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

Monday

Pete is really, really bad at sleeping. At his best, he's about half-decent, sleeping light but solid, fitful; these times, he manages to stay down most of the night. At his worst, he's tense, mumbling anxious nonsense into his pillow, into Patrick's neck, into nothing in particular.

The fourth time he wakes Patrick up by squeezing too hard, his whole body stiff, his arms painfully tight around Patrick's ribs, Patrick seriously considers stabbing him. He cracks an eye at his watch, at the jaunty green numbers taking great pleasure in informing him that it is, in fact, 4:01am.

There's nothing within arm's reach to stab Pete with, though, unless he unscrews the light bulb and shatters it against the edge of the nightstand. He's still considering this course of action when Pete shifts restlessly, curls his knees up too tight against Patrick's thighs and mumbles, "Don't," into the over-warm span of Patrick's back.

Which is, you know, either a coincidence or some pretty amazing sleep-guilting. Pete twitches again, makes some noise low in his throat that snaps Patrick's resolve in half. There's no way he's going to be able to fall back asleep, not with Pete like this. He sighs, and starts peeling Pete's arm off of him.

Pete says, "Don't," again, but clearer, and Patrick shushes him.

"Hey," he whispers, squirming free so he can climb carefully over Pete, away from the wall, cramming himself between Pete's back and the edge of the bed.

Pete is still mostly curled up, facing the wall Patrick was against just, like, five seconds ago.

"Scoot," Patrick says. He puts his hands on Pete's back and shifts him forward a little. He fishes the pillow he was hugging out from under the covers and presses it to Pete's chest; Pete's arms lock around it, lift it and smoosh it tight against his face. He inhales, deep, and Patrick curls around him, slides an arm under Pete's neck and bends it up enough that he can take Pete's hand, press his palm to Pete's knuckles and lace their fingers. He tucks his other arm against Pete's side, folded up, and stacks his hand over Pete's heart; his thumb strokes over warm skin. Pete is warm all over - almost fever-hot - except where the metal of his nipple ring rolls under Patrick's palm.

Pete mumbles, "M'sorry," but Patrick's pretty sure he's still half asleep, drifting somewhere between conscious misery and unconscious anxiety, so he shushes him again.

The shhh lasts too long, until he's singing it more than breathing it, and Pete wiggles back a little, loses some of the tension from his shoulders. Which is, well. A sleeping Pete means a sleeping Patrick, and a sleeping Patrick means a happy Patrick, so.

Patrick sings, pressing the first few words of some remembered lullaby out past his yawns and too-slow tongue. He gets through three songs, mumbling more often than is strictly pleasing to the ear, but Pete's gone boneless, slumped back against Patrick's chest with the pillow hugged tight, with his hand limp against Patrick's and his heart beating slow and steady under Patrick's palm.

He doesn't look at his watch again. It only takes three deep breaths from the crook of Pete's neck to fall asleep again, anyway.

***

Morning officially crashes down about two hours later. Two hours of quality sleep do not a pleasant Patrick make, so the universe fails utterly to be surprised when he rolls over and viciously smashes his blaring alarm clock.

Pete wiggles and says, drowsily, voice warm, "Morning, sunshine."

Patrick hates everything. He hates the clunking, static sound of the heater working, he hates the fact that his hair has dried against the part, that it aches down to his scalp where it bends in the wrong direction, he hates that he's too hot in Pete spots and not hot enough in non-Pete spots. He hates that the Earth is still orbiting the sun and that bread is sliced and, especially, that he is fortunate enough to live in a country where schooling is available to all minors.