Theme is 'journey'. The oneshot should start and finish at the beginning and end of a journey. The reason of the journey, the way of travelling, the places travelled from and to are basically up to you.
The journey should last either 3 hours, 3 days, 3 weeks, 3 months or 3 years. Your pick.
Must use the words: melody, nectar, ravenous, butterflies, and Honorificabilitudinitatibus.
One character must say at some point say: "I feel Frodo! It's like I'm channelling him, you know?"
MUST BE SLASH (yes, I'm sorry, I know that's completely unexpected u_u)
Must have a scene where the two main characters (meaning our main couple) have some sort of battle of insults. It can either be very rude insults, or very creative/weird insults (think Shakespeare and Monty Python. Your mother was a hamster and all that)
No use of the word 'said'
This takes place in California in the summer of 2008. Same-sex marriage was, at this time, known as a legal process. The characters are approximately twenty-three years of age, give or take. They met in college at their school's GSA.
Disneyland Is Not Responsible For Any Lost Or Stolen Boyfriends
"We're lost," I say.
Patrick snorts. "We are not."
"Then how come you told me it was only going to take five minutes? It's been ten."
"It hasn't been ten, Owen, it's been seven."
"And do you know where we're going?"
"Yeah, the map… it says on the map… wait… I think we should have turned back there… Owen, where'd the map go?"
"I told you we were lost," I say in a sing-song voice. "We a-are lo-ost!" I continue to sing. "Weee are so lo-ost, and Patrick won't sto-op, 'cause he thinks he's a ma-an and won't ask for di-rec-tions!"
Patrick swats at me with his hand, forcing me to cease my melody. "Shut up, I'll find it. I'm trying to think."
"We're going to miss the time slot," I inform him. "We have fucking fast passes! We were going to get in, and watch everyone's faces in the normal-people-line, and they were going to resent us because we thought ahead and they didn't."
"Owen," Patrick sighs exasperatedly, "Be quiet. I think Adventureland is that way… maybe…"
"No! We were just there! We were… wait, did we just pass the Haunted Mansion? Patrick, Patrick, Patrick! It's air conditioned in there!"
"Owen, Owen, Owen!" Patrick mocks me, "What about Indiana Jones, huh? Rubbing it in everyone's faces? Remember?"
"But I'm hot. And I'm hungry. No, not just hungry. I'm starving. I am… famished. I'm—I'm goddamn ravenous, you know that?"
"So, what, then? We just forget about Indiana Jones?"
See, the thing about Patrick is that he likes to pretend he doesn't care about things. He likes everyone to think that he's all cool and aloof and dominant and such, but in reality, he so isn't. When I was like, "Hey, Patrick, let's drive down to Disneyland for a weekend," he fixed me with this glare and practically snarled at me, "Disneyland? Really, Owen?" and so of course I was like, "Yeah, you fatass, let's go to fucking Disneyland." And it was plain to see that he so wanted to go, but he likes me to think that he's always in control, because even though he's supposed to be the cool, aloof, dominant one, he and I both know that he actually loves me a lot, and secretly thinks that Disneyland is romantic, and he would like nothing more than to share that experience with me.
God, I sound like such a girl. Either way, I totally know that he really, really wants to go on the Indiana Jones ride, even though he initially tried to make me think it was my idea to go on it. The conversation went like this:
Patrick: What ride do you want to go on next?
Me: I don't know. Let's get a fast pass for something. Those things are so fucking cool.
Patrick: Hmm… what are the fast pass rides, again? Well, there's always Space Mountain, you know, and um… what else is there?
Me: Well, there's Indiana Jones—
Patrick: INDIANA JONES, REALLY? Oh, um… hey, sure, if you wanna go on that. It's cool. We should do that, then. I mean. If you want to.
Me: Oh, great. I'm so glad I thought of that.
And Patrick totally gave this little smile, like he was so proud of himself for outsmarting me.
So I humor him, because I guess I kind of love him, and also because if he's mad at me, he doesn't fuck me, and so that becomes a problem because he walks around the apartment in his underwear most of the time, and when you've got a guy as sexy as Patrick walking around in his underwear most of the time and totally not fucking you, things can get a little hard. I mean difficult. I mean… uh… you know what I mean.
So we got fast passes for Indiana Jones, right? And then we walked around a bit, and Patrick tried to get me to buy Minnie Mouse ears—yeah, the one with the fucking bow on it—and we ate some of those Minute Maid frozen lemonade thingies that they always sell at amusement parks like this, and all was well and good.
