First Son (2/7)
Title: First Son (2/?)
Author: cieluna
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Patrick/Pete, Spencer/Ryan, Ryan/Brendon, Gabe/William, Gerard & Mikey (no pairing)
POV: 3rd
Summary: A High-School AU featuring the boys of bandom. Pete Wentz is the son of the President of the United States of America and attends school at the same one that houses his own brand of Secret Service; Gabe Saporta and Brendon Urie. Unbeknownst to them, the existence of a Patrick Stump, Ryan Ross, Spencer Smith, William Beckett, Gerard and Mikey Way will change the way their lives will unfold. Chaos ensues and disrupts the once ordinary chain of status and popularity when a mundane Patrick Stump saves the life of a certain Pete Wentz.
Disclaimer: I don’t own anyone from the people that belong to the respective bands they represent. This is an AU.
Author Notes: This story is complete. It is all on paper and I am just transferring them onto the computer.
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven
Heaven smelled of blood and marshmallows. It’s either that or he was chosen to be the Devil’s playmate of the week. Patrick’s eyelids felt like it bore the weight of the world. The only thing he could distinguish with his terrible vision were the flashing red lights that further supported his theory that Hell was throwing him a pretty good welcoming party.
Patrick drew in a sharp gasp of air. It was quickly followed by short gusts of arrhythmic breathing and a series of coughs that besieged his entire body. Jolts of aches and throbs caused him to groan in reflex to the pain that was numbed by his earlier state of unconsciousness.
He tried to stand up when a hand that he hadn’t realized was holding some sort of bandage to his head increased the pressure on his wound, causing him to let out a loud cry of pain and fall back to the floor.
“Oh shit-sorry, it’s just-lie still-” Patrick almost defied this order when he realized who spoke to him. He also presumed that this was the genius who pressed the bandage too hard on his head that he felt like it ripped out a bigger hole.
Pete Wentz was alive. The fucking bugger was alive and Patrick didn’t have to singlehandedly shower books upon the Secret Service when they came to pick up Pete. Things must’ve turned in his favor after all, in between getting a hole to the head and what felt like disco beats of throbbing pain, that is.
“Where’s the fucking doctor-I said I’m alright-Patrick’s the one who needs help-Go!” Pete’s voice took on a forceful manner that was unlike him at all as he seemed to be ordering his appointed bodyguards to focus on someone other than the one they were assigned to take care of.
Slipping in and out of consciousness for a few seconds, Patrick still felt the frenzied activity in the room. Calls were being made, photographs were being taken; he was surprised that no one had managed to step on him in their hurry.
“Hey-hey, ‘Trick-” Pete was talking to him again and Patrick did his best to use the faltering voice as his anchor on the world of consciousness.
He gave a small grunt of irritation at the nickname but Pete must’ve mistaken it for one of assent.
“’Trick, what the fuck was that?” If Patrick had the energy, he wouldn’t have thought twice about rapping Pete on the side of the head for the stupid question. He was the one lying down on the floor with what definitely smelled like blood all over him yet Pete was asking him what had happened?
“You totally owned my bodyguards, ‘Trick! I mean-throwing an encyclopedia the asshole-bet they didn’t teach that back at Quantico-” Pete was obviously rambling now, giving Patrick the feeling that he was every bit as damaged as he was, just not in the same way.
“S’Caesar,” Patrick croaked out the muddled word, his first one after the incident.
Pete was struck dumb for a few seconds, as if the idea of Patrick replying to his senseless diatribe was unheard of.
“Wha’ssat?” Pete absentmindedly eased off the pressure on the wound and bent his head closer to Patrick’s, the edges of his uneven fringe tickled the latter’s ear.
He turned his head away to avoid it and strained to lift his head from Pete’s hand. The lack of force on his wound caused the blood to rush to his head, making Patrick gasp at the shock and feel his world start to twist and rotate.
Pete placed his hand on Patrick’s forehead and gave him a gentle push back on his lap. The return of Pete’s hand on the bandage gave him instant relief and he finally had the energy to answer the previous question properly.
“I said,” Patrick’s breathing was still too irregular and a continuous ache in his left hand started to make itself known, “it was Caesar-the book that saved your life.”
At Pete’s confused quirk of the brow, which he could clearly see because Pete’s face was mere centimeters away, Patrick sighed and tried to elaborate.
