fic: These Elegant Crimes (2/2)
Title: These Elegant Crimes
Word Count: 9,972
Rating: NC-17...ish.
Pairings: Pete/Ryan (but really, Pete/Mikey as well)
Disclaimer: I have no claim to any part of this other than my own words.
Warning: My beta says I have to warn you guys for angst. So...it's there. A LOT OF ANGST, OKAY? Yup.
Summary: After his Summer of Like ends, Pete convinces himself that Ryan is what he needs. Pete's still got a few hang-ups, however, and that's made clearest when Infinity on High is produced. In other words: No one is getting what they need.
Notes: So, after listening to Infinity on High countless times, I got it into my head that it was about...well...what's written in this story. So this is kind of an explanation of the entire album. Thank you, monanoche, for not only betaing, but putting up with countless, "Hey, so, I was going through that story again, and changed something yet again. And then researched EVEN MORE and changed another thing! Will you read over the changes again?" as well as the epiphany one night that gasp! There are B-sides I can use! You have been very indulgent with me in regards to this fic and my obsession with it.
Part 1
viii
A penny for your thoughts but a dollar for your insides
Or a fortune for your disaster
I'm just a painter and I'm drawing a blank
“What are you thinking about right now?”
“A few things, not the least of which is the fact that you’re touring and I’m not with you. And I’ll be touring in another month, and you won’t be there this time.”
“Yeah.”
Silence.
“Pete…do you think we should-”
“I’m in love with you.”
Pete clutched at the phone, frantically, listening to Ryan breathe, waiting anxiously.
“Do you really believe that?” was finally the response, and Pete swallowed hard.
“Ryan…” he said, and his voice was ragged, broken, “Ryan, of course I…please, don’t…”
There was another long silence, and then Ryan said, “This…not over the phone, alright? At least don’t do it over the phone.” Pete thought he sounded resigned, and he didn’t understand, because wasn’t that what Ryan had wanted to hear?
“That’s all you’re going to say about it?” he asked.
Ryan sighed into the phone. “Jac and I broke up,” he said, softly, and then, “You’re right. She didn’t matter.”
Pete was always pretty good at reading between the lines.
I could learn to pity fools as I'm the worst of all
And I can't stop feeling sorry for myself
ix
Oh
Put love on hold,
Young Hollywood is on the other line
Her nose runs ruby red, deaths in a double bed
Singing songs that could only catch the ear of the desperate
Pete ignored his Sidekick as it vibrated for the twenty-seventh time. Not that he had been counting. There was no one that he wanted to talk to right now anyway. Not even Ryan, who made up twelve of the calls. Not even Patrick, who had fourteen. And not whoever this most recent one was from.
He really just wanted to sit there and sulk over the fact that there were naked pictures of him on the internet. They weren’t even fucking good pictures.
Cupping his chin in his hand, he clicked through gossip blogs moodily, reading everything he could find about it. In another window, he had the pictures open, and he looked at them from time to time, like prodding a bruise that you know hasn’t healed yet.
Someone knocked on the door, and he didn’t bother to turn around. Whoever it was, they could go away. He could hear them rattling the knob, figuring out that it was locked.
“Pete!” That was Patrick, and Pete could picture the exasperation on his face. “Pete,” he called, “Open up the door, you asshole. You’ve been ignoring my calls, and the least you could do would be to let me in so we can talk about fixing this. It’s not a big deal.”
The Sidekick beeped. Whoever had last called had apparently left a message. On a whim, he tilted it towards himself, expecting Ryan’s number again.
Instead, it was Mikey’s. Pete flipped open the phone so fast that he was afraid it was going to break. With shaking fingers, he pressed the enter button and listened to the message.
“Hey Pete, heard what happened. That sucks….listen, I posted something on my blog about it. Um, maybe go read it? I don’t really know why, I just…I wanted to help. You know, against all the assholes. Yeah. I don’t really know why I called, just, uh…sorry.” Pete could hear how Mikey fumbled as he hung up, phone clattering a little, and just before the message ended he could hear, a faint, protective, “It’s not funny, Frank.”
Pete grinned. It might have been a little bit funny.
“Pete, open the goddamned door! I know you’re there.”
Finally Pete turned and yelled over his shoulder, “One minute, Patrick, I’m uploading pictures of you to go along with mine!”
He opened a new browser window and went through his Favorites until he found the link to Mikey’s journal.
