[pxp ficathon] homesick
Title: Homesick
Summary: Four days in the greater Chicago metropolitan area.
Author: chex
Rating: PG, 'coz there's some bad language?
For: angelanathema!
Disclaimer: This is not true at all! NOT AT ALL.
Author's Notes: Hey, in before deadline! I have no idea why this fic gave me so much trouble, because I seriously only managed to reach an ending I was happy with last night (I've been trying!). Also, uhm, I would like to apologise to angelanathema because I went with your original prompts and didn't notice the part where you wanted pre-fame, which I would have loved to write, but I only just noticed that today and I doubt anyone really wants me to try rewriting now because anything I'd get done by the 18th ... uhh. Yeah, no. However! I did work in some Wallflowers lyrics (paraphrased and worked into the prose & dialogue, ooo! it's like a game of hide and seek), and your other two original prompts are in there too. Mmhm. Feel free to, I don't know, kick me in the face for this.
(My memory of Wilmette and other Chicago suburbs/Chicago in general is hazy. If anything is too horribly wrong, please just pretend it's, I don't know, an AU or something. An AU where the only thing that's different is the layout of Chicago, and also the band's touring schedule.)
It's June, and that means the start of sunny weather, chances to chase fireflies in backyards and grill burgers (even if those burgers are sometimes veggie). It means longer walks for Hemingway, and higher electric bills because of the AC. It also means a trip back to Chicago.
The first day is spent in the airport and on the plane, and by the time he gets into Chicago it's time for dinner, and his mom insists on making him dinner. (He's not, she says, eating right out in LA. How she knows this, he's not sure.) His dad insists on making fun of him.
It's the first time in a while that Pete's slept in his old bedroom, and it doesn't quite feel like home anymore. Still, it's nice not to have any obligations, to just sit around at home with his parents, not bothering to be famous.
--
One day down, three to go, before Pete has to start dealing with the world again. (He's got plane tickets back to LA.)
So.
Day two in Chicago, Pete sleeps in until three in the afternoon. He almost wishes he could sleep until four, just for irony's sake - because he doesn't wear pants when he sleeps and it would have been perfect - but then it also would have been stupid, and he needs to spend his time somehow. Sleep is such a waste when he could be - he doesn't know what he's going to do.
He goes to see Jeanae, or tries to. He gets as far as her front door and turns back. He misses her again, suddenly, and feels more in love with her than ever. Like he's going to break on this. It hurts how much he wants to see her.
So what he does instead: he sits on her doorstep for a while. He feels like he's living out a song in all the worst ways.
He ends up going to a movie alone, then heads to Joe's place to play video games with some kids he's never met before. (They all know who he is, of course, and almost universally forget to introduce themselves.)
So.
What he wants right now is Hemingway. That's an argument for going back to LA early.
He's halfway to the airport before deciding that he's not just going to run to the things he wants to see. He stopped himself from going to see Jeanae; he doesn't need Hemingway that bad, either.
--
Day three starts early, because Pete goes to sleep early on the second day. He's up by seven, with a full breakfast care of his mom. Day three's already seeming a lot better.
Still. He's missing something and he's not sure what.
Wilmette is still Wilmette - upscale and suburban, with grassy tree-lined streets. Cops are still called in for stupid things like loud parties and kids drinking. Illinois hasn't changed without him there; it's like the state puts itself on hold just for him. Pete feels - well, not quite at home, because he's not sure where home is anymore, but at least temporarily at rest.
He's still got his bicycle, tucked away in a corner of his parents' garage. It's covered in dust and cobwebs -- “Mom, does Windex make cobwebs go away?” (The answer is “just use a rag; you'll be fine.” So Pete tries Lysol. It doesn't help any.)
The bicycle, once cleaned off, rides fairly smoothly - a little creaky at first, until the rust is worked out, but then Pete's able to get up to speed. He's not sure when he last rode a bike. All he knows is it's been years.
The streets he grew up on are still familiar, thank god; he keeps thinking he'll forget this place, every time he leaves it. A few weeks can make it all seem so long ago and so far away (even when he's only as far away as Detroit, or Cincinnati or some other Midwest city.)
Even if he'd forgotten this place, his body remembers. His bike is taking him where he needs to go, and he only realizes that when he stops paying attention to himself and starts paying attention to his surroundings. (The only reason he does this: a car nearly hits him when he wanders too far into the road.)
He pulls his bike to a stop, putting a foot down for balance as he digs for his cell phone. Third number on his speed dial (after himself and his parents).
