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Social anxiety is a fucking bitch.
Patrick’s had it for as long as he can remember. He’s got horrific memories of a tiny version of himself in big overalls shuffling along the playground, trying to make friends. He recalls the way his face burned, the way his chest tightened and his pulse sped up when he attempted to ask a group of girls to go on the swings with him. He can still hear his voice- the way it stuttered over simple words, the way it stopped coming out altogether and his eyes bulged at the unimpressed crowd in front of him. The way he had to run away to escape further humiliation.
It hasn’t gotten better since then. He hardly spoke in middle school, and in high school he’d only managed to make a few friends by piping up during someone else’s conversation about Neurosis. Dating never happened. Dating was never a thing. And now, at the ripe age of 21, it’s still not a thing. And Patrick wants it to be a thing, he does. But it’s just so hard. He thinks about introducing himself to someone he’s never met, letting them look at him, silently criticizing his mannerisms and his fashion sense, analyzing his every word, and he wants to throw up. Once he gets past the first meeting, he’s okay. He’s good at normal conversation and making jokes with people he’s grown comfortable with. But it’s that first meeting. That’s what keeps him from making the effort.
But Joe and Andy are sick of seeing him by himself. They know he wants to share his record collection with someone and spend his Saturday nights watching movies with someone and they’re going to put an end to this. And there are definitely times when Patrick regrets ever mentioning that he knew who Neurosis was.
He regrets it more than ever before when Joe and Andy sign him up for speed dating.
“Speed dating?” He squeaks, his throat suddenly dry.
“Speed dating.” Andy’s grin is wicked, his voice much too cheery. “Tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Tonight.”
Patrick goes pale. It’s too much. The thought of so many people in such a short amount of time, taking just a few minutes to decide whether or not they would consider some kind of future with him. His insides churn and he tries to run, but Andy blocks the door and Joe tackles him to the ground.
“RELAX relax man, come on seriously,” Joe urges through gritted teeth as Patrick squirms. And yeah, in hindsight maybe it was an overreaction but at the time he just couldn’t. He could never.
“I CAN’T I can’t I can’t I can’t,” he huffs in a panic. “I fucking hate both of you I can’t you know I can’t.”
But Joe assures him that he’s got him covered, and that’s when he pulls out the Stupidest Idea Ever. It’s a neat stack of note cards, each one with a corny pick-up line printed on the top.
“Oh my god” is all Patrick can say as he reads through them, cheeks flushed in embarrassment at the thought of saying them out loud. “Oh my god.”
“It’ll work, dude. It’s totally gonna work,” Andy urges.
Patrick sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “There is literally no way that this will work.”
“It’s definitely gonna work,” Joe promises. “Either you charm somebody’s pants off, or they laugh forever and you break the ice. This is the best plan I’ve ever had.”
Joe and Andy fist bump. Patrick admits defeat and starts planning his own funeral for when he dies of embarrassment.
—--
“Now remember everything we practiced,” Joe reminds him through the window of his car as Patrick bounces nervously outside of the café.
Patrick tugs at the top of his sweater and scowls at the memory of Joe making him stare at himself in a mirror, reciting such lines from the cards as, “Do you know karate? Cause your body is kickin’.”
“Just breathe!” Andy yells from the backseat. “And tell us everything when it’s over.”
“I fucking hate you both,” Patrick mumbles, trying to smooth down his hair at the sides.
“You’ll thank me later,” Joe assures him, and then he’s driving away. But Patrick definitely hears a “don’t you dare leave early,” as he opens the restaurant door. And fuck that. He can do what he wants.
He closes his eyes. Breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth. He clenches the cards in his left hand. Everything’s fine. He’s got everything he needs. He’s an adult. He can talk to people fine. They’re just people, after all. Just as nervous as him, probably. Yeah, he can do this. He’s got this. He’s—
He’s at the front of a room full of people and there’s only one seat left. Across from of a guy. A seriously gorgeous guy who’s tan and covered in tattoos wearing a really clingy t-shirt and jeans and staring right at him.
