Archive of Our Own ^beta

                9/5/13 My dad’s dead.  I should feel sad, right?  Although, considering the circumstances, maybe I should feel happy.  The scary part is that I don’t feel anything.  -Ryan

                Pete never wanted a kid.  Why would he want a little liability?  Why would he want something to babysit, feed, spend his money on , and keep alive?  He didn’t, plain and simple.  Not until he matured a bit and stumbled upon a few million dollars.  Currently he was twenty-four, a few years out of college with basically nothing to show for it, struggling to get by because he refused to touch a cent of his inheritance, and working at his best friend’s record store.  He was an only child, and even though his Patrick had been like a brother since they were three, there was a huge difference.  When Pete got sick of Patrick, he could just send him home- to his own parents and his own toys, where he wouldn’t annoy Pete any longer.

                Pete had never wanted a sibling, and he never wanted a child.  He didn’t even plan on getting married, because in all honesty, there was only one person in the whole world that he could stand having up in his business 24/7.  That person was Patrick, and Pete certainly had no interest in marrying him.

                “What about Ashley?” Patrick had asked him once.  Pete just shrugged.   Ashley was a pretty face and a pair of long legs that he had known in college.  It was never going to happen, but Pete kept her in the back of his mind for lonely nights anyways. 

                A bad day turned worse (it was bad in the first place that Pete had to get out of bed in the mornings) when he got a call from the funeral home.   Patrick had given him this really pitiful, anxious look before handing over the cell phone (He’d stolen it in the first place to tease Pete).  Pete took a deep breath before holding the phone up to his ear and saying hello.  Ah, the funeral home had forgotten something while doing the paperwork two months prior. 

                “We need you to come as soon as possible to take care of this.  Just in case,” the polite man on the phone had said.

                “In case what?” Pete had muttered bitterly to Patrick later.  “My parents dig themselves up from the grave and come knocking?”

                It was at that funeral home, about half an hour after the phone call and Patrick shooing Pete off so he couldn’t procrastinate, that Pete decided that he really, really never wanted to have children.

                There were two boys there, leaning against the tiny-pink-flower-wallpapered wall.  One had his skinny shoulders slumped forward and let his brown hair fall over his eyes while he stared blankly at the floor.  A slightly chubby boy had his arm around his friend’s shoulders and seemed to be trying to console him, leaning their heads close and whispering to him.  Pete had a moment of deja-vu and realized that this scene was similar to him and Patrick, two months prior, when Pete had stormed out of the viewing room and Patrick had tried to placate him. 

                “Hey, jerk!” the larger boy snapped, shooting Pete the meanest glare he’d seen in a long time.  Of course, the kid hadn’t used the word ‘jerk.’  He’d used a much more colorful insult- the kind that only teenagers seem to be able to create.  Crude, slightly immature, and a bit more humorous than insulting.  Still, it took Pete by surprise.  Did this mean he was getting old?“Stop staring at my friend and go be a creep somewhere else!”

                Pete shrugged silently and walked away from them, down the hall and into a small office where the nice man resided.  Today was not the day to get in a fight with high schoolers.  Besides, those kids both towered over Pete. 

As he signed the paperwork, he couldn’t help but feel like he was burying his parents all over again.  He took a deep breath and tried to chase away the horrible tightness in his chest.  At least his mother wasn’t alive to beg him for grandchildren.  Because when you make a baby, it turns into a child.  And a child will one day turn into a teenager.  Ew.

                He didn’t even bother going back to work after that.  It wasn’t like Patrick was going to fire him anyways.  He just drove back to his apartment and kicked his shoes and jeans off before sliding under the cool sheets and pulling the blanket up over his head.  It was what he did best these past two months.  He curled up in bed and shut out the world. 

                If only he could figure out how to shut off his thoughts.  He managed to drift off into a restless sleep (he was always tired anymore), and he could recall waking up a few times just enough to recognize that the phone was ringing and choose to ignore it. 

                Patrick came by around dinner time, bringing a bag of food with him.  He didn’t need to be buzzed in, because Pete had given him the second set of keys that came with the tiny apartment.  If it weren’t for Patrick, Pete just might never get out of bed.  But there he was, turning on lights and singing Journey songs while he made himself at home.

                “Dude, you have like, a bunch of missed calls!” Patrick called to him.  There was no need for him to shout, because the apartment was pretty small.  He did anyways though, because in all of his five-foot-five, red-headed, fedora-wearing glory, Patrick was the loudest human being Pete had ever met.

                “Hey,” Patrick appeared in Pete’s bedroom doorway, leaning against it with the phone in one hand.  “You need to call this lady back.  This sounds kind of serious,”

                As a natural reaction to anything that required effort, Pete groaned and rolled onto his stomach, pulling his pillow tight over his head.  “Please go away,”

                Patrick smacked him through the blankets and dropped the phone somewhere on the bed.  “Call them,”  It wasn’t a request.

                !

Pete stood awkwardly at the back of the funeral home, practically hugging Patrick’s side, because he really did not belong there.  At all.  He was such an outsider and the entire thing was too bizarre for him.  The last time he’d worn this suit had been his parent’s funeral, in this very room, with Patrick standing next to him the same way he was then.  He had to keep pinching his wrist so that he wouldn’t have a nervous breakdown and run away.   He also kept running his hands over his hair to smooth it down.  It felt greasy and he wished he’d had the energy to shower earlier.

                The woman who’d called him, a nice lady social worker named Greta, talked to him a bit during the viewing.  It turns out that Pete’s father had a life that he didn’t know about.  Mr. Wentz Senior got married out of college, had a daughter, and then divorced nine years later and kept the entire thing a secret from his new family that included Pete and his mom. 

                Pete didn’t know how to digest the information that he suddenly had a sister.  Or, he used to, until she died.  Greta had called to inform him that, along with having dead parents and a dead half-sister, he also now had a dead brother-in-law, and he was the only living relative of his (not-dead) nephew.

                Greta barely told him anything about his new nephew, only his name (George) and that he was still mourning (duh).  A lot of self-control was used to keep Pete from snapping, “Well no shit, he’s still mourning!  His father just died!” 

“I don’t want to tell you anything about his past.  That’s his to tell you.  You’ll have to wait till he trusts you,” Greta had said, and Pete took a deep, calming breath and tried to pretend that none of it was happening.   He pinched his wrist again.

                A while later he met George.  The funeral home was clearing out and Pete was still pasted to the back wall, watching.  He saw a skinny boy (who looked painfully familiar) hug someone that was blocked from Pete’s view.  Those were the last people to evacuate, leaving Pete and Patrick alone with Greta and the kid.

                “So you’re my uncle then?” the boy said, his voice weak as he gazed over Pete, then Patrick, then down at the carpet with big brown eyes.  Pete chewed on the inside of his cheek and tried to remember where he’d seen the boy before.  He was tall, and terribly thin.  Probably around fourteen or fifteen years old, and a few inches taller than Pete.  He had the gangly look that suggested the height was newly acquired and he was still growing into it.  Soft brown hair, brown eyes that swam with sadness…  Pete thought that he would remember eyes like that.

                “Yeah, I guess so,” Pete said, which he realized was a really stupid thing to say. “You’re George?”

                “Call me Ryan,” the boy almost snapped, but it didn’t quite have the energy behind it.  “Ryan’s my middle name, call me that.  George is a stupid name,” 

                I wonder if that’s the name his father called him.  Pete nodded.  “Alright,”

                “R-really stupid,” Ryan said, bottom lip trembling.  “I’m sorry, excuse me,” he hurried away from Pete and out the door to the hallway, tears streaming down his face. 

                It sounded like he punched or kicked the wall or something, and he let out a sob.  “So fucking stupid!” he said, loud enough for them to hear.  Greta went out in the hallway to talk to Ryan, and Pete wanted to stop her and tell her to just let him be for a while, that she didn’t understand.  But he couldn’t do that.  He barely even knew Ryan, or George, or whoever the little sack of heartache was.

                “Well…” Patrick said quietly, pulling Pete out of his thoughts.  “Congratulations, you’ve just inherited a walking nervous breakdown,”

!

                Ryan sulked silently in the backseat of Pete’s crappy little car.  He didn’t say a word while he, Pete, and Patrick carried his few boxes of belongings inside.  He stayed completely quiet while Pete showed him his room, which he’d previously been using for storage and had cleaned out the night prior.  There had barely been anything in it (he’d shoved an old guitar that he didn’t use anymore under the bed and moved the few boxes he’d kept from his parent’s belongings into the hall closet).  Ryan didn’t say anything at all, and when Patrick stood in the doorway and tried to tell Ryan jokes about turkeys, the door had been slammed in his face and locked. 

                “I think you two will get along nicely,” Patrick told Pete as he walked into the kitchen, where Pete was transferring his beer to the very back of the fridge and making a mental list of kid friendly food things he needed to get.   

                “How do you figure?” Pete asked, wondering at what age kids stopped eating mac n’ cheese and how much soda he’d have to buy to satisfy two people, rather than one. 

                “You’re both incredibly moody,” Pete said, hopping up to sit on the counter.  “So either you’ll get along nicely, or one of you will be dead by next Tuesday,”

“If he’s anything like I was, then I’m royally screwed,”

                “Better put a lock on his window so he doesn’t sneak out to spy on his sexy lesbian neighbors,” Patrick said, and Pete punched him in the arm, because for the love of God Patrick!  I only did that one time!

!

