A Pillowcase Correspondence
Title: A Pillowcase Correspondence
Authors: megyal and lesinnocents
Pairing: Patrick/Peter
Rating: R at the moment
Summary: Dear Patrick...
Disclaimer: 100% Disclaimed.
Letter One
Letter Two
Letter Three
Letter Four
Letter Five
Letter Six
Letter Seven
Letter Eight
Dear Patrick,
The proceeding words had been viciously crossed out, the tip of a pen having caught a nominal crevice on the smooth surface of the paper and torn it a little. Thick streaks were etched over the error, the accidental slip of truth that needed to be painted over and publicized as a mistake instead of what it was, because what it was was much more dangerous. The anger that had forged the lines, like slits in necks with black ink blood bubbling out to stain and destroy, was as evident as if it had been written as another line on the page (lined paper, at long last, because Pete was maybe in the mood to offer a quarter-hearted attempt at conquering old demons, but they always won out in the end and the tortured poetry he got out of losing the battle sold out too many venues for him to actually try to fix himself - broken little boys drinking the ink from their splintered pens and spitting it out onto ripped notebook pages). The curves of letters were visible beneath the wreckage but not comprehensible. Luckily, the stillborn phrases were given a second shot at life, suckled in a plastic cradle with moaning hospital machines pampering them.
Fuck it. I love that your skin is so white. It looks like blank pages and the empty rooms of new houses -like promises. You never know if they’re going to be cracked and shattered or end up firing bullets into your kneecaps or maybe even turn out okay, that’s the thing about promises. They’re open-ended like screaming black arches with no doors leading into dark rooms where amorphous beasts are tucked into the corners, panting putrid breath down the length of your spine. I mean - fuck. I don’t mean that you’re like that, I just… I just mean that your skin is really gorgeous and innocent, like some bead of dew clinging helplessly to a waxy blade of blue-grey grass, trembling in the shadow of the sun. It may melt into the ground and be buried there, it may get kicked and splattered by some rat bastard kid, it may stay like that forever, halted in time as it encompasses the enormous reflection of sunrise inside of its tiny self, but whatever it is that lays in that droplet’s future, for that moment, maybe even only that specific moment alone, it is perfect. That’s what your skin is like, for all the sense it may or may not make. I just thought you should know.
There are times when smoke is on the back of my mind and blood is underneath my nails and words are forcing themselves like bile from my throat and I need to cut myself from the world with infected scalpels to nurse myself with lines and sentences to feel like I belong somewhere. There are so many thoughts and worries and emotions, fears that nobody is supposed to know I host, that I would, under normal circumstances, allow to sit like some malignant tumor at the base of my spine, waiting for the day to come when it inflames and becomes a cancer. That’s where you come in. All of those abandoned streams of thought that were gradually morphing into some chronic illness that made me much less endearing in my occasional fits of ‘Peter’s locked himself in his room again, slip some fresh reams under the door every now and then and grab some earplugs unless you are very, very fond of Morrissey’ and more unbearable to speak to, since no one had the time to attempt dissecting the twisted branches of the metaphors I didn’t even know I was talking in (except you; you, you, you) found a place to be cured as they echoed inside of your ears. There’s an antidote in you, developed specifically to be the vaccination for me, that has saved me. I know that you’re aware of the fact that I hand over my words to you in good faith and childish, doe-eyed hope that you’ll treat them kindly, and that you’re the only one who has the curse of stepping tentatively over the spitting coals of it all, but I’m not sure that you understand that you’ve become the intravenous tube that leaks peace of mind into my bloodstream.
There are things that I can’t say to anyone else that you get to hear, but there’s so much more that passes behind my eyes that I can’t offer even to you. I guess a lot of it directly deals with you, but the rest of it - and if you thought I was self-deprecating on a regular basis, you haven’t seen anything - is too personal to hand over. It’s like there are thoughts and feelings that are hardwired directly to the most vital of my internal organs, linked to my heart and brain through veins and chains of delicate nerves, and in order to let someone else see them, I’d have to rip them away, sever the connections, and bleed internally until there was no more room for gore inside of me and it started leaking out of my pores and from behind my eyes, filling my mouth until I suffocated on it. It’s not even that I’m protective of them like lovers and flushed infants, it’s that I’m so fucking ashamed of some (most) of my own inner workings that it’s impossible for me to imagine letting someone else view them. Even you, Patrick, even you would be disgusted and vomit them back in my face. I just can’t do it. I just can’t voice any of it, because the words lodge themselves in my throat, digging their ankles into the walls of my esophagus and screaming so loud it hurts the inside of my skull. They refuse to be let loose, scared of the sunlight, and return to simmering within me.
