Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Patrick Stump is the warden of a menagerie he does not wish to keep.

These beasts reside in his mind, and sometimes run rampant on a bad day. Other times, they stay in their enclosures and do not disturb him. Mostly, the beasts are within their enclosures, but they make ruckuses, loud rackets that make it hard to focus. Patrick turns a blind eye to their commotions; he has better things to do.

But sometimes, the beasts make themselves a presence. That's when Patrick cannot ignore them, no matter what.

Today, he can feel the beast of apathy weighing down on his mind, curled up on the ground in front of its cell, its tail thumping a damping rhythm. This rhythm rings in Patrick's ears. It drives him away from his laptop, casts a dullness into his bright blue eyes.

What's the point of doing this?

His head is aching. He's looking everywhere but his actual work. His notebook is blank, his instruments sit untouched. He wants to, he needs to make something — something to alleviate this restlessness, this spell of drearyness. Patrick knows he shouldn’t keep glancing at the clock, but he does. He was never good at restraint, anyways.

It's only 3:27 PM.

He groans and slams the screen of his laptop down. He claws at his face in frustration. Nothing has been in his favor this week. He's overdue on some tracks, been giving everyone silent treatment and cold shoulders, and every one of his favorite songs sound cheap and overrated.

Patrick's world has been losing its luster as of late.

He checks his phone. A few texts from Elisa, a billion from Pete, and a handful from Joe. He hits clear on all of them and opens Google. He scrolls on the news; something he's only resorted to when there's nothing else to do. He leans back in his chair as his eyes pass over the stories of elections and item recalls and concerts that come up when your Wi-Fi sucks and you're somewhere you don't want to be.

A headline catches his eye.

Twenty One Pilots’ Breach projected for #1 on the Billboard 200

He pauses. He never really listened to the new album. Patrick had—no, is—a huge fan of Twenty One Pilots. Always had been, since 2013, since they toured together. Patrick loved to see Tyler Joseph just sitting around waiting for him in front of Fall Out Boy’s bus with the notebook chock-full of the notes and stories of the world he was making, practically spilling over in excitement. He loved the brightness that came into Tyler’s eyes when he talked about the characters, his back ramrod straight on the chair in Patrick’s room while Patrick laid on the mattress, easy and welcoming.

He always loved it when Tyler came and curled up with him on the bed after a long show. They were tired, sweaty, but it was nice, stripping down to their undershirts and feeling their skin stick together. Tyler would simply wrap his arms around Patrick’s middle and stare at him in wonder, and Patrick couldn’t help but press his lips onto Tyler’s. That look was a look Patrick has always seen on Pete’s face when Patrick is discussed, but shamefully, he must admit—it holds no weight for him when it is Pete.

But to see the twinkle in Tyler’s mocha brown eyes? That was everything to Patrick.

A long while ago, Patrick and Tyler had made a song together. It wasn’t anything they’d planned on releasing; it was them piecing together old bits of lyrics they had in their papers and making duets on Patrick’s piano and just pure experimental chaos. But that song marked a point in Patrick’s life when to him, everything shone brighter. The beasts in his body were content; they made no sounds. They stayed in their enclosures.

Having Tyler around made Patrick feel so, so, so much better.

But then slowly, quietly, they drifted apart. Never discussed their song again. Complete radio silence on both ends.

Patrick was foolish to think Tyler would keep him close. He was foolish to not chase after Tyler.

But if he did, he’d seem embarrassingly desperate. And a man such as himself has facades to maintain.

Despite his and Tyler’s split, Patrick still makes it a point to keep up with Tyler and Josh. He listens to the albums, purchases the vinyls and CDs, even fancies himself with the notion of going to a concert sometimes.

Like he’d ever have the time. Like he’d have the nerve to show his face to Tyler.

But all that is from years past. Still now, the beast of apathy still remains outside its enclosure, its tail still thumping its damning beat in Patrick’s brain. Worse, he feels the creature of longing rear its head and starting to claw at its walls, begging for him to act impulsively, call Tyler up, email him, be naive and irrational.

But he simply ignores the pang in his chest, the ache that comes when Tyler resurfaces in his mind.

Patrick clicks off his phone and re-opens his laptop. He clicks on Spotify, and reaches for his headphones.

His cursor finds Twenty One Pilots’ page, and it magnetically gravitates towards the new album, Breach.
__

Patrick throws himself into routine for the rest of the week. The only thing he knows for certain is that even when it seems that you need to shroud yourself in the sheets, you can’t stop moving. Keep yourself preoccupied. Fill your ears with mindless chatter, dumb conversations, keep your lips moving and get as numb as you can on the laughter of unfunny jokes.

Bit by bit, Patrick recomposes himself into who everyone knows him to be. He replies to Joe and Elisa’s texts. He gets to work on his music, penning lines he doesn’t mean, words he’d never say, but prose he knows will sell.

He can’t bring himself to reply to any of Pete’s texts, though. He knows Pete has a tendency to oscillate between understanding and anger when Patrick gets like this. Patrick only glanced at the last few texts.

Pete was very much angry.

He catches Elisa’s shoulder one day in the kitchen. He kisses her cheek.

“I’m sorry. About last week.” Patrick sighs. “I know I wasn’t doing too good. I’m really sorry.”

Elisa squeezes his arm. “We’ve talked about this. You need to tell me whenever you feel like that. I get worried, you know that.”

Patrick looks down and nods, leaning into Elisa’s embrace. The beast of shame runs down the corridors of his brain, but Patrick doesn’t protest its escape. He allows it to trot around. He even wishes to loosen its muzzle; he knows it deserves to be free as of now.

They stand in the kitchen for a while until Patrick has to get back to work.

__

It’s late in the evening when Patrick gets a call from Pete.

Patrick missed the first few rings—his headphones were on full volume—but as he takes them off, he hears his phone vibrating on the desktop and picks it up. A text from Pete floats onto his lockscreen.

Pete W.: Pick up my calls.

Patrick sighs and swipes to answer. “Hey, Pete.”

“Hi, Patrick.”

