Dear Patrick,

I wish I could help. I really, really do.

I know it hurts. I get that you don't wanna go anywhere or see anyone. I wouldn't either. But you're different from me. You're not grumpy and antisocial, you're bubbly and smiley and you hold doors open for people and offer people biscuits when they come over and give out hugs without caring if you get a hug back. That's what you should be doing, that's the Patrick I know.

But you're not you at the moment. You still act like it, smiling and laughing, but none of it's ever quite real. You think I don't notice, but I do.

The painkillers help, I think. But they never make it go away. They don't kill the pain, they just knock it out for a while, before it gets up again and fights back, like those really annoying boss levels on video games.

I hate seeing you like this and not being able to do anything. I try my best, give you kisses if you want them and put on your favourite movies, and I'd do anything you asked, but the problem is, you never ask for anything. You just keep on insisting you're okay, that I shouldn't go to all this trouble, that I should stop worrying, because you're fine. But you're lying. You're lying to me.

Thinking back to that very first time I talked to you after you'd stopped being all funny and sleepy, I should have known that this wasn't gonna be easy.

-

When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was that I was still holding your hand. The second thing I noticed was oh my fucking god I should not have slept in this chair 'cause my neck is fucking killing me. But then I remembered why I was in the chair, and sat up a bit more, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and letting my surroundings seep into my head.

You were propped up in the bed, your face turned away from me and towards the doctor, the glaring lights bathing everything in bright white.

"...initially thought your internal injuries were more serious, however, thankfully, we were wrong. You have three ribs broken in two places, one broken in four, and various other fractures, but they will heal just fine. The incisions from the operation have been stitched up, but the thread will dissolve as the cuts heal. You-"

"Ugh?" I failed at speaking as I stumbled into consciousness.

"Pete!" You croaked, turning to look at me and attempting a smile. You didn't get very far.

"Hey, Patrick, how're you feeling?" I asked, giving your hand a squeeze and finding myself more awake as I realised that this was gonna be the first sane conversation I'd had with you for a long time.

"Uh...okay, I guess."

"Not talking gibberish at me anymore, then?" I laughed.

You laughed too. "Uh...no. No more than usual."

I grinned, and so did you, but you only got about halfway before you winced and let go of my hand, touching your fingers to the cuts on your eyebrow and your lip. My hand suddenly felt cold and empty.

"Ow." You groaned, closing your eyes and wincing as you pressed at the bruises, as if testing they were real.

"Does it hurt a lot?" I frowned, looking at the doctor worriedly.

She sighed. "The face is a very sensitive area. It will heal quickly, though."

"And...uh...the ribs?" I asked cautiously. You opened your eyes.

"Ribs are notoriously painful, especially in cases with multiple fractures such as this." She said, giving you a sympathetic smile. "But the most important thing is to take deep breaths, and to stay active. It will hurt, but if you don't breathe properly, you will be at risk of chest infection. Pain relief will help, though. Why don't you try to sit up a bit more, Mr. Stump?"

"Call me Patrick." You mumbled, before raising your head and using your arms to lever yourself upwards. As you did so, though, you took in a hissing breath through your teeth, your fingers clenching in the sheets.

I shot out an arm and steadied you, and the doctor did the same, and together we sat you up. You let out a little cry of pain that sent a bolt through my heart, and panted heavily.

"That's it, deep breaths," the doctor cooed, like she was your mum or something. That reminded me.

"Hey, do you wanna call your parents?" I asked, after you'd recovered a bit.

You looked at me quickly, your eyes lighting up a bit. "Yeah, yeah I do."

I quickly got out my mobile and handed it to you. "Joe called them right after the accident, and then again when we knew you were gonna be okay. They're on their way, as quick as they can."

You nodded, unlocking my phone because we shared passwords ages ago, and trying to dial the numbers with shaking hands.

"Hey, mum?" You said, putting it to your ear and speaking hopefully. "Yeah. Yeah, it's me. Yeah, I'm okay. No, don't worry, I'm fine. I know. I'm sorry. Well, yeah, but there was no real damage, so – no. Yeah, I just woke up. No, Pete's here. No, he's not. You don't have to – okay. Alright, mum. Look, no, I'm fine, I promise, everything's fine. Well I'm not. I know. Okay. Yeah. Love you too. See you soon. Bye, Mum."

You pressed the red button and it made a beepy noise, pulling me from my game of guess the other half of the conversation.

Smiling at the phone, you made to give it back to me, then stopped. You retracted your hand, staring at the screen, your smile dropping and horror creeping into your eyes.

I felt my stomach clench. What is it now? Are you hurt, are you dying, has someone else died, what's happened, what more can happen?

You breathed out a long, slow breath, holding the phone up more and tilting it around a bit.

I made a confused noise. What the fuck are you looking at? The screen of the phone was blank, it wasn't showing you anything besides your own reflectio- oh. Oh, shit.

I made to grab the phone from you to stop you torturing yourself any more, but you jerked your hand away.

