Archive of Our Own

Hedonism
'Just because you feel good, doesn't make you right...'

Joe knew, the second he stepped onto the bus and hopped up the stairs into the sitting room, that something was wrong. It was quiet. Painfully quiet. At the table, Andy sat with artwork spread in front of him, a pencil gripped tightly between his fingers; but he wasn't drawing.

Andy was gazing through to the 'bedroom', eyebrows knitted into a worried frown. He didn't look up when he heard Joe enter, he just raised one hand to keep him quiet and continued to listen. For a moment, Joe obeyed as Andy carefully climbed to his feet and moved to the door into the bunks. For a minute or two, he stood still, continuing to listen, and then tentatively said, "Patrick? Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Patrick's voice choked back, followed by hasty sniffing and the sound of him clearing his throat. "I'm fine. Give... just give me a minute, okay?"

"Dude?" Joe tried, suddenly alarmed and looking at Andy for some idea what had happened. Andy shook his head slowly and started to back away; it was his logic that if Patrick wanted to be by himself, then Patrick should be by himself. It was Joe's, even after years of being told to fuck off, that a good friend never left someone alone when they were this cut up about something. So he pushed open the door and peered in.

Hunched over Pete's bunk, Pete's Macbook open in front of him, Patrick was scrubbing fiercely at damp cheeks and pink eyes, the sleeve of his hoodie tugged over his hand.

"Joe, I said fucking leave me alone!"

Joe ignored him and pulled the door shut as he walked down the aisle. He could see the screen even from there. "Oh, fuck, dude... that's just..."... just a MySpace-angled shot of Pete's unmistakeable stomach, jeans open, a familiar blonde peering up to check the camera with one mascara-smeared eye and a self-satisfied smile on her otherwise-occupied mouth. "Fuck..."

He pulled one of Patrick's shoulders to turn him away from it, slamming down the lid with the other, and coaxed him into a hug. Patrick's hands scrunched into fists in the back of Joe's t-shirt as Joe's arms tucked around him, half holding him upright as his shoulder began to feel warm and wet. They didn't say anything; Patrick didn't make a sound, aside from a sniff or two and an uncomfortable gasp as he tried to regain control of himself.

Joe loved Pete like a brother, he genuinely did, but sometimes he actually kind of hated him, too.

Patrick wasn't made of glass; he had agreed to this years ago and it had even worked out for a while. Joe could still remember being impressed by how well he handled it. How watching his boyfriend making out with nameless girls in one-horse towns and leading local scenettes astray never seemed to phase him. He made it look like no bigger deal than watching him shake hands with the sound guy after the set. Joe wasn't even the one dating Pete, and there were times when he couldn't stand to watch or to listen to the stories. He could still remember being barely eighteen years old, looking to Andy to check his reaction as Pete dropped an arm around Patrick's shoulders and ran a hand up the fishnet thigh of the girl perched on the closed bar behind them. Andy had shook his head, barely perceptibly, and recruited both Joe and Patrick to start shifting their kit out to the van. The same night Joe had lain awake, staring at the wall in the crumbling motel room and listening to murmurs through the bathroom door.

I'm doing it for you, remember. For us... Keep people off our backs, or whatever.

I know.

And you still love me, and everything?

Of course I do.

There hadn't been many words after that. Just noises.

Patrick wasn't made of glass, but the cracks were starting to show. In a way, Joe had been expecting this. Things couldn't stay the way they were for long, they were too good. Patrick had been so happy, a few hours before. He'd been strung out for weeks, blocking them out with his headphones and his bunk curtain, cocooning himself, and everyone knew what was wrong, Joe best of all: Patrick had grown up, but Pete hadn't. They weren't on the same page any more – at least not as far as their relationship was concerned – but the past week or two, things had been different and Patrick had been truly, genuinely happy. Jeanae was done. Finally, finally just the friend Pete had been swearing she was for years. Patrick believed it, this time, everyone could see that – he was happier, healthier, more confident in himself than Joe could remember seeing him (although Joe had watched him in the dressing room in Germany; watched him pick up a piece of cake absently as he listened to Bob. He'd also seen him glance at Pete's shirtless back and wince. The cake had slipped into the trash a moment later).

Perhaps it was because he was so happy that he failed to see (or maybe ignored) that Jeanae was being replaced.

The problem with Jeanae was that she had gotten under Pete's skin. She couldn't just Not Be There – he needed something to fill the gap, some kind of torment to levy back at her. I'm happier now than I've ever been. I don't need you. Patrick was a constant; a baseline. He couldn't flaunt his relationship with Patrick, so he didn't count. And soon enough, there was a filler. She was ideal: already a friend and therefore not implausible, Hollywood Pretty, public, attention-ready. The antithesis of her predecessor. Perfect for a mutual agreement. Everyone was supposed to win.

But everyone knew, from Joe to Charlie to Pete's own mother, that Pete was the one who really needed the camouflage of public relationships and double-bluff jokes (he told them the truth with his tongue firmly in his cheek, so no one really believed him). Pete who wanted to be accepted and blend in, and that the continuous rebellion was just sour grapes from every time he'd failed. Patrick just needed to let the world know that he wasn't unlovable; he mentioned his 'girlfriend' (childhood best friend, room mate) every opportunity he found – until she got tired of being a smokescreen and wanted a real life of her own. Nobody blamed her for leaving, but Patrick had never forgiven her for the home truths she made a point of leaving him with.

Nobody likes to be called a fool, especially when it's true.

Joe didn't say anything when Patrick pulled away; he just ran a sympathetic hand over Patrick's shoulder. He had intended it to be comforting, but a second later Pete's Macbook was shattered and soaked in day-old Mountain Dew on the bus floor. Patrick hated people seeing him cry.

Joe hadn't seen him like this since England, after the Best Buy incident. He was sure they were still kids, then, despite it only being two years ago. They'd curled together in cheap hotel rooms, directionless without Pete's guidance, Andy fighting his own war of rage against a weakness no one had let him have the chance to understand – no one thought to tell him that the food poisoning story wasn't the whole truth. Only Joe had seen the way Patrick had gazed at the empty bed and realised, perhaps for the first time, that he was alone. Only Joe had been there to find him curled into a corner, a borrowed hoodie bunched to his lips, having realised that this could have been every day for ever. And it was Joe who had switched rooms; Joe whose shirt had been creased from fingers knotted over his chest every night until Pete came back.

After that, Joe was the one Patrick turned to when he couldn't turn to Pete. It was Joe's bunk he would sit in for hours, watching him on the PSP just for a distraction when Garageband wasn't enough. Sometimes, it was Joe's bunk he would fall asleep in, and Pete would laugh at them and call it a slumber party, asking if that was how Joe's curls came into being.

Neither of them seemed to think much of it, or notice how Joe would turn away in the bunk and wake up and leave before Patrick did, afraid that the feelings he'd developed in England would be given away. Joe had made it stop after he'd woken up from an afternoon nap in Tokyo, to Pete standing over them clutching his Sidekick, a troubled expression on his face. Joe's hand had been resting splayed on Patrick's stomach. He knew for a fact that even Pete wasn't even allowed to do that, he'd heard the late-night bickering from whichever bunk they were in at the time. For Joe, it felt like an intrusion on his behalf; he didn't want their closeness to turn into that.

He wanted Patrick, but not like this.

In the bus, staring at the broken Macbook on the floor, Joe patted comfortingly at his elbow. "That's the fucking least he deserves, dude..."

Patrick just nodded and gave Joe's arm a light squeeze of thanks before he left. Joe didn't try to stop him; there were times when he really did just have to let him deal his own way.

Andy looked up from his artwork as they both ambled back into the sitting room and Patrick headed straight through and out of the door.

"Is he okay?" he asked, watching as Joe slumped down beside him and lolled his head back against the window. There was nothing on his page except distracted doodles.

"Pete and the chick, dude." Joe shook his head regretfully. "So much for this shit being a fucking act or something..."

"Is he going to handle it okay?" Andy looked at the small damp patch on Joe's shoulder. "I mean, does he seem okay?"

Joe shrugged despondently. "He always pretends he's okay... But he smashed Pete's Mac, so, I guess that says kind of like... a lot."

"I totally called this."

"Yeah..."

'One of these days, he's going to get bored of the practise swings and want to play ball, man.'

Joe just nodded and went to find someone he could get drunk with.

"Poor fucking kid..." Andy muttered grimly. While Joe seemed to have grown up, in Andy's head, Patrick never had.

"Dude. It's like, so totally fucked up. I feel so bad for him... I figure he just borrowed Pete's computer because his battery was fucking up last night, and there's a fucking picture there of Pete with his dick in the Barbie Doll's face. Like, like right in her – "

"Joe! Enough said, man, geez." Andy shook his head again, "You and Pete have the same fucking problem: you don't know where to draw the line."

"Fuck you, dude, I'd never do that to him!" Joe snapped, not as fiercely as it was sincere. "Pete might, but I wouldn't. Ever."

There was a soft sigh beside him and a gently consoling foot bumped against his ankle. "I know, man."

"Pete is such a dick... I swear that he's just like, putting him through this because of the band. If Patrick leaves, we're nothing, even if it's that jackass everyone knows. I swear, it's like, 'You don't want him, dude? I'll fucking take him!'"

"But you can't," Andy reminded him patiently.

"I know," Joe nodded resentfully. "But he doesn't fucking deserve him if he can't appreciate him."

"Who doesn't deserve what?" Pete's voice asked as the door opened.

"We're talking about sports, dude," Andy informed him, without missing a beat. "Don't even pretend to be interested."

"I'm as interested as he is, kind of," Pete replied, walking past them and straight into the bunk area. There were a few seconds of silence before the bellowed, "WHAT THE FUCK?! What happened to my Mac?" He walked into the kitchen holding the broken computer and showed it to them.

"No idea, dude," Joe lied, shrugging. "Maybe it's 'cause the dog's been in your bunk again."

"Hemmy? Hemmy wouldn't fucking... Fuck this, man, this is totally fucking shitty!"

"Shit happens," Joe said coolly and jumped up, the world wobbling a little as he did so. "I'm gonna go find Pleasure Ryland, see if he wants to noodle around for a while. See ya." He left before Pete could ask any more questions. There was no way he was going to tattle tale and get Patrick in that much shit, because if he did, Patrick would have to explain to Pete why he had done it. Patrick clearly wasn't ready for that.

During the show, that night, Patrick pulled away when Pete tried to kiss his neck. The look on Pete's face was sheer disbelief. Patrick always let him get away with whatever he wanted – nobody ever said 'no' to Pete – and Joe had an unpleasant feeling that a whole wealth of shit was going to hit the fan when they got off stage. Especially when Patrick didn't sing, "Pete and I", but "Joe and I" in Saturday. It may have seemed like a joke to the kids in the audience, but there were some things that were too sacred to them to fuck around with.

It was also that night, the last show of the tour, that Joe Tromania'd and almost fell as he landed. The world spun and skittered and he covered it by dropping to his knees near his monitor and waiting for the dizziness to fade. They finished the set, but he'd barely handed his guitar to Diaz and made it out into the corridor than the world spun again, and then went black.

Afterward, he could remember voices and it really seemed as though he had been unconscious for just a few seconds, but when he woke he was laid out on the couch in the dressing room, Andy and Patrick peering down at him, worriedly. Pete was yelling at someone to "just get a fucking doctor!" and Joe was really confused.

"Okay, I want everyone outside, guys," Charlie said, ushering everyone to the door. "Give the man some space. C'mon. Patrick, we're going to need you outside, man, help get rid of the kids."

"No. No, man, I'm staying here – Pete can go."

"Dude. C'mon, outside. The doctor doesn't want you under his feet. Go."

"I said no. I'm staying with Joe."

Joe groaned, "I'm okay, dude," and tried to stand up, but Charlie absently shoved him back down and silently pointed a warning finger in his direction. Don't try that again, furball.

"I'll go," Dirty offered, dragging on his sneakers. "I can keep the kids occupied a while, I think..."

"Take Dre."

Pete stood leaning against the wall by the door, watching as Patrick perched on the arm of the couch and patted gently at Joe's shoulder.

"You can go, if you want," Patrick told Pete stiffly. "I think we're okay here."

"Yeah," Pete nodded, folding his arms and peeling himself away, "You have fun attacking that Astoria, or whatever..."

Fortunately for Joe, the doctor diagnosed nothing worse than sheer exhaustion, which was hardly surprising since they'd been on tour almost since the year before and it was now April. Joe genuinely could not remember the last time he'd had a full night's sleep. The drive back down to London, to catch the plane out of Heathrow, was spent arguing over what to do about the impending HCT. Patrick and Andy wanted a postponement. Joe didn't want to cause fuss on an epic scale and tried to tell them he was okay but no one was listening, except Pete, who insisted that they do what Joe thought best, presumably expecting Joe to want to carry on as normal.

"I'm gonna be fine, dudes, I just need some fucking caffeine or something, basically..."

"You need a rest, Joe," Andy replied, shoving another glass of water into his hand.

"I like, have exhaustion, not sunstroke..." He drank some anyway, or he'd never hear the end of it.

"We can't go right back on tour," Patrick declared for the millionth time, causing Pete to get to his feet and open the fridge to get himself a drink before slamming it so hard it bounced back open and three cans of Mountain Dew rolled across the floor of the moving bus. "Grow the fuck up, Pete – we can't!"

"What about the fans, Patrick? What about the thousands of fucking kids, and the sponsorship and the goddamn plans?"

"So a few kids are going to be disappointed because they can't make a different date. It sucks on a fucking huge scale, but they paid to see us get out there and do an amazing show. We can't do that if we're all too tired to even raise a fucking smile!"

"I can raise more than a smile, dude!" Joe assured them jokingly.

Andy clipped him lightly on the head. "Patrick's right. This is a wake up call. I'm tired, Patrick's tired... Joe came this close to collapsing on stage in front of a couple of thousand kids, and I don't want to see little girls crying because they think the Trohmaniac's dead."

"I'm not going to die."

"See?" Pete demanded, pointing at Joe. "Who knows better how he's feeling than he does, dude? You can't keep coddling him, or whatever. He's not sixteen years old any more."

"He's like, sitting right here, though," Joe reminded him, waving.

"You know what?" Patrick finally snapped, angrily, "I'm surprised you want to fucking keep the dates where they are. You've made it pretty clear you have better things to do."

Pete blinked at him. "Huh?"

"Forget it. I don't fucking care what Joe wants to do, if this tour doesn't get postponed, you're going without me."

There was a pause and Andy said, "Me too."

Finally, looking at Patrick, Joe took a deep breath and nodded. "Well, if that's kind of like... how it's gonna be... Three against one. Sorry, dude."

Half the tour was rescheduled and Pete didn't sleep that night.

Their flight, the next day, took them all to Chicago before Patrick and Pete continued on to LA. Pete was still sulking all the way through security and by the time they reached the flight lounge he'd upgraded his and Charlie's tickets to first class, leaving the rest of them in Economy Plus.

"Pissy bitch," Patrick muttered, hurling his bag into the overhead locker and dropping into the aisle seat, so that Joe had to climb over him to get to his own spot between him and Andy.

"He's just sulking 'cause he was out voted, he'll get over it," Andy replied, unfurling his headphones and settling down.

"He's a self-centred fuck."

Dirty patted Patrick's head as he sat down in the seat behind. "So get a divorce."

"Get bent."

"C'mon, dude," Joe said softly, nudging him. "Let's just watch a movie and forget about it... You've got, like, fucking hours on a plane to LA, once we get out of here. You could at least pretend to enjoy the next eight."

"Then I have four weeks of Barbie and Ken."

"We're going to be in town in a couple of weeks anyway," Andy piped up, opening a packet of cashews.

"Yeah – me and Hurley Burley'll save you, dude."

Patrick snorted and put on his headphones. He spent the rest of the flight asleep on Joe's shoulder.

Joe opened the front door, already beginning to regret having bought a house because it meant everything was so much further away from everything else than it had been in the apartment, and already speaking. "I totally gave you a key, babe, don't tell me you already lost it in that crazy suitcase you call a purse..."

He took two steps away, barely registering Patrick until he cleared his throat and mumbled, "Am I interrupting, dude?"

