fob.p!atd.fic| where the blame lies | nc.17 | patrick.ryan.brendon
Author: clumsygyrl
Fandom: fall out boy/ panic!at the disco
Pairing: patrick stump/ryan ross/brendon urie
Rating: nc-17, sure.
Disclaimer: all true. yup. all of it. except where it's not. which is all of it.
Author's notes: written for damnyouwentz's fic exchange. you have no idea how nervous i am about who my recipient is/was. i really hope i did your request justice. i do recall something about virgin!ryan and him getting fucked and no aus. i hope you like this, hon. i take gross liberties with touring and schedules and all leaps of tour date disbelief are all mine. thank you to my betas angelchildr, amandazillah, yeats, and xoverau. for addictedkitten
where the blame lies
It was, of course, all Pete’s fault.
Patrick would have probably happily existed without noticing just how pretty Ryan Ross was if Pete hadn’t mentioned it.
But he did.
And that’s why it was all Pete’s fault.
“Just look at him. He’s like pretty. Girl pretty.” Pete said leaning heavily on Patrick’s shoulder, shoving at his elbow and spilling his drink over the back of his hand. The new stickiness of Red Bull was a lovely addition to the other layers of party detritus on the table.
Patrick wondered briefly when the tables had last been hosed off. Food services were usually better at keeping the place at least pre-kegger frat house clean. Off in the distance, Patrick heard Joe challenge someone from Armor to a fight to the death.
With lightsabers no doubt. Joe always thought he’d have made a kickass Han Solo. Patrick thought Joe was more Chewie to Pete’s Leia. But he never said it out loud.
“Fuck, my ass,” Pete said trying to peel himself off the benchseat mouth curling into a moue of either distaste or the signature Wentz sneer of Grr. Trademarked by Wentz, named by Hurley after too many Mt. Dews and late night diner cups of coffee.
“No.” Patrick raised an eyebrow at the not so mysterious sticky white stain. “Try not sitting your narrow ass on Bonnie’s secret reserve of Hostess products. You do realize she’s going to kill you.”
Pete muttered something about Twinks or Twinkies or both. “You’d think they’d at least hose these off.” Thumping the bench one more time, this time his hand coming away with sticky red and purple.
Maybe they too had been distracted by the pretty that was Ryan Ross.
Speak of the distraction, Ryan passed by their table, slender hipped and shy cool smile. All executed perfectly. Haloed and backlit with the radioactive green and red glows of a battle in the background and the shouts of the Force echoing in the cool autumn air. Ryan looked caught between stories. Both hero/ine and object in distress.
Pete nudged Patrick’s elbow again, spilling the wine red fruit punch all over the tabletop and Patrick’s jeans.
Ryan looked up smiling a little less coolly and Patrick knew he was fucked.
+ + +
So, Patrick noticed Ryan. Kept watching him.
Ryan was Patrick’s own National Geographic special. Or something.
Day 25- The subject seems to like the attention of both the male and female of the species. Shy in nature and quiet in demeanor and action. Many find the subject attractive, flocking to him and his companions. Further investigation needed.
He did it as surreptitiously as he was allowed.
And by allowed, there was always the Pete clause. Or condition.
“Condition makes it sound like Pete’s a disease.” Andy said laughing and sharing a grilled soy cheese sandwich.
Patrick’s only answer was to peel off the crusts and throw them at Pete’s head.
And when Pete woke up an hour later, demanding to know how he’d gotten crumbs and melted cheese on his forehead, all Andy and Patrick could do was smile.
+ + +
“You want to hang out?”
And there it was.
Day 46 - The subject approaches the observer. The observer, for the first time, is caught in his watching.
Patrick thought that after watching Ryan for so long that hanging out would be weird.
And it was, but it wasn’t.
Patrick tried to explain it to Pete once.
“So, you two are hanging out?” Pete asked hanging upside down from the couch. Patrick could always count on Pete to call out the obvious even when he hid it between lines from Descartes and Desconocido. Patrick was sitting on the floor, trying to fix the bridge of a song. Something was off. A minor third or a major fifth.
“What?” Not who.
Pete rolled his eyes, a little disconcerting from the angle Patrick was sitting. “Not what, who.”
There were instances where Patrick hated Pete for knowing him so well. The times where Patrick wished he could hide behind his glasses and a sarcastic not so well hidden jibe.
“Who then?” Patrick asked again.
“Ryan ‘I’m Pretty, Too Pretty’ Ross. I walked in on you two together in the back.” Pete said grinning maniacally as if he’d figured something out.
Patrick thought Pete’s grin from this place looked more like a Cheshire frown. “Don’t say walked in. We were figuring out the melodies for this one song. Walked in makes it sound like we were doing something.”
“Weren’t you?” Pete asked rolling off the couch, and like all good cats, landed on his feet.
Patrick watched Pete stroll away, confident and arrogant about figuring out another Patrick Not so Secret Secret.
Patrick wished Pete had a tail. Just so he could pull on it.
+ + +
Ryan Ross, it turned out, liked black and white movies. Things that were made before even his parents were born. He enjoyed poking the center out of Reese’s Peanut Butter cups and eating it first before taking a good half hour nibbling on the outer ring. He could converse extensively about the similarities between classic funk and L.A. new wave.
Patrick was amazed at just how much Ryan could say without really talking. He let other things and people talk for him.
Brendon wasn’t necessarily Ryan’s mouthpiece. Just like he wasn’t Pete’s.
But all of Pete’s words and pain and anger were funneled through melodies and lyrics and out of Patrick’s mouth. Just like Ryan’s were to Brendon.
“But a pretty mouthpiece.” Ryan said when Patrick tried to explain it to him one night after a viewing of Un Chien Andaluz. Which cemented Patrick’s opinion that Dali was one sick motherfucker.
“What?” Not who.
Ryan just smiled and pushed Patrick's hat back a little. “There, now I can see you.”
“Ditto.”
And Patrick felt like a total ass when Ryan laughed. I thought you knew.
Patrick thought it and he wondered if that was what Ryan was saying with that laugh.
+ + +
“Well, just call me okay? Here,” written on the back of an In n Out napkin. “At home or whatever.” The lights were bright, but Patrick was glad that he was standing in the shadow of a tour bus.
“Yeah? Cool!” And in that instance, Patrick saw just how young Ryan was. The late night noir movies and discussions about the New York Dolls and existentialisms from fortune cookies were lost in that eager smile and shy look. “Here’s mine.”
Scrawled in small tiny print, neat and precise. Tucked in a corner of Patrick’s notebook.
“Call me sometime. Lyrics and movies? - Ryan.” Patrick read and he looked up trying not to smirk and feeling that he failed. “K.I.T. and Stay Sweet?”
This time when Ryan laughed Patrick knew that it meant all of those things and then some.
