critical veins || peterick

chapter twenty-five

[a/n: i really hate writer's block hhHHh,,,,but yo i updated and it's bit longer to make up from my hiatus and previous short chapter]

The following day is a dull blur. One moment I'm peeling myself groggily from the sheets, the next I'm at my locker packing up for dismissal. The last few classes are always nonevents, thanks to the fact that the teachers are usually exhausted from yelling at their previous classes. Friday's usually a nuisance for them.

I shut my locker, slinging my pack over my shoulder and impulsively take my phone out. There aren't any texts; I push away the feeling of disappointment in my chest. At least Pete will be back on Monday.

Curiosity runs through me when I tread out the doors towards my neighborhood. Even after a fight, will he and Mikey stay friends? Will they be ex-friends? Something tells me it'll be the latter.

My phone vibrates in my hand, and I jump slightly, but open up the text eagerly. The message is from Pete, talking about how the band should meet up and work on the song he'd written. Finally. I've wanted to put music behind it as well. I agree to his idea immediately, and he replies saying he'd talk to Joe and Andy about it.

I tread a couple paces and remember about Pete's palms. I message him asking if his hands are faring well and he responds with a positive affirmative, saying that they don't ache as much and that he's changed the gauze on his hands (of course after applying the rubbing alcohol). Upon being aware of this, I pocket my Samsung and finish the distance between Harper High and my house.

Surprisingly, my father is there when I open the door, sitting at the kitchen table looking over some papers. His gaze detaches from the sheets and he greets me with a nod, and telling me that he's been given a day off. I acknowledge him and head into my room, setting down my backpack.

Something clicks in my brain and I walk towards my bed, crouching to peer underneath. My old acoustic guitar is there, of course boxed in by its case. I reach forward then hesitate. A brief spasm causes my arm to quiver, awash in memories of songs I'd played on the guitar. Oh, nostalgia. I shake my head and pull it out, sneezing profusely as dust coats my face. I swat at the air, clearing away gray particles, and heave the case onto my bed, unlatching it.

I'm met with worn, dull-colored wood, and tough strings. An orange pick lies on top of the grimy surface. I bite the inside of my cheek and gingerly place two fingers onto the filth, swiping slightly and bringing it back up so I can see.

Grayish-brown dust coats my fingers like Cheeto powder. I swallow back the nausea creeping up my throat and rush into the bathroom, basically lurching my entire abdomen forward to switch on the sink. I run my entire hand through the water, applying an unnecessary amount of soap before drying up. My palm slightly stings at the scalding heat that embraced it merely moments before.

It occurs to me that it ought to be cleaned, so I veer downstairs and grab a couple paper towels, dampening them at the kitchen sink without once acknowledging my father. I can feel his gaze burning my back questioningly however as I head upstairs and into my room, facing the instrument on my bed with dripping hands.

*

I wipe away imaginary sweat as I dispose the last paper towel, tinted brown thanks to my insistent scrubbing on the guitar's surface. Satisfaction sparks within me as the wood of the acoustic looks slightly brighter and much more polished. Heck, I even sanitized the orange pick, leaving it at a bright neon hue.

I bite my lip as I carefully lift the guitar, somewhat startled by the weight of it, but I manage. I balance the strap on my shoulder, snatch the pick, and strum. It sounds okay, which surprises me, as I hadn't tuned it yet. I adjust the knobs and then brush my fingers against the strings, and the note sounds smoother. I grin to myself and play the first thing that comes to mind- the riff that I'd created at Pete's house.

*

"Okay, but, Pete, what the hell do I sing? There's multiple words here and I'm sure I can't sing all three at once," Joe rants, reading off the paper containing the lyrics from To You.

Pete sighs, running a gauze-covered hand through his hair. Joe and Andy didn't question how his hands got injured, only nodded at their presence before settling in the usual position in the living room. Andy didn't have a drum kit, as Pete didn't own one, but he said that clapping had the same effect.

"Choose which one sounds better," Pete suggested with a glint in his eye, indicating his annoyance yet amusement at his friend's usual banter. "A lot of words come to my mind when I write, Joe. I don't usually settle on one." With that, he strummed the opening chord, beginning the melody that was practically engraved in my head thanks to replaying it over and over after much disatisfaction.

As my fingers worked their magic [a/n: ;^)], I tried my best to enjoy Joe's vocals. But there was an aspect to it that didn't quite fit with the style of the sound. It was too deep, and a bit unsteady. I didn't mention it though, as I feared that I would seem rude. I'd learn to get used to Joe's singing one way or another.

The song had finished, and the curly-haired boy looked slightly pleased with himself. Andy smiled, also looking somewhat proud. I caught a glimpse of Pete who was nodding his head, but I noticed the uncertainty dancing in his dark eyes.

A clock chimed, startling the four of us. Andy and Joe stood up simultaneously, uttering, "Gotta blast!" They burst into a fit of giggles and Pete chuckled. I grinned, though I still wondered why they always left so early, just before the sun touches the horizon.

The door thudded shut, and Pete let out a long exhale. I never noticed how tense his structure was until now; he slouched, elbow making contact with the edge of his bass. I tilted my head at him.

"Oh...Sorry. I'm just anxious."

About what? I wondered. Then I winced as I recalled the Ativans on the first shelf of the medicine cabinet, displayed so openly.

"It's school, and, uh, my mom. But I'm mostly worried about school," he explains quickly, voice hardening. "I still want to be Mikey's friend, but he made it clear that our fight dissolved what was left of our friendship." He sighed, removing the guitar and placing it on the ground next to him. I sat stiffly, still propped up by my own instrument.

As he began to lean back, I heard his breathing hitch. With wide eyes he jumped out of his seat and ran into kitchen. Startled, I quickly unlatched the guitar from myself and rushed after him, expecting a terrible scene. But he was at the sink, breathing hard. I approached him slowly, hand outstretched gently. Nearing him, I could hear his pants slowing down, until it mellowed down after a harsh-sounding swallow.

"Sorry," he whispered. He screwed his eyes shut. "Sorry, sorry, sorry."

I purse my lips together as my arm drops back to my side. I felt an ache in my chest at Pete's visible struggle, and, instinctively, I leaned in and squeezed him in a tight, comforting hug. His shaking stopped and I felt him relax underneath my embrace. I knew that with one small gesture, I had wiped away Pete's conflicted emotions; and at that moment, I refused to ever let go.