Ten Memories I Wish I Didn't Have (1/1)
Title: Ten Memories I Wish I Didn't Have.
Summary: Patrick writes a letter to the future inhabitant of his Chicago apartment. There are a few things (ten, as a matter of fact) that he wants to say about Peter Wentz.
Author: FICTION by
burgerking.
Rating: PG-13. Bad words and harmless drama.
Author's Notes: This is supposed to be an informal letter (think "diary entry") and therefore the grammar is not perfect. Also, it's a bit detatched in places and there are gaps.. this was also intentional.
It's mostly unbeta'd. Let me know if you'd like to beta for me in the future.
Dear Stranger;
I know that a letter beneath the floorboard isn’t exactly the most poetic way to immortalize the story of my life, but bear with me here. The dirty walls of your apartment have seen a lot in their time, and it only felt right for me to leave my mark before I left. So let me start with the basics.
My name is Patrick Stump.
Patrick Martin Stump, if you want to get technical.
And Patrick Martin Stumph if you’re my mom.
I used to live here (where you are, presumably.) More importantly, I used to be in a band. Maybe I still am. Who knows? Who cares?
The one thing that I want to make perfectly clear to you, my reader, is that I didn’t ask for this. Any of this. I never really dreamt of being “famous.” I joined a band to make music, that’s it. And kinda-maybe-sort of, I’d go back to the way it was before if I could. I never wanted a life like this, and I never wanted to fall in love with my best friend.
Honestly, it still doesn’t make much sense to me now, and I doubt that writing down every little detail will make it easier on you, either. Ever since Pete entered the picture, everything in my life has been blurred together. So I’ll pick things out. The important moments. The big ones.
From the very beginning, I could have told you that Pete Wentz was handsome. I mean, yeah, its one of those things that you’re aware of, but you don’t really think anything of it. It's like when your best friend has a birthmark or a scar or something. You get used to it. You get over it. You never expect to wake up one day and start ridiculing the poor kid about it. And I never expected that Pete’s good looks would ever manage to make me weak in the knees, or that his obnoxiously bright smile would have my stomach doing back-flips.
01. I remember the first time I kissed him. We had just finished a huge show (huge by our old standards, at least) and it was just pure energy and adrenaline and disbelief between us. We were laughing, grinning, absolutely certain that our performance had all been a dream. And then he hugged me -- which was perfectly normal, and perfectly cool. At the time, I wouldn’t have even called it a “hug” so much as a manly embrace. We were just so utterly ecstatic and proud of each other.
But in the middle of it all -- I still don’t know why -- I looked up at him, and he looked down at me. And maybe it was just a matter of timing, but somehow or another, my lips found their way to his.
You know how people always say that their first kiss with their partner just felt so right? Yeah. This wasn’t like that at all. The whole thing was so sudden, I couldn’t piece together a single coherent thought. No, it didn’t feel “right,” it felt like the most confusing ten seconds of my life!
When the whole miserable thing was over, we both stepped back. Okay, the moment was over and done with, and now it was time to talk about it. Unfortunately, the only word I could get out was his name… which is pretty ironic, considering that I usually never shut up. And on the other hand, Pete was completely speechless… which is also ironic, considering that he’s made a living off of telling me what to say.
The next week or two or whatever after that was a bit awkward for us. We didn’t want to suddenly part ways, but we also certainly didn’t want to be mature and confront the topic head on. So for the most part, we were quiet; a forced laugh here or there, and a “hello” on the side.
But then one day, Pete brought me a pizza, and it was over. Done. Fixed.
See, for as much as everyone thinks that Pete is good at talking things through… he’s not. And for as much as everyone thinks that he’s a selfish prick… he’s not (usually.) His fool-proof way of saying “I’m sorry” was to buy a pizza. Things were always pretty much fixed after he bought one… Don’t ask me why. They just were. You couldn’t turn down Pete Wentz and a pizza.
02. I also remember the first time sparks flew, the first time anything had any real meaning between us. Before and after that first kiss of ours, we had been friends… just friends. I didn’t think of him as any more (or any less.) And just when things were back to normal again, we had a fight in the studio.
Maybe it was about lyrics. That much, I can’t remember. One of us had said something that had just pushed the other one over the edge… and again, I can’t remember it. See, that’s what I mean about the moments that blur together -- moments like this, moments like those on the stage. But there are some that still stand out, like what happened next.
