Archive of Our Own ^beta

Pete shuffled through the hospital halls quietly. He had night shift--again. No one else seemed to want to work the night shift, even though it was overtime pay. Not that Pete did it for that reason anyway.

   Aside from the ER, hospitals are different at night. The lights are all still on in the hallways, but there’s fewer people, and the world takes on a muffled tone. For the most part Pete is allowed to lay facedown in the on call room, unless an emergency comes up in his ward. But sleep and Pete never got along well, so he doesn’t do that very much.

  On night shifts he usually meanders the halls and checks in on all his kids while they sleep. He knows there are nurses there who are paid to do that exact thing, but Pete’s pretty attached to most of his kids. He works the pediatric and adolescent ward. He’s good at it too; youngest certified practitioner in the state when he finished residency, and that was two years ago.

Parents are irritatingly reluctant to take him seriously, most think he’s still an intern or ask for a real doctor, because apparently at twenty-eight he just isn’t “real” yet. Never mind that he’s a certified genius who graduated top of his class from med school at twenty-four. Then again, the sleeves of tattoos he’s gotten over the years probably don’t help. But Pete doesn’t mind. He can’t blame the parents really. Most of the time they’re just scared for their kids. Once Pete has some time to get to know the kid and what's wrong, he’s secretly proud to know that he is the most requested pediatrics doctor in the hospital.

Pete doesn’t like to brag but he thinks it’s because he knows how to be a doctor to the parents and a person to the kids. He’s known as the single most professional man  in the hospital, but he also doesn’t patronize the kids. He doesn’t bullshit them either--if they have something bad, he tells them, without watering it down or using medical jargon to try and keep them half confused about what’s going on.

Kids can smell bullshit from miles away. They’re way better than adults at it and don’t appreciate being treated like they don’t have brains. Pete gets that. The kids love him for it. Though there are far less of them, the teens he get love it too. (While their parents are out of the room) Pete will walk up to a guy who just shredded up his tendon skateboarding and say,

“Dude, your knee is fucked and it’s gonna stay fucked unless you get your ass out of bed and go to physical therapy.”

Real talk. Works about a million times better than any sanitized spiel. Pete’s amazed no one else has figured this out yet.  

He’s not just some schmoozer though, he’s a damn good doctor. He knows what he’s doing and if he doesn’t he has no shame about calling in someone who does. Pride isn’t gonna get in the way of helping the kids as best he can. And that is why their parents (slowly) grow to like him too.

He’s usually scheduled for day shifts so he can meet new patients and hopefully help them out without having to hospitalize them. But when the regular night shift guys have an anniversary, or a family reunion, or whatever the hell else, Pete covers for them. He really doesn’t mind, and no one else gives the night shift guys enough credit or slack anyways. So he works the night shift and watches out for his kids. Checks their blood pressure, temperature, pain levels if needed. and when the sun starts to rise he goes home for the legally required eight hours before he can start his next shift. He kills four of them with sleep, but that’s about all he’ll get, so he hangs out at the 24 hour diner on Clark St. or grabs a coffee with Gerard before heading back in. There’s a running hospital joke that Pete is the Phantom of the Hallways,  the nurses tease he’s at the hospital so much he’s got to live there. But Pete likes the hospital better than his apartment, and he worries about the kids when he’s not there, so he just smiles at the nurses and keeps on working overtime shifts.

It’s just hit five a.m when Pete’s shift is over, and he’s shrugging off his scrubs when he comes face to face with Gerard, who is evidently wriggling into his.

“Hey man.” Gerard smiles sleepily at him, running his fingers through hair so tousled it seems almost like he'd have to work at it, and Pete would bet good money he’s been up for the past twelve hours same as Pete. If anyone has sleep schedule more fucked than Pete, it’s Gerard. It’s probably why they work as friends. Gerard is always ready for a two a.m burrito run on nights when Pete doesn’t want to be alone.

“Hey.”

“Night shift again?”

“Yeah.”

“See you later.”

“Cool.”

You couldn’t tell by listening to them, but Gerard really is Pete’s best friend.

Pete passes out easily as soon as he gets through all the locks on his apartment. Working for the better part of twenty-four hours has definite perks.

He pounds two cups of coffee at four in the afternoon and heads back into work at five. It’ll be a short shift; he wasn’t planning on coming back in today, but he got paged saying he had a return patient who’d requested him, and he tried to get in for those people.

Pete nodded to Gerard, who was just getting off, and walked by the nurse’s station to grab the chart info for whoever was a repeat patient. He sighed when he saw the chart. Frank was more than just a repeat patient. He practically had an EZ pass through the E.R. Gerard knew him about half as well as Pete did, he usually was the one to admit Frank when he came in with something serious enough to go through the E.R. He was a cool kid, but he had to have the shittiest immune system Pete had ever seen. He was in the hospital every couple of months with whatever nasty virus or infection happened to be going around. This time it looked like whooping cough. Kid had shit luck.

He walked in, nodding to Frank’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Iero. Normally they were pretty level-headed about Frank, but (potentially) whooping cough was a serious diagnosis, and Pete could see it had left them rattled. He wouldn't be able to be sure until the cultures came back, but if the E.R guys even mentioned whooping cough they weren't screwing around. It wasn't a diagnosis handed out lightly. Clearly the Iero's knew this.  Pete walked over and offered them a reassuring smile before leading them out to the waiting room. They had all figured out a long time ago that Frank answered Pete much more honestly if he wasn’t trying to not worry his parents.

“Hey Frank. How it’s going dude?”

Frank tried to sit up a little in his bed, and took a breath before trying to answer him as clearly as possible, the oxygen tubing running to his nose distorting his speech a little.

“S’all good.”

“Uh huh. Do me a favor and stay horizontal,” Pete said, gently pushing back on Frank’s chest until the little progress he made towards being upright was destroyed.

“M’fine,”  Frank mumbled.

“I thought we worked out this whole lying thing. You’re hooked up to some pretty high levels of oxygen right now, so don’t bullshit me here Frank.”

Frank rolled his eyes and slumped.

“Been better.”  

“Thought so. Breathe in for me please?” Pete asked, pressing his stethoscope to Frank’s chest and listening.

Frank breathed, as many times as he could without coughing, and all that told Pete was that his lungs were way too filled with fluid. And judging by the rattling of his breaths, some of that fluid had solidified. Dammit.

Feeling his heated skin and the tremors that shook Frank, Pete whipped out the thermometer from one of the cabinets by the sink. With a swiftness that caught Frank off-guard, he had produced a sterile cover and inserted it under Frank’s tongue before he could utter a single protest.

“mmff!” came Frank’s muffled outcry.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m saving time on the ‘I’m not even sick’ argument. I can tell you got a fever, kid, just gotta know how bad.” Pete suppressed a laugh at the glare he got from Frank for that one.

His mood changed when he heard the “beep” of the thermometer, and caught sight of the number. one-oh-four. Shiiiiitt. Okay, so early stages of pertussis, plus unknown compounding infection? Frank was gonna be here awhile. Before Pete could worry about breaking that news, though, he needed to get Frank’s fever down.

He paged a nurse. Joanie arrived soon after and though she looked harried, greeted Pete with a tired smile.

“What can I get for you Doctor Wentz?”

“Can I get a line for Frank with four hundred mg of ibuprofen, to start, and four hundred more every four hours until he can keep his temp below a hundred please. Oh, and a bag of fluid too, I think. He’s already dehydrated and the ibuprofen’s not gonna help.” Pete explained quickly.

The nurse nodded and rushed off to fill his prescriptions. While she was doing so, Pete reached into the top cabinet and  and located the biggest line that he thought Frank could handle.  Frank eyed the thing nervously, but made no comment. He had visited Pete’s ward enough to know that when the IV came out, resistance was futile. Pete appreciated this fact as he quickly inserted a line into Frank’s left hand.  Frank let out a shaky breath, seeming barely aware. This made Pete’s brow crease with anxiety; Frank was generally pretty good about staying conscious. He tapped his fingers nervously on the edge of the bed until Joanie returned with his IV bags.

Pete attached the bags to the IV pole and then to Frank’s arm, exhaling a small sigh as he saw the medicine and fluid start to drip into Frank’s IV.  Frank didn't stir. He needed sleep anyway. Pete let him go.

After double-checking Frank's IV and snagging him another blanket from the closet, Pete went out to the waiting room to fill in the Iero's on the situation. It took longer than Pete had expected. He had reassured them that Frank would probably be admitted for at least a month if he did have whooping cough, until the worst of the pertussis had passed, and that with Frank asleep now, they should probably go home and return during visiting hours tomorrow. Pete promised to have Frank’s cultures back the next day so he could confirm what he already strongly suspected was the early stages of whooping cough.

Between making some quick rounds to all his other patients and checking in on Frank, Pete’s impromptu shift went pretty quickly. He left the hospital around 9 and texted Gerard to see if he wanted to meet up later. In typical Gerard fashion, he responded instantly, despite the fact that he had to be running on a maximum of  what? 4 hours? Pete would reprimand him about the possible negative health effects if it wouldn’t have been such a hypocritical statement.

Pete met Gerard at the same dive bar they also seemed to end up at, despite the fact that there were way more upscale places to get buzzed in the city. But Pete liked Skylark’s; it was familiar, and felt more like home than his apartment sometimes. He and Gerard spent hours there, and they never got kicked out--all the bartenders knew them.

Gerard had brought his sketchbook as usual, and he was full of gory stories from the E.R. Pete, who had arrived first, ordered their usual, two beers to start.

“So this guy comes in today, looks like shit, right? And his girlfriend is holding him up and saying he ate something on a dare, but she won’t tell me what it is. So it takes like 20 minutes of me trying to convince this asshat that he needs to tell me what the hell is in him so I know if I have to cut it out and finally I just say YOU COULD DIE, and the idiot fesses up and says he ate a box of fucking Sharpies. Swallowed them whole. Jesus Christ. I sent him down to surgery and let those guys deal with him.” Gerard recounted the tale at warp speed while gesticulating his hands wildly and nearly knocking over his beer twice in his enthusiasm.