                9/8/13 I’m not talking to him, and Spencer says that it’s a very immature thing to do, but I don’t care.  That’s also immature I suppose.  Spencer doesn’t understand though- I deserve to be immature for once!  I’m sick of acting like an adult and always being responsible.  Well, now that my dad’s dead, I don’t have to anymore.  I can be as immature as I want.  I’ll tell Spencer this, and record what he says.   I just don’t know how to handle this, even if I wanted to be mature.  This guy, my uncle, had no idea that I existed until yesterday.  And now I’m living in his apartment instead of my house.  The house is going to be sold.  No more littered bottles and broken plaster walls and stains on the carpet and bruises I have to hide at school. Unfortunately that also means, no more memories of my mother.  -Ryan

                Pete knocked three times.  “Hey, Ryan?  I bought dinner if you want any,”

                The other side of the door was completely silent, and Pete had to wonder if he’d actually snuck out the window.  He knocked again and leaned his ear against the peeling white paint to listen.

                “Ryan?  You in their buddy?”  Uh oh, when did he start to sound like his dad? 

                Pete sighed and went back to the living room, where he ate dinner by himself as usual and watched South Park.  He was grateful that Ryan was a teenager instead of an eight year old, because then he’d have to seriously curb a lot of his habits to accommodate him.  But Pete remembered being fourteen, and yeah.  He definitely wouldn’t have to censor too much for this kid.

                Pete sighed dejectedly and let his empty plate rest on his tummy while he slouched down on the garage sale couch, eyes half lidded in the dark room that was lit only by the blaring television.  He wished that Greta had told him more about Ryan, like what his home life had been like before his parents died.  Why didn’t he have any other relatives?  What did he like to do for fun?  All she had told him was where Ryan went to school (the local high school, conveniently.  So Pete could drive him on his way to work) and where he was supposed to take Ryan on Tuesdays to talk to a counselor about his feelings or something.

                “Let him come to you,” Greta had said.  “He’ll let you in, just give him time,”

                Well, at this point, Ryan wasn’t even venturing outside of his bedroom, so the getting to know each other thing would probably take longer than Greta expected.  Or maybe she did expect.  Maybe she didn’t care.  Pete didn’t push it though, because it had been two months, and Pete still didn’t talk about his own parents.  Immediately after the funeral, Pete had stolen Patrick’s key to his apartment out of his car and locked himself in his apartment.  He stayed in bed for thirty-six hours straight before Patrick broke in.  He had used a cordless drill to take the screws out of the wall and just remove the door from the wall.  Pete’s landlord had a fit until Patrick put the door back.

                Pete decided to go to bed around eleven o’clock.  He switched off the tv, leaving the apartment in relative silence as he stumbled through the dark to drop his plate by the sink.  He knocked on Ryan’s door in passing, “Hey Ryan, you up?”

                Once again, no answer.  Pete tried the handle and saw it was locked.  There was a spare key on the doorframe, just a foot above his head, but he decided not to peer.  He’d let Ryan come to him on his own time.  Until then, he’d just go to bed and wait.  If Ryan was anything like Pete, he’d have to wait a long, long time.  But at least he wouldn’t have to break down the door.

!

                It was two a.m. when Pete woke up to someone screaming.  He blinked blearily at the red numbers of his clock while wondering whether to call the cops or just put a pillow over his head and wait till they shut up.  Then he realized that the screaming was coming from his apartment, and that’s when he remembered Ryan.

                He wasn’t entirely sure why his heart was pounding so hard as he scrambled out of bed and fumbled for the key above the door.  After a slight struggle, he got the door unlocked.  He didn’t know what to expect on the other side.  Was Ryan being murdered?  Mauled?  Raped?  Dying of some serious disease?

                Pete threw open the door and saw that it was just Ryan, tossing and turning in bed and screaming things that Pete couldn’t make out.  He hurried over to Ryan’s bed and shook the boy gently.

                “Hey, hey, Ryan wake up!  Ryan, it’s Pete!  Wake up, you’re fine!” Pete said, loudly and quickly, trying to wake Ryan up before his neighbors called the cops.

                Ryan jerked up with a gasp, and Pete sat on the edge of the bed and put his arms around him instinctively.  Ryan leaned into him for a moment.  He was obviously trying not to shake, but Pete could still feel it.  He rubbed Ryan’s back reassuringly and waited for him to calm down a bit, totally surprised that Ryan was letting him do this.  In fact, the kid barely moved until Pete spoke.

                “It’s alright.  Just a bad dream,” Pete said gently, and Ryan stiffened in his arms. 

                “I’m fine,” he croaked and then cleared his throat.  He tried again, “I’m fine,” He wiped his runny nose on the sleeve of his hoodie and rubbed his eyes.

                Then he pulled out of Pete’s arms and flopped back down on his side, facing away from Pete. 

                “You’re sure?”

                “I’m fine, just get out,” Ryan’s voice was solid and monotone, so Pete sighed and stood.

                “Dinner is in the fridge if you’re hungry,” he said.  “Come get me from my room if you need anything, alright kid?”

                Ryan’s body stiffened under the covers.  “Don’t call me that,” he snapped, surprising Pete with the force behind his voice.  “My dad used to call me that,” he said.  “So don’t,”

 “Alright, I won’t,” Pete whispered.  “Good night, Ryan,” he risked pulling the blankets up a bit before leaving and closing the door gently behind him.  After a gesture like that, Pete had to wonder when he’d not only started talking like his father, but acting like his mother.  It freaked him out a bit, and he sent a crisis text to Patrick.

                ‘Kids only been here 1 nite and im already acting old’

                He was only slightly surprised when he got an immediate surprise.  Patrick was a magical being that never slept.  Or maybe he just left his phone volume on while he rested.

                ‘Lol u r the hippopotamus’

                Pete fell back asleep in a matter of minutes, wondering if the strange reply from Patrick was due to sleep texting or autocorrect, or if his best friend was just being a total loser.  Probably the latter.

!

                9/9/13 I had a dream about her last night.  I must have been quite loud, because Pete woke me up.  He tried to hug me, and I was disoriented enough that I let him.  My mistake, I’m trying to be indifferent to him.  Oh well.

                I thought I was done having those dreams years ago, but I guess my dad’s death must have triggered them.  It flicked the switch that turned the nightmares on again.  I wish I could find that switch and destroy it completely.  It’s weird, because I should be mourning the death of my father.  But instead I’m more tormented by my mother’s.  This isn’t fair.  None of this is fair!  But, as Spencer’s mom says, “Nothing is fair, sweetie.”  Trust me, I know.  -Ryan

                The next morning, Pete got up around six and wandered into the kitchen for coffee.  He startled when he found someone already at the coffee maker and took a minute to remember, oh yeah!  There was someone else living in his apartment now.

                “Oh, you’re up,” he said, causing Ryan to jump and almost spill the steaming coffee in his hand.  Obviously Ryan wasn’t used to company in the mornings either.   Pete noticed the way Ryan’s eyes were swollen slightly and rimmed red, with dark shadows under them that stood out incredibly against Ryan’s pale complexion.

                Ryan looked at him for a moment, as if trying to read his face or something, before giving a shrug and turning his attention back to pouring coffee.  “I always get myself up,” he mumbled.

                “You made coffee?” Pete asked, yawning and scratching his stomach.

                “I always make coffee,” Ryan said, monotone, but Pete saw the way his shoulders stiffened under his baggy t-shirt.

                “I was going to let you sleep in,” Pete said, standing next to him and pouring himself some coffee.  Ryan stepped away from him to lean on the counter, as far away as the tiny kitchen would allow.  “Greta said you could have a few days off school, considering…”

                Ryan shook his head quickly.  “I’m going back to school today,”

                Pete shrugged.  “Alright, suit yourself.  When I was your age, I would have jumped at the chance to miss school,”

                “You’re not me,” Ryan snapped suddenly, then set his half-full cup on the counter and stalked out, throwing an “I’m going to shower,” over his shoulder.

                An hour and a half later, they were both dressed and ready to go.  “I always walk to school,” Ryan said, and Pete sighed.  He knew this was hard for Ryan, the adjustment from whatever it had been like with his father to living with Pete.  But he could barely get himself to crawl out of bed in the mornings anymore, so he wasn’t up to arguing with a kid this early in the morning.

                “Well, that was when you lived a block from school.  Now you live seven miles away, so I’m driving you,” Pete said, sounding sterner than he’d intended, and Ryan stared at him steadily for a moment before shrugging.

                “Whatever,” he said then was silent again. 

                Well, Pete thought to himself.  At least he’s getting in the car.

!

                9/10/13  He’s trying to act like my friend, or my father, or something… I can’t handle this.  He’s trying to take care of me.   This isn’t like Spencer’s family.  They understand.  Pete doesn’t understand anything.  I think I need to get out of here before it kills me.  –Ryan.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Pat!” Pete lamented loudly, slouching onto the check-out counter as the last customer walked out the door and left the store empty. 

                “Pete, it’s only been a week since his father died.  He’s not used to this yet, you need to give him time,” Patrick said, and Pete hated that he was right.  He decided to argue anyways.

                “It’s been a week, Patrick!”

                “Pete, you of all people should understand what this kid is going through.  Don’t act like you reacted any better to your parent’s death.  You need to give him time,” Patrick said sternly, staring Pete down.

                “He hardly talks!” Pete said, not admitting that Patrick was totally right.  “And he’s, like, completely independent.  I saw him doing laundry the other day!”

