Fic - The Sun Always Shines Here
The Sun Always Shines Here
Pete/Patrick AU
PG13
8,344 words
Notes: Part of a Secret Santa-type exchange. For alchemywow, whom I don't know but am told is sweet and wonderful. Happiest of holidays to you, darling :)
I was homesick for Portland so this is a Portland AU, self-indulgent and fluffy.



The Sun Always Shines Here


The day Pete meets Patrick, he wakes up to the sound of rain against his windows.

Of course it's raining. It's done nothing but rain for the last seventeen days. Not that Pete is counting. Portland's apparently going for some kind of record and the headline of the Oregonian boasts "Seventeenth Straight Day of Rain."

It's seven on a Monday morning. In the best of circumstances, Pete would already hate this day and beg for a do over. Seventeen days of rain makes this nowhere near the best of circumstances and has Pete ready to throttle someone.

He's in the kitchen, making coffee, trying to psych himself up for work.

Frank comes stumbling down the back stairs and trips into the kitchen. His hair's hanging in his eyes, he's got someone else's too big sweat pants on and a bruise on his collarbone

"Good morning," Frank says in that "just fucked' way he has about him, after he's spent a night being fucked. Pete hates him.

"I hate you. Go away."

Frank wraps his arms around Pete's waist from behind and presses a kiss to Pete's neck. "You sweettalker, you" Frank mutters affectionately into the skin behind Pete's ear. He pulls away and reaches for Pete's coffee cup, laughs in Pete's face when Pete bats his hand away.

Frank hoists himself up on the counter, takes slow, savoring sips of Pete's coffee and says, "care to tell me what's got your panties all twisted?"

Pete scowls and kicks a chair out from the kitchen table, falls into it with his S'mores poptart.

"It's Monday. It's raining. I have to go to work." Pete eats his poptart and stares moodily at Frank. "I miss college."

It's been five months since Graduation, since he and Frankie got their degrees from Portland State. Almost four months since Pete started his job, four months of waking up early, putting on a suit and working forty hours a week in a job he hates for a company he can't stand with people he wishes would drown in the Willamette.

Frank leans forward, nearly falling off the counter to steal Pete's poptart.

"We should have failed. Why didn't we fail?" Frank works part time at Circuit City, and part time in a recording studio on North Mississippi. Pete secretly thinks Frank has no right to complain.

They live in a five bedroom house on twenty-seventh avenue, four blocks from Hawthorne owned by a guy named Hurley, who's some sort of genius entrepreneur who has houses all over the country he rents to mostly college kids. Pete's a little fuzzy on the details of Hurley's business but he's a pretty cool guy so Pete never really pressed for information. These days, Hurley smokes weed and plays the drums for several local bands. For lack of better words, in Pete's head he's a hippy in training, wandering around in Birkenstocks, with socks when it's raining, his hair long and always in his eyes. In a weird way, he fits in with the rest of them.

They call the house Barkley because when they moved in the house had orange shag carpet in every room and stark white walls. Frank insisted it reminded him of the dog on Sesame Street and it's sort of stuck though Andy has since had the carpet removed and the wood floors underneath buffed and refinished.

The house is supposedly a 1920s craftsmen but Pete doesn't know anything about that, just that the bathrooms have awesome acoustics, there's a huge backyard for his dog to run around in and the neighbors don't bitch if they throw a party or two.

* * *

Pete gets home from work in a shitty mood having spent an hour in traffic on the Hawthorne bridge, squinting through the sheets of rain and cussing at every stupid motherfucker who cuts him off. It's supposed to take twenty minutes, start to finish to get from downtown to the Southeast side but crossing the river during rush hour and rain is a lot like what Pete imagines Hell to be.

"Hey," Jon says when Pete comes in through the side door, leaves his soaked shoes in the makeshift mud room and scowls. Jon's cooking dinner, fajitas from the smell of peppers and onions and he's barefoot and humming, looking like a fucking advertisement for Happy.

"Fuck you," Pete says bitterly and kicks the door shut. Jon just laughs and pulls Pete against him in a half hug. His voice is low and soothing when he pulls away, looks Pete up and down and says, "anyone ever tell you you look real hot in a suit?"

"I'm trying to be pissed off and you're not helping," Pete mumbles.

Jon pats him on the hip and goes back to stirfrying chicken and vegetables.

Pete steals a drink from Jon's beer. "Brendon's not around today?"

Jon shakes his head. "He's working the late shift tonight."

Brendon is Jon's boything, a kid from Las Vegas with the habit of running away from home and into people who want to take care of him. They met at Starbucks, where Jon's worked since he moved here for school two years ago.

Pete goes upstairs to change out of his wet suit and into sweats and an old t-shirt. When he comes downstairs, Frank and Hurley are having some sort of video game competition and the house is warm, candles and incense lit in various corners and crannies, the smell of Mexican spices drifting out from the kitchen.

Pete's not exactly sure when Hurley moved in but lately he's always around, more so than usual. Pete's never come out and asked him but he's pretty sure he and Joe are fucking around. Which, as long as Pete doesn't have to see it, is perfectly fine with him.

The door slams open a little before seven and Joe comes sloshing through the front door, accompanied by what looks like an enormous drowned rat, bringing in water and leaves on a gust of wind.

