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The shower was running high. Pete turned it up as hard as it would go, the water hitting his back and running hot down his legs. He leant forward, head against the cold tiles in front of him, and sighed into the steaming air. The sound was deafening, echoing off every surface in the tiny bathroom, and it was so hot he could practically feel himself start to sweat underneath it.
It still wasn’t enough to make him feel clean.
He wanted to be power washed like a dirty deck, to scrub off his skin and find out what was underneath. He wanted to melt into a puddle and wash himself down the drain. He wanted to stay in there until the world crumbled into nothing around him, and none of it could hurt him anymore.
He swallowed, squeezed a handful of shampoo into his hand. He didn’t want any of those things. Not really. He was just a lovesick idiot who was letting his heart get broken every second of every day by the only person who had ever mattered to him, and he knew that he wasn’t strong enough to do anything to put a stop to it. A lovesick idiot who was, conveniently, really fucking depressed about basically everything in his life, and for whom the object of the sickness in question was one of the very few good things he still had to hold on to.
Pete watched the shampoo suds run down the drain around his ankles. He realised when he straightened up that his vision was starting to go fuzzy around the edges, probably from how boiling hot he’d made the room around him. He shut off the water and sat down on the edge of the bath, breathing heavily.
He thought, as he usually does in his quiet moments, about Patrick. He’d had a haircut last week. It looked good on him. Everything looked good on him.
He couldn’t even count the amount of times they’d been side by side in a dressing room, squished between Joe and Andy, with support acts and techs running around behind them shouting shit he barely understood. Patrick avoided his reflection like the plague, but before shows he always had to at least have a look. It was always quick, just shaking his hair out and pulling his hat down right in front of the gap where his glasses should be, but there was always a couple of seconds in the middle where Pete would catch him turning this way and that, studying the way the light bounced off his cheeks. Every single time, the words would jump into Pete’s throat, the desire to tell him how fucking beautiful he looked. But then Patrick would catch his eye in his reflection, something embarrassed hiding behind his eyes, and Pete would swallow it back down, turning back to his own business.
Once, he’d been caught red handed. Patrick had turned and found Pete staring so openly that there was no way he could pass it off as anything else.
“Something on my face?” He’d asked, half-joking, half-serious, in that perfect Patrick way that he always spoke to him.
Pete had smiled like an idiot, and just shrugged, gesturing with his straighteners. “Can you help me get the back bits?”
And that had been it. Patrick had helped Pete straighten his hair, wiped his cheek with his sleeve like a frustrated dance mom where he’d messed up his eyeshadow, and they’d moved on with the show. It wasn’t until months later, when Patrick had found him in the dark corner of a bar after a show and stuck his tongue in Pete’s mouth, that he’d realised that he might have noticed the staring at all.
His vision had cleared, the room cooling a little around him, so Pete straightened up. He picked up the towel that he’d left on top of the closed toilet seat, and started drying himself off. He didn’t make it far before he paused, catching himself in the mirror opposite. He looked at himself. Up, down, left, right. Scanning every inch of skin.
It wasn't the first time Pete had wished that he could be a girl.
Maybe then he could be more than just a last resort, a quick fuck behind closed doors followed by another useless reminder that he couldn’t tell anyone what they were doing. Maybe then Patrick would want him for more than just sex.
He turned away from the mirror, pulled on his clothes, and unlocked the door. The fresh air hit him like a balm on a sunburn. It didn’t make his chest hurt any less.
The show was electric, like it always was. If Pete had been tired before, he was full of energy now, bouncing off walls and set pieces and his bandmates. He span himself in circles until his skin was covered in a sheen of sweat and his veins were pumping full of adrenaline. The crowd were amazing, screaming along to every song and cheering at all of his dumb jokes. They made it through the set without a hitch, nobody forgot any lyrics or fucked up any beats, which at this point in tour was pretty much unheard of. They’d developed this terrible collective habit of getting faster and faster the more the set went on, which was funny in theory, but caused a lot of problems in practise.
