Dead On Arrival [Peterick]

For The Record, I Don't Trust Your Fridge

Patrick has no fucking idea how he got this lucky, but he's not about to complain.

Sure, the dude's awkward as hell, and Patrick can practically feel the judgement radiating off him, but for the first time in a while, Patrick feels warm and cosy and like an actual person rather than a walking septic tank. He's also decided that pizza is his favourite food ever.

After eleven hours of deep, uninterrupted sleep, Patrick wakes up happy. He doesn't quite remember where he is at first, just that he's not on the street like usual. He stretches out in the bed, feeling the soft fabric under his fingers, wriggling his toes around in the duvet and burying his face in the pillows. He wonders if it would be okay for him to just stay here forever.

With a yawn and a rub of his eyes, he pulls the duvet up and nuzzles his nose into it, curling on his side and closing his eyes again. Just a few more minutes.

About an hour later, he wakes to a quiet knock on the door, and a head pokes around it. It takes him a few confused blinks to realise that the head belongs to Pete, the guy whose house he's sleeping in.

Quickly pulling the sheets up to his nose and making sure the rest of him is covered up, he watches Pete as he tiptoes through the door and tries something like a smile.

"Uh, morning," he says, then laughs a little. "Or, afternoon, I guess."

A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table tells Patrick oh, shit, it's two o'clock in the afternoon. "Uh...sorry," he says quickly, wondering if Pete's here to tell him to get out.

But Pete just shakes his head. "No, not at all, I'm sure you were exhausted. Did you have a good sleep?"

Holy fuck yes. He decides he'd like to save up for a queen-sized bed. Queens must be very big if they have to sleep in a bed like this every night. He nods at Pete, cuddling the duvet a little tighter as if in gratitude.

"Good. I, uh, brought you some coffee," the dude says, showing him a steaming mug, then hops over to Patrick and places it on the bedside table. "Don't worry, it's not instant or anything, it's proper stuff from the cappuccino machine," he says, looking rather proud.

Patrick has pretty much no idea what Pete just said, but nods anyway, pondering what might be so proper about whatever a cappuccino is. Some kind of hat, maybe?

"Uh, I'm drying your clothes at the moment, but, like, you can borrow stuff of mine again. Just give me a shout if you need help getting up," Pete says, glancing at the lump of Patrick's feet in the sheets.

Oh, yeah. Fucking forgot about that. Patrick gives his toes a little test-wriggle, expecting pain, but feels only a little bit of sting. "Okay," he says, cursing himself for ever needing fucking help. His foot better be healed by now.

"Right," Pete says, shifting from one foot to the other and mangling his fingers together. He's dressed in jeans and a shirt, with his hair neatly combed and light stubble tingeing his face. Patrick wonders if he always looks smart. "Uh, well, help yourself to stuff in the fridge. I'm off to get some milk in a minute, so, like, do you need help now, or..?"

"No," Patrick says immediately, scowling at Pete. Again with the fucking help.

"O – okay," the guy stammers, "Sorry. I'll, uh, leave you to it, then."

Patrick watches Pete as he sidles out the door, ducking his head a little. He seems sort of...afraid? of Patrick, and Patrick doesn't know how he feels about that, but he also doesn't know how to not be scary sometimes.