In the shelter of Gerard's van, the temperature was pleasant, donning a cozy status of seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit with the accessory of our body heat, but that's stolen away immediately after we step outside the car.

The area could've easily been mistaken for the North Pole, and I'm actually astounded that there aren't any elves trooping through the dense piles of snow, but elves of another form, beings floating along the winter breeze, bite at our cheeks on their way down the mountain, ushering the tint of blood to the surface of our skin to view its performance.

The weather website wasn't kidding when it deemed Caribou one of the coldest places in America.

Trees promenade across the jagged terrain of the bluff, wind flooding through the needles as if a flute and chiming a natural melody of the high elevation, an indigenous tune that sails through the birds' feathers with the tranquility of a breath and deposits cheer below their wings.

The old man of a house looming above us whirls a shadow against the flurries below it, demanding that the flakes' brothers detach themselves from its wooden structure, that they are not its insulation.

I stifle the eagerness to laugh.

Only the clicking of the trunk being slammed down distracts me from the frozen sights, Gerard suddenly tossing my duffel bag into my protected hands as his car keys jingle within his fingers, coated in the black fabric of his skeleton gloves.

I never really understood why Gerard bought those, but he's always been fascinated with death and all things Halloween, so I suppose this is just a component of his obsession.

In my delay, Pete has passed me and is carefully tiptoeing up the steps, shabby from the moisture of the snow. "Are you coming?" he laughs, departing his watch of Gerard twisting the key into the knob to gaze upon my shivering figure.

The words spur my legs into action, trudging confidently through the ground pommeled by snow since the beginning of the season. Delight whisks in my stomach, increasing when the door is pushed open by Gerard as I ascend the stairs.

My friends scoot aside to make way for my excitement, smirking to themselves at the accomplishment of animating me so fully and observing as my eyes twirl around the grand foyer like in a movie.

The property is entirely wooden, typical of the mountain lodges high up in the clouds, a lifeless fireplace directly across the entrance, just pining for a flame to dance inside its brick walls. A loft hovers over the sitting area, apertures to other rooms sculpted into its base next to a winding staircase lowering into the pavilion. Windows illuminate the space with periodic beams of sunlight intruding through the snow, and plush chairs are littered around the area for small talk. Tucked away below the loft are more rooms, portals as maple-stained as the rest of the home, otherwise plenty of space for many activities.

My focus is on the house, while Gerard's is on my amazement of it, as it should be — this is Gerard's building, so he's seen it before, but Pete hasn't, yet he's staring at me like I'm a diamond set against the sand.

"Isn't it beautiful?" I marvel, cheekbones priming in a broad smile.

Gerard provides Pete with a one-sided look — secret, sarcastic, and amused by our tacit connection — but Pete has no idea what his new friend just did.

"Absolutely."

Gerard's hazel irises flip back and forth between Pete and me, sharing the moment with us. "So this is all nice and lovely, but you need to pick your rooms, or else you'll have to sleep outside."

No one here fancies being buried under an avalanche that will surely thunder down the mountain in some strange superstition of Murphy's law, so in our hysteria, we bump into practically everything in our path as we dash towards the hallway.

