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Pete is pretty sure that Patrick’s magic. Not magical, per say - he just is magic. His hands, his mouth, every inch of his body. He sparkles, glowing from the inside out, and all Pete wants to do is climb inside and find it, take a little piece of it for himself. Just to see what it's like to be someone else, someone special.
There’s a passion that resides there, so muted and lacking in ambition. Patrick doesn’t want to be a rockstar, he wants to make music. Pete is sure he’d be perfectly satisfied going home right now and giving it all up. Maybe move into a place for just the two of them, work their asses off to afford something with thick walls and room to practice.
Pete thinks about that sometimes, and then his stomach turns. He’ll suck up that magic, drain it and take it and twist it into something irredeemable. That’s how it always goes, or so it seems. He breaks things, snaps his toys in half to see what falls out, puts scars on Patrick and bares his skin for matching ones.
That’s the only part that makes it easier to swallow. Patrick does it too. He holds a knife, and Pete snatches it away to turn it on him. They fight and punch and bleed until someone can’t go on, until someone’s crying and the other is shaking - but after? After is when Pete believes more than ever Patrick’s got something in his DNA that is otherworldly.
Patrick will always help him up, always clean the blood off his face, always let Pete do the same for him. He’ll be quiet for a while - they both will, for too long sometimes or not long enough, and usually without a real apology. They don’t need it, Pete figures. There’s never a need for it, like they’re always on the same page anyway. Pete doesn’t mean it, doesn’t hurt him because he hates him, he just. He can’t help it.
Patrick can’t either. It's too good, too cathartic - feels too right to hurt with someone who wants it just as much. Then, there’s the after after, when the blood-stained towels get left on the floor and clothes follow, and fuck somewhere, whatever surface they fall on first. Sometimes a bed, sometimes the bathroom floor - whatever. It’s desperate and painful sometimes, but as soon as Patrick’s legs are wrapped around his waist and kissing him, holding onto him so tight, it's okay.
Everything’s okay again, even if there are tears still being shed. It's just gotta be magic.
“Pete, get out of your head and kiss me.” Patrick mumbles in a whisper, against his lips, unbloodied and swollen for the sweetest reasons. His hands hold Pete’s face, thumbs swiping across his dry cheeks devoid of tear stains, noses touching, and his face shrouded in shadows. The bunk is dark, the curtains pulled shut for what little privacy they get on a bus. Outside, on the other side of the thin door that separates the sound of an Xbox and the two guys yelling at the screen. Still, Pete can see his eyes shining in the lowest light.
Patrick runs his fingers through his hair, over his ear and down to his jaw again. He’s so awkward, so abrasive, but he holds Pete so softly, always so soothing, he can’t believe it. After a quick peck to his lips again, Patrick goes on, “Quit thinking so much.”
Laying face to face, Pete tightens his arm around his waist, pulls him closer to his chest, and squeezes. “Sorry, sorry. I’m here, promise.”
Patrick still frowns, scooting towards him to shove his ankles between Pete’s, curling his leg around his calf. He looks sad, and Pete’s heart pangs. He’s not supposed to be sad here, when things are quiet and calm, no one’s bleeding or crying. He’s supposed to be shining, giving Pete a glimpse of the magic that he is that he doesn’t deserve.
“Are you sure?” Patrick buries his head in Pete’s shoulder, his nose cold on his throat. “What are you thinking about?”
“You.”
Patrick scoffs, but Pete can imagine the blush that goes from the top of his ears to his neck. It’s sweet how he turns red so quickly when Pete flirts even after all this time.
“Well, quit thinking about me and start paying attention to me.” Patrick sounds firmer now, his hand grabbing the back of his neck to pull him in. Pete goes willingly, lets him shove his tongue between his lips and get back to business.
The magic doesn’t quite reach there, because despite Pete’s best efforts to teach Patrick how to slow down, relax and let the instinct take over, he just can’t seem to get the hang of kissing with tongue. He’s eager and grabby, which Pete does love so much, like he can’t get enough, but Patrick leaves his lips wet and a little slobbery. It's cute sometimes, incredibly sexy at others, but right now, Pete recoils and wipes his mouth.
