Does anyone actually remember/still want to read this?
Okay. I'm an awful person. An awful person with writer's block and too much homework and no motivation. I spent an hour or two every night last week rereading Devil so I could get back into this and I'm hoping it worked! I finished this today and hopefully the next chapter will be up early next week as it's more than half-way complete.
Enjoy. :)
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July 22, 2011
Will,
Finn took me to the movies today. I think...actually, I know, it's the first time either of has really been out since you died. I didn't want to go but the look on his face when he asked reminded me so much of you that I couldn't say 'no'. Sometimes, I honestly believe that I only spend so much time with him because he reminds me so much of you... and then I feel horrible about myself because that's such a shitty reason to spend time with someone who is genuinely a great person. But when he smiles at me or runs his hand through his hair or tucks his hands into his pockets, I feel my breath catch because it's not Finn I see. It's Will.
Except...not really, I guess.
We went to the movie though. He knows (like you knew) how much I love Harry Potter. The second part of The Deathly Hallows came out about a month ago and Finn caught me watching the trailer on the internet so he suggested that we go. He's at my house a lot now – ever since his mother started letting him out of the house after school again. Ever since he decided to try to move on from...everything. It's summer now so he's basically here every morning until late into the afternoon unless Santana is here, and then he stays away.
I guess he holds a grudge.
We bought popcorn and Cokes and sat in the back row so no one would notice me. No one did. I think maybe the side show that was our escape has finally ended. No one is interested in a dead serial killer or the people he killed. No one is interested in me. No one is interested in you.
That's a lie. You're fucking face is still every where I look. TV, internet, Rachel's stupid missing person posters...anything to remind me that you're gone and not coming back.
This is getting disjointed. Finn told me a few months ago that sometimes he has a hard time following my train of thought. Re-reading this, I can see where he is coming from. If I thought it would do any good, maybe I'd make this a rough draft and then I'd compose the finally copy. Just like grade school...except instead of rewriting an essay, I'd be rewriting this stupid letter full of pointless shit.
Whatever. According to the therapist, 'it's good for me'.
Anyway – back to the movie! It was good. The book was better. Finn held my hand as we walked back to the car. He didn't actually look at me while we were walking though. I wonder if he thinks about Rachel while he's spending time with me like I think of you when I'm spending time with him. Neither of us are with the person we want to be with and maybe that's why we spend so much time together. Overcompensating, or some shit. Finn still thinks Rachel is selfish and won't give her the time of day but I see his eyes get glassy from time to time and I know he's thinking about her even though he doesn't want to be.
And you...well, you're dead but I'm sure my eyes get glassy too when I think about you.
I should stop fixating on you. It's not fair to Finn. Or my mom. Or my sister. Or Santana. Or Kurt. Or Sue. Or Mercedes. Or Tina. Or Mike. Or Blaine. I love them all so much and I really do try to act normal for them but it just gets so damn hard sometimes.
I'm not sure if Finn and I are in a relationship. I'm not sure if he knows either. I'm not sure if I want to be. I'm not sure of anything anymore.
It's your fault. My mind and my heart know that I'm supposed to be with you so how can I trick myself into thinking that I want someone else? That I'm okay with someone else? That I don't want you anymore?
Dead is dead and I can't have you.
And still...I love you.
Q.
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July 23, 2011
Will,
So, Quinn told me that she's been writing letters to you. That's weird, I guess, but her shrink told her she should because it will help her cope or something. I think I should maybe try it too then because...I think I need help coping too...
I want to start off by saying that I don't think you're dead. I think I would know, you know? I mean, I watch a lot of true crime mysteries on cable where people die and everyone knows that they're dead because the killer confessed or there were like buckets of blood or something but the cops can't find the body. The family can feel that their dead though...like, they just know that they're gone and not coming back. This is weird and I would never tell anyone (mostly because I have no one that I can tell) but I can still feel you. It doesn't feel like your dead. It doesn't feel like you're gone at all. You were like my big brother, man...I think I would know if you were dead. I think that I would feel like something is missing and I do sort of...because you're not here obviously but...it's different. You're gone but you're not GONE.
I guess I can't really explain it too well. I'm not really good with words- even just with myself.
