This will be up on AO3 on December 20th. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE comment!! I worked very hard on this and I was super proud, it would mean a ton <3  Also if you get a chance, listen to the song ^^^

TW: Self-Harm, drug use, physical, emotional, and verbal abuse. Major character death, suicide, depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, sex, and angst. Thank you :)

A heartbreak in mid-December
You don't give a fuck
You never remember me.

Ring, ring... Ring, ring...

"Hey, this is Patrick, I can't come to the phone right now 'cause I'm probably busy at the moment but leave your voice message and number at the beep and I'll try to get back to you ASAP."

Beep!

"Hey, T-Trick." Pete grits his teeth as he grabs the ziplock bag of white powder and carefully parts the plastic. His eyes blink, red and rubbed raw and his muscles aching, tense and slow on his sagged back as he carefully thinks this through. This is it. This is the end of it. He needs to stop. He's been clean for seven hours so far, he's craving so badly but it's for Patrick. It's all for Patrick. It always has been. It always will be and he knows it. "I-I just... I'm doing kinda bad right now and I'm thinking about you again and I know it's Christmas Eve and you... you probably don't have time for my bullshit but I just... I miss you so bad, I guess. I... I know you've moved on. And I-I know you don't wanna see me now... or ever again really but... but I'm going clean, okay? Just for you. I'm coming clean, all for you. Just like you always wanted me to."

Pete clenches his jaw as he grips the cocaine harder in his hand, shutting his eyes, squeezing out a tear down his cheek and on to cling to his chin. It's salty and wet and gentle, contrasting so far from his mind that he wonders if he'll ever come back from this insanity. He's just so desperate for that white powder and it dries out his mouth so badly. He just needs. Just needs. Just one more line wouldn't hurt. Just one more.

"Stop it, stop it, please, you're hurting me!"

"Shut up! You're such a whiny bitch, Jesus Christ."

No more. He's done. He's done. This is just for Patrick. All for Patrick. Pete squeezes his eyes shut as he finally parts his lips again and continues.

"I swear, I'm gonna get better, just for-"

Beep!

Pete squeezes the phone between his shoulder and his ear before he loses the strength and lets it fall to the ground. It's over now, he just needs to let go. He just needs to give up, he can't keep living like this and he knows it. So he turns the ziplock upside down and watches the powder descend into the sink. It's a waterfall, falling down the shiny bowl and coating the stained white finish in an even brighter shade. It's almost like the snow he remembers from Christmases before. From... From when he was happier and the sun still shined above his head.

From when Patrick was still there by his side.

Pete's eyes are dark and cold despite the warmth of the fireplace in front of him and the cup of coffee in his hand, the heater pouring in the vents to fight off the cold of the snow outside, and a waitress cleaning up around the counter. She looks pretty, black hair and dark skin and freckles around her nose and cheeks. She's wearing a white sweater and her hair is back in a ponytail as she blinks away the tiredness from her eyes.

It's Christmas Eve and he's alone, so very alone. His family is all the way in Chicago, and he knows he shouldn't have moved to Spokane but of course, that was just his luck. It snows much harder here, and despite the fact that he's downtown, the streets are near empty. It's a small city, smaller than Chicago. It's not the same. He misses home.

He hears the bell of the door ring and his gaze shifts to some kid who walks in. Blond hair hidden under a trucker's hat, sad blue eyes and a pair of rosy cheeks. He looks so beautiful. Pete's heart thuds in his chest hard as he watches the boy shut the door and muster a smile. He doesn't even look at Pete as he heads to the counter and orders a chai tea, hot with almond milk. Pete remembers that order for some reason, he isn't sure why. But this kid, he's beautiful.

"Name?" The barista asks.

"Patrick," The kid replies.

Pete blinks as the kid sits down at an empty table, and he expects him to pull out his phone or something, but he doesn't. He only runs his fingers through his hair, knocking off his hat, and watches the snow fall outside in a flurry. Pete swallows, watching the kid - Patrick - and he knows, he fucking knows he needs to talk to him. He's sad, and he's pretty, and Pete... he kind of wants some company on such a lonely Christmas Eve.

Pete stands, swallowing again into a now-dry mouth and after a moment of working up his courage, he begins walking toward Patrick, grabbing his coffee on the way and biting his lip hard. He isn't quite sure why he's going to him but he feels drawn to the kid and he looks lonely and he's probably gonna come off as a weirdo but... it's hard for Pete to care much. He can do this, he can do this, he can do this.

He takes a breath when he finally reaches the table and squeezes his jaw shut as he taps Patrick's shoulder softly. The blond looks up with a jolt but calms as soon as he realizes Pete doesn't mean any harm. Pete smiles down at him and says in a nervous voice, "Can I sit here?"

Patrick blinks, and after a moment, he returns the smile and nods.

"Sure, what's your name?"

"Pete, yours?"

"Patrick."

Pete squeezes his fingers into a tight fist as he looks back over the white powder filling the bathroom sink, just like that snow six years ago, just like the way Patrick first looked at Pete. Bright eyes and a warm smile. Chai tea, almond milk, hot.

He takes a breath, tears rising to his eyes as he shoves the handle of the sink to the side and washes it all down. Every hope that they'd last forever, every dead feeling he's ever had for him, every single piece of their love. It's gone, it's gone, it's gone. He knows Patrick will never be back, but he can't help but hope. Maybe... maybe if he gets better... maybe if he just stops... maybe it never happened. Maybe Patrick is still there.

The water turns into a milky sort of substance as the rest of the cocaine washes down, gone, gone, gone. That's the last of his stash, that's the last of what he bought and he knows damn well that Ryan won't be open in business for another month. That's enough time, right? He shouldn't be addicted by then, right?

Pete takes a breath, shuts his eyes as he feels the weight leave his shoulders and a new wave of need and depression and want crash over him. Want for Patrick and need for the drug and just the depression of feeling so lost, so alone. There's nothing left for him to turn to. He's all alone in this and he... He has nothing left. No more vices, only virtues and even those are running low.

He takes another long breath before he leans down, picking up his phone and coat from the floor then exits the bathroom and heads down to the front door, swinging it open just before slamming it shut and opening his phone again. No messages, no missed calls, only his empty lockscreen with his and Patrick's full eyes gazing back.

He calls Patrick again despite every fiber of his body telling him otherwise.

It rings, once, twice, three times. There is nothing, there is only Patrick's voice laughing back that goddamn voicemail tone.

