Dead On Arrival [Peterick]

I Don't Know What I Was Expecting, But It Sure As Hell Wasn't This

Pete is pissed. Not only is he spectacularly hungover, which automatically lowers his patience levels a considerably, but that damn orange cat is sitting at the end of his bed, blinking at him as he rolls himself from the covers and sits up. The man he took home is gone too, but that's nothing new.

The house is suspiciously quiet as he stalks through it, now fully clothed and clasping a squirming cat which he dumps unceremoniously out of the back door. It gives him a reproachful look, distinctly ruffled, and Pete feels a cruel satisfaction when it finally turns its back on him and jumps on top of the fence. It's his damn house.

There's no prizes at all for guessing who let that fat ginger thing into the house; Pete knows it's the other fat ginger thing flopped on his couch, looking infuriatingly peaceful as Pete seethes his way back to the kitchen. He's pretty sure he makes the kettle boil with his glare alone.

He takes all his various pills, along with an aspirin or two to tame the furious ache in his skull, and flops down at the kitchen table, burying his face in his hands. He hasn't felt this low in a while; he's due for a blood transfusion in a few days time, meaning he's doomed to a purgatory of exhaustion until then. The week leading up to it is always the worst. He thought sex would help, which it did, for approximately eight minutes, but now the guy's gone, and Pete's barely even surprised. He seemed flighty.

It's only when he stands up to find the cereals he sees that the money on the counter is gone.

He doesn't lose hope right away; he checks to see if it's fallen off at some point, perhaps he moved it to the dresser, maybe he forgot all about his little scheme and put the notes in his wallet. There's a distinct sinking feeling in his chest as he realises that this isn't the case.

The sigh he lets out is one of frustration and disappointment. He was only a few days shy of taking the notes back and chiding himself for ever mistrusting Patrick; the kid gave him his word, after all. But, Pete thinks, feeling rather stupid, the first time he met Patrick, the boy stole from him, for crying out loud. Has Pete really got so embroiled in Patrick that he's forgotten that?

He steels himself to confront the kid, but, at the last second, diverts his steps up to his bedroom; first, he needs to check that Patrick only stole the money. Money is replaceable – if his laptop or his phone is gone, he might end up having his monthly breakdown a little early.

To his relief, the safe is untouched, but his watch – a £9,250 IWC Schaffhausen Portofino – is nowhere to be seen. He feels a lead weight land in the pit of his stomach when he realises he must have left it on the bedside table, in full view of thieves. His dad gave him that watch. The fact that Patrick must've come upstairs and taken it whilst he was sleeping makes Pete feel a little sick. And more than a little angry. 

And to have the audacity to still be asleep on Pete's couch, wearing clothes Pete bought for him and filled with food Pete made him, well. It makes Pete hate Patrick, that familiar feeling of disgust bubbling up to the surface once more. He storms down the stairs, deciding to dodge any pathetic tramp bullshit the kid might throw at him as an excuse, plus any punches. He won't be a pushover.

Despite Pete's thundering footsteps, Patrick's still fast asleep when Pete rounds on him; he's covered in what looks like road maps, and he's curled up in the same position as the cat at the foot of the couch. They're both a picture of peace. It's a shame, a real shame, that Patrick turned out rotten. Pete was starting to enjoy spending time with him.

But that doesn't change the fact that his thieving tramp fingers have been all over Pete's stuff. He dreads to think what kind of awful germs are spread over his beloved watch – maybe traces of old food, maybe spit, maybe – ugh, maybe all manner of bodily fluids. The thought makes Pete shudder, and he carefully avoids Patrick's hands as he pushes one of his sleeves up in search of his watch. If the kid's wearing it, Pete might end up breaking his self-induced pacifism and clocking Patrick round the head.