Dear Patrick,

I shouldn't have let you put the pillow away.

-

It happened just after new year. Our families had all gone home, and we finally had the house to ourselves again. There'd been a lot of trips to the studio, getting stuff done for the record, 'cause we decided it'd be a good idea to announce the whole reunion thing to anyone that still cares sometime next month.

Anyway, productivity was in the air, and I decided to take advantage of your heightened mental activity to get you to actually finish moving in. You'd done pretty well, most of your stuff was out of boxes and it nearly looked like we hadn't just arrived here. But there was one box left. Just one. I think you deliberately left it there just to annoy me.

It was in the bedroom, next to your side of the bed. It wasn't in the way of anything. It just sat there, looking at me, saying oh, aren't I untidy? Don't I just completely ruin the look of your lovely tidy house? It was so fucking irritating.

"Patrick, can you please, please, unpack that box?" I whined at you for the thousandth time, hoping maybe, just maybe you might listen to me this once.

"I will, honestly," you'd replied innocently as we'd arrived back from the studio, but when you took your shoes off, you showed no sign of heading upstairs.

"You always say that," I sulked, folding my arms and following you into the lounge.

"Yeah, and you always say you'll take my opinions into account," you scathed, sticking out your jaw.

I groaned. Not this again. "Listen, we had a vote, and you lost. It's democracy, okay?"

"I don't care about democracy, I care about -"

"Getting your own way," I finished. "And that's how dictatorships happen."

"Oh fuck off," you snapped, hurling yourself into the armchair.

Sighing, I leant against the sofa, watching you deliberately avoid my gaze. "I just don't understand why you hate it so much."

You pressed your thumbs into your eyes. "It's not that. It's just...I thought you guys liked The Phoenix."

"We do like it, of course we like it, it wouldn't be going on the record if we didn't," I said, letting out an exasperated laugh.

"Then why can't that one be the single?!" you pouted, pulling your annoying toddler face.

So I pulled my annoying parent face. "Because we had a vote, Patrick, and everybody wants My Songs!"

"Ugh," you huffed, slumping in the chair. "You're wrong."

I smiled, watching you trying to think of some other argument, but decided to take pity on you. "Listen, we can have that one as the next single."

You sat up a little, narrowing your eyes. "You promise?"

This is getting ridiculous. "Well I can't guarantee it, obviously! But, like, I'll fight your corner, I promise."

Crossing your arms, you shifted to the edge of the chair. "I want it first on the album, too."

"Oh for fuck's sake! You can't make all these decisions!" I exclaimed, running my fingers through my hair.

You shook your head. "No, I want it first."

"I don't care! That's a choice for the whole band, Patrick."

"The Phoenix goes first on the album, or I will fight you on My Songs until the day you die," you said delicately, raising an eyebrow at me and leaning back in your chair.

Wondering how the hell you'd managed to end up with the control, I puffed a breath through my nose. "Look, I'll see what I can do about getting Phoenix as the second single, if we even have one, but we haven't even finalised which songs are gonna be on the record yet, we shouldn't even think about openers."

You just shook your head again.

"For fuck's sake, a single for a single, that's a fair trade!"

Shifting in the chair, you threw your legs over one of the arms, and tilted your head back over the other, closing your eyes. "Okay. What about this, then -"

"No, Patrick, I'm done talking."

"- make Phoenix the opening track, and I'll let you do whatever you want to me."

That got my attention.

You hadn't moved from the chair, your eyes still closed and your hands resting behind your head. The part of my brain usually responsible for ripping your clothes off gave me the side-eye. Great. He just had to pull the sex card, didn't he.

"Whatever I want," I said slowly, and I saw you smile the tiniest bit.

"Whatever you want," you clarified, stretching your feet out and flexing your toes.

I tried my best to play your game. "Just once, or more than that?"

"Make it good, and it might become a regular thing," you purred, and I became suddenly aware of your legs, the curves of your calves and the thickness of your thighs.

My mind ran away with itself; all my dirtiest fantasies coming to life before my eyes, all the things I could do to you, I could make you fuck me in a public place, I could make you stay naked all day and suck me off whenever I felt like it, hell, I could dress you up in slutty lingerie and make you strip for me.

But there was one thing that sprung to mind.

"Can I tie you up?"

Your eyes slid open and you bit your lip. "If you'd like."

My heart did this little excited flip, sending a tingling feeling straight into my pants. Holy shit he said yes. I started towards you, wanting to touch you already, almost drooling at the thought of what you were gonna let me do.

But you held up a hand, stopping me in my tracks. "Phoenix is second single and opening track."

Oh, yeah. I'd forgotten about that. I tore my gaze from you and tried to think reasonably. I don't dictate the singles, all of us do. I don't dictate the tracklistings, either. But, then, if I argued for you, the other two would probably back down, and we could get our way. I mean, it'd make a good opener, no doubt about that. I winced at the thought of just giving in to you like that, though, I was completely wrapped around your finger, and the reasonable part of my brain was screaming at me to do something, other than just gawk at you.

"No," I said as firmly as I could, crossing my arms, expecting you to explode on me.

But you just laughed softly, closing your eyes again and slipping your tongue over your lips. "Okay then. You don't get to tie me up."

