Pete's neighborhood is so dingy that I'm astonished he lives here.

Rubble from unfinished houses relaxes in peculiar places (or otherwise, places it shouldn't be), which has probably clogged up too many pathways to count. The scent of trash wafts around the entire community, rotting even the previously festive trees.

Even the people look threatening, with their dirt-encrusted faces and ragged clothes, a sneer the only clean thing on them.

Normally, there would be no rancor between the citizens and me, but the times they've almost hit me with stray objects is too high to list, and my sole ambition is to get out of here as quickly as possible.

Pete is pensive, smothering his shoes in the dirt to distract him from the suspicion of my thoughts, and there's a very coherent emotion that is generated as a result.

He's ashamed that I'm here. That must've been the cause for his hesitance to visit Caribou with us, because in order to pack his bags, he needs to visit his house, and this dump of a place happens to be his neighborhood.

"There's nothing wrong with you living here, you know," I clarify amidst the shrieking of vultures in the sky — which, now that I investigate my surroundings to a greater extent, is the only perpetual beauty in this location. "Poverty can strike at any time."

A sarcastic smile flocks to Pete's face (and now that I've been to his habitat, it's an outlier among the other residents — tidy, hygienic, nothing like the grimy mess that I've hastily grown accustomed to). "We have plenty of money, enough to survive well, but that's not the issue."

"What do you mean by that? If you have money, why are you dwelling here?" None of this makes sense, and the urge to extricate my hair topples onto me as a byproduct of the stress.

"You'll see." And just like that, Pete's eyes inflate with trepidation, cast back down to his feet once more.

I can sense that Pete's willing to open up, but an interruption arises out of the blue. "Freak!" it roars, punctuating the harsh words with stones pitched our way. One of the more precise objects strikes me directly in my upper arm, poising its cadaverous teeth over my skin to bite and retreating to the ground after its lucrative suicide mission.

"Who the hell are those people?" I demand, feet trembling with the proposal of its destination. "Why do they hate you so much?"

"Just your local bullies, nothing much." Pete's breath hitches over his words, and it's tangible that the toll was more emotional than physical, but I can detect the manifestation of a bruise lurking under his complexion — and cackling about the event, because his body thinks it's what he deserves for allowing his mind to reign.

It's not his fault that he's tormented by himself. It can't be, and that's what those bullies don't understand. Metaphors apparently aren't enough for them, because Pete's been torturing himself for a while now, but it wasn't yet physical until now.

"Why aren't you doing anything about it?" I know I could never confront them, being all socially anxious and basically dead inside, but Pete's soul lodges in courage (more specifically, the tad of courage I can never have), and he's been snuffed out enough to deliver a sign to him that this isn't right.

Or that's what I think, for Pete isn't doing a single thing. No plans, no words, no reactions, just the grey tones of his neighborhood, and he's lost inside them.

I'm not.

I cup my hands around my mouth without contemplating the ramifications, but it's me breaking free from analysis paralysis. "Hey, you peasants!"

Pete's features writhe upon his visage, absolutely aghast, while his tone bathes in frenzy. "What are you doing?"

"What you couldn't." I pivot to address the kids once more, their forms frozen into the earth. "What makes Pete Wentz such a freak? What characteristics confide in him that don't confide in you?"

The boys halt in a struggle to process my rant, as illiterate as newborns, and I consider that a chance to distribute the punchline.

"Well for one, he doesn't throw fucking rocks at people!"

Pete's lips graze my ear in an overshot, limbs heavy, voice burdened. "Patrick, stop this. You don't know what you're getting into."

"I will not. This needs to be said."

In my debate against Pete, the kids have advanced to ten feet away, an indication that I should wrap up my speech before I get socked.

"Care to defend yourself?" one with a sandy fringe stipulates, head cocked like the gun he probably hoards under his bed.

"Fuck off, Spencer," Pete groans, armed to playfully punch him in the side, but from the menacing gleam in the boy's cobalt irises, he refrains from doing so.

Spencer's limbs link across his chest, tongue glissading over his gums. "Not until this twerp tells me why he's being such a bitch."

I ignore his comment to squint at Pete cynically. "You know these cunts?"

