First PatBob fic based on The SpongeBob Musical, more specifically this art piece: art/what-s-the-FRENCH-without-the-FRY-660205825

Decided to write it from Patrick's POV because I rarely see the sidekick, let alone the big awkward kid, star in his own story. I like Danny Skinner (the guy who plays him in the musical) mainly because his Patrick isn't so stupid. He's not terribly bright but he comes across more insecure and more aware of things (for someone with social anxiety I kinda relate to this). There's a sadness in the way he plays the character (from what I've seen) and I like Patrick with a higher voice no offense to the original VA. Second one-shot will probably be from SB's POV (and maybe we'll learn why he was all covered in ash, even if these one-shots are episodic and not necessarily linear).

This one was just set up...was just trying to jump into the world and get familiar with it, some characters (like Plankton that I literally know nothing about) I had to read up on. Next one will hopefully be better.

FYI I picture them as humans here and sounding like their musical actors, even if I kept the setting underwater like Bikini Bottom, and they're still representing sea animals, but they are humanized.

Kudos to those who catch the ''Steppin' Time'' reference to Squidward, since his actor played Bert in Mary Poppins on Broadway. XD

Art belongs to Crazy Crazy Loren

Fic belongs to me.

SpongeBob Musical belongs to Kyle Jarrow (who wrote the book).

SpongeBob © Nickelodeon.

His lips were chapped, so cracked and peeling they were bleeding. He tried wetting his lips but his tongue was dry as a bone. The sun beat town like a torch in the sky, and he was so parched his throat felt like sandpaper, but there was no time to return home. It was now or never. He sat in Jellyfish Fields, feeling the soft grass tickle his knees, only vaguely reminding him of happier times, but nothing could sooth him now from the horror unfolding all around him. Already, dust and ash polluted the air. He didn't see smoke but he can sure as hell smell it like someone had strewn gunpowder nearby, and he felt the ground tremble beneath him. Tomorrow at sunset, that damn mountain would erupt like a British canon and lava would swallow Bikini Bottom whole. Bikini Bottom—the very town he was born and raised. It would all be gone, burnt beyond recognition, buried way down underground where Pluto presided in the underworld, buried in rock and debris, but not the comfortable, welcoming rock of his humble abode he dwelled in for so many years. No, this kind of rock would crush and kill. He wasn't bright but he knew that much. And like that he waited.

He didn't forget who he was waiting for. Some of the town folk mistook him as a simpleton, but he wasn't stupid. He may have not been the brightest, most handsomest sea star on in all the seven seas, but he wasn't stupid. He knew very well where he stood on the natural selection scale of things, and brains didn't mean everything. Oh sure, there was Plankton, with that bad reputation, and though he oftentimes bragged of his college education, it didn't get him farther in the world than the common working man who didn't go to college (he was the least successful restaurant chain owner compared to the likes of the war veteran Eugene Krabs, anyhow. And he was sure Mr. Krabs had never set foot in such an institution, yet he was living a fine life). Besides, if Plankton were so intelligent, why couldn't he marry a real woman? So pathetic was he that he had to build his own, and even then, she didn't bring him any happiness. Squidward was the worst of all. He had lived next door to the middle-aged sour puss almost his entire life, and he couldn't fathom why Squidward found it so hard to make friends (besides himself and their other neighbor) if he had so much insight. It seemed Squidward was never happy, but perhaps he enjoyed it. Perhaps he was used to being alone and found solace only in himself. What an unfulfilling existence. Then there was Sandy, and though she seemed to be living a content and independent life apart from the other denizens, sometimes to him, she seemed lonely, too. She understood things other people around them couldn't begin to perceive (himself included), but maybe only because she was from a whole other world different than their own. She came from the surface one day, wearing a glass full of air around her head. He thought she seemed queer to him at first, but her stark awareness delighted him, and though they didn't have much to talk about (especially when the other wasn't around), he did make her laugh. She had a sad laugh, with a Texas drawl. If being smart meant being unhappy and lonely, he'd rather be, as Squidward put it, ''blissfully ignorant''. If ignorance was, indeed, bliss, and intelligence was a curse, he wondered if it would be better if he simply remained...well, simple. Of course, Sandy would disagree with him but she didn't know how unhappy she was, smart girl like that so brutally aware of how the world works, and she's too blind to see her own undoing. Even when him and SpongeBob kept her company—