The call is quiet for a bit. Patrick knows Pete is itching to lay into him.

As the call hits thirty seconds, Pete starts to speak. His tone is soft, but solid-edged. He starts talking of how Patrick has been purposely avoiding him, how he thinks it so immature of him to just close himself off, that he thought Patrick was better than this.

Patrick starts to tune Pete out. Somewhere in his chest, he knows something terrible has awakened. He knows the more he listens, the more he’ll get angrier.

There is a beast of wrath in the prison cell Patrick knows as the ribcage. It is restless. Its feet pad the width of his diaphragm, the floor of its too-small enclosure. Patrick knows how the ribs compress and expand, he feels them moving as he desperately sucks in air through his nose. The diaphragm is narrowing as he exhales; the beast’s ground is rumbling. He needs to calm down, needs to watch his tongue before he says something horrendous and unforgivable.

The beast is—what?; Scared? Angry? Much like its warden, it is wild and short-tempered. Patrick feels his heart hammering, and an ache rises in his throat as he feels the wrathful beast roar in fear, roar in agony, roar in rage.

The language in its howl is foul prose, hot words that rest on his tastebuds, bitter and sour. They sit on the tip of his tongue, behind pearly gates, allowing him to disguise the hellishness he yearns to say with his mouth behind heavenly lips, lips squeezed tight for fear of opening a Pandora’s box of unholy oration. He longs to call Pete out on everything Patrick knows he has done; everything Pete has hidden from the light, but never from Patrick.

Instead, he grits his teeth and hangs up on Pete in the middle of another new diatribe on Patrick’s behavior.

The nerve of some people. How disrespectful could you get?

Chapter Text

Patrick’s lying on his bed. It’s 1:16 AM. Elisa’s asleep next to him.

The lights went off a while ago—he can’t remember when. He’s been tracing his hands in the dark, staring at the ceiling, trying to count the number of laps the beast of regret has swam in his stomach. A bad memory resurfaces with every kick. Patrick needs to shut his eyes, he knows, but the roiling emotions in his system are like electricity—shocking and unpleasant.

He just can’t believe he just let Tyler slip through his fingers like he did.

Patrick shifts onto his side, his eyes meeting his own blanketed figure in the mirror across from his side of the bed. He tucks his hand under his head. Tyler has surged into his memory more and more as of late—and it’s dangerous. He’s thought of breaking the silence between them more than he’d like to confess.

But to think of Tyler is to sin. He shouldn’t think of another man the way he has. It was still a mystery to Patrick why he couldn’t stomach having a lover and a wife. Elisa knew about Tyler; both of them had met Tyler and Jenna years ago, and she was just as charmed by Tyler as Patrick had been.

Damn it if all the Catholic services he’d attended until he was sixteen hadn’t left their claws in his conscience.

Confessions had been difficult for him; he could feel the priest’s reproachful eyes on him as he’d let his wrongdoings tumble out of his mouth. He felt like he’d choke on his Hail Marys and Our Fathers, every word spoken bitter and burning like rubbing alcohol. God hadn’t intervened when his parents split; He hadn’t intervened when Fall Out Boy had started unraveling in 2008; He hadn’t intervened when Patrick nearly ended himself in 2011. For every time Patrick’s world had come crashing down, Patrick started to believe in the man upstairs a little less. So why did he still seek out salvation from Him?

…Maybe letting Tyler go had been a good decision.

Patrick traces the gold band on his finger and shuts his eyes. He wants to drown in the expensive sheets he’s laying in between right now.

Another memory surfaces.
_

The last night of tour with them nearly broke Patrick’s heart. When Pete mentioned hijacking Twenty One Pilots’ set, Patrick just shook his head.

“You three can go ahead with that,” Patrick said, his mind elsewhere. He was trying to ignore the clamping in his throat—it had finally sunk into him that this was the last night on the road, the last night with Twenty One Pilots and Panic! at the Disco.

It was his last night with Tyler. And that thought nearly crushed him.

He couldn’t imagine not waking up with Tyler’s fingers in his hair, not getting high off the giggles that bubbled in his stomach when Tyler picked him up and swung him around and kissed him like he was a princess, Tyler leaning his sleepy head against his shoulder.

He couldn’t imagine himself without Tyler.

When Pete, Joe, and Andy left, he finally broke down sobbing. He curled up on the green room couch bawling like a kid, tears burning fresh trails of sorrow into his skin. It was shameful to cry like this over someone he’d known for only a few weeks, but Patrick had never been more enamored by someone than when Tyler had flashed him a nervous smile and shook his hand.
He’d fallen hard enough to break a bone or two. And now that was slipping away in a matter of hours, minute by minute.

He’d composed himself at some point. He’d walked on that stage with a bright smile, singing every word like he had a gun to his temple if he didn’t yell his lungs out, but he couldn’t focus on anything. The crowd was a blur. The stage was fuzzy. Patrick simply pretended to know what he was doing—that was how he’d always lived his life.

It was only when they got pranked that Patrick’s world started to shift into focus. He saw Tyler come on stage with Josh and Panic!, laminate dangling from his neck, shirt off, laughing and clapping. Patrick’s smile was real now—his grin on that silver screen probably could’ve lit Detroit for a century. He watched Tyler plunk himself right in between him and Joe, and for the first time that night, Patrick felt authentic. He was giddy at Tyler’s presence, the younger’s energy infectious.

“See you tonight?” Tyler had whispered into his ear as they’d embraced on stage.

Patrick nodded.

Hours after the show, he’d nudged open his door to see Tyler sitting on the couch, sitting in the corner like he’d always been all these weeks on tour. Patrick was fairly sure that those 14 inches of space were now Tyler’s private property.

Patrick walked over and sat next to him. He felt Tyler’s body melt as he ran his hand onto Tyler’s thigh, the response honed and strengthened from every touch, every kiss they’d exchanged. But Patrick didn’t feel like getting frisky tonight. He kicked off his sneakers and shrank into Tyler’s frame, picking his feet up onto the couch.