“C’mon, man - you’re like a fuckin’ dog.”
Patrick punches the light above their head so hard that Pete jumps. The yellow light behind old, frosted plastic reminds him of the one in the back of his parent’s car and hurts his eyes when he stares at it into the night. That doesn’t stop him, though. Now, he looks away from it and sees the deep frown on Patrick’s face he caused.
“What is your fucking problem?” Patrick snaps, leaning up on his elbow. He’s blushing the way Pete figured he was, but it’s an angry red instead. “Why are you acting like a dick all of a sudden?”
Pete can’t answer, staring as the patience seeps away. He doesn’t have an answer - he was fine barely ten minutes ago, running his hands along Patrick’s smooth arms just to feel him. It's not like he hasn’t memorized every inch already, but every touch feels like a lottery, like he’ll drag his fingers over the peach fuzz on his chest and catch a little bit of stray magic.
It's not fair, there’s this incredible force inside of Patrick and he doesn’t even know it. Somewhere just under his skin, Pete can feel it stirring, glowing, sizzling, and he wants it. Pete wants it, just a little bit. Just a taste of what it's like to walk the earth with whatever it is that Pete can see, but the others constantly underestimate. He’s trying to show it, putting him on display with a finger hooked through his belt loop, so Pete can always pull him back. They can look, but only Pete can touch.
That’s when he feels the best, when he feels the lightest, when he’s as close to Patrick as he can possibly be. He wants that magic, to use it and abuse it and worship it - Patrick. Not it, Patrick.
Patrick gives him a sarcastic, unamused, “Well?” and Pete is speechless. Only around Patrick do his words disappear, sucked up by that glow like a blackhole that Pete put there. Pete grabs him by the waist, rough as he yanks Patrick down onto his back. Patrick pushes at him, hisses at him in a whisper to knock it off, but Pete kicks his legs apart and puts his weight on him. Chest to chest, Pete kisses him even as Patrick shoves his shoulders and tries to get a word out.
“Pete, knock it off already,” he manages to say when he pushes Pete up, but Pete just moves to mouth at his jaw, down his neck as Patrick huffs, “If you think you’re gonna fuck me after that shit, you’re stupider than I fucking thought.”
“I’m sorry,” Pete says, even though he isn’t sure what he’s apologizing for yet. He’s sure he’ll figure it out later, just getting ahead of whatever he’s going to do. His hands push his shirt up, lifting off of him for just a moment - long enough for Patrick to try and push him again, but gets nowhere. “I need you, I can’t - I can’t stop it, you make me fucking feral - like I’m starving and you’re the last meal I have before I get strapped to the chair.”
Patrick scoffs, but his voice wavers, like he’s trying to stay calm. When Pete glances up as his fingers find one of his nipples, Patrick’s eyes are shut tight. “You’re so fucking annoying, I don’t give a shit what you need - and” he grabs at Pete’s wrist under his shirt and tugs, “fucking get off.”
Pete doesn’t. He can’t bring himself to - his body is shaking, tingling and pulsing. He swears he can taste it on Patrick’s throat, moving under his tongue as Patrick calls him an asshole. He isn’t pushing anymore, just holding onto his shoulders with a death grip. If Pete was feeling a little livelier, he’d tease about how he can feel Patrick getting hard, digging into his hip despite what he says. When Pete presses his thigh against him, Patrick gasps, sharp and strangled the way Pete loves, and that’s all he needs.
As far as Pete’s concerned, that’s the go-ahead. He can start searching for wherever that magic has to be leaking from. Pete kisses him again, and it takes a moment before Patrick reciprocates, but the point is that he does. He wants it, wants to share that magic even if it means Pete has to take it. He even lifts his hips when Pete reaches for his pants and pulls them down.
As Pete tries to grab his hips and flip him on his stomach, Patrick bends his knee, pressing his socked foot against his chest. He looks a little ridiculous, in just his shirt and socks, with his heavy cock leaking on his stomach. This time, his voice doesn’t shake when he speaks, but Pete can hear the irritation, the resignation.
