Chapter Text
Okay, the thing is, Patrick doesn't know why he kissed Pete, and now it’s all he can think about. They’re at a rest stop getting lunch and he’s watching Pete try and force Joe into one of those little mechanical kiddie rides that needs a quarter to operate.
He was drunk, is the thing. And it was on stage. So that doesn’t count, right? Like, as an actual kiss?
It doesn’t count. It’s like when Pete presses up against him on stage and licks his neck - it’s just a performance, just for show. It’s definitely not cheating. It doesn’t count. It can't count.
Patrick should really call Scott on the payphone in the parking lot. Their original plan had been for Patrick to call as often as possible, whenever he got a chance to use a phone. But now, after their fight, Patrick doesn’t know if that plan has changed. Will Scott still be acting like an asshole when he calls? Will it be accurate, this time?
No, Patrick can’t think about that. He refuses to feel bad about having slept around in high school. Thats dumb and Scott should never have brought it up.
But what if it’s true? What if Patrick really is just a slut who gives it up to anyone. He kissed Pete (doesn’t count, doesn’t count, doesn’t count). God, what if he calls Scott and can’t stop himself from telling him about it? He’s never been a good liar.
Fuck. He can’t call Scott. He can’t keep fucking thinking about this. He’s on tour. With his band. This is supposed to be fucking awesome. It is fucking awesome!
You know what? Patrick is nineteen and living his fucking life. He’s bound to make mistakes, but so does everyone! He’s traveling around the country in a stupid beat up van with his three best fucking friends doing what he loves and getting paid for it. Why the fuck is he wasting his time feeling nervous and guilty and just generally like shit?
Fuck this. Whatever. He kissed Pete (on stage, which doesn’t count), that happened, he can’t go back and change it now. He’ll put it out of his mind and move forward and have a good fucking time on this tour. And thats that.
“Chocolate or vanilla?” Andy asks from behind Patrick, startling him into almost falling off the picnic table he’s sat at. Andy just looks at him and blinks, two milkshakes in his hands. “I know you and Pete both have a preference, but I couldn’t remember which one, so I got one of each and one of you is just gonna have to be stuck with the second choice. Pete says he doesn’t care, so. Chocolate or vanilla?”
Pete definitely cares. Pete is the kind of obnoxious person who whines for the rest of the day if the waitress gets his order wrong and brings him chocolate instead of vanilla. But he knows Patrick likes vanilla best too.
“I’ll take chocolate,” Patrick says, taking it from Andy. “Any vegan options?”
“They have plain lettuce, for their burgers. I just asked for a salad made of that and an apple.”
“Oh, man, that sucks,” Patrick says, laughing a little, and takes a sip from his straw.
The show that night starts out on a high note. Patrick is tipsy but not drunk, Joe is excited but not nervous, Andy is into it but not too intense, and Pete is… how he always is, really. Taking all the energy from the crowd and throwing it back at them times two. It’s all going well, and Patrick has his hat pulled low over his eyes and is singing into the microphone with everything he’s got, already pouring with sweat just two songs in.
It’s not until he’s singing Saturday that he notices something is very much different. Pete has pretty much stuck to his own side of the stage (not counting his crowd surfing) this whole set. Normally, he’ll crowd up against Patrick for at least every other song, shouting into his microphone, or ruffling his hair under his hat, or pressing his mouth to Patricks jaw and neck. Especially during Saturday.
It gets really weird when Pete goes over to Joes mic to shout along with the lyrics, instead of getting as close as he can to Patrick and singing it practically in his ear.
It feels… strange. Off balance. He’s so used to levering all his weight against Pete, shoving him away or leaning into him for reassurance, just being grounded by his best friend while he’s on stage. He doesn’t get nearly as scared anymore of the crowds as he used to - back at the one show that he played drums for Arma he’d nearly thrown up from nerves beforehand - but back when they started, Patrick really needed that, needed Pete all over him while they preformed. He feels pretty confident that he can get through a show without it (hell, he’s doing that right now), but it’s still strange, and suddenly he feels a little more exposed than he usually does. Like his armor is gone, or some other equally cliche metaphor. Whatever, Petes the one who’s good at metaphors anyways.
At least it’s their last song and Patrick doesn’t have to stay out there much longer. They say goodbye to the crowd and start packing shit up and taking it back to the van. Joe is grabbing their merch boxes to go and try to sell their shirts and CDs to the kids inside, so Patrick goes with him, figures that it’ll be easier than helping Andy take his drums down.
