bottom of the pack and sort of wistfully remembers his own days of doing this exact same thing. Sometimes he really misses things the way they were so long ago. He misses being the guy. He opens his mouth to tell the kid how he used to do it, how he'd have stock and supply of different sizes of joints and bags all ready to go and marked; he'd had a system for symbols that only he knew. Sometimes he put something stupid on Andrew's or Luke's because they'd pestered him about what the dots or symbols meant, and he wasn't telling, so let them figure that out. He closes his mouth then, knowing that he misses it because it's over, and for a reason.
(He misses a lot of things.)
Xander leaves and Brandon's alone in the studio again. He tucks away the shit not for him and Jack and lights one of the pre-rolled joints, taking in a huge hit and letting it cloud up his mind, to raise him up and make everything softer and slower. His mind just goes so goddamn fast sometimes, and sometimes that's a good thing—his hard work and frenzied insistence that they go go go has played a huge part in getting them so much success so far. Sometimes it's not, though. Sometimes he goes in circles, thinking that he's making headway but only ending up back at the start.
Instead of going back in to try to write some more, he turns all of the recording gear off and does a little playback on what he was working on, adjusting levels and saving a couple of different versions. He tries playing it with one of the other rhythm sections he's already mostly put together, bass and guitar but no drums yet because he still sucks at it and needs one of the others, who can all play them ten times better than he can, to work up something for it. It sounds okay. Not great. Not good enough.
He doesn't know what to do with it and saves it away for now, pausing before opening up another file set for another demo he's been working on. This one's better, and he's a little happier as he smokes the joint down alone and picks at it, setting this and that, playing the mixing board somewhat like he does his own instrument. Sometimes he can say with music what he can't say with words. He feels cheered up a little and goes back into the recording booth, picking out his left-handed Firebird (the twin of a standard that's been sitting in the corner, untouched, since they've come back from the tour). He plays this one, wanting what he's hearing in his head to sound right for the part it'll eventually be played as. This is what he does, and he's good at it.
(He takes another joint with him to keep on, to stay high as he can be while he plays, and creates, and goes on. This is what he does, too.)
Timeline: January 2012; Summer 2012; Summer 2013; October 2016; April 2017
Title: Dealer's Choice 4/4: Ambitus
Summary: Of Brandon's relationship with drugs; the highs and the lows
~3.5k
Notes: ambitus - range between the highest and lowest note
January 2012
"No," Brandon says this time, when Toddball asks if that's all he needs once they've squared up his usual supply and the payment for same. "This mid shit is fine for everyone else, but I want the better shit this time, too—like what you got me a couple of weeks ago."
(He's kind of wondered if how absolutely, unbelievably stoned they were that day had been what made him actually say it. To ask that. Brandon had taken the last of that good shit over to her house that first time, and he honestly doesn't know if it was pot-induced horniness or what that had gotten them started, but he knows it helped. It has always helped before with any initial awkwardness and nerves.)
"I told you that was all I had of that."
"And I told you that I didn't fucking believe you then, and I don't now. Come on, you prick. I'm, like, your best customer."
"You think you're the best at goddamn everything."
"I usually am. Go get it. I want at least..." He pauses, thinking, and gives two options for quantity. People like choices; he likes it when the selections they're debating between are all things he wants.
Toddball glares at him. He's gotten a lot better in the last couple of years; less paranoid, fewer obvious visual or auditory hallucinations. He hasn't mentioned getting help or being on medication in any way, but they're not exactly friends—still, Brandon is almost positive one or both of those things has happened and is continuing, or he probably would have sought a different source years ago after getting sick enough of having the gun pulled on him. As it is, he hasn't seen it in over a year, and instead of getting it or muttering something about his irritating current customer to 'that one' only he could see, Toddball only rolls his eyes and says, "Why don't you suck my dick before you make fucking orders at me."
Brandon gives him the finger. "What dick? Will you just get it, dude? I have places to be."
(They're not exactly waiting for him to show up right now, not yet, but Katelan did oh-so-casually mention to him that he could come over and hang out with them again today, and he's really just waiting for Mark to text him. He doesn't know if it's actually going to happen today, but it could. They had gotten close last time, and this will help ease things along.)
"You got enough money?"
Brandon gives him a look that he knows is bitch, please, but he'll never, ever admit it. "Who the fuck are you talking to? C'mon, hurry the fuck up, I don't have all day."
