Patrick's never actually looked up the phrase over the moon, but he's pretty sure it describes how he's feeling.

He goes to bed in a daze, curling up tight under the covers, careful not to knock Sam from his perch at the end of the bed. All he can think about is kissing.

From what he's gathered so far, kiss is the noun, and the plural will perhaps be something like kisses, or kissi, then to kiss is the verb, kissed being the past participle, and also the adjective, kissing being the present participle. He really wants to try it in a sentence, break in this brand new word. But maybe not as much as wants to carry out the word again.

It felt so good. It's like nuzzling, but closer, with more...feeling, more contact, and Patrick got this bubbly sensation in his stomach which, even the next morning (afternoon), hasn't gone away. He'd seen people touching mouths like that before, but he'd never quite known what it meant. He's never been touched like that before.

When he wakes up, still not quite believing he's here, in this fucking comfortable bed with the sunlight streaming in around him, he can still feel lips pressing against his own, can remember the strange feeling of someone else's tongue in his mouth. It's weird to think that he actually liked something like that, it would've been repulsive if you'd described it to him twenty-four hours ago.

He lies awake for a little while, putting his fingers to his mouth, trailing them across his tongue, trying to replicate the feeling. It doesn't really work, even if he closes his eyes. The back of his hand doesn't do it either, doesn't quite have the same feeling of Pete's lips. He wonders if Pete would like it if they did it again, so Patrick can savour it this time, learn how to do it properly. And Pete said it meant that the person liked you, so does that mean that they're even better friends than they were before? He's not sure.

He can hear voices in the house, one that's Pete's, and the other that belongs to Pete's friend, the one from last night. Patrick saw them kissing, too, so they obviously like each other. Maybe if Pete introduces him, then he could have three whole actual friends. That would be so fucking cool.

There's no weird lava water anymore, so Patrick simply gives the duvet a hug goodbye and hops out of bed, digging his hands into his eyes and trying to keep his balance as he searches for some kind of clothing. There's only Pete's jumper from a couple of days ago, and it's a little bit smelly, but Patrick figures he could still get a good three or four wears out of it before it becomes anywhere near toxic. He shoves it over his head, and stumbles out of the door, wondering whether Pete's bought any more of the tiny crunchy tapestries.

-

After breakfast (he ended up eating something called a nectarine, which he thought was an apple, but turned out to be a lot squishier and contain a wooden pebble, like some sort of tooth-cracking prize), Patrick doesn't really do much other than hover. Pete and his friend are occupying the couch, and apart from a brief good morning, hasn't said a word to Patrick.

He thinks about joining them, introducing himself and whatever the fuck you're supposed to do, but he thinks he'll probably learn more if he just listens. Sitting himself down on the kitchen floor, with Sam for company, he watches them, seeing the way Pete's face lights up when the other man says something funny, how sometimes he smiles and sometimes he giggles and other times he nearly falls off the couch from laughing.

They kiss, sometimes, too. Patrick's beginning to see how natural it is for Pete to close his eyes, how it doesn't look like he's even concentrating, like it's an instinct. Maybe some people like kissing more than others. Maybe some people don't like it at all. Sometimes the man kisses Pete's hands, or his cheek, not just his lips. Is it still called kissing if it's not two mouths? Patrick wishes he knew.

He wants to talk to them, he really does, but it never seems like the right time to interrupt, they're always talking about relationships or politics or the multitude of other things which Patrick doesn't understand. And he sure as fucking hell doesn't wanna look stupid.

It's not quite working out for him, though, as he's sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor with a cat on his head. He tried to encourage it not to start eating his hair, but Sam didn't really give him much of a choice in the matter. Besides, maybe that's what cats eat.

But, of course, this is the moment Pete and his friend choose to migrate from the couch to the kitchen, and Patrick has to quickly lift the creature off himself and hop to his feet, flopping into the nearest chair.

"...so, we could go out somewhere, if you wanted," Pete says, leaning against the kitchen counter without so much as a glance at Patrick. "There's a Costa just down the road, then we could go for a walk?" Costa. A shop that sells drinks, Patrick remembers triumphantly. 

The man smiles. "Yeah, sounds good. I'll buy," he adds, patting his pocket. He's probably got some money in there. Patrick wonders how much. 

"Oh, well, no, you don't have to, really-" Pete says, his hands doing a sort of flappy thing.

