TheThreshold.06
Title: The Threshold.
Summary : The most popular boy in school walks through the door of a local shop. In the time it takes for him to walk back out, he's done something that will drastically change his entire world.
Author :
burgerking. I claim nothing but the story itself!
Rating : PG-13ish.
Author's Notes : You'll notice this chapter is terribly melodramatic. It works.
01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05
It was a fine spring afternoon in Chicago. The sun shone cordially on the city below, and the soft wind made the air feel oh-so-temperate. It was the sort of day when the nerds could stay inside and blog about how pretty the world looked from their window, all while avoiding the actual experience.
Strangely enough, one particular nerd was indeed outside, sitting in his high school soccer field. And - even stranger - he was with a friend.
“What the hell are you doing?” he yelled across the field, a look of disgust on his face.
The thin athlete at the opposite end ceased his actions, looked over his shoulder and smiled at the other boy. “Well, see, this is what you call a soccer ball.” He stooped down to pick up the black and white ball, then proceeded to toss it up and catch it in one hand a few times. “And what you do with this is try to get it in the goal… That’s the big net at the end.”
“Thrilling,” mumbled the other, as his friend steadily approached him.
“Come on, don’t be like that. It’s fun! I promise!”
Then the athlete’s face lit up almost as brightly as the sun itself: ah, there was that one-of-a-kind Pete Wentz smile, followed shortly by the equally unique Joe Trohman scowl.
“I didn’t come here to be converted to the Church of Soccer,” Joe said shortly, and Pete tried hard not to smirk at the god-awful joke.
“Yeah, okay, I know,” he said, and strolled over to the bleachers with Joe not far behind. He set his ball down beside the rest of his possessions that he’d set down earlier; Joe looked keenly at the notebook that sat there.
The fact of the matter was that lately, he and Pete had been hanging out a lot for the sake of Patrick. Joe wanted to learn to like his boyfriend’s best friend, and Pete wanted to be sure that Patrick had a worthy companion. In the time that they’d spent together, Joe had found a curious little spark in Pete that intrigued him. There was a certain depth that was apparent every now and then; this other side of Pete was present whenever he was scribbling away in his notebook.
Pete, shy about his fascination with writing, had never previously agreed to let anyone see his drabbles… not even Patrick. But finally, for whatever reason, he allowed Joe to read them on the grounds that they would visit the soccer field together. Naturally, Joe complied.
And now that playtime was over for Pete, it was his duty to spill his guts. Slowly, hesitantly, he sat on the warm grass with his notebook in his lap and his back against the bleachers. He patted the spot beside him welcomingly and Joe sat, attempting to conceal his anxiousness.
“Okay,” Pete breathed nervously, his eyes on the faded cover of the notebook. “You said you wanted to see some of my writing?”
“You know that’s what I came here for,” Joe replied. Pete frowned, his fingertips gently digging into the sides of the notebook. Joe, far too impatient to deal with Pete’s emotional needs, waited only for a moment or two before leaning over and tearing the book away. No words were said, but Pete adopted the saddest look Joe had ever seen from the boy; it was almost startling, and he immediately delved into the notebook in order to ignore it.
The words were everywhere. Some were written properly in the lines, some were in the margins, upside down, sideways… Some were written carefully, neatly, as though Pete had thought long and hard about them. Some were scribbled so untidily that Joe doubted anyone would ever know what they said. Several pages into the fascinating mess, Joe stopped and began to read what looked like the beginning of a poem. The paper read:
I keep my jealousy close / 'cause it's all mine. / And if you say this makes you happy, / then I'm not the only one lying.
From then on it was illegible. Joe’s eyes shifted to the corner of the paper, where one verse had been scribbled in obvious haste:
Is this more than you bargained for yet? / Oh, don't mind me, I'm watching you two from the closet, / wishing to be the friction in your jeans. / Isn't it messed up, how I'm just dying to be him?
“…Pete,” Joe said abruptly, in nothing above a whisper, “Who are these poems about?”
Pete shifted away uncomfortably and shrugged, his eyes on the grass. “Someone important to me,” he said simply.
“Someone you love?”
“There’s different kinds of love,” said Pete, almost defensively. Joe nodded his understanding and quickly put the topic to rest. He continued to silently look through the pages of the notebook, and Pete watched him from the corner of his eye. After quite a while the faintest laugh passed Pete’s lips and Joe glanced over at him, curious.
“Do you love Patrick?” Pete suddenly inquired.
Joe was certain he must have misheard the question. “Pardon?”
“Do you love him?” Pete repeated, without any hint of remorse.
“I - Well of course I do, Pete. Don’t ask stupid questions.” Joe tried to look as annoyed as possible as he returned his attention to the notebook, but he couldn’t deny the strong feeling of guilt that had begun to envelope him. Yes, he did love Patrick, but he knew that their feelings for each other would never be quite right; deep down he knew that he was just experimenting, just trying his luck. He was also fairly certain, at this point, that Pete was aware of their situation - at least on a subconscious level.