We’d been fighting pretty intensely (which isn’t really saying much, when you look at our fighting abilities) and there we were, staring each other down, panting and sweating from the summer heat… maybe it was sexy, or maybe it was just gross. In any case, Pete grabbed me by the collar and God, I was so sure he was going to kill me right then and there.
But he didn’t. He just stood there, choking on his own breath like he really wanted to kill me, but then decided last second that he’d do second-best and kiss me, instead. It was different from the first time; We were both pissed at each other, and his lips were so much more demanding, aggressive. True, I was as confused as ever with this kiss, but admittedly, I was kind of frightened, too. Oh, yeah, and there was one other thing -- For one reason or another, I didn’t want it to end. We were kissing just as hard and as passionately as we had been punching each other, and this was definitely the better of the two.
This time when we pulled away, Pete actually spoke. “I don’t want to have to buy another pizza,” he said. I told him that it was okay.
03. I guess it goes without saying that I can remember the first time we had sex… and just for the record? I’ve always felt that it’s a pretty ordinary thing that gets incredibly hyped up. So I’m not going to talk too much about the sex, but I will say that it was really weird the first time. And pretty painful, too.
I didn’t know (still don’t) if Pete had ever slept with a guy before me. This was the one thing that we never really discussed. It was like an unspoken agreement between the two of us -- we do not talk about Pete’s sex life. So, yeah, going into it the first time… I was absolutely terrified.
Our actual first go was far from perfect. The whole time, part of me kept thinking that it was just so undeniably wrong, among other things. But there were some moments, in between the screaming and gasping (both in pain and pleasure, mind you) that made everything seem okay. Moments that showed me that we weren’t just fucking, we were really making love. Moments like when Pete would press one of his genuine kisses onto my neck, just to show me that he knew this was scary for me, but that he knew it was good for me, too.
And I suppose it was good for me. In more ways than one.
When it was over, I curled up against Pete’s side and I just laughed. I knew that it was completely inappropriate, I even tried to bury my face in his chest to stifle the laughter, but it didn’t work. I’m not even really sure why I started, but I just couldn’t stop. And it wasn’t long before he figured out that it was okay. So he started laughing, too.
I think it’s important to note that in retrospect, there was something else that didn’t take him very long to figure out. This was the fact that he could crawl into my lap whenever I was reading or writing or whatever, then force those big, pouting lips on mine, and get me into bed, one-two-three. It works every time.
04. On a different note, I think I’ll always remember when we had our first falling out. (And yes, that pun was absolutely intended.) When it happened, Pete and I had been… well… I wouldn’t call it “dating,” but we had definitely been doing something for a few months.
And I remember that it happened during our down time. The band wasn’t touring, but naturally, Pete and I were hanging out together anyway. See, I didn’t really like being outside of Chicago, so every time I was ‘living’ in my LA home, I was pretty much crashing on his floor every night. It was kind of like our first days of touring. In a weird, twisted sort of way.
And so I was at his place one day, amusing myself with his Xbox, and he had another friend over, too. A girl. I won’t name any names… hopefully by the time you read this, the whole thing will have blown over. But whatever. There was a girl. And she was going with Pete to a club that night.
Everything was normal up to that point. I didn’t care that they were leaving, I was just playing that damn Xbox. Really, all that I was concerned with at the time was my dwindling health bar. But then I heard (or saw, or sensed) that Pete was getting nervous. I instinctively hit the pause button. Eavesdropped.
“C’mon, madam, let me take your hand,” Pete was saying. He extended his palm to the girl, with his other hand on the doorknob. She giggled.
“Pete!” she exclaimed, “What? Why?”
“Just because. It’s polite. I’m a polite dude.”
She laughed again and, with just a hint of defiance, slapped her dainty little hand into his rough one. He grinned -- it wasn’t a real grin -- and then they left. In the split second before the door swung shut, I heard shouts, beckoning for the two tabloid heroes to look “this way! This way!” And then there were shutters. Lots of shutters.
He got home (late) after dropping her off at her own place. She had asked him if he wanted to spend the night (“Totally platonic,” she had insisted, though he had put his arm around her for the walk to her door.) Pete had opted, instead, to come home. I was waiting for him there.
There was no time wasted in ambushing him as soon as he stepped in the front door. “Hey, what happened earlier?” I asked. He didn’t answer me, just shrugged. I followed him up the stairs. “Hey,” I said, firmly this time, “Don’t do that. I’m serious. You know better than I do not to pull something like that in front of the paparazzi.”
