FicWad

Promise and precision and a mess of youthful innocence.

You meet him working as a waitress in a small, run-down bar, the sort of place only wizened old men or biker guys in their leathers frequented. And for that reason, you could just not fathom why a band would hold their after-gig party there. “Do you have any idea who these guys are?” Your fellow waitress, Chrissie, asks you, her dark eyes focused on the mass of people that have now occupied every single surface in the small establishment. You shrug. “Sorta. Fall Out Boy, they’re called. I’ve heard some of their songs.” Chrissie switches her attention from you back to the crowd. Everyone seems to be less-than-sober and generally cheerful and happy.

One of the band members – the drummer, you think - catches your eye and beckons you over. You sigh quietly, quiet enough so that even Chrissie can’t hear you, grab your tray and walk over to them, pretty damn pleased you chose not to wear heels today. With all the spilled liquid and broken glass that crunched under your feet, high heels would have been lethal. He gives you a grin and proceeds to order a selection of drinks, apparently for the other members and what you suppose must be the tour crew.

“Honey, I’m gonna have to go. God knows what that husband of mine has done with the kids, and they have school tomorrow. You alright to lock up?” Chrissie says, already clutching her purse, coat on. You nod once. All the other waitresses went home a while back, back to their young children and husbands or boyfriends. You’re the only one with nobody to go home to, just a cold, empty flat that no matter how long you live there, will never feel like home.

Both of you turn back to look at the small group of people left in the bar, sitting around a table. “They shouldn’t be that long.” You say hopefully, eyeing their half-full glasses and tired eyes. Chrissie hugs you quickly goodnight, then disappears out into the cold night air, leaving you alone to manage the remaining clients. You watch as they finish up their drinks and leave one by one, until there are only two of them left. The one in the silly hat finishes up, placing the empty glass on the table, and turns to his friend. They speak softly between them, and then the dark haired one shakes his head. The other, who you recognize as the lead singer, shrugs, pats him on the back and leaves, nodding to you behind the bar.

Now it’s just you, him, and the stench of stale alcohol and cigarette smoke in the air. He just sits there, nursing his half a glass of vodka or whatever it is, staring down at his hands. You sigh once again, louder this time, hoping he’ll hear you and snap the hell out of it, but no, no response. It’s almost four in the morning now, and you want nothing more than to be snuggled up under your duvet in your tiny single bed, as uncomfortable as it may be.

Eventually, you give up waiting and walk over to his table, sliding into the seat opposite him. He looks up at you, eyes unfocused and bloodshot. He blinks, once, twice, and then frowns, seeming to question exactly why you’re sitting in front of him. For the first time, you notice him, really notice him. His dark brown eyes stand out against his tanned skin, the sort of eyes you can tell really crinkle up at the edges when he smiles. They’re ringed with something dark and smudged, probably eyeliner, although most of it seems to have faded. His lips are pale pink and full, and he’s sporting a 5 o’clock shadow – except it’d technically be a 4-in-the-morning shadow. The dark hair that had stood out to you so much before is actually jet black – dyed or natural, you can’t be sure – and is styled dead straight across his face, then slightly messy and spiky at the top. The arms that are crossed in front of him are bare but for a t-shirt, and you can’t help but notice the multiple tattoos that cover pretty much the entire length of both arms.

You clear your throat. “Uh, sir? Are you okay?” The word ‘sir’ feels strange on your lips, and you regret saying it almost as soon as it’s out of your mouth. “Yes.” He replies quietly. No hint of humour, no smile, just a short, curt reply. You swallow hard, sitting up straight, hands resting on top of the table. “It’s just, it’s almost four in the morning, and, uh, if you hadn’t noticed, everyone’s already left.” He looks around him at the empty bar, then back to you. “Not everyone.” His voice is gravelly, harsh, like he smokes a packet of cigarettes a day. He probably does. You resist the urge to roll your eyes, but let his comment slide. “Right. Well, if you don’t mind, I’d like to close up now.”

You go to stand, all set to grab your bag and jacket from behind the bar, but his arm snakes out, grabbing you by the wrist. “Stay.” You nod once and sit back down, eyes watching him warily. You don’t trust this man one bit, and honestly, you find him slightly scary. He reaches below the table and into his pocket, taking out a packet of cigarettes. You watch as he takes one out and lights it, then offers the packet to you. You hesitate, but take one anyway, placing it between your lips. He lights the end of yours, then returns the lighter and packet to his pocket.

