Busted Lips and Lust-Bruised Hips

With the blankets tucked tightly around his head, Pete silently challenged the sun to penetrate his denial of reality. He could feel the warmth trace across his bedsheets in vain attempts to coax him out into the world, but he was in no rush to acknowledge the chaos beyond his cocoon. He could remain within it for an eternity if it wasn't for the unholy trio beside his bed: the phone, the alarm clock and the pre-planned diary that counted down the seconds to consciousness.

The bedsheets still smelt of her. Her perfume doused them in memories that Pete tried to forget while he clung onto them with the remnants of passion that he still felt for her. He was certain that he could still feel the heat she'd emit seeping across the bed to him, that the mattress was still moulded into the shape of her body and that the half-washed trails of eyeliner still decorated his pillow. His imagination spiraled into over-drive as he painted reminiscings across the back of his eyelids. She'd sworn to him an eternity and had only offered a milisecond of it. Now he was left to rebuild an existence around the memories she had planted in his mind.

An unmistakeable ring serrated Pete's melancholy thoughts and he groaned in protest. Pushing the blankets back, he snaked an arm across to his phone, reluctantly drawing it back to himself as he cursed the mastermind that had created them. "Hello." he droned into the receiver.

"Ah, Pete. You're up. Great."

Collapsing against his pillows, Pete let out a suppressed sigh at the excited tone of the band's manager. "Hey, Mickey," he murmured. "What's up?"

"Just making sure you're awake. We've got that slot on TRL this afternoon, remember?" Mickey explained. "It's really important. We need to get you in the public eye a little more before you go back into the studio, create a little interest."

"Yeah, I know." Pete sighed, not brimming with excitement at the prospect of another day under a scalding spotlight. Guess that's the price you pay for a record deal, he thought.

"We're gonna pick you up at two. Make sure you're ready." Mickey told him, his tone slipping into formal authority.

"Will do." Pete complied, preparing to hang up on yet another pointless telephone conversation.

"Oh, and Pete?" Mickey added. "Pack a smile this time."

Sick of murmuring goodbyes, Pete clipped his phone shut without them and threw it beside him on the bed. Pausing briefly to rub his eyes, he hoped that he would burn away her memory with the friction. As he stood, he surveyed his bedroom...or rather what could loosely pass as a bedroom. A week of morbid reminiscing had allowed a negligent build-up of mess to crowd against the walls; the curtains were thrown together so dismissively that sunlight slumped across his carpet and tear-dripped shirts lay in piles to be washed and purged of heartbreak. Pete allowed his eyes to fall together once more in tired frustration. "When I come home," he promised his emotional filth, knowing that it was one more job his schedule wouldn't allow him to do.

Padding across his bedroom, Pete began to sketch out the blueprint of his day in his mind; stress-packed hours in front of a prying camera lens, piercing questions in a seemingly endless interview and an endless array of eyes analysing his every slight movement. "Sounds like paradise." he told himself, stepping into the bathroom. Leaning his weight against the sink, Pete raised his heavy gaze to the mirror and winced at the coal-coloured bags framing his eyes. "Nice," he mumbled. "I need a shower," He stepped away from the analytic gaze of his worst critic and switched the shower on, deciding to let the water run into a burning temperature while he decided what clothes to hide inside.

Pete decided not to wrench open his curtains as he zigzagged around the clothes on his floor to his wardrobe. The less damage he could see that he'd inflicted on his room, the chances were he couldn't relate it to his life. Instead, he scoured his wardrobe in semi-darkness, a cynical smile creasing his expression as he pulled a hoodie loose from its hanger. Reading the lettering sewn with sceptical humour across it, Pete nodded in agreement. "Love can't save you," he murmured to the hoodie. "How true that is."

There was an urgent pounding on Pete's door just as he'd finished hauling his hoodie over his head. Not bothering to check his appearance in the mirror, he swiped his phone from his bed and hammered heavy footsteps down his stairs. As he dragged open the door, he urged a smile to fall across his face to greet his manager. "Hey, Mickey." he said as he stepped into the numbing afternoon sun.

"Hey," Mickey replied casually, pausing momentarily to analyse Pete's outfit. "How you doing?"

"All right," Pete answered dismissively, wondering why the world was so insistent on forcing him to lie so much recently. "The guys with you already?" he questionned as he followed Mickey's brisk path to the van.

"Yep. You're our last pick-up." Mickey answered, swinging open the van door for Pete.

Pete nodded briefly as he clambered into the van, sliding across the empty seat to press himself against the window. "Hey, guys." he called to the others as he finally made himself comfortable for a long-haul journey. There was a chorus of greetings in return that brought a faint smile to Pete's lips. Rolling his head back to rest against the glass, he looked back at the three other members of the band. "How you doing?"

"Good." Joe replied, smiling widely at the bassist.

"How you doing?" Patrick asked, his usual vibrant eyes cloaked with concern.

Letting his eyes meander across his bandmates, Pete frowned thoughtfully. With a lowered gaze, he sighed in confession. "Do you want the truth or an optimistic lie?" he asked them.

