Work Text:
Patrick has always loved balconies– it’s certainly not at the top of his metaphorical list of favorite things, but it’s still there, smushed in between cubed sugar to put into his coffee, and cookie dough cake pops. So it’s not much of a stretch for one of the first things Patrick does when he leases his first apartment, his first home without his family, to go out on the balcony.
It’s one of those days where he wants to block everything out. But, of course, on days when Patrick wants to block everything out, everything comes flooding in, through his eyes and ears and fingertips. He’s on the balcony, mindlessly looking around at the new surroundings around his new home, and that’s when he notices the man on the balcony next door– only a couple of feet away. He’s huddled in the corner, a position that can’t possibly be comfortable.
Patrick’s clad in a blanket and a coat, and he can still feel the sharp blades of cold on his arms and his face. He pulls his hat down just on an instinct, over his red ears, when he catches the way that his neighbor shivers. It’s violent. Patrick can hear his teeth chattering from where he’s sitting, and he’s not wearing anything but a pair of jeans and a purple hoodie that looks far too big for him.
It doesn’t look comfortable– it looks loose. Cold comes from underneath the hem, through the holes where his arms are.
Patrick wants to say something– maybe an ‘are you okay ?’ or ‘do you want a blanket ?’ because it just seems wrong to try and enjoy the view of… well, the sight of the street below and stores across the road when there’s someone practically right next door shivering their ass off.
“Do you think you’ll ever be remembered?” The guy says to him, suddenly. Patrick almost jumps straight out of his chair, but he thankfully doesn’t. He does practically give himself whiplash trying to turn his head to look at him, but that’s another story.
“…what?” Patrick asks, he’s not even really sure that the man said to begin with. But the purple hoodie guy moves a little closer, scooching over—he’s shivering so much holy crap —and he asks again in a voice that sounds so sickly sweet and wrong that it sends chills down Patrick’s spine that he knows isn’t from the cold.
“Do you think you’ll ever be remembered?” He asks again, like he’s talking to a little kid. His lips are chapped, and his face is covered in stubble. He sounds drunk, and Patrick wishes he could be drunk.
“Like… do you think anyone will ever remember you? Nobody will ever remember me.” He says, staring at Patrick through the bars on the edge of his balcony. Brown, hopeless eyes search for something in Patrick’s baby blues, but Patrick offers nothing but a sputter and a ‘I don’t—I–“
“You’ll never be remembered. Isn’t that just fucking sad? Isn’t that just fuckin’... fuckin’ sad? You’re nothing, you know? You’re just gonna fucking die and leave no impact on the world. So what’s the fucking point? What’s the point if you leave nothing?” He asks, before he stops himself, and laughs a little to himself.
“Whatever. Enjoy your night. Or whatever.” He says, and he pulls himself up. Patrick watches on with curious, confused eyes as the man stumbles back into his apartment. The door to the fire escape snaps shut, and Patrick lets out a breath that he was holding since the man started asking him those questions. Cold steams up around him, and he looks out onto the buildings before him. The life just a couple of stories down, people in cars, people crossing the street, people waiting for their bus.
He goes in a little later. There’s only so much moping and watching he can do until he feels like a character straight out of The Stranger. But in bed, as he struggles to sleep, alone—Patrick’s always alone—he wonders. What’s the point if you leave nothing?
What would Patrick leave back? His family, his friends, his books that will never be read again. His unfinished novel sitting, collecting dust in his laptop.
Screw that guy, he thinks, everyone leaves an impact. You left an impact on me, now all I’m gonna think when I see you is the fact that you’re an existentialist who likes to intimidate their neighbors.
He falls asleep peacefully, and the man doesn’t make any appearance in his dreams. He’s just on his balcony, watching the sunset, and the balcony next to him is unoccupied. The lights are out in his apartment, and no one is asking Patrick questions.
Patrick doesn't mean to eavesdrop. It just happens, because the walls in the apartment are super thin. He learned this the hard way when his other neighbor, William, played the piano until 4 in the morning on a Monday night.
But this is just… a lot. He almost wants to knock their door down and say “Hey, it's a Wednesday night, I have school tomorrow, uh, please don’t violently fuck and make me hear it? Please? ”, but he knows that a) he's just jealous that he's not having sex and b) who does that?!
Hard grunting, loud moaning, and the sounds of a bed repeatedly slamming into the wall right behind Patrick’s head. He hears the girl at first, then the guy, hears a blurry name getting called out, and then everything ceases.
It’d be one thing if he could hear details and actually… well, it’s kind of creepy, but he can't jerk off to this. It's just sounds and the bed and the soft, distant, ‘I love yous’.
Patrick almost calls Joe over, his friend that would probably be willing to fuck just to fuck, nothing more or less, but everything's done, they’re both probably asleep, probably happy, probably not scarred by the sounds of their neighbor having sex.
So he tries to sleep– big mistake.
They start to argue. It happens the second Patrick gets in a position that's comfortable, he's hugging a cold pillow and in fetal position. He closes his eyes and recites in his head, ‘ Perfect authentic cadences end with a dominant chord and a root chord in root position and the top note has to–” and then it starts.
The couple stirs in the other room, and suddenly, something loud smacks against the wall. Patrick’s eyes immediately snap open, and he hears a deep voice that isn't deep but deep enough for him to know its not the girl, yell a broken “What the fuck?! What the fuck is wrong with you?!”
And that's the beginning of the end. Patrick listens on to the broken argument, “How could you–” “Pete, it was–” “What the fuck is–” “Can we just–” “You cheated on-” “It was–” “Get the fuck out of–” Can you–” “Don't call me again–”
Very dramatic. It sounds like something Hayley would watch on the Hallmark Channel, minus all of the cursing. He doesn't hear anything anymore, maybe they moved somewhere far away, and then suddenly, he hears heels clanking against the tile outside of the apartment.
Okay, now Patrick’s eavesdropping. Shamelessly, too. He crawls out of bed, and slowly walks to his door, and he presses his ear to it, just to hear what they have to say. It's pathetic, he knows.
“Come on, Pete!” The girl says, once the door swings back open, making a sound that echoes in the hallway. “Do you know how many fucking chances I give you? Just give me one– it was a mistake!”
“Yeah, but, uh, I didn't put my dick in someone else when I fucked up!”
It’s super graphic. Patrick winces, just on the account of her. And he wants to step away from this and put some headphones on, but it's like a bad car crash. He can't look (or listen) away.
“I didn't– I mean, yeah, but… we were drunk, Pete. You do stupid shit when you’re drunk! You say stuff you don't mean, I did something I didn't mean, just hear me out, just–” She says to him, pleadingly. But Patrick doesn't really get it– ‘Pete’ kinda sounds like an asshole. Then again, Patrick has been cheated on and that’s never fun.
“Yeah, but, and here me loud and clear on this–” Pete says, before he roars, “I DIDN’T FUCKING CHEAT ON YOU, THAT’S THE FUCKING DIFFERENCE.”
And that’s the end of that. The girl just lets out a sob of frustration, and then Patrick hears the door to the staircase open, and heels clicking on the steps down.
Pete slams his hands against the wall, before he groans in pain again.
Upon deciding that, hey, maybe I shouldn’t be eavesdropping on my neighbor’s drama, Patrick went back to his room. But now there was no way he could fall asleep—it was better to just study his brains out until he got tired again vs. laying in bed for an hour watching to get tired again. So, he grabbed his things, and went outside on the balcony to study. He needed some air, even though he wasn’t even really involved. Everything just felt… tense. Like they poisoned the air around him, and he just had to get out of the bubble… that he had technically gotten in himself, since he decided to listen in.
