zeegoeshere

Continued from Part Two

*

The next morning, Patrick wakes up thirsty and hot. His mouth is dry and there's sweat on his shoulder blades, on the backs of his thighs, and someone is sleeping next to him. He's still groggy and largely asleep, rolling onto his side to get in closer to the warm body next to him, when he realizes.

He stills, but his movement didn't wake Bob up. He needs to get up, shower, find out what time it is and then get down to the studio if it's that late (which it almost definitely is). He needs to get out of this.

He squirms out of the bed (his bed, that Bob is sleeping in, jesus) and fishes his cell out of his pocket: the time is 9:30. Yeah, he's late.

He hears movement and when he glances over Bob is pushing himself up on his elbows. The sheets slip down over his chest and he's blinking at Patrick and yawning.

"Hi," Patrick says stupidly. "Uh. I'm late, I gotta--" He motions towards the bathroom and shower, and Bob nods, keeping his head ducked down.

"Right, yeah." He doesn't suggest they shower together, which Patrick is intensely relieved by. They sort of stay like that, Patrick crouching naked next to last night's pants with his phone in hand, Bob half-lying in Patrick's bed and not looking at him. Then Bob rolls over onto the floor and gets up, grabbing for his boxers.

"Gonna go sleep in my room," he grunts, and Patrick nods.

"Yeah," he mutters, and stands as Bob passes him. "Right, yeah."

He doesn't wake up entirely until the hot water's spraying him, and then he fully remembers the sequence of events that led to this morning. Something ugly is happening inside him; his inner organs are twisting and morphing, they must be, because he's changed into someone he wasn't just a few hours ago.

It's weirdly calming, or maybe he's just numb. Patrick showers fast and tries to not think about anything at all, and when he gets back out to his room there's a voice message from Pete, wondering where he is. Patrick texts him that he's running late, and Bob is in the kitchen getting a glass of water when Patrick goes in to grab an apple for breakfast.

Bob freezes when he sees Patrick, completely freezes, and Patrick can't meet his eyes. He keeps moving, retrieving his fruit from the bowl on the table, and when he glances over at Bob he blurts out, "I'm sorry."

Bob slumps over a little and he puts his glass of water down on the counter. Patrick notices that the soda he spilled last night is still on the floor, a sticky mess.

"Aren't you running late, Mr. Workaholic?" Bob says in his default dry tone of voice, and it's almost like nothing happened.

"Um, yeah, I've gotta go, I--see you later," Patrick says, and still doesn't meet Bob's eyes before he rushes out the door.

Pete shoves a cup of coffee in Patrick’s hand when Patrick walks through the studio door. “Nice of you to show up.” He’s smirking, but it’s not mean, and he bumps Patrick’s shoulder with his. It’s brief but the contact stays with Patrick, and he can still feel his skin warm at the point where Pete touched his shoulder when Pete moves away. It makes Patrick want to reach out and clutch and cling, to hold on to Pete the way Pete sometimes holds onto him.

And maybe he could do that, maybe he could explain last night that way; maybe Pete would accept Hey, I think I’m breaking down. It would fit in with the kinds of lyrics Pete writes, and it’s even a little bit true right now, but it would still be dishonest; Patrick knows he can’t blame last night on anything except desire and a lack of will.

Patrick feels out of his body for most of the morning. At some point there’s a guitar in his hands, and Joe is handing him music that Patrick himself had written, but that still looks totally alien; Andy leaves to work on drum fills and Pete ducks out of the room on a label conference call. It’s just him and Joe, laying down the guitar parts for Me&You, and Patrick knew this is what was scheduled for today—knows exactly what he’s doing, and he still has to stop and start over and over. It doesn’t feel real.

Memories of the previous night keep hitting him with almost every chord he plays. He drinks more coffee and re-focuses on the music sheets in front of him and tries to keep his head clear. If Joe notices anything weird about him, he doesn’t mention it.

Eventually Pete comes back in, and then it’s time for arguing over the bass line. Which turns into a real fight, voices rising and Patrick doesn't even really know what he's saying or why he's so angry, but he knows Pete's giving him that look that drives him crazy: that look that says of course you don't understand, that look that lets Patrick know that Pete's already decided he's not going to listen to a word Patrick says.

Joe interrupts them before any screaming can really start. "If this is the Couple's Snit Fit Hour, I'm outtie." He throws up his hands and puts down his guitar and leaves; Patrick is pretty sure Andy is already gone.

When Patrick looks back at Pete, the knowledge of what he did with Bob swims back to the forefront of his mind, overriding whatever it is he'd been yelling at Pete about. But his anger doesn't drain away, and when Pete abandons the argument Patrick wants to yell at him to stay, to keep yelling, to get it all out. The tension and adrenaline aren't gone from his system until he's in his car, halfway home, and he has to pull over to the side of the road and slump over the steering wheel and shake.

