Fic: A Little Less Sixteen Candles, A Little More Say Anything
For those of you who read A Little More Sixteen Candles, here's the sequel! I couldn't help myself. :'(
Title: A Little Less Sixteen Candles, A Little More Say Anything
Rating: NC-17-ish
Words: 7,656
There's some more Pete/Patrick and some Brendon/Ryan, in case you were wondering about these things. Also, high school.
And really, guys, I'm serious, this probably won't make any sense without reading the first one. Oh also props to thegoldsky for being my human spellcheck and also fixing some things. If there are other things wrong though please tell me?
Ew, HTML.
“Well,” Pete's mom says, one hand on her hip. She leans against the car window, peering in at Patrick. “At least you're not twenty eight.”
“Yeah, there ... there is that, isn't there.”
“I was worried Pete had been sleeping with another twenty eight year old, and that was why he hadn't brought anyone home lately. You're not thirteen, though, are you?”
“I, uh. Yeah, no, seventeen. Am. I, that's how old I am.” Patrick's stuttering, something he hasn't done since he was three and under attack by a flock of seagulls. It might have something to do with the fact that he's talking to Pete's mom while sitting in Pete's car, with Pete on his lap and his pants undone. “I'm seventeen. Old. Years old, I mean. Uh-huh.”
“That's good. I didn't think so, but it's so hard to tell these days.”
“Mom, can you like ... go back to bed?”
“Don't stay up too late, sweetie.”
--
“So-o,” Pete says, hands in his pockets. He looks up and down the street, then back at Patrick. Right now, they're in front of Patrick's house. The sun's just coming up, the sky lightening to pale grey around the edges.
“So?”
“So,” Pete says. “I, uh. Well, I'm gonna have to wash these pants in the sink or something before I take them to the dry cleaner's, but other than that I had a good time. So, uh.”
“Yeah,” Patrick says, leaning down to tug at the fabric of Pete's pants. “Ew, yeah. Yeah, that's a bit gross. Sorry about that.”
“I think it's mine.” Pete pauses. “Uh - could you, like, keep your hands away from my pants? Unless you have plans, I mean, in which case, go for it.”
“No, uh, I should probably go to sleep. I've been up for 24 hours, you know. My parents're gonna wake up soon, so we can't go inside, and the car ... yeah, no. But, uh. Some, you know, other time?”
“Some other time.” Pete nods. “Okay. So, hey.”
“Are you trying to say something, or what?”
“I was gonna ask if you wanna go on a date next weekend or something. You know. That kinda thing.”
“Well.” Patrick bites his lip. “I don't know what you - my parents are out of town in, like, two weeks from now. You could come over then. Kinda have plans next weekend, is all.”
“Yeah, no, that's cool. I was thinking more - no, sure. Sure. See you at school?”
Patrick grins, standing on his tiptoes to kiss Pete. “See you at school, man.”
--
“Hey, so,” Patrick says, still sleepy. “What d'you want to do today?”
Pete grins.
“Other than that.” He wriggles a little, trying to pull his sheets up with his toes. He's got Toy Story sheets, decorated with Buzz and Woody - and aren't those names like something out of bad porn - frozen forever with stupid smiles on their flat, 2-D faces. They've got maybe three poses each, which, when Patrick was younger, seemed like an infinite variety. Over the years, though, he's realized that it's more than just a little repetitive.
(The first time Pete sees this set of sheets is the first time he actually gets to go in Patrick's house - it's after school, before 5:30, so his parents are still out. “Dude, you have Toy Story sheets?” Pete asks him, laughing.
“Shut up,” Patrick says, and - well, he feels kind of guilty about it, but he shoves Pete down on the bed, and five and a half minutes later gets Pete off in front of the eternally open eyes of Buzz Lightyear. Which, when he thinks about it later, is kind of really fucking creepy; thus the guilt - having sex with cartoon characters staring on in blank-eyed happiness is kind of weird as shit. The only reason he still has the sheets is because, when he got them, he promised his mom that he wouldn't get tired of them 'coz they were just that cool. The only reason he remembers that fact is because she reminds him every time he asks if he can get rid of them.
“Hey, wait,” Patrick says, raising his hand so he can lick Pete's jizz off his fingers. Making a face, he decides that's a bad idea and grabs for a tissue. He peers down at Pete, squinting without his glasses. “You don't have any tan lines.”
“Well, no. Since I don't have a tan.”
“Oh.” Patrick pauses. Suddenly, a lot of things make sense. “Oh, okay.”
“Are you sure you're in AP classes?”)
Right now, Patrick's parents are out of town for the weekend. There's only a week left before seniors have their finals - two weeks before the rest of the school - but Pete insists he doesn't need to study. (Patrick makes occasional attempts to force him to study anyway -- “Nuh-uh, no more making out until you tell me how to figure out the length of the missing side of this triangle. I swear to god.”
“I could tell you how to figure out the length of my --”
“That's not going to help you on your math test, Pete.”
“Using your tongue.”
“No. Triangles. Now.”)
So Patrick's parents are out of town, and he's reveling in the fact. He actually skipped school Friday. His plan is to claim he missed the bus, if they ask. Never mind that he could have gotten a ride from Pete. He hasn't told his parents about Pete anyway. (His parents are pleasantly surprised to learn that their son has joined the school's philosophy club, though; they'd thought he would be a member of the Go Home After School club for the rest of his high school career. Patrick's not entirely sure if his school even has a philosophy club.)
He and Pete can have ice cream for breakfast - though Pete insists on fat-free, in a nod to the fact that he's still going to be playing soccer next year - and there's no one to reprimand them. They watch Price is Right and bad soap operas, wander the house in only their boxers, and - most importantly -- have lots of sex, and it's really nice, this sudden, temporary bout of freedom. It feels like they have all the time in the world. Patrick can't wait 'till summer.
For now, though, he buries his head in the curve of Pete's shoulder and breathes in deep. Pete smells like salt and sweat, and like the oatmeal soap Patrick's mom always buys. Of course Pete didn't bring any soap of his own. He's using Patrick's shampoo, too, which is borderline-annoying because Patrick's shampoo is kind of expensive. “Could go to a movie. I haven't seen Superman yet.”
“Sure you don't wanna rent Toy Story?”
“Shut up,” Patrick says, shoving at Pete. He grins, poking at Pete's bellybutton, right in the middle of what is, to date, Pete's only tattoo. (Pete keeps talking about getting more, how he's got all these ideas and he could do to have some more ink anyway, but he hasn't done anything yet.) Pete laughs, and - in a vicious turn - starts tickling Patrick's side. Patrick flinches away laughing -- “Mercy, mercy, I'm innocent!”
Pete has Patrick sprawled out under him on his back, and for a moment he just stops, looks down at Patrick. Patrick stares back. “Hey,” Pete breathes. “Hey, so, can I --”
“Yeah, let me find --”
Then.
"Ow, ow, fuck! Jesus Christ!” Patrick applies a foot to Pete's chest, shoving him backwards. He's a little surprised he can bend that way. “What the flying fuck made you think that was a good idea?!"
"Well, I mean," Pete says, confused. "If you were a chick ..."
"Pete," Patrick says, incredulous. "How many people have you actually had sex with?"
"I, uh," Pete says. "... I lost count?" he says, hopefully. "I've had sex with plenty of girls," he adds, sitting up and crossing his legs. He plants his hands firmly on his knees, staring at Patrick, who's still lying on his back, stretched out and decidedly naked. "There's been ten I slept with more than once, if we're talking girls. Beyond that, I couldn't really tell you."
"I'm talking boys, Pete." He pauses. "Boys you've made out with don't count. Boys who've blown you don't, either."
"Uh."
"Ho-ly shit." Patrick's trying not to, but he starts giggling. "I'll admit it, I'm impressed. I applaud you. You are still, technically, in one way, a virgin. Sweet."
"I am not," Pete says, defensive. He pins Patrick to the mattress again, breathing hard. "I am totally not."
"Just in the one way!" Patrick laughs. "Don't worry, don't worry, it's not an incurable affliction. I can help."
Pete shifts his weight, looks down between them. "Uh --"
"Oh, for god's sake. If you've got some, I don't know," Patrick says, because all this conversation is getting stupid and he's still hard and kind of wants to do something about that eventually. "Let me find some goddamn hand lotion or lube or something first. I swear to god I won't mind, if you'll listen to me and don't just try to stick it in without warning. Long as I can return the favor eventually, I mean."
“Haha, yeah. You know,” Pete says, suddenly serious.
Patrick looks at him. “You forgot where you left your phone?”
“No. I slept with Jeanae again on Thursday.”
“Because it's on the - wait, what?”
“Yup.”
“You - Jesus, I thought you two had - why?” Patrick's - used to the idea that Pete's sort of a whore, theoretically, and he's been told countless times that Pete cheats like no one's business. He didn't Pete would tell him about it. “Jesus motherfucking Christ.” This is the second time in less than ten minutes that he's kicked Pete Wentz, and this time he's serious about it.
“I was over at her house, and it just kinda happened,” Pete says, wincing. He's not looking Patrick in the eye. “You didn't have to kick me.”
“Fuck,” Patrick says, sitting up. For some reason, he pulls the sheets around himself, suddenly, strangely ashamed. “I just.” It's not like they've talked about their relationship. There's not been any talk of monogamy, of anything like that. Patrick had just sort of made apparently-unfounded assumptions. “Why the fuck would you do that?”
“I wasn't planning on it!”
“Get the fuck out of my house.”
Right about then, Patrick hears the front door open. He hears, “Patrick? Are you awake? We're home early.”
“Jesus. Fucking. Christ.” Patrick doesn't cry easy, but right now he sort of really wants to. He is maybe shaking.
“I was kidding,” Pete says, helpfully. “Just wanted to see how you'd react. Dude, seriously, do you even remember Thursday? I was only with you pretty much the whole day.”
