You're a Hot Mess (Peterick)

Chapter One - Paper

*Hi again! It's felt like a long time, but here it is: the first chapter of the second part which in case you missed the last little intro/epilogue thing, is called 'Hurricane, Tornado'. Also, I updated the thing before the very first chapter of the first book. Felt like since I created an introduction for this part, the first deserved one too. I've got an idea for a new story I think some of you would like, but if I started it while this is running I'd probably fail to update both, but then if I wait until this is over it'll be a very, very long time. I'm not quite sure what to do about that yet. Also you'll notice that this chapter is shorter than usual. That is because I had to cut it short because of the next scene, which to me felt like it needed a separation. The next'll be back to it's usual length, of course! Enough rambling for today, enjoy the chapter!*

I watch the rain slide down the window of the building next to me, each drop in a clear race with each other to the bottom. They give a blurred view into the empty building. It creates the illusion that there could be something inside, something I'm not seeing right now. I'll have to come back when it isn't raining to check.

Then I feel someone crash into my shoulder and they turn their head to look at me. And with a grumble of "Stop standing in the middle of the fucking street." I'm reminded of how draining Chicago's streets can be.

I oblige to the man's request as my feet pick up the pace I'd lost moments before and I take a right from the building and hurry down familiar streets, ignoring how the rain's plummeting down around me now.

The houses and homes down this street all have boarded up windows, all gratified or stuck with flyers advertising concerts and shows and lost things.

I take an uninterested glance at one house's window, scanning over what it has to offer me. I smile at the picture of a lost rabbit as if it's in front of me. Then I spot an ad for a used car, and I consider ringing the number because it's getting ridiculous that I'm a 21 year old man who still walks everywhere. But then I remember that I can't exactly afford it.

I almost walk off, getting fed up with the rain trying to grab my attention when I see a flyer that intrigues and disinterests me at the same time.

Because there he is. There's his band. Somehow I'd forgotten all about the show they're doing here. Or at least that's what I'm telling myself.

My hand reaches out for it, touching the partially damp paper. I take it off of the boarded up window, holding it cautiously, like it could burn me any second now, and I allow myself to smile at it. Smile at the name he's made for himself, smile at the unfamiliar people he's associated himself with.

Smile at him, because it's the closest thing I'll get to the real thing, if I have my way that is.

And I intend to.

I crumple it up, ready to plant it in the bin to spite his paper-self, but then I hesitate. And when you hesitate with these things it's never a good sign.

And I'm right, because I put it in the pocket of my jeans instead, and keep walking like nothing happened.

* * * * *

I only have to buzz about 20 times for Jack to finally hear it and press the goddamn button to let me in. "Sorry, didn't hear you." I can hear him grinning from the other end of the line.

I stand in the ground floor for a minute, drying off in the heat of the place, then I take the stairs two at a time, wanting to get out of my wet clothes as soon as I can.

Jack opens the door with the foretold grin and steps aside to let me in. "You're a little damp, Pete."

I roll my eyes and mutter, "Whatever." At him. His grin is replaced with a confused frown and he places his hand on my shoulder, stopping me from going any further.