"Patrick? Shit, man, sorry. I thought you were Marie... Come in – don't trip over shit, I'm still trying to unpack."

"Are you expecting her?"

"Not really. I just figured my mom and dad took Sam on vacation and nobody else really just drops by, so..." Joe put down the paint tray and rollers in the sink and looked over his shoulder at him as he washed the emulsion off his hands.

"You realise this is the first time I've seen this place? You moved in, what, two months ago?"

"Dude, this is practically the first time I've seen this place!" Joe joked, looking in one of the three boxes on the counter for an extra cup. "Sit down, man, I'll make you a coffee."

"You're supposed to be resting, not playing Home Edition..."

"I rested for two days. I'm good." He caught the doubtful look on Patrick's face and added, "Scout's honour, dude."

There was a fairly pregnant pause before Patrick looked up from picking paint specks on the plastic chequered table and announced, "You freaked me out. Like, a lot, Joe."

Joe dried his hands on an old towel and leaned back against the sink, looking at him. "Yeah. Me too. But I'm fine, man, it's all good. I just over-rocked."

Patrick managed to raise a half-hearted smile and Joe remembered, abruptly, that the last time he had seen Patrick it had been waving him off as he and Pete headed for their flight to LA.

"Wait. Dude. What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, dropping a spoon noisily into his mug. "You're supposed to be in California!"

"I came home."

"No shit..."

"Pete had to be other places," he shrugged, dusting his hands off and adjusting his hat self-consciously.

"Other places. Without you?"

"Yeah," Patrick nodded lightly, with another diffident shrug. "He's taking a vacation. With Her."

Joe stared at him in disbelief. "And you let him go?!"

"Oh, c'mon, you think I could have stopped him?"

"Did you even try?"

"What's the point, man?"

"Yeah," Joe muttered, turning back to pick up the kettle and pour the boiled water, "I'm starting to think pretty much like, the same thing, basically – about your whole relationship, dude."

Patrick huffed and shook his head, bowed over the paint flecks on the table again. "What else am I supposed to do, Joe?"

Honestly? Joe wanted to just say, "LEAVE!" but it would have been a waste of breath. So he shrugged. "Have you even like, told him you know, dude?"

"What am I going to say? I chose this. I can't just expect him to stop because I changed my mind."

Joe nodded slowly. "'Cause like, even when you buy a house and an apartment with someone, and you've been together since one of you was in high school, letting them kind of like, fuck other people, that's cool. Right."

"Don't say it like that..."

"Isn't that what it is, dude?"

"No! No, you know it's not... this is how we are... "

Sighing, Joe moved to find the sugar amid all the boxes. "Patrick, listen to yourself, dude. If this is normal for you guys, you wouldn't like, be here, right now. You'd be with Pete. You're just fucking making excuses for the guy, and I love Pete, you know I do, but this is bullshit."

Patrick was quiet for a long time after that, hunched over with his elbows rested on the table, chewing pensively on the tips of his fingers. "I don't think..." He stopped and took off his glasses, massaging his eyelids wearily, "Y'know. I don't think he even knows he's doing it..."

"Dude," Joe began, sliding a mug of very milky coffee across the table at him and sitting down in the closest chair, "I don't like being the one to say this, because it makes me feel like an asshole, but... this is kind of like, turning into a sham. He's fucking someone else. He's gone on vacation with her and not you... Seriously, dude, this is ridiculous. How can he not know that's gonna hurt?"

For several moments, Patrick stared at the splattered surface, scratching absently at flaking terracotta smears.

"You've been together forever, don't you think that maybe you need to try something else? This is blatantly not working, any more."

Patrick gave a short bark of a laugh. "We can't break up – this whole thing would go down with us, Joe... I can't just say, 'I don't want this, anymore' because the ripple effect is going to be huge."

"Stay together for the kids? Is that all that's keeping you with him, dude? Because that's a pretty fucking lame excuse..." An excuse that left a bitter taste in Joe's mouth, feeling irrationally as though he was being deprived of a chance for the benefit of pretty much everyone else on the planet.

"No, I'm still with him because even after everything, he's still Pete and I just... If I wanted to end it, I would have, by now. I would."

Joe was even less convinced of this than Patrick sounded. He took a sip of his coffee and burned his tongue. "Maybe."

Patrick stopped to contemplate this for a second, and then gave a short, cynical laugh. "Jesus, dude, I own two homes, two cars, I could retire now and live comfortably until I die, I've been in the same relationship for five years, I'm basically being cheated on right under my fucking nose, and I'm not even twenty-three."

Joe gave a snort and rubbed his shoulder, kicking himself mentally when he let his fingers idle there just a little too long.

"Could be worse, I guess..." Patrick added. "Pete's having a mid-life crisis at twenty-seven."

"I figured Pete's whole life has been a crisis, basically..."

Patrick actually smiled at that, nodding, "Pretty much."

"I'm just sorry all this happened, dude," Joe told him, after a moment. And he meant it. He really did. "I felt like you guys would be together forever, like my parents or something..."

"Maybe we will."

Joe nodded into his mug, but he wasn't convinced.

"So, do you have plans today?" Patrick asked suddenly.

"Um. I was kind of supposed to get the bathroom finished and pick up Marie later."

"Oh."

The look of disappointment on Patrick's face pretty much killed it for the DIY. "But, I mean... it's my bathroom. I'll paint it when I fucking want to." He grinned, pleased with the smile he'd brought to Patrick's face.

"Seriously?"

"My awesome axe-smithery paid for it."

"Cool, 'cause I just figured it's been way too long since we just hung out, y'know?" Patrick announced, perking up quickly. "I feel like I forgot what this city looks like. We should totally just go get something to eat, go shopping or something..."

"Not if you like, want to go within fifty feet of a shoe store, dude. I have a girlfriend to drag me to those."

Patrick flinched. "No shoes."

"Okay, cool. Just... let me get a shower first. I stink of paint."

"Hobo."

Joe flipped him off, grinning as he left the room.

It really was a long time since they'd hung out. They were both inconspicuous enough to be able to wander into record stores and only really get a couple of bemused looks of recognition, and one fat kid running up and asking for autographs, which they politely signed before he ran back off to his friend and spent the next fifteen minutes watching them from behind some shelves. It was good not to be Pete. It was even better just to be two dudes buying CDs and going for pizza.

It was in the restaurant, around a mouthful of garlic bread, that Joe mentioned some old friends who were playing in one of their former haunts.

"Seriously?!" Patrick asked, swallowing his mouthful so quickly he actually looked pained.

"Yeah, dude, Charlie was saying something about it, like, right before we split in the airport."

"Is he going to be there?"

"Nah... I mean, that dude gets stuck babysitting our scrawny asses at shows ten months of the year, practically – would you wanna go anywhere near?"

Patrick smirked. "Yeah, good point..."

"It would be totally awesome to go along, though..."

"Are you still in touch with those guys? I mean... after everything with... y'know."

Joe shook his head and shrugged, picking up his Coke, "But I mean, nobody has to know we're there. We can like, lurk in the dark or something..."

Patrick blinked at him. "Wait, we're going, now? I thought you had to pick up Marie..."

"I do," Joe shrugged, because girlfriends came and went (even the ones he really kind of loved) but Patrick was Patrick, "but I can cancel. She totally has to study anyway. I swear she only said she'd come over tonight because she wants to make sure I didn't paint the bathroom like... orange or something."

"You painted the kitchen orange."

"It's fucking terracotta, dude! Fucking philistine..."

"Joe, I think you actually just came out."

"No, I'm at one with my home," Joe informed him, mock-piously. "You and Pete can get in any decorator you fucking want, dude, but like, you will never get to stand back and say, 'That accidental smudge on the window and the crooked tile on the wall over the bath: I like, fucking worked my fingers to the bone for that', dude."

Patrick dropped his gaze to his plate and dissected a slice of pizza with his fingers. "Yeah."

Realising the tactlessness of his words, Joe blushed and fell over himself to apologise. "Dude. That was like... that was just so totally inappropriate and stuff, and I am way, way sorry. Seriously. Seriously, dude, I'm really sorry..."

"It's cool. I think I can live with it..."

"C'mon," he said, scrunching up his paper napkin and dropping it on his plate. "Let's pay up and bail. I'll feed the good lady a story about how I'm like, fixing your broken heart or something, and we'll go pretend we're not famous."

It was twenty minutes after that, with a shared sense of mischief, that they calmly paid their eight dollars and headed into a shadowy corner to watch the bands.

"Brings back memories, huh?" Joe yelled, halfway through the second song, shoving a plastic cup into Patrick's hands.

Patrick lifted the beaker up and studied it before giving Joe a pointed look.

"One beer won't hurt! It's not as if you've ever been genuinely edge, dude... Don't get all Hurley Burley on me, okay?"

Patrick rolled his eyes and nodded, taking a sip. "It just always tastes like pee!" he yelled back, just in time for the music to stop and several people close by to turn and look at him strangely. Patrick turned an odd colour and Joe laughed and wrapped an arm around his shoulders to squeeze him affectionately.

"Having fun, right?"

Grinning, Patrick nodded and took another sip of his drink, distracted from his problems for the time being. It was perfectly normal for Patrick to shift his weight and lean against Joe's side. They would have lounged around like that six years before, when they were kids. Pete made a habit of sitting on Joe's lap, for a while. And for just a minute, just a brief, fleeting moment, Joe let himself imagine that this was something other than two best friends hanging out at a show; that Patrick's hand fiddling with the hem of his near-prehistoric Maiden shirt was born of an urge to remove it and not just impatient fingers always wanting to fret a chord or tap out instructions for editing software. He crushed it when he realised how much he wanted it.

As the feedback of the last band faded out, Joe pulled his phone from his pocket to check the time.

"You want to head off?" Patrick asked, immediately. "You're supposed to be resting."

"Sleep is for dweebs."

"Dweebs? Wow, hello, 1991. Good to see you again."

Joe flashed Patrick a grin and slung an arm over his shoulder. "It's way too early to go home, dude. You want to come and hang at my place so I can teach you the difference between 'orange' and 'terracotta' and 'green' and 'teal'?"

"You're painting your house teal?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Joe scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Just the bathroom."

Patrick smirked indulgently and shoved him out the door.

Within an hour, they were laying sprawled on the couch with feet propped on boxes, the room lit mostly by Weird Science half-forgotten on the TV.

"I miss this, you know..."

"Weird Science?" Joe asked, around a fistful of Reese's Pieces. "'Cause I can like, bring it on the bus if you want..."

"No, hanging out. Just us."

"Oh. Cool. Me too." Almost as much as I like, miss having you cuddling me in hotel beds.

"I'm sorry I kind of neglected you, Joe... I just had a lot going on, y'know?"

"We've only been back two days, man."

"That's not what I meant."

"Huh?"

"Well, I just... we used to be tight."

"I kind of like figured we still are, dude. I just blew off my girlfriend to hang with you."

"I know, man, and that is really cool, but it's not like we used to be."

He couldn't remember a time when he'd been much closer to Patrick than he was now. Even when they first met, it had been Pete and Patrick who had really hit it off. They would hang out, sure, but no more than any of the others. It was always Pete who came first.

"When Pete... when he wasn't around, y'know. In England? You went totally above and beyond... and I never even thanked you."

"England was a long time ago, dude." Joe paused and corrected himself, "Well. That time in England was..."

"It's not the point. You've always, always been there for me, man, and I mean it: thank you. Genuinely. Just... thanks."

"Well, okay..." Joe shrugged. "All in the call of duty and stuff, dude, but you're welcome, I guess."

"Sometimes, it's like... you're the only person I trust. Even Andy... I mean, he does what he thinks is the right thing and that's cool, but I don't always feel like I can say something to him without him trying to fix it. I trust you to just... be there."

"Dude. No, 'Trust No One', just like Agent Mulder. I could be covert paparazzi."

"Shut up, Joe," Patrick smirked, punching him in the thigh affectionately.

"I could be! And in my status as kind of like... Joerez Hilton, I pretty much figure that like, whatever happens now, dude, if you guys come out and say you're together, it'll be on that fucking Oh No They Didn't site for two weeks and then people will be over it. Seriously."

"Yeah, see, logically speaking, I know that, but it's Pete, y'know? He doesn't want that kind of publicity... And I mean, we have way bigger problems than who knows we're together. We don't even..." Patrick trailed off, still tucked under Joe's arm, one leg dangling over the arm of the couch, and shook his head against Joe's shoulder.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just forget it, dude."

"So, like, you want to tell me because it's pissing you off, but you're what? Embarrassed? Because dude, you've seen me like, puke in my own lap. Copiously. I totally trump you on like, anything humiliating. Ever."

Patrick shook his head with a cynical laugh, "No, you don't. You really don't."

"Well, okay, you may have a higher Humiliation score than me, but I own you on Gross and Dumb, so. Trumped. Tell it, dude."

He was playing with his fingers, now, rubbing them and cracking his knuckles with a focused intensity neither action required. "He lied to me, man."

This wasn't something that entirely surprised Joe, because Pete lived in a fantasy world where his half-truths were all real, and he'd lied to all of them at some point ("Will it hurt, dude?", "No way, man – the whole pain thing is so over played, kind of. It's going to look fucking awesome. Viva fucking Hate, dude!"), but he knew, from the tone of Patrick's voice – the underlying disbelief and the hurt all too clear, even as he tried to sound indifferent – that this wasn't that kind of lie.

"How so?"

There was another long silence, and then, "He said it was because of the pills, y'know? And, those pills, I saw him take them every single day. Every day. And I believed him every fucking day when he said that was the reason."

"Pills? What, like, the brain pills?"

"Yeah..."

"What about the brain pills?"

"Look up the side-effects, some time."

"Si - ? Oh." OH.

"We just don't.... I mean, y'know: it's... kind of been a long time."

"You mean, you and Pete don't, like...?"

"Not any more."

"Oh." But he's fucking her? Joe felt bitter about that for all the wrong reasons.

"And the side-effects are a really fucking useful excuse, apparently. But, I mean, I kind of understand why," Patrick informed him flatly. "It makes... a fuckload of sense, actually."

"Yeah?"

Patrick snorted derisively and twisted to look up at him, unzipping his hoodie and holding it open. "Would you, dude? Seriously?"

Joe stared at him, at the thin t-shirt underneath pulled slightly taut across his chest and the slight dimple of his navel, and focused on peeling the label from his beer bottle. He shrugged.

"Yeah," Patrick nodded and did his zipper back up almost to his neck. "Exactly."

"Oh man, yeah, totally could've mistaken you for Jabba the fucking Hutt for a second, there. It's totally fucking ridiculous. You're hot, okay? You're a hot dude. You've got... this amazing... amazingness you don't even know is there and Pete's an asshole if he can't see that."

Patrick looked down at himself for a minute, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth with a weird intensity Joe couldn't be sure wasn't an urge to smack him in the face. "Thanks, but you're doing exactly what everyone does: trying to make me feel okay about myself. Which is nice and everything, but yeah. I don't need that."

"Fuck you, dude. Just like, accept the compliment for a change."

For a moment, Patrick blinked at him slowly and then gazed back down at his stomach, smoothing the material of his hoodie contemplatively. "I'm not trying to be ungrateful, I just hate being patronised. I'm fat. I'm balding. I'm ridiculously short. I get it. I get that for some reason, little girls seem to think that's amazing, but the people who matter just do not."

Joe blithely glossed over the plural in that sentence and replied, "If that's what you like, want to think, that's cool. But you're way off."

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are, dude!" Joe insisted. He reached down to where Patrick's hand still rested on his stomach and prodded it between his splayed fingers. "It's you. It's just... it makes you you and it's fucking... I dunno, it's just you. Even when you were like, 120lbs when you were a kid, you had a squishy stomach and it's always been fucking adorable. And hot."

"Fine, you want to trade, dude?" Patrick demanded, trying not to smile.

"If I traded, I wouldn't get to annoy you by poking it." He risked a playful pinch and then pulled back, rubbing his nose to Patrick's temple. "What would you know about hotitude anyway, dude? You've been dating Pete Wentz for the last five years..."

Patrick elbowed him and muttered, "Three million fangirls can't all be wrong."

"Except when they're like, talking about you? Two words... no, wait... six! Six words: Michael Jackson Was A Heart-throb Once."

