He was hunched over the desk, his dark hair sticking up in all directions like he’d been pulling on it. There was no light in the room, only the blue glow from a cell phone that sat, open, at his elbow. His pen was scraping furiously back and forth against the paper, making harsh slicing sounds and ruining the silence.

His thumb was cramping from the force of it all, and his wrist hurt. He was sure if he stopped writing, his hand would fall off. Of course that was ridiculous, but he hadn’t slept in at least seventy-two hours, and he was entitled to a little craziness.

This was not unusual. This middle of the night writing session that left him looking like a walking, talking zombie in the morning. The purple tint around his eyes would be deeper when everyone else woke up, and his clothes would be just a little big baggier because he hadn’t remembered to eat that day. Or the day before that.

He didn’t remember breathing either, but he must be doing that or else he’d be dead.

So caught up in this new verse, he didn’t hear the creak of a bed as someone got up and padded across the cold floor toward him.

He gasped and jumped, nearly falling to the floor, when cold hands touched his bare shoulders.

“JesusFuckingChristPatrick.” The words came out strung together and whispered into the darkness with just a touch of annoyance. Or perhaps a bit more than just a ‘touch.’

Patrick lowered himself to the floor beside the desk, his eyes placid and his expression emotionless. “Sorry,” he said cautiously. There was no telling what Pete might to do him in the middle of the night when he’d just been scared shitless.

“What the fuck,” Pete muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose and using an elbow to push the piece of paper aside in agitation. He’d lost his muse, or at least, his train of thought, and he was pissed.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick hissed, more strongly this time. “I woke up and I saw your phone…” he trailed off, scratching his head. Pete looked down at him, trying not to smile when he saw a patch of Patrick’s hair standing up on end, giving him the impression of a cockatoo. “What are you doing up?” He finished, smoothing down the one patch of hair and crossing his arms across his chest, suddenly feeling cold. He wondered briefly how Pete could stand to sit there in just his boxers all night, when it was easily 30 degrees in there.

Pete shivered suddenly, standing up and pulling on a sweatshirt he’d discarded earlier; he tugged it over his head and sullenly plopped down on the edge of his bed. It was this that reminded Patrick why he often thought they could hear each other’s thoughts.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he stated, picking at a lose thread on the ugly, generic bedspread.

“Again?” Patrick’s voice was calming, but filled with concern. He reached out tentatively and set his hand gently on Pete’s bare knee. He retracted it quickly and stood up to grab the blanket off his bed. “You’re also freezing,” he tutted, going about sliding the blanket around Pete’s slender shoulders and wrapping it tightly around him so he was securely in place.

“Are you going to have your way with me now?” Pete asked, a mischievous smile playing on his lips as he looked up at his friend.

Patrick snorted and sat down beside him. “You wish, Wentz.”

“What are YOU doing up?” Pete wondered, turning the tables. It was one of the things he did best, and often. Sometimes it was easiest when you didn’t want to talk about your own troubles, to listen to someone else’s.

“Your incessant writing woke me up,” Patrick replied. “You need to learn how to write quietly. Actually, if you did anything quietly, it would be a miracle.”

Pete scowled at him. “You snore.”

Apparently that was the best comeback he could conjure. It was quite unlike Pete to be at a loss for words (especially scathing ones) and this worried Patrick more so than the whole not sleeping thing.

“What’s the matter?” Patrick asked quietly, gently knocking his shoulder against Pete’s.

“Nothing,” Pete said with a shrug as he stood up and shed the blanket that was starting to feel like it was suffocating him. He threw it onto the bed and stood with his back to Patrick, his arms crossed.

“Have you ever just…” he sighed and ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up even more. “Just wished you could say something but found that you can’t? No matter what you fucking try, the words just won’t come out.”

Patrick stood up and nodded, then realized that Pete wasn’t looking at him and therefore wouldn’t have seen. “Uh, yeah,” he said thickly. “Pretty much every damn day.”

“I really need to get it off my chest, but---” he cut himself off. “---Fuck it, man. I’m acting like a pussy.”

He laughed quietly. “You could tell me. Maybe it’ll help?”

Pete turned around, a wry smile on his lips. “I doubt it.”

Patrick made that dorky face that seemed to be a constant when he was around Pete. “Try me,” he said seriously.