"Okay then," I nodded, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my pants. Why? Why the hell did I say no to that?! It's just a song, for god's sake, let him have his way, he's probably right anyway!

"Your call," you shrugged, "although, it is a shame. I was rather looking forward to you binding me and fucking me unconscious. You'd have had complete power over me, all I'd have been able to do is writhe underneath you as you touched me, spread and naked and only yours, your very own helpless whore-"

"Fine!" I pretty much shrieked at you, my head spinning with your words. "Fine, you win! Phoenix can go first, and it'll be the next single, whatever you want, just please let me fuck you right now!"

Despite my weakened knees, I managed to stumble towards you, hearing you yelp in surprise as I slid my hands underneath you and picked you up.

"Thank you," you grinned up at me, looping your arms around my neck and blinking angelically.

I scowled. "You play a cruel game, Stump."

You just giggled, nestling your face into my chest as I nearly ran towards the staircase, hopping up the stairs as fast as I could without jostling you around too much.

The bedroom seemed to take far too long to get to, but when we were finally there, I pretty much threw you down on the bed and smashed my lips against yours, one hand clutching the back of your head, the other scrabbling at the hem of your t-shirt.

"Off. Take it off," I mumbled against your mouth, before dragging myself away from you and leaping towards the wardrobe to find something to tie you up with.

The best I could do was an actual tie; I couldn't find any rope or anything so it would have to do. I made a mental note to stock up for next time.

By the time I'd got back to the bed, you were shirtless and looking expectant.

"So, uh, how do you wanna do this?" I asked uncertainly, twining the tie between my fingers. "Like, on your knees, or your back, or your front...?"

You shrugged. "You tell me, you're the boss."

A shiver ran through me when I saw the spark in your eyes, and I tried desperately to think straight. It was like trying to pick the best song off your favourite record, I just couldn't decide.

"Your front," I said finally, and you obliged, flopping backwards onto the pillows and rolling over.

Sitting on the backs of your thighs, I picked up your arms, pressing your wrists together behind your back and wrapping the tie around them, tight as I dared, knotting it roughly and dropping your hands so they rested on your lower back.

Lifting your hips a little, I ran my fingers down your sides and hooked them into your jeans, feeling you shiver, seeing the muscles in your back tense.

Agonisingly slowly, I teased your jeans and underwear down a little, exposing the curve of your ass and feeling my own jeans tighten at the sight.

"Hurry up," I heard you whine, your voice muffled by the pillows.

"Nope," I smirked, wanting to get my revenge for your little seductive stunt. "I'm the boss, remember?"

You huffed slightly, then let out a moan as I leant down and licked at the base of your spine, your hips jerking forward into the mattress, searching for friction.

I let go of you quickly. "No, you can't do that. No getting yourself off unless I say so, it's against the rules."

"What rules?" you spat indignantly, turning your head to glare at me.

"My rules. And they specifically state that if you do that, I'm at perfect liberty to just tie you to the bed and leave you here, begging for it," I smiled, feeling like I was getting the hang of this.

You scowled, but I saw the giggles behind your eyes, the amusement at how into this we were both getting. "Fair enough. Oh, hey, you can spank me too if you want," you chirped, breaking character and pondering the thought.

I screwed my face up. "Really? You'd want that?"

"I don't know, maybe."

Looking down at your body beneath me, I thought for a second. We'd done a lot of stuff, like, sex-wise, but we'd never done this. I'd always liked the idea of tying you up, but beyond that, I wasn't sure. The whole punishment thing was something I'd only really done with Mikey, never with you. I guess I never really saw us as that type of couple.

I stroked a hand across your hips, trailing my fingers along your spine and resting them lightly on your butt, wondering what it would be like to slap it, see it wobble, leave a red mark, leave a bruise. And suddenly, I felt this twist of utter revulsion inside me.

I couldn't. Even in a completely different context, I just couldn't. The thought of my hands leaving marks on you again made me want to throw up.

"I don't think I want to do that," I said quietly, watching the gentle flex of your muscles as you breathed.

You twisted your neck to look at me, and I could see the understanding in your eyes. "Okay," you said softly, giving me a sad smile.

"I love you," I murmured, leaning down again and placing a kiss on your back, floating my hands underneath you and grazing your stomach.

"I love you too," you replied, "but could you please get on with it?"

I laughed, suddenly remembering that your hands were bound behind your back and I was supposed to be living my fantasy by now.

My arousal came rushing back, and I ducked my head down to brush my lips further and further down the bumps of your spine, occasionally flicking my teeth into your skin and feeling you tense up.

I was determined to make you scream without being touched at all, so I pulled your jeans down to your knees and ghosted my fingers across the insides of your thighs. It was such a small thing, but it made you moan into the pillows, your wrists straining against the knots.

Everything had to be done slowly, I decided, that was the best way to savour this. I sat back and waited for a few seconds, wanting to torture you to the point of begging.

But in doing this, I made the fatal mistake of flicking my gaze around the room. And, out the corner of my eye, I saw that box. That stupid fucking box. That you still hadn't unpacked.

I told myself it didn't matter. I could nag you about it later. I pressed my lips to your butt, my hand cupping the other cheek, massaging it with my fingers. The box was still there, though.