When Patrick gets back to the apartment, he braces himself before opening the door, but it looks like Bob isn’t home yet. Patrick breathes a sigh of relief and then feels annoyed with himself, because he can’t just avoid this by avoiding Bob—and anyway, it’s impossible to fully avoid someone when you’re sleeping on their futon. But for now he doesn’t have to look at Bob’s face and think about why.

Patrick drops his bag at the door and stands in the entryway of his own room. The sheets are still rumpled, and while you can’t tell from looking that two people were fucking here last night, Patrick can guess at the dried stickiness between the sheets. He strips the mattress and grabs the pillow cases, too; they have a service that comes and does laundry once a week, but he needs to take care of this now.

The laundry room is in the basement, and when Patrick is finished he walks past the front door of the building on the way to the elevator. He sees Bob outside, in profile, his shoulder leaning against the glass doors. He must have just gotten back: he still has sunglasses on and his keys are out.

Patrick slows and stops. Bob is looking away from the building, out at traffic, pursing his lips and blowing out smoke. Patrick tells his feet to start moving again, but Bob turns his head and catches him. Patrick feels frozen in place, goggling and dumb, and Bob straightens up and puts the cigarette to his lips again, staring back at him.

Patrick mutters a curse under his breath and pushes the front door open, going outside. “Hi,” he says.

“Yo,” Bob says, and it makes a smile tug at Patrick’s lips. “Studio stuff go okay?”

Patrick thinks about the fight with Pete, and how he’s going to have to do most of his parts from today over again, because he was unfocused and he knows he’ll be dissatisfied with how they sound. “All right, I guess.”

Bob nods. “Cool.” The shades are still on; Patrick wishes he could see his eyes.

Bob finishes his cigarette and puts it out in the ash tray, and Patrick follows him back inside. He still has his detergent in hand, swinging it by his side as he walks. Neither of them speak in the elevator up to the apartment.

“You hungry?” Bob says when they get in the door. “I was gonna make eggs.”

He’s tossed his keys and the shades on the coffee table, and when he turns back to look at Patrick for an answer, his eyes are clear and sharp. They seem almost accusatory, and Patrick wants to look away.

“Um. Sure,” he says. When Bob goes into the kitchen, Patrick flops down on the couch, turns the TV on and starts flipping through channels.

If it’s just once, then it’s an isolated incident. Not excusable, fuck no, but already over and just an aberration in the normal pattern (whatever normal pattern there is with Pete), not the start of something new. Patrick can move out of this apartment and then explain everything to Pete, and hopefully the honesty will be enough to make Pete forgive him. Patrick will forget Bob and Pete might write some vicious lyrics about Bob, but he’ll know that Patrick is his.

“It’s done,” Bob calls out, and Patrick leaves the TV on VH1.

They actually eat at the kitchen table, instead of Patrick taking his dinner into his room to work and Bob eating in front of the TV. Normally they would be talking, too, Patrick bitching about his day (usually bitching about Pete, he realizes with a twinge of guilt) and the studio, and Bob bitching about his day and the studio or telling weird stories about his bandmates. But now the silence is a physical wall, tense and hot and making the hairs on Patrick's forearms stand up.

"Alicia flew back today," Bob says, his voice sudden and heavy in the heat.

"Yeah? She was here?" Patrick wonders if he was supposed to know this already. For the past couple weeks, he feels like he's been oblivious to everything but the tensions in his own life.

Bob nods. "She came to help out Mikey. But she said he's fine now, and that she's sick of LA." He smiles and leans back until his chair balances on two legs. "He's been recording parts with us. It's a little better, at least."

"That's good, hey, that's awesome." And Patrick's a little surprised to find that he really does feel stupidly happy and relieved for Bob. He doesn't know how much it's genuine affection, as opposed to a desire to focus on something beyond his own problems, but he wants to hear what Bob's working on and cheer him on, he wants to be here to listen when things are bad with Bob's band.

And Bob is looking at Patrick like he wants that, too. Patrick swallows and puts down his fork. He needs to say something to stop this. He needs to take some responsibility, because that's the kind of guy he's always tried to be. Patrick spent his adolescence watching Pete destroy one unhealthy relationship after another--hell, he learned how to write songs thanks to all the fallout. It gave him a sense of perspective and stamina; it's probably what helped him make the thing with Anna last for three years, long after it should have died.

Now Patrick feels like he's losing that part of himself, or like he's already lost it. He's unsure whether it's been a sudden drop or a long slow slide, but either way, this is where he is now.

"Hey," Bob says. "Patrick--"

"Fuck." Patrick pushes his plate away and stands. "I should move out."

