it's not what it seems (in the land of dreams)

originally posted at https://archiveofourown.org/works/11477076?view_adult=true

     Pete Wentz leads a pretty normal life – he has a husband of five years, a comfortable (albeit boring) 9-5 at an office downtown, and a handful of co-workers to hang out with on Friday nights after work. It's good. Not perfect, no, but it's good. That is, until it falls apart.

The day before his life starts falling apart, Pete's having a drink with some of his friends from work at a local bar.

"Hey, Pete, how's Luke doing? I haven't seen him in a while," Mina asks.

"He's good. He's been busy the last few weeks, what with final exams to plan and all, but yesterday was the end of the school year, thankfully," answers Pete. "If you and Oliver want to catch up, let me know and we can all plan something."

"Will do, Pete," Mina says brightly before turning to talk to Derek. 

Pete takes a sip of his beer and smiles. Life's good for him right now. He's about to ask Mina if she knows any people who repair washing machines because his and Luke's broke the other day and Pete really needs some clean clothes when Derek stands up and taps his glass loudly, commanding the group's attention.

"Ahem," he says. "I have an announcement, everyone."

His wife, Linda, stands up, eyes twinkling. "We have an announcement, actually: we're going to be adopting a child soon!"

Their small group dissolves into applause and shouts of "Congratulations!" Pete pushes a $10 bill towards the bartender and nods towards the couple with a grin. Linda sees him and playfully shakes her head before she's trapped in a hug by Mina and Eliza. 

Pete walks around them and claps Derek on the back. "Congrats, man! How long have you two been working on this?"

Derek is beaming more than Pete's ever seen. "Thanks, Pete. And it's been a while, kinda feels like forever. But we get to fly over to China and pick her up in five months!"

"That's really awesome," Pete says genuinely.

"What about you and Luke? I've heard you talk about wanting to adopt one day, but any plans?"

"None right now," he replies, "but I'd love to one day." Pete pauses and checks his watch. "I hate to say it, but I'd better get home. It's getting late."

"Old man," Derek jokes, even though Pete's pretty sure Derek's only a few years younger. "See you Monday."

"See you Monday. Congrats again, man." Pete waves goodbye to everyone else and walks outside, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. Kids. He hasn't thought about it in a while, not with how busy he's been lately, but he'd love to have one or two, someday.

Pete's still thinking about it when he pulls into the driveway some twenty minutes later. The lights are on in the kitchen and the living room, and he can make out the silhouette of someone watching TV on the couch. It's a small house, only two bedrooms and barely any yard to speak of, but it's home. Pete locks his car and heads inside.

Luke mutes the news when he hears Pete walk into the living room, turning around to greet his husband. "Hey, babe. How was work?"

Pete settles onto the couch next to Luke, throwing one arm over the dark-haired man's shoulders. "It was good. Derek and Linda are going to be adopting soon."

"Really?"

Pete nods. "Yup, all the way from China. Oh, and remind me to call Mina tomorrow and schedule something. She wants to catch up with you."

"Okay. Wow, though, that's great for Derek and Linda. They really deserve to be parents."

"Mmhmm," Pete agrees, resting his head on Luke's shoulder. "What do you think about, you know, kids? Adoption, and all that."

Luke drops a kiss onto the top of Pete's head. "I think it's a wonderful idea."

Pete shifts so he can look at Luke and beams.

When Pete wakes up the next morning, he's alone. He sits up and sees a note on his nightstand, sitting over the time on the clock. Pete leans over and picks it up, expecting it to be from Luke. But the handwriting is unfamiliar, and all the note says is, "WAKE UP. FOR US." Pete would be lying if he didn't say he was a little unnerved by the now. Who's us? And why do they want him to wake up? He shivers once, an inexplicable chill tracing his spine, before crumpling the note up and throwing it away. It's stupid. Probably something he wrote a long time ago when he was drunk. Pete shrugs it off and heads into the kitchen, where another note is taped to the fridge.

  Ran to the store to get some milk. Be back soon. XOXO, Luke 

 Pete feels himself relax a bit, but something about the other note is still itching in the back of his mind. Later that night, Pete and Luke are out eating dinner at one of their favorite restaurants. They've been discussing kids, which they've done many times in the past, but this time it feels like they're on the edge of a precipice, like they're finally about to take the plunge in the best possible way. Pete finds himself just watching Luke as his husband talks, still a little unable to believe that he got to marry such a wonderful guy. My teenage self would slap me if he saw me now, he thinks wryly.

When he was a teen, he'd pledged to never let himself fall into the tedious arms of suburbia, instead dreaming of pursuing a career in music. He wasn't all that great at guitar, though, so it never really panned out. Pete doesn't care. The life he has now is better than anything he could imagine.

"What?" Luke asks, finally noticing Pete's gaze. "Do I have lettuce in between my teeth again?"

Pete laughs. "No, I just love you," he answers.

Luke takes Pete's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "I love you too, you sap." 

Pete squeezes his hand right back. If he ignores the prickling memory of the note he found this morning, life's just about perfect.

On Sunday morning, Pete is woken up early by the sound of his next door neighbor mowing her lawn. Luke's a sound sleeper and hasn't even stirred. Pete sighs and rolls over, but he can't get back to sleep. He checks the clock, and that's when he sees it: a note, identical to the one he found yesterday. WAKE UP. FOR US.

 He picks it up and examines it for some hint as to who left it. It's written in black ink on a neon green Post-it note, the adhesive still strong. Pete's starting to worry that he's become the protagonist of a horror movie, in which some otherworldly being stalks him as he sleeps, inching closer every night until eventually – Pete slaps the note down onto the nightstand a bit more aggressively than he planned. 

He's being ridiculous. But, his brain whispers, is there really a logical explanation for this? 

 "Pete? You okay, babe?" Luke says groggily, propping himself up on one elbow. Pete smacking the nightstand must have woken him up.  Pete considers telling him about the notes, but he doesn't want to sound crazy. He's got his bipolar under control, mostly, and he doesn't want to even think about going to another shrink's office.

 "Uh, yeah. I'm fine. Did I wake you? Sorry." 

 "No, no, it's all good. C'mere." Luke pulls Pete into a soft kiss, which slowly turns into lazy morning sex. It's the perfect distraction from all thoughts of weird, creepy Post-it notes. 

 When Pete finishes, he flops onto his back and grins up at Luke like a teenager. "Round two in the shower?" 

 "Oh, hell yes." 

 Needless to say, the note is pretty much forgotten from there. At least, it's forgotten until late that night when Pete's driving home from a quick stop by his favorite music shop in the city. It's rainy, and the interstate is strangely deserted. The sides of the road are littered with billboards, and Pete entertains himself by reading their proclamations, even though he's seen all of them a million times before. Except. . . there's a new one, coming up on the right side of the road. Pete squints to read it through the rain, but once he sees it, the words are impossibly clear.

WAKE UP.

Pete jerks the wheel to the right in shock, tires slipping on the wet pavement. He tries to turn left again, but he's already skidding off of the road. His car slams into the guardrail, but thankfully, only the corner of the car is really hit. Pete leans his head against the steering wheel and tries to breathe. Fuck, he thinks. At least he's not hurt.

Pete looks back at the billboard. It reads Best Prices at FastShop! Nothing about waking up. Pete throws his car door open and vomits onto the road, head and heart pounding. He's not going crazy. He's just tired. That's all. Just tired.

A car whizzes by, the first one Pete's seen in a while. His face is wet and he doesn't know if it's the rain or if he's crying. What the hell is happening to me?

He knows he's been taking his meds, and he hasn't drank anything other than a beer at dinner last night. Maybe he's just finally cracked.

Pete exhales. He knows he should get home before Luke starts to worry. He'll check the damage done to the car later. With one last glance at the sign, he slams his door shut and drives away.

When Pete pulls into the driveway, the front lights are all on and Luke's in the kitchen. Pete gets out of his car, still fighting to keep calm as he examines the damage. Thankfully, it's not much, just a dent just underneath his right headlight. Pete breathes a sigh of relief and heads inside.

"Hey," says Luke when he walks through the door. "I was just about to call you and make sure you were alright."

Pete arranges his face into a smile, even though all he wants to do right now is curl up in a ball and sleep until this all becomes a freaky dream. "Lots of traffic on the interstate," he lies. He hates lying to Luke, but the last thing he wants is for his husband to have to worry about him too.

Luke wraps Pete in a hug. "You look exhausted. Go get some sleep before work tomorrow."

"Okay," Pete obliges easily. "Don't stay up too late."

"I won't," promises Luke.

Pete has a weird dream that night, where he's driving down a road in a ridiculously hot van with three sweaty guys. One of them has awful sideburns, but Pete really wants to kiss him for some reason, which makes him feel awful because Luke. He jolts awake when the guy in the passenger seat, a stoned-looking dude with curly hair, turns around and says, "Pete?"

There's another note when he wakes up the next morning, still tired after his dream kept him up most of the night. This one is addressed specifically to him: Pete, it reads. Please. Wake up.

Pete crumples it aggressively and throws it away. He repeats the same ritual for the next week, relieved that the only thing out of the ordinary is the notes. One night, though, he has another dream about the people in the van. They're on a stage this time, illuminated by the harsh lights for the entire audience to see. The guy with the sideburns is singing, but Pete can't make out any of the words. He wakes up with the strangest feeling that he knows sideburn-guy and can't fall back asleep. The note is on the nightstand.

At breakfast, Pete sits slumped over his toast and coffee. He's already called in sick to work for the day, just not feeling up to it. Luke's home; his summer job at the florist doesn't start for another week.

"Pass me the paper?" Pete yawns.

Luke hands it to him. "You should go back to sleep after you read it, Pete, you seem really tired."

Pete waves him off. "I'm fine, I'm fine." He opens the paper with a crisp snap.

"Pete. Go take a nap. You need it," Luke says gently.

"Okay, okay. Jesus. Just let me read this first," Pete snaps, sounding more irritated than he meant to. "Sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you. I'm just–"

"Tired," Luke finishes. "It's okay."

