Chapter Text
If you had told Patrick that during the hiatus, he would get a diagnosis, he would’ve scoffed and rolled his eyes because in his mind, there was nothing inherently wrong with him. Sure, his self-confidence was… abysmal, okay? It wasn’t great. And yes, he had currently subscribed to the notion that nobody would genuinely listen to a thing he did or said unless he paid them (Soul Punk was doing badly as far as revenue was concerned) but he didn’t have some sort of problem? Right?
He was so, so wrong. Confessions of a Pariah ended up coming across as a major cry for help, alerting his former bandmates that he may not be doing well. He didn’t know what he wanted to accomplish with that, he didn’t want to make a big deal of his feelings. Sue him if he wrote that in a sad, drunken state and posted it to his blog.
Now, he’s sitting in his living room, contemplating his next move. He can hear the banging on the door and the shouts from all three of his former bandmates. He’s truly wondering what the consequences would be if he didn’t answer. Joe, Andy, and Pete being here was shocking to him, to say the least. They all were certainly not living anywhere near Chicago the last time Patrick checked. Joe was in New York City, Pete in Los Angeles… actually, Andy was still in Milwaukee… but still, that was a bit of a drive.
He ended up coming to the decision to just open the door, not even caring about his appearance. He had lost a ton of weight, certainly not in a healthy way either. The bags under his eyes were deep and dark, his hair mussed and his pajamas were totally not being worn for a third day in a row. He opened the door, revealing three anxious men, suitcases in hand, standing at his front door. Their faces morphed from shock to concern upon seeing Patrick’s current appearance and lack of upkeep of himself and his condo.
“Hey guys, what are you doing here?” Patrick gave a small smile that ended up more like a grimace.
“Patrick. You’ve got to be kidding me,” Joe said flatly, “You know exactly why we’re here.”
Patrick sighed and opened the door wider to let the three inside to his messy home. Bottles were lining the counter in the kitchen, pizza boxes and takeout containers strewn about.
His living room had music scattered everywhere, stacked in piles, all over the floor. Anywhere and everywhere. A short glass was currently leaving a ring on the old wooden coffee table, leftover from his drinking binge that got him to this point. Oh how that whiskey burned so beautifully on the way down.
Although he was currently sober, damn was he missing that rush from being intoxicated of something, anything. Give him champagne, whiskey, hell, even cocaine at this damn point. He had all three on hand but there was no way he was trying anything like that at this point. Not while under the watchful eye of his bandmates, at least. He saw the way they watched his moves carefully, even if they had only been there for a few moments.
He plopped down on his couch with a sigh, dipping his head back to rest on the back of the couch as Joe and Andy sat on the loveseat, leaving Pete to sit right next to Patrick on the couch. The distance between them felt immeasurable, like he was a million miles away, or maybe in space. Patrick certainly was not all too there, mentally. Not at this moment. He was frankly fucking exhausted, not in the mood for what was clearly about to be an intervention. The three all took turns talking but he couldn’t hear them clearly. It felt like their voices were warped, the situation was becoming too real and Patrick couldn’t take this.
His breathing was growing more labored, his chest feeling tight, if he didn’t know any better, he would say he felt like he was drowning, drowning under the pressure and expectations of him, the ones he could never fulfill. Holy fuck was he a failure. Drunk words are sober thoughts, he was right to say everything that he said on his blog post. Tears were welling in his eyes and he just could not stop them from forming and then falling.
“‘Trick, are you okay?” Pete looked at him like an injured animal, one of those baby ones you see on those damn commercials with the sad music, probably. Patrick shook his head frantically.
“Shit, I think he’s having a panic attack,” Joe said to the two, scared out of his mind, “Andy get him some water.” Andy and Joe both got up and Pete scooted a bit closer to Patrick.
“Hey ‘Trick, can I touch you or is that too much?” Pete whispered gently, Patrick nodded frantically, someone needed to hold on or he’s gonna float away and what good is that going to do him. Pete took one of his hands and squeezed it, taking a deep breath.
Pete certainly intended to help, Patrick could tell, but there was no helping him when the world went black and he passed out cold on the couch.