Patrick has no fucking idea how he got this lucky, but he's not about to complain.

Sure, the dude's awkward as hell, and Patrick can practically feel the judgement radiating off him, but for the first time in a while, Patrick feels warm and cosy and like an actual person rather than a walking septic tank. He's also decided that pizza is his favourite food ever.

After eleven hours of deep, uninterrupted sleep, Patrick wakes up happy. He doesn't quite remember where he is at first, just that he's not on the street like usual. He stretches out in the bed, feeling the soft fabric under his fingers, wriggling his toes around in the duvet and burying his face in the pillows. He wonders if it would be okay for him to just stay here forever.

With a yawn and a rub of his eyes, he pulls the duvet up and nuzzles his nose into it, curling on his side and closing his eyes again. Just a few more minutes.

About an hour later, he wakes to a quiet knock on the door, and a head pokes around it. It takes him a few confused blinks to realise that the head belongs to Pete, the guy whose house he's sleeping in.

Quickly pulling the sheets up to his nose and making sure the rest of him is covered up, he watches Pete as he tiptoes through the door and tries something like a smile.

"Uh, morning," he says, then laughs a little. "Or, afternoon, I guess."

A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table tells Patrick oh, shit, it's two o'clock in the afternoon. "Uh...sorry," he says quickly, wondering if Pete's here to tell him to get out.

But Pete just shakes his head. "No, not at all, I'm sure you were exhausted. Did you have a good sleep?"

Holy fuck yes. He decides he'd like to save up for a queen-sized bed. Queens must be very big if they have to sleep in a bed like this every night. He nods at Pete, cuddling the duvet a little tighter as if in gratitude.

"Good. I, uh, brought you some coffee," the dude says, showing him a steaming mug, then hops over to Patrick and places it on the bedside table. "Don't worry, it's not instant or anything, it's proper stuff from the cappuccino machine," he says, looking rather proud.

Patrick has pretty much no idea what Pete just said, but nods anyway, pondering what might be so proper about whatever a cappuccino is. Some kind of hat, maybe?

"Uh, I'm drying your clothes at the moment, but, like, you can borrow stuff of mine again. Just give me a shout if you need help getting up," Pete says, glancing at the lump of Patrick's feet in the sheets.

Oh, yeah. Fucking forgot about that. Patrick gives his toes a little test-wriggle, expecting pain, but feels only a little bit of sting. "Okay," he says, cursing himself for ever needing fucking help. His foot better be healed by now.

"Right," Pete says, shifting from one foot to the other and mangling his fingers together. He's dressed in jeans and a shirt, with his hair neatly combed and light stubble tingeing his face. Patrick wonders if he always looks smart. "Uh, well, help yourself to stuff in the fridge. I'm off to get some milk in a minute, so, like, do you need help now, or..?"

"No," Patrick says immediately, scowling at Pete. Again with the fucking help.

"O – okay," the guy stammers, "Sorry. I'll, uh, leave you to it, then."

Patrick watches Pete as he sidles out the door, ducking his head a little. He seems sort of...afraid? of Patrick, and Patrick doesn't know how he feels about that, but he also doesn't know how to not be scary sometimes.

He waits for Pete's footsteps to disappear down the hall, before hauling himself into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes hard. It's light in the room, the sun shines in through the window, and Patrick can see the clouds moving across the sky, endless blue peeking out between them. He can't help but smile at how utterly beautiful it is.

The rest of the room's pretty bare; a wardrobe nestles in the corner, and a chair with Patrick's (Pete's) hoodie hanging from it sits opposite. Patrick can't quite get over how perfect it all seems, how the sunlight makes the white sheets gleam and the duvet feels so soft and clean against his bare chest. He's half inclined to take all his clothes off and roll around just to make the most of it.

