these days we love, PG-13.

anon_lovefest

leviticus_lied

The box is anything but extraordinary. It’s still shoved in his closet; clothing piled on top of it, as broken and lopsided as the day he moved in—his family’s goodbyes and well wishes scribbled on it in. Somehow, it’s still something Patrick thinks about too much.

He hasn’t touched it since the day Pete gave him the clothing that’s inside a week after they moved in. Patrick thinks that he should be used to this shit by now but this isn’t what’s supposed to happen when you share an apartment with your two best friends, considering.

It wasn’t even that shocking, just a simple white dress. Something Patrick could easily picture his sister wearing whenever they’d go over to their aunt’s house near the lake when it’s summer, and the familiarity’s almost biting. The soft material and the way it felt in his hands when he’d taken it out of the shopping bag that Pete had shoved in his hands while smiling, saying it was a present.

After Patrick had shoved it in the box they never really talked about it, and Patrick told himself that he could forget it. It was just a stupid joke gone wrong. The fact that Pete didn’t bring it up was a good thing, not something to worry about.

--

It isn’t really a secret that Patrick has a bit of a crush.

The only reason why Joe hasn’t brought it up is because the hero worship he’s had for Pete still shows up from time to time, in between calling Pete a fat bastard for eating the last of his Captain Crunch and complaining about the heating bill not getting paid last winter.

If Pete realizes anything, he’s either oblivious or painfully uninterested. Because Patrick knows that Pete’s just being Pete whenever he throws himself on top of Patrick or presses his lips against Patrick’s neck during shows.

It’s not that Pete’s a whore or anything; he’s just in love with the world, and the world loves him right back. It doesn’t really help how Patrick’s heart skips whenever Pete’s too close, or how he finds himself smiling whenever Pete is.

What is a secret is how Patrick pictures things in his head, how he runs through so many ways that something, anything, could happen and—it’s stupid and childish but Patrick can’t stop thinking about scenes that wouldn’t even work on the pages of a romance novel, let alone real life. As much as Patrick tells himself that things can’t and won’t work out with Pete, that someday down the line he’ll look back at this all and laugh about how much of a teenage girl he’s being, he doesn’t want to wake up.

Meeting Pete in the kitchen at four in the morning, sharing kisses in between making pancakes on the griddle and getting involved that the impromptu breakfast burns shouldn’t really be all that romantic. But the way Patrick thinks about his fingers running over Pete’s skin in the soft light, Pete pressing Patrick against the counter. The way Patrick can imagine the bruises, the way Pete would laugh and point out that they’re going to set off the smoke alarm and Patrick not caring and continuing on, anyway.

But it never really happens that way, and Pete’s more likely to cop a feel or list off facts he learned from the Discovery Channel in a horrible fake Australian accent to Patrick than to actually kiss him. So Patrick deals, keeps those fantasies in his head, all while rolling his eyes at Pete and calling him a douche.

It’s a fair (enough) trade, he figures.

--

When Pete ends up knocking on Patrick’s door on a Sunday afternoon, it’s enough to make him look up from his computer and wonder what the hell is going on.

Joe’s gone for the weekend. They haven’t been fighting, but they haven’t been talking much, either. And normally if Pete needs Patrick he just walks in, despite the time or ignoring the lock that doesn’t quite work on Patrick’s door or whether or not Patrick even wants to talk. So Patrick smiles, even though he’s confused, and goes to open the door only to find a pair of shoes on the other side instead of Pete.

There isn’t a word for how much Patrick wants to sink through the floor, how hot his face feels, and how irrationally angry he feels all at once. The shoes are obviously meant for a girl, some brightly colored strap-and-heel combination and Patrick wants to throw them at the wall or Pete’s face. Preferably the latter.

Instead he takes a breath, picks up a note written on the same paper from the sticky-pad on the fridge, and reads. And—he doesn’t really know what to think, he feels the small i thought itd match the dress—put it on and meet me in the living room in20 ? is staring up at him and laughing and, this can’t be a joke, can it? This was done, it was over and done with and it was never to be brought up again.

For some reason Patrick’s stomach is doing something differently now, his cheeks still pink and hot and he doesn’t know why he’s even considering this. He picks up the shoes, anyway, and looks around the hallway, lets out a small “Pete?”. When Pete’s no where to be found the door is closed again.

The dress is still soft. In Patrick’s head it made sense that it wouldn’t be, after being shoved in his closet for so long, but it still is, and whenever it touches his skin it makes him pause. He figures that getting it over with quickly would be the best option, like ripping a band-aid off or something as annoying and painful. So he takes his shirt off while he kicks off his shoes, mutters something even he can’t decipher and decides to throw the dress on before he takes off his pants.

When it’s all done he feels ridiculous. He can’t get the sandals on properly, even though they’re the right size and he’s still so hot all over and the only thing that feels normal is his hat—which he pulls down as he looks at his pale legs, and lets out a something that resembles a laugh and a dry sob.

Patrick ends up with his back against his bedroom door, arms around his knees and face buried in the white material. He’s not even that uncomfortable in the dress, it’s just that he doesn’t feel comfortable with his anything, really. His legs and arms and back that’s littered with pale freckles and it’s stupid because he never feels comfortable, he tells himself, but this is so different. He can’t think of even seeing Pete like this, can’t make himself get up only to see that it was some elaborate Prank or something that he can’t even fathom, because this is just so strange.

“Hey,” Pete says, softly.

It’s enough to make Patrick look up, worry before realizing that Pete’s outside his door. There’s a soft thud when Pete sits down and leans against the door, and for some reason Patrick feels calm.

“Hey,” he says, leaning his head against the door, eyes closed.

Pete hums something softly before saying, “So, are you going to let me in or are you going to come out?”

Patrick can practically hear the smile in Pete’s voice. He laughs.

“I can’t put these shoes on,” he says simply.

It’s strange, because it’s comfortable more than anything. Patrick feels like it’s something normal, like when Pete has to whisper something in Patrick’s ear to get him ready to go onstage, or whenever Pete fights for something he wants in a song and—it’s just them.

“Okay then,” Pete starts, “I’ll wear the shoes, you wear the dress, and you come out and we can eat the fucking fantastic picnic I have set up in the living room. Afterwards, we can cuddle and I’ll tell you you’re pretty and you’ll tell me to shut up, that you’re not, we’ll argue, and it’ll be okay.”

Patrick’s head goes into overdrive that can be summarized by a series of exclamation points. And he doesn’t know what to say, so he just laughs softly before standing up.

He brushes the dress a couple of times before pulling at the hem, and then takes a breath before turning around and opening the door.

Pete starts to say something, with that stupid smile on his face, and Patrick stops him by putting his hands the side of Pete’s face and kissing him.

It isn’t what he pictured their first kiss would be like, because it’s real. Patrick’s more than okay with that.