Peroxide (Peterick)

why is there no capitalisation in the titles tho

When I asked Pete to take me home, I didn't destine him to stay, but I suppose it's a show for my mother — who always reminds me to make new friends, as if I leave the house on an occasion other than to take my medicine — so having him here isn't so terrible.

That, and I'm too anxious to tell Pete to leave, but after a warm welcome supplied by him to my mom, the idea of hosting him isn't as awful as I had once predicted, and demanding that he gets out is now becoming perverse to my mother's whims.

Not that I mind much, but someone could simply wink at my mom, and she'd be hooked and invite them over for casserole. I'm sure she has good intentions, though.

Stepping through the door, the sharp hiss of the winter air is stifled by the cozy aroma of apple and cinnamon, most likely from my mother's favorite soap, and the small woman scurries out of the living room to greet us.

"Patrick!" she squeals, piercing my cheeks with her fingertips and moving on to Pete without questioning why this strange boy is in her house. "I'm so glad you're here."

My head clicks into an angled stance. "Am I usually not?"

"Perhaps it's because you've brought someone new." The edge of my mom's rose-tinted lips curves towards the sky in an action of secrecy, and Pete reciprocates it for fear of displeasing her.

That forgetful mother of yours finally figured it out, huh?

I don't particularly enjoy my mother's company, but the voices are enough for me to adapt to a newer approach. This woman raised me, and though she might not have done a very good job at it, it's still becoming to be grateful.

"Yes, Mrs. Stump." Pete's grin flickers on and off as my mom's gaze rotates between us. "My name's Pete Wentz."

My mother's hand extends in the most elegant of fashions, and Pete's ironic nature would suggest that he would kiss it like he's also strutting around a sophisticated party, but he doesn't, only acquaints his skin with hers and shakes steadily.

"Will you be eating dinner with us, Mr. Wentz?" My mother strays from our party to boil water for a pasta dish and appear, at least to Pete, as though she has culinary expertise; I've been living with her long enough to understand that the best she usually creates is cup noodles, and even those are from the grocery store.

Pete's eyes flash in a signal to me, pleading for guidance, and I nod. He dispenses a jumpy sigh and answers, "If you'll have me."

My mom's wooden spoon swirls the sultry water around its pot absently, humming at my new companion's reply. "Wonderful. I'd be glad to have you."

After the response to Pete's proposition has been uttered, awkwardness slithers on the walls and poisons the prior mood of jubilance.

"I'll call you when dinner's ready," my mother proclaims by the time thirty seconds have gone by, taking a hammer to the unbroken ice.

My skull oscillates undeviatingly, directing Pete towards the living room until my mother finishes preparing the meal.

Hey, I guess it's not so bad to be trapped with another person, especially when it's Pete Wentz. For a night, though...that's a different story.

~~~~~

"What's with all the bottles of hydrogen peroxide?" Pete pauses his scavenging of my room to ask this simple question.

There is a plethora of answers to this. I could keep them because I get hurt a lot and need to clean up the wounds (though that probably wouldn't pass by him; he's already detected that I don't go outside much). I could keep them because a medical drive had an unwelcome surplus and decided to give them to my family. I could keep them because I like to do experiments. Many options to choose from.