Patrick was the same as he always was, glued to the microphone and barely looking anywhere other than his fretboard, but he grinned when Pete kissed him during Brightside, and he pulled out a couple new notes where they usually weren’t, so he seemed to be in a good mood. Right before Saturday, when Pete was trying to tell a story about the last time they’d toured around here, but the crowd kept heckling too much for anyone to really hear it all, he glanced over, and found that Patrick was watching him. Which wasn’t necessarily strange, he was talking after all, he was pretty sure everyone in the room was looking at him right now, but Patrick had an expression on his face that Pete couldn’t quite read. He grinned when they caught eyes. Patrick pushed his lips together, swallowed, then smiled back, just a little, adjusting the strap of his guitar. He pulled the body down, lower than he normally held it. Covering his crotch, Pete realised suddenly.
The thought derailed everything going on in his brain. He stuttered out a joke, speeding to the end of the story so they could get on with the song. Patrick was looking at him, and Patrick was hard. In Pete’s mind, that only meant one thing: he had to get out of there, and fast.
The first time it had happened sort of by accident. They’d been out after a show, celebrating the last night of tour, and it had been one of the few times Pete had managed to convince Patrick to actually stay out for a drink. Only it hadn’t exactly been the big celebration they’d been hoping for, because it was only two or three rounds before Patrick, who had apparently turned into a huge lightweight since skipping all the after parties, needed taking outside to try-not-to-throw-up.
He hadn’t, luckily, the fresh air and the water Pete kept feeding him settled things down quickly enough, but they’d sat outside together for a while longer, just to be safe. The air had been cold around them, a little breeze rushing through the gaps in Pete’s clothes every couple of minutes. He shivered, and Patrick shuffled closer, pushing their sides together. Pete pushed back so a little warmth could transfer between them, ignoring the butterflies in his stomach at the motion.
“I’m so glad this is over,” Patrick murmured.
“Yeah, man, me too,” Pete patted Patrick’s knee. “But you’re good now,”
“No. I meant, like, all of this-” He gestured vaguely into the air around him.
“Tour?”
“Yeah,”
Pete chewed at his bottom lip, an uncomfortable guilty feeling uncurling in the pit of his stomach. “I thought you liked performing now,”
“I did- I do. It’s just a lot, you know? The shows, the travelling, the fans,”
“The fans?”
“Sure. Queuing up at all the venues, waiting outside the stage door screaming for your attention. It’s nice and all, but it’s a lot,”
“You overthink it too much. They love you, just take the ego boost,”
Patrick screwed his face up. “Easy for you to say, they like you,”
“They like you, too,”
“They think I’m a good singer, I guess,”
“They love you. Everyone does,”
“You get all the groupies,” He mumbled, looking down at his hands.
There it was, the real reason being around the fans stressed him out so much. Pete knew that Patrick was insecure, knew he could barely even look at the crowds or he’d get too nervous to sing, but he’d kind of thought he was above letting all the shallow groupie stuff get to him. Sure, Pete got most of the girls, he supposed, but they didn’t really like him that much either. They liked the idea of him, the image they’d built up of this crazy rock star guy who’d give them a crazy night and then waltz off into the sunset, but once they got him behind closed doors they usually changed their tune. Pete would get nervous, and go all soft and shy. Half the time he’d start getting antsy and try his best to get it over with and get out of there, and the other half he’d get a bit too romantic when they were done and then they’d kick him out with his tail between his legs.
It wasn’t so bad with the guys, they generally handled Pete’s sub-iness a bit better. But it still left him feeling all weird and embarrassed when they were done.
He didn’t tell Patrick any of that. He also didn’t tell Patrick that most of the time he was going off with other people to distract himself from how he couldn’t get the one person he really felt anything for. He didn’t tell Patrick that he’d take any opportunity to be close to him over hooking up with any girl in the galaxy. Instead he said:
“I thought you weren’t into that kind of stuff,”
While fighting very hard to keep his voice steady.
Patrick shrugged. “I guess I’m not. In theory. But sometimes I’d like the opportunity to at least say no, you know?”
“Right,”
“Besides, I haven’t had sex in like a year. So at this point I’ll take whatever I can get,”
Pete couldn’t control the way his eyebrows shot up.
“A year? Seriously?”
“Why are you so surprised? You’ve been with me basically every day the whole time,”
“Yeah, but, I don’t know,” Pete shrugged. “I’m not exactly keeping score,”
“Good. I’d hate to see those numbers,”
He shuffled away a little on the bench, tilting his head back and looking at the sky.
“I’m really not the sex god you seem to think I am,”
Patrick glanced at him sideways. “I’m going to remind you that we’ve spent basically every day together for the past year,”
“So?”
