Dear Patrick,

Baby, please talk to me. I'm so confused, just tell me what I did wrong and I'll make it better, I promise.

I'm sitting outside your bedroom door, trying to hear what you're doing, and hoping to god you're not in there crying. But then again, the dead silence is pretty bad, too.

I don't know whether to go in or not. There's no lock on your bedroom door, I could just go ahead and open it. But the way you slammed the it behind you said that maybe you wanted to be alone.

Please just come out and talk. Whatever it is, we can work through it, I just hate not knowing what you're feeling. You keep hiding yourself away, and I can't stand it 'cause I said I'd be there for you but I'm not because you don't seem to want me around any more.

What is it, Patrick? Is it me? Is this all just some huge misunderstanding? I figured I'd just write all my questions down here seeing as you won't let me talk to you. But you can tell me anything, you know that, don't you?

I'm just trying to piece everything together. Stuff's happened over the past few months, maybe it'll lead me to what's wrong. One particular set of events springs to mind.

-

Okay, so the first time it happened, I guess, was after you'd been discharged from the hospital. Two months we'd been going back there, and they'd do x-rays and stuff to make sure your ribs were alright. They healed pretty fast, considering you'd had a crazy amount of fractures, and I could tell you were getting better 'cause you started hugging me way more.

All those bruises that'd plagued you, the cuts that'd stopped you going out the house for weeks, they'd all gone. I'd watched you heal, seen your skin gradually turn back to its usual perfect porcelain, it was amazing, like watching a flower growing.

Your smiles got wider, your eyes got their little sparkle back, and soon, I didn't have to only kiss you on one side of your face, I didn't have to tilt my head a certain way when our lips met, and I could scoop you into my arms whenever I wanted without hurting you. It was like everything was back to normal again.

But it wasn't, not quite.

When I drove you back from the hospital for the last time, I parked the car outside your flat, and we talked for a while.

"...I can't believe you've forgiven him, though. Like, if it was me, I'd hold it against him for as long as I could, like hey Joe, you know how you nearly killed me and broke all my ribs? Yeah, well go buy me a cookie."

You laughed. "It wasn't his fault. Besides, blaming him wouldn't've made anything easier for anybody, so why bother?"

"You're too nice for your own good, you know that, right?"

"No, no, I've got everything stored away in my blackmail folder, so if needs be, I can just guilt anyone into doing anything. The niceness is all a cover-up, I swear." You grinned, giggling.

"Well, you're healed up now, I guess, so he doesn't have to apologise every time he sees you."

"Yeah, I wish he'd stop doing that, it makes me feel like I'm dying or something."

But I bounced up and down in my seat anyway. "You're all better, though, and I can tickle you as much as I want!"

"Don't you dare," you warned, raising a now un-bruised eyebrow.

But I just laughed and lunged across the car, digging my fingers into your armpits as you squirmed around, giggling. Clambering rather ungracefully over the handbrake, I carried on tickling you, on your neck and all the way up and down your sides and around your tummy.

By this point, I was straddling you on the passenger seat, and, like, I don't really know what came over me. Well, I do. Lust.

The orange sunlight danced in your eyes glinted in your smile, and you just looked so fucking beautiful, and now that half your face wasn't fucked up, you were so perfect. I'd love to be romantic and say it was just looking at your face that earned me a, uh, problem in the jean department, but you were squirming around underneath me and your shirt was kinda riding up and I could see this little strip of your hips and fucking hell I wanted you so bad.

It's weird, when I got like that, literally everything was a turn-on. The way your panting chest strained against your shirt, the way your head was tilted backwards and your adam's apple was bobbing up and down as you laughed, hell, even your nose-hairs looked sexy.

I stopped tickling you, and as your laughter died down, I just sorta stared for a while, thinking about what to do next.

Obviously, the part of my brain that was responsible for the bulge in my pants was screaming at me to just go ahead and rip all your clothes off, and admittedly, at that moment there was nothing I'd like to do more than fuck you in the passenger seat of my car.

However, it was nothing my self-control couldn't handle. I wasn't crazy obsessive alcoholic Pete any more, I'd left that behind.