There's a weird smell coming from the mug Pete put on the bedside table, and Patrick can't quite decide whether he likes it or not. He nearly drops the mug as soon as he picks it up, the heat stinging his hands. It's got all this froth on the top of it, in a swirl of brown and white, and Patrick can't help but dip a finger into it, watching the bubbles pop before licking at them tentatively. They taste of...well, air. Cappuccino must mean decorated air.

It's sort of nice, though, and Patrick has fun slurping at the froth, seeing how much he can inhale in one go. It's only when he takes a particularly large gulp that he discovers that under the bubbles lurks a boiling pool of lava which scorches his throat and makes him splutter the stuff all over himself.

Growling, he stares into the brown liquid, cursing it for interrupting his beloved air-foam and wondering what the hell it's doing there. What's he supposed to do, drink it?

Ready for the heat this time, he carefully lifts the mug, tilting it just enough to let a little of the liquid run across his tongue. And holy fuck, what the fuck is this? It's all bitter, too strong, like acid or something, and he immediately spits it out, pulling a face at the mug and trying to work out why Pete would bring him something like this, why anyone would drink this voluntarily. Yuck.

Eyeing the drink suspiciously as he places it back on the bedside table, he decides he has to get up and fetch some other kind of liquid to take the taste away. He pushes back the duvet, exposing his pyjama bottoms, and pulls his feet from the sheets, reaching for the bandages.

The end proves rather difficult to find, but after a good deal of scrabbling around and an even greater deal of snarling at his foot, he begins to unwind the bandage. And, sure enough, what he finds is a thin, pink line down the sole of his foot, a little red in places, but otherwise looking okay. He breathes a short sigh of relief, before putting both his feet onto the carpet around him, digging his toes into the soft fluff. Fucking hell, that feels good.

After shoving a t-shirt and Pete's jumper back over his head, he pads over to the door (thank fuck he can walk again), opening it a little and peeking round it.

It's a fucking nice house. Like, really, really nice. Pete's probably never slept on the streets, and Patrick feels like he shouldn't touch anything. He does anyway, though, running his fingers over the thick paint of the picture on the wall outside his room. He doesn't know what it's of, but it's colourful and he decides he likes it.

The hallway runs alongside a staircase, and opens out into the weird kitchen living room thing they were in last night.

Everything is so shiny. There's all these machines everywhere, silver and gleaming. A fridge, then, must be one of these. For a moment, Patrick just stands there, staring around at it all, trying to take it in.

He sees boxes on the table, cardboard boxes with colourful letters printed on them. He doesn't know what Frosties or Cheerios or Shreddies are, but the boxes sure seem excited about them. Creeping over to the table, he picks up the Frosties, peering into the box and seeing the bag of scrunched up orange things. Whatever they are, they look fucking weird.

Not entirely sure whether these things are even for eating, he picks one out the box and pops it into his mouth, letting the sweet flavour spread over his tongue. It's okay, actually. He picks a few more out the box and eats them, too, crunching away whilst trying not to get crumbs on Pete's spotless kitchen table.

The other two are sort of the same thing, if he's honest. Sweet and crunchy, but different shapes. He decides he like the Shreddies best, though, because each one's like a little tapestry. He wonders who weaves all of these tiny squares, just for people to eat.

That's another thing; he can't stop thinking about what Pete said. It's not like he doesn't know that some food comes from living things, he just always thought it was somehow given willingly, perhaps when the animal dies naturally. But to kill things? Deliberately? That's just fucking sick. He'll have to get Pete to tell him what other food has animals in, so he can actively avoid it. He's gonna be that veggie thing.

Wandering around the kitchen after sampling everything on the table, he begins his hunt for the elusive fridge. Pete seemed to imply that it contained food, but everything he's looked in so far has been empty. There's this one door, which is like a cupboard except it sort of opens downwards, which is very dark and has lots of metal grids in it, but no food. There's a little rectangular box sitting on the counter, which scares the shit out of Patrick when he presses the big button on the side and the door pops open. There's a smaller box with a lever on the side which doesn't seem to do anything at all.