+ + +
“So, was Anna your first?” Ryan asked, voice distant because of the miles but intimate and close tucked up against Patrick’s shoulder.
Patrick laughed softly. It was late. The house was quiet and he’d put down his notebook and pencil hours ago. Glasses tossed somewhere nearby, never far or out of arm’s reach. A nearsighted person’s survival instinct to keep vision close at hand. So to speak. “Why is it that we always end up talking about sex after midnight?”
“Because you like telling me about your misadventures.”
“I don’t have those. That’s Pete’s forte. I have nonadventures. I’ve barely had ventures.” Patrick closed his eyes, feeling his hair tickle the back of his neck. Time to get it cut soon.
“More than me no doubt.” There was a pause and then Ryan laughed in the rolling jollying way that meant that someone was joking.
Even across three statelines, Patrick heard it ring false. “Ry?”
“I’m. Yeah. I haven’t.”
Patrick concentrated on his breathing. Counted to ten twice over.
“You can laugh any time now, Stump.” There was the prissy diva tone. Cutting and cool and almost aloof. Ryan needed a few more years out on the road to achieve that level.
Or take lessons from Mikey Way.
“I wasn’t going to laugh. I just thought you and-.”
“No! No, not. Not her. I couldn’t.” The prissy leaked away into silence.
Patrick winced. “Maybe it was her. Maybe she didn’t do-.”
Ryan laughed. Hollow and sad this time. “I think I’m gay.”
Patrick counted to ten again wishing for a split second that it was Pete that Ryan had to talk to about this. Pete was better at this stuff. The sexual identity questioning and answering and questioning and answering again.
“Patrick?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Sorry. I was thinking about Pete.”
Ryan either choked or laughed. Or both. “I say I think I might be gay and you bring up Pete. Is he the starter kit?”
“God no!” Patrick gave a silent apology to Pete, wherever and whoever he was with at the moment. “Just that he’s better at being. Understanding and stuff.”
Ryan let out a long breath, rustling over the line like tissue paper and dry leaves. “I just need someone to listen. I just need-.”
“Ryan, shut up and talk. I’m here.”
“Yeah?” Ryan asked but Patrick could see the smile, hear it.
Neither of them spoke for the rest of the call, Patrick woke up hours later with the soft sound of Ryan’s breathing on the other end.
+ + +
“So, tell me one of the things you fantasize about.” Patrick slurred. He was drunk. Blotto. Wasted. Tanked.
Again, it was all Pete’s fault.
Some magazine party. Or something for some artist, up and coming. And Patrick was a sucker for fruity drinks that didn’t taste like anything but juice.
“You’re drunk.” Ryan said softly.
Patrick had nodded, forehead slick with sweat and his brain swimming in colours. “That I am Ryan Ross.” The closet he was currently sitting in was quiet and at least two rooms away from the main party. The voices and music muffled through thick wood and a multitude of coats. “And I’m in a closet.”
“…Excuse me?”
“A closet. Not the closet.” Patrick giggled and he felt something tickle his nose. Ermine? Something dead. “I am drunk and I want you to tell me what you fantasize about when you do it.”
“I’m a virgin, Patrick. I don’t do anything.” Ryan was speaking slowly, calmly, talking Patrick down.
Patrick snorted and coughed, batting at the coat and knocking it off a hanger. He didn’t even flinch when it caught him in the eye. “Don’t tell me you haven’t taken the stuff out of the package. Test drive it. Tune it up and turn it on!” He covered a hand over his mouth and giggled. He was going go to kill Pete tomorrow. He was going to call Ryan and apologize tomorrow. He was going to be very sorry tomorrow.
He was going to regret lots of things tonight.
“I’m hanging up, Patrick.” Ryan sounded tired and uncomfortable.
“I watched you. I watched you all the time.” Patrick heard the click echo in his skull.
“I know.”
He was going to regret lots of things right now.
+ + +
Ryan hung up on him the next time.
Patrick really couldn’t blame him. He’d said all the same things.
+ + +
“So, are you ever going to tell me?” Patrick stared up at his bedroom ceiling, sober and clear thinking. There were secrets in the shadows his grandmother had whispered once to him as she tucked him in after a long day of summer play.
He thought maybe she was trying to comfort him. But all it did was make him watch the figures dance and creep ever closer.
“Tell you what?” Ryan’s voice was soft, muffled against something soft. He was quieter these days, the inverse proportion to the growing popularity. Patrick knew how that went.
Sometimes the only quiet was the one in your own head.
“Tell me what you fantasize about when you’re…”
“Brendon.” Not what, but who.
“…Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” And if a voice could blush, Ryan would be pink all over. Patrick refused to continue that train of thought.
Patrick sat up and grinned at the shadows. “Brendon. Urie?”
“Any time you want to start laughing, Stump.” The ice prince(ss) was back.
Patrick shook his head just smiling. “Well, I’m sorry. Hearing that you dream about what other 12 year old girls are dreaming about--.”
“Fuck you. I don’t dream about him. I fantasize. I just. When I. It’s like a comfort.” Ryan’s ice cracked with his voice.
Patrick did laugh that time. “That’s kind of cute. You’ve got a crush. So what do you fantasize about when you--.”
“Why do you want to know?” No outright refusal.
“Curiousity.”
Ryan snorted the edges still frosted around the edges. “Killed a pussy.”
“That’s Pete.”
That made Ryan laugh. And Patrick made himself forget to keep pestering Ryan.
+ + +
It was a month and two days after that phone call when Patrick found out.
“…And Brendon. He just kissed me. Right there. On stage.” Ryan sounded happy, giddy even. “Just on the cheek. But still. He kissed me.”
“Dream come true? I mean, fantasy.” Patrick asked. He had meant it to be teasing, to be soft, to be friendly. He frowned when it sounded like something other than those.
Ryan paused, breathless in his telling. “What?”
“Nothing. So, is that how it starts off? Him kissing you on stage?” Patrick couldn’t name, couldn’t say what drove him to want to know. To find out, but it was there. Needing to know.
Ryan’s voice came across in a series of muted sounds. Patrick knew he was getting out of his stage stuff. “Sorry. What?” There was the breathlessness again and the creak of cheap bedsprings. “God, I smell rank.”
“Price of stardom.” Patrick said laughing and crossing his eyes at Pete. He kicked someone’s shoes out of the way and he flopped back down into his bunk. He was still a little sweaty from their show, not that anyone would care.
“You asked me something earlier.”
“I asked you,” Patrick closed the curtain with a whisking sound, the bearings skittering along the track. “If that’s how your fantasy starts. Him kissing you on stage and then you know. It progressing.”