"Don't compare my boyfriend to Michael Jackson!"

"Okay, fine. He acts more like Bubbles anyway. No. Actually, like, really actually, he reminds me of Mr Nana."

"Who?"

"Okay, like, you ever tell him this, and I will kill you with your own weird neckerchief thing, but when I was small – like, two – I had a kind of raggy-doll monkey called Mr B. Nana, with these giant brown eyes and like, an oversized head, that I used to chew on, and stuff, and one day I was sitting in rehearsal for the Arma thing, and just kind of like, looking at Pete, thinking 'You remind me of someone', or something, and then I realised, it was that fucking toy that used to get tucked up in bed with me for years. There is like, nothing more fucked up than realising something like that, dude. Nothing."

Patrick laughed a little and shrugged his way more comfortably under Joe's arm. Joe let him lift up his wrist and drop his arm loosely wherever he wanted it; right across his chest. "You're crazy."

"Maybe you're crazy," Joe replied, airily, flicking his ear. "Tree falling in the woods, one hand clapping, 'Is this all somebody else's dream?' and all that shit... Maybe you are crazy and I'm totally sane."

"Maybe I am for putting up with this crap..."

"Maybe Pete's just crazy for doing it to you," Joe muttered back. There was a long silence while Patrick stroked carefully at the back of Joe's hand, then he finally shifted and tilted his chin to look up at him contemplatively. "What?" Joe mumbled, knowing that he was blushing under the half-assed beard he'd been growing. Maybe it wasn't such an easy pass-off after all.

Patrick said nothing, but the hand stroking at his own tentatively laced its fingers between Joe's and suddenly there was breath on his lips.

Joe's stomach dropped, instantly. He usually tried not to even fantasize about this kind of thing; he'd let his feelings remain on a low simmer for two years because it was more pleasant than it was painful to have such a deep affection for someone he was so close to, but now, confronted with Patrick, all uncertain eyes and parted lips, Joe could think of nothing but.

A hand reached out to settle on his cheek and Joe swallowed, his eyes dropping closed; partly to block out the questioning green in front of him. It wasn't fair to ask him when he needed to say 'No – no, we can't do this' and all he had was a 'Fuck, dude, yes'.

He had almost worked together the willpower to say, 'I'm sorry, dude, I can't' when Patrick shot it down. He couldn't think of anything then, except damp lips and soft skin and how he wished they were still kids in a hotel room in England: no houses, no girlfriend, no idea how huge this was all about to get... Any other coherent thought was lost, though, in fumbling through pockets and wallets for ways to make this happen right there in Joe's sitting room. And it did. It happened in the blue light from the TV while the credits rolled on the movie, with clothes half off and one window still spilling in golden light from the streetlamps outside; it happened with free sample sachets and emergency back-up for when pills were missed or forgotten; with hot breath on goose-pimpled skin because it was still only April.

Joe hadn't imagined it this way because he hadn't really imagined it at all, but he did know that he'd never expected to spend the time afterward gazing at his light fittings and wondering who to apologise to first; his girlfriend, his best friend or the guy he just fucked on his couch. There was also the more pressing dilemma of what he should do, now. Right now. They couldn't sleep on the couch all night, and abandoning him there after what had happened would have been unforgivable, but taking him to the one made-up bed in the house – the bed he shared with Marie when she was there – was... well, it just didn't seem right.

Patrick wasn't exactly in a deep sleep, but he wasn't awake, either. He had one arm tucked around Joe's chest, snuggled up behind him against the cushions, his mouth pressed tightly against Joe's shoulder. He was breathing softly and every now and then Joe could feel his lips move against his skin. He wasn't sure whether this was just something Patrick did in his sleep, or whether he was half-dreaming that he was curled around Pete, the way Joe knew he would have preferred to be. It was strange to experience something unfamiliar with Patrick; Joe liked to think he knew him inside out. Then again, if he had known him that well he would have seen this coming.

Feeling slightly nauseous as the gravity of what he'd done began to suck on his insides, Joe tried to wriggle out of Patrick's grip without disturbing him. He wasn't sure it was a good idea for him to even be there when Patrick woke up and remembered what had happened, either.

"Don't."

Joe froze and turned back to look into wide, round eyes, amber in the glow of the streetlamps. Patrick's hand was wrapped tightly around his arm, holding on so he wouldn't leave.

"Joe, don't go."

"I'm... just, like, going to the bathroom, dude," he lied, not really even sure why.

"No, you're not," Patrick said, pulling himself up and kneeling on his heels as Joe laid back and looked up at him. He pushed the thin strands of hair hanging in his face away from his eyes and suddenly seemed to remember that he was naked and wrapped both arms across his stomach. "You're freaking out."

Joe swallowed and nodded. "I... yeah. Kind of."

Patrick chewed his lip. "You think this was a mistake."

"Well, I mean... don't you?"

"I just... huh." There was a short huff of breath and Patrick's hand ventured far enough away from hiding his own stomach to brush at the tattoo on Joe's. Joe's breath hitched as he tried to shift away subtly before this became more awkward, but it felt too good for him to make that much effort. "Sometimes in life, y'know, you figure out that you need something that's always been there but that you didn't realise you had. And... see, I was on the plane, coming home, and I was thinking that the one person I wanted to be with right now... was you."

"That's like... that's because we're friends, though, dude..." Joe tried, sounding as reasonable as he could when his heart was racing and Patrick's fingers were running over the bare skin below his navel.

Patrick actually appeared to consider this for a moment, and then shook his head. "No... no, I've been figuring it out all day and it's really not."

"But... what about Pete? You love Pete - "

"Screw Pete! He thinks he can love me but still do what he wants, so why shouldn't I?"

Joe felt a sharp clench in his chest; so, to Patrick he was a convenient way of exerting his independence, huh? That was good to know. He felt really fantastic about things now. "Thanks."

"Oh, Joe, c'mon – you know that's not what I meant."

"I guess..."

"It wasn't."

"Whatever, man. Y'know, you should totally be able to do what you want and everything, but like... I don't like, have that luxury, basically. He's my friend. One of my best friends in the whole entire world, and you don't fuck your friend's boyfriend, dude. You just don't."

Patrick took a sharp, shuddering intake of breath, starting to grow more frustrated but trying not to get mad. "Okay, see, here's the thing: Pete has no right to take the fucking high ground over this. I've been feeding myself as much of his bullshit as he has for years, and now I want to have a little bit of my own excitement, after telling me all day to break up with him and try something new, you're siding with him?"

Joe closed his eyes and rubbed at them with the back of his hand. "Dude... You honestly have like... no fucking idea. I never planned to do this. I just... I don't even have an excuse, man, I just stopped thinking about what I ought to do and let what I wanted to happen, happen... and I'm really sorry."

"Sorry? What for? You didn't exactly force me, man," Patrick shrugged heavily. "Two years ago, my boyfriend was in the hospital and I was in bed with you, wishing I'd picked the straight guy. Now he's fucking someone else, and you're obviously not as straight as I figured you were."

Two years ago. Joe's eyes blinked open abruptly. "What?"

"In England. You were just... totally amazing, that whole time. By the time Pete was back with us, I was so, so messed up," Patrick told him contemplatively, his eyes glazing over a little as he remembered. "I was so totally freaked out that I was kind of... into you and nothing could happen, that I just threw myself back into that whole thing and told myself it was like some weird variant of Stockholm Syndrome or something... You totally put me first and with all the business crap and the whole time we were writing the album, Pete was hardly even there. And you just were, no matter what.

"You totally have to have noticed I started to, y'know... spend all my time with you when I wasn't trying to get Pete to remember I was there?"

"I thought you were kind of like doing it because Pete didn't pay you enough attention, dude," Joe admitted, not entirely convinced they were even really having this conversation. "I didn't want to wade in and come between you because I fucking love you guys and I just... It wasn't my place."

"What about now?" Patrick asked carefully, his hand tentatively moving from Joe's stomach to the inside of his thigh.

"Now?" Joe swallowed; shifted again in absurd embarrassment.

"Now that he's on vacation with Her and we just had sex on your couch and I'm telling you I've had a crush on you for years..."

"Is that what it is, dude?" Joe asked, letting his fingers run over the only section of Patrick's stomach that he could actually reach with his hands in the way. "A crush?" It was definitely not a crush for Joe.

Patrick gave a short, tense laugh and murmured, "It was."

Looking up at him, watching as he scrubbed at his eyes with his wrist and moved to tuck both arms around himself again, Joe asked, "So... what? You're over me, now?" He tried for a joke, adding, "Am I seriously, like, that bad, dude?"

Patrick crawled forward and lay down half in the space between Joe and the cushions and half on top of Joe, then mumbled, "No," and leaned in just outside kissing-distance so that Joe had to make a decision whether to do so for himself. "On, y'know... on both counts."

He was gazing down into Joe's eyes, searching and coaxing and Joe wasn't sure whether this was the worst idea ever or the best thing that had ever happened to him. He curved his fingers around the back of Patrick's neck, the thicker hair there soft and tickling in his hand, and pulled him down just a little. He wanted this so badly. Not the sex, although God, he wished they had more than the frantically collected accoutrements they used before – but Patrick, this close, this intimate, just without it being a betrayal. He didn't want things to change – he was happy with his life, for the most part. He just wanted England, mixed with this (a lot of this, actually) and not having to give up his dream career and one of – if not several of – his closest friends, just to keep it. He tried to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach as their lips moved against each other, slow and tender but some how insanely, intensely sexual.

The damage was already done. He may as well see it through, now, make the most of the time he had. They could deal with the rest in the morning.

Patrick didn't wake, the next time Joe tried to climb off the couch. He made a soft murmuring and buried his face into the cushions as Joe untangled his boxers from his jeans and put them back on. The sudden catch of breath and wrench in his stomach, memories of the night before flooding back as he woke, were still with him and looking down at the sleeping figure in his living room, remembering what they'd done and how disloyal it was to two of the people that mattered most to him in the world – and to Andy, too, in a way – he began to wonder what else he could do with his life if he was kicked out of his band at twenty-two.

The others were lucky: Patrick would produce, obviously; Andy had his comics; Pete had a million other things he could do and all of them were going to leave a mark and make him insane amounts of money. Joe just spent his time outside band duties getting stoned and hanging out with the girlfriend he'd just cheated on. Smart. That was a great-looking future, right there.

He took the time to fumble in some of the boxes, trying to dig out a blanket or something. It was only 6.15am; he hoped Patrick wouldn't wake up for a while, give him some time to get his feelings in check and think things through, because right now, if Patrick asked him, he would have sold up and shacked up with him, without consideration. And as that wasn't about to happen, that kind of boundless devotion was just not going to help things.

He finally dragged a blanket from the bottom of a stack of boxes and draped it over Patrick, crouching to kiss his cheek softly. "Love you, dude," he whispered, frowning as he tucked him in a little. "Don't let this fuck stuff up."

He stood in the shower for a long time, just looking down at himself and watching little streams of water running down his stomach and catching on the hairs on his legs, torn between wanting to wash all the responsibility and complexity away and wanting to hold on to what had happened for as long as possible. When he finally went back downstairs Patrick was still asleep, although he'd shifted on to his back, one arm hanging limp across his chest. Joe went straight to the kitchen and made himself some coffee. He stood with his hips against the cabinets, gazing out the window into his new garden, trying to figure out how his whole world could have bounced from 'pretty much perfect' to 'HOLY FUCKING SHIT AWESOME' to 'I am the worst friend in fucking history' in the space of twenty-four hours.

He was so lost in figuring out how to handle this that he didn't hear Patrick pad barefoot across the new slate tiles and almost jumped out of his skin when arms wrapped around his waist and a nose squished against his back. There was cold coffee all over his shirt.

"Jumpy," Patrick grinned brightly, squinting up at him – his glasses must still be in the living room.

"Hi," Joe mumbled, setting down his cup and turning around to lean back against the counter.

Patrick didn't let go. "Hi," he echoed instead, leaning up and clearly expecting a kiss. Joe didn't oblige; he chewed his lip and looked to the ceiling. He still hadn't figured out what he was going to say. "What?"

"Um... Patrick, dude..." he scratched at his damp curls and took a deep, miserable breath, "about last night..."

"Oh." Patrick was nodding, slowly, his lip sucked between his teeth. "Oh, right..." He pulled away, backing up to the breakfast table and leaning against it.

"What happened last night –"

"Was a mistake?"

"Was awesome, dude. It was totally awesome, and it was basically, like, what I've wanted forever, but... what about Pete? And Marie? And the band? And... I don't, like... I don't think it's what you actually want or anything and we probably kind of like need to pretend it never happened and stuff..."

Patrick stared at the floor, his toes curling under, and seemed to have difficulty swallowing. He looked very small, all of a sudden and Joe wanted to walk over and give him a hug or tickle him just to make him laugh – stop him looking so fragile when Joe knew he was the one that had caused it – but he didn't want to make it worse.

"I thought that, y'know, last night..." Patrick began, with a difficult huff of breath. "I thought we agreed we both wanted to..."

"I did want to, dude - I do want to. I've like... I've wanted this since..." Joe trailed off. They didn't have to go over all that again. "Look, we talked about that already, and you know how I... like... how I feel or whatever, and – " I fucking love you a whole lot, dude, and this really, really hurts, okay? " – you know if things weren't the way they are, I'd like, be all over this like hives. You're awesome, and I totally kind of like hate that we're in this position, because I would so, so do this if we could, but – "

"We can!" Patrick blurted out. Joe winced. "Joe, if you want to try this, then – "

"Dude, but that's it. I don't want 'this', 'cause 'this' means lying to everybody and I don't want to fuck up all the other good stuff in my life. Or yours. Or Andy's. Or Pete's."

"But – but maybe it won't..." Patrick leaned away from the table and moved back toward him, hands outstretched to reach for Joe's as they flittered between his hair, his pockets and folded across his chest, nervously. "Joe, we already have to spend all our time together, y'know? This is just – totally possible and I want to. I seriously do."

Joe sighed and ran a hand through his hair, "Me too, man. Seriously. But - "

"Don't say 'Pete'. Just fucking don't, because I'm going to have to break your nose if you say 'Pete'."

When Joe just dropped his gaze, Patrick growled and threw his hands up in frustration, kicking at the nearest chair and hurting his unsocked toes. "FUCK."

Joe reached out a hand to steady him as he balanced on one leg and massaged his tender digits.

Patrick was even more annoyed, now. "Dammit, Joe! You can't just fucking do this to me! Last night – this morning – you were totally okay to screw me, but what, in the cold light of day you just want to... to what? Forget about it? Jesus... you're worse than Pete, Joe!"

"Worse?" Joe choked incredulously. "I'm trying to save shit from falling apart, dude!"

"Maybe you need to stop! Maybe this all makes the most sense of anything in the past fucking five years and we should be looking at ways to make it work, not make it not happen!"

Joe just stared at him. He didn't understand this. Couldn't figure out where it was all coming from.

"Maybe we need to do this tour, and tie things up and then, just..." Patrick shrugged, quickly taking off his cap and running his hands through his hair, before putting it back.

"Just what?"

"Call it a day. The band... me and Pete... everything."

"Dude, no..." no, we can't do that – I need the band! "You don't want to like, give all this up so you can kind of like chase up on a comfort fuck..."

"Comfort fuck? Are you kidding me?"

"Patrick, dude," Joe tried, attempting to pull Patrick into a hug and failing when he refused to lean into it, "you love Pete. No matter what he does to you, you love him, man. Not me. Even if I want you to, dude, even if you want to: you don't."

Patrick stared somewhere in the middle of Joe's chest for a few moments, and then closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around him. "I do."

"Who are you kidding?" Joe asked, softly, kissing the side of his head.

"What if I'm not kidding anyone? What if we keep this a secret and just... see how we cope, y'know?"

"I dunno, dude... you can't exactly keep that kind of thing secret on a tour bus."

"You didn't know Pete and I weren't sleeping together..."

"Isn't that kind of like proving a negative or whatever they call it?" Joe asked, absently stroking the hair at the back of Patrick's neck. "You said yourself, dude, if this goes down..."

"I know," Patrick insisted, quietly, "But I'll risk it."