So, I decided to take it one step at a time. Placing my hands either side of your neck, I pushed my lips against yours, pressing you into the seat and tangling our tongues together. You made these little gaspy noises as we kissed, making me sink further into you, and holy hell you're so fucking hot.

Not being able to resist it any longer, I rolled my hips, grinding our crotches together and letting out a whine, because it felt so good and so fucking frustrating at the same time. You wrapped your arms around my neck and tried to pull me closer, but it didn't really work because we were already as close as our lips would allow, your breaths deep and slow, rolling like the tide.

I felt your hips shift underneath me, and smiled internally 'cause I could feel the bulge in your pants. Taking a hand from your neck, I undid the button on your jeans with one smooth movement and pulled at the zipper, before shoving my hand inside and rubbing it against you, giving you the friction you were begging for. You tilted your head back further and elicited a moan from the back of your throat, long and low, and I swear it was the most beautiful noise I'd ever heard.

The heat built up between us, and suddenly the chilly autumn evening didn't seem so chilly. Clothes were now just another obstacle, and I wanted them off me right now. I wondered if I could get my t-shirt off without disconnecting our lips, because I really didn't wanna leave them, but after a last, long, deep kiss, I pulled away, whipping my shirt over my head and trying not to get the collar caught on my nose.

I didn't even look to see where my shirt landed as I hurled it across the car, I didn't wanna miss a single second of this. I dived back to your lips, feeling your fingers roam up and down my chest, your nails digging into my skin as I bucked my hips again and tried to undo my own pants.

I managed to wriggle my jeans down to my knees, kinda wishing there was more space in this car, 'cause my feet kept kicking against the dashboard and I think I nearly broke the radio a couple times, but it didn't matter because it meant we had to stay pressed up against one another, which was fine by me. I started to grind on you with a slow rhythm, craving any kind of contact, kissing at your jaw and your neck and biting little marks into your skin. With each graze of my teeth, your breath caught in your throat, your eyes squeezed shut.

The feel of your fingers on my bare hips almost sent me over the edge. You sneaked a hand into my boxers and sent shivers running up and down my spine, my head spinning but my lips completely focussed on the perfect outline of your collar bone, sweeping from the base of your neck and along your shoulders before disappearing under your shirt, like it was teasing me. Only then did it occur to me that I was twice as naked as you were, and I wanted to put that right immediately. I looked at your shirt as if it had done something to piss me off, and trailed my hands up your body towards your collar, without taking my mouth from your neck.

Fumbling about with the top button, and cursing your need to dress smart the whole time, I managed to undo it, gaining a couple of inches of flawless skin as a reward. I was so enthralled by you, by the movement of our hips and the heat that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, that I hardly noticed you tense up underneath me.

I went for the second button, my lips busy painting you purple, and you took your hand out of my boxers, leaving me aching for more, so I thrust my hips forward, not realising that you'd stopped moving in time with me.

It was only when I felt your fingers round my wrists, pulling my hands off yourself and shrugging my head from your shoulder, that I finally twigged. I pulled back quickly and paused, my breaths laboured and my eyes dark with desire, before smashing my lips back into yours, stealing words in between kisses.

"Is something wrong?"

My question was answered when you stopped kissing back.

I pulled away properly this time, looking at your eyes rather than just your mouth, and felt my stomach tighten when I saw the look on your face. You were scared. Why were you scared? I still don't know the answer to that question.

"Patrick, are you okay?"

You paused for a few seconds, chewing on your swollen lips like you always do when you're nervous. Then, you pushed me away, shooting a hand round me and opening the car door.

"I'm sorry." You whispered, still out of breath, before scrambling out from under me and out of the car.

I watched you hurry away, fumbling with your shirt and your jeans and trying to fix your messed up hair. I was left in the passenger seat, more than half naked, confused and aroused and hurt all at the same time.

Why the fuck would you do that, Patrick? Why would you leave me? I thought you were enjoying it, hell, I could feel you were enjoying it, how could you just push me away?

So instead of being part of the hot couple who were so passionate and spontaneous that they couldn't even wait 'till they were indoors before jumping on each other, I was the sad, lonely creep getting himself off in the parking lot behind some crappy-looking apartment buildings. Brilliant.

