Dear Patrick,

I'd never been so happy to hear the sound of Joe's car pulling into the driveway.

The hours I'd spent waiting for you had felt like years; I was surprised my body hadn't merged into the couch, my face forever imprinted with the patterns on the cushions.

My bones cracked as I began to stir. Everything was numb, my vision bleached white like I'd died on the sofa and this was the afterlife. It couldn't be, though, 'cause I could hear your footsteps on the gravel, you were alive, and so was I. And so was my dad.

The sound of a key in the lock made me blink fast, my head finally beginning to shake off the duvet of dizziness that seemed to have been smothering it. You were here, at last. You'd make everything better, like you always do.

I was so ready to just rush at the door, throw it open and scoop you up in my arms. After hours of waiting with only my mind for company, the thought of seeing you again was the only thing keeping me sane. And yet, I was completely terrified of it.

I didn't run to you. I just stood in the middle of the lounge, staring down the hall, my hands knotted up behind my back. Don't hurt him. Whatever you do, don't hurt him.

The door swung open, and there you were, wrestling with huge suitcases which looked ridiculous in the hands of such a small person. You looked up, and my chest tightened. You dropped the cases, shut the door behind you, toed your shoes off, and suddenly, you were marching towards me.

I took a few steps backwards, shaking my head at you, using every ounce of my brainpower to stop myself thinking of anything that might get me angry. I promised never ever to hit you again, but it was more than a promise. My entire life was bound up in it. I can't lose him again.

You paid exactly zero attention to my protests, though. Before I knew it, you'd slammed into me, throwing your arms around me and squeezing me as tight as you could, your breath tickling my ear. And I, of all people, know that once a Stump is hugging you, struggling is pointless.

My fingers untangled themselves and curled around your waist, my head dropping into your shoulder. Suddenly, anger was the last thing on my mind, exhaustion forcing a sigh from me. Breathing through your shirt, I drank in your scent, faint aftershave mixed with sweat mixed with something that was just...I don't know, just Patrick.

"Love you," I mumbled, my mouth feeling your collarbone under the fabric.

Your lips brushed the side of my head, your hands rubbing slow circles into my back. "It's gonna be okay," you murmured, squeezing me tighter.

I ignored the fact that you couldn't know that, the fact that this could bring my whole world down on top of both of us, and let myself believe you.

Pulling back, you put your hands on my shoulders and gave me a little shake. "You're okay. We're gonna talk this out, yeah?"

At that moment, talking it out sounded like the worst idea in the world; I just wanted to curl up somewhere with you and sleep through this whole thing. You weren't gonna let me do that, though, obviously.

"Hey, no," you said firmly, poking me in the chest, "you're not keeping all those feelings to yourself, it's not healthy, you know that."

I sighed, hating that you were right. But this was exactly why I wanted you here, so you could make me do the things I didn't wanna do and make me feel better.

You took your hands away and pushed at my own, stepping away from me. I felt a wave of something like homesickness, wanting you back in my arms right now.

"Do I smell cookies?" you asked suddenly, lifting the sombre atmosphere, nose in the air.

I nodded. You beamed, scampering over to the kitchen like a cookie-seeking missile, cheering when you found them, holding the plate up Lion King style. Against my will, I felt myself smile.

"Aha! I saw that," you announced, pointing at me and looking around at imaginary spectators. "Cookies and talking, that's all you need." Hopping back over to me, plate in hand, you hooked an arm around me and guided me over to the sofa. I slumped into it like dropped spaghetti, and you followed suit, cross-legged and facing me with the cookies in your lap.

"Okay," you said, more gently this time. "Your dad."

I nodded in answer to a question that hadn't been asked, blowing out a slow breath. I made sure I was sitting on my hands.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

No, I can't, I don't want to, go away, I might hurt you, please god don't let me hurt you. "Well," I started, swallowing dryly, "he...turned up. I just opened the door, and he was there."

"And what did you do?"

"I shut the door again, then he went away."

"Okay," you said calmly. "How long has it been?"

"Twenty years, near-on," I sighed, dropping my gaze.

You shuffled closer, touching my knee briefly. "Do you – uh, do you wanna talk about when he left you?"

I could tell you were worried. I'd never really talked about my childhood with you. You probably knew more than anyone else, piecing it together from stuff I said, you knew I hated my parents, my family, you knew I'd grown up pretty much alone.