Look at it. All smug and boxy. Ugh. I could make him unpack it, this is the one time I could make him tidy something. If he's willing to give up his body just to get his song on the record, surely he'd be willing to unpack one box?

"The fuck are you doing?" you asked, and I realised I'd been using your butt as a pillow, we were literally cheek to cheek and my hand was still settled at the top of your thigh.

"Uh...sorry," I mumbled, sitting up, so wanting to just fuck you into oblivion but at the same time, wanting this to be perfect, without distractions like stupid boxes.

"Is there something wrong with my ass?" you asked, laughing a little.

"No, no, your ass is perfect, it's just... Patrick, can you please unpack that box?"

"Is that a euphemism?"

"No, that box, over there, the one that's been here for four months."

You looked round at me, then at the box, then at me again, incredulous. "Now?!"

I groaned, my crotch repeatedly screaming what are you doing?! What the fuck are you doing?!, and climbed off you, meeting your mildly horrified gaze, half your face buried in the pillows.

"Pete? If you want me to beg, I'll beg, please, please fuck me oh my god, please," you said, desperation in your voice.

Sighing, I started to rub slow circles on your hip, every muscle in my body wanting to just jump on you and forget about the box, but I couldn't, it's like when you become aware of your blinking, and suddenly it's all you can think about. And if you were gonna let me fuck you like this, I didn't want any distractions.

"I'm sorry, Patrick, I just...it's just so annoying, and I can't stop thinking about it, and I really wanna make this amazing but I can't if it's there and you said if it was good you might let me do it again and you have no idea how much I want this to be a regular thing and I swear to god, if you'd just unpack the box, we'll do it properly after, I'm gonna make you feel so good, I promise, just can we please get rid of the box before we do this?" I babbled, arousal starting to realise I was a lost cause.

You were staring at me like I'd just been speaking Latin, your fingers twitching where they'd been tied, your eyebrows raised a little bit. Then you burst out laughing.

"You're such a fucking idiot, I really hate you," you giggled, promptly flopping to the side and attempting to shake your head at me. "It seriously bothers you that much?"

I nodded. "Sorry."

"Jesus Christ. Is it like your symmetry obsession?"

"Lots of people have that, it's not just me!" I protested, waving my arms at you.

You huffed into the pillow. "You're lucky I'm in a good mood, or I'd have kicked your ass for fucking stopping. Will you at least jack me off?"

"No, no, let's wait, then it'll be better after."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Please? You did say I could do anything," I reasoned.

You mumbled something at me that definitely contained the word dickhead, but sighed a fine eventually.

"Love you," I beamed, hopping off the bed towards the box, willing the bulge in my pants to go away, and looking back at you expectantly, raising my eyebrows.

"Well are you gonna fucking untie me?!" you snapped, wriggling about on the bed.

Oops. "Oh yeah," I grinned, and sat back down on the bed beside you, reaching for your wrists.

Wishing I hadn't tied the knots quite so well, I wrestled with them, finally getting my fingers under one of the loops and pulling until I could unwrap the tie, watching your shoulders relax.

Unwinding the final loop, I tossed the makeshift rope to the side, and heard you breathe out, sitting up and stretching your arms. The tie had left red marks ringed around your wrists, and I immediately grabbed them, massaging the skin and cursing myself for binding you so tight.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, trying to get rid of the marks and failing.

Your gaze flicked from my fingers on your wrists to my face, and you laughed slightly. "It's okay, Pete, I'm not made of glass."

I pressed a kiss to each of your hands, then gave them back to you, letting you pull your pants back up and shove your t-shirt back over your head.

"Okay, let's unpack this fucking box," you sighed, rolling your eyes at me and sliding off the bed, looking at the box with narrowed eyes. "You deprived me of sex," you growled at it, picking at the brown tape on the top.

It was no match for us, though. The box turned out to contain a load of weird ornaments you had no idea what to do with, my electric razor which I thought I'd lost when we moved and had to replace, a single pillow, and a Christmas wreath.

"Patrick, why is there no discernible order to your packing?" I'd asked, as you took the easy option of the pillow and left me trying to stop pine needles getting all over the floor.

"I like to keep things interesting," you shrugged, rummaging through the wardrobe.

"But wouldn't it have been easier to put all the Christmas stuff together? That way we wouldn't've had to buy another wreath."

"Sometimes, we must choose between what is right, and what is easy," you said in deep voice.

"Don't quote Albus Dumbledore at me," I tutted, "plus, in this case, tidiness is easy and right."

"So is sex, and you didn't wanna do that earlier. Where the fuck do the pillows go?"

"Top left. And I did wanna do that, I just wanted it to be perfect."

"Where does perfection fall between right and easy, then? Are you sure, I can only see a duvet up here?"

The wreath chose this moment to fall out of my hands, sending needles everywhere and sending me scrabbling to pick them up. "I don't know, ask Dumbledore. He knows best. The pillows are underneath the duvet."

"Nah, Dumbledore was kind of an asshole. Ask McGonagall, she's more reliable. I swear to god the pillows are not here. Maybe they're behind the duvet..."

I screwed my face up at you. "Dumbledore was not an asshole. He did the right thing for everyone. Careful with the duvet."