"Leave your voice message and number at the beep and I'll try to get back to you ASAP," It says.

Beep.

"Hey, Patrick, it's Pete again. I just poured it all down the sink. All the coke. It was this milky white when I washed it down, y'know? I just... God, I feel like I'm going crazy, and maybe it's just the sobriety talking but I wanna see you again. It's kind of funny how I'm more crazy off the drugs than I am on them," Pete chuckles to himself, watching his breaths go out in thick clouds and rise into the midnight sky, "Have you heard that sad song that's been on the radio lately? It goes something like, 'Cast me aside to show yourself in a better light, I came out grieving, barely breathing and you came out alright, but I'm sure you'll take his hand, I hope he's better than I ever could have been, my mistakes were not intentions this is a list of my confessions I couldn't say.' Maybe I remember those lyrics just a little too well but I really do hope you're happy with Mikey. I hope you don't forget me, either. Because I sure as hell won't forget you."

Pete's steps are long and fast, his head down and his eyes tearing again, "I know I don't have much longer, but I love you. I - "

Beep!

He takes a breath as he stops in the middle of the sidewalk and after a long hesitant moment, looks up to see a few kids building up a snowman, giggling amongst each other, talking about how they'll name it Chris like that one guy from that one movie. Pete isn't sure if they're talking about Evans, Pine, Pratt, or Hemsworth.

"Pete, it's snowing, look, look, look!"

His eyes lift up from the television in front of him to the window beside where Patrick's pointing an erect finger, an enthusiastic grin spreading across rosy cheeks and bright baby blues. He looks so happy, so excited, it's something Pete saw out of him often, it's something he loved oh-so-dearly. Their second Christmas was the best when all that mattered to Pete was Patrick and all that mattered to Patrick was Pete. It was always Pete and Patrick back then. There isn't a sky without a ground, there isn't a black without a white, and they saw so much opportunity within each other.

Pete thought it was fucking amazing.

"Is it?" Pete replies, sitting up from his chair and scratching the back of his neck as he goes to the window. Sure enough, white flakes are falling to the ground, piling atop the snow that's already been laid out. Pete sometimes wonders if it'll ever end. It always seems to snow here in Chicago where blue lights line the streets and cigarette smoke blends in with the breaths of the untainted youth. It's reassuring in a way, though. To see the same streets lined with the same white. Even if everything else has changed, at least he's still got the same sight out his window. It's been that way for the past six months, since they moved in together and decided to buy a house in Chicago, Spokane just wasn't good enough.

"Can we build a snowman? Please?" Patrick asks, "I bought something for it if we did."

Pete smiles down at his boyfriend with a fond expression, and after a short moment, he tugs Patrick into a tight embrace, letting him nuzzle his head into Pete's neck and smile against his Adam's apple.

"Yeah," Pete grins, "Yeah, of course."

***

Patrick's fingers are cold and frozen, nothing but a thin layer of a wool glove across each hand. Pete's pulling the blond closer as they stare up at the grinning snowman. Pebbles for eyes and a mouth and buttons across its front, a carrot for a nose, and a hat to top it all off. Pete has his eyes shut against Patrick's collar, smiling warmly in the warmth of the moment. It's nice, it brings him a happy feeling that he can't quite grasp, but he knows right then and there that he'll never forget it.

"One more thing," Patrick whispers. Pete pulls off him to open his eyes and see the other dig through his pockets with a determined demeanor. It takes a few moments but eventually, he finds it and out he pulls a necklace. It's a heart and Pete knows it was expensive, but there's no way in hell it was a mistake. Inside the jeweled heart resides five characters. pw+ps.

"As a symbol of one year together," He says gently, stepping forward and clasping it around the snowman's neck, "This will be our snow child."

"Our snow child?" Pete chuckles, wrapping a hand around Patrick's waist.

"Yes, and we're naming him Pubert, thank you very much."

"Oh my God, Patrick."

Pete grits his teeth as he tries to hold back his tears, there are too many tears coming, too many memories he can no longer suppress. He's tired and alone and he's been trying to just be okay for a full year, he's been trying to just stop but the cocaine had such a solid grasp on him and it wouldn't let go. Pete's trying, he really is. He needs his baby boy back, he needs his pretty in punk, he needs to be in Patrick's arms once again. He needs to be back to a better time, one where he's happier and he's not trapped by the drug. He misses their first year together. Their second year, and their third and fourth.

"Patrick? Hey, I know this is like my fifth call but I'm really missing you and it's Christmas Eve and you're probably busy with Mikey," The mere mention of his name sends tears to Pete's eyes and he takes another breath to calm himself as he continues through the snow banked roads. "How do you think it would be if I'd never fucked up? Do you think we'd be happy like we were before?

"Do you remember the year we made that snowman? And the one where I proposed to you and we made love? And the year we went through my old stuff? And the year you found that old polaroid camera and we took all those pictures? Or did you forget? I... I don't wanna remember but I know if I wanna move on, I need to. I need to just accept you've left me. That maybe Mikey's better than I'll ever be."

Beep!

The message is over but Pete's not giving up, he's still on fire, he's walking faster and shouting into his phone. People are staring at him but he doesn't care, he's breaking and spiraling and falling.

"Maybe I just need to accept that we're over and you'll never love me again, and that Mikey was there for you when I wasn't and that you're the most amazing boy in the world and I'm just some stupid druggie who fell in love with you. And maybe I need to just realize that it was never meant to be and that going cold turkey won't change a single damn thing. Are you there? Are you there for me like I could never be for you? Answer me, Patrick! Fucking tell me I'm not going insane! Because I don't know anymore!"

Pete runs his fingers through his hair as he continues to walk, a waterfall of tears flowing from his eyes just like the cocaine down the drain. His phone is in his pockets and he's squeezing his head, desperate to make these thoughts go away. Desperate to forget about everything that he's ever been through. Like the second year they were together, the year they found all of Pete's memories in that box in the attic. The year that Patrick learned all about who his boyfriend really was and all he'd ever been. Patrick had thought that everything Pete went through before they met wasn't too bad for him. That he'd lived a fairly easy life. He had no idea how bad it really was for Pete until that day. It hurt both of them. Pete for showing just what had happened, Patrick for learning about the hardships of his boyfriend. They opened up to each other much more than they'd ever opened up to anyone else. And it was painful.

So fucking painful.

"Hey, Pete!" Patrick calls from upstairs with a voice loud and attention-grabbing. Pete's down in the living room, half asleep on the couch, gazing at the TV when he replies, calling back up with a loud, "What?"