Ryan sighed and there was another series of quiet thumps. “Yes and no. Sometimes it’s that he kisses me pressed up against the bus. I mean, he just shoves me against the side and kisses me and drags me inside. So fast that I’m off balance, stumbling. And I want him so bad. He wants me just as much. I can taste it. I can taste him. And we’re both so… into it that we can’t stop. We can’t even get our clothes off, ripping and pushing things out of the way just so he can--.” There was a soft cough on the other end. “Sorry. TMI probably.”
Patrick forced his eyes open, wondering when he’d closed them. “Oh. Uh. No.” He winced, wondering again when his voice had gotten lower.
“God, and he smells so good. Like sweat, but in a good way. Clean and fucking Downy softener.” Ryan’s laugh was a little strangled. “I want him just to hold me-.”
Patrick was going to laugh and call Ryan a girl.
“Down.”
Patrick forgot to say goodbye when Ryan stammered out an excuse and hung up. Ryan was embarrassed. And Patrick was…
Patrick just was.
+ + +
Pete was no help. Not that Patrick was going to Pete for help anyway. Pete volunteered himself.
“It’s about eleven, Patrick. Shouldn’t you be on the phone by now?” Pete thumped Patrick on the thigh with his fist in what was, by all assumptions, a friendly gesture.
Patrick felt the ink pen in his pocket crack. “Fuck you.”
Pete leaned closer, smiling with full white teeth. “I answer questions.”
“You fulfill requests.” Patrick corrected and he grimaced at the blueblack hole of ink as it crept ever outward on his thigh.
“That too.” Pete thumped Patrick again. This time on the opposite thigh.
Patrick flipped Pete off and went to the back of the bus to change his pants. And to call Ryan.
He wasn’t far enough way to escape the sound of Pete laughing.
+ + +
The sound of Ryan coming could classify, in and of itself, as a deadly weapon.
Ryan made a half hitching sound that was part breath and part moan. Broken muttered syllables that were meant to be words, but came off just as dirty replicas.
Patrick shouldn’t know the sounds. He shouldn’t.
It was by accident really. Sort of.
Ryan had a tendency to drop his phone. Knock it against things. But he was too cheap to get a new one. “My plan isn’t up for renewal for another six months. I’ll wait.” Is what he had said when Patrick had told him it sounded like Ryan was calling from the middle of a snowstorm.
Barely past three a.m. and twenty miles out of Duluth, Patrick had picked up. Sleep fuzzed and groggy from too late a show and too early a rise that same day. “Ryan?”
There was a rustling and then Patrick heard it. The distinct sound of skin slipping against skin and a bitten off moan.
Patrick froze, equal parts awake and wondering. Wondering if he’d dreamt this up or was still dreaming it.
“Oh, fuck. Fuck, yes.” Over and over in Ryan’s too soft voice. At a distance, muffled a little against sheets or blankets.
Patrick strained to hear, to see if there was another voice. Another person there with Ryan. Maybe it was pay back for all the fucked up drunk dials.
But no. Just Ryan. By himself. Touching himself.
Patrick pressed his forehead against the mattress, breathing hard, and pressing the phone to his ear even harder.
“Oh God, please.”
Oh God, please. Patrick forced his hand to stay clenched against his side. It was wrong. This was wrong.
Ryan’s breath hitched, stuttered and the sound was muffled.
Against his pillow? His other hand? If not his other hand, what was his other hand doing? Patrick swallowed hard and he willed his fingers to cooperate. Push the button. Push the button.
“Fuck, please.” Whimpered and sad, the note of loneliness making Patrick’s stomach clench in a different way.
Two beats of silence then a sigh. “Please, Patrick.”
Patrick jabbed his fingers at his phone and tossed it into the dark corner of his bunk.
"Please, Patrick."
Patrick shut his eyes and he pretended to fall asleep, skin clammy and sticky.
He didn’t touch his phone for the next two days.
+ + +
Day 386- The observer is caught.
“You should. Go for it. With Brendon.” Patrick said. It was the first time in months that they’d actually sat down face to face with each other. The first hour was awkward, relearning how to physically be around each other.
Pete had no trouble throwing himself, literally, on the rest of the guys. Patrick winced, hoping that make up could fix Spencer’s fat lip. Pete always did have pointy elbows.
Brendon and Spencer had gone off with Pete on some midnight Super Wal-mart run. Patrick should have been concerned. But he was not his bassist’s keeper.
“Keep telling yourself that.” Ryan said thumbing through Patrick’s notebook and dog earring pertinent pages.
“Seriously. Indulge your crush. You never know. It could pan out.” Patrick said conscious of just how close Ryan was to him.
Ryan looked at him, slanting an eyebrow and smirk at him. “I indulge my fantasies thanks. Just not. Physically.”
Liar.
“Why not? He’s not with what’s her name. You’re not with… anyone.” Patrick said reaching over and scratching out a line in Ryan’s notebook and fixing the chord progression.
“Thanks for the reminder, asshole.” Curse words shouldn’t look so sweet coming from a mouth like that.
Patrick blinked. “Just… do it.”
“Because my love life should be a footwear campaign slogan.” Ryan drawled and he erased what Patrick had scrawled and added a word.
Patrick glared at Ryan. “You want him. Go get him.”
“I wouldn’t know how.” Ryan grimaced at the page of notes and badly drawn doodles.
“You could start by talking.” Patrick fiddled with the eraser of his pencil and he looked at Ryan. “Wait. Have you ever even kissed someone?”
Ryan flipped Patrick off and he rolled his eyes. “I’m not completely new. Shit, I dated Jac and everything.”
“I meant with a guy.”
“Oh.” The silence spoke for Ryan, whose cheeks turned an impressive shade of pink. “So, you think I should just… jump him?”
Patrick forced that train of thought to stop. Derail and sit in idle. He made a show of clearing his throat and picking up papers. “Yeah. Sure. He’s what you want, right?”
“Yeah.” Ryan smiled at Patrick and thumped him on the thigh. “Yeah!”
+ + +
“I thought you wanted me just to listen.”
“Well, I changed the rules. Tell me what to do.”
Patrick pretended that the tightening of his stomach was nothing more than… just nothing.
“Okay. Uhm. I’ve never tried to get a guy. So maybe you should…”
+ + +
Patrick was not prepared for his advice to go so well.
“…He kissed me back. Asked me what the hell I’d been waiting so long for. And oh God, Patrick.”
”Please, Patrick.”
“He shoved me into his bunk and we made out. For… hours. Spencer kept throwing stuff at the curtain.” Ryan laughed. “Jon, the fucker, taped the curtain shut. But he got us balloons. A Congratulations one and Welcome New Baby Boy. I think those were all the balloons they had at the truck stop.”
Patrick cleared his throat. “So, you and Brendon…”
Ryan laughed again. “Oh fuck you, Stump. I’m not that kind of boy. I don’t put out on the first date.”