“Oh my god, you guys were so great,” some scene girl is saying, leaning up against the table that Joe is setting their stuff down on.
“Yeah, you know, it’s all about the team effort,” Joe says, like he’s some football player who just won a game. Patrick almost laughs at him. Then, the girl says “your bassist is so hot, can I get his number?” And Patrick doesn’t want to laugh anymore.
He always gets the same almost-jealous feeling when Pete sneaks away after shows with starstruck scene kids. He brushes it off and tries to be amused at Joes dejected expression as he tells the girl that Petes out back if she wants to ask him herself. She looks like Joe just made her day and hurries to the side door.
They sleep in the van that night, parked at a truck stop, and Patrick tries not to think about the fact that Pete has chosen to sleep in the middle row, instead of in the back with Patrick like usual. Tonight, Joe is curled up next to him, drooling a little bit onto the hoodie he’s using as a pillow. Patrick closes his eyes and turns over onto his other side.
He’s not jealous jealous of the people Pete disappears with. It’s not like he wants to be the one to disappear with Pete. Like, yeah, Pete is hot, that has been established, but Patrick is happily taken. Or, he’s taken, at least. Most of the time it’s happily.
But the point is that that can’t be where that jealousy comes from. It can’t.
What it’s probably from is just the attention. Patrick remembers when they first started out with Fall Out Boy, when Pete was pestering Patrick 24/7 trying to convince him to be their singer, all over him whenever they saw each other. And Pete still does that stuff, sometimes, he’s still touchy and affectionate and curls up with Patrick to sleep in the van (not tonight, but this is just a fluke, whatever). But not nearly as much as he used to.
He used to flirt with Patrick like crazy, always just teasing. And Patrick misses that attention. Not because it’s from Pete, not because it’s in any way sexual or romantic, just because he likes attention from his friends. He hates it from everyone else, but when it’s Pete - when it's any of my friends, he reminds himself - it’s different. It’s warm. It’s comforting. He lives off of it. Not that he’ll ever tell anyone any of that.
But thats why he’s got Scott, right? Scott loves him, pays attention to him more than anyone else. But he’s trying not to think about Scott right now. Or about Pete. God, he’s got more caution tape around his brain than a construction site.
Whatever. Tonights show was just kind of weird. Tomorrow, everything will be normal again.
Tomorrow is not normal. When they all wake up to start their day of driving, Pete volunteers to drive, and then says that Joe should be in the passengers seat. Patrick is always in the passengers seat when Pete is driving, that’s how it goes. But, whatever. Patricks too tired to care yet, so he just rolls his eyes and leans his head on Andys shoulder as they head to the next state over. He thinks he catches Pete looking at him in the rear view mirror, but Pete looks away too quickly to tell for sure.
This is getting annoying, really. Thinking back on yesterday before the show, Pete hadn’t been his normal touchy self then either. At least not with Patrick. Did Patrick do something? What the fuck is going on?
He decides he needs to test his theory during the show tonight.
Petes flirting with one of the bartenders while the rest of them set up, which isn’t really outside of the norm, but everything Pete is doing is getting on Patricks nerves right now. He thinks Joe can tell, because every time Patrick sets down a piece of equipment too roughly, he shoots him these concerned looks. He doesn’t say anything, though, so Patrick is just going to ignore it until he does.
The show, surprisingly, turns out probably being one of the best they’ve played.
Patrick is angry, but not in the way that makes him want to retreat, rather in the way that makes him spit Petes words out at the crowd like vitriol. He’s throwing himself around the stage, trying to subtly get closer to where Pete is, but Pete just keeps diving into the crowd, even when he really should be playing a section of a song instead. Andy keeps their rhythm up well, but Patrick is getting more and more frustrated as the night bares on.
When he finally manages to get in Petes face at one point during Dead On Arrival, he grabs the collar of his shirt and sings the words right into his face, mic in his other hand. Looking into Petes eyes while screaming “I know I’m not your favorite record” is a little too much for Patrick, though, so he pushes away and turns back to the crowd and just keeps going.
He’s sweaty and out of breath for the whole show, but he feels invincible, and he sounds fucking awesome. He’s dancing for Christs sake, he never dances in front of people. But here he is, up on a stage, swaying his hips, jumping around, tossing his head hard enough that his hat almost comes off. It doesn’t, of course, because he puts that shit on tight before a show, but it’s a near thing.