Try not to sleep in the snow, dimwit.

~~~~~

A dimly lit room by the end of the corridor whispers subliminal messages in my ear like that one rap song that I try not to listen to, and despite the cringe-worth connotation, my feet find themselves being hauled towards it.

It's not like I'm complaining though, as the location is perfect for my obsessive needs, hastily pairing with the associated compulsion of swiveling the handle left and right before entering.

The scent of the area isn't so disparate from the rest of the house, only slightly dustier from not being occupied in a while (for all I know, this could be the second time the Ways have visited here, and what an honor it is to be one of the premiering guests) but a mere candle could spice things up without a thought.

Strawberry would be my preference, but I'm not sure how well that would go down with Gerard, who smacks strawberry-flavored candy to the dirt upon sight. It's linked with happy memories, though, so he may be more relenting.

Nevertheless, the slight tinge of lint is enough to force my fingers to my nose, gulping puffs of air through my mouth like the people I write off as "mouth-breathers", which are apparently frowned upon on society, according to my mother and the television.

Think about something else before you pass out, okay?

I nod externally to satisfy my mind, lobbing my duffel bag onto the blue-quilted bed in the middle of the room, a walnut board bowing overhead and accompanied by multiple paintings of Caribou scenery.

My imagination meanders inside them, visualizing myself firing snowballs at unsuspecting victims, strolling through an arctic square, and enjoying myself for the first occasion in a long time. It's nice while it lasts, but a hammering noise from the room down the corridor flicks me straight in the forehead.

Bursting through the door (but remembering to complete my ritual), my socks slide over the alder surface below me, unbothered by anything around my speeding body but the final destination. My mission is going well, until a force nearly knocks me off my feet, were it not for the acute reflexes of none other than Pete Wentz.

He tilts me upright, cheeks blazing from embarrassment, stammering, "Uh, sorry about that, Patrick."

I'm muted for a minute, olive eyes calculating. "It's all right." My attention never roams anywhere other than Pete's face, still flushed from the excursion.

After my acknowledgement of the apology, the sounds burrow into the wooden planks of the bunker, chattering quietly to one another about how the youthful silence is faring at its job, but the banging of a fist against a wall elicits their return.

"Get ready, bitches," Gerard yells, sass infused in his gait as he unveils his entire form from behind the structure. "We're going clubbing."

~~~~~

Pete's nimble hands labor to loop the cerulean tie around my neck (since I am so inexperienced, having never left the house for social gatherings), endeavoring with unbridled sympathy to perfect it, as if I care whether or not it's one centimeter out of line.

Gerard granted me one of his spares, along with a black vest that he managed to find in his closet at home, and though he's taller and broader than me (which can be said of almost anyone, to be honest), it's a stunning fit.

By some heavenly chance, dark dress pants and a pressed white shirt were packed in my emergency duffel at Gerard's house and fled to the mountains with me, so as I examine myself in front of the mirror by peeking around Pete's body, who is relentlessly stationed at my neck with the tie, it's a never before seen version of me.

And I'm determined to like it.

"I don't understand why we have to dress like this," Pete complains, brows bundled in a sable heap as he concentrates on twisting the blue fabric.

"Gerard is a classy lady." My lenses lock with my other pair as I speak, fabricated in the mirror to make it seem like it's actually me, which is oddly like the surveillance of whom I'm so frightened.

Don't think about that, psycho.

A wordless smile converges on Pete's coral lips, limelight chained to me. "Apparently. Maybe it'll earn us a good reputation there."

"We're not going back, are we?" Alarm crowds my oculi, calmness dispersing to under my feet, where it is promptly crushed unwittingly by my sensible shoes. "Even going once is enough for me."

Pete laughs, finishing the final touches of my tie and tucking it into my vest, a grin scheduled as the closing act. "We don't have to if you don't want to," my friend yields, shrugging neutrally as he, too, observes me in the mirror.

"How do I look?" I pose wildly, transporting myself to a peculiar online parody of something serious, but Pete is entertained.

"Absolutely wonderful. You'll make the people at the club jealous." He winks.

Shuddering through a veneer of peacefulness, it's all I can do to endorse my composure. You can't just break down on people without a warning, and I have no motives for obligating the sentences to emancipate themselves, so I lock my mouth like I've been doing forever and tell myself it doesn't matter, because Pete would argue with me about how it does, in fact, matter, that my comfortability is superior to an unnoticed panic attack in the middle of a public crowd, but he would be wrong, and you're frankly not supposed to correct your friends, or else you won't have them anymore, and I've spent enough time alone, so it's just a debate of perspective now.

So I smile and wave, the formalities, and prepare myself for the club and the terror that will ensue.

~~~~~

A/N: aye you're gonna love the next chapter

current vibe: when my friend called my two senpais "tomatoes"

~Dacryinga