Chapter Text
It’s a slow day at home. A nice day. Patrick usually couldn’t stand slow days, or at least that used to be the case. He’s always itching to do something more, to work on something, to get something done. But, against all odds, he’s learned to appreciate the slow days. It’s easier now for him to sit still when he’s got three other people who are trying to get him to sit the fuck down at any given moment. But still, he considers it a win.
The four of them spent most of today lounging around. It was so nice. They had just got back from the end of a tour a couple of days ago and jet lag was an unconquerable enemy so the laying around half dead felt warranted. And Patrick likes laying around with the guys. Either tucked into somebody’s side or with somebody’s head on his shoulder or playing footsie across couches. It’s almost perfect.
He kind of wants to laugh at himself for ever thinking that he couldn’t have this. That he didn’t deserve it. But then that’d be hypocritical. There was a second there where he wasn’t sure he’d live to the next day, let alone a world where he got to cuddle with his best friends. And he’d be lying if he said that he didn’t sometimes still think he was undeserving of such kindness.
He’s more or less over it. Or as over involuntary murder as you can be. He only thinks about it when he has bad days. Everybody has bad days. They’re blissfully less common now, however. It had taken some time but he had healed. They had all healed. Maybe not all the way, maybe not even forever, but for the first time in, well, forever.. They were okay.
The day had passed quietly, the sun bleeding away into the purple of night time with ease. The evening passed in much a similar way until they inevitably dragged themselves to bed.
The routine is everything. The four of them crowded around the bathroom sink, getting ready for bed. Few words are exchanged. Just carefully guiding hands when someone's in the way and small mumbles and failing to talk with a toothbrush in your mouth. It’s achingly domestic, the way they move around each other. Sugar sweet and perfect.
They sleep with fans on for the noise and to combat the body heat that comes with sleeping together like this. Patrick isn’t afraid to sleep between them anymore. He used to stray closest to the edge of the bed. He felt like he had to, for their safety. He hadn’t trusted himself. How could he? But he doesn’t feel so unstable anymore. He’s made some type of peace with himself, with the version of himself who did those things. The guys have proven, time and time again, that they’ve made peace with it too. With him. And so right now he’s laying flat on his back with Joe curled into his side and an arm around Pete and fingers carding through Andy’s hair. And he’s happy.
He’s not scared anymore.
The feeling hits him like a fucking truck.
He’s not scared anymore. He’s not scared anymore. He’s happy and loved and whole again. He was given a second chance and he managed not to squander it. He isn’t as haunted by his sins as he used to be. Now they only chase him in occasional nightmares and flashbacks. But honestly, it’s started to feel like just that. Nightmares. It’s over. It’s been over for years.
He’s free.
“Trick, are you crying?” Pete asks, exhaustion mixing with concern in his voice.
Patrick hadn’t even realized he was crying.
"What's wrong?"
Joe is snoring in his ear. His legs are tangled with Pete’s. He’s wearing Andy’s shirt.
“Nothing,” He says and for once, it’s true. “Nothing at all. I’m just.. Really happy, I think.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
Pete makes himself comfortable, head resting on Patrick’s chest, “That’s good. That’s really good. You sure you’re okay?”
“Positive.”
Pete’s out too with time, too tired or too trusting to stay bothered by Patrick’s tears for very long. And then Patrick is alone with his thoughts.
And he isn’t scared.
Quietly, he whispers, “I love you guys.” The words settle on his chest like a warm blanket.
He falls asleep and he doesn’t have a nightmare that night.
None of them do.