This was it, then. Storytime.

"Alright," I said quietly, knowing I probably wasn't ready for this, but giving in to your gaze all the same. "Okay. So, uh, until I was, like, thirteen years old, I, uh, they brought me up, I guess. Him and my mum. But, uh, I guess I...got, like, difficult. I, uh, would get angry, and stuff, and come home drunk and run away sometimes. They hated that. They'd shout at me the whole fucking time, and try to get me to have counselling and all that bullshit, but I wouldn't.

"I got expelled from a couple schools, and then they started to talk to people. Have conversations about me behind my back about what to do with me, or whatever. Money was kinda tight, they couldn't keep up the medications and stuff. So they put me in care.

"I never forgave them for that. Never. They gave up on me. I hated every second of that fucking care home, all the other kids, all the social workers. My parents never visited, I never let them. I spent three years there, but when you turn sixteen, that's it. You're out of the system. So I was on my own. This house was the only good thing I got, apparently my aunt left it to me or some shit like that. So that's my fucked up childhood."

After staring at my knees for so long, I glanced up at you. Your lips were slightly parted and your eyes were wide, an uneaten cookie clasped in your hand.

"Pete, I-"

"Nah, you don't have to apologise. It's in the past, I just...didn't expect the past to come back anytime soon," I said with a bitter laugh.

You nodded, gnawing on your lips. I could see you trying your damnedest to think of something to say. But the problem was that even with your compassionate nature, you just didn't understand.

I don't think I needed you to understand, though. I wasn't looking for someone who'd gone through the same thing, someone I could rant with about how much families suck, I just needed support, some kind of continuity through all this. You, basically.

Taking a bite out of the cookie in your hand, you chewed thoughtfully. "'Kay," you gulped, "So...I guess, the question is, do you wanna see him again?"

"No," I snapped, glaring at my knees again.

"Why not?"

I felt a flash of anger. "What?! Did you not hear what I just said? He ditched me, Patrick, he hates me, I hate him! Why the fuck would he just turn up like that, after all this time, and expect me to just be okay with it?!" I yelled, shaking. I slid my hands further underneath me.

You placed a hand on my arm. "Hey, I'm sorry. I just...wouldn't it be good to hear what he has to say?"

"Fuck off, I don't care."

"But, you're not a kid anymore. Look at everything you've done, all by yourself. If anything, this is a gloating opportunity," you reasoned.

I almost smiled at that. Then it disappeared. "It'll ruin everything," I said quietly.

"What will it ruin?" you asked gently.

"What if he tries to force his way into my life? What if he wants money, or tries to blackmail me, or, or..." I trailed off with a huff, trying to think of more worst-case scenarios.

"But if he left you alone as soon as you shut the door, maybe that's not the case."

"Piss off, you don't know a damn thing about this," I spat.

"I know he left a phone number. What if he just wants to talk?"

"No."

"But-"

"Why the fuck are you on his fucking side!? I shouted, glaring at you.

You didn't flinch. "This isn't about sides, Pete. And if it was, you know I'm always with you. I don't know, just – what've you got to lose? You meet up with him, get your questions answered, and if he's a dick, you forget about him."

"You," I said quietly.

"What?"

"You," I repeated. "You're what I've got to lose."

You blinked. "Pete, why – you're not gonna lose me, why would you think that?" you breathed, incredulous.

"Because," I swallowed, "because he'll ruin everything. I'll – I'll go back to what I was like back then."

"Don't be stupid, no you won't," you asserted, rolling your eyes at me.

"I will! He'll make me angry, he'll – I'll end up hurting you, Patrick, and I can't do that, I can't do that to you again!" I cried, shuffling away from you.

You put the cookies on the table, and reached out for me.

"No, don't," I said, bowing my head.

I felt you tug on my arm, pulling my hand out from underneath me, folding it together with your own. I tried to jerk it away, but you held on tight, tracing my palm with your thumb. "You won't, Pete. I know you won't."

You brought my fingers to your lips and kissed them gently, nuzzling into them like a kitten. I watched, smiling a little, before taking a chance and grazing my knuckles over your cheek. You looked travel-worn, your hair limp beneath your hat and a hint of grey under your eyes, but you smiled anyway, your skin soft under my fingers. I'd never hit you. I know that now.