He drags his plastic chair outside, and the lights from the stores and the buildings and the streetlights barely illuminate his textbook- but it gets the job done. He settles down with his blanket and he goes back to it. ‘Phrygian half cadence,’ he says to himself in his head, ‘it’s when a iv6 chord moves to a i chord, in a harmonic minor key.’
Cigarette smoke fills the air, and he can tell just from the sharp intakes of breath and tapping against a glass door, that Pete’s outside.
“Sorry.” Pete says to him, and when Patrick looks over, Pete’s staring at him. He has a cigarette between his fingers, and he brings it up to his lips, and he takes a drag, before he brings it back down. “That you had to hear that .” He says, and smoke comes out with it.
The smell is horrifying. But Pete looks so fucking pretty, that Patrick doesn’t really care. “Hear what?” Patrick asks, trying to sound innocent enough. It doesn’t work. Pete scowls at him, and he takes another drag. “Seriously? I know how thin those walls are. I hear you masturbate every night.”
Patrick almost chokes on his own spit. Pete smirks, his lips curling around the cigarette. “Kidding.”
“How are you this calm? You were… screaming, like, half a minute ago.” Patrick says to him, he doesn’t know where this courage is coming from. Pete shrugs. “I’m pissed as fuck. But I kind of already knew. I could smell it on her.”
It’s kind of creepy. Patrick’s kind of into it. He curses himself— just pay attention to your fucking notes!
“That’s not weird.” Patrick says, sarcastically, and Pete scoffs. “What? I lean down to kiss her neck, and I smell another guy’s cologne. It’s really that simple.”
“Okay, but if you smelt the other guy’s cologne, why did I have to hear the sounds of…” He trails off, and Pete shrugs. “I don’t know. I was horny? Good-bye fuck? Let her know what she’s gonna miss.”
“That’s a little egotistical of you.” Patrick remarks, and Pete crosses his arms. “You did hear what just happened, right? You did hear the moans, right?”
“Well, yeah. But maybe she was just faking it. You don’t know.” Patrick says, and Pete scoffs. “Fuck you, man. I know when girls fake it. I bet you don’t.”
What the fuck is this, Patrick wonders. This is the stupidest conversation I’ve ever been part of .
“You’re right, I don’t know when girls fake it. I’m into guys, guys don’t fake it.” Patrick says, and he sounds confident enough, but he’s silently shaking. What if this guy, like, hates gay people and decides to just throw his cigarette on him, and light him on fire. And his last memory would be talking to this total idiot that 3 days ago told him that no one would remember him.
Pete gives him another half smirk. “Okay, okay,” he says, and then he puts out the cigarette. “But I don’t need a girl to tell me I’m good in bed.”
“I think you’re overcompensating.” Patrick states, simply. He picks up his books, and he gives Pete one last look. “Night. Don’t do anything stupid.”
He’s not really sure why he says it. But when he comes outside the next morning to bring back in the chair, Pete’s sleeping outside, his hands clutched to the bars. He’s weird, Patrick decides. But Patrick sort of wants to know everything about him.
It’s very easy to forget about Pete when Patrick has… y’know, a life. He has midterms, he has friends, he has a family who still insists he visit at least once a week, he has cafés to perform at, and he has music to listen to. So, a week later, Patrick doesn’t even remember the look Pete gave him when he said that he was good at sex. It was weird, and it was 2 in the morning, and just… weird.
He finds himself in the elevator with Mikey Way- a guy in his economics class that he only really knows by name because they both like Star Wars and sit relatively close to each other. And Patrick’s not really the kind of person to talk to people in the elevator, he usually just stares at his phone and pretends like people are texting him.
But Mikey’s going to the same floor as his apartment. So, it’s pretty easy to strike up a conversation.
“Oh, hey, that’s my floor too.” Patrick says, staring at the little ‘7’ button, before he turns to look at Mikey. He shrugs, and he looks at Patrick through his glasses. “Oh, yeah. My friend’s on that floor, so…”
“Oh, cool.” Patrick says, then he goes back to staring at his phone.
The elevator doors open a moment later, and… okay, Mikey and Patrick walk in the same direction. And, oh, okay, now Mikey’s at Pete’s door. He knocks, just as Patrick reaches into his pocket to find his key.
And the door swings open, just as Patrick gets his key out. And he looks over, just because Pete’s… well, Pete’s still somewhat attractive. But then Pete looks over to Patrick, gives him a look, Patrick can’t read it well, and then he grabs Mikey’s face, and kisses him hard.
Patrick’s eyes widen as he watches Pete and Mikey make-out. Like… make-out . Pete sighs into Mikey’s mouth, Mikey presses him up against the wall, Pete’s hips grind into his, Mikey’s tongue thrusts into Pete’s mouth.
Patrick feels like he’s watching something very intimate. And a million, trillion, kajillion thoughts run through his head. Pete’s gay, Pete’s bisexual, Pete’s whatever the fuck else, oh my God, they’re grinding against each other, how do they know each other, why are they doing this in front of me, they know that I’m here, why is this happening, why is this turning me on, oh my God I need to get in my apartment now .
The lock that he’s been fiddling with finally clicks, and Patrick stumbles into his apartment, right as he hears Mikey groan against Pete’s lips. “Fuck, I can't wait to be inside of you.”
He guesses Pete was right– he doesn’t need a girl to tell him he’s good in bed. He has boys who can do it too.
“That was so fucked.” Patrick says, on the balcony, when Pete comes out to smoke. Pete looks over to him, and just starts laughing, choking over the smoke in his throat.
“It was fucking priceless, that’s what it was!” He remarks, once he finally stops laughing, and he gives Patrick a small grin. “What? I’m bisexual, it was bound to happen that I slept with another guy. You just happened to be there.” He looks over, and he says in a voice that Patrick knows is not his own. He sounds like he’s imitating a teenage girl. “Mikey’s hot, I can’t help myself.”
“Yeah, I know. For 4 hours straight. How does that even work?” Patrick asks, and he doesn’t really expect an answer back, but he gets one anyways. “He gets off on overstimulation, man. I don’t know. There was a cock-ring involved.”
Patrick can never look at Mikey the same. Then again, if he ever looks at Mikey, he probably won’t remember the cock-ring as much as he would remember the way that Pete writhed underneath him in the hallway when Mikey pressed him against the wall.
“Whatever. I just… you and that girl broke up last week. And you’re not even upset about it.”
“Who says I’m not upset?” Pete asks, and he looks about a thousand times more solemn than he did a minute ago. Patrick doesn’t get how he does that- turn his emotions on and off so quickly. Or at least show them like that. “I just use sex to deal with it. And alcohol. I haven’t been sober in a while.”
“I feel like this is dashboard confessionals… but, like, balcony ones.” Patrick says, out of nowhere, and Pete shrugs. “Except I’m the only one ever confessing anything.”
“Well… I don’t know.”
A silence. Pete leans over the balcony, so that he can get a little bit closer to Patrick. “Remember that night that I told you that no one would ever remember me?”
Patrick nods. Of course he does.
“I still think it, you know? I feel like I’m always… in and out. And not even in a sex way. Kind of. I mean, I’m in Ashlee’s life. And then she cheats on me. And if I die, if she’ll never remember me as… well, me. I’m in Mikey’s life. And I’m just the guy that begs him to fuck me senseless. But do they ever really remember me? I’m in my parent’s life. But do they remember me as me? Or the little kid, before I realized I was bisexual, before I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder?” He asks, and Patrick guesses it makes sense, maybe, but he still doesn’t get it.
