Dear Patrick,

It's been about a week since you turned up on my doorstep. I can't tell if you're over her, I think you are. I hope you are.

I'm attempting to write this on the tour bus. We have a proper bus this time, not just some crappy van. You're asleep in your bunk, I'm trying to make as little noise as possible, and failing. Your face is just visible through the bars of the bunk, all bundled up in blankets. You're the closest thing to an angel I've ever seen.

I hope you're not dreaming about her.

We talked things over the morning after you stayed the night.

The smell of pancakes filled the house, masking the stench of must and alcohol that I was so used to, and hell, they were actually pretty good, for my first try. I'd messed up a couple at first, failing to flip them properly so they just scrunched up in the pan like wet socks, and although they probably would have tasted fine, I wasn't going to settle for anything but perfection. Eventually, I'd cooked a neat little pile of them on both our plates, keeping them warm in the oven so that I could whip them out as soon as you came downstairs. It was the most fun I'd had in ages.

Eventually, I heard erratic footsteps coming from my bedroom, and listened as they made their way slowly and carefully down the staircase. A fluffy haired, puffy eyed sleepy head poked his face around the corner, looking slightly nervously at my proud grin, and the pancakes on the table. You stared at them for a bit, and I sat down, grabbing my knife and fork and looking back at you expectantly. Slowly, you shuffled into plain sight, still in your crumpled clothes from the night before, your glassed shoved clumsily onto your face and balanced precariously on the end of your nose.

You hovered at the edge of the table for a second, before plopping down in the chair opposite me and tucking in to the pancakes, cutting them into little pieces with just the right amount of syrup on each, and when you tasted them, your eyes rolled back and you hummed quietly, savouring every mouthful. Fuck, even you eating is like art.

We sat there in comfortable silence, until we'd finished breakfast. Then I decided that I needed to make sure you'd realised that every single thing Emma said to you was a lie, and that if you think for one second that you are worthless then I will do my utmost to show you how absurdly untrue that is.

"So how're you feeling?" I asked, scanning your face for any signs of last night's sobs.

You smiled weakly, playing around with a last bit of pancake on your plate. "Better." you said simply. I waited for you to elaborate, but you didn't.

"I'm so sorry about what happened. She's a bitch, Patrick, you're better off without her."

"I guess." you mumbled. Wow, you really weren't going to make this easy, were you?

"Seriously, you can do so much better than her, you'll find someone way above her level." Like ME.

You gave a faint little snort, and bowed your head, sipping at your hot chocolate quickly.

"Did you love her?" I said, more gently this time.

You shrugged. "I don't know. I don't think I even know what love is. I just know it hurts."

Yeah, tell me about it.

Quietly, you carried on. "I was so sure that you were wrong about her. That I had found someone who liked me for the stuff on the inside. But I was wrong. Why am I always wrong?" You said it more to the hot chocolate than to me.

"Listen, Patrick, none of this was your fault. Everything that happened was completely down to her."

"But if I'd listened, if I'd been less of a stupid blind idiot then this wouldn't have happened. She wouldn't have...cut me up like this."

"Look, nothing she said was-"

"BUT IT IS TRUE!" You suddenly shouted, slamming your hand down on the table and making the plates rattle. "It is true."

You looked down at the floor, and I just sat there with no idea how to convince you of your own perfection. But I could do it. I could tell you how beautiful you are, I could tell you how every day I wake up and the only thing that drags me out of bed is the chance that I might see you, I could tell you to never ever think that you will never be loved because I love you, I am in stupid crazy love with you and I wouldn't change it for the world. I could tell you that. But I don't. Because that would ruin everything.

We sat there in shocked silence for a few moments, and all I could hear were your heavy breaths as you tried to calm down.

"Thank you."

It was barely a whisper, but I heard it loud and clear. Looking up at you, I saw that you were gazing straight at me.

"What for?" I mumbled back, breaking the eye contact before I did anything stupid.

"Just...everything. Thanks for putting up with my stupid emotional bullshit. For not laughing in my face when I told you what happened. And for last night."

"It's okay. That's what I'm here for." I said, still not looking at you.

"But seriously. I should have stayed home and not bothered you...but I guess I just hated the thought of being alone." You sighed.

"No, you can bother me any time. And...last night was good for me too." I immediately regretted that last bit. Why the fuck did I think that was a good thing to say? I prayed that maybe you were to sleepy to have fully understood what that meant.

"Wait, why was it good for you?"

Oh shit. Quick, think of something believable that doesn't involve confessing your crippling obsession with your best friend.