For a week – the entire time Pete and his Barbie Doll were on vacation – Joe and Patrick 'hung out'. They called it that because calling it anything else reminded them that what it actually was seemed more like something people their parents' ages did.

To say Marie was pissed about it was the understatement of a generation. Even though Joe upheld his story about fixing Patrick's so-called 'broken heart', she grew tearful by the second day, asking if she'd done something wrong and if he was avoiding her. He lied. Repeatedly. And kind of hated himself for it. But getting to live out what almost felt like a preview of something he was being offered after craving for years, was too much of a temptation. He never claimed to be infallible.

He couldn't imagine anyone being able to turn down Patrick when they got to see him sleepy first thing in the morning with his cheeks pink and creased from the pillow, or heard him giggle like a girl when his sides were nipped playfully (Joe found that one out all by himself and it brought him hours of amusement until Patrick flailed and kneed him in the nuts; he stopped after that). He couldn't understand why Pete would want anyone, or anything, other than Patrick. Pretty soon, he had himself mostly convinced that Pete didn't deserve what he refused to appreciate and that was how he managed the little voice of his conscience that reminded him at intervals that this was cheating on his best friend.

They did normal things together: finished the bathroom, started on the living room – Joe even let Patrick talk him out of the rich burgundy Marie had liked ("Dude, what is this? Your living room or a fucking brothel?") and replaced it with a sunny, gentle yellow that was actually a lot more pleasant and a lot less 'casino'. Joe tried a couple of times to teach Patrick to cook and gave up when he burnt a boiled egg. But it was fun, and it felt normal and good and when they lay in bed the night before they were due to fly down to LA for the fucking promotional events Pete and Bob had scheduled, Patrick pressed their palms together and laced their fingers and murmured, "Do we risk it?"

Joe looked at him in the darkness, his eyes barely glints of light in the black, and nodded against the pillow. He didn't know how he would handle the nights in separate bunks, or watch Pete kissing up to him on stage, because now things were different – but he was ready to try. At least, he thought so.

They got a taxi from the airport in LA. As selfish as it was, they'd left Andy to fly down on his own, clinging to their last few hours of privacy, even if they were very public and very non-tactile. They didn't join the Mile High Club (Patrick claimed to already be a member; Joe refused to believe it) and they wouldn't let Pete pick them up at the terminal. Holding hands wasn't something they'd really done much of in Chicago, but perhaps because they wanted to wring the last few hours out as much as possible, they clung to each other the entire ride to the house.

Patrick was fumbling for his keys on the stoop when the door opened. Behind it, the Barbie Doll smiled and cheerily invited them in, as if Patrick didn't literally own the place. It pretty much set the tone for the next two weeks.

Joe tried not to be hurt by how bitter Patrick seemed at finding her there, but he'd nearly convinced himself that Patrick was getting over Pete and that this fucking chick would be enough for them to split without breaking up the band. He had it all planned out in a tiny corner of his mind; his Best-Case Scenario. The tiny corner shrank a little every time he saw the way Patrick looked at her.

"Is she staying?" he'd heard Patrick ask, just outside the door to the bedroom Joe usually shared with Andy. He was kind of keen to know the sleeping arrangements himself.

"You want me to send her home, kind of?" Pete's voice replied, level but deliberately challenging.

"This is my house, too."

"Yeah, and also mine."

For a long time there was silence and Joe assumed one or both of them had stormed off, but then Pete asked, "Where were you?"

"At home."

"Liar. I had my mom check on you. You weren't there."

"You checked up on me?"

"You didn't answer your cell for eight days, dude."

In the bedroom, Joe frowned. 'Is your cell vibrating, man?'

A pause to look at the screen. 'No.'

'Are you sure, 'cause Pete hasn't even – '

'No, Joe. He hasn't called, okay?'

"Where. Were. You?"

"Joe's."

"Really."

"Yes, fucking really."

"Have fun?" Pete asked coldly, and Joe could imagine the look on his face.

"More fun than I would have had in our apartment by myself while you were away with your favourite doll, Pete. Thanks for asking."

"Jesus, will you let this go?"

"You know what? No. She goes, Pete, or I'm getting a hotel room and I'm taking Joe and I'm not coming back."

There was silence, and then the squeak of Pete's Chucks on the wood floor as he walked away.

Within an hour, she was gone.

They hung out a little afterward, playing video games with a tense, 'not in front of the children' cheerfulness that made Joe wish they'd flown Andy down with them. He hated this already, knowing that a fight between Patrick and Pete was brewing and constantly afraid of forgetting not to reach for Patrick or that Pete would figure out what they'd been doing in the week they'd spent together. After two hours, before it had even hit ten thirty, he went to bed. When he woke, after four, the house was quiet and the opposite bed was empty. There was only one other place that Patrick would be. Joe curled around his pillow and tried to will himself back to sleep so he didn't have to think about it.

It was Andy who woke him next, dumping his bags on the other bed and griping to Pete that he'd been held up in the airport for an hour before they were allowed off the plane. Joe fumbled for his phone and squinted at the tiny white numbers in the corner of the screen.

"Shit – is it seriously after lunch?!" he asked, sitting up and rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand.

"Don't sweat it, dude, we didn't eat without you or whatever..." Pete assured him, giving the dog a light poke with the toe of his sneakers as he waddled into the room and jumped up on Joe's bed. "Lunchbox is out doing a thing for 'Enemies. We're gonna like, wait until he's back, kind of."

Joe just nodded and kicked back the sheets, "I'm gonna take a shower."

"Joe!"

He stopped outside the main bathroom door and turned back to Pete, who was closing the door to the guest room and following. "Yeah?"

"I'm like, sorry about last night, or whatever," Pete told him, not really sounding that sorry at all. "Patrick and me are just... we've been having a hard time, kind of, but we're going to be okay. We pretty much totally kissed and made up after you went to bed, you know what I'm saying?" Pete gave him his most shark-like grin, and bumped Joe's arm with his knuckles. Joe had a pretty good idea of exactly what Pete meant.

"Hey, dude, that's like... great. I'm pleased for you guys." He nodded jerkily and backed toward the bathroom. "I'll just go kind of like take my shower, and then... yeah." Hurriedly, he ducked out of the hall and locked the door behind him. For a few minutes he just leaned back against it, feeling as though he had a grenade in his chest and unable to really catch his breath. He really thought he might throw up.

The water running over his shoulders when he finally stepped into the frosted glass cubicle reminded him of the first morning after Patrick stayed, back home. It also reminded him of the fourth morning, when he'd followed Joe into the shower and ended up persuading him to kneel down so he could wash his hair for him. For some reason, Patrick was obsessed with Joe's curls. Joe thought it was all kind of ridiculous, but he went with it because it made Patrick smile and look at him with a sense of awe that Joe wasn't used to. He just knew he wanted more of it... but that didn't seem like it was going to happen, now.

He could hear Patrick's voice in the hall, as he towelled off, and he wasn't sure if he was glad he was back so he could talk to him or if he was afraid to see him and find out it was true.

They were all in the open plan kitchen-living room area when Joe finally worked up the nerve to head out and face everyone. Patrick was the first to look up from the dining table as he walked in; he smiled brightly as soon as Joe caught his eye, which was at least a tiny bit reassuring. Unfortunately, Andy was sitting opposite and he glanced between them as Joe sat down and then gave him a significant look.

"What'd I miss, dudes?" Joe asked, slumping down with his arms across the backs of the chairs and trying to act as normal as possible.

"Some of the boys are coming over and we're having a party, kind of."

Patrick and Andy rolled their eyes almost simultaneously.

"We're supposed to be doing band stuff," Patrick said, for what Joe suspected was not the first time in the last half hour.

"All work and no play makes Patrick a fucking killjoy, or whatever."

Patrick didn't say anything, although he clearly wanted to, he just fiddled with the corner of the tattered magazine under his hands.

It was during the party, which wasn't limited to them and their friends, but the Barbie Doll and hers, too, something none of them bar Pete seemed pleased about, that Joe finally got his answer. By one in the morning the yard was filled with people and music, as was the kitchen and living area, and while Joe was usually the first to join the fun, he really couldn't face it right then. His stomach had been churning all day and he was tired beyond words, so he retreated to his and Andy's room and shut the door, crashing on his bed but unable to sleep because of the noise.

He almost knocked his cell to the floor when it buzzed and twittered at him, telling him he had a text message.

'Patrick' flashed up on the screen; Joe flung himself onto his back and pressed 'view'.

'Where r u? This party blows.'

'Bedrm. Tired.' Joe texted back. He rolled on to his side and closed his eyes, the phone still clasped in his hand. A minute later it vibrated again, and he blinked at it.

Patrick: 'Company?'

Yeah, right, who? Joe would have laughed, but it didn't feel funny. He texted back, 'Not unless yr offering.'

'I am.'

Joe didn't have time to respond before the door was opening and Patrick slipped in, locking it behind him.

"Hey," he said softly, not even hesitating as he walked to the bed and sat down. "Are you feeling okay?" He stroked a hand up the inside of Joe's t-shirt, running his fingers over his stomach in a way that made Joe's eyes drift closed and his mouth slip open slightly.

"Hi..." he mumbled breathlessly, wondering if Patrick had been drinking – even if it was highly unlikely. The same would have been said of Pete, a few months ago.

"You've been quiet all day..." Patrick whispered, kicking off his sneakers "What's up?"

"I dunno," Joe replied, moving over so that Patrick could stretch out on the single bed beside him and reaching up to brush at his face once. "I guess I just like, heard a rumour..."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"Well, a little dude told me you've kind of 'kissed and made up' with Pete."

Patrick stared at him. "What does that mean?"

"Basically, he said sorry things were like, kind of awkward last night and that it was okay 'cause, like... you guys were 'going to be okay' and kind of implied like..." Joe shrugged. "I mean, you didn't sleep in Andy's bed last night, or anything..."

For what seemed like an eternity, Patrick just looked down at the bump his hand moving under Joe's t-shirt, before he finally with withdrew it and said, "I slept in mine and Pete's room."

"Yeah, I kind of figured, dude."

"He still says he can't do anything."

Joe knew he probably shouldn't be happy that Pete was clearly lying through his teeth to just about everybody, but it felt as though a weight had been removed from his chest. "Really?"

"Yeah," Patrick nodded, "but Joe... if he hadn't said that..."

"You would have."

"Yeah. Not to hurt you, dude – I don't ever want to do that – but... me and Pete... officially, we're still on."

Joe just nodded, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He wondered if these were the same lines Pete fed Patrick about the girls.

"I just kind of want to know if Pete and I have anything left, I guess... Because if all we have is the band, then maybe that's not enough, y'know?" Patrick shifted and propped himself on his elbows to straddle Joe's hips and look straight down at him. "Seriously, dude."

"'Seriously' what?" Joe asked, letting his hands push down the back of Patrick's jeans a little, even through his scepticism.

"I'm not screwing you around." As if to prove his point, Patrick reached down and unbuttoned his pants. "C'mon. If he finds us, he finds us."

"You locked the door..."

"Yeah, but what do you think he'd figure was going on if we locked ourselves in, in the dark, during a party, man?"

Joe shrugged and gasped a little as Patrick ducked down to suck softly at his neck, and never managed to answer.

Pete didn't find them, either.

It was in the pool, the next day, while Patrick and Pete did a phone interview upstairs, that Andy started asking questions.

"So, you and Patrick disappeared kind of early, yesterday..."

"We did?"

"Don't bullshit me, Joe, I can read you like a book."

Joe sighed and rested his head back against the edge. "We were in our room..."

"Doing what?" Andy asked, both eyebrows raised. As if he had to ask...

"Thought you could, like, read me like a book, dude."

"Joe, what have you done?" Andy asked warily, swimming a little closer.

Joe couldn't even answer and apparently Andy really could read him that well. He swept an arm through the water and soaked him, before wading right up to him and hissing, "Are you insane? In his own house?"

"It's Patrick's house, too."

"That's not the point, you idiot! I can't believe you did that, Joe, I just... you're supposed to be like a little brother to him and you slept with his partner? Are you completely suicidal, because Pete will kill you if he finds out about this!"

Joe couldn't meet Andy's eyes. He wasn't sure how to tell him that it wasn't a drunken one-off fuck at a party; that they weren't in high school any more and relationships were sometimes more complicated than that.

"Oh, Christ. Joe... Joe, you're not... Tell me you're not."

All Joe could do was float there, his hands clutching the edge, and gaze up at the blue and white sky above him while Andy drew his own conclusions.

"How long?" Andy whispered, suddenly close to his ear and glancing nervously up at the house in case Pete was listening.

"Since he came home."

"He came home?"

"Pete went on holiday with the chick, left Patrick here, so he came home and stayed with me for like, a week."

"A week? So basically since England?"

Joe gave a short laugh, "No, dude. Not since England." But God, if only...

"Joe, you have a girlfriend!"

"Not any more." It was the first time he'd admitted it out loud; even Patrick didn't know. "Marie broke up with me right before we flew out here, dude. Got sick of getting blown off and said she was calling it a day 'cause she like, needed a guy who'd at least be there when he could be, or something... I dunno. I kind of stopped listening." He didn't explain exactly why he wasn't listening, because he thought it would be a little too much information.

"Dude... this is severely not cool, you know that, right?"

Joe shrugged morosely. "It's kind of not cool knowing where he's sleeping tonight, either, dude. Seriously."

"But you're the one he's cheating with, Joe, you don't have a right to jealousy right now, you really fucking don't."

Joe sighed. "Yeah, but I can't exactly like, help that, bro."

"I can't tell you what to do, Joe, but I can tell you this is fucking dangerous and stupid and that you are the person who is going to get hurt. He isn't going to leave Pete for you." Andy waded to the steps to get out, leaving Joe where he was, shivering.

The next few days were hell. Especially the night that Joe woke up to the sound of a headboard banging against the thin walls of the house. Patrick was muffled, probably trying to be as quiet as possible, but Pete wasn't. It was very clear what was happening. Joe sat up and pulled on the clothes he'd been wearing the day before.

"Where are you going, dude?" Andy asked, propping himself up on one elbow and reaching for his glasses. It had obviously woken him too.

"Someplace where I can, like, not listen to this." Joe tucked his cell into his pocket and wriggled into his Vans.

"They've been at it a while – it'll probably stop soon."

"Thanks, man. I needed to hear that."

Joe was pretty sure he knew why this was happening tonight and he kind of hated that Patrick wouldn't even realise it. Earlier, they had been sitting on the balcony, talking; hanging out like they used to. The Barbie Doll wasn't there, it was just the four of them, like the old days. Eventually, Patrick had started to yawn and settled his head on Joe's shoulder, which was nothing new considering the fact the whole band used to sleep together in the back of a van a few years before, but Pete had visibly tensed. He made some joke about Joe deputising for him, then tugged Patrick until he shifted and leaned on Pete's own shoulder instead. He caught Joe's eye over the top of Patrick's head and kissed his boyfriend's temple deliberately.

Joe was perfectly capable of getting that message. He went to bed soon after.

"Wait, let me come with you," Andy said, shoving back the covers on his own bed and reaching for his jeans.

"I kind of like just want to be alone, right now, dude..."

"Tough. C'mon. I don't want to hear this either."

Neither of them had cars in LA, so they just walked to nowhere in particular, until they saw the sun coming up and reflecting on the ocean and stopped in a 24-hour burger joint to get an early breakfast.

Andy watched him intently as they sat in their booth by the window, stirring his coffee without ever actually drinking it. Joe was waiting for him to say something; 'I told you so', maybe, or 'You have to stop this', but he didn't really say anything for a long time.

"You want to talk or something?" Andy finally asked, twisting a slice of toast by its corner so it pirouetted slowly on his plate.

Joe shrugged. "Nothing much to say, dude."

"Really?" Andy said doubtfully. "I'm guessing Pete would have kind of a lot to say."

"Probably, dude. Probably."

Andy kept watching him.

"We're not doing this to get back at him, you know."

"I know. You couldn't be that cruel. But Pete can. When he's hurt, Joe, he's fucking vicious and he's going to be really, really fucking hurt that you, of all goddamn people, are the one who is doing this to him."

"Don't they say you can't, like, help who you fall in love with or whatever?"

