For The Best, Part 1 - Pain

Side note: I'm going to pretend Pete's younger than he actually is so it's not all nasty later. You'll see why... Let's say twenty two, kay? He rushed into life. Yeah... And Pat's younger, too. Don't question my logic.

~Pete's POV~

"Daddy's home!" I heard the coo from Ashlee, and a smile instantly spread across my face. She appeared around the corner, holding a gurgling baby boy. Bronx Mowgli Wentz... She passed my baby boy to me, and I stared down at him, feeling everything within me soften. How could this baby have calmed me down, made me stop my 'crazy ways', after only a couple of weeks, when all other people had failed to do so? God knows they'd tried...

"One day, I'm taking him on tour with me," I mused, feeling blissfullness wash over me. Ashlee smiled and let me hold him, the two of us wandering through the house. I sat down on one of our large, plush couches, crossing my legs and cradeling Bronx, while Ashlee snuggled in close, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms and hands around one of my arms. She leaned her head against my shoulder, and I leaned my own against her head, ever staring at Bronx.

"One day he's gonna be a star like his dad," Ashlee muttered, and I couldn't help but feel the same thing. Even if he went and became a lawyer, or did as I had and dropped out to pursue music, or even acting for that matter, no matter what he did... This kid was going to shine.

-----5 years later

"Hello?" I quietly opened the front door to my house, visiting home during one of our tours. We'd had to cancel one of our tour dates in Japan because Andy had gotten sick (which was, to me at least, totally surprising). But something was off when I walked in; for one, I couldn't hear Bronx playing. He was the most rambunctious kid ever; a sweetheart and a troublemaker all rolled into one. That, and... Well, no one was responding to the door opening, which was just... Weird.

I walked through the house, which was seemingly empty, and shrugged; Ashlee and Bronx had apparently gone out into town, they'd just have a surprise waiting for them when they got... Home... I paused, straining to listen to a sound I'd thought I'd heard. After a moment, I heard nothing and shrugged, then continued on my way to the kitchen, but then I heard it again, and froze. Thmp. Thmp. I furrowed my brow, confused, and began to head upstairs, slowly, following the source of the sound. A pressure built in my chest as dread filled me. I neared my room, and the thumping grew louder, but now... Now, it wasn't just thumping.

It was moaning.

I began to lose all coherant thought as I stumbled to Bronx's room, fumbling with the door handle and practically falling inside the multi-colored room, the walls painted to reflect our son's growing rock-and-roll attitude. He wanted to be like his mommy and daddy... A lump caught in my throat, when I saw him, sitting on his bed, hands clamped down over his ears, knees drawn up, eyes jammed shut, fine, slightly wavy dark brown hair hanging around his face in this cute little layered cut, almost like what some teenagers wore, but... More childish, I suppose.

"Bronx," I choked out, and he looked up at me, blue eyes wide.

"Daddy," he said, voice shaking a little bit. I could feel my arms trembling, could feel my hand clench around the doorknob, and I sank to my knees as he got up and ran to me, wrapping his arms around my neck. He pulled back and looked at me. "Why is mommy with him, daddy?" Anger exploded - even in his young age, Bronx knew, he knew what she was doing, and he had to deal with it. He was so smart for his age... "I'm sorry, Daddy," he suddenly said, and as I watched as tears formed in his big eyes. He sat down and started crying, quite the scene in his little designer clothes, his ripped jeans, his colorful converse. He wanted to be just like us... But we weren't 'us' anymore, were we?

"Why are you sorry, Mowgli?" I asked, trying to keep myself calm for just a moment, at least while I dealt with him. The moaning behind me grew louder, and I shut the door to block it out.

"She told me not to tell you, Daddy, when I saw her. I wanted to, Daddy, but she said you'd go away. Please don't go away, Daddy, I don't want you to go away..." He began crying again, clutching my leg.

"Shh, shh, I'm not leaving," I whispered. "Come on, where's your bookbag? You're gonna go tour with Daddy for a bit."

