Pete's a little freaked out. In fact, he's more than freaked out, he's taken a one-way bus to freak-land where the freak king will welcome him into the round table of freaks.

So initially, the plan was to stop the kid bleeding, give him some food, let him stay the night and then send him on his way. But Patrick turned out to be a lot more than Pete ever bargained for.

In short, he's weird. First, he didn't know what a vegetarian was. Fair enough if you've never met one, maybe you don't know what it means, but to never have heard the word? Pete thought, at the time, that it was a little odd, but didn't dwell on it. Then, Pete nearly made him cry. A hard-ass tramp boy who might've been through all manner of horrific situations, and Pete caused actual tears in his eyes. Then, obviously, the whole lamp-and-cereal-cat-attack. How has he never seen a cat before? Pete's nearly screamed that question at him several times already. And then he found a broken egg in the sink.

Pete's also slightly pissed off at the fact that his cat, a rather contemptuous creature who's shown pretty much nothing but apathy towards Pete for the three years he's had him, follows Patrick around like he's his mother. If the boy sits down for more than five seconds, he's guaranteed a fluffy accessory, the cat's completely obsessed.

And, his foot's nearly healed. Pete would love to think it was just his medical genius that reduced the gash to a shallow pink line in less than twenty-four hours, but he knows that's not the case. He saw the size of that thing, hell, Patrick emptied the contents of his veins all over Pete's living room, he knows cuts like that don't just heal. Maybe it's a secret homeless-person remedy, maybe the kid's a gypsy child raised on tea leaves and witchcraft. Or maybe he just has a lightning-speed immune system.

Anyway, despite his inbuilt sense of disgust towards Patrick, and his introverted desire not to have anyone else around him, he sort of likes him. All the weird stuff just makes Pete want to figure this kid out. That's why he said he could stay another night. He's got an extra bed, why not give it to a thieving tramp?

Oh, and then the kid hugged him. Not even an awkward hug, a proper suffocating squeeze that made Pete jump out of his skin and try not to breathe Patrick's breath. He's got to get the kid a toothbrush. It was sort of sweet, though. It was nice not to be sworn at, for once.

Pete's not sure how comfortable he is with sharing his house, let alone leaving a stranger alone in his house. The kid could do anything. Maybe he's a pyromaniac, and Pete'll come home from work to find nothing but a pile of ash in place of his house. He wonders if his insurance covers strange homeless boys.

It's been two days, though, and there's been no deadly mishaps. Both nights, the kid slept like a log. Before he went to work, Pete peeked round the bedroom door to see a lump in the duvet, and a mop of dirty blond hair sprawled on the pillows. The kid's quite cute when he's asleep.

After taking a couple photos of his lounge just so he'll know if anything's been moved, and checking that everything valuable is out of Patrick's sight, he nods at himself in the mirror, and goes to work. He would've set something out for breakfast, but the kid's taken the box of Shreddies hostage, so Pete assumes he'll be alright.

-

Work is dull. He's the managing partner of a law firm, which is as lifeless as it sounds. He's got reduced working hours due to his illness, and a lot of his duties have been taken off him, which would've been a good thing if it wasn't for the fact that all he's been left with is finance management and HR.

He liked it better before. When his dad was still alive, and Pete was just the new kid on the block, grabbing clients and pacing around courtrooms. He liked defending people, actually making a difference in someone's life. He used to be Pete Wentz, attorney at law. Now he's just a too-young manager who spends his time buried in paperwork and avoiding sympathy.

Only a few people know about his illness. The other partners, his mate Joe, and Dan, his secretary. Whenever he's in, they throw him sad glances and solemn pats on the back. Joe sometimes comes and eats his bagel in Pete's office during lunch, which is nice. Despite insisting on being happy alone, Pete craves the company.

Perhaps that's why he decides not to stay late today, and instead races home as soon as the clock hits five. Or perhaps he's just eager to find out whether Patrick has blown up his house yet.

All seems fine, however, when he trots up the steps and unlocks his front door. No sounds of chaos, no weird smells.

"Hey," he calls. "I'm back." It's strange to do that, there's usually no-one for him to come home to.

As he takes his shoes off, though, all he's met with is an eerie silence.

"Patrick?" he says, immediately worried.

The lounge is empty, the TV off. There's no-one in the kitchen, either, it's exactly how Pete left it.

