Patrick Stump One Shots (Complete)

27

A/N: Y/N's character is loosely based off of Nicky from Orange is the New Black. G/N is guy's name (a drug dealer).

Era: TTTYG❤️

Sorry for not updating ;-; I've been so unmotivated. I love you guys!

Title: (from the Folie a Duex song, 27). ("Just think about getting past 27. I've got a lot of friends that I want to make it there." -Pete Wentz.)

(27 is the age when Jimi Hendrix, Robert Johnson, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Pigpen from the Grateful Dead, Gram Parsons, Al Wilson from Canned Heat, Brian Jones from The Rolling Stones and Kurt Cobain all died.)

Warnings: mentions of drug use, suicide,

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"You know what mom?! I know it's not healthy! I. Have. A. Problem. And what do you do?! You just give me money! I have lost ALL self control." You paused and breathed out for a second. "I need help. I need you, mommy."

You began to cry. Your mother just pursed her lips and turned to walk out.

"Mom!" You cried out.

"No, (Y/N). You're not my problem anymore."

She quickly walked out the door, her business suit making ruffly noises as she left. You watched her get into her car from the window of (G/N)'s apartment.

(G/N) walked over to you and laughed. "She's at it again, no?" He paused and looked into your eyes. "What the fuck are you crying for, (L/N)? You know what will make you feel better? Another high."

"Fuck you, (G/N). I'm leaving."

While you walked home, you reflected on what this drug has done to your life.
Your mother < heroin
Your best friend, Patrick < heroin
Your brother, Pete < heroin
Your life < heroin

Pete was in some stupid band with Patrick. (G/N) was one of Pete's friends. Pete actually introduced you two.

It has literally ruined everything. You have an addiction, and not enough strength to do something about it. Your only "friend" is (G/N). He just deals for you because he knows you won't say no.

You didn't have a place to live. You didn't have anything but $300 and a backpack full of needles and stolen credit cards.

You walked to the homeless shelter and lit a cigarette outside. You could either
A. Sit out in the rain, hungry and broke, or B. Go in and be stripped of your drugs, but have some food and a place to stay for the night.

You, of course, chose drugs. You barely even existed anymore.

You decided to turn the corner to a dimly lit alley. There were a few blankets and trash scattered around. You took a seat under a piece of cardboard and opened your backpack.

You pulled out the small bag of heroin, a spoon, a lighter, a syringe, and the small piece of fabric to tie off your vein.

You looked down at what you were doing and began to cry. It was a vicious cycle.

Sad→Heroin→Sad→Heroin→Sad

You shakily dug through your backpack for your cheap TracFone. You only had a few minutes left on it.

You dialed Patrick.

"Hello?" His voice was a better high than you've ever had.

"Patrick. It's (Y/N). I know you hate me, but please just listen. I've only got three minutes."

"(Y/N)?! My God, you're alive? I thought you were dead, oh my- of course I don't hate you. Have you been crying? Where are you?"

"Patrick. I need you right now. My mom cut me off earlier and-"

"I am not buying you drugs." He sounded hurt.

"No, Patrick, not drugs. God, please, no more drugs. I need you to pick me up, please. I'm next to the homeless shelter."

"Of course, (Y/N). Please don't do anything stupid. I lo-"

And with that, your phone call ended.

You sat on the dirty ground and cried, the open wounds in your arms burning. Track lines laced your skin, red and infected. You couldn't believe yourself.

You threw up next to your makeshift cardboard shelter at the thought of what you were doing with your life.

You just wanted it all to end. You couldn't live with the fact that you had done this to the people around you. You pondered shooting up all the heroin and just dying right there.

You closed your eyes. You could already see yourself...
dead, clothes soaked from the rain. A little kid walks by and begins to cry at the sight of your lifeless body. You have ruined his childhood.

You just couldn't do that. To yourself, to Patrick. He was literally the only person who stuck around.

His car pulled up at the end of the small alleyway. He flipped up the good in his jacket and jogged over to you, zipping a hoodie around your tender arms and just holding you.

"(Y/N). Please stop this. It's killing me, and you. Please, please, I'll get you help. I promise. I love you so much, please just, stop hurting yourself." You felt his tears drop onto your head along with the rain. His arms were wrapped around your shoulders and he was holding you tight to his chest.

You cried as he picked you up and carried you to his car. He opened the back door with his foot and set you gently in the back seat.

The lighting was warm and the heat was on, soft music playing lightly through the stereo.

Your eyes began to slide closed as you watched him through the wet window, your vision fuzzy.

He took your backpack and disposed of your things, (cigarettes, spoon, lighter,). He carefully sorted out the things he'd let you keep and jogged back to the car.

He lied a warm blanket over you and hummed softly along with the radio, driving you to his house as you drifted asleep, finally safe from yourself.

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Part two?