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At first, it sounds like the worst idea ever. And, to put things in perspective, Pete’s had some pretty fucking terrible ideas. But this isn’t CDs in the microwave terrible, or jump off a roof holding a patio umbrella terrible, or even try and fill a slip-n-slide entirely with Everclear terrible. We’re talking monumentally, historically terrible here: invading Russia in the winter, accepting the Trojan horse, nuking the moon terrible.
Pete’s mom says, “Why don’t you spend your winter break with your aunt and uncle in Vermont?” and all Pete hears is, “Why don’t we get a nice big blimp, fill it with hydrogen, park it directly over an orphanage, and light a match?”
After a few moments of listening to the long, horrified silence on the other end of the phone, his mom explains herself in her usual, predictable, well-meaningly awful way. There are, she says delicately, certain “distractions” at home (read: an ex-girlfriend) that might be “annoying” (read: depressing) for him and make him “a little stir-crazy” (read: suicidal, again).
“Mom,” he sighs after another lengthy pause, this one more resigned than shocked. “As little-” He cuts himself off, realizing just in time that ‘as little as I want to spend three weeks cooped up in your damn house slowly losing my mind’ would be a rather undiplomatic thing to say at the moment. Wow, he thinks idly, The therapy must really be working.
“As little as I want to deal with the, uh, distractions at home,” he corrects himself carefully, “Vermont is…kind of terrible?”
“Peter, don’t say that!” his mom admonishes him. “Uncle Jim and Aunt Jen are the sweetest people in the world, and they’d love to have you.”
“I’m sure they would, Mom,” Pete groans, sinking down onto his bed and scrubbing his free hand over his eyes. “It’s just that…look, there’s not exactly a lot to do there, and three weeks is a really long time.”
It’s not like he’s pulling this out of his ass: as far as he can remember, his childhood visits to Vermont involved petting his relatives’ grumpy, gaseous cats, trying desperately to find something to read that wasn’t a back issue of National Geographic or The Economist, and snow. Lots and lots of snow. Gratuitous, ridiculous, completely absurd amounts of snow. Way more snow than any human being could conceivably deal with without smacking people with shovels and/or talking to icicles.
“I think it would be nice for you,” his mom’s saying, her voice gone simultaneously placating and steely, the way it does when she’s already made a decision and is just trying to get Pete to stop whining about it. “You know, to get away from it all for a bit, spend a little time out in the countryside. Jim and Jen said you could even bring a friend!”
“Who the fuck would I inflict this on?” Pete mutters under his breath.
His mother pretends not to hear him; instead, she adds, slightly louder than necessary, “And, you know, they’re only a few minutes from that adorable little ski resort—Phoenix Mountain, I think? I’m sure they’d be more than happy to get you a three-week pass…”
“Oh,” Pete says quietly, blinking slowly at the fuzzy black-and-white atrocity of a Grateful Dead poster that Joe has hanging on his side of the room. Those stoned, creepy-ass little teddy bears seem to stare into his very soul, their creepy-ass bear hands pointing to one inescapable conclusion: a break spent snowboarding with his best friend is one hell of a lot better than a break spent staring at the snow and getting farted on by irritable cats.
In an attempt to salvage his dignity, he clears his throat and tells his mom, “I’ll think about it.”
❄ ❄ ❄
The weird part is, he barely has to think at all: it seems like the entire universe is conspiring to get him to Vermont. His soccer coach condones it as a way to stay in shape during the offseason, and his therapist wholeheartedly supports “getting some fresh air and communing a little with Mother Nature.” His therapist is a little bit of a hippie, but Pete likes him too much to point out that Mother Nature is pretty much dead—or at least in a coma—this time of year.
There’s only the briefest of snags when Joe wholeheartedly rejects Pete’s invitation.
“Spend three weeks staring at a snowdrift with you?” he snorts around a mouthful of his customary 3 AM Easy Mac. “Sounds romantic, but fuck no.”
“You didn’t let me finish, asshole,” Pete snaps, clearing all his dirty laundry off his bed and collapsing onto it. “They live, like, ten minutes from a ski resort. We could board, dude.”
“Well, now,” Joe says slowly, wiping a smear of cheese off his chin and licking his thumb thoughtfully. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
❄ ❄ ❄
And that is how Pete and his stoner roommate find themselves jamming two suitcases, two snowboards, and two pairs of boots into Joe’s shitty Buick and setting the GPS for the tiniest town in Vermont. Joe drives first while Pete, fresh out of the political economy final that he stayed up all night cramming for, passes out in the passenger’s seat. By the time he wakes up, it’s three hours later, they’re in Ohio, and he’s almost starting to feel excited.
❄ ❄ ❄
After another eleven hours, give or take the forty minutes they spend devouring unimpressive cheeseburgers at a roadside diner and another thirty they waste getting totally lost and yelling at each other somewhere in Pennsylvania, they make it.
It’s dark by the time they pull in between the twin snowdrifts that line his aunt and uncle’s driveway. Pete, squinting and half brain dead from seven accumulated hours behind the wheel, has to swerve to avoid running the shitty Buick’s dented bumper into the leftmost wall of solid snow. While Joe, also more brain dead than usual, scolds him halfheartedly, Pete sighs deeply, turns off the car, and pushes open his door. That anticipation that swelled in him somewhere outside Cleveland is gone, but they’ve made it, so.
Uncle Jim and Aunt Jen are pretty much as he remembers: a few years older than his mom, incredibly sweet, and deathly boring. After brief, teeth-chattering introductions in the snowy front yard, Jim helps them drag their luggage into the house and upstairs to the cluttered bedroom that once belonged to Pete’s twin cousins. They’re grown now, but he vaguely remembers them as tall, somber, dark-haired girls who always had their noses in books during family reunions.
What he has failed to remember, however, is their room, which, despite the fact that they haven’t actually lived in it for well over six years now, still looks like a pair of sixteen-year-old girls slept there just last night. Joe and Pete drop their backpacks and take it all in, open-mouthed: the lofted beds, the contrasting blue and purple bedspreads nearly obscured by heaps of stuffed animals, the green-and-white striped walls plastered with posters and photographs and strings of white Christmas lights.
“Well,” Joe says after a lengthy, astonished silence, “I call the purple bed.” He clambers gracelessly up onto it and flops face first into its pile of pillows and stuffed animals.
“Holy shit,” Pete says, swinging himself up onto the blue bed and pushing himself to his knees to examine the wall above it. “Is that Courtney Love?”
“Hrmph?” Joe grunts, muffled by the exceedingly large stuffed dolphin that he’s probably drooling all over.
“And Cindy Lauper?” Pete pulls off his boots and lets them drop onto the white-carpeted floor with a dull thud. “I didn’t know my cousins were cool.”
Raising his head from the mass of stuffed animals like a kraken surfacing from the sea, Joe gives him a bleary-eyed glare and suggests, “Go the fuck to sleep.”
After another moment’s contemplation of the crowded jumble of posters above his bed, Pete shrugs, unplugs the Christmas lights, and does as he says.
❄ ❄ ❄
They sleep until noon the next day, whereupon Uncle Jim cracks open the door and informs them that if they’d like some lunch, Aunt Jen has made a very nice casserole and they’re more than welcome to join them. Despite Pete’s dim but unpleasant memories of Aunt Jen’s casserole, he drags both himself and, after a great deal of yanking and shoving and mild threats, his roommate out of bed. They totter downstairs, yawning hugely, and find enormous plates of worryingly unidentifiable casserole awaiting them at the table.
The upside, Pete discovers, of not being entirely awake at this juncture, is that he downs his entire plateful without tasting a bite. Joe, his eyes barely even open, asks for seconds. Aunt Jen’s smile is so bright that it could practically melt the two-foot icicles hanging from the roof outside.
They spend the rest of the day in a similarly catatonic post-finals recovery state, petting the irritable gaseous cats (Uncle Jim claims that there are two new ones, but they all look—and smell—exactly the same to Pete) and flipping idly through the channels on the small, staticky television. Around five o’clock, huge, fluffy snowflakes start to fall, and Pete and Joe exchange anticipatory looks.
“Tomorrow?” Pete asks, raising his eyebrows at the beautiful layer of powder rapidly forming on the windowsill.
“Absolutely,” Joe nods solemnly. “We board at dawn, my friend.”
❄ ❄ ❄
‘Dawn’ turns out to be more like eight thirty, but hey, it’s a hell of a lot earlier than Pete’s ever managed to get up for class, so that’s pretty impressive. Aunt Jen supplies them with steaming plates of blueberry pancakes (considerably better than her casserole), and then they struggle into their gear and pile back into the Buick. By nine thirty, they’re sticking their three-week passes to their zippers, hefting their snowboards over their shoulders, and striding magnificently into the ski lodge like the winter sport gods that they are.
It’s a pretty small resort, as these things go: three chair lifts, one lodge, and fifty or so trails. To be honest, it’s a bit shabby, a decade or two past its glory days. But it’s cute, in this weird way, and family owned, and really quite reasonably priced thanks to the lack of absurdly wealthy Aspen assholes skiing snootily in their diamonds and furs.
And, quite frankly, the boarding that morning is glorious. The sky is clear and brilliant, the sun bounces beautifully off the snow, and the powder, oh, the powder. Pete loves the feel of it under his board, the soft whisper-scrape as he slices through it, the way it flies up around him in soft crystal clouds when he skids to a stop. Pete might be a little bit prone to hyperbole, but he’s not exaggerating in the slightest when he says it’s perfect.
"Pretty much,” Joe agrees through a mouthful of fries at lunch. They spent the morning covering one side of the mountain, starting with the green circles (“Kiddy shit,” Joe had scoffed before falling flat on his face) and working their way up through a few blue squares before braving Death Valley, a winding and treacherous black diamond trail. In the end, of course, they made it to the bottom, but it was less of a victory and more of an exhausted, snow-coated surrender.
Needless to say, afterwards they felt that they richly deserved some fucking burgers.
“Shit, that trail, though,” Pete groans into his hot chocolate and rubs at his elbow, which is still throbbing faintly from a particularly nasty fall that involved a very sharp turn and an entirely unexpected tree.
“Probably a bad call,” Joe admits, wincing as he rolls his wrist experimentally. “Kinda feels like I just had really, really rough sex. The kinky kind, involving slapping and also lots of snow.”
“I’m gonna own that fucking trail,” Pete declares, ignoring Joe’s latter comment entirely (sometimes it’s the only way to cope with him). “By the end of this month, I’ll fucking own it.”
“Calm down, Rocky Balboa,” Joe chuckles, regarding him somewhat skeptically. “This afternoon, we’re sticking to the kiddy shit.”
❄ ❄ ❄
That afternoon is the first time that Pete sees Ridiculously Attractive Chairlift Guy.
He spots him, as the name might suggest, at the foot of a chairlift. From the end of the lift line, Ridiculously Attractive Chairlift Guy looks like just another anonymous figure in a threadbare blue-gray staff jacket, tasked with the dull and fairly superfluous job of helping people onto the lift. He’s the guy most people barely even look at; even the friendliest only shoot him a polite smile before being swept up and away by the relentless chair.
And, if we’re being honest here, under ordinary circumstances Pete probably wouldn’t have noticed the guy, either. Sure, he’s Ridiculously Attractive, but it’s also 16 degrees out, and it takes a whole fuckton of attractive to get through thick layers of wooly clothing designed to cover as much of your face as possible.
But Pete does notice him, and this is why: after a few minutes of inching steadily forward, the lift line comes to a screeching halt. Huffing out a steam cloud of irritation, Pete looks up and notes that the chairlift itself has also stopped.
“Oh my god, seriously?” he grumbles, awkwardly shuffling sideways with his free foot in an attempt to see around the gaggle of skiers ahead of him. “What does that assclown up there think he’s doing? Some of us would actually rather not spend all day waiting for the fucking chair-”
He cuts himself off as the woman in front of him shifts slightly and he suddenly gets a clear view of what that assclown at the foot of the lift is doing: crouching next to a tiny figure on an even tinier snowboard and trying to get him to stop crying. In a matter of moments, the scene becomes crystal clear. The tiny snowboarder is clutching the hand of his slightly less tiny sister, who has apparently tried to drag him onto the chairlift despite the fact that he is quite obviously terrified of it. The chairlift assclown (who, Pete can’t help but noticing even from this distance, is kinda attractive) is smiling kindly at the little boy and gesturing at the motionless chairlift behind him in an attempt to convince the kid that there’s really no need to stand there and scream until his face turns as red as his snowsuit.
After a few moments of Kinda Attractive Chairlift Assclown’s earnest gesticulating, the tiny snowboarder stops screaming, wipes his nose with one gloved hand, and nods tremulously. So the assclown straightens up, flips a switch that starts the lift moving at half speed, and carefully helps the tiny snowboarder and his unimpressed sister aboard.
“Children should really be banned from chairlifts,” Joe remarks as the line starts moving again. “Or maybe just public spaces in general. They’re just little dickheads about everything, y’know?”
“I dunno, I thought it was kinda cute,” Pete shrugs, watching the gaggle of skiers in front of them getting scooped up by the chairlift. As he and Joe push themselves into the path of the lift, he adds, “Y’know, the kids and…”
Once again, he trails off abruptly. Because now he has the opportunity to fully examine Kinda Attractive Chairlift Assclown, and holy shit-
-the next few seconds pass by like a rapid series of camera stills: he exhales a cloud of steam, makes eye contact with a pair of startled blue-gray eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses, and inhales a big, shocked lungful of cold air-
-and then reality snaps back into motion as the lift slams into him, knocking all the breath out of him as he folds backwards and lets it carry him off and up into the air.
“And what?” Joe asks, as though nothing has happened.
“Huh?” Pete blinks at him, because everything has just happened.
“You were saying,” Joe says slowly, like Pete’s from a different planet. “The kids were cute, and…?”
“And him,” Pete says breathlessly, twisting to look back at the diminishing figure with the blue-gray eyes in the blue-gray jacket. “Oh my god, he was so cute.”
“Oh-kay, Pete,” Joe laughs dubiously. “Easy, tiger.”
“No, like-” Pete breaks off helplessly, completely at a loss for words. Because, to be honest, all he’s got running through his head right now is a series of disorganized impressions: wisps of blond hair poking out from under a black beanie, pale cheeks flushed with the cold, black gloves reaching to steady the chair, grey scarf pulled almost high enough to cover the cutest fucking nose Pete’s ever seen-
“Hello? Anyone home on Planet Pete?” Joe’s all but yelling at him, giving him a solid thwack on the helmet with one gloved hand.
“Huh? What?” Pete blinks reluctantly back into the present moment.
“I asked you which trail you wanted to try.”
“Oh, uh…” Pete shrugs absently, his mind already wandering back to Ridiculously Attractive Chairlift Guy. “Whichever. You pick.”
“You know, I was thinking, uh, that it might be super duper fun to check out a double black diamond, y’know, fall on our asses all over the place, maybe split our heads open on some rocks or something?”
“Yeah, sure, sounds great,” Pete says vaguely, the majority of his brainpower devoted to speculating about what the lower half of RACG’s face might look like. Because, really, whatever’s hidden beneath that scarf could totally make or break things; he could turn out to only be fairly attractive…
“Alllllrighty,” Joe sighs, settling back into his seat. “Good to know you’re listening, buddy.”
“Yeah, cool, you too,” Pete mumbles. He’s still down at the bottom of the lift.
❄ ❄ ❄
Frankly, he doesn’t have the faintest idea which trail they choose or how long it takes them to get to the bottom of it; all he knows is that at long, long last, he finds himself standing once again in the lift line.
“Jeez, you must be really into this dude,” Joe pants, unstrapping his back foot from his board. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you board so fast, man.”
“I guess.” Pete unbuckles his boot blindly, eyes fixed on the blue-gray figure helping an elderly skier onto the lift.
An exasperated sigh from beside him suggests that Joe has finally given up on talking to him, which is just fine by Pete. He’s currently preoccupied with trying to assess the true color of Ridiculously Attractive Chairlift Guy’s hair, which, upon further inspection, proves to be less blond and more gingery-brownish, like a light auburn color, which sets off his strawberries-and-cream complexion quite nicely. Pete also notes that the face-concealing grey scarf is, in fact, spotted with white polka dots. A nice touch, he thinks.
Then, of course, his brain kicks back to life and points out that a, this is really fucking creepy, and b, it’s almost their turn to get on the lift. All of a sudden, he’s gripped with an intense need to talk to this guy, to make some kind of smooth, witty remark that will charm him straight out of all those layers and right into Pete’s arms.
The problem, naturally, is that he has absolutely no clue what to say. And he’s fast running out of time to figure something out; the three poorly dressed middle-aged skiers in front of him are rapidly propelling themselves into the path of the lift, and Pete and Joe’s turn is mere seconds away.
And then a chair swings by on its way to pick up the middle-aged skiers, and then he’s shuffling after it and coming to a clumsy stop, and then he looks up and realizes that he’s standing right next to him, and then his breath freezes like an icicle in his throat and he opens his mouth without thinking and says:
“Nice jacket.”
The world goes sharp and silent and still for about half a second, and then pale eyebrows rise in surprise behind thick black frames and a black-gloved hand tugs down a grey scarf to reveal pink, pink lips that shape the words, “Uh. Thanks?”
And Pete’s brain is reeling, because at this point it’s become entirely clear that this guy is perfect, completely and utterly perfect because now Pete can see those cheekbones and that mouth and that chin and did he mention that mouth? That mouth that’s now curling into a perplexed half-smile that might just be the most amazing thing that Pete’s ever seen, and he has to say something else, he has to, he’ll never forgive himself if he lets this moment slip by.
