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Patrick enters the bathroom, left foot first.
Actually, it could have been his right foot - semantics aren’t important. Not right now. What is important is that it feels like the wrong foot. It’s a terrifying, worrying and increasingly more common feeling that nips at his ankles these days.
His footsteps are too loud, too overbearing and too much when he crosses the threshold, from the carpet to the smooth, cold tile on the floor.
Jesus. He should have come in earlier. It’s freezing.
He should have talked through the plywood door. The one he figured Pete must have locked this afternoon when he disappeared . He should have done more.
Thankfully, Pete had not locked the door but Patrick doesn’t figure that out until he tries it later in the night.
Perhaps if he had come in earlier, the door wouldn’t have creaked like a gunshot, ringing against smooth tile and the tangible stillness that comes with Pete’s mind being anything but. Perhaps the tile would still be warm from the afternoon sun, the quiet might not have been so daunting.
But he did wait and the door does creak as he enters the bathroom, already on the back foot.
Pete doesn’t startle at the interruption, lying in the bathtub, still. Too still with his hands shoved in his hoodie to ward off the chill.
If he didn’t know any better, Patrick would say Pete looks almost peaceful here, curled up in the dark with his eyes closed.
But Patrick does know better. Even if it took him too long to figure it out. The glow from the streetlights outside confirms it when he sees dark circles under Pete’s eyes that have been building for days and the set of his mouth isn’t right - too tight up on the left, wrong. Like that’s where he carries all the weight he doesn’t want to put on anyone else.
So he climbs into the bathtub next to him, left foot first.
Wrangling himself in is easier than expected - the space feels suspiciously shaped. Warm, like Pete was lying in the spot mere minutes ago. He must have figured Patrick would come in at some point and end up in the tub with him and he tried to make it as comfortable as possible.
And that’s so very Pete. Forever twisting himself into shapes to make people comfortable - at the expense of his own comfort, as if it’s some kind of afterthought.
Patrick doesn’t know what to say about that. Or any of this. Pete hasn’t opened his eyes yet, so he’s going to have to be the one to break the silence. But no words appear. Pete’s always had the words, for lyrics, for interviews, for reversed moments like this where Patrick needs him but when he gets like this, silent and trapped in his own head with them, Patrick never knows what to say.
God. What should he say?
It’s like being sixteen again, small and annoying and trying to keep up with the Pete Wentz from the scene and not put his foot in it and ruin everything.
But he has to try.
“Hey,” He says.
It doesn’t work. Pete doesn’t move, doesn’t even move towards the sound. The loud (and overbearing and annoying) noise bounces off the tiles and back onto him.
So he tries again: “You deserve to be treated well, Pete.” He says, quieter this time. “I know you don’t believe it now, but it’s true.”
He deserves more, so much more but it’s all Patrick can think of as he takes him in. Settled in a cold bathtub, alone, because somehow he’s twisted himself into thinking he deserves it.
If only he could see how well he should be treated, he wouldn’t lie in bathtubs and settle for overbearing heys to break the silence. Pete deserves the world. Someone who could put all the emotions swirling around them into words.
And Patrick can’t give him either of those things. But maybe, just maybe he could show him.
His hands are warm when they touch him, and yeah. Patrick should have come in earlier, because he’s stone cold. He traces across his temples, pushing back his fringe and dusting over black smudges of eyeliner to settle on his cheeks, hoping to bring a bit of warmth to them. He’s solid under his fingers, but far, far too cold.
Softly, Patrick presses a kiss to the corner of Pete’s mouth. Hopes it can convey all the words he can’t find. He lingers there too, stumbling across day old stubble.
Pete’s eyes open. Dark and glossed over.
There you are. Patrick thinks, his mouth quirking up at the sight.
The relief doesn’t last long.
Patrick walked in here with a mission, after all.
The first step of it is getting Pete warm.
“I’m gonna fill up the tub and wash your hair for you, but I need help getting your stuff off okay?” He whispers. Maybe that won’t startle him.
But that’s exactly what it does, and Pete’s face slips from his fingers before he can stop it as the other man shrinks back against the porcelain. Shit.
“I’ll wash mine with you,” Patrick barters. “And, and after that we’ll go to bed.”
It’s a shitty plan, but Pete nods anyway, still staring back at him and it feels like winning the lottery. It’s more than he’s got all day.
