---Patrick---

The handle bar on the door of the bus dances coolly on the tips of my fingers. It's smooth, cold, silver. Unused for at least three or four hours and the cold air isn't helping with that, only making it worse. Even the simplest touch of it feels like an ice cube: so cold it almost hurts. It sends a cold feeling darting up through my fingertips, under my scarred wrists, and through my blue veins to my heart so fast, I wouldn't have known it happened if it wasn't for the shudder that followed.

The two black steps on the bus make a thumping noise as I step up the small platforms, pulling my bus pass from my pocket nervously and flashing it to the bus driver on the way. The plastic holds a glare on the silver and blue details from the red sun overhead, creating a distortion in the details. The man nods me off, anyway, allowing me to continue through the rows on the bus while I put my pass back, away in the safety of my pocket.

My green eyes dart around subtly, trying to find an empty row because I am not sitting by a stranger. It's not that I'm afraid of strangers or I hate strangers, I'm just too scared I'll make them uncomfortable or that they'll ask for a different seat if I do. It's happened before... I found a place beside one once, and they just moved away. I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable like that again... It makes me feel like I'm forcing them into it and it just makes me really guilty. But at the same time, I shouldn't be selfish and keep a whole row to myself. Then people would just glare at me and find a seat where they have to sit by someone else. I don't even deserve to ride the bus, honestly. I should just walk and not be lazy. At least it would make the time to get home longer...

I blink my mind out of the clouds and force myself to keep walking, my feet dragging the rest of my body on. As I go, I pass several rows, all of which are full with people: girls, boys, teens, adults, mothers, fathers, children, elders. I'm afraid there won't be any seats for me, and I'll end up standing.

It would be good for someone as fat as you.

Maybe it would be...

I blink away the thought and look back up. I'm halfway through the bus, and I'm stopping in my tracks. My breathing hitches while my eyes widen. Time slows. I get that feeling from earlier. Like a thousand butterflies roaming the darkness of my stomach. My throat closes up slightly as my eyes travel his figure, beautiful and pristine. I can barely breathe around him. It's like my lungs refuse to work and I have a mini panic attack. But I don't feel like I'm dying. I only feel like I'm falling. It's all I really know.

Time continues. My mind catches up. I can breathe again. I take the chance to gasp for air because he is on the bus. The artist from fourth is on the bus. Gerard Way is on the bus, and I'm panicking, but I'm trying not to let it show.

He hates you, Patrick. You said it to his face that you didn't want to be his friend! What is wrong with you? You've probably lost all chances of him ever liking you. You messed up again. You fucked up so bad. But it's okay. It's not like he would want to talk to you anyways.

He's working on his drawing from earlier, his pencil making lines and shapes on his sketchbook. I'm frozen in place, I can't move out of fear that he'll bully me or worse...

I swallow my fear and go, walking through the aisle. He's completely concentrated on the drawing, oblivious to my presence like he's lost in his own world, much to my relief, until I pass him, that is. That's when his gaze darts up just like it did in the art room, his beautiful brown eyes meeting mine with curiosity and my stomach erupts into butterflies again. His eyebrows narrow for a moment, looking confused at first as he tries to place my face, but a smile soon replaces the frown, and his attitude seems to lighten instantly. I don't even have time to react before he's moving over a seat, allowing me to sit beside him.

I'm honestly a little flustered by his generosity. Why is he so sweet to me? I yelled in his face earlier for crying out loud. Why is he okay with that? Why hasn't he beaten me up yet? He's had at least three chances since art class, and he has a much better build than me. He could do it if he wanted. He could just hold me down and give me nosebleed after nosebleed, bruise after bruise, kiss after kiss...

Patrick.

I'm hesitant to take the seat, afraid it would be awkward, but I know he did it just for me so I comply, trying not to seem too anxious about it. I don't want him to notice it. If he does, it might raise up a lot of questions I don't feel like answering. I just want to embrace what I have while I do and not fuck this up like I did every other friendship I've ever had. And I guess that starts here...

"Thanks," I stutter, my mouth dry. I can't stop it, it just does that.

He looks concerned. Why? Why is he so concerned about me? It's probably just my imagination. It has to be. Who would be concerned about a loser like me? Who would even think to care about a faggot, a broken, unlovable pig? A slut...

"What's wrong?" He asks gently, almost dreamily. And sure enough, I'm wrong. It's not my imagination. He really is asking me this. And, though I want to, I don't look up, but I reply. It's a question, I have to reply. Even if it is a lie.

"Nothing."

He gazes at me for a moment as I feel the bus begin to move, shakes his head slightly, and redirects his eyes to his paper. I know he doesn't believe me, but that doesn't stop me from at least trying, "You're nervous. I'm not mad at you if that's what you're worried about. I understand if you need space."

