And Not, When I Came To Die, Discover That I Had Not Lived - Chapter 1
Chapter 1 - "This Is My Problem"
POV: Patrick
So I tell you, I have this problem.
I've gotten used to being attracted to Pete. Hell, that happened the first day, the first time I saw him. This has lessened a bit since those first moments, from the time he opened his mouth ("Dude, please tell me you're kidding with that sweater.") to the day-to-day of being forced to live with him ("You guys ate all the fucking Lucky Charms! Hey, 'Trick, how old are these Pop Tarts?"). That's not my problem.
I've gotten used to the consequences of being best friends with Pete. This includes a range of issues, from being forced into things I'm not comfortable with ("Not bad. Hey, can you sing?"), to dealing with not being listened to ("I know it's not a good idea. I just...I think I love her."), to hearing things I really don't want to hear ("Yeah, so...they're on the Internet." - Of course, this happened later than the events of my story. I'm getting ahead of myself here.). That's not my problem either.
Lately, I've even gotten used to being in love with Pete, tiring though it is. Truthfully, it'd been happening for a while and it just sort of hit me one day ("I'm so gonna marry you, Patrick. Don't laugh, I mean it. None of the girls I date can handle that kind of commitment. I already know you'll put up with me."). That wasn't my problem.
The problem came recently in the form of "Patrick...it's Hilary. Are the guys there with you? Listen, um...I need you to meet us at the hospital. Pete, he's um...God, I can't even...here's mom, okay?" and all that followed. The day I realized that I actually needed him. I sat by his bedside the first day (before he woke up) in the couple of days we had before we left for the UK, holding his hand and begging him not to leave me. I had promised myself back when my parents split that I wouldn't ever be dependent on someone like my mother had been on my father. And where had it gotten me? Begging.
When he joined us in Europe, we didn't talk about it. This wasn't exactly a mutual agreement. He sort of brought it up a few times before he figured out that I was too mad to talk. He assumed I was mad at him. For being selfish or weak or some such nonsense. Like I didn't get it. Like I didn't get him (like I didn't spend my life making sense of his thoughts). Maybe I was a little resentful about not receiving some sort of goodbye. But I wasn't mad at him, I was mad at myself. So I've been withdrawing. And this is a rather obvious thing. Sure, I'm introverted, but I'm well-mannered unless you really piss me off ("Fuck, Patrick! I think you broke my fucking nose!"). I don't alienate my friends. Let alone Pete. So he's been taking notice. This is my problem.
Well, at least I have a feeling it's really going to be now that he's followed me into the back lounge of the bus and locked the door behind himself.
I slip the noise-canceling headphones from my ears, allowing them to dangle around my neck and look up from my newly-booted laptop. "What are you doing?"
He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his black hoodie. "Getting rid of your escape route and thwarting any interruptions." If we're parked, "interruptions" mean Dirty daring someone to ingest something questionable. But we're on our way to Munich, so it means Joe wanting to rope everyone into a two hour round of Guitar Hero.
"Why would I want an escape route?" I ask warily.
"Well, normally, you wouldn't, but lately it seems being in a room alone with me is enough to warrant a search for one," he explains. "Just covering my bases."
I sigh. "Pete-"
"No," he cuts me off. "We're gonna talk about this. Because first of all, I need to be able to talk about this-"
"You have a shrink for that," I remind him.
"With you," he amends seamlessly, as if he was planning to add it even before I had spoken up, "And secondly, because I think you need to be able to talk about it."
I shake my head. "I don't wanna talk about it, Pete."
"Yeah. And I've been respecting that for weeks now, but that's not fair. I need to explain some shit to you 'Trick. I owe you that."
I pull my headphones off completely and set them and my laptop aside. "No part of this was fair, Pete. It wasn't fair that I had to listen to your mother bawl about it over the phone, it wasn't fair that I had to see you in the fucking hospital, and it wasn't fair when we all had to go to Europe without you. Fuck fair. You owed me a goodbye, not an explanation. You owed me a chance to give you a reason not to do it. I don't wanna hear it."
Okay. So maybe I'm a little mad.
