Ryan paced the dressing room, worried. It was around an hour until showtime and Brendon hadn't shown up yet. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, while Spencer patted his back. "Don't worry," he said, "He'll come eventually."

"I know, but what if he doesn't?" the older man groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We can't just go out there and be like, 'Oh, hey, sorry guys but Brendon is an idiot and hasn't shown up yet so we're cancelling!'"

Spencer sighed. "I know… have you tried calling anyone? Someone must've seen him."

"You're right," Ryan said, reaching for his phone and dialling the first number that came up.

"Hello?"

"Um, hey, Pete," the brunet said awkwardly. "Do you happen to know where Brendon is?"

"No, I don't. Why?"

"Well, we have a concert in an hour and he isn't back yet… I was wondering if you might know where he is."

"Well, I don't, but I'll call if I find anything out, okay?"

"Okay — thanks, Pete."

"Welcome."

…

It was only around five minutes later when Pete got another call. "Hello?" he asked, picking up the phone.

"Oh, hey, Pete," a familiar voice said. "It's William."

"Oh," he blinked. "Why are you calling?"

"Because Ryan is on the phone with someone else and you were the other person I thought of. I now realise that I could've tried Spencer or Jon. Eh, anyway — I have something that belongs to you. Well, not you specifically but—"

"Get on with it, Bill," he laughed.

"Oh, right. I have Brendon."

"That's great! Ryan just called me asking where he was. Tell him to go to the concert, it starts in like fifty minutes."

"Um, Pete… that might be a problem."

"Why?" He scrunched his eyebrows.

"Because Brendon is more or less completely wasted."

"What?" Pete spluttered. "He's drunk? How?"

"Well, we were at a bar—"

"Why'd you bring him to a bar? He's only seventeen!"

"He's seventeen? Oh my god I forgot what his age was so I asked him and he told me he was twenty-one."

Pete dragged a hand over his face. "Jesus fucking Christ."

"I know, I'm sorry! Anyway, some girl came around, and he started flirting, and then they started drinking. A lot. And I told him to stop because he'd get sick but he didn't and he just kept drinking — he must've blown like two hundred bucks on drinks. Next thing I knew we were being kicked out of the bar because he was puking everywhere and… yeah."

"Oh my god," Pete groaned. "Where are you guys? I'll come pick you up."

"We're near the Golden Bar. You know where that is?"

"Yeah, yeah I do," he replied. "I'll be there in like ten minutes. Don't move."

…

Ten minutes later, he pulled up near the sidewalk, where the lanky William Beckett was standing awkwardly, a green Brendon Urie wobbling beside him. "Thanks for picking us up, Pete," William said, getting in the passenger seat after direction Brendon into the back one. "It means a lot."

"No problem," the black-haired man replied, pulling out and looking at Brendon in the rear-view mirror. "Bren, you do know you have a concert, right?"

"A whaaat?" he asked, giggling afterwards. "A contest? What contest, Pete? I don't have a contest… unless you mean a—" he hiccuped. "— a singing contest. Because I remember Delilah saying something about one…" He started looking around, crazed. "Where is Delilah?"

Pete turned to William. "Who the fuck is Delilah?"

The other man shrugged as Brendon began to sing in a cracking voice, "Ooooooh, Delilaaaaaaah! Where are youuuu, Delilaaah?"

The oldest man rolled his eyes, before pulling into the parking lot of William's hotel. "See you later, Bill," he said.

"Bye!" the other one called, shutting the door.

It was just Pete and Brendon then, and Brendon was still obnoxiously singing about 'Delilah'. He sighed, heading towards the hotel he and the rest of his band were staying at, a plan brewing in his head.

…

Patrick, Joe, and Andy had gone out for dinner, so the hotel room was empty. Pete dragged Brendon inside, putting him on the couch before going to get what he needed. When he came back, Brendon was fidgeting, looking at his hands before looking up at the ceiling before starting to tap his foot loudly. "Brendon," Pete said, voice loud and clear in the silent room. "Brendon, look at me."

He didn't. The older man rolled his eyes, setting down the things he'd gotten before going to get a glass of water. He splashed it in the brunet's face, watching as he snapped back to reality.

"What was that about?" he spluttered.

"I needed your attention," Pete said easily, before grabbing him by the shoulders and looking straight into his eyes. "Brendon, you are completely and utterly wasted, which I would be fine with, except for the fact that you have a concert tonight and are only seventeen!"

The younger man was silent, opting for staring at his feet instead of speaking. Pete sighed. "Brendon, look at me."

His eyes snapped up this time, staring at Pete. "Bren, I'm gonna get you some food," he said slowly. "And then after you've eaten, you're going to call Ryan and you're going to tell him that you have to cancel the concert."

"B-But I can still—" He hiccupped. "Play!"

