Voices Part 2

Patrick was sulking on the tourbus couch because his laptop had frozen (For the third time that day. Why the fuck did he pay so much money for it, again?) while he was in the middle of working on a song. 

The last thing he expected was Pete to burst through the door, panting and wheezing. His eyes were wide and wild. His jeans were wrinkled and a bit muddy around the knees. One of his hoodie sleeves was missing and there was a rip along the pocket of the other side. He half-walked, half-crawled up the stairs and looked up at Patrick mournfully.

Patrick wondered how he could still manage to look so… hot. The guy looked like he just ran ten miles, tripped every other step, came in last place, and he still looked amazing. Then Patrick mentally kicked himself for thinking about how beautiful, amazing, hot Pete looked when there was obviously something very wrong.

While Patrick was fighting a fierce internal battle, Pete made his way over to the couch and collapsed on the ground dramatically. When this did not catch Patrick’s attention, he moaned and swatted at the hem of Patrick’s dark jeans halfheartedly. Patrick shook his head and coughed nervously, a faint blush crawling up his neck.

“Pete? What happened? You look like you’ve been to hell and back.”

“I have,” Pete croaked theatrically.

“Seriously, dude.”

“I was walking back to the bus with Joe and we were just minding our own business. We weren’t doing anything and out of nowhere, a fucking swarm of reporters attacked us. They were fucking vicious as shit, Trick. We tried to run away but they were grabbing us and they ripped the sleeve of my hoodie, Trick! This is my Stay Gold hoodie! Do they not understand how important it is?!” Pete screeched. This was Pete’s shrill, noisy voice. It would’ve been funny if what he was saying wasn’t true.

“It’s okay, Pete. You can steal Gabe’s,” Patrick consoled.

“Yeah, yeah maybe. So I fell and my jeans got ruined and I thought I was a goner, Trick. I thought they were going to jump all over me and I would die at the bottom of a pile of smelly, unfashionable reporters. But then Joe bellowed like, like… a howler monkey or something and they all turned towards him and I got up and ran like hell.”

“Pete… where’s Joe?”

“I don’t know. I looked behind me while I was running and I could only barely see him in the midst of all the flashes and then he disappeared.” Pete’s voice quivered dangerously and it reminded Patrick of the late night voice when Pete reveals his secrets.

“Oh shit. I have to go find him,” Patrick freaked. He jumped up and sprinted towards the door.

“Trick? Patrick! Wait, you can’t leave me! My hoodie, Patrick! What the fuck am I supposed to do?” Pete whimpered at Patrick’s disappearing form.

Fifteen minutes later, Patrick hauled Joe onto the bus and slammed the door behind him, making sure it was locked. He adjusted his hat and yanked his shirt down, breathing heavily.

“They were trying to cut off some of my hair, Patrick! What the fuck? My hair! I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t pulled me out of there. Risking my ass for that little fucker,” Joe mumbled.

“Ssh,” Patrick chided. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Listen.”

“Patrick?” It was so soft that they could barely make it out. The whimper sounded like it was coming from the direction of the bathroom. “Patrick?” That was definitely from the bathroom. Pete’s voice was high and shrill, and something else Patrick couldn’t put his finger on. “Patrick!” Oh yeah, panicky. It was like nothing Patrick had ever heard come out of Pete’s mouth before. It was sharp and piercing, laced with alarm and fear. It both broke Patrick’s heart and sent stabs of terror through his body. He took off running towards the bathroom.

Pete was leaning on the counter of the sink, his anxiety pill bottle clutched in his hand. His eyes were large and frantic. His entire body was shaking and the pill bottle was rattling against the tap. His skin looked sallow and yellow in the poorly lit room. A thin sheen of sweat covered his forehead.

He turned to Patrick with a desperate look and that’s when Patrick realized how fragile Pete looked when he wasn’t smiling and joking around. His tight, now damaged hoodie revealed his skinny frame and the tight girl jeans made his legs look even shorter. He looked small and frail in the cramped bathroom, so easily breakable and it made Patrick want to protect him from all the bad things in the world. 

“Patrick,” he whispered. “It’s empty.” The small, gold phial was indeed empty. Fuck was the only word that came to Patrick’s mind.

“It’s going to be okay, Pete,” he said hesitantly. “You can get through this without the pills.”

“No, I can’t, Patrick. I’m having a panic attack and this is when I really need my meds and why the fuck didn’t I get these refilled days ago?”

“You’re not having a panic attack, Pete. Just calm down. Take a few deep breaths.” Patrick took a few steps forward, inching his way to the distraught older man.

“I can’t, Patrick! I can’t breathe.” He threw the empty bottle into the sink and slid down the cabinets until he reached the floor. He pulled his knees up to his chest, hugging them tightly, and rocked back and forth. Patrick sat down next to him and tried to calm down his own frenzied mind. Pete looked at him with those large hazel eyes, eyes begging him to fix this, to stop this frightening panic that was overtaking Pete’s mind. But Patrick wasn’t so sure he could fix things this time. 

“I…”

“Patrick, please. Make it stop, just make it stop.” Pete’s voice was heartbreakingly quiet, but the panicked tone was still there. Patrick had named this Pete’s mental breakdown voice and he had also decided it is the worst voice in the world because hearing it makes his heart tear itself into a thousand pieces. 

As the tears started to pour down his tanned cheeks, Pete look more like a terrified little boy than a 28-year-old man. But this kid was having bigger problems than monsters under the bed. His problems were coming to life right before his very eyes and closing in around him with increasing pressure every second.

Patrick’s mind raced and he remembered that scene in that one Mel Gibson movie. The one with the aliens. Signs! His boy had a health issue and he had to help him. What was it? Asthma! And Mel Gibson tried to make him breathe in time with his body. 

Patrick glanced down to the broken mess of a man next to him. He reached over and dragged Pete so he was curled up between his legs. Pete made no protest but continued to breathe erratically, chest heaving. He was beginning to hyperventilate and his breaths were coming shorter and faster with every passing minute. Patrick pulled his shoulders up and leaned him backwards so Pete’s back was pressed up against his chest. He wrapped his arms around him, one hand resting over his quickly beating heart and the other on his lower stomach.

“Breathe with me, Pete. I know you can do it. Match my breaths. Don’t breathe out until I do.” Patrick attempted to slow his own heart and breathe evenly. This went on for several minutes, Patrick cooing encouraging words in Pete’s ear and Pete struggling to get his body under control. Just when Patrick thought all hope was lost and Pete was going to pass out from lack of oxygen to the brain, the thin frame in his arms started to relax. His breathing slowly evened out and returned to normal.

Pete twisted around so his face was in Patrick’s neck. His long fingers fisted the soft material of Patrick’s worn out shirt. He sobbed in relief, tears soaking into Patrick’s skin. Patrick could only run his hands up and down Pete’s trembling back and wait. When the muffled tears finally subsided, Pete peeled his face away from Patrick’s damp neck. His eyes were red and puffy, skin sticky with sweat, cheeks shiny with tears.

“Thanks,” he choked out. Patrick just nodded wordlessly and hugged Pete closer.

“You never have to panic when I’m here, okay? I’ll always get you through it.”

“I love you, Patrick,” Pete murmured before falling into an exhausted sleep.