Nightingale (And Not the Lark) - Chapter Two

[redorchids]

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CHAPTER TWO - PATIENCE

NOVEMBER 2

Patrick’s favourite place in the cathedral is the empty confessional. He knows this is weird, so when people ask, he usually tells them something different. Patrick doesn’t really know what it is that makes the small, dark space so appealing. He doesn’t really enjoy confession, and he rarely has anything to say. The little things just don’t seem important enough to take up, and Patrick prefers to deal with the bigger things on his own. But there’s something about the room itself that just clicks with him. It’s good for thinking and humming little made-up melodies under his breath and just existing in space for awhile.

So when choir practice is over, Patrick stays behind, and once everybody has left, he packs up his stuff and slips through the wooden door, sitting down on the bench.

“Hi,” Pete says, and Patrick practically jumps out of his skin. “Um-so do you come here often?”

“Jesus, Pete!” Patrick hisses. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I like it here,” Pete says simply. “It’s nice. Quiet, you know? You can hear yourself think in here. And somehow, it’s not so dark when you have darkness all around you.”

Patrick mumbles something affirmative and takes a couple of deep breaths to slow his racing pulse. It doesn’t work all that well. The shock wears off, but there are other reactions coming up behind it: confusion, anticipation and something that kind of grinds and pulses a little, to name a few. It’s Pete. Him and Pete. Alone and pretty darn well hidden. It’s possible that Patrick has seen a few too many movies where similar situations happen to be entirely calm.

“So, Patrick Vaughn Stump,” Pete says quietly. “What other powers have you got?”

He's playing with something; Patrick can see Pete's hands move through the dark netting that separates them.

“What do you mean?”

“You sing like there’s true beauty in the world, like there’s this big fucking light everywhere that will make everything okay in the end,” Pete says, and Patrick realises that the thing in his hands is actually a rosary. “And I see a lot of shit, okay? Every day, I go to work and see murder and assault and rape, but when I hear you, it’s like all of that just fades away.”

Patrick’s received a lot of praise for his voice over the years, and he knows he sings well, but no one’s ever put it quite like that. It doesn’t feel like a compliment, really; it’s a little too sharp, like the words burn his skin slightly when they make contact.

“I’m not that good.”

Pete’s face splits into a smile, eyes still fixed on the string of wooden beads in his hands. “Figures…”

“Seriously, dude, what?” The words come out too loud. Patrick can feel the confusion inside him spill over the edge.

“I used to be big on all this shit,” Pete replies. “And then I got over it. But I never really got over this, you know? Being filled with light. Like you’re just… loved, I guess. And everything seems so easy. Like there are no other roads to walk out there.”

Patrick nods. They’ve both shifted a little closer to the wall.

“And then?”

“And then the light goes away and you’re in the middle of a maze. And there are a million roads to choose from. And no fucking signs.”

“Pete…”

“Are you a map, Patrick?” Pete muses, almost to himself. “Or just another will-o'-the-wisp?”

Patrick bites his lip, because everything that floats up his throat sounds just kind of stupid in reply to that. He remembers the feel of Pete’s mouth-hasn’t really been able to stop remembering since it happened. He watches the side of Pete's face through the grille, how his lips move continuously while Pete’s fingers go through the length of beads. Patrick wonders what he’s praying for, if that’s even what he’s doing. Maybe Pete’s going through his weekly shopping list, who knows?

“What kind of things do you wish for?” Patrick asks, flashing back to Pete’s mouth forming similar words as he pulled back and left the car instead of going for more kisses.

“Same as you,” Pete replies, and there’s a brief moment where their eyes meet and Pete gives him another little smile. “Bye, Patrick.”

Pete slides the divider completely shut, leaving Patrick in quiet darkness. Patrick closes his eyes and leans back against the wood. Pete’s words stay with him, replaying in his head. It’s a strange feeling, but it’s good too. New. And a little bit addictive.

***

DAY 7 - 8:50 PM

“Please state your name for the record,” Pete says, looking pointedly at the young man in front of him.

“Alexander Suarez.”

“Thank you. So, Mr Suarez, I'm assuming that you know the people in these photographs?”

“Yeah. That's Gabe, my roommate. And that's Hannah. She's his little sister. She lives with us as well.” The guy swallows and blinks a couple of times. The pictures aren't in any way gruesome, but Pete knows from experience that people see other things in them than the detectives and CSI's do, especially when they've just come out of the morgue after identifying their loved ones.

