FIC: You Can't Be Missed If You Never Go Away, Pete/Patrick, R
Title: You Can't Be Missed If You Never Go Away
Author: Femme
Fandom: Bandslash (Fall Out Boy)
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: R
Word Count: ~2,900
Summary: They're rare, these lazy Saturday evenings alone, after lazier Satuday afternoons and even lazier mornings when they don’t untwine themselves until nearly noon, and there are a million other things they could be doing-should be doing, really-but instead they’re lying here, rain running in long, thin rivulets down the windows as they sprawl across their bed.
Disclaimer: Nope. Never happened, probably never will.
Author’s Notes: This is entirely and completely for trolleys and the absolutely incredible Pete/Patrick fanart she posted the other day: Another Saturday Night. It got in my head and I just couldn’t shake it. :D Title ruthlessly stolen from Cobra Starship.
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They're rare, these lazy Saturday evenings alone, after lazier Satuday afternoons and even lazier mornings when they don’t untwine themselves until nearly noon, and there are a million other things they could be doing-should be doing, really-but instead they’re lying here, rain running in long, thin rivulets down the windows as they sprawl across their bed.
Their bed.
It’s still weird to think about, Patrick supposes. He’s never been old enough or, hell, even around enough to be in that sort of relationship, and he never would have thought that when he actually was that it’d be with Pete fucking Wentz.
Except it is, and somehow, in some really weird way, it’s right. Even if Pete’s a guy-- which is another thing Patrick never expected. He’s always been straight, always, until that one day when he looked up and there was Pete, playing across the stage from him and the lights were shining red-orange-gold in the blackness of his hair, and his grin was wide and happy when he turned to Patrick and he’d taken Patrick’s breath away and Patrick hadn’t even stopped to think, just leaned in and kissed him. There. On stage.
And not just a simple press of lips to neck or cheek the way Pete usually did.
A kiss. Quick and rough and full-on and Pete had pulled away, eyes shocked, fingers tight on the neck of his bass, and Patrick had stumbled back to the mic, breathing hard, face red, voice catching in the back of his throat.
Andy’d nearly dropped his sticks; Joe'd never noticed. He hadn’t even known until after the concert when Patrick was curled up in his bunk in the bus, shaking, and Pete was swearing outside, kicking the tires and shouting at Andy, and Joe had just pulled the curtain of Patrick’s bunk back and said what the fuck-- and Patrick had choked out I kissed Pete-no, I wanted to kiss Pete, so I did, fuck and Joe had just looked at him and said well, that explains a fucking lot and had let the curtain drop back.
The whole situation had freaked Patrick out and his freaking out had freaked Pete out and despite what all the gossip blogs said, it’d taken six goddamn months before they finally slept together and then Jesus Patrick’d never known that buttsex could be that fucking good, never even considered it even, but holy fucking Christ-and three weeks after that revelation Patrick moved his stuff into Pete’s house on the pretext that it was just easier that way, to have it all close by.
Not even Joe had pointed out what a load of crap that was.
After two months of Patrick bitching about how small Pete’s bed was and how fucking uncomfortable he was in it (and Pete said that was complete shit since he was the one who ended up with Patrick's knee in his kidneys and his arm across his throat every fucking night so there was no goddamn way Patrick was uncomfortable) they’d finally gone out and bought a new bed from a furniture store on Melrose that the Hush Sound’s Greta had told Patrick about. Much to the amusement of the salesclerk-who at least hadn’t rushed to put it on her Livejournal (she’d waited nearly a week which Patrick thought was pretty decent of her, all things considered)--they’d argued over everything from the color of the wood to the style of the frame to how fucking big they needed it to be, and Pete had tossed his credit card down on the counter with an oh fuck it, we’ll take that one, pointing wildly to a headboard they hadn’t even looked at yet, much less argued about.
It was perfect, Patrick had to agree. Which kind of pissed him off.
And when the delivery guys arrived with the frame and mattress set the next day and had set the bed up and taken the old stained (with what Patrick didn’t want to think about) mattress away, Pete had looked at Patrick with wide, dark eyes, and said, “We’re really doing this, huh?” and Patrick had just stared at him because dude, yeah, they fucking were.