“Lube, asshole.” The fight is gone, like he’s exhausted and hurrying. He won’t look up, which does admittedly sting a little. The magic he’s looking for is always visible in his eyes, and Pete needs it like he needs to breathe, but it's dim now. Pete tries to speak and make his point, but Patrick glares. “Fuck you, get it or I’ll scream.”
Pete stares at him, waits until Patrick finally meets his eye before he answers, “No, you won’t.”
Patrick’s face twitches, but he does his best to stay calm, matched. “You don’t know that.”
Pete does know that, but he doesn’t test him. Screaming means alerting the other people on the bus, just on the other side of a thin door, to what they’re doing. What they've been doing. That means risking everything. He can’t imagine things would go over well if they were found out.
He grabs the lube where Patrick stashes it between the mattress and the wall, dropping it beside them on sheets. Patrick lays back, watching Pete closely as he runs his hands up his legs and between his thighs. Pete squeezes the fat there, spreading him wider. He’s still hard but hasn’t touched his cock once.
Pete isn’t concerned. He’ll make sure Patrick gets his. He’s on a mission first, urging Patrick to turn over for him, and Patrick does. He rolls over into his stomach and arranges his legs to make room, but Pete pulls both of his thighs together to straddle his ass. Patrick holds his pillow close to his chest as he glances over his shoulder, frowning at something while Pete grabs at his ass and plays with it.
His ass? More magic. Different magic, not the perfect celestial glow that lives inside his tiny body. No, this magic has everything to do with the way his ass bounced just a bit, how soft he is and how beautifully he opens up to take his cock. He was made for it, to spread his legs like a slut for Pete - and only Pete. Patrick is his, that magic is his.
Looking up at him, seeing Patrick staring back, there’s an odd bit of nostalgia in Pete’s chest. He doesn’t remember much anymore, but he remembers the first time he put Patrick on his hands and knees and made him cry. He gave Patrick the first of many confusing orgasms that gave Pete such a disgusting fucking high, so enthralled with the way he reacted, the way he curled up to him after. How he seemed to radiate warmth and trust that Pete did not and still does not deserve.
The only difference is when Pete got the lube back then, he actually used it. Maybe he’s sicker in the head than he thought, but the dry sex is, to him, as close to Patrick he can possibly get. It’s not often that he gets to experience that, utilizing an absurd amount of spit until his mouth is dry.
Patrick will lie about it, too. He says it hurts too much, that it doesn’t feel good and doesn’t get why Pete likes it so much, but Pete knows the truth. He knows that Patrick liked it too. It hurts so good for both of them, and for as much as Patrick claims to hate it, he moans and whines and comes and cries and comes some more. When they’re alone back home, he screams for it.
Pete knows - no matter what Patrick tries to say, he wants it. He loves it.
He shoves his sweats down his thighs, pushing Patrick’s legs around so he can fit. When he pops the cap, Patrick faces forward, clearly satisfied with what he saw. Pete waits a moment, counts to ten, then closes the bottle again, clicking it shut. He leans forward, one hand on the mattress by Patrick’s ribs. Pete can feel how hard he’s breathing, his fingers shaking as he tries to guide his cock and hold Patrick open at the same time.
He jumps when he sees Patrick's hand reach back, afraid he’s going to get hit and shoved off, but he doesn’t. Patrick grabs his own ass and exposes his hole to him. Pete can’t help himself anymore, couldn’t stop if he tried, and moves his hand to Patrick’s lower back. He puts his weight there, holding himself up as much as he needs to, keeping Patrick pushed down and trapped.
He’s such a sight, so helpless and trusting, his fingers digging tight into his ass and leaving red marks, the little arch in his back from where Pete is holding him down. He has to be magic, a beautiful figment of his delusions for him to have and hold and use and abuse. He has to be, because he opens up like a dream and takes the head of Pete’s cock without a problem.
His body goes tight, tense from head to toe as Patrick gasps like he’s choking. He immediately tries to get up and get some leverage, and Pete can only watch him throw his hands back as he hisses, “Pete, that hurts!”
