Patrick's Recurrent Nightmare

“Pete! Pete, where are you?”

Patrick walked through the hotel’s corridor. They had an interview in less than an hour, and Pete still hadn’t appeared. Knowing his friend, he’d be probably sleeping, that lazy bastard.

“Pete Wentz, you better get out of your bed right-” Patrick stopped, looking at Pete’s hotel room.

The room was perfectly normal, bed sheets neatly done, everything in his place.

Everything except the fact that his best friend was lying on the floor, unconscious.

“Pete!” Patrick shouted, running to him. He kneeled on his side, looking desperately around, trying to find the reason why he was unconscious.

And he found it. A bottle of pills on his left hand. Empty.

The singer’s eyes widened in realization of what Pete had just tried to do. ‘Oh my God’ he thought, ‘he’s trying to kill himself.’

He picked up his phone and called an ambulance, voice shaking. Then he shook Pete, trying to wake him up. His eyes were full of tears, some trying to come out.

“Pete, don’t do this to me. Wake up, please! Pete!”

”Pete!”

Patrick jumped, waking up. His breath was coming in gasps, as he looked around. When he reassured himself that it was just a dream, he laid down again, eyes tearing up.

He was tired of having this nightmare. He was tired of remembering that he almost lost Pete over and over again.

He turned to his side and closed his eyes, choking a sob. It was the third time this week, he couldn’t take it anymore.

He cried for fifteen minutes, holding onto his pillow. Then, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he rolled to his back, looking up.

It was Pete.

“Trick? Tricky, what’s wrong?” Pete asked, worried. He didn’t see Patrick cry in a long time.

The singer sat up, with shaking breath. He couldn’t look the bassist in the eyes. “It’s- it’s nothing, Pete. Just a nightmare.”

“Patrick, a simple nightmare doesn’t make you cry this hard. Come on, tell me what’s wrong.”

Patrick swallowed hard, and looked up. “It was a nightmare. I… I dreamed with you trying to kill yourself. Again.”

Pete sighed, and pulled Patrick into a hug. The singer immediately grabbed his shirt, crying.

Pete felt guilty. He remembered that day like it was yesterday. He felt like he wasn’t able to live anymore, so he bottled up a mouthful of sleeping pills. What he wasn’t expecting was waking up again, in a hospital room, with a crying Patrick on his side.
When he saw his best friend so worried with him, he felt so bad, so guilty. He hurt Patrick, he scared him to death. And that stayed with him for the rest of his life. From that day, he vowed to never hurt his best friend again.

And now, watching Patrick cry on his chest, holding on to him for dear life, scared he would go for good, the bassist couldn’t help but feel like he failed his promise.

Pete held him tightly, placing a kiss on his strawberry blond hair.

“I’m so sorry, Lunchbox. I shouldn’t have done that; I shouldn’t have scared you so much. But I promise you, I will never do that again. I’m here to stay, baby; I’m home.”

The pet name came out of his lips effortlessly, but neither of them seemed to notice.

The singer was a little calmed down, and he let his hold lessen a little. But he was still quietly sobbing.

“Pete, pr-promise me. Promise me you… you’ll never try to kill yourself again. Please, Pete.”

“Oh, Tricky. I promise you, I will never try to leave again. You have my word.”

Pete slowly laid down on the bed, not once lessening his hold on Patrick. He brought the covers up to cover both of them, smiling.

He felt the singer relax on his arms, and he deduced he was falling asleep. He ran a hand through his friend’s hair, feeling himself starting to doze off as well.

“Good night, Lunchbox.”