12. Sunday.

                                    

                                          
2016/03/14 Sunday. [Valentine's Day]

                          
Today was the day that Pete was going to get his results. We agreed yesterday over the phone that we'd buy shitty Valentine's day propaganda like heart candies and chocolates and really shitty cards that were, as Ryan had said, gay as fucking hell. 
                          
Ryan and Hayley were spending Valentine's Day together because, as Ryan had said, that's not gay. Like that was the least of his worries: whether he came off as gay or not. And Hayley had told me that while they were doing it as friends, they'd probably end up sleeping together but it's not like I mind she'd said. 
                          
I set out the chocolates and candies and popcorn and I even rented out Love Actually so that when Pete came back with his positive results we could make jokes about stupid love and be forever alone together. Because being alone wasn't so bad when you had someone to be alone with you. Especially if you're in a wheelchair or you might have Huntington's. 
                          
Pete came over at ten, so I had enough time to stay in bed and wait for him to let himself in. And when he did come in, he wasn't crying. His eyes weren't red and there wasn't an ocean of tears running down his face. And for a fleeting moment I got excited. 
                          
I knew how anxious he was about it. How nervous it made him. I knew that he was afraid. And now he stood, like a soldier coming back from war, in my doorway. But he didn't look so afraid anymore. Just tired. He didn't look sad. Just worn out. He didn't look okay. He just looked done. 
                          
I felt my own facial expressions flickering – going through every emotion I could name and a couple of new one's too. All I could possibly think of was the woman in the documentary. The way her body twitched and moved rigidly. Her neck and head jerking wildly while she tried to explain something. And the doctor in the documentary, his voice saying in the background Huntington's is a genetic degeneration disease. 
                          
And then, like in a movie, my head flashed back to moments where Pete's eyes rolled to the side too slowly to be real and I remembered the way his lips twitched upwards in a falsetto smile and all I could do was stare at him because of fucking course. 
                          
Of course, once I finally had a friend this would happen. Of course. Only me. The seconds before he said anything killed me. They took away my breath and killed every bit of hope I had left and then he opened his mouth. And he said. 
                          
Mikey. I have Huntington's disease. 
                          
And I thought we'd spend the day eating chocolates and candies and making fun of the people in Love Actually while being alone together. But instead, we spent the day in each other's arms while he cried and cried and cried and I didn't think he'd ever stop. 
                          
And when he'd run out of tears to shed, he'd stopped sobbing and he whimpered and whined instead like a dog who'd been stepped on. And I grabbed his hand and I said. 
                          
You're my best friend, Pete Wentz. My best friend for life. And then he leaned in and he kissed me. And I kissed back. And he tasted of salty tears but I decided that I didn't care. Because all that mattered was him. 
                          
And I never wanted him to leave. 
                          
Mikey. 
                          
Because I've forgotten to post in, like, two weeks. 
                          
Vote and comment because I feel guilty and need affection. 
                          
And my favourite thing right now is me but I guess Phan Smut is pretty good too. 
                          
Undying affections from yours truly,
                          
Brendon