"No, I insist," the man says, holding out a hand, which Pete takes, grinning. "You bought last night, anyway."

"True," Pete shrugs, and snags his keys off the counter, heading for the door.

Patrick only catches snippets of their conversation before the door slams shut, leaving him alone. Frowning at the door, he pretends not to feel a little bit sad that Pete's gone, and instead wonders what the hell the man meant by bought last night. Is there a missing noun in that sentence? People miss out words sometimes, and it's fucking annoying. Or perhaps there isn't anything missing, maybe Pete actually bought last night, maybe people have actually figured out how to buy and sell stretches of time. Patrick wouldn't be surprised. People will sell anything, even their own organs. Yuck.

He doesn't quite know what to do with himself when Pete's not around; he feels a little awkward in someone else's house, especially a house where everything's so fucking shiny. He feels like he shouldn't touch anything, but he does anyway, drawing pictures on the fridge with the smudge of his fingers. He could leave, if he wanted – there's a pile of money on the counter, and plenty of food and clothes he could swipe – but he really really doesn't want to. More than anything, Pete's house has locks on all the doors, so no-one can get in without a key.

That's the best thing about it: the security. The feeling of going to sleep every night knowing that he's safe. For now, anyway.

The television proves to be a continual source of entertainment for Patrick; every time he turns it on, there's something different to see. There're programmes about people asking other people questions until they win some money, others about people looking round lots of houses and criticising all of them for pretty fucking stupid reasons, in Patrick's opinion. There's also this one where people put helmets on and try to run across big foam structures and inevitably fall off into a trough of mud. But at the moment, he's watching a show about some people who sit in a shop and say things that he doesn't understand, but are apparently funny.

It's a bit unnerving, because he can hear laughter at the jokes, but it's not coming from anyone on the screen, like there's some big crowd of people sitting behind them and listening in on their conversation. He wants to try and warn them that they're being watched, but he doesn't know how.

He notices it now, how often they kiss. How much they enjoy it, too, smiling at each other, touching each other on the face and the chest. He's gotta try that again.

And seeing as Pete didn't seem to appreciate the hug, Patrick needs to try something else to make sure that they're friends. If he kisses Pete – properly this time, not stupid and fucking scared like last time – then Pete will know that Patrick is his friend, too, and not just the other way around. He figures it's the only way Pete might let him stay.

Do people always have to be sitting down when they do it? Handshakes are generally done standing up, and all the kiss..es? Patrick's ever seen have been when people are sitting. So he's gotta wait 'til Pete's sitting down. And he's gotta remember that noses are a thing, so he should tilt his head. And he needs to close his eyes.

Patrick spends the rest of his time alone attempting to kiss the cat, who puts up with Patrick's clumsy pecks on the head for approximately seven minutes before finally swiping a paw round the boy's face.

"Ouch, what the fuck?" he exclaims, jabbing a finger at Sam.

The cat simply puffs an irritated noise at him and stalks down the other end of the couch.

"Hey, it wasn't that bad!" he snaps, crossing his arms and sticking out his chin. "Was it?"

Shit, maybe it was. He frowns into his lap, hands fidgeting and teeth chewing on his lips.

But, he thinks suddenly, but cats don't have lips like humans. Cats nuzzle things with their noses, cats purr, but cats aren't meant to kiss. But Patrick likes to nuzzle things, Patrick likes to purr. Maybe Patrick isn't meant to kiss either.

Sighing, he looks up at Sam, who's watching him pitifully from the arm of the sofa. "I'm sorry, okay?" he says, reaching an arm out towards the cat. "I'll let you eat my hair, if you want."

The animal narrows its eyes at him, then haughtily slinks back towards him, letting him tickle its ears.

"Are we still friends?" he asks quietly, wondering whether Sam will tell Pete about the kissing. Only for humans, only for humans.

The cat watches him steadily for a few tense seconds, finally blinking its big green eyes and beginning to purr. Patrick let out a relieved sigh, shuffling a little closer to the creature.

"Okay, good."

-

When Pete gets through the door, Patrick is ready. Or at least, he tells himself that he is. He has to fit in, has to be fucking normal for once, and do this.

He's still on the sofa, with Sam next to him, tail in his lap for moral support. He turns off the TV, watching as the tall friend stays close to Pete, laughing at something or other. They're holding hands, too. Patrick doesn't really know what that means yet, although he's seen people holding the hands of children as they walk along the road, so perhaps it's a safety measure.