“What the fuck,” Patrick says. “You're. Shit, just put your clothes on. Go out through the window or hide under the bed or something. Get the fuck out.”
“What?”
“Dude, did you not just hear - my fucking parents are home, you douche, and you and me are kind of really, seriously naked, and - fuck, I hate you so much right now.”
“Hey, I said I was kiddi --” Pete's cut off when Patrick pushes him to the floor. Thud. “Ow!”
“Patrick? Are you okay?”
“I'm fine, Mom!” Patrick curses under his breath, trying to figure out where the hell he put his boxers.
“We brought you back some souve ... niers.” His mom's expression stays frozen in a cheerful smile as she holds up a plastic bag. “Oh. Hello.”
“... Hi, Mrs. Stump,” Pete says, one leg partway into a pair of Patrick's too-small jeans. He's off-balance enough that he falls yet again, against the door of the closet he'd almost hid in. “I'm Pete. Uh. I - yeah, hey, 'sup. Have a nice trip?”
Patrick's mom stares at him, still smiling blankly. She keeps her eyes quite squarely centered on his face.
“I'll ... these aren't my pants. Shi - I mean. Crap. I'll,” Pete trails off, pulling on his own pants - sans underwear - and nabbing a random t-shirt, that's definitely one of Patrick's, seeing as it's from a band camp a few years back. “I'll be going now, how's that sound.” He turns, mumbling to Patrick -- “we have really bad luck with this kind of thing, don't we.”
“Hi, Mom.” Patrick waves. He holds his boxers in front of his crotch, not having quite enough time to have put them on. “Yeah. Yup. That's my friend Pete.”
“I, uh. Yeah. Nice to meet you. I - there's really no excuses I can make here, are there?”
“Your car was blocking the driveway,” Patrick's mom says. “We'd like to park the car in the garage soon, if that's not a problem.”
“Yee-up, I'm leaving.” Pete bites his lip, still mortified. He's moving slower then he should be. Patrick's mom is standing in the door, so he edges past her; she doesn't actually move. “I, uh, excuse me?”
“Of course,” she says. When the front door closes, she says, “Patrick? I'm glad you have friends who are willing to come over. Just.”
“I, yeaah,” Patrick says. He turns around to pull on his boxers. It's not like his mom hasn't seen him naked before, but still. “So, hey, I'm bi, I still like chicks. Just, you know. This's, uh - actually, I went to prom with Pete? If that's any comfort? That he's not a stranger, I mean.”
“I thought you went with that sweet Anna girl? I liked her.”
“Uh, we broke up in January, actually.” Patrick pauses. He wishes he had pockets to put his hands in, because he can't think what to do with them and keeps fidgeting. “And, I mean, you'd probably like Pete, too. He's cool, in his own weird way, you know? Even though he's crazy. He's the one who writes the words to all those songs I've been doing lately.”
“So when did you decide you were --”
“Oh, god,” Patrick says. “When did I - okay, you know, whatever. Are you going to disown me? Just tell me right now if you are.”
“Of course not,” his mom says. “I really would like it if you'd just find a nice girl to date, though.”
“Mom.” Patrick rakes a hand through his hair. “I, just. Me and Pete - I, I kind of really like him. A lot. Right now, I don't want to ... yeah. Don't worry; you don't ever have to see him again, if you don't want.”
“I think you should invite him over for dinner sometime.”
“Oh God.”
--
There's a really bizarre migration going on in the lunch room, slow but gradual. Pete's apparently shed some of his excess friends - the ones he says only liked him for his cute little ass - and moved to Patrick's table, most of the time. Some days he'll go back to his own table, drifting back and forth. People tend to follow him, shrapnel and innocent bystanders caught up in the whirlwind chaos that is Pete Wentz.
The other notable addition to Patrick's table - more accurately, the table that geeky Advanced Placement kids sit at - is a more permanent addition, who's blessedly drama-free. Before prom, Patrick had never spoken to Brendon. Now, the kid sits at their table, daily, usually next to Ryan. When there's space. When there's not, he'll stand around leaning on Ryan until someone moves, which someone inevitably will, because Ryan's whining is enough to clear a room.
Well. Okay. Ryan's not that bad. Anyway, Brendon sits next to him and steals Patrick's French fries and is generally personable and non-crazy. Except when he and Pete start talking to each other.
“Dude, dude, dude,” Pete says. “So my mom thinks I sleep with thirteen year olds.”
“What about that time you went out with that freshman --”
“Man, that's when I was sixteen. It doesn't count. Plus, she totally told me she was fourteen, okay?”
“You still boned a thirteen year old, is what I'm sayin'. I can see how your mom would be concerned.” Brendon frowns, then reaches out to steal Pete's milk. “You gotta cancel your subscription, because you've got way too many issues.”
“Why are we talking about this?” Ryan wonders, asking exactly what Patrick's been wondering all along. “I mean, we all know how many STDs Pete has. We don't need to know about his pedophilia.”
“What STDs? Just because I had scabies for a while --”
“And you didn't tell me?” Patrick asks, horrified and ready to get pissed off at Pete all over again.
“Wait, why does it matter?” Joe stares at Patrick, baffled. “Does it matter? Did I miss something?”
“Oh, god.”
“What? Nobody liked the issues line? I thought it was funny,” Brendon says. “Seriously, I've been waiting for a chance to use that one.”
“It was, Bren, it was,” Ryan says, patting him on the shoulder. “We're just too busy being traumatized by the Wentz.”
“So,” Patrick says. “Pete, Mom wants you to come to dinner sometime.”
“Ooh la la,” Joe says. “Meetin' the parents, huh? When's the wedding?”
“Joe? Shut up.”
“What? What did I do?”
--
Later that week, Patrick finally gets around to asking Ryan, via note, what's up with him and Brendon. He is, admittedly, kind of curious. Not like it's not obvious. But still.
This is what he gets in response:
'So OK, it was prom night, obviously. I went with this girl, who actually asked me since I was talking with some people about how I didn't have anybody to go to prom with. No one else wanted to do it, so I did, figuring I'd be nice for once and I guess have a reason to be there. We got there kind of late. Didn't have a limo or anything, which I guess she didn't like. People always want things to be perfect and match up to their expectations, even though that never happens ... anyway, so she bailed, and I was all, 'whatever.' It wasn't cool, anyway. So after a while you and Pete showed up, and Pete dragged Brendon over, and that wasn't too cool either, right?
Only eventually, when you guys had left, Brendon was saying something about Nevada, and so I went all, “Wait, Brendon Urie?” and he was all “Yeah, why?” There was this kind of awkward pause, him all staring at me and stuff and neither of us saying anything, then he figured it out, went, “Oh, wow, Ross? Ryan Ross?” and he hugged me and that was kind of awkward too, but I finally figured I should hug him back. More on this later.
So it turned out that things were cool. A little backstory, we'd gone to preschool together, and we were friends all the way through third grade, up until he moved away and we lost contact after the first week or so, save for occasional volleys of Christmas cards between our parents. I didn't move here until the end of fourth grade, and we were districted into different middle schools anyway so blahblahblah didn't recognize each other or whatever, and did I mention the part where apparently Brendon grew up to be really hot???
Because seriously, childhood friends aren't supposed to do that, but anyway, so I'm talking to this dude who used to be my best friend and is now fucking gorgeous, so when he asks what I'm doing after prom, and I tell him, “I don't know, you wanna do something?”
So Brendon says to me, “Hey, you want to go get fries somewhere?” and I'm all “What and ruin my girlish figure? How would I confuse jocks then?” and he laughed and we ended up getting fries at some 24 hour drive through restraunt and I'll just tell you the rest later because the teacher keeps staring at me. Do you know what chapter we're on?'
Patrick rolls his eyes, tossing off a quick note about how Ryan really needs to learn what verb tenses are for. He knows Ryan knows English - boy can write -- and that it's just a note, but still.
--
“You know,” Pete says, flipping through stations on the radio. “People always say other people are hot, but if that were literally true then no one would have much fun because everyone good-looking would always be catching on fire.”
“Only ugly people could have sex,” Patrick says. “It'd breed out eventually.”
“Yeah, but then standards would change, and people would start thinking the ugly people were hot and it'd just start up all over again.” Pete pauses for a moment. “Hey, I like this song.”
The radio is full of static, with only occasional snips of what might be voice or music. “Uh.”
“But anyway, I was just thinking about that. Like, if the words we used were true. If metaphors weren't just comparison.”
“We could eat the sun.”
“What the fuck?”
“People compare it to egg yolk. Shut up,” Patrick says. “It was a valid comment.”
“Uh-huh.” Pete hums along with - well, the static, apparently. He keeps humming, utterly tunelessly, until they get to Patrick's house. Thankfully, it's not much further. “So, hey, what time should I stop by for dinner tonight?”
“Oh, shit,” Patrick says. “That's tonight.”
--
“So,” Patrick's father says, looking at Pete appraisingly. “You're the one who turned my son gay.”
“Your son? He's ours.”
“Uh.” Pete blinks a few times, taken aback. “I can turn people gay now? Man, that's the lamest magic power ever. I'd rather be able to turn people into hedgehogs or something, because then I could raise a mighty hedgehog army.”
“I'm not even gay,” Patrick says meekly. Everyone mostly ignores him.
“How old are you? You look too old.”
“I'm still eighteen. Only a year older than Patrick.”
“He only just had his birthday. You're more than a year older.”
“Sorry for being born?”
“Apology accepted,” Patrick's mom said, smiling sweetly.
“Mom!”
“What? He was nice enough to apologize for his mistakes. I appreciate that. You could do to learn some manners from him.”
“That's -- ” Patrick cut himself off, mouth still half open. He tilted his head to the side - first to the right, then, when that didn't help, to the left.
“So, uh, these're some real good potatoes, Mrs. Stump,” Pete says, trying to break the silence. “Seriously delicious.”
“Why, thank you.” She looks pointedly at Patrick. “You really should ask Pete to teach you some manners.”
