Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12583140.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F, F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Fall_Out_Boy, My_Chemical_Romance, Panic!_at_the_Disco, Taking_Back
      Sunday, Mindless_Self_Indulgence, Blink-182, Green_Day, Paramore, Gerard
      Way_and_the_Hormones, Frank_Iero_and_the_Patience, frnkiero_andthe
      cellabration, Halsey, The_Brobecks, Twenty_One_Pilots, Cobra_Starship,
      The_Academy_Is..., Gym_Class_Heroes
  Relationship:
      Patrick_Stump/Gerard_Way, Patrick_Stump/Pete_Wentz, Patrick_Stump/Ryan
      Ross, Pete_Wentz/Mikey_Way, Joe_Trohman/Marie_Trohman, Brendon_Urie/Ryan
      Ross, Dallon_Weekes/Breezy_Weekes, Gerard_Way/Dallon_Weekes_Mentioned,
      Patrick_Stump/Kevin_Stumph, David_Stumph/Patricia_Stumph, Lindsey
      Ballato/Hayley_Williams, Jenna_Black/Tyler_Joseph
  Character:
      Patrick_Stump, Pete_Wentz, Joe_Trohman, Andy_Hurley, Gerard_Way, Mikey
      Way, Ray_Toro, Frank_Iero, Bob_Bryar, Ryan_Ross, Brendon_Urie, Dallon
      Weekes, Marie_Trohman, Adam_Lazzara, Hayley_Williams, Lindsey_Way, Ashley
      Frangipane, Josh_Dun, Tyler_Joseph, Jenna_Black, William_Beckett, Gabe
      Saporta, Travie_McCoy, Mark_Hoppus
  Additional Tags:
      trigger_warning, Incest, Rape, Molestation, Sexual_Abuse, Consensual_Sex,
      Substance_Abuse, Drugs, Ecstasy_-_Freeform, alcohol_use, Cigarettes,
      Physical_Abuse, Verbal_Abuse, Bullying, Anorexia, Starvation, Major
      Depression, major_anxiety, PTSD_-_Post_Traumatic_Stress_Disorder, Bipolar
      Disorder, Self-Harm, Suicide_Attempts, Suicidal_Thoughts, Death, Trauma,
      Music, Coping, Love, Hate, Low_Self_Esteem, christmas_day, Smut, Anal
      Sex, Gay_Sex, bisexual_patrick, Non_Binary_Ryan_Ross, Vaginal_Sex,
      Straight_Sex, Weed, clubs
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-10-31 Updated: 2017-11-04 Chapters: 4/? Words: 11322
****** I'm Not Okay (I Promise) - Rewrite ******
by IWrtBksNtTrgds
Summary
     "How strong are your promises?"
     "I have yet to break one."
     •••
     Three years have passed and Patrick's still barely surviving. An
     abusive father, a sick brother, and a terrified sister have become
     the result of an incident that pulled apart their family at the seams
     and left hem all broken in their own ways.
     There's no hope left for him. He's never gonna make it.
     But the artist with weak hands and troubled eyes is determined to
     change that.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
***** This Place Is So Empty, My Thoughts Are So Tempting *****
Reasons - Chuck - Sum 41
Have you ever wanted to disappear?
Leave and move away to somewhere - anywhere but here. Get away to another
state, country, continent, even. Have you ever wanted to leave everyone behind
and never look back? Just to run away and completely forget about your life and
start all over again. Somewhere you won't be judged or hurt or confused. Have
you ever felt so alone, so rejected and confused that you can't help but want
to just... forget? Lost and anxious and wronged. Dirty and angry, ashamed and
used. Patrick felt the exact same way.
He's overridden with fear, with terror. His entire body is stiff and tense and
just so... afraid. He didn't think it could get this bad, but apparently it
could. He should be used to it by now, three years with this same goddamned
phobia of something so goddamned stupid... but he can't help it. He's afraid of
it, terrified of it. He hates thinking about it, doesn't talk about it.
Because if he's honest, nobody will ever know why he sits in the back of the
classroom without a friend, without anyone, he's alone and it seems that will
never change. But if he's honest, he doesn't need anyone, he never has, never
will. He can make it through this alone, he doesn't need anyone, doesn't need
anyone to lean on or to take care of him. He doesn't need anyone in his life
but himself. He would be fine without friends, without acquaintances. It would
be nice if he got rid of the enemies, too, but he knows he can't do much about
them. It's just the way things are.
The root of what's happening, though, starts at the silent ticking on the wall,
sharp and pristine and slow but fast all at once. It sends his muscles tight as
a guitar string and as stiff as a door. It passes by the seconds in smooth
seconds: One, two, three--Mr. Lazzara says something--four, five, six. It's too
fast to be normal. Seven, eight, nine. His palms begin to sweat as he shifts in
his seat and lowers his eyes. Ten, eleven... His seat feels unnaturally
uncomfortable, his mind running from that demon that chases him all the time.
It's terrifying if he's honest, running for so long, but there's only so much
he can do before he runs out of breath and he's caught. Only so much he can do
before he's taken back to hell again.
The only thing that he can do is just try to distract himself from the feeling
of impending doom settling in his heart. Distractions are like a safe haven for
him, they pull him away from the anxiety and the fear, they hug him and care
for him, fix him up and tell him it'll be okay even if it doesn't seem that
way. If he's honest, he hasn't heard those words in a while, though, and he's
been desperate to hear them again. From anyone, it doesn't matter who, just
someone. Anyone.
"Patrick!"
His eyes snap up and his pupils go small in terror as a stab of surprise and
fear slides deep into his stomach like a dagger twisting and rolling into his
gut, driving in deeper and deeper. I's sending all the blood to gush out in
harsh spurts to the growing beat of his heart. It's going faster and faster, a
race car on a track. A mile a minute and there's no sign of slowing. He's gonna
crash and burn and there's nothing he can do to stop it.
Mr. Lazzara called his name and now he has to face the consequences of blanking
out.
Their eyes meet, the class holds their breath as the tension holds, harsh and
intense. Patrick can't hold up, though. He leans back - there goes a tire -
shoves his hands in his pockets - there's the door. And the audience gasps as
he tries to keep himself together, lips parted and eyes wide in anxiety, fear,
nervousness, and pure terror.
"W-What?"
There's a harsh snicker from somewhere and he breaks completely, the whole car
has flipped over and is on fire, a crash and burn at its finest. He flinches,
his eyes go wide, and his hands shake almost violently in his pockets as Mr.
Lazzara sighs and looks away, calling on someone else that Patrick really
doesn't pay attention to. He knows it doesn't matter anyways, he's used to
being forgotten, used to being laughed at as everyone else just enjoys
themselves, unjudged, untouched. They get it good, Patrick wishes they could
see just how deep into hell they've pushed him. Past the seventh layer and now
he's suffocating on fire and being tortured, every day. Psychologically,
emotionally, verbally. Whatever helps get them off on their own pride.
He's used to being pushed away because he's broken. He'll never be one of the
cool kids, he'll never  not be depressed and weird, nervous and awkward.
