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“It’s not fair, is it?”

“Huh?” I looked up from the newspaper that I had been idly flipping through, eyes sliding over the articles I’d already read at least ten times each. The newspaper hadn’t gotten delivered since The Day; this one was five days old.

“It doesn’t seem right,” Patrick mused, pausing in his idle stirring of a pot of tomato sauce on the stove. It was an understood fact that I was completely at sea without Domino’s or Chinese men on bikes giving me food, so most-scratch that, all of the cooking got delegated to Patrick, and I got stuck with the exhausting task of shoving the dirty dishes into the dishwasher.

“Thanks, that’s really helpful,” I yawned, pushing the newspaper away and leaning back in my chair. “There are lots of things that don’t seem right, and I really don’t have enough breath to list them all. Which, exactly, of the many unfair things in this world are you complaining about?”

The words were out of my mouth before I could really process that they smacked of serious dickitude. But just in case I didn’t happen to get the message, the look that Patrick gave me cemented it.

“Uh…” He raised his eyebrows, reaching up to swipe a few beads of sweat off his chin with the back of one hand. “Well, I was going to comment on the weather, but obviously that’s not important enough to register in the grand Wentz scheme of things…”

“The weather.” I couldn’t help myself; I gave him such an incredulous look that you’d think he’d just announced that he was planning to have a child.

“Yeah.” Shifting his weight to one side, he turned back to the stove, giving me a rather nice view of his ass. “I was thinking about how it’s not fair that it’s so nice.”

“It isn’t, is it?” I said thoughtfully, propping my chin on my hand and inspecting Patrick’s ass again. It really wasn’t fair that it was so nice…

“I mean, don’t you think it should be rainy and dark or something?” he asked pensively, giving the tomato sauce another stir. “But, no, it’s perfectly sunny and beautiful, like the world’s pretending that the biggest calamity in history didn’t just happen less than a week ago.”

“It shouldn’t be so nice,” I agreed, biting at the nail on my pinky. No, it should have been a boring, normal guy ass; sort of flat and not particularly noticeable. But instead, whatever magical factory in the sky that made people had chosen to endow this being with a beautiful, round ass that sort of curved out from his thighs, then back in to his hips and made my brain feel so gooey that I had to resist the urge to plug my ears to keep it from oozing out. Fuck, that ass didn’t belong in those innocuous good-boy-blue jeans. That ass belonged on a fucking cherub, for fuck’s sake. Or maybe on a poster, preferably one hanging in my room, right above my bed so I could jerk off to it every night.

“Pete?”

Blinking, I looked up, trying to dispel the hot, fluffy-marshmallow feeling currently filling up the lower portion of my stomach. Patrick had turned around and cocked his head at me, one hand planted on the hip that he’d switched out to one side.

“Gnhmf?” was the only sound my mouth could force out; the fluffy marshmallows had apparently glued together my vocal cords. Or maybe that hot, sticky feeling in my stomach was actually my brain, which, finding its primary path of escape from my skull plugged, had dribbled down the back of my throat and into my stomach.

“Planning on getting your ass up any time soon?” he inquired sweetly, stepping to one side so that his legs were neatly pressed together. I tried to ignore the suffice-to-say interesting curvy hourglass shape that his legs presented; curving out from his hips, tucking in at his knees, swelling smoothly at his calves, then pinching back in at his ankles. It was really, really hard.

“Er,” I began unsurely, then decided to go with the tried and true response to these kinds of questions: “What?”

Obviously, that wasn’t the greatest idea; Patrick breathed out a long, exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes.

“Plates, Pete,” he told me slowly, like I was mentally retarded or something. Though, honestly, talking to me slowly was probably his best bet; I wasn’t processing too quickly at the moment. “And forks, too.”

I only just managed to bite back the ‘What about them?’ that was tingling on the tip of my tongue. I’d had my full share of angry-Patrick face today. Pushing back my chair, I shot one last, longing glance at the beautiful ass now facing me again before turning to open the nearest cabinet.

Moonrise found us sitting on the couch in the living room, devouring spaghetti out of soup plates and half-watching whichever stupid movie I had shoved into the DVD player. Well, Patrick was mostly watching it; I found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on the screen while Patrick was sitting next to me. Chewing absently on my mouthful of pasta, I glanced sideways and observed how he was sitting: one foot tucked underneath himself, the other dangling off the front of the couch, sweeping absent-minded patterns into the carpet. And, damn, those internet kids were right; he had really fucking hot thighs.

