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And Not, When I Came To Die, Discover That I Had Not Lived - Chapter 10

2007-12-10T08:56:04Z

Chapter 10 - "Peter Parker"
POV: Pete

When we arrive in Columbus, the first thing Patrick does (after shaking me awake rather uneasily) is to instruct me to "fucking text Bill already, he's been driving me nuts."

"Yeah," I say. "Yeah, okay." I sit up groggily in my bunk and try to ignore my best friend's prolonged proximity. He hasn't left yet and I know he wants to say something, probably about earlier, but he doesn't. I think about apologizing, assuring him that it's not about him, but then it is, and I don't lie to Patrick. Seriously, it's one of my rules.

Sighing, I extract my Sidekick from my pocket and click it on, checking out the damage. There are only three texts from Bill before he appeared to have given up and started in on Patrick. But there are three missed calls as well (from my mother, Jeanae, and my mother again, respectively) and about ten texts from Ryan. "I'll just go talk to Bill; let them know we're here. Ryan's probably just trying to run some lyrics by me." My mother is just worried about me being on my own again for the first time since "the incident." I'll text her on the way to The Academy's bus. And I don't even wanna think about what Jeanae wants right now. Hopefully just the same as my mother. I rise to my feet, bringing myself even closer to Patrick, who obligingly takes a step back. "You know where they're parked?"

"Bill said three or four down."

I nod. Hesitantly, I ask, "You wanna come with?" As a peace offering, you know. It's not like I'm mad at him. Far from it. I just don't wanna sleep next to him just yet. Or rather, I do and I shouldn't.

"Nah, I'm uh," His eyes fall to his shuffling feet and I am presented with the top of his I <3 Bingo hat. "I'm gonna give Anna a call. Let her know we got in okay."

I try not to feel shot down all over again over that, because it was obviously something he didn't particularly wanna tell me. He always tried not to discuss his girlfriend too much, and I appreciated that. But that, like so many other things, was easier at home. There, she visited just him. Here, when she visits, she'll have to stay on the bus or in hotels with all of us. At least Anna's not much the visiting type. I think Patrick even offered to take her with us a few times and she turned him down. But still, she'll probably come at least once or twice this time around.

I'm absolutely terrified that I'm going to have to listen to them fuck.

"Tell the guys 'hi' for me?"

I force a smile on my face-one of the good fake ones. Not the "I'm upset and I want you to know it and feel bad" one, but the one I use when I actually want to seem sincere. 'Course, Patrick knows the difference, so it's really kind of moot. "Yeah, sure. I'll even punch Bill in the face for you."

I get a grin out of this and a chuckled "thanks" and I feel a little relieved. Enough to slip an arm around his shoulder and place a big kiss on his temple with a resounding smack. He wraps an arm around my waist too and gives me a brief squeeze. And it's comfortable and easy, which should make me even happier, but somehow just makes me ache all the more.

"I'll be back after a while," I tell him, releasing him and heading for the door.

"See ya," he calls after me.

I pause at the door for a moment and I swear I can hear the first few words of his phone conversation. Forcing myself to ignore that too, I step out into the parking area. There are at least twenty buses surrounding ours and it's only now that I realize that I didn't ask Patrick three or four down in which direction?

Shrugging to myself and yawning, I pick the left and start walking, lifting my phone to text an alive and well and in columbus to my mother. I count the buses in my peripheral vision as I go, one, two, three. Turning into the space occupied by the third, I slip my phone back in my pocket and stuff both hands into my hoodie. I congratulate myself on picking my direction correctly, because while most of the buses look more or less the same, I swear I can hear Bill's high-pitched giggle from out here.

Grinning a bit myself, I lift a hand to knock on the door and take a startled step back when it opens before my fist even reaches the metal, two laughing, dark-haired men emerging, stumbling down the steps and almost into me before they realize I'm there. And I have time to think to myself "oh, wrong bus after all" before I realize they're staring at me curiously.

"Pete?" the one in front asks, his brow furrowing, and I realize this is My Chem's bus and it must have been Gerard's approaching giggle I heard.

And I wanna say "hey, you remember me," but that would be rather unsuave and I wouldn't want to seem like I didn't expect him to remember me. Not that he has a reason to, I met him and Ray, like, once at a party, back when Matt was still with the band. And then, though I've never met him, I recognize Frank Iero behind him and I realize that even if Gerard didn't remember me, magazines or Buzznet would jog his memory, just as I know who his bandmate is without having seen him in person before.

"Wrong bus," is all I get out.

"Fall Out Boy Pete, right?" Frank says, stepping around his bewildered frontman and carefully lighting the cigarette that had been dangling from his pierced lips. I guess they were out for a smoke break.

"Oh, sorry," Gerard says suddenly, turning from me to him. "Frank, Pete. Pete, Frank."

Frank inhales, then breathes out a puff of smoke, extending his hand to me and shaking mine when I offer it. "Gee mentioned you a couple of times," he tells me. "Says you were funny."

I shake my head, laughing. "Not so much. I just have absolutely no fear of making a dick out of myself. Nice of him to put it diplomatically though."

Gerard grins and I suddenly remember how I had been a little creeped out by him when I first met him before he started talking about Batman versus Spider-man (and why the former was totally better because he did his duty with no real superpowers) and we kind of bonded for an hour, Joe arguing for Spider-man while I played devil's advocate based on who seemed to be winning the debate at the time. Really, maybe Peter Parker's easier to sympathize with. He didn't get to choose his fate. Batman is badass though. "Did you say 'wrong bus?'" he asks.

"Oh," I say, remembering. "Yeah. Yeah, I did. Sorry, I was looking for the Academy guys."

Gerard jerks a thumb over his left shoulder. "They're the next one over. We were thinkin' about introducing ourselves. But someone thinks it's creepy to just knock on a stranger's door." He shoots a pointed look at Frank, who had been watching the few bands milling around outside of the buses, but who now faced us again.

"It is," he says, defensively.

"It's polite," Gerard insists.

Frank turns to me and says, as though the singer isn't there, "I don't know where he gets this courtesy stuff. You do that shit in Jersey, you get yourself shot."

"Oh, you do not."

"You do in Newark!" Frank insists.

"This is Ohio. We can say 'hi.'" Gerard turns to me, smacking Frank playfully on the arm. "You mind if we go with you?"

I shrug and I'm about to say "sure," when a third party emerges from the bus behind them and I think this one is Gerard's brother, but I'm not sure. He's shoving his wallet in his pocket with some difficulty, but when he bumps into Frank on his way down, he stops and looks up at all of us. And I really like his eyes. They're like...intense. I always wanted eyes like that.

"Where are you going?" Gerard asks him, stepping aside to make room.

"Food," he says, by way of explanation. "I was voted to go meet the pizza guy at the fence." He's looking at me with some kind of curious interest.

Gerard slides an arm around his shoulders and says to me, "Dude, this is my brother. This is Mikey."

Mikey-that's it. Note to self.

I shake his hand too. "I'm Pete."

He nods. "Yeah, I know." He flicks a piece of his dirty-blond hair out of his eyes and, remembering the heated discussion between Joe, his brother and I, I think maybe this is how Peter Parker looked pre-radioactive spider bite. I believe the word is "adorkable."

