hopenight: (Default)
[personal profile] hopenight
Title: Shattered Pieces
[livejournal.com profile] hopenight
Band(s): Fall Out Boy, The Young Veins, Panic! At the Disco (mentions of TAI, THS, GCH, HM, CS, The Cab, and MCR)
Pete/Patrick, secondary Brendon/Ryan
Word Count: 22, 385
[livejournal.com profile] sasukegang
[livejournal.com profile] coricomile
[livejournal.com profile] kittygrenade and [livejournal.com profile] _slashygoodness
contains mentions of suicidal thoughts, several bloody scenes
Pete Wentz has recently been admitted to Mornington Sanitarium after a suicide attempt (or going to Best Buy as he likes to call it). Apathetic to the world around him, Pete doesn’t know what to make of this new situation. He just knows that he has to be here in order to combat the dark emotional fog that surrounds him. He needs to find a way to be himself again, but first he has to feel. The world that Pete is suddenly in is filled with patients who think they’re vampires or angels, who haven’t talked in years and have survived horrors, who like setting things on fire and public nudity.
In addition to the patients, there’s the crazier staff especially orderly Brendon, who has a crush on the oblivious Doctor Ryan Ross. And then there is Patrick, Pete’s roommate and Mornington’s longest residing patient. Pete cannot help but be intrigued by Patrick, who has suffered a trauma that led to him having Dissociative Identity Disorder. So Pete and Patrick have to navigate Patrick’s alters and Pete’s depression and the general insanity of living at Mornington as they stumbled from friendship into best friendship into not love but very deep like for sure.


“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. Don’t worry your head just go to sleep.”–‘Lullabye’

Excerpt from The Journal Of Psychiatric Medicine article by Doctor G.R. Ross

The hardest and easiest thing to do in life is to let go. The simple act of just drifting away from it all…

It makes sense to run away, packing up everything or nothing, and disappearing into the night with only your inner demons for company. Then again it’s a fight because you know there are people you are leaving behind. However, maybe there isn’t anyone who’s getting left in the dust. All you are leaving is pain and suffering for something better. To leave the chaos behind and go on a journey for peace instead of fighting all the time.

Sometimes a chameleon gets stuck in one color because it’s too comfortable with its surroundings.

The hardest part about letting go is the fear and the doubt that gnaw on the inside. Almost like gripping onto a memory of someone you loved but lost until you ached with sorrow. Are you doing the right thing? Is it wrong that you’re moving on? That you can smile again until your face hurts? That the days seemed better and longer and more whimsical then they ever had been?

There are the easier moments to letting go as well. You can feel freedom, the shackles that held you down breaking and the joy of just being rushing through your blood, pounding in your heart. Feeling wild and free and wicked and beautiful because you can feel, you aren’t scared of the past holding you down again.

Is it wrong to be happy again as you allow the bad things to slip through your fingers?

I don’t think so.

But this isn’t about what I think is it? Pain and regret are parts of life as are the hard and easy parts of letting go, sharing the common experience, finding solace in another person, searching for joy, and allowing a balance to be formed between all the parts of you. Life is being shattered into a billion pieces and finding the courage to glue yourself together again.

Or maybe I’m full of shit. It’s entirely possible that I am.

Maybe I’m over thinking it.

It’s an odd thought, but as I’m writing this I keep thinking about bumblebees.

There’s a quote that says something about bee’s being aerodynamically impossible to fly but since no one told them that they couldn’t do it, they do anyways. Personally, I think that’s full of shit and a bit pretentious.

I think that someone told all those bumblebees they couldn’t fly. Instead of accepting it, they stared at whoever told them and kept on flying as a giant proverbial middle finger to the world. Saying that just because you’re scared of something…doesn’t mean that we are. We have the courage to be the bumblebees and keep on flying, even when the world tells us that we cannot.

Rock on, little bumblebees, rock on.

So this is a story about two people who weren’t comfortable with the world, with themselves, or with the limitations that people set before them. This is about how they, like those awesome bumblebees, stared at those people and did their own thing instead. It took guts, moxie, and just a touch of falling in love.

Even if we all are just shattered, aerodynamic improbabilities, it doesn’t mean that we should just bend down to the will of those around us. It gives inspiration to keep fighting. Some humans, especially our heroes, are stubborn fuckers.