"Fuck you, asshole, like I sit around waiting for you to show up and that fills me inside," Toddball scoffs, then looks at him levelly and names a figure. Brandon shrugs and nods, and finally the other man gets up and goes into his other room, so Brandon puts the bag he's already gotten into his backpack and gets out the rest of the money he's brought along this time. He waits in the silent kitchen, glad that he's trusted enough now to be left alone; it's also been at least a year since he's been forgotten. It helps that he's got it timed almost perfectly now and shows up every two-and-a-half weeks within two days either way, so his regular plug always has stock and supply and is ready for him. The additional treats or different strains are definitely a plus as well, almost any time he wants something other than his usual order. Todd comes back with a smaller bag, and Brandon can smell it before he sees it.
(He saves the really good shit for the next few times he gets a text or a call and meets them at her place. One day a week or so later, it takes only a few hits each, and he knows by the way that he looks at him and almost dives in, slowly but unshakably, that this time—their third time—is going to be good. He likes it now—wants it more. Brandon does too; he's out of his mind and also horny and it's fucking fun to share this with someone else, with him.
It's so good, so fucking good. Every touch, every taste, being squeezed and held onto as they move, back and forth and up but no down, only up and up.)
Later, Katelan wants to buy some, and he offers the regular shit, but she asks for more of what he'd brought. No.
"That was all I have," Brandon tells her, which is true because he's left the rest at home in a different hiding spot than his regular stash. Katelan makes a face and sighs, asking then for a couple grams of what he normally deals out. She asks if he'll get in more of that stuff soon, and he says maybe, but he knows that she can't really afford it, and he's not giving her a discount.
(He sees Mark looking at him out of the corner of his eye as he gets it out of the inside pocket of his coat, but he doesn't say anything as Brandon takes her money. He knows he'll continue sharing with him. Brandon will share anything with him—anything he wants.)
.
Summer 2012
The shit Jack gets is far fucking better than anything Brandon usually gets his hands on, even from either Germy or Toddball. Not that he can't go for the sort of shit that makes you vacuum the front lawn instead of just zoning out and chilling, but he sells to teenagers and 20s mostly, and who has the money for it?
Jack, apparently. He always has it and he's very willing to share with Brandon when they're together; he sees at once that Jack uses it to self-medicate from what can otherwise be debilitating anxiety and PTSD issues and probably a host of other things. While it makes Jack calmer, easier to talk and to hang out and even to be physical, it puts Brandon out to the moon, and he loves it.
Jack doesn't want to expound on his source, and Brandon doesn't want to press him, so it doesn't become part of his normal stock. Jack's willing to get extra for him, for his own personal use, and Brandon occasionally passes some of that on to Mark and Kylen, but they're it. He's still everyone's guy, and although he still calls on Toddball for his supply for the rest of them, his guy is now Jack. In every way.
.
Summer 2013
He's so busy with the band, managing their gigs—keeping track of where and when, and trying to get them more, more, as often as they can play they will—and rehearsals and keeping up with their online presence, that he doesn't notice for a while that the dozens of calls and texts he used to get each month have severely dropped off. He hasn't seen Toddball in a couple of months either, having to just let Jack know when he's getting low. Jack has gotten used to his close friends more and generally always gets enough for Mark, Kylen, Andrew, Keith, Luke, and Delta with what he usually gets for them (though the only one he will give to directly is Andrew), and he even gets mid for them, as they can't really afford the potent lab-grown shit he gets for himself and Brandon. His source has turned out to be a local online friend whom he's never actually met in person, as they only deal via drop-off exchange method, which has made Brandon wonder about that person's true identity, but Jack's satisfied enough to keep it up, and he more or less becomes the source.
Brandon's still the guy, but only for his small circle now, and really, he's kind of just a middleman between his friends and Jack. He notices when hanging out with Kieran one day that he has a pretty good-sized bag, and when he packs the bowl and they pass it, Brandon smiles. It's not Jack's and it's not Toddball's—they must have a different guy now. He's a little surprised to find that it doesn't bother him—he's gotten pissy with other people that have tried to edge in on their group in years past—but he has so much going on these days that he doesn't need it. He doesn't need the money, and he doesn't need the attention or the accolades; he has the band, which is in a lot of ways a purer high than he can ever get from smoking. (Or anything else.)
They've just finished with their E.P. and are waiting to hear back from the label that had shown interest in them, and dreaming of how far they can go—how big they can be—makes him realize that his naive fantasies of being a cool teenaged drug lord had been short-sighted at best and fucking idiotic at truth. This is what he wants, and now that it's looking like it's possible, he throws everything he has into it.
