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'You get fifty grand a year for the rest of your life,' says Gavin Free, not thirty seconds after our first meeting. 'But every time you have sex, your mum gets a live video feed. Would you take the money?'
'Does jerking off count?' asks Geoff Ramsey, while I'm still reeling from the bizarre question.
'Nah.'
'I'd do it,' Michael Jones declares, flipping a quarter back and forth over heavily scarred knuckles. 'My mom's dead anyway, fuck it.'
'That's cheating! It'd be someone else, then,' Free amends.
'You said mom!' Jones fires back, going from zero to raging at the drop of a hat.
The conversation immediately descends into a breathtaking argument. I sit quietly at the table and hope not to be noticed, sure that I'm witnessing the break up of one of America's biggest new bands. Apparently, my fear was misplaced. The shouting turns into laughter and Jones grabbing Free to deliver a vicious noogie, to the Brit's squawking dismay.
This is situation normal for Fallen Kings, shooting the breeze between shows. The passion they bring to their music is evident in their fiery discussions and the frequent outbreaks of careless rough-housing, but during my week-long visit, it becomes equally obvious that their friendship is rock solid.
I'm lucky enough to have been invited to join the band for part of the Florida leg of their smash-hit American tour. The success of Fallen Kings has been sudden and startling to the industry and the band alike.
'Six months ago, we were playing in Ryan's garage and performing in a couple of shitty bars,' Jack Pattillo tells me. 'Now we're selling out venues with thousands of seats. We're playing stadiums, man! I don't think any of us have got our heads round it yet.'
Only Geoff Ramsey, co-founder of Rooster Teeth Records and the band's manager, is unsurprised by their meteoric rise.
'I've been in this business a long-ass time,' he tells me. 'I know what makes a success; the tricky part is finding it. When I heard these guys playing covers, I thought they were pretty good. Then they got into their own stuff, and I knew they were mega-stars waiting to happen.'
Fallen Kings signed for Rooster Teeth only days after Ramsey first heard them play, flying to Austin, TX at the company's expense and being lavishly looked after, recording rough-takes of most of their first album.
It's a story I've heard many times, interviewing other artists signed to Rooster Teeth, a label with a reputation for informality and genuine care for their people. The founders of the company are still heavily involved with day-to-day business, particularly in hunting for new talent. They know what they want, and they'll pull out all the stops to woo an artist.
The story of Rooster Teeth Records is familiar to industry professionals and music aficionados alike. After several years of building their brand with solid but, some would say, unremarkable acts, they first hit the headlines in 2003 with rock band RVB. The band's first single Ever Wonder Why? was an overnight sensation, and remained in the top ten for a solid fourteen weeks.
With their name tied to such a massive success, the label finally had the pull to start signing the calibre of talent they wanted, and Rooster Teeth went from strength to strength. RVB remained one of the company's biggest names until the band's catastrophic implosion in 2012.
It's still a sore subject - when I ask Geoff Ramsey about the band's messy, public break-up, I get nothing but a cold stare and a quiet 'Fuck off, dude.'
The message is clear - RVB is history. Fallen Kings are the future. And what a future it is: On the Florida leg alone, the tour includes two stadium shows, in Orlando and Miami. The Orlando show was a huge success, and word arrives not long after I join the tour that the Miami show is sold out days in advance.
It seems crazy to put such a new band in front of some of the biggest crowds the music industry can provide, but when I say as much, Ramsey waves me away.
'They've spent long enough playing tiny places, they know what they're doing. And trust me, when you've seen Ryan perform live, you'll see why I'm not worried.'
I get my first chance the following evening. It's no stadium, just a theatre in West Palm Beach, but it seats over four thousand people, and in the confined space the energy is electric.
When Haywood steps up to the mic, there's no sign of the quiet man I've spoken to in private. He's languid, seductive, inviting the audience to listen to his stories with the confidence of a born performer. The whole set, which includes two new songs as well as most of the band's first album, is an exercise in building tension, each piece drawing out higher energy than the last.
The two guitarists move extensively on stage, crossing behind Haywood to swap places, striking poses together that even they find ridiculous, and duelling back and forth during their solos.
Pattillo is tied to his drum kit, but Haywood is almost as still, leaving his microphone in its stand and holding the centre of the stage. He doesn't need to move to draw attention. When they reach the peak of the set, he is like a barely-leashed tornado, howling into his mic in a way that makes my hair stand on end, belting out lyrics that have the audience screaming in reply. It's easy to see the influence of the southern church in his words and their delivery, the songs a raging sermon that wouldn't be out of place in the most dramatic of ministries.
