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

Friday

The first things Patrick registers Friday morning are heat and sweat. Right after those comes cold. At some point in the night, Pete has managed to twist the sheets into a bizarre caricature of covers. They're currently covering Patrick's left knee, his stomach, half of his head, and nothing else. The rest of him is either bumped over with cold, or sweating where it's covered in Pete.

Pete, it seems, is a furnace when he sleeps. A messy-haired, slightly drooly, open-mouthed, sleep-mumbling furnace, who presently has his arms flung around Patrick and tucked under his back, knuckles twitching restlessly against sweat-slick skin. And, you know, Patrick's vertebrae. It's pretty far from comfortable, and the alarm (the most annoying alarm available, the bastard love child of a police siren and a particularly sultry foghorn) is blaring obnoxiously, just out of reach past Pete's torso, but Patrick has never wanted to get up less in his life.

He sinks his teeth into the closest available Pete - which turns out to be the skin on his underarm - and promises himself he'll find some way to balance out the bad karma he must accrue in the shadow of smug satisfaction he feels when Pete jolts awake with a series of startled consonants.

"Alarm," Patrick grumbles. "I can't turn it off. There's a house on me. S'very heavy."

The air the alarm clock gets when Pete swats it off the table is pretty impressive. The way Pete's fingers find each of Patrick's ribs and stroke isn't bad either.

"Don't melt in the shower," he mumbles into Patrick's shoulder, his breath sweet and hot, floating across Patrick's sleep-wrinkled skin. "I'd miss you."

It's way, way too early for Pete-logic. Patrick snuggles in, tugs Pete's warmth over his cold side, and exhibits his own share of pre-dawn eloquence with: "Huh?"

"Wicked Witch of the West? Melting? Bucket of water? You weren't making a Wizard of Oz reference?"

"No." Patrick buries his nose in Pete's neck and shuts his eyes, revels in the spread of warmth to his numb fingers, toes, hip. "I was just being a dick. Is the alarm still plugged in?"

He feels Pete's chin brush his hair when he nods, feels the shudder of Pete's yawn against every inch of pressed-together skin, and smiles when Pete starts back awake to talk, like he was already asleep, but his last thought was of Patrick, of forgetting to answer him. "Unfortunately."

Nine minutes, then.

Except nine minutes turns into eighteen, which turns into twenty-seven, which turns into Pete scrubbing at his eyes and pressing kisses to each of Patrick's fingertips. "You suck at waking up, dude."

"It's okay," Patrick argues. "If I skip breakfast and wear this shirt to school, all I have to do is throw on jeans-"

"And brush your teeth."

"-and shoes, and brush my hair-"

"And kiss Pete goodbye."

"-and speed, and I totally have time to sleep for nine more minutes."

"No sleep." Pete clambers on top of him, knees against hips, hands curled over shoulders, sour breath against Patrick's cheek. "Nine minutes, Patrick," he wheedles, rocking his hips down, and oh. Oh. There are some things in this world better than sleep. "Think what we can do with nine minutes."

"Make out?"

Pete presses a smile into Patrick's jaw, but shakes his head no.

"Um?" Patrick rocks up against Pete again, but he can't quite bring himself to suggest, like, dry humping. Or head. Or, God, sex.

"Nu'uh," Pete whispers, even rocking down again, scraping morning-slippery teeth over Patrick's earlobe. "Breakfast, Patrick. Coffee, and maybe a bagel. Fruit, if you swing that way."