the summer of like {petekey}

9

n i n e
counting sheep
and
losing sleep

With the absence of his meds, his behavior has grown erratic. And so have his sleep patterns. The last time he slept longer than an hour (that is, the last time he took meds, or sleeping pills) was about three weeks ago.

Pete isn't quite sure whether he's hallucinating or not when they step out of the tour bus and a mass crowd of people swarms them. Pete's eyes widen and he looks around. "What a crowd."

Patrick glances at him sidelong. "There's... no one here, Pete."

"I know. I was making a joke," Pete snaps back, but he's afraid. The people, the hallucination is still there. They grab at his shirt and yell things in his ear. Visibly shaken, he staggers to Patrick and grabs his elbow to steady himself.

"Are you alright?" Patrick asks, worried. "Pete?"

"Fine," Pete utters. "Bit hungover. Can we get coffee?"

Patrick regards him curiously but agrees. "Coffee would be good. Andy said there's a Starbucks just down the road." He steadies Pete as the boy stumbles. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Just dandy," Pete mutters, shrugging free of Patrick's touch. "Do you have money?" Patrick holds up a ten dollar bill in response. "Okay. Race you?"

-

He lies sprawled out on the bus's couch, exhausted but unable to sleep. There's a empty coffee cup on the table and two inviting sleeping pills in his pocket that are calling his name. He curls his fingers around them, sighing heavily.

"You good?" Mikey asks, coming in right as he sighs. It's become routine now for Mikey to come on the bus whenever he feels like it.

"Peachy," Pete says, sitting up. He grins at Mikey, but falters.

"You look awful," Mikey tells him, sitting down beside him. "Pete?"

He does, really, he looks absolutely fucking terrible and it's gotten ridiculously noticeable. Heavy bags and under eye circles droop under his eyes, stubble flecking his chin, bloodshot eyes, messy hair, and a sluggish way of moving. "I'm fine," he insists, putting his hand on top of Mikey's from where it rests on Pete's skinny, jean-clad thigh.

"You're lying to my face." Mikey looks pissed off. "Pete, when's the last time you slept?"

"I slept an hour last night," Pete shrugs, "And every night before that. These last two or three weeks." The look on Mikey's face grows increasingly shocked.

"Baby," he whispers. "You need to sleep."

"I can't," Pete snaps, "I can't fucking sleep. Not without sleeping pills."

"So take some," Mikey suggests quietly.

"I refuse. I need to learn how to function without my meds. Or any sort of pill for that matter."

Mikey pauses. His hand slowly leaves Pete's leg and his eyes begin to widen. "You haven't taken your meds." It's not a question, it's a statement, and it's filled with so much horror that Pete wants to throw up. "Pete, I hope you know how much of an absolute fucking idiot you are. You are on a tour. You have an obligation- to me, to your fans, to the other members of your band- to fucking stay sane and maybe not try to fucking die? Have you considered that? How fucking selfish you are- God, I can't handle this. Pete, take your fucking meds. Right now."