[A/N: Happy New Year everyone! May 2016 bring good fortune upon you all. Sorry I have to say this, but possible trigger warning.]

Patrick.

I'm not really sure what to do now.

I don't even know what to fucking write.

I guess I'll just try to figure this out.

I'd hinted that I was in love with you. I'd said it to your grandma, but more as a persuasive argument than a simple fact. Indirectly, it was written all over me; it was in the way I looked at you, the way I touched you, the way I smiled for you and nobody else. I was so completely in love with you, I'd just never said it to your face.

I've now said it three times. Well, four I guess.

-

The first time, it just sorta slipped out.

We'd just been sitting there, watching Star Wars, because what else do you watch when you're trapped inside by mid-January snowstorms? I'd arrived at your house soaking wet, having trudged what felt like fucking miles through the snow to get to your apartment building. You got me a change of clothes, and snuggled me up on the couch, making your trademark hot chocolates for both of us.

So anyway, you'd paused the movie to go see if you had any popcorn left over from the last time we had a movie marathon, but just ended up coming back empty handed, flopping down next to me with a huff.

"I swear to god I thought I had popcorn. We can't have had all of it for the Lord of the Rings thing last month. I bet it was Joe. He's a popcorn addict, he took it. Or Andy. I mean, he's all fitness on the outside but I reckon even he can't resist the wonders of salt and sweet. Salt and sweet, together? I mean, who even thought of that? Why would you look at salt and sugar and think you know what would taste good? If I mixed them together. But I'm fucking glad someone did think it, because it's like the nicest thing. If hot chocolate wasn't so good, I'd live off of that popcorn. Fuck butter popcorn, no-one likes that. Oh wait, apart from that special stuff you put in the microwave and it makes those proper popping sounds, that's good. That's butter isn't it? I don't know. Anyway, sorry, Darth Vader was just about to say the father line, we can carry on now, Pete. Pete? Why are you staring at me?"

I blinked. I'd been completely transfixed by you, as usual. It had just dawned on me that I love it when you ramble on about completely irrelevant crap. And also, I love it when you talk and you do hand gestures without even realising it, as a lot of people who've had their drinks swept off the table have experienced. Oh and when your eyes light up because you just thought of some genius idea, and when you laugh so hard your hat falls off, and when you sit close to me and I can see every one of your eyelashes, and the way you nibble at your goddamn perfect lips. I love all those things.

"I love you."

You stared at me.

I'd hardly even realised I'd said it. Straight out, no misinterpretations. I could've made excuses, flapped about, said I didn't mean it or whatever. Then, it struck me that I wanted you to know.

"You don't have to say it back. It's fine if you're not there yet. I just...thought you ought to know that. I love you, Patrick."

I looked down at the floor, not knowing what to say next, or wanting to see your reaction. I may not have had trouble saying it, but you might be having trouble hearing it.

I expected words, but got lips. You lifted my face up and kissed me softly.

I grinned against your mouth, and you grinned back, turning it into less of a kiss and more of a conjoined smile. We were so cute, it makes me sick.

You didn't say anything at all, just wrapped your arms around me and cuddled me for the rest of the film.

-

The second time, we were backstage after a show. Nothing fancy, just some late night talk show thing. We didn't have anywhere to be after, so we just flopped around, talking to various people we didn't know and signing some autographs.

Everything was going fine, I was sitting with my arms round you, you were doing something on your laptop, some important sending of emails or whatever. Every so often I'd peck you on the cheek, or rather I'd try and get your lips, but you'd lean away from me and I'd have to settle for your cheek. But I guess I didn't notice that at the time.

It was Joe who did notice.

"I wish you'd stop doing that!" He'd snapped from the other sofa, slamming down the magazine he was reading.

It was directed at me, because it was always directed at me. "What?" I shot back. I felt you shift beside me.

"Being so...clingy!"

I looked up sharply. I wasn't clingy. Was I clingy? Did other people think I was clingy? "What?" I said again.