He wants to run, but his feet are stuck. He can’t breathe at all. He can’t remember who he is, why he’s here, why he actually believed that Joe’s fucking idiot plan would work because there is no way at all that he belongs here.
But tattoo guy is grinning at him, gesturing at him to come over, and he doesn’t register his body moving toward him but all the same it does. And he sits down, hypnotized by the frantic rhythm of his own heartbeat.
“Hi,” the guy beams at him, a small name tag (which Patrick forgot to pick up and fill out, shit, mistake number one) on his shirt identifies him as Pete. His hazel eyes sparkle and crinkle at the edges and Patrick feels his jaw go numb when Pete asks him, “What’s your name?”
Patrick opens his mouth and then snaps it closed. His brain searches furiously through its filing cabinets for a name, but there’s nothing. His mind flashes back to kindergarten as Pete’s brow starts to furrow in confusion.
Oh god, he thinks. This is it. This is the end. He’s going to die right here and he’s going to spend the rest of eternity haunting the shit out of Joe and Andy.
But then the sweet middle aged woman in charge of the night rings a bell, signaling the official start of the mini-dates, and something in Patrick’s brain clicks. Note cards, he remembers. And he starts flicking through them furiously.
“Uhm,” he starts, his voice cracking. “Uhm. So like. Did it hurt because uhm.” His cheeks burn. His collar is suddenly too tight, the room is entirely too hot. He yanks at the top of his sweater, not daring to look at Pete. “Because God’s missing an angel and—shit. That’s not. I’m sorry I can’t.”
He did it. He managed to fuck it up when it was literally right in front of him. His hands are shaking out of control. He can’t even read Joe’s writing anymore. His body’s in panic mode and he wants to leave so bad because he’s making a total dick of himself. “That was wrong,” he peeps, rapidly sifting through the pack. And Pete’s. Pete’s…laughing?
“Oh my god,” he manages in between giggles. “Oh my god, are you using pick-up lines on me?”
“U-Uhm,” Patrick stutters, humiliated again. He might as well be wearing those stupid denim overalls. He hates Joe, he really does. “I’m. I’m sorry. I’ll—“
“No, oh my god.” Pete keeps laughing but puts his hand on top of Patrick’s to make him stay. Patrick feels the burn underneath Pete’s fingers. “This is awesome. I’m usually the one with the awful pick-up lines. That’s kind of why I’m here, actually,” Pete admits sheepishly, but he insists, “Keep going I love it, seriously.”
His hand stays on Patrick’s though, and Patrick keeps shaking. So much so that in the middle of, “D-do you have a library card? Because I’m ch—“ he drops the entire stack of cards on the ground.
“Fuck,” he murmurs and dives underneath the table to get them, and yeah, to hide. Because this is way too much to ask of someone like him. Maybe he wasn’t made for dating. Maybe he can spend the rest of his life cuddling his copy of Ghostbusters and his Prince records. Maybe—
When he looks up, he’s face to face with Pete, who’s gone dark-eyed and serious, save for the ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Why should I have a library card?” He asks in a low whisper. “Are you checking me out?”
Patrick gulps and utters a, “Maybe.” And hey, that’s daring for him. He has no fucking clue what makes him do it, and he feels the sweat pool at the back of his neck immediately afterward.
Pete grins mischievously, grabs a handful of the cards from the ground and says, “I don’t think it’s right for you to be the only one talking,” before sitting back up at the table. Patrick blinks, and then follows, standing on jelly legs.
Pete takes his head in his hand and waves for Patrick to continue. The bell rings signaling that the five minutes is up, but Pete doesn’t move. He stares at Patrick expectantly, and Patrick says, “Uhm” again and the woman who was next to Pete before says, “We’re supposed to be switching now.” Pete pretends not to listen, just keeps smiling at Patrick, and so he sorts through the cards for another phrase that he can get out without throwing up.