“But I don’t get it–” (he voices his concerns out loud), “Just… they remember the version of you in their heads. So who do you want them to remember you as?”
“Me.” Pete replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “As Pete. As me, a fucked up kid from Chicago.”
“But you’re still not making sense.” Patrick replies. “I mean, if you died, I’d remember you as the guy who told me all about his sex life, as the guy who told me that my friend from economics fucked him, as the guy who told me weird cryptic stuff late at night. I’m not gonna remember you as… you, because I don’t know you.”
“But isn’t that horrible?” Pete asks, desperately, like he just wants Patrick to understand. “That no one will ever know you? That no one will ever… that the version of you that exists in someone else might not even be you?”
“I don't know. I don't… I don't sit and think about stuff like that.” Patrick says, softly, like he's letting Pete down. And Pete brings the cigarette back to his mouth and gives him a grim smile. “Lucky you, then.”
They just sit for a while. Pete on his balcony, smoking away, even though Patrick hates the smell and hates cigarettes and hates the effects that cigarettes have on people, and Patrick on his balcony, thinking about Pete.
He’s never really been with Pete up close. Like, he has, their balconies are dangerously close to each other, but he's never really been with him. Until now.
It’s William’s 22nd birthday, and William invited him to a little get together. The entire apartment was extremely crowded. William’s piano already took up 70% of the space in the living room, and the rest of the remaining free space was full of people dancing to the music over the little speakers. William and Travie were making out on the couches, lying down, and they’re tall- so the only space left was on the balcony.
“So do you just have a thing for balconies?” Pete asks, once Patrick steps out. Pete’s sitting on the railings, and Patrick immediately wants to pull him back, so badly that he jerks forward.
He just grips the railing instead, close to Pete, and he looks up to him. “No space in there. Can't breathe.”
He’s been up close to Pete, side by side. But now he can smell Pete, his cologne and the sheen of cigarette smoke.
“So, whatcha drinking?” Pete asks, and he lets go on the railing to grab at Patrick’s drink. Patrick puts it back down. “We’re on the 7th floor.” He says, referring to the fall. But Pete raises his eyebrows like he doesn't even care. “Oh. Right.”
There's something so beautiful about him. Patrick isn't really into pretty guys, celebrities like Jared Leto don't have anything on the David Beckhams. But wow , Pete is so beautiful, with his dark, eyeshadow smudged eyes, and his half straightened hair. His lips curled around a cigarette isn't something Patrick could ever forget. And it's so stupid. Patrick doesn't want to be another story. He doesn't want to be an ‘Ashlee remembers me as the guy she cheated on, Mikey remembers me as the guy who begged him to fuck me’. He just wants to be Patrick. And he just wants Pete to be Pete, whoever Pete really is. He's just not sure why he has butterflies in his guts when Pete looks at him through his dark eyelashes.
Back in real time- Pete jumps forward, so that he's back on his feet, and he's no longer on the rail. “I’m kinda thirsty so I’m just gonna-” he points inside. “go. Bye.”
Patrick waves, and tries to level his voice so that he doesn't sound like a lovesick idiot. “Bye.”
They meet again on the ‘dance floor’- aka the space between the TV and the coffee table. They’re playing classic white people music, but they’re white people (well, Pete’s not entirely white, but he's white enough to know Come On, Eileen) so it works.
“How do you even dance to this song?” Pete asks, with a drink in his hands. Patrick stops mid hip-shimmy.
“Uh, like this?” He says, before he takes Pete’s drink, and sets it on the coffee table. And then he takes Pete’s hands, and he just… kinda moves with him. He’s also fairly ( super ) drunk. That's the only reason he's this outgoing and whoo! Let's dance!
So they end up jumping up and down holding hands, singing the lyrics off-key and mushed together, “At this moment you mean everything, you in that dress, my thoughts I confess ”, and Pete twirls Patrick around at the end. Patrick wraps his arms around Pete’s neck and he kisses right beside his ear. “Best party ever!”
“You’re a fun drunk,” Pete says to him, the next day. Patrick’s still dealing with the hangover, and he looks over to Pete through his sunglasses. “Fuck you.”
There’s nothing for Patrick to do inside. There’s only so much studying and music writing that he can do before he just feels empty, like there’s no more creativity left in him—at least, till he refreshes. And since a cold beer is out of the question, he’s working on water at the moment, and having sex is also out of the question (he doesn’t know why. His thumb hovers over Joe’s name, but he just throws his phone down). So, he’s outside. The stuffy apartment is… stuffy. Outside is crisp, and smells like smoke. He’s getting increasingly used to it, to Pete out there. Where the fuck does Pete even work, what does he even do? He's sure that Pete goes to the college, but he can't imagine Pete sitting down with a laptop and spitting out essays. No scratch that, he can imagine the essays, he's just not sure if he could see them being about, like, political science.
“I’m not making fun of you! It was a lot of fun! I’m, like… well, you know what I’m like when I’m drunk.” Pete says, and he curls into himself, on the little swinging chair set up he has on his balcony. Patrick’s never seen him use it before– he’s always either sitting on the floor, leaning against the railings, or he’s… well, lying on the floor.
“An existentialist, for one.” Patrick says, and Pete laughs a little, even though Patrick knows it wasn’t funny. “Actually, I’m always an existentialist. But no, I meant like… I don’t know. I feel like nothing I say makes sense. It’s all just a jumble of emotions and I get angry and pissed, and you were just so happy. And giggly. It was cute!”
They share a glance. This is the first time Pete has even said anything like that to him, in regards of Patrick being… cute. Or whatever.
“Um,” Patrick says, and Pete sighs like he’s exhausted. “What, you have a boyfriend?”
“No.” Patrick answers, truthfully. Pete screws his nose up a little. “I thought I heard–”
“That’s Joe. Joe’s… I mean, we only fuck. He’s not really, like, into me like that. Which is fine! I’m still young, I’m still… testing the waters.”
Pete raises his eyebrows, but he doesn’t say anything about it. But Patrick kind of wants him to—what does Pete think of that? Has Pete ever been in a relationship like that (okay, knowing what little he knows about Pete, he probably has), etc. etc. etc.
Patrick doesn’t like Pete. There’s nothing for him to really like, Pete always ends up saying something that Patrick finds annoying, and there’s no stability there, and they have nothing in common, kinda, oh, and Patrick’s not a 15 year old who gets crushes. But he wants to sit out here and just learn about Pete. And he wants him to know who he is too.
Pete reaches down into his pocket, and he pulls out another cigarette. He holds it out for Patrick, and Patrick shakes his head, so he puts it back. “That’s cool. I mean, at least you know what situation you’re in. I’m… y’know, all over the place.”
“I mean… communication is key.” Patrick offers to him weakly, and Pete gives him a big, huge, fake smile. “Thanks, Trick. Now I know the secrets to the universe.”
It hasn’t occurred to Patrick until this very moment, but he didn’t even know that Pete knew his name. It feels like an odd milestone. 1) Talk in detail about having sex. 2) Know each other’s names.
“Dude, screw you. I’m just saying, if you don’t know the kind of shit you’re getting yourself into, just talk to them. I mean… there has to be some in between, between having sex and… having sex.”
“Not really? I mean… we talk. ‘Hey, were you tested ?’, y’know… stuff like that. I don’t like talking about my feelings until I’m talking to a stranger on my balcony.” He says, in that way that Pete talks. Like he’s just toying with Patrick like he’s something to play with.
