Peroxide (Peterick)

don't trap me on this trampoline

When I kissed Pete, I was in a bathroom stall for an hour with the intentions of sorting through the variables, but with Dallon, it seems like nothing special, and it's perplexing how my friend is a load and my attacker is a casualty, when it should be the other way around, or at least be equal in the troubling field.

But it's not the kiss I'm fretting about — it's the aftermath and what transpired before that caused it.

Speaking of the cause, I should be with Pete to make sure he doesn't kill himself on the pills he says he doesn't take, but he would probably continue with his endeavor and barely pity me when I observe his death, but then again, he wouldn't want me to miss the show either.

So in a state of indecisiveness, I find myself sitting by the lake, submerged in the snow without a jacket to absorb my heat, but with the status of my soul, it's not like I have any heat for it to absorb.

And I'm perfect fine (for the most part), so seeing a drunk Frank Iero stumbling into my path and crashing into the ground beside me is quite the shock.

A half-empty beer bottle wades in his hand, towed around by jittery phalanges, and his hair is even messier than Dallon's. "Hey, Patrick!" Frank squeals, underestimating his sonority.

"Um, hi, Frank."

I've never spoken to this Iero kid one on one before, for he was always with either Gerard or Lindsey, endeavoring to appeal to both of them, and I've been the meek guy in the corner that no one dares talk to because they're afraid of hurting me, so those roles haven't been compatible yet.

"So how are you?" A pinched smile fits Frank's visage, stereotypical of teenage girls ready for gossip.

"I'm doing well, except for the fact Pete's about to fucking die, and even after I knew that, I kissed Dallon."

Frank's expression is miffed, partly because I snapped at him, partly because he didn't realize Pete is in danger, and partly because everyone can tell I hate Dallon. "Well why did you do that?" He appears genuinely confused, and I somewhat pardon him, primarily because he's drunk and insensible.

My vision circulates the pillow terrain of my hands, made soft by the lotion I refuse to apply to my arm but continue to apply elsewhere. "Because I couldn't control my emotions."

Frank pats my knee reassuringly, the best he can do in this intoxicated perspective. "We all have those days. You just gotta get through them, and then you're a-ok." A proud beam shades his pale face, unsure if his advice was helpful, but he's interpreting it with his own judgment, regardless of whether or not I'm still broken down.

My head whips around to glare at this Iero fellow, unnerving for him and fueling for me. "But those days aren't every day for other people."

"Are you constantly tormented by it?" Frank's words are dedicated to his feet, rinsed in scruffy tennis shoe materials and splattered by snowflakes.

"Basically."

"Try alcohol," Frank recommends, beer luging down his throat. "You'll feel great."

I flick his bottle delicately, examining it for a conclusion of "why the hell would I do that?"

Frank shrugs. "It's what I do."

"And you're drunk." I cock my head, disapproving.

"Fair point." More beer rides a toboggan down his neck, sliding around while he attempts to speak. "But I'm not quite drunk."

My brows arch, an aqueduct for the ebbing snow surrounding our frozen figures. "Oh?"

Reflection establishes its trade on Frank's rouge lips, playful in nature. "It's a memorable kind of veneer."