SpongeBob, of course. He became so lost in his thoughts he didn't see him approaching. SpongeBob had told him to come to Jellyfish Fields and wait for him when things started to look bad. Things looked bad now. At first he could only smell it but now he could see it. The smoke in the air seemed to be getting stronger, and he could just barely make out the small figure of his friend in the distance. His eyes burned like something fierce as he struggled to see through the smog that hung like a grey curtain between them. And he was so goddamn deprived of thirst he—

''Patrick,'' he heard SpongeBob's soft spoken voice break through the soot.

Patrick tried to open his mouth to speak, but instead he swallowed a cloud of fume and coughed in response.

''Patrick, is that you? I can't see you. Say something.''

''I'm trying,'' Patrick finally managed to choke out, but his voice cracked.

''Keep speaking so I can follow your voice,'' answered his friend.

But Patrick could only cough. Good enough. They'd know each other voices anywhere, even in the dark. When SpongeBob's brownish greyish silhouette grew closer, Patrick reached out his hand to touch his friend and pull him to safety down on the grass, but to his surprise, the other flinched. At first he thought SpongeBob had reason to fear him until he realized a little electric spark passed through their fingertips, a slight electric pain, and their hands recoiled. ''Sorry,'' Patrick said. SpongeBob shrugged (or maybe he shivered, it was hard to tell with all the smoke around him) but he finally found Patrick and joined him on the ground. They could barely see each other's faces, and even the grass couldn't protect them much from the exhaust of Mt. Humungous.

Patrick, who had been squinting his eyes, snuck a sideways glance at his friend, then noticed why he couldn't see SpongeBob at first. It wasn't just the smoke in the air, but the little blonde sea sponge—so usually bright and yellow—was black head to foot. Patrick reached out to wipe away the black residue from SpongeBob's cheeks and hair and clothes. But it was no use, the boy was covered in it as though he had been bathing in coal. Patrick ended up smudging it more rather than getting rid of it. It was everywhere! Finally, he gave up, pulling his hands away, now black as SpongeBob's body.

''What happened to you?'' he asked

SpongeBob left out a hearty laugh (even though Patrick couldn't see his smile, he could hear it). ''Been sweeping chimneys with Squidward,'' said he.

''Why would you be doing that at a time like this?'' Patrick inquired, and he felt the other nudge his shoulder with his own.

''It was a joke, Pat.''

Patrick felt his cheeks flush. Of course. How gullible of him. But SpongeBob's smile (or what Patrick could make of it) always reassured him. When the others berated his lack of intelligence, SpongeBob didn't seem to mind. They had been best friends since childhood. Patrick supposed they would remain so until the day they died, seeing as SpongeBob tolerated him in ways others couldn't. Patrick used to feel insecure beside his more handsome, smarter friend, who, even though still didn't have his driver's license, had had made something of himself. At least he had a job he loved, where Patrick was too afraid to venture out in the world and try. According to his father, he was just too deficient to succeed at anything. But SpongeBob never made him feel like a failure. SpongeBob made him feel like the smartest guy around.

''Jokes aside, seriously. What happened?'' Patrick really wanted to know.

SpongeBob stood up to dust himself off. Why couldn't he just tell him? Finally, SpongeBob spoke, softer this time, ''Don't worry about it.'' But Patrick knew why.

''No, you don't want to tell me 'cause I'm not astute like Squidward, is that it? I know things, I'm not stupid!''

SpongeBob took a step back, surprised by his friend's outburst. ''Where you'd learn a word like 'astute'''?

