Bandfic: Snow Day (Pete/Patrick)
Title: Snow Day
Author: tigs
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't know or own.
Warnings: Snowball fights.
Summary: Patrick wakes up to the sound of… well, *something* hitting his window, a *crunch-sploosh* sort of a sound. ~1400 words.
Author's Notes: A quick little ficlet, because I was in a domestic fluff-ish mood. Unbeta'd.
Patrick wakes up to the sound of… well, *something* hitting his window, a *crunch-sploosh* sort of a sound. He eyes the clock on his nightstand-10:07 in the morning, on a day that's part of what's amounting to his Christmas vacation, as much as he ever gets a vacation anyway-and then flips his head over just in time to see a blob of white getting up close and personal with the pane of his window before sliding away, out of sight.
He closes his eyes for a moment, thinking happy 'go away now!' thoughts at Pete (because no one else that he can think of would be outside his house, throwing snowballs at his window), but his hope that Pete will either give up and leave or come inside already is derailed when snowball number three crunches against glass.
He sighs, grumbles, then kicks his (nice, warm, *flannel*) covers down to the foot of his bed.
Then he stomps over to the window and glares.
Pete's in the process of crafting snowball number four-molding it between black glove-covered hands-but as soon as he sees Patrick, he grins widely and waves. Hemmy, Patrick sees, is running around at Pete's feet, attempting to bound through the snow. As Patrick watches, though, he face-plants in a small drift.
"Too. Early," Patrick says, trying to enunciate so that Pete will be able to read his lips across, you know, the distance between the second floor of Patrick's house and the front lawn, but Pete just changes his wave to a 'come here!' sort of motion. Any minute now, if Patrick knows Pete, he'll start shouting-Patrick's name in a sing-song sort of voice, endless repeats on a theme of "'Trick, dude, come here, Patrick, come on!"-even though it's *ten a.m.*, on a *vacation day* and Pete knows Patrick was up until at least two the night before, because that was when Patrick finally left Pete's house.
Patrick sighs, shakes his head, but turns away from the window to find a sweatshirt, jeans. He pulls on a pair of sneakers, then heads downstairs. His house is warm, he knows this, but it doesn't lessen the shock any when he opens his front door so that he can yell, "Pete! What the hell? Do you know what time it is?"
"Way past time for you to be up," Pete shouts back, because of course he's still standing in the middle of Patrick's front yard, and if they keep this up, pretty soon the neighbors will be coming out to see what the commotion is, and okay, so maybe 10 a.m. is only considered early in Patrick-land, but *still*.
"Hemmy wanted to play in the snow," Pete continues, his voice still loud enough to carry across the distance.
"And you decided to do this at my house, why?"
Now Pete starts walking towards him, shoes crunching through the three inches of snow that are covering Patrick's lawn.
"We missed you," Pete says when he's closer, his smile going almost soft, and for a second, Patrick feels his (totally deserved) annoyance falter. Which is a mistake, actually, because Pete is really fucking awesome at spotting any weakness. That is why Patrick barely has enough time to duck out of the way of the fourth snowball. Actually, he doesn't have enough time, because while he manages to avoid a direct hit to the face, the snowball still splats against his shoulder, icy wetness immediately seeping through the cloth of his sweatshirt.
Patrick narrows his eyes and watches as Pete starts giggling, backing up as quickly as he can, Hemmy bouncing around at his feet, barking.
Patrick knows that he should probably press his advantage now, while he has Pete on the run, but on the other hand, *cold* and *wet* and if he's going to be outside for any amount of time longer than, oh, 2.5 seconds (which Patrick passed about two minutes ago) he'll need his jacket. So, he goes to grab it off of the chair in his living room, pulls it on, gets his gloves out of his pockets, buries his hands in them, and then goes back outside, leaving his door unlocked.
By this time, Pete has made a strategic retreat, and is hunkered down behind a small bush on the far side of Patrick's lawn. Granted, it's maybe a foot and a half, square, but Pete is crouched behind it, frantically molding snowballs. Already he has a small pile of them; Patrick can see them.
Of course, as soon as he steps outside, Patrick has to duck out of the way of a flying snowball, because Pete never gives up an advantage when he has it, so Patrick dives behind the rosebush at the end of his driveway. It's pretty much a bunch of sticks now, but it's still poky, and also big enough for Patrick to actually, you know, *fit* behind it.
He starts making his own snowballs, feeling the snow crunch between his fingers. One, two, five, small enough that he can hold several in his hand. Then, because Pete doesn't seem to have any intention of moving, Patrick begins creeping behind the shrubbery landscaped up by the outside wall of his living room. He has to dodge a snowball when he hits the area the gardener planted the violets, and then there's that wide open space from where the native grasses were, but there's also a much larger bush, a boxwood, and Patrick really does fit behind that. Also, there's the added bonus of it being only about ten feet away from where Pete's hiding.
