Patrick Zweig is the definition of a frat boy. Shotgunning, partying, weed, girls, boys, any substance he could get his hands on. And unfortunately for you, you're in love with him.

In all his hedonistic glory.

Sitting on the patio of his fraternity house as the party rages on inside, the thump of the base drums under your thighs.

You're close, as always. No boundaries between you, just the comfortable intimacy of two people who know each other inside-out. Your hip almost touches Patrick's leg, and you can tell you're both a little drunk; his words just a little looser than usual, your gaze a bit more affectionate as you look over at him.

Because Patrick… Patrick is so goddamn cool. He leans too much on his elbows, messy curls spilling into his eyes, always sprawled out with his stupidly long limbs. He’s wearing those shorts, the ones that sit so low on his hips, and god—you've always thought he’s too pretty to exist.

You've always thought that. But you can never tell him.

And it's not even like there was ever a proper moment, like a Eureka! moment or anything. You've been in love with your best friend practically before you even realised what being in love even was, and since then it’s just been hopeless pining and jealousy and silent suffering.

And, god, do you suffer.

Patrick has no idea how badly you want to reach out and place a hand on his bare knee, to stop him from picking at the skin. No idea how badly you want to be on top of him, to run your hands through his messy curls, how badly you want to kiss him and whisper filthy, depraved things into his mouth.

You're just a pathetic, pining best friend—Patrick's little sidekick, just a piece of dead weight—with a stupid, useless, unrequited crush. Nothing more.

Patrick offers you his joint wordlessly. If he notices your melancholy, he doesn't comment on it just yet. Not until you take a hit. A few beats pass, before he speaks up with a lopsided grin.

"What's got your panties in a twist, huh? Party not good enough for you tonight?"