Re: [Hall Way: Patrick & Newt]
Patrick was fine with being a prat, man. All of Newt's words he called him (Patrick) felt endearing to the dude. They did not feel like American slurs, and perhaps this was to be blamed on the romanticism of British accents, or perhaps it had to do with Newt's softly fond and frustrated expression when he used these terms, but the result was the same: Patrick did not feel at all insulted.
And Newt was most correct that the innocent expression the dude bore was completely false. Patrick was not a laidback dude, for all that he appeared he spent his days on a beach with a surfboard; appearances were deceiving. He was a serious dude, beneath the silly banter, and it was not often that he joked around as easily as he did now. Newt was blushing a most enchanting shade of pink beneath freckles, and Patrick's laugh came with an entranced stare, man.
But then came the cottage, where Newt was flicking his wrist to light the fire. It sent the scent of magic up into the air, stronger, and Patrick liked it. Patrick stood in the middle of the room, watching as Newt made things dance all around (Patrick thought it looked like dancing, man), and he waited for Newt to graciously agree to showing the bedroom.
Patrick could easily have walked up the stairs alone; it was a deliberate choice not to do this. With a momentary and fleeting hand to the small of Newt's back, he followed. He followed the other dude up the twisting staircase and into the large room. Standing upright, Patrick's head nearly touched the beams, and he tipped his head back to look up at them a moment. This was nothing like Con's place, and it did not remind him of his own place in the woods. It had story and age, which was something, again, romantic, but one must remember that Patrick spent his entire childhood pretending he was a knight upon a quest, man. But, no matter, because Newt had let himself fall upon the bed, and Patrick sat beside the dude on the white-covered mattress. He was only slightly hesitant when he reached over to rustle ginger curls with fingers that were still unaccustomed to easy affection.
He unwound his scarf and removed his coat, allowing them to fall on bedspread beside him, and he spread his thighs more, spreading comfortably, He could hear the sounds of life beyond the room's small windows, which he found he liked. They were not the sounds of horns honking and people rushing. They were sounds from inside stores and on the street, unhurried and overlapping like the forest sounds. He lost track of his fingers as they moved from Newt's curls to transition into a pressed palm against his shoulder and then moving downward toward the dip in Newt's spine.