Legal But Not Socially Acceptable (Peterick)

There's a Place Here in My Heart If You're in Dire Need of a Little Safety

Patrick sucked in a large breath, back against the fridge before he cautiously peeked around the corner and zeroed in on the teen sat stiffly on his couch, legs crossed and fingers curled loosely into the dark fabric of his somewhat torn sweatshirt. His hood was up, over his head that was thrown back, his eyes closed and his mouth set into a thin line.

The cop gulped, hadn't thought this through - after he told Pete that he had no issue speaking, or being spoken to, the boy had asked him if they could move to somewhere more private, while glancing around the concrete surrounding them with a bitten lip.

Patrick being Patrick had jerked his head up and down, had asked if his apartment would be a better choice. Pete gave him a wide-eyed look at that, but nodded all the same and answered with "That would be fine - perfect, even."

Patrick had swung open the car door, gestured a hand to the seat, smiling a kind smile at the younger man. Pete gave him a side look while settling himself into the vehicle, the cop had ignored it.

"In a police car, again," Pete had mumbled, chewing on the nail of his thumb. At that Patrick snorted, but given his current situation he was silent throughout the rest of the car ride. He'd say it was awkward, nice, but awkward. The teen had given him odd looks that seemed to last an eternity, an intense stare that gave Patrick chills down the back of his spine more times than he could count.

So he found himself in his kitchen, kettle on the stove, and his foot in his mouth. He had immediately asked if Pete would like a cup of tea - to calm his nerves and not even waiting for a reply, he had stumbled into his kitchen in a panicked state.

His eyes moved automatically to the rise and fall of Pete's chest, the boy's hands in his lap and his toes coiled and dug into the polyester of the sofa, a dark shade of burgundy Patrick had decided on. The shrill cry of the kettle sent a jump through Patrick and before the teen could catch him in the act of only innocent gazing he flung himself over to the stove to remove the kettle.

His head shot up at the sound of foot steps, turning he saw Pete stood there, eyes in motion, stirring from the tiled floor to the marbled counter tops all the way to the half full jar of cookies. "Nice place," he commented, quirking a small grin at Patrick.

"Thanks," the older said in reply, a blank expression molded onto his face to conceal the anxious feeling collecting in the pit of his stomach. Striving to begin small talk Patrick spun back to his task and stammered out "Um - uh, would you like some sugar? - honey? - I have - "

Pete gave a low laugh, already shaking his head. "No, thank you." Patrick nodded, ignoring the sweat beading at his hairline, threatening to drip down his forehead. He didn't know why he was so nervous. Not to clue as to why his tongue felt dry and his throat itchy. He knew the small talk wasn't necessary - he's here to hear Pete out...whatever he wanted to say - whatever he wanted Patrick to say.

As quiet as a mouse, Patrick filled the mug full of tea - jiggled his thigh while biting his lip. As he was doing this Pete sat himself down on a stool perched by the blotched counter. Patrick's gaze lingered downwards onto the murky liquid steaming from the cup for a drawn out moment. Words clawing at his throat - burning, yearning to escape.