Saturday // Peterick Oneshots

53.5 Life of the Party: Part 2

Sequel requested by smitty-the-god. Takes place four years later, but you can imagine them as any era you want.

Patrick didn't expect to find himself on the roof of a frat house on a Saturday night, contemplating life. Sure, he's been thinking a lot about the future since he's graduating high school soon, but why the hell is he at a frat house?

He doesn't even know anyone here. He just came for the background noise and the beer.

Patrick takes another swig of his beer and looks up. He's not an astronomer, but he can make out Orion, and for a minute it eases his racing mind.

He doesn't know about college. He doesn't want to not go- that's not it. He's just unsure about what he's going to do when he gets there. Where does he want to go? Should he major in chemistry or marine biology? Or should he major in music? How's he going to pay for everything? And what's he going to do afterward?

He knows he has to decide something soon, but every time he thinks about it he gets overwhelmed.

He hears the window open behind him, and he scrambles to his feet. The last thing he needs right now is some jock pushing him around.

"Sorry man, didn't mean to spook you," a man with a warm voice says. He's halfway on the roof already. "I was just looking for a quiet place to smoke."

Patrick sits back down, motioning to the space next to him. "Go for it."

"Thanks." The man climbs the rest of the way onto the roof and shuts the window behind him.

It's oddly comforting, having a companion. Their silence isn't awkward like it should be. Patrick takes sips of his beer while the other guy smokes. Every few minutes he looks over to watch the way the smoke curls just past his lips.

"You want a hit?" the man asks. "My friend said it's high grade stuff."

Patrick shakes his head. "I've got asthma. I'd probably just cough my lungs out." Why does it feel so easy to talk? Because it's dark?

The man's smile is almost hidden in shadow. "That's the best way to get lit, my friend." Patrick finds himself smiling back.

Patrick's phone buzzes in his pocket. He digs it out, squinting at the brightness.

"Holy shit," the man says. Patrick freezes. Does he look twelve? Is this guy going to call him out for underage drinking? Will it go on his permanent record? "Patrick?"

Patrick's head shoots up. He holds up his phone. With the light he can make out a strong jaw and brown eyes that had been haunting him for years. It takes him a minute to place where he'd seen him before. When he does, he gasps.

"Holy fuck. Pete?"

Pete seems caught between joy and confusion. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Patrick says.

"I'm not the one who's not legally able to drink." Patrick tenses up, only to relax when Pete grins.

"You were the last time we met," Patrick points out.

Pete laughs. "Touché."

They slip into conversation as easily as Patrick remembers. Patrick asks questions about college, and in turn Pete asks him how he's dealing with high school. Patrick knows, like he knew back then, that he shouldn't feel so drawn to Pete, a total stranger with five years on him, but it's nice being able to build off one another's sentences.

Like last time, it feels like the two have found a pocket outside the universe in the house, just for them.

Or maybe it's just Patrick.

"Do you have a ride home?" Pete asks long after his joint is finished.

Patrick shakes his head. "I took the bus to the nearest street corner and walked the rest of the way over."

"So how are you planning on getting home?"

Patrick pauses. "I...don't know."

Pete puts a hand on his shoulder. "I can drive you," he offers quietly.

"Are you sober enough for that?" Patrick asks, ignoring the way his heart skipped a beat.

Pete nods, but doesn't say another word.

"Okay," Patrick says. "Thank you."

Pete grins. "Not a problem."

They leave the party without so much as a questioning glance, and together they walk to Pete's car. Their hands brush a few times, and every time they do Patrick smiles to himself.

The ride home is quiet, but again, not uncomfortable. Patrick steals glances of Pete under the street lights every chance he gets, and his heart races when he realizes Pete is doing the same thing. The drive is over much too soon.

"Well, here you are," Pete says when they pull up to Patrick's house, much softer than he needs to.

"Here I am," Patrick says. "Hey, thanks for hanging out with me. Both tonight and back then."

Pete smiles at him. "Anytime. You're a cool guy, Pattycakes."

Patrick doesn't even pretend to scowl at the nickname. He thinks, taking a deep breath. "Do you have a pen?"

Pete looks around for a minute, then pulls a sharpie out of his cup holder. Patrick takes it from him, then grabs his wrist and pushes up the sleeve of his hoodie. Patrick gently, carefully writes his number on Pete's arm. Pete watches without a word.

"Call me," Patrick says when he's done, capping the sharpie and putting back where Pete found it. He glances at Pete, who's looking at him with wide eyes. "I might need to talk to you more."

Pete nods, another smile creeping onto his face. "I will."

"Goodnight, Pete," Patrick says quietly.

"'Night, Patrick."

Patrick gets out of the car and stands at the end of the driveway. The next thing he knows, Pete is hopping out of his car and dashing up to Patrick. Pete takes Patrick's face in his hands, then tilts his head down enough that he can kiss his forehead. Afterwards he steps back, shoots Patrick one more grin, gets back in his car, and drives away.

The next morning he gets a call from an unknown number and loses half the day talking.