You smoke in silence for a while, staring down at the table, but very aware of his eyes on you. “I’m Pete.” You look up and meet his eyes. He exhales and you watch the grey-blue smoke leave his nostrils. “Eve.” You murmur. His lips stretch into a small smile. You’d been right about his eyes crinkling up at the edges. “Why are you still here?” You blurt out. He intrigues you, this mysterious stranger. He takes another drag on the cigarette, looking thoughtfully at you. “I haven’t finished my drink yet.” He says it as if it’s completely obvious, although his words are slightly slurred. You actually roll your eyes this time, earning yourself a grin from him – Pete.

“Don’t believe me?” He asks, voice innocent. You can’t help but smile, leaning forward and resting your chin in your hand. “No. You haven’t touched that for the past fifteen minutes.” You say, pointing at his drink. There’s another silence, and you worry you’ve said something wrong. Pete stubs his cigarette out in the ash tray on the table, and curls both hands around the glass. After a while, he speaks. “Sometimes, it’s nice being by yourself. I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced it, but things just get a little... too much. Too overwhelming. I can’t deal with it.” His voice is distant and slightly weird, and you can’t tell if he’s actually drunk or not.

“So I just need some time alone – in a bar, a park, on a rooftop somewhere... it doesn’t really matter.” He finally looks up at you again, and you meet his eyes and chance a smile. He doesn’t smile back, just looks down at his hands. You follow his gaze, noticing the chipped black nail polish there. For some reason, that makes you smile. “Sometimes...” You begin, still staring at his hands, although you’re aware he’s looking at you once again. “Sometimes, I feel the same. Like everything is pressing down on me, strangling me.” One of the reasons you hate your apartment is just that, the tiny little walls and low ceiling, they feel like they’re pressing in on your chest, trapping you, caging you in. You hate it, but there’s no fucking way you can afford anything bigger or better, especially not in this part of town.

You fix your gaze on his hands again, taking in the long fingers, chewed nails. There’s another one of those strangely comfortable silences, during which you don’t dare look up at him. Eventually, he speaks. “Eve?” Despite yourself, you look up at the sound of your name. He’s smiling once again. “It was nice to meet you.” You feel your own lips stretch into a small smile, and nod. He stands up, clinging onto the table when he wobbles slightly on his feet. “See you around.” He murmurs, looking towards you one more time. He turns away and walks out of the bar in a considerably straight line for someone who is slightly less than sober. You shake your head at his retreating figure, hoping he gets home okay. Smiling, you grab your stuff from behind the bar, switch the lights out and lock up, still thinking about him.

He returns to the bar every single day after that night. He asks you to sit with him in your breaks; sometimes he buys you a drink or a sandwich if it’s lunch, ignoring you when you insist you don’t want anything. You learn that his name is, in fact, Pete Wentz, and that he plays bass and writes all the lyrics for the band, Fall Out Boy. That he lives in an apartment not far from the bar, but in a more upmarket side of town. That he’s twenty-five, that he’s single and lives alone but for a puppy called Hemmingway.

In turn, he learns that your name is Eve Greene and that you’ve just turned twenty-four. That you live alone in a tiny little flat that could more accurately be described as a box, and exactly how much you hate it. That you never planned to be a waitress, that you always wanted to be a photographer but it never worked out. That you love to read, literally anything.

Sometimes Pete brings a book, sometimes his headphones and iPod, sometimes a scruffy old notepad. You find watching him enthralling. The way he looks when he’s concentrating, the way he has sudden bursts of inspiration that he’ll randomly scribble down on a napkin, the way he angrily crosses words out in the notebook if he makes a mistake, the way he looks so at home in a bar that a guy like him should never even step foot in. Sometimes he’ll catch you looking at him, and shoot you a cheeky grin, making you blush.

This Pete is a lot happier, a lot more cheerful. He’s a joker, teasing you and forever cracking jokes, making you smile. Gone is the distant, half-drunk Pete from the first night. He’s interesting, intriguing, and you can’t quite figure him out, as genuine and honest as he proves to be. You have no doubt that he has darker moments, moments where he retreats into himself like he seemed to have done that first night, but right now, he is the complete opposite. Chrissie comments on the flush in your cheeks, the way your eyes glisten. She thinks this Pete is good for you. You notice changes in yourself, too. For possibly the first time in your life, you have something to look forward to when you wake up in the morning.

