Archive of Our Own ^beta

The van is busted.

Joe kicks a tire before flopping down onto the shoulder of the road, the pavement burning hot against his bare back. He can already feel a sunburn creeping across his skin, prickling hot over his chest and shoulders. He pulls up his socks and tugs down the long legs of his shorts and hopes he’ll have at least a little relief.

Pete’s running down the highway after Dirty, screaming at the tops of his lungs. He’s a flash of tan skin and gray underwear, as naked as they would let him be, endless energy pouring out of him. Just watching him makes Joe sweat in sympathy. Joe thumps his head down against the grassy edge of the road and contemplates flipping onto his stomach to get an even shade of tomato all the way around.

A notebook lands in his lap. It’s the little one Patrick carries with him, torn and bent at the edges from being shoved into pants and duffel pockets, the blue front cover almost torn entirely off. Joe lifts it up and squinches his eyes at Patrick’s thin, sloped handwriting. He needs to get his eyes checked soon.

Is the van going to explode?

“Dude, I really hope not.”

Patrick flops down next to him and grabs his notebook back. His favorite pen- the green one with the tacky hula girls Pete had bought him after their first Good Session- is tucked behind his ear, shoving the edge of his hat up higher. He uses it to scribble another note.

Let me guess: Pete didn’t get the engine checked before we left?

“What was your first clue?” Joe peels himself from the pavement, rocking forward to rest his chin on his knees. The sun beats down merrily on the slope of his shoulder blades, hot and sticky.

“Join our band,” Andy says, voice pitched high and nasal. “Tour with us. It’ll be great.“ Joe rolls his head to the side, pebbles falling out of the dirty mess of his hair, and catches sight of Hurley and Mixon sitting on the hood of the van, their legs dangling against the bumper. Mixon shrugs and leans back against the windshield.

“You’re having a good time,” Matt says, matter-of-fact. “This is just, like, a hiccup in the great song of our lives.” The warm, friendly lilt of his voice is familiar enough that Joe feels his internal worry clock slow down, if only a little. If Mix thinks they’re cool, they probably are.

Joe pushes himself up onto his elbows and watches Mixon prod the hood release with a stick until it flies open with an explosion of smoke. Joe can already see his savings account draining.

A hiss comes from the engine, and Andy and Mixon both hop onto the road, looking back at the van a little wide eyed. Joe groans and looks away, the worry returns. At the van, Mixon’s shoving down his loose basketball shorts and stepping up to the bumper with a grim look of determination written across his face.

“Dude, is he pissing on the van?” Joe asks. Like he’s been summoned, Pete skids to a stop behind Matt, standing on the balls of his feet to watch as Mixon squeezes his eyes shut and lets go.

“Are you, like, marking your territory?” Pete asks, intrigued. Beside him, Andy rolls his eyes. “’Cause the van’s shared property, and I only feel it’s fair if we all do it.”

“The engine’s overheated and we need to cool it down,” Mixon answers, eyes still shut. “Also, you’re giving me performance anxiety. Can you stare Hurley down or something?”

How is this our band?

Patrick’s hands slide over his face, his fingertips pushing the bill of his hat up. Joe flips the page over and hands the notebook back. It’s almost to the back cover and he makes a note to buy a new one at the next rest stop. Maybe a yellow one. Yellow hasn’t been in the rotation for a while.

“William Beckett’s free. We can always start fresh,” Joe offers. Patrick scrunches his nose and scrawls down a line on the notebook.

Prima donna.

“He doesn’t piss on things.” Joe points to the van where Pete’s crawled onto the bumper, dick in hand. A passing semi honks angrily, and Pete waves. The sharp sound of Patrick’s palm hitting against his forehead makes Joe look over at him.

Patrick’s in a t-shirt that started as Mixon’s, the sleeves almost down to his elbows, his hat tugged down over his forehead, jeans and shoes still on. He’s sweating, slick shiny spots at his temples and jaw and in the hollow above his lip. The burn Joe’s going to have is nothing on the one that’s already started up across Patrick’s nose and cheeks. Joe mentally adds sunblock to the list of need-to-haves for tour. He glances at the steaming van and thumps his head against his knees. He can’t afford this bullshit. There’s a tap against his leg, and he reaches for the notebook without looking up. Under the bent arches of his knees, he can just barely see the pen marks.

Want to go to the exit for food?

“More than anything.” Joe grabs a shirt from the pile behind the van, sniffing it before yanking it over his head. It’s big on him, possibly Mixon or Patrick’s. By now, he’s stopped really caring. Nothing his and nothing's theirs. Not anymore. Not really. Patrick tucks his notebook into his pocket and leads the way down the highway, kicking at stones as they go.

The silence is always nice. Joe tilts his face to the sun, scuffing his shoes on the gravel. He can hear the guys' voices in the background but they’re fading quickly, replaced by the faint buzz of cars on the other side of the barrier passing by and the quiet hum of summer time bugs. Patrick looks at him sideways, his eyes narrowed against the sunlight. Joe tries not to read into it too far, stuffing his hands into his pockets to give them something to do.

It’s still weird, so many months later. Patrick’s this cool little dude with phenomenal skill, and Joe would kill to live in his brain for five minutes, but the- well, the not talking thing is still strange. He’s used to Pete’s constantly open mouth, and Andy’s quiet but steady stream of conscious, and Mixon’s mother-hen cluck at the back of his mind all the time. Patrick, he’s a bubble of silence that’s impossible to break into, and it’s- Weird.

Joe hasn’t asked, and Patrick hasn’t told him. Pete knows- has known since he dragged Patrick into the back room of a party and locked them in for hours. Joe had waited by the door, soda cup in hand and nerves eating at the back of his brain as he watched the clock tick over from eleven to midnight to one, wondering if he should make himself known. When they’d come out, Patrick’s face had been red, eyes dark, and Pete had been unusually somber, and Joe had never asked because it wasn’t his place. If Patrick wants him to know, Patrick will tell him.

Still, the company’s fantastic and Patrick’s dry sort of humor will never be anything but great in Joe’s book. Patrick butts their shoulders together and makes a clockwork motion with his hands, raising his eyebrows.

I can hear the gears turning.

“It’s nothing, dude,” Joe says. They’ve come to a sign with the attractions of the next exit listed. Joe shields his eyes as he stares up at it, squinting against the glare off the steel. “Arby’s or IHOP?” Patrick fishes for his notebook and thinks for a long moment before replying.

ihop for us, Arby’s for them.

Joe grins and picks through the underbrush to get to the guardrail next to the exit ramp, Patrick on his heels. The rail is hot as he grabs onto it to hop over, a shock against his palm. He lands in the grass and turns to Patrick, reaching out to help him over. Patrick's sneaker catches as he's landing, and Joe has to catch him, nearly tumbling back. They share an awkward smile and break apart, elbows bumping as they stumble down the hill.

Joe’s got a twenty in his pocket, and Patrick should add ten more to it, if Joe’s remembering right. They can splurge on syrupy goodness and still bring back enough to fill Pete’s bottomless pit of a stomach. Joe misses his mother’s cooking like he can’t believe.

They’re somewhere in Pennsylvania, close enough to home to call for help, far enough away that it’s probably useless. Joe really, really doesn’t want to call for help. It had been hard enough to convince his parents that letting him tour was a good idea. He doesn’t want to have to explain this mess and ruin any potential future tours. They just have to call AAA and hope that they make enough at the next few shows to cover their asses. They can do it alone. He knows they can.

Patrick sees the IHOP first and latches onto the sleeve of Joe’s shirt, steering him through the parking lot of a gas station and a Waffle House before reaching their destination. The air conditioner inside feels like heaven on his overheated skin, and the soft rise and fall of Patrick’s shoulders means he’s feeling it too. He holds up two fingers to the waitress at the podium and sags into his seat as soon as they’re left with their menus.

Joe’s skin sticks to the table and leaves sweat marks when he lifts or rests his arms. He does it a few times to watch the patterns, but stops when he catches Patrick watching him, the corner of his mouth twisted up in an amused grin. He orders them both Pepsis and ignores Patrick’s under-the-table kick.

I wanted root beer, the notebook says.

“When you can mime it, you can get it,” Joe answers to his menu. The stuffed French toast looks delicious. “Oh, dude, Hurley’s twitching on the side of the road right now and doesn’t know why. I’m gonna, like, get a sugar coma after this.” Patrick doesn’t answer, focused on his own menu.

“Can I help you?” Their waitress asks a moment later. Joe orders the French toast with extra cream, and sets his menu to the side. Patrick frowns at the table for a moment, head tick tocking as he thinks about his choices before he flips back to the front page. He points to the Western omelet and underlines wheat toast with his fingernail when the waitress asks his preference.

It’s stopped being so strange to be in public with Patrick. Joe feels like a jackass for thinking it, but the first time he’d gone to Taco Bell with him and watched Patrick order, he’d felt his face heat up and his palms go a little slick at the thought of people behind him watching. At the table, he’d asked if it always had to be like that and Patrick stared at him, eyes gone a little cold. When he’d gotten home, Joe thought about doing it himself- about miming his order for seven layer nachos and a large drink- and felt something like respect well up in him. He’s not so sure if he’d be able to do it.

Patrick holds up his phone, screen to Joe, and taps his thumb against the side of it. There’s a message from Pete on it.

bring my ric back. i miss his squishy face.

Joe rolls his eyes and Patrick tucks his phone away as their waitress brings their plates out. His French toast looks even more impressive in person, and Joe’s stomach grumbles happily as he sits up straighter. He cuts a piece off and sticks it on Patrick’s plate, and Patrick drops a chunk of omelet onto his. It’s nice to not have to shield his food from Pete and Mixon’s grabbing hands, and Joe spreads out to enjoy his meal. It might be the last good one he can afford for a while.

---

Pete descends on them and snatches the Arby's bag out of Patrick's hand before either of them can offer it. He shoves half a roast beef sandwich into his mouth and stocks up with two more before tossing the rest of the bag at Mixon. Joe offers the smaller bag full of fries to Andy.

We have the rations. How's the van? Patrick flashes the notebook at all three of them, but Andy's the only one not currently engaged in a battle over the only Arby's melt

"Mix got the engine to turn over," he says, inspecting a curly fry. Joe's stomach, full of sugar and fluff, turns at the sight of it. Patrick looks equally green around the cheeks. "We should be able to get to Pittsburgh. Once we're there we can change the oil and let the engine rest."

"Is it going to live?" Joe asks. He doesn't cross his fingers, but Patrick does.

"She'll make a speedy recovery," Mixon says around his sandwich. He's sitting on Pete's chest, knees almost to his chest, holding his prize over his head as Pete grabs uselessly for it. He takes an exaggerated bite and presses his hand to Pete's face, shoving his head against the ground. "I nominate Patrick for drive shift."

"Second," Pete shouts, muffled under Matt's palm. Patrick crinkles his nose but doesn't fight it. His only driving rule deals with precipitation, and the bright sky is clear of any signs of it. "Shotgun, motherfuckers."

"Why don't you just drive?" Joe asks sharply. Patrick looks at him sideways, and Joe goes hot under the sunburn. "It's hot," he mutters, looking away from Patrick's hands that are already forming a question. "Let's go."

They gather their clothes from the road and pile them haphazardly into the back of the van. Andy and Mixon sit in the back row, a split shared earphone connector between them. As Joe settles into the middle row, he can hear the tinny sounds of something hardcore leaking through. Pete lays across the passenger's side seat as Patrick starts up the engine and adjusts the mirrors, fussy like an old man. Joe grins as he folds a hoodie into a makeshift pillow and jams it against the door.

The van jerks, and Joe has a brief moment of panic, but the engine holds. Patrick guides it back out onto the highway smoothly. A collective sigh of relief fills the air. Joe closes his eyes and tries to rest, but he's hyper aware of the sounds around him.

