He could feel the hatred oozing off the other man like sweat seeping through his pores and staining his skin. Each step was heavier than it needed to be. Every door he opened was slammed shut with enough vigor to shake the apartment. Drawers were pushed closed with the sound of wood splintering. Nothing was picked up without being placed down with a bang. He didn't complain. A few broken drawers and scraped items were better than being yelled at for an hour. They'd done enough of that the night before. Today was the time for passive-aggressive silence and aggressive-aggressive movements apparently.

He was starting to think he made a mistake by suggesting they spend one last night together before having the guy pack his stuff to leave. He thought he was being considerate. It was two in the morning before they finally agreed that they weren't going to work out. What kind of person would he be if he kicked a sleep-deprived, clearly upset man out on the streets in the middle of the night? Yes, he let him stay over. Of course, he let him sleep in the bed. It didn't make sense for him to sleep on the couch when the conversation ended in the bedroom. Now, having sex with the man, that could be where he fucked up. Where he set the expectation that things could change in the morning. He could see where the mixed signals came in. He wasn't perfect!

It's not like he wanted to break up. But what choice did he have when he was being bombarded with questions for hours? What are we? This isn't fucking high school. They didn't need promise rings and official labels. What are we doing here? Having a good time was not the correct answer. But that's what it felt like. They were happy. Perfectly compatible in all the ways that didn't matter. Are you taking this seriously? Of course, he was. What kind of question was that? Are we exclusive? Yes! He wasn't seeing anyone else. He didn't want to see anyone else. Are we a couple? A couple of what? Kidding. Kidding. But seriously, what does that even mean? So, you're not going to come with me to my parent's anniversary party? Why the fuck would he go with him to his parent's anniversary party? He didn't even know his parents and he did not want to meet them. It's been six months! Exactly. Six fucking months. They were still getting to know each other. He wasn't supposed to be dropping on one knee and professing his love under the full moon. Good things took time. And this was a good thing. Emphasis on was.

The natural conclusion was to break it off. It was clear they wanted different things. They weren't in the same book, much less on the same page. There weren't any tears or begging. There were a lot not so well wishes and 'fuck yous' screamed at the top of both of their lungs. One of them was upset because he thought things were going in another direction. The other one was pissed off because he thought a good thing was being ruined by the social expectations of dating.

After months of affection, they woke up and didn't want to speak to each other. It was making him anxious, waiting for the other shoe to drop. With the way things were going, that could be metaphorical or literal. From groaning his name to grimacing at him as he walked around with a box of his everyday items. He didn't realize how entangled their lives were, how much of the other man had been living with him for months until he saw the items in the box stacking up. Books, toiletries, candles, hats, clothes. He was pretty sure the hat with the red brim was his, but he didn't care enough to point it out. If he wanted to keep a piece of him after it was all over, that was fine too.

Except he had a really nice sweatshirt he bought to match that hat.

"Actually," The way the other man stops in his tracks, almost makes him reconsider. Almost. "I'm pretty sure that's my hat." He points into the box. Reaching down as if to pinch it out. But the box is snatched away from his reach.

"It's not your hat."

"Except for the fact that it is."

"This is my hat." He balances the box on his hip with his left arm, using his right hand to pull it out of the box and inspect it. "I bought it when we went to that two-day-only market downtown."

He's already shaking his head before the other man can finish. "No no no. That was the all-black hat with the small heart in the corner of the brim. This is the one I bought online-"

"It's my hat." He swings it between them.

"It's mine."

The other end of the hat ends up in his hands, causing them to pull it back and forth in a childish rendition of tug-of-war. The taller man lets go of the box and it slams into the ground with an unsuspecting thud. He flinches, his hand loosening around the hat enough for the other man to get the advantage. It's snatched from his grasp and tossed into the box on the floor.

"What is your fucking problem?"

He's towering over him. More pissed off about the hat than the other man realized. It doesn't take skillful deduction to realize he's not in a great position. There's no way in hell he could take him in a fight if this were to turn physical. So, he holds up his hands in mock surrender.

"Okay, fine. You can have my hat."