So please, sit back and relax. Perhaps get some popcorn and beverage because this is one hell of a story. Personally I enjoyed it immensely when I first heard about it. If you are reading it, then you will as well.

And if, on some off chance, you don’t like it…

Well then those bumblebees are totally going to sting your sorry ass.

“I’m slipping my way out of this one. With anyone who would lie down.” –‘7 Minutes in Heaven (Atavan Halen)’

Mornington Sanitarium is a very nice hospital. Upscale, clean, well-kept lawn, excellent facilities, and a dedicated, supportive staff makes it one of the top mental hospitals in the country. Seriously, if you are legitimately crazy, this is the place where you want to go and be treated. Still it’s a very intimidating sight, even if you know that you need to go. All alone on the top of the grassy hill, it has the effect of Frankenstein’s house. If you happened to drive by on a cloudy day, a phrase that might pop into your head would be: “It was a dark and stormy night…”

 Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III stared at the almost Victorian-looking place as his parents slowly drove up the winding drive. He thought it was a pretty sweet place. It reminded him of the old, abandoned houses surrounded by dust and tarp-covered furniture that he would play in as a child. He remembered playing with the monsters and shadowed people until it was time to go home. He huddled tighter into his hoodie, trying to remove the sick, heavy feeling from his stomach.

Couldn’t he have just gone to therapy instead? Trying to kill yourself in the parking lot of a Best Buy didn’t exactly mean a one way trip to the loony bin, right?

Pete paused for a moment before sighing. Alright so maybe that wasn’t the best idea in the world.

He just went a little over the deep end. He didn’t have to be locked up in a fucking mental asylum. Sure he could be a little imbalanced and shit but wasn’t that how some of the best creative minds ever were like that? A little bit insane? Van Gogh cut off his fucking ear. Did he end up in the loony bin? …Okay that was a bad example.  Besides the guy died from a failed suicide attempt…so he’s probably not the best example.

Pete hardly did anything as messed up as cutting off his ear. Okay sure there was giving himself a tat at the age of fourteen and, more recently, the whole Best Buy thing. However, this was taking it a little far…right? He sighed and stared ahead blankly. He slumped down into his seat feeling the soft cotton of his hoodie brush against bare skin not covered by the tank top.

He couldn’t even feel the impassioned anger at the fact his parents were voluntarily locking him up. He couldn’t really feel nervousness at what was to come. He just felt the cold, grayness that has oppressed him for the past couple of months. He was just tired. And no one, not even his own body, would let him sleep.

“Pete? Sweetie, we’re here,” said his mom in her gentlest voice. She had been walking on eggshells since the time he went to Best Buy (as he had been calling it in his own head). Pete glanced up, meeting her stare uncaringly. She gave him a reassuring smile like it was the first day of kindergarten all over again and she was more nervous than Pete was. He nodded slowly before getting out the car. He stared at the sanitarium with a disconnected expression on his face. He should be feeling something. He knew that he should be feeling something, almost as certain as he is breathing…but emotions took work that he wasn’t willing to give.

He tried to dredge up something of an emotion, something that would hit him hard and sharp.

Pete stared at the hospital, the lack of emotion allowed him to acknowledge it. That yeah he did need to be here. He just wished that it wasn’t true at the same time.

His dad held his backpack and suitcase. His face was determined and hard and filled with worry for his eldest son. It looked like he aged ten years in the past week. It tugged at Pete’s heart a little bit seeing what he put his parents through. However, the emotions were lost in the gray fog that seemed to envelop his body. He took the backpack from his dad. He needed to look like he was being helpful or at least connecting with what was happening to him.

“We love you, Pete,” said his mom pressing a kiss to his temple as they walked in. Pete felt his lips quirk up into a decidedly fake smile. He got good at faking though so his mother nodded giving herself some comfort that this was the right decision. Pete couldn’t really deny her that. He wasn’t that cruel. It wasn’t her fault that she ended up with a screwed up kid who tried to off himself in the parking lot of a Best Buy.

