---Patrick---

Echoes are moving through my ears and my head is pounding when I wake up. I'm alone in bed, Pete is gone, and all that's left of him is a note, sitting flatly on the mattress. It's untouched by anyone, but Pete and I can easily see it was torn out of his notebook and set where I would wake up to see it. I can remember most of what happened last night but... Pete? I remember he offered me the brownie and then... then...

He showed me the suicide notes. Right.

I squint at the letter until I can read it somewhat clearly but I'm still drained and kind of dizzy.

Hey Trick,

I don't know how long you plan on staying here but if Brendon kicks you out, you can always come to my place. My mom is never home anymore, and I'm sure she wouldn't mind. There are painkillers in the bedside drawer if you need them and water in the bathroom. If you need anything, text me. I had to go to my counselor's because of my bipolar disorder, sorry.

Text me when you wake up?

-Panda

I smile at how good of a friend he is. Hastily putting the note in my back pocket, I open the bedside drawer, shuffling through the condoms and lube to find the painkiller in the back. I pop a couple pills, put the bottle back into the drawer, pressed against the back side, and slip on my shirt before I make my way to the bathroom. I can see Spencer, Brendon, Ryan, Joe, Andy, and Hayley cleaning up the mess from last night, a few hungover people making their ways home with all their regrets from the night before.

I slip into the bathroom, it's small. It smells like vomit. It's gross, but I try not to let it get to me.

I slide the handle on the faucet over and cup the now running water to my face, quickly washing down the pills, hoping they'll take effect and make this growing headache leave soon.

I turn away, wiping my hands on the soft towel placed just by the sink, and just before I leave, I look into my reflection. I can't help but question myself for the hundredth time in the last week...

Beautiful? Am I really beautiful? Gerard told me so. Pete didn't think I was ugly. Megan never complained. They're all my best friends. They wouldn't lie... right?

I shift my bottom jaw.

A little. I'm just a little beautiful. That's all, though.

I turn away and walk back through the door, out to see Joe and Andy basically making love to each other's lips as they stumble into one of the private rooms. I raise my eyebrows slightly, but as soon as the door is shut, I continue through the hall into the main room where Spencer is leaving, and Ryan and Brendon are saying goodbye to the brunette. I feel a little out of place, to be honest, I just decided to come here because I got into a fight while everyone else around here has visited countless times. I feel like I shouldn't be here but they said it was okay so I guess I'll trust them.

Brendon turns acknowledges me with a soft nod before he kisses Ryan softly and rubs his hand.

"See you in a bit, Baby..." He whispers.

"Love you," The taller boy replies.

"Love you, too."

Ryan leaves with a small smile and makes his way down the street, his hands in his pockets and his hood up as fresh rain begins to wash away most of my regret from yesterday.

"You'll probably have to leave sometime soon," Brendon says, "I'm sure Gerard's worried..."

"Gerard can go fuck himself," I snap softly, "I'm gonna try to stay with Pete if I can, and if I can't, and there are no other options at all, then I'll go back to him. Otherwise, I'm just pissed with him, and I really don't want to talk to him right now."

Brendon shifts slightly beside me before he turns and gives me a hug, "Stay safe, Trick... I worry..."

"Okay, Mom." I groan. He chuckles and lets me go, "I'll see you tonight or something. I don't know the plan yet."

"Alright, bye!"

"See you,"

***

October 29th, 4:03 PM

Patrick: hey, Brendon kicked me out

Pete: oml kay. Just got out of my counselors appt, I'll cum pick u up in about ten min.

Patrick: I'll be here

I take a seat on the sidewalk, shutting my eyes. I honestly feel like shit. I didn't have too much to drink last night, but the ecstasy is making my depression much worse than it usually is. Not to mention the words Gerard had shot last night...

"Goddammit, Patrick. Why can't you just stop? Why are you so fucking... weak. At least I can try and succeed when I try not to cut! I don't go off breaking down every five minutes. I don't fucking cry whenever something shitty happens. I watched my dad die from cancer. I watched him give up on me! And you're crying about some stress!"

"You know it's more than that! I killed my own fucking mom! I'm a murderer, Gee! And you expect me to just live with that?"

"I expect you to realize it wasn't your fault! It was never your fault! I still haven't gotten over the fact that he died, but at least I know it wasn't my fault. I'm doing just what he wanted. I'm trying to be as brave as he fucking asked. I'm doing exactly what he wished of me! You're so fucking pathetic!"