The radio is on a jazz station, but Joe's honed in on the low murmur of Pete's voice below it, a steady monotone under the saxophone and soul voiced singers. He feels like he's intruding, but it's hard to tune out.

Pete, for as awesome as he is, is more often than not Joe's nemesis. It's -- It's not fair that he can snap his fingers and have Patrick puppying after him, waiting for whatever heartbreak bullshit story Pete comes up with. It makes something cold and heavy settle in Joe's stomach like lead, weighing him down in second place.

And Joe. He's sixteen and has kissed six girls and slept with one. He's had dreams about lacy dresses and soft, pale thighs, but he's also had dreams about sweat slick jawlines and rough, large hands on his skin. The pamphlets in the guidance councilor's office says he's normal but his head says he's all sorts of fucked up, and living in a van with four reasonably attractive dudes is not really helping him during his time of crisis.

The thing is, Joe's pretty sure he could deal with the dude thing for Patrick. Patrick's awesome and funny and, like, smart in a way that makes Joe feel like he's in on the joke. He's got stupid amounts of talent, and his mouth belongs in a dirty magazine, Joe just really wants to curl up with him and never stop.

Joe rolls to face the back of the seat and stuffs his face between his hoodie and the rough seat cover. It blocks out the soft wave of Pete's voice and Joe can finally close his eyes. He can feel sleep eating at him and he pushes for it. It's been a long day.

---

You're going to look stupid.

Patrick's holding an industrial sized brown bottle of peroxide in one hand, his notebook in the other. The shady yellow light above the mirror makes his skin look sallow and pale. Through the dented metal door, the sound of Pete on the phone with girlfriend thirty-two filters in.

"Or I could look really awesome," Joe says.

They're at a rest stop in Mississippi, wasting the excess cash the last venue had overpaid them. Joe's been listening to The Eminem Show on repeat and thinks that bleaching his hair may be the best idea in ever. Andy refused to help on principle, and Matt had been ruled out by proxy. Pete cannot be trusted with anything near Joe's head, which leaves Patrick as hairdresser extrordinare, however reluctant he may be.

If all your hair falls out, I'm going to laugh in your face.

Patrick's chest heaves in a silent sigh as he sets his notebook carefully on the lip of a free sink. He crinkles his nose as he uncaps the bottle and peels safety cover off. He twirls a finger in the air, frowning. Joe turns and bends over the sink, ducking his head under the faucet.

Patrick comes to stand behind him, warm and familiar, the softness of his stomach against Joe's hip as he leans in. Joe sucks in a slow breath and squeezes his eyes shut. He's trying not to think about it- Patrick's dying his hair, Jesus Christ, nothing to get worked up about- but he's having trouble breathing properly. He feels the scrape of Patrick's stupid sideways belt buckle against his side and does his best to stand still.

The shock of cold against his scalp makes him jump. Patrick's hand comes to rest at the nape of his neck, large and warm and stable, holding him still as he pours the peroxide on slowly. He rubs it through Joe's hair with steady fingers, scrubbing at the spots behind Joe's ears and at his short sideburns gently, eyes narrowed behind his glasses.

It takes approximately ten minutes for his scalp to feel like it's being burnt straight off. Joe squeezes his eyes shut and bites down on his tongue, trying to focus on Patrick's thumb swiping back and forth over the knobby bump of his spine, an even tick-tock from side to side. A shock of cold water comes down on him from the tap, accompanied by the soft scritch of Patrick's blunt fingernails scratching against his scalp as he tries to wash the peroxide away.

The water runs a cool path over Joe's shoulders and chest as he stands, shaking his head hard enough to go dizzy. Water flies and catches on the mirror and the wall and Patrick's face. He sees a quick flash of Patrick's mouth thinned in concentration before the darkness of his t-shirt covers his eyes as Patrick begins to dry him off. When he pulls away, Joe's ears feel raw and the back of his neck burns.

"So?" He asks, waiting for Patrick's say before checking for himself. Patrick tips his head to the side, considering, and holds a level hand up. He tilts it back and forth and shrugs his shoulders.

Could be better, could be worse.

Joe turns to the mirror and squints at his reflection. He's pale and skinny, all elbows and matchstick arms, with the last of his van wreck sunburn is still visible and peeling on his shoulders. There's a red line running down his neck and a matching patch of dry skin under his ear, but his hair, fluffy and still a little damp, looks fucking awesome.

Joe yanks on his wet shirt and leads the way out of the bathroom, hands on his hips. Mixon, sat up on the nacho counter, shoots him a thumbs up. Andy rolls his eyes and continues to peel his banana, the corners of his mouth quirked. Pete, dopey and stupid from his phone call, gives Joe a long, weighty look.

"You look like a q-tip," he says finally. Joe puffs out his chest, ignoring the damp of his shirt, and cheerfully flips Pete the finger. Pete's own hair is currently a botched job of hot pink. His room to judge is slight. "Rick, love of my life, you should buy me an Icee."

Buy your own Icee.

"Your handwriting is atrocious," Pete says brightly as he throws an arm over Patrick's shoulders, steering him towards the drink machines. "I can't understand a word." Joe snorts when Patrick elbows him in the gut.

When they get back to the van, loaded down with the appropriate ration of Mountain Dew and nachos, Pete has a super gulp filled with Cola flavored Icee and Patrick has white tipped fingers. Joe scrubs away the peroxide stains as Andy drives on.

---

Their writing process goes something like this: Pete throws a handful of receipts and napkins and scraps of paper into Patrick's lap and locks the door for hours. Then, Patrick holes up with Mixon, Mixon holes up with Andy, and Joe gets to listen to everything that's not his part at the end of all of it.

It's a system that works, even though its flaws are glaring. Joe listens to the mock-up files on Patrick's laptop, one earbud tucked into his ear, Patrick warm against his side with the other one, and writes his part in with taps to the keyboard, more error than trial. Patrick fixes what he can't and, in the end, they have a finished song. It's a tried and true method that's gotten them where they are now, and Joe's not going to argue it.

Where they are now is on the border of Tennessee.

Pete's hanging out the front window, spreading the unwashed odor of his armpits through the streets as Mixon navigates through the maze that's supposed to lead to the venue. Joe fervently hopes there's a shower nearby, if only for the sake of getting the smell of Pete's sweat off of him. The vaguely ill look on Patrick's face means he shares the sentiment.

The Dive is exactly what it sounds like. The building is falling in on itself, the wood panel doors cracked and the foundation more graffiti than plaster. Mixon parks between two pickup trucks and cuts the engine, peeking out into the parking lot. When he brings his head back in, he's grinning. Pete hollers until Andy makes him stop.

When Patrick kicks open the doors, they can see a small line of kids already at the ticket counter. Some cheer as Patrick hops out onto the pavement and Joe can see the hot pink of his embarrassment creeping up the back of his neck. He waves shyly, sidestepping as Pete shoves through and goes to greet his audience. Mixon runs hot on his heels, mouth stretching wide across his face. Joe stares sadly at the van and all the equipment and wonders if they can trick anyone into unloading for them.

"It didn't work last time, and it won't work now," Andy says next to him. Joe frowns and reluctantly reaches for the box of cables. One day, he thinks, they'll have roadies that aren't Dirty, and they won't have to put up with the bullshit.

Patrick and Andy unload the drum kit together, and Mixon drags Pete back just in time to help Joe with the amps. On their third trip back, Dirty's pulling into the lot with the merch trailer. He passes them with the fold out stand tucked under his arm, saluting as he goes by, and begins to set up shop outside the doors. The kids flock to him like flies.

This is weird.

Patrick hops onto the bumper and watches as Dirty shoves two guys away as he wrestles the stand into something usable. Joe nods and settles in beside him, leaning back against the van's cracked paint job. Someone snags a hoodie from the pile, and Dirty shoves the twenty into his cigar box turned cash register. It's surreal.

He can remember six months ago, playing bars in Chicago to six kids at most. This is... Different. Exciting. There's a group of kids that keep looking over at them, smiling and laughing- and not in the you suck kind of way, which is nice- and Joe's doing his best at keeping his hands down. Part of him wants to think this is all a dream. If it is, well, he'd like to stay asleep.

A girl approaches them cautiously, like she's afraid they'll lash out. Joe smiles, bemused. She looks like someone that could be in his classes. She's got her ticket in one hand, her other smeared with a black non-alcohol stamp.

"Um. Hi?" She laughs, and Joe laughs too. Beside him, Patrick squirms. "I'm Megan. I really like your band."

"Thanks," Joe says sincerely. It never gets old. Probably never will. There's an awkward pause, and then Megan jerks her arm forward, holding out her ticket.

"Could you guys sign this?" She asks.

Patrick pulls his pen from behind his ear and dutifully scrawls his name across the ticket at one end, smiling as he hands it over to Joe. Joe fits his name in the spaces between Patrick's, linking their t's in an awkward railroad line before giving it back.

"Thank you," Megan says, holding the ticket briefly to her chest. "Do you guys, like, need a place to stay tonight? I have a basement with a couple of air mattresses." She's looking at Patrick when she says it and something prickles in Joe's chest as Patrick grins at her, eyes squinted against the sun.

"That sounds great," Joe says tightly. "Really."

As they head into the venue, Joe rests his arms over Patrick's shoulders and tries to ignore the slip of paper with Megan's number between the pages of Patrick's notebook.

---

The show plays like gold.

Mixon's hoarse voiced after, and Pete's bleeding from a run in with a snapped string, but there's smiles all around. The crowd keeps making noise, even as they wander back off to the parking lot. Joe's drenched in sweat, but the buzz under his skin from a show well played makes him feel invincible.

Patrick veers off towards the van once they break past the doors, his phone already in his hands. Pete and Mixon are already heading off to mingle with the handful of fans at the back doors, and Andy's talking to a security guard with his serious face on. Of the options, Joe chooses Patrick. He usually does.

Patrick quite possibly has the fastest thumbs ever to have exist. Joe watches him send his customary after show text to his mom and brother, stripping out of his dirty shirt and swapping for a cleaner one. The air feels cool around him, the summer sun long gone. He stretches out on the pavement, ignoring the pebbles digging into his skin, and uses his new shirt as a pillow.

Above him, Patrick is staring down at the screen of his phone, frowning. He types a few letters and then backspaces. He does it again, and then one more time. Joe prods him gently with his foot, raising his eyebrows.

"What're you doing?" He asks. Patrick touches his thumb to the spot under his ear and drags it down his jaw to his chin, still staring down at his phone.

Girl. Megan.

Joe closes his eyes and listens to the voices across the lot and the faint clicks of Patrick's fingers on the keys.

---

Megan's house is near the center of town, tucked neatly in at the end of a cul-de-sac. Pete pulls the van into the driveway and kills the engine as Dirty follows them in. There's a small number of cars parked in the street, but there's also a slew of sweaty, smelly kids walking down the road in a pack, chattering loudly at one another.

Joe watches uneasily as someone totes in a clinking bag full of liquor bottles through the front door. The kid looks Joe's age, maybe younger. Out of the corner of his eye, Joe sees Andy's lips go tight as he follows behind.

Patrick's jumpy, fiddling with his notebook as he waits on the bumper for Megan to show up. Mixon has one arm around his shoulders, talking to him boldly about all of his charms, but it seems to be doing more harm than good if the jittering of Patrick's leg is any indication. Joe stares at his shoes and keeps his mouth shut.

Patrick's a great guy. He is. And he deserves to have all the rockstar sex he wants but--. Joe kicks at a pebble and sinks down against the side of the van. He's being stupid and childish. He has to man up or shut up, and right now it looks like he's shutting up. Maybe next time.

"Drink this," Pete says, holding a glass out to Patrick. Matt's eyes narrow. "It's water. Jesus, give me some slack."