"What's this box up here for?" The blond calls back down, his lip between his teeth and his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Pete knows that's how he looks, he knows that's always how it goes when Patrick's confused. It's kind of cute in a dorky kind of way, Pete loves it.

"Which one?" Pete calls back up. He knows Patrick's looking through the attic because apparently that's what normal people do on Christmas Eve. He's been up there for the past hour, screaming about spiders here and there and Pete's been chuckling from the living room, watching Santa Claus and Elf and other cheesy Christmas movies he hasn't watched for a while. He really wishes Patrick would join him, though.

"The one that reads 'Do Not Open Unless You Are Pete Wentz.' I really wanna open it," Patrick calls back. Pete hears him lift it up and head down the stairs, stumbling somewhere in there making Pete wince. He's standing up by the time Patrick's in the living room, setting the box down and panting. Pete can't help but notice how the sweat makes his hair cling to his forehead and it's kind of sexy. He loves it.

"Can I open it?" Patrick asks, raising his eyebrows. Pete looks down at it, sighing long and loud before he nods in agreement, smiling weakly and sitting down on the floor next to his boyfriend, resting his head against the blond's shoulder with tired eyes.

He hasn't opened this box in years, and everything inside of it is holy to him. Each and every little object contains some sort of value. He isn't sure why he still has it around when he barely even opens it but he guesses it's because he needs something to stay the same when nothing else can. It's him coping with change and everything he's been through. All the lows and the highs.

Pete takes a breath as Patrick opens it and takes in everything in front of him. The first thing he grabs is a stuffed teddy bear, covered in a few stitches here and there. Pete sighs, as Patrick frowns and looks over to the darker haired man.

"What is it?"

"It's a memory box," Pete replies, "This was the stuffed toy I loved as a kid. I named him Fred and I wouldn't let go of him no matter what. I took him everywhere I went, even to the bathroom. I really hope he's been cleaned since then."

Patrick chuckles then smiles fondly as he looks over at Pete and strokes the stuffed toy's cheek, "He's cute."

Pete hums in reply as Patrick hands it over and digs through to grab the next item, a hardcover book by Stephen Chbosky. Across the top reads in big letters, "The Perks of Being A Wallflower." Pete parts his lips and says, "I loved that book, got me through middle and high school. I liked the movie, too. I thought they were both pretty good and it got me into some decent music, too."

"Were you bullied a lot?" Patrick asks.

"Yeah, some." Pete takes it from Patrick's hands, obviously done with the conversation despite the fact Patrick's kinda disappointed. The next thing Patrick pulls out is a large vinyl: Heroes by David Bowie.

"That was the first vinyl I got," Pete says, "I used to play it when nobody was around and dance in my room. I learned a few of the songs on bass, too. I fucking loved David Bowie."

"So did I," Patrick says with a chuckle. His eyes are bright blue as he cuddles in closer to Pete and sets the vinyl aside before pulling out the next object. An empty pill bottle. Patrick looks up at Pete, expecting an explanation but Pete's stopped short, eyes wide and mouth dry. He doesn't want to think about what that pill bottle is from because he's still not completely recovered from how low he'd gotten, from how much he'd just wanted to end it all.

"I uh..." Pete swallows as he takes the bottle from him and reads across the side. Peter Wentz, lorazepam, 2 mg tablet, commonly known as ATIVAN, take 1 tablet (2 mg) by mouth daily. He hasn't had to take it in years. He kinda wishes he didn't have to take it at all, though. He inhales sharply as Patrick looks up at him, slightly worried. "I went through a rough patch a few years ago. And... uh, I just..." Pete looks away, "I attempted suicide, I was going through a lot and my depression was spiking and I was at one of my lowest lows in bipolar disorder and anxiety. So I uh... went into a best buy parking lot back before I moved to Spokane and I downed the entire bottle of pills."

Pete purses his lips as Patrick looks up at him with a broken look, lips parted and eyebrows furrowed, "You really..."

He nods, and right as he does so, Patrick pulls him into a tight embrace, sighing and shaking his head, "I'm so sorry, Pete."

The other only shrugs in reply, leaning back against Patrick and shutting his eyes.

"I should be the one who's sorry."

"Don't say sorry. I love you. Please don't ever leave me. Don't try that again."

"I won't, I promise."

"Hey, Trick. Me again, it's been a couple hours since I last called. And it's fucking pathetic that I'm still crawling back to you. I know, I'm so sorry. I love you. And I'm thinking about doing things you would never approve of. I wanna see you. I wanna see you just one last time even though I know it wouldn't last and I know Mikey would kick me out because he doesn't want me to hurt you again but I just... I don't know. I want one last chance to say sorry. One last goodbye. I miss you, I love you, I fucked up so bad. I - "

Beep!

Pete's back at home, his hands are in his hair, and he's crying again, and he's breaking, and he's about to scream. He's desperate for relief, he's desperate for Patrick or anti-depressants or just another line. He just needs one more. He just needs relief one more time, he just needs. Needs. Needs.

"Hey, this is Patrick, I can't come to the phone right now 'cause I'm probably busy at the moment but leave your voice message and number at the beep and I'll try to get back to you ASAP."

"I need you, Trick. Please, please, please, I'm fucking dying, I can't breathe without you, I need you back, remember all those promises I made to you? How I would never leave you? And how you said I'd already left you? It was all a mistake, I should have known what I was leaving behind, I should have realized just how stupid I was to leave you like that. I should have realized what I had. Brendon, he just... he just fucked me up so bad. I should have never met him, I should have realized just everything I was leaving behind. I'm... I'm dying here, I really feel like I'm dying and choking and drowning without you. You need to save me... You need... Please, Patrick. Please, I..."

Beep!

"Pete, look what I bought!"

"Is that a fucking Polaroid camera?" Pete chuckles, a simple smile on his lips as Patrick takes a picture of the Christmas tree, then of him, throwing both of the pictures down on the table.

"Maybe," Patrick grins, finally lowering the camera, "It was an impulse purchase at Best Buy, I was thinking we might be able to add them to that box we found last year, maybe... I mean if not, I understand, but..."