Pete, without thinking about it, grabs his arms and pins him down, laying on top of him as he squirms and cringes. Patrick tosses his head back and forth, still trying to jerk around, but Pete is bigger and stronger, and Patrick knows so.
It does hurt. Pete practically can’t move at all, the friction of skin on skin making him feel like he’s on fire, but that just makes it better in his head. There’s nothing between them, nothing changing the way the inside of Patrick feels. That’s all he wants, to feel him and know him, cut him open and search for wherever his soul is. The magic that he is has to start somewhere, he wants that. Pete needs to see it, to find whatever the fuck it is that Patrick has that Pete doesn’t that makes him want to hurt and be hurt.
Pete hears Patrick mumble something, words that very well could have been, “Pete, stop,” but his ears are ringing. Lately, that high pitched droning has started to sound a lot like Patrick’s melodies, like a little bit of magic is making a home in his head. It's almost soothing, like when Patrick sings to him when he can’t sleep. He presses in a little further, fighting his way deeper, and Patrick thrashes uselessly under him.
The tight heat of his body is too addicting, and the soft mewls and whines are going to his head. Pete lays against his back, calm despite the tremors in his hands, and whispers, “You’re so perfect, Patrick, you make me fucking crazy.”
“Shut up and - and please, just get the lube.” Patrick lets out a sob that racks through his frame, unintentionally making him clench down on Pete’s cock like a vice. “You - you don’t have to stop but please, Pete, it's - it's too much.”
“But-”
“Please, Pete, are you serious?” he sounds more frantic now, trying to twist and arch his back to get out from under him. He looks back, eyes wide and Pete can see it now, this isn’t just a game anymore. He wonders if it ever was, staring back at the fear on his face as Patrick goes on, sniffling and clearly panicking, “Cmon, this - this isn’t funny, Pete.”
No, it’s not, but Pete just can’t make himself act like a human fucking being, and says, “Don’t try and tell me you don’t like it.”
Patrick just stares at him and doesn’t say anything. Pete can’t really tell what he’s thinking, which has got to be one of the most terrifying things in the world. To be sure, just to prove his point, Pete scoots back, pulling his hips with him, and reaches under him. Patrick cringes, but his cock is still hard, trapped between his and the wet spot he’s making on the mattress.
Pete sits up a bit, but doesn’t pull out, keeping one hand flat between Patrick’s shoulders as he grabs the lube. Patrick sees it, but he just puts his head back down and instead tucks one of his hands under his stomach. Pete lets his hand drag down his spine, mumbles, “Good boy,” and swears Patrick shivers under him.
He squeezes the lube directly on his hole, cold dripping over his shaft and down Patrick’s balls. It's not a lot, but it's enough when Pete slides in and hits deep, the glide is so much easier, delicious and still so tight. Patrick doesn’t make a sound, just tries to spread his thighs so he can stroke himself as best he can - which isn’t very well at all.
Pete doesn’t let him, though. He grabs Patrick’s arms again, folds them across his back and holds them there with both hands. Patrick looks back at him, craning his neck over his shoulder, but doesn’t say anything before Pete fucks into him and his eyes roll back. No matter what happens, no matter what Pete does or says to piss him off, he still knows that Patrick loves this as much as he does.
He stares at him, watches Patrick’s face twist and contort with every soft moan and muted gasp, rolling his hips against his ass slowly so they don’t make too much noise. Pete knows how deep he is, his cock buried in him as far as he can possibly be, to that place somewhere inside him he knows for a fact belongs to him. No one else has been here before, no one’s been so close to the galaxies that stir in his core. Even his tears look like stars, falling down his face and landing on the pillow under his head.
Pete could stay here forever, mounted and balls deep and dragging out his own orgasm. He wants to spend as much time as he can like this, so lost in the way Patrick sucks him in. He’s made for this, to be fucked stupid at any moment - bent over, folded in half, pushed down to his knees with a cock shoved in his mouth. He looks so pretty like that, just like he does right now.