Pete offers him a weary smile. "Thank you." He turns the page of the paper, disinterested in the local cooking contest. That's when he sees it, a broad headline yelling at him to WAKE UP.

"Pete?" Luke says, noticing his husband's white face. "Everything alright?"

Pete turns the newspaper toward him and points at the headline, finger trembling. "Can you tell me what that says?"

Luke's brow furrows in confusion. "Fire Chief Announces Retirement."

Pete grabs the paper back. No, it still says WAKE UP, but, wait – he blinks and there it is, the headline about the fire chief.

"Are you okay, babe?" Luke's voice is concerned as he stands and walks over to Pete's chair.

"I. . ." Pete says, preparing to deflect with a lie. "I don't know, Luke. I don't know." His shoulders sag.

"Have you been keeping up with your meds?"

"Of course, I-" Pete stops. Shit. He forgot them yesterday, both in the morning and at night, and he hasn't taken today's yet. "I forgot yesterday's. But I'm going to go take today's now."

"Alright," Luke soothes. "It'll be okay. Go take today's, lie down for a little bit, and I'll give Dr. Roscoe a call, okay? Just to make sure you'll be alright."

Pete takes a shaky breath. Dr. Roscoe was his therapist for years, and she still helps with most of his mental health stuff: meds, check-ups, etc."Okay. Thank you, Luke." He leans to the side where Luke is standing and rest against his husband, eyes closed.

Luke brings his arm up and rubs Pete's shoulder comfortingly. "Do you need to talk about anything?"

Where would he even start? Pete shakes his head. "No, I think I'm just tired. I'm going to go lie down now."

He rises slowly from his chair and presses a kiss to Luke's mahogany cheek before walking down the hall and into the bedroom. He pulls his pill bottle out of the nightstand drawer and pops his morning dosage into his mouth before lying down and closing his eyes.

Pete dreams of a dark room, where it's just him and the adorable sideburn guy, who he's started mentally calling The Boy (even though he's a grown man). The Boy's shaved his sideburns off and is wearing a fedora. There's an acoustic guitar in his lap, and he's singing directly to Pete with the voice of an angel and something that definitely looks like love in his eyes.

"When you wake up, the world will come around. It's just the sweet weather and the peacock feathers, in the morning it will all be better. It's not what it seems in the land of dreams."

Pete touches his hand to his cheek and discovers that he's crying. "Who are you?" he whispers, voice barely there.

The Boy looks up from his guitar and meets Pete's eyes with a sad smile. "Wake up, Pete."

Pete does, but without the jolt his recent dreams normally bring. This time, he's brought to consciousness by a feeling he can only liken to homesickness in his chest.

Ignoring the fact that he woke up with wet cheeks, Pete squeezes his eyes shut, rolls over, and falls back into what he's praying will be a dreamless sleep.

It is, luckily, and Pete wakes up around one o'clock to the sound of thunder outside. He's still on edge, but at least he's no longer exhausted. Pete scrubs a hand across his face as he walks into the living room to find Luke. "Hey," he says, feeling the need to speak quietly for some reason.

"Hey," says Luke. "Feeling better?"

Pete shrugs. "A bit, I guess. Call Dr. Roscoe yet?"

"Yeah, she thinks you'll be fine once you rest and get back on schedule with your meds, but she wants you to go in and see her tomorrow."

"Okay." Pete sits down on the arm of a chair and folds his arms, drumming his fingers. "Luke?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you ever had a dream where, like, you saw someone, and you know you've never met them before, but they feel really familiar?"

Luke shrugs in an attempt at nonchalance, but Pete's known him long enough to see the concern tensing his shoulders. "Can't say that I have, but don't put too much stock in dreams, okay? They're usually just nonsense."

"Okay," Pete murmurs. He glances at the TV, where Luke's watching The Empire Strikes Back. "Can you turn that up? You know I love Star Wars."

Luke does so, and Pete slides from the arm into the chair. Luke Skywalker (no correlation to Luke Wentz, of course) is on Dagobah with Yoda, completing his Jedi training.

Even though Pete's seen this movie more times than he can count, it serves as a good distraction from, well, everything, for a bit. Right as Darth Vader powers up his lightsaber, though, Pete swears he hears a voice whisper, "Wake up."

Trying to remain calm so he doesn't worry Luke, Pete flicks his eyes around the room but finds nothing. He takes a deep breath and tries to focus on the TV again. "Pete," the voice is a little louder now and has a more desperate edge to it. "Pete, please. You need to wake up. We need you. I need you."

The voice. . .it almost sounds like The Boy's. Pete closes his eyes. Stop, he tells himself. You're just hearing things.

But the truth is, he really isn't sure. The voice comes again, louder; the speaker sounds like he's on the verge of tears. "I can't do this without you, Pete, you need to wake up."

Pete looks around wildly. Someone's speaking, he's sure of it. But who? And where? Is this some sort of practical joke?

Suddenly, there's a soft hand on his shoulder. Pete almost screams before he realizes it's just Luke.

"Pete? Baby, you're scaring me. Are you okay?"

"Did you hear that?" Pete asks, in lieu of an answer. He's fighting so hard to keep calm.

"Hear what?" Luke says, impossibly gently, and Pete's heart sinks.

"Nothing," he mumbles. "Must've been the movie."

"Pete, the movie's been over for a while now. I was going to ask if you wanted to watch Return of the Jedi too, but you seemed deep in thought and I didn't want to disturb you." Luke's leaning over him now, one hand on Pete's forehead as if being crazy causes a fever.

"But it was just. . ." Pete trails off as he looks at the dark screen. He could've sworn it was still on a minute ago, but does he really know anymore?

Pete barely sleeps that night. He turns on his sound machine in hopes that the white noise will carry him to sleep, but voices telling him to wake up keep slipping through the static. When he finally drifts off, he dreams of The Boy. The Boy's alone in a hospital room, singing to an empty bed.

"Joke me something awful just like kisses on the necks of best friends, we're the kids who feel like dead ends. And I want to be known for my hits, not just my misses, took a shot and didn't even come close to trust and love and hope." The Boy looks exhausted, worn down. "And the poets are just the kids who didn't make it, and never had it at all."

A short man that Pete recognizes from his first dream about the van steps through the doorway. Pete can see tattoos snaking up his neck. "You can't stay here all night, dude. Go home and get some rest. I'll stay here," he tells The Boy.

The Boy looks back at the hospital bed one last time and nods. "Okay. Thanks, Andy."

Andy. Pete feels like he should know the name, but it's just not ringing any bells.

The Boy tries to give Andy a quick, one-armed hug on his way out of the room, but the tattooed man pulls him in close.

They're both silent for a minute, and then Pete can make out quiet, hitching cries from The Boy. "I can't lose him, Andy, I can't."

"It'll be okay," Andy soothes. "It'll be okay."

Pete wakes up a few seconds later. There's a lump in his throat, and he rolls over and wraps an arm around Luke to distract himself from wondering too much about whose hospital bed that was.

The next morning, Luke's not in bed when Pete wakes up, but Pete can hear him on the phone in the other room. The note is on the nightstand, of course.

Pete grabs it and starts ripping it to shreds. He's so fucking done with all of this bullshit. All he wants is to have his life back, where he could sleep at night and was talking about having kids with Luke, he wants to fucking kill whoever the fuck started all of this, and –

"Pete?" Luke is standing in the doorway, cell phone in hand, expression confused, concerned, and almost a little bit scared. "What are you doing?"

Pete turns and looks at his husband, a deer in headlights, and lets the tiny scraps of paper drift down to the floor with his anger, like the fading ashes of fireworks. "It's these notes, and I just – I can't take them anymore, Luke, they're telling me to wake up but I don't know what it means, and I just want things to go back the way they were and –"

"Hey, hey, hey, hey, calm down, baby," Luke says, moving quickly to Pete's side. "Slow down for me, okay? I'm worried."

Pete takes a deep breath and sinks down, tucking his legs underneath himself amidst the pile of bright green snowflakes. Luke kneels down as well, keeping a steady hand on Pete's shoulder. "I've been finding these notes every morning telling me to wake up, and I don't know what they mean, or where they're coming from, but they're always there and these dreams, and, and –"

"Alright, alright, shhhh," Luke murmurs when Pete starts to hyperventilate again. "I already called out of work for you, and we're going to go see Dr. Roscoe in just a few minutes. I already put some coffee on for you."

Pete nods shakily. "Thank you. I'll get ready in a second, just let me clean up all this mess," he says, indicating the shredded note all around him.

Luke follows Pete's gaze with a frown. "There's nothing there, Pete," he says carefully.

Pete looks down and sees that Luke's right; the carpet is completely bare. He squeezes his eyes shut and rises to his feet unsteadily. "Right. Sorry. I'll be there in a minute."

"Pete –" Luke starts to say before he cuts himself off. "I'll go finish making the coffee."

"Okay." Pete's head is swimming as he throws on a t-shirt and jeans. The note was real, he picked it up, for crying out loud. And yet. Pete leans back against the wall before heading into the kitchen, and for a split second, he swears the smooth white ceiling turns into the type of ceiling often found in schools and dental offices, covered with alternating fluorescent lights and intercoms. When he blinks, however, it's right back to normal. Maybe I really am going crazy, he thinks with a wince before heading into the kitchen and getting his coffee.

He and Luke sit at the table in silence, both unsure whether they don't know what to say or if they just don't want to say anything at all.

"Ready to go?" Luke asks after they're both sufficiently caffeinated, and Pete's heart breaks for his husband. Luke didn't sign up for this. By the time they met, Pete was on steady medication for his bipolar, so his episodes were few and far between. Luke never asked for a fucking insane husband.

"Yeah," Pete says quietly, not meeting Luke's eyes. "Here, I'll get these." He grabs the mugs and places them gently in the sink.

Luke comes up behind him and wraps his arms around Pete's waist. "I love you," he whispers into the crook of Pete's neck. "I love you, and we're going to get through this, whatever it is. Okay?"