"Not after last time," Matt says. Pete has the grace to look rebuffed, even if Joe knows it's mostly thematic. "Seriously, Stump, you'll be fine." He lifts his fingers to his mouth in a sideways 'c' and drops it. Joe doesn't know what it means but Patrick grins at him, the tips of his ears going pink.

At the end of the drive, Megan appears between two other girls. She's small and dark haired, her skirt a little too short and her shirt one of the ones from Dirty's trailer. She clasps hands with the girls at her side when she catches sight of Patrick, and Joe has to look away. Man up or shut up, man up or shut up.

"Hi," Megan says. Her entourage giggles. Patrick waves and hops down onto the gravel. He offers his arm because he's stupid and sweet and Megan takes it with a smile, even though Joe can smell Patrick from two feet away. She leads him into the house with a last look over her shoulder at her friends.

"They grow up so fast," Matt says as he loops his arm around Joe's shoulders.

Joe shrugs and lets himself be led into the party. The music's loud and the kids are louder, yelling with their hoarse voices to be heard. There's no sign of any adults in the house at all, and something about that makes Joe miss his mom. Mixon breaks away when someone asks him to play DJ, and Joe's left to amuse himself. He takes the cup a kid offers to him with a smile, but sets it down as soon as he switches rooms. He's edge, but he's also uneasy, flitting back and forth, watching for Patrick.

He doesn't know how long he's been wandering from conversation to conversation when he finds Andy in the bathroom, rubbing some kid's back as he vomits. He glances up at Joe and frowns, his eyes hidden behind the frames of his glasses. There's stress written across his face, forever a big brother, and Joe wants to curl up on his lap for no reason at all.

"You okay?" Andy asks softly. The boy in front of him heaves.

"Tired," Joe answers. Now that he's said it, he can feel the post show weariness sinking in, the last of the adrenaline fading away from him. The sounds of the party haven't gotten any fainter, even though the first cracks of dawn are visible through the windows. He thinks about the long stretch of road between them and their next show and feels homesick.

Andy stares at him for a long time, silent. He offers Joe a small, understanding smile and reaches for the cup of water balanced on the lip of the bathtub, holding it to the kid's mouth and tipping it up slowly.

"It gets easier," he says eventually. Joe's not sure exactly which part is supposed to get easier, or if he's even talking to him at all, but he believes it.

Joe winds his way through the party, looking for the basement door. He finds it in the kitchen. The light isn't on, and Joe doesn't look for a switch, holding on to the sturdy banister and taking small, careful steps instead. He hopes the mattresses are ready, but he'll sleep on the concrete if he has to. It's not like he hasn't slept on worse.

In the spillover of light from the high, narrow windows, Joe can see a big, blocky shape in the middle of the room that he assumes is a couch, and two smaller rectangles that are most likely the air mattresses. Joe heaves a sigh of relief and shucks out of his shirt and shoes, already angling himself for the mattress farthest from the door. As he crosses the room, he hears a small shift and a soft snuffling noise. He turns, jerky, all the horror movies he's ever seen racing through his brain at top speeds.

There's a lump in front of the couch. Joe doesn't have to look twice to know it's Patrick. Joe folds down next to him and presses their shoulders together, waiting. Patrick doesn't pull away, and Joe takes that for something good.

"What happened?" He asks. Patrick shrugs, his arm tight against Joe's. Something sad settles in Joe's stomach. "What happened?" There's a long pause and Joe thinks for a moment that he's not going to get an answer. Then there's the blue glow of Patrick's phone and the soft taps of keys.

It took Megan an hour to realize I can't talk.

Joe winces. In the light of the phone, Patrick looks tired. He cheeks are dry, but his eyes are red, and the soft edges of his mouth look tight and stretched. He taps his thumb against the side of his phone agitatedly before clearing the message.

She called me a freak.

"Dude." Joe wraps his arm around Patrick's shoulders. It only hurts a little when Patrick shrugs him off. "You're, like, the most awesome dude ever." If he were Pete, he could go on about it for days. As it is, he keeps his mouth shut and hopes it sinks in. Patrick raises one hand to his chest and drops his elbow.

I'm tired.

He tucks his phone away and crawls away from the couch, curling up on the nearest mattress. He looks small, hunched in around himself. It's not fair. Joe lays beside him, arm against the curve of Patrick's back, and listens to him breathe. Neither one of them sleep.

---

"Can I be a paid pancake taster?" Mixon asks, shoveling another bite into his mouth. Andy snags a strawberry from his plate and bites it off to the stem.

"It's not like you can make any less cash than you make now," he answers. His hair is uncombed and his eyes are dark underneath. He's been driving for six hours and looks like he's going to keel over any moment. Joe shoves a soda at him and reaches for the keys.

"Dude, Rick, you'd come with me, right?" Matt asks. He presses the thumb of an L shaped hand to his forehead and taps it against his other hand, balancing his fork precariously between his middle and index fingers. Patrick grins and mirrors it.

A folders thumps down on the middle of the table, narrowly missing Joe's plate of eggs. Pete grins down at them proudly, hands on his hips. Joe blinks up at him. The others ignore him, for the most part.

"Dudes," Pete finally says, reaching for the biscuit at the edge of Patrick's plate. He recoils when Patrick raps him across the knuckles with his fork, scowling.

"Motherfucker. Open the fucking folder, you little bastard." Patrick shoves the rest of the biscuit into his mouth to be contrary, but he does flip the cover open.

Inside, typed on clean, neat sheets of paper, is a recording contract.

"You're shitting me, right?" Mixon asks, lifting a page gingerly with his free hand. A smudge of syrup stains the back of the paper and Joe focuses on it, his breath held. Matt lowers the sheet slowly, his smile blinding.

The fork in his hand clatters to the table with a bang as Matt throws himself at Pete, toppling him over. Joe joins the fray, dragging Patrick along by the wrist. Even Andy dogpiles himself on top, his arms tight around as many of them as he can grab. Joe presses his face into the solid plane of Patrick's chest and laughs himself stupid.

They're actually doing it. They're something and people ate listening to them and they're going to have an entire fucking album to show exactly how fucking awesome they are. It's surreal and awesome, and Joe can't think past anything but we made it.

Somehow, they manage to detangle themselves from the floor and each other, ignoring the stares from the other diners. Joe yanks Pete into a hug, Pete's shoulder smacking against his chest knocking his breath away, and holds on tight. Pete squeezes back tighter, desperate energy making him careless.

It's a celebration, and if they we're somewhere else, Joe's sure they would be screaming from the tops of their lungs and shouting their victory. As it is, they're mostly silent, basking in the excitement. In the prospects. The silence is why Joe hears the soft choking noise.

At the edge of the group and leaned against the empty table, Patrick has one hand to his throat, the other grasping the seat of the booth with white knuckled intensity. His face is red and getting redder, his eyes going wide. He folds over, the wet choking sound ripping from him again.

Pete's the first to move, his phone out and dialed before anyone can register what's going on. Patrick starts sinking down and Joe reaches for him, heart thudding heavily against the inside of his chest. He somehow manages to get Patrick to the floor, leaned back against the side of the booth. Patrick stares up at him, glasses falling to the floor as he jerks his head to the side.

The patrons of the diner are staring and it makes Joe furious. He's thinking about health class and the Heimlich Maneuver and CPR, but Pete's yelling at Andy to step away, to back right the fuck off and just tilt his head back, there's nothing we can do. He looks terrified, standing so so still.

Then, he's yelling into his phone at a secretary, and all Joe can hear is choking on breath and paralyzed vocal cord and open his throat. Joe sees flashes of bad television ER specials and thinks he's going to die. Andy tips Patrick's head back like he was told to. His hands aren't steady and Joe can only sit and hold on while he still can. Patrick's lips are going blue at the edges, his fingers closing and opening on Joe's arm and leg. Joe presses his forehead to Patrick's shoulder and clings tighter.

Someone has a hold on him, is pulling him away. Joe jerks, fingers going tighter in the folds of Patrick's jeans until he feels Pete and Mixon against him on either side, pulling him away. As he moves, he can hear the wail of a siren break through the stream of please be okay, please, God, let him be okay in his head, and he sees the clinical white of a paramedic take his place.

Patrick's hands are weak and limp, eyes rolled back into his head and cheeks gone puffy. The paramedic opens his mouth and slides something metal and foreign down into his throat, talking Patrick through it quietly. Next to him, Pete's shaking. Joe closes his eyes and prays.

He doesn't hear the gasp of breath- there is no sound to hear- but Andy's hand goes tight on his shoulder and Pete heaves a sigh that makes him go loose against Joe's side.

The paramedic steps away, tucking the slim metal tool back into his kit. Patrick's eyes are closed, but the steady rise and fall of his chest means that he's breathing. That he's alive. Joe's knees go weak and he sags, Mixon at his back the only thing keeping him upright.

Pete follows the paramedic outside, already rattling off Patrick's identifiers and his home address. Matt gathers Patrick up in his arms, hefting him to rest against his chest. Patrick's limp and pliant, his face changing slowly from red back to pink. Andy reaches for the bill and shoves Joe out after them.

Between the both of them, Matt and Joe manage to lay Patrick out across the back row, head propped against the door and legs stretched out over the seat. Joe crawls in and carefully tucks himself behind Patrick, neck awkward against the door with his knees pressed to the backs of Patrick's, and wraps his arms around Patrick's waist to keep him balanced.

He's crunched in and uncomfortable, but he can feel Patrick breathing steadily under his linked hands, can hear the softness of his breaths as he sleeps. Mixon shoves himself in at the end of the bench seat and rearranges their legs in his lap, one of his large hands resting across their calves.

They're silent, hands firm and still against Patrick. The door slides open and Pete looks at them quietly, his eyes dark and his mouth drawn tight. He kicks the back of the middle row until it squeals and gives a few inches, jamming himself into the space left on the floor. Joe feels more than sees Pete link fingers with one of Patrick's limp hands, arm angled up awkwardly against his chest.

When Andy climbs into the driver's seat, Mixon's half way asleep, head nodding against his chest irregularly. It's familiar and comforting and Joe presses his face to the back of Patrick's neck and breathes in. Things are okay. Everything is going to be okay.

---

"Patricia?" Joe looks over his shoulder where Pete is splayed across Patrick's lap, telling an elaborate dirty joke. Patrick's face is red, but he's grinning behind Pete's back. Joe's stomach does a funny little flip, and he has to look away.

"Joe?" Patricia asks, voice light with sleep. They're still in Florida, only a few hours away from the diner, but Joe feels like they've been driving forever. "Is everything okay?"

"No," he says, leaning back against the rest stop wall. He tips his head back against the brick and closes his eyes, the creaks of crickets loud so far off the road. It's late. He shouldn't have called.

"Joe? What's wrong? Is Patrick okay?"

"He choked," Joe says. It makes him feel ill. He can see Patrick's lips going blue-white at the edges behind his closed eyelids and he has to open them to make the image go away. "We had to call the paramedics."

"Is he alright?" Patricia asks, all signs of sleep gone from her voice.

"Yeah," Joe says. Across the lot, Patrick's doing his weird silent, squinty eyed laugh, shaking hard enough to knock Pete to the ground. Pete's indignant squawk carries through the cool night air. "Does it happen a lot?"

"It's part of his condition," Patricia says softly. Joe can almost see her soft face and the smile lines around her mouth and eyes. "Tell him to text me."

"I will," Joe replies.

"Are you okay, honey?" Patricia asks. Joe's silent for a moment, hand splayed across the cool wall behind him. Mixon and Patrick are signing back and forth, grinning as Pete bitches about being left out. Joe can't see it from where he's standing, but he knows there's a bruise under Patrick's shirt collar, purple blue right under his adams' apple, large and ugly.

"I thought he was going to die," Joe breathes. His chest aches as he says it. As he admits it.