They sat in silence, until Tyler’s arm came to rest on his shoulders. Tyler pulled Patrick closer, slouching, until Patrick could almost rest his head comfortably on Tyler’s shoulder.

“You’re thinking something,” Tyler said quietly.

Patrick sighed. “I don’t wanna leave this. Leave you.” He shut his eyes. He took off his hat and leaned on Tyler, feeling the younger’s pulse thrumming against his temple. His fingers drummed on the brim of his hat. “It’s been an absolute dream, you know. I’m glad I met you. You’ve just…made my life better. Just by being here.”

Tyler smiled softly, his hand rubbing Patrick’s arm. “It’s been a pleasure being yours.”

Patrick wished Tyler didn’t speak like that. Been, like they were already splitting off. Like Tyler had one foot out the door already. Like all these weeks were a free trial.

Patrick curled in on himself. The ache in his throat made a reprise, and he took a shaky inhale. “Don’t…don’t talk like that. Like this was all just temporary.” He bit his lip. “I don’t want this to be temporary, Tyler. I don’t. Heck, I’d run away with you right now if I could. Because, well…” And then he was on a tangent, all his thoughts about Tyler gushing forth, how he’d loved him all these weeks, what he’d admired about him, all the little things he’d seen in the way Tyler sang, the way Tyler moved, all of Tyler’s mannerisms and habits.

Patrick wasn’t even half done when Tyler turned and cupped his cheek.

“Hey, ‘trick, look at me?”

Patrick met his eyes, and then Tyler’s lips were on his, and Patrick was pulling Tyler down over him, his arms wrapping over Tyler’s shoulders. Tyler’s kiss was novocaine; numbing and icy on his heartache. Eventually, they broke off, and Patrick was laughing as Tyler pressed kisses to his jaw.

“Alright, alright, I’ll get off you…” Tyler said, pulling away. But he made no move to get up, instead resting his head on Patrick’s chest. “You have way too much to say about me.”

“There’s more where that came from.” Patrick chuckled breathlessly. He ran his fingers through Tyler’s dark maple syrup curls. He sighed. “Will you text me when you land in Ohio?”

“As long as you text me when you get back home.”

__

Patrick wakes up to Elisa already woken up and gone to work and several texts from Andy and Joe.

Crap. He slept in.

The afternoon light filters in through the window, and he rubs a hand over his face. It doesn’t take long for the beast of shame to stir alongside him and start its maddening little laps. His chest clenches. He can’t be thinking about Tyler the way he has. It’s wrong. It’s sinful. Maybe it’s messing with his work.

Yeah, that’s it. Tyler’s a bad influence. That’s why he can’t think straight.

…Would have been a plausible excuse if not for the fact he hasn’t spoken to Tyler in about a decade.

Patrick swings his feet over the bed. His tired eyes meet his reflection in the mirror.

It’s about to be another long week.

__

Patrick devolves into a pathetic mess again. But this time, it’s worse. The beast of guilt coils itself around his spine like the snake in Eden, whispering for him to just wither away.

He eats as much as he can of his meals before the smell makes him sick and he has to excuse himself. He’s retching out what little he has in his stomach. He deserves to starve. Sinners don’t deserve comfort. He sidelines the gnawing in his stomach. This is ample punishment, right? This is what he deserves.

Not enough.

He can’t meet his reflection in the mirror when he’s pressing gauze to his shoulder. It’s soaked through with blood, and Patrick wraps the razor in the red-and-white lattice shroud before tucking it into a corner of the trash. He lies to Elisa, saying he got a bad scrape while walking in the park. Really, he’s atoning for his sins. He’s purging his unholy thoughts.

He’s closed up again. He barely responds to Joe or Pete or Elisa. His work deteriorates again, and he can’t write.

Still, he thinks of Tyler.

One night, Elisa finally confronts him. “Patrick, are you sick?”

“I’m alright, ‘lisa. Why?”

“You aren’t talking to anyone. I keep finding bloody gauze in the trash. You’ve lost weight. And you aren’t sleeping well.” She stands up out of her seat. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on.” The beast of fear weaves itself in and out of his ribs, his chest tight now. “I’m- I’m alright.” The beast of fear has now snaked up and coiled itself around his throat, and it aches. He tries to move away from the table, eighty percent of his dinner still intact.

“Don’t lie to me.” Elisa's tone starts to solidify. “Patrick, we’ve talked about this.”

“I’m alright.” Patrick starts to get a tad annoyed. “I’m telling you, I’m fine. So that means-”

“I don’t know what you mean sometimes. I don’t even think I know you anymore.” Elisa inhales. “I thought you were better than this.”

That’s what it takes for Patrick to break down. He sinks back down into his chair sobbing pathetically. He knows how disappointed she is—she thought he could tell him what’s wrong for once. Because she thinks she could understand what he’s going through. But no one really could. He’s alone in this screw loose zoo of his.

Elisa’s tone softens. “Patrick, sweetheart...” She goes to rest her hand on his shoulder, and Patrick slaps her hand away.

“Don’t touch me.” His tone is hard.

She backs away. “Excuse me?” Her tone gets firmer. “You just hit me. Don’t tell me what I can-”

“Don’t fucking touch me.”

And suddenly Patrick’s world is out of focus. He moves to get up, and Elisa grabs him, and he wrenches her hand away. He knows what he’s doing is wrong. It’s so irredeemably wrong that there’s only one option for him.

He was never getting to heaven anyways, not with all the foul things he’s said and done and thought.

He’s out the door as she’s yelling and he's speeding like a madman through the streets. He parks his car at the side of the bridge. It’s over for him, it’s all over. His head’s spinning and he’s spiraling as he leans over the railing.

Patick needs to say goodbye to someone. He needs to apologize. He needs to make things right before he throws himself off this bridge.

He steps back a little and reaches for his phone. He’s punching in a number out of habit. He listens to the purr of the dial tone as he’s sobbing and panting like a kid.

“Patrick?” A familiar voice responds. The beast of shame roars loudly in his brain. His blood goes frigid.

Dear god, I just called Tyler.

