A "The Perks of Being a Wallflower" Charlie and Patrick fan fiction.
I own nothing (I can't even say that, because I don't own capital N "Nothing"...you know what I mean), except for the delusions that forced me to write this fan fiction so that I could finally think of something other than how much I wanted Charlie and Patrick to fall in love. Although even those delusions probably aren't entirely original. _ Anyways, enjoy, and please leave me comments! This is my first real fan fiction, and I'm happy to listen to and apply any constructive criticism you may have to my story. If there is anything I should change or work on, let me know! For the most part, I'm following the plot of the book and the movie, using parts from both. Of course, things will diverge as far as the romance is concerned. :) And yes, most of this Charlie x Patrick fervor is due to my infatuation with Ezra Miller. My god is he beautiful. Also, I recommend listening to the movie soundtrack and the Smiths Pandora station while writing fan fiction about these guys. It really gets you going. Okay, I'm done now. Here it is.
It is a cold snowy night, and everyone has left the party at my house except for Brad, and Sam, of course. With a twinkle in her eye, she said that she was going to bed and promptly stood up from the couch we were all sitting at, stretched, and headed up stairs. I saw Brad nervously eying me, so I stood up and started cleaning up the remaining plastic cups and beer cans. When I had run out of things to occupy myself with, I turned towards him. He was frozen in his seat, staring at me with a strange gleam in his eye that I knew too well.
"I'm heading up stairs. Do you want to stay until the snow calms down a bit?" This is an excuse, and we both know it, but I said it smoothly all the same. Brad joined in by looking out the window, which was a sheet of white. In fact, I felt cold just looking at it. Strange, because I always feel like I am ten degrees warmer whenever Brad is around.
He agreed to come upstairs, and then we were in bed, and I had him pinned down, kissing him like my life depended on it. Brad moaned my name into our kiss and I felt an electric wave go down my spine and nestle deep in my stomach. I lead a trail of kisses down his neck, pausing to nip and suck at the sensitive spot in the crook of his neck. I made my way down his bare chest and stomach, thumbing at the elastic band of his boxers. He shuddered, and then we were both naked and clinging to each other fiercely as we rocked in time and he cried out my name and the three words I wish most to hear from him, over and over again.
And he didn't care who could hear us or what they might say about him.
And I knew that everything was different now.
And in that glorious moment, we both orgasmed, him all over his stomach and I deep within him. Then we heard the sirens and knew that his father was coming but we did not care.
"Let him see us", Brad murmured into my ear, "I don't care anymore".
That's strange. He sounded rather exasperated for someone in the raptures of passionate love and sudden self-revelation.
"Patrick, come on! We're going to be late."
Late? Late for what? Time still exists?
I kissed Brad, wrapped in the warm afterglow, when suddenly it started raining, big, fat cold raindrops.
What the fuck?
I bolted up, wide eyed, my bangs dripping cold water onto my face as my alarm clock blared obnoxiously in my ear. Sam stood over me with a pitcher of water, complete with ice cubes. Her lips quirked in to her I-know-I-shouldn't-smile-but-I-can't-help-it grin.
"You told me to do it next time you refused to wake up. Now come on, it's the first day of our senior year. We should at least pretend to be excited." With that she turned around and left to finish getting ready.
I blinked and lifted my sheets to inspect the damage I had done in my sleep. Yep, I would be doing laundry again tonight. Grumbling expletives, I reached over and turned off my alarm clock with a violent slap of my palm. I looked over to see my fan on full blast, explaining the White Christmas wet dream in the middle of August. I sighed, looking back down at my soiled sheets and gathered the strength to get out of bed before Sam returned with the garden hose.
And nothing is different now.
And it probably never would be.
The same routine, another year. I suppose I shouldn't say that. I mean, at least Brad isn't getting stoned and/or wasted every day before school. It makes a person feel real warm and special inside when the person you love has to be trashed just to see your face. However, the unsettling alternative is often found snogging him at his conveniently placed locker across from mine. Her name is Nancy (such a stereotypical name, don't you think?), and she is a Slut-Whore-Hoe-Bag just for existing, and because it makes me feel a little better not to acknowledge that she is actually a sweet, if not particularly bright, girl. We'll stick with Slut-Whore-Hoe-Bag for now.
A week or so in to school, I grabbed my books from my locker across from the usual snog-fest. I slung my back pack over my shoulder and walked toward my next class, trying my best not to notice Brad watching me walk away while Slut-Whore-Hoe-Bag continued to eat his face, pressing her oversized boobs into his chest. I also tried to quell the strange satisfaction I felt from his eyes boring holes into my back. I did not quell the urge to walk with an extra sway to my hips. What is wrong with me? Oh, right. Many, many things.
I paused in front of Mr. Callahan's classroom door and breathed in deeply before entering the classroom with a big smile splayed across my face. Mr. Callahan and I were old friends by now, seeing as this was my fourth year attempting to pass freshman shop class. I guess I just didn't have the wood worker spirit in me. Oh well. That didn't mean I couldn't ensure a good time for the 15 freshman (did I really look that young four years ago?) grouped in their little cliques at each table. Grabbing a grease pen, I drew on Mr. Callahan's distinctive facial hair and started a, I must say, brilliant impersonation of the man himself. One boy in particular, I noticed, sitting apart from all the huddled groups of freshmen, laughed harder than all the rest, including when Mr. Callahan walked in, laughing at my impersonation despite himself.
The boy had shaggy unkempt brown hair, and dark shadows under his eyes that made him look like he rarely got a good night's sleep. If I could make this boy laugh so hard, maybe it wasn't so bad to be repeating shop class for the fourth time. Who knows, maybe at the end of the year I would create something so mind bogglingly fantastic that Mr. Callahan would be left in tears, waving my A+ grade sheet in the air. What can I say? I'm particularly skilled at creating wonderfully pleasant delusions for myself.