"Really?" His face brightened, and he looked upat me, a hopeful gleam in his eyes and little tearstreaks running from them. "But-but... But I thought you said I had to be this many?" He held up his little hands, fingers splayed, and began nodding his head as he counted his fingers, pulling down three on his left hand, then started raising them and lowering them again, brow furrowed as he re-counted. I put my hands over his, holding down the three fingers.

"Yeah, I did say you had to be seven, but... But I think now you need to be this many..." I pushed the other two fingers down, and after he stared at his open hand for a minute, a look of pure joy spread across his face.

"That's how many I am!" He yelled, squealing a bit, and I smiled.

"That's right," I said. "Now go get your favorite toys and stick them in your back pack. You're going to leave with me in a few minutes, okay?"

"But what about my Batman," he paused to punch the air like he always did when mentioning Batman. "Pillow?"

"We'll bring that, too. Now I'm going to go talk to Mommy; it's probably going to get really loud. If you feel scared, just sit on your bed like you were before, okay?"

"Okay, Daddy. When you get back, I won't be scared at all."

I felt that lump in my throat again. "That's good, buddy, 'cause Daddy won't ever let something happen to you. Now go get ready to leave."

"Okay!" He said brightly, and bounced off. I walked out and shut his door behind me, then turned and waited by my door, hearing a little bit of stumbling around. Quiet laughter, kissing, a little more moaning... For a moment, I was afraid they were gonna go at it again. But, the door opened, and for a second, Ashlee and the man stood there, both smiling and holding onto each other, before their faces molded into shock. At the sight of this man - who I had seen before but who's name I could never remember - I abandoned the idea of cooly talking, and sprang into action, slamming my fist into his face, angrier than I think I've ever been in my life. He staggered back, and I grabbed the front of his shirt, swinging him around and slamming him into the wall.

"What the fuck are you doing with my wife?" I growled, up near his face.

"Pete, don't-"

"Don't talk to me like we're friends, you pathetic piece of shit!" I turned and practically flung him into the dresser. He fell back on it, knocking various glass items off, and I was on him in a minute, one hand clenching his shirt to hold him in place, the other slamming repeatedly into his face. Ashlee began tugging on my arm, wailing something at me, and I pushed her off, whirling and yelling at her, hearing my voice break.

"Why, Ashlee? We were doing so damn good! I thought- I didn't know I- Why... What about him? What about Bronx? What about me, even?" I began to plead with her basically, dying for an answer. She stared down at her feet, wearing a little silk robe, which she was clutching shut with one hand. I followed suit and lowered my head, putting it in my hands. I ran my hands down my face, then just sighed. "I'm not... I won't-"

Ashlee had looked up when I started speaking again, but she let loose a little scream, eyes widened in horror and her hands over her mouth. I heard the shattering of glass, and spots appeared in my vision as I staggered to the side, hitting the wall and sliding down it, mouth opened wide with the pain that began to hit me in waves, both hands clutching the side of my head where I'd apparently just been hit.

"Fffffffffuck!" I suddenly yelled, as Ashlee started screaming at the guy to leave. I felt myself wobble a bit, and nearly fell over, despite the fact that I was now on my hands and knees. I blinked as something almost black dripped from my face and splashed onto the beige carpet, seeping through the threads. It'd most definitely stain. I blinked again, not comprehending it for a moment. I heard Ashlee get the guy to leave, then she came rushing back in, kneeling down beside me.

"Pete! Pete, are you okay?" she fretted over me, but I flat-out shoved her away. She stumbled back into a sitting position, a look of shock crossing her face, then she dissolved into tears.

"Fuck you, Ashlee. I'm leaving." I staggered to my feet, wrenching the door open and falling against it, an enormous pain pulsing against my forehead and making it hard to function. Why were head wounds so damn disorienting? I slammed the door behind me, then staggered to Bronx's room, falling against the door and fumbling with the handle. I leaned inside, struggling to continue standing. "Come on, Mowgli, let's go. Hurry up." He was, as I had expected, sitting on his bed, in the same position I had found him in earlier. He looked at me and grabbed his bookbag, eyes widening in worry. "What happened, Daddy? You're hurt!"