Pete nods. "I love you too. And I'm sorry, about all of this."

"It's not your fault, baby. And, hey, through sickness and in health, right? I'm here for you." Luke presses a kiss to Pete's cheek. "We should probably get going now, though, if we want to be on time."

Pete nods again, and tries his best to smile at his husband. "Alright. Let's go."

They walk out to the garage, and Pete says, "I'll drive," because he knows how much Luke hates driving.

Luke bites his lip. "Pete, I'm not sure that's the best idea right now. And that reminds me, what happened to your car? I saw the dent when I went out yesterday."

Pete considers lying, but what would be the point? He'll have to tell Dr. Roscoe anyway. "When I was driving home from the music store the other night, I, uh, lost control of the car and hit a guardrail."

"Pete! And you didn't tell me?" Luke's hurt, Pete can tell, and it's ripping his heart in two.

"I didn't want you to worry," Pete mumbles. "I wasn't hurt or anything."

Luke's frown deepens. "But you could've been, Pete. Hell, what if all of this stuff is because of that?"

"It's not," Pete assures him. "This was happening before then."

"And again, you didn't tell me?" Luke asks incredulously. "Pete, you need to talk to me! Tell me when things are wrong." He takes a deep breath. "I don't want to yell at you, okay, but I love you, and I care about what's going on in your life. I want to be able to help you, baby."

"I'm sorry," says Pete. "I just – I don't know. I didn't want you to worry. It was stupid. Let's just go, okay?"

"Okay," Luke agrees carefully. "I'm driving, though."

Pete doesn't argue it as they get into Luke's car and start driving downtown to Dr. Roscoe's office. Neither of them speak for the twenty-minute drive; the only sound in the car is the radio playing softly.

When Luke finally parks, he turns to Pete. "Do you want me to come in?"

Pete shakes his head. He's dragged Luke through enough already today. "Nah, I'm good. I'll text you if I need anything. Love you."

Luke gives him a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Love you too."

Pete slams the car door shut, harder than he meant to, and both he and Luke jump a little. Ignoring the fact that he heard a voice whispering from the radio throughout the entire car ride, Pete steels himself and heads inside.

"Well, according to the nurse's report, you seem perfectly healthy physically, though a little more sleep couldn't hurt," says Dr. Roscoe.

Pete nods, slightly relieved. "I'd like to get more sleep, but these dreams are keeping me up all night."

Dr. Roscoe makes a quick note on her clipboard. "Your husband did mention that you haven't been sleeping well when he called. Before we talk about anything else, though, have you been keeping up with your meds?"

"I missed them for a full day last week, and I forgot to take them this morning," Pete says, mentally cursing himself for the latter.

"Okay. It's okay that you haven't taken them yet today, as I may want to change your prescription based on today's meeting. One last thing before I just let you talk: were you feeling, ah, off, I guess is the best word, before you missed your meds last week?"

"Yes." Pete looks around the quiet office, eyes searching for something to land on that isn't Dr. Roscoe's intense gaze.

Her pen scratches against paper as she writes something down. "Okay. So tell me what's been happening."

"The other day, there was a note on my nightstand when I woke up. It said, "WAKE UP. FOR US," on a bright green Post-it note, very easy to spot. I had no idea what it meant, still don't, so I threw it out. It was a little freaky, though, you know?

"Well, there was an identical note the next day. I threw it away as well and mostly forgot about the whole thing until that night. That night, I was driving home from downtown on the interstate and I saw a billboard." Pete braces his elbows on his knees and steeples his fingers, trying to figure out how to tell the story without sounding completely insane. "It, uh, it said, 'wake up.' It completely freaked me out, and I lost control of my car and hit a guardrail. When I looked back at the sign, though, it was just an ad."

Pete looks down at his hands, tapping his fingers against each other in non-existent patterns. "That night was when the dreams started. They're always about these three guys, in random places – a hospital, a van, a stage – and even though I've never seen any of them before in my life, they feel familiar. It's almost impossible for me to fall asleep again once I have a dream nowadays.

"I was reading the paper at breakfast, and the headline said wake up, but Luke saw something else. When I looked at the page again, I saw he was right," Pete continues, rattling the incidents off quickly." We were watching Star Wars the other day, and I swear I heard someone talking to me, telling me to wake up over and over again. They even knew my name. I thought maybe it was the movie, but then I realized that the movie had been over for a while and I'd still been hearing things. This morning, just like every other goddamn morning, there was a note on my nightstand.

"I started ripping it up, and then Luke came in. He said there was nothing in my hands. I heard the voices again, almost like they were coming through the radio, today on the way here and the other night when I went to bed. Before I left the house this morning, I stopped to collect myself, and when I looked up, the ceiling. . . flickered, almost, and it looked like the kind they have in dentist's offices."

Pete looks up. "Like that," he says, pointing at the ceiling. "It turned back to normal a second later, but it definitely changed. And when I was in the waiting room just now, the headlines in the magazine I was reading kept going back and forth between telling me to wake up and regular stuff." Pete pauses and closes his eyes. That's everything, he knows, but it's terrifying how crazy it makes him sound.

Dr. Roscoe is quiet for a moment, adding more notes to her clipboard. Pete kind of wants to slap it out of her annoyingly manicured hands. "Can you tell me more about the voices?"

"They just keep telling me to wake up. They call me by name most of the time, and sometimes they sound really upset."

"Do you recognize who's speaking? Is it one person, multiple, does it vary, etcetera?"

"It's the same guy most of the time, I think. I don't know him, but he's one of the people in my dreams. It sounds like it might be the others sometimes, but it's mostly the one guy."

"Does he have a name?"

Pete shakes his head. "I don't know it."

Dr. Roscoe makes another note and flips to a new page on her clipboard. "Do the voices or the notes, even, ever encourage you to hurt yourself or anyone around you?"

"No. They just tell me to wake up."

"Do you have any idea what that might mean?" Dr. Roscoe tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and tilts her head slightly.

"Nope." Pete leans back into the cushions of the couch.

"So, how has all of this made you feel?"

Pete resists the urge to groan. He's been asked that question too many fucking times.

"Frustrated," he admits. "I just want my life to go back to normal."

"When you say 'frustrated,' would you say anger is a good word to describe your emotions? I'm not trying to put words in your mouth; I'm just trying to understand."

Pete hears the underlying question: are you going to become a homicidal maniac? He shrugs. "A bit, I guess. But I think frustrated describes it the best."

Dr. Roscoe nods in an attempt to appear sympathetic. "Alright. Is there anything else you'd like to discuss?"

"Am I crazy?" Pete asks bluntly.

"Well, crazy isn't really a good word–"

"You know what I mean. Are you shipping me out to the nearest institution as soon as we're done here?"

"No," begins Dr. Roscoe carefully. "Here's what I'm going to do: I'm going to prescribe you something to help you sleep, just for three weeks, although we can discuss extending that if necessary. I'm going to keep you on your current meds as well, and I'd also like to try a haloperidol, also for three weeks."

She lays her clipboard down on her lap and looks directly at Pete. "Now, I obviously can't diagnose anything after twenty minutes, however well I may know you. That said, though, if all of this continues, I may want to have a more intensive evaluation in the future."

"So, you're not saying I'm crazy, but I'm probably crazy."

"Pete. . . "

He doesn't want to hear whatever placating remark she's about to regurgitate from Sympathizing With Pyschos, Volume I. "What are you thinking of? Diagnosing me with, I mean."

She sighs. "This is not a diagnosis, okay, and I'm doubtful that it could ever become one, but schizophrenia may be something I'd like to take a closer look at in regards to your situation."

Pete nods slowly, fighting to keep his face neutral as his mind reels. "Okay. Uh, is that all?"

Dr. Roscoe purses her lips. She looks like she's still trying to decide whether or not it was a bad idea to tell Pete what she was thinking. "Yes," she says eventually, and she hands him a piece of paper. "Here's your prescription. Come back in three weeks and we'll see how you're doing then, or sooner if the meds don't help."

Pete takes the paper with shaky fingers and makes his way out of the room. He feels unbalanced, thrown off. Bipolar's one thing, but even the possibility of schizophrenia is terrifying. Schizophrenia sounds like rubber rooms and straitjackets and shock therapy and - Pete cuts himself off, reminding himself that it's not a sure thing. (Yet.)

Luke is in the driver's seat scrolling through Facebook when Pete reaches the car, but he puts his phone down when his husband opens the passenger side door. "Hey, how'd it go?"

Pete holds up the slip of paper. "New prescription. And I have to go back in three weeks."

"Haldol? Isn't that haloperidol?" Luke asks, taking the paper and scanning it. "And Restoril, that's not a surprise. But yeah, that is haloperidol. I remember filling a couple of those back when I worked at the pharmacy." He hands the paper back to Pete and frowns, concerned. "Pete, baby, this is the kind of stuff they give to schizophrenics. What did Dr. Roscoe say in there?"

Luke's words are punctuated with the slam of Pete's car door. " 'This isn't a diagnosis,' " Pete mocks. "What a bitch."

Ignoring Pete's second comment, Luke says, "Baby, have you been . . . hearing things?" His voice is almost lost under the sound of the engine starting as he turns his key in the ignition.

"Yeah," Pete confesses. "Voices." The radio comes on with a quick blast of sound before Luke hastily turns it down, and while the noise only lasts a second, it's enough to send signals of TOO MUCH! shrieking through Pete's brain.

As Luke pulls out of the parking lot, he gives his husband a concerned look. "Are you hearing them right now?"

Pete shifts and stares out of the window. "No," he lies.

That night, Pete gets a full ten hours of sleep for the first time in what feels like forever, assisted by the pills Luke picked up for him earlier. There's still a note when he wakes up, but he ignores it. Pete's not crazy, he's not schizophrenic, and he definitely doesn't see mysterious notes on his nightstand every morning. Or so he tells himself.