Only I’m scared that they’ve got serrated edges, these maimed, misbegotten parts of my mind steadily filling up my alveoli, making it harder to breathe and forcing me to feel choked on the air inside of every room, and they’re going to saw me into jagged pieces beneath my skin, where no one can see and it hurts the most.
The inhabitants of Chicago were amply prepared for bitter, violent winters that rolled off the surface of Lake Michigan and took the city by storm, their coffers overflowing with a motley assortment of knit scarves and plump down jackets. It seemed that the people there were born with a sandpaper resolve against the harsh months, thicker skin and invincible venires, or were forced to either develop an alliance with the cold or migrate south. Despite their admirable dedication to battling bellowing winds and forging a path through the snow crowding sidewalks, smothering the town in a thick layer of frozen white to create the illusion of a pristine, postcard-perfect haven before the picture was destroyed by millions of feet turning the snow to an entirely unappetizing stew of filth and slush, native Chicagoans were also born with remarkable weakness in the presence of heat.
It was one of those unbearable August days, when the sun seems to sink closer to earth as the morning gives way to afternoon to set fire to the streets, and Peter, proudly hailing from the great state of Illinois and therefore extremely susceptible to death by way of heat stroke, had wisely decided to retreat to his basement and wait out the glossy sheen of stifling air. Having taken up a post directly next to the air conditioner, which operated tentatively and had a bad set of lungs, constantly failing and sputtering back to life at random, wheezing heavily, but was far better than daring to crack a window and allowing the onslaught of humidity to ambush the cramped rooms, Pete was armed to sit through the siege of scalding waves lapping eagerly at his windowpanes. The glass of water held idly in his hand was sweating ferociously onto his fingertips and palm, his dark skin was rippled with goose bumps from the comfortable chill, and, with one eye on the television and an ear focused on the music flooding it from his CD player, he didn’t figure that it was such bad way of wasting an afternoon.
There was a clipped knock at the door, and before Pete could bother to groan dramatically and struggle slowly to his feet, make the tedious trip to the front entrance and kick discarded shoes and long-overdue laundry from his path, Joe pushed open the door and ambled inside. One of these days, Pete mused as he glanced up to witness the procession of his friends pouring into the faintly-lit room, he was going to have to start locking his door. The usual meandering frenzy of his guests’ arrival ensued - Joe offered naught but a noncommittal inclination of his head and a murmur of something unintelligible in place of a formal greeting and stalked directly into the corner to salvage something from Pete’s mini-fridge, Andy took up a residence on the couch and started avidly shuffling through the disorganized arrangement of albums and books cluttering the coffee table, inquiring and commenting as he went, and Chris troubled himself with an amiable ‘hey man, how you doin’?’ just so that he could then launch into a lengthy explanation of some tragic or hilarious event that had recently befallen him. Pete, who usually would have entertained himself with a debate over whether Closer or Still was Joy Division’s best record and which one should earn the honor of being put in the stereo or barking at Joe to get his dirty mitts off the week-old lasagna (‘My mom made that for me, dude. And who knows where the hell your hands have been, anyways?’), had his interests piqued instead by the boy who had slipped in behind Chris and carefully shut the door.
“I’m sorry, have we met?” He asked, interrupting Chris, whom no one had been paying any mind in the first place, though the other man fired up a rant instantly, insultingly detailing how rude it was to cut off another person’s story. Peter’s dark eyes lit up as if a candle was reflecting off the moist glaze of them and lent the orbs a flickering illumination, a smile was itching at the corners of his lips, beginning to steadily unveil the rows of his teeth, and he wasn’t listening to Chris’s droning voice filtering into his ears in the slightest.
“We may have,” the boy - he really was a boy, Pete decided, after squinting at him a little and deciding that the graceful pallor of his skin and the demure way that he diverted his gaze instead of meeting the eyes of whoever was speaking to him, and not a man - replied, voice soft like the subtle rivulets of butter light that slant through the blinds as sunset approaches. “At one of Kate’s parties.”