And then one day, he isn’t there. No figure huddled up in the corner, headphones in ears, tapping his foot along to the beat; no Pete lounging in his favourite booth, head buried in a book. No Pete. Your heart sinks. For all you know, he could never come back, could have gone on tour with the band, could have found some other bar in which to spend all his time. Chrissie spots you scanning the room from behind the bar, and wanders over. “Here, sweet, your guitarist was in earlier, he left this for you.” She hands you a folded up napkin, your name scrawled on the front in messy handwriting. Your heart flutters as you carefully unfold it. ‘Eve, some stuff came up today. Meet me for coffee this afternoon when you get off work? P x’ The address to a place you’ve never heard of is scribbled beneath it.

You stand in front of the café windows, trying to work up enough guts to go inside. Pete is probably in there, warming his hands on a steaming mug of coffee, lost in the fantasy world of his latest read, just like he has been all those other times in the bar. No different. So why can’t you just walk in there and smile at him like you do every other day? Eventually, you take a step forward and push the door open.

The place is small and cosy, and you see exactly why Pete chose this place to have coffee. There are probably about six little tables in total, and only two of them are occupied. The walls are an off-white colour, and all the furniture is made of wood. The man behind the bar looks up as you walk in and smiles at you. You smile back half-heartedly, already searching the room for that familiar face. He’s sitting at a table in the corner, a mug of coffee in front of him, watching you with a smirk on his face.

You make your way over and slide into the seat in front of him. You flash him a quick smile and a ‘Hey’, to which he doesn’t reply, just sits there with that same smirk on his face. You feel your forehead crease and eyebrows knit together as you frown, confused. Pete opens his mouth to speak, and you can tell he’s trying not to laugh. He points to the front door. “You do realise the door is made of glass, right? And you do realise I have a perfect view outside from here?” Your stomach drops and you feel heat rising in your cheeks. “So, you finally got through that door, huh? I was worried you were just gonna stand there all day.”

He chuckles, obviously finding the situation hilarious. Still grinning, he signals to the waiter and points to his cup, asking for another coffee. Pete turns back to you, to find that you’re glaring at him. He pulls a silly face at you and you can’t help but grin, as embarrassed as you still are. “So, how was work? Unbearable, right, since I wasn’t there?” He leans forward, resting his head in his hands. You roll your eyes at his little act. “It was okay.” You shrug, not really caring to elaborate on serving the same old customers the same old orders for yet another day. “Where did you go?” Your coffee arrives, and you take a sip, not bothered by the scalding heat of it. “Uh, band stuff. We normally do it at night, but the guys wanted to do it this morning.” He shrugs. “Good, isn’t it?” He says, watching you drink.

You chat a while longer, then Pete pays the bill and offers to walk you home. “How far is it?” He asks you, as you walk along the street beneath the darkening sky. You shrug. “Ten minutes, or so.” He raises an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you drive?” “Don’t have a car. And before you ask, no, I don’t like going on buses. I’d rather walk.” Pete nods and you continue walking in silence. “Walking is cool, anyway.” You turn towards him, eyebrow raised. He grins. “No, really. It gives you time to think.” Your hands bump together accidentally, making your heart jolt in your chest. You try to pin your hand back against your side, but Pete reaches for it and holds it in his own. He doesn’t link your fingers together or through his, just simply holds your hand, much like you did your mother’s when you were a child. You glance sideways at him, waiting to see if this is one of his silly little games, but he’s just looking straight ahead, as if holding hands is the most normal thing in the world.

Once you’re standing outside the ugly square building of flats, Pete turns towards you, letting go of your hand. You immediately miss the warmth and weight of his hand in yours. “See you around.” He says quietly, just like he had the first night. You nod. As if on impulse, he pulls you into his arms, crushing you against his chest. You inhale the smell of him, a mixture of cigarette smoke, cologne and something else that just seems to make the smell his own. He moves back and just looks at you for a few seconds, before reaching down and pressing his lips gently to your cheek. You close your eyes. His lips feel so soft against your skin. Once he pulls back, he smiles at you. “Goodnight, Evie.” It’s the first time he’s ever called you that.