He's a mess and that's all there is to it. Ever since the... The Incident three
years ago, he's never been the same. He's changed inside and ever since then,
he's been alone. He left his friends, he left his life, he wandered off to
where the smallest of the kids gets picked on, and he knows there's no going
back. He can't just be okay. Not after something like that. He knows, though,
if he was popular again, he'd have to talk to his friends about everything.
He'd have to face his past all over again and that thought alone would surely
put him into a panic attack, send him too far into his own  mind and he would
relapse, he's sure of it.
He can only tell himself he's okay so much before it begins to sink in that it
may never be true.
Ring! Ring! Ring!
Patrick gasps, jumps slightly, startled as he's yanked from his thoughts and
his gaze is sent straight to that goddamned clock on the wall that reads 12:00.
Is it really already time for lunch
Either way, he grabs his bag as fast as he can and sits up from his seat, the
moment he stands, though, he feels his feet cramp under him and he winces as he
leans back on the table. Goddamn pins and needles. He hates them.
He watches everyone else file out the door, Hayley and Spencer and Jon and a
few other kids Patrick doesn't know. They're all talking and laughing within
each other. All having fun and not giving a care to anything. Patrick wishes he
could be like that, he really does wish he could be careless. He wishes he
could be normal just like they are. Okay, just like they are. Happy, just like
they are. But he's not sure he'll ever be able to get that. He had his chance,
and he failed. So badly.

It's not until the last kid is out that he's finally able to lift himself up
and leave his desk. But things never seem to go in his favor. He's always just
a moment too late.
"Patrick, could you come here for a few minutes?"
His heart sinks. He feels his hands become sweaty all over again and his
heartbeat quickly speeding up as his anxiety sets in all over again. It comes
just like a snap of your fingers and it lingers for so much longer. It's like a
constant tragedy, and Patrick is always terrified it's his fault. Because it
has been his fault. So many times over it's been his fault. This time is no
different. Mr. Lazzara knows something, needs to know something and he's gonna
get it from Patrick. He might threaten him just to get it. Just to figure out
what the fuck this kid is hiding from him.
His feet turn into stone bricks all of a sudden, his hands turn to drums that
are constantly being pounded and his entire posture turns as tight as a guitar
string that the teacher could pluck at any moment and make him fall to pieces.
He's vulnerable, easy to break, easy to use and he hates it. He absolutely
hates it, but he knows he can't do anything to stop it.
You're pathetic, Patrick. You're so stupid, why don't you just drop dead?
He's at the desk before he wants to be, his heart pounding in his ears so loud
that he's sure Mr. Lazzara can hear it, too. He's sure of it. But Patrick is
still afraid, of what he wants to talk to him about. What does he want? Is he
asking about my grades? Criticizing me for not knowing the answer? Does he know
about The Incident? Will he hurt him?
Mr. Lazzara interrupts his thoughts as he taps a few things on his keyboard,
clicks his mouse, then peering over his computer screen, parts his lips and
says to Patrick, "I want to talk to you about your grades, more specifically
what's lowering them. Even more specifically, your situation at home." He
directs his attention back to his computer where he's probably looking at the
large D- on his computer right beside Patrick's name. Then the C in Gym and the
B- in Social Studies, the F in Science, the D+ in Art, the C- in Math.
"W-what about home?" He internally cringes at his stutter but his mind is a
mess. This can't be happening. Mr. Lazzara can't know, he can't see. If he
does, it'll all be over.
"Well, I was looking back through your grades." The teachers licks his lips and
those dark brown eyes shift right back up to meet the student's gaze. They hold
it for a while, a long amount of time, almost too long, but it's not long
before they return to the computer. "And I notived that three years ago, your
grades dropped. There was no explanation, no reason, they just dropped. Is
there something that happened, Patrick? Because if something is happening in
your personal life that's bothering you--if you're in danger--you know I am
here for you. You can always talk to me about it.
Patrick's speechless, frozen, afraid. His anxiety has taken complete and total
control and is as useless as a bowling pin. His mind is a tsunami of "Does he
know about The Incident?" and "Is this a test?" and "What if he already knows
about The Incident and he's just tricking me?" and "He can't know," and "Will
he know that I've been telling lies all this time?"
But he doesn't once think to tell Mr. Lazzara what really happened. He wouldn't
in a million years consider ever telling anyone about it. Because he knows the
consequences would be too great, and the price to pay would be much too
weighted. There are no pros to telling it away, there are only cons and unfair
deals. He knows it isn't worth it to give it away and it'll never be worth it.
All Patrick can do is shake his head slowly and try to gather his wits again,
he feels his entire body going numb, his lips don't even feel like they're
there, his tongue is in knots and his stomach is churning dangerously. He just
barely manages to open his mouth without puking out of nervousness. Instead,
his voice protrudes, weak and gentle, "No, i-it's fine. I-I'm okay. I swear."
Mr. Lazzara gazes at him thoughtfully for the longest moment, squinting as if
Patrick's lie is a thick blur, but he must see just clearly because only
moments later, he's nodding dismissively, returning back to his computer and
positioning his fingers on the thick keys, "Alright, well, if you need
anything, just come to me and I'll be right there, alright?"
Alright? That's it? There's nothing more? Patrick feels like his lungs are
finally able to refill again, no long deflated balloons and he wastes no time
taking advantage of that. He sighs silently in relief, nodding softly to him
with a barely audble, "Thank you," then spins and begins using his lightweight
legs to get the fuck out of there.
His heart is still pounding in my chest and my ears are still ringing but he's
beginning to feel all that weight leave his chest. His shoes tap on the floor
as he continues to walk through the halls. Mr. Lazzara could have known. Could
have found out. Why would he even care in the first place if Patrick is nothing
but a student? Just the weird kid who sits in the back of class and daydreams
of running away from everything. He's just the odd one out, why in the hell
would he ever be special when he can't even keep himself together half the
time? He's a bit of a failure, he's always been one, no matter how much he
wishes he wasn't. He knows he can't change it. Not now. Possibly not ever.
He stops at his locker, turning the dial until he has his code in and wastes no
time in dropping off his textbook before leaving for the cafeteria. Everyone's
already gone, they're not like him. Or... he's not like them. He'll never be
normal like they are. It's kind of sad in a way, but he's coping.
You're just pathetic. Shut the fuck up and quit being a goddamn weirdo, Jesus
Christ.
He winces, but continues, eyes cast down and head lowered as his feet drag him
to the cafeteria. The walk is in solitude, long and silent but he doesn't mind
it at all. He's always loved being alone, it makes him feel more comfortable
with himself, with fucking up. Because he won't be judged by anyone else,
because if he's alone, it almost feels like he can't even mess up in the first
place like he has so many times in the past.
It's almost as if his anxiety just leaves.
The cafeteria doors open before he realizes he's already down the hall, the
doors creak open and shut loudly, it's not enough to alert the rest of the
room, though, it's overwhelmed with the constant chatter of teens. Of
acquaintances, enemies, old friends who I could never call friends again in my
life.
Patrick takes a spot in the lunch line, looking away from everyone and taking
deep breaths. Despite the fact that it's been at least ten minutes since Mr.
Lazzara talked to him. Despite the fact he didn't even know about The Incident.