As if on cue, the duvet fell from where it was wedged and flopped on top of you. I heard a muffled fuck, and you wrestled with it, shoving it off you as I pretty much died of laughter.

"I told you so."

"Fuck off," you snapped, craning your neck to peer at the shelf. "What the hell is that thing at the back?"

I shrugged and resumed my pine-needle pile, placing each one directly on top of another until the pile got too tall and they all toppled over.

"Dumbledore was an asshole. Hagrid, he's the good guy. Oh, look, another box, that's just what we need."

I nodded at the floor. "Well, yeah, Hagrid's great, but Dumbledore kinda saved the whole world."

"Ugh, the whole time Dumbledore acted like he was looking out for Harry, but he fucking knew what was gonna happen. Hagrid was the one who actually cared. I've never seen this box before. What's even in here?"

"I don't know, probably more of your fucking junk," I huffed, "and the point was, that Dumbledore did the right thing even though it wasn't the easiest thing."

"Oh, listen to Mr. Philosopher over there," you said, and even though I wasn't looking at you, I could see the eye-roll. "And this is not my junk, this is your junk. What is this, lyrics?"

"Excuse me, you are the primary junk-keeper in this house. And I am the primary philosopher." I proceeded to arrange the needles into a flower shape, liking the smell of them. "I nominate you to go put this in the loft with the rest of the Christmas decorations."

I expected some kind of complaint from the other side of the room, but all I got was silence.

"I said, you're gonna put this in the loft, okay?" I repeated, still engrossed in my flower arranging. I wish I'd have looked up sooner.

More silence.

"Patrick?"

"What the fuck is this?" I heard you whisper.

I finally looked across the room at you. And when I saw you, it felt like a bucket of ice water had been tipped over the top of me.

You were standing next to the open wardrobe door, the duvet and the pillow at your feet, as well as an open, wooden box. In your hands, you held a sheet of crumpled paper. You'd found my letters.

No. Oh, fuck no.

I sprang up off the floor and hurtled towards you, hands outstretched, but you sidestepped me and darted across the room, eyes trained on the paper.

"Patrick, put that down, please, don't-"

"Hey Stump," you read, your voice shaking along with your hands. "Did you honestly believe that I want to waste any more of my time on you?"

"No, no, please, don't, Patrick-"

"You're so stupid...I don't give a shit about you anymore...you think you're worth waiting for, you think I actually want you to love me..." you swallowed hard, breathing out slowly. "What the fuck?"

I took a few steps towards you, my hands clasped in front of me. "Please, listen, it's nothing, it's from ages ago, please-"

"As always, you were a let down," you choked out, "and you know better than anyone that disappointment is your middle name. Disappointment," you repeated slowly, your eyes distraught.

"No, no, it's not what it looks like, I swear, Patrick, please!" I made another lunge at you, but you backed away.

"Get away from me," you spat, and holy fuck did that hurt. "You...you wrote this?"

I straightened up, breathing hard and pleading with my eyes. "Yes, ages ago, I did, but you weren't meant to read it, oh god..."

"Then why's it addressed to me?!" you cried, your voice raised and your eyes wide.

"Because, I started to write them in order to-"

"Them? There's more of these?"

"Yes, but-"

"You think I'm stupid," you said quietly, gaze drifting to the floor.

It was like a punch in the stomach. "No, of course not, of course I don't think that," I begged, wanting to rush and hug you but knowing you'd push me away. I hadn't felt like that in years.

"Then why did you write it?! Why have you written such horrible things about me? I thought you loved me!" you yelled, clutching the paper tight and staring at me, your whole body tense.

I nearly burst into tears there and then. "Of course I love you, I love you more than anything, please, they're not all like that, there's nice ones too, I swear, of course I love you, oh god I love you so much!"

You just kept scanning the letter, though, and I could see you reading and re-reading those lines, see the panic on your face. I could see us falling apart.

"What the fuck is this?" you shrieked again, clutching a hand to your face as you read more of my poisonous words. I opened my mouth to say something, but your voice dropped suddenly. "This is about Mikey."

Oh shit, it's that one. "No, no, Patrick, it's not what it looks like, I was in a bad place when I wrote that, you know I was, please-"

"The most perfect man you'd ever seen..." you said shakily, taking another few steps back from me.

"It's bullshit, Patrick, it's all bullshit," I insisted, my brain screaming why didn't I lock the box? Why did I even keep the letters anyway?!

"So...so you wrote this when you first met him?" you asked slowly, not looking at me.

I tried desperately to compose myself. "Yes, yes, it was years ago now, I don't think those things anymore. Please, just let me explain."

"Is this the worst one?"

I bit my lip, unable to stop guilt sinking through my face.

The hurt that flashed in your eyes tore me in two. "Pete, I..." you trailed off, your voice breaking up. "I don't...understand."

"Okay," I nodded, swallowing hard. "Okay. I know this looks bad, but please, let me explain. Please."

Your gaze moved between me and the paper in your hands, and I could see the horrible things I'd written bouncing around your mind. But, to my utter relief, you looked up at me and mumbled, "Okay."

I breathed out, the knot in my stomach loosening a little. "Thank you, thank you so much, okay, uh..." I frantically tried to figure out how the hell I was gonna have this conversation with you. "Uh, why don't you sit down," I said, motioning towards the bed.