Only then, we figured we should be heading back to Indiana Jones, so we could make the fast pass time limit.
That's when things started to go wrong.
And here we go, back to the present:
"So, what, then? We just forget about Indiana Jones?"
And, as I have explained, I know that Patrick is a sad little boy on the inside, and he really, really, really wants to go on this fucking ride. So I say, "No, of course not. Let's go find Adventureland… somewhere…"
"Or was it in Frontierland?"
"Christ, Patrick, Indiana Jones isn't from the fucking frontier. That's like… Davy Crockett."
"You know. King of the wild frontier."
"Yeah. Okay. Whatever. Adventureland, then."
"I would think so." We continue into Frontierland, which I'm pretty sure is in the exact opposite direction of Adventureland. But I don't say anything. Because really, it's best to let Patrick lead the way sometimes, even if he's wrong. This whole place is a huge circle, anyhow, so I figure that we'll get to Adventureland eventually. "Davyyyy… Daaaaavy Crockett… king of the wild frontier…"
Patrick shoots me a look, like "what the hell, Owen," but he doesn't say anything. Sometimes I think he's humoring me, too, just like I always humor him.
"Something something something… um… the liberty bell… he packed… something… and his trusty gun, Patrick, I know there was a trusty gun involved!"
He shakes his head, but I see that he's laughing (at me?) and he says, "He packed his gear and his trusty gun, and lit out a-grinnin', to follow the sun."
I gape at him. "You know the words to The Ballad of Davy Crockett? Patrick, that is… that is frankly… honorificabilitudinitatibus!"
Now, of course, it's Patrick's turn to gape. "It's… what?"
"Honorificabilitudinitatibus," I repeat, stumbling a little over the insane word. "It means… like… the state of being able to achieve honors… or… something…"
"Was that a Word Master word?"
I choke. "Ew. God. No. D'you think I'd remember it if it had been?"
We pass the King Arthur Carrousel in Fantasyland, and Patrick smiles at me, his soft green eyes reflecting the SoCal sunlight. "You're so cute," he tells me.
I blush. You know, I complain about him a lot, mentally, and I sometimes wonder why I've been with him all these years when really all he does is try to be cooler than he is. And you know, when I'm thinking something, I always say it out loud, so I guess it's sometimes difficult for me to be around someone who never says what he's thinking. But then he goes and does stuff like this, telling me I'm cute, and I remember that I love him. He takes my hand gently and we walk past the teacup ride, and I blush deeper, almost embarrassed at the fact that even after all this time, the simple feel of his skin against mine still manages to give me butterflies. "Thanks," I mumble.
He just smiles and keeps walking, tugging me along with him. "Hey, Owe? I'm thirsty. You want something?"
I nod. "Yeah, sure." We walk over to the first food stand we see. I survey the drinks as Patrick pays for a water bottle. "Hey, Pat? What's the difference between a juice and a nectar?"
"Look, there, it says 'Mango Nectar.' What the hell is a nectar?"
"In the US," the guy with Paul, Providence, Rhode Island on his Disneyland nametag, who is counting Patrick's change lazily, says, "a drink has to be 100 percent juice to be labeled a juice. If it's got added sweeteners or preservatives, they have to call it a nectar. In New Zealand, it's the other way around."
Patrick and I blink in unison at this guy, Paul. "Um," I say slowly, "that's very… how do you even know that?"
Paul shrugs. "I live in Rhode Island. I have a lot of time on my hands."
"I guess I'll have the, uh, Mango Nectar, then…"
Paul rings it up and Patrick hands him the money, fumbling with the other crap in his pockets as he struggles to put his wallet back in. Patrick hands me my nectar. "Shall we?"
I accept it, grinning. "Thank you very much, dearest."
Paul kind of gives me this look, like something has finally clicked in his brain, and he starts laughing as Patrick and I walk away. "That kid was weird," Patrick murmurs to me as we pass that gay Nemo ride (yes, it does like other male amusement park attractions. Don't give me that look.)
"Way weird," I agree. "I think he was checking you out."
Patrick shields his eyes from the scorching sun and looks back at Paul, who is casually leaning against his concessions counter. "You think?"
"Yeah. Why's that so hard to believe?"