He's trying to take breaths to calm myself but it's surprisingly hard as I
reach closer and closer to the register. I hate talking to people, I hate
interacting with anyone in general, I love being alone. All alone where I can
cheer myself up and I don't have responsibilities and I can just be myself.
Maybe I dream too much but I can't help it, I want to leave this stupid town
and find my way through life on my own. I just want to leave every bad thought
that ever crosses my mind, and I want to forget about everything for just one
moment. Just to pretend it's not even there.
If I had to choose what I wanted most in life, I'd have to choose just being
happy. I want to be happy, I want to be back to three years ago, but before I
fucked anything up. Before it was my fault and before I was sent into this
downward spiral. I just want to be okay for once and I want to go a whole day
without telling a lie that I'm okay. Lies that I tell to everyone who asks.
Lies I tell to myself to help me sleep at night.
I'm miserable, I'm depressed and I hate it.
"Dammit, kid, move!" The lunch lady snaps me from my thoughts, her eyes dark
and frustrated. I feel my heart race again as I quickly come forward and begin
paying. I didn't even pay attention to what I got. Probably that disgusting
tomato soup they make every day. He hates that shit.
He finishes up paying and grabs some utensils before turning and looking across
the room. He hates lunch, way too much to be normal. He hates that the seat
they let him have is at a table that's always empty.
You should be thankful you fat fuck, you're alone like you've always wanted to
be. It's not like they want you anymore anyways.
He winces at even the slightest mention of his ex-friends, and continue walking
to the table, eyes lowered and head bent as he takes a seat and places down his
tray. Sure enough inside the bowl is that tomato soup, a broth-like texture to
it and an unappealing red color to it. Beside it is a slice of burnt toast,
black crumbs littering his tray as he stares at it with a grimace.
He knows it doesn't really even matter, it's not like he eats lunch at all
anyways. He just knows the staff gets concerned if he doesn't at least take it.
He really doesn't have the time or motivation to tell them why he hasn't eaten
lunch in a couple weeks. Why he's constantly dizzy, why he can barely take food
without getting an upset stomach.
He doesn't dare take a bite of that soup, though. He can't break his fast. Not
now, it's been so long, he's done so well. He swears he's dropped since last he
ate. Another two or three pounds. It's okay, honest. He deserves it. Honest.
Damn right you deserve it, you don't deserve to ever eat again you disgusting
whore.
It looks good, though. Tempting and maybe even kind of tasty. Patrick's mouth
is watering the slightest and his stomach growls, long and deep. It's been so
empty for so long, just one bite
You know what happens if you do, you fucking pig. Don't act like you won't get
even uglier than you already are.
He knows what happens.
It all started three years ago, after The Incident. He was stress eating. Too
much to be healthy, too little to be dangerous, but he began eating. He had
nothing else to go to, he hated himself and he wanted nothing more than to feel
okay again. The only thing that gave him relief was when he ate. And just like
that, he began gaining weight. The next year when school started, he was teased
and bullied and put down. He was called Fatrick, pushed around and hit and
hurt. His friends were long gone, and his life had turned to a complete and
utter hell.
The next year, when the bullying was at its worst, he finally just screwed it
all. He threw away his means, he stopped eating altogether and... and he
started wearing long sleeves. Because that was the only way he could take his
mind off of it. And it's not necessarily that he needed the pain, it was just
that it felt strangely... good. He grew addicted like a mourning mother to a
cigarette.
Whenever he checks the scale, he knows he's getting skinnier, he can see it.
But he's never skinny enough. He's never satisfied. He looks too fat, there's
always too much meat on his bones, his wrists are never skinny enough, his
jawline is never sharp enough. His cheekbones are defined, yes, but it's never
enough.
It'll never be enough, you fat fuck. You fucked that up when you caused this
all. You'll never be happy again, just face it you pathetic piece of shit.
You'll never be beautiful enough. You checked in at 102 today. You should be at
80 by now. You're not even trying, are you?
Patrick shoves away his food, gripping the table not long after and trying to
fight off the tears rising to his eyes. He can't take the stares whenever he
throws away his food, he can't take the way they all laugh at him like he's
some sick joke. He can't, he can't, he can't.
Patrick stands and abandons his food, he doesn't even care about someone else
grabbing it. They can if they want to, he's disgusting as it is. He doesn't
need anything else tainting him. He steps over his bench and wastes no time in
leaving the cafeteria, shoving through the doors and wiping his eyes as he
continues on through the halls.
He doesn't know where he's going. All he knows is that he needs to get out.
He can't take it anymore.
***** 'Cause I'm All Messed Up, Going Nowhere Fast *****
All Messed Up - Sum 41
“I want to be the minority
I don’t need your authority
Down with the moral majority
Cause I wanna be the minorty!”
His voice echoes through Patrick’s ears, loud, blasting. It’s almost too much
but he’s had years of practice on this. He’s surprised he hasn’t gone deaf but
he guesses he should be grateful. He knows it wouldn’t matter if he did. It’s
not like he’d get any help. It’s not like his dad would even care.
He’s had so many breakdowns that would only be relieved by lyrics that could
somehow lift him, even if it’s just the slightest. But this is so much
different. He’s ashamed of it, honestly. Of being the odd one out. He hates how
that’s turned into his label over the years. How he’s just the kid who nobody
likes. But he’s been okay so far. He’s learned that he can make it.
His shoes tap against the floor as he continues through the halls, taking a
left right at the end of the row of lockers and continuing into the restroom
slamming the door open. His hands are shaking and his stomach is churning as he
shoves through the first stall he can find and yanks off his fedora before
shoving two fingers down his throat.
He’s had practice over the years. He knows just how sensitive his gag reflex
is, just how many strokes it takes to get it out, and just how to deal with it
afterwards. His stomach clenches painfully as the acid comes up, but there’s
nothing more. He hasn’t eaten in a week at least. He doesn’t plan to eat for a
while longer.
Patrick pulls up after a moment, staring at the disgusting color of the water
in the toilet and trying to process what he just did. It shouldn’t surprise him
anymore. He’s used to doing this. He’s done it for two years now, he’s fat,
he’s disgusting, dirty. Nothing but a fucking piece of shit that just barely
holds on every day.
“Unsung against the mold
Without a doubt
Singled out
The only way I know.”
Patrick finally just flushes the toilet, shoving his fedora back on and trying
not to think much of it. He’ll probably end up killing himself soon anyway.
They’ll just remember him as the one kid who had all those goddamn problems. He
wonders if any of his old friends would even care. They’d probably celebrate.
He doubts anyone would give two shits if he’s honest.
He wipes away the tears from his eyes, straightening up slightly before he
leaves the stall and begins washing his hands. His heart is pounding and his
breaths are fast as he tries to wipe away the excess vomit. He tries to just
inhale and exhale like they always say he should. If you’re going through
anxiety, you just take deep breaths when it’s bad. Just take deep breaths.
He inhales but it only feels like his insides are burning and when he exhales,
it barely gives a relief. He knows this, he knows it’s impossible for him to be
okay. To try to be okay or to even pretend he’s okay, but he’s used to it. He
just wants to leave. He just wants to curl up in a ball and be okay for once.
He just wants to die. Is that too much to ask?
“I never thought I’d die alone
I laughed the loudest, who’d have known?