                “Obviously this boy is out of control,” Patrick said sarcastically, and Pete threw a pen at him.

                “He tries to make dinner.  He never asks for anything.  When he came home at five o’ clock and I asked him where he’d been, he just says ‘I was at Spencer’s.’  Like I’m supposed to know who the heck Spencer is!  I asked him about his homework the other day and he told me to stop babying him, and that he was fine by himself, thank-you-very-much and locked himself in his room again!”

                Patrick was smirking, and Pete glared at him.  “What!?”

                “It sounds like he’s adjusting just fine,”

                “No he’s not!” Pete shouted, slamming his fist on the counter.  “He’s isolated and moody and independent and when I try to talk to him about his parents he freezes up and shuts down on me, and he barely talks as it is!  He isn’t fine!”

                “Like you?” Patrick asked quietly, dead serious, before he shook his head and squeezed Pete’s shoulder, then went to the back room to do inventory, leaving Pete in the front of the record store to maul that over.

!

                9/15/13 Spencer’s mom told me that if I run away, she’ll track me down and personally kick my butt.  She’s probably serious.  Spencer’s mom scares me sometimes, but she actually cares about me, which is more than I can say about my own parents.  Whatever.  I was never planning on leaving anyways.  I have four years until I’m eighteen, and then I’m free.  Until then, I guess Pete isn’t so bad. -Ryan

                Pete was still trying to work out schedule details with Ryan, which was kind of hard since the kid would barely talk to him. 

                “When should I pick you up from school?” he’d asked.

                “I can get myself home, I’m not a child,” Ryan had replied shortly, and Pete wanted to argue, that yes, he was a child, but Ryan was already gone, trotting up the stone steps to the high school.  Whatever war this was, Pete wasn’t winning.

                Sometimes he’d drop by Ryan’s school to pick him up around three o’clock, and Ryan would be there.  Sometimes Ryan wouldn’t, and Pete would go back to work and return to his apartment around five to find Ryan already home.  Sometimes Ryan came home a while after Pete, and whenever Pete asked, he’d say he was ‘At Spencer’s.’  Pete still didn’t know who Spencer was.

                “A friend,” Ryan said with a casual shrug, and then said nothing more.

                The only good thing that resulted from any of this was that Pete no longer had the option to not get up in the morning.  He couldn’t just lock himself in his room and sleep for days straight.  He had to get up, get dressed, and make sure that Ryan was doing whatever it was he was supposed to be doing.  Although Ryan insisted he could function on his own, and he probably could, he was still Pete’s responsibility.  Maybe Pete didn’t necessarily like it, but it was good for him. 

                One day Pete came home from Patrick’s record store at about six, and he stopped at his apartment door slightly confused by the sound of music drifting from the apartment.  Not a Cd, (certainly not one Ryan played.  The few times Ryan’s headphones were too loud, Pete had always heard the Beatles or something drifting out of them.  Not this) this was live, acoustic, out of practice, and definitely not the Beatles. He opened the door and found Ryan on the couch, cradling an acoustic guitar on his lap and strumming away at it. 

                Pete recognized the guitar- it was his guitar when he was a kid, a Christmas present from his parents when he was in middle school.  It was the guitar he hadn’t played since college and had shoved under the bed in Ryan’s room the night before Ryan moved in.

                Ryan caught Pete staring and stopped abruptly.  “Oh!  I’m… I found this… and I was just… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have messed with it,”  His face turned pink and he looked flustered and nervous.  He probably thought he was in trouble, although Pete thought that it would be a really stupid reason to be in trouble.

                He gave the boy a smile.  “Didn’t know you played,”

                Ryan ran his tongue over his lips and gave a small nod.  “I.. uh.. mess around on the school’s guitars sometimes… and my friend Brendon has one.  I’m not very good,”

                Pete laughed quietly.  “It comes with practice,”

                Ryan took the strap off and chewed on his bottom lip.  “It’s yours. I shouldn’t have messed with it… Sorry,”

                “Keep it,” he said, shaking his head.  “I haven’t played in forever, and it needs love.  Consider it yours,”

                A smile spread across the kid’s face.  It was the first smile Pete had ever seen Ryan wear.  “Really?”

                Pete nodded.  “I’ll leave you to it.  I need to shower.  Does order-in Chinese sound good for dinner?”

                Ryan was smiling down at the guitar in his lap and put the strap back on.  He nodded and plucked a high string.  “Yeah, yeah that sounds great,” Ryan was smiling, and Pete counted it as progress.

!

                9/21/13 He gave me a guitar.  It’s seriously the best gift anyone has ever given me- even better than the books Spencer’s parents got me for my birthday.  Spencer says I should be suspicious because Pete is trying to earn my trust or something.  He thinks Pete is going to murder me.  If he does, I think I’ll be okay with it.  Not like I was destined for greatness anyways. I’m not even afraid to die anymore.  I’m just afraid that I’ll find him in the afterlife, or that I won’t find my mother.  God obviously hates me, so I don’t think I’ll get into heaven.–Ryan

                When Pete got up on Saturday morning, two weeks after Ryan moved in, there was a teenage boy sitting on his couch.  Pete stopped and stared at him for a few moments, and the kid looked up at him.  It was in that moment that Pete finally realized where he’d seen Ryan before-  the day he went into the funeral home to sign paperwork.  Ryan had been the sad boy in the hallway, and the kid who had cussed at him was no sprawled out on his living room couch.

                Pete almost laughed.  Almost.

                The kid looked up at him, eyes wide.  “So you’re the infamous uncle, huh?  The creeper from the funeral home,” 

                “And you’re the boy with the colorful vocabulary and signature bitch face,” Pete retorted, more amused than anything, and far more awake than he usually was in the morning.

                “You’re one to talk about colorful language,” Spencer pursed his lips and kept staring Pete down, arms crossed across his chest, in what was supposed to be intimidating, but he was wearing ninja turtle pajama pants and a high school band camp t-shirt, so it wasn’t really working.

                “Touché,” Pete held his hands up in surrender and shrugged.  “You’re the infamous Spencer, I gather?  I’ve heard barely anything about you besides your name,”

                “Ryan doesn’t talk to people he doesn’t trust,” Spencer said shortly, trying to hurt Pete’s feelings or something.  He waited a moment, still glaring at Pete, before he got bored or something and went back to the couch.  “Ryan’s in the shower,”

                “Alright,” Pete said, going to get his much needed coffee, which he really, really needed after that wake-up call.  “So, can you tell me anything about Ryan?  He doesn’t talk to me very much…”

                “Ryan doesn’t talk to people he doesn’t trust,” Spencer repeated, walking into the kitchen.  “And he barely trusts anyone.  He talks to me.  He talks to Brendon once and a while,”

                “That’s a no, then?” Pete sighed.

                “Let him come to you,” Spencer said, sounding a suspicious amount like Patrick.  This kid made Pete uncomfortable, so he retreated to his room with his coffee and wondered when it had come to him hiding in his bedroom from teenagers.

!

 The morning Pete found Spencer in his living room for the first (and not last) time, he gave Spencer a ride home some time that afternoon, despite Spencer’s protests that really, it was only six miles.  He could ride his bike.  Pete insisted, and Spencer gave in easily, obviously used to listening to adults in a way that Ryan wasn’t.

                Spencer’s mother had invited Pete in to talk for a little while, and she told him that Ryan used to spend nearly every other night on their couch before moving in with Pete.  Pete tried to push for a bit more information, but she just patted his knee and said “Let him come to you, dear,”

                Pete really wished people would stop saying that.  He wanted to stomp his feet and argue “BUT HE ISN’T COMING TO ME!” but he didn’t.  He didn’t do any of that.  He just sighed and nodded.  She gave him a smile that reminded him of the ones his mom used to give him, whenever he’d get too frustrated with something.  It was a bit creepy that Spencer’s mom, probably around forty-five years old or so, was old enough to be his own mother.  But now both of them had teenagers. Weird.  Really, really weird.

                For as much as Ryan didn’t talk about his life before moving in with Pete, he talked about his therapy sessions even less.  Whenever he got into the car on Tuesdays after the hour long session, he just slouched down in his seat and stared off blankly at seemingly nothing.  Pete never pushed him, because he figured that if he did, he’d just push him farther away.

                Pete also had to go to therapy sessions every Wednesday morning after dropping Ryan off at school.  Pete talked to the same counselor that Ryan did, a middle aged guy named Gerard who wore a lot of black and refused to be called by his last name.  Gerard always gave him coffee and they talked about how Ryan was adjusting, and how Pete was adjusting.  No matter how much Pete pushed, or how nonchalantly he slipped it into the conversation, Gerard refused to tell him anything personal about Ryan.

                “Confidentiality my friend.  When he feels comfortable, then he’ll tell you.  Get ready for a story,” Gerard said, and Pete was interested in the way that Gerard waved his hands around while he talked.  They talked some more about Ryan, and eventually Pete’s coffee was gone, his hour was up, and Gerard was guiding him out the door with a warm hand on the small of Pete’s back.

                Pete had no idea how it happened, but one day he started telling Gerard about his parents.  It might have come into the conversation by Pete mentioning how hard it was to deal with that kind of loss.  Gerard told Pete that Ryan’s feelings were more conflicted, for reasons Pete didn’t know yet.  Then he asked a few more questions, and Pete melted under his words, opened up, and told him everything.