You nodded slowly, not saying anything as you started to walk across the room. You kept your distance from me.

Trying my utmost not to let the tears stinging my eyes fall, I paced over to the wardrobe and picked up the box, shuffling the papers inside it and wishing I could go back in time and burn it.

Setting it down on the bed, I sat across from you, careful not to get too close. Your expression was unreadable, your gaze settling on the box.

"Okay, so," I sighed, wondering where to start. "Uh, so, like, when...when I first started to like you, what was it, ten years ago? I freaked out. I'd never been in love with anyone before, y'know, and you were way younger than me and you were in my damn band and stuff...and I got scared, I was feeling all this stuff and I didn't even know I liked guys and I didn't really know what to do, y'know?"

I paused to look at you, but your expression hadn't changed, the letter still clasped between your fingers.

"So, I, uh, I really wanted to get over you, and, uh, I tried a lot of stuff, like, not talking to you or trying to get with other people, but it didn't work. Then I read this one thing that said I could, like, write everything down, y'know, as if I was talking to you, then just lock it up and forget about it. And, uh, I liked writing, so I gave it a go.

"I mean, obviously, it didn't work," I laughed slightly, then stopped when you didn't look up, "but it just sorta became a thing I did to figure out stuff, like, get it straight in my head. They're all to you."

"How many are there?" you said quietly, finally glancing at me.

I stared at the pile of paper, every piece covered in my handwriting. "I dunno. A lot. Ten years worth of stuff."

You chewed on your lips, probably trying to take this all in. "Okay...are they all...like this one?" you asked, gesturing at the letter in your hand.

"No! No, of course not. That one...that one was written when, well, when I was trying to convince myself I didn't love you. I swear, all that horrible stuff is just me talking bullshit, acting like I didn't care about you." It was just my luck you happened to read that one first.

"Okay," you said slowly, nodding a little. "So they're kinda like diary entries?"

"Yeah, kinda," I replied, relieved that you'd started to talk more.

"You kept this a secret for ten years..."

"Well...yeah. I'm sorry, I just...no-one wants to find out their lover writes creepy letters to them behind their back. I didn't wanna freak you out." Like I have right now.

"So...you've never told anyone?"

I shook my head. "I never really consciously kept them a secret, they're just a private thing, I guess. Oh, wait, Joe found one, once. He's never asked me about them again, though, so I don't think he knows I still write them sometimes."

"How often?"

"I don't know, it depends. Sometimes a lot happens quite quickly, so there's lots, then there's others that are, like, years apart. The last one I wrote was Christmas, I think."

You nodded again, still looking unsure, but the horror was fading from your face. "How come I never noticed?"

I shrugged. "I guess I usually write them late at night, or when no-one's around. Or, you probably have seen me do it, but it looks like I'm just writing lyrics or something. I honestly never set out to lie to you, they're just sort of a thing I do, that no-one else knows about, like when you talk to yourself when no-one's listening."

"O-okay," you stammered, "so, when you write them now, what do you write about?"

"I dunno, stuff that bothers me, bad stuff that's happened, good stuff that's happened. Anything, really. They are still mostly...mostly about you, though."

"So you've spent ten years bitching about me, basically," you said suddenly, starting to panic again studying the letter in your hand.

"No, no, I promise, the good ones far outweigh the bad ones, I never wrote them to hurt your feelings, just to get my own feelings sorted out," I protested, trying to save it. "I just...I'm a writer, y'know, that's how I express myself, I guess, like you with your music."

You bit your lip again, and I studied your face for any signs of tears. There were some in your eyes, but they hadn't spilled yet, and I was determined they weren't ever going to. "Okay," you said softly, frowning at the box.

I ran a hand across my face. "Patrick, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. Listen, we can move on from this, we'll just burn the whole box and forget it ever happened, I'll never write another one, if that's what you want. Just tell me what you want."

"No, I, uh," you started, then shook your head. "I don't, uh...can - can I read them?"

My eyebrows shot up my head. "Do you want to read them?" I asked, incredulous.

You looked nervous, but watched me steadily anyway. "Do you want me to read them?"

I frowned. "Well...I don't know, I mean...they're kinda private, I guess." They were pretty much an insight into my head, everything I felt but never said.

"Okay," you nodded, "that's okay, I get that."

"Really?" I said with disbelief.

"Yeah, it's okay. They're private, I understand that. Just... do you still write ones like this one?"

"No. Don't even think for a second that any of that stuff is true, I was stupid and drunk and messed up, please, you know I don't think those things about you. You're everything to me."

Your eyes lightened at that, and something like a smile appeared on your face. "Thank you. Okay." You placed the letter in your hands back in the box.

My heart lifted. "Wait - so, so...we're okay? You're - you're not gonna leave me?"

You shook your head at me. "Of course not, moron. You're a bit creepier than you were before, but - no, we're okay."

I almost fainted with sheer relief. "Oh thank god, thank you, holy shit, it was touch and go there for a minute, holy crap..."

Holding my arms out, I made towards you a little, looking hopeful. You smiled a little, then shoved the box out of the way and returned the hug. It was a little hesitant, but it was a hug all the same, and I felt myself realising yet again how lucky I am to have you.