Was that all he could say? ''I don't know,'' snorted Patrick, ''Maybe I read it somewhere. At Sandy's. Oh, I forgot, I can't read, excuse the clams out of me.'' He folded his arms across his chest. Of all the people in the world, he thought SpongeBob would be the last to point out the fact that Patrick should be too foolish to know a word like ''astute''. The fact was, he did read it at Sandy's house. She always had those books lying around. Why couldn't he peak? Were books off-limits to anyone not worth the knowledge they held in the contents of their pages?

''I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that,'' SpongeBob murmured, ''It's just—''

''It's just what? I'm just the big dumb guy, right? And that's all I'm ever gonna be, Neptune forbid I amount to anything else.'' Before SpongeBob could speak, Patrick cut him off. ''Look, I didn't forget what you said, okay? I came here and waited for you. Any idiot wouldn't have sense enough to even do that right!'' Patrick got up so abruptly that SpongeBob fell backwards onto the grass. Patrick didn't care. He just wanted to get as far away from this place as possible. It was all going to Hell anyway. And so, it seemed, was SpongeBob.

''Patrick, wait!'' he heard a voice call after him but he didn't stop. He couldn't see where he was going but it didn't matter. ''Patrick!'' SpongeBob's voice grew further in the distance. ''Patrick, stop, you'll get lost! Stop!'' But he didn't stop, he just kept trudging on through the smoke. He seemed to have been running for an eternity, and, finally out of breath, he collapsed in exhaustion. He didn't know where he was, if he was still in Jellyfish Fields or if he had left. His surroundings looked all the same, just unrecognizable blackish shapes wrapped in a blanket of haze. He was yearning for water now more than ever. He didn't think he could make it home like this. SpongeBob was right. He was lost.

''You're so stupid!'' he cried at himself, pounding his fists into his head. He felt the tears choking him, so ashamed of how childish he was acting, but he could do nothing but wait for the smoke to clear, if it ever would. Dear Neptune, maybe he would die like this. Die in his sleep. He would call out for help but what would be the use? No one could hear him out here. He should have stayed with SpongeBob, stayed where it was safe. He curled his fingers around soft blades of grass, the only thing that seemed to have life in this world of dust and ashes. At least it wasn't sand. He didn't know if he could bear the night if he had nothing to lie down on but more rocks and particles that were already clogging up his eyes, nose and mouth. He curled up in fetal position on that soft mound of grass, his strong arms around his stout knees, and hoped to Neptune and the sea God's brothers that he would be able to wake up.

''Patrick,'' a soft voice whispered in his ear. He knew that voice anywhere. He tried to move, but his whole body was numb. The world was dark. Had night fallen? Was he blind? No, he wasn't blind. His eyes were closed. Why couldn't he open his eyes? Was he dead? He felt a small, bony hand on his back. No, he wasn't dead. If he were a corpse, or at least a ghost, he wouldn't be able to feel anything. ''Patrick,'' the voice said again. ''Open your eyes.'' He tried but he couldn't.

''SpongeBob?'' he finally managed to squeak out. ''Is that you, buddy?''

It was strange, but even though his eyes were closed, he could feel SpongeBob smiling through the darkness. ''Yeah,'' he said. ''Yeah, it's me.''

Patrick slowly opened his eyes. He couldn't see very well but the smoke seemed to have lessened. When his eyes finally focused, he saw SpongeBob's face—though still black as an oyster's shell—very close to his, so close Patrick could feel his warm breath on his cheek. It made him feel safe now. And found. Patrick sat up, SpongeBob's hand still on the small of his back to steady of him.

''I'm sorry,'' SpongeBob said,'' for what I said. I-''

''It's okay,'' Patrick reassured. ''I was just being...stupid...as usual.''

''You're not stupid.'' Patrick shrugged. ''I was so worried sick, I thought I lost you,'' SpongeBob pressed on. ''I shouldn't have said what I said. You're not stupid, Pat. I'm stupid. I'm the stupid one.''

Patrick shook his head. ''You're not stupid.''

SpongeBob tried to laugh, ''Maybe we're both stupid.''

Patrick smiled weakly. ''Maybe not.''

