The two teenagers walked in silence.

There was so much to be said, and so much between them, but they had both reached the silent decision that they were content in simply nothing more than silence.

They hadn't really had much in the way of a conversation nor any time together over the past few weeks, and perhaps this was what this really served, and not just an ambiguous text from Ryan Ross requesting that Frank came over, involving the words 'urgent', 'important', and now.

And then of course, Gee had gotten uptight and insisted that it would be 'dangerous' for Frank to go out on his own in the dark, and everyone knew he was being ridiculous, but Gee was stubborn and most certainly wouldn't budge nor heed any form of explanation whatsoever.

And with that, Mikey had offered to go with Frank, after having walked into the kitchen for nothing more than a glass of water, because his lips were chapped and faded.

It was perhaps the whole situation with Mikey and his family that had kept him from having any kind of time with any of his friends lately, because getting disowned by your mother was indeed particularly stressful, even if you had a brother who cared about you enough to let you stay with him without question, because the situation of being rejected by the one person who was supposed to love you and care for you without question was not a situation anyone wanted to be in.

Frank had been in Mikey's vicinity an awful lot, seeing as he practically lived with Gee, but the two had been just a little too distracted with one another for Frank to really uphold and kind of conversation with Mikey where he could look the taller boy in the eye.

Mrs Iero had been hesitant at first regarding the matter of her seventeen year old son spending practically every waking hour at his boyfriend's house, but she'd talked it over with a lovely woman called Janet from work, and lovely Janet, whom Mrs Iero often spoke heavenly praises of, had explained that Frank was almost an adult, and if he really loved his boyfriend then he'd want nothing more than to spend all the time he could with him.

Of course explanation did little to solve the weird motherly feelings in Linda Iero's heart, but lovely, amazing, heavenly Janet had offered to spend time with her to help her accept that her son was growing up, and through such practice, the two had developed somewhat of a tightly knit friendship: gal pals, you could even say.

Frank had seen his mum and Janet together more times than he wanted to count particularly, and being a flaming homosexual himself, he did begin to develop the slightest sneaking suspicion that the nature of the interactions between lovely Janet and his mother were perhaps just a little less heterosexual than they 'should be', however, the subject of his mother's sexuality was not something Frank, or anybody, found themselves particularly comfortable discussing.

But in the silent, street light lit, late night walk across town, the subject reared its head.

"Mikey, this is going to sound weird, but I think my mum has a girlfriend."

The taller boy stopped in his tracks, turning to face Frank, and scrutinising his face for any signs of badly executed humour or the faintest remnants of a smirk, but there was nothing of that nature to be found, and forced Mikey to string together some sort of awkward and badly strewn response. "What?"

"I think my mum has a girlfriend." Frank repeated himself, being to walk again, at somewhat more of a slower pace than before, but one that Mikey still found himself a little too shell-shocked at to catch up with. "Janet, 'lovely, heavenly, amazing, wondrous, beautiful Janet', Janet from work, Janet who's a psychic on the weekends, and Janet who believes that somehow she's a dachshund in an alternate universe."

"Oh?" Mikey raised his eyebrows, finding himself equipped with very little more than astonishment when it came to handling the situation, or even just responding to Frank.

"When I'm at home: they're always together, and my mum dumped her this guy like a few weeks ago now, and she's not mentioned another man since, and well, they are quite close, and I don't mind, actually Janet seems really nice, you know, but... it's... weird, kind of... unexpected, you know?"

And no, Mikey did not know, as his mother was somewhat of a polar opposite, and would probably attempt to exorcise herself if she as much as even glanced at another woman's boobs. "Like you don't know what to say to her about it?"

"Yeah, even though, like she'll probably bring it up to me in her own time if it lasts, well, actually, it'll probably be Janet who brings it up, because you know Janet, well you don't know Janet- you've actually never even met Janet- would you like to meet Janet?"

Mikey blinked at Frank like he didn't quite recognise the boy beside him. "I... uhh?"

"Sorry- fuck, I'm nervous... Ryan keeps insisting that it's important and like texting me asking me to hurry up every ten fucking seconds, and I feel like Brendon's died or something, and I just... if someone else dies I think I might just fucking punch them until they're fucking resurrected, because you know what, Mikey? I'm fucking done with death, you know?"

"Frank, you know those pills that Bob left in the kitchen-"

"What pills? I didn't see any pills?" Frank was a fucking terrible liar.

