Saturday // Peterick Oneshots

60. Yesterday was a Feast

Happy Valentine's Day guys! Based on one of my new favorite poems by the Roman poet Catullus. I read it recently and it immediately struck me as something that could fit with Peterick. FUTCT era.

I could fall in love with you, Pete thinks, watching Patrick unlock the door to the apartment the label's stuck them in while they're writing in L.A. He's thinking about the session they're about to have: Pete handing over the notebooks that are bursting at the seams with lyrics, Patrick effortlessly arranging them into song. They've ordered enough pizza to last the night and Pete knows someone is going to bring them alcohol at some point in the night.

Patrick sits down on one of the chairs in the living area and starts working on untying his shoes. Pete sprawls out on the couch next to him, and Patrick says, "Are you gonna leave any room for me, asshole?" and Pete laughs.

Yeah. He could totally fall in love with Patrick.

The sun's beginning to set, and everything about Patrick is golden when they get their pizza and sit on the floor in front of their coffee table, using paper towels for plates while flipping through the notebooks scattered around them. Patrick's being extra careful not to get tomato sauce on Pete's work, and something about that makes his heart flutter in his chest.

Someone from the label drops by with a case of beer an hour later, and Pete's the one who gets up to get it, because Patrick's putting together the bridge of "Gin Joints" and Pete wouldn't stop him for the world. (It's a love song, in its own right, and Pete could listen to Patrick sing it for ages.)

They break for their first beers, clinking the bottles together to cheer their own efforts. They watch The Breakfast Club, quoting almost every line. Pete's feet are in Patrick's lap and he only moves them so Patrick can get up to piss.

A third of the beer is gone by the end of the movie.

Patrick's cheeks are slightly flushed when he says, "Okay, listen to this," and plays "Gin Joints" from beginning to end. Pete watches the way Patrick's lips form every syllable, notes every time the corner of Patrick's mouth quirks up in a tiny smile. When he's done, Patrick asks, "What do you think?"

I think your genius set my blood on fire, Pete thinks. "It's fucking perfect," Pete says, grinning.

They call it a night.

Pete can't sleep.

He's tossing and turning, mind running wild with images of all the ways he could shower Patrick with love. He thinks about tracing the slope of Patrick's nose with his fingertip, about covering his lips with soft kisses. How would Patrick react if Pete started pressing little kisses to the column of his throat as a greeting? Would he care if Pete started letting his touches linger?

"Pete, go the fuck to sleep," Patrick says, muffled by his pillow.

"Can't Tricky, I'm just too excited to see your beautiful face again tomorrow." It's not a lie.