The Chronicles of James Pete Smith and Alysia Urie-Ross

May 17th, 2008
"And what do you suppose you'll do with our son?" Patrick brought it up casually in the dressing room. He adjusted his bowtie for the fifth time in the past few minutes. Every inch of him was twitching in annoyance, bottled-up anger just beneath the surface. "Our son," he repeated, voice trembling, "who will be three years old in September."

Pete looked at him bitterly. "I don't know," he muttered. And his brain was swimming. He was about to get married and he was nervous enough, without being bitched at. "He can stay with you." He glared at Patrick. "Or, better yet, put him up for adoption. He'd be better off that way." He smoothed out his hair and adjusted his own bowtie.

Patrick pretended not to hear. It hurt less that way. "What the hell has been wrong with you, lately?"

"I don't know," he muttered, looking down. "But you're not helping."

"Maybe that's something you should've considered before breaking up with me and then asking me to be your best man."

"I was trying to be nice. You always said you wanted to be best man in a wedding," he sighed. "And I was hoping we could still be friends when I asked you, I was just horribly mistaken."

Patrick simply came back with: "Yeah, you were."

Pete chuckled bitterly. "I'm almost always mistaken. Aren't I?" He looked at the reflection in the mirror and thought about the last month. It had been hell. He and Patrick splitting up. And James--who they had dubbed with the nickname Jimmy--had witnessed most of it. He could talk and walk a little, so it wasn't like he didn't understand. The kid had been around nothing but bitter arguments. Another reason they had split up. Pete really was starting to think that adoption was a better option. "You heard what I said about adoption. Stop pretending you didn't."

"Yeah, how about that, he seems normal enough." An accusative glare. "Oh, yeah, and so did I. But you still managed to knock me up, didn't you?" Patrick paused. "And I don't think that's going to happen to him. But he's different. You even said so, don't you remember?"

"He is different. Which is why we should give him up. To a better home." Pete smiled sadly. "You know we haven't been the best parents."

Patrick fidgeted a little, though stood mostly still. "No, we haven't," he agreed. "But if we're going to--he's going to someone we can trust."

"And who's that?"

He sighed, shoulders falling. "I don't know."

Pete looked up at him. "Wait." His brain managed to hold on to something.

"What?" He still sounded a little hurt.

"Do you remember that newlywed couple? I think their last name was Smith...we used to talk to them a lot?"

Patrick raised an eyebrow. "You mean Donna and, um, Harry, right?"

"Yeah! Them."

"Them?"

"Yeah. They're trustworthy. And good with kids. And we could see him."

Patrick nodded. "That's true..."

"Are you okay with that...?"

"I'm not okay with the idea of giving him up at all, to be honest," he answered.

"You think I am?"

He shrugged, and the accusatory glare was back. "I wouldn't know."

Pete looked a little hurt. "I'm not fucking heartless."

"Really?" Patrick was about to continue when there was a knock on the door.

"Fifteen more minutes!" someone who'd been working there called from the other side.

Pete sighed and looked in the mirror. "I'll talk to the Smiths tomorrow."

"No, I will." Patrick sighed. "Wouldn't want to ruin your first-morning-married plans..." He held back a bad joke about how Morrissey would be unreceptive to either of them, it just wasn't the time to joke. So he took to humming "Girlfriend In A Coma" and making sure that everything was ready.

Pete glared at him. "Whatever."

Another knock. "It's time! Come on!"

Pete looked in the mirror one more time. His hair was perfect, he looked great. At his first stride out the door, though, he saw his bride to be. Superstitious? Yeah, he was. "Fuck." he covered his eyes and walked in the opposite direction of where she was.

"Don't run into a wall," Patrick warned, softly. There was so much more he wanted to say, but he couldn't. It wasn't the time, nor was it the place.
After a moment's hesitation, however, he followed his friend. "Wait!"

He turned around, frustrated. "What?"

"Is James...?" He didn't have to finish the question, but he did anyway. "Is he going to be here?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

A grimace. "Alright."

Pete looked down at his feet and walked to the chapel to get married to someone he didn't quite love.

April 27th, 2009
"You think I'm high?" Ryan asked, adding a hint of hysterical laughter to the end of his statement. "You do?"

Brendon looked away, trying not to cry. "I know you are. You always are."

"Not like it's hurting anyone," he protested. "Is it, Bren?"

"Me. You're hurting me. And you're not doing much for our daughter, either. Our daughter? Remember her? Or are you too high to even remember her?" The tears were freely flowing now, and he tried to wipe them away.

"Ally," Ryan whispered. "Ally Urie-Ross, and why the hell would I ever forget?"

"I don't know, you tell me. Maybe you forgot when you got into this mess of drugs," he whispered bitterly.

"It's not that bad." Ryan waved his hand, as if dismissing a thought. "Really isn't."

"Yeah. It is, Ryan. It really is," he sobbed. "You're hurting yourself."

He reached out for Brendon, trying to wipe away his tears. "I'm perfectly fine." His hand was shaking, however, long fingers trembling.

Brendon shook his head and pushed Ryan's hand away, burying his face in his hands and sobbing uncontrollably. "I...I can't do this anymore."

"Brenny?" he muttered. "Y-you mean...?"

He nodded. "I'm sorry. I love you. But..." he sobbed harder, almost unable to speak. "Get out."

"If that's how you feel." Ryan sounded angry. "I will. And I'm taking Jon with me."

"Okay. Fine. Just...go." His voice was still shaky.

He stood up and started walking away. "Have fun finding a guitarist and a bassist who can play with half the skill we fuckin' can." And then, Ryan was gone.

Brendon looked at the door when it slammed and couldn't control his tears after that. And he woke up to little hands on his face.