As the set goes on, Patrick does his best to block Pete from jumping into the crowd to avoid him. He steps in front of him, sings in his face, grabs his shirt or shoulder, shoves him. He can see Pete getting worked up, too, it’s obvious in the set of his jaw, the intensity of his gaze. Going near Pete on stage right now, it feels like pushing two polar magnets against each other. You get infinitely close, but only to be forced apart again quickly.
God, isn’t that how it feels to be around Pete all the time, though? It’s just that usually Pete is the one who’s trying to get as close as possible, and now Patrick has taken that role.
Patrick is achingly hard, and the second they finish playing their last song (Saturday, of course, in which he sings “me and Pete” with venom ringing out of his voice), he shoves his guitar into it’s case and storms off to the bathroom in the back.
He slams the door shut and leans back against it, too busy getting his belt and pants open to be grateful that it’s a single stall.
When Patrick finally gets a hand around himself, he groans in relief, louder than he normally lets himself even when he’s not in public. He bangs his head back against the wooden door as he fists his cock, hard and fast and mostly dry other than all the sweat that comes from preforming, and thinks of Pete. The way Pete leans all his weight on Patrick on stage, the way he breaths into his neck, the way he plants messy kisses on his cheek. He thinks of the first show on tour, Petes tongue in his mouth, lips taking control the second he’d realized what was happening.
Patrick comes all over his hand with a shout, hips bucking up into his fist.
In the van that night, Patrick turns uneasily in his sleeping bag as he tries to fall asleep. Petes driving with Andy sitting shot gun, and Joe wanted to sleep in the second row of seats, so Patricks in the back alone. He’s been trying to shut off his mind all night. Even since the show ended, he’s been holding on to this anger he feels towards Pete so that he doesn’t have to start feeling any other emotions that are threatening to pull at him (guilt, want, loneliness, guilt, sadness, guilt guilt guilt). And he is angry at Pete. For suddenly changing things up, for pulling away from Patrick and acting like he’s not doing anything, for getting as far from him as is possible on stage. He’s mad and he wants to yell but he can’t. What would he say? ‘Hey, how come you’ve stopped draping yourself all over me all the time and flirting with me nonstop? I miss it, I need it’?
They’ve got a whole tour left where they have to live in a literal car together for the next month. Patrick has no idea whats going on or how he’s going to deal with it. It’s just four days until they have their first motel night scheduled, though, so at least Patrick can complain to Joe then.
The following shows just build in tension until Patrick feels like he’s about to explode. And then he doesn’t, and the show is over, and he storms off stage and starts packing things into the van. Andy has stopped letting him handle the drums because apparently he’s being ‘too aggressive with the equipment’. After one of the shows, Patrick even snaps at Joe for asking him if he’s fine, which he feels really bad about afterwards. He knows he’s being an asshole, but he doesn’t know how to stop being an asshole specifically to Joe and Andy and continue being an asshole to Pete, who totally deserves it for being weird and cagey all tour now.
Also, every time Patrick is reminded of Scotts general existence (none of the guys have brought him up since that first show, but random things will make Patrick think of him now and then), he suddenly wants to hit something. Preferably himself. He doesn’t know where he stands morally on this whole jerking-off-and-accidentally-thinking-of-someone-else thing, but he knows he feels guilty as all hell.
So he tries to just not think of Scott at all. Which sort of gets ruined when Pete decides to randomly bring him up while they’re filling up on gas and snacks.
“You call Scott yet?”
Patrick almost winces hearing Pete say his name. The bitter tone he says it in doesn’t help, either.
“What?” Patrick asks, confused and already annoyed about this conversation.
“Scott. You know. Your boyfriend?”
“Yeah I know who he is, I mean why the fuck is it your business?”
“I don’t know, we’re friends aren’t we?” Pete asks, and Patrick almost wants to laugh at that one.
“Friends? You’ve barely said a word to me in the past few days. Why do you even care anyways?”
“I don’t care, I was just making conversation.”
“Feels like a pretty random fucking topic to bring up when you don’t care.”
“What are you even talking about?”
“I mean that you never usually talk about him, now you spend days basically icing me out and then randomly ask about my relationship?”