                Gerard suggested that they talk more about Pete’s depression at their next session, and Pete’s mind didn’t even register the word ‘depression’ until later that day, when he was lying in bed.  He’d gone home immediately after that, too physically and emotionally drained to do anything else.  Patrick picked Ryan up and brought him home.  He brought food with him, and he sat on Pete’s bed and listened to Pete talk until two in the morning.

!

                9/30/13  I don’t think Gerard is telling Pete everything I’ve told him.  Pete would be acting different if he knew.  I kind of wish Gerard would tell him so I wouldn’t have to.  Technically, I don’t have to.  But Gerard thinks it will make it easier.  Gerard is also the one making me write in this damned journal.  I could just lie, and Gerard would never know.  He’s just a therapist- not a mind reader.  Although sometimes I wonder.

                Something weird was going on with Pete the other day.  He might have been sick or something, but in the morning I found him and Patrick asleep in his bed.  I’ll keep you posted.  Spencer thinks that the irony is hilarious. I punched him in the leg. –Ryan

                “You know, I think Ryan is good for you,” Patrick said, while Pete stacked the new metal cd’s on a rack.

                “What do you mean?” Pete asked, trying to make sense of the scribbly letters each band used as font.  Was that an A or an M or an R?  He hated sorting this genre.  It was nothing against the music itself, but the logos! 

                “Well,” Patrick said.  “You don’t really shut off as much as you used to,”

                “I’ve never shut myself off,” Pete said, turning to make a face at his friend.  But he knew it was a lie, as much as Patrick knew. 

                Patrick shrugged.  “Sure ya don’t, Pete,”

Pete didn’t have the energy to argue.

!

                So maybe Patrick had a point.  Although really, if they were being honest, Ryan technically wasn’t inhibiting Pete from shutting everyone out.  Ryan was also very good at shutting the world out- he spent most of his time locked up in his room, doing homework, reading, and just not saying anything at all.  He didn’t really ask Pete for anything, and they barely talked, so it wasn’t so much that Ryan was stopping Pete from shutting the world out.  Ryan and Pete just kind of shut everyone out at the same time.  Well, not everyone.

                Greta would stop by the apartment randomly every other week.  The first time it had caught Pete totally off guard, and he answered the door fresh out of the shower wearing nothing but a towel, but the second and third time, he was ready.  He made sure his apartment was nice and clean, and he and Ryan were not only clean, but clothed.  Greta was keeping an eye on Ryan’s school records and let Pete know that he had a C in math, and should work on bringing that up.  It made Pete feel a bit like he was failing at his job, because he’d had no idea.

                The third time Greta stopped by, Patrick was over, and she left with a strange expression on her face.

                “She thinks you’re gay, you know,” Ryan spoke up once the door closed, from his place on the couch where he’d had his nose in a book for the past hour.  Patrick had asked what he was reading, and Ryan had either ignored him or not heard him.  Greta had tried to talk to him, and he’d fed her one-worded, monotone answers until she gave up.

                “Wait, what?” Pete said, looking over at him. 

                Ryan rolled his eyes and set the book on his lap, pulled his knees down from their bent position and letting his sock feet rest on the wood floor.  “Greta.  She thinks you two are together.  I did too, at first.  But I haven’t seen you guys kiss yet, and the playboy magazine by the toilet tells me otherwise,”

                Patrick was making this face, his eyebrows up in his hairline, and his face turning red from trying not to laugh.  He looked stupid, but it was something Pete was so used to that he didn’t point it out.

                “No… Patrick and I are just… we’ve been friends since we were babies! I mean…” Pete stuttered out, while Patrick turned more red by the second and pressed his lips together tight.  Why the hell didn’t he just laugh?

                “Yeah, I know,” Ryan said, standing and holding the book loosely at his side.  “People think Spencer and I are gay too,”

                “They do?”

                Ryan didn’t answer him.  Instead he went to his room and closed the door, locking it behind him.  Pete had the urge to yell after him “Are you!?” but he didn’t.  He was counting the baby steps towards total control over his impulses.  Patrick would make fun of him if he knew. 

                Right then, Patrick was finally letting out the laugh he’d been holding in, howling something like ‘come here and kiss me Petey!’ and he didn’t shut up until Pete tackled him and tried to smother him with a  pillow.

!

                Everything was starting to even out, and it all settled in to a strange feeling of normality.  Eventually Ryan stopped getting up with the birds and started letting Pete do the adult stuff, like make coffee.  Pete would drop Ryan off at school, and he’d go to work at Patrick’s record store.  After school, Ryan would go to Spencer’s house, and Pete would pick him up sometime after he got off work.  They had dinner at the Smith’s house once, and Pete talked to Spencer’s mom while watching Spencer and Ryan fight over a video game and Spencer’s three younger sisters giggle and stare at Ryan.  It was cute, and Pete worried sadly that the Smiths would make a much better family for Ryan than himself.  They also had dinner at Patrick’s parent’s place once, and Ryan had warmed up to Mrs. Stump much faster than he had to anyone else.  Pete asked him about it later, and Ryan replied “I don’t know… she just seems really mom-like,”

                Pete had to agree. 

                Ryan was still really quiet, and he still spent a great deal of time reading or in his room or just being completely silent, but it wasn’t uncomfortable anymore.  It was just… Ryan.  They even started talking at dinner.  And slowly, very, very slowly, Ryan was opening up about himself.  Pete let himself open up a little too, and he realized that maybe Patrick was right.  Maybe having Ryan around was good for him.

!

                Then Ryan got suspended.  Pete had been at the record store with Patrick, restocking cd’s and magazines and waging war against the spiders that lurked in the corners of the store, because the college kid who worked weekends, Mikey, was terrified of them and wouldn’t stock anything on a shelf with a spider nearby. The spiders were very skilled at avoiding attacks, and Pete narrated a hunting documentary in his head while swiping at them with a broom. 

                ‘Here we see the brave explorer Wentz stalking the venomous Erobia Maximum Carnivoious, the most deadly of spider types in all of North America!  Just a few more steps, and he will be mere inches from the creature that could cause great harm to him and his side-kick, Stumpy.  If Wentz fails in this expedition, all hope is lost for humanity-,”

                “What are you doing?” Patrick’s voice right next to him startled Pete enough that he jumped back into a shelf of Madonna’s Greatest Hits and sent them all cascading to the floor.  Patrick raised an eyebrow at him.  “Smoooothe, loser.  Ryan’s school called for you,” He handed the phone to Pete before going back behind the counter.

                “Is this Mr. Wentz, George Ross’s legal guardian?” it felt scarily familiar to the phone call he’d gotten from Greta two months previous.  Pete caught himself just before he corrected her and said, “It’s not George, it’s Ryan,”

                “Yes, speaking.  Is Ryan alright?” Pete asked, picturing the worst case scenarios in his head.  Patrick looked up from behind the counter, concern written all over his face.

                “George has been suspended for fighting.  I need you to come pick him up and file some paperwork,” she said, and this time Pete did correct him.

                “It’s Ryan,”

                “Excuse me?”

                Pete cleared his throat, trying to get the strange lump out of it.  He felt his temper rising, and he needed to take it out on something before he picked Ryan up.  The secretary on the phone was just conveniently in his line of fire.

                “He goes by his middle name,” Pete said.  “I’ll be there in five minutes,” he punched the ‘end call’ button and tossed the phone to Patrick.  “Ryan got in a fight.  I have to go pick him up,”

                “Oh,” Patrick said.  “Oh wow… over what? Do you know?”

                Pete shook his head and clenched his jaw.

                “Hey!” Patrick called to him right before he left the store.  “Pete, don’t be too hard on him,”

                Pete ignored him and stormed out of the store.  The creeping feeling that he was acting far too much like his parents returned while he raced to Ryan’s school.  Suspended!? Really!?  But he had to take a deep breath and remind himself that he did plenty of dumb shit in high school, and he wasn’t really in a place to judge. 

                Still, he walked into the office, completely ready to tell Ryan off. 

                “Ryan Ross! What the hell were you-“ he stopped mid-sentence when Ryan flinched back, putting an arm up like he was ready to get hit or something.  Pete blinked once and looked Ryan over.  His clothes and hair were disheveled and there was blood on his shirt, which was obviously coming from his nose, because he had a tissue pressed firmly to it to catch the blood.  He looked up at Pete with the most pitiful brown eyes he’d ever seen, and Pete melted.  “God damnit, Ryan,”

                “I’m sorry,” Ryan said quietly.  “I can explain.  Can we please just go home now?”

                Pete blinked again in surprise, because he swore to God, Ryan had never referred to his new residence as anything except “Pete’s apartment” or “that place” or (Pete’s personal favorite), “the holding cell.”  But Ryan had really just said the word home while referring to his and Pete’s apartment.  Pete couldn’t help but smile, because damnit, that was progress!

                “Yeah, yeah, let’s go, Ryan,” Pete said gently.  He signed the appropriate paperwork and was walking out of the office with Ryan when he noticed a boy sitting in a chair, sporting a split lip and a bruise on his cheek.  Pete was willing to bet this boy was the other half of the fight.

                “See ya later, faggot,” the boy said, and Pete saw Ryan stiffen at his side.  He personally remembered those days, and it was assholes like this that made him not miss high school.  Pete put his hand on Ryan’s arm and gently tugged him towards the door. “Going home with your replacement daddy?  Hopefully this one won’t overdose like your deadbeat-“

                Ryan lunged at him, and Pete got his arms wrapped around him just in time to stop him from planting his fist upside the boy’s head. 