“The book I threw, it wasn’t an encyclopedia. ‘Was Caesar’s biography.”
Pete gave a small ‘oh’ of comprehension, fixing Patrick with a curious gaze. The view from Patrick’s position on the floor made Pete look so much older than he really is. His face hid so many sharp corners and dark bags under his eyes that Patrick was surprised to see that it had been there all along.
“Why’d you do it, ‘Trick?”
The question was simple enough, but the tone with which it was said made Patrick hold his tongue for a moment and ponder over the best possible reply.
“It was what anyone would’ve done,” he settled for the safest answer he could think of. Patrick didn’t know the guy at all, no matter how long he had thought about him or imagined what his real attitude would be like.
Pete gave a small snort and sat up straight, exiting Patrick’s line of vision for the first time. The surroundings looked unexpectedly empty without him, he realized.
A few drawn-out minutes passed and before he knew it, he was drifting off to a painless sleep.
**
Patrick had been woken up by an unbearable pang of hunger. Again gasping for air, he was surprised to find that he could actually sit himself up without feeling the need to sick up all his organs.
His blurred vision could only confirm that he was still inside Barnes and Noble but aside from that, there were only a few dark shapes and shadows that moved around the store.
Oddly enough, there was no mind-numbing pain in his head anymore. He reached over to feel his scalp when he realized that his left hand had been neatly bandaged and, upon inspection, so was his skull.
He squinted and struggled to locate his glasses, finally finding them next to one of his sneakers. After he put them on, he put up his knees in an attempt to stand up when a firm hand settled on his shoulder and stopped him.
He looked up to see who it was and was relieved to find that it was Pete, who was holding what Patrick assumed to be the bandage that was used on his head earlier.
Patrick’s stomach did a small back flip when he realized that it was Pete’s hoodie, the forest green now soiled with random stains of red and brown. He was just about to apologize and vow to hand wash it until it was cleaner than before it was first bought when Pete decided to make it easier for him.
“Wanted you to keep it,” Pete had a small smile on his face as he was holding out the slightly disgusting looking piece of clothing.
“Think of it as a souvenir thing, you could put it in a box and show it to your grandkids or something,” the smile had turned into a full grin by that sentence, giving Patrick the impression that he was being made fun of, “or you could at least put it up during the holidays, with the Christmas colors and all.”
Pete extended his hand even closer to him and it made Patrick ask himself if it was some sort of prank. After all, he did have Gabe and Brendon as his best friends. It wouldn’t be all that surprising if he was secretly this huge douchebag.
Despite all the survival instincts that he’d gained during High School, he accepted the hoodie with a small nod in appreciation. Pete smiled even wider at that and was about to speak when one of the bodyguards that Patrick had always seen in school walked up to Pete and gave a slight cough.
Pete closed his eyes for a moment before letting out an exasperated sigh. He lightly pushed on Patrick’s shoulder to help himself up and face the very harassed looking man.
A nagging feeling of pity settled on Patrick’s stomach. He didn’t want to imagine the massive mess that Pete’s guards were in after what just happened.
“Sir,” it felt awkward to be watching a grown man twice Pete’s size and width address him so formally, “your father has given orders to return you right away.”
The edges of Pete’s mouth twitched at the message. “I’m not some fucking dog that runs back when he whistles,” he murmured mostly to himself.
Patrick couldn’t stop staring at the spectacle. This was the first time he’d heard Pete mention his father and it didn’t exactly look like they had the perfect relationship that everyone had been raving on about.
He did his best to refrain from listening in on the conversation, instead focusing on peeking at the store and checking to see if his whole body was still functional.
There was a light tap to his shoulder after a few minutes and he turned around to find Pete hovering over him again. He was just about to voice his discomfort when Pete knelt beside him, put his arm under both of Patrick’s and practically carried him to a standing position.
His cheeks flared a bright red at lack of any distance between them so he tried to angle his body as far away from Pete as he could.
He mumbled a quick thanks before he started to limp back in the direction of the cash register.
“Dude, what the hell are you doing?”
Patrick was already behind the machine when he understood what Pete asked him.
“Umm-working-” he feebly lifted his hand to point at the wall clock behind him. It was barely nine in the evening, barely two hours had passed since the confrontation, and he had to stay until the store closed in an hour.