“Pete?”
“Yup. Look out your window.”
“The fuck.” A second-story curtain is pulled aside, and Patrick peers down at him through the window. There's a half-second's pause between when Patrick starts laughing and the sound filters through the cell phone static. Being able to watch the delay is kind of surreal. “You rode your bike here? I didn't know you had a bike.”
“I do! I was a normal child! Honest. C'mon, outside. Your mouth keeps moving before you talk and it's creeping me out.”
“You can tell from that far?”
“Outside isn't far. You can make it. Hey, you still got a bike?”
“Uh.” Patrick disappears from the window, and Pete can't hear random scuffling.
“Because we're going on a bike ride.”
Sound of feet on stairs, then: “No we're not. I'm in the middle of --”
“Hey. Hey. No. You are in the middle of leaving your house, finding your bike, and coming with me.”
“Oh, I am. Huh. I couldn't tell.” Patrick hangs up, and Pete's about to call him back - because that's bullshit, just hanging up like that - and then the door opens.
This is what he'd been missing, which is maybe a bit sad; it's not like they don't practically live together on tour and in the studio. That's different. That's work, and there's a million other people involved.
So.
So day three is a lot nicer.
--
Pete's still up at midnight, so day four starts as soon as the clock changes. Twelve thirty and they've got their bikes chained up outside a downtown restaurant that is, blessedly, still open; Pete gets chicken parmesan -- “Seriously, dude, chicken parm. If you ate meat I would make you try this. It's delicious!” -- and Patrick has a salad, citing the fact that he already had dinner and doesn't really need to eat again.
“So, so, so,” Pete says. “I don't know. Shit. What have you been doing? No, never mind, I probably won't listen to your answer. Sorry. I'm kind of, well, you can tell, right. Yesterday was fucked up. Or. Wait, yesterday was - okay, it's already tomorrow. Day before yesterday. It's, I don't know, I can't figure out what I'm doing. Other day I tried to go see Jeanae but then that wasn't what I wanted, then I wanted to go home but I didn't want that either, and I don't know, just --”
“Dude. Slow down. I can't understand a word you're saying.”
Pete says, “Right. Right. Sorry.”
“It's cool. It's cool.”
“So just, yeah. Hi.”
“Hi,” Patrick says. His eyebrows furrow for a minute, then rise. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
“So what's wrong?”
“I just said I'm okay. Okay, okay, just. You know how it is when you really want something?”
“Uh. Yeah?”
“Only, like, you don't know what it is. It's like that. I wanna do something, but I don't have any clue what it is. Like, I thought I wanted to see Jeanae, but that's not it. I tried writing, but that wasn't what I wanted to do either, but I did get some pretty good lyrics done, but that's beside the point. Yeah. Just. Something. It's like there's this fog and I can't even, you know, like it's so thick I can't see my hands or whatever.” As he's saying this, Pete's wondering if he's thinking this over too much.
“That's kind of,” Patrick says. “Yeah. Everybody gets like that, I think. Maybe with fewer fog metaphors. You just have to - I don't know. You can't tell yourself there's anything you definitely don't want to do, right? You'll get bored.”
“Yeah?”
“I mean, people don't always ... I don't know. Never mind. Never mind.”
Pete looks around. He says, “You know what? Let's leave.”
“We haven't got our check yet.”
“So? We're famous. They can afford it. We can, like, plug them in the next interview. Let's make a break for it.”
So they do; Pete leaves first. A second later, a waitress asks Patrick where he went and he says Pete's in the bathroom. Then he leaves himself, skulking doorward and hoping he's not too conspicuous.
Pete laughs and seems like he's alright again. “Come on. Hey.”
They're in the city, and it'll take ages to get home, so what they do is ride to the river. Pete chains his bike to a lamp-post and tosses some cash at a homeless person before hopping down some steps.
Patrick, hands in his pockets, follows after. Summer's only just started, and it still gets cold at night, and he's got on short sleeves. “Feeling charitable?”
“I really have no clue what I'm doing,” Pete says, leaning over a railing and staring down at the water. He holds his hands up, making a rectangle with his fingers, squinting one eye shut as he looks through it. He turns, moves his hands a bit - closer to his face, then farther from it. He's got Patrick framed in front of him, and takes a step to the side. “There, better angle.”
“What?”
“I don't have a photographic memory but I'm gonna try to take a mental snapshot. Say cheese.”