                “Shut up!” Ryan yelled.  “Shut the fuck up!”

                “Maybe this one won’t hit you, huh?” the kid taunted, a shit-eating-grin on his face that showed he was enjoying every minute of it.  “You’re so pathetic,”

                Ryan lunged forward again, and it took quite a lot of strength to hold him back.  Ryan was taller than him, and even though Pete was more muscular, Ryan was stronger than he looked.  “DON’T YOU DARE SAY ANYTHING ABOUT MY FATHER!” Ryan yelled at him.  “LET ME GO!  LET ME FUCKING GO, PETE!” He struggled against Pete’s hold on him, and the other kid just laughed. 

                Pete jerked Ryan back once, hard enough to snap his head forward, and pushed Ryan in the direction of the office door.  “Go to the car,” he said.  The other boy laughed, and Ryan took a step towards him.

Pete put his arm in front of Ryan to stop him and yelled “George Ryan Ross get your ass in the fucking car right now!” at the same moment that the adults who worked in the office flooded in.

                Ryan gawked at Pete for a second, like Pete was the bad guy.  Every pair of eyes in the office were on Pete, along with a few kids standing in the hallway.  He could feel his face heating up with embarrassment, and Ryan was already flushed bright red from the confrontation.  The attention made him very uncomfortable, and he snapped out, “Now, Ryan!”

                Ryan’s mouth snapped closed and his well-worn scowl decorated his face again as he turned and stormed out to the parking lot.  They didn’t talk the entire ride home, and when they got there, Ryan went straight to his room and slammed the door, locking it behind him, which was something he had stopped doing a month ago.

                Pete was about to go talk to him when the buzzer went off.  He let Greta into his apartment a few moments later.

                Suddenly Pete felt like he was the one who was in trouble, because apparently he was “Obviously not doing your job as a parental figure!” and he needed to “keep Ryan out of trouble,” because he was “already walking on eggshells as it is!”  It wasn’t until Greta said that “If something like this happens again, Ryan could be taken away and put into foster care!” that he really got riled up.

                “What!?” he demanded.  “What do you mean, he could be put into foster care!? I am his legal guardian!  You can NOT do that!”

                “As I am only looking out for Ryan’s safety and welfare, I can do whatever I feel best,” she said simply. 

                “This is what’s best for Ryan!”

                “He needs a firm hand in his life, Mr. Wentz.  You yourself are a young man.  This is still a probationary adoption. You might not be ready for the responsibility that comes with raising a child,”

                “I am doing a damned good job taking care of Ryan!” Pete demanded.  “You can’t do this!  You can’t take him away from me!” 

                “I can do whatever I feel best,” she repeated, a tad sterner.  “And I suggest that you prove to me you can keep your temper, before I am forced to do an investigation on you,”

                Pete was about to interject, mouth opening and heaven only knows what about to fly out, when Ryan stepped out of his room.  His nose was red and swollen slightly, but the nurse promised it wasn’t broken, and obviously it had stopped bleeding.  He was as white as a sheet and chewing on his lip.

                “Greta… please, I’m sorry,” he said, stepping in between Pete and Greta.  “This isn’t his fault.  Someone at school was taunting me and I lost my temper,”

                Greta blinked a few times, regarding him.

                “This won’t happen again,” Ryan said, sensing her indecision.  “I’m really happy here with Pete…”

                “You’d better hope that it doesn’t happen again, Ryan,” she eventually said.  “You’re going to talk to your therapist about this on Tuesday,”

                Ryan flinched slightly and nodded.  “Yes I’ll talk to… him,” Ryan never said the word therapist, Pete had noticed.  Maybe as a sort of denial?  It made sense.  No kid wanted to confess that kind of thing.

                “I’ll be checking up on you,” Greta warned, and then she was gone, leaving Pete and Ryan alone with their giant elephant of an awkward silence.

                “Ryan…” Pete started to say, but Ryan glared at him.

                “I’m not talking to you,” he turned and went back to his room, and Pete followed him, just to have the door slammed and locked in his face.  But no, he was not giving up that easily.

                “Open the door, Ryan,” Pete called.

                “No!”  Pete held in a frustrated groan, because seriously, he could not remember being this much of a pain in the ass when he was fourteen.  Patrick would probably beg to differ.

                “Open the door, Ryan, I’m not playing around here!”

                “Or what!?” Ryan challenged from the other side, and he had a good point.  Or what?  It wasn’t like Pete was actually going to do anything.  His parents never hit him as a kid (“They should have,” Patrick had said once.  “Would have done you good!”  He’d been teasing Pete, and Pete punched him in the arm to retaliate) and Pete wouldn’t ever do something like that.  Especially after that comment the kid at school made.  “Maybe this one won’t hit you, huh?”  How much truth was behind that?  Was it just a silly taunt, or did this kid know something Pete didn’t?  He wouldn’t be surprised; he barely knew anything. 

                But Pete wouldn’t do anything like that anyways.  Couldn’t.  It wasn’t right.  He didn’t even want to yell at the kid, and he let out a frustrated sigh.   He wished his mom was still there.  She’d know how to handle this.  If she could raise Pete, she could raise anybody.

                Ryan must have figured Pete gave up, because he could hear him moving around on the other side of the door.  Pete reached up and got the key off the doorjamb and let himself in.  Ryan was sitting on the floor, facing away from Pete with a picture in his hand.

                “We need to talk about this,” Pete said, closing the door behind him.  He heard Ryan sniffle.

                “Fine, whatever,” he said, monotone back.  He was shutting Pete out again, and Pete couldn’t help but feel slightly guilty.

                “I know it can be hard when people say things like that, but-“

                “You don’t understand!” Ryan snapped, cutting him off.  Pete didn’t know where he’d been going with that anyways.

                “What don’t I understand?” he asked, keeping his voice even, because yelling at Ryan was going wasn’t going to get him anywhere but shut out.

                “Anything.  You don’t understand anything about me, so don’t try to,” Ryan said, still not looking at him.

                “You’re right,” Pete rolled his eyes, but kept his voice at a normal level.  “You’re right, I don’t understand what it’s like to be orphaned, do I?  I don’t know what it’s like to feel totally alone, or pissed off, or like I wanted to cry all the time.  You can ask Patrick, Ryan, I was a mess after my parents died, okay?  And during high school, I was everyone’s favorite punching bag, but you can’t just go getting in fights like this.  You heard Greta, if you don’t behave-“

                “I don’t want you to be mad at me,” Ryan interrupted, picking at a nonexistent piece of lint on his jeans and staring down.

                “I’m not mad,” Pete sighed, letting the desperation and exhaustion he was feeling flow into his voice.  Maybe the best thing he could do here was tell the truth.  “I’m just… Ryan I have no idea what I’m doing, okay?  Two months ago I got a random phone call that told me I had a dead sister and that I was supposed to take care of her son, whom I’d never met or had known existed until then.  I’m twenty-four for God’s sake!  I don’t know how to deal with raising a teenager!”

                Ryan glanced up at him for a moment, and stared him down in the creepy way that Pete had gotten used to by then.  “I don’t need someone to raise me.  I’m almost grown up,”

                Pete sat next to him and put his arm around Ryan’s shoulders.  “Yeah, you don’t need someone to raise you.  But I do think you need someone to care about you,”

                “I just wish he would have tried,” Ryan sighed.  Pete squeezed his shoulder gently.   “For the record, you’re doing a better job than he ever did,”

                Pete grinned to himself. “Yeah?”

                Ryan sighed, melting more into Pete’s side.  “Whatever,”

!

                They were out for dinner at the mall, some small place with big windows that sold cheap tacos.  They sat in the corner of the restaurant, Ryan seemingly trying to eat an entire taco in one bite and failing every time.  Pete was getting ready to do the Heimlich if necessary, because he was sure that Greta wouldn’t appreciate him letting Ryan die.

                Then Pete realized that Ryan wasn’t actually listening to him talk about Artic Monkeys, and sure, he’d been rambling a bit, but Ryan was totally spacing off.  He was staring intently off into the distance over Pete’s shoulder, mouth hanging open slightly, like he was staring into heaven or something.

                “What are ya lookin at?” Pete asked, turning in his chair.  He didn’t see anything gape-worthy.  There was an elderly couple picking at salads and arguing over salt, a college kid with a lap top, and a table that had about ten people crowded around it.  A huge family with teenagers, two parents, and a young couple with a toddler.

                “Friend of yours?” Pete asked, giving Ryan a smirk.  Ryan snapped his mouth closed and focused back on his taco.

                “Want to go say hi?” Pete picked his own dinner back up, and almost choked when Ryan shouted.

                “NO!”

                Several people turned to look over at them, and Ryan sunk in his seat, blushing.  Pete heard a call of, “Hey! Ryan!” from over his shoulder, and suddenly there was a boy standing at the edge of their booth, bouncing on the balls of his feet and smiling wide.

                “Hey! What’s up?  Is this Pete?  Hey Pete, I’ve heard a lot about you!  More from Spencer than Ryan, but Ryan doesn’t really talk much.  I’m Brendon,” Brendon took Pete’s hand and shook it, and Pete blinked a few times.

                “Uhm, hey…” he said, trying to keep up with the kid’s motor mouth.  “Nice to meet you.  Yeah, I’m Pete,”

                “My parents said I could sit by you guys for a while, if that’s okay with you.  Is it okay Ryan?”

