Soap's dealing with the drama.
doyleangel: You are correct in your assumption. If Poap gets back together, it's gonna take some time.
x_slowdown: I'm glad you noticed the contrast between the Pete and Gabe sides of this fic. That's actually one of the reasons I chose to make this a pick-your-poison story. I knew there was a lot of potential in both Wentz and Gabanti because they seemed to cover different sides of the spectrum-- short & insecure vs. tall and carefree.
chocolatechortle22: Glad you liked Rigby's POV. It was really fun to write.
alex_-nods-: Fiji? Lucky! That sounds really warm. Anyways, thanks for the review!
easykeys: Yep. I'm a sucker for puppies. As you can tell, I'm also a sucker for chapters written in a puppy's POV. As for Pete mama-drama, I hope you like this chapter.
Now onto the long-awaited update...
42: b u t I r e a l l y , r e a l l y , r e a l l y d o n ’ t l i k e y o u
una carta para jabon
If I had the Midas touch, I’d link pinkies with you and watch the sun set on forever.
But yet again I’ve proved that nothing gold can stay.
It’s like we’re back at day one— fallen toys and my first shiner—only this time, gummi bears won’t sent things straight.
I wish I was H.G. Wells. That way, I could write myself a time machine and undo all the hurt. But we both know that I’d find a way to fuck things up again.
Every night, the same question runs looped marathons
And it’s met with the same butterfly effective answer
Echoing off the walls like laughter used to.
This time around, I’m singing the blues rather than swallowing them,
But when it comes down to it, I’d rather spend seven minutes in Ativan hell than look at myself in the mirror.
I’m just the letdown you kept getting up for,
The anchor tied around your neck,
And the drama king not worth your time.
I’ve never meant “I’m sorry” as much as I do now.
But these apologies are band-aids on bullet wounds.
Sally. Tinkerbell. The resolution of all my fruitless searches.
You’re the only place that feels like home.
A single tear slipped down my cheek as I read his blog entry for the tenth time.
I’d known him for 20 years, and I could tell when he was feeding me bullshit.
This was not one of those times.
“This time around, I’m singing the blues rather than swallowing them, But when it comes down to it, I’d rather spend seven minutes in Ativan hell than look at myself in the mirror.”
These words were meant to be reassuring; he wasn’t going to resort to self-medicating like he had before, but it killed me knowing that pills had even crossed his mind.
I sat there in silence, as tears slipped from the corners of my eyes. Then after taking a deep breath, I let my shaky fingers type out a response.
You are and always will be my Jack, my Peter Pan, and my Lloyd Dobbler.
My smile’s an open wound without you.
I hovered over the Post Comment button and debated whether or not I should click on it.
I know Pete’s sorry.
I know I want to forgive him.
But I also know that I need to do what’s best for my baby.
That in mind, I clicked the red x in the corner of the screen and shut down the computer.
The couch suddenly indented next to me, meaning that someone had taken a seat. Looking up, I noticed Peyton sitting there with a spoon and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.
With a quiet “thank you” I set my laptop onto the coffee table and accepted her offer. Minutes passed, and neither of us said a word. It was mutually understood that I was falling apart.
For a few minutes she sat there eating ice cream as if nothing was wrong.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked, finally breaking the silence.
“Ben & Jerry’s should be making a lot more money, because I’d sell my soul for this stuff.”
“Seriously, Soph… We haven’t really talked about what happened—”
“You know what happened,” she replied, wiping her eyes.
“But what are you planning on doing?”
“You mean after all the crying and moping on your couch?” she asked, setting the carton of ice cream down.
Past the smiles and sarcasm was a girl trying her hardest to convince everyone that she was alright.
“Yeah,” I said, simultaneously wanting and not wanting to push the subject.
“I’m keeping the baby, there’s no doubt about that…” she replied, looking down at her stomach.
She took a deep breath and slowly pulled her knees to her chest.
“As much as I want to hate him, I can’t. As much as I want to love him, I can’t…” She paused and turned toward the window. “I’m walking the fine line between extremes, and soon enough I’ll be freefalling to the floor.”
Poetic or not, I needed to stop this downward spiral.
“Hey, don’t talk like that,” I said, taking her hand into mine. “Me, Andy, Joe, Patrick, your brothers and your parents will always be here to catch you.”
Sophie retrieved the carton of ice cream and flashed a half-hearted smile.
“No problem, Matsumoto.”
Resting her head on my shoulder, Sophie held the ice cream in front of me.
“You want the rest?” she asked, sniffling.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
We spent the rest of the night curled up on the couch, watching Jackie Chan movies and forgetting about a douche bag named Pete Wentz.
For those of you who don't know Spanish, "una carta para jabon" translates to "a letter for soap."
I already have some ideas for what's going to happen next, so if ficwad is cooperative, I'll be updating some time next week. Until then RATE & REVIEW. It helps in the motivation department, and motivation definitely speeds up the writing process.
Warning. The following is a shameless bit of self-promotion:
If you're looking for something new to read, I've posted an All Time Low fic titled "Lasting Impressions." So go read it. Urrybody loves Alex Gaskarth.
On a somewhat related note, is anyone going to Believers Never Die Part Deux?