Patrick shrugs. "I don't know. When we're out, people usually look at you."
I don't argue. It's true, for the most part. While Patrick is probably the best looking guy I've ever seen in my life, with his grass-green eyes and wonderfully shaggy flaxen hair. He's so beautiful, sometimes, that I can't help but just stare at him. But either way, all he will have is his boyish face and goldilocks. I, on the other hand, am tanner than he is, by a longshot. My hair, near-black in color, is always shining and soft, because I remember to condition. Ha. Anyway, I have to admit that I'm a pretty person. I'm not arrogant about it or anything. It's just the truth. But the fact is, I leave an impression on people. I do strange, loud things in public. People look up, and then they don't look away. Patrick never really acted jealous, though, and I guess that's because no matter who was staring at me, I was only ever looking at him. "How the hell did we get into Tomorrowland?"
Patrick looks at me like, "how the hell should I know," and turns around in a circle. "While we're here, you want to get a fast pass for Space Mountain?"
"Can we even get another fast pass when the time limit's still going? Hey, the time limit is still going, right?"
Patrick checks his watch. "We've only been walking for like, an hour and a half now."
My eyes bug out. "An hour and a half? You told me it'd take five minutes!"
He grimaces. "Look, Owen, I have to tell you something."
I look at him. "I'm waiting."
"I don't actually know where we're going."
I snort. "Of course you don't actually know where we're going. God, Pat, you act like I don't know you. We've been dating like, a thousand years—"
"Three," he corrects me softly. "Three, tomorrow."
I shut my mouth. It's not like I've forgotten our anniversary or anything. Well, I mean, I forgot it, but it was a momentary version of forgetting—like when it's Friday, and you're having such a crappy day that you forget that it's Friday, because Fridays aren't supposed to be crappy, so then when the day is nearly over, you go "Ohmygod it's Friday!" and everyone gives you that "duh" look, because of course it's Friday. It's totally the same thing here. Not that this is crappy. I just mean… you know. Like, if you asked me when Patrick and my anniversary was, I'd tell you it was on July twenty-eighth.
I didn't forget that our anniversary is on the twenty-eighth. I just forgot that today was the twenty-seventh. Sheesh, people, get off my case.
Either way, I just say, "I know that. What I mean is… you act like I don't know who you are. But I've known you for ages, Patrick, and I've dated you for almost all of that. You'd say we're close, yes?"
"Of course," he says. "I'm not saying you don't… you know… I just meant that…"
"Don't explain. It doesn't matter. Let's go find Indy."
Patrick gives me a relieved grin and takes my hand again, walking with me out of Tomorrowland and onto Main Street, USA.
And now we're magically back in Frontierland.
"How the fuck did we get back here?" I shout, and a mother pushing a stroller gives me a dirty look as her husband checks to make sure their little girl didn't hear me cuss.
"Uh…" Patrick's cheeks are flushed, with embarrassment, or anger, or whatever else your cheeks flush about—I am not sure. But his cheeks are flushed quite often, I'll have you know. I'm not sure why this is. He's just a very fair-skinned person, I suppose. Me, I'm darker, you know, but people can still tell when I'm blushing. It's annoying.
Patrick kind of turns around. "Uh…" he says again. "I think… that before, we went that way… and so this time… we should go this way." He pulls me in the opposite direction, and amusingly enough, we're standing outside the Haunted Mansion.
"What the fuck?" I pop myself up onto one of the brick shrubbery-planters, sighing. "Well, let's rest a bit. You have some water, I'll drink this mango shit. We'll go from there."
Patrick nods, sitting beside me on the planter box. One of his hands unconsciously traces patterns into the palm of one of mine, and the other is stuffed into his pocket. Suddenly, he pulls away from me. "Shit."
"Shit shit shit shit shit. Double fucking shit."
"Pat, what's wrong?"
"I, uh, think I dropped something. Somewhere. Back there." He gestures in the direction from whence we came (what?) with a horrid scowl on his face.
I huff in exasperation. "What? Your wallet?"
"No, the fucking—never mind, let's go. We have to find it." Patrick storms off ahead of me, cursing.
I tail slightly behind him, obnoxiously pointing out the fact that it'd be easier for me to help him look if he'd tell me what he's looking for.
"Shut up. Just shut up, Owen, and let me think. Let's see. So…" I follow him back into Tomorrowland, where he stops for a moment, crouching to the ground and looking around. "If it isn't… oh!"
