andwhoareyousweetheart: (Fall Out Boy)
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Title: Smiles Like Ritalin
Rating: PG-13 (for language and discussion of attempted suicide)
Pairing: General (vague Pete/Patrick)
POV: Third Person (Pete centric)
Summary: Pete can’t believe his ticket to the big time came in the form of a stupid, young, perfect boy with the initials “PMS”, but it has.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. This is fiction, nothing less, nothing more.
A/N: This probably shouldn't see the light of day. Short, angsty drabble. Also not very good, in my opinion, but... *shrugs* (Title and cut text by Marianas Trench.)



They’re young and stupid and insane in the back of some van in the middle of somewhere when Pete first thinks it, when he looks over at Patrick and his mind somehow forms into, “This is you, you, PatrickPatrickPatrick.” Pete can’t believe his ticket to the big time came in the form of a stupid, young, perfect boy with the initials “PMS”, but it has, and he can feel it, bigger than him and the rest of them and.

He thinks it when they play their first show and Pete can’t help but press up against him for the bridge, breathe him in deep so he won’t forget it, not evereverever. Because this is him and this is Patrick and this is a fucking moment on a fucking stage, surrounded by bright lights and drum beats and Joe spinning wildly and everything, everything. Just, everything.

He thinks it after they win their first award, Patrick flushed and confused and, “What the fuck, dude, what the actual fuck?” and sort-of ridiculously Patrick in the heat of the moment. He almost thinks it out loud, almost says, “Patrick, you could do, do better.” but doesn’t because it’s not fair, really. Joe and Andy could do better, honestly, they could. Pete couldn’t, but that’s old knowledge, and that’s not why they’re here.

He thinks it six hundred thousand million times, Patrick here, Patrick doing this, that, anything, thinks half-consciously, “This is all you, Patrick, just –“. He thinks it and never says it out loud, just sneaks into his bunk at night to try and sleep, always stays with him as the song winds down, defends him when he needs it and supports him when he doesn't.

He thinks it a lot, too much, maybe, but it’s nothing like that night, because –

Because. Because he hasn’t slept in fucking ever and he’s sick of everything and there’s this big part of him screaming just loud enough for him but no one else to hear. He’s going crazy, alone, sick and spiralling, and Patrick’s constant presence, his, “Why, Pete, I don’t fucking understand why!” isn’t helping, and.

And he’s not going to bother with it anymore, because he knows he’s holding them down; holding them back. They can do better, do more, and Patrick, his Patrick – he’s not going to prevent Patrick from being the best fucking ever producer or some shit like that.

So he doesn’t leave a note, just takes the pills, thinks in blurriness that they should have Patrick’s name on them and not his because that irony would be beautiful, and “Hallelujah” is on the radio and that’s ironic, too. He thinks about nights where Patrick would soothe him and whisper in his ear that it was all okay and days when he would laugh, laugh, laugh, so big and bright and better than him, better than this, and Pete thinks, yeah.

Yeah, he thinks, I’m pretty sure this is the right choice.
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