I trace the cord back to the wall
No wonder it was never plugged in at all.”
Patrick winces. He has a love-hate relationship for when songs describe his
goddamned life. But right now, it’s just kind of nice to know he’s not the only
one.
He takes a breath, staring himself in the mirror. At darkened eyelids and worn
eyes. At a bruised and town lip and a healing bruise right on his neck.
Nobody’s noticed, nobody’s cared.
He pulls himself up and finally just squeezes his eyes shut to shove all these
thoughts away. He needs to be strong right now. He needs to stop it with the
breakdowns and the want to die’s. Maybe one day it’ll get better, maybe one day
he’ll be happy and maybe one day he won’t be so alone.
Maybe he’ll be okay and it won’t matter. None of this will matter. He’ll have
survived.
Nobody will ever love you, you disgusting piece of shit, just get to class,
goddamn it.
He clasps at his sleeve carefully.
Just do it, fucking do it you fucking pig. You deserve it.
Patrick shakes his head and shuts his eyes, feeling tears begin to sting the
insides of his eyelids. He’s doing okay, he’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay.
Now.
He pulls it up finally, revealing scars. Thousands of scars. Up and down, left
and right. Diagonals and criss crosses. Whatever he had to do at the time to
rid himself of that goddamn voice. Whatever he had to do to just feel good for
once and not like a giant failure. He wants to die, he wants to die so bad, he
wants to end it all and he wants his scars to disappear but he knows they could
never. They’re a part of him now, they are him and he’ll never be anything more
than those scars.
Disgusting.
Patrick shakes his head furiously and tries to rid himself of it as he shoves
his sleeve back down and turns on the sink, splashing water across his face.
He’s okay, everything is okay.
Disgusting, pathetic. They’re all right, you know. What Bob says about you.
You’re fucking weak and fat.
Shut up, shut up, shut up. He’s okay. He’s okay.
You’ll never be okay, nobody will ever love you again. Fucking face it, don’t
lie to yourself. You’re pathetic. You’re so disgusting. You’re unlovable and
broken. You’ll never be anything more.
Just face it. You’ll never be okay.
It all comes crashing down on him.
*
The worst problem is that he has no friends, nobody to turn to, nobody to talk
to when he needs it, not a single person. It’s his fault, too. If he wouldn’t
have pushed them away, this wouldn’t be a goddamn problem, but he’s always been
good at fucking shit up. He’s been trying to escape it, too. Pretend that he’s
okay when he’s anything but okay. He’ll never be okay, he’ll always be this
failure and he knows it won’t stop until he ends it himself. And if he tried to
talk to anyone else, his anxiety gets to him. He’ll get terrified he’ll fumble
over his words and just make himself look like an idiot. It’s gotten so bad
over the past three years that he breaks down nearly every time he talks to
someone. He thinks it’s because of all the bullying that happened last year
when they teased him for just about everything.
The words from their lips hurt like hell. They still do.
“I never conquered, rarely came
Sixteen just held such better days.”
It’s his fault that he’s fat, too. If he hadn’t fucking gone to stress eating,
he wouldn’t be this ugly fuck and he would be much better off. He wouldn’t have
all this extra weight that he doesn’t need. He would be normal and decent
looking just like everyone else. He’s greedy, he’s disgusting and it seems that
will never change. He’s a stuck up prick, he has everything he could ever want.
A house, food, an education, and he’s not poor. He’s got everything and still
he complains and it’s horrible. He should know better than that. He should just
appreciate what he fucking has, goddamnit.
“Days when I still felt alive
We couldn’t wait to get outside.”
It’s his fault for the anxiety, too. It’s his fault he’s jittery and afraid and
it’s his fault he’s so afraid to talk to people. It’s his fault The Incident
happened. It’s all his fault and he can’t blame anyone else, he should know
this by now. If he could have, he would. He’d go back in time and fix it all.
Or just change one little thing... if he could have tried a little harder...
“The world was wide too late to try
The tour was over we survived
I couldn’t wait till I got home
To pass the time in my room alone.”
Ring! Ring! Ring!
The ring is long and blasts through Patrick’s ears as it rings through the
restroom. He winces, releases a breath he doesn’t realize he’s holding and
takes another one, deep and steady in an attempt to relieve the anxiety even
though it never really leaves. It’s always there somehow. It’s his shadow and
it follows him wherever he goes.
Fourth period next. Art with Ms. Lee.
He aims his eyes back up to the mirror, watching himself for a moment. Fat,
ugly, disgusting. Those blond locks and the pitch fedora. Sad, gray eyes and an
empty stare behind them. It’s almost scary, but he knows he’s not that
intimidating, he couldn’t scare anyone. Not even if he tried. It’s pathetic,
and if he’s honest, he just really wants to kill himself. Why doesn’t he just
go ahead?
Agreed.
He finally turns away from the counter, letting go of his iron grip on the cold
metal of the sink and instead turning toward the door, wiping the tears that
have begun to stain his cheeks. His red eyes are far from being clear again but
he’s learned to deal with it, to push it all back and take deep breaths even
though it never really works. He’s learned how to make it physically go away,
but never emotionally. He may be able to clear the scars from his skin, but
never from his heart.
Patrick tries to clear his thoughts, it’s almost desperate as he pulls himself
out the door of the bathroom and through the halls. His eyes cast down and his
fingers tapping impatiently against the straps of his backpack that rest tight
against his shoulders. He’s feeling dizzy, and his stomach kind of hurts, but
he’s managing, head down and his hands finally pushed through to his pockets as
he walks through the crowded halls to his next class.
The walk doesn’t take long, he doesn’t have to stop by his locker because it’s
only art and he really doesn’t need anything besides himself. Broken and
useless and disgusting. Everyone’s seen it, laughed at it. He’s nothing but a
fat fuck that follows them around. He’s nothing but a disgusting little rat.
He’s used to it, though. He’s lived it for years and he isn’t anything else. He
could never be any different. Nobody will ever mold him into a better him, he
can’t even mold himself. He just... he just wants to die. Maybe tonight, maybe
tomorrow. He isn’t sure what keeps him alive anymore.
Maybe, just maybe, it’s that little sliver of hope he has left that maybe.
Maybe he really will be happy someday. Maybe someone really will love him
someday.
It’s useless, Patrick. Face it you stupid fuck. You’re so disgusting and ugly,
nobody will ever love a pathetic mess like you. Nobody will ever make you
happy. You can’t even make yourself happy, so why would you even lie to
yourself like that, huh?
He keeps his head down as he finally reaches the door to the art room. It’s
wide open, and Ms. Lee is the only one there, sitting at her desk with a
waterfall of dark hair cascading down her shoulders and dark red lipstick
pressed over her lips. Trying to cover up what she tries to hide on bad days,
trying to slather beauty on an already pretty face. Maybe other guys would
think differently, but honestly, Patrick’s never really cared for looks. He
likes personality, and people who might be there for him. It’s nice. But he’s
never really fallen in love before, so he’s still afraid. He’s still young and
naïve. He’s still learning and that’s probably the scariest part of it all,
because he’s still there at risk of becoming even more shattered than he
already is.
He’s cracked porcelain and all those people who just might have the chance at
becoming his have hammers, poised to shatter what’s left of him.