Patrick raises an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth turning up in a bemused smile.
“Click. See, that was good, nice expression. Makes the moment better.” Pete drops his hands back to his sides, then bounces up and down on the balls of his feet, arms swinging at his sides. “See, I just.”
He falls silent, and leans over the railing again. This time Patrick stands there next to him, and for a while they fall into companionable silence. Patrick is close enough that Pete can feel, just barely, body heat radiating off of him. He can also see the fact that Patrick's got goosebumps from the cold air off the water.
Pete wants to go home, all of a sudden, home to LA and Hemingway and far away from all of this. This has him confused. (LA isn't home at all. LA is where his house is. Where he lives, when he's not flying 'cross-country. He's always flying, back and forth. Half his life is airport security lines; the other half is waiting for delayed flights. Here in Chicago, he's not home. In LA, he's not home.)
He runs a hand up Patrick's arm. Patrick looks at him, his expression just short of confused. Maybe Pete doesn't surprise him anymore, and what's the use of being friends if you can't confuse each other every now and then?
The moon is high enough above them that it's reflecting off the water, pale faint shimmer-white. Probably there's more fitting adjectives, but Pete can't think of them. His head isn't working right (write).
“Cold?”
“A bit,” Patrick says. He looks like he's going to say more, his mouth open just a little, but he doesn't. He drops his head and leans forward, arms crossed on the railing.
Pete leans up against him. There's a moment, then Pete puts an arm around Patrick's shoulders, tugs him a little closer. “Better?”
“Yeah,” Patrick says. He looks up at Pete, who's looking away still. He grins. “Better?”
“Yup,” Pete says. He pauses, says, “It's good to be home.”
“You been homesick? You could always stay here longer.”
Pete keeps watching the water, staring down at the slow-moving water, and the moonlight reflecting. No boats tonight. “No, that's not what I mean. Chicago isn't really - nah.”
Pete looks over at Patrick, who's looking over at him, and Patrick's eyes are sleepy and half-closed and he can't tell what colour they are. He's never been quite sure.
“Huh,” Patrick says. He looks away for a moment. “Well,” he says, and it's obvious he's changing the subject. “You're warm.”
“Home,” Pete says.
“Oh, Jesus, shut up. You're going to say something really overwrought and lyrical about how home is where the broken heart is or something absurd like that.”
“Nah, I was just gonna say you're home. Like, things make sense when you're around.”
“Oh,” Patrick says, a little quiet. “Well. That's almost as bad.”
“Shut up. It's the thought that counts.”
“You think too much,” Patrick says, and the way he's got his head tilted, the brim of his hat is casting a shadow over his face. Pete's of half a mind to take it off, but Pete knows why Patrick keeps his hat on, and every now and then Pete manages to be a nice person.
“Seriously,” Patrick says. He says, “Stop thinking.”
Then Patrick's lips are on his, and Pete thinks he would have ended up talking for hours before getting to this part, the kissing part, the part where Patrick's tentatively putting his arms around Pete's neck and then Pete's opening his mouth just a little. Somehow it stays chaste, and maybe all the better for it, because there's no pressure and it's nice, this kissing-his-best-friend thing, like he really is home, however cliché that may sound.
Pete ends up with his arms around Patrick's waist and his head on Patrick's shoulder. “This is never going to work.”
“Why not?”
“I don't know. Because.” Pete doesn't say, because it's too good to last. He doesn't say, because any time I'm happy I manage to fuck things up. Instead he just breathes in, slow and shallow. “Because.”
“It could?”
“Maybe. Okay. Okay.” Pete's still stuck on the fact that he always manages to fuck everything up.
Patrick, apparently, is psychic. “You're not gonna mess it up. We might, both of us, but you can't blame just yourself for anything that happens. It's gonna be as much my fault as yours.”
Pete takes a few steps forward and pulls Patrick close to him, and he says, “Let's fuck things up together.”
Patrick grins. “We're emo, not hardcore.”
“Aw, you'll always be hardcore to me,” Pete says, just before Patrick kisses him again.
--
Day four gets a second start, this time in Pete's bed. Patrick, still fully clothed, is curled up next to him and still asleep. Pete's got half an hour before his plane is supposed to take off, and he doesn't care.
He hopes it'll take a long, long time for the two of them to mess this up. For now, he's going to drowse in bed wait and see if things can get even better than this. Because this, falling asleep and waking up with Patrick right there, feeling all warm and safe and at-home, this seems like it's about as good as it can get.