"Hey," Joe says, shaking his hair out of his eyes and getting water everywhere. "This is Patrick."

Patrick is, apparently, not a rat but a teenaged looking kid with glasses completely fogged and covered in water, an old trucker's hat covering blonde shaggy hair and a little over five feet of stocky boy.

"Patrick's staying for dinner," Joe says, hanging up his coat, "we have this mid term that's sort of kicking our ass."

Pete was never all that ready to graduate and have to go into the real world, but mid terms and all nighters are things he doesn't miss.

Joe kicks off his shoes and nudges Patrick to do the same. "This is Pete, Frank and Hurley," he says by way of introduction. Patrick's trying to untangle himself from his mess of parka and scarf and fleece and he mumbles a "hi" from somewhere under his t-shirt.

"Patrick's a freshman," Joe says like that explains it. And actually, it kind of does, because Patrick has that look about him, like he fell off the Babes in Toyland train.

"Where you from, Patrick?" Hurley asks without looking away from the television screen and his game where apparently, Frank is killing him.

Patrick's finally gotten his coat off and finds an empty seat between Pete and Joe on the loveseat by the window. "Chicago," Patrick says and Pete turns his head.

"Well fuck, we could always use one more in our house of wayward Chicago boys," Pete says with a grin, nudging Patrick who's sitting on the edge of the sofa like he's got a board strapped to his back.

Jon peeks his head around the doorway. "Dinner, assholes" he says with a grin and disappears.

Dinner at Barkley is always more of an event than a meal and sort of what he imagines growing up in a big family to be like. There's always a little bit of chaos, which is probably Pete's favorite part.

They sit at the round kitchen table, crammed together, elbow to elbow, shoving each other out of the way.

"Who's this?" Jon asks, gesturing to Patrick as he sets the warm tortillas on the table.

"Patrick," Patrick says, stretching his hand out across the table. "I'm from Chicago."

"Nice," Jon says with a grin, shaking Patrick's hand. "You're at PSU too?"

"Yeah, freshman." Patrick takes the bowl of peppers Joe passes to him, helps himself to some and passes it to Pete who's looking at Patrick. Pete thinks Patrick looks like a cherub, his round face, his eyes all wide and innocent.

"You look like a cherub," Pete says. Jon chokes on his beer and Joe snorts loudly and rolls his eyes.

Patrick goes still. "Um, thanks?"

Pete shrugs and shoves his fajita into his mouth.

There's a bunch of chatter, people chewing and talking over each other about plans for the weekend, though it's still only Monday, and then Frank looks across the table at Pete. "It's almost Halloween" he says with a grin and Joe and Jon groan. It's not actually almost Halloween, it's the last week of September, but Frank insists that as long as it's not August anymore then it's almost Halloween.

"Fuck off, we gotta think about how we're decorating the place this year." Frank has a tendency to go a little overboard. The first year, four years ago, when Pete and Frank were the only two living here, Frank decided they should have a haunted house, insisted that the house was perfect for it, the neighborhood even better with its hundreds of kids and elementary school not ten blocks away.

"I think we should do a prison," Joe says which is what he said last year. Frank throws a piece of his tortilla at him. "Fuck off, we're not doing a fucking prison."

"What's wrong with a prison?" Patrick asks and Pete groans. "Don't get him started," he says, "you'll be here all night."

"Okay, then, what did you do last year?" Patrick says instead. Frank looks at him and grins, a grin that says "I like this kid, he can stay."

"We did a massacred catholic girls school," and Frank's grinning fondly like he's remembering an old love.

"Sounds pretty gruesome." Patrick makes a face but he looks impressed.

"Yeah, it was," Frank says wistfully.

Jon laughs and shakes his head. "It's going to be pretty hard to top," which is like throwing down the gauntlet where Frank's concerned.

The rest of the meal is spent throwing around ideas, most of them getting shot down by Frank and Pete interjecting that they can't blow their grocery budget on decorations like that did last year. Pete likes Ramen as much as the next person, but after a month he was ready to eat worms to keep from having to eat anymore.

After dinner Joe and Patrick disappear down to the basement and the makeshift study to do homework while Frank and Pete do the dishes.

"Cute kid," Frank says, watching him disappear down the basement steps, his backpack over his shoulder.

* * *

The next time Pete sees Patrick it's three days later. Thursday afternoons Joe gets out of class around the same time Pete finishes work and his office building is downtown, ten blocks from Portland State so he swings by to pick him up.

The rain's let up enough that it's just a slow drizzle and Patrick doesn't look so much like someone pushed him in the river.

"Hey there Patrick," Pete says as Patrick crawls into the back seat and Pete pulls out into traffic.

"Hey."

"Did you boys have a good day at school?" Pete says, eyes in the rearview mirror, on Patrick.

Joe leans over and punches Pete in the shoulder, "that's not any funnier the millionth time around, ass."

Pete laughs. "Guess not."

When they get home, there's a familiar purple bike in the driveway, leaning up against the garage. Pete doesn't have time to warn Patrick before Patrick goes in through the side door, turns and comes right back out, face pink.

"Guess you met Spencer," Joe says, laughing.

Pete feels bad, there's no telling what Patrick walked in on, but it's pretty cute the way his cheeks are pink and he's staring at his feet.

