You Were Right.

The hotel room was one of the better that they had sat in during the times spent waiting for the curtain to raise or the limo to arrive to ship them off to another plane waiting fueled and primed for takeoff. There was a large plush brown couch accompanied by a low laying coffee table, a wifi signal, a flat screen TV mounted on the wall above a gas fireplace with 576 cable channels, and a kitchenette equipped with everything needed to cook a 5 star meal and then some including a full sized refrigerator stocked to the brim with everything from Pepsi to aged port wine. They helped themselves to the food and the wifi signal joking and making small talk as they waited for the curtain to rise and the crowd to scream.

Once the show was over and the encore complete they made their way back to the room sweating like hogs as they limped out of the limousine sore from the show they performed just yards away. They reached the room again after an elevator ride up, the lot of them all skewing across the room to trade clothes and settle in for the night. And then, someone’s cell phone rang. Instinctively all four of the boys reached for their pockets muttering “Is that mine?” until Patrick slid his finger across the screen of his phone as he and the others realized it was indeed his call that was screaming to be answered.

“Hello?” He asked into the receiver kindly with wet lips still out of breath from the show and then waited for a response. “You’re kidding me. What does that mean…? …Uh-hunh….fine. See you then.” He ended the call with a defeated look and then gave a small look up from the screen at the others who were waiting for the news. Instead of telling them he went to the fridge and grabbed a local draft bottled with a vintage inspired wrapper as a jacket against the warmth of his hand.

“Are we leaving…?” Joe asked in a puzzled voice as Patrick found an opener and popped the cap off of the bottle.

He took a swig, tilting his head back with the bottle to try and quench his thirst in a fast manner as to reply, “Not yet.” He took another. “Something went wrong with the plane after we landed earlier. We won’t be moving again for a while so make yourselves comfortable.”

The three flocked to the couch while Patrick shuffled back to the fridge to grab as many of the bottles as he could, hoping that none of them were soda. With his arms full he made his way back over to the small living area like a ballerina trying not to drop any of the fragile containers while doing his best to keep his own from spilling. The small glass packages were placed on the coffee table before he sat in the couch corner next to a now shirtless Peter.

“I’ll have to find you a shrink if those are all for you tonight.” Peter chuckled with a grin as he leaned down to grab his computer from its bag at his feet. “Maybe a hospital, too.”

“Help yourself.” Patrick gave a broad smile and motioned to the forest of little glass necks that covered the table before taking his shoes off and propping his feet up on the edge of the table.

Andy turned on the Tv and began channel surfing through the endless waves of time passing that succeeded in creating a subtle background noise for the rest of the crew who were all occupied with some other form of technology by now, each of them with a bottle in their hands. It was suiting, the four of them once more in a hotel room bored and looking for entertainment even if they weren't putting holes in walls or couples in closets. “We've matured” Patrick thought silently to himself as he glanced up from his game of Temple Run to look at the computer screen in front of Peter. He was on a blog site posting anonymous poetry and exhaled a small sigh as he finished off his first bottle. He reached for another placing the empty one under the coffee table.

In the end Andy settled on a documentary about the African savanna as the primary time passing device to numb their minds. Joe had moved off of the opposite end of the couch to the floor beside him to sit with his head on Andy’s shoulder. Andy had downed four of the bottles before he made his decision and Joe five of them. Patrick lay on the couch with his legs stretched out across Peter's lap and his hat tipped down over his eyes, touching his nose, with a numb smile dressing his mouth. Peter was slouched on the couch with his feet, shoes and all, propped up on the coffee table and his laptop on top of Patrick’s legs. Between the two of them the glass forest had migrated from the top of the coffee table to underneath it decorating the carpet in green and brown and orange bottles all with different brand names strewn across their bodies.

Patrick held still another bottle loosely in his hand with a sloppy, lubricated wrist as he sloshed the insides of it around. With a certain amount of concentration he found his way to his lips and tipped the bottle back to drain it out with his tongue. Once it was empty he leaned over to place it with its brethren in the forest under the coffee table. Instead of returning back to his former position with a new bottle when he moved over back towards the couch he sat up and twisted around in messy, contorted moves to lay against Peter’s body. His hat dropped to the seat of the couch and he let his head fall on the older’s sleeveless shoulder against tattoos and dried sweat. It was a sweet and familiar position for him to be against Peter in such a manner.