They don't see him, Patrick supposes, because they head for the kitchen, staying in Patrick's line of sight as they lean against the black counters, smiling as they talk. Pete walks round to the other side of the counter, putting something in the bin, then leans opposite his friend, their faces close together. The taller one says something, and Pete smiles, then they lean closer and touch their mouths together, breathing laughs for a few seconds after.

Pete's not sitting down, though. Maybe that's why they're laughing, because they did it wrong. There's a stool thing behind Pete, but he's only hovering around it, putting his elbows on the counter and – yes! Now he's sitting down. Patrick takes a deep breath.

He gives Sam a last pat, and gets to his feet, momentarily panicking when he realises that there's nowhere for him to sit, then pushing the thought aside with a shake of his head and a muttered fuck it.

Wandering towards the pair, he licks his lips, wishing they didn't feel quite so dry, and hoping they know what they're doing.

Pete glances at him as he approaches, his eyebrows rising a little and his sentence tailing off. "Uh, hi, Patrick," he says, smiling a little. "Do you, uh, need something?"

Patrick decides that replying might throw him off, so he just clenches his fists and marches round the side of the counter, trying to work out when exactly he should close his eyes.

Pete turns back to his friend, opening his mouth to speak. "So, Gabe, this is Patrick, and, uh, he's...um..." he breathes a laugh, glancing at Patrick's nearing form, "what are you doing?"

He can't put this off any longer. Grabbing the edge of the counter to steady himself, he lurches at Pete, very nearly head-butting him, but managing to catch his lips first, slamming his eyes shut tight and crushing their mouths together as firmly as he can. Pete doesn't seem to be pushing back, so Patrick pushes for him, leaning further forward to compensate for Pete's leaning away.

It lasts for around three seconds, and Patrick's feeling pretty fucking good, because he actually fucking did it, and he and Pete are even better friends, and he remembered to close his eyes and tilt his head and everything.

The next things he feels are Pete's hands, scrabbling at his chest, before finally getting a firm grip on his jumper and hauling him away.

He stumbles backwards, breaking the kiss and pulling his eyes open. Pete doesn't look very happy. That's not right.

"What the fuck?" Pete's friend – Gabe – exclaims, standing straight up and frowning. Frowning a lot.

"Patrick, what the hell was that?" Pete's asking, no longer sitting down but looking sort of – oh. Horrified.

Suddenly there's lots of shouting. It all seems to be aimed at Patrick, who's left wondering what he did wrong, their words ringing in his ears, making him want to run away somewhere. Gabe's eyes are flicking between them, and he seems to be angry at Pete, too, saying things like "Are you two together?" and "What the fuck, you told me you were single!", and Pete's alternating between yelling at Patrick and pleading with Gabe, "I promise, I don't know why he did that!" and "Why the hell did you do that, what on earth are you playing at?!" and all Patrick can see is the anger on their faces and he's so fucking confused and hurt and annoyed and he just doesn't understand.

Finally, finally, they stop, their eyes trained on him, and for a few seconds, the silence is worse than the shouting. Then the tall man crosses his arms roughly, and growls, "just explain."

Pete sighs shortly, turning to Gabe. "Listen, I am so sorry for...whatever that was, I swear to god, we're not together, I honestly don't know why he did that. Why the hell did you do that?" Now he's looking at Patrick.

The boy opens his mouth to shout, to swear at Pete and his stupid fucking friend, but he doesn't know what to say.

Pete speaks for him, though. "He's never done that before, honestly. And he won't do it again, will you?" the man snaps, raising his eyebrows at Patrick.

The boy senses that the answer to that question is supposed to be no, so he simply snarls a "Fuck you" at Pete, crossing his arms.

Pete's mouth opens, then closes, his eyebrows still bunched together. Then, he just sighs, glancing at Gabe and smoothing out his shirt. "Okay, so, as I was saying," he starts, gesturing at Patrick, "this is Patrick, and he's my...uh, room-mate, I guess. He's a little, um..." he tails off, shooting a meaningful glance at Gabe and twirling his finger around by his ear.

Whatever this gesture means, the tall man seems to understand, nodding in realisation, and casting a rather pitying look at Patrick. He moves around the counter, standing over the boy and smiling too wide.