It goes from seeing each other exclusively in the bar on your working hours, to having coffee together, meals together, going for walks together. He kisses you for the first time on the lips when you’re sitting together on a park bench, your head resting against his shoulder. He says something funny, and you sit up straight, laughing. He’s still smiling, but his eyes are boring into your own, his hand resting against your cheek. You watch as the smile disappears, and his face gets closer and closer to yours, and then your lips touch and it’s better than you ever imagined. His gentle lips seem to melt into your own as they move in unison. Your arms wrap around his shoulders and his other hand rests on your waist. His tongue slides over your bottom lip to meet yours, and even then he is careful and gentle.

You spend more and more time together, sometimes out, sometimes at his house, sometimes at yours. You love his apartment, spacious and roomy as it is, nothing at all like the little box that you call a flat. You watch movies together, old ones, new ones, romcoms, horror; you play videogames together; you read books together, each of you in your own little world; you fall asleep together, sometimes on the couch, sometimes actually in his bed. There has been no sex involved, no touching, just kisses on the cheek, hand holding, cuddles and the occasional kiss on the lips. You don’t mind. It’s perfect.

The first time you actually have sex is on a Wednesday night. Pete picks you up after work, since you finish earlier on a Wednesday, and you go back to his, having planned to watch some movie Pete’s friend lent him. His arms are round you just as they always are, the movie playing on the screen. You look up at him and smile. His lips stretch into that smile you’ve grown to love so much, making your heart flutter and your stomach fill with butterflies. He shifts one of his hands and traces the outline of your lips with his fingertip. You close your eyes. His lips meet yours once again, as soft and sweet as ever.

But then the kiss deepens. His hand presses against the back of your neck, locking your lips with his. He moves so that you are lying on your back, him on top of you. You know exactly where this is going, and you want it. You whimper quietly as his tongue meets yours, this time rougher, more demanding. Clothes come off: jeans, sweaters, shirts, until it’s finally just your underwear left. Pete groans as you push down his boxers, eyes closed as you trail a finger over the tip of him. He pushes your hand away, and proceeds to almost rip your bra off, then tugs your panties down off your legs, discarding them to the floor. You don’t even have enough time to worry about him noticing your insecurities or flaws, because Pete is already trailing a finger between your legs.

And then the finger is gone and he spreads your legs apart, settling himself between them. You reach for him and guide him to your entrance, not being able to resist trailing your fingers along his erection one more time. He looks up, meeting your eyes, then flexes his hips and pushes his way into you. Your back arches at the feel of him, inside you, stretching you. Pete groans and begins to move, his hips slamming into yours as he thrusts. Your arms are wrapped round his neck, nails digging into his back. There’s not enough time to be slow and gentle, you both want, both need this too badly for that.

You can feel it getting closer, that peak of pleasure. Pete seems to feel the same because he speeds up, thrusting into you hard and fast over and over again, until you can’t take it anymore and your legs lock around his hips as you feel yourself tighten around him, your body trembling and quivering, moans that sound almost animalistic leaving your lips. Pete’s eyes are squeezed closed, his loud groans coupling with your now quieter whimpers, and one more thrust and he’s gone, unwinding and letting go, before collapsing on top of you.

You lie like that for a while, both of you trembling and shaking and trying to catch your breath. Pete eventually moves his head to look at you, pushing some strands of hair back off your sweaty forehead. You smile weakly at him, reaching out a shaky hand to rest on his cheek. He pulls out slowly and stands up, holding out a hand for you. You take it, still unsure of your trembling limbs, and follow him wordlessly into his bedroom.

Pulling you down beside him, Pete wraps an arm around you and pulls you tight against his body. He smells of cigarettes and sweat and sex, but to you, he’s never smelled better. His lips find their way along your chin and neck until they reach your shoulder, where he presses his lips hard against your clavicle, then rests his head on your shoulder, eyes closed. You bury your face in his hair, closing your own eyes.

After that, it’s almost impossible to keep your hands off each other. Sometimes it’s hot, heavy and hard, fucking, and other times it’s gentle and slow, making love. You spend practically all your free time at Pete’s place, and when it is late and you should really be getting back home, you put it off, try to drag out your time with him, anything but go back to those four walls that close in on you, suffocate you. Pete knows why you hate it, he understands. Sometimes, he stays over with you, the two of you huddled up in the tiny single bed.

