Patricksitting (Call It A Love Song) (Peterick) [by adellyna]

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.