Spin For You [Peterick]

-16-

Dear Patrick,

It's been about a week since you turned up on my doorstep. I can't tell if you're over her, I think you are. I hope you are.

I'm attempting to write this on the tour bus. We have a proper bus this time, not just some crappy van. You're asleep in your bunk, I'm trying to make as little noise as possible, and failing. Your face is just visible through the bars of the bunk, all bundled up in blankets. You're the closest thing to an angel I've ever seen.

I hope you're not dreaming about her.

We talked things over the morning after you stayed the night.

The smell of pancakes filled the house, masking the stench of must and alcohol that I was so used to, and hell, they were actually pretty good, for my first try. I'd messed up a couple at first, failing to flip them properly so they just scrunched up in the pan like wet socks, and although they probably would have tasted fine, I wasn't going to settle for anything but perfection. Eventually, I'd cooked a neat little pile of them on both our plates, keeping them warm in the oven so that I could whip them out as soon as you came downstairs. It was the most fun I'd had in ages.

Eventually, I heard erratic footsteps coming from my bedroom, and listened as they made their way slowly and carefully down the staircase. A fluffy haired, puffy eyed sleepy head poked his face around the corner, looking slightly nervously at my proud grin, and the pancakes on the table. You stared at them for a bit, and I sat down, grabbing my knife and fork and looking back at you expectantly. Slowly, you shuffled into plain sight, still in your crumpled clothes from the night before, your glassed shoved clumsily onto your face and balanced precariously on the end of your nose.

You hovered at the edge of the table for a second, before plopping down in the chair opposite me and tucking in to the pancakes, cutting them into little pieces with just the right amount of syrup on each, and when you tasted them, your eyes rolled back and you hummed quietly, savouring every mouthful. Fuck, even you eating is like art.

We sat there in comfortable silence, until we'd finished breakfast. Then I decided that I needed to make sure you'd realised that every single thing Emma said to you was a lie, and that if you think for one second that you are worthless then I will do my utmost to show you how absurdly untrue that is.

"So how're you feeling?" I asked, scanning your face for any signs of last night's sobs.

You smiled weakly, playing around with a last bit of pancake on your plate. "Better." you said simply. I waited for you to elaborate, but you didn't.

"I'm so sorry about what happened. She's a bitch, Patrick, you're better off without her."

"I guess." you mumbled. Wow, you really weren't going to make this easy, were you?

"Seriously, you can do so much better than her, you'll find someone way above her level." Like ME.

You gave a faint little snort, and bowed your head, sipping at your hot chocolate quickly.

"Did you love her?" I said, more gently this time.

You shrugged. "I don't know. I don't think I even know what love is. I just know it hurts."

Yeah, tell me about it.

Quietly, you carried on. "I was so sure that you were wrong about her. That I had found someone who liked me for the stuff on the inside. But I was wrong. Why am I always wrong?" You said it more to the hot chocolate than to me.