Busted Lips and Lust-Bruised Hips

Pete slowly stepped out of the room he had spent the last hour in, cautiously coaxing the door shut behind him as he did. He paused in mid-motion, straining his eyes through the crack in the door to snatch visions of the too-well-maintained room and the stories that were now being scripted inside them. His ear pressed against the wood but heard nothing other than the rush of blood through his ears. Swallowing his doubts and insecurities, he turned and walked the short distance back to his hotel room, his hands in his pockets scrounging along the bottom for hope. Reaching out to let himself into the room, he hesitated, letting his hand fall against the handle and create a mahogany contrast to the silver metal. He threw his gaze over his shoulder to one more sealed door and gnawed on his bottom lip in indecision. Glancing back down the corridor, he took in the room where he'd possibly unleashed his next worst mistake and turned away from his hotel room, taking one step across the corridor and stepping into the other without knocking.

Patrick glanced up from his laptop, a mild look of surprise on his face that faded when he saw the bassist stand in the doorway expectantly. Seeing his expression, Patrick raised an inquisitive eyebrow and placed his laptop aside as an invitation. Not needing much else, Pete crossed the room and hurled himself face-down on the singer's bed. "What's up?" Patrick asked as he watched Pete burrow his head into the pillow and suffocate his thoughts.

Turning his head just enough to release his words, Pete sighed. "I think I've just made the biggest mistake of my life," he explained.

"What do you mean?" Patrick asked, attempting badly to suppress his concern.

"I spoke," Pete answered, looking up at Patrick with aggravated eyes.

"That's not necessarily a bad thing," Patrick told him softly.

"It has been so far," Pete argued, "Every time I open my mouth, a trap falls out."

"Not true," Patrick gently argued, "You should really stop reading your own press, Pete. It just makes you paranoid."

"I'm not paranoid. It's the truth. All those rumours. They're hatched from something my stupidity lets me say. I should just go around with tape over my mouth."

Patrick glanced down at Pete as he frowned in thought and watched the creases deepen in the bassist's face until his frown-lines merged with the wrinkles on the pillow. He placed a light hand on Pete's shoulder, a mouthful of reassurance just beyond his lips that were left unspoken as the door swung open and Mickey slotted his head through the gap. "Patrick, we need you a second."

Patrick glanced down at the sprawled bassist beside him indecisively, receiving a flicked hand in response. "Go on," Pete told the singer, "I'll be fine."

"You sure?" Patrick asked, "I can stay."

"No, you can't," Pete answered, "And anyway, I'll probably still be here, kicking myself, when you get back."

Patrick spared Pete a sympathising glance, letting his hand fall to the bed to push himself up. Pete watched his friend cross the room to Mickey and gave him a weighted smile as the singer turned back around. As soon as he had been blocked out by the door, Pete transferred his head back to the pillow, pressing it firmly into the material. He remained that way, listening to the reverberating rhythm of his heart and counting the seconds it took him to gasp another breath until his lungs urged for oxygen. Twisting restlessly, he switched onto his back, focussing his attention on the ceiling as his thoughts pressed against the forefront of his mind. As each one combined to threaten a headache, Pete's hand instinctively drew his phone out of his pocket and keyed in Jeanae's number to prevent it. He pressed the ear forcefully against his ear in therapy, biting his lip against the insistent ringing. His aggravation only reached its pitch when the answer machine message added to the headache. Pete tossed the phone beside himself in frustration and reverted to glaring at the ceiling. He closed his eyes, shutting himself from the world that was ignoring him, and only saw a slideshow of memories and mistakes flutter upon his eyelids. Groaning in protest, Pete rolled his head to the side and captured an image of an empty space beside him. In desperation, he clutched at his phone again, taking a chance on one more number.

"Hey, stranger," Amaya greeted, her smile somewhat disheartening when it fell through a telephone receiver.

"Hey," Pete replied languidly.

"OK, what's up?" Amaya asked instantly, her smile traded for concern, "And don't tell me nothing. I can tell something's up from your voice."

"I just...I don't know," Pete attempted to explain.

"Depression again, huh?" Amaya said softly.

"Yeah, I just..." Sighing, Pete shifted his phone to the other ear, tilting his head to wage a staring contest at the alarm clock on the table beside him. "I feel like I screwed up this morning. My mouth went into over-drive in an interview."

"And now your mind is trying to catch up with it?" Amaya questionned.

"Yeah, like hours too late. That interviewer just screamed stirrer."

"You're paranoid, Pete."

Closing his eyes against Amaya's words, Pete shrugged to himself. "That's what Patrick said."

"You ever think that it might be because there's some truth in it?" Amaya asked in a coaxing tone.

"Maybe," Pete responded, reluctant to admit defeat, "Damn. How come I always get depressed? I've got everything."

"Sweetheart, eyes that brown were made only to show love or misery. You just drew the short straw this morning."

Pausing before his lips could fall open in response, Pete frowned. "Since when did you get so poetic?" he asked.

"Since I started hanging round with you, I guess," Amaya told him. Listening to the bassist's breathing flow through the phone, Amaya smiled to herself. "And if I see that line in any of your lyrics, I will sue you."

"You wouldn't be the first," Pete replied, smiling tightly.

"That's because they all want a piece of you," Amaya explained, her admiration apparant through her words.

"What? And, instead of using my body, they use my wallet?" Pete asked her in disbelief.

"Some people can't tell the difference," Amaya shrugged, "They're too narrow-minded to want to know any different."

Frowning up to the ceiling, Pete shuffled slightly, reviving feeling in his numbing body. "How come you know it all?"

"I don't," Amaya confessed quietly, "I just make like I do. Speak with enough conviction and people will believe you." Pete heard her shift the phone to her other ear, her voice quietening for a brief moment. "Are you gonna be ok?" she asked him.

"I hope so," Pete sighed, "I'm hating myself at the moment for throwing this at you all the time."

"Hey, I don't mind," Amaya soothed, "You can call me any time. I just want to help. I'll be like your therapist. Just over the phone."

"What? So this is gonna be like phone sex for the mind?"

Amaya laughed slightly. "If you want it to be," she told the bassist.

"All depends if I have to start paying you for this."

"You don't. I'm just touched enough that you'd call on me," Amaya answered.

Slipping into silence, Pete pouted slightly as he scanned Patrick's room, taking in the discarded hats and sheets of lyrics he had been working into magic when Pete had disturbed him. The familiarity acted as a kind of balm, a reassurance that, despite his paranoia and depression, things would remain the same like they were indestructable after the storm; the same people would still be standing around him, supporting him regardless if he supported himself. The sound of Amaya's voice cities away reinforced this idea, reminding him that the battle was always worth it if only for the vision of those fighting beside him. Smiling faintly, Pete pressed the phone heavier to his ear, "When can you come out again?"

"What?" Amaya asked, her voice louder in surprise.

"When can you come out?" Pete repeated, "I'm sick of stolen phone calls and whispered conversations. Come out."

"Pete," Amaya started, her tone wary and warning, "I don't know. I mean, I can try but..."

"It's ok," Pete interrupted, shaking his head, "It was a stupid idea. I'm entitled to one a day. Just used it up."

"No, it wasn't a stupid idea, Pete," Amaya reassured him, "I wanna come see you. I'll try. I'll find something."

"Amaya..."

"Yeah?"

"Finish with him."

"Sure. Trade you?"

Pete tilted his head with interest, "For what?"

"A smile."

Pete smiled softly into the receiver, knowing somehow that Amaya would hear it across the distance, "Fair trade," he mumbled.