This wasn’t just fucking around, or even shacking up out of convenience because it was a pain in the ass to bring a bag over every night. It was buying furniture, man. Together.
Commitment.
Fuck.
And when they looked around somehow Pete’s underwear had ended up mixed in with Patrick’s in the dresser and their closet was a hodgepodge of hoodies and trucker caps and girl’s jeans and Patrick’s Sullivan’s Travels poster was hung across the wall from Pete’s Morrisey, and Nat King Cole and Bobby Darin had slowly mixed in with The Smiths and The Cure.
It’d scared the shit out them both.
Pete had flipped out, gone absolutely silent for a week, and then had slept with Lindsay goddamn Lohan, and Patrick had found out even before Pete made it home the next morning because fucking Pete was fucking stupid enough to hook up at a fucking MTV party, so when Jay-Z called at ten after eight to make certain they were still meeting up at Marmalade in Malibu at ten-thirty for brunch, he'd started off with hey, man, sorry to hear about you and Pete. It'd taken Patrick a good five minutes to sleepily figure out what he was sorry for and another fifteen more for Jay-Z to calm him down enough that he didn't commit boyfriendicide.
Instead, when Pete stumbled in the door, Patrick had punched him in the face so fucking hard that he’d had to take Pete to urgent care because the blood wouldn’t stop, cursing at him the whole while.
It didn’t make him feel as good as he’d hoped it would.
He didn't make brunch with Jay-Z. He did, however, make the top of E!News that night with all the usual Brokeback Mountain references (Jesus, could they get a bit more original, and fuck it wasn't like Ryan Seacrest had room to talk there, closet or not), and Andy called afterwards and said look, man, next time don't break his nose; it's less messy and Patrick had said grimly there won't be a next time and I didn't break his goddamn nose, Hurley. Fuck.
Joe just left a text on Pete's Sidekick that said dude, you know you deserved so much more, right?
Patrick'd moved out for two weeks, gone to stay with Kevin who’d been more than uncomfortable putting back together his not-gay-but-really-sort-of brother’s broken heart but had done it anyway, bemused and awkwardly, because that’s what Stumphs did after all.
I always thought you liked girls, Kevin had said over spring rolls and spicy-sweet beans and noodles and the original Star Wars trilogy and Patrick had just shrugged.
I do, he’d said, licking his chopstick, but it’s Pete and Pete’s Pete, so…
So you like to suck his cock. Kevin shook his head. He's the only guy you're gay for?
Patrick had just shrugged. Yeah. It was as simple as that. Pete was Pete and that was enough for Patrick.
Kevin didn’t get it, probably never would, but he’d just handed Patrick the extra spring roll and draped his arm over his brother’s shoulder, letting him lean against him and had just said Boba Fett’s fucking cool and then a few minutes later fuck goddamn Pete Wentz.
Patrick had agreed with both.
Andy and Bob had called him, in various obvious states of worry, Joe had driven over from Lincoln Park to take him to dinner a few times and beat the shit out of him at foosball and William fucking Beckett had come by supposedly just to “check” on him while he was in town but Patrick had known exactly who sent him. Bill wasn’t exactly subtle, after all, and he’d said Pete’s name one time too many with that sly little look out of the corner of his eye.
Patrick had known what that was going to lead to. He supposed he should be grateful that Pete had just set Bill on him and not Mikey. Mikey was a hell of a lot harder to put off.
And then Mikey had called and Patrick knew Pete was desperate when Mikey said look, man, I’ve got Pete on the other line, he wants to talk to you. Patrick’d slammed the phone down with a fuck you, Mikey even though he knew that was going to get him an irritated call from Bob at some point to tell him to shut the fuck up and that Mikey was just trying to help.
Patrick didn’t particularly want Mikey’s help. Or anyone’s. And he hadn’t fucking wanted to talk to Pete. Really.
