rating: nc-17
pairing: patrick/frank, patrick/pete, off-screen pete/ashlee
summary: AU. patrick moves to the middle of nowhere to escape his problems. it's never that easy. loosely based on, but fully inspired by, the regina spektor song of the same name.
disclaimer: made it up.
warnings: boysex


The key sticks to Patrick's palm when the super hands it over. It's not as though he expected solid gold with his initials engraved and a huge fucking diamond for a keychain, but. Not sticky. He definitely expected not sticky. So he can't help the way his face contorts in disgust, or therefore the way the super eyes him with distaste.

"Fourth floor, number six," he gruffs, pointing the young boy out the door. Patrick starts out, halting shortly when the man mutters, "Watch the landings, they stick, too."

Oh, look what you've become.

Patrick wonders idly if God came down one day and just busted a huge load over this place, grimacing once more when his fingers adhere to his new doorknob. Middle of Nowhere, Texas never really topped his list of places the live, but. Things don't always go according to plan, unfortunately.

"What the fuck," he bitches, voice low and to himself. "Fucking jizz everywhere..."

He pushes his door open with a grunt, a strange odor meeting his nose and an even stranger sound meeting his ears. The odor, that's easily month-old pizza and Everyone's Favorite Bodily Fluid. As a guy, who has previously lived with other guys, it's somewhat familiar. But the sound? That's a laugh. And Patrick thought he was alone.

He turns, but no one's around. Scans the short hallway, peers down the stairwell. No one. Still feeling not-quite-alone, Patrick props the door open with his guitar case, then thinks better of it and uses a book from his backpack instead, and heads downstairs to bring up the rest of his boxes. He tries to pretend he didn't hear a door close above him.

# # #

"I'm serious, Pete," Patrick nudges the phone with his shoulder a bit, holding it more firmly to his ear, "Ron Jeremy's collective works were filmed entirely within my apartment. And the hallway. He's probably still in here, somewhere."

Pete howls on the other end. "You're full of shit, Stump. And anyway, that's what you get for moving to East Bumfuck Nowhere."

"Dude, and downstairs," Patrick continues. "I bet my super was the fucking art director or something. He's kind of sketchy like that."

"Yeah, okay. By the way, I'm counting down the days until you start selling yourself for cash. I have it programmed in my phone. With its own alarm!"

Patrick dunks the sponge into a bucket of murky water for the eighty-thousandth time, he's sure, not even bothering to wring it out before scrubbing away at the walls again. It skids on a particularly gummy spot, making Patrick want to vomit. "Yeah? That's because you're a dick."

"At least promise me discounts."

"Eat shit."

# # #

Someone's on the fire escape.

Oh fuck, is all Patrick can really think, but seriously, oh fuck, there's someone on his fucking fire escape and he's going to fucking die before he's even lived here for more than twenty-four hours.

He crawls off the futon, sick at the thought of what's been on the floor, but forces himself not to care. Life, at stake. The metal bars of the fire escape clatter as whoever moves... away, actually. Downward, toward the alley and the dumpsters below. Second thoughts? A moment of divine clarity? Patrick doesn't even care, as long as whoever no longer plans on bashing his head in.

There's a small figure at the very bottom of the ladder, by the time he gets up and looks out the window. It moves quickly, jumping to the street and ducking behind the dumpster. In a flash, all of Someone's clothes are shed, and Someone is trotting away, down the alley. They disappear over the wire fence, and through the trees beyond.

Patrick lays back on the futon, closes his eyes, and tries not to think of anything.

# # #

A small diner kind of place sits across the street from the apartment building. A nice little Mom-and-Pop sort of establishment, the kind that probably sells breakfast all day and has the World's Best Coffee, and freshly baked frozen pie. It reminds Patrick of home, almost, of late night adventures with Pete, so he goes in. After standing outside the front window for twenty minutes reminiscing and trying not to cry, yeah, he goes in.

The sign says "Seat Yourself," so he chooses a small booth in the back corner. Isolated, but not quite alone. He pulls out his notebook, opening carefully to his newest piece, and starts mulling.

Patrick, he's a composer. Sort of. Wants to be, anyway, with his notebooks full of music, none of it having ever seen success or even the light of day, really. He thinks he could write actual songs, outside the realm of an orchestra, except his words never come out right. Pete was always far better with lyrics. But Patrick doesn't want to be like Pete; he'd rather focus on melodies and crescendos than metaphors and cynicisms.

"'Sup." Barely a greeting or warning, then this kid sets a cup of coffee right on top of Patrick's makeshift staves.

