Pretty In Punk

Title: Pretty In Punk
Author: charactereyes , who has never written a FOB fic before and hopes this isn't too awful.
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Word Count: 1396
Rating: PG
Summary: Patrick's sweet. Pete's pretty in punk. And kisses have colours.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything and I'm not getting paid.
Author's Note: This is a birthday fic for my sister redheaded_itch, who is turning 20 today. Everyone wish her a happy birthday! (Also, there are spoilers for Pretty In Pink below the cut, in case anyone hasn't seen it and wants to.)

Pete has always been curious about the taste of things.

Flavours and textures acquire colours in his mind, a neat spectrum of sensuous categories. Salty is bright yellow, like lemons. Sour is green, acidic and lurid, a burning colour and taste. Spicy is the hot, damp orange of deep summer days. Bitter is pure white, the shade and shape of soulless hospital hallways.

Sweet, however, is his favorite, red like summer strawberries.

And at the end of a long day, when he's tired and sore from playing the same songs to the same kind of teenage girls as he did the last night, and the night before that, and too many nights before that, all he really wants is something sweet.

Patrick has noticed this, of course. Part of what makes Patrick Patrick is that he forgets his wallet at least once a week, and regularly locks himself out of his car, and sometimes gets lost in his own neighborhood, but still manages to remember little things about people. Their favourite colour, the first show they went to, things like that. And so, when he sees Pete slipping into one of his moods- exhausted and cranky and more than a little bit demanding, because he has always been the baby of the band, and probably always will- he will do something to bring him back to himself. Sometimes it's a bag of candy, licorice or M&Ms. Sometimes it's a sloppily-made milkshake, presented with the proud beam of a man who, upon conquering the microwave, is determined to beat the blender into submission. Once, when he was feeling particularly Smithsian and wanted nothing so much as to huddle beneath his Morrissey poster and sulk, it was a bowl of caramel popcorn and a John Hughes marathon that lasted until three in the morning.

Pretty In Pink always did cheer him up.

It had been a long day, and though Patrick struggled to stay awake with him, his eyelids began to droop halfway through The Breakfast Club. By the time Andie showed up at the prom he was snoring gently, his mouth hanging open just a little. Pete briefly considered putting something in it, like a popcorn kernel or maybe a spider, but decided instead to tuck a blanket around his legs and flick off the light and let the Psychedelic Furs seep into his dreams.

"Why do you think Andie chooses Blane instead of Ducky?" he asked Patrick the next morning. That part of the movie always bothered him, even though Ducky was supposed to be with some random girl he meets at the prom and Andie and Blane were supposed to be star-crossed lovers, because Ducky was kinder and more interesting and, frankly, cuter than Blane.

Patrick, still bleary-eyed and not quite awake, shrugged and pulled the blanket up to his chin. "I dunno. Maybe it never occurred to her to think of him that way, even though he was in love with her. She just didn't stop long enough to wonder if maybe she was in love with him too."

He nodded, because at the time it seemed like a very profound statement, and was about to reply when Patrick's eyes fluttered closed again and he drifted gently back into sleep, mumbling something inaudible before beginning to snore once more.

Pete is very interested in different kinds of mouths. This has given him something of a reputation as a slut, although that's not the strict truth. He does not have sex with just anyone (and, in fact, is far less experienced than he would like others to believe). It's the feel of different tongues and lips that he craves, the taste of people, not meaningless sex. Kissing, he thinks, is almost more intimate than sex- sex can be mechanical, disembodied, anonymous, but kissing never can.

Pete does not have sex with just anyone, but he kisses an awful lot of people, boys and girls and other people as well, because he likes the swirl of many flavours in his mouth, like layers of paint on a wall. He wonders if a day will come- after he's kissed the right number of people, of course- when the tastes blend together in his mouth to make one perfect sweetness.

But sometimes, Pete being Pete, the whole business of kissing makes him bored or upset, and he retreats to his room to huddle under the covers of his bed or play his bass until his fingers ache or read the pictures books that he loved as a kid. (He still does love them, secretly; but then, he still is a kid, secretly.)

And when that happens Patrick always calls and asks him how he's feeling, and if he wants to talk, and if Pete is in one of his blank, close-mouthed moods, he hangs up and drives over with a packet of Pop Rocks or a loaf of banana bread and carefully coaxes him out of bed. Sometimes, just to make him smile, he'll wear a sweater-vest and a pair of shorts, and Pete will remember the first time they met, how he was a shy and awkward kid who wasn't really sure how to sing to these strangers. Sometimes, when they're onstage, he remembers that kid again, and watches Patrick play and sing his goddamn throat sore with a big dumb grin. He can see the ways he's changed, the confidence, the louder laugh, but he can also see that awkward guy who searches frantically for his glasses, only to be told that they've been on his face the whole time.

Mostly because it tends to happen about five minutes before the show every other night.

And one grey weekend, when he sleeps too late and has nothing much to do but lie on the coach and (briefly) consider getting up to get the TV remote, Patrick knocks on his door, fresh-faced and well-rested and laden down with a huge basket of fruit.

Pete stares at him for a minute. He looks sheepish.

"One of my aunts sent it to me," he mumbles, and offers an apologetic grin. "I figure, since I don't eat that much fruit and I don't want it to go to waste... do you want some?" He pauses, his arms trembling slightly under the weight, and adds enticingly, "There're peaches at the bottom..."

He has a weakness for peaches, and so he lets him in and clears a space on the kitchen table, shoving aside the empty jars and ragged magazines and taking the paring knife out of Patrick's hand, because his inability to cook seems to encompass an inability to peel anything without cutting himself on the knuckle. Patrick shrugs and peels a banana instead.

The peach slices burst on his tongue like little fireworks, the reassuring sweetness stealing down his throat. Patrick looks at him and tries, unsuccessfully, to stifle a snicker.

"What?" Pete says, or tries to say, but his mouth is too full and it comes out as "Wrggh?" Patrick shakes his head, a grin stealing over his round face.

"Just the look on your face..." He shakes his head again. "It's like you're five years old. And you've got peach juice dripping off your chin-"

And that's it, suddenly. Patrick is laughing and grinning a little-boy grin and wearing one of his ridiculous hats, and all Pete really wants, in that moment, is something sweet, so he leans over and catches his face in his hands and kisses him. He feels Patrick's lips tremble under his for a minute- he might be nervous, or, more likely, he might be laughing still- but then he smooths still and Pete can breathe in the smell of him, feel him warm and soft under his hands and warmer, softer, under his mouth, and he tastes sweeter than strawberries, than licorice, than anything Pete has ever tasted.

He thinks, suddenly, of what Patrick said about Ducky and Andie, and he surprises himself into laughing, which makes Patrick pull away for a second, his eyes questioning. Pete smiles, laughs again, and says, "It never occurred to her..."

Patrick looks nonplussed, and Pete suspects that explaining would ruin it. So instead he tugs him back and kisses him again, and lets it be.

Because it makes sense- perfect sense, now that he stops to wonder- that Patrick's kiss would taste sweeter on his tongue.