Don't sweat it kiddo...just look on the bright side,...you helped usher alot of young ladies into woman-hood tonight.
secondly, would everyone leave the poor guy alone already? Everyone wonders what drives people in bands "over the edge" or into a "meltdown"...its shit like this. How would you like it if someone posted "risque" pics of you online. Have some tact people. fuckin weak.
PS: Los Angeles will bury you alive
Patrick’s voice came through the door once more. “You’re a fuckhead, you know that?”
“Yeah, I know,” Pete replied, smiling softly as he finished reading and closed his laptop. He went to the door and opened it, revealing a very red-faced Patrick. “Hey, Pattycake,” he said brightly.
Patrick just stared at him. “You’re not moping? The world isn’t ending? What the fuck, Pete? You haven’t been answering your phone, and I was fucking worried, and Ryan is fucking worried, he called me, and I show up here and you’re…you’re…” He gestured grandly.
“I guess I just needed some time, okay? Sorry, Patrick. I’m sorry. For all of this.” Pete moved closer, and pulled Patrick into a hug. It took a good minute, but Patrick finally hugged back.
“You’d better be,” he muttered, “I already have to hear about your dick from you, every day. Now I’m going to have to talk about it all the time too.”
Pete grinned against his hair. “It’s a pretty awesome dick,” he said, “I’ll admit to that. But, hey, I’ll put out a statement, and talk to people about it, and all. Don’t worry.”
“You’re really not upset?” Patrick sounded skeptical.
Thoughtfully, Pete said, “I was. But I…you know, the people that matter are being supportive. You. The guys. Ryan.”
Nodding, Patrick said, “Yeah, that reminds me. Give Ryan a call, seriously. Like I said, he’s worried about you. Or…is that who made you snap out of your funk?”
Pete hesitated and then, elusively, said, “It’s good to have someone you love behind you. See you later, okay?”
Patrick didn’t call him on it, just sighed and replied, “See you, Pete.”
Eight of Ryan’s calls had come with messages, all of them in his normal monotone, but all of them still managing to sound worried. Pete called him back, and they talked for an hour.
In his blog about it, he thanked Mikey for the support.
I'm a stitch away from making it
And a scar away from falling apart, apart
x
We might've said goodbyes just a little soon
(Stomp out this disaster town)
Robbing lips, kissing banks under this moon
Whoa oh, we're so miserable and stunning
Whoa oh, love songs for the genuinely cunning
Curled into his bunk, he whispered, “I miss the way you say my name when you kiss me.”
He could almost hear Ryan’s smile as he responded, “I miss having you around to talk philosophy with.”
“I miss your stupid-ass makeup.”
“I miss your stupid ass.”
Pete laughed under his breath. “You’re a sweet talker, you know that?”
He was pretty sure Ryan had just rolled his eyes, and was smirking. “How often do you want sweet talk, anyway?”
“Fuck you. Yeah, I miss that too.”
“I miss you stealing me away from the rest of the band just to cuddle and kiss and, you know, be us.”
“I miss you sitting with me when you show me lyrics, instead of just texting them from the fucking UK.”
“I miss you writing snatches of lyrics across my stomach.”
“I miss sharing clothes.”
There was a strangled silence, and Pete replayed the words in his mind, trying to figure out the fault in them. “Ryan?” he asked eventually.
With a barely audible sigh, Ryan replied very softly and sadly, “Pete…we never shared clothes.”
Something like a lead weight settled into Pete’s stomach. “Ryan…I…no, look, I know we didn’t. Duh, I was there. But we should. I miss the potential to.” Even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t good enough.
“Right. You were there.” Ryan still sounded sad, distant, and the weight in Pete’s stomach started to churn.
Another long silence, and then, “I have to go. Sound check in ten.”
Pete’s stomach unclenched a little in relief, and he said, “Yeah, okay. I love you.”
“I love you.”
“Bye.”
You call me a bad tipper of the cradle
Tired yawns for fawns on hunter's lawns
We're the has-beens of husbands
Sharpening the knives of young wives
Take two years and call me when you're better
Take teardrops of mine, find yourself wetter
xi
Come hell or high water
Well I'm feeling hot and wet
I can't commit to a thing
Be it heart or hospital
“The one you love and the one who loves you are never, ever the same person.”
Pete looked up from the television at Ryan, who was sitting on the bus lounge couch, peering over the edge of a book. “What?” he asked, tilting his head.