I swallow, unsure if I should reply or not. I finally just give in and try to get the next few words out only to find that it's easier, I feel more safe and relaxed than I normally do. Is it because of what he said? I'm not mad at you. Is that why I feel less anxious? I don't know, but I'm able to say what I want, and I'm not as scared as before, "I just... Why are you so kind to me? I'm just a loser."

There you go looking for attention again, Patrick.

His eyes dart up again and look straight into mine. A mix of worry, concern, and anger flash over those beautiful, brown orbs, but they stick to concern as he speaks, "You're not a loser, and you seemed alone, so I wanted to help you or be your friend or... something."

I'm confused by his confidence in me. Doesn't he know it's useless? Other people had hope in me, too, but they were always disappointed. They were always kicked out. They wanted to help but they didn't know I was hopeless. Nobody can fix me. I'll always be broken. The Incident took care of that.

"Gerard, I get beaten up a lot. I get nervous whenever I talk to anyone." I say, and I soon after realize I basically admitted I have anxiety. I flow with it, though, like I meant to say it even though it's absolutely none of his business, "I-I'm a cutter... Why would you think I'm anything but a loser?"

I lower my voice at the last part. Knowing other people on the bus can probably hear me, and I don't want them to. I'd rather they not know that I cut. I'd rather nobody know that I cut but... I only want what I can't have I guess.

He's silent for a moment, pondering what to say or how to phrase it. I'm not sure how long it is, maybe he's just giving up on me. Maybe he really has realized I'm a failure. A loser. Hopeless. Broken. But his lips part again he replies after at least an eternity, his confidence in me still undisturbed, "You're not nervous right now."

I open my mouth about to argue, but I can't. I have nothing to say because it's true. I'm not nervous. Why am I not nervous or anxious?

He smiles, satisfied with himself before continuing, "And just because you're a cutter doesn't mean you're a loser, now does it? You haven't given up yet."

I swallow because he's right. I haven't given up.

Yet.

I look down at my lap, blushing slightly because he can basically read me like a book. How does he know me so well? How can he just figure me out like that? How can he do what no one else can? He sighs, his frustration is foggy, but it's still there.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't get into your life like this." He murmurs with... Disappointment? Sadness? I understand the emotion with the next sentence, "I just haven't had friends in a while I guess, and you looked lonely..."

I look back up, his eyes are focused on the drawing. Gray hair, gray eyes, gray uniform jacket, gray glasses. I gaze over the paper for a second, hesitant on whether or not to tell him as they continue up to the top of the tan-white sheet to see a name, and it all fits together. The boy on the paper has lots of similarities to Gerard, but I thought he was just made up. No, the name in the sketchbook proves otherwise.

Mikey Way.

I finally decide to reply, feeling a little more confident despite my low self-esteem. I can't believe I'm telling him this but... I do anyways with a small, stutter-filled sentence, "Neither have I, I... Pushed them all away a while back..."

His eyes meet mine again, a glint of sympathy in his eye, "What happened?"

What happened? What happened?

"I don't... I don't like talking about it, okay? It's just... There was an incident, and a lot of stuff happened. I got stressed, and I pushed them away because... because..." I can't say the last four words because it hurt. It hurts to know how they felt earlier. It hurts to even talk about them. The look of shock on Ryan and Brendon's faces when they saw my arm earlier is burnt into my mind like a hot brand. I swallow, taking a deep breath to calm myself down. My breathing is shaky as I release all the pent up energy, but I'm still able to continue, "They cared too much..."

"And you didn't want to talk about it," Gerard says. It's phrased like a question, but it's not. It's also the truth. It had hurt to talk about it. It still hurts to talk about it. It hurts to see that my ex-friends still care about me. It hurts to think about The Incident. It hurts to be bullied. It hurts... It's all just a bunch of pain. A cycle.

I'm hurt emotionally from The Incident or the bullies, so I cut to dull the pain. That's when someone sees the scars and makes the emotional pain worse, and I end up cutting more. And it keeps going. An endless cycle that keeps going around and around and around. I don't know if it'll ever end.

"It hurts..."

The words aren't mine. I look up and see they're not Gerard's either. They must be mine, then, it must have been me, speaking without thinking. Stupid. I need to not do that before someone finds out about something they shouldn't.

He rests his hand on my shoulder, leading me to flinch and him to recall his hand. I'm not used to anyone's touch. Gently at least. I'm not used to a soothing touch. Not since I pushed everyone away but it... it felt good.

You sound like Kevin.