"Man, pizza," Frank says to Gerard, around Mikey's back. "Fuck introductions, we can do that later. I'm starving."

"Yeah, yeah, alright." He looks back at me. "Pete, you want some lunch?"

How was I ever afraid of this guy? Seriously? "Yeah, sure," I agree, more to Mikey than to him, who I realize I'm still kind of staring at. "I could eat."

"Great." He thumps Frank on the back to get him moving and bums a cigarette off him as we begin to walk in the opposite direction, away from our row of buses. Mikey and I trail behind the other two and we don't talk, but I find myself strangely entertained by just discreetly watching him out of the corner of my eye.

It's not until later, on my second slice of pizza in the lounge of the MCR bus that I remember I should probably go see Bill later on. If not just to salvage Patrick's sanity.

And Not, When I Came To Die, Discover That I Had Not Lived - Chapter 9

2007-12-10T08:53:57Z

Chapter 9 - "Of Off-switches And iPods (or Welcome To)"
POV: Patrick

I can see right away that Warped Tour is going to be a problem. Pete and I were fine, doin' our best friend thing like normal while we were at home (as long as we didn't talk about what we had agreed not to do and I didn't mention Anna too often). But as we step onto the bus at 6 a.m., weighed down with far too much luggage (Pete clutching a Starbucks latte and wearing yesterday's eyeliner, me glad I always wear a hat so no one could tell when I hadn't washed my hair) and we see that Joe and Andy have already claimed the top two bunks, I actually gulp at the idea of sleeping beside Pete for two months.

We stand there in silence for a good ten seconds, staring at our sole option, not even dropping our bags, and I know his train of thought is along the same lines as mine. This is such a bad idea.

Oh, God, what if one of us has to jerk off? I don't think it's going to be as ignorable as it once was.

He clears his throat and I don't know if it's to break the tension or because he woke up ten minutes before I picked him up half an hour ago. "I'll take the right," he says, tossing his duffel onto the bunk beneath the one Joe has thrown his shit on.

Sighing, I toe my shoes off and set my own bag on the other bottom bunk. I plop down beside it, jumping up immediately when I hear my "Slow Down" ring tone and my Sidekick vibrates in my back pocket. I pull it out, grumbling as I do. "Fuckin' Bill...six o' clock in the fucking morning..." New text. I hit 'View'.

whr th fck r u gys? columbus is boring. no bdys hr yet.

I blink at the message, somewhat bewildered. Not that Bill's not allowed to text me and all, and I'm sure he is bored if none of the bands he knows have arrived yet (Bill bores easily), but usually he would annoy Pete.

As if triggered by the thought, another message arrives in my inbox and when I click on it, I see,

pete ok?

My brow furrowing, I quickly type back,

y wldnt he b?

I look up curiously at Pete to see if I can discern any sort of unusual behavior (well, maybe 'unusual' is the wrong word, considering Pete's depressed as often as he is happy. We'll go with 'worrisome'). I see only that he has dug his iPod out of his bag and is now reclined in his bunk with his eyes closed, precariously clutching his coffee in a sleepily loose grip.

And then Bill's response is vibrating the phone in my hand again.

hes nt answrng.

"Hey, man," I hear and I look up to see Joe stepping into the little hallway, casting a quick look at Pete as he brushes past me. "X-box?"

I shake my head. "Nah."

"Way to be boring, dude."

Andy pushes in behind him then, obviously a little surprised to find us all in one area. Even at three in the morning, one of us (usually Pete) can be found awake in the lounge or the kitchen. He almost trips over Pete's duffel (which he had dropped off his bunk to make room for his feet) and gives a sigh, kicking at it pointlessly. It's packed so tightly, it doesn't even make a dent. Full of thick hoodies. Pete doesn't care it's summer.

"Guys," Andy says, a touch of exasperation in his voice. "Can we at least wait until we hit the first venue before I'm tripping over all your shit?"

"Can we at least wait until we hit the first venue before you're complaining about tripping over all our shit?" I quip, defensively. "It's Pete's bag." I glare at the offender in his oblivion, his ear buds and closed eyes closing him off to the conversation. I'm not sure he's even aware that Joe and Andy are in the room.

"Mmmhmm." Andy kicks at my discarded Converse, plopping one onto its side. "And whose are these?"

Sheepishly, I reach down and, grasping them by the tongues, toss them on top of my own bag, still beside me in the bunk. "No one's," I grin.

Andy chuckles and tries to shuffle past Joe to the lounge.

"Dude," Joe says, warningly. "I call the TV."

Andy holds up his hands, defensively, displaying the newest issue of Alternative Press in his left. "Just want the couch. Go to town." He gestures for Joe to go on past him, which he does, our drummer smiling at me again before following him through the door and shutting it behind him.

I stare at the door for a moment, then turn back to Pete. His eyes are still closed and I can hear Joy Division seeping from his ear pieces - a testament to the volume. I lift my foot and kick him in the side with my socked toes. He starts and tugs the right bud out of his ear, quite obviously annoyed.

"Dude," he says, "that was my spleen."

I ignore the statement. "Is your phone off?" I demand.

He stares at me evenly, but I can tell he's a little nervous about answering. "Yeah," he reveals.

"Your phone's never off," I remind him, as if he's not aware of this fact.

He shrugs his right shoulder, flippantly. "Not in the mood to talk." As if to cement this, he puts the ear piece back in and turns from me to face the bottom of Joe's bunk. As if he can hit the off-switch on me too. I'm a little stung by this, but I think I keep it from my face. I kick him again, determinedly. Both ear pieces get ripped out this time and he rises until he's propped up on his elbows.

"Spleen, 'Trick. Seriously."

"You've got a couple of empires to run, Pete," I tell him, ignoring his attitude again. "I don't think you can afford to just disconnect." Lord knows, Ryan Ross is probably having an embolism right now from not being able to get in touch with him.

"Well," he says in a patronizing tone that sends another jab of hurt through me, "It's six in the morning, I'm tired, and really not in the mood to talk or to argue about not wanting to talk."

I swallow, uncomfortably. Sometimes I forget how much of a dick Pete can be so early in the morning. But this is something else too. I know him too well to think he'd be talking to me this way if he was just cranky. "What's wrong, Pete?"

His gaze locks with mine and suddenly, he's not angry anymore, just tired and...something else. It's been a while since I've seen longing in someone's eyes and I'm not sure I've ever seen it in Pete's. At least not when it was directed at me. He runs a hand over his face. "I'm just...not really ready to be back on the bus just yet. I'd like to not be thinking about it right now."

I know what he means. He's not ready to be in such close proximity to me 24/7 just yet.

"Yeah," I say, dropping my eyes to my lap, where my elbows rest on my knees. "Yeah, okay."

"Just...let me know when we're there, okay?" He drops back down onto his back. "I promise, I'll be sociable and everything." His eyes close again, but he leaves his iPod sitting untouched beside his hip, and the corner of my mouth twitches upward a little. He's letting me know I can say something to him if I need to. The gesture kind of makes me want to crawl into the bunk beside him, but I suppress it, as I would have before when I would have been afraid of his reaction to it. And I hate that I still have to ignore the urge when I know now that he would allow it. I'm so sick of wanting him.