“You’re fucking crazy-knew you were concussed-stupid doctor should-license revoked-” Pete had the tendency to jumble up sentences when anxious, Patrick noticed, as the man walked over to him, placed both hands on Patrick’s sides and proceeded to shake him, “-remember your name? You’re Patrick, okay? Paaaattrriiiiccck.”
It looked like Pete was attempting to jostle Patrick’s loose brain cells back in place but it probably wasn’t the best course of action at that time when Patrick had just barely survived his earlier bout with nausea.
Just in time to curse Ryan for handing him that humongous burger for lunch, Patrick had the grace to shove Pete’s arms off him before clutching his stomach and heaving at his side.
**
He had never seen his mother this rabid. Patrick thought this was the most apt comparison for she had been in such a frenzy of activity, cursing each and every government official with names that she could remember, fluffing his pillow several times before trying again, cooking him a huge vat of broth, plugging out the phone line which kept ringing non-stop and checking every patch of Patrick’s body that he would allow her to see.
Patrick was finally allowed to lie down on the living room sofa after her fourth body inspection. He’d been kneading his forehead with his good hand ever since his mom started her third round of spouting random profanities.
He shifted a little on the couch and angled himself to face the blank television screen before he hollered out, “Mom, Oprah’s not a senator. You don’t need to include her on your fantasy hit-list.”
A muffled clatter from the kitchen confirmed that she had heard him.
“Well, she’s been giving out enough cars and houses that she could damn well be a better one than the ones we have now,” Patrick’s mom had entered the living room by then, holding a half-empty bowl of chicken soup that he presumed was the unlucky object that his mom had dropped.
He rolled his eyes and asked if he could have some privacy. After he gave her about a hundred assurances that yes, he was indeed fine, and no, bits of brain and cartilage were not leaking out through his ear, she had finally consented to leave the room.
Patrick closed his eyes tight and did his best to try and permanently block out the memory of his ride home. He had fortunately missed vomiting on Pete’s clean clothes but he couldn’t say that his shoes had been as lucky. The latter was kind enough to let it go, even joking that it was a good excuse to ask his parents to buy him a new pair.
He insisted that he didn’t need nor want to go to the hospital; his mom was a registered nurse and could probably do even better at taking care of him. After a few minutes of argument wherein about two guards had to go in the store and practically plead with Pete that they had to leave, they reached a consensus that he would call Patrick as soon as he was done ‘dealing with his father’.
He had been given the privilege of riding home in one of the state-issued SUVs that were lying around the neighborhood. Pete had to go the opposite direction but he made sure that the ride home was taken care of; actually threatening the driver that if any more of Patrick’s veins burst, he would personally see to his beheading.
Something that was poking Patrick’s hip broke him out of his attempt at brainwashing his mind into forgetting the whole night ever happened. He wearily lifted his body to grab the remote that had been causing the disturbance.
He angled his body to face the screen even more, let out a shaky breath and pressed the power button.
What he saw, however, was enough to make him want to shout for his mom and proclaim that his eyeballs had popped out of his sockets.
It was footage of Patrick.
Even worse, it was footage of Patrick in Band Camp.
He knew exactly where it came from because he had the same video before he ‘accidentally’ threw the tape out his window. It was like watching his recurring dream where had showed up to class naked but this time it was on national television.
He could feel his breathing running shallow again, his pulse deciding to tag along with it. His eyes shot to the logo on the lower-left portion of the screen and it only read three little letters that made him groan audibly; CNN, International news.
Patrick let out a high-pitched squeak as he recalled the scene that was playing on the video.
It was the last day of camp and they all had to perform for this mini-concert. They had to do solo acts and Patrick was one of the unlucky ones who had no instruments left to use because they were either taken or broken. He was one of only three people who were tasked to sing.
Straining to stay conscious, he could make out the words ‘heroic’ and ‘musical genius’ in the newscaster’s monologue but not once could he connect it to himself.
Bringing his attention back to the visuals, he watched his gangly, bright-eyed eleven year old self walk to the very back of the stage before being shooed away by one of the stage directors and ordered to stand on the little white ‘x’ at front and center. He could make out the beads of sweat that were running down his face despite the grainy quality of the video.
