Peroxide (Peterick)

don't leave your albino squirrel at the park

"Pete!" Gerard hollers, rousing both of us from our deep slumber in each other's arms, then becoming quite surprised at what he's witnessing. "Oh, and Patrick, I guess."

Pete disbands Gerard's suspiciousness with a question strung in a groaning lyric, forcing himself upright. "Why are you waking us up like this?"

Gerard deliberates for a few seconds, still registering the scene where I'm in Pete's bed, but he eventually catches on with a goofy grin. "Oh, we're going fishing."

"Who thought that would be a good idea?"

"Frank, and he was pretty insistent on it, too, so suit up."

I roll my eyes. I thought he was only interested in sandwiches.

~~~~~

Both the wind and the persevering Pete Wentz manicure my cheeks in shades of flamingo with kisses made sharp by the extreme weather as they manage to grasp their fishing poles effectively while they dip into the frigid water in search of a creature that they'll never collect but still retain the ambition to, but ambitions are useful, I presume.

"Patrick, are you hoping to catch something?" Frank asks, leaning over while maintaining a close surveillance on his rod.

"Not really. I'll just watch."

"Are you sure?" Frank reinstates. "Fishing is really fun."

"Is that why you dragged us out here?" I jest.

No response, only a sly smirk before he returns to his activity that at least holds some significance to him but not to me, and that's why I'm so bitter about everything, though I'm performing well at seeming somewhat entertained. I never learned to fish, but I don't want to, either, judging from the monotony of it.

The boredom of this is overwhelming to the point where my feet scream at me to be rested, but I'm so stationary, just fixedly gazing into the distance, that I can't respond to my body's wishes properly. I just don't understand how people can exhume pleasure from an activity so dull as this. The main goal is to wait for a prolonged time just to discover that no fish have clung to the hook. Where's the profitable experience in that?

A slight glint in the water has my head turning its direction after breaking from my gaze towards the horizon, and my feet soon step into gear to stride to it in the only fascination I can derive from this tiresome excursion that everyone but me is somehow enjoying.

It appears to be the first fish we've encountered in the thirty minutes we've been out here, soaking in thinning patience, and it's a magnificent one at that. Its scales rage with color, and its grand size would surely earn someone a spot at whatever fair they choose to attend. I guess I love my friends enough to alert them to this beautiful animal, but Pete's already behind me before I can utter any coherent syllables other than the ones produced by shock.

"What's that?" my boyfriend inquires, deeply intrigued by the spectacle.

"I don't even know how to fish. Do you expect me to identify every animal on this planet?"

He claps a hand over my shoulder as if condescending me for an anger that is surely placed correctly, which only fuels me more. "Relax, Patrick."

"I'm not a child." I cramp my fists together, admittedly something a child would do, but I don't care, because Pete's a person who's supposed to support me no matter what, and that's the opposite of what he's doing most of the time.

"The note would disagree," Pete contradicts far too casually for this situation. "So would your mother."

Now I don't particularly care for my mother, but seeing her used as a reinforcement to Pete's argument, to an argument designed to slander me for being so fucking socially unacceptable, like it's my fault I was paired with autism, is absolute shit. In addition, Pete shouldn't be reminding himself of the notes, as one of them instructed him to kill himself, and if he's dwelling in holes such as those, that's productive for neither of us and is potentially dangerous to anyone who ever loved him.