It won't work. Let it go, I tell myself over and over, not for the first time. Great as Pete and I are as a musical and best friend unit, I know I would wind up killing him if I were dating him. And then I'd lose him. Fuck that. I have more resolve than this.

So instead of cuddling up next to him, I rise to my feet and head for the kitchen. I've got five hours of driving to entertain myself through.

And Not, When I Came To Die, Discover That I Had Not Lived - Chapter 8

2007-12-10T08:49:00Z

Chapter 8 - "Humans Among Giants (or Giants Among Humans)"
POV: Pete

They're all, like, really pretty. Not even handsome, no, pretty. I mean, when I'd asked Ryan what they looked like, he had told me Brendon was "dead sexy," and that the rest of them "looked alright" but mostly they "looked young." I at least had to agree with that last part. They really are fucking kids.

I stand off to the side, backstage left, staring at Ryan as they play. He was the only one I had seen a picture of prior to this little visit, and it didn't do him justice. God, he's just...beautiful. And he doesn't even have a stylist yet. Fuck.

And then Brendon. I mean, only half the venue's paying attention, but that's twice as many as what had been focused on them at the beginning of the set. The kid can work a room. And he doesn't sound so much like Patrick as he had in the songs I heard online, which is a bit of a relief. He's deeper, less clear, and definitely more rambunctious on stage. Yeah. Teenies will swoon.

I'm grinning like a madman by the time their set is over and they're approaching me, Ryan lifting his guitar strap over his head, nervously. And I can't seem to wipe it from my face, even when it's obviously making them more uncomfortable than they already are. Brendon reaches around me and snatches a couple of hand towels from the amp I've been leaning against, tossing one to Spencer (who was drumming pretty furiously) and keeping one for himself, dabbing at his face.

Because Ryan seems so unsure, I stick my hand out for him to shake and say, "Hey, what's up, man?"

He grips it in his much longer one and actually smiles at me. "It's really nice to meet you," he says. "Like, you have no idea. Thank you so much for being here. I know you guys are recording."

I wave him off, flippantly. "They can spare me, as long as the wonder boy is there." I look behind him at the others, who look like they feel severely out of place. "So, this is Brendon," I clarify, extending my hand to him as well.

He accepts it. "Sorry about the sweat, dude."

"Used to it," I assure him, moving on. "And Spencer." He shakes my hand as well, kind of smiling, but glancing back toward Ryan occasionally, like he's trying to see if that's okay. "And...Brent?" The last simply gives me a nod, flipping his hair, which is as long as Ryan's, out of his eyes. "The bassist. Awesome." I smack him on the shoulder and turn back to the guitarist. "You guys wanna get outta here?"

~ * * * * * ~

"Okay," I begin, addressing everyone really, but looking at Ryan, who sits directly across from me. His hair is shinier under the harsh florescent lighting of the restaurant. "Okay, so I've decided I do wanna sign you."

Ryan's grin nearly splits his face and he sits back, looking to Spencer who is almost choking on his chicken chalupa. Brent smacks him on the back, helpfully, smiling himself and Brendon gives a relieved groan, burying his face in his hands beside me.

"Thank God," he says, his voice muffled. "No more smoothies." I don't really know what the fuck that means, but I don't ask.

"Dude," Ryan says. "I wanna hug you right now. Like, seriously."

"Now, don't hug me just yet," I advise. "I still have to run this by Fueled By Ramen. But I don't foresee any problems." I lean across the table toward him, because I know that any business talk to do with the band probably goes through him, even if Brendon's the frontman. "Listen," I tell Ryan. "I want you guys touring as soon as possible. It's the best way to get people listening."

He nods agreeably. "Awesome."

"But you gotta write the record first," I remind him. "How many songs do you have?"

"Uh," Ryan casts a look at Spencer. "Like, four? Kind of four and a half."

"Okay," I say, pulling out my Sidekick. "I'm gonna get you guys a place somewhere and you're gonna write, so you can finish it up and we can release it. The label isn't gonna be happy about signing someone with no debut album. I'll pull some strings, but you're gonna have, like, a few months, okay?"

Ryan nods again, and I think the idea of a deadline makes him a little nervous, but I know he's not going to tell me that. He'll have to get used to it anyway.

"Hey," I say, smacking his hand to get his attention, lifting my phone to my ear while it dials Bob's number. "I know it sucks to have someone tell you 'be inspired, right now,' it's just the way it is. It'll come, I promise."

He smiles at me, somewhat gratefully and I can tell he wasn't expecting that. For me to know what he was thinking, let alone get it. I grin back.

"Welcome to the business, guys," I tell them and they're all looking at me like I just handed them the world. "It'll fuck you up. You're gonna love it."

And Not, When I Came To Die, Discover That I Had Not Lived - Chapter 7

2007-12-10T08:45:45Z

Chapter 7 - "Viva Las Vegas"
POV: Patrick

The thing is, everything sort of goes back to normal after that. I mean, yeah, in the beginning, I feel Pete trying to make everything feel normal, but after a few weeks or so, it totally just is. The only thing particularly different is that Pete is on his computer more than usual, hauling it along to every studio session when all we really need is mine (and really, all the music's in my head anyway, we probably don't even need it-everyone knows their parts). I just figure he's gone back to blogging with a vengeance, looking for a distraction from the press, from the recording, from Warped approaching like a fucking freight train when it feels like we just got home. From me.

Until, in one of our final sessions, when we're laying down one of Joe's guitar solos and the both of us are sitting there with nothing to do but watch him behind the soundproof glass with our headphones on (me listening to Joe, Pete's attached to his laptop) and Andy's gone out to some nearby vegan place to pick up lunch, Pete turns to me and says something along the lines of, "dude, come here." which I can't hear properly over the music.

I pull my headphones down by the right ear piece - the one facing him - and turn from watching Trohman to him. "What?"

"Come here, you gotta hear this."

"The fuck, man?"

He rolls his eyes, because I'm one of the people who's not allowed to not understand. I hear the prolonged buzz of Joe's final note. "Just fucking come here, Stump."

I sigh and cast a glance at the tech guy sitting on my other side, fiddling with switches we don't understand. "I'll be right back."

He nods without looking at me and turns the knob in front of him (I know what that one does). "Hey Joe, take five, man, okay?" he tells him and I see my friend acknowledge the direction with a hand wave.

I walk over to Pete and plop down unceremoniously next to him on the small sofa. "Now, what is so important that I-" Before I have a chance to finish, his headphones are shoved onto my ears and I see him fiddling around with his media player.

"Just, listen," he says, sitting back and giving me his Cheshire Cat grin. Which, for the record, is never a good thing.

Before I know it, unfamiliar music is bleeding into my ears. Now, this is not the first time Pete has approached me telling me I have to hear this song or see this movie (When I told him I hadn't seen Pretty in Pink all the way through two weeks after I met him, he insisted that my punishment would be a road trip to find Shermer, Illinois. Which, in case you're wondering, does not exist. And which Pete knew at the time.). And usually, I agree that I am the better for having been exposed to his tastes. But this is different. This is...unprofessional.