Patrick starts shifting again, but he just whines that he needs to move his legs. He tries to turn his head, but Pete reacts on instinct, puts his hand on the back of his neck and holds him still. He’s pink in the cheeks as he tries again to meet Pete’s stare, and Pete feels his stomach twist when he does. He looks so pathetic, all teary eyed and panting. He squirms again, moving his hips around, and whimpers, “Move your hand, please.”
That’s the least he can do. Pete does and lets his head go but puts his hand right back on his ass. His fingers dig into his skin, the fat that clings to his hips that ripple like still water when Pete fucks him. If they were anywhere else and Pete was riding him like this, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from seeing how many shades of red he could make. He could make the entire spectrum of warm colors right here on his pale cheek.
Pete wants to finger paint on his skin, wants to make a gradient of brilliant reds like the last of the sunset in the summertime. He’s had a lot of notebooks in his life, mostly crummy wide-ruled spiral ones, but there have been some he’s gotten for birthdays and holidays with hard covers, once a leatherbound. As pretty as they were, filled with words that felt better within the confines of a nicer cover, the veins down the inside of Patrick’s arms make his words dance. He’ll repeat over and over until he’s blue in the face that this was what he - they were meant for. It's predetermined, written in the stars, a feat of magic.
Maybe that’s where it comes from - maybe it blooms when Pete touches him. It's a selfish thought, the kind that makes him wonder if he is narcissistic like Patrick says. Patrick glows, but does it dim when Pete’s not around? Could that be why he can’t find it? That would make sense, to him anyway. Patrick can’t shine on his own, doesn’t let himself into the spotlight unless he’s shoved on stage, and Pete’s been pushing his buttons for about five years.
He might not have to crawl under his ribs to find the deepest, darkest part of Patrick like he thought. How silly of him, there is magic and stardust that pours out of him every second of the day. He doesn’t have to find it, it's right in front of him. Patrick is right in front of him, besides him, in his arms - he’s here and he’s real and he’s so fucking tight on his cock, clenching down around him as he comes.
Pete knows so by the noise he made. Guttural and almost a smidge too loud, maybe a pitch higher than Patrick usually gets, accompanied by the shaking of his shoulders and his hips. He bucks back against Pete, almost lifting himself off the bed, but Pete leans over, holds his arms down against his back with both hands and keeps his rhythm. It's not often he makes Patrick come untouched, and it's an absolute sight to behold every time.
Patrick humps the mattress, his legs jump and his back arches against his hands. His body shakes like a girl’s does when Pete hits it right. His eyes roll back and his hole twitches and clenches like a pussy, and Pete hears himself mumbling in a gruff voice he wasn’t expecting, “Such a tight cunt, baby.”
Patrick moans. Out loud. New overwhelmed tears fall, his shoulders roll, and Pete has to ask as quietly as he can, “Fuck, are you still coming? God, you’re so fucking sexy.”
He doesn’t get a response as Patrick relaxes again, sinking onto the bed. He has to be laying in his own come, his cock wet and spent. Pete can only imagine it - then realizes, he doesn’t have to. Carefully, he finally pulls out, and Patrick jumps, shooting awake again. He pulls his arms in as soon as Pete lets them go, holding them to his chest.
Pete gets up on his knees to turn him over, both hands on Patrick’s hip to spin him onto his back. Patrick lets him, and Pete almost - almost - pauses. Pete thinks he may have finally fucked the fight out of him, something else he doesn’t get a lot. Patrick’s such a spitfire at every given moment, venomous and bitchy, but now, he’s puddy. He lets Pete push his arms out of the way to push his shirt up to his chest.
Sure enough, his stomach is wet and getting tacky with his cock just as red and half soft as he’d thought. For God’s sake, even his pink little nipples are hard, and he looks like such a dream with his arms splayed out like dead weight. He blinks up at Pete, his lips still parted and chapped, and it seems his tears have finally dried up, just stains down his cheeks.
Pete drags his cock along Patrick’s stomach, soft and round and sticky, and shakes his head in disbelief. He looks like marble, carved curves and rolls, exposed and frozen in time. He’s a dream, a work of art, and Pete still wants to be enveloped in his luster, to feel what it's like to be him. He wants to wear his skin, be inside his head at all times - and admittedly, he does know how it sounds.
