Bandom fic: Patrick Stump Emergency Procedure (capitals obligatory)
Fic for Sunday!
Title: Patrick Stump Emergency Procedure (capitals obligatory)
Author: Mistress Kat / kat_lair
Fandom: Bandom
Pairing/Category: Patrick/Pete, crack, non!fic, unexpected schmoop (no really, the bastard snuck up on me)
Rating: ugh R for cussing?
Word count: 2,180
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.
Summary: Patrick's emergency mental health intervention starts like this: Walk out on Pete.
Author notes: So hey, the other night pushkin666 said to me: ‘tell me about Patrick and his secret cravings for M&M’s’. And so I did. Unbetaed, frivolous attitude to pov and narrative structure. Whatever, sometimes you just need some uncomplicated feel-good fic. …shit, now I have a craving for M&M’s.
Patrick has a weakness for M&M’s, which he is painfully aware of. So he restricts his intake, allocating the confectionary to 'emergencies only’ category.
Like when he’s super stressed. Or Pete is being a super dick.
Unsurprisingly, the two usually coincide.
***
Patrick's emergency mental health intervention starts like this: Walk out on Pete.
This stage is rare, because to get there, all five previous stages must have been achieved first.
These are:
1. Glare at Pete,
2. Tell him to fuck off/shut up,
3. Argue passionately - but reasonably - about why you are right and Pete is wrong and that's just the way the cookie crumbles you asshole so take your fucking bass and play the song the way I want you to play it! Now look, you've upset Joe again! Oh and fuck you too you fucking tone deaf dickhead!
4. WELL IF YOU STOPPED WALLOWING IN YET ANOTHER DOOMED RELATIONSHIP YOU MIGHT EVEN WRITE SOMETHING WORTH PLAYING! STOP FUCKING TOUCHING MY FUCKING GUITAR AND PUT AWAY YOUR PHONE BEFORE I SHOVE IT SO FAR UP YOUR ASS THE NEXT TIME YOUR MOM CALLS YOU’RE GONNA JIZZ YOUR PANTS. HEY, HEY STOP SHOVING ME, WHAT THE FUCK, GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME OR--
5. Physical violence.
So yeah, once all five phases have been reached and satisfactorily explored at length, Patrick's brain finally engages the Emergency Procedure.
Patrick's Emergency Procedure (capitals obligatory) goes like this:
Walk out.
Walk faster, because as soon as the little fucker gets off the floor he's gonna come after you.
Turn off your cell phone.
Yes, even though it's already ringing.
Don’t answer it.
DON'T ANSWER IT.
Good. It’s off.
Wipe your fucking face before you go in public, your nose is bleeding.
Ignore the little voice that says that Pete was also bleeding. Pete is fine. Pete is an asshole. Ignore him.
Try not to think about what your mother would say.
Try not to think about what your manager will say once he sees you.
Try not to think.
TRY HARDER.
Get into the car.
Check the mirror to see if you're still bleeding.
Don’t dawdle too long because Pete is already running toward the parking lot, looking like the scream queen from a twink slasher film.
Ignore him. You don’t care.
You don’t.
Gun the motor and drive out of there like you're in a 70's cop show.
Think about getting a Torino. You could.
DON'T TURN ON YOUR CELL.
It’s dangerous while you're driving anyway, so there.
Toss it to the backseat to avoid temptation.
Stop glancing at the mirror. Pete had his driver drop him off this morning and therefore doesn't have his own transport. He's not following you.
Yet.
This is good
It is.
Fuck him anyway.
Except not because...
DON'T THINK ABOUT THAT NOW.
Fuck.
Drive a bit faster.
Find a Walmart.
Park illegally. Whatever, you're a fucking rock star you can afford the fine.
Yeah!
... feel guilty for taking up a disabled parking space, double back from the doors and move your car.
Finally get into the store. Keep your head down.
Avoid the security guard who gives you the stink eye because of your less than respectable appearance.
Go straight to the candy aisle.
Find the biggest, most giant-ass Mormon-family-sized pack of M&M’s.
Buy three.
At the till, get yet another 'bag for life' because you don't have your own shopping bags with you and Andy's talk about the evils of plastic bags has totally converted the entire label. There were diagrams. People cried.
Leave the store.
Scan the parking lot carefully. You look like a paranoid schizophrenic or an incompetent spy.
