L&H: 02

Feb. 23rd, 2007 11:35 pm
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Lines and Hearts (2/6)
Author: [livejournal.com profile] sharon_hate
Rated: R (language)
Disclaimer: These are fictional events.

“Let’s stay friends” is one of the stupidest phrases Patrick has ever heard. (Patrick/Pete)




02: Stealing.


The original agreement, that both Patrick and Pete established, was that Pete would move into Patrick’s apartment to help out with the rent. Rent was $800. Patrick was paid $500 (The Dilemma). At the time, the Agreement was very reasonable and worked in both their favors. Patrick would not be forced to live on the streets or move back in with his parents (He still has not decided which would be more degrading) and Pete would get the pleasure of being bathed in his wonderful boyfriend’s presence. (Among other things.)

They were in love and would be together forever.

Forever actually happens to only be approximately two years.

Pete suddenly remembers why he moved in with Patrick.

And Patrick seems to have been so caught up in his own misery and lack of self-worth that he completely forgot about The Dilemma.

So when Pete tells Patrick he has someone in mind (after he gracefully shovels another slice of Michael Angelo pizza into his mouth and before Joe can launch into another one of his inordinate rants), he only receives a confused and slightly disturbed look.

The vaguely uneasy (and nauseous) feeling Patrick still hasn’t been able to shrug off since Pete entered his/their (past tense) apartment might prove it a difficult task to respond. But if there’s one thing Patrick hates more than awkward moments/silences, it’s making them worse, so he answers Pete to his best ability.

“In mind for what?” Patrick asks cautiously, eyebrows furrowing. He wants to make sure he is quite aware of what he is agreeing to, so as not to get himself into another situation similar to the last.

(“Stay friends? Sure! Why not?” It’s an exaggerated and overstated perspective of what actually happened, but quite similar, regardless.)

“For this whole apartment-thing…” Pete tells him, hand gesturing along. He sits up slightly, pulling his left leg underneath himself, and sits back down onto the orange, crushed velvet chair. The chair manages to moan despite the fact that Pete is not too much of a strain.

Patrick pales suddenly.

“Oh, right.”

Even if Pete is the one who prompted the break up, he can’t help but find it unbelievably adorable that Patrick was too busy sulking over the Loss of Pete to remember that he might very well be kicked out of his humble abode. (However small, cluttered and beige it may be.) Before he can debate over whether it’s because of his narcissism or his genuine love for Patrick (The friendly kind), he decides it would be best if he got back to the point.

“Okay, so I know this guy,” Pete begins, “His name is Andy and he works at Golden Apple. He’s a real nice guy.”

Nice guy is often used to describe whack jobs and would be sex offenders. It would be rude to point this out, though, so Patrick remains silent.

“Dude, that totally means he’s psycho,” Joe rolls his eyes. “He’s going to stay for a night, then make off with all Patrick’s valuables.”

“First off,” Pete points out, swallowing a bite of pizza, “Patrick doesn’t have valuables.” Patrick remains quiet, for it is a very true statement. Joe throws him a stern look, but sighs. It’s much easier to accept Patrick’s self-deprecating nature, than to actually do anything about it. “And secondly, he really is a nice guy. He plays drums. And he listens to Radiohead. Pat, you love Radiohead.”

Pete grins widely, satisfied with his logic. Surely there are no flaws with that sort of reasoning.

Patrick is not in any sort of position to oppose the idea of “Andy”. His view shifts back and forth between the two guests in his apartment. Joe continues to give him a dark look (“You’re an adult, you can find your own room mate,” it says.) and Pete smiles encouragingly. (“C’mon, Patty-Cakes! You trust me, don’t you?”)

Patrick really doesn’t have any reason to trust Pete anymore, but, once again, it would be rude to point this out. Patrick is not a rude person. On the contrary, he’s actually very polite (Even to ex-boyfriends who have shattered his heart into millions of small, jagged pieces – the kind that force you to go to the hospital to have them removed if they were to ever be stepped on) and the thought that he might offend someone horrifies him greatly.

“Well,” Patrick says slowly, almost apprehensively. Joe’s face brightens. “I guess I could meet him…” Joe’s face falls.

“Great!” Pete beams. Quickly leaning over the small coffee table they are situated around, he surprises Patrick by giving him a short, tight squeeze. Patrick’s face reddens slightly. Physical contact in any way only a few short days after the break up is too much for his mind/body to handle.