He nearly sprints back into Fantasyland, where he finds Paul-the-concession-boy and his stand next to the Matterhorn. I watch as Patrick explains something to Paul, wildly gesturing about with his hands. Paul's smirking and shaking his head. As I walk closer to them, I hear Paul saying idly, "Disneyland is not responsible for any lost or stolen items."
"You fucking faggot! Just tell me if I left it here!"
Paul examines his fingernails. "Faggot," he scoffs. "Takes one to know one."
"Look, kid, I don't have time for your shit. I need that. It is very important that I get it back."
Paul's eyes flicker up to Patrick's face. "Is it worth a lot?" he asks curiously.
"It is to me!" Patrick cries, his face amusingly as pink as the teacups spinning behind him. "I need it back! If you knew where it was, if you had any compassion in your soul, you'd give it back to me."
"If I had it," Paul says, leaning forward, "what would you be willing to give me to get it back?"
Paul looks extremely amused. I'm just getting angry. That idiot. I'm not going to let some stupid kid from fucking Rhode Island mess around with my Patrick. I'm about to storm in when Paul goes, "Anything?"
And I stop in my tracks. Because Paul is flirting with Patrick. With my Patrick.
"Seriously, kid. You want fifty bucks? You got it. You want… you want… take my money, take my fucking… shoes, or something, just… just give it back to me. I need it." My poor Patrick looks close to tears. And it's really a damn shame, because how must he look to passersby? He's a twenty-three-year-old man, and some punky seventeen-year-old kid's making him cry.
"I want you to kiss me."
My bottle of Mango Nectar drops from my hand. Patrick looks horrified. But he swallows, slowly, and says, just barely loud enough for me to hear him, "And you promise you'll give it back to me?"
He's not going to do it, I think. Whatever he wants back, it's not more important than me. It's not more important than me. This becomes my mantra, and in the next moment before Patrick makes a move, I probably think it a thousand times. He loves me. I'm more important. It's not as important as me.
Then Patrick shoves his lips against Paul's for all of two seconds before pulling away. "There," he says defiantly. "Now give it back."
But before Paul can hand Patrick whatever it is Patrick is missing, I'm there. I'm a man, I promise, but I act like a girl when I get jealous. So I slap Patrick across the face. He holds his cheek, backing away from me. "Owen, no, I… I don't like him, I only did it to get the—"
"To get your stupid whatever-it-is back!" I shout harshly. "But whatever it was, I thought you'd care about me more! I thought… I kept thinking you weren't going to do it, because being with me meant more than some stupid… thing. But you did it anyway."
"Owen, you don't even know what you're talking about!" Patrick snaps. "You never know what you're talking about! No, you just say the first thing that pops into your head, don't you?"
"It's better than what you do!" I scream. "You fucking poseur! You always act so suave, so cool, like you don't feel anything! It's all a fucking lie! I know you—the real you—and deep down, you're nothing but a ten-year-old kid! You like watching cartoons, and you like going to Disneyland, and you like doing all those stupid things you pretend you don't care about!"
"That's not true!" Patrick shouts at me. "I don't make up everything. And at least I'm not retarded like you! You're so mean to everyone, you know. You think they appreciate your honesty? Well, they don't, Owen! No one likes it when you tell them what you're thinking. You're so blunt, and you're mean, and sometimes, I just hate being with you, because then people think I'm a pushover or something—like I'm only still with you because I feel bad that no one else will be! And you know what, Owen? Sometimes, I think it's true."
"WHAT?" I shriek at him. "WHAT'S TRUE, YOU FUCKING DOUCHE?"
"THAT I ONLY STAY WITH YOU BECAUSE I KNOW NO ONE ELSE EVER WILL!"
I think about slapping him again. But instead, I just scream right back. "I COULD SAY THE SAME TO YOU! HALF THE PEOPLE WHO KNOW YOU DON'T LIKE YOU BECAUSE YOU DON'T FUCKING CARE ABOUT ANYTHING, AND THE OTHER HALF DON'T LIKE YOU BECAUSE THEY KNOW YOU'RE JUST ACTING LIKE YOU DON'T FUCKING CARE ABOUT ANYTHING!"
"Plenty of people like him," Paul interjects.
