Breadsticks (A Peterick Story)

Chapter 3: Best kept secret

Pete slammed the door, making sure it was bolted and locked. Both men leaned against the wall, breathing heavily.

"Dude..." Pete heaved between breaths "the hell...was that?!"

Patrick was too traumatised to reply. He looked up at Pete, but said nothing, his eyes wide with shock and fear. Pete couldn't blame him really- if he hadn't of pulled his friend into the house, the bullet would have gone straight through his head. As mad as he was at Patrick for dragging him into this mess, he didn't want to have to be cleaning Patrick's blood off his doorstep.

Pete pulled the singer into a tight hug that was really for both of them.

"Hey buddy, you alright?" He whispered to Patrick.

"I'm scared Pete. So, so scared" Patrick whispered into Pete's shoulder, so quiet he could barely hear it over their breathing.

"It's gonna be alrigh....PATRICK!"

Patrick suddenly fell limp in Pete's arms, and slipped out of Pete's grasp. His body made a soft thump and he slumped forward onto the floor.

Pete instantly bent down and checked over his best friend for injuries, but found none. Pete sighed in relief and he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. It was the shock, he concluded. He must have been terrified, poor guy.

Pete scooped Patrick's small frame up gently in his arms, and carried him upstairs to his bed. Pete carefully placed his bandmate under the covers, and promptly lay on top of the covers next to him, one arm under Patrick. He decided that he shouldn't leave Patrick, after all, he could wake up and freak out, not knowing where he was. Pete watched Patrick's relaxed face squished against the pillow for a while, he couldn't deny that he was cute when he slept. However, he soon started to drift off to sleep as well.

Pete heard yelling and screaming coming from what sounded like outside of his door. What on earth was going on. Right now, he wished they would just shut up. Pete turned up the volume of his TV- he was really into Sherlock, he couldn't miss parts because of some idiot screaming outside his front door.

"Fuck sake.. Shut the hell up!" Pete exclaimed, ready to shout at them when he heard a familiar voice, one he'd heard countless times in the studio and on stage. The voice of an angel. But he wasn't singing this time.

"PETE OPEN THE DOOR, THEY'RE GOING TO KILL ME!" Patrick screamed, finally catching Pete's attention.

"Patrick? Is that you? What the hell dude?"

Pete opened the door to Patrick's absolutely petrified face.

"Patrick, wha-"

Pete was cut off by a gunshot. He reached out to his friend, but it was too late.

Patrick fell sideways as a bullet hit him in the side of his head. Blood amongst other unpleasant things splattered on the stark white paint of Pete's doorframe, and on Pete's outstretched hand.

Pete took a moment to comprehend the gruesome scene - the deep crimson stain on his door, his best friend slumped against the doorframe of his house, eyes still wide with fear and pleading.

Pete was, for once, speeches.

He pulled Patrick into his arms and sobbed endlessly.

Pete shot up, drenched in cold sweat. His breathing finally evened out as he caught sight of Patrick sleeping peacefully beside him.

Pete was going to lie back down when Patrick began to stir.

"Pete? Is that you?" He whispered groggily, Pete chuckled in relief that his best friend was seemingly alright after yesterday's ordeal. He passed Patrick his glasses, and straightened them for him when he put them on crooked.