Swallowing uncomfortably, I looked back to the TV and for the first time realized that I was a total fucking idiot and had put Wall-E into the DVD player. We showed that to Bronx whenever he got squirmy, for fuck’s sake. Why the fuck were we watching it?

But, hell, Patrick seemed to be enjoying it, and the absent expression of childish amusement on his dimly lit face was not something I’d give up for anything in the world, let alone my stupid pride. And, besides, changing the movie would involve looking away from Patrick, not to mention actually getting my ass up off the couch and over to the DVD player, which was so not happening. It was just too oddly fascinating to watch him slurping long strands of spaghetti out of his bowl, especially when they gave that funny flick at the end and smacked him on the nose.

Plus… well, he was right there. Like, right there. And, in case I don’t make myself clear, he was:

Right.

There.

And as terribly juvenile as that sounds, at the time I couldn’t get it out of my head. He was right fucking there, sitting next to me and drumming his heel against the leg of the couch and slurping up spaghetti and breathing and exuding smell and just being Patrick, and I could feel my heart clawing at the inside of my ribcage every time I looked at him.

This, I decided, was too much. I couldn’t, couldn’t be feeling this for my best friend just days after he’d helped me carry my wife’s body out of the house. I needed to…to, well, I didn’t know what I needed to do, but I damn well knew that I needed to get away from Patrick to figure it out. Anything I decided on while around Patrick would probably involve jumping on him, pinning him down, or…doing things to him, things I hadn’t done to anyone, let alone other guys, in years.

“I’m going upstairs,” I announced, standing abruptly and making my way towards the kitchen.

“Okay.” Patrick’s voice assailed my ears as I deposited my plate in the sink, and I fought the urge to cringe and dissolve into a screaming puddle on the tile. That urge nearly won out when I turned around and saw Patrick, twisting around in his seat and throwing one arm over the back of the sofa and looking at me. And, oh man, that embarrassing need to do things to him almost overcame me right then and there. I even went so far as to take one stumbling step towards him before realizing what I was doing and fleeing towards the stairs.

“Pete!” Patrick’s voice floated after me as I scrambled upstairs, taking the carpeted steps two at a time. “Dude, you okay?”

I meant to reply, I really did, but my perfectly coherent, “Yeah, I’m perfectly fine, just a bit tired,” got lost somewhere in the loud thumpity-thump of the blood pounding in my ears. Gritting my teeth, I practically body slammed the door to my bedroom open, flying across the room and crashing into the bed with a solid thud. Kicking the door shut with a stretched-out leg, I clambered up onto the bed and buried my face in the comforter, breathing in the blank, clean smell of soap and water. Thank fuck Patrick had insisted on changing the sheets after Ashlee.

Patrick…Patrick was certainly not the right person to thinking about at the moment. Neither, for that matter, was Ashlee. Every time I thought her name or conjured up her face in my mind’s eye, guilt crashed over me like an acidic tidal wave. And what made it all worse was that that was the only thing I felt. No remnants of love, caring, or even sadness remained in my heart for Ashlee; the only thing I felt for my dead wife was that overwhelming, all-consuming guilt.
And for what? Well, for falling into what felt like a gigantic death pit of combination adoration and lust for someone else a mere five days after my wife had died. It had only been five days, but it felt like both a thousand years and ten minutes; simultaneously too slow and too fast, like I was stuck in fast forward while the rest of the world inched along so slowly it was almost going backward.

Because, no matter how much of a slacker my conscience may be sometimes, right then it was telling me one thing: it was wrong, wrong, wrong to ‘want to do things’ to someone else when your wife of almost two years was lying dead in a mass grave somewhere. My gut, however, was telling me something entirely different, in many fewer words: wantwantwantwantwantPatrick, wantPatricknow.

Pushing myself up into a sitting position with a groan, I buried my face in my hands, digging my fingers into my scalp and trying to conjure up a good memory of Ashlee to drive thoughts of Patrick out of my hyperactive brain.

The bad part was that I couldn’t think of any.

