Ryden Oneshots

Pete Wentz: The Drum Major From Hell

Pete Wentz: The Drum Major From Hell (Who Inadvertently Caused Ryan and Brendon To Fall Madly In Love With Each Other Because He Wouldn't Let The Band Kids Shower)

Summary: Brendon comes into English class every day sweaty and gross from band practice

It’s roughly ninety-five degrees outside and the snare drum hanging from Brendon’s shoulders feels like it weighs twelve tons rather than pounds. The sun is beating down, reflecting harshly from the metallic lining of his instrument and his sticks feel like anchors in his hands. He twirls them with weak fingers and wipes off the sweat collecting on his brow with the back of his wrist, preventing it from trailing down behind his glasses and into his eyes. His mouth is parched and his lips are dry, but his entire body is soaked with sweat. 

The padding of his harness isn’t doing his shoulders any relief and it’s sticking to his shirt, pressed into the fabric and absorbing perspiration. He glances over at Pete, drum major and overall douchebag, and looks at him with pleading, exhausted eyes as he converses with the band director. They’ve been out here since five minutes after the period started, the entire band, dressed in uniform and stepping in time with Pete’s rhythm, perfecting their routine for the Homecoming halftime show in the next few weeks.

They suck, still. But hey, at least Brendon didn’t run into William again. 

(Last time it happened - yesterday - Brendon had had to look down at his music sheet one too many times - because Pete is a dick and won’t let Brendon wear the glasses he needs to in order to, I don’t know, fucking see? - and ended up walking on William’s heels for half of practice. He hadn’t meant to, of course, but for a kid built like a twig, William Beckett handles the tuba exceptionally well, and Brendon was relieved that Beckett wasn’t too awfully annoyed with him and his inattentiveness.)

Beside him, a fellow freshman by the name of Spencer groans and rotates his wrists, stretching out the stiffness caused by beating sideways into his bass drum. He pops his neck and yawns.

“Fuck,” Pete curses after he and Mr. Henderson have a quick moment. “Um. Time to go.” A chorus of sighs, laughs of relief and “Finallys” ripple through the band and Pete continues, “The bell just rang and you have-” He pauses to look at his watch. “-three minutes to get to class. Now, go. Hurry, no tardy passes for anyone.” A slew of “Fuck you, Petes” and groans of distaste then erupt from the center of the musicians and it spreads to the outer ring of trumpet players who fanfare in anger. “Don’t toot your horns at me,” Pete snaps as most of the band stalks off to the band hall. “Especially you, McCoy. I’ve had enough of your shit today.”

“Blow me.” Travis sniggers and another junior, Gabe Saporta, bumps fists with him. You’d think that as juniors, the immature band jokes such as this would have lost their humor by now. However, they seem to crack one every day, either by innuendos or by, y’know, blatantly humping Patrick’s xylophone. The mutual dislike between Travis and Gabe and Pete is something the entire band has observed and accepted. Ninety-eight percent of them are convinced it’s because Pete hates anything that comes near Patrick with a dick. The other two percent - Pete and Patrick - are convinced it’s because Travis and Gabe are just assholes. Brendon thinks it’s a little of both (but mostly a lot of the latter).

“What was that, Travis?” Pete glares and Travis merely laughs and stalks off to the band hall with Gabe.

Next to Brendon, Spencer gives his drum three more pounds and says, “You comin’, Urie?”

Brendon squints up into the Vegas sun, outrageously hot and bright, reflecting off of his thick rimmed glasses and nods, following Spencer and the rest of the band back to the school. In the distance, Brendon hears the faint sound of the tardy bell ringing and he groans, sweat sliding down his back, gathering in the bend of his knees and dampening his armpits.