"Yeah. But you can help who you sleep with, man."

Joe didn't respond for a long time, and then he finally managed, "I'm, like, hardcore in love with him, dude. I pretty much can't think of anything else, right now."

"Joe, I don't want to be hard on you about this, but you can't seriously think this is all just going to work out. Pete and Patrick... I don't think they're ever going to be able to get along without each other, and that means that in the great scheme of things, you can't fit into that. I'm sorry, man, but it's true."

Gazing down at his mutilated waffles, Joe sighed. "You're kind of like, underestimating Patrick."

"Maybe I'm not, and it's you who's overestimating him, Joe. He's never been with anyone but Pete. It's all he knows."

"Dude. All he knows is a guy who says he loves him, and then screws around right under his nose and then tells him he can't do stuff because of his medication. That's like... that's what Patrick knows."

"And you're totally different, huh?"

"Yeah. I am."

"Then do you think maybe that's why he turned to you?"

"I think that's, like, totally why."

Andy slumped back in his seat and huffed in frustration. "Can't you understand how this is bad for everyone, Joe? You're destroying your friendship with Pete, you're destroying what's left of his relationship with Patrick, you're destroying the band... And I'm not saying this to make you feel bad, because I basically just want you guys all to be happy and I don't even think that Pete deserves Patrick, but this is so much bigger than just how you feel. You have to see that."

"I do see that, dude, but I also tried to not let this happen and it didn't work. Me and Patrick we both... I mean, like... we both want this."

"Is that why we're sitting here before six in the morning and he's at home getting laid, with the boyfriend you think he's leaving for you?"

Joe felt as though he'd just been stabbed in the gut. "You know the most fucked up thing about all of this?" he asked, pushing his plate away and getting his wallet out. "I figured you'd understand."

"Understand what?"

"You know how long I felt like this about him, dude."

"Yeah, and I also know that when it all comes down to it, so does Pete."

The house was quiet when they got back. Andy said he was going to try to catch a couple more hours sleep, so Joe sat on Hemmy's couch and waited, thinking about his talk with Andy.

Patrick shuffled in half asleep sometime around seven. He sat down without saying a word, his t-shirt on inside out, and tried to curl up against Joe's side. Joe flinched, and Patrick was suddenly wide awake.

"Hey, what's up?" he asked, trying to turn Joe's face toward him. "Joe?"

"So, I guess, like, the side-effects wore off..."

Patrick swallowed a couple of times, then nodded. "Yeah. He said he skipped his pills a couple of days..."

"Right."

Patrick chewed his lip for a few moments, his fingers playing on the outer seam of Joe's jeans. "It really doesn't change anything, dude. I still want y'know... I want this."

"But you want him, too? 'Cause you might, like, be able to handle that, dude, but I can't." Joe took a slow, deep breath and the words game tumbling out. "I don't think I can do this, dude."

"What? Joe, wait, we – "

"It was bad enough, before, when none of this happened and stuff, but now, I kind of like... I just can't listen to that again, dude."

Patrick dropped his hands limply into his lap and just gazed at Joe's shoulder; "Oh."

"I think I need to, like, go and call Marie, right now." He stood up, feeling around for the phone in his pocket, but Patrick followed.

"Don't. Don't call her, Joe," he said, catching his hand and wrapping his fingers over the phone. "Please don't call her. I'll... I promise you, man, I'll stop. I won't let it happen again."

Joe laughed a little, because it seemed so goddamn ridiculous to be having this conversation at all. "What're you gonna tell him, dude? You have a headache?"

"I'll tell him what I need to. I promise." Patrick looked up at him, still holding his hand around the cell, and repeated, "I promise." He leaned forward and up, pulling Joe down to rest their heads together. "It didn't feel the same," he whispered. "I don't want it."

"Does he want it?"

"Pete? I don't know, man, I just... I don't think his heart was in it, y'know? I felt like he was doing it because he thought he had to, not because he wanted to."

"And you, dude?"

Patrick glanced carefully toward the master bedroom and slid his arms around Joe's waist, pulling them hip to hip, "I ended up thinking of you."

Refusing to sleep with Pete left Patrick in a rather difficult position – although from what Patrick told Joe, Pete didn't make much of an effort to convince him. The Barbie Doll was suddenly everywhere, all the time, sleeping in their bed, and eventually Patrick made the decision to move into the hotel across the street from their rehearsal studio. As a show of solidarity, and partly because they both hated the girl, Joe and Andy went with him. Their suite comprised two rooms of four queen-sized beds; officially, Joe and Andy shared one, so all Joe's clothes were in that room for when Pete stopped by. Every night, and despite Andy's careful warnings, Joe slept in Patrick's room. They only needed one bed.

After a few nights hanging out with them, though, Andy seemed to soften his stance. He waited until Patrick was in the bathroom and said, softly, without looking away from the TV, "It's not that I don't think you could make each other happy, dude. I just wish this wasn't fucking over Pete. Even if he kind of deserves it."

"Believe it or not, dude," Joe told him honestly, "me too."

Andy nodded and changed the subject.

Patrick's 23rd birthday was probably the worst night. Pete arranged a huge party that Patrick didn't even want, as some kind of peace offering, and invited pretty much everyone they knew. Except the Barbie Doll. He spent the entire evening lavishing him with gifts and attention and Joe spent the evening sitting in a corner with Andy, feeling the 'I told you so' radiating from him when they both watched Patrick tug Pete closer and kiss him without caring who saw. They were all friends, here, after all. Just friends.

That whole night was different. Without standing in the Barbie Doll's shadow, Patrick glowed. He laughed and smiled more than he had in months and Joe was reminded of how happy he used to be; how it was that five years had passed and he and Pete owned two houses. When things were good for them, they were awesome, and everyone could see it. Even Joe.

He left early again, that night, and went back to the hotel. At three forty-five, he received a text.

'Will make this up to u. Hope u got some sleep. XX'

Joe had a feeling he was going to get a lot more sleep than Patrick, that night. He certainly didn't see him again until lunchtime the next day, in the rehearsal studio. He and Andy were already there when Patrick walked in with Pete, bearing Starbucks and cupcakes left over from the small mountain ordered for the party.

He looked tired, as if he hadn't really slept. Pete never looked like he'd really slept, and today he looked worse. Both of them were tense and avoided touching each other, as if they'd had a fight and didn't want the others to know. Joe wasn't sure whether he felt more worried or triumphant.

"Hey, everything okay?" Andy asked, looking up from where he was warming up on his practise mat.

"Fine, dude," Pete told him, slamming Joe's drink down in front of him and giving him a very pointed look. "We're fine."

They were so 'fine', apparently, that when Patrick stepped away from his mic and pretended to adjust the tuning on his guitar instead of singing, 'he tastes like you, only sweeter', Pete put his foot through the side of the couch and stormed out.

"Patrick, what's going on?" Andy asked, getting up from behind his kit and moving over to them.

Patrick gave Joe an uncomfortable look, and addressed him instead. "He saw the text I sent you, dude. Wanted to know what I was making up to you. And how."

"What did you tell him?"

"I said maybe he should ask himself that."

"Seriously?! What did he say to that, dude?"

"Nothing. He spent the whole night on the balcony. Which, I mean, seriously: best birthday ever. Thanks, Pete. I love you, too. "

It was the day before the tour that Pete broke the news about the buses. There would be two, which was reasonably okay – they could certainly afford it, now – but it was the division that seemed strange to Joe. He was sharing with Pete, supposedly because of the dog and the smoke, and Patrick was sharing with Andy, because they didn't party. Which wasn't true. If anything, Joe expected Pete to want to share with Patrick, but then he found out the worst part of the whole arrangement: they had a guest in their bus.

He would have complained if he thought for a minute that Pete would listen.

She followed them out by air, leaving them to travel to the first show in Denver by bus. Just Joe and Pete, no chance of switching to the others until they made a rest stop, and that wasn't going to happen for a couple of hundred miles at least. It was kind of weird. Joe spent most of the time playing on his PSP and getting high. It wasn't as if he had much else to do. Pete was laying across the couch, reading and scribbling in his notebook intermittently, and it kind of took Joe by surprise when his curtain was yanked back and Pete ordered him to move over so he could get in.

Joe did what he was told and put his game on pause.

Neither of them even spoke, at first, they just sat in silence against the wall of the bunk, legs sticking out over the edge, rigid and kind of ridiculous-looking. Joe had a feeling he knew where this conversation was going. He didn't know if he liked the idea.

"So, I need to talk to you about something, kind of," Pete said, finally, chewing on a nail.

Shit. "Sure."

"So, like, you and Patrick."

"Yeah?" His heart was racing, now, not sure how to defend their actions.

"I'm like... I'm sorry he's putting all this shit on you, or whatever, 'cause I know it's my fault, but I just, like... I love him and everything, but I can't be everywhere all the time and this shit is just all falling apart, kind of. And like, it's pretty fucking obvious what he's doing, dude, which is pretty shitty and everything, 'cause like, everyone knows how you feel and stuff, so... It's pretty fucking cruel. He's only doing it because he's pissed at me..."

Joe sat very still, as Pete's theory sank in. "Like, what?"

Pete didn't seem to notice any anxiety in Joe's voice, even though it went high and shook audibly. "The cover thing. I mean... I do it because we need to, but she really kind of cares about me and I know that if I don't keep this shit up, she's going to figure out about me and him, and she's gonna blow the fucking lid off everything. And, like, I feel like I'm kind of fucking losing my control of everything and pretty soon, basically, I'm gonna lose the whole reason I keep doing this."

At a loss for anything else to do, Joe lied through his teeth. "What, Patrick? No, dude... I mean, you guys have been together forever – he knows you love him, man. Everything's gonna be cool..."

"It's not cool! I totally fucking blew it and I knew I was doing it and I swear like, when this is over – this tour – he's going to pack his shit up and finish with me, or whatever."

"You... You think you're breaking up, dude? What – I mean, like... why?"

"I made him second. To her. And I fucking know the only thing that keeps him together is that I come back to him, and that he's the most important thing, kind of, and I screwed it up... I screwed it up, Joe. That's why he's all over you, and I'm like totally sorry for that, kind of, because... well. It's not fair or whatever. You shouldn't get dragged into this, 'cause it's pretty much gotta hurt like crazy, dude."

Joe's jaw tightened. "What does?"

"Your, like... your crush on him dude. I mean, I know it's nothing serious and stuff, but you've been crushing on Patrick since you were like, sixteen, or whatever."

"No, I haven't!"

"Bullshit, dude..."

"Pete, I haven't." Not that long.

"Whatever, man. I just don't want you to like, get your heart broke or something... He shouldn't be, like, leading you on, dude, 'cause he'll never let you in his pants or whatever. He just wants the affection, kind of. And at first, like, I figured there might be..." he laughed a little, "there might be something going on, or whatever, but then I thought, 'Nah, dude, this is Patrick. And that weird little kid with the hair,' kind of. So, just, like... don't get stung, okay, little bro?"

Joe wanted to snap, 'shows what you fucking know', but he didn't. He just nodded and started to climb off his bunk.

"Where are you going, man?"

He looked around and realised the miserable truth: there wasn't actually anywhere he could go.

There was a hand on the small of his back before Joe realised anyone had come into the bus, at the first rest stop. They had an hour at a service station to stretch their legs and wait for the Paul Wall bus to rendezvous and Pete had run off to find the most sugared, caffeinated crap on sale and bother Dirty. There was only one person who'd creep up on him as he leaned into his bunk, trying to dig his wallet out from between the mattress and the wall.

"Hey," he said, finally retrieving the wallet and turning around, ready to have a pretty uncomfortable conversation.

"Miss you already," Patrick told him with a mischievous grin, smoothing his hands down Joe's back to squeeze his ass.

Joe smirked and kissed his forehead. "Pete thinks you're leading me on because you want the affection, by the way," he said, close to his ear. "And he feels bad, because, like, you'll never let me into your pants."

Patrick actually spluttered with laughter against the collar of Joe's shirt. "Really?" He drew his hands around to the front and made to undo Joe's jeans. "Is that what he said?"

"Dude! Stop it!" Joe ordered, trying to smother laughter against Patrick's hat. "He could come back any second, dude."

"You think he'd still go with that theory?" Patrick joked, letting go and shoving his hands in the pockets of his ridiculous mushroom hoodie. Joe sort of loved it.

"He'd either refuse to believe it, dude, or kill me on the spot, so... unless you wanna risk it..."

"Dude! No. Who would I manipulate into cuddling me then?"

"Geez, I guess that'd make it Andy's lucky day, dude..."

Patrick made a face and leaned against him. "You think this is going to be hard?"

"Something is if you like, won't stop leaning on me..."

"Joe, I'm serious. We have, like, a month of this. In separate buses."

"Well, I guess he doesn't suspect, now."

"You think you can sneak on mine?"

"When?"

"Whenever. Andy gave me the whole room to myself so my stuff doesn't mess up his bunk area."

"Thank God for the anal retentiveness of Hurley Burley."

"Thank God for my reputation as a slob."

Joe grinned. "That too."

"But seriously, man, any time you want to come hang with us, you can."

"Yeah... I mean, I will. I'll have to kind of like, figure out a way to make it seem I'm in my bunk or whatever, dude."

"Exhaustion," Patrick suggested without missing a beat. "You need to be tucked up in your bunk every night without fail. You can't go to all those after parties, dude. Right?"

"Dude. Right. I just can't believe I'm having to sneak around to hang out. This like, sucks so fucking much, dude. What's happening to us? We used to live together, dude... Now we're just –"

"Sleeping together. Behind Pete's back. While he sleeps with that... thing and makes sure it gets all over every fucking gossip column on the internet."

'Just'... 'sleeping together'

"I kind of figured we were more than 'just sleeping together', dude..." Joe admitted, not looking Patrick in the eye.

Patrick made a small sound that reminded Joe of the noises his parents made over Sam when he was a baby, and said, "We are, dude. This has never been 'just' anything. Do you think I would risk everything on the occasional fuck? Because I don't know if you noticed, but I'm not Pete." He finished with a nervous laugh and curled his fingers around Joe's.

Joe just shrugged and nodded because Pete could be back at any minute and he didn't need to overhear this conversation.

"So... you want to come and sleep with me tonight?" Patrick asked. "Seeing as, y'know: Pete'll have his little friend?"

"Uh... yeah. Yeah, okay." He knew Patrick didn't mean that the way it sounded.

"Are you gonna stay here for the rest of the ride, or you want to come out and hang in our bus?"

Joe didn't think twice about that, "Dude, let's fucking go." There was no way he could stand another four hours of awkward silence with Pete.

The tour itself – the shows and having the other guys around all the time – was awesome. It was like camp on an epic scale. Pete was pretty occupied with the Barbie Doll, at first, even if half the time she spent following him around like a second puppy he completely ignored her. Joe almost started to feel sorry for her, except her voice grated like nails on a blackboard and watching her prance around, a picture of falsified innocent girlishness, made him feel kind of sick.

With so many of their friends around, every single day, sharing a bus with Pete much more bearable than Joe first expected. It also drew attention away from what Joe and Patrick were doing. And most of what they were doing was actually perfectly innocent: playing video games in the bus; riff face-offs; watching their favourite films for the 10,000th time; hanging out with Andy or the other bands, sometimes. Normal stuff. When they could, of course, Joe snuck out of his bunk and into the other bus and then it was a lot less innocent. When he couldn't, they communicated via text messages and IMs that nobody else could intrude upon.

Andy turned a blind eye. He didn't even bother commenting, unless he thought they were being particularly indiscreet, which wasn't often.

There was one morning when Pete bounded into the bus and charged excitedly into Patrick's room while they were in bed together, but even he didn't comment on it. They were both still wearing t-shirts and boxers from the night before, too exhausted to do anything but curl up together and sleep. Pete rambled about some great, but entirely incoherent idea he'd had – already smacked up on sugar and caffeine at 8.10am – lost track of what he was saying and then disappeared again. Joe and Patrick went back to sleep.

It was mornings like this, like the ones they'd had when they were back home in Chicago during that first week, that Joe liked the best. They were the mornings when he stopped wondering if this was all about what Pete wouldn't give Patrick and started to wonder what they'd do if things did all blow up. He never asked, because really, right now, he didn't want the answer. But he still thought about it.

