Dear Patrick,

You've come back to me. You're mine again, and I'm yours, and we're so cute I wanna cry.

Like, I don't even know what to do with myself now. Everything's been turned on its head. Before, I had all this hate that I was channelling into everything, always planning the next way to ruin your life, thinking up insults I knew would get to you, counting all the different ways I could hurt you. Now, I'm thinking about what kind of flowers to get you in town tomorrow, what kind of icing you'd like on your birthday cake next week, and counting the minutes 'till I get to see you again.

And you've helped me so much. I feel like I'm making progress. There's been a few bad days, but I don't wake up and immediately want to die any more. It's only been a couple weeks, but I'm seeing things differently, as if you came along and knocked my vision into focus.

The best thing is, though, it's not all because of you. Some of the good stuff is because of me. I do nice things without complaining or even being asked, I throw open the curtains in the mornings like they do in the movies. I even got a plant. I don't know why it makes me so happy, all it does is sit there. It's one of those house ones which comes in a little pot and it has big shiny green leaves which stick out everywhere. But, like, it's an actual living thing that depends on me and it belongs to me and I have to look after it or it'll die. It's a big responsibility. I can do it though, it hasn't died, and I figured if I can keep a plant alive, I can keep myself alive too. And it's all come from me, this new enthusiasm, and that makes me kinda proud.

It was so weird, when I first began to feel like this. I wasn't used to it, it was like when you hear a song you don't know but you sort of do know it a bit because you swear you've heard that lyric before, and that chorus, but you can't quite pinpoint if you recognise it or not.

It happened so quick, too; when I woke up that morning in your bed, I knew something was different.

-

It took me a while to take in everything that'd happened the day before, the meeting and the shouting and then...well, you know better than anyone what I nearly did. And then the breakdown, the confession, the soul-searching. And the kiss. That bit was pretty good.

But I still didn't really know what was going to happen next. I mean, one kiss doesn't make up for a year of what was basically psychological abuse. And physical abuse, on more than one occasion. Just thinking about it makes me want to throw up.

I was completely at your mercy. You could do anything you wanted to me; beat me to a pulp, kick me out of the band and never talk to me again, get me locked up for good, and I wouldn't put up a fight. I deserved all of those things. You should hate me more than anything else in the world. And yet there I was, under your roof, in your bed, listening to you humming softly to yourself while you cooked.

There was no way you could be comfortable with me, forgiveness doesn't come that easy, so I was pretty nervous as I opened the bedroom door, after a quick shower, and crept down the hall to the kitchen.

Hovering in the doorway, a felt a smile spread across my face as I saw you prancing about the room, looking adorable in jeans and a massive jumper. Your hair was all static, little strands flailing in the air like tiny hands waving at me. The thought made me snort with laughter.

Hearing my splutters, you jumped about a foot in the air and whipped around, almost dropping the spatula you had in your hand.

"Morning," I announced, grinning at you.

My smile faltered when I saw a flash of genuine fear touch your eyes. I decided to stay in the doorway, and held my hands loosely by my sides, where you could see them and know that they weren't going to get anywhere near you.

"Sorry." I said, watching you quickly regain your composure.

"S'okay, you just made me jump. Breakfast?" You asked brightly, gesturing at the eggs in the pan.

I opened my mouth to question your cooking skills, then remembered that I'd spent the last year insulting you, and that actually I had no desire to make you feel sad ever again. So I just nodded and made for one of the stools at the kitchen counter. I made sure to keep at least five metres between me and you at all times.

"Clothes too mainstream for you?" You laughed as I walked fully into the kitchen, suddenly aware of the fact that I hadn't bothered to put anything other than my boxers back on after my shower. Force of habit, I guess. "You can borrow stuff of mine. It'll be way too big, but I just got this new washing powder that makes everything smell amazing, so..."

I frowned at your self-deprecating statement, which seemed to have come a little too easy to be healthy, but brushed it off in favour of the offer of actually clean clothes which didn't stink of beer or cigarettes.

Baggy sweaters seem to be pretty much the only thing you own, so I shoved one over my head and searched around for some jeans. The best thing was, they smelt like you. And with clean clothes and a clear mind, I was starting to feel somewhat human again.