"Oh for God's sake, Pete, you never leave him alone! You're always round his place, you fucking sleep there most nights, he never gets a moment's peace! I mean, even on stage, you're all over him. He's tryna fucking sing and you're there, shoving your face into his neck. And now look at you, wanting to kiss him every minute of the goddamned day when he's clearly trying to focus on things that are actually important! Give the guy some space!"

You'd stopped typing, but your head was still bent low over the keyboard. Andy was sat up in his seat like a meerkat, no doubt waiting for me to do something stupid. Which I did.

Reaching over and sweeping your hat off, I grabbed your face and tilted it towards me, smashing my lips into yours, not bothering to ask permission before shoving my tongue in your mouth. Because I thought you'd kiss back.

Instead, you nearly choked on my tongue, and before I knew it, your hands were shoving me away, swiping in disgust at the rope of saliva between us.

Joe waved a hand towards us, and said smugly, "Point proven."

Now, I know what I should have done next. I should've apologised to you, then to Joe, then agreed to back off a bit when it came to the kissing. But of course, I didn't do that. I couldn't stand the shit-eating grin on Joe's face, so I thought it'd be a good idea to drag you into this too.

"Patrick, don't you like the kisses?" I said indignantly, turning towards you. You'd already shoved your hat back on, pulling it low over your face.

"Well, I-"

"You never complain about them. You kiss back, don't you, tell Joe you kiss back!" I demanded.

"Sometimes, yeah, but-"

"There, you see! He does like it. So shut up, Joe." I snapped, thinking I'd won.

But he wasn't having any of it. "Oh for fuck's sake, you call that confirmation? You didn't even let him finish!" He was sitting forward in his seat now, making wild hand gestures. "Let's ask him properly, shall we?" He cooed at you, like a teacher does to a primary school kid, "Patrick, do you like it when Pete is constantly around you, insisting on playing tonsil tennis for the whole world to see?"

I looked at you. You just stared at the laptop, fingers knotting together over and over.

"Come on, Patrick, I'm your boyfriend. Of course you love having me around." I wasn't aware of the slight edge of threat creeping into my voice.

The silence was suffocating. All eyes were on you. You chewed on your lip, searching for words.

But, as always, you just gave in.

"Yeah, of course I do. I don't mind when Pete kisses me, it doesn't matter what I'm doing, he's entitled to me." You gave a weak smile, which I mistook for a genuine one, and kissed back this time when I planted my lips on yours.

Joe huffed at us, standing up and making for the door. Before he left, he turned to us, pointing his finger at me, then at you. "You, back off. And you, why do you let him walk all over you?"

You said nothing, simply lowering your gaze back to the screen.

"Typical." Joe spat, turning and slamming the door behind him. We wouldn't see him for a while after that.

I grinned at you, settling my arms round you once more and resting my head on your shoulder. We'd beaten him, we'd won.

"I love you." I whispered into your ear. I didn't notice you flinching away from my words. Or the anxious glance you cast towards Andy. Or the sadness in your smile.

And over the next few weeks, I didn't notice you slowly drifting away from me.

-

The third time was a bit different.

It all started with an April Fool's prank. Or rather, it all ended with one.

I've always loved playing tricks on people. Jumping out on them, telling them some horrible shit had happened when it hadn't, and the classic put-whipped-cream-on-someone's-hand-while-they're-asleep-then-tickle-their-face prank. Me and Joe had done that on you too many times to count.

So when April 1st came around, it was the perfect opportunity to get you really good.

You hate practical jokes. Mainly because you're usually on the receiving end. But your reactions are priceless, and you're so gullible I can pretty much tell you anything and you'll believe it.

And I intended to exploit that particular fact for this year's prank.

I went all out, not sparing any expense on theatrics, and finally finding a use for the fancy dress shop in town. I got this huge sachet of fake blood, and a sheet of those temporary tattoos people wear at Halloween sometimes. I could've just dressed up as a huge gorilla and scared the shit out of you or something, but I was determined for this prank to be fucking amazing.