“Oh, no,” Pete assured him, his grin broadening as the static intrusion of Chris’s voice finally fizzled out and died, abandoning the room to be filled with the indiscernible hum of the television and the vague sounds of Joe ransacking the refrigerator. With eyes gleaming in full-force and endearing lines sewn into the creases of his eyes and the corners of his lips from the Peter Wentz Legendary Grin to Melt and Break Hearts, All Rights Reserved, Pete added coyly, “There’s no possible way that I could have forgotten meeting you.”
Joe let out a low whistle (a remarkable feat considering the formidable amount of cheese sandwich protruding from his mouth) as he dragged his feet back into the room and elegantly landed half on-top of Andy when he threw himself onto the couch. His victim drew up his nose in distaste and shoved the bigger man off of him. “Attractive, Joe. Very attractive,” he sighed dryly, brushing bits of flyaway breadcrumbs from his jeans and gathering a stack of CDs back into his lap for further inspection.
The apparently ravenous brunette threw his legs over Andy’s thighs unceremoniously, knocking a few of the plastic cases onto the floor in the process, and shook his head at Pete in disapproval. “He’s a nice kid, Pete,” he managed to say chidingly around a mouthful of food.
The nice kid in question blushed furiously, an astounding shade of crimson creeping up from beneath the collar of his sweater and spreading like a rampant, contagious illness up the slope of his pale throat to burn fiercely in his cheeks. He tried to adjust the brim of his hat as inconspicuously as possible to vainly shield the very-obvious flush and lowered his head against the uncomfortable weight of Peter’s liquid gaze upon him; eyes that seared like a dry, crackling blaze beneath his skin.
“Are you attempting to imply that I would be a negative influence on our guest?” Peter asked, feigning melodramatic insult at the statement and clasping his hands against his chest with almond eyes round in mocking hurt (‘Patrick,’ Andy interjected in his bored, nasal voice, though Peter and Joe were far too caught up in their embellished performance to hear him, ‘His name’s Patrick.’)
“Pete, man, he’s a nice kid,” Joe insisted as he swallowed the last bit of his contraband sandwich. “And stop doing that big-eyed-puppy-face, it’s creeping me out,” he added, punctuating the request with a couch pillow chucked mercilessly at Pete’s smirking face. The mild act of violence seemed to do the trick, as everyone in the room fell into lighthearted laughter at Pete’s attempt to act outraged through breathless chuckles, with the exception of Chris, who was guffawing obnoxiously, and Patrick, whose mouth turned up in the gentle, veiled smile of composed ladies in the shadow of his hat.
Pete had never been particularly fond of bending to the wills of others or docilely obeying the rules of conduct and federal laws laid down by society. It was, of course, wholly obvious the moment his eyes landed on the blanched curves of Patrick’s cheeks beneath tender pools of azure eyes; delicate and lovely like raindrops clinging to the glass of a window, glistening and reflecting the gossamer light, the aristocratic line of his jaw, that he couldn’t be content with but one casual meeting. There was a way that Peter’s gaze, earnest and captivating as it was, could betray a shadow of something casting fleeting hints of darkness as miniature eclipses over the radiant sparks of vitality that usually lived in his eyes, acting as a foreboding sign of caution - step lightly, the ground is unpredictable and could crumble beneath your feet at any time, swallow you into the earth without so much as a whisper. Step lightly and beware.
“Pete,” Joe said, voice low and insistent as he tried to pry through his friend’s innocent smiles and treacherous gaze, fingertips pressed desperately into Pete’s shoulder as he lingered in the doorway. The others had already piled into Chris’s car and Andy’s small body was twisted halfway out the window so he could properly holler at his friend to get his ass out there, but Joe took his time standing close close to Pete, like maybe the distance could help him get through to the older man. “He really is a nice kid. You should… I mean, don’t-”
“He’s important,” Peter said firmly, giving Joe a nudge out the door and casting an unbearable gaze like sizzling cement on him.
“Man, please. Don’t do this to him.”
“Fuck off, Trohman.”And as the screen door rattled shut in that dismissive way, Pete moved slowly down the steps, being steadily swallowed by the cool, dark light of the basement, and knew like belts lashing at his soul and fingers tugging at his ribcage, begging for entrance, that he needed Patrick.
I fully expect you to save me.