"Holy shit!" he cries, hands flailing a bit. He yanks the notebook away, delayed, and the coffee spills in terrible slow-motion, cruel in the way it splatters. Patrick gapes as the ink runs out of recognition.

Hands pull the notebook away, and the kid is blotting it furiously. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Man, I'm sorry."

All Patrick has the heart to do is sit back and watch, mouth still ajar. His eyelids droop, defeated, when the kid hands his notebook back. Thoroughly ruined. It bends in a way it definitely shouldn't, limp and rotting before his eyes.

"Aw, dude, I," the kid stammers. He hastily sops up the spilt coffee with a towel and gathers the mug. "I'll buy you a new one. Seriously, that. Shit, I'm such a moron."

"No, no, don't even worry," Patrick insists, half-heartedly. "It's just, y'know. Years of work. Nothing major." It isn't meant to sound so harsh, but years of work just got destroyed in front of his eyes.

The kid lingers for a moment, then mutters another quick apology, and disappears. Patrick doesn't feel like mediocre pancakes anymore, so he gathers his things -- his unsalvageable things -- and heads back home.

For his first day in town, he thinks irritably, rather productive.

# # #

"So wait, everything's gone?"

Pete's crunching on something right in his ear, but Patrick pretends it doesn't bother him in favor of bitching about his day.

"Everything," he declares dramatically. "I've never felt so fucking depressed in my entire life, for real. Like, I started that notebook when I was in high school. What am I supposed to do now?"

"Huh." Pete stops crunching, briefly. "Start a new one."

"I fucking hate you."

Pete just laughs. "What do you want me to say, dude? Go wallow in your self-pity some more? You want to write music, fuck, write music! That's what you went out there to do, so shut up and fucking do it!"

He's right, but Patrick's not ready to stop whining yet. "Yeah, well, when the internet implodes and your stupid blog gets deleted, don't come crying to me. And for the record, that waiter? Fucking moron!"

Another crunch. I'm going to strangle you. "So. What'd he look like?"

"I'm going to strangle you."

Pete's still laughing when Patrick hangs up.

# # #

When Patrick opens his door the next morning, there's a Moleskine in front of it, with a big red bow and a note that says, "Sorry again."

# # #

Someone clambers down his fire escape, into the alley, and over the fence that night. Patrick watches from his window until he can't see anymore. He opens his new notebook and scrawls crashing timpanis before he passes out.

# # #

It's a week later when he meets his neighbor.

Well, his immediate neighbor. The others have taken it upon themselves to make their introductions over the past few weeks -- Ms. Hendershaw, Number Three, even brought him cookies, which makes her some kind of angel -- and Patrick's reclusive enough himself to not really notice that he had yet to meet anyone. Or to care, for that matter.

But when it does happen, he's in the hallway, bucket of water (which is more like Oliver Twist stew, actually) and sponge in hand, intent on eliminating any and all gooey scum from his front door, when Number Five opens up and steps right into the bucket.

"Oh, fuck!" Number Five shouts, startled, crashing to the floor and taking all the gruel with him. Patrick turns, also startled, taking in the sight before him.

A boy, roughly a year or two older, but certainly no taller, is face-first on the ground, left leg lodged in the bottom of Patrick's mop bucket. He pushes himself up onto his -- tattooed, Patrick notes -- hands, shaking a shock of black hair from his eyes, and adjusting a pair of thick, plastic black glasses. He glances up at Patrick, who stands, gawking. "So, are you gonna offer to help me up or just stare at my misery all day?" the boy grunts.

"Oh, shit, right, sorry." Patrick takes the kid's arm and hauls him to his feet, still holding on as he steps out of the bucket and shoves it toward the wall, safely out of the way. Number Five pulls his arm away roughly, barely saying anything before practically running down the stairs. "Wait, your door -- !" But it's too late.

Number Five, however, did leave his front door wide open. Patrick moves to close it, but catches sight of a guitar, and curiosity, well. As the saying went, he should turn and walk away, but the sheen of a black Les Paul brings his feet across the threshold. He ogles it a moment, ponders stealing it, but hey, neighbor, so no.

As the guitar relinquishes its mystical hold on him, he peers around at the rest of the studio, pretty much an exact replica of his own apartment. There are mountains of books piled everywhere, rivaled only by the piles of dirty clothing. The walls are littered with drawings and scrawled messages. There's no television, no stereo, barely even a surface on which to sleep. Just books and papers and clothes.

And then he sees it.

