Chapter Text
He's going to do it-- THE it, all the way-- at the age of 17. He's at some college party, getting wasted and wow, is it satisfying when a college dude hits on him. He feels a surge of pride for himself-- Joe had bet that he couldn't go and have fun at a party, but look at him now! The tall guy gives him a grin and leans against the wall next to Patrick, purrs out, "What's your name, cutie?" Patrick stutters out his name, face flushed red, smile shy and small. They continue the small talk and eventually the man nods his head towards the hall, and Patrick drukenly stumbles along.
The man is smiling and when they kiss in the dark hall, and it seems okay. When he grips Patrick's belt, the blonde pushes him away and shakes his head. The man nods and they walk back into the main room. The taller of the two shoves a cup into his hand and tips it, and Patrick chugs it. They dance together until Patrick finally grumbles, "Feel gross..." and the other smiles and offers Patrick a ride home. Patrick shakily grips his backpack (he needed somewhere to shove his phone and the alcohol he got from Joe to present at the party). The college guy wraps his arm around Patrick's waist and drags his limp body along with him, and somewhere along the way the 17 year old's vision dissolves into inky black.
When he wakes up the man is on top of him, holding his wrists down. The party is downstairs, people screaming and music blasting. Patrick's body feels heavy, like someone cut him open and filled him with sand, and he weakly pulls at the man's grip, mouth open in a silent wail. The man's hold loosens and Patrick frees his wrists, feebly beating at his chest and takes a deep breath, about to scream, when the other slaps him, and holds a hand over his mouth. He feels like he can't breath, and he's not sure if it's the man cutting off his air or what was in his drink. Patrick finally feels his limbs get fuzzier, too weak to continue thrashing, and he goes limp, eyes blanky staring at the ceiling as the man yanks his pants down and thrusts into him. It's like a hot spike being stabbed into him and then getting jerked, mixed with a wet sensation that is most likely blood pooling down his cold skin, and his eyes fill with tears as he stares into space, praying for it to end soon. Patrick's limp body slides up and down the dirty bed sheets and everything aches, and he dimly wonders if he's going to pass out. The blonde clenches his eyes shut finally, letting out a choked sob as the man lifts his hand from Patrick's mouth. It's like the wind has been punched out of him as the man pulls away.
Everything is fuzzy around the edges, gray and empty. His ears are ringing and the part downstairs sounds fuzzy and far away. He opens his eyes again, staring at the white ceiling with a blank expression. He can hear the man shuffling around him, shucking on clothes and grabbing his shoes. Patrick simply lets out another shaky gasp, his heart pounding like he ran a marathon. The man walks away from the messy bed, reaching the door, and he pauses, silence filling the air. "If it makes you feel better, kid,"-- and Patrick screams inside, 'NOTHING can make this better!'-- he can hear the smugness in the college boy's voice, "you weren't bad, for a virgin." Patrick hears the door unlock and the man stride out, no hesitation, as if he hadn't just torn somebody's very being apart.
Patrick forces himself up, face still blank, and pulls on clothes. He limps to the bathroom and peers into the mirror, cringing as he sees a stranger staring back. His face is flushed, right cheek swollen slightly, covered in a dark bruise and lips split. There are also bruises on his wrists and a red mark over his mouth where the man pushed his hand down to muffle the screams. He brings his hand up, fingers lightly brushing the dark bruise, and stares at the stranger in the mirror.
He didn't even know the man's name.
Patrick shakily pulls himself away, hand gripping at the wall as he drags himself to the door. He looks back at the bed and gags when he sees blood-- HIS blood-- on the tan sheets. The blonde rips the sheets off and wads them up, shoving them into his discarded backpack that leans against the wall, thrown to the side. He throws the door open and walks out, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to stay calm. He nearly trips going down the stairs and quickly dashes to the house's back door, trying to avoid everyone. If anyone notices him, they say nothing. He walks around the dark corners of the house, heart pounding with fear, hoping the man is not lurking in the shadows. He stands at the side of the house, a little behind where the street lamps light the front yard, and in the darkness he fumbles with his phone as he pulls it from his pocket. He dials a number and holds his breath, hoping he gets lucky. There's a clicking noise, then another voice on the other end. "Patrick? Dude... what the fuck? It's like, 3 AM." The blonde lets out a breath of relief at Joe's voice. He clears his throat and chokes out, "H-Hey, can you--uh... can you come get me? It's kind of serious?" and Joe immediatley hears the shaken tone of his friend's voice and softly responds, "Of course, man. Where you at?"
When Joe arrives, he glances at the other boy and feels guilt stab his heart-- Patrick was always a good kid, and Joe had teased him until he agreed to go to a party. Now the other looked fucking terrible and sick. When Patrick gets into the passenger seat, it's silent. "Hey... you okay?" Joe gently asks, placing a hand on Patrick's knee. Patrick pulls away from his touch, wrapping his arms around himself and leaning towards the window, forehead pressed against the cool glass. "'M fine. Thanks for coming." And Joe knows when he's fighting a losing battle, so he shuts up and stares ahead st the dark road. They drive in silence, and when they get to Patrick's house the boy throws the car door open and hops out, turning to say, "Thanks. See you later." before quickly shuffling away. Joe watches with a pained look, wondering who beat up his sweet, kind friend.
When Patrick gets inside, he runs to the bathroom and vomits. He rests his head on the toilet seat and sobs, hands clawing at his hair.
It sickens him to think some faceless man who's name he does not know can remember how Patrick feels inside. How he looks underneath another person. How he looks crying and screaming-- in absolute agony. Patrick can't remember his face. He vomits again, sobbing. Patrick pulls his torn, dirty clothes off, and steps into the shower, tears streaming down his face.
He scrubs and scrubs until his skin is red and raw, but he still feels dirty.