fic: Patricksitting (Call It A Love Song) 2/3
Friday
The first things Patrick registers Friday morning are heat and sweat. Right after those comes cold. At some point in the night, Pete has managed to twist the sheets into a bizarre caricature of covers. They're currently covering Patrick's left knee, his stomach, half of his head, and nothing else. The rest of him is either bumped over with cold, or sweating where it's covered in Pete.
Pete, it seems, is a furnace when he sleeps. A messy-haired, slightly drooly, open-mouthed, sleep-mumbling furnace, who presently has his arms flung around Patrick and tucked under his back, knuckles twitching restlessly against sweat-slick skin. And, you know, Patrick's vertebrae. It's pretty far from comfortable, and the alarm (the most annoying alarm available, the bastard love child of a police siren and a particularly sultry foghorn) is blaring obnoxiously, just out of reach past Pete's torso, but Patrick has never wanted to get up less in his life.
He sinks his teeth into the closest available Pete - which turns out to be the skin on his underarm - and promises himself he'll find some way to balance out the bad karma he must accrue in the shadow of smug satisfaction he feels when Pete jolts awake with a series of startled consonants.
"Alarm," Patrick grumbles. "I can't turn it off. There's a house on me. S'very heavy."
The air the alarm clock gets when Pete swats it off the table is pretty impressive. The way Pete's fingers find each of Patrick's ribs and stroke isn't bad either.
"Don't melt in the shower," he mumbles into Patrick's shoulder, his breath sweet and hot, floating across Patrick's sleep-wrinkled skin. "I'd miss you."
It's way, way too early for Pete-logic. Patrick snuggles in, tugs Pete's warmth over his cold side, and exhibits his own share of pre-dawn eloquence with: "Huh?"
"Wicked Witch of the West? Melting? Bucket of water? You weren't making a Wizard of Oz reference?"
"No." Patrick buries his nose in Pete's neck and shuts his eyes, revels in the spread of warmth to his numb fingers, toes, hip. "I was just being a dick. Is the alarm still plugged in?"
He feels Pete's chin brush his hair when he nods, feels the shudder of Pete's yawn against every inch of pressed-together skin, and smiles when Pete starts back awake to talk, like he was already asleep, but his last thought was of Patrick, of forgetting to answer him. "Unfortunately."
Nine minutes, then.
Except nine minutes turns into eighteen, which turns into twenty-seven, which turns into Pete scrubbing at his eyes and pressing kisses to each of Patrick's fingertips. "You suck at waking up, dude."
"It's okay," Patrick argues. "If I skip breakfast and wear this shirt to school, all I have to do is throw on jeans-"
"And brush your teeth."
"-and shoes, and brush my hair-"
"And kiss Pete goodbye."
"-and speed, and I totally have time to sleep for nine more minutes."
"No sleep." Pete clambers on top of him, knees against hips, hands curled over shoulders, sour breath against Patrick's cheek. "Nine minutes, Patrick," he wheedles, rocking his hips down, and oh. Oh. There are some things in this world better than sleep. "Think what we can do with nine minutes."
"Make out?"
Pete presses a smile into Patrick's jaw, but shakes his head no.
"Um?" Patrick rocks up against Pete again, but he can't quite bring himself to suggest, like, dry humping. Or head. Or, God, sex.
"Nu'uh," Pete whispers, even rocking down again, scraping morning-slippery teeth over Patrick's earlobe. "Breakfast, Patrick. Coffee, and maybe a bagel. Fruit, if you swing that way."
Patrick slides his hands hopefully down Pete's sides, tucks them into the elastic of his pajama pants, presses up harder. "Overrated," he says, only a little breathless. "Breakfast is the least important meal of the day. Kiss me."
"You could kiss me."
Everything is narrowed down to parts of Pete: his hips, all dirty friction; his teeth, slippery on Patrick's neck; his hands, pressed against the mattress, knuckles brushing Patrick's shoulders; his hair, messy ends tickling Patrick's nose. And yeah, Patrick can kiss him. He can do that. He does do that, turns his head and presses the first kiss against Pete's temple, the second against his cheek, the third catching his mouth. Pete's mouth is slimy, stale, too hot, and Patrick's is dry and scorched on the roof, and it's maybe the best kiss of his whole life, like, ever, because Pete's finally giving him pressure. It should be uncomfortable, maybe, with Pete's sharp hipbones, grinding down hard, but it's not. It's nothing like uncomfortable. It's perfect, and Patrick gasps, arches up, and then Pete's gone, crawling backward, straddling Patrick's thighs and smiling at him with scrunched up eyes and tight lips.