“You reported them missing this morning,” Pete continues, keeping his voice as smooth as he can. “When was the last time you saw them?”

“Yesterday afternoon. I work nights at Wendy's three days a week. Come home around four thirty, collapse into bed. When I woke up this morning, they weren't there.”

“So you called the police. Why?”

“Hannah's... complicated,” Alex says. “She's not in the best of places. And Gabe tries. God, he tries so hard, but it's like it's never enough, you know?” He trails off, as though he's debating with himself whether he's said too much already.

“Complicated how?”

“I'm not sure I can tell you that.”

“Mr Suarez,” Pete says evenly. “Your friends are dead. If you want to help us find whoever did this, you need to tell us what you know.”

The guy across from him looks away. There's silence for a while.

“When... Hannah's sick,” Alex says finally. “Like, really sick. Their dad-Gabe thinks-thought-that Hannah was about nine when it started. 'Whimpers in the night,' he called it. Gabe's two years older. They lived in this miserable cabin twenty miles out of town. No one to hear or help you. Easy thing to beat up a skinny kid or lock him in a room if he tries to interfere. Gabe ran away when he was fourteen, lived in the streets for a while before one of the charities found him. I met him in high school, moved in with him after we graduated. He would never talk about his family or how he grew up back then. As far as I knew, he didn't even have a sister. Then, about a year ago, the phone rang. Gabe's dad had driven his truck into a tree. He died a few hours later.”

“And then?”

“Gabe brought Hannah home to stay with us. It was a bad idea from the start. She was so messed up. Afraid of sound, light, touch-everything. She would tense up when I came into the room. For the first three months she didn't let anyone but Gabe within five feet of her. She tried to kill herself twice in the first month. We got really good at hiding anything that was sharp or toxic after that.”

“What about Social Services?”

“Gabe refused. Said it was his fault for not being able to protect her. Which was all complete bull of course, but he refused to let go. Said I could move out if it was too much to handle, that he'd understand if I did.”

“So why didn't you?”

“He needed me. As hard as he tried, he couldn't take care of both himself and Hannah on his own. The first trips to the emergency room cost a fortune. We tried to avoid the hospital after that. Too much money and too many questions. Gabe was already working two jobs to pay for his college tuition. When Hannah came, he dropped out of most of his classes and took a third job to pay for her meds.”

“What kind of medication was she on?”

“Antidepressants, mainly. Things that made her sleepy and kept her from killing herself.”

“Where did you get hold of them if you weren't seeing a doctor?”

“Gabe... he knew a guy. Someone he'd met when he was living in the streets. A really nice guy. MD down at the children's hospital. Gabe would call him when things got bad, and he would come around the house. Bring new pills for Hannah, clothes from the donations box, food sometimes. Hannah seemed to calm down when he was around. She got a little better every time. In the first six months, he came almost twice a week.”

“And three crappy jobs that a college drop out could hold with a sick sister to look after covered all of that?” Pete asks. He has an inkling as to where this story is going, but he still needs to get it on tape.

Alex looks at him for a long time. Then he shakes his head. “No.”

“So did the kind doctor cover the remaining expenses out of the goodness of his heart?” Pete says. “Or was there something else involved? Drugs? Sex? Other services rendered?”

Alex's face turns red and angry, as though he'd very much like to pull Pete out of his chair and punch his lights out. There's no mistaking the flinch as Pete repeats the question though.

“So, another altruistic John,” Pete says, trying to push the other man a little further, because there's more to the story than that. Pete's been a detective for long enough to know how to tell. “Did he stay for breakfast?”

“It wasn't like that,” Alex says quietly, still holding on to his self-control. “Yeah, so they fucked. Gabe never told me much about it, just that they were helping each other out, and that he was fine with that. The guy was genuinely nice. I know he cared about both of them. It was pretty obvious. He was never creepy or violent that I saw. Never treated Gabe as anything other than a friend. For a while I thought there was something more going on, even. Like, they were falling in love or some shit, even though Gabe was actually straight. Or, you know, that's what he told me, at least.”

“So what was the catch?”

“Why would there be one?”

“Because you're having that special reluctant-witness look on your face that tells me that there is more to the story. What was the good doctor's name?”