Ryan just waved the book, which was, unsurprisingly, something by Palahniuk. “The one you love and the one who loves you are never, ever the same person,” he repeated impatiently.
“Alright,” Pete agreed, turning back to his movie. They’d originally been watching it together (after all, everyone knew that he was visiting Panic!’s summer tour for Ryan), but Ryan had copped out and started reading instead. That was alright. Pete was used to how Ryan got into these cryptic moods sometimes, where he wouldn’t say what he meant. Sometimes Pete could decipher them. Sometimes not. He thought it must be what Patrick’s life was like, living with him.
Huffing out a breath, Ryan stood up, closing his book carefully and setting it on top of a few old magazines that had been brought out to be thrown away, but hadn’t quite made it to the trash yet. “I’m gonna go find the guys,” he said, too casually, and Pete looked back up at him.
“Okay,” he said, because Ryan was already leaving, and just before the bus door clanged shut, called out, “When you do, tell them the back lounge is going to be occupied tonight.”
Ryan stuck his head back in through the doorway, looking at Pete for a moment before he smiled wryly and said, “Yeah, okay. Sure.”
Once he’d left, Pete’s attention was drawn to the slim book that Ryan had been holding. Invisible Monsters. He picked it up, about to thumb through it, but set it slowly down on the floor when the magazine beneath it caught his eye. It was almost a year old, and a picture of himself stared back from the glossy cover.
The same magazine was probably tucked away somewhere at his own house-Chicago Magazine, with the story “About a Boy,” written by Kevin McKeough, advertised right on the front cover. The story was outdated-all last year’s Warped Tour and the early days of Fall Out Boy. Pete didn’t bother to reread it. Instead, he gazed steadily down at the photo of himself, wearing what Joe had started to call “the Warped hoodie.” On one pocket of his hoodie was one of the buttons he’d had specially made, a slightly off-center Mikey.
Pete couldn’t take his eyes off of it. Ryan’s quote spun through his mind again.
By the time Ryan came back, trailed by Brendon and rubbing his hands together against the evening chill, Pete had stuffed the magazine between two couch cushions and replaced the book, and was watching a new movie.
“Hey, Wentz, couldn’t you get a hotel room to loiter in?” Brendon asked as he opened the refrigerator, pawing through it for something to drink.
Pete grinned at his back. “Yeah, but your floor is more comfortable. No one loves you like I do, baby,” he replied, and both boys snorted.
Ryan walked back over to the couch, eyes flickering to the magazine pile for only a moment as he picked up his book again. Pete couldn’t decide if he’d noticed the missing one or not.
When they were settled into bed that night, it was Ryan who rolled on top of him and said, “Let’s forget the world,” before nudging his hips forward against Pete’s and moaning obscenely.
And I cast a spell over the west to make you think of me
The same way I think of you
This is a love song in my own way
Happily ever after below the waist
Best friends
Ex-friends till the end
Better off as lovers
xii
I am God’s gift but why would he bless me with
Such wit without a conscience equipped
Ryan turned twenty the day before the VMAs. His bandmates had him for most of the day, but Pete managed to spirit him away for the night. The hotel they were staying in had a pool and small porch area on the roof, and that’s where Pete took him in the evening.
There were a smattering of people up there, but no one commented when the two boys emerged, so Pete figured it was safe enough, and they weren’t going to be recognized or even really noticed. Entwining his fingers with Ryan’s, he pulled him over to the side of the deck and sprawled onto a chair, drawing Ryan down onto his lap.
Hooking his chin over Ryan’s shoulder, he whispered, “Happy birthday.”
“Thanks,” Ryan replied, tilting his head back so that he could see Pete. They locked eyes.
“We’re so good together,” Pete murmured, turning his face to kiss Ryan’s cheek. The corners of Ryan’s mouth turned up slightly.
“Are you kidding?” he said, but gently, teasingly, “We’re a train wreck.”
“Nah,” Pete said, shaking his head, Ryan’s hair brushing his cheek, “Only I am. You’re still beautiful and together and sane.”
Ryan laughed. “I don’t know about that.” He ground his hips down slightly against Pete’s lap, and Pete bit his neck appreciatively. “I’m in love with you. How sane can that be?”
“You just want to be written into my next album, you fanboy. Stop saying such nice things, or you just might,” Pete replied, and licked the place that he’d bitten.
