My Smile's An Open Wound Without You

Pete takes medication. This is a commonly known fact in their circle of friends, just like if you knock Patricks’ hat off he will sputter and his face will turn an interesting shade of puce, or that Gabe goes batshit insane over Williams’ pretty hips. It’s old news.

What isn’t common knowledge is exactly what the pills do. How when Pete takes them, his cocktail of whites, reds, and blues, they keep his roman candle heart beating and cogs in his pretty head turning. Pete needs them, because if he doesn’t have him then shadows get longer and they also get voices, whispering harsh everythings in his ears.

And right now would be one of those times, because lately he’d been neglecting to count his pills, and he had run out. nomorenomorenomore is the only train of thought running through his ragged mind. So Pete does what he does in every bad situation he’s ever gotten himself into- he calls Patrick.

He fumbles with the phone and hits 1 on speed dial, drumming his fingers quickly against his knee. After three rings he hears a very groggy, “Pete?”

“‘Trick.” He chokes out, and lets out a shuddering breath. With Patricks voice, the shadows shrink slightly and the room seems lighter.

“Pete, what’s wrong?” Patrick already seems more alert, and Pete can hear ruffling, like sheets being pulled back. “What happened?”

“No more.” Pete mutters, voice wavering, and he clenches his eyes shut. “No more, Patrick.” And it’s not the first time that this has happened, so Patrick understands, or at least knows enough to mumble an, “I’ll be right over.”

Pete hangs up because he knows Patrick will be here soon. The lights in the living room flicker and he walks slowly to his bedroom, sitting on the edge of his bed. It’s dark in here, and usually he would be comforted but now it just seems menacing.

He’s not coming, Pete hears, and his eyes grow wide. Why would he try and fix you, he’s too perfect, you’re gonna fuck him up.

“Shut up.” He says, and it sounds like a freight train in the dark silence of the room. “He loves me.”

Who would love you, you worthless piece of shit. What do you have to give him? You’re just a fucked up little insomniac who breaks everything he touches, including himself. You’re broken.

“He loves me.” Pete protests, eyes welling up, and he slips off the bed, leaning up against it and wrapping his arms around his knees. “He loves me how I am.”

He doesn’t love you. Nobody does. You’re not worth their time.

“Shut UP!” He shouts, and puts his face against his knees, clenching his eyes shut tightly. “I am worth it.” he whispers to himself, and looks up again. Is it just his overtired brain working in overtime, or is it darker than before? His black curtains are shut tightly and it’s silent, so, so silent, and even now Pete can see the room get blacker, and oh fuck, was that something moving behind hi-

“Pete?!” Patrick yells from the foyer and Pete scrambles to his feet, and runs through the doorway, tackling and clinging to his very own Patrick Stump. He wraps his arms around Patricks neck and his legs around Patricks waist and Patrick, shockingly, holds him up for a few moments before letting him down. Pete shoves his face into Patricks neck and just breathes slowly, inhaling a scent of vanilla shampoo and old spice.

“Pete.” Pete pulls away to look at Patrick, and the singer presses their foreheads together. “I love you. You know that, right?” Pete nods slightly, and Patrick presses their lips together softly, before pulling away and intertwining his fingers with Petes. “Now. We’re gonna go to the pharmecy, and we’re gonna get your shit. Then we’re going to order a pizza, put it on the coffee table, and forget about it in favor of making out. Okay?” Pete smiles softly and, when the voices tell him that it’s lies, all lies, he tells them to kindly shut the fuck up, slips on his shoes, and walks out of the door with his best friend, his boyfriend, and his everything leading him.