After bouncing back into the kitchen and planting myself on the stool, I tucked into the mismatch of breakfasts that you'd put in front of me. There was a plate of eggs and beans and stuff, then two slices of toast, and also a bowl of Cheerios complete with milk and spoon. It was like you didn't know what I liked for breakfast and had decided to cover all possible options.

The eggs were a bit overdone and the toast was burnt round the edges, but I battered my inner food critic and focussed on the fact that this must have taken you fucking ages and you're hardly ever even awake for the morning, let alone up and cooking. Plus, you made the toast just right with the butter all the way to the crust. I gave you a big grin and managed to work my way through the entirety of the feast, and, I'm gonna be honest, felt fuller and happier than I had in a long time.

You'd been pottering around the kitchen, clearing stuff up and chewing on a piece of toast every so often. But now, you stood watching me, in the corner of the room. I could tell you were keeping your distance. It sent a shot of guilt through my chest.

"Thanks...thanks for breakfast." I said finally, after a stern silence fell over us.

"It's fine, dude, you look like you needed it," you shrugged. You took a small step towards me, worry pooling in your eyes. "Look, Pete, I think...I think we need to have a talk...about...things." You mumbled, your fingers tying themselves in knots.

I sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, I think we do."

I knew this was coming. It had been brewing in the air around us the whole time. I felt my mood slowly start to sink.

You sat down on the couch and beckoned for me to do the same, looking at me with wide eyes, your knees pulled up in front of you like a little kid. I flopped down at the opposite end, tucking my hands under my knees.

"So," you stated in a very parents-evening fashion, "Pete, we're going to get you better. You're going to get you better." You said it so matter-of-factly that I believed you then and there.

But, like, how? I'd been pondering over that how for years. But it turned out you had quite a lot of the answers.

With a rustle of papers, I saw that you'd produced a notebook from somewhere and were chewing on a very short pencil. So we're going full-out therapy session now, are we?

"Uh...What's that?" I asked, peering at the mass of scribbles on the page and wondering if I really wanted to know the answer.

You blushed at the accusatory expression on my face, but coughed slightly and spoke calmly. "I thought the first step to getting you back to normal would be to figure out why you're feeling like this in the first place. So I, uh, made a list."

Uh oh. A list of all my problems. I think you're gonna need a lot more paper, Patty-boy.

"Okay," I said cautiously, immediately wanting to postpone this conversation for a decade or so.

Your eyes flicked between me and the paper, and I wondered which problem you were gonna go for first. The anger, the depression, the bad sleeping. I held my breath as you scanned the page. It was like issue roulette.

"So, first, is, um, the drinking." Oh. Yeah. Of course that one's first. You picked at the binding of the notebook as you awaited my response.

"Yeah," was all I could really muster.

"How much?"

"Uh...I never really remember. A lot." I shrugged.

"Every night?"

I laughed bitterly. "Yeah, and the day too."

You let out this little sighing sound. I tried to ignore it.

"Any other drugs?"

"Nah, not really. Sleeping pills now and again. Oh, and weed. And normal cigarettes too."

"Okay. Okay, good."

I screwed my face up in confusion. What about any of this is good? I get that you're an optimist, but there are some things that don't have a bright side. Namely me.

As if you'd read my mind, you shrugged and said, "Well, you know, it could be worse, you could be addicted to heroin."

Yeah, true.

"Second," you continued, "any more nightmares?"

"Uh, sometimes, I guess. But mostly I'm too drunk to dream."

The pain in your eyes went through me like a knife.

"Sorry," I mumbled, staring at the floor. As if apologies were gonna help.

"It's okay. I just...wish I could have helped." You went back to chewing on the pencil.

A disbelieving smile pulled at my lips as I began to realise, after way too long, how heart-breakingly kind you are.

"Patrick, no-one could've helped. I spent the last year building a massive fucking wall around myself, I was beyond help." Usually, I'd shuffle closer to you and give your shoulder a little squeeze, to let you know that it was okay, but given the circumstances I just sorta sat staring at you, hating the thought that you were sad because of me. But then I guess you've been sad because of me a lot lately. I resisted the urge to throw myself out of the lounge window.