All that came to mind were snippets of her whispering and gossiping with her friends; her screaming her head off when she figured out she was pregnant; her matter-of-factly telling me that I would have to marry her now; her bitching at me about leaving her alone with Bronx; and, the very worst, her staring blankly at me as I excitedly explained to her about my lyrics, what they meant and how proud of them I was, and her saying simply, “Okay,” and walking off.

Groaning again, I dug my fingers in harder and tried again, delving deep into my memory. There must be something, anything…sex. Those have to be good memories.

But, for some reason that escaped me, the only thing I could think of was how fucking stupid she had looked during sex, the way she’d screamed and dug her fingernails into my shoulders and generally just looked so fucking unattractive that it had practically turned me off right then and there. Fuck, why had I ever married that girl?

Shaking my head vigorously, I tried to pick out that thought and dump it out my ear into my hand, where I could squash it and drown it and stomp on it and set it on fire. Ashlee had been a nice girl, and I had wanted to marry her, even if she couldn’t sing worth a damn.

But you know who can sing? a tiny little voice inside my head asked quietly. Patrick. He can sing.

Damn right. He’s got the best pipes on the planet, I agreed with myself.

So why didn’t you marry him instead of Ashlee? that little voice inquired innocently.

Because you can’t marry dudes in Illinois, I responded instantly. That was about when all my mental processes froze with the realization of how utterly, completely, and terribly I meant that. I hadn’t married Patrick because I hadn’t been able to. I’d married Ashlee because I’d had to. And Patrick had been there at the wedding, standing solidly beside me in that black tuxedo like every other best man in the world, and fuck, I’d forgotten how good Patrick looked in suits…

My fingers dug so hard into my scalp that I yelped and sat up straight. Slowly unclenching my hands, I stared blankly at the dark wall in front of my face. There was most definitely something very, very wrong with me. I could put it down to the recent (literal) death of my sex life, only Ashlee and I hadn’t really been up to much since Bronx had arrived. Maybe, then, this weird apocalypse thing was just driving me crazy.

With a sigh, I crawled up the bed and buried my head in my pillow, hoping to silence some of the thoughts clanging around the inside of my skull like flying pots and pans. And, surprisingly enough, my mind complied; I fell asleep within minutes.

That was the first night I had the dream.

The first thing I noticed about it was not, just for example, the crowded high school hallway I was standing in, or the crowd of uniformed boys surging around me, or even the fact that I appeared to be five foot five again and wearing a uniform that was far too small for me. No, the first thing I noticed was Patrick standing at his locker down the hall, wearing pale khakis and a blue blazer and a white oxford and a grey sweater vest and a red and gold striped tie and looking abso-fucking-lutely adorable in it, too.

Something that was both icy cold and fiery hot flared up in the pit of my stomach, and then, suddenly, I found myself right behind him, apparently without having actually walked there. Since I was there anyway, I inched closer and put my mouth to his neck, leaving a trail of kisses along the pale, supple skin. His head in its black newsboy cap snapped up, long strawberry blond hair flying as he spun around to stare at me with eyes half hidden by golden bangs.

And then he was gone. But something in my gut told me that he hadn’t gone far, and as I took a step down the hallway I saw him peeking around a corner at me. Again, I arrived at that corner without seeming to walk, but as I turned it I saw a tuft of blond hair disappearing around another turn a long ways down the hallway.

It went on like this for what felt like hours, with Patrick leading me along with brief glimpses from behind corners and doors, and me chasing after him without really running. And then, finally, I found myself in a long, long hallway with nothing but one door at the end, and something inside me told me that this was it, that this was Patrick’s dorm room, where we could finally be alone…

It took me forever and a half to walk down that hallway. Every step was weighed down with lead, and I was pushing through air like glue. But, finally, in a matter of hours (or were they seconds?), I was shoving open the door and stumbling into the room beyond. Panting for breath, I didn’t even bother to look around me because oh god, there was Patrick, standing there with his hands clasped behind his back and his legs clamped together, and all of me was humming with wantwantwantwantwant as I ran up and kissed him.

All the rest was crystal clear at the time but somewhat blurred in memory; all I could remember was heavy breathing and armfuls of soft body and the rough clench of fabric in my hands as I ripped that little blazer off him and pulled his sweater vest off over his head. There was the flip flop of gravity as he took hold of my loosened tie and pulled me onto the bed, and there was the popping of buttons as I undid his shirt with fumbling fingers, sososo eager to see the beautiful boy hiding underneath. There were long, long minutes filled with nothing but pink lips and white skin and moaning, and oh, god the noises he was making. And then, suddenly, we were in nothing but boxers and Patrick was making a little whining noise in the back of his throat that was getting me harder by the second.

