-=Patrick=-
February 4th, 2008.
That was the day they had met—two peculiar teenagers fresh out of their sophomore year, and just one more pair of lovers. They'd been through everything together, with their heads in Heaven and their soles in Hell. The two held hands through it all, their bond bending and breaking, and today was their seventh year together.
Seven was Pete's lucky number.
Patrick didn't quite know why it was. He asked Pete about it once, but all he mentioned was something about seven minutes... And something else. Atavan... Halen? Yes, that was it. But that was all Patrick remembered, and he had yet to ask again.
But that would have to wait.
Seven years was one hell of a while, and not one of Patrick's relationships lasted more than a year. But for some odd reason, this one did.
And Patrick was grateful.
He stood within the premises of his white-walled room, gazing out the window. It was cold outside, gray hues painting the sky in even rolls of clouds. The sun, persistent to keep its light, casted a yellow tint to Patrick's neighborhood, yet did nothing to give it warmth.
Behind him, were a mass of empty sheets, in which two spots were seemingly molded into the mattress. Pete had left early, promising to be home as soon as possible for their anniversary. He, like Patrick, worked. But he, unlike Patrick, had a shift today.
Patrick sighed in the absence of him. It was cold, and he could imagine Pete wrapping his arms around his embarrassingly large waist, murmuring into his ear short instances of how much he loved him.
Patrick, without a doubt, loved Pete. And Pete loved Patrick in same conditions—none, to say simply.
But Patrick still doubted Pete's promises. Not because a man of his traits were unfaithful, but because of the question: who could love him?
With his shorter-than average height, or with his unintentional damage, who could love him? Or with his noticeably large stomach, or his mildly unattractive complexion, who could even think of the idea?
Pete could. But Patrick? It seemed that his insecurities were set in stone to him, and he simply just was not perfect. Much less average.
There were too many flaws Patrick could list off, and if you asked, he could've put it in alphabetical order too.
But nonetheless, Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III loved Patrick Martin Stump.
That was fact, to everyone except Patrick himself.
There was a day to mark that love. And that just so happened to be today.
Patrick decided to get ready, after standing in the brief daze that everyone knows after waking up—that moment of hesitation before crawling to do something productive, you know, that—and headed to the bathroom.
He changed into some nicer clothes today—a Radiohead shirt and leather jacket, paired with some jeans and new, black converse—making sure to add his best fedora like the cherry to a sundae.
Patrick studied himself in the mirror, not quite satisfied, but threw on his glasses anyway and headed to the kitchen.
He checked the clock.