When I got home, I picked out which of the tattoos I was gonna use. I ignored all the really gory ones which made it look like you had hooks and knives and stuff sticking out of your skin, and went for two simple open cuts.

I pressed them into my skin, after reading the instructions several times, putting a wet towel over the top to make them stick.

After a bit of faffing around, trying to get the paper to peel off right, I'd finished. I held my arms out and admired my handiwork.

There were now two deep-looking gashes directly over the veins on both my wrists. They looked frighteningly realistic; the blood dark and glistening inside the cuts, the skin on the outside puckered and torn. My compliments to the designer.

Tattoos done, it was onto the fun part: The fake blood. The see-through bag pulsed in my hand as I held it, the liquid dark and rippling.

Opening the little spout thing at the top, I gently squeezed a bit out, letting it run down my fingers. It even kinda smelt like blood. I watched as the droplet weaved a jagged path across the palm of my hand, tracing the ridges and troughs of my skin. It was strangely hypnotising.

Satisfied with the effect, I oozed out more of the blood, this time across the cuts in my wrists, letting it drizzle down my arms and drip onto the kitchen floor. I didn't mind getting it all over things, it would just add to the effect.

By the time I was done, both wrists looked like they'd been convincingly slashed, and there was blood all up my arms and down my shirt. Even I was surprised at how well this had turned out.

Now for the phone call. I forced myself to stop smiling, this had to be good. The success of the prank depended on it.

Trying not to get blood on my phone, I dialled your number. It rang once, twice. Three times. Pick up, pick up.

"Hello?"

I stayed silent, just for drama.

"Excuse me, who is this?"

I waited a tiny bit longer, just long enough for you to think about hanging up, before lowering my voice to a whisper. "Patrick."

"Pete?" You exclaimed, obviously confused.

"Patrick, I'm sorry." I breathed.

"Are you okay? Pete?" An edge of concern crept into your voice.

"I'm sorry for everything. Please, forgive me."

"Pete, what's happened, what're you talking about?"

"It hurts, Patrick. Help me, it hurts so bad." I let a sob run through the sentence as I said it.

"What hurts? What's going on, Pete? Pete?!"

"I didn't think it would be like this. It didn't hurt last time. I...I think I'm leaving now."

"No! Tell me, please, what's happened?!" Your voice jumped through the octaves as panic rushed through it.

"I love you, Patrick." I said finally. I put the phone down, but didn't hang up. I could hear your shrill shouts buzzing through it even as I walked away.

I grinned, rushing back over to the kitchen. This was going so well. I picked up the half-full packet of fake blood and took a big knife out from the drawer. I squeezed the dark liquid onto the blade, which was serrated and menacing-looking, before dropping it on the kitchen floor, sending drops of red over the white tiles. Then I poured the rest of the blood into two pools a couple of metres apart, before gathering up the rest of the tattoos and dumping the whole lot in the bin.

Doing one last check around to see if there was anything else that'd give me away, I lay down on the kitchen floor, placing my hands in the two little blood lakes I'd made before. I arranged my limbs into a convincing death position, and relaxed my muscles, closing my eyes and practising breathing without moving my chest too much.

In a few minutes, no doubt, you'd rush round to check on me after my cryptic phone call, and you'd find me sprawled out on the kitchen floor, having just cut my wrists open, the blood pouring out of them and the knife that did it just inches from the hand that gave the knife its orders. This was gonna be so good.

I waited for a bit, every so often cracking my eyes open to see if maybe you'd magically appeared in my kitchen.

Hearing a car pull up outside, I snapped my eyes shut again. This was it.

The sound of your fist on my door echoed around the house. You tried once, then again. Then, I heard a key in the lock. I'd given you a key to my place ages ago, but you'd never had to use it 'till now.