“Sometimes I reminisce.” Patrick managed from his slick throat with his eyes closed and chin tilted up towards the ceiling supported by the jack-o-lantern that Peter adorned on his shoulder.

“Mmhhmm…” Joe agreed from somewhere on the floor still next to Andy.

“We had so much together, what happened to it…?” He turned his head and snuggled into Peter’s neck, to that secret safe spot he had discovered once long ago in the back of a van in the middle of December.

“Pat…” Peter muttered and shrugged his shoulders against Patrick’s ears.

“It’s just a question…since when do words hurt the great Wentz?” Patrick opened his eyes to look at Peter’s computer screen again not moving from the safe haven that was the nook of Peter’s neck. “What’s that…?”

Up on the LED lit screen was an old video of the band, playing without sound, at a show in some city bar basement across the map running like an old reel of football plays across the field. Joe was without his beard and only a tuft of his current mass of hair existed on the top of his head. Peter was running around playing the front man and lady killer to the small group of kids that had actually showed up to watch them play their relatively miniscule song list. Andy sat back on the drums, still new to the band, topless with his hair long and ragged with sweat from the night and then the smallest standing on stage with a shy pretty boy complex was, by his facial expression alone, was bellowing the lyrics to the song from the bottom of his gut with all the passion of a puma.

“See, that.” Patrick managed the slur as he tried to point at the lack of space in between the young pretty boy and Peter that was apparent to those who knew how to look for it up on stage.

“Patrick, cut it out.” Peter tried to push the younger back off of his lap where he was leaning in to doink the computer screen with a finger or two.

“Maybe you’re the one who should stop.” The retort was short and sharp as Patrick did his best to stand up in one fluid movement.

He managed to get to his own two feet after a second of holding onto the coffee table to balance himself with the eyes of everyone on him. He could feel the numbness of his teeth but he couldn’t see the obvious superfluous amounts of alcohol that ran through his veins and for him that was enough to claim sobriety. With a flick of his wrist he managed to snap up his hat before he stumbled forward towards the back support of the couch.

“No, I’m not the one who’s too wasted to stand.” Peter’s remark was late in reply, covering the concern he felt in his eyes for the standing, plastered pretty boy blonde in front of him. “Go to bed.”

“At least…” Patrick put a hand on his hip and his hat crooked on his head, “I’m not the one who won't admit to living in the past.”

“Patrick. Go to bed.” This time the words came out in the form of an archaic growl scented with an unholy amount of alcohol from behind Peter’s clenched teeth that matched the white knuckled fists he kept balled up by his legs.

“Why won’t you just admit it?”

Peter stood up, dropping his computer to the side of the couch where no one sat, and drew back a first in threat, “Don’t you dare say another word about it. Go the fuck to bed.”

Andy and Joe stood up with Peter; readying themselves to come to the rescue should the lack of medication take blind hold of their best friend and front man. This wasn't something that had ever happened within the infrastructure of the band before, fights always happened with fans or guards or bartenders. Peter had hit many people in his life but Patrick was not yet one of them despite the verbal arguments that they were prone to when they managed to get intoxicated worse than pirates on the Atlantic.

“Won’t you come with me?” It was a plea from behind the glasses that were set on the bridge of Patrick’s nose.

In slow motion to all of those around them Peter sent his fist on a direct path to Patrick’s jaw uppercutting him in the flash of a second compared to the time it took him to throw it. With the gale force of a storm Patrick fell backwards with the kinetic energy transfer and stumbled over the coffee table effectively clear cutting the glass forest that surrounded it from underneath where it sat. Andy rushed to him, checking to see that he wasn't hurt much past a bruise and some cuts while Joe leaped at Peter doing his best to knock him down to the couch. It was an easy job for the latter as Peter was stunned with the moment, limp with shock, and fell back easily to support of the couch.

Whimpering came from below prompting Joe to peer over to see Patrick bum on the ground missing his glasses, hat-less, and submerged in a sea of colored glass that ran red with blood from the cuts that littered his hands and ass where he managed to catch himself.

With a grunt Peter managed to shove Joe off of him and on top of the computer that sat upside down on the adjacent couch cushion before he slid off of the seat and to his knees on the floor.