"The ones you took." Mikey let out a sigh, shaking his head a little as he did so. "Bob's never going to notice, don't worry. Alicia might, but she'll probably blame me, you know, she fucking hates me."

"God, remember when you dated her?" Frank exclaimed, his eyes widening in a slightly sadistic form of delight.

"Fuck, that was, that was- fuck, I was so straight, and I- god, you and Gee, and I didn't even know, and Ray was just like- fuck... Ray... I..."

"You still haven't spoken to him?" Frank asked, adjusting his tone as Mikey let his gaze fall to the floor.

Mikey shook his head. "I'm scared, you know? And I'm sorry and I'm worried, and I've just made such a mess, and you know what- fuck, Frank I don't tell people this, but you're still my best friend, you know, like I know that our friendship hasn't exactly been anything worth noting as of recent, but, I still consider you to be my best friend, okay?"

"Yeah, you're my best friend too, Mikey."

"I still miss Pete, and I'm so scared that I'm going to be like fifty and still alone, or fuck even married, because still no one's going to compare to Pete, like I do genuinely think he was 'the one'... you know what I mean?"

Frank nodded, letting out a small sigh. "If you were meant to be together, then you're not going to be apart-"

"So what are you suggesting that Pete's gonna get resurrected?"

Frank shrugged it off as the two neared Ryan's house. "I'm not suggesting anything."

-

Ryan Ross had died precisely twenty minutes ago.

Not literally, of course.

That'd just be ridiculous, and the amount of funerals would be getting kind of stupid, but anyway, there was a very good reason as to why he'd been so insistent upon Frank's swift arrival, and it was the kind of reason that ensured Brendon Urie hadn't spoken a word for the exact same twenty minutes.

It was a text, nothing more, nothing less, but really, it was the whole damn world, because it was closure and re-exposure all at the same time; it was enough to fuck with your mind and settle it at the same time, and Ryan knew the message most definitely wasn't of such an intent, but the execution was rushed, and it was no one's fault.

Well, it was.

But certainly not Ryan's, nor Brendon's, nor the fault of the sender of the text message.

Ryan had been something like half asleep when he'd received it as well: curled up against Brendon's side, half watching some shitty ass rom-com that neither of them had even glanced at for a good ten minutes; it was Brendon's choice, and it served as a wonderful reminder to Ryan as to why he should absolutely never let Brendon pick what film to watch, but that was beyond significant in comparison to the events at hand.

Ryan had practically had a heart attack when he'd read it, the message that is, and not the description for the shitty rom-com on Netflix, although he kind of had too, but it wasn't nearly the same heart attack at all.

This had Ryan sitting up on the sofa, and shaking a little, and Brendon waking up instantly, and questions outweighing answers and a response to the message and nothing, fucking nothing, and Ryan just showed Brendon the message because he couldn't even fathom forming a single word at this point.

Joe was out of town this week: Joe had to be out of town this week, fuck.

Ryan hadn't really spoken to Frank much as of recent, but before all of this mess, they'd had something like a good friendship, and Frank had texted back instantly, and Ryan's heart had slowed down to a normal rate for all of five minutes.

The notion of the message itself was perhaps not all that significant, but the contents of the message and what it meant to Ryan as a person, as it became perhaps the one sentence that fucking changed everything.

'I need to stay. I can't explain. I can. But not now. I've messed up, big time.'

Of course, the message in its simplest form seemed not to warrant such a reaction in the two teenagers, but the message in its simplest form had neglected something very important: the contact name perhaps, the identity of the sender, because that was what changed everything.

And that was exactly what had had Ryan breathing heavily for something close to ten minutes now.

And of course that contact name was predictable, yet unexpected, and Brendon couldn't quite believe it, but had also seen it coming at least a thousand miles off.

'Patrick'.

-

Frank pressed his index finger against the doorbell with copious amounts of force, and Mikey had perhaps even considered stepping back a little for fear that Frank may slap him or something. Ryan's latest text had been all the more insistent and had played on the shorter boy's anxieties, stretching him like an elastic band, and the doorbell and the pressure was nowhere near snapping point, not yet.

It was Brendon who had answered the door, and within mere seconds, and thankfully for the boy with the rather distinctive forehead, the situation was far too pressing for either of the boys to even consider questioning just what Brendon was doing at Ryan's house so late at night.

Ryan was curled up on the sofa when the two walked in; he was something close to crying, and it was doing very little to ease Frank's nerves, and well, Mikey felt as if he'd walked into what he thought would be a puddle, but had turned out to be the Mariana Trench.

