"Every year of my life
I grow more convinced
that it is wisest and best
to fix our attention
on the beautiful and the good,
and dwell as little as possible
on the evil and the false."
- Richard Cecil
Pete woke up to something he hadn't woken up to in awhile: the smell of fresh breakfast. His stomach grumbled greedily before his eyes even opened. It was pancakes or waffles and bacon and eggs and all the good things he was barely able to put his finger on--it had been that long. He rolled over and grumbled, hoping by chance he could rouse Mikey so they could eat. But to his dismay and surprise, the bed was empty, colder than it had been before. He felt around for a bit, hoping to wake up from a lingering nightmare but it was all very true. He finally managed to pry his eyes open, sighing at a bare ceiling. He heard voices and glanced over at the door, his blurry, morning eyes barely noticing that it was propped open with a shoe, a post-it note stuck to the door knob. He smiled and squinted, before forcing himself to his feet. They felt heavy, like they hadn't woken up yet themselves. And so he dragged them across the carpet and to the door, snatching the post-it, tilting his head at the note scribbled delicately.
Free breakfast on me! It's beautiful out; meet me in the back with an empty stomach. - Ryan :)
Pete's smile widened and he looked down at himself. His pajamas were just barely acceptable, and he hurriedly fixed his hair in a broken mirror that was leaning against the wall. Shrugging, he grabbed one of his cameras off the bedside table and rushed out of the room, whizzing down the hallway before slamming into a man at the end of it. He dropped his camera and yelped, blushing as he reached for it. "Sorry," he mumbled, barely uttering it. It was lazy and tired sounding, the first words that his morning voice had attempted. He finally glanced up at the man, easily recognizing him as Ryan's father: who had already made himself notorious for douchebaggery in only one moment last night. Pete forced himself to scowl, though his insides were shaking and crumbling. "Sorry." He said again. "Where can I find Ryan? And Mikey?"
"Out the door at the end of that hall," he replied, motioning with his head. He was equally as stoic as Pete, but it was so strange looking at him. The likeliness to Ryan was uncanny, and it was unnerving. Pete couldn't imagine someone as eccentric as Ryan seemed had been the product of this man, who seemed to be disastrous and yet annoyingly uninteresting. Pete tried not to stare too long, in fear of seeing himself within him. He was always able to relate to everyone he met and it was a blessing and a curse. He shuffled past him.
He walked quickly down the hall and out the door, bursting into the sunlight. He winced at the brightness and squinted, looking around slowly. He took in the area. It was a homey feeling patio, fake plants in chipped pots decorating a broken fountain, and plenty of unpainted picnic tables set around the yard. Pete had to remind himself that he was miles and miles from home, but as he eyed the hedges in the yard, he couldn't help but feel a few of his old friends had cut them for twenty bucks. It was all so familiar.
Finally, he spotted Ryan and Mikey, sitting across from each other at a picnic table, which was covered in breakfast food. Pete had forgotten that he was hungry, but his stomach screamed at him and sent a sharp reminder to his foggy, sleepy brain. He happily stumbled over, but not before taking a quick picture of their smiles in the early morning sunlight. It was a sight to see: a smile that would only improve in the years to come, and a smile that was so perfect after years of practice. He took a seat beside Mikey.
"Well, good morning," Ryan said, speaking through a mouth full of waffle. He didn't bother wiping the syrup of his pale chin, and his smudged eyeliner from the night before had disappeared. His eyes had gone from smoky to sunny. He still wore his floral scarf, but today an orange headband was wrapped tightly around his forehead, brown bed-head spilling over it in messy clumps.
Mikey practiced his manners, however, finishing his food before turning to Pete and grinning kindly. His good morning was wordless, but somehow even more meaningful. He reached across Pete and grabbed an empty plate, handing it to him. Mikey didn't even ask and began to pile food on to the plate, Pete barely able to contain his excitement. Food was one thing he could get on board with, no matter where he was in the world. It just so happened that he was in the best place possible: beside Mikey, feeling his thigh against his and his hand on the small of his back. It was a Heaven that Pete would get on his knees for.