Spencer is a kid Frank brings home every now and then, someone he met at one of the shows he played a few months back. Pete thinks Spencer looks like jailbait but Frank insists he's eighteen. Pete thinks sixteen is probably more likely.

Pete stands in the doorway and peeks his head into the kitchen. Frank has Spencer up against the refrigerator, a hand down his pants. There's a lot of tongue and a lot of moaning. Pete says loudly, "don't you have a room you can go to?"

Frank flips Pete off with his free hand without so much as coming up for air.

Pete leans back outside, "cover your eyes, kid," he says laughing and Patrick looks up, chin in the air. "Fuck off," he says and marches through the kitchen and practically runs down the basement steps.

* * *

"Patrick's been asking about you," Joe says after Patrick's left for the night to catch the last bus downtown.

"What's he want to know?" Pete's writing a song, scribbling on pieces of notebook paper, sitting at the foot of the stairs in the kitchen, Hemmingway at his feet.

"He asked if you had a girlfriend."

Pete chokes on a laugh. He hasn't had a girlfriend since ninth grade and his last boyfriend was Frank and that ended eight months ago.

Joe's eating a peanut butter sandwich standing up against the sink.

"What did you tell him?"

"That you haven't had a girlfriend since the ninth grade," Joe says, mouth full.

Patrick looks like he wouldn't know what to do with a girl if she crawled into his lap naked. He also looks like he wouldn't know what to do with a naked boy. Pete thinks the idea of teaching him is very appealing but he's tired all the time, working and dj-ing and while they don't talk about it, Pete's not exactly sure he ever recovered from the Frank thing.

Joe looks like he's thinking of saying something, something like "be gentle with him" or "if you break his heart I'll kill you" and Pete's not in the mood for it so he says "thanks for the heads up" and gets to his feet. He gets Hemmingway's leash on him and they disappear out the side door.

They live in a neighborhood in Southeast Portland with two elementary schools, a dog park across the street and a health food co-op on the corner of their block. At this time of night, Pete's joined by half the neighborhood, out walking their dogs or going over to Hawthorne for food or beer.

The people who live in the house next door have a bumper sticker on their car that says "keep Portland weird."

Hemmingway and Pete walk to the end of the block, turn left and walk up to the convenience store that's sandwiched between a doggy day care facility and an upscale hair salon.

Pete leaves Hemmingway tied up on a parking meter outside, disappears inside for ice cream.

They finish their walk around the block and when they get home, Brendon and Jon are making out against the refrigerator.

"I have ice cream," Pete says loudly. Jon waves a hand at Pete but doesn't pull away.

Pete sighs, grabs a spoon and goes upstairs with Hemmingway trailing along behind him.

Pete doesn't really want a boyfriend or anything but he wouldn't mind someone to fuck around with, especially since he lives in the gayest house in all of Portland, possibly even all of Oregon and everyone seems to be getting laid except for him. And that's just fucking annoying.

Pete crawls into his bed and Hemmingway jumps up to curl in his lap. He eats his Cherry Garcia and watches the Daily Show and turns up the volume when the thumping next door in Frank's room gets obnoxiously louder

* * *

The thing about Patrick is how well he fits in with the rest of them.

He and Joe are working on some enormous class project so the first week in October he spends every evening at the house, eats dinner with them before he and Joe disappear downstairs.

The first time he comes upstairs to use the bathroom and stumbles on Spencer and Frank fucking in the living room he turns bright pink and stammers for them to get a room.

Pete's not there to witness it but he hears about it later, in explicit detail from Frank who thinks it's the funniest thing in the world. Lucky for everyone involved, Frank and Spencer were still mostly dressed but Pete's pretty impressed that Patrick didn't run out of the house and never come back.

But Patrick's a pretty quick learner, he keeps up with Pete's banter and maybe he turns a little pink at his teasing but he's quick to tease right back.

Pete likes him. Which is a potential problem. He doesn't make a habit of liking seventeen year old boys with pink mouths, pale skin and a ridiculously endearing insecurity about their hair and stomach.

Pete definitely needs to get laid.

* * *

The first night Patrick spends the night has nothing to do with Pete and it's mostly accidental. Pete has a habit of not sleeping so he's up at three in the morning. He lays awake in bed before giving up and stumbling downstairs for water. The light in the living room is still on and Pete goes in to find Patrick alone, passed out on the sofa surrounded by notebooks and textbooks, his hat hanging crooked on his head, his t-shirt rucked up over his pale belly, mouth open.

Pete thinks briefly about stealing Jon's camera, thinks this would be good blackmail material for future purposes but instead he pulls the worn fleece blanket from the back of the sofa and drapes it over Patrick, turns out the light and resists the urge to whisper "sweet dreams."

In the morning when Pete comes down to the kitchen, dressed for work, Patrick's sitting at the table writing something in a notebook. He looks up, startled.

"I've never seen you in a suit," he blurts out and turns pink in the cheeks. It's fucking adorable.

"Yeah, well, this is what happens when you graduate, dude, you get to put on a monkey costume and go to work for the Man. Look what you have to look forward to."

