Today's Heartache (Peterick)

Part 11: Repressed Feelings are Better Than None At All

Pete's POV:

It angered me. I couldn't deny that. Frank had the damn nerve to ask for his hand in marriage when he had violated their trust and expected for Patrick to act like nothing had happened once he had remembered about it. I wanted to slap the shit right off his face whenever he came around for "moral support". He wasn't there to ask about his day or play those stupid board games. Frank was pressuring Patrick.

I could tell from the way he looked at and acted around him. Eventually, Patrick stopped going to the visiting room altogether, and it was a lie if I said it didn't give me pure joy knowing that I wouldn't have to deal with that piece of scum trying to get into that boy's head. We hadn't talked about the kiss, and nor did I want to. It obviously made him uncomfortable, and I didn't want to ruin the relationship we had developed over the past few months- whatever that relationship was.

It was dangerous and risky and all things bad, but I couldn't stay away from him. He drew me in from the moment I saw him again, and I couldn't get loose even if I tried. I wondered a lot about his suicide when I would come see him, sat and wondered what went on through his head and thoughts as he swallowed those pills, wondered if I ever crossed them. He would remember me like he had Frank. He would hate me.

I accepted that fact already. I didn't deserve to be forgiven or taken back. It wasn't going to work like some magical fairy tale where Patrick and I would end up together happily ever after. This wasn't that story. This was temporary.

The twenty minute time frames in which I could pretend like we were the same as we had once been was a blessing in itself. Each day was a reminder that it could be gone in a swift moment, so I made every second count. My eyes traced his skin, remembering the parts I used to know and discovering the bruises or nicks or burns that had made their home there within my absence. Patrick was everything to me in the silence of his beauty as he read the magazines and created his art pieces to display around the white room and talked about his friends. I tried to help him recall details about his life back home, aware of the risks that would bring.

He'd remind me, unknowingly, of the Dallon, Elisa, Breezy, Andy, Joe and Brendon he vaguely could recall. I would nod and listen and smile at how quickly he was recovering. I learned too of what he'd been up to in the past four years with the time he'd spend with his mom and the novels he had in his shelf back home that he saw in his dreams. It was supposed to make me happy- the fact that he had done all right, gotten by on his own, but it didn't. It only added to the guilt I had in my soul.

I asked Jon about what it meant to know if you've ever done something right for the betterment of someone else.
"They'll be fine in the end," he told me, "And they'll be thankful of the choice you made."
So I waited for the moment Patrick would remember me and hoped he would understand what my intentions were. That was all I could ever do nowadays: wait and hope.

"You want to make art with me?" he asked, holding a box of oil pastels.
"Where did you get those?"
"Lindsey. She let me have them. They're a little worn and stuff, but they're still good."
"Okay. Sure."

He ripped out a page from a sketch book and gave it to me along with a few colors to start out. I sat at the desk and lazily sketched out a shape. Art was never a strong suit nor did I ever try much to build the skills to make anything worth while, but I was patient in the drawing process as if I was going to create something magnificent. Patrick stuck out his tongue and squinted his eyes, somehow earning smudges of color on his cheeks and forehead.

"Lindsey's been giving me lessons," he said.
"Yeah? You any good yet?"
"I think so. Wanna see?"
I turned my head and studied the paper he held out to me.

There was a person, a man it seemed based on the firm jaw and broad nose, with his features highlighted in pinks and blues and yellows and purples. The one thing that remained untouched were his eyes and lips. Those were blended into a black void.
"Who is that?" I asked.