Do not feel disappointed when you don't see Pete anywhere.
Go back to the car.
Get in. Open the first bag of M&M’s.
Shove a fistful into your mouth and chew.
Chocolate and sugar coating are both delicious and soothing.
Drive home.
Remember that there is a high probability that Pete has already made it to yours by now.
Circle the block twice.
Do it once more to make sure that the bastard really isn't there, because why would he be, you are arguing, it's not like you want him to be there and your knuckles still hurt and there's blood on your shirt and it's not all yours.
Today sucks.
Park, grab the M&M’s and your phone and run.
Run, Forrest, run!
You fucking hate that movie. It’s Pete’s favourite.
Get inside, lock the door.
Double lock it.
Fetch a chair from the kitchen and jam it under the handle.
Don’t bother with the lights, the darkness suits your mood, you can be the fucking prince of emo for a change, you're allowed, it says so in your contract.
...no, really, it does.
Right after the waiver of liability for any black eyes that may occur as a result of ‘artistic differences'.
You got yourself a pretty fucking solid contract.
Although you had drawn a line at signing it with your blood like Pete had suggested.
You’re pretty sure he hadn’t been joking though.
You were much less upset about that than you probably should have been.
Gather up the M&M’s, head for the living room. Trip over three times in dark.
Kick off your shoes, find a bigger hoodie, add layers.
IT'S COLD, OKAY, STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!
Stop shouting at the imaginary Pete in your head, it's not healthy and also he is giving you puppy dog eyes, the little fucker.
Eat another fistful of candy.
Turn on the TV.
There’s shit on.
Change the channel.
There’s shit on.
Change the channel.
There’s- oh hey, porn.
Eat candy, watch some porn. Damn that girl is flexible. Is that even physically possible? Why are the guys all so fugly? Those tits can't be real, can they? Why is there a donkey... OH EEWWW FUCK, FUCK, WHERE'S THE REMOTE?
Change the channel.
There’s shit on.
Change the channel.
Infomercials.
Hulk Hogan wants you to buy an ab-master.
No one says no to Hulk Hogan.
Well, at least not more than once.
Turn on your phone.
Wait 20 minutes while the backlog of text messages (34), missed calls (17), and voice messages (5), clears.
Delete them all.
Viciously.
Do not regret that 0.5 seconds after you’ve done so, you pussy.
Order the ab-master. You’re pretty sure the lady at the other end of the line can tell that you’re licking melted chocolate from your fingers and is judging you for it.
Well what the fuck ever, who cares about having a perfect set of abs.
The giant hoodie hides your stomach anyway.
Open the second pack of M&M’s.
Change the channel.
There’s shit on.
Change the channel.
TV evangelist.
Greed, greed is a sin, the evangelist says. His white toupee quivers. On the background his 16-year-old bride is holding a placard with a number to call to donate to the holy cause.
You are a greedy guy.
You already got so much but you still want more. More than you should, more than you know you’re ever going to get.
That's greedy right?
Fuck.
Change the channel.
There’s shit on.
Change the-
That’s the doorbell.
Maybe it's Jehovah’s witnesses. Maybe it's your mom. Maybe it's-
PATRICK, PATRICK LET ME IN RIGHT THIS MINUTE! I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE. YOUR CAR'S PARKED OUTSIDE AND THERE'S A TRAIL OF M&M’S LEADING FROM IT TO THE DOOR.
Yeah, you didn't really think so anyway.
Stare at the TV, hand frozen between the bag of candy and your mouth.
Ignore the feeling of relief that flashes through you.
Ignore Pete.
Ignore Pete.
PATRICK I KNOW WHERE YOU KEEP YOUR SPARE KEY. WHY? BECAUSE YOU KEEP IT IN THE FRONT POCKET OF MY PANTS, THAT'S WHY.
Curse the day you thought it a good idea to give Pete your spare key.
Toss back another handful of M&M’s. Chew loudly in effort to block out the sound of Pete hammering the door.
SO HELP ME GOD, I'M GOING TO USE IT IF YOU DON'T OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT THE FUCK NOW. BUT FIRST I'M GOING TO CALL PEREZ AND GET EVERY PAPARAZZI IN THE STATE TO COME FILM THE SCENE I'M GONNA MAKE RIGHT HERE ON YOUR FRONT STEPS.
Ignore Pete. He’s bluffing.