"Well we do live in the same area." The rumples in his countenance suggest a desire to focus on the bullies, and I need to conclude my rant anyway, so that's where our attention reclines.

"What you gotta say, man?" the other boy asks, stroking once the premature mustache spread across his philtrum.

"Jon, don't encourage him," Spencer mutters, but I don't surrender.

My hands fissure into the dense oxygen, formulating sentences capable of wounding. "I'm saying that you can throw rocks at us all you want. We may even die, but that doesn't concern you, and neither does the benefits of attacking us. Because there are no benefits, and harassing us won't affect you in the long run."

The aura is swathed in silence, and my hand yearns for Pete's shoulder.

"It's time to go," I declare, dragging him along with me. "See you around, peasants."

~~~~~

I would've suspected Pete's shallow breathing is an outcome of my verbal assault towards the friendly neighborhood peasants, were it not for the affliction occurring as we near a scrappy old RV parked in the lot.

Nothing memorable bedecks the vehicle — it's as denigrative as the rest of the community, perhaps even more so — but fabrics of skepticism bandage Pete's hands to a position that is even more unrelenting than before.

"Is this it?" My nose catches the breeze of the dumpster's aroma, even though there are no dumpsters in sight.

Pete's fingers flounder by his lateral. "Are you disappointed?"

I shake my head, smiling. "We already discussed this, and no. To each his own."

Shrugging, Pete complicates, "It's not exactly like I would've preferred this to something nicer, but yeah — to each his own."

At least he's calmed down.

The door whimpers as it's brushed aside, intending to cause the loudest commotion it can muster, and an empty beer bottle is chucked at our heads.

"Get out, you roach!" a slurred voice cries from the room next to the entrance. "No solicitors allowed!"

"Joe, quiet, would you?" Pete scoffs, kicking a plastic wrapper from his path in disdain. "It's just me."

The area smells like the deepest pit of hell, and I'd know from attending a high school for a year before withdrawing into myself, a specific humidity that encourages me to crawl into a hole and suffocate. There are no decorations scattered across the metal walls, but rubbish practically screams to be extruded in one of the many waste baskets, and my hand skitters to a stop right above one before Joe can ask why I'm wrecking his RV.

"As if that's any better," Joe mumbles, scooting his hand through his greasy Jew-fro.

"Would you stop being such a shitface for one moment so that I can ask you something?" Pete's voice is as elevated as I've heard it, a snake diving into his throat to poison him.

Joe, however, seems adapted to the volume, proceeding with, "What is it, kid?"

Pete abducts a faded navy backpack from its dreary slump on the couch, the furniture equally as faded, tossing a t-shirt inside carelessly. "I'm going to Caribou with Patrick."

"Is that in Maine?" Joe croaks as Pete continues his search for clothing items and leaves me in the doorway. The "deer in the headlights" feeling remains to exist, even though Joe's attention poses to attract Pete.

My friend holds, supplying Joe with a sarcastic pinching of the brows. "Look who studied geography."

"You're so ungrateful," Joe wanders, flicking to the floor a piece of broken glass that he had been fiddling with. "Did you know that about yourself?"

"You remind me almost every day." Pete's jaw stiffens, oculi hide. "Well it's not my fault that I'm a fucking orphan, but it's your fault that you don't make life comfortable, even for your own needs. All you do is get drunk and sell drugs, and it's not like I can do anything, because I'm not even eighteen yet, and if I tried to speak up, you would threaten me, but you've been threatening me all the time, so it's not like it really matters anyway."

Before I can register what's happening, I'm scampering out the door, heart raging against my rib cage, while Pete swings a jacket around his shoulders in his pursuit of me.

"You little—"

The aperture secures as Joe is hindered, with the chilled air the only priority on our minds.

"Let's go to Gerard's house," Pete offers, impeding my consternation, and all I can do is stare at him.

The trip to Caribou is not nearly as troubling.

~~~~~

A/N: I FOUND MY NEW FAVOURITE PICTURE OF JOE TROHMAN

current vibe: when I was writing Dove and took a screenshot when I hit 66666 words

~Dacurdle