{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:deathbedprotest","title":"smeared black ink","subtitle":"you're an angel","author":{"name":"tyler durden"},"link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/deathbedprotest.livejournal.com\/"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/deathbedprotest.livejournal.com\/data\/atom"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"service.feed","type":"application\/x.atom+xml","href":"https:\/\/deathbedprotest.livejournal.com\/data\/atom","title":"smeared black ink"}}],"updated":"2010-03-03T23:22:48Z","entry":[{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:deathbedprotest:1552","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/deathbedprotest.livejournal.com\/1552.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/deathbedprotest.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=1552"}}],"title":"Cathartic","published":"2010-03-03T23:14:47Z","updated":"2010-03-03T23:22:48Z","category":[{"@attributes":{"term":"character:patrick stump"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"type:oneshot"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"fandom:fall out boy"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"character:pete wentz"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"pairing:pete\/patrick"}}],"content":"Title:<\/b> Cathartic
Author:<\/b> <\/a>deathbedprotest<\/b><\/a><\/span>
Pairing:<\/b> Petrick (Pete Wentz\/Patrick Stump)
POV:<\/b> First person
Rating:<\/b> NC-17
Type & word count:<\/b> Drabble; ~500 words
Author\u2019s Note:<\/b> Short. Unfinished. Really just a scrap. Written a long time ago.


<\/center>

\"Can I?\" Pete asks, voice like charcoal burned too long and blackened, brittle between fingers but no matter how hard it's crushed, it stays intact, just streaks of chalky ashes across pale palms.

I almost says no, almost push away his unsanded hands, so good, so guilty on the rectangle dip of skin between the bottom of my shirt and top of my jeans. Ragged ridges of bass-stringed fingers dragging across the white, steady and sure despite that fact that my body shakes worse than a washing machine on spin cycle.

\"Please Patrick...\"

I look at Pete and Pete looks back at me, greenbrownhazel overlapping babyblueskies. His face is half in shadows, day and night, light and dark. Pete shifts, so his entire face is shrouded in the dim flick across the room, and suddenly he's Pete and affliction. Pete and alcohol. Pete and Ashlee. He's suddenly a box of razors, a bottle of ativan, too much ambien and a fog fondling behind his glassy orbs like hot showers left on too long. Like the swirl of his blood clouding white with crushed pills.

His hands dip underneath my waistband when I nod, eyes closed. It's dark inside my eyelids and Pete's sitting in the splotchy-too-bright-to-be-black color as well. Only, in my mind's eye, he's small, make of skin and bone, sick thin with his ribs butterflying out from the center of his chest. This is wrong, I know it's wrong, Pete can't handle this. My eyes crack open, and the scene cuts in. Pete's hunched over me, maybe awkward, with a knee between my legs and his ass pressed down tight on my thigh. He's pulled my pants down, sitting low on my hips and his rawrough hands are on my cock, murmuring low and steady.

Fingers curled around me, tightloosetightloose, fuck<\/i>, faster... his palm moves up and down my cock, thumb striking noon over the head. Grinding, ripping, shredding over moon-white skin under pale blue jeans. Heat expands in the pit of my stomach, vodka aiming to drown my insides in the coolstingwarmth. I inhale raggedly, choked breaths. One of his hands slips underneath me. His skin is like the sun in midaugust but I don't do anything about it.

\"God, Patrick,\" he says on a breath, lips too close to be accidental on my neck. \"God, Patrick, you're so fucking beautiful...\"

I choke, throat tightening like rubber bands constricted too tight. Heat nips out from core of my stomach as Pete's mouth meets mine, his tongue grinding against the back of my throat in an adolescent experiment gone wrong. His hand tightens, tugs, on my cock until I can't take the burning anymore and I come. Long, deep spurts of satisfaction and ice that make my lungs shut down. Make my heart slip, trip and bust its lip like it fell in love. A moan flees my lips and finds serenity between the jaws of Pete's teeth. His mouth presses tight against mine, swallowing every decibel he makes me utter.

\"I love you...\" he says softly, taking the sounds out of my throat and using them as his own. I want to reply and say the same, but the moment I open my mouth Pete's is crushed against mine again and I can hardly breathe. He doesn\u2019t want to hear me say it back. It makes me think he'd die if I did."},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:deathbedprotest:1463","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/deathbedprotest.livejournal.com\/1463.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/deathbedprotest.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=1463"}}],"title":"Trampoline Cigarettes","published":"2009-06-07T05:05:22Z","updated":"2009-06-09T14:14:28Z","category":[{"@attributes":{"term":"pairing:bert\/quinn"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"type:oneshot"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"character:quinn allman"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"fandom:the used"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"character:bert mccracken"}}],"content":"Title:<\/b> Trampoline Cigarettes [standalone]
Author:<\/b> <\/a>yeyaness<\/b><\/a><\/span>
Pairing:<\/b> Quert [Quinn Allman\/Bert McCracken]
POV:<\/b> Third, limited omniscient.
Rating:<\/b> PG
Wordcount:<\/b> ~900
Summary:<\/b> \"Close your eyes. I want to try something.\"<\/i>



\"Close your eyes. I want to try something,\" said Quinn, sliding his hands over the blue of Bert. The trampoline was both cold and damp under their dirty cargo shorts, and the late summer night smelled like stale cigarettes and butane lighters. Mosquitos flew around them, slender noses leaving pricks of blood on their sunset-tinged skin. Bert kind of liked the feeling of Quinn's palms, cool from the kneaded trampoline, over his lids. If anyone else were blinding him like this, he'd probably feed them a knuckle sammich, but hey. This was Quinn. He trusted Quinn more than anything else on the face of the planet.

Then Quinn kissed him. Bert jumped and the trampoline shook from the shift, but Quinn paid that no attention and kept his lips tight against Bert's. It was kind of strange, the way his best friend felt in this new way. The entire idea was kind of unexpected in an expectant way because Bert was smart enough to know this was coming, yet... It seemed like a surprise that Quinn did it right there, on their trampoline, a forgotten cigarette forging a hole that burned rubber over near the south end. It wasn't... bad. Just. Well. Bert didn't know what to think of it really. It wasn't bad, but strange. Was strange bad? Bert didn't know what to think of this, so he kept kissing Quinn, even though it was strange in a not-bad way.

