Patrick Zweig X You - Blog Posts

you’re here, that’s the thing

and i know you said that we’re not a thing but you’re here, that’s the thing - you're here that's the thing, beabadoobee

pairing: teen!patrick zweig x childhood bestfriend!reader

in which: you and patrick have spent summers tangled up with each other. you're in love, he's in denial. and yet— he's here, that's the thing.

warnings: patrick being an idiot

note: patrick and reader are 18-ish. this based off my favorite beabadoobee song, which is very patrick coded (in my opinion). this is my first fic, i hope you like it!!

“so we’re both here, aren’t we?”

you turn around, a stupid grin instantly blossoming on your face at the sight of patrick zweig standing a few steps above you on the staircase.

"you avoiding me or something? you haven't talked to me since you got here." patrick laughs gently.

"no, of course not." you tilt your head slightly, biting back everything you want to say and opting for a smile. you pat the space next to you and he sits down, all in comfortable silence.

whether you’re 10 or 18, you always end up here. with him. an escape from his parents’ suffocating parties and small talk.

patrick sniffs as he lights a cigarette. you scrunch up your nose, “we’re literally indoors, pat.”

patrick scoffs as pillows of smoke escape his mouth. “it’s my house. the window’s open, they won’t care.”

“summer house,” you correct and his eyes fly skyward.

“yeah, yeah. summer house. on the fuckin’, fuckin’— i forget- which island are we on?” patrick snaps his fingers in thought

“santa catalina,” you respond simply, picking at your nails because you don’t think you can look him in the eyes. your insides are already bubbling and he hasn’t even been here two minutes.

“santa fucking whatever-“ patrick snorts, bringing his beer bottle up to his lips and passing it over to you. he doesn’t even ask if you want it or not— he knows you well enough to know that you’ll take a sip.

you wrap your lips around the bottle, and you can taste him. or you think you can. or maybe you just connect everything that reminds you of him to him.

the taste of beer, cigarettes, the subtle hint of his cologne— earthy, citrusy, and unmistakably him

you shut your eyes and swallow down the cold liquid, you try not to gag because you know patrick will make fun of you for it.

“i’ve missed you, y’know?”

you almost spit out your drink, your cheeks burn up and all of a sudden you’re 13 again. “really?”

patrick rolls his eyes again. “yeah, idiot. ‘course i missed you, you’re the only friend i have.”

“you have art?”

“that’s—“ patrick sniffs, “that’s different, you’re like a- a girl.”

“wow, i feel so special,” you can’t help but laugh. “where’s art anyways?”

“he’s staying with his grandmother for the summer this year,” patrick shrugs, taking another long drag of his cigarette. he turns to smirk at you- “why, do you miss him? did you want to see him?”

but you know him enough to know that under all that bravado is stupid, boyish jealousy.

“i’ve missed you too.” you let yourself admit.

he immediately smiles at that. “yeah, you did. you probably dreamed of me every night and fuckin’ cried to thought of me.” he cackles like a maniac, shoving you gently. now it’s your turn to roll your eyes.

you reach for the beer bottle and you brush his hands—warm and calloused— and the touch lingers a bit too long. you pull your hand away as you take another sip, your fingers twitch. it’d be so easy to grab his hand right now. you swallow the drink down with your fantasies as you clear your throat.

“so how’s—“ you begin to say

“fuck, this is so stupid,” he groans. he reaches for your chin and tilts your head.

your eyes meet.

his are a shade of blue and green, like when the sun shines on the ocean. that sort of pretty. comforting. you’d like to swim in them. those eyes flicker to your lips. his thumb brushes over your chin, your insides flutter. and he almost— almost leans in.

“you’re being weird, is this because i kissed you last year?”

yes. yes. it is patrick. you want to scream.

“no, why would— i’m not being weird-“

“you are- you are being so fuckin’ weird-“

“patrick- i’m fine,” you scoff.

“it’s wasn’t supposed to be serious if that’s what you’re so concerned about— we’re not a thing. it was like a drunk thing.”

oh.

a drunk thing. not a thing that happened after years of tension. just a drunk thing. that's all it was to him. you swallow that thought like you could wash it down with the lingering taste of beer in your mouth as your heart throbs in your chest.

but yeah, you and patrick were never a thing. it’s something patrick had made clear several times. but each time was a new stab in the chest.

the kiss was a drunken mistake. it was the last day of summer break, you, art, and patrick around six and a half beers in with some weed in the mix, sitting on the sands of the beach. all drunk out of their minds.

you were talking about something stupid while art laughed. patrick stared at the waves crashing into the rocks before he cupped your cheeks and kissed you.

it was soft. warm. right.