“So I know how many people you’ve snuck off with,”
“You do know I don’t actually fuck that many of them, right?”
Patrick frowned, and shook his head.
Pete looked away from him, feeling suddenly kind of exposed by the conversation.
“Usually we just make out a bit, sometimes there’s hand stuff involved, but ninety percent of the time I’m not actually going back to someone’s hotel,”
“And the other ten percent?”
Pete shrugged.
“Right,”
“You’re not ugly, either,” Pete said, mostly without thinking. “You know that, right?”
Patrick turned to look at him. “I guess,”
“You’re not,”
“Whatever,”
“I’d fuck you,” Pete paused, resisted the urge to clap his hand over his mouth. “... If you were gay,”
There was a long pause, during which neither of them moved an inch. Then Patrick asked:
“Are you gay?”
Pete swallowed.
“No. I don’t think so, I mean. I don’t know what I am,”
“But you’ve been with men,”
“Yeah, a couple times,”
Pete shook his head, and stood up. He didn’t want to have this conversation right now, he wasn’t ready for what he was two steps away from confessing.
“Come on, it’s late,” He was at the door to the bar when he turned back. “You’re good now, right?”
Patrick was still on the bench. He stared at Pete for a long moment, then nodded, and followed him inside.
He’d been planning on going straight up to bed and wallowing, but one of the techs caught him by the shoulder on his way upstairs, and pushed another drink into his hands. An hour later he found himself buzzed again, slumped against a wall in the corner, watching his friends dance and feeling significantly less sorry for himself. Then Patrick found him, face a little pink at the cheekbones, eyes darting all over the place.
“I just realised what you said,” He said quickly.
Pete had started to ask what he meant when Patrick grabbed him by the back of the neck and kissed him hard. He didn’t ask any questions after that.
They'd gone back to his room together, barely speaking until they were behind the locked door. Afterwards, Patrick refused to lay down. He sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the closed curtains, his back to Pete. It could have been a few minutes, or it might have been hours, but when he finally stood up Pete still felt like he was leaving too soon.
“Sorry,” He mumbled, not looking at Pete. “I don't know why I- I'm not gay,”
Pete sat up in bed, confused.
“Patrick, what-?”
“This was stupid. I just needed to-” He shook his head, fumbling with his pockets and pulling out his keys. “Forget this happened. Sorry,”
And then he left.
They didn't talk for a month after that. Pete spent most of that time staring vacantly into space and wondering what the fuck he did wrong in his last life to get so close to what he wanted in this one only to have it ripped away from under his hands. He’d just about convinced himself he was over it when Patrick called with new demos, asking if he had any lyrics for them. One afternoon in the studio and it all came crashing back down.
Pete was impossibly head over heels, and he knew now, for certain, that there was no way he was going to get what he wanted.
That was nearly a year ago now. They’d been hooking up on and off ever since. Pete never initiated it, never talked about it even when they were alone, he was so terrified that he’d put a foot wrong and then he’d lose this too. It was fucking pathetic, probably, that he was clinging so hard to someone who only wanted him when there were no other options, but the humiliating truth was that Pete didn’t care. He’d do anything, be anything for Patrick, just to keep him close for as long as he could.
This night was no different from the rest. They’d shared hotel rooms even before all this started, so nobody batted an eye when they went upstairs together. Patrick unlocked the door with trembling hands. He always shook like that, at first Pete had thought he was nervous, but then he realised it was adrenaline fighting to get out of him, and that being on the receiving end of said adrenaline meant his world was about to be fucking rocked.
He fumbled with the light switch, pulling off his sweat-stained jacket and hanging it on the back of the door. Pete kicked off his shoes, stood still in the centre of the room, watching Patrick like a wary prey animal. It was taking a lot of self control not to leap on him right now, really Pete should be getting an award just for holding himself back, but in truth he was always scared to make the first move when they were like this. Everywhere else, Pete was full of ideas and delighted in strong arming anyone he could into helping him out with them, but here, he followed Patrick's lead.
Tonight, that lead took him straight onto his back on the mattress. It was solid underneath him, grounding him just enough not to get completely lost in how it felt to have Patrick kiss him. His hands were either side of Pete's head, tilting his face up, his knees bracketing Pete's thighs, effectively pinning him to the bed. He sighed into Patrick's mouth, one hand coming up to make a fist in the fabric of his shirt and pull it down, closer. Patrick responded by shuffling in to press their whole front halves together. Pete sighed brokenly, pushing back against the pressure. It felt so good that he could cry. One of Patrick's hands had travelled down to his hip now, sneaking under his shirt and tracing across the skin there. His fingers were warm and rough and so, so perfect. Pete thought that he wanted nobody but Patrick to touch him for the rest of his life.