“It’s a nice color,” he blurts out, and shit, that wasn’t what he meant to say at all, what he meant to say was you’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on and I know I’m not worthy but would you maybe consider marrying me or at the very least making out?
But even in his current frazzled state, he knows that that would be hella creepy and quite possibly get him kicked out of the resort, and now out of the corner of his eye he can see the next chair approaching, an inexorable harbinger of fate come to sweep him away and ruin everything and it’s just seconds away, he’s only got a few measly seconds left and what the fuck is he going to do?
What he does is this: without quite meaning to, without even thinking about it, he looks straight into that bewildered face, smiles his biggest, most charming smile, and says, “It matches your eyes.”
A puff of steam hits his face as Ridiculously Attractive Chairlift Guy lets out a surprised laugh, and then the chair surges forward, sweeps Pete off his feet, and carries him up and away.
“Well, damn,” Joe says after a moment or two of silence filled with the churning, clanking sound of the chairlift. “That was smooth as fuck, my friend.”
Pete looks over at him, blinking in surprise. “Was it?” He laughs sheepishly, ducking his head. “I kind of felt like a dog on ice skates, to be honest.”
“I mean,” Joe shrugs, “Bit of a shaky descent, dude, but like, you came in for a pretty sweet landing.”
“Huh,” Pete says thoughtfully. “You think so?”
“C’mon, man, didn’t you see the way he was smiling?”
Pete feels his heart slam unexpectedly against his sternum. “He was smiling?”
“Yeah, man, fuckin’ ear-to-ear, right as we sat down on the lift. You didn’t see?”
“No.” Pete tugs his bandana up over his face in an attempt to hide his own grin. “I was, uh, trying to be cool.” What was he was actually doing was straight-up panicking, but Joe doesn’t need to know that.
“Never fear, my man,” Joe says expansively, lifting the restraining bar as they approach the top of the mountain. “He’ll totally throw himself into your arms as soon as we’re back in that lift line.”
“Sure,” Pete says dubiously, but beneath his bandana his smile is ear-to-ear.
And if Joe thought they took the last trail quickly, this time he doesn’t even bother trying to keep up. Pete leaves him shaking his head and laughing fondly in a cloud of powder.
❄ ❄ ❄
When Pete gets to the bottom of the mountain, Ridiculously Attractive Chairlift Guy is gone.
“It’s four o’clock, folks, lift’s closed,” a portly older man in a far less lovely orange staff jacket announces, shooing Pete away. “Come back tomorrow.”
“Oh, I will,” Pete chuckles, unstrapping his boots and swinging his board up onto his shoulder. “I definitely will.”
❄ ❄ ❄
The next morning, Ridiculously Attractive Chairlift Guy isn’t there.
“The fuck?” Joe exclaims, frowning at the irritable middle-aged lady who’s taken RACG’s place. “I’m sorry, dude, that sucks.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Pete shrugs, strapping his front foot into its binding and pushing off towards the lift. “It’s no big deal, he was just kind of cute.”
“Aw, don’t say that!” Joe chides him, cuffing him gently on the shoulder. “He was super cute, and you totally charmed the shit out of him.”
“Thanks, man,” Pete laughs, reflecting that although Joe can sometimes be slow to climb aboard the Pete’s New True Love bandwagon, once he’s on board, he is really on board. “But it’s really fine. Really.”
To be honest, Pete’s feeling kind of embarrassed about yesterday’s little melodrama. It’s an unfortunate tendency of his, this inclination to fall fast and hard for complete strangers, and he always manages to work himself up into a ridiculous state over absolutely nothing. Sure, the kid might be cute, but there’s no way he’s as beautiful and perfect as Pete convinced himself yesterday. This will all probably come to nothing, anyway; Pete might fall head over heels at first sight, but it generally doesn’t take long for people to disappoint him, and he almost always loses interest. His therapist keeps telling him it’s because he expects nothing short of perfection, but there’s this little voice at the back of Pete’s head that always insists that he just hasn’t found the right person yet.
Regardless, Pete resolves to put Ridiculously Attractive Chairlift Guy out of his head for most of the morning. He only slips up once, when he thinks for half a second that he sees RACG shoot past him on a neon green snowboard. His heart jumps into his throat when he catches a glimpse of dark blond hair and a blue-gray staff jacket gliding down the slope ahead of him, but at a second glance he notices the bright red hat and the long braids sticking out from under it. She’s cute, he thinks as he speeds past her, but she’s no Chairlift Guy.
After that minor scare, his thoughts are blissfully attractive guy-free for the rest of the morning. And then, when he and Joe drag themselves back to the lodge to down some sandwiches and warm their numb fingers, disaster strikes.
It very nearly doesn’t happen: in another universe, Pete might not order a large hot chocolate. He might not find himself needing to take a piss. He might not walk right past the rental shop on his way to the bathroom. He might not glance inside and catch sight of a perfect, perfect gingery blonde with glasses standing behind the counter.
But, in this universe, he does. In this universe, it feels like his heart comes to a stop as he does a double take to end all double takes. And when he looks again, Ridiculously Attractive Chairlift guy is still there, adjusting the bindings on a pair of skis with a little frown of concentration that makes Pete’s mouth go dry, and is he seriously wearing fingerless gloves? Pete’s so busy staring that he comes dangerously close to walking straight into a bank of lockers.
Fortunately, he recovers his senses and manages to swerve just in time. He stumbles on towards the bathroom in a daze, his mind’s eye still fixed firmly on that furrowed forehead, those long, clever fingers, the tip of that tongue poking out from between those lips…
“He’s perfect,” he gasps as soon as he gets back to the table, sinking into the chair opposite Joe’s. “Oh my god, he is so perfect.”
“You saw him?” Joe leans forward eagerly, propping his elbows on the table. “Where? Did he see you? Did you talk to him?”
“Rental shop,” Pete sighs, taking an absent-minded sip of his hot chocolate, “I don’t think so, and definitely not.”
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Joe demands, thumping his fist on the table and making Pete jump. “Get back there! Go talk to him! C’mon, man, get the fuck up!”
“Joe,” Pete says mournfully, staring at him with defeated eyes. “I don’t think you understand. This guy is, like, absurdly attractive. Intimidatingly attractive. I can’t deal with it.”
“What, so you’re just gonna stare at him and be hopelessly in love from afar?” Joe snorts. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. He’s not some mysterious alien babe, just go strike up a conversation.”
“What am I supposed to say, Joe?” Pete snaps. “‘Hey, hot stuff, wanna take a ride on my snowboard’?”
“I mean, it’s not exactly what I’d recommend, but if that’s your style, go for it. I’ve heard that the direct approach works on some people.”
“Well, since you’re the expert,” Pete says sarcastically, “Why don’t you tell me what you would recommend?”
“Just make something up, man,” Joe shrugs. “You’re a polisci major, isn’t coming up with bullshit your specialty?” He brushes aside Pete’s indignant yelp and adds, “Look, I’m sure he’s bored out of his mind back there. He’d totally be down to flirt with you.”
“You think so?”
“I know so, dude, I saw the look he gave you yesterday. Just go.”
“I don’t know if I can do this,” Pete protests half-heartedly, sliding reluctantly out of his chair. “What if I throw up on him?”
“You’re not gonna throw up on him, and you can totally do this,” Joe reassures him, giving him an encouraging shove towards the rental shop. “Where’s that smooth motherfucker I saw on the lift yesterday? Bring that guy back.”
“Yeah, okay,” Pete murmurs, shuffling slowly towards his doom. Heart pounding loudly in his ears, he tries to force his panicky brain to focus. What should he say? What would be normal and charming and not super-creepy?
“Can I help you?”
He looks up and realizes with a start that his feet have carried him straight into the rental shop and he’s standing motionless in front of the counter, staring at Ridiculously Attractive Chairlift Guy with his mouth wide open. Shit, Pete, the last refuge of consciousness in the chaotic riot of his thoughts screams, Say something!
“Uh,” he says blankly, pausing to take a deep breath and marshal his stampeding thoughts and stop fucking staring at the guy. “Do you—uh, could you tell me how much it’d cost to get my board waxed?”
“Nope,” Ridiculously Attractive Rental Shop Guy says, and Pete’s heart plummets promptly into his stomach.
“But I can find you someone who can,” RARSG adds. “Just a sec.” Pete’s heart returns to its normal location as he turns and walks back through the shelves stacked with ski and snowboard boots of all sizes.
Pete uses this opportunity to take a few more deep breaths and study RARSG from behind. Indoors, he’s kept the black beanie but shed the scarf and jacket to reveal a denim button-up, a gloriously ugly sweater, and black skinny jeans. At this juncture, it dawns on Pete that this guy isn’t just attractive; he’s hot. Fit. Gorgeous. And, shit, turning around and walking straight back towards Pete.
“Andy’ll be right back,” he says with a smile. “He’s outside helping a five-year-old who can’t get himself out of his bindings.”
“Lucky him,” Pete chuckles, and a distant part of his brain cheers in triumph because he’s acting so calm, it’s amazing.
“Yeah, I just hope he doesn’t get bitten,” RARSG snorts, and Pete laughs in a totally normal and not even slightly nervous way.
“So you, uh, you don’t do snowboards?” he asks, leaning one arm against the counter in a desperate attempt to seem nonchalant.
“Nope, I’m a ski guy.” RARSG shakes his head with a smile, and Pete feels a tiny twinge of disappointment in his stomach. Skiers, as every good snowboarder knows, are the actual worst. Still, you can’t have everything…
“I wouldn’t get on a snowboard if my life depended on it,” RARSG adds, and it might just be Pete’s imagination, but he could swear that there’s a kind of challenging smile, almost a smirk, spreading across that perfect mouth.
“How you wound me!” Pete gasps, putting a hand to his chest in mock-horror and trying to ignore the way his heart somersaults at the sound of RARSG’s laugh. “What have you got against us poor boarders?”
“Please, it’s a totally inferior sport,” RARSG scoffs, a teasing smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “And, like, aside from the fact that you guys scrape all the powder off the slopes-”
“Come on, that’s totally skiers’ fault!” Pete argues, a matching smile spreading across his face.
“Dude, have you ever listened to the sound your board makes when you try to slow down? It’s the absolute worst. You can hear the ice.”
“Well, maybe we wouldn’t have to slow down if there weren’t so many skiers swooping back and forth all over the damn place.”
“It’s called elegance, dude. I know it’s probably a foreign concept to you, but you should really look into it sometime.”
“Oh, come on.” Pete rolls his eyes; he’s got both hands propped on the counter now, leaning right into RARSG’s space. To his pleasant surprise, he notes that the guy hasn’t moved an inch.
“We’re talking sports here, not fucking art,” Pete continues. “The point is to get to the bottom of the mountain as fast as you can without falling on your ass.”
“Says you,” RARSG snorts. “And you know what, you’re probably right. Snowboarding’s not really an art. Skiing, however, totally is.”
“Ri-ight, because sliding around with a pair of floorboards strapped to your feet is so beautiful.”
“It can be.”
“Prove it.”
“Fine.” RARSG braces both hands on the counter and leans right back into Pete’s personal space, so close that Pete could practically count the freckles dusting the bridge of his nose. “Take a lesson with me.”
“What?” Pete gapes up at him; he was so distracted by those damn freckles that he must have heard wrong.
“You heard me,” RARSG smirks, and jeez, Pete could almost cry, it’s so fucking attractive. “Take a ski lesson. Free. If you still think it’s not an art form, you can go right back to your boarding. All you’ll lose is a day.”
“You…give lessons?” Pete says slowly, his thoughts flailing uselessly like a turtle on its back because private lesson with Ridiculously Attractive Rental Shop Guy.
“It’s what they hired me for,” RARSG shrugs. “Roped me in with promises of working with children so they could exploit me as a jack-of-all-trades.”
“Like operating a chairlift?” Pete says without thinking, his gaze flicking up from RARSG’s fingerless-gloved hands splayed on the counter to his pale eyes.
“Yeah,” RARSG says slowly, and in that slow half-grin Pete can suddenly see that RARSG recognizes him, has recognized him from the first moment that he walked through the door.
“So,” RARSG continues softly, and Pete starts a little when he realizes that he’s been staring, “How about that lesson?”
“S-sure,” Pete stammers automatically. Then, after a moment, he realizes what he’s just said, and he’s honestly not sure whether to laugh in triumph or scream in panic. Ultimately, he does neither; instead, he squares his shoulders, slips on his most confident smile, and adds, “Sounds awesome.”
“Cool,” RARSG grins back, straightening up and offering Pete his hand. “I’m Patrick Stump. Ignore the embarrassing last name, call me Patrick.”
“Pete Wentz.” Pete straightens up and shakes Patrick’s hand firmly. The skin contact isn’t as electric as he expects; no sparks fly, no shivers run up Pete’s spine, no cartoon hearts explode like fireworks midair. Instead, there’s just the press of calloused fingers and wooly glove against his skin, the pleasant glow of Patrick’s self-conscious smile, and the best damn feeling that Pete’s had about anyone and anything in a very long time.
“You still need help, man?” As they break the handshake, a short-haired guy with a scrubby ginger beard and serious tattoos hurries out of the back, dusting snow off his hands.
“Uh, yeah,” Pete says distractedly; it takes him half a second to remember his pretense for coming in here in the first place. “How much would it be to get my board waxed?”
“I can do it for twenty bucks,” tattoo dude—Andy, presumably—says briskly.
“Cool, man, thanks,” Pete nods, even though he doesn’t have the faintest intention of actually getting it done. “I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll meet you here at nine tomorrow morning,” Patrick tells Pete as Andy vanishes once more between the stacked rows of snowboards. “Don’t be late.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Pete grins. “Wouldn’t wanna miss my art lesson.”
“Just you wait,” Patrick laughs. “I’ll convert you by the end of the day, you’ll see.”
“Looking forward to it,” Pete smirks as he strolls out of the rental shop. The truth, of course, is that he is. Like, he really, really is.
❄ ❄ ❄
“Fucking skiers, oh my god,” Joe groans, skidding to a stop beside Pete and dusting them both with a liberal coating of powder. “They literally think that the fucking world belongs to them. Boarders need some fucking space too, Jesus Christ.”
“What happened?” Pete asks patiently, wiping snow off his goggles and glancing around them. They’re at a kind of crossroads where one trail splits off from another; straight ahead, he can see the broad white swath of a wide, straightforward slope, while off to his left a narrow, tree-lined path winds its way down the mountain.
“Nearly fuckin’ died,” Joe growls, adjusting his board leash peevishly. “I was minding my own fucking business when this fancy-ass motherfucker on skis swoops right the fuck in front of me. I get a fucking eyeful of powder and go straight off one of those little jumps that some asshole thought would be a good idea to put on the side of the trail.”
“Yeah? You get any air?”
“I went ass over fucking teacup, Pete, what do you fucking think?”
“All right, okay, calm down,” Pete says soothingly, grateful that his bandana hides his smile at the thought of Joe flying off a jump like a greased pig. “You all right? Any broken bones? Oozing lesions? Grave head injuries?”
“Fuck off,” Joe snaps.
“Ah, I see.” Pete nods sagely, putting a hand on Joe’s shoulder. “In my medical opinion, what we have here is a serious case of wounded pride.”
“Get fucked, dude—HEY! Hey, watch where you’re going, motherfucker!” Joe cries as a skier careens past mere inches away, very nearly knocking Joe over and into Pete.
“Chill, man,” Pete mutters, but Joe ignores him, leaning out into the trail to harangue the skier’s rapidly retreating form.
“Get fucked, you entitled piece of shit! Fuck you, fuck your family, fuck your friends, fuck your favorite band, fuck all the food you like, and most importantly, fuck your shitty fucking excuse for a sport!”
“He can’t even hear you, dumbass.” Pete rolls his eyes; he thought he was the drama queen.
“It’s the thought that counts,” Joe insists, flipping off the now-vanished skier just for good measure. “Hopefully that shitty karma will follow him around for the rest of the day and make his skiing suck and all the other skiers suck and generally fuck everything up so badly that all the asshole skiers go the fuck away and leave this mountain to the boarders.”
Pete opens his mouth to point out that karma doesn’t really work like that, and it’s really kind of shitty and appropriative to talk about it that way, but instead he says, “You know, I’ve been thinking of learning to ski.”
“What?” The way Joe looks at him, you’d think that Pete ha just been miraculously beamed up into the sky and replaced with Benedict Arnold or something. Though, to be honest, Joe probably doesn’t know who the fuck Benedict Arnold is, so perhaps a more accurate metaphor: the way Joe looks at him, you’d think Pete had just betrayed the Rebel Alliance to the Empire or something.
“Yeah, I dunno,” Pete shrugs, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious under the weight of Joe’s incredulous stare. “I thought I’d give it a shot. Don’t knock it til you try it, y’know?”
“Pete,” Joe says slowly, “That applies to, like, new TV shows, and weird food, and, and making your own jam and shit. Not skiing. Skiing is evil. Skiing is the dark side.”
“Okay, calm down,” Pete sighs. This is going exactly as badly as he expected, and for half a second he finds himself regretting his promise to take a lesson from Patrick. After another half second, though, he remembers that tomorrow he has a private lesson with the most attractive guy he’s seen, like, ever. So, basically, fuck Joe.
“I appreciate the dramatics,” Pete goes on, bolstered by the mental image of Patrick’s challenging smirk, “But spare me. I’m signed up for a ski lesson tomorrow.”
“You’re what?” Joe pushes his goggles up onto his helmet to stare at Pete, as if making sure that he’s talking to the right person. “Who even are you? What—why would you do that?”
