I've been tossed into the pit of death and spat back out, and I'm clear in saying that this whole ordeal is more troubling than I would've thought.

Yes, not knowing whether your surroundings are real or not is a very dangerous experience, in addition to having the aforementioned surroundings teeming with hollowed skulls and the stench of decay, but the worst part about this is that I'm not certain that this reality is any better than my dream, because in my dream we had already gotten the news over with, but now my friends and I wait in the lobby of a hospital that gives zero fucks about anything other than Pete's body, and we're scared shitless at the possibilities of what could happen to him.

Everyone around is retains just the same apprehension, and some are about to be relieved of it, whether that's upon discovering that their friend is fine or discovering that their friend is dead or some other tragedy that never leaves. Even through this, I don't know the slightest thing about any one of them, even though we're mourning in the same position, and they don't know the slightest thing about me, and we have that in common, so while many people think that they're unique, we're all just the same humans destined for devastation, and those small details only contribute to how hard the fall will be. It doesn't really matter that I don't know anything about these people, because we'll all be dead before we hit the ground.

Even Gerard and Lindsey and Frank and Dallon and Ryan and Brendon and everyone with me don't know everything about my identity, as I don't know everything about their identity, and maybe it should stay that way, because no one wants to be heartbroken when they can't hold someone's hand while falling. It's more destructive like that, but I'm already being destructed by the anticipation of Pete's status regarding his declining health.

He doesn't deserve to die, and I realize that many people will say that over the span of their career in some sort of Christian dialogue, but Pete is everything pure in this world, everything pure that isn't perfect yet supplies the definition with authority, because purity isn't about being perfect, rather trooping through your faults, and it's okay that Pete was struggling, because that's how it goes with someone like him, yet someone like him is still pure and radiant and everything that I needed, but he's fucking gone, and now my head is in my hands, and Gerard is trying his best to comfort me amidst the chaos raging inside my mind, and it's not fucking enough for what I need. It's will never be enough, because what I need is Pete Wentz, and he is simply not here.

I'll search for him, then.

"I'm going to see Pete," I decide, not once looking back at my friends populating the chairs beside me.

"Have the doctors let you in?" Ryan asks, articulating a motherly tone that would usually be awarded to Lindsey, but she's busy reading a magazine while she stresses about the outcome of Pete's health.

Beginning to shuffle forward, a quip is trussed to my acerbic demeanor towards these circumstances. "Do you think the doctor's approval is imperative to me?"

Ryan shakes his head timidly, and I set off to locate my boyfriend, which goes better than I would've suspected, as I unearth his hospital room fairly quickly and step towards the window of the door to find a soporific Pete Wentz with a book bonded between his fingers, which he drowsily relinquishes upon seeing the doctor who has made her way into her room before I could snare a chance to.

They're conversing quite pleasantly, more so than Pete ever would've conversed with anyone else, and that leads me to believe that he's somehow not himself in this moment, that he's either damaged from the hypothermia or traumatized by revealing his true persona, and I want to help — I really do — but how will I explain my presence here? If Pete's not himself, who's to say that he'll allow me in?

Pete nods for a few repetitions, sprinkled here and there throughout the discussion, and with a sad smile, the doctor elevates to depart the room and leave him to his most likely ill-fated prognosis. The woman acknowledges me with a sole gesture as she passes, and it's my turn to enter the chambers.

My hands coalesce like I'm a shy schoolgirl being escorted to a dance by some kid who's probably not fruitful for me, but Pete has aided me more than anyone else, meaning that this shyness shouldn't exist around him, and I lock it away.

"Are you another doctor?" he inquires, and any clan of butterflies that had been marching through my stomach are now halted in shock.

Brows paralyzed in a narrow line, I attempt to make sense of what my friend is asking. "I'm sorry?"

"Are you here to check up on me for another test or something?" he clarifies, though I'm still as confused as I'll ever be.

"No, I'm Patrick. Don't you remember me?"

"Excuse me, but I don't know who you are," Pete duplicates, becoming nervous at my existence here. "I think you need to leave. The doctors said I'm not supposed to invite strangers in here."