And then I thought wait a second. These letters spill everything, all my thoughts and feelings and whatever, for the most part, they are the stark truth of who I am, I guess. And didn't you deserve to know that? In fact, didn't I want you to know that?

When we broke the hug, you sat back on your feet, still with an air of shell-shock about you, but looking like you'd calmed down.

"Actually, uh...I think I do want you to read them," I fumbled, glancing at the box.

"Are - are you sure?" you said sceptically, looking a bit scared.

"Only if you want to, obviously. And if you don't wanna read the bad ones, that's fine too. I dunno, I just feel like we shouldn't have secrets from each other."

Uncertainty was still plastered all over your face, but you smiled a bit. "Okay. Okay, yeah, I agree with that. Can - can I just read a couple, then see?"

"Yeah, yeah of course," I reached for the box, rifling through it, until my fingers hit the velvet at the bottom of it. Then I scooped the whole lot out, and dumped them in the middle of us.

"Fuck," you said, puffing a laugh through your nose. "Which one's first?"

"Uh..." I reached for the letter at the bottom of the pile. It was the shortest, so it was probably the first. It was all crumpled and the handwriting was awful, but I handed it to you all the same.

You looked quite terrified as you took it, sitting cross-legged and starting to read. I looked at the pile in front of me, then realised holy fuck, I gotta put this lot in order.

"Just some stupid kid?" you read suddenly, sounding annoyed. "Thanks a bunch."

"Sorry. I - I think there's quite a lot of that to start with," I said, wincing.

But then, you looked up from the paper, nodding. "Well, okay, that wasn't as bad as I thought."

"You want the next one?"

"Uh...yeah, okay, go on then," you said, placing the letter to one side. The second one was just the next one up, maybe this wouldn't be as difficult to order as I thought.

You took it from me, the page filled with more scribbles this time, on both sides.

I gradually built up a little pile, going last to first so you'd just be able to pick the next one off the top.

"Hey, my taste in hats is second to none," you asserted, scowling at the paper. "A dressed-up marshmallow?!" you shrieked a little later, gawking at me. "That's what you thought of me when you first met me, a dressed up marshmallow?"

I made to apologise, but I saw the laughter in your eyes, so I just shrugged and said, "I like marshmallows."

You kept smiling as you read, occasionally humming little noises of recognition or puffing laughs through your nose. Then you stopped, looking straight at me.

"You - you seriously thought I was that good?" you breathed, pointing at the bit where I'd described your voice as a sunset or something.

I nodded, remembering what it'd been like when I'd first heard you sing. I stand by every word of my poetic bullshit. "Yeah. Boy, am I glad we made you the singer."

You rolled your eyes at me, but I saw the pink in your cheeks.

It didn't go away, either, as you started on the next one, putting your fingers to your lips to hide your grin.

By the time it was dark outside, you'd ploughed through quite a few of them, and I'd piled them all up neatly, which was difficult because they're all written on different types of paper, some tiny little scraps which you can hardly read, some on hotel paper, or hospital paper, even one that's on a huge reel of loo paper.

I sat beside you, reading a book, the pillows propped up behind us, shoulder to shoulder. Every so often you'd make little comments ("How drunk were you when you wrote this?" "Shit, I ruined our first kiss big time," "Uh oh," "You were so right about her,") or ask me what the hell that word said, or I'd feel you tense up at something horrible I'd written, and reassure you that it was not in the slightest bit true.

"Ugh, I'm so annoying," you'd laughed, when you'd reached my complaints about your perfectionism. "That's one thing that's true."

"Yup," I grinned, 'cause it wasn't worth lying about. I went back to my book. I didn't notice your smile disappearing.

In fact, I didn't notice that anything was wrong until I heard you say my name very quietly.

"Yeah," I responded, looking over at you. Oh, shit. You were clasping the paper tight, your other hand pressed over your mouth, muffled sobs spilling between your fingers, and tears streaking your face. "Patrick, what...?"

You leant into me, your fingers twisting in my shirt, dropping the letter and hugging me tight. I wrapped an arm around your shoulders, putting my book down and reaching for the letter.

Oh. Oh, yeah. It was the one I'd never finished, the one that was nearly my last. I'm so glad it wasn't.

"I'm so sorry, Pete," you choked, "I should've helped, I should've realised...you are supposed to live, you are."

"I know," I said, nodding at you. "I know that now."

I let you cry for a little longer, holding you tight and stroking my fingers through your hair. Then, I reached for the next letter, handing it to you. "Read this one. It's better, I promise."

You nodded, but didn't move. By the time you'd finished that one, it was getting late, and your tears were slowing, interrupted by smiles and the occasional yawn.

That night, we each slept in the other's arms.

-

Over the next few weeks, you made your way through all of them, usually reading them in the evenings when we're slumped in front of the TV together. I like to be near you when you're reading them, just so I can clarify stuff and make sure you're okay with all of this.

I can usually tell whereabouts you've got to by how close you sit to me; sometimes you'll be cuddled right up close, like you're making sure I can't disappear. That's usually during the ones where I was drunk or depressed or both.

