Life is precocious in the most peculiar way. Rated R for dark themes.
chirps at the front of the table. Her shirt was the standard uniform for iHop, oxford
button-down kind with a collar and neatly pressed. She seems to be overly
enthusiastic about her job, and Patrick admits to himself that on the surface it
annoys him, but deep down it actually makes him feel better. At least someone is
enjoying his or her life…
His blue eyes glance down briefly at the coffee stained menu as if to remind
him of what he’s ordering again.
“Two cheeseburgers, a coke and a coffee, please.” He speaks for Pete, whose
forehead is resting against his hands. The two hadn’t exactly been best buds their
whole life, but as of now they were so close it felt like it. He knows what Pete does
and doesn’t like, the band had eaten at countless iHops together.
“Alllll-right!” The waitress drags out the l in the word, finishes writing down
their order on the pad, and smiles brightly at Patrick. The shorter male takes note
that her teeth are extremely white.
“I almost forgot... Do you want cream?” She asks, before she’s about to turn.
“No, but thank you, though.” Patrick replies politely to the girl.
“My pleasure.” She leaves, and Patrick’s mood heads south quickly.
“Is she gone?” Pete mumbles from the table, hoodie over his dyed hair to
provide his poor eyes some shelter. The light was giving him a headache.
“Do you hear her?” Patrick replies smartly, almost wishing he hadn’t.
Pete sits up, his eyes closed, and stretches. He slumps back down so that his
arms are resting on the fairly new looking wood table, but doesn’t return to his
previous position. “No.”
There’s a period of brief silence. Neither of the boys knows what to say to
each other after what happened. It has been a rough week, not just for Pete and
Patrick, but everyone in their immediate social circle. Dealing with a suicidal bi-
polar mess is not how Patrick pictured his life- he always though that he would be
an indie rocker on stage, playing drums for his band… Not singing. Alas, that’s
“P-Pete, I don’t know how to say this but… I’m going to be frank: you need
help. You refuse to help yourself, and every time you do something bad happens!”
Patrick raises his voice some, but not enough for anyone to notice. The restaurant is
almost empty, anyways.
Pete looks up at the boy in the hat, his jaw twitching and flames in eyes. “You
know what, Patrick, I thought you were my friend. I thought you could understand
what I’m going through, but obviously you don’t. You’re just like everybody else-
fucking pushing on me ‘Why’d you do it, Pete?! Are you an idiot?!’ ”
Patrick’s eyes show minimal fear, but he tries to think about what he’s here
for. He remembers Pete’s doctor telling him that people with personality disorders
cannot differentiate between someone being genuinely concerned for them from
someone actually being mean to them. “Pete, I love you! You’re my best friend, and
I’m gonna stay by your side and help you! That’s what you want, yeah?” He lowers
his voice, looking Pete in the eye through his glasses.
Pete blinks back at him, his rough exterior softening some. “I-I… I don’t…”
“No one wants to hurt you. If we hated you, we wouldn’t give a rat’s ass
about you, and could you please name someone malicious enough to hurt you?”
Pete does not respond to Patrick, instead he blinks, and lowers his eyes to the
“Tomorrow, your mom and I are going to call Dr. Sinclair and set up an
appointment. You’re going to go to him, we’re doing this because we love you.”
Pete’s honey eyes stare above him at the door sign. He almost couldn’t recall the number of times he had seen therapists and all the like. It was one of his many secrets that he didn’t want out; it was a sure sign that someone was fucked when they couldn’t remember the number of psychiatrists and other departments of mental health he had put his and his parents’ faith (and money) into. To be honest, he himself wants to forget about it: the memories are far too painful (and shameful).
Anyhow, Patrick has him convinced that this is what he needs: therapy (as if that wasn’t obvious enough). He needed to stick with it, was what Patrick had later explained after Pete mouthed off to him. It will fix him: it will make his problems go away (but Pete knows better). As they stepped through the doorframe and into the cozy office, Patrick smiles and says to the hooded bassist, “You will come out a new man, Pete!” He hopes so, because Dr. Sinclair is his last chance to sanity.
Slumped in the chair with hands burrowed into his pockets, his mind begins to wander. He thinks of all sorts of things except for what is eminent. The fish tank catches his eye above all, and suddenly he is back in school, in his science class. Fish, his science teacher begins, get oxygen from the water. Water has oxygen, and as the water moves over their gills, they take the oxygen from the water. He begins to think, suddenly, what is the point of breathing? Why do all living organisms breathe? What is the point?
What?s the meaning of life? What’s the point of life?
This has been a reoccurring theme in his life, and it occurs to him that he has never asked anybody this. He’ll ask Patrick later, as he the strawberry blonde seemed to be consumed in his own woes (unbeknownst to the bassist, these worries are about Pete).
“Peter Wentz?” It’s a man’s voice. “Pleasure to meet you... er, formally.” He’s hinting at the hospital visit that was a fuzzy, faded memory in Pete’s mind.
“Uh, yeah, hi.” He speaks quietly and quickly, grasping the outstretched doctor’s hand.
“Are you ready?” Dr. Sinclair inquires, and Pete has a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach, dread and the unknown.
Dr. Sinclair’s a man of average height, and much to Pete’s dismay taller than he. He’s a handsome man by anyone’s standards: dark hair, light eyes, not too muscled. Intimidation, jealousy? A patient shouldn’t be intimidated or jealous of their doctor for this to work.
It was something Patrick would say.
Pete falters as he’s led through a door, unsure.
- - -
“Do you ever have trouble sleeping?”
“Any particular reason why?”
“When I do sleep, it’s nothing but nightmares.”
‘“What kinds of nightmares?”
“Flying means you want to escape something. What do you want to escape, Pete?”
Author's Note: I posted this on another account that I lost. Anywho, this will turn into a (het) love story. Sorry Peterick fans, I can't write a slash fanfic that doesn't come out retarded ;-;