He was silent for a long time, and seemed to be weighing his options. Patrick was almost dozing off when he finally opened his mouth to speak.

“I have this thing,” Pete stated vaguely. “For someone. A guy.”

Patrick stayed silent, allowing Pete the time he needed to get the words out. It was no surprise that Pete had a thing for a guy, at least not to Patrick. Andy and Joe were clueless, but Patrick was the one who watched Pete out of the corner of his eye every chance he got, and he didn’t miss the looks Pete gave to specimens of the male species.

“You’re not falling off your chair in shock.” Pete was obviously surprised at Patrick’s lack of interest in his coming out of the closet.

“I’m not sitting in a chair,” Patrick replied, glancing down at the floor. His bare feet wiggled in the darkness, and Pete suppressed a giggle. Patrick shrugged nonchalantly. “Dude. I may be an idiot, but I’m not stupid.”

Pete raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking up at the corners. “Shut up,” Patrick muttered, smirking. “What I mean is…I’m not blind. I can tell you’re not…you know…picky. About which sex you’re attracted to.”

He snorted and dropped down onto the bed, shaking his head. “You surprise me everyday, Patrick.”

Patrick seemed to take this as a compliment, and cheerfully sat beside his friend. “Okay. So who is he?”

Pete kicked his feet out, and watched them move rhythmically back and forth, stalling for time. “I don’t have all night,” Patrick said, holding back a yawn. “I’m tired as hell, and I intend to go to bed as soon as you get over your boy love angst.”

“You know him,” Pete said, avoiding Patrick’s semi-shocked gaze which was accompanied by a small ‘hmmm’ of curiosity. “He’s uh…a friend.”

“Oh my God,” Patrick yelled, jumping off the bed and spinning around to face a blushing Pete. He paused momentarily to notice that Pete was blushing, and he tried to remember a time when that had happened when it was just he and Pete in the room, but he was at a loss. He pressed on, ignoring this strange turn of events. “Is it Joe!?”

He sounded like a thirteen-year-old girl.

“You sound like a thirteen-year-old girl,” Pete accused indignantly, crossing his arms across his chest and blowing hair out of his face. “No. It’s not Joe.”

“ANDY?” Patrick laughed a little. “I mean, I’ve heard girls say Andy was hot and everything, but he’s not what I’d expect from you. He is a drummer, though, and drummers are usually pretty cute…” he was cut off when Pete’s hand pressed against the back of his neck, cold. It felt good, and Patrick felt his heartbeat pick up when he realized how close Pete was to him now.

“It’s you,” Pete said, his eyes staying on Patrick’s this time. “Has been. For a while.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Patrick questioned. He didn’t sound upset, or even very surprised. Merely curious, like he was wondering what catering was serving the following day at the video shoot.

Pete laughed sardonically. “It’s not exactly easy to go up to your best friend and tell him you’re in love with him.”

It was then that Patrick figured out the past few months. The feeling that he was being watched, and every time he had looked Pete’s way, Pete had immediately concentrated on something else. Like he hadn’t been staring at him for hours on end. There were the awkward moments when Pete got a little too close to Patrick on stage; Patrick never thought any of that, but Pete started acting rigid and uncomfortable, which wasn’t like him. And the blushing. That should have been a dead giveaway.

“Oh, Jesus,” Patrick muttered, blinking at Pete’s nervous face. “I really am an idiot.”

Pete cocked his head to the side, grinning that Pete-like grin of his that always made Patrick smile. “Most of the time. Yeah.”

Patrick laughed a little. “Well. I should probably tell you something while we’re, you know, in the cone of truth or whatever.”

“You watch too many movies,” Pete replied with a tight laugh.

“I’m really a woman.”

Pete took a step back. “Huh?”

“Just kidding.”

“You ass.”

“You love my ass.”

Pete gave him a look. “Patrick. I’m serious here.”

“I am too,” Patrick replied, looking a little hurt suddenly. “I’m not sure how to tell you the truth. You’re my best friend and I freaking love you and I’m not sure if I love you like that, or if I just love you. Like a brother. You know?”

Pete nodded solemnly. “We’ll figure it out.”

Patrick seemed relieved and pulled his friend in for a hug. “You’re fucking freezing, man.”

An enormous, cheeky smile lit up Pete’s features. “Why don’t we get into bed, then?”

So they did.