Then, finally, he tries the big silver doors. And holy fuck is it cold. Pete obviously has a portal to the Arctic in his kitchen. It lights up, too, and Patrick wonders if maybe he should greet it or introduce himself, but it doesn't seem to protest when he leans in and picks up the nearest thing he can reach; a beige, oval object which sits alongside lots of other ovals.

It's heavier than he would've thought, looking at it, but it's rather pretty, too. It's got freckles on it, and it sits in his palm perfectly. He looks for some kind of opening, a lid or a lock, but it's smooth all the way round.

Pete did say anything in the fridge, so Patrick assumes this thing is edible in some way, and licks it tentatively. It tastes of pretty much nothing, apart from cold. He tries nibbling at the top of it, but can't get any kind of grip, so decides he has to bite into it. And unleash hell upon the inside of his mouth.

His teeth crunch into the thing, and it shatters, the shards painful on his tongue, but he barely has time to cry out before his mouth is flooded with cold goo which tastes utterly fucking disgusting.

Choking into his palm, he manages to spit out most of it, staring in horror at the remains of the thing. The goo is colourless, but there's something else inside, a sort of yellow blob which slides around his hand. What the fuck kind of food is this?

He decides that Pete is an idiot who eats weird crap, and hastily rushes to the sink, washing his hands of the goo and bits of strange opaque beige glass. He'll take the sweet tapestries any day.

Making sure not to try to eat any more dubious-looking food, he shuts that stupid fucking fridge and picks up the Shreddies from the table, tipping a few into the palm of his hand and eating them one by one. He wonders if Pete would notice if the packet mysteriously disappeared.

That's when he sees it.

The monster.

It's sitting in the hallway, staring at him, with big green eyes.

Patrick stops dead, staring back at it, shock plummeting through him. It doesn't move, but Patrick knows that this might be it. He's gonna die. Here, in a stranger's house, he's gonna be mauled to death. That's just fucking brilliant.

The creature starts to move towards him, and he jumps backwards, holding out the packet of Shreddies in front of him as a shield. It's got teeth, big teeth, and claws too, and Patrick looks around frantically for some kind of weapon, grabbing the first thing his hand touches, which happens to be a lamp.

"Don't come closer!" he yells, brandishing the lamp and rattling the Shreddies.

The creature stops in its tracks, and looks at him again, and Patrick can see the bloodthirsty malice in its eyes, planning all the ways it can kill him and eat him, maybe not even in that order.

He's never seen anything like this creature before, at least, not this close up. Most of them run away before he can get close. But this one doesn't show any signs of running, in fact, it walks like it owns the place, each step it takes making Patrick back further towards the hallway.

At that moment, the front door opens.

Patrick looks round to see Pete, arms full of milk, bustling into the lounge.

"Stay back!" he says shrilly, slowly creeping sideways to block Pete from the creature's sight, "just run, okay?"

"Uh...Patrick, what-?" Pete says slowly, and makes to move around him.

"No, stay back!" he says again, "I can handle this, just fucking leave!"

"Are those Shreddies?" Pete asks, and Patrick huffs at him. Fucking idiot. He's clearly not understood the gravity of the situation.

"It might not attack if we don't aggravate it," Patrick whispers, an arm thrown out in front of Pete.

"Um...Patrick," the guy says, putting a hand on Patrick's arm and shuffling around it. Patrick tries to stop him, claws at his shirt and his arms, but Pete just ploughs right into the path of the creature.

"No, no, don't approach it!" he panics, his eyes wide as he anticipates the blood bath. And to think, he first ever friend is gonna die after one fucking day. Just his damn luck. The creature will probably kill him, too, leave them both dead on the floor, then feast on their corpses.

