#also brief minor reference to taking advantage of someone while they're under the influence

[buildarocketboys]

54 or 95 + Peterick! (no pressure ask!!)

Thanks babe! Some hiatus angst for you!

54. “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. That’s the problem.”

Pete practically drags Patrick home from his bar.

The man is Drunk, with a capital D. Pete's not sure he's ever seen him this drunk, and he's known Patrick since before he was of legal drinking age. Hell, he was there when Patrick got drunk for the first time, and may or may not have been responsible for several of the beers and shots that had gone down Patrick's throat that night.

But this is something else. Patrick's a mess.

Such a mess that Pete doesn't trust Patrick to be able to get home by himself.

He slips into the cab next to him.

Patrick makes a face at him.

"Why're you here?" he slurs. His voice is filled with such venom, even in his state of advanced drunkenness, that Pete cringes away.

"Just making sure you get home OK," he mutters, suddenly wondering whether he's doing the right thing. He thought he had been, thought he was just being a good friend (are he and Patrick even friends anymore?) good person, anyway, making sure Patrick gets home safe. But maybe he should have let someone else do it. Patrick obviously doesn't want anything to do with him.

Even though he had come to Pete's bar.

Patrick snorts. "Nah. I know what you want." He pokes Pete in the chest, then grabs Pete's hand and holds it against his crotch. "Go on. Take it."

Pete snatches his hand back, alarmed. "Patrick, I'd never do that!"

Patrick blows a raspberry and mumbles something that sounds like, "Yeah, right."

Pete lets his head fall back against the headrest, closing his eyes and threatening to stem the tide of self-loathing that threatens to overwhelm him. Because Patrick's not entirely wrong. He likes to think he's better than that these days, and he's never taken advantage of anyone this drunk, but even so.

He gulps air like he's dying and hopes Patrick's too out of it to notice Pete having a minor panic attack next to him.

Some part of Patrick must register it, though, because suddenly Patrick's hand is firmly gripping his knee. A calming, grounding presence.

Pete covers Patrick's hand with his own. Patrick doesn't push him away.

Bit by bit, his breathing slows and he's gradually able to calm himself down. By the time they're at Patrick's house, he feels almost normal.

Patrick falls down trying to get out of the car. Pete hauls him up, excruciatingly aware of how much lighter Patrick is these days.

He helps Patrick to the door as Patrick fumbles in his pockets for his key. He eventually pulls it out, to Pete's relief, because he's not sure he'd hear the end of it if he had to slide his hand into Patrick's ass pocket.

He takes it from Patrick and unlocks the door; it'll just be quicker.

Patrick scowls at him, his gaze a little unfocused. "I could have done that," he says.

Pete sighs. He can feel a headache coming on. He hasn't even drunk anything tonight - how is that fair? "Let's just pretend we had this argument and I won, OK?"

Patrick mutters something no doubt scathing under his breath and lets Pete guide him up the stairs, the two of them nearly stumbling and falling over a pile of stuff halfway up.

Actually, Pete realizes once he's got Patrick to his bedroom, Patrick's house is a dump. He wonders if Patrick still has a cleaner; he's never been good at looking after himself, so he'd hired a cleaner pretty much as soon as he was making enough money to do so. But he knows Patrick's plowed all his savings into making his solo record; maybe he'd decided a cleaner was an unnecessary expense.

Pete takes a shaky breath in and rubs his face. Not his problem anymore. Patrick doesn't want anything to do with him anymore, and Pete had promised himself he'd give Patrick some space. Patrick doesn't need him all up in his business.

Patrick's made that very fucking clear.

He staggers down the stairs to the kitchen, thinking he'll just get Patrick an aspirin and a big glass of water and then clear off.

When he tentatively knocks on Patrick's door and pokes his head round, he's relieved to see Patrick's in bed.

He sets the glass of water and the painkillers on the nightstand.

"Pete?"

Pete had thought Patrick had passed out, but apparently not. His (ex? former?) best friend blinks up at him from the bed, like he's only just seeing him.

Pete swallows. "Got you some water. And an aspirin. You might hate me, but there's no reason you should hate yourself when you wake up in the morning."

The joke falls flat as Patrick just stares up at Pete.

Pete clears his throat, about to make his excuses and leave, when Patrick speaks.

"I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. That’s the problem." Patrick's voice is raw, vulnerable.

Pete can't even bear to look at him.

"Yeah, well," says Pete. Then he gives a weak chuckle that sounds wetter than Pete would like. "I should be going." He turns away from Patrick toward the door.

"You can sleep on the sofa, if you want," Patrick says.

The sofa.

It's an olive branch and a bitter pill rolled into one. The Patrick of even a year ago would never have made him sleep on the sofa.

Pete kind of wants to curl up and die.

"Uh, thanks. But I've kinda gotta get back to the bar."

It's a weak excuse, and they both know it. Pete glances over his shoulder, wondering if Patrick will put up a fight, hoping he will.

But the light in Patrick's eyes just fades out, and he slumps back into his pillows. "Oh. Yeah."

Pete waits a moment longer, for what, he doesn't know. But Patrick doesn't say anything else, and neither does he.

He leaves. Wishing with every atom in his body that he could stay.