FicWad

A/N: Title is from 'Ohio is For Lovers' by Hawthorne Heights. RIP Casey Calvert. Oh yeah, nearly forgot to mention, Cobra Starship will hopefully feature in this story quite a bit...I'm not very proud of this chapter at all, so some reviews and shizzle would be mucho appreciatied.


A man with jet black hair, streaked with red, his face too tanned for his ensemble of black, sat in the drivers seat of the car, hands clasped around a shiny object, which shook so hard he nearly dropped the bottle. He closed his eyes, staring at two photos that sat atop his dashboard. One showed a skinny woman with wavy blonde hair, pale skin and a pointy nose. The other showed a young man, a black hat perched atop his bushy strawberry-blonde hair, thick glasses framing his light grey eyes. The man with black hair dipped a dirty looking rag into the dark looking liquid that sat on the passenger seat, and wrapped the rag around the head of the bottle, which was filled with more dark looking liquid, with an elastic band.
“I’m sorry, Ash,” he sobbed. His eyes strayed to the hatted boy, and more tears than had been shed for the girl flowed. Eyeliner smudged down his face. “I’m really; truly sorry I had to do this to you, Trick.” With that, he pulled out a lighter and lit the rag. Almost immediately, the peaceful lakeside area was jolted by a flash of flames and a loud bang. Then, came the silence. Only the steady crackling of flames could be heard.

“Ugh,” I moaned softly. I opened my eyes slowly. Everything was blurred, and not just because I didn’t have my glasses on. The room was spinning. My double vision slowly corrected itself, but the headache stayed. I stood up and walked over to the mirror. I had a black eye and a thin gash running across my forehead, which had those stitching plasters on it. “Ha,” I laughed to myself. “I feel like Harry Potter.”

That was when I noticed where I was. The living room. What was I doing there? I should have been back in bed, with Janae. I peered out the window. It must have been very early, because the sun was just coming up. My Dad and Andy’s car were parked outside. I deciphered that they were staying here, judging by the snoring that was coming from the spare rooms.

“Jan will be wondering where you are,” I told myself. So I tiptoed into our room. I smiled at the sight of her, snuggled into the covers, wearing a hoodie of mine and a pair of my boxers. Her make-up was streaked from tears. “Why was she crying?” I wondered to myself, pulling my pants off.

“Patrick?” a tired voice came from under the sheets.

“Ssh,” I whispered. “Go back to sleep, sugar.”

“You know me, baby,” she smiled softly. “Once you wake me up, you can’t get me back.”

“Oh, yeah…” I laughed quietly. “I’m gonna get no sleep now, right?”

“What do you mean?” she looked at me strangely.

“I know you…” I smirked. “And your early morning desires for…um…intimacy.”

“Oh my God, no, Patrick!” Janae had a shocked look on her face.

“What?” I asked, confused. “Why not?”

“Just get into bed, if you’re going to be like that,” she shook her head in annoyance. I pulled my shirt off and got into bed beside her. She pulled a magazine off her end table, and began reading.

“I had the weirdest dream ever last night,” I said.

“Oh, yeah?” Janae looked at me, interested.

“It’s a stupid thing, never could happen in a million years, but…” I paused. “Okay, Pete killed himself with a petrol bomb.” Janae opened her mouth, but I silenced her. “I know, stupid, totally impossible…but it was just so real. It was chilling.”

“Patrick,” Janae started, her voice wavering slightly. “You really don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what?” I smiled cheerfully.

“Tricky…it’s real.”

“What’s real?” I asked, cocking my head to the side.

“Your dream,” she took my hands. “Your dream, it was real.”

“What?” I whispered. She didn’t reply to me. She was in tears. “Oh, shit. I remember…I remember…” I felt tears coming, but they must have been imaginary tears because, as hard as I tried, I just could not cry. I lay back into my bed, my eyes darting around the room. Everything reminded me of him.
The picture of me, him, Tom, Mark and Travis. That brought back memories of my personal favourite tour: touring with my heroes, Blink-182.

