Refugee (a Petekey story)

Chapter eight

AN: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH

Anticipation.

Mankind's worst enemy (or is that fear?) The thing that kept people running, kept them awake and alive enough to see the world for what it really was.

Pete was nervous, and everyone could tell. On Friday, everyone in the apartment was avoiding him with a strange sense of almost-doom. Either that, or a sense that something big about to happen. And, in a way, there was. Secrets were practically everywhere in the apartment, running up and down the walls and crawling into small spaces, trapping the minds of the innocents trying to sleep. Almost like a nightmare, these secrets were, and Pete knew he would be revealing the worst of them soon.

Saturday came at a pace that seemed almost too slow, yet fast all the same. When Mikey came home at two, he shared a small smile with Pete before getting ready for bed.

Saturdays were different in the apartment. There was no school, so they all just seemed to float around, seeking something to do. Brendon had work on Saturday (along with Mikey and Pete), and the three of them could only imagine what Patrick and Lindsey did with the time alone.

But as Pete was getting ready for work, things felt different. Like the strange sense from the day before was turning into something more, something about to explode.

"You're Pete Wentz, aren't you?" The question appeared almost out of nowhere, shaping into Pete's worst nightmare.

Patrick was looking at him with wide, unguarded eyes, as though trying to see through his very soul. (For a moment, Pete wondered if it was a look Mikey taught all of his "kids.")

Pete's throat was dry. He thought about lying, he thought about telling the truth. There was no exaggeration to the fact that everyone knew who he was and everyone knew what happened to him and Ashlee.

"Yeah." The dry, scratchiness of his voice shocked him for a moment, sounding like rough sand on a plastic shovel. Not quite smooth, not quite there.

"They talk about you." Patrick seemed almost comforting, almost a little bit sad. "They say you ran away, you left your girlfriend and her kid."

Her kid. How long ago was this, now? How many days have passed? Surely not enough time for little Bronx to be born. But when he thought about it, how much had he actually known about his son? How much had he known about himself?

"I didn't run away." It seemed stupid to say that, like a small unimportant thing that didn't really matter in the long run. But it was all Pete could say, all he could think. He didn't run away, he wasn't given that foolish choice. Forced away from home, he had come to the only place he could find. Here.

Somehow, this apartment was looking more like a prison and less like paradise.

But Patrick was not relenting. "Ashlee Simpson, right? That's who you were dating." Less like a question, and more like a statement. Not a choice, no "yes", no "no." The people he thought he could trust were turning on him, and it was making him crazy.

"Does Brendon know?" Pete somehow managed to choke out an answer, almost laughing at his priorities. He hoped Lindsey wasn't awake yet, he hoped the answer to his question wasn't a yes, he hoped and he hoped that it would be his choice to tell keep his secrets and regrets and not the choice of his friends.

"Bren doesn't care for school rumors." Patrick's voice was soft, and it took a while for Pete to realize that it was tinged with sadness. What had happened to this adorable person to make them rebel and yet submit to simple things like gossip?

"Good. Good." No one knew yet, no one but Patrick. He was safe, and he would be safe for a little longer.

"You've already told him, haven't you." This was no question, yet the firmness of Patrick's voice made Pete feel safe. This was no prison, neither was it paradise.