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Patrick never knew what to do with the letters. Some times they came often, other times not. He had them categorized, by the date they were sent. It made for more convienent reading, if he was in the mood to read them.
You see, sometimes they're dirty. Most of the time they're not, but there is an occasional "I want to do this and this and this to you" message. Not that he's complaining. But really, he is just as excited for the calmer ones as he is those ones.
He doesn't know who sends them. He wants to, but he can't figure it out. There are some that are typed, written, in cursive, and in other people's handwriting.
If they're sick jokes, then so be it. He honestly doesn't care that much.
But, in the back of his mind, he does.
It bothers him.
He asks his friends, his own band members, if they know anything, that if it's them, just confess.
They don't.
He goes on with his life.
The letters stop.
He rereads them, word for word, soaking in everything that occured the past year.
147 messages. Letters. Various confessions of love.
He sighs.
There's one that's making him frustrated.
He reads it daily, although he has long had it memorized:
"Patrick.
Love is the one word I can't whisper to you."
And it ends.
They go on tour, four sweaty man-boys stuck in a van together, no sleep.
Most of the time he's incoherent.
More often than not, he doesn't care about life in general.
But that's okay; his brain needs the break, anyways.
The only good thing about it is that they share secret kisses in the back.
Soft murmurs spill from their mouths, often phrases that would make their mothers blush.
He likes it, he likes being with him. He likes the warmth they share the most.
They were in a hotel room.
Unsurprisingly they shared a room, wouldn't Joe and Andy expect no less?
He sits up, realizes it's still night and he wants to kill Pete for having the lamp on. It wouldn't have been a problem if it wasn't turned to full brightness.
"What the fuck are you doing up this late, Pete?" Patrick glares at his friend, who's lounging sideways on the full-sized bed.
Pete shrugs, and slips the envelope underneath his pillow.
"What is that?" Patrick's patience has fallen in incredulous time.
Pete lays on the bed and props his head up. "The world may never know."
After that, Patrick just shakes his head, and falls back asleep.
He frankly doesn't want to bring attention to himself, or the letters.
Years pass.
They aren't touring in a van anymore, they've made it with the luxurious tour buses, with beds and bathrooms and privacy.
Thankfully.
He still has his letter collection.
A part of him longs for explanation.
They're playing sold out concerts, girls (and guys alike) screaming his name.
It feels good.
They're in what, Texas right?
He doesn't know, he doesn't remember. Frankly, he just doesn't care.
He just knows that it is, really, really hot.
Especially with Pete dragging him down, breathing against his neck. A eerily familiar sentence slips out of his mouth, and Patrick is taken aback.
It takes Patrick a minute to realize something- everything.
The ending of "Saturday" nears.
"Two more weeks, my foot is in the door. Me and Pete, in the wake of Saturrrrr-"
He can't finish it.
Pete's not screaming or crowd surfing like normal.
He is staring at Patrick.
Patrick wants to cry.
The crowd cheers in response and Patrick storms off the stage.
How fucking could he?
It was him all along, writing the letters, sending the letters, fooling Patrick into thinking everything was fine and dandy.
He made Patrick feel good.
He lied.
Patrick's sitting in the handicapped stall in the dirty bathroom backstage, as lame as it sounds.
Sniffling back tears.
The door opens.
"Patrick? Are.. are you in here?"
Pete.
"Get the fuck out, Pete. I can't see you right now. Or possibly ever."
"Come on, just open the stall door. You're overreacting, Pat."
"You lied to me, Pete."
"Didn't... Just come out here." His voice lowers.
Patrick sighs and unlocks the door, getting up but not coming any closer.
"I don't know why I did it." Pete's gaze is focused on the mirror, which is smudged with fingerprints.
"Yeah, well, you did it. I just don't understand why. You're my best friend; you can tell me anything and everything, for God's sake."
"I couldn't... Just tell you."
He looks at the ground and begins to speak again.
"I love you. You realize that? You've reread that about a million times right. There. I said it. I love you to no end and I've loved you since the moment I met you, the moment I laid eyes on you. I've wanted to kiss and lick and touch you nonstop for all of these years. I was the fucked-up mastermind behind the letters."
He confessed.
"And really, I'm sorry. You were just so happy. I didn't want to fuck it up." It was a true confession, Patrick feels it in his brain and his heart. He really loves this kid too.
A few moments pass.
Patrick's lips part as to say something and he utters a sound.
Pete looks up.
"So. You get pissed at me and now you do that thing, that stupid thing where you ignore me. Okay. Thanks." He turns and Patrick takes a step to grab his arm.
He pulls him closer.
"I've loved you, since the moment Joe told me about you. No, I've loved you since the newspaper printed that article about you, back when you were in Arma. I've loved you since I had your shitty little lyrics stuck in my head all those years ago. Those letters are-- they mean everything to me. Every fucking thing you said, I felt a million emotions. I still have them, in fact.."
He pulls a crumpled and torn piece of paper from his pocket and Pete gasps.
"You kept that?!" Pete hesitantly whispers, his eyes lighting up in the process.
Patrick nods and Pete giggles.
"Thank you for everything," Patrick whispers, leaning his forehead against Pete's.
Pete just smiles and adjusts himself, letting their lips find each other's.
"I guess I can whisper it to you."