Patrick walked into the front door of his house. His body felt drained of all it's energy. Working on cars was a bad enough job as it was. Working on cars in the Summer was literal hell.

He was sticky with sweat. His oil stained jeans were torn at the knee. But he couldn't remember if they'd came that way. His T-shirt, that used to be white, was now some off gray color. Decorated by stains made with his own fingerprints. Even the new trucker hat Pete got him last week was filthy.

He wanted nothing more than to sit down with a cold beer and watch whatever was on the television. So that's what he was going to do.

As soon as he closed the door behind himself, he was walking towards the kitchen. Swinging the fridge door open and pulling out one of the dozens of beers taking over the shelves. There was more beer than their was food. But it didn't bother him. He'd rather drink than eat anyway.

The couch groaned under him when he plopped down on top of it. The TV was already playing some ridiculous game show. He didn't have the energy to look for the remote.

He popped the top off the glass bottle, bringing it to his lips. The beautifully familiar taste soared through his mouth. Almost immediately quenching his thirst.

The left side of the couch pushed down. Patrick didn't have to look to know Pete had joined him on the sofa. His boyfriend's small hands rubbed down the front of his filthy shirt.

"Hey, Patrick."

"Hey." He muttered. Taking another swig of his beer.

"How was work?" As he spoke, his fingers twisted into the cotton tee. "Did you have a hard day?"

"Yes. It was hot and I had to practically take a car apart and -" He glanced down at Pete's fingers inching under his shirt as he spoke. "Could you not?"

"Could I not what?" His eyelashes batted innocently.

"Touch me like that. I'm hot and I'm tired."

"I'm not trying to do anything." He sighed. "I just like touching you." His fingers continued to travel under his shirt.

"Damnit, Pete." Patrick yanked his hand off of him. "Would you stop?!"

"Fucking dick head." Pete snapped. His hand slapped against Patrick's chest. "I was just trying to-"

"Well how about you just don't."

"Fuck you!"

Pete slapped the bottom of the bottle at the same time Patrick was taking another sip. The rounded top pushed painfully against his lip and teeth. He yelped and pulled the bottle down. Pulling his lip out to inspect the droplets of blood trickling from it.

"What the hell!" He punched him in the stomach. Knocking the wind right out of Pete. "You busted my lip!"

"You never listen to me!"

"You never have shit to say!"

"Fuck you!" Pete hit the bottle out his hand. The glass shattered on impact. The bronze liquid raced across the floor at their feet. "I have a lot of shit to say!"

"I'm tired, Pete." His hands grabbed hold of the taller man's shoulders. "I just got off of work. After fixing cars in 90 degree weather. And I'm tired!" He shook him once. Twice. The third time he shook him so hard, his teeth chattered.

Fear flashed in Pete's hazel eyes. Patrick's arms dropped to his sides and he sighed. His eyes closed and he took a deep breath. Relaxing his body the same way their therapist taught him to. When he felt calm enough to speak, he opened his eyes.

Pete was still watching him. Waiting. Worrying what his next move was going to be. But Patrick didn't know why Pete was worried. He always matched every move Patrick made. Patrick slapped him, Pete would punch back. Patrick threw him, Pete would kick him. Patrick choked him, Pete would scratch him. It was never a one sided losing battle. They were too alike for that. Both short men with fuzes that were even shorter.

"Are you hungry?" Pete spoke first.

"I'm starved."

"I'll go make you some dinner." He turned to enter their small, messy kitchen.

"Thanks, babe."