“So, it was a date?” Patrick picked at a hole in his shirt. He could hear Andy snoring somewhere further than his bunk. Probably asleep on the couch. Joe was a restless sleeper, kicking at the curtains. Pete, despite all rumors, was the quietest.
“Sort of. He bought me a Slurpee and we shared it after.”
“Oh, well good. See? It all worked out.”
“Yeah, it did.” Ryan sounded so fucking happy.
Patrick only winced a little when he hung up on him.
+ + +
Patrick liked Brendon. He did. Brendon was a nice guy.
“Listen, I know. I know you and Ryan are close. You’re like his confidant.” Brendon had said. He’d confessed earlier that he’d stolen Patrick’s number from Ryan’s phone. Patrick thought that was funny. He could have just called Pete for it.
Then again Pete had a tendency to not pick up the phone. Learned behavior and all.
“You make it sound like we’re best friends.” Patrick flicked a rubberband at Pete’s head. The risk you took if you fell asleep in the lounge.
Brendon laughed. Patrick liked the sound. It was rich, a singer’s laugh. He wondered if he laughed in range too. “No, but. You two are connected. I didn’t want you to think that I’d mess that up.”
“Shut up, man. You’ve known each other way longer than I’ve known him.”
Brendon paused, not for dramatic effect, but like he was trying to find the right words. “No, I don’t think so. I’m getting to know him. This part of him. But I think he let you see it before anyone else.”
“I know you won’t.” Patrick hated not having the words. At least the right ones immediately. “Thanks.”
There was a scuffling noise and Ryan’s voice in the background. “You’re welcome. You’re a good guy. I like you. Ryan likes you.”
“I like you too.” And after promises to meet up later, Patrick hung up feeling lonelier than he had before.
+ + +
It was another month before they were all even in the same state, let alone the same city.
Patrick found himself wandering the back of the venue. He gave up the pretense of trying to look interested. Greta and Bob had tried to press him into conversation, but he was distracted. He kept looking away.
Kept looking for something.
Not what, but who.
Day 403- The observer resigns himself to just being that.
He walked in on them. Too many Red Bulls and too tight spaces, made Patrick antsy. A turn down one hallway and stumbling past another.
Ryan was pressed against the wall. His hair dark with shadow and post show sweat. He was arching, pushing, and then pulling at someone. “Brendon,” and Ryan’s face lit up in a smile. Both hungry and soft.
Ryan Ross was a collection of contradictions. Patrick had known this, observed this. But didn’t realize it fully till now.
Brendon murmured something into Ryan’s ear that made him laugh. Made Ryan tug at Brendon’s hand back toward the hallway.
Patrick stood there, frozen.
Day 403- The observer is caught. The two now observe him.
Ryan’s smile didn’t change, but it shifted to encompass Patrick too. “Were you watching us?”
Brendon’s arm tugged Ryan back, chin hooking over his shoulder. His smile was just as open and inviting as Ryan’s. “He always is. You at least.”
Patrick would have to change his opinion of Brendon. Not just a mouthpiece maybe.
“I know.” Ryan smiled and he tilted his head to look at Patrick. This time the smile did change. Less sure and a lot more shy. “I’ve known.”
Patrick looked from Ryan to Brendon and back again.
“Do you want to come up?”
And there it was. Patrick blinked wondering if when he opened his eyes it’d be made up. If they’d be made up.
“We haven’t. Yet. And I want.” Ryan closed his eyes when Brendon kissed his neck. “I want you to be there. Just to watch, if you want.”
Brendon smiled at Patrick. “We want you there.”
Patrick watched them walk away.
This was, in some way he hadn’t figure out quite yet, Pete’s fault.
+ + +
There they were tangled up in each other. Just like Ryan had described, clothes barely off, hands pushing and pulling to get them free. To get them closer to each other. It was Brendon who looked up, smiling and beckoning him over.
“Spencer give you the key?”
Patrick nodded, blushing. “Yeah. Please don’t ever let that kid be the messenger again.”
“You’re saying that like there’s already going to be a next time.” Brendon sat up, shirt half undone and pants in a similar state.
“Not that I assumed-.”
“Good.” Ryan said pushing Brendon off him and grinning at Patrick. “Come here. You can just sit.” He held out his hand, the other lost in the shadows, hidden by the curve of Brendon’s body.
Patrick looked at the two of them. Mouths bruised and eyes and smiles open and easy. They wanted him to be there. To just watch if that’s all he wanted.
Patrick looked down at Ryan’s hand.
He went.
+ + +
There was so much to touch and taste. Patrick felt the sweat sting his eyes, body heavy with the laziness that came from a body well used and spent. Somewhere during the events of the night, he’d been relieved of all his clothing. His hands, Ryan’s hands, and Brendon’s as well helped.
He’d watched them at first. Touching each other. Undressing each other.
Ryan’s movements were still tentative, but they grew in confidence. Brendon pressed close, whispering soft words of encouragement.
Then Brendon had looked to Patrick.
“That’s it. Look at how much he likes it when you touch him,” Patrick said softly, watching the set of Ryan’s shoulders relax. The fingers skimmed over Brendon’s stomach, touching the suddenly tight muscle.
Patrick scooted closer, biting back a moan. The scent of sweat and almost sex were heavy. His words kept going, dictating action and reaction from and to both Ryan and Brendon. Each of them looking at Patrick.
The actions followed words. His hand on Brendon’s back. His mouth along the sweat slick crease of Ryan’s thigh. His teeth and tongue making Ryan arch, hearing and feeling those sounds he already knew.
His actions led to theirs.
Patrick’s fingers tangled in Ryan’s hair, tugging and pulling till their mouths met, whispering secrets in half words and broken sounds. Brendon’s mouth hotwetgoodsogood around his cock. Ryan’s hands, clumsy but eager, kneading and stroking Brendon as Patrick slid into him, curses and praise mingled into one incoherent thoughtsound.
Ryan was between them, sweating and shaking with want. His eyes open and impossibly dark, forehead pressed to Patrick’s as Brendon fucked him. Their kisses unhurried and soft. Patrick cared for each and every moan and whimper, holding them and keeping them for Ryan. His fingers wrapped around Ryan, stroking him in time, his body feeling the ghost echoes of Brendon inside him, smiling and sharing this with Ryan.
Patrick brought Ryan over just as Brendon came. They kissed, kept kissing till Ryan fell asleep.
Between them both.
+ + +
“Ow, the fuck? What was that for?” Pete yelped rubbing his forehead.
“Lots of somethings.” Patrick said whistling and pulling off his hoodie and chucking it at Pete’s head. He headed down the hall to his bunk.