And when Pete had waited for him on Kevin’s front stoop, pale and frantic, a bandage still stretched across his swollen nose, and saying just listen to me, man, come on, just listen, please Patrick, Jesus, Patrick had just walked past him, slammed the door on him, and, headphones on, ignored the buzzer that echoed in the apartment for the next hour.
Pete was a goddamn persistent fuck.
Kevin finally let him in, going outside first to say something to Pete-and neither of them will ever tell Patrick what, just that it’s between us, man, okay, so drop it but every time Patrick mentions Kevin now, Pete twitches nervously for a moment--and Pete had come in quietly, ten minutes later, hands in his pockets and that beaten look on his face that Patrick couldn’t bear.
They’d screamed and shouted and Pete had followed Patrick back to the bedroom, and somehow they’d ended up against the wall, kissing angrily, swearing at each other, Patrick’s hands caught high above his head as Pete bit and sucked and licked down his throat, leaving behind wide red marks, and they’d fucked on the floor of his brother’s bedroom, Patrick pressing Pete’s hips into the hideous green-gold shag carpet with every rough thrust.
Kevin’s never entirely forgiven them for that.
Bastard, Patrick had said against Pete’s jaw, and Pete had scraped his black-polished nails down Patrick’s back with a groan and a fuck you, arching his hips up and they both know what they meant there, even though they’ve never said the words. They don’t need to, really. Not him and Pete. The things they want to say, well. That’s what music is for, right?
Patrick isn’t completely certain why he came back to L.A., except that maybe it’s just that he knows that this is where he belongs, lying here on this bed with Pete, Hemingway nestled next to his side, his head on Pete’s lap.
It’s raining outside tonight-L.A.’s hit the rainy season and half of Malibu has slid onto the PCH, and no one can get through Topanga Canyon on the Woodland Hills side-and the bedroom is dark and grey and watery except for the glow of Pete’s MacBook at the foot of the bed, OhNoTheyDidn't flickering on the monitor. CDs are scattered across the comforter, and Patrick’s put Miles Davis on to play because there’s nothing better for a rainy evening than Kind of Blue after all.
Pete shifts beneath him, and Patrick looks up at him, a bit sleepily, his glasses pushed up to perch above the brim of his hat (emblazoned New Jersey Is For Lovers--Frank Iero had sent it to him for Christmas along with a matching t-shirt for Pete which Pete had promptly defaced by scrawling cocksuckers on it in Sharpie, scratching out the Helvetica Lovers) and he yawns.
“Hey,” Pete says quietly, and he touches Patrick’s cheek, his thumb smoothing over stubble. His head lolls against the headboard, the orangey-brown hoodie pulled up over his dark hair.
“This is nice,” Patrick murmurs, and he closes his eyes again, letting the horns of "Freddie Freeloader" flood over him. Pete’s arm slides around him, pulling him closer, and Patrick thinks that he could get used to this as Hemmy snuffles against his hip, plops his head on Patrick’s stomach with a damp phumph and a scratch behind his ears.
Pete doesn’t answer for a moment, and Patrick looks up at him again. “Pete?”
“Yeah.” Pete pulls Patrick’s hat off, and Pete’s the only one Patrick would let do that. He folds up Patrick’s glasses, sets them aside, and his fingers slide through Patrick’s thinning hair.
Pete’s thinking about something, and Patrick gets that, he really does. He’s learned over the years just to let Pete think, let him go into that place in his head when he needs to, even when it’s fucking annoying, even when Patrick would rather Pete just talk to him, goddamn it, even when it frightens Patrick because he knows what can happen there in that space if Pete’s not careful-and Patrick knows he can’t live through another Best Buy, not now.
He needs Pete too goddamn much.
“Is this real, man?” Pete asks finally, and his thumb traces the arch of Patrick’s eyebrow. “Us?”
Patrick breathes out slowly. This is one of those moments when Pete scares the fuck out of him. “Yeah. I think so.” He threads his fingers through Pete’s. “You want it to be?”
Pete just smiles at him, a half-curve of his wide mouth, but that’s all Patrick needs. Pete reaches for a black Sharpie that Patrick had tossed on the bed earlier, and he says, “Give me your arm.”