I remove one ear piece again, keeping my hand on it to replace it when necessary. "Where was this recorded? In a basement?"

"No, no, on a computer apparently," he says, then looks thoughtful. "But that's not a bad idea for a video. A basement. Or a living room or something. Like old times." I see him pull out his notebook, presumably from under his ass, and as he's making a note to himself, he waves his pen at me. "Keep listening."

So I do. It's not bad. It's actually damn good. Downright poetic, even. Just shitty quality.

"What is this?" I ask, because Pete's never handed me something like this before. I didn't even hear Gym Class until they were officially labelmates.

And he's still grinning, like he had been for - I look at the media player display again - three minutes and forty-eight seconds, waiting for my reaction. "I'm right, right? I'm totally right. It kicks ass."

I quirk a skeptical eyebrow at him. "It may have the potential to kick ass. Maybe."

He shifts in his seat, pulling his legs up under himself until he's facing me, Indian style. "I've been talking to this kid," he begins.

"Uh oh." The last time a sentence began this way, Jeanae happened.

"About music," he adds, obviously exasperated with me. "He's the guitarist." He gestures at the laptop, indicating the song. "He wrote that shit. Kid's like eighteen. And he's the oldest one."

I glance back at the screen, a little curious now. "Seriously?"

The grin is back. "We all know amazingness comes in young packages sometimes."

And it doesn't matter how many times I hear shit like that, I still fucking duck my head and blush, because some part of me still screams "This is Pete from Racetraitor!" occasionally, like a little fanboy. (Until he does something stupid, like running headfirst into a door, and then I remember he's just Pete).

"Okay," I say, acquiescing. "Okay, so they're good. So what?"

"So, I'm going to Vegas."

Because of course, in Pete's head, that's the logical next step. I assume that's where these kids are from, but no part of me would have been surprised if a trip to Vegas was just randomly on the menu. Suddenly, that Matthew Perry movie pops into my head and I remember him saying "Everything that's famous about Vegas is about leaving it. That movie, the song, even the Mob left Las Vegas." I sigh. Why would anyone want to go out to the middle of the desert if they didn't have to? "Pete. You can't go to Vegas right now."

"Yeah, I can."

"No," I reiterate. "No, there's no time for that right now." Something occurs to me here and I start slightly and look at him like he's maybe a little crazy. Because he is. "And besides, what the fuck are you gonna do when you see them? Are you gonna sign them? After one song?"

His face falls a little and I feel kind of bad. Telling Pete shit like that is always akin to telling a five-year-old that there's no Santa Claus. "Two songs. And I haven't exactly worked that part out yet. But I think groveling to the label will be involved. I mean, they finally gave me it. It's mine, right? I'm gonna need more than one band eventually. It's my fuckin' job." He sits back. "And what the fuck do you know, man? You thought there wasn't time to add that song to the album, but we pulled it off, didn't we?"

I sigh again and look at him. Really look at him. The same way I do when Andy asks "Who drank the last of the fucking soy milk?" on the bus and Pete is swearing up and down it wasn't him. And he's serious about this. The same way he was about getting us off the ground. He wasn't gonna give up on it, even if he had to drag me kicking and screaming. And as usual, I'll probably thank him for it in the end (or at least feel like I should).

I shake my head at him. "You'd better be fucking right about this."

I feel like he's about to start bouncing up and down and he opens his mouth to say something, but is cut off by the sound of my Sidekick buzzing in my pocket (which had been turned off while I was recording the vocals on "Of All The Gin Joints," but is now on vibrate). Pete, still overcome with his excitement over my agreement I guess, places his chin on my shoulder and says, "I believe your pants are vibrating." in this low voice and for a moment, I kind of forget to breathe. And I look up at him and watch him nervously pull away suddenly, because seriously, shit like that just isn't the same anymore and neither of us know how to make it so it is.

As a distraction, I fish my phone out of my pocket and stare at the screen as it continues to buzz. I probably wouldn't have answered it in the studio, currently recording or not, if I hadn't needed a reason not to look at Pete. I see who it is and my heart starts pounding a little faster, because now I'm nervous and Pete's somewhat expectant. I swallow hard and glance at him.

"Anna," I say, by way of explanation, before accepting the call and lifting the phone to my ear. "Hey," I tell her, never removing my eyes from Pete, although his dropped the moment I answered. And she's talking, about wanting to see me again before the tour starts, but I'm watching Pete stand and tug his shirt down from where it had ridden up, patting his pockets and searching for his keys. He locates them, not in his jeans, but in his hoodie and then looks back at me.

"I'll just be gone for the weekend," he informs me and my forehead crinkles before I remember, oh yeah, Vegas. I swallow again and nod at him. He returns the gesture and then turns, tapping the tech on the shoulder and telling him he's running out for some coffee really quick. The guy nods and I watch as Pete makes a too hasty exit.

"Patrick?" I hear. "Are you still there?"

I shake my head and clear my throat, returning my attention to my girlfriend's tinny phone voice. "Yeah," I manage. "Yeah, I'm still here."

And Not, When I Came To Die, Discover That I Had Not Lived - Chapter 6

2007-12-10T08:43:06Z

Chapter 6 - "The Talk"
POV: Pete

I watch him hesitate, considering, then he gently shoves my notebook back across the table at me. It slides, bumping against my coffee mug and stopping. I'm glad I've taken a sip, or the hot liquid would have sloshed onto it. I stare at it, then lift my cup to my lips again, raising my eyes to Patrick's expectantly.

He shakes his head at me. "I don't know what you want me to do with this, Pete."

It's my turn to hesitate. It feels strange speaking after weeks of minimal communication, but at least I didn't have to talk first. My mug returns to the table. "I wanna put it on the album."

"That's-" He gives a scoffing laugh, pushing his glasses up to rub the bridge of his nose, tiredly. I wonder how long he's been up. "That's-no, Pete. Even if I agreed to that, it's impossible at this point in the process; it's too late. And just-no. It's...it's too personal."

"I thought that was the point," I counter. "When have I ever given you lyrics that weren't personal? What are we communicating through the music if it's not personal?"

He sighs. "I meant too personal for me," he says.

I shift uncomfortably at that, because it's true. The most personal thing I ever asked of him specifically in the actual lyrics was "Saturday," and even then he forced me to change the line with his name to mine.

I watch this startled look come over his face. "It was about me, wasn't it?"

I feel my lips twitching upward at that. Like it would be presumptuous for him to assume that. "Yes," I clarify. "Yes, 'Trick, it was about you." He nods and his gaze drops again. I glance back and forth between my mug and his face, uncertainly, watching him not look at me. "...Are we ready to talk about this again?"

He looks up. "You tell me."

I don't quite know what to say to that. Neither of us ever said aloud that it was me we were waiting on (in fact, as far as conversation goes, I recall leaving the choice up to him), but we both knew. He's unsure, but his uncertainty stems from mine, not his own. I know I want him. I just can't decide why. So I resort to my trademark, foolish though it may be. Sarcasm.

"I seem to recall being the one to get shot down, so you'll excuse me if I suggest that you go first." To my credit, I keep any anger from my voice and it remains a rather offhand remark.