“Something like what,” he said, not really asking. He took off his shirt. Climbed into bed. I answered him anyway.
“Holding hands like that? With a girl? People will start talking.”
“I’ve already told the kids I’m not seeing her.”
“And they’ve said that they’ll believe it when they see it!” By now I was getting pissed, and I didn’t even know about the arm-around-waist pictures (which leaked the next day.) “So just what, exactly, were you thinking, Pete? People should be talking about what a cute couple we are, not you and your latest Hollywood buddy.” Pete turned on his side. Another shrug. And then it hit me. “You’re actually trying to cover us up, aren’t you?”
Nothing.
“Yes. Yes, you are.” I walked around to the other side of the bed to see his face. “Pete,” I said, totally disbelieving, “I want to tell the world! I want to climb up on the roof and fucking scream that I’m in love with you. The next time we’re on MTV, I want to flash an engagement ring.” (This was only a half-lie.) “But you… You want to cover us up?” He didn’t answer me, and that told me what I needed to know. I was devastated. “Tell me what I really mean to you, Pete. Tell me right now.”
But there was only more silence.
I left for Chicago in the morning.
05. I remember that Pete sent me pizza coupons every day for two weeks after that fight. Never any letters, just 50% off at the pizza place down the street from his old house. Across the envelope, he always scrawled the words “Apologies via priority mail.”
I never had the heart to tell them that the coupons had already expired.
06. I remember Pete’s parties -- which were as miserable as they were frequent. I knew, I always knew, that a party would be a bad idea. But I never did tell Pete that. Not even when he would find himself hunched over a toilet, leaving me with the job of rubbing his back and trying to get everyone to leave in a somewhat-orderly fashion. Not even when he’d get into fights, and I’d have to get him an ice pack at sit with him the next day while he pouted.
So it was one day, while I was nursing a wound from one of the aforementioned fights (“Damn it Pete, it wouldn’t sting so bad if you’d stop moving!”) that I suddenly realized where, exactly, my place in Pete’s life was. You see, the kid was (is) a complete mess, heading down a path of self destruction when left to his own devices. So he needs someone to keep him going steady, even if that means tough love.
I decided, after that moment of realization, that Pete could keep his fake relationships and his socially-crippling parties and his self-deprecating blog entries. Why? Because, at the end of the day, I knew that he would stumble back onto the bus or into the hotel or maybe just pick up the phone and then cling to his best friend for hope and help and everything else.
07. I remember when Pete and I first talked about all of that. About how I was like his mother in some ways, and his boyfriend in others. He had laughed and told me that he hoped it was more of the latter.
We were lying together on a roof in Chicago. I remember that although it was a clear night, we couldn’t really see the stars because of the streetlights. But we could pretend. We were getting pretty good at that. And it was all we could do, really; anywhere else and we would be pestered by photographers and starry-eyed girls. The roof, for that night, was not part of the real world. Just a little bubble called Peter and Patrick.
I had my ego working that night, I guess, because I went off on a pseudo-intelligent speech about how I had figured us out. How I had come to understand my role in his life. But take note that this wasn’t usually how our dynamic worked: Pete was more often the one going on about some supposedly deep moment of realization, and I always had to cut in and offer him a fresh perspective. So maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised when Pete stepped in to bring up something that I had forgotten.
At the end of my rant, he said “Okay,” in a way that simply drove me crazy. I knew that the rusty old gears in his head were turning.
“What, Pete?”
“Nothing. Nothing, Trick. It’s just...” He sat up and smiled (at the sky, not at me) and then said, “You left out the part about how you need me just as much as I need you.”
That line was a fucking knock out. I was speechless for a minute, trying to decide which one of us was being more arrogant: me or him?
But he plowed on. “You know that you would be lost without me. Not even ‘lost’… I mean, I’m pretty sure that you’re following a map. So I guess you’d just be stalled on the side of the road.” (At this, I tried to conceal the fact that his cheesy metaphors always put giddy knots in my stomach.) “Basically, what I’m trying to say is that without me, you wouldn’t take any chances on yourself. You wouldn’t put your talent out there for everyone to see unless I was there, pushing you along. You do need me, Trick, you really do. For every time that you’ve saved my dignity, I think I’ve saved your happiness.”