Patrick can hear Pete's giggles from where he's crouched, and they only get more shrill every time Patrick launches a snowball at him. In all honesty, Patrick's aim isn't very good; a few fly right on by, one hits Pete's bush, but one also hits Pete right on the chin. That prompts an outraged yelp, and Pete saying, "Oh, dude, fuck you! It's so on now!"
"You started it!" Patrick calls.
"Yeah, and I'm going to finish it, too!" Pete answers, and that's when Patrick notices that at some point, Pete took to stuffing snowballs in the front pockets of his jacket, that they're bulging with them. Patrick really only has a moment to prepare before Pete is launching himself across the span of empty space between them, yelling and tossing snowballs at Patrick's bush, and the only problem about being behind a big bush is, Patrick realizes, that the layer of snow behind it is only about half of what's covering the rest of the yard. He's got enough for maybe four snowballs, which he makes-and launches as soon as Pete turns the corner around Patrick's bush-but he decides that maybe running is the better part of valor, so he dives for the stretch of open lawn a few feet away. He lands wrist deep in snow, and then starts crawling forward, tossing loosely packed handfuls of snow over his shoulder as Pete follows him.
He's not surprised when Pete tackles him all the way to the ground a moment later.
"Ha!" Pete says. "I win!"
"Yeah, yeah," Patrick says. "Whatever."
He tries to sit up, to bat Pete's hands away, but as soon as he manages to turn over, Pete wraps his arms around Patrick, as tightly as he can through however many layers they're wearing, and the next thing Patrick knows, Pete's got his (cold!) nose pressed to the skin of Patrick's neck.
"Hi," Pete mumbles, and Patrick says, "Hi."
He wants to be annoyed still, because it's early, and he's sitting in snow, which is seeping through his jeans at an alarming rate, and is also, by definition, *freezing*, but the air is still in a way that Patrick rarely has time to sit back and appreciate, and Pete is not only warm, but also has flakes of snow caught in his hair and eyelashes, and his cheeks are red, his eyes bright, and Patrick, well.
*He's* the one to dart forward, to press a kiss to Pete's lips, cool and sticky with chapstick.
Pete grins at that, but just as Patrick's thinking he's maybe okay to sit here for a little while longer, watching Hemmy skid through the snow, Pete unwraps himself from Patrick and stands up, extending a hand for Patrick to take.
"So, you got any hot chocolate?" Pete asks. "I think it's a hot chocolate sort of morning."
"Yeah," Patrick says, as he takes Pete's hand, pulls himself up. "I should. It is."
Then, together, they walk to the house.
Patrick doesn't let go of Pete's hand.
Author: tigs
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't know or own.
Warnings: Snowball fights.
Summary: Patrick wakes up to the sound of… well, *something* hitting his window, a *crunch-sploosh* sort of a sound. ~1400 words.
Author's Notes: A quick little ficlet, because I was in a domestic fluff-ish mood. Unbeta'd.
Patrick wakes up to the sound of… well, *something* hitting his window, a *crunch-sploosh* sort of a sound. He eyes the clock on his nightstand-10:07 in the morning, on a day that's part of what's amounting to his Christmas vacation, as much as he ever gets a vacation anyway-and then flips his head over just in time to see a blob of white getting up close and personal with the pane of his window before sliding away, out of sight.
He closes his eyes for a moment, thinking happy 'go away now!' thoughts at Pete (because no one else that he can think of would be outside his house, throwing snowballs at his window), but his hope that Pete will either give up and leave or come inside already is derailed when snowball number three crunches against glass.
He sighs, grumbles, then kicks his (nice, warm, *flannel*) covers down to the foot of his bed.
Then he stomps over to the window and glares.
Pete's in the process of crafting snowball number four-molding it between black glove-covered hands-but as soon as he sees Patrick, he grins widely and waves. Hemmy, Patrick sees, is running around at Pete's feet, attempting to bound through the snow. As Patrick watches, though, he face-plants in a small drift.
"Too. Early," Patrick says, trying to enunciate so that Pete will be able to read his lips across, you know, the distance between the second floor of Patrick's house and the front lawn, but Pete just changes his wave to a 'come here!' sort of motion. Any minute now, if Patrick knows Pete, he'll start shouting-Patrick's name in a sing-song sort of voice, endless repeats on a theme of "'Trick, dude, come here, Patrick, come on!"-even though it's *ten a.m.*, on a *vacation day* and Pete knows Patrick was up until at least two the night before, because that was when Patrick finally left Pete's house.
Patrick sighs, shakes his head, but turns away from the window to find a sweatshirt, jeans. He pulls on a pair of sneakers, then heads downstairs. His house is warm, he knows this, but it doesn't lessen the shock any when he opens his front door so that he can yell, "Pete! What the hell? Do you know what time it is?"
"Way past time for you to be up," Pete shouts back, because of course he's still standing in the middle of Patrick's front yard, and if they keep this up, pretty soon the neighbors will be coming out to see what the commotion is, and okay, so maybe 10 a.m. is only considered early in Patrick-land, but *still*.
