tw: suicide, blood

"Patrick... Patrick I really need you to come over. Now. I'm. I really fucked up. I think..."

It's 2am, Patrick is barely awake with Gerard sleeping soundly beside him when he picks up the phone and listens in on the 6 voicemails Pete has left him. As soon as he hears the first one, though. He knows something is wrong. Something is seriously wrong. He bolts out of bed as the next voicemail plays, "I'm... I'm really dizzy and I don't... I don't wanna call an ambulance. I don't have to, I think it's okay. But please, come."

Patrick is dressed when he shoves his phone in his pocket and grabs the car keys. Gerard groans, but Patrick is gone before he can explain. He's out the door, and driving away as he finally plays the third. It's quiet for the first twenty seconds, but then there's a soft, "I'm really... really tired."

Patrick speeds, down the streets and through neighborhoods, his heart is racing, he's panicking, and he just needs to make sure Pete is okay.

When he finally makes it, he opens the door, unlocked, and calls for Pete, "Where the hell are you? Pete?"

He searches the living room, the  kitchen, and then goes to the bathroom.

That's where his heart stops.

Blood, so much blood. On the walls, on the floors, streaking the shower wall. Pete is in the bathtub, phone beside him, staring at the ceiling blank face. The bathwater is a dark red. Pete is bleeding out fast. Patrick covers his mouth.

"Pete, Pete, what the hell are you thinking?" Patrick asks, grabbing his phone and calling 9-1-1. Pete groans.

Patrick rubs Pete's head, tears flowing down his cheeks.

"You better fucking make this, Pete."