"And, uh, finally, the, um...anger." You shifted in your place, still not looking at me.

My guts writhed around inside me. This was the one I'd been dreading, and I know you'd been dreading it too. I didn't trust myself to say anything, so I just nodded.

"How long have you been...feeling like this?"

Hmm. I had to think about that one. "Uh...I don't know...it comes in waves, I guess. Like, sometimes I'm completely fine, then the next I'm punching people and shouting."

"Who have you got angry at?"

"Um...my parents, I guess. When they ditched me. Then Joe when he kept me away from you. And Mikey before he left. But, when I get angry at them, it's like normal person anger. Just shouting and stuff if I get worked up. Everyone does that, right? But then there's this other kind of anger, like, I can't really stop it, it just kinda happens, and that's when I hit people."

"Who've you hit?"

I searched my brain for answers. There was only one. And that was just it. That was my whole issue, right there. Because the only person I'd ever hit was the person I loved most.

"You."

There was a short silence. You kept looking at the page in front of you, but didn't write anything. The bruises on your neck and along your jaw were suddenly, horrifically obvious. "Why was it always me?" You said in a small voice.

The guilt that had been hanging over my head dropped, crushing me into the floor. "I...I don't know. I guess I just...I loved you so much, and I kept getting so close and then failing at the last minute, and it got me so angry. And I blamed you for everything. It was way easier for me to punch you, verbally or otherwise, than to admit how besotted I was with you. How besotted I still am."

You smiled a little, before the light in your eyes faded and you went back to staring at the paper. Unconsciously, one of your hands moved over your stomach, and I felt a chill go through me as I remembered what I did.

"How's the...uh...bruise?"

You shrugged. "Fine, I guess. As fine as a bruise can be."

I felt tears spring to my eyes when I saw the hurt on your face, and sobs gathered in my throat. I tried to hold them in as I croaked my next sentence. I just had to tell you this. "Patrick, I'm so sorry. I...I know that doesn't help, doesn't make what I did to you any better, but...but I hope it shows that I want to change. I want to get better, I need to get better, so I can treat you right, finally. Patrick, I will do everything in my power to make it up to you. I promise, I'm gonna do this, I'll work for however long it takes to regain your trust and deserve your love. I'll make it up to you, I will."

You must have seen the naked honesty in my face, because this time when you smiled, your eyes lit up and I swear I saw some pride in there somewhere. How could you possibly be proud of me? I tried to hold back the tears, but it was like trying to hold back a tidal wave with a stop sign.

"Thank you." You said quietly. "Did you really do all that stuff for me?"

"What stuff?" It was only two words, but I couldn't even manage that without my voice cracking.

"The pumpkin square things, and that time we fell asleep on your couch and you made me pancakes. And...and when you kissed me after the record came out, and I asked you to leave. Was that all because...because..."

"Because I was completely, stupidly infatuated with you, yeah." I ducked my head to hide my blush.

"I'm so sorry."

My head snapped up. How in hell's unholy name could you think that any of this was your fault? "What for?" I breathed, incredulous.

"For not noticing. For all those times you did something kind for me, and I didn't stop to think why." You bowed you head. "I guess now I know what it feels like to love someone and them hardly even notice you. But, like, you had it for four whole years. I'm sorry you had to do that. And I'm sorry you and Mikey broke up."

I snorted, but your voice had been so genuine that maybe you were actually sorry. I forget that some people don't feel the need to lie about everything. "You don't have to be polite, Patrick."

"No, no, I mean it, it's never nice breaking up with someone."

"Yeah, but it was never gonna work. His hugs suck." I giggled though tears, smiling wider as you gave me a small grin. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Of course, I've asked you enough stuff."

"When did you start to see me as more than your annoying friend? And...and when did you start to love me?" It was self-indulgent, but I'd been wanting to ask those questions for ages.