"I'd love to," Pete replies, leaning forward and kissing Patrick, he chuckles when the blond takes a picture of that, too. And again when Patrick pulls away and takes another one. As soon as they're printed out, Pete takes them, pressing them down on the table before sitting down in front of the fireplace and patting the floor beside him for Patrick to join him. The blond comes not long after, sitting and leaning his head on his boyfriend's chest, eyes shut and a warm smile across his lips, Pete adjusts his gaze to look down at the shorter boy and just kind of takes him in. A chubby face and gentle blue eyes lit bright by the fireplace, rose colored cheeks and little blond eyelashes lining his now-open irises. He's fucking beautiful and Pete... God, Pete never wants to leave him.

"Can we dance?" Pete asks, "I found that record player in the attic, and we have a vinyl in my memory box. I just... I dunno... It's been three years now."

Patrick meets his eyes and before Pete can continue, he leans up and captures his lips with his own, eyes shut and hands warm against his jaw.

"Of course, P, anything for you."

"I love you. So much."

"I love you, too." Patrick smiles.

***

"Put your hand on my... no, not there. On my shoulder, stupid, have you ever danced?" Patrick laughs.

"Yes, I have. But the thing is, you're thinking that I'm the bottom in this relationship," Pete mumbles, squeezing his hand firmly back on Patrick's shoulder.

"I'm not the one who tried to hide my sparkly, purple 10-fucking-inch dildo from my boyfriend," replies Patrick. "You're a fucking slut, Wentz, and you know it."

"Shut up, Stump," Pete growls as Patrick places his hand on Pete's hip and turns on the music with his free hand before tangling their fingers together.

"You love it when I tease," Patrick grins as they immediately begin to sway back and forth to David's voice playing loud and clear through the room.

"I, I will be king

And you, you will be queen

Though nothing, will drive them away

We can beat them, just for one day

We can be heroes, just for one day..."

Pete is laying in his bed, staring at the ceiling and watching the time pass outside of his window. He can hear the cheers of people outside, bells ringing and kids giggling. They're probably getting back from last minute Christmas shopping. They're probably having the time of their lives. Pete wouldn't doubt it, he's the only one who's sad this Christmas, and he knows it.

He's done calling Patrick, he's just so exhausted, and he feels so fucking empty. He just... He wants to die. He hasn't had these thoughts for years but they're coming in fast and hard. He's so tired, so fucking tired of everything and he wants... he needs...

"Are you out there 'Trick?" Pete whispers, "I need you, I need you, I need you, I need you. I need you."

He winces as he pulls his blankets up closer to his chest and shuts his eyes, "I need you. I need you. I need you, I need you. Are you listening 'Trick? I'm miserable, can you even hear? God, I'm... I wanna take those pills again, and I wanna slit my wrists and pretend it's all fucking okay for the next few hours I'll be alive. Do you want me to die? After everything I did? I feel like I should, I feel like I deserve it, y'know? I feel like I need to just... to just realize that I only had that one chance.

"Do you remember the way I'd put my hands around your waist and kiss your neck when you were sad? You'd always smile, always cuddle back into me. Always."

Pete blinks against the blindingly dark ceiling and turns, pulling his blankets in closer. His eyes land on the pencil and paper on his desk and his brain immediately starts working a mile a minute.

Maybe it really would be better.

Pete's fingers dance against the palms of Patrick's; a soft smile against his lips as they lay there on the couch, Patrick's head in Pete's chest and his eyes shut in content. It's been a long day, Pete's been out buying groceries and Patrick's been cleaning the house. They haven't gotten a moment to just be together all day, so they wanted to just... have a bit of time with each other, watching the fireplace and cuddling. Patrick's tired, Pete's nerves are high and he knows it'll be okay, but he can't help it. Honest.

"You're so beautiful," Patrick whispers.

"You're so cheesy," the other mumbles, but when Patrick punches him sharply in the arm, he gives in with a chuckle, "You're pretty, too, dude."

Patrick huffs in pride, and Pete bites his lip as he takes a breath and continues awkwardly, "Hey, so uh... I've been meaning to talk to you about stuff and... uh..."

Patrick frowns as he's pressed back into the couch, sitting up while Pete scratches the back of his head and clears his throat nervously. His hands are sweating and his eyes stay diverted from Patrick. The blond just keeps watching him, confused.

"I uh," Pete finally finds the courage to look Patrick in the eye. The other is returning a soft, reassuring look and his nervousness slowly melts away. He smiles right back at him and after a moment, he finally gets down on one knee and digs in his pocket for a moment until he finds it, and he holds out the little black box. He flips it open and inside sits a diamond and silver ring.

Patrick gasps, Pete lowers his eyes with the smile still there.

"Patrick, these last four years have been the best I've ever had, and I love you, so much, There's nobody else I'd rather spend the rest of my life with and... I never want to lose you. Patrick Martin Stumph, you are my sun and honestly, I'm just the planets spinning around you. And there's no way in hell some loser like me could ever compare to someone as amazing as you, but... But I want to spend the rest of my life by your side. Forever and always," Pete clears his throat as he looks Patrick right in the eye and finally says.

"Will you be my husband?"

Patrick sinks to the floor, a wide smile on his face as he half-laughs, half-cries, pulling Pete close and nodding, "Yes, yes, I will, I will, I... God."

Pete kisses him, soft and innocent but it's not long before it turns hard and passionate, fingers tangling in Patrick's hair as he tugs the ring from the box and slips it onto Patrick's finger. The blond doesn't even look at it, only pulls Pete up and presses him down on the coffee table, taking pleasure in the moan Pete elicits. It's not long before Pete's pushing Patrick back, though, and mumbling dizzily into his ear, "Bedroom, not here."

Patrick understands, kissing Pete again as they fumble and trip their way to the bedroom, slowly shedding their clothing on the way. Pete's shirt comes flying off and Patrick's belt drops off somewhere in the hallway, Pete isn't sure exactly where, nor does he care. His fingers are fumbling too quickly with the button on Patrick's jeans as they fall back on the bed and Patrick yanks off his shirt with one swift tug. Pete's taking breaths, finally able to take in some oxygen to his straining lungs. Patrick's still on a roll, though, and he's not giving up anytime soon. Pete can only moan as Patrick trails kisses and hickeys down to the waistband of Pete's jeans, making sure to spend a long time on the tattoo decorating between his hips before he just tugs down the jeans and pulls back up to the other's lips.

Pete's gasping, whispering out quick, breathless "I love you's" and "please's" and "I need you's" and Patrick only replies with "I'm right here" and "I won't leave" and "I love you, too's" and soon enough Patrick's got his jeans off and has edged their boxers off as well until they're both naked, nothing but skin against skin, lips against lips and cock against cock. They're grinding and kissing and Pete's even beginning to cry a little. If it's out of desperation or love or just plain overwhelming emotion, Pete isn't sure, but it's in no way out of the depression he's familiarized himself with for so long. He's happy. He's so fucking happy, because Patrick is finally his, and he always will be and this is something so new and different and special.