“Ooh-kay.”
“I don't like him,” Patrick's father says, talking behind his hand to his wife. He doesn't bother to whisper.
“Well, I think he's darling. At least he knows he's too old. That gives me hope. You will try to work on that, won't you?”
“Uh, yeah. Sure. Sure, I'll get right on that, Mrs. Stump.”
“These are the best years of your lives,” Patrick's father says. “Don't waste them.”
“Dude, I'm about to graduate. I already wasted them.” Pete pauses. “Well, they weren't wasted. I learned stuff, made some friends. Didn't really grow up any. I just said that because it seemed like the thing to say. So uh, you know. I got a 3.0. I play soccer. Don't do steroids or drugs; don't drink. Going to college. I've got prospects. You know.” He's babbling, adding things on as he thinks of them, trying to come up with reasons for Patrick's parents not to hate him, to think that he is, actually, the best thing for their son right now. He leaves out the obvious reasons they should be together, like, I think your son is incredibly hot and, though he is somewhat chubby, believe that that only adds to his charm and Hey, we can't get each other pregnant! and the natural follow-up to that, which is Plus, I really don't want to stop sleeping with him yet.
“You're probably going to community college.”
“Dad!”
“Sweetie, don't talk to your father that way. Honey, don't insult Pete. He's a nice boy. I'm sure he's going somewhere like Columbia College. That's a little better than community college.”
“You might as well,” Patrick's father says, suddenly full of friendly advice, “go find a crack addict on the street and ask him to teach you about ancient Rome.”
Pete stares at him for a while, then says, “Hey, Mrs. Stump, where'd you get that lamp? It goes with the paint color really well. I like it.”
“You have taste, you play sports, you're in Philosophy club with him, and you keep Patrick from sitting around at home alone on weekends!” Patrick's mom gushes. “I hope you don't watch television, unless you like the Food Network - do you cook?”
“Dude, I don't stay home that often, seriously.” Patrick sighs. “Everyone takes me places on Friday nights because I apparently never go anywhere on Friday, even though I end up going somewhere every weekend.”
“Our school has a Philosophy club?” Pete asks, then -- “oh, oh, right. Man, solipsism is the best ever. I feel pretty clever, having imagined this whole conversation.”
The silence that follows is the kind that would, in a cartoon, be emphasized with the chirping of crickets.
“The potatoes are really good tonight, Mom,” Patrick offers, helplessly.
“Why, thank you.” She smiles, holding a basket of rolls toward Pete. “Roll? You can take two if you remember to be younger next time.”
--
“So, okay, okay, guys. Guys. Stop talking about Family Guy, no one fucking cares. I have a serious question,” Travis says. “PS3 or Nintendo Wii?”
“But there was that chicken, that just came outta no --” Brendon starts, only to be silenced by a French fry to the head. “Hey, come on. It was funny.”
“This is an easy question,” Joe says. He waggles his fingers in the air as he squeals, “Wiiiii!” and freezes for a moment as everyone stares at him.
“Dude,” Travis says. “Dude.”
“It's more fun to say it that way. C'mon, try it.”
“I - you know what, no. Just no,” Ryan says. “The PS3 has cells, anyway. That makes it better. The Wii, what does the Wii have? Nothing. So there. Conversation over. Hey, Patrick, how'd things go the other night?”
“Those cells are gonna cost like six hundred bucks,” Travis says. “Plus, the hell are they supposed to be, anyway? Shit doesn't make sense. They're just making up words to get people all hyped.”
“What things?” Patrick asks. “Oh, the thing, with the parents and the meeting them and - yeah, no, it ... was ... special.”
“His mom makes good potatoes,” Pete chimes in. “Not like we don't get enough at school or anything. You tell her about the potato surplus, Patrick?”
“She just thinks I really like potatoes. I don't know.”
Joe says, “Wait, why is this important?”
“Because,” Ryan says, narrowing his eyes. Today they're surrounded by pale purple eyeshadow, lined in blue. “Because it means Patrick's parents don't hate Pete. They don't, right?”
Travis says, “Hey, hey. Ryan, man, how much do you spend on eyeliner and shit in a week? Seriously.”
“Four dollars. It's not that much. Shut up. So do they?”
“They, I don't know. Apparently he needs to work on being too old for me.”
“His mom says I'm darling. His dad wants me dead.”
“You gonna buy a time machine, bring yourself to the future so you'll be young enough?” Brendon asks, cheerfully.
“Uh.”
“I'm so lost,” Joe says. Travis pats him on the shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “You're talking about it like they're going steady or something.”
“Joe,” Ryan says. He stops himself. “Just. You seriously just used the phrase 'going steady,' didn't you. Man. Brendon, you're not that stupid, right?”
“Me, stupid? Of course not. I'm the soul of wit.” Brendon pauses. “Shit, does that mean I'm brevity? I don't want to be brevity. I gotta last a long time. I last long enough, right, Ry?”
Ryan covers his face, flushed bright red.
“I need a smoke,” Joe decides.
“Dude,” Patrick says. “Me'n'Pete went to prom, Joe.”
“Huh?” Joe blinks. “Wh - oh. Oh.” He says, “You know, things suddenly make sense?” He says, “I still need a smoke, though.”
--
“I feel like a freshman,” Ryan says. “And a girl. I wanna gossip; it's horrible.”
Where he and Patrick are right now is a diner, not too far from school; it's in walking distance, if you're willing to walk half an hour. The two of them were. Technically, school's not over yet. Patrick orders some actual food, because he's had enough of the goddamn potatoes school is so obsessed with.
Ryan gets a milkshake, and Patrick cracks up.
“What? What are you laughing at? Oh, shit, is my makeup smeared? I look like a raccoon, don't I.”
“What? No. No, dude, the makeup is fine. I still think you're crazy, but it's fine.”
“Oh,” Ryan says, sounding relieved. He's been peering at his face in the back of a spoon, trying to get a clear enough reflection to tell. “Oh, thank god. So wait, what was funny?”
“It wasn't. The milkshake thing. It's not that funny. Just, you know. Prom night. There was that stupid milkshake song, and Pete said my milkshake brought him to the yard, and I don't know. I just thought of it.”
“That's the stupidest thing I've ever,” Ryan starts. “Wait, no. Bren's said stupider, never mind.”
“Bren,” Patrick says, pointedly.
“I'm not allowed to shorten his name? It's a nickname. At least it's not 'that hot guy' or 'that kid I used to know.' I could call him that. You want me to call him that?”
“Hey, no, it's cool. Chill, RyRo. Chill.”
“Did you just call me RyRo? And tell me to chill?” For a moment, Ryan looks offended, then he laughs. “Oh my god, the first time Bren called me Ry - that's why I call him that. Because I got all pissed off, so he kept calling me that 'coz he said I was cute when I'm mad, so I started calling him Bren to piss him off. Only it didn't, and now we just kinda call each other that?”
“So, so, okay, you're feeling like a freshman girl, tell me shit. I want exposition.”
“Exposition is for novels.” Ryan waves a hand, gesturing at their surroundings. There's kitsch tacked to the walls, old posters and cardboard cut-outs of celebrities and toys on shelves. “This is not a novel. It's a shitty diner.” He grins, moves like he's going to rub at his eyes, then catches himself. “Shit, my face itches. I could poke myself with a fork. I don't know. So yeah, no, there's nothing to exposit on. Is that a word? Exposit. It should be. Yeah, so Bren and I hung out, then, you know, couple days later we went to a movie and got pizza and he was all, 'Haha, this is like a date, dinner and a movie' and I was all 'I thought it was, asshole' and he was all 'Oh, okay.' So you know.” Ryan pauses. “He's a great lay. Just so you know, since you're never gonna find out for yourself.”
“I - okay. I wasn't wondering about that in particular, but that's good to know. Thank you. If I am ever in a life-or-death situation where I need to identify someone who's a good lay, I'll have Brendon Urie's name to give out.”
“Seriously,” Ryan laughs, ducking his head a little and covering his mouth with his hand when he does. “There was this one time, I guess my makeup wasn't waterproof, and - well, you know, the shower, so somehow it ended up --”
“Holy - Ryan, no. Stop talking. I - no, don't make that face, it's okay. Really. There's just, like, three year olds at the next table over.”
“Oh. Uhm.”
“Yeah, see.”
--
“Let's run away,” Pete says.
So they do.
The last day of school for seniors ends, and he and Patrick get in the car and drive. Patrick doesn't ask where they're going; he closes his eyes, for a while, and when he wakes up they're on a one-lane road shadowed by tall, dark trees.
Pete looks over at him -- “You awake?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” Pete stops the car at the side of the road, pulling off onto the narrow shoulder. Sticks and plants crack underneath the weight of the wheels. “Let's go.” The door handle sounds like a distant gunshot, crk, as the door swings open and outward. The slam that follows is worse. Patrick, when he gets out, closes the door all careful and quiet.
The sky is a gaudy, boastful red-purple, all bright-brilliant. The sun hangs tumor-like and red, seems frozen where it is. Patrick stares straight at it, and when he closes his eyes he sees bright gold dragons swimming through the murky darkness. Pete walks around to stand close beside him, radiating heat and presence. The moment feels like forever, the air still and ancient-smelling.
Pete says, suddenly, “I've got too many feelings I don't want these days. I wish I could take them to Goodwill, donate my emotions to charity. There has to be someone else who wants them. What kind of tax break do you think I'd get for giving away my heart?”
Patrick keeps his eyes closed when Pete wraps his arms around him. Sweat glues their foreheads together. “You'd just give it away to a stranger?”
Pete laughs. “I've tried that enough times already, I guess, but I keep getting the damn thing back. Like that song, you know, about the - the cat came back the ve-ry next day. Thirty-day return policy or some shit, I don't know. Don't you try to return it, or I'll tear up the receipt.”
“God damn,” Patrick says. “It gets really dark out here.”
“You have your fucking eyes closed.”
