there is no next time
patrick/brad
This fic is set the morning after Brad gets beat up by his father, before the lunch fight scene. Hope you like it, don't forget to favourite, or review about anything bad/good you noticed! :)
10:30 AM. Good, Brad wouldn't be noticed at this time.
He could just walk into class late and ignore questions about his black eye and cut face until lunch, where he could casually pass it off. The hallways were empty now, and Brad walked freely towards his locker. He opened it and paused at his reflection in the mirror there. A beaten face looked back at him, pale except for the dark red bruises and cuts that seemed to say, look at me, can you guess how I got them?
It didn't look that bad… no one would suspect anything, if he just told them he got jumped. Just jumped…
("You're killing him! Stop it!" "Get out!")
No one would know, except—
"Brad."
It was a whisper, and Brad had just barely caught it, but it was there, and it sent shivers down his spine. A million feelings stirred in his stomach, and he fought the sudden urge to burst into tears. Gritting his teeth, he turned around.
Patrick stood there, studying him. He had probably been wandering the halls, skipping class. His face, which was usually so full of emotion, was blank. However, once his gaze landed on Brad's injuries on his nose and around his eyes, Patrick's mouth twisted into a pained frown.
"What the hell were you thinking, Brad…" Patrick muttered, hand reaching out towards Brad's face.
Brad, feeling a surge of anger—it was Patrick who was the cause of this, wasn't it?!—slapped his hand away.
"If we hadn't been doing—doing what we were—nothing would've happened!" Brad hissed, pushing an accusing hand against Patrick's chest. He didn't want to address what they were doing directly. It would be like he was admitting it was his fault. "What the fuck were you thinking? Why didn't you get out once you saw him?"
Patrick remained silent, but Brad didn't care. It was Patrick's fault, not his, not his dad's, it was Patrick's fault, all his fault. Not his… Not his dad's … It was Patrick's fault, that Brad was like this. Brad was only like this because of Patrick. Not him. Not his dad. Damn Patrick, damn his face, damn his hair, damn his eyes, damn his fingers, damn his lips that left Brad shaking every Friday night, damn Patrick.
"Why did I ever meet you?" Brad spat, a lump at the back of his throat. His voice wavered. "I don't need you—you—you've j—just, you've just ruined my life. If I hadn't met you, my dad wouldn't have—he wouldn't have—"
Patrick suddenly moved, so fast that Brad didn't see it coming. He slammed him against the locker, dark eyes suddenly fierce and dangerous.
"Blame me all you want," Patrick said. (Brad thought, damn his voice, too.) "Doesn't change the fact you're gay." He looked back at Brad's wounds, his expression softening. His fingers traced the line of a cut on his nose.
Brad stared back at Patrick, arms trembling, unable to generate an answer, and before he knew it Patrick's lips were on his, his hands rubbing first up his torso, then his hips. Brad's eyes drifted closed. It felt like the tension was seeping out of his muscles and he wanted to just fall forward into Patrick.
"I'll look after you," Patrick murmured on Brad's lips. "I won't let your dad touch you again."
Brad's heart fluttered. Every fibre of his being wished for this to be true. Patrick continued to whisper against his skin, his mouth moving up toward the bridge of his nose, where Brad's father did the most damage. He pressed short, gentle kisses against the bruises and gashes. His wavy dark hair brushed against Brad's cheeks. It felt like Brad could breathe again, here with Patrick.
It was silent in the hallway, nothing except for the faint voices of teachers lecturing in their classrooms, the creak of Brad's locker, and the soothing words of Patrick. Sunlight from the nearby window bathed them both, but Brad didn't need it because he was feeling warm enough with Patrick so close to him.
"I love you…"
Somewhere, a door opened in the hall.
Brad shoved Patrick away from him so fast his neck cracked. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. What the fuck was he thinking? Kissing Patrick in the middle of the school corridor? He felt so angry with himself and whipped around to face his locker again, fingers scrabbling to get his books. The way Patrick had said I love you was replaying in his head. I love you… I love you… I love you…
He glanced at his mirror. Behind him, Patrick had the strangest look on his face. Brad's gaze darted back to his bag. He knew it was hurt, but he didn't want to take another look at the mirror again, for fear he'd just see his own feelings reflected back at him—heartbreak.
"Fine," Brad heard Patrick mumble bitterly. "I'll talk to you later."
Brad remained still as he heard Patrick leave, footsteps echoing as he went down the stairs and out of sight. He turned around, shaking, Patrick's I love you running over and over again in his mind.
I love you too was on the tip of Brad's tongue. He had wanted to say it. Shouldering his bag, he started to walk towards his class. Maybe. Maybe he'd say I love you too again.
Maybe next time.
Next time, it was lunch, and Michael had tripped Patrick, and he was on the floor with his tray across the cafeteria, and a few minutes later Brad called him a faggot, and Brad knew that there wouldn't be any more next time's.