Pete returns to work the following day, tells everyone that he had a stomach bug, but it's all good now. And for the next few days, it really is. There's a note each morning, but Pete ignores every one. Over the weekend, Luke and Pete even get to go out on a date. The voices are quiet, and while the fact that the schizo meds helping him maybe means that Pete himself is schizo, it's hard to care that much when life feels back to normal.

On Tuesday, Pete wakes up, showers, takes his meds, and heads to work. His boss, Janelle, has a big deadline coming up for her boss, which means that everyone on Pete's floor spends the morning running around frantically to get everything done. When lunch break finally rolls around, Pete's still waiting on a couple more pages to spit out of the printer. He decides to just stay and wait, not wanting to return from lunch and find that they've gotten misplaced.

The floor is completely empty by the time Pete presses the button for the elevator. Before it can arrive, however, Pete's attention is caught by harsh whispers from the doorway to the stairwell.

"–have to accept the fact that we might have to start looking into a replacement."

"We can't do that, Andy," someone else hisses, and Pete's stomach plummets. There's no one named Andy on his floor.

Slowly, Pete peeks around the corner and looks at the doorway. Except, it's not quite the door he's used to seeing, there's no IN CASE OF FIRE, EXIT HERE sign, no industrial gray paint that's been chipping for years.

This door has bright white paint and a small, grated window, but Pete's not even focusing on the door anymore because there are two people standing in front of it, two people he wishes he could say he's never seen before but can't. He can't because they were in his dreams, his fucking dreams, it's Andy and the stoner guy whose name he doesn't know, and fuck.

"It sucks, Joe, it does, everything about this shit sucks, but we can't live like this forever," Andy is saying when Pete tunes back in. "FBR's already sent in some possible names. I know you saw the email."

The other guy, Joe, looks down. "You're right, it's just. . . it could never be the same."

"Never," Andy agrees, rubbing at his eyes angrily. "But. . ."

The Boy appears then, stepping through the door. His eyes are red and puffy. "Hey, guys."

Andy gives Joe a look, one that says, Don't say anything, and wraps an arm around The Boy.

Behind Pete, the elevator doors open, and he instinctively turns towards the sound. When he turns back, it's all gone, Andy and Joe and The Boy and the door. Pete's breath speeds up. He just had a complete, actual, literal hallucination.

Right before silence settles over the floor again, a voice that sounds a million miles away brushes against Pete's ear. "Wake up, Pete. We need you."

Pete almost vomits, choking it back just in time. He was better, no, no, no, this isn't happening. This is not happening. It can't be.

He squeezes his eyes shut and calls the elevator once more. It comes quickly, and he steps inside before anything else appears. I'm going to punch whoever designed this elevator, Pete thinks as he looks at the infinite reflections of his face mirrored again and again and again by the ceiling and floor. His face looks pale and nauseated, eyes wide and just a touch insane. Which, he supposes, I probably am. I just had a full-on goddamn hallucination at work.

Did he take his pills this morning? He can't remember, and the fear seizes him. Pete doesn't know which answer would be worse: that he simply forgot his pills, or that he didn't.

Somehow, Pete manages to survive the rest of the day, not allowing himself to freak out until he's in his car driving home. Should he tell Luke? He should tell Dr. Roscoe, at least. But what would either of them do? Luke would just start worrying and giving Pete glances full of something akin to fear when he thinks Pete isn't looking again, and Pete's had enough of that.

And if he tells Dr. Roscoe, she'll either give him more pills or decide it's finally time to lock him up, and Pete doesn't think he could handle that either.

In the end, he decides to keep his mouth shut. He probably just missed his morning meds, it'll be all good once he gets back on track.

Except, it's not all good, because his pill bottles are turned upside down in his nightstand when he goes to get his nightly dose. Pete always turns the bottle upside down after he takes his morning meds and right side up at night. And he clearly remembers taking them last night, because he had almost choked to death on his water while taking them.

"Shit," he says aloud. Apparently, he's so fucking crazy that pills don't even help.

"What's wrong?" Luke asks, stepping into the room. His hair is still dripping from his shower.

Pete closes the nightstand drawer. "I, uh, forgot my water in the kitchen," he mutters, and runs to the kitchen and it's definitely not one of his better lies, but oh-fucking-well. Does it matter how well you can lie when you're in a padded room?

Pete has another hallucination at work the next day. This one is different, The Boy looks younger when he appears in Pete's cubicle.

"I'm telling you, Pete, I'm a drummer! Not a singer."

Pete stares at him. "Who are you?" he whispers.

The Boy shakes his head. "I'm not singing."

"No, what's your name?" Pete pleads, forgetting that he's in public.

"Goddamnit, Pete, no!" The Boy stomps off and disappears.

"Pete?" It's Derek, poking his head around the thin wall dividing their cubicles. "You okay, dude? Who are you talking to?"

"This, um, this file. I've been looking for it all morning and can't remember what I titled it."

Derek raises one eyebrow briefly but turns back to his work. Pete exhales, long and slow. He needs to get this under control. He's not crazy. He's not crazy. I'm not crazy.

The same mantra gets him, somehow, through the rest of the day, and Pete can pretend that he's still coasting uphill. Luke, who started work yesterday, brings him flowers from the florist's shop.

Pete makes pasta for dinner, and he and Luke eat at the kitchen table together, smiling across the bouquet of roses Pete immediately placed in a vase.

After dinner, one kiss leads to another and then they're tangled in the sheets, and if Pete's mainly doing it so he doesn't have to think, well, Luke doesn't have to know.

Luke falls asleep soon after, so Pete does his best to tuck him in before taking his meds and crawling into bed himself.

At two am, Pete jolts awake from a dream where he and Joe are sitting on a garage floor playing guitar together. What the fuck, Pete thinks, and it's not even because of the dream. It's because he's awake, what the fuck, and he literally has pills to make sure that this doesn't happen.

He shakes his head, unwilling to think about it at exactly 2:09am, and tries to go back to sleep. (Key word: tries.)

When the sun rises four hours later, Pete's still awake, watching the light begin to slip through the fabric of the curtains. He knows that after this, he really should give Dr. Roscoe a call. Sleeping pills don't just stop working halfway through the night.

But at the same time, he doesn't want to go back there, doesn't want to hear the goddamn word "schizophrenia" ever again. So he keeps his mouth shut, even as Luke wakes up, even as his own alarm goes off and he pretends it rouses him from a deep sleep.

Pete almost falls asleep at his desk before he's slapped awake by The Boy's voice: "Goddamnit, Pete, wake up. Wake up, you asshole! Is this what you wanted? Is it, Pete? Well, that's fucking fine." There's a pause, and Pete thinks he's free, but then- "Fuck, Pete. Fuck."

The Boy's breath hitches, like he might cry, but then words come, sang in a voice like every goodbye mixed with every love. "How cruel is the golden rule, when the lives we lived are only golden-plated, and I knew that the lights of the city were too heavy for me. Though I carried carats for everyone to see. Fuck."

A shaky breath, then, "I've got troubled thoughts and the self-esteem to match, what a catch, what a catch, whoa. You'll never catch us, so just let me be. Said I'll be fine 'til the hospital or American Embassy. Miss Flack said I still want you back. Yeah, Miss Flack said I still want you back."

The words slowly fade out, but they ring in Pete's ears for hours.

Pete doesn't go in to work again on Thursday. He's too exhausted, having been unable to get enough sleep for two nights in a row. Luke doesn't know that Pete's staying home yet, as he leaves before Pete does in the morning. And yeah, Pete feels bad about the deception, but he doesn't want Luke to worry.

Luke, of course, does worry when he comes home to find Pete lying on the couch with a puke-filled trash can in the floor by his head and a trashy soap opera playing on TV.

"Pete? Baby, are you feeling okay? Do I need to call Dr. Roscoe?"

Pete waves a dismissive hand, though it's weak. The puke in the trash can isn't even fake this time (a rarity in his life). He's not really sure what's making him throw up, but food poisoning is an easy to reach answer that he's latched on to. "Nah, I'm good, just think I ate something bad at lunch yesterday."

Luke's brow furrows. "Okay. Can I get you anything?"

Pete shakes his head. "No, but thanks. I think I might actually take a nap, though."

"Alright, let me know if I'm being too loud," Luke says, and Pete hates himself a little for lying to the world's best husband as he spends the next three hours lying on the couch with his eyes closed, letting the sounds of Luke cooking in the kitchen mingle with the whispers telling him to wake up.

Pete doesn't go to work the following day either, but the day after, Saturday, he's finally feeling almost human.

Andy and Joe make an appearance once on Saturday afternoon when Pete goes for a short walk around the neighborhood, arguing about whose fault it was. "It" is unknown.

Luke orders a pizza when Pete returns from his walk, their favorite kind with the extra pepperoni, and they sit in relative quiet and eat for a bit.

Both men are feeling a collective optimism, like the past two days were simply a final speed bump on the road to Pete's recovery. But then, Luke gets up to refill his water and it's like the trigger of an avalanche.

Pete suddenly clutches at his head. Someone only he can hear has just started yelling. "FUCK YOU!" It's The Boy, no mistaking that. "FUCK YOU BOTH!"

The sound is like a blunt club slamming directly into Pete's head, and he falls to the floor with the pain.

That's when Luke realizes something's not right, and he rushes over and cradles his husband in his arms. The glass he was refilling lies on its side on the counter, slowly pouring water all over the floor, unnoticed.

"Pete? Pete! Stay with me, baby, okay, how can I help? Let me help you, Pete, c'mon."

The Boy flickers into Pete's vision just in time for Pete to see him start sobbing. The image disappears a second later and it's over.

Pete shuts his eyes and tries to breathe. Luke is still panicking, still asking Pete what to do, but Pete can't quite muster up the energy to answer him. When Luke puts his hand on his phone, though, Pete sits up and stops him.

"I'm good," he says, even though his head is still throbbing. "I'm good. Don't call anyone. Just a headache."

Luke shakes his head. "Pete, you're not 'good.'"

