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

Sunday

What Patrick remembers most vividly of Pete Wentz - his mother's coworker's son, now aged twenty-one, tattooed, with too much too-dark hair, and a toothy, too-wide smile - is five years ago, when Patrick was eleven, and Pete was sixteen: Pete hiding beside a dumpster in the alley behind their moms' office, puffing smoke into the cold Chicago air, and his distracted, "Don't tell my mom, kid."

When Pete shows up Sunday, mid-afternoon, for ten days of house sitting and "Keeping a general eye on things, Patrick, we know you're too old for a babysitter, but we worry," he looks exactly the same, except for a stupid haircut that makes him look like someone cut it in the dark or something.

"Hey, kid," he says, first thing, lugging a huge, shiny brown duffel behind him. It's slippery, maybe nylon, and it keeps rubbing against Pete's jeans, making some sort of whispery zipper sound that sets Patrick's teeth on edge. "I'm here for Patricksitting. I assume you're the Patrick?"

Patrick's teeth grit right over the edge. He briefly considers trying to catch his parents before they get on the plane, begging them to get old Mrs. Cooper from down the street to come watch him, with her pickle-smell and sticky fingers.

"Sorry about your grandmother, kid," Pete says. It would be more convincing if he weren't pinching the fringe of his bangs into points, his eyes trained on the narrow edges of the hall mirror, ducking his stupid, smiling reflection around the flower arrangement that obscures most of it. Also, if he had it right.

"It's my great-grandmother," Patrick corrects stiffly. He finally shuts the front door, sealing off the Chicago winter, but not without glancing longingly toward Mrs. Cooper's barely kept yard, her collection of flower pots with gnomes nestled inside. "Anyway. She could still make it. Your condolences are premature."

"Yeah, sure. So, where's the guest room?"

The guest room is upstairs, three doors down from Patrick's room, and if he takes some small pleasure in Pete's face when he sees it, well.

"My Aunt Amelia stays here a lot," Patrick offers. He watches Pete blink: at the wallpaper border of gamboling kittens, the thick stripes beneath, the bleached floral above. "I'm sure you'll be very comfortable. There are extra quilts in the chest at the foot of the bed, in case you get cold." Patrick smiles beatifically. "It gets chilly in this corner of the house, sometimes." The acres of lace curtains probably don't keep much heat in either.

"Great." Pete hurls his bag onto the bed, which creaks loudly, and sinks around the weight of the nylon. Patrick smiles wider. "Next item," Pete says, spinning so fast that Patrick almost trips over his shoes in an effort to step back, get out of his way. "Fridge. Where's the fridge."

Oh, for fuck's sake. "In... the kitchen."

***

Pete declares the fridge to be, "Shockingly empty of anything that makes me feel like my mom is standing here bitching about my diet."

He orders pizza, and when it comes, he doesn't even feint toward the kitchen. "Iron Chef is on," he says, around the piece of pizza jammed in his mouth, waving the box at Patrick. "Maybe it's something gross, c'mon."

Pete is maybe, just maybe, a better choice than Mrs. Cooper. Maybe. He makes Patrick laugh, not like his friends do, or like a good TV show might, but like a dog chasing its tail, or a squirrel trying to carry a toaster. Something like that.

He demands that they pick sides, and wagers the last piece of pizza on the battle. "You realize," Patrick says dryly, "that there are seven pieces of pizza left."

"There's always a last piece." Pete waves the one in his hand negligently; it drips cheese, which Pete loops up with his fingers and shoves - along with the bottom three inches of his slice - into his mouth, talking around it. "S'the best one."

Patrick picks Kyoko Kagata, and Pete mocks him relentlessly. "I'm just saying," Pete laughs. "She's a chick. In Japan. On Iron Chef. It's not called Iron Chefess."

"That... is so not even a word, oh my God."

"Yeah, but she's up against Chen, dude. She's not--like, there's just no way it's going to happen."

She wins.

"I totally saw that coming," Pete says, reluctantly toeing the pizza box (empty but for the last piece) at Patrick. "I just, you know, wanted to teach you a lesson about underestimating women in the workplace. Chicks can do everything we can do, man. Except piss standing up."

There really is something about the last slice of pizza. It's cool enough that the cheese is congealed, firm against Patrick's teeth; the sauce is still warm, it squishes up, and the puddle of grease in the cupped pepperoni oozes down onto his tongue and yeah, okay. Delicious.

Patrick chews pointedly, and grins once he's swallowed. "That's sexism. Girls can absolutely piss standing up. I've seen it on the internet."

"You can see anything on the Internet, it doesn't mean it's real."

"So, you're suggesting someone CGI'd a girl pissing while standing up?"

"Dude. Anything's possible."

"Except for girls being able to pee without sitting."

"Exactly. Hey, are you going to finish that?" Pete snatches Patrick's crust, and the last three bites of actual pizza from his hand, and crams it whole into his mouth. "Phrmks."

Yeah, definitely just like a dog chasing its tail. Maybe with a stupid hat on. "Uh huh. You're welcome."