Surrounded by doodles of Pizza Monsters and gnarled trees and little boys with no thumbs, is Patrick. A jagged, wallowing portrayal, but there he is, just the same. Sitting at a table, glaring angrily at the viewer. Clutching --

"What the fuck!"

Patrick whips around, coming face to face with Number Five. "Uh..."

"Get out!"

# # #

Pete reasons that he can't be a stalker if he lives next door. Patrick feels inclined to agree, but tells him that when Patrick's mangled corpse shows up on Nancy Grace, it's totally his fault. Pete just laughs.

# # #

Number Five stays in his apartment for three days.

Patrick hears Someone on his fire escape every night.

# # #

Try as he might, Patrick can't get the brief image of his neighbor out of his head. Or the drawing. He's not sure why it haunts him so -- beside the fact that it's kind of fucking creepy -- but when he closes his eyes, there they are. Glaring at him.

Sometimes, he'll hear the sound of the guitar through the wall. He tries to keep himself from pressing up against it, but usually that's where he ends up. Number Five is good, really good, and he strums away, unaware of the show he's putting on. Patrick finds himself longing to knock on the door, ask to come inside.

Push him down onto a pile of books and fuck him senseless.

What the fuck, he thinks, am I really that much of a guitar slut?

"You really are," Pete confirms next time he calls. He raises his voice a register. "'Ohh, sketchy neighbor, please suck my dick while your guitar gently weeps.'"

Patrick forces a laugh, but is mostly offended. Okay, okay, mostly fucking horny. "Shut the fuck up." He pauses. "Pete, what are you wearing?"

"A parka. Stop hitting on me, perv."

Later, Patrick falls asleep to visions of Pete manning a dogsled and Number Five playing George Harrison, naked.

# # #

The next morning, Patrick decides to give Mom-and-Pop another go. He really wants pancakes, and with any luck, the Dumbest Busboy Ever won't be working.

He takes the back corner booth again, but keeps the Moleskine in his bag, for safe measure. A few moments later, Number Five comes around the corner, cup of coffee in his hand, and stops short when he sees Patrick. Coffee sloshes out over the rim of the mug and splashes on the floor.

"Oh, fuck."

Neither are sure who said it, but after an awkward beat or two, Number Five continues his path to Patrick's table, and sets the mug down with fierce concentration. He glances at Patrick, the corner of his mouth twisting downward. "Don't put that notebook on the table, dude. It cost me like ten bucks."

Patrick boggles. "Wha -- ?"

"The notebook?" Number Five reiterates. "I ruined your other one?"

"But. You bought me the new one?"

Number Five rolls his eyes. "Yeah. I wouldn't buy another one if I didn't owe you. That's logic."

The pieces finally stick together in Patrick's brain. "I. Sorry, I didn't... realize, I guess. That you were my neighbor. Or, I guess, that you were the kid who. You know. I didn't realize."

"You're observant." The corner of his mouth twists in the opposite direction, so Patrick assumes that maybe he's not really making fun of him.

"So. What's your name?" Patrick blurts. He grabs the cup of coffee and pours some down his throat straight after, letting the burn punish him for being such a social freak.

Number Five just raises an eyebrow. "Frank. I can't really... small talk at work, y'know, doesn't bode well with my paycheck."

"Right, right, um. See you around?"

This time, Frank smiles. "Yeah." And vanishes into the depths of the restaurant. Patrick remembers to stop staring after him five minutes later.

# # #

That night, there's a knock on his door. Patrick answers, expecting the Chinese he ordered, and finds Frank stood with a brown paper bag in his hand. They stare at each other for a long, awkward moment until Frank pushes past him and into the apartment. Patrick doesn't question, just closes the door and watches his unexpected guest take everything in.

"Can I help you?" he says finally, and Frank gives him a Look.

"You've seen mine, I can't see yours?"

Patrick can't really say why he blushes, but it makes Frank let out this rolling, bubbling laugh, so he figures it was a good move. He clears his throat and tilts his head to the bag in Frank's hands. "What's that?"

"Oh!" Frank lifts it up like he'd forgotten it existed. "It's your Chinese food. I met the guy on the way in and signed for it."

"Oh. Uh. Thanks." That's weird. Patrick moves closer to take the bag from him. "Do... you want some? I got kind of a lot."

Frank smirks. "Isn't that lucky."

Patrick blushes again. "Well, I always get a lot. So that I'll have leftovers. Chinese food is like three meals for the price of one."

Frank laughs again, longer this time, letting it wash over Patrick. "I guess so. You're strange."