“It doesn't matter. There's no way he could have killed Gabe. Or Hannah.”

“Well, as happy as I am that you're helping me with the investigation, I'd be much happier with a name.”

There's another long silence. Pete uses it to have one of the guards bring him another coffee.

“Bill,” Alex says finally. “He works with the cancer kids at Spring Valley. Tall guy. Brown hair. I don't know his last name.”

“Hang on.” Pete flips through his file until he finds another set of photographs. “Is this him?”

“Yeah,” Alex says, confused. “That's him. But why do you... He's dead too?”

“Killed the same way as your friends about a week ago,” Pete confirms. “Any thoughts on who could have done it?”

“No.” A flicker of something crosses Alex's face. Pete blinks, and it's gone again. “No, I have no idea.”

“Alex,” Pete says gently, reaching into his file for another photograph. “Look at this.” He places the picture on the table between them. It's one of the first ones taken when the CSI's arrived at the scene. Gabriel Saporta is laid out on top of the altar, wrapped in a white bathrobe, peaceful and smiling in warm candlelight. Below, on the marble floor, is his sister, dressed in a simple summer dress and with flowers in her hair, posed in a sitting position with her legs crossed and her head leaned back against the altar. Hannah Saporta's right arm has been carefully placed in front of her, wrist balancing on her knee. The hand has been joined with Gabe's left and secured together with a white ribbon. Pete feels something weird happen in his chest every time he looks at it.

“This is not the work of some random stranger,” Pete says. “This was done with a lot of preparation by someone who seems to have cared a great deal about both of them. From what you're telling me, the list of people fitting that profile consists of you and a dead guy. So, that means, Alex, that unless you tell me what else there is that you know, I only have one suspect. What's it gonna be?”

Alex Suarez looks at the picture, then at Pete, then back at the picture again, trailing the contours of the still bodies with his fingers.

“There was this other guy,” he says. “I never met him. Never knew his name. But I heard Gabe and Bill talk about him about a month ago.”

“Go on.”

“They were fighting. Gabe and Bill never fought. They were in the kitchen, trying to keep their voices down so as not to upset Hannah, but the apartment is pretty small, and I was in the hallway, so... It sounded like they were breaking up. Not that they were together to start with, but, you know. Bill had met someone. Another guy. And he wanted to make a go of it. Said Hannah was doing much better anyway. That Gabe didn't really need him anymore. Gabe tried to convince him to stay. They kissed. There was a sound of glass breaking, like someone had been pushed against the counter and managed to pull a few things down. And then Bill left. He didn't come back. We got a bunch of signed prescription notes in the mail a couple of days later, but that was it.”

Pete looks at his face. Alex Suarez looks tired, drained somehow. Pete thinks back at the evidence he, Brendon and Ryan pulled from the journal they found at William Beckett's house. The three of them spent almost an entire night going through the different relationships weaving back and forth over the pages, connecting them with names in Beckett's phone and little black book. One they didn't manage to match talked about unfinished business, guilt and closing doors. Alex's story fits the profile like a glove.

“Thank you for your help,” Pete says, getting to his feet and holding out his hand. “I'm very sorry for your loss and I appreciate you coming down here. We'll call you if we need anything else.”

Alex nods and follows one of the guards out of the room. He doesn't look back.

***

NOVEMBER 10

The club is absolutely packed when Pete gets there, running late because of stupid reports that apparently just couldn’t wait until Monday. He impatiently stands in line like everyone else; this is not one of the venues he usually goes to, and the surly-looking man at the door doesn’t know him from the next guy, so there’s no point in even trying to bypass. The band is just starting as he enters the lower level, and he heads straight for the floor, the crowd packed so tightly around him that there’s barely even room to breathe.

The band is good. Rough around the edges and full of energy and potential. Pete loses himself in the music and the movement all around him, drifts slowly towards the centre of the crowd, letting himself be pushed through the sea of people. It’s been a while since he went out like this, and he’s missed it-the mindlessness of pumping rhythm, the anonymity of the crowd and the way his hair feels on his face when it’s not slicked back to match a uniform.

There’s a guy with a ridiculously high baseball cap on pretty much right in front of him, and he’s blocking the view of the stage. Pete tries to manoeuvre to the side, but people keep pushing back, and after a couple of unsuccessful attempts, he moves forward instead, puts his hands on baseball cap’s hips and leans over his shoulder to make himself heard over the music.