Which apparently is the wrong thing to say.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" And he's screaming again. The one thing he was trying to avoid. "It's not your hat!"

"Okay." He whispers to counteract the other man's increased volume.

"It's not okay. None of this is okay. You don't get to just... just use people for your amusement until it's time for things to get serious. And then throw them in the trash. You don't get to just play with people's feelings like that."

"I'm sorry." He should have mailed him his shit.

"Patrick?" Pete's voice always brings him joy, but this time it feels lifesaving. They both turn to the front door just in time to see it sliding open. Pete stands in the doorway with his keys in his hand. His eyes narrow at the way the man is hovering in Patrick's space. "Brett."

"Pete." The man chips out, straightening his stance.

Maybe Pete isn't much taller than Patrick, but he's insane and has never backed down from a fight. Even if Brett could take both Patrick and Pete separately, there was no way he could take them both. He seems to come to this realization at the same time Patrick does. So he leans down to pick his box up again. Storming back off into the bedroom to finish collecting his things.

Pete breaks into a shit-eating grin as soon as they're alone. "Poor man must be coming up on his expiration date, huh?"

It's a running joke within their circle of friends. Patrick's inability to hold down a relationship for longer than six months. It's true to an extent. The only thing they're getting wrong is thinking that it's his fault.

"Fuck off, Pete." He adjusts the glasses on his nose to hide the fact that he's fidgety. Adrenaline still pumping through his veins from the close encounter. "He broke up with me." It's a lie and they both know it. "What took you so fucking long to get here? I texted you as soon as I woke up."

He shrugs. As if Patrick weren't mere seconds from being punched in the face. "I had to deal with some Mikey shit." Leaving the door ajar, he walks into the house and flops onto the couch.

"Oh right," Patrick sits down beside him. "Because morning sex is way more important than backing up your best friend."

Pete scoffs. "He fucking wishes. I'm never fucking him again. I'm done with him."

It takes all the self-control he possesses to stop himself from rolling his eyes. The only thing worse than imagining his best friend having sex with his boyfriend was having to listen to him complain about him. If Patrick's inability to commit was a running joke, then Pete and Mikey's toxic relationship was a fucking earworm.

For the six years that the couple has been together, they've never spent more than a year without some big break-up scene. On the flip side, they've never been apart for more than four months before realizing they're soulmates who need to be together again. Patrick learned not to become invested in their rollercoaster of a relationship in college. As the best friend his job was to listen to Pete swear that he was done with him and then cheer him on for winning his man back a few weeks (sometimes days) later. It didn't matter what the fight was actually about.

So, Patrick half listened as his best friend vented about another one of Mikey's shortcomings. Somewhere between a story about an unanswered text message causing an unshared location, Patrick hears something shattering in his bedroom. Pete must have heard it too because his rambling stops, and he stands up. Before he can investigate, Brett is walking out of the room with his box now filled.

"I left your fucking hat that you cared about more than me." The words are cold, but the sentence is so ridiculous that Patrick has to suppress a laugh.

"I'm going to miss you, Brett." He walks over to the man cautiously. "It sucks that we have to end things like this."

"Are you kidding me?" He doesn't sound angry as much as he sounds hurt. "You're the reason we're breaking up."

"So that means I can't miss you?"

"Do you want me to kick your ass?" he asks, incredulously.

Patrick takes a step back and Pete laughs. "No. Of course not. Look, can we not end on good terms? After all we've been through, I would like to be friends."

"Friends?" He chokes out. "Like you two are friends?" He motions to Pete standing near the couch.

"Well not best friends but-"

"No thanks." Brett bites out. "I'd rather not end up pining after you the way you pine after him."

With that he walks through the door, making sure to slam it behind himself. Patrick stares after him. Those last words are the only thing that man has said to him within the last day that made him feel bad. He does not pine after Pete.

He feels rather than hears the offending Party come up behind him. He wraps his arms around Patrick's waist from the back. Sending a flurry of feelings through his stomach. It's not an unfamiliar thing for Pete to do. It's not an unfamiliar reaction for Patrick to keep to himself.

"What a dick."

"Yeah." He agrees absentmindedly.