That was when it all really started to blur; there was nothing but all-enveloping, pale softness and sweat and frictionfrictionfriction and touchtouchtouch and hot breath all over me, and I was so fucking hard that it hurt to move, to breath, to be. And then there was ohgod and fuckfuckfuck and ohmyfuckinggod my cock is in Patrick’s mouth and he’s sucking me off, and then I screamed and twisted and came, flailing all over the dorm sheets.

And then Patrick was in my mouth, and every sound he made got me hard again as I licked and bobbed and rubbed until he came and I swallowed every drop of the white stuff that tasted like strawberries, what the hell?

But I didn’t have time to wonder over that, because now I was inside him, and he was tight around me and wailing and panting for breath, moans and “ohgodfuckyesharderPete” spewing out of his angel lips every time I thrust into him. His fingers dug into my back, the calloused pads of his fingertips etching patterns into the skin as I held him tight. And then everything was sweat and skin and rub and bite and thrustthrustthrustthrust until I couldn’t take it anymore and came deep into Patrick, came harder than I ever had, came and shuddered as Patrick threw back his head and screamed and came all over our stomachs.

Everything came sort of unblurred at that point, as Patrick and I lay beside each other, sticky with cum and sweat but still tangled up with each other and inside each other, one person and two separate people at the same time. Sighing happily, Patrick shut his eyes and I put my hand on the swell of his stomach, and wait a fucking second, he was pregnant now? Somehow, that didn’t faze me too much; I leaned down and pressed a kiss to the beautiful bulge of his belly, secure in the knowledge that it was mine and Patrick was mine and it was all beautiful…

…and then I woke up, stuck to the sheets and feeling drained and empty. That was, as I observed momentarily, because I had covered the sheets with what appeared to be a several days’ worth supply of semen.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I groaned, flopping back again my pillow. The ass o’clock darkness of the ceiling stared back at me as I tried to fight off the creeping arousal in my stomach and the ruthless question in my mind:

What’s the matter with me?

Description
“It’s not fair, is it?”

“Huh?” I looked up from the newspaper that I had been idly flipping through, eyes sliding over the articles I’d already read at least ten times each. The newspaper hadn’t gotten delivered since The Day; this one was five days old.

“It doesn’t seem right,” Patrick mused, pausing in his idle stirring of a pot of tomato sauce on the stove. It was an understood fact that I was completely at sea without Domino’s or Chinese men on bikes giving me food, so most-scratch that, all of the cooking got delegated to Patrick, and I got stuck with the exhausting task of shoving the dirty dishes into the dishwasher.

“Thanks, that’s really helpful,” I yawned, pushing the newspaper away and leaning back in my chair. “There are lots of things that don’t seem right, and I really don’t have enough breath to list them all. Which, exactly, of the many unfair things in this world are you complaining about?”

The words were out of my mouth before I could really process that they smacked of serious dickitude. But just in case I didn’t happen to get the message, the look that Patrick gave me cemented it.

“Uh…” He raised his eyebrows, reaching up to swipe a few beads of sweat off his chin with the back of one hand. “Well, I was going to comment on the weather, but obviously that’s not important enough to register in the grand Wentz scheme of things…”

“The weather.” I couldn’t help myself; I gave him such an incredulous look that you’d think he’d just announced that he was planning to have a child.

“Yeah.” Shifting his weight to one side, he turned back to the stove, giving me a rather nice view of his ass. “I was thinking about how it’s not fair that it’s so nice.”

“It isn’t, is it?” I said thoughtfully, propping my chin on my hand and inspecting Patrick’s ass again. It really wasn’t fair that it was so nice…

“I mean, don’t you think it should be rainy and dark or something?” he asked pensively, giving the tomato sauce another stir. “But, no, it’s perfectly sunny and beautiful, like the world’s pretending that the biggest calamity in history didn’t just happen less than a week ago.”

