zeegoeshere

Continued from Part Three

*

Days pass and then weeks, and it gets worse with each day, not better. He’s had so many fights with Pete over the years, before and after they were more than friends, and they’ve gone without speaking to each other for days at a time. But those fights end; they’ve always ended. Every second that passes now with Pete unforgiving, the finality of the situation grows. Patrick can feel the grief and regret settle into his skin permanently, a wound that’s growing infected and deformed instead of scarring over.

Eventually, Patrick starts thinking that maybe Pete was wrong to think that the worst he could do would be to break up the band. Seeing Pete every day, having to go about every day activities while ignoring this gaping hole that is the lack of Pete’s friendship, having to face the reality that it’s over all the fucking time—it’s worse, it’s fucking worse, and Patrick’s becoming increasingly convinced that he’s cut the most important part of himself out.

He’s spending his rock star money on living in a hotel room. He can’t bring himself to look for apartments, doesn’t want to think about more months in this godforsaken city. In his hotel room he can go to sleep and pretend it won’t be sweltering hot when he wakes up, pretend that he might open his eyes to find he’s in Chicago in winter, with Pete still by his side.

He’s almost always thinking about Bob in the back of his mind. He thinks about the way Bob didn’t look at him when Patrick moved his stuff out; he thinks about the tone of Bob’s voice right before Pete found them out, the way Bob had been so sure that he didn’t care what Frank thought. Part of Patrick keeps waiting for Bob to call, or send an email, or just show up outside his door. Pete’s absence is a pain so deep that Patrick has to be numb to survive it, but Bob’s absence stings sharp every time Patrick remembers it, something new that’s been rashly thrown away when it could’ve been amazing.

Patrick’s never been afraid of being alone before, but it’s different now. He doesn’t want to be in his own head, doesn’t want to live with himself, doesn’t want to try and get through this by himself. He stays late at the studio, because when he’s alone there at least he has his music, but one night as he’s wrapping up he starts scrolling through his contacts until he pauses at Bob’s number.

He’s not even a decent enough person to deny himself what he wants in order to get Pete back. It’s giving up for good, he knows it is, but everything he’s done so far is unforgivable, and this—with this he can at least try to make amends for hurting Bob.

i miss you. still want to see you. He sends the message and sticks his phone in his pocket and drives back to the hotel, and it doesn’t vibrate against his leg until hours later, when he’s in his room alone.

come over?

It feels strange to knock on Bob's door instead of letting himself in. Bob opens it fast enough that Patrick knows he's been waiting by the door, and Patrick takes one step inside before Bob is cupping his face in both hands and kissing him.

Patrick shuts the door behind him and kisses back. Bob keeps pulling off and then kissing him again, brief needy points of contact and sharp desperate noises. Patrick is relieved that he doesn't have to pretend he came over for any other reason. Bob wants this, Patrick wants this, and right now Patrick wants to ignore any other factors.

Bob is grabbing at Patrick's shirt and petting over his back, but he doesn't seem to be trying to get his clothes off, and Patrick isn't really putting any effort into that, either. He's seriously fucking missed Bob, he's missed kissing him and touching him and just looking at him and being around him, and--and this is right, even though it's wrong. Even though he still feels like a horrible person, this is right, him and Bob.

Bob is panting when they stop making out, and he rests his forehead against Patrick's. All the lights are off, Patrick notices for the first time, and he can't make out Bob's face at all.

"You and Pete," Bob says eventually. "Are you still..."

"No," Patrick says. "We're very over." The words feel slimy coming out of his mouth.

"I'm glad," Bob says, voice low. "Sorry, but I'm glad."

Patrick can't say the same, not at all, but at the same time he wants to tell Bob that he has nothing to be sorry for. He wants to keep kissing Bob until sorrow is the furthest thing from Bob's mind.

"Your room?" Patrick says.

Bob takes Patrick's hand and leads him back, and when Patrick glances in at his old space he sees that Bob hasn't even put away the futon. Patrick holds Bob's hand tighter, and when they sit down on the bed Patrick tugs him until they're both lying down.

Bob's movements are less immediate now, and Patrick just plants slow kisses on his neck before resting his head in the crook of Bob's shoulder. He can feel and hear Bob breathing. Bob's arm comes up to wrap around him.

"I want to do this for real," Patrick says, half into Bob's shoulder. "Do it right this time."

Bob doesn't say anything for a while, just strokes his thumb lightly up and down Patrick's arm. Then, "Are you asking me out?"

Patrick snorts. "Yeah, uh. Pretty much?" He pushes himself up onto his elbow and looks Bob in the eye. "I'm serious, if that's what you mean."

Bob looks back. "I've always been serious about this."

Patrick swallows hard. "I--I should have realized. Fuck. I'm sorry I've fucked up everything so--"

Bob sits up and kisses him hard, his tongue in Patrick's mouth and his lip ring bruising. Patrick clings and sucks on Bob's tongue and gets into his lap, and he doesn't want to talk anymore, he doesn't want to fuck, he just wants to spend the night here and be close like this. Just like this.

***

They fall asleep together, and shower together the next morning, and then Bob makes scrambled eggs. Patrick sits backwards, straddling the back of the chair, and watches him. Bob has a smile tugging at the corner of his lips and he keeps glancing over at Patrick. Patrick smiles back. He's paying attention to this, to the sense of calm and the quiet excitement in the air. It's new and it's--it's making him happy.

He doesn't deserve it, but it's here all the same. Patrick stands and comes over behind Bob, wrapping his arms around his waist, and Bob snorts softly.