Pete does not care, though. Helping Patrick find a new room mate is his own personal redemption. And besides, it’s the least he could do, right? Pete ponders this. Not only is he trying to redeem himself by showering Patrick with potential room mates, but he’s still working on the whole “friendship” thing. Patrick’s discomfort is incredibly obvious and even though Pete would like to just leave him be… He simply cannot.

Pete has a mission statement: “Be. His. Friend.” (A tone is implied) and he will do anything to succeed in that mission. (Short of killing Patrick, of course.) He is, after all, a very determined man.

The night begins to wind down, the boundless pizza supply wanes, and Pete decides this would be a good moment to make his exit. Pete, you may know, is all about making exits.

While Joe lounges on the ratty couch, one leg thrown over the back, Patrick remains sitting on the floor, exactly three feet from Pete, back straight (Again, manners) and seemingly incredibly tense. Patrick did not “loosen up” as Pete had hoped, and if anything, had worsened as the hours were counted.

“So, uh…” Pete throws out there blankly. Patrick’s head snapped up from whatever gaze he had been set on (Heaven knows he couldn’t glance over anywhere in the near vicinity of Pete) and settled on Pete’s rising form. Joe opened one bright blue eye, and then promptly shut it for the pale light from the tall lamp was much too aggravating. “I think I’m going to head out now. It’s, like, what? Midnight?” Joe and Patrick nod lamely.

Patrick stands up, a tad wobbly from numb legs and pads over to where Pete stands awkwardly.

“Do you want me to call you a cab or something?” Patrick asks. It’s awfully late and Patrick would hate to find out something horrible had happened to Pete (Something involving a lead pipe) on the way back to wherever it was he happened to be living (Patrick hadn’t dared to ask yet). He would feel the same way if it were Joe (Only Joe doesn’t leave at night. In fact, he barely leaves in the morning.) or anyone else for that matter. Patrick is a naturally caring person.

“I’m a big boy, I can handle it.” Pete, if you have ever met him, is not a terribly large man. In fact, he is quite small (5’7”, 120 lbs.). Realistically speaking, the odds are that he would not be able to handle it. “And if I notice any hoodlum trying to follow me, I’ll just find a payphone and call Chris.”

Patrick frowns in confusion.

“Who’s Chris?”

And it’s as if time slows down and Pete can actually see his words floating about in the ether, dancing and parading to a tune he cannot hear. Pete wonders idly if it’s possible to pick the words off from the figurative clothes line and swallow them back up. It isn’t.

“Meow! Meow! Meow! Meow!”

Both Patrick and Pete’s eyes shift to the clock in the small kitchen(ette). Joe only digs himself farther into the brown couch.

The walls in Patrick’s (once Pete’s) apartment were, at one time, white. But because of the horrible fluorescent lighting (“It keeps the roaches away…”), they’re now stained yellow. An optimist like Patrick describes them as “warm beige”. Joe describes them simply as being dirty.

“Chris is my new room mate.” Pete’s words are flat and don’t hold any real meaning like they usually would. Patrick takes this is a bad sign. “And, uh, we’re kinda seeing each other.”

A very bad sign, thinks Patrick to himself.

The silence is once again thick and it appears that Joe will not be coming to the rescue. Pete rubs the back of his neck idly; it’s a nervous habit of his. The cat clock has stopped meowing insistently at them, but its eyes continue to switch back and forth. Pete remembers hating the clock at first, but then eventually began to anticipate its somewhat musical antics. Pete likes things like that; they’re oddly comforting.

“Wow,” Patrick breathes, but immediately winces. He mentally kicks himself for his lack of tact. “Where did you meet him?” It’s a very awkward proclamation (Patrick’s voice randomly rises an octave or two mid-statement), Pete notes, but he appreciates the thought.

“I would just sort of see him around sometimes. And then, we just hooked up,” Pete shrugs. The uncomfortable feeling in Patrick’s stomach returns tenfold. It took them six months to move in together, and Pete and Chris have only formally known each other a maximum four days.

Patrick emits a loud, blood-curdling groan of horror. (Internally.) He can’t help but to feel a bit astonished and overwhelmed. He decides his incredulity will not become a habit. It’s not as if it’s entirely mind-boggling that he would do something like that. He’s more concerned over the type of guy this Chris-person is, letting some strange man (Very strange, he thinks) live with him. ‘What on earth could Pete be doing in exchange for such arrangements?’ Patrick ponders. He resists the urge to glare off into the distance.

