"Patrick, what's wrong? You've been avoiding me all night."

My spotlight transfers from selecting a movie on the shelf to my frazzled acquaintance, whose hands levitate in the air to express a demand. "I don't know what you mean."

"Don't play coy," Pete barks anxiously, and after an astonished scowl from me, his tone slopes down. "Sorry for being so aggressive, but there's something wrong."

You can't admit anything, or he won't leave you be.

Maintaining a safe stance from the vacancy of cameras in my room, my perspective stains the disc of an opened film package to refrain from meeting Pete. "There's been something wrong for as long as I can remember. There's nothing different about right now."

"I bet you say that all the time, yeah? And then you complain about no one understanding you, no one helping you." Pete's fingers skate through his dusty locks as a sigh rolls from his lungs. "Well I'm trying, Patrick, and you need to let me."

My arms collapse on each other. "I don't need to let you do anything. They're my issues, not yours, and even if you have an abundance of them yourself, that's irrelevant to me."

"Yeah, I do have an abundance of issues, and I've had to employ numerous psychiatrists to fix my fucking bipolar brain, none of whom have worked as well as the medication they gave me, so I know what it's like to struggle, and I am cognizant of the fact that it's not as pretty as society makes it (on the occasions that they acknowledge mental illnesses at all), but there are always going to be people who can relate with you, and I am one of those people, so please...if you value our friendship, tell me what's wrong."

You can't tell anyone anything. You already decided this, dimwit. You said you wouldn't let people see inside your brain. They'll manipulate you.

My tongue assails the rim of my mouth, pushing against my teeth to pass the time, while Pete is still as worried as ever, eyes creased with frustration. "Bipolar disorder, huh?" I elect to say, diverting the subject.

A strand of hair shuffles out of Pete's view. "That doesn't matter."

"That's what I always say, yet you try to force things out of me, but here you are, saying the exact same thing. Give me a moment to assess how hypocritical that is, will you?"

"I'm just trying to assist you," Pete whispers, gaze tethered to the floor.

"There is this voice in my head, and they don't want your assistance. I have to listen to them, not you. They've always been here for me, and you're just some kid from a daycare center that just happened to notice I was panicking and retained knowledge of a remedy for it. You're nothing special."

I can detect the spears piercing Pete's face, and his temple of self-esteem deteriorates into a murky dust, all because of a comment that I'm sure he's heard many times before. He shouldn't care that I've finally said it. I'm nothing special, either.

"Do you have a name for this voice?"

You just insulted him, and he only cares about what I'm called? Typical fool.

I pause and think. No, I've never considered what the terror that haunts my mind is named, and I don't really care, as well, but Pete's anticipating an answer, and I've been ghastly towards him, so the best I can do is comply.

"Etep," I declare without thinking, but it soon processes as a valid choice.

Pete's brows faint closer to each other in bewilderment. "Why Etep?"

"Because it's your name backwards, and Etep is the complete opposite from you. You're kinder than they are, smarter and more worthwhile, even if I won't confess to it regularly, so it's fitting, isn't it?"

Don't compliment people. They get too clingy.

But it's true, so I'll narrate it, and I've never had a sense of what I should and shouldn't say, so it really all blurs together, and this is no exception. Pete Wentz is beautiful.

"Etep," my friend repeats, mulling it over. "Thank you."

I wonder how finally addressing the voice in my head is cause for him thanking me, but I respect the gesture, and a smile unwittingly pulls at my lips. "You're welcome."

A metaphorical embrace flows between us, and Pete's throat shivers eventually, rumbling, "So why have you been avoiding me?"

Shit. We had shared an intimate moment, and he's back at my neck again. The allure is all but diminished from the room, the aura sickeningly emaciated and hell-bent on wounding us — or just me, because Pete is the one with the harmless query, and I am disastrously trapped in the crossfire.

"I shouldn't have told you what happened to me." It's remarkably honest for someone such as myself, and I note it as progress, but I shouldn't be rejoicing in this moment, for Pete's visage is ambushed with disappointment.

"And why is that? It's important for friends to articulate their feelings, and it's a consequential thing for humans to corner them inside themselves without acquiescing them." My companion's head propels back and forth with his fingers snagging the bridge of his nose. "I don't want you to be even more of the wreck that you portray yourself as, and the only way to escape that fate is to open up to me. I want you to know that I'm here for you no matter what."

"Fine." A burdensome shipment of breath embarks from my mouth. "I told my story as if it were D...my friend's fault, but it was me. I was the one who tried to leave. I was the one who cried at simplistic words thrown at me. I was the one who almost said something to my mother — I didn't, but I could've decimated it all. It was my fault, not his, and I fucking spoiled everything."

The urge to grab my hands and tell me something that needs to be heard bangs against Pete's face, but it doesn't shatter the glass. Only the words evade the barrier, crying, "It will never be your fault, Patrick. That guy fucking hurt you, so don't you dare blame yourself. What he did was illegal and unethical and more immoral than he said your departure was, and there's no one at more of a shortcoming than him. You're fucking amazing, and don't you debate that for a second."

Tears demolish my solidity, but I don't give a shit anymore. Too many years I've been locked up with the key thrown down the trashcan, and letting loose to just sob without judgment is a wonderful concept.

Pete won't care. He's known the same terrors, and maybe that's why he appeals to me so much, and I can't decide whether being just as disarrayed as him is a beneficial component of our relationship or not, but Dr. Saporta isn't here to vote on my opportunities for once, so I might as well enjoy my time.

But even so, Pete is wrong. The event was entirely my doing, and I've known that for two years. It's nothing new, not like a phase. It's forever, marked upon me with an infected needle and blood red ink.

Ambivalence composes a silent tragedy on my skin, accentuating its performance with an arduous rainfall, and I struggle through its volume to choke out, "You can't really think that all it takes is for you to say it for me to believe that it's the truth."

"Touch your arm," Pete orders, saluting his subject.

"What?"

Pete nods at my bicep to clarify. "Touch your arm where your old friend did, and just feel its complexities. Don't evaluate what transpired, only the vantage point from a third party. Did you grab your arm?"

My head wobbles to contradict.

"That's right. Your friend did, not you. He awarded you with post-traumatic stress disorder, with obsessions and compulsions, and none of that was your fault." Pete's eyes dig a grave for my denial into my soul to make certain that I understand. "Now touch your arm."

Grudgingly, hesitant fingers coast across my palpitating limb, the sensation introducing icicles and winter storms to the surface, and I surprisingly don't get strangled by its capacity like I suspected I would.

"See that? Your touch is real, not your friend's. His legacy ended two years ago, and I can't find him here with us, so he's definitely not holding contact with you. I know that you never certify your arm a passport into freedom, but you just beheld a credible taste of connection, and I'm so fucking proud of you, Patrick." A beam circulates Pete's demeanor, splattering liveliness on the walls.

"I'm not sure..." My lip suffers the sting of my teeth, nearly extracting blood, just because I'm an equivocal dimwit.

The boy giggles, banishing my comment to replace it with something more cheerful. "My new life goal is to assure Patrick Stump that it was clearly not his fault," Pete announces, shaping his hands to his hips. "And I always achieve my goals."

~~~~~

A/N: the ship already be happening damn

current vibe: when a grammar video put black bars over people's eyes to protect their privacy, even though they're probably in their 80s by now and look nothing like what they did in the clip

~Fapota