                Ryan nodded mutely and slid over to give Brendon room to sit.  Brendon slid into the booth and sat right next to Ryan, close enough that their sides were touching, and Ryan was blushing a brilliant shade of red.  Pete was trying not to laugh.

                “Ryan, you haven’t met my family yet, have you?  They’re over there,” Brendon pointed.  “Those are my siblings, Kara, Valerie, Matthew, and Mason.  And my half-brother, Jonathan and his wife Martha, and their daughter Ruth.  That’s Mason’s wife, Hannah, and their son, Zeke.  And those are my parents,”

                “Big family,” Pete mumbled, because seriously, that was unnatural.  Big families mystified him, because it had always just been him and his parents.  He didn’t even have that many cousins.

                “I know, right?  It’s insane.  You wanna come over and meet them Ryan?” Brendon asked, smiling again.  He used a finger to push his red glasses back up his nose and slung his arm around Ryan’s shoulders.  Pete noticed that Brendon was wearing a Star Wars t-shirt, and Ryan was blushing even darker.

                “Sure,” he cleared his throat before he spoke, so it came out even, and Pete watched them wander over to the table.  He chuckled to himself.

                When Ryan came back over after Brendon’s family had left, he plopped down in his seat and wore a tiny smile on his lips.  “So, that’s Brendon, hm?” Pete smirked at him, and Ryan shot him a look.

                “Yeah, so?”

                “You like him, don’t you?”

                Ryan’s face went from red to white so fast that Pete was worried he’d pass out.  “W-what!? No.  No, no, no I don’t… Shut up, no,” Ryan crossed his arms and slumped in his seat. 

                Pete shrugged and gathered all the garbage on their table to throw away.  “Whatever.  It’s cool if you do, ya know.  I mean, I don’t really swing that way, but Brendon’s pretty cute,”

                Ryan made a face at him.  “Did Spencer put you up to this?”

                He shook his head and smiled, “Nobody put me up to anything.  I could just see the way you were looking at him,”

                “It’s not like that.  We can’t… I mean, Pete, he’s a Mormon!” Ryan exclaimed, looking absolutely distraught.  “He doesn’t even like me that way,” he slumped forward onto his arm and gently bit his forearm, something Pete thought was kind of weird, but decided not to question. 

                “Time will tell, Ryan.  Come on, let’s get outta here,” he threw their trash away and put their tray in the collection area as they walked out.  Then of course, because Pete had horrible luck and karma was out to get him, they ran into Ashley.

                “Pete?  Pete Wentz, is that you?” her voice hit time and he turned to meet it, mouth falling open.

                “Oh! Ashley, hey.  What’s up?” he said, smiling and probably blushing.  Ryan had his skinny arms crossed over his chest, and he had that smirk on.  Yes, karma was certainly out to get him. 

                “It’s been forever!” she squeaked, pulling Pete into a hug, which was only a tad awkward, because she was taller than him.  She’d always been taller than him, ever since they met freshman year in college.  She’d told him that some guys hit puberty late and that he’d catch up to her.  Well, it had been six years and he hadn’t grown yet, so he figured he was doomed.

                “Who’s the kid?” she asked.  “A friend of yours?”  She grinned sweetly at Ryan, who was scowling slightly at being called a kid.  Pete prayed that Ryan was nice to her.  Please, please God be on my side for once.

                “Uhm, actually this is my nephew, Ryan Ross.  Ryan, this is a friend from college, Ashley Simpson,” Pete said, nudging Ryan gently as a way to say be nice to her or I will kill you in your sleep.  He shot Ryan a look too, and Ryan just smirked again.  He shook Ashley’s hand.

                “It’s very nice to meet a friend of Pete’s,” Ryan said, in a tone of voice Pete had never heard before, with emphasis on the word friend that made Pete want to kill him. 

                Ashley smiled.  “Well, aren’t you just a little doll!”  Ryan’s smile twitched, and obviously he was training the scowl off his face.   Another point towards self-control.

                “Pete, you’ll call me, yeah?  We should totally have dinner some time,” she said, handing Pete a card, before she winked and sauntered away.  Pete was trying not to gape after her, and Ryan let himself scowl.

                “Sooooo, that’s Ashley, huh?” Ryan said, in the same exact tone Pete had used earlier about Brendon.

                “Shut the fuck up,” Pete laughed, and messed up Ryan’s hair, making the teenager glare at him again.

!

“I want to get a job,” Ryan said suddenly, bright and early Sunday morning, when Pete wasn’t awake enough to make sense of English.

                “You… ah.. wha?” He managed, and Ryan pushed a cup of coffee into his hands and all but forced him to sit down at the table. 

“A job.  I want to get one.  Earn money, you know?”

                “Uhm, you…” Pete took a sip of his coffee, still trying to translate English in his brain. 

                “I know you don’t have enough money to give me an allowance, and I wouldn’t ask for that anyways,” Ryan said.  Too make things better, Spencer Smith got up from their couch and sauntered over.  Pete was officially outnumbered.

                “You’re fourteen…” he managed to finally say, and he could see Ryan forcibly not rolling his eyes.  Another tally towards self-control.

                “I know a place that hires underage.  Please, please, pleaaaase Pete?” Ryan pleaded, actually clasping his hands together and dropping to his knees on the kitchen floor.  Such a drama queen.

                “Builds a work ethic,” Spencer added.  “Ryan, get up.  You’re such a loser.  Anyways, he’d be hanging around the house moping a lot less,”

                “I do not mope!” Ryan said indignantly, standing and glaring at Spencer.

                “Shut up, yes you do,” Spencer said.  “It will teach him responsibility and how to handle money,”

                Ryan already knew those things.  He’d told Pete a while ago that he’d been in charge of paying bills at his dad’s house, because his father could never remember to.  Obviously he already knew the value of a dollar.

                “Pleeeeeeeeeaaaaaase?” Ryan pleaded again.

                “Work ethic,” Spencer sang out. 

                “Alright, alright, alright,” Pete sighed, because it was too early in the morning for this.  He glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearly eleven.  Oh…  “Yeah, okay.  You can get a job.  But I want to know where you’re working, and you have to keep your grades up,” he tried to sound stern, but he probably just sounded sleepy.

                “Cool, thanks,” Ryan said, smiling.  “Come on, Spence.  Let’s get dressed so I can go get hired,” he grabbed Spencer’s arm and dragged him to his bedroom, and Pete dropped his head onto the table and yawned.

!

                The place that Ryan started working at was a thrift shop, owned by Brendon’s grandmother.  It was a good gig, the kind Pete wished he’d had when he was in high school.  Ryan basically just had to hang around and stock shelves, unpack boxes, make things look nice, and hang out with his friend Brendon.  He got paid fifty dollars a week, which is a good deal when you’re fourteen.  Pete went in a few times and Brendon’s grandmother had stuffed a cookie in his mouth and called him ‘dearie.’ 

                Every time Ryan got in the car after work, he had this dreamy smile on his face that Pete only poked fun at a few times.  Spencer, however, poked fun at it constantly.  One Sunday morning Pete walked into the living room to see Ryan and Spencer wrestling.  Ryan got Spencer in a headlock, and Spencer had yelled out “Okay! Okay!  You don’t like Brendon, not let me go you assbutt!”

                Yeah, definitely like him and Patrick.

                Luckily for Pete, he didn’t have to see Brendon as much as he had to listen to Ryan talk about him.  Sure, the constant “Brendon said…” and “Today in math class, Brendon…” was somewhat annoying, but it wasn’t nearly as exhausting as listening to Brendon talk for five minutes. 

                Then Pete went to pick Ryan up from Spencer’s house on a Friday afternoon and saw Brendon bouncing out the door after them. 

                “Hey, Pete…?” Ryan said, leaning in through the open car window.  “Can Spencer and Brendon spend the night tonight? Please?”

                Pete groaned inwardly.  “Can’t you guys stay here tonight?”

                “Spencer’s sisters have friends over,” Ryan said.

                “Stay at Brendon’s house?”

                “His parents don’t let them have friends over,” Ryan said.  “Please, Pete? We’ll be quiet,”

                That was a lie.  They’d most likely stay up til three a.m. talking or playing video games or watching tv too loud or wrestling or something. 

                “Alright, fine.  But I’m having Patrick over tonight, so don’t freak him out,” Pete sighed, getting his phone out to call Patrick, because he was not enduring this night alone.

                Ryan gave him a grin.  “Pft, Patrick loves me,”

                Through the window, Pete saw Brendon doing handstands.  He tipped over and accidentally kicked Spencer in the head.  Spencer cursed at him and started hitting him with Barbie that was lying on the ground, while Brendon giggled hysterically and rolled around in the grass.  Pete sighed; this was going to be a long night.

                Back in the apartment, Pete and Patrick were in the kitchen trying to cook a frozen pizza in the oven.  Ryan was sprawled out on the couch with his head resting in Spencer’s lap while Spencer flicked through TV stations. 

                “Whoa! You guys have a key board!” he heard Brendon shout, and then a few moments later the apartment was filled with the sounds of Chopin.  Pete and Patrick both went in the other room, and sure enough, Brendon was at the keyboard, effortlessly filling the room with music and not missing a single key.  Brendon looked up at them and smiled wide.  “Not much of a party starter, huh?  This might be better,”  Chopin turned into Piano Man, complete with Brendon singing along.