But Pete doesn't seem to have any regard for his own safety, and sets the milk down on the side table. Maybe he's performing some kind of sacrifice. Maybe Patrick is the sacrifice, maybe that's why he picked him up off the street. Pete must be some kind of demon, and the creature is his ally, and they're both going to cut him open and spill his guts all over the carpet. And to think, today was supposed to be one of the best days of his life.

Patrick watches, open-mouthed, as Pete walks over to the creature, stoops down, and picks it up. It doesn't protest, just keeps looking at Patrick, who keeps the lamp and the Shreddies held out in front of him.

"Don't you dare fucking sacrifice me!" he cries, taking a few steps forward and growling. If he's gonna die, he's gonna die fighting.

Pete, however, looks at him like he's just stripped naked in the middle of the lounge. "Uh...what?"

"Look, if you let me leave, I won't tell the police about this, okay?"

Pete blinks at him. "Patrick...this is my cat?"

"What?" he snaps, hating not understanding stuff all the fucking time.

The creature closes its eyes, curling up in Pete's arms. "His name is Sam, he's not going to hurt you."

"Don't fucking lie to me!" he spits, waving the lamp at the two of them.

Pete gives him that look of bewilderment again, and laughs slightly. "I'm not lying. And we're not gonna...sacrifice you, or whatever."

That fucker's probably still lying, Patrick thinks, but lowers the Shreddies. "What is that...thing?!" he says, putting on his sharpest glare.

Pete laughs again, and oh my fucking god if he does that one more time I'm gonna fucking beat him to death with the lamp. "It's...a cat."

Cat. Patrick's vaguely heard the word before. "What the fuck is it doing in here?"

"Uh...it – he lives here, with me, I guess. He's my pet. Like, he lives in my house and I feed him and stuff. He can come and go when he wants, but I think he likes it here. He was stray, when I found him, he had a couple of nasty injuries, so I took him to the vets and now he's better. Why – why do you have a box of cereal?"

Patrick looks at the Shreddies. Cereal. Possibly a collective name for the stuff in the boxes on the table? "I didn't like the fridge," he huffs.

"Uh...okay," Pete says, frowning at him. "Could you put the lamp back, please?"

Patrick narrows his eyes at Pete, hesitant to put down his weapon. He doesn't break eye contact as he creeps round the man and the creature and slowly sets the lamp back on the side table. He keeps a hold of the Shreddies, though.

"He's honestly not going to hurt you," Pete says, a rather confused smile on his face. "He's tame as anything."

Frowning, Patrick tries to read whether Pete's lying or not. He used the word honestly, that's a bit suspicious. But, other than that...maybe they're not going to kill him.

Pete must see Patrick relax a little, because he steps a bit closer. "You can stroke him, if you'd like."

The creature seems quite happy in Pete's arms, and stares at Patrick with eyes half open. It's got quite big ears, and there's fur all over it, sort of patterned, black stripes against brown. Around its nose, it's got a few long, white hairs. Whiskers, Patrick remembers from somewhere, that's what those are.

He shuffles nearer, a voice at the back of his head still screaming about sacrifice, but not drowning out the spark of curiosity. Extending his least favourite hand (the one without the Shreddies in), he touches a finger to the creature's back, expecting carnage but receiving only a sleepy blink.

"That's it, just be gentle. Let him smell you first," Pete encourages, smiling at him.

Patrick nods, hovering a hand near the creature's face. It cranes its neck a little, and touches its nose briefly to Patrick's hand, cold and wet. After staring at him for a few tense seconds, it closes its eyes, and Patrick hopes that means it won't kill him. He begins to stroke it, the creature's – the cat's ­ fur soft under his palm, even softer than the sheets he slept in. He tries hard to keep his touch light, eventually plucking up the courage to scratch behind its ears.

"He likes you," Pete grins, and Patrick only just manages to bite back his smile.

-

After a very long, and frankly fucking boring conversation with Pete about the fact that yes, he can walk now, and no, he would not like milk with his Shreddies, Patrick's curled on the sofa, watching TV. It's strange, because there's no time limit, and he's allowed to pick whatever channel he likes.

