My bike creaks agonizingly as it catches its breath by the store located directly beside the Belleville Development Center, but I don't care for its petty games, for it's time to rush inside to greet the beautiful Pete Wentz.

For the first time, a genuine smile clings to my face without threatening to detach itself and move to some other person — who most likely has an abundance of happy days — but it doesn't feel like it belongs to me. It's itchy, uncomfortable, tight, not tailored to fit me.

Frustrating, how I reject anything optimistic. Dr. Saporta says we need to improve this impaired function.

It helps, though, when Pete's face mirrors my own and seems authentically thrilled to see me here. His hair is messier than I had witnessed it the last two encounters, perhaps because of the ordeal that is herding children and ushering them away from any dangerous activities — which may have grown even more risky since I came here on Tuesday — though his Hudson River eyes gleam brighter than ever before.

Immediately after the door swings open, bells clanking together in delight, Pete saunters over, a certain pep residing in the soles of his shoes. "So excited about my text that you came all the way over here to answer it?" Following my frightful stare, he laughs and adds, "I was joking, okay? You're fine."

It's obvious he doesn't comprehend how much terror that text caused me.

A steady flow of oxygen departs from my lungs, returning for an item that it forgot and leaving once more. "My friend — you know, the one I told you about earlier — has another art show, but his brother is still here, so he asked me to pick him up again."

Pete's brows draw together like curtains. "I'm starting to wonder whether or not you two have any friends beyond this mutual network that requires you to do him favors every other day."

Is that a fucking threat?

A corner of my lips raises slightly, molding later into a full-fledged glow. "I have you, don't I?"

Eyes crinkling as a result of an enormous grin, Pete acknowledges, "That you do, and as a celebration, would you like to go to the cinema with me after this?"

Shit. Movie theaters are of the worst places to be when you're as tense as I am, with the mobs of people, the compromising content on the screen, the general atmosphere. They haven't been safe for me since I was injured both emotionally and physically, but that disposition isn't so different from anything else.

They're a trigger for questions, such as, what if someone touches my arm? What if I take too long purchasing tickets? What if I have a panic attack in the middle of the film?

By the looks of it, you're having a panic attack right now.

I wave off the voice that just now returned after an hour of dormancy, studying Pete's hopeful expression. How can I let him down? He's done so much for me in the short time I've known him, but that'll all be ruined if I don't approve.

How I yearn for the days where a public setting was nothing terrifying, only one bit in a world of monotony. I used to venture outside often, talk to the neighbors, invite the urge to pet strangers' dogs. Surely that person isn't too far down?

Ditching your psychologist won't help you find it, though, you cowardly bitch.

Maybe I don't want to, then. I'd rather not return to Dr. Saporta.

"I have to take Mikey home, sorry," I surpass, guiding the fidgety kid over to me with a flick of the wrist, and he falls by my side a moment later.

"Is Geewad at art show?" Mikey inquires, tugging on the leg of my pants like a puppy tugging at a leash, to which I nod, gazing up at Pete.

"I can walk home with you, if you'd like, then we could go to the theater," the worker offers. Faith floats on his face but is soon punctured by doubt after I fail to respond forthwith.

Give him an answer before he leaves you, dimwit. He's already hesitating. You don't want to end up alone, do you?

"Y-yeah, that would be fantastic."

You just lied again, fool. Why aren't you repenting? It doesn't matter if you're non-religious. You still have to punish yourself.

This voice is a hypocrite, pleading for me to attend the cinema with Pete yet criticizing me for allowing this accompaniment. I wish it were gone, but it definitely wouldn't comply with that.

Whatever mixtures of uncertainty that hovered on Pete's face are now vanished, dropping residual pieces of pride and glee in its place. "Great."

Mikey's incessant fiddling of my fingers has me on the edge of smacking him, but that would be classified as child abuse and is, in fact, frowned upon in most regions, not to mention a real turn off — but it's not like I need to win Pete over, right?

Well he's taking me to the movies, so it's clear he can tolerate me for a few hours, which is unfortunately the best I can do in my situation of constant peril.

"Are Geewad at house?" Mikey babbles, bending my phalange in an action that would appear to be innocuous, were it not for the excruciating pain that it evokes.

Pete clasps a hand to his mouth upon the afflictive sight but remains silent.

Wincing, I sputter out, "Your mom will be there when you get home, but Gerard is still at his art show."

"Why?"

Why haven't all the children been eliminated from this earth? They do nothing but annoy, and we're overpopulated anyway. Why don't you taken it upon yourself to perform the obliteration on your own terms? You could finally be in control.

While the voice in my head is mostly correct, I don't award it with the pleasure of claiming victory. Who's to say it won't bother me further?

"Art is very important to your brother," I assure, deviating my location within Mikey's flesh prison, to which he responds by squeezing tighter on my hand.

"Is Peeh very important to you?" The kid's eyes are wholly transfixed on me, anticipating my shaky answer, while Pete's are sprinting all around so as to seem like he's uninterested, but a glittering expression suggests otherwise.

Mikey Way is only around four years old, but he's made me stop and think, and I'm not clear on whether or not I should be reassessing my life, my priorities, my decisions.

And yeah, I suppose Pete is very important to me, even if I've only known him for a few days, because what's even more important is to recognize who is good and who isn't, and with him, it's a constant reminder that there is at least one amiable person in this world, that I am not as alone as I had once thought, and epiphanies such as those deserve credit for being pivotal events in one's career. Those epiphanies are why I'm afraid to die.

Pete is why I'm afraid to die.

So I turn to my friend, whose neck is tilted away to mask the cardinal complexion of his cheeks, my mouth angled upward on one end. "Yeah, Pete is very important to me."

Finally, his gaze arrests mine, tears glimmering in his amber eyes, but his regard is tacitly expressed as one of gratitude and reverence.

"He your boyfriend?" Mikey chirps, gums shining through.

And this is where it ceases, though I must attribute to him a fine lack of homophobia and a replete supply of openness.

"No, sorry, Mikes. We have to draw the line somewhere."

Pete nudges me playfully in the shoulder (by some miracle, the bugs under my skin have fled), as if requesting that I consider the concept. "Aww, come on — I think it's cute."

Mikey beams at the cooperation with his idea, which is shut down by my next caustic comment.

"It might be cute, but it's not real, so no one will ever know," I deny, shrugging.

Pete gnarls his teeth into his lip. "Yet."

"Excuse me!" I scold, jokingly punching Pete on the shoulder.

I just don't want to tell him that it's entirely plausible.

~~~~~

A/N: ooh patrick's got a crush

*wipes tear* my bbz r growin up so fast

current vibe: when mikey way does current vibe on twitter

~Dakota