March 1st, 1969

Andrew,

It's been two weeks since you were send off to boot camp and I already miss you. Our landlord is pissed at me for not keeping up on rent, but I completely forgot to tell him that I'll be moving out until today, so it's understandable. The days are finally getting longer and I'm finding myself getting lonelier and lonelier. I miss you. You're my (one and only) brother.

I've begun packing up my things today, I'm bringing your things with me but I had to leave behind a few of your belongings. I'm afraid a few of your beatles vinyls are going to waste but there just isn't enough room at Patrick's right now. He told me that if I keep it compact, though, I can bring along that box you have with all your hats. You've always loved your hats.

Anyways, I miss you. Things are much quieter without you here. I'm staring out the window now. Do you remember when I played that stupid Elvis song on the vinyl and we used to sing along and you would drum along on your things. You always loved music, Drew. I don't know what I'm rambling on about anymore. I'm acting like you're gone and you haven't even been sent out yet.

Pete inhales a breath through his lips and out his nose, a small huffing sound filling his ears as he presses his pencil back into the sharpener and goes back to writing away on that lined paper. He's got The Beatles playing in his record player just beside the oak wood desk he made years ago with his father. That's coming with him to Patrick's but it's staying in his room. Patrick doesn't have any room for it outside of his little confinement. Once this war is over, though, he knows things will hopefully be back to normal. Hopefully nothing too bad will happen.

How is boot camp treating you so far? I'm guessing when you come back, I'll be seeing you with your hair buzzed short and your body much more muscular than it was before. I've never been into guys like that before, you know that, but I know some special lady would love to take you home someday. Things haven't been the same with you romantically since Natalia. I swear she took something from you.

Patrick seems like a nice guy, we haven't talked much except for over the phone but he's kind of sweet in a way. He talks about Mikey a lot, I think he really does care about his friend. Speaking of Mikey, how is he doing? Are you guys in the same cabin together? How are the cabin generals? Is it as hard as everyone says?

The grocery store isn't going too well, we've been running low on business in the past few days and it doesn't help that Ash has been pushing me harder than ever to be manager. I don't want to, I just don't want the extra money. I don't need it. Do you think I should just go for it? Would it be better on Patrick? I'll ask him when I move in tomorrow. I can't believe you've already been gone for two weeks. It's kind of crazy.

Did you see the news that Canada's thinking about legalizing homosexuality? I think it's really great that people are finally accepting people like us. Although, I know we still have a long way to go but still. I hope we get there soon. It's important that people learn to accept this and... I've heard that they're still practicing conversion therapy in some parts of America. It scares me, Drew. What if they find me out? Would my parents send me off? You know my dad has never really been fond of people like me, but I never came out to him. Still... I'm afraid of what might happen to me if I make one wrong move. Times are tense right now and sometimes, the right choice isn't always the right choice.

Anyways, enough about my depressing rambles. I hope you have fun in boot camp (or try to at least). I'll send you letters as often as possible. I love you, man.

Sincerely,

Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III

(Sent, March 2nd, 1969)

Pete folds the paper up, gentle and even as he can get, then presses it into a tight envelope, licking across the seal and pressing it shut before setting it aside and rising to his feet. The bluebirds are tweeting outside his window as night creeps through the window. The moon is a yellow crescent through the black quilt of the night sky, and holes of stars poke out shining brighter than the sun. It's beautiful, Pete's always loved night time despite the fact it's always so dark and gloomy. It seems to match the pit that's become his heart over the years, that empty, empty pit that he's grown so used to.

He tugs off his shirt as he heads upstairs to his room and throws the clothing into the hamper. His ears are ringing as he climbs into bed and pulls the sheets up to his shoulders, his eyes fixed on the lamppost out his window and the stars overhead. He falls asleep thinking of Andrew and Patrick and Mikey, wondering where in the hell tomorrow will take him and thinking of what's to come in the near future.

***

2237 East Blinker Street. Lower Manhattan.

Pete is driving slow through the streets, looking on the left side of the road and searching for that dark mahogany house as Drew had described it. He sees kids on their bikes laughing, one with long, curly hair and another with a buzz cut while a third boy has messy, short blond hair and he's giggling about some Rebecca Johnson who was at his house the night before. Pete isn't sure he wants to know what those two did but he doubts it was something their god would smile upon.

He continues down the street, 2223, 2225, 2229... 2237. An oak tree sits tall and stiff in the front yard, grounded to the earth with large, pink buds rustling in the wind. Pete stops his car, sitting for a long moment before eventually just nodding to himself and turning off the engine. He gets out, heading up a concrete sidewalk to those same dark wood stairs and straight to the door. There is no porch, but Pete doesn't really care, his and Andrew's house didn't have one either. The stairs just lead straight up to a mailbox, the red flag erect and stiff on the side, and the door. There is no glass, only a small peephole for Patrick to look through but Pete doubts he'll use it. He's expecting him.