Instead Pete focused on his surroundings, allowing himself to look around the place that would be his home for…however long he would be here. The walls were covered in floral patterned wallpaper. It didn’t smell sterile but like lilac and vanilla. It reminded him of his grandmother’s house right down to the strange knick-knacks that covered the shelves. He glanced around coolly, trying to find something that would make him hate it here. Whoever decorated this place was trying to make it look clinical but instead it felt homey for a nut house.

“Yes we’re here to admit our son,” Pete heard his dad say to the receptionist; “We called ahead for admittance. His name is Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the third.”

Pete glanced at the receptionist. He was young and Spanish-looking with big brown eyes and a thick mess of black hair. He was also wearing a neon green skinny tie that Pete would have complimented him on. Then he would promptly begin to flirt with him. However, that was before the fog settled over him. The fog settled over him and he stopped flirting with really cute guys…

He glanced at the name on the desk: Gabe Saporta with a smiley face sticker next to it.

Seriously…a smiley face sticker. What the freaking hell. Pete would have loved this guy had he been in his normal state of mind. He decided to call this guy Gabe J in his head like how he did with most people.

Gabe J smiled at Pete’s parents in an understanding way. He stood and shook their hands before speaking.

“We’ve been expecting Pete. Doctor Ross will be his floor doctor and his personal psychiatrist. We ask you not to be in contact for the first week in order for Pete to get acclimated to his environment. So you should say your goodbyes now. I promise that he’ll be in the best of care.”

Pete watched as his parents quickly filled out the paperwork. He stood there simply watching, never uttering a sound until his parents turned to him.

His mother hugged him. He was assaulted by her perfume, rose water and lavender filling his nose. Memories of childhood were flung to the forefront of his mind: cookie dough and finger painting, watching cheesy romance movies and the old black and white horror flicks when he was sick, and chicken soup and the feeling of love. He pressed a kiss to his mom’s forehead.

“I love you, Mom,” he whispered to her. His voice felt raw and disused, he wondered vaguely when the last time he used it was. From the looks on his parent’s faces, it hadn’t been for awhile.

He turned his gaze to his dad. Normally not an affectionate man, the elder Wentz pulled his eldest son into a hug.

“Get better, Pete. We only want you to get better.”

He nodded, slowly looking into his dad’s eyes. He wanted to be reassuring, to promise him that he would get better. Instead, he hugged his dad tightly, breathed in the scent of expensive cologne and cheap cigarettes, and said goodbye to his parents.

He watched them leave, standing in the middle of the reception area with his backpack, suitcase, and Gabe J. He jumped at the feeling of a hand on his arm. He turned, seeing Gabe J looking at him with a manic grin on his face.


He sounded way too happy for a guy who did reception in a hospital for certified crazies. He realized  that he had put on a neon, violet hoodie that read: ‘The Cobra Knows All’ on the back in pink. Pete stared and wondered what kind of place he had gotten into. Gabe J shot a grin oer his shoulder.

“C’mon I’m supposed to take you to the all knowing, Doctor Ross, now. You’ll like him. He’s a pretty awesome guy.”

Pete went to grab his bags. Gabe J stopped him with a wave of his hand.

“Don’t worry about your shit, man. I’ll take it to your room. First you meet the good doctor.”

Pete looked up and stared at him like trying to find his honesty before nodding. He followed the receptionist through the white halls. He could hear a couple people murmuring in the rooms they passed.  Gabe J stopped outside a door that was, presumably, his psychiatrist’s office. Gabe J opened the door and bellowed.

“Yo Ross! Your new patient’s here! Get your ass in gear before he starts throwing fecal matter around while dancing naked with his underwear on his head.”

The door opened and a young man came into view. He was tall with fey-like features, pale skin and dark brown eyes. He stared at Pete for several moments, assessing him just as Pete was doing. He didn’t look old enough to be a doctor; actually, he looked younger than Pete. He dressed more like a graduate student in Literature than a doctor of psychiatry in his floral-patterned shirt and fitted, maroon pants that looked like something his grandfather would wear.

“Come in,” said Doctor Ross in a smooth monotone. Gabe J had left them and Pete had no choice but to enter the doctor’s office.

It was painted the color of wet sand at the beach with dark oak furniture. Books climbed the walls of the shelves, an iPod dock was by the dark leather chair, and the room smelled of incense and clean linen. Pete stood awkwardly as he glanced around the room that looked like a study in an old house (which it probably once was).