Pete finished his breakfast faster than Mikey had given it to him. It was as if he hadn't eaten in days, better yet, years. "Did you cook this Ryan?"
"Someone's gotta do it. My dad sure doesn't," he grumbled, eyes rolling. For some reason, the rolled back, whites of his eyes held more angst than his stormy, dark irides.
Pete strangely wished he could relate. He was always grasping at straws, looking desperately for a way to justify his depression. He heard stories like Ryan's, read the news about more murder and starvation throughout the world. He'd even seen it in his hometown, and yet, he believed he still claimed the right to his bottle of Prozac. His parents loved him, he had enough money and a car to travel across America, had been blessed with more forgiveness and opportunity recently than he knew how to handle and he was still looking for ways to feel sorry for himself. He was tripping on his own feet and then blaming the laces, stabbing himself and blaming the blade—all so he could feel like the victim.
"You know," Pete said. "I ran into your dad inside. He's, uh..."
"A major douche? Yeah," Ryan cut him off bitterly. Mikey adjusted himself beside Pete. It seemed to two had already discussed it, and were warning Pete of the thin ice he was tiptoeing across. "He's just an alcoholic. Like every other guy who can't get out of the same place he was born."
Pete's stomach tightened, sickness stirring familiarity. He finally felt the blow that hit home. He drew in a sharp breath, earning Mikey's worried glance. "When I was your age, maybe a bit older... I was in a bad scene."
"What do you mean?" It was Mikey's turn to speak. He had remained oddly silent for a long while, only sticking to quiet gestures such as squeezing Pete's hand and rubbing his ankle in his leg. It was refreshing to hear his voice. Pete had barely planned to really continue his story, but Mikey's voice was like the nudge to push him out of the gates.
"I was a stupid teen. I did drugs..." Pete's eyes met Mikey's, seeing them immediately spark with a feeling he just could not recognize. However, it reminded him vaguely of disappointment. He tried to swallow his words, but he knew it was too late. "Uh, nothing too bad. You know, just like weed and..." He stopped. His brain had finally done something right, and slammed on the brakes. He felt eyes on him, even though he had resorted to hiding his gaze beneath his bangs.
People just can't take their eyes off a car crash.
"My point is," Pete continued, "It's hard to shatter an addiction. You can't really blame him—"
"I can blame him!" Ryan snapped suddenly, glowering darkly at Pete. Pete pursed his lips and looked at Mikey expectantly, who just looked away quickly. But he kept his hand on his thigh in silent support. "I can blame him when he throws and hits things and gets out of control..." He trailed off and Pete began to feel the sting of guilt. He once again had made something about himself. He had become an enemy in an effort to be a friend.
"Well," Mikey said, clearing the air with poise and charm. "Why don't we keep you away from him then? At least for today." He reached forward and touched his shoulder gently, spurring him to look up. It was like magic. "How about you give us a tour of the town? I'm sure you'd be the best guide."
Ryan cracked a smile, almost blushing. "Aw, well, thanks..." Pete watched as he pretended to think about it. He knew that he had agreed the moment Mikey opened his mouth. Who wouldn't? "Sure. Meet me out front when you're ready!"
And with that he was off, a new sort of pep in his step. Spite smiled softly and then looked at Mikey. "You're so good with everyone. What are you, a Disney princess?" He laughed and filled the world with light. He nodded shyly and Pete squeezed his hand. "Well, I'd believe it any day."
Mikey's smile faded suddenly and he reached forward, cupping Pete's cheek. His thumb slowly grazed against his skin, the two of them shivering in the morning humidity. A broken fountain quietly dripped behind them, serving as the soundtrack to their stares. "Pete?" Mikey finally said, and Pete could barely bring himself to reply. He was lost. He couldn't understand what was so alluring about Mikey but what he did understand was that this moment was the one to confirm he was in like with Mikey, so much he'd call it love.