“What the hell for?” Patrick asks, but he doesn’t hesitate to hold his arm up, over his head as Pete uncaps the pen. The nub is soft-hard against his skin, digging in as Pete drags it over his arm. Patrick can feel the letters form and he recognizes the curve of a p, the twist of an s. There’s something erotic about it, in the way Pete holds Patrick’s arm steady, in the way the ink slides over his skin, black against pale white, and Patrick might almost be tempted to get a tattoo.
Except he’s not too thrilled about needles, blood and pain.
Pete caps the pen. “There,” he says, and he lets Patrick’s arm go.
Property of P.W., it says on one line in wide black capital letters wavering down Patrick’s arm. He licked it first Pete’s written beneath and Patrick barks out a sharp laugh.
“Well, I suppose you could say that,” he says with a grin, “if you’re only talking about guys. Tracey Hollahan might have a different opinion.”
“Fuck Tracey Hollahan.” Pete grabs Patick’s crotch, his hand sliding over Patrick’s dick in his jeans and Patrick’s breath catches. “I think you should have this tattooed in. Property of P.W. on your skin forever. I’d fucking like that.”
“Feeling a little possessive, Wentz?” Patrick asks lightly, but he looks up at Pete. The expression on Pete’s face clenches his stomach, and Patrick knows, he just knows, and it frightens him and makes him want to lean up and kiss Pete all at once.
He wants to be Pete’s. Maybe he’s always wanted it in some way, just like he wants Pete to be his. He’s not certain the latter will ever happen, but maybe it’s enough, this.
“Yeah. Maybe.” Pete’s quiet for a moment and his hand leaves Patrick’s cock, moves up to his cheek. “Sometimes,” he says finally, “I think I might want to run, but who’m I going to run to, you know?” His fingertips skim over Patrick’s nose. "Just you. Kind of defeats the fucking purpose."
"Andy. Joe. Mikey." Patrick looks up at him, and Pete shakes his head.
"I could," he admits, "but it wouldn't be the same." He hesitates. "I fucked up."
Patrick doesn't even ask to what he's referring. He already knows. "Yeah. You did."
"You came back." Pete's eyes are dark, shadowed by the hoodie and the smudged eyeliner beneath his lashes. He traces the words on Patrick’s arm. “To me.”
"Where else am I going to run?" Hemmy's drooling on Patrick's polo shirt and he whimpers in his sleep. Patrick runs his hand along the back of Hemmy's head.
Pete snorts, and his arm slides around Patrick's neck. He strokes Patrick's sideburns slowly. "What happens if I do it again?"
"Don't press your luck, Wentz," Patrick says, toying with Hemmy's floppy ear. He stares out the window, into the blurred, dark stretch of wet green grass and leaves. The palm trees rustle in the wind, bending to one side as the rain pelts them. "I don't know." He shifts, balances an empty can of Red Bull on Hemmy's head and Hemmy opens one baleful eye before snuffling again against his stomach. "Just don't."
Pete chews on his bottom lip. "Okay," he says finally, and in that one word, in its quiet inflection and the soft sigh that follows Patrick knows Pete's not certain he can, but he'll try because Patrick's asked, and hey, yeah, by the way maybe I might love you. I think.
Patrick says I love you too in a quick squeeze of his fingers, curled around Pete's palm and he sweeps his thumb over the ball of Pete's hand and closes his eyes. “Fucking mine and you better goddamn get used to it,” he murmurs, and Pete’s hand tightens around his.
“Yeah,” Pete whispers and Patrick feels him shiver beneath him.
Patrick doesn't know if this is going to work, doesn't know if he wants it to be forever, doesn't know that it won't fuck up the band, doesn’t know that Pete can do this, even with him, no matter how much he wants to. But it's raining outside, and it's a lazy Saturday evening with nothing to do and nowhere to be, shadows darkening into night, and he's lying here with Pete and Hemmy and Miles Davis has swung into "Blue In Green," and for this moment, Patrick's content.