"Okay," I nodded, finally feeling a bit of self-belief rise up inside me after my moment of madness.

Grinning, you proceeded to squeeze the life out of my arm, hugging it to your chest and shifting so that our shoulders were touching. "Good. So...do you wanna call him?"

My subconscious screamed a firm no, but you quirked a hopeful smile at me, and I melted, just like always. "Uh...I don't know. If it was you, what would you do?"

Your face fell a little. "Pete, I – I don't know. I can't decide this for you. But, whatever you wanna do, I'll go with it."

"You want me to call him, don't you," I sighed.

Huffing through your nose, you rested your head on my shoulder. "I just think it'd be good. I mean, yeah, it might go horribly. But, you can hardly have a worse relationship with him than you already do. And, if it goes well, then...it's one less burnt bridge to worry about. Making amends feels good, I promise," you insisted, playing with my fingers.

"But he can't just waltz back into my life and expect me to play happy families. In anything other than blood, he's not my dad."

"I know. You don't have to pretend like nothing happened, just tell him how you feel, get your questions answered, then decide whether you wanna let him back in, if not as a parent, as a friend, I guess."

You were looking at me with your big eyes, willing me to be the better person or whatever. "You're annoying," I said finally, when I couldn't think of anything else.

"Is that a yes?" you asked, sitting up slightly.

"Yes," I sighed in defeat. A reluctant yes, but a yes all the same.

You cheered, waving my hand about, then jumped off the sofa and looked around. "Where d'you put the number?"

"By the door," I grumbled, giving you my best I don't like you look.

Disappearing down the hall, I heard some scuffling about, then a noise of triumph, and you reappeared, uncurling the piece of paper in your fingers.

"Right," you said as you plopped back down next to me, holding out the number.

I took it, squinting at it as if there might be some hidden message. "Uh...okay."

You looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to do something, but I just kept staring. Suddenly it all got a bit scary again.

"D'you want me to do it?" you asked gently.

I nodded, relieved. I couldn't talk to him for the first time over the phone, I wanted to be face to face. Plus, you're better at talking anyway.

Pulling out your phone, you typed carefully as I read out the number, giving me a quick are you sure? look before you pressed the dial button. I reached over and put it on loud speaker. I might not wanna talk to him, but I sure as hell wanted to hear this call.

"Hello?" A voice sounded. It was him, I knew it was him.

"Uh, hi, is that Mr. Wentz speaking?" you asked, looking a bit nervous.

"Yes," he replied, "who is this?"

"I'm, uh, calling on behalf of your son, Pete. I believe you dropped by this morning?"

He made a noise of realisation. "Ah, yes, thank you for calling. Who might you be?"

"I'm Patrick, Pete's...uh..." you threw me a worried look, which I didn't understand 'til you finished your sentence. "...boyfriend." He never even knew I was gay.

"Oh," he said, pausing a bit. "Okay. Patrick, as in, the singer?"

You frowned. "Yeah..."

"Well, it's a pleasure to talk to you, you have a phenomenal voice."

You choked on the breath you'd taken. "Uh...thank you, sir," you stammered, and I batted your knee. You shouldn't call him sir, he doesn't deserve it. You just flicked me in the arm and continued to look slightly weirded out. I began to think this was a bad idea, he's clearly a stalker. Or maybe he did some sneaky googling before he turned up.

"How is he?" he asked, and we all knew he meant me.

"He's been better, I think, he wasn't really expecting you."

"Ah. Indeed. My apologies. Tell him I'm sorry for simply arriving like that, I didn't know how else to go about it. Does he know you called?"

"Yeah, he does. He'd like to meet up, if that's why you left your number."

"Okay," he said, sounding relieved. "Yes, I hoped he'd change his mind. We could go for lunch tomorrow, if you'd like?"

You looked at me, and I shook my head, pointing down at the floor. If we were gonna meet, I wanted it to be on my fucking turf. "Uh, how about you come here?"

"Alright, if that's better for him. What time would you like me?"

"Uh...excuse me one second...." You put your hand over the mic and turned to me.

"Eleven?" I shrugged, not really caring.

You grimaced. "One?"

"Oh come on, eleven o'clock is not that early," I scolded, crossing my arms.

