Cold Hands

"Patrick."

He turns to look up at the sound of his name, hands resting into a relaxed arch on the table where they'd been frantically tapping a moment ago. It was lunch time.

There was food everywhere.

Pete smiled warily at Patrick and slid onto the chair across from him, no plate or snack in sight. The glance Pete made towards the table nearest, consisting of Joe and Andy and a large pizza, made Patrick's skin crawl in its familiarity. Fear. Want. Longing.

His hands picked up the beat again.

Pete looked ill, in the least obvious of ways. His hair was perfectly done, eyeliner unsmudged, his clothes were neat, unstained and a little bit baggy. That was the problem. They'd been on tour for three months. By month one most people had given up on appearances anywhere but on stage; it was food-stained clothes and fluffed up hair and sleep-stricken faces. It wasn't neat or nice or perfect. Patrick guesses Pete doesn't get near enough any food to have clothes stained with it - and that when you cut food out, vitamins get cut out too. Patrick's skin was pasty and dry and breaking at every opportunity - he could say the same for his hair.

Pete could probably relate.

"Not eating lunch?" Pete smiled again, trying to catch Patrick's eye.

"Where's Ryan?"

The smile quickly fled his face and he looked back down to his hands, picking at the skin there - almost to the beat of Patrick's fingers. Patrick wonders how much he eats a day; wonders if it's more than he does, or less than Ryan.

"He's... not feeling well. Said I should go for lunch for him."

It's enough to make Patrick snort, but he refrains from doing so. Ryan, eating? The only thing that passed Ryan's lips were the ends of pens as he wrote and maybe, when he was alone with Pete-

Patrick stopped drumming his fingers.

"I, uh. Brendon said the pizza's good. You should have some."

He stands up to leave, ignoring Pete's surprised expression and digging his nails tightly into his hands.

He's not jealous of Pete's weightloss.

He's not.