“Well…” Pete considers lying, trying to convince Joe that his newfound interest in skiing is real and serious. But, well, the truth is much easier: “You know that really hot guy from the chairlift?”
“Oh my god,” Joe groans, dropping his head into his gloved hands. “You didn’t.”
“He’s a ski instructor, and I-” Pete shrugs again. “I mean, he fucking offered to teach me. For free. What was I supposed to say?”
“You are such a traitor.” Joe snaps his goggles back onto his face, shaking his head in disgust.
“You know what, man, if I gotta ski to spend a day with the guy, I’ll fuckin’ ski. Sorry if that offends your delicate-ass sensibilities.”
“No, it’s chill, it’s whatever,” Joe sniffs, exaggerated enough that Pete knows he’s not really mad. “Go ahead, desert your sport and join the legions of darkness. As long as it gets you laid, right?”
“Get fucked,” Pete laughs, punching him in the arm.
“I thought that was your goal,” Joe says archly before scooting forwards and gliding off down the trail.
“Whatever,” Pete mutters, adjusting his goggles and sliding after him. “Asshole.”
❄ ❄ ❄
“You’re here,” Patrick says as Pete walks into the rental shop the next morning.
A little stung by the surprise coloring Patrick’s voice, Pete raises his eyebrows and says, “Yeah?”
“Honestly, I was kinda thinking you wouldn’t show,” Patrick admits, laughing self-consciously (and really, Pete thinks absently, sheepish shouldn’t look that good on anyone, but apparently the universe is conspiring to make him fall in love with this guy, so).
“You’re just determined to think the worst of me, aren’t you?” Pete laments, widening his eyes tragically. “You barely know anything about me.”
“I know you’re a snowboarder,” Patrick shoots back with a smile. “That’s a pretty bad sign right there, but I guess I’ll need a little more information before I can make a proper character judgment. What’s your shoe size?”
Pete snorts. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I need to find you a pair of boots, genius,” Patrick smirks, and Pete is suddenly seized by the overwhelming urge to punch himself in the face.
Instead, he settles for blushing a little and telling Patrick, who promptly vanishes amongst the high shelves behind the counter. As he returns, a pair of ski boots in hand, Pete takes the opportunity to inspect him: same black beanie and fingerless gloves, different scarf (this one’s red plaid), tee shirt, hoodie, and—Pete swallows imperceptibly—a leather jacket perfectly calculated to appeal to Pete’s libido.
“Try these,” Patrick orders, setting the boots down on the counter. “They should be a snug fit, but make sure you’ve still got circulation in your feet.”
“’Kay,” Pete mumbles, carrying them clumsily to a nearby low, wooden bench. Patrick, meanwhile, slips out from behind the counter with a pair of lemon-yellow boots and sits down on the bench opposite Pete. Swallowing back the nerves tightening the back of his throat, Pete hefts one of the absurdly hard, clunky boots into his lap and inspects its mysterious-looking buckles. They’re stiff, plastic, and thoroughly intimidating.
Glancing up self-consciously, he sees Patrick watching him with a faint, amused smile. Ducking his head, he frowns down at the buckles and paws at them haphazardly in the hopes that he’ll manage to undo them by some miraculous accident.
“Hey, uh-” Patrick begins after a few moments of this pathetic display.
“Got it,” Pete says hastily, finally managing to flip up one of those devilish contraptions. After that breakthrough, it’s a matter of moments before he’s unbuckled the boot, pried it open, and started to push his foot inside.
“Oh, hell no,” he says flatly, struggling vainly to yank the recalcitrant boot on over his thick, wooly sock. “I’m gonna need a bigger size.”
“It’s supposed to be snug,” Patrick says dubiously, getting to his feet—which, Pete notes resentfully, are already neatly booted. “Let me see?”
Then, without warning, he puts both (perfect, perfect) hands on Pete’s knee and shoves downward. Pete yelps in shock and outrage as his foot squeezes painfully into the boot—or, as is now becoming horribly apparent, the horrifying bear trap that Pete has willingly, foolishly walked into.
“See? Perfect fit,” Patrick says with a smile.
“You’re not serious,” Pete groans.
“Completely. Need help buckling it up?”
Pete hesitates momentarily as part of him insists that he doesn’t need to be buckled into his boots like a child, but the more rational sectors of his brain point out that, well…he kinda does.
“…yeah,” he admits sheepishly, and Patrick laughs.
❄ ❄ ❄
“Oh my god,” Pete whines as he hobbles through the snow behind Patrick, who, by some superhuman feat, manages to stride along pretty capably despite the stiff, heavy plastic torture devices strapped tightly to his feet. “How the fuck do you do this?”
“Practice makes perfect,” Patrick shrugs, hefting his orange skis comfortably on his shoulder. “Whining about it less also tends to help.”
“Sorry,” Pete mutters sulkily, tripping clumsily forwards in an attempt to catch up. “So which lift are we doing first?”
“You think I’m letting you anywhere near a chairlift on those things?” Patrick snorts, casting a pointed glance at Pete’s pathetically short baby skis. “It’s the bunny slope for you, pal.”
“Oh, joy,” Pete sighs, stumbling after him. “Nothing I love more than a good ol’ rope tow.”
❄ ❄ ❄
“Okay, so,” Pete pants, breathless, at the top of the slope, “Fuck the rope tow.”
“You did a pretty decent job of keeping your legs under you,” Patrick tells him consolingly, brushing the snow off his shoulder. “Especially on the third try.”
“Can I be done with these now?” Pete whines, scuffing ineffectually at the snow with his tiny skis.
“Unfortunately, you’ve submitted yourself to a full day of torture,” Patrick smirks, and Pete could swear that there are tiny flames of evil dancing in those absurdly pretty eyes. “Now, let’s talk about how to stop.”
❄ ❄ ❄
Over the course of the next three hours, Pete falls on his ass at least ten times, gets three or four facefuls of snow, narrowly avoids crashing into a terrified gaggle of five-year-olds, and swears innumerable times that he will never even look at pizza or French fries ever again.
But on what feels like his seventeen thousandth terrifying ride down the bunny slope, he manages to stay more or less upright (albeit with a little undignified arm flailing), steer away from an encroaching pack of small children, and even slide to a wobbly but totally respectable stop at the foot of the hill.
Before he can even start celebrating his victory, however, he looks up to see Patrick, king of beauty, grace, and immaculately executed turns, swooping back and forth down the slope like he was born on it. Pete can’t help but gawk a little as his teacher does a perfect about-face and comes to an effortless halt right in front of him, sending a wave of powder cascading artfully across Pete’s woefully tiny skis.
“Showoff,” Pete mutters resentfully, and the way Patrick tosses his head back and laughs is almost worth the pound or two of snow coating what feels like every inch of Pete’s body.
“I prefer to call it ‘inspiration,’” Patrick grins, pushing his goggles up onto his helmet and exposing bright eyes crinkled up by the tops of gloriously flushed cheeks. Pete feels his heart physically fling itself against his ribs, and he has to take a second or two to breathe deeply until it calms the fuck down.
While Pete tries surreptitiously to gulp down as much cold, soothing air as he can, Patrick adds, “So. Thoughts on lunch?”
“Absolutely,” Pete blurts out instantly, then feels his face go red hot.
Fortunately, Patrick interprets this as eagerness to get the fuck off the slopes and not eagerness to sit at the smallest possible table in the lodge and stare deeply into his eyes while they share a hot chocolate and small birds drape garlands of flowers around their necks.
“Don’t get too excited,” he snorts, stepping out of his skis and slinging them over one shoulder. “We’ll be back out here soon enough.”
“Fuck me sideways,” Pete replies less than cheerfully, hopping awkwardly on one ski until he manages to unclip his bindings and stumble along in Patrick’s wake.
❄ ❄ ❄
During the all-too-brief forty minutes that they spend on lunch, Pete manages to glean the following information about Patrick:
- He’s a vegetarian and seems more than usually fond of cheese pizza (even the completely abhorrent kind they claim to “make” at the lodge cafeteria). Pete files this fact away for future wooing plans—pizza bouquet? Is that possible? Or just really fucking weird?
- Across the narrow span of a rickety lodge table, his smile is so blinding that Pete could swear the skin on the bridge of his nose starts to burn a little.
- Just in case it hasn’t been made clear, he is one sarcastic little fuck and is entirely uninterested in dealing with Pete’s shit.
- The way he rolls his eyes makes Pete’s stomach do a triple axel that it does not land particularly well.
- After losing a bet with his brother, he once had to wear a neon orange squid hat on the Chicago Metro at rush hour. There are pictures, but he absolutely refuses to let Pete see them.
- He’s a sophomore at Northwestern and is double majoring in music and being the cutest little shit Pete’s ever laid eyes on.
- When Pete asks him what kind of music he plays, he ducks his head, goes faintly red about the ears, and mutters something about “guitar and bass and drums and singing but I’m not really that good, honestly.” Pete remains thoroughly skeptical of this claim. Patrick seems unlikely to be bad at anything.
- Ok, so Patrick is kind of bad at making eye contact when he runs his thumb around the rim of his coffee cup and asks if Pete and his curly-haired friend are here, y’know, together? Pete’s brain shuts down momentarily, allowing his mouth to emit a horrifying half-shriek, half-bray of a laugh that startles Patrick like a nervous deer.
- “Me and Joe?” Pete gasps finally, once his brain has more or less resumed its usual functions. “Oh my god, no. I mean,” he adds, fighting to wrangle his tone into some approximation of casualness, “I’ve made out with some pretty stubbly dudes in my time, but Christ, that is just too much beard.”
- The relief that flashes momentarily in Patrick’s eyes might just be the best thing Pete’s ever seen. No, scratch that; the actual best thing is the teeny tiny smile that tugs at Patrick’s mouth in the split second before he covers it with a scarf and drags Pete back out onto the slopes.
❄ ❄ ❄
“Here comes the triumphant hero,” Joe grins, spreading his arms wide as Pete hobbles, snow-drenched and defeated, into the blissfully warm lodge. “You conquer those trails today, champ?”
Pete elects to take the high road and presents Joe with one gloved, thoroughly numb middle finger. At this point, he doesn’t even have the energy for a snarky retort.
Behind him, he hears Patrick chuckle; glancing over his shoulder, he watches his infuriatingly energetic teacher unwind his scarf and shoot Joe a smile so chipper that it’s definitely crossing the line into evil territory.
“The ski instructor, I presume?” Joe reaches forward to take Patrick’s hand, and Pete breathes a silent thank you to whoever’s listening because Joe does occasionally manage to be tactful when he’s not really fucking stoned.
“Guilty as charged.” Patrick shakes Joe’s hand, then gestures to Pete with another terrifyingly perfect smile. “I tried my best to give him back to you in one piece.”
“Eh, don’t try too hard,” Joe shrugs, and Pete makes a noise that is totally not bordering on an outraged squawk. “To be honest, I’m pretty impressed by anyone who can manage to take him down a peg.”
“Try, like, four pegs,” Pete pipes up morosely, wringing his sopping bandana out onto the floor. “Four pegs, three trails, and the fucking bunny slope.”
“You mean you didn’t enjoy yourself?” Patrick asks, and, okay, it’s obviously melodramatics, but something about the way he clutches at his collar and stares at Pete with huge, hurt eyes manages to make Pete feel instantly like he’s kicked the world’s cutest puppy.
“Nono, I-” He breaks off, because, well, to say that he actually enjoyed himself would be what his mom used to call a huge fucking lie. He didn’t enjoy getting the shit kicked out of him by unforgiving trails or thrashing around with undersized floorboards strapped to his poor, squashed feet; what he did enjoy was watching Patrick’s eyes light up as he laughed at his hapless pupil, sensing Patrick’s solid warmth beside him on the few times that they dared to attempt the chairlift, and feeling Patrick’s capable hands steadying his shoulders on the hundreds of times that he’d nearly fallen flat on his ass/face/other delicate body part. But there is literally no way to accurately convey that to Patrick without coming off as a gigantic creep, and so he flounders for another moment, his mouth opening and shutting helplessly.
“I-” he tries again, but the words just won’t come, and now Joe is shooting him a horrified look because he looks like a complete loser right now, and oh, god, this is high school all over again, isn’t it, and there’s panic streaking down his spine and his brain is a useless cloud of white noise and he’s rapidly running out of time to recover from this complete and utter catastrophe and just act normal again-
“I’d like to see you again.” He spits out the words with about as much grace and panache as a bull in a china shop, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Joe drag his hands down his bearded face in second-hand embarrassment.
Pete ignores him for the moment, however, and keeps his eye on the prize: Patrick, turning pink from scarf to helmet, biting his lower lip to hide what might just be a smile.
Pete takes this as a good omen and continues: “I mean, maybe not another ski lesson. If that’s cool. Maybe more like a, a…”
“There’s a decent bar in town,” Patrick supplies mercifully, and Pete almost melts into a puddle of relief because a, he very nearly just spat out the word “date” and oh god would that have been disastrous, and b, was that a yes?
“I-if you like, y’know, lots of beer and foods doused in maple syrup and cheese,” Patrick adds, and Pete could swear that his face has actually gotten even redder.
“I mean, I like you, so,” Pete grins, and from the sidelines Joe emits an audible groan. Pete ignores him, shrugs, and says, “I’m good with anything.”
After half a second of awed silence, Patrick, still fighting a losing battle against the thoroughly pleased grin forcing its way onto his mouth, says, “Okay, so, first off, yes, dinner. Let’s do that. But under one condition: do not ever try to use a line like that on me again. Okay?”
There’s a loud hoot of laughter and a muffled oooh shit from the peanut gallery, but Pete can’t even be assed to give Joe the friendly smack that he deserves because Patrick said yes. To dinner. With Pete. Pete is actually going to consume beer and foods doused in maple syrup and cheese with the most attractive human he’s ever seen in real life. Ever.
He’s so blown away that he doesn’t even remember to be crushed that Patrick doesn’t appreciate his smooth moves; he just raises his hands in surrender, grins self-effacingly, and says, “Okay, okay. Dinner in exchange for putting a complete kibosh on all smooth lines. Deal?”
“Deal,” Patrick grins back, and Pete feels like his smile is extending past the boundaries of his face because holy shit, Patrick is totally fucking charmed right now. Pete is totally fucking charming.
❄ ❄ ❄
“So, I’m pretty sure that you’re not actually a real person,” Patrick says conversationally, propping one elbow on the sticky tabletop and looking up at Pete so winningly that Pete has to take a second to breathe and process what he’s just said.
“Sorry, what?” he says finally, depositing two overflowing steins on the table and sliding into the booth opposite Patrick.
“Like, where the fuck did you come from?” Patrick continues unhelpfully, sliding his beer towards himself. “Do you just whisk your way around the country taking average-looking dudes out on weird beer and cheese dates?”
“Firstly,” Pete begins, aiming one cheese-coated French fry in Patrick’s direction, “This place was your idea, dude. And secondly, where the fuck did you get the idea that you’re in any way average-looking?”
The flush that blooms instantly in Patrick’s cheeks makes the mediocre Velveeta and potato concoction in Pete’s mouth taste a thousand times better. After he swallows, he adds, “But for real, there’s not really that much whisking going on in my life. I spend most of my time playing soccer, falling asleep in poli sci lectures, and trying to do the minimum possible amount of work necessary to not flunk out.”
“A jock, huh?” Patrick smirks from behind his beer. “You almost had me fooled with all that eyeliner.”
Pete snorts and rolls his eyes as Patrick takes a sip. “It’s an important aesthetic, man, don’t fucking-”
He breaks off because oh, god, Patrick’s putting his beer down and he’s got the world’s cutest foam moustache on his upper lip and he’s not wiping it away, he’s just sitting there blinking perplexedly at Pete who is staring and reaching out unthinkingly with his thumb and dabbing it off and oh, shit-
“Thanks,” Patrick says in a surprised sort of way, and Pete yanks his arm back like he’s been burned.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” Pete babbles instantly, barely resisting the urge to bury his face in the gooey platter of fries on the table. “That was so fucking weird, I don’t even-”
“I said thanks,” Patrick repeats firmly, dragging the back of his wrist across his mouth. When he replaces his hand on the table, Pete is shocked to see that he’s smiling.
“I appreciate you not letting me look ridiculous in public,” Patrick adds, disentangling a fry from the weird mass of cheese on the plate. “Especially after I let you make a complete fool out of yourself on the slopes yesterday.”
“I mean,” Pete shrugs, infinitely grateful to Patrick for giving him the opportunity to make a more or less graceful recovery, “I think I stayed pretty dignified for the only dude over the age of eleven on the bunny slope.”
“I guess everything is relative,” Patrick snorts, and Pete cannot bear how good sarcasm looks on that pretty little face.
“All right, fine, declare open season on my ego,” Pete sighs mournfully. “See if I care.”
Patrick smothers a laugh in another sip of beer, then says, “But seriously. You never said whether or not I convinced you.”
“Convinced me?” Pete repeats blankly. “Convinced me of what?” That soul mates are real? That Patrick is literally the most perfect human being he’s ever met? That they should be together and, ideally, kissing always?
“Skiing. Art.” Patrick waves a fry in a vague circle like it’ll help illustrate his point. “Like, the whole point of the lesson? Ring any bells?”
“Skiing,” Pete says, and Patrick’s eyes have made it through about 180 degrees of a complete roll by the time he finally collects himself and remembers what the fuck they’re talking about.
“Ri-ight, uh,” Pete manages at last. “I…wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m convinced.”
“Oh?” Patrick leans both elbows on the table and cocks one eyebrow at Pete, who almost cries because Jesus, he should not be this attracted to an eyebrow motion.