Quinn pulled away a minute after Bert opened his mouth. For a second, there was this gleam in his eye. This triumphant little sparkle that was soon replaced by this bitten-lip contemplative stare. He said, in a voice like he wasn't so sure himself what had just happened, \"Yeah. I just really wanted to try that.\"

Bert just nodded because, okay, yeah, he liked to try new stuff too. Granted, the new things he tried usually consisted of fried squid or pineapple on his pizza, but. He didn't know. He guessed you had to try everything once, right? Otherwise there'd be all these what-ifs floating around like jelly fish in the space usually used for thinking.

And then there was this silence that neither of them knew what to do with. It wasn't awkward\u2014 it was hard to be awkward around one another\u2014 but it definitely lacked the relaxed feeling they'd been lulling in. Bert was still on his back, lips continually parted from when Quinn's had been there. They felt different, he realized. Tingly. Were kisses supposed to be tingly? And how about warm? Just a second ago he'd been cold, shivering like his body were made of earthquakes and text message notices, but now there was this heat driving down his insides like a trucker on a lonely highway. With this realization, Bert noticed he still had his eyes closed, although Quinn's hands were back on their respective person. Somehow, the two were tied together. Bert's eyes couldn't open if Quinn added weight.

Quinn. He watched Bert from his heels, back curved in this posture that would make his mom scream. He fidgeted slightly and the trampoline bounced under him. Was Bert going to respond or was he going to just lie there, breath like cigarette fog. Quinn thought, oh shit, he was going to have to make a time travel machine to take back that stupid, stupid move. Idiot, Allman. Pure idiocy.

But Bert reached out and placed his palm on Quinn's folded leg, and although he said nothing, the blonde understood that to mean, okay, you're trying something new. I like new.<\/i> So he leaned down again and kissed his best friend one more time, and that time it was a little different. There was more certainty in that caress, but confusion and tentativeness still lined the inside of their mouths along with the usual nicotine coating. Quinn poked his tongue against Bert's, trying to unhinge that taste of inconclusiveness to no avail. He pulled away again and looked at Bert glistening. The sun had nestled down for the night, and a faintly purple sheen settled against the boys. Their breath came out in tea-kettle mists, like blowing smoke on Bert's roof around three am all summer.

\"Is this okay?\" Quinn asked, more to only thaw the frozen silence than sincere curiosity. Bert still didn't say anything, just nodded, and he knew that maybe he was being a bit of bitch for his sudden mime impersonation, but that was alright. If anything, he could just blame Quinn for stealing his ability to speak with those kisses. He opened his blue eyes wide and stared straight up at the royal-colored sky, streaked with the grey of clouds and dotted with spheres of twinkling light.

\"Bert? It's kind of cold. I think I'm going to go inside,\" and the trampoline shook with Quinn's movements. He was almost off when Bert grabbed his hand and pulled his down to the center, where their combined weight made one large dip towards the dewy grass. After a deep inhalation, Bert touched his mouth to Quinn's and held him close.

It was strange. Neither boy knew how to respond. But it wasn't bad. It was strange in a not-bad way. But under the darkening sky, and cold nipping at them, the last days of summer thinning out before them, it was okay."},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:deathbedprotest:1123","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/deathbedprotest.livejournal.com\/1123.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/deathbedprotest.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=1123"}}],"title":"Quiere","published":"2009-05-27T16:02:14Z","updated":"2009-06-23T16:36:28Z","category":[{"@attributes":{"term":"character:patrick stump"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"type:oneshot"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"fandom:fall out boy"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"pairing:pete\/ashlee"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"character:pete wentz"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"character:ashlee simpson"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"pairing:pete\/patrick"}}],"content":"Title:<\/b> Quiere
Author:<\/b> <\/a>yeyaness<\/b><\/a><\/span>
Pairing:<\/b> Peterick [Pete Wentz\/Patrick Stump]; AshWentzday [Pete Wentz\/Ashlee Simpson].
POV:<\/b> Third, limited omniscient.
Rating:<\/b> NC-17
Wordcount:<\/b> ~8,000
Summary:<\/b> Pete has always wondered what it's like to be able to love one person at one time with one whole heart. Instead, he gets firsthand lessons of loving two people with his heart split right down the middle... at one time.
Warning[s]:<\/b> slash, het sex, odd observations.
Author's note:<\/b> This is a rewrite. I was originally going to do this in chapters, but then decided to make it a oneshot. So. Yeah. First part of this has already been posted, but that's alright.


\"Image<\/a>



Sometimes Pete wonders why the hell he never puts his phone on silent. Like right now, with Patrick latched onto his side, radiating heat near Summer of Like, and lips too close for just friends on his neck. The caller ID read \"AshWentzday\" which Perez changed to last week when he and his crew of pap skanks hit up Angels & Kings. Uninvited, of course.

Half of Pete tenses up against Patrick's warmth and the other half melts against the heat waves toiling off of his cellphone. A third part of him, tiny as a tonka truck, gets a twinge of annoyance.

Twenty-something as he is (and, yeah, he's twenty-something - next year he'll be thirty-something; don't contradict him), Pete can't get over the adolescent boy-feeling of being indecisive. He wants love, so fucking<\/i> badly. But he doesn't want the love he has now. Where it's split with that dual-love complex: he's with Patrick but part of him is with Ashlee and he goes with the girl to chase the part that's with her so maybe he'll finally be whole but when he gets to Ashlee the part that was with her migrates to Patrick but Pete's with Ashlee and he never wants to leave her. But still, he's torn up and never one.

He gets up and answers it, ignoring Patrick's mumbles about losing half his body heat and the glares he was biting into the back of Pete's head. \"Hey.\"

\"Where the hell are you? I've been trying to call you all freakin' day, where the hell are you?<\/i>\" She sounds overactive and harassed, kind of like Red Bull and Speed and more caffeine with a dash of insomnia. She's shrill too, shrieking over the phone in that register that makes Hemingway try to gnaw his way through her leg. Makes Rigby run outside on the balcony and get her head stuck in the railings. Pete always said she was trying to kill herself and could Ashlee please<\/i> develop a more masculine voice 'cause he kind of loves Rigby more than her and if Rigby dies then Hem will be lonely and depressed and Pete will feel for his dog and overdose on ativin again.

