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

Sunday

Patrick is soaked through with rainwater; he suspects he's also soaked through with half a lemonade. Pete claims he didn't spill it all down the back of Patrick's shirt, but wide eyes and bright smiles aside, Patrick has never heard of a weather phenomenon where one spot rains ice cold for four seconds. Plus, Pete's brand new cup had been half empty when Patrick turned to glare at him, squinting through the rain and his plastered-down hair.

"I still think they should have let us ride the Ferris wheel." Pete's hanging half out the door, dumping water out of his tennis shoes; his jeans are almost black with damp, his shirt wrinkled up and sodden. Patrick kind of just wants a towel.

He eyes his mom's carpets, the runner up the stairs, trying to calculate how much damage he could do with his dripping clothes, the sloshy soles of his shoes. It's probably pretty bad. The rain smells vaguely like plants, and smog, like heavily watered-down lemons and sugar, and it'll probably seep into the nub, fill the house with wet dog smell that they won't be able to get rid of by Tuesday, but. Patrick really does want a towel.

"It was raining," he says absently, watching Pete squirm to keep most of him inside the house while he wrings out his clothes. "I don't think you can ride carnival rides in the rain."

"There wasn't any lightning," Pete protests. He tosses his shirt in the corner, on top of the damp pile of his shoes and socks, his hideous hoodie. Patrick is still fully dressed; he drips water down Pete's arms when they slide under his shirt. "I wanted to kiss you in the rain, at the top of the world. Aren't carnies supposed to be money-hungry and unethical?"

Patrick lifts his arms obediently, letting Pete peel his shirt up and off. It knocks his hat to the ground, but Pete's hands are on his sides, and even cold and clammy they make Patrick's skin feel hotter, too hot. He's not really worrying about skewed glasses or tangled, smooshed-down hair.

"You offered the dude, like, seven bucks," Patrick says. "I think he'd rather go smoke."

"It's all I had on me."

There's a loud, wet thunk when Patrick's shirt hits the wall. He'd worry about the spreading pool of water under it, the second one at his feet, but Pete's hands are on his button, Pete's mouth on his neck muttering, "Shoes, Patrick. Take off your shoes."

Patrick toes them off and almost stumbles, made clumsy by clingywet jeans and Pete's hands, his determined fingers prying the zipper down

It is absolutely impossible that Patrick is going to get hard right now. He is cold, and his skin is goosebumped, and the heat is going, but not quite enough; Patrick can feel the promise of warmth, but he's still clammy. He thinks about telling Pete this, but Pete drops to his knees and starts peeling Patrick's jeans off, and it just seems rude.

Patrick's jeans scrape over his knees - too tight from rain, from running home in it - and his thighs touch each other, chilled skin brushing chilled skin. He shivers, almost stumbles again, and has to brace his hands on Pete's shoulders to stay up. Which is nice, actually, because Pete's skin is impossibly warm, dark in the spaces between Patrick's bloodless fingers.

He says, "Pete," because Pete has his jeans shoved to the floor and his hands on the backs of Patrick's thighs, his mouth pressed just above Patrick's knee.

"You smell so clean," Pete mumbles. "It makes me want to do filthy things to you."

Patrick says, "Oh god," because apparently it's not absolutely impossible that he's going to get hard right now, not with Pete biting his way up, hot tongue and sharp teeth. The rest of Patrick is still so chilled that it feels like all of the blood in his body rushes to wherever Pete's licking. It tingles. Like summer weather and sunburns, but dizzying.