“Tyler, I’m so, so sorry about everything. I- I’m sorry that I haven’t spoken to you in so long.” Patrick spits out, his fingers gripping the filthy metal railing tight. “I just- I can’t live with myself. I’m a terrible fucking person.” Before he knows it, he’s sunk down to his knees on the roadside and he’s crying again. Everything comes out—the guilt that’s been corroding him, the food he’s been upchucking, the scars on his shoulder. His vision goes out of focus, and the only thing he knows is the cold of the bridge and the steady blinking of the hazard lights on his car.

As Patrick spits out the last of his crimes, he leans back and stares at the sky. It’s such a beautiful night, such a fitting sky for his last few minutes. He puts his phone up to his mouth.

“I called to say sorry, Tyler. Sorry and good-”

“Don’t hang up. Stay on the line with me.” Tyler’s voice cuts through his farewell. “Does Elisa know you’re like this right now?”

God, Elisa. “I had a fight with her. I ran out on her and I drove here.” Patrick starts to tear up again. “I’ve done her so wrong, Tyler. I’ve done her so wrong.”

“You haven’t. It’s not as though you’re cheating on her. She knows about…us.” Tyler’s tone is calm, steady, cautious. “I know you feel terrible right now. And I won’t lie and say it passes; it doesn’t. It simply goes to the backseat for a while.”

“How long does it take ‘till I stop feeling terrible?” Patrick’s tone is high, scared. He sounds like a little kid again. He hates it; it’s humiliating to be like this.

“It all depends on you. It’s fine to hurt. It’s okay to hit the bottom. But never think that you being absent in this world makes it better. It’ll always get worse without you.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because those you love will miss you. They’ll miss your smile, your voice, your presence in a room. And to them, there’s nothing worse than the world without you.”

“But I’ve done so much wrong to them.” Patrick curls into himself, his throat aching with a sob. He hit Elisa. He hung up on Pete. He’s done them so much disservice.

“And you only did that because you were hurting. You never meant to. Being like this is like being a stray dog; they’re scared, and they don’t know better, and they snap.” Tyler’s tone is comforting. “They know you didn’t mean to hurt them. They’re upset because they don’t understand what’s making you snap like this.”

“Mhm.” Patrick sucks in a cold breath of air.

“Patrick, there’s always people who’ll love you, no matter what. Elisa, Pete, Joe…” Tyler exhales. “And me.

“I love you too.” Patrick blurts out.

The line goes silent.

“I’m very glad to know that.” From the way his words stretch, Patrick can tell Tyler’s smiling. “Are you feeling better now?” Tyler follows up quickly.

“A little.” Patrick replies shakily.

“Can you send me your location? I can tell Elisa to come and get you.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Patrick pulls the phone away from his ear and sends his location to Tyler. It’s the first text between them in twelve years.

“Don’t hang up. Stay with me until Elisa comes, okay?” It’s like Tyler’s there with him, his arm wrapped around Patrick’s shoulders like it was on the bus all those years ago, comforting him.

“Okay.”

The line goes silent for a minute or two. Then Tyler starts singing. And it’s a song Patrick hasn’t heard in years, but still knows all the words to. He knows exactly what key to sing in.

It’s their song.

Slowly, shakily, Patrick falls in tune with him. And they sing together, Patrick on the bridge, Tyler in Ohio, until Patrick sees the license plate of Elisa’s car.

Chapter Text

Nothing had ever scared Tyler as bad as that call.

He hadn’t even expected Patrick to call him. They hadn’t talked in years; 7 to be exact. But when the call came up on screen, Tyler wasted no time picking up. His nail tapped on his screen protector, a dull click as he pressed the green phone button.

“Patrick?”

His heart stopped as he heard Patrick’s broken tone. And the more Patrick told him about what he’d been doing to himself, the more Tyler’s stomach had shriveled up, tight in sorrow. It made him ache somewhere deep inside him, that someone he loved had been hurting like this for so long. Even if they hadn’t talked in a while, Tyler still loved him. He always had, and always would. And Tyler couldn’t imagine a worse place for himself than a world without Patrick.

It made him so sick as he heard the wind whistle on the other end of the call. Patrick had been about to jump.

“I called to say sorry, Tyler. Sorry and good-” Patrick’s voice had reverberated from the other end.

Stay with me. Don’t leave me. For the love of God, don’t leave me.

Tyler’s mind raced as he’d cut through Patrick’s goodbye. He knew what it felt like to be suffocating in shame like this. How the aftertaste of bile sat on your tongue, hot and sour. How it felt to stare at the blood in the sink. And slowly, words unspooled from him, words he wished he’d heard from someone he’d loved and not a therapist, words Jenna had told him, and words he now said to Patrick on the line with him.

His hands had shaken so bad as he’d texted Elisa. She had been in contact with him more recently than Patrick, wishing him a happy birthday last year. Very sweet lady.

Tyler pressed down on the link Patrick had sent him and copied it.

Patrick just called me. He’s on the phone with me right now. he types, his fingers hitting the wrong keys as he trembles in a way that can be described as T-E-R-R-I-F-I-E-D. He takes a deep breath. He still hears Patrick’s sobbing on the other end.

I don’t think he’ll be safe on his own.

He sends Elisa Patrick’s location.Tyler stares at the blinking ellipses as Elisa types. They disappear.

Elisa Y.: Oh my God.
Elisa Y.: Thank you. Thank you so much.

Tell me when he gets to urgent care.

After Tyler sent that message, he sat there for a second, listening to Patrick on the other end, the ache in him worsening the more he heard. He heard the honking of cars before they whizzed past. They didn’t know the shame in Patrick. They didn't know how badly he’d been hurting.

Finally, after an agonizing minute, Tyler started to sing. He remembered a song from years back, a song remembered vividly by video calling and laughing at Patrick’s crass jokes, a song whose verses were written in the dark and illuminated by a singular light in Tyler’s dining room, a song whose melodies were born of “Wait, I think that was it.” “No, we could do better.”

Their song.

