“Get your ass out of bed,” Pete says at 5 a.m., “we’re making a snowman.”
“What the fuck, when did you climb through my window?” Patrick mumbles.
“It snowed last night, we’ve got to make a snowman.”
“How old are you?”
He lets Pete tug him out of bed because he never fucking says no to Pete Wentz.
They build a snowman in the still and quiet dawn. It’s the best morning of his life.
They stand together and survey their handiwork.
Pete says, “We should have made a snow-dick instead.”
The Pete Wentz I know and love, Patrick thinks.
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