You're a Hot Mess (Peterick)

Chapter Twenty - The Hamartia

*I'm really sorry this is really late. I've been dealing with something recently and I guess I lost my motivation for awhile. Finally finishing it took so much stress off of me, you've no idea. I'm gonna post this here so there's no second AN at the end because I think it'll look fancier without it. Skip this if you want, but if you're confused later, don't blame me. This is part one of a two, maybe three or more part series. So the fun does not stop here. I will however be taking a break to get part two planned out in full. I'll have to actually make a deadline for that which sucks because you all know I simply can't work to deadlines. I'm thinking February 1st? That way I can not only get some aspects of my school life out of the way but also have a little time to chill and plan this out exactly how I want it. Maybe even start a new story that can coincide with this one. If I end up posting early I'm sure you'll all find out anyway, but I will not be pushing it back, promise. This has been real you guys, I'll see you all very soon, I'm sure. And Happy New Year!*

Patrick coughs. He sniffs. He sneezes. Groans, shivers, complains and does just about everything imaginable that indicates exactly how sick he is.

Except I don't buy it.

It's the morning of the dance and I don't buy it because Patrick hates dancing.

He's told me this many times before. He even said a couple of days ago that he hopes he gets sick so he won't have to go.

So now that he's suddenly sick, I don't buy it.

Sniff. "Pete," Sniff "I'm fucking sick okay?" Sniff, cough.

"Sure you are." I wink, sifting through our clothes for something to wear to the dance.

"I'm serious." He persists. And I'm almost convinced. But then I realise, "That's exactly what someone who's lying would say." And Patrick pulls a face and tugs the sheets up higher so it brushes his chin.

"Fine, think what you want but I am not going to the dance."

"We'll see, Stump.." I warn, picking out a red and black striped t-shirt and examining it before seeing the white button-up in the back and deciding that it is clearly the better candidate.

* * * * *

An hour before the dance Patrick's managed to crawl out of bed, and alternatively chooses a cosy spot beside the toilet telling me that he's about to vomit and if I mention the dance one more time he'll make sure it's on me.

"Okay, okay. I won't mention the dance again." I tell him, silently cursing myself when I realise that I did mention it again, technically. And I curse again as he's telling me to get out because he's about to vomit for real because it becomes obvious that, yeah, he is sick.

And my parents want me to be a lawyer.

"I appreciate it." He says quickly, head looming around the toilet defeatedly.

I don't respond as I check the time on my watch and dash out of the bathroom, where Patrick is shrivelled in a ball in between the sink and the toilet, and over to the speakers sitting on my desk.

"Pete? What are you doing?" I hear Patrick ask groggily, I look over my shoulder, impressed that he managed to get up and I shush him urgently, turning up the volume just in time to hear the introduction to the next song on the radio.

"And our next song is a request by a student from a boarding school in Chicago, he wants to dedicate it to his boyfriend, who he's decided since he can't take him to the dance, he wants to bring the dance to him." The radio DJ chuckles after he reads it out and the song fades in slowly.