Cold Hands

Before he left on tour, Patrick threw out anything vaguely perishable and regretted it when he drove past a homeless shelter on his way to Pete's. He hates wasting food, when he's so lucky to have it at all - though it's one thing not to waste food, and another to over indulgence. He called his manager the first chance he got and told him to donate $2,000 from his paycheck to the nearest charity for the homeless; it's more than he spent on the food he threw away, undoubtedly, and pushing money at his guilt is only a temporary fix. He adds it onto his list, the one full of things he hates about himself, and wonders if he could ever do enough - be enough - to ever cross that out.

He's a fat, bumbling fool so over indulged with food it's a wonder he even spared a thought to anyone else in the canteen, let alone the world.

Patrick packs away what he left - the nuts, the cans, the miscellaneous plastic packages - into white bags and leaves them near the door. He'll take them to the shelter, the one he drove past, and he'll give them to people who really need it. The shear quantity of them embarrases him, and he feels red in the face that he could have ever even considered eating any of that. Not when he clearly doesn't need it, shouldn't need it.

Hazel eyes, big and blown and framed by shadowed bone, flash into his mind and his fingers curl into the fat on his stomach. Can he get as low as Ryan? Can he make it the bottom? He takes up so much space in a room, so much presence he doubts he ever could be as lithe. Have those hands, those wonderful hands, and see his ribcages pushing against the cloth of his t-shirt, blossoming in boney glory.

And he remembers Ryan's empty grip, his slipping eyes, and he ignores the dropping in his stomach, the deep resounding fear that pulls on him.

He won't be like Ryan. He could never get skinny enough.



It hurts to be so surprised.

Pete knocks on his door at precisely one-twenty AM, and Patrick knows this because he was up watching the seconds tick away, feeling the soft lights of the fridge beckon to him. He told himself no, and his body told him yes, but Patrick can't believe it - can never believe it - while the mirror flings accusation after accusation at him, staring down his ghastly figure with a sordid attention to detail becoming of something far more animate than painted glass. It's empty, anyway. The fridge.

Patrick can count on one hand the amount of times he's seen Pete cry since he's met him. It's not a pretty sight, is never a pretty sight, and Pete, all bones and shadows and tears - throws himself at Patrick like he's the last thing he has left on this world. Patrick doesn't think about how he hasn't spoken to Pete for weeks, how Pete's hips are sharp against his own and he definitely doesn't think about how, despite everything, Pete's hands are oddly warm where they press into his back. It's nice. He hugs back, something that's strangely unfamiliar, and feels his breathe fan against Pete's neck.

"God... Patrick..." Pete mutters against his skin, pausing when Patrick pulls him towards him harder on reflex, revelling at the sound of his name from Pete. Pete. "I messed up... So bad Patrick. And now - now Ryan. I-"

He squeezes his eyes.

It's always Ryan.