Things started to get sort of hazy after that, most of his conscious brain turning off in favour of the animal instincts that carried him through nights like these. Clothes hit the floor, and hands explored further as they got somehow closer together. Patrick kissed him like he was starving, Pete felt like he really was.
He'd prepped for this earlier. Wishful thinking, maybe, or perhaps he'd started to notice a pattern in Patrick's need to get off, but either way spending half of his shower squatted over the drain with a hand covered in lube had obviously been a good way to spend his time, because it made things significantly quicker when he got Patrick's pants off and climbed on top of him.
Sinking onto his dick, Pete was presented with the thought, equal parts familiar and unwanted, that maybe if he fucked Patrick just right he would finally love him back. It was stupid, and so unfair of his heart to get his hopes up every time, but he could never shake the idea that maybe if he did something different this time, maybe if he tried just a little bit more, maybe Patrick would see what he could be.
He pushed the thought down. Stop doing this. He told himself. Just enjoy it while it lasts.
If there was one thing he was naturally gifted with, it was riding a dick. That was if Patrick's response was anything to go by, at least, because all it took was a bit of shifting in his hips and he'd closed his eyes against the pillows and thrusted uselessly upwards. Pete smiled to himself, moving slowly up and back down again. He was breathing shallowly, focusing on relaxing his ass. He found his prostate on the descent, whimpering as the pressure shot through him, a hand flying to his own dick. He was so on edge already. Just the thought of Patrick's hands on him was enough to get him off on a good day, getting the real thing was so much hotter. He looked down at Patrick, he was flushed from his face all the way down his chest, his hands pale and solid where they rested on Pete's thighs. He was panting a little, his mouth open, tiny exhales timed with each movement Pete made. His glasses were still on, his hair all over the place on the pillow. Pete felt- he felt so much. Mostly he felt that this was the sexiest thing he'd ever seen.
He sped up the pace, moving up and down with a little more frantic energy than practised rhythm. Patrick made a strangled sound, confined to the back of his throat. For someone who was so loud in every other aspect of his life, he certainly seemed to hate being vocal during sex. Maybe he just didn't want anyone to hear what they were doing.
Maybe he didn't want anyone to think he was gay.
“Patrick,” Pete gasped. “I'm gonna-”
Patrick opened his eyes, locked them onto Pete's, an emotion in them that Pete had absolutely no idea how to read. He swallowed hard, then nodded.
“Yeah, okay. I'm nearly-” Pete shifted, and the word broke off. “Me too,” He managed, really pushing up against Pete now.
Pete felt a smile creep over his face, something like butterflies blooming in his chest at the image of Patrick, desperate and sloppy, underneath him. His hand sped up the motion on his dick in rhythm with the pace of his movement on Patrick's. He was barely putting thoughts together now, falling apart under endorphins and pleasure and being so fucking close it was driving him crazy. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Anticipation spread across his pelvis, and he squeezed his eyes shut, electricity pulsing through him as he came onto Patrick's stomach.
He didn't stop riding, moving clumsily, dragging out his orgasm as long as he could. Patrick pushed up once, then twice, then opened his mouth on a strangled gasp, and Pete felt a twitch inside him that he knew meant Patrick was coming too.
For a minute, neither of them moved. Panting into the hot air between them, coming down from waves of pleasure. Pete's eyes were glued to Patrick, memorising every detail. Patrick caught his eye, smiled, open and off-guard. Something in Pete's chest fluttered.
“What?”
Pete smiled back. “Just looking,”
The moment didn't last long, there was a chill in the room, and Pete's legs got stiff at the knees. He extracted his limbs from Patrick and stumbled to the bathroom, leaving him to get rid of the condom and get his clothes back on. He didn't have the energy for a shower, he just about managed to muster enough to wash his ass and face (not in that order) before making his way back out to the bedroom and pulling his pyjamas out of his suitcase.
He could feel the crash hitting him already. The horrible sinking feeling in his stomach as his heartbeat slowed down, reminding him that this wasn't forever. That this was never going to be how he wanted it. That he wasn't ever going to get that, no matter how badly he wanted it.