"You aren't the one who was raped. Mikey never laid a finger on you! You didn't have to watch as your dad beat your sister and you could do nothing about it! You had the perfect fucking life! You were never touched! You had it good. You had anything you wanted. YOU WEREN'T SHOVED ON A BED BY YOUR OWN BROTHER AND FORCED TO JUST TAKE IT! YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE TO LOSE CONTROL! TO HATE YOURSELF EVERY FUCKING DAY UNTIL ALL YOU CAN THINK OF IS TRYING TO FIND THE RIGHT DAY TO KILL YOURSELF! I WOULD HAVE BEEN OUT OF HERE IF IT WASN'T FOR YOU!"

"AT LEAST I DON'T KEEP COMPLAINING ABOUT IT FOR NOTHING! If you want to kill yourself so badly, then do it."

Deep down I hurt. It hurts so badly that he could ever say those things to me. That he could put our relationship in the past like it never meant a damn to him. Like he never cared about me. Like he will never care about me.

He won't, you know he'll never care about you.

I just want my ecstasy again. It makes me happy with myself and confident, but now, it's bringing back more depressing thoughts than I bargained for.

I throw my head back, repeatedly hitting it softly against the wall as I wait for my ride to come down the street. My anxiety is killing me right now, too, and it doesn't help that this is the dangerous side of town. Rapists, murderers, gangs. Whatever you can think of, they're here, and I keep wondering which one of them will hold a knife to my throat and demand money. I shudder, opening my eyes and pulling my hoodie closer around myself in the cold autumn air as my mind crosses those thoughts. People who could kidnap me and torture me for fun. People who will trap me in a dark alley and force me to shut my mouth as they beat me and hurt me.

I shouldn't be here. I don't want it to end up like it did Kevin. I don't want it to be my fault again. I don't want to be the one responsible for what they do. I don't want it to happen in the first place.

I have to take a deep breath to calm my nerves like Dr. Strauss taught me. Like I was always told to do. Relax, take a deep breath, don't panic because it's going to be okay. I'm going to be okay. Nobody will come to try and hurt me.

Pathetic. You know it's always going to happen. It's happened once, twice. Why not a third? A fourth? You know it's your fault they do this. If you weren't such a fucking whore or a slut, they wouldn't.

It's going to be okay...

Distract yourself. Anything.

It's the 19th today. Two months since I met Gerard... huh? Time's gone by so fast but so slow. The first day of school was yesterday, but at the same time, it was a century ago.

Nice fail.

I bite my lip and pull my knees up further like that could protect me somehow.

My music can.

I pull my headphones and phone out of my pocket, plugging in the cord and pressing each bud into my ears: First the left, then the right.

I press shuffle and hear the sounds immediately fill my head. Beautiful arrangements of guitar and drum and bass and voice, everything that can take my mind from my depressing thoughts. The fact that I'm just barely beautiful. The fact that I'm a whore and I must like it that people rape me because it keeps happening because sometimes I feel like dying and I lose a point in living. The fact that sometimes to stay alive, I have to kill my mind with these distractions.

"Hello there the angel from my nightmare
The shadow in the background of the morgue
The unsuspecting victim of darkness in the valley
We can live like Jack and Salley if we want
Where you can always find me
And we'll have Halloween on Christmas
And in the night we'll wish this never ends
We'll wish this never ends."

Goddammit, Gerard...

I take another deep breath. Inhale, pause, exhale, repeat. Nobody is here. Inhale, pause, exhale, repeat. Pete will be here soon. Inhale, pause, exhale.

I look up and see Pete pulling up with perfect timing in his old, worn out truck. Scratches are etched across the back of it from... I'm not sure where from... somewhere. The red is faded, so it's closer to the color of clay now, but he still drives it proudly like it's a Lamborghini. I stand up and immediately get in like I'm safe from the rapists and arsonists and whatever else is out here even though I'm probably not.

I pull out my earbuds, pausing my music and slide my phone back in my pocket swiftly.

"Sorry about that," He says, his foot lowering on the gas to start our trip to his place. The tall buildings pass by fairly quickly, and I can't help but wonder if I might be able to find my fedora on the side of the road or something. The fedora I lost when I tried to end it all on that building.

"It's fine, it's not your fault, Pete..." I reply, "It's good to know you're getting help."

His chiseled jaw clenches softly, but it passes before I have much time to think about it.

The truck barely gets seven blocks before it stops and he turns off the engine, the soft rumbling quiets and instead I hear silence... I'm not sure if you can even hear silence... is there really such a thing? Or is it just made up?