And that broke me. I socked him hard in the face (okay, maybe not-so-hard) and stormed a few feet away. Honestly, it was a pretty jackass move, but I didn’t want to think about the fact that maybe I really did need him.
So I stood there silent, unwilling to admit defeat, with my back to him and arms crossed. He just watched, didn’t even reach up to rub his sore cheek. During this little intermission of ours, I mulled over what he had said. No, Pete, I’m not the same kid I was in high school! I know that I can make music and people will listen! But yes, Pete, you are the reason that I’ve changed. You are the reason that I love my life.
I turned around and I bet my eyes hurt him just as badly as I was hurting myself. “You’re right,” was all I said, and he took this as a cue to get up and (finally) approach me. We hugged. One of those oh my god, I’m so afraid of losing you, I don’t ever want to let go sort of hugs.
“I didn’t mean to piss you off, Patrick.”
“I know. I’m sorry. That was stupid of me.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“I’m sorry. Again. Does this mean that I owe you a pizza?”
“No, that’s my thing, you can’t take that away from me. Find your own way to apologize.”
And needless to say, the sex that night was great.
08. There’s something else that I remember. Just a feeling, more than anything. The night when Pete’s cheeks had stained with his eyeliner, along with all of the tears that had caused it to run.
I remember him pleading, “Don’t Patrick, please. Don’t.”
And I remember telling him something as I walked out the door, something about “letting things go,” and “someday you’ll grow up,” and “ I’ve found someone else.”
We were band-mates after that. Best friends, maybe. But I learned to forget how his lips felt when they were pressed firmly against my own.
09. I remember something that happened just a few minutes ago. My boyfriend of three weeks came in to help me with the last of these boxes. (He hasn’t asked me why I’ve chosen to move out… and for that, I’m glad. Nothing says “completely insane” like being unable to live somewhere because it reminds you too much of someone who you see almost every day anyway.)
But I guess I just wanted to mention that just moments ago he came in here and asked me, “Patrick, how about I treat you to some pizza?”
And I told him no thanks. Because really, I never liked pizza. I only liked the sentiments attached.
10. On that note, I can still remember one quiet night, a long time ago, when Pete (who had been curled up against me at the time) used the word “forever.” And I guess, maybe, I’m still holding him to that.
With Love,
Patrick
Summary: Patrick writes a letter to the future inhabitant of his Chicago apartment. There are a few things (ten, as a matter of fact) that he wants to say about Peter Wentz.
Author: FICTION by
burgerking.Rating: PG-13. Bad words and harmless drama.
Author's Notes: This is supposed to be an informal letter (think "diary entry") and therefore the grammar is not perfect. Also, it's a bit detatched in places and there are gaps.. this was also intentional.
It's mostly unbeta'd. Let me know if you'd like to beta for me in the future.
Dear Stranger;
I know that a letter beneath the floorboard isn’t exactly the most poetic way to immortalize the story of my life, but bear with me here. The dirty walls of your apartment have seen a lot in their time, and it only felt right for me to leave my mark before I left. So let me start with the basics.
My name is Patrick Stump.
Patrick Martin Stump, if you want to get technical.
And Patrick Martin Stumph if you’re my mom.
I used to live here (where you are, presumably.) More importantly, I used to be in a band. Maybe I still am. Who knows? Who cares?
The one thing that I want to make perfectly clear to you, my reader, is that I didn’t ask for this. Any of this. I never really dreamt of being “famous.” I joined a band to make music, that’s it. And kinda-maybe-sort of, I’d go back to the way it was before if I could. I never wanted a life like this, and I never wanted to fall in love with my best friend.
Honestly, it still doesn’t make much sense to me now, and I doubt that writing down every little detail will make it easier on you, either. Ever since Pete entered the picture, everything in my life has been blurred together. So I’ll pick things out. The important moments. The big ones.
From the very beginning, I could have told you that Pete Wentz was handsome. I mean, yeah, its one of those things that you’re aware of, but you don’t really think anything of it. It's like when your best friend has a birthmark or a scar or something. You get used to it. You get over it. You never expect to wake up one day and start ridiculing the poor kid about it. And I never expected that Pete’s good looks would ever manage to make me weak in the knees, or that his obnoxiously bright smile would have my stomach doing back-flips.