“Oh God.” Pete ran his fingers over his face.

“People, I just--” he sighed.

“Yeah, I know.” Gerard and Pete shared a momentary glance in the despair of humanity.

“So what’s up with your sickies?” Gerard questioned casually.

Pete exhaled and crinkled his brow, remembering.

“Frank’s back.”

“Jesus, again?” Gerard raised his eyebrows.

“What’s it this time?”

“Looks like whooping cough, but I won’t know for sure until tomorrow and of course he went and caught something else on top of that that is spiking his fever way out of safe range and the stupid kid probably didn’t tell his parents until he physically couldn’t hide it so he’s exhausted and dehydrated on top of that and--”

Gerard cut Pete off.

“Dude, breathe. He’s a stubborn little shit, but he’s tougher than anyone I’ve ever seen pass through the E.R and he’s in the hospital now, he’ll be fine.”

Pete made an effort to relax his tensed shoulders.

“I know man. Sorry. Guess I’m just not feeling it tonight. He looked bad. They had him on oxygen before I even walked in.”

Gerard offered Pete a reassuring smile.

“No worries. This one’s on me,” he said, gesturing to the beer. “Why don’t you go get some sleep?”

Pete felt his lips turn up at one of their old jokes--between the two of them, they probably slept the amount of a normal person.

“Yeah man, I’m gonna get out of here. Sorry about spazzing on you ‘bout Frank.”

Gerard offered one of his zen faces that made Pete constantly question if he was stoned, though he almost never was.

“S’all good.”

Pete actually did crash when he got home; slept a full 10 hours and had to hustle to make it to work by 8. Frank’s tests showed he did, in fact, have pertussis, which Pete could have told you anyways, but it was good to confirm. So Pete added the proper antibiotics to Frank’s growing IV cocktail, gave him orders to stay in bed and added his serious face for effect. Frank rolled his eyes, but he really was exhausted, and he slept most of the day. Pete was relieved--he needed the rest.

It wasn’t until two days later that Pete reluctantly took Frank off the oxygen. He would have been more comfortable leaving it on, but at this point it wasn’t crucial and Frank was pitching a fit, saying the tube itched his nose. Pete finally acquiesced but he left the tank in the room, a visible reminder to Frank of the consequences of overexerting himself. The IV stayed in though, no matter how much Frank needled. His fever was down from brain-damage levels, but he was still running one, and with the antibiotics, plus Frank’s propensity to forget to drink water when he was sick, it was just safer to leave it.

Within the week Pete had seen 5 more cases of pertussis. Luckily none were progressed enough to warrant a hospital stay, and Pete was relieved to be able to send the kids home. It sucked that whooping cough was going around, but Pete was getting into the swing of things again. Surprisingly, it was Gerard who lost his shit only a few days after his whole zen speech.

Pete was just filling out some paperwork when Gerard burst into his office, gurney in tow. Pete barely had enough time to process a wide-eyed, wild-haired Gerard before Gerard was about a foot into his personal space.

“You.” Gerard hissed, poking Pete hard in the chest with his index finger.

“You fix this.” He gestured sharply to the gurney. It was only then that Pete had a moment to notice the thin, sallow, slip of a boy on the bed, who bore resemblance to Gerard only in the faint lavender half-moons under his eyes and the disheveled state of his hair.

The boy offered Pete a wan smile, which was impressive--Pete hadn’t even been sure he was conscious.

“So...this is Mikey.” Pete didn’t need confirmation. Gerard gave a curt nod, seething.

“I’ll explain later. The E.R’s going to hell down there. He’s got pertussis. And exhaustion, probably. You should make sure he eats, too.” And with that Gerard sprinted away to go direct his fury at some poor idiot with a broken arm.

Quickly getting over the initial shock of seeing Gerard so frenzied, Pete took a breath to steady himself and wheeled Mikey down to the adolescent ward. He took the room to the right of Frank’s. Pete sent his blood to the lab for confirmation of pertussis, but just like with Frank, it was so far progressed the tests were just a formality. Mikey had two coughing spurts, each more than a minute long, just while Pete introduced himself and got an IV in. Mikey did appear to have exhaustion. His muscles shook and he didn't have the strength to hold himself up.

So Pete made sure he was getting some fluid in him and then let him sleep. There wasn’t much else he could do when Mikey couldn’t even get himself out of bed.  Then he texted Gerard,

“meet me. my place after ur shift.” And made one last round to all his kids before clocking out.

Gerard came over around 10, still in his scrubs. He was also still wearing his massive bitchface.

“Hey man.” Pete said, offering a beer to placate him. Gerard accepted with a heavy sigh, still silent.

“So..What happened today?”

Gerard flopped down on the couch, took a long gulp of beer, and commenced.

“They couldn’t keep him from dying if he was choking right in front of them. They just don’t notice anything.”

“Who?” Pete tried to clarify.

“My parents. They’re so busy arguing over who’s screwing him up worse, they don’t even notice when he’s not okay. They can’t remember that he needs dinner too, and he forgets to eat. They don’t pack him lunch, and God forbid they get up before nine so they can remind him to grab breakfast. You know how I found out Mikey was sick? When he ended up in the E.R while I happened to be on my shift. Started coughing in school and passed the fuck out. The motherfucking school called 911 before my parents even knew something was wrong to call me. I’m a fucking doctor and I can’t even find out when my own kid brother is sick until he rolls into my E.R? Bullshit. Jesus-fucking-Christ.”

“Damn.” Pete didn’t have much else to say. That was pretty messed up.

“Yeah.” Gerard said, sliding into the couch, apparently spent now that he’d had a chance to expel his rage.

They stayed that way, slowing going horizontal on the couch, until both of them were asleep, limbs contorted in awkward positions that would ache in the morning, while the t.v light flickered on, muted.

Frank could hardly be called awake when he rolled over, trying to get comfortable, at 3 a.m. But then he breathed wrong. Suddenly he was hunched over and curled almost in fetal position, coughing without air. Every breath he tried to take only triggered more coughing, and soon his stomach muscles ached and he couldn’t see in the dark through tear-blurred eyes. Frank was barely aware of the noises and flurry of activity that filled the room. He didn’t understand that someone was with him until two sets of hands were forcing him upright, holding him in a sitting position while his throat went raw from coughing and he shuddered forward with the force of each fit. He gasped on a cold rush of air as the distinctive feel of an oxygen mask covered his face. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Frank was thinking

“Fuck.” But really all he could focus on was trying to get air back in his lungs. Slowly, the coughing subsided, as Frank took shallow breaths, exhausted. When he blinked away the tears he saw two nurses basically cradling him to keep him sitting up, trying to keep his airway clear. Frank flushed in embarrassment and tried to shake off their hands, but either they had a firm grip or Frank was more exhausted than he’d realized. Either way, it sucked. One nurse, who he recognized as Allison, slowly lowered Frank by degrees until he was lying on his back and murmured at him quietly.

“Shhh, you’re okay. You got this Frank, just shallow breaths now. Good, you’re okay.”

It was meant to soothe him, and it did, in the panic-stricken moments when he felt himself about to lose consciousness. But when he was able to breathe again Frank felt a wave of rage and betrayal towards his own body for being so fucking weak. He wasn’t some “delicate flower”, or whatever the hell else his parents, and even Pete, though he hid it better, thought. Frank could see it. But he wasn’t weak like they all thought.

He wasn’t. But his stupid lungs seemed to cave on him every time, and he could barely keep his eyes open against the waves of fatigue that came in the wake of his vicious little coughing fit. He’d fought so goddamn hard to get the tubing off, but now he knew it was hopeless. Now it was a whole fucking mask. No way the nurses would take it off after an exhibition like that. He didn’t even wanna think about the look Pete would give him tomorrow. Angry, sick, and tired, Frank gave in to sleep--shallow breaths echoing through his oxygen mask as his eyelids slid shut.

Pete was suppressing a yawn and cracking his neck while he sleepily retrieved several patient charts from the nurse’s station the next day. Gerard had (accidently) spent the night. Only Pete was dealing with the repercussions though, as Gerard’s shift didn’t start for another 12 hours. Pete cursed him, still asleep on Pete’s couch, as he moved on autopilot through his rounds. He was distracted by the idea the Gerard might have even moved to the bed--lucky fucker--when Frank’s chart caught his eye. An additional note had been scrawled there since he had last seen it.

Patient experienced acute respiratory distress between 3:07 a.m and 3:29 a.m. Oxygen levels dropping below 85% for several minutes before oxygen was administered.  To remain on oxygen in case of further episodes until a doctor's evaluation clears him.

22 minutes.

22 minutes Frank couldn’t fucking breathe and Pete was sleeping on his fucking couch.

It didn’t matter that it wasn’t his shift that night. It didn’t matter than he couldn’t have known. He should have.

Pete was a quarter step outside of Frank’s room before he realized he’d been sprinting down the hall.

When he looked in Frank was sleeping. Flat on his back with an oxygen mask strapped to his face and a nasal cannula looping just under his nose. Pete imagined the cannula was turned off at the moment, which meant that Frank still needed a mask. Which meant that they didn’t trust he could get even most of his oxygen on his own--if it was low level he would have only had the cannula. Pete tried not to panic. He knew this was coming. This is what acute respiratory distress meant. But it was still hard to see. Especially when it was one of his kids. When it was Frank. He’d seen Frank come in pretty beat up before, but never this bad after he’d been admitted. It rattled him.

Still, Pete had a job to do.

He stopped in next door and saw Mikey propped up with pillows, looking mildly repulsed at some informercial.

“Hey. How’s it going this morning?”

Mikey slid his eyes toward Pete and flashed him a shaky thumb’s up.

“Awesome.” He rasped.

Pete eyed his trembling hands, unconvinced. Remembering Gerard’s instructions, he asked

“You eat yet, kid?”

“Oh..yeah..there was a nurse, she brought gruel or something...they won’t give me any coffee.” Mikey’s rambling ended as he perked up.

“Can you make them bring coffee, doc?”

Pete sighed. In this at least, this Way was exactly like his brother.