He can’t help it. Pete never can control himself around Patrick.
He dives down, a hand on the bed by Patrick’s head, and kisses him. Patrick jumps under him, but he doesn't hesitate. His hands grab his face, pulling him in deeper. Pete swears he feels him start crying again, but he’s coming on Patrick’s chest before he figures it out. Pete curls over him, rubbing himself against his stomach, and suddenly feels Patrick bite his lip - hard.
The jolt of pain makes his skin crawl, taking his mind out of his orgasm while his body is still there. He comes alright, covers Patrick in his semen from one nipple to the other, still sees it and hopes it soaks into his skin. The euphoria is shattered, ripped away like the skin between Patrick’s teeth.
Pete tries to jerk away from him but has to stop short when Patrick doesn’t let up. He stares up at Pete so intensely, his eyes hard and focused. He’s angry, for sure. Patrick waits a moment, then another, and then let’s go. Pete finally pulls back, rolling off of him as he touches his lip.
“Ow, what the fuck?”
“Get out.”
Surprised, Pete looks up, watching him sit up and scoot back against the short wall. Patrick pulls his legs up to his chest and stares ahead, not looking anywhere near him in the cramped bunk. He repeats, “Get out. Go away, Pete, please.”
“Wait, what? Why?” Pete asks, grabbing his pants to yank them up his legs. “What’s wrong?”
Patrick gives him the same glare. The pink in his cheeks looks more sickly than bashful, paler than usual. Actually, he may be past angry and reached a new level of pissed off that Patrick’s never seen, because he’s quiet. He’s not yelling, and he’s always yelling at Pete.
“Because I fucking said so.”
He doesn’t elaborate. Patrick goes silent, staring and waiting until Pete is crawling past him and out of the bunk. The only saving grace is that Pete was allowed to give him a small kiss on the lips. After that, as soon as he’s out, Patrick pulls the curtain shut. Confused, Pete lingers for a minute or so before he finally turns for the bathroom.
He doesn’t come out for hours. Only twice - once to go to the bathroom and once to get his laptop bag from the lounge without a word. Joe and Andy ask what happened, what his problem was, and Pete shrugs. It feels like the wrong answer, but he’s not sure why yet.
Pete tries to check on him, but the first time he looks like he’s asleep, turned away towards the wall and Pete leaves him alone. The second time, he’s curled up in the corner of the bunk with his laptop and his headphones on, and silently gives Pete the finger. He gives up after that, scoffing and rolling his eyes at him, but it's forced. He hopes Patrick knows that.
He can’t sleep, unsurprisingly. He can’t think about anything else, and every time he closes his eyes, he sees the blank look on Patrick’s face. It was terrifying, one of those unreadable things that make his brain spin out of control. He knows, though. Pete can lie to himself for as long as he can stare at the ceiling above him, that he doesn’t know what he did. Well, what he didn’t do.
He rubs his eyes over his eyes in the dark until he sees spots, trying not to keep sighing over and over so he doesn’t get something thrown at him. Pete pushed too far this time. This was inevitable, and he’s a little surprised it took this long. He got five years of Patrick’s life and got to spend one of them naked very often. More than five years would have been nice, but that’s on Pete for thinking he wouldn't eventually ruin everything.
Pete’s not sure what time it is when he hears heavy footsteps below him. He doesn’t need to check to know it’s Patrick, probably going to get a snack considering he hasn’t left his bunk in a while. Pete carefully follows him and just like he thought, finds Patrick rooting around through the cabinet.
Really, it’s Pete’s fault that his lip starts bleeding again. He walks up behind Patrick without thinking too hard about it, and when he puts a hand on his side, Patrick jumps practically off the ground. He instinctively throws his arms up and his elbow catches Pete right in the mouth.
Patrick stares at him as Pete groans, holding his face for the second time that night, and then says plainly, “What the fuck, Pete, why would you sneak up on me like that?”