There was a strange feeling in watching it, for he felt both the embarrassment of having to relive through the whole ordeal and the sheer terror he experienced with that fateful performance.
A few awkward seconds had passed with Patrick alternately shifting his weight with lack of anything to do on stage, before the tinny sound of a minus-one tape started blaring on the ancient speakers.
This was Patrick’s own version of the much repeated metaphor of a car crash. You know something dreadful and painful is just about to happen but, for the life of you, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the sight.
It was half-way through his rendition of ‘Let’s Get It On’ when the inevitable had happened.
The music abruptly stopped and left Patrick staring dumbstruck at the audience. Not once did it occur to him to continue singing, the prospect of performing without the shield of instruments terrified him. So he ran. He literally dashed off the stage, the microphone dropped with a loud clang.
His present self had now tuned into an unfamiliar voice that was narrating through the video, “We’re happy to note that Mister Stumph had not reacted as such earlier this evening.”
The crisp, disembodied voice rang like a gong within the room; it seemed to echo along the walls as Patrick struggled to overthrow the anxiety attack that was raring to let loose.
The scene had been cut a few moments too late. This time, it was showing footage of Pete holding a mini-press conference earlier.
He must’ve held it while I was unconscious, Patrick thought, remembering the time he woke to find Pete missing.
It was held outside the bookstore, he noticed, and Pete definitely did not translate well on television. The dark circles under his eyes were even more prominent on screen and the grin that Patrick was so accustomed to was nowhere in sight, replaced with a grim line and knitted brows.
“I personally do not know why this has happened. It could be an attempt to attack my father, a personal grudge, I don’t know-” Pete’s voice drowned out as he took on a formal tone that sounded wooden and emotionless.
The light, air-headed persona that he took on during school wasn’t obvious in the slightest, making Patrick wonder how many masks the person really wore.
He was in the middle of deep thought when a sentence slipped from Pete’s mouth that Patrick could never forget.
“I wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for my friend,” for the first time during the whole interview, Pete gave a sincere grin, his face lighting up and changing his aura in a split-second, “I owe my life to Patrick Stumph.”
If Patrick’s jaw dropped any lower, he would have to sweep it off the floor. He never expected Pete to acknowledge him; he didn’t even think that guy would remember anything ever happened today. He was left numb, mind blocking out any comprehensive thought, and then he felt a sharp vibration in his pants.
He was shocked out of his daze, the incessant shaking making him feel even more uncomfortable. It was difficult to pull out the cellphone that was stuck at the furthest part of his pocket but he was eventually able to get it out.
A small part of him wished that it was Pete but upon checking the screen, it read ‘Becks’ in clear writing. Snapping it open, he wasn’t prepared to hear the shriek that came out of the speaker.
Patrick almost dropped the phone both in pain and surprise but he managed to hold it a slight distance away from his ear before trying to listen to his best friend’s shrill rambling.
“Patrick, what the hell!” The first words that Patrick could understand were those, the rest of which was all a painful ringing in his ear, “Who the fuck is he to say he’s your friend when he practically uses us as paper towels to wipe his ass on-doesn’t even know you don’t pronounce the ‘h’ in your name-think he can steal you away from us-”
Patrick closed his eyes and extended his hand even farther from his ear. He made a tiny bet with himself as to how far he could place it and still be able to hear Bill’s impressive impersonation of Patrick’s mother.
“Bill, shut up,” he tried to keep his yelling at a reasonable level, he wouldn’t want his mom to come and join the ‘Let’s Make Patrick’s Ears Bleed Too’ party, “he’s not my friend, alright?”
Something akin to a stone fell and landed inside Patrick’s stomach at this statement. He knew it was true, Patrick thought, how could a Pete Wentz become friends with someone like him? They would never get along and the whole life debt thing would be forgotten.
The voice on the other line went surprisingly still, making Patrick dare to place the earpiece closer.
“I know,” Bill whispered, his voice sounded gravelly after all the screaming, “I guess I’m just scared that he’ll do a Gabe on you.”
Gabe was actually part of their group before Pete enrolled in their school. But once the famous figure had entered the picture, Gabe jumped out of theirs.
Patrick didn’t blame Pete for the ‘snatching’, as Bill liked to call it. It was more of Gabe’s choice and Pete didn’t even know that he had belonged to their group. Patrick just agreed with whatever was said to prevent any more disagreements.