Pete wrinkled his nose and he threw the hoodie back. “Okay. That just smells foul.” He looked up and blinked. “Yo, Trick! The fuck? Why the fuck do you have hickeys on your back? Patrick?”
“Oh, and thanks.”
It was really all Pete’s fault. Patrick picked up his phone. “Hey Ry?”
“Patrick? TELL ME!”
And Pete deserved everything he got in turn.
fin.
Fandom: fall out boy/ panic!at the disco
Pairing: patrick stump/ryan ross/brendon urie
Rating: nc-17, sure.
Disclaimer: all true. yup. all of it. except where it's not. which is all of it.
Author's notes: written for damnyouwentz's fic exchange. you have no idea how nervous i am about who my recipient is/was. i really hope i did your request justice. i do recall something about virgin!ryan and him getting fucked and no aus. i hope you like this, hon. i take gross liberties with touring and schedules and all leaps of tour date disbelief are all mine. thank you to my betas angelchildr, amandazillah, yeats, and xoverau. for addictedkitten
where the blame lies
It was, of course, all Pete’s fault.
Patrick would have probably happily existed without noticing just how pretty Ryan Ross was if Pete hadn’t mentioned it.
But he did.
And that’s why it was all Pete’s fault.
“Just look at him. He’s like pretty. Girl pretty.” Pete said leaning heavily on Patrick’s shoulder, shoving at his elbow and spilling his drink over the back of his hand. The new stickiness of Red Bull was a lovely addition to the other layers of party detritus on the table.
Patrick wondered briefly when the tables had last been hosed off. Food services were usually better at keeping the place at least pre-kegger frat house clean. Off in the distance, Patrick heard Joe challenge someone from Armor to a fight to the death.
With lightsabers no doubt. Joe always thought he’d have made a kickass Han Solo. Patrick thought Joe was more Chewie to Pete’s Leia. But he never said it out loud.
“Fuck, my ass,” Pete said trying to peel himself off the benchseat mouth curling into a moue of either distaste or the signature Wentz sneer of Grr. Trademarked by Wentz, named by Hurley after too many Mt. Dews and late night diner cups of coffee.
“No.” Patrick raised an eyebrow at the not so mysterious sticky white stain. “Try not sitting your narrow ass on Bonnie’s secret reserve of Hostess products. You do realize she’s going to kill you.”
Pete muttered something about Twinks or Twinkies or both. “You’d think they’d at least hose these off.” Thumping the bench one more time, this time his hand coming away with sticky red and purple.
Maybe they too had been distracted by the pretty that was Ryan Ross.
Speak of the distraction, Ryan passed by their table, slender hipped and shy cool smile. All executed perfectly. Haloed and backlit with the radioactive green and red glows of a battle in the background and the shouts of the Force echoing in the cool autumn air. Ryan looked caught between stories. Both hero/ine and object in distress.
Pete nudged Patrick’s elbow again, spilling the wine red fruit punch all over the tabletop and Patrick’s jeans.
Ryan looked up smiling a little less coolly and Patrick knew he was fucked.
+ + +
So, Patrick noticed Ryan. Kept watching him.
Ryan was Patrick’s own National Geographic special. Or something.
Day 25- The subject seems to like the attention of both the male and female of the species. Shy in nature and quiet in demeanor and action. Many find the subject attractive, flocking to him and his companions. Further investigation needed.
He did it as surreptitiously as he was allowed.
And by allowed, there was always the Pete clause. Or condition.
“Condition makes it sound like Pete’s a disease.” Andy said laughing and sharing a grilled soy cheese sandwich.
Patrick’s only answer was to peel off the crusts and throw them at Pete’s head.
And when Pete woke up an hour later, demanding to know how he’d gotten crumbs and melted cheese on his forehead, all Andy and Patrick could do was smile.
+ + +
“You want to hang out?”
And there it was.
Day 46 - The subject approaches the observer. The observer, for the first time, is caught in his watching.
Patrick thought that after watching Ryan for so long that hanging out would be weird.
And it was, but it wasn’t.
Patrick tried to explain it to Pete once.
“So, you two are hanging out?” Pete asked hanging upside down from the couch. Patrick could always count on Pete to call out the obvious even when he hid it between lines from Descartes and Desconocido. Patrick was sitting on the floor, trying to fix the bridge of a song. Something was off. A minor third or a major fifth.
“What?” Not who.
Pete rolled his eyes, a little disconcerting from the angle Patrick was sitting. “Not what, who.”
There were instances where Patrick hated Pete for knowing him so well. The times where Patrick wished he could hide behind his glasses and a sarcastic not so well hidden jibe.
“Who then?” Patrick asked again.
“Ryan ‘I’m Pretty, Too Pretty’ Ross. I walked in on you two together in the back.” Pete said grinning maniacally as if he’d figured something out.
Patrick thought Pete’s grin from this place looked more like a Cheshire frown. “Don’t say walked in. We were figuring out the melodies for this one song. Walked in makes it sound like we were doing something.”
“Weren’t you?” Pete asked rolling off the couch, and like all good cats, landed on his feet.
Patrick watched Pete stroll away, confident and arrogant about figuring out another Patrick Not so Secret Secret.
Patrick wished Pete had a tail. Just so he could pull on it.
+ + +
Ryan Ross, it turned out, liked black and white movies. Things that were made before even his parents were born. He enjoyed poking the center out of Reese’s Peanut Butter cups and eating it first before taking a good half hour nibbling on the outer ring. He could converse extensively about the similarities between classic funk and L.A. new wave.
Patrick was amazed at just how much Ryan could say without really talking. He let other things and people talk for him.
Brendon wasn’t necessarily Ryan’s mouthpiece. Just like he wasn’t Pete’s.
But all of Pete’s words and pain and anger were funneled through melodies and lyrics and out of Patrick’s mouth. Just like Ryan’s were to Brendon.
“But a pretty mouthpiece.” Ryan said when Patrick tried to explain it to him one night after a viewing of Un Chien Andaluz. Which cemented Patrick’s opinion that Dali was one sick motherfucker.
“What?” Not who.
Ryan just smiled and pushed Patrick's hat back a little. “There, now I can see you.”
“Ditto.”
And Patrick felt like a total ass when Ryan laughed. I thought you knew.
Patrick thought it and he wondered if that was what Ryan was saying with that laugh.
+ + +
“Well, just call me okay? Here,” written on the back of an In n Out napkin. “At home or whatever.” The lights were bright, but Patrick was glad that he was standing in the shadow of a tour bus.
“Yeah? Cool!” And in that instance, Patrick saw just how young Ryan was. The late night noir movies and discussions about the New York Dolls and existentialisms from fortune cookies were lost in that eager smile and shy look. “Here’s mine.”
Scrawled in small tiny print, neat and precise. Tucked in a corner of Patrick’s notebook.