From my place in the wings, the noise is deafening, and when the band thanks the audience and steps off stage, the outcry shakes the walls.
They wait just long enough to drink some water, then Free winks at me and the band steps out on stage again, swinging straight into an encore.
I had already heard, from other concert attendees, that the band only ever plays their second single, Awake O Sleeper as their final encore. I had assumed it was a marketing choice, a way to ensure that no one leaves early, but when they finally launch into the song, I have to admit I was wrong. The band pours more energy into that one song than any other part of the performance, and Haywood is like a man possessed, roaring into the mic, tearing at his hair, sweat pouring off him under the lights.
Pattillo slings an arm around him when they leave the stage for the final time, and it's as much an act of physical support as a gesture of friendship.
Ramsey is waiting in the wings beside me, and the first thing he does is crack the top of a bottle of juice and hand it to a ragged-looking Haywood.
The singer's hands are shaking when he takes it, and I realise that they play Awake O Sleeper last because Haywood might be physically incapable of singing anything else afterwards. Sensible readers may suggest that they tell Haywood to tone it down instead, but no one who has seen the performance could agree. Telling him to give less than his all would be like asking a thunderstorm if it could please calm down.
'That was fucking incredible,' Ramsey says, when the band are sprawled out in the dressing room, mopping sweat and make-up off their faces. 'You can still hear the crowd!'
It's true; even in the bowels of the theatre, minutes after the band left the stage, the crowd is still audible, singing the chorus of Awake O Sleeper to each other, unwilling to leave the theatre while their energy is still so high.
Haywood, who has perked up considerably after half a bottle of sugary fruit juice, can't seem to stop grinning at the noise.
'Broken Crown went down really well, Gav,' he says to Free, who is collapsed upside down on a couch, hanging his head against the carpet. He gives an upside-down thumbs up in agreement, then giggles, clearly high on the adrenaline of a good show.
'I think there are people following us. Some of them knew the lyrics, and we've only played that song in the last few live shows,' Pattillo says, cracking open a celebratory beer - an Austin Beerworks Peacemaker, of course. He has spoken extensively in interviews about his pride in his home town, and despite the fact that the band was formed in Georgia, he's a loyal Austinite at heart.
Ramsey nods sagely. 'It wouldn't surprise me. A lot of bands have groupies.'
'Fucking groupies?' Jones says, laughing. 'Like, sleep with the band, groupies?'
'Probably, if you asked,' Ramsey says with a shrug. He's an old hand at this. Nothing much fazes him any more, and from what I've seen, Fallen Kings are saints in comparison to most rock bands in the first rush of fame. 'You've got condoms, right? I don't need to give you the "Don't get anyone pregnant, don't get AIDS, don't drink anything you haven't kept your eyes on" talk, do I?'
'Oh god, please don't,' Jones begs. 'I'm not looking to go slutting around, it's just fucking funny.'
None of the band have significant others, or at least none who are public knowledge, despite a virtual witch-hunt by reporters looking to dig up their secrets. However, during my stay with them I don't see any of them taking advantage of their fame and freedom by picking up fans, male or female.
Indeed, sudden success doesn't seem to have changed any of the band very much. They still favour drinking quietly in bars over attending loud, crowded parties, despite the avalanche of invitations they regularly receive.
I never catch so much as a whiff of drugs on the tour bus - Haywood doesn't even drink alcohol, a choice which the rest of the band respects, though it doesn't stop the rest of them from getting happily drunk on their free evenings.
All four men still wear most of the same clothes they owned before Ramsey scouted them, with the notable exception of Gavin Free's beloved $2000 Gucci sunglasses, which are a target of friendly mockery by the others.
A typical night off with Fallen Kings involves beer, home-cooked food - Ramsey, Pattillo and Haywood all enjoy cooking, when they have the facilities available - and either TV or video games. There are multiple screens and consoles built into the band's tour bus, and I witness many hours of chaos in GTA Online and multiplayer Halo. The band's gamertags haven't yet become public knowledge, but it's inevitable that there will be a flood of messages and friend requests when they do.
Secluded on the bus, their trash-talk turns the air blue, and they never hesitate to go for a personal insult, but they never go long without laughing with each other, either. It's a scene you could find in thousands of homes across America, young men enjoying each other's company, startlingly normal in comparison to their on-stage success.
'We know who we are,' Pattillo tells me. 'We're not kids, man, and we're not gonna turn into party animals just because we suddenly have money. If anything, we stay in more than we used to - there are too many people following us.'
