Patricksitting (Call It A Love Song)

Thursday

  Morning is an empty kitchen, quiet but for the auto-drip of coffee. It's been days since Patrick missed his mom, but it hits him now, sharp and furious. He throws away the wilted, drooping flowers she left on the counter, wets a sponge and wipes off the table, just because his mom has always just cleaned it when he comes down for breakfast, and then stares at the contents of the fridge and tries to visualize breakfast.

He doesn't hear Pete come downstairs, is maybe too buried in the hum of the fridge and the faint, staticky flicker of the light, and is almost surprised when Pete's hand presses to his stomach and he feels lips brushing the back of his neck.

"Overslept," Pete explains, yawning the word into Patrick's shoulder. "Sorry. G'morning."

Having Pete there makes it a little easier, but he still misses his mom. "S'okay," he says, and leans back into Pete's weight, into the hand tucked around him, into the arm draped over his shoulder. The fridge door is still open, spilling cold air out onto them, Patrick's fingers tapping on the edge of it, against the cool, pebbled metal. "The eggs are raw."

"They are." Warm lips behind his ear, cold air on his knees, Pete, solid and pressed close behind him. Patrick closes his eyes and sighs a little, shortly, heavily.

"Hey," Pete says, turning his dangling hand inward and covering Patrick's heart with it. "You want to go to breakfast? I'll buy you some unraw eggs."

The unraw eggs won't be on Patrick's mom's favorite plates, though, and he's not sure he can bring himself to ask a restaurant for orange juice with grenadine in it, and above all that, he wants to keep Pete to himself for as long as he can. He knows that may not be long at all, which is even more reason to glue his feet to the floor and stay here, where he can turn and kiss Pete.

"I owe you eggs," he says, mumbling it into Pete's lips. "A little runny, right?"

"I like eggs."

Patrick's back hits the hard edge of the counter. He shifts forward, but hits it again when Pete bumps into him, and that time is probably going to bruise, but he has his hands in Pete's hair and he doesn't care much. This is probably a dream anyway. You don't bruise in dreams.

The eggs are half runny and half burnt by the time they get cooked, but Patrick's orange juice has just the right amount of cherry flavoring in it, and the longest Pete goes without touching him is nine seconds. He counts.

Pete eats with his left hand so he can curl his right around Patrick's, and he narrates the comics between - and sometimes during - bites, complete with character voices.

"That," Patrick says, tucking his ankle under Pete's beneath the table, "is not how I imagine Cathy sounds."

"You imagined wrong. I met her once."

"Yeah? In person? How was it?"

"Good." Pete grins, too many teeth, too much happy for this early in the morning. "She's shorter in real life, though. Smokes like a chimney."

***

Patrick's afternoons used to involve homework and video games. He distinctly remembers last Thursday: Trig, the French Revolution, jerking off, two hours of Halo. Today, however, he's under Pete (who is possibly the hottest guy - fuck it, hottest person - in the history of existence), about two seconds from coming in his pants, with Pete's breath in his ear, whispering "C'mon, Patrick. C'mon."

He comes so hard he's pretty sure he'll still be feeling it tomorrow, shuddering, the hands he's fisted in Pete's shirt shaking, clenched so tight he can't really feel his knuckles anymore. "God."

Patrick is not ashamed- not of the sticky, slowly cooling mess in his pants, not of the noises he was just making, and not of the bruises that are sure to pop up on Pete's arms by this time tomorrow. There is, he feels, only so much Pete Wentz a person can be subjected to before they just do it, just come all over themselves, and at least Patrick didn't do it spontaneously, in everyday conversation, after Pete commented on the weather or something equally innocuous.

Pete grins and kisses him, sloppily, somewhere between the corner of his mouth and his chin, and that's nice, but he's also slowing, rocking his hips down less insistently. Patrick can still feel Pete, pressed hard against his hip, so he doesn't understand why Pete's stopping. Unless, oh, maybe he can't. Get off this way, that is, because he's older and obviously not a virgin and he needs more. Patrick wiggles backward a few inches, shoves his hands between them, and manages to pop the button on Pete's jeans with what he thinks is an impressive amount of finesse, thanks.


"Can I?" he asks, fumbling to pry the zipper tab up with his fingernail. "I want to."

He can feel how hard Pete is, heat against his knuckles, sticky-wet and throbbing.

"Oh God, yes," Pete says. Patrick fumbles the zipper down, and Pete says, "But no."

"No?" No doesn't process. Patrick is already reaching for the waist of Pete's jeans, so his hand is right there when Pete shoves his hips forward. "No?"

Pete's forehead falls to Patrick's shoulder; it's actually kind of hard, more than kind of hurts, and he almost misses it when Pete mumbles, "I'm going to hell."