"I know, sweetheart," Patricia says gently. Joe wants to be there, wants the hug he knows she would be offering. He can't imagine being part of that life. Can't imagine seeing his kid choking, unable to help, unable to fix it. "He won't let you know it, but he's scared too. Just be there for him."

"I will be." It's a promise.

"Take care of yourself, and don't let Pete smother him," Patricia says. Joe laughs weakly. He feels a little better for the effort. "It'll be okay honey. Call if you need anything, okay?"

"I will," Joe says again. He's quiet for a moment, listening to the soft, sleepy huffs of Patricia's breathing. "Pat, does. What does he have?" The words tumble out, tripping over one another. "What's wrong with him?"

"Joe, I don't think-"

"I'm sorry," Joe says quickly. He feels sick. Tired. "I should go. Bye." He flips his phone shut and pushes the ache in his chest away.

When Joe settles at Patrick's feet, Mixon grins at him. Pete takes his spot back on Patrick's lap, his sneaker catching Joe's ear as he fumbles for stability, and everything feels like it should. Everything feels normal again.

---

Joe met Patrick at a bookstore. He'd been there with his brother, flipping through the shitty little CD collection while Sam flirted awkwardly with a girl from his class. It was a little painful to listen to, and Joe was unsurprised when Sam appeared in front him, dejected. Joe patted his shoulder awkwardly and feared for the next few years of weird conversations. He wasn't ready for that kind of talk.

"There's a show tonight," he'd said consolingly. "We can totally go." He fished for the crumpled flyer in his back pocket and smoothed it out before handing it over. "We can bike there."

There was a tap on his shoulder and Joe turned, surprised when he was presented with a face full of wrinkled white notebook paper. The handwriting on the page was small and neat, thin pen lines across the top row.

Are you talking about Neurosis?

"Yes," Joe said, blinking. The notebook dropped. Behind it, there was a short redheaded boy in big jeans and a baggy Lifetime t-shirt. He scribbled something down quickly, scratching out the previous question before holding the notebook up again.

They moved the show to Brighton. It's going to be awesome. The boy peeked around the side of the notebook and grinned.

Joe's been head over heels since.

They're in Texas, drowning in dry, hot air on their first real day off in what seems like forever. Joe kind of feels like a giant shit sneaking around like he is, but he wants to help, and he can't do anything if he doesn't know what he's dealing with, so. Research.

Medical journals have never been exciting to him. Joe remembers his father's giant bookcase full of them in his study and sighs, flipping to the index of journal number seven. It feels strange to run his finger across the word mute and connect it with Patrick's wide, toothy smile.

The mall is loud and filled with people Joe will never see again. It's comforting, in a way, to know that he's anonymous here, away from pressure. But time is short and there's only so many places he could be. If he gets caught, they're going to give him hell for weeks. He finds the section on muteness and scans it, eyes catching on the section headed 'paralysis'. There's two subheads, and Joe skims them, trying to figure out which category Patrick falls under. A tap on his shoulder makes him jump, hands fumbling with the book before slamming it shut. He clutches it to his chest as he turns, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Behind him, Patrick cocks his head and raises his eyebrows. Joe shoves the book back onto the shelf guiltily and shrugs, jamming his hands into his pockets to keep from wringing them. He feels like he's been caught looking at porn.

"Trying to figure out if med school's a good back-up plan," he says blandly. "Oh, hey, what'd you get?"

Patrick brandishes his shopping bag proudly and lets himself be dragged out of the store as he digs through it. When they pass the doors, he pulls out a shiny purple hightop. It has a high yellow tongue and green laces, and Patrick's looking at it like he looks at his vinyl collection. Joe's heart skips a beat when Patrick smiles up at him.

"Awesome," Joe says sincerely. Patrick sticks it back into its box and pulls out another sneaker. It's a glaring shade of silver that makes Joe's eyes hurt. He loves it a little immediately. "You're kind of like a chick with the whole shoe shopping thing." Patrick waves a middle finger at him and leads the way to the food court where Pete and Andy are already waiting.

"Four down, one to go," Pete says as they join him. "Oh, hey, shoes." He rifles through Patrick's bag, ignoring the blow to his forehead from the heel of the shiny silver shoe, and commands Patrick to give him a show.

While Patrick kicks off his ratty Chucks, Joe jots down bilateral and unilateral on the sole of his own shoe.

---

Being sixteen on the road sucks. Joe and Patrick have been kicked out of the shitty little bar to guard the stuff while the others mingle. It’s boring and unfair and it sucks. Patrick’s laying on the floor of the merch trailer, head hanging off the edge. His hat stays on through sheer force of will, his face slowly turning pink as the blood rushes to it.

The house music is loud and indistinct, creeping through the cracks of the doors. Joe stares hopefully at the bouncer. The bouncer just shakes his head, thick arms crossed over his barrel chest. Joe flops onto the bumper next to Patrick, bouncing the trailer. The careful balance Patrick’s hat had achieved is wrecked and it tumbles to the ground. Patrick’s hair, dirty and a little long, hangs down without it, damp at the roots.

Pick it up.

Patrick’s handwriting is awkwardly angled, letters smashing together. Joe considers leaving it, the pressure of the trailer against his sore back a better cut of the deal, but Patrick knees him in the side until he does, grinning smug as Joe shoves it under his head.

It could be worse. Patrick drops his notebook onto Joe’s lap and sits up, hair wild until he jams his hat back over it. Joe shrugs and flips the page, reaching for Patrick’s pen. If he's stranded, at least he's got Patrick for company.

They play tic-tac-toe until the doors fly open, releasing a swarm of drunk patrons. Among them, Pete’s laughing uproariously, eyes just short of bloodshot. Patrick exchanges a look with Joe before sliding off the edge of the trailer, his notebook half open in his hand.

When it comes to Pete, subtlety is a foreign concept. He wears his heart on his sleeve, fuck the world and anyone that cares to look at it sideways. Joe admires it sometimes, when he's stuck in his head, words locked up because he doesn't know how to say them. Times like this, he holds onto his shields and refuses to let go. If being open can bring him as low as it brings Pete, he wants no part of it.

“Rick,” Pete cheers, throwing an arm around Patrick’s shoulders. “Just the man I wanted to see.” He laughs as he stumbles, bracing himself against Patrick’s weight.

Joe feels uneasy as he watches Pete lead Patrick to a back alley, shoulders tight under Pete’s arm. Joe slides into the van when they’re out of sight and pockets the orange pill bottles at the bottom of Pete’s duffel. The pills bounce against his leg, but it makes the knot in his stomach uncoil a little.

“Is Pete okay?” Joe asks Mixon as soon as he and Andy are back. They share a look over his head, Andy’s mouth a tight line as he aims himself for Pete’s bag. Joe rattles his pocket and Andy nods at him. Great minds think alike and all that.

“Jenae called,” Matt says, running a hand through his hair. Joe winces. He thinks about the last calls and the hollowed out bitterness to Pete’s voice and hops to the pavement, hoping Patrick’s got a handle on things.

“I’m gonna go check on him,” he says, heading off before anyone can answer.

The alley’s dark and quiet, dumpsters and fire escapes closing in on him as Joe wanders off in the direction Patrick had gone. His shoes crunch the gravel, the noise loud in his ears. Faintly, he can hear the sounds of the highway behind him. He hears Pete before he sees them, and it makes him speed up.

Pete’s on the ground, mouth bleeding and eye swelling. Patrick’s standing over him, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand angrily. His notebook is torn on the ground filled pages of conversation blowing down the alley on the breeze. The knuckles of his right hand are torn and red. Bleeding.

“Patrick?”

Patrick and Pete both look up at him, eyes wide. Patrick comes to first, snatching his ruined notebook and scratches down a quick note. He tears it out and shoves it against Joe’s chest before storming away.

You deal with him.

Pete’s managed to push himself up, resting against a wall, head tipped back against it. Joe sinks down next to him, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around his shins.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey.” Pete’s voice is rough. He wipes his mouth with the cuff of his hoodie sleeve and spits. There’s blood in the mix, turning it pink. Patrick has a mean right hook, if nothing else.

“What happened?” Joe asks. Pete laughs, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. He hisses as it upsets the bruises already forming on the left side of his face. He'll have a nasty shiner for weeks.

“I kissed him,” Pete says. Joe’s stomach twists but he bites his tongue, staring at the fading graffiti on the wall across from them. “Fucking- Fucking Jenae cheated on me.” He leans into the wall and breathes out slowly, eyes closing. “I. Jesus. I fucking tried to rebound on Patrick.”

“That’s fucked up,” Joe says tightly. He balls his hands against his shins, chin digging into his knees. Pete laughs again. His breath smells sour.

“No shit,” he says. “Fuck.” He kicks out uselessly, sending a shower of dirt and gravel down a sewer grate. Joe wants to punch him, wants to finish what Patrick started. He curls his fingers tighter and breathes out slowly through his nose. “I fucking-” Pete turns and heaves onto the gravel.

“He worships you,” Joe says into the chilly pre-morning air. “He’d give you anything you wanted if you asked.” Joe scrambles to his feet. He doesn’t offer to help Pete up. “You’re such an asshole.” It’s a weak exit, but Pete’s already drowning in his misery, and Joe’s seeing red as he jogs to the van.

Patrick’s in the middle row, socks and shoes on the floor in front of him, jacket off and sweats on. Someone, probably Andy, has wrapped his hand up with a torn off strip of t-shirt and tied the knot into the cup of his palm. It’s as good as duct taping his mouth; he can’t write like this, and Mixon- who is drifting off against the passenger side window- is the only one that knows ASL well enough to translate anything he’d sign.

He looks up at Joe, his jaw tight, face still red with anger. There's a flicker of hurt that he doesn't hide fast enough, and Joe feels ill again. Patrick lifts his legs when Joe climbs in though and offers an earbud. Joe takes it and listens to the new song silently. It’s angry and vicious, and Joe can see the sloppy scribbling of Pete’s handwriting on a crumpled sheet of paper on Patrick’s lap.

Pete spends the night in the merch trailer.

---

Pete’s eye has gone a nasty shade of yellow green, and Patrick has been pointedly ignoring him. The upside is that Patrick’s laptop is filled with a handful of really awesome songs that’ll probably make up the tracklist of their first legitimate CD.

That’s still terrifying, when Joe lets himself think about it. It’s been pushed to the back of Joe’s mind, lost behind all the chaos, but it’s still there. It's a pleasant hum under his skin that’s making it easier to get back into the van each night, even if he wants to scream at each exit sign.

The shows have been tense and raw: Pete and Patrick on opposite sides of the stage, Mixon and Joe stuck as prisoners between them, Andy watching from behind. It’s an explosion waiting to happen, and Joe’s sitting on the sidelines, ready to pick up the pieces when they eventually fall.

They mange to book a motel room on the northern border of Arizona. Its sign blinks in distorted neon, and Joe steps on a cockroach as he reaches for the keys from the bored woman at the service desk. Still, the room has two full sized beds and a working shower, and the dent it puts into their funds is minimal. They can deal with it.

“I call Andy,” Pete says as soon as they cross onto the bed closest to the ugly grey-green carpet. He tosses his duffel onto the bed closest to the door and kicks his shoes off. Normally he claims Patrick. No one is surprised by the change.

“Straws for the tub,” Matt says, dropping his bag onto the dresser. They don’t have straws, but Pete cuts off chinks of the corners of the blinds and holds them in his fist. To play fair, Joe picks last. “Dude.” Matt sizes his piece against Patrick’s. “This is so unfair.”

You wanted to draw straws, Patrick scribbles on the back of his hand. The ink in his pen is dying, leaving the letters jumpy and thin because of it.

“Trohman, dude, you love me, right?” Matt asks, eye wide and lower lip trembling.

“You ate the last bag of Doritos,” Joe accuses. “I hope a cockroach, like, crawls up your nose.”