"Oh, erm, it was just good to, to reconnect I guess, I feel like we got a bit distant but...I'm just glad I could be there for you." I stuttered, waiting to see if you'd buy it.

Your lips curved into a small smile, and your eyes lit up a bit, making my insides squirm. And, wait, was that a blush creeping into your cheeks? No. Just my imagination.

"Well, thank you. I..I think it really helped. Just...just knowing that someone cares." You fiddled with a bit of loose thread on your shirt hem, and I made the most of you looking away by staring at your face for an uncomfortably long time.

"And thank you for the pancakes." You said, looking up with a grin, which I returned, "Do you mind if I use your shower?"

I nodded, and was definitely not thinking about what you look like in the shower, and was also definitely not trying to keep myself from asking if I could join you.

You smiled and picked up the plates, putting them in the dishwasher carefully before shuffling upstairs again. I stared after you for longer than I should have.

And I remember thinking, in the hope of the moment that maybe there had been just a little spark between us? There was this tension in the room that I'd never felt before, as if someone was holding their breath, waiting for something to happen. What if it was a moment? What if finally my luck was turning, and you might, just might, see me as more than a friend? I mean it's got to be about time.

But then Joe found out.

The day after, the tour started. It's been crazy, we're even doing interviews and all that professional shit. We're playing in all the big places too, and I think we're all starting to think that maybe this could go somewhere.

We'd got all our bags packed and were lugging them onto the bus. I hadn't spoken to you much, hadn't mentioned what had happened. I guess I wanted to leave things up to you, you were still pretty fragile and I didn't want to be the one that broke you again. I knew you needed space, and I planned to give you just that. Turns out Joe didn't buy that.

You and Andy had got on the bus, and I had one foot through the door, when Joe pulled me back out, slamming the door and staring straight at me. He put a hand on my shoulder, but it felt like it was more for constraint than consolation. I dropped my bags, mentally preparing myself for a turnout of broken ribs and bloody noses.

But when he spoke, he spoke calmly, eyes boring into mine like drills.

"Okay. I know that Patrick broke up with his girlfriend. And I know that he is now single and vulnerable. And I also know that despite me telling you to get over him, you are still completely besotted. So that leaves us with a problem." he said it as if he was trying to sell me something.

"Why, what's the problem?" I asked innocently. I knew exactly what the problem was. I'd spent the last week working my brain around the goddamned thing.

"The problem is that with Patrick now available, and your fucking self-control issues, somewhere along the line, you're gonna hurt him. And I'm not going to let that happen. So I'm going to make sure he finds someone as soon as possible, and make sure you stay as far away from him as you can. You've gotta understand that you can't act on your stupid fucking feelings, you can't risk him and the band and yourself over something like this."

"But-"

"Pete, I know I sound like I'm Patrick's dad or something, and I know you think I'm an ass for doing this, and maybe I am, but I know it's for the best. You have to get over him. For both of your sakes. Because I can see it's eating you alive." His voice had become less harsh, and the hand on my shoulder relaxed a little.

The worst part was, he was right. It was tearing me up.

"So, you're not going to do anything, and you'll let me try and find him someone else?"

I nodded. My insides were screaming, but I nodded.

I thought maybe the first time was a one-off, but Joe really wasn't letting up on the whole keeping-us-apart thing. Well, keeping me from you, anyway.

But then I guess I'm used to disappointments by now.

He let go of me and gave me a smile, genuine but full of pity. I resisted the urge to kick him. I guess he means well. But he's so wrong. I wouldn't hurt you. I'd never hurt you. I'd feed you marshmallows and straighten your glasses and cuddle you all night. I wish I could do that. Please, god, let me do that.

I've kept my promise though. I keep my distance from you, even on stage, stopped myself nuzzling your neck like I do and whispering stupid stuff in your ear. I make sure I go to bed well before or well after you so that there's no chance I'd see you getting changed or whatever. I've hardly looked at you for the past week. I wonder if you've noticed.

The thing is, Joe is nothing if not a man of his word, and he certainly kept his promise too. We've only been out for a week and he's already dragging us off to parties, playing Cupid. I watch him as he drags you up to some girl and tries to spark something, and maybe you talk a little, at best you kiss, but it hasn't gone further than that yet, thank god. I should know, I've been watching you. That makes me sound like such a creep, but at this stage, I've no dignity left to lose.

I hate every one of them. Even if nothing happens, even if Joe can't get the girl to talk to you, or you to her, and she just drifts off into the crowd, I'm jealous. Because at least she got the chance. At least there was the potential there, waiting for someone to reach out and grab it. I'll never get my chance. I'll never get you.

From Pete.