It's probably unkind to roll his eyes at the ceiling, but Pete can't see him, so. Victimless crime. Patrick pushes Pete's jeans down, carefully peels the wet fabric of Pete's boxers away from his cock, and fists it with more confidence then he feels. "Is this okay?"

He takes the vaguely choked noise as agreement, and strokes once, twice, a third and fourth time; he rests his free hand on Pete's side and kisses his ear and says, "I've never done this before."

"Jail," Pete moans. "I'm going to jail."

Patrick would roll his eyes again, but he's trying to duck his chin down far enough that he can see, because all he has right now is the feel of it; Pete's skin, hot and slick from precome, wetter every time Patrick twists his hand up to the head and slicks it down again, fast. Pete's flushed, overheated, biting nonsense words into Patrick's shoulder.

"Is this?" Patrick asks, shifting, trying to get his leg out of the way. "Is it okay?"

"Oh, God." Pete's hips push against Patrick's hand. His dick slides through Patrick's curled-up fingers, faster than Patrick can manage on his own, from this angle, and Pete makes a noise like maybe he's dying. "Tighter," he says urgently. "Please. I need-"

Friction. Yeah. Patrick squeezes his hand tighter and twists it slowly while Pete pushes his weight back up through his arms and shoves his hips forward. He kisses Patrick, hard, too fast for tongue, and pulls back, but it's okay. Patrick wants to watch it, wants to see Pete break apart. And anyway, with Pete up like this, he can look down their bodies and watch Pete fuck his hand, watch his fingers get slippery with precome, watch Pete's cock slide through, dark against Patrick's too-pale skin.

He looks up in time to see Pete watching him watch, his lip bitten, gaze narrow. They lock eyes, and Pete gasps, "Patrick," and then jerks his hips forward again, again, erratic, desperate, and then he comes over Patrick's hand, his t-shirt, with shaking elbows and loudly whispered profanity.

It's a good five minutes before Pete lifts his head again, presses a kiss to the curve of Patrick's neck, and says, "Seriously. Jail."

Patrick pats Pete on the back with as much sympathy as he can muster up. Loving, friendly, Mother Teresa-like sympathy. "I'm sure you'll be very popular."

***

He gets another goodnight kiss at his door; it's not like his dad is just inside with his finger on the porch light and his eyes on the second hand or anything, but Pete seems to have some thing about Patrick's boundaries. It's just. Pete's Patrick Boundaries aren't anywhere near Patrick's actual boundaries, and it drives him a little insane to crawl into his empty bed and get used to all of his skin being the same temperature, no hot, hand-sized brand anywhere on him.

Basically, it sucks.

Patrick kicks at his blankets petulantly, but all that earns him is a twisted-up sheet and a rush of cold air under his covers. Also, the sneaking suspicion that this is exactly why Pete leaves him at his door at night: he's sixteen. And kind of an idiot.

There are three bulges of spackle on the ceiling that look like bunnies, one that looks like a T-Rex, and one that looks like either a teapot or an octopus; Patrick can't decide which, but he names it Fergutrand and stares at it for a while anyway. For how long, he's not sure, but he's still staring when Pete knocks on his door.

"Um." Maybe Pete didn't knock on his door. Maybe he's asleep. Patrick blinks up at Fergutrand and goes to pinch himself awake, but decides to fuck off that part and just says, "Come in."

Pete's paler in the moonlight, the whites of his eyes lit up by the faint light, the small, careful slice of his smile. "I'm an idiot," he says, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. "I can't sleep, because I'm a huge idiot."

Patrick nods. He's not sure if Pete can see him, but it feels like an occasion for nodding. "I say that all the time," he agrees. "Not the thing about sleeping, but the part about you being an idiot."

"I can see why I like you so much." Pete's still talking quietly, like there are people to wake up, like it's not just the two of them rattling around in an empty house. "You kiss like a god, you can't cook for shit, and you're oh-so-good for my ego."

His knees hit the edge of the bed and jitter, shaking the mattress. Patrick wants to put a quarter in him, see if he'll really get the thing moving, but he gets the feeling Pete has a whole bunch of promises ready that add up to "no" on that one.

He tangles his hand up in Pete's instead, yawns into the back of his wrist, and says, "What's up, Pete?

"I want to sleep with you. Just sleep, I promise, but. I miss you like you're more than two rooms away."

Patrick's getting a little sick of Pete promising away the things he wants, but he can have this much, apparently, so he wiggles closer to the wall and shoves the covers down. "Yeah. Or wait, guest room? The bed's bigger."

"Here," Pete says. He's hot like an electric blanket, wrapping his warmth around Patrick, his toes tucked under Patrick's calves, his hands curving over Patrick's shoulder, his elbow, his ribs. "The bed's smaller."