“Sorry, I don’t have that kind of power. Coffee’s shit here anyways--you’ll have to nag your brother when he comes.”

At the thought of seeing Gerard, Mikey began mumbling again.

“Prob’ly not worth it anyways… he’ll just say no for the hell of it..” Mikey did not look enthusiastic.

“Well you can take it up with him either way.” Pete repeated firmly.

“Until then, you think you can get out of bed for me? I still need your height and weight and all that for proper doses.”

Mikey nodded and slid out of bed, heading towards the scale/ruler in the corner of room. Pete’s eyebrows rose.  At 5’10 he was a good four inches taller than Pete himself, and at 122 pounds he was underweight.  His was also shaking from the effort of standing.

“Okay okay back to bed.” Pete said quickly.

Mikey collapsed gratefully on top of the covers.

“You always been this skinny?” Pete questioned.

Mikey shrugged.

“Mostly. Kinda stopped being hungry over the past couple weeks..”

“Yeah, being sick’ll do that to you, but you’ve gotta eat, okay? All three meals they give you.  I’m also gonna prescribe a nutrient shake--they’re not as awful as they sound , I promise-- and bed rest, which basically means you should be doing nothing but eating and sleeping for the next couple days.”

Mikey nodded and sunk back into his pillows, looking ready to fall asleep again. Pete left him to it.

Mrs. Way burst in on Pete when he was nearing the end of his shift. He calmly updated her on Mikey’s situation. She spent a few tearful minutes fidgeting with his blankets while Mikey looked uncomfortable. After promising to bring him some things from home, she left. Pete wasn’t sure if he or Mikey was more relieved.

Gerard showed up not much later, still an hour before his shift, just as Pete was getting off. He brought three cups of coffee with him. Pete had been checking on Frank, who was doing alright, but bitching about the oxygen mask Pete refused to remove, when Gerard popped his head in the door and motioned for Pete to come next door.

Mikey had been dozing, but he sat up when he heard footsteps. Upon seeing Gerard he looked apprehensive, but seeing Pete close behind, as well as coffee, he relaxed. Making grabbing motions for the paper cup, he effused,

“Have I mentioned I love you?!”

Gerard smiled and brought the cup forward only to jerk it out of Mikey’s reach at the last second. Mikey sunk back in his pillows, dismayed.

“That was uncalled for.”

Gerard set the coffee down on the side table and took the flat of his palm to the side of Mikey’s head.

“ahh-what was that for?!”

“That was for ending up in the hospital, doofus. What happened to our agreement?”

“It seemed stupid to call you about a little cold.” Mikey muttered.

“I don’t care what it seems like. Cause maybe it’s not a cold. and even if it is, I wanna know. I’m a fucking doctor, and you’re my little brother. If I can’t use 10 years of med school to help out my baby brother when he gets sick, what’s the point?”

“I’m not a baby.” Mikey shot back, indignant.

“Like hell you aren’t--grown-ups can get their own caffeine.” Gerard smirked.

“If you don’t hand me one of those right now I’m not going to talk to you until I’m approximately 85.”

“Yeah yeah, shut up and drink your coffee.” Gerard distributed the cups.

Pete, who had been silent for this whole exchange, was amazed at how Gerard, for all his slaps and teasing, clearly cared more about Mikey than his teary-eyed mother. Shift ended, he pulled up a chair and listened serenely to the brothers catch up and bicker good-naturedly. If not for a nagging worry about Frank in the other room, Pete would have been perfectly content.

Frank did get better, albeit slowly. After a few days, Pete switched him back to nasal-only oxygen. He was shocked one day to find Frank’s bed empty, only to find that he had ditched his oxygen somehow snuck himself into Mikey’s room, IV pole in tow. He and Mikey were having an animated discussion about the pros and cons of bass over guitar. Both Pete and Gerard were shocked to discover that Frank and Mikey knew eachother--and apparently were great friends. They were in a garage band together. Pete had known Frank played guitar, he was always swearing to Pete that he had this band that was gonna hit it big some day, but he hadn’t connected the pieces from the vague memories he had of Gerard mentioning his little brother was in a band. That Mikey’s Frank turned out to also be Pete’s Frank had Pete and Gerard puzzled for more than a minute after they found out. None of which, of course, slowed Pete down when he found Frank wheezing in Mikey’s room, talking way too fast and not breathing nearly enough.

“HEY! Frank--what the hell man?” Pete exclaimed.
“I almost called the troops in to look for you.”

Frank looked sheepish.

“Sorry, I just--I thought I heard Mikey, and I haven’t seen him in--forever--and I--.” Here Frank’s wheezing became a full on coughing fit, and Pete grabbed him and held him steady while the force of the coughs shook his body and he automatically tried to hunch against Pete’s grip. When the fit subsided a minute or two later, Frank shook away Pete’s hands.

“I’m fine.” He gasped.

“Bullshit. Bed, now, kid.” And without another word, Pete picked up the still recovering boy and carried him back to his room.

Frank was humiliated. He knew he wasn’t that big, but he was as tall as Pete, at least. If the man wasn’t practically all muscle he wouldn’t have been able to carry Frank like some fucking girl. and Mikey had to see too? He’d never live it down.

In reality, Frank knew Mikey couldn’t give a shit that he had to be carried out--but Frank didn’t care. Mikey wasn’t on oxygen. Mikey wasn’t as fucked up as Frank by a stupid fucking cough.

He tried to fight Pete when the oxygen mask came out again, but he couldn’t catch his breath to put up a real fight. His arms were clumsy and weak as he tried to pull the mask off, and Pete easily outmaneuvered him. He pushed Frank’s heavy hands aside and held the mask steady on Frank’s face even while Frank (childishly, stupidly) twisted his head and tried to shake the thing off.

“Frank!” Pete exclaimed, frustrated.

“Quit it and let me help you! You need air, you stubborn little idiot.”

Knowing he was right, and lacking the strength to keep struggling, Frank went limp. He focused on expanding and deflating his lungs. and he fucking hated it.

Pete did feel bad that everything seemed to hit Frank harder than other kids. Especially respiratory issues. Mikey was had the same diagnosis as Frank, but as long as he wasn’t running anywhere, he didn’t need oxygen. But there was nothing he could do about Frank except treat his symptoms--even if they were more pronounced than he deserved.

Once he had Frank situated (having given Joanie the heads-up that Frank was in a “difficult” mood), Pete went to meet with his new patient. He trusted Joanie to keep an eye on Frank, and his thoughts were now turned to this unknown kid.

The thing about gaining new patients that came by appointment is there was no prior information. Pete was definitely glad when he didn’t have to meet a kid because they ended up in his ward from the E.R, but when they came through the E.R he had some idea of what he was dealing with. Patients by appointment were a completely blank slate. So, with his mind going through everything from routine check-up to cancer, Pete walked into the exam room.

What he saw was a blonde teen slouched over sitting on the edge examination table, tapping the toes of his converse together. Pete couldn’t decide if the tapping was borne of boredom or nervousness. His mom (Pete assumed, from the resemblance) was seated in the corner chair, evidently finishing a text.

“Hi, I’m Doctor Wentz.” Pete strode forward, making sure to shake the kid’s hand first.

“Uh, Patrick.” The kid said, clearly a little taken aback.

“Nice to meet you.” Pete offered him a reassuring smile.

He then moved to the mother, who slipped her phone away and matched his smile with a warm one of her own.

“Hi, I’m Patricia Stump.”

“Nice to meet you. What can I do for you today?”

“Well,” she sighed and gestured to her son.

“Patrick has a cough. Now I know what you’re thinking--’that hardly warrants a trip to the doctor’s’. I know. It’s just that we’ve only just moved into the city and he’s had this cough for a week. Over the counter stuff doesn’t seem to be working, and I can’t think of anything else except that it’s the smog. We’re suburb folk.” She offered.

“I was just hoping you could give me a better idea of what’s going on here.”

“Well I hope I can help.” Pete rejoined.

Walking over to Patrick, Pete addressed him directly, as he liked to do with the older kids.

“When you cough, is it dry, or wet?”

“Um..”

“Does it feel like gunk is coming up?” Pete clarified.

Patrick nodded.

“Alright. Do you generally cough just once, or is more like once you start you can’t stop?”

“I’m mostly okay. Just-” Here he lowered his voice, as if afraid his mom would hear.

“A couple times I start, and it’s no big deal, except I can’t really catch my breath.”

“Okay.” Pete went through his mental checklist twice, but it sounded like whooping cough.

“Can you breathe in for me?” He pulled out his stethoscope and listened to Patrick breathe a few times.  His chest responded with a rattling that echoed loudly in Pete ears. Shit.  He went to the cabinet and grabbed the thermometer, returning to Patrick.

“Stick this under your tongue please.”  When the “beep” sounded, Pete checked the reading. 100.

“Okay,” Pete said, pulling away, “I’m going to send you down to Kara for some blood work so I can confirm this, but it looks like you have whooping cough.”

Patrick’s mom instinctively moved towards her son, putting her arm around his shoulder and pulling him to her chest.

“But he’s gotten the vaccination for that.”

“There’s a new or stronger strain going around this year, I’ve had 10 cases already. Don’t worry m’am, it’s not too much to be concerned over as long as it’s caught relatively early--and you say he’s only had this for a week.”

Patrick’s eyebrows pulled together a bit and he looked towards his mom, confused. But it was Pete he addressed, eyes darting up briefly.

“Wait..so this is just a cough right?”

Pete directed his attention to Patrick.

“Close. Not exactly. It’s longer lasting, and it’ll knock you out if you don’t stay on top of it. You won’t be going to school for the next couple of weeks at least. You shouldn’t be doing anything that gets your heart rate up or has you breathing faster than normal. As long as you drink lots of water and keep that fever under control you’ll be fine. Take two ibuprofen every  hours until it breaks, and give me a call if it lingers more than three days or if you have any more issues catching your breath.”

Patrick looked overwhelmed, but nodded.  

To his mom, Pete said, “I’m going to prescribe azithromycin, which should help fight the pertussis and shorten his contagious period, but you should still be careful and wash your hands frequently, not share glasses, all that good stuff.”