Patrick made coffee and that's only part of the reason Pete feels like kissing him. Mostly it has to do with the way his hair sticks out from under his hat and hangs in face, the way his eyes are sleepy soft around the corners, his mouth sort of blurry and used looking.

Pete pours himself a cup of coffee and tries to think about the last guy he fucked, a teenager with blonde hair and big eyes Pete met at the club he DJs at. Fuck. That's not gonna help.

Pete looks at his watch and grimaces. "Want a ride?" He says to Patrick who looks like he needs a year's worth of sleep.

Patrick looks up, startled, and the smile that passes over his face makes Pete feel a little lightheaded. He downs the rest of the coffee in his mug, winces as it scalds the back of his tongue.

It's not yet 7:30 so traffic's not too heavy. The sun's coming up over the river, hitting the Koin building, and the Freemont bridge. Pete looks over at Patrick who's looking out over the water with a weird expression on his face.

Pete's not sure Patrick really knows Pete's there when he says "sometimes, I really fucking miss Chicago." The and my parents is unspoken but Pete knows what that feels like. "But then, there's a moment, like now and I think, yeah, okay, I made the right decision."

Pete remembers his first year here, feeling like he made the wrong decision, and having moments like this, looking out over the city, Forest Park on the right in the background, Mount Saint Helens behind them and remembering why he moved out here.

"What other schools did you get into?" Pete looks over at Patrick.

"Northwestern, Trinity, University of Michigan and Duke."

Pete whistles. "You're pretty fucking smart, huh?"

Patrick shrugs. "I don't know, I guess." he says with a self-deprecating sort of smile that is possibly the cutest thing Pete has ever seen.

Pete drops Patrick off on Broadway and Jefferson, a block from PSU but heading in the direction of his office building.

"See you later," he says.

Patrick gets out of the car and takes off and right before Pete pulls away he sees Patrick turn and look back.

* * *

The next time Pete can't sleep it's one am and Patrick's sitting on the living room floor, notecards spread out around him, a look of utter frustration on his face.

Pete comes down the stairs in his sweats, Hemmingway following behind him and stops, leans against the banister. "You're spending a lot of time here," Pete says.

Patrick looks up, startled. "I like it here," he shrugs. "Oh. Um, is that okay?" he says as an afterthought.

"Dude, it's fine," Pete says but what he means is it's perfect, never leave.

Patrick bends back over whatever it is he's working on and Pete watches him for a few minutes. His t-shirt's ridden up a little, revealing the pale skin of his lower back. Pete can see the vertebrae there, the curve of his back where it dips into his jeans.

"Come on, take a study break," he says suddenly because he fuck, he needs to clear his head. He jumps off the bottom step and holds his hand to help Patrick up off the floor.

"Where're we going?" Patrick says, taking Pete's hand and letting himself be pulled up. Patrick stumbles forward slightly, and Pete's hand goes to his hip automatically, steadying him.

Patrick looks up and mutters, "sorry, thanks" and Pete practically runs to the door, shoves his feet in his boots and does not watch Patrick bend to tie his shoes.

"Food," is all Pete says. He grabs his keys off the table by the door and ushers Patrick out into the cool air.

They walk the four blocks over to Hawthorne and up one to twenty-eighth, to a little diner that Pete swears hasn't closed one day since he moved here. Despite the ridiculously late hour, the place is packed and they have to wait ten minutes to be seated.

He and Patrick share a plate of marionberry pancakes and spend two hours, their feet knocking against the old wooden booths, heads bent close together talking about home, about what they miss, what they love about Portland.

* * *

It's been two weeks and things Pete's learned since he met Patrick include the fact that Patrick can sing, really fucking sing and his voice is rich and deep and makes Pete shiver the few times Patrick actually lets him hear it. Patrick is the kind of student Pete never cared enough to be and spends most of every minute at the house studying but he'll let Pete drag him out for pancakes. He's less of a morning person than Pete and he hates being told what to do much the same way all seventeen year olds do.

It's been two weeks and Patrick's sort of fallen into place at Barkley, like he's always been here. Pete sort of hopes he never leaves.

Monday night means Dancing With the Stars is on and Pete and Frank are watching it together, curled up on the couch, Frank's hand underneath Pete's t-shirt, pressed flat to his belly. Pete's mostly asleep when Patrick comes up the stairs and stops suddenly, stammers, "oh sorry, I didn't mean to" and disappears back down to the basement.

Pete's not sure what he missed but from the way Frank's laughing and the way Patrick practically ran down the stairs, he's pretty sure it wasn't good.

"I should probably go talk to him," Pete says but he's not sure why he feels the need to.

Frank's shoulders stop shaking and Pete sits up, stretches his back, moves to get up but Frank's fingers wrap around his wrist.

"Do you have any clue what the hell you're doing?" Frank wants to know.

Pete shrugs. "Don't know. Do you?"

Because Pete hasn't done anything, he's barely even thinking about doing something and Frank's fucking around with a kid in high school.

Pete shakes Frank loose and goes to find Patrick.

Patrick's sitting on sofa, staring at his text book. Pete's pretty sure he's not reading.

Pete sits down next to him, nudges him with his knee.

Patrick doesn't look up but he relaxes a little, lets Pete slump against him. "Did you and Frank used to...?" Patrick's staring at his lap, fidgeting a little.