But before Joe could become too frustrated with Pete’s straight-forwardness, a new voice rang out from across the field: “Joe! Hey! I got your text message! I came as soon as I could!” Joe squinted up against the sun to see the approaching visitor, though he needn’t, really; it was Patrick, and he was in high spirits. Joe thought he heard a heavy sigh escape from Pete, but he hardly gave it a second thought.
“How did you get out of work so early?” Joe called, relieved to have a distraction. He stood quickly, setting Pete’s notebook aside. Patrick was in close range now, and it wasn’t long before Joe’s arms were around him.
“I, uh, quit work, actually,” Patrick said, his head now on Joe’s shoulder. He waved briefly behind his boyfriend’s back to the boy on the ground, but Pete’s gaze was focused elsewhere; already, he was bereft of his cheer.
“You quit?” Joe echoed.
“Yep. Told my parents I was sick of it, basically. What I didn’t tell them was that I sent my application to Barnes & Noble yesterday.” He grinned. Joe laughed. Pete coughed. “So what did you need me for? Your text just said to come to the soccer field when I got a chance.”
“I didn’t think you’d actually come. But I just… wanted to see you again. A day’s too long to be apart.”
Patrick smiled brightly and hugged Joe close before leaning up to bring their lips together. Pete was still avoiding looking at either one, and there was a sort of fury in his eyes that would have been evident if anyone had taken the time to look at him. He told himself that he was just angry because he had opened up to Joe and been forgotten about rather quickly. And sure, that made sense. But somewhere in the back of his head a tiny voice was secretly growling, “Our kiss didn’t last that long.”
The boy was so terribly caught up in hating his predicament, and hating Joe, and hating Patrick, and hating any public display of affection whatsoever, that he hardly noticed when the other two began to walk away, hand-in-hand. He watched them go and didn’t even bother calling out to remind them of his presence. He doubted they cared, anyway.
And in this mess of self-loathing and unhappiness, he slumped up against the bleachers and dragged the notebook onto his lap, flipping it open to a blank page. He retrieved a pen from his pile of belongings and wrote one sentence across the top… nothing more, nothing less. He stared at the words for a long while after the other boys had disappeared, perhaps only because the reality of what he’d written scared him so much.
I wish that I was as invisible as you make me feel.
“I need to be invisible,” he announced to the empty field. “I need to be erased.”
Summary : The most popular boy in school walks through the door of a local shop. In the time it takes for him to walk back out, he's done something that will drastically change his entire world.
Author :
burgerking. I claim nothing but the story itself!Rating : PG-13ish.
Author's Notes : You'll notice this chapter is terribly melodramatic. It works.
01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05
It was a fine spring afternoon in Chicago. The sun shone cordially on the city below, and the soft wind made the air feel oh-so-temperate. It was the sort of day when the nerds could stay inside and blog about how pretty the world looked from their window, all while avoiding the actual experience.
Strangely enough, one particular nerd was indeed outside, sitting in his high school soccer field. And - even stranger - he was with a friend.
“What the hell are you doing?” he yelled across the field, a look of disgust on his face.
The thin athlete at the opposite end ceased his actions, looked over his shoulder and smiled at the other boy. “Well, see, this is what you call a soccer ball.” He stooped down to pick up the black and white ball, then proceeded to toss it up and catch it in one hand a few times. “And what you do with this is try to get it in the goal… That’s the big net at the end.”
“Thrilling,” mumbled the other, as his friend steadily approached him.
“Come on, don’t be like that. It’s fun! I promise!”
Then the athlete’s face lit up almost as brightly as the sun itself: ah, there was that one-of-a-kind Pete Wentz smile, followed shortly by the equally unique Joe Trohman scowl.
“I didn’t come here to be converted to the Church of Soccer,” Joe said shortly, and Pete tried hard not to smirk at the god-awful joke.
“Yeah, okay, I know,” he said, and strolled over to the bleachers with Joe not far behind. He set his ball down beside the rest of his possessions that he’d set down earlier; Joe looked keenly at the notebook that sat there.
The fact of the matter was that lately, he and Pete had been hanging out a lot for the sake of Patrick. Joe wanted to learn to like his boyfriend’s best friend, and Pete wanted to be sure that Patrick had a worthy companion. In the time that they’d spent together, Joe had found a curious little spark in Pete that intrigued him. There was a certain depth that was apparent every now and then; this other side of Pete was present whenever he was scribbling away in his notebook.
Pete, shy about his fascination with writing, had never previously agreed to let anyone see his drabbles… not even Patrick. But finally, for whatever reason, he allowed Joe to read them on the grounds that they would visit the soccer field together. Naturally, Joe complied.