01. I remember the first time I kissed him. We had just finished a huge show (huge by our old standards, at least) and it was just pure energy and adrenaline and disbelief between us. We were laughing, grinning, absolutely certain that our performance had all been a dream. And then he hugged me -- which was perfectly normal, and perfectly cool. At the time, I wouldn’t have even called it a “hug” so much as a manly embrace. We were just so utterly ecstatic and proud of each other.
But in the middle of it all -- I still don’t know why -- I looked up at him, and he looked down at me. And maybe it was just a matter of timing, but somehow or another, my lips found their way to his.
You know how people always say that their first kiss with their partner just felt so right? Yeah. This wasn’t like that at all. The whole thing was so sudden, I couldn’t piece together a single coherent thought. No, it didn’t feel “right,” it felt like the most confusing ten seconds of my life!
When the whole miserable thing was over, we both stepped back. Okay, the moment was over and done with, and now it was time to talk about it. Unfortunately, the only word I could get out was his name… which is pretty ironic, considering that I usually never shut up. And on the other hand, Pete was completely speechless… which is also ironic, considering that he’s made a living off of telling me what to say.
The next week or two or whatever after that was a bit awkward for us. We didn’t want to suddenly part ways, but we also certainly didn’t want to be mature and confront the topic head on. So for the most part, we were quiet; a forced laugh here or there, and a “hello” on the side.
But then one day, Pete brought me a pizza, and it was over. Done. Fixed.
See, for as much as everyone thinks that Pete is good at talking things through… he’s not. And for as much as everyone thinks that he’s a selfish prick… he’s not (usually.) His fool-proof way of saying “I’m sorry” was to buy a pizza. Things were always pretty much fixed after he bought one… Don’t ask me why. They just were. You couldn’t turn down Pete Wentz and a pizza.
02. I also remember the first time sparks flew, the first time anything had any real meaning between us. Before and after that first kiss of ours, we had been friends… just friends. I didn’t think of him as any more (or any less.) And just when things were back to normal again, we had a fight in the studio.
Maybe it was about lyrics. That much, I can’t remember. One of us had said something that had just pushed the other one over the edge… and again, I can’t remember it. See, that’s what I mean about the moments that blur together -- moments like this, moments like those on the stage. But there are some that still stand out, like what happened next.
We’d been fighting pretty intensely (which isn’t really saying much, when you look at our fighting abilities) and there we were, staring each other down, panting and sweating from the summer heat… maybe it was sexy, or maybe it was just gross. In any case, Pete grabbed me by the collar and God, I was so sure he was going to kill me right then and there.
But he didn’t. He just stood there, choking on his own breath like he really wanted to kill me, but then decided last second that he’d do second-best and kiss me, instead. It was different from the first time; We were both pissed at each other, and his lips were so much more demanding, aggressive. True, I was as confused as ever with this kiss, but admittedly, I was kind of frightened, too. Oh, yeah, and there was one other thing -- For one reason or another, I didn’t want it to end. We were kissing just as hard and as passionately as we had been punching each other, and this was definitely the better of the two.
This time when we pulled away, Pete actually spoke. “I don’t want to have to buy another pizza,” he said. I told him that it was okay.
03. I guess it goes without saying that I can remember the first time we had sex… and just for the record? I’ve always felt that it’s a pretty ordinary thing that gets incredibly hyped up. So I’m not going to talk too much about the sex, but I will say that it was really weird the first time. And pretty painful, too.
I didn’t know (still don’t) if Pete had ever slept with a guy before me. This was the one thing that we never really discussed. It was like an unspoken agreement between the two of us -- we do not talk about Pete’s sex life. So, yeah, going into it the first time… I was absolutely terrified.
Our actual first go was far from perfect. The whole time, part of me kept thinking that it was just so undeniably wrong, among other things. But there were some moments, in between the screaming and gasping (both in pain and pleasure, mind you) that made everything seem okay. Moments that showed me that we weren’t just fucking, we were really making love. Moments like when Pete would press one of his genuine kisses onto my neck, just to show me that he knew this was scary for me, but that he knew it was good for me, too.
And I suppose it was good for me. In more ways than one.
When it was over, I curled up against Pete’s side and I just laughed. I knew that it was completely inappropriate, I even tried to bury my face in his chest to stifle the laughter, but it didn’t work. I’m not even really sure why I started, but I just couldn’t stop. And it wasn’t long before he figured out that it was okay. So he started laughing, too.