And maybe, Patrick thinks, his fingers sliding across the inked initials on his arm, maybe right now that’s all that matters.
Author: Femme
Fandom: Bandslash (Fall Out Boy)
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: R
Word Count: ~2,900
Summary: They're rare, these lazy Saturday evenings alone, after lazier Satuday afternoons and even lazier mornings when they don’t untwine themselves until nearly noon, and there are a million other things they could be doing-should be doing, really-but instead they’re lying here, rain running in long, thin rivulets down the windows as they sprawl across their bed.
Disclaimer: Nope. Never happened, probably never will.
Author’s Notes: This is entirely and completely for trolleys and the absolutely incredible Pete/Patrick fanart she posted the other day: Another Saturday Night. It got in my head and I just couldn’t shake it. :D Title ruthlessly stolen from Cobra Starship.
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They're rare, these lazy Saturday evenings alone, after lazier Satuday afternoons and even lazier mornings when they don’t untwine themselves until nearly noon, and there are a million other things they could be doing-should be doing, really-but instead they’re lying here, rain running in long, thin rivulets down the windows as they sprawl across their bed.
Their bed.
It’s still weird to think about, Patrick supposes. He’s never been old enough or, hell, even around enough to be in that sort of relationship, and he never would have thought that when he actually was that it’d be with Pete fucking Wentz.
Except it is, and somehow, in some really weird way, it’s right. Even if Pete’s a guy-- which is another thing Patrick never expected. He’s always been straight, always, until that one day when he looked up and there was Pete, playing across the stage from him and the lights were shining red-orange-gold in the blackness of his hair, and his grin was wide and happy when he turned to Patrick and he’d taken Patrick’s breath away and Patrick hadn’t even stopped to think, just leaned in and kissed him. There. On stage.
And not just a simple press of lips to neck or cheek the way Pete usually did.
A kiss. Quick and rough and full-on and Pete had pulled away, eyes shocked, fingers tight on the neck of his bass, and Patrick had stumbled back to the mic, breathing hard, face red, voice catching in the back of his throat.
Andy’d nearly dropped his sticks; Joe'd never noticed. He hadn’t even known until after the concert when Patrick was curled up in his bunk in the bus, shaking, and Pete was swearing outside, kicking the tires and shouting at Andy, and Joe had just pulled the curtain of Patrick’s bunk back and said what the fuck-- and Patrick had choked out I kissed Pete-no, I wanted to kiss Pete, so I did, fuck and Joe had just looked at him and said well, that explains a fucking lot and had let the curtain drop back.
The whole situation had freaked Patrick out and his freaking out had freaked Pete out and despite what all the gossip blogs said, it’d taken six goddamn months before they finally slept together and then Jesus Patrick’d never known that buttsex could be that fucking good, never even considered it even, but holy fucking Christ-and three weeks after that revelation Patrick moved his stuff into Pete’s house on the pretext that it was just easier that way, to have it all close by.
Not even Joe had pointed out what a load of crap that was.
After two months of Patrick bitching about how small Pete’s bed was and how fucking uncomfortable he was in it (and Pete said that was complete shit since he was the one who ended up with Patrick's knee in his kidneys and his arm across his throat every fucking night so there was no goddamn way Patrick was uncomfortable) they’d finally gone out and bought a new bed from a furniture store on Melrose that the Hush Sound’s Greta had told Patrick about. Much to the amusement of the salesclerk-who at least hadn’t rushed to put it on her Livejournal (she’d waited nearly a week which Patrick thought was pretty decent of her, all things considered)--they’d argued over everything from the color of the wood to the style of the frame to how fucking big they needed it to be, and Pete had tossed his credit card down on the counter with an oh fuck it, we’ll take that one, pointing wildly to a headboard they hadn’t even looked at yet, much less argued about.
It was perfect, Patrick had to agree. Which kind of pissed him off.
And when the delivery guys arrived with the frame and mattress set the next day and had set the bed up and taken the old stained (with what Patrick didn’t want to think about) mattress away, Pete had looked at Patrick with wide, dark eyes, and said, “We’re really doing this, huh?” and Patrick had just stared at him because dude, yeah, they fucking were.
