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It’s fucking freezing.
Pete wishes he had worn a heavier jacket, but it’s not like he planned to spend New Year’s Eve on the roof of Joe’s friend’s sister’s house. It would be warmer if he were inside, sweltering if he were downstairs with all the other party goers, but instead the wind keeps sweeping his hair off his forehead and sneaking under his shirt. Still, it’s too stuffy inside, too loud— Patrick, who only tagged along for the novelty of going to a proper New Year’s Eve party, was ready for a reprieve after only an hour, and Pete wasn’t about to let him spend the night alone.
Another gust of wind sends a shiver down Pete’s spine, and Pete knows that even if this were planned, he would’ve forgotten his jacket anyway. Patrick, on the other hand, wouldn’t have. And if Pete whined and begged and prodded enough, Patrick would opens his arms and share as much of the coat as he could. Pete sighs, looking up at the dark sky to stop himself from staring at his companion longingly. Snuggled up to Patrick, sharing body heat, did not sound like the worst way to end the year.
Fuck, Pete’s got to stop thinking things like that.
The problem, Pete thinks, is that he was fated to adore Patrick from the moment they met six months ago. There’s no way infatuation like this, potent as though someone had slipped him a love potion, can happen on accident. Someone, be it god or the universe itself, created Pete, then looked at him and said, “It needs a friend,” and created Patrick. Then, because they love a good joke, the sadist, said to themselves, “Okay, but what if it’s in love with the other one?”
Pete is being melodramatic, he knows; his therapist keeps telling him that thinking of himself as the punchline of a cosmic joke is unproductive, but it’s so much easier to blame forces beyond his control than, you know. Confront the fact that he is fucking gone on his best friend.
Speaking of confronting things, Pete has been having a debate with himself for the past few hours concerning his little dilemma: should his New Year’s resolution be to bite the bullet and tell Patrick how he feels, or should his resolution be to get the fuck over him?
He knows option two is a no-go. Even now, glancing at Patrick— who’s got his knees pulled up to his chest, resting his cheek on them and squishing his face adorably— he aches to wrap Patrick in his arms and shield from the wind. To kiss his face until he’s blushing from more than the cold and the single beer he had earlier. Until Pete sells his soul, or his heart, to the devil, there’s no way he can feasibly get over Patrick.
Option one, while reasonably achievable, is fucking terrifying. Pete may not have had Patrick in his life all that long, but Pete would go insane with grief if he lost him. Patrick is his golden ticket, damn it, whether Patrick himself sees it or not. He’s so sure he and Patrick are meant to conquer the world together, friends or otherwise, he doesn’t know what he’d do with himself if he drove Patrick away. Pete doesn’t know if he can handle that kind of gamble.
Pete does know, however, that he gets special privileges with Patrick no one else gets. Sure, he may not hesitate to tell Pete to fuck off when he’s had it up to here, but no one’s allowed to invade Patrick’s space like Pete does. No one can argue with Patrick like Pete does and come out of it friendship unscathed. No one else gets to call Patrick in the middle of the night when they can’t sleep and ask for a lullaby like Pete does. For every eye roll and curse and shove, there’s a smile and a word of praise and an affectionate pat on the shoulder (or, when Pete’s really lucky, a hug). All of that combined makes Pete think, sometimes, that maybe, just maybe, there’s hope for him.
He thinks, too, that if he were to confess his feelings, it’d have to be in the form of a gesture. If he tried to verbally express it, Pete knows he’d trip over his own tongue and fuck it up. Plus, he might be kidding himself, reaching too far, but he likes the idea that Patrick would just know; all Pete would have to do is kiss Patrick, hold him a certain way, and their cryptophasia would do the rest.
The tricky part is how to get there. Because as much as Pete might want to, he can’t bring himself to kiss Patrick without permission. To do so would surely ignite the universe’s and, more importantly, Patrick’s wrath, but Pete’s too much of a coward to ask.
Unless…
It is New Year’s Eve, after all.
Pete glances at Patrick again, half formulating a harmless plan, half thinking about how sweet it would be to kiss the spot between Patrick’s closed eyes, right above the bridge of his nose. It’s not too risky, Pete thinks, ignoring how his heart is already racing at the thought.
“Hey,” Pete says softly so he doesn’t startle Patrick. “You know, my cousin’s mom has this saying.”