"Thank you," Patrick says.

Bob cranes his neck to look Patrick in the eye. "For what?"

Patrick shrugs and presses his palm against Bob's hip, the bare skin where Bob's sweatpants have slipped down. "You haven't really seen the best parts of me. Thanks for just..." His face is so red, he's sure of it, and he doesn't even really know what he's trying to say, but he knows he's grateful, even despite all of it.

Bob takes Patrick's hand off his hip and turns around so that they're facing each other. "I wasn't exactly a prince myself," he says. As always, he's hard to read; he's not smiling, but he doesn't look upset.

"I know, but I." Patrick trails off, trying to think of how to articulate what he means. He needs Bob to get it.

"I feel horrible about what happened with Pete and I regret doing it the way I did, but I don't regret you," he decides on.

Bob turns around to poke at the scrambled eggs, keeps them from sticking to the bottom of the pan before looking at Patrick again. "I wanted this since the first day you moved in," he says, the tone of his voice carefully flat. "I was pretty much always going to go after you, regardless of who else you were with. So, hey, it's directly my fault that your relationship with your best friend is so fucked, and I would probably do it again, because I wanted you that much."

He turns the burner off and moves away from the stove; Patrick guesses that the eggs are done. Bob looks a little angry now, his eyes glittering and tension in his shoulders, but Patrick isn't sure who he's angry at.

"If you're asking for my forgiveness or something, you never needed it in the first place," Patrick says. "I hate that I wasn't honest with you, but it was never just sex for me, it was never--"

"I'm in love with you." Bob says the words quickly, almost mutters them, and then flushes. He's staring at Patrick almost defiantly, like he's expecting a fight. The words hang between them solidly, and all Patrick can think of to do is warn Bob away, tell him to get the fuck away right now, because he's the worst person to fall in love with.

"Is it... okay if I can't answer that right away?" Patrick says instead. Bob's mouth twists, and Patrick reaches out quickly to touch his wrist. "It's not that I don't, it's just--um. Everything's a mess right now. I don't know how I feel about anyone."

Bob makes a noncommittal noise, and Patrick tugs on his wrist, stepping into his personal space. "Can you accept that? For now?"

"Yeah," Bob breathes out, and when he looks down at Patrick, Patrick feels like--he feels like he does when he's singing, like he's someone beyond his regular old self.

"I know that I want you," Patrick says, his hand sliding up Bob's arm. "I know that I want us. This."

Bob ducks his head and Patrick pushes up on his toes and they kiss, and Patrick thinks wow, fuck, this guy is in love with him. He doesn't know why and he knows he hasn't done shit to deserve it, but he believes Bob when he says it; believes that he has it. It's the most unexpected gift he's ever received, and Patrick can't think of anything he's ever been more grateful for.

***

“Where are you living these days?” Bob asks him that Friday night when they’re both lying on the couch and the credits for the movie they’d caught on cable are beginning to roll. Patrick is sprawled in Bob’s lap, almost on top of him, his head resting on Bob’s shoulder and Bob’s arm around him.

“Mm.” Patrick lets his head loll so that he’s looking up at the ceiling, not at the TV. “The Marriott.”

“Wait. Seriously?” Bob’s hold on him tightens just slightly, and Patrick can feel Bob shifting around a little behind him. “You’ve been holed up in a hotel since you moved out?”

“Well, yeah.” Patrick squirms to sit up enough that he can turn and look at Bob. “I kept meaning to get my own place, but, um. The idea of getting another apartment was really depressing.”

“So come back.” Bob’s hand moves to cup the back of Patrick’s neck, his thumb brushing at the skin and short hairs there. “You won’t have to sleep on the futon this time.”

“That probably wouldn’t be a good idea,” Patrick says. God, he wants to. “I was only barely able to convince Pete not to leave the band. If I just move back in with you, I don’t know what he’ll do.”

Bob presses his lips together. “You’re dating me either way,” he says. “I think he’s going to be pretty pissed off, even if you stay in your hotel.”

Which, yes, point—at this stage, there’s not really much Patrick can do to make Pete feel *worse* about him. “True. I guess this already looks pretty bad, doesn’t it?”

“Heh. Yeah.” Bob’s eyes dart to the side and his expression changes just slightly, just barely this side of hurt, and Patrick leans in, kisses him.

“I don’t care,” he says. “I don’t care how it looks. I’ll move my stuff back tomorrow.” It’s slightly a lie; of course he cares how this looks to Pete, how it’ll make Pete feel. He just doesn’t care enough to hurt Bob.

“Yeah?” Bob’s other hand is on Patrick’s side now, pushing up under Patrick’s shirt. “You really want to?”

“Of course I do.” Patrick moves onto his stomach and straddles Bob. Bob has Patrick’s shirt pushed up into his armpits, and Patrick strips it off. “As lovely as The Marriott is, man, you kind of have it beat.” He leans down to nip at Bob’s lip, emphasizing the point.

Bob pinches Patrick’s nipple and pushes his hips up. “I won’t be able to provide room service.”

“I’ll manage without. It’ll be hard, but.” Patrick grinds down and kisses Bob’s jaw, ear, neck. He hides his grin against Bob’s collarbone. He feels giddy, he feels good about this, even if there’s still sorrow and guilt twisted up alongside the optimism.

It’s scary, too, plenty scary—not the terror he felt when he and Pete first got together, the crazed fear that would keep Patrick awake at night, wondering if he was going to lose his best friend if this didn’t work out. (And the fear was justified, sure, but not in the way Patrick expected then; when they started the mess, Patrick would never have guessed that *he* would be the one to ruin everything.)