Patrick was sliding off the table and edging out the door. He muttered a “thanks” at Pete and slipped out the door.

“Thanks again, Doctor Wentz.” Patricia offered with a smile. The traces of worry were still visible as she glanced at the door where her son had exited.

“Call me Pete. and it’s no problem. Patrick seems like a nice kid. He really is going to be exhausted for the next few weeks though, so keep an eye on him and make sure he’s remembering to drink enough water in between all that sleep.”

“I will.” She seemed more at ease with the idea that there was something she could do to help her son. On a whim, Pete scrawled his personal on the back of his business card, and offered it to her.

“That’s my cell, in case anything pressing comes up outside of office hours. Don’t hesitate to give me a call.”

“Alright. Thank you! Have a good day, Pete.”

“Same to you. Stop by the reception area after you get done with bloodwork and schedule an appointment--I’d like to check in with you guys within a week.”

“Sure.” She walked out to join her son.  

Over the next few days Pete was preoccupied with getting Frank to stay in bed, who despite his protests that he was “fine, seriously, fine.” was still pretty out of commission. Pete knew it was because his birthday was coming up that Frank was being more resistant than usual. It sucked to be stuck in the hospital for your eighteenth, but Pete knew there was no way he was gonna be better in time. It was just a game of convincing him of that so Frank would quit trying to shrug off his symptoms.  That was easier said than done though, so Pete had his hands full for a few days, and stopped pulling night shifts. Which meant he was surprised when he went to retrieve his one morning charts and saw that “PATRICK STUMP” had been admitted via the E.R at 10:43 last night. Fuck. Fuuuck.

He checked the room number listed and started jogging. Pete came to a stop just outside of room 223. He found Patrick sitting up in bed playing on an old gameboy, oxygen tubing looping to his nose.

“Patrick?” Pete knocked once to alert him. Patrick glanced up, and quickly paused his game.

“Hi.” He said, throat sounding raw.

“Hi.” Pete entered.

“You wanna tell me what happened? I had you scheduled for a check-up today--suddenly you’re in the E.R?” He pulled up a chair and sat near Patrick’s bed.

“Um..I started coughing and I couldn’t stop. I tried hold it in and wait it out but that didn’t work so well and I ended up puking…kinda freaked my mom out. She drove me here.”

Pete sighed. If he was having fits strong enough to make him vomit, Patrick definitely needed to be under hospital supervision. He must have been seriously downplaying how bad his cough was.

“What were you doing when you started coughing?” Pete inquired.

“Just band practice.”

Pete’s eyebrows knit together.
“Patrick, what do you play?”

“Well, I’m a drummer really… but I’m singing for the moment, just til we can find an actual singer..”

Pete nodded. That would do it.

“Hey listen, I get that it might not be your idea of strenuous exercise or anything, but singing, especially for extended periods of time, the way you would at practice, puts a lot of strain on your lungs and gets your heart rate up pretty fast. That’s most likely what triggered your coughing. If your lungs were agitated enough that can definitely lead to vomiting.”

Patrick eyed him solemnly.

“Okay. So if I don’t practice any more, I can get out of here?”

Pete bit his lip, thinking.

“Probably not. If your cough if progressed enough to trigger vomiting post-episode, it’s really not safe for you to go home. I’ll talk to your mom and get her caught up, but you’re most likely going to be here for a few weeks, at least.”

Patrick let out a breath, shocked.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, unfortunately. Whooping cough’s a bitch.”

“Oh.”

Pete  hid a smile. He could almost see Patrick’s thoughts. ‘A doctor swore?’ He was definitely one of the kids that forgot authority figures were people too. Pete almost laughed out loud. Him, an authority figure. Oh, he was gonna have fun with Patrick.

Once he’d gotten Patrick updated on his prognosis, Pete checked in with Mikey and Frank. It worked out remarkably well, as his pertussis patients happened to be lined up back-to-back. Mikey was looking much better, given a few days to rest with someone to remind him to eat. Frank and Pete had come to an agreement. He was allowed to go to Mikey’s room as long as he got Joanie to help him. If he used a wheelchair it was easy enough to keep all his oxygen  and IV tubing intact. Pete didn’t need the heavy sighs to know how much Frank hated the arrangement, but it meant that Pete would have to worry about finding him passed out on the floor, so he held his ground. Being a doctor didn’t always mean being the cool guy, and he knew Frank really did like him under all his teenage angst bullshit.

The next few days were about re-establishing routine for Pete. Frank had finally seemed to (grudgingly) accepted  that he wasn’t going to be better in time for his birthday. This made Pete’s life way easier, and the two were finding their vibe again. Pete was keeping a watchful eye on all his kids, but he had to admit it was the three teens who he returned to most often. Firstly, because there weren’t many other admitted kids at the moment, and secondly because he just liked them.

For Patrick, his first few days at the hospital were all about adapting. He had lucked out as far as his neighbors went--both Frank and Mikey were eager to get to know him, especially after they found out he was also in a band. Their casual chatter about music, comics, and video games set Patrick at ease. Soon he was over his initial shyness, debating Marvel over DC without reserve. He was surprised and pleased when Frank let him in on a little secret. Patrick knew he could’ve waited til it was him and Mikey. But Frank liked Patrick, trusted him. So one day when they were all hanging out in Mikey’s room, Frank glanced at the door and gestured to the guys to lean in. Curious, Patrick and Mikey scooted closer.

“So you guys know how my birthday’s in a few days?”

It was news to Patrick, but he nodded along with Mikey.

“Well, I’m planning myself a little surprise that day.”

Mikey quirked an eyebrow.

“What’re you up to Frankie?”

But Frank smirked and shook his head. He wouldn’t say another word about it, though both boys were dying of curiosity.

Patrick later discovered that Frank’s birthday was actually on Halloween, which he thought was fricken cool. That day, Frank’s mom and dad visited and brought a few presents along with a giant cake. Pete even stopped in for a slice when his shift ended. He slid Frank a small package as his parents were leaving. and said

“Happy Eighteenth man.” Patrick couldn’t shake the sneaking suspicion that it was porn. He knew Pete was a doctor...but he was also Pete. Either way, the very thought had Patrick blushing. He was glad no one at the party noticed. It was nice enough, but Patrick couldn’t help thinking that he hoped his eighteenth didn’t happen anywhere near an adolescent ward.  

Mikey was cringing for Frank. Stuck in the hospital on your eighteenth birthday? Uhh. He suppressed a shudder on Frank’s behalf. At least his parents seemed to know how bad it sucked. Frank made out with some kickass gifts. He was almost salivating over this guitar his parents got him. Mikey knew Frank’s had been busted for months. Still, he would’ve felt awful if it weren’t for the secret smile Frank kept slipping. It was 9 when visiting hours ended and Pete had to kick out Frank’s parents. He left not long after that, wishing Frank a happy birthday one more time and mussing his hair. As far as Mikey knew, Frank still hadn’t revealed his big surprise. Mikey pestered him as soon as the adults were gone, but Frank just smiled and pursed his lips again.

“Patience, young grasshopper.”

“Dude, you’ve gotta be joking. You’re like a year older than me!”

“Yeah,” Frank retorted, “A whole year. As in I’m an adult and you’re a child.”

Mikey rolled his eyes so hard Patrick began to worry they would get lodged in the back of his skull. Eventually, a nurse made Mikey and Pete get to their own rooms, and they said goodnight to Frank. Frank flashed them another secret smile. Which left Mikey annoyed and Patrick confused, but there wasn’t time to question him further. Both boys passed out quickly. Being sick had that effect, apparently. Patrick sometimes felt like all he did was sleep.

The sun was slanting through the shades when Patrick woke up the next morning. He was bleary eyed and disoriented. and his head ached. He didn’t think he’d ever felt this awful. His breath caught when he exhaled and he could hear this gross deep phlegm-y noise. Patrick was basically curled up waiting to die when a nurse came in. He tried to pry his eyes open and be polite, but the light was glass shards to his head.

“Patrick, hon?”

The voice was cool purple against the jagged red in his head. He tried to form a coherent response, but it came out mumbled and not nearly loud enough.

He felt a cool hand on his forehead and then a slight pressure in his ear.

“Oh honey. You’ve got a pretty nasty fever there.” The voice was quiet but clear. Patrick couldn’t remember if it was Joanie or Allison. He forgot which one came during the day.

“Hey Patrick, you don’t have to move, but can you please tell me what else hurts?”

Patrick drew a ragged breath.

“Head .” He mumbled.

“Chest.” He added as his breath caught again.

“Alright. We’re gonna fix that for you.” Her voice stayed calm but there was an edge of worry to it. Patrick might’ve noticed if he wasn’t so focused on the stabbing in his head. He was drifting. He didn’t notice the footsteps fading away down the hall. He didn’t notice the squeak of sneakers moving fast on linoleum at they entered his room. He was lost in the kaleidoscope of color pain was producing behind his eyelids.

“Patrick?” The timbre of this voice was different. It sent dark brown spires across his red-splotched vision. Pete.

Patrick moaned. He should be embarrassed. If he were half his normal self he would be. He was curled in fetal position making noises that were whimper-like and decidedly un-dignified. He might have started to cry. He didn’t know. and he didn’t have the brain space to worry about it behind that wall of hurt.

“Hang in there, kid.”

Pretty soon Patrick felt a prick in his left hand and the odd sensation of something cooler than his blood sneaking into his hand. Then he felt himself being shifted. There was a shock of cold metal against his chest and he recoiled reflexively.

“Easy, you’re okay.”

Patrick took jagged breaths and did not respond.

“Joanie, can you increase the oxygen on the cannula to max? I don’t want to mask him unless I’ve got to. I’m gonna wait til the morphine kicks in...”

Patrick couldn’t hear right. There was shuffling and Patrick felt plastic tubing on his face and then a rush of air in his nose.  He started to feel less like dying. The world was slowing down though. His eyes were weighed down with pennies and sound was coming through syrup air. The pain rescinded, but Patrick could feel himself slipping with it. He felt a hand on his chest.

