[A/N: I didn't mean for this to be this long, it just kinda happened, so sorry. Brace yourselves for another angst-fest.]

Dear Patrick,

I know. I know I said I wouldn't write another of these, I know I said I'd get over you. But let's face it, who the fuck was I kidding?

It's been a while, though. The record came out about a month ago, and since then we've been all photo-shoots and interviews, it's crazy. We never had any of this for the last one. But people like it. They really really like it. We're being played on the radio and stuff, people are offering us things and paying us in actual money instead of pizza. There's been so many gigs, even some awards shows, it's difficult to get my head around it all. People love that song Sugar, and I love that they love it. We wrote that one as a group, as a team, on one of my better days, trying to make it work in any way we could, then you played this little bit of the chorus and it all fell into place. I felt so good about that song, I didn't feel the need to drink myself into a coma that night.

Being in the studio with you again was pretty amazing. I didn't think you could be better than the first time around, but I was so wrong. You're so focussed, so intent on getting every little detail absolutely perfect. You always stayed way after the rest of us had gone home, mind buried in the music. A couple of times, we'd even arrive at the studio the next morning to find you asleep at the desk, glasses skewed and hat fallen to the floor, your dreams still weaving unsung melodies.

Fuck, listen to me. I must be woozy from the lack of alcohol.

You know I started drinking again. It's written all over my face in gaunt shadows and heavy headaches. When you come over, which has been less and less recently, and I leave the room, I can hear you pouring it down the sink frantically, as if every drop you take from me buys me extra seconds. You never talk to me about it though. There was a time when you might have, when you weren't scared of me and trusted me not to hurt you. You had so much hope in me a few months ago. All I get from you now is concerned glances and nervous questions about how I've been.

But maybe, after last night, things will change. I'm probably being too hopeful again, but hope is all I have and I'll conjure it up from anywhere.

I can't say I didn't see it coming. But I didn't see it coming like this. You definitely didn't.

It was late, it must have been at least one in the morning. I woke up, head throbbing and throat dry. I got up and staggered downstairs, nearly landing myself in hospital in the process, lumbering into the kitchen, heading for the tap. I gulped down more water than I thought my body could take, feeling it cooling my boiling blood and soothing my aching brain.

After hanging over the sink for a few moments, breathing deeply, I filled a glass full of water and guided it back towards the stairs, spilling most of it over my feet, groaning as it seeped through my socks. Then I heard a noise outside.

I immediately switched to horror-movie mode, putting the glass down and grabbing the nearest vaguely weapon-like object, which happened to be a spatula. I brandished it at the darkness, squinting to make out anything that might be moving. All I saw was the dim outline of the couch, and the hallway beyond. Listening, I made my way towards the sounds, which were kind of like little laughs, not something I wanted to hear alone in the middle of the night. I crept across the sitting room, staring at the hallway, holding the spatula out in front of me as if it were a sword. Once I'd made it to the far wall, I smashed the lights on, flipping every single switch because I can never remember which ones do what. They revealed my empty lounge and kitchen, and I sighed, realising that the only psychopath in my house was me. Laughing a little at the now ridiculous looking spatula in my hand, I went to turn the lights back off when I noticed I'd turned on the outside porch light by accident. The noises stopped, and all I heard now was a small scuffling, which was getting gradually quieter. Whatever it was, it had been right outside my house.

I leapt over to the front door, wrenching it open with one hand whilst gripping the spatula in the other. At first, all I could see was the bright yellow light, but as my eyes adjusted, I saw a small figure hurrying away. Even though sleep-blurred eyes, I knew who it was.

"Patrick!" I called, feeling the cold concrete under my feet as I stumbled out of the door. "Patrick, wait!"

You stopped, and for a moment I thought you might just keep walking. But you looked round at me, looking utterly stupid in my baggy pyjama bottoms, my massive grey sweater, and stripey blue socks, still wielding the spatula. You started back towards me, your hat pulled over your face and your eyes on the ground. I reached the pavement, now only a few metres from you, and slowed down, my head spinning from all the unexpected activity.

"Patrick, are you alright?" I asked through heaving breaths, leaning down a little bit to try and see your face. You turned your head away sharply, but I started to guide you towards my open front door, placing a friendly hand on your shoulder and trying not to freak out about why the hell you were sitting on my doorstep at this time of night, and feeling guilty that my heart had jumped at the mere sight of you. I felt you tense up, and quickly took my hand away. I noticed just as we walked through the door that your hands were curled into fists.