It's nearly five o'clock in the afternoon, and currently, he's staring with mild confusion at a man who seems to be extremely enthusiastic about a thing called a vacuum cleaner, and not just any vacuum cleaner, but The Russell Hobbs RHCHS 1001 Corded Hand-held Limited Edition vacuum cleaner, just £39.99.

Pete's gone upstairs somewhere, he said he had work to do. He told Patrick to make himself at home, and although Patrick's not entirely sure how to do that, Pete said it with a kind smile and a tone of voice suggesting that Patrick was welcome here. And being welcome feels pretty fucking good.

Not wanting to risk any more lethal foods, Patrick's got the Shreddies in his lap, nibbling at them one by one as he listens to the man getting more and more excited about the vacuum. It's weird, too, because the TV is so fucking huge that it feels like everything's reaching out to him, and he keeps jumping at the slightest of things. So he's more than a little freaked when the creature leaps up onto the couch beside him.

He pushes himself away from it, wondering whether to shout for Pete, whether Pete is the only one who can tame it. But it just keeps looking at him, long tail flicking in the air, before padding across and sniffing his foot.

Patrick really doesn't wanna annoy it, so he keeps still, letting it creep closer. Pete said it won't hurt me.

It looks at him for a few seconds, meeting his wide-eyed stare, then ducks its head and nuzzles its nose into his ankle. And Patrick may not know a lot about this place, the creature or the situation he's been dropped into, but he certainly knows what that means. Affection. It actually, truly does like him.

He smiles, watching the creature – the cat, he keeps forgetting that – as it rubs itself against his legs, its fur velvety and kind of ticklish, and wondering what it would be like to have a tail. He imagines it might be quite fun.

Slowly, he stretches out his legs, trying not to move too much as the cat places a paw on his thigh, testing it for sitability, and it obviously passes with flying colours, because the next thing Patrick knows, he's got a furry animal making a home in his lap, and a new reason to be grateful for his pudgy thighs.

After a few minutes of Patrick staring in nothing less than awe at the cat, hardly even breathing for fear of disturbing it, he decides he has to try to make some sort of conversation.

"Uh...so, so you're Sam, right?" he starts, remembering the name from earlier.

It doesn't reply, just opens its eyes a little and looks at him.

"I'm, uh, I'm Patrick, I don't know if Pete told you that or what, but...yeah," he finishes weakly. "Um...would you like a Shreddie?" he asks, dipping his hand into the box, fishing one out, and offering it to the cat.

It sniffs at it a little, then flicks its tongue out and licks at the corner. Then, to Patrick's dismay, it simply shuts its eyes again. Not a Shreddy fan, obviously.

"Have you, uh, lived here long?" he asks, trying not to panic. It can probably smell fear.

But the cat doesn't respond. It's only then Patrick realises that maybe the creature doesn't speak English at all.

"Parlez-vous français?"

No response.

"Espanol? Italiano?"

Still nothing.

"Вы говорите по-русски? هل تتكلم اللغة العربية؟ 日本語?"

The creature only shifts a bit. Maybe it just doesn't want to speak, or it's not good at language.

"It's okay," he says softly, "you don't have to talk, if you don't want to. It's okay if you don't understand sometimes. I don't always understand."

The cat flicks its tail at him, landing it on his fidgeting hand. It's so fucking soft and Patrick can't help but want to scoop up this fluffy thing and carry it around forever.

He stretches out his fingers, and strokes them across the cat's back, gently, just like Pete said. And he doesn't even get mauled to death, the cat just curls up a little more and...what the fuck. And starts to purr.

Patrick feels his chest lift, and stares down at the creature. "Holy fuck, you purr too?" he exclaims, listening to the low rumbling sound in awe. "I've never met anyone else who does that!"