Ashlee would just glared at him and apologize for not sounding like Patrick does after having the Wentzdick reach his tonsils. But she would say it in a softer voice with mad eyes that Pete always dodged by going to rescue Rigby, who'd be yapping something like a three-year-old's demands forgotten. But still, with Rigby snuggling in his arms he'd go back to Ashlee and kiss her, slow and candy-sweet because although she hates him for loving Patrick he still loves her more than anything at that moment.

An impatient little noise from his girlfriend drags Pete back through the murky memories and into the dim light of a Patrick's New York home. \"I'm...\" Pause. Come on, Pete. Where are you, make up an excuse. You're most definitely not<\/i> with Patrick, in the skinny, the sheets rumpled and sticky-dry behind him with a cigarette burning his fingers. \"...with Patrick, writing for Need.\" Oh, who are you kidding, Wentz.

\"Since six p.m. yesterday?\"

\"Ash...\"

\"Pete, please. If you're going to lie to me do it right.\"

Pete looks down shamefully, shuffling his feet uneven like, leftrightrightleft. Vaguely he wonders what she's still doing awake and he remembers that she's a vampire, something he'd affectionately call her if the word hadn't<\/i> been slaughtered by Twilight<\/i>. Ashlee never sleeps. It's a habit he picked up from her and it's what makes him pick up the ambien every night.

\"Yeah, that's what I thought. Just... god, Pete. I don't know how much more I can take of this.\"

What the fuck, thinks Pete, when did the air density multiply by a million? \"...wait, what?\"

\"I don't want to f-fucking share you with Patrick anymore, Pete. It's either me or him, all mine or all his. I love you, Pete, with all my heart. But I don't even have half of yours, do I?\"

Ashlee's voice dwells down low, dry like summer grass in a drought, yellow tinging the edges. Pete thinks that if he were to sit in her voice, it would hurt like tainted heroin needles and dead grass and pricking rashes from hay fever and fuck<\/i>, Ashlee...

\"Ash... I can't... you can't make me decide right now,\" he mumbles in reply. Trick's boxers feel rough against his skin, the silken material wanting to rip until his bones shine like brand new tile in a grocery store. They settle on his hips, but they itch, his whole body itches, from the taunt contours of his neck, to the riveting dips of his spine, straight town the the tight tendons in his ankles, Pete can feel a poison ivy greener than any humid rainforest. He throws a look back at Patrick, who's watching him through narrow blue, arms crossed tight against the stomach he insists is too big, white bed sheet hiding the thighs he says are worse than fast food.

Pete looks at his Patrick, and his chest tightens. The itching flares up, added gasoline to the already burning guilt he has sweeping through his chest, licking up across his ribs and making his white-tile bones blacker than charred charcoal.

Ashleepatrickpatrickashlee. Tricky Blue Eyes and his baby girl with eyes the size of baby worlds. To ask him to chose between them is to ask to chose between oxygen and nitrogen. Hemingway and Rigby. Ativin and Ambien.

\"Pete, what's wrong?\" Patrick asks, wrapping the sheet around his waist and going to stand behind him. He wraps his warm arms around Pete and kisses the side of his neck. Pete shudders at Trick's skin on his, thinking that they'll rub together and his flea-bitten flesh will chafe off and bleed all over Patrick. Patrick doesn't like blood, hasn't like it since he accidentally knocked out half of his bassist's teeth during the recording of Infinity On High. Pete had spit out blood like he swallowed a smoothie of rust, salt and #7 red dye while Patrick apologized into his hair and kissed him until his own mouth glimmered crimson.

That was the first time Ashlee walked in on them. She'd heard Pete's yell when Patrick punched him and had come running. Perfect polished hand slipped on the door frame when her eyes met the scene of her boyfriend staining his best friend's teeth red.

\"Pete. I'm not telling you to choose now,\" she says softly into the receiver, \"but you do have to choose soon.\"

\"That's not fair.\"

Ashlee sighs. \"No, what's not fair is only having half of you. What's not fair is sleeping alone every other night because you're with someone else. What's not fair is f-fucking kno-knowing that you're never going to be m-mine, are you?\"

Pete doesn't say anything, just tilts his head back on Trick's shoulder and breathes him in. His nose fits in the little dip behind Patrick's earlobe. He can feel his boyfriend naked behind him, feel heat radiating off like all the summers they spent together. Pete kisses him, just like that and says softly into the receiver, into Patrick's mouth, \"I love you.\"

One line. Two voices. A duet to break Pete's heart. \"I love you too, baby.\"

He leaves twenty minutes later, fresh out of the shower, hair dripping little rivers down the rivets of his back. He pulls Patrick's green shirt over his head and round splotches of water dot black on the fabric. He kisses Patrick goodbye and it hurts a little to leave part of his heart behind to go take care of the other fifty percent. But, thinks Pete, he has to do it because, well, who ever heard of living without half of a major organ.

He gets home at half past four, slipping into the sleeping darkness of the place he can't bring himself to call home. Hemmingway and Rigby lay snug as a bug in a rug together on the neon pink zebra print couch Gabe bought him and Ashlee as a housewarming gift. Pete pads across the room, toes catching in the shag carpet and gently rubs their ears. He looks down at them both and smiles because, look, there's two of them and he can love them both at the same time in the same place with the same heart pieced together.

\"Pete?\" Pete looks up and sees Ashlee leaning against the doorframe of their bedroom, blond hair swimming in ringlets around her pale face. She wore pink thermals around her thin legs and Pete crosses the room in three strides to take her tight in his arms. She kisses the side of his mouth softly, lips pink as her pants and says softly, \"you came home.\" Pete just smiles into her locks and thinks, just for a second, with the smell of her shampoo strong and feel of his warm baby girl's heart in time with his own, I came home.<\/i>

She twists her thin little neck and presses her feather-soft lips against the ragged stubble of his neck. The soft thudthudthud<\/i> of her heart trips in time to his own. Sometimes, Pete doesn't know how he got so lucky. He decides to ask Ashlee what he did to deserve such a soft, beautiful girl. It's times like these that Pete wishes he could believe so God would know how grateful he is for this girl.