It was Gabe, predictably, who first commented on how much time Joe and Patrick were spending together. He cocked his head and leered at them, making kissy faces. Joe flipped him off and went back to reading Spin over Patrick's shoulder. But Gabe wasn't going to let it drop and bounced over and planted himself on the opposite side of the picnic table.

"Sooo, wife-swap?"

Patrick blinked at him absently and muttered something sarcastic about Ryland not being his type.

Rolling his eyes theatrically, Gabe retorted with equal sarcasm, "As if I'd share. No. I mean, you kids right here. Pete? Andy? What?"

"ANDY?" Joe echoed, staring at him. "Dude. That is so many levels of sick and wrong."

"Aw, poor Andy not getting any love? How come? Not enough meat on that little vegan body? Boy wants to eat some pies, dude, I'm telling you."

"Nobody's getting any 'love', man," Patrick said flatly.

"Oh," Gabe said, eyebrows arching in such a way that 'wink wink, nudge nudge' did not need to be said aloud. "Just plain old animal sex, huh?"

"Dude. Seriously. Stop."

"Sorry, Patty-Boy," Gabe replied, sounding far less sorry than he was entertained, and smacking the peak of Patrick's hat down with his fingers. He got up. "But for real: you kids are adorable. Seriously. You wanna ditch the manic elf and get some Frohman action, man." He winked and saluted at Patrick and then shoved his hands in his pockets and wandered off, looking pleased with himself.

"Sometimes," Patrick began, turning the page, "that guy really needs to remember that I get to fuck with his album."

Joe grinned and wrapped an arm almost head-lock tight around Patrick's neck. "I think maybe you should, like, ditch the manic elf, dude."

Patrick laughed and leaned a little nearer, but he didn't say anything.

The problem was that Gabe wasn't the only one who started noticing. Joe caught slightly questioning looks from William (who had probably been talking to Gabe, actually), then Sisky (who had probably been talking to William), then Alex, who turned slightly pink at being caught staring and grinned awkwardly before hiding his face in his book; Paul Wall walked in on them playing Mario Cart while Joe was deliberately leaning over Patrick to obscure his view and hurriedly backed out with something that was probably an apology; it was generally hard to tell. Mark didn't even realise that Patrick was supposed to be in a relationship with Pete and kept referring to 'The Happy Couple'. It took them a week to realise he meant Patrick and Joe. Pete was not amused. He took drastic action.

Joe thought there was something weird about the bus when he walked in, the next morning, somewhere in New York. It felt different. It only took him a few moments to realise that the place wasn't strewn with purses and 'cute' little cardigans or hoodies that were too small for Pete (although that never stopped him trying to make them fit).

Frowning, he turned around and walked back down the steps to lean out the door, scanning the backstage lot for any sign of his room mate. Pete was loitering on the loading ramp, a cup of Starbucks in one hand, his Sidekick in the other, looking oddly determined. Joe wasn't entirely comfortable with that. He had a feeling either some major damage was heading Dirty's way, or Pete was working on his next nefarious plan and that rarely bode well for anyone.

"Dude!" he called, beckoning.

Pete just looked up and yelled, "What?" back at him.

"Where's the chick, dude? Her shit's all gone."

Glancing around him furtively, Pete trotted over and leaned up against the side of the bus, beside the door, still looking down at his Sidekick, while he tried to type one-handed. "Home," he announced, simply.

"Home? What, did she like, get sick of hanging around or something?"

"Nope."

"Oh."

"I sent her home, kind of. Figured we were spending too much time together. Wasn't fair on Patrick, or whatever..."

What, and screwing her off-tour is fine, dude? "Oh. Right."

"Yeah," Pete shrugged, glancing up at him, "it's, like, I hardly saw him in the last few days, kind of. He's either, like, working with Gabe on the album, or hanging with you, or I'm with her and stuff... I just figured I needed to remind him what I look like or whatever." He glanced up at Joe again and smirked. "Naked."

Joe just nodded, feeling bile rise in his throat. He started to turn away but Pete stopped him.

"What's up, man? You feeling okay?"

"Um... yeah. Yeah, I think I'm just gonna..." He gestured vaguely back towards the bunks. "Catch you later or something, dude."

"Wait, Joe, dude - you look like you're gonna puke. You sure you're gonna be okay? I don't want your ass passing out on stage or something tonight..."

"Yeah, dude, it's cool. I'm gonna be okay. I just think I have a hangover from last night. I'll live, man."

"Cool... Well, like - if you wanna spend tonight in the squares' bus I'd understand, because, y'know - I'll have company over here, kind of..." he grinned as if he thought Joe was going to share in his bravado.

Joe didn't reply; he shrugged and backed into the bus. He didn't want to think of Pete and Patrick alone together, but he wanted to hear it even less.

Joe was laying in his bunk with the curtains closed when Patrick poked his head in, looking worried.

"Hey..." he said softly, stroking Joe's hair off his forehead, "you sick?"

"Kind of."

"Pete said you puked."

"No, I just feel like puking. I'm fine, dude, seriously."

Patrick clearly didn't believe him, but he changed the subject. "So... she's gone, huh?"

"Yeah, dude, Pete said... Guess it's your lucky night."

"Huh?"

"Didn't he tell you, dude? You're booked."

"Um... what?"

"Tonight. He sent her home so you guys could kind of like... have some quality time. I got my marching papers, or something. I'm in Andy's bus, you're in here."

"Seriously?" Patrick asked, and Joe could see him blushing even in the half-light.

"I kind of like, don't have the energy to jerk your chain on this, right now..." Joe replied; he couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice and he knew Patrick picked up on it, because he fumbled for his hand and held it.

"I didn't ask for this, dude."

"I know. But you'll go."

"What if I don't?"

Joe laughed softly, rubbing his stomach. "We'll never know, dude."

Patrick stared at him determinedly for a minute and then kicked off his Nikes. "Move over."

"Huh?"

"Move over. I'm getting in."

Joe squinted at him and shifted closer to the wall, tugging his shoulder to help him. Patrick settled mostly upright against the top of the bunk, and let Joe rest his head on his lap.

"Never drinking again."

"Wow. Deja vu. I swear I've had this conversation like 10,000 times, before."

Joe snorted and snuggled more comfortably. They laid there together for a long time, Joe on the verge of sleep, Patrick just quietly stroking his curls and chewing his own lip.

"Hey, Joe?" Patrick said after a while, looking down at him.

"Yeah?"

"You want to hang out tonight after the show? In my bus?"

"I'm already going to be in your bus, dude. It's you who's not."

"No, I won't. I'll be with you."

"Aw, dude - that's only going to piss Pete off..."

"Screw Pete."

"Yeah, I think that's kind of like, the plan..."

"Well, what if I say 'no'?"

"Pissy fit from hell?"

Patrick laughed a little. "I'm not going to just let him pick and choose what time he spends with me, man. You're the one who puts in the hours, y'know? I'll see him when I want to see him, not when he schedules me in."

"What, is this a timeshare deal, now?"

"No," Patrick told him, shifting to lay down a little more. "I'm trying to figure out my priorities."

Joe smiled into the fabric of Patrick's hoodie and cuddled him a little tighter, suppressing the tiny, protective part of himself noting that one of his closest friends was saying this about one of his oldest friends.

"I figure that right now, I want to stay right here and make sure you're okay."

"Dude," Joe sighed, "if you stay with me he's gonna like... figure it out. He's used to you being there when he wants you, man..."

"Maybe it's better that he starts to learn I'm not always going to be."

Joe pushed himself up on his elbow and looked at him. "Huh?"

"Nothing. Just, maybe one day, he'll turn around expecting me to be there to deal with the bullshit, and I just won't."

"Where will you be, man? Hiding in your bunk, playing Garageband?"

Patrick gave a soft snicker. "Knowing my luck, locked in my house, with cats, playing with myself.."

Joe laughed with him and squished his stomach affectionately. "Can I come, dude?"

"We'll see if Pete doesn't kill you, first."

"He's gonna kill me if you don't come over here, tonight."

There was a soft thud as Patrick's head bumped back against the wall of the bunk. "It's the principle, dude. I'm not a fucking call-girl. And you're not my pimp, so quit trying to get me to do it."

"I thought he was your boyfriend, and I was your little piece on the side..."

"Pete owns two properties with his piece on the side."

"Lucky Pete." There was a quiet lull for a few minutes before Joe said, "I just want to keep the peace for like, as long as we can, dude. If the band's gonna get fucked up, I just wanna wait until this is over. Have it kind of like, implode in private."

"I don't want it to implode at all, man."

"Me either, but like... if it does? I just want us to have some dignity or something, dude."

Patrick was very quiet for a while before he finally said, "Are you asking me to leave him?"

"What? No, dude, of course not!"

Patrick just nodded.

They had no time to discuss it further because Pete's light footsteps hopped onto the bus. "Hey, Troh? How you doing, man?" he called from the kitchen.

"Fine," Joe told him, settling back down on Patrick's lap and telling himself that their closeness was normal to Pete, anyway.

Pete walked down to them and grinned at Patrick when he saw him there. "Looking after the baby, huh?" he asked, and kissed Patrick on the cheek. "I want some of that, dude. You wanna come look after me tonight, kind of?"

Suddenly, Joe wanted to throw up a little more.

"Dude, I don't think I can..."

Pete backed away a few inches and looked at him reproachfully. "Huh?"

"I just think Joe should have a little time to sleep, you know?"

"He can sleep in your bus, dude..."

"Not when he's sick."

"I'm just hung-over, man. I can deal. Go do... gross stuff I don't want to think about."

"I didn't mean now," Pete laughed. "I mean after the show, or whatever? C'mon, Lunchbox, dude... I sent the hottie home for you."

"Hottie? You sent the 'hottie' home for me? Wow, man, I'm honoured. We're only practically fucking married, but hey – you sent the 'hottie' home. Awesome. That's the most thoughtful thing you ever did."

"Oh, Patrick, c'mon, dude – you know how things are!"

"I know you've been fucking her the whole time."

Pete stared at him, his face draining of colour. "What the fuck?"

Joe sat up, ready to hop off the bunk and make a swift exit. He didn't need to be in the middle of this.

"You know what, Pete? Don't waste your fucking breath. I know. I know you lied about the fucking side effects and I know you've been sleeping with her the whole time. I saw the photo, man. That's really classy, y'know? But you always were into photographs of your dick, right?"

"You smashed my fucking Mac because of a photo, dude? That's not even – that's just..."

"How fucking dumb are you, Pete? It has nothing to do with a photo! This is about wasting the last five years believing you when you told me you were doing this shit so we could be together! How can you not get that?"

Joe made to slide off the bunk and disappear, but Patrick grabbed his arm and wouldn't let go.

"Stay there. This is your bus, too."

"I kind of like, want to not be here, right now," Joe tried, wriggling his arm a little to free it.

"You're staying," Patrick told him pointedly. He turned back to Pete. "And you, you spineless asshole – fucking deciding you were gonna have me instead of her for a few days? You think that's, what? Romantic or something? Because you are this close to me just fucking telling you where to go, Pete. This. Fucking. Close."

Joe didn't know whether the flutter in his stomach was excitement at the thought of Patrick breaking up with Pete and what that could mean, or panic that if Patrick broke up with Pete, everything would fall apart. Or maybe it was just shame for the fact that either of those mattered when he knew his best friend was being cheated on. By him.

"What the hell are you talking about, man? We've always done this! You had Anna for four fucking years!"

"Yeah, I shared a fucking apartment with a girl I knew since high school. We slept in separate fucking rooms! That is not the same, Pete! I did not – ever – agree to an open relationship. I agreed to a fucking ruse. All I got was screwed over."

"I should probably –" Joe began, awkwardly. This was a really bad place to be, considering.

"You should probably shut up and stop trying to get out," Patrick snapped. "You know what, Pete? I know – believe me, man, I fucking know – that I am not that little skinny kid he introduced you to. I see myself in the mirror and every fucking music magazine, so it's really, really clear to me. I know I've changed, but you fucking lied to me. You made excuses to not sleep with me. Do you seriously find me so gross, now, that you can't even - ?"

"Patrick, man, stop!" Joe cut in, frustrated. "You need to drop the image issues, dude. You're hot, you know I –" He stopped, blushing and looked at Pete. "Tell him, man."

There was silence for a few moments, as Pete stared at the floor with his arms folded. Then, he muttered, "He's beautiful. He's always been fucking beautiful, dude."

"Don't bullshit me, Pete, you made it pretty clear you don't want – "

"Fucking shut up, man! No one wants to hear the girl panic, okay? Not me, not Joe. Just... It's nothing to do with that! It's nothing... I mean. Jesus. I don't even fucking know."

"You... you don't know why you wouldn't fucking touch me off stage for months? You don't know?!"

Pete kind of slumped a little and dug the heel of his hand into his eye. "Dude, it has nothing to do with the weight. Or the hair. Or anything, man. I just couldn't do it, okay? I spend most of the time I'm with her, being the cute and fucking caring boyfriend who is basically supposed to be into her and not the sex. We don't do it, dude. So there have been a couple of times, kind of, but you can't convince a chick you're in a relationship if you're just not doing it."

"You were pretty convincing from where I was sitting. Couldn't get her out of our fucking house during that month we had when we were all supposed to be doing band stuff."

"Dude, she's a girl, she lives fucking fifteen minutes away! She thinks she has a right to see me every fucking day, man..."

"And what, I don't?"

"I'm not trying to convince you that we're in a legit fucking relationship, or whatever, dude!"

"Well, maybe it's time you started!"

"Maybe you're the one fucking person I thought would never need convincing!"

There was a silence so sudden that it seemed to shock all of them. Joe shifted uncomfortably and slipped off the bunk onto his feet.

"I really just kind of want to... leave you guys to, um..." he pushed past Pete and headed for the door.

"Joe!" Patrick called after him, jumping down from the bunk and shoving Pete out of his way. He looked straight at him, anxious and a little sad. "Dude... later. I'll find you, okay?"

Joe nodded and left, not daring to look at Pete. As soon as he was outside the yelling started.

Ryland was sitting on the step of the Cobra bus and he squinted against the sunlight as Joe appeared. "Hey, Troh? Are you guys alright in there?"

Joe just stared at him for a second and scrunched the hair out of his face. He didn't know how to answer, so he shrugged and walked away.

Andy was sitting in the lounge of the other tour bus when Joe sloped up the steps. He didn't look up from his book, but he did say, "Patrick's yelling."

Joe hovered around the kitchen counter, nervous and nauseous, and feeling a little as though he was a criminal waiting to be handed the death penalty. "I think, like... somebody's breaking up today and somebody's getting laid... and I don't know which is me."

Andy did look up at that. "What?"

"Patrick, like... um. Patrick told Pete he saw the picture of him and the Barbie Doll, and kind of freaked out and like, Pete was saying he thought that he could trust Patrick to know that he was kind of like, still just doing his duty or whatever... I dunno, man, I just... I had to get out of there."

"Did they know you were there?"

"Patrick was in my bunk with me. He wouldn't let me leave."

Andy stared at him expressionlessly. "And Pete?"

"Pete's either gonna write a lot of stuff in his blog tonight, or come over here and kick my ass, dude." Joe folded his arms on the work surface and rested his head on them.

"Joe – "

"Am I a coward, man? Should I still be over there?"

"You don't know that Patrick is going to say anything about the two of you. Maybe they're just gonna hash the whole thing out and make up."

Joe straightened up and exhaled hard, tipping his head back and pushing his fingers to his eyes. "I don't know which, like... which one I want," he admitted. "I mean – which situation, man... not which one... I figure things are complicated enough not to go there, too..." He laughed hollowly.

Andy turned down a corner in his book, neatly, and placed it on the table. "Joe, what are you going to do if Patrick chooses Pete?"

Joe looked at him. "I guess I'm gonna, like... deal with it," he shrugged heavily, his heart sinking at the prospect. "I did before."

"I don't think it'll be that easy, man. Not after the last few weeks."

"No, but, like... at least I will have kind of like, had some practice, right?"

"And what if he chooses you?"

