Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy
He thinks I’m still asleep, but I’m not. I’m awake and laying still, trying to figure out what Andy’s doing. He’s tracing his fingertips lightly over the tattoo on my left arm, doing it so soft that it’s no surprise when chill bumps raise on my arms. I know why he’s in my bunk, because last night we were watching a movie together in here. I know I fell asleep before him because I faintly remember his soft laughter as I drifted off. Maybe we both fell asleep; I don’t know. We were both pretty worn out from the show last night so it’s a big possibility.
“It’s not true,” he whispers softly, and I can barely hear him over the dull hum of the bus moving along whatever highway has us now. “So not true...”
I feel lips touch my arm now, his scruffy facial hair tickling my skin slightly in the process. If I could, I would shake my head at this. What does he know? It is true, more than anyone can understand, or deny. The fans prove my point.
How many screams of undying eternal love have I had thrown my way? If they truly “loved” me, they would ignore the tabloid rumors, turn the other way or close the page at another online rumor. If they truly “loved” me, why do they seem to hate me when I find someone? If I care about someone, and that person makes me feel like the happiest man alive, then why can’t they be happy for me, rather than bashing and hating the person I chose?
Besides, do any of them know the real me? The me that exists when the only camera around is my friends’ cameras? The me that hides behind a false image I feed to the world, making the screams louder and the panties wetter. Unlikely. The real me, the real Pete Wentz, the guy who got rich off of making a band for fun, sometimes wishes we never made it. I wish it would all just disappear, fade away leaving my friends and I having fun together at a mall without people rushing us out of nowhere.
When Andy wraps his arm around me and presses close, I slide my arm slowly around him, still pretending to be asleep. Pretending... Do I do anything else these days? It never ends...
“I would if you’d let me,” he whispers, resting his head on my chest, his hair spilling out around his head.
I would let you, but you wouldn’t last long Andy, I think to myself. My chest tightens in pain as I come to terms with my realization. Who could ever love the real me? I am unlovable.
[Author's Note: A little story I made for the coffin tattoo on Pete's upper left arm, with the word "Unlovable" written in a banner that goes through the coffin. Hope you liked it.]
“It’s not true,” he whispers softly, and I can barely hear him over the dull hum of the bus moving along whatever highway has us now. “So not true...”
I feel lips touch my arm now, his scruffy facial hair tickling my skin slightly in the process. If I could, I would shake my head at this. What does he know? It is true, more than anyone can understand, or deny. The fans prove my point.
How many screams of undying eternal love have I had thrown my way? If they truly “loved” me, they would ignore the tabloid rumors, turn the other way or close the page at another online rumor. If they truly “loved” me, why do they seem to hate me when I find someone? If I care about someone, and that person makes me feel like the happiest man alive, then why can’t they be happy for me, rather than bashing and hating the person I chose?
Besides, do any of them know the real me? The me that exists when the only camera around is my friends’ cameras? The me that hides behind a false image I feed to the world, making the screams louder and the panties wetter. Unlikely. The real me, the real Pete Wentz, the guy who got rich off of making a band for fun, sometimes wishes we never made it. I wish it would all just disappear, fade away leaving my friends and I having fun together at a mall without people rushing us out of nowhere.
When Andy wraps his arm around me and presses close, I slide my arm slowly around him, still pretending to be asleep. Pretending... Do I do anything else these days? It never ends...
“I would if you’d let me,” he whispers, resting his head on my chest, his hair spilling out around his head.
I would let you, but you wouldn’t last long Andy, I think to myself. My chest tightens in pain as I come to terms with my realization. Who could ever love the real me? I am unlovable.
[Author's Note: A little story I made for the coffin tattoo on Pete's upper left arm, with the word "Unlovable" written in a banner that goes through the coffin. Hope you liked it.]
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