Dryly, Ryan returned, “What are you going to do, write a song and call it ‘I Slept With Someone In Fall Out Boy and All I Got Was a Song With Obscure References and the Same Damn Title’?”
“No. I’m going to call it ‘Nothing Makes Sense Except Sex With Ryan Ross.’”
Ryan turned more fully and kissed him on the mouth, saying against his lips, “Since apparently only sex makes sense with me, didn’t I hear you had a room somewhere?”
“Anything you like, birthday boy,” he replied, making his smile as lecherous as possible as he stood.
The sunset outlined Ryan’s profile as he gazed out across the city. Pete’s breath caught in his throat as the last rays of late summer sun poured over Ryan, and he wasn’t sure what about it affected him so much.
Then Ryan turned back, and the moment was broken. He smiled, and nodded towards the stairs. “Lead the way,” he said, and Pete shook off the sudden wash of inexplicable disappointment, and did.
When I’m home alone I just can’t stop myself
And you pull my head so close volume goes with the truth
Signing off "I’m alright in bed but I’m better with a pen"
The kid was alright but it went to his head
xiii
And everyone's looking for relief
A bidding war for an old flame's grief
The cause, the kid, the course, the charm, and the curse
Not a word that could make you comprehend
Too well dressed for the witness stand
The press prays for whichever headline's worse
Case open, case shut.
“Where’s Ryan?”
Pete turned from chopping carrots to see Brendon hanging out in the door of the kitchen, looking around like Ryan might be hiding in a cabinet somewhere. “Umm,” Pete said, and to aid Brendon in his search, opened the trash compactor and peeked inside, “Not there. I think he’s upstairs prettying up.”
After laughing for a second, Brendon edged into the room. “Thanks again for inviting us for Thanksgiving.”
“No, dude, I’m glad you’re here. You wanna help chop carrots?”
Brendon nodded. “Sure,” he said, and Pete quickly rinsed his hands and went searching for a second knife. Behind him, Brendon cleared his throat.
“Hey, um,” he said uncertainly, as Pete swiveled back around, triumphantly holding another knife.
“Hmm?” he asked.
Brendon took a deep breath, looking uncharacteristically serious. “Look,” he said, squaring his shoulders determinedly, “this should really be Spencer doing this, because he’s scarier and Ryan’s best friend and all, but I’m the one who’s here, and I’m here as a friend instead of as someone who you have legal rights over, so it has to be me.”
Confused, Pete cocked his head. “Um?” he said.
“Look,” Brendon repeated, and then stepped a little bit closer, crowding into Pete’s personal space too much. That wasn’t strange, coming from Brendon, but he looked a lot less cuddly and a lot more stern this time. Pete decided to hang onto the knife for the time being, just in case.
“Okay, so, I know you and Ryan have been seeing each other for over a year, and I get that you guys aren’t exactly exclusive, but he’s pretty into you. So you better not be just fucking with him, because then I’ll fuck you up. Or, well, okay, probably it would be Spencer. But that’s not really the point. Don’t hurt him.”
Back digging into the counter, Pete thought that Brendon was probably right. Spencer was more frightening, but Brendon could be pretty damn intimidating too, when he wanted to be. “It’s not like that,” he said seriously, “Bren, you know I’m not like that.”
Brendon’s eyes softened, and he stepped back. “Yeah, I know,” he said, “But just sometimes it seems like….look, just, tell me you’re really in love with him? He says you say it.”
The kitchen was suddenly smaller, closing in, and Pete swallowed hard. It should be easy. He was in love with Ryan, damnit. He’d been in love with Ryan for months now.
“Pete?” Brendon sounded far away. “Pete, can you…oh my god. You…”
“I love Ryan,” he said, miserably, and suddenly Brendon was hugging him, and Pete had tears pouring down his face. “I love him,” he mumbled into Brendon’s shoulder, embarrassed at falling apart like this over nothing, and in front of someone who was barely more than a kid. Just like Ryan was barely more than a kid, no matter how mature he sounded. “I love him, I love him, I love him.” The words were heavy in his mouth, bitter.
“Who?” Brendon’s question was soft, and it caught Pete by surprise. “Who are you in love with? Is it Patrick?”
Pete pulled away, shaking his head harshly and dabbing at his eyes to make sure his eyeliner was still in place. “No. I love Patrick, obviously, but I’m not…just no. Leave it alone, Brendon. I’m happy with Ryan, okay? We’re happy.”