Patrick opens his eyes. “Man, I seriously just got confused by that, didn't I. Shit.”
“Seriously, you're not in AP classes. You can't be. It's all a hoax. You're too stupid.”
“Gee, thanks.” Patrick squints at Pete in the dimming light, pulling away to examine him. “You don't usually smile like that at school. I mean, it's different.”
“Yeah.” Pete's quiet, for once. “Well.”
“Huh.” Patrick pushes him against a tree - there's a nice one closer than the car - and kisses him. “So what are we doing out here?”
“There's a meteor shower. Seriously, like the day I get out of high school. A meteor shower. That's goddamn auspicious right there.”
“Dude,” Patrick says, nodding his approval. He puts a hand on Pete's shoulder, leans against him a little, and looks around. This side of the road has trees - they get thicker the farther you go from the road - but the other side is mostly scrub and grass, with a clear view of the western horizon. The sun is still barely visible in that direction, there more for show than any useful purpose.
They go to stand in the field. The grass tickles at Patrick's ankles, and twigs scrape at his legs. A bug crawls up his arm; he holds it out to show Pete, who laughs and tries to pick it up. The bug isn't having any of that, and flies off, wings buzzing angrily.
When Pete sits down, he pulls Patrick with him, tugging on his wrist. He says, “Hey,” and looks up. The moon is huge and yellow-orange, and Patrick can't believe he didn't notice it before.
“Well, shit,” Patrick says, leaning back. He turns a little, half-watching Pete and half-watching the sky. He reaches out with one hand and leaves it splayed against Pete's chest. With the pads of his fingers, he can feel Pete's heartbeat, steady and buried layers deep under fabric and skin and bone. With his fingers, he can feel the most cliché bassline in the world, the solemn up&down tha-thum rhythm. He wants to imitate it.
Pete covers Patrick's hand with his own and holds it there.
“Where are we?”
“Michigan,” Pete says, “right in the middle of the palm.” Pete pokes at the middle of Patrick's hand before tangling their fingers together.
“Shit,” Patrick says.
“Yeah, I was wondering if it was too far. Sorry. Should've just headed south a bit. To, like, Rochelle or something.”
“The hell is Rochelle?” Patrick says, then quickly amends himself. “I mean, no, no, it's cool. This is good. We should have gone farther. Out east, all the way to the ocean.”
“Hah, you would've woken up before we even got close.”
“We could still do it,” Patrick insists. He's surprised at how serious he is. The ocean right now would be huge and black, like Lake Michigan but endlessly full of life, infinitely larger and deeper. The air would be thick and heavy with salt. Maybe they'd be ordered out of the water at night for fear of sharks, jellyfish, stingrays, any number of dark creatures. In the darkness, the breaking waves would spread across the sand like fine white lace. Their rhythm would be the same, almost, as Pete's heartbeat.
“You've got school Tuesday,” Pete laughs. Patrick looks at him, and Pete seems to understand, says, “Seriously, we wouldn't be able to get there and back in time. It wouldn't be worth it.”
“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Yeah, no, you're right. You're right. Okay. I don't have a swimsuit with me anyway.”
Pete laughs, and again the corners of his eyes crinkle. He looks up. He says, “Hey, look at that. I feel like I'm cheating, though.”
“What?”
“Making wishes on shooting stars. There's so many of them, and I have so many stupid little things to wish for. The sky'll be empty before I come up with a wish that's worth it.”
“Huh,” Patrick says. “Yeah.”
They're silent for a while, watching the meteors fall, earthbound. Pete says, quiet, “So DC United wants me. And people have been, you know, saying stuff about Real Madrid. Seriously. Real fucking Madrid.”
“Shit,” Patrick says. “You mean the soccer teams?”
“No, the Quidditch teams. Shut up. Of course the soccer teams. Yeah.”
“Well, shit. You're that good on a broom?” Patrick says, then, “Sorry, sorry. Wow.”
“So yeah,” Pete says. “Yeah, I don't know. I gotta figure something out, I guess, eventually.”
“There you go,” Patrick says. He points up, traces one meteor's downward path with a finger.
“There I go what? Where? That sentence didn't go anywhere.”
“Never mind. How long's it gonna take to get home?”
“Shit, I don't know.” Pete scratches his head, frowning. “Few hours. I don't wanna drive that far tonight.”
“God damn, my parents are gonna kill me already. Might as well let them kill me dead-er. Hotel?”
“Hotel.”
--
Patrick wakes up to the feeling of something smooth and wet sliding over his skin. He cracks one eye open, afraid to look. What he sees is Pete, with a marker, drawing something. On his stomach.
“God damn it,” Patrick says, sitting up and grabbing for the marker.
“Ahh, you ruined it, you ruined it! C'mon, let me finish,” Pete whines. “I went all the way to the drugstore and back to get this marker, and you're gonna let me finish this or - or else.”
“Or else,” Patrick repeats dryly. “Yeah, no. What are you doing?”
“You'll see. It's cool, I swear. C'mon?”
Patrick rolls his eyes and lays down again, arms crossed behind his head. He stares up at the ceiling. “Hurry it up, this is boring.”
“Close your eyes.”
“Jesus,” Patrick says, but he does as he's told. There's more scribbling, like Pete's coloring in whatever the fuck he's drawing, then that's done and - and Pete doesn't say anything. “You done?”
“Hmm,” Pete says. His fingertips trace a shape over Patrick's stomach, meeting somewhere close to the middle. Patrick can't tell what it is. Then Pete's fingers are wandering lower. “Keep your eyes closed?”
Patrick's not going to complain. The bed shifts, with a slight creak, and Pete is warm next to him, one knee between his legs. The cheap hotel sheets are a little scratchy. “He-ey,” Pete says, his lips brushing the curve of Patrick's ear when he talks. He says, “So, it's like five in the morning. Usually I hate getting up this early, but I never went to sleep. I just watched you. That made up for it. We can sleep in, later. Or I can. You can do whatever you want. Right now,” he says, his teeth scraping against Patrick's throat. “Right now, I kind of wish I had something to tie you up with. Will you stay still?”
“Yeah,” Patrick says, “yeah, sure.” He still has his arms behind his head. His hands are just starting to fall asleep; he's just starting to get hard.
Pete's lips are rough and chapped and a bit wet with spit, which seems like it should be gross but isn't. He rolls his tongue over on of Patrick's nipples, still with one hand pressed flat against Patrick's stomach, covering up the tiny twitches of muscle. Patrick opens his eyes, starts to shift his weight so he can watch Pete better, but Pete says, “Shh, what'd I tell you?” with his breath hot and damp, so Patrick stays where he is.
There's this strange little spot right dead-center above Patrick's sternum that makes him sigh and flinch away and shift his hips up at the same time. He wants to run, wants to fight, wants to do something with all this energy he suddenly has. His heart is tachycardic - and there's a word he likes, tachycardic, because it reminds him of the fact that he's not in school right now.
Pete, for whatever reason, keeps that one hand on Patrick's stomach while he wraps the other around Patrick's dick, rubs re-eal slow and deliberate-like. He's half-sitting at this awkward angle now, so he can give Patrick a handjob and kiss him and try to hold him down all at once, and that can't be comfortable, the way his leg is bent like that, and his knee is digging into Patrick's side.
Pete's teeth are goddamn sharp, Patrick's learning, especially now that he's kissing all rough and desperate and keeps using his teeth, and it hurts, but that's kind of hot too. Patrick shifts just slightly, puts a hand behind Pete's head to pull him close, but - god damn it.
“Nuh-uh,” Pete says.
“The hell, man, come on.” This has Patrick baffled, really. “You gotta at least want some reciprocation.”
“Later. Hands behind your head, come on. Lemme do this for you.”
“The fuck,” Patrick says, but he's not going to argue if Pete keeps - if Pete decides to give him a blowjob. That's definitely not something he's going to complain about, because Pete's watching him while he does it, Pete has his mouth around the head of Patrick's dick and his tongue can do the most amazing things. “Oh, shit, okay.”
This whole not-moving thing is frustrating, because Patrick - he really is feeling all twitchy, though by now he's mastered the art of not fucking Pete's mouth. He's not sure if that's a skill to be proud of or not, though he is sure it's not one anyone else needs to know about.
Another thing - Pete's been playing the bass more lately, and apparently practicing beyond the occasional mini-lesson Patrick's been giving him, because the fingers on his left hand have developed these rough calluses that make for the best kind of friction.
Patrick bites down on his lip, feels like being quiet for some reason, to go along with the stillness. He squints at Pete, one eye closed and the other nearly there. He tenses up, can't help but make a little squeaky noise - and that's not embarrassing, not at all! -- and then, then he's shaking just a little, and he's done, and Pete smiles up at him, says, “'Kay, you can get up now.”
Of course he says that when Patrick mostly just wants to stay right where he is, sprawled out on the bed, though he does shift his weight a little, spreads his arms out in a belated attempt to keep them from falling asleep.
Pete snuggles up against him, and Patrick somehow can't quite fall asleep. The room's mostly quiet, except the people in the next room over have the volume up way too loud, and in the room above them it sounds like the guests have decided to redecorate their hotel room by stomping and dragging furniture around. Buried somewhere under it all is the sound of not-too-distant waves. Patrick sits up, stretching. “Gonna get a glass of water.”
“'Kay.”
“Man, you seriously drew that fucking bat thing on me, didn't you,” Patrick says, poking at his stomach while staring in the mirror.
Pete gets up, following after him. “Yup.”
“God damn. Marking your territory in permanent marker? Why not just knock me out and tattoo it on me while I'm unconscious, while you're at it.”
“You know ...” Pete says, thoughtful.
“No.”
“But we'd match!”
“No. Come on,” Patrick says, pulling on a pair of swim trunks. “We did not get this hotel room to stay inside all day.”
“I bet there're tattoo parlors on the boardwalk.”
