Book of my favorite Petericks

Makeup stains my pillowcase

Patrick can only hope that this getup is some ghost of Halloween past and not, like, an actual hobby or something. The fact that Patrick can reel off Pete's costumes for the past eight years--and this isn't one of them--is something he works very hard to ignore.

"What's your name, baby?" Pete takes a step toward him, teetering dangerously on his towering heels.

Patrick has to resist the urge to jump up and grab him by the elbow to keep him from breaking his neck. Near the top of the long, long list of "Rules For Being Pete Wentz's Best Friend Without Going Absolutely Insane" is: Don't run to the rescue every time Pete pulls some stupid stunt, because that's totally a full-time job, and Pete's stupid stunts are his own stupid problem.

Pete bats his eyes and sashays to the kitchen island. Or at least he sashays as much as a person can when they're dangerously close to turning an ankle. He slides onto a barstool and crosses his legs, making the skirt hike up even farther. And wow, that is some serious thigh action he's showing off. Patrick quickly looks away and busies himself straightening his hat. He wasn't just checking out Pete's legs. He totally, totally wasn't.

"Aren't you going to buy me a drink?" Pete makes a pouty face. His idea of feminine wiles is really kind of scary.

"You want to tell me what this is all about?"

Pete tilts his head coquettishly. "Come over here, and I will."

"Seriously."

"Seriously," Pete insists.

Patrick stays put, and Pete turns big eyes on him, and there's a standoff for, oh, about five seconds. Then Patrick makes a grumpy noise and pulls himself to his feet. This is the entire history of their friendship right here. This is how Bedussey happened. Those warning bells in Patrick's head are going off even louder than before. He sighs unhappily as he settles onto a barstool next to Pete.

Pete runs a hand up Patrick's arm and squeezes his biceps. "Nice." He gives Patrick a look through his lashes. "What about you, baby? Like what you see?"

It goes against every survival instinct, but Patrick finds himself giving Pete the once-over anyway. Pete apparently took the time to shave, and he's wearing makeup, not just his usual eyeliner, but the entire Maybelline experience, foundation, powder, mascara. His lips are the same shocking fuchsia as his halter top, wet looking like he's slathered on the lip gloss, and Patrick has to force himself not to stare. Because Pete's mouth. Wet. Shit.

As for the wig...well, that's just disturbing. Patrick tosses it away and brushes out Pete's bangs with his fingers. Then it occurs to him that touching Pete is maybe not the way to go here. He pulls his hand back, not too quickly, trying not to make it look like...a thing.

Pete leans close and says against Patrick's ear, "I like you, baby. You want to take me home?"

"You are home, dickhead," Patrick tells him with a roll of his eyes.

Pete, however, is rarely deterred by mere facts. He grabs Patrick's hand, pulls him off the barstool and marches him over to the couch. He pushes Patrick down onto the cushions and climbs on top of him, his knees on either side of Patrick's thighs. He leans forward and kisses Patrick's neck. When he pulls back, his eyes are big and soulful and serious.

Patrick has been on the receiving end of these little games of Pete's since...well, pretty much ever. So you'd think he'd have figured it all out by now, but the rules are as quicksilvery as Pete himself. Any moment now Pete could scramble up from his lap and let out one of those braying laughs of his. Dude, I knew it! You so want to hit this. And then disappear back upstairs. Game over.