-

I tried calling you later that evening, to ask what happened and whether you were alright, but you just dodged my questions with apologies and random ramblings.

So it was obviously something you didn't want to talk about. Or didn't want to talk to me about, anyway. I tried to explain it away to myself, tell myself that it was probably just 'cause you didn't feel like it, or weren't in the mood. But that lie was even less believable than the ones you were spouting.

You acted perfectly normal, though, in the weeks after that. I didn't try anything else, 'cause being rejected was not a nice feeling, and I didn't want to experience it again any time soon. I still kept wondering why, though. Was it me? Were you worried about sex? Were you late for something, did you need the toilet urgently, did you not want to ruin my upholstery? The worst part was, there was this little sly voice in the back of my mind whispering maybe he's cheating.

No. You can't be. I stand by that thought, 'cause I can't bear to doubt you. If I doubt you, I'll have lost the one thing I know I can rely on. You wouldn't do that to me, you wouldn't. Please, please don't do that to me.

Anyway, so I steered clear of any talk of that incident for a while. But, like, the problem was, and still is, that I am very very attracted to you, and sometimes my body likes to express that attraction in inconvenient and embarrassing ways. It's getting ridiculous, sometimes I'll just be watching you, when you're curled up in the corner making music, or brewing yourself some hot chocolate, or just generally wandering about, and my mind will go to bad places and before I know it, I have to run to the bathroom.

Then, there was this other time, on tour, when I thought we might go all the way.

You'd been doing your usual, turning me on without even trying, which would have been a lot easier to deal with if we weren't on stage in front of thousands of people at the time. I can't seem to help it, you're just there, being all sexy and singy and I could see the sweat on your cheeks and your neck and holy fuck it was hot.

So I did my usual and sidled over to you, putting my head on your shoulder and nuzzling your face. But then, I decided to take it a step further, and pressed my lips to your jaw, trailing sloppy kisses along it, feeling the vibrations of your voice through your skin.

"Wait till I get you backstage," I whispered into your ear, biting down on your earlobe. The note you were holding wavered, and you coughed slightly between words. I grinned, forgetting the crowd and the music and everything, and grabbed your ass, something I wouldn't normally do, but felt suddenly compelled to.

You let out what can only be described as a squawk, and elbowed me in the chest, missing most of the pre-chorus. I leapt back to my side of the stage, watching guiltily as you tried to pick the song back up, fumbling with words and strings. Even from all the way over there, I could see your face flush red. And then, against all the odds, you looked right at me and gave me the smallest little smile.

So that pretty much drove me crazy for the rest of the show. You'd smiled, surely that meant you wanted me to fuck your brains out in the dressing room later on? That look in your eyes couldn't have meant much else. I've seen that look before, cast at me from guys at bar stools or across dance floors. It said we're gonna have sex later, and it's gonna be amazing. I began to wish we could play all the songs at double speed just so the end would come quicker. I'm surprised I even made it to the last song, I was nearly passing out from excitement.

When it was finally over, curse the fucking encore, you flashed me that look again, whilst you gave your guitar to one of the stage hands, and pranced off to the dressing rooms. I stared after you for a second, watching as you took your hat off and ran your fingers through your sweat-soaked hair, before realising that my legs could in fact move. I bounced after you, running through the corridors and getting some strange looks from the people buzzing around. I saw you open the dressing room door, and before you went in, you peeked out at me from under your eyelashes, a shy smile playing on your lips.

I pretty much jumped on you as soon as I got inside the room. Grabbing both your hands, I pressed my body against yours, pushing you up against the wall and smashing our mouths together. It was amazing, we were feasting on each other, mixing sweat and saliva, which seems disgusting now, but at the time, it was the hottest thing on the planet.

Unknotting our fingers, I swept your hat off your head and tangled my hands in your hair, pulling as hard as I dared. It must've worked, though, 'cause you moaned into my mouth slid your hands under my shirt, making me shiver and kiss you harder. Our belts couldn't come off fast enough.

And I thought it would be different to the last time. I thought this would be it, 'cause we were so caught up in each other that the outcome should've been inevitable. But it was exactly the same as last time.