Patrick stares at Pete, who's making puppy-dog eyes at him, and sighs.
“God damn it,” he says.
Title: A Little Less Sixteen Candles, A Little More Say Anything
Rating: NC-17-ish
Words: 7,656
There's some more Pete/Patrick and some Brendon/Ryan, in case you were wondering about these things. Also, high school.
And really, guys, I'm serious, this probably won't make any sense without reading the first one. Oh also props to thegoldsky for being my human spellcheck and also fixing some things. If there are other things wrong though please tell me?
Ew, HTML.
“Well,” Pete's mom says, one hand on her hip. She leans against the car window, peering in at Patrick. “At least you're not twenty eight.”
“Yeah, there ... there is that, isn't there.”
“I was worried Pete had been sleeping with another twenty eight year old, and that was why he hadn't brought anyone home lately. You're not thirteen, though, are you?”
“I, uh. Yeah, no, seventeen. Am. I, that's how old I am.” Patrick's stuttering, something he hasn't done since he was three and under attack by a flock of seagulls. It might have something to do with the fact that he's talking to Pete's mom while sitting in Pete's car, with Pete on his lap and his pants undone. “I'm seventeen. Old. Years old, I mean. Uh-huh.”
“That's good. I didn't think so, but it's so hard to tell these days.”
“Mom, can you like ... go back to bed?”
“Don't stay up too late, sweetie.”
--
“So-o,” Pete says, hands in his pockets. He looks up and down the street, then back at Patrick. Right now, they're in front of Patrick's house. The sun's just coming up, the sky lightening to pale grey around the edges.
“So?”
“So,” Pete says. “I, uh. Well, I'm gonna have to wash these pants in the sink or something before I take them to the dry cleaner's, but other than that I had a good time. So, uh.”
“Yeah,” Patrick says, leaning down to tug at the fabric of Pete's pants. “Ew, yeah. Yeah, that's a bit gross. Sorry about that.”
“I think it's mine.” Pete pauses. “Uh - could you, like, keep your hands away from my pants? Unless you have plans, I mean, in which case, go for it.”
“No, uh, I should probably go to sleep. I've been up for 24 hours, you know. My parents're gonna wake up soon, so we can't go inside, and the car ... yeah, no. But, uh. Some, you know, other time?”
“Some other time.” Pete nods. “Okay. So, hey.”
“Are you trying to say something, or what?”
“I was gonna ask if you wanna go on a date next weekend or something. You know. That kinda thing.”
“Well.” Patrick bites his lip. “I don't know what you - my parents are out of town in, like, two weeks from now. You could come over then. Kinda have plans next weekend, is all.”
“Yeah, no, that's cool. I was thinking more - no, sure. Sure. See you at school?”
Patrick grins, standing on his tiptoes to kiss Pete. “See you at school, man.”
--
“Hey, so,” Patrick says, still sleepy. “What d'you want to do today?”
Pete grins.
“Other than that.” He wriggles a little, trying to pull his sheets up with his toes. He's got Toy Story sheets, decorated with Buzz and Woody - and aren't those names like something out of bad porn - frozen forever with stupid smiles on their flat, 2-D faces. They've got maybe three poses each, which, when Patrick was younger, seemed like an infinite variety. Over the years, though, he's realized that it's more than just a little repetitive.
(The first time Pete sees this set of sheets is the first time he actually gets to go in Patrick's house - it's after school, before 5:30, so his parents are still out. “Dude, you have Toy Story sheets?” Pete asks him, laughing.
“Shut up,” Patrick says, and - well, he feels kind of guilty about it, but he shoves Pete down on the bed, and five and a half minutes later gets Pete off in front of the eternally open eyes of Buzz Lightyear. Which, when he thinks about it later, is kind of really fucking creepy; thus the guilt - having sex with cartoon characters staring on in blank-eyed happiness is kind of weird as shit. The only reason he still has the sheets is because, when he got them, he promised his mom that he wouldn't get tired of them 'coz they were just that cool. The only reason he remembers that fact is because she reminds him every time he asks if he can get rid of them.
“Hey, wait,” Patrick says, raising his hand so he can lick Pete's jizz off his fingers. Making a face, he decides that's a bad idea and grabs for a tissue. He peers down at Pete, squinting without his glasses. “You don't have any tan lines.”
“Well, no. Since I don't have a tan.”
“Oh.” Patrick pauses. Suddenly, a lot of things make sense. “Oh, okay.”
“Are you sure you're in AP classes?”)
Right now, Patrick's parents are out of town for the weekend. There's only a week left before seniors have their finals - two weeks before the rest of the school - but Pete insists he doesn't need to study. (Patrick makes occasional attempts to force him to study anyway -- “Nuh-uh, no more making out until you tell me how to figure out the length of the missing side of this triangle. I swear to god.”
“I could tell you how to figure out the length of my --”
“That's not going to help you on your math test, Pete.”
“Using your tongue.”
“No. Triangles. Now.”)
So Patrick's parents are out of town, and he's reveling in the fact. He actually skipped school Friday. His plan is to claim he missed the bus, if they ask. Never mind that he could have gotten a ride from Pete. He hasn't told his parents about Pete anyway. (His parents are pleasantly surprised to learn that their son has joined the school's philosophy club, though; they'd thought he would be a member of the Go Home After School club for the rest of his high school career. Patrick's not entirely sure if his school even has a philosophy club.)
He and Pete can have ice cream for breakfast - though Pete insists on fat-free, in a nod to the fact that he's still going to be playing soccer next year - and there's no one to reprimand them. They watch Price is Right and bad soap operas, wander the house in only their boxers, and - most importantly -- have lots of sex, and it's really nice, this sudden, temporary bout of freedom. It feels like they have all the time in the world. Patrick can't wait 'till summer.
For now, though, he buries his head in the curve of Pete's shoulder and breathes in deep. Pete smells like salt and sweat, and like the oatmeal soap Patrick's mom always buys. Of course Pete didn't bring any soap of his own. He's using Patrick's shampoo, too, which is borderline-annoying because Patrick's shampoo is kind of expensive. “Could go to a movie. I haven't seen Superman yet.”
“Sure you don't wanna rent Toy Story?”
“Shut up,” Patrick says, shoving at Pete. He grins, poking at Pete's bellybutton, right in the middle of what is, to date, Pete's only tattoo. (Pete keeps talking about getting more, how he's got all these ideas and he could do to have some more ink anyway, but he hasn't done anything yet.) Pete laughs, and - in a vicious turn - starts tickling Patrick's side. Patrick flinches away laughing -- “Mercy, mercy, I'm innocent!”
Pete has Patrick sprawled out under him on his back, and for a moment he just stops, looks down at Patrick. Patrick stares back. “Hey,” Pete breathes. “Hey, so, can I --”
“Yeah, let me find --”
Then.
"Ow, ow, fuck! Jesus Christ!” Patrick applies a foot to Pete's chest, shoving him backwards. He's a little surprised he can bend that way. “What the flying fuck made you think that was a good idea?!"
"Well, I mean," Pete says, confused. "If you were a chick ..."
"Pete," Patrick says, incredulous. "How many people have you actually had sex with?"
"I, uh," Pete says. "... I lost count?" he says, hopefully. "I've had sex with plenty of girls," he adds, sitting up and crossing his legs. He plants his hands firmly on his knees, staring at Patrick, who's still lying on his back, stretched out and decidedly naked. "There's been ten I slept with more than once, if we're talking girls. Beyond that, I couldn't really tell you."
"I'm talking boys, Pete." He pauses. "Boys you've made out with don't count. Boys who've blown you don't, either."
"Uh."
"Ho-ly shit." Patrick's trying not to, but he starts giggling. "I'll admit it, I'm impressed. I applaud you. You are still, technically, in one way, a virgin. Sweet."
"I am not," Pete says, defensive. He pins Patrick to the mattress again, breathing hard. "I am totally not."
"Just in the one way!" Patrick laughs. "Don't worry, don't worry, it's not an incurable affliction. I can help."
Pete shifts his weight, looks down between them. "Uh --"
"Oh, for god's sake. If you've got some, I don't know," Patrick says, because all this conversation is getting stupid and he's still hard and kind of wants to do something about that eventually. "Let me find some goddamn hand lotion or lube or something first. I swear to god I won't mind, if you'll listen to me and don't just try to stick it in without warning. Long as I can return the favor eventually, I mean."
“Haha, yeah. You know,” Pete says, suddenly serious.
Patrick looks at him. “You forgot where you left your phone?”
“No. I slept with Jeanae again on Thursday.”
“Because it's on the - wait, what?”
“Yup.”
“You - Jesus, I thought you two had - why?” Patrick's - used to the idea that Pete's sort of a whore, theoretically, and he's been told countless times that Pete cheats like no one's business. He didn't Pete would tell him about it. “Jesus motherfucking Christ.” This is the second time in less than ten minutes that he's kicked Pete Wentz, and this time he's serious about it.
“I was over at her house, and it just kinda happened,” Pete says, wincing. He's not looking Patrick in the eye. “You didn't have to kick me.”
“Fuck,” Patrick says, sitting up. For some reason, he pulls the sheets around himself, suddenly, strangely ashamed. “I just.” It's not like they've talked about their relationship. There's not been any talk of monogamy, of anything like that. Patrick had just sort of made apparently-unfounded assumptions. “Why the fuck would you do that?”
“I wasn't planning on it!”
“Get the fuck out of my house.”
Right about then, Patrick hears the front door open. He hears, “Patrick? Are you awake? We're home early.”
“Jesus. Fucking. Christ.” Patrick doesn't cry easy, but right now he sort of really wants to. He is maybe shaking.
“I was kidding,” Pete says, helpfully. “Just wanted to see how you'd react. Dude, seriously, do you even remember Thursday? I was only with you pretty much the whole day.”
“What the fuck,” Patrick says. “You're. Shit, just put your clothes on. Go out through the window or hide under the bed or something. Get the fuck out.”