“Because, okay, skiing is definitely not an art form when I do it,” Pete explains, gesticulating authoritatively with a fry. “Unless it’s like, slapstick comedy, or—or some really fucking weird experimental film that’s just ten straight minutes of some loser flopping around in the snow with tiny planks stuck to his feet. Probably directed by David Lynch.”
Patrick looks marginally crestfallen at that, so Pete rushes onwards, “But, I mean, when you do it…” –the line pops unbidden into his brain, and god, does he have the worst impulse control ever, but he’s gonna say it even if it gets him killed, or worse, banished from Patrick’s sight— “…well, everything you do is art.”
Pete’s not sure if Patrick turns red in embarrassment, rage, or because he chokes on his beer and spends the next thirty seconds hacking desperately for air. While Pete gets halfway to his feet and flaps his hands around in terrified concern, Patrick holds out one hand to fend him off, clears his throat, and gasps, “Oh my god, you asshole, you promised that you’d stop with the fucking lines.”
“Well, jeez, if I’d known I was gonna get that kind of reaction, I would’ve held off,” Pete snorts, settling back into his seat. Patrick’s still looking pretty flushed, but Pete figures if he’s feeling well enough to be irritated, there’s no need to call an ambulance just yet.
“Anyway,” he adds with a smirk, “Just think of it as payback for what you did to me on the slopes yesterday.”
“And all to no avail,” Patrick sighs tragically, looking heavenward as if expecting some kind of divine reward for putting up with the trial that is Pete. “You’re still the same old snowboarding heathen that you’ve always been.”
“I mean, let’s be real,” Pete grins, “Was the point of that lesson actually to convert me?”
Patrick gives him another questioning look, that same eyebrow quirked upwards, and Pete swallows against a dry throat and plunges on: “Because first off, dude, never gonna happen. And secondly, I was under the impression that it was really just an excuse to spend more time with this beautiful face.”
He flutters his eyelashes at Patrick, hamming shamelessly to compensate for the fact that his heart is going at his ribcage like a goddamn jackhammer because if he’s right, well, great, but if he’s wrong, he’s going to be a strong contender for Self-Aggrandizing Douchebag of the Year.
To his infinite delight, Patrick avoids eye contact, tries to hide his grin behind his beer, and mutters fuck off in a way that is both decidedly embarrassed and thoroughly pleased.
❄ ❄ ❄
“Okay, okay, okay, but like,” Pete begins unsteadily, barely even noticing the blast of cold air that rushes over him as he careens out the door. “Picture this:” He pauses for dramatic effect, allowing Patrick to stumble after him into the freezing night before he delivers his magnificent pronouncement: “Corgis.”
“Corgis?” Patrick repeats, catching up to Pete and blinking up at him through fogged-up glasses and god, does Pete want to kiss him right now, very nearly does, doesn’t, pulls himself together a fraction and puts on his gloves instead.
“You are definitely a corgi,” he declares, deriving a little more pleasure than is probably reasonable from the way that Patrick’s cheeks redden with indignation, intoxication, and the cold.
“You’re—you’re just saying that ‘cause it’s the shortest fuckin’ dog, aren’t you, dickhead-” Patrick grumbles, tugging his scarf up over his chin, but Pete cuts him short.
“No, nope, incorrect.” Pete steps into Patrick’s path and turns to face him, walking backwards without fear because a, yeah, he’s a little sloppy right now, but b, even if he wasn’t, it’s one AM in Bumblefuck Nowhere, Vermont, and there is not another soul to be seen on these snowy sidewalks.
“Because first off, definitely not the shortest fuckin’ dog, like have you ever heard of Dachshunds, c’mon—and secondly, it totally makes sense.” Pete counts off unsteadily on his fingers: “Small, cute as fuck, fluffy, kinda gingery, cute, happy, energetic, everybody loves ‘em, cute-”
“You already said that,” Patrick points out, burrowing deeper into his scarf to hide what Pete is like 95% sure is a really cute smile.
“My point still stands,” Pete shrugs expansively, trying not to look as pleased with himself as he feels. “Now, your turn: what kind of dog would I be?”
“Personality-wise?” Patrick scrunches up his nose in thought, running his hand through the bangs left exposed by his hat and making them stand up ridiculously. Pete’s not sure if Patrick is more adorable than usual because Patrick is drunk or because Pete is; he’s guessing the truth lies somewhere in the middle.
He’s so absorbed in contemplation that he almost misses it when Patrick decides, “A lab, maybe. Or like, a golden retriever.”
Pete starts to grin triumphantly, but then Patrick shoots him a mischievous look and elaborates: “Goofy as hell, absurdly affectionate, totally fucking ridiculous, but weirdly lovable anyway.”
“Jeez, you sure know how to compliment a guy,” Pete snorts, and Patrick laughs—giggles, really, so loudly that it echoes off the darkened storefronts and Patrick slaps his hands over his own mouth in mortification.
“Shhh, shhhh,” Pete manages to hiss through his own muffled laughter, still skating precariously backwards down the frozen sidewalk. “You’re gonna cause a fuckin’ avalanche, dude!” Barely concealed by this nonsensical statement, of course, is the truth that he never wants Patrick to stop, never wants to live without the knowledge that he’s the cause of that megawatt smile, never wants to not be able to hear that absurdly adorable giggle.
“Okay, but like, in terms of looks,” Patrick continues in a muted voice, leaning forward so he can keep up with Pete and stage whisper more effectively, “Definitely, like, a Doberman. Y’know, something dark and sleek and muscly and intense and-”
He breaks off suddenly, as if finally realizing what he’s saying, and the flush spreads from his cheeks to his ears until they’re practically glowing brighter than the nearest streetlamp. Pete, on the other hand, doesn’t miss a beat, just grins wolfishly and supplies, “Devastatingly handsome? Incredibly sexy? Utterly-”
His snark is cut short by the yelp that forces its way out of his throat as his back foot shoots out from under him like a missile. For a second or two, he scrabbles desperately for purchase on the sheet of black ice that has suddenly materialized underneath him, his body comically suspended mid-fall like a cartoon character who’s just run off the edge of a cliff. But just as gravity always catches up to Wile-E Coyote, it fucks Pete over, as well, and he goes crashing down onto his ass with all the grace and beauty of a rock with legs.
“Oh my god!” Patrick’s shriek resounds throughout the deserted street like a gunshot. When Pete lifts his head to peer at his unpleasantly wobbly surroundings, he spots the blonde hovering uncertainly a few feet away, his boots teetering on the edge of the packed snow rimming the ocean of ice that Pete’s currently spread-eagled in the middle of.
“Are you okay?” Patrick demands as Pete sits up with a groan. “Pete? Do you need help? Seriously, dude, did you break something, I know a little first aid but if you’ve broken shit then we’re gonna need an ambulance, Pete, just talk to me-”
And then, for no particular reason at all, Pete throws his head back and laughs. It’s the worst laugh in his repertoire, the loud, obnoxious horse bray that always prompts Joe to pelt him with whatever’s handy until he shuts the fuck up. But he keeps laughing, and Patrick’s standing there gaping at him, and he’s made a complete ass of himself in front of the most perfect man he’s ever met, and he can’t even bring himself to care because he’s drunk and he’s happy and Patrick is cute as shit when he’s confused and so what if Pete’s ass is gonna ache like hell in the morning, because this is the best night he’s had in a long time.
“Oh my god,” Patrick says again, this time with way less terror and a lot more exasperation. “You complete asshole, I thought you were fucking dying, Jesus.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Pete gasps, swiping the tears of laughter out of his eyes as he tries to get to his feet. Unsurprisingly, however, his drunken legs fail him again, and he crashes back down onto his ass.
“I’m not helping you up,” Patrick huffs over Pete’s renewed howls of laughter. “I’m not risking a fall for your ridiculous, clumsy ass.”
“I’m devastated, Patrick, truly,” Pete sighs, finally managing (after a moment or two of less-than-graceful scrambling) to heave himself to his feet and wobble his way off the ice.
“Especially,” he adds, falling back into step beside Patrick, “Since I’d do anything for your ass.”
“Fuck off,” Patrick groans, but the elbow in Pete’s ribs feels more teasing than anything else.
They walk for another moment or two in comfortable silence, a few stray snowflakes drifting past them and flashing silver in the pools of light cast by the streetlamps. As they reach the end of the cluster of restaurants and storefronts that passes for a downtown here, Patrick slows to a stop, waves at the dirt road that winds away from the main drag, and says, “Well, this is me.”
“You good to walk all the way to the resort?” Pete asks, a surprisingly genuine note of concern driving all the remaining laughter out of his voice.
“It’s not far,” Patrick reassures him with a smile. “Believe me, I wouldn’t have picked a bar that I couldn’t walk home from after drinking half of all the IPA in Vermont. You okay to make it back to your family’s place?”
“Yeah, it’s—it’s just another block.” Pete waves vaguely down the street, the words oddly clumsy on their way out of his mouth. That’s probably because his woozy brain is entirely focused on a single question: how does he kiss Patrick without fucking everything up forever? Because, yeah, there’s been enough flirting tonight to convince even his insecure ass that Patrick might just be really into him, but still. He’s drunk and his hands are numb and all of a sudden he’s consumed with the worst timed self-doubt in the world.
So consumed, in fact, that he doesn’t notice what’s happening until Patrick’s leaning up, putting one gloved hand on Pete’s shoulder, and brushing a warm kiss against his cold cheek. A steam cloud of shock bursts out of Pete’s mouth as Patrick pulls away, licking his lips and stowing his hands in his pockets.
Evidently, Patrick mistakes the surprise on Pete’s face for disappointment, because he ducks his head sheepishly, hunches his shoulders, and says, “Sorry. I, uh, prefer to keep it G-rated on the first date, if that’s cool.”
“Uh…” Pete starts to say, and then Patrick’s words finally sink all the way into his thick skull. True to form, he blurts out the first thing that pops into his head: “This was a date?”
Patrick cocks his head and shoots him a look that’s somewhere between perplexed and irritated. “Um. Yeah? What the fuck did you think it was?”
“No, I-” Pete stammers, then decides it’s in his best interest to change directions entirely. “Does that mean that there can be a second date?”
Patrick folds his arms, smiles mysteriously, and says, “Could be. What did you have in mind?”
“We could, uh.” Pete pauses, deciding at the last possible second that “curl up in front of a fire, eat marshmallows, and cuddle forever” is probably a bit much. Instead, he wracks his brains for a second-best option and quickly finds it: “We could spend a day on the slopes? Y’know, you on your skis, me on my board, just running some trails together?”
“So you wanna level the playing field, huh?” Patrick grins, and Pete can see already that he’s into the idea. “Not as good for my ego as another lesson, of course, but I guess I’ll survive.”
“I could compliment you the whole time, if that would help,” Pete offers sweetly, and Patrick rolls his eyes in a way that Pete’s starting to hope is affectionate.
“I’m visiting family for the next couple days,” Patrick says, businesslike, as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. “But I should have an afternoon off sometime after Christmas. You don’t have my number, do you?”
“I’m dying for it,” Pete says, probably a little too sincerely, fishing out his phone and handing it over. “Put it in and I’ll text you, yeah?”
“Sounds good.” Patrick taps rapidly at Pete’s phone for a few seconds, then hands it back. “I’ll let you know when I’m free.”
“Cool.” Pete replaces his phone, then looks back up at Patrick. He’s smiling. Pete smiles, too.
“Night, Pete.” Patrick turns, starts to make his way up the muddy road that leads to the ski resort and its tiny staff cabins.
“Night, Patrick,” Pete calls after him. He watches him go, a diminutive figure in an oversized parka, until he rounds a bend in the road and a clump of dark trees obscures him from view.
On the walk home, Pete checks his phone and realizes that Patrick saved his number as ‘Corgi Boy.’ Without a moment’s thought, he opens the contact and fires off a text: paging corgi boy, this is sexy doberman, at yr service ;)
Before he’s even made it to the front door, the reply arrives, dry and unimpressed as always: Go the fuck to sleep, Pete. The smile doesn’t drop from Pete’s face until he slips soundlessly up the back stairs, drags himself into bed, and dozes off.
❄ ❄ ❄
Christmas comes and goes with relatively little excitement; Pete’s mom mails him a few presents, Aunt Jen makes a somewhat questionable roast, and they all eat cookies around the fireplace and listen to Uncle Jim’s stories get weirder and weirder with each passing glass of eggnog. Joe, bemused by this whole Christmas thing, pronounces the entire business goyishe naches and smokes a bowl in the backyard before Christmas dinner. After an extremely brief moment of indecision, Pete joins him; he’ll do just about anything to make Aunt Jen’s casserole seem edible.
The day after Christmas, as Pete and Joe lie in a cookie-induced stupor on the couch watching Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer on TV, Pete gets a text from Patrick: So I have a group lesson tomorrow that ends at 1. Should give us a few good hours on the mountain. What do you say?
“So, is this supposed to be a metaphor?” Joe asks bemusedly, watching the other reindeer flee from Rudolph’s glowing nose. “Is Rudolph gay or something?”
When Pete doesn’t immediately start debating the politics of queer representation in bad sixties made-for-TV Christmas specials, Joe glances over, sees him grinning goofily at his phone, and starts crowding him immediately. “What, what is it?” he demands, trying to read over Pete’s shoulder.
For no particular reason, Pete snatches his phone away, feeling his face go hot. “Nothing! Just a text from Patrick.”
“Chairlift dude?” Joe raises his eyebrows. “So you’re texting now?”
“Yeah, we—we’re going on another date tomorrow,” Pete admits, unable to fully suppress his triumphant smile.
“Date?” Joe repeats, his eyebrows edging even closer to his hairline. “Since when does Pete Wentz go on dates?”
“Uh,” Pete says, because okay, yeah, he’s not exactly the king of romance—in fact, he’s more like the archduke of messily hooking up with people at parties, going home with them, and avoiding them like the plague afterwards, but whatever. It’s not like he can’t change, right?
“It’s called trying new things, Joe, ever heard of it?” he snaps, and whoops, that definitely came out more defensive than he intended, but at least Joe’s raising his hands in surrender and backing off a little.
“Chill, dude, no judgment here.” Joe shrugs. There’s a pause, and then he asks, in the hesitant, vague way that Joe asks all personal questions, “Are you. Y’know. Happy, or whatever?”
“Yeah,” Pete says immediately, thinking of the half-typed yesss!!! still sitting, unsent, in his phone. “Yeah, this is—I think it’s good. Yeah.” It’s not like the hookup life hasn’t been good to him, in its vaguely debauched way; he’s just starting to feel a little weird about the number of people on campus who he can’t make eye contact with anymore. Maybe, he thinks, this is the beginning of a new, better Pete, a Pete who’s more considerate of other people’s feelings, who actually seeks out healthy relationships, who doesn’t rely on the old fuck-and-run to avoid the consequences of his poor decision-making.
And, well, if not, at least Patrick goes to another school and will be extremely easy to avoid if Pete reverts to his usual MO and fucks everything up.
Frowning, Pete pushes that unexpected and unwelcome thought to the back of his head and sends the text to Patrick. He’s not going to fuck everything up.
❄ ❄ ❄
The next afternoon finds Pete hovering anxiously in a corner of the ski lodge, checking and rechecking the text from Patrick that reads, Meet me outside the rental shop around 1ish?
It is currently 1:03, Patrick is nowhere to be seen, and Pete is alone because Joe returned to the slopes half an hour ago, declaring that he can’t deal with you when you’re being an anxious wreck, Pete, go take some fucking tranqs and sit down for a while, Jesus.
Before Pete wears a hole in his phone with his eyes, however, the universe delivers its divine mercy in the form of a gust of cold air that precedes Patrick and a gaggle of small children into the lodge.
“Good work today, guys!” Patrick tells the kids, who all look to be about eight years old and totally infatuated with him. They orbit him like electrons around a nucleus, peppering him with questions as he tries to herd them towards the rental shop.
“Did I do good on my French fry stop, Patrick?” one tiny boy inquires, his eyes all but hidden under an enormous red hat complete with earflaps.
“It’s coming along really well, Mikey,” Patrick says enthusiastically, and Pete starts to understand why they hired him to teach brats to ski. “Just work on keeping those skis parallel and you’ll make the Olympic team in no time.”
“What about me, Patrick?” another munchkin exclaims, practically hanging off his arm. “I only fell down twice today, did you see?”
“I did see, you were awesome,” Patrick smiles, carefully detaching the girl from his jacket. “Besides, if you don’t fall down sometimes, you’re not really pushing yourself, y’know?”
Turning to the rest of his little entourage, Patrick says, “All right, guys, you were awesome out there. Go kick some butt on the slopes, and I’ll see you next week, okay?”
“Okay! Bye, Patrick!” they all chorus, and Pete feels his heart dissolve into goo and start to drip through his ribcage. Patrick leans down and high-fives each of his pupils in turn, and they scatter to rejoin the parents awaiting them in the lodge. Earflaps Boy, however, lingers behind, clutching at Patrick’s jacket with an anxious expression that reminds Pete eerily of himself.
“I don’t see my mom,” the little boy whimpers, half hiding behind Patrick’s leg.
“She’ll be here soon,” Patrick reassures him, kneeling down until he’s at the boy’s eye level. “What does she look like? Maybe I can help you find her.”
“Can I just stay with you?” the kid asks, eyes so huge and adorable that they’re practically calculated to be manipulative as hell.
Patrick, however, is clearly too experienced of a teacher to fall prey to such charms: apologetic but firm, he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, bud, I’ve got stuff to do this afternoon.”
He glances up and makes eye contact with Pete, who’s shuffling from foot to foot in indecision about whether to approach. Raising his eyebrows, Patrick subtly jerks his head to motion him over, then gets to his feet with a smile.