The raven haired kid rises a shaky fist to the door, shaky because he's nervous, shaky because he's afraid that Patrick won't like him very much or maybe that he'll mess up in one way or another and offend him and he'll be left homeless. Maybe he's just overthinking but he tends to do that a lot. He knows he shouldn't but he does. So he kinda stands there like a fucking weirdo, his eyes latched to the door and his fist just a few inches away, ready to knock but unable to move. He's overthinking this. He just needs to knock, Jesus.

Before he can summon up the courage, though, the door opens inward and Pete drops his fist, eyes wide and body stiff. A man stands there, a cigar between his lips, lit dark with bright embers glowing at the end but that's the last thing Pete notices. His attention is derived, instead, to everything else. This man is fucking gorgeous, the most handsome guy Pete has possibly ever seen.. He's got short, dark locks shading down his eyes and a pair of bright cobalt eyes with a golden ring that seem to see straight though Pete's soul. A pair of pretty pink lips sit small and curved on his face, bright and chapped. He's wearing a leather jacket, plain and dark ebony and a pair of slim-fit black pants cover his long, skinny legs. Pete has to hold back a choke of surprise as drool catches in his throat. This guy is fucking hot.

"Peter?" Patrick asks, he's got the regular New Yorker accent but he notices a deeper accent of a different kind hidden underneath and when he speaks, it's in an almost lazy, grunged way. He pronounces his "r's" lighter than Pete does, but only slightly.

"Yes, that's me," Pete replies, "You can just call me Pete, though. You're Patrick?"

"Yeah, do you want help grabbing your things?" He seems almost uninterested in what Pete has to say, although the dark-eyed kid wouldn't be surprised, he must have known Pete was standing there for a good two minutes before he finally just opened the door for the poor boy. That's not something normal people would see as a "good impression."

"Yes!" Pete says a little too loud, then in a quieter, embarrassed tone he adds, "Please."

Patrick sighs, opening the door a little wider and calling into the house, "Hey, Frank, help me grab some of Pete's stuff why don't you?"

"Fuck off," Frank calls back and for some reason Patrick chuckles. Pete didn't even realize anyone else was in the house, but this Frank guy sounds pretty intimidating even though he's just out of sight behind the door. His voice kind of sounds scary, but maybe that's just Pete being anxious again. His parents always wanted to submit him to Creedmoor for that but he refused, it isn't that bad. He swears.

"Here, you can set your stuff in the basement for now if you want to, Frank and I found room last night," Patrick says with a little bit of a lighter attitude. He follows Pete out to the little Ford Mustang he managed to get from his dad, "What did you bring?"

Pete unlocks the trunk and grabs a box of records that he and Andrew had collected over the years, everything from Elvis to Jimi Hendrix to The Beach Boys to The Rolling Stones. He's had a passion for music for a while, and he knows how to play guitar, the guitar Patrick's bringing in now, "just some music stuff, a few things my dad's given me over the years. Uh, that guitar there. I don't think I brought much. Then all my toothpaste and such."

Patrick nods, "You know how to play guitar?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Pete replies, bringing the box downstairs and setting it beside the wall. The basement is small and most of it is just storage for old things that Patrick probably doesn't need anymore. There's a piano turning rusty and old and a bunch of school supplies, probably from when Patrick was still in school. There's also some food storage, Pete isn't sure if it's just for storage or if it's some kind of back up plan for if the war goes wrong.

"That's neat. Mikey always knew bass, and Frank knows some guitar. Don't mind th-him, though, he's just a close friend of mine," Patrick heads back upstairs, the guitar still slung on his shoulder, "Here, follow me. I'll show you your room."

Pete follows Patrick upstairs from the basement to the first floor to the second. Patrick takes a left and down the hall that overlooks the living room, the opens the door. The room is pretty clean, a twin sized bed sits against the wall opposite the bedroom door covered in a dark red bedsheets. Patrick sets the guitar on the wall beside the bedside table and turns back to Pete will a grin, "I hope this is good. I tried to clean it up as much as I could but Mikey tends to leave messes in his room."

"This was his room?" Pete asks, setting the bag of toiletries on the bed.

"Yep, he was a nice guy, too. I really wish he hadn't gotten drafted." Frank's voice rings out through the room and Pete immediately spins to see the man there. He has long, shaggy charcoal hair and these pretty green eyes that seem to look yellow in the sunlight trailing through the window. He's short, actually, really fucking short and Pete internally laughs at the thought that this guy could be dangerous. He is still somewhat intimidating, though, from the tattoos decorating his knuckles and the grim, blankness in his eyes. Pete swallows and begins sorting through his toiletries.

"Was he?" Pete asks.

"Yeah," Frank replies, grabbing Pete's guitar and taking it from his case before sitting on the bed and beginning to strum away on the out-of-tune strings, "He loved The Rolling Stones and collected all their vinyls. Had this dark brown hair and wore these nerdy glasses. He was the kid who was just lucky enough to get a place with the cool kids, if he hadn't he would have probably been bullied bad by now."

