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Pete cast a final glance at Patrick. "I'm going."
The singer didn't move. He remained at the table, cup of tea in his hand and swirling the brownish transparent liquid in his cup. He bit back his tears, ignored the lump in his throat. He couldn't respond.
Responding would only reveal too much. He barely nodded, eyes closed to sip his cup when the front door closed. He could feel his lower lip tremble, his eyes burned. He couldn't drink. He put down his cup and felt his shoulders tense.
How could he relax?
Pete was out again. Patrick knew where he went and it only tore him apart more to think about it. It ripped him to shreds when his perfect, handsome boyfriend left their house.
That perfect smile of his, platinum teeth with slightly protruding canines, joyful wrinkles in his eyes. Those brown eyes of him could get Patrick to do anything he wanted. Patrick would kill to see that smile, to kiss his frown and sorrows away.
He wanted to wrap his arms around Pete and tell him everything would be fine. Ask him if everything would be fine.
Because right now he had no idea if they would ever be fine again. Patrick angrily shoved his cup away, tea spilling on the table as he sunk his face into his hands, elbows leaning on the table.
He wouldn't cry.
The shaking of his shoulders didn't mean shit.
The feeling of his wet cheeks didn't either.
Neither did the sobs coming from his throat. He was dying inside just a little more thanks to Pete. HIS Pete. His beautiful, beautiful boyfriend. His insatiable boyfriend who kept going out to find something else to satisfy his needs. Someone else.
And he knew it was tearing Patrick apart.
It was the only reason Pete ever lingered in the doorstep. He was asking for permission. Asking Patrick if he could go outside or if he should stay. Somehow the dark blonde never found the strength to deny him anything. If this was what Pete wanted, then he should get it.
A happy unfaithful Pete was better than nothing, Patrick always thought. Anything to see that smile of his and anything to keep the privilege of holding him close at night. Anything.
Even if it meant Patrick would have to watch him come home, door closing behind him. He'd look messy. The singer could practically see the fingerprints on his skin, the evidence of someone's mouth in his neck or collarbone. He'd make a mental note to help Pete erase the touch of someone else on him.
But for now he had to survive the endless hours of loneliness. Every passing second was one more second someone stole Pete from him and one more second Patrick would not spend crying over it.
The mattress dipped and Patrick let a relieved sigh escape his lips. Welcome home, he thought. He knew he was supposed to be bitter about it but he could only feel relief flooding him. Pete had returned to him once more.
He awaited the arms around his waist and the lips in the back of his neck but they weren't there. It made him want to kick and scream like a child throwing a tantrum. Give me something to work with, please. Please, just love me…
The singer turned to face Pete. He was staring at the ceiling on his back, eyes wide. He was in another world and Patrick wasn't sure if that world contained him or the other person in the picture. He carefully slid closer and rested his head against Pete's bare chest, almost asking for permission.
Who asks their boyfriend for permission to cuddle?
Pete let his arm come down around Patrick's shoulders and pressed a kiss into his hair. It was all he had to do. Just hold him close and don't let go for the night. Just don't. Everything would be fine again, Patrick convinced himself and yet he found himself shaking. Though he wouldn't let the tears out.
Not when Pete was there.
Not when they had a rare moment of affection.
"I didn't mean to wake you", the bassist choked out but it sounded hollow, wrong.
Patrick closed his eyes, willed the tone away. Pete didn't sound apologetic. He didn't sound like he felt guilty for fucking someone else. He didn't sound like he didn't love Patrick anymore. No, Patrick wished every bit of it away.
Pete was happy. He had to be happy if Patrick was ok with him fucking someone else.
Right?
Pete was unhappy.
That much, Patrick knew. He saw it in the way he no longer cared. He didn't want to do anything anymore. He wasn't asking for permission when he went out anymore. All he seemed to do, was live next to Patrick.
He left before Patrick awoke, he went to bed after Patrick already fell asleep. And even when he finally got into bed with his boyfriend, he didn't hold him. He didn't kiss him good night. He didn't kiss him at all.
He didn't even give excuses.
It was like he was already gone and it only made Patrick cry himself to sleep. It made him become a zombie. He lost his will to smile, his will to keep up the appearance of being fine with Pete's constant cheating.
He lost the motivation to sing while making pancakes for breakfast.
He lost his boyfriend. And it made him die inside just a little more.
"Excuse me?" Patrick stammered, barely able to hide the sound of his heart breaking. He had already dropped his glass in shock and was currently hunched over the shards of broken glass to clean them up.