This wasn’t just fucking around, or even shacking up out of convenience because it was a pain in the ass to bring a bag over every night. It was buying furniture, man. Together.
Commitment.
Fuck.
And when they looked around somehow Pete’s underwear had ended up mixed in with Patrick’s in the dresser and their closet was a hodgepodge of hoodies and trucker caps and girl’s jeans and Patrick’s Sullivan’s Travels poster was hung across the wall from Pete’s Morrisey, and Nat King Cole and Bobby Darin had slowly mixed in with The Smiths and The Cure.
It’d scared the shit out them both.
Pete had flipped out, gone absolutely silent for a week, and then had slept with Lindsay goddamn Lohan, and Patrick had found out even before Pete made it home the next morning because fucking Pete was fucking stupid enough to hook up at a fucking MTV party, so when Jay-Z called at ten after eight to make certain they were still meeting up at Marmalade in Malibu at ten-thirty for brunch, he'd started off with hey, man, sorry to hear about you and Pete. It'd taken Patrick a good five minutes to sleepily figure out what he was sorry for and another fifteen more for Jay-Z to calm him down enough that he didn't commit boyfriendicide.
Instead, when Pete stumbled in the door, Patrick had punched him in the face so fucking hard that he’d had to take Pete to urgent care because the blood wouldn’t stop, cursing at him the whole while.
It didn’t make him feel as good as he’d hoped it would.
He didn't make brunch with Jay-Z. He did, however, make the top of E!News that night with all the usual Brokeback Mountain references (Jesus, could they get a bit more original, and fuck it wasn't like Ryan Seacrest had room to talk there, closet or not), and Andy called afterwards and said look, man, next time don't break his nose; it's less messy and Patrick had said grimly there won't be a next time and I didn't break his goddamn nose, Hurley. Fuck.
Joe just left a text on Pete's Sidekick that said dude, you know you deserved so much more, right?
Patrick'd moved out for two weeks, gone to stay with Kevin who’d been more than uncomfortable putting back together his not-gay-but-really-sort-of brother’s broken heart but had done it anyway, bemused and awkwardly, because that’s what Stumphs did after all.
I always thought you liked girls, Kevin had said over spring rolls and spicy-sweet beans and noodles and the original Star Wars trilogy and Patrick had just shrugged.
I do, he’d said, licking his chopstick, but it’s Pete and Pete’s Pete, so…
So you like to suck his cock. Kevin shook his head. He's the only guy you're gay for?
Patrick had just shrugged. Yeah. It was as simple as that. Pete was Pete and that was enough for Patrick.
Kevin didn’t get it, probably never would, but he’d just handed Patrick the extra spring roll and draped his arm over his brother’s shoulder, letting him lean against him and had just said Boba Fett’s fucking cool and then a few minutes later fuck goddamn Pete Wentz.
Patrick had agreed with both.
Andy and Bob had called him, in various obvious states of worry, Joe had driven over from Lincoln Park to take him to dinner a few times and beat the shit out of him at foosball and William fucking Beckett had come by supposedly just to “check” on him while he was in town but Patrick had known exactly who sent him. Bill wasn’t exactly subtle, after all, and he’d said Pete’s name one time too many with that sly little look out of the corner of his eye.
Patrick had known what that was going to lead to. He supposed he should be grateful that Pete had just set Bill on him and not Mikey. Mikey was a hell of a lot harder to put off.
And then Mikey had called and Patrick knew Pete was desperate when Mikey said look, man, I’ve got Pete on the other line, he wants to talk to you. Patrick’d slammed the phone down with a fuck you, Mikey even though he knew that was going to get him an irritated call from Bob at some point to tell him to shut the fuck up and that Mikey was just trying to help.
Patrick didn’t particularly want Mikey’s help. Or anyone’s. And he hadn’t fucking wanted to talk to Pete. Really.
