Peroxide (Peterick)

lmao gotta zayn

Nothing moves in the cottage under the Caribou skies.

The fire is but a heap of ash and embers whose flames were stolen by the thief known as the moon, and a rigor varnishes the wooden strips of the floor with a curt hush to the activities of the fluttering drapes.

No one is to know what schemes Pete Wentz is fulfilling in the isolation of his bedroom, but the night is a snitch and whispers a tale of foreboding into my ear before it's stifled by the protection of the walls.

And as my toes tattoo a burlesque onto the panels of lumber beneath them, the faint clicking of my friend's plotting is audible under the slit of his door, where quieted beams of light splinter the wood and alert me to the danger progressing within the confines of the area.

The melancholic droning of tears down one's face declares itself as the paramount ruler to any form of acumen feeding into Pete's cognition, and it shows by the vigilant lock holstered inside the knob and the muffled theatric of sobbing excavating the hall.

My fist stands at attention by the door, unsure of its motives, however helpful, but after an agitating pin against the ground in the shape of something more portentous, impetus is a drug produced a gallon at a time.

To my astonishment, the lock was never fastened at all, forgotten in a hurry to schedule one's own massacre, and as I enter, I'd rather the lock be sealed with superglue than confront this scene.

A monster of a being grovels in the space near my feet, an assortment of pills brandishing swords meant to injure the person who has already injured himself enough, and not a flash of remorse fashions his murky demeanor.

"Patrick," my friend warns, back eschewing me for the mercy of his drugs. "Go to bed. That's where everyone else is, and I know you love fitting in with the crowd."

My response wavers on the ledge of my tongue, not yet verbal arms outstretched to balance itself, just to fall back into my mouth and plummet down my throat.

"Frivolous," Pete mutters, a spit dredging his remark. "That's what you are."

A laugh spears my lungs with the intensity of this matter, shocked. "And what about you? Wasting your life on the pills you insist on hating?" My head droops in disbelief. "This isn't what I meant when I told you to take your meds."

"Then what did you mean?" Loose ends of malice disproportion Pete's generally easygoing personality, combing a shadow through its waters. "If you want the best for me, don't be so fucking ambiguous."

"It isn't my fault that you overreacted to a simple opinion!"

And in that moment, my companion's body rotates to present a masterpiece of prescriptions, spelling out the sole word no in medicated beads of spite that embellish his true inclination towards humanity, which is deeply outlined in his abrupt disheveled hygiene.

As I analyze the production, Pete's breath converses with mine as the flecks of gold in his irises become visible — and wondrously beautiful — and the silence is captured for the longest duration imaginable, but I break away, flustered.

I attempt persuasion from a different aspect. "Why were you trying to overdose?" My voice is the size of a mouse, scampering around the room in hopes of discovering an adequate reaction but returning fruitless.

All Pete does is stare out the window while its blinds are still crumpled over each other, as if he could make something out of the thin slices that board him from the outside world, because an effect is the exact opposite to what he's earning with the dismal hum he provides to everything.