"Breakfast," he says, firmly. "I have your mom's list of instructions. I can show it to you, but nowhere on it is keep Patrick in bed all day and rob him of his innocence. So c'mon. Get up."
Patrick does not appreciate the slap to his thigh as Pete crawls out of bed, and he does not appreciate the sly, sideways smile Pete gives him when he sets the alarm clock back on the table, but he does appreciate the play of shadow when Pete stretches back, his skin tight across his ribs. So, it could be worse, he supposes.
"Fine. But I want waffles. And if I'm late, you have to come sign me in to school."
He showers on autopilot, very nearly washing his hair with his mom's after-shower lotion, and brushing his teeth for too long, mesmerized by the spray of one errant stream of water against the tile of the shower stall. When he gets downstairs, Pete is pulling maple and chocolate syrups out of the fridge one-handed, his cup of coffee clutched protectively to his chest; he still hasn't brushed his teeth, and the coffee-sharp, sleep-stale taste of it feels more comfortable than Patrick's cinnamony toothpaste. It makes his teeth ache. "Chocolate syrup?"
"It's good," Pete says, sneaking another sip of coffee. "Trust me."
It is good. Pete scrapes butter into the waffle's divots and shoves them back into the toaster oven so it melts, little puddles of gold swimming in his breakfast, and then he adds more chocolate syrup when Patrick's hand is a little sparing, and then he plops an apple down next to Patrick's plate with a grin, and sits.
"I'll eat later," he says in response to Patrick's unasked question, the slight angle of his head. "I slept too well. Food this early will just upset my stomach."
Patrick likes being the reason Pete slept well. He likes being the fingers that Pete licks excess syrup off of, he likes Pete's toes stacked on top of his tennis shoe, wiggling, and he really likes the way Pete kisses him goodbye at the door, with sticky fingers tucked through his belt loops and smiles pressed into the corners of Patrick's mouth.
"You're grounded," he whispers, knees twitching like he wants to nudge Patrick back against the wall. "So if you have plans. Cancel them."
"Grounded?"
"So, so grounded."
***
Grounded apparently means coming home to an empty house and a note from Pete that reads: called into work try not to burn the house down have dinner on the table when I get home patty pat pattycake?
Patrick makes a mental note to break Pete of nicknames, flags it "urgent," sticks a mental gold star on it, and gets back in his car for groceries. He ends up with enchilada sauce, flour tortillas, two packages of cheese, and a set of crossed fingers that he's hoping will translate to chicken in the freezer. It does, and by the time Pete gets home two hours later, Patrick has a loaded dishwasher, a clean sink, and cheese bubbling away in the oven.
He also has the radio on, and a mouthful of The Beatles, and then, suddenly, Pete's hands on his hips and Pete's breath in his ear, whispering, "I didn't know you could sing."
"Everyone can sing," Patrick says, wiggling around in the tiny slice of space Pete's left between himself and the edge of the counter. It's not a lot of space, just enough that if Patrick presses back hard against the rounded edge, hard enough to bruise, he can almost, almost breathe. He laughs, or goes to, but then there's not enough room for anything, let alone breathing, because Pete's hands are under his shirt, and Pete is nuzzling his throat, licking his pulse.
Pete mumbles, "Not like that, they can't," and licks again, sinks his teeth into Patrick's skin and swallows the hum of Patrick's response, which was supposed to be words, would have been words if it weren't for Pete's mouth, and Pete's fingers sliding under the waistband of his jeans.
"Do it again."
Huh? Patrick is maybe not sure what Pete wants him to do again. He tilts his head back, holds on to Pete's arms for balance, and belatedly remembers to ask, "What? Do what?"
"Sing." Pete's mouth on his throat, still, Pete's fingers on the button of his jeans, Pete's shampoo, vaguely medicinal, swirling around in Patrick's head and he doesn't understand what Pete wants him to do. Sing? What?