“Dude. Uncool.” Matt glances sadly at the bathroom and shrugs. Pete will probably be up all night, anyway, and Matt will probably crawl into bed with Andy after midnight. It’s not unusual.

The night is still young, sunset still making the sky orange-purple-blue. Joe grabs a towel from the bathroom and strips to his underwear. There’s a pond nearby and no time limits. Joe’s going to milk this night of freedom for all it’s worth.

The ground is hot and sandy, dirt sticking to his bare feet as he makes his way to the little pond. He slides into the lukewarm water and doggy paddles to the middle, enjoying the quiet. He loves his band and he loves touring, but the space inside his head is cramped and overflowing. The silence and cool air against his face are just the things he needs.

The tour is almost over. They have six shows left in a zig-zag back to Chicago. Then summer is over and it’s back to school and working on new material in Patrick’s basement. The thought makes Joe ache a little inside. He’s going to miss the feel of the road under him and the constant presence of his best friends.

The water feels nice against his skin as he floats lazily, hands folded under his head. The last of sunset has gone, and if he looks hard, he can almost see stars. It’s nice in a way that the city isn’t. Peaceful.

A soft scuff of shoes against the rocky bank makes him look up. Patrick’s there, notebook in one hand, toeing his green sneakers off. He’s in a pair of gym shorts and a loose t-shirt, hat crooked until he pulls it off. He tosses his notebook to the ground and lays his glasses on top of it before sliding into the water with a shiver.

They float side-by-side for a long while, listening to the crickets chirping. Patrick bumps into him, warm side against Joe’s, but doesn’t push away. Joe closes his eyes. He’s going to miss this too. Patrick’s hand, large and familiar and going wrinkled from the water, brushes his. Joe doesn’t open his eyes.

Patrick's a pleasant presence, silent and still. Familiar. Comforting. The ink on Joe's sneakers has faded a little and Joe's no closer to knowing what's wrong, but Patrick smiling up at the almost visible stars makes him feel like he has to hurry. Like he has to fix it before anything can go wrong beyond repair.

The tips of Patrick’s fingers skim across Joe’s palm under the water. It tickles, the touch too light to feel real. Joe’s heart stutters in his chest as Patrick lines their hands up, palms to fingertips. Joe folds his fingers into the spaces between Patrick’s and breathes out.

He feels young and ridiculous, a kid on a first date, and he's sure his palm would be damp even outside of the pond. Patrick's not looking at him, but he isn't looking away either, and when Joe shimmies closer, awkwardly fitting their sides together, their ankles linked, he grins, his face going pink in the dark.

When they finally pull themselves out of the water, Patrick is dripping wet across the sand, t-shirt gone nearly transparent. Joe feels tired, his eyelids heavy. He scrubs off with the towel and hands it over to Patrick, awkward now that Patrick’s notebook- Patrick’s voice- is close by.

Patrick’s hair sticks up wildly after he towels it off, his eyes unfocused as he tosses the wet towel onto his shoulder. Joe’s about to head back to the room to claim a shower before Mixon goes to sleep when Patrick touches his arm.

They stand there for a long moment, staring at one another and cold air curling around them. Joe's breath hitches. He doesn't let himself think about it, afraid of the disappointment if he's wrong.

It’s like slow motion. Patrick leans in, hand tense against Joe’s shoulder. There’s a split second pause, a moment that he could pull away in, but he doesn’t. Patrick’s mouth brushes his, warm and soft and sure. His shirt is soaked under Joe’s hands, dripping water through the spaces between his clenched fingers and he smells like the pond and the last of the Irish Spring from Pete’s bag, and his skin is clammy where it presses against Joe’s. He doesn’t pull away and Joe doesn’t either, eyes closed, mouth open, heart hammering in his chest.

Patrick kisses him again, firmer, surer, before taking a step back, blinking to clear his vision. Joe doesn’t reach up to touch his mouth even though his hand’s tingling with want. Patrick gathers up his glasses and shoes and notebook, clutching them to his chest and staring at the ground as they walk back to the motel in tense silence.

Pete’s not in the room, which isn’t surprising. Andy and Mixon are on one of the beds, watching a movie on HBO. Matt smiles at them as they come in, stretching out. His feet dangle over the edge of the mattress. Patrick grabs his bag and ducks into the bathroom before Joe can. The sound of the shower running filters through the door a moment later.

Joe swaps his underwear for a dry pair, ignoring Mixon’s scandalized shouts, and settles onto the free bed. His skin is buzzing, his arms and legs restless as he slides under the cool, clean sheets. He's still damp, goosebumps across his stomach and arms, hair sticking to his face. The pillow under his head feels soft and inviting, and Joe is asleep before he can appreciate it.

He wakes up when Pete comes back. He looks tired, closing the door gently behind himself. He runs a hand through his hair, the stress in his written across the blood on his knuckles. Joe still has his medication, has been doling it out in the proper increments, just in case. Pete's never done anything that stupid, but. Well. Pete glances over the beds, eyes locking with Joe’s for a brief moment, before he shuffles quietly to the bathroom to try to catch some sleep in the tub.

Patrick’s pressed against Joe’s back, curled up against the wall, one foot thrust back between Joe’s calves. His breathing is soft and even, the steady pulse of his chest rising and falling familiar.

Carefully, Joe turns over. The bed creaks under him, loud in the silent room. Joe feels uncomfortable and awkward, too close under the sheets, and that makes him feel guilty on top of everything else. Slowly, gently, he lays his arm across Patrick’s waist, hand flat against the soft swell of his bare belly, and closes his eyes. It doesn’t take long for him to fall back asleep.

---

They don't talk about it.

When they settle in the van the next day, Joe's set to drive, a super-gulp illegally filled with coffee between his thighs and a burrito in his hand. Usually, Patrick snags the passenger's seat, but today Pete grabs him and shoves him into the back row, determination written across his face. Joe ignores the sinking feeling in his stomach and says a quick hey to Andy as he slips in next to him.

Driving is still exciting to him, hundreds of miles later. The van is technically his, even though Pete's dubbed it group territory more than once. Joe's hands stay at ten and two and the speedometer always reads exactly four miles over the speed limit. He's never been pulled over or crashed, so he figures it's a go.

Andy feeds a CD into the player. It's a Chicago band that Joe's heard a few times before but doesn't recognize. He taps his fingers against the wheel in time to the beat and doesn't pay attention to the worried glances Andy's giving him.

It hurts, a little. They'd woken up slow and groggy, Patrick tucked to Joe's front, and Joe had felt like something big was going to happen. Like- like anything. But Patrick had gone tense, shoulders tight against Joe's chest, and squirmed off the bed with a hot flush across the back of his neck visible as he skittered off to the bathroom.

Joe shovels a mouthful of burrito in and doesn't look into the rearview mirror. Maybe it was just a thing. A Patrick thing. Maybe it was an experiment. Maybe Pete sparked something in Patrick and Joe was the easiest target. Maybe Joe was the rebound off Pete. Joe's heart aches to think about it.

"You okay?" Andy asks. The music is almost loud enough to drown him out. Joe could pretend not to hear, and Andy probably wouldn't push.

"I don't know," he says instead. He hears Pete's loud, bright laugh and winces. Things are back to normal back there. He wonders where that leaves him.

"You're a good dude," Andy says. He looks at the rearview mirror, eyes sharp behind his glasses. "It'll work out all right."

---

The last show is in Chicago. Three months ago, they'd played the same venue, shaky and stoked for the tour. The place is sold out and overfilled, kids lined up around the block hoping for a chance to get in. It's surreal.

They don't have the time to go home before the show starts, but Joe's tackled by Sam before he even gets to the back door of the venue, and he can see his parents close by. He hugs his little brother maybe a little too tight and feels home.

Patrick's hugging his mother, face against her chest, rapid fire signing with one hand she probably can't see. He looks closer to ten than seventeen, a kid home from summer camp. Pete joins the hug from behind, startling a laugh from Patricia, and time speeds up, too fast for Joe to catch his breath.

The show plays like none of the others have so far. The energy feels tangible, rattling up through the stage straight to Joe's insides. The crowd sings along, shouting Pete's words back at Mixon. Mixon dives off the stage halfway through the last song and lets the kids sing the rest of it for him. It's crazy.

Under the lights and the cheers, Joe feels like they've really made it.

They sign merch and tickets and t-shirts and posters for what feels like hours afterwards, their ears ringing and their faces going sore from smiling at hoarse-voiced kids. Joe poses for a picture with a group of pink-cheeked girls and a group of bruised dudes and a group shot of the band. Patrick throws an arm around his waist and mugs for the camera. Joe tries not to think about almost-stars and pond water.

They go to Denny's for their last post-show breakfast. They stink and Mixon's voice is shot and Pete keeps knocking shit over with his anxious hands, but Joe doesn't care. He eats his eggs and tries to hold onto the feeling. Across the table, Patrick smiles at him.

Going home has never felt so much like going away.

---

School starts the same as it always had. His locker is in the senior hall, his classes are in neat type on a schedule printed in his binder, and life goes on.

He can't stop thinking about the tour. When he's at home, trying to sleep, he misses the rattle of the van under him, the sound of pavement passing by at sixty, seventy, eighty miles an hour. He misses the ever present arm or elbow or knee in his face, whoever's body too hot against his. He misses set up and tear down and the easy language they'd had. He could think something and someone else would say it. At home, he has to spell it all out, letter by letter by letter, story by story.

And Patrick. He misses Patrick's stupid smile and stupider bitch fits. He misses sitting up and watching streets and states passing by, listening to Patrick piece together a song from the ground up with half of the headset plugged into his ear. He misses the stupid looks he knows Patrick sends him, the ones he can't and doesn't read because he doesn't want to know. He misses Patrick, and Patrick's house is only a thirty minute drive away, but Joe can't find himself able to pick up the keys and go.

School is the same and different, college applications already being piled on his desk by teachers and guidance councilors and his parents. He thinks about the record deal and grits his teeth as he signs his name to Rhodes and State and UIC. He hasn't seen the guys in over a month, hasn't worked on anything new on his own, but he has faith in them. Their system works. They're going somewhere.

In October, the air cold and crisp with the beginning of Autumn, Andy calls. He's messenger for the masses, voice off put but excited under the drawl as he works out a new practice schedule. He tells Joe about the new place he and Mixon have gotten, and tells him that Pete's already claimed a bedroom as his own. He's not subtle when he mentions that there's a free room with two beds. Joe thinks about the end of the year and smiles into the receiver.

There's a test in Chemistry and a report due in History, but when he bursts into Patrick's basement, he's never been so happy for a Tuesday. Pete and Mixon tackle him almost immediately, knuckles rubbing roughly against his scalp and a knee digging into his stomach.

Andy slaps him on the back, balancing a bowl of chips in his other hand. He sidesteps the tangle of Pete and Matt wrestling on the floor and lifts his chin toward where Patrick's watching by the couch.

It feels like it's been years instead of weeks. Patrick's hair is longer under the hat he picked up in Mississippi, and there's the downy start of long sideburns along his jaw. He waves awkwardly, pen tucked between his thumb and index finger. Joe yanks him into a hug and feels the beat of his pulse through their skin. Patrick's tight in his arms, uncomfortable. Joe holds on tighter.

"Album," Andy says around a handful of chips. "Let's make one."

And that sounds like a fucking plan.

---

Matt's youngest cousin was born deaf. She's nine, all dark skin and big eyes and freckles. Matt watches her most nights for free. He brings her to practices in Patrick's basement and Andy teaches her to play drums while Matt shovels food into his mouth during breaks.

Patrick looks at her like she's gold. He gives her piggyback rides and plays cards with her and has long conversations with her, his face serious behind his moving fingers, eyes laughing. He's faster than Mixon, but he stumbles sometimes, hands mixing signs, more used to writing than signing.

