Book of my favorite Petericks

Best Kept Secert

"I think I'm dying," Pete whines, dramatically fanning himself with what appears to be the latest issue of Cosmo, Patrick thinks, but he knows better than to ask. Though, the better question he supposes, is how did it end up on his coffee table?

Taking a quick look around, it's only then that Patrick realizes just how much of Pete resides in his apartment. From the free weights sprawled across the far end of his living room, to the endless supply of hoodies that take up far too much space in his closet, even to Hemmy's spare food and water dish, which have their own place in Patrick's kitchen. To the untrained eye, Pete and Patrick are practically a couple.

A couple of what? Patrick doesn't know. At least, not yet, anyway.

"Why are you dying?" Patrick asks flatly, setting down the newspaper he'd been reading, so that he can properly evaluate Pete's current state of distress. "Are we talking theoretically, or actual 'Code Blue' here?" he adds, his lips twitching slightly. He wants to laugh, but again, he knows better, lest he irritate Pete any further. Not that he doesn't love doing that, it's just that Patrick knows that payback is a bitch, and admittedly, he's not in the mood for Pete's particular brand of humor.

"It's too fucking hot," Pete grumbles, hastily tossing the magazine onto Patrick's coffee table before he begins peeling off his saturated T-shirt. Patrick tries not to watch, though he fails spectacularly. At least Pete doesn't notice, Patrick thinks, as he steals one more quick glance. Smooth tanned skin, well defined biceps which were no longer encased by constrictive spandex, and deep brown eyes that are the very center of Patrick's universe? Oh yes, Pete Wentz is definitely a thing of beauty.

"It's Los Angeles. It's supposed to be hot," Patrick points out, using the hem of his hoodie to mop up his own sweaty face.

"You need to get the fucking a/c fixed. Stat," Pete reminds him for the third time this week.

Patrick sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose to ward off his impending headache. "Thank you CNN; I know the air needs to be fixed. I called the repairmen two fucking days ago, and they said they'd be here tomorrow at the earliest."

"Did you offer to blow any of them?" Pete asks, clearly amused with himself.

Patrick sighs again. "No, Peter. I didn't. Unlike some of us, I don't think that all problems can be solved by sex," Patrick deadpans, picking up his newspaper and trying very hard not to stare at Pete's beautiful sweaty body, and myriad of tattoos. "In fact, that's how most of them start," Patrick finishes his thought as he opens the newspaper.

"You are way too young to be this cynical," Pete chimes in, flashing Patrick that smile. The one that excites him, scares the hell out of him, and melts the elastic of his underwear in equal proportion.

"Whatever," Patrick mumbles, looking away quickly. Now he's the one who's irritated, and it's all Pete's fault. Was it this hot ten minutes ago? He wonders, as he gets up and paces his kitchen. Back and forth, back and forth. Wandering aimlessly, really. It seems to feel a lot less hot in there, though, he suspects, it's only because the tile is blissfully cold against his bare feet. He needs to cool off properly, so he opens his fridge and surveys it's contents: spring water, diet cranberry ginger ale, an assortment of veggie-like things, and vegan hot dogs. Things he knows he didn't buy. Where the hell is all the comfort food?

"Remind me never to let you and Andy go grocery shopping for me ever again," Patrick shouts suddenly, as he slams his fridge shut.

"Check the cabinet over the microwave, dude. There's Pop Tarts."

Right. Like Patrick could reach it?

"If you hop up onto the counter, you can reach it better," Pete adds, which causes Patrick's eyebrows to shoot up. Can Pete read his mind? He probably can, Patrick realizes, chuckling to himself. Oh, the discoveries he'll make.