Like anyone would even be into you. You’re a disgusting little piece of shit.
You’re pathetic, ugly, desperate. You’re the fat friend nobody wants around.
They were probably relieved when you left first.
Patrick sighs, setting his bag down as Ms. Lee gives him a gentle nod and a
soft smile. She’s a really good teacher, very lax and quiet and introverted and
gentle. She reminds him of himself, but not near as clumsy or ugly. She’s very
beautiful, and he hopes desperately that she knows that. He doesn’t even like
her in that way, but she really is pretty, with or without makeup.
She’s a good teacher personality wise as well, she lets them do as they want
for the most part, just as long as they’re drawing and as long as they’re not
killing each other. They have assignments sometimes but they’re not too hard,
they’re just kind of there for the grades. And the ending assessment is usually
something easy about textures or something like that. They can use notes and
worksheets so it’s easy as all hell, if he’s honest. It’s a nice class, it’s
not like his others. Because here, it’s less chaotic and it’s quiet for the
most part and he can listen to music and just draw for a long while, letting
his mind wander. He likes that a lot.
Ms. Lee is his favorite teacher, though. He strives to be like her, strives to
be happier and less anxious. Strives to be perfect like her. He just wants to
be okay like she is. He wants to forget about The Incident and just... fix his
mistakes. He knows he can’t, no matter how much he may want to. He lost hope
ages ago and he’s going to be broken for forever more. How could he heal from
that? How could he heal from something that... that scary...? It’s hopeless.
He’s hopeless and nobody even notices as he crumples before them every day. How
he breaks and shatters right before their eyes and screams out for help, but
they never hear it.
He’s constantly under pressure. Even from the smallest things.
Only three more hours, he should make the most of it while he can.
He takes a seat at his assigned seat beside a couple ex-friends of his. Friends
who he lost years ago. Friends who he misses so badly but he knows he doesn’t
need. He can live without them. He can manage on his own. He’s doing fine.
Almost as if they were cued in, Patrick’s eyes rise to see them there, Ry and
Brendon walking in, laughing with each other with their hands held and their
eyes on each other. They’re happy, they’re so happy and it... it kind of hurts.
They come to the table, taking a seat beside Patrick and mumbling about
something, chattering like birds. Patrick keeps his hands in his pockets, his
head down because he doesn’t want to see them. He fucked up everything and now,
they’re happier. He refused their friendship and he still refuses it, he can do
just fine by himself. He swears. It’s not like they’d even want to hang out
with him anyways.
In truth, they’re both fairly popular at school. Brendon’s parents are really
wealthy and Patrick used to get money off of him sometimes if he really needed
it. He’s got this dark brown hair that’s straight down over his eyes, but cut
just short and it’s kind of spiky. He also has these thick lips and dark brown
eyes, it’s extremely distinguishable from a lot of other people, hence why he
usually stands out so much.
Meanwhile, there’s Ry, they’re also kind of cool. They’ve never really felt
comfortable with the male or female label so they went a little deeper into the
whole LGBT community and decided that maybe they should just be non-binary.
They’re agender more specifically, and just doesn’t like being seen as a guy or
a girl. A lot of people at school don’t really accept him, but they’ll usually
tolerate it if Brendon’s there (Brendon’s extremely overprotective about Ry’s
gender, it’s kind of cute). They’re not actually officially dating but rumors
have gotten around and it’s kind of clear to see from the way they hold hands
and even the goddamn way they look at each other. Patrick would probably be
sick to his stomach if he didn’t think it was kind of cute in a way but it is
cute and he secretly hopes they’re together. He misses having them as a friend.
Even if he doesn’t really need them like he used to.
If he’s honest, he’s never really been in love besides family and there’s not
much of that either. He feels kind of lonely sometimes without someone by his
side but then again, he knows nobody would ever love him, would ever cherish
him like he’s... like he’s even important. He doesn’t understand what it’s
like. To look at someone like they mean the world to him, to feel a hand
slipping into another, to feels lips on lips and skin on skin.
You fucking wish you disgusting fuck.
Nobody would ever be interested in him, nobody would ever see him as anything
more than a friend, though. His body is a mess, he’s fat, his arms are
littered, his stomach constantly growls. Nobody would be interested in a kid
who wears fedoras and sweaters. Nobody would be interested in a pathetic little
fuck. An ugly disaster and everybody knows it.
Although, mentally? He’s worse. There’s so much more than the physicality of it
all. There’s the anxiety, the constant fear that he’ll never be enough and that
he’ll fuck up or something bad will happen or he’s going to make a fool of
himself, the depression, when everything feels like a downward spiral and he’s
just so sad and feels so worthless and tired for no reason at all, and the
suicidal tendencies, the want to put a gun to his head and pull it until his
blood splatters the wall, dark and red and thick against a soft, aesthetic
white.
He’s ugly, he’s fat, and it’s true he’s unlovable. He’s failed the only person
who could ever really love him and he ruined his life.
He fucked it all up at The Incident and he decided that maybe his life really
doesn’t fucking matter. He fucked up bad, he fucked up so very bad and he’s
never gonna be able to take it back. He’s never gonna have a normal life. He’s
never gonna be a normal kid, and he deserves to just die. He deserves something
worse than death. Something longer and much more painful than death.
He deserves life.
In the end, he’s unpopular, in the end he’s always this fucked mess that
everyone just tends to feel pity for. In the end, he’s a piece of shit that
nobody will ever love again. Someone who messed up and has the rest of his life
to pay for it. He was given a life sentence for a mistake he should have fixed.
And he’ll never be the same.
Patrick sighs, pulling out his headphones which have begun to play “Everything
Will Be Alright” by The Killers which is kind of ironic as it will never really
be that way. He’ll always be disgusting and ugly and stupid. He’ll always be
this lonely and afraid. He’ll always be this alone.
Always.
“Alright, everyone, you have a new classmate today.” Ms. Lee pulls Patrick’s
attention from his thoughts and instead tugs it toward her, her head is down in
her clipboard and her lined eyes are dark as she turns to the door with a sharp
nod.
Patrick’s gaze immediately follows, his eyebrows raised in surprise. There
aren’t usually new students, especially not this far into the year. Sure, it’s
only been a week, but it’s rare, especially in high school. That, obviously
hasn’t happened to the person at the door.
As soon as the blond’s eyes rest upon him, they widen and Patrick finds his
throat going dry in surprise. Palms sweaty and breathing hitched again at the
sight.
He’s beautiful.
***** Could This Be Love At First Sight, or Should I Walk By Again? *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
When Patrick’s eyes first lay on him, he expects to see someone who will
quickly become popular. With one of those fuckboy grins and a baseball cap on
backwards and his cock more in control than his brain. He’d probably fuck all
the girls who are willing to do it, meeting them with empty promises of
marriage and love. Patrick expects him to turn out like another know-it-all
with too many friends he can’t depend on. Another boy to ruin his life and dig
his grave deeper, making him impossibly less popular. This kid’s gonna make him
an even bigger failure, an even less known nobody. An underdog that nobody
cares about. Patrick expects him to be one of those people.
But he isn’t.
