I wish you were here, those were the first words that he could write. In fact, they were the only words he could write, he was at a loss for words due to the utter stillness of the house. [Peterick]
He yawned, stretching out his arms and legs as far as they could reach, and looked back to the paper with a short scowl. "Okay paper, insipire me." he whispered, grabbing a pen and softly tapping it to the top of his head over and over again, almost in a ryhthm. He stared at the paper, waiting for any signs of inspiration, but he recieved nothing more than a short headache. "Figures." he murmured as he threw the pen down at the paper, as if he were trying to harm it.
This is the life of Peter Wentz, the talking to inatimate objects, the throwning pens down in a calm fury, all it ever had been was him.
Then, as if he was struck by a magical bolt of lightning, the little lightbulb in his head went off. He picked up the pen again and began to scribble viciously on the paper. It wasn't much, but hopefully it was good enought for a get out of loneliness card.
The sun was fading into the distance, over the bright Chicago landscape, and the colors of the sunset seemed less marvelous as they used to look. A short, strawberry blonde, man walked up to the door of his house, fumbling with his keys to find the right one for the lock. Not that one, not that one, ah! Got it. He slid open the door slightly and soft, pale, light flooded into the room and he glanced down to the rug on the all-too-wooden floor and saw he had had mail.
He walked over to his coat rack, hanging his coat on one of the knumbly arms, and walked back over to pick up his mail. "Adress change, Bills, and..." he looked at the third envelope carefully, it said, 'To Patrick Stump' with his new adress, postal code, and everything. "Boy, are fans getting really weird nowadays." he made his way into the kitchen to get his letter opener, because he was not one to deal with papercuts, and slowly opened the envelope.
Inside was a folded up paper, and what seemed like a miniature book. He decided to go for the paper first.
He unfolded it half way, and to his suprise "Read the book first" was written in large, scribbled, black letters across it. He could tell it wasn't from a fan, it was from Pete.
He picked up the book and made his way into his living room, sitting himself down and looking at the overly decorated, tiny, ribbon sealed book with a face of confusion. His fingers ran gingerly over the ribbon and, with a small tug, it came undone. His eyes locked to the book, reading and re-reading every word in it's contents, and he couldn't help but smile when he saw that the last words written were, "Now you can look at the paper."
Patrick finished unfolding the paper, his face losing all emotion. There was a brief moment where Patrick's mind suddenly clicked off, and then a tear ran down his cheek. There, on the foldeded up paper, drawn in crayola crayon, was a picture of Patrick and Pete as stick figures, holding hands infront of a little house with a giant tree and a little Hemmy puppies. There was a sign on the house that clearly stated that it belonged to "The Wentz family", and even though it looked like a second grader had drawn it, Patrick felt his heart beat racing.
At the bottom of the page, in pink and red, was the word, "Forever".
That's when the phone rang, and Patrick almost ran over to pick it up.
Pete's flight came into the airport at 12:37a.m. It was long and full of little children, crazy women, and fans asking him for an autograph.
He picked up his carry ons and made his way out of the plane, heart full and beating fast, and he glanced around to see if anyone was there to pick him up. And to his surprise, the warm face of his best friend was not there to come out of nowhere and comfort him. Pete's heart sank, "I guess he's still mad at me."
And there, but for an instant in time, Pete Wentz became that broken man that he was inside. Watching everyone speed past him, as if they were on fast forward and he was on slow motion. And so he went to the luggage pick up to pick up his bags, a sad look on his face, his heart freezing over and shattering.
Patrick sat in his car, wondering what the hell he was going to say to Pete. Sure, Patrick had been in plays before, he knew lines, but he didn't want this to be another line. He wanted this to be something heartfelt, meaningful, something to prove that he never wanted Pete to go back to L.A, back to that witch of a sex buddy he had, back to being that self centered star that he was in front of the cameras.
Patrick went over his feelings in his head, over and over, nothing seemed to fit what he could say to Pete. Too cliche, too corny, too cheap, that one sounds fake. Patrick, inside his head, was being judged by a harsher critic than Ebert and Ropert put together. Himself.
He slammed his fist against the solid, cold, dashboard, then followed that with him slamming his face against the horn in the middle of the steering wheel.
A glance over to the car clock, 12:42a.m.
And Fuck. Pete was going to kill him for being late.
Pete eventually found his luggage, grabbing it and slowly making his way down the aisles of the airport, towards a seat. He sat down on a bench, far away from everyone else, and pulled his hood up over his head. He didn't want anyone to see him cry, if he had to cry.
Someone decided that they were going to be a nuiscence and sit down right next to Pete, "Hey, are you going to read that?" The man said, pointing to a newspaper on the opposite side of Wentz, "Oh. No." Pete handed the paper to him, not even really looking up to see who the man was. Probably not a Fall Out Boy fan, that was good.
The man opened the paper and began to hum a little bit of a tune, it struck Pete as being framiliar but where the hell was it from? The man continued to hum, "Pardon me, sir. But what's that song you're humming?" He leaned his head up, the man flipped the page in the newspaper, "Something from some band. I heard it this morning. I think it's called, 'Me and you, setting in a honeymoon' or something around those terms.
Pete shook his head, "No it's called I-"
The man pulled down the newspaper, "I'm like A lawyer, with the way I'm always trying to get you off. I know Pete." The man looked through the rims of his glasses, as Pete pulled back his hood.
"Patrick?" He nodded, "Pete. How's life been in L.A.?" Pete looked to the floor, he had to tell Patrick, "Horrible. I'm all alone, minus Andy and Joe. I miss you. I miss us." Patrick squinted, "Us? I thought you were with...Ashlee..."
It was almost too much, "Didn't you notice, I dressed her like you, I made her wear hats like you, I made her sing me to sleep like you used to. But in the end, she wasn't you Trick." Almost.
Patrick wasn't sure if he should be happy, flattered, or disgusted by what Pete had just said. His stomache was turning, his heartbeat was quickening, and his brain was thinking close to 200 thoughts all at once. "Why me? You could have anyone Pete, why me?"
That question soon faded when Pete pressed his lips to Patrick's.
The sun was fading into the distance, lighting up the sky with the warm colors of a good sunset. The flowers seemed to bloom in brighter colors, the birds seemed to sing, and Patrick and Pete had never felt this happy before. Patrick turned over to look at Pete's face, raising a soft hand to brush against his stubble. "Me and you, Setting in a honeymoon." Pete smiled, sleepily, "If I woke up next to you."
Patrick stood up and streched, opening the curtains to a tepid Canadian morning. He fumbled around, looking for his shirt, for his keys, for his pants, putting them all in the proper positions. Pete grimiced, "We're ya going Rickster?" He yawned, streching his arms to the top of the bed, his hair looking messy and cute. "To get you your coffee dude. I hate when you wake up without your coffee."
Patrick moved a few papers, looking for his wallet, but to his luck, couldn't find it. He searched in the top drawer of their wooden dresser, "Too late." Patrick spun around to see Pete, waving his wallet teasingly in the air, "Pete, gimme!" He reached out for the wallet, his face and Pete's moving closer together, "Not a chance." And with that he crashed his lips and Patrick's together, kissing him as only a husband could kiss his husband.
And life was finally making a turn, for better, for the two of them.