I just thought you should know,
-Pete
Authors: megyal and lesinnocents
Pairing: Patrick/Peter
Rating: R at the moment
Summary: Dear Patrick...
Disclaimer: 100% Disclaimed.
Letter One
Letter Two
Letter Three
Letter Four
Letter Five
Letter Six
Letter Seven
Letter Eight
Dear Patrick,
The proceeding words had been viciously crossed out, the tip of a pen having caught a nominal crevice on the smooth surface of the paper and torn it a little. Thick streaks were etched over the error, the accidental slip of truth that needed to be painted over and publicized as a mistake instead of what it was, because what it was was much more dangerous. The anger that had forged the lines, like slits in necks with black ink blood bubbling out to stain and destroy, was as evident as if it had been written as another line on the page (lined paper, at long last, because Pete was maybe in the mood to offer a quarter-hearted attempt at conquering old demons, but they always won out in the end and the tortured poetry he got out of losing the battle sold out too many venues for him to actually try to fix himself - broken little boys drinking the ink from their splintered pens and spitting it out onto ripped notebook pages). The curves of letters were visible beneath the wreckage but not comprehensible. Luckily, the stillborn phrases were given a second shot at life, suckled in a plastic cradle with moaning hospital machines pampering them.
Fuck it. I love that your skin is so white. It looks like blank pages and the empty rooms of new houses -like promises. You never know if they’re going to be cracked and shattered or end up firing bullets into your kneecaps or maybe even turn out okay, that’s the thing about promises. They’re open-ended like screaming black arches with no doors leading into dark rooms where amorphous beasts are tucked into the corners, panting putrid breath down the length of your spine. I mean - fuck. I don’t mean that you’re like that, I just… I just mean that your skin is really gorgeous and innocent, like some bead of dew clinging helplessly to a waxy blade of blue-grey grass, trembling in the shadow of the sun. It may melt into the ground and be buried there, it may get kicked and splattered by some rat bastard kid, it may stay like that forever, halted in time as it encompasses the enormous reflection of sunrise inside of its tiny self, but whatever it is that lays in that droplet’s future, for that moment, maybe even only that specific moment alone, it is perfect. That’s what your skin is like, for all the sense it may or may not make. I just thought you should know.
There are times when smoke is on the back of my mind and blood is underneath my nails and words are forcing themselves like bile from my throat and I need to cut myself from the world with infected scalpels to nurse myself with lines and sentences to feel like I belong somewhere. There are so many thoughts and worries and emotions, fears that nobody is supposed to know I host, that I would, under normal circumstances, allow to sit like some malignant tumor at the base of my spine, waiting for the day to come when it inflames and becomes a cancer. That’s where you come in. All of those abandoned streams of thought that were gradually morphing into some chronic illness that made me much less endearing in my occasional fits of ‘Peter’s locked himself in his room again, slip some fresh reams under the door every now and then and grab some earplugs unless you are very, very fond of Morrissey’ and more unbearable to speak to, since no one had the time to attempt dissecting the twisted branches of the metaphors I didn’t even know I was talking in (except you; you, you, you) found a place to be cured as they echoed inside of your ears. There’s an antidote in you, developed specifically to be the vaccination for me, that has saved me. I know that you’re aware of the fact that I hand over my words to you in good faith and childish, doe-eyed hope that you’ll treat them kindly, and that you’re the only one who has the curse of stepping tentatively over the spitting coals of it all, but I’m not sure that you understand that you’ve become the intravenous tube that leaks peace of mind into my bloodstream.
There are things that I can’t say to anyone else that you get to hear, but there’s so much more that passes behind my eyes that I can’t offer even to you. I guess a lot of it directly deals with you, but the rest of it - and if you thought I was self-deprecating on a regular basis, you haven’t seen anything - is too personal to hand over. It’s like there are thoughts and feelings that are hardwired directly to the most vital of my internal organs, linked to my heart and brain through veins and chains of delicate nerves, and in order to let someone else see them, I’d have to rip them away, sever the connections, and bleed internally until there was no more room for gore inside of me and it started leaking out of my pores and from behind my eyes, filling my mouth until I suffocated on it. It’s not even that I’m protective of them like lovers and flushed infants, it’s that I’m so fucking ashamed of some (most) of my own inner workings that it’s impossible for me to imagine letting someone else view them. Even you, Patrick, even you would be disgusted and vomit them back in my face. I just can’t do it. I just can’t voice any of it, because the words lodge themselves in my throat, digging their ankles into the walls of my esophagus and screaming so loud it hurts the inside of my skull. They refuse to be let loose, scared of the sunlight, and return to simmering within me.