Patrick opens his eyes. He raises an eyebrow at Pete, a smile tugging at his lips. “Your cousin’s mom?” Pete nods, trying very hard not to stare at Patrick’s mouth when he grins teasingly. “So your aunt?”
Pete blinks. “Yeah. That.” He clears his throat, hoping the knots that have suddenly formed in his tongue will loosen. “She says that if you kiss someone on New Year’s Eve, you’ll be with them for the whole year.”
Patrick stares at him. “Really.”
“That’s what she says,” Pete says, shrugging a shoulder as nonchalantly as he can manage.
“The way I’ve heard that expression is a little more… I don’t know, romantic, than that.”
Pete decides to gloss over this fact entirely, along with how hot his face feels all of a sudden. He scoffs. “Whatever. It’s got to be close enough.”
Patrick shifts, turning his gaze to the sky. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. Neither of us is getting kissed tonight.”
Pete would wilt at his words, covering it with a stupid joke about quickies in coat closets, but something in Patrick’s tone prevents him from feeling the sting of rejection. He pauses, then thinks, Fuck it, and takes a deep breath. “I mean. We could.”
Patrick’s eyes cut to Pete’s face. “What do you mean?” he asks, and Pete knows he’s playing dumb. Trying to make his confusion more convincing, he gives Pete an exaggerated frown. Pete sees right through him, but he can’t bring himself to call Patrick out on it, not when, if Pete thought about it, he clearly took Patrick’s bait.
Pete opens his mouth, then realizes that he has to choose his words carefully because otherwise his voice will crack like he’s going through puberty again. “You know,” Pete decides to say, gesturing between the two of them. Patrick stares at him expectantly. Crumbling under the light pressure, Pete steels himself and does what he does best: bullshits his way through an explanation. “It would be a bad omen if we didn’t, if you think about it. Cause if we’re not fated to be together next year—” Oh god, why did he have to say it like that— “then it could signal the destruction of the band before it even gets the chance to take off. And like, band aside, I kind of like having you around, and what if we have a really bad fight and can’t make up? Then we wouldn’t be able to be in a band together or be friends. What then?”
He might’ve spiraled a little towards the end there. Pete holds his breath, considering jumping off the roof just to escape the scrutiny of Patrick’s gaze.
“It’s not worth the risk. Not to me,” Pete adds.
Patrick blinks, then nods. “Okay.”
Pete freezes. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” Patrick sits up, pulling his jacket around himself tighter before resting his chin on his knees and returning his gaze to the stars. “I mean, I think you’re being a drama queen, and I’m not usually superstitious, but I want to see where the band goes and I don’t want to lose you as a friend either, so.” He shrugs. “Why not.”
“Cool,” Pete says, still frozen in shock.
“We still have to wait until midnight,” Patrick says.
“Yeah, right.”
Pete forces himself to stop looking at Patrick and looks up at the sky. Some fireworks go off here and there, illuminating the sky in reds and oranges and purples. They’re both quiet again, the only sounds their own breathing and the explosives going off in the distance. A blue firework explodes in the shape of Saturn, a little closer than the others, and Pete wonders what the reflections of the colors would look like in Patrick’s eyes.
Patrick looks at Pete, resting his cheek on his knee like he did earlier. “Did you have a good year, overall?”
Pete nods. “I met my best friend this year,” he admits softly.
Patrick grins, and Pete swears his heart skips a beat. “Yeah, me too.” With that, he turns back to the fireworks.
It feels like no time has passed when Pete hears shouting coming from downstairs.
“You hear that?” Patrick asks. Pete nods, tuned in the chorus of shouts: Twenty! Nineteen! Eighteen!
“Yeah, I hear it,” Pete affirms. Patrick gives him a small smile. Pete’s heart stutters again, almost painfully, and he finds himself saying, “You know, Patrick, if you don’t want to—”
Before he can finish his sentence, Patrick just says, “Pete,” and shakes his head. Pete waits, but Patrick doesn’t elaborate. He stretches his legs out and scoots closer to Pete, looking at him. Waiting.
Pete takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly before mirroring Patrick’s actions. He’s trying to stop himself from thinking too hard. He goes to cup Patrick’s face, then stops, rubbing his hands together and blowing on his palms in an effort to warm them up. Patrick lets out a small laugh, and, even though Pete’s sure his fingers still feel like ice cubes when he touches Patrick’s cheeks, he smiles in appreciation. Patrick puts his hands on Pete’s shoulders, not pulling him closer but not holding him back either. He licks his bottom lip nervously, and Pete tells himself he can get away with staring when they’re this close. Pete leans forward and pulls Patrick towards him, touching their foreheads together. He closes his eyes and listens to the countdown.
