Nothing moves in the cottage under the Caribou skies.

The fire is but a heap of ash and embers whose flames were stolen by the thief known as the moon, and a rigor varnishes the wooden strips of the floor with a curt hush to the activities of the fluttering drapes.

No one is to know what schemes Pete Wentz is fulfilling in the isolation of his bedroom, but the night is a snitch and whispers a tale of foreboding into my ear before it's stifled by the protection of the walls.

And as my toes tattoo a burlesque onto the panels of lumber beneath them, the faint clicking of my friend's plotting is audible under the slit of his door, where quieted beams of light splinter the wood and alert me to the danger progressing within the confines of the area.

The melancholic droning of tears down one's face declares itself as the paramount ruler to any form of acumen feeding into Pete's cognition, and it shows by the vigilant lock holstered inside the knob and the muffled theatric of sobbing excavating the hall.

My fist stands at attention by the door, unsure of its motives, however helpful, but after an agitating pin against the ground in the shape of something more portentous, impetus is a drug produced a gallon at a time.

To my astonishment, the lock was never fastened at all, forgotten in a hurry to schedule one's own massacre, and as I enter, I'd rather the lock be sealed with superglue than confront this scene.

A monster of a being grovels in the space near my feet, an assortment of pills brandishing swords meant to injure the person who has already injured himself enough, and not a flash of remorse fashions his murky demeanor.

"Patrick," my friend warns, back eschewing me for the mercy of his drugs. "Go to bed. That's where everyone else is, and I know you love fitting in with the crowd."

My response wavers on the ledge of my tongue, not yet verbal arms outstretched to balance itself, just to fall back into my mouth and plummet down my throat.

"Frivolous," Pete mutters, a spit dredging his remark. "That's what you are."

A laugh spears my lungs with the intensity of this matter, shocked. "And what about you? Wasting your life on the pills you insist on hating?" My head droops in disbelief. "This isn't what I meant when I told you to take your meds."

"Then what did you mean?" Loose ends of malice disproportion Pete's generally easygoing personality, combing a shadow through its waters. "If you want the best for me, don't be so fucking ambiguous."

"It isn't my fault that you overreacted to a simple opinion!"

And in that moment, my companion's body rotates to present a masterpiece of prescriptions, spelling out the sole word no in medicated beads of spite that embellish his true inclination towards humanity, which is deeply outlined in his abrupt disheveled hygiene.

As I analyze the production, Pete's breath converses with mine as the flecks of gold in his irises become visible — and wondrously beautiful — and the silence is captured for the longest duration imaginable, but I break away, flustered.

I attempt persuasion from a different aspect. "Why were you trying to overdose?" My voice is the size of a mouse, scampering around the room in hopes of discovering an adequate reaction but returning fruitless.

All Pete does is stare out the window while its blinds are still crumpled over each other, as if he could make something out of the thin slices that board him from the outside world, because an effect is the exact opposite to what he's earning with the dismal hum he provides to everything.

"Why is it important to you?" Pete's sentences bang against the covered glass with his focus still solid, and I almost march over to him to see what he's so fixated on if there's a veil over it, but he would most likely cast me aside with a brutal grabbing of my arm, and a panic attack would draw a spotlight to me when it should be readily pointed towards my friend.

"It's almost like you want to die," I scorn, wrists chaffing my hips with the fierce velocity at which they pace to distract me from the shame of this situation.

"Well we humans tend to find people who are like us." Pete's neck swivels to address me, an eerie glow slicking his eyes. "So it seems we've both got a problem."

"I already have a psychologist. I don't need this, especially after you said that isn't how relationships work."

A slight pounce commands Pete's shoes, just enough momentum to startle me as he quips, "And you said that everyone wants help, and a psychologist has a doctorate in repairing peoples' twisted minds, so I'm pretty certain we fit the criteria."

"Psychologists aren't our friends, Pete." My stare is as still as the night, strong in a way that I've never been. "I thought you knew that."

"Psychologists are the ones who tell me to swallow my meds, though I find it cute when you tell me the same."

"You never listen."

My friend shrugs absently. "Yeah, but it's still cute. You're cute. But those pills — they are not cute." Sins tremor in Pete's eyes, pragmatic about one aspect of this debate.

"Do you think I give a shit about whether or not you like taking your pills?" My brows cramp, appalled at my friend's complaints. "Because I don't, but I do care about keeping your heart beating.

"The way you refrain from medicating yourself, you...you make dying seem like something skillful in denouncing any sort of solution, but that's so unhealthy for you." A sigh swings from my windpipe, depicting my insurmountable stress. "And I know that you don't owe society anything, especially your existence, but you better stay fucking alive for all of our sakes."

No response, only the pensive scowl of my friend who's walking the road to death.

"Will you do that, Pete Wentz?" I press, desperation on the cusp of wrecking my soul's faith.

The man acknowledges me with a subtle hint of poignancy in his eyes, and a word a friend never wants to hear is uttered. "No."

~~~~~

The malevolent wind tosses my step as it pays close mind to the tears wandering my face with an awestruck expression plastered onto its palette of frigid air that beats me up with every passing second, but after a few moments, the death feels nice, like it's what I deserve.

The concept that everything is my fault has been pounded into me since birth, and it's finally caught on.

And perhaps the person who caused most of that self-hatred will have something to offer me with the cigarette chatting with him in rings of smoke and accompanying the witty grin dangling from his nose.

When he sees me, though, the mysterious ambience is pommeled.

"What are you doing?" Dallon's inflection is flavored by bewilderment, severing the bond between him and his cigarette as his back straightens from leaning on the house.

Dallon's tie is crinkled under his fleece jacket, peering over the v-neck of his sweater and viewing its faded surroundings with a fresh vantage that no human could decipher, and his hair, usually gelled in elaborate coiffures, is as unkempt as I've seen it, styled by the tumultuous breeze, and even his eyes — those sapphire eyes — aren't onerous to look at, because they've been dulled by a burden sleeting on their owner to the point of a dusty layer upon glass, and it's all coated in irresoluteness.

The man looks so fucking innocent that it's difficult to remember how much he hurt me, how much my life dotes on the suffering, and I've become so cavalier to this scent that it barely means a thing what he did.

Even so, I could never love someone like him, yet it seems that my promises are off the table considering the vexing circumstances, and before I know it, Dallon's pressed once again into the wooden structure of the Caribou house, an old friend's hunger glossing his lips.

The affair is painful, and Dallon's breath reeks of decomposition from a familiar blade, but it's what I need, so our mouths are synchronized with the tears of dissolution and not a drop of regret, even though there should be a rainstorm of it.

The problem is that it feels so right, so natural, so much like the past, and it's anyway eluded me that the past is the thing chaining me to psychologists and pills and anxiety, but terror has become glamorous in this clutch, and we're both just scavenging for an excuse to relive it, so no one questions why I'm suddenly kissing my attacker and why there's no objection to the action, because it's consensual in the matter that we're simply laboring to collapse.

There aren't any people here besides us to witness our decease, and we could be dying forever, but I've had enough.

I peel away with a snarl tangling my face, berating both of us for being so foolish with the recognition that it was mostly my doing, and to evade the miffed countenance of Dallon Weekes, my ambition turns towards the water.

"Where are you going?" my assailant calls, fear taxing his volume, but I block out his pleas.

There's a lake near here. Maybe I can envision myself drowning again.

~~~~~

A/N: u bitches been fucked

current vibe: when my friend's mom dated a member of a band that looks like a mix between cybermen and furries

~Dakota!