"Pete, man," Patrick sighed, shaking his head in confusion. "You've really got to let go of her. She's no good for you."

"I know, but I need her. I can't explain it. I just need her to be around," Pete rambled in a vain attempt to explain. "There's something about her that's addictive, something that makes me write. I need that. I can't work without it."

"But, Pete," Andy interrupted, leaning forward into the conversation. "How many times have you tried this? It doesn't work. She hurts you. Every time. It's not worth it."

His lips parting wordlessly to part with an endless, repeated stream of excuses and justifications, Pete surveyed the expressions of the others. Each one was carved out of a devout resolution that he knew he could never break with his words. Instead, he let his lips fall together as his gaze twisted to look out the window. Defeated and void of hope, Pete rested his head against the chilled glass, glancing out at the world beyond it but not really registering anything. He only shifted slightly when he felt a warm hand placed on his shoulder. Turning his head, he glanced at Patrick's consoling expression and smiled weakly.

"Look, man, I know it's hard," Patrick began. "But we're only doing this because we're worried about you. You keep beating yourself up about this and it's not your fault. She just makes you feel like it is."

"I miss her." Pete murmured pointlessly as if it was enough reason for his behaviour, as if it would disintegrate the rows of eyes fixated on him, as if it was a strong enough plea to coax her back to him.

"I know," Patrick sympathised, lightly squeezing Pete's shoulder. "It'll take time but you have to get over her. Get her out of your system."

"It'll take more than time to do that." Pete mumbled.

"But you'll do it." Patrick encouraged.

Shrugging, Pete turned away from the conversation and the prospect of dealing with his dilemma. He could discern the truth in Patrick's streams of advice, but he wasn't sure if he had enough strength in stock to deal with one more cold-turkey romance.

"OK, guys. Look lively. We've got a show to steal here." Mickey launched the van door open with an energy that near enough tore it from its hinges. Always one for dramatics, he grinned widely in encouragement at the band as they slowly clambered out into the street. Pete lingered on the pavement for a second longer than the others, gazing up at the TRL building with insecure awe. He'd been inside the building before, roasted in front of its cameras with a convincing smile more times than he could imagine and had generally played the popular, nice-guy celebrity longer than he had felt it. But, if the truth surfaced in his expression, it would whine that he craved an afternoon off, a therapy to stem his hyper-active, non-sensical thoughts. Still, he knew it wasn't possible. Instead, he focussed on convincing himself that all of it was for the fans, the only ones that made everything worth while.

The band had only managed to place a few steps into the TRL building before being accosted by an over-excited member of staff. "Fall Out Boy! Great to see you again!" a young woman announced, marching over to them. With the air of a newcomer, she straightened her jacket as if re-adjusting her professionalism and scraped her fingers through her hair. Her eyes raking over the band in a hungry manner, she smiled broadly at them. "You're early," she announced. "Nice change from having bands turning up late. Mentionning no names though." she added with a secretive grin that almost caused Pete's eyes to roll on their own accord.

Nodding politely, Mickey stepped forward, forming a man-made barrier between the band and the media. "So what's the plan then?" he questionned, his authority thriving over the youth before him.

Bypassing her definition of obnoxious, the TRL representative grinned at the band. "If you'd just like to follow me," she told them. "We've got a room set up for you." Carving an energetic path across the lobby, she led Fall Out Boy to the lift, smiling at everyone she passed to boost her popularity status in front of them.

Stepping to the back of the group, Pete nudged Joe lightly. "Is it me or are the vultures getting younger?" he whispered.

Joe grinned as his eyes re-read the figure leading them. "They definately are," he answered in a hushed tone. "I'll bet you next time we come here, we'll be shown around by a baby."

With a brief smile, Pete stepped into the lift and pressed himself immediately, and gratefully, into the corner. Letting his eyelids flutter together, he attempted to slip beyond the group's attention. To his agony, the representative wasn't prepared to be deterred from a brief connection with a few members of the celebrity nation. "So how was the tour?" she questionned predictably.

"It was good. Fun." Patrick answered and Pete was almost sure he could hear the representative practically swoon at the freely-given response.

"Bet it gets tiring after a while," she prompted, her face drifting into a sympathetic expression. "Being on the road for so long, non-stop."

"You get used to it," Patrick shrugged. "And, when you're doing something you love, you don't mind it so much."

"Lucky." the representative said as the lift doors crawled open again. Once more, she led the band on a vigorous path around the TRL building, stopping in front of a plain, white door. "Feel free to make yourselves comfortable," she told the band, swining open the door to reveal the plain decor, consisting of a few scattered sofas. "And, if you need anything, just ask for Emily." she threw in with a grin as she stepped aside to allow the band into the room.

"I think we'll be fine for now," Mickey answered, plunging into the room with an analytical air. "But thank you." he added as he faced Emily with a blatant painted smile.

Emily's contempt for Mickey was obvious as she straightened up to reassert her power, calling into the room, "Good luck for the show."