Sometimes, you'll just sit next to me, grinning from ear to ear, and I love that 'cause I can feel you buzzing with happiness, occasionally returning compliments and kisses. I like the comments you make, I think you sometimes forget it's about us, and huff things like Oh for fuck's sake, just break up with her already! or Kiss him, you idiot, fucking kiss him! or your rather horrified cry of You wrote about us having sex?!

Then there's the other times. I'd been dreading it, because I knew you were getting close, and I think so had you, 'cause you knew the one you'd found first was coming up soon.

I'd told you that some were horrible. And not just mean, but deeply insulting, picking on your personality, your looks, your weight. I'd told you not to read them, to skip past them 'cause everything I'd written was lies, but you insisted. I don't really blame you, if it was me I'd have probably done the same.

-

It took you a couple of evenings to get through them, and both nights, you sat at the opposite end of the couch. It was awful to watch. You didn't cry, you just sorta frowned, a dead look in your eyes the whole time. Sometimes you'd stop reading halfway through, taking a few moments to calm your breathing down.

"I'm okay, I just need some space," you'd said, when I tried to comfort you. I think of everything I'd written, it was being compared to Mikey that hurt you the most. That, and being reminded of what I'd done to you.

I saw the full effect on one of those nights, when we'd both gone to bed, but I'd fallen asleep before you. You usually sleep like a log, you never toss or turn at all, it's like you go into hibernation every night. But when I woke up in the middle of the night, you were still awake, staring at the ceiling, and I could see the flecks of light in your eyes.

"'Trick?" I slurred at you, shifting my heavy body to look at you.

You blinked at me, but didn't say anything.

"You 'kay?"

Closing your eyes briefly, you nodded.

"Can't you sleep?"

You didn't respond, just curled up on your side with your back to me.

I shuffled across to you, placing a hand on your waist, but you flinched and swatted it away.

"Just...space," you said quietly, and I think I understood. I guess you never expected some of the worst moments of your life to be quoted word for word by someone you trusted. I could see the tension in your body, the pain of remembering. I left you alone for the rest of the night.

I'm not sure if you actually read the one I'd written about what happened that time in the meeting room. I saw you start it, I saw you reading how me and Mikey broke up, then I think you remembered where it was going. Eventually, you shook your head, closing your eyes briefly before skipping to the end. I think both of us were glad you did that.

-

Then, the night after we'd filmed the video for My Songs, and I'd stayed behind to help with some of the editing, I came home to find you in pieces.

You were sobbing, collapsed on the couch and crying into the pillows. You looked up when I walked in the door, your face sodden with tears and your hair sticking up all over the place.

"Patrick, oh my god, what happened?!" I'd pretty much yelled at you, running over to the sofa and seeing...oh, fuck. And seeing pages of my handwriting spread around you.

But you didn't flinch away from me this time, you hurled yourself at me, making me topple over onto the sofa, feeling your tears on my face.

"Patrick, what is it? Baby, what's the matter?" I hadn't seen you cry like this in a very long time.

"I'm s-so sorry...I d-didn't realise h-how...how much I h-hurt you...I'm s-so sorry, Pete, I'm so sorry," you bawled, burying your face in my chest.

Ah. I get it. "Did you get to the one where we broke up?" I asked gently, shifting into a more comfortable position and toeing my shoes off.

You nodded, letting out another sob. "I n-never thought how h-hard it was for...for you, I'm s-so sorry."

"Hey, don't worry about it. It all turned out for the best, eh?" I said, giving your shoulder a squeeze.

You smiled at that, but continued to cry, eventually sitting up and pressing your fingers to your eyes.

"I promise it gets better," I told you, gathering up the papers and handing you the next letter. "Just keep reading, you're nearly done."

You did keep reading, and it did get better. Over the next few days, you laughed at my reaction to having to go all the way to L.A just for coffee, you marvelled at how much of a dick I'd thought you were, you winced at the memory of drinking 'til you passed out, you smiled at our cute pier-side reunion.

-

I was next to you watching the news when you started to read all the ones I'd written this year, and I could feel you brewing with happiness beside me, the smile on your face so bright it seemed as if it might never go away.

At one point, you pretty much jumped on my lap, taking my face in your hands and kissing me hard, giggling all the while.

"What is it?" I'd asked, grinning, when you'd finally pulled away.

You rested your forehead against mine and beamed. "You write the sweetest things," you said quietly, stroking a finger down my cheek and pecking me on the nose. "I love you so much."

That was when I finally began to think that letting you read the letters might've been a good idea after all.

-

You've finished all of them, now. It's quite good, 'cause I didn't have to make sure you weren't around when I started writing this one. You're sprawled out on the sofa, we had a really long day at the studio, and your voice is exhausted, so you've gone silent for a bit.

The record is getting there, and guess which song's first? There's a reason you're gonna be tied up in most of our music videos.

Yesterday, we announced the return of the band. We were all a bit worried that no-one would care, that they'd all just have forgotten about us and moved on. But the response, so far, has been mind-blowing. I think it reminded us why we got back together in the first place, it seems like it might've been worth all the stress. I got a call from Charlotte about five minutes after we uploaded the link, I couldn't understand most of what she was saying, she was speaking fangirl. I think it's safe to say she likes the new song.