"I'm fine, goddamnit!" Pete struggles to his feet and glares at his husband. "Just leave me alone, okay? I'm fine." He turns on his heel and strides off into the bedroom, where he downs his pills (adding two extra of the Restoril in hopes that he'll actually be able to sleep) and falls asleep on top of the covers before he has to process anything that just happened.

Pete wakes up around eleven the next morning, brain still hazy from the drugs that finally decided to work. He's been tucked in at some point, and Jesus Christ, Pete's an asshole of a husband.

He spends the rest of the day in bed with a migraine he'd rather not think about and pretends to be asleep when Luke gets home from work because fuck, he was a jerk. That night, Pete dreams of a parking lot and a radio playing Hallelujah and wakes up with a sour taste in his mouth.

He doesn't go to work that day, but when Luke wakes up, Pete offers him a hint of a smile that he prays passes as an apology. Around noon, there's a call on the house phone that Pete ignores until he hears the voicemail being left. Hi, Mr. Wentz, this is Jennifer Roscoe. I received your message from yesterday about your concerns regarding Pete and unless this is absolutely urgent, would appreciate it if you could shoot me an email detailing what you mean. My email is jroscoe.psych@mail.com, again, that's jroscoe.psych@mail.com. Thank you."

Pete swears and drags himself out of bed. He should've known that Luke would call her, and yeah, okay, the fact that he's had a migraine for the past two days and has been throwing up and shit probably means that he should go see someone, but he can't get locked up. He's not crazy.

He's not really sure how he makes it into the kitchen, especially with the way the hardwood floors keep turning into tile between every step, but eventually his hand reaches the phone, and he deletes the message and blocks Dr. Roscoe's number.

Pete's about to try and get back into his bed because he's really not feeling all that great when the phone rings again. He doesn't answer it, just lets it shriek at him until Luke's voice says, "Hi, you've reached the Wentz household. Please leave a message and we'll get back to you soon."

Beep. "This is Janelle Thompson, co-CEO of Greenman Enterprises, LLC, of Chicago. I regret to inform you that due to a high number of recent absences without sufficient notice, we will be terminating the employment of Peter Wentz, effective as of today, June 28th. In the event that the aforementioned party has property at a Greenman office, they may schedule a time to retrieve it by calling the following number: (773)-555-5555. Thank you."

"Fuck," Pete says, sliding down onto the floor. "Fuck. I'm fucking fired." He realizes, too late, that he didn't call out of work Thursday, Friday, or today. "Fuck," he says again, and he's so fucking frustrated with everything that he picks up a glass from the sink and throws it at the floor. It shatters on contact, sending tiny, glittering shards all across the kitchen like a sudden downpour.

Pete reaches up and picks the phone up off of the counter, and he plays the message again. And again, and again, and again, until when The Boy appears at the kitchen table, Janelle's words spill from his lips.

When Luke comes home around four hours later, the only thing he hears is a clipped woman's voice. Assuming that Pete is watching TV, he heads into the living room. "Hey, Pete. Feeling any better?"

The couch is empty and the TV is off. Luke calls again, confused. "Pete?"

The only response he gets is the sound of the phone saying, "End of message. To delete this message, press one. To listen to this message again, press–"

"This is Janelle Thompson, co-CEO of Greenman Enterprises, LLC–"

"Pete?" Luke peeks into the kitchen, face relaxing momentarily when he spots his husband. "Why are. . ."

Without moving his eyes from The Boy, who's still standing by the table, Pete holds up his hand. "Don't come in. There's glass," he says woodenly.

"Glass?" Luke asks, still trying to process the scene in front of him: Pete, eyes red-rimmed and sunken in dark bags, staring at the kitchen table, phone in hand and, as Luke now notices, surrounded by broken glass. "What happened?"

". . . without sufficient notice, we will be terminating. . ."

"A glass broke."

"Okay, here, I'll help clean it up so you can move."

"It's fine, just leave it."

". . . by calling the following number . ."

"I'm going to get a broom, okay? It's not safe to have this lying around here. And what are you listening to?"

Pete holds up one finger as the message ends, then jabs the number two and holds it up for Luke to hear. "This is Janelle Thompson, co-CEO of Greenman Enterprises, LLC, of Chicago. I regret to inform you that, due to a high number of recent absences without sufficient notice, we will be terminating the employment of Peter Wentz, effective as of today, June 28th. In the event that the aforementioned party has property at a Greenman office, they may schedule a time to retrieve it by calling the following number: (773)-555-5555. Thank you."

There's a beep, then: "End of message. To del–" Pete stabs a button, and the message starts playing again.

"Shit, Pete," Luke says. "Stop playing that. I heard it, okay? And it's alright. We'll work it out."

Pete ignores him.

". . .to inform you that. . "

"Pete! Turn that shit off, baby, you're scaring me."

Pete thinks Luke might be shouting, but he sounds so far away. Janelle's words are screaming in one ear; The Boy is yelling at him to wake up in the other.

". . .effective as of today, June 28th. . ."

Luke runs to the laundry room and grabs a broom, sweeping a path through the glass to Pete. "You're scaring me, Pete," he repeats when he reaches his husband, taking the phone and hitting the off button.

Pete lets the phone slide from his grasp, closing his eyes against all the noise. "I'm fine, Luke," he mumbles.

"You're not fine, Pete, have you taken your meds today?"

Pete laughs once, eyes still closed. The Boy has been replaced with Joe, quietly pleading for Pete to wake up. Ignoring Luke's question, he says, "I'm awake, in case you haven't noticed, Joe, haven't slept in days thanks to you and your friends."

"Pete?" Luke's voice is cracking with worry as he gathers his husband in his arms. "Pete, who's Joe?"

Pete opens his eyes and finally looks at Luke. "Shit, I got fired today."

"Who's Joe?" Luke asks again. "And did you take your meds today?"

"We should probably clean up this glass," Pete says, almost as if noticing it for the first time. "Here, will you pass me that broom?" He stands, briefly wincing. "Shut up, Joe. Please."

He takes the broom and neatly sweeps up the glass. Once it's all in a pile, Pete goes and gets the dustpan, sweeps the glass into the dustpan, and goes to empty it down the sink.

That's when Luke gets up from where he's been sitting on the floor in a mixture of confusion, worry, and fear and runs over to stop him. "Pete, that's the sink," he says, voice steadier than he'd thought it would be. "Don't you think you should throw this in the garbage or something?"

"Oh." Pete looks down at his hands. "Right. Sorry." He dumps the dustpan's contents into the trash can carefully. "Well. It's getting late. I'm going to go to bed. Goodnight."

Luke looks at the clock. It's 5:26pm. "Wait–" he starts to say, but Pete's already gone.

Pete stays in bed nearly all of the next day. When Luke wakes up for work, Pete is lying on his side, muttering something about troubled thoughts and self-esteem. He stops when he sees Luke's face.

"Is the shop closed today or something?" Pete asks when Luke gets home.

"No, why?"

Pete sits up slightly. "You just left, Luke."

"No, I didn't, Pete. I left at eleven. It's four thirty now."

"Shit," Pete mutters. "Nevermind, then." He lies back down, humming an unfamiliar tune under his breath.

Luke slowly sits down on the side of the bed and puts a gentle hand on Pete's shoulder. "I really think you should try and call Dr. Roscoe," he says. "You've been acting. . .not like yourself. I just want to make sure you're okay."

"I'm not crazy," Pete replies defensively. "I'm just feeling a little under the weather. Jesus. No need to call that bitch."

Luke bites his lip. "Alright," he says after a moment, trying to sound placating. "Alright. Do you want to play Uno and order Chinese for dinner?"

Pete almost smiles. It's a used-to-be-weekly tradition they haven't done in months. "Sure," he agrees. "I'll go find the cards if you order. Don't forget the extra spring rolls."

"I won't," Luke assures him. "And I can get the cards too, if you want. You don't have to worry about getting up if you don't feel well enough to."

Pete shrugs. "I got it." To prove his point, he swings his legs around and stands up, and both he and Luke ignore the way his legs shake a little. He walks off into the kitchen in search of the Uno cards while Luke calls their favorite Chinese restaurant.

Luke's just hanging up when he hears Pete talking in the other room.

"I don't understand, goddamnit! Just leave me alone!"

Quietly as he can, Luke walks over to the kitchen and peeks around the doorway, praying that Pete's on the phone. (He's not.) Pete's standing, Uno cards in one hand and the other hand clenched in a fist, as he yells at the (empty) corner of the room.

"I just want my life back," Pete continues, and though he's clearly trying to sound angry, his voice trembles. "I just want my life back. I was planning on having kids, and a future, but now I can barely get out of bed because I feel so shitty, physically and mentally. I see you crying, but you know what? Fuck you! You can go cry me an ocean, and leave me be."

That's when Pete notices his husband watching him, and he mutters a soft, "Fuck. Luke, I'm just –"

Luke steps forward and wraps Pete in his arms. "It'll be okay, baby," he murmurs as Pete's shoulders shake. He knows better than to bring up Dr. Roscoe right now, but if she doesn't return his call soon, he's going to drag his husband to her office. "It's alright."

Luke holds Pete close until the doorbell rings. "I think that's the food," he says gently, pulling away from Pete slowly. "I'll be right back, okay?" He presses a kiss to his husband's cheek before he goes.

Pete rubs his eyes and manages a scratchy, "Okay," that Luke doesn't hear. By the time Luke returns to the kitchen, Pete looks almost back to normal, except for the exhausted, wary looks he keeps casting at the corner.

"Did you remember my spring rolls?" Pete asks. His voice is too bright, smile too strained, but Luke pretends not to notice for Pete's sake.

"Of course," replies Luke, pulling them out of the bag to show Pete. "Is the Uno deck shuffled?"

"Of course," Pete parrots lightly. "C'mon, sit down, I already dealt."