"What?" He can't seem to make his brain work. Or at least, he can't make it work past knuckles on his stomach and Pete's impatient hum against his jaw.
"I," Pete says slowly, mouthing the words into Patrick's neck with pronounced enunciation. "Want you. To sing. Right now, so I can feel it."
Suddenly, Patrick can't remember any words to any song ever, and he just wants to push up against Pete's hands, but he doesn't have room.
"C'mon." It's just a gust of air against Patrick's neck, and he's about ready to sing anything, to sing Ring Around The Rosy, to sing the theme song to Barney, to sing It's A Small Fucking World, but the oven timer goes off, right beside them, loud and blaring.
Pete jumps a little, bites down too hard, and pulls back, wincing. "Sorry," he says, pressing the side of his foot down toward the floor. "I didn't mean-"
"It's cool." It takes two tries to jab his finger against the timer button and turn it off; his hands are clumsy, shaking a little.
When Patrick turns around, Pete is half a dozen steps away, grinning, hands shoved in his pockets. "You actually made dinner? Like a good little housewife, Pattycake?"
"Yeah, um. About that."
They go through two dozen variations of "nickname" "no" "nickname?" "NO" before Pete finally gets it: Patrick hates and loathes nicknames.
"I liked Pattycake a lot," Pete says mournfully, rubbing a freshly-punched arm. "It made me want to frost and eat you."
Patrick mumbles, "Too bad," around a bite of too-hot enchilada, and congratulates himself on pulling his punch. Pete looks like he gets enough bruises on his own.
He shakes more Tabasco onto his food, and lifts an eyebrow when Pete laughs. "What? What?"
"Your mouth."
"Um?"
"My mouth is burning. Yours, when I kiss you, it's going to be, like, hot."
Patrick feels his face turn about thirteen shades of pink; he jabs his fork at his food, hides his face behind his cup, takes a deep, long drink of cold water, and says, "Yeah, um. About that."
"What? No kissing?"
Kissing is awesome. Kissing Pete is somewhere beyond awesome in the way that the sun is somewhere beyond warm, but. "I thought. Maybe, um. More than kissing."
"Patrick."
"Mom?"
"This is." Pete waves his fork at Patrick, licks a stray thread of melted cheese off of his lip, and maybe, unless Patrick's mistaken, flushes a little. "Look. I really like you. But you've got. I mean, you've probably got, like, Stockholm Syndrome."
Patrick is rethinking pulling that punch. "What?"
"Like-" Pete nearly puts out Patrick's eye with the fork-waving this time, which only shortens his already shrinking life expectancy. "You're stuck here with me. And I'm, like, older. And the boss of you, so you're mentally all confused, and if I perform sexual acts upon your underaged person, it would be highly unethical. And also, you might feel bad about it and then not go out with me."
They're using real plates, and the clink of the ceramic against the coffee table is loud, sharp, and ominous. Or, at least, it's ominous if Pete has half a brain cell still sparking somewhere in that head of his. "You think I have Stockholm Syndrome?"
"Maybe?"
"Are you actually retarded? Because I'm pretty sure that there are laws against taking advantage of the mentally handicapped, even if I am only sixteen."
Patrick takes a lot of pleasure in Pete's wince. He takes even more pleasure in the way Pete sets his plate carefully on the side table, and unprecedented amounts of pleasure in the way Pete warily resettles himself on the couch. "Patrick."
"Pete."
"I just. I think, like, I'd like to take you on a date. After your family gets home, and if you change your mind. I mean, I don't want to go to jail, but that's not even." Pete sighs, hand jammed in his hair, weak smile painted purple and yellow in the TV's light. "Jail would suck. You dumping me when your mom gets home would suck, too, and on a more realistic level."
"You're an idiot."
It's actually really fucking hard to stay annoyed at Pete when he's smiling at you like that, big teeth and scrunched-up eyes. Hard, but not impossible.
"I want to keep my Patrick," Pete says, and yeah, okay, totally impossible.
Patrick takes another sip of water; before he can lose his courage, with the clink of ice still humming against his teeth, and the sudden rush of cold to his brain, he slides onto his knees on the floor and puts his hands on Pete's thighs.
