ermm... Pete and William pairing
I had just got home from talking with my friends in the park. My life was going nowhere again, since the band was on a break. I lived with my boyfriend, Patrick. He was also in the band. I sat down on the couch and yelled Patrick’s name; waiting for his sweet, melodic to reply. It never did. I had been home for about twenty minutes, and I still hadn’t got a reply. I stood up and brushed my hair out of my face, worried because this wasn’t like Patrick. Usually, he’d be greeting me the second I’d walk through the door, smothering me with kisses, telling me that he’d missed me. I slowly climbed up the stairs, unsure of what to expect. The bathroom door was locked, I frowned slightly, knowing he would have heard me if he was in there. I spent five minutes picking the lock. It took so long because my hands were shaking. I pushed open the door, instantly regretting in, for there, on the bathroom floor, was Patrick. He was surrounded by drugs and next to his right hand was a pocket knife. I fell to my knees, hoping, praying that I was dreaming. I was screaming, yelling, crying. I was too scared to touch him. I didn’t need to be told he was dead, it was obvious. After an internal battle, debating whether or not to touch him, I grasped his hand. I held it tightly, telling myself not to let go. Then it hit me. Wasn’t I the messed up one? Was this supposed to be me? Suddenly, I remembered I’d been neglecting him lately, leaving him on his own. I stared down at my boyfriend’s cold, limp body, wondering how long he’d been dead, and why I hadn’t checked on him sooner. My eyeliner was running down my cheeks and my hair looked terrible, but I wouldn’t move form that exact spot. I couldn’t leave Patrick. I never wanted to leave Patrick. I didn’t have the guts to leave Patrick. I didn’t want to hurt him. I didn’t move for the next 36 hours. I just sat there, holding the hands of my boyfriend’s corpse. I couldn’t accept the fact that he’d killed himself. I felt sick, tired and faint. I just wanted to collapse and die. So, a day and a half after I’d first found him, a good friend of mine came walking through the door. He took one look and broke down in tears.
‘P-Pete?’ He stuttered.
‘William’ I whispered, trying to pretend I wasn’t crying.
‘Did he do this… to himself?’ William asked. I simply nodded. William walked over to the bath tub and pulled out a note. He read the note. ‘This is dated two days ago, have you been here since then?’ He asked. Yet again, I nodded. He called for an ambulance, and moved in with me. He didn’t want me on my own. He still lives with me now. We moved to the nearest place that allows gay marriage. We’re getting married next week.