And when Pete had waited for him on Kevin’s front stoop, pale and frantic, a bandage still stretched across his swollen nose, and saying just listen to me, man, come on, just listen, please Patrick, Jesus, Patrick had just walked past him, slammed the door on him, and, headphones on, ignored the buzzer that echoed in the apartment for the next hour.
Pete was a goddamn persistent fuck.
Kevin finally let him in, going outside first to say something to Pete-and neither of them will ever tell Patrick what, just that it’s between us, man, okay, so drop it but every time Patrick mentions Kevin now, Pete twitches nervously for a moment--and Pete had come in quietly, ten minutes later, hands in his pockets and that beaten look on his face that Patrick couldn’t bear.
They’d screamed and shouted and Pete had followed Patrick back to the bedroom, and somehow they’d ended up against the wall, kissing angrily, swearing at each other, Patrick’s hands caught high above his head as Pete bit and sucked and licked down his throat, leaving behind wide red marks, and they’d fucked on the floor of his brother’s bedroom, Patrick pressing Pete’s hips into the hideous green-gold shag carpet with every rough thrust.
Kevin’s never entirely forgiven them for that.
Bastard, Patrick had said against Pete’s jaw, and Pete had scraped his black-polished nails down Patrick’s back with a groan and a fuck you, arching his hips up and they both know what they meant there, even though they’ve never said the words. They don’t need to, really. Not him and Pete. The things they want to say, well. That’s what music is for, right?
Patrick isn’t completely certain why he came back to L.A., except that maybe it’s just that he knows that this is where he belongs, lying here on this bed with Pete, Hemingway nestled next to his side, his head on Pete’s lap.
It’s raining outside tonight-L.A.’s hit the rainy season and half of Malibu has slid onto the PCH, and no one can get through Topanga Canyon on the Woodland Hills side-and the bedroom is dark and grey and watery except for the glow of Pete’s MacBook at the foot of the bed, OhNoTheyDidn't flickering on the monitor. CDs are scattered across the comforter, and Patrick’s put Miles Davis on to play because there’s nothing better for a rainy evening than Kind of Blue after all.
Pete shifts beneath him, and Patrick looks up at him, a bit sleepily, his glasses pushed up to perch above the brim of his hat (emblazoned New Jersey Is For Lovers--Frank Iero had sent it to him for Christmas along with a matching t-shirt for Pete which Pete had promptly defaced by scrawling cocksuckers on it in Sharpie, scratching out the Helvetica Lovers) and he yawns.
“Hey,” Pete says quietly, and he touches Patrick’s cheek, his thumb smoothing over stubble. His head lolls against the headboard, the orangey-brown hoodie pulled up over his dark hair.
“This is nice,” Patrick murmurs, and he closes his eyes again, letting the horns of "Freddie Freeloader" flood over him. Pete’s arm slides around him, pulling him closer, and Patrick thinks that he could get used to this as Hemmy snuffles against his hip, plops his head on Patrick’s stomach with a damp phumph and a scratch behind his ears.
Pete doesn’t answer for a moment, and Patrick looks up at him again. “Pete?”
“Yeah.” Pete pulls Patrick’s hat off, and Pete’s the only one Patrick would let do that. He folds up Patrick’s glasses, sets them aside, and his fingers slide through Patrick’s thinning hair.
Pete’s thinking about something, and Patrick gets that, he really does. He’s learned over the years just to let Pete think, let him go into that place in his head when he needs to, even when it’s fucking annoying, even when Patrick would rather Pete just talk to him, goddamn it, even when it frightens Patrick because he knows what can happen there in that space if Pete’s not careful-and Patrick knows he can’t live through another Best Buy, not now.
He needs Pete too goddamn much.
“Is this real, man?” Pete asks finally, and his thumb traces the arch of Patrick’s eyebrow. “Us?”
Patrick breathes out slowly. This is one of those moments when Pete scares the fuck out of him. “Yeah. I think so.” He threads his fingers through Pete’s. “You want it to be?”
Pete just smiles at him, a half-curve of his wide mouth, but that’s all Patrick needs. Pete reaches for a black Sharpie that Patrick had tossed on the bed earlier, and he says, “Give me your arm.”