Luke obliges, but as he slams down some ruthless Draw Fours and laughs at Pete failing epically at using chopsticks, he's kind of freaking the fuck out. His husband just had a breakdown for what seems like the fiftieth time the past week alone, a breakdown that's constantly seeming more and more likely to be caused by a severe mental illness, and the doctor hasn't called Luke back, and he and Pete are completely avoiding the issue by playing Uno, and what the fuck is Luke even supposed to do in this situation.

"Uno," Pete says suddenly, slapping down a blue card with triumph.

Luke looks down at his hand of four cards and groans.

"Pete, can I ask you a question? You've gotta promise not to freak out on me, though."

"Okay," Pete says warily. "What is it?"

"The other day. . . did, uh. Did Dr. Roscoe call?"

Pete immediately tenses up, tersely placing his glass of water back on the table without taking a sip. "No," he answers. It's too quick. Pete's a terrible liar.

"Pete."

Pete crosses his arms, already turning defensive. "Fine. She called."

"And?"

"Apparently, someone–" Pete stares at Luke pointedly. "Someone decided to call her with their, ah, concerns about me. She left an email address in her message."

"Did you call her back or anything?"

Pete rolls his eyes. "Of course not. I blocked her number."

"Pete! Why would you do that?"

"Hmmm, I don't know, maybe so she and my husband don't combine forces to get me shipped off to a locked ward!"

"You know that's not what I want–"

Pete slams his fist down on the table. Luke flinches. "What do you want, then? To sit and play Uno? Pretend that everything's just hunky-dory?"

"I–"

"You want to play normal family? Want to play house? Okay, Luke, let's play house. Maybe we should go shopping later, that's what normal people do, isn't it? Hey, do you think JCPenney's sells straitjackets in my size?"

"That's not funny, Pete."

"'That's not funny, Pete,'" Pete mocks. "Just shut up, okay? You don't understand what it's like to have these, these strangers and these voices in your head all the time, telling you to wake you even when they never let you sleep in the first-fucking-place."

"Then help me understand," Luke begs.

Pete laughs, the sound infected with some terminal disease Luke can't keep from spreading. "So you can go tell Dr. Roscoe?"

"No, of course—"

"Shut up!" Pete interjects suddenly, but Luke doesn't think it's directed at him this time. "Shut up already!"

"Pete," Luke tries. "Pete. Have you taken your meds today?"

"Yes, I've taken my fucking meds!" Pete's yelling now, standing, his chair pushed back against the wall. "They're useless, though. Guess I'm too fucking crazy for the drugs to fix me!"

"Calm down, Pete, please," Luke says desperately, standing up as well in an attempt to reach his husband both literally and figuratively.

"Calm down?" Pete repeats, incredulous. "Try telling him to calm down. He's been fucking screaming at me for weeks." He jerks his head towards the empty air just to the left of Luke, where The Boy is screaming for Pete not to leave him, for Pete to please just wake up.

"There's no one there, Pete," and Luke's starting to get scared but he can't think of any possible way to call Dr. Roscoe or 911 without Pete seeing and stopping him.

Pete hits the table again. "Fuck!" he yells.

"I'm going to call the doctor, Pete," Luke says, picking around the words like he's walking on a tightrope. "No one's getting locked up, I promise, but I really think you should go in and see her."

Luke doesn't think that Pete even hears him, and he's right, the blood rushing in Pete's ears is drowning out every sound, every thought, everything that's not the fedora-wearing man in front of him.

"Wake up, you asshole!" The Boy is pleading, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Pete wants nothing more in that moment than for him to shut up, for The Boy to disappear, so he picks up the nearest object and throws it directly at The Boy's goddamn fedora.

Time slows down as the object slips from Pete's grasp, dividing itself up as if between the clicks of a camera's shutter.

Click. Luke's face, eyes wide and terrified.

Click. Leaves, petals, falling down at Pete's feet.

Click. The clatter of Luke's phone as it hits the ground.

Click. Tiny droplets of water spraying out like fireworks.

Click. Luke, ducking, a mistake.

Click. The Boy fading out of sight just before impact.

Click. The crash as the vase and Pete's life completely shatter.

Click. The glass exploding absolutely everywhere like a dying star.

Click. A flower of red blossoming on Luke's temple.

Cli– Pete drops the lens. Reality rushes at him like a fucking semi, and he falls to his knees on its impact without regard to the pieces of glass biting at his knees. The vase of flowers from Luke lies in fragments on the floor, the wilting stems a memory in the center of the ruin.

Luke's hand is against his temple, crimson already sneaking around the edges of his fingers.

"Shit," Pete breathes. He wonders if this is how ghosts feel when they lay back in their shells at the end of the night. "Shit, shit, shit! Luke! Are you okay?"

He pushes forward through the fog of panic and reaches for Luke, but his husband jerks back. Luke's eyes scream, "Who are you?" They scream, "Get away from me!" They scream, "I'm afraid of you."

Pete's hand falls. "I'm sorry, Luke, I'm so sorry, oh my God, no, I'm so sorry, no–"

"Stay away from me." The tremor in Luke's voice hurts more than anything. "You need help. You need serious help, Pete."

"Luke, I'm sorry, I–"

"I don't even know you anymore," Luke whispers, and his eyes are welling up.

Pete's stomach churns, and he runs to the bathroom and vomits into the toilet until his stomach is empty and he's just dry-heaving through his sobs. He can't bring himself to turn around, because there's a mirror behind him, and he's afraid that if he sees his reflection, he won't know himself either.

A single knock rings through the bathroom an hour later. "Come get in the car. I'm taking you to Dr. Roscoe's. Don't you fucking dare argue."

Pete stands on legs that barely feel real and stumbles out of the bathroom. He doesn't let himself look at the kitchen, because he doesn't know if it would be worse to see that the mess has been cleaned or that it's still there. Luke won't meet Pete's eyes as they walk out to Luke's car and get in.

They're about five minutes down the road when Pete speaks. His voice feels like gravel around the lump in his throat. "Luke, I'm sor–"

Luke holds up a hand. "Don't talk to me," he says without looking away from the road.

Pete finally understands why people call it "falling silent."

Ten minutes later, Luke parks the car in front of the doctor's office. "She's expecting you. I'll be out here."

Pete turns, about to choke out another apology, when he sees the small bandage on Luke's forehead. He swallows his words and gets out of the car silently.

When Pete steps into the waiting room, the receptionist behind the desk looks up. "Pete Wentz?" she says.

He nods.

"Go on back, second door on the right."

"Thank you," he says, surprised when his voice is audible.

Pete pushes the heavy door open and heads down the hall a bit until he reaches the door marked ROSCOE. He takes a deep breath and raps his knuckles against the door.

The door swings open quickly to reveal Dr. Roscoe, eyes worried and forehead creased. "Come in," she says. "I hear we have a lot to talk about."

Pete does, taking a seat on the very edge of her scratchy couch. "What, uh. Luke. What did he tell you on the phone?"

Dr. Roscoe sits down as well, pushing her glasses up on her nose with one finger. "Luke called me about an hour ago. He told me that he had not received the message I had left for him. He told me that when he asked you about it, you confessed to deleting the message and blocking my phone number. Is that true from your perspective?"

"Yeah. That's what happened: he asked me, and I told him I deleted it."

"Can I safely assume that you did, in fact, delete the message?"

"Yeah," Pete says, keeping his gaze on the carpet's geometrical pattern.

"Okay, so, according to Luke, what happened next was that you started getting agitated and defensive, and you were yelling both at him and a person he could not see that you said was next to him. Would you say that's an accurate description?"

Pete doesn't want to hear this, doesn't want to hear a play-by-play of his mistakes. "Yes."

"Luke then said that you picked up a glass vase and threw it at the person you saw next to him. He ducked, and a shard of glass cut his forehead. He said that after that, you disappeared into the bathroom. It's completely okay if things seemed to happen differently to you, but you need to tell me now if that's the case."

"No, that's. That's what happened."

"When you threw the vase, did you have any intention to hurt Luke?"

The orderly rows of squares and triangles Pete's staring at blur, smudging like wet paint, and Pete wipes his eyes. "Of course not."

"Was your intention to hurt the person you saw?"

"Kind of," Pete confesses. "But I mostly just wanted him to go away."

"Why?"

"He wouldn't stop screaming. And I'm just so sick of all this bullshit. I want things to go back to normal."

"Those are very understandable feelings. But do you understand that they don't justify hurting someone?"

"Of course," Pete says, feeling frustration starting to pump into his veins. "I'm not fucking stupid. And the minute I realized that Luke was hurt, I tried apologizing and then ran into the bathroom and puked my fucking guts out."

"I'm not trying to call you stupid or anything like that, Pete. I'm just trying to completely understand the situation, okay?"

"Okay," he mutters, digging the toe of his sneaker into the carpet.

"Why don't you talk me through how we got to this point, starting from when you came in two weeks ago," Dr. Roscoe suggests.

Pete does, telling everything from the brief "recovery" and going back to work to getting fired, the hallucinations, and his shitty physical health as of late. When he's done, Dr. Roscoe is silent for a long moment.

"Alright, Pete, here's what we're going to do. I'm going to ask for you to come see me at J. Lane Memorial Hospital at two o'clock. It's about 12:45 now. Okay?"

"Okay." The word falls from Pete's lips of its own volition.

"Good." Dr. Roscoe stands and puts her hand on the doorknob. "Pete, do you remember last time, how I talked about having a more intensive evaluation before I make a diagnosis?"

Pete's heart drops. "I understand," he says quietly.

Hospitals are different places at night, Pete discovers. And he hates them, hates them more than he does in the day. Of course, maybe part of that hate stems from the natural loathing we hold for anything that becomes a prison.

Because Pete's done it. He's gotten himself locked up, shut away until he learns to be a functional human being, or, more likely, until he dies.

Because he's not really Pete anymore, is he? He's just a room number (509) and a diagnosis (undifferentiated schizophrenia with violent tendencies; unstable physical condition – unknown cause).

Pete turns over in his bed for the eightieth time in five minutes, thoughts drifting to Luke. His husband had dropped him off at the hospital earlier and waited until Pete had texted him. I'm staying. Doc says you can stop by tonight or tomorrow if you want.