I think it’s important to note that in retrospect, there was something else that didn’t take him very long to figure out. This was the fact that he could crawl into my lap whenever I was reading or writing or whatever, then force those big, pouting lips on mine, and get me into bed, one-two-three. It works every time.
04. On a different note, I think I’ll always remember when we had our first falling out. (And yes, that pun was absolutely intended.) When it happened, Pete and I had been… well… I wouldn’t call it “dating,” but we had definitely been doing something for a few months.
And I remember that it happened during our down time. The band wasn’t touring, but naturally, Pete and I were hanging out together anyway. See, I didn’t really like being outside of Chicago, so every time I was ‘living’ in my LA home, I was pretty much crashing on his floor every night. It was kind of like our first days of touring. In a weird, twisted sort of way.
And so I was at his place one day, amusing myself with his Xbox, and he had another friend over, too. A girl. I won’t name any names… hopefully by the time you read this, the whole thing will have blown over. But whatever. There was a girl. And she was going with Pete to a club that night.
Everything was normal up to that point. I didn’t care that they were leaving, I was just playing that damn Xbox. Really, all that I was concerned with at the time was my dwindling health bar. But then I heard (or saw, or sensed) that Pete was getting nervous. I instinctively hit the pause button. Eavesdropped.
“C’mon, madam, let me take your hand,” Pete was saying. He extended his palm to the girl, with his other hand on the doorknob. She giggled.
“Pete!” she exclaimed, “What? Why?”
“Just because. It’s polite. I’m a polite dude.”
She laughed again and, with just a hint of defiance, slapped her dainty little hand into his rough one. He grinned -- it wasn’t a real grin -- and then they left. In the split second before the door swung shut, I heard shouts, beckoning for the two tabloid heroes to look “this way! This way!” And then there were shutters. Lots of shutters.
He got home (late) after dropping her off at her own place. She had asked him if he wanted to spend the night (“Totally platonic,” she had insisted, though he had put his arm around her for the walk to her door.) Pete had opted, instead, to come home. I was waiting for him there.
There was no time wasted in ambushing him as soon as he stepped in the front door. “Hey, what happened earlier?” I asked. He didn’t answer me, just shrugged. I followed him up the stairs. “Hey,” I said, firmly this time, “Don’t do that. I’m serious. You know better than I do not to pull something like that in front of the paparazzi.”
“Something like what,” he said, not really asking. He took off his shirt. Climbed into bed. I answered him anyway.
“Holding hands like that? With a girl? People will start talking.”
“I’ve already told the kids I’m not seeing her.”
“And they’ve said that they’ll believe it when they see it!” By now I was getting pissed, and I didn’t even know about the arm-around-waist pictures (which leaked the next day.) “So just what, exactly, were you thinking, Pete? People should be talking about what a cute couple we are, not you and your latest Hollywood buddy.” Pete turned on his side. Another shrug. And then it hit me. “You’re actually trying to cover us up, aren’t you?”
Nothing.
“Yes. Yes, you are.” I walked around to the other side of the bed to see his face. “Pete,” I said, totally disbelieving, “I want to tell the world! I want to climb up on the roof and fucking scream that I’m in love with you. The next time we’re on MTV, I want to flash an engagement ring.” (This was only a half-lie.) “But you… You want to cover us up?” He didn’t answer me, and that told me what I needed to know. I was devastated. “Tell me what I really mean to you, Pete. Tell me right now.”
But there was only more silence.
I left for Chicago in the morning.
05. I remember that Pete sent me pizza coupons every day for two weeks after that fight. Never any letters, just 50% off at the pizza place down the street from his old house. Across the envelope, he always scrawled the words “Apologies via priority mail.”
I never had the heart to tell them that the coupons had already expired.
06. I remember Pete’s parties -- which were as miserable as they were frequent. I knew, I always knew, that a party would be a bad idea. But I never did tell Pete that. Not even when he would find himself hunched over a toilet, leaving me with the job of rubbing his back and trying to get everyone to leave in a somewhat-orderly fashion. Not even when he’d get into fights, and I’d have to get him an ice pack at sit with him the next day while he pouted.
So it was one day, while I was nursing a wound from one of the aforementioned fights (“Damn it Pete, it wouldn’t sting so bad if you’d stop moving!”) that I suddenly realized where, exactly, my place in Pete’s life was. You see, the kid was (is) a complete mess, heading down a path of self destruction when left to his own devices. So he needs someone to keep him going steady, even if that means tough love.