"Mikey, I-"
Mikey quickly pressed his lips against Pete. The kiss was not good, not technically. The two of them were stiff and uncomfortable, sweaty from last nights sleep and awkward from, well, themselves. Pete wanted so bad to move forward and take what he being given, but the Devil or maybe the Angel on his shoulder was screaming him to pull away, that it wasn't right. He didn't deserve such love, or care or hope or whatever Mikey was giving him. And, doing something he thought he would never do, Pete pushed him away, gently. Mikey got the hint and gladly backed off, nodding. "I get it," he said kindly. Pete's suspicions had been true; he was a Disney princess, built from bones made of poise and grace and charity, and Pete, was villain in a twisted kidnapping.
"I don't deserve you," he finally replied. "But let's try that again later? Okay?"
Mikey laughed and pushed him lovingly. "Okay."
They held hands as they walked back inside.
When they got dressed and headed to the front, they saw Ryan straddling his bike already, perched and ready to go. His sleepy morning look had been replaced by a sharper, edgier one to take on the day. But his floral scarf remained steadfast.
He'd managed to get his hand on two other bikes, rentals that they offered. They were a lot less worn than his, in fact, they could've been brand new. Pete remembered Ryan telling them that it had been a while since their last visitors. The anticipation on his face told Pete that he'd been waiting to give a tour for a very long time, as if showing others your small, mundane town would make it new to you, too. They rode behind him as he sped out the driveway.
"Welcome to Wilton Park," Ryan started, voice studious and demanding. "Population, maybe twenty." That stirred a chuckle from Pete, who couldn't help but see his own hometown sign waving in the wind, a small population etched on to it. He felt himself in Ryan's tiny, dirty shoes, pushing on pedals to places he could get to with his eyes closed.
They continued to ride, Ryan every so often dropping tidbits into a tiny bucket of stories. As they biked past a park, he recounted a time someone held a party there—for a confirmation or communion—and a gust of wind had blown so hard it took a bouncy house and the five year olds in it up into the air for a split second. It had apparently been the most exciting thing to happen to Wilton Park, which might of explained why the rest of his anecdotes were less interesting.
And every story that Ryan told, didn't seem so far from ones you'd find in Pete or even Mikey's hometown. They would all laugh at stories of stoners and crazy neighbors with cats not because they were particularly funny, but because something familiar always stirred a warmth inside a person. Pete could give names and dates to people and events Ryan described, and could look down at the sidewalk and see himself at home. Unfortunately, it's not where he wanted to be. And while everyone's eyes glowed as they biked, he could feel the air prickle with discomfort, because none of them wanted to be there.
Finally, something unique caught Mikey's eye. He slowed and stopped in front of an office building, eyeing it curiously. Pete and Ryan biked on for a moment, but quickly noticed an absence of light. Pete glanced back and furrowed his brows, turning completely and skidding to a halt beside him. He was reluctant to take his eyes off Mikey, for the stupor he was in made his lips part like budding flowers and eyes focus with an attractive sort of intellect. He fumbled for his camera and snapped a picture, getting it luckily before Mikey turned his head to him sharply. "What're you taking pictures of? Me?" He demanded, as if upset. "Look there." His nose jabbed the air in front of him and Pete finally noticed what he was looking at.
It was a large mural on the sad brick walls of the office building. It was easily the brightest thing in the town, despite the sun shining brightly down on them and Mikey standing in front it. It was words, symbols, colors that represented peace and love and creativity and demolished conformity and the overall notion of hatred or evil. It was expertly painted, notably with layer after layer so that while they may paint over or try to remove it, a ghost would remain, whether in the crevices of the bricks or the brain. It was huge, too, and stopped just at the entrance of the office building, where it was completely cut off at the gate of a seemingly inevitable middle aged life for the townspeople. Pete recalled graffiti in his hometown, but it was forever cynical and promoted the end and the hurt. The mural before him, which he quickly had taken a picture of as well, was another case entirely. Its sole purpose was to inspire and love. And, reluctantly, Pete admitted it was so beautiful that for a moment he was able to forgive himself.
Right above the door of the office building, the same graffiti tag they had seen on the way into the town was placed. Oryr, in a curvy, bubbly font, black paint in stark contrast with the yellows and pinks and greens of the actual mural itself. Ryan leaned his bike against the wall and stepped to it, pushing his fingers into the buildings scars. Pete delightfully snapped another picture of him wide-eyed in the doorway, standing beneath the artist's tag.