and even though you were both blackout drunk, you remember it so clearly. and so does he— he wouldn't have brought it up otherwise.

art had laughed at the action. "what, is this, like, a thing? you guys a thing now?"

patrick had pulled away at that point, his hand still on your waist, grip tightening with his jaw. "fuck, no. it's not like that."

your family left the zweig’s summer home the next morning.

and you couldn’t bear asking him about it over the phone in fear of ruining seven years of friendship.

so for the next 350 something days, you convinced yourself it was just some summer fling that couldn’t even be considered “a fling.”

you managed to convince yourself that you don’t care. but that doesn’t stop the burning, tingly sensation at your waterline and a tear or two from rolling down your cheek.

his entire face drops, almost comically. “why are you crying? no- don’t cry- what the fuck-“ he panics. he doesn’t know where to put his hands. they cup your cheeks then fall from your cheeks. hold your shoulders, then your hands. it’s almost like patrick’s brain crashed and he was malfunctioning. it would almost be funny if it didn't hurt so much, just because of that stupid look on his face. you almost smile. "hey, no- stop that." he starts to laugh, that stupid laugh you fell in love with, and when notices your glare, he stops.

he chooses to stare at you in silence, reaching over to wipe some of your tears. you push his hands away, it's petty. he sighs. "i dunno what i did wrong, i- i thought you wanted it to be a drunk thing. you didn't— you talk about it after we did it. I mean— girls usually talk about this kind of shit, right? to-"

you look at him through your tears, in a 'are you fucking stupid?' kind of way and he shuts up. through your tears you manage to finally say, "imfuckinginlovewithyou, youstupidfuckingidiot"

patrick's eyebrows furrow in confusion, but not in— 'wow this girl loves me' confusion. no— more in a 'what the fuck did you just say, because i don't understand the words that come out of your mouth when you cry' kind of way. you breathe deeply, calming your shaky vocal chords, and wipe your tears. "i love you, you idiot."

patrick's dumbfounded. he opens his mouth to say something. closes it. opens it again— then closes it for good. he's like a fish. a stupidly handsome fish. then he finally manages an "oh." "oh?" you repeat, then the frustration spills out. "the fuck you mean 'oh'? i just said something that could change the trajectory of our friendship—" without warning, he kisses you. grabbing onto the back of your neck and shutting you up.

your hand drops and you grab onto his shirt. your mouth moves with his, and it's so... right. he tastes like the smoke of his cigarette, he tastes like the beer— he tastes like patrick.

when you pull apart and just stare at him, he laughs. fucking laughs. like an idiot. you roll your eyes. "i like you too." he smirks slightly, pushing a hand through his curls and sighing.

"i just told you i love you, and you're saying you like me?" you tease with a smile. "wow, patrick. i'm hurt." he cups your cheeks again, inching closer. "please don't start crying again."

he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip.

"i love you too." — tags: @hyuneskkami for the divider

sleaze ; patrick zweig

you never thought you'd hook up with a jock—especially not patrick fucking zweig. the audacity he had, prancing around like the epitome of testosterone and privilege. you hated everything about him. the mere sight of him strutting through the hallways with that infuriating smirk always set you on edge.

yet, here you were, his letterman jacket draped over their shoulders like a brand.

it started after school, when you were too high to care about the consequences of their actions. the intoxicating, earthy smell of weed still clung to your fingertips as you leaned against the graffiti-covered wall behind the gym. and patrick? he was there.

and somehow—god knows how—you ended up in his car.

the leather seats were cool against your skin, the smell of his cologne filling the small, stifling space. patrick sat stiffly in the driver’s seat, his usual smug confidence replaced with something quieter, more unsure. his hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white, and his eyes kept darting to you, like he thought you might bolt at any second.

“you should eat something,” he finally said, breaking the heavy silence. his voice was quiet, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure how you'd react. “i mean, not like, right now, but, you know. something. something that’s not… this.” he waved vaguely at them, at the evidence of your current state—the glassy eyes, the telltale haze of someone who’d stopped giving a shit for the day.

you'd only flashed an amused look. "..right." and nodded. he was being weird. you thought it was only for sex. caring wasn’t a good look on him. he huffed a reluctant laugh, running a hand through his tousled hair, mussing it from its usual perfection. his discomfort was obvious. he wasn't used to this—this intimacy that extended beyond physical touch.

"you always so high?" he asked, his voice quieter than usual. it wasn't judgement, not really. just an observation. a fact he couldn't ignore. "can't you function without it for a minute?"