Shay tries to talk to Pete and Joe and Andy, her little fingers shooting quick questions to them, looking confused when they can't understand her. Joe's learning, if only in small increments, more from Patrick than her. But Patrick's dialogue is more a bastardization than anything else, watered down gestures that play more like charades.

Matt's in the kitchen with Pete and Patricia, and Shay's already banging away at the kit in the corner of the basement, her messy braids coming loose as she lifts her arms and crashes them back down. Patrick's got his kid face on, watching her with a small smile.

"Just saying," comes Pete's voice from the stairs. "The first video's the important one, you know?"

"Patrick, veto him," Mixon calls from behind him. He's loaded down with a roll in one hand and a barely balanced plate of tuna casserole in the other. Patrick scratches down a note and holds it up over his head.

No pirates, no ninjas, no vampires, no fur suits, no nudity.

Pete snatches his notebook away and throws himself onto the couch, shoving into the space between Patrick and Joe.

"You're no fun, dude," he says sadly. Matt stuffs the roll into his mouth and motions for Shay to turn it down. The blows to the heads go from painful to bearable.

"Where's Hurley?" Joe asks. He scoots over to let Matt fill the last space on the couch, pressed up against Pete. Their elbows dig into his sides, but it's this or the floor, and he's comfortable.

"Traffic," Matt says around his mouthful of food. "He'll be here soon."

Shay grows tired of drumming. She climbs up onto Patrick's lap, her little yellow sundress bunched awkwardly under her legs as she curls up on him. She twists until she can blink up at him, her hands on his shoulders.

She touches her knuckles together in front of her chest and bends her thumbs back and forth, frowning as she pulls them away and wags her fingers up and down. Patrick's eyes go wide and Matt chokes on his food, laughing into his coughs. Patrick shakes his head, but his hands are occupied with keeping her up. No one explains the joke to Joe.

---

Patrick has a girlfriend.

She's small and cute and laughs a lot, and Joe wants to hate her so much it kind of hurts. Her name is Anna, and Patrick brings her to practice to introduce her to everyone. Pete hugs her, all arms and big laugh and rude comments, and Mixon waves a hello. Joe can feel Andy watching him, heavy and concerned, and Joe lifts his chin, determined to be on top. He's got this. He does.

Anna sits on the couch and watches quietly, smiling through the run through. Joe plays shitty- fingers too tight, and Matt's voice is a little raw. They're not together, the music too new to fit, and Joe can't seem to make himself focus. He wants Anna to say that they suck, wants her to be unimpressed by them. By Patrick.

As it is, she tilts her face up whenever Patrick comes near, her tiny pixie chin pointed at his throat like a dagger, and Patrick's goes pink at the cheeks and kisses her because. Because she's his girlfriend, Joe thinks bitterly. He plucks a sour chord and waits for Andy's count.

Anna's laugh is sweet and high and unfamiliar. It grates at Joe's nerves, makes him jittery. He looks at her and sees Pete bleeding on the ground in an alley. He watches her read Patrick's notes and thinks about stars that weren't quite there. It burns low in his stomach, hot and too heavy.

"Yo, Troh," Matt says from across the room. "You with us?" Joe looks up, confused. He hasn't been playing, and neither has anyone else. Anna's sitting next to Patrick on the couch, her leg pressed tight to his, tiny fingers dwarfed by Patrick's large hand. "Dude. You coming to Hong Kong Express with us or not?" Anna smiles at him, all tiny teeth and dimples, and Joe thinks about the pond and Patrick's warm hand and feels sick. He can't do this.

"You know what? I have a test in Chemistry tomorrow that I'm going to blow if I don't study. I'll just let myself out." He shoves his guitar into the corner and flicks off the amp. Pete's looking at him weird, mouth already open to ask what the hell his problem is, but Mixon kicks him in the leg, shaking his head. Patrick stares down at where his and Anna's hands are linked on his thigh. Joe does his best not to run out of the room.

It shouldn't be surprising that Andy follows. Joe's halfway to his car, keys digging into the fleshy butt of his palm, when he feels Andy's heavy and reassuring hand on his shoulder. Joe wants him to leave, wants to be alone. Andy follows him to the car and stands at the passenger's side door expectantly, ignoring Joe's angry stare.

Joe doesn't drive home, and Andy doesn't speak. They circle the neighborhood then move to the next suburb then move to the country road, Joe's foot heavy on the pedal, hands tight on the wheel. He pulls onto the shoulder of the road at the middle of a cornfield, cutting the engine.

"I'm not Pete," he says. Andy shrugs. It's frustrating, and Joe just. He's confused, and he just wants to know why. "He kissed me," he says. It's the first time he's said it out loud, and it feels like he's giving the memory up. Like he's breaking it out of the safe place he's held it in and handing it over ir free. "In Arizona." He can almost feel the water, can almost feel Patrick's wet shirt twisted in his fingers. "I don't. I don't get what happened."

"Did you say anything to him?" Andy asks. Joe shrugs. "I'm sorry."

They leave the car by the road, doors locked and windows cracked, and make their way through the high, dry stalks of corn. The husks crack and crumble under their feet, loud. Joe left his sweater at Patrick's and the cold eats at him as he stumbles over rocks and pits, Andy at his back.

The thing that hurts most, he thinks, is that he thought he'd had a chance. He'd thought that it just needed to be the right time, the right place. That he needed to make the right moves and that things would just fall into place. It hurts because it's his fault.

And Patrick. Patrick's been giving him long looks, eyes narrowed like Joe's an intricate equation, all numbers and letters jumbled up in a pile. He'd been skittish for days before falling back into routine, big smile and open signs of affection, and Joe had thought. He'd thought-

"Was it me?" He asks.

"I don't know," Andy answers. He's not much help, and Joe tells him as much. "I'm not here for that." Joe bends a stalk in half, pushing Anna's cheery face to the back of his mind. The leaves fall to pieces in his hands. "He likes you, just. So you know."

"He likes his girlfriend, too," Joe mutters, sullen. Andy rolls his eyes.

"Acting like a brat isn't going to help," he says. There's husk in his hair, yellow brown and sticking up in angles, and his glasses are crooked to the side. He's not smiling, but he doesn't look worried either, and Joe has no idea how to take it.

"What do you think I should do?" he asks carefully. Andy shrugs and breaks off a piece of a stalk.

"Figure it out."

---

Anna keeps showing up. She's at practices, constantly at Patrick's house. Joe's sick of seeing her dimples and her ugly clothes and her annoying bob cut. He smiles every time he sees her, his face aching from it, and does what he needs to do. Andy's got watch on him, which is stupid but wholly appreciated. Joe likes knowing he's got a back up plan. It's fine. It works. Whatever. He's just biding his time. Waiting for the best time to bring it up, waiting for the right words to come. He's not Matt or Pete; this shit doesn't just come to him. He's got to let it simmer.

So, he does his part. He goes to after practice dinners with the guys and ignores the added presence of Anna's voice. He accepts that whenever he goes to Patrick's place for Biology tutoring, Anna will be looking over their shoulders, her pointed chin a barrier between their faces. He just keeps breathing deep and waiting for his opening.

It comes unexpectedly. He's in his room, nodding off before dinner, when the doorbell rings shrill through the house. It's Patrick at the door, his bookbag over his shoulders and a pizza in his hands. He smiles, the last of the Saturday sunshine at his back, and Joe smiles back. He's never been so glad to see empty space on his porch.

He steps back and lets Patrick in, closing the door quickly behind them. He doesn't want any flies buzzing in unexpectedly. Patrick shoves the pizza box into his hands and roots for his notebook.

"Hey," he says. And then, because he's a masochist at heart, "Where's your-" parasite, leech, latcher-on, "-girlfriend?" The box in his hand is hot and smells like delicious, delicious grease. Patrick holds his notebook up triumphantly and pulls his pen from behind his ear.

She went to her aunt's place for the weekend. Mom said I could stay over if your mom called.

"Awesome," Joe says, because it is. He doesn't say anything about the abruptness of Patrick's appearance or mention how long it's been since Patrick's stayed over. Mostly, he's just grateful.

They climb up to Joe's room, Patrick shedding his hoodie and shoes on the way up, and fit themselves around the pizza on the floor. It's gooey and covered in thick, crispy rounds of pepperoni. Joe burns his mouth on the first bite, but it's worth it for the silent shake of Patrick's shoulders.

They put Sixteen Candles into the VHS player and mouth lines, shoulder to shoulder against the foot of Joe's bed, and Joe feels like they're normal again. Like they're four months on rewind, back before Anna and Arizona. Patrick's warm at his side, and Joe smiles through the opening credits.

Patrick falls asleep between the wedding scene and the cake scene like he always does, head back against the bed, mouth open against his shoulder. Joe wriggles away from him as the credits roll, neck stiff and legs asleep. Patrick sags into the space that he left behind, close to toppling over.

It's half will and half muscle built up over a summer full of lifting amps that gives Joe the strength to heft Patrick up onto the bed. Patrick's eyes blink open, a sleepy green, and close again almost as quickly. He lays himself down and kicks a little when Joe tries to get his shoes off, already hogging the middle of the mattress. Joe dumps the sneakers on the floor and reaches for Patrick's belt. He pulls back short before he gets to the buckle at Patrick's hip, hands stuck there.

He's undressed Pete to nothing when he'd gotten the flu and barfed all over himself. He's helped Matt change from shorts to jeans when he'd busted his hand and couldn't do it himself. He's swapped Patrick's jeans for sweats while he slept dozens of times before. This just seems- different, now. Like he's crossing a line.

So, very carefully, he pulls the belt from its loops, ignoring Patrick's snuffle of complaint, and sets it on the dresser quietly. Patrick's shirt has ridden up his middle, and he'll bitch about how it's stretched and tangled up in the morning, but that same feeling of wrongness settles in at the pit of Joe's stomach as he thinks about taking it off.

Somehow, he manages to yank the covers from under the lump of Patrick curled up dead center and he crawls in under them, shoving at Patrick with a foot until he scoots over. When Joe closes his eyes, he feels like they're back on tour, Patrick's soft breathing against his shoulder and knees digging into Joe's thigh.

He thinks about Arizona and the strange looks Patrick's been giving him behind Anna's back and slowly, carefully, fits himself to Patrick's side. Patrick rolls into it, and Joe lets out a slow rush of breath. Man up or shut up, he thinks.

He falls asleep before midnight.

---

When Joe wakes up, Patrick's against his back, hot under the covers, his jeans rubbing a sore patch at the base of Joe's spine. Patrick's nose is pressed into the short hair at the back of Joe's neck, his breath ghosting down the collar of Joe's shirt. He's got one arm shoved under the pillows, the other around Joe's chest, elbow digging into Joe's ribs.

Joe closes his eyes and takes a moment to appreciate it. Then, reluctantly, he wiggles free and slides off the bed. His stomach rumbles as he swaps his sweats for a pair of clean shorts. The clock on the VCR says that it's just past eleven. Joe spares another glance at Patrick, who has moved into the warm spot Joe's vacated, and runs a hand through his hair. Breakfast sounds fucking fantastic.

There's a note on the fridge from Sam that says he's going to Dave's, could Joe please pick him up at six? Joe shoves it into his pocket and opens the refrigerator. The pickings are slim- grocery day isn't until tomorrow- but Joe grabs for the eggs and milk and tries to remember what's in the cabinet.

He's just pulled the eggs off the burner when Patrick stumbles down the steps. He's jammed his hat onto his head and borrowed one of Joe's shirts. It's a little too small, stretched tight over his shoulders. He yawns, big mouth and silent gust of air. His notebook dangles idly from two fingers.

Smelled breakfast, he writes. His lines are long and loose. Sleepy.

