When I kissed Pete, I was in a bathroom stall for an hour with the intentions of sorting through the variables, but with Dallon, it seems like nothing special, and it's perplexing how my friend is a load and my attacker is a casualty, when it should be the other way around, or at least be equal in the troubling field.

But it's not the kiss I'm fretting about — it's the aftermath and what transpired before that caused it.

Speaking of the cause, I should be with Pete to make sure he doesn't kill himself on the pills he says he doesn't take, but he would probably continue with his endeavor and barely pity me when I observe his death, but then again, he wouldn't want me to miss the show either.

So in a state of indecisiveness, I find myself sitting by the lake, submerged in the snow without a jacket to absorb my heat, but with the status of my soul, it's not like I have any heat for it to absorb.

And I'm perfect fine (for the most part), so seeing a drunk Frank Iero stumbling into my path and crashing into the ground beside me is quite the shock.

A half-empty beer bottle wades in his hand, towed around by jittery phalanges, and his hair is even messier than Dallon's. "Hey, Patrick!" Frank squeals, underestimating his sonority.

"Um, hi, Frank."

I've never spoken to this Iero kid one on one before, for he was always with either Gerard or Lindsey, endeavoring to appeal to both of them, and I've been the meek guy in the corner that no one dares talk to because they're afraid of hurting me, so those roles haven't been compatible yet.

"So how are you?" A pinched smile fits Frank's visage, stereotypical of teenage girls ready for gossip.

"I'm doing well, except for the fact Pete's about to fucking die, and even after I knew that, I kissed Dallon."

Frank's expression is miffed, partly because I snapped at him, partly because he didn't realize Pete is in danger, and partly because everyone can tell I hate Dallon. "Well why did you do that?" He appears genuinely confused, and I somewhat pardon him, primarily because he's drunk and insensible.

My vision circulates the pillow terrain of my hands, made soft by the lotion I refuse to apply to my arm but continue to apply elsewhere. "Because I couldn't control my emotions."

Frank pats my knee reassuringly, the best he can do in this intoxicated perspective. "We all have those days. You just gotta get through them, and then you're a-ok." A proud beam shades his pale face, unsure if his advice was helpful, but he's interpreting it with his own judgment, regardless of whether or not I'm still broken down.

My head whips around to glare at this Iero fellow, unnerving for him and fueling for me. "But those days aren't every day for other people."

"Are you constantly tormented by it?" Frank's words are dedicated to his feet, rinsed in scruffy tennis shoe materials and splattered by snowflakes.

"Basically."

"Try alcohol," Frank recommends, beer luging down his throat. "You'll feel great."

I flick his bottle delicately, examining it for a conclusion of "why the hell would I do that?"

Frank shrugs. "It's what I do."

"And you're drunk." I cock my head, disapproving.

"Fair point." More beer rides a toboggan down his neck, sliding around while he attempts to speak. "But I'm not quite drunk."

My brows arch, an aqueduct for the ebbing snow surrounding our frozen figures. "Oh?"

Reflection establishes its trade on Frank's rouge lips, playful in nature. "It's a memorable kind of veneer."

A scant chuckle blows out of my lungs. "Being known as the town drunk isn't as memorable as you'd probably like it to be."

Frank disagrees with a mere turning of the skull. "You get some intriguing information when people think you're passed out."

My arm juts out to smack my new friend. "You deceptive bastard!"

Frank better not have been watching me since he came, or else my paranoia will understand no boundaries. I thought I was doing well with keeping my fear on the down low, but this...what if he installed cameras around the house?

I kick my questions from their throne of pretentiousness, calming my mind temporarily. "Even if the information is enticing, I'm not risking an alcohol addiction."

"Whatever." The remnants of Frank's drink are shoved into his mouth, and the glass fidgets in his fingers once vacant of a beverage. "Your loss."

"Not really," I negate. "Pete's still rotting, so I'd rather not have two of us dead."

A sigh unwinds from Frank's esophagus, troubled and frustrated. "You need to stop worrying so much about him."

"Excuse me?" I clear up.