"Then..." he looked at Andy, realising how much of a piggy-in-the-middle he was – how out of his control they had taken his future – and found himself slightly choked. "Then, I am like, really, really sorry, man..."

Andy just picked up his book again, and thumped his foot against the vacant side of the couch, indicating that he should sit his ass down unless he planned to go cry into his hoodie and listen to Dashboard Confessional. Joe did, grateful of the company.

An hour or two later, long after the shouting had subsided, Patrick dragged himself up the steps of the bus and stopped in the middle of the lounge, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie.

"So, um," he began, swallowing, "I'm going to need a couple of hours. So, if anyone kind of wants me for anything, can you just say I'm busy?"

Andy looked at Joe, then up at Patrick's pale face.

"Patrick? Are you okay, man?" he asked, starting to get up, but Patrick jerked back slightly.

"Um. I guess you should know that... uh, I broke up with Pete. He's kind of, um... cut up about it, so maybe one of you can just make sure he's okay and, y'know: all his pills are still in the jar and stuff, in a while?" He sounded completely numb, as if none of it was sinking in, yet.

"You broke up?" Joe asked, starting to climb off the couch, his heart racing. "Seriously?"

Patrick just gave a sharp nod and made a dash for his room, closing the door firmly behind him.

In the lounge, Joe and Andy sat in shocked silence. It had happened. It had actually happened. There wasn't even anything to say.

"He didn't say what he told him."

"What?" Andy asked, focusing intently on his drawn-up knees.

"He didn't say what he told Pete. I don't know if he knows about us."

Andy took a deep breath and got to his feet. "I guess that's my cue..."

Joe gave it half an hour before he approached the door to Patrick's room. He didn't want to let him think he had to deal with this by himself, but he didn't want to smother him, either. He knocked first, soft and apologetic, but when there was no response he carefully let himself in.

"Patrick?"

He was sitting on the bed, headphones on, gazing vacantly at the wall opposite. It was no wonder he hadn't heard.

"Patrick," Joe said again, a little louder and waving his hand to attract his attention. Patrick sighed and looked over at him despondently, before slowly dragging off his headphones. "You alright?" Joe asked, although it was a stupid question and he knew it.

"I don't know."

Hesitantly, Joe moved nearer, perching on the bottom corner of the bed, not wanting to appear presumptuous. "So... is it, like, final, dude?"

Patrick just swallowed and nodded, not looking at him. "I can't be second best any more."

Joe echoed his movement, "Is the band over?"

"I don't... I mean, we didn't talk about that."

"No. Right. I mean... obviously. There's like, more important stuff."

"Yeah, maybe..."

"Did you, um... does he know, dude?"

"No." Patrick sniffed and rubbed his nose self-consciously. "He asked if there was someone, but I just... lied. I didn't want to, like... bring the shit down on your shoulders."

"I kind of like did that myself the first time I slept with you, dude."

Patrick tried to raise a smile and failed, but he still crawled across the bed to Joe and buried his face in his shoulder, clutching at him tightly. Twisting at a difficult angle, Joe managed to kiss his cheek, and then just held him, because he still remembered a pink-cheeked seventeen year old looking at Pete From Racetraitor like he was the second coming and the way he'd walked around with the most ridiculously huge smile on his face for two whole weeks after he and Pete got together.

Joe remembered that, and hated himself a little. Or, maybe a little more.

The trauma the break-up caused wasn't limited to the band. Within 24 hours, everyone knew and people were dropping by to covertly find out if it was true and offer "stealth condolences" as Pete called them. Everyone was on tenterhooks, not sure what to do or say and unsure whether talking to one meant taking sides against the other. He and Patrick were trying fiercely to act as if nothing had changed, but more than once Joe looked up to find Pete staring at Patrick with a bleak, mournful look in his eyes. Patrick just wouldn't talk about it.

They took to the stage each night, caricatures of themselves. Pete still nuzzled up to Patrick, Joe still tornadoed around and fell at Patrick's feet. Sometimes, art imitated life. And the show still had to go on.

When they came off stage, though, Pete would get changed and leave for the after parties with anyone not on the verge of collapse. Sometimes, Andy went along, just to make sure that things weren't getting out of hand. They all knew how Pete could be after a break up; every time he broke up with Jeanae he'd been the same, and that wasn't even supposed to be a real relationship: he went on a mission to self-destruct. For once, Joe didn't want to go back to two years ago.

Joe and Patrick spent the nights that all the others were out partying sitting together in Patrick's bus – it didn't seem right to spend it where Pete had to sleep – pretending to watch films so they didn't have to talk about what was going on. Joe wanted to, in a way. He wanted to know where they stood and how they were going to carry on from here, but talking about it now would make it real. The relationship at the very core of what they did would be half of what it was, and there would be a very real chance that it was over.

But for the timebeing, they were holding it together at the seams and at least that was something.

It was the day before Pete's birthday that things changed. Joe was on his way back into the venue with Charlie, having been on a shopping excursion, when The Butcher pelted around the corner toward Joe and Pete's bus, and skidded almost to the floor when he saw them. A second later he was followed by Nate who just made a beeline for them.

"Troh! "

"Are you guys okay? Why the rush?" Joe asked, looking up at Charlie in bewilderment.

"You need to get backstage, man," The Butcher told him seriously, "right now."

"What? Why?"

"Seriously, Joe," Nate urged, half dragging him, "you really, really need to get backstage."

Standing in the midst of wood-splinter debris strewn across the floor, it became pretty clear what the rush was. Charlie dived forward and tried to grab the Gibson out of Pete's hands, but Pete jerked it out of reach, yelling, "Fucking back off!"

Charlie actually did, and stared at him as if he thought he was cracking up.

Joe didn't ask what was going on; why all but one of his guitars were now a collection of tinder and broken strings. In the pit of his stomach, he already knew. And the crowd gathering around them were also beginning to figure it out, speculating amongst themselves.

Didn't he and Patrick just break up, man?

I guess now we know why...

"Pete..."

Pete just turned to Joe, looked him in the eye, his face contorted in rage, and smashed his last remaining instrument against the solid concrete wall at the back of the venue. Twice. Three times. And then the neck broke in two. He hurled what was left in Joe's direction.

"There, you cheating fuck!" he screamed, kicking a chunk of Pilsen across the ground at him. "How does that feel, Joe, huh? Having the thing that means more to you than anything on the fucking planet destroyed by your best fucking friend? How does it feel, Joe?" Pete lunged for him and Joe almost tripped over the broken neck of one of his instruments, trying to back away. "Best friend! Best fucking friend, dude! I treated you like my brother!" Pete snatched up a shard of guitar and threw it at him as hard as he could; it bounced off Joe's shoulder and hit Jack in the shin. For once, Joe was glad he didn't have a camera in his hands, but that had really fucking hurt, and there was a small spot of blood welling on the faded t-shirt where it had grazed the skin and ripped the fabric.

"Pete – this isn't... I'm sorry. We never meant to hurt you, dude, it's just – "

"FUCK YOU! Fuck you! How could you, Joe? How could you, of all people fucking do this to me?"

"It wasn't supposed to happen, Pete – we didn't – "

"How long?"

"What?"

"HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN FUCKING MY BOYFRIEND?"

Joe dropped his gaze and wrapped his arms around himself, unable to bring himself to say 'weeks', 'over a month', maybe 'a couple of years', in an abstract way. He heard someone, he thought it was Victoria, say, "I'm going to get Patrick..." and the sound of running.

"Fucking tell me!" Pete reached for another chunk of guitar, but Charlie rushed forward and caught him in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his side as he writhed and tried to escape.

"Dude. Chill. Chill, c'mon."

"Let me fucking go, man! I'm going to fucking –"

"Yeah, I know, and that's why I'm not letting you go." He looked over his shoulder and yelled for Dre.

Joe just sank down where he was and picked up pieces of his guitars, looking at them in shock. His guitars were in splinters but God knew what had happened to his band while he was out.

"Everyone get the fuck out of here!" Charlie bellowed, "There's nothing to see. Go. Now."

People started to filter away, glancing back with looks of disbelief at the mess and the men in the midst of it all.

"I thought you," Pete began again, sounding as though he was going to breakdown in anger, "I thought you, of all people... I fucking trusted you, Joe! I trusted you and you repay me by stealing the only person who mattered to me, ever? So much for fucking loyalty, man! So much for loyalty..."

Loyalty. Like Pete knew the fucking meaning of the word. Joe looked up at him sharply, suddenly losing his cool a little, "Pete, don't you fucking dare pretend you're fucking innocent, dude. You treated him like you fucking owned him! You care more about Hemingway than you do Patrick! Don't even... just don't."

There was a short scramble as Pete made another break to attack and Charlie nearly lost his grip.

"Let him go, dude," Joe told him, shrugging morosely. "Let him do what he fucking wants. It won't change anything..."

Pete wrenched himself out of Charlie's grip, but fell forward onto his hands and knees a few feet in front of Joe. He didn't try to kill him, he just pulled back to sit on his heels and curled almost into a ball. It took Joe a minute to realise that he was sobbing. He just watched at first, not sure what to do; Charlie didn't know, either. He kind of hovered awkwardly and rubbed the back of his head like he couldn't believe this was happening.

It was taking his life in his hands, and Joe knew that, but he did the only thing that felt right: he shuffled nearer and rested a hand on his best friend's shoulder, whispering, "Pete, don't... please, dude..."

Pete shrugged him off ferociously and Joe retracted his hand, but he didn't back away.

"Pete, I know you pretty much hate me, right now, but... like... this isn't about fucking around behind your back, dude. I swear it's not..."

"Shut your mouth!"

"No... no, I want you to fucking know. I never wanted you to find out like this, dude. I didn't... Patrick breaking up with you was a fucking shock to everyone, including me, man. And I would never just like, screw around behind your back for the sake of fucking around, dude, you have to know that about me!"

"I don't care why you did it! Don't you get that? All that matters to me is that you fucking... you betrayed me, Joe! You just... I love him, you stupid fucking..."

"Yeah," Joe nodded, swallowing and climbing to his feet, "me too. And you know what, dude? Like... if I love someone, I don't put them through the bullshit you put him through."

It was then that Patrick and Vicky-T came rushing over, Patrick so out of breath that all he could do was grab Joe and cup his face, looking to see if he was hurt. Joe just shook his head, "I'm fine. I will be, anyway, maybe..."

"What happened?" he asked frantically, just as Andy rounded the corner and stopped dead, surveying the mess.

"Shit."

Pete started to get to his feet, then, smearing his eyeliner on the sleeve of his hoodie as he dried his face and approached Patrick. "You fucking lied to me," he ground out, shoving him hard, "you couldn't even tell the fucking truth when you were saying it was over, you gutless fuck."

Patrick didn't retaliate, he just closed his eyes and shook his head. "I told you I wasn't because I didn't know what he wanted, Pete. Because Joe had no fucking influence on my decision. I don't even know if he wants me now, Pete, but I know that if you'd given me half the goddamn respect he does, we wouldn't be having this fucking conversation, you arrogant prick! He's been a better boyfriend to me in the past few years than you ever were, and he didn't even want to lay a hand on me when I threw myself at him a couple of weeks ago, because of you. Because of the person who was supposed to be my boyfriend, but couldn't drag himself away from the girls long enough to realise that he was even fucking losing me!"

"So, what...? It's a series of pity fucks strung together into some fucking fling, kind of? Is that it, man, because that's pretty fucking pathetic. Pretty fucking pathetic..."

Patrick's fist had connected with Pete's jaw before any of them even realised he'd raised a hand. They both stumbled and landed on the concrete, Patrick on top of Pete, fists flying targetlessly until Dre stepped forward and bodily picked Patrick up off of him. Charlie yanked Pete to his feet and dragged him out of reach.

"Guys, c'mon," Andy said, moving over to lay a soothing hand on Pete's arm. "No more fucking fighting. Patrick, go back to the fucking bus. Pete, I'm taking you to yours. Joe – "

"Joe can come to ours," Victoria offered, taking his wrist and giving him a sympathetic smile. "I know Ryland's in there, right now, so..."

"Fine," Andy nodded with a heavy sigh. "I think everyone just needs to cool the fuck off."

Joe spent the rest of the afternoon sitting uncomfortably in the Cobra bus, Vicky-T with her head on his shoulder and her arm linked around his and Ryland and Alex trying to make conversation that in no way, under any circumstances, even slightly touched on the matter. It was awkward, but none of them were doing it intentionally and none of them seemed to want to inflict bodily harm upon him, so it was fundamentally more pleasant than being in his own bus, right about then.

Andy came by to check that everything was okay, around three thirty, bringing him an unbloodied t-shirt to change into. He told Joe that Pete was asleep, which was a good thing because it meant he wasn't working himself into a fit about Joe and Patrick. It also meant it was relatively safe for Joe to slip back to Patrick's bus and see if he was okay.

Patrick almost tripped over himself, scrambling up from the couch to greet him.

"Are you okay?" he asked, before Joe could do exactly the same thing.

"I think so, dude, I just... Worst day ever?"

Nodding jerkily, Patrick reached out to him, hesitating as if he wasn't sure he was still allowed. Joe hugged him as tightly as his bruised and scraped shoulder would allow, propping his chin on Patrick's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Joe," he murmured into Joe's neck, holding him just as tight. "I didn't... this is all my fault. I fucked up everything."

"It's not your fault. It's our fault. I didn't have to do all this with you, dude... but I seriously don't know what I'm gonna play tonight..."

Patrick gave a soft snort and buried his face in Joe's shoulder. "There might not be a 'tonight'."

"Did he... I mean, like... is the band over?"

"I don't think so. Not yet."

"How does he even know, dude?"

"He read my messages, Joe... all the stuff from being in the separate buses, when we were messaging each other all the time. I was stupid enough to keep them... they made me feel better, sometimes, y'know? Looking at them... and I'm a total fucking chick, I know, but... whatever. He saw them."

"Shit..." Joe rubbed his forehead, remembering some of the things they'd said to each other – from tender statements of affection, to mean jokes at Pete's expense and even a series of highly explicit messages that no one was ever, ever supposed to see. He'd never been more ashamed in his life.

"I'm sorry... I wish I'd taken better care, y'know? I knew he wanted to find out why I did what I did, and I just... I was so stupid... I can't believe I just left it there!"

"It's too late to worry, now... what's done is done."

"I'm just so sorry he did this to you... I know how much some of those guitars meant to you, Joe, and... Fuck. I'm sorry..."

"Stop apologising, dude. It's... it's not all good right now, but it could be worse... No idea how, but..."

Patrick have a small, miserable laugh and pulled back to kiss him briefly. "I love you."

Joe's heart missed several beats and he couldn't do much but blink at him in surprise. "Um... you... Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, I love him too, and I'm probably always going to, but... I love you, and I feel like... Maybe, y'know... maybe this could work."

Joe stared at him. "This? Like... you and me, dude?"

"Well... well, yeah. Us. If you want to?" He could see the panic starting to rise in Patrick's eyes, thinking that he was going to lose both of them.

"Of course I want to! I've wanted this since... dude. Since England. I told you that already!"

"Yeah, I know, but... after everything, y'know? And I just didn't want to assume or anything..."

Joe tentatively ran his fingers down Patrick's cheek leaning down to kiss him softly. "We kind of have a lot to figure out..."

For a few hours, Joe was torn between total, overwhelming happiness, and chronic, bone-deep shame that he was shacking up with his best friend's ex three days after they broke up. They played the hardest show of their lives, going through the routine but each running on a different emotion; Pete was angry and flung himself toward Joe on several occasions, narrowly missing him with the head of his bass; Joe tried to keep to his side of the stage as much as possible, self-conscious and ashamed; Andy just focused all his frustration into concentration and Patrick put more force into his vocals than should really have been humanly possible.

The only reason they were able to play at all was through the kindness of others.

When Joe walked backstage to try to take stock of what he was going to have to rush off and buy with Diaz, his rack was already loaded with four separate guitars. He couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. Ryland's black Telecaster, two of Mike's spares and what looked like a shiny new Pilsen, with a note attached, "This doesn't mean you get to fuck me. – Hoppus."