I shut the door behind us, turning the porch light off and the lounge lights on for the second time that night. I had to nearly push you through the hallway and into the dimly illuminated room.

I stood a few feet from you, and waited for some kind of explanation. None came.

"Patrick?" I said after a few moments of rigid silence. You jumped, looking at me as if I'd just fired a gun near you. Your eyes were tinted red around the edges and your face was as white as the glaring moon outside.

You breathed a slow breath, as if in readiness for what was to come. Then you spoke quietly at the floor. "You were right."

I didn't know what you'd meant at the time. I was so bewildered by whatever the hell was going on that your words just confused me more, so I just slurred a dull "What?" at you.

"I..um...you...I just...I didn't..." you mumbled, the sentence stolen away by silence. You tried again. This time you were more successful.

"Me and Emma...we broke up."

I felt my heart do a little somersault. The news sunk through me, and when I had fully processed it I had to try my utmost not to let my face split into a bigger smile than it had done in ages. No more Emma. No more poisonous jealousy. No more rules keeping me from you. No more rivals. I praised every god I could think of and thanked all my lucky stars, my mind racing and my heart running alongside.

Then I realised that this perhaps wasn't the best reaction from your point of view, so I put on my best sad face and said, "Oh no. That's awful. What happened?" I hoped to god you didn't hear the sarcasm.

"She cheated." You said simply, and I very nearly laughed out loud, because of course, of course that was why.

"Who with?" I asked, trying to compose myself.

"Pretty much everyone." Oh, this just gets better and better. What a marvellous I told you so gift.

"So how did you find out?" I questioned, because I had to say something or I might just have broken into song.

You shifted a foot, and I sensed a slight change in the atmosphere, like perhaps that was the wrong question to ask.

"I...I walked in on them. Have...having sex. In my house. In my bed."

My glee disappeared. Ouch. Of all the ways to find out. I couldn't deny that I'd wished it to happen, but like that? That was just plain cruel.

"Oh. Wow, Patrick, I'm sorry." I almost meant it that time. "Did you just end it there and then?"

"Pretty much. I mean, I let them, um, get...get cleaned up. He left pretty quickly. Then I asked her to leave too. But, she didn't want to, because she'd have to move back with her parents and stuff, and all her things were here and whatever." You tailed off.

"But, Patrick, she had to leave. Please tell me she's gone now?" I asked, a little shocked.

"Yeah, she's gone now. But not without a fight. At first she told me he raped her. Then she said he was just an old friend who she hadn't seen in a while and it would never happen again. Then I told her I didn't believe her, and please could she go because I didn't want to see her any more. Then she started...saying things." Your voiced cracked a little at the end of your sentence, and I began to realise that I maybe hadn't heard the worst of it.

"What did she say?" I said, wariness creeping into my voice. You just shook your head. I raised my voice just a little. "Patrick, what did she say to you?"

Your knuckles were white and your head bowed, still staring rigidly at the floor. I could hear you consciously trying to control your breathing, in, out, in, out. Carefully, slowly, you began to tell me, keeping your voice steady.

"She said she'd been seeing other guys since we first started dating. In fact, there'd never been a time when she was exclusively dating me. She was only interested in me because I was a good boy, a cover up so her parents wouldn't get mad at her for sleeping around. Also because I would buy her things, and take her to shows where she could meet more guys. Better guys." You swallowed hard, struggling to keep the words from falling out.

"She said they were all better. That a hundred of me couldn't match up to one of them. That they talked better, looked better, fucked better. She...she really rubbed my face in that last one." You said with a what was probably meant to be a laugh, but came out as more of a shrill yelp.

"Then...she...she-" Suddenly your voice jumped up an octave, and I saw your body cave in a little. You were breaking right in front of my eyes, cracks appearing in your composure.

"She...she said..." You tried to keep yourself in one piece, but as the words crumbled, so did you. You gulped sharply, then before I knew it you were on the floor, folding your arms across the coffee table and burying your face in them. The sound of violent tears filled the room, and I realised that that was the noise I'd heard outside, only it hadn't been like this. This was so much worse. You sounded like you were trying to cough up your lungs. I just stood there like an idiot, staring at the broken boy on the floor in front of me.

"Patrick, whatever she said to you, it's bullshit." I said pathetically, as if that was going to help.