“Please sit down, Mr. Wentz,” said the young doctor as he took a seat in an old, overstuffed red velvet chair. It was the kind of chair that the doctor could fold his long limbs in and still be comfortable.

“It’s Pete,” croaked out the dark haired man as he took a seat on the dark leather lounge that seemed to a fixture in all psychiatry offices. He hoped that he wasn’t going to have to do some Freudian B.S. like lay back and talk about his mother. Because if that was what the doctor expected him to do, then Pete was making a break for it. It worked in Cuckoo’s Nest then why couldn’t it work for him?

“Pete then,” said the doctor in his monotone with a crooked grin, “You can call me Ryan.”

Pete nodded as he sprawled out on the lounge. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and stared at Ryan who stared back at him. Several minutes passed with them just staring at each other and neither yielding. The doctor tilted his head and leaned forward.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“Because I tried to off myself in a parking lot of a major technology retailer with low, low prices?”

Ryan raised an eyebrow before nodding, “That’s pretty much it. Now I understand that you have bipolar disorder. How long has this depressed state been going on?”

Pete leaned back and tried to remember a time without the fog hazing his mind.

“Couple months maybe,” he shrugged, “The meds weren’t really helping.”

Ryan nodded for a moment, making notes on a legal pad with an old fountain pen. They sat in silence for several more minutes. This is the main reason that Pete hates meeting new doctors. The first session is always the most awkward. The doctor doesn’t know Pete well enough yet and Pete doesn’t trust this person that is supposed to magically make the world better.

The world doesn’t work like that.

“Got my stitches stitched, I got my fixes fixed, and in my aching head I got my kisses slit.” –The Music or the Misery

(Earlier that Same Day)

Patrick Stump woke up how he woke up every morning for the past four years: at seven thirty drenched in sweat and feeling terrified. At least he woke up on his own instead of being shaken by one of the nurses because he was screaming. After he caught his breath, he shuffled to the bathroom and promptly threw up in the toilet. Leaning his sweaty forehead against the cool, white porcelain, he cursed night terrors with all his being. They were worse than nightmares. While he would have to deal with the images he saw during nightmares, at least he knew why he was scared. Night terrors sucked because he still had a scared feeling without knowing the reason why he so scared in the first place.

He sat with his back against the bathroom wall taking a few calming breaths. He didn’t want to have another Black Out because he was all worked up. He sat with his chin on top of his knees trying to quell the feeling of intense fear that burned through his body. He needed to find that place of inner peace that he and Ryan worked to find their last session.

All he could think about was what a total load of shit that was. He ran a hand through his sweaty hair and grimaced. A shower would definitely help at this point. A good thing about being a long term resident like Patrick was that, since he didn’t look like he was going to kill himself with a shower curtain, he got his own bathroom.

Well, practically his own, he was supposed to have a roommate but his condition unsettled people.

It’s not that he blamed his past roommates for not sticking around long, his condition unsettled even himself most days.

Standing slowly, Patrick flushed the toilet and went to go grab clothing for the day.

Most days, he loved Mornington. It gave the illusion of him being normal. The rooms’ walls were painted a light blue, all the furniture came seconds hand (well-loved as his mom would say), and his guitar was propped up in the corner. He had posters of Prince and Billy Idol tacked up on the walls hung over his desk where there sat a mess of papers and hastily stacked books.

The picture perfect illusion of normalcy, his room looked more like how he imagined his dorm room would have looked if he went to college. He sighed and looked at the framed piece of paper on the wall, his G.E.D. That took a lot of convincing on every end to let him have a day-pass to test for it.

Patrick grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. He checked the clock. It was eight. He still had enough time to get ready before someone would knock on his door to tell him that it was time for breakfast and morning doses.

Not like his meds did anything to help the attacks.

He turned on the water until it was as hot as he could stand, quickly stripped and jumped in under the deliciously warm spray. He soaped up humming a tune under his breath that didn’t have words to it. His mind had always reminded him of a music conservatory, mainly a mass of song notes instead of actual words.