“It shouldn’t be so nice,” I agreed, biting at the nail on my pinky. No, it should have been a boring, normal guy ass; sort of flat and not particularly noticeable. But instead, whatever magical factory in the sky that made people had chosen to endow this being with a beautiful, round ass that sort of curved out from his thighs, then back in to his hips and made my brain feel so gooey that I had to resist the urge to plug my ears to keep it from oozing out. Fuck, that ass didn’t belong in those innocuous good-boy-blue jeans. That ass belonged on a fucking cherub, for fuck’s sake. Or maybe on a poster, preferably one hanging in my room, right above my bed so I could jerk off to it every night.

“Pete?”

Blinking, I looked up, trying to dispel the hot, fluffy-marshmallow feeling currently filling up the lower portion of my stomach. Patrick had turned around and cocked his head at me, one hand planted on the hip that he’d switched out to one side.

“Gnhmf?” was the only sound my mouth could force out; the fluffy marshmallows had apparently glued together my vocal cords. Or maybe that hot, sticky feeling in my stomach was actually my brain, which, finding its primary path of escape from my skull plugged, had dribbled down the back of my throat and into my stomach.

“Planning on getting your ass up any time soon?” he inquired sweetly, stepping to one side so that his legs were neatly pressed together. I tried to ignore the suffice-to-say interesting curvy hourglass shape that his legs presented; curving out from his hips, tucking in at his knees, swelling smoothly at his calves, then pinching back in at his ankles. It was really, really hard.

“Er,” I began unsurely, then decided to go with the tried and true response to these kinds of questions: “What?”

Obviously, that wasn’t the greatest idea; Patrick breathed out a long, exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes.

“Plates, Pete,” he told me slowly, like I was mentally retarded or something. Though, honestly, talking to me slowly was probably his best bet; I wasn’t processing too quickly at the moment. “And forks, too.”

I only just managed to bite back the ‘What about them?’ that was tingling on the tip of my tongue. I’d had my full share of angry-Patrick face today. Pushing back my chair, I shot one last, longing glance at the beautiful ass now facing me again before turning to open the nearest cabinet.

Moonrise found us sitting on the couch in the living room, devouring spaghetti out of soup plates and half-watching whichever stupid movie I had shoved into the DVD player. Well, Patrick was mostly watching it; I found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on the screen while Patrick was sitting next to me. Chewing absently on my mouthful of pasta, I glanced sideways and observed how he was sitting: one foot tucked underneath himself, the other dangling off the front of the couch, sweeping absent-minded patterns into the carpet. And, damn, those internet kids were right; he had really fucking hot thighs.

Swallowing uncomfortably, I looked back to the TV and for the first time realized that I was a total fucking idiot and had put Wall-E into the DVD player. We showed that to Bronx whenever he got squirmy, for fuck’s sake. Why the fuck were we watching it?

But, hell, Patrick seemed to be enjoying it, and the absent expression of childish amusement on his dimly lit face was not something I’d give up for anything in the world, let alone my stupid pride. And, besides, changing the movie would involve looking away from Patrick, not to mention actually getting my ass up off the couch and over to the DVD player, which was so not happening. It was just too oddly fascinating to watch him slurping long strands of spaghetti out of his bowl, especially when they gave that funny flick at the end and smacked him on the nose.

Plus… well, he was right there. Like, right there. And, in case I don’t make myself clear, he was:

Right.

There.

And as terribly juvenile as that sounds, at the time I couldn’t get it out of my head. He was right fucking there, sitting next to me and drumming his heel against the leg of the couch and slurping up spaghetti and breathing and exuding smell and just being Patrick, and I could feel my heart clawing at the inside of my ribcage every time I looked at him.

This, I decided, was too much. I couldn’t, couldn’t be feeling this for my best friend just days after he’d helped me carry my wife’s body out of the house. I needed to…to, well, I didn’t know what I needed to do, but I damn well knew that I needed to get away from Patrick to figure it out. Anything I decided on while around Patrick would probably involve jumping on him, pinning him down, or…doing things to him, things I hadn’t done to anyone, let alone other guys, in years.

“I’m going upstairs,” I announced, standing abruptly and making my way towards the kitchen.

“Okay.” Patrick’s voice assailed my ears as I deposited my plate in the sink, and I fought the urge to cringe and dissolve into a screaming puddle on the tile. That urge nearly won out when I turned around and saw Patrick, twisting around in his seat and throwing one arm over the back of the sofa and looking at me. And, oh man, that embarrassing need to do things to him almost overcame me right then and there. I even went so far as to take one stumbling step towards him before realizing what I was doing and fleeing towards the stairs.