"Knit? Play badminton? Raise chickens? Did we used to what, Patrick?"

"Date," Patrick says with a scowl. He lifts his head, a "you don't have to be an asshole" look on his face.

"Yes," Pete says and hopes that's it. He really doesn't want to talk about this with Patrick.

Pete's never been in love though he's pretty sure he was mostly in love with Frank. The whole thing was an accidental mess.

And it sort of ended the same way it began, accidentally.

Pete sort of thinks he and Frank are better as friends anyway which doesn't mean that he didn't go into a long drawn out episode of self loathing and depression.

But now, Frank drapes himself over Pete, nuzzles his face in Pete's neck, lets Pete come and sleep next to him when Spencer's not over and all Pete feels is a sense of peace and calm that he didn't always have when they were fucking.

It's just better like this. And so that's what he says when Patrick looks up, a confused expression on his face, when Pete hugs Frank from behind, kisses his neck.

"We're just friends now," Pete says softly, not really sure why he feels the need to explain this to Patrick. "We're better as friends."

"I don't do that with my friends," Patrick says petulantly, and Pete has to bite his lip to keep from grinning because jealous Patrick is probably the cutest thing Pete's ever seen.

"Well, Petunia, you should, because it definitely makes life more fun," Pete can't help leering at Patrick.

Patrick looks like he's thinking about punching Pete. Which would not be the first time somebody has wanted to hit him.

"If you call me Petunia one more time I'll put my fist in your face." Patrick says it sweetly, like he's offering to give Pete a back rub or bring him flowers.

Pete's grin gets bigger.

"This is a pretty gay house," Patrick says conversationally, after a bit.

"Oh you noticed that did you?"

Patrick nods. "Yeah, what with all the guys having sex together in the living room and kitchen and stairs and bathroom. Hard not to notice."

"Does it bother you?"

"Would I still be here if it did?" Patrick shoots back.

Good point.

"What about you," Pete says. He's fishing, and he knows it, he just hopes Patrick doesn't pick up on it. "Any cute girls in your classes?"

Patrick shakes his head.

"Cute guys?" Pete presses.

Patrick doesn't look up. "Nope."

"I'm not dating anyone if that's what you don't have the balls to come out and ask," Patrick says.

"Fuck off, I'm just curious. Are you fucking anyone?"

Patrick snorts. "yeah right," like that's the dumbest thing he's ever heard. Pete doesn't think it's that dumb, he can think of lots of people who'd be happy to fuck around with Patrick.

* * *

The following Saturday is Pete's monthly soccer game down at the YMCA on Barbur.

Pete played soccer for PSU for four years and one Saturday a month he and the other alums get together for a pick up soccer game with kids from the current team. It's sort of a Barkley event, Frank and Joe come too, sometimes Jon if he's not working. Pete convinces Patrick to come play even though Patrick insists to the point of whining that he can't play soccer.

"Nonsense," Pete says, lacing up his cleats. "You can do anything you set your mind to, Mr. Stump."

When they get to the soccer field, the rain is slanting down sideways, drenching the grass so it's just one giant mud puddle. There's twelve of them, heads bent down against the rain, kicking a ball back and forth, mud spraying up around them.

Patrick's bundled head to foot in rain gear that looks brand new, and Pete can picture Patrick and his mom, shopping for college, his mom insisting he have the right clothes. He's looking around confused at everyone in their shorts and t-shirts as the rain falls harder, soaking everyone to the skin. Pete can hardly see, water falling down his face, his hair hanging in his eyes, mud and water squishing beneath his feet. He fucking loves it.

He throws an arm around Patrick's neck from behind. "Welcome to Portland," he says, gleeful.

Pete and a kid from the current team, Mike, are called as captains.

"I get Patrick!" Pete yells before anyone can decide who's gonna be second captain. Because really, if anyone's getting Patrick, it's going to be Pete.

Patrick scowls, his eyes hidden behind his fogged glasses and he looks like he's planning Pete's death in his head.

The teams are divided up and Pete wraps his arms around Patrick from behind. "We're gonna WIN" he shouts in his ear and Patrick jerks and steps on Pete's foot. Pete just squeezes him harder.

They lose. They lose by three goals, which doesn't matter much to Pete because watching Patrick in his shiny new raincoat, running around the field chasing a soccer ball is, up this point, the highlight of Pete's life.

The game ends when there's more griping than laughing. Everyone goes their separate ways and they take off for the parking lot. The rain has slowed to a heavy drizzle.

Pete watches Patrick pick his way through the grass like he's walking on a mine field. He thinks about it for a split second before he runs ahead and tackles Patrick, sends them both falling into the soggy grass, mud flying up around them.

Patrick lets out a steady stream of "fuck, Pete, you fucking dick" and they roll around like a couple of hogs, getting themselves soaked and disgusting, mud and grass getting in Pete's mouth and eyes and everywhere. He's grinning through the whole thing.

Patrick fights dirty, pulls Pete's hair, tries to get his knee up against Pete's dick, tries to sink his teeth into Pete's shoulder, which is pretty fucking gross considering the shit they're rolling around in.

Frank starts yelling about dinner and beer and Pete collapses on top of Patrick, rubbing himself against Patrick's thigh. He makes a low satisfied sound - Patrick's hard, too, against Pete's hip.

