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The notebook thunks down on the coffee table with a loud thwack. Pete should feel surprised, but he isn't. He and Patrick often go round and round about lyrics.
Pete sighs heavily. "What did I do wrong this time?" he asks, not bothering to look up from the book he's reading. He doesn't ask how Patrick got in; Patrick has a key, just like he has for every other one of Pete’s homes. Patrick always gives Pete a key, too. The main difference between them is that Pete only uses it a quarter as often as he'd like.
Sometimes he thinks they should just get a place together. You know, just to save some money and travel time. But then he remembers times like this, and he wonders how many ass kickings he's avoided just by virtue of Patrick being too tired or lazy to drive here.
"I…" Patrick makes a hmph noise and gestures at the battered composition book. "Just open it. Easier than trying to explain."
Pete raises an eyebrow at Patrick, but his best friend's face gives nothing away. He just stares at Pete, arms folded while he waits.
When Pete’s fingers close around the notebook, he pulls it into his lap and opens the cover, hoping Patrick hasn't maimed his words in frustration. They're not hard to come by, but putting them down onto ink and paper is about the hardest thing he does. If he weren't handing them to Patrick, he'd never hand them to anyone.
To Pete’s relief, his own messy scrawl still covers the pages, but there are notes from Patrick alongside them as well. Pete won't admit out loud that there's a warm, tingly zing that goes through his chest to see Patrick’s writing mixed with his words.
"Notice anything?" Patrick says impatiently. He leans down and taps the page Pete is looking at.
And that's when Pete sees—Patrick has circled a certain phrase on this page. Curiosity piqued, Pete flips through a few pages, finding even more circles. It's the same combination of words—hold me.
Oh. He turns a few more pages and sees the same words circled yet again. Pete doesn't tend to repeat phrases this many times in the same set of lyrics. He also isn't usually so direct. He feels exposed as the words stare back up at him. Hold me hold me hold me.
He does his best to put on a neutral expression as he looks back up at Patrick. "I'm sorry. I'll work on them some more."
"That's not even—" Patrick squeezes his eyes shut and rubs his forehead, like he can't believe he's stuck with Pete. "I can't write songs when you keep repeating the same thing over and over, Pete. Can't you find a different way to say it? Like, change things up, man."
"Fine, I'll rewrite it all. Sorry for disappointing you." Pete doesn't even try to hide the hurt in his voice. He tosses the notebook in Patrick’s direction and gives him a withering look before turning away and flipping on the TV.
What the rest of the world thinks of Pete’s lyrics is one thing. What Patrick thinks of them is what Pete lives and dies by. And he failed. He was too predictable. Too vulnerable, in a totally unoriginal way. And he didn’t even catch it while he was writing. Hold me hold me hold me. What is he—a junior high kid?
Then comes the telltale burning in the corners of his eyes, and Pete wishes Patrick would just leave already so he could let his demons out in peace.
Instead, the couch dips behind him. There's a hand on his shoulder, hesitant, but warm. "Pete?"
Pete doesn't respond. He knows his voice isn't steady enough and his brain is filled with much more embarrassingly juvenile words right now than the ones circled in the notebook.
"Shit," Patrick says softly, a note of regret in his voice. "You…really meant it, didn't you?"
Pete’s so wrapped up in his pity party that he doesn't realize what Patrick means until there are arms wrapping around him, turning him until his face is buried in a soft cardigan and he's all but in Patrick’s lap.
"I'm sorry, Pete. I…didn't realize. I should have, though, and that's on me." Patrick’s hand strokes Pete’s back steadily.
"Not your fault," Pete croaks out. "I should’ve…written it better."
Patrick laughs, and the sound is enough to fill a tiny crevice in Pete’s Frankensteined heart. He wraps his arm around Patrick, and to his surprise, Patrick shifts to pull Pete fully onto his lap. "I mean, how many times can your writing tell me something before it sinks in?"
"At least you figured it out before the album got finished." Now Pete’s laughing, too. Because Patrick isn't mad anymore and the warm arms of someone who would take a bullet for Pete are wrapped around him. Pete nuzzles his head against Patrick’s chest, and his best friend’s breath brushes the back of his neck.
"Pete?"
"Hmm?"
"When you say before the album got finished…is there other stuff I've missed, too?"
"Other stuff?" Pete lifts his head up and is met with a pair of blue, blue eyes. "What do you mean, Patrick?" But he knows what Patrick means; he just wants to hear Patrick say it, hear him ask.
Patrick’s cheeks redden and he directs his gaze away so that Pete can't properly read his expression. "Just, like…" he lets his voice trail off and sighs. "Other things you were trying to ask me for? Things I didn't pick up on at the time? I mean, I assume your writing is directed at the world or at a specific person." Patrick swallows audibly. "I just…I guess it never occurred to me that sometimes the words you're writing me are for me."
Everything's for you, Pete thinks. But he just shrugs and breathes in deeply, savoring Patrick’s closeness. It's not like there are any words—at least not in the English language—that could sum up everything he's been trying to tell Patrick for twenty years anyway.
"Pete." The words are tentative and quiet, barely registering in Pete’s brain through his pre-sleep haze.
"'Sup, Tr'ck?" he murmurs back.
"If there’s anything you need from me…you don't need to hide it in your lyrics, Pete. I'm always listening." Patrick pauses as the weight of his words sinks in. "I just wanted to make sure you know that. Now go to sleep, okay? And I'll keep holding you." Patrick’s arms tighten a little, as if he's afraid Pete still has doubts. Typically, Pete’s brain is made of doubts, and everything else is just camouflage.
Not tonight, though. Pete smiles sleepily into the soft cotton against his face, because yeah, there's no one in the world who can hold him like Patrick.