"Do you know anything about the artist?" Mikey suddenly asked, returning slowly from captivating fuzz.
Ryan shook his head sadly, then stepped away from the wall. "Nobody does. They've been doing it for a while, but have only been noticed recently. Mostly because they've been targeting private properties more often. There's a council trying to get rid of them and the graffiti as much as possible." He said it all like it was researched or memorized. He was emotionless.
"Why would anyone wanna do that?!" Smiley retorted, angry once again. "It's art! Beautiful art! Something new.. fresh and unique!" He frowned and sighed, leaning on the handlebars of his bike defeatedly. "Which really wouldn't hurt around here."
Ryan just ducked his head and shook it, but Pete couldn't help but notice the tight smile on his lips. "C'mon," Ryan said, returning to his bike and ringing its bell endearingly. He dabbed a bit of sweat on his forehead. "Let's get some ice cream."
And they did, at a little place not too far. Ryan said he had something to show them, so they quickly got their cones and soon were sitting behind the ice cream parlor, backs against a graffitied wall and ice cream melting over their fingers.
Mikey was beside Ryan, comfortable and caring. Pete was pleasantly surprised with how well the three of them had gotten along. Ryan was a joy, and it was refreshing to be around someone youthful and full of life, no matter how boring that life may be. Pete and Mikey, though barely even adults themselves, already seemed worn out by themselves and others, and their drive and excitement came from their fear of dying. Ryan's came from a deep rooted appreciation for a life he had yet to know, and Pete didn't mind that rhetoric. Not everybody was irreversibly miserable. Pete had been spending way too much time with himself.
Pete was sitting across from them, eyeing the wall they sat against. It was another one covered in graffiti, but not the heavenly and extravagant kind they had seen before. No, it was a wall of pure hatred, covered in gossip and slurs and disturbing confessions. Above Ryan's head, someone had scribbled in sharpie, "I hope my ex girlfriend dies in a car crash" and over Mikey, "everyone can go to hell." Pete immediately frowned. He knew there was a lot of hate in the world, he'd be an idiot not to realize that, but to see it all condensed on a brick wall was staggering. His eyes prickled with tears for a moment, before he looked away sharply.
Ryan caught on. "That's why I brought you guys here. You'd be the only ones to understand."
"Understand what?" There was blue sprinkle hanging from the side of his lip and a dash of vanilla ice cream on his nose. Pete took a silent picture.
Ryan looked upwards, motioning to the wall. "How badly I wanna change this. Turn it into a love wall of sorts, instead of... that..." He stood up and walked to the end of the wall, sliding his finger across it until it finally stopped on a blurb written in red. He cleared his throat. "When will Ryan Ross cut vertically?" he read aloud, voice cracking halfway. He slid his hand downwards only a bit. His teeth clenched. "Make like your mom and die."
Pete looked down, suddenly feeling so guilty for something he'd never said, and never would say. But for some reason he felt the words more on his shoulders than anywhere else, because while both Ryan and Mikey would ignore it, he knew that everyone thought things like that, but only some had the guts and lacked the brains to say it. And seeing Ryan's face crumble and Mikey's smile fade brought back memories of scribbling his own lousy remarks on dirty bathroom stalls. He felt sick.
"Don't listen to them, Ryan," Mikey said, as strongly as he could with broken heartstrings. "You're better than that and them and this dumb wall." And in a moment, so out of character they all erupted into laughter, Mikey hurled his ice cream at the wall. It hit it with a satisfying splat, ice dream smushed over bits and pieces of now soiled insults. Pete beamed with a bit of pride: it was exactly what those words deserved.
So he followed suit, taking what was left of his ice cream and crushing it over the word "faggot". He became so overwhelmed that he danced with joy, grabbing Mikey's hand and twirling him beneath his stretched arm. Mikey let out a laugh and it was all the music Pete needed to keep going. Ryan just leaned against the wall, enjoying the last bits of a soggy cone. He watched as Mikey and Pete laughed and played like they were kids, like they were home. Every time they clasped hands it was like the first time, comforting and terrifying, and it sent them back into a cycle of adrenaline and innocent crushes. They did not know how to dance at all, but it did not matter. They were not dancing. They were falling in love.