“Excuse me,” he hears the woman demand. And that’s followed by “Just switch with someone else,” in the form of a growl from Pete. Patrick’s heart stutters, although he’s not so sure that it’s because of the nervousness anymore.
“So,” Patrick starts. “Are you Jamaican? Cause. Wow, this is stupid. Cause Ja-maican me crazy,” Patrick winces and chances a glance at Pete.
“I am, actually!” Pete flashes him another smile, and jesus.
“Let’s see here.” Pete chuckles as he looks through the cards he picked up. “Oh, okay.” He smirks, clears his throat and sets his sight straight on Patrick. “Do you have a band aid? I hurt my knee when I fell for you.”
Patrick’s eyebrows rise. Pete leans forward a little more. He puts his hand back on Patrick’s. And wow, oh. Maybe this…isn’t so bad. He wets his lips and searches for a card he hasn’t used. He doesn’t read it over before he spouts it aloud, and he really should have, because it’s, “Is that a mirror in your pocket? Because I can see myself in your pants.”
His head snaps up and he feels his pupils expand to saucer size. Just when he was starting to feel comfortable, of course. “I’m sorr- I didn’t me-“
But Pete doesn’t look flustered or embarrassed or disturbed in any way. His eyebrows are high with interest, his eyes gleaming with a hint of surprise at Patrick’s forward gesture, but there’s definitely nothing negative to be found in his expression. However, the social cues aren’t enough for Patrick. He’s made this too awkward. He knows he has.
“I’ll just…” He tries to slide his hand out from under Pete’s, but Pete presses down and leans forward again, his nose just inches from Patrick’s this time.
“I lost my number,” he mutters to Patrick without even glancing at his notecards. “Can I have yours?”
Patrick swallows and there’s an audible gulp. “You what?” He breathes. “You want my-“
“Nevermind,” Pete whispers, and then, quieter, almost offhand, “I’ll just give it to you in the morning.”
There’s so much blood in Patrick’s cheeks that he doesn’t even understand how more of it rushes to his cock in that moment, but it does. He finds himself wildly flipping through his cards, clueless as to what he’s supposed to do but completely sure of what he wants to do, and absolutely way too hard for the tight jeans he has on.
It’s accurate to say that he’s lost, and so maybe it’s a metaphor for his whole state when he stutters out, “I-I don’t. I don’t have a card for this situation…”
It’s like admitting defeat when he says it. Awkward, fumbling, miserable defeat.
But it’s like Pete gets it. He feels him squeeze his hand.
“I do.” Pete smirks and winks at him before clearing his throat and pretending to read one of the cards. “Are you from Tennessee? Because- I want you to come home with me really bad.”
Patrick’s throat dries up the second Pete starts to stray from his note card. Pete’s smirk is devilish and his eyes are black with what Patrick can only guess (hope) is indecent intent and Patrick just. Patrick just. All systems are shut down right now. All of his sense is gone. There’s no hope for him.
“That’s not the thing,” is what he manages to get out after several failed attempts at a response.
Pete grins harder than ever, the full top row of his teeth emerging and gleaming in the light. “Totally,” he says, which is equally stupid. And Patrick feels better, kind of. So he lets it happen. He grins too.
Pete pulls on the tips of his fingers then and nods his head subtly towards the exit door. Looking back, he’s not entirely sure why he does it. It could be because of the way Pete’s looking at him like he’s made of gold, it may be because he’s tired of sleeping in an empty bed, and it might be because he wants Joe and Andy to shut the fuck up already. But for whatever reason, he follows Pete out the door.
And the next morning, Patrick leaves Pete’s place with raw red lips, mussed hair, and a series of digits scribbled in blue ink on his arm. He shoves his hands into his pockets as he walks down the street, and smiles contentedly when he feels the note cards tucked away. So, okay. Maybe Joe and Andy were right this time. But it’s not like he’ll ever admit it.