But this thing with Bob is new, and it might work or it might not, and the not knowing for sure is always the scary part. Patrick feels most comfortable investing in good bets.

But as Bob pushes him off the couch and takes Patrick’s hand, pulling him into the bedroom with his breaths harsh and his hard-on obvious through his pants, Patrick doesn’t really give a shit about the fear.

Lately, Pete’s fury at Patrick seems to have settled a bit. It hasn’t lessened, definitely not, but Pete mostly lashes out at him through lyrics in emails now—in the studio, face-to-face with Patrick, he’s just frigid. It’s still painful to bear, but in a different way, and Patrick is certain that he’s going to explode the calm once again when he talks to Pete about Bob.

When Patrick asks Pete if he can talk to him alone, Pete flat-out refuses. Patrick has to lie to get Joe and Andy out of the room, and he grabs Pete’s elbow when Pete tries to leave after them.

“I’ve moved back in with Bob,” Patrick says, because there’s no point in trying to sugar-coat it. “We’ve started dating.”

“Wow,” Pete says. “How do you sleep at night? How do you *live* with yourself? Like, seriously.”

“I’m not telling you to hurt you. I just didn’t want to be dishonest again,” Patrick says, cringing. He knew this conversation was going to make him feel like the scum of the earth, it’s not a surprise, but still.

“Oh, then good for you. Major karma points for honesty,” Pete says, his voice weighed down with so much sarcasm Patrick’s surprised he can even form words.

“I know, okay? And I’m fucking sorry, but I—I’m not asking for your approval. I just didn’t want you to find out some other way.” Patrick lets go of Pete’s arm and Pete steps immediately back, rubbing at his elbow like Patrick had bruised it.

Pete is quiet for a moment, his head bowed so that all Patrick can see are his bangs covering his face. Then, “I guess you weren’t cheating on me for the hell of it, then. You really did just find someone else.”

Patrick swallows. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Oh, what-the-fuck-ever,” Pete says. “You have my blessing. I hope you both get hit by a bus tomorrow.” He gives Patrick one last look of pure disgust and leaves the room.

Patrick relays the conversation to Bob that night. They’re both in bed, ready to sleep, and Bob’s finger draws idle patterns on Patrick’s stomach as Patrick talks.

“I’m sorry he’s still being cruel to you,” Bob says when Patrick finishes.

Patrick shrugs. “He’s Pete. And he’s only acting this way because I hurt him so badly.”

“Still.” Bob is frowning a little, on Patrick’s behalf. Patrick reaches out to touch the corner of Bob’s mouth, where the bruise from Pete’s fist has just recently faded, and thinks about loyalties, when they shift and when they don’t.

“Thanks. You’re sweet,” Patrick says, and grins when Bob turns his face to kiss Patrick’s palm.

Things in the studio reach a sort of equilibrium. Patrick focuses on the music, Pete focuses on every opportunity to be hostile, Joe and Andy maintain a careful politeness towards Patrick that still betrays that they’ve chosen a side, and it’s not his. It’s a shitty dynamic for a band and for four friends, but Patrick finds that it’s hard for him to get upset about it every single day. It’s not that he doesn’t care, but he has Bob now, and he’s letting himself be distracted.

Neither of them really have a lot of time to do anything but fall into bed together at the end of the day, but it’s good. It’s good to learn Bob in this whole new way, to wake up with their bodies touching, to have video game sessions end with making out. It’s not something they had when they were fucking while Patrick was still with Pete—everything was too tense, the atmosphere of the apartment too thick with guilt and confusion for them to be happy this way. And the thing with Pete had begun with them falling together in buses and hotels, fitting a relationship into touring. This kind of learning is new for Patrick, and he’s trying to enjoy it.

There’s still a massive hole in his life where Pete used to be, and that's not getting any better, but he can get through the days like this, with Bob and without Pete. He thinks about the years expanding until he’s known Pete as not his friend longer than he’s known Pete as his friend, and maybe they’ll both just get used to it. Maybe Patrick will find another best friend, someone else to be his other half.

The thought makes Patrick feel like a hollowed-out shell. He can’t picture it.

Patrick gets the phone call at three am, the loud ringing waking up both him and Bob, and he's really tempted to just let it ring but he still answers. "'lo?"

"Patrick," says Pete, and Patrick is suddenly wide awake. "Patrick Patrick I need you to come over, I need--please, please come over."

Patrick stares up at the ceiling and the shadows cast by the window shades. His brain can't even process that Pete is calling him, let alone asking this, and the only thing he can think of to say is, "What, like--now?"

"Yes!" Pete says, his voice explosive and crackly on the other end. "Yes, fuck, I'm not okay, I'm--I just fucking need to talk to someone. Someone here."

"Have you taken anything?" Every time Patrick starts thinking of spring 2005 as a long time ago, every time he thinks the memory's faded, something happens and it's like he's still hearing the news on the plane to Europe, like the whole ordeal is still present and sharp.

"Not yet," Pete says, and Patrick throws off the sheets and stands up out of bed, looking for his pants. "Just, god, get over here, can't you? Just fucking leave your boyfriend for one fucking night."

"I am, I'm on my way, okay?" Patrick is pulling his jeans up and he can hear Bob behind him, sitting up in bed. "I'll be there soon." Pete disconnects the call before Patrick can, and Patrick can feel his pulse going overtime as he shoves his phone in his pocket.