I’M GOING TO GET SOME BOOZE AND A BIG ASS SIGN THAT SAYS SOMETHING RUDE YET COMPLIMENTARY. I DON’T KNOW WHAT YET BUT I THINK IT WILL BE ABOUT THE SIZE OF YOUR DICK AND HOW I WILL JUST HAVE TO WORK UP TO IT BUT THAT I’M TOTALLY WILLING TO TRY AGAIN.
Ignore Pete.
Stop fucking blushing at the mental images, the fucker is doing it on purpose.
IT WILL BE HUGE, PATRICK! *titter* HUGE! GEDDIT?
Facepalm.
There is now chocolate on your forehead.
THE STORY WILL BE ALL OVER THE INTERNET IN THREE POINT FIVE SECONDS. IT’LL BE BIGGER THAN TITANIC.
Ignore Pete.
Ignore Pete.
Ignore-
Is that fucking Celine Dion?
NEAR, FAR, WHEREVER YOU ARE, I BELIEVE THAT THE HEART DOES GO ON!!
Jesus Christ.
Storm off the couch and stalk to the front door, trip over things twice before flicking the hall light on.
ONCE MORE, YOU OPEN THE DOOR - go on Patrick, open the door - AND YOU’RE HERE IN MY HEART AND MY HEART WILL GO ON AND OOOOO-
FUCK OFF PETE I'M NOT IN THE MOOD!
...
Silence.
Silence is good, it’s what you wanted. You and silence are totally zen.
Zen, you said. Better believe it.
Press your ear against the door to better hear the silence.
It’s pretty oppressive.
Fuck.
Pete?
...
Pete, you still there?
...
You know it’s a trick, but you can’t help yourself, you never can.
You open the door.
As expected, a dusty designer sneaker is wedged in the crack as soon as it appears, pushing it steadily wider.
You’re not relieved that Pete is still there.
Much.
Besides, you’re busy trying to remain standing while holding a lapful of Pete Wentz.
He’s clingy.
And wriggly.
You kind of don’t mind.
You push Pete against the door, shutting the outside world away. After all, you can’t be sure if Pete already called the paps.
Patrickpatrickpatrickpatrickpatrick, he’s saying. You left.
He smells like sweat and boy and music.
You are such a sap.
Pete is trying to wrap his legs around your waist and push his hands under your five million layers of clothing (all which you now regret putting on) and his face is pressed tight against the side of your neck.
Patrickpatrickpatrick you should never leave me, you mustn’t, please don’t, please.
You knew it already, but Pete is an idiot.
You are an idiot, you tell him. It comes out a bit mumbled because Pete is pulling your hoodie over your head. Your hat goes flying.
Somehow, it doesn’t seem so important.
I know, I’m sorry, Pete says. He’s nodding frantically. There’s a bruise forming high on his left cheekbone and you are compelled to brush your thumb over it.
Pete’s eyes go wide and he makes a small noise at the back of his throat. It sounds like only half pain.
I wasn’t *leaving* leaving, you moron, you say, still stroking his face - checking for injuries, obviously. I just needed some time to cool off, to-
You lose your train of thought right about there because Pete pulls two of your fingers into his mouth and sucks.
Your vision goes kind of gray around the edges. You have to lock your knees to stop from falling over. This may be the best moment of your entire life.
Cshhhocholaff.
Nrgh?
You taste like chocolate, Pete says. And then he leans over and runs his tongue over your busted bottom lip. Chocolate and blood.
You freeze; brain not moving, body not moving. The only thing that seems to be moving is your heart, which is beating a complicated drum solo in your chest until you’re sure it’s going to be bursting right out of it.
Patrick? Pete looks terrified. He looks like he’s about to pull away.
That... is not even an option.
So you do the only thing there is left to do at this point. The thing you’ve wanted to do since the first time he gave you a notebook full of poetry and his heart on a platter, and every single day after that.
You kiss him.
And when you are both gasping and dizzy and have to come up for air and he says Patrickpatrickpatrick, not like your name is a prayer but like it’s the answer to one, you kiss him again and again and again until he forgets to speak, until you forget your name because he’s not saying it.
You push him toward the bedroom and he pulls you toward the bedroom and somewhere along there you’re both laughing, breathless and wild. You never stop kissing and you realise that you were wrong earlier; this here, this moment to come, will be the best ever.