Summary: Four days in the greater Chicago metropolitan area.
Author: chex
Rating: PG, 'coz there's some bad language?
For: angelanathema!
Disclaimer: This is not true at all! NOT AT ALL.
Author's Notes: Hey, in before deadline! I have no idea why this fic gave me so much trouble, because I seriously only managed to reach an ending I was happy with last night (I've been trying!). Also, uhm, I would like to apologise to angelanathema because I went with your original prompts and didn't notice the part where you wanted pre-fame, which I would have loved to write, but I only just noticed that today and I doubt anyone really wants me to try rewriting now because anything I'd get done by the 18th ... uhh. Yeah, no. However! I did work in some Wallflowers lyrics (paraphrased and worked into the prose & dialogue, ooo! it's like a game of hide and seek), and your other two original prompts are in there too. Mmhm. Feel free to, I don't know, kick me in the face for this.
(My memory of Wilmette and other Chicago suburbs/Chicago in general is hazy. If anything is too horribly wrong, please just pretend it's, I don't know, an AU or something. An AU where the only thing that's different is the layout of Chicago, and also the band's touring schedule.)
It's June, and that means the start of sunny weather, chances to chase fireflies in backyards and grill burgers (even if those burgers are sometimes veggie). It means longer walks for Hemingway, and higher electric bills because of the AC. It also means a trip back to Chicago.
The first day is spent in the airport and on the plane, and by the time he gets into Chicago it's time for dinner, and his mom insists on making him dinner. (He's not, she says, eating right out in LA. How she knows this, he's not sure.) His dad insists on making fun of him.
It's the first time in a while that Pete's slept in his old bedroom, and it doesn't quite feel like home anymore. Still, it's nice not to have any obligations, to just sit around at home with his parents, not bothering to be famous.
--
One day down, three to go, before Pete has to start dealing with the world again. (He's got plane tickets back to LA.)
So.
Day two in Chicago, Pete sleeps in until three in the afternoon. He almost wishes he could sleep until four, just for irony's sake - because he doesn't wear pants when he sleeps and it would have been perfect - but then it also would have been stupid, and he needs to spend his time somehow. Sleep is such a waste when he could be - he doesn't know what he's going to do.
He goes to see Jeanae, or tries to. He gets as far as her front door and turns back. He misses her again, suddenly, and feels more in love with her than ever. Like he's going to break on this. It hurts how much he wants to see her.
So what he does instead: he sits on her doorstep for a while. He feels like he's living out a song in all the worst ways.
He ends up going to a movie alone, then heads to Joe's place to play video games with some kids he's never met before. (They all know who he is, of course, and almost universally forget to introduce themselves.)
So.
What he wants right now is Hemingway. That's an argument for going back to LA early.
He's halfway to the airport before deciding that he's not just going to run to the things he wants to see. He stopped himself from going to see Jeanae; he doesn't need Hemingway that bad, either.
--
Day three starts early, because Pete goes to sleep early on the second day. He's up by seven, with a full breakfast care of his mom. Day three's already seeming a lot better.
Still. He's missing something and he's not sure what.
Wilmette is still Wilmette - upscale and suburban, with grassy tree-lined streets. Cops are still called in for stupid things like loud parties and kids drinking. Illinois hasn't changed without him there; it's like the state puts itself on hold just for him. Pete feels - well, not quite at home, because he's not sure where home is anymore, but at least temporarily at rest.
He's still got his bicycle, tucked away in a corner of his parents' garage. It's covered in dust and cobwebs -- “Mom, does Windex make cobwebs go away?” (The answer is “just use a rag; you'll be fine.” So Pete tries Lysol. It doesn't help any.)
The bicycle, once cleaned off, rides fairly smoothly - a little creaky at first, until the rust is worked out, but then Pete's able to get up to speed. He's not sure when he last rode a bike. All he knows is it's been years.
The streets he grew up on are still familiar, thank god; he keeps thinking he'll forget this place, every time he leaves it. A few weeks can make it all seem so long ago and so far away (even when he's only as far away as Detroit, or Cincinnati or some other Midwest city.)
Even if he'd forgotten this place, his body remembers. His bike is taking him where he needs to go, and he only realizes that when he stops paying attention to himself and starts paying attention to his surroundings. (The only reason he does this: a car nearly hits him when he wanders too far into the road.)
He pulls his bike to a stop, putting a foot down for balance as he digs for his cell phone. Third number on his speed dial (after himself and his parents).