"I'm-I'm okay. Just grab your Batman pillow. We don't want to forget that. Let's go."

---

Not even half an hour later, I'd had to stop driving. On the way out of the house, I'd grabbed a dishtowel and had been holding it to my head, but it was slowly becoming soaked with blood; I'd probably need stitches. I pulled out my phone, sliding it open and staring at it for a moment, before sighing and holding the phone out to my son, who was clutching his He-man action figure close to his chest; one that had actually used to belong to me.

"Mowgli..." It was almost like a pet name, his middle name. Almost. Pet name isn't quite right... I just alternated names with him. "Mowgli, can you do me a favor... Push the 'two' on there, okay? Please... Do you know which one's the two?"

"This one." He pointed it out, "Who ya calling, Daddy?" he asked, taking the phone and staring at me, waiting for an answer. I stared back at him, short little legs sticking out over the seat, the top portion of the seatbelt pushed behind his back so it wouldn't choke him, clutching my phone with his tiny hands and bouncing it, now with the He-man figure in the crook of his arm. He was both worried, curious, and excited, all in one. He was truly amazing.

"P-Pat..." He'd met Pat, naturally.

"Uncle Trick?" He asked, suddenly growing excited. He'd met Pat, and called him Uncle Trick (sometimes even Uncle Tricky; it amused us all), but didn't know him as well as he probably should have. Well, he would now...

"Yeah... Tell him- tell him we're about three miles from the hotel, on..." I squinted at the street sign in front of us. "F-Fairview. Tell him... To hurry and come get us."

He nodded his head energetically, dialing. He was dealing with this well; if only he knew how extremely proud of him I was. He dialed and held the phone to his ear, pulling at a loose thread on his jeans while he waited. Funny; kids can look like miniature adults without meaning to, yet go through so much trouble to be even more like them. "Uncle Tricky? Yeah, it's me!" He kicked his little legs excitedly; I couldn't help but, despite everything, to smile a little. "Yeah, we're on... What one, Daddy?" I told him again, and is mouth formed an 'o', as he raised and turned his head, as if following the path of a rainbow, then returned to his conversation. "We're on Fairfew. We're close to your hotel, Daddy wants you to come pick us up!" I could vaguely hear Pat's voice ask why I couldn't bring him, and my son's voice grew somber. "Oh, Daddy's hurt. I think the bad man hit him with something. I don't think he's okay..." I chuckled. The 'bad man'. He was just so innocent. And he was worried about me still, even as a five year old. I felt my head droop, distantly hearing the sound of Pat's panicked voice on the other side of the phone. I closed my eyes, leaning my head against the steering wheel as he kept chattering away, listening but not entirely comprehending. "Please hurry, Uncle Trick," he said. "Daddy's sleepy. Aren't you, Daddy?"

"Yeah," I mumbled. "I'm really, really sleepy..."

---

"Pete!" Patrick's shocked and worried voice woke me, and I started, lifting my head suddenly, only to have it explode with pain. I groaned and fell to the side, intending on pushing my head against the cool glass of the window, only to find that the door was open. I fell out, and Pat, diving, caught me just in time. He dragged me out of the car, as I struggled to remove my legs from the vehicle. Bronx climbed into my seat and perched there, looking on the scene with wide eyes. I laughed in an almost manic way, totally out of it. "Hey, Pat... It's like after a rave party all over again, only... My head hurts worse."

"F-...Frick, Pete!" Was all he managed to get out. Pat managed to censor himself, but I barely noticed anyway. He let me go, gently, and I layed there, sprawled out, halfway on the sidewalk, and halfway on the street. I turned onto my side in a rather awkward position, then flipped onto my stomach, feeling the cool concrete against my face for a moment before I slowly moved my hands to push myself up.