"Thanks." the band chorused, offering her some final contact to smile over as she spun on her high heels and left.

Pete sunk thankfully onto one sofa as the others shuffled around the room, checking the facilities left to entertain them and getting comfortable. Glancing up at Mickey, Pete momentarily watched him burn down the carpet with his restless pacing. He always believed it was the curse of being band manager having a mind so hyper-active that the body forced itself into fatigue just to keep up. Looking vaguely hopeful, he spoke in a tone so quiet it was almost missed, "When do we have to go on?"

Mickey swung around to look at Pete, his face coated in questions. Noting his upturned face, Mickey checked his watch, satisfied that he had heard a murmur of a voice. "About two hours," he answered. "But we have to get to hair and make-up too."

Pete nodded, his head drooping back against the sofa. "Fine by me." he responded as his eyes flickered shut once more.

"And this is the moment we've been waiting for all afternoon," Damien Fahey announced to the camera as the audience began cheering in excited anticipation. "Please welcome Fall Out Boy!"

Swallowing back any inhibitions he maintained and taking a deep breath, Pete stepped out of the cocooned safety of the backstage area to the extensively lit stage. As he followed the others to the presenter, he forced one of the smiles he had practised during make-up to his face. After shaking hands with the presenter, he stepped aside, suddenly faced with rows of eyes that made him feel nervous and at ease in a combined, confusing mix. His eyes making a wide sweep of the fanatical faces in the audience. Each expression burnt with awe, excitement and ecstasy simply at being a few feet from the band. It was a weird concept to deal with while Pete still considered himself a regular guy. It also managed to inspire optimism into him as he thought of how a mere presence of someone who loved you regardless could alter every minor heartbreak into a pointless detail.

"So, guys, you've just finished your tour. How'd it go?" Damien asked.

"It went great," Patrick beamed, playing slightly with his hat. "It was so much fun, we saw so many new faces, played awesome shows every night. It was probably the best tour we've ever done."

Waiting for the agreeing cheers of the audience to subside, Damien nodded. "What was the best tour moment for you guys? I know it must be hard to choose one, but if you had to."

"The time when I gave Pete stitches." Joe joked, grinning across at Pete who laughed lightly at the memory.

"You gave Pete stitches?" Damien repeated incredulously.

"Yep," Joe replied, nodding. "Accidentally of course." he reassured with a contradictory, playful wink to the audience members behind him.

Deciding to engage in the moment, Pete smiled. "He was punishing me for better better looking than him." he added, laughing more at Joe's mock hurt expression.

"What happened?" Damien asked, stepping back to fold his arms.

"Well, we were in the middle of the set...I can't remember where we were now..." Joe began to explain, confusion racing across his face as he drifted into thought.

"Chicago." Pete supplied, his expression slightly distant with reminiscing.

"Yeah!" Joe enthused brightly. "That's it! Chicago. And, well, I was going for one of my spinning tricks. I just didn't know that Pete was right behind me." Laughing, Joe glanced across at Pete who was grinning back, suddenly caught in the memory.

"He caught me right above the eye." Pete added, indicating to the spot with his microphone-free hand.

"Ouch," Damien sympathised. "That must have hurt."

"A bit," Pete answered, pouting playfully. "But I went to the hospital, got a few stitches and I was all right. I survived."

"I bet that calls for some major pay-back," Damien suggested as the band laughed. "So you're heading into the studio now, right?" he asked, turning away from Pete to changed the discussion.

"Yup," Patrick answered, smiling excitedly at the prospect. "To record the new album."

As the enthusiastic cheers of the audience echoed around the room, Pete grinned. "We've already started playing around with some tracks." he told them, revelling in the new bout of cheers and applause that rung around him.

"Sounds promising." Damien encouraged, stepping back in practised admiration.

"It is." Pete nodded with a smile.

"You're not giving anything away though." Damien guessed with a subtle laugh.

"Nope," Pete answered brightly, shaking his head. "It's going to be a surprise."

"And you guys are going to be playing a series of secret shows before you disappear into the studio." Damien told them, referring to the collection of paper in his hands.

"Oh yeah," Joe grinned. "Top secret. Like military operation style."

"Any clues to the locations?" Damien questioned, hopefully.

"Nope." Pete replied solidly. Shaking his head, he added, "We're not giving a thing away. The clues are out there. It's up to you guys to figure them out. And then we'll see you there."

"Oh, hard guys to crack." Damien informed the audience, turning back to them. "Well, guys, I know you've got places to be so we're gonna let you get going. Thank you so much for stopping by."

"No problem." Patrick said through the departing cheers of the audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Fall Out Boy!" Damien called before shaking each members' hand and stepping aside to let them exit the stage.

As Pete followed Joe's bouncing, adrenaline-induced steps in amusement across the TRL stage, he felt a hand sink onto his shoulder. "See? It wasn't that bad, was it?" Patrick asked gently.

"No," Pete replied with a sliver of a smile. "It wasn't."