"Patty...?" Peter's voice was hushed against the noise of the Tv in the background as he carefully crawled across the floor, doing his best to avoid the broken glass and splinters that littered the carpet, to where Patrick sat with Andy still guarding him.

"Don't, Pete..." Andy warned as he looked behind the older to where Joe was sitting poised to go on the couch.

Patrick sniffled as he inspected his forearm that ran red down to his elbow and wrist, the crimson flood hiding any other small cuts that littered his skin. When he looked up from it Andy was being pushed aside softly from his defensive perch by a pair of tattooed hands. Patrick skuttled backwards across the floor paying no mind to the sea of shards behind him in an attempt to avoid the hands that still held themselves to Andy's shoulder and side. Not paying attention to how close he was to it he smacked his head into the lower level of the fireplace mantel causing stars to fire across his eyelids.

"Shit, Patrick!" Peter muttered the phrase under his breath with a worried expression and shoved Andy full force to the side.

Peter was the first one to reach Patrick from where he half sat and half laid on the floor. With a gentle touch he took the younger's head onto his cross crossed legs and ran his fingers through the messy blonde locks that were sticky with sweat and beer. The other two kept their distance watching with bated breath ready to dial 911 should the order come from their front man to do so.

"Talk to me, Patty." Peter's voice was calm but his eyes told a different story or worry and fear, pleading that the pretty face in his lap would be okay.

"I...I'm sorry..." Patrick spoke slowly with a sticky thirst in his throat as he blinked his eyes to see Peters face above him coming in and out of focus.

"You didn't do anything wrong." Peter cupped a hand around Patrick's face and rubbed his cheek with his thumb before saying to the men behind him with his eyes still on Patrick's. "Guys, get him a glass of water."

The room fell silent except for the sound of the Tv rambling in the background and a certain amount of electricity that filled the air cackling like a witch as Joe turned on the tap to fill a glass with water. Andy inched a bit closer to the spectacle in front if him as Joe handed off the glass to Peter in order to keep an eye on the breathing patterns that the rise and fall of Patrick's chest created. Deep and even.

"Come on, Patrick, sit up a little more..." Peter set the glass next to him on the floor and gripped Patrick from behind to lift him by the shoulders.

To the older's surprise though Patrick managed to support himself on his hands mustering up enough strength against the blood and glass to hold himself for a few seconds before collapsing into the tattoos of Peter's bare chest with a dull thud as skin hit skin. Gently Peter lifted Patrick's chin up with his thumb and forefinger, catching a glimpse at the bruise forming along his jawline, to look into his eyes.

"Patrick, do you think you can hold the glass yourself?" Peter spoke in a clear, slow voice to be sure that Patrick caught the whole sentence in one shot.

Instead of speaking Patrick reached for the glass with a shaky hand to wrap his fingers around the condensate that covered it like dew. With the same amount of concentration as with the last bottle he moved the glass in jerks towards his lips spilling small waves over the edge and onto the ink that covered Peter’s chest. He took a small sip and sighed content as it slid down the back of his throat to cool him down as he felt it coat his stomach over. Once he decided he was done with the glass he nudged Peter’s hand with it prompting him to take it over.

“I’m going to be sick...” Patrick put his hands over his face and gripped his cheeks with his palms allowing his fingers to curl into his forehead.

“Shit...” Peter mumbled as he motioned for the other two to help him get Patrick to his feet, quickly.

Peter held him from behind at his shoulders, the blonde’s head lulling backwards onto his collar bone, while Andy and Joe held him from either side to set him up steady on his feet. As a unit the took him over to the kitchen sink believing the trip to the bathroom to not only be too tedious but too long. Just as his hands made contact with the frozen steel of the sink Patrick heaved into the basin prompting the two at his sides to back away. Peter stayed at his back offering a warm touch and all the support of Atlas. Patrick’s knees buckled with the force of his body’s rejection, his palms were sweaty enough to lose grip on the sink, and just when he thought he was done another mass of upchuck writhed from his stomach forcing his teeth to part for its grand entrance.

When the tribulation had ceased Patrick collapsed in a free-fall to Peter’s waiting arms and whimpered as tears began to stream down his rose flushed puffy cheeks.