I follow him as we leave the truck, following the black-haired boy into him and his Mom's apartment where he quickly unlocks the door. It's a small place, each building is a soft white, and there are lots of trees and hedges at each block beside the faded concrete road. Not near as faded as the block I lived on, but it's easy to tell it hasn't been repaved in a few years.

"Sorry if it's a bit of a mess..." Pete murmurs, "I have a couple tablets of ecstasy if you want some but that'll probably be your limit for a while."

I nod. I want some. Really, really badly and I'll gladly take it.

He chuckles when he finally gets the door open. He leads me inside, shutting the door behind me and giving me a short tour. It's been three years, but things are different now. It's, obviously, the same apartment but a lot of things have changed. His sister, Hillary, moved out when we were in second or third grade but it looks like his brother, Andrew, followed in her footsteps. Pete was always the youngest of the three, the one who was picked on, the one who had all the hand-me-down clothing, the one who got the most attention.

The living room is fairly neat, there's a box of cans of soda beside the slightly torn up couch, it's open, but none of the cans have been taken out. The TV stand is dusty, and a few cobwebs are lining the paper white ceiling. Otherwise, it's neater than Pete said it might be. Pictures are hung up on the walls, ones of Pete, Hillary, and Andrew, a couple of his mom, Dale, and one of his father, Peter, who, Pete hated to talk about it, had run left he was only two months old.

As soon as I enter, I hear a few barks coming from a kennel, and as I continue to walk, I see his dog, Hemingway, watching me with wary, brown eyes. I smile softly, remembering when he was just a puppy and Pete invited me over to come meet him. It was a lot of fun the first time we met...

I swear I can hear Pete smile as I crouch down beside Hemingway's kennel and, though I probably shouldn't, stick a finger inside. He sniffs at it for a small while, and after a bit, it's like it clicks because he immediately starts barking and wagging his stub of a tail. Arching his back, so his butt is touching the top of the kennel, and his paws are stretched out in front of him, his slobbery pink tongue sticking out.

"It's been forever..." I murmur, standing back up and looking to Pete. He looks down and shrugs, "Y-yeah..."

I roll my eyes, "Thanks for letting me stay here, by the way, it means a lot." He gives me a nod, walking to his room where I follow close behind in short strides.

He opens the door, allowing me in first and he comes in right behind. His place hasn't changed much. A bass and an amplifier are sitting in the corner on a stand and an electric piano sitting against the wall. His bed is squishy, and he has his black bedsheets spread across the mattress in a mess of blankets and sheets while his white walls are decorated with posters of Green Day, Shinedown, The Offspring, Blink-182, and a few others I don't know as well.

"No problem," He goes to one of the posters, a Blink-182 one, and pulls it off of the wall, retrieving a zip lock stapled to the back of the sheet discreetly and takes a white tablet from the package. He zips it back up and sticks the poster back to the wall, right where it was before.

He gives me the pill, "Stay here, I'll be right back." My head nods in reply, allowing him to leave and letting me fall back onto his bed, the pill in hand. It smells just like him... I can't place the scent, but it brings back nostalgia that I don't need anymore.

My eyes open to see the notebook out of the corner of my eye and before I can stop myself I'm reaching for it and looking at the cover, his messy handwriting scribbled across the front: Please return to Pete Wentz. Do not read.

I smile softly but set it down despite my desire to open it and read every last thought he's ever had.

"Here," My eyes look up and I just slightly when he enters the room with a bottle of water. I gratefully take it and down the pill before handing him the notebook, "Can you show me another one?"

He gives me a sad smile, that same goddamn smile that I hate so much, but sits down beside me nevertheless. He wraps a blanket around the both of us and flips through the pages of the book, careful not to let me see everything he's written. I want to see. It kills me because I want it so much but I want to respect him at the same time, so I don't push him to show me.

"Take off your shirt, and I'll show you a few." He mumbles.

I let out a huff of air through my nose, "Why?"

"It makes me feel better..." He replies softly. He stops for a moment when I don't make any attempt to move, his eyes sliding up to meet mine, "Please?"

I scrunch my nose but agree, unzipping my hoodie a little faster than last time, but I'm still hesitating when I know I shouldn't. Once, my shirt is off Pete hands over the notebook and begins fumbling with his fingers while his eyes read through the lyrics for the millionth time.

This is one of his first sets, it's at about the third page in, and he had much different handwriting. It's titled: Grand Theft Autumn/Where Is Your Boy Tonight?

Where is your boy tonight?
I hope he is a gentleman.
Maybe he won't find out what I know:
You were the last good thing about this part of town

When I wake up,
I'm willing to take my chances on the hope I forget
That you hate him more than you notice
I wrote this for you so...