“Sorry.” Pete mumbles, keeping his explanation to himself. He didn’t want to see if Patrick would run from him when he saw him coming. His heart might not be able to take it. “Are you okay?”
He goes quiet again, folding his arms and leaning back against the counter. He shrugs as his eyes drop to the floor. Pete can see the wheels turning and tries to wait, but his anxiety gets the best of him. He steps closer, tries to put his hands on Patrick’s arms, but Patrick shoves him off.
“Don’t touch me,” he tells Pete simply, “Do not touch me right now. Why did you do that?”
Pete knows what he’s asking but doesn’t answer yet. He has a feeling there’s more.
“I said stop and you didn’t,” Patrick goes on, still stone faced but his voice waivers, “and I don’t know why. You know, sometimes it’s like - like you don’t care.”
“Of course I do! Patrick, you know I do.”
Pete again tries to touch him, to hold his arms and pull him close, but he gets the same response. Patrick pushes him back, harder this time, and snaps, “Then listen to what I’m fucking saying and stop touching me! I do not want you to touch me right now, so fucking don’t!”
“Okay, okay!” Pete scoffs, holding his hands up. He mumbles for him to keep his voice down as he sits on the futon, folding his arms and shoving his fingers into his armpits. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you when I should have.”
Patrick stands there in front of him, his arms wrapped tight around himself. He looks like he’s shaking, and all Pete can think is how unfair it is that he can’t go hold him and make it better.
“I need you to - to be real with me for a second.” Patrick starts slowly, his words clearly deliberate like he’s been thinking about whatever he’s going to say. “No… no games anymore - just you and me here, okay?”
Pete nods warily. This is nothing short of nerve wracking, because that sounds a little like the beginning of a breakup, but unlike one he’s heard before - and Pete’s heard plenty. He fights not to jump to his own defense, waiting as patiently as he can.
“Why haven’t you asked me to be your boyfriend?” Patrick asks outright, and Pete’s veins run cold. “We do all the same stuff that a boyfriend and girlfriend do except, like, actually date. Like, put the… the fighting aside.”
When Patrick says it out loud, it feels a little like the sky is falling. Pete stays still.
“Like, I don’t - I don’t really know why we’re like this but I’m not saying I don’t like it. I do, I don’t want to stop but,” when he looks at Pete, his eyes are wet all over again, “I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve never had a boyfriend and I've been doing this with you longer than I’ve ever dated a girl - and I definitely like you more than I ever liked any of them. So - I don’t know, man. I don’t get why I’m not your boyfriend.”
This, on the other hand, is not dissimilar to things Pete has heard before. Usually, he can talk his way out of why he doesn’t want to do more than fuck around. The girl might end up with a broken heart, or at the least pissed off, but there’s nothing he can say that will make this better that isn’t completely and exclusively agreeable.
Patrick deserves better than this, someone infinitely better than Pete and all of his damage. He doesn’t belong with someone who… does what Pete did to him. Of course, Pete could simply be better and change his attitude, start listening to him and treating him like the wonder that he is.
The problem is that Pete is selfish. The problem is he would rather drop fucking dead than lose Patrick, especially like this. He always knew he’d fuck it up one day, and always hears the Patrick who lives in his head warn him, then don’t fuck it up, dumbass. Words only go so far.
“I don’t want to change.” Patrick slowly makes his way to the couch, sitting with his arms still folded a good foot away from him. He keeps his gaze down on the floor. “I like what we have. I know it’s like, crazy fucked up and weird and I’m okay with that. I don’t want to tell anyone or anything like that, I’m not saying we have to be all like, lovey dovey or whatever. I just, I - I dunno,” the hope in his eyes when he looks up makes Pete’s insides twist, “I want to be your boyfriend. I’m already your best friend, you’re always saying we’re soulmates or whatever. So, I figure,” he shrugs, “why not?”
There’s a million and one reasons why not, but Pete keeps them all to himself. Cause, once again, he’s a selfish, small man. He doesn’t touch him when he reaches his hand out, putting it on the cushion between them instead like an olive branch.
“I get it.” He nods as sincerely as he can. “I do. I didn’t know that was something that you, uh, wanted, I guess.”