I can practically see the wheels turning in his head. I know him well enough to know that this means he is filtering his next sentence. I've watched him in too many interviews, attempting to be diplomatic when we all want to smack the journalist in the face for asking a question we've heard over and over (and answered over and over). And before he even speaks, it occurs to me. This is what people do when they are trying to think of a way to let someone down gently. This is what I've done to a dozen girls who asked me why I hadn't called. This is the prologue to getting shot down.

"...I don't think this-us-" Another sigh. And I realize it's the first time either of us has actually said out loud that we were actually debating the concept of "us." "I don't think it would work, Pete."

I can hear the voice in my head, "Ding, ding, ding! What do we have for him, Johnny?" God, I hate being right.

"Not right now, anyway," Patrick continues and fuck, I just wish he'd reject me and get it over with. I don't want hope. It'll ruin me. "It's not fair to Joe and Andy if it doesn't work out. And I really don't wanna risk what we have on something so unstable." He nervously folds his hands on the table and for a moment, I think he means to grab hold of mine, but he doesn't, and they're laying just shy of them. There's three thousand miles in those three inches. "I just-I've never had this kind of relationship with someone before, Pete. I don't think I've ever been as close to anyone as I am with you-family included and I-" I can sense him choking on his words. "And if I lost it..." He wipes at his eyes under his glasses. "I can't...lose you right now."

Okay, it's official. I'm a complete dick.

"I didn't-" I begin. Jesus, I think I'm about to start crying now. How could I have been so stupid? I go and almost die and then as soon as Patrick thinks he has me back, I try and shake up the whole relationship. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. And he won't look at me again. "Patrick," I say, standing up and walking around the table to where he is seated. I stand by his stool and pull him into my arms, just gripping more tightly when he seems a little resistant. "You're not gonna lose me," I murmur into his impossibly fine hair, feeling him collapse against me a little. "No matter what happens between us-or doesn't-I told you before. I'm not going anywhere, okay?" I think I feel him nod, but I can't be sure. "Look, we," I pull back a little in order to be able to see his face. "We don't have to change anything, alright? Let's just-let's just keep things like they are for now. Until-I don't know, until whenever...or never, whatever. Okay?"

This time, I actually see him nod. "...Okay."

Unfortunately for me, this is the most ridiculously inopportune moment to realize that this feeling is more than just a safety net. Grasping Patrick's neck and resting my forehead against his, listening to him breathe, I know that if this isn't love, then it can't exist. I don't think I've ever loved anything or anyone in my life as much as this.

"So then...we'll just stay what we are then?" Patrick says.

I shift, pressing my right cheek against his left one. "Yeah," I reply, feeling cracks spider-webbing across my heart. "Yeah, we stay what we are." I kiss his temple and force a small smirk. "But we're keeping the song."

The cracks mend a little bit when I feel him laugh in my arms.

And Not, When I Came To Die, Discover That I Had Not Lived - Chapter 5

2007-12-10T08:40:56Z

Chapter 5 - "Waiting"
POV: Patrick

I've been up most of the night. Reading. And thinking.

Yesterday, before we all parted ways at the O'Hare baggage claim, after I'd just finished giving Andy a goodbye hug (a very manly one, mind you, what with the clasped hands and the one arm embrace), I turned around and there was Pete. I wasn't really expecting much of a farewell from him. After all, all four of us reside, for now, in the same old area and we only have a two week break before we meet back in L.A. to finish recording the new album. Not to mention our little unspoken...whatever. And because of this very short interval between now and our next studio session, I was infinitely surprised when instead of saying anything (not that I expected that, per se), he slammed a notebook against my chest, holding it there until I, bewildered, lifted a hand to grip it myself. And he gave me the slightest nod (really, I may have imagined it) and went to go call himself a cab to his parents'.

And that's where I am now. At 7 a.m. Sitting at Peter and Dale Wentz's kitchen island sipping coffee and still staring at that same notebook. Waiting.

As soon as I got to my mother's place, after letting her fawn over me for a good hour (complete with dinner) and then dumping my stuff in my old room (which is more of a guest room now, I guess - strange thought), I pulled Pete's composition book out from my messenger bag and sat down with it around midnight. I flipped past the pieces I recognized; mixtures that seemed odd to me at present, having separated "Dance, Dance" verses from those of "Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner" so long ago that I had forgotten they were originally written on the same page. I stopped on the last (well, the last one that had writing on it) and read the heading. Scrawled in Pete's messy, illegible-to-any-but-those-who-had-mastered-it chicken-scratch was "Move verses if you want, but keep the chorus and title. No arguments this time." and then,

7 Minutes in Heaven (Atavan Halen).

When I read the title, I slammed the book closed on pure instinct. I didn't want to read anymore. It took me a good thirty minutes of pacing the room to open it again.

I've cried too many times in the past few months for this to have been an exception. That alone kept me awake for the first hour.

When I sensed that that portion of the program had ceased, I sneaked downstairs to the front door, somewhat surprised that I remembered all the creaky spots on the steps from sheer muscle memory (sometimes it's handy to be a musician). And I drove over to Wilmette, pulled into the Wentzs' driveway, extracted the spare key out of the ceramic turtle's mouth and let myself in quietly. About five hours later is where I think you came in.

I hear the stairs creaking and I automatically know it's Pete. Andrew's home right now too, but he won't be up before noon and it's another hour before their father has to be up for work. Not to mention Pete's an insomniac and I long ago memorized the sound of his walk.

I watch him carefully step over the doggie gate in the doorway, then he shuffles into the kitchen in an old Saves The Day T-shirt and penguin pajama bottoms, rubbing at his eyes and looking like a six-year-old. If six-year-olds were allowed to put bright red streaks in their hair. It takes him a moment (in his beeline for the coffee-maker) to notice that there's someone else in the room (once he sees there is already coffee made), let alone that it's me. Yet he doesn't seem particularly surprised to see me. I watch him pull out one of his old mugs (camouflage print, emblazoned with the words "Invisible Mug") and nonchalantly pour himself a cup. Then he pads over to the island and carefully lowers himself onto a stool across from me. He takes a deliberate sip, staring. Waiting.

I swallow hard around the lump in my throat. My mouth tastes cottony, like I haven't used it in weeks, which is ridiculous considering all of the speaking and singing I've been doing. But then again, I hadn't been forcing myself to fill a long, drawn out silence then.

Really, I should have known from the beginning that it would be me who would crack first. Maybe I did.

I clear my throat like I do when I'm warming up and push out, "I think we need to talk."

And Not, When I Came To Die, Discover That I Had not Lived - Chapter 4

2007-12-10T08:36:20Z

Chapter 4 - "The Sound And The Fury"
POV: Pete

I wasn't going to talk first. I had decided this. Yep. Fuck that shit - not happening.

But fuck it if I was going to sit around waiting anymore either.

There was always one surefire way to talk to Patrick - well, communicate with him at least - which required no words. Well, no spoken words. If he couldn't get it on his own, I would make him fucking sing it, dammit.