They eat in relative silence, and Frank only starts talking after they've had their fill and Patrick's started to clean up. He picks up Patrick's guitar and strums quietly, speaking over the chords in this low, gravelly voice that makes Patrick shiver. He hopes Frank doesn't notice.

It's unlikely, though, as Frank seems absorbed in the movement of his fingers and the stories he's telling. How he grew up on the East Coast, didn't get along with his parents, and left before finishing high school. How he was too smart for his own good, and unhappy about it.

"They just wanted to exploit it," he says, kind of bitterly. "They'd put me in all these, like, mathematics competitions and shit like that. Spelling bees." He rolls his eyes. "But, I mean, I hated showing it off. Kids thought I was weird, you know? But my parents didn't give a fuck, they just kept trying to make me world champion of something-or-other and get me on TV."

Patrick shrugs helplessly. "That's, uh, rough. Having kids shouldn't really be a get-rich-quick scheme, or something." He pauses, considering Frank. "What's the square root of 3,492?"

Frank laughs and replies, "59.0931468." He scrunches his nose up toward the end like he's not entirely sure if he's got it. And shit, Patrick doesn't know if he's right or wrong, so he boggles anyway.

Frank goes on to tell him how he moved out here looking for extended family (which he never found). How he's lived in this town for the better part of six years -- making him 23, a year or two older than Patrick expected -- and worked at the diner for just as long.

"With no promotion, either," Frank adds. "But they're nice people, and they give me a raise on a regular basis, so I can't complain. I get to serve the coffee, and that's about as much waitressing as I can handle."

He tells Patrick how he sometimes works for a music store a few towns over, repairing guitars. And sometimes he writes and illustrates children's books. But not as often, because that's a competitive business and it's hard to find a good agent or publisher in a place like this.

"But again, I can't complain," he says. "I have a nice life, y'know, no worries or anything. I get to do what I love every now and then, and I get to keep to myself. Win, win, win." He stops strumming, then, looks pointedly at Patrick. "So. What's your name?"

# # #

Pete still insists that he's not a stalker. "He lives right next door! And you're a fucking hermit. The thing about stalkers is, they like to stalk people. How's he gonna do that if you're ten feet away all the fucking time?"

"You would know," is all Patrick can muster. It barely even makes sense with the conversation. Pete pauses for a minute.


"Dude, you don't even care if he's stalking you. You've got a big fat mancrush on him."

Patrick groans. "Yeah, but Pete, he's... shit, man, he plays guitar and he repairs them! And he writes children's books! And... I don't know, he's really fucking smart! And he's got these tattoos, and this dark hair..." His face flushes a little, voice trailing off and feeling somewhat exposed, suddenly. Like Pete will hold it against him that his supposed mancrush is actually a full-fledged, heart-pounding kind of crush. Pete hardly seems to notice.

"Yawn. If he's writing children's books, he's probably only into you for your baby fat."

Pete's laughing, once again, and calling out his name when Patrick hangs up.

# # #

On the other side of the wall, Frank is moaning.

Patrick woke up ten minutes ago to take a piss, and when he laid back down on the futon, he heard it. Soft, in a muffled kind of way, but very obvious. Patrick tries not to, he really does, but soon he's pressed right up against the wall, listening intently. Frank is breathing fast and shallow, letting out little whimpers and every so often, that tell-tale moan.

"Oh, fuck," he breathes, and Patrick's face flushes. Frank is letting out a litany of sounds that Patrick can't identify, but all of them make him want to break his door down and hear them at full volume. Push him against the wall, against that drawing that haunts him, and fuck him hard. Make him moan, and scream, and pant.

He grabs his Moleskine and listens and writes trembling violins and booming percussion and gutteral bassoons. Frank lets out a long, shaking breath, gasping a little, and goes quiet. Patrick throws the notebook on the floor, shoves his shorts down, and gives his reprise.

# # #

The next evening, Frank shows up at his door again, this time holding a plastic bag with the words THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU on the side in block navy lettering. Patrick steps aside, and Frank enters, explaining that he stopped to get some Thai on the way home and thought maybe this time, Patrick could tell him a little about himself. Patrick just sits on the futon, wondering if Frank knows what happened the night before, maybe he's pretending he doesn't. Or if maybe he doesn't, and he's just being a nice guy.

He hopes and prays for the latter.

So they sit and eat in silence, again, and when dinner is over, Patrick tells Frank all about how he grew up in Illinois, and moved to Los Angeles briefly after he graduated high school, with his friend, Pete.