Luke had replied: K. Going home now. May come tomorrow.

After that, Dr. Roscoe had gently suggested that she take Pete's phone for "safety and security purposes." Pete rolls over again, sprawling out on his back under the stiff sheets. There's a single sleeping pill and a plastic cup of water (definitely not glass, of course) on the bedside table, but Pete's afraid to find that the drugs don't work.

A few minutes later, though, Andy fades into view, and Pete downs the pill and falls asleep before the hallucination can finish his first sentence.

Luke doesn't visit the next morning. The Boy does, though, and Pete wants to punch him but also apologize for not being able to help take his pain away. Pete's shitty breakfast is accompanied by a lovely side of pills. He throws up shortly after eating.

Luke doesn't visit that afternoon either, or that evening. Pete counts the nurses that come in (five), the cracks in the ceiling (thirteen), the amount of times he pukes (six), and the number of times he hallucinates (eleven). When he shares these last two facts with Dr. Roscoe, she frowns and tells him his body is probably just adjusting to the new medication.

He asks if he can walk around, go outside. Dr. Roscoe gives him a look, and he realizes how shitty he really does feel.

The next day, Dr. Roscoe goes back to her other office. Her replacement is an old, balding man named Dr. Fisher that calls Pete "son" and himself "baffled" by Pete's case. He's friendly, though, and Pete doesn't really mind him. Luke still doesn't show.

On the third day, Pete has yet to experience resurrection. He asks Dr. Fisher why he's not in a mental institution.

Dr. Fisher puts a gentle hand on Pete's shoulder. "Well, you are in the mental ward, son. But we're keeping you here because we have better life-saving equipment. We're not entirely sure what's going on with you physically, so we'd rather be safe than sorry."

Pete looks out of the window. It's a shit view, the roof of the floor below covered in whirring machines, the kind of view you get outside of your hotel window when you're driving cross-country with your family and decide to stay a night in a Hilton hotel somewhere in the middle of Pennsylvania. "Am I going to die?"

"We don't know, son."

Pete drops his gaze to the floor. "I miss Luke," he whispers. "Could you call him? Ask him to come in?"

"I can't, but I can get a nurse to take you down the hall. They have a couple of phones down that way."

"That would be great," Pete says.

Dr. Fisher gives him a warm smile. "Alright. I'll send someone by in just a minute. I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you," Pete tells the floor as Dr. Fisher leaves.

"Hello?"

Pete almost wants to cry at the sound of his husband's voice. "Luke. It's– it's me."

"Pete." The change in Luke's tone is audible, his voice icing over. "Do you need me to come pick you up?"

"No," Pete says softly. So that's how it is, he thinks. Nothing less than I deserve, though.

"Why are you calling, then?"

Pete grips the phone tightly. "I miss you. And I'm sorry. I could say it five times every minute for the next century and it wouldn't be enough. I'm so fucking sorry, Luke."

There's a long silence. "I know."

"I can't do this without you," Pete admits. "I need you."

Luke doesn't speak for what feels like forever. Finally, his voice crackles across the line, flat and dull. "What are the visiting hours?"

"Eleven to six, I think."

"I'll stop by after work." And then Luke's gone. Pete places the phone back in its cradle like it's a bomb that could go off at any second.

"Ready to go back?" asks Monica, the nurse who brought Pete to the phone in a wheelchair he had protested (until he realized that since he had thrown up nearly everything he'd eaten in the past week, he had very little energy or strength).

Pete nods. "Yeah."

She offers him a smile, though it's too pitying to be of any comfort, and starts pushing him back towards his room.

Once he's back in bed, Pete starts his mental countdown to Luke's arrival. Luke gets off work at four and it's about a ten minute drive from the florist's to the hospital, add at least fifteen minutes if he stops home first, meaning that Luke will arrive around 4:15 or 4:30. Hopefully.

The time ticks by slowly, and when The Boy sits down in the chair next to Pete's bed and starts singing to him, it's almost a welcome distraction from the way Pete's brain is running through every possible conversation he and Luke could have.

Whatever The Boy is singing today, it has a different tone, different vibe to everything else he's sung before. He seems almost unsure in the words, and Pete wants to kick himself for being so fucking involved in a hallucination.

"Wherever you find it, it's none of my business. And wherever you go, go, go, it's not my concern. But for a second, your attention just belonged to me."

Pete really looks at The Boy for the first time then, at his blue-green beautiful eyes and his golden-brown hair, and can't help but wish to know him. "What's your name?" he whispers.

The Boy keeps singing, obviously oblivious to Pete. "Allie, I was so good back then, but I wonder if I'd be so good if I saw you again."

Pete reaches out, almost as if to touch him, but then The Boy's face changes into something akin to hope and he disappears.

An unexpected cough from the doorway dissolves the ghost of The Boy's song, and Pete whips around. His voice feels like it's about to rush out of his body, but he holds it back just long enough to whisper, "Luke?"

Pete's husband steps into the room, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans. "Hey."

"Come sit down," Pete says, indicating the chair to his right. He's fighting to keep his tone bright, as if pretending that everything's alright will make it so.

Luke sits, but he's tense and cold. There's a Band-Aid on his forehead. "So. You're staying here how long exactly?"

"Indefinitely."

Luke hums in acknowledgement. "What's the diagnosis?"

"Schizophrenia. And they said I'm pretty fucked up physically too."

"How so?" Luke's face is completely emotionless, and it hurts so fucking much.

"I don't really know. But I've been throwing up pretty much everything I eat. And I just. . . I feel shitty. I'm tired all of the time, and I'm trying my best not to focus on it because there's no point in that, not really."

Luke's eyes betray a hint of emotion for a second before he blinks and it's gone. "I should probably get home soon. I have stuff to do."

Pete swallows hard. "Okay. When will you be back?"

Luke doesn't answer, dodging the question by asking one of his own. "When will you be back?" He walks out of the room before Pete can even say goodbye.

When will you be back? Luke's words echo around the small room, too big to be confined by the white walls. Pete knows that his husband wasn't talking about his return home. The knowledge hurts as Pete feels bile bubble up in his stomach and runs into his bathroom as fast as he can without his knees buckling.

Luke comes back two days later. The same cannot be said for Pete, who collapsed during a coughing fit on the way to the bathroom to puke the previous day and is now on strict bed rest and hooked up to several monitors.

Pete doesn't know that Luke is coming, so it's a bit of a shock to look up and see his husband hovering in the doorway. His face brightens. "Luke!" he says, but it's weak.

"Pete," Luke responds, and Pete swears he sees the tiniest of smiles crinkling the edges of his eyes. The Band-Aid is gone, and there's a thin, pale line on Luke's temple that Pete has to pretend not to notice to keep himself together.

Luke takes a seat where Andy had been earlier, just staring down at Pete with a concerned look on his face and occasionally whispering stuff like, "Wake up, Pete. Please."

Luke bites his lip. "Pete," he begins. "I've, well. I've been a jerk. You need me right now, and I've been a jerk to you."

"No, I've been the jerk," Pete says. "And I'm so sorry for all of this. For all the fighting, and the morning with the vase, and this whole fucking situation."

Slowly, carefully, Luke reaches out and takes Pete's hand. "I love you," he says.

"I love you too." Pete's about to say something else when The Boy appears, sitting in the same chair as Luke.

The image is seriously fucking with Pete's brain, his husband's features mixing with The Boy's and Luke's complete obliviousness to the fact that one of Pete's hallucinations is sitting in exactly the same place as him.

"Are you okay?" Luke asks, just as The Boy says hello to Pete.

Pete squeezes his eyes shut, but when he opens them again, The Boy is still there. "I'm fine. Just. Now is. Um. Now is not a good time. Come by tomorrow?"

"Do you need a doctor?"

"No. I'm fine. Just tired."

Luke kisses Pete on the cheek and stands. "I'll be back tomorrow, okay?"

"Yeah. Okay."

The Boy is talking over Luke's goodbye, something about "FBR are being awful, Pete, and you need to come back to me."

Joe appears then as well, placing a gentle hand on The Boy's shoulder. "Patrick. . ." he says carefully, and Pete's thoughts stutter. Patrick. The name feels like an old friend, which is stupid, because the only Patrick Pete's ever met was his aunt's cat.

"Patrick, dude, I know this is hard. But Andy and I, we've been checking out a couple of the names FBR's sent us. One of them seems pretty promising, and. . ."

Patrick whips his head around to face Joe. "No. Absolutely not. I can't fucking believe that you're even considering it."

"The 'zines are talking, man. We can't hold them off forever. I went out to get milk last week and almost got mobbed in the parking lot of the store."

"I know, I'm getting my fair share of that shit too. But we can't, Joe. How could we, when there's still a chance?"

"A chance that decreases every day," Joe points out.

"I don't want to hear it," Patrick says, standing up aggressively. "I'm going home."

He turns to go but stops at the last second. Patrick squats down so he can whisper in Pete's ear. "I love you, you idiot. Come back." As he stands, he touches his lips to Pete's cheek, overlapping with the kiss Luke left, and smooths Pete's hair back from his forehead. Pete is shocked to find that he can actually feel it.

"Wait," Joe says, eyes wide. "Were you two. . ."

Patrick nods. "Yeah. For years."

Joe doesn't even argue about being left out of the loop. "Oh. Me and Andy thought so."

Patrick smiles a tiny bit at that before his face falls again, and he walks to the door. "And it's are, Joe. Not were."

"Right," Joe says softly. He looks up at the ceiling and scrubs his eyes.

Pete's mind, meanwhile, is reeling. What did they mean? And is Patrick actually in love with him? He brings his hand up to touch the point of contact between Patrick's lips and his cheek before his brain whispers, Luke, and he yanks his fingers away like they've been burned.

About four weeks later, Pete's even worse. He's hooked up to numerous machines and monitors, a cannula tucked in his nose and tubes surrounding his body. Dr. Fisher is completely bemused by the whole thing. The closest ailment, he says, to Pete's condition is a "good old-fashioned case of old age." Which, of course, makes no sense whatsoever. And yet.

