Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy > Golden

The Lights Of The City Were Too Heavy [Pt. 1]

by moocow 18 reviews

Fall Out Boy doesn't exist. In fact, that bond shared between each man doesn't exist either. Instead, each was blessed with the trials of being mentally and physically unwell. Pete the suicidal mut...

Category: Fall Out Boy - Rating: R - Genres: Angst, Drama - Warnings: [!!!] [?] - Published: 2007-02-09 - Updated: 2007-02-09 - 2498 words



I trusted him enough to stay in the house alone as I checked the mail in the complex. I shivered as I closed the door, locking it securely. Dusting off the snow from my coat first, I threw it on the small loveseat in front of the TV before heading down the hallway of the small apartment I we were staying at until he got better.

I had only known him for a few weeks now, and even if he was two years older than me, I still felt so bad for him. A grown man not even being able to take care of himself. I head him sobbing slightly from the bathroom and freaked for a moment, trying to remember if I had locked my razor in the draw or not.

"Pete," I called and tried the knob. I should have known it would be locked. He mumbled something from the other side. "Its ok honey, just let me in,"

There was a slight pause before the door clicked and I slowly opened the door to find the light dim and him sitting on the closed toilet in his boxers and just that. A hand was clasped over his wrist and I observed the razor on the counter next to him. I sighed and kneeled in front of him, finding Pete being rather gracious and calm as I observed the small cut he had made across his forearm.

It wasn't as bad as the first week he was here, where he almost ended up dead in on the kitchen floor. I cleaned the wound up, bandaging him right there. I now stood at the sink, washing my hands as he still sat there looking up at me with those big brown puppy dog eyes, just watching. He took his shaking hand and took the sharpie that was on the counter, and his small notepad.

Thank you

Pete tapped me on the arm and pointed to it. I observed it and smiled. Pete hadn't spoken a single word since he was here. His parents simply explained that he had gone mute a couple months ago, and writes everything down. But I respected it.

"It's ok Pete, it was only a scratch," he shook his head making his unruly bangs fall in his eyes.

/No/. He wrote. /For all of this/.

I eyed him as I dried my hands and fixed the towel.

"It's still all alright Pete," I paused to look at him. "It's my job to take care of you,"

Pete sadly smiled before standing but slouching as I wrapped my hand around his elbow and took him down the hall to the bedroom we shared. The two separate sides, one twin bed for each of us stood out, Pete not having much to call his own while I had a lot of things from home.

"Can you try for a full night's sleep tonight?" I asked him as he crossed the room and started to situate himself under his blankets.

He nodded once and I sat down, just watching him stare up at the ceiling as I untied my shoes. He looked over and waved the note pad. I kicked off my shoes and walked across the room towards him. I tucked my hair behind my ears as I read the note.

I'm sorry you have to take care of me, though. Am I really that much of a fuck up that I had to be left with you?

I shook my head only once before placing his notepad on the nightstand and bringing him up into a hug.

"Everything will eventually be alright, Pete, you just have to believe in yourself," He wasn't really hugging back but when I pulled away, I saw his faint smile. "Alright?" he nodded.

I don't feel like sleeping, Sally

I kissed his forehead once before crossing the room and waiting for him to roll over and face the wall before changing.

"We can stay up for an hour, but then we have to go to sleep, Pete," I paused to pull up my hair. "Tomorrow we are going to see how you do outside again,"

Pete rolled over as I began to cross the room again. Sometimes I felt like I was taking care of a 3 year old trapped in a 24 year old body. And on top of that, it was very hard to read his eyes. He picked up his notebook again as I leaned against the headboard near him. He drew a couple of crossing lines before drawling an 'O'. I smirked.

"Tic-tac-toe?" I asked. Pete cocked his head to one side and wrote something above the game.

I prefer 'X's and O's'. It makes it sound kind of romantic

I giggled once and drew one X.

"We'll there's a kiss for you," Pete smiled and placed an O down.

We always had these moments.

Times where we would act like we were flirting, but it was hard to tell because, well, Pete was mute. I grew tired a few games later, yawning deeply and leaning against Pete's shoulder. He took the notebook from my hand and flipped to a new page as my eyes started to close.

Goodnight Sally


The clock on the kitchen struck two AM and there was a faint jingle of keys outside the door. The knob slowly turned before the click of the door opening sounded and he slid through, muffling a scratchy cough with his hand. Carefully he pulled the keys out from the keyhole and shut the door quietly. He let out a sigh of relief, not knowing I was watching his every move, and bounded up the staircase.

The smell of marijuana was strong as it tickled my nostrils at the top of the staircase where I was patiently sitting in the dark, watching him stumble his way up. By the fifth step, he tripped and fell back to the bottom of the staircase with a loud thud his keys fell onto the floor as the walls shook of our poorly built townhouse in the slums of the slums in Chicago. He let out a curse and groaned as he tried to get up, but fell on his knees on the first step. He cussed again, slightly laughing. Sighing, I flipped on the dim light revealing Joe, slumped over the stair railing, adverting his eyes to the light as he saw my disappointed presence.

"Fuck," he voiced, letting his head droop.

"Where have you fucking been Joe?"

My voice was worn from smoking a full pack when the time passed when he said he would return. Anxiety always got the best of me. I should've been used to this by now, but he always got the best of me, even when I promised myself I wouldn't care. Then next thing I know, I'm sitting on the top of the staircase, waiting for him or a phone call telling me I needed to get down to the hospital, stat. I wasn't sure which one was worse. His eyes were dilated and red as he stood up shakily and supported himself with the rail.

"I lost track of time Maddie..." he slurred. He had been drinking too, great.

"Last time I checked, the sports bar closed at midnight Joe." I took a step down, but kept my distance. His eyes looked up to the left, conjugating some type of excuse. I stood there patiently, with my comeback already ready to counter back.

