Chapter Text
Pete has been at Patrick’s house for four days. He doesn’t know how much time Ashlee might need, but he’s beginning to regret not negotiating a date for his return before he left. He misses Bronx like a limb—it’s amazing how much he loves that kid and how much it hurts to be away from him. He really hopes can fix things with Ashlee just so he never has to be away from his son again.
Living with Patrick is easy. They’ve been on-and-off roommates almost as long as they’ve known each other. Even now, when they’re so much quicker to anger than they’ve ever been, living together is the simplest thing in Pete’s life.
The first night had been tense. Patrick, despite having lived in a relatively large house for several years now, had neglected to buy furniture for either of the guest bedrooms. His rationale for this decision was that no one but Pete slept over, and he and Pete had never needed separate beds, so why bother unnecessarily with the overpriced furniture his interior designer would have suggested? Pete’s sure Patrick never intended to fill the starring role in Pete’s marriage, or else he would have invested in a second bed.
That night, they’d laid next to each other, the inches between them very carefully maintained. Pete doubts he could have slept, even if he hadn’t been plagued by lifelong insomnia; the anxious guilt in his stomach was eating him alive, and several times he was tempted to run to the bathroom just in case he might vomit. Beside him, Patrick also remained awake, sighing deeply every few minutes.
Eventually, Pete hadn’t been able to take it anymore. He leveraged himself up onto an elbow, twisting to face Patrick, intent on telling him he would find somewhere else to spend the night. Their cryptophasia must have kicked in, though, because Patrick spoke before Pete could even open his mouth.
“Stay,” he had said quietly, reaching for Pete’s hand to tangle their fingers together. Pete nodded and laid back down, cuddling closer to Patrick.
Late the next morning, Pete had woken from his fitful sleep with Patrick’s mouth on his cock.
They’d talked since then, each laying out their expectations for the coming months. Pete’s certain Ashlee will leave him, and he had told Patrick as much, finally crying for the first time since he had been confronted about the affair. Pete was so afraid of what divorce might mean for his relationship with his son; Bronx had just been born and Pete was already fucking up parenthood. Patrick had hugged him through it. The sex afterward had been slow and sweet, devoid of any of the anger that had seemingly characterized their relationship for months.
Now, on the fourth morning Pete has spent in Patrick’s house, he feels a kind of calm resignation. He knows he’s probably staring down the barrel of a divorce, and as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he thinks it might be best for him and Ashlee to go their separate ways. He just wishes there weren’t a newborn baby caught in the crossfire.
Patrick’s not awake yet, having reverted to his teenage sleeping habits now that they’re no longer in the studio. Pete doesn’t mind. It gives him time to play at the domesticity he always seemed to lack with Ashlee. He’s in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee pot to heat up, so he can wake Patrick with a steaming cup of caffeine. The portable radio Patrick insisted on wedging between the stove and the toaster—god forbid he ever go more than a single minute without music—is playing Christmas music at a low volume.
Pete is…content. He wouldn’t say he’s necessarily happy; the probability of divorce and its subsequent custody battle loom too large on the horizon for him to be truly happy, but he’s okay. He can see himself eventually being very happy here with Patrick. All he really needs is Bronx, but that’s still something he and Ashlee have to figure out—whenever he’s allowed back home.
He debates cranking up Patrick’s outdated laptop while he waits for the coffeemaker. He hasn’t updated any of his blogs or browsed a gossip column since he’s been here, and, as much as celebrity has taken its toll, he’s starting to miss it.
Before he can decide whether or not it’s worth it to disturb the semi-peace he’s cultivating in Patrick’s home, his phone rings. Pete has no expectations for who it might be; he’s been living a fairly disconnected life since Ashlee kicked him out, so it’s not like he’s anticipating anything specific. He’s not particularly interested in talking to anyone right now, either, so he takes his time retrieving the phone from where it had been discarded in the bowl next to the door four days ago, buried beneath his and Patrick’s keys.