"But I'm not a stranger—"

Hands whirled in a tremor, Pete's voice jars with indomitable anxiousness, and I should regret ever speaking at all. "I said you need to leave!"

I know this can't be occurring, but I know this can't be a dream, because the funeral consumed all of my imagination's power, so I have to confront the notion that this is real life, that everything I worked so hard to build is just eroding within my fingers, but there's no use in objecting to Pete's request, because I love him and want him to be happy, and I can't stick him with someone he doesn't know, a someone who is pining for him with every glance, so I surrender.

Recognizing faintly that all is lost, I journey towards the door with the hopes of abandoning him forever so I can minimize the pain, and to my lover I whisper a gentle "fuck you" before throwing him to amnesia.

I wind up dialing the number of someone I never would've predicted I'd need to telephone, but drastic times call for drastic measures, and immediately when the person picks up the device, I'm ready. "Come and get your fucking kid," I spit into the microphone before Joe can form coherent thoughts against me.

"Why? What did he do this time?" He's more panicked than disappointed, as Pete can usually take care of himself and doesn't ever come home for assistance, so this must be astronomical for Joe to hear.

"That isn't important, because he won't even remember you anyway, but you're taking care of him, so get your lazy ass over here and actually do something with your life in order to save his."

"Patrick, I don't know what you mean."

"Drive to the Caribou Hospital and pick up Pete," I reinforce, an acute stream of anger disparaging any sign of human sentience for something sharper, something cunning.

Digressing with the blade of a sigh stigmatizing his lungs, Joe whines like he's a teenager rather than a twenty-two year-old, a legal adult. "I knew he shouldn't have gone with you."

"Just shut the fuck up, Joe," I bark, moldering my foot into the tile of the hospital corridor. "You didn't give a shit about Pete, so don't pretend you know what's best for him."

Joe's tone slopes down into mishap, repeating my intentions in a degrading manner. "Yet you're calling me to retrieve this kid."

I laugh one cloud out of my trachea, enough to convey my amusement with Joe's skepticism and his belief that his argument is anywhere near valid. "I'm giving you a second chance with him. Now don't mess it up."

"You've got a lot of nerve," the man grits, suddenly enraged

"I could say the same thing about you, Joe Trohman, but that still doesn't help the fact that you have a kid on your hands, so hurry up." I punch down the button to hang up, cutting Joe's protests a bit short to return to my friends in the waiting room and deliver the news that Pete isn't the person they know anymore, that they've lost a friend that they knew nothing about but acted as though they cared, and they're definitely not entitled to the news, but they'll demand it anyway, and I'm far too tired to riot against them any longer. They should be warranted a break from my stubbornness.

Dallon will comprehend that hypothermia can fuck someone up more than they fucked themselves up, that amnesia is bound to happen in severe cases, that Caribou fosters one of the coldest climates in America and is prone to victims of its sting, and he'll comprehend that it was me who was actually fucked up by the event, so he'll try to hug me and comfort me and assure me that everything will be okay, but there's a fucking gap in my heart, and he's not the adequate puzzle piece to fit in there, but he's endeavoring nonetheless, with that garnet simper of disquiet below those fretting sapphire eyes, and he's expecting an answer, not because he gives a shit about Pete, but because he's scouring me for an aperture to my heart.

He won't succeed, though, because I'm not even sure that I possess a heart anymore after having it torn from me at the declaration that Pete has no clue that I was previously his boyfriend, and the shock provides me with a bit of solace to reminisce on the phenomenon that I feel nothing but blankness, so maybe an absent heart is better for me.

An absent heart will console me when it's time to inform my friends that Pete is forever wasted, and here they are, posing in front of me in the same blue chairs they were in thirty minutes ago, and my duty has been employed.

"We can go home," I announce, eyes pooled by my feet. "He doesn't remember us."

And for some reason, no one resists — not on their rise from the chair, not out the door to the hospital, not through the parking lot towards the car, not in the dreary trip back to the cottage, where we can guarantee that we'll be ripped to shreds.

The silence is a shot of liquor, and we're out like a light.

~~~~~

A/N: okay I had originally intended for Pete to die, so it's not as bad as you think gosh

current vibe: when I went to an Italian ice place and was bombarded by white girls

~Darkota