Our first Fall Out Boy t-shirt. Pete, Joe and I had spent weeks in his parent’s basement, pads of paper, pencils and paints laid out in front of us. Gerard Way style artists we weren’t, and it showed through in our (crappy) t-shirt design.

The eight gold discs and six platinum discs that hung upon my wall, practically wallpapering it. I knew Pete’s room had been the same.
The Clandestine hats sitting on my hatrack. Pete had given me an advance set as a birthday present. He called me ‘an official Clandestine hat model’.

The ‘Macbeth Peterick Special’ shoes we had designed together. I remember Pete didn’t take his off for nearly two weeks, not even for bed. He was so proud. I was proud too, but I had other shoes to think about. Such as the ‘MC Stumpy’ Vans I had designed. Yes, I took to the turntables one night, and from then on my DJ name was ‘MC Stumpy’.

The note that lay on Janae’s dresser, ‘Patrick’ labelled on it in Pete’s neat writing…wait. There was a note. With my name on it. From Pete.

I swung my legs out, and tiptoed over to the dresser. I was wrong about Janae not being able to sleep, because she did not stir. I picked up the note between two fingers, gingerly, as if it were poison, or about to explode, and padded softly back to the bed, pulling the sheets right over me. I pulled out my Blackberry, for light, and squinted at the tiny, precise writing.

Patrick,

I’m sorry for what I’m going to do. Don’t hate me. I know it’s the right thing. Hey, be glad I gave warning this time! Yeah, you know me. Joking at a time like this. Yeah, roll your eyes. Like I know you’re doing. You know, I’m glad you found me in time that last time. I had a lot more left in me. So thanks for that. And thanks for the memories. Even though some of them weren’t so great. You know what’s just occurred to me? Ash is probably going to come to my funeral, pretending to be all sad and shit. And the paps will eat it all up.

Patrick, can you organise my funeral? Yeah, I want it in a church. I know you won't like it, but it's all that I want. You know I've always wondered if God existed, I've always hoped he existed, always hoped that he paid attention, always hoped that he'd finally notice me someday. I used to get so pissed off when you and Andy would laugh in my face when I told you this. But I grew up and learned to face facts: you have your beliefs and I have mine. Just the same as Joe has his and we have ours, and we have to respect them (much as we make fun of them...). And when your picking hymns, or songs, or whatever you want to call it – please, for my mother's sake, make it G-Rated! I know you and your ethiest habit of cursing every inanimate object in your way. Knowing you, you'd choose for the funeral to start to Family Reunion. Could you imagine my Mom walking into the church to 'Shit, Piss, Fuck, Cunt, Cocksucker, Motherfucker'? That, my friend, is the reason I write the lyrics. For a small guy, you sure have a big mouth. But don’t ever change, man, stay the Patrick we all know and love. Cos I know Gabe, when Andresa got cancer…man, he was never the same.

I mean, he looked like the same Gabe, he sang like the same Gabe, and Cobra were better and bigger than ever. But dude, he isn’t the same Gabey. He talks different. Lower, a kinda sadder voice. There’s no more of those dumb laughing fits of his that were just so infectious. Those ones that made you feel like nothing could ever go wrong, everything would stay the same, stay perfect. He’s not eating either, have you noticed? He’s a fucking skeleton. He gave me his size for this Clandestine outfit I wanted him to model and he’s a fucking size 0! He reminds me of Bill Kaulitz. Remember, that dude with the lions hair from that German band we toured with? But, dude, I’m rambling.

So my funeral. Yeah, I want my purple skinny jeans and the ‘Patrick’ teesh. Nice and casual. And you, wear your Peter teesh. I’m doing it again, amn’t I? Being a bossy fucker. Don’t mind me. Do whatever you like. You know me the best. Don’t let Andrew, or Ashlee, or Dad or anyone boss you around. You’re in charge. And if they don’t believe you…just show them this note. There’s no way they could think this is a fake. There’s nobody else who could write this sexy. Just show this letter to Janae, and, dude, there is no way she’ll be able to say the loop on that ‘y’ didn’t turn her on.