But, no, I definitely think you're still around somewhere. A lot of people do...like half the town probably. I don't know where you are but I really, really wish you would come back. I get why you left. You probably think that I can't understand but I do. You killed that fucker and you hit me and your ex-wife and the doctor at the hospital and she hasn't said anything about it but I'm pretty sure you probably hit Quinn before too. I think that's why you didn't want her around. You thought you were getting better though and you were...you really, really were. But getting better isn't better, right?
You were stressed out that night because we took you out and then Ms. Pillsbury and Rachel showed up with their stupid spray and you just...you just lost control. It was only a minute – how stupid is that? A minute ruined everything. You didn't hurt anyone. Sue had a fat lip for a bit, I guess, and Kurt had a bruise on his chest but they were fine! Everyone was fine. You couldn't see that though. You didn't think about that. You only thought about what would happen the next time. Maybe if you blacked out again, you'd end up really hurting one of us, right? Maybe the next time there wouldn't be anyone around to stop you from choking Quinn or attacking Sue or punching me or whatever, right? That's what you thought. I know that's what you thought.
But...maybe there wouldn't have been a next time. Maybe you would have went to the doctor and talked to a shrink like Quinn is. Maybe if you started talking more,maybe you could have worked through all the things that were making you so sad. Maybe if I tried more...maybe if I tried harder, maybe that would have helped too. Maybe if I never dragged you to that movie, maybe you'd still be here.
Maybe...probably...I think...no, I know that it's my fault that you're gone.
It's all my fault.
Sometimes I can't deal with it. I hit things. If my fists hurt enough, my stomach doesn't feel as sick – at least for a little while. But then I start to think about what you're doing right now. I start to think about how you're probably living under a bridge or in an alley or in some dirty homeless shelter somewhere. And I start to think about how you're probably really hungry and cold and all alone and afraid. And I wonder how you buy food and clothes since you won't go near strangers. And I start to think about how you can't or won't talk to anyone so you couldn't ask for help to get back here even if you wanted to come back.
And that's...that's my fault.
Everything in my head is just so fucked up all the time and I can't really deal with it. Maybe writing all this down will help me deal with it. It couldn't make it any worse, anyway.
I guess I should tell you about Quinn too. She's really great, don't get me wrong, but she's definitely not okay. She spaces out a lot and when she's not spacing out, she's usually crying. She usually hides in the bathroom or whatever but I can still hear her. I wish she wouldn't cry by herself but I do the same thing so I can't really judge her for it.
We spend a lot of time together at her house and I brought her to see Harry Potter because I could tell that she really wanted to go but we don't ever really talk about anything important. She tells me a little bit about her therapy and she asks me about how I'm feeling but I never tell her the truth. I don't even know the truth, I guess. I know I like her but I'm not sure we could ever have a relationship. She loves you. She worships you. Even though she thinks you're dead, I don't think she'll ever want to be with anyone else because anyone else isn't you. And I'm not sure I could be with her knowing that you probably loved her...still love her...too. I held her hand the other day and it felt like a betrayal or your trust. How stupid is that?
I think maybe everything would be easier if I didn't still love Rachel. And I do. I can't get past her even though the thought of her either makes me incredibly angry or incredibly sad. I really, really miss her...so much that when she calls, I have to keep coming up with new reasons not to answer the phone. I just...I can't talk to her. I have so many reasons to be angry with her but the sight of her face or the sound of her voice makes it really hard to remember those reasons. Maybe one day I'll be able to talk to her and I'll be able to get past all this shit but right now I just can't. I wish I could but I can't.
So...that's it for now. Writing this is kind of making me feel sick to my stomach.
I hope you're okay. I hope you know how much we all want you to come back. I hope you know how much I love you.
I miss you, brother.
Finn.
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It takes eight months from the day he ran away for Will to open his mouth and speak to anyone and it happens because of a stolen pack of double A batteries.
After leaving Lima the second time, he hops a bus and takes it as far as his last twenty dollars will take him. He makes it to Detroit.
Detroit is scary as hell.
He sticks to the crowded streets downtown and avoids eye contact with everyone. Avoids alleys and abandoned buildings and anywhere that isn't well lit. Hides himself away at night in a torn apart Buick that wouldn't possibly appeal to thieves or users and only comes out when the sun has been high in the sky for a few hours.
Hiding doesn't help much.
The third time he's mugged, he buys a cheap pocket knife from a pawn shop and tucks it into his sock. He's bruised and tired and scared and it's the only thing he can think to do. Protect himself. Later that day, when he's jumped for a forth time, his attacker steals the knife along with all the money in his pocket and his jacket.
