Chapter Text
Honestly (and this sounds really bad), Patrick's doing pretty well in quarantine.
Of course he wishes that it wasn’t happening. He’s not oblivious to what’s happening around him. But he’s kind of killing it as it is. He's always been the kind of guy who thrived by himself rather than around other people, so it kind of makes sense. His house is cleaner than it has been in months (maybe years), he got a violin that he’s trying to learn how to play (unsuccessfully), and he’s working on music a lot. So he’s doing okay considering the circumstances.
He knows Pete isn’t, though. For one thing, he hasn’t gotten new words in nearly two months. He’s heard from Pete, of course. They text a lot, occasionally call, and Pete seems fine. But Patrick knew better than anyone else just how good Pete could make himself sound when he wasn't feeling his best.
He wants to check in. Wants to make sure that Pete isn't about to spiral into some sort of awful depression like he has in the past. He just isn't sure whether he's allowed to. Ever since they came back from hiatus in 2012, the boundaries of their friendship have become more solid. No more of Pete hanging off him onstage, no more late-night alcohol-induced deep conversations, none of it. They don't really talk about their feelings anymore. The closest they come to it is when Pete sends him words. Which, come to think of it, hasn't happened in a while.
If that's not a way to get things started, Patrick doesn't know what is. He grabs his phone from his bedside table and shoots off a text: Hey, got any words for me? Then, he puts his phone down and goes to bed.
In the morning, he's got a couple of texts from Pete:
honestly
not really
haven't really been in a writing mood
but I'll find some for you :)
Patrick frowns at the screen. I don't want you to force yourself to find words.
you're not forcing me. I'll get you some soon.
Patrick still feels like he's forcing Pete, but at least they're talking. Plus, he’s not about to discourage Pete from doing something that will probably help him. So he settles on texting back a simple Sounds good.
cool. love you trick <3
Patrick stares at the text until it blurs. He rubs his eyes and reaches for his glasses. The simple message stays with him all day, and he has to steadfastly ignore the butterflies he feels in his stomach whenever he thinks about it. Because that ship sailed a long, long time ago, and thinking about it does nothing but make him sad.
Anyways.
Several days pass. Patrick goes about his new normal (god, he really despises that phrase, because even though he's doing okay, nothing about the rising death toll he sees when he opens his phone is normal). He doesn't get a response from Pete, but he expects that. Pete needs alone time to write. Hassling him about it won't help. He created the spark with the text message, but Pete has to be the one to light the fuse.
And then, at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday, Patrick hears his email ding with a new message. He pulls it up to find a blob of words, separated by a few measly paragraph breaks. There’s almost no punctuation, and just from scanning it, Patrick can tell that the lines probably don’t even connect logically. He smiles, feeling an overwhelming sense of fondness for his friend, because even as things change drastically, in some ways they do stay the same. He pushes his glasses up his nose and begins reading.
He’s two paragraphs through before he has to get up and pace around the room. Because something about these words feels a little bit familiar. Not like he’s seen them before, because he hasn’t. These lines are new, but Patrick has this uncanny sense of déjà vu as he looks at them. Plus, the sheer amount of yearning within the lyrics gives him a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t know what to do besides keep reading.
He finishes, reads the email five more times, then grabs his phone and pulls Pete’s contact up on his phone and presses the call button. His heart races as it rings once, twice, three times, and then, “Hey, Trick. What’s up?”
At the sound of Pete’s voice, Patrick feels distinctly like he might puke. He clutches the phone tightly, hearing his own breathing coming out shaky and unsure. “Trick?” he distantly hears Pete ask. “Are you okay?”
“It’s about me, isn’t it,” Patrick blurts. He meant to phrase it like a question, but it isn’t a question. He knows. “That email, and those words. They’re about me.”
There’s a long, long silence from the other end of the line. “What?” Pete asks, but it doesn’t sound baffled. It sounds almost resigned. Patrick knows that Pete knows exactly what he’s asking.