With that, SpongeBob threw his arms around Patrick and hugged him close, but though SpongeBob was a petite young man, he had an iron grip like an ox. Patrick choked from the other boy's strength. Sandy's martial arts training was doing him good. ''Sorry, sorry,'' SpongeBob apologized and quickly let go. Then his eyes widened. He reached out to touch Patrick's lips, which were more dry and cracked than ever, old wounds now scabbed over with fresh wounds wide open. A split right down the middle of his bottom lip caused a thin river of blood to trickle down Patrick's chin. ''Patrick, you're bleeding.''

Patrick felt the blood before he saw it. Now it was all over his chest and lap, tiny droplets of crimson. ''I'm so thirsty, SpongeBob,'' he said. ''I haven't had anything to drink all day. I can't stand this heat anymore.'' He wiped his brow with his wrist, which was full of dirt and sweat. SpongeBob grabbed his hands and helped him stand.

''C'mon, we gotta get outta here,'' and he began to pull him back towards where he assumed home was, but Patrick felt so weak, and his knees gave out under him. SpongeBob tried to pull him back up, but Patrick's entire body felt like a limp jellyfish. He was just too powerless.

''I can't do it, SpongeBob, I can't make it.'' And he began to lie back down in the grass. All he wanted to do was sleep.

''No, no, no, you gotta wake up, Pat!'' SpongeBob screamed, and he went down on his knees and shook Patrick violently, but Patrick wouldn't budge, not if Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy happened to stroll down the street at that very moment. He felt so peaceful down there on the grass, even if he could barely breathe with all that smoke floating around him. It wouldn't be much better anywhere else so might as well just stay. But SpongeBob wasn't giving up. He kept yelling Patrick's name and tried—to little avail— to make his friend sit up but it was no use. Patrick was dehydrated and couldn't possibly make that long journey back home. ''Patrick, please,'' pleaded SpongeBob, ''You can't fall asleep here or you'll...you'll...'' he couldn't even finish his sentence. Patrick tried to respond but he was too tired. Then he felt something wet drip down his face. It felt nice. Was it raining? But then he heard a sniffle and realized SpongeBob was weeping. ''I'm so sorry,'' came SpongeBob's voice. ''I shouldn't have asked you to come here. I just...it was our place...where nothing that came before mattered...because it was just us. Only us...and I...'' Finally, Patrick opened his eyes. If the world was going to end, it couldn't end like this. Silently, he took SpongeBob in his arms and let him weep like a child into his chest, his tears soaking right through his shirt, but Patrick didn't care. As long as—

Wait, he was getting wet. Yes, SpongeBob's tears were spilling on his skin, like a gentle monsoon. Like rain. Like water. Water! He could control the lust no longer. Slowly, he lifted SpongeBob's face from his chest, and the other looked up at him with those large childlike eyes of his that melted the marrow of Patrick's bones. He firmly cupped the boy's chin in the palm of his hand and without warning, he pressed his tongue to SpongeBob's cheeks and began to lap up his tears like a cat drinking a bowl of milk. He was so thirsty, he didn't care to take notice of SpongeBob's shocked reaction, but the other didn't pull away or protest. He just silently let Patrick consume his eyes, his cheeks, his jaw, his neck—every nook and cranny where the tears had trailed—with that large, hot, parched mouth. His only desire at that moment was to drink up all that moisture—no matter how warm and salty—that he didn't take notice of SpongeBob's muscles, which had been tense, beginning to relax beneath his touch. When Patrick ceased SpongeBob's throat, and pressed his lips right on the center of his Adam's apple, he could have sworn he heard a tiny moan, or maybe it was his ears playing tricks on him. When Patrick was finished, and SpongeBob could shed no more tears, the big-boned starfish, satisfied, let go of the youthful sponge and leaned back on his elbows. He took a gasp of air, finally relieved now that his long-suffering thirst had been quenched. He licked his lips. Wet. Good. His mouth still felt barren, and his lips were still horribly chapped, but at least he could hold out now until they made it home. The best satisfaction was that he could make and swallow his own saliva now, a cool cure to the fire in his throat, rather than that unbearable feeling of gulping down razor blades.