I tap my Sharpie on the edge of my dollar composition book compulsively, because this has to come out right. I need Patrick to know what it was like to sit in that car with too many thoughts and not enough pen and paper, to experience the proverbial "sound and fury," to hear the fucking Jeff Buckley pounding in his ears. I need him to know that he was the one thing I actually wanted to be thinking about at the time and the one thing it seemed hardest to focus on. Like trying to pick one star out of the firmament that was the rest of my disjointed musings.

I bite down on the marker cap between my teeth and then put the felt tip to the paper, scribbling quickly.

I'll be stuck fixated on one star,
When the world is crashing down.

I stare at that line for a moment, trying to decide if it's right. I always do this. I'll sit here, trying to imagine how it will sound complete with bass line and riffs and Patrick's voice, when all I have in front of me is a few stanzas and no idea what order my best friend will arrange them in. And I can never do it, I don't know why I try. I think in words. Patrick's the one who thinks in music. That's why it works. He makes me make sense. That's why when I can't seem to turn my head off, I sit there in the dark trying to forget everything that isn't him. And it usually works.

Sometimes anyway.

"Hey, man," I hear Joe say, slurring his words slightly and leaning across the armrest, a little too close for comfort. Either he's a wee bit stoned or he's tired and trying to peek over my shoulder. He did just wake up, but then again, I also watched him down three bags of peanuts within the first fifteen minutes of the flight. "Whatcha writin'?" he inquires, which is an odd question, because it's not like I'm gonna let him see it. Not that I don't love Joe and all, but he's not Patrick. He and Andy only get the revised versions, complete with melody.

I shift a little to my right, away from him. "Just lyrics," I say.

"Mmmkay." He turns his head to glance behind us where Bob and Dirty are seated, then leans over my lap again to scope out where Andy and Patrick sit, across the aisle and one row up. He looks back at me. "Dude, Andy's asleep; let's braid his hair or something."

"Must we?"

"It's a long flight. It will amuse me."

"Talk to Dirty, man. I'm busy." I turn back to my notebook resolutely, intent on ignoring him.

He sighs. "Fine, fine. But when he wakes up, he's totally gonna blame you anyway. I hope you're prepared to suffer the consequences without the actual enjoyment of committing the crime."

"I'm prepared," I say flatly, not looking up.

"Okay." I feel him nod and then stand up, readying himself to shuffle past me. I pull my knees in a little bit. "Now, a question of etiquette," he says, moving in front of me until his waist is level with my face, "As I pass, do I give you the ass or the crotch?" In spite of myself, I grin at the use of the quote, and he smacks me companionably on the shoulder as he moves, not to Andy, but toward the bathroom. I watch him go, still smiling, and when I turn back around, my eyes lock with Patrick's. He must have heard the exchange and been intrigued enough to turn around. He holds my gaze for a moment, then faces forward again.

My eyes drop back to the page. I do really wish I could figure it out. Whether or not I'm in love with him, I mean. I mean...how do people know that kind of shit? Does anyone really know? Or is everyone utterly disappointed with the notion because that kind of love - movie love, head-over-heels love - really doesn't exist and we're all just sitting here thinking that sure, if it's supposed to be out there somewhere, well, this must be it. Has anyone really felt it, or do we all just think this mediocre feeling is what it really is for us?

I don't like using the word mediocre to describe how I feel about Patrick. It's anything but. I just don't know what to call it, is all. And I know that he's not talking first because he's waiting for me to work it out. And yet I can't bring myself to regret that he knows me that well.

I told him to let me know when he knew what this was about, but the reason he couldn'tshouldn'twouldn't kiss me was that he knows I need to figure it out first.

I look up again and stare at the back of Patrick's hat, visible over the top of his seat, willing him to turn and look at me again through sheer mind power. He doesn't, but his head turns to the left a bit (in my direction), the way it does when you hear something and are listening, but not acknowledging. Aware, but refusing to show it.

My attention goes back to the paper and I lower the pen again, writing, almost angrily:

The only thing worse than not knowing,
Is you thinking I don't know.

~ * * * * * ~

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
-- Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 5

And Not, When I Came To Die, Discover That I Had Not Lived - Chapter 3

2007-12-10T08:29:49Z

Chapter 3 - "The Implications of Blinking First"
POV: Patrick

"Dude," Joe begins, plopping down across from me at the "kitchen" table and folding his legs up under himself. I look up from my Taco Bell and newspaper curiously. "Are you two fighting or what?"

I seriously want to play dumb. Pretend nothing's wrong between Pete and I, pretend I don't even know it's Pete he's referring to, but Joe is amazingly awesome at crying bullshit and I'm amazingly bad at lying. So I shrug. "No," I say vaguely.

"It's just, I mean you guys haven't talked a lot since before the tour, but like, things have been even worse lately, if that's possible." He grabs my soda and takes a quick swig. "I mean, you got issues, that's fine. But all is not right with my world when you fight and it's been like a staring contest around here."

I shrug again and swallow my bite. "What do you want me to do about it?"

"I'm suggesting that, whatever it is, maybe you should just go ahead and blink first," he tells me. "Pete's a stubborn little bitch, dude."

I sigh and look back to my paper. Too bad it's in French. "That might be a solution. If we were fighting."

"Well, it sure as hell doesn't feel like you're not fighting." I'm still focused intently on my indecipherable paper, but I can feel him observing me. "Like...do you wanna talk about it or some shit?"

I raise my gaze, fully intending to say no, but stopping myself as I actually consider it. I'm thinking about accepting the offer when I hear the whooshing of the bus door opening and Pete's head appears around the corner.

"Sound check in five, guys," he says, ducking back out again quickly.

I watch him do this, then turn back to Joe and stare at him a minute. Then I grab my veggie burrito wrapper and crumble it up, tossing it in the direction of the trash can. "No," I say, rising to my feet and heading back to the bunks to grab my shoes.

~ * * * * * ~

It's by no means the first show we've played since Pete came back, but it is the first show we've played since we talked and...well, almost kissed. Before, even though things were uncomfortable, Pete would still keep up his usual antics, singing right in my ear, leaning his head on my shoulder. Tonight, I can actually feel him making a conscious effort to keep to his side of the stage. Maybe he thinks I'll understand any sort of proximity to mean that he's hitting on me. Ass. I mean, it's not like I exactly rejected him...I just...didn't let him kiss me.

I almost choke on Pete's name during "Saturday" when I don't feel him right by my side.

After the show, Pete latches onto Joe instead of me in order to release his post-performance adrenaline. "Dude, we fuckin' killed!" he yells and I see Joe place an obliging grip on the arm Pete has thrown around his shoulders, shooting me an almost guilty look.

"First shower, bitches," Joe calls, breaking away and nodding at Andy to follow him to one of the dressing rooms (they gave us two). I expect him to insist that he does not plan to in fact shower with Joe, but he simply falls in line behind him and I'm getting the feeling they've discussed such a trap beforehand.

I cast a quick, cautionary glance at Pete, who of course, says nothing, and continue on to our dressing room. I know that he will shower back on the bus, so I don't bother to ask before I gather the clean clothes I brought and step into the tiny bathroom. I listen to Pete moving around for a few moments while I strip. I can hear him gathering his shit and then plopping down on the small love seat to wait for me to come out. So even if he is mad, I guess he knows better than to just head off to the bus and leave me here.