“Weren’t you dating, um…” “Ashlee? Fucking bitch.” “Yeah, weren’t you guys, like, dating. Don’t you talk to your girlfriend? Or, uh, ex-girlfriend now.” He asks, and again, Pete sighs like he’s never been more tired in his life. “I don’t know what to tell you. We talked. But not about shit like… shit like us, you know? She talked about her classes, I talked about my classes, she told me about her friends and her family and I told her about… like, what book I read the past night. We didn’t talk about our feelings. I guess I don’t have the face for it, or something.”
“Not true,” Patrick replies, and he turns his body entirely so that they’re facing each other. “So not true. I mean, we’re talking right now.”
“But you don’t talk to me. I talk to you. And I say stupid stuff and we go back in, and that’s it.” He tells him, and Patrick blinks at him through his sunglasses. It’s way too fucking… well, it’s not early, it’s the afternoon, but it’s too early for Pete’s semantics.
“Fine. Then come over. Let’s talk. It’s not hard to open up once you get going, you know? Like for me? I mean, it takes some coaxing, but once I start opening up, I really open up, and– Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Sorry,” Pete says, grinning at Patrick, “I just thought about… okay, sorry. Anyways. You inviting me over?”
Patrick takes a deep breath, and he pulls off his sunglasses as he stretches out of the position he’s gotten himself into, on the chair. “Yeah, come over.”
“Oh my God!” Hayley shrieks at him, as they walk into the record shop. “You’re so annoying... and you make no sense! How could you prefer Grease over Rent?! I mean, I love Grease as much as the next person, but Grease as a musical? I mean, Rent was way better. Way better. Way better!”
Musical talk with Hayley never ends well- Patrick should have known this the last time he critiqued Phantom of the Opera and Hayley just almost had a heart attack. There’s literally nothing entertaining about Phantom of the Opera. Nothing.
“Now more than ever, I feel like Mark and Roger and Mimi! I don’t wanna pay rent!” Hayley says, through a sigh, and then she says to herself in a softer voice, “Okay… what album did she want again?”
“She said anything ‘Say Anything’” Patrick says to her, almost laughing just at the way that sentence came out and Hayley nods, as they walk over to the ‘S’ section. “Oh, yeah, thanks. But you’re still wrong though.”
“Okay, but here’s the thing that… like, the difference between you and Mark n’ Roger is that you’re still going to pay your rent. And you’re gonna pay–” he says this part in a sing-songy voice “last year’s rent, this year’s rent, next year’s rent!”
“Wow,” says a voice behind Patrick, and Patrick jumps up in surprise, almost knocking down an entire row of CDs. Patrick doesn’t even have to look to know who it is, but he turns around and looks anyways. Pete, eyeliner smudged and all, gives him a shit-eating grin. “I didn’t know you could sing.”
“Oh, that’s not even all of it! Patrick’s amazing, you should hear him when he’s actually singing!” Hayley absolutely gushes, before she gives Pete a once-over and a confused look. “Wait… who are you?”
Patrick closes his eyes, and he wishes so hard that he was at home, in the shower, letting the hot water beat him down the drain. But when he opens his eyes, Pete’s still in front of him, smiling at Hayley in a way that Patrick really wishes he wouldn’t. It’s not… predatory, per se, it’s just… a lot. He’s smiling at her like she’s the sun, and he doesn’t even know her.
“Oh, really?” Pete asks, and suddenly his voice becomes silky smooth. “You should tell me more about it. And I’m Pete, Patrick’s neighbor.”
Hayley’s breath hitches, and she looks at Patrick with an accusatory glare in her eyes that only Patrick can see. It’s not intense enough for Pete to get it, but he can see it in the way that her eyes flicker back to Pete. It says, ‘you didn’t say you had a hot neighbor, why didn’t you say you had a hot neighbor? ’.
“I’m, um, I’m Hayley! Patrick’s friend.” Hayley says to him, smiling, and Patrick watches on as they shake hands. Pete’s tattoos against Hayley’s skin look so… annoying. They look so annoying. And Hayley has tattoos too, the ‘accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative’ on her forearm is out, loud and clear, and Pete catches it, and he smiles to himself. “I like that.” He says, pointing to it.
“Oh, thanks.” Hayley says, smiling a million watt smile. Patrick almost doesn’t even wanna watch this. He doesn’t want to be awake if they fuck. He doesn’t want Hayley to be another story Pete has to tell. He hates Pete with a burning, burning, burning passion, anger spills into his veins, and he finds himself walking away, stomping away to the ‘S’ section, to get the CD for their friend, and to just… get the fuck out.
Patrick doesn’t come out to the balcony, mostly because he knows that Pete’s waiting there for him. His phone is shut off, and it’s a dick move, but Hayley has other friends. He doesn’t want to hear about the details of their date, or them sleeping together, or anything.
He’s so angry. How could Pete do this? How could he do this to Patrick’s fucking friend? He imagines Pete’s ex-girlfriend, a faceless person, but he imagines long legs and high heels, screaming in the hallway, ‘I give you a million chances!’, and he imagines Hayley in that position, her fiery orange hair and her ratted sneakers, screaming at him, ‘You were so charming! What the fuck happened?’, and he imagines Pete giving her an empty look, and he hates Pete for that, he hates Pete for the stupid empty looks, and the questions, and the fact that he thinks no one will remember him when Patrick can’t forget him.
“FUCK!” Patrick screams out to no one, his Bowie poster in his room, just to get out his frustrations. “FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!”
And then he calls Joe over.
“Come on, give it to me,” He moans, loud, as Joe thrusts hard in him. He’s on his hands and knees, he’s staring at his pillow, and he’s not even enjoying it. He’s pissed. He’s so pissed. Fuck Pete, fuck that stupid asshole. He should be enjoying this. He likes sex. He likes Joe fucking him. But all he can think of is Pete screwing his best friend over.
Joe’s hands grip at Patrick’s hips so hard that Patrick knows that they’ll bruise. Patrick cries out when Joe hits his prostate, and he screams, “There! There, oh God, right there!”, but he doesn’t mean it. He doesn’t care about anything, sex isn’t helping, why does he care so much about Hayley and Pete?
He comes soon after, gasping and whining, and crying out “Joe, yes!”, and Joe leaves afterwards, because Patrick has studying to do, and Joe has work, and they don’t even really look at each other, it’s just a “Hey, thanks for that”, and a “Call if you wanna do it again”, and an “Okay, bye.”
He walks past the balcony door on his way back to his room and he smells cigarette smoke filtering in from the windows in the kitchen.
He gets in the elevator early in the morning for school. His ass aches, his hips have bruises on them, and he feels… well, not satisfied, but the ache from sex is always good, even if the sex itself isn’t always good. He’s scrolling mindlessly through social media, not really paying attention to his surroundings, and then the elevator doors close.
“So,” A voice says, and Patrick glances up from his phone to look at Pete. “Remember that night Ashlee cheated on me?”
Patrick doesn’t care to answer. So he just hums a response, a clear and blatant ‘don’t talk to me’, and he goes back on his phone.
“You told me that you were into guys, and that guys don’t fake it. But after hearing what transpired last night, I think that’s total bullshit.” He says, matter-of-factly. Patrick stops scrolling, and another flare of pure, pure, pure anger beats out from his heart.
He looks back up to him when the doors open back at the lobby, he glares daggers, he’s never wanted to hurt someone more in his entire life, and Pete smiles at him, from ear to ear.