"Better than a bed and breakfast," Joe says. He spoons half the eggs onto one plate, the other half on another. There's ham already on them, a little greasy and dark at the edges. It's not a lot, but they'll probably end up at Andy's before the day is through, and Mixon won't let them leave without feeding them approximately a metric ton of food.

They eat quietly in the living, early morning Cartoon Network on the television. There's a red crease along Patrick's jaw, right below his sideburn, that Joe keeps looking at. Patrick raises his eyebrows and Joe shrugs. On screen, the Powerpuff Girls defeat Mojo JoJo for the thirtieth time.

When they're done, Joe shoves the dishes into the dishwasher and goes back to the living room. Patrick's pulled his laptop out and is clicking away, the narrowness of his eyes familiar. He's in itty bitty musical genius mode.

I've got some stuff, Patrick writes, like Joe couldn't figure it out on his own. He pulls up GarageBand and fiddles around until he finds whatever he's looking for. Joe sinks into the arm chair that his father loves best and waits. When no music comes on, he glances up. Patrick's watching him from the couch, frowning. Then, he stands and drops himself onto the arm of the chair, half on Joe's lap, half on the old plush.

The songs feel different than before. Kind of angry, kind of sad. Quick and catchy. There's a rough cut of Matt singing the choruses, but the verses are just keyboard stand ins. They're a little distracting, but Joe shoves them away and scans the lyrics as he listens. Pete's gone bitter, it looks like. Unsurprising.

Patrick runs through them again, and Joe latches onto the one tentatively titled Favorite Scar. Patrick watches as Joe pulls up the keyboard and smashes buttons until he hears what he's looking for. Joe can feel Patrick cringing beside him, but he ignores it. He's not the geek that studies this shit, okay? He needs to pick and choose, sometimes, and sometimes that takes a while.

It's easy to know what he wants to play over the rhythm Patrick's already laid out, but it takes a few tries to get it down right. He knows he could technically play it out on the guitar sitting in his closet upstairs, but that's upstairs and, traditionally, they make due with the rough cut GarageBand version until Real Recording Time. Well, that's what they did before and Joe's all about new traditions.

When he's done, Patrick plays the song again. Joe's track is a beat or two behind, but the song sounds fuller with it. Thicker. Patrick tightens it up on the second go around, and it sounds perfect. From the look on Patrick's face, he thinks so, too.

Song two goes pretty well, but he gets stuck on the third one, listening to it over and over. Patrick makes up a sample track for the chorus, and Joe tweaks it until he likes it, but nothing else is coming to him. There's only one other song in the folder, but Joe's been obsessive-compulsive since he was six and he can do nothing but stare at the screen in frustration.

You can always come back to it. Patrick saves the file, but Joe pushes his hands away before he can close out of it.

"Just. Let me listen to it again, okay?" He says. Patrick shrugs.

I'm gonna catch a shower.

Joe waves him off and settles down into the chair. He's got this. It's right at the back of his head, a tingle of a rhythm that's itching to be let out. If he just- There. That's the chord. If he can just get the riff out right, he'll be good to go.

He's just getting it out when he hears Patrick's footsteps on the stairs. He clicks down the notes, one, two, three, and looks up triumphantly. Screw you keyboard, he's fucking fantastic. Patrick's hair hangs in his face, wet and curling, his glasses still a little foggy. He's holding a stack of carefully paperclipped papers in one hand, his mouth pressed into a tight line. Joe's heart drops to his stomach. Shit.

Patrick closes the laptop lid and lays the papers down on top of it very carefully. Joe doesn't have to look down to know it's the research he's been doing, article after article on vocal cord paralysis and the surgeries and medicines doctors have been testing. There's highlighter across the front page, checking off symptoms. The word choking on the third line is smeared from where Joe had pressed too hard.

What is this?

Patrick's face is impassive, his mouth tight and his knuckles white as he holds his notebook up. Joe flattens his palm over the pages and wills them away. They stay where they are, too big and with too few answers.

"Research," Joe says quietly.

Am I a science project? Do you want me to open my mouth so you can take pictures? The handwriting's gone spiky, the loops of the 'y's and 'p's tight.

"I just wanted to help," Joe mutters. He feels stupid, like a kid being scolded. "I wanted to help fix it." Patrick stares at him for a long moment, his jaw tight. He shakes his head and slumps down.

I'm not broken. You don't need to fix me. He takes the papers and his computer in one go, shoving them into his backpack. Joe watches them go and thinks guiltily about the pages bookmarked on the desktop in his room.

"I'm sorry," he says. Patrick doesn't look up at him, staring instead at the scuff marks by the leg of the chair.

I'm just different. You don't have to treat me like I am.

Joe nods. He thinks, you're special, but he doesn't say it. He's got to choose his battles, and this one will go nowhere.

"I'm sorry," he says again anyway.

---

Pete's got shows booked through November. They're just local joints, but the local joints are usually the best, so Joe does double duty on homework to get it out of the way and plays himself raw into the early morning hours, amp off and guitar tinny in his room. Their new stuff is about an inch and another bitchfit from being finished, and they've got a studio booked in February. It's terrifying when he lets himself think about it.

Practices have been amped up from twice a week to four out of seven nights. Patrick looks tired under the bare bulbs in the basement, purple-blue half moons under his eyes and redness around his nose like he's catching cold. Pete's constantly on top of him, trying to feed him soup and mostly succeeding in making the carpet smell like chicken noodle.

Matt and Andy have checked and double- and triple-checked the van. Joe's a little leery, but it's all they can really afford, so he crosses his fingers and hopes it can keep up with downtown traffic without blowing anything again.

There's a strain in Patrick's shoulders whenever Joe's around and Joe doesn't have to try hard to hazard a guess why. One step forward, two steps back. He puts on his best Pete face and smiles through the twist in his gut. He's gotten back into Patrick's good graces before. It shouldn't be hard to do it again.

The first show is a doozy. The place is packed with kids from all over the city, people he recognizes and people he doesn't. There's a label person at the bar, dressed like everyone else but standing out. He makes Joe feel a little lightheaded, a little on guard. They can't fuck up.

It's a relief to pull out the show gear and set up. The actions are familiar and comforting and automatic. They're playing with Mest again, but opening this time around. Tony and Matt rag on them about selling out. Joe sees Andy's shoulders stiffen a little, sees Pete's jaw tick before he tackles them down and wrestles with Tony until they're both laughing and restless. Their roots are coming up, like it or not, and Joe wonders if that means anything to the future of the band.

Anna is in the crowd, her little pink top neon under the house lights. She's got Patrick's glasses in the pocket over her breasts, tucked safely away as he tunes his- and Joe's and Pete's- guitars. She has a group of friends that keep eyeing Pete. Pete, for his part, is eyeing them back. It's nice to know some things never change.

When the lights drop and Joe has his guitar strapped on, his heart beats double time. He's missed this.

---

They kill it, which is a relief in and of its self. Pete celebrates by latching onto Patrick and steering him off to the bar. Andy follows behind them, shouting about minors and booze not mixing, but Pete cheerfully ignores him anyway. Joe splits for the bathroom, tuning out the familiar argument. He's soaked to the bone, hair plastered to his forehead in sticky clumps. He'd kill for a shower, but he'll settle for a quick wipe down in the sink.

When he's sort of clean, face wet and a little less pink, he shoulders his way back out. He can see Mixon in the corner with a girl in one of their shirts, his giant hand on her waist, leaned down to talk in her ear. Joe winces. He'll have to steer clear of the van for a while. He's making his way to the bar, hoping that at least Pete's still there, when a familiar voice pulls him up short.

"He's nice," Anna says, tucked into the huddle of her friends. Joe takes a step backwards and tries to listen in closer. "He's... sweet."

"But he can't talk," one of the girls say. Joe prickles. "Isn't that, y'know, weird?"

"Kind of. But, like, he's smart and really good at music." Anna smiles, and Joe wishes he could hate her. "His friends are kind of jerks." Oh. Maybe he can.

"How?" Another girl asks, feeding into it. Joe leans closer. Yes, how?

"Like, Pete? Is always bossing him around," Anna says. "Pete says jump and Patrick does. And Matt and Andy are always talking about these weird conspiracy theories. If I hear about how evil the government is one more time, I might poke my ear drums out." Someone makes a throwaway comment about not needing them with Patrick, and Joe curls his fingers into loose fists. "And Joe. I don't know what his problem is. He's weird."

"Weird how?" One of the girls asks. Yes, Joe thinks. Weird how?

"I don't know," Anna says slowly. "He's always looking at us. It's creepy."

"Maybe he likes you."

Joe walks away before he can hear Anna's reply. He finds Andy at the bar, nursing a Sprite, eyes very carefully tracking Pete and Patrick. Patrick's walking a mostly straight line, but the cup on the bar says that he's not totally sober. Joe settles in next to Andy and pointedly doesn't look up at Patrick again.

"You okay?" Andy asks. Joe shrugs. He kind of wants to go home and crash. Andy waits a beat before handing over his cup. It's cool and damp in Joe's hand, and the bubbles itch at the back of his throat as he takes a drink. "Have you talked to Patrick?" Joe shrugs again.

"Anna thinks we're weird," he says instead. Andy's silent next to him, waiting. For once, Joe wishes he were talking to Pete. Pete would take action. Pete would march up to her and demand to know what made her so high and fucking mighty. Andy won't and Joe doesn't have the guts. "Her friends are trying to convince her that I have a crush on her." Andy laughs softly.

"Close," he says. Joe looks up and watches Pete try to wrangle Patrick into dancing with him. Patrick's laughing, squirming away from Pete in an awkward shuffle. He catches Joe staring and waves, still long enough for Pete to grab him around the waist and drag him onto the floor, shouldering kids out of the way to clear a path.

Man up or shut up. Jesus, he's tired of this.

On the drive home, Joe sits shotgun, feet on the dashboard, half way asleep. Pete's talking to Matt in the back, his voice low enough to be background static. In the middle row, Anna's laid out, her head in Patrick's lap. Joe doesn't look at Patrick's hands in her hair and he doesn't think about being in the same position June through August.

She's their first drop off, but she stays in longer than she needs to, scribbling on Patrick's notebook, like she's too good to talk out loud. There's a wrinkle at the top of her nose, but Joe's not looking so he can't notice it and wonder what it's supposed to mean. Patrick taps his pen against her arm and frowns.

"Would you guys be interested in going to the movies with us Saturday?" Anna asks. Now that he's looking for it, Joe sees the irritation in the little wrinkle between her eyes. Patrick either doesn't notice or doesn't care, eyes trained on Pete in the center of them. Pete shrugs.

"Sure," he says for all of them. Joe shrugs right along with him.

---

The theatre looms up ahead, marquee glaring against the sky. Joe stares up at it, ignoring the sounds of Pete and Jenae arguing behind him. It's the Saturday of Thanksgiving break and Joe feels chilled down to the bone, Chicago winter come early. He's wearing a hoodie over his t-shirt, one of the ones he'd dug out of Pete's bag somewhere between North and South Carolina. It's small on him, tight around his wrists, but he feels warmer if only in increments.

Matt's date is wearing a skirt and a tit-popping shirt, chattering away at Andy. Andy's doing a good job of keeping his eyes on her lipstick red mouth, but Matt's outright staring. Joe shakes his head and reaches for his wallet. He's going stag. Unsurprisingly. At least he's got Andy as back up.

Inside, Patrick and Anna are waiting on a bench, passing Patrick's notebook back and forth. Joe catches sight of a tic tac toe game on the edge of the newest page. He looks away before it can mean anything to him. Patrick looks up but doesn't smile. Anna keeps scribbling.

They're watching some Ewan McGregor movie about an old time hooker. Joe buys his ticket and heads for the concession stand on auto pilot. He's going to need a lot of Ju Ju Bees for this.