In response, she moves her mouth to Pete's and he feels delicate pressure on his lips, feels thin wisps of air flow from her lungs to his. They take turns breathing for each other, sharing gulps of air and at that moment, Pete knows that he can't live without this girl. Knows that without Ashlee, life wouldn't be life at all. Knows that the feeling of her soft silk body pressed tight against his is like quaint heroin to an addict and her kisses are the needle to his veins. Want aches through his body and the way his chest is palmed by her long slender fingers, stomach assailed by her lean figure bonded tight to his ribs does nothing to help. Her kisses go from gentle to jagged, mouth opening wider than the Chesire Cat could even imagine. With a deft movement, her hands are are on the zipper of his jeans and her knuckles scrape across the grey denim. Pete's breath races faster than Nascar as he pushes her into the bedroom. Door clicks shut, belt clinks off, clothes rustle down, and gasps infiltrate the air.

\"Wait... condom... I need a condom.\"

\"No, baby, it's okay, I'm o-on the pill--don't stop, please don't stop.\"

Pete doesn't. Instead he holds onto her slick hips, fingers wrapped around the bone as he thrusts up into warm surroundings. Her manicured nails dig trenches into his chest plates, and her golden hair sweeps across her swollen breasts. In a minute, Pete sits up and catches her nipples in his mouth before taking her lips. One last thrust and pleasure whirlpools.

He wakes up the next morning with the sheets wrapped around his torso and Ashlee's smooth back to him. Pete reaches out and lightly brushes his fingertips along the potholes of her spine, dipping into the little craters that formed when she was tinier than a tadpole in her momma's stomach. Absentmindedly, he reaches around her and presses his dark palm to her taunt abdomen just as she stretches, eyes fluttering awake and good morning beautiful.<\/i>

\"Hey, Ash...\"

\"Morning, babe,\" she says, and her eyes are still tainted soft with sleep, voice still raspy-dry. If Pete were able to bottle moments, he'd definitely have scores of these shelved. It's times like these that Pete knows he loves this girl like no other.

\"Gorgeous,\" he whispers. He stares at his girlfriend, simply amazed at how she absolutely sucks all the building light filtering through the blinds and releases a glow so angelic that for a moment, he has<\/i> to believe. \"If I had to choose you or the sun, I'd be one nocturnal son of a gun,\" he half sings.

A painful little grin mars Ashlee's features. \"So can Patrick be the sun?\"

Instantly, Pete jumps to his feet, indignation rushing through him. The effect of his fury is somewhat lessened by the bedsheets straight-jacketing his torso and causing him to stumble. Still, he makes up for it by saying in a voice trembling with anger: \"You take that back. Don't you ever<\/i> insult Patrick.\"

\"God, you're so bipolar. I was joking anyway. I'd never dream<\/i> of asking you to stop cheating on me. That'd just be selfish, wouldn't it?\"

\"Fuck off, bitch,\" Pete growls. He gathers all his clothes and stomps out of the house. Vaguely, he realizes that if TMZ or Perez's paps are in their regular stations outside their condo, a boxer-clad and barefoot Pete Wentz would make headlines. They're going to have a field day. \"Epic. Just fucking epic,\" he mutters. For good measure, he kicks the newspaper sitting on the steps and pretends it's Ashlee's stupid face.

He walks the ten miles to Patrick's apartment, putting on clothes as he goes. An elderly lady picking up the paper jumps at the sign of him, all disheveled and half naked, red in the face and breathing slightly off, but Pete ignores her, figuring that the tabloids will have enough to gossip about without old-hag-beater added to the list. He shows up at Patrick's hours later, feet aching from all the walking, and a migraine getting nice and cozy in the vicinity of his brain. Sure, he could have called Trick, Gabe or Andy to pick him up, but really, anger's contagious, misery loves company, and he knows that he'd end up busting a few skulls if he asked for a ride anyway. People already barely tolerate him, he thought, and a bruised face would only make things worse.

Part of Pete doesn't even know why he got so upset at Ashlee's remark. Even as she said it, he knew that she only half meant it, lamely joking, and that she was actually kind of justified in her thoughts. Guiltily, Pete realizes that in some ways, she's one-hundred percent right. He is<\/i> cheating on her. Last night had been beautiful, but what had he been he doing literally an hour before? Whose arms had he been falling asleep in? Hadn't Pete just<\/i> taken a final drag on a post-sex cigarette when Ashlee had given him a call? In the same realm, Pete's also cheating on his Trick. The very idea twists his stomach into knots that a nymph would marvel at. Dizziness sweeps over his head like a test pilot out of control and he actually has to grip the cold iron railings to stop from falling down the concrete steps.

The door creaks open and Pete feels rough calloused fingers at the top of his neck. Almost, they feel wrong, dirty. No. No, Pete realizes, they<\/i> don't feel dirty. He<\/i> does. The grime of the night before lingers on his skin and what<\/i> the fuck<\/i>? Yesterday had been bliss, and pure love, innocence wrapped in coital remains. If he shut his eyes tight, and didn't breath, he could literally put himself back between the Egyptian cotton sheets and back between the Texan silk skin. He recreated the tight aching at the bottom of his heart that Ashlee gave him, and couldn't fathom how he now remembered it as sinful. Then he opens his eyes, fills his lungs, and hears far off: \"I'm so sorry Trick...\"

Patrick kneels down next to him, smelling like sleep and kind of like Pete. He didn't shower last night. Pete feels himself die a little inside. \"Why are you sorry?\"

\"Because I'm a horrible excuse of an asshole.\"

\"Doesn't that mean you're bad at being an asshole?\" Patrick says, smiling a little and kissing Pete. If this were normal circumstances, Pete would have let himself be cheered up by his boy, but that seems to be holding hands with impossible right now. He lets Patrick kiss him, hesitant and smooth, like he doesn't know if Pete'll kiss back or use his skyscraper-size teeth to chew his face off. But Pete doesn't kiss back. Instead, he sits on the steps, cold under his skinny denim-encloses ass, and feels guilt, shame, and self-loathing whisper through his veins. Even though Patrick doesn't mean to, or even realize he's doing it, all of Pete's feelings are reinforced by the gently caressing. It makes him wish Patrick would swallow all the good deeds he does and hit Pere, or hate him, because where the fuck<\/i> is the justice in all of this? Pete does not<\/i> deserve to be loved, by anyone in any sense. Everyday he deludes two people he loves more than anything<\/i> in the world, expects everything<\/i> in return, and does nothing<\/i> for them, except induce heartbreak and hurt.