Patrick shrugs again. “‘S fine. I never told you so you wouldn’t have.”
“I’m sorry about before.” Patrick cringed a little, scratching at his arm like the memory is eating away at his skin. “I should’ve listened.”
“Yeah well,” Patrick mumbles and leaves it there, “but you didn’t answer me.”
Pete knows what the question is, why he didn’t listen in the first place, why he doesn’t seem to take Patrick seriously, but he doesn’t have an answer to that yet. Not one that doesn’t completely reduce him to a toy to bend and break and see what it does inside, what he can get it to do.
“You’re right, you’re basically already my boyfriend.” Pete says, putting on a little smirk he knows makes Patrick smile from across a crowded room. It doesn’t seem to work this time, but he persists. “Probably the cutest boyfriend in the entire world.”
Patrick is unwavering, even as his cheeks start to flare up. “I’m serious, Pete.”
Pete knows he is, but this tough guy facade he’s putting on is transparent. He sighs a little, saying, “I know, sorry. The point is, I like this too. I like being with you, I like bleeding with you.”
When Pete touches his leg, fingers light above his knee, Patrick jumps, and his eyes shoot there. Pete leaves his hand there, scooting a bit closer. “You don’t know what you do to me, Patrick, you’re the only reason I’m alive right now.”
Usually, Patrick hates that. His response is always something about how dramatic he is, telling him to shut up, even as he blushes. Now, Patrick seems to crumble, hunched over as he says, “Me too. I love you so much, Pete and it’s - it’s so scary. You terrify me.”
Pete is absolutely sick in the fucking head because a wave of heat surges through him and lands in his dick. Hopefully, Patrick doesn’t notice because there's just no way in hell he can adjust himself sitting so close. That… that shouldn’t go to his head like that, but God, Pete is so lucky to have everything he wants in a person already in front of him. Patrick is terrified of him. He’s so in love he’s afraid of it. It’s no wonder he didn’t scream.
“I’d love it if you were my boyfriend.” Pete tells him, squeezing his leg. Patrick stays neutral, but he’s fading fast.
“Because you want me to be, right? Not because I said so.”
Pete nods with a smile. “Because I want you to be.”
“You’re serious.”
“Painfully.”
Patrick stares for a moment before finally, finally, he cracks a smile. It’s small, barely a twitch of his lip, but it’s there. Pete asks carefully if he can kiss him, and Patrick mumbles that he can.
He leans over and manages to press his lips to Patrick’s for only a fleeting moment before he feels his teeth again, digging deep into his lip. He tastes blood immediately as he pulls away, ripping out of his bite with a pained groan.
Patrick’s hand is suddenly on the back of his head before he can say anything. His fingers curl painfully into his hair, tugging his head back so he can look Pete in the eye. The big, nervous doe eyes are gone.
“If you ever do that to me again,” Patrick warns, and Pete can’t help the goosebumps that raise on his skin from his low, deathly tone, “I will fucking kill you.”
Pete almost opens his mouth and says, no, you won’t. He's truly, genuinely ill. Instead, he nods, sucking at the wound and grimacing at the sting.
“I believe you,” he lies, and Patrick smiles. Patrick even kisses him again, his hand loosening and moving to hold his face instead.
How Pete got out of this one with minimal destruction is beyond him. Is he that savvy or is Patrick that desperate? They could both be true, he figures, as Patrick licks over the scratches he made on the inside of his lip. They’re two sides of a coin, and Pete’s always known. From the very beginning, he saw the magic missing inside himself and knew what he needed, what Patrick needed.
He mumbles against Patrick’s mouth in the brief moment his ungraceful tongue retreats from his tonsils, “I don’t deserve your magic.”
Patrick looks at him square in the face. He pauses for a second, staring thoughtfully before he answers, “No, you really fucking don’t,” and scoots closer to kiss him again.
Well, Pete can’t really argue with that. He got off easy today. He didn’t have to actually answer any real questions, didn’t have to dissect his actions and ended up with the most forgiving boyfriend he could ever ask for. Not a bad day for him.