And now that playtime was over for Pete, it was his duty to spill his guts. Slowly, hesitantly, he sat on the warm grass with his notebook in his lap and his back against the bleachers. He patted the spot beside him welcomingly and Joe sat, attempting to conceal his anxiousness.
“Okay,” Pete breathed nervously, his eyes on the faded cover of the notebook. “You said you wanted to see some of my writing?”
“You know that’s what I came here for,” Joe replied. Pete frowned, his fingertips gently digging into the sides of the notebook. Joe, far too impatient to deal with Pete’s emotional needs, waited only for a moment or two before leaning over and tearing the book away. No words were said, but Pete adopted the saddest look Joe had ever seen from the boy; it was almost startling, and he immediately delved into the notebook in order to ignore it.
The words were everywhere. Some were written properly in the lines, some were in the margins, upside down, sideways… Some were written carefully, neatly, as though Pete had thought long and hard about them. Some were scribbled so untidily that Joe doubted anyone would ever know what they said. Several pages into the fascinating mess, Joe stopped and began to read what looked like the beginning of a poem. The paper read:
I keep my jealousy close / 'cause it's all mine. / And if you say this makes you happy, / then I'm not the only one lying.
From then on it was illegible. Joe’s eyes shifted to the corner of the paper, where one verse had been scribbled in obvious haste:
Is this more than you bargained for yet? / Oh, don't mind me, I'm watching you two from the closet, / wishing to be the friction in your jeans. / Isn't it messed up, how I'm just dying to be him?
“…Pete,” Joe said abruptly, in nothing above a whisper, “Who are these poems about?”
Pete shifted away uncomfortably and shrugged, his eyes on the grass. “Someone important to me,” he said simply.
“Someone you love?”
“There’s different kinds of love,” said Pete, almost defensively. Joe nodded his understanding and quickly put the topic to rest. He continued to silently look through the pages of the notebook, and Pete watched him from the corner of his eye. After quite a while the faintest laugh passed Pete’s lips and Joe glanced over at him, curious.
“Do you love Patrick?” Pete suddenly inquired.
Joe was certain he must have misheard the question. “Pardon?”
“Do you love him?” Pete repeated, without any hint of remorse.
“I - Well of course I do, Pete. Don’t ask stupid questions.” Joe tried to look as annoyed as possible as he returned his attention to the notebook, but he couldn’t deny the strong feeling of guilt that had begun to envelope him. Yes, he did love Patrick, but he knew that their feelings for each other would never be quite right; deep down he knew that he was just experimenting, just trying his luck. He was also fairly certain, at this point, that Pete was aware of their situation - at least on a subconscious level.
But before Joe could become too frustrated with Pete’s straight-forwardness, a new voice rang out from across the field: “Joe! Hey! I got your text message! I came as soon as I could!” Joe squinted up against the sun to see the approaching visitor, though he needn’t, really; it was Patrick, and he was in high spirits. Joe thought he heard a heavy sigh escape from Pete, but he hardly gave it a second thought.
“How did you get out of work so early?” Joe called, relieved to have a distraction. He stood quickly, setting Pete’s notebook aside. Patrick was in close range now, and it wasn’t long before Joe’s arms were around him.
“I, uh, quit work, actually,” Patrick said, his head now on Joe’s shoulder. He waved briefly behind his boyfriend’s back to the boy on the ground, but Pete’s gaze was focused elsewhere; already, he was bereft of his cheer.
“You quit?” Joe echoed.
“Yep. Told my parents I was sick of it, basically. What I didn’t tell them was that I sent my application to Barnes & Noble yesterday.” He grinned. Joe laughed. Pete coughed. “So what did you need me for? Your text just said to come to the soccer field when I got a chance.”
“I didn’t think you’d actually come. But I just… wanted to see you again. A day’s too long to be apart.”
Patrick smiled brightly and hugged Joe close before leaning up to bring their lips together. Pete was still avoiding looking at either one, and there was a sort of fury in his eyes that would have been evident if anyone had taken the time to look at him. He told himself that he was just angry because he had opened up to Joe and been forgotten about rather quickly. And sure, that made sense. But somewhere in the back of his head a tiny voice was secretly growling, “Our kiss didn’t last that long.”
The boy was so terribly caught up in hating his predicament, and hating Joe, and hating Patrick, and hating any public display of affection whatsoever, that he hardly noticed when the other two began to walk away, hand-in-hand. He watched them go and didn’t even bother calling out to remind them of his presence. He doubted they cared, anyway.
And in this mess of self-loathing and unhappiness, he slumped up against the bleachers and dragged the notebook onto his lap, flipping it open to a blank page. He retrieved a pen from his pile of belongings and wrote one sentence across the top… nothing more, nothing less. He stared at the words for a long while after the other boys had disappeared, perhaps only because the reality of what he’d written scared him so much.
I wish that I was as invisible as you make me feel.
“I need to be invisible,” he announced to the empty field. “I need to be erased.”