Only I’m scared that they’ve got serrated edges, these maimed, misbegotten parts of my mind steadily filling up my alveoli, making it harder to breathe and forcing me to feel choked on the air inside of every room, and they’re going to saw me into jagged pieces beneath my skin, where no one can see and it hurts the most.
The inhabitants of Chicago were amply prepared for bitter, violent winters that rolled off the surface of Lake Michigan and took the city by storm, their coffers overflowing with a motley assortment of knit scarves and plump down jackets. It seemed that the people there were born with a sandpaper resolve against the harsh months, thicker skin and invincible venires, or were forced to either develop an alliance with the cold or migrate south. Despite their admirable dedication to battling bellowing winds and forging a path through the snow crowding sidewalks, smothering the town in a thick layer of frozen white to create the illusion of a pristine, postcard-perfect haven before the picture was destroyed by millions of feet turning the snow to an entirely unappetizing stew of filth and slush, native Chicagoans were also born with remarkable weakness in the presence of heat.
It was one of those unbearable August days, when the sun seems to sink closer to earth as the morning gives way to afternoon to set fire to the streets, and Peter, proudly hailing from the great state of Illinois and therefore extremely susceptible to death by way of heat stroke, had wisely decided to retreat to his basement and wait out the glossy sheen of stifling air. Having taken up a post directly next to the air conditioner, which operated tentatively and had a bad set of lungs, constantly failing and sputtering back to life at random, wheezing heavily, but was far better than daring to crack a window and allowing the onslaught of humidity to ambush the cramped rooms, Pete was armed to sit through the siege of scalding waves lapping eagerly at his windowpanes. The glass of water held idly in his hand was sweating ferociously onto his fingertips and palm, his dark skin was rippled with goose bumps from the comfortable chill, and, with one eye on the television and an ear focused on the music flooding it from his CD player, he didn’t figure that it was such bad way of wasting an afternoon.
There was a clipped knock at the door, and before Pete could bother to groan dramatically and struggle slowly to his feet, make the tedious trip to the front entrance and kick discarded shoes and long-overdue laundry from his path, Joe pushed open the door and ambled inside. One of these days, Pete mused as he glanced up to witness the procession of his friends pouring into the faintly-lit room, he was going to have to start locking his door. The usual meandering frenzy of his guests’ arrival ensued - Joe offered naught but a noncommittal inclination of his head and a murmur of something unintelligible in place of a formal greeting and stalked directly into the corner to salvage something from Pete’s mini-fridge, Andy took up a residence on the couch and started avidly shuffling through the disorganized arrangement of albums and books cluttering the coffee table, inquiring and commenting as he went, and Chris troubled himself with an amiable ‘hey man, how you doin’?’ just so that he could then launch into a lengthy explanation of some tragic or hilarious event that had recently befallen him. Pete, who usually would have entertained himself with a debate over whether Closer or Still was Joy Division’s best record and which one should earn the honor of being put in the stereo or barking at Joe to get his dirty mitts off the week-old lasagna (‘My mom made that for me, dude. And who knows where the hell your hands have been, anyways?’), had his interests piqued instead by the boy who had slipped in behind Chris and carefully shut the door.
“I’m sorry, have we met?” He asked, interrupting Chris, whom no one had been paying any mind in the first place, though the other man fired up a rant instantly, insultingly detailing how rude it was to cut off another person’s story. Peter’s dark eyes lit up as if a candle was reflecting off the moist glaze of them and lent the orbs a flickering illumination, a smile was itching at the corners of his lips, beginning to steadily unveil the rows of his teeth, and he wasn’t listening to Chris’s droning voice filtering into his ears in the slightest.
“We may have,” the boy - he really was a boy, Pete decided, after squinting at him a little and deciding that the graceful pallor of his skin and the demure way that he diverted his gaze instead of meeting the eyes of whoever was speaking to him, and not a man - replied, voice soft like the subtle rivulets of butter light that slant through the blinds as sunset approaches. “At one of Kate’s parties.”