I ran my hands up and down your body, clawing at your t-shirt hungrily, kissing you with so much force I probably nearly choked you with my tongue, and pulled back briefly so I could find a nice spot on your neck to leave my mark on, when you went all still again. I could see your face this time, and it was like you'd just remembered something. The deflated realisation spread through your eyes, you let go of me. And yet again, you pushed me away.

"Patrick?" I breathed, watching as you stooped down to get your belt and your hat and made for the door. "Patrick, what's the matter? What's wrong? Wh-"

"I need a shower." You said quickly, and hurried out the door.

What the fuck? What in God's name was that about? I stared after you, feeling a weird combination of really fucking horny and really fucking annoyed. You left me, again. You'd given me the look and everything, everything about your demeanour had said hello, I want you to fuck me, you'd kissed back and you'd pulled me closer and you'd run your hands over my skin. And then you'd changed your mind, just like that. And you wouldn't even fucking tell me why.

I guess that was just the problem; don't get me wrong, I was a bit pissed that you'd left me high and dry, quite literally, but if you'd have given me an actual reason, then I'd have backed off, and we could talk it over. But you never seem to want to talk it over.

Rather than just keep this all cooped up in my head, I decided I needed a second opinion. Admittedly, there were probably better and less biased people I could've asked, but at that time, Joe was the only one around. He was outside the venue, smoking, which usually meant I didn't go near him, but I decided to brave it this time.

"Uh...Pete?" he'd asked, when I sidled up to him awkwardly and sat down on the bench beside him. "Are you okay?"

I sighed. I didn't really know the answer to that, so I just shrugged.

"You want me to put this out?" He gestured to the cigarette between his fingers.

"Uh...yeah, if you wouldn't mind." The smell of smoke was so inviting, I nearly forgot why I was even there. Careful, Pete, careful.

He threw the beautiful thing on the ground and stomped on it. Such a waste.

"So, um...how are you?" He said clumsily, looking as if the last thing in the world he wanted to do was be my therapist. I don't blame him.

"It's...it's Patrick." I sighed.

He suddenly looked a lot more alert. "What about him?" he said, as gently as he could, but his eyes narrowed and I could see the old defensive Joe flaring up.

I tried to put together a sentence which would make this the least awkward, but gave up and just straight out said it. "It's about the sex."

"Nope, nope, not having this conversation with you." He stood up and made disgusted noises.

"Look, I just-"

"No, I'm not giving you tips on how best to fuck my best friend. The image of you two at it like rabbits is not one I'd like to have in my head, okay?" He started to march off.

"No, that's the point, we're not!" I called after him.

He stopped. Ha, I always knew Joe was a sucker for gossip. Turning around, he looked at me suspiciously. "What do you mean, you're not?"

I huffed. "We're not having sex. I've never had sex with him."

He came and sat down next to me again, looking intrigued yet kinda reluctant, as if he knew he shouldn't wanna talk about this, but really wanted to at the same time. "Never?"

I shook my head. "Never."

"But...why?" he said incredulously. "I had visions of you two doing it at every possible opportunity."

"Yeah, well visions are all I've had."

He screwed up his face and swatted my arm. "I can't believe I'm talking about this."

I carried on, though. "Well, we've gone pretty far, I guess, lots of making out and some groping and some blowj -"

"Stop talking now please."

"- but we've never actually, y'know, done it. He keeps pushing me away."

"Pushing you away? What, like, literally?"

"Yeah. Like, we'll both be really into it, and then he'll just stop, and run off, won't even tell me why."

His eyes narrowed. "If you're forcing yourself on him, I'll skin you alive." He looked serious, too.

"No, no, I'm not, I wouldn't do anything if I thought he didn't want to too. He's enjoying it as much as I am, but then he'll just leave."

"Maybe he's playing hard to get." Joe shrugged.

"Why would he do that? I've been in love with him for nearly seven years, I know how hard to get he is."

He nodded thoughtfully. "But, what I don't understand is, you two are like a proper couple, you're like properly besotted with each other, how could you not be having sex? Couples like you are usually all over each other, like, the type that fuck in public places without even caring."

I raised my eyebrows. I didn't know Joe saw us as one of those couples. It was kinda, cool, actually.

"Maybe he's one of those no sex before marriage people."