Closing his eyes, he finds that place deep in the back of his throat, and purrs back, feeling the vibrations ripple right to his fingertips. He's forgotten how fucking good it feels.

But as soon as he starts, the cat stops. It opens its eyes wide, and lifts its head, staring at him. Oh, shit. This is where it kills me.

It tilts its head to one side, then gets to its feet and sniffs at him again, probably deciding how best to butcher him. Patrick ends up just staring back, completely motionless.

After at least a minute of looking at each other, waiting for something to happen, Patrick has one last ditch attempt at not dying, and softly starts purr again, his eyes wide and hopeful.

And, to his utter relief, the cat purrs back, shuffling further up his legs and sitting straight in front of him. He smiles a little, reaching out a tentative hand, and stroking the cat, from the top of its head to the tip of its tail. It pushes up into his hand, then gets to its feet and starts to climb all over him, nuzzling his neck and his chest and rubbing itself against his stomach.

The cat ends up forcing him to lean back into the sofa in its quest to climb up him and fill his face with fluff. Giggling, he lets it flop onto his chest, huffing its tail away from his nose and steadying it with his hands so it doesn't slide off him.

"You're very soft," he smiles, cuddling the cat gently and listening to its low rumbles. He can't quite believe he's made two whole friends in less than twenty-four hours. "This is so fucking amazing. People always tell me not to do it, but I don't know why. Does Pete purr? I don't think he does. I haven't heard anyone else do it, maybe it's just us. Do you do it 'cause you're happy? 'Cause that's why I do it, sometimes I can't even help it, y'know, it just kinda happens, then I get told off. Do you think Pete will tell me off? Maybe. Don't tell him, okay? I think I already freaked him out quite a lot. Sorry I shouted at you earlier, I thought you were gonna fucking murder me, or some shit like that. But you didn't, so..." he rambles, tickling behind the cat's ears, feeling it press its nose into the crook of his neck.

Already, he trusts the creature. It listens to him, it doesn't interrupt, doesn't correct him or question him or shout at him for doing things wrong. He might not speak its language, but he's fluent in its body language, the way it extends a paw whenever he stops stroking it, the way its eyes droop when he scratches the top of its head. He sort of wishes someone would scratch the top of his head, too.

He's almost forgotten he's in Pete's house altogether, when he hears footsteps creaking down the stairs.

"You better stop purring now," he whispers quickly, patting the cat lightly. "I won't tell on you, 'kay?"

"Patrick?" Pete calls, appearing in the doorway and making his way towards the couch. "How – how're you doing?"

He stares at Pete, hugging the cat closer, like if he holds it tighter, it might muffle the sound. "I'm good," he says, as innocently as he can. "The man on the television says you need a vacuum cleaner."

Pete laughs, perching on the arm of the couch. "Nah, don't listen to him. He just wants money."

Doesn't everyone? Patrick thinks, remembering all the stuff he needed but couldn't fucking get because he didn't have the right bits of paper in his pocket.

Pete's still wearing his smart clothes, and he's got more clothes bundled in his arms. And a hat, too. Patrick goes still when he realises what that means.

They're his clothes. Pete's washed them, just like he said, and now he's going to ask Patrick to leave, just like he said. And to think, Patrick was so ready to forget what sleeping on the streets felt like.

"Wow," Pete says suddenly, his eyebrows rising up his face, "he really likes you." He gestures to the cat, still purring in Patrick's arms.

And Patrick just frowns, kicking himself for thinking that he'd actually be able to keep these friends.

"Uh, so, I've washed your clothes," Pete starts, and here it comes, "so I guess you can, like, leave now, if you want," he shrugs, plopping down at the other end of the couch and placing the neatly folded clothes in the middle.

Patrick nods, trying not to look too sad. He never even wanted to go home with Pete anyway, he was fine by himself, he hates Pete and everything Pete stands for, right?