"I don't think you can, Bren," Pete said. "You're sobering up, I know, but you definitely couldn't go on stage for an hour. Now, go sit down, I'm gonna go get you some food. Chinese sound alright?"

He nodded, and Pete grabbed his jacket and keys, heading out. Brendon sat down at the table, his eyesight going a bit wobbly. He decided to get a glass of water and drank it quickly, immediately feeling a bit better.

Around ten minutes later, the older man came back, handing Brendon a takeout box filled with fried rice. "Eat," he told him, giving him a fork, too.

Brendon slowly began to, uncomfortable as Pete was watching him the whole time. Once he was done, he awkwardly got up and threw the box in the trash can, before looking at the black-haired man. "Um… what now?" he asked.

Pete reached for his phone, throwing it to the other man. "Call Ryan," he said. "Tell him you guys have to cancel."

He groaned, punching Ryan's number in. A few seconds later, he picked up, "Hello?"

"Um, hey, Ryan, it's Brendon…"

"Oh my god, Brendon! Where are you? The show starts in thirty minutes!"

"Uh…" He looked up at Pete, who was staring at him with raised eyebrows. "Listen, Ryan, w-we have to cancel."

"Cancel?" Ryan asked incredulously. "We're gonna lose a bunch of money, Bren! Plus, think of all those people! Why can't you come?"

Pete groaned, grabbing the phone. "Ryan? Yeah, hey, Ryan. It's Pete. Listen, Brendon was completely wasted around half an hour ago. He's sobering up now, but he's still pretty drunk. I don't think he could even say the ABCs. So, yeah, you guys have to cancel, unless you want an illegally wasted lead singer."

Ryan sighed. "Yeah, yeah, I get it… it's just… the fans are gonna be so disappointed. Do something about Brendon, though. I don't want him coming to another show wasted again…"

"I have something in mind," Pete said, eyeing the younger boy. "Bye Ryan."

"Bye, Pete."

He set down the phone, before looking at Brendon. He had a pretty good idea on what he was going to do, but it required Brendon's cooperation — well, it could require his cooperation, but if worst came to worst it didn't have to.

"Um, can I head back, now, Pete?" the younger man asked, looking at him with wide eyes. He shook his head.

"No. Brendon, you've been bad," he said, sitting down. "And I'm not just going to let you off easy."

Brendon laughed slightly. "What're you gonna do, ground me? You're not my parents, Pete."

"No, I'm not, but as of right now I'm the closest you're going to get. So, come here."

"What're you going to do?" he asked, kind of scared.

Pete looked at him, completely serious. "I'm going to spank you."

Brendon blinked. "Sorry, what?"

"I'm going to spank you, Brendon."

"Um, Pete, this really isn't a time to be joking—"

"No, I'm serious, Bren. I am going to spank you."

"B-B-But—!" he exclaimed.

"Now, are you going to come here, or am I going to have to force you to?"

Brendon scuffed his foot on the ground, uncomfortable. Was he being serious?

Pete rolled his eyes, before grabbing him by the forearm and pushing him down over his lap. "W-Wait, P— YOOOOWW!"

The next thing he knew, his pants had been pulled down and there was something hard crashing down onto his bottom. He looked back, seeing a large, wooden hairbrush in Pete's hand. It smacked down again, and again, and soon he was crying out for him to stop.

But of course he didn't, and for the next five minutes all that could be heard in the room were Brendon's cries and the brush swatting down.

After another five minutes, Pete threw down the brush and picked up something else, slapping it down hard. Brendon howled loudly, throwing his hand back, but the older man quickly grabbed his wrist and pinned it to his back.

"Brendon," he began, bringing it down again. "Can you tell me what you did wrong?"

"I-I drank illegally!" he exclaimed. "And t-to make it worse, I had a concert t-tonight so I missed it! I'm sorry Pete!"

He continued bringing the paddle down for another ten minutes — at the end Brendon was screaming in pain, tears falling from his eyes as he kicked his legs. Finally, Pete stopped, putting the paddle down. He began to rub Brendon's bottom slowly, murmuring sweet nothings.

Around five minutes later, Brendon stopped crying and instead was just sniffling. Pete picked him up, pulling his pants gently. "Shh, Bren, shh."

"Can I stay here?" he asked, looking up at Pete with hopeful eyes. "I-I don't want to face my bandmates until tomorrow…"

He laughed slightly. "Sure, Bren. Although, Patrick, Pete, and Andy should be coming back soon. You sure you wanna talk to them?"

The younger man shrugged. "I don't really mind…"

"Okay, then," he said, picking Brendon up and bringing him to one of the beds in the other room attached to theirs. He tucked him in, watching as he turned over uncomfortably, moving onto his stomach. He chuckled, turning off the light and walking back to the other room. Sitting down on the couch, he turned on the TV, waiting for his bandmates to return.