One day, when you’re clinging onto him, dreading having to go and sleep alone in that box, wondering and hoping if he’ll ask if you want to stay, he snaps. “Don’t go home.” You frown.“W-what?” He nods decisively. “Yeah. Don’t go home. Stay here. Live here. With me.” You stare at him, shocked. “You mean it?” Your voice is almost inaudible. He nods, leaning down to kiss you hard. And then, simple as that, you drive over to your crappy little flat, shove most of your stuff in the back of his car. Pete carries the boxes as if they weigh nothing, you struggling behind him with a suitcase packed full of clothes. You dump it all in the living room of his apartment and collapse into bed together.

Sex in the morning, waking to Pete’s lips on your inner thigh, moans and whimpers filling the room whilst the two of you still have sleep-filled eyes. Sometimes, you don’t even bother to dress or shower afterwards, just walk around wearing nothing or something of Pete’s you find screwed up on the floor. You cook him breakfast, lunch and dinner, revelling in having the use of a proper kitchen, proper ingredients, and proper equipment – brand new, since Pete doesn’t know what half of it is. You read him extracts of your favourite books, handing upside down on the sofa, all the blood rushing to your head. You sit between his legs while he scribbles down lyrics in his notebook, content just to watch him. You tell him everything, every single detail of your life, and he listens. He plays for you sometimes, talented fingers strumming expertly at his guitar. And then the sex – from covering every surface of the apartment, to every position, any way you can come up with. You smoke together, both of you sitting on the window ledge, looking either at each other, or at the city laid out below you. He buys you flowers, making you blush. You play hide and seek for hours, both of you running throughout the apartment screaming and laughing. You’re caught up in each other, stuck in each other, part of each other.

Living with Pete is exciting, fun, and more than you could have ever wished for. You are in love with him, in love with every single aspect, detail and flaw. Even the nights he’s not the Pete you now know, the nights he’s distant and far-away and it scares you because you don’t know how to get him back, the nights his mind is stuck in his past, the nights he cries and sobs or wakes in his sleep sweating and screaming, even though you don’t know why, and daren’t ask him. The nights he begs you never to leave him, never to go, never abandon him, because he needs you, can’t be without you. You stroke his hair, kiss his cheeks, promise it will all be okay and that you’ll never leave him. Even those nights, you love him.

Pete occasionally takes you with him when he’s rehearsing or recording with the band. You like the other band members too, they’re sweet to you and they already feel like your own friends. They seem to be happy for you and Pete, smiling or grinning at each other when he absentmindedly wraps an arm round you or kisses you on the forehead. One day after a recording session, when you and Pete are all set and ready to shoot off to some restaurant he’s booked into, Patrick stops you. “Eve?” You turn back from where you’re about to follow Pete out of the door. “Just... look after him, yeah? Take care of him.” You nod slowly. “I will.” You squeeze his hand to reassure him. “Evie!” You hear Pete yell from outside. “Hurry up, I’m starving!” Patrick rolls his eyes and shoots you a smile, before pushing you gently towards the door.

And so it goes on, and on, and on. Pete is your everything – you tell him so almost every day. He swears he can’t live without you – which he also tells you every day. It hurts when you’re apart, you miss him every second of every day that you aren’t with him. He is the love of your life, there can’t possibly be anyone else for you. You and Pete have become inseparable. Everyone, including you, is convinced that what you have is forever. Patrick tells you time and time again that Pete has never been like this with anyone before. It’s perfect, the ideal relationship. Love, and trust, between two people who need each other to survive, endless promises of never leaving each other.

But promises get broken. Once again back in your box of a flat, the only sound is the pounding of rain against the one tiny window. Uncrossing your legs, you get off the bed and go over to the window, staring down into the street below. Nothing lasts forever, everything is ephemeral, or so you’ve learnt. Even the most perfect things, the things that in an ideal world would last forever, come to an end. You wonder what he’s doing now. Does he have a new girlfriend? Is he happy? Does he miss you the way you miss him? You could probably find out if you googled his name, but you can’t bring yourself to do that. Seeing him with some pretty model on his arm would probably kill you. You wipe an escaped tear off your cheek angrily.

It’s been six months, the same amount of time you were with him. You miss him a little more every day. What went wrong? There are a million and one answers to the same question, the same question you have asked yourself time and time again. Everything and nothing. Nothing and everything. It’s been six months, six months since such a vital part of your life disappeared. That man, that mysterious, confusing, difficult man, that friend, that lover, that stranger, that had spun into your life like an out of control hurricane, and had left in the same way. Everything is ephemeral.