"I went out with a few of my buddies to celebrate the game...yeah," he scratched his head. He couldn't even believe his own lie.

"You don't even like sports," I countered, my voice slightly rising.

"I had to support the Bears!" He threw up his hands, emphasizing 'the bears' but started to stumble backward. I ran down a few steps to catch him, but he caught himself in time.

I returned to my defense mode, and crossed my arms.

"Joe, the Bears weren't even playing tonight." Silence fell around, proving my point. I rolled my eyes.

"Joe, where have you been?" His lips turned into a scowl and his eyebrows knitted together.

"What are you, my mother?" he started to storm up the stairs, but I blocked his way. "Move," he demanded.

I shook my head. "Tell me." He attempted to push forward, but I pushed him back.

"Fuck," he cursed loudly, causing me to flinch, but not back down.

We have been in this same situation hundreds or times, maybe even a thousand. It always started and ended the same exact way, but I still persisted to stay. I wasn't sure why. Maybe I wasn't sick of it yet, or maybe I just got so sick that I got used to it. It could be a million things, but one. This wasn't because of love.

I did not love Joseph Trohman.

At least that's what I kept telling myself.

"I just want to sleep!" He growled, trying to go under my arms, but I moved lower to block him.

"Tell me where you were and you can sleep."

Joe let out an aggravated sigh. "Shit, I was out!" he turned around and started to descend the stairs. I started to follow him.

"You still act like we're still together Ashley! Damn." I stopped in my tracks. I felt a knot in my throat. My bottom lip began to quiver. My eyes started to itch.

I will not cry.

"Do you forget whose house this is?" I started, following him into the kitchen. "Don't you know I can throw you out anytime I like?" Joe opened the fridge and poked through it.

"Do you?" My voice rose.

"Do you, she says," he mumbled, mocking me as he pulled out orange juice.

"You know what Joe; I don't need to put up with this. If you can't abide by my simple house rules and return home when you state so, then why don't you just---"

"Blah, blah, blah," he droned, pulling out a bag of hot cheetos and opening them, and taking a handful of them into his mouth. I felt my body temperature rise. My hands started to become moist and my ears started to heat.

"This is what I get for caring," I mumbled, he continued to stuff his face, "a stupid DRUGGIE, who just so happens to by my EX!" I yelled, and I could feel the old house shake.

"You know what," he took a drink of orange juice and set it on the counter. Then a handful or cheetos and stuffed his mouth with them, crumbs spewing from it, "why don't you just throw me out."

I couldn't, that's why.

My conscious would be tainted with worry. Every second would be where's Joe? Why hasn't he called? Is he okay? And I didn't want to live alone, to top everything off. But then again I was always worrying and always alone except when he'd return from where ever he was in the wee hours of the morning, so there wouldn't be much of a difference.

"You wouldn't dare leave. Where do you have to go? Your own parents won't even take you in." That definitely was going to strike a nerve.

"Fuck this. Fuck this all," he said, shaking his head and leaving the kitchen, heading towards the front door. "I don't need this stupid house or my parents." he opened the door and stepped outside. I could feel my heart start to sink into the worry already as if it was the Titanic and just hit the iceberg. "I don't," he turned around and faced me, his eyes dilated and red still, but looking me in the eye still, "I don't need you." He slammed the door and I flinched, but still went to follow him.

My hand was ready to open the door, when a thought ran through my head.

Why do I care? I dropped my hand from the knob. A warm tear rolled down my cheek. I reached up and wiped it away. Fuck, I was crying.

I do not love Joseph Mark Trohman.


Six months.

That's how long it's been since I got the e-mail about the phone call. A psychology major at the University of Chicago required a case study be completed to graduate. Three months ago, I graduated. Top of my class even. But I couldn't leave him. Not like this.

His name is Patrick Stumph, and he is an alcoholic.

I learned months ago, if I wanted anything out of him I'd best not pay attention to a word he says. All bullshit. He's smarter than he lets on; telling me only what he thinks I want to hear. I know now though, that the only way to get to him. To truly get to him, is though the notes he plays. Not the ones I make about his routines.

He's a creature of habit.

Most in his condition are, locked away in the basement for hours. But I never minded the noise, better pounding on keys and strings, than bottles. The basement door opens with a whining squeak and a loud click; he's on to the next step. He'll eat lunch, and then he'll be back downstairs.

Only there will be a deviation in this journey, to the half bath in the corner of the moldy room.

He knows as well as I do it won't solve his issues with self image, but its something we're working through. At least I hope. If it goes on much longer, his voice will be affected. I'd be a liar to say that I'm not mesmerized by it.

"Mal?" His voice is quiet. He is quiet in general, but what lacks in social skills he make up for in talent.

"Yes Patrick?"

"Could you make me a cup of soup?" His head pokes around the corner of the wall separating the kitchen from the den. He looks worn. Much older than his twenty-two years, yet his face holds a youthful innocence.

I nod and smile, raising myself from the couch. "Alright."

I set the cup down before him at the table receiving a grateful smile. "Thank you."

Later after he's finished and the dish lay discarded in the sink he sinks into the coushin beside me. I look at him a moment before setting the magazine I'd been reading down. He lays his head on my shoulder, and I run my fingers through his hair. This is us. At our finest. Mr. Stump and I, taking on the world.

At least the world within the reach of those basement stairs and this old plaid couch.


*Pete's parts will be written by Evie. That's me, dumbass.

**Joe's parts will be written by Ashley. That's AshleyChaotic, if you are really that FicWad-ly challenged.

*Patrick's parts will be writen by Heather. That's duckapple, another person you should know, fucktard.

[Next chapter introduces Dirty, Andy and Doctor. Jenn]
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