028. Children
A resounding crash coming from the living room is never a pleasant thing to wake up to. Patrick groaned audibly, fighting to open his eyes and retreat from the mountain of pillows stuffed around his head. He sluggishly grabbed every piece of fabric within reach and tried to shove it away. It really was too early for anything.
He rolled over to the edge of the bed, blindly searching for his glasses on the nightstand. It took him about half a minute to realize that he had patted every inch of it with no luck of finding anything except a used tissue and a small reading light that almost met its end due to his fumbling. With an almighty grunt, he sat up and flung his legs out to the side of the bed as slowly as he could. Maybe he could fall asleep while sitting down, he thought, and he was letting each second pass by slowly enough to allow that.
Sighing, he pushed himself up and walked over to the curtains. Pushing them back, his drapery was a clear reminder why he doesn’t let Andy do his interior decorating. As much as he loves comic books, he’s already proven how much a set of He-Man curtains can dampen the mood.
The sun wasn’t high enough to suggest that it was anywhere near noon and he absently scratched his head in irritation. Suddenly remembering the reason why he woke up, he took a step towards the door when he heard a small ‘crick’ and felt a sharp object poke his right foot. He didn’t need to look down to find out what it was.
“Fucking good morning to me,” his voice gave off a gravelly sound which was uncommon to him. Colds could do that, as he was told very condescendingly by Pete who decided to play Mother Hen and nurse him back to ‘perfect Patrick posey’ last night. Ever since Pete and Ashlee separated due to ‘irreconcilable differences’, a fact which made Patrick sulk for over a week because he was made out to be ‘the other woman’, father and son loved to camp out in Patrick’s house.
He groaned and put his hand to his forehead. Pete was here. In his house. And when there’s a Pete, there absolutely has to be a-
“BRONX MOWGLI SIMPSON-WENTZ!”
He was still stuck standing next to the bedroom doorway; hand on forehead, foot on what was once his glasses. Nowadays, he could accurately predict whenever his blood pressure would spike to record numbers. It all starts when he wakes up and lessens just when he goes to sleep. That is, when it isn’t a day when the amazing father and son duo decide to play ‘closet monster’ and jump out of Patrick’s closet, roaring and succeeding in surprising Patrick into aging ten years in a night
Hurried, light footsteps stamped up the short flight of stairs to his bedroom. Patrick sighed again, wondering why the pair of feet who was responsible for the earlier crash was alone. A tiny, mop-headed boy of two years with jet black hair and soft brown eyes that could fool anyone else into thinking he’s made of pure innocence slid across the corridor, stopping with perfect grace in front of the grumpy man in dire need of coffee.
“Hiya, Mu’mmy Pa’tick!” patented Wentz grin in place, Bronx beamed up innocently, as if Patrick was interrupting his daily conference with the unicorns and faeries of Care Bear land. Bronx was wearing Pete’s ridiculously large pajamas that he got from Clandestine and never wore again due to his tendency to not sleep with anything on. Not that Patrick would know about that other than because Pete talks about it. He wouldn’t know that otherwise, of course.
Patrick released his death grip on his temple. “Bronx,” he sighed, he noticed how much he was sighing lately and hoped it was a sign of a terminal illness and he’d have to go exile himself to a tropical country filled with coconuts and bamboo, “what happened earlier?”
The boy shuffled his feet, eyes cast down to show how he was genuinely sorry for whatever mayhem he did. Patrick braced himself for the worst. He kicked away the remaining parts of his glasses and crouched down to meet Bronx at eye-level.
“Hey, don’t worry,” he whispered gently, resting his hands on the boy’s very tiny shoulders, “I won’t get angry, promise.”
Bronx’ head snapped up then, eyebrow rising to a height hidden by the mess he calls hair.
“Well, okay, I’ll try not to get angry then,” Patrick chuckled, this little kid knew him that much already?
Apparently, this wasn’t enough to convince the boy, a series of small shrugs came as reply.
Patrick had an idea.
“Bronx, remember when I told you that one day I’d let you play with my drum set?” he asked patiently, remembering the only thing in the living room that could make that sort of noise.
The boy visibly cringed at the question, giving Patrick all the answers he needed.
“Oh hell no.”
**
He ran back inside the bedroom, hastily searching for his spare set of glasses inside one of the dresser compartments. He shoved them on as soon as he found it and made to run down the stairs when he caught the crestfallen look of his son ‘in everything but name and egg cell’, as his very subtle father would say.
Holding onto the banister, he motioned with his other hand to call Bronx. His glasses were loose and fit awkwardly on his nose but he couldn’t doubt the look of glee the boy had when he realized all was forgiven.