"Fuck." Brendon let the word slip from his lips with little regard for eloquence nor explanation, and Ryan looked up, the two communicating in some sort of psychic not quite boyfriend eye contact language, as Ryan passed Brendon his cellphone, and Brendon held it out to Frank and Mikey.

"So he's... he's... coming back? Here?" Frank was the first to speak, and Ryan seemed to visibly startle when he did.

"I guess so." Brendon let out a sigh, his gaze fixated upon his milky not quite lover as he did so; his gaze one of pure heterosexual endearment, because this was absolutely not a time for homo. "It's vague, but I guess so- I mean, I'm still not exactly sure as to how he left or what the fuck happened, and it doesn't help that Joe's out of town, because Joe's probably the one he spoke to about this."

"I know, I know." Ryan piped up from the corner, getting to his feet, and shaking a little as he did so. "It's a fucking mess, and he won't explain, and I'm just so worried for his safety, and I- fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck-"

"He spoke to me before he left." And it soon became apparent that this was World War III, because Mikey Way had dropped the bombshell of the century.

And in that moment, Ryan Ross' living room became the set of 'The Office'.

"You what?" Ryan exclaimed, his eyes widening in disbelief. "You actually fucking what? Did you not think that maybe this key piece of information was at all helpful ever, nope, nope, no? Or were you too busy up your own ass-"

"Ryan." Frank cut it, shooting the person in the world least likely to have a calcium deficiency a particularly brutal glance.

"It was weird, man, it was... weird... I... fuck, Frank, I swear you were there? You're always at Gee's, aren't you? But when Patrick wanted to talk to me, you remember?"

"Yeah, yeah..." Frank trailed off, the memories coming slowly back to him.

"Well, it was kind of a fucked up mess kind of thing and I didn't even know what to think so I didn't really mention it, but he was like... he kept like hallucinating or, well he... he thought he was seeing Pete's g-ghost... and he came to me because you know, we were both close to Pete, and I... I... wasn't exactly the most understanding, but I... I don't even know what happened after that, I just-"

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck-" Ryan shook his head firmly, grabbing onto Brendon's arm as all the blood appeared to drain from his face.

"Ryan, are you... are you.. okay?" Brendon practically had a heart attack as he turned to Ryan, attempting to grab his attention to get any kind of response from the boy. "Fuck, Ryan, you... you really need to lie down, okay? I.. I, fuck, I-"

The doorbell rang.

And it was funny, it was ridiculous, it was hilarious, how the most mundane and simple action had suddenly become the most important thing in the world to four scared teenagers.

And again, in the frozen silence, the doorbell rang.

-

He knew he was right, and he knew what he was doing was wrong, so somewhere down the line those two had to balance out somewhere.

Of course, that wasn't how it really worked, but he was more than happy to try, and well, in reality, this was all he had left besides the pistol he kept under his pillow, because it wasn't getting this bad, and he'd been misjudged, and it wasn't like how they thought it was, because he was okay: he really was, and he knew it.

And he wasn't scared, but oh god, he really was.

Because if you've done nothing wrong, you have nothing to fear was a whole load of bullshit, and he stood shaking as he threw his belongings into a backpack, pulling on two hoodies at the same time to consume space, as he grabbed his phone charger.

Because he wasn't coming back; he couldn't come back, and he couldn't stay, dear god no.

And they'd track his phone, god they would, of course they would, so he turned it off after having sent the message, because the aftermath of one simple text message was now nothing but out of his control, and he revelled in that fact a little, free from the crushing weight of responsibility for barely a few seconds as he slipped his favourite pair of converse on and swung his backpack on, before climbing out his bedroom window and doing his best to make his way down the conveniently placed drainpipe without dying.

He managed it, luckily, and hadn't any time to assess his descent or even look over his limbs for scrapes and scratches before he was darting down an alleyway: sprinting at first, then jogging, then after reaching the woods at the end of town, slowing to a fast walk, because they couldn't find him in here, they wouldn't, they couldn't, and he was okay.

And he'd forgotten the pistol under his pillow.

They'd find it, of course they would, and that would make things a million times worse when he returned, of course, but he wouldn't return, and he couldn't go back for it now, and he was telling him not to.

And the boy in the corner of his eye, stood between two trees perhaps five metres behind him had an awful habit of being right about things.

Perhaps even a habit of being right so strong that he couldn't possibly be anything but real, somehow, because he knew things, remember, but not this much.