“Hey, man, could you get rid of the hat? I can’t see anything back here.”

Pete expects the guy to turn and look back over his shoulder at him. Annoyed maybe, or good-naturedly if Pete’s lucky. He doesn’t expect the reaction he gets, which is the guy freezing against him and then twisting around so fast that Pete stumbles backwards, knocking into two girls making out behind him.

“What the hell, dude-” he begins, because this isn’t the kind of scene where people tend to be freaked out by another guys hands on their hips. And then his eyes move up to the guy’s face, and his mind shuts down.

“Patrick?”

The guy looks just as shocked as Pete feels, eyes almost comically wide in the semi-darkness. The crowd starts pushing again, and Pete reaches out automatically, grabs Patrick’s wrist to keep them together as they’re carried forward. They end up front to front, boxed in by nameless bodies who don’t give a shit about who either of them are or what they might be doing.

Pete feels Patrick’s hands slide around his waist, gripping the fabric on the back of his shirt like he has no idea of what he’s doing but can’t really help himself. Pete pulls himself back together just in time to realise that one of his own hands is stroking Patrick’s hip and the other one has slid its way around Patrick’s neck and into the hair at the back of his head.

Patrick keeps staring. He also keeps wetting his lips, pulling them between his teeth, breaths coming hot and fast, and fuck, Pete isn’t a monk; he doesn’t have this much self-control-not when Patrick is tilting his head up and pulling him closer, inching his hands downwards and hooking his thumbs into the waistband of Pete’s jeans.

Pete kisses him.

It’s nothing like the first kiss. There’s nothing sweet and innocent about the way Patrick moans into his mouth and kisses back, hot and wet and fucking needy. And Pete can’t help himself; he hooks his arm around Patrick’s neck and deepens the kiss, pushes them back through the crowd to find a wall, or a pillar-any kind of vertical surface that he could use to press them even closer to one another. Patrick’s hands slide into the back pockets of his jeans, and Pete has to break the kiss and lean his forehead against Patrick’s shoulder to breathe, because Jesus.

They hit something solid-an amp by the feel of it, the heavy, pulsing rhythm of a bassline reverberating through Pete’s back as he turns them around and pulls Patrick in for another kiss. Patrick’s hands are gripping his hips now, just opening and closing over Pete’s hipbones like they’ve lost track of where they were headed. Pete groans and bats them away, repositions them on his stomach, pulling up the worn t-shirt that separates Patrick’s hands from heated skin. He shifts his hips, letting a thigh slide between Patrick’s legs, pressing up and swallowing Patrick’s moan when he jerks away at the contact. Pete wraps his arms around Patrick’s back, kisses him again, coaxes him back with his hands and mouth until Patrick is grinding helplessly against Pete’s thigh, breathing going haywire and hands moving mindlessly over Pete’s chest and stomach under his shirt.

“Ow! Fuck! Sorry, guys.”

A skinny kid in a red t-shirt and leather pants stumbles into them, drunk or pushed by the crowd-the reason doesn’t really matter, but it serves to break the moment and give Pete a flash of clarity. He grabs the back of Patrick’s head and leans in close to his ear, resisting the urge to make a stop for more dizzying kisses on the way.

“Wanna get out of here?”

***

Patrick attacks him as soon as they’re inside Pete’s apartment, kicking off his shoes and pushing Pete’s jacket off his shoulders while kissing him like his life depends on it. Warning bells go off somewhere in the back of Pete’s mind; Patrick is pulling at his clothes as though he’s waging an inner battle with himself, hands shaking against Pete’s chest as the damp t-shirt is peeled away from his body. This is not just nerves.

“Hey, slow down.”

Patrick doesn’t listen. His hands are skating along the edge of Pete’s jeans, not quite daring to go for the buttons yet but definitely picking up more courage every time his mouth touches a new patch of skin on Pete’s body and Pete just can’t keep quiet.

A trembling finger slides beneath the tight denim. Pete reels in all the willpower he has left, grabbing both of Patrick’s hands and forcing himself to take a deep breath.

“Patrick, listen. There’s nothing in the world that I want more right now than to take you to my bed and fuck your brains out, but I’m not going to, so stop trying to get into my pants.”