And while it seemed neither knew how to do that either, they proved to be quick learners.
The sun was setting when they finally decided to head back. Pete and Mikey were practically drunk on each other, uncharacteristically rowdy as they chased each other in circles in the middle of the road, ringing the cheap bells on their handlebars and laughing louder than them. Ryan followed them but stayed on the sidewalk, head down. It wasn't like he needed to look up anyway, everyone can memorize a small town in seconds.
Pete felt himself giddy with a new yet familiar sort of feeling. It was like meeting Mikey for the first time, because their initial meeting had not proved sufficient enough. It was as if now, at a place he originally saw as usual and homey, was exciting and new because Mikey had forgiven him and Ryan had breathed youth into him. Pete realized that no matter how painfully monotonous a place was, it was never truly dull with the people you loved, or at least, liked a lot.
The two had become so unbelievably enamored with each other that when they reached the motel, they threw their bikes down and raced inside without a second thought, leaving Ryan standing by a pile of thrown bikes. He sighed and watched with glazed eyes.
Inside the motel room their passion fizzled to a respectful appreciation, and instead of the world whizzing by so fast they didn't need to worry, it was now going by so slowly they only had time to appreciate it. And they did. They sat on the bed, facing each other with rivaling smiles. Their foreheads pushed together but their lips never touched, not out of fear or unwanting, but anticipation and admiration. Mikey raised his hands and ran them through Pete's hair, unwashed and unruly, and then let them fall down to his neck and then his back, pulling him closer with a quick tug of his hips. "I can't believe this," he mumbled, but didn't move. Pete raised an eyebrow and nudged him to continue. He was finally touching Mikey and being close to him without any guilt weighing him down, and Mikey's words were unsettling. "I never thought I'd..." And that's when Pete remembered.
Pete had picked Mikey up in his car on the side of the road and neither of them wanted it. He remembered Mikey's shaking hands and nervous ticks. But mostly he remembered their stop at rest area, and the girl at the cash register, looking at Mikey and Mikey looking at her, the way Pete didn't know he craved. He had grabbed Mikey's hand and while there was a shock, it wasn't the one either understood or cared for. Mikey had pulled it away because he wasn't interested, because he didn't like guys, and he didn't like Pete. And he never thought he would. And he probably didn't.
Pete had finally thought himself into sadness and anger, his mind had yet again become a black hole, and so he yanked himself away, turning his glare to the blank wall across the room. "You don't have to. I'm sorry. I know you don't... you never..." He couldn't bring himself to look at Mikey, because he feared it'd be like watching the color drain from the flowers or the light from the stars.
"Pete? What?" Mikey asked. He sounded confused. Pete didn't blame him. They were alike, sure, in terms of loneliness and fear and sometimes maybe even in sadness. But no one seemed to understand that even those on their knees for him, the people that dressed and kissed his wounds and squared his corners and straightened his curves--even they could never convince Pete he was worthy of them. The ones who shouted they loved him would barely convince him they tolerated him. Why? Because Pete couldn't tolerate himself. He couldn't love himself. Sometimes the universe pulled sick tricks, with its unstoppable smoke and mirrors, and for moments he could see the appeal. He could maybe look in a still lake and see himself valuable and important to a story, whether it be his own or someone else's. And Mikey had been just that; a trick, a sleight of the universe's hand. And Pete had bought into it like any other naive and desperate person.
Sometimes people wanted the truth so badly that they accepted lies.
And so he had taken Mikey for what he was, a beautiful lie, part of a grand scheme that was his stupid roadtrip. Pete had went on it for all the wrong reasons. He had packed his bags believing he would make sense of his place in the world but all he was truly doing was finding that it didn't exist. He didn't want to cry but for some reason he did, marking himself as the biggest phony he knew. Magic tricks were just elaborate, beautiful jokes and he was the most impressive one he knew.
Pete never explained any of this, of course, and he left Mikey hanging off an edge of his own creation. For someone so worried that his new love may fall, he didn't seem to mind ripping the ground from right beneath his feet.
