---Gerard---

How many times will it happen? Again, more time passed. So much time has passed. Mama and Mikey were reunited and, after the truth or dare at Brendon's house, Mikey and Pete got together. I'm a little pissed, but I guess it'll be alright, I mean, it can't be that bad, right?

Patrick's anxiety is going away much faster than Dr. Strauss had predicted. He's actually healing there were a few relapses here and there, but for the most part, it's almost entirely gone. His mother's death, on the other hand, hasn't gotten much better. He still blames himself. He tries not to, but in the end, he always says it's his fault. It's his fault that they got in that crash. It's his fault that she couldn't avoid it. He blames it all on himself. He blames a lot on himself, and it hurts me because I really wish he wouldn't. None of it was his fault. He didn't wake up that morning and decide to kill his mom. He didn't know there would be a drunk driver on the road. He didn't know that her looking away for a split second would cause a fucking crash. He didn't know that any of that would happen.

Each time he retells the story, he changes it just slightly to make it sound like it was his fault. Dr. Strauss asks him why he does it, but he only replies with, "I don't know because it's true." I try to tell him, but he only says I'm lying. I said I'd never lie. He only brushed it off. As for feeling beautiful... he's getting better and better as each day passes, he's eating regularly, now and I ask him if he feels beautiful a lot. He always says just a little. A couple times, he called himself ugly, and I made love to him to try to prove him wrong. He started to believe it a little more after each time we did it.

His PTSD is getting a bit better. He still has nightmares about two or three times a week. He wakes up screaming and hurling in a ball and rocking back and forth. I always get him a sleeping pill and a pill for the PTSD. He thanks me, taking the pills and washing them down. Then, I'll cuddle up with him and wait for him to fall asleep again, singing a different song almost every night. I'm Lost Without You by Blink-182 one night, 21 Guns by Green Day another night, If You Only Knew by Shinedown, All By Myself by Green Day sometimes just to make him giggle but sometimes I'll still sing him The World is Ugly again because I made it for him.

I bury my head between his shoulder blades where his blonde hair tickles my forehead and my own black locks mix with his. We always cuddle up after a nightmare but a flashback. After a flashback, he usually tells me to go away. If I press it any further, he'll yell, and I'll be sent out of the room while he tries to gather himself. Once he does, he comes out and apologizes, usually sharing a few tears, and that's when I'll be right there for him to keep him company. It helps him, I think, Dr. Strauss said it helps, so I keep doing it.

Self-harm isn't an issue anymore. Sometimes he'll have a rubber band or a pack of ice to press to it, or he'll take overly hot showers, but otherwise, he doesn't do too much self-harm.

And then there are his 3 AM nights. He isn't woken up from a nightmare or anything, he just lays awake for a while and usually sometime in there, he'll grab a paper and begin writing. Song lyrics I think. In the mornings after, he'll accidentally leave them spread out on my desk. One was called Alone Together and just reading over it made me cry a little because it was about me. I know it was about me. Just like The World is Ugly was about him.

I don't know where you're going,
But do you got room for one more troubled soul
I don't know where I'm going,
But I don't think I'm coming home
And I said I'll check in tomorrow if I don't wake up dead
This is the road to ruin, and we're starting at the end

Let's be alone together
We could stay young forever
Scream it from the top of your lungs, lungs, lungs

You cut me off, I lost my track
It's not my fault, I'm a maniac
It's not funny anymore, not it's not

My heart is like a stallion
They love it more when it's broken
Do you wanna feel beautiful?

Let's be alone together
We could stay young forever
Scream it from the top of your lungs, lungs, lungs

I don't know where you're going
But do you got room for one more troubled soul?
I don't know where I'm going
But I don't think I'm coming home, and I said
I'll check in tomorrow if I don't wake up dead
This is the road to ruin
And we're starting at the end.

Then there's Mikey and Pete. They're loud. A lot of nights when Pete comes over, Patrick and I have to share earbuds and try to block out the noises while we wait for Mama to come home and yell at them to shut up. We're much quieter, and we're kind of thankful. We'd rather not be like... that. It's not that there's anything wrong with it, we just don't want anyone to hear or know what we're doing.

Mikey and Patrick get along, and they sometimes talk. Otherwise, they keep to themselves and neither of them get too jealous over me (I didn't really think they would, but they do kind of have to share me so I wouldn't blame them if one of them did).

Patrick and Pete talk a lot. Pete shows Patrick that goddamn notebook but I never know what's inside and I get really curious sometimes. I asked Patrick once, but he said it's private, and he's sorry. I told him it's fine. I understand. And I go right back to wondering.

I probably shouldn't but, it doesn't matter. It'll pass. I'm sure I'll learn someday. Maybe.

November is long over, and Mama was called out on a work trip.

Mikey and I were disappointed, especially because she'd be gone. On Christmas. Most of our winter break (which is from the 12th of December to the end of the year), is going to happen when she's not around, so it'll just be Mikey, Patrick, and I.

We don't have much planned besides the possibility of a huge Christmas party at Brendon's house (everything happens at Brendon's house, doesn't it?). Patrick and I are really excited especially because I have a few gifts for him. I think he might like them.