And if you have anything to say about it, it will only be the first of many.
Title: Patrick Stump Emergency Procedure (capitals obligatory)
Author: Mistress Kat / kat_lair
Fandom: Bandom
Pairing/Category: Patrick/Pete, crack, non!fic, unexpected schmoop (no really, the bastard snuck up on me)
Rating: ugh R for cussing?
Word count: 2,180
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.
Summary: Patrick's emergency mental health intervention starts like this: Walk out on Pete.
Author notes: So hey, the other night pushkin666 said to me: ‘tell me about Patrick and his secret cravings for M&M’s’. And so I did. Unbetaed, frivolous attitude to pov and narrative structure. Whatever, sometimes you just need some uncomplicated feel-good fic. …shit, now I have a craving for M&M’s.
Patrick has a weakness for M&M’s, which he is painfully aware of. So he restricts his intake, allocating the confectionary to 'emergencies only’ category.
Like when he’s super stressed. Or Pete is being a super dick.
Unsurprisingly, the two usually coincide.
***
Patrick's emergency mental health intervention starts like this: Walk out on Pete.
This stage is rare, because to get there, all five previous stages must have been achieved first.
These are:
1. Glare at Pete,
2. Tell him to fuck off/shut up,
3. Argue passionately - but reasonably - about why you are right and Pete is wrong and that's just the way the cookie crumbles you asshole so take your fucking bass and play the song the way I want you to play it! Now look, you've upset Joe again! Oh and fuck you too you fucking tone deaf dickhead!
4. WELL IF YOU STOPPED WALLOWING IN YET ANOTHER DOOMED RELATIONSHIP YOU MIGHT EVEN WRITE SOMETHING WORTH PLAYING! STOP FUCKING TOUCHING MY FUCKING GUITAR AND PUT AWAY YOUR PHONE BEFORE I SHOVE IT SO FAR UP YOUR ASS THE NEXT TIME YOUR MOM CALLS YOU’RE GONNA JIZZ YOUR PANTS. HEY, HEY STOP SHOVING ME, WHAT THE FUCK, GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME OR--
5. Physical violence.
So yeah, once all five phases have been reached and satisfactorily explored at length, Patrick's brain finally engages the Emergency Procedure.
Patrick's Emergency Procedure (capitals obligatory) goes like this:
Walk out.
Walk faster, because as soon as the little fucker gets off the floor he's gonna come after you.
Turn off your cell phone.
Yes, even though it's already ringing.
Don’t answer it.
DON'T ANSWER IT.
Good. It’s off.
Wipe your fucking face before you go in public, your nose is bleeding.
Ignore the little voice that says that Pete was also bleeding. Pete is fine. Pete is an asshole. Ignore him.
Try not to think about what your mother would say.
Try not to think about what your manager will say once he sees you.
Try not to think.
TRY HARDER.
Get into the car.
Check the mirror to see if you're still bleeding.
Don’t dawdle too long because Pete is already running toward the parking lot, looking like the scream queen from a twink slasher film.
Ignore him. You don’t care.
You don’t.
Gun the motor and drive out of there like you're in a 70's cop show.
Think about getting a Torino. You could.
DON'T TURN ON YOUR CELL.
It’s dangerous while you're driving anyway, so there.
Toss it to the backseat to avoid temptation.
Stop glancing at the mirror. Pete had his driver drop him off this morning and therefore doesn't have his own transport. He's not following you.
Yet.
This is good
It is.
Fuck him anyway.
Except not because...
DON'T THINK ABOUT THAT NOW.
Fuck.
Drive a bit faster.
Find a Walmart.
Park illegally. Whatever, you're a fucking rock star you can afford the fine.
Yeah!
... feel guilty for taking up a disabled parking space, double back from the doors and move your car.
Finally get into the store. Keep your head down.
Avoid the security guard who gives you the stink eye because of your less than respectable appearance.
Go straight to the candy aisle.
Find the biggest, most giant-ass Mormon-family-sized pack of M&M’s.
Buy three.
At the till, get yet another 'bag for life' because you don't have your own shopping bags with you and Andy's talk about the evils of plastic bags has totally converted the entire label. There were diagrams. People cried.
Leave the store.
Scan the parking lot carefully. You look like a paranoid schizophrenic or an incompetent spy.
Do not feel disappointed when you don't see Pete anywhere.