They sat in silence for what seemed like hours.
Mikey ordered Chinese food.
They were eating it in even more silence, sitting on opposite sides of the room. It had been Pete's quietest outburst yet. He couldn't understand himself. He had pushed away Mikey in the morning, when they had shared their moment at the picnic table and again, after an afternoon that Pete felt had practically resurrected him, he let Mikey down. Or maybe he had truly just given him what he wanted. Well, whatever it was, it had surely pushed him away once again, and Mikey wouldn't even raise his eyes. Pete watched as he struggled with a pair of chopsticks in the corner of the room.
The silence was suddenly interrupted, but not by either of them. There was screaming, coming from down the hallway. Pete had nearly forgotten they were in a motel, and they weren't truly alone either. He suddenly felt his heartstrings tugged as he remembered how he and Mikey had abandoned him when they returned. He began to feel shittier than he already did.
The screaming was intense, and only seemed to become more so as they just sat there, listening. Mikey finally looked up, dropping his chopsticks with a quiet clank. He met Pete's eyes, eyebrows furrowed and head tilted anxiously. "That's Ryan," he said, without question. Pete nodded, then tore his gaze away and looked at their closed door. Behind it the screaming match raged on.
Mikey put his food down and ran to the door, fumbling with the lock. His hand tightened on the doorknob but he jumped back immediately when a loud crash of glass sounded, followed by a terrifying sob. Pete shot up from his own chair and grabbed Mikey his arm, yanking him away. "What the hell is going out there?"
"His father?!" Mikey exclaimed, turning around quickly. "Oh my god, Pete, it doesn't sound good... we gotta... we should."
"Mikey, no, I don't want you getting hurt. And listen, there's no more screaming..." Pete trailed off, because he realized that maybe wasn't the best sign. He ran a hand through his hair and then pulled Mikey to him. "Okay, I'm gonna go check. You stay—"
"No!" Mikey spat, pushing him aside. "I'm going with you. I care just as much and I'm not nearly as fragile as you are anyway, no matter what you think." His words were aimed to hit and hurt, and they did. Pete's jaw dropped and he was about to retort when a knock came from the other side of the room. A little orb of light was shining through the window, and again, another knock sounded. Pete decided to put Mikey's insult in the backseat, and rushed forward, unlocking and throwing the window up.
As expected, it was Ryan on the other side with a flash light. He was bleeding from a gash in the side of his head and his lip had been split open. One of his eyes was swollen shut, but for some strange reason, he was still smiling. Pete felt Mikey suddenly at his side, breath hitching. "Ryan? Are you okay?"
Ryan shrugged. He began to dab at the blood from his head with his scarf, and for some reason it hurt Pete to see something of beauty care to something so messy. He reached forward and snatched the scarf. "Don't do that, use something..." He turned and grabbed a shirt from his suitcase, handing it to him through the window.
"Oh, thank you," Ryan replied. His voice was small but he was still standing proudly, more so than Pete ever believed he could. He bunched up the t-shirt and pushed it against his head with a depressing fluidity that told Pete he had done this before. "Would you two mind joining me for a walk? Just to get out of here?"
They both nodded immediately and Mikey bolted to the door before Pete could move, already heading out. Pete stayed at the window and reached forward, pulling Ryan's hair out of some dried blood. He offered a smile. "You hungry? We've got some left over Chinese take-out. I can't imagine you've eaten. I'll bring some out?"
Ryan nodded gratefully. "Yes. Yes please. Hurry."
And Pete did. He grabbed his own tray and squeezed into his shoes before joining the two of them outside. Mikey had a long arm wrapped around his shoulders, protectively glaring around the area. Pete came forward with the food held out, which Ryan grabbed quickly. Pete noticed the small smile of admiration from Mikey, but he ignored it.
"Thank you," Ryan said again. "Grab this, one of you, and follow me." He motioned to the guitar case at his feet, and Pete swooped down almost on instinct and grabbed it.
"Where to, captain?"
Ryan grinned and his eyes sparkled through the pain. "Ice cream shop. Come on."