He's talking about the paparazzi, who have been hounding the band relentlessly ever since Blood On My Name topped the charts. The price of fame is being famous, and Fallen Kings have felt the pressure of the limelight in a big way.
'It's been mental,' Free says, shaking his head. 'It's nice that people are listening to our music, but that's all we really wanted. Not the rest of the crazy stuff.'
'Yeah,' Jones agrees. 'Of course it's cool not to have to think about money any more, but we just want to play.'
In a recent televised interview, Pattillo made a public appeal for "a little bit of space", after a paparazzi photographer on a motorcycle went under the wheel of the tour bus as it travelled between cities. The photographer, twenty-two year old Alexis Vayer, was killed instantly, and the impact nearly caused a multi-car crash.
The band were devastated by the senseless death, which they witnessed first-hand, and even a month after the fact, all of them look sick when the subject comes up.
Since then, after a heartfelt outpouring of sympathy from their fans, the more rabid element of the press have backed off, at least while the band is on the move.
They travel fast - there's a lot of ground to cover, and most of their journeys are by road. Jones apparently isn't a fan of flying, and the tour bus gives the band a much-needed sanctuary. Their only other option would be a private plane, since trying to walk through a public airport would be impossible with their faces splashed across billboards and magazine covers all over the country.
Nowhere has the band enjoyed more success than the southern states, where they are revered by younger audiences for making music that speaks to the spirit of the deep south, without ever representing the kind of racist and homophobic views that give the "bible belt" such a bad name.
Pattillo and Haywood in particular seem to have a keen eye for politics, and they hold liberal views which are refreshing to see from men born and bred in traditionally red states. However, they also acknowledge that their right to speak about those views has limits.
'We thought about doing a cover of Strange Fruit, just after things got really bad in Ferguson,' Haywood says. 'We got as far as rehearsing it, but then we realised it wasn't our story to tell. We don't have a right to those words.'
I'm quietly surprised to hear such respectful views from a preacher's son, and Haywood looks weary when I mention it, as though he's used to countering that assumption.
'There are a lot of stereotypes surrounding the church, especially in the south. My father was a god-fearing man, but he wasn't an asshole. He saw the love in the bible, as well as the fire. He wanted me to study religion so that I'd see it too.'
Haywood's father died of cancer in 2010, but he lived long enough to see his son complete a double major in Music Theory and Religion at the University of Georgia. The combination of the two subjects is immediately obvious in Haywood's music, and he says that his stage presence owes a great deal to his father.
'He'd get so worked up on a Sunday, trying to make people see what he was trying to teach, and even when I was a little kid I remember being captivated by his voice. He always used stories to get his point across, things from the bible or things he'd seen, and they've stuck with me to this day. It was always hot in church, and the sweat would be pouring off him, but he put everything into those sermons. If I can have the same kind of impact with my songs?' Haywood pauses and shakes his head, not seeming to realise that he already has. 'It's all I want as a singer, as a writer.'
He's not the only member of Fallen Kings who wants to teach through music. The most overtly political lyrics are the ones written by Jack Pattillo, and he looks delighted when I tell him that his song, Grounds For Divorce has become a new anthem for protesters against alcohol-fuelled violence and domestic abuse.
'That's awesome, man! I wasn't sure how many people would get it,' he says, with one of his twinkling smiles. 'I'm lucky that it wasn't something I went through personally - my family are incredible - but I saw it a lot growing up. Guys would drink, get angry, take it out on their wives and kids. I like a beer, don't get me wrong, but it's not the same thing at all. Everyone in the area knew it was happening, you could hear the shouting, but it wasn't something you talked about, you know? It was just the "hole in the neighbourhood" that everyone edged around. We need to stop being quiet about that kind of shit.'
It's not only the messages in Fallen Kings songs which have drawn fans' attention. Even the band's style has become popular, as understated as it is. Jeans, t-shirts and button-downs are hardly new, but fans are paying very close attention to their chosen cuts and colours, and heaven forbid they wear a shirt with a slogan in public.
Michael Jones wore a Firebird t-shirt during an interview and, despite the fact that Firebird, also signed to Rooster Teeth, are a hugely successful band in their own right, sales of their albums and merchandise saw a noticeable bump in the week after the interview aired.
Ramsey shakes his head and laughs when I mention it. 'It's stupid, Firebird has been around so much longer, and they're hardly small, it's just that Fallen Kings are the phenomenon of the moment. There's some Beatles-level shit going on here.'
Has that sudden success caused any tension between the two bands?
