The Best Part of Believe is the Lie

i. Patrick meets Pete and he's kind of starstruck.

Not because of his obnoxious laugh or neon vomit Converse or because of his big fat chipmunk cheeks. Not because of the way his voice rattles inside his ribcage like a canary caught in a landslide.

Not because the first thing Pete says to him is, "Dude, you were sent from God's chorus line. Stop drumming and pick up a fucking microphone."

Not because money falls out of his pocket like dirty copper-tainted water from a wishing well and not because Pete's smile is too big for his body. It's because him and Pete are so alike, it's scary. And Patrick, he doesn't know what to do with that.

ii. Patrick wants soul quiet grand pianos hats smiles heart days off symphonies and masterpieces. He writes this in his journal, torn and ripped at the edges like the separation between solid grounds after an earthquake. Patrick likes those things and nothing else. Except he does like something else and that's Pete, all big smiles and big words and big ego.

He also writes that every time Patrick looks at Pete, he's different. Patrick doesn't understand that, doesn't really even want to. He kind of just wants to hold that idea of always changing and harbor it until it becomes him, because Patrick hasn't changed since the day he left high school, the day he said fuck it and took his hands off his Prince albums and put them on an acoustic guitar.

iii. Sometimes Pete has these big moments, Patrick thinks. They're inconspicuous, but Patrick always notices. Usually these moments are ruined with an "I should Twitter that," from Pete, because when is Pete not ruining something with his big smile and Bronx-filled heart?

iv. Pete throws all he has into his conversations. When he closes his eyes, he sees shapes and he wonders how he can interject to tell a story about geometry. Patrick doesn't always appreciate this, but he just smiles and acts coy like a gentle butterfly trap. And, even though Patrick never says a word, Pete can still read the brail of his chapped lips. Patrick thinks this is probably why Pete lets him sing his words into the microphones, out into the crowd and into heads and hearts. Pete's words could hit hard, but Patrick's voice softens the blow.

v. "I do still like you know, you know."

Pete is sighing through the phone line, trying to reach Patrick on a closer level, trying not to walk away like he always does. Trying not to walk away like a high roller leaving the table with a Royal Flush. Trying not to give up and write himself out of this pact and Patrick really isn't having it.

"Yeah, Pete. When did you not like me?"

"I think it was after you called me a bad fucking bassist and left band practice like you were fucking David Bowie or some shit. You better not turn into Ziggy Stardust on me."

And Patrick just thinks Pete has bad manners.

"You know you only play bass to support your secret prostitution ring, right?"

Pete, he laughs and means it.

vi. Pete follows Patrick like a hound dog follows dried up leaves that scoot across back alleys with determination. Patrick kind of likes this except sometimes he needs his breathing room, his own little parade route to contrast Pete's dangerous hues. Patrick suggests a vacation, says it's something he's been thinking about. Pete nods, eyes and smile wide, and he says he knows exactly what to do. The next day, Patrick turns on the tv and realizes there are 997 more channels than the day before. Pete bought him cable as an excuse for a vacation and as for Patrick, well, he really doesn't mind.

vii. It's New Years Day and Pete is like a kid in a candy store. He's all new beginnings and fresh starts and oh, we'll start traditions, but Patrick thinks it's really not that big of a deal. And Pete, when has he started anything new? Because Patrick thinks Pete is the kind of person who, when everyone is trying to save fax machines and public records during a flash flood, will roll up his pant legs and dive into the dirty water.

But when they're in church later that morning, when everyone is silent and praying, Pete taps Patrick's shoulder. And Patrick, yeah. He's kind of busy, like, praying. But Pete, he keeps tapping.

"What?" he finally asks, whispering hurriedly like a bee buzzing for his honey.

"I prayed that the sky wouldn't fall. What're you praying for?"

Patrick stares, dumbfounded.

"Well, I prayed for you."

"Me too. I prayed for you, I mean," and Pete's all smiles.

"But you just said--"

"I lied. Well, not really. Wouldn't that suck if the sky fell while we were praying for each other? You better be glad you have me watchin' your back like that."

Patrick bites his tongue, holds back a witty remark. He doesn't want to make a scene, especially with everyone within five rows of them watching with eyes like big brass buttons.

viii. Patrick is in the hallway outside Pete's closed door and yeah, Patrick's crying. Ashlee's pregnant and Patrick's crying and he's been sitting on the hardwood floor for so long that he's named every teary puddle that splashed the oak below him.

"You are a braintrip," he croaks, turning his head so his voice could crawl and blindly find its way under Pete's doorframe and into the echoes of his room. "A fucking braintrip."

There's some silence, but Patrick is used to that. With Pete, it's either silence or never shuting the fuck up. Making it or breaking it.

"You are--you are like. The world's like your invisibility cloak or something."

Now Patrick doesn't really know what he's talking about, but he's kind of trying to get over the fact that Pete could be anything (a circus tent, a terrorist, a lilac flower, a bank robber) and he would still be Pete.

"Sometimes," Pete's voice is hollow, but not like a pumpkin is hollow; like a cacoon left empty or forgotten kitchen cabinets filled with cobwebs. "Sometimes I worry the baby will come out stupid."

And Patrick is thinking what.

"You know, she took my brush and ruined my voodoo love spell."

And Patrick is still thinking what.

"Now everytime I pick up the phone, I hear her damaged vocal chords. Not your halellujahs."

And Patrick is thinking oh.

"Yeah...," Pete's trailing off behind the walls. Patrick can't see him but he knows Pete's laying on the floor reading through old books and old journals and old grocery lists and old magazine clippings of Morrissey album reviews. "But the government..."

And Patrick is rolling his eyes.

"The government could outlaw us. Outlaw our love, I mean. and I would burn the flag. Run across the borders. Then I'd love you more."

And Patrick is still crying, tears still collecting ghost puddles. A moment goes by, then Patrick says, "Fuck the government. We can just burn shit down."

Through the door, Pete is laughing. He's laughing laughs that aren't hollow. They aren't loud or meaning it, though. They're just Pete.

Then through the door, Pete is singing and it burns, burns, burns, the ring of fire, the ring of fire, the ring of fire...