Sitting up a little, he prises the cat off him, giving it a last stroke before letting it jump to the floor. It looks up at him, making a sort of growly squeaky sound, and now Patrick feels guilty, too. He looks away from the cat, telling himself he doesn't care.

"You can keep the pyjamas," Pete says, "and, uh, if you need any food, or money, or anything, then, uh, just say the word."

Patrick doesn't know what the word is, but he nods anyway, his foot still twingeing a little as he swings his legs off the couch.

"Does your foot still hurt?"

"No, I'm fine," Patrick snaps, cursing whatever part of his expression gave him away.

Pete shifts in his seat. "Are you sure, because, like, if your foot's not completely better, then, y'know, maybe it would be best if you, like, stayed, like, another night, or something," he babbles, flapping his hands around.

"What?" Patrick asks, looking at him quickly.

"Well, whatever," Pete shrugs, "you don't have to. It's just, you don't even have any shoes, or a backpack or anything, so, you could stay and we could get you those tomorrow, or, well, I have work tomorrow, but, like, the next day, or something, but I don't know, whatever."

"So...I could stay a couple more nights?" Patrick says cautiously, reining in his excitement.

"Well, yeah, stay as long as you like, to be honest, no-one else needs that room, so -"

Pete's cut off by Patrick launching himself at him.

Stay as long as you like. Patrick's buzzing with so much happiness that the only way he can quite thank Pete enough is by hugging the other man as tightly as he can, collapsing into him and rubbing his nose into Pete's hair. He's seen people do this before, to express gratitude, and he thinks that maybe he should have aimed to get his arms around Pete's chest, rather than just grabbing his head, but whatever. Patrick's been hugged a couple of times before, and in his opinion, the tighter the better.

Pete makes a muffled noise and pushes at Patrick, and there is a substantial chance that Patrick might've cut off Pete's breathing, so he lets go. Shuffling back down the other end of the sofa, Patrick wonders if maybe he went a bit too far, because he can feel Pete's bewildered stare on him, even as he looks away. He frowns at the floor, and tells himself that this is a bad thing, that he shouldn't get involved with another person any more than he already has, he shouldn't need fucking Pete or his fucking cat or any other fucking annoying life-form. But that doesn't change the fact that he yearns for warm beds and kind smiles. And fluffy, purring creatures, apparently.

"Um...okay," Pete says, and Patrick glances at him to see if he's angry. He doesn't seem to be, his eyebrows are still halfway up his forehead, and his voice isn't raised. He's just sort of looking at Patrick, so Patrick looks back. Pete's got brown eyes, and brown skin, too, and Patrick likes it, how people are all different colours. "Would you like anything in particular for dinner?"

"Uh..." Patrick fumbles, caught between wondering what Pete's skin might feel like, and willing himself not to reach out and touch it. Then he remembers. "Pizza!" he exclaims, nodding at Pete and fucking proud of himself for remembering the name.

Pete chuckles a little, and his eyebrows bunch up. "But we had that last night?"

"Oh," Patrick says, frowning. "I didn't know that was a rule."

"Well, it's not really a rule, I guess, it's just...okay, you know what, we can have pizza again. Do you wanna order some, or just cook from frozen?"

Patrick blinks. He knows what all of those words mean, but he's never heard them in this context or in that order, so he just plumps for the word with the 'z' in. "Frozen."

And he's obviously gone for the right one, because Pete smiles. He's got a nice smile, a big toothy grin that lights up his whole face. "Okay, cool. I'll, uh, get going on that, then, and you can just...well, make yourself at home."

There's that phrase again. "Does that mean we're friends?" Patrick asks, just to make certain.

Pete laughs a bit, shrugging. "Uh...well, I – I guess it does."

This time, Patrick doesn't manage to bite back his smile. 

He watches Pete walk away, then pats his lap, not even flinching this time when the cat jumps onto him. They curl up together in the corner of the sofa, watching the man shout about vacuum cleaners, and Patrick wonders if life gets any better than this. Two whole friends.