It's enough to drown him from the inside out. \"God, Patrick... I just. I don't even know how you stand me.\"

\"Sometimes I don't know either. But I always do, right? I'm here right now, Pete. Not because you're the easiest person to deal with; you're definitely not, but because I love you like no other. I know you know that. Just wish you'd accept it.\"

Pete turns and looks at Patrick, eyes wide and dropping, and he knows that he probably looks like Hemingway when he's after a donut right now, but can't bring himself to care. In a way, he wishes he were<\/i> Hemingway because all that dog has to worry about is Rigby eating his food and beating her to the plots of floor most spotted with warm sun. At that moment, the clouds shove each other out the way, making room for sunshine to filter down on top of Pete and Patrick, and the former shuts his eyes tight. Summer. Sun. Songs. Shows on stages, sweltering sweat and suicide swaying. He looks at Patrick and remembers that this boy has been with him for the past ten years. Through everything. Through ativin and ambien, disarray and delusions, hallucinations and heaps of hurt.

Hurt<\/i>. Pete's got some of that stockpiled in the confines of his chest right now, and, oh lord, does it throb like bruises fresh on his skin. Breathing makes itself a little difficult and Pete finds himself stuck in Patrick's lap, eyes burning like forest fires before gallons of water rains in to save charred remnants. Patrick just rubs his back, soothing and safe, lilting noises trilling out under his breath, and Pete notices he's singing their song.

\"Drive me around, Trick,\" Pete kind of asks and kind of demands. Patrick goes to get his keys without a second thought. They drive around the streets of New York, but Pete doesn't exactly like the discolored scenery, all smog and smoke, drivers with road rage like it's a relapsing STD, and buildings that scrape the sun away from them all. Still, it makes Pete feel better to travel with the smooth hum of the car lulling a soundtrack to go with Patrick's voice. He leans over and rests his cheek on the younger's shoulder, twining his fingers with a hand not on the steering wheel. Patrick doesn't try to talk, doesn't push Pete to say anything. Really, they're driving in this kind of silence that Pete thinks they should try to record, because it's not uncomfortable, or awkward, like most silences are, but peaceful and trusting. In all his life, Pete has only been able to achieve this kind of platonic beauty with one person. And Pete knows that he should do everything<\/i> in his power to keep that one person.

But... there's also a girl. \"I have to go, Trick. I can't stay here,\" he says when Patrick pulls back into his apartment's parking garage. Patrick cuts the engine, and looks at the guy who really should be his boyfriend, but isn't.

\"...where are you going?\" Though he doesn't say it, Pete knows he's actually asking back to Ashlee already?<\/i>

\"No, babe. I just... I wanna be alone for a little while now. Thanks for driving me around, and thanks for singing to me. You know how I love that.\"

\"You don't have to go. I can... you don't have to go.\"

Pete just does something with his mouth that's supposed to be a smile, and says, \"I'll call you later.\" He kisses Patrick and, like always, it hurts to leave half of his heart behind, but it has to be done. It has to be done, and Pete can't stay here one more minute, or he'll drown. Being around Patrick right now, after realizing he can't live without him just hours after realizing all he does is trouble him, feels like drinking a Gasoline Martini. He knows that if he stays, a lit match will fly down his throat and he'll burn.

So he kisses Patrick one more time, gets out of the car, and walks out of the garage. He wants to look back, but is afraid that if he does, he'll lose the ability to walk away.

This time, Pete calls a cab to drive him to Ashlee's. Their Benz isn't there when the checkered cab pulls up in front of the condo, and silently Pete thanks the one he doesn't believe in. Even though he knows Ashlee is probably off bitching to her friends, he still creeps around the house like she might pop out of the microwave or something. Just for good measure, he opens the fridge and double checks she's not hidden with the cucumbers. Just because she's not with the cucumbers can't mean she's not with the soy milk. Just because she's not with the soy milk doesn't mean she's not with the beer. He closes his fist around a cold can, and it almost hurts in his heated palms, it's so icy. Even though he knows he shouldn't, really<\/i> shouldn't, he breaks the can off from the rest and snaps it open. Fizzling air spurts up and some lands on his fingers. It makes sense to lick it off. It makes sense to take a sip of the beer. It makes sense to take the beer with him into the bathroom, toss about thirty pills in his hands, and feel them glide down his throat like kids on a water slide.

With every ativin Pete pops into his mouth, he feels the drowning inside of him lessen. Almost as if the pills are absorbing the misery-polluted toxins sloshing around near his kidneys. His heart pounds in his ears, and his vision seems to fluctuate with each thud. The beer tastes rancid in his mouth, and instead of getting another when he finishes, he crushes the can and goes to pick up a bottle of Absolut from the liquor cabinet instead. It's locked, and Pete definitely doesn't have a key, but hey, what else did they invent guitar stands for?

Glass shatters after he smashes the cabinet and Pete knows some shards have probably embedded themselves in the soles of his feet, but at this point it's kind of the least of his worries. The Absolut bottle in bulky in his hands, and its clear contents swirl and spin as his balance does the same. It's almost as if Pete were inside<\/i> the bottle, being dragged along with the whirlpool of alcohol, a pirate stuck on a doomed ship in the middle of Mother Nature's bitchiest moment. He gives his head a shake, and regrets it immediately; he can literally feel his brain smash against the sides of his skull.

Pete wonders what it'd be like to be trapped at the bottom of the bottle. He decides he's going to try. He decides that if he traps himself at the bottom of the bottle, he won't be able to hurt anyone anymore. All of the deception, delusion, shame and stigma of life - gone. He can't even lie. The thought is too appealing, like honey to flies, crack to an addict, dro to Joe.

When Pete gets to the bottom of the bottle, tongue numb and everything soft, all he finds is darkness.

*

\"Ashlee, I... I-I really don't think right now is the time for this.\"

\"Why not? When else am I going to talk to you alone? Pete doesn't leave your fucking<\/i> side. And if we try to have to conversation with him right there, you know he'd whisk you away.\"

\"Will you shut up? I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude, but right now is not<\/i> the time-\"

\"It's definitely the fucking time.\"

\"Ashlee! I can't make him do anything. I'm not David Blaine.\"

\"I don't expect you to, Patrick. But you can leave.\"

\"...you want me to leave him? You really want me to leave him after he just tried to kill hi-\"

\"I'm pregnant, Patrick. Unfortunately, there's no room for a second father.\"

Pete's eyes fly open. The action makes his head swim and snap, like pirahanas in the amazon. The deep gulp of air that expands in his lungs hurts as if he'd been kicked in the chest, and his stomach feel as if it's been turned inside out and shoved in a tupperware container for days.