“Call me sometime. Lyrics and movies? - Ryan.” Patrick read and he looked up trying not to smirk and feeling that he failed. “K.I.T. and Stay Sweet?”
This time when Ryan laughed Patrick knew that it meant all of those things and then some.
+ + +
“So, was Anna your first?” Ryan asked, voice distant because of the miles but intimate and close tucked up against Patrick’s shoulder.
Patrick laughed softly. It was late. The house was quiet and he’d put down his notebook and pencil hours ago. Glasses tossed somewhere nearby, never far or out of arm’s reach. A nearsighted person’s survival instinct to keep vision close at hand. So to speak. “Why is it that we always end up talking about sex after midnight?”
“Because you like telling me about your misadventures.”
“I don’t have those. That’s Pete’s forte. I have nonadventures. I’ve barely had ventures.” Patrick closed his eyes, feeling his hair tickle the back of his neck. Time to get it cut soon.
“More than me no doubt.” There was a pause and then Ryan laughed in the rolling jollying way that meant that someone was joking.
Even across three statelines, Patrick heard it ring false. “Ry?”
“I’m. Yeah. I haven’t.”
Patrick concentrated on his breathing. Counted to ten twice over.
“You can laugh any time now, Stump.” There was the prissy diva tone. Cutting and cool and almost aloof. Ryan needed a few more years out on the road to achieve that level.
Or take lessons from Mikey Way.
“I wasn’t going to laugh. I just thought you and-.”
“No! No, not. Not her. I couldn’t.” The prissy leaked away into silence.
Patrick winced. “Maybe it was her. Maybe she didn’t do-.”
Ryan laughed. Hollow and sad this time. “I think I’m gay.”
Patrick counted to ten again wishing for a split second that it was Pete that Ryan had to talk to about this. Pete was better at this stuff. The sexual identity questioning and answering and questioning and answering again.
“Patrick?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Sorry. I was thinking about Pete.”
Ryan either choked or laughed. Or both. “I say I think I might be gay and you bring up Pete. Is he the starter kit?”
“God no!” Patrick gave a silent apology to Pete, wherever and whoever he was with at the moment. “Just that he’s better at being. Understanding and stuff.”
Ryan let out a long breath, rustling over the line like tissue paper and dry leaves. “I just need someone to listen. I just need-.”
“Ryan, shut up and talk. I’m here.”
“Yeah?” Ryan asked but Patrick could see the smile, hear it.
Neither of them spoke for the rest of the call, Patrick woke up hours later with the soft sound of Ryan’s breathing on the other end.
+ + +
“So, tell me one of the things you fantasize about.” Patrick slurred. He was drunk. Blotto. Wasted. Tanked.
Again, it was all Pete’s fault.
Some magazine party. Or something for some artist, up and coming. And Patrick was a sucker for fruity drinks that didn’t taste like anything but juice.
“You’re drunk.” Ryan said softly.
Patrick had nodded, forehead slick with sweat and his brain swimming in colours. “That I am Ryan Ross.” The closet he was currently sitting in was quiet and at least two rooms away from the main party. The voices and music muffled through thick wood and a multitude of coats. “And I’m in a closet.”
“…Excuse me?”
“A closet. Not the closet.” Patrick giggled and he felt something tickle his nose. Ermine? Something dead. “I am drunk and I want you to tell me what you fantasize about when you do it.”
“I’m a virgin, Patrick. I don’t do anything.” Ryan was speaking slowly, calmly, talking Patrick down.
Patrick snorted and coughed, batting at the coat and knocking it off a hanger. He didn’t even flinch when it caught him in the eye. “Don’t tell me you haven’t taken the stuff out of the package. Test drive it. Tune it up and turn it on!” He covered a hand over his mouth and giggled. He was going go to kill Pete tomorrow. He was going to call Ryan and apologize tomorrow. He was going to be very sorry tomorrow.
He was going to regret lots of things tonight.
“I’m hanging up, Patrick.” Ryan sounded tired and uncomfortable.
“I watched you. I watched you all the time.” Patrick heard the click echo in his skull.
“I know.”
He was going to regret lots of things right now.
+ + +
Ryan hung up on him the next time.
Patrick really couldn’t blame him. He’d said all the same things.
+ + +
“So, are you ever going to tell me?” Patrick stared up at his bedroom ceiling, sober and clear thinking. There were secrets in the shadows his grandmother had whispered once to him as she tucked him in after a long day of summer play.
He thought maybe she was trying to comfort him. But all it did was make him watch the figures dance and creep ever closer.
“Tell you what?” Ryan’s voice was soft, muffled against something soft. He was quieter these days, the inverse proportion to the growing popularity. Patrick knew how that went.
Sometimes the only quiet was the one in your own head.
“Tell me what you fantasize about when you’re…”
“Brendon.” Not what, but who.
“…Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” And if a voice could blush, Ryan would be pink all over. Patrick refused to continue that train of thought.
Patrick sat up and grinned at the shadows. “Brendon. Urie?”
“Any time you want to start laughing, Stump.” The ice prince(ss) was back.
Patrick shook his head just smiling. “Well, I’m sorry. Hearing that you dream about what other 12 year old girls are dreaming about--.”
“Fuck you. I don’t dream about him. I fantasize. I just. When I. It’s like a comfort.” Ryan’s ice cracked with his voice.
Patrick did laugh that time. “That’s kind of cute. You’ve got a crush. So what do you fantasize about when you--.”
“Why do you want to know?” No outright refusal.
“Curiousity.”
Ryan snorted the edges still frosted around the edges. “Killed a pussy.”
“That’s Pete.”
That made Ryan laugh. And Patrick made himself forget to keep pestering Ryan.
+ + +
It was a month and two days after that phone call when Patrick found out.
“…And Brendon. He just kissed me. Right there. On stage.” Ryan sounded happy, giddy even. “Just on the cheek. But still. He kissed me.”
“Dream come true? I mean, fantasy.” Patrick asked. He had meant it to be teasing, to be soft, to be friendly. He frowned when it sounded like something other than those.
Ryan paused, breathless in his telling. “What?”
“Nothing. So, is that how it starts off? Him kissing you on stage?” Patrick couldn’t name, couldn’t say what drove him to want to know. To find out, but it was there. Needing to know.
Ryan’s voice came across in a series of muted sounds. Patrick knew he was getting out of his stage stuff. “Sorry. What?” There was the breathlessness again and the creak of cheap bedsprings. “God, I smell rank.”
“Price of stardom.” Patrick said laughing and crossing his eyes at Pete. He kicked someone’s shoes out of the way and he flopped back down into his bunk. He was still a little sweaty from their show, not that anyone would care.
“You asked me something earlier.”
“I asked you,” Patrick closed the curtain with a whisking sound, the bearings skittering along the track. “If that’s how your fantasy starts. Him kissing you on stage and then you know. It progressing.”