Surprise and hurt flash over Bob's face, and he stands, too. "Yeah? I guess you should." But he sounds like he's throwing it in Patrick's face rather than agreeing with him, and his desire shows clear and unhidden in his eyes when he steps forward.

"I'm not going to be this guy," Patrick says, trying to put all the surety he doesn't feel into his voice.

"I'm not asking you to!" Bob says, his voice high and frustrated. "But I--" his words cut out and he moves toward Patrick, his fingers barely brushing Patrick's arm, and Patrick jumps back.

The word 'no' is in Patrick's throat, rolling on his tongue, but he doesn't say it. He turns around instead, walking blindly out of the kitchen and towards his own room. He stares at his sheet-less futon, and he can hear Bob behind him. When he swings his arm back, his fingers hit Bob's shirt, and it's a clumsy uncoordinated movement to turn around and grab Bob and push him against the hall wall. Patrick flattens his body against Bob's, and he wants the kiss to bruise, he wants Bob's lips against his to knock teeth out of place like a punch would.

But it's just Bob's mouth, just Bob making a soft noise and getting his hand in Patrick's hair, knocking Patrick's hat off. He sucks Patrick's tongue into his mouth and when he groans, Patrick can feel the vibration. Their bodies are plastered together, and Patrick can feel it when Bob starts to get hard, too. He pulls his mouth away from Bob's and goes to his knees.

"Oh," Bob says, a choked watery sound. Patrick undoes his fly and every movement, his fingers fumbling with the button and the zipper sticking slightly, feels huge. When Patrick eventually gets his pants down Bob's dick is still mostly soft. Patrick pushes away the knowledge that this is it, this is the decision he's making, and leans in.

He can smell Bob, sweat and musk and dick, smelling just the way it tastes when Patrick mouths the head. He uses his hand on the length of Bob's cock, fast pulls to get him hard. It's an unbelievable turn-on when Patrick feels it growing and lengthening in his mouth, and he slides his lips down to take more in.

There's a pounding in Patrick's ears and Bob's hands are brushing his shoulders, his face, his hair. Patrick sucks and it's sloppy as hell--he's drooling around Bob's dick. And all he feels is greedy, he just wants more of this, he wants enough to drown himself in. He wants Bob's cock in his mouth pushing every reservation from his head. He doesn't want to be aware of anything else.

He can hear the desperate sounds Bob is making, incoherent vowels, hisses, and parts of words. Then he says "Hey, hey--" and nudges Patrick's shoulder, and Patrick pulls off. Bob's hips jerk forward and he comes with a grunt, his body shuddering with Patrick's fingers still wrapped around his dick. The spunk hits the carpet, and Patrick finds he can't stop staring at what's in front of him: Bob's pale thighs, the difference between his blonde leg-hair and the slightly darker pubes, the sweat on his skin, and his softening dick still glistening with Patrick's own spit. Patrick's pants feel uncomfortably tight as he remembers his own arousal.

Bob pushes Patrick back suddenly, hard enough that Patrick loses his balance and flops down on his back. And then Bob is crouching down and moving forward and kissing Patrick with his mouth open. Patrick lets himself be pushed down and gasps into Bob's mouth when Bob squeezes him through his jeans. When Bob gets Patrick's pants open enough to jerk him off, Patrick's hips are already pumping up into it, and he feels completely on edge, closer and closer.

Bob ducks down to suck him, and Patrick comes almost immediately. Bob's hands are on Patrick's hips as his body tenses and he cries out, and Patrick can feel his pulse thudding in his ears and in his groin, and his mind is blissfully blank.

Bob sits up on his knees and Patrick stays lying on the floor, body limp and drained. They stare at each other, and Patrick has never seen Bob's face so red or his eyes so bright. Patrick knows he must look the same, panting hard like Bob is, shell-shocked like Bob looks.

So what the fuck; he's a horrible human being. Patrick can already feel himself adjusting to this new reality, adapting even though he can feel waves of panic just under the surface. Anger at Pete hits him: he's furious with Pete, fucking pissed off, angry at him for building Patrick up to be something he isn't; for picking fights like it's a competition; for being both suspicious and oblivious; for being so fucking fucked up.

Patrick lets the rage and frustration with Pete dwell and build, and he's shaking with it when he sits up and moves forward and kisses Bob again. His pants are down around his knees and so are Bob's, and they're both sticky and disgusting. But Bob makes out with him like this, his hand clutching hard at the back of Patrick's neck and his beard rough on Patrick's chin. Patrick wonders if he'll get beard burn, and if that will clue Pete in. He wonders what the give-away will end up being.

He should tell Pete himself, of course, today or tomorrow, up-front while accepting the consequences. He should and he even feels determined to, but at this rate, Patrick doesn't have much faith in his own moral fortitude.

He pulls off from Bob and stands up, hitching up his pants. "I'm getting out of here."