Pete says, "Patrick," again, but it's different this time, less wary, more strained.
"You have two options," Patrick mumbles, trying to channel Alaska, the Arctic, cold washcloths, anything to cool the flush he feels spreading across his cheeks. "You can shut up, or I can punch you."
Pete shuts up. This may have something to do with the first press of Patrick's mouth to his stomach, or maybe the nervous, shaking fumble of Patrick's fingers on his pants, but either way. He shuts up, and Patrick closes his eyes, and maybe he's going to make a fool of himself, but at least the lights are dim. Besides, he can avoid Pete for four days, right? If it goes horribly wrong?
Anyway, all head is good head. Patrick has heard that all head is good head, and the one time he did this - half-did this - before, it seemed. Okay. It seemed okay, even if it was awkward, on his knees in front of a bean bag chair, and even if he had nearly choked when the guy bucked up, and even if he had pulled off, coughing, and mumbled something about his ride being there, then ran outside, walked two blocks, and called his mom to come get him.
He probably can't call his mom to come get him this time, but Pete's sharp inhale at the first touch of Patrick's tongue to his cock - a long, careful lick up the underside - makes him bold. And there's a lock on his door, anyway, and he can get in and out through the window until Tuesday if he really has to, so he takes a deep breath and licks the head of Pete's cock into his mouth, eyes closed, hands on Pete's hips, praying to God or Allah or Zeus that Pete doesn't buck, doesn't choke him.
Everything is by feel; Patrick's hand is wrapped around the base, just in case, and his eyes are tightly closed, and his other hand is resting on Pete's stomach, fingers stroking random, nervous patterns across skin and tense muscles. It's simultaneously the hottest and scariest thing that has ever happened to him.
Pete says, "Hey," and Patrick slides his eyes open a little, just a sliver, and hums questioningly, and then Pete says, "Oh God," and his hands find Patrick's face. Not pulling, and Pete's hips are unnaturally still - his body is tight, Patrick can feel how hard Pete is bracing his feet against the carpet, and he gets it, and he's grateful - and don't match the rapid, shallow suck of breath into Pete's chest, but Pete's fingertips are skimming over Patrick's cheeks, his temple, smoothing through his hair.
He slides his eyes open a little more, watches Pete trap his bottom lip between his teeth and stare, watches Pete's pupils widen and his teeth get less shiny from too much air sucked in too fast, and then Pete's fingertips brush across Patrick's jaw, up to his mouth. Pete rubs his thumb over Patrick's stretched-tight bottom lip, and it's--Patrick is just glad his jeans are still on, zipped up tight. He moans a little, pulls back so he can suck in a breath and lick Pete's thumb.
"Jesus." When Patrick looks up this time, Pete's arching, his back bowed up off the back of the sofa, and his eyes are scrunched tightly shut. "Just. Stop for a second, God." He puts his fingers in Patrick's hair and pushes him off, gentle but insistent, and says, "I need. I don't want to come yet, fuck, just. Just give me a minute."
Patrick may not have a lot of experience, but he's pretty sure that's a good thing. Or an okay thing, anyway. He hums agreement into Pete's hip, kisses his way down strained muscles, and when he gets to Pete's thigh he can't really help himself, bites down before he realizes what he's doing.
And then Pete's hands are in his hair again, tugging, and Pete moans, says, "Fuck it. I'll jerk off six times next time. Last all of fifteen minutes or something just, please, fuck."
This time, when Patrick flushes, it's not from embarrassment; it's the fast, throbbing rush of blood to his face, his ears. His throat is working, hard, thick swallows that taste like spit and salt, and he scrunches his eyes closed and remembers the slide of Pete's hand on himself, tries to mimic it, twists his knuckles up to meet his mouth. The rhythm doesn't match. He can't get the right angle, so he surges up a little, higher, until he actually has to bob to get his lips low enough to brush his hand. Mouth and tongue and fingers and Pete's slippery skin, and Pete's hands in his hair, and Pete's labored, filthy exhalations. Then it's his own name ringing in his ears, and Pete coming in hot, thick spurts.
Patrick has to duck down fast to swallow, and even then he misses some, feels it drip onto his knuckles. He was too shocked to taste it the first time, so he unwraps his fingers and licks them clean and it's. It's stale, a little. Bitter, but it's Pete, so.