Ryan sighed and there was another series of quiet thumps. “Yes and no. Sometimes it’s that he kisses me pressed up against the bus. I mean, he just shoves me against the side and kisses me and drags me inside. So fast that I’m off balance, stumbling. And I want him so bad. He wants me just as much. I can taste it. I can taste him. And we’re both so… into it that we can’t stop. We can’t even get our clothes off, ripping and pushing things out of the way just so he can--.” There was a soft cough on the other end. “Sorry. TMI probably.”
Patrick forced his eyes open, wondering when he’d closed them. “Oh. Uh. No.” He winced, wondering again when his voice had gotten lower.
“God, and he smells so good. Like sweat, but in a good way. Clean and fucking Downy softener.” Ryan’s laugh was a little strangled. “I want him just to hold me-.”
Patrick was going to laugh and call Ryan a girl.
“Down.”
Patrick forgot to say goodbye when Ryan stammered out an excuse and hung up. Ryan was embarrassed. And Patrick was…
Patrick just was.
+ + +
Pete was no help. Not that Patrick was going to Pete for help anyway. Pete volunteered himself.
“It’s about eleven, Patrick. Shouldn’t you be on the phone by now?” Pete thumped Patrick on the thigh with his fist in what was, by all assumptions, a friendly gesture.
Patrick felt the ink pen in his pocket crack. “Fuck you.”
Pete leaned closer, smiling with full white teeth. “I answer questions.”
“You fulfill requests.” Patrick corrected and he grimaced at the blueblack hole of ink as it crept ever outward on his thigh.
“That too.” Pete thumped Patrick again. This time on the opposite thigh.
Patrick flipped Pete off and went to the back of the bus to change his pants. And to call Ryan.
He wasn’t far enough way to escape the sound of Pete laughing.
+ + +
The sound of Ryan coming could classify, in and of itself, as a deadly weapon.
Ryan made a half hitching sound that was part breath and part moan. Broken muttered syllables that were meant to be words, but came off just as dirty replicas.
Patrick shouldn’t know the sounds. He shouldn’t.
It was by accident really. Sort of.
Ryan had a tendency to drop his phone. Knock it against things. But he was too cheap to get a new one. “My plan isn’t up for renewal for another six months. I’ll wait.” Is what he had said when Patrick had told him it sounded like Ryan was calling from the middle of a snowstorm.
Barely past three a.m. and twenty miles out of Duluth, Patrick had picked up. Sleep fuzzed and groggy from too late a show and too early a rise that same day. “Ryan?”
There was a rustling and then Patrick heard it. The distinct sound of skin slipping against skin and a bitten off moan.
Patrick froze, equal parts awake and wondering. Wondering if he’d dreamt this up or was still dreaming it.
“Oh, fuck. Fuck, yes.” Over and over in Ryan’s too soft voice. At a distance, muffled a little against sheets or blankets.
Patrick strained to hear, to see if there was another voice. Another person there with Ryan. Maybe it was pay back for all the fucked up drunk dials.
But no. Just Ryan. By himself. Touching himself.
Patrick pressed his forehead against the mattress, breathing hard, and pressing the phone to his ear even harder.
“Oh God, please.”
Oh God, please. Patrick forced his hand to stay clenched against his side. It was wrong. This was wrong.
Ryan’s breath hitched, stuttered and the sound was muffled.
Against his pillow? His other hand? If not his other hand, what was his other hand doing? Patrick swallowed hard and he willed his fingers to cooperate. Push the button. Push the button.
“Fuck, please.” Whimpered and sad, the note of loneliness making Patrick’s stomach clench in a different way.
Two beats of silence then a sigh. “Please, Patrick.”
Patrick jabbed his fingers at his phone and tossed it into the dark corner of his bunk.
"Please, Patrick."
Patrick shut his eyes and he pretended to fall asleep, skin clammy and sticky.
He didn’t touch his phone for the next two days.
+ + +
Day 386- The observer is caught.
“You should. Go for it. With Brendon.” Patrick said. It was the first time in months that they’d actually sat down face to face with each other. The first hour was awkward, relearning how to physically be around each other.
Pete had no trouble throwing himself, literally, on the rest of the guys. Patrick winced, hoping that make up could fix Spencer’s fat lip. Pete always did have pointy elbows.
Brendon and Spencer had gone off with Pete on some midnight Super Wal-mart run. Patrick should have been concerned. But he was not his bassist’s keeper.
“Keep telling yourself that.” Ryan said thumbing through Patrick’s notebook and dog earring pertinent pages.
“Seriously. Indulge your crush. You never know. It could pan out.” Patrick said conscious of just how close Ryan was to him.
Ryan looked at him, slanting an eyebrow and smirk at him. “I indulge my fantasies thanks. Just not. Physically.”
Liar.
“Why not? He’s not with what’s her name. You’re not with… anyone.” Patrick said reaching over and scratching out a line in Ryan’s notebook and fixing the chord progression.
“Thanks for the reminder, asshole.” Curse words shouldn’t look so sweet coming from a mouth like that.
Patrick blinked. “Just… do it.”
“Because my love life should be a footwear campaign slogan.” Ryan drawled and he erased what Patrick had scrawled and added a word.
Patrick glared at Ryan. “You want him. Go get him.”
“I wouldn’t know how.” Ryan grimaced at the page of notes and badly drawn doodles.
“You could start by talking.” Patrick fiddled with the eraser of his pencil and he looked at Ryan. “Wait. Have you ever even kissed someone?”
Ryan flipped Patrick off and he rolled his eyes. “I’m not completely new. Shit, I dated Jac and everything.”
“I meant with a guy.”
“Oh.” The silence spoke for Ryan, whose cheeks turned an impressive shade of pink. “So, you think I should just… jump him?”
Patrick forced that train of thought to stop. Derail and sit in idle. He made a show of clearing his throat and picking up papers. “Yeah. Sure. He’s what you want, right?”
“Yeah.” Ryan smiled at Patrick and thumped him on the thigh. “Yeah!”
+ + +
“I thought you wanted me just to listen.”
“Well, I changed the rules. Tell me what to do.”
Patrick pretended that the tightening of his stomach was nothing more than… just nothing.
“Okay. Uhm. I’ve never tried to get a guy. So maybe you should…”
+ + +
Patrick was not prepared for his advice to go so well.
“…He kissed me back. Asked me what the hell I’d been waiting so long for. And oh God, Patrick.”
”Please, Patrick.”
“He shoved me into his bunk and we made out. For… hours. Spencer kept throwing stuff at the curtain.” Ryan laughed. “Jon, the fucker, taped the curtain shut. But he got us balloons. A Congratulations one and Welcome New Baby Boy. I think those were all the balloons they had at the truck stop.”