Before Brendon could respond, Ryan walked into the kitchen, either oblivious to or just ignoring the tense atmosphere. “Hey Brendon, mind if I steal Pete for a little while?” he asked.
Pete looked over at Brendon, catching his eyes pleadingly. Slowly, Brendon shook his head. “Go ahead,” he said, sounding completely normal, presumably to keep Ryan from realizing that something was wrong, “I’ll finish up the carrots. Oh, and I might need to get into me and Ryan’s room, so…”
Ryan rolled his eyes. “I need to ask him about some clothes for tonight,” he sniped.
“Yeah, yeah. Ask him which ones would look best on the floor of his room.”
Pete put his arms around Ryan’s waist and walked him out of the kitchen before they could continue their fight. As he left, he looked over his shoulder. Brendon was watching him, shaking his head.
Fresh pressed suit and tie
Unimpressed birds sing and die
Can talk my way out of anything
The foreman reads the verdict
"In the above entitled actions we find the defendant..."
Guilty...Guilty...Guilty...Guilty...
xiv
Do you remember the way I held your hand?
Under the lamp post and ran home
This way so many times
I could close my eyes
In theory, all of Fall Out Boy sat down together and picked through the twenty-five or so viable songs and chose the fourteen that they actually ended up using on the record, plus two B-sides, as a group.
In reality, it was more like they all sat down, and Pete handed over the track listings, saying, “These are the ones. These are the ones for the record, guys.”
The other three looked over them quietly, and although Pete could see Patrick’s eyebrows go up and Joe bit one lip, it was Andy who actually spoke. “Pete, man, are you sure about this?” he asked, and it wasn’t like they didn’t all know exactly what he was talking about.
Joe chimed in next. “That’s…um…I mean, I know we were talking about those, but all together? I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he said, slouching back into the couch as if that was the end of the discussion. Both he and Andy were looking at Pete with sympathetic, pitying expressions, and Pete bristled.
“I’m sure. I want this out there, okay? I know what I’m doing,” he said resolutely. It was true, even if it was going to tear him apart.
Andy still sounded calm and reasonable as he looked back at the paper and then up at Pete again. “Pete…there are going to be…people who hear this. I’m with Joe on this. They’re great songs, solid, but there are others we could work with too.”
Pete was already shaking his head, but it wasn’t as if he could produce the songs if he had no band to go with them. Yes, he knew that Ryan was going to hear the songs. That Mikey would. That they would both know. “It’s all the truth,” he said, pleadingly, but they already knew that. “I have to,” he told them.
Finally, he turned to Patrick, who hadn’t looked up yet. Pete knew that if Patrick put his foot down, he’d cave, make a new album, and he waited for the verdict with bated breath. Patrick looked up, expression opaque, and said quietly, “I’m not singing this one if it’s called ‘Summer of Like.’” He pointed to the paper.
Letting out his breath all at once, he launched himself at Patrick, hugging him tightly. “Thank you,” he whispered into his ear, and Patrick squeezed him quickly.
“I’m not really doing you any favors with this,” Patrick replied, quietly, “but it’s your choice to…do this.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Pete said, and maybe he wasn’t replying to Patrick was saying, but what they were all thinking, “I just thought…”
And Patrick said, holding up the paper, “We know, Pete.”
Pete turned around so that he could curl up under Patrick’s arm and point his toes in towards each other, trying to make himself as small as possible. Burying his face into Patrick’s ribs he whispered, “But I didn’t know.”
The truth hurts worse than anything I could bring myself to do to you
B-Sides
i.
Things aren't the same anymore,
Some nights it gets so bad that I almost pick up the phone
Trade Baby Blues, for Wide-Eyed Browns
I sleep with your old shirts
And walk through this house in your shoes
Pete shipped a copy of their new CD to Mikey two weeks before the official release. He was the only one outside their band and producers to get a copy early, on a burned disc that Pete titled, “Summer Leads to Autumn (You Were Always My First and Last).” The CD was carefully wrapped in taped-together photos of sunsets, a splintering wooden bridge, a brittle, summer-dry field, and one square of a set of pictures of them, taken in a photo booth.
Pete packaged the whole thing into a manila envelope with bubble wrap lining the inside, and wondered if it was too much before walking two blocks to a roadside mailbox and dropping it in, just after midnight.