Go back to the car.
Get in. Open the first bag of M&M’s.
Shove a fistful into your mouth and chew.
Chocolate and sugar coating are both delicious and soothing.
Drive home.
Remember that there is a high probability that Pete has already made it to yours by now.
Circle the block twice.
Do it once more to make sure that the bastard really isn't there, because why would he be, you are arguing, it's not like you want him to be there and your knuckles still hurt and there's blood on your shirt and it's not all yours.
Today sucks.
Park, grab the M&M’s and your phone and run.
Run, Forrest, run!
You fucking hate that movie. It’s Pete’s favourite.
Get inside, lock the door.
Double lock it.
Fetch a chair from the kitchen and jam it under the handle.
Don’t bother with the lights, the darkness suits your mood, you can be the fucking prince of emo for a change, you're allowed, it says so in your contract.
...no, really, it does.
Right after the waiver of liability for any black eyes that may occur as a result of ‘artistic differences'.
You got yourself a pretty fucking solid contract.
Although you had drawn a line at signing it with your blood like Pete had suggested.
You’re pretty sure he hadn’t been joking though.
You were much less upset about that than you probably should have been.
Gather up the M&M’s, head for the living room. Trip over three times in dark.
Kick off your shoes, find a bigger hoodie, add layers.
IT'S COLD, OKAY, STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!
Stop shouting at the imaginary Pete in your head, it's not healthy and also he is giving you puppy dog eyes, the little fucker.
Eat another fistful of candy.
Turn on the TV.
There’s shit on.
Change the channel.
There’s shit on.
Change the channel.
There’s- oh hey, porn.
Eat candy, watch some porn. Damn that girl is flexible. Is that even physically possible? Why are the guys all so fugly? Those tits can't be real, can they? Why is there a donkey... OH EEWWW FUCK, FUCK, WHERE'S THE REMOTE?
Change the channel.
There’s shit on.
Change the channel.
Infomercials.
Hulk Hogan wants you to buy an ab-master.
No one says no to Hulk Hogan.
Well, at least not more than once.
Turn on your phone.
Wait 20 minutes while the backlog of text messages (34), missed calls (17), and voice messages (5), clears.
Delete them all.
Viciously.
Do not regret that 0.5 seconds after you’ve done so, you pussy.
Order the ab-master. You’re pretty sure the lady at the other end of the line can tell that you’re licking melted chocolate from your fingers and is judging you for it.
Well what the fuck ever, who cares about having a perfect set of abs.
The giant hoodie hides your stomach anyway.
Open the second pack of M&M’s.
Change the channel.
There’s shit on.
Change the channel.
TV evangelist.
Greed, greed is a sin, the evangelist says. His white toupee quivers. On the background his 16-year-old bride is holding a placard with a number to call to donate to the holy cause.
You are a greedy guy.
You already got so much but you still want more. More than you should, more than you know you’re ever going to get.
That's greedy right?
Fuck.
Change the channel.
There’s shit on.
Change the-
That’s the doorbell.
Maybe it's Jehovah’s witnesses. Maybe it's your mom. Maybe it's-
PATRICK, PATRICK LET ME IN RIGHT THIS MINUTE! I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE. YOUR CAR'S PARKED OUTSIDE AND THERE'S A TRAIL OF M&M’S LEADING FROM IT TO THE DOOR.
Yeah, you didn't really think so anyway.
Stare at the TV, hand frozen between the bag of candy and your mouth.
Ignore the feeling of relief that flashes through you.
Ignore Pete.
Ignore Pete.
PATRICK I KNOW WHERE YOU KEEP YOUR SPARE KEY. WHY? BECAUSE YOU KEEP IT IN THE FRONT POCKET OF MY PANTS, THAT'S WHY.
Curse the day you thought it a good idea to give Pete your spare key.
Toss back another handful of M&M’s. Chew loudly in effort to block out the sound of Pete hammering the door.
SO HELP ME GOD, I'M GOING TO USE IT IF YOU DON'T OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT THE FUCK NOW. BUT FIRST I'M GOING TO CALL PEREZ AND GET EVERY PAPARAZZI IN THE STATE TO COME FILM THE SCENE I'M GONNA MAKE RIGHT HERE ON YOUR FRONT STEPS.
Ignore Pete. He’s bluffing.