If a whole bunch of people hadn't been lurking around, waiting for his reaction, Joe might have cried. He had really thought he was the bad guy that no one but the Cobra Starship guys would speak to again. He couldn't quite believe they'd done this and wondered whose idea it had been. It kind of made him feel more and more of an asshole. Especially when the fact Mark had left him the guitar as a present reminded him that it was Pete's birthday the very next day. They were supposed to be having a party. He wasn't sure he was invited, any more.

He spent the night in one of the two spare bunks in the Cobra bus, laying awake and staring at the underside of Gabe's, hearing him come bouncing in around 3am and whispering with Ry about whether things were okay.

Patrick texted him around four, asking if he was asleep. Joe replied, saying only 'no rest for the wicked, dude'. They couldn't meet outside, because they were in motion, but Joe didn't think it would have been a good idea, even if they could. The early hours of the morning were Pete's time, and the last thing he needed was to see them lurking in the shadows together.

Joe couldn't help thinking about their houses. It seemed weird – cold, maybe – to think in terms of whether Patrick would just move to their Chicago apartment or if they'd sell up and he'd get a new place... maybe whether Patrick would want to move into the house Joe had just bought, seeing as he'd already had a hand in decorating it... if it was even okay for them to just move in together. This may be a new development in their relationship, but they weren't exactly unused to being in each other's company.

They didn't talk about it, not yet, not even through the supposed privacy of text messages. They hadn't even told Andy what was going on, yet, never mind Pete. It didn't seem right. Then again, if he'd done what was right six weeks or so ago, instead of what his dick was telling him to, they wouldn't be in this predicament.

It was Andy's idea to just leave their gifts in the other bus before Pete woke up, the next day. Nobody felt comfortable trying to pretend things were okay, offstage, but it would have been callous to ignore the date altogether. Andy may still have been in Pete's favour, but Joe and Patrick definitely weren't.

Later, when Joe stepped off Andy and Patrick's bus, Pete was just passing and Joe stepped directly into his path. He apologised awkwardly and edged out of the way, heading back to the Cobra bus, but Pete grabbed his arm tightly and yanked. Joe turned to look at him – he didn't have much choice – and half anticipated a punch in the face, but it didn't come. Instead, Pete looked at him for a moment and then away, letting him go.

"Thank you," he said flatly and turned to continue on his way, but Joe stopped him, hoping this was an opening – a chance to at least make things the smallest bit better.

"Pete?"

"Keep walking, or whatever, dude. I got nothing else to say."

"Well, I kind of like do."

"Yeah? How about you text me, kind of?"

Joe didn't try again. The next he heard from Pete actually was a text, stating only, 'u need 2 b there. press. no arguments. u owe me.'

It really didn't leave Joe with much choice.

The last thing any of them wanted, after playing a show with energy so dead it flatlined, was to spend all night in a bar crammed with everyone they knew, and the press, and unsurprisingly, the Barbie Doll. The whole event was depressing: watching Pete feign smiles that just came off looking psychotic while his little friend clung to him; watching the look on Patrick's face when they jumped the queue to the bathrooms; watching Andy nursing his juice like a drunk drowning his sorrows; not being able to really spend any time with Patrick at all because they didn't want to make his birthday any worse with reminders...

The one time Joe tried to talk to Pete, to share in a joke he'd made, Pete turned to him with his teeth practically bared, and whispered, "Make no fucking mistake: you are not my friend. We will never be friends again. The only reason you're here, or whatever, is because I don't want fucking questions about why you're not. Don't speak to me."

Joe escaped the earliest he could, returning to his temporary – in theory, at least – bunk in the Cobra bus and spent another night staring into the darkness.

When they finally arrived back in Chicago for their three-night run, Joe headed straight to his house. It was so good to be able to spend the time away from everyone else, even Patrick, just for one night. He needed some space to figure things out. The only problem was that when he got there, he was instantly reminded of the first week and caught in a deluge of shame and self-doubt; it had all begun here. In his mostly-yellow living room, which they'd painted together after screwing on his couch while they were both with other people.

Which reminded him of Marie, and how dismissive he had been of her and how she was worth so much more than what Joe had done to her.

He spent the night sitting on the floor, in between the boxes, realising he couldn't live in that house. By himself or with Patrick.

Patrick actually came to find him, the next morning, brandishing coffee and donuts and looking disarmingly refreshed, as if the time out of the bus had brushed away some of the tension and lifted the weight from his shoulders.

"Good morning," he said cheerfully, trying to kiss Joe without dropping his paper cups or the donuts in his other hand.

"Hi. You seem kind of in a good mood..."

"I am," Patrick grinned, heading for the kitchen. "I'm happy. I'm home, I'm with you, the weather is totally insane, and I've decided I'm going to fix my friendship with Pete."

Joe just blinked at him. "Um... like, how, dude?"

"I don't know, but I'm going to. We've been through way, way too much to let that fall apart completely, y'know? And I know him, Joe, I know that deep down, he feels the same way. We can't just let this go so easily."

Patrick kind of shot himself in the foot. Because it was true. It was more than true, and the guilt in Joe's stomach started to formulate into a plan; a way to reduce the collateral damage. It really just seemed like the only honest thing he could still do.

"You know he's not going to forgive me, right?"

Patrick sighed and leaned up against Joe's chest as he propped himself against the counter. "Maybe he will... eventually. Maybe we can come through all of this okay..."

"Patrick?"

"Yeah?"

"He's not going to, like, forgive me for this in any way, you get that, right? But you and Pete... you should try to make it up. It's been too long to throw it away, dude."

"Yeah... yeah, I will. It's totally stupid to let everything fall apart because of this... let it get in the way of the, y'know, of the music and stuff."

Joe kissed him and rested his chin on the top of Patrick's head, closing his eyes and trying his hardest to remember this. "Exactly, dude."

That same day, he posted a challenge to Ryland. How quickly did he think he could learn the complete Fall Out Boy set, seeing as he only had to bother with a handful of songs for the shortened Cobra Starship opening run? Ryland bet three days. Joe hoped he was right.

The next three days hurt more than the three hours after Pete found out about them. He tried to memorise everything about this. About the life he'd come to know very little but; the people – the friendships, the sense of family; the feel of an audience so huge it moved like an ocean with the rhythm of the songs they were playing. He took photographs on his phone, when people weren't looking, and carefully, trying not to be obvious, started to tie the loose ends. He felt a little like Earl, ticking people off on his list as he paid up on long-forgotten bets and apologised for the times he'd taken jokes too far or broken their possessions with his clumsiness.

Some of them looked at him strangely, some tried to shrug it off, but no one complained. At least not to Joe.

He also spent those three days watching Patrick. He pulled back from him as best he could, leaving him to spend all his time with Pete. If they were ever going to get back on track, they weren't going to do it with Joe's interference.

Pete was reluctant at first: cold and indifferent to Patrick's unsubtle attempts to engage him in conversation; outright nasty at times. But Patrick persevered, because he was a stubborn little fuck, which was something that Joe was counting on. This wasn't a loose end he really thought he could get his hands dirty tying.

When the last night came, before the departure for Indianapolis, Joe put the last part of his plan into action. His bag was packed and stashed in his car, in the parking lot – he'd said he was taking it home to do laundry the day before so no one suspected anything when they saw him lugging it all around. He had hand-written notes to all the most important people, left them places he knew they'd find them, even if they wouldn't find them before he was gone. He didn't want to risk anyone trying to stop him, he just wanted to fade out quietly, leaving things in as much order as he could, so they could just carry on without him. Patrick was the voice of the band and Pete was the face; neither of them could leave and still have things continue relatively unchanged. Which left Joe and he was sure that if they tried, if they wanted to, they could get past this and stay just as successful as they always were. It was the fairest thing to do for everyone. Andy didn't deserve to lose everything because of what Joe had done; the rest of their guys didn't deserve to lose their jobs over it, either.

He hadn't banked on being caught by Dirty, though, tucking his note under Patrick's pillow.

"Don't do it," he said quietly, positioning himself in front of the door as subtly as he could.

"Do what?"

"I'm a drunk, man, not an idiot. You're going to do one of two things and both are pretty stupid. And when even I'm saying that..."

"Dude, this is, like... the smartest thing I can do, right now."

"Look, Troh, dude, it's not my band, but you guys are my friends and... C'mon, man, you know this isn't necessary."

Joe stopped and looked at him for a minute, realising for the first time just how good a friend Dirty had always been to him. To all of them. He was glad he'd chosen to round up the figure he felt he owed the man to the nearest ten; Dirty would never know that, but Joe would, and if Joe was taking anything from this, it was that he knew he'd done his best by as many people as he could.

"I, like... I want you to take this, dude. Just kind of like... a token of my appreciation of whatever, for all the shit you put up with around here." Joe held out the little slip of paper for him to take, but he wouldn't do it. He just looked away and stuck his hands in his pockets. "Okay, dude, so... I'm gonna leave it on the counter. It has your name like, already signed on it, so... it's yours."

He started for the door, hoping Dirty wouldn't try to prevent him from leaving bodily.

"Joe," he said, as Joe slipped past, and grabbed his hand as if shaking it. "You'll be missed, dude."

Feeling a lump building in his throat, Joe just nodded and jumped down the three steps and onto the road.

"Dirty?" he called, turning back a few paces away. "Don't, like... don't say anything until you're away, okay? I don't want a search party."

Dirty nodded, and that was the last Joe saw of him.

The first call came just after 2am. Patrick. Joe cancelled. It rang again, still from Patrick's number. Joe cancelled that, feeling as though he'd swallowed glass. Then it was Andy's number. Charlie. Patrick again. Gabe – and Joe didn't even understand why he was calling. Patrick. Patrick. Patrick. Over and over until Joe felt sufficiently asshole enough that he was about to turn of his phone, but then the texts started.

Andy. 'Where are you?'

Charlie. 'This is the dumbest stunt u have evr pulled. ANSWER FUCKING PHONE.'

Patrick. 'What ru doing? Pls talk 2 me. Worried. XXX' then, 'If u changed ur mind i u/stand. Don't do this. We can tlk it out.' then just, 'I love you.'

Ryland. 'Kerfuffle! Come home. Past bedtime.'

Then, of all people, Pete. 'didnt ask for this. hes freaking out. stop being a dick & come back. yr makin us late.'

Joe took the time to text his little brother, knowing he had to pass on a message that wouldn't leave his mother hysterical. 'Dude, tell mom I'm taking a vacation. AM FINE. Don't worry. Cu soon. Joey.'

Sam just had time to get out a 'WTF MAN?!?' before Joe switched off his phone.

Epilogue

"He's, um... I don't know what to tell you, man," Andy's voice crackled down the line. "He moved home. Pete and the girl are going to take the place in LA... They're selling up. It's all over. Everything. I guess I'm just... well. I'm back in Wisconsin, right now. Everybody just figured you did a Lord Lucan, or something. No one thought you were coming back and two of us sure as hell weren't going to go on without you."

"Is he like," Joe swallowed and pushed the hair out of his eyes, "is he okay?"

There was a long silence from Andy's end of the line and Joe had to check he hadn't been disconnected. "He's pretty much heartbroken, dude. He doesn't understand why you did it."

"I left a note."

"'Give him a second chance'? That's your note? That's fucking lame, Joe. Totally fucking lame."

"I just... I thought it would work out okay. I figured you'd replace me and they'd work things out, and... I didn't want this, dude."

"For what it's worth, Joe, I think the only difference your little disappearing act made to the last month was to Patrick. And that's a mistake you really need to fix."

Joe sat in the car outside the lakeside apartment Patrick had once shared with Pete, for two hours before he even dared to get out of the vehicle. He stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the unremarkable fifth floor window, one hand still on the car roof as if it were keeping him grounded. He didn't know if this was the right thing. He didn't know whether Andy was right and that Patrick was as miserable as he thought, or if he'd hammered the last nail into his own coffin the night he switched off his cell.

He turned his back on the apartment for a minute, looking out across the Drive to the beach, and that was when he saw him; a small figure hunched on the stepped wall beside the road. Joe's heart skittered. It had only been a few weeks, but it felt like so much longer. He started walking, heading for the subway under the road; by the time he got to the steps on the other side, he was running.

Patrick didn't seem to notice as he was approached. He just stared out across the water, his headphones blocking out everything else. He'd lost weight. Considerably, actually, considering Joe had only been away a few weeks. He looked pasty and hollow where his eyes were ringed from lack of sleep, but Joe had never been more glad to see him.

Now he was here, though, he didn't know what to say. So, at first, he didn't say anything. Instead, he just sat down on the wall beside him, waiting for Patrick to react.

It took a moment or two. He just blinked, slowly, then glanced over. He didn't say anything. He didn't even remove his headphones, he just nodded to himself, his lip pinched tightly between his teeth, and looked back out into the distance.

Joe copied, leaning back against the concrete, waiting.

He waited a long time, but finally, with a careful deliberateness that set Joe's nerves more on edge than they already were, Patrick lifted off his headphones and hung them around his neck.

"Hi," Joe tried, not daring anything more. It would be far too easy to say the wrong thing, now.

"Hi."

"So, um... I guess. I guess I heard that I kind of like, made a mistake. Like, a pretty huge error of judgement or something."

Patrick nodded, slowly, watching a cyclist speed past.

"Are you... uh. Are you okay, dude?"

There was a quiet laugh, at that, cynical and flat. "Well, let's see: I slept with one of my best friends, and then broke up with my boyfriend who was too busy sleeping with someone else to even notice I was fucking our best friend. Then, the best friend, who claimed he loved me, vanished, just when I thought I was going to get to settle down and have a normal relationship. Then my band – which was pretty much everything I lived for – went all to hell, and now the ex-boyfriend is living in my house with his girlfriend, all of which, y'know, kind of leads to a couple of pretty entertaining abandonment issues. So, y'know: I'm fine, how are you?"

Joe had never expected this conversation to be easy, but he really wasn't prepared at all. "I'm sorry," he just said, quietly. "I thought I was kind of like doing the right thing."

"Huh. Because just leaving when the going gets tough, that's always the right thing. Obviously."

"It wasn't like that."

"It wasn't? That's funny, 'cause it seemed just like that."

"I thought... I thought I'd just, like, go away for a while. Kind of like, take away the problem, because if I like... if I wasn't there, you and Pete might work it out. You could like, carry on, y'know? Replace me, maybe... maybe get back together or something, and then... I don't know. It made sense at the time."

Patrick took a long, deep breath and took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. "At first, before your dad phoned, saying you'd texted your brother, I honestly, honestly thought you were dead. I mean – you left Dirty a cheque for fucking twenty thousand dollars, dude, that's like... that's... I know any one of us could afford that, but it's not like you."

"He doesn't get paid enough to like, deal with the bullshit Pete puts on him, dude."

"You're right, he doesn't. But you were tying up loose ends, dude – you were apologising and paying people back and no one started talking about it until we didn't know where you were, and nobody'd realised and I really, really thought you'd done something stupid." He clenched his jaw to stop his lip from beginning to shake.

"Well, like... I'm here now, right?" Joe offered, wishing he'd just texted to say he was okay. Wishing a lot of things that it was too late to change.

"Yeah, but what does that mean, Joe? How soon are you going to run off again?"

"I'm not!" he swore, turning to him, grasping his arm tightly and praying he'd understand. "I'm not going anywhere. Ever. I love this place... everything I have left is here, and it's not much, but I'm not just like, letting it go..."

Patrick quirked his lips a little, in something close to a smile.

"I, um. I'm selling the house. I kind of like just wanna start over, y'know?"

He nodded, but didn't say anything.

"Look, Patrick, I just... I don't expect you to like, forgive me, or anything, but... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to put you through that. I totally didn't."

"Yeah. Hindsight's a funny thing, right?"

Joe nodded. Just not funny-ha-ha.

"'Cause, y'know, in hindsight, if I'd known – if I'd noticed what you were doing..." Patrick paused and sucked his lip a little before finishing, "I would have packed my stuff and come with you."

"But that would have just defeated the object, dude... I did it so you'd stay and –"

"Joe, shut up and listen to what I'm saying: I would have come with you."

Joe looked at him, then, at the pink in his cheeks and wide, pale green eyes, and felt his heart miss several beats. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, and asked, "So... what about now?"

Patrick just shifted a little, moved a little nearer, and looked back out across the water. "I thought you said you'd stopped running."