“That’s it, buddy. Just sleep.” Patrick quit fighting his slowing breaths.

When Patrick woke up the next time, he was still disoriented--he got the feeling a lot of time had passed, but he didn’t know what time it was. However, the ache in his head was gone, and Frank and Mikey were leaning over him, wearing matching grins.

“Finally! We’ve been shaking you for 15 minutes dude. They said your drugs would be wearing off soon.” Frank informed him.

Patrick blinked and struggled to remember how his tongue worked.

“I..you woke me up?”

“Yeah man, keep up. Listen, I got something to show you.” Frank continued without pausing.

“Oh..kay.” Patrick responded, trying to keep up with Frank’s hyper speed. Had he always talked this fast?

Beaming, Frank lifted up his shirt and turned his back to Patrick. Patrick, still slow from whatever Pete had given him, stared for a full thirty seconds. He was trying to understand why Frank had plastic wrap on his back.

“You got a pumpkin on you?”

Frank looked a little hurt.

“It’s a jack-o lantern! Cause of my birthday. and cause they’re fucking awesome.”

Patrick caught on.

“Yeah man, wow. That’s badass.”

“Damn right it is.”

“You’re parents are gonna flip.” Mikey whispered reverently.

“When’d you get it?”

“Checked myself out the night of my birthday and went down to Pioneer’s on Lakeview.” Frank reported, proudly.

Mikey let out a low whistle.

“How’d you, y’know, breathe?”

“I can handle myself without a fuckin’ tank strapped on, thank you very much.” Frank replied defensively.

Fortunately the potential argument was diffused when Frank and Mikey noticed Patrick was drifting again, eyes fluttering behind closed lids. Secret revealed, the boys decided to let him sleep in peace. Frank was especially eager to get back into his own bed.  He was pretty sure Pete would be coming in to work soon. Aware that Pete would probably freak over the whole checking himself out thing, Frank had wisely planned to at least feign sleep for most of the day.

Pete was furious. He’d been occupied with Patrick for the last day or so, and he’d been doing superficial checks  on Mikey and Frank. When he actually retrieved his charts he saw that Frank had checked out on his birthday. He’d gone through the readmittance process early the next morning, before Pete had gotten to work--the day Patrick had been so sick. He clearly meant to avoid Pete’s notice. But what the hell had he been doing for six hours in the middle of the night? Pete stalked into Frank’s room, intending to find out. He was brought up short when he saw Frank curled up on his side. The room was filled with a quiet noise somewhere between a wheeze and a snore. At the sight, some of Pete’s rage dissipated. Frank looked so small like that. Small and sick, no matter what he said. He almost let Frank sleep. Almost. In the end, this was just too important. Frank couldn’t just be checking in and out whenever he felt like it--Pete’d never see enough of him to help him get better.

Pete shook Frank’s shoulder gently until the dark haired mass groaned and rolled over. Frank blinked lazily. Then he saw who had woken him. He immediately sat up, trying to be as unintimidated as possible while in his pajamas. Pete didn’t say anything. He just stared. Frank was okay with the silent treatment until his skin started to itch and the air felt heavy with it. Then (like Pete knew he would) he broke.

“I’m an adult, I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

Pete quirked an eyebrow.

“It’s not like I didn’t come back.”

Pete’s right eyebrow joined his left, and he stood there, staring. He did not blink.

“Listen--I--I’m not gonna do it again, okay? This was important. I needed it.” And, desperate to prove his point, Frank twisted around and pulled his shirt off.

The skin around it was still pink-tinged and tender looking, but Pete couldn’t deny--it was a great tattoo.

“You checked yourself of out a hospital at ten a night to go get a tattoo?”

Frank nodded, looking defiant, ready for a fight. Pete didn’t give him one.

“Okay, kid. One time pass. But you pull this shit again and I hold you down and smother you myself.”

Frank looked almost like he’d been slapped. A few owlish blinks later, he exhaled deeply and said, “yeah.”

Pete frown at the distinct rasp to his breathe.

“Have you taken your meds at all since you got back?”

Frank pursed his lips, hesitant.

“..No.”

Pete let out a long suffering sigh and muttered about Frank and “gonna be the death of him” for a minute before paging Joanie for Frank’s meds.

Pete’s next stop was Patrick’s room. Patrick too, was sleeping, and once again Pete debated not waking him, but he really needed to check up on how Patrick was feeling post-op. Once he’d gotten Patrick up and given him a few minutes to process consciousness, Pete started in.

“How’re you feeling Patrick?”

“Good...better.” His tongue was heavy in his mouth from the sedative.

“I’m glad. Do you remember what happened yesterday?”

Patrick was silent, thinking.

“My head hurt. Couldn’t think straight.”

Pete nodded.

“Patrick, your head hurt because you weren’t getting enough oxygen. There was too much fluid in your lungs, and it was lowering your oxygen intake. We had to drain the fluid, but I put you under first so you wouldn’t feel it or move.”

Patrick reeled, trying to comprehend all of this. Pete said something else about “spontaneous resurgence” and emergency thora-something, but Patrick wasn’t really listening. When his brain had finally caught up, Pete had been silent for a long time, waiting.

“Wait, so, am I okay now?”

Pete nodded.

“The fluid is gone, so you should be able to breathe normally, as long as you avoid anything that elevates your heart rate.”

Patrick began to look apprehensive.

“So, um, if I breathe really slow and don’t run around or anything, canIleaveforjustonenightplease?” Patrick let out the last part of this sentence in a rush of air. Luckily Pete was fluent in hyperspeak.  He didn’t even hesitate, trying to minimize the amount of time Patrick had to let his hopes build. Though damn, this kid had puppy eyes down in the worst way. Didn’t even know he was doing it.

Pete shook his head decisively.  

“No. I’m sorry man, it just isn’t safe, especially after that buildup in your lungs. Give it a few more weeks and I’ll be more than happy to get you out of here.”

Patrick looked equal parts crestfallen and ready to argue, but in the end he just let out a small dejected sigh.

“..Kay.”

Pete patted his back awkwardly, and, thinking of nothing else to say, got the hell out of there.  He spent the rest of day unusually busy, seeing new patients, and filling out paperwork. It wasn’t that he was avoiding Patrick per say, it was just that he was busy. and so when he peeked in near the end of his shift and saw Patrick sleeping, curled up under the blankets, he just let him go.

It was only after his shift ended that Pete decided to do a proper once over of Patrick, having already checking in a way too gleeful Frank. Pete just hoped he hadn’t put water balloons above all the doorways again.

Except that when Pete went in, there was something off. The IV was looped around the side of bed, unattached to anything, and the angles, upon closer inspection were all wrong. The limbs stuck out at sharp points and the body was curled far too much for Patrick’s small frame. The hair was too long and not quite the right color.

Mikey.

Mikey was peering up at him nervously from Patrick’s bed. The first words Pete could find were

“What the fuck.” Flat and emotionless. Mikey didn’t seem to know how to respond. He just stared at Pete, scared and quiet. Pete got more stressed when he realized Mikey was genuinely afraid. This wasn’t some prank, where Patrick was hiding under the bed. Mikey wasn’t laughing. Pete’s heart started racing. He instantly thought of Frank, smirking. Pete was in his room before he had time to realize he moved. Frank was sitting up, waiting for him. Pete stalked over, hands shaking.

“Frank. Where is he?”

Frank shook his head.

“Not telling. He’ll be back by morning I promise. It’s just--it’s important.”

“Frank,” Pete started, fighting to keep his voice steady, “Do not mistake my inability to prevent you from leaving this hospital as an a legal adult as a free pass to help a minor sneak out of a hospital. That could be constituted as an accomplice to kidnapping.” Pete was bullshitting wildly on that last part, but Frank turned white. It was a credit to the kind of friend he was that Frank remained silent. Pete cursed and turned on his heel.

He ran to the nurses’ station.

“Mark, call an amber alert on Patrick Stump.” Pete didn’t stick around to ensure he did it.

Mikey was sitting up when Pete burst in. Frank was not going to cave any time soon, and Pete didn’t have the time to wear him down. Pete towered over him as best he could.

“Mikey, you’re going to tell me where Patrick is right now and I won’t tell Gerard you might have helped a sick kid to his death, are we clear?”

Mikey quirked an eyebrow.

“I--”

It hit Pete like brass knuckles in the gut. What the only thing that would compel Patrick to sneak out for, break all the rules for. It wasn’t even really for him.

“Nevermind. Just tell me the name of his band.”

Mikey’s breathe caught sharply.

“How..? It doesn’t have a name yet.”

Surprisingly that was enough for Pete. There was only one bar around here that booked unknowns and let minors play. Pete had spent a lot of time there back in high school for those exact reasons. Even played a few shows. Pete was out the door speeding down towards West Wabansia before Mikey had a chance to dissuade him.

The Hideout hadn’t changed much at all since Pete had used it as his second home, in high school and then med school. He still knew the bouncer, who let him in, waving away the sweaty twenty Pete shoved forward.  According to the flyers Pete raced past, Death By Stereo was headlining tonight, but the crowd was going wild for the opener. Pete saw Patrick as soon as he got past the crush by the door. He was front and center, belting out in a way that would have floored Pete if he wasn’t absolutely certain Patrick’s lungs were not up to the job at the moment. He was better than any seventeen year old Pete had ever heard, but he was leaning heavily on his mike stand and breathing hard in between wailed choruses. Pete could see the wheezing from the crowd. He was trying to get through as fast as possible, but he still five rows back when Patrick swayed, breathing hitched, and fell hard.

“Let me through! Let me through! I’m his doctor!” Pete’s mind went blank. He doesn’t remember how he ended up leaning over Patrick on the stage, but he got there.

“Call 911!” He shouted, in case these idiots thought this was somehow part of the act. Up close, Patrick looked bad. His eyes were barely open and unfocused. He did not appear to recognize Pete. A cold sweat covered his body and his lips were turning blue. It took Pete exactly eight seconds to realize he wasn’t breathing enough and start doing CPR. He moved mechanically, forcing air past Patrick’s lips, pressing hard on his chest to expel carbon dioxide from his failing lungs. It felt like years before the paramedics showed up. Then they were pulling him away, loading Patrick onto the gurney, and rushing out the back door. Pete followed.