“Ooh, Patrick!” Hayley exclaims excitedly when she spots Patrick, and Patrick drops his tray of food down in front of his official unofficial seat in the cafeteria. He doesn't really want to talk to her, doesn’t really want to talk to anyone, but he can't ignore his best friend forever just cause he's mad at Pete. Plus, the only free seat in the cafeteria is next to a kid that Patrick knows talks to Pete, he’s wearing that same purple hoodie that Pete wore, and Pete, Pete, Pete, Pete, Pete. It’s fucking annoying. Patrick wants him out of his head.
“I tried calling you last night but you weren't answering and, okay, anyways, they were showing a Meg Ryan movie marathon on the Hallmark Channel!” She shrieks, and she holds onto Brendon, their other friend, and she shakes him violently. “When Harry Met Sally, Sleepless in Seattle, and You’ve Got Mail! ALL IN ONE NIGHT!”
“We get it, Hayley!” Brendon says, laughing as Hayley continues to shake him. “Just cause you like cheesey rom-coms doesn't mean that- hey, ow!”
“They’re good! Classics! So, anyways, like I was telling Brendon,” she says to Patrick, now, while Patrick gives her a confused look, he was about 100% sure that she went out with Pete last night, and now that he knows it’s not true, he’s left with this weird residue of bitterness. Why did he even care?
“I stayed up all night watching movies, and now I’m super tired. The end. Hence why…” she trails off, and she shakes her huge termos cup in Patrick’s face- coffee.
“So… you weren’t with Pete?” Patrick asks, tentatively, and Brendon raises an eyebrow. “Pete? Who’s Pete?”
Hayley’s eyebrows furrow, and she uncaps the termos cup to take a sip. “Uh, no? Why would I be with Pete?”
“Who’s Pete? Is he hot? What class is he-” Brendon tries to ask, but Hayley shushes him with a “Hush, child.” and a “He’s Patrick’s neighbor, we literally talked for, like, 2 minutes yesterday while we were trying to get a CD for Greta’s birthday.”
“So why would Patrick think that you were with him last night?” Brendon asks again, and he dips a limp French Fry in some ketchup. “I hate being out of the loop, guys.”
“You’re not out of any loop, first of all.” Patrick says, and Brendon pouts at him like he doesn’t believe it. “And second of all, you guys were definitely flirting! And I just assumed-”
“You know what they say about assuming.” Brendon sing-songs, and Patrick flips him off. But Brendon’s so right… Assuming makes an ass out of both Pete and Patrick. Pete in Patrick’s eyes, and Patrick in general. Patrick said that communication was key in a relationship, and here Patrick was, totally not communicating. Also, he’s not in a relationship with Pete.
“You just assumed because you stomped away after a few seconds, which by the way, I’m still upset about it. You’re lucky that I saw Brendon on the way home!” She says, picking up one of Brendon’s fries and throwing it with a loose aim at Patrick’s face. “We weren’t flirting… well, maybe he was, but I wasn’t! Plus…”
And she leans in close to say this– Brendon leans in with her, not wanting to be out of the loop. “Even if I were into Pete, I wouldn’t date him, cause… I mean, it’s blatantly clear you have a thing for him.”
Patrick’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head, “No, what the fuck, no, I don’t like him! I’m not… this isn’t high school, I-”
“Oh my God.” Brendon says, shaking his head in disbelief. “You have a crush on him. Aw, Patrick!”
“What?! No?! Don’t ‘Aw, Patrick’ me, I don’t have a crush on anyone, I– I was just mad at Pete for coming onto you–”
“Cause you want him to come onto you.” Hayley replies simply, and Patrick cries out in frustration, “What?! No! I just, no, you guys are confusing me, I got mad because Pete has this… this routine, he isn’t, he isn’t good enough for you, you know, and–”
“Wow, that’s not very nice of you to say, maybe Pete’s the most stable guy on the planet.” Brendon interrupts, and Patrick shakes his head. “No. I know, well, I don’t know know Pete, but I know Pete enough to know that he’s definitely not the kind of person that should be dating you, you deserve way better than him, and I just. No. I wasn’t jealous, I was just looking out for you.”
At this point, Patrick’s trying to convince everyone, but he’s most trying to convince himself. Because Patrick doesn’t like smokers, Patrick doesn’t like boys who look like Pete, the pretty eyes and the long hair, Patrick wants stability in his life if he’s ever going to date, that’s why the thing with Joe would never work, and Patrick doesn’t like Pete.
And Pete doesn’t like him and that’s just the way it is. And Patrick’s okay with it.
“Patrick,” Hayley begins to say, in that motherly voice she uses sometimes, “you’re a really good person, like, you’re one of the sweetest people on the planet. But I know that you weren’t looking out for me… you were just super, super jealous. And that’s okay! Because you like Pete! And I don’t! And–”
“Can we not talk about this? Please? Can we just talk about Sleepless in Seattle?” Patrick asks, through a groan, and Hayley gives him a small frown. Brendon just slaps his hand to his forehead. “Can we not talk about Sleepless in Seattle? Please?”
He avoids going out on the balcony for a week before it becomes unbearable. Not the Pete part, necessarily, but he misses listening to music and watching the sunset, watching the pink sky become purple and then blue—it looks like cotton candy, and Patrick definitely prefers these sunsets over the intense red-orange ones.
And he's not banking on Pete coming out, but he's not surprised when he hears Pete’s balcony door open. He turns his head, and pulls out an earphone as Pete gives him an odd look. “Thought you died or something.” Pete says to him, plopping down into his swing chair. Patrick shrugs with one shoulder, and he pauses the track he's listening to. “Or something.”
He pulls out a cigarette, and Patrick rolls his eyes.
“So… can I just get one thing straight?” Pete asks, once his cigarette is lit. Patrick nods, and he tries to be subtle in staring at the way that the smoke travels out from his lips. When Pete smiles, and the smoke seeps between his teeth, it'd be the hottest thing in the world if it weren't such a gross habit.
“So… you thought that I was gonna date your friend. And your first reaction was to… stomp out of the store and then fake enjoy having loud and enthusiastic sex? If you liked me, you could have just said something. There's this thing someone told me, you might know him. He said ‘communication is key ’” Pete says, deadly serious. His mouth is set in a straight line when Patrick looks over to him, and he sounds like he wants to talk about it, maybe, but Pete's wording is the worst.
And it just sounds like he's just mocking the shit out of Patrick. And if there's one thing Patrick hates in the world, it's getting made fun of. So he clenches his jaw, and says through gritted teeth, “Shut. Up. Just stop fucking talking.”
He adds as an afterthought, “And I wasn't faking enjoying it that much. I was just tired, and… and you’re so full of yourself! Why would you even think that, that I liked you?! Maybe I just had a bad week, and–”
“But you didn't. And you do.” Pete replies, and Patrick throws his hands up in the air. “No! Get that through your fucking thick skull!”
Pete gives him a skeptical look– all raised eyebrows and smooth smoke coming out of his mouth. And Patrick wants nothing more to punch it off his face. But he just does what he always does—walk away.
“I don't care if you don't believe me. But just as a side note, I don't like smokers, it's a dirty and ugly habit. Goodbye.” He grabs his laptop, gives Pete one last glare, and he walks in, slamming his door shut.
That TV trope of the neighbor running out of sugar seemed so stupid to Patrick.
Because how does one… run out of sugar? If you see that you’re on the verge of running out of sugar, wouldn’t it just make sense to go out and buy some before it all got used up?
Suffice it to say, Patrick actually does run out of sugar one night. He’s smack in the middle of a paper on cadences, it’s 1:14 in the morning, and he needs coffee. But he doesn’t need coffee badly enough to drink it black, that’s really not an option, Patrick hates black coffee, so he just goes with his best bet– to go over to William’s and ask for two teaspoons.