I can't tell anyone yet, though. It's a surprise.

It's the 24th today. December 24th. Time has passed by way too fast for it to be normal. One day it was the 2nd and the next, it's already the 24th, and Mikey and Pete are in Mikey's bedroom.

Mama made a few rules for us which aren't so hard to follow, thankfully.

Don't have sex on the couch.

Don't eat all the food.

No parties

No drinking/drugs

Call if there's an emergency

She trusts us, though. I know she does or we would most likely have a pedo babysitter for a few weeks. Nope. Right now Patrick and I are sitting in our bedroom with an earbud in each ear. My lips on his, his lips on mine. The taste of honey in my mouth. I don't know what taste is in his mouth. Probably coffee if I'm honest. I drink too much coffee.

His hands travel down my chest and stop just at the waistband of my jeans. I buck my hips up lightly but stop him as soon as he tries to unbutton them.

"I'm not going to have sex to the sound of my brother's moans. That's fucked up." I whisper, buttoning my pants back up again. He laughs slightly and instead just continues to kiss me over and over again.

"OH MY GOD, MIKEY! YOUR UNICORN FETISH IS SO HOT!" Pete near screams. My boner is gone, and I can't help but chuckle slightly. The night they first had sex, we could actually hear Mikey asking to ride Pete's 'Unicorn' and we all kind of giggled at that. Ryan gave him the nickname, Mikey "Unicorn Fetish" Way.

"SHUT UP IN THERE!" Patrick yells back.

"MAKE ME!"

"EW."

I try to hold back a laugh, but it's way too hard at this point.

"UH-UH-UH UH-UH!" Pete moans.

"Pete! Shut up!" I hear Mikey laugh breathlessly.

I kiss Patrick one more time before I fall back on the bed, "Wanna go out? To the bridge or something?"

Patrick looks down and nods softly, his blonde hair brushing his small forehead and his green eyes looking straight into mine, "It would probably be a good idea."

He crawls off of me, quickly slipping on his shoes and fedora and grabbing his bus pass, "It's Christmas Eve..."

"Mhmm." I hum, slipping on my own shoes and a hoodie, "Are we going to Brendon's party tomorrow?"

"Hell yeah," Patrick replies like it's not even a question, "Of course we are."

"Pete, fuck..." Mikey moans.

"We're going out! See you in a bit!" I yell, "Try not to be too loud. We have neighbors, y'know."

"Uh huh," It comes out as more of a grunt, and I'm not sure who it comes from.

I lead Patrick out the door, shutting it behind us with a loud noise, the cold air rushing against my face immediately.

"It's snowing." He whispers, "It's snowing, Gee."

I turn and all around us is a white sheet of snow across the laws. It's a sparkling white with shades of green mixed in from the blades of grass that stick up in some places. The air is cold when it hits my pale face. Freezing. It makes me realize just how warm I am and how thankful I should be for that. The coldness seems to poke at my skin like needles, desperate to be warmed but I don't let it, instead shoving my hands into my pockets.

New Jersey gets a fair amount of snow, about ten to fifteen inches a month but the most of it happens in February. It's really rare to get this much in December so I understand why Patrick's eyes light up so much and I understand why there's such a big grin on his lips. He cuddles up next to me, holding my arm and smiling uncontrollably, even going as far as to let out a giggle.

"It's snowing," He says.

"It is," I whisper. My breath is honestly gone. The view is so beautiful. The world covered in the pureness of the weather and I'm lost in my thoughts. The thoughts of Dad, Mikey, and I. Sleeping under piles of blankets, building snowmen, snowball fights.

It's beautiful.

Just like Patrick.

I turn and lean down slightly, "Get on my back!"

He bites his lip nervously, but I know he loves it, so he hops on, wrapping his hands around my neck and his legs around my waist. I feel his warm breaths on the back of my ear, they're rushed but excited, his giggles breathless but happy.

I walk down the steps on the porch, it's slick, but Mikey and I put salt on it earlier this morning, so it's gradually melting down. I run through the lawn and ask Patrick with a small voice, "Wanna build a snowman?"

He kisses the back of my neck, but I feel him nod, "We're probably way too old for this shit but yeah."

He hops off of my back and immediately kneels down, beginning to pack a ball of the powder to build off of. I start my own ball, rolling it through the snow and gradually shaping it to be bigger. It grows and grows as I continue to push it, tiring quickly. By the time I'm done, I'm freezing, out of breath, and it goes up to my crotch.

Patrick's is a little smaller, not by much, though. It still takes us about ten minutes to roll the smaller one onto the base and about fifteen more to make the head. It's beautiful, sketched with a few uneven edges but for the most part, it looks amazing and as I stand there beside my boyfriend. The boy who lost his virginity to me. The boy who tells himself lies and believes he isn't beautiful. The boy with the troubled soul. The boy who's grown to heal. The boy who's working on getting over his past. The boy who kissed me on the bridge. The boy who laid with me next to the mausoleum. The boy who showed me where his mother was buried. The boy who told me everything at a silly little café. The boy who nearly jumped off of a building in fear that I didn't love him. The boy with the fedora and the blonde hair and the green eyes and the sweet smile and the rosy cheeks and beautiful scars. The boy who's beautiful on the inside and out.

