I awake not to a doctor checking in on me by adjusting some path of wires to fit better on my skin, but the lilypad of lips on my forehead that converts to an epidemic.

Groaning, I shift in my bed, still caped in a black scene to rest myself. "Do they have dogs in this hospital?" I joke, half playfully and half seriously, because I haven't had the faintest clue what's going on for the past week, and an intrusive species is now attacking me, so the difference between a human and a dog is nearly indistinguishable.

"Patrick, I have some good news for you," a voice burbles, sluggishly shaking me awake when I don't react to more kisses on the nose, only swat them away.

I've become desensitized to what people call good news, because I'm either really indifferent to everything or ready to fucking shoot myself, so good news doesn't belong on the spectrum of metaphorical hell, but that doesn't mean other people can't enjoy the pleasurable experiences of life (though I have no idea how Pete would judge himself worthy of that scale), so good news is good news for them and most likely not for me, but if they're happy, that's the important thing.

Ever since I met Pete, I've wanted him to be happy, even if that meant I wasn't, and the voice that composes a love song in my ear is the one who doesn't need a love song for me to cherish him, so I figure we both got the lucky draw and trapped the universe in a loophole.

If loving me makes Pete happy, then anything that would make me less attractive to him would be reversing his fate and isn't viable in the rules of this labyrinthine game that we're unintentionally a part of, so I'm practically untouchable to the devil of this circus.

With that, I continue to lather the melody of Pete's voice over me and refuse anything else, even when he's beseeching me to listen to him, because each time I speak is a cessation to his own tune.

So I refuse to sever my lids' devoted connection to each other, rather stringing out a wordless and groggy "Mhm?"

"You've been discharged."

That refusing attitude has gone on for long enough, yeah? As a solution, I do indeed disjoin my lids to behold a glowing Pete Wentz and mimic his radiance for myself. "Really? I'm out of this place?"

A smile mitigates his posture as it permeates every piece of him and illuminates the already blinding room. "Yep, we got the report from Elisa this morning, but I just wanted to give you time to sleep before I told you. The past few days have been hectic."

"Clearly." I push myself up to discover the absence of all the cords and wires drinking my blood, and my clothes have been piled on the end of my bed for me to change back into. "Can you turn around please?"

Pete nods willingly, recognizing my wish of getting dressed and rocking back and forth as I do so.

I've grown accustomed to the ugly hospital gown, but it provides me with a sort of freedom that I don't like to wear. Being enclosed in tight pants and tucked shirts is how I can be positive that I don't just fucking fly away or something, so snuggling into my button down and skinny jeans is the best sensation in the world (or at least the safest).

It took a few hours to acclimate to the hospital gown, but promptly after my regular clothing envelops me, I'm back to normal, like this is where I need to be. This might be correlated to the notion that I'm hostile towards unfamiliar environments for fear of being destroyed by things I never weighed properly, and I've been trudging through the maxim that proclaims it's better to be safe than sorry.

"Are you ready, Patrick?" Pete asks, back still turned to me in a value of my privacy, and I respond by sporting his fingers in mine as a fashion.

"Thanks for staying with me," I murmur while walking past the same doctors and nurses I approached (and sometimes rolled into) yesterday, though our course is a slow and steady gait meant to help rather than harm like I did previously.

Pete bumps into me whimsically, and we teeter back and forth in attempting to balance ourselves after the brief ordeal. "Yeah, of course."

We're greeted in the lobby by a festive party of balloons and chocolates and flowers, beaming cheeks habituating the parched area as they chirp for me to join them in their cheer that thrives in the fact that I'm surviving this very moment.

"Patrick!" Lindsey warbles, constricting me like the strawberry candy grandma that she definitely is. "I'm so glad you're okay!"

Gerard surrounds me as if he's Lindsey's aging husband (I get that dynamic from them often, mostly because one of them is a mother and one of them is immature like lots of husbands), keeping his distance so as to not overwhelm me.

I'm leaked from Lindsey's clutch finally in order to make way for an all too zealous Frank Iero, who clogs my airways more so than the prior woman did, and suddenly I want Lindsey back.

Frank then also absolves me of my bonds, and I anticipate another guest to my hold until I realize that the only person who has submitted themselves is Dallon — with Brendon and Ryan struggling to collect the chocolates that pommeled the floor after they got a bit too excited for my return — but my attacker never rises to advance. Perhaps he knows his boundaries more than I gave him credit for.

That doesn't stop him from staring me down, and the commune between is far too awkward for my taste, but the flamboyant Brendon is the only one that can save me after abandoning Ryan to clean up the remainder of the chocolates, suspending me in the air like I'm a baby or something just as weird and kinky.

Fostering a monotone, I comment, "Oh, you're back."

"Are you not just bubbling to see me?" Brendon sprinkles his phrase with a tighter squeeze than ever, remaining to hold me in the air while my friends watch with timid expressions.

"Bren, leave him alone," Ryan chuckles, a film over his tone and a hand over Brendon's quaking shoulder.

"Whatever." Brendon drops me to the floor without a warning, and Pete rushes to equalize my feet so that I don't have to invest in another trip to the hospital.

I vocalize a quick thanks before my doctor converges on me with a simpering aura corralling her. "I'm sorry about your mom yesterday," she apologizes, an unnecessary sentence meant to console me but only encloses her in the belief that it was her fault.

"It's nothing." Jogging a hand through my hair, it masquerades as a distraction from yesterday's harrowing events — to think Dr. Saporta could become my new father.

Pete observes from his spot in one of the chairs, prepared to move if he ensnares anything suspicious. Does he even trust me anymore? I'm wallowing in his love, not Elisa's.

"Well anyway...thanks for being so patient." Throttling her extremities, she leaps into an embrace (non-consensual at that), swiping my delicate limb while she's at it.

Pete jerks in his seat, and I can't decide whether it's because this stranger is hugging me or because he noticed her touching my arm, and I hope the latter, as I've never considered Pete to be petty enough to be bothered when I interact with people other than him, but he's looking out for me either way, and I should be, too.

I should be noting upon the tingling writhing inside me as torsion swamps my arm, but it burns too much for me to form coherent thoughts about it, about this hell in which I'm unfortunately living, and all I understand is that Elisa may as well be Dallon in his cottage two years ago, and I may as well be dying.

Don't make a scene out of this. If you do, Elisa will hate you forever and kill you the next time you wind up in this hospital with an injury even more fatal than a first time seizure. I'm so self-centered, hogging all of people's attention, and conducting an outburst will just prove this opinion for the worst.

So as an alternate resolve, I endure the rest of the hug and reverberate against Pete's torso after it's done (though languidly, so Elisa doesn't suspect anything), and the itch breeds under my skin until hydrogen peroxide is more of a savior to me than Pete, and yes, it's shameful to say so, but my compulsions have always been a first in my mind, and as much as I love Pete, he can't replace what's been grounded for two years.

He's trying, though, with the thoughts he projects into my hair as his chin partially muzzles them. "Are you okay?"

I don't really give a shit anymore if that's the most frequently asked question given to me, because the answer is always the same in my head and varying in my actual words, so resounding it has morphed into second nature.

"Perfect." My timbre is the shuddering of doors during a storm of hydrogen peroxide that I'm sheltered against because I'm told it's safe, but I want to get out, want to dance in the acid rain, want to be blinded by the very thing tasked with protecting me, and most of all, I want to feel safe out of my own childish accord.

~~~~~

A/N: how did I manage to extend this chapter (((because word counts are my shit)))

current vibe: how Aaron says "motherfucker I'll be back from the dead soon" in Hollow Moon by AWOLNATION

~Dakatie