You Look So Good In Blue

The rain pounded hard on the rails as Pete lay on the track, uncomfortable, mind blank. He watched the thick, black-gray clouds speed by him. He pushed his fingers hard against his eyes and breathed hot breath on his palms. What the fuck was he doing?

--

"So basically you're chasing Atavan with caffeine pills?" Patrick had asked, plucking the bottle from the sink. He leaned against the wall and rattled the pills inside. "It sounds empty."

Pete said, "If it were empty, it wouldn't make that sound, Patrick," and took the bottle back.

--

Pete could feel himself getting sick. His nose was already running, his eyes burning - though that could have been the eyeliner - his legs falling victim to the cold, wet jeans, going numb. He didn't sit up, though. His hoodie felt too heavy to lift, anyway. There was a ringing in his ears. Was the train coming yet?

--

"This is like. I feel really stupid asking, but," Patrick said from the doorway. He pulled his fingers and looked at his shoes a lot. "I was just wondering - if you're not doing anything else - if you kind of wanted to uh, go to prom with me next week?"

Pete pulled his hood over his head, told Patrick, "I already went to prom."

--

With the silence surrounding him, Pete could hear everywhere the rain fell. The gutter of the cigarette place just in front of the tracks. It echoed through the off-white paint job and puddled on the sidewalk. It danced down the window of the apartments across the street, racing for a win. The brown grass not five feet away stunk with the droplets; a wet dog/sea sick combo. Pete felt a gag in the back of his throat.

--

"Hey - hey, wait. Pete, wait," Patrick objected softly. "Too fast." He wiped his mouth and took a breath. "'M sorry."

Pete zipped his pants, said, "Me too."

--

It had been two years since they met. It was almost a whirlwind of memories already and Pete's head felt too small to hold all of them inside. He couldn't keep them if he forgot them, and he forgets everything. Patrick was something precious, even if he didn't admit it or show him. If he pushed Patrick away, didn't bother with the sweet stuff as much, the recollections wouldn't be so hard to remember.

Maybe if he wasn't there at all, Patrick would feel a lot better about himself.

--

He just wanted the damn train to come. Pete never expected to fall so hard.

--

Patrick didn't either, despite everything.

--

Footsteps, heavy and paced came closer and closer to Pete's general direction. He didn't sit up, blink, or acknowledge the feet at all. Not even when they stopped on the right side of the rail.

"Pete?"

Patrick's voice was hoarse and not all there. Pete heard him step in mud on his way. It killed Patrick to get his shoes dirty.

"Patrick," Pete said, didn't even bother looking over.

"Here," Patrick said, "scoot over. I need to talk to you."

Pete moved and Patrick lay down next to him, taking his time to get as comfortable as possible on wood and steel. He didn't complain though, just zipped his coat higher, and reached for Pete's hand. He held tight, soaked and cold. Pete could have sworn his own fingers were blue by now, his lips, too.

He looked at Patrick who was close to purple.

"I really like you," Patrick whispered, shivered, once he got the eye contact he'd been searching for. "Like, I really like you, and I know you don't hate me, Pete." Patrick licked his lips and Pete focused in on them, off-colored and trembling. Patrick was freezing.

"I'm really sorry, Patrick," Pete told his mouth. "I thought that - I don't know - I figured if I acted like a dick, you'd think I was and just not bother anymore." He paused to shake his head on the ground. "Not like that, though. I do want you around. I'm just. I have this thing where my head is. . .fucked."

Patrick said, "I know you do. I know. I don't really mind. Because, I honestly know that you care, Pete." He squeezed Pete's hand, and got the gesture back, tenfold.

"I'm such an asshole," Pete shrugged. "I really fucking am, huh?"

"No," Patrick said. "You're not. You're. . .You're just different, and you take things differently, and you need to work on your social skills and apologies, but. You're like, you're not an asshole."

They lie there, shivering in the freezing rain together. It wasn't romantic and it wasn't storybook. Pete could feel his bones going cold. Patrick had mud on his cheek and in his hair. And yet, they smiled. Pete kissed Patrick, and mumbled apologies on his lips; how's that for a start?

"I don't want to get up," Pete said.

"I know," Patrick replied, "but, what if a train comes?"

Pete turned his head as Patrick did, and they looked hard at each other, arguing with their eyes. Pete could see Patrick's heart beating through his jacket.

Pete looked back up at the sky, said, "Then we die."

--

And the ground started to shake.