The door cracked against the wall as it flew open, and I heard frantic footsteps in the hallway.

"Pete?" You shouted. "Pete!" I struggled to keep from laughing at you.

You were in the living room, heading for me. I had positioned myself perfectly so that you couldn't see me unless you came right into the kitchen and around the worktop. Only my foot would be visible to you from where you were standing now. I wondered when you'd notice it.

"Pete?"

There it is.

I could feel your footsteps through the floor as you came closer and closer, ten metres, five metres, three, two, one...

I heard your breath catch.

The footsteps faltered.

I opened my eyes a fraction of a millimetre so I could capture your reaction.

You stood there, completely still. Your eyes were wider than my lounge windows, and they were filled with pure, burning horror. Reaching an arm out, you grabbed the edge of the counter, catching yourself before you toppled over and leaning heavily against it. Your breathing became short and sharp, taking an uneven rhythm as you stared at my bleeding corpse.

Because that was the beauty of it; there was too much blood pooled around me for me to possibly have a chance of living, and you knew that as soon as you saw me. Pills, alcohol, they'd all require you to check my pulse, my breathing, but with this, there was nothing you could do.

You still tried, though.

Falling to your knees, you saw the knife, picking it up as if it were a poisonous spider. The crack of metal against ceramics cut through the air as you hurled it away from you with shaking hands.

I felt the pool of blood lap against the exposed skin of my wrist as you scrambled closer, your fingers locking around my arm. I heard the harsh rip of fabric, and knew that that was the end of my favourite tea towel, as you hurried to wrap it round my wrist. Dry, choked sobs escaped your lips as you did so; trembling fingers struggling to tie the knots. You knew it was hopeless, yet you did it anyway.

Raising a hand to your face, the sobs spread through you, and you shook all over, still clasping at my lifeless body. Moments later, I felt your arms around me, your face buried in my chest, crying tearlessly.

I decided maybe you'd been through enough now.

I opened my eyes fully, a smile spreading across my face. Lifting the wrist you'd just tried to bandage, I curled my arm around you and tapped you on the shoulder.

You looked at me.

I grinned wider. "April Fool's." I said with a laugh. Because I still thought it was funny.

You blinked.

"Fake blood," I continued, smudging the dark trails on my arm, "fake cuts." I lifted my non-bandaged wrist and showed you the two-dimensional image pasted onto my skin.

You kept staring at me.

I sat up, laughing and hugging you close to me.

I don't really know what I expected you to do. Smile, laugh, sigh in relief, maybe. Maybe you'd be annoyed and shout at me for scaring you, or even hit me. But you didn't do any of those things. All you did was cry.

The tears finally came to you as you wrapped your arms around my neck and squeezed me so tight I struggled to breathe. I gotta say I was a bit shocked, I didn't expect you to get so hysterical. Sobs rattled through you, and your breaths became desperate gasps.

Then you broke our embrace. You shoved at my chest, pushing back onto the floor, before standing up and stumbling away from me.

I watched as you sunk into a chair at the kitchen table, and buried your face in your arms, running shaking fingers through your hair. What had I done to you?

I got up slowly, peeling myself from the kitchen floor. Man, fake blood is sticky. I pulled up a chair opposite you, and patted you on the shoulder, trying my best to be comforting.

"Hey, Patrick, don't worry, it's fine, I'm fi-"

"Wash it off." You snapped, batting my hand away. You didn't look up.

My smile faltered, but I obliged. After scrubbing the stuff off my arms, all that was left of it was some red smudges here and there, and the flaky remnants of the tattoos. It was a shame, really, to get rid of all my hard work so soon.

I sat back down, hoping you were satisfied now. "Patrick? Is this better?"

You didn't look at me.

"It was just a joke, Patrick, calm down."

Your voice dropped to a whisper, and I could barely make out what you were saying. "I thought you were dead." It was no more than a breath.

"What?"