He's getting ready to go on stage at a late summer celebration near the lake one night when his phone chimes: a text from Germy with two question marks. A couple of years ago, this would have gotten him excited for the prospect of not only something more, but something new, something great. He texts back an X instead of a checkmark without even thinking about it; then, as he puts his phone on airplane mode and stuffs it in his pocket, taking his Les Paul from Kylen and throwing the strap over his shoulder, he looks at his bandmates to make sure that they're ready, too. Andrew is adjusting his wireless amp receiver from where it hangs from his back pocket, Keith is anxiously twirling one drumstick in between his fingers (but he looks okay, just wanting to get started versus waiting), and Mark looks over at him and grins.
"You good?" he asks.
"So good," Brandon says back.
"Play good or don't come back," Kylen says encouragingly, and he gives her the finger when she beams at him.
The radio DJ that's been announcing each band calls them as up next and the crowd roars in happy anticipation. Mark and Andrew shift a little and Brandon walks past them, grinning as he ascends the steps up to the platform; he always goes first, Mark right on his heels, then Andrew and Keith. He stops downstage right, his favorite place, holding up a hand to Luke and Delta while Mark goes center and Andrew to his left. Their friends and the rest of the people with all eyes on them cheer, and as Mark greets them and introduces their first song, Brandon sees a couple of people wearing shirts that are prints of their band name and logo on them. He doesn't recognize them, so they're not in their close friend group that has followed them for years and have come as support.
Fans. Their fans.
They are the guys, and as Mark begins the rhythm riff of the first song on their E.P., the crowds' hands and phones come up, applauding them and videoing them. Brandon joins in the lead line a few measures later and he hears more cheers, and as he looks out into their exciting, adoring faces, he's happier than he can ever remember being.
.
October 2016
Brandon nods as he listens to Ashley; she talks quickly as she goes through each point on her phone, messages and itinerary updates and offers or changes for their scheduled appearances. It's late and they've just gotten on the bus, where they'll be all night as they head for the next city; they've been playing almost every afternoon or evening, staying busy with photoshoots and interviews and meetings with management and fans, and all of it has him going almost every minute from the time he wakes up every day. He loves every second of it.
The others are tired tonight, though, and Mark and Keith head right for the bunks while Andrew sits on one of the couch/bench things and starts texting someone. Brandon's almost ready to go to sleep too, but while his body is worn out, his mind starts to pick up pace again when Ashley goes through their current chart standings—"Crawl" has just made a top ten!—and he's back in his second-usual state of excitedly-exhausted versus his primary state of just excited.
He throws his empty soda bottle at Andrew, who has slumped down and is dozing, and it startles him awake. "Holy fuck, 'Crawl''s top ten!" Brandon tells him, his eyes wide. He wants to wake the others, but Keith will care more about sleeping right now, and Mark had looked so dead in the lounge after they'd gotten off stage that he'd be lucky to wake him if the bus was on fire.
"Whoa," Andrew says, sounding dazed. It could be that he's half-asleep, though. "I need to call my grandparents and that girl that made fun of me in middle school." He holds his hands out toward Brandon's computer, which he's just pulled out of his backpack. "Gimme that. I also have to write a ten page post acknowledging my bar soap for making me Zestfully clean enough to get this far in my career. Hashtag 'topten', hashtag 'thankyou'."
Brandon leans forward and takes his boot off so that he can throw it at Andrew, who is smirking and making fun of him. "Fucker." But he gets his point. He eases off his other boot and leans back a little. "Anything else?" he asks Ashley.
"Oh, yeah." She digs in her little drawstring bag and hands him a sandwich baggie of fifteen or so joints. "Refill."
His attention is on point again. "Fuck yeah, thanks."
So is Andrew's. "You're the best," he tells Ashley, watching Brandon take one out of the bag and looking at it like he's been starving and is visualizing a chicken leg. "And you," he says to Brandon when he looks doubtfully at him.
Brandon rolls his eyes then and puts the joint back in the bag. "No, dude...we should probably just get to sleep. We're both beat and it'll be wasted if we just fall asleep right away."
Andrew sighs. "I guess. But it's been, like, a whole day."
"I'm sorry," Ashley says sympathetically. "I had to go through one of the soundcheck guys. If I knew you were experiencing such withdrawal, I would have flashed my boobs a time or two for you."
"Sobriety is a pretty shitty experience," Andrew agrees. "And—since I missed it—?"
She shrugs. "No. But I will tell your girlfriend you asked."
"Knew I shouldn't have brought her," Andrew says, and sighs dramatically. "All the boobs I could have seen otherwise."
"Leave her alone, dick," Brandon says. He still has one boot he can throw. Andrew snickers again but decides to go on to his own coffin-like bunk thing or try to squeeze in with Liona.
