You're a Hot Mess (Peterick)

Chapter Seventeen - So, a Former Bartender and an Emo Walk into a Kitchen...

*Extra long chapter today since it's twelve light-years late!* 

When I wake up in the morning everything's different.

The sound of cars driving far down below this apartment, the gentle humming of Patrick, fast asleep, the chirping of daredevil birds, soaring around the building: it all seems different.

Melodic. Like I've been given a new, bright view of the world. Like I'm watching it from the clouds.

Had anyone told me this is what it would've felt like, to be in love with him, then I wouldn't have denied it for so long.

And when Patrick eventually wakes up, and his eyes flutter open he'll know how I feel. No more confusion, no more anything.

This is it, this is all there is to it.

To be simple, free. It's nothing we ever wanted, but now we have it, why let go?

Besides, speaking from experience, it's not like anyone gets a choice in what they hold on to.

So we're just happy enough to be pulled along, together.

He murmurs something incomprehensible in his sleep, and I kiss his forehead and pretend it was the same as the confession I made last night.

The confession I'll make everyday until no longer is it a confession but just is.

"What time is it?" He mumbles, voice thick with sleep. He turns his head on the pillow, hair sticking up in wild directions like overgrown grass.

I tell him he needs a haircut while my fingers twirl little strands of his mane into curls. They stick for a brief second and then unravel into brushed-out waves.

"If I have time, maybe I'll get one." He flattens down his hair in the spots I've made unruly and gives me a disapproving look, like I'm trying to stall time.

So what if he's right? In here, in this moment, we've got all the time in the world. Except Patrick rolls his eyes at me when I say it and sits up, stretching halfheartedly before straining his eyes to see the clock on the wall across the room.

"You need to invest in an alarm clock." He comments, his shoulders sloping when he sees that we slept in.

Patrick moves to get out of the bed, and stretches again when he does, as if he's now the one stalling for time.

"I can't stick around, I've got things to sort out before I leave." We both look away from each other when he says it. We look back and he stares at me with pleading eyes and I can almost see the 'don't let me leave' on his lips.

"At least let me make you breakfast." I ignore the look and stand up, being careful not to trip down the small steps in my morning haziness.

"Okay." He says sighing, defeated in our battle again. We make our way to the kitchen, while I tell myself I'm doing what's best for him. I'm letting him breathe, escape.

I sit at the dining table, following Patrick with watchful eyes as he danders around my kitchen, a light, angelic air to his steps, as if he's walking on eggshells.