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Pete isn't good under pressure, can you tell? It's a mixture of years of insomnia and depression and just feeling so goddamn alone.
But that's fine.
He can handle being alone.
He's done it for years.
What he can't handle is Patrick.
Patrick, who is looking at him, his eyes wide behind his glasses and his mouth set in a hard line. He opens his mouth-
and pills tumble to the floor, pale and round and promising to make him bigger, or smaller if that's what he wants, and Patrick is-
"Pete," he says, "you need to talk to someone."
"I'm fine."
"Bullshit, Pete, this isn't healthy, you can't keep living like this, you need-"
"I can and will. Newsflash, Patrick, I've been fucked up for years," he laughs bitterly, "and if you think you can change that, change me, then you're wrong."
There are hands around his, squeezing. "Pete, we can, I can help, Pete, please, just let me. I love you."
"I love you, too, Patrick, and that's why you need to leave. Because I'm going to ruin you. Just like I ruin everything else."
"Pete."
"I have to go," he says and stands. The room is closing in on him and he needs to get out like yesterday because he can't control his words. "I need to-Patrick, I-" he's in the hallway and then his room, locking the door behind him. He flops down on the bed and screams into his pillow until something snaps. He isn't one for crying, so he doesn't, but he pants and digs his fingers into the duvet, grappling for leverage. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he hisses and gasps as his throat protests. "Fuck, I'm such a fuck up."
Way to prove everyone right, Pete, way to scare off one of the only people in this world who actually gives a shit about you.
He contemplates opening the window and jumping, but it's only the second floor. He focuses on breathing, the slow rasp in his throat fading. He stays there, just breathing, until he feels human again. It takes awhile but he does it and stumbles out into the living room.
He doesn't know what he was expecting but it certainly wasn't this.
Patrick is looking at him, half asleep and clad in his pajamas, the TV playing silently in the background. He yawns and swipes his quick little tongue over his cracked lips. "What are you doing over there?" he asks and holds out his arms. "I've been waiting." Pete stumbles forward and falls to his knees in front of him, because he's a dramatic sonofabitch like that. Patrick shifts slightly and Pete wraps his arms around his legs, presses his cheek against his thigh and sighs, breathing in sweat and body soap and Patrick, who still loves him, Patrick, who is still here.
He snuffles, shifts upward on his toes and shoves his head up the hemline of Patrick's shirt, nuzzling against his warm stomach. "Patrick," he says.
"You're odd, you know that?" Patrick yawns, but does not make a move to stop him. Pete breaks his crouch and drops down against him, pulling off the shirt that housed him. Patrick leans back, quirks an eyebrow. "Really odd."
Pete presses his hands against him, one braced on his shoulder, the other wrapped around his waist.
Dark and disgusting against pale and perfect.
Patrick leans up and kisses him. Pete has kissed a lot of people, loves kissing, but Patrick kisses are the best and he nearly melts into him.
He kisses Pete like he means something, like he's worthy of this gorgeous boy. I love you, he thinks, resting his head in the crook of Patrick's neck and matches his breathing with his. I love you. He can feel Patrick's heartbeat against his forehead and it feels like home. Patrick grasps his head, pulls him up into another kiss. Pete must taste disgusting, like morning breath and whatever he'd eaten for lunch but there is nothing but a content hum against his teeth.
"You stupid dipshit," Patrick says, "you can't just keep running away like that. I need you. We need to work things out sometimes, you know."
"I'm sorry," he mumbles, stealing another kiss to wash the regret out of his mouth. "Patrick, you've gotta-"
"Shut up, man, and go to sleep, God, you always did take yourself too seriously," and Patrick sounds ready to pass out even though Pete is lying on top of him with his bony elbows and knees and probably terrible smell. "Go to sleep and we'll figure it out in the morning. Together."
"But, I-"
"Shh. Morning. You're making me breakfast."
He grins. "I'm putting barbeque sauce on everything." He feels Patrick smile against his collarbone.
"Asshole."
"I love you too, Patrick."