Suddenly, you seemed to remember I was there, and gave me a weak smile.

"Hey, I'm even uglier than usual!" You laughed, shrugging your shoulders as if you didn't care. But there were tears in your eyes.

I frowned, reaching out and giving your shoulder a little shake. "No, don't talk like that. You're still the prettiest person I know." 

"Fuck off." You laughed again, but your voice cracked and your smile dropped too soon. You kept staring at yourself, with sad eyes you thought I couldn't see, ghosting your fingers over the bruises.

"Look, sweetheart, they'll heal, won't they?" I said gently, looking at the doctor for a bit of reinforcement. She got the hint.

"Yes, yes of course, you'll be good as new in no time."

You nodded, and let me take the phone from you this time. I clasped your hand between mine and squeezed it to try and make you look at me. But you just kinda stared at the covers, and I wanted so badly to know what you were thinking.

As you noticed me looking, you quickly bowed your head away from me, your fingers hiding the bruises. "Can – can you leave please?"

My eyes widened. "What?"

"Please."

I glanced at the doctor, whose eyes were flitting in between the two of us. "Why?" I asked, feeling kinda hurt, if I'm honest.

You peeked at me through your hand, your eyes sad, like it was obvious. "I – I don't want you to – to see."

I felt a pang of sympathy in my chest. Reaching out to you, I tugged at your wrist, prising your hand away from your face and turning your head towards me. "I said I'd stay with you, and that's exactly what I'm gonna do."

"But-"

"No, Patrick, I don't care how you look, I don't care if you've got bruises and cuts, hell, if you had huge pus-filled boils all over your face, you'd still be fucking beautiful, because you're always fucking beautiful, and I'm just grateful you're here and alive and not dead because I thought you'd die, I thought I'd lost you but I haven't because you're here and I swear to god I didn't think it was possible to love you more than I did but now I look at you and I do love you more, I love you more than anything and I'd really really like to kiss you please now?" I gushed, blinking, a bit taken aback by my sudden word-vomit.

I heard a small aww-ing sound, and looked at the doctor, who put her hand over her mouth and blushed. "Sorry."

You stared at me, a smile creeping into your eyes, and gave a little nod.

Tilting my head to your left so my nose wouldn't hurt the bruises, I leaned across the bed, pressing my lips to yours. I became instantly addicted to you, and couldn't help but thread my fingers through your hair and pull you closer. Your lips parted and I deepened the kiss, trying my best not to moan into your mouth because I remembered the doctor was there and I didn't wanna gross her out too much. But it'd been so long, or at least it'd felt like so long, it was all I could do not to rip that gown right off you and take you right here on this hospital bed.

The kiss ended too soon, though, and oh great, now I'm horny, this is so inappropriate. I could feel the heat in my face and felt kinda faint, too. It wasn't fair, you'd got me all flustered and you weren't even trying.

I grinned so wide I thought my face might split in two, and cuddled your good arm. And I heard that giggle, Patrick.

-

The rest of the time at the hospital was kinda dull. There were forms to fill out, people to call, our manager was pissed 'cause we'd have to push back the tour, then your parents turned up and they were happy and your mum cried and they hugged you like a billion times and every time you'd flinch 'cause it probably hurt like hell but you didn't say anything 'cause you didn't wanna hurt their feelings. Or maybe you just didn't want to admit to being hurt.

Also I have re-discovered that hospital food is awful and tastes of disinfectant and there's like nothing to do the whole day and if we play one more game of noughts and crosses I think I might just throw myself out the window. I stayed the night, obviously, and did stuff for you like get you hot chocolate from the café and then not be able to find the room again and kinda just wander the corridors until someone asked if I was okay.

After a couple days, though, they said you could go home. You were really happy when they told you, I could tell you hated it there, and so later that day, me and Joe and Andy helped get your flat ready and stock your fridge and change your bed covers and stuff, before going to pick you up.

It was difficult, because it hurt for you to walk and stuff, but we got you out the hospital and to your flat alright. We've still gotta go back quite often so they can check you're healing okay, but other than that, we're free. We all piled in through your door, and plopped down in various places around your lounge and talked about nothing for ages.

"Thriller was the best one, hands down, I'm not arguing about this." Andy had said, crossing his arms and scowling.

"No, Memories wins every time." Joe shot back, scowling twice as hard, but ruining it with a grin.

"Ugh, singles. Boring. Who cares if it sold the most, it's not the best."

"Nah, Arms Race sold the most."

"No it didn't."

"Yes it did, I remember the label telling us that."

"No, that was before Memories hit the charts."

"Shut up, no it wasn't."

"Thriller is still best."

"I kinda liked the one with the court case. What did we even call that one?"

"I dunno, ask the mighty namer of songs over there."

"Hey, you love my names!"

"Oh, yeah, I love it when I have to tell people that this song is called I'm Like A Lawyer How I'm Trying To Get You Off or whatever the fuck it is. Why don't we just call it Me And You, or Honeymoon, but noooo, Mr. Poet Man has to go think up some crazy-ass sentence I'll never remember."