"No!" You sobbed, the word muffled through your sleeves, "she...she...she jabbed my...my stomach and said...said my body was even uglier than my face, and that she had to...had to try not to throw up every time I got undressed in front of her...and that...and that I could screech out as many shitty songs as I wanted but I'll always be a worthless, talentless, stupid fat kid, who doesn't deserve anyone's sympathy, let alone anyone's love."

Fuck. It was like a punch in the face. I had no idea what to say to that. You'd recited her words as if they had been burned into the back of your eyelids, choking on their poison. I realised that my own hands were now curled into fists, and my burning hatred for her blazed brighter than ever. And you believe her. Oh god, you believe her.

But I couldn't get angry. I couldn't go hunt her down and ruin her existence. Because at that moment, my feelings didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was you.

"Patrick, please, every single word of what she said was a lie." I knelt down next to you, placing a hand on your shaking shoulder. You flinched away from it, crying harder than ever.

"Don't touch me, I'm not worth it." You choked, with so much conviction it hurt.

I felt a stab of guilt as I remembered my very own words to you. And you'll see just how worthless you really are. I said that to you. I mean, I was in love with you, and I still am, so I know that what I said was all just empty anger, but you didn't know that. Come to think of it, I've said quite a few things that you could easily have taken seriously. But no. You couldn't believe that, I won't let you believe it. No-one is worthless. No-one should ever think that about themselves.

Suddenly, you got up, turning away from me and rubbing your eyes fiercely. "I'm sorry...I shouldn't be here...I'm sorry I woke you up...sorry I dumped all of my stupid problems on you...I'm sorry for everything." you whispered through the tears, and you started walking back towards the front door. But there was no way I was letting you be by yourself. You were hurting so bad, and I was determined to do something about it.

I leapt towards you and scooped you up in the tightest hug I'd ever given anyone, running my hands across your back and pulling you as close to me as possible, trying to squeeze her agonising words out of you, to heal your wounds. You inhaled sharply but didn't pull away, tentatively wrapping your arms around my torso. After a few more seconds, I felt you relax a little, and you sobbed into my shoulder, tears slowly seeping through the fabric of my jumper. I leant my head towards yours, and whispered as gently as I could.

"You listen to me Patrick. You are the most beautiful, kind and talented person I have ever known. You have nothing to be sorry for, you are my best friend. And you always will be." It was probably one of the most honest sentences I'd ever spoken.

I felt you shake your head, and my heart dropped a little.

"B-but, it's true, it's all true and I'm s-so stupid and pathetic a-and-"

I cut you off by pulling away, holding your shoulders and scanning your tear-stained face, your beautiful eyes rubbed raw and red. I couldn't stand the thought of you thinking those awful things for one second, because I was looking at you and even when you were this broken, you're always perfect to me.

I didn't know what to say, so I just grabbed your wrist and tugged you over to the couch, sitting down in the corner and pulling you next to me. You gasped short little breaths, still shaking like a leaf, and every time you blinked, a few more tears would fall. I wrapped an arm firmly round your shoulders, leaning back a little so you could lean on me.

After a few minutes of silence, interrupted by little sobs here and there, I stretched myself out a little, so that I was almost lying flat on the sofa, propped up by the arm. I reached over to you and lifted your hat off, placing it on the coffee table, before gently taking off your tear-smudged glasses, and setting them down carefully. You sighed a little, and toed your shoes off, bringing your legs up onto the couch and curling up close to me. I shifted over a bit, shaping my body around you so you could be as comfortable as possible, physically if not emotionally. I felt a shiver run through me as you lay your head on my chest, one of your hands resting lightly on my stomach. I was sure you could hear my heartbeat speed up.

I savoured the feeling of you so close to me, your warmth giving me strange butterflies inside me. Suddenly, all the drinking, all the anger, all the depression, it all seemed so tiny. I forgot everything but you.

The urge to kiss you stirred within me, but I pushed it aside. You didn't need me for that, you needed me as a friend, a guardian. And I was content with that. You trusted me, you came to me for help, you poured your soul out in front of me, and I am so, so thankful. That you would choose me to catch your tears means more to me than anyone could ever know.

Slowly, your sobs turned to whimpers, and you began to fade. You were all cried out, and sleep started to seep through you. I felt the tension leave your body, and the tears leave your breaths, and I remember looking at you and thinking how lucky I was just to be near you. Sighing, I tried to take in everything that had happened, and everything that would happen as a result.