He walked until his feet grew sore, and his head began to spin, and he needed to stop, goddamn, every fucking cell in his body was screaming for him to stop, and not just due to his lack of physical health, but due to the nature of his situation and the circumstances, but the voice of the boy behind him kept him trudging on forwards.

Because the boy behind him was his best friend, and always would be, and some of that rubbish, and they'd disagreed, and he wouldn't have that - he fucking wouldn't have that, and this was all he needed to do to be okay again: not pills, not therapy, and certainly not that damn hospital, fuck, he couldn't, no.

And she'd send him there, of course she would.

A promise meant nothing after all.

It was more to do with the boyfriend who worked in the corner shop that had been whispering lies and promises into his mother's ear than her own judgement though, but still, she'd condemned him to this fate, and he'd left the pistol under his pillow as a gesture perhaps, because she'd find it, he knew she would, but she wouldn't find him.

The skyline soon faded into familiar shapes and figures; the end of the forest he knew, near the canal and that back road, near Brendon's house even, and he knew Brendon's house, he did, he knew it well, and so did the boy behind him, who smiled as streetlights from the aforementioned back road flooded his vision, and dear god, he couldn't stop now.

He was so nearly there that he could fucking feel it, and he could feel alive, and this was alive: this was the option and he'd been told, and the boy behind him was never wrong, and the boy never went away anymore, and he didn't even care.

He needed his best friend.

"Hey." The boy moved to match his pace, stood a while away from him still, but enough to catch his attention. "We're nearly there."

"Yeah." He spoke aloud in response. "We are."

"It's going to be okay, you know?" He smiled, because his best friend was the absolute best best friend in the whole damn world, and the fact that he was dead didn't count for anything.

"Yeah-"

"No, seriously, Patrick, it is."

"I know, Pete, I know."

And the two walked in silence: a distanced silence, a distanced walk, a distanced friendship, but the silence was still real, so was the walk, and indeed so was the friendship, despite what anyone else said, and perhaps, like that, Patrick could keep sane, or at least as sane as possible, and that was what mattered after all, wasn't it?"

Quite honestly, Patrick just didn't know, and perhaps that was okay; he had no concept of okay anymore, he just had words and lies and falsely spun memories and hospital walls and therapists that spoke for too long and problems that wouldn't go away.

Pete was the last good thing he had left.

And Patrick was going to cling to him for dear life.

Because that's what they wanted, wasn't it? To make Pete go away; that was what all of them wanted, and Patrick wouldn't stand for it, and Patrick could barely stand, his legs aching as he stumbled under streetlights, but he was nearly there now; he knew this town better than his 'own' anyway.

But then again, this was really his town, because this was the town he'd been born in, and this was the town Pete had died in; it tied them down, and it tied them together, and Patrick's legs were about to give out entirely, but Ryan's house was barely twenty metres away now, and he could make that, fuck, he could, of course he could; he had to.

"You're so nearly there, you're so nearly safe, come on, come on!" Pete exclaimed, forcing Patrick to stumble faster down the road, until he found himself practically falling against a front door, perhaps his favourite front door in the world, because with a ring of the doorbell, he was safe, he was okay, finally.

Pete smiled at him, and the porch light shined through him in a way that made him look just a little more real.

Patrick smiled back, before he lost his grip on consciousness entirely and fell down against Ryan Ross' front porch step.

-

It started in a forest that he didn't recognise, and it started with a car, vintage in make, by the side of a twisted road in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere.

Patrick woke up on the side of the road like road kill himself, trees tall and slender in nature, with darkened leaves creating somewhat of a canopy above his head; the cage walls of the forest, perhaps.

It was this every night; this was the dream, this was the dream that plagued Patrick Stump's mind every night, and had done for near enough two weeks.

Of course, he knew it well by this point, but the dream always had a little surprise for him in the end, because despite being little more than a concoction of his own mind, the dream always seemed to be one step ahead.

The forest he woke up in was anything but familiar; occupied with deep purples, blacks, and greens, as opposed the golden hues of autumn leaves in the forest Patrick was most accustomed to.

This place was unwelcoming, and it wanted Patrick to know that.

But still, he stumbled to his feet, and finding the forest at the side of the road the black car had been parked upon fenced off with what appeared to be barbwire, he found himself condemned to the side he'd woken up on, stumbling down somewhat of a slope and down through the trees until the path faded away, and the trees curled in around him like greedy hands.