Pete leaned on the kitchen counter. "I'm moving out."
"I heard you the first time but…" Patrick left his sentence hanging in the air. He didn't know why he pretended like he didn't know why.
He knew perfectly well why Pete wanted to move out. They were over. He didn't have to say it. Their relationship had been over to him for a long time now. Even though he never officially broke up with him. He just ceased to love him.
"I just need some space", Pete muttered and THAT made Patrick drop the broom. "SPACE?!"
For the first time he felt angrier than anything else as he stared at Pete. The bassist looked utterly shocked.
"You need space, Pete?! I've been giving you nothing but space! I walk on fucking egg shells to keep you happy and all you do, is abuse my trust and care?! Fine, move the fuck out and don't come back. I deserve better anyway!" Patrick shouted at the older man before turning his back to him and stomping off. He'd had it.
Pete had squeezed every bit of patience he had left out of his body. He just wanted to sleep now. Just lie down and sleep eternally.
Or wake up from this nightmare to the loving arms of his boyfriend, stroking his hair and telling him everything would be fine. It was just a nightmare.
Though nightmares are reflections of reality whereas dreams are wishes and hopes of something imaginary.
If he'd expected Pete to grab his arm and pull him into his to tell him he was wrong. To tell him he'd never abuse his trust and care, then Patrick must've been a fool because Pete didn't.
And if he'd expected Pete to run upstairs to follow him to his room, he must've been an even bigger fool because only the front door slammed closed.
"Are you alright?"
"I'm fine."
"You wanna talk about it?"
"I said I'm FINE, Joe."
"You don't sound fine."
"Thanks for the therapy session but I gotta…"
"Is it about Pete's leave?"
Patrick cursed himself for the involuntary gasp.
"You're still hung up on him, huh?"
No.
Forget about Pete.
"It's been months, Joe. I could care less about who Pete's sticking his dick into."
That's a lie.
"He's not sticking it into anyone."
What?
"What?"
He couldn't even keep the surprise or interest out of his voice.
Joe's reply took too long for his likings. "He's been a mess since you told him to get out so his new boyfriend lost interest in him and kicked him out."
There was a knot in Patrick's stomach. A familiar sense of wanting to make him smile again. After all the pain, he still couldn't hate him.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Thought you guys were over?"
"Where's Pete now?"
"Upstairs. I offered to let him stay at my place until he got back on his feet."
Patrick clenched his jaw, feeling a decision sink into his gut. He knew he shouldn't but he felt obligated to.
"Patrick?"
He took a deep breath, hung up the phone and made his way over to Joe's. The guitarist wasn't even surprised to see him. He merely stepped aside without a single word and let the singer walk past him upstairs. He had to see Pete.
He didn't knock. He didn't have to guess where he was. There was only one guest bedroom anyway.
He opened the door, rant rising in his throat but it dissolved when he saw Pete's sleeping form. He looked so peaceful. Patrick swallowed whatever he had left to say and inched closer. Pete, HIS Pete, looked defeated. He had dark circles around his eyes, like it was the first time he actually managed to fall asleep. There was a hue of a beard on his chin, almost like he hadn't had the energy to shave. Patrick could feel his anger fade.
He'd do anything to see him smile again. That perfect smile of his, white with slightly protruding canine teeth, joyful wrinkles in his eyes. That smile no longer existed.
Patrick sat down on the edge of the bed, reached a hand out to stroke his raven black hair. It wasn't soft like he remembered. There were knots in it and it felt like it hadn't been washed in a week.
He still buried his fingers in the mess, softly scratching him near the back of his neck. Patrick remembered Pete used to love that. The older man shifted in the covers, eyes fluttering open. Patrick felt caught like a deer in the headlights, but it was too late to walk away.
In whatever sense.
"Patrick?"
The singer offered him a small smile, still stroking his hair. Pete pushed himself up in a sitting position. "I…"
Patrick pressed his eyes shut, waiting for him to say something but he didn't. He only stared at him confused and… and relieved?
"I fucked up", Pete murmured, eyes avoiding him. Patrick didn't like the sad look on his face. He pressed a finger against Pete's lips. "Stop."
The bassist furrowed his eyebrows, a flash of anxiety on his face before lowering his gaze. Patrick removed his finger and caressed his cheek. "I forgive you."
At last Pete fell into his embrace and Patrick could tell that everything would be fine.