‹ Prequel: Pictures on Silence

If Only Until Morning

Chapter 23

"Well, Whaleface, you fucking bore me, so I'm going to go out for the rest of the day and be around people who actually matter," Ali announced casually, abruptly standing from her seat and sauntering towards the door of the bus. "Do us both a favour and go die while I'm gone, huh?"

Head buried in my arms, I didn't even bother looking up. I barely had enough energy and willpower to lift my hand to give her the finger. Barely.

And to think the day started out alright. Sure, there are worse things than waking up at ten thirty on a hotel room couch surrounded by infantile twenty-somethings who found talking to me in my sleep far more amusing than the television that sat on and ignored. Max and Ronnie asking through giggles what the deal with maple syrup was didn't exactly go over well for first waking up though.

But from there it'd gone downhill. Ryan and Spencer had walked out of their room at the exact moment I was yelling at Jack for ripping off my blanket and leaving me standing in the hall in my pyjamas. The indignity of pounding on my own hotel room door listening to him cackle was not lost on me.

Then Matt and Jesse got on my case for disappearing again. It wasn't my fault they don't pay attention to their surroundings. A six-foot redhead wrapped in a blanket isn't exactly commonplace.

But then they decided that the three of them needed to go run around town on errands and I had to stay behind to bond with the Silicone Slag, who apparently decided that the best way to pass the time was to list all my flaws.

That killed off about three hours. Not to mention what dredges of self-esteem I had left.

So that left me slumped over the kitchen table alone with a crushing slough of distortedly true put-downs running through my head in constant repeat. As of yet, I hadn't fully broken down in sobs yet.

You know, this was supposed to be the best summer of my life, I thought in soliloquy. Because I made soliloquies a lot. I was going to have a great time: tour with the band, make friends within the business, meet fans, maybe actually do something with myself. And getting to see Ryan everyday was a plus. But now look at me. I'm a wretched, worthless piece of shit wasting my and everyone else's time just by being here. I'm taking up someone else's shot for glory.

So much for my perfect summer. So much for enjoying living.


God damn it. I spent ten minutes on makeup this morning. Well, that just went out the window.

You know how when you're trying so hard not to make a sound when you're crying, because it's incredibly undignified, it just amplifies every noise you make? And you know how you realise it's just stupid to try to hold it in and everything collapses?

Well, imagine that reaction if you know you're in a soundproof bus.

Almost an hour later, the guys still weren't back, I hadn't heard from Aero, and I was just getting a hold of my breathing. Breathe in deep. Hold it. Let it out. Repeat.

Shit, my throat hurt.

Don't think I was better, though. Sobbing off an entire face of makeup means exactly jack-shit for feeling better. If anything I felt worse, and when you don't feel like living, worse is pretty low.

In spite of that, I still had some semblance of wits about me. Amazing how I could always rationalise, albeit if the thought process is a bit skewed, the facts and further action.

I don't really drink when I fall into a depression, because I knew too much about what people do when they're drunk; we were also trying to make a good impression as law-abiding teenagers (by always having juice for the legals to make mixed drinks). I'm not one for physical self-mutilation; I'd prefer unmarred skin, thanks (except for some tattoos). Why should I be, when psychological damage is just so much more permanent?

After scrubbing my face and half-assedly making myself look decent, I slumped out of the bus into the bright sunlight. Squinting, I glanced up and down the rows of buses and headed to the left-- always go left; left is a good direction. I figured that most of the tour would still be at the hotel or out elsewhere, since wed be leaving town later that night, so I didn't worry about being found.

Finding for whom I was looking? Slightly more difficult, but luckily, Karma seems to smile on the morbidly depressed.

I knocked weakly at the door before rolling my eyes at myself. He'll never hear that. So I knocked louder and waited, trying to piece together what exactly I was about to say. Because, honestly? I had no fucking clue.

The door opened out and I stepped back as not to be hit. Pete tilted his head at me. "Hey, Pen," he greeted questioningly. "How come you're not hanging out with the guys? I heard they were hitting the town."Fucking liars. I smiled weakly, unable to resist a jibe. "I could ask you the same question. It'd be juicy Buzznet gossip that Pete Wentz likes to hang out in his tour bus whilst the rest of the band is out having fun." I coughed feebly, throat aching. God, how do band screamers do this every day?

He rolled his eyes. "Did you just come here to make fun of me, or do you want something?"

"No," I answered, shoving my hands in my back pockets and eying my shuffling feet. "I'm not just here to waste your time. Or, at least, that wasn't the intention..." I trailed off, glancing up to see an expression of curiosity, and cleared my throat with a wince. "Actually, I came to ask you about something. Advice, in a way."

"Ange, I'm probably the last person you should ask for advice," Pete chuckled. "I mean, come on, you don't really want to end up like me, do you?"

Despite jocularity, I didn't rise to the opportunity for further mockery. "Well, I need some perspective," I reasoned softly, not quite making eye contact, "And you were the only one I could think of who would know about this sort of thing..."

I glanced up, seeing him blinking wide eyes at me, and returned to my shoes. I was thinking that I needed something slightly more mature than Converse to practically live in, or I would very soon. "Have you not been sleeping, Pen?" Peter asked.

"No, I--well, I haven't... but I was talking about the other thing."

Silence met my hesitant explanation, and I looked up again. He seemed to have realised about what I was talking and wore an expression of deserved sobriety. "I'll grab my shoes," he mumbled before retreating into the bus.

I blinked at the open space that Pete had vacated and kicked at the packed dirt. Funny, I'd thought that I was being too subtle. Usually I had to pile metaphor atop metaphor until I got aggravated and bluntly blurted out what I was trying to say in order for people to understand.