“Mikey, this is my friend Pete,” he says as Pete joins them. “We’re going to run some trails together. He’s a snowboarder.”
“Snowboarder?” Earflaps Boy wrinkles his nose, temporarily distracted from the problem of the missing mother (and god, Pete thinks, Patrick is fucking gifted when it comes to children). “Patrick says all snowboarders are evil.”
“Evil?” Pete pouts theatrically at Patrick, who’s trying and failing to hide a smile behind his hand. “That’s mean stuff, Patrick.”
“Well, not all snowboarders, I guess,” Patrick admits grudgingly. “Maybe some of them are okay. What do you think, Mikey?”
The kid squints up at Pete, his brows furrowed in thought. “He looks okay, I guess,” Mikey pronounces at last, folding his arms. “If you like him a lot, then he’s probably not evil.”
“That’s a good point,” Patrick nods thoughtfully, and Pete emits an awkward half-laugh, rubbing the back of his neck for lack of anything better to do. “He’s probably not evil,” Patrick adds, and Pete glances up in shock because did Patrick just kind of maybe declare his love for Pete in front of an eight-year-old?
Through the warm haze of embarrassed, happy surprise, he half hears Mikey yelp, “There’s my mom! Bye, Patrick!” Patrick waves, not meeting Pete’s eyes, as the kid scampers away.
At long last, Patrick turns to Pete, a little sheepish, and says, “Sorry about that. You, uh, ready to hit the slopes?”
Shaking himself out of his stupor, Pete nods vigorously. “Yeah, let’s do it.” And then, because hell, who doesn’t like a little flirty competition, he adds, “I’ll race you on the first trail.”
He’s rewarded by a devious smile and a challenging, “Yeah, okay. If you think you can handle it.”
“I guess we’ll just have to find out, won’t we?” Pete smirks, turning on his heel with an exaggerated flounce. Behind him, Patrick laughs and follows him, and Pete’s smirk turns into a real smile. This is going to be awesome.
❄ ❄ ❄
“Well, shit,” Patrick pants, clasping both hands on top of one of his poles and leaning heavily on it. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t that.”
“Like what you see?” Pete inquires sweetly, dusting off the powder that Patrick sprayed all over him when he came skidding to a stop just moments after Pete. “I totally kicked your ass, by the way.”
“Only because I had to slow down to avoid that seven-year-old,” Patrick points out, straightening up indignantly.
“Details, details.” Pete shoos Patrick’s words away with a regal wave of his hand. “Admit it. You’re totally impressed.”
“Well, you definitely proved yourself worthy,” Patrick laughs, pushing himself off towards the chairlift.
“Worthy?” Pete echoes, propelling himself after the blonde. “Worthy of what? Your hand in marriage? What do I have to do next, slay a dragon?”
“Slow down there, Lancelot,” Patrick snorts, and Pete breathes a quiet sigh of relief that he mistook the marriage thing for a joke.
“I’m gonna show you my favorite trail,” Patrick explains as they board the lift. “I just had to make sure you were up to it.”
“Glad I passed muster, sergeant.” With his best shit-eating grin, Pete helps Patrick lower the restraining bar—and then, well, since his arm is already up, it just makes sense for him to drape it casually across Patrick’s shoulders, right?
“Don’t get too cocky, private.” Patrick shoots him a look, and for a second Pete’s afraid that he’s going to get scolded for pulling out the smooth moves again, starts preparing to laugh and play it off as another one of his ridiculous jokes—but somehow, Patrick doesn’t scold, just half-smiles and settles himself more comfortably under Pete’s arm.
“This trail is small, but it’ll wreck you if you’re not careful,” Patrick continues as if nothing has happened, as if he’s not actively snuggling up against Pete’s side, as if Pete’s not using every ounce of self-control in his miserable body to keep himself from completely losing his shit.
That might be why he replies, without thinking, “Sounds like someone I know.”
“Damn straight,” Patrick chuckles, jabbing a gentle elbow into Pete’s ribs even as he rests his head on Pete’s shoulder. As the lift clanks onwards, Pete starts to wonder if this is what love feels like.
❄ ❄ ❄
It takes them five minutes to get to the trailhead, which turns out to be way the hell out on the edge of the mountain and half hidden by trees. But Patrick, as if driven by some kind of supernatural homing instinct, leads Pete straight to it, pulling aside a snow-covered branch to reveal a battered marker that reads, cryptically, “XO.”
“So, am I gonna die or what?” Pete manages to keep his tone light, but there’s a definite knot of apprehension in his stomach as he ducks under a branch and follows Patrick onto—well, shit, it’s only the most gorgeous little trail he’s ever seen.
Patrick wasn’t kidding about the small thing; the trail is barely wider than the length of Pete’s snowboard, winding its way through the forest like a deer track. Between that, the untouched powder lining the ground like cake frosting, and the pale shafts of sunlight filtering in through the snow-laden boughs that very nearly form a tunnel overhead, Pete feels more than a little bit like he’s stepped into a fairytale. In fact, he’s kind of having flashbacks to Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.
“What do you think?” Just ahead, Patrick is watching him anxiously, almost as if he’s showing Pete his home for the first time.
“Holy shit,” Pete says frankly, and the smile that lights up Patrick’s face is brilliant. “It’s so fucking pretty, I almost don’t want to ruin it by boarding on it, y’know?”
That megawatt grin is replaced by a look of earnest concern. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. If—if you’re not used to small trails, it’s totally cool, I don’t want-”
“I did say ‘almost,’ didn’t I?” Pete snaps his goggles over his eyes with just a touch more certainty than he actually feels. “You should probably go first, though, since you know where this thing goes.”
“Good call,” Patrick nods, tugging his scarf up over his mouth. “It’s not as well-maintained as the bigger trails,” he adds over his shoulder, already pushing off with his poles, “So I’ll yell out if I see anything to watch out for.”
“Sounds like a deal,” Pete says, and before the words are all the way out of his mouth, Patrick’s gone.
Pete just watches him for a moment, that tiny figure speeding over the snow, compact and intense and skis flashing orange like flames, kicking up a cloud of powder that sparkles like diamond dust in the fading winter sun. And then Patrick turns, sharp and jackrabbit-quick, vanishes around a bend in the trail, and Pete finally realizes that he should probably get a move on. With practiced fingers, Pete straps his back foot down, hoists his bandana over his mouth, and goes.
The trail is silent around him, the heavy snow muffling all sounds but the whisper of powder underneath his board and the soft rasp of his own breathing. With nothing but Patrick’s tracks to guide him, he follows the trail as it coils its way down the mountain, an exhilarating obstacle course of sudden switchbacks, half-hidden jumps, and unexpected dips that keeps his eyes alert and his heart pounding.
He’s just starting to get into it, building up to that perfect speed that’s just this side of controlled, feels more like flying than anything else, when a shout from ahead shatters the soft silence.
“Look out, Pete!” Patrick’s voice calls from somewhere around the next bend. “There’s a—shit!”
Pete’s breath sticks in his throat as the words are cut short by a loud whoomp and a scraping sound that makes all of his hairs stand on end. He careens around the next curve and runs straight into a fine mist of powder, flung up into the air and floating there in an ominous haze. It’s only because he’s slowed down slightly that he spots the downed tree limb poking dangerously out of the snow a few yards ahead; even with Patrick’s warning, he barely has enough time to swing his board around, throw himself backwards onto the ground, and come to a crashing halt.
When the powder and his head have cleared a little, he pushes himself up onto his elbows, wincing at the snow creeping down the back of his neck, and takes stock of his surroundings. There, less than a foot from his board, is the branch, black and gnarly and almost as big around as Pete is. Beyond it, he can make out a huge disturbance in the powder, and—his heart leaps into his throat, nearly choking him—there, half-buried, lies a single orange ski.
Sharp, cold fear clears the remaining fog from his brain, and he sits all the way up and says the only word in his mind: “Patrick?”
It comes out oddly muffled by the snow and his bandana, so he tugs it out of the way and tries again, louder this time: “Patrick!”
No response: the trail around him is still and silent, as if he were the only living soul in these woods. That’s when panic starts to sink its ugly claws into his stomach, and he struggles clumsily out of his bindings, desperately willing his hands to stop shaking.
“Patrick!” he yells a third time, rolling to his feet and climbing over the branch, blood pounding loud and hot in his ears as he blunders down the trail in search of something, anything that will lead him to Patrick. And yeah, he hasn’t exactly been on a lot of great dates, but he’s pretty damn sure that they’re not supposed to go like this, shouldn’t involve horrible accidents and gut-wrenching fear of broken bones or worse—Pete tries not to think about it, tries to quell the sudden guilt sucking at his chest because he will never forgive himself if Patrick’s hurt, which doesn’t entirely make sense, he knows, but Pete is pathetic and more than a little in love and entirely overwhelmed by all of his feelings, and he might just be starting to cry—
Between his loud, ragged breathing and the veritable drumbeat in his head, he almost doesn’t hear the groan that comes from somewhere behind him. Wheeling abruptly around (and practically falling over again in the process), he sees what he had taken for a snowdrift on the edge of the trail start to move.
“Patrick,” he gasps, scrambling back up the slope as first a hand, then a shoulder, then, at last, a helmeted head emerge from the heap of snow.
“Shit,” Patrick grunts as Pete lands on his knees beside him and starts frantically brushing away the powder clinging to his helmet and scarf.
“Are you okay?” Pete asks breathlessly, stifling the urge to wrap his arms around Patrick and never, ever let go because he’s here, he’s alive, and Pete is a Big Gay Disaster who can’t actually express his feelings beyond flapping his hands ineffectively and demanding, “What happened?”
“I tried to jump that branch.” Patrick laughs, a little sheepishly, as the remaining lumps of snow slide off his goggles and onto his jacket. “Almost stuck the landing, but I was so busy trying to warn you that my ski caught on—something, a rock maybe, I’m not sure—and I went face-first into a snowdrift. And,” he adds, squinting resentfully up at the suspiciously bare branches overhead, “I’m pretty sure that tree dumped like a foot of snow on me.”
With a small grunt of effort, he starts to sit up, but Pete presses him gently back down into the snow with a, “Hey, whoa, not so fast. How’re you feeling? Broken bones, sprained ankles, concussion? Do I need to carry you down this mountain, because believe me, I will fucking do it if I have to.” Oops, Pete thinks instantly, a bit too much Big Gay Disaster there, with perhaps a touch of anxiety-ridden mom, but Patrick’s still smiling, so he can’t be too weirded out, right?
“As much as I appreciate the offer,” Patrick snorts (and it’s a little sad how reassured Pete is by the sharp note of sarcasm in his voice), “I’m pretty sure I’m good.” Experimentally, he rolls first one wrist, then the other, then shuffles his legs around in a mini-avalanche of powder.
“Nothing broken,” he reports. “I came right out of my skis when I fell, so nothing feels twisted or sprained.” Pushing his goggles up onto his helmet, he asks, “You ever checked anyone for a concussion before?”
“Uh.” Pete hesitates, then holds up both gloved hands. “How many fingers…?”
“Eight, Pete, but it’d be much more helpful if you’d check my pupils.” Unsurprisingly, Patrick’s rolling his eyes, but the fond smile on his face is unmistakable.
“Oh! Right, yeah, sorry, doing that now.” Hastily, Pete shoves his own goggles off his face, braces one hand in the snow beside Patrick’s head, and leans over to study his face. Those grayish-blueish-somewhere-in-betweenish eyes stare back at him, bright and lively as ever, and it takes a moment or two of mesmerized contemplation for Pete to realize that he has absolutely no idea what he’s supposed to be checking.
“So, uh, what am I looking for, exactly?” he asks finally, and those bright eyes crinkle in a semi-exasperated laugh.
“Dilated pupils—that means bigger than normal,” Patrick explains patiently, and Pete rolls his eyes a little because he might not be an optometrist, but he knows what dilated means, thank you very much.
“Well, if you’d stop fucking laughing at me, I might be able to check,” he says pointedly, and Patrick stifles his teasing grin and widens his eyes obediently.
“They, uh, look normal to me,” Pete shrugs at last, both relieved and more than a little distracted by the intensity of Patrick’s gaze and the sudden proximity of their faces.
“Yeah?” Patrick says, and Pete can’t stop his eyes from flickering downwards to watch those pink lips move. “Both, uh, the same size and everything?”
With some effort, Pete drags his gaze back up to Patrick’s eyes, which are watching him a little more intently and a little less innocently than before. Pete licks his lips, suddenly hyperaware of the faint heat of Patrick’s breath against his skin, and says, “Yeah—yeah, they look, um, pretty good to me.”
“Good,” Patrick says softly, and Pete notes the way his eyes move downwards, so slowly that it’s practically impossible to miss, before sliding back up to lock gazes with Pete. And, well, it does look like Patrick’s pupils are dilating a little bit, but Pete’s pretty willing to bet that it’s not from a concussion.
And then, with the faintest of sounds, Patrick licks his lips, parts them, and asks, “So this is probably the worst timing, like, ever, but, uh…kiss me?” in a voice that’s half sheepish, half turned-on, and entirely perfect.
“Yeah, I—I think I could do that,” Pete manages breathlessly, and Patrick starts laughing at him because, yeah, okay, that was kind of an asinine response, but at least Pete has the presence of mind to lean down and press their lips together.
It’s cold for a fraction of a second, a few stray flakes of snow caught somehow between their mouths, which are both chapped and chilly and a little bit uncertain at first. But then—then, the snowflakes melt and so does Patrick, his mouth softening gorgeously under Pete’s like ice thawing under the sun. They stay like that for a moment, lips still and barely touching, Pete hovering over Patrick’s prone form because he’s a little bit terrified, a little bit unsure of where to go from here; nothing in his fairly extensive experience has prepared him to kiss the man of his dreams just minutes after what Pete is fairly certain was a near-death experience.
Patrick, however, seems to share none of these qualms; with a tiny, impatient noise in the back of his throat, he leans up, puts one gloved hand on the back of Pete’s head, and pulls him closer, tilting his face to fit their mouths together more securely. Now this, Pete can handle: he plants both hands in the snow on either side of Patrick’s head, slides one knee between Patrick’s spread legs, and kisses him properly, deep and slow and lazy and with plenty of tongue.
Several minutes later, he finally surfaces for air, sucking gently on Patrick’s lower lip before releasing it with a soft pop as he pulls away. Patrick’s head flops back against the snow, his breath coming fast through reddened lips, his eyes half-lidded with satisfaction.
“I—okay, wow,” he says frankly, and Pete has to try exceedingly hard not to look too pleased with himself. “I wanna recover from every fall like that, I think.”
“That could probably be arranged,” Pete grins, sitting back on Patrick’s thigh and licking his lips. “How’re you feeling?”
“Peachy,” Patrick smiles. The description, Pete thinks, is particularly apt given the soft, warm spots of color burning high in Patrick’s cheeks.
“I think there’s snow going down the back of my neck, though,” Patrick adds, squirming slightly and derailing Pete’s botanical train of thought.
“Same,” he admits, finally remembering the cold trickle that’s managed to find its way past his sweatshirt and down to his lower back. After a pause, he asks, hesitantly, “Do you care?”
A moment’s contemplation, and then Patrick shrugs. “Not particularly.”
“Cool.” Pete grins, wide and bright, before diving back into Patrick’s mouth with gusto.
❄ ❄ ❄
Some time—some considerable time later, they manage to make it down the mountain, Patrick a little slow and cautious on his skis but otherwise good as new (thanks, no doubt, to the incredible restorative powers of Pete’s mouth). The lifts are about to close down, so they follow the last stragglers into the lodge, where they find Joe waiting, hot chocolate in hand and feet up on the grate of the massive woodstove.
“Done for the day?” Joe inquires, raising a pointed eyebrow at Pete’s unusually reddened mouth and the way his fingers are firmly laced with Patrick’s.
“Guess so,” Pete says dubiously, a little bemused at the utter lack of exasperation and/or impatient attempts to herd him into the shitty Buick—that is, until he spots the hickeys, red and fresh, on Joe’s neck. Looks like Pete’s not the only one who’s had a good day.
“Meet you at the car, champ.” Joe gets to his feet languorously, shoots Pete a meaningful look, and strolls away, whistling cheerily to himself.
“Dickhead,” Pete snorts, turning back to Patrick, who looks faintly amused and, weirdly, more than a little nervous.
“I, uh, guess that’s my cue to head out,” Pete adds, finding himself suddenly unwilling to let go of Patrick’s hand.
“Yeah.” Patrick dodges Pete’s curious look, shuffles his feet, and says, finally, all in a rush, “Look, I, uh—I know it’s not my turn to suggest a date, especially since this one was kind of, like, a massive shitshow, but, uh. They’re throwing a New Year’s Eve party in the lodge, and it’s not, like, the most glamorous thing ever or anything, but I was wondering if you. Y’know. Would want to come.”
Pete struggles for a moment before he answers, because he’s not entirely certain which part of that adorable jumble to address first: does he start by pointing out that, in his book, anything that ends with him kissing Patrick is the furthest thing from a shitshow, or remind Patrick that there is literally nothing glamorous about anything in this town, let alone Pete?
In the end, he brushes all of that aside and settles for, “Yeah. Yeah, I would love to go with you. That sounds awesome.”
He doesn’t realize how hugely he’s smiling until Patrick looks up, meets his eyes, and starts smiling back.
❄ ❄ ❄
Pete’s not smiling in the slightest when, a few days later, he stands in front of his cousins’ woefully tiny mirror, fussing incessantly with his jacket and trying not to panic.
