Chocolate Syrup
"Fuck it. We're leaving." Pete turned and tried to suppress a smile. Patrick wore an expression of almost comical disbelief. "But...but we've only been here for a few minutes, Pete," Patrick sputtered. "Patrick, we've been here for over two hours. If they had rock salt, we would have found it already." After a beat, Patrick relented. "Fine," he said, "but I have one more place to check. There's a confectioner's shop down the road. I'll check it out while you head back and start preparing the ingredients. See ya in a few!" They parted with a quick peck on the lips.
Patrick walked along the streets of L.A., his wandering mind eventually settling on the rough feel of Pete's lips, the burnt sugar smell of his skin, the way his mouth tasted...Focus, Patrick told himself. Find the rock salt. He glanced up and saw the shop a block ahead of him. He sped up and strolled in the confectioner's shop, a smile on his face and a song in his step.
Pete arrived at the apartment a few minutes later. As he was fumbling for his keys, he noticed that Patrick had dropped three or four pairs of underwear on his hurried attempt at laundry. Inwardly, Pete smiled. Who would have known that he would be the neat one, and Patrick the distracted artist. Sometimes he had to remind Pat to tuck in his shirt or to toss the assorted aluminum cans around the house. It was Patrick's cautiously carefree attitude that drew Pete to him. Pete moved throughout the small apartment, reminiscing about the time the two had spent there. He arrived at the bedroom and stood in the doorway for a moment, absorbing the flood of emotion coursing through him. This was where they had first kissed, first touched, first made love. Pete shook himself out of his thoughts and began to undress. He put on something more casual: in this case, a band tee (theirs, of course) and low slung jeans. Pete heard the apartment door open, then shut. He padded downstairs to greet Pat.
Patrick walked in the apartment, dropping off the salt on his way to hug Pete. He was dressed down now, in a tee shirt and jeans and bare feet. Pete met him in the middle, and they embraced, his breath hot on Patrick's neck. He shivered, then pulled away. They sat down to discuss their plans. "So we put the ice and rock salt in the ice cream maker bucket, and in this," Pete gestured to a cylindrical silver container, "we put milk and sugar and, if we wanted, chocolate syrup or fruit." "Sounds right," Patrick replied, "But we're making vanilla. So just milk and sugar." "I thought we were making chocolate. We bought chocolate syrup at the store. We agreed." Pete rifled through the shopping bags until he found the syrup. He held it up for Patrick to see. "Pete, let's just make vanilla. You can put the syrup on the ice cream after."
Pete looked sideways at Pat, then spoke. "I say chocolate," he said, and took the top off of the syrup bottle and squirted a small amount onto the leg of Pat's jeans. His eyes clouded over briefly, then he broke out in a grin. "I say vanilla," said Pat and grabbed the bottle of syrup, squirting it all over Pete's shirt. Soon, it broke out into an all-out war of syrup. By the end, both were covered in sticky, viscuous goo. They sat across from each other, laughing and catching their breath. Slowly, Patrick scooted over to sit directly in front of Pete. Looking through his lashes, he said, "Petey, you've got something on your nose. Let me get it for you." Slowly, Patrick lowered his face toward Pete's. He reached up, and with gentle hands he wiped off the syrup. Pete grinned and lifted his lips to meet Pat's. They sweetly and tenderly kissed for a beat, then Pete stood, grabbed Pat's hand, and led him, smiling, to their bedroom.
Fin.