Spin For You [Peterick]

-7-

Dear Patrick,

I don't want it to end. The last few weeks, they've been...well fucking amazing really. Touring is such an assault on the senses, all the new sights and sounds and friends and cities, that I think I managed to forget who I was for a while.

On stage, I'm Pete Wentz, the rock star, the idol. People cheer for me and scream my name, the lights blind my demons.

I'm a different person out there. I wish the change was permanent.

But now it's over. We're in the van, our temporary home, driving towards our real homes. I don't want to go back.

Back home, the real Pete returns. The Pete that got kicked out by his own damn parents, that lives off cold pizza and nachos, that's depressed and paranoid and desperate. That's falling for his own best friend.

I've tried to stop these feelings, I really fucking have. I try to point out to myself all the flaws that you have. You can be an insufferable perfectionist. You have this way of shutting everyone up, especially when we're in the studio. Oh, but then you can let people walk all over you sometimes and I can see it on your face that you don't like it but you never freaking do anything about it.

And yet, your flaws just make me love you more.

Oh fuck.

Did I just use the 'L' word?

No, no, I meant they make me like you more. That's the 'L' word I should have said, an 'L' word with a lot less repercussions. I definitely don't love you, that would be fucked up. It's still a crush. Isn't it?

We've been in this van for around five hours now. It'll be my turn to drive soon. Andy's driving, with Joe asleep in the front seat. Me and you are in the back. You're asleep too.

I swear to God I have never known anyone who sleeps like you do. When you're stressed out, you don't even think about resting, you just stay awake, running on nothing but caffeine. Then, eventually, the lack of sleep begins to show, and you can barely get through a single sentence without yawning over the top of it.

Then, when you do sleep, you might as well be dead. I could pop a balloon right next to your face and you wouldn't wake up, and trust me, me and Joe have tested that theory.

And the positions. You sleep with your limbs thrown all over the damn place, it's crazy. Last week, I found you asleep on one of the armchairs backstage, with your legs draped over the back of the chair and the rest of you just sort of crumpled into the seat, upside down. I mean what are you, a bat?

Right now though, you're curled up on the seat next to me, the top of your head resting against my leg. I'm trying to resist the urge to stroke your hair.

I've had to resist quite a lot of urges in the last few weeks, 'cause touring means that we've all been in pretty close proximity to each other. Which is difficult enough when you don't fancy your best friend.

Fuck, I'm a creep.

I have to do something about this stupid crush. I've been thinking about this for a while and...well...what if I asked you out? Just to see? Just in case there's a tiny little part of you that thinks, maybe I could like him.

I know I fucked up before, kissing you and whatever. And you rejected me. That look on your face is forever burned into my memory. But if I asked this time, if I did the gentlemanly thing and shyly asked if you'd like to go on a date, not just pizza but a proper fancy restaurant, would you say yes?

I guess there's only one way to find out.

The tour, the music, the drowning out of everything that was hurting me, it's helped me think a bit clearer. Spending these weeks with you has just made me realise that I want to spend all my weeks with you. So maybe I don't need to go back to that old Pete. I could start a new Pete, a Pete with his very own Patrick. Yeah, that's what I'll do.

Slowly but surely, I think I'm getting better. I hardly drink at all now. And I've also been able to keep all my stupid anxiety under control, this new medicine thing I was prescribed saw to that. Ativan, I think it's called.

The world is so beautiful tonight. We're away from the city, so we finally get to see the stars. Everything is bathed in silver. And yet, instead of staring out the window at the wonders of nature, I'm staring at you. It's cheesy, but you're never gonna see this so what the hell, I'll write it anyway. You're far brighter than any of those stars up there.

I can hear all the sounds of home woven with your soft breaths.

Anyway, I better wrap up, give Andy a break from driving. It's not like I'm gonna to get any sleep. No doubt I'll probably spend the rest of the night working out exactly how to ask you on a date.

I'm already nervous.

From Pete