"It's called creativity, Mr. Guitar Man."

"Piss off, you make up those titles in ten seconds."

"That's what makes me such a genius." I said, miming flipping hair over my shoulder.

"Such an asshole, more like." You chimed in.

"Hey, Patrick, you're supposed to be on my side!"

"I wasn't aware we were picking sides."

"I'll pick your side in a minute."

"Is that a euphemism?"

"You're a euphemism."

"Ugh."

"Ugh." We sneered at each other, giggling through our scowls. It was good to see you happy, like, naturally happy, rather than keeping-up-appearances happy. But, the others had to leave some point.

"We, uh, better go, I guess." Andy said, patting Joe on his good shoulder. Andy had been ferrying Joe around everywhere since his car was kinda fucked.

"Yep. We'll try not to die on the way home." Joe grinned, but there was guilt behind his eyes.

"Nobody's gonna die." Andy smiled, patting you on the head.

"Yeah, and we're fucking glad about that. We were gonna have to get Brendon to sing on the next record." Joe laughed, and so did you. Then, his face got all serious and un-Joe like. "But seriously, dude," he swallowed, "I'm so, so sorry. You have no idea how happy I am that you're okay. Thanks for, like, not dying and stuff."

You grinned. "That's okay. Now I only have to get Andy to nearly kill me and I've got the whole set."

We laughed, but I felt this huge stab of guilt in my chest.

It didn't really go away, either, even when Andy and Joe had left. I just kept looking at you, curled up at the end of the sofa, with bruises that could so easily have been because of me.

"Uh...Patrick, it's getting late, I should go too." I sighed, standing up and making for the door. You looked up sharply.

"Don't."

"What?" I said stupidly, turning back to look at you. You were staring straight at me with wide eyes.

"Please don't go." Your voice was nothing more than a whisper.

"Uh..." I mumbled as I thought. I tried to ignore the voice in my head screaming oh my god he wants you to stay here, you guys are so cute. Because there was this other voice, from my neck this time, saying no way in hell am I sleeping on the damned couch again.

"You don't have to sleep on the couch, you can sleep with me. Well, you can sleep in my bed." You said, like you'd read my mind.

"Really? Are you sure you aren't sick of me after three days of being stuck in hospital?"

"No, I'm not sick of you," you said, but then bowed your head and picked at a loose thread on the arm of the couch. "I'm sick of me."

I know that feeling. And I sure as hell didn't want you to be feeling that feeling. I practically ran over to you and hugged you as gently but enthusiastically as I could. "Don't be sick of you, you're amazing. And I'd love to stay. I'll look after you."

"No, no, you don't need to look after me, I'll be fine. Don't worry about me. I'm sorry, I shouldn't've asked."

But it was only an act. "No, you know what, I'm staying anyway, whether you need me to or not." I huffed, linking my arm with yours.

"Okay."

I pecked you lightly on the cheek. "Now, how about hot chocolate and Ghostbusters?"

You smiled with the good half of your face and nodded.

We spent the rest of the evening cuddled up on the couch and laughing at each other's frothy moustaches.

-

So that's pretty much it, I guess. I mean, you can do most things by yourself now, so I'm not really needed, but I'll be damned if I don't ride this wave for as long as I can. It's nice that you need me, 'cause I always felt like I was the one that needed you all the time. But now it's like I'm returning the favour.

There's a downside, though. Yeah, I get to be around you, but you're not yourself. You spend a lot of time hunched over your laptop, trying to write songs then getting frustrated because your hand is all bruised and doesn't work properly.

They haven't faded yet. They're a slightly less angry shade of purple, but they're still there, all down your body. Once, I saw you in your bedroom, pulling up your shirt and prodding at the cuts, tracing the scars from the operation, one to the right side of your chest, the other directly over your heart. I only realised you'd been crying when you came out and your eyes were red around the edges.

I hate this. I hate seeing you hurting and not being able to do anything about it. I hate that when you smile, it doesn't touch your eyes, and when you give me that look like you really wanna hug me but then stop yourself 'cause you know it'll hurt.

We've cancelled a load of shows because you don't want anyone else to see you. They know there was an accident, they know you got hurt, but they don't know the extent of it, and I don't think you can face showing yourself just yet. You say they've already got enough reasons to make fun of you, and you don't wanna give them any more. Because you don't realise that some of them might actually care about you.

They do, though. I've got so many messages from fans asking how you're doing, if you're alright, and that it's okay if you don't play shows 'cause the only thing that matters is that you're getting better. But when I read them to you, I think you think I'm making them up.

Please, baby, you're getting there, you're getting better, you'll be back to normal soon. Your ribs will be all healed up in a few weeks, and the bruises will fade, and so will the sadness. And I'll get my Patrick back.

For now, though, I'm here for you. Whatever you need, whenever you need it, I'll be here. I'll kiss all the cuts better, I'll drain the hurt away and fill you with hot chocolate instead.

I love you. Please remember that.

Pete.