I round on him. "NO ONE ASKED YOU, YOU FUCKING BARBIE DOLL! YOU THINK THAT YOU'RE SO GREAT, COMING IN HERE AND FUCKING MAKING MY BOYFRIEND INSANE BECAUSE YOU WON'T GIVE HIM BACK WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU'RE NOT GIVING BACK! YOU THINK YOU'RE SO CUTE, BECAUSE YOU GOT KISSED BY A GUY WHO'S OUT OF COLLEGE! YOU'VE PROBABLY NEVER EVEN HAD SEX WITH A GIRL!"
Paul raises his eyebrows at me. "I'm hurt."
"Shut UP! And you!" I turn back to Patrick. "You and I are not finished here! You're such a DICK!"
"WELL, YOU'RE A FAG!"
"IF I'M THE FAG, THEN YOU'RE THE FAG'S BOYFRIEND, SO WHERE DOES THAT LEAVE US?"
"YOU'RE SO STUPID! YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING, DO YOU?"
"AT LEAST I KNOW YOU! Whereas, you don't know me! Yeah, that's right, I you heard me! You think I say everything that's on my mind? I DON'T. SO HERE IT FUCKING IS: I just let you think that you're fooling everyone because you know WHAT you fucking retard? I LOVE YOU. OKAY? SO JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP! I LET YOU THINK I'M STUPID, I LET YOU BELIEVE YOU'RE FOOLING ME, BECAUSE YOU WANT TO FOOL ME! AND I CAN'T STAND IT! WHY CAN'T YOU JUST TELL ME WHAT YOU REALLY FEEL FOR ONCE?"
Patrick's anger falls from his face. He looks a little bit shaken, actually, and he bites his bottom lip, his eyebrows drawing together slightly. "I…"
"Exactly," I say triumphantly. "You're not fooling anyone, Patrick. Especially not me."
Paul claps his hands together slowly in an awkward applause. "Well spoken," he tells me. "Hey, hey," he runs over to the Disneyland security guards who have come over because of the shouting. "I've got it all under control here, uh—Carla. And Dean. Dean. My man. Yeah, they were just leaving, actually."
I watch as the buff Hispanic girl and the burly black man scowl at Patrick and me before they both lumber away. Paul goes back behind his stand and grabs a Safeway bag wrapped around what appears to be a little box. He hands it to Patrick. "Look," he tells us. "I'm sorry. I was… I shouldn't have done that. I was being…"
"Stupid," Patrick supplies, cradling the item to his chest seemingly unconsciously.
"Well, yeah," Paul admits, "but I was going to say…"
"Immature," I suggest.
"Yes. I was being stupid and immature. But I was actually going to say… you know… curious."
Patrick and I eye the boy suspiciously. "Curious?" I repeat.
"I've never kissed a guy before."
"So you chose my fucking boyfriend?" I'm totally about to pounce on this kid and wreck him horribly, but Patrick's hand finds my shoulder and pulls me back, towards him.
It's getting darker, now, and I realize with a little pang of disappointment that it's already been two and a half hours. Our fast passes will have expired by now. Paul's baby face looks ashamedly downward. "I'm sorry—Owen, did you say your name was? Well, I'm sorry. But he just looked so cute… and he did say he'd do anything… I guess I was just testing him."
"Testing me?" Patrick sounds confused.
"I wanted to know how much you wanted it back."
I suddenly remember why I'd been shouting at Patrick. I pull away from him. "Yeah! What's so important that you'd kiss some other guy just to get it back?"
Patrick's green eyes meet mine, and his eyebrows draw together as his forehead scrunches up in nervousness. He fumbles with the plastic grocery bag for a moment, before pulling out a little black box.
A little black jewelry box.
"Here," he tells the ground as he hands the box to me. "It was supposed to be more romantic than this."
My eyes widen as I take the box from him. Even I am not so stupid as to not figure out what this is. I slowly open it, and stare at the beautiful golden ring inside. "I—wow."
"Yeah," Patrick says sheepishly.
"I… you know what this looks like?"
"A ring," Paul says helpfully.
"The Ring," I correct him. "The One Ring."
Patrick and Paul are both staring at me with bemused looks on their faces.
Patrick clears his throat. "I epically fail at proposing and you go all Lord of the Dorks on me?"
I grin, sliding the ring onto my finger. "Am I invisible?"
"Dork," Patrick mumbles, but he's smiling, too.
"I swear, Patrick, this is The Ring. I feel Frodo. It's like I'm channeling him, you know?" I shake my head, amazed. "It's beautiful."