Patrick glances over his shoulder at Bob, who is yawning wide and looks mostly still asleep. "Sorry for waking you. I've gotta go for a bit, okay?"

Bob stares for a few moments, then nods and slumps back in bed. Patrick throws on a t-shirt and grabs his keys, and it's not until he's speeding in his car that it occurs to him to wonder why the fuck Pete is calling him at a time like this. Patrick has got to be the last person in the world that Pete wants to be vulnerable in front of right now.

Maybe it's some kind of trick to hurt him, or maybe at this point it's just automatic for Pete to want Patrick when he's hysterical. Maybe this isn't something Patrick should encourage. Maybe he shouldn't have said yes so quickly.

He gets to Pete's place and Pete opens the door when Patrick is still on the steps. Pete's hair is soaking wet and he's got a towel wrapped around his waist, and for a second Patrick wildly imagines that this is some crazy seduction scheme, but Pete is walking away from him into the living room. He sits down on the sofa chair and fuck, he's seriously shaking, and there is no way that Patrick should be the only one here to handle this; no way that he's all Pete needs.

"Did something happen?" Patrick says. When Patrick sits down next to him, Pete doesn’t move away. It’s a victory, but Patrick doesn’t push his luck by reaching out any further and trying to hug him.

"Aside from the obvious? Yeah, no. Nothing new." Pete's voice is strained and thin, like he's having a hard time pushing the words through his lips. He puts his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, and Patrick wants to put a hand on his shoulder so badly, but he stays still and waits for Pete to explain.

“Maybe you were right,” Pete says into his hands. He lifts his head and turns away from Patrick. “Maybe I can’t cope without you.”

Patrick balls his hands into fists at his sides. “I don’t want to try and cope without you,” he says. “You’re my best friend in the world, okay? And I don’t care how much you hate me, on my end it’s never going to change. I can’t stand being separate, I can’t take--"

“Yeah fucking right!” Pete goes from 0 to 60 in a second, quiet and curled in on himself one moment and standing, yelling the next. “You’ve already moved on, you’ll get by, you’re doing just fucking fine! You’re always fine, you’re not like me, you’re not this fucking weak!” He breaks off and punches the wall, his hand breaking the plaster, and Patrick jumps to his feet.

“Jesus, Pete.” Pete’s knuckles are bloody and there’s dust all over his hand. Patrick is at his side, gently taking his hand to look for damage, but Pete shoves him away. He spins wildly and then he’s grabbing a lamp from the coffee table and throwing it across the room. It hits the opposite wall, glass shattering everywhere. Pete starts towards his X-box but Patrick grabs him again, wrapping his arms around Pete’s torso and holding him back. Pete stamps on Patrick’s foot and Patrick yelps, and when Pete struggles, Patrick loses his balance and they both end up on the floor.

Pete gains the upper hand, rolling on top of Patrick. Patrick expects to get hit, but Pete just rolls off again, crawling a few feet away and slumping against the couch. He stares at Patrick, panting, and Patrick stares back.

“Don’t start this shit,” Patrick says eventually. “I’m not worth this.”

“Yes you are,” Pete says, and he doesn’t sound impassioned anymore—just tired. “You’re everything.”

Patrick opens and shuts his mouth. He’s unprepared, as always, for the way Pete can simply spill all of himself like that.

“I’m not doing as well as you think,” he says eventually. “Just because we’re not together anymore doesn’t mean I don’t need you.”

Pete sneers, but he doesn’t deliver a nasty reply. He thunks his head back against the couch twice, and he doesn’t move when Patrick scoots and sits next to him, their shoulders touching.

“I know I seriously fucked up,” he says. “But I’m still *here.* I’m always going to be available for you to call up in the middle of the night.”

Pete pulls his legs up to his chest and rests his cheek on his knee. “Okay,” he mumbles, and Patrick knows it’s not forgiveness so much as acknowledgement that some things can only change so much.

Patrick doesn’t know what else to say, and he’s not going to push it. Eventually Pete looks up and says, “I hate this. I hate that it’s more than a year later, but I feel the same way, and I’m still on the same fucking pills."

“You don’t feel that way all the time,” Patrick points out. “And the meds are good for you, they’ve helped you.”

“Bull,” Pete says. “The only difference is now I’m a fucked-up chemical addict, and then I was just a fucked-up crazy person.”

Patrick almost reaches out to touch Pete’s knee before he catches himself. “That isn’t true,” he says. “You’ve gotten so much healthier in the past year. I’ve been paying attention.”

Pete looks at him. "Yeah, because I was dating you. I'm fucking alone now." He doesn't sneer or glare, which makes it even worse, and Patrick swallows around the lump in his throat.

Apologizing again won't really do jack, though. "Give yourself more credit," he says. "You were doing amazing things with Decaydance before we got together. You successfully fronted a band that headlined Warped, you were the one making the decisions when Sugar went crazy the way it did."

"I was with Jeanae," Pete says. "Then Mikey."

"And soon you'll probably find someone else," Patrick says, and wow: the way that thought fills him with terror catches him with surprise. Because no, no, no. But Pete needs him to keep talking, so: "And you'll be okay until then, and you'll be okay after. You've been okay."

Pete's expression doesn't change. He looks away from Patrick after a few beats, and jiggles his knees a bit.

"Okay," he says. "I'm good now, so leave."

"What?" Eight years of knowing Pete, and he still gets caught off-guard all the fucking time.

"I feel okay now. I don't need you to be here." Pete's voice is clipped as he stands, and Patrick scrambles to his feet, too.