Pete says, "Fuck," again, and then his hands are tangling in Patrick's shirt, fisting and yanking. Patrick's on the couch before he can blink, with Pete's mouth on his stomach, lingering while he tugs Patrick's belt open, pressing kisses above Patrick's jeans as his fingers work at buttons and pull on zippers.
"I'm going to jail," Pete says, calmly, evenly. "And fuck, but I don't even care."
He yanks - doesn't even wait for Patrick to lift his hips, just yanks the fabric out of the way - and then it's just hot and wet and mouth and oh, fuck. "Oh, fuck," Patrick chokes, scrambling for something to hold on to, ending up with a fistful of his own hair and another of sofa.
Pete's fingers are hard on his hips, maybe harder than necessary, and Patrick has a scattered, snatched thought about bruises tomorrow morning, but then Pete's nose bumps against his stomach and yeah, bruises. He wants them, because otherwise there's no way he's going to believe this actually happened.
***
Something about coming in Patrick's mouth seems to have flipped Pete's already dubious ethical philosophy off like a switch. He wants, like, everything. And he wants it as soon as he can have it. Which is probably not actually as soon as he'd like, since they're not already floating in post-coital afterglow by the time the clock threatens to click over into the wee hours of Saturday morning.
"You don't have lube," Pete announces. He says it without asking first, without even checking the drawers and really, that's kind of rude.
"I could have lube," Patrick counters, scowling. "I could have, like, a gallon of lube. I could be lubing it up with bikers every fucking night."
He doesn't, though. Have lube.
"No," Pete says, head shaking, chewing his thumbnail. "You don't have lube."
"I have lotion?" Specifically, he has his mom's Avon lotion. It smells like cucumbers.
"No," Pete says, again, turning his thumb over and gnawing at the nail from the other side. "I'm not. I mean, we're going to need some lube. This is already going to be- I just don't want to hurt you."
Pete makes an excellent point. Patrick is emphatically in favor of a lack of pain.
And more than that, maybe, he'd prefer not to have Pete give him that look, that anguished "I have to do right by you, God as my witness" Scarlett O'Hara-level-drama look that he's got right now, even kneeling between Patrick's legs, dipping the bed down with his weight. Every time he shifts - which is often - the comforter twists under him, until the down liner is rolled up under Patrick's back, prodding him uncomfortably.
"So," Patrick says slowly, trying to wiggle the bedding flat beneath him, and failing. "So we'll get lube."
"What, like now?"
It's possible. There are always 24-hour pharmacies and stuff, but Patrick's never lived the kind of life where he's had to run out for personal lubricant and condoms at just-past-whore o'clock in the morning, and he's not entirely sure he wants to start now. It seems so sordid. He's not sure he wants someone's dick in him, if it's going to be sordid. "There's tomorrow."
Pete's expression yo-yos, falling quickly, and then yanking back up. Patrick wants to laugh at him, but then he shifts forward, half-naked in the slants of light that sneak in through the blinds, and he's smooth and right there, nipple rings and concave stomach and ridiculous hair and all of him is Patrick's, at least for now.
He skims his palms up Pete's arms, traces the tension in his back, and yeah, there's a part of him that wants to insist on hand lotion, or on throwing on some clothes and speeding to the pharmacy, but there's another part that just wants to kiss Pete to sleep and worry about the rest of it in the morning.
That part is maybe the terrified virgin part of him, but he thinks if he tries hard enough he could still taste Pete in the ridges of his molars, so he's going to let himself slide on this one.
"Tomorrow," Pete echoes doubtfully. He leans forward more, kisses Patrick's nose, the rise of his ear. "Yeah?"
He's all stubbly, prickly skin raking over Patrick's cheek while he nuzzles, and he smells like vanilla ice cream and cinnamon, a little like coffee when he breathes out (only Pete would drink coffee at midnight, like a giant, stupid fuck you to sleep). Patrick's toes curl up, sweaty even though his knees are cold; he puts his hands flat on Pete's stomach, slides his palms up in a wide V to tuck over Pete's shoulders, to curl around his neck and try to angle his face for kissing. Patrick's mouth tastes like toothpaste and nerves, and he wants to lick the sweet off of the roof of Pete's mouth until the sun rises, if possible.