"We were gonna start a band together," Patrick laughs. "In hindsight, I realize that's pretty stupid. But we were kids, so it seemed. I guess, more possible."

Frank doesn't smile, just leans his arm on the back of the futon, supporting the side of his jaw with his hand, and scrunches his nose a little. "What happened? Why'd you leave?"

You knew he was going to ask, fuckwad.

His ears burn pink, Patrick pulling on the side of his hat to try to hide it. "He, uh. Ashlee. He met this girl named Ashlee, and. They got married last month."

Frank's fingers pull at Patrick's hand until it's firmly grasped in his own. His hat jumps back up on his head, and his ears just burn even brighter. When he looks up, though, Frank's smiling at him, somewhat sympathetically. It's strange; he's not sure why Frank's looking at him that way.

"But, uh, that's really all there is to tell," he says, and Frank looks skeptical.

He cocks his head to the side, nose crinkling up again. "I see more than that in you, Patrick. You're a genius, aren't you? You're the next, uh, Bob Dylan?"

"I write classical music now, though." He makes a face. "Not by choice, it's just. Easier." Somehow.

Frank grins wider. "Alright, Mozart, then."

Patrick ducks his head again, laughing shortly. "Nope, afraid not. Just another kid who couldn't make it big out West. My life's always been about music, right, so I followed it out there, and it backfired, so now I've followed it here."

"It's never that simple."

Something about the way he says it makes Patrick wince, stung. "Look, I don't know what to tell you. I'm not... I can't settle. I can't content myself with less than what I want, like you have. My life is about music, and I follow where it leads, not the other way around. I don't let my path get hampered by other shit." He's not sure why he's getting this defensive, but the words come rushing out of him like a reflex.

Frank looks somewhat affronted. "You think I've settled? You don't think I 'follow my dreams' or whatever bullshit?"

"Well, come on, Frank, look where you are."

"I like where I am! If I didn't, I wouldn't be here. I get to do things that I'm passionate about, and I'm living the life I wanted to live. If you're not, I apologize, but don't take shit out on me just because you're bitter that your friend abandoned you and fucked your life up."

It's Patrick's turn to look affronted. "I. I'm not bitter, he didn't -- "

Frank stands up, letting out a condescending bark of a laugh. "Oh, really? You think I don't hear you in here every night? 'Oh, Pete, I fucking hate you. I fucking hate you. I fucking hate you.' If that's not 'letting your path get hampered,' I don't know what is."

"Fuck you, man!" Patrick's up in Frank's face before he knows it, face red in rage and embarrassment. "You don't even know me or my friends or my life, so just shut the fuck up!"

Frank raises an eyebrow, not moving away from Patrick but not returning his anger, either. He stares up at him, unimpressed. "If you want to write music, do it. Stop distracting yourself with Pete or your charming new neighbor. And, for your sake, I'll stop being such a distraction." He leaves with Patrick on his heels, slamming the door after him. The bite of his words, condescending and sarcastic, resonates under Patrick's skin.

He tears about the small apartment for a time, cleaning up and throwing dishes and leftovers into the sink. At least one plate breaks, but he can't bring himself to care. The Moleskine sits on the floor, taunting him, so he grabs it up and writes and writes and writes until his fingers go numb. Until he's so tired he can barely keep his eyes open. And for a moment, he strains to listen, but no sound comes through the wall.

Patrick's heart sinks, and he falls asleep with nothing behind his eyes.

# # #

"I have three movements."

"Wow, 'Trick, that's awesome!" Pete sounds genuinely impressed. "I guess you were right about moving out there." He pauses. "Still miss you, though."

There's no joke or teasing in his voice, and Patrick remembers what Frank said. Guilt wrenches his gut around in circles. "Yeah, I miss you too, man."

"Have you talked to your new friend again lately?"

"Uh. Yeah. He came over again last night. I don't. I'm not sure if he really likes me that much, though."

Pete tisks. "Now, Patrick, what have I told you about self-deprecating? Who could not love a cute little turd like you?"

Patrick laughs lightly, suppressing the "Fuck off" that tries to escape. "Right. Look, I gotta go, Pete, but I'll... send you what I've got when I take it through GarageBand."

"Awesome, man, I look forward to it." Another pause. "And, Patrick?"

"Yeah?"

"Try not to wack off to your neighbors too much. You could go blind."

Patrick laughs again, and this time, doesn't hold back.

# # #

Someone's knocking... at his window. In focusing on Frank Through the Wall, Patrick had nearly forgotten about Someone on the Fire Escape. He's slept soundly through them, clambering down and off into the night. But now, he's awake, and there they are, knocking on the glass like they know he used to watch them.