“Stop fucking panicking, dude,” Joe tells him helpfully, shrugging a tee shirt on over his head as if getting dressed were the easiest fucking thing in the world. It’s that awful fake tux one, Pete notes with irritation and more than a little envy, complete with screen-printed bow tie and cheesy fucking rose in the 2-D lapel. Pete, who has been stressing about his outfit for nearly an hour, reflects that while the stoner aesthetic may be a terrible one, it is at least really fucking simple.
“You’re sure the blazer isn’t too formal?” he demands, then realizes instantly that he has once again reverted to Big Gay Disaster Mode.
Instead of reassuring him (which, to his credit, he has already done at least six times in the past thirty minutes), Joe just fixes Pete with an incredulous look, shrugs on his hoodie—hideous, once again, but still infuriatingly effortless—and says, “It’s time to go, Pete.”
“Wait-” Pete starts to protest, turning back to the mirror to fluff his hair for the umpteenth time, but Joe grabs his wrist and drags him towards the door.
“We’re going,” Joe says firmly, ignoring Pete’s indignant yelp, “To a tiny, shitty New Year’s Eve party at a tiny, shitty lodge, where your tiny date, judging from the way he looks at you, would not give a shit if you turned up naked.”
“Um.” Pete blinks, unresisting, as Joe frog-marches him down the stairs.
“That’s a reassurance, not a suggestion,” Joe adds, tugging on his snow boots. Pete, after some hesitation (because damn, his combat boots would look fucking awesome with this outfit) follows suit, remembering the snow that has been falling gently but steadily for most of the afternoon.
“As much as I love a good old nudist New Year’s party, it’s kind of cold,” Pete points out, shrugging on his parka and gently lowering a hat onto his meticulously straightened hair.
“Good work, critical thinking boy,” Joe congratulates Pete, clapping him proudly on the shoulder. “Now, in the car, chop chop.”
“Okay, mom,” Pete mutters, but he does as he says. It doesn’t happen often, but on the rare occasions that Joe drops the goofy stoner act, he’s pretty fucking scary. Though, admittedly, the fear factor diminishes slightly when Pete remembers that all this haste is probably just so Joe can rejoin the mysterious source of those fading hickeys. A pissed-off Joe is significantly more terrifying than a Joe who just wants to get laid.
❄ ❄ ❄
Pete’s theories are confirmed when they arrive at the lodge and Joe immediately vanishes into the surprisingly crowded main room—in search, presumably, of whoever the hell he’s been fooling around with on the down-low. For a hot second, Pete considers following him (purely out of scientific curiosity, of course), but he’s stopped in his tracks by the most beautiful sight he’s seen in days: Patrick, resplendent in button-up, fedora, and that mesmerizing leather jacket, nursing a drink next to a stuffed moose head and looking incredibly out of place.
In spite of his obvious discomfort, though, the relief that lights up his face when he spots Pete is still totally gratifying.
“Thank god you’re here,” Patrick says fervently as Pete joins him against the wall, just barely out of the crush of the party crowd. This motley collection of aging skiers, rowdy college kids, and mystified locals is well on its way to drunk as hell, even though it’s barely ten.
“Glad to see you, too,” Pete says, a little caught off guard by Patrick’s sudden, extreme enthusiasm for his presence. “Nice to know that I’m a step up from taxidermy, company-wise.”
“Hm?” Patrick blinks at him, then glances sideways at the moose head, laughing sheepishly and rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “Oh, that. Yeah, I was using it to take cover from my boss. I think she’s drunk, it’s super fucking uncomfortable.”
“Gotcha,” Pete nods sympathetically, deciding to tactfully ignore the thinly veiled implication that Patrick is not merely hiding from his plastered boss, but from the entire party. There’s a pause, filled with the tipsy shouts of the crowd and the distant thud of dance music from the bar upstairs. The thought of the bar (or, at least, the beer-sticky counter that passes for one here) prompts Pete to point to Patrick’s half-drained cup and ask, “Whatcha drinking?”
“Root beer, unfortunately.” Patrick grimaces, tossing the cup, contents and all, into the nearby trashcan. “Being nineteen is such a fucking bummer.”
“I bet.” Pete tries to ignore the voice telling him that he’s a huge fucking creep, because it’s not creepy, it’s just two years—one and a half, really, since Patrick will be twenty this April—and it’s not creepy that Pete knows that, either, he just asked Patrick about his zodiac sign which is, again, not creepy at all-
He snaps out of it, realizing that the silence has started to stretch on past the point of weirdness and Patrick is examining the floor as if he’s hoping it’ll swallow him up. All right, Pete decides abruptly, time to ditch these useless nerves: he squares his shoulders, grins, and says, “Fortunately, one of the perks of being an old-ass man is that I can get you something a little more interesting.”
“First off,” Patrick begins, looking more than a little relieved that he can swap out the awkward silence for his usual exasperation, “You’re not old, get over yourself and stop playing sugar daddy. Secondly, yes, oh my god, please buy me a real fucking drink.”
Pete cringes a little at the sugar daddy crack but manages to laugh it off because yeah, he was kind of asking for that one. “All right, eager beaver, any requests?”
“I’ve been told they make a pretty killer peppermint patty here,” Patrick says, grabbing Pete’s hand with a wonderful kind of familiarity and leading him through the crowd.
“Yeah?” Pete ducks close to Patrick’s ear as they climb the stairs and the bass booms louder around them. “What’s in it?”
Patrick (who, Pete can’t help but notice, shivers a little at the gust of breath against his neck) leans closer to Pete and says, “Not entirely sure. Hot chocolate and, uh…peppermint schnapps, maybe?” He shrugs and smiles, a little self-effacing, as they pause at the top of the stairs. “Anyway, it’s sugar and alcohol: Patrick’s Proven Party Survival Formula.”
Pete grins, squeezes Patrick’s hand, and says, “Finally, someone who gets me. Two doses of alcoholic anxiety relief, coming right up.”
Patrick laughs, loud and genuine and with almost no hint of party-induced strain, before releasing Pete’s hand with some reluctance and letting him duck and weave his way through the drunken masses crowding around the bar.
❄ ❄ ❄
And that, in short, is how they end up sandwiched together at one end of a hideous leather couch, pressed up against each other from knee to shoulder, heads bent close so they can hear each other over the excessively loud Pitbull blasting from the benighted DJ’s shitty speakers.
Patrick, cradling his second peppermint patty—and his last, Pete has declared firmly, citing the previous bar episode as evidence that they are both extremely tiny dudes with embarrassingly low alcohol tolerances—is shrugging and saying, “I dunno, I guess I could have gone to conservatory somewhere, but Northwestern’s composition program is, like, so fucking good that I didn’t really see the point. Besides, I wanted to stay in Chicago, y’know?”
“Well, Evanston,” Pete points out, and Patrick rolls his eyes, but at least he doesn’t risk spilling his drink to elbow Pete in the ribs.
“You know what I mean, asshole,” Patrick retorts, but he’s smiling too hard for it to be anything but fond. “I grew up there, I didn’t wanna leave.”
“Yeah, I get that.” Pete contemplates the bottom third of his drink thoughtfully. “I guess I just chose DePaul ‘cuz it was the easiest option, what with the soccer scholarship and all. Pre-law requirements aren’t too bad, either, so I guess that helps.”
“You’re pre-law?” This close up, Pete can really study the fascinating way that Patrick’s eyebrow quirks upwards in surprise.
“Yeah, I—I’m thinking about going into human rights law or something.” Pete shrugs. “Haven’t really thought it through, though.”
“Huh.” Patrick sips his drink, regarding him with a look that, on someone else, Pete might call impressed. “Not as jocky as I thought, I guess.”
“I’m just full of surprises,” Pete grins, wide and bright and just dirty enough to make Patrick flush a little and hide in another gulp of his drink.
“Yeah?” he says when he’s drained the mug and set it aside, eyes meeting Pete’s in a stare that just manages to walk the line between challenging and flirtatious. “Like what?”
Now it’s Pete’s turn to hide in his drink, because, whoops, as usual, he wasn’t actually prepared to get called on his bullshit. When he surfaces and sets down his empty mug, however, it’s with a comforting glow of alcohol at the back of his throat and one singular, brilliant idea glittering in his mind.
“Like this,” he says, getting to his feet, grabbing Patrick’s hands, and pulling him upright, and wow is he a genius because Patrick is surprisingly pliant, letting the momentum swing him up off the couch and directly into Pete’s personal space. After taking half a second to savor the fantastic warmth of Patrick’s body against his, Pete offers, “Dance with me?”
Patrick’s expression shifts immediately from pleasant expectation to abject horror, and he leans backwards as Pete starts tugging him gently towards the dance floor.
“Oh, no,” Patrick says flatly, eyes wide behind their horn-rimmed glasses. “No, no, no, no, dude, seriously, this is the worst idea, like, ever. No one wants to see me dance.”
“I do,” Pete says solemnly—or as solemn as one can be after two peppermint patties, anyway.
“Look, you don’t even need to see it,” Patrick says quickly, desperately, as Pete pulls him onto the packed dance floor. “I can explain the entire experience to you in three words: White. Boy. Disaster.”
Pete laughs, loud and hard and a little disbelieving because wow, it’s kind of uncanny how similarly they describe themselves; maybe, he dares to think, this is a sign that they’re meant to be disastrous together.
As if to accentuate the monumental importance of that realization, the lights flicker out and the music shuts off with a sad, descending groan.
A cacophony of drunk, panicked yells and shrieks rises from the crowd as the room plunges into darkness, leaving Pete blinking sunspots out of his eyes. When his vision clears, he looks down to see Patrick grinning wonderingly up at him.
“See?” Patrick murmurs in the sudden quiet. “It’s a sign from the universe: I really, really shouldn’t be danc-”
He breaks off with a surprised grunt as the crowd, already alcohol-soaked and now unhappy and on edge, jostles him hard, sending him stumbling straight into Pete.
“Hey, watch it,” Pete tells the lurching, shapeless mass of people, instinctively wrapping his arms around Patrick’s narrow shoulders to protect him from some invisible assailant.
“Holy smokes,” Patrick mumbles into Pete’s t-shirt, his face mashed into Pete’s chest—and, Pete finally notices with a jolt of happy surprise, his arms wound tightly around Pete’s waist. “I think there’s gonna be a riot.”
Right on cue, some drunk asshole halfway across the room shouts, “C’mon, man, it’s almost midnight! We’re gonna miss the fuckin’ countdown!”
The crowd emits a pissed-off roar, which only starts to subside when a small, wavering light ignites behind the bar. In the faint glow of the candle in his hand, the nervous-looking bartender says, “Okay, folks, don’t panic on us. Looks like a tree limb took out the power lines, but we’ve got plenty of candles. We’ll get those lit in a moment, just bear with us.”
As flame after flame flickers to life and a gentle glow suffuses the room, the mood of the crowd (which, as Pete knows from his high school adventures in the hardcore scene, can be volatile in the best of situations and downright bonkers when there’s alcohol involved) shifts drastically, the sullen grumbling gradually dissolving into a surprisingly contented murmur.
“That was close,” Patrick remarks, drawing back slightly but not, to Pete’s infinite delight, releasing his hold on Pete’s waist.
“Looks like everybody’s decided that power outages are more romantic than scary,” Pete snorts, noting the sudden increase in couples vanishing into the various shadowy nooks and corners of the room.
“Well, it is a little bit romantic,” Patrick points out. When Pete glances down at him in surprise, the blonde’s smile is somewhere between embarrassed and coy.
“Just a little,” Pete concedes, and Patrick laughs a little and rests his head on Pete’s shoulder, turning his head until his nose is just barely brushing Pete’s neck. And Pete realizes, all at once, that he feels…weirdly calm, actually. Previous experience suggests that he should probably be freaking the fuck out, heart doing backflips onto his tongue and skin running hot and cold with terror and joy and fear, but instead he’s just here, as if grounded by the warmth and weight of Patrick’s body against his. So maybe it’s the alcohol, but maybe it’s finally feeling safe around someone, like he doesn’t have to strut and grin and fake it for once. What it probably is, honestly, is serious, serious trouble, but he’s too warm and tipsy and content to think too hard about how royally fucked he is.
Pete gets lost somewhere between his own thoughts and the soft, happy exhalations of Patrick’s breath in his ear, but he’s dragged back into the present by a sudden chorus of shouts rising up around them: Ten! Nine! Eight!
Patrick makes a small, startled noise and lifts his head, meeting Pete’s eyes and bringing their faces so close that their noses bump gently together.
“Hey,” Pete whispers under the raucous countdown.
Seven! Six! Five!
“Hey,” Patrick replies, tilting his head and nuzzling Pete’s nose in a gesture so unconscious and so adorable that Pete’s heart feels a little bit like it’s going to explode.
Maybe that’s why his voice cracks slightly when he asks, “Do you wanna…you know…?” To supplement his admittedly vague question, he shrugs one shoulder as if to indicate the crowd, the countdown, and the rapidly approaching new year. There ought to be a clever line coming to him any minute now, but he’s finding himself suddenly short on smooth moves and thoroughly overwhelmed by the desire to kiss Patrick.
Four! Three! Two!
“It is, y’know, traditional.” Patrick smiles, and at this distance Pete is more than a little mesmerized by the way those eyes crinkle with mirth.
“Well, who am I to fight tradition?” Pete grins, leaning down. Which is, okay, a little cheesy, but significantly more genuine that he usually is at moments like these. He’ll take the victories he can get.
One!
The countdown comes to its inevitable conclusion, the room around them shakes with an uproarious cry of Happy New Year! and, most importantly, Patrick leans up and kisses Pete squarely on the mouth.
It is, some small, remote corner of Pete’s brain remarks, kind of a weird thing to do in public. And, okay, it’s not like he’s never kissed someone at a party because, hello, Archduke of Ill-Advised Hookups here, but he’s never been intimate like this, never been so tightly wound up with someone else that it feels like they’re in their own private world. For half a moment, he frets about it; after all, this is still the backwoods of Vermont, and the candlelit dimness isn’t enough to disguise the fact that they are very much two dudes making out in the middle of a crowded room. Fortunately, he quickly reassures himself that their fellow partygoers are, a, mostly youngish out-of-towners who probably don’t give two shits, and b, all so drunk and busy kissing each other that even if they did give two shits, they probably wouldn’t notice.
But whoops, wait, when exactly did the making out happen? While Pete’s useless brain was busy being anxious, his strong, independent mouth decided all on its own to start moving gently against Patrick’s, his tongue even daring to swipe across that full lower lip. Once Pete’s brain finally gets with the program, however, things get even better; his fingers trail up Patrick’s neck to bury themselves in that soft gingery hair, his tongue dipping into that warm mouth. Before long, Patrick returns the favor, soft and slow and incredibly gentle, all lips and tongue and infinite care, both their mouths tasting like peppermint and chocolate.
And then, before they know it, someone’s started playing music from a tinny battery-powered speaker—not the thudding club beats from before, but something sweet and slow and cheesy and absolutely perfect. And without quite knowing who started it, Pete finds that they’re swaying to the beat, arms still locked around each other and hips moving in sync.
He pulls away slightly, just far enough to whisper against Patrick’s lips: “Hey, whaddaya know? You’re dancing.”
“Just a little,” Patrick admits grudgingly, resting his forehead against Pete’s.
“Not so bad, huh?”
“Well, you don’t exactly have to be a prima ballerina to stand in one place and sway to a beat, do you?” Patrick snorts, and okay, he’s got a point. But he also has a musician’s sense of rhythm and a fucking perfect mouth, so Pete’s not really complaining.
“It’s good enough for me,” he shrugs, and presses another kiss to Patrick’s smiling lips.
And that, more or less, is when things start to change. They keep kissing, of course, and keep moving to the music, in a general sort of way, but it quickly starts to get—well. Pete’s not quite sure how it happens, but somehow he shifts his stance slightly at the same time as Patrick tightens the loop of his arms, bringing their hips neatly together. Pete feels more than hears Patrick’s breathing hitch, an effect that he reproduces well by dragging his teeth gently across Patrick’s plush lower lip.
Patrick, in turn, retaliates by sliding one hand ever-so-casually underneath Pete’s blazer, then under his tee shirt, trailing feather-light fingertips across the increasingly heated skin of his lower back. That, as far as Pete can tell, is when their hips get slightly out of sync—not enough to throw Pete off the music entirely, just enough to generate a little friction, sending a thrill rocketing up and down his spine. And maybe he’s just tipsy and over stimulated and wearing absurdly tight pants, but within minutes Pete finds himself gasping into Patrick’s mouth and trying surreptitiously to grind his hips forward in a desperate search for more heat, more pressure, more Patrick.
To make matters worse, Patrick decides suddenly to break their lip-lock and bend his head to Pete’s neck, leaving a warm, ghostly trail of air from his collar to his jaw. Pete shivers as Patrick whispers, breathless, into his ear: “Hey, so, uh, would you…would you maybe want to come home with me?”
Pete nearly chokes on the yes that leaps immediately into his mouth, because he’s panting and half-hard in his jeans and so turned on that he’s aching, honestly, and it takes a few more seconds for him to compose himself enough to answer.
“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more in my life,” he says honestly, and Patrick chuckles, soft and low and kind of sexy, and Pete can’t really help but push an insistent thigh between his legs.
“Uh,” Patrick says, the word half swallowed by a gasp, and Pete’s pretty sure that nothing could possibly be more awesome than seeing him undone like this. “Would—would now work for you? Like, right now?”
“Yeah,” Pete says immediately, stepping reluctantly out of Patrick’s grasp and scrabbling for his phone. “Yeah, I just gotta find Joe and let him know, it’ll only-”
He breaks off at the sight of a text from the devil himself: where r u??
upstairs, near the bar, he responds instantly. u?