He hesitates for a moment but eventually returns his head, this time I still flinch, but it's not near as violent. It's soft, and I enjoy his touch, it calms me down and lets me return to reality instead of the darkness of my mind and emotions. The blade usually helps with that. Music helps, too, but the blade is more satisfying.

His hand is warm, and it's almost like it can speak. It's almost like it's saying the words, "It's going to be okay."

But that's not his hand speaking those words, it's his mouth. That's not my imagination. And... it's such a fucking relief to hear those words... My eyes move from his eyes to his paper, glancing at Mikey. I begin to feel slightly uncomfortable since there are so many people here and they're probably watching us.

"C-can we talk about this later? When we're not in public?" I ask, my voice is just over a whisper, "I can give you my phone number..."

Gerard nods in understanding and takes his hand from my shoulder, my skin feeling cold and empty and... well, lonely without him there. I want it back. "Here," He turns the page of his sketchbook, ripping out a strip of the sheet and writing a seven digit number with a dash halfway through. I take it, putting it in my pocket to add to my phone later.

"Thanks," I murmur. My eyes graze the sketchbook yet again. Gerard's turned it back to the page with Mikey. His hand behind the pencil, now shading in the boy, making his hair darker but not black. I think it's a brown, but he obviously isn't planning on coloring in the piece of art by the way he's shading it. I watch intently and let my mind stop focusing on only one thing, letting my eyes shut peacefully and listening carefully to everything else.

The bus is filled with a buzz of voices, I can hear snippets of conversation and the occasional person with an overly enthusiastic tone that drowns out the rest of the sounds. There's a baby on the bus, too. I'm not sure if it's a boy or a girl, but I do know that they're screaming and crying. I've never minded kids much. I thought that maybe I might have some someday with a wife or a husband, but I haven't put too much thought into it.

Wife, you idiot.

It's hard to hear the pencil on paper, but it's there, a faint whisper amongst the sea of voices. Just a ripple against the crashing waves. A tadpole floating among the whales.

My eyes open again and float up from the paper to the window, watching the light gray buildings fly by in a blur. They're lined with trees of green, brown, auburn, yellow, and red. The colors of the fast approaching season, Autumn. It is September second after all.

But none of these things could ever compare to the beauty beside me. My eyes graze Gerard's details, soaking in every little thing like it could save my life. His hair is a dark black and reaches the tops of his ears. It's messy and kind of greasy but I love it like that. I love how it just kind of fits in with his symmetrical features. He has a look of pure concentration in his dark complexion as he nibbles on the metal of his pencil. His perfect, black eyebrows are furrowed, examining the drawing, judging it as harshly as he feels necessary and adding as he goes. He blinks when he tilts his head, covering his soft brown eyes for half a second but it's still too long to me. I'd gaze at them forever if I could. He has lips that are a bit too thin for anyone else but I'd still kiss them if I had a chance. His imperfections only add to his attractiveness.

I feel slightly awkward. I haven't said a word in at least two minutes. Maybe he's enjoying the silence, maybe I shouldn't speak.

But I do.

"Is that your brother?" I ask. He doesn't stop his pencil from drawing but he does nod and let out a positive hum but there's still something wrong here. If Mikey is his brother, where is he? Was he sick today? Or did something happen? What did happen to him?

"Does he go to our school? I didn't see him today..." I say. Maybe I'm being a little too nosy but in my defense he kept asking me questions earlier.

His pencil stops along with my heart in fear. I see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. Is he nervous? Did I take it too far? Am I making him uncomfortable? Oh no, he probably hates me for asking.

"No," He has troubles getting the words out but his thoughts are vocalized eventually, "I don't really like talking about him it brings back... Nostalgic... Sad memories..."

Guilt engulfs me for asking. Did he die? Did he run away? What happened? I shouldn't have asked, should I? He thinks I'm annoying for asking so much. An ass. I only nod, deeming it inappropriate to ask, and apologize quickly, "Sorry, I shouldn't be nosy."

"It's alright, don't say sorry. You didn't know," He replies gently. He assesses his drawing, looking across each and every detail before turning to me, "Does he look okay?"

He hands me the sketchbook to give me a closer look.

I'm not an artist. I listen to music and occasionally play drums, but if Gerard wants my honest opinion I'll give him one. I look across the details. The supposedly brown hair, the white glasses, the dark expression etching his eyebrows arched just slightly and his mouth in a neutral state. He wears a marching band uniform. Was he in a marching band before something happened to him? I don't question it. Maybe it's for the best that I don't.

The uniform has white stripes and buttons that stretch across the width of the top, progressively getting shorter as I look down. The shoulder width is excessively wide (normal for an outfit like that) and it looks fairly uncomfortable when it's combined with the high collar and tight shape. It has sleeves that reach his wrists with ten light gray buttons in a linear trail leading up to his bent elbow.