"Foreplay rocks," Pete says. Patrick goes bright red and shoves Pete off him, mumbling "shut up" as he rolls to his feet.

They slip and slide after the others, shaking with the wet cold now that they're not running around.

"Me and Patrick call first shower!" Pete yells, running up the field and plastering himself against Joe's back, making sure to get as much mud on him as possible.

"No we don't," Patrick yells at the same time Joe jabs his elbow back into Pete's ribcage and calls him "a giant fucking assface."

They lay towels out over the seats, throw their muddy shoes in the tub in the trunk and climb over each other.

Frank drives and Pete lets Joe have shotgun so he can sit in the back with Patrick, poking him in the side while Patrick bites his lip and stares steadfastly out the window.

Finally, Patrick wraps his arm around Pete's neck, pulls him into a headlock and yells "cut it out," in Pete's face.

"Fuck, you're rank," Pete grunts, nose pressed to Patrick's armpit. Patrick just squeezes until Pete shudders and gasps "uncle!"

* * *

The thing about staying in the city they went to college in is that Pete and Frank have a lot of college friends who stop by for impromptu parties, insisting that even if they're not in college anymore, Barkley is still the best place for a party.

Which is how, after rolling around in the mud together, Pete spends an evening with drunk Patrick.

What he had in mind when his friends showed up, including Mikey, a guy Pete's fucked around with a couple of times before, was getting good and trashed and having himself some dirty sex to try to get the picture of flushed, wet Patrick out of his head.

He gets most of the way there, even, has Mikey pressed up against the kitchen door when Patrick comes up from the basement, glass eyed, trips on the top step and falls face first into the linoleum.

It's a little before two in the morning and Pete hasn't seen Patrick since ten, since someone handed Patrick a fruity drink with an umbrella right after Patrick said, "I don't drink."

The house is mostly empty and Pete was looking forward to getting Mikey on his stomach in his bed but instead he's got Patrick face down at his feet.

"Shit," Pete says, presses his forehead briefly to Mikey's shoulder. "Sorry, sorry, I gotta. I should take care of this."

Mikey looks disappointed, but he smiles, kisses Pete softly on the mouth. "You should call me," he says and Pete nods but doesn't make any promises.

He walks Mikey to the door and when he gets back Patrick's on his back, his feet in the air, talking to himself.

"How much have you had to drink?" Pete wheezes, trying to hoist Patrick up so he's not a mess on the floor.

Patrick shrugs and holds up his hand, fingers splayed out. "Seven," he says on a laugh, like he just made the funniest joke.

"Great," Pete mumbles. He gets his shoulder under Patrick's armpit and gets them moving. They manage to make it up three steps before Patrick stumbles and collapses against Pete.

"Come on, fuck," Pete says impatiently. He's not used to playing chaperone, not used to having to take care of someone, usually he's the one being pulled up the stairs or having his back rubbed while he empties the contents of his stomach over a garbage can. It's unfamiliar territory and he's not sure he likes likes it that much. Having a hundred and fifty plus pounds of warm, sweaty, sweet-smelling drunk Patrick draped all over him is sort of frustrating and not at all how Pete wanted to spend his evening.

Patrick rubs his cheek against Pete's throat and looks up. His eyes are glassy and a little watery.

"You're so fucking wasted." Pete shoves Patrick forward enough to get his shoulder against his chest and get Patrick has much over his shoulder as he can, considering they're the same size. Pete gets Patrick to the top of the stairs and collapses under a pile of Patrick.

"Come on, I did most of the work, the least you can do is walk the ten feet to my room." Pete's talking mostly to himself at this point because Patrick's singing, low and dreamy, a children's song Pete vaguely remembers from elementary school.

"A circle is round it has no end, that's how long I want to be your friend." Patrick's voice trails off to a whisper and he stops and turns to look at Pete.

"What?" Pete says because Patrick's looking at him with an expression on his face that's making Pete nervous, like he's about to make some sort of confession. Pete isn't a big fan of drunken confessions.

"You're my friend," Patrick says, slowly, like he's trying out a word he's never heard before.

Pete rolls his eyes and starts off down the hall, Patrick dragging behind him, stumbling over his feet.

Pete gets Patrick into his bed, fully dressed and under the blankets.

"Sleep it off," Pete says, getting in next to Patrick and turning on his side, facing away from Patrick's stupid face.

He can feel Patrick shifting restlessly behind him, tucking his knees up under him, and then, quietly, "are you mad?"

Pete sighs and rolls to his back, stares at the ceiling. He turns his head and Patrick's blinking at him. "No, Patrick, I'm not mad." Pete doesn't know what he is. But he's not mad.

Patrick doesn't say anything for a beat. "I mean it," he breathes then, "you're my best friend."

Pete touches Patrick's hand. "You're my best friend, too," he says though he's pretty sure Patrick's not going to remember a thing come morning.

* * *

The week before Halloween, despite Frank's insistence that everyone needs to help get the house ready to be haunted, Pete piles Hemmingway, Patrick, Jon and Brendon into Bethany and they head out to the beach. Pete firmly believes that nothing will be right with the world until Patrick has seen the awesomeness that is the Oregon Coast.