Luckily Rian was working tonight. He had gone out for a beer with Pete once or twice and knew he was who he said. Pete climbed wordlessly into the back of the ambulance with Rian and Zach. Patrick was strapped down between them and they got an oxygen mask on him immediately. It wasn’t enough. His heartbeat was irregular, failing.

The ambulance was pulling in to the hospital parking lot when Patrick’s heart stopped again. Zach and Rian took off running. Pete followed. The trio burst into the E.R thirty-nine seconds later. Pete worried it was too slow. He was hurrying fasterfasterfaster, but the world was slowing down around him. He heard only the blood pounding in his ears, his blinks took lifetimes.

“Seventeen year old male, cardiac arrest, unconscious. CPR administered on site, oxygen in the car.”

Gerard was working that night.

It was him that called for the crash cart. Him that cut through Patrick’s shirt and started the defib. If it had been anyone else Pete would have shoved them aside and done it himself. He let Gerard work.

One, two, three, four times he heard the charge. Four times he watched Patrick’s too-small, too-still chest jerk up, back arching off the gurney. Pete’s fingernails had carved bloody half-moons unto his forearm before he heard the wavering beep that indicated a heartbeat. He released the breath that had been burning in his lungs and wheeled Patrick from the E.R to the I.C.U.

Patrick didn’t understand what his blurred vision eyes were telling him. He was at the show, he was singing, there had been talent scouts there...except for that he wasn’t. He was in the hospital. There was a warm pressure on his hand, but when he tried to sit up and see what it was, something stopped him about halfway up. Patrick couldn’t think clearly enough to figured out what it was. After a few more tries he gave up and just turned his head. He was going to go back to sleep, his head hurt, but there was an annoying beeping that wouldn’t quit. Patrick’s mom was asleep in a chair next to his bed, her hand covering his.

“Wha...mom?”

She jerked awake. Even without his glasses Patrick could see the red rims around her eyes.

“Patrick, baby!” Suddenly her hands were everywhere. Touching his cheek, ghosting over his chest, feeling his forehead, running over his arms like he was about to disappear.

“Mom, what, can’t..get up..” Patrick’s lips weren’t working right. There was something on his face that made it hard to talk and he would pull it off if he could just sit up...for a brief, panic stricken moment Patrick thought he was paralyzed, and the beeping picked up speed. But no, he could move his finger and toes.

“Honey--”

His mom was interrupted by a cold clinical voice.

“That’s alright Mrs. Stump, I’ll explain everything. You should probably go home and get some rest.

It took Patrick way too long to place the voice as Pete’s. His mom looked ready to protest for a minute and Patrick saw again just how tired she looked. She kissed his forehead and whispered,

“See you in the morning, honey.” Then she was gone.

Something was wrong with Pete. He looked wrong, sounded wrong, acted..not like Pete. Patrick couldn’t place it though. His head was aching, and the world felt fuzzy, worse because he didn’t have his glasses and he couldn’t sit up to look for them. Memories came back in pieces, muffled like he was trying to hear from under a pillow, but Patrick couldn’t piece it together. He had been playing at the Hideout..his band needed him. There were record label people there..big break...Patrick shook his head and tried to focus.

“Pete,” he asked, voiced hoarse, “What happened?”

“You collapsed at the show after you snuck out. I gave you CPR there but it wasn’t enough. You went into cardiac arrest in the ambulance. It took four tries to restart your heart. You’re in the Intensive Care Unit now, in case your heart stops again, which is not improbable at the moment.”

Patrick felt blindsided. He tried to take a calming breath but it hurt his chest and it caught in his throat and he coughed violently. Pete watched stoically.  When the fit subsided Patrick asked,

“But what is..” He couldn’t find the right word for whatever was keeping him from sitting up, so he gestured weakly.

Pete eyed him coldly.

“Restraints.”

Patrick was slowly shaking the blurriness from his head, and he was a little afraid to address this hard man who was not anything like Pete.  His voice was barely a whisper.

“Why?”

“Suicide watch. You almost killed yourself. That qualifies you as a risk to yourself or others. It isn’t safe for you to be in a bare room because of your condition--this is the alternative.”

Patrick felt his stomach twist and there was a hot, deep sort of anger in him. The heart monitor picked it up, beeping rapidly in time with his racing pulse.

“You know damn well I didn’t try and commit suicide.” He spat at Pete. His normally kind face was contorted with rage.

“You can’t fucking do this.”

“You are a danger to yourself and after that stunt you pulled I can do whatever the hell I want to keep you safe.” Pete was stone. Impassive.  Patrick jerked up, forced himself as straight as he could go with the strap around his middle. He wanted to look Pete in the eyes. Even though it hurt. His heart was pounding painfully in his ribcage and he was sweating from the effort, but he looked dead at Pete.

“This is wrong.”

Pete regarded him for a moment, expressionless. Then he turned to Patrick’s IV and turned a little cap on the tubing.

“Your heart is working too hard.”

It took Patrick a minute to realize what he was doing.

“No no no no Pete you’re not gonna put me to sleep I’m not gonna--” and then he was fighting. Clawing, kicking, hitting anything he could reach. Twisting and shoving at Pete and then it wasn’t just Pete, there were other people too, but it didn’t matter to Patrick. He lashed at everything that came near him and scraped his hand along the bed, trying to shake free of the IV.

Suddenly there were hands holding his legs down and Pete’s strong arms were forcing his own flying fists back and Patrick was so tired but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t go back to sleep. and then Pete filled his vision and a needle bit down in the exposed crook of his arm and Patrick was breathing hard and tensing against the hands that held him back but his vision was going blurry again, turning black, and he was limp in Pete’s arms before he could protest any more.

Pete waited a long time after Patrick was asleep. He left, checked on patients, came back. Watched Patrick. After Joanie had left, and so he was certain no one would come in for a least another fifteen minutes. The knowledge that no one was looking eroded the callousness his features had taken on in the two days since he had watched Patrick collapse on stage. Alone, with no one to pretend for, he looked worn in ways that aged him and there were worry lines on his face that had never existed before. Pete took a breath, watching the sleeping boy on the bed. The heart monitor beeped quietly, consistently. It soothed Pete, this irrefutable proof Patrick was alive. He hadn’t lost him after all.

On a split second impulse, Pete strode over to the bed and pressed his lips to the little patch of skin just below Patrick’s hairline, right on top of the butterfly bandage that covered a cut he’d gotten when he’d hit the stage. Patrick stirred underneath him, making a sleep muffled noise, and Pete froze for a moment. But then he relaxed, and pulled away. He ghosted his fingers over Patrick’s forehead and adjusted his oxygen mask so the elastic wouldn’t twist and bother him in the morning. Patrick stirred briefly once more. Despite the morphine that should have been keeping him asleep, Patrick opened his eyes halfway, and stared at Pete with unfocused pupils. Those blue eyes held Pete frozen, captivated again, and they shared a stare that lasted an instant or an eternity. Then his heavy half-lidded eyes slid shut and Pete smiled and shook his head.

“You’ll never remember, your head is far too blurry.”

Pete turned and left the room.

Life was going okay for mikeyway. He had picked up the funny, full name, no space moniker from Pete sometime after Pete had realized that Mikey was Gerard’s name for him. Mikey kind of liked it. Pete somehow put his name in lowercase, and it was much more relaxing that way. Gerard had slowly gotten over being pissed at him and Mikey had met some pretty cool people in the hospital, Pete included. There was Frank, who he’d already known of course, but was always fun to chill with. and then Patrick, who Mikey though had to be the nicest person he’d ever met, not mention he’d gotten to see more of Gerard than he ever did normally, and meet all of Gerard’s E.R friends. Plus, he was getting out soon. He hadn’t been too excited to go home, but as it turned out, he didn’t have to. After the whole whooping cough thing, which Gerard had way overreacted to, Gerard had decided that Mikey better come live with him. Mikey wasn’t sure how he’d worked it out with their parents, but he was gonna get to live with Gerard and he wouldn’t have to switch schools. If you could discount the nasty hacking cough he still had, mikeway was pretty damn happy.

Patrick wasn’t confused when he woke up the second time. He knew where he was. There was still the blurry, fuzzy-headed feeling, but he shook it away quickly. He tried to twist and reach for his glasses, but found his hand immobile. Patrick realized with sickening understanding that he was strapped down at his wrists and ankles, in addition to the strap that kept him lying flat.

“Pete...Pete!” Patrick hardly realized he was shouting, heart racing and monitor sputtering in time with its irregular thumping. Patrick didn’t know if it was that or the yelling that brought someone. He didn’t care. It wasn’t Pete. Joanie raced in, all worry and sympathy.

“Patrick, honey, calm down please. It’s alright, just, calm down.” She placed a cool hand on his forehead and he resisted the urge to shake her off. Joanie hadn’t done this. She had always been kind.
“Where’s--Pete?” He bit out through labored breath.

“He’s not here right now, it’s two  in the morning. I’ll tell him you asked for him as soon as he gets in, but right now you have to try and calm down for me please. Can you do that? Your heart’s going too fast, hun.”

Patrick didn’t want her to force him back asleep and so he tried to do as she asked. He took long, slow breaths despite the pain in his chest and the way it dragged, raspy, in his throat.

“There we go. That’s okay.” Joanie’s tone was soothing, and Patrick let it lull him, but he couldn’t be soothed. He was focusing so intensely on Pete and what he would say to him or where he would hit him that he didn’t hear Joanie’s murmuring. It was mostly to herself anyways, a muttered,

“Drat, fever’s back.”

Patrick had been pulled into an uneasy sleep by the time she’d returned to remedy the situation.