Nine! Eight! Seven! Six!
“Ready?” Pete asks softly.
Patrick hums.
“Okay.”
Pete braces himself. Three… two… one…
Happy New Year!
Pete tells himself it’s going to be short and sweet. He is going to kiss Patrick once, long enough that he’ll be able to remember the feel of Patrick’s lips against his later, that Patrick will be able to remember it too, if he wants, and then he’s going to pull away, call it a night, and offer to drive Patrick home.
This is not what happens.
Pete kisses Patrick once, and he doesn’t want to stop. Patrick is warm and soft and willing as he kisses Pete back, and he doesn’t make any move to pull away, so Pete acts on instinct and keeps going. It gets better, too, because the longer they kiss the more tension melts away, and soon Pete knows the shape of Patrick’s lips and how to fit his own mouth against them for maximum plushness, and Patrick slides his arms around Pete’s necks and continues to not pull away. Pete slips a hand to the back of Patrick’s neck, keeping him close and stroking the softness of his hair, and uses his other hand to hold Patrick’s jaw while he tilts his head and deepens the kiss. Patrick hums and keeps kissing him back, though maybe more enthusiastically than before.
After a minute or two, Patrick starts to pulls back, and Pete thinks, Well, it was fun while it lasted, but instead of breaking the kiss, Patrick pulls Pete with him and lays back on the shingles. Pete makes a noise of surprise when their chests brush, and it dawns on him that his Patrick is now under him, and he thinks maybe he actually fell asleep on the roof and is having a great dream. They both let out a grunt when their knees bump together, but then they’re laughing into another kiss, shifting to accommodate each other like they've been doing this since they met, and again Pete thinks, Fuck it.
Pete pours everything he has into their kiss. He doesn’t know if this will be their first kiss of many or the only one they’ll get, but it doesn't matter— he kisses Patrick as thoroughly, passionately, as he can, leaving no room for questions. He takes the hand on Patrick’s jaw and slips it under Patrick’s jacket, pressing it to the small of his back. He uses it to hold Patrick closer, stroking over the fabric of his shirt with his thumb. He presses their chests together and revels in the way Patrick’s breath hitches when their tongues brush, letting out a soft moan of his own. Pete doesn’t think he’s ever kissed anyone like this, sweet and loving yet desperate and demanding, and he certainly doesn’t think anyone’s kissed him back the way Patrick is; the feeling is electrifying, sending sparks through to Pete’s core and making him hot all over.
He breaks the kiss, gasping for air. He didn’t want to stop, but he knew he had to, or he might get greedy and never stop, and then they’d both die from lack of oxygen, and Pete definitely doesn’t want that. Instead, he presses one more breathless kiss to Patrick’s lips, then buries his face in Patrick’s neck. His heart is pounding so hard it might explode, but if he stays here and keeps breathing in Patrick’s scent, it might stop him from going into cardiac arrest.
Patrick’s hand comes up to stroke his hair, and the happy noise that escapes Pete’s throat is completely involuntary. “Jesus Christ,” Patrick says, panting and awestruck.
Pete grins to himself. “Nope. Just me.”
He expects Patrick to hit him playfully, but he squeezes Pete and repeats, “Just you.”
Pete can hear Patrick’s pulse pounding in his throat, and it takes a little while for it calm down to a steadier, more soothing beat; by the time Pete’s own heart beat slows, the cold has seeped back into his fingers and toes.
As if reading his mind, Patrick says rationally, “We should go before we get hypothermia, or frostbite.”
Pete gives a noncommittal him, because he is irrational and would rather stay cuddled up to Patrick and pretend it’s enough warmth to keep him from freezing.
Patrick nudges him. “Pete.”
“Okay, okay.” Pete lifts his head. His eyes go to Patrick’s mouth— yep, he already wants to kiss him again— and Pete forces himself to look at Patrick’s eyes. He smiles softly. “Happy New Year,” he whispers. “You’re stuck with me now.”
Patrick grins. “Oh no, this is going to be the worst year ever.”
Just for that, Pete punches him in the shoulder.
(But gently, because he doesn’t want to start his year with Patrick on the wrong foot.)