It's not an invitation and Bob gets that, nods and stays when Patrick leaves. Patrick has no idea where he's going to go like this, crazed and stinking of sex, and he ends up not going anywhere. He just drives, getting on and off highways because he can't seem to stick with a decision. He can't even find the right music to get him the hell out of his own head, clicking around on his iPod between Prince, Jawbreaker, Billie Holiday, Ray Lamontagne and Bowie before he finally just gives up and drives in silence. Traffic is too heavy for the drive to be in any way satisfying or cathartic, and when Patrick ends up back at the apartment he's even further from calm than he was when he left.

***

Their Independence Day barbecue is a success with just the right amount of people to make a good party, but not too much to make things crowded, and Patrick doesn’t want to be here. He’s feeling unpatriotic, he’s sweaty, and his rum and coke is just making him queasy rather than taking the edge off. Pete is avoiding him; Patrick doesn’t know what he wants to say to Pete right now, but he knows he needs to face him. He can still feel Bob’s hands all over him from a few hours ago.

Patrick lets himself ricochet off groups of friends in conversations, moving from cluster to cluster until he finds himself in the kitchen, alone. He scowls at the marble countertops and pours the rest of his drink down the sink.

“Not in the mood to get plastered?” Bob’s voice behind him, dry and totally casual and making the hair on the back of Patrick’s neck stand up. He’s bright red, too, he knows he is, and he has to take a deep shaky breath before turning around to look at him.

“Hi,” Patrick says, and Bob’s eyes are blue as ever and impossible to hide from. “Yeah, not so much.”

Patrick can see Bob’s adams apple move when he swallows, and Patrick thinks stay over there just stay over there but Bob is already moving toward him. He stops a foot away, leaning against the counter and staring down at the tiled floor. He’s so much taller than Patrick is.

“This party kind of sucks,” Bob says, first to his shoes and then at Patrick’s face as he glances up. “I’m not really feeling it, either.”

“Happy fourth of July,” Patrick says, and he wants to kiss Bob right now and shove him up against the counter, wants to lose it all in this. “Pete didn’t seem happy to see me.”

If Bob is upset to see Patrick mention Pete, he doesn’t show it. He tilts his head and gives Patrick one of those searching looks, and Patrick’s heart speeds up. “You two still fighting?”

Patrick just nods. He wants to tell Bob that he’ll leave Pete for him, and he wants to tell Bob to get the fuck away from him. He puts a hand on the counter, steadying himself and he knows he’s leaning in when Bob takes a step closer.

Bob’s hand comes up to brush Patrick’s forearm and he dips his head down, and Patrick thinks hysterically that he really must be certifiably insane if he’s going to do this when Pete is outside, but it doesn’t matter and doesn’t matter and he’s already got a hand on Bob’s shirt--

“Hey Bobby, we need more ice” Frank bounces into the kitchen before slowing down and stopping, staring. Patrick doesn’t move back; he feels frozen, and he doesn’t let go when Bob steps hastily away from him: his fingers stay clenched in the fabric of Bob’s shirt and his arm stretches out horizontal in the air, and Patrick has to look at his hand and think let go. His hand drops.

“I don’t believe this.” Frank looks pissed rather than surprised in any way, and he’s speaking to Bob and walking up to him. “Seriously? What the fuck are you *doing?*”

“Stay out of it,” Bob says, and Patrick has never heard Bob’s voice sound that harsh, especially not at Frank. But Frank looks just as mad, up in Bob’s face and with his finger stabbing at Bob’s chest.

“You know what this really is,” Frank says. “You told me—“

“How the hell is this any of your business? Bob snaps, brushing Frank’s hand away from him, and Patrick feels like he should say something, anything, but he feels mute.

“It is because I’m your friend and I care about you!” Frank is yelling now, and Patrick is so glad their apartment is soundproofed. “You know you’re going to get hurt!”

“I—I’m not trying to—“ and Patrick doesn’t even know what he was going to say, but Frank is already rounding on him.

“What, not trying to fuck his life up?” Frank is up in Patrick’s space now, his face flushed. Patrick is pretty sure that he’s had a few, not that it makes him wrong. “Leave Bob alone, okay, go back to your *boyfriend.*”

“Stay out of this!” Bob yells. “Just—fuck off, Frank—“

“You’re so fucking oblivious! You know that he doesn’t really give a shit—“

“Shut up,” Patrick says, and he can feel his own temper flaring up. “Shut the hell up.”

“You know I’m right,” Frank says to Bob, as if Patrick hadn’t opened his mouth. “Bob—“

“Get out of my kitchen,” Bob says. His jaw is set and his eyes look like ice. Frank is backing away, looking hurt and furious, and part of Patrick sympathizes—can see where Frank is coming from. But Patrick is already moving closer to Bob’s side, and Frank storms back out to the patio.