And the lyrics that Tyler was singing were something so inexplicably them, something that had only shown itself when it was only him and Patrick; they were lines Tyler had borrowed from Patrick’s plethora of prose, choruses Patrick had lifted from the vault of Tyler’s head, refrains to which they have said “Did you write that?” “I think that was you.” to, because sometimes their words blurred so smoothly it could not be said where Tyler had finished and Patrick had begun.

It is such a loaded work of art, and yet the song flowed from Tyler as easily as the Scioto River. It had rested on his tongue for years now, and he’d found himself wanting to perfect it, bring it to fruition in a consummate form, but he hadn’t the nerve to ever even call Patrick up.

Tyler faltered a bit when he heard Patrick chime in, unsteady, raspy, but still as beautiful as ever. He just thought singing would maybe have taken Patrick’s mind off his current situation—as much as Patrick could have ignored, anyway—but he wasn’t opposed to Patrick joining in. Tyler’s voice swelled alongside Patrick’s, and they sang every single line like it hadn’t been years and maybe just months since they’d been together. And it sounded just like it did years ago, but now Patrick's voice had gained a soft roundness to it, and Tyler’s voice wasn't as reedy and high.

They'd both changed so much over the years. It almost made Tyler cry.

Tyler heard Patrick drift off. Elisa had come. He heard Patrick’s breath hitch.

“Tyler…Elisa’s here.” Patrick’s voice crackled on the other end of the line. “I…I’m sorry about tonight.”

“You don’t have to apologize.” Tyler replied swiftly. “Be safe, okay? I love you. I love you a lot.”

“I love you too.”

Tyler pulled the phone away from his ear in time to watch Patrick cut the call. He set the phone down and tilted back in his chair, letting out a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding. His eyes fell on the clock across the room. 1:26 AM.

He didn’t know how long he’d sat there, staring at the clock, until Elisa texted him, his phone buzzing on the desktop.

Elisa Y.: Patrick’s in the hospital now.
Elisa Y.: I can’t thank you enough

Did you talk to him? Tyler responded quickly.

Elisa Y.: I didn’t really know what to say. He didn’t talk to me for so long. I knew he was doing bad, but I wanted him to tell me himself

Elisa Y.: It was terrible watching him in pain, and I wanted to help, but you know how he is about his problems

Yeah, he doesn’t talk until it’s too late.

Tyler frowned and quickly typed out another message.

It’s hard to talk about stuff like that

Tyler put his phone face down on his body. Patrick had always maintained the image that he was okay, for as long as Tyler had known of him and known the man himself. Obviously, Patrick was far from fine—if any of his music was proof. But he was doing well, as far as Tyler had known. Until now.

Patrick had always reminded Tyler of a bone that had fractured and never healed correctly. You could fix it and give it support and maybe, maybe alleviate the pain for a while, but once in a while it would twinge in pain and make you remember it’d never truly been fixed. What had just happened had been one of those twinges of pain, and Patrick had split and broken again. He’d heal again, of course, but he’d still never heal right.

He’d seen Patrick split so many times.

Once, when they’d still been talking regularly, there’d been a point when Patrick had stopped calling, but still texted.

Patrick S.: I’m just a bit out of order. I’m fine, I promise.

Patrick S.: Can you send me what we wrote last?

It’d been early 2018. Tyler was more than aware about what had just happened with Patrick: Fall Out Boy had dropped an album, and it wasn’t doing too well with the scene. He had yet to listen to it, but like everything Patrick had ever done, he was sure it’d be amazing.

You know, I’m starting to forget what you sound like. Tyler had texted jokingly once.

Isn’t that kinda scary lol

One minute passed. Then two.

Patrick S.: I sound terrible lately, trust me.

Tyler frowned a bit. Haven’t heard you in a while, so I can’t say if that’s true

Patrick S.: Well maybe listen to my dogshit album then

Tyler blinked. That was so unlike Patrick. Yes, Patrick had a temper, he knew that, but he’d never been on the receiving end of it.

Did I say something wrong

Why are you talking like that

No response. Patrick must’ve put his phone down.

I did listen to MANIA. Tyler started to type. And I liked it. I liked it a lot. It really was different from what you guys did last time. And the lyrics were really amazing, man. Pete outdid himself.

My favorite track was Heaven’s Gate

After a minute, Tyler saw Patrick typing.

Patrick S.: I also wrote a few songs. Gate was one of them

Patrick S.: This is really stupid to admit but I actually wrote it when I was thinking of you

Tyler smiled. That’s so sweet

Patrick S.: I think it could have given you a cavity

Well I brush my teeth very well, so it probably didn’t

It’s still my favorite. Probably even more so now.

Patrick S.: Oh shut uppppp

No I won’t. I’m gonna remember this for the rest of my life

Patrick S.: There’s more about you I snuck in actually.

Tell me which ones.

Patrick S.: Listen and guess darlin

Please

Patrick S.: Nooooope

Screw you

Tyler's face was aching from giggling, and his chest felt tight like there were Christmas lights woven through his ribs and wrapped around his sternum, bright and glimmering and electric. Patrick loved him so much that he’d written a song about him. He loved Tyler that much. And Tyler was just as head over heels for him.

But that still didn’t change how reclusive Patrick had become, how he still refused to call. Tyler was nearly begging for him to talk every single time they texted. He was missing the sharp corners of Patrick’s voice when he was excited, the lazy, soft drawl that his tone took when it was late at night, and just about every shape his voice took so, so sorely. But Patrick had become adamant about not speaking to Tyler.

Patrick S.: Ty, I’m not gonna call. Please stop asking.

Tyler rolled his eyes. When will you get it through that thick skull of yours that I don’t care how you sound, but I still wanna hear you speak

Please?

It’s been months since we last called. I think I’m going nuts

I don’t care if I sound desperate.

I just miss you

Patrick S.: Answer’s still no

Patrick had been a lifeline to Tyler during that time in Tyler’s life. Everything had just been going awry—Josh and him had taken a hiatus, and he was losing fans, and he couldn’t understand just what to do for the next album. Columbus was blending into monotony day by day. So calling Patrick, making their song, maybe making some stupid riffs or nonsensical choruses—that'd kept him in check. Patrick was a west coast breeze to him, refreshing and salty. And now even he was pulling away from Tyler.