“I haven’t been icing you out, thats so dramatic, oh my god. We’re on our first tour, I’m just exhausted, this is how I get.”
“You still talk to Andy and Joe!”
Pete looks like he’s going to say something else, but then just rolls his eyes and walks away. And, fuck, Patrick desperately wants to grab his shoulder and whip him back around, make him fucking answer for himself, but they're in the candy aisle of a gas station and the guy at the register already looks pretty annoyed by the four rowdy guys that came in to wipe themselves down in his bathroom sink.
Fuck.
The show that night goes as all the shows have been going. Patrick fighting for Petes attention on stage while telling himself thats not what he’s doing, Pete avoiding Patrick and jumping into the crowd more than is necessary, Andy keeping perfect time, and Joe doing his spin-kicks like nothings going on.
Things don’t get worse until after the show.
“I’m rooming with Joe,” Andy calls, tossing one pair of keys at Pete and keeping the other.
They just checked into the motel, two separate rooms because the place is exceptionally cheap.
“What?” Patrick asks, at the same time as Pete says “Why?”
They both sound slightly incredulous, but neither of them will admit it.
“Because he’s the only one acting normal right now,” Andy says, rolling his eyes. “You two are being weird and annoying and need to work that shit out. And I need sleep, so I don’t wanna be involved.”
Patrick wants to protest more, but then Pete starts trying to convince Andy to change his mind.
“Andy, come on, you and I always room together. The two oldest and the two youngest, it just makes sense!”
“I don’t know why you have a problem sharing with me,” Patrick huffs, annoyed and, at this point, offended.
“Thats not- I don’t have a problem! I just prefer to room with Andy!”
“Oh really? What, is Andy better at braiding your hair and talking about boys while you decide which nail polish to use?”
“No, Patrick, I just- oh my god. Okay, fine, whatever, I don’t care.”
They go to their separate rooms and Patrick huffs angrily as he throws his suitcase onto his side of the bed.
“I don’t get your problem!” Pete suddenly exclaims once the door is closed behind them.
“MY problem? You’re the one who’s been acting weird as hell recently!”
"I just don't know what you want from me, Patrick!"
"I want you to be my fucking friend," Patrick shouts back.
"I'm trying to do that!" Pete runs a hand through his hair distractedly and steps closer. "I'm trying to just be your friend. You always push me away when I get too close or tell me to shut up when I flirt with you, and the second I actually fucking stop, you start acting like a brat!"
"I am not a brat," Patrick insists, voice dark and angry.
"What. Do. You. Want. From. Me," Pete asks, and he's so close, right in Patricks face, standing over him by their slight height difference. Just like last time, Patrick doesn't think before he does it. He just surges up and kisses Pete, hands fisted in his t-shirt.
And Pete is on him in an instant, hands on his jaw, turning Patricks head how he wants it, pushing him back against the wall.
"Fuck. Is this what you want?" Pete gasps, pulling away, hands still firm on Patricks neck and jaw. Patrick can't speak, just nods and licks his lips, wet now from Petes spit.
Pete dives back in and it's pure relief. It's like everything in his body lights up when Pete fucks his tongue into Patricks mouth, dirty and gross and fucking perfect. And then Pete is pulling away, stepping back until he's standing at the edge of the bed and can't go further, and Patrick is cold and alone and staring at Pete whose eyes are wide and lips are swollen.
"What about-" Pete starts saying, but he doesn't finish before Patrick interrupts.
"Please," Patrick begs, the word coming out so desperate, so pathetic, Patrick almost wants to cringe. But he can't hear Pete say what he knows Petes about to say right now. He can't hear that name from him.
Pete seems to get it, from the slightly pained expression on his face. He drops back onto the bed, sitting down and rubbing both hands over his face for a second, like he's thinking.
"Patrick."
"Pete, please. Just, let me- please," Patrick says, and he knows, he knows how fucking pitiful he sounds, but he can't help it. He stumbles forward towards the bed, towards Pete and stops about a foot away. He won't do this if Pete asks him to stop. He won't do this if Pete doesn't want it, need it, the way he does.
All it takes is for Pete to nod and say "okay" before Patrick is crawling into his lap on the bed, straddling his hips. He looks into Petes eyes, questioning. Pete tilts his head up and closes his eyes, so Patrick leans in and presses a soft kiss to his mouth, slotting their lips together. It's nothing like moments before. This is sweet, slow. This is lovely.