"Yeah," he answers, more a breath than a word. "C'mere."
Saturday
Patrick is probably never going to get over the fact that he lost his virginity to half a bottle of strawberry flavored lube. Okay, so not technically to the bottle, but there's so much of it dripping off of Pete's hand that Patrick knows (has an errant thought) that he's going to have to change the sheets, or else roll around in slippery strawberry all night.
They start slow; just one finger, so slick that beads of lube drip, rolling down Patrick's skin, itchy, uncomfortable, but he still gasps and tenses when Pete pushes in, bites his lip and says, "It's too much." He gets a soft kiss to his stomach and Pete's finger twisting in more, carefully, slow slow slow in response.
"It's okay," Pete says, mumbled into Patrick's stomach. "Just relax."
He can't. He can't possibly relax, because it's weird, so weird, but Pete keeps twisting, pressing up, dropping kisses along the seam of Patrick's thigh and then it's--less weird. And then even less weird, and then, "Oh, God."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Just. Can you-"
Pete does it again, twists and presses and there's something, and it's right there, almost there and then there, yes, just like that. Good, intensely good, and still weird, but really, really good. Patrick closes his eyes; there's tension draining out of his thighs and his shoulders, but it's migrating somewhere around his bellybutton, thick and hot. Pete just keeps doing that thing, slick finger sliding in and up and out and then back in until Patrick whines at the loss of it every time. He tries to arch down into Pete's hand, but Pete is careful, slow, and it's. It's just.
"It's not enough," Patrick complains, gusting the word out on an exhale, trying to twist against Pete's hands. "It's not. Pete, please."
"Shhh," is all he gets, vibrating against his hip, Pete's finger still moving slow, like, agonizingly slow. He doesn't relent until Patrick bucks up hard. He feels Pete's knuckles pressed against him, and there's a burn at the tip of his finger that reminds Patrick oh yeah, ten minutes ago, I remember that, but it disappears fast enough, lost in Pete laughing into his skin. He presses the second finger next to the first, and it's pressure, too much, then in, and it burns, but not as badly as the first. Or maybe it does, but it's different, and he knows if he can just ease up, let Pete twist and stroke he'll-
"Fuck." Yeah, just like that. Every inch is like new ground again, uncomfortable but with this edge of yes yes yes, and this time Pete knows right where to go, twisting his knuckles up and raking them against whatever it is that makes heat spike out, flush through to Patrick's fingertips, his ears. He's impossibly hot, sweat prickling the crease on his neck, and he doesn't realize he's gripping the comforter until his nails press so hard through the fabric that his palms sting.
Pete just keeps on, steady, pressing in and out, in and out, in and up and out and it's slow and careful; he's dark, narrow eyes trained on Patrick's face, he's stubble he hadn't bothered to shave rubbing Patrick's hip raw, he's bitten lips and quick breath, and Patrick wants him so bad it hurts, actually hurts, aches in a place he didn't even know he had.
Patrick whimpers, arches, and says, "Pete," desperate, wanting something he doesn't even really know how to ask for. "Please."
"Soon." Pete kisses him again, another half-nibbling trip across Patrick's stomach. "You're not ready."
"There's no such thing as more ready than this," Patrick manages. It's a struggle, making actual words in actual order, even though telling Pete he's wrong usually comes so easily.
Pete moves, slippery fingers fumbling at a foil packet, at the cap of the lube, pouring too much of it into his hands and slicking it over latex. He climbs up, presses one hand in the mattress next to Patrick's head, and the sharp, alcohol-strawberry wash of smell makes Patrick's head spin.
"This is gonna," Pete says, breathing the words between kisses scattered along Patrick's neck. "Tell me if it hurts too much, and I'll stop."
"If you stop," Patrick grits out, "I'm going to kill you."
He feels Pete's other hand, shaking but careful, and then the press of something bigger, blunter, colder. "I haven't even started."
This is not the time for semantics. Patrick informs Pete of this with another death threat, and Pete's still laughing when he pushes in. No more than an inch, and it's. It's different than fingers. Not bad, just different. Patrick makes an impatient noise, pulses clinging fingertips against Pete's waist, and tries not to come just from the noise Pete makes when he sinks in another inch, two inches.