Just Tyler’s sorry luck.

Tyler wanted out. He needed out of the studio, out of his house, out of Columbus. And there was one place that wasn't home that he knew so well.

“How long you going to Cali for?” Jenna had said, watching Tyler fold a pair of jeans and tuck them in a corner of his suitcase.

“‘Bout a week.” Tyler mumbled.

“Are you gonna go see Patrick? Or Josh?”

Tyler shook his head. “I don’t want to talk to either of them.” Incredibly petulant of him, he’d come to realize, but he wasn’t exactly in the right place to be mature. “I just want out of here.”

Jenna walked over and sat down next to him. She took his hand, stopping him in the middle of putting a pair of socks into a bag. “I know it's been hard recently. And I don't blame you for being upset. But do you really want to leave?”

“Yes.” The affirmation weighed nothing on Tyler's tongue. He'd become too familiar with the creaks of the wood on the floor of his studio as he paced around, the curve of the couch’s armrest that put a crick in his neck when he slept on it all night, and the silence that filled his brain when he wasn't preoccupied with anything. And he hated it all.

Jenna rested her head on his shoulder. “Promise me that you'll call at least once when you're there?”

“I'll call you every night if I can.” Tyler kissed the top of her head, smelling the shampoo in her blonde hair.

Jenna nodded and smiled. “If you ever do see Patrick, tell him hello from me.”

“Unlikely.”

But for all his denials, he still couldn't stop himself from sending Patrick a text as he waited for his luggage.

I'm in Cali for a week

Let me know if you wanna meet up for a coffee or something

Tyler clicked off his phone and shoved it deep down in his pocket as he saw his luggage on the carousel. He was so weak about Patrick, it was annoying.

For most of the week, Tyler had stayed in his hotel room, went to see other friends, and spent the rest of the week having the worst humanly possible sleep schedule from 4AM to 8PM. But on Wednesday night when he’d come back to his room from eating out (like he always did when he was traveling) he'd seen a text on his phone screen.

Patrick S.: Sorry, I've been busy

Patrick S.: But yeah, I'd love to see you.

There was a Google Maps link to a café under Patrick’s texts. Tyler clicked it to see a small café just a couple minutes away from his hotel. He spun around and sat on the edge of his bed.

Awesome.

Can't wait to see you

Tyler suddenly became aware of the way a grin was splitting his face. He face palmed and flopped down onto the bed, staring at the popcorn ceiling. He seriously needed to get himself together; this was just embarrassing.

He ended up falling asleep right there, and woke up at 6 AM still wearing last night's shirt and jeans. He sat upright, slouching a little as he watched the golden early morning sun gleam off a skyscraper and beam directly into his room, casting an amber glow onto the walls. After sulking for 2-or-something minutes, he finally got himself together. It was the first time in years he'd seen Patrick face-to-face—he should look presentable.

Hours later, Tyler walked in the cafe Patrick had sent the link to, his hand clutching his little leather bound notebook. He went up to the counter and ordered his coffee. As he dug out his wallet, a hand landed on his shoulder. He flinched and turned around to meet Patrick’s broken-glass blue eyes. Tyler could see wrinkles set under his eyes from sleepless nights, and he’d put on a few pounds. He saw the raw skin from salty tears edging around Patrick’s eyes, and it made Tyler ache, all bravado and nerve he’d had dissipating.

“I’ll pay. You go sit.” Patrick said quietly.

“You sure?” Tyler whispered. He glanced at the barista, her lips twisted in an uninterested pout as she watched the soap opera unfolding in front of her.

“Yeah.”

Tyler moved off to the table where one of the chairs had Patrick’s coat as Patrick tapped his card against the plastic of the reader. He saw a bouquet of flowers in a small white bag, wrapped in twine and brown butcher paper, daisies and wild roses and others he couldn’t quite recognize, all a miraculous rainbow of colors like the face of an opal.

Tyler tore his eyes away from the flowers as Patrick slid into the chair in front of him. His hand wrapped around his coffee, tracing the bumps and divots on the brown cardboard sleeve of his cup.

“Hi, Ty.” Patrick mumbled, not meeting his eyes. His other hand drummed silently on the oldened tabletop, sticky with various coffee syrups and spills.

“Hey, Patrick.” Tyler set his notebook down on the table, and out of habit, his hand reached to grab Patrick’s. His cold hand curled around Patrick’s warm fingers. “Jenna says hello.”

“Elisa does as well.” Patrick sat up, letting go of his coffee to fix his glasses and hat. “I’m sorry. About not calling. I…”

“I get it. I do.” Tyler sighed. “I just missed you. And now we’re here. Together.” He smiled and squeezed Patrick’s hand.

Patrick bit his lip. “It’s just…It’s..” His voice sank down as deep as his spirits. “It’s been hard, with all the crap about the album and the tour and…I don’t know what to do anymore.” His voice cracked, and Tyler knew he was on the verge of tears.

A barista yelled Tyler’s name from the counter, and he reluctantly broke off from Patrick to get his cup of coffee. He quickly hurried back to the table and set his coffee down. Patrick was blinking back tears.

“I’m alright, I swear.” Patrick mumbled.

“Never said you weren’t,” Tyler shot back, even though he knew Patrick was on the edge.

Patrick straightened up in his chair, rubbing at his wet eyes with the wafer-thin paper tissues given with their coffee, and took a deep breath. He reached into the white bag and took out the small bouquet. “These are for you, by the way.”

Tyler smiled softly. “Thank you. They’re wonderful.” Tyler took them from Patrick and laid them in his lap, smoothing the brown paper. It felt nice under his fingers.

From there, the conversation went into Tyler’s new ideas for the whole storyline he’d been planning, Tyler flipping through his notebook as he showed Patrick various scenes.

“So he’s going to be in the stream, and then he looks up, and the Banditos are there…”

“Okay, but Nico wouldn’t grab him?”