You made a whining sound and pouted at me. "But I'm jet-lagged!"

"There's a two hour time difference!" I huffed, rolling my eyes.

"Still," you sulked, elbowing me. You took your hand away from the mic, "Hello? Okay, how about one o'clock?"

I gasped dramatically and you shot me a proud grin, which widened when he replied, "Yes, that's fine for me."

"Good!" you chirped, "we'll see you tomorrow, then."

"Indeed. Thank you again for calling, Patrick, it'll be a pleasure to meet both of you."

"You too, Mr. Wentz. Bye!"

He responded in kind, then the phone went dead. I scowled at you, and your smile disappeared.

"Made a new friend, have we?" I spat.

"He sounds nice," you shrugged, leaning forward to put your phone on the coffee table and snagging a cookie on the way back.

I made a noise of disgust and looked away from you. "You shouldn't suck up to him, though. What if I don't even want you here tomorrow?" I said, just to be mean.

Your eyebrows shot up, and I could see you realising that you'd sort of just invited yourself to be part of the big emotional father-son reunion. "Oh, I – uh, I'm sorry, I just thought that you'd want, like, me to be there and stuff," you stammered, a blush creeping into your cheeks.

I grinned at your embarrassment, wrapping an arm round your waist and pulling you closer to me. "I'm kidding, of course I want you there. You're my moral support. Also I totally want to show you off."

You frowned mid-cookie. "Am I nothing more than a trophy wife to you?" you sighed, chewing slowly. "I should've stayed in LA."

It was only then I remembered that I'd dragged you the whole way across the country to sort out my mess. "Oh yeah, how did that go?"

"Ugh, selling houses is boring. Got an estate agent, he's gonna handle it for the time being. I cleaned the place up a bit, he says he can sell it pretty quick. I don't know how the hell I'm gonna move out, there's no room in my flat for all of it."

"Don't worry, I'm sure we'll think of something," I said, hiding my smile in your cheek as I thought of the house we'd looked at, the fact that you could just move your stuff straight into it, the fact that oh yeah, I'm gonna ask him to live with me.

"Pete," you said suddenly, shifting to face me. "Listen, whatever happens tomorrow, I just want you to know that this," you gestured between the two of us, "isn't gonna change. I love you, I'm not going anywhere, even if he hates me."

I smiled, watching my fears melt away in your bright eyes. "Thanks. You're amazing."

But you suddenly looked worried. "What if – what if he does hate me?"

I laughed. "He's not gonna, Patrick. If he knows anything about you, which it seems like he does, he's gonna love you."

"But what if-"

"Plus," I interrupted, taking your only cookie-free hand, "I honestly couldn't give a shit what he thinks. About, like, anything. I don't value his opinion, dad or no, he's not my family. Joe and Andy are my family, you're my family, not him. You've been in my life pretty much as long as he was, you've shown me more love and care and kindness than he ever did. You're my everything, Patrick, you're the most important person in my life, and nothing he ever says is gonna change that. If he doesn't like you, he can fuck off out of my life, 'cause you were here first and you take priority over everyone. End of."

You blinked at me, your eyebrows rising and your mouth curving up at the corners. I barely had time to smile back before you put your hands on my cheeks and dived at my lips.

"I love you," you murmured in between breaths, the taste of cookie still on your tongue. It'd been, like, four whole days since I'd kissed you, and when I realised that, I realised how much I'd missed it.

We stayed like that for a while, until you were basically sitting in my lap, your arms draped round my neck and my hands on your hips, kissing slowly and lazily. We only stopped when you were literally nearly falling asleep against my face, exhausted from travelling and all the stress I'd caused you.

I was grateful for that, for you not freaking out. The last thing we needed was both of us running around like headless chickens. Because of you, I wasn't worrying, wasn't spending the night awake and shaking because of some dude who fucked me up twenty years ago.

We spent the rest of the evening curled up on the couch, pyjama-clad and comfortable beyond belief. I was watching some documentary on weird deep-sea creatures that you'd insisted you were interested in, before promptly falling asleep in my lap during the opening titles.

I didn't really mind, though, it was kinda interesting. Did you know there's this thing called a giant tube worm that can grow to, like, eight feet long and feeds off of toxic volcanic chemicals? I reckon if I were a deep sea creature, I'd wanna be a giant tube worm. You'd be a firefly squid.