Great, he thinks, his mind racing, the kid's taken off. Probably with quite a few of my possessions. He knew this would happen, he knew he should never have left Patrick alone in his house, what kind of idiot lets a tramp have free run of their home?

He rushes about the room, little waves of relief washing over him as he sees that his laptop is still where he left it, and the pile of twenties is still on the kitchen counter, and...actually, everything is in its rightful place. The damage must be elsewhere, then.

Stalking down the corridor, fully prepared to burst into flame when he sees whatever the kid's done to his guest room, he sees that there's no-one in the guest room, just a messily made bed and the boy's pyjamas clumsily folded on top of it.

Worry turns to downright confusion when he feels the breeze on his face. He hops out of the room and down the hall, to the back of the house, where...ah. Where the French doors are wide open, and a figure sits on the steps outside.

"There you are," he breathes as he catches up to Patrick. He's not sure if he's relieved that the kid's still here, or disappointed that he still hasn't seen the last of him.

The boy looks up when Pete appears, his grip tightening on the cat in his arms. Wait...the cats in his arms.

He's got another cat. How in hell did he get another cat. This new one's ginger, a big tubby thing which Pete recognises as next-door-but-one's pet. It looks up at him, and so does Sam, like he's just walked in on a private conversation.

"Um...okay," he says, blinking at Patrick. "What's with the cats?"

"Oh," the boy says, like this isn't weird, "well, I don't know what this one's name is, but Sam wanted me to meet him or her, and we've been eating cereal."

Of course, that makes perfect sense. "Right," Pete says uncertainly, sitting himself down on the step beside Patrick, but not so close as to inspire any more neck-breaking hugs.

The cats turn their attention back to the kid, nestling between his chest and his pulled up legs. Pete notices that he's got his old clothes on, the mouldy sweater and the jeans, ripped at the knees. Pete's got to take Patrick clothes shopping.

"So what've you been up to?" Pete asks, not really wanting to know the answer just in case it involves fire or toxic substances. Or blood. Please, god, no more blood.

"Why, did you think I'd fucking steal all your stuff and bugger off?" Patrick snaps, scowling at him.

"No, no," Pete backtracks, holding up his hands, "of course not, I just...uh, hoped you didn't get bored."

The boy narrows his eyes, and Pete puts on his most innocent expression. "Okay," he says uncertainly. "Well, I slept for a while, and then I watched some television, and then I came out here. It's very beautiful."

Frowning, Pete looks around at his small and neglected garden, surrounded by dull, brown fences and the roar of passing cars. "Is it?" he says sceptically.

Patrick nods, gazing up at the sky like he's never seen it before. The new cat takes advantage of this and cranes its neck to nuzzle Patrick's chin, pawing at his shoulder. Pete wonders how he went from a yelling lamp-wielder to a forlorn looking kid covered in cats. Pete also notices how blue the boy's eyes are, the sunlight filtering through them as he stares upwards.

"How was work?" Patrick says suddenly, turning to look at Pete. The weird thing is, he looks genuinely interested.

Pete shrugs. "It was alright." He tries to elaborate, and fails.

"What's your job?"

"Oh, I'm a lawyer."

Patrick nods, but Pete can see the confusion in his eyes. If he didn't know what a cat was, he probably doesn't know what a lawyer is.

"So, like, I give people advice about the law, I guess, I represent people in court," he explains, in his least patronising voice.

"How?" the kid says, his eyebrows pinching together.

"Well, uh, say if someone's been accused of committing a crime they didn't do, then they might get me to defend them in front of the judge and jury. Like, explain to a group of people why they didn't do the crime."

"Okay," Patrick says, nodding. "What if the person did do the crime, do you still defend them?"

"Well, uh..." Pete falters, trying to think of an answer that doesn't make him look like a bad person. "Well, I might not always try to say why they didn't do it, I might try to persuade the judge and jury to give the person a less harsh punishment, like, less time in prison, or something. But I don't know, it depends, I guess. What do you want for dinner?" he says quickly, eager to change the subject.

Pete sees the kid open his mouth to answer, and rushes to stop him.

"We can't have pizza again."

"Oh," Patrick says, deflating a little. "Okay."

"Sorry," Pete mumbles, feeling guilty for shutting the kid down so quick. "Is there any other food you like?"

He sees the boy thinking, and wonders what there is to think about. It's not rocket science.