I turn on the water and step under the spray, but I can still feel him out there. Feel him staring at the door. But when I come out, his face is buried in an issue of Spin and he doesn't even look up until I've picked up my bag and have been standing there obviously waiting for him to move for several seconds. He lowers the magazine and his eyes meet mine, but he doesn't speak. He just grabs his own belongings and stands, throwing his hoodie on and stepping past me out the door.

It's the first time we haven't spoken at all after a show and I cringe at the thought.

But I'll be damned if I'm blinking first.

And Not, When I Came To Die, Discover That I Had Not Lived - Chapter 2

2007-12-10T08:24:46Z

Chapter 2 - "He'll Get It (or Brothers On A Hotel Bed)"
POV: Pete

After that conversation, I sort of wanted to retreat into myself for some introspection. Unfortunately, this was a bad idea for two reasons:

a) There is no room to lock yourself in on a tour bus except the lounge (which the TV and therefore always at least one person resides in) or the bathroom (and um, thank you, no) and,

b) While my occasional anti-socialness was in fact somewhat commonplace before...well, before, it is cause for worry any time it occurs now (particularly from Andy, who, despite knowing me longest, I think gets me least).

So I'm doing the next best thing. I'm pretending I'm fine (I’m good at this when I want to be). Eventually, Patrick will figure out I’m not (he usually does), especially this time when he should know I have reason not to be. But obviously, it takes him longer to figure it out when I pretend than when I quite conspicuously lock myself away in a closet somewhere. And yeah, I’m not in the mood to deal just yet (I’m bad at that when I don’t want to be).

Eventually, he'll approach me. I’ll go out too much, do too many crazy stunts on stage, be too willing to laugh things off, and he’ll get it. Because I’m too fine. Yeah, he’ll get it.

I’m vehemently ignoring the fact that he never got it the last time.

We really did used to be able to talk about anything. We used to be a lot of things. Patrick was always the first to know when I broke up with Jeanae or got back together with her. I was the first to know when he lost his virginity. He was (and is) the only person I will trust with all of my thoughts. (Not my lyrics, my thoughts - yes, there’s a difference. Maybe a seventh of the contents of my notebooks actually make it to an album). I’m the only one who can get him to take his hat off in public (“Bedussey” took some convincing, let me tell you).

Is it cliché to say that I would love to go back? “So I was once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be” and all that shit? To when life was just set on play and not on fucking fast-forward? Some days, I want to track down the old van and kick out all the crew - the driver, the technicians, the roadies, the bodyguards. I want to go back to when the band existed because we were friends, instead of our friendship existing because of the band. Back to when I still believed that “making it” meant my problems would go away. To when I had the hope that went hand in hand with having something left to achieve, places yet to be visited, goals yet to be met. Back to when Patrick worshiped me because he didn’t know any better.

And then I remember that now that I have fame, I’m sort of terrified to lose it (more so than I was of never attaining it), and that idea kind of goes out the goddamn window.

But the desire for it is still there. And this is why I really want to kiss Patrick sometimes. I want to know someone still wants me around because they want me around. And I’m aware I’m being a jackass, because not only is it not fair to Patrick, but I know all three of them really still care. But sometimes, I just really think I need to feel it. And kissing is just the most real thing ever, all pulsing warmth and connection and so right there.

I really would like to figure out whether I really want to kiss Patrick for Patrick before I do. I would. Figure out if I’m in love with him or if I just think I should because he’s the one thing in my life that makes fucking sense and duh, next step. But you know. Close quarters and all. Gets a little difficult.

Used to be I could have told him everything I just told you, even though it concerned him, and he would have put on a pot of coffee and listened. Yeah, totally. He still would, but I’d have to ask him to and it would be all awkward the whole time. I shouldn’t have to ask for help. Not from Patrick. Patrick should know, fucking know, that I hate asking for it and know without me telling him that I need it in the first place. Like he used to. Before...before. So ball’s in his court. I already attempted a kiss and got shot down; he’s going to have to start the next talk if he wants to know why I did it last week instead of a year ago or a year from now. Why all of a sudden it’s important. His turn to “dude, what the fuck?” me. And he’ll get it.

He will.

“Pete?”

I start at the feel of Patrick’s weight dipping the mattress of the hotel bed beside me as he shifts around. It makes me think of those memory foam bed commercials (“Watch how the glass of wine doesn’t spill as Kelly moves about!”).

“Pete? You awake?”

I hesitate. “Yeah.” Talk to me, dammit.

Silence. He’s thinking. Then, “Do you think if you walked into a restaurant that had one of those signs...you know, the ‘No shirt, No shoes, No service’ things...you think you could walk in, like, not wearing pants and they’d let you stay? ‘Cause I mean, seriously, what could they say? Nothing; they couldn’t say anything.”

I huff a bit and turn on my side, my back to him and punch my pillow, a little too harshly. “Dude, I don’t fucking know. Give it a shot. Just...fucking go to sleep, Patrick.”

Silence again. Then I feel him roll away from me in the same manner, our backs facing each other. I knew he wanted to say something before he did in that way you just know. The sort of quiet that precedes two people breaking it at exactly the same moment before it gets to be too heavy. “...Goodnight Pete.”

I sigh and close my eyes, trying in vain to rest, something my body is always reluctant to do. Then I open them and shoot over my shoulder, “You’d look like a fuckin’ ass anyway. Walking around in shoes without any pants on.” I drop my head back to the lumpy pillow. I don’t receive a response. I listen to the silence for a good while before sort of falling asleep.

He’ll get it. He will.

He has to.

And I have learned
That even landlocked lovers yearn
For the sea like navy men

'Cause now we say goodnight
From our own separate sides
Like brothers on a hotel bed...

-"Brothers On A Hotel Bed," Death Cab For Cutie

And Not, When I Came To Die, Discover That I Had Not Lived - Chapter 1

2007-12-10T08:19:55Z

Chapter 1 - "This Is My Problem"
POV: Patrick

So I tell you, I have this problem.

I've gotten used to being attracted to Pete. Hell, that happened the first day, the first time I saw him. This has lessened a bit since those first moments, from the time he opened his mouth ("Dude, please tell me you're kidding with that sweater.") to the day-to-day of being forced to live with him ("You guys ate all the fucking Lucky Charms! Hey, 'Trick, how old are these Pop Tarts?"). That's not my problem.

I've gotten used to the consequences of being best friends with Pete. This includes a range of issues, from being forced into things I'm not comfortable with ("Not bad. Hey, can you sing?"), to dealing with not being listened to ("I know it's not a good idea. I just...I think I love her."), to hearing things I really don't want to hear ("Yeah, so...they're on the Internet." - Of course, this happened later than the events of my story. I'm getting ahead of myself here.). That's not my problem either.

Lately, I've even gotten used to being in love with Pete, tiring though it is. Truthfully, it'd been happening for a while and it just sort of hit me one day ("I'm so gonna marry you, Patrick. Don't laugh, I mean it. None of the girls I date can handle that kind of commitment. I already know you'll put up with me."). That wasn't my problem.