"Hemmy wanted to play in the snow," Pete continues, his voice still loud enough to carry across the distance.
"And you decided to do this at my house, why?"
Now Pete starts walking towards him, shoes crunching through the three inches of snow that are covering Patrick's lawn.
"We missed you," Pete says when he's closer, his smile going almost soft, and for a second, Patrick feels his (totally deserved) annoyance falter. Which is a mistake, actually, because Pete is really fucking awesome at spotting any weakness. That is why Patrick barely has enough time to duck out of the way of the fourth snowball. Actually, he doesn't have enough time, because while he manages to avoid a direct hit to the face, the snowball still splats against his shoulder, icy wetness immediately seeping through the cloth of his sweatshirt.
Patrick narrows his eyes and watches as Pete starts giggling, backing up as quickly as he can, Hemmy bouncing around at his feet, barking.
Patrick knows that he should probably press his advantage now, while he has Pete on the run, but on the other hand, *cold* and *wet* and if he's going to be outside for any amount of time longer than, oh, 2.5 seconds (which Patrick passed about two minutes ago) he'll need his jacket. So, he goes to grab it off of the chair in his living room, pulls it on, gets his gloves out of his pockets, buries his hands in them, and then goes back outside, leaving his door unlocked.
By this time, Pete has made a strategic retreat, and is hunkered down behind a small bush on the far side of Patrick's lawn. Granted, it's maybe a foot and a half, square, but Pete is crouched behind it, frantically molding snowballs. Already he has a small pile of them; Patrick can see them.
Of course, as soon as he steps outside, Patrick has to duck out of the way of a flying snowball, because Pete never gives up an advantage when he has it, so Patrick dives behind the rosebush at the end of his driveway. It's pretty much a bunch of sticks now, but it's still poky, and also big enough for Patrick to actually, you know, *fit* behind it.
He starts making his own snowballs, feeling the snow crunch between his fingers. One, two, five, small enough that he can hold several in his hand. Then, because Pete doesn't seem to have any intention of moving, Patrick begins creeping behind the shrubbery landscaped up by the outside wall of his living room. He has to dodge a snowball when he hits the area the gardener planted the violets, and then there's that wide open space from where the native grasses were, but there's also a much larger bush, a boxwood, and Patrick really does fit behind that. Also, there's the added bonus of it being only about ten feet away from where Pete's hiding.
Patrick can hear Pete's giggles from where he's crouched, and they only get more shrill every time Patrick launches a snowball at him. In all honesty, Patrick's aim isn't very good; a few fly right on by, one hits Pete's bush, but one also hits Pete right on the chin. That prompts an outraged yelp, and Pete saying, "Oh, dude, fuck you! It's so on now!"
"You started it!" Patrick calls.
"Yeah, and I'm going to finish it, too!" Pete answers, and that's when Patrick notices that at some point, Pete took to stuffing snowballs in the front pockets of his jacket, that they're bulging with them. Patrick really only has a moment to prepare before Pete is launching himself across the span of empty space between them, yelling and tossing snowballs at Patrick's bush, and the only problem about being behind a big bush is, Patrick realizes, that the layer of snow behind it is only about half of what's covering the rest of the yard. He's got enough for maybe four snowballs, which he makes-and launches as soon as Pete turns the corner around Patrick's bush-but he decides that maybe running is the better part of valor, so he dives for the stretch of open lawn a few feet away. He lands wrist deep in snow, and then starts crawling forward, tossing loosely packed handfuls of snow over his shoulder as Pete follows him.
He's not surprised when Pete tackles him all the way to the ground a moment later.
"Ha!" Pete says. "I win!"
"Yeah, yeah," Patrick says. "Whatever."
He tries to sit up, to bat Pete's hands away, but as soon as he manages to turn over, Pete wraps his arms around Patrick, as tightly as he can through however many layers they're wearing, and the next thing Patrick knows, Pete's got his (cold!) nose pressed to the skin of Patrick's neck.
"Hi," Pete mumbles, and Patrick says, "Hi."
He wants to be annoyed still, because it's early, and he's sitting in snow, which is seeping through his jeans at an alarming rate, and is also, by definition, *freezing*, but the air is still in a way that Patrick rarely has time to sit back and appreciate, and Pete is not only warm, but also has flakes of snow caught in his hair and eyelashes, and his cheeks are red, his eyes bright, and Patrick, well.
*He's* the one to dart forward, to press a kiss to Pete's lips, cool and sticky with chapstick.
Pete grins at that, but just as Patrick's thinking he's maybe okay to sit here for a little while longer, watching Hemmy skid through the snow, Pete unwraps himself from Patrick and stands up, extending a hand for Patrick to take.
"So, you got any hot chocolate?" Pete asks. "I think it's a hot chocolate sort of morning."
"Yeah," Patrick says, as he takes Pete's hand, pulls himself up. "I should. It is."
Then, together, they walk to the house.
Patrick doesn't let go of Pete's hand.