Mikey is standing straight, his posture perfect. His hands folded behind his back and his feet together like he's in the army. Marching bands are based off of the army, after all. His eyes continue staring challengingly and determinedly right into mine, his head bent slightly. All together, it makes my eyes light up and my mouth drop open in awe.

"That's awesome," I breathe, it takes my breath away what he can do, "How are you so good at this?"

Gerard shrugs beside me when my gaze is directed back up at him. He seems slightly flustered by the complement since there is a smudge of color in his cheeks.

"Well if you want honesty, he should have a badge." I say, I don't know if that's what is usually on his uniform but it seemed like a good edition.

Gerard looks at me, concentration in his eyes like he's trying to figure me out. Like it's a bad idea. His face lightens after a moment, like the expression before had never happened. Did I say something wrong?

"Alright," Is all he says before he takes the sketchpad from my hands and gets to work. He erases some of the lines on Mikey's uniform, a small circle of the area. He flips the pencil around, the sharpened side pointed down towards the paper. He draws a shape that reminds me of a Japanese weapon. It's like a diamond but not quite and it's not like a ninja star either. The more he draws, though, the easier it is to describe it. It's like four arrowheads pointed towards an epicenter. After he finishes the arrowheads, he draws four smaller arrows in between each arrowhead, separated evenly. I'm surprised by how symmetrical he can make the shapes without a ruler.

He wipes away the mistakes with the bits of pink eraser left before examining the badge. He looks conflicted about it. But why?

"I think it looks perfect." I say. He looks up at me for a moment, less conflicted before looking back and nodding in agreement.

He draws the white lines of the jacket back in, the pieces that he erased renewed.

He bites his lip, concentrating hard on the piece of art. His teeth let the captive flesh go as he sets his writing utensil down. He looks up at me and smiles slightly before we're both thrown forward when the bus stops.

Gerard lets out a slight, "oof," as the bus comes to a complete stop and he can straighten himself again. He looks up at me, his brown eyes gleaming with a kind of comicality in them, "Is this your stop?"

I look past Gerard, out the window, sure enough, I can recognize the street as my own. The luscious hedges that line the neighboring houses. The bland green and white street sign ahead of the bus that reads 4th and the unseen sign that reads Fremont. This is my stop.

"Yeah," I say. I give him a glance to see if he heard me and I'm surprised to see that he's standing up, too, his notebook and pen tucked safely under his arm.

"This is my stop, too." He says with a smile and a small laugh.

That is too cute.

Patrick. Stop.

"Let's go," I reply then after a short hesitation I jokingly add, "You can show me where you live, we might be next door neighbors."

I don't wait to see his reaction before I'm sliding out of the row of seats and walking back through the aisle, followed closely by Gerard. There's a slight draft blowing through the vehicle. I can barely feel it through my hoodie, though, so I'm still my normal temperature.

I continue through the aisle, somewhat nervously. I'm scared that people are judging me. Maybe it's just my imagination but I swear someone was just glaring at me as I walked by. I reach the front, taking deep breaths and I nod to the bus driver before walking down the steps to the sidewalk.

The doors shut behind Gerard and I with a whoosh, locking us out, before it continues down the street, stopping every ten minutes or so. The air is crisp like it should be and as I look down my street I'm able to see my house from where I am.

And then my breathing stops.

Fear overwhelms me, my heart races inside of my chest. Blood rushes through my veins faster than before, pumping oxygen through my body. I feel panicky. More fearful than usual, but I guess it's my fault for that... If I wasn't so stupid...

It's over as fast as it came and I'm able to calm down again, a little more dizzy than before. That house does things to me. I know exactly why, too. The same reason why three hours turned into two and into one. Finally, to zero. And I can't avoid it any longer. I shake my head from the thought as I look to Gerard. He's gazing right back at me a little worriedly.

"You alright?" He asks, tilting his head in confusion. I swallow before nodding and replying, my lips dry and my breathing slightly unsteady, "Yeah, sorry." I stutter.

He gives a slight nod before biting his lip awkwardly, "I should... Probably go..." He says. Oh no, he thinks I'm weird now.

What the fuck, Patrick? What's wrong with you?

"Uh... Yeah, sorry." I say, my cheeks flushing. I rub my arm, awkwardly, the light gray sleeve rolled over my han.

"Text me tonight?" He asks, trying to brighten the mood a little bit. I look back up with one side of my mouth twitched up into a half smile of hope.

"Sure," I reply softly, "See you Monday?"

He nods, "Yeah... See you."