\"Pete! Oh, my god, you're awake, babe-\" Patrick jumps forward, his voice strained, but Ashlee pushes him out of the way, and presses her lips to his before Patrick can recover.

\"Morning, sleepyhead,\" she smiles. Pete just looks at her, kind of like, what the fuck. He turns his hazel eyes to his guitarist, and reads the anguish hidden behind his blue irises. When he tries to speak, the words get caught in his throat, fish on a hook, struggling not to be brought to the surface. Next to him, a machine beeps, and it's really actually kind of annoying. He thinks about smashing it, but a move like that would rip the needles out of his veins and probably rip his bones out of his body.

So instead, he just looks at Patrick and Ashlee. Tricky Blue Eyes and his baby girl with eyes the size of baby worlds. Pete realizes this is the first time he's seen them both alone since Ash walked in on their kiss. They're nothing like Hemingway and Rigby. Both halves of his heart locked in the same room, but repelling each other like same-ended magnets. Pete wonders what would happen if he tried to force them together. Would one break? Both? Pete?

\"You scared me, Pete,\" says Ashlee, and her voice is bright as christmas. It makes Pete's head hurt like no other. He now knows that it feels like to be Rigby. \"I found you. I brought you to the hospital. I saved your life.\"

Pete swallows and says in a voice like he'd been chainsmoking for the past two weeks, \"Patrick.\"

Ashlee's smile blows out. \"I saved your life.\"

\"Patrick.\"

\"You ungrateful son of a bitch! I fucking saved<\/i> your life and you want him<\/i>? He didn't even show up until ten minutes ago!\"

\"I didn't know what was going on! No one told me; she didn't tell me. The only reason I found out is because I stopped by your condo and the neighbor asked me if you made it.\"

\"Fuck off, Stump. There's no room for you here.\"

Patrick opens and closes his mouth, goldfish out of water. Pete talks for him. \"He's not going anywhere. You're not going anywhere. Just... please. Both of you, I need you both.\"

\"Fucking God<\/i>, Pete! You're such an asshole! I know<\/i> you fucking heard me. I'm pregnant, Pete. I'm going to have your goddamn kid. You want your baby to grow up without a dad? Because that's what's going to fucking happen if you don't tell Patrick to leave now<\/i>.\"

\"I heard you.\"

It's Ashlee's turn to be the goldfish. Patrick answers for her. \"She's right, Pete. I won't keep you away from your baby.\"

But even as Patrick speaks, Pete's shaking his head. The moment makes him feel like he's back on the pirate ship in the bottle of vodka. The room swivels and sways, but Pete's voice comes out scratchy and steady. \"No. You can't leave me.\"

\"You fucking can't leave me<\/i>. I was here before him. I've fucking been here for years<\/i>, Pete. Are you really going to turn your back that?\"

Pete reaches out to her with his tube-ridden hand. She keeps her distance, but Pete can read the ache on her pale skin. \"I don't want to leave you, baby. I don't want to leave you, and I don't want to leave us. Any part of us,\" she edges forward and Pete palms her stomach. It's the first time he's noticed a swell low, down by her hips. He wonders how long she's had it, and how many times he's ignored it. \"And this is part of us. I won't leave us.\"

\"I can't share you with him anymore.\"

\"I can't leave him.\"

They stare at each other for a minute. Ashlee rests her little, smooth hand on top of Pete's big rough one. His heartrate monitor is a notch below panic attack. He tries to control it. \"I need... time. To think about all of this,\" she says.

Pete nods. His girl kisses his hand, then walks out, arms wrapped around herself like if she doesn't, she'll fall apart.

\"Hey, Trick.\"

\"You need your rest. I'll come back later.\" Patrick kisses him where Ashlee didn't, and leaves. Pete doesn't know what to do. He's never known what to do, but sitting alone in a hospital room, hooked up to machines, antiseptic burning his nostrils, and a stomach wrung out, it's almost as if he's forgotten how to do anything.

*

Pete's released the next day, but it doesn't matter. Patrick drives him home, taking backroads to avoid anyone who might snap a shot of a bloodshot, sallow skinned, and frail Pete. The ride home is silence, and Pete kind of wishes Patrick would say something. Yell at him. Smash his face into the window. But he doesn't. And Pete doesn't do anything either. Just sits on his hands and looks out the window at the pollution and grime that is New York. Thinking hurts like electrocution, but Pete can't help it. By the time they get home, Pete feels like he's sat in the chair a few times and fried his insides.

\"Are you going to come in?\" he asks Patrick.

\"No. Ashlee's here. She'll drop you off at my place tomorrow. Or whenever you want to come by. We're not allowed to leave you alone,\" replies Patrick. He trains his eyes on the steering wheel in front of him, and Pete can't comprehend why he won't look at him. He doesn't know what he's supposed to have done wrong. If anything, Patrick should be okay with everything. After all, Pete's (half)alive, isn't he? After all, Pete stopped Ashlee from tearing them apart. They should be okay. But they're not. It scares him.

\"Okay. I'll see you tomorrow then. Kiss?\" Patrick gives him one quick and drives away just as fast the moment Pete closes the door.

The night passes very quietly. Ashlee doesn't say much, and replies even less. She stays with him at all times, but it's not comforting. It's awkward, and surreal. Pete feels out of place, uncomfortable in his own skin. Maybe he could peel it off and feel better, but Ashlee doesn't let him handle anything sharper than a pen. Late at night, when Pete's nestled in the center of the mattress and Ashlee is hanging off the edge, he makes a desperate attempt at conversation. \"How far along are you?\"

Ashlee turns her eyes on him, as if to say, really? You're going to talk about this<\/i>? \"A few months.\"

\"So... the other day, when you said we didn't need a condom...?\"

\"Yeah. You can't get pregnant while you're pregnant.\"

\"Figured.\"

\"...yeah.\"

A little gap of silence follows. \"When were you going to tell me?\"

\"When you left Patrick.\"

Pete flinches. \"What if I wasn't going to?\"

\"What if I fucking hate you?\"