"Well, um, I guess I started to like you when you told me about the nightmares, and we started to share the bunk. You...you made me feel safe." How ironic. "And...and then I think I realised I loved you, like, a week or so after we broke up. I suppose that cliché is right; we don't know what we have 'till it's gone."

A week. Fuck. To think, if I'd only waited a tiny bit longer. "Was it really that soon after?"

You nodded shyly. "Actually...this is horrible, but...but I was going to tell you that day. The day you introduced me to Mikey."

I groaned. If only, if only I hadn't been such an ass to you, we could have spent the last year together, like we should've done. "Oh, god, I'm sorry," I whined, burying my face in my hands.

You fiddled with the pencil between your fingers. "I was so jealous of him. It...it pretty much killed me every time I saw you with him. God, I'm pathetic." You pulled you knees tighter into your chest.

Being rubbish at this deep conversation lark, I had no idea what to say. But I gave it my best shot anyway. "Nah, you got nothing on me. Wanna hear my pathetic anecdote?"

You peeked out at me, looking curious.

"This is so sappy, but...Okay, basically, every time I kissed Mikey, I found that if I got at just the right angle, and tilted my head slightly to the left, and kinda zoned out a bit...then I could pretend I was kissing you."

The smile that lit your face lit my world. "Really?" You squeaked.

I nodded, the last of the tears falling from my eyes. 

We sat in satisfied silence for a few moments, taking in everything that'd been said. It was weird, it had all been so honest, so easy, and I kinda felt as if you'd cut my head open and cleaned out all the bad stuff, and given me some shiny new thoughts to go with it. It was amazing.

I couldn't help but marvel at the boy curled up at the other end of the couch. I'd hurt him so bad, and yet here he was, still fighting for me, even when I wasn't really fighting for myself. And those blue eyes, Jesus, I could have got lost in them. Maybe I will.

"Can I kiss you?" I blurted, too mesmerised by your parted lips to think about whatever the hell my own mouth was doing.

You raised your head, and my heart dropped when I saw alarm cross your face. Shit. Too far, again.

"I...um...maybe...maybe not right now."

Of course. I gave myself a mental slap for even thinking you'd say yes. Stupid, stupid.

"Okay, so...uh...back to getting you better, I, um..." You trailed off, shifting about in your seat. "Are there any other things that might have caused you to...uh...get angry?"

I tore my eyes away from your face and back to reality. I forgot that this was counselling, and not a romantic movie.

Thinking about your question, I pondered that maybe there wasn't much more to it than alcohol and sleep deprivation. Maybe that was it, cure those and I cure me. But then I realised one more thing. Because obviously there was something more. My brain was sick for a reason. And I think I might have that reason.

"I get lonely."

I'd said it so quietly that I wondered if you'd even heard. You always hear, though. You looked up at me, the concentration in your eyes flooding with sadness. Again. Because of me.

But then the clouds started to clear. "That's why I couldn't wait for you. That's why I clung to Mikey like I did. That's why I acted like a dick the whole year," I exclaimed. The realisation was so strong, I half expected a light bulb to appear above my head.

I waited for you to say something. You just kept looking at me. It was kinda unnerving after a while actually.

Suddenly, you stood up, placing the notebook on the side and making your way to the door, grabbing a hat and your keys.

I sat there watching you like an idiot, wondering where the hell you were going and why. I thought we were figuring out my problems?

You raised your eyebrows at me and gestured to the door.

"What? Where are we going?" I asked, slowly rising from the couch and drifting towards you. I didn't get too close.

A smile tugged at your lips and you yanked the door open, disappearing from view as you made for the stairs. Wandering out behind you, I shut the door and hopped after you, pestering you the whole way like a five year old. You never responded.

Instead, you clambered into your car and smiled at me. I ran round to the passenger seat, and as soon as I got in, resumed my pestering.

"Seriously, where are we going?"

You started the car.

"Are you taking me to a therapist?"

We pulled out of the parking lot and began down the main road.

"Are we there yet?"

You took a left, then a right, then another left, eyes resting on the road.

"How much longer?"

You stopped the car.

I peered out the window. We were at my house.

"Oh."

