Peroxide (Peterick)

am I a twink

I awake not to a doctor checking in on me by adjusting some path of wires to fit better on my skin, but the lilypad of lips on my forehead that converts to an epidemic.

Groaning, I shift in my bed, still caped in a black scene to rest myself. "Do they have dogs in this hospital?" I joke, half playfully and half seriously, because I haven't had the faintest clue what's going on for the past week, and an intrusive species is now attacking me, so the difference between a human and a dog is nearly indistinguishable.

"Patrick, I have some good news for you," a voice burbles, sluggishly shaking me awake when I don't react to more kisses on the nose, only swat them away.

I've become desensitized to what people call good news, because I'm either really indifferent to everything or ready to fucking shoot myself, so good news doesn't belong on the spectrum of metaphorical hell, but that doesn't mean other people can't enjoy the pleasurable experiences of life (though I have no idea how Pete would judge himself worthy of that scale), so good news is good news for them and most likely not for me, but if they're happy, that's the important thing.

Ever since I met Pete, I've wanted him to be happy, even if that meant I wasn't, and the voice that composes a love song in my ear is the one who doesn't need a love song for me to cherish him, so I figure we both got the lucky draw and trapped the universe in a loophole.

If loving me makes Pete happy, then anything that would make me less attractive to him would be reversing his fate and isn't viable in the rules of this labyrinthine game that we're unintentionally a part of, so I'm practically untouchable to the devil of this circus.

With that, I continue to lather the melody of Pete's voice over me and refuse anything else, even when he's beseeching me to listen to him, because each time I speak is a cessation to his own tune.

So I refuse to sever my lids' devoted connection to each other, rather stringing out a wordless and groggy "Mhm?"

"You've been discharged."

That refusing attitude has gone on for long enough, yeah? As a solution, I do indeed disjoin my lids to behold a glowing Pete Wentz and mimic his radiance for myself. "Really? I'm out of this place?"

A smile mitigates his posture as it permeates every piece of him and illuminates the already blinding room. "Yep, we got the report from Elisa this morning, but I just wanted to give you time to sleep before I told you. The past few days have been hectic."

"Clearly." I push myself up to discover the absence of all the cords and wires drinking my blood, and my clothes have been piled on the end of my bed for me to change back into. "Can you turn around please?"

Pete nods willingly, recognizing my wish of getting dressed and rocking back and forth as I do so.

I've grown accustomed to the ugly hospital gown, but it provides me with a sort of freedom that I don't like to wear. Being enclosed in tight pants and tucked shirts is how I can be positive that I don't just fucking fly away or something, so snuggling into my button down and skinny jeans is the best sensation in the world (or at least the safest).

It took a few hours to acclimate to the hospital gown, but promptly after my regular clothing envelops me, I'm back to normal, like this is where I need to be. This might be correlated to the notion that I'm hostile towards unfamiliar environments for fear of being destroyed by things I never weighed properly, and I've been trudging through the maxim that proclaims it's better to be safe than sorry.

"Are you ready, Patrick?" Pete asks, back still turned to me in a value of my privacy, and I respond by sporting his fingers in mine as a fashion.

"Thanks for staying with me," I murmur while walking past the same doctors and nurses I approached (and sometimes rolled into) yesterday, though our course is a slow and steady gait meant to help rather than harm like I did previously.