"I'm Gabe," he says, patting his own chest, "and you shouldn't kiss Pete, okay?" he croons, shaking his head slowly, speaking as if...well. As if Patrick's stupid. "Do you understand?"

Patrick stares up at him, at his raised eyebrows and fake smile, the way he's leaning over him and looking down on him. Fucking dickhead. He decides not to give the man the courtesy of an answer.

Gabe glances at Pete, then back at Patrick, tilting his head to the side. "I said, do...you...understand?"

And the way he's looking at Patrick, like he's got no brain at all, like he's some dumb animal, like he's nothing, it makes him feel ten times smaller. And ten times angrier. So he does the first thing that comes to mind. He looks the man straight in the eyes, then draws back a fist, and punches him square in the face.

Patrick briefly registers the crunch of Gabe's nose, before the shouting starts again.

"Oh my god!" Pete gasps, springing towards them whilst Gabe's hands fly over his face and he yells lots of different swear words at Patrick.

"You little shit!" he shrieks, the words distorted by his hands, and the steady flow of blood that's seeping between his fingers. "You broke my fucking nose, he broke my fucking nose..." he says, his face screwed up in pain, his breathing loud and uneven.

"Oh god," Pete cries, running his fingers through his hair and looking around frantically for something or other. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

Patrick just sort of stands there, shaking out the pain in his hand, watching them both panic, watching Pete thrust kitchen roll at Gabe and wonders if he maybe shouldn't have done that. But the guy was a fucking dick. He opens his mouth to say something, not to apologise, obviously, but maybe to explain himself, when Pete whips round to face him.

He expects reassurance, at worst constructive criticism, but all he gets is hissing malice when Pete says, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

And Patrick doesn't know. He's been asked that question a lot of times by a lot of different people, and he doesn't fucking know the answer.

"Fuck you!" he yells, hands in fists, and storms from the room, hating stupid fucking Gabe and stupid fucking Pete and every stupid fucking kiss that's ever been exchanged, and wishing his voice hadn't cracked on that last word.

He runs to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him and throwing himself down on the bed, pummelling the pillow as if it was Gabe's face all over again. He decides he fucking hates all people ever, and that's that.

-

Over the course of the next half hour, Patrick hears Gabe's cries of pain gradually fade to whimpers, then manages to catch most of Pete explaining to Gabe that Patrick is fucked in the head. Patrick discovers that it hurts to be talked about like that. And to think, he thought he made a friend. Maybe he is stupid.

Pete eventually concludes that the bleeding should've stopped by now, and Gabe demands to be taken to hospital. Fair enough, really, the way Patrick felt his nose break, it's probably quite fucked up. Fucking good.

So they bustled out the house, leaving him alone again.

He doesn't feel like watching TV. He doesn't even feel like letting Sam in; the cat's been scratching at his door for a while now. He just sits on his bed and tries to understand what he did wrong, and whether Pete will kick him out. He probably will. And it'll be back to the cold concrete and the stupid fucking teenagers that steal his fucking stuff.

He'll be damned if he's gonna fucking cry about it, though, so he just fists his hands in the sheets and screws his eyes shut until the tears go away.

He's not sure how much time has passed when he hears a key in the door. There's no voices, just a lot of sighing, and only one set of footsteps. The door slams shut, harder than it usually does. Patrick sits up, wondering whether he should be scared or worried or both.

Sliding off the bed, he creeps towards the door, trying to plan what he might say, whether to make excuses or not. When he opens it, Sam's not outside anymore. He pokes his head out, eyes trained on the lounge. Pete is nowhere to be seen, but the couch is just out of view, so Patrick decides to head for that.

He pads down the hall and stands awkwardly under the lounge archway, and sure enough, Pete's on the couch, with his head in his hands. That can't be good.

Shifting from one foot to the other, he hopes Pete hears the sounds of the fabric and spares Patrick the task of uncomfortably coughing until his presence is known. And oh, fuck, he does hear. He looks round at the boy, eyes wide.

"You're still here?" he says, exasperated.

Patrick doesn't know what else to do but nod.

"Oh my god," the man sighs, digging his fingers into his eyes. He stands up, then turns to face Patrick, a tired look on his face. "I just spent two and a half hours waiting at that hospital. He had to have surgery."

"And then," Pete continues, brighter this time, but Patrick suspects it's sarcasm, "and then afterwards, after I'd cleaned him up and driven him there and waited all afternoon for him, he goes and says you know what, Pete, I don't think I want to see you anymore. He said that this makes things awkward. Oh, and also on account of my psychotic room-mate."