SpongeBob wiped his face clean with the back of his hand. Now his face wasn't so black. Not only had Patrick licked away his tears, but also much of the soot. ''Your lips are still chapped,'' he said.

Patrick licked his lips and tasted blood. ''I know. It hurts like Hell but I can mange. We should go home.'' But SpongeBob knelt before his friend and touched Patrick's bloody, course lips again, and though SpongeBob was careful to touch him ever so lightly with his fingertips, Patrick still turned his head away from the pain of the contact.

SpongeBob comfortingly said, ''I can help with that.'' Patrick didn't have time to respond for he felt the other's hot tongue slide over the open wounds on his bottom lip. Patrick yelped and pushed SpongeBob away, shoving his hand hard into his throat.

''Don't! You're making it worse! Let's just go home.'' He stood up, now with a little more strength, and started towards town, but realized SpongeBob wasn't following him. He turned back to find SpongeBob still sitting on the grass. ''You coming?'' he asked. SpongeBob just stared down at his hands with a distant look in his eyes. Patrick approached him and held out his hand. ''C'mon.'' Patrick tried to smile reassuringly at his friend but when he forced the corners of his mouth upwards, he felt the skin of his lips tear wider and winced in pain. SpongeBob saw this wince, rather than the attempted smile, and must have assumed Patrick was cross with him because he turned away. ''SpongeBob, look, I know you meant well. But it's better if we just go home right now.''

'''I'll try to shed more tears,'' SpongeBob said despondently, ''so that you may have more to drink.''

''No, no, buddy. Don't cry anymore. Let's just go home.''

But SpongeBob was crying. Patrick's heart broke seeing him like that. He was the kind of guy who went way out of his way to make everyone laugh, who spent most of his life living for other people, trying to be everyone's little sunshine even on a cloudy day, but Patrick knew secretly he was also the kind of guy who would cry himself to sleep at night. Because when SpongeBob was everyone else's shoulder to lean on, he didn't have a shoulder for his own woes. Only Patrick knew this, and he would never even tell SpongeBob that he knew. His pride was the death of him. Patrick sank down to SpongeBob's level and patted his shoulders.

''I know you were just trying to help,'' he said. ''I appreciate it. You're the bestest friend I could ever have, you know.''

''You're mine, too,'' SpongeBob said as Patrick took his face between his hands and wiped away his tears with his thumb. ''Because...what's the French...without the fry?''

Patrick raised a friendly eyebrow. It was all he could do because it hurt too much to smile. ''No offense, Sponge, but that's kinda stupid.''

SpongeBob laughed. ''I know. It is kinda stupid.''

Patrick, too, laughed. ''Really stupid.''

And before any of them knew it, their lips met, the roughest against the softest, like tree bark on silk. Patrick realized how thirsty he still was and hungrily forced his tongue down the other's throat, drinking in his warm, wet saliva. SpongeBob wasn't submissive either. He dug his nails so hard into Patrick's arms that he drew blood. He was certainly strong for his size. It went on like that, for what seemed a hundred years: their fingers in each other's hair—pulling and tugging, their tongues intertwining, SpongeBob's hard, muscular knees pressed into Patrick's groin. They couldn't get enough of each other, not if they kissed like that until they grew old and feeble and rotted away like that, forever locked in an eternal embrace. Finally, they had to gasp for air. When Patrick pulled his mouth away from SpongeBob's, a long film of drool attached itself to his lower lip, still connecting him to SpongeBob like spaghetti. Finally, he snapped his head in such a way that the literal bond between them—conceived of their own spit—broke in two. They both laughed and wiped their wet mouths awkwardly.

At last, they clasped hands and walked home with their fingers laced together, as tight-knit as ever. Patrick didn't even mind the smoke. ''I never could have imagined in all my life,'' he said, ''That a smart someone like you could want a stupid someone like me.''

Fin