He’d go over to Pete’s, but he’s pretty adamant on not wanting to look at Pete’s fucking face. So, he listens in for key signs that William’s awake; piano playing, him and Travie doing it, the sounds of the fire alarm going off.
It’s none of the above. It’s an action movie. The second that Patrick hears the sounds of gunshots and car crashes filter in through the thin walls, he picks himself (and his coffee cup) up, and he walks out and into the hallway. It’s still pretty chilly, so he has a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. But other than that, he’s in his socks, boxers, and a shirt that he’s so sure belongs to Joe. He can smell Joe on it, musky cologne and Taco Bell, and he almost takes it off, but it’s better than nothing.
He knocks twice on the door, and it takes a second, but then William comes to the door. He’s wide-eyed, and he looks super tired. “Uh. Hi?” He says, and for the first time, he doesn’t look welcoming to Patrick. Not in a bad way, he just looks busy, and if Patrick didn’t know him, he’d think that William was some mad scientist about to discover the secrets of the universe.
“Hi! Um, sorry, this is gonna sound… Can I borrow, like, 2 teaspoons of sugar?” Patrick asks, and William looks at him, down at his coffee cup, and he sighs. “I mean, I guess? Come in.”
He opens the door entirely, to let Patrick in, and Patrick finds the apartment surprisingly empty. He was expecting a bunch of people over, to watch the movie, but there’s only a single bowl of popcorn on the coffee table.
“Sorry, it’s just---” William sighs again. Patrick begins to feel really guilty for asking. “Um, Pete’s just… And Travie’s taking care of him, and it’s just. A lot. Sorry, just follow me.”
Pete? Oh, fuck.
“Pete?” Patrick asks, dragging the blanket with him as William begins walking into the kitchen. And then he hears Pete’s voice, suddenly, and he’s moaning miserably. “I need some weed . I need to chill the fuck out.”
“Weed makes you–”
“I don’t fucking care! Oh God, I need to smoke. Fuck. Fuck .”
Patrick frowns to himself, and the equivalent of “????” fills his brain—Tiny, circling question marks.
Pete’s leaning against the kitchen counter, and he looks like shit. Like absolute shit. He’s biting his fingernails, and his leg shakes violently from where his feet are planted on the floor. He looks over frantically to Patrick, and he lets out a laugh that grates Patrick’s ears. “Now I really need a cigarette.”
William looks between Pete and Patrick, and he looks over to Travie like he has answers. But Travie shrugs, and goes back to talking to Pete. “Dude, let’s just watch the movie. And then we can go out for some chips, and then–”
“Okay,” Pete closes his eyes, just as William opens the cabinet door to look for the sugar. Patrick can’t stop looking at Pete, though.
Pete’s trying to quit smoking? Why now?
“Okay,” Pete repeats, and then his eyes snap back open. “This isn’t even the worst it’s going to be. Isn’t that what people say? That… that the first week is the easiest compared to the second? I’m leaving. Nice underwear, Patrick.”
Patrick’s jaw tightens. As does his grip on the blanket.
“No!” William says, looking away from the cabinet, and he points a finger in Pete’s direction. “No, you’re gonna sit your ass down and watch the fucking movie! If Travis could do it, you can too. And look, now you have Patrick here to convince you. Patrick, tell him that smoking is bad for you and that you shouldn’t fucking do it!”
William sounds tired, like he’s been at this all day. And he’s talking to Pete like he’s a little kid, which, okay, Patrick doesn’t have to know Pete that well to know that Pete hates that.
Pete just sucks in a breath, and when he exhales, it comes out like a groan. “Yeah, Patrick. Tell me what a dirty and ugly habit it is. Again.”
William glances at Travie again. Patrick just really wants his two teaspoons of sugar.
“Well,” Patrick begins to say, but then Pete looks up to him and he glares, and that just about stops Patrick dead in his tracks. “I know that. I mean, I do watch TV. I see the commercials. I know. What will be doesn’t have to be? It’s like, oh yeah, this thing is bad for you. So stop doing it! Like no fucking shit, I’d do it if it were easy.”
William gets out the sugar, and he quickly pulls out the cutlery drawer, like he’s trying to chase Patrick out before Pete gets pissed. But Patrick doesn’t really care about Pete getting mad, because Patrick’s been mad.
“Fuck you, Pete. I know it’s not easy–” “Oh, you know it’s not easy? Patrick, who’s never done–” “But you have to at least try! Your friends are waiting on you, hand and foot, and they’re trying, and you’re not! You’re just being a baby and giving up because it’s hard.”
“Again, Patrick, when have–” Pete begins to say, and then William shrieks at him, a noise that really makes Patrick’s ears want to bleed, “TRAVIE HAS THOUGH! PATRICK’S RIGHT, YOU’RE JUST BEING A COWARD!”
“Okay, Bill, baby, he’s not being a coward, he’s–” Travie tries to salvage the situation, but Pete just smacks his hands against his forehead, and he screams “SHUT UP!”
It’s the longest 2 hours of Patrick’s life– he doesn’t even end up drinking the coffee, because he stays with William, Travie, and Pete the entire time. They get into a screaming match (mostly Pete and William. Travie jumps in to calm everyone down, but every time Patrick adds something, Pete starts up again), and they get a noise complaint. So, they end up passive aggressively watching the rest of the Captain America movie that William had put on. Pete’s hands shake, and he gets up to do something every 10 minutes, to use the bathroom, to get something to eat, to pace around the room, to make a comment on Patrick’s blanket, to declare that he feels like Bucky, like ‘a fucking prisoner’, etc. But he eventually falls asleep, curled against Patrick’s body. And Patrick falls asleep too.
And his cadence paper gets written hastily at 7 in the morning.
He finds Pete on the balcony again a day later. He’s sitting on the floor, his back against the bars, and he has a leather notebook in his hands, but he’s not writing anything- just flipping through the pages.
“Hi.” Patrick says, and Pete hums, but he doesn’t look up. Patrick blinks at him, waiting for something more, but Pete ignores him like he’s not even there. Which he guesses is fair, Patrick’s done nothing but ignore Pete for the greater part of 2 weeks… but still.
Patrick sits on his little plastic chair, and he pulls out his phone and his headphones. The sun isn’t setting, it’s already dark outside, but it doesn’t mean that he can’t still enjoy the fresh air and the smell of… not cigarettes. It smells like… mostly sewage. And food that Travie’s cooking–the smell filters through the windows, and it makes Patrick hungry. But before Patrick can put in his headphone, Pete lets out a loud sigh. “So… Sorry that I was an asshole yesterday.”
Patrick looks over to him, and he tries to hide how happy he is that Pete’s speaking to him with a shrug. “It’s okay. How you holding up?”
Pete shrugs, an imitation of Patrick’s. “Not good. Kinda want to go over to William’s just cause I know they’re gonna stop me from running across the street. But I’m trying not to be a selfish asshole? So I’m gonna try to, y’know… fight the urge, or whatever.”
“I mean… it’s not really… okay.” Patrick doesn’t really know what to say– ‘come over!’ sounds too desperate, but he really means it. Obviously not to like… do anything. They’ve already hung out at Patrick’s, they dicked around for like half an hour before they put in ‘The Shining’, but it feels different right now. Like before, there wasn’t any sexual tension. But now… Patrick isn’t too sure.
“It’s not really…?” Pete asks, and Patrick replies before he can really think about it, “I mean, you could come over. But that would be a bad idea, right?”
“Why?” Pete asks, and he gives Patrick this look . Like he knows exactly what he’s playing at. “Why would that be a bad idea?”