“What?”
“Dude, did you not just hear - my fucking parents are home, you douche, and you and me are kind of really, seriously naked, and - fuck, I hate you so much right now.”
“Hey, I said I was kiddi --” Pete's cut off when Patrick pushes him to the floor. Thud. “Ow!”
“Patrick? Are you okay?”
“I'm fine, Mom!” Patrick curses under his breath, trying to figure out where the hell he put his boxers.
“We brought you back some souve ... niers.” His mom's expression stays frozen in a cheerful smile as she holds up a plastic bag. “Oh. Hello.”
“... Hi, Mrs. Stump,” Pete says, one leg partway into a pair of Patrick's too-small jeans. He's off-balance enough that he falls yet again, against the door of the closet he'd almost hid in. “I'm Pete. Uh. I - yeah, hey, 'sup. Have a nice trip?”
Patrick's mom stares at him, still smiling blankly. She keeps her eyes quite squarely centered on his face.
“I'll ... these aren't my pants. Shi - I mean. Crap. I'll,” Pete trails off, pulling on his own pants - sans underwear - and nabbing a random t-shirt, that's definitely one of Patrick's, seeing as it's from a band camp a few years back. “I'll be going now, how's that sound.” He turns, mumbling to Patrick -- “we have really bad luck with this kind of thing, don't we.”
“Hi, Mom.” Patrick waves. He holds his boxers in front of his crotch, not having quite enough time to have put them on. “Yeah. Yup. That's my friend Pete.”
“I, uh. Yeah. Nice to meet you. I - there's really no excuses I can make here, are there?”
“Your car was blocking the driveway,” Patrick's mom says. “We'd like to park the car in the garage soon, if that's not a problem.”
“Yee-up, I'm leaving.” Pete bites his lip, still mortified. He's moving slower then he should be. Patrick's mom is standing in the door, so he edges past her; she doesn't actually move. “I, uh, excuse me?”
“Of course,” she says. When the front door closes, she says, “Patrick? I'm glad you have friends who are willing to come over. Just.”
“I, yeaah,” Patrick says. He turns around to pull on his boxers. It's not like his mom hasn't seen him naked before, but still. “So, hey, I'm bi, I still like chicks. Just, you know. This's, uh - actually, I went to prom with Pete? If that's any comfort? That he's not a stranger, I mean.”
“I thought you went with that sweet Anna girl? I liked her.”
“Uh, we broke up in January, actually.” Patrick pauses. He wishes he had pockets to put his hands in, because he can't think what to do with them and keeps fidgeting. “And, I mean, you'd probably like Pete, too. He's cool, in his own weird way, you know? Even though he's crazy. He's the one who writes the words to all those songs I've been doing lately.”
“So when did you decide you were --”
“Oh, god,” Patrick says. “When did I - okay, you know, whatever. Are you going to disown me? Just tell me right now if you are.”
“Of course not,” his mom says. “I really would like it if you'd just find a nice girl to date, though.”
“Mom.” Patrick rakes a hand through his hair. “I, just. Me and Pete - I, I kind of really like him. A lot. Right now, I don't want to ... yeah. Don't worry; you don't ever have to see him again, if you don't want.”
“I think you should invite him over for dinner sometime.”
“Oh God.”
--
There's a really bizarre migration going on in the lunch room, slow but gradual. Pete's apparently shed some of his excess friends - the ones he says only liked him for his cute little ass - and moved to Patrick's table, most of the time. Some days he'll go back to his own table, drifting back and forth. People tend to follow him, shrapnel and innocent bystanders caught up in the whirlwind chaos that is Pete Wentz.
The other notable addition to Patrick's table - more accurately, the table that geeky Advanced Placement kids sit at - is a more permanent addition, who's blessedly drama-free. Before prom, Patrick had never spoken to Brendon. Now, the kid sits at their table, daily, usually next to Ryan. When there's space. When there's not, he'll stand around leaning on Ryan until someone moves, which someone inevitably will, because Ryan's whining is enough to clear a room.
Well. Okay. Ryan's not that bad. Anyway, Brendon sits next to him and steals Patrick's French fries and is generally personable and non-crazy. Except when he and Pete start talking to each other.
“Dude, dude, dude,” Pete says. “So my mom thinks I sleep with thirteen year olds.”
“What about that time you went out with that freshman --”
“Man, that's when I was sixteen. It doesn't count. Plus, she totally told me she was fourteen, okay?”
“You still boned a thirteen year old, is what I'm sayin'. I can see how your mom would be concerned.” Brendon frowns, then reaches out to steal Pete's milk. “You gotta cancel your subscription, because you've got way too many issues.”
“Why are we talking about this?” Ryan wonders, asking exactly what Patrick's been wondering all along. “I mean, we all know how many STDs Pete has. We don't need to know about his pedophilia.”
“What STDs? Just because I had scabies for a while --”
“And you didn't tell me?” Patrick asks, horrified and ready to get pissed off at Pete all over again.
“Wait, why does it matter?” Joe stares at Patrick, baffled. “Does it matter? Did I miss something?”
“Oh, god.”
“What? Nobody liked the issues line? I thought it was funny,” Brendon says. “Seriously, I've been waiting for a chance to use that one.”
“It was, Bren, it was,” Ryan says, patting him on the shoulder. “We're just too busy being traumatized by the Wentz.”
“So,” Patrick says. “Pete, Mom wants you to come to dinner sometime.”
“Ooh la la,” Joe says. “Meetin' the parents, huh? When's the wedding?”
“Joe? Shut up.”
“What? What did I do?”
--
Later that week, Patrick finally gets around to asking Ryan, via note, what's up with him and Brendon. He is, admittedly, kind of curious. Not like it's not obvious. But still.
This is what he gets in response:
'So OK, it was prom night, obviously. I went with this girl, who actually asked me since I was talking with some people about how I didn't have anybody to go to prom with. No one else wanted to do it, so I did, figuring I'd be nice for once and I guess have a reason to be there. We got there kind of late. Didn't have a limo or anything, which I guess she didn't like. People always want things to be perfect and match up to their expectations, even though that never happens ... anyway, so she bailed, and I was all, 'whatever.' It wasn't cool, anyway. So after a while you and Pete showed up, and Pete dragged Brendon over, and that wasn't too cool either, right?
Only eventually, when you guys had left, Brendon was saying something about Nevada, and so I went all, “Wait, Brendon Urie?” and he was all “Yeah, why?” There was this kind of awkward pause, him all staring at me and stuff and neither of us saying anything, then he figured it out, went, “Oh, wow, Ross? Ryan Ross?” and he hugged me and that was kind of awkward too, but I finally figured I should hug him back. More on this later.
So it turned out that things were cool. A little backstory, we'd gone to preschool together, and we were friends all the way through third grade, up until he moved away and we lost contact after the first week or so, save for occasional volleys of Christmas cards between our parents. I didn't move here until the end of fourth grade, and we were districted into different middle schools anyway so blahblahblah didn't recognize each other or whatever, and did I mention the part where apparently Brendon grew up to be really hot???
Because seriously, childhood friends aren't supposed to do that, but anyway, so I'm talking to this dude who used to be my best friend and is now fucking gorgeous, so when he asks what I'm doing after prom, and I tell him, “I don't know, you wanna do something?”
So Brendon says to me, “Hey, you want to go get fries somewhere?” and I'm all “What and ruin my girlish figure? How would I confuse jocks then?” and he laughed and we ended up getting fries at some 24 hour drive through restraunt and I'll just tell you the rest later because the teacher keeps staring at me. Do you know what chapter we're on?'
Patrick rolls his eyes, tossing off a quick note about how Ryan really needs to learn what verb tenses are for. He knows Ryan knows English - boy can write -- and that it's just a note, but still.
--
“You know,” Pete says, flipping through stations on the radio. “People always say other people are hot, but if that were literally true then no one would have much fun because everyone good-looking would always be catching on fire.”
“Only ugly people could have sex,” Patrick says. “It'd breed out eventually.”
“Yeah, but then standards would change, and people would start thinking the ugly people were hot and it'd just start up all over again.” Pete pauses for a moment. “Hey, I like this song.”
The radio is full of static, with only occasional snips of what might be voice or music. “Uh.”
“But anyway, I was just thinking about that. Like, if the words we used were true. If metaphors weren't just comparison.”
“We could eat the sun.”
“What the fuck?”
“People compare it to egg yolk. Shut up,” Patrick says. “It was a valid comment.”
“Uh-huh.” Pete hums along with - well, the static, apparently. He keeps humming, utterly tunelessly, until they get to Patrick's house. Thankfully, it's not much further. “So, hey, what time should I stop by for dinner tonight?”
“Oh, shit,” Patrick says. “That's tonight.”
--
“So,” Patrick's father says, looking at Pete appraisingly. “You're the one who turned my son gay.”
“Your son? He's ours.”
“Uh.” Pete blinks a few times, taken aback. “I can turn people gay now? Man, that's the lamest magic power ever. I'd rather be able to turn people into hedgehogs or something, because then I could raise a mighty hedgehog army.”
“I'm not even gay,” Patrick says meekly. Everyone mostly ignores him.
“How old are you? You look too old.”
“I'm still eighteen. Only a year older than Patrick.”
“He only just had his birthday. You're more than a year older.”
“Sorry for being born?”
“Apology accepted,” Patrick's mom said, smiling sweetly.
“Mom!”
“What? He was nice enough to apologize for his mistakes. I appreciate that. You could do to learn some manners from him.”
“That's -- ” Patrick cut himself off, mouth still half open. He tilted his head to the side - first to the right, then, when that didn't help, to the left.
“So, uh, these're some real good potatoes, Mrs. Stump,” Pete says, trying to break the silence. “Seriously delicious.”
“Why, thank you.” She looks pointedly at Patrick. “You really should ask Pete to teach you some manners.”
“Ooh-kay.”
