Kill Your Darlings

Pete had no clue how to even go about finding out who his Sweet Little Dude was. All he had to go off of was that Dude A) was tall and skinny, and B) had dyed blond hair. That could have been anyone for, all Pete knew. That's why r was so relieved when Dude found him.

"Hi," Dude said when Pete opened his door the afternoon of the 13th. "You're Peter, right?"

"Yeah, but everyone calls me Pete," the shorter man said and smiled.

"Oh, well, I'm Michael, but everyone calls me Mikey," he said and smiled back. "I just wanted to welcome you to the building. It's been a long time since anyone's moved in."

"Well, I just moved in yesterday," Pete said. "I used to live in Chicago but I wanted an adventure."

"And you decided to move to Belleville, the armpit of New Jersey, for adventure?" Mikey asked, raising one of his dark eyebrows.

"It's far away from Illinois, and that's good enough for me," Pete said. "So, which apartment are you in?"

"Well, I'm on my brother's couch right now," Mikey started. "I used to live in 7B—" he stopped when he noticed Pete's face fall, and made up a lie quickly. "I'm not the sick fuck who killed that kid. I can barely stomach a paper cut, let alone actually killing someone."

"How did they get in?" Pete asked eagerly.

"Busted the damn lock," Mikey grumbled. "Out of all of the apartments they could've picked, they chose mine. Why the hell did they choose mine?"

"Do the police have any idea who did it?"

"That's the thing!" Mikey exclaimed. "There were no prints or anything! If it wasn't for the body, I wouldn't have thought there was a murder in my living room!"

"Oh, God," Pete said. "I'm being rude; c'mon in."

Mieky entered the room, taking a place on the couch while Pete leaned up against the wall. Mikey observed the room for a few seconds before saying: "You'e read Gray?" He gestured to a book lying on one of the end tables, various pages marked by red flag-style Post-It notes.

Mikey already knew the answer: Pete hadn't read it; he had written it. As soon as Mikey found out his name, he searched Pete Wentz online, finding article after article about the 28 year old writer, born and raised in Chicago. At that moment, Mikey knew a lot more about Pete than he was letting on.

Pete smirked. "Honey, I wrote Gray."

"You're shitting me," Mikey said and Pete shook his head. He got a bit closer to Mikey and lifted the hem of his shirt to expose his stomach, and twisted his body until he found a few words imprinted in his skin: we are all addicts. Mikey had never read Gray— he had read a small excerpt online— but he assumed these words meant something significant. "Oh my God..." Mikey breathed, lightly skimming his fingers along Pete's skin. It was soft to the touch, and tanned, even though it was clearly always hidden by Pete's shirt.

Curious, Mikey let Pete's scent fill his nose. It was a complicated assortment of scents— there was the smell of linens, like Ryan, as well as smoke, which usually signified a troubled past. The third one was a strange smell, one Mikey had never smelled before: it was sharp, almost like coffee, but sweeter somehow. Like the coffee Mikey's brother drank; so loaded with sugar and creamer that it was more extras than actual coffee. Mikey liked it, even though he wasn't sure what the smell meant.

"That's so fucking amazing," Mikey said, letting his hand drop back to his lap. "Gray is one of the best books I've ever read."

"Ever?"

"Ever."

"Might I suggest the Harry Potter books?"

Mikey laughed, then said: "Fine. Gray is the 8th best book I've ever read. In actuality, it would be the 7th, because Order of the Phoenix sucked ass, but it was important to the plot."

"I hated Umbridge more than I did He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," Pete said, smiling once more.

"Same," Mikey said, nodding.

Pete started: "So, I was going to offer to let you crash on my couch, but I'm pretty sure your answer would be—"

"Not happening," Mikey supplied.

"So, in light of that, let me take you to dinner," Pete said.

Mikey thought about it for a second and said: "Sure. Tonight?"

"Tonight's good," Pete said.

"As long as I'm paying."

"You're insane."

When Mikey left about 20 minutes later, Pete could only think a single thing: Mikey, former tenant of Apartment 7B, had hazel eyes.

Notes

The chapters will start to get longer soon, I promise. I just have to give exposition.

xoøli