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It wasn’t about first times, it was about third times. The third time Pete found himself thinking about how good his lip had looked busted, dripping blood everywhere, he started worrying. He and Patrick were, after all, no more and no less than sworn enemies in this stupid, youthful, immature and amoral bar. Probably, once he’d make it out of uni, he’d never see the kid again, but for now, they shared a stage, so it was a little complicated.
It wasn’t about first times, though Pete remembered his with vivid clarity. It had been almost sensual, the fierceness of the insults, the look in Patrick’s eyes, mocking, sadistic grin.
“You’re pathetic.” He’d spat out at the kid behind box black, Bic cut bangs, fixing his own Kool Aid hawk by rubbing some white glue in it.
It wasn’t about first times, though Pete remembered his with vivid clarity. It had happened a few weeks later, day after day punctuated with new wounds. Pete won the championship of losers that month, hence the purple medals he wore with such pride.
“You’re wasted.”
“Oh, am I?”
Tasted disgusting, and was followed by a kick in the guts, and then a borderline hysterical laugh, and then probably puke.
It wasn’t about first times, but it was easier to remember those, the rest blended in so well, he made sure of that. If Patrick’s favourite color was red, Pete would wear blue, if the kid was mad because the amps weren’t great, he’d make sure to unplug the guitar amp when plugging his. Pete had never considered it a privilege until then to kick off the shows on Thursdays.
It wasn’t about first times, it was mostly about all those times too many’s and almost-times.
They never walked together in public, not holding hands anyway, but in the privacy of the shared loft, they could do whatever. Oftentimes, they came home smelling of someone else’s perfume, and then the other would know. He would know they’d gotten a pleasant time, one that didn’t rip you apart, and though they faked jealousy, there was nothing to be felt then.
“So you’ve been with her again?” Patrick would ask.
Pete would nod once.
“Was it good?”
“Yeah.” No.
“Better than me?”
“Yeah.” No way.
“Good for you.” Patrick would say.
Pete was the most insistent on keeping up appearances, lying to themselves.
“Have you seen the time?”
“Yeah.”
“Where you been?”
“Getting off with someone else.”
“You’re a fucking dickhead.”
“Yes honey, I am.”
Nights like those always ended well.
“I like you better drunk.” Patrick said one day, not particularly angry, just stating facts.
Pete looked at him, a look of hurt flashing on his face for a few seconds before it faded into understanding. “I like you better on coke, and you don’t see me complaining.”
Sometimes, Pete even pretended they cared about each other, like that one time he’d been puking his guts out into the toilet, and then he came back into bed, wrapping his bony arms around his boyfriend. Then, the other had pushed him away.
“You stink.” He’d invoked, before sighing and turning around, flattening his palms against Pete’s chest. He’d raised his gaze to meet Pete’s. “We need to stop, like we said we would. It’s destroying you.”
Pete would nod absentmindedly, storing forever that rare moment of kindness.
Or the other time, one he liked to think about a little less. You see, Patrick could barely stand. More than usual. Really truly barely stand. Pete was usually a bitch on these things, he didn’t like Patrick getting fucked up alone. Somehow, that counted more as cheating than actual cheating. So Patrick showed up at the door, eyes blown, mouth agape, nose bleeding, and his first words were “I’m so sorry.”, and for a split second, Pete let himself believe Patrick wasn’t an egoistical asshole like him. Pete forgave him. Dishonest people always forgive each other in this lowly world.
It wasn’t about first times, it was about that time they were arguing loudly in the middle of the kitchen and Pete got out a bottle of Jacks and downed what was left of it, taking a deep breath in, and Patrick didn’t say anything. And Patrick said “I’m tired of screaming.”. And Patrick said “I love you.”
It wasn’t about first times, it was about the time Pete begged Patrick, almost on his knees, to hit him, and to hit him real hard, like the first times, and Patrick had made him bleed. Because he was inconsiderate like that, and no one else was inconsiderate like that. The contrast of blood on white tile was beautiful in its own way.
Of course, there had been times, when both were sober and stayed it, where it was impossible living together. They couldn’t stand each other, too great a difference, the upbringing, the growing pains. Patrick was a boy from the streets, Pete was but a nice-(broken-)house kid. Patrick liked to bring it up whenever he could, about how he didn’t know shit about pain, about how he was a whiny piece of shit and how no one could love him because of that. “Impossible.” he called him “You’re never happy with anything.” Pete had his own little things. He was sensitive, and he didn’t like people making fun of that. It felt like betrayal when those words came out of Patrick’s mouth and he ended up crying of anger most of the times, but only when Patrick couldn’t see him. Then he’d imagine himself saying a thousand words he’d never speak at him. They’d take a few weeks of break, go clean, have boring missionary sex, find their “soulmate”, talk for hours, but they’d eventually grow antsy. You can’t punch someone who’s done nothing to you, but it’s so easy to punch that person you hate, it’s a natural reflex..
It wasn’t about first times, it’s about realizations that take decades. Coexisting within a five meter-radius was evidently impossible, but coexisting further away wasn’t worth the shot.
It wasn’t about first times, but rather about how they didn’t limit themselves to one.