Buying the knife is the only real attempt he ever makes at defending himself and he doesn't even use it.
How pathetic.
He's pathetic.
It takes weeks to make enough money for a new bus ticket. He doesn't want to play his guitar and he doubts anyone would take the time to listen to some dirty bum anyway. He collects cans and bottles and recycles them for cash. He shoplifts sandwiches and fruit from gas stations and convenience stores and feels like shit for doing it but it's steal or starve. He hides every cent he makes in the back wheel well of the Buick until he comes up with the sixty dollars it takes to get out of Michigan.
He changes his routine once he reaches Memphis. It's hot as hell but he doesn't want to move on yet. After weeks of spending every moment terrified, it's nice to not have to be so wary of everyone he sees.
He finds an abandoned house and breaks in through a basement window that isn't well boarded. He sleeps upstairs because the thought of staying in another basement causes his heart to thump and his palms to sweat.
It's not an option.
He's able to sleep later into the day and spends the afternoons and evenings sitting on the street or in a park strumming out every song he knows. Hootie and the Blowfish, Johnny Cash, Elvis, Aretha Franklin, B.B. King, Otis Redding. Country, the blues, rock and roll. Memphis is a musician's city. He can play his guitar freely without fear of being questioned by the police or yelled at by angry restaurant patrons. He keeps clean and blends in. No one looks at him like he's homeless or worthless or crazy. He feels like a person again.
His tin box is full of dollars and change every night. His stomach no longer hurts from lack of food. He's able to pay for hot showers at the YMCA and new shoes and socks. He's clean and well-fed and even though he's still horribly lonely and guilt-ridden, he isn't as depressed as he has been for the past six months. He hasn't been jumped or mugged so he hangs on to every cent he makes and hides it away in the house where he is staying. It takes him just three days to make a little more than a hundred dollars. In a week he has about two hundred. Enough to live comfortably. Enough for an escape if he needs to leave quickly.
If it rains, he hangs out in a library and reads. It's air conditioned and quiet. He can relax and get lost in a book for a few hours and not have to think about Quinn or Sue or Emma or Finn or Puck or Santana or Kurt or his parents. Everyone he has disappointed can stay in the back of his mind – at least temporarily.
He's sitting in the library on a rainy Tuesday afternoon reading a Spanish copy of The Deathly Hallows and trying not to think of Quinn when a man who is obviously also homeless sits directly beside him. His first inclination is to shift away. Stand up and leave. There are several empty tables and this man chose to sit beside him. It sends up red flags instantly.
He stays sitting and keeps his eyes glued to his book. Avoids confrontation.
"I seen you playing up the street a few days ago, dude. You're good. You'd probably make more if you sang though. Tourists like to hear singing with the strumming, you know?"
Go away.
"Buskers have it great. I used to make tons singing down on Beale street until those asshole liberals made it so you need to get a permit. I got picked up too many times and now I can't do it no more down there. You're smart for staying off of those busier streets. I saw you and I thought 'now that's a guy any guy would be better for knowing!' but now I see you sittin' in here reading those books like some little pretentious prick. You don't look like a streeter. What you got like a million bucks stashed away some place so you don't have to work or somethin'?"
The man is too close to Will's face and he can smell the stink of rotten teeth and vodka on his breath. He swallows hard to keep from gagging and keeps his eyes on his book. If he doesn't respond, maybe the man will get bored and go away.
He doesn't.
They sit quietly for a long moment. The sound of typing keyboards and the ticking of the clock is the only thing that breaks up the silence. Eventually, the man clears his throat and reaches past Will's chest to pluck a newspaper off of the table. "Newspaper is good for all sorts of things...except the news." Will listens but doesn't look up as the man opens up the newspaper and begins loudly folding the pages back. "See, look at this." He slaps the paper down on the table and taps his fingers loudly against it's now crinkled pages.
Shit.
No one usually pays him any attention. He can't remember the last time someone actually spoke to him and expected an answer in return. Normally, if he has to interact with another person while he's buying something, he just pretends to be deaf. He knows a little sign language so he can fake it. Apparently that's not going to work right now. He glances up and notices that the book clutched in his hands is shaking. His hands are shaking. He drops the book to keep the man from noticing.
He can't show weakness.