Frank was ecstatic. Life had been pretty boring since Patrick had gotten put in ICU. Frank had figured out pretty quickly that ICU basically meant “solitary” in Pete’s terms, and Patrick hadn’t been allowed any visitors. Frank had heard chatter among the nurses that Patrick was on suicide watch, but he couldn’t believe it. Patrick hadn’t attempted suicide. Frank tried to harass Pete about it, but he was stiff and formal since The Great Escape, and spouted some bullshit about patient confidentiality. Frank pushed it, but Pete just said he had other patients and left. It was infuriating. Frank needed to know what was up. Not to mention he was pretty sure Pete had gone crazy, and he was definitely feeling some guilt about Patrick getting so sick. Though he still grinned when he thought about how fucking awesome that plan had been. Frank planned to figure out a way to Patrick soon. Well, as soon as his parents left. They had brought the news that Frank had apparently been on the upswing the past few days, and he now had a definite release day. Two more weeks. Provided he didn’t somehow get worse and wilt away like some fucking damsel. Frank could do that. Hence the reason he was so freaking ecstatic. Frank was getting out.

Pete had his first day off in more than two months. He spent it alone, staring at the watermark on his ceiling. He thought vaguely about things he hadn’t let sneak in for years. Dreams he’d let die and the dust and sweat off the stage and counting his worth in the sound of  people screaming back at him. But Pete was never any good at math. He closed his eyes.

Gerard found him like that 10 hours later when he got off his shift. He was immediately worried when Pete didn’t answer his text, and came over as soon as he could. Pete was lying feet flat on the floor, torso horizontal on the edge of the bed.  It was as if he had sat down and just lost the will to himself up. Gerard took half a look at him, and said,

“We’re going out.”

It took 30 minutes to drag Pete from horizontal to vertical and then out the door. At the bar, Gerard didn’t make Pete talk. Just sat there and watched, eyebrows raised, while Pete downed whiskey way too fast to taste it and scowled across the bar. He knew what Pete needed, but this was as close as he was willing to let him get to it.

Pete, for his part, was craving scrape skinned knuckles and a night he didn’t have to remember in the morning. He missed Gabe. Gerard would take him out and let him get as drunk as he could manage, but at the end of the night Pete knew Gerard would get him home before anything happened. Drinking was okay, as far as denial went. But what Pete needed, more than anything, was to erase for a few hours the image of Patrick. Head slamming the stage and labored breathing. Oxygen mask in a speeding ambulance. The sound of the flatline and an electric charge that brought his back arching. Limp and still in a hospital bed in the I.C.U. The thoughts flashed on repeat like broken record skips, and Pete needed a distraction. Drinking was good enough for denial, but Pete came here looking for a fight.

He was almost ready to give up, eight drinks in. He let Gerard help him off the stool and was resigned to a night of blackout sleep and a morning of burning headaches. Then across the bar he heard,

“You need your fag girlfriend ta’ help you home little boy?”

Gerard’s eyes went wide and he froze. Quickly he tugged at Pete’s jacket and muttered

“It’s fine, Pete, he’s an idiot. Let it go.”

It was too late. Pete whipped his head around. The man was ugly and red in the face. He was, like Pete, maybe four drinks too far in for his own good, but Pete could hold his liquor. This guy, probably 20 minutes from puking in an alley. Pete took one look at him and knew he’d never made it past the “jocks run the world” stage of development. Pete’s lips curled into a cruel mimicry of a smile. He had found his fight. In a voice that was a hairsbreadth from a snarl he asked, “What did you just call him?”

The guy smiled wide, clearly missing Pete’s tone. He was too used to winning to spot an underdog.

“A fag. A nice little fag for the nice little boy who’s probably had too much of daddy’s whiskey and now he’s got’ ta’ go home and cry ta’ mommy. Or are you just a grown midget? Never could really tell those..” The man was too lost in the wittiness of his own joke to notice Pete’s fist coming up to catch him in the chin.

Within 7 minutes Pete had the guy in the alley behind the bar. He might have been hurting but he couldn’t tell, because he went at this overgrown child with a fervor that could have won wars. Napoleon’s weakness may have lay in his insecurity about his height, but Pete’s lay in his friends. His wars were waged to protect them. and he did. Over and over he came back at the fat, drunken man. It made no difference where he got hit or how much.

He was invincible tonight.

Finally he managed to get the guy down.

“Gay--” punch. “Is--” punch. “Not--” punch.“A--” punch. “Synonym--” punch. “For--” Pete’s knuckles were raw and the man seemed barely conscious. “Shitty.” Pete took one last kick at his groin,  stood up, and walked away.

Gerard stayed at Pete’s that night. He patched him up and got him into bed and stayed up all night to make sure Pete didn’t choke on his own vomit. Gerard woke him up an hour before he had to be at work with a fresh pot of coffee brewed and four aspirin.

Pete didn’t have words. He just looked at Gerard until Gerard ran his fingers through his hair and said,

“I know how fabulous I am. Get your ass to work before you’re late.” Pete hugged him fast and hard for a moment after that.

His knuckles needed wrapped and Pete could feel the pulse in each bruise, but he smiled.

He felt better than he had in ages. Well, six days to be exact. His head was clearer than it had been since Patrick’s incident, and he could breathe again. The first thing he was going to do with that reclaimed clarity was unlatch Patrick from his bed. Pete winced. In hindsight, that had been a little extreme. Pete was grabbing his charts for the day when Joanie caught him by the elbow. She looked awful, and Pete was the one who’d been in a fight last night.

“Joanie?” Pete stopped, confused. He knew night shift ended a half hour ago.

“Aren’t you off now?” She nodded.

“Yeah, but I promised Patrick I’d tell you he asked after you, and..” She cast a worried glance at Pete.

“He’s just not doing so well. I wanted to make sure I told you myself.”

Pete entered panic mode. He’d never seen Joanie so rattled. He was pressing his knuckles into the wall the entire elevator ride to the I.C.U. Pete might have been a little rude when shooed the I.C.U doc out of the room. He’d met him once or twice, his name was...Mark, maybe, but Pete didn’t remember and he didn’t care.

Patrick’s breathing was shallow and his face was flushed. Pete quickly removed the restraints that bound him, but the only effect was that he seemed to deflate a little without the tension of the straps on his body. There was no grand display this time. Patrick looked spent. Pete looked at his chart, cursed, looked again, and then checked Patrick’s temp himself. The chart hadn’t lied. He was hovering around 105-106 and ibuprofen didn’t seem to be doing much except keeping it from getting worse. The only thoughts in Pete’s head were bad bad bad bad bad bad bad and gotta fix this gotta make it right gotta make him okay.

All the blankets and sheets had already been removed. Patrick was bare-chested and sweating, shivering violently. Pete forgot how to breathe. He ordered a cooling blanket. Everyone was too slow. The IV with its steady drip drip drip was not enough. Allison, racing in with the blanket, might as well have been moving at half speed. Pete turned up the sedative of Patrick’s drip to stop the shivering, and within seven minutes he was motionless. His breathing was heavy and slow when Pete flipped him onto his stomach. Pete rubbed mineral oil over the expanse of his back and then covered him with the blanket then turned Patrick back onto his back. There was nothing else to do but wait.

Patrick spent two more days in the I.C.U. By that time his fever had dropped enough he wasn’t in immediate danger, but he needed constant monitoring in case it spiked. It became clear once Patrick was out of the danger zone that he had contracted bronchitis. It happened sometimes, when a kid’s immune system was shot--and Patrick’s certainly was. He coughed in harsh, short barks sometimes, and forced stiff yellowed phlegm up from his lungs. Pete went home when his shifts were up. He took pills to sleep and get back to Patrick, and Frank and Mikey.

Patrick was unconscious most of the time, and Pete stayed away from him when he was awake. He knew he had done a bad thing with Patrick, and he didn’t know if he could ever get his trust back. Didn’t know if he could bear to see the betrayal in his eyes. Slowly, Patrick got better. He stayed awake longer, was able to sit up a bit, eat some food. Pete watched from the doorway when Patrick wasn’t looking and knew the day was coming when he’d have to talk to him.

One day, Pete was checking on Patrick’s vitals, thinking he was asleep, when Patrick rolled over and sat up suddenly.

“Are you gonna quit avoiding me any time soon?” His voice was raspy and deep and Pete could hear a cough just on the verge of catching in his throat.

Pete flinched, taken aback.

“I’m not avoiding you.”

Patrick let out a short humorless laugh that turned into a brief cough.

“Uh huh. So that’s why you won’t even come in here unless you think I’m sleeping?”

Pete was quiet.

“I didn’t think you noticed.”

Patrick turned away from hm and Pete recoiled at the hurt in his eyes.

“Well I did.”

Pete’s floodgates broke.

“I knew you wouldn’t want to see me. After what I did...It was fucked up, Patrick. I see that now. I know you weren’t trying to get yourself killed. But it’s--your heart stopped twice. You were medically dead. I couldn’t--couldn’t...I’ve never lost a kid, Patrick, not like that.”

Pete couldn’t even look Patrick in the eye. He turned to leave the room.

“Pete! Pete would you turn the fuck around?!”

Pete let out a sharp breath, shocked. He spun back on his heels.

“Good.” Patrick was sweaty and pale with the effort it took to get himself upright and looking at Pete.

“You pulled an asshole move, yeah. But it was my fault. I shouldn’t have snuck out. I wasn’t looking for trouble, I swear, but there were record label people at that show, and I couldn’t let my band down. I really did think I was okay. I thought I could handle one night. I couldn’t, and--and I’m sorry.”

There was no air in Pete’s lungs and Patrick was flushed in a way that didn’t come from his fever. They stood there, looking past each other, until Allison came in to check on Patrick. Apparently he’d been rubbing his IV against the sides of the bed in his sleep, knocking it loose. Pete exhaled, Patrick looked down, and the moment was over.

It got better after that. Frank and Mikey started visiting Patrick, for hours. as long as he could stay awake. They played cards and even Monopoly when Pete caved and brought in the old version he had buried in the back of his closet. Patrick still had a nasty cough, and he was stuck with a heart monitor pressed on his index finger and an oxygen mask over his face, but he was alive, and conscious, at least for a few hours at time. It was more than enough for Pete.