Sitting there with you, I pretty much forgot about my dad. I was far more worried about whether your head was comfortable resting on my thighs, whether your neck would be achy in the morning, whether you'd eaten enough today since you'd been on a plane and plane food sucks and I hadn't made us any dinner.

Every so often, you'd wake up a little, your eyes would open and you'd look up and see me and smile, then go back to sleep. I love it when you do that. I also loved that you didn't seem to mind my arm draped over your waist, or my fingers stroking your bit of tummy that spills over the waistband of your pyjamas. There was a time when you loathed anyone even looking at your stomach. I can't tell you how happy it makes me that you're happy with yourself. I can't tell you how happy you make me.

Once the programme had finished, I gently shook you awake, turning off the lights and the TV before guiding us both sleepily into my bedroom, where we curled up together under the covers, warm and cosy and dead to the world.

-

If only we'd been that calm the next morning.

It wasn't that I was really freaking out, I was just a bit on-edge. I'd already yelled at you to get up, louder than I normally do, and it felt like you were deliberately eating breakfast extra slowly just to get me more stressed.

"Patrick, can you please move your fucking suitcases out of the way of the damn door?" I'd snapped at you as you wandered out of the bathroom with a toothbrush hanging from your mouth.

"Cghm th fck dghn," you foamed, patting my chest as you walked towards the stairs.

"Stop telling me to be calm! It's not helping!"

"Pght," you said, turning back to me, "lghsten tgh mgh, eghrytghng wghll bgh fghne."

"No it will not be fine! And stop speaking toothpaste," I huffed, eyeing the froth that was making its way down your chin, no doubt intending to stain my carpet.

Tutting at me, and spraying me in the process, you turned on your heel, heading back to the bathroom.

"Uh oh," I said worriedly, more to myself than to you, when I heard a car pull up in the drive.

"It'll be fine," you said for the billionth time, emerging from the bathroom and dragging me down the stairs. As soon as we got to the lounge, though, you started pacing.

I huffed at you again, not really stressed, just sorta sulky, ready to put this dude through the Spanish inquisition then kick him out and never see him again.

There was a knock at the door.

I looked at you, and you nodded, smoothing your shirt down and exhaling shortly.

"Don't suck up to him," I warned, folding my arms.

You just gave me an eye-roll and headed towards the door.

"Hi, Mr. Wentz, come in!" I heard you say brightly, and groaned inwardly.

"You must be Patrick, lovely to meet you," a slightly deeper voice replied, and I groaned out loud. So he was playing the polite game too.

"Yes, yeah, you too, come on in. Sorry about the suitcases, someone forgot to move them."

"It's fine, it's a nice place you've got here, I'm glad you kept it. Do you, uh, live together?" I heard you both making your way down the hall and took a deep breath.

"No, no, I'm renting a few blocks away, I'm in the process of moving from LA, which is...uh..." you rounded the corner. And there he was.

He stopped when he saw me. You looked nervously between the two of us, probably wondering whether to introduce us or not.

"Peter," he said quietly, taking a couple of steps forward.

"Don't call me that," I snapped, "that's your name. It's Pete, just Pete."

He nodded, bowing his head a bit. "Yes. Of course, I'm sorry."

He was wearing typical dad clothes, too smart for something like this, shined shoes and hair combed back. He was a few inches taller than me. I could definitely still take him down in a fight, though.

"Uh...tea?" you squeaked, clasping your hands together and desperately trying to break the tension. "Coffee? Hot chocolate?"

He looked like he was about to answer, but he caught sight of my slowly darkening glare and thought better of it.

"No thanks, Patrick," I said, without breaking eye contact with him.

"O – okay, I'll, um...just go and, uh...yeah." You scurried off to the kitchen, probably just to hide behind the counter.

He watched you leave, looking a little scared, then turned back to me.

"So, uh...I'm your father," he said slowly, like he was only just realising it for himself.

Trying to push the Star Wars references out of my mind, I managed to maintain my glower, and nodded. "Yeah, I know. Why are you here?"

"I'm sorry it's so out-of-the-blue, I...thought the time was right."

"What do you want?"

"To...to see you again, and to maybe, uh, get to know you again."

"Right," I snarled. "You really wanted to do that, did you?"