“Huh?” Patrick sounds lost-all swollen lips and dilated pupils and confusion written all over his face. Pete interlaces the fingers of his right hand with the ones on Patrick’s left, holds up the joined grip between them. The silver ring on Patrick’s fourth finger is even more beautiful up close.

“I can’t sleep with you,” he explains. “Because you’re wearing this.”

Patrick just stares at him. Then he gives a shrug that Pete can tell is supposed to be nonchalant and moves closer, tilting his head up for another kiss.

“It doesn’t mean anything. I just got it to please my parents.”

Pete lets himself be pulled into the kiss for a moment, because having Patrick this close and not be kissing him feels about as right as letting a group of serial killers roam free in a daycare centre. He kisses a path from Patrick’s mouth to his jaw, keeps moving along the soft skin until he has Patrick’s ear beneath his lips.

“If I thought you really believed that, I would have you in my bed and coming all over my sheets right about now.”

Patrick jerks back. Or maybe Pete pushes him-he honestly doesn’t know anymore.

“So, let me get this straight,” Patrick says, and Pete resists the bad joke that immediately jumps into his head. “You won’t sleep with me because I’m a virgin? Or because I believe in God?”

“I won’t sleep with you because I want you.”

“In what universe does that even make sense?” Patrick snaps. Pete leans in and kisses him, slow and sweet, trying to smooth out the frustration coming off Patrick in little angry waves until it fades and turns into something beautiful.

“I want to marry you, Patrick,” Pete murmurs against the soft mouth, stealing little nips at Patrick’s bottom lip with his teeth, because it’s just impossible not to. “I want you, Patrick-whatever your middle name is-Vaughn Stump, to let me spend my life with you. I want to take you to bed with this ring on a chain around my neck and my ring on your finger and make fucking well sure that it means just as much as it’s supposed to.”

“You’ve known me for three weeks.”

Pete just shrugs.

“You can’t want to marry someone after three weeks!”

“How about half an hour? Because that would probably be a lot closer to the truth.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Pete kisses him again, pressing Patrick up against the door to increase the contact. Keeps kissing him until Patrick is hard and panting and rubbing mindlessly against him.

“I want you. God, Pete, please just touch me.”

Pete pulls away, takes another deep breath, counts down slowly from ten to keep himself from reaching for the top of Patrick’s jeans.

“No,” he repeats, somehow managing to form the word despite the way Patrick’s eyes are practically screaming for Pete to just take what is so clearly being offered. “But maybe you can touch me. Come on.”

His bedroom is an absolute mess with clothes strewn all across the floor, quite a bit of music equipment lying about, a laptop balancing precariously on the edge of the unmade bed and heaps of books and magazines adding a final touch to it all. Pete walks around the bed, pulls out a drawer in the bedside table and reaches inside.

“Trust, right?” he says, holding up a pair of police standard issue handcuffs.

Patrick’s eyes widen, but he accepts the metal restraints when Pete hands them to him.

“Good,” Pete murmurs, leaning in for a quick kiss. “Get a tie from the wardrobe. You’re about to have your first lesson on how to be a criminal mastermind.”

***

DAY 9 - 6:45 PM

“Okay, so what do we know?” Ryan asks, picking up a black marker and turning towards the whiteboard on the wall. “Spencer?”

“We searched Gabe Saporta’s apartment,” Spencer says. “There was evidence there that supports a relationship between him and William Beckett. Jon found a stack of backdated prescription slips for Ativan and Prozac, and we got several hair samples matching Beckett’s DNA. Nothing on the mystery man that Alex Suarez talked to Wentz about in interrogation though. No journal, letters or other writing. If Saporta vented somewhere, he probably did it online, in a private blog or similar. We ran internet searches on names, interests we know, anything else we could think of. Nothing. There is no computer in the apartment. We talked to Suarez about it, and he said they couldn’t afford one and that they would both use the ones at the library. So we checked that out, and it turns out that the library they go to is a free service one, so there is no logging of users. Dead end.”

Ryan nods and notes the new information on the board, drawing lines between things that seem to be related. “Brendon?”

“I had Zack run analyses on all the samples we pulled from Beckett’s house,” Brendon says. “I also put Patrick on going through Beckett’s call history and voicemail.”

“What did they find?”