“Pete!” Patrick’s voice floated after me as I scrambled upstairs, taking the carpeted steps two at a time. “Dude, you okay?”

I meant to reply, I really did, but my perfectly coherent, “Yeah, I’m perfectly fine, just a bit tired,” got lost somewhere in the loud thumpity-thump of the blood pounding in my ears. Gritting my teeth, I practically body slammed the door to my bedroom open, flying across the room and crashing into the bed with a solid thud. Kicking the door shut with a stretched-out leg, I clambered up onto the bed and buried my face in the comforter, breathing in the blank, clean smell of soap and water. Thank fuck Patrick had insisted on changing the sheets after Ashlee.

Patrick…Patrick was certainly not the right person to thinking about at the moment. Neither, for that matter, was Ashlee. Every time I thought her name or conjured up her face in my mind’s eye, guilt crashed over me like an acidic tidal wave. And what made it all worse was that that was the only thing I felt. No remnants of love, caring, or even sadness remained in my heart for Ashlee; the only thing I felt for my dead wife was that overwhelming, all-consuming guilt.
And for what? Well, for falling into what felt like a gigantic death pit of combination adoration and lust for someone else a mere five days after my wife had died. It had only been five days, but it felt like both a thousand years and ten minutes; simultaneously too slow and too fast, like I was stuck in fast forward while the rest of the world inched along so slowly it was almost going backward.

Because, no matter how much of a slacker my conscience may be sometimes, right then it was telling me one thing: it was wrong, wrong, wrong to ‘want to do things’ to someone else when your wife of almost two years was lying dead in a mass grave somewhere. My gut, however, was telling me something entirely different, in many fewer words: wantwantwantwantwantPatrick, wantPatricknow.

Pushing myself up into a sitting position with a groan, I buried my face in my hands, digging my fingers into my scalp and trying to conjure up a good memory of Ashlee to drive thoughts of Patrick out of my hyperactive brain.

The bad part was that I couldn’t think of any.

All that came to mind were snippets of her whispering and gossiping with her friends; her screaming her head off when she figured out she was pregnant; her matter-of-factly telling me that I would have to marry her now; her bitching at me about leaving her alone with Bronx; and, the very worst, her staring blankly at me as I excitedly explained to her about my lyrics, what they meant and how proud of them I was, and her saying simply, “Okay,” and walking off.

Groaning again, I dug my fingers in harder and tried again, delving deep into my memory. There must be something, anything…sex. Those have to be good memories.

But, for some reason that escaped me, the only thing I could think of was how fucking stupid she had looked during sex, the way she’d screamed and dug her fingernails into my shoulders and generally just looked so fucking unattractive that it had practically turned me off right then and there. Fuck, why had I ever married that girl?

Shaking my head vigorously, I tried to pick out that thought and dump it out my ear into my hand, where I could squash it and drown it and stomp on it and set it on fire. Ashlee had been a nice girl, and I had wanted to marry her, even if she couldn’t sing worth a damn.

But you know who can sing? a tiny little voice inside my head asked quietly. Patrick. He can sing.

Damn right. He’s got the best pipes on the planet, I agreed with myself.

So why didn’t you marry him instead of Ashlee? that little voice inquired innocently.

Because you can’t marry dudes in Illinois, I responded instantly. That was about when all my mental processes froze with the realization of how utterly, completely, and terribly I meant that. I hadn’t married Patrick because I hadn’t been able to. I’d married Ashlee because I’d had to. And Patrick had been there at the wedding, standing solidly beside me in that black tuxedo like every other best man in the world, and fuck, I’d forgotten how good Patrick looked in suits…

My fingers dug so hard into my scalp that I yelped and sat up straight. Slowly unclenching my hands, I stared blankly at the dark wall in front of my face. There was most definitely something very, very wrong with me. I could put it down to the recent (literal) death of my sex life, only Ashlee and I hadn’t really been up to much since Bronx had arrived. Maybe, then, this weird apocalypse thing was just driving me crazy.

With a sigh, I crawled up the bed and buried my head in my pillow, hoping to silence some of the thoughts clanging around the inside of my skull like flying pots and pans. And, surprisingly enough, my mind complied; I fell asleep within minutes.

That was the first night I had the dream.