“The email you just sent me,” Patrick elaborates. The hand not holding his phone is squeezing his thigh tightly. “Those words are about me, aren’t they?” He doesn’t exactly know how he knows, but he knows. Knows that maybe all the jokes and sly comments and double entendres about Pete being in love with him over the years might have some truth to them.
He hears Pete take a deep breath. He half expects him to deflect, to try and laugh it off and tell him that he sounds crazy. He doesn’t expect Pete’s quiet, “I didn’t think you’d ever find out.”
It’s Patrick’s turn to stammer out a “What?” Because what?
“I didn’t think you’d ever find out. So I started making it more obvious. I kept toeing the line and making it more and more explicit, and you still never figured it out. So I thought I was safe. But—” Pete cuts himself off with a heavy inhale. “You did figure it out. So I guess it’s all fucked up now. Forever.”
Patrick sits up straight in his chair. “Pete, wh—”
“I fucked it up. Now you know the extent of my stupid feelings, and I was trying to make sure we could make it for the rest of our lives without them getting in the way. And now you know, and you don’t want to be friends anymore, and—”
“Pete!” Patrick yells, then immediately cringes. He doesn’t like raising his voice. But at least Pete’s fallen silent. He lowers his voice before he continues speaking. “Nothing is fucked up, okay? I want to keep being friends with you. But I just need you to tell me. How much of it is about me?”
“So much,” Pete says immediately, sounding like he might cry. “So fucking much, Patrick. Not all of it, but—yeah. A lot.”
Patrick closes his eyes tightly. “Fuck,’ he exhales.
“Uh, is that a good fuck or a bad fuck?” Pete attempts to joke, but it comes out trembling and uncertain.
“I’m—” Patrick sighs. “I don’t know, Pete, I really don’t.”
“Patrick—”
“No, Pete, you’ve said your piece. You’ve been saying your piece for years. Let me say mine. I don’t know how to feel, okay? It’s a lot. Because I’ve fucking felt the same way for years, and I’ve resigned myself to never having you, and now, all of a sudden, I’ve learned that I could have had you, in the span of a couple hours. That fucks with someone’s head, okay? So honestly, I’m mad at you, because—” Patrick lets out a laugh that’s more like a sigh of relief. “God, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I was scared,” Pete says quietly, but he sounds less unsure. “I was so scared, Trick. Didn’t want to ruin it all.”
“You wouldn’t have ruined it, you idiot. I get that you didn’t know that, but you should have known that. You’re always talking on and on about how we can read each other’s minds, so why couldn’t you—”
“Trick, the cryptophasia isn’t always infallible.” Patrick can hear the grin in Pete’s voice. “I don’t know everything, babe.”
Patrick almost bites his tongue at hearing babe directed at him in Pete’s scratchy voice. “Well, you should’ve known. Sweetheart,” he adds, for good measure.
Pete inhales sharply, then lets out a groan, which, well. If Patrick was a younger man, he'd be half on his way to a boner. “Oh, that’s mean.”
“Serves you right.” Patrick grins to himself, leaning back in his chair, feeling more relaxed than he has in weeks.
There’s a moment of comfortable silence. Patrick aches to break it with a probably-stupid question. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to, because Pete does it for him. “So, do you want to be together, or…?”
“Pete!” Patrick laughs, completely caught off guard. “Of course! What part of this conversation makes you think otherwise?”
“I just had to make sure! Okay, I’ll let you go to bed. I wish we were together right now, though,” Pete adds, suddenly wistful. “Wish I could just drive to you and kiss you like you deserve.”
Patrick’s heart twists with longing. “Me too. We’ll make it work, okay?”
“Okay,” Pete sighs. Patrick, for a moment, can see him in his mind’s eye so clearly; long hair falling over his shoulders, dark stubble moving with his face as he smiles dreamily. “‘Night, Patrick.”
Patrick smiles too, hoping that Pete can hear it when he says, “Goodnight. I love you so much.”
“Love you too,” Pete says, but he doesn’t have to say it. Patrick’s already heard it a thousand times, in a thousand different ways. And when they finally hang up, Patrick takes a moment to wonder how they’re going to turn all the new declarations of love into songs.