“Well,” Brendon says, flipping through the contents of the thick file in front of him. “Zack found DNA from thirty-two different donors from the swabs, hair and fibre we bagged in Beckett’s bedroom. Thirty female, two male. The only sample matching anything we have on file came back to Gabriel Saporta, so that further confirms the lover link-up there. The information we got from Beckett’s journal before supports the story that Beckett broke off with Saporta because of a new relationship with another man. The DNA from the second male donor in Beckett’s bedroom matches the DNA from both crime scenes. I think we can safely assume that this profile belongs to the killer.”

“What about Alex Suarez?” Ryan asks, making more notes on the board.

“No match,” Brendon says. “I also verified his alibi with his supervisor at Wendy’s. He was at work when the Saportas were killed. He’s in the clear.”

“And the phone records?”

“Yeah, that’s a bit tricky,” Brendon says with a sigh. “Remember how I told you that Dr Beckett has a pretty hectic social life? Well, his phone confirms it. If you count both incoming and outgoing activity, there are over twelve hundred calls, voice mails and text messages in the last month. The guy must have practically lived with the phone attached to his ear. Patrick has started going through the list, but it’s slow progress, especially as a lot of the numbers so far have turned out to go to unregistered cell phones.”

“Okay,” Ryan says, capping the marker in his hand to indicate that the meeting is over. “Brendon, keep working on the call history and the journal. Spencer, I want you to go back to the hospital and see if you can get any more information out of the people working there. And Jon, talk to Suarez again. See if you can get the name of the charity that helped Saporta off the streets. We’re assuming that the killer learned about the Saporta siblings from Beckett, but it could be the other way around. We need to find out more about possible connections. I’ll check back in with Hurley for the final autopsy reports in the meantime. Back here for updates in-” Ryan checks his watch, “-six hours okay?”

“Yeah,” Jon says, getting out of his chair and gathering his scattered files. Spencer doesn’t follow, which is unusual. Ryan looks at Brendon, who quickly puts his things together as well and heads out of the room, closing the door behind him.

“Are you okay?” Ryan asks. Spencer starts shuffling his papers around, putting everything into a careful pile.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Spencer looks up at him, blue eyes carefully emotionless as they stare Ryan down.

Okay then.

Spencer gathers his things and leaves. Ryan turns back to the board and wonders when his job became so fucking complicated.

***

NOVEMBER 10

“Lesson number one: cover your tracks,” Pete says when Patrick comes back to stand right in front of him next to the bed, a dark-green silk tie clasped in his hand. “There’s virtually no way not to leave trace behind, so you need to distract the investigation, make them look somewhere else.” He unbuttons his jeans as he speaks. Patrick’s eyes track the movement, heat rising in his cheeks.

“How soon will you be missed?” Pete asks, pushing the denim down over his hips and thighs together with his underwear. “Think about it, take your answer and then take off about twelve hours, because that’s how long you’re most likely to have. People worry early with kids your age.”

“My parents are in Chicago,” Patrick says. “Yearly pre-Christmas shopping weekend with some college friends. They won’t be back until Sunday.”

“And where are you supposed to be?”

“At home, watching TV, playing video games. Reading. Maybe heading over to a friend’s for pizza. The usual stuff. I programmed the phone to forward all calls to my cell. It’s always worked so far.”

Pete smiles, holds up his hands between them. “Sneaky,” he comments, sounding vaguely impressed. “I guess you have a bit of time then.” He presses the palms against one another, flexes his fingers before curling them into loose fists. “Take the tie,” Pete says. “Loose figure eights around the wrists. That’s lesson two: never leave marks, no matter how much you want to.”

Patrick nods and follows the instructions, fingers surprisingly steady as he wraps the fabric around Pete’s wrists. He receives a quick kiss when it’s done and tries not to stare too much as Pete sits down on the edge of the mattress and stretches out until he’s lying on his back on top of the tousled sheets with his arms above his head. Pete gestures upward with a small toss of head, and Patrick moves to the head of the bed, fumbles a bit with the handcuffs as he fastens them around Pete’s wrists and one of the horizontal wooden bars of the headboard

“Lesson number three: be aware of your motive,” Pete says as Patrick pulls back, and Patrick tries to make sense of the words from under the haze of heat and nerves and vaguely sickening anticipation. “Why do you want to touch me?”