The problem came recently in the form of "Patrick...it's Hilary. Are the guys there with you? Listen, um...I need you to meet us at the hospital. Pete, he's um...God, I can't even...here's mom, okay?" and all that followed. The day I realized that I actually needed him. I sat by his bedside the first day (before he woke up) in the couple of days we had before we left for the UK, holding his hand and begging him not to leave me. I had promised myself back when my parents split that I wouldn't ever be dependent on someone like my mother had been on my father. And where had it gotten me? Begging.

When he joined us in Europe, we didn't talk about it. This wasn't exactly a mutual agreement. He sort of brought it up a few times before he figured out that I was too mad to talk. He assumed I was mad at him. For being selfish or weak or some such nonsense. Like I didn't get it. Like I didn't get him (like I didn't spend my life making sense of his thoughts). Maybe I was a little resentful about not receiving some sort of goodbye. But I wasn't mad at him, I was mad at myself. So I've been withdrawing. And this is a rather obvious thing. Sure, I'm introverted, but I'm well-mannered unless you really piss me off ("Fuck, Patrick! I think you broke my fucking nose!"). I don't alienate my friends. Let alone Pete. So he's been taking notice. This is my problem.

Well, at least I have a feeling it's really going to be now that he's followed me into the back lounge of the bus and locked the door behind himself.

I slip the noise-canceling headphones from my ears, allowing them to dangle around my neck and look up from my newly-booted laptop. "What are you doing?"

He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his black hoodie. "Getting rid of your escape route and thwarting any interruptions." If we're parked, "interruptions" mean Dirty daring someone to ingest something questionable. But we're on our way to Munich, so it means Joe wanting to rope everyone into a two hour round of Guitar Hero.

"Why would I want an escape route?" I ask warily.

"Well, normally, you wouldn't, but lately it seems being in a room alone with me is enough to warrant a search for one," he explains. "Just covering my bases."

I sigh. "Pete-"

"No," he cuts me off. "We're gonna talk about this. Because first of all, I need to be able to talk about this-"

"You have a shrink for that," I remind him.

"With you," he amends seamlessly, as if he was planning to add it even before I had spoken up, "And secondly, because I think you need to be able to talk about it."

I shake my head. "I don't wanna talk about it, Pete."

"Yeah. And I've been respecting that for weeks now, but that's not fair. I need to explain some shit to you 'Trick. I owe you that."

I pull my headphones off completely and set them and my laptop aside. "No part of this was fair, Pete. It wasn't fair that I had to listen to your mother bawl about it over the phone, it wasn't fair that I had to see you in the fucking hospital, and it wasn't fair when we all had to go to Europe without you. Fuck fair. You owed me a goodbye, not an explanation. You owed me a chance to give you a reason not to do it. I don't wanna hear it."

Okay. So maybe I'm a little mad.

He stands there silently, at least having the decency to look downright sheepish (which doesn't suit him at all). I run a tired hand over my face and sigh again, feeling a little bit like a dick. "It's not even about that, okay? I get it. Well, I don't get it exactly, but I don't...I don't blame you, dude, okay? I pretty much got used to you doing shit without thinking after the Cleveland Incident." (This was in the early days, before real venues, when we were playing a small bar which I had had to sneak into in the first place. Some guy, quite obviously drunk, called Pete a faggot. Which was fine with him, he got that all the time. What else did he expect when he kissed my neck, like, at least three times during the show? It was when the guy moved on to me that he got a fist in the face. It wouldn't even be dubbed an "incident" except that it was the first time I saw Pete get in a fight.).

"So what's it about then?" he questions, and I curse under my breath, because that's the obvious next thing to ask and I shouldn't have said anything.

"I said, I don't wanna talk about it," I tell him, refusing to look at him and wishing I had kept my headphones around my neck so I could slip them on again now.

"Well, I do." He walks over and lowers himself down beside me on the couch. "We used to be able to talk about anything."

We both sit there, pondering that statement. It was true. And I miss that closeness. But if he's going to be so reckless with himself, maybe I don't want to get back to that point. After all, the doctor doesn't get chummy with the terminal patient.

Hesitantly (which is saying something in and of itself), he rests his chin on my shoulder. I can feel the gentle whoosh on my cheek each time he exhales. I allow my eyes to drift shut when he presses his lips against the pulse point where my shoulder meets my neck. "I'm sorry," he breathes. "It wasn't you I wanted to leave. It was me."

"And it never occurred to you that that would involve leaving me?" I mean that to come out lighter than it does, maybe even get a smile out of him. It doesn't work. The comment leaves an uneasy silence in its wake. I feel his arms wrap around my waist and cling.

"It occurred to me," he confirms, burying his face in my neck. "That's why I called Bob."

Tears start to prick at the corners of my eyes and I'm suddenly glad he can't see me. I refuse to start crying now. Unfortunately, Pete knows me better than anyone and he senses the sudden tension in my stance. He squeezes me. "Patrick," he says. I sniffle indignantly. "Patrick, look at me."

I reluctantly turn to him, underestimating just how close his face is and having to resist the urge to either pull back or lean forward. His hand rises to grip the nape of my neck, his thumb rubbing just beneath my right ear. "I'm not going anywhere," he whispers, kissing the corner of my mouth. "I promise."

I swallow hard. I'm so not ready for this right now. To get back to what we were, maybe. But to move forward is currently incomprehensible. Regardless of how much I just want to turn two inches to the left. I've been wanting to turn two inches to the left since I was sixteen.

"You're not the best at sticking around, Pete," I say, my lips brushing his in the process. "You leave all the time, your home, your girlfriends-"

"I don't leave you," he insists. "And I'm not going to. You and me, man. 'Till the end, right?"

"And how far away is that?" I ask.

His thumb is stroking again. "How the hell should I know? Does it matter? It won't be an end that I instigate; is that what you wanna hear? You're gonna have to beat my ass to get me away. I plan on being human crazy glue. I'm totally gonna be growing old in the apartment above your garage, and you and your gorgeous, Oscar-winning wife will have me down for the Super Bowl."

I actually smile. "You hate football."

"The World Cup then," he grins. He leans forward again and grazes his lips against mine, probably encouraged by the sudden levity in the sea of seriousness.

I lower my head a little. "Pete," I begin, unsure of where I'm going with it, "I...I can't-"

"Yeah," he says, obviously somewhat disappointed, but understanding me even though I didn't understand myself. He pulls back to a comfortable distance, chin still on my shoulder, but no closer than he would be on stage.

I want to explain myself. All the reasons it wouldn't work, and all the shitty consequences of it not working. But I really can't bring myself to and it doesn't matter anyway, because Pete knows them all too. It doesn't stop me from wanting it. I wish it did.

He shifts a little closer again after a moment, but still not too close. "I love you, 'Trick."

"I know." I squeeze my eyes shut. "I love you, too."

"So, what are we doing?" What he means is What are we waiting for?

I face him again, stare for a moment, and shake my head. "I don't know." I watch him lick his lips and lower his eyes. Then he lets go of my waist and sits back, pushing a hand through his hair.

"Okay," he says. "Just..." He stands up and his hands return to his pockets, looking around like he's not really sure what to do with himself. Then he heads for the door and unlocks it, placing his hand on the knob. "Just, um...let me know when you do." And he turns the knob and leaves me alone.