Peroxide (Peterick)

cryan ross

"Patrick, it's time to get up," a familiar voice coos, a gentle kiss pronging the tip of my nose as I release a disfavored groan and curl the pillow around me to block out the real world.

"Five more minutes," I screech through the muffler of cotton.

Pete chuckles a twitterpated rhapsody, still unrelenting. "It's Christmas."

I spring from the bed in an abrupt hurricane of elation, glee popping in my skin. "Christmas?"

"Yeah, and everyone's gathering around the tree." While I'm too stunned to react, Pete uses the chance to hybridize his hand with my hair as he pushes it back and sinks his lips into mine with an indomitable warmth.

The warmth is so thorough and genuine that he must have forgotten about what I did last night, how he wouldn't fulfill the mistletoe tradition because of it. He'll be prodded about it soon, though, when he sees the distrustful stare of Dallon around the Christmas tree as it clashes with the conventional merriment of the season.

This anxiety gores any sort of pleasure from being so close to Pete, but I would be living a lie if it weren't present, and it's been made evident that I abhor lies, yet I hate this sensation even more, but we're now moving towards the living room after peeling away, so I can't be distracted by my own nervousness.

Everyone but Ryan is domesticated on the couch near the cackling fire as they await the remainder of their party, and only one is absent.

"Where's Ryan?" Gerard's wondering discorticates the color from his usually hazel irises as it sticks to every area of the room in the expedition to find the milky Ryan Ross.

Brendon removes his legs from under him, rising from the couch with a proposal. "Should I find him?"

"If that'll wake him up."

With a cheerful nod, Brendon skips away to locate the slumbering Ryan, whom he'll probably tackle upon sight until he begs for mercy, and the guests wait excitedly for his return, glasses of egg nog poised a tad too fervidly in their clutch.

"Did you sleep well?" Lindsey greets, her face confined to sophistication, and I glance over at Pete.

"This asshole woke me up."

Pete nestles into me, his tone a scalding breeze in my ear. "We let you sleep for long enough, Patrick."

"Not long enough. I'm still tired."

Still tired from last night, that is. The night where I was chased around the house by an ostensible hallucination, which is the most logical thing I can think of, seeing as I've never been one for the supernatural, and my heart is still pumping.

Dallon is busying himself with something on his nail, probably something fake that will redirect him away from his old friend on the sofa, because like me, he's miffed about what happened last night, just without the plethora of possibilities and only the notion that I'm not all right in some shape, and there's a certain mystery that arises from those circumstances.

My analysis of Dallon is interrupted when Ryan stumbles into the room with an eager Brendon cleaving to his neck and burning hickeys into the flesh, but Ryan is too knackered to stop him, with his lids barely open and functional.

"Brendon, how about you get me some milk?" he grumbles, smacking away the all too fluorescent boy attached to him.

"We already have egg nog, though." The homosexual desquamates himself from his boyfriend long enough to gesture towards the platter of oddly colored substances foaming in glasses upon the coffee table.