Right away, Patrick can tell he’s nervous, not exactly scared but a little
uneasy. His hands are deep in his pockets and he looks thin, fragile. Pale and
a little terrified but he still has a small smile on chapped and faded lips
anyway even though it doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s just like Patrick, his body
language points toward anxiety. Maybe something a little less strong, but he’s
still nervous about a new school, about new bullies and new strangers and new
friends.
Patrick lets his eyes trace him, from his lanky legs to the small bags under
his eyes and Patrick just takes him in. He does something to him then and there
and Patrick isn’t sure exactly what happens but his stomach twists up and a
stab of somethingshoves through it, but it isn’t pain. It’s like when he’s
about to puke but it feels a little... better. Not so painful. His throat gets
tight like he’s about to cry but he’s not. It’s just hard to breathe, hard to
think straight, hard to focus. All his attention’s turned to the front of the
room, to the boy standing there with a soft blush across his cheeks. Patrick
doesn’t understand, why the hell doeshe feel this way?
Patrick’s eyes trace his physical appearance again but this time, paying
attention to the darker details. He’s got dark black hair, probably dyed that
way, that reaches down to around the bottom of his chin in a wavy, almost
tangled mess. But it’s kind of cute the way it’s unkept and shining in the
lights above him. It’s almost kind of beautiful in a way... but that’s...
that’s not the right word.
There’s no way a boycould be beautiful but... but he is. His eyes are a dark
brown in color like chestnuts, warm and soft with a deeper emotion to them. An
emotion that Patrick knows he’s felt before. It’s not fear or sorrow or
nervousness. It’s the feeling of losing all hope. It’s the emotion of
brokenness. It’s something Patrick could read in an instant and understand.
This boy’s tugging at Patrick’s heart and in that small instant that Patrick’s
able to take him in, he already feels himself breaking under this boy’s
presence. He’s beautiful, and he looks broken and sad and he looks... he looks
just like Patrick.
The blond’s eyes travel down his face to small lips, then on to a small, pale
neck and a soft, lanky chest, finally down to his crotch. Patrick’s eyes linger
for a moment too long there before they return to the other’s eyes and he tries
to blink those thoughts out of his mind. It’s slowly dawning on him what’s
happening and it absolutely disgusts him. This boy. His appearance. His hair
and his lips and those broken eyes, there’s something about him that sends
Patrick’s insides bursting into a fit of butterflies.
He is straight... right?
You disgusting piece of shit, why in the hell would you even fucking question
that. Of course you’re straight. You know what Dad said about faggots.
But his hair, his eyes and his body. It’s so... pretty. But not quite. It’s...
it’s beautiful.
You’re fucking pathetic, you filthy piece of trash. You’re straight and you
will always be straight, is that understood? It doesn’t fucking matter what you
might think, you’re attracted to girls, quit confusing yourself.
But what if he really isn’t... straight? What if he’s something else?
Then you’re even more disgusting than I thought you were.
Patrick’s eyes travel back to Ms. Lee, saving the question for later when he’s
a mess and he just needs to distract himself. It’s over for now, it doesn’t
matter. And anyways, Ms. Lee is still introducing this guy, he doesn’t even
know his nameyet he’s already questioning his sexuality over him.
“This is Gerard Way, he’s in his junior year, and he’s moving here from
Mountainside High. Be sure to welcome him in class today,” She announces, then
turns to him and tells him to sit at a table. Patrick doesn’t know where, his
mind is still a mess. Gerard’s the same year as him, which means they might
have a lot of the same classes and they might get to know each other better if
they ever get to talk. Maybe Gerard isn’t straight either. Although, Patrick
doubts he is.
Faggot.
The boy – Gerard’s – eyes point toward Patrick as Ms. Lee points a finger to
him.
Patrick’s insides churn in anticipation and anxiety. Why’s she pointing to
Patrick? Is that where he’s sitting? What does he think of him? Does he even
like Patrick or does he just wanna stay as far away from him as possible? Does
it even matter? And – oh god – Patrick’s wearing a fucking cardigan. Who the
hell wears cardigans in high school? And fedorasfor crying out loud? And
anyways, Patrick’s ugly. He’s fat and gross and he’s got too much skin on his
bones. Gerard probably hates him already, probably thinks he’s gross and ugly.
Probably is judging him really hard.  God, Patrick’s fucked.
Gerard comes over anyways, and sits beside Patrick at the empty chair in their
group of four. Ryan and Brendon continue to talk as if Gerard doesn’t even
matter – even though Patrick would greatly disagree – and everything goes back
to normal. Gerard doesn’t matter just like Patrick doesn’t matter and it hurts.
Gerard deserves so much more than this and Patrick doesn’t even fucking know
him. It’s sad, but he knows that’s just how it goes.
The dark haired boy doesn’t pay him any mind as he pulls a sketchpad out and a
pencil and opens the book to a new page. He catches a glimpse of a few sketches
of people and maybe a few skeletons but that’s it. He wonders what else Gerard
draws, or if he even enjoys drawing or if he just does this in art. He wants to
know, but he knows that he may never know. It’s not like Gerard would ever
really care about him after all. He’s still a loser, still a little bitch that
nobody will ever care about.
Patrick, Jesus Christ, it’s never gonna happen, Gerard isn’t gay and he never
will be. Quit being that weird fucking guy. Quit acting like a fucking faggot.
You’re better than that.
Patrick looks back up at the clock to see that 12 minutes have already passed,
his heart sinks in his chest and he quickly puts his head back in his arms.
It’s a bad habit of his, watching the clock and seeing how fast it passes. It
never passes all that fast but it’s faster than what it’s like at home, so it’s
enough for him.
Patrick’s eyes drift back to Gerard’s sketchbook, where he’s biting his lip and
trying to figure out how to draw this next masterpiece. He gazes across the
pale-white sheet, comparable to his skin, then after a moment, he turns the
book to a portrait and begins sketching a line, long and soft. A rough draft
for an artist, one that he can easily erase and a practice that he’s probably
more skilled at than Patrick will ever be.
The deft fingers press the pencil gentle into the paper as he begins sketching
what looks like hair. Soft and gray against the white sheet and he takes his
time with it, going in gentle, slow, accurate strokes. Patirkc’s hypnotized
with each motion of his hand, with each flick of his wrist. It’s mesmerizing
and gentle and soothing. Patrick doesn’t even notice that Gerard’s hand stops
at first, only when those broken eyes look to him does he quickly blush away
with wide eyes. P
“I-I’m sorry,” Patrick chokes out, looking away, “I j-just... uh...”
Gerard probably things he’s such a weirdo. Probably thinks he’s some kind of
pervert or something with a hand fetish. God, he’s so weird, why did he have to
do that, fuck. And now Patrick knows he doesn’t have a chance and Gerard’s
gonna hate him and –
“It’s alright, honest.” Gerard’s voice is low and soft, a little bit of a
gravelly tone to it and the normal Jersey accent thick through it. It’s almost
sexy in a way and Patrick internally wishes he could kiss him. Is that weird?
It’s filthy, you fat fuck.
Patrick looks away, directs his attention to the desk below him as his cheeks
light into a wildfire, “O—okay, thank you.”