Pete rolls over to the other end of the bed and throws his legs over it. His head feels hot and sweaty in his palms, and he presses so hard with the heel of his hands that he hopes his eyeballs pop out. \"Don't be like that, Ash.\"

\"Like what? Pissed off that you can't stop being selfish? Yeah, I'm such a horrible person for wanting the father of my baby<\/i> to be faithful<\/i>.\"

\"Ash...\"

\"No! Fuck you. I didn't even know<\/i> that this degree of bullshit could be obtained, but here you are, doing it. Be proud, Pete.\"

\"I want you. And I want our baby. I love you.\"

She laughs, and the sound is actually kind of scary. Kind of maniacal and angry; Pete's reminded of a hyena but think it's in his best interest not to say so. She jumps up and goes around the room to face him. \"No you don't. You don't<\/i> fucking love me. If you did, you'd leave him<\/i>, but you don't. You fucking won't because you're a selfish prick<\/i> and you know what? Maybe I should have left you on the floor. Maybe I shouldn't even have called the ambulance. You don't deserve to fucking live.\"

Pete presses harder on his face, curling his fingers in so his nails gauge deep into his russet skin. He can feel his muscle contract tight, to the point where his entire body shakes like leaves in the wind, and if he could see his spine, he's sure it'd be curved out to the opposite side of the room. Shut up, shut up, he just wants her to shut up and forgive him and curl up with him in the middle of their bed like a million times before and how<\/i> did this get so bad. When<\/i> did Ashlee's beautiful blonde locks turn into jealous angry medusa snakes?

\"Please, Ashlee, stop. I don't want to talk about this anymore. Can't you just... can't we be okay? Like before?\"

\"No. It's too late for that. I'm not sharing you anymore. I've thought about it. Me or him. Me and your baby, or Patrick and nothing.\"

And Pete doesn't know what to do. He wonders what it feels like to have a tapeworm eat his mind from the inside out, because he's pretty sure it's happening to him right now. Strangled sounds slip from between his lips, his heart might just shatter his ribs apart, and if he's not careful, he could bite his tongue off. When he speaks, it doesn't even sound like words. \"Ashlee... don't do this. I can't... I can't. I can't fucking can't can't can't.\"

She stands there for a second, and although Pete is curled up into a ball, shaking with little seizures that hurt half as much as his head does, he can feel her eyes piercing his skin. If looks could kill. \"Fine, Pete. Okay. Fine. I... I'm going to go around the block. I need to... to clear my head.\" Her fingers curl around his wrists and she gently kisses his shaking frame. \"I love you just as much as I hate you,\" she says, smiling a little. Pete doesn't reply, but kisses her back hungrily, amazed at how one day with little affection left him halfdead. Some small part of him is confused, and rattled by her sudden change in demeanor, but fuck it. He hurts, every little motion, even if it's just the contraction of his lungs for a breath, feels similar to bludgeons.

She leaves. In the back of Pete's half-eaten mind, he remembers Patrick saying he shouldn't be left alone, but can't bring himself to do anything about it. Instead, he curls up underneath all the blankets, surrounds himself with the pillows, and and doesn't fight anything. He must have fallen asleep because all of a sudden it's five a.m., he's aching and sweating like he just ran 10k and the bed is empty. Pete gets up, groaning at how his muscles feel tight and hot, and walks into every room in the house. No Ashlee. Just the ringing silence. Is the silence ringing or is the tapeworm playing the piano in his head?

He calls her cell phone; no answer. He looks outside for her car; it's not there. He even goes and knocks on the neighbor's door, but they tell him to fuck off, it's five a.m. is he retarded?

Patrick answers his phone on the sixth ring, which means he was asleep. Maybe Pete should feel bad about waking him up, but he doesn't. \"What's wrong, Pete?\"

\"Ashlee's not here.\"

\"Where'd she go?\" Pete hears Patrick sigh, and sit up. He can almost imagine the boy rubbing his eyes and stretching his back muscles into contusions.

\"I don't know. She left last night around ten and I don't know if she came back. I fell asleep.\" And Pete actually kind of hates this. He sounds so matter-of-fact, so stale. Ashlee's disappearance is more than enough cause for worry, but all Pete thinks is he'd really like a bagel right now. He asks Patrick to bring him one, but Trick just mumbles.

\"Don't do anything dumb, Pete. I'll be over in half an hour, alright?\"

After he hands up, Pete doesn't know what to do. There's no bagels in the house, and he thinks that cutting a piece of bread into bagel-shape is too low, even for him. So he grabs a melatonin, just one, swallows it dry and goes back to the bed. The last thing he sees before the pill takes its effect, is thinning red hair and a face that makes him ache.

The next time he wakes up, it's to the doorbell. Sun filters in through the windows, streaking his skin gold and black. Next to him lies Patrick, curled up under the blankets. Pete doesn't disturb him, and instead gets up, bleary eyed, mouth parched, and pulls the door open.

\"Peter Wentz?\"

\"Yeah...\" In the next room, he half-hears Patrick wake up.

\"I'm Officer Jessica, with the NYPD. I'm sorry to disturb you so early. Do you mind if I step inside?\" Pete moves and lets the police officer in, still too asleep to really comprehend why a cop is in his doorway. \"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you, sir.\"

Pete's heart stutters.

\"We received a call about a possible jumper on the Manhattan Bridge. A Mercedes Benz was discovered at the site of the accident, in your name. I'm sorry sir, but we also discovered the body of Ashlee Simpson on the shore. We here at the NYPD give you our deepest condolences, but we need you to identify the body as her immediate family is currently in Texas.\"

Pete's heart fails.

*

He and Patrick get back to the condo hours later. It's bright, and beautiful outside, but there's a pane of dark and cracked glass over Pete's eyes that prevents him from seeing anything. Patrick speaks in hushed tones, as if he were afraid that loud noises would break him. Pete wishes for the thousandth time that he'd yell, or go into a fit of violence and knock him out, but Patrick remains ever calm. It's a contrast to the day before, where Patrick wouldn't touch him for anything. Now he won't take his hand off Pete's arm, won't stop walking with him like they're siamese twins. Patrick doesn't stop talking, but Pete won't reply. It's too much. What exactly is too much, he can't specify. Just everything. Too much.