                Ryan smiled and watched him, totally infatuated, and Pete sighed happily before going back to the kitchen. 

                “They’re so cute,” Patrick noted, flicking frozen cheese and Pete.  Pete swatted it away.

!

                “Dude, Thanksgiving at my mom’s house this weekend,” Patrick said as soon as Pete answered the phone.  Pete got up from the couch, where Ryan was sitting a few feet away from him watching TV, and went into the kitchen.

                “It’s Thanksgiving this weekend?” he asked, because whoa.  When did it even turn into November?  He glanced at the calendar that he kept on the fridge and saw that someone (not him, probably Ryan) had turned the page to the current month.  Ryan had this thing about crossing the days off as they went by, so Pete could clearly see that it was indeed November, and most of it was gone. 

                “Yes, dumb ass.  My mom expects you and Ryan to come over,” Patrick said.  “She’s knitting us sweaters for Christmas, dude.  They have our initials on them.  She’s turning into Mrs. Weasely,”

                Pete laughed, for Patrick’s sake, but mentally he was freaking out.   Christmas was coming up, in a matter of weeks.  He’d seen the Santas out on the sidewalk, but hadn’t connected the dots until Patrick brought it up.  Christmas was approaching, and for the first year ever he wouldn’t be celebrating with his parents.  He wouldn’t be able to celebrate with his parents.  His mom wouldn’t make cookies, and his dad wouldn’t play those stupid carols on the piano, and they wouldn’t go to church.  Nothing would be the same, and yeah, he was a grown man.  He should be able to handle it.  But he couldn’t.

                “Hey… Uhm, Ryan needs me for something,” Pete said quickly.  “I’ll talk to you later”

                “You okay?” Patrick asked with his suspicious voice.

                “Fine, yeah, bye,” Pete hung up and dropped into a chair at the table, resting his head in his hands and elbows on his knees.  He heard Ryan walk into the kitchen but ignored him.  Ryan leaned against the edge of the table and stared at the floor too.

                “I don’t want to do Thanksgiving at Spencer’s house,” Ryan said, and Pete glanced up at him.  He didn’t say anything, just raised an eyebrow.  Ryan would continue if he wanted to.  He did.  “I’ve spent the last few Thanksgivings there.  And, it’s nice, but… I’m not their family.  It’s weird, being somewhere like that on a holiday and watching everyone around you be happy when you know you don’t really belong there,”

                Pete nodded slowly.  “Yeah… we don’t have to go to Patrick’s either, if you don’t want to.  I mean, it’ll kind of be the same thing there too.  Patrick’s my best friend, and he’s like family, but those are his parents and his traditions, and not mine,”

                “At least you have traditions,” Ryan muttered. 

                “You didn’t celebrate with your parents?” Pete asked, rolling his shoulders and sitting up just to slouch back in his chair.  Ryan shrugged and slid into a chair of his own.

                “We did when I was little, but then my mom…” Ryan licked his lips and took a deep breath, “Then my mom left, and my dad never did anything like that,”

                “You never told me your parents were divorced,” Pete said, and he knew it was a dumb thing to say, but it kind of just came out without his approval.

                “They weren’t,” Ryan said, folding his hands under the table and biting his lip.  “My mom committed suicide when I was nine years old.  In our bathroom.  You can probably guess who found her,”

                Pete stared at him silently, having no idea how to respond to that.  Ryan glanced up at him and gave him a small grin, but his eyes were the saddest thing Pete had ever seen. 

                They ordered a pizza that night, and they both fell asleep on the couch watching CSI: Miami.  Ryan told Pete that the show was total bull, because people don’t actually get saved like that.  He said it was a shallow feel-good drama, but when Pete offered to change it, he shook his head and said “I want to think that maybe this stuff can happen for someone out there,”

!

                Ever since the first night, Pete hadn’t woken up to any more screaming from nightmares.  He figured it was a onetime thing that came with the anxiety of the funeral and moving into a new home.  But then one night, three months after the first, Pete was once again woken up in the middle of the night.  He groaned and sat up, rubbing his eyes before glancing at the clock.  Three a.m.

                He considered pressing a pillow over his head and going back to sleep until a voice in the back of his head (probably his conscious, but it sounded suspiciously like Patrick) yelled at him for being heartless and probed him out of bed.

                This time Ryan hadn’t locked the door, so it was a lot easier to get in.  He was actually talking this time, words mixed in with his muffled screams.

                “Dad! Stop!  Please, I’m sorry!  Dad please don’t hit me, stop!” Ryan screamed, tossing and turning in bed.  Pete hurried over and shook him.

                “Ryan!  Ryan, it’s a dream.  Come on, wake up!”

                Ryan woke up flailing and punched Pete square in the eye.  “OW!”

                “Oh my God! I’m so sorry!” Ryan gasped.  “Are you okay? Oh God, hold on,”

                Later they were in the kitchen, Pete holding a bag of ice to his eye and Ryan leaning against the counter, hugging his chest and looking overwhelmingly guilty.

                “Seriously, it’s fine,” Pete said.  “Patrick has hit me harder on purpose, and I still keep him around.  Stop looking at me like that,”

                “You’re not mad?” Ryan asked tentatively. 

                “Not mad,” Pete said, pulling the ice away.  “It’s just a black eye, I’ll survive,”

                Ryan bit his lip and nodded, staring at the floor again.  Pete followed his gaze and realized that he really needed to vacuum.  Then he realized that he really was turning into his mother.

                “Hey, Pete?” Ryan asked, and Pete glanced up to find Ryan staring at him.  “Did I, uhm… Did I say anything in my sleep?”

                He looked completely worried, like he remembered what he had been dreaming about and really didn’t want Pete to know.  Pete could understand that.  Ryan would tell him when and if the time came, so Pete lied.

                “No, you didn’t say anything I could understand,” Pete said.  “Something bothering you?”

                Ryan shook his head quickly, relief on his face.  “No, no.  I’m going back to bed,”

                The next morning, Pete had a hard time opening his swollen eye, and Ryan’s eyes were underlined with dark circles.  Pete was willing to bet he didn’t go back to sleep that night.

!

                “You know,” Ryan said the next day in the car on the way to school.  “It wouldn’t be so bad at Patrick’s house… cause even though it’s his family and stuff, at least we can be outsiders again,”

                “We’re turning into family, aren’t we?” Pete said, smiling at him and feeling kind of happy about it.

                Ryan gave him a ‘you’re stupid’ expression and said, “Don’t be a sap,” 

In Ryan’s language, that was a yes.  Pete was sure of it.

!

                They went to Patrick’s for Thanksgiving, and Mrs. Stump fed them all enough turkey that they could barely move.  Ryan sat in the living room while Mr. Stump watched a football game, and he actually seems partially interested in the game.

                “You don’t seem like the kind to like sports,” Patrick said as he plopped down next to him. 

                Ryan shrugged.  “My dad was big on football,”

                Patrick’s dad jumped in to complain how Patrick had never been a big football fan, and Ryan didn’t even try to look like he was politely listening.  Mr. Stump didn’t seem to notice, though.  He should seriously consider glasses.

!

                They’d had this tradition since they were nineteen.  Every year on the day after Thanksgiving, most of America celebrated Black Friday.  Pete and Patrick celebrated Beer Day.  This was the first Beer Day that they didn’t have to worry about selling off an arm and a leg to afford the alcohol, since Mr. and Mrs. Wentz left everything to their son upon their death.  Sure, they probably wouldn’t have been pleased to find out they were funding Beer Day, but it wasn’t exactly the first time.  The original Beer Day started with Pete and Patrick sneaking beer out of the Wentz’s fridge in the middle of the night.  Old habits die hard.

                It was about seven p.m., and Pete and Patrick were sprawled in Pete’s living room, basking heartily in Beer Day, when Ryan came out of his room.  Pete glanced up at him and waved a beer can in greeting.  Ryan looked around the room, from the cans on the floor, to the blaring TV, to Patrick and Pete, tipsy from too much alcohol.  Pete saw him clench his hands into fists and shoot Pete a glare before storming back to his room and slamming the door.

                “You gonna check on him?” Patrick asked, words starting to slur slightly.  Pete shook his head.  It was Beer Day.  Petty adolescent tantrums would have to wait.

                “I’ll check later, he’s fine,” Pete said, and Patrick didn’t question it.

                Pete did check later, around nine o’ clock, to see if Ryan wanted dinner since he’d never come out on his own. 

                “Patrick…” Pete said, moments after opening Ryan’s door.  “He’s gone,”

                “What?” Patrick called from the living room, getting up and walking over.  “What do you mean, he’s gone?”

                Pete opened the door wider and walked in.  He picked a note up off the bed and read it.

                “It says ‘I’m not going through this again.  Don’t come looking for me,’” Pete read, then looked up at Patrick and held the note up.  “What does this mean?”

                “I told you we should have bolted down the windows,” Patrick sighed.  He fished his car keys out of his pocket and jingled them.  “Let’s go, I’m sober enough to drive,”

                “Where are we going?” Pete asked, dropping the note back on the bed. 

                “To look for him, dumbass.  You don’t actually listen when kids say stuff like that,” he was already tugging on his jacket and walking out of the apartment, so Pete had no choice really but to follow him. 

                Pete tried calling Ryan’s phone, but he got sent to voicemail every time.  He decided to call Spencer’s mom, because Ryan might be at their house if he wasn’t at home.