"How's Bronx?" I asked, rubbing my head with one of my hands and making sure to avoid the bloodied area. The thought of my son cleared my head at least a little; I'd only just realized I'd passed out with him in the car, to watch me bleed half to death. I felt like a horrible, horrible father. I'd taken him from his mother, too... I pushed myself into a sitting position, leaning my lower back against the curb, and sighed.

"He's fine, Pete, he stayed on the phone with me until I got here. Come on, I'm taking you to the hospital." He looped his arms under mine, and half-lifted, half-dragged me to the back seat. "Come on, help me, Pete. Thank god you at least picked an unpopulated area to do this, I don't think I could deal with paparazzi right now," he muttered, and I helped drag myself into the back seat. He slid into the driver's seat, handing me my bloodied rag again, and I held it loosely against my head. Bronx clambered over the armrest, settled down in the floorboard, and stared at for me for a minute. Patrick told him to be careful as he began to drive just a little too fast for the hospital, the polar opposite of his usually overly-careful driving. I allowed my eyes to wander up to the window, but the rush of movement only made me want to barf, so I quickly averted my gaze, instead focusing on Bronx's blue eyes, staring up at me in something I couldn't quite figure out. Then, he did something that surprised me more than anything.

He reached out, and with his little hand, grabbed my free hand, holding it as tightly as he could. He gave me a dead-serious look, and spoke, softer and more loving than I would have though possible for a boy of his age.

"It's okay, Daddy. I'm here, you don't have to be afraid, 'cause I'm here."

I heard Patrick's slight inhalation of breath at his words, and I smiled. "Don't worry, Mowgli," I said quietly. "I'm not scared, not with you here." He shifted positions and layed his head down on my hand, never looking away from me.

"I love you, Dad."

"Love you, too, Mowgli."

-----Twelve Years Later

"Hey, Dad." Bronx walked in and waved at me, wearing a grin. "Hope you don't mind if Jamie comes in?" Bronx had grown into quite the attractive kid, I have to say; his hair was bleached blonde (think Kyle Burns style), with random black tips throughout his layers. He was taller than Ashlee and I both, though neither of us really talked to her anymore; he was actually the tallest person on the bus, definitely taller than any of my bandmates. He had a skater-type cut, and, like me, was a fan of girl jeans, though I was about to seriously have to stop wearing them. My age was going to start showing soon, and no one wanted to see a fifty-year old man in skinny jeans and eyeliner, even if I was only thirty-nine; This tour was FOB's last, unless something extrordinary happened. Bronx, however, was just about to start his carreer; He had a band (His drummer's name was Tarzan, oddly enough, and he had some kicking dreads, I've got to say), as the lead singer and guitarist. He'd been taught by Patrick himself, who he still called Uncle Trickster, or sometimes Trickester. It was still amusing at times.

"Yeah, no prob." We'd stopped for a show near where we lived, and his friends had a tendency to enjoy tours around the bus, or just to chill in it; they oftentimes told me how they couldn't wait to have a van of their own like ours, and I would always tell them how long we'd been in the business; our bus took forever to obtain. "Ryan and Bren are heading over here soon, though."

"Sounds cool."

"Wait... Ryan Ross and Brendon Urie? Are you serious?" I chuckled as the girl began to gush over them, clinging to Bronx's arm.

They wandered off into one of the back parts of the bus, while I wandered into another to watch TV with Pat. I settled down beside him, and slung my arm around his shoulder out of habit. Pat and his girlfriend had split up long ago, after she had dumped him and gotten engaged the next day with someone else, and since then, Pat has stayed single. I guess neither of us really felt like getting into any worse experiences. Most of my songs weren't about communicating love anymore; the album that popped up after Wishing We Never Knew (which came after Folie á Deux, based on some extra crap the band started getting, and things that almost lead to our breakup) was solely about Ashlee and Bronx. Betraya,l then being helped through it, all that. Sounds corny when you just come out and say it, but that's what lyrics are for. Indirectly, everyone loves these things. No one can take it straight-on.

"Funny, isn't it?" I suddenly mused. "How a band is like a relationship. If the band gets in an argument, the aren't 'discontinued'. They 'split up', 'break up', or something like that. It's the same thing with going out with something. You aren't a 'discontinued' couple, you've 'broken up' or 'split up'. You know?"