Gerard pulls down his sleeves slightly with his own lips curved and returns his
gaze away from Patrick’s eyes, instead to the paper. Patrick swallows, his
throat dry as he watches him sketch again. Through the next forty-five minutes
in which he watches Gerard, the small lines quickly form to create a boy with
light gray hair and a beanie. White glasses stay pressed to his face and he
wears a marching band jacket, pressed tight against his chest. It’s beautiful
and black, decorated with eleven bright white buttons. The sleeves are tight at
the elbow and loose at the wrist while black and white skeletal paint covers
the boy’s face. His eyes are dark and seem to stare right into Patrick’s soul
as they glare at him, his mouth remains in a tight line and his stance stiff.
He’s beautiful, it’s art and Patrick’s breath seems to escape him as Gerard
pulls away and bites his lip, thinking through the details. Patrick doesn’t
think there’s much he needs to add but Gerard obviously disagrees, adding some
shading here and there. Before he can get far, the bell rings.
His eyes flicker up and he quickly packs his sketchbook away, Patrick following
suit and not long after, they’re out the door, Patrick hoisting his backpack up
and watching Gerard head down a separate hallway. Patrick just continues on to
the right, stopping by his locker upstairs and unlocking the code.
Science is his next period, his fifth, and soon after it’ll be his sixth and
then he’ll head home. Only two more hours...
The next thing Patrick knows, though, there’s a sharp pain in his side and he’s
shoved back into the ground, his eyes squeezed shut in pain as he struggles to
regain his breath. His heart is pounding again and when he finally opens his
eyes and sees everyone surrounding him, it pounds even faster.
Some are staring, some are laughing, others have looks of disgust and the rest
just look sad. They’re staring, staring at him and him only. He begins
scrabbling to grab his stuff and go but one kid, a jock from the football team,
kicks him back down, watching his eyes fill with fear at the action. The girl
grabs his arm and smirks at him, “Are you fucking emo?”
His scars are there, right on display, and his stomach twists painfully.
Chapter End Notes
     Comments are greatly appreciated, thanks for reading!
***** If You Only Knew *****
Patrick’s heart falters and everything stops for a second, everything turns to
stone as soon as Patrick realizes his scars are showing and that jock girl
holds his wrist up with a wicked laugh. He sees Brendon and Ry there, Ry looks
worried, Brendon’s just shaking his head and dragging them away and in that
moment, Patrick knows everything is over. They’ve given up on him in the same
way he gave up on them and it hurts. It hurts worse than Patrick thought it
ever could and he physically starts shaking in fear as he tugs his arm out of
the grasp of the jock.
Bob’s there, too, a small smile nagging at his lips and his hazel eyes staring
right at Patrick’s with a hint of mischief to them. That scares him, too.
Because that means the bullying is only gonna get worse. It’s going to send him
home with scars and bruises this time. It’s gonna happen and he’s gonna be
called a fake and an attention whore. They’re gonna tease him and hurt him and
laugh in his misery. That’s what always happens, that’s what Patrick’s been
through for so long.
Tears prick at the backs of his eyes as he scrambles to grab his things and get
up. He stares for a moment more in shock in fear, at the laughter of the
bullies and how they’re only taking pleasure in his pain. He shoves down the
sleeve of his hoodie as he tries to fight back the tears and somewhere deep in
there, he sees a boy with dark black hair and a pair of troubled brown eyes. A
hand crosses over those chapped lips and he’s looking straight into Patrick’s
eyes with pain and empathy.
Patrick shakes his head, shoving his journals in his bag before sprinting away
through the crowd and down the hall. He wants to leave. He wants to run away
and disappear and forget. Because he’s crying and he’s pathetic. He’s broken
and weak. He’s afraid and fat and ugly. He’s broken. He’s a cutter, he’s
scared. He’s broken. He’s broken. He’s fucking broken and nothing can fix him.
He hears a harsh call from behind him but he can’t bother to stop. It’s Gerard
but he knows he doesn’t care. He knows that Gerard could never care about him
like that. He’s just another stranger that he’s only known for an hour. Gerard
doesn’t care about him like that, could never care about him like that. Gerard
would never be there when he needs a shoulder to cry on because he doesn’t
deserve one. He would never be there to care about him because nobody does. If
Gerard seriously thinks he can come out of nowhere and just care about Patrick,
he’s got something seriously wrong with him. It’s stupid, idiotic. Patrick is
more so.
He enters the first bathroom he sees and continues to the end of the stalls,
slamming the door shut before sliding down the wall and curling up into a ball.
He’s sobbing and whimpering, his cheeks are tear-streaked and his vision is
blurred as the rain continues to pour from his eyes in salty droplets. He can’t
breathe, his lungs are far too small, he can’t get enough air and the walls are
trapping in on him and Bob’s gonna fucking kill him and his Dad will, too, if
he finds out.
“Patrick, are you in here?”
He’s snapped from his thoughts as the artist’s voice calls from the door,
putting an abrupt stop to his thoughts and giving him just the slightest bit of
air to survive off of. His voice is so soft and worrisome and beautiful, just
like he is with his dark hair and his chestnut eyes and his lanky frame and,
though Patrick hasn’t seen much of it, his personality. And Patrick desperately
wants him in there with him, comforting him, hugging him and rocking him and
telling him in pretty lies about how, “Everything is gonna be alright” And how,
“I’ll always be here for you,” and even, “Just stay with me, Darling,
everything will be alright.”
Shut the fuck up you fat slut. You’re fucking stupid if you really think he
would ever feel that way about you. You’re pathetic and you know it. He’ll
never do anything like that for you. You’re so weak and pathetic and
disgusting, why don’t you just drop dead? You know, if he ever said anything
like that to you, it would be a big fat lie. He doesn’t care about you and he
never will.
Patrick is pathetic and weak. He’s too scared to reply to him, too afraid that
if Gerard hears his voice from inside the stall, he’ll only leave once he’s
done. And he doesn’t need help anyways, he’s doing okay on his own. He swears
it.
Gerard stays for a few more moments but he leaves not long after, calling
Patrick’s name through the halls as the bell rings long and loud and clear
signaling the start of fifth period. Patrick doesn’t dare move, though, only
releases a breath he was holding and pulls himself up closer to the wall. He
could never let anyone see him like this and he knows it. Everything’s gonna be
different from now on. He’ll be known as a cutter and an attention whore. He’ll
be broken and, “that one emo kid who probably listens to Green Day and Blink-
182 in his free time.”
Patrick knows that’s all he’d be to them. Nothing but a pathetic little bitch.
That is all he is, right? All he’ll ever be?
Patrick just shakes his head and buries his head in his arms, continuing to cry
and sob, tears falling down his cheeks. Of shame and embarrassment and self-
loathing. Tears of hate and disappointment and sorrow and every other emotion
he can think up. Crying about home, The Incident, the boy in art and his ex-
friends and Megan. He cries about everything he’s been bottling up for so long
and lets it out because it’s the only way he’s learned to destress. It’s the
only way he’s learned to cope, the only way he’s learned to get relief and the
only way he knows how to feel okay again. It’s the only way he knows to get rid
of all the stress that builds up. And he knows crying is for faggots, but...
but he might just be one. And that terrifies him. How he might be even worse
than he thought he was. How he might just be impossibly more of a failure.