He stayed under the spray until it became lukewarm and turned it off. He puttered around doing things that normal people did in the morning. He dried off his hair, got changed, and grabbed a hat from his extensive collection to wear for the day while humming strands of songs that danced around in his head.

At nine o’clock, someone knocked on the door and opened it. A dark haired, brown-eyed orderly popped his head in. He pushed up the bright red frames of his glasses and pulled back his full lips to give Patrick a dazzling smile.

“How’s my favorite head case this morning?” said the young man in a singsong voice. His eyes were bright with mischief and good humor.

“Morning, Brendon,” greeted Patrick with a smile playing on his lips, “I’m alright thanks for asking.”

“Fantastic!” said Brendon Urie as he adjusted the white shirt of his uniform, “You know the deal, Patrick.”



“What’s on the menu today?”

“Oh the usual gruel and gristle. It’s totally Oliver Twist, dude. You can be all ‘please sir can I have some more’?” said Brendon finishing the last part in nasal British accent. Patrick snorted trying to suppress the grin attempting to overtake his face.

Since Mornington is such a small facility, only holding about sixteen people at maximum capacity, eight in the long-term ward and eight on the short-term, there was usually one orderly assigned to each pair of patients. Since Patrick didn’t have a roommate, he was stuck with Brendon. It was cool with Patrick because Brendon was a pretty awesome guy who was just as crazy about music as Patrick was. Even so, they contrasted a bitl; Patrick was reserved where Brendon was a bundle of nerves and energy. The orderly also had a huge crush on Patrick’s doctor, Ryan Ross.

“So Ryan and I got to work at the same time this morning,” said Brendon with a dopey smile on his face, “And he looks at me and gives me this half smile and says good morning!”

“Wow so I bet you two will be running off to Canada the first chance you get for a huge gay wedding.”

“Don’t be a douche, Patrick,” said Brendon crossing his arms and pouting. Patrick rolled his eyes, unfazed at this point, for he had long grown immune to the orderly’s pout and puppy eyes.

“I’m not being a douche. I’m telling you to man up and jump his bones.”

“I’ve tried flirting with him.”

“Brendon, I like Ryan. He’s my doctor and my friend. But, he’s a genius,” said Patrick with a shrug, “And while they’re book smart they’re pretty damn clueless about everything else. Even the obvious hints that you drop him won’t compute in the giant brain of his.”

Brendon paused, considering it for several moments

“Fuck. Well I’m screwed.”

“No you just have to be more direct.”

“That’s never fun.”

“Well that’s my advice.”

“You’re advice isn’t fun.”

“Tough tamales,” said Patrick as he stood in line to get his breakfast. He heard Brendon laugh behind him.

“I’m totally stealing that!”

“Knew you would.”

Breakfast passed in the usual way of quiet chaos for the long-term patients. William Beckett refused to eat the food because it wasn’t raw and bloody and then began to file his incisors. Butcher, his orderly, rolled his eyes and snatched the nail file from his hand. Beckett’s roommate Siska, who has a problem with public indecency laws, laughed his ass off at the pair of them.

The trio Alex (called that because they all have the same first name), were chatting eagerly about the new guy supposedly coming on the ward that day. Singer, the orderly, was just gesturing wildly with his hands and a huge grin on his face. Marshall, who was held in an abusive home, laughed weakly, his hands nervously fixing his sleeves that hid his scars. Johnson, who hasn’t spoken a word in two years, was nodding along and writing rapidly on the pad of paper he used to talk to everyone.

A trio of girls clamored together in one table, huddled over some gossip rag and happily talking. Vicky-T, the orderly, was leaning forward with a shit-eating grin on her face. Cassadee, a pyromaniac here to complete a sentence for a string of arsons, shrieked with laughter. Her burned hands covered her mouth as she tried to stifle her giggles. Greta, who had delusions that she was an angel, smiled indulgently at the pair.

All in all it was a normal breakfast in the ward. Patrick eagerly took the newest issues of Spin that Brendon had smuggled in for him and flipped through them. He alternated reading the magazine with talking to Jon, a nurse who has major connections to the music scene.

The morning passed by as a pleasant blur. The patients took their meds. Then, there was group therapy. However, it usually descended into them bitching about Beckett’s banging on the walls late at night, or how cold the ward was, or about how they should really be allowed to change the goddamn channels on the TV. If Patrick has to watch General Hospital one more time, he was going to gouge his eyes out with a plastic spoon.