'Nope, they love each other,' Ramsey says. 'Introducing the two groups might've been the biggest mistake of my life. Michael and Lindsay are a fucking menace when you put them together.'
Might we see collaborations from the two groups? Their music is certainly compatible.
'Hell yeah,' Jones says, grinning. 'We've got some big things in the works. There's a double album with both our names on it that should be out next summer.'
Ramsey makes an angry noise, and Jones looks suddenly guilty.
'I don't suppose you could forget you heard that?' the manager asks me, looking weary.
Not a chance. You saw it here first, readers - expect a double album collaboration between Firebird and Fallen Kings to rock the music world next summer.
In the meantime, while their sudden success doesn't seem to have changed the way the band dresses, their style choices continue to influence young people across America.
Glasses like Jones's own are the new trend for every fan with poor eyesight. Free's wild hair is the hot style this autumn, a look achieved with copious amounts of wax by people whose own locks aren't so naturally perky.
Jack Pattillo has a sequence of brightly coloured musical notes tattooed on the inside of his right arm, and in recent months tattoo parlours across the US have seen many requests for similar art.
The brightest and most recent of Pattillo's tattoos is a quarter note in black and red.
'I got that one when we signed for Rooster Teeth,' he tells me. 'Each note is something significant that's happened in my life.'
He says that the tiny blue note closest to his wrist marks the birth of his nephew, which seems fitting for a man with such strong ties to his family. He doesn't mention what the other three notes were for, and fobs me off with an offer of another beer when I dare to ask. It seems that even the most approachable member of the group has secrets he isn't yet willing to share.
All four men are close-mouthed about certain aspects of their lives, some more so than others. The one thing that all of them are willing to discuss - for hours on end - is their music. They have huge hopes and plans for the future, and Haywood promises me that their second album will be bigger and better than the first.
'I have so many options now that I didn't before. I'm writing music that's going to take ten, fifteen people to play live. I can't wait to get back in the studio, and that's not something I ever thought I'd say,' he tells me.
'He was fucking awful the first time we were in there,' Jones says, shaking his head. 'Ryan needs a stage, not a sound booth.'
'He couldn't get it up without an audience,' Pattillo jokes, earning a playful scowl from the singer.
'I thought he'd blown the contract before we even signed it, until Ray saved our arses,' Free agrees.
Ray is, of course, Ray Narvaez Jr, the sound engineer behind several of Rooster Teeth's most successful bands in the past five years. Like many of their fellow artists, Fallen Kings have nothing but praise for him.
'The guy's a genius. He saw me struggling to get my energy up and gave me a ton of crowd noise through my headphones, set to the right tempo for every song. Worked like a charm,' Haywood says. 'And his mixes are perfect. He makes us sound ten times better than we are. I can't wait to work with him again on some more complex music.'
Not that being out of the studio has put a stop to their creative drive. Even in the midst of a tour, the band keeps writing new material. I'm privileged to witness the genesis of several new songs during my stay, band members scribbling lyrics in notebooks and tapping out riffs on tabletops.
There are two battered acoustic guitars on the tour bus, kept within reach at all times. One of them, paint splattered and smoke scarred, looks as though it was rescued from a dumpster. It belongs to Michael Jones, who handles it protectively even as he brushes aside accusations of sentimental attachment.
'I've written every one of my songs on this piece of shit,' he says, strumming a hard chord when I catch him composing and ask about the instrument. 'It still works. Why would I get rid of it? At least these days I can afford to buy new strings when I break them.'
Fallen Kings seem to take great delight in hopping genres as though they're running hurdles, and having witnessed some part of their creative process, it is immediately clear why. Each member of the band writes their own style of music, and attempting to remain within one clear genre would inevitably stifle at least one creative voice.
Avid listeners to Kings and Vagabonds will hardly need to check the album notes to tell who penned each song. Jack Pattillo favours heavy drum lines and brooding lyrics, forming the opposite end of the spectrum from Free's light, largely acoustic offerings.
The two singles from their first album, and the biggest crowd pleasers on stage, are two of the fire-and-brimstone Southern Gothic songs penned by Ryan Haywood, but there seems to be no jealousy within the ranks.
'Why the fuck would we be mad about it?' says Jones. 'We play together because we all respect each other's music, even though it's different. We fucking love Ryan's style, and it's just awesome that so many other people do too.'
Jones is the only member of the band who hasn't yet received a writing credit, but that's clearly not because of a lack of material. There is a notebook in his pocket at all times, and though I don't get close enough to read any of the much-corrected scribbles inside, in the space of a week I watch him finish one book and move on to another.