He decides to help out. "We could have pasta, beans on toast, I could order curry, or make a stir-fry, whatever you want."

But Patrick scowls at his knees, cuddling the cats closer and chewing on his lips. "I don't fucking know what any of those fucking things are, alright?" he snarls, his gaze fixed on the ground.

"Uh...okay," Pete says, very much hoping the kid isn't going to punch him. "That's okay, I'll, uh, just make something, and you can see if you like it."

"'Kay," the boy nods, not looking at Pete.

But Pete just can't not ask, this time. "Hey, uh...if you don't mind me asking, why...uh, why haven't you heard of...of, uh, things?"

Patrick looks at him now, and on his face is a sizzling glare. "That's none of your fucking business, okay? I'm not fucking stupid, asshole, I just...fucking..." he falters, eyes flicking about. "I don't always...I'm not from here, alright? I'm not stupid."

Blinking, Pete tries not to feel offended or embarrassed. Work reminded him that swearing and raised voices aren't things that normally feature in his life. A sentence like that, he'd assume, would usually end friendships and kill relationships, but Patrick doesn't seem to realise this, and Pete's beginning to learn that it's not personal.

"No, of course not," he says gently, "of course you're not stupid. I'm sorry for asking."

"'S okay," Patrick mumbles, going back to stroking the cats in his arms.

"I'll make pasta for dinner," Pete decides, "it's Italian, same as pizza, you'll like it."

"Italian?" the boy repeats, looking up, "like the language?"

Laughing a little, Pete nods. "Yeah, I guess."

Something almost like a smile touches Patrick's face, and Pete has to aggressively stop himself asking the kid what the hell is going on with him.

"Okay, well, uh...I'll get going on that, then. Um," he starts, gesturing towards the ginger cat that's currently trying to climb inside Patrick's jumper, "would you mind not letting that one into the house?" He doesn't want to have to buy two lots of cat food every week.

"Okay," the kid nods, and, seeing Pete start to stand up, begins to prise the cats off him. Both follow Patrick to the doors, but Pete stops the ginger one with his foot before it can get over the threshold. He can feel both the boy's and Sam's eyes on him as he quickly slides the door shut, leaving a disappointed cat meowing through the glass. He just hopes it doesn't figure out where the cat-flap is.

Striding past Patrick in an effort to show that he, in fact, is the master of this house, he debates whether or not to go out tonight. On the one hand, he doesn't really want to leave the kid alone again. He's also quite tired from work, but then again he gets tired from pretty much everything, so it's nothing he can't handle. Or, it's nothing a few pints can't handle. And, it's been a while since he got laid. Part of him sort of wants a boyfriend, the other part wants meaningless sex and no commitment. He's in no position to commit. And if this kid gets any weirder, he might have to go out just to stay sane.

Halfway back to the kitchen, he hears a loud meow from behind him. Looking back down the hall, he sees that Patrick's opened the door again, and is knelt down next to it, stroking the ginger cat.

Pete's about to sigh and scold the kid, when he hears him speaking.

"You can't come in, it's Pete's house," Patrick says softly, tickling the cat's chin. "He says you're not allowed. Your human will be worried, okay? We'll see you tomorrow, yeah, and maybe the day after, if Pete lets me stay here."

The cat mews in response, then cranes its neck towards the boy, who leans down and nuzzles it with his nose. Pete watches, bewildered, as the cat rubs itself against Patrick's face, purring loudly all the while, before the kid gives it one last whispered "goodbye," and it hops out of the door and up onto the fence, out of sight.

Pete's hurrying towards the kitchen before Patrick can turn around and see him.

He's definitely going out tonight.

-

Pete's not that drunk.

Sure, he's stayed out perhaps a little later than he normally would, he's kissed someone he maybe shouldn't have, he's taking said someone back to his house, and he can't quite walk in a straight line, but he's not that drunk.

But booze is the last thing on his mind as he stumbles down the street, his arm wound round the waist of the man next to him, whose name he thinks is Gabe, but he's not quite sure. All he really knows is that this dude is gorgeous. He's tall (really really tall), dark and handsome, just what Pete likes, and he can't wait to let this guy fuck him senseless.

They're laughing about something or other, when Pete drunkenly tries to unlock his door, third time lucky.

"Welcome," Pete says dramatically, throwing his arm out and his head back, "to my palace."