Not like he was going to say that aloud; he didn’t want to be carted off to Ryan’s office before his appointment. It’s not his fault that he has very dark sense of humor. Patrick mainly tapped out the beat for the song in his head on his thigh. He watched with an amused expression on his face as Beckett argued with Travis, a nurse that was built like a bouncer, about him going outside and how it will cause irreversible damage due to his vampire nature.

Patrick wished that he had his guitar. Outside time was the quietest time on the series of rooms that made up the long-term ward because everyone usually ran around in the open air; he could pluck out the song in his head until he was content. Hell, he would even take the out-of-tune piano in the corner of the large common room at this point. Even though he only had the basics, he could still figure it out. It wasn’t like he was pressed for time.

“So guys,” said Travis, giving into Beckett’s pleas, “You all excited about the new guy?”

“What’re his stats?” asked Cassadee with a bored tone in her voice.

“Can’t tell you that, kid. You have to ask him yourself.”

“That’s no fun,” said the younger girl, crossing her arms and huffing.

“Tough,” said Travis with a wide grin.

“Looks like we’re going to be part of a trio,” said Brendon with smile.

“Depends on how long he can take them,” answered Patrick as he tapped out the beat.

“Oh don’t be like that Patrick. The thirteenth time should be a charm.”

“You said that since you became my orderly like six roommates ago.”

“Well don’t be depressed, Stumpers,” said Brendon with a shrug, “I have a good feeling about this guy.”

“What’s his problem?” asked Patrick curiously.

“You won’t tell anyone else?”

“Cross my heart and swear on my collection of Prince vinyls.”

Brendon glanced around before leaning and whispering softly, “Bi-polar.”

“Attempt?” asked Patrick curiously.

Brendon nodded, “We’re going to have to take down the door to your bathroom.”

“Lovely,” said the patient dryly. He pulled the cap down over his eyes. Not that he was so surprised; they usually stuck him with some of the suicide attempts. He had been here for so long that he knew the signs of one and how to stop it. A couple of the staff joked that it was amazing that he wasn’t on the payroll yet.

He was the youngest person in the ward, but also the longest resident. It was contradiction, but Patrick had made his peace with being a contradiction years ago.

“So what’s my new roommate’s name?”

“Peter,” said Brendon standing and cracking his back, “He’s got a long ass name as well. Now c’mon it’s time for you to have outside time.”

Patrick rolled his eyes but followed Brendon outside. He tried to ignore the nervous feeling in his gut as he thought about his new roommate.

The rest of the day was spent in nerves. He and Ryan talked about the medication that he was on before discussing the music of the sixties. It was a normal session because he didn’t have any nightmares for them to dissect and they knew that if they discussed his family that would trigger a Black Out. It was a lost cause though; Patrick could vaguely feel one coming on due to nerves of his new roommate.

He went into his room before the roommate was supposed to come. He saw a car pull up earlier and felt the nerves increase. He hated meeting new people, but he wanted to be the one to meet him. He shut his eyes tight and tried to find his center. He needed to meet this guy head-on.

He tried to keep control as he felt himself slipping away slowly. It was like sinking into a warm bath but Patrick didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to have a Black Out. He didn’t want to wake up hours later in a room with a guy that he has never met before. He dug his nails into the palms of his hand.

He had to keep control.

He had to keep control.

He had…


“Dance dance we’re falling apart to have time.” –‘Dance Dance’

Vaughn blinked open his eyes and smiled. Patrick was such a silly billy getting all worked up over this. He slowly got out of bed and wandered to the mirror. He tilted his head before deciding that these clothes were okay enough. He decided the hat needed to change. He swapped out the plaid cabbie hat for a trucker hat that said ‘I –heart- Bingo’.

He heard footsteps coming down the hallway. Doctor Ry’s voice floated into the room from the hallway, so familiar that it made him grin. He wondered about this new friend. He wondered if the new guy liked pudding or music! Patrick loved music so much that Vaughn loved it as well.

It made his host happy. And Vaughn loved keeping Patrick happy.

Part Two


hopenight: (Default)

September 2010

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