Patrick doesn’t reply to that– it’s a trap, and he knows it, and he doesn’t like feeling like prey around Pete. “Why’d you decide to quit? Was it…”
“You? No, it wasn’t you.” Pete replies, too quick for Patrick to believe him. His eyes dart to his notebook, and he curls in a little on himself under Patrick’s gaze.
“I believe you.” Patrick says—total lie.
“No, you don’t.” Pete rolls his eyes. “It’s okay, though. I don’t really believe myself either. I don’t know… I mean, you said that thing, and I know that my family hates it, and I know that it bugs the shit out of Travie, and I care what my friends think of me, and… I mean, we’re friends, right?”
Are they friends? The silence that follows Pete’s question answers it.
“Okay, maybe not, but you’re something to me. My neighbor with the sideburns that I’m into. And the brown-blond-red-strawberry hair, and the glasses, and the Star Wars boxers.”
Want flares in Patrick’s chest. He’s so close, yet so far to Pete. He wants to grab him by the shirt collar and kiss him silly. Who knew a description of his hair could have such an effect on him?
“Um… yeah.” Patrick blushes, pink patches on his white skin, and he’s thankful that it’s dark outside and that Pete’s far enough to not notice it. “You’re… um, you.”
It’s quiet enough for the silence to be awkward– William’s laughter, the honking of car horns, music from a party, nothing can break the tension. Patrick likes eyeliner on Pete. He likes the stubble on his face, and he kind of misses the smell of cigarettes but he can get used to Pete without it. He wants Pete to fall asleep on him again, wants Pete’s elbows to dig into his ribcage. He doesn’t care about the drinking and the questions that make him want to shoot himself anymore.
“You’re looking at me weird. Or maybe my head playing tricks on me. Or maybe it’s just the lack of cigarettes.” Pete says to him, a knowing smile on his face.
“Just come over.” Patrick says to him, and Pete nods.
Patrick’s mindlessly scrolling through Netflix, pointedly trying to ignore the smirk on Pete’s face. Pete’s warm next to him, their shoulders touch and Patrick almost moves in closer. But he scolds himself, No, Patrick, we’re not going to do anything inappropriate, we’re gonna sit and watch a movie and stop Pete from running across the street to get some cigarettes.
“Gee, Patrick,” Pete says after another moment, “We might as well get to the ‘and chill’ part if it’s taking you this fucking long to find a movie.”
“I knew you were going to make that comment.” Patrick grumbles, his eyes set on the TV. Netflix has such crap . He throws the remote down with a frustrated sigh, and he looks over to Pete, bloodshot brown eyes and blackened eyelids from eyeshadow. “I have Shrek 3 on DVD, how’s that sound?”
“I’m not watching Shrek 3,” Pete says to him, “everyone knows that Shrek 2 is best one. 3 and 4 were total shit.”
It’s sad that a comment about Shrek 3 is what sets Patrick off– but that’s exactly what happens. Patrick grits his teeth, and he takes a deep breath. His fists clench together, and he feels like shrieking like William did the night before. Pete’s so annoying, Pete’s so annoying, Pete’s so annoying, Pete’s so fucking annoying.
“You have any better ideas, jackass?” Patrick asks, and Pete blinks at him. “You’re pissed at me for saying that Shrek 3 was shit? Dude, Shrek 3 was shit. Justin Timberlake barely saved it.”
“No! I’m pissed at you because… because!” He throws his hands up, so that he doesn’t start shaking Pete’s shoulders. “Because I can’t date you! Because I can’t get myself involved with you! Because I don’t want to be that person, I don’t want to be the person that wakes everyone up at ass o’clock in the morning because I’m in the middle of a fight with you, and I can’t do hook-ups with you, I like being detached, I’m… I’m focused on studying, and I can’t date you, and you’re just, you’re just sitting there and you make these–”
Pete holds up a hand to stop Patrick from babbling to death, and it works. Patrick shuts his mouth, and Pete says in a soft voice, “So, you like me?”
Patrick blinks at him like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, even though he himself only realized this back out on the balcony. “Well… yeah. But that’s not the point.”
“Why is it not the point? You realize that… that I’m just a guy, right? I’m not some… fucking enigma, I’m just a guy who says stupid stuff and does stupid things. I like you. You like me. It’s kind of that simple, Rick.”
“But it’s not!” Patrick cries, “And you’re not just a guy, you’re… you’re you, and you piss me off, and you complicate everything, and–”
Now, a lot of this stuff should be offending Pete, but he just leans in closer to Patrick, and he cups his face. And Patrick pauses, mid-rant, and he closes the gap between them in an instant. His eyes close, and he immediately pushes Pete against the side of the couch, kissing harder. Pete gasps underneath him, the kiss deepens, Patrick tastes the flavor of mint gum on Pete’s breath, Pete moans softly. And then they pull away.
And it’s supposed to be happily ever after, all of Patrick’s problems are supposed to dissolve under the mint on Pete’s breath. But they don’t.
“No,” Patrick says, pulling himself off of Pete’s body. He gulps, and tears begin to prick at his eyes, but he blinks them away quickly. “It’s not… it’s not that simple, Pete, I can’t. I’m never gonna be Ashlee, I’m never gonna be Mikey, and-”
“You’ll be Patrick.” Pete says to him, but all of the hope in his eyes is gone– he knows that Patrick won’t budge. “And I’ll be Pete.”
“Let’s just watch the movie, okay?” Patrick says, switching the topic on an instant, and Pete nods hollowly. His hands shake, and he looks as unsteady as ever. “Okay.”
They watch the movie, but they don’t really watch the movie. Patrick’s in and out of sleep, and Pete texts on his phone during the entire thing. And when it ends, Pete runs out of there so fast that Patrick almost runs after him. But he hears the door to William’s swing open and close, and he goes back to sleep.
He’s never seen Pete on campus before, so of course the universe would make the first time Patrick sees him at school be the day after that disaster of a night.
He’s walking with Brendon to get some food, and he’s barely listening to him as he happily chirps on about something his girlfriend did. It’s early in the afternoon, and people usually have class now, so it’s pretty empty. That’s why it’s so easy to spot the purple hoodie.
“Oh shit, we gotta go the other way.” Patrick says suddenly, grabbing Brendon’s arm, and he attempts to turn him around to walk back, but Brendon works out, and as it turns out, Patrick isn’t really that strong. So Brendon gives him a weird look and he says, “Uh, why? The fries are that way.”
Brendon looks over to Pete and Purple-Hoodie, and apparently the gaze of the both of them was some sort of trigger- Pete looks away from talking to Purple-Hoodie, and his eyes meet Patrick’s. And then Pete quickly looks away and says something to Purple-Hoodie urgently. And then Purple-Hoodie looks over to them a second later, before averting his eyes too.
Subtle, Patrick thinks, as he rolls his eyes.
“Who the hell is that?” Brendon asks, and Patrick almost wants to hit him against the head.
“Pete. The one not wearing the purple hoodie.”
Brendon gasps, and he turns to look at Pete– it’s pretty much a game, who can look at who without being too obvious. They’re about 30 feet away from each other, all of them know who’s there, they’re the only damn people standing still on the walkway. If Patrick strains, he can barely hear Pete talking, a mile per minute, ‘and I just had to get the fuck out of there, I threw up in William’s toilet for like 20 minutes straight, I think it’s just the withdrawals, but he’s getting in my fucking head, I can’t even, like, think properly, he just –’
“That’s Pete? Wow, he’s kind of hot. Don’t tell Sarah I said that.” He says, before he catches the look on Patrick’s face—regret in it’s purest form. “Why the long face?”