He moves his eyes towards the paper – towards the picture the man has his finger pressed against. "See, there ya go, bud. See this here, a picture of a bunch of retired people playing cards at the old folks home. This is news, ya? Bullshit! There are people out here starving, man, and that's the shit in the newspaper!"
Someone from across the room makes a loud shushing sound. The man with the horrible breath turns abruptly to shout back something rude. His back is facing Will and Will takes the opportunity to grab his backpack and rush out of the library.
He isn't fast enough.
He's out the door but doesn't get the chance to walk any further before the man is outside too and standing beside him on the sidewalk. "Bunch of assholes in there."
Will wants to get away. Get back to some place, any place, where he can be by himself. He takes a few halting paces towards the road and the man follows. They fall into pace beside one another. Will trying to get away, the man not taking the hint.
The rain has slowed to a gentle drizzle but the ground is still soaked. His sneakers slide against the slick pavement. He doesn't want to take a chance and run – with his luck, he'll probably slip and then this man will beat the shit out of him.
He walks in the opposite direction from the house where he is staying.
The man follows.
"I'm Peter, by the way. Pete. Don't think I'm crazy, man. I'm not. I don't usually do the whole stranger thing but I like the look of you, like I said."
Will doesn't like the implications of that. The last time someone liked the look of him, he ended up locked in a dungeon for months. He walks on in silence. Doesn't even glance at the man beside him until he feels the hand on his arm pulling him towards a narrow darkened alley between a music shop and a convenience store.
Will doesn't walk down the alley because he wants to. He walks down he alley because he feels like he has to. The man...Peter...walks a few paces behind, chatting absently about something that Will is not able to focus on. His heart is racing. His hands are sweating. He's terrified.
His eyes dart around for an escape. It's all he can focus on so when Peter suddenly lets out a low whistle, it startles him and he jumps terribly. There is movement from a box towards the end of the alley and all Will can think is that Peter has a partner. One of them is going to hold him down and the other is going to rape him or beat him or mug him or...
Or...or...or not.
The partner turns out to be a dog.
A small black and white mutt rushes out of the box, running full tilt towards Peter. Will is so surprised that he lets out a small sound of shock before he remembers himself and snaps his mouth shut again.
Peter is laughing. Petting the dog happily. It's a dirty little thing – some sort of border collie mix maybe. He needs a bath and a haircut but he's cute. "Meet Huck. He ain't much to look at but he's my best bud. Best attack dog around too. I ain't had any problems since Huck moved in!"
uh huh.
The dog sniffs at Will's shoes and he bends slightly to pat its head. Peter lets out a loud chuckle and stands up straight, "He likes you. That's great!"
Why?
"You don't look it but, I know you're a streeter, dude. You stay around here?" Peter sits on the ground and starts rummaging through his pockets. When he doesn't receive an answer, his head snaps up and he regards Will curiously, "Are you some sort of snooty tooty or what? Don't talk? Sit."
Will contemplates not sitting. He doesn't particularly want to. Doesn't particularly want to stay here with this man at all. It's hot as hell and he wants to go back to the air conditioned comfort of the library. He sits anyway. Again avoids confrontation.
He finally gets a good look at Peter. He's in his late twenties maybe. Dark hair covered by a cowboy hat. Light eyes and the beginning of a beard covering the bottom half of his face. His clothes are a bit too big and he's a bit too thin. He looks dirty but...not violent or angry.
Looks can be deceiving.
"I don't have any friends out here no more. I mean, I had a bunch but you know...rehab, jail, that shit. So now it's just me and Huck. Living out here is much better – safer – if you do it in pairs. I've been watching you and I think you could use some company, dude. I know I could. Where ya stayin'?"
Will picks a flea off of the dog's ear and squishes it between his fingers. He gives no indication of an answer. He doesn't want Peter to find out where he stays or where he has hidden his belongings. He doesn't want to get robbed. Doesn't want to have to buy new clothes and shampoo and toothpaste and razors. Doesn't want his guitar to get taken.
"What's your name then?" Long pause. "You really don't talk? That's fine. Gotta call you something though...Tom. Tom and Huck. It's perfect."
Will keeps his eyes glued on the dog. He has no desire to live in an alley with this man. He just needs to find a way to shake him.
"The rain has mostly stopped, yeah? You want to go play somethin' in the park?"
No.