“You’re naked,” Patrick states, cheeks burning as the words tumble from his mouth. “And you’re hot. And I’m sixteen. I’m a guy. I don’t know?”

“All very good reasons,” Pete agrees. “But how does wanting me now tie in with the ring on your finger?”

“I guess it doesn’t.”

“You sure about that?”

“Dammit, Pete! Would you just fucking shut up and let me grope you already?”

Pete’s eyes go from playful to serious, and Patrick feels the mood in the room change. Pete arches his back a little, arranges himself more comfortably on the bed and gives Patrick a smile that’s surprisingly pale coming from him.

“Go ahead,” he says. “No hands on my dick though. And I shower and change down at the station most days, so no hickies, okay?”

Patrick can only nod. His mouth is suddenly very dry, and swallowing doesn’t seem to be helping much.

He leans down, climbs over Pete’s legs, reaches out for a first touch. Pete’s skin is warm. Less smooth than Patrick’s own. Decorated with ink in various places. He wonders what it would feel like against his tongue, what someone as beautiful as Pete tastes like.

Only one way to find out.

Pete lets him explore without comments or directions, responding in hitched breaths and low moans that go straight down Patrick’s spine. He slides his hands over Pete’s hips, follows the muscle on the front of a lean leg before turning at the knee, caressing a path up the inside of Pete’s thigh.

“Hands off,” Pete groans, shifting his hips away from Patrick’s fingers. “I mean it, Patrick. No fucking handjobs.”

Patrick pulls back and tries not to look-but seriously? It’s not like it’s actually possible to not notice how hard Pete is or how his hips seem to gravitate towards Patrick’s hands the second he lets go of his self-control and just loses himself in the moment. Patrick feels a hot ball of tension building in his chest, because Pete is so fucking beautiful like this, just completely open and transparent and somehow, inexplicably his. Patrick’s never had anyone wanting to share themselves with him before-just give their body and heart and soul over like it’s the easiest thing in the world. To be honest, he’s never actually had anyone that he wanted to get that from either.

Pete looks at him from below half-closed eyelids, and Patrick feels the tension grow, settling in to press down on his lungs as he moves up Pete’s body and they kiss, deep and intense.

Maybe it is possible to fall half-way in love with someone in just a few weeks.

The thought leaves him shaking. And screw Pete and his games because Patrick needs to know what it feels like to touch him. He kisses his way down the side of Pete’s ribs, glances up, keeps Pete distracted with fingers playing over the top of his stomach-waits until he sees Pete close his eyes and tilt his head back in a quiet moan.

“Fuck!” Pete’s hips arch off the bed. Patrick shifts his weight-tries to find a good way to keep Pete pinned down as he parts his lips a little more and drags them carefully over the swollen head. “Fuck, Patrick, oh God, Jesus, what are you?-holy shit-God, Patrick, stopstopstop, oh fuck, how-”

Patrick goes deeper.

***

“You said no hands,” he hurries to say once it’s over, before Pete has managed to more than wet his lips. “So, no hands.”

“Fucking cheater,” Pete manages, and then he’s laughing, breathlessly and half-way to choking. Patrick joins him, slumping down next to Pete and shaking with him, head on Pete’s chest and arm gripping tightly at his waist as he tries to breathe through the laughter. Patrick’s pants feel really gross. He ignores it and wraps a leg around Pete’s anyway, holding on tightly as they gradually calm down together. There’s something about lying in Pete’s bed like this, breathing in the smell of them and knowing that this happened, that makes Patrick’s heart feel far too big in his chest. He curls himself completely around Pete’s warm body and tries not to think about how much he wishes he could just stay right where he is forever and never go back home again.

“Hey-cuffs,” Pete says, nudging at Patrick with his shoulder. “Come on, or my joints will be killing me tomorrow.” Patrick makes an annoyed sound of protest and nuzzles his face deeper into Pete’s neck. Pete shoves him again, as hard as he can with the limited freedom of movement. Patrick grudgingly obliges, climbing up on top of him to reach the keys on the bedside table.

Pete helps him out of his clothes and pulls up the covers. Patrick snuggles into him sleepily, fingers trailing mindless patterns on Pete’s chest as he drifts off.

“Jesus, how are you even real?” he hears Pete murmur against his hair, arms gripping Patrick’s body so tight it almost hurts.

It’s kind of an awesome way to fall asleep.

Chapter III - Charity