You're a Hot Mess (Peterick)

Chapter Fifteen - Compare and Contrast

Sunlight. Streaming through the curtains, highlighting the sheets, shimmering through Mikey's hair.

He looks angelic.

But Angels were never my type.

His breathing's soft and slow, no pattern to it. His eyelids flutter every once in awhile. 

Everything's... peaceful. 

And as he jerks awake, his eyes scan his surroundings, clearly confused. Then they settle on me and he smiles lopsidedly. 

"Good morning." Mikey murmurs, yawning as he says it. He stretches his arms out above him and relaxes back into the pillow, big brown eyes blinking at me like broken stoplights. I think about them, bloodshot and tear ridden and I stutter when I greet him back. 

Today's the day. The deadline for that final project I've been putting off. My stomach twists when I think about it. 

"How are we for breakfast?" He asks, pushing himself up with his hands to sit on his knees, bed sheets pooling around his hips. "Excuse me, lunch." He corrects himself, checking the time on the clock rooted on the nightstand. I stop and stare at his seamless smile, his one pink cheek from lying with his hand on his face all night, the glow in his eyes when he grins wider at me. His innocence, his purity. 

All the things that make Mikey, Mikey. 

But his smile's missing the smirk, his cheeks are missing the heat, his eyes are missing that nasty little gleam I've fallen helpless against.

He's Mikey, but he's not Patrick. And that's the problem. 

It's taken me so long to realise something I already knew 

His hand intertwines with mine and I don't feel the same spark, the same blast of static that jolts through me when it's Patrick's. 

He comes closer and the sheets follow him, and he plants a kiss on my lips and he tastes sweet, not bitter enough. 

He rests his head on my shoulder, breath on my neck, but it's harmless, unsuggestive. 

And I notice the difference, I notice the thrill one gives me that the other doesn't. 

Patrick and I, we don't want sincerity, we want raw emotions, because that way the sincerity comes free. 

We want to not think and just do. We're built like that. 

We don't want the cliches; the slow nights, the kisses on cheeks, the stroke of the other's thumb on your hand.

We want excitement, spontaneity. At least for now, while we're young. 

We want to run until our lungs ache, watch the waves turn our toes white, hit the ground running and get all the cuts and grazes on our knees we can manage. 

We're kids, even when we're not. We're uncommitted, even though we aren't.

We want to live. 

But Mikey: he just wants to love. And to lay in bed all day, exchanging kisses instead of words. He's built like that. 

Opposites don't attract when you want different things, believe me.