You need him
I could be him
I could be an accident, but I'm still trying.
That's more than I can say for him

Where is your boy tonight?
I hope he is a gentleman.
Maybe he won't find out what I know:
You were the last good thing about this part of town.

Someday I'll appreciate value,
get off my ass and call you...
but for the meantime, I'll sport my brand new fashion of waking up with pants on
at four in the afternoon

You need him
I could be him
I could be an accident but I'll still trying
That's more than I can say for him

Where is your boy tonight?
I hope he is a gentleman.
Maybe he won't find out what I know:
You were the last good thing about this part of town

My eyes finish reading it. It's different. It isn't about me or even Pete now.

"What's that one about?" I ask.

"I experimented with girls. Got into a shit load of drama. Half of these songs are about girls and drama and breaking up and cheating..." He rolls his eyes, "I know. I'm turning into one of those lyricists."

He takes the notebook and continues to flip through the pages, eventually finding another one that he approves.

Calm Before The Storm

I sat outside my front window... this story's going somewhere
"He's well hung," and I am hanging up.
Well, there's a song on the radio that says,
"Let's get this party started."
So let's get this party started

What you do on your own time's just fine
My imagination's much worse, I just never want to know
And what meant the world had folded
Like legs and fingers holding onto what escapes me'
What he has: a better kiss that never lasts

You said, between your smiles and regrets, "Don't say it's over."
Dead and gone.
Dead and gone.

The calm before the storm set it off
and the sun burnt out tonight
A reception less than warm set it off
And the sun burnt out tonight

This is me standing in the arch of the door hating
That look that's on your face that says
There's another fool like me.
There's one born every minute.
There's one born every minute.

I tilt my head, furrow my brows and try to interpret it but these lyrics don't make as much sense as I had hoped.

"It's basically about being friend zoned." He laughs. I roll my eyes with a smile, "Again, based off of you. He's jealous of this other girl who's his friend and has her own boyfriend. The other boyfriend isn't that great of a guy, and the main character is much sweeter and underappreciated..."

He looks into my eyes with a ghost of a smile still etched on his face but it fades after a moment, and I don't know what happens. I think it's the drug, but I have the urge to fuck him into the bed right about now. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I don't even know why I'm speechless. I just am, and he looks ten times hotter than he usually is.

His cheeks flush a soft red as he looks into my eyes and he just looks lost with his dark hair styled up and his hazel eyes, that tanned skin, those tattoos, the way he bites his lip, the color in his cheeks. I'm lost. We're both kind of lost in whatever is happening, but I really don't mind it. I'm so tempted to just lean forward and connect our lips and get lost in wherever it takes us...

He bites his lip and, breaking the eye contact, sets the book back between the mattress and the wall, "We shouldn't do this. We can't do this. It's... fucked..."

"Please..." I whimper, then chant out a succession of, "Please, please, please, Pete..."

I see goosebumps run up his arms quickly, "Patrick..."

"Pete, please, you know you want to, please. It doesn't have to be more than that if you don't want it to just... please... I want it so bad..." I whimper, and I can't stop myself. I sound so slutty, but I'm too light-headed and horny to care at the moment. The ecstasy pushes it all aside into an unimportant blur, and it puts my confidence up high. Higher than my doubt and low self-esteem and depressions and anxiety and anorexia and PTSD because I need this. Now.

Pete looks down at me, a new fire lit behind his whiskey eyes, and it's lit just like a snap of his fingers. He pushes me down onto his bed and yanks off his shirt, "Give me a safe word for your PTSD and whatever else you might want me to stop for."

"U-Uh..." I stutter out trying to think fast, but this goddamn ecstasy is making my mind and everything blurry.

"Now or I'm not going to fuck you," Pete growls.

"Apple," I say, quickly just using the same word I did with Joe because I'm not using parades. I want to save that for Gerard...

"Good." He undoes the restraints on his jeans and bites my bottom lip as he begins palming me through my jeans, a small smirk crossing his lips, "Such a slut."

"Don't call me that." I snap quickly, "Slut and whore are triggers..." I lower my eyes in shame, "S-sorry..."

"Hey, it's okay." Pete brushes my hair out of my face, "We don't have to if you don't want to..."

I pull his lips down on mine, whispering out a soft, "Please..."

He smirks into the kiss, asking for entrance with his tongue which I immediately accept, our tongues fighting for dominance and our moans filling the room for the next hour or so... until we're tired, sweaty messes on the bed.

I have to refrain from saying Gerard's name as I cum.