Gabe laughs too hard, bowing to him, then stumbling further into the lounge, catching hold of his waist. "It is truly excellent, my liege."

"Why, thank you," Pete grins, leaning into the man's chest and running a hand up his arm. Wow, he's toned.

They end up kissing, then, simply by proximity, Pete supposes. It's clumsy and wet and tastes of whatever the hell they've been drinking, but none of those things seem to matter when the room's swaying and he's in the presence of nothing less than a Greek God.

Giggling seems to be the only thing Pete can do with complete accuracy, and even though he's not sure what he's giggling at, he's very sure that it's utterly hilarious. Gabe seems to think so too, and they weave a winding path towards the stairs, where mind-blowing sex will surely be the order of the day.

He's just about to turn and kiss the stranger-come-fellow-giggler again, when he sees a figure curled on the sofa.

"Patrick!" he says loudly, pointing. "It's Patrick," he nods at Gabe, who grins like Pete's just told a dirty joke.

"Hey," the kid responds, and Pete's waving enthusiastically when he asks, "who's that?"

"This," he says slowly, slapping Gabe on the chest, "is my friend. My sexy friend," he laughs, liking how the man squeezes him tighter.

"Hi, Patrick," he says, joining in with the waving, so that the two of them look like a family photo. "I'm sexy friend, nice to meet you."

And it's so funny that they both burst out into fits of laughter, leaning into each other and guffawing with their whole bodies. "Come on," Pete splutters, dragging Gabe by his forearm out of the living room, "you're down for sex, right?" he stage-whispers.

The taller man gives Pete's ass a squeeze, and tries to kiss his cheek, but misses and gets his eye instead. "Yeah," he slurs, a lopsided smile making Pete go weak at the knees. "Bedroom?"

Nodding enthusiastically at nothing in particular, he points up the stairs, and if it wasn't for the banister, Pete's sure they'd never have made it up alive. They can hardly keep their hands off each other as they fall through the bedroom door and exchange sloppy kisses and drunken smiles.

And by god, Pete needed the sex. Sure, this guy didn't really go out of his way to make Pete feel good, and he was a little rougher than Pete would tolerate if he was sober, but he's too out of it to really care. He likes being wanted, and he feels like Gabe wants him, even if the dude does fall asleep pretty much straight away.

He's lying naked on the bed, face down in the pillows, and Pete thinks he looks even more handsome when he's sleeping. Sleeping beauty.

Despite this, Pete doesn't know what to do with himself. Yeah, he could sleep too, but there's still booze in his blood and he wants to make the most of feeling this alive. And he's really hungry, too, the pasta seems ages ago now, and he feels like he lost weight during the fucking.

Clothes seem so cumbersome at the moment, but some voice of sobriety in the back of his mind tells him he's gotta put something on. He fishes out the baggiest trousers he owns, and the biggest jumper, and wanders out of the bedroom, still fumbling with the sleeves.

He's humming quietly to himself as he rummages through the fridge; lettuce? No. Butter? No. Yogurt? Nope. Orange juice? Perfect.

He doesn't even really like orange juice, he just buys it as an alternative fruit consumption method, and he knows it won't cure his hunger, but right at this moment, the glass he pours himself seems like the answer to all of his problems.

It tastes amazing. Did it always make him feel this complete? He decides to drink nothing but orange juice from now on, just to compensate for his lack of appreciation prior to this moment. Sipping at it so as to savour it, rather than down it all in one go, he wanders out of the kitchen, and towards wherever that noise he's just noticed is coming from.

And there's the kid, still hunched up at the end of the couch, the cat curled next to him. And Pete just really wants to talk, can't think of anything better to do than drink his juice and converse with a tramp.

"Hey," he grins, flopping down so close to Patrick that he very nearly sits on the cat; Sam makes an alarmed noise and jumps off the couch just before Pete's full weight comes down upon him. And now Patrick's looking at him as if he just killed a unicorn. "Sorry," he says, trying to wipe the smile off his face, and failing.

"Um," Patrick hums uneasily, glancing down at their practically conjoined legs. "Hey."

"What'cha watching," Pete slurs, not bothering to look at the TV.

"Uh...I don't know," Patrick says, fumbling with the remote until he finds the Info button. "Oh, uh...Titanic."