Patrick breathes out through his nose. “He’s—probably right,” he says after a moment. “I’m not the best thing for anyone right now.”

“Fuck him,” Bob says, so decisively that Patrick’s heart twists up. “I really don’t care.”

“I do,” Patrick says. “I can’t do this to you, or to Pete. I—fuck.”

“Yeah, well.” Bob shrugs, then looks away out the window. “We should probably head back outside.”

The most significant events in Patrick’s life are almost never the ones he remembers clearly. He sees a flash of Frank talking heatedly to Jamia, their heads bent close together; then it seems as if Pete appears out of nowhere, and Patrick thinks he sees Frank say something to him but it’s all moving too fast; and he and Bob are moving towards them as Pete turns around, and Frank says “Shit, Bob I—“ and Pete says,

“Patrick?” Patrick feels his stomach drop at the sound of Pete saying his name, and he knows what’s coming. “What are you—with him, what’s going on?”

Pete looks actually hopeful, like he's too scared to be suspicious, or like he knows Patrick's going to say the right thing to make it all okay. But speech is impossible right now--all Patrick can think about is the way his body feels like it's sinking through the ground.

Patrick doesn't know what's showing on his face, but when he glances at Bob, it's all there on his face, everything Pete could possibly need to connect the dots. It seems like the air changes. It seems like something stretches and snaps. Then Pete's face clouds over and when his fist connects with Bob's jaw, Patrick swears he can feel it too.

And then there's yelling and gasping, and Jamia is holding Frank back from getting at Pete, and others are moving in to hold Pete and Bob. But Pete is already backing away, and Bob just stumbled back with the punch. There's blood on his lip--shit, blood where his lip ring used to be--and Patrick realizes too late that he's at Bob's side, his hand steadying Bob's shoulder, and he knows it will look like a choice to Pete.

Patrick jerks his hand away from Bob's shoulder and twists around to meet Pete's eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, please, just let me--" and he was actually going to fucking say 'let me explain,' oh fuck, but Pete interrupts him.

"Go fuck yourself," Pete spits out, and then he's pushing through the crowd and Patrick feels like he's swimming through molasses when he goes after him, like his muscles won't work fast enough and he can't really breathe, and then Pete is gone.

***

Pete is not picking up his phone. The first time he calls, Patrick leaves a fumbling phone message, "Pete, hey, please, call me, I'm worried about you, I--I can't believe you punched Bob, we should--fuck." But after that he doesn't bother, just hangs up when Pete's voicemail message starts.

After the fourth call, Patrick throws his phone across the room. It hits the wall with a clatter, and Patrick hopes it's broken, could go for some willful destruction of property. But the phone is fine, and Patrick picks it up again, tossing it between his hands and pacing for a minute before he hits send again, calls Pete again, hangs up again.

The end of the party is a blur. Patrick remembers some yelling, some people trying to ask him questions, remembers seeing Frank and Jamia come in to flank Bob on either side--and maybe Bob shoved Frank away, yelled at him, maybe Ray came over to mediate, maybe someone (Andy?) was at Patrick's side, asking repeatedly if he was okay. But Patrick finds himself alone in his room with his phone, staring dumbly at his futon and his laptop and all of his crap, calling and calling and calling. He doesn't hear Bob come in from the roof; he thinks that maybe his band whisked him away, maybe they're taking him to get his lip ring put back in.

Pete left a hole in Bob's face. Patrick's mind keeps playing the punch over and over, the way the muscles in Pete's shoulder bunched, the way Bob's neck snapped to the side at the contact, the blood on Pete's knuckles right after. All his fault, and Patrick wonders if this is some kind of strange karmic payback for always being "the quiet one," "the stable one," to Pete's tornado. Right now Patrick feels like that was always bullshit, because he can't imagine Pete ever causing as much damage to anyone as Patrick has caused this summer.

Fuck this. He needs to find Pete.

He doesn't know if Pete went back home when he left, but Patrick doesn't know where else to go. He keeps calling him in the car, and even sends a text message please let me talk to you, but he's not really expecting an answer.

He feels coiled up, ready to explode by the time his car screeches into Pete's driveway. He's filled with the need to act, the need to yell at someone or beg or scream or just fix this somehow. He runs up the steps to Pete's house and rings the doorbell, then knocks, then begins to pound and yell. "I'm not going away!" he hollers. "Pete, come on, Pete."

Either he's not answering or he's not home, and either way--either way. Fuck. Fuck. Patrick gives up after a while, lets his hands drop to his sides and sits down on the porch. He can wait. He can wait--

His phone rings, and it's Joe, and Patrick answers before he can really think about it. "Yeah?"