I’M GOING TO GET SOME BOOZE AND A BIG ASS SIGN THAT SAYS SOMETHING RUDE YET COMPLIMENTARY. I DON’T KNOW WHAT YET BUT I THINK IT WILL BE ABOUT THE SIZE OF YOUR DICK AND HOW I WILL JUST HAVE TO WORK UP TO IT BUT THAT I’M TOTALLY WILLING TO TRY AGAIN.
Ignore Pete.
Stop fucking blushing at the mental images, the fucker is doing it on purpose.
IT WILL BE HUGE, PATRICK! *titter* HUGE! GEDDIT?
Facepalm.
There is now chocolate on your forehead.
THE STORY WILL BE ALL OVER THE INTERNET IN THREE POINT FIVE SECONDS. IT’LL BE BIGGER THAN TITANIC.
Ignore Pete.
Ignore Pete.
Ignore-
Is that fucking Celine Dion?
NEAR, FAR, WHEREVER YOU ARE, I BELIEVE THAT THE HEART DOES GO ON!!
Jesus Christ.
Storm off the couch and stalk to the front door, trip over things twice before flicking the hall light on.
ONCE MORE, YOU OPEN THE DOOR - go on Patrick, open the door - AND YOU’RE HERE IN MY HEART AND MY HEART WILL GO ON AND OOOOO-
FUCK OFF PETE I'M NOT IN THE MOOD!
...
Silence.
Silence is good, it’s what you wanted. You and silence are totally zen.
Zen, you said. Better believe it.
Press your ear against the door to better hear the silence.
It’s pretty oppressive.
Fuck.
Pete?
...
Pete, you still there?
...
You know it’s a trick, but you can’t help yourself, you never can.
You open the door.
As expected, a dusty designer sneaker is wedged in the crack as soon as it appears, pushing it steadily wider.
You’re not relieved that Pete is still there.
Much.
Besides, you’re busy trying to remain standing while holding a lapful of Pete Wentz.
He’s clingy.
And wriggly.
You kind of don’t mind.
You push Pete against the door, shutting the outside world away. After all, you can’t be sure if Pete already called the paps.
Patrickpatrickpatrickpatrickpatrick, he’s saying. You left.
He smells like sweat and boy and music.
You are such a sap.
Pete is trying to wrap his legs around your waist and push his hands under your five million layers of clothing (all which you now regret putting on) and his face is pressed tight against the side of your neck.
Patrickpatrickpatrick you should never leave me, you mustn’t, please don’t, please.
You knew it already, but Pete is an idiot.
You are an idiot, you tell him. It comes out a bit mumbled because Pete is pulling your hoodie over your head. Your hat goes flying.
Somehow, it doesn’t seem so important.
I know, I’m sorry, Pete says. He’s nodding frantically. There’s a bruise forming high on his left cheekbone and you are compelled to brush your thumb over it.
Pete’s eyes go wide and he makes a small noise at the back of his throat. It sounds like only half pain.
I wasn’t *leaving* leaving, you moron, you say, still stroking his face - checking for injuries, obviously. I just needed some time to cool off, to-
You lose your train of thought right about there because Pete pulls two of your fingers into his mouth and sucks.
Your vision goes kind of gray around the edges. You have to lock your knees to stop from falling over. This may be the best moment of your entire life.
Cshhhocholaff.
Nrgh?
You taste like chocolate, Pete says. And then he leans over and runs his tongue over your busted bottom lip. Chocolate and blood.
You freeze; brain not moving, body not moving. The only thing that seems to be moving is your heart, which is beating a complicated drum solo in your chest until you’re sure it’s going to be bursting right out of it.
Patrick? Pete looks terrified. He looks like he’s about to pull away.
That... is not even an option.
So you do the only thing there is left to do at this point. The thing you’ve wanted to do since the first time he gave you a notebook full of poetry and his heart on a platter, and every single day after that.
You kiss him.
And when you are both gasping and dizzy and have to come up for air and he says Patrickpatrickpatrick, not like your name is a prayer but like it’s the answer to one, you kiss him again and again and again until he forgets to speak, until you forget your name because he’s not saying it.
You push him toward the bedroom and he pulls you toward the bedroom and somewhere along there you’re both laughing, breathless and wild. You never stop kissing and you realise that you were wrong earlier; this here, this moment to come, will be the best ever.
And if you have anything to say about it, it will only be the first of many.