Psychotic. Suffering from psychosis. Patrick's seventy-five percent sure he's not lost contact with external reality, but then again, Pete might simply be implying that he is crazy. He goes to ask as much, but Pete cuts him off.

"He said he'd call me. Which is just code for, like, I never wanna see you again. And I liked him! I actually liked that one. He stayed 'till the morning, we had a nice day, we had stuff in common, he seemed to like me back! The first non-dickhead I meet in six months, and you punched him in the face!" he yells, his voice climbing the octaves.

"I'm not psychotic!" Patrick protests, hoping to god that his voice didn't sound as whiny out loud as it did in his own head.

"Oh, sure, because it's fine to just, like, go around punching people!" Pete snaps, throwing his arms around the place. "And why in heaven's name did you kiss me?!"

Patrick scowls at the floor, biting down on his lip to keep from screaming. "I thought you'd like it."

Pete lets out an exasperated breath, shaking his head at Patrick. "Why would I like it? Why the hell would I want to kiss someone like you?!"

And wow, that hurts. That hurts more than most of the other insults that he's had thrown at him, that's like a punch in the face all by itself. He must be delirious from all this rich-people air. He decides he's held in the anger long enough. "Get fucked, you asshole, you kissed me last night!"

"Well, I...uh..." he tails off, his mouth forming a hard line across his face. "I was drunk. Do you know what that means?"

"Yes," Patrick spits, swearing to do a lot more than break the nose of the next person who patronises him like that, "it's when people drink too much alcohol and their brains stop working properly." Ha.

"Well, there you go. If my brain was working properly, I never would have done that! I'm sorry and everything but you can't just kiss people and expect them to be okay with it! Especially in front of my boyfriend!"

Patrick wills himself not to cry under any circumstances. "But you said it meant you liked me! You said-"

"I. Was. Drunk!" Pete yells, "I didn't mean a damn thing I said last night! For god's sake, what's wrong with you?"

The boy snaps his mouth shut, swallowing his retort. So much for anyone ever thinking he's pretty. And there's that question again. The one he doesn't know the fucking answer to.

Pete sighs, rubbing a hand across his face. "Look, I'm sorry," he says, voice carefully restrained, "you just – I can't believe you did that. You broke his nose, Patrick, that's just, like, messed up, and I really liked him and you ruined, like, everything."

Friends don't ruin things. Friends aren't messed up like Patrick is. He thinks about shouting, telling Pete he hates him, and what a fucking dickhead he is, because let's face it, he is, but for some reason, he doesn't feel like putting his fist through the wall like usual. He just feels kinda...sad. "I didn't mean to," he says in a stupidly small voice.

The man huffs a flat laugh through his nose, and fiddles with the cuffs on his shirt, still stained with red. "Yeah. Well. It sorta looked like you meant it. Listen, I think I made a mistake, I don't think I want...well, I don't think it's good for us to...for you to..." he stammers, but Patrick knows what he's trying to say. This is where he's supposed to leave.

It was never going to last, he tells himself, it was only for a night, anyway. The cut on his foot is nothing more than a faded white line, now. "I'm fucking going," he says, not looking at Pete as he starts towards the door, sweeping his hat off the kitchen table.

Pete steps back to let him past. "Look, I'm sorry, I just-"

"Fuck you," the boy sighs, because shouting isn't worth the effort.

"Fine," Pete scowls, recoiling.

Patrick fumbles with the lock on the door for an excruciatingly long couple of seconds, before finally yanking it open. He's reacquainted with the feel of freezing ground beneath his feet, and cold air biting at his cheeks.

He hears Pete say something behind him but slams the door shut anyway, flinching away from it like it might strike out at him. There goes warm beds and hot food and friends. Pete might be a fucking bastard, but he had a nice house, and a nice cat. Patrick decides he hates all people who aren't cats, they fucking steal his stuff and treat him like shit and shout at him for reasons he doesn't understand.

 The sky fades to black around him as he hurries down the road, hands deep in his pockets, wondering if he'll be able to find somewhere safe to sleep. The all-too-familiar feeling of uncertainty curls its fingers around his lungs, the fear of the cold and the darkness.

So here he is again, no food, no blankets, no money, and no shoes. It's going to be a fun night.