"Dude, what's going on? Is everything okay?" Joe's voice sounds caught between pissed and concerned. "Why the hell did Pete attack Bob like that at your place? I feel like I missed kind of a lot."

Patrick opens his mouth to offer some kind of explanation, then closes it again. "It's a long story," he says. "Pete and I--" He and Pete are what? What? "Can I call you back later?"

"Uh, yeah, sure. Just, hey, let me know if I can do anything to help?"

"Thanks," Patrick says, and hangs up. How is he going to explain this to Joe, to Andy, to the rest of their friends? To Bob's friends? How is he going to put his life back together now?

It's pretty unlike Pete to just sit inside with Patrick here, with the opportunity to have a screaming fight like none other right here, which leads Patrick to believe that he isn't home. Patrick wonders if this is the appropriate time to flip out, to call Pete's mom and their manager and the police, to break into Pete's place and find out how many of his meds are left.

He doubts it, though. He knows Pete, and right now Pete is probably too busy being furious (and shocked, hurt, devastated) and hating Patrick to focus on his own despair. And all of Pete's support systems now function as alarms when things get bad with him, and Patrick is fairly certain he doesn't have to worry--at least about that.

The horror of the situation is beginning to seep into his skin. Images keep floating back up behind his eyes, the look on Pete's face, the sound of Pete's voice asking what's going on.

Patrick drives away. The thought of going back to his apartment, back to Bob, makes him ill even though he wants it. Bob is a great guy to have around when shit is going down, and Patrick's been turning to him to unwind when things with the band (with Pete) got stressful the whole time he's lived with him.

Going back to Bob now, of all times, feels like an even worse kind of betrayal. On the other hand, he's already fucked up everything that matters to him, and going home to Bob right now really couldn't make it much worse.

Bob looks like he's doing even worse than Patrick is. He has huge circles under his eyes--not to mention the split lip and bruised jaw that Pete gave him--and he's in only his boxers, and Patrick can see an empty six-pack on the kitchen table. He's on the couch in front of the TV, and when he hears Patrick come in his head jerks up, twitchy in a very un-Bob-like way.

"Hey," he says, voice scratchy, before turning back to the TV.

Patrick hesitates, then sits down next to him. Bob stares at him like he's surprised to have Patrick sharing any kind of space.

"Hi," Patrick says. "Are you--um. How are you holding up?"

Bob shrugs. "I'm fine. It's, you know. Just one hit."

Shit, Patrick thinks. I really did fuck up everything that matters. "Right," he mutters, and he wants to put his head on Bob's shoulder, he wants to move his hand across Bob's stomach, he wants to fall asleep in his bed again.

"I'm sorry," Patrick tries. "I--I never meant to, uh. To drag you into all of my shit."

Bob looks at him again. "Don't be sorry. You have--just, don't. You don't need to be sorry."

It's all in Bob's face, how much he cares, how much he's hoping, how much Patrick has fucked him over. And Patrick--Patrick has never been clueless to how Bob really felt, even if he'd wanted to be. On some level he'd known that Bob didn't have amoral affairs with just anybody, but it was easier to continue his behavior if he pretended they were both just in it for the sex.

And now--now. All of Patrick's lies have fallen through, including this one. He needs to move his shit out; he can't continue living here, not now, but. He curls a hand behind Bob's neck, his thumb rubbing at the skin there, and Bob looks down at the couch for a second before reaching out and pulling Patrick in.

***

His phone wakes him up at one in the morning, and it rings for so long as Patrick fumbles around to find it next to his bed that Patrick almost misses the call. He doesn't think to look at the ID before grunting a sleepy greeting into the phone, and hears,

"I'm breaking up the band."

Patrick sits bolt upright and feels awake, charged, terrified. "Fuck you. You do not get to make that decision, this is--no, we fucking *talked* about this when we first got together, you *promised.*"

"You wanna fucking talk about promises?" The tone of Pete's voice is what too-fucking-late sounds like, steely but devoid of emotion and completely final.

"I know. I know, Pete, I--"

"How long?"

Patrick bites his lip and doesn't pretend to not know what Pete's referring to. "Since. Um. About two and a half weeks."

The other side is silent for a while, long enough that Patrick is itching to say something, and then, "You fucking liar. It's why you wanted to move in with him, isn't it?"

"No. No, fuck, I swear I--" and his eyes are beginning to burn and this is not something he wants to do over the phone. "Believe me or not, I guess, but no. It hasn't been long, it hasn't been--I meant to--" he can't finish the sentence because he knows how flimsy it all sounds and what Pete will get from it.

"We're not losing the band over this," he says eventually. "All of us have worked too hard for it to crumble just because I'm an asshole."

