You're a Hot Mess (Peterick)

Chapter Twelve - Bury Me Deep

The bell sounds to tell us our time is up. Just after another sounds to say 'let the fight begin'. 

Or rather, 'let it continue' after we had a short intermission. The last show of the tour. 

Better to go out with a bang. 

The dressing room evacuated when Patrick stormed in, myself marching after him, both shouting at the top of our voices. They have to clean up the venue, after all. One of them should have stuck around to clean up this mess. 

"You're such a child, you know that? If you don't get your way then you throw a tantrum." I gesture furiously at him, my throat feeling raw from yelling for so long.

"Don't you dare belittle me." He snaps, sending me glares from the other end of the small room. At least there's no echoes in here. Although, we probably wouldn't hear them over each other. "This is so much more important than not getting to sit on the big chair." He says mockingly, smiling cruelly in his anger. 

"What's the point in arguing? It won't change a thing." 

 "I'm not trying to change anything. It was a simple question."

"Asking me to break up with my boyfriend for the god-knows-how-many-th time is not a simple question."

"I didn't ask you to. God, stop twisting things!" He throws his hands into his hair in frustration, like I'm in the wrong here. Like I'm being manipulative. 

I laugh at him, and he glares at me harder than he already was."You may as well have." He scrunches up his fists while I cross over my arms, with a scowl to match his own. "Who do you even think you are, Patrick?"

"Not who I want to be. Not to you." Patrick says in the most gentle tone either of us have used all evening. His glare softens into a blank expression, with a small pout. He's used that move a few times in our other fights. 'Other fights'. I'm convinced that no one else fights as much as we do. We should be awarded for it. 

I wonder how the world would react to Patrick's sharp tongue. He's not such an angel, as they make him out to be; more a wolf in sheep's clothing. Or a snake. But that makes two of us. 

"I've heard it all before Patrick. Actually, I think I've heard more of you complaining than of your music." I say, watching his face turn from forced guilt to offended. 

"I'm trying here!" 

"You're trying? To do what? You've done nothing but get under my skin."

"And you let me." Patrick says, making us both stop for a second. Pause, and let the weight of our argument force down the palms we hold it in. It feels like a car with its hind wheels hanging off the end of a cliff - just ready to tip over the edge. All it needs is a little more weight.

"I did. And that was a fucking mistake." And I don't know if that was enough to tip, but it was enough to give us both that knot in our stomachs you get when you feel like something bad's going to happen. 

"Pete-" He says, but I'm already making my exit, out the door, down the hall, seeing faces of the people who kept me company between the fighting and the good times this tour. They look at me with sympathy, some's faker than other's, but none of them feeling right. 

Outside, though, that's different. The night sky knows my sorrows, it knows everything, sees everything. Yet it can't tell. It's loyal, all of them. The stars. The moon. The planets. All far, far away from here. A million metres and more. 

I think about Patrick, unwillingly. But he's on my subconscious, always. No matter what I do. 

I think about him, all he's done, all he'll do. Although I don't know that far. The anticipation of it makes my hands shake.