Patrick stops for a moment, smiling down at the darker haired boy with a gaze of admiration and lust and so much passion that Pete can't even comprehend it all. It's full, and blossoming and he only pulls Patrick closer in the heat of the moment, crying a little harder into his chest. Patrick hugs Pete right back, hushing him as he sits up and pulls Pete down on his lap, pressing their foreheads together as he runs his fingers up and down Patrick's sides, smiling into his neck.

"You're so perfect," he whispers, "I don't want anyone else, I love you, so goddamn much."

"I love you, too," Pete chokes, "Please just... I wanna feel you. I wanna feel you, let me, let me feel you, please."

Patrick leans over to the bedside drawer, grabbing a bottle of lube and reaching for the condom but Pete immediately stops him, looking the blond straight in the eye and shaking his head.

"I wanna feel you," He replies, "Is that okay...?"

Patrick blinks, then nods, kissing Pete again as he pulls him up higher and adds a dollop of lube onto one of his fingers. Nether of them waste any time in prep because ten seconds later, Patrick's massaging two fingers against Pete's prostate and the bottom is only clinging onto Patrick and panting against his neck, leaving some marks and bruises here and there. Neither of them care, the world can see their love. Fuck it, they're getting married.

"So pretty, you're fucking perfect, Pete, you know that?" Patrick whispers, "I love you, so goddamn much, you're so perfect, so, so good."

Pete cries out as Patrick nudges a third finger in, hushing him gently and kissing across his neck and face and chest to try to rid him of the pain.

"I need you," Pete pants as Patrick begins thrusting all three fingers, stretching and scissoring him open, "I need you, now, please, make it burn a little, please."

"You're so needy," Patrick chuckles as he pulls his fingers out and kisses Pete a little more, adding tongue and nipping at his bottom lip with small strokes and a passionate tongue, "But I will. How do you..."

"Right here," Pete says as he leans back a little on Patrick's lap and grabs the lube from his fiancé to lube up his cock generously. Patrick gasps, but it's not long before Pete's fingers are gone and he's lining up and sinking down, wincing here and there as he adjusts to Patrick's size. He's big, bigger than just a few fingers, but it's more in his thickness than his length. Although, he's still a decent length. But Pete feels the burn through his entire being as he groans against Patrick's neck once again.

"Take it slow," Patrick whispers to him, "Okay?"

Pete nods in reply, kissing the blond again for a few minutes while he lets the burn fade and he finally begins to press himself up and down on Patrick's length in long, drawn out thrusts. He doesn't once disconnect their lips, though, only presses his tongue into Patrick's mouth and lets the other do whatever he likes. Pete hugs Patrick closer and in that moment, everything seems to stop. He pulls away from Patrick for one moment and smiles down at him with a small grin and he can't help but think about how fucking lucky he is to have such an amazing fiancé, and he hates to make it so cheesy but... but he's just so goddamn happy Patrick said yes.

"You okay?" Patrick asks Pete with a bit of a worried look, his eyebrows furrowed.

"I love you," Pete pants, breathless.

Patrick lets that sink in for a moment before he only pulls Pete in hard and they hug each other hard and close.

"I love you, too."

"Hey, this is Patrick, I can't come to the phone right now 'cause I'm probably busy at the moment but leave your voice message and number at the beep and I'll try to get back to you ASAP."

Beep!

"Hey, Patrick. This will be my last call for the night, but I just hope you know I love you. I'm not doing this because of you, but because... because I know that you're happier with Mikey, and maybe... maybe I could never be enough for you. I can't take back my mistakes, I can't change what I did to you. There's nothing left for me, y'know? I don't know that it would be any better if I got you back, so maybe... maybe this is for the best," Pete whispers as he finishes pressing items into the box and tapes it shut, sticking the note on top. In big letters in sharpie on the paper he writes: DO NOT OPEN UNTIL CHRISTMAS.

He knows what he needs to do.

"I'm gonna be over at your house in a bit, but I know you won't listen to this so it doesn't even matter. But it's extremely important that you don't open the box until Christmas. Okay? You can't ruin the surprise. Bye."

Pete hangs up and finishes taping up the box before he stands up from the floor of their attic and lifts it down the stairs. It's not too heavy, though, thank god, so he's able to get it down pretty easily. He lifts it onto the table and scratches the back of his head gently as he looks around and takes a breath.

He can do it. He knows he can. It's for the best.

"Congratulations, dude!" Brendon grins as Gabe pats Pete's back and they walk through the club to a wall where Will, Travie, and Ryan are sitting. Ryan and Travie have a blunt between their lips and Will's holding Ryan a little too close to be platonic.

Pete knows these people well, his high school friends and acquaintances that he's kept in touch with ever since they met. Brendon helped him pick out the ring, Travie was there for him most when he was recovering from his suicide attempt. And now, they're all here as he celebrates the fact that - fuck - he's engaged. Will's smiling up at him as he takes a seat and Brendon punches his arm playfully.

"How are you doing?" Will asks, holding a lanky arm around Ryan who's puffing out a cloud from between his lips.

"I'm doing really fucking good," Pete grins, leaning back on Brendon, "Soooo good."

"You sound high, Pete," Gabe mumbles as he lights his own blunt, "Ryan brought some stuff today, by the way. Said you might wanna try it."

"If we do, we'll have to go into the back, though," Ryan quickly adds, "We're lucky they let us smoke our pot but what I've got isn't gonna be as easy."

"What is it?" Pete asks hesitantly, eying Ryan as he digs through his bag and shoves a ziplock into his pocket, looking back up at the darker haired boy.

"Come with me," He says as he stands. Nobody else goes with except Will who just trails behind, watching their back as they head to the bathroom. It's empty, thank god, and Ryan and Pete go on ahead while Will stays outside with a small grin and a wink.

As soon as they're in, Ryan tugs out the ziplock and a syringe from his bag. Pete blinks back a sound of surprise when Ryan fills up the syringe and turns to him, "Clean syringe, I swear."

"What is it?" Pete asks as he reluctantly pulls up his sleeve and holds out his arm for Ryan to poke around.

"Cocaine, it's not as bad as they say it is, though," Ryan replies finally finding a good vein and pressing it in, "Trust me."

Pete trusts him.