“Pete?”
“Yup. Look out your window.”
“The fuck.” A second-story curtain is pulled aside, and Patrick peers down at him through the window. There's a half-second's pause between when Patrick starts laughing and the sound filters through the cell phone static. Being able to watch the delay is kind of surreal. “You rode your bike here? I didn't know you had a bike.”
“I do! I was a normal child! Honest. C'mon, outside. Your mouth keeps moving before you talk and it's creeping me out.”
“You can tell from that far?”
“Outside isn't far. You can make it. Hey, you still got a bike?”
“Uh.” Patrick disappears from the window, and Pete can't hear random scuffling.
“Because we're going on a bike ride.”
Sound of feet on stairs, then: “No we're not. I'm in the middle of --”
“Hey. Hey. No. You are in the middle of leaving your house, finding your bike, and coming with me.”
“Oh, I am. Huh. I couldn't tell.” Patrick hangs up, and Pete's about to call him back - because that's bullshit, just hanging up like that - and then the door opens.
This is what he'd been missing, which is maybe a bit sad; it's not like they don't practically live together on tour and in the studio. That's different. That's work, and there's a million other people involved.
So.
So day three is a lot nicer.
--
Pete's still up at midnight, so day four starts as soon as the clock changes. Twelve thirty and they've got their bikes chained up outside a downtown restaurant that is, blessedly, still open; Pete gets chicken parmesan -- “Seriously, dude, chicken parm. If you ate meat I would make you try this. It's delicious!” -- and Patrick has a salad, citing the fact that he already had dinner and doesn't really need to eat again.
“So, so, so,” Pete says. “I don't know. Shit. What have you been doing? No, never mind, I probably won't listen to your answer. Sorry. I'm kind of, well, you can tell, right. Yesterday was fucked up. Or. Wait, yesterday was - okay, it's already tomorrow. Day before yesterday. It's, I don't know, I can't figure out what I'm doing. Other day I tried to go see Jeanae but then that wasn't what I wanted, then I wanted to go home but I didn't want that either, and I don't know, just --”
“Dude. Slow down. I can't understand a word you're saying.”
Pete says, “Right. Right. Sorry.”
“It's cool. It's cool.”
“So just, yeah. Hi.”
“Hi,” Patrick says. His eyebrows furrow for a minute, then rise. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
“So what's wrong?”
“I just said I'm okay. Okay, okay, just. You know how it is when you really want something?”
“Uh. Yeah?”
“Only, like, you don't know what it is. It's like that. I wanna do something, but I don't have any clue what it is. Like, I thought I wanted to see Jeanae, but that's not it. I tried writing, but that wasn't what I wanted to do either, but I did get some pretty good lyrics done, but that's beside the point. Yeah. Just. Something. It's like there's this fog and I can't even, you know, like it's so thick I can't see my hands or whatever.” As he's saying this, Pete's wondering if he's thinking this over too much.
“That's kind of,” Patrick says. “Yeah. Everybody gets like that, I think. Maybe with fewer fog metaphors. You just have to - I don't know. You can't tell yourself there's anything you definitely don't want to do, right? You'll get bored.”
“Yeah?”
“I mean, people don't always ... I don't know. Never mind. Never mind.”
Pete looks around. He says, “You know what? Let's leave.”
“We haven't got our check yet.”
“So? We're famous. They can afford it. We can, like, plug them in the next interview. Let's make a break for it.”
So they do; Pete leaves first. A second later, a waitress asks Patrick where he went and he says Pete's in the bathroom. Then he leaves himself, skulking doorward and hoping he's not too conspicuous.
Pete laughs and seems like he's alright again. “Come on. Hey.”
They're in the city, and it'll take ages to get home, so what they do is ride to the river. Pete chains his bike to a lamp-post and tosses some cash at a homeless person before hopping down some steps.
Patrick, hands in his pockets, follows after. Summer's only just started, and it still gets cold at night, and he's got on short sleeves. “Feeling charitable?”
“I really have no clue what I'm doing,” Pete says, leaning over a railing and staring down at the water. He holds his hands up, making a rectangle with his fingers, squinting one eye shut as he looks through it. He turns, moves his hands a bit - closer to his face, then farther from it. He's got Patrick framed in front of him, and takes a step to the side. “There, better angle.”
“What?”
“I don't have a photographic memory but I'm gonna try to take a mental snapshot. Say cheese.”
