Pete Wentz was a strange man.

He's 23, sleeves of tattoos, no job, and he's a bassist in passing bands. And he's your brother, Miles, best friend.

They hang out constantly, chat music, play music, get stoned, play video games, then music again, then eat, then pass the fuck out. Like, every weekend. You took a liking to him, though. And he took a liking to you.

That's how whatever this is started. Miles would sleep, and Pete would creep into your room and you'd go, all night. And it was good. He was good. Sometimes not even sex, just lay together and enjoy company. It was nice, a situationship, I guess.

Today, Pete was over yet again, and you heard Miles' door open, no noise peeking through. A sign he was probably coming to you, his dear old 'friend.'