The three of them did the best they could to fit on the narrow sidewalk, for no one wanted to be left behind. For a while there were both unspoken questions and answers in the air, as Pete stared at the blood and tears and kid who didn't deserve them. Finally, it was Mikey who spoke up. "Did your father do all that to you?" he whispered, and Pete winced at the question, as if it was so invading that even he could feel the rip.
But Ryan just nodded simply. "But he loves me, I know it. You know how you just know things like that?" He didn't really ask either one, it was more a question for the universe, but they both nodded. "I'm sure you guys have hurt the ones you love before. Nobody's perfect." He was speaking with such certainty that it was hard to argue, though Pete wished he could; because not even the deepest, most beautiful love was worthy of the gash on his head.
"I know I have," Mikey mumbled, not necessarily to the two of them. Pete wondered who he meant, who he loved. For all the time they had spent together, Mikey was still an enigma. There were so many blanks of his yet to be filled, that Pete couldn't believe he'd fallen so hard for him. He was two dimensional still. They all were.
"Me too," Pete added hastily, realizing the conversation was zipping by without him. He looked again at Ryan, beaten and okay with it. It reminded him of a friend he'd had back home. He did terrible things to girls and his parents and himself but he always prayed to Jesus for forgiveness, and then it was all okay. It justified his actions. And love is what justified Ryan's father's actions, at least to the two of them. Pete couldn't help but snicker.
Religion and love, the two greatest lies made up to solve the world's scariest truths: death and hate.
They arrived sooner than Pete had realized. The ice cream parlor looked different at night, but then again, everything did. The sky, the ground, the people. "So, what're we doing here?"
"You'll see," Ryan dismissed him with a wave of a bloody hand, then quietly walked to the back. Mikey followed tentatively and Pete was the last. As they settled behind the building again, Pete realized with a quick frown that one thing did look the same at night, and it was the damn wall of hate in the back. It looked even more sinister in the moonlight.
Ryan had finished the food already and tossed it aside, reaching for the guitar case still tightly in Pete's hand. He took it from him and dropped it on the ground, unlocking it and flipping it open, revealing what was most definitely not a guitar.
It was paint. And brushes. And stencils and all he could fit in it, which was a lot more than Pete expected. Without explanation, he pulled out three brushes and handed two over. "We are covering this wall of hate and doing what I've always been too afraid to do alone: turn it into a wall of love."
Pete hardly had it in him to argue. Everything Ryan stood for stirred him deep inside to a point where he could always give in. Soon, the three of them were slathering white paint all over every point they could reach (Mikey got all the high parts). They did it in almost true silence. There was no need to question anyone's motives, no need to ask for directions. There was something so special about watching Ryan become covered in paint more so than blood.
And soon the wall was covered, barely any trace of the hatred left. Pieces of it seemed untouchable, and tiny ghosts of words were trying to peek through, but overall, nothing was too dark that the light couldn't fix.
"Now what?" Mikey asked, plopping on the ground. He was amusingly covered in the most paint of them all, even his glasses were smudged.
Ryan pushed his hand against the wall, then pulled it back to reveal a palm covered in white paint. "We gotta wait for it to dry. Then we can be the first people to write on the love wall."
Pete smiled and sat down, noticeably far from Mikey. Ryan sat in the large distance between them and suddenly they were three different people with stories rather than a group. Mikey was no longer Pete's hitchhiker, he was Mikey Way, individual person with feelings and thoughts that no one would ever come close to understanding. Ryan wasn't their motel owner, he was Ryan Ross, with blood trickling down his cheek but a smile so large you would just call it red paint. And Pete was no longer a driver and adventurer, he was Pete, a separate entity from the people he'd met, from the people he touched. And yet they all looked up at the same sky.
And there it was again, the strange sense of sitting alone in a world full of people.
"What're you going to write on the wall, Ryan?" Mikey asked, now looking away from the stars and at the newly blank canvas in front of them.
"That I love my father," he said, without hesitation. "That I forgive my father. For some reason." His legs shifted beneath him uncomfortably and tore Pete's gaze from the moon. He could stare at Ryan all day, or even Mikey, and never understand him. But he supposed that made sense. People didn't learn by looking, they learned by listening.