A little less than a week later, Mikey was released to Gerard. He still visited, but between school and, you know, not living next door to Frank and Patrick anymore, he saw them less.  Monopoly wasn’t as fun with two people. Pete taught Patrick how to play poker, and he and Frank played with pennies, but Frank had been playing since he was a little kid, and he beat Patrick more often than not. Sometimes Gerard would bring Mikey and Pete would stay after he got off his shift and they all played for a little while. These were Patrick’s favorite nights. Joe and Andy, who were in the band, came and said hi sometimes, but they were skittish and left fast. Patrick didn’t blame them--he didn’t like hospitals either. His mom visited after work, but he could tell all she did was worry,  and it put a knot on anxiety and guilt in Patrick’s stomach. Poker nights felt safe, like everyone Patrick cared about was right beside him.

Eventually though, even that had to end. Frank was released from the hospital not long after Mikey. Without the two of them, the hospital lost a certain shine to Patrick. Of course, it had sucked being there in the first place, but with Frank and Mikey he’d felt content, if not totally happy. The first few weeks he used their absence mostly to sleep more. It annoyed Patrick that he was tired almost as soon as he woke up, but it meant that he wasn’t bored, at least. Even if he was lonely.

Pete picked up on Patrick’s despondence and tried to hang out with him more often--coming in a half hour before his shift to bring Patrick a decaf coffee (caffeine was still not allowed as a potential irritant to his heart) and chat for bit. Or stopping by after his shift to help Patrick master the finer points of blackjack. It wasn’t the same as having two guys his age there, but Patrick came to look forward to Pete’s brief visits. Especially as he recovered and was able to stay awake for more of them.

Pete was midthought in a sentence about the importance of a bass guitar to a good band when he glanced over and saw Patrick snoring gently beside him. Patrick looked even younger asleep and Pete couldn’t help but smile. It had been nearly a month since the incident at the Hideout, and he was starting to see real recovery. Of course, Patrick was still pretty much knocked on his ass by the double whammy of whooping cough and bronchitis, but his temp had stabilized, his heartbeat was regular, and he was doing a helluva lot of sleeping. All of which were good signs.

Pete checked his watch. 10:07. He really should have let Patrick sleep an hour ago. Trouble was, he just got so caught up talking to him. Patrick, as it turned out, was a damn interesting kid. He had a slew of opinions Pete never would have guessed at when he first saw the shy kid tapping his toes together on the exam table. He was a passionate musician, loved history in way that was endearingly nerdy, and had a deep rooted desire to learn everything he could about places beyond the city limits of his town. Oh, and he was an excellent listener to boot--understood what Pete was trying to tell him before Pete did half the time. How could he not be mesmerized? Even Gerard had started teasing him about spending so much time at the hospital, but the truth was he was spending more time with Patrick. and as happy as he was to see Patrick getting better, the emotion was beginning to be tinged with remorse as well. Pete brushed the hair out of Patrick’s eyes and turned his light off before walking out the room and heading home.

In the weeks that followed, Patrick moved from oxygen mask to cannula to nothing at all. He even got to ditch the IV, which was beginning to feel as though it had become part of his arm. He spent more time with Pete than ever, talking, playing cards, even messing around with some song ideas. For a doctor, Pete was way into music. Patrick found out he had been in a band that was huge in the Chicago scene about ten years ago. It only added to the sense of awe Pete gave him.

The day Patrick found out his release date, he crowed with excitement. Eight days, and he wouldn’t be stuck in the same damn room anymore. He’d barely had any time to unpack his stuff at home, hadn’t even gotten used to his new house. Pete had smiled when he saw Patrick’s elation, but it did not reach his eyes. Patrick started humming mindlessly and thrumming his fingers in melodic patterns. Pete started leaving right after his shift.

Patrick could sense the change in Pete, but he didn’t know what brought it on. His shyness returned, thinking he’d annoyed Pete. Patrick started looking at the ground when Pete came to check on him. He answered questions quietly, and in monosyllables. It was stupid, but once, the third night in a row Pete had gone home without talking to him first, Patrick felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He brushed them away angrily. Pete was his doctor, not his friend. This fact did not make Patrick feel less rejected.

Pete was three drinks into his new ritual of downing whiskey until he couldn’t stand when Gerard burst in without warning. Pete was too drunk to be properly surprised--he glanced up for a moment, and then took another swig from the bottle cradled between his knees.

“You’re a shitty friend, you know that?”

Pete nodded.

“I know.”

“I’m quitting.”

Pete looked up.

“The hospital. I’m quitting. Or taking a sabbatical or whatever.”

Pete tried to summon the normal human reaction he knew should be there.

“Why?”

“Mikey and Frank’s band got a gig. Nationwide tour with a bunch of other tiny bands, gonna last three months. But they need an adult over 21 to rent the bus.”

“So you’re just gonna pick up and go?”

Gerard shrugged.

“No way I’m leaving my baby brother with no one to watch his back for three months. He wouldn’t make it home. Besides, it might be good to have someone who actually knows how to set broken bones and shit. I’ll keep an eye on Frankie too.”

Gerard said before Pete could get it out.

“Plus,” he added with a long suffering sigh, “I promised Mikey I’d cover him every once in a while when their piece of shit singer is too high to get his ass onstage.”

Something in Pete’s brain clicked and he grinned, truly happy for the first time in days.

“Congrats man, that’s awesome.” He clapped Gerard on the back. He’d heard Gerard sing, drunken karaoke mostly, but unlike Pete, he was good. Too self conscious outside of an ER to admit it, but Pete knew. It would be good for him to have some fun.

Gerard smiled back.

“Thanks.”

He grabbed the bottle from Pete and tossed his coat over his other arm, heading towards the door.

“I’m taking this as recompense for recent shitty friending--consider us even.”

Pete groaned, but accepted Gerard’s generous offer.

Halfway out the door Gerard said,

“Hey Pete?”

“Yeah?”

“You should talk to him.”

Then he was gone and Pete was left to contemplate who “he” was when he knew there could only be one person. and then he was left wondering how Gerard knew.

The next day, Pete was hiding behind paperwork in his office, trying to gather the courage to go talk to him, when he heard a knock on the door. He opened it to find an incredibly nervous looking Patrick. His mouth was set in a determined line but his hands were trembling.

“Hey, Patrick, what’s going on man? You didn’t have to come find me, I was just working on your release papers..”

Patrick took a steadying breath.

“Pete, I know you’re like, a doctor and shit and you probably think I’m just some stupid kid, and you’re probably right, but--my band got this chance to do a three month tour on the U.S even though I fucked up the night the record people were watching and I know you have a real job and you were probably just being nice before but we need a bassist and you’ve got more experience than anyone I know and I was wondering if you would come with us maybe?”

Patrick was out of breathing, blushing worse than Pete had ever seen, and staring at the floor like it held the answer to existence. Pete’s heart swelled. He took Patrick’s should and tilted his head up gently so they were eye to eye.

“I’m gonna need to think about this one. It’s kind of a big deal. But I will think about it, okay?”

Patrick nodded, still looking horribly embarrassed. His lips parted like he was on the verge of saying something more, then he turned and bolted from the room.

Pete ran his fingers through his hair, processing. Then he pulled the cardinal sin, texted Gerard to meet him at the hospital on his day off. To Gerard’s credit, he was in Pete’s office in under 20 minutes and did not mention the offense. But he also did not wait for Pete to open up. He bypassed all greeting, starting with,

“What’s going on?”

Pete didn’t even know where to begin. He started with how Patrick was the coolest kid he’d ever met, kind and passionate and way too self conscious in a way that made Pete want to hug him for days at a time. He spent a good deal of time waxing eloquent on Patrick’s dedication,  his goodness, his heart, and Gerard was silent, waiting. Finally, Pete was done.

he said into the expectant silence,

“He wants me to come on tour with him.”

and then Gerard said the only thing Pete really need to hear.

“Do it.”

Gerard got up, smiled, and left.

Pete spent the next few hours pacing the halls and trying to outrun his thoughts. Four O’clock came way too fast and Pete was walking mechanically to Patrick’s room where his mom was waiting and papers would be signed and Patrick would leave and go on tour and Pete would never see him again. Pete felt like he was going to throw up. The act itself was quiet. Patrick’s mom thanked him profusely and hugged her son tight. Patrick was muted and spoke softly, muttering a shameful thank you to Pete before walking out of the room, trailing after his mom.

Pete’s heart was racing. How in the hell could he let this happen? He started running. Patrick was in the parking lot by the time Pete caught up.

He was gonna do it. It was stupid and reckless and he hadn’t done anything this crazy since that one redbull vodka tinged night with Gabe, but he was gonna do it. He was gonna follow that shy smile kid who somehow, somewhere along the way, had become his favorite human.

Epilogue (the ending you know)

Gerard went on tour with Frank and Mikey. He went on a lot of tours with them. The band actually got pretty big,  and he took over as lead singer and they had a good thirteen year run. He stayed true to his word and kept an eye on Frank for Pete. In doing so he ended making one of the best friends he’d ever had.

Frank defeated his failing lungs time and time again, once playing a show with an oxygen tank. He went after his dreams and proved that hell or highwater wouldn’t stop him. He danced and sang and played for the kids and they came to love him just by seeing how much he loved to be there. He never left his favorite band. Even when it ended, it was not due to Frank’s shitty immune system.  Nights, much later, when he had two kids curled up on his lap and hadn’t seen the right side of stage in years, he liked to call that a victory.

Mikey stayed a mixture of knobby knees and shaking hands, but the band eventually gave him a confidence he’d never known. He played shows with his big brother and quietly learned that the best spot in life was on stage, not in the shadows.

Patrick and Pete stayed best friends. Pete helped Patrick get comfortable in his own skin under the front spotlight of a venue, and Patrick helped Pete when he wanted to claw his skin off. Their ability to complete each other's ideas never waned. And when the band started getting in the way off their friendship, the band got put on hold. But they came back, like they always knew they would, because for Pete and Patrick, nothing in the world beat the sound of a crowd screaming back your songs, playing back to back with your favorite human in the world.