He hears a harmonica and looks up. Peter blows into it again and then smiles, "I've had it since I was a kid. I got a guitar too. You can play that since you don't want to show me where you stay. I get it, dude. Come on." He stands and holds his hand out for Will who reluctantly accepts it and allows himself to be pulled up.
Peter claps him on the back hard, finds his guitar, and then they are walking out of the alley and down the street towards the nearest park, the dog following closely behind. Will can feel his heart racing at the prospect of spending this much time with another person but still he goes.
No confrontation.
They sit near the entrance of the park and Peter hands him the guitar. It's horribly old and it takes Will a few minutes to properly tune it but when he finally has it sounding perfect, Peter claps loudly and beams at him. "You know Johnny Cash? Like 'Folsom Prison' or something?"
Will nods slowly and then starts to strum. Peter's smile grows until his eyes crinkle and it looks as though his face hurts with the effort.
'I want a smile so optimistic, it could cure cancer.'
Will shakes his head to rid himself of the memory and focuses on hitting every chord perfectly. Peter drops his hat on the ground by his feet and then starts tapping out a beat on his legs. The dog sits quietly by Will's feet.
Will plays through the song once and then starts it again. Peter sings this time. He has a good voice – deep and melodic with just a hint of a southern twang.
They sit there for hours. Johnny Cash turns into Elvis which turns into CCR which turns into George Strait and then Tim McGraw and then Aerosmith and then the Rolling Stones.
Peter's hat is filled twice. A crowd forms and then grows bigger. Will keeps his head down and is thankful for his own hat -the one that Sue had bought for him - that he keeps tucked down low over his face. They play until it gets dark and begins to rain again. Will's fingers ache by the time they stop and his legs are stiff from sitting for so long but he's...not happy, certainly not happy, but maybe less unhappy then he has been. It's good to play music again with someone else who truly enjoys it.
The crowd disperses after a loud round of clapping. Peter basks in it. Will sits quietly with Huck and waits til everyone moves on before he looks up. Peter counts their money - $188 dollars for four hours of playing. He splits it in half and hands Will a pocketful of cash. "Dude, I've never made this much before! We make quite the team!"
Will tries to smile but it doesn't quite form on his face and so he turns his head away. Peter laughs and claps him on the back again. I'm going to go get me a big old plate of chicken. You coming?"
He's given a choice this time. He shakes his head no and hands Peter back the guitar.
"That's fine, Tom. It's late. Want to take Huck with you and meet me back here tomorrow at like two? We could make a killing, you and me! I want my ass of the street by Christmas!"
He sounds so excited that Will momentarily weighs the pros and cons in his mind. He doesn't like so many people watching him but helping Peter makes him feel slightly less shitty. He doesn't want to be recognized but he could use the money. He'll go along with this for a couple of days. Sunglasses and a baseball hat make a pretty effective disguise.
He nods.
Peter laughs loudly and then practically skips in the other direction leaving Will standing in the park with the dog. He turns and slowly walks back towards his house – the dog following closely behind. On the way, he stops and buys a couple of pre-made sandwiches, a bottle of water, and a pint of milk from a small deli. The dog is sitting outside waiting for him when he exits the store.
Together, they sit in the little boarded up house and eat their dinner – turkey and milk for Will, ham and water for Huck.
The dog cuddles next to his side when he lays down to go to sleep and he tries in vain to tell himself that the feeling of not being alone means absolutely nothing to him.
He wakes up late the next morning. Eats bananas and corn flakes with the dog and then heads out to take a shower at the YMCA and wash his clothes at the laundromat. He feels badly not telling the dog he'll be back in a little while but when he opens his mouth to speak, the words won't form.
It doesn't matter.
Huck is happily wagging his tail when Will gets back a couple of hours later. He shoves his clean clothes back into his pack and heads to the park with the dog to meet up with Peter.
They once again play until dark. They once again make a ridiculous amount of money. Will once again takes Huck home at the end of the night.
It becomes a routine. Five days of the same thing.
On their sixth day together, Will takes Peter up on his offer of joining him for dinner. Peter doesn't mind that he doesn't talk and happily answers the waitress when she asks Will what he wants for dinner. Fried chicken and sweet tea. They save some chicken from each of their plates to feed to Huck.
They split the bill and Will follows Peter out of the restaurant. Huck falls in line next to them as they walk up the street towards the alley where Peter sleeps. He stops suddenly on a corner and looks at Will with a smile, "Wait here for me, okay?"