It's the worst decision of his life.

Pete slowly presses the box down on the doorstep, listening to the items inside hitting against the sides with a solid thump before he stands up straight and gazes at the door in longing. He wonders what they're doing now, wonders if they're having sex in their bedroom. He wonders if Patrick likes Mikey more than he likes him. He thinks about these things much more than he'd like to admit but he can't help but wonder if maybe Patrick's happier with Mikey now than he ever was with Pete before the cocaine.

His gaze reaches the numbers on the thick, white door, his eyes lighting up at the bright white and blues that decorate the outside of the house. It's beautiful, it really is, he just... he wishes it weren't Mikey and Patrick. He wishes it wasn't Mikey Stump or Patrick Way. He wishes... He wishes it would be Pete and Patrick. And Pete Stump and Patrick Wentz. He misses the times where they'd put up lights on their own and sing the cheesiest of Christmas songs. He wishes, he misses, he needs.

That's when he hears creaking on the other side of the door and the knob turns.

His heart stops, and his stomach drops with wide eyes as the door swings in and there he is. Pete lets out an almost soundless gasp when their eyes meet and everything stops between them. He takes a startled step back, nearly falling off the porch but he catches himself before he gets that far. He's barely able to, though, because he's so focused on the mixed emotions crossing the blond's eyes as he stares. Pete is almost afraid that Patrick isn't even there, that it's all a dream but those emotions, they're far too deep to be a hallucination. Pete knows Patrick is there. He fucking knows. And it sends his head spinning and his insides twisting painfully.

But Patrick's eyes, they're still moving through a hurricane of emotion as they stare. Sadness, an empty, long-lost brokenness. Almost like a nostalgia for the disaster Pete brought on him but it's not long before anger comes crashing down on him. Anger and frustration and hate and Pete finds himself stumbling back off the porch at the pure sight of it.

"Why the hell are you here?" Patrick growls, slamming the door shut, "What the hell are you doing here? Pete, the fuck?"

"I-I'm sorry," He manages, finally finding his feet under him as Patrick kicks the box out of the way and marches forward. "I'm sorry, I-I just - "

"You just, what? Thought it would be okay to come crawling back to me? Have you forgetten every-fucking-thing you did to me? You're a selfish fucking asshole, Pete. Why the hell would you ever think it would be a good idea to come back? Why, Pete? Because you miss me?"

"I-I was just dropping off a present," Pete whispers, "I-I-I don't expect you to forgive me, I'm fucking sick... I j-just..."

"I hate you, Pete," Patrick replies, "I hate you and I hope you burn in hell. You're an abusive fucking asshole, and you'll never change."

Pete shakes his head with wide eyes and a fearful look as he slowly begins to back away with each bulleted word.

"You're a fucking leech, Pete, you're fucking joking if you think I'd ever forgive you for what you did. You're fucking worthless, understood? I never want to see your sick face again."

Pete's stumbling then running, then sprinting away, covering his ears while tears rise to his eyes. going, going, gone. He didn't mean for it. He didn't he's sorry. He's so. Fucking. Sorry.

God.

"Hey, um, Pete? Baby?" Patrick clears his throat nervously as he approaches the dark haired man, sitting back in his chair, glaring at the TV. "I-I wanna talk to you if that's okay."

Pete only grunts in reply, wiping his runny nose as Patrick stands in front of him, a scared look in his eye. Pete doesn't seem to notice, though. It's been three weeks and, god, he doesn't notice anything anymore. Patrick's just been too afraid to confront him about the white powder he's seen in his private drawers every day, until now. He's been too terrified about what Pete's been doing behind his back, he's been too afraid of what it means, of the change it's already brought. He's fucking terrified and he doesn't even know how he's found the bravery to say anything now. It took three weeks but now... now he's gonna do it. And he's gonna figure it out. They're going to figure it out... like they always have...

"I-It's just that... that I've noticed.. you've been different these past few weeks. And, I don't know what..." Patrick takes a breath in a sharp attempt to bring back his quickly fading courage. "I don't know how to help you... I saw the... I saw the drugs in your drawer, Pete, and I - "

"You were snooping around my drawers?" Pete growls, his gaze doing straight to Patrick with an intimidating look in them.

"We promised each other no more secrets," Patrick whispers, "We promised and - "

"And that doesn't give you an excuse to look through my goddamn belongings," Pete replies, standing up, "Quit acting like you know what I'm going through."

"I'm not saying I know what you're going through," Patrick says with a little more of an angry spark behind his words, "I'm not saying you don't deserve privacy, I'm just saying that if this gets worse, you're going to need help, and I'm here. I'm scared, Pete. I'm fucking terrified, because I don't know what you've been doing behind my back and - fuck - we've only been engaged for a month and you've already started doing things that you know I'm terrified of. You've already gone to... gone to drugs a-and..."

"And what? I've changed? I haven't fucking changed."

"You haven't kissed me in a week!" Patrick yells, "We haven't had sex in two. And I don't know the last time you told me you loved me. I'm just afraid of what it's doing to you! I'm afraid of... I'm afraid of what it's doing to us."

"Shut up," Pete grunts, "Just shut up. You don't know what you're talking about. My sex drive has been low, so what? Just go sleep with someone else."

"I'm not leaving you, Pete!" Patrick replies, tears rising to his eyes, "I'm not going to fucking leave, because we're engaged, and I love you, and I need you. A-and I'm afraid th-that maybe, you don't feel the same way... I'm afraid that- that maybe it's just going away and maybe you don't... you don't..."

"What?" Pete barks.

"Maybe you don't even love me anymore!"

Slap!

Patrick's eyes go wide in shock as his cheek turns a bright red. It's more out of surprise than pain, but it sends his heart beating fast in fear, in anxiety and panic and fear and pain and an overwhelming sadness and everything feels like it just... stops. Tears rise and fall down his cheeks in waves but he doesn't dare make a sound as he stares at Pete.

"Don't you dare accuse me of not loving you," Pete mumbles, "Don't you dare say that. You know I love you or that ring wouldn't be on your finger. Am I understood?"

"Y-Yes," Patrick replies, lowering his eyes.

He knows right then and there that things will never be the same.

Pete is running, running, running away from his nightmare. Away from Patrick but those harmful words are still cracking his skull, are still pushing and pulling through his mind. Leech. Abusive asshole. Selfish. I hate you. Burn. In. Hell.

