Patricksitting (Call It A Love Song) (Peterick) [by adellyna]

Wednesday

Too much of not enough sleep is not helping Patrick be any more pleasant in the morning, and it certainly doesn't help that Pete's turned the world upside down by being fully awake, fully dressed, and waiting for Patrick in the kitchen, with cereal and milk set out on the counter. He's folded a napkin, placed a carefully centered spoon on it, and Patrick is about half a second from asking where his bud vase is when Pete cups his hands around Patrick's hips and pulls him forward.

Patrick needs that half second now, not for sarcasm, but to figure out what the hell is going on, and then Pete tips his chin up and kisses him. Pete's mouth tastes like coffee - like Pete's first cup of coffee, black, no hint of the hazelnut creamer he adds to his second and third - and toothpaste. His hands flex on Patrick's hips, fingertips pressing just this side of too hard, and Patrick can actually feel the tension in his wrists. Pete's arms are kind of shaking, like he's trying to pull something heavy toward himself, but his palms are cupped outward, heels of his hands braced against Patrick's hipbones, arms locked so even if Patrick tried to move forward, he wouldn't be able to.

It's maybe surprise that makes Patrick open his mouth. Maybe. But that's definitely not what makes him kiss Pete back, what makes him put hesitant hands on Pete's arms, mapping out the ridges on the roof of Pete's mouth with the tip of his tongue.

And then it's over. Too fast; Pete's still staring at his mouth when they break apart, his cheeks a little flushed, his breathing more than a little uneven.

"Okay," he says, and he looks lost, like he had something he wanted to say, but forgot it somewhere along the way. He clears his throat, slides away from Patrick, and runs a shaky hand through his hair. "I'm going to. I'm going to go now. If that was totally out of line, or if you feel like I'm unsafe or something, then you call your mom, or you call my mom, or you tell someone at school, or, God, please don't, but you could call the cops."

Patrick blinks. "What?"

"If you don't want to. If I'm taking advantage of you, or if you feel pressured, you're supposed to tell someone. I don't know how you'd tell someone if I kissed you after school. You'd be stuck here with me all night. You might feel, like, endangered." Pete shoves his hands in his front pockets and rocks back on his heels, smiling weakly. "I don't want you to feel endangered. I want to kiss you, but I want you to want to kiss me. So I'm going to go now, that way you can report me to whatever authorities you want, if you want to, and I won't feel like opportunistic scum."

"Um." Patrick's pretty sure he hasn't moved since Pete licked his lips apart. His feet are still rooted to the ground, heavy, like he could actually sway on them and stay upright. He's light-years from being able to make his brain work. "You're not scum?"

Pete laughs, high and tight and nervous, and he takes a couple of quick, jogging steps forward and presses his lips to Patrick's again. Just a brush, light like his fingers were last night. "I'm going to go. But I'll be here. When you get home, I'll be here. Unless you have me arrested, I'll be here."

Patrick stares at the empty doorway long after he hears Pete's car start, back out of the drive, and fade off down the street.

***

He doesn't tell anyone. He wants to. He wants to tell everyone, because Pete Wentz kissed him in his kitchen this morning, and Patrick spent the subsequent half hour arguing with himself about whether or not it was possible to get away without brushing his teeth all day, just to keep the taste of Pete in his mouth. But he doesn't tell anyone. He talks to his mom during lunch, tells her everything is fine, and he waves at the guidance counselor in the hallway, and on the way home he passes three police cars, but he doesn't stop.

Instead, he pulls into his driveway and sits in his parked car for five minutes, staring up at his house like it might bite him. He twists his keys in his hand until they're slick with sweat and his palms are red from the serrated edges, then takes a deep breath and pushes the door open.