Peterick/trohley oneshots

I don't care what you think, as long as it's about me.

He couldn't say when it all became too much for him, just that it did. He didn't know when the words they said to him began to feel as if someone had shoved a knife into his back, and twisted it. It felt like a fresh word, and he was all too used to that feeling. 

He used to admire the words he wrote - that they wrote for him . They were his comfort. The sounds of the pens on paper, just scratching the words down, and the crumpling if it wasn't liked, he used to love that. It was his high. It all felt melancholy, and sad now. It didn't make sense to him. Nothing made sense anymore. 

He had so many notebooks, filled with useless doodles and feeling, words that captured his state of mind perfectly, yet he had presented it to his friends, and they had ripped him from his pedestal, and threw him into an ocean, where he was just falling, sinking. He was drowning in his own misery. 

Re-reading his words hurt too, it felt like a punch in the gut, especially when the person he wrote them for, dedicated the hours of thinking, and self-deprication too, hated them - and him. She hated him. He had found that out, after walking in on her underneath another guy. That was the same day the band had decided their hiatus, and he was devastated, the same day they had rejected his writing. 

They didn't try to contact him much, either. He saw pictures of the three of them, but he was never there. They were never there for him. They didn't know how much they were hurting Pete when all they talked to him for was a quick rant, and affirmation that everything was going to be okay. Pete never got that affirmation from them. He barely got anything from them for Christmas, or his birthday, either. 

He got them things, though. Of course, he got them things, they're his family. Or, they were, until they didn't even acknowledge that he existed. 

He compiled this all, including his recent diagnosis with being bipolar, into a tweet, and before he actually thought, he hit send. He had told the entire internet that he didn't feel loved, that he wasn't okay, all because his friends had stopped caring for him. He didn't check the tweet again, until there was a soft ding, and his screen flashed. 

'PatrickStump replied to your tweet: Pete? Call me?' 

And he did. 

Maybe someone does care for pete wentz. 

Maybe Patrick does.