He slams his door shut as soon as he's in the house, searching frantically through his drawers for something. Anything. Sharp, sharp, sharp. Sharp means it won't be painful. Sharp means, sharp means it'll hurt less. And maybe Patrick's words will really hurt worse than anything he could ever do to himself. He knows he needs to do it. He needs to prove to Patrick that he isn't such a coward that he's proven himself to be. That he's just as sane as everyone else. That maybe... maybe he really did love Patrick after all.

He searches through his kitchen, butter knives, forks, spoons. No, no, no. Can openers, bottle openers, bottles, glasses. He needs sharp, sharp, sharp like... like the knives! His head spins as he yanks out the biggest, sharpest knife he can find in the holder and examines it for a moment, eventually just pressing his finger against it. It's perfect. God, it's perfect. He loves it, and he hates it. And he knows it's for the best. Because it's nearly midnight now and maybe just as Christmas comes, just as the clock rings at its twelfth bell, he'll finally be at peace once again.

Maybe Patrick will finally forgive him.

He brings the knife out to the bathroom, taking breath after breath as he sets the blade down on the counter, then opens the closet and pulls out a bottle of painkiller. He doesn't need much, just enough to make the pain fade a little. The website he'd read so long ago suggested to just relax as much as you can. To just get your mind off of it. He knows it'll be over soon enough.

Once Pete has the painkiller down, he starts up the bath, warm enough for some steam to come here and there and for the glass to fog up, but it's not enough to burn.

He's just standing there, though, staring at the foggy mirror. He wonders if maybe it won't be worth it. He wonders if maybe this is a big mistake, maybe he should call Patrick one last time and tell him he loves him, just in case he forgot, but he doubts Patrick would ever believe him. Never again.

Pete wipes a strip across the mirror, not a sound echoing through the room except the steady rush of water from the faucet of the tub and he just stares. At his red eyes and his tear-streaked eyeliner and his disheveled hair and his defined chin. He stares at the stubble that's begun to grow and he stares at those dark brown eyes that only stare back. WIth one long, lanky hand, he reaches out and touches his reflection. And he knows the last of his sanity has left him when he whispers to the sad broken boy on the other side in such a terrified voice, it sends tears to his eyes.

"Should I?"

But the boy on the other side doesn't know.

He's asking the same damn thing.

"Christmas night, another fight

Tears we cried a flood

Got all kinds of poison in

Of poison in my blood

"I took my feet

To Oxford Street

Trying to right a wrong

Just walk away

Those windows say

But I can't believe she's gone."

"Turn the goddamn radio off, Patrick, I can't think," Pete mumbles.

Patrick's eyes rest on his limp body, sprawled across the couch. Sprinkles of white decorate his nose and his eyebrows furrowed in frustration as Patrick finally turns it off and pulls his knees to his chest, staring at the empty space in their living room where their Christmas tree would be. They would have put it up but Pete was too busy buying more cocaine and Patrick was too busy having a mental breakdown. He honestly can't help but to think about just last year, when they made love and Pete has smiled at him. How that only lasted for a month before it just went to hell. It's Christmas day all over again, but this is their first Christmas where the only gift they have is a box of chocolates that Patrick bought for Pete in an attempt to bring them closer. But, it did nothing. Pete is still passed out from the cocaine and Patrick is still horribly depressed. They are falling apart and the only person who seems to see it is Patrick.

"Do you love me, Pete?"

Pete frowns, opening his eyes as he looks to Patrick, "Yes, of course I love you. You know this. Why?"

"I-I dunno I just... I dunno. I can't remember the last time you told me."

There's silence for a moment, then, "Yesterday. And the day before that and the day before that. Patrick, I tell you that every day. If anything, it's you who never tells me that you love me," Pete replies, sitting up, "Do you?"

"Of course, I do," Patrick replies, eyes widening as Pete comes closer. His heart begins to beat erratically and his mouth is sucked of its moisture as the darker haired boy tugs him up to his feet and presses him against the nearest wall with a dark glare.

"You're a fucking liar, Patrick, and you know it. You've spent, what? Six years with me and you're still hiding behind petty lies? I thought we promised not to keep secrets from each other, huh? I've noticed how much you've been hanging out with Mikey lately. You think you love him more than you love me?"

"P-Pete, I-I don't love him, he's just a friend, please I - "

Slap!

Two gasps echo through the room. One slightly deeper than the other and at that moment, Patrick's heart plummets through his chest and his gaze turns with wide eyes.

Right there in the doorway stands Mikey with furious eyes and a clenched jaw. He didn't even hear the door open.

"Step the fuck away from him," Mikey growls. Pete does so almost immediately with wide eyes and a pounding heart. Patrick only falls to the floor, sobbing and clutching his cheek. The brunette wastes no time in coming to his side, hushing him and holding him tight against his chest.

"M-Mikey, I - " Pete tries to get the words out but it's no use, the other only helps Patrick up and hisses to him in six words as sharp and as painful to a bullet in Pete's leg.

"I hope you burn in hell."

Pete submerges himself into the running water, still fully clothed with a blade in his hand and Advil running deep in his system. He's calm, he's ready. He knows what he needs to do.

It's all over now.

It's going to be okay.

***

Patrick's fingers twitch against Mikey's hand, his eyes still glued shut with the exhaustion of sleep washed over him but his conscience wide awake. He feels the brunette pulling him closer and cold fingers tracing over his sides and a voice presses into his ear, quiet and gentle and warm. Patrick's heart races with excitement when he hears the words that come.

"Merry Christmas, Patrick."

The blond turns, capturing Mikey's lips with his own before he swings his body over the other's and straddles him, kissing him a little harder. Mikey chuckles, hugging him closer as they both melt into a laughing fit over absolutely nothing. But that's what it's been like for the past year. Patrick slowly recovering and Mikey being there for him in every step of the way. He's doing better now. He's learning, and he's living, and he's loving. In just the way Pete failed to do.

"Merry Christmas, Mikey," Patrick grins, "C'mon, get dressed you goddamn slut."

"You're the one who convinced me to have sex with you," Mikey replies.

"Shut up," Patrick says, kissing the other once more before he pulls out of bed, tugging on a hoodie and heading to the living room while Mikey gets dressed. His eyes land over the presents, wrapped in gold and red and green and white. With Santas and snowmen and snowflakes and reindeer. He loves Christmas. He really fucking does.

His eyes land on the only unwrapped gift, though, and his smile fades, instead replaced with an expression of confusion. Mikey found it last night when he had gone to check the mail. They hadn't heard the doorbell ring, not even a solid knock. And neither of them knew who it was from. Patrick swears he's seen the handwriting before but he has no idea whose it actually belongs to.