Frank slackens a bit, illustrating his perception of the case. "Yeah, I don't want to have to arrange his funeral, but I don't want to do the same for you when you die of stress from managing Pete's emotions instead of your own."

Panic sunders my stomach, fabricating shredded scraps of phobia that act as another force who won't leave me alone. "But—"

Frank's hands position themselves to soothe my consternation. "Patrick, it's all right to take care of other people, but you have to take care of yourself first and foremost."

My body shivers under my clothing, uncomfortable in this anecdote of pressure. "What if I don't need to?"

Exasperation flosses my friend's hazel eyes as he grapples with aiding me. "You said you didn't want two of you dead, so don't let that happen."

I face away from Frank — lying's easier that way. "You seem so confident that it will."

"With your rebellion, it's probable."

Now that Etep has been banished from the kingdom of my brain, I take it upon myself to procure alarms when accosted by tyrannical people such as Frank Iero, and dodging him is part of the procedure. If he won't believe my side, then why bother with him? I know what I'm doing; I've survived that way, and even if barely, it's enough, because at least my life isn't completely riddled with Dr. Saporta's bullet holes.

"I'm tired of people controlling my life!" I shriek, spooking Frank. "I was born to do as I please, but apparently now that I'm all messed up and shit, that gives people the right to treat me like a pet!"

"Patrick, that's not—"

"Don't you dare." My tone is icier than the climate around us, and Frank comprehends that, too, reeling back for fear of my rage, and his fear unexpectedly drives me for more anger.

But it feels strange, like this isn't how I'm meant to react, because it's obvious that I'm wounding Frank, determined by the quivering ocean in his irises, and I've never purposely done that before.

Yet Frank doesn't seem like the person to be timid often, but perhaps it's the unpredicted volume of my lexemes that command such a response from him, though either way Dr. Saporta will not be thankful.

I haven't conversed with him since we traveled to Caribou, to this house with many mysteries hiding in the people who reside here, so he's most likely scared shitless at the thought of his absence and the impact it will have on me.

I've discovered that there actually isn't an impact, because I'm absolutely fantastic, but that may be a false truth with the recent occurrences, but no matter how disoriented I am because of those events, I'm still sitting in the snow with a nervous Frank Iero, and Pete Wentz might as well be dead.

I'm a terrible friend for accepting that, but any real friend would know it's plausible, too. Even an enemy can decode Pete's moodiness as a petition for the grave — it's not like they'll give a fuck, but they'll understand what's happening nonetheless.

Maybe I do aim to leave Frank in the ice and tend to Pete like a helpful companion, but Frank is still as tenacious as he was when I first shouted at him, and I can never suppress the magic of a puppy dog gaze.

So I crumble.

"I'm just saying you don't know what it's like to be reprimanded for things you can't discipline, what it's like to never own your mind to instead cede it to a militant voice, what it's like to hire an amateur of a psychologist who thinks incorrectly that he can solve your problems, what it's like to drown at the sole mention of a person, what it's like to kill yourself and be resurrected for more torture without consent." Tears polish my eyes, amputating any trace of balance, and I prepare for the final punch. "You will never know."

Through this all, Frank is also prepared for his final punch. "And you will never know what it's like to go to rehab, what it's like to be paired with a cellmate that tried to fucking stab you, what it's like to always be monitored by people who only pretend to sympathize with you, what it's like to feel yourself slipping away when approached by the thought of alcohol, what it's like to know your health is declining but not seeing how that could be worse than the facility you've been in for a year, what it's like to never see the daylight in a literal sense, what it's like to escape a metaphor for the harsh reality." Contrary to my speech, no tears occupy Frank's eyes, rather a stone engraved with a soft screw you. "Now you will never know."

And suddenly that beer derives a function in my mind as Frank rises to flee this caustic adventure.

"I'm not drunk, Patrick," he states with his back cackling at me. "Because I've experienced enough of that sensation."

~~~~~

A/N: peroxide is now over 40k words woohoo

also I didn't intend for frank to be a rehab veteran but here we go

current vibe: that girl who was rolling her stomach in patrick's Spotlight video

~DaKurtCobaina