"Are--are you sure?" Patrick says. "You really feel good about things now?"

"I said I was okay," Pete snaps. "So get the fuck out."

"I can stay if--"

"Are you not fucking hearing me? I told you to get out." Pete's glaring now, backing away, and Patrick feels like the wind has been knocked out of him.

"All right, jesus," Patrick says, moving towards the door. "I just, Pete--"

"I will fucking call security on your ass," Pete growls, and Patrick throws his hands up in the air and leaves.

Patrick doesn’t get back to the apartment until it’s nearly light outside. He’s not tired at all; he feels keyed up, like all of the emotions from the fight with Pete have acted as adrenaline in his system. He tries to let himself in quietly, but Bob is already up, sitting on the couch when Patrick closes the door behind him. Patrick walks over to him, resting his hand on Bob's shoulder and stroking his thumb up Bob's neck. "Hey."

“What was that all about?” Bob says, looking up at him.

"Pete." Patrick hesitates. There's not really a way to say this without it coming across weird. "He.... he was having a bad night, he asked me to come over."

Bob's gaze shifts away. "Ah. What did he want?"

Patrick closes his eyes and sees the hole in the wall that Pete’s fist made. He doesn’t know what Pete wanted, or what he wants now. “He was—he needed to talk to me, that’s all.”

“Did you guys make up?” Bob is still staring away from Patrick. Little warning bells go off in Patrick's head, but he's too exhausted and distracted by Pete, still, to pay them any attention.

“I don’t know. It’s complicated.” Except for the ways in which it isn’t: Patrick would be over there again in a heartbeat if Pete wanted him back, and that’s the simplest thing in the world.

Bob doesn't say anything else, and Patrick squeezes his shoulder. "Come on. Can we go back to bed? I need sleep."

Bob starts a little and looks back up at him, almost like he'd forgotten Patrick was there. He stands, and Patrick's hand drops from his shoulder. The expression on his face is way too serious, and those warning bells are going crazy, and Patrick opens his mouth to say something, anything, to cut off whatever might be coming, but Bob is already speaking.

"I'm leaving at the end of the week," Bob says. "The band is leaving for album promo and then touring."

"Shit," Patrick says, swallowing. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"I meant to. But I wasn't sure if... " Bob ducks his head and is quiet for a few moments. Patrick can hear both of their breathing, heavy in the middle of the night, and he doesn't want Bob to speak again and finish this thought. He wants to go back to bed with him; he wants to continue the way they were.

"I don't think we should keep in touch," Bob says finally, his voice tight, and Patrick feels like someone poured a bucket of ice over his head.

"What?" he manages. "You--you want this to just be over. What?"

"It's not working," Bob says. "You and me, we're not--" he takes a deep shuddering breath and when Patrick moves in closer, Bob steps back.

"But--" Patrick starts, but Bob keeps going.

"I think you care about me," he says, his voice stilted but sure, more decisive with each word. "I mean--fuck, I know you do. But he calls you at three in the morning, and you--"

"You don't think I slept with him, do you?" Patrick says, and he wants to argue this, wants to give Bob a hundred and one reasons why he's dead wrong. "He was just having a bad night, we *talked.* He needed me, I couldn't--you can't ask me to not be there for him!"

"I'm not! I don't--I don't think you're wrong, or cruel, or--" Bob breaks off and laughs, scrubs a hand over his beard and rubs at his neck. "But I can tell when I've been beat, okay? I can tell that you and he are..."

"Are over," Patrick says. "That's what matters, isn't it?"

Bob laughs again; not a nice sound, not a happy one. "Fuck, do you even have any idea what you look like to other people? Do you even--" he stops, shaking his head, and looks up at the ceiling. "You know how I feel about you. I thought it would be enough, if I had you a little bit, I thought I could just. Deal."

"Bob--"

"And it turns out that I can't," Bob says in a rush, crossing his arms over his chest and rocking back on his heels. "I can't just be second, I can't just be less to you than you are to me."

Bob looks back at him, meeting his eyes. Patrick wants to deliver a million retorts and objections, he wants to show Bob that he’s wrong, but all he can do is stare. He feels weirdly out of his own body, like he’s just an impartial observer watching this happen to someone else. Bob is only a few feet away from him, but the distance seems longer, seems unbridgeable.

“I know I’m kind of fucked up right now,” Patrick tries. “With Pete, I—I mean, we were together for so long, and I know it must seem—it’s been hard.” Patrick has no idea what to say, no clue how the hell he can explain him and Pete.

“It’s okay. I mean, I get it, and I don’t, uh. Blame you.” Patrick has never seen Bob look so closed-off, or at least not with Patrick. Bob’s been open to him since the beginning, and now his body is tense and his voice is bleak.

“Blame me! Blame me, I’m a shitty boyfriend, I’m having trouble getting over my ex, whatever, but we can keep trying.” But Bob is already shaking his head. He gives Patrick a tight, sad smile, and Patrick feels suddenly tired of this. He shuts his mouth and doesn’t protest anymore, just stares as Bob moves to grab his keys and his sunglasses from the coffee table. A part of his brain registers that Bob is fully dressed, has been since Patrick got here, and why didn't Patrick notice that? Why didn't Patrick realize that Bob clearly wasn't still in his pajamas, waiting for Patrick to come back to bed, that Bob was already ready to leave.

“I wish things were different,” Bob says. “I wanted—“ He doesn’t finish the sentence, just looking at Patrick instead, an inscrutable look on his face. Patrick stares back, and he has a funny image of them just staying like this, standing in Bob’s living room forever, paralyzed by this whole situation.