You said nothing as you got out of the car and hurried towards my front door, checking that I was following. Scooping the spare key out of the flower pot on the left of the porch, which used to actually have a flower in and not just some dried soil and a dead twig, you didn't hesitate to let yourself in.

It was strange being in my house again. It was like I'd been gone for ages, when really it'd only been one night. It hadn't changed in the slightest; clothes still strewn over the floor, pizza boxes stuffed in imaginative places, and the smell of liquor clinging to the air like mould to a piece of bread. Same old house. Maybe it felt so weird 'cause I was the one that was different.

"Patrick, what are we doing here? I could have got home by myself you know."

"I know. But there's something we- well, you, have to do." You looked kinda worried, as if whatever this was, I wasn't gonna like it.

You picked your way across my lounge and crouched down in front of the cabinet I knew all too well. It was where I kept my poison.

Yanking the doors open, you reached in and scooped out as many bottles as you could possibly manage, lining them all up on top of the cabinet, until, after a couple more trips, it was empty.

I just stood and watched you do whatever it was you were doing, wondering what the hell was going on but trusting your crazy mind all the same. The look in your eyes was so determined as you carted the bottles off the cabinet and transferred them to the kitchen counter. When you were finally done, you looked at me expectantly. Expectant of what?

"Well get over here then," you laughed, waving me towards you. I eyed the bottles, lined up on the counter like a firing squad, but followed your orders without question.

You handed me a full bottle of Smirnoff vodka, nice stuff too. A few swigs of that and the night was a blur. I took it, and glanced at you in confusion. What the hell was I supposed to do with this?

"I hardly think getting wasted is the solution to all this, Patrick."

You rolled your eyes, grabbing the bottle back and unscrewing the lid. I was convinced you were gonna take a swig, and was ready to knock the stuff out your hands before it hooked you too. Seeing you end up like me would be the worst thing imaginable.

Instead, you turned to the sink, and tipped out the contents of the bottle. I watched open-mouthed as the beautiful clear liquid disappeared down the plug, indistinguishable from the water now. You made sure every single drop was gone.

Turning back to me and placing the bottle back down on the counter with a crack, you picked up some gorgeous single-malt whiskey, an old friend of mine, and held it out to me.

"Your turn."

Oh.

I finally understood what this was about. This was the end of the old Pete. A ritual to start me off fresh.

I grabbed the bottle, a grin spreading over my face, and prised the lid off, rushing to the sink and doing as you had done. I ignored the slight pang of longing in my gut when I saw all that golden stuff go to waste. It was a shame, really.

But when all of it was gone, I slammed the bottle down triumphantly and clapped my hands together. I'd managed to get rid of one, now I could get rid of them all.

"Let's fucking do this."

With that, your eyes lit up, and we spent the next half hour crowding round the sink, bottle tops everywhere, watching my life support get swallowed by a drain instead of me. Soon, I was surrounded by empty bottles, and for the first time ever, it wasn't because their contents were in my bloodstream.

When were were done, you grinned at me, your eyes crinkling up at the corners and your cheeks going all cute and round, and I swear I felt a little light-headed. I'd forgotten what your smiles do to me. The urge to hug you was reaching critical.

But you turned away, gathering up all the bottles and dumping them all in the recycling with a horrific crashing sound, causing my hands to jump to my ears and you to screw your face up. After that, though, that was it. They were gone. The sound was the last bit of pain they'd ever cause me. I tried to resist the urge to jump up and down on the spot, and failed.

You giggled, and oh my god I forgot how amazing that was. Your hand went to your mouth and I found myself marvelling at your fingers, how they were just the right length and how the nails were scruffy because you bite them and the ends were calloused from playing pretty much every conceivable instrument. Is there anything about you which isn't beautiful? It's getting kinda frustrating.

"Uh...Pete?"

Oops. Staring again. I blinked and tore my gaze away from your face, with much protest. "So what're we going to do now?" I asked, still bouncing about. But what you said next made my whole body turn to lead.

"Pack a bag."

I froze.

No, no, this can't be what you want. Please say it's not what you want.

