question everything (( Peterick oneshots ))

Gross

Patrick is short.

Like really, really short.

Like he's too big for the kids section because he's not super skinny dude, but he barely fits into x-small men's clothes.

It's kind of really funny.

Like I get it—I'm short too. I'm 5'7. But Patrick, Patrick is a midget.

He's 5'3.

He is the height of a twelve year old girl.

So I immediately can tell it's my army green sweatshirt, that might it add is even a bit big on me, that is the one he's wearing because it's down to his knees.

He walks into the middle of the tour bus, hands rolled up into the sleeves. He has bear legs, but he's wearing baby blue socks that end just about the ankle. His hair's a mess—suggesting he just woke up. It's only eight o' clock in the morning, after all. His thick rimmed black glasses fall down his nose a bit, him pushing them up every now and then.

He smiles tiredly. He then takes a seat next to me, resting his head on my shoulder. He sighs in contempt, eyes closing.

I raise an eyebrow.

"Patrick, is that a new sweatshirt?" I ask to fuck with him.

He smirks, eyes still closed.

"Yea...got it in San Antonio a few days ago after our show."

"Oh really now?"

I rub the back of his neck, pulling him into my lap. He wraps his arms around my neck, leaning forward into me.

I can see now that he's shifted that he's wearing dark purple boxers with little cartoonish planets and stars on them in white.

"Mhmm..." He sighs into my neck.

"I like your boxers, they're cool. I'll have to borrow them sometime..." I pull at the elastic above his ass, "just like how someone borrowed something of mine."

"Really?" He plays dumb, "and who would that be, Pete?"

"I don't know, Patrick...maybe you could tell me."

"Yea, I don't know, Pete." Patrick nuzzles his face into my neck further.

I chuckle.

"I think you do."

Patrick laughs silently.

"I don't know what you're talking about..."

"Really now?"

I poke his sides, he flinches. He gasps and laughs for a second, then I stop. He gives me a warning look saying 'don't you fucking touch me.'

I poke my finger back into his sides and he starts hysterically laughing, gasping for air.

I pick him up and throw him into the couch we're sitting on. I crawl on top of him and tickle his stomach and sides.

"F-FUCK Y-Y-YOU...PETE...PETE!" He screams.

This continues for another minute or two, then I hear a knock on the door frame into the living room.

I stop tickling Patrick and look at who's at the door.

Joe is stands with his head facing away from us, hand on the door frame—I higher up part.

"Are you guys fucking?" He asks.

"Nah." Patrick and I laugh out.

He turns to face us, smiling lightly. "Okay cool. Just wanted to make sure because Patrick you were kinda screaming Pete's name, and I just wanted to know if you guys wanted to stop at the rest stop coming up."

Patrick and I look at each other, then back at Joe. He both nods to him.

Joe walks out and Patrick yells: "Also, Joe, where the fuck are we heading?!"

"We're on our way to Houston, baby!" Patrick laughs at the response.

"Okay, cool!"

"Where's Andy!?" Pete asks.

"Literally vomiting, don't use the bathroom it's like a war zone in there!" Joe calls one last time.

"Ew..." Pete mutters.

"Yea, gross."

"You're gross."

"You know what's gross?" Patrick looks at Pete, sitting up.

"What?"

"Your damn sweatshirt," Patrick pulls on the sweatshirt he's wearing, "like, when's the last time you washed this thing? Four years ago?"

Pete smirks.

"So you admit to wearing my sweatshirt..?"

Patrick frowns.

"Fuck you."