“No, because then…”

They’d somehow ended up back in Tyler’s hotel room, and Patrick was pressed up against the wall as Tyler’s lips were on his neck, and his hands were under Tyler’s shirt, and it felt amazing, of course, but Tyler had the underlying sense Patrick wasn’t truly into it. He’d slowed his pace until it almost seemed like nothing was going on.

Tyler paused as he felt tears on his shirt. He pulled away to see Patrick crying.

“Shoot, did I do something? Did I hurt you?” Tyler whispered, concerned.

“No, no, I’m sorry, it’s just…” And then Patrick just broke down sobbing, his face red in embarrassment and guilt and his shattered eyes brimming with salty water.

“Hey, hey…” Tyler gently cupped his face and brushed away his tears with a thumb. He gently led them both over to his bed until they were both lying down. He put an arm around Patrick, and Patrick practically melted into him, rambling about everything that had gone wrong. Tyler’s shirt was damp and wrinkled from Patrick’s fingers digging into it, but Tyler could care less. And slowly, Tyler found himself crying too, his lip trembling and his vision blurring with tears. He held Patrick tight, his arm cinched around his body like a belt.

Everything was wrong in their lives, and it was their sorry luck that they had to make it right themselves. And that just made Tyler cry harder. Why couldn’t someone else fix it? Why couldn’t someone else fix him ? Why was he everyone else’s pet problem?

They laid there for a while, blubbering and crying and commiserating. Eventually, Tyler was just panting, his tears spent and his throat sore. He slowly peeled himself away from Patrick, cupping the shorter’s face.

“We both got terrible cards.” Tyler started softly. “But we just gotta play them. And we lose sometimes—we’re losing right now.” A shaky breath. “But things’ll look up for us one day.”

“When do you think that’ll happen?” Patrick mumbled.

“I don’t really know. But…I think it’s worth living to see that day, yeah?” Tyler rasped out, his throat raw.

Patrick laid there quietly for a while. After a bit, he breathed out a “Yeah.”

Tyler shifted up to lay comfortably on his back on the pillows, and Patrick followed suit. They were both staring at the popcorn ceiling, shoulder to shoulder, Patrick’s hands folded on his chest like a church steeple, Tyler squeezing his own tight.

“Hey, Tyler?”

Tyler looked over to see Patrick staring at him, the redness in his face having gone down a bit. “Yeah?”

“Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“Promise me that you won’t ever forget me.” Patrick turned to stare at the ceiling again.

“I never would.” The words were out of Tyler’s mouth like a cat darting out from under a couch. He slowly reached for Patrick’s hand and sat up. “I couldn’t ever forget you. You…You’ve changed my life. You’ve saved it.”

“You saved your own.” Patrick murmured dismissively.

“Not really…” And suddenly it came spilling out how Tyler had heard of Fall Out Boy on stage with My Chemical Romance, how he’d followed everything after Infinity on High, how he’d driven everyone on the van crazy playing Soul Punk everytime he had to drive.

“Swear to God, Josh would have snapped it sometime…” Tyler chuckled. Patrick was staring at him through droopy eyes. “I still listen to it sometimes, when I get time.”

“Mmm.” Patrick murmured, hands having gone slack and idly tracing the corners of his fingers.

“The point is…” Tyler laid back down next to Patrick and pulled him close. “You’ve changed everything for me. And I can’t thank you enough for that.”

Patrick’s arms instinctively wrapped around Tyler, and he buried his face in Tyler’s neck.

“You tired?” Tyler whispered.

Patrick nodded.

Tyler rubbed his back. “Go to sleep. I'll be here.”

Not long after, Patrick was dead asleep, and Tyler was also drowsy, absently tracing shapes in Patrick's shirt. He shut his eyes and curled into Patrick’s small figure.

Tyler remembered drowsily waking up to a blanket being pulled over him, fingers running through his hair, and maybe a kiss, but he was half asleep, and to him, that was like being on anesthetics. You didn't know what was really happening and you were too numb to care. Shortly after, darkness settled back into Tyler’s vision, like a cat curling up on its favorite armchair.

Hours later, Tyler woke up again, his eyes crusted with the evidence of sleep and the burn of his tears from hours ago. He reached for his phone—a bad habit that had only worsened when he’d gotten to California. No texts.

He opened his phone and sent Patrick a text.

You okay? Did you get back home?

No response.

Tyler sighed and sat up. After a long 5 minutes, he finally decided to open him and Josh's messages for the first time in months.

For the rest of the week, he spent time at Josh's place, talking about the next album. Oftentimes, they lost track of time and ended up skipping meals.

“Wait, what time is it anyway?” Josh had asked, sitting cross legged on the small couch with Tyler, Tyler’s notebook between them.

“Nine in the afternoon?” Tyler replied unironically.

A little after, they both burst out laughing and ended up Doordashing Chipotle.

Tyler flew back to Columbus with a newfound clarity on where he wanted to go with the next album, and eventually, Trench was released in October. But during the five months in between, Tyler and Patrick never once texted or called. And Tyler didn’t exactly know how to segue back into Patrick’s life—if Patrick even wanted him. Patrick hadn’t talked to him ever since he’d left Tyler’s hotel, and Tyler’s text was still on “sent.” But Tyler had gotten too busy to care.

He’d gotten too busy to hurt.

__

Tyler wakes up with a crick in his neck a few months after the call. He’d finally gotten off touring, but his terrible habits from tour had followed him back home, and so his neck was begging for mercy as he sat up and rolled his neck. He sucks his teeth in pain as he straightens up. He hears Jenna in the kitchen, and nearly skids to the floor on his sock feet as he pads upstairs to the bathroom. Through his bleary eyes, he sees his phone lit up with a notification. Josh, probably.

As he washes up in the bathroom, he gets to thinking about Patrick again. It’s been a while.

Is he okay?

Water goes up his nose, and the tickling sensation catches him off guard. He doubles over in the sink as he coughs, and eventually wipes his face of the excess water. He reaches for a towel by the sink.