Patrick raises an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth turning up in a bemused smile.
“Click. See, that was good, nice expression. Makes the moment better.” Pete drops his hands back to his sides, then bounces up and down on the balls of his feet, arms swinging at his sides. “See, I just.”
He falls silent, and leans over the railing again. This time Patrick stands there next to him, and for a while they fall into companionable silence. Patrick is close enough that Pete can feel, just barely, body heat radiating off of him. He can also see the fact that Patrick's got goosebumps from the cold air off the water.
Pete wants to go home, all of a sudden, home to LA and Hemingway and far away from all of this. This has him confused. (LA isn't home at all. LA is where his house is. Where he lives, when he's not flying 'cross-country. He's always flying, back and forth. Half his life is airport security lines; the other half is waiting for delayed flights. Here in Chicago, he's not home. In LA, he's not home.)
He runs a hand up Patrick's arm. Patrick looks at him, his expression just short of confused. Maybe Pete doesn't surprise him anymore, and what's the use of being friends if you can't confuse each other every now and then?
The moon is high enough above them that it's reflecting off the water, pale faint shimmer-white. Probably there's more fitting adjectives, but Pete can't think of them. His head isn't working right (write).
“Cold?”
“A bit,” Patrick says. He looks like he's going to say more, his mouth open just a little, but he doesn't. He drops his head and leans forward, arms crossed on the railing.
Pete leans up against him. There's a moment, then Pete puts an arm around Patrick's shoulders, tugs him a little closer. “Better?”
“Yeah,” Patrick says. He looks up at Pete, who's looking away still. He grins. “Better?”
“Yup,” Pete says. He pauses, says, “It's good to be home.”
“You been homesick? You could always stay here longer.”
Pete keeps watching the water, staring down at the slow-moving water, and the moonlight reflecting. No boats tonight. “No, that's not what I mean. Chicago isn't really - nah.”
Pete looks over at Patrick, who's looking over at him, and Patrick's eyes are sleepy and half-closed and he can't tell what colour they are. He's never been quite sure.
“Huh,” Patrick says. He looks away for a moment. “Well,” he says, and it's obvious he's changing the subject. “You're warm.”
“Home,” Pete says.
“Oh, Jesus, shut up. You're going to say something really overwrought and lyrical about how home is where the broken heart is or something absurd like that.”
“Nah, I was just gonna say you're home. Like, things make sense when you're around.”
“Oh,” Patrick says, a little quiet. “Well. That's almost as bad.”
“Shut up. It's the thought that counts.”
“You think too much,” Patrick says, and the way he's got his head tilted, the brim of his hat is casting a shadow over his face. Pete's of half a mind to take it off, but Pete knows why Patrick keeps his hat on, and every now and then Pete manages to be a nice person.
“Seriously,” Patrick says. He says, “Stop thinking.”
Then Patrick's lips are on his, and Pete thinks he would have ended up talking for hours before getting to this part, the kissing part, the part where Patrick's tentatively putting his arms around Pete's neck and then Pete's opening his mouth just a little. Somehow it stays chaste, and maybe all the better for it, because there's no pressure and it's nice, this kissing-his-best-friend thing, like he really is home, however cliché that may sound.
Pete ends up with his arms around Patrick's waist and his head on Patrick's shoulder. “This is never going to work.”
“Why not?”
“I don't know. Because.” Pete doesn't say, because it's too good to last. He doesn't say, because any time I'm happy I manage to fuck things up. Instead he just breathes in, slow and shallow. “Because.”
“It could?”
“Maybe. Okay. Okay.” Pete's still stuck on the fact that he always manages to fuck everything up.
Patrick, apparently, is psychic. “You're not gonna mess it up. We might, both of us, but you can't blame just yourself for anything that happens. It's gonna be as much my fault as yours.”
Pete takes a few steps forward and pulls Patrick close to him, and he says, “Let's fuck things up together.”
Patrick grins. “We're emo, not hardcore.”
“Aw, you'll always be hardcore to me,” Pete says, just before Patrick kisses him again.
--
Day four gets a second start, this time in Pete's bed. Patrick, still fully clothed, is curled up next to him and still asleep. Pete's got half an hour before his plane is supposed to take off, and he doesn't care.
He hopes it'll take a long, long time for the two of them to mess this up. For now, he's going to drowse in bed wait and see if things can get even better than this. Because this, falling asleep and waking up with Patrick right there, feeling all warm and safe and at-home, this seems like it's about as good as it can get.