Patrick’s shoulders are set, and he’s not looking at Pete. Pete approaches with caution. He’s got more than one black eye sneaking on a moody Patrick.
But then he hears a sniffle, and he throws all caution to the wind, at the process also throwing himself on Patrick, plastering himself against Patrick’s back.
“Don’t cry,” Pete says, frantic. “Please don’t cry. There are good things in the world, and I’d tell you what they are but I can’t think of any when you’re crying.”
The noise Patrick makes is definitely a sniffle. “I thought the world was a black and barren wasteland?”
Pete makes a rude noise. “Please. Who told you that?”
“You did,” Patrick says pointedly. “And you were crying, and you got eyeliner all over my second-favorite t-shirt.”
Pete hooks his chin over Patrick’s shoulder. “I’ll wash it for you,” he says. “C’mon, I’ll let you punch me in the dick, that always cheers you up.”
“I’m not catering to your fucked-up masochistic streak,” Patrick says, but he finally turns around and buries his face in Pete’s neck.
Pete rests his arm around Patrick’s shoulders. Patrick’s still sniffling, and the front of Pete’s shirt is getting wet, but now it’s bearable. Now he knows Patrick’s not alone.