He grits his teeth and looks to the door of their bedroom. Maybe... maybe it wouldn't hurt to open that one first. He's curious, and confused and he wants to know who it's from.

So he grabs a box cutter from the kitchen table and pulls the present out. He rips off the note on top: DO NOT OPEN BEFORE CHRISTMAS, and finally cuts a solid line down the middle of the top followed by two more along the top of the sides.

The moment his eyes land on the objects inside, his heart plummets and his breathing catches in his throat. Everything seems to freeze up and he drops the box cutter and he feels his mind shattering. It's too much, it's too fucking much and he finds his stomach clenching so hard he swears he's about to puke.

Inside the box, sits objects. Almost as random as a college student would have but he knows better. He sees it all and he knows who sent it. And he knows something bad happened, he's just not sure what. There sits the Polaroid camera with several polaroids of him and the boy who he knows dropped this off. The David Bowie vinyl, The Perks of Being A Wallflower, their one-year anniversary necklace that Patrick had given him, a bag of Chai tea, a stuffed Teddy bear, the engagement ring that Patrick had left there oh-so long ago. An empty container of Ativan.

And there, at the very top sits a note, folded neat and pristine. Patrick pulls it out, tears rising to his eyes as he covers his mouth and takes a shaky breath. Slowly, slowly he unfolds it, and he reads just what Pete wrote out for him. Everything the boy wanted him to see and nothing Patrick wants to see.

Patrick,

I am afraid.

I'm so fucking afraid. Of how you'll react when you see this, of how Mikey will react. Will you even read this? I hope so, I really need to tell you some things like how bad these past several hours have been and how I'm trying really hard to keep the goddamn cocaine out of my system. I'm so sorry I never saw my mistakes, I'm so sorry I put you through that. I know that you will never forgive me for what I did, and that's okay. Neither would I, so I'm leaving you with my belongings in the hope you'll remember me when I'm gone.

I've gone cold turkey for the past 10 or so hours, I washed the cocaine down the sink so I can't go back to it, and I've called you at least 12 times now but you won't pick up. I've left you voicemails, have you heard them? I'm afraid of bothering you at this point, so I've stopped, but they're there.

I know this isn't much of a goodbye, it's hardly even good, but maybe that's just my luck. Maybe it just doesn't matter anymore. I don't know, but I do know I'll be gone by the time you read this. And I'm somewhere too far away for you to find me. I beg you not to follow. You have Mikey now, and I have to deal with my consequences.

I love you, Patrick. I always have and I...

I should have never laid hands on you. You're perfect. I love you so goddamn much. I'm going to miss you.

Love, Pete

"Pete," Patrick gasps, turning to the table with wide eyes and seeing his phone laying there. He wastes no time in unlocking it and dialing Pete's number. The way he's memorized it for so long, the same number it's been for the last six fucking years.

Ring... ring... ring...

Ring... ring... ring...

"Hey, it's Pete. I can't get to the phone right now so leave your name and number and I'll get back to you when I can, thank you."

Beep!

"Pete? Pete, it's Patrick where the hell are you, what happened? I got your present and I just - "

"Patrick? What's wrong?"

Patrick swings around with teary eyes to see a very worried looking Mikey right there.

"Call me. You better fucking call me. Don't do this to me, Pete. Bye."

Patrick hangs up and wastes no time in pulling his knees to his chest and taking fast breaths.

"What is it? What did he do to you, I swear to god - "

"He didn't do anything to me, Mikey!" Patrick snaps, "I think he killed himself last night. And I'm fucking freaking out."

Mikey frowns, " I doubt he did. You know, he's probably just trying to mess with you again."

"No, he's fucking not," Patrick growls, "Do you see that fucking bottle of Ativan right there? He attempted suicide before I met him, he's suicidal, he has a goddamn mental illness, quit pretending you know everything and with the sobriety on top of that... I... I need to go."

"Where are you going?"

"To Pete's house!" Patrick replies.

"He used to beat you, Patrick! Are you fucking crazy?"

Patrick glares at Mikey right in the eye and in one hushed sentence he replies.

"Pete is different from what you make him out to be."

And just like that, Patrick leaves.

***

As soon as Patrick arrives, his stomach drops and his eyes widen. An ambulance and a couple cop cars sit outside of Pete's house. His parents and his sister are there, Peter talking with an officer and Dale sobbing on the ground, a blanket wrapped around her while Hillary tries desperately to comfort her. Patrick leaves his car as he runs to the house, tears rising to his eyes all over again. He needs to see Pete. He needs to know he's okay, he needs, he needs, he needs. It's not over, it can't be. Christmas isn't supposed to be like this. No, no, no.

"Sir!" A cop shouts as he ducks under the police tape and runs up the stairs of Pete's house. He looks in the kitchen, in the bedroom, but there's nothing. That's when he hears talking in the bathroom and he immediately heads there.

And then he sees it.

Pete's being loaded on a stretcher, but it's obvious there's no way he's alive. The tub is filled with a dark red and his wrists are covered in dried blood. He feels everything come crashing down on him and in that moment, he desperately wants to be dead. Because Pete is, because that man that he loves so desperately is gone. And he's not coming back.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," A cop says from behind him, seizing his arm and pulling him back.

"No!" Patrick screams, "No! He's not dead, he's not dead! Please!"

"Sir!"

"Stop it! Stop it, no! Please, please, I just - "

But Patrick's being dragged away, back downstairs and out the door, past the tape and out to the lawn. He can't go back no matter how much he may want to. It's over, and he can't do anything. The world is falling apart around him and he can do nothing. He is trapped, he is a rat in a cage and he may be nothing else.

He can't wash the blood from his memory. He can't wash away those pale, bloodless fingers or those wide open brown eyes. He can't wipe the memory of his dead fiancé from his mind and right then and there he falls to his knees with wide eyes, tears drowning him out until all he can hear is the ringing in his ears, all he can feel is the cold of snow falling from the sky, all he can see is the blurred streetlights and all he can think is of blood, blood. So. Much. Blood.

And in that moment, Patrick swears he can feel arms wrapping around him and lips on his neck. And in that moment, Pete is there with him. And in that moment, everything goes silent.

"Why?"

It's so broken, so afraid. And Patrick knows it's useless to ask, but Pete hears, and Pete replies with hushed words into his ear.

"I'm so fucking sorry."