The first thing I noticed about it was not, just for example, the crowded high school hallway I was standing in, or the crowd of uniformed boys surging around me, or even the fact that I appeared to be five foot five again and wearing a uniform that was far too small for me. No, the first thing I noticed was Patrick standing at his locker down the hall, wearing pale khakis and a blue blazer and a white oxford and a grey sweater vest and a red and gold striped tie and looking abso-fucking-lutely adorable in it, too.

Something that was both icy cold and fiery hot flared up in the pit of my stomach, and then, suddenly, I found myself right behind him, apparently without having actually walked there. Since I was there anyway, I inched closer and put my mouth to his neck, leaving a trail of kisses along the pale, supple skin. His head in its black newsboy cap snapped up, long strawberry blond hair flying as he spun around to stare at me with eyes half hidden by golden bangs.

And then he was gone. But something in my gut told me that he hadn’t gone far, and as I took a step down the hallway I saw him peeking around a corner at me. Again, I arrived at that corner without seeming to walk, but as I turned it I saw a tuft of blond hair disappearing around another turn a long ways down the hallway.

It went on like this for what felt like hours, with Patrick leading me along with brief glimpses from behind corners and doors, and me chasing after him without really running. And then, finally, I found myself in a long, long hallway with nothing but one door at the end, and something inside me told me that this was it, that this was Patrick’s dorm room, where we could finally be alone…

It took me forever and a half to walk down that hallway. Every step was weighed down with lead, and I was pushing through air like glue. But, finally, in a matter of hours (or were they seconds?), I was shoving open the door and stumbling into the room beyond. Panting for breath, I didn’t even bother to look around me because oh god, there was Patrick, standing there with his hands clasped behind his back and his legs clamped together, and all of me was humming with wantwantwantwantwant as I ran up and kissed him.

All the rest was crystal clear at the time but somewhat blurred in memory; all I could remember was heavy breathing and armfuls of soft body and the rough clench of fabric in my hands as I ripped that little blazer off him and pulled his sweater vest off over his head. There was the flip flop of gravity as he took hold of my loosened tie and pulled me onto the bed, and there was the popping of buttons as I undid his shirt with fumbling fingers, sososo eager to see the beautiful boy hiding underneath. There were long, long minutes filled with nothing but pink lips and white skin and moaning, and oh, god the noises he was making. And then, suddenly, we were in nothing but boxers and Patrick was making a little whining noise in the back of his throat that was getting me harder by the second.

That was when it all really started to blur; there was nothing but all-enveloping, pale softness and sweat and frictionfrictionfriction and touchtouchtouch and hot breath all over me, and I was so fucking hard that it hurt to move, to breath, to be. And then there was ohgod and fuckfuckfuck and ohmyfuckinggod my cock is in Patrick’s mouth and he’s sucking me off, and then I screamed and twisted and came, flailing all over the dorm sheets.

And then Patrick was in my mouth, and every sound he made got me hard again as I licked and bobbed and rubbed until he came and I swallowed every drop of the white stuff that tasted like strawberries, what the hell?

But I didn’t have time to wonder over that, because now I was inside him, and he was tight around me and wailing and panting for breath, moans and “ohgodfuckyesharderPete” spewing out of his angel lips every time I thrust into him. His fingers dug into my back, the calloused pads of his fingertips etching patterns into the skin as I held him tight. And then everything was sweat and skin and rub and bite and thrustthrustthrustthrust until I couldn’t take it anymore and came deep into Patrick, came harder than I ever had, came and shuddered as Patrick threw back his head and screamed and came all over our stomachs.

Everything came sort of unblurred at that point, as Patrick and I lay beside each other, sticky with cum and sweat but still tangled up with each other and inside each other, one person and two separate people at the same time. Sighing happily, Patrick shut his eyes and I put my hand on the swell of his stomach, and wait a fucking second, he was pregnant now? Somehow, that didn’t faze me too much; I leaned down and pressed a kiss to the beautiful bulge of his belly, secure in the knowledge that it was mine and Patrick was mine and it was all beautiful…

…and then I woke up, stuck to the sheets and feeling drained and empty. That was, as I observed momentarily, because I had covered the sheets with what appeared to be a several days’ worth supply of semen.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I groaned, flopping back again my pillow. The ass o’clock darkness of the ceiling stared back at me as I tried to fight off the creeping arousal in my stomach and the ruthless question in my mind:

What’s the matter with me?