\"You want something to eat, babe? Something to drink? If you want I'll go pick you up some of the Fuze tea you like so much and chinese food. No, I'll have Gabe bring it, but do you want? How about I rent Love, Actually<\/i>? I can't stand it but you like it so I'll sit through it for you, babe. I can go get you your bass too. Or keyboard, you wa...\"

He keeps talking. He doesn't stop. Pete considers going and buying a muzzle. Or some super glue. Really, he just wants Patrick to shut the fuck up and give him a little bit of time to... to what? Scream, cry, bash his head through the wall. Yeah. Pete just wants to be alone. \"Will you be quiet?\"

\"...I'm just trying to help, Pete. I want you to be okay.\"

\"Okay? Patrick. Fucking... g-god, no. I'm not going to be okay. Fuck me if that sounds emo and MCR-y, but it's true. I just lost my baby and girlfriend of seven years. Do you know what that's like. Don't even answer. Just. Fuck off. Please.\"

\"No, Pete. You've told me to fuck off every other day since we got together. I'm not going to. You're right, I don't know what it's like to lose the love of your life, and I'm not about to find out. I'm not going to leave you alone.\"

Anger flares up like Pete doesn't even understand. He jumps up and shoves Patrick, his back leaving cracks and indents into the dry wall. He curves his arm back, and punches Patrick in the stomach until the younger is doubled over, retching, teeth stained red, and where<\/i> has Pete seen this before? Ashlee walking into the recording studio, shock sprawling her features as Patrick pulls away from Pete's bloody mouth. If Ashlee hadn't seen that, none of this would have happened. If Patrick hadn't kissed him at that moment, none of this would have happened. If he weren't such a goddamn stubborn douchebag, this whole ordeal could have been avoided. Patrick is the reason why Pete's baby girl with eyes the size of baby worlds is gone.

\"Shut the fuck up or I will kill<\/i> you, Stump.\"

\"No you wo-\" he starts to reply, but Pete backhands him, smack ringing through the house like they're in a canyon. Trick falls and Pete drives his foot down on his chest.

\"I'm telling you, Stump, one more word.\" But Pete doesn't wait to see if Patrick keeps his mouth shut, and instead slams down, right over where Patrick's heart is.

It's like he can't stop. Patrick is down, curled up on his side, shallow ragged shadows of breath struggling keep up with his needs, and he makes no attempt to rise. Pete makes no attempt to help him. Rather, he goes about the room, picking up everything he gets his hands on and flinging it with every morsel of his quickly failing strength. Windows shatter, fragile figures fragment, wood splinters and all the while Pete's head is surrounded in a fog so thick God wouldn't be able to see out of it. He knows he should stop, that all of this destruction is nothing but bad in an already suffering mind, but. Fuck it. His girlfriend<\/i> and baby<\/i> are dead<\/i>.

Another choked breath flees, and Pete finds himself on his knees. Glass digs into his skin, but he just presses deeper. What scares him is he can't feel it. What scares him is he can't feel anything but this dull aching and sickening feeling in the pit of stomach that shouldn't be there. He looks over at Patrick, and sees the boy struggling to get up. It looks like someone's dimming the lights, and amidst all of the pain he feels, he wonders why the room is swaying. Is he back in the bottle? Stranded in the middle of nothing, no way out, no way out. Pete wishes he'd find the bottom of the bottle again. Darkness follows and once again, Pete loses everything.

*

Heavy eyelids like the shadow of the day weighs a million tons force open. Pete looks around his room, sees the havok disarray a night of insanity and shotgun hysteria twisted through. His clothes littered the ground, strewn like Piccasso's life on canvas. His armoire lay amongst the clothing, turned on its face. Papers run scattered, poking through the cotton and denim like gnarled hands through freshly turned silken soil.

He gets up and the blood rushes away from his head, leaving his sight broken and dark in splotches for a few seconds. The scene of his ruin-ridden room fades out and back in. Pete doesn't like the sight of it twice. The funeral scene of his own grief and hysteria stuck in time. On the bed, still sleeping soundly as anything, Patrick lays. He's pale, he's cold, but he moves. Pete wonders what happened last night. He can't remember. Maybe he doesn't even want to remember. All he knows is that things aren't right, too sharp. There's a clarity that makes his sinuses hurt, head throb, skin burn, eyes water. Every time he looks at Patrick he thinks of Ashlee and every time he thinks of Ashlee he... he's can't fathom it. It's impossible. No. She can't be gone, she can't be dead, she was carrying his baby. A little part of Pete, months old, alive, thriving...

Pete kicks a CD tower down and it adds a clattering addition to the already distorted room. Patrick stirs and Pete breaks down. Knees hit the ground, and there's broken glass that cuts though his skin like fire to ice. Only he wishes it were that simple. He wishes he were ice to fire, just melt and eventually evaporate into nothing. Novocaine numbness that lasts an eternity. He needs it. This can't go on. He can't go on.
So Pete kisses Patrick and it hurts worse than goodbye should. He kisses Patrick with his mouth troubled and twisted, and Patrick barely stirs. It should be enough to make Pete worry something's wrong with his Tricky Blue Eyes, but at this point, Pete can't do much of anything. The idea of eternal sleep has embedded itself into him like a parasite to its host. It's not going anywhere, and Pete knows he has to satiate these feelings. But before he goes, he places his palm on Patrick's chest. The heartbeat is slow, too slow, and uneven in some places, but still there. Pete presses down tight on the sick thudding and closes his eyes. Here is the half of Pete's heart that is still alive. The other half is in a cold metal box, being preserved and frozen to be buried. If it weren't there, it'd be thousands of leagues underwater. Pete doesn't know where it's better off. But Patrick's heart is there. It's alive. Will it die when Pete's stops?

He kisses Patrick again and says in the strongest voice he can muster, \"I love you, baby.\" Eyes still shut, he imagines Ashlee next to Trick, imagines his left palm pressed to her breast, smooth rhythm underneath it. In his mind's eye, the hearts beat in the same rhythm, and when he takes each half out of his lovers' chests, they mesh together into a harrow-veined horror.

But it's a perfect fit. One heart. Two pieces. A duet dwindled down to a soliloquy.

Pete turns away from Patrick, vision dark and marred again. He stumbles into the kitchen where Ashlee's purse sits on a bar stool. Everything falls out and clatters as he upturns it, including little orange bottles of xanax and vicodin. In the seconds his vision brightens, he reads: one hundred and fourteen pills.

Pete takes every single one."}]}