3 am rescue-mission

It's just after 3 a.m. when Pete arrives at the hotel and Patrick is still sitting at the bar just like Andy told him he would. He changed so much since their self-imposed break – the hair, the weight, how he holds himself over that drink like it's his anchor – but Pete will always be able to recognize him. He can still see that 16-year old boy with the golden voice somewhere in there, even if Patrick can't see it himself.

Pete thought a lot about this; seeing Patrick for the first time after their break-up – the band might just be taking a break, but the both of them broke up – but he never imagined it like this.

Not in a bar with Patrick wearing yesterday's clothes and Pete, for once, playing the savior.

He takes a deep breath and steels himself, fixing his gaze on some point right next to Patrick as he walks through the hotel and towards the bar where he is sitting.

"Scotch please, on the rocks," he says to the barkeeper and sits down right next to Patrick, without a word to him.

It takes a couple of minutes and for the barkeeper to place Pete's drink on the counter for Patrick to turn towards him.

"What are you doing here?"

"Well, after I read your latest publication," he begins and can't keep his thoughts from thinking back to that dreadful blog-entry, "and called everyone we know, a little bird told me I'd might find you here."

When Pete first stumbled across that blog-entry and read through the whole thing, a whole set of alarm bells went off in his head. The tone is far from the guy Pete traveled the world with.

"It's true, what I wrote."

Patrick takes a swig of his drink and Pete mimics the gesture. He's not exactly here to convince Patrick that Folie wasn't hated by a lot of people or that people can be cruel for no reason at all. The scotch burns its way down his throat but Patrick doesn't even flinch.

"Maybe, maybe not."

"What are you doing here?" Patrick asks again, obviously not satisfied with Pete's first answer.

Pete looks at Patrick with a smile he's not really feeling,not when he can see the dark circle under Patrick's eyes; prominent against his pale skin.

"Haven't you heard? This is an intervention and you're the guest of honor."

"Funny."

The Barkeeper chuckles behind a raised towel, Pete can see, but Patrick sure doesn't look like he thinks it funny.

While Pete thinks about what he's saying next – from everything he wants to say to everything he should and needs to say - they sit in silence together, nursing their drinks.

"Look, take it from someone who has been where you are now; that road you're on will destroy you."

"What do you know about it?"

Pete can just barely keep in the laughter that's bubbling up in his throat.

"Where's the difference between swallowong pills and whiskey."

He gets the feeling Patrick is deliberately trying to make this harder on them both. Or it's worse than Pete thought.

"Easy for you to say. I'm sick of being treated like some kind of charity case. You've all done something, you've moved on-"

He can't really keep the laugh in this time, but it comes out more like a snort; interrupting whatever Patrick wanted to say next.

"Patrick."

Patrick doesn't react, so Pete grips his shoulder, lightly, to get his attention and even tough they barely touch at all, it stills some deep buried need in Pete. It's been so long.

"Come on, look at me."

When Patrick turns it looks like it's the last thing he wants to do. He's still gripping his drink like a lifeline, but at least Pete is able to catch his gaze, having to bow his head down a little.

"I'm here, in the middle of the night. Do I look like I've moved on? If I had I would have just waited until morning and send you a text."

Carefully, like he might spook Patrick if he moves too fast, his hand runs down Patrick's arm to his wrist, curling around the hand that's holding Patrick's drink.

"I never moved on. I waited, passed the time, distracted myself, but I never moved on. This," he says and pulls a tattered notebook out of his pocket with his other hand, "this is me holding on. How could I have possibly moved on from you – or the band for that matter? You're the best thing that ever happened to me."

Patrick looks away from Pete and to the notebook Pete holds out for him. He never intended for Patrick to see it, but in a sense its his anyway.

"You saved me."

He takes the drink out of Patrick's hand, replacing glas with paper and feeling relieved when Patrick's finger close around the pages.

"Now let me save you."