“Yeah,” Patrick says, and “I’m sorry” because he doesn’t know what else to say. This is a different kind of adjustment to his reality than losing Pete was; this feels like a reinforcement of his seemingly endless ability to hurt people, or the anticlimactic end to a particularly bitter chapter of his life. It’s not his foundation crashing to the ground, and even already he knows it’s not something he won’t be able to get over. Maybe that’s why Patrick mostly just feels numb and accepting, why he just steps to the side to let Bob go by.

“I’ll move my stuff out tonight,” Patrick hears himself say. “And good luck with the album and everything.”

Bob pauses in unlocking the deadbolt, looking back at Patrick over his shoulder. “You too,” he says, his voice still tight with emotion, and Patrick thinks suddenly that this might be the last time he ever sees Bob, at least for the foreseeable future. That idea jerks him out of his numb tired fog, and he steps forward and grabs Bob’s sleeve.

“I love you, okay, whether or not you believe it.” Patrick isn't sure whether this is the first time he's said it, and he's not even sure if it's entirely true, just that he wants it to be.

“Maybe,” Bob says, turning around completely to face Patrick and leaving the keys in the door. There’s a bite in his voice—for the first time tonight, he actually looks a little pissed off. “I don't believe it, but maybe--whatever, okay, I don’t know, but I can’t. I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do you think I’ve just been using you?” Patrick says. “Or taking you for granted, or--? I never meant to, I’ve always. Bob, please.” He wants to kiss Bob, he wants to make some big decisive motion, even if it wouldn’t prove anything.

But Bob is already pulling away. “Yeah, that’s what I think,” he says flatly. “And I know you didn’t mean to. That kind of makes it worse.” He meets Patrick's eyes for a beat, two, and then puts his shades on.

"Okay," Patrick says, his hands dropping to his sides. "Have a nice life, then." He can't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice, because this is something that was good, it was great, and now it's over. Patrick's already thinking of it in the past tense.

Bob snorts at him. "You too," he says, in the dry-detached-amused tone of voice Patrick got used to when he first moved in, the voice that Bob doesn't use much if he's actually letting you in.

Bob opens the door and leaves, and Patrick doesn't ask where he's going. He goes into Bob's room and starts grabbing his boxes, still around from when he moved back in. Packing is automatic for him at this point, a process made smooth and efficient from years of touring, not to mention how much he's moved around since he got to L.A. He gets his shit out of the apartment and back to the old hotel on automatic, and he realizes as soon as he sits down on his new bed that what he really wants to do right now is call Pete.

Which, of course he does. It's so stupidly, simply obvious that Patrick drops his head in his hands and laughs. He can't call Pete and he can't call Bob and he doesn't know what he's going to do now. He feels like he's hit all dead-ends, like he needs to start over completely, needs to try to be someone new.

The thought feels like a paraphrased line from something Pete's probably written or could write. Patrick laughs again, because he isn't blind to the ways his own mind keeps circling back around. Pete is it, he's just it, and Patrick doesn't know if that makes Bob right or not. He wants to think not, he wants to hold on to the idea that Bob is being horrifically unfair, but at this point he can't lie to himself anymore.

He goes back to the hotel, and soon enough life without Bob becomes routine. He tells the guys and Joe and Andy are sympathetic, even though Patrick's sure they can't have approved of him and Bob in the first place--how could they have? Pete smirks at the news, but he's surprisingly quiet about it. Maybe he can tell that there's nothing he can say to make Patrick feel worse, because Patrick can't really feel worse, not about any of it. He just feels tired.

When Patrick hears the whole, unmastered album for the first time, he doesn’t know what to think. Musically, it’s not a huge departure from their previous work, but then there’s the twisted lyrics, and Patrick’s voice has never sounded so different. His range has improved, but there are qualities to the sound that Patrick can’t quite identify. It’s more genuine but also more raw, and Patrick isn’t sure whether it’s the worst piece of art he’s ever helped create or the best. He thinks he’s probably too close to tell.

When they get it finished and mastered, all Patrick really feels is relief, not pride, not excitement. He wants to put the record, this summer, this fucking city all behind him. He’s been trying not to think about Bob, been doing his best to put it all behind him, but if he isn’t preoccupied with something else, that’s where his mind wanders. He’ll be going about his day and then something will remind him, randomly, and he’ll wonder where Bob is now. He’ll wonder how their promo is going, whether they’ve scheduled their tour yet, how he’s getting along with his band, how he’s getting along without Patrick.

He lets himself drive by the old apartment once, weeks after Bob has moved out of it. It looks the same, and that’s so fucking weird: to think that all of this shit has happened, Patrick’s life has changed so rapidly, but this building still looks the same and the other tenants are still just living their lives. There’s nothing here to even signify that he and Bob were here, that the summer ever happened.

Pete gives an interview that’s absolutely vicious towards My Chemical Romance. He calls them wannabe-goth has-beens, among other things, and Patrick wants to hit him when he finds out. Because now, of course, there’s a Feud, and journalists aren’t going to ask them about anything that isn’t how much they hate My Chem for months. Every time Patrick sits down to talk to someone about the album, he’s going to have to talk about Bob's band instead.

Patrick doesn't protest when Pete suggests calling the album Ex-friends, except to point out that between this and Pete's hateful statements about My Chem, plenty of people will think it's about Pete and Mikey. He actually likes it for the name of the album--it fits and will be easy to sell, easy to build themes around. It hurts, of course it hurts, but it's not a surprise, and Patrick accepts it.