"Yes," he insisted, "it's been so long, and I-"

"It's been twenty years!" I yelled, my hands curling to fists. "Twenty fucking years!"

"I know, I know, and I'm so sorry-"

I took a few steps forward. "You're sorry? You ditched me, you left me to rot, you-"

"We did what we thought was best for you!" he snapped back, straightening his tie a little and stepping closer.

"No you didn't, you never even gave me a damn reason-"

"You never let us, Pete! You never gave us room to explain, you never let us visit you, you convinced yourself that we didn't love you at all when we did, Pete, we really did!"

That was something I'd think about a lot, later on, but right at that second, I brushed it off as another pathetic excuse. "If you love me, why are you back here? To ruin my life all over again?"

"No, no, I simply hoped to-"

"To what? To be part of the family again?" I snarled, his face within spitting distance. "Why did you come back? What made you do it? Guilt? Spite? What?!"

He took a breath like he was gonna shout, then blew it away. "Your mother has died."

Whatever flames I was gonna spit fizzled out in my throat.

"What?" I said quietly.

"Last week. I'm sorry."

"You came here to tell me that?"

He nodded. "It's what she would've wanted."

"What?! She wanted you to come fuck my life up again? What do I matter to her? What does she matter to me?" I bellowed, throwing my hands about in harsh movements.

"You meant a great deal to her, Pete, I-"

"No I fucking didn't! That's a damn lie, she never gave a shit about me! What d'you expect me to do, mourn? Over some woman I haven't seen in two decades?"

"Excuse me, young man, don't you dare -"

"No!" I screamed, the rage bubbling up inside me and spilling over, "You're not my dad! Don't talk down to me, don't tell me what to do, you lost that right when you dumped me in care!"

He pointed a finger at me and started to yell back. "We did what we thought was best for you! I'm still your damn father, I still raised you and -"

"Shut up! Just shut the fuck -"

"Pete," another voice said softly. I felt a hand twine round my coiled fist and saw you standing next to me, watched you step in front of me and look at me steadily.

"Do not speak to me like that!" he yelled at me again, making you jump and look round. "Listen, you -"

He cut himself off, growling as he glared at us. Then, he grabbed you by the shoulder and shoved you out the way, making you yelp and stumble like a wounded animal.

"Listen, Pete," he said, gentler this time. But I'd already snapped.

I lunged at him, catching him by the collar and pushing until I'd pinned him against the wall, anger coursing through me faster than I could think.

"Don't you dare touch him," I hissed, "don't you dare lay a hand on him, don't you dare."

"Stop it!" you yelled from behind me, taking hold of my arm and dragging me backwards. I struggled against you, but you caught hold of my other hand and turned me away from him. "Stop, please."

I finally looked at you. You were breathing heavily, distress knitting your brows together, shock still pooled in your eyes.

Slowly, you began to let go of me, studying my face as you did so, and I felt myself start to calm down. I placed a hand on your shoulder where he'd grabbed you, where he'd hurt you, and smoothed down the fabric of your shirt. "I'm fine, Pete," you said softly, "it's okay, I'm fine."

I nodded slowly, looking round at my dad, who was straightening out his jacket. He hadn't come any closer to us.

At that point it would've been easy just to tell him to leave. He probably would've walked out without another word. It also would've been easy to let you deal with everything, let you lead the peace negotiations, make the apologies. But for once, I decided to clean up my own mess.

"Okay," I sighed, pressing my hands into my eyes. "Okay. You came here to talk, so let's talk."

He stared at me for a bit, then swallowed and nodded. "Indeed. Alright."

"Come on, let's sit down. I'm sorry for...that," I said, actually nearly meaning it.

"It's perfectly fine," he replied, even though it probably wasn't. But we were being adults now, rather than stroppy teenagers. "My apologies, Patrick, I wasn't thinking."

You smiled a little, looking quite relieved. "That's okay, Mr. Wentz. Now, anyone for drinks?"

I let him respond this time. "Tea, please, no sugar. Thank you," he added, and you grinned, touching my arm on your way out to let me know that you knew I wanted something sweet and decaffeinated. Hot chocolate, basically.

"Right," I huffed, offering him the arm chair whilst I claimed the sofa. "So, uh...how've you been?"