Pete laughs at the way the kid's looking at the screen, his eyebrows knitted together and his teeth nibbling at his lips. "You never seen it before?"

"Yeah, 'course I have," he snaps, shrugging.

Pete smiles at him, leaning a bit further towards him as they watch Kate and Leonardo kiss passionately. He's still sort of high from the sex, and far from sober, so he thinks it's alright to rest his head against Patrick's shoulder, just for support.

The boy doesn't move, but Pete can feel eyes on him. He doesn't much care, though, as he's just re-realised how cute Leo is in this film.

"Why do people do that?" Patrick asks suddenly, pointing at the happy couple on the screen.

"What, kiss?" Pete asks, shifting his head to look at the kid, who's watching the TV with wide eyes.

"Uh...yeah," he replies uncertainly. "Kiss."

Shrugging, Pete thinks about it. "I guess...it feels good. And it means they like you, probably. But mostly it feels good." More than good. Amazing, especially combined with alcohol.

"Oh," Patrick says simply, knotting his fingers together.

"What, you never been kissed?" Pete laughs, screwing up his face.

"Yeah, loads of times," Patrick spits, folding his arms.

"Liar," Pete giggles, forgetting his fear of being beaten up. "You've seriously never kissed anyone?"

His question is answered by the way the kid just glares straight ahead.

"Wanna know what it feels like?" Pete smirks, elbowing Patrick lightly, his grin taking up his whole face.

The boy opens his mouth to say something, then decides against it, resorting to just staring at Pete, frowning. And Pete knows, he just knows, that Patrick was about to say yes. His drunk brain has learnt to focus on people's bodies rather than their words, and curiosity is written all over the kid.

"Go on," Pete encourages, shifting closer to him. "Just one little kiss?" he pouts, clasping his hands together in front of him. He's never been one to pass up a kissing opportunity. At least, not when he's drunk.

"What the fuck has happened to you?" Patrick says, but it's not filled with quite as much acid as he's come to expect from the kid.

"Drunk too much," he giggles, shameless. And if he'd have been any less drunk, he'd have abandoned this, but he misses Gabe's kisses, and right now, persuading Patrick to make out with him seems like the best idea in the world.

"Where's your friend?" Patrick asks, and god, Pete's so tired of all these questions.

"You should learn to shut up," he smiles, his hand finding its way to Patrick's knee.

"Fuck off, shithead, don't fucking tell me what-" the boy starts, cut off mid-rant as Pete dives at his face and pecks him on the lips.

Sitting back to admire the view, Pete waits for the kid to say something, a smug smile on his face. That definitely shut him up.

"What the fuck was that?" Patrick snaps indignantly, wiping at his mouth like a child attacked by a lipstick-smothered great-aunt.

That's not right, Pete thinks vaguely. Gabe didn't do that. "A kiss?"

The kid makes a face at him, and Pete feels his stomach tighten a little.

"What? What was wrong with that?" he asks, not bothering to hold back the offense from his voice.

Patrick shrugs. Or was it a shudder? "I don't know. Just...weird. Not as good as I thought." he turns his attention back to the film, and Pete recoils.

"Hey," he snaps, crossing his arms and setting his jaw. "I'll have you know I'm the best kisser this side of the Thames."

Patrick raises his eyebrows as if that's really nothing to shout about, and at that moment, Pete's never felt so insulted, staring at the kid with all the annoyance he can possibly muster. Right, that's it.

"Turn off the TV," he orders, pointing to the remote in Patrick's hand.

"Why?"

Pete huffs impatiently. "Just do it!"

The kid looks at Pete for a few seconds, then blinks. The TV turns black, and the room's left dark and silent. Perfect, Pete thinks, because now it's a challenge. And he's gonna make sure Patrick loses.

"Right, now, close your eyes," he says, flapping a hand at the boy.

"Fuck off." Patrick asserts, folding his arms and sticking out his chin.

"I'm not gonna try anything, just do it!" Pete says again, starting to lose his patience. He's not used to this much coaxing when it comes to kisses. "It's my house," he reasons, poking Patrick in the leg.

The scowl on Patrick's face would be enough to send Pete running, if he was sober. But he's not, and it only widens his smile, the glee at getting his own back for all those rude remarks.