You're over the moon. The last couple records you put out didn't quite go as planned, so to have this kind of reaction made you literally leap for joy, it was adorable.

I know you're watching me. You're on my sofa now, you

Can I write something?

You just did, Patrick, and just 'cause you can't talk, doesn't mean you gotta steal my paper.

I'm not stealing, I'm borrowing.

It doesn't matter, this is my letter, to you, you can't write in your own letter.

Oh, look, I just did.

You're using a different pen and everything, it's ruining the aesthetic.

Well I can't use your pen, you'd just get annoyed.

I'm already annoyed. And you're laying on my foot.

You're easy to annoy. And maybe I like laying on your foot.

Well maybe, if you keep laying on my foot, you'll soon be laying on the floor.

Whoa, watch out for Mr. Sassy over here, he's brutal. Anyway, what are we writing about?

We're not writing about anything, I'm writing about you reading the letters.

Oh, I see. So we're writing a letter about you writing a letter about me reading the letters that you've written?

Shut up.

I didn't say anything. And stop poking me in the leg.

Only if you get off my foot.

Right, fine, I will get off. But I'm taking the letter with me.

I'm in our bedroom now, in case you were wondering. Wait, so, am I writing to you as in Pete or am I writing to you as in the personified letter? Or me? It's addressed to me, so I guess I'm technically writing to myself. That's a bit strange. I need to put that right.

Dear Pete,

There we go, now I'm writing to you. A letter within a letter.

You didn't follow me up the stairs, so I'm going to assume you're okay with me writing a letter of my own.

I'll be honest, I did freak out a bit about this whole thing. I don't think this is something that normal couples have to deal with. But then I suppose we've never really been a normal couple.

Although, you know me, and you know how silly I get when it comes to insults. You're right, I couldn't bear reading the things you said about Mikey, I was so envious of him. But that doesn't matter anymore.

What matters is the fact that some of the things you wrote, they remind me why I love you. I know you think the past still haunts me, and I suppose, sometimes, I do still think of it. But it's like you said, it all turned out for the best. We're different people now.

Anyway, I never thought I'd meet anyone, let alone fall in love with anyone, who thought such lovely things about me. You're the kindest person I've ever met, I hope you know that. You write like it's me who's the main character, and yet you're the one who's sweet and thoughtful. I can't tell you how much you mean to me, I can't even write it down.

I don't mind you writing the letters, please, keep doing it. I'll only read them if you want me to. Thank you for sharing them with me, you were right, I do want to know as much about you as possible, and reading them has only confirmed to me how extraordinarily lucky I am. Everything that happened in the past, it was all worth it to be here, living in the same house as you, waking up in your arms.

I'm not good at this like you are. I never quite know what to say, or how to say it, I don't often think in terms of words like you do. But I'll give it a shot.

I love you. And, when I say that, it's important that you understand that I'm not simply saying it because it's what couples do, I'm saying it because it's probably the truest thing I've ever felt. I love it when you grin your huge goofy grin, I love that you're so obsessed with things being tidy, I love it when you don't straighten your hair and it goes all fuzzy and you let me stroke it. I realise that out of the two of us, I'm probably worse at saying what I feel, so let me try to make up for it; I really, really, love you. I don't know how else to put it.

I need to finish this now, because I'm running out of paper. I'm sorry I can't write more, sorry I can't repay you fully for all the lovely things you wrote about me.

I can say this, though: I'm so proud of you. Only now I've read your feelings from the very beginning do I realise how much you've changed, how much you went through to get where you are. Thank you for everything you've done for me, everything you wrote about me. Thank you for the cuddles and the kisses, thank you for putting up with me for nearly twelve years. Thank you for making me happier than anyone or anything ever has.

I love you, Pete. Even more than I love hot chocolate.

From Patrick

-

Okay. Well, this is weird. Letter-ception.

Thank you so much, Patrick.

That's quite alright.

Will you go away and let me finish?

No.

Leave, or I'll make you uncomfortable by writing about having sex with you.

Ugh, okay. That's still weirding me out, by the way.

Good, I'll keep doing it.

Fuck you.

If you'd like.

Okay, you've actually gone now.

Seriously, though, thank you so much for being okay with this. The best thing is, that you weren't even that surprised at most things (apart from that one bit about Joe thinking you were a virgin, you were properly pissed about that), and most of the stuff in those letters, you already seemed to have guessed. But then I s'pose you've always known me better than I know myself. I'll definitely reward you by tying you to the headboard later tonight. I'm so glad we made that little agreement, especially now there's no boxes to distract me. We're officially moved in, and we're closer than we've ever been. We just know each other, y'know? It's fucking amazing.

I've planted my tree in the garden. I was a bit worried, 'cause it's pretty cold, and I didn't want it to die, but it seems okay, I've been giving it lots of tree-feed, and it's got a little stick to keep it upright.

And now that you've gone, now I'm about to sign this one off and put it in the box with the rest of them, I can write this; you think you've read all the letters. You haven't. Before I gave you the pile, I took out the last one I wrote. I can't have you knowing what I'm planning on doing.

Because this has made up my mind. The way you came to terms with this, the way you accepted me, the things you wrote in return, it's made my mind up completely.

That thing I said I'd do in the last letter? I'm gonna do it.

From Pete xxxx