FicWad

I awoke the next morning to loud, abrupt noises. Out of disorientation, I assumed it was the pounding in my head from a few too many cocktails. Those waiters may not be good social conversationalists, but they damn well understood when someone needed alcohol. I suppose that makes them good at their job. I was probably too drunk to remember to leave a tip, so I assume they'll never understand my appreciation. Sucks for them. It works out in my favor, however. Maybe I'll treat myself to a coffee later with the forgotten tip money. I haven't had coffee that wasn't made by my roommate in a while due to a lack of monetary funds. I'm rather happy with my drunken self at the moment. Although, I have to admit, I'm beginning to think my drunken self forgot to tip on purpose. Perhaps I'll start a "forgotten tip" money jar and place it on my kitchen counter just in case this specific situation happens to arise again. Waiters around the state will loathe me, but barista's certainly will not. Are you expected to tip barista's too? I swear, there seems to be a consequence for everything.

Apparently, the pounding was taking place at my front door and not inside my head like I thought. Imagine that. I reached around the bed side table for my glasses and in the process knocked over a glass of water. After I screamed a few obscenities at the broken glass, I made a vow to clean it up at a later time. I threw the down comforter off my body in dramatic fashion and contemplated putting some discarded jeans over my boy short underwear so to as not seem too inappropriate, but the pounding at the door was unnerving me and I needed it stopped immediately.

In all of my tank top and boy short underwear glory, I marched to my apartment door and swung it open furiously.

"Charley?" The all too familiar man standing on the other side of my doorway asked.

"Are you here about the drugs? If there's have a problem, you have to take it up with someone else. I just deal." I looked him straight in the eye, enjoying his obvious discomfort by my half naked body.

"Drugs?! What? No. I, um, Charley, it's Patrick." He stumbled, adjusting his glasses.

"Please, come in." I allowed him a condescending smile to let him I know I knew exactly who he was.

"That was a joke, wasn't it? Pete was the only one who ever got your jokes." Patrick half spoe and half mumbled under his breath. He stepped into my apartment and out of the rain. My pulse sped up at the mention of Pete and if for whatever reason had I a doubt as to the grounds of this visit, my suspicions were clarified with that sentence. After all, Patrick and I had never had positive relationship and given our history, Pete was just about the only thing we had to talk about.

"Well, I assure you, it most certainly wasn't for the lack a sense of humor on yours or anyone else's part." My voice reeked of sarcasm. I grabbed a carton of cigarettes from the coffee table and a lighter from the drawer underneath. I motioned to offer Patrick one, but he declined as I knew he would. Smoking gives you lung cancer, after all. I sat on the couch and crossed my legs as I inhaled.

"I'm here for a reason, Charley." There was an urgency in his voice that almost shocked me.

"Oh, Patrick. Of course you are, darling. Everyone wants to believe they're here for a reason." Exhale.

"Goddamnit, Charley! I will not be drug into a game of wits and rhetoric with you. I just need you to listen." Patrick stated his grounds and stared hard at me almost as if for my agreeance of cooperation. I thought about stating some grounds of my own, but he arrived so unexpectedly that I just didn't have enough time to propose any. Damn him for taking that away from me. That may have been my one and only moment to shine in this conversation.

Patrick took my silence as a sign of compliance and began to speak.

"I need you to stay away from Pete."

I stayed silent fully believing that there was more to come. That couldn't be it. Patrick was rather long winded and had a tendency to be exhaustingly repetitive. I leaned up to ash my cigarette and contemplated the irony of the situation. The last two situations where Pete and I both took part in were solely of his doing. It was he who approached Zak and I at the Waffle House restaurant . It was also he who searched me out last night at the bistro. Perhaps I go out to eat too often. Maybe I should just stay eat in for the rest of my time to avoid future sightings and run-ins with one Pete Wentz . I wasn't aware he was such a regular on the public restaurant circuit. Although, I have to admit, eating in would allow me more money for coffee. But then I would be left without the option of not tipping and my new jar would never get to serve it's purpose. I have big plans for that jar. Big, exciting plans.

"That's it? You aren't going to say anything?" Patrick's prolongation of this conversation seemed to prove to me he was looking for an argument.

"I would hate to drag you into a game of wit and rhetoric." Inhale.

"You've always been a headache. I was hoping these past two years would have matured you a bit. Maybe even calmed your cynicism." Oh yes, he was definitely looking for an argument.

"At least these past two years weren't a total waste. They certainly seem to have made you more bold. You're actually speaking to me, not simply about me. Congratulations. You grew a spine." Exhale.

"Just stay the fuck away from Pete, Charley! I'm serious." Patrick was no longer casually speaking. He had just yelled at me. This was something he was passionate about. Pete must not have told him that he was the one who spoke to me first. Twice. That dishonest little bastard. He didn't tell him. Of course he didn't tell him. It was Pete, after all. Forever the victim.

"I fail to see how this concerns you." I spoke casually

Patrick gasped out of disbelief.

"You fail to see how this concerns me?! I am Pete's best friend for fuck's sake! I picked up the pieces after you bailed on him! I took his almost lifeless body to the fucking hospital to get his fucking stomach pumped after you did what you did to him. Now I am not saying all of that was your fault, Pete is certainly to blame for his own actions, but you drove him to that. I've seen Pete at his highest and I've seen Pete at his lowest and while both of them seemed to occur numerous times while he was with you, I just don't think the highs are enough to risk the lows."

I told you Patrick was exhausting. I slowly rose from the couch to Patrick's level.

"Tell me, " I took a drag from my cigarette. "how does Pete feel about you making his decisions for him?"

Patrick ripped the cigarette from my fingers and spoke deeply and quietly and intensely.

"I have no doubt in my mind that Pete loved you, Charley Brunet, but he is better off without you. Both of you are better off without each other. Leave. Him. Alone." And with that Patrick took himself, as well as my cigarette, and ridded me of their presence.

I collapsed onto the couch. Holding my 112 pound body up suddenly seemed to be proving too much a task for my legs to handle. I was confused by much of what Patrick had just disclosed. What pieces was he speaking of? Almost lifeless body? Stomach pumped? My fault? Why did Pete's stomach need to be pumped? What had he done? Was he really better off without me? And why the fuck did Patrick take my goddamn cigarette?

A few minutes had passed before I heard someone knock on the door again. Without much thought or brain activity, I went to answer the door.

"Hey love, I brought you some coffee." Zak greeted me with a kiss on my forehead. Each of his hands contained a cup made from recycled paper from my favorite coffee shop down the street.

"I'm going for ride." My mind was void of most everything except for the words Pete and hospital. I grabbed a long, plaid pea coat off the coat rack and pushed past Zak and his coffee.

"Are you going to drive?" He asked confused.

"I thought about flying, but Harry Potter stole my broom again." I deadpanned as I shut the door behind me.