#maybe .

and he ‘ d whispered , in quiet response to himself , that he was everything else . all the rest of the world .

In a shitty motel room , between states in the middle of the night . That was when it happened .

Pete had just stepped out of the shower , hair still dripping & olive skin flushed with the heat of a shower meant more as cleansing than hygiene , & found something far more painful than hatred as he spotted him sat cross legged on the bed .

Patrick met his gaze that night, steady & calm ,

& whispered the quiet praises of whiskey eyes ,

far gentler & humanizing than any lover he ‘ d ever had —

more destructive than the high of any hookup or drug he ever tried .

Not an object ,

but a person .

Pete thought it unfair . A lie .

‘ Better that than something tangible .

Better mockery than something meaningful . ‘

Patrick was the golden ticket , the gifted voice that carried them across stages from behind hats pulled over soft yellow - blue eyes & strawberry blond hair .

Pete was a heartbroken poet who wrote only of love he couldn ‘ t have — of pain & longing that he ‘ d known long before they ever met .

… But then Patrick smiled . A soft , sweet smile that was too earnest not to hurt , & Pete nearly wept .

He treated him like a person , not the sex icon he was made into in his early 20s & forced to continue being — not the flirty heartbreaker frontman of a pop - punk emo band in the early 2000s , but Pete Wentz .

A human .

I think I ' m in love .