aware (peterick)

20

Tonight is... normal.

We're making pancakes. Well, I'm making pancakes; Patrick is hanging from my back like a monkey, his arms wrapped so tightly around my neck I'm struggling to breathe right. Nevertheless, the pancake batter drools flawlessly into the pan, settling into a perfect golden brown circle, cooked just enough so that there is a slight crisp to the edge.

The beauty of the British crepe is something that most Americans are missing out on. You can't fold an American pancake; they're too thick, and nine times out of ten you find yourself eating them with a knife and fork, and where's the fun in that?

So, after totally winning the flipping contest, I switch off the stove and scrape the last pancake out of the pan, plopping it onto a plate separate from all the others. Patrick obviously can't eat any of them, but he's been desperate to attack at least one of them with masses of Nutella, and he's just too adorable to say no to.

"You wanna go sit at the table?" I ask, but Patrick shakes his head and holds on to me tighter, making grabby hands at the jar of Nutella. I turn my back to the counter and he slides off of me to sit on the edge, immediately grabbing the chocolate spread with one hand and his pancake with the other, grinning childishly. He grabs the end of the spoon eagerly and scoops out a mountain of chocolate, which immediately pools over the edge of the utensil and splatters onto his leg. He frowns up at me, disgusted.

"I did warn you it would be messy," I giggle, using my finger to scoop up the mess and suck it onto my tongue. Patrick's hand is smothered at this point, chocolate seeping out from in between his knuckles. "Try some, if you like," I offer.

Patrick raises an eyebrow at me, his mouth slightly ajar as he slowly brings his hand to his nose, sniffing the tip of the spoon the way a dog would. I watch him, intrigued and speechless as his tongue pokes out to cautiously touch the spoon. He then reels back like he's been poisoned and throws the spoon on the floor.

"That's disgusting," he says.

I'm unsure whether to be amused or hysterical. "More for me?"

"Be my guest," he sasses, thrusting his sticky hands at my face. "I want nothing to do with it."

Patrick's ability to go from mute to bratty in a second is a habit I've grown fond of over the days. In other words, it kind of turns me on, as does any and every form of sugar (especially chocolate). I take one of his wrists gently in my hand and lick straight up the center of his palm, smirking against his twitching fingers as I weave my tongue in and out of them. His head falls back against the kitchen tiles as I suck each one of his fingers in turn, lusciously into my mouth.

The pancakes are forgotten about; I can always heat them up in the microwave later.

For now, though, Patrick is sitting far too far away for my liking. I've been unable to count how many times this has happened these last few days. I mean, it's not like we're officially together or anything; I see us rather more as friends with benefits.

A hot vampire friend with a variety of extremely great benefits.

I release Patrick fingers, which are now slick with my spit, and lunge at him, sliding him off of the counter and into my arms. He wraps his legs around my hips and sandwiches my cheeks between his hands. He smiles lovingly as our lips collide, cringing past the sweet taste of the sauce that still lingers on my tongue. I maneuver us about the kitchen until I find the dining table and sit him on top of it, coaxing him to lie back, our tongues never losing contact.

You probably wouldn't believe me if I told you this wasn't purely sexual, but it's not. It's nothing like how we fuck most of the time. This is romantic. It's so lovely and so sweet and so passionate, I might actually want to reconsider my friends with benefits hypothesis.