The boy who means the world to me.

And the boy who I will always love despite what everyone else may say.

I'll be his, and he'll be mine, and we can be happy.

He searches through the garden and finds a few stones. He presses three pebbles into the snowman's body to make buttons like an overcoat and two for the eyes and five for a mouth and one for a nose. Then, two sticks for the arms pointed out in awkward positions that I don't even think are possible by human standards. He smiles, burying his face in my chest.

"You wanna go to the bridge, now?" I ask quietly, "If we do, though, I need to bring my sketchbook."

He nods, a soft but eager nod, so I run inside, wipe my feet, grab my sketchbook, tease Mikey and Pete, and run back outside to find Patrick looking up at the snowman. He's smiling softly and tilting his head.

He places his fedora on the creation's head, his blonde hair a mess under the hat but in my opinion, it's adorable.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, his cheeks still flushed red from all the work and the coldness of the weather and the flustering I did, trying my best to embarrass the heck out of him (which succeeded better than I thought it would). He's adorable, though, and it's completely worth it because he can't stop blushing and denying all the times I call him cute and pretty and sexy and adorable. He doesn't deny the time I called him beautiful, though. He only shrugs and smiles.

It makes me fuzzy inside.

"You ready to go?" Patrick asks when I walk down and take his hand.

"Mhmm," I reply. I pull him along, going away from the bus stop towards downtown and the mausoleum and the cafe and the flower shop. Everywhere that we went the first time I met him. The first time we actually got to know each other in real life without the phone and without the screen dividing us.

The walk is long but beautiful. The houses and streets and sidewalks are all covered in snow and people are walking down the streets in overcoats and fedoras and scarves and beanies and gloves and boots. It's all black and white and beautiful. The walk is refreshing, too. It clears my mind and helps me think about life and how lucky I am to have Patrick and how much I would hate to see him leave. It helps me remember only the good times with Dad and Mikey. It helps me worry less about Mikey and Pete and worry more about the future. What does it hold? Love? Hate? Life? Death? Tragedies? Miracles? Curses? Blessings?

Marriage?

Kids?

I want to ask Patrick. What does he think about in the future? Does he want kids? Does he want to be married? Does he want to live in a mansion? Or does a cottage fit him better? What would his dream be like? Is it the same as mine? Or different?

I'll ask him once we get to the bridge.

He's silent almost the whole way, we can hear the occasional vroom of a car and tweet of a bird, but for the most part, it's silent.

His hands are cold in mine. He seemed warmer earlier, but I guess he's cooled down a bit by now, his playful spirit unneeded, to be summoned another day.

The walk doesn't take long. We're there before I can fully appreciate everything in the world right now but at the same time, it's okay. I can have an existential crisis later when Patrick isn't around, and nobody can hear me scream in terror at my own imagination.

He keeps his head on my shoulder as we sit down and I open up my sketchbook, stopping at the page where I last drew him. I finished it this past weekend, the eyes were skipped, and in their place, much to Frank's disappointment wasn't a blindfold but a black rectangle. Inside said rectangle is a word in white. The word in white. The only word that can describe him.

Beautiful

Patrick squints his eyes, "Is that me?"

I nod and tear it out of the page, careful not to rip the paper, "Um... Christmas Eve present?"

He giggles softly but takes it, folding it in half, then in half again and stuffing it in his pocket. I bite my lip, flipping to a page where I was drawing The Black Parade, and I continue to sketch, "I... need to ask you something."

He rests his hand on my knee, "Hmm?"

I bite my lip, "What do... What do you want in life? If you could have anything... I mean... I guess I'm asking what you want to do with your life?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you want kids?" I pause to let him think about that, "Marriage? A house? A mansion? An apartment? When you think about your future, am I in it? Pete? Joe? Andy? Brendon?"

He tilts his head, furrowing his eyebrows, "I haven't... I haven't really thought about that... I mean... I want a marriage with you... If I could have anything right now, be anywhere with anyone at anytime... I'd be twenty-one, living in a nice house with three bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen or two... I don't know... Just a nice little place, y'know?

"You'd be there, we'd live in Chicago near Pete and Mikey and Brendon and Ryan, Joe and Andy, Ray and Dallon and Frank and Donna... We'd live together, and we'd be married... Our honeymoon would be wherever you want, and we'd have a kid or two... Maybe a boy and a girl..."

I hum softly, "Names?"

He laughs softly, "I-I don't know... I... I know I'd want to name the boy Declan, you could choose the girl if you want. Or you can choose the boy, whatever you want..."

"We could have a girl named Bandit," I reply. Bandit. Bandit. Bandit. I love the name. I don't know why I love it, I just did. It sounds weird, I know but... I like it a lot and... If I had a girl to name, I'd call her Bandit.

"Bandit and Declan and me and you..." Patrick whispers, he shuts his eyes, our cloudy breaths joining in the sky above us, "I love it."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."