Hand of God (Peterick Fanfic)

Part Six (Clean-up)

POV: Patrick

I wake up panicked at the ass-crack of dawn. It's pitch black, I have no clue where I am, and my wrist is on fucking fire. I let out a strangled cry and jump to my feet, stumbling back into something hard. I yelp and turn, only to hear an ominous creak and a groggy voice. It's absolutely terrifying. I run as far away from the creak as I can, plastering myself to the wall and sinking down it. I cover my head with my hands and, unwillingly, begin to wimper. I hear a soft coo as the lights come on.

        "Oh, no, no... I'm sorry," I hear a soft voice say. I know that voice. I relax a little, and when I feel the owner of the voice's presence slide down next to me, I breathe a sigh of relief and uncover my head.

        "You scared the shit out of me. I didn't know where I was and it was so dark I couldn't see anything... N-not that I'm afraid of the dark," I say self-consciously.

        "I know," Pete says, chuckling, "I'm sorry, it's going to take some getting used to... You need to eat," he says, poking at my ribs. I swat his hand away from me and stand up. I grab my suitcase and march into the bathroom. Closing the door behind me, I examine the gray floor tiles and the white walls. Looking at myself in the mirror, I reach for the ointment and gauze bandage to re-wrap my wrist, which is starting to soak through. My fingers graze my blades. I pull them out and set them on the floor. I curl up and stare at them for a long time, until a voice comes at the door.

        "Patrick? Are... Are you okay?" he asks worriedly.

        "Y-yeah. Just give me a minute," I say back. I re-wrap my cuts, which are looking slightly better, splash a little water on my face, and change into some fresh clothes. I comb through my hair, shove my glasses on, and shove the blades to the bottom of the suitcase. I go back to the living room and pick up my fedora.

        "Is it okay with you if I crash in the guest bedroom?"

        "Yeah, sure... Do you, uh, need.. Do you need me to carry your suitcase?"

        "I'm a big boy," I say, smiling slightly. His eyes flick to my wrist and back to my face. My smile falls and I grab my stuff, hurrying upstairs to the guest bedroom.

        "Patrick! Wait--" he tries, but I'm already gone. I sit on the edge of the bed and place my fedora on the nightstand. Sighing, I slowly walk back downstairs.

POV: Pete

I press my lips into a thin line. I don't want him cutting anymore, so I'm afraid to leave him alone. I want him to eat too, he's so goddamn thin. He looks good either way, but I want him to be healthy. I feel a pang of longing for him, one I've felt for quite some time but never really understood.

Just then, he comes strolling into the room. Adorable. I smile. Then I frown. What? Adorable? Excuse me? I'm confused by my sudden outburst. I don't have time for this.

        "Breakfast," I call to him.

        "I'm not really hungry," he says lamely.

        "Bullshit. Eat." He makes a face, but tentatively pokes at the eggs I've made. He eats a few, and then pushes the plate away.

        "Patrick," I scold, "Please eat the food... For me? You're getting unhealthy, I don't want you to be sick." I bite my lower lip, staring at his ribcage, which is sticking out far too much. He pushes the food around on his plate and takes a couple more bites. I flash a grin at him.

POV: Patrick

When Pete grins at me, a little something inside of me changes. I brighten a little, and eat a few more bites of eggs and a piece of toast. It's almost worth it. I can't bear to stomach the rest, so I look at Pete apologetically as I tenderly scrape the eggs in the trash.

I look at him expectantly. "What do you say we clean up a little bit around here?" I ask, gesturing to the empty beer bottles and food wrappers littering the house. He just shrugs.

        "Let me rephrase that, Pete; get your ass up and help me clean." He grumbles at me, but stands and starts moving empty bottles and trash to the trash. I scrub the walls and floors where I can, throwing more and more trash away as we go. It's dirtier than I thought. The house starts to smell a little fresher, and less like stale beer. Three hours later the place looks brillirant.

        "See, how's that? Much better." He shrugs.

        "I'm going to go take a nap," I say, frowning.

        "Oh. O-okay, um, have fun," he says, eyeing me suspiciously. I could send a witty comment at him, but I'm far too exhausted.