Patrick was already asleep in bed beside him. Pete slipped under the covers and lowered his head onto the pillows. He watched Patrick breathe, chest rising and falling slowly, the pillowcase shifting around his nose on every exhale. Pete sighed, rolled onto his back.
Just five minutes, he told himself, just for five minutes. He would let himself imagine.
He imagined being in a proper relationship with Patrick. Being his boyfriend, instead of just the friend-he-fucks-sometimes. He imagined going on dates, being taken out to nice restaurants where Patrick would order fancy wine for them both and pull out the seat for him before sitting down. He imagined being allowed to kiss him in public, in private, anywhere he wanted. He imagined telling his mom, how happy she'd be to have them both over for Thanksgiving dinner. He imagined sharing a bed with Patrick every night, getting to be close to him as much as he could. Showing him off to everybody and everything.
He imagined a bed and breakfast, somewhere by the sea. Where nobody knew their names and they could be themselves without anyone watching. Somewhere he would wake up next to Patrick, watch the sun rise over his face, light glinting off matching new shiny rings.
Pete sat up in bed, breathing heavily out of his mouth. He put his head in his hands.
Jesus. He loved Patrick so much it made his stomach hurt. He was sick with it. He felt like he needed to be put down. This old dog doesn't learn any new tricks, just the same old heartbreak over and over again. Till death do you part.
"You okay?"
Patrick was squinting up into the darkness, a look of blurry concern focused in Pete's general direction. He must have woken up when Pete moved. He looked confused, disorientated. Pete shrugged.
"Just got a bit dizzy," He mumbled.
It wasn't a lie, exactly, it just wasn't the main issue right now.
"Do you want water?"
Pete shook his head, but Patrick got up and got it for him anyway. The warm glow of his bedside lamp casting just enough light across the room to see the sink in the bathroom. The glass was wet with condensation when he pressed it into Pete's palms. It was cold against the hot air of the room.
Pete drank half, then sighed, his head falling forward. It knocked into Patrick's chest. He stepped closer, rubbing Pete's back with one hand. Pete's breath caught, his back hitching just a little.
"Do you want to tell me what's wrong?"
Pete shook his head firmly. What the fuck was he supposed to say? I'm desperately in love with you and you don't love me back and it's killing me more and more every day? I'll do anything for you if you ask me to? I'll turn myself into whatever you want?
Tears stung at his eyes. He gasped for breath. Fuck. Fuck.
Pete was crying now. It flooded out of him, like the last wave had hit the crumbling dam before it just broke. His shoulders shook, and his hands trembled against his knees. Patrick took the glass from him and set it on the night stand, never stepping away enough to break contact with Pete's back. Pete let him take hold of his hands and lay him back down. Closed his eyes as Patrick curled up opposite him and pulled him in close. He couldn't stop the tears, couldn't stop the way his breath was coming out in ragged pants. He covered his face with his hands, swallowing hard, trying to at the very least get his breathing under control.
“It's okay,” Patrick mumbled, making slow circles on Pete's back with a warm, gentle hand. “You're okay,”
“No,” Pete choked. “I'm not,”
“I know,”
They stayed like that until Pete ran out of tears. His breathing quietened, and all at once all of the energy drained out of him. He felt exhausted from the inside out, all of the fluid sucked out of his veins and leaving him dry and lifeless. At some point, Patrick had started singing, some old folk song that reminded Pete of being a kid at the end of a long road trip. Crammed in the middle seat between his brother and sister, dozing off as street lights zipped past through the window.
When he opened his eyes he found that Patrick had switched off the lamp. The room was dark and warm, and Pete felt cozy despite himself. Patrick was staring at him in the low light, and when Pete looked at him he smiled, just a little.
“It's late,” Patrick murmured. “It won't feel so bad in the morning,”
Pete nodded. He started to roll over, but Patrick tightened his grip and pulled him back in instead. Pete did as he was told, tucking his head back in the hollow he'd made in the pillow, the fabric damp against his cheek from his tears. Patrick kept his hands on him, his body always close. Pete closed his eyes, and right as he was drifting away, he felt Patrick lean forward and put a gentle kiss on the top of his head.
He didn't think it was possible for his heart to break any more. But there, in the dark of the room, he could almost hear the last of it shattering into dust.