As he turns to grab Patrick’s hand and lead him off the dance floor, Joe’s reply buzzes in his pocket. same, near the stairs. find me?
It doesn’t take long, in spite of the hazy half-darkness; Pete could spot that hideous drug rug of a hoodie a mile away, and it certainly doesn’t help Joe blend into the dark little alcove that he’s shoved himself inside. For half a second, Pete doesn’t understand why, and then Joe spots him and steps sheepishly out into the light, followed by a shadowy figure who soon reveals himself to be-
“Andy?” Patrick says from behind Pete, barely hiding the surprise in his voice.
“Patrick,” the tattooed ginger nods tersely as Joe avoids eye contact and tries ineffectually to flatten his absurdly mussed hair.
“So.” Pete clears his throat, torn between amusement and utter discomfort. “I, uh—I’m not going back to my family’s place tonight.”
“Oh, thank god,” Joe sighs. “I was about to tell you to enjoy driving home alone, dude.”
“Ah,” Pete says blankly, trying desperately to ignore the new red marks already blooming on Joe’s neck (Hickies? Beard burn? He’s trying not to think about it too much). “Well, uh—this is gonna be a fun conversation with my relatives, I guess.”
Joe gives him a strange look. “Dude. Have you seen what’s going on outside? I don’t think you’re gonna have trouble coming up with an excuse.”
Pete exchanges bemused looks with Patrick, who just shrugs minutely; they’ve been a bit too preoccupied to pay much attention to the weather.
“Okay,” Pete says at last, turning back to Joe. “I’ll, uh, go do that, then.” He starts to wish Joe a good night but cuts himself off instantly; the less thought he has to devote to exactly what that would entail, the better. Instead, he settles for, “Later.”
“Later,” Joe replies, the air between them thick with relief and an unspoken agreement to say absolutely nothing more.
❄ ❄ ❄
“Yeah, it—it’s kind of a mess out there,” Pete all but yells into his phone, trying to fight his way past the awful, staticky reception. “You guys lost power, too? Yeah, yeah, same here. Look, there’s like a foot of snow on the roads, and the visibility is—yeah, no, I don’t think either of us feel good about driving in this.”
He shoots a thumbs-up at Patrick, who stops bundling himself up in a giant scarf and mirrors Pete’s triumphant grin—which, unfortunately, starts to slip off his face as he says hastily, “No, no, seriously, Jim, don’t bother coming to get us. It’s not safe out there, they’re saying that trees are down all over the place. We’ve got friends who work here, they’re letting us stay in the staff cabins. Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure. I definitely will. You keep warm, too, okay? Okay. Yeah. Good night.”
With a sigh of relief, he hangs up, stows the phone in his coat, and meets Patrick’s eyes.
“Good to go?” Patrick inquires, pulling on his gloves.
“Yeah.” Pete looks apprehensively at the lodge’s front door, which is damn near rattling off its hinges with the force of the howling wind outside.
“Don’t worry,” Patrick says, seeming to sense his nerves. “It’s not far.”
“Once more unto the breach, then,” Pete mutters, and pushes out into the storm.
❄ ❄ ❄
When, what feels like half an hour later, they finally stagger into Patrick’s dark cabin, Pete feels a little bit like he’s been hit by a truck.
“Holy shit,” he mumbles, trying to brush the snow off his jacket. It’s an exercise in futility, because for every flake he manages to dislodge, there are a hundred more crammed into every nook and cranny on his body, shoved past his collar and through his hat and into his socks by a freezing wind with a mean streak and absolutely no conception of overkill.
“Shoes off,” Patrick orders him, surprisingly coherent for someone who just stepped out of an arctic fucking vortex, before shucking off his own coat, scarf, and hat and sending a cascade of snow onto the floor. Scowling, he shoots an anxious look into the chilly, shadowy depths of the room and mutters, “Christ, I hope the fucking fire’s not dead.”
As Pete steps out of his boots, scattering approximately a cubic foot of snow across the doorstep in the process, Patrick vanishes into the darkness. There’s a dull thud, a muffled curse, and then a fat candle flickers to life, illuminating Patrick’s flushed face and a small, glass-fronted woodstove that appears, for all intents and purposes, to be entirely cold.
Patrick, unfazed, offers the candle to Pete. “Hold this?”
“I’ll try.” With difficulty, Pete yanks off his gloves and wraps his numb fingers around the candle, which feels blessedly warm to the touch.
While Patrick kneels in front of the woodstove, fucks with some mysterious levers that might be dampers, and starts stirring the ashes inside with a poker, Pete lifts the candle a little higher to take stock of his surroundings. The cabin is tiny, really just one high ceilinged little room containing the woodstove at one end, a cramped sort of kitchen at the other, and a battered old sofa in between. There is, however, one glaring absence: in the candle’s quivering light, Pete can’t seem to see a bed anywhere—that is, until he looks up and realizes that there’s a loft overhead, complete with a narrow wooden ladder that vanishes up into the shadowy darkness. Without quite meaning to, Pete imagines backing Patrick up against that ladder, pinning him there with hands and hips and mouth, pressing kisses into the curve of that ivory neck-
“Pete?”
With a start, Pete looks down and finds Patrick sitting back on his heels in front of the fire, which has miraculously come back to life and started to devour the fresh logs that Patrick’s just finished heaping onto it.
“Huh?” Pete says guiltily, only to realize half a second later that the cause of Patrick’s concerned look is probably not a sudden ability to read Pete’s thoughts, but rather the copious amount of cold water currently dripping off of Pete’s body.
“Oh, shit,” he stammers, fumbling the candle into one hand and pulling his hat off with the other, spattering more melted snow in every direction. “Shit, I’m so sorry, your floor, I didn’t-”
“Hey,” Patrick says gently, taking both the candle and the sopping hat out of Pete’s hands. “It’s cool. Just get yourself out of those wet clothes before you get hypothermia, idiot. I’ve got a drying rack here somewhere, hold on.”
Patrick hurries down to the far end of the room, taking the light with him and leaving Pete to peel off his wet overcoat, face burning in the darkness. When Patrick returns, drying rack in hand, he finds Pete shivering by the woodstove in his jeans and tee shirt, arms folded tight across his chest and wet clothes piled in a heap on the floor.
“You okay?” Patrick asks, real concern chasing the exasperation out of his voice as he sets down the candle and unfolds the rack in front of the fire.
“Y-yeah, just, y’know, trying to remember what it’s like to feel my toes.” Pete gathers his clothes up and starts to drape them over the rack. “Circulation’s on its way back, though, not to worry.”
“Well, thank god for that,” Patrick smirks, rolling his eyes at Pete’s dramatics. “Shit, this poor thing got damp as hell,” he adds with a frown, pulling off his leather jacket and spreading it carefully over the rack.
“I know the feeling,” Pete mutters; although he’s shed the worst of his outerwear, his jeans are still soaked from the knees down, and there’s a definite wet spot spreading down the back of his tee shirt where the snow snuck past his scarf.
“I, uh…guess we’ll have to do something about that, huh?” Patrick says, a half-smile tugging at one corner of his mouth as he turns to face Pete. Pete, whose heart is suddenly banging against his ribs like a fist, who’s eyeing the buttons on Patrick’s shirt and wondering what they’d feel like underneath his fingers, who’s utterly transfixed by the way Patrick’s tongue darts out to wet his lower lip.
As Patrick takes a step towards him, Pete can’t help but stare at the way the firelight catches his face, glistening off his mouth and illuminating a look in his eyes that’s somewhere between expectant and hesitant.
“Is this, uh,” Patrick says softly, his hands hovering less than an inch from the hem of Pete’s shirt, “Is this okay?”
Pete nods vigorously, hisses out a slow breath as Patrick’s cold fingers slide across his hipbones.
“No, it—it feels good,” he says hastily as Patrick’s hands freeze in their tracks, threatening to take flight like nervous birds. “Don’t—don’t stop.”
As if to chase the panicked look from Patrick’s face, Pete reaches up and rests one finger against the thick frame of his glasses. “Can I…?”
He doesn’t even have to finish the question; Patrick nods, his eyes fluttering shut and his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as Pete slides the glasses off, folding them up and balancing them atop the drying rack. Still slow and hesitant, Patrick slides his hands up and under Pete’s shirt, letting them rest uncertainly at his waist.
Pete’s hands, meanwhile, hang indecisively at his sides, fingers clenched and awkward and useless. There’s something different now, something tense and heavy and unsure hovering in the scant air between them, something that wasn’t there before. Pete thinks he understands, sort of; what they were doing back in the lodge, that was all fun and cute and more or less PG-13. But now that they’re alone, now that there’s serious kissing and stripping and fucking on the table, things are…not better, not more important, exactly, but a little more complicated. When Patrick finally looks up at Pete, eyes wide and weirdly vulnerable without their customary frames, his nerves are plain on his face.
“You okay?” Pete asks, barely a whisper, and Patrick swallows again, his gaze darting downwards.
“Yeah, I—just nervous,” Patrick mumbles, thumbs rubbing absent circles into Pete’s sides. “Sorry.”
“Me too,” Pete admits because, shit, it’s not like there’s any point in hiding the fact that his heart is trying to claw its way into his throat. “Look, if you want to, y’know, stop anytime, just tell me-”
Patrick shakes his head immediately, brows furrowing. “No, it’s not—it’s not that, I want—I want to. I do. It’s just-” He breaks off, drags the back of one wrist across his forehead, then asks: “Were you ever a fat kid?”
Pete blinks at him, caught thoroughly off-guard. He was expecting some kind of dramatic revelation: a weird kink, maybe, or even a traumatic past experience. That, he’s prepared for. Not…this, whatever this is.
“No?” he says quizzically, searching Patrick’s face for some clue about where the hell this is going.
“Well, I was,” Patrick says, finally meeting Pete’s eyes. “Until recently. Like, very recently. Last year recently, actually. So I guess the whole getting naked in front of other people thing is still kind of, um, weird for me?”
“Gotcha,” Pete says thoughtfully, reaching up and tucking a damp strand of hair out of Patrick’s eyes in a gesture that surprises him with its tenderness. Still, it seems to smooth some of the anxiety out of Patrick’s forehead, so he does it again, murmuring, “So, uh…what can we do to make this easier for you?”
Patrick’s eyes widen, and the relief and gratitude that Pete sees there make his heart hurt just a little. What pains him even more, however, is the flicker of shock that passes briefly across that pale face. Patrick shouldn’t be relieved by having his wants and needs and boundaries respected, and he sure as hell shouldn’t be surprised by it. He deserves to be cared for, to be listened to, to—well, maybe not to be cuddled with and/or gazed at adoringly 24/7, which is Pete’s immediate instinct, but he deserves respect at the very damn least.
“Could we, uh, put out the candle?” Patrick asks tentatively. “I—I’m sorry if that’s weird, we don’t have to, I just-”
“Hey,” Pete cuts him off gently. “It’s totally fine. I think the firelight should be enough to keep even me from busting my clumsy ass.”
The joke has its desired effect, more or less; a reluctant smile replaces Patrick’s anxious expression, but he’s still watching Pete’s face intently, as if looking for some sign of discomfort or disgust. Instead, Pete just smiles, leans over, and blows the candle out.
When he straightens back up, Patrick’s uncertain little smile has practically grown wide enough to split his face in two, and Pete quickly develops a matching grin. That tense, heavy thing is starting to evaporate, vanishes entirely as Patrick leans up and kisses him, deep and fervent and warm with gratitude and trust. This time, the hands that slide up the back of Pete’s shirt are gentle but self-assured, tracing curlicues and arabesques into Pete’s skin with a sure touch.
And Pete kisses back, slow and hungry with just a hint of bite, teeth gliding over Patrick’s lower lip until he groans softly into Pete’s mouth. Pete takes that as his cue to slide his hands from Patrick’s shoulders to his collar, fitting his fingers around the top button and then pausing—not unbuttoning it, mind you, just waiting, patiently, for permission.
In half a second, he gets it: without drawing back, Patrick nods minutely, his breath hitching against Pete’s lips. As he licks deep into Patrick’s mouth, Pete sets to work on those buttons, cold fingers finally thawing in the heat from Patrick’s chest.
Soon, Patrick is shrugging the shirt off his shoulders and stepping back to help Pete pull his tee off over his head. And, okay, Pete tries really hard not to stare, because under no circumstances does he want that horrible look of discomfort to return to Patrick’s face, but the fact is that the man is fucking gorgeous in the firelight, pale skin and golden hair and freckled arms gilded by the flickering flames. Pete’s in luck, however, because it turns out that Patrick is a little too busy staring at him to even notice Pete’s wide eyes on his body.
“Shit,” Patrick says softly, unthinkingly, tracing the thorns tattooed across Pete’s collarbones with two gentle fingers. Pete, shivering slightly, leans into the touch with a sigh and very nearly misses the spark of inspiration that flares bright in Patrick’s eyes. Impossible to miss, however, is the sensation of that searing mouth against his clavicle, his collarbones, his neck, mixing kisses with gentle nips until Pete’s keening softly in the back of his throat and practically melting against Patrick’s chest.
“Christ,” Pete says hoarsely, skimming his hands down Patrick’s back until they come to rest at the top of his jeans. “Can—can I-”
“Yeah,” Patrick says, his voice going surprisingly ragged as Pete runs his fingers around the inside of his waistband, knuckles brushing gently against his hipbones. “Please.”
Even Pete’s fumbling fingers manage to make short work of Patrick’s fly, and before long he’s helping the other man slide his jeans down his thighs—and oh, god, what thighs they are, what gorgeous little noises Patrick makes as Pete’s fingers graze down that pale skin—and onto the floor. After that, it’s only a matter of time before Patrick’s undoing Pete’s jeans and watching him wriggle out of them—and laughing, small and sudden, under the cover of one hand.
“What?” Pete demands, finally managing to peel his pants off his calves and kick them out of the way.
“Sorry,” Patrick says, not looking sorry in the slightest. “It’s just…why am I not surprised that you’re wearing underwear with skulls on it?”
“Gotta maintain my sexy punk image somehow,” Pete shrugs, and Patrick laughs harder—that is, until Pete presses his lips against the side of his neck. Then, that laugh turns into a long, shuddering sigh that, in turn, gives way to a soft moan as Pete bites gently at the spot, sucking on the skin until Patrick gasps and tugs at his hair.
“Easy on the neck, man, I work with kids,” he pants. When Pete pulls back reluctantly, he finds that Patrick’s pupils are blown, eyes dark and wide in the firelight.
“Well, guess I’ll have to find someplace a little more discreet then, huh?” he grins, punctuating the question with a slow roll of his hips that makes Patrick moan faintly in the back of his throat.
“You could…yeah, you could do that,” Patrick murmurs, his voice trailing off as Pete’s lips find his collarbone, his chest, his nipple, licking and sucking insistently until he’s drawing the most fantastic noises out of Patrick’s throat.
“Fuck, oh—oh, fuck,” Patrick gasps, the words half swallowed by a moan as Pete dares to throw in the slightest scrape of teeth. “I—I—would you—bed?” he stammers finally, and Pete tries not to feel too gratified by his mounting incoherence.
“Yeah,” he says breathlessly, straightening up and letting Patrick pull him into another kiss, knees and thighs and hips bumping haphazardly together as Patrick walks him backwards towards the ladder and—oh, pins him against it, using the entirety of his slight frame to press Pete back onto the cool wood. And yeah, Pete had imagined this part just a little differently, but, truth be told, it might actually be even more awesome the other way around.
He indicates his appreciation with a low moan that grows embarrassingly loud as Patrick fits one leg between his thighs and pushes, his hands sliding down Pete’s chest to tug gently at his nipples.
“So, uh,” Patrick breathes against his mouth, those unbelievable lips twitching into a smile, “Is it—is it bad that I kind of want to blow you right here?”
“Uh,” Pete manages, half choking on it as that thigh presses insistently against the straining bulge in his briefs because oh, god, would that be a dream come fucking true—but at the same time, his knees are buckling at the mere thought of it, his hands gripping desperately at the ladder behind him for support. God knows how long he’d be able to stay upright.
“Maybe not a good idea,” Patrick admits reluctantly, freeing Pete from the awful obligation of coming up with the words to say that would be the best thing ever but I might actually die. “Bed, then?”
Pete nods mutely, still a little too preoccupied by the thought of Patrick wanting to blow him to form a coherent sentence. The next challenge, of course, is climbing the ladder, which would require Pete to turn away from the glorious source of warmth and friction and kisses that is Patrick—that is, unless he were to do something as incredibly daring and foolhardy as attempt to climb the ladder backwards.
He makes it up two rungs before Patrick stops kissing him, plants his hands on his shoulders, and says, “Look, as impressed as I am by your dedication to making out with me…I kind of like you a lot, and I would feel terrible if you broke something trying to climb into my bed.”
“It would kind of be a moment-ruiner, wouldn’t it?” Pete concedes, and Patrick laughs, rolls his eyes, and gives Pete’s shoulder a gentle shove, which seems to suggest that Pete should stop being such a damn weirdo and start climbing like a normal person.
Which, obediently, he does, a grin on his face and Patrick’s reassuring warmth behind him. I kind of like you a lot, he decides as he climbs, may actually be his new favorite phrase.
The loft turns out to be warm and dim, the majority of the floor space taken up by what is less of a bed and more of a queen-sized mattress draped in a huge, fluffy duvet. Pete flops down onto it immediately, followed quickly by Patrick on top of him, a tangle of knees and hips and hands and lips that finally find each other in the dark. And the kisses quickly get deeper, harder, sloppier as Patrick straddles Pete and grinds mercilessly down on him, and god, Pete thinks hazily, he must have been lying about the dancing thing because the way those hips move is simply incredible.