But thinking about it then, it was so blindingly obvious. Of course you wanted me gone. Why the fuck would you want to look at me ever again? The notebook, it was to give to the doctors who'd try to give me pills. You'd given me breakfast not as a new start, but as a last farewell.

I felt tears threatening to spill down my cheeks, and the black hole in the pit of my stomach grew larger. In the end, though, I just nodded. I'd go without a fight. This was what you wanted, and I'd said I'd do whatever it took to make you happy. I guess I just got my hopes up.

I bit my bottom lip and frowned to stop myself breaking down in front of you, before trailing towards the stairs. At least once I was upstairs I could cry in peace.

"You don't have to if you don't want to!" You called, but the desperation in your voice was false.

"Yes I do." I croaked, placing a shaking hand on the bannister and hoping I could hold the tears in 'til I was out of sight.

"No, Pete-"

"It's for the best, you're right." I sighed.

Your voice dropped to a whisper. "I...I thought you'd want to..."

"I guess I do want to. I want to get better, and if this is the way to do that, then I'll do it. I'll do anything." I paused on the bottom step, looking back at you. "I just...I wish I could still be with you."

"What?"

"Well...this was fucking stupid of me, but...I thought after all this, maybe...maybe we'd, y'know, get back together."

"What?"

"I know, obviously I was an idiot. I'm sorry for making stupid assumptions."

"What?"

"What are you what-ing at?"

"Pete, what are you on about?"

"You're sending me away, right?"

"Sending you away? Pete, I want you to stay at my place!"

No. No way.

I peered at you from the stairs, wondering what the hell you were playing at.

"What?"

"Well, I thought, because of the whole lonely thing, that maybe it would help if you stayed at mine. And, and that way I'd always be there for you if you need help, or, or you feel like drinking, or you can't sleep. It wouldn't be for that long, just as long as you need, I guess. But you really don't have to. It's up to you."

I stared at you. "Wait, so, you don't want me gone?"

"No, you moron!"

"Oh."

I could tell you were holding back giggles.

"So you want me to stay with you?"

You nodded.

"Can I hug you?"

After a moment's thought, you nodded again.

I flew across the room and engulfed you in my arms, squeezing you with all the strength I could muster, nuzzling your neck like some oversized puppy.

"Thank you, thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouuuu!" I chirped, as my heart tried to jump through my chest and face nearly split open from grinning so wide.

I carried on cuddling you until I heard a squeak. "Pete...please...bruises...hurt...and...need...to...breathe..."

Oops.

I immediately let go of you, still panting hard from pure elation, and stepped away from you, putting my arms behind my back and away from you.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you, I just got excited."

But you were laughing. Thank fuck, you were laughing. "It's fine," you said breathlessly, the light in your eyes still burning bright.

"I thought you were gonna put me in some mental hospital or something," I giggled, the shock fizzling away.

"I'd never do that, you idiot. I want you here."

My excitement faded a little as I thought about that. "But...how can you want me here? How can you stand to even be around me? And...and what if I get angry again? What if I hurt you again? What if this time it's worse? I could put you in hospital or, or kill you-"

"I don't care," you said, staring right at me.

"What? No, no, you should care, you're putting yourself at risk, for me, and I'm not worth it, I'm not!" My voice had become shrill and my eyes wild. I backed away from you.

"You are, though. I'm gonna do this, I'm gonna help. I'm not leaving you on your own like I did for the past year. We're gonna work through this, together. You have to trust me, Pete." Your voice was so gentle, I wanted to reach out and stroke it.

"I do trust you. I just don't trust me." I bowed my head, not wanting to look you in the eyes.

"Well you should trust you. You're so kind, so loving, and that's the real Pete. The one that cooked me soup and gave me forehead kisses and held my hand. The one I'm looking at right now."

I felt myself blush. I guess I did feel a bit different today. A bit brighter, a bit healthier. If I could make this permanent, then maybe I could start to trust myself. I felt a little of the excitement I'd felt before stir inside me. I could do this.

"Uh..." you started, looking at your shoes, then up at me, "you...you can have that kiss now, if...if you'd like."

The smile that appeared on my face was enough to last me a whole year.