“We kind of, um. I don’t know, we–” “Slept together? Details, please.”
Patrick narrows his eyes. “Are you sure you’re not gay? I know I always ask, but–”
“I’m just nosy, dude, there’s a difference. Anyways, details, please. Who topped?” Brendon asks, with an excited gleam in his eyes.
“No one topped!” Patrick yells– he sees Purple-Hoodie turn his head to look at him, and he sighs in frustration. “We’re leaving. Now. I’ll explain everything on the way to get food, but we’re not walking that way. Let’s go. Now.”
He grabs Brendon’s wrist, and he drags him with all of his might in the other direction. And Brendon complies with him, just to get the, in his words, 411.
And Patrick tells him everything over tacos. The first time they met, the time with Mikey, Pete quitting smoking, and the incident the past night. By the end of the explanation, Brendon just looks at Patrick like he’s the stupidest person on the planet.
“Are you fucking kidding? Patrick, dude, what the hell is wrong with you? You’re obviously into this guy, even if you can’t that through your head, you really like him, just the way that you talk about him gives that away, and you not wanting to date him is just… an excuse to be a loner. You have to fucking live your life and do things that make you happy, and not just… like you don’t want to be with him because you’re afraid of what will happen if you guys break up? And you don’t want to compromise your ‘education’? That’s such bullshit!” He says, shaking his head.
“Even if this is the biggest mistake you could ever make, you should take the risk, because maybe it won’t be a mistake. You said that… what did Pete say to you the first time you guys met?”
“That no one would remember him.” Patrick grumbles under his breath– he doesn’t like feeling like an idiot, but the way that Brendon’s explaining the entire thing to him, Patrick can’t help but feel stupid.
“Yeah, well… no one’s gonna remember you if you spend all day locked in your apartment!” Brendon begins to say, but Patrick rolls his eyes, “It’s not that deep, Brendon.”
“But it is! It is that deep! You think asking Sarah out was easy for me? It wasn’t. But I did it because I have to live a little. I mean, when you look back on your college experience when you’re old and gray, what are you going to remember? Studying in your stuffy apartment and jerking off to the sounds of Pete getting it? And… oh, fuck!”
Brendon immediately jumps up, and he darts out of the restaurant, wildly pointing to the clock planted to the wall to explain to Patrick he’s super late for his lecture hall class.
And even though Brendon didn’t finish his point, Patrick finally understands. The gears are all oiled up and running smoothly. The mask comes off the villain at the end of the episode. Dorothy comes home.
He doesn’t care about seeming desperate anymore. He knocks on Pete’s door for a solid 10 seconds before Pete shows up at the door. He looks mad, like he wants to curse out whoever would knock on a door 10 seconds straight, but then he sees Patrick’s face, and his expressions soften, smudged like the eyeliner around his eyes. Patrick can’t believe he was never into it.
“Oh.” Pete says, a little hopeful, a little hopeless.
“I was stupid.” Patrick says. “I was so, so, so, so, so stupid.”
“Stupid for kissing me?” Pete asks, and for the first time, he sounds clueless. Like, usually Pete always beats him to his reactions, usually Pete always knows what’s right at the tip of Patrick’s tongue. But now, Patrick’s talking straight from the heart, no more witty bullshit, no more stupid remarks to hide anything. Patrick said that communication was key and they weren’t communicating at all.
“Stupid for saying that I couldn’t do it.” He says, and Pete bites his bottom lip that isn’t so much in an attempt to be sexy, but to hide a huge smile. “I like where this is going.” He says, and he opens the door. “Come in.”
Pete’s place is an absolute pigsty, a complete opposite of Patrick’s. And normally this would be a warning sign, ‘DO NOT ATTEMPT TO DATE! IF THEY CAN’T MANAGE THEIR HOME, HOW WILL THEY MANAGE THE RELATIONSHIP?! ’, but Patrick ignores it, and focuses on Pete, who’s practically shaking with anticipation. “Okay, finish what you had to say, please.” He says, rushed.
“I want to be with you. I don’t care about… y’know, all of your past relationships, I don’t care about Mikey and I don’t care that I don’t usually date, because I like you. Like… I really fucking like you. And I was so stupid, I was so fucking stupid last night, I was scared because I wanted you so bad, and I don’t want my heart to get broken, you know, but I don’t fucking care anymore, I just…” He pauses, trying to find the right words. He’s never spilled anything so real with anyone, he’s full of cute filler words, but he can’t even begin to explain the butterflies in his guts and caterpillars in his stomach every time Pete smiles at him.
Like right now– it’s not one of Pete’s ‘I know something you don’t ’ grins, it’s nothing smug and cruel, it’s just Pete being happy. Pete pulls him closer, and his voice is a little hysterical when he says, “So, you wanna… like, go out on a date and be my, like, boyfriend, and the whole stupidly amazing 9 yards?”
“Yeah,” Patrick breathes out, and Pete roughly grabs him, but in a good way, in an urgent ‘oh my God I need to touch you and know that this is real, and that this isn’t a dream ’ way, and he kisses him.
They end up having sex—that’s the way that Pete knows how to show love the most. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing- at all. They do it on the couch, on the dirty couch, and it’s all soft kisses and soft sighing. It’s nothing that the neighbors will hear, Patrick isn’t screaming at the top of his lungs for Pete to give it to him, he just moans in Pete’s mouth and his grip on Pete’s shoulder tightens as he sighs, they’re always sighing, the two of them, but this time it’s sighs of pleasure, sighs of content and want.
“I’ll never forget you,” Patrick breathes out, his head lolling on the couch pillows as Pete rocks slowly into him. Pete’s free hand, the only that isn’t steadying him over Patrick, travels the sides of Patrick’s body, and he cups Patrick’s face, leaning down to kiss him. When Pete kisses Patrick’s neck, he won’t smell someone else’s cologne. “I know I’m being, oh, there, dramatic, but I’m bearing my fucking soul here. I’ll never forget you.”
Pete laughs over him, and he says jokingly, his voice only slightly strained, “Why? Best sex ever?”
“Haha,” Patrick says, dryly, but then he gasps loudly, and his eyes screw shut as his head lolls to the other side as Pete’s angle shifts a little. He can feel Pete grin against his skin, just the way that his lips curl over his neck, and Pete thrusts in harder, right there, and Patrick’s breath hitches.
Once Pete’s hand moves down to Patrick’s cock, it’s all downhill and staccato moans from there on out, and when Patrick comes, Pete groans in Patrick’s neck and follows. They don’t actually talk about it at all until they clean up, Patrick takes a shower in Pete’s bathroom, washes his hair with Pete’s shampoo, and go out on the balcony together.
“I think the moral of the story,” Pete says, sitting the floor, criss-cross apple-sauce, as Patrick’s lounges on the balcony chair, “is that I should totally get drunk and intimidate my neighbors with my existentialist crap.”
Patrick shakes his head, rolling his eyes in a way that’s half exasperation and half adoration. “Yeah, but I wouldn’t say that’s the moral of the story, because you already did it once, so you shouldn’t go and do it again.”
Pete shrugs. “Okay, good point. Anyways… I’m having a really bad craving right now… so you want to go across the street and pick up some nicotine gum?”
Maybe this isn’t what Patrick envisioned when he thought of relationship . Nowhere in Patrick’s fantasy is going to the drugstore, steering his boyfriend away from packs of cigarettes, dealing with shaky hands and mood swings, eating potato chips in a sea of ripped out journal entries and used tissues. But nowhere in Patrick’s fantasy is Pete either, and well, a fantasy without Pete just sounds stupid.