He snorted a little, it was a weak attempt at conversation, but we had to start somewhere. "I've been fine, thank you. A lot older, but not that much wiser, it would seem. I'm surprised you recognised me."

"You were always old to me," I said, not seeing any need for flattery, "you don't look that much different."

He smiled, though, then looked at me thoughtfully. "I didn't think I'd recognise you. But you've still got your mother's face."

I remembered her. I remembered people telling me I looked like her, and being annoyed at them, because I never saw it. I remembered her eyes being the same colour as mine.

"So...mum's dead?" I mumbled, not knowing how else to bring it up.

He nodded, pursing his lips and bowing his head.

"How?"

He sighed. "She'd been ill for a long time. We knew it was coming. It was almost a relief when it finally happened. She passed in her sleep, she didn't feel any pain."

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. He didn't look up, and I didn't ask any more questions, it looked like it'd already hurt him to answer, so I just frowned at the floor.

It was difficult to know what to feel. Nothing about my life would be different, I'd spent years hating her, I hadn't seen her in twenty years, how could I really grieve, even if I felt I ought to? But then, there was still this sense of loss, this sadness I felt but couldn't really explain. Maybe it's just death in general, like when you hear that someone's been murdered on the news and you think that's awful, but then you just go on with your life and forget about it because you didn't know them and however hard you try to empathise, you can't force it to affect you. I decided to shift the subject a little.

"Uh...so, you said that she would've wanted you to do this? Why?"

He leant back in the chair and put his hands on his knees. "Well...look, Pete. Giving you up was one of the hardest things she ever did. She always felt guilty about it, she always wanted to see you."

"Then why didn't she? I mean, I know I didn't let you visit when I was in care, but after that...if you can find me now, why couldn't she have found me then? You must've known where I was living?"

"She knew you hated us. She thought it was better if we kept our distance, she said we'd simply end up making your life worse."

Thinking back to how I was when I was a teenager, she was probably right. If they'd turned up then, I might actually have killed one of them. "Okay. I guess that makes sense."

"Then, I suppose it just got more and more difficult for her to bring herself to try to see you. She stopped your brother from searching, I know that."

That struck a chord. "My brother? George?" I hadn't thought about him in a very long time. "How is he?" He was the one family member I never ended up hating.

"He's alright, given the circumstances. Oh," he exclaimed, pointing at me, "you wouldn't know, he got married, a few years ago now, he and his wife have just had a baby girl, Holly. Your mother swore she wouldn't go until she'd seen her, and she was right, as usual," he laughed, shaking his head.

"Whoa," I sighed, my eyebrows shooting up my head. That little squirt whose hair I used to pull was married with kids.

"I know. I suppose twenty years is a long time."

I snorted. "Yeah. Yeah, it really is."

"So, Pete," he said suddenly, his eyes flicking around the room. "How are you? You seem to be doing well."

"Uh, yeah, I guess I am. I wasn't, for a while, but...things are good," I nodded, letting myself relax a bit.

"You're happy?" he asked, casting a glance towards the kitchen.

I followed his gaze, hearing the faint sounds of you scampering about. "Yeah," I grinned. "Yeah, I am."

"He seems like a lovely lad."

"He is," I felt myself blush a bit, "he's...yeah, he's really lovely."

He lowered his voice a little. "Do you think he might be the one?"

I grinned harder, feeling a bubble of happiness in my chest, and nodded.

"Good on you, son," he smiled, and I saw a little hint of something like pride in his eyes. It felt good. Whoa. My dad's proud of me.

"Tea!" you chirped all of a sudden, appearing with a handful of drinks, and handing them to their respective recipients. "Uh...shall I...?" you pointed towards the stairs and started to back away from us.

"No, no," I said, beckoning you to me, "get over here."

You beamed and flopped down on the sofa, nearly spilling hot chocolate all over yourself in the process, tucking your feet underneath you and waving at us to carry on.

My dad smiled at the two of us, probably not really knowing who to talk to. "So, you two were in a band?"

And with that, we were off.

We told him pretty much everything, how we met, how we started, a little bit about our relationship but not too much 'cause I wasn't quite ready for that yet, some people we met along the way, the records, the shows, the break up, and finally, after a few conferring glances, we told him how we're working on a new record that no-one knows about yet.