                “Pete!  I was just about to call you.  Is Spencer with you?” she said as soon as she answered the phone, and Pete felt his stomach drop.

                Patrick drove them around town for about an hour looking, and Mr. and Mrs. Smith were out looking too.  “They never disappear like this,” she told Pete.  “Whenever Ryan’s upset he just comes over here, but they’ve never just disappeared like this,”

                Pete wanted to tell her that they hadn’t wandered off like this before because they hadn’t been fourteen before.  When you’re a teenager, hiding in your best friend’s bedroom isn’t always enough.  Sometimes you have to get out in the air.  Sometimes you just need to pretend like you’re running. 

                “What if he’s dead, Pat?” Pete randomly blurted out, a half hour into the search.  “What if he’s lying dead in a gutter or an ally or something?!”

                “He’s not,” Patrick told him.  “We’re going to find them, calm down,”

                “You know how skinny he is, Pat!  He couldn’t fight off someone who’s trying to kill him!” Pete argued, starting to sound desperate.

                “He fought off that kid at school,” Patrick reminded.  “He’s fine.  Just doing stupid kid stuff.  He’s fine,”

                “That was a kid at school Patrick!  Not a bald, tattooed rapist the size of a bull in a stained wife beater!” Pete cried.

                Patrick shot him a look.  “You’re not allowed to watch anymore crime shows, ever.  Seriously, that’s stupid, Pete,”

                “You’re not even remotely worried!?” Pete snapped, and Patrick rolled his eyes.

                “I’m just as worried as you are, Wentz.  But I know we’re going to find him,” Patrick said.  “And after tonight, I’m going to call my mom and apologize for every time we snuck out,”

                Pete winced inwardly, because it was too late for him to call his mom and apologize for all the stupid stuff he’d done.  She’d never know that he’d learned better.  She’d never see him grow up all the way.

                “Hey,” Patrick put his hand on Pete’s knee and squeezed, because he’d obviously seen the expression on Pete’s face and didn’t want him to start crying or something.  “We’re going to find him,”

                “Yeah,” Pete whispered, swallowing the lump in his throat.  “Yeah, okay,”

                They did find them around ten o’ clock, huddled against the cold November wind in thing hoodies and hugging a bus stop.  Patrick pulled the car up and honked, making both boys jump out of their skin.

                Pete rolled down the window and leaned out of it.  “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

                Ryan shifted his gaze down, and Spencer glared at the car.  “Ryan told you not to come looking for him,”

                “Spencer,” Patrick called out the window.  “Your mom is already going to kill you.  Don’t tempt me into killing you for her,”

                Spencer’s glare fell of his face, and he practically whined, “You called my mom!?”

                “Get in the car,” Pete said, reaching behind his seat and popping the back door open.  He rolled up his window, and both boys clambered into the back seat.  “Patrick’s going to drop you off to your funeral first, Spencer.  Then he’s gonna drop us off at our place, Ryan,”

                Ryan didn’t respond.  He just slumped farther in his seat and scowled out the window, arms crossed over his chest and frown set solidly.  It was a very quiet car ride to Spencer’s place, the silence only broken by Mrs. Smith yelling “SPENCER JAMES SMITH, WHAT THE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH YOU!?”

                When they got back to the apartment, Pete climbed out of the car first, and he heard Patrick say something to Ryan before he got out too.  Pete didn’t hear what he said.   Ryan let Pete lead, and he followed him into the apartment.  Ryan still wasn’t talking, but he didn’t storm off and lock himself in his room, which was progress from a few weeks ago.  Maybe they had been making progress over the three months they were together.

                Pete leaned back against the table and set his hands flat behind him.  “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

                Ryan glared, crossing his arms tight and dropping his gaze to the floor.  He stayed silent for a long time, but Pete was ready to wait him out.  Finally he sighed and broke the silence.  “When I came out and saw the beer cans everywhere, it looked exactly like my dad’s house used to,” he said slowly, steadily, like he was carefully making sure his voice wouldn’t shake.

                “You… what?” Pete managed, hating himself for the millionth time that year for being unable to speak.

                Ryan swallowed hard and closed his eyes for a moment while he asked, “Did Greta tell you how my dad died?”

                Pete shook his head.  “She wanted you to tell me,”

                “Greta’s an idiot,” he mumbled.  He bit his lip in thought for a moment before saying, “My dad was an alcoholic, and he was addicted to prescription drugs… he died because he mixed valium, indapamide, and celexa with a case of beer and a bottle of vodka,” Ryan spat out.  “He was such an idiot… it wasn’t the first time.. The doctors warned him what could happen!  But he never listened to them,”  Ryan’s voice dropped to a whisper and he brought his fingers up to his temples.

                Pete watched as Ryan took a shaky breath before glancing up at him again.

                “I’m not cool with the drinking thing, okay?  My… therapist… says that I need to get over this.  That not all people that drink are like that..  But how the hell am I supposed to believe that after watching my dad poison himself all those years!?” Ryan was shouting now, pulling at his hair and staring down at the floor.

                “My mom saw that he had a problem, so she left.  She just… she just left me… she left me to watch my dad fall to pieces,” his entire frame shook and he pressed he heels of his hands into his eyes.  “You have no idea what it’s like living with someone who does that.  I told him I wanted him to die, but I didn’t think he’d actually do it,”

                “Ryan,” Pete said gently.  “I can’t even begin to imagine what it was like living through that.  But I didn’t know all of that, and I didn’t mean to scare you.  Drinking isn’t a thing for me, it’s just for fun once in a while.  But I won’t anymore, okay?  Now that I know, I won’t,”

                Ryan shook his head, pulling on his hair again.  “I-I can’t ask you to do that… I have to get over this… I have to…”

                Pete stepped forward and put his hands over Ryan’s, gently pulling them away from his head.  “Hey,” he said quietly.  “Look at me, Ryan,” Ryan looked up at him slowly, biting his lip and looking like he was trying not to cry.  “You don’t have to do anything.  I’m the adult, so it’s my job to take care of you.  Not the other way around.  I’m not like your father,”

                Ryan didn’t even blink before wrapping his arms around Pete and hugging him tight.  Pete, slightly surprised by Ryan initiating any sort of contact or emotion, hesitated for a moment before he hugged back.  Ryan’s shoulders were shaking, and Pete rubbed his back gently.

                “You’re okay now, Ryan.  It’s going to be okay,” he mumbled, because he really had no idea what else could be said.

                “My dad used to hit me when he got drunk,” Ryan whispered against Pete’s shoulder. 

                “Yeah, I know,” Pete whispered back.  Ryan let Pete hug him for a long time that night, until they both gave in to exhaustion and retreated to their beds.

!

                12/25/13  It doesn’t feel like Christmas, but I’m not sure what Christmas is supposed to feel like.  Mom used to decorate for it a long time ago, when I was really little.  She gave up after a while.  After she died, when I was ten I tried to put up the Christmas tree again.  But Dad told me it was stupid and threatened to set it on fire if I didn’t put it out.  I’ve had happy Christmases at Spencer’s house, but it still isn’t the same.  I guess Christmas is just the time when I miss my mom the most.  –Ryan

                “Alright! It’s time to open presents,” Mrs. Stump cheered, ushering everyone into the living room.  Mr. Stump grumbled about his game (which ever sport it was, Pete couldn’t be certain) being interrupted, but she ignored him.  Ryan, who had been trailing behind Pete all morning and trying to hide behind him, stuck firmly to his side on the couch.  The hiding thing was a bit funny, because Ryan was about four inches taller than him. 

                “Patrick Stump, you put that cellphone away, it’s family time!” Mrs. Stump scolded, while Patrick rolled his eyes to Pete and slid his phone into his pocket.

                Ryan’s eyes widened to the size of saucers when a brightly wrapped package dropped onto his lap.  “You… you didn’t have to get me anything,” he said quietly, staring down at the box in awe.

                “Oh hush, darling,” Mrs. Stump tutted and continued shuffling around the room. 

                “Well come on,” Pete said, nudging Ryan with his elbow.  “Open it,”

                Ryan did so and found a journal inside, leather bound and possibly the most beautiful book he’d ever seen. 

“That other one you were writing in is almost filled up,”                Mrs. Stump said.  “Writing is good for the soul, sweetie.  Can’t stop that now, can we?”

Ryan smiled down at the book and ran his fingertips over it.  He whispered a “thank you.”  Mrs. Stump beamed at him.

Later that night, back in Pete’s apartment, the two sat quietly in front of the tv.  Suddenly Ryan blurted out, “I kissed Brendon,”

Pete looked away from the news and focused his eyes on Ryan.  “Oh yeah? How’d that go?”

Ryan grinned and shrugged.  “He didn’t scream and run away, so I think it went pretty good,”

The older man laughed.  “Good for you,”

Ryan pulled his long legs up again and clutched onto his journal.  “My dad never knew I was gay.  He wouldn’t have liked it,”

Pete didn’t respond, because he didn’t know what to say.  Instead he just kept staring at Ryan, waiting for him to go on.  Ryan squirmed uncomfortably, before getting off the couch and sitting next to Pete.  He wrapped his skinny arms around him, only the second time he’d ever hugged Pete, and it caught Pete off guard a bit.  He hesitated before hugging back.

“I’m glad I live with you now,” Ryan mumbled.

Yeah, Pete thought.  Me too.  “We’re gonna be okay,” he said instead, and Ryan nodded. 

12/16/13  I think I’m going to be okay.