A month later, I stood outside on Halloween night, thinking morbid thoughts.

"You only have a couple months."

How long was a couple? Two or three, maybe. Short or long months? Was I going to get two short months or three long ones or was I not going to die at all?

How was I supposed to tell Patrick that I was dying if I might not?

Pete pulled up his car, and the rest of the guys all came out. Patrick was dressed in a Terminator  costume, Pete's idea, Andy in a bunny costume, Joe's, Joe in a Michael Jackson getup, Patrick's. At my request Pete had come, rather unwillingly, in a baby costume.

The entire band had voted me as Uma Thurman.

I had grown my hair out for the occasion, making it reach just past my shoulders. My lips were covered in deep red lipstick and Patrick had helped me pick out blue contacts. I wore a silvery , glistening dress and my hair was slightly curled. Basically, I had chosen to be Uma Thurman in Gattaca. 

We climbed into the car, laughing and admiring each other's costumes. "I swear, Patrick, if you don't ask Bailey out I will." Pete said with a wink, telling me that he wouldn't, really. Patrick laughed a little uncomfortably. 

"You look great, Bailey." He complimented. 

"Thanks, your Terminator eye is cool." I pointed at the whirring eye patch. 

"I picked it out." Pete informed me proudly. 

"No, I picked it out." Patrick corrected, "You were just there to make comments on how little I knew the movie."

Pete whacked him with the baby rattle in protest.

We pulled into a driveway, already packed with cars. There were lights already pulsing in the house, loud music playing from inside. The yard was decorated with various pumpkins and skeletons, as well as a grave with a reaching hand that grabbed anyone walking nearby.

The latter part was discovered when I bent down to inspect it, only to get a plastic hand punched into my face. "Ow ow ow!" I complained. 

Patrick knelt beside me, glaring at the guys, who were cracking up. "You okay?" He asked, tenderly touching my cheek, looking for a bruise or cut.

I nodded, "Fine." I told him, "Just surprised me, that's all."

He nodded and lead me inside. Almost immediately, we were swarmed by people, clamoring to get close to the guys. I scurried away, flashing them a sympathetic look. I waited by the table, grabbing them drinks. I took a sip of a root beer and waited, watching them struggle through the crowd with a smirk. 

"Root beer?" A man's voice said from behind me. I turned around to see a black haired man in a Johnny Cash costume. 

Brendon Urie. Panic! At The Disco's singer. 

Brendon grinned at me lopsidedly, "Good choice. Personally, I'd go for a beer myself, but who's to judge a fellow Mug lover?"

"Not me, that's for sure." I raised my glass in the air and took a drink. Brendon grinned, looking around. 

"See, I would offer you a drink or food, but you already have both." He nodded at my bowl of chips and five glasses, one for me and each of the guys. 

A slow song came on and Brendon looked at me. "Want to dance?"

I looked over at Patrick, who was still moving through the line. Shrugging, I turned back to Brendon, "Sure, why not?"

We moved onto the dance floor, squeezing between rows of couples. We swayed back in forth to the song-What A Catch, Donnie-and clapped when it was over. Brendon bowed to me, smiling. "I do believe your drinks have been stolen." He told me, pointing at the table.

I followed his hand and moved over to the guys. The greeted me, though Patrick a little strained. "Hey, Brendon." He greeted, "I see you've met Bailey."

"Bailey?" Surprise flashed across Brendon's face. "Oh! Oh, yes, this is Bailey." He winked at Patrick and darted away. "I see." He said, disappearing into the crowd.

I shook my head, "Are you jealous, Patrick?" I teased.

"He's obviously jealous." Pete agreed, sipping his beer.

"I-I'm not!" Patrick insisted. 

"Sure." I rolled my eyes. Pete, Andy and Joe excused themselves to go talk to Paramore-who they had been on tour with a while ago. Patrick didn't meet my eyes, flushing.

"Good choice." He told me, motioning towards his drink.

"Thanks. I figured you'd like it." I shrugged. The drink was orange soda with a little bit of wine thrown in. 

"I would've liked anything you gave me." He shrugged.

"Would you have?" I wondered, "Or would you just say you did to not hurt my feelings?"

"Depends." He admitted. 

"Thanks for the honesty." I clinked my glass against his, the sound echoing despite the loud noise. Feeling suddenly nauseous, I looked around for a bathroom. "Be right back." I told him, running for the door.

I threw up in the toilet, holding my hair behind my head. Once I was sure that I was done vomiting, I sat down on the floor, rigors ripping through my body. Dread soon joined the list of bad feelings, knowing what I had to do.

I stomped outside, where Patrick was waiting. Seeing my pale face, he looked worried. "Bailey, what's-"

I grabbed his collar, ignoring whistles from Pete. I dragged him outside onto the balcony. "Patrick," I told him, "I need to tell you something. I should've told you it a long time ago but I didn't and I'm sorry but..." I took a deep breath.

"You have cancer." He said before I could, completely serious.

"H-How did you know?" I asked him, astonished.

"Bailey." He grabbed my shoulders gently, messaging them with his finger tips. "You're gone all the time for no reason, most likely to therapy. Jets don't chemically affect people. The lady with the ribbons freaking you out." He shook his head. "I'm not stupid, Bailey. I just wanted you to tell me in your own time."

I leaned against him, pressing a small kiss against his lips. He cradled the back of my head gently and kissed me back. "How do we tell the guys?" I asked him, leaning my forehead against his.

He sighed, pulling away. "I think they already know." He admitted, pulling open the door to inside. The guys fell out, collapsing on top of each other. 

I groaned.