"i mean, i could." you mused. the weight of your words struck him. he knew why. you knew why. you shrugged softly, staring out the window. "do you want me to leave?" you asked, your voice tinged with amusement.

his grip on the wheel tightened, his jaw clenching. he turned to look at you, really look at you. your carelessness. he shook his head, sighing deeply. “no. i don’t want you to leave.” his voice was quiet, a stark contrast to his usual cocky self. “and that’s the problem.”

"step-up from when you were kicking me out of your car." you scoffed. "patrick. we hook up, okay? you don't need to act like if you care. about my eating habits or the amount of weed i consume.” he would stop caring outside this car, anyway.

his knuckles were white from how tightly he was gripping the steering wheel. his jaw clenched, his usual demeanor faltering for a moment. he took a deep breath, his shoulders tensing as he forced himself to relax. when he spoke, his voice was low and rough, tinged with frustration.

"i'm not acting like i care," he said, his tone dripping with annoyance. "i do care. shocking, i know. but i do." he turned away from you, running a hand through his hair in agitation. his shoulders were tight, like he was bracing himself for a fight. "i'm not some heartless asshole. i have feelings, just like you do. i just don't show them often." there was a brief pause, his throat working as he struggled to force the words out. "not all of us can be as detached as you are."

"excuse me?" you scoffed. "are you trying to be self rightous right now? because you're not. i'm not a goddamn charity case. don't turn this on me."

he bristled, his jaw tensing. "i'm not trying to be self-righteous," he ground out. "and i’m not acting like you're a charity case." his voice took on a sharper edge, biting. "i just think you're better than this. getting high, screwing around, acting like nothing matters." he huffed, his grip on the steering wheel tightening even more. "i've seen you when you're sober. you're smart. you're better than this."

"oh, you've seen me?" you spat out. "that's rich. you haven't seen me outside this car."

"maybe i haven't, but i’d like to." his voice was surprisingly earnest, the sharpness giving way to something softer. he didn't look at you, his gaze fixed out the windshield, but the line of his jaw was tense. "i'd like to know the real you. the one who's not high off her ass, the one who's present in our conversations.”

there was a long moment of silence as his words hung in the air, stark and vulnerable in the closeness of the car. he kept his gaze fixed ahead, his tension palpable. finally, he spoke, his voice quieter this time. “this thing we have, it doesn’t have to be about sex, you know? maybe… i should take you on a date.”

“who are you and what have you done with patrick zweig?” you mused. he was rough, careless, and annoying. a blend of charm and intensity, as well as arrogance and impatience. praised for holding a racket and running across a tennis court.

he huffed out a laugh, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “trust me, i'm just as surprised as you are," he said, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. then his expression sobered a little. "but seriously. no sex, no weed. i mean it." he turned to look at you, his eyes meeting yours in that intense way of his.

“just… go on a date with me. get to know each other outside of this damn car."

you’d found out that day that he was stubbornly determined.

new ; patrick zweig

you were something patrick had never thought to experience before. you were new. soft, and delicate. you were a breath of fresh air. he was used to rough, calloused skin. harshness. but you? fragile.

he’d never believed in god, or religion, for that matter, but you? temptation on a fucking stick. he’d begrudgingly sat at a pew on easter, bored out of his mind. it was a yearly occurrence. easter and christmas were reserved for church, as if it would make up for the other fifty sunday’s they missed at the grimly chapel.

then, he saw you. you quite literally looked like an angel, with your white dress (almost reaching your ankles, mind you). he immediately sat a bit straighter, eyes scanning your figure. you wore a sweet smile, your cross necklace dangling off your pretty neck, as a reminder that you were pure.

preacher’s daughter, it seemed.

you were greeting the congregation, handing out bracelets that tied into the message somehow, occasionally letting a god bless you fall from your lips. when you’d reached him and his family, he only stared. wide eyed, a crooked grin on his lips.

“good morning, god bless you!” you chirped, handing him a bracelet. your fingers brushed against his. and just like that, the moment was gone. you’d turned to the next family, keeping that grin on your face as you continued handing out the bracelets.

god.

he continued staring, his gaze trailing after you. his father made a point to turn in his seat, flashing a pointed look. “best behavior, son.” and patrick only rolled his eyes, and shrugged, feigning innocence. he watched you weave through the church, his gaze lingering on your figure as you weaved away. the way you moved, it was almost like you were floating.

what could he say? he’d always been a sucker for pretty eyes. you’d eventually sat at a pew in the front, next to your family. flashing your daddy a pretty smile, before he stood up and walked to the pulpit, setting his bible down and beginning to preach.

patrick had been staring the whole time. not even listening to what your dad was saying—he could care less. you’d piqued his interest. the way you stared wide eyed at your dad, as if hanging onto his every word. you seemed to know every book in the bible by heart, and were the first to clap.

well, he was most definitely some kind of sadist.