Finally, when Pete's just about to cover the kid's eyes himself, Patrick lets his eyes fall shut, a hand tight on his knee. "Good," Pete breathes, gaze reading the map of the boy's face, the line of his jaw, the generous curve of his bottom lip. That's the one to go for, Pete decides, then shifts closer.

Tilting his head, he leans in and presses his lips against Patrick's, his mind calculating his movements, down to the last flick of his tongue. And yes, there will be tongue.

Patrick shifts a little, his mouth unmoving, then, very gradually, he starts to push back a little, and doesn't flinch when Pete brings a hand up to his jaw, guiding him the right way. Pete's usual technique is to go soft at first, reel them in, then crank it up a notch, so he starts to kiss a little harder, waiting for Patrick to pull back, but he doesn't. I win, Pete thinks, I win so much.

Now, for the victory lap. He flaps his tongue rather inelegantly against the seam of the kid's lips, and they fall apart, letting Pete explore the inside of Patrick's mouth. He tastes of tomato sauce and something sweeter, which Pete can't quite – Shreddies. He's kissing a boy living off Shreddies.

He's kissed worse, though, and although Patrick's tongue is just sort of twitching in his mouth, Pete can't quite bring himself to stop. The kid's certainly got the lips for it; Pete can feel them, plump and pushing against his own, same as he can feel Patrick's breaths on his face, pasta-scented.

It's beginning to get a little spit-drenched for Pete's liking, though, what with him already being considerably sloppier than usual, and Patrick's tongue being all over the place, so Pete decides he's proved his point well enough, and pulls back. He raises an eyebrow at the kid, crossing his arms and nodding.

"Not as good as I thought my arse," Pete tuts, rolling his eyes.

He settles back down in his seat, reaching for the remote where it's still clasped in Patrick's hand, and the light of the TV returns. The kid doesn't even punch him.

In fact, the kid doesn't seem to be doing much; Pete makes absent comments on the film, gradually sinking further into Patrick's shoulder, telling him not to watch because the sad bit's coming up. He ends up altogether forgetting about the kiss, now far more interested in just how comfortable his bed's going to be when he finally falls into it, and reminding himself that he likes this jumper and he should wear it more often.

Thoughts of bed become more and more prominent as his eyelids side with gravity, and there's a funny smell coming from his mouth. The stairs seem miles and miles away, and Pete spends most of the midnight news debating whether or not Patrick's shoulder is a worthy substitute, but bones, even fleshy bones, can't hold a candle to one of Pete's lovely cuddly pillows.

"Right, I'm off," he says, at last, levering himself away from Patrick with a yawn. "You ought'a go to bed too, it's late." Pete's too sleepy to even feel ashamed of his definition of late.

When Patrick doesn't say anything, Pete glances at him, wondering if tiredness got the better of him too, but the kid's still awake, and watching him. It's a little creepy, actually. 

"You want anything?" Pete asks, if only to stop that weird stare.

Patrick opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. "No."

"Why, what were you gonna say?" Pete laughs a little, patting his shoulder.

"Nothing." And there's that glare again.

"Liar."

"Fuck off."

Pete giggles, shaking his head at the kid. "You're silly," he smiles, sobriety still nowhere to be seen. Perhaps that's why his mind makes this particular leap. "You want a goodnight kiss?" he jibes, poking the kid's arm, wanting to make the most of his embarrassment.

He laughs even harder when the kid nods.

"Fine, fine, if you insist," he says dramatically, rolling his eyes. He doesn't bother with the eye-closing business this time, and simply leans over, grabs Patrick's face, and crushes their mouths together. He's too tired for tongues, so he just toys with the boy's lips, taking the bottom one into his mouth, nipping at it with his teeth. He briefly registers the touch of fingers on his face, and a hand curled loosely in his jumper.

With a wet noise, he pulls back, and the kid's arms fall back to his lap. "Okay," he says, in confirmation of something or other. The kid only blinks at him, skin pale in the light of the TV, lips fluttering. "You're quite pretty, actually," Pete muses, nodding in approval, then wondering if he said it out loud. The room sways a little. Now it's definitely sleep time, he thinks, patting Patrick's knee lightly, and getting clumsily to his feet. "Night night, then."

He shoots finger guns at the kid, and a grin for good measure, then wanders in the direction of the stairs, vaguely reminding himself of the guy in his bed, and the fact that he needs to buy more orange juice.  

He's relatively sure he won't regret this tomorrow morning.