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Stab it. Strangle it.
No wait. . . . Strangle it. Got it.
I forgot this was harder than it looks.
Patrick sighs and rolls over in his bunk, pulling his blanket over his head. It does nothing to quieten the deafening thinking coming from the other side of the tour bus. Thoughts sound louder to his ears when the person’s really concentrating so whatever bullshit Pete is up to at two am is clearly taking up all his processing power.
Scoop out its guts.
Throw it off a cliff. Nice.
I am so ace-ing this.
Pete's been at it for two hours now. Patrick's tempted to go over to the other side of the bus and shout at him but he’s too tired. And what the hell is he doing anyway? Playing some kinda weird video game?
SHIT. I DROPPED ONE.
He winces, his ears ringing slightly. Aside from some muffled snores coming from above him, the rest of the world is quiet.
Oh, wait. I didn't. Thank God. That was a close call.
Great. I can do this. Just forty-five left.
Patrick groans inwardly.
Some people don’t think in words – they think in vague sounds or images. The pictures he can only just pick up on if he tries but it’s always very fleeting. Some people, and Patrick hasn’t met many, have no internal monologue at all, as far as he can hear. Hanging out with those kinds of people, Patrick’s less likely to get tension headaches and ear fatigue. It’s a nice break from some people who have constant streams of word vomit in their head.
. . .four, five, seven, eight. That can't be right. Let me count again. One, two, three. . .
Pete is one of those people, of course. He has the most extravagant, verbose, rambling, drawn-out and digressive fucking ideas that echoe and reverberate around his skull. They make for great lyrics, sure; sometimes Patrick slips in a few particularly poetic thoughts of his into their songs, not often enough for Pete to realize what he’s doing, but he’s far too sulky to think straight right now.
I hope I don't wake Patrick up. I don’t want to ruin it.
Oh? Well, that definitely gets Patrick's attention. He strains his ears but can’t hear much else other than Pete’s internal commentary and the rustling of fabric. If he cocks his head just so, he can hear the sound of metal scratching against metal.
Patrick’s curiosity grows. He swings out of bed, quickly slipping his glasses and shoes on, and makes his way down the bus. He should check on Pete. You know, for the greater good of the world.
He almost trips over something but catches himself and curses quietly. If his eyesight was half as good as his hearing, he wouldn’t need glasses.
"Pete?" Patrick calls out, keeping his voice low. "What are you doing up?"
His eyes come into focus and Pete is sitting on the couch, clutching a pillow to his lap. He looks like a deer caught in headlights, eyes wide. "Nothing," he says quickly.
Patrick frowns. "What's in your lap?"
"Nothing."
"Pete." He steps closer.
Pete visibly panics. "Wait! Don't come any nearer!"
"Why?"
"Because. . ." Pete hesitates. "Because I have a boner!"
"What?"
"Yeah, um. I'm, like, horny. Please don't take my pillow."
Patrick pinches his temple, breathing out slowly. This guy will be the death of him someday. "You're okay though, right?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Just checking. I'm going to go back to sleep and if you could do whatever you're doing more quietly, that would be great." He nods, figures he's said his part, and walks away.
Ah, close call.
Wait. I could've sworn I wasn't making any noise. Weird. . . .
Oh, hey, my fingers are pretty sore now.
Seriously, what the fuck is he doing?
Patrick wakes up tired and cranky the next morning, ready to pick a bone with the world over his beauty sleep. Pete's thoughts kept him up most the night and when he did finally fall asleep, he kept waking up. What a great start to his birthday, he thinks.
He grows bored of lazing around in his bunk and gets up eventually, blinking groggily. It’s about midday. They’re playing another show at the current venue in the evening so he’s got time to mess around.
No one else is around and he sits on the couch with his laptop, planning on working on a couple demos when Pete suddenly rushes in.
“Dude,” he says, grinning. “Happy Birthday.”
“Uh, thanks.”
Pete flops down next to him. “I know you don’t like doing things on your birthday but I made you something. I didn’t have a needle so I persuaded one of the techs to lend me one. Turns out I didn’t really need one but oh well.”
He holds out a gray woolen hat, slightly nervous. So that’s what Pete was doing. His thoughts made him sound like a serial killer or something.
At first, Patrick is slightly put off by it. It’s uneven and holey and slightly ugly. The bobble on top looks as though it’ll fall off if he pulls on it the slightest bit. Some of the stitches look worryingly loose.
“You crocheted this?”
“Erm, knitted, actually.” Pete scratches his cheek. “They’re pretty different. I haven’t knitted anything in a long time.”
Pete has more than enough money to buy him a stupid hat; Their days of living out of a van and sleeping on people’s floors are long gone. The idea that Pete spent hours knitting, thinking of Patrick. . . . Well, it’s pretty soppy.
He slides the laptop off his lap and carefully takes the hat from Pete, the acrylic stitches slightly rough under his hands. It radiates strong feelings of love and Patrick finds himself starting to well up slightly. Since when did he become so sentimental?
He ignores it and puts the hat on. “How do I look?” He asks jokingly.
Seriously cute.
“Fine as hell, naturally.”
They grow silent. For once, Pete’s thoughts are quiet.
“Thank you,” Patrick whispers. Pete nods in return. “It’s really sweet of you.”
He keeps the hat on for the entire day, wearing it proudly, like a badge that says ‘Pete probably loves me,’ even though it seriously clashes with the clothes he’s wearing. Patrick wears it on stage, even when some of the others tease him for it. It’s worth it; he catches the word cute in Pete’s thoughts more often than usual. Patrick falls asleep that night with the hat under his pillow in his hotel room, smiling.