"You act like he's already dead," Patrick mumbles, "I get that he might not come back but you don't have to act like it's already over."

"You never know, Trick," Frank replies, taking his cue to leave as he sets down the guitar, "You don't know how long he'll last out there."

"Shut up," Patrick looks away, grabbing the guitar and putting it away, "Just go back home or something."

Frank shrugs, "Just telling the truth." Then leaves. Pete can't help but feel a little awkward as soon as he's gone. Patrick takes a breath then turns to Pete.

"I'm sorry about th- I mean him," Patrick replies, "He can be kind of an ass sometimes. You want me to put that away for you?"

***

A few days later, Pete gets a letter back from Andrew in shaky, messy writing. He can't help but feel a sense of nostalgia from when they were kids and Drew would scribble out words in his little notebook. He was always afraid of the war back then. Not the cold war, but World War Two. He had nightmares of being taken away by Nazis and on some nights where they had to sleep together, Pete would have to comfort him and remind him that they won't come for him. They were halfway around the world. Of course, that was near the end of it all but that was also when everyone was coming clean and everyone realized just how... how bad it had gotten. About six months later, the war ended, but it still hurt Andrew pretty bad. That's what the writing reminds Pete of. That pure fear.

Pete,

I've missed you bad, man, and things have been tough. Seeing your letter really brightened my day. How are things with Patrick so far? Have you met him in person yet? And what about Frank? I forgot to tell you about him, I'm sorry, but I'm not all that fond of him. He seems like kind of an asshole. How do you feel about him? Also I'm really sorry to hear Jason's been giving you a hard time. I'm guessing that whole thing will be over by the time you get this, though.

I miss my hats! They won't let me wear them here, though. I had to throw out my favorite hat. It's like torture.

I don't have much time to write this because I'm due to mail this in ten minutes but it's hard. The generals are strict, the exercise is hard and painful, and every time I think of you it scares me. This scares me. Everything with the war to the loneliness. You know how much stuff like this bothers me. And yeah, I managed to get in a cabin with Mikey, he's a really nice guy. He makes it easier to live here.

Anyways, I hope you're doing okay. Mail me back soon, Pete.

Andrew Wentz

Sent March 3rd, 1969

Pete reads over the letter at least three more times before he presses it away into the drawer of his desk and grabs his own piece of paper, picking up a sharpened pencil and beginning to write a letter back to Andrew. He isn't sure where he's going with it but it's one of those nights where everything just seems depressing. Patrick is out at some place, he's been going out nearly every night since Pete moved in, he isn't sure if it's because of him or because Patrick just normally does that, but Pete feels anxious and sad for no reason at all.

Andrew,

It's a boring night tonight. Patrick's out for the third time these past four days and I have no idea where he's always going. I'm too afraid to ask, though, he'll probably be mad or something. I'm not sure. Maybe I just don't know him that well but he's intimidating as hell. He's kind of pretty, though, and I know you aren't like me, but I'm into him. Do you know if he's like me? And are him and Frank any more than friends? I know you never told me anything more about him besides the fact that he's a nice guy and he had room for me to move in but... I feel like there's something more to him I guess. You know? I really wanna figure it out. I'll probably ask him about it sometime in the next week.

Frank is sort of an asshole, too. I've talked to him a few times but when I first got here, he was talking to me about Mikey and he kept suggesting that Mikey might not make it through the war. And... I mean I know that it's true. But nothing is for certain and I could see that Patrick was stressed out enough as it is. He didn't deserve another pep talk from Frank about how bad it could be. He otherwise seems like a fairly okay person, he doesn't seem to care about much except for things he's especially passionate about. He also tends to wear a lot of leather. Leather jackets, leather gloves, leather boots, leather pants. It sticks out from the rest of the kids around here who stick to the button up stripe shirts and the baseball caps. I kind of like it, though. It's rebellious in a way. He's brave. Braver than I'll ever be at least.

I'm sorry camp is going bad, I know how bad you can get during times like this but I know you can get through this. Think about all the opportunities you'll have when you're back. Think about everyone who will be here for you when you get back, when the war is over. I know you'll make it. You've always been so brave and this sounds cheesy as hell but you'll make it. I promise you. When you get back we can get our apartment back, and we can put this all to rest. You'll make it. I'm sure of it.

I hope things with Mikey are going okay. I'm very tired tonight so I think I'm going to head to bed. I've been writing poems in my head all night, it's kind of depressing, rambling on and on to myself with nobody else to speak to, but you're all I really have.

Joke me something awful just like kisses on the necks of "best friends"*

We're the kids who feel like dead ends

And I want to be known for my hits, not just my misses

I took a shot and didn't even come close

At trust and love and hope

And the poets are just kids who didn't make it

And never had it at all

Sleep well, Andrew.

Sincerely,

Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III

Sent March 7th, 1969