Maybe I should call him. See how he’s doing.

He walks into his bedroom and changes out of last night’s clothes into a fresh shirt and sweats.

If he’s out of the hospital, that is.

“Hey, Jen, I’ll be down in a second—can you just get my mug from the cupboard?” Tyler yells down the stairs.

“‘Kay!”

Tyler goes downstairs and quickly detours into his studio to log out of his desktop. He picks up his phone to see what Josh sent. He hears the thump of ceramic on marble from the kitchen.

He pauses in surprise as he scans his phonescreen. Speak of the devil.

On his lockscreen are texts from Patrick.

Patrick S.: Hey.

Patrick S.: How’ve you been?

Tyler exhales. So Patrick is alright. Maybe not alright, but he’s probably out of the hospital. That’s enough to calm Tyler’s head about Patrick for the moment.

He slips his phone into his pocket. He’ll text after breakfast.

__

“I feel like my toes are gonna freeze off every time I step outside to get the mail.” Tyler complains, talking into his phone.

It’s early December now—a few weeks after Patrick had texted Tyler. He’d replied to Patrick’s texts while sipping on his coffee, and Patrick had replied back so fast, even though Tyler knew dang well it was at least 5AM over there. Their texts had gone to calls, and those calls had gone to video messages. Tyler had seen Patrick in photos, sure, but those were from months ago. An incredibly altered man had been on Tyler’s screen when Patrick had turned his camera on.

Patrick had put on some weight since Tyler had last seen a photo of him, and his hair had gotten longer, dirty dishwater blond. His face had that same distinct melancholy and joy etched in the lines of his skin, and eyes were a cloudy Atlantic Ocean blue. His beard hadn’t fully gone, but was still short. He looked like one of those lobstermen up in Maine, rugged and wild.

“Christ, I look a mess,” Patrick had muttered into his mic, fixing his hair in his webcam, brushing it out.

“No, you don’t.” Tyler said quickly. “You look nice.”

Patrick shrugged, dropping. Tyler saw a black rubber band on his wrist, just under his shirtsleeve. He bit his lip. He didn’t want to make the talk tense. If Patrick didn’t want to mention it, that was his right.

Patrick had seen him staring. “It helps. A lot.” He said quietly.

“That’s nice to hear.” Tyler replied softly. “I…I used to do the same thing.”

Patrick nodded. Tyler got the feeling that he’d said something wrong. This was about Patrick—not him. He was racking his brain for something to quickly smother his previous words, but nothing came up.

“Sorry,” Tyler blurted out. “I just- I don't know how to talk. I never have.” He sighed. “I know we hadn’t talked in a while, but you need to understand—I never resented you. For not reaching out after I left California. If you were ever wondering that.” Fragmented sentences tumbled off Tyler’s tongue, jagged and rough. “But it hurt. It hurt when you called me like that, and said you were going to kill yourself, and were telling me all that you did to yourself, and it hurt because I couldn't ever imagine you hurting like that. I couldn't ever imagine you hurting like how I used to, and I know how it felt to wake up knowing that every step I'd take was wrong in some way.” He swallowed hard. “It feels terrible.”

Patrick’s eyes watched him expectantly on the screen. It was like Tyler was telling Patrick to watch him dig his own grave like a spectator sport. He was probably 3 feet in the ground with how he was talking, but he didn't know how to crawl out. The only way out was through.

“It hurt because I love you. I love you so, so much. And I always have. And I always will.” Tyler’s voice cracked. He felt tears spring to his eyes, and blinked them back. “I will always be here. And I will always be with you.”

It sounded terrible, and Tyler's chest shriveled in the same way that it did when he got regretful for something he'd done in the past. He looked away from the screen, his thumbnail sinking into the crack in the armrest. All he heard from Patrick’s end was his breathing.

After a while, Tyler had the nerve to look back at the screen. “Sor-” He trailed off as he saw Patrick’s eyes had become watery. "Are you okay?”

“I just…Everyone told me how it would affect their life if I was gone, how I would make them so upset, and of course they didn’t mean to make me feel bad, but it’s like…it’s like they’re saying it’s on me for being this way.” Patrick said quietly. “No one said, ‘It’s okay, and I’m here for you,’ they said ‘I’m here for you, but I really wish you could get yourself together.’”

Tyler nodded. “It’s always like it’s your fault,” he murmured, “even when you tried your best.”

“Yeah.”

It was quiet for a moment.

“You know that song we did a while ago?” Patrick asked suddenly.

“Uh…yeah?”

“So, I was thinking…”

And now Tyler was spinning lazy circles in his chair, listening to Patrick talk.

“I’ve forgotten how cold it gets in the Midwest, honestly. I used to wake up with a sore throat all the time in the morning. And then Pete would be at my stoop, so now I had to deal with my crappy throat and whatever stupid thing Pete had that day.” Patrick said, his mic crackling.

“Mmm…” Tyler hummed. “Sorry, I'm listening, I’m just tired…”

He was far from tired, in fact, but rather lost in thought. He’d been thinking about going back to California for a bit. There was only so much of the winter he could spend in Ohio. He could see Josh and Debby. He could go down to the beach. Maybe work in the studio.

Maybe he could see Patrick.

Tyler paused spinning in his chair as he mulled that over.

“If you're tired, you can hang up. I don't wanna keep you up,” Patrick said softly.

“No, no, I'm fine…” Tyler sat up in his chair. “Hey, if I ever came to California again, would you maybe…like…wanna meet up? For dinner or something?” He asked cautiously.

“Yeah!” Patrick replied swiftly. Tyler heard him clear his throat. “Yeah, that…that'd be nice.” An awkward silence settled on them. “Why? Have you been planning on coming?”

“Been thinking about it.” Tyler mumbled.

“Well, if you're ever in town, tell me, yeah?”

“Yeah, I will.”

They stayed on the line, talking about idle gossip, until Patrick said he had to go.

As the “call ended” screen flashed on Tyler's phone, he clicked it off and set it on his desk. He drew near and clicked open a new tab.

flights to la , he typed in the search bar.