"There's the reaction I'd imagined," Patrick says softly. Then his arms come around me, and he holds me to his chest, and I put my arms around his waist. He kisses the top of my head, very lightly, and whispers, "Owen? Will you marry me?"
I'm not going to cry. I am NOT going to cry. I'mnotgoingtocryI'mnotgoingtocryI'mnot—
I start to cry.
I am such a girl sometimes. "Of course. Yes. I'm sorry. Yes. I love you, you know."
His arms tighten around me. "I love you, too."
We stand there like that for quite a long time. It's almost as though we're slow dancing for a moment—slow dancing to the tune of "When you wish upon a star." Oh, jeez. Can we get any more clichéd?
Finally, Patrick says, "Come on. Let's go on the Indiana Jones thing. We may not have fast passes, but you've got The Ring. If all else fails, you could turn invisible and sneak to the front."
"It so doesn't work like that. Plus then the Nazgûl will see me, and then they'll get all pissed at me for cutting the line."
Patrick stares at me. "I so don't even know what you're talking about."
"Bye, Paul!" I shout as I tug Patrick away, back into Tomorrowland.
When we're past the permanantly-insane line for Autopia, Patrick says, "That kid is so gay."
"I know, right? I can't believe you kissed him."
"Hey!" Patrick says defensively. "You wouldn't have that ring on right now if I hadn't."
I smile, touching the shining metal lightly with the index finger of my right hand. "Yeah. I guess not."
"I'm still sorry about it, though."
"I forgive you."
I lead him effortlessly into Frontierland. He gapes at me. "You knew where this was the whole time?"
I shrug. "Sometimes, I find that it's best to let you think you know what you're doing. I like letting you be all leader-y. It's cute."
Patrick blushes, the look on his face clearly wondering if this is a good thing or a bad thing. "To Indy, then?"
Even though our fast passes are expired, we go to the fast pass line anyways. A girl who looks about eighteen or nineteen is collecting the fast passes there. Patrick hands her his slip, and she looks at it in concern. "Sorry," she tells him, "This is expired."
"Look—" I peer at her nametag— "Amanda. We've been through a lot today. I swear, if you'll let us through, we'll kiss for you. With tongue."
Amanda raises her eyebrows. "Really?"
"Promise," Patrick says.
"Okay, you can go. Just don't tell anyone." Amanda winks.
Patrick kisses me full on the mouth, shoving his tongue in places tongue ought not to be shoved—at least, if we don't want a quivering puddle of Owen on the ground. Sheesh. Maintenance so wouldn't like to clean that up. We pull apart, and Amanda takes our passes and lets us through.
We may be an hour over the time limit—and sheesh, who thought you could get lost in Disneyland for three fucking hours?— but we finally made it. Patrick holds my left hand, now, as we stand in the fast pass line and laugh at the people in the normal lines. His fingers brush against the ring, and he smiles at me. "You want me to tell you what I'm really thinking, for once?" he asks in a soft, teasing voice.
"You bet," I smile.
"I love you."
"Aw." I grasp his hand tighter. "I love you, too. But I'm never letting you handle the directions again."
Patrick grins. "I thought you liked it when I took charge and became all—what was it again? Oh, yeah— leader-y."
I frown. "Well. You can be leader-y in bed. As for Disneyland— let me handle it, okay?"
He kisses me gently. "Deal."
When we're riding the Indiana Jones Adventure that crazy day in Disney, we start to wonder exactly how many couples claim their song is "When you wish upon a star." Then we decide we don't care. No matter how much of a cliche our song is, it will always be ours.
We end up getting married barely a month after that day, at the Disneyland Hotel Garden-- yeah, the one with the flowers, and the topiary hedges shaped like Mickey Mouse. It's kind of dorky, but hey, so am I. And we dance to "When you wish upon a star," because really. How could we not? Hey. It's better than the Indiana Jones theme song. Or the Ballad of Davy Crockett. Oh, jeez.
I can't say why everything turned out the way it did. But I'm glad. I guess Disneyland really is the happiest place on Earth. At least... it is for me.
So, that was kind of random. At least it followed the rules. And I love Owen and Patrick more than I love Harper and Oliver. Sorry, Harper and Oliver. But your story was a crappy story and Patrick and Owen's story is cuter. So. Yeah. Let me know what you think, people. Review? :)