one more troubled soul » petekey

Eleven

"Every year of my life
I grow more convinced
that it is wisest and best
to fix our attention
on the beautiful and the good,
and dwell as little as possible
on the evil and the false."
- Richard Cecil

Pete woke up to something he hadn't woken up to in awhile: the smell of fresh breakfast. His stomach grumbled greedily before his eyes even opened. It was pancakes or waffles and bacon and eggs and all the good things he was barely able to put his finger on--it had been that long. He rolled over and grumbled, hoping by chance he could rouse Mikey so they could eat. But to his dismay and surprise, the bed was empty, colder than it had been before. He felt around for a bit, hoping to wake up from a lingering nightmare but it was all very true. He finally managed to pry his eyes open, sighing at a bare ceiling. He heard voices and glanced over at the door, his blurry, morning eyes barely noticing that it was propped open with a shoe, a post-it note stuck to the door knob. He smiled and squinted, before forcing himself to his feet. They felt heavy, like they hadn't woken up yet themselves. And so he dragged them across the carpet and to the door, snatching the post-it, tilting his head at the note scribbled delicately.

Free breakfast on me! It's beautiful out; meet me in the back with an empty stomach. - Ryan :)

Pete's smile widened and he looked down at himself. His pajamas were just barely acceptable, and he hurriedly fixed his hair in a broken mirror that was leaning against the wall. Shrugging, he grabbed one of his cameras off the bedside table and rushed out of the room, whizzing down the hallway before slamming into a man at the end of it. He dropped his camera and yelped, blushing as he reached for it. "Sorry," he mumbled, barely uttering it. It was lazy and tired sounding, the first words that his morning voice had attempted. He finally glanced up at the man, easily recognizing him as Ryan's father: who had already made himself notorious for douchebaggery in only one moment last night. Pete forced himself to scowl, though his insides were shaking and crumbling. "Sorry." He said again. "Where can I find Ryan? And Mikey?"

"Out the door at the end of that hall," he replied, motioning with his head. He was equally as stoic as Pete, but it was so strange looking at him. The likeliness to Ryan was uncanny, and it was unnerving. Pete couldn't imagine someone as eccentric as Ryan seemed had been the product of this man, who seemed to be disastrous and yet annoyingly uninteresting. Pete tried not to stare too long, in fear of seeing himself within him. He was always able to relate to everyone he met and it was a blessing and a curse. He shuffled past him.

He walked quickly down the hall and out the door, bursting into the sunlight. He winced at the brightness and squinted, looking around slowly. He took in the area. It was a homey feeling patio, fake plants in chipped pots decorating a broken fountain, and plenty of unpainted picnic tables set around the yard. Pete had to remind himself that he was miles and miles from home, but as he eyed the hedges in the yard, he couldn't help but feel a few of his old friends had cut them for twenty bucks. It was all so familiar.

Finally, he spotted Ryan and Mikey, sitting across from each other at a picnic table, which was covered in breakfast food. Pete had forgotten that he was hungry, but his stomach screamed at him and sent a sharp reminder to his foggy, sleepy brain. He happily stumbled over, but not before taking a quick picture of their smiles in the early morning sunlight. It was a sight to see: a smile that would only improve in the years to come, and a smile that was so perfect after years of practice. He took a seat beside Mikey.

"Well, good morning," Ryan said, speaking through a mouth full of waffle. He didn't bother wiping the syrup of his pale chin, and his smudged eyeliner from the night before had disappeared. His eyes had gone from smoky to sunny. He still wore his floral scarf, but today an orange headband was wrapped tightly around his forehead, brown bed-head spilling over it in messy clumps.