“What the hell for?” Patrick asks, but he doesn’t hesitate to hold his arm up, over his head as Pete uncaps the pen. The nub is soft-hard against his skin, digging in as Pete drags it over his arm. Patrick can feel the letters form and he recognizes the curve of a p, the twist of an s. There’s something erotic about it, in the way Pete holds Patrick’s arm steady, in the way the ink slides over his skin, black against pale white, and Patrick might almost be tempted to get a tattoo.
Except he’s not too thrilled about needles, blood and pain.
Pete caps the pen. “There,” he says, and he lets Patrick’s arm go.
Property of P.W., it says on one line in wide black capital letters wavering down Patrick’s arm. He licked it first Pete’s written beneath and Patrick barks out a sharp laugh.
“Well, I suppose you could say that,” he says with a grin, “if you’re only talking about guys. Tracey Hollahan might have a different opinion.”
“Fuck Tracey Hollahan.” Pete grabs Patick’s crotch, his hand sliding over Patrick’s dick in his jeans and Patrick’s breath catches. “I think you should have this tattooed in. Property of P.W. on your skin forever. I’d fucking like that.”
“Feeling a little possessive, Wentz?” Patrick asks lightly, but he looks up at Pete. The expression on Pete’s face clenches his stomach, and Patrick knows, he just knows, and it frightens him and makes him want to lean up and kiss Pete all at once.
He wants to be Pete’s. Maybe he’s always wanted it in some way, just like he wants Pete to be his. He’s not certain the latter will ever happen, but maybe it’s enough, this.
“Yeah. Maybe.” Pete’s quiet for a moment and his hand leaves Patrick’s cock, moves up to his cheek. “Sometimes,” he says finally, “I think I might want to run, but who’m I going to run to, you know?” His fingertips skim over Patrick’s nose. "Just you. Kind of defeats the fucking purpose."
"Andy. Joe. Mikey." Patrick looks up at him, and Pete shakes his head.
"I could," he admits, "but it wouldn't be the same." He hesitates. "I fucked up."
Patrick doesn't even ask to what he's referring. He already knows. "Yeah. You did."
"You came back." Pete's eyes are dark, shadowed by the hoodie and the smudged eyeliner beneath his lashes. He traces the words on Patrick’s arm. “To me.”
"Where else am I going to run?" Hemmy's drooling on Patrick's polo shirt and he whimpers in his sleep. Patrick runs his hand along the back of Hemmy's head.
Pete snorts, and his arm slides around Patrick's neck. He strokes Patrick's sideburns slowly. "What happens if I do it again?"
"Don't press your luck, Wentz," Patrick says, toying with Hemmy's floppy ear. He stares out the window, into the blurred, dark stretch of wet green grass and leaves. The palm trees rustle in the wind, bending to one side as the rain pelts them. "I don't know." He shifts, balances an empty can of Red Bull on Hemmy's head and Hemmy opens one baleful eye before snuffling again against his stomach. "Just don't."
Pete chews on his bottom lip. "Okay," he says finally, and in that one word, in its quiet inflection and the soft sigh that follows Patrick knows Pete's not certain he can, but he'll try because Patrick's asked, and hey, yeah, by the way maybe I might love you. I think.
Patrick says I love you too in a quick squeeze of his fingers, curled around Pete's palm and he sweeps his thumb over the ball of Pete's hand and closes his eyes. “Fucking mine and you better goddamn get used to it,” he murmurs, and Pete’s hand tightens around his.
“Yeah,” Pete whispers and Patrick feels him shiver beneath him.
Patrick doesn't know if this is going to work, doesn't know if he wants it to be forever, doesn't know that it won't fuck up the band, doesn’t know that Pete can do this, even with him, no matter how much he wants to. But it's raining outside, and it's a lazy Saturday evening with nothing to do and nowhere to be, shadows darkening into night, and he's lying here with Pete and Hemmy and Miles Davis has swung into "Blue In Green," and for this moment, Patrick's content.
And maybe, Patrick thinks, his fingers sliding across the inked initials on his arm, maybe right now that’s all that matters.