He didn't know why he walked, and why he walked every time, but he did, his feet almost seeming to lead the way more than he did, as he hurried on past trees until his surroundings were rendered little more than unrecognisable and the road and the car seemed like little more than a distant memory.

Soon after, time had passed in a great enough quantity for Patrick to reach the hill, and the path came back into view to guide him in his ascent; trees and a darkened dusk skyline continuing to tower over him as he struggled to make it to the top, but of course finding himself in no lack of climax when he did.

The summit was more or less flat, and beside one ancient tree, complete with gnarled roots and decaying leaves, lay a sheet of black plastic, and curiosity seemed to drive Patrick's feet every time as he stumbled towards it, eager to uncover the plastic as if he hadn't seen it time and time again, every single night.

Beneath the plastic was a body, a dead body: rotten and mutilated in such a manner that would lead to evidence stab wounds, and murder, and before Patrick could stare for too long, the world around him was flickering and the knife was in his hands, and the blood on his jeans.

His heart thudded in his chest as he threw the knife down against the body, which turned a little with the impact, and only then did Patrick catch a glimpse of the face.

It was a different face every night, but it meant so much all the same, because there had never once been a night when the face wasn't of a person who meant everything to the shaking, stumbling boy, who threw the plastic back over them with haste and the slip of a curse word, before he was running and stumbling back down the hill and through the forest: whispers strewn by ancient trees calling out after him as he ran back to the road and what little escape he could conjure up.

But he always made it back to the road.

And he was always waiting: leaned up against the car, still parked in the same place as before.

He met Patrick's gaze like he knew everything, and stepped forward, ushering Patrick towards the car, and as Patrick neared the boy, he came to recognise that face: Pete.

This face didn't change; this face had never, and would never change, and Patrick knew that like he knew this dream felt just a little too real.

Pete always told him that they had to get out of here, and Patrick nodded, remaining silent as he got into the car and sat in the passenger seat; Pete always drove, and they always drove too fast, speeding down the tight, twisting road until the forest faded away around them, and the sky grew darker under the grasps of night time.

And the two rode in silence, stopping after an unmeasureable amount of time had passed at what appeared to be a gas station at the road side.

Pete stopped the car, glancing one and only once at Patrick, before getting out, and leave Patrick to his own initiative to do the same. He followed Pete into the gas station, the place lighting up with cheap, flickering strip lights as they walked, until everything fell into darkness as he finally stepped inside the gas station door.

And Patrick stood there in silence for what was sometime seconds, but sometimes felt like hours, until Pete found the light switch on the opposite wall, and the gas station was illuminated, but really, Patrick wished that it had remained in that darkness forever.

The floor was littered with pools of blood; glass bottles smashed everywhere, and the whole store destroyed, however Pete didn't ever seem the slightest bit fazed by this, and after a moment of extended silence, he stepped across the floor, approaching Patrick, as the corners of his lips twitched up into a smirk.

Patrick's eyes fell into his, his heart hammering in his chest as the look in Pete's eyes became something worth fearing.

"Kill me." Pete would always say, reaching into his jacket pocket and retrieving the knife that Patrick was certain he'd left with the body up on that hill.

"No-" Patrick would always refuse, perhaps stepping away from Pete a little, but he was always insistent, holding out the knife to Patrick with a welcoming smile.

"Kill me." He'd repeat, as Patrick fell into a stunned silence.

And as Patrick stood in a prolonged silence, the world around them began to fade away, usually resulting in Pete disappearing completely, or killing himself with the knife in his hand, but never Patrick, however this time, Pete disappeared, and in his place fell another.

In Pete's place stood Ryan; his face startled in much the same way that Patrick's was, his eyes darting around the room with true fear and panic. "Fuck, Patrick, you've got to wake up..."

Patrick attempted to open his mouth to concoct a reply, however it was like he just couldn't.

"You're... please stop shaking, please start breathing, wake up, please-"

And then, all of a sudden, Patrick felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck and his whole world flooded with a bright white light.

A bright white light that soon came into focus and revealed it to be the light of Ryan Ross' living room.

-

"Are you okay?" Brendon exclaimed, his eyes widening with a sort of concern that Patrick had never seen in the boy before.

Patrick didn't answer, but he most certainly wasn't.

He was lost, and so scared: physically in Ryan Ross' living room, but every time he blinked, every time he closed his eyes, he was back in that gas station, back in that forest, back on that road, in that car, with Pete.