“He won’t, Bill, I promise,” After that, Patrick had to assure him that he still had all his limbs attached and that he’d be going to school tomorrow. He was glad that it ended on a better note than it started.
It didn’t last two minutes after hanging up and his phone started to ring again. This was a continuous pattern and he suddenly realized how intelligent his mother was to plug out the phone line.
He couldn’t do the same because he had already talked to Bill and the others might take it against him if he didn’t talk to them too. So far, after an hour or so, he’d received more calls than he ever had in his whole life.
Spencer had asked if Pete’s clothes were as expensive as he thought it was. When Patrick said that he wasn’t really sure but he had one of Pete’s hoodies that he could inspect, Spencer grabbed the chance and even offered to wash off the blood himself.
Ryan was more subdued, asking him if everything was alright and if Spencer had started collecting information on his ‘fashion conspiracy theory’ yet. He wasn’t the least bit surprised to find out that it had, even offering to lend Patrick a whip with which he could use to restrain Spencer. Patrick did not have the guts to ask why he owned a whip in the first place.
Andy surprisingly called too, but this time he was wondering if Patrick could endorse his food business. The memory of the day’s Soya Fries flooded back to him and Patrick replied that he didn’t even know if he was going to go on television at all, but if he did, he surely will mention Andy’s shop as long as it had a permanent address already.
His favorite call had come from the Way twins, however. They shared one phone and constantly passed it between themselves, making Patrick’s head hurt at trying to decipher who he was talking to. They had been talking about how he had been saved from death because they had performed an ‘enchanted camaraderie sacrament’ using the hair that was on the floor when the whole gang decided to get a group haircut down at the barber’s. Patrick thanked them for their thoughtfulness and asked them to throw away his hair for he was sure it was infested with all kinds of bacteria.
He held the phone through the whole night, a twinge of disappointment ringing through him when the screen read a name that wasn’t Pete’s.
Lying down on the couch after dinner, he continued staring at the ceiling and did his best to wait for a call that never will.
**
Six in the morning will never be alright for Patrick. His joints screamed in protest yet again as sleeping on the couch was never a great idea after tackling a man and getting conked on the head with a gun.
Stretching himself was a chore, not knowing which ones would hurt more if he did and which ones would thank him for it. He was feeling a lot better this morning, despite a few aches left, and stood up to do his daily routine and head for school.
It took him slightly longer to walk to school today. The streets were eerily quiet and it felt as if the trees were watching his every move. Shaking his head to relieve himself of this temporary paranoia, he focused on the one period where he was sure to catch Pete; lunch.
The day passed fairly quickly despite the heightened whispers and blatant stares he got from people in school. The teachers were horrible, making him stand up in every class and have every student applaud him for his ‘quick-thinking’ and ‘valor’.
His friends had been great, surrounding him in the middle of the group as they walked, preventing the majority of passers-by to gossip in their faces. There were some who thought it all to be a big joke, as usual, and shouted out their feelings to them in the hallway.
“Hey Stump, be my knight in shining armor, would ‘ya? I’ve got some people I’d like you to hit on the head with a dictionary.”
“Stump! You couldn’t have just let the guy shoot him, eh? Do us all a big favor.”
“And here I thought Beckett was the one you’ve been ‘spending some library time’ with-”
The last one had prompted Patrick to grab Bill’s arm and drag him to the cafeteria before the latter decided to go back for whoever shot that crude remark. Dragging Bill as far away as possible, he pushed open the door to reveal the one guy he wasn’t prepared to see while restraining a vehement best friend.
Pete Wentz was carrying two trays filled with spaghetti, a whole lot of water bottles and random chips and biscuits. Brendon and Gabe were flanked on each side, holding their respective trays and wearing small looks of disdain on their faces. Gabe’s was slightly mingled with apprehension; the idea of facing his old group of friends must’ve made him feel very uneasy. Only two guards were standing behind Pete but Patrick could make out a lot of men in black suits scattered along the corners of the cafeteria.
A grin instantly broke on Pete’s face at the sight of Patrick; he walked over to him, trays wobbling at the uneven weight distribution, and motioned with his head for them to follow him.
Patrick was still grasping Bill’s arm and he looked to him to find the guy staring wide-eyed at Pete’s retreating back. He looked at each of his friend’s faces and, after feeling that they were alright with it, started on the way to the famous table.