I bounced towards you, trying my hardest not to break into song. He's letting me kiss him, he's letting me kiss him, oh god what the hell do I even do, don't grin like that, you look like a psychopath, no, no, don't grin, don't fucking grin-

Managing to regain a hold on my composure, I hovered in front of you, feeling my pulse race and my heart struggle to keep up. I reached out a hand towards you, and placed it lightly on your waist.

"Is this okay?" I whispered, feeling your breath on my face.

You nodded, and I barely had time to smile before you reached your arms around my neck and closed the distance between us.

And fucking hell, that kiss was amazing. Your lips were so soft, so perfectly curved, and the way they pressed into my own made me wonder how the hell I'd managed to keep off them for a year. I slowly slid my hand from your waist to your lower back, pulling you a tiny bit closer, and with my other hand I cradled the back of your head, running my fingers through your hair. I'd missed you being this close, I'd missed being able to touch you and to taste you.

After a few moments, your lips parted slightly, allowing our tongues to glide over each other in perfect harmony. And then, oh god, and then from deep in your throat came this low moan, and you tangled your fingers in my hair and I swear I died and went to heaven. The sound of our hot breaths and my own heart beating in my ears filled my head.

Even though I would have quite happily stayed like that forever, it had to end at some point. You slowly unwrapped your arms from me and untangled our tongues, leaving me to try and cling on to your for as long as possible, sucking on your bottom lip gently before letting it go with a small popping sound.

I felt you smile as I rested my forehead against yours, drinking in your deep breaths and reliving what had just happened.

"Fucking hell," was all I could muster, and you giggled at me.

I think that's about when I realised that everything was going to turn out okay.

-

So yeah. I packed up some clothes and a toothbrush, and have been staying with you ever since. When we got back to your place, you poured away all the beer that was in your fridge and even that bottle of scotch you were given as a Christmas present. You're really determined to keep me clean. It's only been a couple weeks, as I said, but dammit I feel good.

I still keep my distance a little bit, because if I didn't, I'd be all over you all the time and it would be difficult to get anything done. Also, you don't really show it, but sometimes you still flinch a little when I touch you, or push me away if I kiss you without asking. 

But you're always there for me. I don't know when I'm gonna go home, but I'm dreading it already. Like I said, there's been a few bad days, but it's only my stupid depression playing up, or me wanting a drink, or a cigarette.  When that happens, when I shut everyone out, you just sort of sit by me and give me cuddles until I smile and then you feed me ice cream or drag me out the flat for some fresh air or we cook something together. I say together, I cook and you cheer me on.

We alternate between the sofa and the bed; at first you insisted that I took your room every night, but you got achy from sleeping on the couch, and I'd always see you rubbing your neck in the mornings, so now we alternate. Of course, it would be better if we both just shared the bed, but I don't think you want to do that yet, and that's completely fine.

We took it real slow at first, with me occasionally pecking you on the cheek or you holding my hand. Yesterday, I asked if you wanted to be my boyfriend, and you said yes, and we laughed because it was so goddamn cheesy, and then you kissed me like you did when we were at my place and I melted into your arms . We haven't told anyone else, we're just going carefully, mostly working on our friendship rather than our relationship. And I can feel it, with every ridiculous pun, every petty tiff over which Star Wars is best, and every stupid message written on the fridge with those letter magnets, we're rebuilding everything I wrecked.

I can see the plant from the couch, sitting there on the side and reminding me that I need to stick around for everything that's going to happen once I'm better. I figured, once I go back home, and maybe after the tour, if everything's going okay, then maybe I could find a place for us to share? Would you like that? Fucking hell, I've only been with you two weeks and I'm already thinking about living with you permanently.  But the thing is, you're so easy to be around, you make me hot chocolate and give me hugs and sing in the shower sometimes. I could really get used to this. 

You're out getting groceries at the moment, such is our rockstar lifestyle, and I'm wondering when you'll be back just so I can see your face again. I forgot how much of a sap I am when it comes to you. 

I know I'm getting better, though. Since I've been here, I've had exactly zero nightmares, zero rages, zero cigarettes and zero hangovers. Go figure.

Thank you.

Love, Pete.