Brandon puts his shit away too, including the pot Ashley has scored for them into the inside pocket of his backpack. Along with everything else that makes being in a legit band that has three albums out and is co-headlining a tour with the Fun Size guys fucking amazing, it's a nice side perk to have the guy come to him instead of the other way around. The others can pretty much get it from anyone at any time, and he doesn't know if it's just habit or what, but once he gets it from Ashley, the others always come to him. He doesn't mind; he still likes being the guy. As long as they keep going, and keep rising, it's what he'll always be.
.
April 2017
He spends a lot of time down in the studio these days. He's working, mostly—writing songs by himself, listening to new stuff, talking to people online. It's tough to get things going sometimes, hard to fit the pieces together alone. Does that bass line work with the rhythm guitar riff, or is it too distracting? (Is he just too distracted himself?) When he's inside, headset on and trying to come up with a lead to the rhythm blasting into his ears, he often glances to the window in the control room, which is always empty because—well. He's getting started on his own this time, which is okay, but...not ideal, not what he wants. (Not what he's missing.)
At one point, he sees his phone screen light up with a message, but he's in the middle of playing and ignores it from where it flashes on top of the amp. Half an hour or so later, he looks around at the window again and sees Jack there, though hanging back; Xander is a little in front of him, backpack slung over one shoulder. The Guy. Delivery, not DiGornio. He nods and turns the receiver for the amp off, puts the headset on a chair and his guitar in the stand.
"Hey," he greets as he comes out into the control room.
"Sup," Xander says boredly, rolling his eyes and little and glancing around, unimpressed. He always tries too hard to sound disinterested in the studio, the recording equipment, the band, Brandon himself. Brandon doesn't mind. He makes eye contact with Jack for a second, giving him a quick smile to thank him for letting Xander in, and Jack turns to go back upstairs.
Brandon switches the recording equipment off, locks the computer screen, and opens a hand toward the other, empty chair by the mixing board, offering the kid to sit down. Xander does and Brandon deals with his contact quickly, getting enough for him and Jack first, then having him weigh out some extra for Kylen and a couple of others. As he watches him quickly and efficiently work his scale, getting bags and joints out of his backpack and dividing up specific orders, Brandon sees other shit nestled in the bottom of the pack and sort of wistfully remembers his own days of doing this exact same thing. Sometimes he really misses things the way they were so long ago. He misses being the guy. He opens his mouth to tell the kid how he used to do it, how he'd have stock and supply of different sizes of joints and bags all ready to go and marked; he'd had a system for symbols that only he knew. Sometimes he put something stupid on Andrew's or Luke's because they'd pestered him about what the dots or symbols meant, and he wasn't telling, so let them figure that out. He closes his mouth then, knowing that he misses it because it's over, and for a reason.
(He misses a lot of things.)
Xander leaves and Brandon's alone in the studio again. He tucks away the shit not for him and Jack and lights one of the pre-rolled joints, taking in a huge hit and letting it cloud up his mind, to raise him up and make everything softer and slower. His mind just goes so goddamn fast sometimes, and sometimes that's a good thing—his hard work and frenzied insistence that they go go go has played a huge part in getting them so much success so far. Sometimes it's not, though. Sometimes he goes in circles, thinking that he's making headway but only ending up back at the start.
Instead of going back in to try to write some more, he turns all of the recording gear off and does a little playback on what he was working on, adjusting levels and saving a couple of different versions. He tries playing it with one of the other rhythm sections he's already mostly put together, bass and guitar but no drums yet because he still sucks at it and needs one of the others, who can all play them ten times better than he can, to work up something for it. It sounds okay. Not great. Not good enough.
He doesn't know what to do with it and saves it away for now, pausing before opening up another file set for another demo he's been working on. This one's better, and he's a little happier as he smokes the joint down alone and picks at it, setting this and that, playing the mixing board somewhat like he does his own instrument. Sometimes he can say with music what he can't say with words. He feels cheered up a little and goes back into the recording booth, picking out his left-handed Firebird (the twin of a standard that's been sitting in the corner, untouched, since they've come back from the tour). He plays this one, wanting what he's hearing in his head to sound right for the part it'll eventually be played as. This is what he does, and he's good at it.
(He takes another joint with him to keep on, to stay high as he can be while he plays, and creates, and goes on. This is what he does, too.)
◾ Tags:
- [1-2],
- andrew & jack,
- andrew jardeaux,
- ashley rozen,
- brandon & kylen,
- brandon & mark,
- brandon hayes,
- brandon/jack,
- brandon/mark,
- delta levin,
- fun size,
- germy (jeremy macklin),
- jack landon,
- katelan havershok,
- keith jardeaux,
- kieran cole,
- kylen tyler,
- liona wicks,
- luke radford,
- mark allgeyer,
- no name band,
- toddball (todd ackerly)