Will nods and stays where he is as Peter walks away from him. He's only gone about five minutes and then he's back. Hands tucked into his pockets, a nervous expression on his face, "Let's go."
The same thing happens the next day and the day after that. Will knows that Peter is buying drugs. He's not stupid. And while he might not agree with it, he's in no position to judge.
It's day nine when things change again.
Will is standing on the street corner with Huck patiently waiting for Peter when a terror-filled scream reaches his ears. He turns his head in the direction it came from and locks eyes with Peter. His face is covered in blood. He's limping horribly.
Beside Will, Huck begins to growl quietly.
"Man, start walking before they see..." Peter starts but doesn't get the chance to finish. A large man dressed in black rushes out of a building and tackles him to the ground.
"You think you can steal my shit! You think yo' junky ass is going to sell my shit and get money for your smack! What the fuck is wrong with you!?"
Will is frozen in fear. He wants to run. He wants to hide and protect himself.
He stares at Peter's bloodied face and his feet won't move.
"No! I bought the batteries, dude! I bought them for my disc player! I'll...I got money, dude!" Peter is crying in desperation as the man holds his face against the pavement with one hand and searches his pockets with another. "I ain't got nothing else!"
The crying. The blood. The thug on top of Peter.
He's going to get beat. He's going to get raped. He's going to die.
It's all too much.
Will takes a step forward on shaky legs...and then another...and another. He kneels beside Peter and puts his hands up to stop the man.
It works...sort of...
"Man, who the hell are you!? Another junky come to take shit that don't belong to you!?"
Will keeps one hand raised and reaches into his pocket with the other. He pulls out his share of the wad of money they made that day – eighty three dollars – and thrusts it towards the man.
The man stares at him in confusion, "You tryin' to buy, boy? I'm busy right now!"
Will thrusts his hand almost directly under his face. Silently pleads with him to understand.
He doesn't.
The man's hands fist into Peter's clothes and Peter lets out a low whimper as his face scraps painfully against the cement.
Will can't let him get hurt. He can't let this man hurt Peter the way that Monster hurt him and Quinn and Becky. Peter is a good person...he doesn't deserve it. Will clears his throat a couple of times and then opens his mouth, "For the...for the batteries. Please."
His voice sounds awful. Scratchy and broken and weak...just like him. The man gets it though. He pulls the money from Will's shaking hand and stands up, "Man, get your asses out of here and don't come back. I don't want to see either of you again!"
He turns and leaves.
There is silence on the street for a long moment. Peter eventually, after what feels like hours but is probably only seconds, looks up at Will and smiles a wide, bloodied smile, "You can talk! That's fantastic, dude! Help me up."
And Will does.
He helps him up and he helps him back to the abandoned house that he calls home. He helps him crawl through the basement window that isn't boarded up right and he helps him clean up and lay down.
And then he watches him sleep.
He's awake all night.
Peter wakes up late the next morning with a terrible headache and a giant bruise that takes up most of his face. It takes him a moment to remember where he is but as soon as he sees Will, his face splits into a huge smile. "Man, so it wasn't a dream! I knew you were someone that could be trusted! A true friend. A...man, you look like shit. Were you sitting there all night?"
Will nods. Nodding is easy.
"Hey, dude, that's...that's fucked up. Why don't we stay here today? You go to sleep and I'll go score us some lunch, yeah? I need to pay you back for saving my ass last night. I want you to know that I didn't steal shit from that bastard. I got my problems but I ain't no thief." He stands and stretches.
Will nods again. He's too tired to argue. He's too tired to care. He's too tired not to trust this man to not steal his belongings or murder him in his sleep. His head is pounding and he feels nauseous. He just wants to rest.
He curls up on the floor, Huck by his side, and is asleep in minutes.
Peter is there when he wakes up hours later. A pepperoni pizza, cornbread, and a half-melted pint of chocolate ice cream is waiting for dinner. Will doesn't open his mouth to speak again that day and Peter doesn't push it. He tells Will stories about how he used to belong to a circus as an animal wrangler and even though Will knows it's not true, the stories are funny and manage to bring a small smile to his face.
He hasn't smiled since the night of the movie...the night he attacked his friends and then ran away. He tries to ignore the guilt that chews at his inside at the thought of that night.
Will helps Peter move his belongings into the house the next day and for the next two weeks, he's able to enjoy the feeling of having a real friend again.