Bronx ran over to Patrick, thin arms struggling to reach Patrick’s height. The older man chuckled and scooped up the boy who was now shrieking with laughter. “Let’s go see the daily destruction you’ve caused, shall we?”
**
It was a shock, but definitely not the one running through Patrick’s head.
He gingerly put down the wriggling, giggling boy in his arms. An irritating buzzing sound kept playing near his ear, lately realizing that it was Pete’s excuse for a drum roll.
“So, where’s my gasp of surprise, shock, excitement and extreme love and adoration?” Pete had his stupid grin on, the one that tended to mean ‘I did something extremely difficult, you insensitive asshole, so show me some goddamn gratitude!’
Pete stood next to what used to be Patrick’s drum set, arms flailing in an attempt to give a sense of wonder and awe to the now-mystical instrument. Bronx was running around the living room in circles, shouting ‘Ta-dah!’ randomly and with matching cartwheels to accompany it. This proved how much Patrick could make when he sells them to the traveling circus he used to see as a child.
“It’s-um-well, I think-” Patrick struggled to regain his grasp on any human language, he kept swallowing involuntarily, hoping it was another symptom of the aforementioned terminal illness.
“It’s perfect, I know,” said Pete, setting his arms down with a firm clap. He walked over to a still speechless Patrick and clapped a hand over his shoulder.
“Well, it’s really… Bright,” Patrick settled on that description, it was definitely true and it was the only thing he could think of saying in front of a two-year-old and his hypersensitive father.
The drum set still looked the same, Patrick bet he could find a new set of scratches on whichever cymbals crashed earlier but in general, nothing changed much. Nothing changed except for the addition of a horrendously bright image of He-Man and his gang hand painted on every inch of drum skin.
Pete turned to grin at him. “I just remembered how much you must love him ‘cause no one else would ever get three sets of fucking He-Man curtains, ‘Trick,” Pete laughed brightly at him, remembering to lower his voice when he said the forbidden F-word around Bronx.
“I-I’m-Wow, Pete,” said Patrick, not knowing whether to laugh or cry at the state of his precious drum set, “now I’ll never get to convince Bronx that I’m not a frigging girl but thanks, I guess-”
Pete took that as a good sign, leaning in closer to give Patrick a tight hug. “Hey, anything to cheer you up, it’s bad enough that you’re stuck here with the cold and-”
Patrick felt a very warm feeling well up inside him, he choked back whatever it was that wanted to come out of him. He was actually on the verge of crying over his drum set being painted with a horrible stick version of an 80’s cartoon character and it actually wouldn’t be tears from anger! Too much Pete seemed to do that to him.
He hugged back, giving a small sniff, not knowing if it was from the colds or Pete’s silly gesture.
“Hey,” said Patrick, whispering into Pete’s ear. The colds made his voice deeper than usual, more emotional. Pete held back a visible shiver, fighting the strong quiver that wanted to run up and down his spine.
“I think I didn’t get enough sleep, want to help me catch up? Or maybe,” Patrick grinned into Pete’s ear, his heavy breathing due more to his colds than to his arousal but still, “you could help me lose more sleep, hmm?”
Pete turned to place his forehead onto Patrick’s, a stupid grin on his face.
“Sure,” Pete said, his smile couldn’t get any bigger, “then maybe I could catch what you have and we could, like, go into isolation or whatever together.”
Patrick laughed, pushing himself a little away from Pete. His stare was intense, giving Pete everything he wanted to know.
“I’ll see you upstairs, He-Man,” said Patrick, grinning mischievously, turning to walk towards the stairs and to give Bronx a slight pat on the head.
Pete watched him go all the way up before facing his son, who was now standing next to him, tugging at his shirt to catch his attention.
“Wha’d he say, Papa?” asked Bronx, wide eyes filled up with curiosity. “Is’ee mad at me?”
Pete crouched down to put his forehead onto Bronx’, an imitation to his earlier attempt with Patrick.
“Nope, Mommy Patrick’ll never get mad at you, ‘by.” He grinned widely, watching his son do a startlingly good version of it himself.
He stood up and asked Bronx to go to his room and play with his own instruments for a while, stopping for a second on the stairs.
“And, Bronx?”
“Yup, Papa?” answered the boy, literally bouncing with excitement at the prospect of using his own instruments again.
“Don’t tell Mommy Patrick about the hole in his drum, ‘kay? I covered that up real good with some cloth and a huge drawing of Skeletor.”
“Yes, Papa,” and the excited trip-trap of the boy’s feet up the stairs continued.
~fin
Comments and Concrit are great! :D