"Question," Patrick says as they merge onto Highway 26, his feet tucked up underneath him. "Why did you name your car Bethany?"

Pete makes a face. "Patrick. Bethany is not a car," he says, like Patrick called her a bad word. "She's a ninety-seven Nissan Quest." Probably one of the shittiest cars ever made but Pete's sort of in love with her. He's driven from Chicago to Portland, and vice versa, six times and in all that time she's never once broken down. He thinks of all the Deliverance moments he could have had, had she broken down and left him stranded somewhere in the middle of nowhere in the dead of the night. And she never has.

"Whatever, Pete, you named your shitty car Bethany because?"

"Watch it munchkin, one more mean word about my baby and you're walking your ass to the beach."

Patrick laughs in Pete's face and from the back Jon says, "Seriously, I once saw him leave Joe and Hurley out in Gresham on a hundred and twenty-second because they said she looked like a soccer mom car."

Pete makes a smug "so there" face and Patrick just rolls his eyes and turns the radio on.

It takes an hour and eleven minutes to get to Rockaway beach. They stop at the Tillamook cheese factory first. "Peppermint Patty, Tillamook may not be the best ice cream in the world, but you haven't lived until you've watched them make it."

They go up to the second floor and press there noses against the glass, watch the machines swirl and grind.

"Fascinating," Patrick says drily. "Now buy me an ice cream cone."

"You owe me," Brendon says to Jon and Pete does not need to know the details on that one. Jon and Pete buy themselves and Patrick and Brendon ice cream cones and they take them out to the parking lot.

"Sit," Pete orders. "Bethany does not like ice cream."

Cars and trucks and trailers zoom by on the highway. Pete eats his ice cream and hopes it's not obvious that he spends the whole time watching Patrick's mouth.

"You're staring," Patrick says smugly. Pete throws the last of his cone at Patrick's head. It hits his forehead and bounces off, leaving a smudge of chocolate dark against his skin.

When the ice cream's all gone they pile back into the car and drive the fifteen minute stretch of freeway up to Rockaway and the little parking lot that reaches out from the cliff.

They get out of the car and take off for the sand, Hemmingway rushing toward the water, barking. Pete looks back and Patrick's standing still, looking out at the ocean, at the crash of the waves and the way the water stretches out and blends into the horizon.

Patrick's never seen the ocean before and Pete remembers coming to this exact spot five years ago, and watching the waves, seeing the ocean for the first time.

"Pretty fucking amazing, huh?" Pete says, standing close enough to Patrick to feel his body heat.

Patrick lets out a breath. "Yeah," he says on a rush of air like he doesn't quite believe it.

"Come on," Pete says, tugging Patrick down towards the water, the way Patrick smiles at him like Pete just gave him a gift he hadn't known he wanted.

Pete leaves his shoes and socks up where the sand is still dry, even though it's windy and cold. The water is fucking freezing but Pete rolls up his jeans to his knees and wades in anyway, hissing as his toes go numb with it.

"I'm not getting out until you put your feet in," Pete shouts at Patrick over the wind.

"Fuck off," Patrick yells.

Jon and Brendon are splashing each other, Brendon mostly soaked through at this point, his teeth chattering but his his grin big and wide.

"Chicken! You want me to get hypothermia? Is that what you want?" Pete taunts Patrick, kicks out at him, splashing water everywhere but Patrick's too far back.

"I hate you," Patrick mutters but he toes off his shoes, takes off his socks and tucks them into his sneakers.

Pete watches as Patrick rolls the cuffs of his pants up. "You gotta just do it, Patty, just grit your teeth and run in."

Pete can't feel his toes and his feet are so cold it's painful but it's worth it to see the look on Patrick's face, watch him stick his feet in the ocean, hear him cuss a blue streak and run back out, throwing sand at Pete.

"Tell me it wasn't worth it," Pete says later when they're sitting on the low stone wall at the edge of the parking lot, watching the tide come in. They're shoulder to shoulder, sharing body heat, waiting for Brendon and Jon to come out of the little diner with lunch.

Patrick's quiet when he says, "it was worth it."

* * *

The Wednesday before Halloween, it's after eight and Pete's in the kitchen eating leftover Chinese and waiting for Patrick.

Pete looks up when the door opens and Patrick comes in, looking sort of like he lost his dog, wet and tired. He drops his backpack by the stairs and sits down next to Pete at the table.

"Does it ever stop raining? Fuck." Patrick's annoyed and Pete probably shouldn't think it's cute, but Patrick's nose scrunches up when he's annoyed and he's sort of fun to poke and prod and rile up.

It's different tonight, though. Something about the way Patrick doesn't rise to Pete's baiting, the slump in his shoulders.

"You have sad eyes," Pete says and it's meant to be teasing, a reason to start singing Bruce Springsteen but Patrick lays his head on the kitchen table, presses his cheek to the scarred wood and exhales, a little shaky.

Pete straddles the chair next to Patrick. He tucks his chin over Patrick's shoulder, ignores the fact that he's soaking wet, hair dripping water everywhere. "It gets better," Pete says quietly. He touches his fingertips to the back of Patrick's neck where the skin is damp and cool. Patrick shivers.

