Fireflies // Peterick

6.

Friday afternoon, before the dance, Pete was headed back to his room for a quick break. He was standing outside the door, key at the ready, when he heard singing.

Patrick singing.

Pete recognized it as something by David Bowie. He didn't know the name of the song, but he didn't care, because Patrick's voice was beautiful. It soared unlike any Pete had ever heard, unwavering even as Patrick hit and held notes Pete didn't think were real when it came to his own vocal range.

It felt like eavesdropping. And yet, he could only lean closer to the door for more sound.

He could only imagine what he looked like right now: eyes closed, forehead pressed to his door, palms pressed flat to the wood. Anyone passing by would've thought he was in a trance. "Just until the end of the song," he thought. "At the end of the song, I'll go in." Only a few breaths later, the room was quiet. Pete stuck his key in the lock before Patrick could decide to start singing again.

Pete shook his head a bit and opened the door a crack. "Make yourself decent, I'm coming in," Pete joked, trying to make sure he wouldn't give himself away by staring at Patrick in awe as soon as he walked in.

"As if I'd risk changing in here with a peeping tom for a roommate," Patrick quipped.

Pete thought he'd been caught then and there. Patrick, however, buttoned the top button of his shirt and said nothing else, so Pete must've been in the clear after all.

Patrick was wearing a grey shirt this time, with blue jeans that were ripped at the knees. He was wearing converse again. Pete nodded in approval absently. "I'm guessing you're not going to change?" Patrick said, turning his head to look Pete in the eyes.

"Nope." Pete crossed the room and dropped his backpack by his desk. "I'm going to write."

Patrick was silent. "Are you working on anything interesting?" Curiosity was easy to see in his tone, but he sounded hesitant.

"I guess that depends on how you define interesting." Patrick laughed. Pete pulled his notebook out and pushed himself onto his desk. "It's about nightmares I had as a kid. It's kind of dark, but it's an idea I've had for a while. I've been saving it for this, actually."

"That...is interesting," Patrick said. He sat down at his desk, facing Pete. "Isn't it hard to write about that sort of stuff?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like, talking about things that bother you. Doesn't it make you anxious?"

Pete shrugged. "It can be. There's always the fear of being misunderstood, but." Pete bit his lip. "I'd rather get it out on paper than have it stuck in my head."

Patrick hummed. He watched Pete pull out a pen and cross his legs. "Are you going to put on eyeliner again?"

"Probably," Pete said. He had already opened his notebook to the last place he'd stopped. He glanced up at Patrick and smirked. "Why, Trick? Do you want me to?"

"Fuck off," Patrick hissed. A pink hue had already taken over his face. Pete looked back down at his notebook and smiled.

It didn't take long for Pete to pick up where he'd left off; he'd been in the middle of describing a recurring nightmare, which wasn't hard to conjure from the depths of his mind. His hand flew across the page as he wrote, not only trying to get everything down before he lost his train of thought, but to be done with the memory altogether. Besides, tonight was dance night.

Patrick tapped him on the head. "We have ten minutes until we have to meet our counselor. If you're going to put on your eyeliner, now's the time."

"Cool. Thanks." Pete shut his notebook with his pen inside and put it down beside him. Patrick stepped back, leaving room for Pete to hop off.

Pete didn't spend much time applying his eyeliner, and they still had a few minutes to spare when Pete capped it and gave Patrick a thumbs up. Patrick smiled at him briefly and turned to leave. Pete stopped him.

"Hold on, your hair's a little messed up."

"What?" Patrick asked, looking into the mirror. His brow furrowed. "How the hell..."

"Here, I got it," Pete said without thinking. He reached up and ran his fingers through Patrick's hair. It wasn't until halfway through his ministration that what he was doing fully dawned on him. Patrick's hair was as soft as it had been the other night. Pete quickly finished his task and stepped back. "There you go. Much better," Pete said casually.

The color of a rose would've paled in comparison to Patrick's face when he looked at Pete. "Thanks," he said softly.

"No problem." Pete grinned. In moments like these, he was glad he didn't blush easily.