"Fuck, please just say something, Patrick." Ryan added, all pleading, and genuine eyes; the two boys sat beside Patrick on the sofa, with Frank and Mikey sat just a couple of metres away, silent, but just as on edge.

Because Frank hadn't expected this at all, and he hadn't been ready for this at all, and he wanted to turn around and go back home, home to Gee, but he couldn't, because he knew that Ryan and Patrick needed him there right now, and he would be there for him.

"I... I... I..." And then it hit him, "where's Pete?" He exclaimed, glancing around the room frantically for any hint of the boy he knew had most definitely fucked the world over for him, but finding himself alone, besides the four other boys.

"What do you mean where's Pete?" Frank exclaimed from across the room, his eyes widening in concern for Patrick, who was in perhaps the worst state he'd ever seen anyone in ever.

Patrick didn't answer, only closed his eyes, and Pete was there; of course, he was there, but he opened them again, and nothing, and fuck, it had never been like this.

"He's... I can't... I can't see him... he was there..." Patrick gestured back towards the front door, "he was outside with me, we walked here together, but... he's not... he's not here anymore, and this isn't right; he doesn't leave me alone, not ever, but I see him when I close my eyes, and I-"

"Patrick, you do know that the Pete you're seeing isn't real, right?" Brendon interrupted him, unable to listen to this anymore, because fuck Ryan and the glare he gave him for it, he just couldn't listen to Patrick driving himself insane like this.

Patrick nodded slowly, like he was trying and failing to convince himself. "Yeah... I... just..."

"Brendon, leave him alone, hallucinations can seem pretty real." Ryan was always first to protect Patrick's every word, and Brendon had kind of forgotten about that, and fuck, he hated this all over again, and with reluctance he made his way over to sit beside Mikey and Frank.

"When did you two get back together?" He asked Ryan, gesturing towards the now somewhat sullen Brendon.

"We... we didn't, we're not..." Ryan blushed, the words tumbling from his lips in something like badly executed conviction.

"Oh..." Patrick paused, his gaze hitting the floor.

"Why are you back? Hey where did you even go?" Mikey was the one to break the silence, and that caught the whole room by surprise; no one having expected to hear much from him, but he'd made quite a point in proving them wrong.

"I... I... we moved town, it's this town... I thought it was this town... I don't know... but that was when I thought that this thing with Pete was something I could get better from, but it's not... it's part of me, and he's my best friend, and I couldn't get rid of him... not ever, and I... they wanted to put me in hospital, they wanted to get rid of him, and I... I couldn't no, I need to stay here, I can't go back."

"Why can't you see him now?" Mikey continued, raising his eyebrows a little.

"I don't know!" Patrick exclaimed, his body trembling a little as he did so.

"Fuck, Patrick... I... you can stay, of course you can, you're my best friend, but, but you need to... you can't just... you're sick, Patrick, and you need to get better-"

"No, he's- he must be outside, he... I need..." Patrick stumbled up from the sofa, making his way to the front door, before anyone could stop him.

"Fuck." Brendon cursed aloud, getting to his feet, the others following him as he made his way after Patrick, who fumbled with the lock, and swinging the door open with such vigour that the bang it made as it collided with the wall resonated throughout the house.

The four gathered behind Patrick, whose face lit up into a smile as it fell upon the gaze of the boy sat on the front porch step, getting to his feet to meet Patrick.

"He's... yeah... he's... here."

"No, Patrick, he's not, I'm sorry, but no one else can see him, I-" Ryan cut himself off, shaking his head, finding it too hard to watch as Patrick smiled in the darkness and nothingness, and he really began to wonder if this was the same Patrick who'd left this town, and whether the Patrick beside his side would ever be the same again.

But then, in the silence, a voice: hesitant and quaking from behind the group - Mikey Way, and five simple words that changed the whole fucking world. "I can see him too."

-

hey lmao well fuck i literally didnt see any of this coming, lmao even as i was writing this, and i have no idea how to explain this so can you do that thing where you try and guess the plot and i try to be discreet about stealing the ideas people put in comments because i cant come up with plot like a sane person: it's like nothing for months and then i pull a genius idea for a whole series out my ass in about four seconds and im like ok then.

also fun fact: the word document for this fic, with size 9 font, is now over 500 pages so you know its always fun to reflect on how little of a life i have actually i do have a life this fic is my life

im sorry i dont know what im doing i just love taylor swift so much.

please vote and comment on this chapter i tried im promise i love you ok <3