“I don't like him,” Patrick's father says, talking behind his hand to his wife. He doesn't bother to whisper.
“Well, I think he's darling. At least he knows he's too old. That gives me hope. You will try to work on that, won't you?”
“Uh, yeah. Sure. Sure, I'll get right on that, Mrs. Stump.”
“These are the best years of your lives,” Patrick's father says. “Don't waste them.”
“Dude, I'm about to graduate. I already wasted them.” Pete pauses. “Well, they weren't wasted. I learned stuff, made some friends. Didn't really grow up any. I just said that because it seemed like the thing to say. So uh, you know. I got a 3.0. I play soccer. Don't do steroids or drugs; don't drink. Going to college. I've got prospects. You know.” He's babbling, adding things on as he thinks of them, trying to come up with reasons for Patrick's parents not to hate him, to think that he is, actually, the best thing for their son right now. He leaves out the obvious reasons they should be together, like, I think your son is incredibly hot and, though he is somewhat chubby, believe that that only adds to his charm and Hey, we can't get each other pregnant! and the natural follow-up to that, which is Plus, I really don't want to stop sleeping with him yet.
“You're probably going to community college.”
“Dad!”
“Sweetie, don't talk to your father that way. Honey, don't insult Pete. He's a nice boy. I'm sure he's going somewhere like Columbia College. That's a little better than community college.”
“You might as well,” Patrick's father says, suddenly full of friendly advice, “go find a crack addict on the street and ask him to teach you about ancient Rome.”
Pete stares at him for a while, then says, “Hey, Mrs. Stump, where'd you get that lamp? It goes with the paint color really well. I like it.”
“You have taste, you play sports, you're in Philosophy club with him, and you keep Patrick from sitting around at home alone on weekends!” Patrick's mom gushes. “I hope you don't watch television, unless you like the Food Network - do you cook?”
“Dude, I don't stay home that often, seriously.” Patrick sighs. “Everyone takes me places on Friday nights because I apparently never go anywhere on Friday, even though I end up going somewhere every weekend.”
“Our school has a Philosophy club?” Pete asks, then -- “oh, oh, right. Man, solipsism is the best ever. I feel pretty clever, having imagined this whole conversation.”
The silence that follows is the kind that would, in a cartoon, be emphasized with the chirping of crickets.
“The potatoes are really good tonight, Mom,” Patrick offers, helplessly.
“Why, thank you.” She smiles, holding a basket of rolls toward Pete. “Roll? You can take two if you remember to be younger next time.”
--
“So, okay, okay, guys. Guys. Stop talking about Family Guy, no one fucking cares. I have a serious question,” Travis says. “PS3 or Nintendo Wii?”
“But there was that chicken, that just came outta no --” Brendon starts, only to be silenced by a French fry to the head. “Hey, come on. It was funny.”
“This is an easy question,” Joe says. He waggles his fingers in the air as he squeals, “Wiiiii!” and freezes for a moment as everyone stares at him.
“Dude,” Travis says. “Dude.”
“It's more fun to say it that way. C'mon, try it.”
“I - you know what, no. Just no,” Ryan says. “The PS3 has cells, anyway. That makes it better. The Wii, what does the Wii have? Nothing. So there. Conversation over. Hey, Patrick, how'd things go the other night?”
“Those cells are gonna cost like six hundred bucks,” Travis says. “Plus, the hell are they supposed to be, anyway? Shit doesn't make sense. They're just making up words to get people all hyped.”
“What things?” Patrick asks. “Oh, the thing, with the parents and the meeting them and - yeah, no, it ... was ... special.”
“His mom makes good potatoes,” Pete chimes in. “Not like we don't get enough at school or anything. You tell her about the potato surplus, Patrick?”
“She just thinks I really like potatoes. I don't know.”
Joe says, “Wait, why is this important?”
“Because,” Ryan says, narrowing his eyes. Today they're surrounded by pale purple eyeshadow, lined in blue. “Because it means Patrick's parents don't hate Pete. They don't, right?”
Travis says, “Hey, hey. Ryan, man, how much do you spend on eyeliner and shit in a week? Seriously.”
“Four dollars. It's not that much. Shut up. So do they?”
“They, I don't know. Apparently he needs to work on being too old for me.”
“His mom says I'm darling. His dad wants me dead.”
“You gonna buy a time machine, bring yourself to the future so you'll be young enough?” Brendon asks, cheerfully.
“Uh.”
“I'm so lost,” Joe says. Travis pats him on the shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “You're talking about it like they're going steady or something.”
“Joe,” Ryan says. He stops himself. “Just. You seriously just used the phrase 'going steady,' didn't you. Man. Brendon, you're not that stupid, right?”
“Me, stupid? Of course not. I'm the soul of wit.” Brendon pauses. “Shit, does that mean I'm brevity? I don't want to be brevity. I gotta last a long time. I last long enough, right, Ry?”
Ryan covers his face, flushed bright red.
“I need a smoke,” Joe decides.
“Dude,” Patrick says. “Me'n'Pete went to prom, Joe.”
“Huh?” Joe blinks. “Wh - oh. Oh.” He says, “You know, things suddenly make sense?” He says, “I still need a smoke, though.”
--
“I feel like a freshman,” Ryan says. “And a girl. I wanna gossip; it's horrible.”
Where he and Patrick are right now is a diner, not too far from school; it's in walking distance, if you're willing to walk half an hour. The two of them were. Technically, school's not over yet. Patrick orders some actual food, because he's had enough of the goddamn potatoes school is so obsessed with.
Ryan gets a milkshake, and Patrick cracks up.
“What? What are you laughing at? Oh, shit, is my makeup smeared? I look like a raccoon, don't I.”
“What? No. No, dude, the makeup is fine. I still think you're crazy, but it's fine.”
“Oh,” Ryan says, sounding relieved. He's been peering at his face in the back of a spoon, trying to get a clear enough reflection to tell. “Oh, thank god. So wait, what was funny?”
“It wasn't. The milkshake thing. It's not that funny. Just, you know. Prom night. There was that stupid milkshake song, and Pete said my milkshake brought him to the yard, and I don't know. I just thought of it.”
“That's the stupidest thing I've ever,” Ryan starts. “Wait, no. Bren's said stupider, never mind.”
“Bren,” Patrick says, pointedly.
“I'm not allowed to shorten his name? It's a nickname. At least it's not 'that hot guy' or 'that kid I used to know.' I could call him that. You want me to call him that?”
“Hey, no, it's cool. Chill, RyRo. Chill.”
“Did you just call me RyRo? And tell me to chill?” For a moment, Ryan looks offended, then he laughs. “Oh my god, the first time Bren called me Ry - that's why I call him that. Because I got all pissed off, so he kept calling me that 'coz he said I was cute when I'm mad, so I started calling him Bren to piss him off. Only it didn't, and now we just kinda call each other that?”
“So, so, okay, you're feeling like a freshman girl, tell me shit. I want exposition.”
“Exposition is for novels.” Ryan waves a hand, gesturing at their surroundings. There's kitsch tacked to the walls, old posters and cardboard cut-outs of celebrities and toys on shelves. “This is not a novel. It's a shitty diner.” He grins, moves like he's going to rub at his eyes, then catches himself. “Shit, my face itches. I could poke myself with a fork. I don't know. So yeah, no, there's nothing to exposit on. Is that a word? Exposit. It should be. Yeah, so Bren and I hung out, then, you know, couple days later we went to a movie and got pizza and he was all, 'Haha, this is like a date, dinner and a movie' and I was all 'I thought it was, asshole' and he was all 'Oh, okay.' So you know.” Ryan pauses. “He's a great lay. Just so you know, since you're never gonna find out for yourself.”
“I - okay. I wasn't wondering about that in particular, but that's good to know. Thank you. If I am ever in a life-or-death situation where I need to identify someone who's a good lay, I'll have Brendon Urie's name to give out.”
“Seriously,” Ryan laughs, ducking his head a little and covering his mouth with his hand when he does. “There was this one time, I guess my makeup wasn't waterproof, and - well, you know, the shower, so somehow it ended up --”
“Holy - Ryan, no. Stop talking. I - no, don't make that face, it's okay. Really. There's just, like, three year olds at the next table over.”
“Oh. Uhm.”
“Yeah, see.”
--
“Let's run away,” Pete says.
So they do.
The last day of school for seniors ends, and he and Patrick get in the car and drive. Patrick doesn't ask where they're going; he closes his eyes, for a while, and when he wakes up they're on a one-lane road shadowed by tall, dark trees.
Pete looks over at him -- “You awake?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” Pete stops the car at the side of the road, pulling off onto the narrow shoulder. Sticks and plants crack underneath the weight of the wheels. “Let's go.” The door handle sounds like a distant gunshot, crk, as the door swings open and outward. The slam that follows is worse. Patrick, when he gets out, closes the door all careful and quiet.
The sky is a gaudy, boastful red-purple, all bright-brilliant. The sun hangs tumor-like and red, seems frozen where it is. Patrick stares straight at it, and when he closes his eyes he sees bright gold dragons swimming through the murky darkness. Pete walks around to stand close beside him, radiating heat and presence. The moment feels like forever, the air still and ancient-smelling.
Pete says, suddenly, “I've got too many feelings I don't want these days. I wish I could take them to Goodwill, donate my emotions to charity. There has to be someone else who wants them. What kind of tax break do you think I'd get for giving away my heart?”
Patrick keeps his eyes closed when Pete wraps his arms around him. Sweat glues their foreheads together. “You'd just give it away to a stranger?”
Pete laughs. “I've tried that enough times already, I guess, but I keep getting the damn thing back. Like that song, you know, about the - the cat came back the ve-ry next day. Thirty-day return policy or some shit, I don't know. Don't you try to return it, or I'll tear up the receipt.”
“God damn,” Patrick says. “It gets really dark out here.”
“You have your fucking eyes closed.”
Patrick opens his eyes. “Man, I seriously just got confused by that, didn't I. Shit.”