Pete hopped down the stairs, adjusting his hoodie, and swung the bus door shut before turning to me again. "We walk, you talk, I listen," he said shortly.

I could have cried. Of everyone on tour, he was smart enough to simply insist I talk and to really listen. Everyone else had some major sucking up to do if they wanted to avoid endless mockery.

"Long version or just starting at tour?" I clarified hesitantly, strolling along beside him.

Pete stuffed his hands into his pockets-- which struck me as something of a miracle. "Start from the beginning," he said, nodding. "It's not like we don't have time."

"You'll regret that," I warned wryly. And thus I began, starting from age five and working laboriously to seventeen, nitpicking and explicating every detail I could remember. Of which there were plenty.

Pete didn't interrupt like other people did when I told stories; he just walked next to me, nodding and listening. He even stopped when I choked on words and memories and waited for me to recover. He didn't look at me piteously. He didn't contradict me when I told him what I thought about myself. He didn't pat my shoulder or hug me or even touch me.

Pete understood.

"And then I left the bus and found you," I finished lamely. After a moment of silence, I fished out my phone, seeing that more than an hour had passed. I scoffed softly and pulled my knees towards my chest. "I think that's the most I've ever talked about myself in one sitting."

"You feel any better?" he asked, sitting cross-legged across from me on the ground.

"A little," I admitted, watching myself bounce my toes. "Not very much, though. I still think following Alison's direction would be a semi-decent idea."

"Why don't you want to get help if you know you need it?"

I shrugged. "I... I'm just adverse to the idea of therapy. In a twisted way it'd be admitting defeat to myself. And I think I'm secretly sort of hoping I can fix it myself." I crossed my eyes. "Which is part of the problem."

"Well, I'm not really sure what advice to give you," Pete said, leaning his elbows on his knees. "You said you don't want to be medicated, you'll hold back in therapy, and I'm not letting you try to get out like I did." He smiled. "And if you try, I've got an army of guys who'll stop you."

I grinned, shaking my head. "Ah, the perks of having your own label."

He shrugged smugly. "Among other things." Then Pete switched back to serious. "Do you want me to try to talk to Ryan?"

"No," I stated firmly. "I don't want him to think I'm using you for my own devices. He might add stealing his friends to my charges. So please don't." I frowned, thinking about the entire situation. "In fact, I would prefer that you not mention this conversation-- however one-sided most of it was-- to anyone. Like I said before, I don't like people to worry about me."

Pete looked over his shoulder at the clamour of musicians drawing nearer. "No guarantees on that on, Ange," he said, squinting to determine who they were. "People are going to worry about you anyway. Shit, they already do. You're a smoking topic of conversation."

I snorted in mild amusement. "When I signed up for the public eye, I didn't think it would apply to other musicians as well." My eyes darted over to where Pete was still looking and recognised my boys, along with some of the younger guys. "Any chance you could beat some sense into them?"

"Beat? Probably not."

"Well, I'll add bodyguard to the list of things you'd be useless at."

Peter laughed, turning back to me. "Ouch, Pen. There's a list? What else is on it?"

"Babysitter, teacher, basically anything to do with children, professional dancer, ego-placating..."

"What, I don't make you feel sexy?"

"Honey, it would take at least a dozen gay men and or a good bottle of bourbon to make me feel sexy at this point," I stated dryly, sitting back on my hands.

Pete rolled his eyes and got to his feet. "I wish kids could get that drinking isn't all it's cracked up to be." He held out his hands and pulled me up when I took them, but didn't let go right away. He smiled warmly and I felt a lump well up in my throat again.

Curse you, ovaries, and your blasted hormone production!

"C'mere." Peter opened his arms, and although I probably would have laughed in his face otherwise, I hugged him tightly. I shut my eyes, surprised at how much better the arms firmly wrapped around my middle made me feel. Despite the three-inch-plus height difference, it felt good, me and Pete.

And I will deny ever thinking that. I will perjure myself in a court of law to keep that a secret.

I didn't want to trust him. I was quite against the idea of trusting someone like... no, that's not fair to him. I was against the idea of trusting Pete... actually, I was against the idea of trusting anyone. But here I was. Trusting Wentz.

...I am so screwed.

"How come you never hug me like that?" a mopey voice asked from behind me.

"You wanna join us?" Pete asked with a laugh.

"Um, yes?"

Instantly I smiled and turned, Pete's arm falling around my waist. The funny thing about Brendon is that I never questioned his sexuality like other people didoften. I came to grips with the fact that he wasn't homosexual, he wasn't heterosexual, he was just sexual. "I only give hugs like that to people who prove they deserve it, Brendon."

He stuck out his lower lip. "What, you don't trust me?"

I'm beginning to hate that word, I thought with a sigh. "I don't trust anyone." I smiled hopefully. "But I love you. Does that make up for it?"

Brendon screwed up his face pensively, making both Wentz and I laugh. Then he grinned. "For now," he decided. "Now, if you don't mind, Pete, I'm stealing the redhead in your possession." He pulled me by the elbow and started walking.

"I'll give one of the guys my number for you," I heard Peter call. "Call me anytime!"

"Don't I get a say in this?" I demanded.

Bren scoffed. "Psh, no, because you don't know what I want to do with you."

"Brendon, I don't want to think about the things you want to do with me." He glared at me and I smiled innocently. "But I'll indulge you: what are we doing?"

"I dunno yet," he said without remorse, "But it's gonna be fun. Lots of fun."

I rolled my eyes. "Tell me, Bren, what's it like being a four-year-old stuck in a twenty-year-old's body?"

"Fucking awesome, thanks for asking!"
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Still on a serious note, if you or anyone you know is having issues and considering suicide, tell someone who can help them. It's all you can do as a friend.