He gets up slowly, pulling on a t-shirt and a pair of pants. A hat to cover his bedhead. There's nothing really to grab for self-defense, but he figures, if Someone wanted to assault him in some way, they wouldn't knock first. So he approaches the window, pulling back the curtain ever-so-slowly, and peers out.

Two bright green eyes and a dark shock of hair peer back at him. In his head, he relaxes and at the same time, finds he's not entirely surprised. Frank just looks at him, waiting for him to open the window. Which he does, once he remembers to move, and Frank sticks his head through the opening, bringing the night air with him. He smiles, a little, scratching at the back of his neck. "Hey, um. I wondered if you would go somewhere with me."

"I have a front door."

Frank grins, all teeth and eyes. "It's this way, though."

Patrick doesn't tell Frank that he knows, but he slips out of the window after him, sliding it almost back into place, and follows down the fire escape. It feels teenaged, almost, like he's sneaking out of his parent's house with the older boy from school to go drink and drive around in his car. Maybe it is like that.

They get to the dumpsters, and Frank starts stripping down, revealing tattoos everywhere, even his legs. Patrick kind of stares, lingers, tries not to stare, and then asks, "Should I be naked, too, for this?"

Frank considers him. "If you want."

He doesn't want. But he at least takes his shoes and his hat off. Frank smiles at him, leads him up and over the fence (which Patrick achieves with not quite as much grace as Frank), and into the dark of the trees. Patrick doesn't bother to ask where they're going. He figures it's probably a secret, or a surprise, or both. He also actively tries not to stare at Frank or his ass or his lean frame. They walk for a long time, following some kind of path that Frank knows but can't be seen, and after awhile, Patrick starts to smell... something.

"Ugh, what reeks?" he blurts out, covering his mouth and nose.

Frank chuckles, patting him on the back. "That's our destination. The Watering Hole. It's magic."

Patrick's not so sure.

The Watering Hole turns out to be a small pond behind a sewage plant. As they approach, other voices can be heard, much younger voices. Frank kind of sighs, but says nothing. Some kids run out from behind the trees, bare naked much like Frank is. They laugh and run and jump right into the pond, splashing and crowing. One stays out, lifting a brown bottle to his lips, gulping, and then throwing it against the nearest tree, cackling as it smashes into millions of razor sharp pieces.

"Hey!" Frank calls once they're close enough. The kids all lift their heads at once. "What are you doing?"

The one on the bank rolls his eyes. "We're not breaking any laws."

"You 21?" Frank demands.

"You a cop?" the kid shoots back, making his friends laugh.

Patrick watches in awe as Frank walks right up to the little punk (which is kind of hilarious in itself, because well, Frank's not the most conservative-looking kid, either, though he is much older) and shoves the kid to the ground. "Go home, alright? Wait 'til you're legal and don't screw your fucking life up."

The kids in the water scramble out, gathering their clothes and running off into the trees. The kid on the ground gets up more slowly, but no less eagerly, grabs his clothes, and spits at Frank's feet as he walks off into the night. It doesn't seem to faze him, though. As soon as the kids are gone, he turns to Patrick, smiling, opening his arms wide. "So yeah. This is it."

"What is it?"

Frank shrugs, kind of laughing. "Not that impressive, right? It's where I come to relax. Kind of... get away from everything, I guess."

"Always in the middle of the night?"

"Usually. Sometimes I gotta scare kids away, like tonight. If I don't, they'll get the pond all full of beer bottles and shit. It's dangerous." As he speaks, Frank starts to wade into the water. When it gets to his waist, he leans back and floats, pushing himself along. Patrick sits at the edge of the pond and watches him, letting himself smile at the sight. Frank looks so peaceful, so careless.

"So what's so magic about it?"

Frank grins again, lighting up the trees. "It's not, really. Old wive's tale." Patrick grins back.

Silence falls in around them, comfortable, interrupted only by the soft splashes of Frank's hands as he floats to and fro. The sky isn't quite clear through the tops of the trees, but Patrick pretends he can see it anyway, that he can count every single star. In a way, it reminds him of home -- not Los Angeles, which was never really home to begin with, but home. Illinois. Camping with his family in the summer and building bonfires on Lake Michigan with Pete in the fall. Sledding in winter, and then those first warm spring days after long, dreary months of cold. All wrapped up into this little pond and the quiet splish splash.