He nodded along, laughing in all the right places, that little glint of pride not leaving his face for a second. I wasn't sure how much he knew already, so we just ploughed through the whole lot.

By the time our mugs were empty, and the sandwiches I'd hastily made for lunch had disappeared, I'd asked all the questions I could think of, and seemingly so had he, 'cause we reached a sort of reflective silence.

It was strange, looking at this guy I hardly knew and thinking, shit, he's my dad. He's that dude I hated for two decades, and here I am, having a pleasant conversation with him. Alright, it didn't start off that pleasant, but still. I have a dad now. Fuck.

"So, uh..." he started awkwardly, shifting in his seat and making both of us look up. "The – the funeral's on Friday."

That caught me unawares. "What?"

"Friday. I'll give you the address, too, it's a nice little place, your grandmother was buried there -"

"No, I mean...you, like, want me to come to the funeral?" I clarified, frowning at him.

"Well, of course, if you don't want to, that's perfectly understandable, but... the offer's there."

"What, so...you want me to come?" I repeated. I really wasn't sure about that. I glanced at you, but you just curled further into the sofa.

"I know it's been a long time, but...I think she would've wanted you there, if she was given the choice. I think we'd all want you there."

"Really? But I'm not with you guys, I don't know you, I'd just feel...I don't know..." I trailed off.

"Left out?" he finished. "Listen, Pete, we're not a big family. It won't be a busy funeral, it'll be friends mostly. If you accept us, we'll accept you. They'd all love to meet you."

My first thought was no, they wouldn't, and I don't wanna meet them either. But that was teenage Pete talking. I mean, yeah, it would be weird and awkward and difficult to deal with but, like, I could get a family out of it. I'd always looked at your family, the way they put up with each other no matter what, argued and nagged and pissed each other off, only to laugh about it half an hour later. You loved your family, and they loved you. And I sorta wanted that too.

"O – okay," I stammered, nodding. "I'll go. Yeah, I'll go."

His face split into a wide grin. "Excellent! Thank you, Pete, that means a lot," he said, and looked like he meant it, too. "Patrick is also very welcome, of course."

You smiled shyly, thanking him and looking at me, as if you even had to ask if I wanted you to come.

"Great, okay, so...will I meet George?" I asked, not really knowing which answer I was hoping for.

"Yes, of course, in fact....would you like to come visit? Your brother's travelling from Kentucky, he'll be staying for a few days anyway, you could stay Thursday night, if you'd like? It'll be a full house, but we've enough beds for two more."

"Okay," I agreed, giving him a nervous smile, "yeah, I mean, if it's not too much trouble."

"Not at all. You've been gone twenty years, you're entitled to cause all the trouble you want."

"Thanks, dad," I grinned. It felt good to refer to him like that. My dad. I think he realised it too, because he grinned back. I think I got my grins from him.

We kept on grinning, too, as we managed to find more to talk about, and the sun sank lower, past the lounge windows. I gave him my phone number, he gave me his address, he's only about an hour away, at Crown Point in Indiana. We apologised a few times for nearly killing each other. I think I got my temper from him, too. Despite everything, I kinda liked him. And this time, when we finally said goodbye, I knew it wasn't gonna be forever.

-

"I'm so proud of you, Pete," you said softly, later that night, as we were drifting off to sleep.

And d'you know what, I'm quite proud of me, too.

-

We're headed to my dad's tomorrow. I'm nervous, but in sort of a good way, like before you get on a roller-coaster. Tomorrow, I'll have an actual family. Whoa.

I keep thinking about mum, how I should be sad. I know you think I'm sad, think I'm hiding it for your sake, 'cause you'd be devastated if your mum died, but what you don't understand is that I'm just happy she cared about me, in the end. I didn't know her, I never got to. It sounds fucking mental to say it, but I'm sorta glad she died, I mean, I got a dad out of it. I'll never have a relationship like the one you have with your mum, but that's okay, 'cause not having a family was part of the reason I ended up here, with you. Maybe everything does happen for a reason.

Thank you, though. Thanks for not freaking out, thanks for seeing me through all this. I thought it would ruin us, but you made sure it didn't.  You were right, as always. Making amends does feel good. And this weekend, when we're back from dad's, I'm gonna ask you, gonna show you that house.

Maybe one day, we'll have a family of our own. 

Love, Pete xxx