I decided, after that moment of realization, that Pete could keep his fake relationships and his socially-crippling parties and his self-deprecating blog entries. Why? Because, at the end of the day, I knew that he would stumble back onto the bus or into the hotel or maybe just pick up the phone and then cling to his best friend for hope and help and everything else.
07. I remember when Pete and I first talked about all of that. About how I was like his mother in some ways, and his boyfriend in others. He had laughed and told me that he hoped it was more of the latter.
We were lying together on a roof in Chicago. I remember that although it was a clear night, we couldn’t really see the stars because of the streetlights. But we could pretend. We were getting pretty good at that. And it was all we could do, really; anywhere else and we would be pestered by photographers and starry-eyed girls. The roof, for that night, was not part of the real world. Just a little bubble called Peter and Patrick.
I had my ego working that night, I guess, because I went off on a pseudo-intelligent speech about how I had figured us out. How I had come to understand my role in his life. But take note that this wasn’t usually how our dynamic worked: Pete was more often the one going on about some supposedly deep moment of realization, and I always had to cut in and offer him a fresh perspective. So maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised when Pete stepped in to bring up something that I had forgotten.
At the end of my rant, he said “Okay,” in a way that simply drove me crazy. I knew that the rusty old gears in his head were turning.
“What, Pete?”
“Nothing. Nothing, Trick. It’s just...” He sat up and smiled (at the sky, not at me) and then said, “You left out the part about how you need me just as much as I need you.”
That line was a fucking knock out. I was speechless for a minute, trying to decide which one of us was being more arrogant: me or him?
But he plowed on. “You know that you would be lost without me. Not even ‘lost’… I mean, I’m pretty sure that you’re following a map. So I guess you’d just be stalled on the side of the road.” (At this, I tried to conceal the fact that his cheesy metaphors always put giddy knots in my stomach.) “Basically, what I’m trying to say is that without me, you wouldn’t take any chances on yourself. You wouldn’t put your talent out there for everyone to see unless I was there, pushing you along. You do need me, Trick, you really do. For every time that you’ve saved my dignity, I think I’ve saved your happiness.”
And that broke me. I socked him hard in the face (okay, maybe not-so-hard) and stormed a few feet away. Honestly, it was a pretty jackass move, but I didn’t want to think about the fact that maybe I really did need him.
So I stood there silent, unwilling to admit defeat, with my back to him and arms crossed. He just watched, didn’t even reach up to rub his sore cheek. During this little intermission of ours, I mulled over what he had said. No, Pete, I’m not the same kid I was in high school! I know that I can make music and people will listen! But yes, Pete, you are the reason that I’ve changed. You are the reason that I love my life.
I turned around and I bet my eyes hurt him just as badly as I was hurting myself. “You’re right,” was all I said, and he took this as a cue to get up and (finally) approach me. We hugged. One of those oh my god, I’m so afraid of losing you, I don’t ever want to let go sort of hugs.
“I didn’t mean to piss you off, Patrick.”
“I know. I’m sorry. That was stupid of me.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“I’m sorry. Again. Does this mean that I owe you a pizza?”
“No, that’s my thing, you can’t take that away from me. Find your own way to apologize.”
And needless to say, the sex that night was great.
08. There’s something else that I remember. Just a feeling, more than anything. The night when Pete’s cheeks had stained with his eyeliner, along with all of the tears that had caused it to run.
I remember him pleading, “Don’t Patrick, please. Don’t.”
And I remember telling him something as I walked out the door, something about “letting things go,” and “someday you’ll grow up,” and “ I’ve found someone else.”
We were band-mates after that. Best friends, maybe. But I learned to forget how his lips felt when they were pressed firmly against my own.
09. I remember something that happened just a few minutes ago. My boyfriend of three weeks came in to help me with the last of these boxes. (He hasn’t asked me why I’ve chosen to move out… and for that, I’m glad. Nothing says “completely insane” like being unable to live somewhere because it reminds you too much of someone who you see almost every day anyway.)
But I guess I just wanted to mention that just moments ago he came in here and asked me, “Patrick, how about I treat you to some pizza?”
And I told him no thanks. Because really, I never liked pizza. I only liked the sentiments attached.
10. On that note, I can still remember one quiet night, a long time ago, when Pete (who had been curled up against me at the time) used the word “forever.” And I guess, maybe, I’m still holding him to that.
With Love,
Patrick