“So, anyways…” This was not in the plan, Pete shakes his head. This isn’t the sort of thing one can announce randomly. (Not with friends like his. Bias, he feels.) Time and thought must go into it, until he has the perfect words to not make himself seem like a jack ass. Pete is very good at that (most of the time). “Before I head out, I wanted to tell you that I’ll call you tomorrow so we can talk about this Andy thing.”

“Yeah, okay,” Patrick nods dumbly, staring down at his white socks. Sighing, Pete leans in and wraps his arms around Patrick’s slightly shorter frame. Patrick stiffens and Pete acts as if he doesn’t notice. When he pulls away, Patrick forces a smile, but it’s half-hearted and causes Pete to frown.

“Tell Joe I called him a greedy Jew.” There’s a grunt that can be vaguely heard in the background. Patrick scoffs/smiles, which, in turn, causes Pete to beam. “You should smile more.”

Of all the things Pete has moaned to and at Patrick during the heights of passion, he’s never even once batted an eyelash, but a simple compliment sends a blush burning all over him, from head to toe.

Pete smirks to himself when he remembers the first time he witnessed Patrick’s full body blush. (If only Joe knew what had occurred on that horrifyingly tattered couch.) When he realizes what exactly he’s become so reminiscent about, he laughs loudly and shakes his head, a small grin still present.

“Bye, Pat.”

As soon as Patrick hears the heavy door click shut and Pete’s footsteps echoing through the hall, he lets out a sigh he wasn’t aware he was holding. Patrick immediately scurries over to his couch and glowers down at a resting Joe. (His ‘pimp’ jacket now rests over him as a make-shift blanket. It reminds Patrick of a homeless man sleeping on a bench that he had seen earlier.)

“Why would you do that? Why? Why? Why?” Each figurative question rises in tone and Patrick’s expression becomes increasingly erratic. The shrill of his voice causes Joe to jerk awake, but apparently, not enough to jolt his brain into any legitimate activity.

“I have no idea…” Joe states lazily, sitting up slightly. “It seemed like the thing to do at the time.” He shrugs in apology (Or so Patrick would like to think of it as.) and lies back down.

“Don’t shrug at me…!” Patrick crosses his arms. “He was here. His essence is still here, I can feel it,” Patrick ignores Joe’s comment of I’m sure he left his essence in other places, too, “I’m going to, like, disinfect everything.” Patrick’s bespectacled eyes dart around the room warily, as if something horrific were about to pop out from behind one of the few pieces of furniture.

“So what’re you going to do about this whole-thing?” Joe asks, surprisingly calm. Patrick momentarily ends his intense scrutiny of his home and rolls his eyes with a huff.

“What am I going to do? I thought this was part of your ‘master plan’…” he trails off sardonically, pouting. In all honesty, Patrick has no idea what he really is going to do. He doubts jumping off a bridge is a very logical choice.

“I have no such thing!” Joe protests, managing to fully sit up from the sunken in couch. “And if I did, how would you know? What gave it away?”

“He’s been going out with this guy for three days, maybe four! And they’ve already moved in with each other,” Patrick chooses to ignore Joe’s irrelevant questioning and begins his own rant. He gets so few these days. “I did the math, Joe. In comparison to the timeline of our relationship, they’ve been shoving two months into every day, slept with each other 20 minutes after they met and in two weeks they’ll probably start adopting kids and name them inane things like Dorian!” Patrick is now in hysterics, gesturing wildly, hoping it will somehow strengthen his tirade.

“I like that name,” Joe cuts in. He still remains stationary on the couch, the imprint of his body sucking him further into its innards.

“It’s a horrible name!” Patrick feels very strongly about this. But Joe now feels lost, and thinks that maybe he missed out on a key point Patrick made in his short speech.

“Wait… Pete’s already with some other dude?” Patrick stares at him as if he’s grown another head. (Which, really, isn’t a very accurate description at all. Both Joe and Patrick think that if someone were to randomly sprout another skull, your reaction would be much more panicked than the clichéd stupor.)

“Yeah!” Patrick declares, rolling his eyes. “Did you not catch that? Because I could have sworn you were listening. Why weren’t you? You might be able to help me with this.”

“Help you with what?” Joe screeches, thoroughly confused. Patrick groans and throws himself onto the couch next to Joe. His body flops over and his face rests against the rough material of the couch.

“I have no idea,” Patrick sighs, not lifting himself from his defeated position. “What am I supposed to do? Because I really just want to give up at this point.”
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