What *is* surprising is the difficulty that comes with playing Ex-friends live. They play four shows in the U.K. before beginning the Friends or Enemies tour, and when Patrick comes out on stage with Pete, Joe and Andy for the first time in London, he feels dread and hysterical fear thudding in his pulse points. Sure enough, four measures into 40 To Life (Guys Like You) Patrick feels himself clam up. His hands keep playing on automatic, but all he can think about is how thousands of fans are going to hear this whole fucked-up summer spilled out from the speakers. He's freaking out more than he ever has onstage, more than he did when he was 16, more than he did when they had to tour Europe without Pete, and when he opens his mouth his voice is shaking and off.

He barely makes it through the show. He feels ripped open and exposed and he can feel Pete's eyes on him the whole time. As soon as they get offstage Patrick has to sit down, breathing hard, doubled over with this hands on his knees. He feels winded, he feels like someone's punched him in the gut. He has no idea how he's going to do this again two days from now, let alone for two months touring the U.S.

"Get the fuck up." Pete is glaring down at him, and Patrick sits up. "We need to get to the buses, we're scheduled to leave in like half an hour."

"Right, yeah, I'll be there," Patrick says, and his voice still sounds weak to his ears. He clears his throat and stands, and Pete is already walking away.

Patrick tries to do better the next few shows, and it still takes too much out of him, but he gets through performing. He gets through singing Pete's words about him to arenas of people, gets through re-living these experiences in front of a crowd, but he can't bring himself to care that he's performing on a level far beneath the rest of the band.

Two dates into the Friends or Enemies tour, Pete storms into Patrick's hotel room after a particularly dismal show. "We should just get another fucking singer and guitarist," he says, explosive from the start. "You're just a sad sack of shit up there, you realize that?"

Patrick hisses a breath in, because viciousness over their relationship has been one thing, but even after recording he's still not used to Pete talking to him to this way about the music. "Yeah, I'm not at my best," he says. "I know--"

"You know shit," Pete interrupts him, on a roll now. "I thought this band was all you cared about, and now you're not even trying."

Patrick looks away. "You don't have to sing about this, Pete."

"Cry me a river," Pete says, his voice tight. "I thought that if nothing else, you would keep from fucking up the music side of things, but I guess I was wrong."

"You can just--you know, fuck it," Patrick says, and meets Pete's eyes. "I'm not going to pretend that this is what you're *actually* worked up about."

Pete holds Patrick's stare until the silence and space stretches between them, until he finally takes a step back. "Maybe, but whatever," Pete says. "You're playing and singing is terrible. I don't care what you have to do, just. Make it better."

Pete leaves, and Patrick stares at the wall and focuses on his breathing until he hears another knock on the door. He's expecting it to be Pete, back for more jabs, but when he opens his door it's Joe. He looks a little bummed and a little worried, and Patrick lets him in without a word.

"Hey, man," Joe says. "This is gonna sound dumb, but try not to let Pete get to you."

They sit down and Patrick feels deja vu for a second to the very beginning, when Joe was the only one he knew, when Joe invited him over to his house to jam together.

"It does sound dumb," Patrick says. "Or I mean, not dumb, but just. Not really possible."

Joe sighs. "Yeah, I know." He touches Patrick's back, rubs between his shoulder blades, and Patrick leans into it. "He'll get over it, though. Eventually," Joe adds quickly when Patrick gives him an incredulous look. "You've just got to let him be Pete."

Patrick swallows. "Easier said than done," he says, and he doesn't mean for it to come out as bitter as it does. Joe makes a sympathetic sound and pulls Patrick into a one-armed hug, and Patrick thinks again of being fifteen, of singing along with songs about heartbreak before he had any idea how it actually felt.

"You'll be okay, man," Joe says, resting his head on top of Patrick's. "It's just super shitty right now, that's all."

"I hope so," Patrick says, and hugs Joe back. "Thanks for--seriously. Thanks."

Pete doesn't stop picking fights. Usually it's about Patrick's performing, because that still isn't up to what it should be, but sometimes it's about a mess in the tourbus, or something said in an interview.

When they get off the stage in Houston, Patrick hands his guitar to the tech without even glancing at him, let alone thanking him. "Good enough for you?" he says to Pete. "Did my performance meet your standards this time?"

"To be honest, you're still kind of sucking," Pete says, his voice casual except for the sharpness underneath. "Like, dude, seriously, could you just--"

"Maybe if you got off my fucking case about it," Patrick snaps. He can see Joe and Andy walking quickly ahead of them, already sick of the argument they're getting into, and Patrick wants to walk away, too. But Patrick can't walk away or let it go; it's Pete.

"You're such a pussy," Pete says, following Patrick into the dressing room. "If you can't take the criticism, leave the tour already."

Patrick hates the snide tone of Pete's voice, the ugly look he'll have on his face if Patrick turns around to see, the way he's succeeded in getting Patrick to lash back at him--he's got Patrick participating actively in moronic fight after moronic fight. Sometimes he thinks Pete's goal is to get Patrick to hate him as much as he hates Patrick, and there are times when Patrick thinks Pete's succeeded.

"Because you're doing everything right, huh?" Patrick says as he grabs a towel, rubbing sweat off his face. "Must be nice that the new material has bass parts that a five-year-old could play."