"I don't need the band. I've got the label, I've got the clothes line, I'll still have a career without Fall Out Boy," Pete says in that same final tone of voice, and Patrick suddenly has a horrifying vision of the years stretching out before him, of Pete living a celebrity life without FOB in it--maybe a reality show, maybe a full-time blogger or philanthropist or manager, but doing it all without Patrick in his life at all.

He could do it. He could do it and Patrick could do it and their lives would probably both work out just fine, and Patrick can't think of a worse nightmare.

"Can I come over?" he says, finally. "Or we could meet somewhere," he adds hurriedly when he hears Pete suck in a breath. "I just. Let's not decide this over the phone, okay? No irrational decisions."

Pete laughs. "You're the biggest fucking hypocrite in the world, wow. I wouldn't have guessed that. Guess I didn't know you so well after all, Stump."

Patrick tries to ignore that. "You can call me all the names you want, okay, I deserve them. But just--just please, man, don't throw away a band we've had for seven years over a relationship we've had for seven months."

"You're the one who threw it away," Pete says, and for the first time Patrick hears real sadness in his voice. But then he says "Fuck, sure, meet me at the Starbucks on my street," and that old voice is back, and Patrick's chest hurts when Pete hangs up the phone.

Patrick pulls on the closest clothing items on the floor, and Bob doesn't wake up when he leaves, and he breaks most traffic laws on the way over. The Starbucks by Pete's house is a 24-hour one, which Patrick has always thought must be an awful enabler for Pete's insomnia. Pete isn't there when Patrick gets there, so Patrick gets some coffee because he doesn't know what else to do, and when Pete walks in Patrick has drunk half of it and he's jittery.

Pete is in his pajamas, and there's stubble on his chin and bags under his eyes. He doesn't have Hemingway with him. He stares at Patrick for a few seconds when he gets in, a look on his face like Patrick's a stranger, and then he orders a frappuccino. They sit down on the couch, and all Patrick wants to do, really, is hug him.

"I don't want to hear any fucking apologies," is the first thing Pete says. "I don't want to hear anything about Bob, or about us, or about why. I'm willing to discuss the future of the band."

So fucking formal, and Patrick feels a little like he's in the middle of some divorce settlement. Which, really... "Okay," he says. "Okay, I--I hope you change your mind, someday--"

"Don't hold your breath," Pete sneers, and the mocking gleam in his eye is one of the meanest looks Patrick has ever seen on him.

Patrick sucks in a breath. "Okay. Then. The band."

"Yeah." Pete laughs, a hollow sound that doesn't sound anything like the Pete Patrick knows. "Yeah, hey, why the fuck would I want to write songs with someone who made my whole life a lie?"

If Patrick had any doubts that this conversation was going to be as painful as bodysurfing over broken glass, they're gone now. Pete is looking at him smugly, like he thinks Patrick doesn't have an answer, like he's waiting to see how Patrick will argue his way out of this one.

"You'll regret it later if you do this," Patrick says eventually. "I know it seems like the only option now--"

"It doesn't, actually." Pete is suddenly leaning forward with a thoughtful expression on his face, his elbows leaning his weight on his knees. "I can see how we could keep the band even though I want nothing to do with you and you don't give a shit about me. It's just that, see--"

And Pete actually moves to touch Patrick, a move so unexpected that Patrick freezes with Pete gripping his shoulder tight. "See, ending Fall Out Boy would hurt you."

Patrick had somehow never pictured this stage when they first got together. He'd seen Pete with other exes, with Jeanae especially, he'd seen what Pete was capable of when he was wounded, but it never even occurred to him to worry for *himself* if things went sour.

"God," Patrick says, and can't make himself lean away from Pete's touch. "You would do that, you'd seriously--" but of course Pete fucking would, right now he would probably cut off his own arm if he thought it might hurt Patrick.

And losing Fall Out Boy wouldn't hurt Patrick, it would devastate him. Pete knows this.

"Yeah," Pete says as he lets go of Patrick. "Yeah, seriously," and all the venom that he's held back is in his voice now.

"Don't," is all Patrick can say. "Pete--" his jaw clicks shut and Pete doesn't say anything, just keeps looking at Patrick. Patrick's afraid of what he sees in Pete's face, more afraid than he's been of just about anything, and all he can do is put his head in his hands. He wonders if this is what Pete wants--Patrick being visibly lost, Patrick putting on a grief show.

And, actually. Maybe he should just give Pete what he seems to want. Patrick looks up. "Stay in the band and I will sing any song you want to write about me."

Pete laughs. "What? You already write me songs," and his tone of voice is just normal, just for a second, something closer to the easy affection they used to have (and it's already 'used to,' even though it's only been a few hours). It makes Patrick bite his lip and Pete seems to notice it, too, because he scowls.

"I mean--whatever lyrics you want to write about this, what happened, what a dick I am. Whatever you feel. I'll write the songs and I'll perform them without objections." It's all Patrick has to offer, along with the hope that Pete will get that this is an option that will still hurt Patrick.

