Patrick can't sleep and the last thing he wants to do is talk to Brendon. Written by Ruth(Me in other words. ^_^)R&R please?
I slipped back into the darkness of the living room; and took my place back on the couch next to Pete. I moved my head so that my chin was resting on his arm and he was staring outward. I looked at the figure that currently occupied the couch and I could tell that Pete’s mouth was slightly open. I had the sudden urge to close Pete’s mouth; with my own. “Oh god, I’m a nervous wreck.” I shamefully buried my head into my arms. “What the hell is wrong with me?” I asked myself, even though he thought I knew the answer. “Everything.”
I couldn't take his sweet breath on the nape of my neck any longer; it was too tempting. I slid back off the couch; narrowly avoided Joe's head, and retreated into the kitchen for a second time. I appreciated the cold marble on my face again; it was a hot night. Then, finally, my body let sleep welcome me.
The sound of an opening refrigerator door made me jump. I looked over my shoulder to see light from the fridge wash over Brendon. I stared at him as he took out a gallon of milk and two mugs. “Hey 'Trickster,” he greeted me as he sat on the stool next to me. I looked across the hall and into the living room; over at the unoccupied sleeping bag, and then at Brendon, who was pouring milk into the second cup. “Weren’t you just sleeping?” I asked him. He shook his head now putting the cups in the microwave. “I don’t know why but I always wake up during the middle of the night. Sucks when I’m sleeping over but at least we’re near the kitchen,” he sat back down next to me, twirling in his stool. “Why couldn’t you sleep?” he questioned; I sighed and looked out at the living room again. Pete was just twisting his lean body so that his face was implanted in his pillow. “I think Pete has restless leg syndrome when he sleeps,” I smiled. As if to prove my point, one of Pete’s legs suddenly kicked out of the couches ledge.
Brendon laughed as Pete rolled over again. The microwave beeped and Brendon left and instantly came back with two steaming cups of milk. He set one down in front of me. “So Pat-” he started, placing his mug to his lips. “-'Trick,” I finished for him. “Patrick. I hate the name ‘Pat.”
“Sorry.” Brendon muttered as he sat down. We sat in silence as we both drank the warm milk. “So you really don’t like Pete?” he asked- the question rushed out. The sudden question made me gag on my milk and choke a little. A hand was rubbing my back, my breathing starting to steady. Brendon was sporting a smirk which made my already red face turn into a bright ruby.
“Are you okay?” I heard the laughter in his voice. “Yeah,” my throat burned and I stared out into the living room, the guys still sleeping soundly. Lucky bastards. “Back to my question. Do you like him?” the same smirk was still plastered on his face and the thought of wiping the smirk off of his face was a satisfying one. “No. Pete’s just a friend,” I could have barely heard myself but Brendon heard since he was already asking me another question. “Are you sure?”
“Why are you asking?” I snapped. Its one thing to lie during truth or dare but I really don’t want to make lying to Brendon a habit. “It just seemed like it,” he muttered, “and your defensiveness seems to say something else,” I glared at him over my shoulder. I turned my whole body toward him for the added effect I needed. I spoke slowly hoping that he will stop asking me questions. “I only like Pete as a friend. That’s all,” I stared into his brown eyes while I spoke. “Okay, okay.” he threw his hands up as if he was surrendering. “I was just making sure.”
I downed the last of my milk before he had a chance to ask me anymore questions. “Making sure of what?” I asked him, his last statement finally registering in my head. I could see the smile on his lips behind his mug. He downed his milk and then yawned. “That did the trick,” he smiled, preparing to walk back to his sleeping bag. I followed; still waiting for the answer to my question. “Brendon,” I called, barely audible, sitting down on the couch and watching him stand over his sleeping bag. “Oh, right,” he finally replied. “I’m asking Pete out tomorrow,” he flashed me a smile before getting into his sleeping bag. “Goodnight, 'Tricks,” he whispered, but I could only mumble a reply back; because my anger and worry paralyzed me from head to toe.