"Where did this come?" Pat asked, grey eyes staring at the TV screen behind his glasses; a glare on them obsured all but a vague image of them. He seemed to be rather interested in the TV, which was currently showing Britney's sister flashing the camera, though it was, naturally, censored. And she was wearing one big smile. Yeah...

"I don't know. Thinking, I guess. Isn't that where most things come from?"

"I suppose..." He continued to stare at the TV screen for a moment, then I sighed and leaned my head over, letting it rest on his shoulder. My hand raised absently to play with his hair, but after a moment, I let it fall. We never did any more than this, and we thought nothing my doing as much; after all, we'd known each other for, what... Twenty-four years now?

I suddenly pulled back with a sigh, crossing my arms and my legs so I could stare at the TV as sullenly as I felt. "You know, Pete," Pat began slowly. "You might consider talking to him about it."

"I wouldn't make him deal with the press like that; he gets enough of it as it is." I instantly knew what he was talking about; we'd once, not too long after mine and Ashlee's divorce, actually, discussed our feelings for each other. We'd considered going out, but I'd decided otherwise; for Bronx's sake. I didn't want my son to have to deal with having a gay father, and the even greater press coverage that would come from it.

"But you're making yourself miserable when you don't have to. And not just you... Me, too. You know I'm not going to do anything. Er, anyone. Else."

"But..." After that one night with Pat, I'd sworn, I'd promised myself I wouldn't do anything with Trick, just so I wouldn't have to worry about hurting Bronx. "You're not being fair, Tricky," I complained. "Giving me conflicting feelings and all."

"I'm just saying; we can't hide it forever. And quite frankly, I haven't had a serious relationship for a good ten, twelve years. No one's right for me, it seems..."

"But meee?" I felt almost selfish and conceited, asking the question, leaning over on his shoulder and looking up at him like that, but he smirked, turning to me. His glasses flashed and caught the light from the TV, then I could see his eyes once more.

"Yeah, Pete. But you."

There was a knock at the door, and I stood up quickly, sliding it open to see Bronx, bouncing on his feet. "Hey... Dad? Can I talk to you?"

"Sure, man, sure. Hold up, Pat," I called, shutting the door behind us. "Where'd... Jamie go?"

"She headed home for a bit. She wants to get ready to meet Bren and Ryan. But... Ah, don't think I was eavesdropping, but..." I felt my stomach clench. If there was one thing I didn't want, it was my son's dissapointment in me for... Well, for being gay. It wasn't that I was embarrassed about it, because I honestly wasn't, and in all honesty I was bi and not gay, but I didn't want him to think anything bad about me, or suspect that I'd been sneaking a relationship behind his back.

"Uhm, yeah?"

"Just..." He sighed, then gathered his courage. "I'm just going to say this once, and leave it at that: I wouldn't mind having two fathers. In fact, I think it'd be pretty badass." He stared at me for a moment, frozen in shock, then shrugged and tramped down the steps of the bus. "I'm going to Tarzan's, I'll be back soon, I just forgot my mic over there." I just kept staring. After a moment, I stood and walked stiffly into the room with Patrick, sitting down beside him, still in shock. Pat, noticing me, gave me a little look and asked, "What was that about?"

"Well..." I shifted, trying to relax a bit, and snuggled against Patrick, laying my head on his shoulder. I felt this huge pressure lift, as if I now didn't have to worry; I could finally let go of Ashlee and move on, totally, without worrying about hurting my son. I almost felt like crying. Almost. But, you know, a big hardass rockstar like myself doesn't cry like that. "He basically gave me permission."

"...Pete?"

"God, I'm so glad to have him as a son..." I turned my head into Patrick's shoulder, and went from being Pete Wentz, the hardass rockstar that had to deal with criticisms, paparazzi and daily insults, to Pete, the man who'd lost the love of his life, had the best son he could have hoped for and more, and who had found someone else again... Along with relief.

...Relief...