He helps Pete take off his hoodie - it did a shitty job at keeping him warm in here anyway, worn too thin in other bad nights like this one to be of any real help, but it makes it easier to get off. The tank top comes next, and Pete jolts when the coolness of the bathtub hits his bare skin.
There’s a flash of something in his eyes as he watches Patrick remove his own shirt and throw the clothes onto the floor. But it's trapped behind tacky eyeliner and dark circles and Patrick’s not sure what it is, doesn’t have time to decode it like he usually would. He throws his glasses into the pile next.
“Thank you.” Patrick says. “I need you to take your jeans off now, okay?”
Pete doesn’t respond this time, just shuffles up to get out of them, left leg first before moving to the right.
“Thank you,” Patrick repeats.
Turning on the tap is awkward. He has to reach past Pete to get to it. Pete doesn’t seem to mind though.
But then the water explodes against the ceramic with a splash that’s way, way, way too loud.
Pete jolts at it. At the noise, or the cold water Patrick isn’t sure. Semantics aren’t important. What matters is that he does.
“Sorry, sorry.” He hurries, reaching back to adjust the temperature. “Should’ve warned you.”
He should have done a lot of things. He should have seen the signs. Should have walked in earlier, right foot forward. Should have seen the signs before Pete felt the need to stay in here. He should know what he’s supposed to say, be the person Pete obviously needs him to be right now.
The water is just up to their shins when Patrick interrupts his freak out and grabs the cup on the side to fill with water. His spare hand goes to Pete on automatic; fingers pushing through his hair, tangled with day old product and Pete nervously running his hands through it this morning when Patrick didn’t think it was important.
“I’m gonna pour this on top of your head now, so you have to close your eyes, yeah?” Patrick asks. Pete complies, letting his eyelids flutter shut.
Patrick starts narrating what he’s doing, just for something to say. It’s easier, like this without Pete looking at him. He lets the gentle touches show Pete how he feels about him, lets them scream at Pete that he should always be treated with care. His fingers work through Pete's fringe until they hit particularly hard tangle, catching towards the crown of his head.
Finally something he knows how to fix.
He turns away for a second to grab the conditioner, struggles to get the last of it out of the bottle and when he turns around Pete’s staring again. But this time it’s more focused, with intent. His face twists into something Patrick’s not sure how to read. Another thing he should know how to read.
Okay. He needs to finish this. Move onto step two. He needs Pete dry and comfortable. He needed Pete dry and comfortable hours ago.
Patrick continues his one-man show of narrating. “I poured the last of my conditioner into this, so it’ll make your hair all soft and stuff once it’s dry.”
He finishes washing the conditioner out as he talks, and makes quick work of his own hair - not that there’s much left of it, he thinks idly, staring at Pete’s.
He’s about half way through just refilling the cup when Pete finally, finally makes a sound.
Patrick sort of wishes he hadn’t.
It’s loud.
Too loud.
A deep heaving sob that echoes through the bathroom, bubbling up from Pete’s chest where it must have settled this morning. It moves his entire body, and Pete lists forward, unable to keep himself up anymore.
Patrick grabs him before he can process it, pulling him closer. Water sloshes over the tub, onto their clothes and most of his hair is still covered in sticky shampoo but Pete doesn’t seem to care. He just grabs back, clutching onto Patrick where he can with cold fingers sliding on and off again until Patrick pulls him into a proper hug.
“I love you,” Patrick murmurs over his hitching breath. Not knowing what else to do. Fuck. What else is he meant to do? The water is cooling around them, he needs to move them. He needs to fix this, there’s so much more he should be doing.
“I love you. I love you.” He repeats, over and over again, rocking them back and forth, pressing feather light kisses to Pete’s temple until it registers with the man in his arms. It’s not the magical band-aid Patrick needs it to be, not the miracle cure Pete deserves but it’s all he’s got. “ Shh , shh. I love you. I love you.”
Pete shoulders hitch. He sniffles, trying to get his breathing under control. His mouth moves, lips brushing along Patrick’s neck. Patrick doesn’t hear the words, the water is too loud, still settling around them and Pete’s breath is too shaky to carry any sound but he knows what Pete’s saying. What he’s repeating back to him like a mantra.
Later Patrick will finish his mission. They will get out of the bath, dry off, brush their teeth and leave the bathroom together, left feet first.
Or maybe they will go right feet first. Semantics aren’t important right now. As long as they go together.