'We recorded a couple of Michael's songs,' Ramsey tells me. 'But they weren't right for a first album. Trust me, you'll be hearing a lot from him in the future.'
Something for the angrier fans to look forward to, then. While Haywood is a force to be reckoned with on stage, in person he's quiet, almost reserved. If such a mild-mannered man can produce such blood-stirring music, Jones is guaranteed to blow a few minds when his inner fury takes the lead.
There is a great deal of mystery surrounding Michael Jones. He is on the records of a high school in Trenton, NJ, but disappeared at the age of fifteen, not long after local hospital records show the death of his mother.
The death was recorded as an accident, but Jones is likely to throw something if you mention it. Whatever the true circumstances were, Jones ran away from home, and his father seems to have made no attempt to bring him back. There is no record of a missing persons report.
Jones, now twenty-seven, will not talk about his teens at all, beyond a brief mention of busking in every town between New Jersey and Georgia, where he met Gavin Free and eventually settled.
If nothing else, his scarred knuckles and perpetual refusal to back down tell some small part of the story.
I try to get more information from Free, who undoubtedly knows Jones best, but I'm politely shut down.
'He doesn't talk about it, even to me, and what little I do know isn't your business,' he says, with unusual seriousness.
Gavin Free grew up near Oxford, England, and originally entered the US on a three-month tourist visa in 2009. He bounced around the country, trading lessons with other musicians, sleeping on couches and playing single gigs with small bands for cash.
When that first visa expired, he left the country and came straight back in on another, a practice he continued for years. Aside from those brief visits to Canada and Mexico, Free has essentially been an American resident for over five years.
By the time Ramsey found the band, he was firmly settled in Columbus, GA, sharing an apartment with Jones and working below-board at a diner to make rent.
'It was a bit iffy,' Free admits, looking sheepish. 'But really, visas are bloody stupid. People don't need some bit of paper telling them where they're allowed to live. We're not zoo animals in cages!'
Fortunately, the success of Fallen Kings has since earned Free a coveted O1-B Visa, for a foreigner with extraordinary ability in the arts, and his future in America is secure.
'It's a hell of a relief,' Haywood tells me. 'We all knew every time he went on a visa run that there was a good chance they wouldn't let him back in. It would have killed the band.'
The musical chemistry and friendship among the group are so tightly linked that it's impossible to be sure which came first, but it's obvious that Haywood is right. If one King falls, the whole band will follow.
Free's right to remain in the US is settled, but on the last day of my visit, they come perilously close to losing him for much less official reasons.
With less than twelve hours to go before the Miami show, disaster strikes. During an energetic, spontaneous dance routine, Gavin Free falls from the roof of the tour bus, landing badly on the stony ground, drawing shouts of dismay from his bandmates. When I see him curled up, clutching his ankle, I'm certain that the night's show is doomed.
Free is rushed to hospital, where x-rays prove that his leg isn't broken. Even so, his ankle quickly swells to three times its normal size, and it's clear that he's in pain.
With heartwarming concern for his band, Geoff Ramsey offers to call off the show, despite the fact that cancelling a sold-out Sun Life Stadium show at the last minute would be a massive blow to both Rooster Teeth's finances and their reputation.
Free refuses, and when show-time rolls around, he goes on stage with his ankle strapped up and his bloodstream full of painkillers.
To his credit, the audience don't seem to notice. He moves a little less than usual on the massive arena stage, wary of tripping on wires as he so often does, but his playing and singing are perfect. If I hadn't watched it happen, I never would have believed he was hurt at all.
Despite being new to the big-time, Fallen Kings are consummate professionals, and the show goes on with the same vibrancy and power as it always does.
This time, when the hurricane final encore is done, it's not only Haywood who needs support, and the band leaves the stage in a clutching foursome that's more of a necessity than the love-fest the delighted audience sees.
Fortunately, there is a break before the tour continues in Alabama, time for Free to heal and for the rest of the band to recuperate from what has been a whirlwind trip south.
When I ask the band about their plans for the break, it's Jack Pattillo who answers.
'We're going to Austin,' he tells me. 'I won't tell you where, we don't want to be followed, but we're staying with some of my family. We're gonna swim and sleep and relax, make sure Gav's okay before the craziness continues.'
It seems fitting for such a grounded group to spend their downtime in a domestic setting, and Michael Jones agrees.
'Blood's one thing, for people like Jack, but for me?' he shakes his head. 'I didn't know anything about family before I met these idiots. I'll stick with them for as long as they'll have me.'