"At least I'm not sulking up there. At least I'm manning the fuck up." Pete grabs Patrick's shoulder and yanks him around to face him, and yeah, the look on his face is just what Patrick expected, vindictive and smug and angry. "I know you're still sad about your boyfriend dumping you and all--"

"Fuck off," Patrick says, shaking Pete off. "You're loving this, aren't you? You love seeing me fuck up on the tour, you love seeing me depressed, this is all just. God. How many more lashes would you like?"

"Oh, yeah, get all self-righteous. I think I've earned this much schadenfreude, just a little," Pete says, a hard glint to his eyes and the smug smile gone from his face.

"How many?" Patrick demands again, stepping closer. "I swear, Pete--"

"I don't know!" Pete yells. "I don't--christ--"

Patrick hears it when Pete's voice shifts abruptly, can see it when Pete changes, and he realizes what's going to happen a split second before Pete grabs his arms and moves them both forward, slamming Patrick against the dressing room wall. Patrick grabs at Pete's hips as Pete leans in, kissing Patrick hard before biting, catching Patrick's bottom lip and worrying it between his teeth. Patrick responds without thinking, pulling them close together and arching up and making sounds he didn't even know he could still make into Pete's mouth.

It happens so fast, Pete shoving his hand down Patrick's pants and the scramble to get belt buckles undone, and it doesn't feel nice when Pete jacks him. It doesn't feel good or sweet but it's working and Patrick can't even process this, can't do anything but fuck Pete's hand. Pete isn't kissing him anymore--Patrick can just see the top of his head as he ducks his head down. And he can hear Pete's harsh uneven breathing, feel Pete's fingers rough against his dick, and Patrick wants to push Pete back enough to let him get a hand inside Pete's pants and return this, but he can't make himself stop clinging to Pete's hips.

Pete, this is Pete, this is Pete's hips and his hard dick pressed up against Patrick's leg and Pete's hand on his cock. This is the closest Pete's let him since the summer.

Patrick lets out a sob and Pete growls, like he can tell what Patrick's thinking and he doesn't like it. Pete's still angry, it's crystal clear in every twist of his wrist, and it just makes Patrick tighten his grip and cling. His whole body feels twisted up and shaky when he comes, and Pete humps his leg twice more before Patrick feels him tense up in the telltale way.

Patrick tips his head back and stares at the dingy ceiling, counting the seconds. Pete slumps against him and Patrick slumps against the wall. He wants to wrap his arms around Pete and bury his face in Pete's shoulder. He closes his eyes and holds onto this, the lingering heat between them and Pete's breath in his ear, because he can already feel reality clicking back into place.

Sure enough, when Pete steps back it feels like all the warmth has left the room. Patrick can feel the sweat cooling on his skin, and the air between them feels thick and solid and buzzing with something Patrick can't define. Pete is staring at him. Patrick stares back.

All Patrick can register is shock. If this is—if he’s gotten what he wanted--if this is even what he wanted--

Patrick has so many questions that they all get stuck in his throat. Does this mean you’ve forgiven me? and So just how much do you hate yourself? and Do you still love me? What comes out is, “What--why did you just--?”

The look on Pete’s face is hard to read, but it definitely isn’t happy or nice. His jaw is set and there are two spots of color burning on his cheeks, and his hair is dark with sweat from the show and messed up from Patrick’s hands. “I don’t know,” he says. “You—“ he stops, and instead of feeling relieved that Pete is holding himself back from hurling painful insults in Patrick’s direction, he just feels sick.

“So how are we doing this, then?” Patrick says, because already he knows this is not going to be an isolated incident. He can feel semen drying on his pants and he's covered in sweat from the show and he doesn't know how he'd forgotten what Pete tasted like.

There is no way they won't fuck this up.

Pete opens his mouth and shuts it again. Then he smiles, an expression that's a little helpless and a lot bizarre, and says “Patrick” before laughing.

“Heh.” Patrick leans back against the wall and looks up at the ceiling, feeling his lips twist into what might look like a smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I...."

"I don't think I did this for the right reasons," Pete says, sounding oddly self-aware. His head is cocked to the side a little, and yeah, Patrick can guess.

"I don't know what the right reasons are anymore," Patrick says. "Are we--I mean. Is this going to happen again?" he demands, even though he knows, he knows.

"Fuck if I know," Pete says, and his old viciousness is back, the ugliness in his eyes when he looks at Patrick.

Patrick wants to ask for a magic rewind button to make the past two years never have happened. Fuck the success of the band, the label, fuck the big house he's bought; fuck falling in love twice. He just wants to go back to 2004, before Pete started going downhill enough to down those pills, before it was no longer possible for Patrick to not be in love with him. He wants to go back to having a best friend.

Patrick reaches out to touch Pete, grabs his sleeve. He doesn't know what he's planning, what he wants, and Pete just looks down at Patrick's fingers.

"We have to figure this out," Patrick says, and his own voice sounds desperate and broken, sounds like Pete.

Pete takes in a breath and closes his eyes. Patrick can tell that there are any number of cruel, correct things that Pete could say but isn't. He also isn't shaking Patrick's hand off his arm, and if Patrick were looking at this as Pete's best friend, uninvolved, he'd tell Pete to say no. He'd advise Pete not to go back to someone who's betrayed him--he'd say that for once in his life, Pete should resist getting addicted to something that hurts him.

Pete eventually looks up to meets Patrick's eyes. "We should go," he says. "I need new pants, and if we're not on the buses soon, they'll send someone back here to look for us."

"Sure," Patrick says. He lets go when Pete brushes past him, and follows Pete out of the room.