It only gets more intense when Patrick whines and presses his hips down, cock chubbing up as he thinks about Pete fucking him. Pete gets his hands around Patricks waist, holds his tight, and grinds up, letting Patrick feel him slowly getting hard through his jeans. Their kisses get more desperate, then, more like gasping for air than taking sips of water.
Eventually, Pete flips them over completely, moves them up to bed, so that he's hovering above Patrick. And Patrick, on his back looking up at Petes beautiful fucking face, is definitely cool with this development.
He frowns when Pete moves away, but once he realizes that it's just to pull shit shirt off, Patrick sits up and does the same. When Pete turns back to him, his eyes go right to Patricks chest, his waist, his torso. Part of Patrick wants to cover up, like always, but he lets Pete look. Which ends up being the right decision anyways, if the way Petes eyes go dark and he practically pounces back onto Patrick says anything.
Patrick laughs as Pete starts kissing up his neck and jaw, and Pete pulls back and smiles.
"God, Patrick. You're so fucking hot."
Before Patrick can return the compliment - because, truly, have you seen Pete without a shirt on? - Petes lips are back on his own, biting licking sucking, and by the time Pete has moved on to Patricks neck again, he's lost all capacity for words. All he can do is gasp and run his hands over Petes strong back, feeling the muscles there work as Pete holds himself up on his arms.
It doesn't take long for Patrick to start rutting up against his leg, desperate for more. Pete starts kissing and biting at his chest, and Patrick arches up into it and moans. Patricks hands are restless, running all over Petes torso, tugging at his hips to come lower, clutching at his hair, so he understands when Pete grabs his wrists and pins them down to the pillow above his head. He can't help it, he just wants wants wants.
Pete pulls back up, lips red and bitten, hair falling in his face.
“Shit, Patrick. So needy.”
Patrick goes even more red than he must already be, embarrassed.
“No, it’s hot,” Pete insists, “I always knew he wasn’t fucking you good.”
Patrick is too far gone to dignify that comment with a response, so instead he just bucks his hips up again, whining.
“Patience, Patrick,” Pete says, avoiding touching his hard cock.
“Fuck, just- just fuck me, god,” Patrick groans, straining his wrists under Petes grip.
Admitting that he wants Petes dick in his ass is worth the embarrassment, though, because Petes eyes go dark and his jaw tight. It takes a second for him to respond, but he finally lays his body down on top of Patricks, grinding their cocks together though the fabric of their pants. And, fuck, just from this Patrick can tell Pete is fucking hung. The thought alone pulls a whimper from his lips.
“Fuck,” Pete says, “don’t worry, gonna take care of you.”
He lets go of Patricks wrists and sits up to get his pants and briefs off as fast as possible. It would be silly, the way he’s shimmying around the bed desperate to get out of his clothes, if all of Patricks attention wasn’t currently stolen by Petes dick. He leans up on his elbows to watch as Pete grabs himself at the base, tugs a few times then moans all filthy.
Patrick gets with the program and scrambles out of his own jeans too, settling back against the headboard once he’s flung both his pants and boxers off the bed. But, god, he can barely take his attention of off PetePetePete, his long, hard cock, dark red with want, gleaming at the tip, thick, just the way Patrick likes it.
He needs Pete inside him, like, right now.
When Pete turns and sees Patrick and just sort of stares for a moment, Patrick thinks that maybe he doesn’t understand this urgency. So he does what he knows usually hurries guys up and flips over, gets onto his elbows and knees, and spreads his legs apart, ass up.
It has the expected effect, if the choked sound that Pete makes is any indication.
Then there are hands on his hips and Patrick is humming with content. Finally he’s getting what he wants, finally he can slip away into his head and just fucking feel.
And, fuck, does he feel it when Pete pushes a spit slick finger into him, calloused pad of his pointer finger dragging past Patricks hole.
“Fuck, Trick. So good,” Pete says, thrusting in and out in tandem with Patrick rocking back. “Lube, do you have-“
“Smallest pocket on the side of my bag,” Patrick rushes out immediately, ass clenching when Petes finger slips out, his warmth gone from Patricks hips and legs.
He’s back in an instant, though, and this time there are two fingers nudging against Patricks rim, generously coated with lube.
“You bring this knowing you’d use it?” Pete asks - more like grunts, as he shoves his fingers in and out, wringing moans and whines from Patrick.