“Oh, no,” Pete assured him, his grin broadening as the static intrusion of Chris’s voice finally fizzled out and died, abandoning the room to be filled with the indiscernible hum of the television and the vague sounds of Joe ransacking the refrigerator. With eyes gleaming in full-force and endearing lines sewn into the creases of his eyes and the corners of his lips from the Peter Wentz Legendary Grin to Melt and Break Hearts, All Rights Reserved, Pete added coyly, “There’s no possible way that I could have forgotten meeting you.”
Joe let out a low whistle (a remarkable feat considering the formidable amount of cheese sandwich protruding from his mouth) as he dragged his feet back into the room and elegantly landed half on-top of Andy when he threw himself onto the couch. His victim drew up his nose in distaste and shoved the bigger man off of him. “Attractive, Joe. Very attractive,” he sighed dryly, brushing bits of flyaway breadcrumbs from his jeans and gathering a stack of CDs back into his lap for further inspection.
The apparently ravenous brunette threw his legs over Andy’s thighs unceremoniously, knocking a few of the plastic cases onto the floor in the process, and shook his head at Pete in disapproval. “He’s a nice kid, Pete,” he managed to say chidingly around a mouthful of food.
The nice kid in question blushed furiously, an astounding shade of crimson creeping up from beneath the collar of his sweater and spreading like a rampant, contagious illness up the slope of his pale throat to burn fiercely in his cheeks. He tried to adjust the brim of his hat as inconspicuously as possible to vainly shield the very-obvious flush and lowered his head against the uncomfortable weight of Peter’s liquid gaze upon him; eyes that seared like a dry, crackling blaze beneath his skin.
“Are you attempting to imply that I would be a negative influence on our guest?” Peter asked, feigning melodramatic insult at the statement and clasping his hands against his chest with almond eyes round in mocking hurt (‘Patrick,’ Andy interjected in his bored, nasal voice, though Peter and Joe were far too caught up in their embellished performance to hear him, ‘His name’s Patrick.’)
“Pete, man, he’s a nice kid,” Joe insisted as he swallowed the last bit of his contraband sandwich. “And stop doing that big-eyed-puppy-face, it’s creeping me out,” he added, punctuating the request with a couch pillow chucked mercilessly at Pete’s smirking face. The mild act of violence seemed to do the trick, as everyone in the room fell into lighthearted laughter at Pete’s attempt to act outraged through breathless chuckles, with the exception of Chris, who was guffawing obnoxiously, and Patrick, whose mouth turned up in the gentle, veiled smile of composed ladies in the shadow of his hat.
Pete had never been particularly fond of bending to the wills of others or docilely obeying the rules of conduct and federal laws laid down by society. It was, of course, wholly obvious the moment his eyes landed on the blanched curves of Patrick’s cheeks beneath tender pools of azure eyes; delicate and lovely like raindrops clinging to the glass of a window, glistening and reflecting the gossamer light, the aristocratic line of his jaw, that he couldn’t be content with but one casual meeting. There was a way that Peter’s gaze, earnest and captivating as it was, could betray a shadow of something casting fleeting hints of darkness as miniature eclipses over the radiant sparks of vitality that usually lived in his eyes, acting as a foreboding sign of caution - step lightly, the ground is unpredictable and could crumble beneath your feet at any time, swallow you into the earth without so much as a whisper. Step lightly and beware.
“Pete,” Joe said, voice low and insistent as he tried to pry through his friend’s innocent smiles and treacherous gaze, fingertips pressed desperately into Pete’s shoulder as he lingered in the doorway. The others had already piled into Chris’s car and Andy’s small body was twisted halfway out the window so he could properly holler at his friend to get his ass out there, but Joe took his time standing close close to Pete, like maybe the distance could help him get through to the older man. “He really is a nice kid. You should… I mean, don’t-”
“He’s important,” Peter said firmly, giving Joe a nudge out the door and casting an unbearable gaze like sizzling cement on him.
“Man, please. Don’t do this to him.”
“Fuck off, Trohman.”And as the screen door rattled shut in that dismissive way, Pete moved slowly down the steps, being steadily swallowed by the cool, dark light of the basement, and knew like belts lashing at his soul and fingers tugging at his ribcage, begging for entrance, that he needed Patrick.
I fully expect you to save me.
I just thought you should know,
-Pete