They walk in on the previews. The theatre is dark, the flashing lights of some action movie preview making Joe dizzy as he follows Pete to the middle row. He ends up crushed between Pete and Patrick, his box of candy and giant soft drink tucked between his thighs. Someone tosses a popcorn kernel at his head and Joe pops it into his mouth. No use letting it go to waste.

The movie's pretty good. Nicole Kidman's hot, so is Ewan McGregor, and the songs are pretty awesome too. Joe's watching intently, popping candy into his mouth in a solid stream. Before, he'd reach over and dig out a handful of Patrick's Cookie Dough bites, but he's not sure if it's okay anymore. He doesn't think about it, watching the girls dance on screen instead. He's going to enjoy this if it kills him.

Halfway through the movie, he feels Patrick's knee against his, warm and familiar. He presses into it without thinking about it, caught up in the monologue on screen. He'd feel like a girl if it weren't for Pete's kicked puppy face next to him. This movie is intense.

There's a tap and then Patrick's hand is on his Ju Ju Bees. Joe jerks a little, fingers going tight around the box. Patrick looks at him strangely and pops a candy into his mouth. This is ridiculous. Joe turns back to the movie and carefully pulls his knee in. It feels cold where Patrick isn't anymore.

The end of the movie makes something in Joe's chest go weak. He won't admit it out loud, but he feels it deep. Judging from the quick swipes of Pete's thumbs under his eyes, he feels it too. Time is short, even for them.

They stay for the credits, Matt already bitching about being stuck to the floor, and roll out when the room's close to empty. Joe makes his way to the bathroom, the giant Coke catching up to him now that he's standing.

When he's washing his hands, Patrick comes in, mouth a little yellow at the corner from the candies he'd stolen. He looks at Joe for a long moment and Joe thinks I'm done and wraps his wet hands around Patrick's face and pulls him in. Patrick tastes sweet like soda and candy, mouth soft and a little open, and fuck. Fuck, he really just did that.

Joe pulls back with a jerk, eyes wide. Patrick looks like he's just been sucker-punched. He scrambles for his notebook, and Joe- Joe runs. He shoves past Patrick, out the door. He smacks into Pete, a sharp pain in his shoulder as he picks up speed toward the exit. He has to go- he's so fucking stupid, he just fucked things up so far that he doesn't know how it's going to get better. The bathroom door crashes into the wall, but Joe doesn't turn around. He doesn't want to see what Patrick has to say.

At home, Joe locks his door and crawls into bed fully clothed. Maybe if he goes to sleep, he'll wake up to a fresh Saturday morning.

---

Joe wakes up to Pete over his bed, glaring down at him.

"That's creepy, dude," Joe croaks, throat sleep dry. He rolls to press his face into his pillow but Pete stops him.

"Dude," he says, sharp. Joe flops back onto his back and blinks up at him. The sun's barely out, a ring of orange and pink behind Pete's head like a halo.

"How'd you get in?" Joe asks. Pete doesn't break his glower, but he does wave a butter knife. "Home security is bullshit."

"Dude, shut up." Pete hauls him up and Joe smacks at his back, his sleep heavy arms ineffective.

"What are you doing? Put me down, asshole." Joe knees at Pete's gut, hears Pete's breath catch, but it doesn't change the view of his carpet from his spot over Pete's shoulder. Physics says Pete should be falling over under Joe's weight but rules never applied to Pete anyway, and Joe finds himself headed outside, piggyback style.

"We are going to Patrick's," Pete says when they're past the front door. Joe struggles, suddenly very awake. "And you are going to talk to him. You both are going to kiss and make up and we're going to be on schedule to record next month. If you're good, I won't kick your ass."

"Put me down." Joe throws his knee forward again, fight or flight building up in his bloodstream. "Put me the fuck down, dude."

"I'm not fucking joking," Pete says, hitching Joe higher over his shoulder as he makes his way to his beat up old Honda. "You're talking to him."

"Fuck you," Joe hisses. He feels like a cat dunked in water. He's going to start clawing soon. The ground comes up, and he's on his ass, sprawled across the road. Pete draws back but stops short of actually kicking him, sneaker in the air, standing awkwardly on one leg. Joe flinches.

"You know what?" Pete shoves him with his foot, a steady pressure against Joe's hip, holding him down. "Fuck you. Fuck you for running out. He can't fucking talk, so you ran away so you wouldn't have to read what he had to say. Fuck you, because he's fucking tearing my house apart because he thinks he did something wrong."

"Yeah, well, I'm sure Anna will kiss it all better." Joe sounds incredibly young, even to himself. Pete sneers, ugly and vicious, leaning in on Joe's chest until he feels breathless.

"Except for how Anna kicked him to the curb after he chased you down the fucking street," Pete says. "She figured out it wasn't her you had the crush on." Joe winces. "So we're going over there, and you're going to say that you fucked up, and we're going to be square. You got it?"

"I didn't fuck up," Joe says to the pavement. He's waiting for a car to come zooming down the road and hit them. The sky says it's not even seven yet and his neighborhood is dead before eight. Pete steps back and shakes his head.

"Jesus, you high school brats are going to give me an ulcer." Pete helps him back up, one strong hand on Joe's. His knuckles are red. Torn. Joe wonders who he fought with this time. "So tell him you didn't fuck up and get gay married. I don't really care which way you play it, just fix it."

Joe slides into the passenger side seat and buckles up. The inside of the car smells like burning oil and old cigarettes, familiar in a way that makes Joe's stomach turn. He watches the neighborhood go by.

"I thought we were going to Patrick's?" Joe asks as they pull into the drive of Pete, Andy, and Matt's home.

"Yeah, well, I lied." Pete cuts the engine and pulls the keys, the metallic thump against his palm loud in the quiet car. "Get out. He's in Andy's room."

"Where's Andy?" Joe looks up at the house like it's going to eat him. Man up or shut up, man up or shut up. He can totally run. Pete's got a bum knee and Joe's been practicing sprints with Matt since summer time. He might not make it all the way home, but he can at least get a head start.

"Buying coffee," Pete says. He glances over at Joe, eyes narrowed. Joe squirms. "Dude, I swear to god if you do any of the stupid shit in your head right now, I will run your ass over. I am not even joking." Well, there goes that plan.

In Andy's room, Patrick's curled up on the bed, eyes shut and pen stuffed between the pillows. It's bleeding ink, a ripe blue across the green sheets in a steadily growing blob. Pete shoves at Joe with his hip and very unsubtly closes the door as soon as Joe's all the way in the room.

For a moment, Joe watches Patrick sleep, heart beating somewhere in his throat. It's hard to crawl into the bed and curl on his side, knees and elbows bumping Patrick's, the ink blot creeping in toward his nose slowly. Three months ago, he would have been pillowing his head on Patrick's hip and listening to the snuffling softness of his breaths. Now- now he doesn't know what to do.

"Hey," he says softly. Patrick doesn't move. "So, Pete says I'm, like, supposed to talk to you about, you know. Yesterday. But, I don't know dude." Joe presses his face into the pillow, his vision going red-black-pink.

This shouldn't be so hard. When Joe opens his eyes, he's met with Patrick's unblinking gaze. There's a smudge of ink across the bridge of his nose, obscuring freckles and sleeplines. Joe cringes and waits. Patrick reaches for his pen, ink smearing over his fingers as he grabs onto it. He grabs Joe's arm, fingers hot and familiar, and scribbles on the inside of Joe's arm.

You're stupid

"Well, yeah," Joe says. "That wasn't the issue." The corner of Patrick's mouth twitches up before he tamps down on it. There's hope at least, Joe thinks. That's nice.

There's an awkward pause, and Joe feels his heart breathing in his throat. He's been waiting for his time to say something, waiting for everything to slot into place, and maybe that's been a mistake. Maybe he's been stupid since letting Patrick leave the bed in Arizona, and maybe there's no perfect moment for anything.

"I think I'm sort of in love with you in, like, the stupidest way possible," he blurts. "And I think I'm starting to get into Pete levels of angsting, which is totally not good for my mental health, and I really just want to, like, be your boyfriend or something because-" He cuts himself off, caught up in watching Patrick watch him. "Because you're kind of awesome."

I thought it was a mistake, Patrick writes on the curve of Joe's arm. It hurts, sharp and sincere in the pit of Joe's chest. Patrick's fingers pinch him in place, keeping him from rolling away. I thought it was going to mess everything up. I thought you didn't want it.

"Dude-" Joe squirms, but Patrick shakes his head.

I might have a pity complex.

"What?" Joe squints his eyes at the letters. "Like, what, you thought I was into it because of your-" he waves his hand in the space between them- "thing?" Patrick stares somewhere south of Joe's nose and shrugs. "Dude. You're stupider than me."

Patrick shrugs. It moves the bed a little, the covers cramping up under their sides. Joe opens his mouth, not really sure what he can say, but Patrick cuts him off, darting forward too quick. Their mouths crash more than bump, and Joe feels his teeth clack together, but Patrick's kissing him, familiar and unfamiliar all at once, and Joe thinks oh.

Two hours later, Joe wakes up in Andy's bed with a mouthful of Patrick's least favorite hat and a numbness in the arm jammed under Patrick's head. It's kind of awesome. He shifts in small bits, yawning against the pillow they're sharing. There's a shuffle across the room, and Joe lifts his lazy head to see.

Pete and Mixon are crowded in the doorway, watching them with an unblinking intensity that makes Joe squirm. They both shoot him wide grins, elbows knocking as they try to give him thumbs ups. Joe thumps his head against Patrick's chest as Andy drags them away, ignoring Pete's quiet wolf whistle. Below him, Patrick breathes a steady in-out and Joe slides a hand over his chest, feeling him warm and solid under his palm.

---

June finds them in the van, huffing under the weight of a surprising number of boxes. Pete's supervising from the driver's seat as Joe and Patrick waddle a particularly heavy box down the Stumphs' driveway, both of them nearly tripping on the gravel. They thump the box down into the back and slam the door shut, sweat sticky on both of their foreheads.

"Took you guys long enough," Pete says as he starts the van. Patrick holds up his hand in an okay gesture and flips it against his chest.

Asshole.

Pete laughs himsefl stupid on the drive over.

Graduation has come and gone, and there are mostly matching slips of paper tucked into Joe and Patrick's abandoned back packs next to their rough-draft tour schedule. Pete's been playing the CD- their CD- on repeat since it hit stores. It's heady and unreal, listening to the polished over guitar work and Matt's voice and all of Patrick's heart. Joe can't wait to get back on the road.

At the house, their house, Matt's wrangling his little cousins, his laughter audible from the driveway. Joe looks at the loaded back of the van and then to the backyard where Andy's grilling more veggie burgers than they can possibly eat and decides that his priorities will be ranked on a need-based scale.

Shay claps her hands when Patrick scoops her up off of Matt's back, hefting her up on his hip. She's nearly as big as he is, her bare little feet locking around one of his thighs as he bounces her and asks something with his fingers. She answers in rapid fire and Patrick smiles, carting her off in the direction of the other kids. Warmth spreads up through Joe's chest and settles in. Joe swipes a plate and a few burgers and flops down onto the steps of the back porch, watching Pete join in on the chase, tackling Mixon down.

Patrick sits next to him, Shay running around them in a half orbit, her pigtails flying. Patrick grins at him as he steals a burger, bumping their shoulders. Together, they watch the Mixon boys drag Pete into a soccer game, five against one, their delighted screams filling the air as the sun begins to dip down past the horizon.

A flicker of light floats by, followed soon after by another. Patrick reaches out, careful and slow, and closes his fingers around the lightning bug, drawing it back in. He opens his hand in front of Joe's chest, and the firefly blinks lazily, crawling up the slow curve of his wrist. When it flies away, Joe replaces the emptiness with his own hand and watches it float off into the night.

Patrick kisses him, warm and slow, and Joe falls into it like he belongs. Life looks pretty sweet from where he's standing.