“Seriously, you're not in AP classes. You can't be. It's all a hoax. You're too stupid.”
“Gee, thanks.” Patrick squints at Pete in the dimming light, pulling away to examine him. “You don't usually smile like that at school. I mean, it's different.”
“Yeah.” Pete's quiet, for once. “Well.”
“Huh.” Patrick pushes him against a tree - there's a nice one closer than the car - and kisses him. “So what are we doing out here?”
“There's a meteor shower. Seriously, like the day I get out of high school. A meteor shower. That's goddamn auspicious right there.”
“Dude,” Patrick says, nodding his approval. He puts a hand on Pete's shoulder, leans against him a little, and looks around. This side of the road has trees - they get thicker the farther you go from the road - but the other side is mostly scrub and grass, with a clear view of the western horizon. The sun is still barely visible in that direction, there more for show than any useful purpose.
They go to stand in the field. The grass tickles at Patrick's ankles, and twigs scrape at his legs. A bug crawls up his arm; he holds it out to show Pete, who laughs and tries to pick it up. The bug isn't having any of that, and flies off, wings buzzing angrily.
When Pete sits down, he pulls Patrick with him, tugging on his wrist. He says, “Hey,” and looks up. The moon is huge and yellow-orange, and Patrick can't believe he didn't notice it before.
“Well, shit,” Patrick says, leaning back. He turns a little, half-watching Pete and half-watching the sky. He reaches out with one hand and leaves it splayed against Pete's chest. With the pads of his fingers, he can feel Pete's heartbeat, steady and buried layers deep under fabric and skin and bone. With his fingers, he can feel the most cliché bassline in the world, the solemn up&down tha-thum rhythm. He wants to imitate it.
Pete covers Patrick's hand with his own and holds it there.
“Where are we?”
“Michigan,” Pete says, “right in the middle of the palm.” Pete pokes at the middle of Patrick's hand before tangling their fingers together.
“Shit,” Patrick says.
“Yeah, I was wondering if it was too far. Sorry. Should've just headed south a bit. To, like, Rochelle or something.”
“The hell is Rochelle?” Patrick says, then quickly amends himself. “I mean, no, no, it's cool. This is good. We should have gone farther. Out east, all the way to the ocean.”
“Hah, you would've woken up before we even got close.”
“We could still do it,” Patrick insists. He's surprised at how serious he is. The ocean right now would be huge and black, like Lake Michigan but endlessly full of life, infinitely larger and deeper. The air would be thick and heavy with salt. Maybe they'd be ordered out of the water at night for fear of sharks, jellyfish, stingrays, any number of dark creatures. In the darkness, the breaking waves would spread across the sand like fine white lace. Their rhythm would be the same, almost, as Pete's heartbeat.
“You've got school Tuesday,” Pete laughs. Patrick looks at him, and Pete seems to understand, says, “Seriously, we wouldn't be able to get there and back in time. It wouldn't be worth it.”
“Yeah,” Patrick says. “Yeah, no, you're right. You're right. Okay. I don't have a swimsuit with me anyway.”
Pete laughs, and again the corners of his eyes crinkle. He looks up. He says, “Hey, look at that. I feel like I'm cheating, though.”
“What?”
“Making wishes on shooting stars. There's so many of them, and I have so many stupid little things to wish for. The sky'll be empty before I come up with a wish that's worth it.”
“Huh,” Patrick says. “Yeah.”
They're silent for a while, watching the meteors fall, earthbound. Pete says, quiet, “So DC United wants me. And people have been, you know, saying stuff about Real Madrid. Seriously. Real fucking Madrid.”
“Shit,” Patrick says. “You mean the soccer teams?”
“No, the Quidditch teams. Shut up. Of course the soccer teams. Yeah.”
“Well, shit. You're that good on a broom?” Patrick says, then, “Sorry, sorry. Wow.”
“So yeah,” Pete says. “Yeah, I don't know. I gotta figure something out, I guess, eventually.”
“There you go,” Patrick says. He points up, traces one meteor's downward path with a finger.
“There I go what? Where? That sentence didn't go anywhere.”
“Never mind. How long's it gonna take to get home?”
“Shit, I don't know.” Pete scratches his head, frowning. “Few hours. I don't wanna drive that far tonight.”
“God damn, my parents are gonna kill me already. Might as well let them kill me dead-er. Hotel?”
“Hotel.”
--
Patrick wakes up to the feeling of something smooth and wet sliding over his skin. He cracks one eye open, afraid to look. What he sees is Pete, with a marker, drawing something. On his stomach.
“God damn it,” Patrick says, sitting up and grabbing for the marker.
“Ahh, you ruined it, you ruined it! C'mon, let me finish,” Pete whines. “I went all the way to the drugstore and back to get this marker, and you're gonna let me finish this or - or else.”
“Or else,” Patrick repeats dryly. “Yeah, no. What are you doing?”
“You'll see. It's cool, I swear. C'mon?”
Patrick rolls his eyes and lays down again, arms crossed behind his head. He stares up at the ceiling. “Hurry it up, this is boring.”
“Close your eyes.”
“Jesus,” Patrick says, but he does as he's told. There's more scribbling, like Pete's coloring in whatever the fuck he's drawing, then that's done and - and Pete doesn't say anything. “You done?”
“Hmm,” Pete says. His fingertips trace a shape over Patrick's stomach, meeting somewhere close to the middle. Patrick can't tell what it is. Then Pete's fingers are wandering lower. “Keep your eyes closed?”
Patrick's not going to complain. The bed shifts, with a slight creak, and Pete is warm next to him, one knee between his legs. The cheap hotel sheets are a little scratchy. “He-ey,” Pete says, his lips brushing the curve of Patrick's ear when he talks. He says, “So, it's like five in the morning. Usually I hate getting up this early, but I never went to sleep. I just watched you. That made up for it. We can sleep in, later. Or I can. You can do whatever you want. Right now,” he says, his teeth scraping against Patrick's throat. “Right now, I kind of wish I had something to tie you up with. Will you stay still?”
“Yeah,” Patrick says, “yeah, sure.” He still has his arms behind his head. His hands are just starting to fall asleep; he's just starting to get hard.
Pete's lips are rough and chapped and a bit wet with spit, which seems like it should be gross but isn't. He rolls his tongue over on of Patrick's nipples, still with one hand pressed flat against Patrick's stomach, covering up the tiny twitches of muscle. Patrick opens his eyes, starts to shift his weight so he can watch Pete better, but Pete says, “Shh, what'd I tell you?” with his breath hot and damp, so Patrick stays where he is.
There's this strange little spot right dead-center above Patrick's sternum that makes him sigh and flinch away and shift his hips up at the same time. He wants to run, wants to fight, wants to do something with all this energy he suddenly has. His heart is tachycardic - and there's a word he likes, tachycardic, because it reminds him of the fact that he's not in school right now.
Pete, for whatever reason, keeps that one hand on Patrick's stomach while he wraps the other around Patrick's dick, rubs re-eal slow and deliberate-like. He's half-sitting at this awkward angle now, so he can give Patrick a handjob and kiss him and try to hold him down all at once, and that can't be comfortable, the way his leg is bent like that, and his knee is digging into Patrick's side.
Pete's teeth are goddamn sharp, Patrick's learning, especially now that he's kissing all rough and desperate and keeps using his teeth, and it hurts, but that's kind of hot too. Patrick shifts just slightly, puts a hand behind Pete's head to pull him close, but - god damn it.
“Nuh-uh,” Pete says.
“The hell, man, come on.” This has Patrick baffled, really. “You gotta at least want some reciprocation.”
“Later. Hands behind your head, come on. Lemme do this for you.”
“The fuck,” Patrick says, but he's not going to argue if Pete keeps - if Pete decides to give him a blowjob. That's definitely not something he's going to complain about, because Pete's watching him while he does it, Pete has his mouth around the head of Patrick's dick and his tongue can do the most amazing things. “Oh, shit, okay.”
This whole not-moving thing is frustrating, because Patrick - he really is feeling all twitchy, though by now he's mastered the art of not fucking Pete's mouth. He's not sure if that's a skill to be proud of or not, though he is sure it's not one anyone else needs to know about.
Another thing - Pete's been playing the bass more lately, and apparently practicing beyond the occasional mini-lesson Patrick's been giving him, because the fingers on his left hand have developed these rough calluses that make for the best kind of friction.
Patrick bites down on his lip, feels like being quiet for some reason, to go along with the stillness. He squints at Pete, one eye closed and the other nearly there. He tenses up, can't help but make a little squeaky noise - and that's not embarrassing, not at all! -- and then, then he's shaking just a little, and he's done, and Pete smiles up at him, says, “'Kay, you can get up now.”
Of course he says that when Patrick mostly just wants to stay right where he is, sprawled out on the bed, though he does shift his weight a little, spreads his arms out in a belated attempt to keep them from falling asleep.
Pete snuggles up against him, and Patrick somehow can't quite fall asleep. The room's mostly quiet, except the people in the next room over have the volume up way too loud, and in the room above them it sounds like the guests have decided to redecorate their hotel room by stomping and dragging furniture around. Buried somewhere under it all is the sound of not-too-distant waves. Patrick sits up, stretching. “Gonna get a glass of water.”
“'Kay.”
“Man, you seriously drew that fucking bat thing on me, didn't you,” Patrick says, poking at his stomach while staring in the mirror.
Pete gets up, following after him. “Yup.”
“God damn. Marking your territory in permanent marker? Why not just knock me out and tattoo it on me while I'm unconscious, while you're at it.”
“You know ...” Pete says, thoughtful.
“No.”
“But we'd match!”
“No. Come on,” Patrick says, pulling on a pair of swim trunks. “We did not get this hotel room to stay inside all day.”
“I bet there're tattoo parlors on the boardwalk.”
Patrick stares at Pete, who's making puppy-dog eyes at him, and sighs.
“God damn it,” he says.