He stands there silently, at least having the decency to look downright sheepish (which doesn't suit him at all). I run a tired hand over my face and sigh again, feeling a little bit like a dick. "It's not even about that, okay? I get it. Well, I don't get it exactly, but I don't...I don't blame you, dude, okay? I pretty much got used to you doing shit without thinking after the Cleveland Incident." (This was in the early days, before real venues, when we were playing a small bar which I had had to sneak into in the first place. Some guy, quite obviously drunk, called Pete a faggot. Which was fine with him, he got that all the time. What else did he expect when he kissed my neck, like, at least three times during the show? It was when the guy moved on to me that he got a fist in the face. It wouldn't even be dubbed an "incident" except that it was the first time I saw Pete get in a fight.).
"So what's it about then?" he questions, and I curse under my breath, because that's the obvious next thing to ask and I shouldn't have said anything.
"I said, I don't wanna talk about it," I tell him, refusing to look at him and wishing I had kept my headphones around my neck so I could slip them on again now.
"Well, I do." He walks over and lowers himself down beside me on the couch. "We used to be able to talk about anything."
We both sit there, pondering that statement. It was true. And I miss that closeness. But if he's going to be so reckless with himself, maybe I don't want to get back to that point. After all, the doctor doesn't get chummy with the terminal patient.
Hesitantly (which is saying something in and of itself), he rests his chin on my shoulder. I can feel the gentle whoosh on my cheek each time he exhales. I allow my eyes to drift shut when he presses his lips against the pulse point where my shoulder meets my neck. "I'm sorry," he breathes. "It wasn't you I wanted to leave. It was me."
"And it never occurred to you that that would involve leaving me?" I mean that to come out lighter than it does, maybe even get a smile out of him. It doesn't work. The comment leaves an uneasy silence in its wake. I feel his arms wrap around my waist and cling.
"It occurred to me," he confirms, burying his face in my neck. "That's why I called Bob."
Tears start to prick at the corners of my eyes and I'm suddenly glad he can't see me. I refuse to start crying now. Unfortunately, Pete knows me better than anyone and he senses the sudden tension in my stance. He squeezes me. "Patrick," he says. I sniffle indignantly. "Patrick, look at me."
I reluctantly turn to him, underestimating just how close his face is and having to resist the urge to either pull back or lean forward. His hand rises to grip the nape of my neck, his thumb rubbing just beneath my right ear. "I'm not going anywhere," he whispers, kissing the corner of my mouth. "I promise."
I swallow hard. I'm so not ready for this right now. To get back to what we were, maybe. But to move forward is currently incomprehensible. Regardless of how much I just want to turn two inches to the left. I've been wanting to turn two inches to the left since I was sixteen.
"You're not the best at sticking around, Pete," I say, my lips brushing his in the process. "You leave all the time, your home, your girlfriends-"
"I don't leave you," he insists. "And I'm not going to. You and me, man. 'Till the end, right?"
"And how far away is that?" I ask.
His thumb is stroking again. "How the hell should I know? Does it matter? It won't be an end that I instigate; is that what you wanna hear? You're gonna have to beat my ass to get me away. I plan on being human crazy glue. I'm totally gonna be growing old in the apartment above your garage, and you and your gorgeous, Oscar-winning wife will have me down for the Super Bowl."
I actually smile. "You hate football."
"The World Cup then," he grins. He leans forward again and grazes his lips against mine, probably encouraged by the sudden levity in the sea of seriousness.
I lower my head a little. "Pete," I begin, unsure of where I'm going with it, "I...I can't-"
"Yeah," he says, obviously somewhat disappointed, but understanding me even though I didn't understand myself. He pulls back to a comfortable distance, chin still on my shoulder, but no closer than he would be on stage.
I want to explain myself. All the reasons it wouldn't work, and all the shitty consequences of it not working. But I really can't bring myself to and it doesn't matter anyway, because Pete knows them all too. It doesn't stop me from wanting it. I wish it did.
He shifts a little closer again after a moment, but still not too close. "I love you, 'Trick."
"I know." I squeeze my eyes shut. "I love you, too."
"So, what are we doing?" What he means is What are we waiting for?
I face him again, stare for a moment, and shake my head. "I don't know." I watch him lick his lips and lower his eyes. Then he lets go of my waist and sits back, pushing a hand through his hair.
"Okay," he says. "Just..." He stands up and his hands return to his pockets, looking around like he's not really sure what to do with himself. Then he heads for the door and unlocks it, placing his hand on the knob. "Just, um...let me know when you do." And he turns the knob and leaves me alone.