"Bullshit," Pete says. "We're not going to be a rock band where the singer sings about what a waste of space he is. Yeah, right."

"We'll make it work," Patrick says, and has a strange sense of deja vu to back when they first talked about starting this band, that initial excitement and the first plans. "Fucking--whatever, Pete. I will do anything to keep this band. Anything."

Emotions flash and flicker over Pete's face, and the angry sneer again wins out. "Anything for the band, huh? It's great, you know, what you fight for and what you just fucking give up on."

"I'm sorry," Patrick says, blurts out because he needs to, needs to say it a thousand fucking times even if Pete doesn't want to hear it. "I'm sorry, you know if--"

"Fuck off." Pete stands and Patrick scrambles to his feet, too. "And fuck the band."

"No," Patrick says, and when he grabs Pete's arm Pete shoves him away. For a second Patrick thinks Pete will hit him, and he lets himself get angry in return for a few moments, the first time since before Pete found out. They stand glaring at each other, and over Pete's shoulder Patrick can see the barista pause in her cleaning, probably wondering if she should ask them to take it outside.

Pete turns on his heel and storms out of the cafe, and Patrick follows him. He doesn't make the mistake of trying to touch Pete again, but he does hurry and plant himself in Pete's way on the sidewalk, blocking him.

"What about Joe and Andy?" he demands. "And Gym Class, and the fans. This is so fucking selfish of you."

There's a bright look in Pete's eyes when Patrick calls him fucking selfish, and Patrick realizes that Pete's been *waiting* for him to get pissed off. "Wow, look at you, all considerate," he says. "I'll bet Bob appreciates that caring personality."

"You can't do this!" Patrick yells, explodes, and he can feel desperation seeping out every pore. "You can't fucking--this isn't yours to destroy!"

"Yeah, well I was yours!" Pete yells back. "You fucking clueless motherfucker, you fucking knew that, and you--"

"I never asked you to be my anything! I never--you always expected me to fail in the first place, your twisted fucking mind games, I couldn't. Fuck."

"Yeah? Did I fucking ask for it?" Pete seems to savor the last three words, every syllable dripping with self-loathing and satisfaction. His chin is jutted up and Patrick can't see his eyes in just the light from the Starbucks sign.

Patrick stares at Pete and feels himself deflate; the frustration and anger drains out, leaving tired sadness behind. "No. No, you just..."

Pete snorts. "Morgan, Jeanae, Mikey--trust me, I've noticed the pattern, I just never thought you'd fit into it."

Patrick looks up at the sky and blinks, hard. There's no fucking defense he can offer against that, not that he ever had one in the first place.

"I mean, what is it about me?" Pete goes on, and Patrick wishes that Pete had been the one who cheated. He wants Pete to have broken his heart, to have let him down like this, to have fucked over everything they had together, because that would be better than the way Pete's voice is wavering right now. "Like, do I. Is there a fucking sign on my forehead or something?"

Jesus. "I love you, okay? I love you and I'm still in love with you and if you'd have me back I would--" he stops because what the fuck is there to say? He knows Pete, he knows that nothing he can say will change Pete's mind on him, he knows that the most he can hope for is salvaging the band.

And, yeah, Pete takes a step back like Patrick had just spit on him. "You're such a fucking liar," he says before sidestepping around Patrick and walking quickly away.

"You're not going to break up the band," Patrick calls out at Pete's back. "You're not gonna cut me out of your life. You can't."

He doesn't realize how true that is until Pete stills, but Patrick knows Pete and knows what Pete's capable of and who he needs. Patrick is the biggest scumbag ever for using it this way, but at this point he's already crossed so many asshole lines--what's one more?

"Watch me," Pete says, but there's already defeat in his voice. He walks away, back towards his house, and Patrick knows that Fall Out Boy will continue to be a band.

Patrick walks around the corner to the parking lot, and stops before he reaches his car. He crouches down and digs his fists into his eye sockets and thinks about throwing up, making himself gag. Maybe it would help, or at least be a distraction, or something, something.

He gets up eventually. He drives back to the apartment in silence, and the sick thing is that he doesn't want to move out. He will, of course he will; he's already mentally scrolling through lists of hotels to check into tomorrow, planning time to pack all his shit. But he doesn't want to leave, because as far as he can tell Bob doesn't hate him and that apartment still feels comfortable. It feels like all Patrick has, in fact, at this point.

But he can't keep his band alive if he's living with Bob, let alone sleeping with Bob. Patrick wants to throw a tantrum that this means he's losing the two people he cares about most, that there's nothing left for him. Part of him is relieved, though, because really, it's only fitting that he doesn't have anything good right now. He would hate himself more if he did.

*

Part Four