You're a Hot Mess (Peterick)

Chapter Nineteen - Flowers, Forts and Forever.

*ughhh I'm out of apologies honestly. I hope this chapter makes it up to you guys!!!! Sorry!!!! I love you!! The next chapter is the last- I'll try and not let it be that far away again this time. (I know I said that last time, sorry!)*

"Pete, cut it out!" Patrick says for the umpteenth time, laughing with a gleeful glow on his face. I carefully poke another flower through a small gap in his fingers and Patrick shakes his head at the bunch of flowers in his hand.

"People'll get mad that you're picking their flowers."

I pause, mid-flower-pick and look at him. "Only if we get caught." I hand him the flower and he reluctantly takes it, giggling a little.

We hear a door open behind us and a man pokes his head out of the door. Patrick and I freeze and he looks at Patrick's hands to our faces.

"Are- are those my flowers?" The man frowns and looks at his windowsill of flowers. Then at his other one. And his other one. And his other one.

"Uh." Is all Patrick can manage, with a face as guilty as I've ever seen it. He extends his arms to the man with the flowers clasped between his hands and smiles sheepishly.

The man doesn't look pleased, Patrick laughs awkwardly, but it's more of a 'heh'.

I hook an arm around Patrick's and in a flash there's flowers up in the air and he makes a sound of surprise before we're running together down the street, the distant, defeated cries of the resident gardener and his picked-in-their-prime flowers now littering the street.

We get to a corner and dive to the wall like kids, like old times and we let out heavy breaths and everything is heated and adrenaline filled.

We glance to each other and I see the youth and fire in his eyes that attracted me to him since day one.

The firework that only takes a small spark to ignite.

He always tells me he hates when I get him into trouble but he never complains at the time.

Not that we'll exactly get arrested for picking flowers.

He huffs out and rests the back of his head against the bricks of the wall. His teeth emerge from his mouth and he laughs, loud and genuine.

"We're getting too old for this." He states, even though there's still that ghost of a smile on his lips when he turns to face me.

"Then let's keep doing it until we get there." I pick out a flower from the hood of his jacket and weave it into his hair.

We laugh. Just like always.

He sighs. Just like always.

We kiss. Just like always.

We've fallen into our own little routine lately and I'm not sure how we'll function without it.

But we will. I'm sure. We'll have to.

And I lie to myself. Just like always.

Typical.

* * * * *

"Okay, no, no. We're prepared this time." I argue to his statement of 'this is never going to work.'