“Let’s clean you up, Pat...” Peter steadied the boy on the sink’s edge once more before going around to the leverage point that he could hoist Patrick up onto his back.

He carried him, hunched over to keep him from sliding off, to the small bathroom of the hotel room. With precision he stepped over the bathtub edge and then crouched down to allow Patrick to slowly, softly, slide off of him and onto the porcelain bottom waiting to receive him. after checking that Patrick was supported against the slanted end of the tub Peter stepped out and wandered over to the first aid kit that was mounted on the wall next to the toilet. Opening it he found a roll of gauze, a pair of throw-away plastic tweezers, and a box of band-aids that was missing half of its latex-free contents.

Peter took off his shoes and then climbed back into the tub with his hands full off the treasures he found in the red crossed box plus a wash cloth and sat down between Patrick’s legs. After setting the cargo he had carried down on the edge of the tub Peter turned around and twisted the faucet on to the left allowing the release of lukewarm water to run over the washcloth he held under the small waterfall. He returned to Patrick first taking the boy’s left arm and wringing the cloth out over it to wash away the oxidized blood from his skin. Once the water below their bodies ran pink Peter did the same to the right arm. Small, shimmering shards of glass littered Patrick.

“I’m sorry...I’m so sorry, Patrick...” Peter murmured as he continued to clean both of the blonde’s arms.

“Don’t be...” Patrick replied wincing for the first time since he fell at the sight of glass that barely come into focus without his glasses.

Peter took up the tweezers like a pencil between his forefinger and thumb and before getting to work on mining the gems from Patrick's arm took a deep breath to try and steady himself. Doing his best not to shake he began to remove the bits from Patrick’s forearms. Every so often the younger would gasp with the pain of small barbs coming out from under his skin. Peter tossed them behind himself, into the wall, and hoped that each one would shatter into a thousand pieces of sand as to never embed themselves ever again.

Once the smaller ones were removed there was the matter of the largest single piece, which Peter had purposely saved for last, as the now open wounds of the displaced jewels preceding it seeped out blood.

“You’re not dizzy, are you?” Peter looked up into Patrick’s half closed eyes with worry over the amount of iron that was trickling into the already pink water that filled the tub only to the point to where the drain couldn't keep up.

“No, are you?” Patrick smiled at the wariness in Peter’s eyes and relaxed a little in the heat of the moment.

“Then I’m going to pull this one, rip it like a band-aid, okay?” Peter gripped the end of the tweezers on the shard that stuck out from the large gash on Patrick’s arm with a queasiness that he had never felt before in years of war and parties.

“Just do it.”

Peter’s forearm tensed as he exhaled one last time through his nose. Make is straight, don’t skew or it’ll only get worse.” He reminded himself as he started the pull back through his his shoulder. His elbow followed the motion and keeping the joints in his wrist taught he followed through with the yank to pull the half inch shard out in one fluid tug backwards. There was a scream as the end once buried in the muscle near the middle of the cross of bones in Patrick’s forearm broke to touch air instead of fiber. In a flash Peter grabbed the gauze off of the edge where it sat, hushing Patrick with hums and soft songs, and wrapped it around the worst of the cuts and gashes; none of which were deep enough to require stitches as Peter knew it.

“Come here.” Peter stretched out quickly as he finished up to hold Patrick against his chest once more and kissed the crown of his head just as Andy and Joe came in to respond to the scream.

“Is he okay?” Joe asked looking down at the pair as the faucet still ran from behind droning on in a relaxing buzz.

“Yeah, he is now.” Peter nodded and the two standers left the room.

They sat in silence for a while, each assuming the other had fallen asleep, until Peter turned to turn off the water flow. They were both still half-crooked and drenched to the bones in water and blood. When Peter turned around he noticed that Patrick’s eyes were still just barely open and a smile was once again gracing the boy’s baby faced lips. Slowly, and with a certain amount of concentration, Peter placed his lips on the barely conscious smile of Patrick’s. They stayed like that for some time each taking in the moment, taking in the night, and when they parted Patrick curled up against Peter who held him close and tight against his skin.

“Patrick, I still love you.” Peter muttered into the sweat and blood and beer that covered the blonde haired boy’s head before finally falling asleep the way he was meant to; holding him.