"When?" he says in a low voice, sort of forlorn. Pete remembers this. His first winter in Portland when the rain refused to let up and all he could think about was Chicago and his parents and his high school friends and second guess his decision to come out here.

"Eventually," Pete replies though as an answer it sucks pretty bad. There's nothing really to say. The only thing that got him through that first year was Frank.

"You should put on dry clothes," Pete says after a little while, after Patrick's started shivering harder, his lower lip wobbling a little, though Pete's not sure that's from the cold.

"I don't have dry clothes here." Patrick looks at Pete and yeah, Patrick's eyes are big and sad and Pete's never wanted to fix anything as much as he wants to fix Patrick right now.

Pete doesn't know why Patrick doesn't just keep some clothes here, he spends enough time here.

"Come on." Pete stands and pulls Patrick up. "I've got some you can wear."

Pete's room is a mess of guitars and posters, his snowboard shoved in a corner, his boots and clothes littering the floor. He rummages in the back of the closet for a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that'll fit Patrick.

"You know where the bathroom is," Pete says, handing Patrick the clothes and crawling into bed. Hemmingway's shoved in the corner under a pile of blankets. Patrick's mood makes Pete feel like he's the homesick one. He pulls Hemmingway up against him and curls around him. Patrick doesn't leave, just takes off his hat and soaking wet jacket, hangs it off the doorknob. Pete watches Patrick. Patrick's pale all over and he has really skinny legs and knobby knees that makes Pete feel like a pervert. He pulls on the ratty grey sweatpants and they hang off his hips, a size too big. When Patrick pulls off his wet sweatshirt and t-shirt, Pete can't tear his eyes off Patrick's chest, nipples pink against his skin, a faint trail of hair leading from his belly button to the waist of the pants.

Patrick looks over at Pete and goes still for a minute, stands there, chest bare, watching Pete. Pete doesn't move, feels caught by Patrick's stare, and then whatever it is passes and Patrick's pulling the dry t-shirt on.

Pete expects Patrick to leave, go downstairs and start his homework but he doesn't, just crawls up onto the mattress, mutters, "shove over," and lays his head on Pete's pillow.

Hemmingway's way curled up between them, his breathing loud in the dark, still room. Patrick touches his fingers to Pete's hand where it's draped over Hemmingway.

Pete falls asleep like that, thinking about rain and Chicago and Patrick. When he wakes up, the redlight on the digital clock says it's almost ten pm. Hemmingway's gone and Patrick's wrapped around Pete, legs scissored with his. His mouth's slightly open on the pillow, air brushing across Pete's lips as Patrick breathes.

Pete blinks into the dark, waiting for his eyes to adjust and he feels Patrick move, his fingers tightening in Pete's t-shirt, his weight shifting as his thigh presses more firmly between Pete's legs.

Pete groans and bites his lip. He tries to move away, just enough to get the pressure off his dick.

He feels Patrick move then, coming awake slowly, shifting his weight a little.

"Pete," Patrick breathes and his mouth is right there, a breath away from Pete's.

"Patrick," Pete whispers and closes the space between them, presses his mouth to Patrick's.

* * *

"Are you going home for Thanksgiving?" Pete reaches across the table and grabs the last piece of bacon off Patrick's plate.

Patrick shrugs. "I'm trying not to think about it," he says, shoving bits of pancake around his plate with his fork. "I can't really afford to go home for both Thanksgiving and Christmas, but I can't stay in the dorms."

Pete nods. He had the same problem until sophomore year when he and Frank moved into Barkley together.

"Stay with us," Pete says though there's at least ten reasons he shouldn't, the first and most important being he hasn't asked the other guys.

Patrick looks up sharply, eyes wide. "Seriously?"

Pete nods. "Yeah. We do our own Thanksgiving thing at the house. First time we tried to make a turkey we nearly burnt the fucking house down. But we do everything else. You can help."

Patrick's smiling then. "Thanks, Pete," he says beaming like Pete just offered to go and get the moon and bring it back to him.

* * *

The Saturday before Thanksgiving they have a holiday party, a hundred or so people filling the house with alcohol and weed and food and noise.

In the attic there's a little balcony that overlooks the backyard facing North and when the sky is clear you can see Mount Hood. Pete takes Patrick up there a little after two am when the house is still too crowded to breathe or hear over the noise.

Patrick unfolds himself down next to Pete. Pete pushes his legs through the wooden slats of the railing and kicks them out into air. It's cold, Pete can see his breath when he exhales and Patrick's shivering.

"Come here," Pete says, lifting his arm. Patrick goes, crawls close until they're pressed up against each other. Patrick's mouth is sweet and warm and opens when Pete licks the taste of peppermint from his lips.

Pete slips his hands under Patrick's jacket, press them against his stomach, soaking in his heat. Patrick pulls away to catch his breath and Pete kisses his chin, the corner of his mouth, the soft skin beneath his jaw.

Patrick looks up and smiles, a soft private smile and presses his face to Pete's neck.

Pete untangles his legs and moves to lie back, pulls Patrick down over him, his weight solid and comfortable.

They fall asleep like that, the sound of Patrick's breathing lulling Pete to sleep. In the morning Pete wakes up to Patrick poking him and grumbling, "get the fuck off, your breath reeks" and Pete just smiles and snuggles closer.