And then Patrick’s pulling away, sitting back on Pete’s thighs and tugging gently at the waistband of his briefs with an inquiring look that Pete can only answer with a strangled sound and the most enthusiastic nod of his life. He can’t help but push himself up onto his elbows and watch, transfixed, as Patrick hooks his fingers into those (okay, admittedly ridiculous but still very punk) briefs and drags them off Pete’s hips and down his legs. Moments later, however, Pete’s head hits the pillows with a soft thump because it feels like Patrick’s mouth is everywhere: planting a line of kisses up the inside of one thigh, biting and sucking at his hipbone, licking into the crease of the other thigh, and then, suddenly, resting feather-light against the head of his cock.
Pete is fairly sure that he feels his soul leave his body as Patrick parts his lips and takes him into his mouth. Though, of course, that’s not quite true; if he were having a full out of body experience, he wouldn’t be able to feel the frankly unbelievable things that Patrick is doing with his mouth, the swirl of his tongue and wet slide of his lips that quickly have Pete fisting his hands in the sheets and stammering, “Oh god, oh, god, I’m gonna—Patrick, I’m gonna-”
As far as he can tell, however, Patrick’s only response to his warning is to hum encouragingly around his cock and lick a long, leisurely stripe from base to tip. That, ultimately, is when Pete truly exits the earthly sphere of existence, gasping loudly as he comes harder than he has in a long time.
When Pete finally descends from the astral plane, he looks up shakily and sees Patrick dragging the back of one wrist across his mouth, looking more than a little pleased with himself.
“You okay?” Patrick asks, his voice a little hoarse and gloriously fucked-out.
“Yeah,” Pete manages, reaching for him with arms that feel like jell-o. “Yeah, c’mere.”
When Patrick crawls back up and drapes himself over Pete’s body, Pete sinks his fingers into that soft hair and pulls him into a kiss, tasting sweat and bitterness and just the faintest hint of chocolate in his mouth.
“I might have died a little bit just now,” he murmurs against Patrick’s lips, which quirk into a smile.
“Well, they don’t call it le petit mort for nothing,” he says, and Pete glances up at him, wide-eyed.
“Okay, if you hadn’t just blown my fucking brains out, I would definitely be turned on right now,” he manages, and the chuckle that slips out of Patrick’s mouth is thoroughly gratifying. “Remind me the next time we do this that your French is sexy as hell.”
There’s one terrible, airless second when Patrick doesn’t respond, and Pete’s suddenly terrified that he sounded way creepier than he intended, that Patrick’s freaked out, that, worst of all, he shouldn’t have assumed that they’re going to do this again-
-and then Patrick smiles, small and startled but absolutely genuine, and says, “Yeah. Yeah, I definitely will.”
“Cool,” Pete grins, and he’s definitely not prepared for the way Patrick kisses him, deep and slow but somehow even more fervent than before, and as Pete sucks on that gorgeous lower lip he feels Patrick’s hips twitch against his thigh and remembers that oh, right, he’s still got a little something left to do. It’s a sign of just how mind-blowing that orgasm was that he managed to forget for even a second that he’s about to have the pleasure and the privilege of making Patrick come.
Because here’s the thing: Pete kind of really loves giving head. Like, to the point where it’s a little bit embarrassing. But he can’t help but savor Patrick’s tiny gasp as he flips them over, the way his breathing catches as Pete kisses a long, slow trail from his clavicle to his waistband, the whine that slips past his lips as Pete bites a bruise into the soft skin of his inner thigh.
Here’s what Pete quickly discovers: Patrick is kind of loud. Like, so loud that, although it might be a little embarrassing for such a shy little dude, it’s kind of the greatest thing to ever happen to Pete. Because, honestly, what could be better for someone who loves giving head than blowing someone who moans and gasps and whimpers at his every touch?
So, okay, maybe Pete goes a little overboard with the buildup, because by the time he decides to stop being a tease and actually pull off Patrick’s briefs (well, boxer-briefs if we’re being exact, plain and grey and ridiculously cute like everything else Patrick wears), Patrick is reduced to a quivering, moaning mess under his hands. He can’t really bring himself to feel that remorseful, though; instead, he wraps one hand around Patrick’s dick—and pauses, because Patrick’s just emitted a weirdly quiet, muffled moan.
When Pete looks up, he realizes that the ridiculous man has shoved a finger into his own mouth, biting down on the knuckle to stifle his noises. Which is, of course, completely unacceptable; with a scowl, Pete reaches up and swats at Patrick’s arm until the finger is removed from the mouth and Patrick’s staring down at him, wide-eyed and just slightest bit open-mouthed. And, yeah, that’s more than a little great, because Pete can feel Patrick’s eyes on him as he lowers his head and takes Patrick’s entire cock into his mouth in one smooth, easy motion.
So maybe it’s a little showy, the deep-throating and all, but hey, Pete decided years ago that he should use his lack of a gag reflex for good. And there is nothing but good about the noises that Patrick’s making, the moans and whimpers and damn-near sobs and bitten-off curses that culminate in a gentle tug at Pete’s hair and a gasped-out “Oh, god, fuck, oh my god-”
Pete can’t help but watch, mesmerized, as Patrick throws his head back and comes—without, ironically, making a single sound.
While Pete wipes his mouth and tries to collect himself, Patrick lets out a long, shuddering sigh and says, in a pleasingly shaky voice, “Please tell me that you’re down for post-fuck cuddles.”
“Um, have you met me?” With slightest more haste than is probably cool, Pete drags himself back up the bed and flops down next to Patrick, who promptly curls into his side and throws an arm around his waist.
“Should’ve known you’d be a cuddler,” Patrick mumbles, and Pete can’t resist dropping a kiss onto the mess of blond bangs scattered across his forehead. In response, Patrick tilts his head and presses his lips to Pete’s, soft and quick and thoroughly perfect.
“Okay, so,” Patrick says, pulling away and letting his head drop onto Pete’s shoulder, “Are you going to be, like, totally insufferable if I tell you that that was kind of a religious experience?”
“Is it weird if I tell you that it kind of was for me, too?” Pete asks, smirking like an asshole as always but also a trifle uncertain about how Patrick’s going to react.
Fortunately, Patrick’s expression is heading more towards intrigued than weirded out as he raises an eyebrow and says, “Blowing me was a religious experience?”
“Yeah?” Pete admits. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, you going down on me was, like, kind of life-changing, but I also—well, you’re really loud. I’m, like, into it.”
“Huh.” Patrick stifles a yawn against Pete’s collarbone. “Well, I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”
“Cool,” Pete says, barely managing to swallow a yawn of his own. In spite of how energetic—and, to be entirely honest, kind of turned on he was feeling just minutes ago, that golden afterglow feeling has snuck back up on him and left him pretty boneless. Besides, he’s got Patrick’s breath against his skin and Patrick’s solid warmth against his body and Patrick’s fingers tracing slow, absent circles onto his ribs; it’s no surprise that, within minutes, he drifts off to sleep.
❄ ❄ ❄
He wakes up to bright sunlight and the smell of coffee. With his customary fuck-the-morning groan, he rolls over, blinks his eyes open, and discovers that he’s alone in bed. The momentary panic that explodes in his gut, however, is assuaged by the faint sounds of clinking glasses, crackling logs, and absent-minded humming coming from downstairs.
He sits up just in time to spot Patrick appearing at the top of the ladder, complete with oversized Batman tee shirt and utterly atrocious bedhead. In the brilliant light spilling through the window over the bed, he looks positively gorgeous, and Pete can’t help the goofy smile that stretches his face as he mumbles, “Morning.”
“Actually, it’s twelve thirty.” Patrick mirrors his grin, and Pete realizes that he probably looks equally sleep-ruffled and ridiculous. “I’m making coffee. Want some?”
“Yeah, I-” Pete begins, pushing away the covers and starting to swing his legs off the mattress before Patrick stops him short with a vigorous shake of his head.
“No, nope, you stay right there,” he orders, pinning Pete to the spot with an authoritative look. “My house, my rules, and my rule is that we drink coffee in bed. How do you want yours?”
“Milk and sugar, if you’ve got ‘em,” Pete says automatically, slightly taken aback. As Patrick disappears back down the ladder, he calls after him, just for the sake of argument, “It’s not even your house!”
A laugh rises up from below, followed by Patrick’s reply: “My temporary house, my temporary rules, then.”
“Fine,” Pete huffs, flopping back against the pillows and taking the opportunity to inspect the loft. In the daylight, it turns out to be surprisingly spacious, housing not only the bed but a chest of drawers and what was probably meant to be a nightstand. Now, however, it’s home to a record player and a dinky little stereo, with a handful of records stacked on the floor beside it. Pete can’t resist taking a peek and is unsurprised to discover that Patrick’s taste is eclectic but flawless, ranging from Pantera to Elvis Costello to Ella Fitzgerald. Beside the records sits a pile notebooks, comic books, and what looks like a dog-eared copy of A Moveable Feast, and Pete has to take a second to lie back and breathe through the heart-stopping revelation that Patrick is reading Hemingway because Patrick is perfect and Pete’s heart is suddenly clenching like a fist in his chest because Patrick is perfect and it’s January 1st and Pete has to be back at school in ten days.
He wonders, staring at the ceiling and willing his throat to stop closing in on itself, if Post-Coital Panic Syndrome is a thing. If it is, and it should be, then he definitely has it, has had it ever since he hit college, figured out how to style his hair properly, and became the Archduke of Ill-Advised Hookups. But this, this is different from the familiar old where am I, who is that, where the hell is my underwear kind of panic. This time, his stomach is turning itself inside out not because he wants to run away from this and never think about it again, but because he wants this all the time. He wants Patrick’s ridiculous bedhead and his weird record collection and his stupid old man cardigans scattered across the floor, wants to fall asleep with Patrick’s breath in his ear and wake up to his dorky grin and spend every morning drinking coffee in bed with him and every night kissing him senseless and, and, and. He wants it all so badly that he aches, and he has to be back at school in ten days, and for all he knows he’s just going to go down in history as that crazy guy that Patrick fooled around with over break.
“Hey, grab this for me, will you?” Pete looks up, heart pounding in his throat, to see Patrick maneuvering his way up the ladder, two coffee cups balanced precariously in one hand. Managing to disentangle himself from the sheets, Pete sits up and relieves Patrick of one of the mugs.
“Fair warning, it’s pretty awful,” Patrick says, settling down onto the bed beside Pete, bare feet on the floor and knees drawn up to his chest. “All I have is a shitty French press, so.”
“Works for me,” Pete shrugs, managing to sound like his lungs aren’t trying to fight their way out of his chest. He takes a sip of his coffee, creamy and sweet just the way he likes it, because what’s better for a massive bout of anxiety than a little caffeine?
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Patrick glancing at him with concern. He knows that Patrick can see right through him, realizes that there’s no point in trying to hide the panic anymore, thinks with a sudden burst of reckless abandon that if Patrick can’t handle him at his Biggest Gay Disaster then he doesn’t deserve him at his best, either.
So he takes a breath, curls his hands around his coffee mug, and says, “Look, I—I hate to pull the whole weird morning-after thing on you, but, like…what’re we gonna do when we go back to school?
“Like,” he plunges on in the face of Patrick’s silence, “Are we gonna try and keep this up? Do we just, I don’t know, keep fucking around for another week and then go our separate ways? Like, not to be Mr. Emotionally Needy here or anything, but my anxious ass can’t handle this kind of uncertainty.”
“No, no, it’s cool, I…I’ve been wondering about that, too,” Patrick admits, running a hand through his hair and ruffling it even more. “I…well, what do you wanna do?”
Pete’s breath sticks in his throat because he knows exactly what he wants to do, but he can feel rejection looming on the horizon like a big black thundercloud and frankly, if the storm’s going to break, he’d rather it happen before he declares his undying love for Patrick.
So he manages to choke out: “I—I asked the question, you first.”
“Oh. Jeez.” Patrick blinks into his coffee, not meeting Pete’s eyes. “And the award for anxiety-inducing question of the year goes to…” He smiles weakly, dares a glance at Pete, quickly shifts his gaze back into his mug.
“I—look,” he says at last, clearing his throat. “I hate…y’know, playing games and stuff, so I’ll be honest. I…I like you a lot, for some ungodly reason, and I’ve had—I’ve had a lot of fun these past couple days.”
He pauses, and Pete steels himself for the inevitable “but” that he can just hear hovering on the tip of Patrick’s tongue.
“And…and I’d like to keep doing that.” Patrick finally looks up, uncertainty and hope and a little bit of terror in those gray eyes. “Having fun, that is. With you. And, like, I know that I’ve never done the long-distance thing before—not that it would be long-distance, exactly, because it’s really only like an hour from DePaul to Evanston on the Metro, and I don’t have class on Fridays so we could have, like, pretty solid weekends together and, and go see shows and stuff, if you…wanted to do that…”
He trails off, glancing nervously at Pete as if searching desperately for a clue about how to continue. Evidently mistaking the shock on Pete’s face for something other than complete and utter joy, he adds hastily, “Or…or not, if you don’t—if you don’t want that. I guess if you, y’know, wanted to leave things where they are, if you have, um, someone else at school and want this to just be a one-time thing, I could, uh. I could be okay with that, I guess?”
“I don’t,” Pete says finally, in a voice that doesn’t quite sound like his own. When he manages to part the happy, overwhelmed haze in his brain for long enough to eke out a coherent sentence, he continues: “Have anyone else, that is. Or want this to be a one-time thing. I, uh.” His immediate instinct is to say I love you, but the more levelheaded parts of his brain are reminding him that that’s a little bit intense and probably not healthy for their relationship right now, so he restrains himself.
Instead, he says, “Look, I…I haven’t actually met anyone else quite like you, and I—I’d kind of like to stick around? Like, I like you a lot, I—I like us a lot, and that hasn’t happened to me in…well, ever, actually.” And god, god he sounds ridiculous, he needs to put them both out of their misery and stop fucking talking but he can’t, he can’t tear his eyes away from his coffee and he can’t make his heart stop hammering and he can’t get his mouth to fucking stop.
“What I’m trying to say,” he babbles on, scrubbing at his face with one hand as he tries to bring this train wreck to some kind of a halt, “Is that I’m up for giving it a shot if you are.”
When he finally dares to look up, Patrick’s mouth is twitching irresistibly into a smile, and although his eyes aren’t technically rolling yet, Pete can see how desperately they want to.
“You,” Patrick says slowly, his voice almost unbearably fond, “Are so fucking cheesy, I can’t even handle it.”
Pete blinks at him. “You can’t?”
“Well, I mean, I can. That’s kind of, like, the whole point we’re making here, right?” Patrick raises an eyebrow, that smile getting wider by the second. “I can and I want to.”
“Oh.” Pete’s still staring at him, and he knows that he’s being weirdly monosyllabic right now, but he’s still kind of struggling to process the fact that this is happening, this is real, the storm clouds have passed and the sun is shining and Patrick wants to date him.
“C’mon, dude, don’t look so surprised,” Patrick chuckles, taking a sip of his coffee, slightly manic with relief in exactly the way that Pete is practically catatonic with it. “Is it really that much of a shock that I want to date you?”
“Um.” Pete has to take a second to think about that one, because the answer seems a little too obvious. “Yes?”
“Huh.” Patrick shrugs, suddenly becoming deeply interested in the contents of his coffee cup as he admits, “Well, it’s, uh—it’s kind of been on my mind since our second date, to be completely honest.”
“Oh,” Pete says again, and then it feels like his brain clicks quietly back into place. He sets his mug down on the floor, takes a deep breath, and says, “Look, I’m sorry if this is weird, but, uh—could we be cuddling right now? Because this is kind of, like, a big moment for me, and it would be cool to have a pair of arms around me to stop my body from physically exploding with happiness.”
Patrick stares at him for a full ten seconds, and just as Pete’s starting to worry that he’s royally fucked everything up all over again, he says, “I—I’m honestly not sure if you’re being serious right now or if this is just another one of your shitty lines.”
“Oh, I’m serious,” Pete promises, though the effect is kind of ruined by the monstrous grin that’s suddenly forcing itself onto his face. “I’m deadly serious, dude. You could have a real situation on your hands in a minute or two if cuddling doesn’t happen soon.”
“Well, if it’s a medical emergency…” Patrick grins back, sliding sideways across the bed until he can fit an arm around Pete’s waist. Without warning, Pete flops backwards, pulling Patrick down with him and eliciting a truly marvelous shriek.
“You are completely ridiculous,” Patrick informs him, propping himself up on one elbow before bending his head to plant a kiss on Pete’s lips.
“Yeah, but I’m your ridiculous,” Pete murmurs, punctuating the words with another kiss.
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Patrick whispers back, but the lack of logic doesn’t stop him from kissing Pete again.
“Yeah, it does,” Pete grins, leaning up to kiss him one more time. After that, they don’t say much else for quite a long time.
Pete will remember that day, months from now, with his spine curved into the wall of Patrick’s tiny single and his arms and legs wrapped around Patrick’s solid warmth beside him. He’ll think back to their slow, languid kisses, the coffee cups sitting cold and forgotten on the floor, the waning sunlight spilling across soft sheets and softer skin, and he’ll smile, small and secret, against the back of Patrick’s neck. Then, and now, and pretty much always, he’ll think: yeah, there are plenty of worse things than spending three weeks in bumblefuck nowhere Vermont, snowboarding, and, entirely by accident, falling in love.