Then he curled up in his bed with Hemingway, wrapped in Mikey’s black shirt even though it was a little bit too big. “I’m probably making the biggest mistake of my life,” he told Hemmy. Hemmy whined and licked Pete’s face.
“Yeah,” he said, “Even more than the Sidekick pictures. Those only hurt me, and I’m not even important.”
Burying his face against his dog, Pete breathed in. Hemingway had knocked over his water bowl earlier and flopped down in it, so he smelled slightly dank. It was familiar, comfortable, and Pete was grounded by it enough to continue, “I never deserved either of them. I never deserved you.”
Hemmy rubbed his face against Pete’s and snorted in his ear, drooling a little on the bedspread, and Pete hugged him tightly, hot tears spilling into his fur. “Thanks,” he whispered, “I love you too.”
A week later, when he got out of the shower, there was a picture message waiting on his phone. In it, Mikey was wearing the Clandestine shirt, not looking at the camera. The text with it read, Somewhere it’s always summer like it should have been. Let’s hope my phone never gets hacked, because I can’t delete you either. Your cryptic language rubbed off on me, just like everything else, huh? One month and a few days until the wedding. I’m still buying a copy of your album when it comes out. I’ll listen to it whenever I’m lonely.
The phone buzzed again in his hands, and this time the text said Don’t ask why I don’t hate you, because I know you’re thinking it. I don’t, okay? For all the same reasons that you don’t let go of me.
“It’s not the same,” Pete told Hemingway, “I couldn’t ever. I can’t let go of him.”
He looked at the phone, and then, softly, he said, “Oh. I think it would be easier if he could.”
Threw caution to the wind,
But I've got a lousy arm,
And I've traced your shadows on the wall
Now I kiss them whenever I'm down,
Whenever I'm down
{Just kind of} figured on
Not figuring myself out
ii.
I speak fast and I'm not gonna repeat myself, no
So listen carefully to every word I say:
"I'm the only one who's gonna get away with making excuses today,
You're appealing to emotions that I simply do not have"
Blackmailed myself
(Cause I ain't got) Cause I ain't got anyone else
When Infinity on High actually dropped, Pete stayed in his hotel room and did not go to the party for the album release.
Patrick had called earlier, to see if he was okay, and Andy after that. Then it was Joe, and finally Brendon, before Pete turned off his phone. He wasn’t in danger or anything. He just didn’t want to wait for Ryan’s call.
A few minutes past midnight, someone knocked on the door (Pete knew, because he was staring at the clock, watching the glowing numbers change). Pete stood up and went to answer it on autopilot, because the only person who knew what room he had was Patrick. When he pulled the door open, though, hotel quilt wrapped around his shoulders and eyes ringed darkly from not sleeping, Ryan was standing on the other side.
“You look like hell,” Ryan said, sounding so tired. Pete stared at him, silent and frozen. “Patrick told me where you were. I’m going to come in now.”
Wordlessly, Pete nodded, standing aside and then following Ryan to the bed in the middle of the room. Without preamble, Ryan said, “So this is it, then? We can’t do this anymore, is that what I’m supposed to be saying?”
It was such a far cry from what Pete had expected that he was shocked out of his inability to speak. “I-Ryan, what?”
Ryan was blinking, fast, and Pete wanted to reach out and hold him, like he would a scared little kid. When Ryan spoke again, his voice was harsh, like a raw wound. “It would have worked if you hadn’t said anything. It’s not like I didn’t know, but now I have to pretend like I didn’t until you told me. Told the fucking world. And it’s not like we can keep going after that, you know? Why did you have to say it?”
There was no adequate response to that, and Pete swallowed thickly. “I’m sorry,” he said finally, “I wanted this…this thing with you so much.”
“No, you didn’t. You wanted to want it. But that’s just semantics. It doesn’t really matter anymore. Or at least, it won’t someday.”
“Ryan-”
“Pete. Stop it. You’ve already said it all, remember? I just came to tell you that even so, I don’t regret it.”
Ryan stood again, walking towards the door, and just before he reached it, Pete replied, “You should regret it.”
Without turning around, Ryan’s shoulders slumped a little and he said, “Yeah. I should. Bye, Pete. See you after we get back from the cabin.”
He didn’t pull the door all the way shut when he left, but Pete didn’t bother to close it.
When I said that I'd return to you I meant more like a relapse
Now and again I think "His and her's" "For better or worse"
But the only ring I want buried with me are the ones around my eyes