Tools Of The Heart (standalone)

This wasn't fair and both of them knew it. This wasn't perfect, and yeah, they both understood it. This was tension so thick you could cut it with a knife, and they both felt the blade slicing all their words apart.

"Why?"

For the second time in the hour, Patrick almost sobbed out the word. And for the second time in the same hour, Pete did nothing but shake his head, look down pathetically at his dangling feet, and frown. Really, what more could he do? He was just glad that Patrick hadn't gotten up, told him to go fuck himself and have a nice life yet.

"I really... It doesn't even make sense, Pete, I..."

That also happened in the same hour, between choked out 'Whys', Patrick would try and start the conversation, and then he would simply become too infuriated to continue or he would be on the verge of tears, and be unable to continue. Pete just kept looking out over the bridge, trying to forget everything, trying to quietly make things better again. That's all he wanted. He wanted his Patrick back, and to be counting stars with him, not shamefully keeping silent.

Beside Pete, Patrick sniffed a bit, and ran his hands up and down his arms. It was chilly, but not really freezing, Mother Nature was finally done being a bitch, and let it warm up a bit, but not by much.

"Here," Pete unzipped his hoodie, and slid it off and around Patrick's shoulders, waiting for a reaction. And he definately got one.

"It doesn't even fucking smell like you," Patrick hissed through gritted teeth. He pulled the hoodie off of his back, and flung it into the lake.

One time, because Pete was writing shit about himself that wasn't nicely hidden behind metaphors, Patrick punched him square in the face, leaving quite the bruise on his cheek. Having his rather expensive hoodie tossed into a filthy lake felt just as bad, maybe worse, because at least then Patrick was touching him.

They sat awkwardly, almost a foot away from each other, limbs tightly pulled into their own bodies. Nothing felt good. Pete watched the hoodie float away from him, knowing he fully deserved that.

"Are you even going to explain yourself?"

Pete really didn't like seeing Patrick so livid. He wasn't that kid Pete fell in love with.

Pete distincly remembers falling hard for Patrick. Pete remembers awful, green knee socks, beige shorts, thick glasses, and a too small t-shirt. What Pete also remembers was falling asleep on Patrick's shoulder, completely contoured to fit his head. And Pete remembers Jolly Rancher flavored kisses behind 7-11. Even as he remembers these things, he won't smile in fear that Patrick might not believe him if he tried explaining what was going on in his head at that moment.

"Well, are you?"

Pete shook his head, fearing this would be the moment Patrick got up and spit in his face. It wasn't.

"I fucking hate you sometimes, Pete. I really do." Patrick was shaking, but by now, with heat radiating off of him the way it was, it couldn't have been from the cold.

"I do too," Pete finally spoke, not having spoken in over an hour and a half, his voice was cracking, his bitter laughter piercing his ears. Why the fuck would he laugh at himself right now? Because he probably screwed up the best thing he's had in his whole life.

Pete remembers when Patrick whispered just the oppisite.

They were in a park on the carousel, and they could smell the Hot Dog vendor. Patrick was lying next to Pete, their feet spinning them around, the squeaks echoing through the mostly empty park. Pete remembers it was cold, kind of like tongiht. Pete remembers Patrick groped for his hand, and nervously shouted the three words at the sky. Pete recalls leaning over Patrick and smiling.

Nobody was smiling now.

"Pete. I don't want to hate you. I want to fucking rip your dick off and feed it to a rabid dog, but I don't want to hate you." It's not really funny when Pete can't tell if Patrick is kidding or not.

"I know." Pete was using his small voice. He doubted it was going to get him out of trouble this time. Patrick sighed; stupid small voice.

"Patrick, I'm sick of fucking up. I really, really am." Pete gripped a small rock in his hand, and threw it as hard as he possibly could to make it skip across the lake; it simply sunk to the bottom at first contact with the water.

"I know, Pete."

Pete always wanted to fix things. He was just really bad with tools, and when it came to tools of the heart, he lost his user's manual in the mail.

More silence shifted over them, causing cough induced awkwardness. Pete really didn't want to ruin this anymore than he already had, but on instinct, as he heard a noise from somewhere behind them, he grabbed for Patrick's hand.

Patrick didn't show any emotion, or make a sound, but he did squeeze Pete's hand as tight as he could.

"I love you Patrick."