I laughed. "He's not a virgin."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am very, very sure."

"I dunno, I mean, he's the type, isn't he? All goody two-shoes and stuff."

"Do you remember Emma?"

Joe screwed up his face, trying to think back. I decided to help him out.

"Curly hair, brown eyes? Looked kinda like a mouse?"

He shook his head.

"Massive boobs?"

"Oh, her? Yeah, I remember her. How Patrick managed to get her, I'll never kno- Oh, okay, yeah, no, he's definitely not a virgin." He laughed, then realised what he was saying and contorted his face in disgust.

"So then why wouldn't he wanna have sex with me? He fucked her plenty of times." I felt a shot of jealousy tear through me.

"I dunno. Has he had, uh...the...the other type of sex before?" he said uncomfortably.

"Hmm, maybe not. But, like, it's the same thing, really, just, y'know, a different hole."

Joe made a horrified noise. "Dude! Ew!"

I shrugged. "Well it is!"

"No, look, you know what, I can't do this any more. I'm gonna go find someone who's not gonna talk to me about gay sex." He stood up again, and this time, I let him go.

I sat there, in the autumn chill, watching my breath make little clouds of air, gone in the blink of an eye. Joe's footsteps got quieter and quieter, and I was left alone, again.

Then they started to get louder.

"Hey, Pete," he called, his figure becoming clearer as he jogged back towards me.

"Joe? What's happened?"

"Hey," he sat down next to me again, but turned to face me. The look in his eyes was deadly serious. "Uh...Pete...do you think maybe...maybe the reason he doesn't wanna go all the way is because of...y'know, what happened before?"

I gave him a puzzled look. "What do you mean, what happened before?"

He bit his lip. "Well...what you did to him."

I ran my thoughts back through everything that Joe could be referring to. Then I realised. I'd tried to rape you.

Shit.

Of course. Of course that's why.

"Oh god. Oh my god." I covered my mouth with my hands. Tears sprung to my eyes.

I heard Joe breathe out slowly, and tried my damnedest not to cry in front of him.

"I'm so stupid. I'm so fucking stupid." My voice shook, and I put my head in my hands so he wouldn't see the tears falling. How the hell had I not realised that? I'd been ready to accuse you of cheating. This is all my fault.

Then, I felt Joe put an arm gently round my shoulders. "Just talk it over with him, okay?"

I nodded. I'll talk to you, tell you how sorry I am. Hope you'll forgive me. I'm sorry you're always the one that's gotta be forgiving.

"You must think I'm disgusting." I whimpered into Joe's shoulder.

He didn't say anything.

-

I didn't talk it over with you, though. Not right then. I couldn't bring myself to do it, couldn't bear to remind myself of how I used to be. So I kept putting it off. I tried to make it up to you indirectly, giving you lots of hugs making sure I told you how beautiful you are every single day.

But, even after tour, it was always kinda just there. I knew we needed to talk, and I think so did you, but you never said anything, so neither did I. I just went home to my empty house. And, to top it all off, my plant was all wilted and shrivelled. It used to be big and green and there it was, just kinda brown-looking. I gave it a load of water, and now it's looking a bit better, there are some new leaves growing on it, so I figured if I just keep making sure it has enough water then it should be fine. Anyway, enough about my horticultural hobbies.

I hated that there was this barrier between us. You don't seem to realise what you do to me when we kiss, it's like Doritos, I can't just have one then leave it. I always want more. Especially because you're definitely hot chilli flavour, and those ones are my favourite.

So, I decided that I had to talk to you about this.

-

I finally plucked up the courage today, on the very last day of the year.

We'd been to your family's place for Christmas, which was amazing, as promised, and I think, well, I hope I managed to make it up to your parents. They were more smiley and huggy than they'd been at your birthday, and your mum seemed to be fine. Your dad was a bit more frosty, so I steered clear of him. But it wasn't quite like the last time. There wasn't that same feeling of welcome, more just reluctant acceptance.

Anyway, we'd decided to go home for new year. Some places had invited us to some parties, but we'd agreed to just have a quiet one, 'cause new year parties are a big no no when it comes to drinks, and I wasn't sure if I was quite ready for that. The only drinks we had were hot chocolate, and they were fucking good as well.