By the time he reaches the phone, the call has gone to voicemail. The tiny screen says he missed a call from ASHLEE WENTZ.
Pete’s heart sinks into his stomach. He wasn’t expecting to hear from Ashlee until closer to Christmas, thinking she’d need more time but wouldn’t want to deprive him of his son’s first holiday. But here she is, calling him almost a week earlier than he’d anticipated. He scrambles to flip open his phone and call her back, his hands shaking and his heart pounding.
“I was worried when you didn’t answer,” Ashlee answers on the first ring. An unpleasant spike of guilt lodges itself in his stomach. She was right to worry, he thinks. He does have a bit of a concerning history, and who wouldn’t spiral after the conversation they’d had? Though it’s a bit concerning that she’d waited four days to check on him if she were so worried.
“Yeah, sorry. I had to find my phone,” he replies. She hums, and Pete can’t figure out what it means.
“Who’ve you been staying with?” she asks. Her voice is carefully nonchalant. A cold wave of panic rolls through Pete. He can’t tell her he’s at Patrick’s, not after he all but admitted he’d had an affair with him. Especially not if he wanted a favorable custody agreement. He wracks his brain quickly for his most dubiously trustworthy friend—someone who would lie to Pete’s wife on his behalf.
“Uh, Gabe,” he says. Ashlee hums again. Pete feels like he gave her the wrong answer. Surely any answer would be better than the truth, though. Ashlee’s silent for a long moment, then she sighs heavily.
“Listen, Pete. I miss you. I miss having you at home. And I think it’s important that we’re both here for Bronx, especially since it’s his first Christmas,” Ashlee says. Something weird and slippery is happening in Pete’s chest. He thinks it might be hope. He thinks it might be disappointment.
“But, you know,” Ashlee continues, “I can’t have you at home if you’re going to be sleeping with someone else. I need to be sure it was just the one time.”
Pete could tell her the truth. He could tell her that the “one time” he told her about was just the one time that resulted in the song, that he’s been sleeping with Patrick since before he even met her, that he slept with Patrick not even twelve hours ago. He should tell her the truth—that’s what any decent man would do. It would break her heart, but it would save her so much time and pain in the long run.
But Pete is a coward.
“Yeah,” he lies. “It was just the one time. Things were weird for both of us and it just—happened. I fucked up. I’m so sorry. It’ll never happen again, I swear. I love you, and I want to be a good example for Bronx.” It comes out in a rush, and Pete thinks that might make it more believable, like he didn’t have to think too hard to come up with a lie. The last part was true, at least. He does love Ashlee, he just thinks maybe they shouldn’t have gotten married. And of course, he wants to be a good example for his son.
Ashlee is quiet for a long time. Pete listens to her breathe, his heart clenching with every one of her exhales. He wonders where Bronx is, wonders whether Ashlee has been alone for the past four days, or if she had someone to help her. Pete thinks maybe he should have asked how she’s been, but it’s too late for that now.
“Okay,” Ashlee says eventually. “Okay. Come home, Pete. We can talk about this later—just come home.”
“Wait, does this mean—” he starts, but Ashlee cuts him off.
“This means you are tentatively forgiven. As long as you promise it’ll never happen again, I think—I think we can move on from this. We can still be happy. I know it,” she says with a conviction that Pete doesn’t share. He thinks of Patrick, still in bed and snoring softly, and how right Pete’s felt with him these past few days. Then, Pete thinks of his son, tiny and soft with wispy hair and big eyes. And, well. Pete’s mind is made up.
“Sure, yeah. I’ll come home. I’ll see you in about an hour or so?” he says, the slippery hope in his chest inflating to fill every inch of his body. Ashlee hums again, and this time Pete knows it means he’s forgiven.
When he hangs up, he immediately grabs his keys. He jams his feet into his sneakers, still lined up next to Patrick by the door, and swipes his hoodie from its spot on the floor. He rushes out of the door, coffee completely forgotten.