“To jerk off with, asshole,” Patrick says between pants.
“And what do you like?” Pete keeps going, legs bracketing Patricks, dick grinding against his hip. “When you’re touching yourself.”
“Fuck, I-“ Patrick breaks off as his voice cracks when Pete twists his fingers particularly harshly. “Like this, like it hard. Rough.”
“Fucking knew it,” Pete mutters, and Patrick doesn’t have time to ask him what he means by that before another finger is pushing in, stretching him wide. All Patrick can do then is buck his hips back onto Petes hand and throw his head back in pleasure.
“Ready?” Pete asks, voice rough, grip on Patricks hip tightening incrementally.
Patrick doesn’t trust his voice right now so he just nods frantically and hopes that Pete gets the point.
He does, it seems, because no sooner than his fingers are gone is the dull tip of his cock pushing at Patricks hole.
Patrick doesn’t have time for anything careful or gentle, and he doesn’t want to wait and see if thats how Pete is about to try and treat him, so he shoves himself back onto Petes cock as soon as the head is breaching him.
“Fuck,” Pete grunts, letting go of the base of his cock and sliding all the way in.
Patrick can’t keep quiet. Petes dick is fucking perfect inside him. He can feel every inch, every centimeter, dragging against his walls and lightly brushing against his prostate. And he’s thick, stretching Patrick past what just three fingers could do.
“You fucking love this, don’t you,” Pete says, voice deep and strained as he pistons his hips against Patricks.
“Yes,” Patrick moans, because, fuck, yes. The drag of Petes cock inside him, the feeling of being full full full, right on the verge of almost too much, but not quite. He fucking craves this feeling. Every fucking day.
“Fucking gorgeous, Trick, so hot like this, taking it so well.”
Between the praise and Petes cock driving into him and Petes fingers digging bruises into his hips, Patrick can’t help it anymore and has to reach for his own dick, jerk himself off. He’s right on the edge, already so close. He hasn’t gotten to this point so fast in such a long time, he almost feels like it’s his first time all over again. Fuck, Pete is fucking him so good he feels like a virgin. How is he ever supposed to get over this?
Patrick comes with a bitten down whimper and drops his head down onto the pillows below him.
“So good,” Pete is chanting above him, speeding up his thrusts, “feel so fucking good.”
Patrick feels almost delirious in his comedown haze with the sensory shocks that Pete is sending through his body now, overstimulated and loving it.
Patrick lets himself pretty much go limp, lets Pete move his hips how he wants, until Pete thrusts once, twice, and finishes inside the condom. Patrick can’t feel it, necessarily, but it’s obvious from the sound Pete makes - almost a growl, and it’s so fucking sexy it should be illegal, seriously - and the way he buries himself deep inside Patrick and holds himself there.
Patrick pretty much just flops down onto the bed when Pete pulls out and gets rid of the condom, still on cloud nine from such a good fuck. He knows he’s probably smiling dopily, like he always does when he’s satisfied after sex.
Pete comes back to the bed, climbs over Patrick onto the other side, and curls up next to him.
They’re quiet for a bit, just looking at each other and smiling, before Pete laughs a little.
Patrick smiles wider and asks, “what?”
“Nothing, just. You look really cute right now.”
Patrick blushes and scrunches his eyes and nose up.
“Do not,” he says, just to be contradictory.
“You so do,” Pete insists, inching closer, foot nudging Patricks leg.
“Yeah, whatever.” It’s not a very good come back, but to be fair, Patrick is sleepy and happy right now and doesn’t really care.
Pete starts getting up and Patrick whines and grabs at his arm.
“Where are you going?”
“Well. You sort of have come all over your stomach and chest,” Pete says calmly.
Patrick lets go of him and giggles until Pete is back from the bathroom with a wet washcloth. He wipes Patrick down, so gentle compared to how they were handling each other just minutes before, until Patrick starts fussing about it and pushing the hand towel away.
Pete gives the bed under where Patrick had been kneeling a cursory swipe with the cloth and then lays back down next to Patrick. He somehow manages to pull the covers out from under them and get it over them, which Patrick has to applaud. It’s an impressive feat.
Patrick falls asleep like that over the next hour, drifting in and out of consciousness, cuddled up with Pete, sharing funny faces with him when he’s particularly awake.
It feels like it's exactly what he's been waiting for.