Yours Truly (Petekey)

X.

Written by: musicalromantic

Peter Lewis Wentz

What had happened on Saturday night was still an open wound in my heart. It would be hard to heal. The heart will break, but broken live on... That was a Byron quote that I had vowed to live by. When my mother died... When my father began to pay not as much as attention... When Michael left. None of them had any right to leave me. And yet they did. I was ready to forgive, but unfortunately, I could never forget. Keeping the previous words close to my heart, it only proves that it will not be easy to let Michael back in. Not Mikey, but Michael. The formalities had returned. I knew he would appear in my father's shop for the second time in two weeks. And by the time my father informs me that the Ways would be coming back soon to be fitted for clothes for Lady Kirsten's ball, I am shaking in anticipation. The day can not come fast enough.

The thought of seeing Michael again makes my heart hurt and it makes my brain confused. Of course I had lied that morning after. The morning I woke up, the morning he left, the morning I tried to stop him, and the morning that the words: I never want to see you again, had crossed my lips. How could I not want to see the man who had taken the firsts from me? The man who knew it that what we were doing could never happen and was never meant to be- and yet he persisted on inviting me to his birthday celebration... Persisted on accompanying me to my second home, and had persisted on kissing me first. It simpler terms, the best way I could think to describe Lord Michael Way, was describing him as the personification of persistence. Would I just as easily let him leave my life as easily as he had entered it? No, it would be much harder than that. Persistence would not win.

I was working on finishing a dress for one of the ladies of the nobility for Lady Kirsten's ball when Michael finally arrived. I abandon the precious work in favor of the much more persistent task. I hear voices in the front. I hear Gerard's voice and I force myself to calm. He is not the Way brother I have a history with. He is not the Way brother I have a grudge against. And when my father enters the room, nodding his head to beckon me from my space at my desk, I jump up with almost too much enthusiasm, almost knocking a pen from the top. And I wait for a few seconds as my father walks back out, offering to show Gerard Way and his wife the selection of fabrics. And they walk away into another section of the store. And then I wait. Making Michael Way squirm- just for a little bit- would be fun.

Finally, after a moment of silence and watching him pitifully looking around the shop like a lost orphan boy, I take pity on Persistence, and I enter the room. Michael's eyes fly to me immediately and I try hard to understand or even read the expression on the face. His face has always been one of the unrecognizable. Sometimes it is easy to recognize the expression on a face- Patrick or my father can be used to serve as examples. Patrick usually looked annoyed by me- an easy expression to tell. And my father usually looked tired- yet another easy expression. But Lord Michael Way is a different story. His face is tense and alert, always aware and watching every single movement I make. His hazelnut eyes have secrets hidden deep in them. Secrets that I know I might never find out. Part of me wonders if I even want to know what these secrets are. What is a man without his secrets? And as I stare at his unrecognizable face with an expression I hope he sees no pity in. I hope he feels the pain I did that morning, and I hope he realizes the mistakes he made last Saturday evening. And I hope he regrets.

He deserves no pity from me or anyone. And yet I can't help but find myself wishing for everything to be alright for him. In terms of the woman he would choose to call 'wife' and in terms of his family name- and their reaction to the two of us having claimed the cover of the daily newspaper the morning after. As Persistence opens his lips to speak, I interrupt him, unraveling the measuring tape. He wouldn't be the first to talk this time. Not when he was the last to talk the last time we met.