Busted Lips and Lust-Bruised Hips

The scenery beyond the window blurred with the speed of the bus. There was no way to tell the band's location. It was like every city they had passed through meshed into one indistinguishable blur and their destiny became sealed between the endless streams of concrete and the roll of rubber upon it. Pete's forehead was pressed against the glass, ovals of steam created by the pressure, and his expression was just as glazed. His phone lay beside him like a curse, the ring tone switched to silent to numb its threat, but all its previous messages scrolled through his thoughts.

Please don't ignore me. I didn't mean it to end up like this. You know you're the last person I wanted to hurt, but always do.

OK, maybe we were never meant to be, but deleting every message I send you won't solve that. Ever thought that our communication problems were because you never took the time out to reply?

This is the last message I'm going to send you (today). I'm not begging for forgiveness. Our apologies only came out in hate. I don't want to see you. We always looked right through each other. I don't love you. I never did. This is me telling you every lie you want to hear so that you can justify your reactions.

"Wentz! Where are you?" Joe's hyper-active voice rung through the tour bus to where Pete was slouched. Raising his gaze, he watched the guitarist come towards him with a grin that was almost blinding with the promises it was made of. Dropping a games console beside Pete, Joe seethed enthusiasm. "You requested a re-match," he told him. "Come on." Watching Pete view the prospect with a slight hint of scepticism, Joe gently sat beside him as if afraid a single movement would destroy the bassist. "It'll help take your mind off her," he assured him, watching Pete's gaze linger over the console. "One match. Try it. You'll see."

Pete's gaze drifted between the stagnant console and Joe's passive expression as he contemplated the offer placed before him. With a steady smile, he glanced up at Joe. "Nah," he replied. "You just want to boost your ego by kicking my arse again."

Grinning in response, Joe flipped open his own console. "Well, there's that too." As he waited for the game to load, he settled back into his seat, watching Pete's eyes gradually drift over to his phone and the wince of pain that it inspired. He sighed low enough to release his frustration at the situation without alerting Pete to his feelings. "She's been in touch, hasn't she?" he asked softly.

Pete's head raised abruptly in surprise at being caught pining. After recovering himself, he nodded to the guitarist. "She texted me. Three times." Glancing down to his phone again, he shook his head. "Thing is, not one message gives me a reason to hate her. I just end up feeling like an arsehole for being like this."

"You're not an arsehole. You're hurt," Joe told him. "There is a difference."

"But only a subtle one," Pete protested. "I wonder if she's right. I wonder if it is all my fault."

Placing his games console beside him with determination, Joe leant forward. "You want to know what I think?" he asked.

"Yeah, 'cause I sure as hell don't know what I do." Pete answered, his hands fluttering over the console to pacify them.

"I'm glad you two are taking a break from each other. I know you care about her. You've been through way too damn much not to, but you need this time to just realise that you're hurting each other more than you love one another. Yes, you need someone, but not her. There's someone out there for you if you just open your eyes to find them."

Pete's head bowed at the weight of Joe's words. Gliding his hands back over the console, he mumbled down to the screen. "When did you start talking so much sense?"

"Since one of my closest friends needed it." Joe answered steadily. He watched as Pete tentatively began to absorb all he had just said with patient dedication and hoped that just a faint sliver of sense remained with him. After a while, he picked his console back up and nudged Pete's knee. "Come on," he coaxed. "Let's play."

Looking down at Joe's console, Pete nodded distractedly in agreement to something he wasn't focussing his thoughts on. Still, through his haze, he knew that, at that moment in time, the guitarist was making so much more sense than he was.

"I still say that was majorly unfair," Pete protested as he followed a grinning Joe through the tour bus. "You knew I was distracted. That's why you challenged me."

"Give it up, Pete," Joe told the bassist. "You lost. Face it."

"No," Pete argued, standing before Joe as threatening as he could manage as the guitarist sat down. "I want a re-match."

Mickey's laugh entered the room before the manager even had. Leaning against the doorway, he eyed the arguing pair in amusement. "Another re-match, Pete?" he asked. "That's your third one this week...and it's only Wednesday."

"I know," Joe echoed. "Face it, Pete. You're never gonna beat me." Leaning back with satisfaction, he nursed a growing grin as he crossed his arms across his chest.

"One day," Pete promised. "You'll see. One day I will."

Mickey chuckled again at the bassist's insistence, knocking him gently as he walked past. "Until then, dude, how about you jump online and answer a few questions? It's been a while since you have."

Pete glanced between Joe and Mickey, his pride and his duty, as if choosing between the lesser of two evils before shrugging his resignation. "All right," he replied. "Anything to get me away from Joe's gloating."

"Just admit it, Pete," Joe called out as Pete wandered back out of the room. "I rock."

Shaking his head, Pete allowed himself to laugh as he settled into a comfortable corner and pulled his laptop out. Flicking it open, his grin began to grow as he murmured, "One day" to the audience of his computer screen. Logging onto the band's website, his revenge was gradually forgotten as he randomly selected questions to reply to, constantly flickering between sarcasm and sincerity as he did. Just as he begin to consider selecting the last question, his eyes fell onto one that prompted him to laugh in disbelief.

'Hey Pete. I just wanted to thank you for the hoodie. I promise you it's gone to a good home. I'm actually thinking of framing it now. Oh, and just so you know, the kick in the balls was delievered as suggested. I think it worked. Amaya.'

Pete smiled as he leant towards the keyboard, not quite believing the chances that usually worked against him. His fingers hovered uncertainly above the keys as his mind churned over for a reply. Eventually, he permitted them to fall and tapped out his response before shutting down the computer and returning his laptop to its home.

'Glad you got back in one warm piece. I'm also glad I wasn't in his place. Just so you know, hoodie's don't like being suffocated. I found that out the hard way. Those marks around my neck prove the point.'

The sun cracked over the New York skyline, illuminating the city with yawning rays of morning light. Pete stood in front of the tour bus, revelling in the tranquility of the scene. Taking a deep breath, he attempted to absorb some of the atmosphere into his buzzing personality. The stresses of life seemed so distant in the first bouts of sunlight and he rolled his head back against the bus appreciating that fact. It was strange how the barricades of concrete towers could reassure him in the same tones that troubled him a few nights back. It was amazing how the amount of lighting on a subject could amplify or pacify the threat posed by it.

Heavy steps on the tour bus stairs drew Pete back to the reality he was daydreaming about. He glanced up to see Patrick stretching, still sporting his pyjamas, and grinned at his best friend's lack of inhibition. Patrick glanced down at his clothing and grinned in return, no words needed to translate the joke from bassist to guitarist.

"Moving on today." Patrick stated, his voice still drugged with sleep.

"Mmm hmm." Pete replied distantly.

"It's been fun hanging around here," Patrick continued, sitting down on the stairs. "The shows have been great."

Pete turned to look back at the guitarist and nodded. "Finally, some good memories." he told him, feeling some comfort in Patrick's smile of relief. Facing the city again, he glided his eyes over the stagnant cars, the racing pedestrians, the strains of nature and the bursts of man-made memorabilia. His smile grew in fondness at it all and, as he placed one foot on the stairs of the tour bus, he stole one final look at the city. "See you, New York," he murmured. "It sure has been fun."