After that it's kind of a blur of oh god fuck yes and no no wait ow. Pete mouths Patrick's neck through the first, laughs his way apologetically through the second, and at some point, Patrick regains consciousness to realize that every inch of him is overheated. Blood in his veins too hot, his ears burning, hands slick, sweat pooled in his bellybutton, and that at some point he's started begging Pete for something he can't even name.
"Please. Please please please, Pete." Like a chant, or a prayer, spilling from his lips too fast, breathless. Please and Pete until they run together and he can't tell them apart, even in his head.
Patrick comes first. He's vividly sure of that much, because he remembers every callus on Pete's hand raking over him when he comes, and the jerky, erratic slap of Pete's skin against his. When Pete comes, it's loud, with his shoulders shaking, spilling noise into the hollow at the base of Patrick's throat. His hand is still on Patrick's cock; it squeezes, almost too hard, and then Pete melts against him, his arms dribbling down and pooling on the bed. On the sweaty, sticky bed, the unpleasantness of which Patrick has plenty of time to ponder, while Pete's shoulders stop twitching, while his breath levels out.
"We're going to switch to the guest room," Patrick announces. Another bead of lube runs down his ass - unbearably prickly on stretched, sensitive skin - and drips onto the sheet. "Or we have to change the sheets. One of the two."
Pete huffs a breath or two of laughter against Patrick's neck, notching his chin on Patrick's shoulder and rolling his face to the side to smile. It's blinding, smug, content. "I feel so close to you, too, Patrick."
"Yeah, no, like, I want to cuddle until the sun sets, I do." Patrick tangles his fingers up in Pete's hair and presses a kiss to his temple, thumbs Pete's eyebrow back into obedience, and tries to give off snuggly, sentimental vibes, but. "But this sheet is like a fucking Slip 'n Slide and I am covered in lube. And, um, other stuff. So maybe we can go make calf eyes at each other in the guest room, where everything is dry. And if I happen to trip and land on a wet washcloth on the way, then hey, no harm done."
His nerves don't set back in until he's clean and dry, crawling into the mushy guest room bed in pajama pants and a t-shirt. Pete stays naked, wanders to the kitchen and comes back with a glass of water. It's probably stupid to blush now, when they've already--well. Patrick blushes, but there's a lot of convenient Pete chest to hide his face against, so that's something.
"Don't freak out," Pete says, pressing the last of a yawn into his fist. "I mean, if you're freaking out about the satanic kittens on the wallpaper, that's one thing. But don't freak out about the sex, okay?"
Yeah, okay. "Why not?"
Pete wiggles closer; he ignores the standard personal boundaries implied by things like, say, putting on a shirt, and presses so close that Patrick actually has to take a moment to offset their breathing - inhaling when Pete exhales, exhaling when he inhales - because there's not room enough for both of their chests to rise at the same time. He puts cool hands on Patrick's back and presses his face to Patrick's neck, and Patrick knows he's smiling, even if the only things in his line of sight at the moment are evil kittens. "Because there's no good reason to."
Which is laughable, actually, since Patrick has just had gay sex with a guy he essentially met five days ago, and he's not even sure that lube's going to come out in the wash, which is not something he really wants to explain to his mom, thanks. Still, Pete's warmth is reassuring (even if the vaguely strawberry scent still clinging to him makes Patrick's face heat more), and he's got fingers splayed out on his back, stroking, and he's almost to the point where breathing Pete's hair up his nose doesn't even faze him anymore, so maybe. Maybe.
"I'm going to be sore," he says quietly, but he relents and drapes his arm around Pete, letting his knees go soft so Pete can stack one between. "I can kind of already feel it."
"S'okay." Pete's lips buzz against Patrick's skin, mumbling, tickling in a way Patrick is wholly unused to. "I'll kiss it better later."
***
Waking up is unsettling, to say the least. First, there's the distinct and not entirely pleasant feeling that he's been fucked up the ass by a not-so-modestly proportioned object. Which, hey, is what happened. And yeah, it was awesome, but now he just kind of feels like his spine is going to slither out of his body through places that are really not supposed to be this loose. That, and the window is ajar; there's a little bit of a breeze coming through, and it keeps rattling the blinds, sending light flickering onto the wallpaper. The kittens look like they're on the prowl. On the deathly, satanic, human-eating kind of prowl. It's kind of creepy.