"Hey," comes Frank's voice, cutting through the pictures projected in Patrick's head. "Look, those kids left their beer."

# # #

"Dude, are you wasted?"

Patrick laughs an inappropriate amount, and loudly. Frank laughs, too, behind him, pushing him farther up the fire escape ladder. He stumbles, almost dropping the phone, but manages to recover, though laughing even more. "No-o-o-o, Peter, I am perfecty sober."

"'Perfecty?' Man, you are so fucking drunk." Luckily, Pete sounds amused. "So you found a bar worth going to in that shithole? Surprising."

Frank rolls his eyes when Patrick stops for the umpteenth time. "No, no, not a bar, not a bar. I went out with Frank."

"Frank?"

"You know-w-w-w. Hot creepy stalker neighbor."

Frank laughs sharply, and then, perhaps to accentuate one or all of these points, Frank places his hands firmly on Patrick's waist, steering him upwards toward his window. "I can't stalk you if I live next door," he breathes, close to both Patrick's ear and his cell phone.

Pete whoops with laughter. "I heard that! Dude, I told you!"

But Patrick's no longer listening. With a quick, "Bye, Pete," he snaps the phone shut and turns underneath Frank's hands. The shorter man looks up at him curiously, eyes shining in amusement. He mutters, "Lightweight," and then Patrick is pushing him up against the metal railing and shoving their mouths together.

Frank lets out a small noise, and Patrick just presses closer. He thinks about hearing Frank moan, making him, forces his way into his mouth. His hands tangle into the thick, wet strands at the nape of his neck. Frank's fingers press into the skin at Patrick's waist, through the fabric of his t-shirt. The front is slowly soaking through, Frank still slippery from his dip in the pond, making Patrick shiver pleasantly.

A moment later, there's a dull crack, and both men jump apart. They peer over the edge of the railing, plastic scattered across the alley and gleaming up at them. Frank gapes at Patrick, who says, dumbly, "I dropped my phone."

# # #

When Patrick wakes up, he's surrounded by books. And clothing. He blinks, eyes blurred from sleep, head pounding. Where the fuck --

Frank is asleep next to him.

Naked.

Patrick tries to shift away without flailing and causing a scene, because, hey, naked boy next to him usually leads to at least minor freak outs, and fuck, where is his phone he needs to call Pete rightthefucknow and shit shit shit shit. Needless to say, Patrick ends up kneeing Frank in the side, knocking him off the bed (which Patrick honestly didn't even think he had) and onto the floor.

"Good morning to you, too," he groans, pulling himself upright at the edge of the bed. Patrick just stares at him. "Do you want some coffee? I'm gonna make some." So he gets up all the way, clumsily grabbing his glasses and shoving them on, ambling to the kitchenette. Naked.

Patrick just stares.

"How do you like it?" Frank asks, pulling sugar and creamer from their respective places. "Black? Cream? Sugar? Both?" He turns to his guest, eyebrows raised expectantly. "Patrick?"

"Did we have sex?" Patrick gushes, wanting to stab himself between the eyes as soon as it's out.

Frank stills for a beat, considering the question. Then he grins, sudden and startling, making Patrick's heart pound wildly. "Are you joking?" His face falls instantly. "You're not joking. Well, this is awkward."

And he knows what that means. They did, oh god, how could Patrick be so stupid? While he's busy mentally berating himself for his transgressions, Frank pads over and sits on the bed beside him. He places a hand firmly on Patrick's, frowning a little at the way it makes him twitch.

"Patrick. I... I'm sorry. I took advantage, and that was wrong, clearly this is bothering you, and -- "

"You took advantage?"

Frank blushes, a beautiful, bashful thing that gives Patrick this sudden urge to wrap his arms around him and squeeze until neither of them can breathe anymore. "Well, why do you think I took you with me last night?" He smiles, shaking his head. Bits of hair fall into his eyes. "I, you know, like you. I wanted to have sex with you. I guess I thought you felt the same."

Patrick sputters out some nonsense, probably not even real words. His head spins.

"It's just... I thought you wanted to," Frank continues, his hand trailing up Patrick's arm, eyes following. "I heard you, talking to Pete about me. How you sit so still when you listen to me, trying not to make a sound." Fingers trace over his collarbone, a warm breath next to his ear. His eyes slip shut of their own accord. "I know you listen, when I jerk off. I lay as close to the wall as I can, and touch myself, and think about you. When I come, I want to scream your name, but I don't. I just lay, and wait, and then listen while you do the same, and think of me. Do you think of me, Patrick?"

Patrick whimpers, nods. Frank smiles against his ear.

