Our Yeah | #WattPride (Completed)

Pens and Little Things

I fiddled with the strings on my guitar as Peter roamed around my room, inspecting every little thing he could put his hands onto. It was both amusing and distracting to watch him walk about, grabbing things and looking at them in close proximity, only to just be put back where he found them. It was about time to invite Peter again for another sleep over because I felt like I needed to, while we still have time together.

I gave a slight smirk as I try hard not to mind what my fingers do and just focus right now on Peter and his sudden obsession at looking through the stuff in the four corners of my room.

"Who's this handsome fellow?" Peter showed me the photo he was referring to.

"That's my great grandfather, when he was in his twenties." I remember dad telling me the story of that photo. It was mid-summer, 1868. It was the time that he started building this very home that he purposely planned to give as a gift for my great grandmother.

"Why do you have a picture of your great grandfather in your room?" He puts back the photo on the shelf.

"This was his room once. My grandfather and dad never slept here until I came into the picture." I said, making him chuckle.

"You do look like him though." He held up the photograph next to my face and compared.

"That's what my relatives always say." I shyly replied and stared at the floor.

He then went back onto snooping around my room and kept asking random questions like the skid marks on the floor to the right of my bed, it was when we were moving the master bed to the opposite side of the room to make room for my bed, or should I say our bed.

He then makes his way to my working desk at the window and looks at the little things of trinkets lying around there. The stress ball that he likes playing with sometimes, pencils, some rubber bands, pins, literally everything.

"Why do you only have one pen? Is it special?" He grabs the only pen that I have been using and sits next to me on the bed. He gives me a smile and shows me my pen, rain started pouring outside, it was suddenly darker.

I looked at the pen as he held it. I then grabbed it and inspected the engravings. Orgoglioso che può essere.

"It's custom made. See the engravings?" I showed him the words written in Italian. "It says 'as proud as can be'. My dad made it for me when I was eight for saving a friend from getting run over by a car because the driver was too distracted to watch the road." I paused and looked at the ceiling.

"Well, did you ever found the driver?" He sounded concerned, which I absolutely understand coming from his point of view, with his dad being involved in a car accident and all. Car accidents are a terrible tragedy that still plagues this earth.

"No. It's all in the past. I'm just glad that we're both okay and that it made my dad feel proud of something that I've done. Because, as he puts it, saving a life is something you can do that you should be very proud of." Which I truly am and Peter nodded as his response.

I gave him the pen with a weak smile and he returned it on top of the paper beside me, right where he found it.

He then stands up, and goes back to the shelves. I turn my back to him as I wrote the last few notes that I think fit the part, then I felt a weight on my bed. It was probably him, so I look back only to see him smiling.

"Sing for me?" He said as he let his fingers ran through my guitar, insinuating something deep inside me that I never thought of doing, but yet my instincts tell me that I should obey his command right now. I chuckled as I let my fingers play around with the strings and for the very first time, in front of his grazing and piercing presence, sang.