Luke starts coming to visit Pete every day, each time with sadder eyes than the last. Time blurs for Pete, night and day fading in and out every time he blinks. Breathing feels hard, sometimes, like someone reached into his chest while he slept and yanked out a lung and he now has to work twice as hard.

Patrick, Joe, and Andy come and go as well. The latter two are growing anxious, and they carry a mixture of grief, resignation, and restlessness in every word. They keep trying to convince Patrick to try and let go, and it feels like maybe they're trying to make Patrick let go of him. And that makes no sense whatsoever, as Pete's never actually met any of them.

Patrick in himself is a mystery. The way he speaks to Pete, like a more-than-a-friend. It almost reminds Pete of Luke sometimes, and when those thoughts come, he feels disgusting all over. Apparently, it's not bad enough for him to be fucking insane, he has to have disloyal thoughts about a goddamn hallucination. They're not, like, fucking fantasies or anything, but Pete just . . . wonders, sometimes. In a different life, and all that.

One Saturday night, Pete's feeling strangely lucid, despite the fact that Patrick is perched on the end of his bed. Luke's in the chair by Pete's bed, half-asleep after a long shift at work. He looks exhausted, even with his eyes closed. The slightly visible scar on Luke's forehead still stabs Pete's heart every time he sees it. Pete wonders, not for the first time about letting go. Letting Luke go. It really wouldn't be the worst thing, if Pete's honest. The state he's existing in right now could barely even be called surviving, let alone living.

Patrick moves up on the bed, scooting just close enough to run his fingers through Pete's hair. It's nice.

"Andy and Joe are still trying to get me to interview this guy," Patrick tells Pete in a glass voice, just on the edge of shattering. "I know it's logical, but I just can't bring myself to do it. I still believe in you. It's been five months, but I still do. I always will." He sighs. "People are really starting to talk, you know. Don't worry, no one's actually told them anything, though. I just. . . I need to know why, Pete. I thought you were okay, I thought we were okay. But here we are.

"And I need you, Pete. I. Need. You." Patrick starts singing again (Pete's starting to think that it's his way of fending off tears), quiet and desperate. "Honey is for bees, silly bear. Besides, there's jelly beans everywhere. It's not what it seems in the land of dreams, don't worry your head, just go to sleep."

Pete's mind is suddenly made up on what he needs to do, everything clicking together like a puzzle that's finally recovered its missing piece. "Luke?" he whispers, voice more sure than it's been in weeks. "Luke!"

Luke jolts awake. "What is it? Are you okay?"

"It doesn't matter how you feel, life is just a Ferris wheel. It's always up and down, don't make a sound."

"I'm okay," Pete promises. "And I love you. A lot."

"I love you too," Luke replies. "But are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes. Sorry for waking you. I just wanted to make sure you knew."

"When you wake up, the world will come around. When you wake up, the world will come around."

"Alright. Let me know if you need anything, okay?"

"Okay," Pete promises.

"It's just the sweet weather and the peacock feathers, in the morning it will all be better."

Luke's eyes drift shut again as Patrick continues to sing. Pete takes a deep breath and takes the cannula from his nose, discarding it next to him on the bed. His breath starts to become strained not long after that, and he shuts his eyes. Linda and Derek cross his mind suddenly, and he wonders how close they are to getting their daughter.

"When you wake up, the world will come around. When you wake up, the world will come around."

Pete blinks his eyes open, even though the world is starting to look fuzzy around the edges, and looks at his husband. Leaving Luke is the hardest part of this, but Pete knows it's better for him in the long run.

Patrick has stopped singing and is now silent, just letting his tears slide down his cheeks.

A monitor starts beeping, but it sounds so far away to Pete. He lets his eyes slip shut again, breath coming shallower every time he inhales. Something else starts beeping, and Pete hears footsteps running into the room, Dr. Fisher's voice shouting orders. The next breath Pete takes is barely there.

Luke's voice joins into the commotion, yelling Pete's name until someone presumably takes him outside. The noise grows farther away until all Pete hears is one long, continuous tone.

Pete opens his eyes a couple of seconds later. His eyelids feel heavy, kind of the way he imagined Sleeping Beauty's did when she woke up, and when he finally cracks them open, he's assaulted with so much light that he briefly wonders if he's about to be facing the Pearly Gates.

When his vision clears, though, Pete realizes that he's actually staring at the ceiling of a hospital room. What the fuck? he thinks. There's no way that he's still alive.

But there's something different, the ceiling above his head has less cracks and more fluorescent lights. Is he in a different room? But that still doesn't make sense. He heard the heart monitor flatline.

Just then, the sound of soft crying draws Pete's attention towards the man sitting next to him on the bed. Pete's breath catches in his throat. It's Patrick. It's Patrick, and there's something telling him that it's not a hallucination this time.

"Patrick?" Pete says, his voice barely audible, and a surge of memories is rushing back to him. Patrick and Andy and Joe and holy shit, Fall Out Boy, and all of the memories that he had just thought were dreams. And shit, what happened?

Patrick hears the whisper and whips his head around to face Pete so fast it's a miracle he doesn't snap his neck. "Pete?" he says. "Holy shit, Pete?"

"Patrick," Pete repeats. "God, I–"

He doesn't know what he's going to say, and it ends up not mattering, because Patrick's tackling him in a hug and Pete's back.

"I thought I lost you, oh my God, I thought you were gone," Patrick says into Pete's ear, words all rushing together. "Never do that again, you asshole, fuck, I love you so much, oh my God."

Pete's remembering more now, how one fight with Joe led to another one with Patrick led to another one with Andy and back to Joe until Pete had slipped down and down, all the way down to a locked bathroom door and an empty bottle. "Shit, Patrick, I'm so sorry, oh my God, I love you too. I love you so much." Pete buries his face in the crook of Patrick's neck and just breathes the younger man in, still in disbelief that he's actually home.

Patrick holds Pete tighter, crying again. "Five months, Pete. You were in a coma for five months."

"I'm so sorry, Patrick, oh my God, I don't know why I ever thought it would be okay to leave you."

"It's okay," Patrick murmurs comfortingly, even though he's crying too. "We should probably get the doctor in here, okay? Make sure you're all good? And Andy and Joe, of course."

Pete nods. "Yeah, okay. Shit, Trick, I have a long-ass story to tell you later."

Patrick looks confused but decides it can wait until later. They hold on for a few more minutes before Patrick finally moves away just long enough to hit the call button.

"Joe and Andy," Pete reminds him when Patrick moves to tackle Pete in another hug.

Patrick nods and dials Joe while wrapping his arms around Pete again. The phone rings twice before Joe picks up.

"Patrick?"

"Hey," says Patrick, voice choked with emotion.

"Everything okay, dude?" Joe asks, clearly concerned.

Patrick just hands the phone to Pete, who grins into the receiver. "Everything's great!" he says.

"Pete?"

"Hell yeah!" Pete replies.

"On my way," Joe says. "Holy shit. I'll get Andy too. Holy fucking shit."

Patrick hangs up and turns to Pete with a slightly guilty look on his face. "They know about us, by the way."

"I know," Pete says. "Look, I'll explain when they get here, okay?"

Patrick doesn't push the matter, much preferring to kiss Pete.

"His name was Luke. And I think I loved him, maybe. Or at least, I could've. We'd been married for five years and were talking about kids. And then I found a note on my nightstand one morning that said, "WAKE UP. FOR US." Pete's breath hitches slightly, and Patrick kisses his collarbone.

"That's when everything started. I ran my car off the road one night because I saw a billboard that said wake up. After that, I started hearing voices. It was you guys, telling me to wake up. And dreams, too. About the band and everything. I hadn't been able to sleep because of the dreams, so I went to the doctor's. She gave me some meds and said I'd be fine, but then I started having the hallucinations."

Andy gives him a concerned look from the other end of the couch they're all sharing in Pete's living room. "They were of you guys, all of you, in my hospital room. Whatever you were doing at the time, I heard it and saw it."

Pete rests his head on his boyfriend's shoulder with a sigh. "Patrick sang a lot. Those were the most bearable ones. I heard you two, Andy and Joe, talking a lot, and I want to say thank you for trying to do what was logically best and keep moving forward. It's good to know that if. If I, um. Succeeded, I guess, that you could help pick up the pieces."

"Wentz, if you ever think of doing anything like that again, I will personally kick your ass," says Andy.

"I won't," Pete says, and it feels like he means it this time. "So, anyway, the hallucinations were getting really bad. And I had no idea what they meant or who you guys were. One day, at breakfast, I got in an argument with Luke, and Patrick appeared. Long story short, I threw a vase, Luke got hurt, and I got stuck in a hospital with a diagnosis of schizophrenia with violent tendencies." Pete's voice barely comes out at the end. He still hates himself for that, for losing control. He wonders, sometimes, if that universe still exists. If Luke still exists. There was no one by his name that Pete could find in his universe.

"I got worse and worse, and one night, Patrick was singing Lullabye. I took out my cannula and died. That's when I woke up here."

"Holy shit," breathes Joe. "That's fucking insane."

Pete cracks a weak smile. "Tell me about it."

That night, Patrick looks at Pete across the pillows. "Luke? You went for a guy named Luke?"

Pete blushes slightly. "He was nice." Seeing the set of Patrick's shoulders, he leans in and kisses the corner of Patrick's mouth. "I love you, Trick. So much more than any coma-induced dude."

"Thanks," Patrick says dryly, but Pete sees him relax.

Pete misses Luke a bit, sometimes, but less with every day. "Patrick?"

"Yeah?"

"Sing me to sleep?"

"Of course." Patrick takes a breath, then, "Honey is for bees, silly bear. Besides there's jelly beans everywhere . . ."

Pete falls asleep content. When he wakes up, he doesn't even notice the bright green note on his bedside table. 

fin. 

A/N: so yeah this happened. lemme know what ya thought. :)