The walk was awkward at best. The others had gone ahead to get food but Pete had told Patrick not to bother with his, motioning to the extra tray in his hand.
Brendon and Gabe were silent the whole time, an uncomfortable wall almost visible between their groups. Gerard and Mikey were still oblivious to all the mental warfare that was happening, constantly questioning the two about their history and why Brendon’s head was oddly shaped like a cucumber or a pickle. The twins kept arguing about which of the two foods resembled Brendon’s head more, making the man roll his eyes too many times than Patrick could count.
They had finally arrived at the table and everyone seemed to have their own distinctive places. Patrick sat at the outermost edge, next to him was an empty seat for Bill and then Ryan and Spencer followed. Pete decided to sit on the chair that was at the head of the table, making him sit with Patrick at his right and Gabe to his left. To the chagrin of Brendon, who was next to Gabe, the Way twins decided to take their newfound interest in anatomy even further by sitting next to him.
Patrick was just about to start eating to break the discomforting silence when Bill came rushing to them, holding a half-empty tray.
“Gee! Have you got your-” an awkward pause filled the air as both Gerard and Gabe turned to face Bill. He didn’t know who to turn to; his gaze flitting to both that he looked like he was getting dizzy.
Bill settled for clearing his throat and walking over to sit next to Patrick, ignoring the weird stare that Gabe was giving him.
The only one acting as they normally did was Ryan, who had started eating even before Bill came back. Spencer was making a spectacle out of staring so hard at Pete’s custom-made jacket that Patrick thought it would burn right on through.
Ryan finally looked up from his food to ask Brendon if he had some spare ketchup packets. He was the only one who had gotten fries like Ryan had so there was no other choice as to who to ask for it.
Instead of immediately handing them over, Brendon chose to stare at Ryan like he was a mannequin who had just talked to him. A small cough from Pete made Brendon jump in his seat and fumble for the extra packet on his tray, handing it over to a grateful Ryan.
“I told you, Mikey! He does understand our language!” Gerard was ecstatic, thumping Brendon hard on the back and exchanging big grins with his brother, “And you told me he might be possessed by our Uncle Krakken and went mute because he recognized us.”
Time skipped a beat and then the whole table burst into laughter, the Way twins included. Patrick was left shaking his head in amusement while Brendon gamely answered each of the twin’s awkward yet well meaning questions.
Even Gabe seemed to loosen up, after he offered Bill some of his favorite potato crisps, the two started talking quietly as if they were in a separate room. One of them would look up to glance at the other from time to time, never meeting halfway but the hope was still there.
Patrick was distracted by someone kicking him lightly in the shins. He looked to his side and saw Pete wearing the same silly grin that he kept using when he was with Patrick. He fought to keep his blush from resurfacing, opting to look away from Pete but angling his head forward to indicate he was listening.
“So,” Pete inched his chair closer, putting his elbows up on the table and lightly coming into contact with Patrick’s arms, “how’s the head?”
Patrick rolled his eyes, he could think of a million things that were better to open up with but seeing as this was Pete, he let it slide.
“Pretty alright, nothing’s falling out so I guess it’s pretty manageable,” he scooped up a serving of some potato salad, giving him more time to think about what in the world was happening and how did the Earth not just blow up when this group of people sat with each other.
“You sure?” Pete was leaning his head over to the side, hoping to get into Patrick’s line of vision, “I mean, I wouldn’t want anything to fall out while you give your speech, y’know.”
Patrick had to snap his head back in Pete’s direction, his brows furrowed as he tried to think of ways wherein Pete was actually using a metaphor and he had misunderstood.
Coming up with nothing, he dared to ask, “What speech?”
The salad was surprisingly good today and Patrick decided to busy himself with finishing it while trying to comprehend what Pete was trying to tell him.
Pete grinned widely as if he had planned the conversation all along and Patrick was falling right into the very center of his spider web.
“Your speech. The one you’re giving in front of all the TV stations later when my dad gives you a medal for bravery.”
Patrick would give all the potato salad in the world for him to be able to go back in time and not spit out what he was chewing in Pete’s face.
~End Part 2
Thank you for all the concrit and comments from the previous post!
I do hope you do the same here too. :)
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