Chapter Text
Dangerous thoughts were flowers and dangerous words were the seeds; maybe it was the other way around. Pete didn’t remember, Pete was blank, Pete was gone. Pete was but a mess. On stage, a mess. On top of hotels, a mess. Ativan and then forget his head, forget Him, forget Her, forget the World and what a horrible, beautiful place it was. Forget the brutal pull and push of a tide because everything was a production- waves in the ocean, his pulse in his throat and the engine humming in the tour bus.
He was on the tour bus. His eyes opened. He was wearing shoes. One foot down, second foot down, up. He didn’t remember falling asleep and he didn’t remember waking up. He didn’t know if he’d been asleep. Or awake. He didn’t know if he was alone or what time it was, only that they were driving and that it was dark and that, besides the hum of the engine, he could hear soft breathing. Like a production, like a life, like Him. It wasn’t his breathing. He was sure he wasn’t breathing at this point, tugging sneakers off and making sure he was actually wearing underwear before tugging off the too-tight jeans that clung to his too-thin thighs. At least it wasn’t too much of a struggle, he didn’t sweat.
He became aware of the zipper of his hoodie, cold and harsh and not right against his skin and at once, the world started spinning, his lips got chapped and he started breathing. He had to get it off, he had to change before he went mad over a zipper (or lips or Him or the way a pen on the tiny coffee table made a “swish” sound every time their driver made a turn). He got on a shirt instead of the hoodie, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, 2005, $12 in Walmart, Beloit, Michigan, and then just leaned against a wall and focused on breathing; did he want to be awake or asleep? Did he want unbearable silence or caffeine shaking? He didn’t know. He never knew. It was never anywhere in the middle, it was black and white.
That night he didn’t have a choice.
A plate fell onto the floor when the driver made a sharp turn (Pete wished he could’ve thrown it himself. The crash is so much sweeter when you’re the cause of it), smash, and he stopped breathing. Who puts porcelain on a bus? Wrong question. Why did fate only want chaos? The pen fell, too. Click. Now the sound was louder. More place to swish around, more noise to lose his mind about. A bunk creaked and He was awake, sitting up and, God, how Pete could smell sleep.
“Pete?” He said and he stiffened up, pretended not to be there because IknowI’mamessIknowyouhatemeIamsosorry sounded more pathetic than silence or a punch to the jaw. Soft sigh, bunk creaking and now his eyes were closed and fists were clenched because now it was too late to say anything, now it would be weird. He was so scared. Out of nowhere there were rough fingertips softly unclenching his fists and “Pete,” and there was that hopelessness again because all he did was disappoint and worry and why did the World have to revolve around him?
And then his eyes were open and there was ivory skin, ocean eyes, and copper hair; he would never get over how beautiful He was. Even with his stomach aching, he managed to form a smile. For Him. Patrick looked upset. “Did you drop something, man?”
Pete lied, for some reason. He made coffee, to wake up, and then he dropped his cup! It seemed more reasonable to lose his mind about a cup than a zipper. Maybe not. Patrick wasn’t buying it. Pete fell in love.
Pete had eaten a fucking donut and left the plate on a coffee table. It slid off. “I’ll go clean it up. Go to bed.” He wasn’t supposed to know. He wasn’t supposed to see all the lies Pete used to tie himself closer to Him, He wasn’t supposed to see him falling deeper into insanity when all he was trying to do was stay sane for Him. His hand held tight onto the soft fabric of Patrick’s shirt, unknown, and he begged Him not to go because Patrick, oh Patrick, He would laugh when He saw that it wasn’t a cup, it was a plate. Who puts porcelain on a bus? Patrick shushed him, even though no noise was coming out of him. “Go to bed, Pete, it’s fine. I’ll be back.” Patrick would laugh. He felt like he was going to vomit. Liar liar pants on fire. He lied to his best friend. Who lies to their best friend? He was a fraud. A cup a cup a cup.
The sheets were soft and they smelled like Him. Like bad laundry soap and salt and raspberries. Maybe he should put on some pants. It was hot. Maybe he should take off his shirt. He was curled up in no time, Him everywhere. The World slowly stopped spinning and he could seehearfeel again. Yellow lights turned on, joints cracked after hours of sleeping and he could hear deep breaths that would have been annoying if they weren’t His. He was gonna laugh.
He didn’t laugh. Sweep, sweep. Pieces of porcelain into the trash. What a waste. They needed cardboard plates. Joe and Andy deserved porcelain. He could see a dark frame against bright lights and then the lights turned off and there was only Him. There only ever was Him.
Patrick hadn’t told him to get in his bunk. Pete was kind of expecting a shove or a punch or a yell because he always seemed to forget that Patrick wasn’t like that. Patrick didn’t see Pete as the piece of shit everyone else seemed to do. Patrick was too good, too sweet, everything you’d ever need- when he wanted to. He understood.
Patrick shivered and then crawled in; his stomach dropped because He was cold and it was his fault. Then there were cold feet against his shins and it was his turn to shiver. Suddenly Patrick was just so close to him and then they were tangled up together and the world was warm. “I’m here, y’know?” Patrick said, edging closer and closer and closer until Pete’s arms were around him, breath against neck.
“I noticed,” Pete said. Patrick laughed. It was actually just a quiet huff, but that was a lot coming from a presumably 5 am Patrick.
“Don’t steal my sheets if you’re only here to make fun of me.”
This was softer than what they usually did so Pete didn’t know what to do, what to say, what to laugh about. He just closed his eyes and so he breathed.
“Excited for Europe?” Pete asked and that was just a stupid question. It was their first trip to Europe and it was gonna be their second biggest tour yet. They would be playing shows for 12000 kids and eating onion soup and currywurst for four weeks straight. They were all ecstatic. Pete opened his eyes. The only response he received was a hum and then the deep breaths were back and He was asleep. He was ethereal, fragile beams of sunlight streaming in from under the cheap curtains and hitting his cheekbone. Pete wanted to lick it off, suck it out, just fucking absorb how Patrick looked at that moment. He didn’t.
Instead, he closed his eyes. Inhale, exhale. Pulse in check. Brain out. Sleep felt better than ever.