Dude, I’m getting scared now, talking (or writing...) to you. I know you, and your grieving abilities. Or lack of…just don’t go like Gabe. That was his girlfriend. I’m your best friend. (ha, your best friend is not your girlfriend) You’ll get over me. Just focus your attention on Janae. I know she’ll miss me too. I’ll miss her. You know, when I first met her, when things started going wrong with me and Ash, I thought there could have been something more.

But then I saw you, at that coffee shop when we were in Sicily, when you had just broken up with Lily and I thought you could use a holiday. The week we met Janae…anyway, you were having gelatos, and you were fucking high on the sugar. It was seriously the worst sugar rush I’ve ever seen you on. I know you with your sugar rushes, and I’ve only known three people who were saintly enough to put up with them. There was me. There was Gabe. And there was Janae. So I guess you could say there’s only one now…I’m not here anymore, I hope. Gabe’s just not the same silly guy. So that leaves Janae. That’s how I know she’s you’re soul mate. You’re destined.

You’re perfect for each other. I’m looking forward to seeing some Tricky and Jan-Jan Juniors growing up. And maybe a Petey Junior thrown in for good measure? Think about it… Anyway, it makes me really upset to know that you’re going to grow up, have a family and have the perfect life you always wanted, and I won’t be there. You know, I’ve always seen you as, like…a son, to be honest. I’ve watched you grow up. You’re not that goofy skinny 16 year old in the argyle sweater anymore. You never will be again. That hurts…I wish I could just go back, and relive those days again. Those days, when you and Joe were just some stupid sophomores, and I was just a dumb college freshman and we’d go around harassing fat guys at the doughnut place…man, that was the life.

I remember the first time I saw you so well. Joe had been raving about your drumming and I gotta say, man, I was sceptical. And you came over to Joe’s house and you were there in the basement, at your kit, when I walked in. I don’t know if you remember, but I laughed when I saw you. I don’t think I could help it…you looked pretty dumb. You had that sweater your Grandma had sent you, that you were really proud of cos it was ‘authentic Irish Aran argyle’. And those shorts…man, I’m glad your skater phase ended quick enough. Even if it did end with a broken wrist and two months of no guitar for you. At least you didn’t subject us to those shorts again…you did subject us to Emo Kid Patrick, though.

Remember we used to hate each other? Well, I’ll rephrase. I hated you. I don’t know what it was…I think it was the way you were suddenly ‘best friends’ with Joe. That’s why I gave you such a hard time. And we played truth or dare, and you finally admitted you were a virgin…man, that just made it worse! Why, why, why didn’t you lie? Anyway, then I dared you to play a song…you know you were always just this shy little kid. I never expected you to be able to stand up in front of us all and play. I didn’t even know you were able to play guitar, to be honest. It was just fate, I guess. You played ‘Through Being Cool’ by Saves The Day. It was totally your own choice, it was just pure coincidence that I happened to love that song. You know, I love it so much more now that I know you loved it as much as me. I’ve kinda come to consider it the theme song to our relationship. Sorry if that sounds gay or anything, I’m just telling it like it is.

So you played it. Fuck, man, your playing needed some training, but your voice…I’ll just say you matched Chris Conley. Hell, you could have beaten him at a SingStar of that song any day. Well, maybe not…you’re terrible at SingStar. I beat you on Dance, Dance! You blew me and Joe away, and we asked did you write. Of course, you said you did, and then you played a song. It’s not like we ever used it on an album, but it was still the best song I ever heard. That’s when I knew…I knew we were gonna make it. We were gonna be big. You were the missing ingredient. I know you already know all this stuff but this is like a diary to me…you know, this is the last thing I will ever write. No wonder I’m doing all this reminiscing.

I wish I could go back. But I can’t. This isn’t the past. What’s done is done. What’s happened has happened. What’s over is over.

Sorry and love,

Peter.

“Oh God...” Janae jumped out of bed and ran into the ensuite bathroom.

“What is it, sugar?” I poked my head out from under the sheets. She didn't reply, all I heard were the sounds of retching and heaving coming from the bathroom. I thought for a second. There was no way...there was just no way. There was only one way to find out, and I vowed to myself that if I could identify my best friend's body in a cold, sterile morgue, I could ask my girlfriend those three simple word: 'Are you pregnant?'