He cries for a long time, he’s not sure exactly how long but it comes and goes
in waves. He’ll cry for a long while and then go quiet as he tries to settle
himself but soon enough, it just comes crashing down on him again and it sends
him back under the waves.
Soon enough, though, the bell rings and he looks up from his depressive spiral.
That’s the bell for sixth period. He should probably go.
After a minute of preparing himself mentally and physically, he grabs his bag
and throws it over his shoulder before leaving the stall and heading outside to
deal with the world again. He cleans up his eyes just before escaping the
bathroom to return to his locker.
He feels eyes on himself as he walks, his head down and his hands gripping
tight to his backpack. He tries to ignore it but it gets hard. Everyone’s
laughing and snickering and mumbling about him and he hates that. He hates the
feeling of being the middle of the joke. He hates being the center of attention
because it means more people care, and that’s a horrible thing. Nobody should
care about him. He’s pathetic. It’s all pathetic.
He unlocks his locker as soon as he gets to it, shoving his science notebook in
at the top shelf and tries to ignore the fact that he can hear footsteps
creeping up behind him. A strong hand slams the locker shut before shoving
Patrick hard against the metal and snickering. Bob.
Patrick swallows in fear as the ginger gives him that nasty smirk and grips the
collar of Patrick’s hoodie before tilting his head the slightest. Nobody stops
to help him, nobody cares enough. Everybody knows they couldn’t stop Bob if
they wanted to. Even the teachers try to turn their backs to it. It’s kind of
sad, but Patrick’s used to it. Used to all the attention leaving him the moment
Bob has him. He doesn’t know what’s worse. Having all the attention and no Bob,
or having Bob and absolutely no attention. He doesn’t think he could choose.
They both suck.
Bob shoves him down on the ground and knees him hard in the stomach, sending
Patrick doubling over and gagging dry over the linoleum floor. The bully leans
down and grips Patrick’s hair harshly, his breath smells like weed and
cigarettes and Patrick outright chokes at the stench, “Hey there, Faggot. How’s
the suicide plan going?”
Patrick shakes his head, trying to back away from the other but Bob only yanks
him up off of the ground and drags him down the stairs toward the locker room.
This is where they usually go. There’s no gym in sixth period and the teacher’s
usually half asleep anyway.
Bob kicks him into the door and slams it shut behind them. Patrick wastes no
time in getting up and slowly backing away, clutching his stomach in pain as
Bob comes closer, “What the fuck do you think you’re going, Faggot? You wanna
find your little boyfriend?”
“I-I’m not a fag,” Patrick chokes.
He hates using the word, hates saying it out loud but Bob doesn’t care. All he
cares about is making Patrick hurt, and he’s succeeded well so far. Patrick
doesn’t understand how he can just do that to people but he knows it’s just
something Bob does. He likes to make people hurt because... because why not?
Because it makes him feel like he has power, Patrick guesses but he doesn’t
know. He doesn’t know shit about Bob. He doesn’t want to know. All he knows is
that Bob’s dangerous, and it’s terrifying sometimes. Scratch that, it’s
terrifying all the time.
“That’s what you always say,” Bob snickers, pinning Patrick against the wall
and digging his fingernails into the other’s lanky wrists, “You’re a little
faggot, nothing but fuel for the fire.”
Patrick shakes his head, struggling against Bob but he only earns himself a
fist to the jaw and a hand in his hair, shoving him face-first into the ground
before his foot slams into Patrick’s face and the blond lets out a muffled cry
of pain. His fingers go up to his now bleeding nose, gripping it tightly and
staring up at Bob in fear. The ginger doesn’t even smile this time, only comes
closer and watches the other crawl away desperately.
“You’re gonna burn in hell, you’re fucking pathetic.” Bob growls, slamming his
boot into Patrick’s stomach and watching the shorter gasp for air but finding
no relief, “Aren’t you?”
Patrick only shakes his head, tears falling from his eyes as he shields himself
from Bob but it’s no use, the bully tugs him up against the nearest locker,
pinning him sharp against the metal and growling a few more painful words into
his ear, “Fucking say it, Faggot. You’re pathetic. You’re a pathetic piece of
shit who will never fucking change.”
“Bob,” Patrick chokes. Bob slams his head back into the locker. Hard.
“Say it.”
“I’m pathetic!” He chokes, “I’m sorry.”
Bob throws him back to the ground, watching him cough to regain the air to his
lungs and try to take deep breaths but it’s to no avail, Bob slams his boot
into Patrick’s head and knocks him off, his sight going blurry and dizzy
suddenly. He vaguely processes the fact that he’s clutching his head, then the
presence of someone else in the room. A door opening wide. Patrick just curls
up into a ball and tries not to cry but he knows it’s pointless. He’s already
breaking for the third time today and it’s hurting him worse than usual. So
much worse.
He chokes back another sob as a warm hand presses against his arm and a thumb
strokes across the bruised skin. He feels someone’s presence, but he doesn’t
care who it is. It’s probably just a teacher not sure how to help or someone
who really doesn’t care but wants attention for doing something good for once.
He knows there aren’t many genuine people anymore. There are so few of them
around and it’s depressing. It really is.
“Is he okay?”
That’s Mr. Bennington, he’s one of the nicest teachers here, the gym teacher,
but Patrick honestly wants nothing to do with him. He just wants to sleep and
get away from everything. He just wants to forget, if only for one day.
“I’m not sure, can I have a few moments with him?”
That’s Gerard. Patrick’s heart drops.
Patrick hears silence, what he guesses is a nod, then the door shutting not
long after and he curls up tighter, shaking softly as Gerard continues to rub
his thumb against his skin, trying to warm him up even if it’s just the
slightest.
“Hey, man, are you okay?”
He’s anything but okay. Can’t Gerard fucking see that? He slowly pulls himself
away anyways, though, pulling himself apart and wiping the tears from his eyes
as Gerard continues to gaze at him with a worried expression. His dark hair
covers his eyes and Patrick gets a moment to see just how... how thin he looks.
Thin and weak and small and it kind of worries him, but he doesn’t think about
it for too long. He only avoids Gerard’s gaze and slowly pulls himself up on
weak legs, supporting his weight with the locker and feeling Gerard rise up as
well.
“I’m fine,” Patrick mumbles, slowly grabbing his bag, wincing here and there
but soon enough, he manages to hoist it up on his back. Gerard doesn’t look
convinced, only shakes his head softly.
“No, I’m serious. Are you doing okay? I saw everything that happened to you
today and I just... I want you to know you’re not alone and if you ever need
help, I’m – “
“I don’t need help, or friends,” Patrick snaps before he can stop himself,
looking away from the other boy, “I’m okay on my own.” He wishes that weren’t a
lie.
It isn’t a fucking lie, dipshit.
Gerard stares for a long moment more before his gaze finally breaks and he nods
in understanding despite the fact an expression of pain and emotional hurt
crosses over his eyes, “Oh, okay. Well... I hope the rest of your day goes
alright, okay?”
Patrick rolls his eyes but nods, slamming through the doors to the gym.
He doesn’t need any friends. He’s just fine on his goddamn own.
End Notes
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