After a few moments, I felt you shift slightly, your hand twitching and brushing ever so slightly against mine. I moved it away, but to my astonishment, you reached out, your fingers searching until they found my arm. They ran along my wrist, sending tingling sensations down my forearm, and I watched as your fingers entwined themselves with my own, squeezing ever so slightly. I felt electrified, staring down at our interlocked hands and wondering whether or not I was conscious. You sighed slightly in your sleep, and I sighed in my waking dream, a smile spreading through me, right down to my toes. Wow. It was such a small gesture, yet it made me so damn happy.

I didn't think about why you did that, I didn't think about why you were okay with us technically sleeping together. I didn't let myself. I couldn't jump to conclusions, as much as I'd like to, it wasn't fair on you. But there was this tiny bit of new hope that glittered inside me. And I didn't try to stamp it out.

I eventually fell asleep too, listening to your soft breaths beside me and feeling your chest rise and fall against me. It was one of the best nights sleep I've ever had. I'd never felt quite so peaceful. You were my new alcohol.

A few hours later, I stirred awake, hearing the sounds of the morning seep through the curtains. It must have been about six o'clock, and it was weird to be awake at that time because most days I miss the morning altogether. Then I looked across and saw you, still curled up under my arm, your fingers still laced with mine. That same feeling of tingling happiness swept through me all over again, making me grin like an idiot.

I could've stayed like that forever, but I knew what the best thing to do was. When I was little, and I had a bad dream, I used to run downstairs to my parents, and they'd stop my tears, and I'd stay with them on the sofa until I became too tired to be scared any more. But in the morning, I'd always be back in my bed, and it was like the night before hadn't happened at all. It made me forget my nightmares, knowing that whatever happened, I'd wake up in my own bed, having been carried sleepily upstairs by my parents. At least, before they started to hate me.

Anyway, carefully as I could, I shuffled away from you, supporting your head where it had been resting on my chest. Resisting the urge to take a photo of our interlocked hands as proof that I hadn't dreamed this, I slowly prised your fingers from mine, before slipping an arm under your legs and another around your shoulders. Very slowly, I lifted you up and away from the couch, making sure to grab your glasses beforehand. I moved towards and up the stairs, trying not to bump you around too much, because I wouldn't like to have to explain why I was carrying you bridal style up to my bedroom. When I got to the top, I turned and nudged the bedroom door open with my foot, very nearly banging your head against the door frame as I walked through. My god, it was a mess in here. I'd forgotten what kind of a state I'd been in before you turned up last night.

I set you down lightly on my bed, bringing the duvet over you and tucking it around you. You sighed, stirring a bit, and I froze, taking my hands away and hoping you wouldn't wake up. Your eyes fluttered open for a second, and you looked up at me. I quickly tried to think of something to say, but you just shut your eyes again, a shadow of a smile touching your lips. After wriggling around under the covers for a moment, you sighed again, and your body went limp, taken back into the arms of sleep. I grinned at how utterly adorable you were.

Setting your glasses on the bedside table, I did a quick tidy-up of my bedroom, making sure to remove any bottles and underwear, and double-checking that the box with all my letters in was locked up and out of sight, which I decided not to burn in the end, before creeping back downstairs, casting a last glance towards the peaceful boy asleep in my bed.

And now I'm sitting back on the sofa, writing about said boy. I didn't even realise how much I'd written until I saw seven or eight pieces of paper scattered around me. I guess I just want to get that whole night down in writing so that I know it definitely happened.

I'm thinking I should cook breakfast, like actual proper breakfast food and not just cold pizza. What do people usually have for breakfast? Eggs and toast and stuff? I guess I could do that. What kind of breakfast do you like? It annoys me that I don't know. I'd like to think that someday I'll be the person that knows exactly what you like, exactly how to cheer you up after a rough night. And last night was a rough night. I haven't seen many people cry like you did then. But I know what it's like.

What about pancakes? I could so cook pancakes for you. I even think I might have some maple syrup in one of the cupboards left over from when you restocked for me. Pancakes with lovely drizzly maple syrup over the top, in a perfect little pile like on the adverts. And hot chocolate too, you love hot chocolate. And I'll set out all the cutlery perfectly and time it just right so that when you wake up it'll be right there waiting for you. That's what I'll do.

Better get cooking then.

From Pete