"I thought you were dead!" You sobbed, slamming your fist down on the table, making me jump.

You finally looked at me, your eyes rubbed raw and your face streaked with the remains of tears.

I just laughed again. "As I said, it was only a joke."

"Oh, well it was hilarious. Because slashing your wrists open is just the height of comedy." You spat.

I felt anger flare up within me. You can't speak to me like that. Acid crept through my tone as I spoke. "I don't know, your face was pretty damn funny."

You stood up suddenly. "Because I thought you'd fucking died! I thought my best friend in the world was fucking gone forever!" You were properly shouting now.

Wait a second. "Best friend?" I questioned.

"Yeah, best friend. You know you're my best friend." You said, folding your arms.

I stood up too. "No, I mean, am I not more than your best friend now?"

You faltered. "Well, yeah, I guess, but-"

"You guess?" I growled, my blood boiling hotter every second. "Patrick, we've been going out for over six months now, and I'm still nothing more than a friend?"

"No, what I meant was-"

"That phone call, it may have been a prank, but those last three words were true. I love you." And there it was. The fourth and final time.

I had unknowingly made my way round the table, and was now standing over you. I waited as your eyes darted about, trying to string some kind of sentence together. But if the obvious response didn't come to mind, I already knew we were done here.

"Why do you never say it back?" I whispered.

You swallowed. "Because...because I don't...yet." You tailed off.

"Then what are we even fucking doing? This relationship is headed nowhere! What's the fucking point?" I shouted.

"No, no, please, just give me time! I'll learn to love you, I promise, I just need a bit longer, that's all!" You were half anger, half desperation.

"How much longer? A day, a month, a year, ten?"

"Please, I-"

"No, Patrick, I can't do this. I need you to love me!" I demanded, shaking your shoulders.

"I will, I know I will, just...maybe let's take a little break?" You said, panicked.

I stopped. "A break?"

"Yeah, not a breakup, just some time, like, not a couple." You flinched away from me, scared of my reaction.

My heart twisted. No. That's not where this was going.

"No, no, don't say stuff like that! We're good, you and me, we make sense!"

"I know, Pete, and someday this'll work out, but...I need time. Please, just give me time. Please."

You blinked at me with your gorgeous eyes, and I could've stayed there, staring into them 'till next April Fool's. But they were sad. And eyes that beautiful should never be sad. I'd made them sad. Fuck, what had I done?

Maybe I shouldn't have faked slitting my wrists. Maybe I should have done it for real.

I sighed, and as the air rushed out of me, I felt all the happiness flee. Everything we'd had over the last few months, everything we could have been, it was gone.

Then you kissed me.

I stumbled backwards, catching you in my arms, sinking into your lips.

You pulled away too soon.

"Just a bit more time." You whispered, and I nodded.

"Okay. I'll wait for you." I felt tears prick behind my eyes, but blinked them back. I could do this, I could be strong.

"Thank you." You sniffed into my shoulder, clutching at the fabric of my shirt. "Pete, can you promise me something?"

"Anything."

"Please never ever ever scare me like that again?"

I was about to laugh, but then I saw the look of utter sincerity in your eyes, and decided against it. "I promise."

Eventually, you pulled away, and we said solemn goodbyes. I think you sensed that I wanted to be alone.

-

I am alone now. But I don't know if I'm lonely.

Because although you walked out the door, I didn't lose you. Maybe I should be angry at you, but I'm not. We're not over. Just on hold.

I can do this. I can wait. God knows I've spent so much time waiting for you, a bit more won't hurt. You said just a bit longer. I can do that. If it means you'll love me all the more, I'll do it.

This'll be good for us. For you.

Because it doesn't matter whether you're in my arms or a million miles away, you're still mine. You'll come back to me.

I'm trying to ignore the pit inside me. I'm resisting the urge to fill it with vodka. I'm avoiding thinking about what just happened, otherwise I might collapse. I can do this.

I can wait.

From Pete.