"So take what you want. No regrets."

Next thing he knows, Patrick's got Frank pinned beneath him, knees bent against his chest. Skin glittering with sweat as Patrick fucks him -- fast fast so dirty holy fuck -- into the mattress. Frank throws his head back, moaning long and loud, and Patrick doesn't even have to touch him to bring him over the edge. He keeps moving, keeps thrusting. It's like he's submerged in the ocean, trying desperately to reach the surface, to fill his lungs again. Frank's egging him on, saying, "Yes, oh god, faster, harder, yes, Patrick -- " and it's too much, can't take it, going to fucking die.

Then Frank wraps a leg around his waist, pulls him as deep as he can, and it's over. He's gasping for air, filling his lungs. There are hands on him, everywhere, bringing him closer after he pulls out and sinks to the mattress again. Fingers cup his jaw, carefully, and when his breathing finally slows to normal, he opens his eyes. "Holy shit."

A brilliant smile lights up the room. "No regrets?"

"Fuck no," he says, with feeling. "You're incredible."

# # #

Patrick doesn't sleep for five days straight. He transcribes his notes into GarageBand, and sends Pete a copy when he's finished. He fucks Frank in between breaths. Occassionally, he orders some take-out.

# # #

"Don't forget me when you're rich and famous."

Patrick laughs, lets the smile linger. "People don't become rich and famous that often for composing shitty classical music."

"But you will." He seems so sure. It's unsettling. "Someday, man, you'll get that call, and off you'll go." He sighs, dumping his coffee mug in the sink and resting his hands on the edge of the counter. "I'm not your boyfriend. This isn't a relationship."

"... No."

His shoulders slump, ever so slightly. "Off you'll go."

Patrick gets up, crosses the small apartment. His arms fit so perfectly around Frank's waist, it makes him dizzy. He presses a kiss to the hair behind Frank's ear. Whispers, "There's magic in your skin."

Frank purrs, pushes himself back into the embrace. His glasses get knocked, a little, when he turns. They fit so well onto his features that sometimes, Patrick forgets he has them. Frank asks if Patrick remembers kissing him on the fire escape. Yes. He studies him for a long moment, biting his lip. Then he asks if Patrick remembers the last time he kissed Pete.

"I. What?"

Frank repeats.

"Pete and I... we're just... he wasn't -- "

"Your boyfriend?" Frank cocks an eyebrow. "Neither am I. And yet, here we are."

"But. I -- Frank... why are you asking me this?"

Frank gazes at him steadily. "I need to know."

Patrick kind of wants to throw a tantrum, to shout and curse and slam the door on his way out. But Frank looks at him, like he'll keep all of his secrets, and suddenly the words come tumbling out. That one night, last summer. Pete met a girl -- This is it, Trick, she's the one. -- and everything went dim. He saw his life crumbling, had to hold it together. He meant to push him, really, just start a scuffle that he could blame the collapse on later, and then they were crowded up against the wall, legs and tongues tangled furiously. They brought each other off with Patrick's back arched against one of the countertops, and then Pete kind of freaked.

"We didn't talk for a month," Patrick mutters into his hands. "When I finally got him to speak to me again, he pretended like nothing ever happened. And... I don't know, that's how it's been, I guess. He knows I'm into guys, at least somewhat, and he'll talk to me about that, act like he's supportive or whatever, but he just won't. Acknowledge..." He pulls at his hair a little, to keep himself from crying.

Frank nods along with the story, looking neither surprised or particularly sympathetic, but his hands ghost over Patrick's back. "You've never spoken to him about it?"

"How could I? If I bring it up, he'll probably play stupid, or fucking stop talking to me again. And I can't handle that, Frank, I can't, he's my best friend. I'd rather pretend it never happened than have him shut me out." And then he is crying, for fuck's sake, but in his defense, he never wanted to talk about this in the first place. So it's Frank's fault. He's making him cry like a little girl, making him lay bare all of his feelings. Fuck. Feelings.

"I don't want to talk anymore," he says stubbornly, wiping at his eyes. Frank looks skeptical, but nods slowly. "I'm going home."

Patrick gets up without another word, without touching Frank at all, just moves into the hall and locks his apartment door behind himself. Tears well up again, briefly. Pussy.

# # #

Pete calls him the next Tuesday night, but Patrick ignores it. Pete subsequently calls him six more times, and sends ten texts asking if everything's alright, or if maybe Patrick's mad at him. Patrick eventually turns his new phone off and stares at the ceiling.



Part Two