"He doesn't deserve your forgiveness," Pete mumbled, and he suddenly met eyes with Mikey and realized he never deserved his either. And yet he had gotten it, easily, too.
"Maybe not," Ryan added, with a careless shrug. "What's the point of holding a grudge? A grudge! Against a sad, drunk man. He needs help. And when we have the money and I have the balls," he laughed bitterly. "I'll get him it and then I'll be on the other side of that scary long recovery tunnel."
Pete looked past Ryan and at Mikey. He was at the end of a tunnel. But Pete didn't know what kind of tunnel it was. Pete had been silly to think Mikey wouldn't be there though, he had practically forced him to. He smiled in hopes a return on. Mikey gave it without hesitation.
They sat there for a long while, discussing love and forgiveness and everything in between, which was a lot more than one would expect. Mikey mentioned his mother. There was not much else to it and Pete could tell Mikey was holding back. But Mikey said he loved his mother and he forgave her, but for what, nobody could pry out of him. He was on the verge of tears by the time Ryan decided the paint was dry enough to turn their barks into bites. He handed each of them a sharpie from that guitar case of wonders and they went to town, each writing notes filled with compassion and adoration. They were small, however, leaving room for the hopefully plentiful amount of stories in between.
Pete had thought long and hard about who he loved. He loved his family, and Mikey and he really liked Ryan. But they were all a phone call or a step away, and they would most likely be for a long time. So Pete wrote about his friends back home, the ones who became fake and new for the sake of surviving and the ones who had left Pete in the dust to get a head start. He didn't admire them or adore them, the way he did others, but he understood and forgave them, for killing themselves, for leaving Pete alone when he had been there for them. But it was only a matter of time until they grew up—until everyone grew up—and they would try to find themselves again, and Pete had a feeling that he too would be at the end of a tunnel. He hoped they could at least find the beginning.
The three of them scribbled furiously until they ran out of ink or inspiration, and they soon took a step back to see they'd barely made a mark on the large wall. But it was just how they wanted it. Nobody ever got inspired by a blank canvas, but a little inspiration here and there, that is what changed the world—or just a wall.
Pete glanced at his own messages and then Ryan's, and then Mikey's. He saw his own name before anything else, eyes widening and heart racing. He was about to scream at himself that he didn't belong there and that Mikey should cross it off immediately. But he stopped himself. He didn't let himself forget what love and forgiveness was about: It didn't matter that you didn't think you deserved to be on the wall. It mattered that someone else did.
Pete felt his bones becoming weary all of a sudden, and he became aware of the late night. "Are we ready to head back? You can stay in our room, Ryan."
Ryan was rummaging through his guitar case. He lifted out a black bottle of spray paint and nodded to Pete. "Sure, yeah, just one more thing." He rushed to the wall and on a blank corner, quickly tagged the wall with "Oryr."
Pete grinned and Mikey laughed knowingly. It seemed they had both guessed correctly. And if they'd had any doubts that Ryan was truly a gift to them, they were all gone now. He stood up again and tossed the bottle in the air and caught if cheekily, dropping it in the guitar case and slamming it shut with his foot. "Ta-da."
"Called it," Mikey and Pete said at the same time, before erupting into a laughter that could only be seen as offensive at such a late hour.
Ryan picked up his case and swung if happily. "Oryr. RyRo backwards. Nobody here is smart enough to figure that out. And even if they were," he stopped and then rolled his eyes. "They wouldn't care."
"Clever," Mikey remarked. "You know you're crazy talented, right? Why just stick to doing it here... you could go much better places."
"I'm focused on making this a better place." Ryan replied with dignity, the kind Pete could feel radiating off every painting they had seen all around town. "Like you said, those others places are well off. Here... it could use some work."
Pete smiled. Ryan was less of an artist and more of a hometown hero, although Pete could probably be convinced that there was no difference. But what Pete found most special was the time and care that Ryan was giving to a place that probably never gave him anything. And he was doing it for nothing. He wasn't expecting anything in return.
And those were the best kind of people. The ones who gave themselves without question and with passion. The ones that didn't ignore your faults but made them beautiful. Not the people who forgot, but the ones who forgave.