It was early evening, and we were both cuddled up on the couch, just kinda thinking about stuff, I guess. You were curled in my arms, with your head on my chest, and I could feel you breathing, it was so peaceful I nearly fell asleep. I didn't though, 'cause I knew tonight was when I'd have to talk to you. I figured if I didn't do it this year, I'd never do it. 

I tried to plan what to say, and predict what you were gonna say, but it was pointless. As it turned out, I was not at all prepared for this conversation.  

Finally, after a lot of mental countdowns, I spoke.

"Hey, Patrick, can we talk?"

You lifted your head to look up at me, eyes half-lidded, and nodded slowly, sitting up a bit more so you could see me better. "What's up?"

"Uh...well..." I swallowed hard, "I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

You gave me a puzzled look. "What for?"

"For...uh...for..." I trailed off, trying to find a better way to express this. "Look, I know why you don't wanna have sex with me."

I don't know how I thought you'd react, but it wasn't like this.

You sat straight up and looked straight at me, anxiety filling your face, before shooting down to the other end of the couch and bringing your knees up to your chest.

"Wha- how?" You squeaked. I just sort of sat there, bewildered, but tried to stay calm all the same. This wasn't how I thought you'd react.

"Well, I guess I kinda just worked it out. Joe helped, though."

"Joe knows too?"

"Yeah, he was the one that suggested it in the first place. And I just wanna say that I'm sorry, and now I completely get it."

You looked uncertain. "You- You do?"

"Yeah, Patrick, of course I do. If it was me, I'd find it really fucking horrible."

"So...it bothers you?"

"Of course it bothers me! I hate it, baby, I really fucking hate it!" I said frustratedly, more at myself that you.

You just sat there, staring at me with wide eyes. I wonder if you were scared of me then. It kills me to think you were.

"Look, I'm sorry I ever even tried to be, uh, intimate with you. It's just...disgusting, I guess. Joe thinks so too." I found everything about my past self disgusting.

"D-disgusting?" You whispered. And I swear to god there were tears in your eyes. Why the hell were you the one crying?

"Yeah, I just can't believe I..." I couldn't bear to think about it, think about you, so I just gazed down into my lap and felt the guilt consuming me. "I can't even look at you." I laughed bitterly.

"Wh-what?" You breathed, your voice shaking. That's about when I started to realise something wasn't quite right.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you." I said, reaching a hand out towards you gently.

You looked at me like I'd just pointed a gun in your face.

I felt my chest tighten. "Baby, don't cry, please."

You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came out. Your bottom lip wobbled, and you bit down on it hard, shutting your eyes and putting your forehead to your knees. Then, you let out a hoarse whisper. "I knew it."

"Knew what?" I asked, becoming more and more confused and worried with every passing second.

The look in your eyes was nothing but frustrated sadness, like the look Atlas would give someone if they told him he was carrying quite a heavy load.

I shuffled down the sofa a bit, holding my arms out to try and hug you. You stared at me. Then you shook your head, and before I could react, you shot from the sofa and ran out of the room. I heard your bedroom door slam shut.

I sat in blank silence for what felt like years, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Why had you been the one to get upset? I thought I was gonna cry as soon as I said that first sentence. And you looked so fucking scared. I feel sick when I think about that.

After a while, I decided I couldn't just sit there any longer. I went to your bedroom door, not daring to open it, but knocking instead.

"Patrick? Patrick, please, talk to me." I called, stroking the door as if it would relay the message to you.

I was answered with cold silence.

So here I am.

I'm trying to figure out why you got so upset. Was it the mere thought of what I did? Did I hurt you that bad? I can feel the self-hatred flaring up again.

I don't understand, I thought I was better, but here I am, still causing you pain. And you won't talk to me. Why won't you talk to me? I need you, I need you to come out here and tell me what's going on, what you're thinking, what I'm doing wrong. I'll follow your every word, even if what's wrong is that I'm still breathing.

I can't stand this. I've gotta go in. I've gotta stop writing this stupid fucking letter, and go sort out this mess.

I'm gonna help. I've gotta help, or I'll go insane.

I'm gonna go in.

From Pete.