"That's kind of creepy."
Pete hums, lilts the end of it up in a question; Patrick jerks his chin toward the wallpaper border.
"Yeah," Pete says, tucking his chin over Patrick's shoulder and nodding. "I know. I've had nightmares all week. Eaten alive by mewling kittens."
"I think we should get up. Before they get us." Plus, dinner. And maybe a quick stop to the bathroom, just to make sure nothing has fallen out. But then, definitely, dinner.
"I think we should stay down," Pete argues. It's a lazy thing, more sincere than it is convincing, and Patrick's too hungry to give in, so no.
"No." He bites down a little on Pete's shoulder. Sweat and skin and sleep and none of it doing anything to make Patrick's stomach stop bopping around, buoyant, fizzing. "M'hungry. Feed me."
Pete's nose finds the curve of Patrick's jaw and nuzzles. It's almost like Pete has some sort of snuggling superpower; one minute he's next to you on the bed, the next his hands are up your shirt like they've been woven right into the fabric, and you can't quite remember a time when your feet weren't tangled with his, and there's the itchy rumple of pajama pants pressed into your knees by the one he's got wedged between.
"We've only got a few days," Pete mumbles around sweet, noisy pecks. "I can't believe you want to waste them eating."
Which is. Well, it's not that Patrick hasn't thought about the fact that his family is coming home. Obviously he has, every time he notices that his dad's coat isn't on the hook, and every time he doesn't have to sit through 60 Minutes, and every time he ends up nibbling on cubes of cheese at six o'clock because Pete can't decide how he'd like to clog his arteries that particular night, it's just that he hasn't really thought about it in terms of things ending. Things, in this case, being whatever he has with Pete.
Patrick says, "Oh," and then kisses Pete so he won't have to say anything else. He manages a good three minutes of introspection (panic) before he decides to let it go (gives in) and loses himself in Pete's sleepy kisses and appraising hands. Beyond losing himself, he loses a good hour, and the next time he looks up with any intent, he's surprised to see that the kittens have gone dark; they lurk in shadows now, and all he can see are their tiny, gleaming white eyes. It's probably a trick of the wallpaper's finish, but whatever. He still wants to get up, get somewhere where there are lights on, where he can look at Pete and find some imperfection that he can tell himself he'll be glad to get rid of.
"Seriously," he starts, but Pete cuts him off with a laugh and a, "Yeah, I know, you're a growing boy. You need food and fresh air, and later we'll water you."
He gets one more kiss as Pete climbs over him to get out of bed, and then he gets to lie there while Pete digs pajama bottoms out of his suitcase and tugs them on, shameless in nudity, in stretching into bizarre contortions, and Patrick is going to need a really strong light, if this plan of his is going to work.
Possibly some kind of high powered spotlight, because not even Pete's shameless food thievery or loud soup-slurping makes Patrick think anything other than, Shit, I'm going to miss this. Him. This.
"You are so going to miss me," Pete says, mouth full of happy and won ton soup. "Admit it."
"Yeah." Patrick makes his voice as dry as he can, wrings it out with all of the twisting that implies, and rolls his eyes at Pete. "What will I do with myself if I have to eat my whole meal without interference?"
"Poison your grandfather, probably. Just to get your parents out of town again."
Patrick spears Pete's one remaining egg roll with his chopstick.
"Hey," Pete protests. "That's totally mine. Bad, bad Patrick." Patrick licks Pete's one remaining egg roll, and Pete raises an eyebrow, smirks. "Seriously, you think that's going to stop me?"
"I can stop you like this," Patrick says, forcing a grin. He sticks his finger in his mouth, sucks hard, and when Pete's eyes start to narrow, go all pupils, he pulls it out and shoves it in Pete's ear.
"Oh God, oh God." Pete's all low-slung jeans and arms curled in when he hits the floor, more of a thump than an oof, feet still curled around the rung of his tipped over chair. "Seriously, you know I hate that."
The egg roll is delicious. Patrick shoves half of it in his mouth and smiles, lips stretching to stay closed around the mess. "I know."
CONTINUED HERE