Patrick cleared his throat. “So, you and Brendon…”
Ryan laughed again. “Oh fuck you, Stump. I’m not that kind of boy. I don’t put out on the first date.”
“So, it was a date?” Patrick picked at a hole in his shirt. He could hear Andy snoring somewhere further than his bunk. Probably asleep on the couch. Joe was a restless sleeper, kicking at the curtains. Pete, despite all rumors, was the quietest.
“Sort of. He bought me a Slurpee and we shared it after.”
“Oh, well good. See? It all worked out.”
“Yeah, it did.” Ryan sounded so fucking happy.
Patrick only winced a little when he hung up on him.
+ + +
Patrick liked Brendon. He did. Brendon was a nice guy.
“Listen, I know. I know you and Ryan are close. You’re like his confidant.” Brendon had said. He’d confessed earlier that he’d stolen Patrick’s number from Ryan’s phone. Patrick thought that was funny. He could have just called Pete for it.
Then again Pete had a tendency to not pick up the phone. Learned behavior and all.
“You make it sound like we’re best friends.” Patrick flicked a rubberband at Pete’s head. The risk you took if you fell asleep in the lounge.
Brendon laughed. Patrick liked the sound. It was rich, a singer’s laugh. He wondered if he laughed in range too. “No, but. You two are connected. I didn’t want you to think that I’d mess that up.”
“Shut up, man. You’ve known each other way longer than I’ve known him.”
Brendon paused, not for dramatic effect, but like he was trying to find the right words. “No, I don’t think so. I’m getting to know him. This part of him. But I think he let you see it before anyone else.”
“I know you won’t.” Patrick hated not having the words. At least the right ones immediately. “Thanks.”
There was a scuffling noise and Ryan’s voice in the background. “You’re welcome. You’re a good guy. I like you. Ryan likes you.”
“I like you too.” And after promises to meet up later, Patrick hung up feeling lonelier than he had before.
+ + +
It was another month before they were all even in the same state, let alone the same city.
Patrick found himself wandering the back of the venue. He gave up the pretense of trying to look interested. Greta and Bob had tried to press him into conversation, but he was distracted. He kept looking away.
Kept looking for something.
Not what, but who.
Day 403- The observer resigns himself to just being that.
He walked in on them. Too many Red Bulls and too tight spaces, made Patrick antsy. A turn down one hallway and stumbling past another.
Ryan was pressed against the wall. His hair dark with shadow and post show sweat. He was arching, pushing, and then pulling at someone. “Brendon,” and Ryan’s face lit up in a smile. Both hungry and soft.
Ryan Ross was a collection of contradictions. Patrick had known this, observed this. But didn’t realize it fully till now.
Brendon murmured something into Ryan’s ear that made him laugh. Made Ryan tug at Brendon’s hand back toward the hallway.
Patrick stood there, frozen.
Day 403- The observer is caught. The two now observe him.
Ryan’s smile didn’t change, but it shifted to encompass Patrick too. “Were you watching us?”
Brendon’s arm tugged Ryan back, chin hooking over his shoulder. His smile was just as open and inviting as Ryan’s. “He always is. You at least.”
Patrick would have to change his opinion of Brendon. Not just a mouthpiece maybe.
“I know.” Ryan smiled and he tilted his head to look at Patrick. This time the smile did change. Less sure and a lot more shy. “I’ve known.”
Patrick looked from Ryan to Brendon and back again.
“Do you want to come up?”
And there it was. Patrick blinked wondering if when he opened his eyes it’d be made up. If they’d be made up.
“We haven’t. Yet. And I want.” Ryan closed his eyes when Brendon kissed his neck. “I want you to be there. Just to watch, if you want.”
Brendon smiled at Patrick. “We want you there.”
Patrick watched them walk away.
This was, in some way he hadn’t figure out quite yet, Pete’s fault.
+ + +
There they were tangled up in each other. Just like Ryan had described, clothes barely off, hands pushing and pulling to get them free. To get them closer to each other. It was Brendon who looked up, smiling and beckoning him over.
“Spencer give you the key?”
Patrick nodded, blushing. “Yeah. Please don’t ever let that kid be the messenger again.”
“You’re saying that like there’s already going to be a next time.” Brendon sat up, shirt half undone and pants in a similar state.
“Not that I assumed-.”
“Good.” Ryan said pushing Brendon off him and grinning at Patrick. “Come here. You can just sit.” He held out his hand, the other lost in the shadows, hidden by the curve of Brendon’s body.
Patrick looked at the two of them. Mouths bruised and eyes and smiles open and easy. They wanted him to be there. To just watch if that’s all he wanted.
Patrick looked down at Ryan’s hand.
He went.
+ + +
There was so much to touch and taste. Patrick felt the sweat sting his eyes, body heavy with the laziness that came from a body well used and spent. Somewhere during the events of the night, he’d been relieved of all his clothing. His hands, Ryan’s hands, and Brendon’s as well helped.
He’d watched them at first. Touching each other. Undressing each other.
Ryan’s movements were still tentative, but they grew in confidence. Brendon pressed close, whispering soft words of encouragement.
Then Brendon had looked to Patrick.
“That’s it. Look at how much he likes it when you touch him,” Patrick said softly, watching the set of Ryan’s shoulders relax. The fingers skimmed over Brendon’s stomach, touching the suddenly tight muscle.
Patrick scooted closer, biting back a moan. The scent of sweat and almost sex were heavy. His words kept going, dictating action and reaction from and to both Ryan and Brendon. Each of them looking at Patrick.
The actions followed words. His hand on Brendon’s back. His mouth along the sweat slick crease of Ryan’s thigh. His teeth and tongue making Ryan arch, hearing and feeling those sounds he already knew.
His actions led to theirs.
Patrick’s fingers tangled in Ryan’s hair, tugging and pulling till their mouths met, whispering secrets in half words and broken sounds. Brendon’s mouth hotwetgoodsogood around his cock. Ryan’s hands, clumsy but eager, kneading and stroking Brendon as Patrick slid into him, curses and praise mingled into one incoherent thoughtsound.
Ryan was between them, sweating and shaking with want. His eyes open and impossibly dark, forehead pressed to Patrick’s as Brendon fucked him. Their kisses unhurried and soft. Patrick cared for each and every moan and whimper, holding them and keeping them for Ryan. His fingers wrapped around Ryan, stroking him in time, his body feeling the ghost echoes of Brendon inside him, smiling and sharing this with Ryan.
Patrick brought Ryan over just as Brendon came. They kissed, kept kissing till Ryan fell asleep.
Between them both.
+ + +
“Ow, the fuck? What was that for?” Pete yelped rubbing his forehead.
“Lots of somethings.” Patrick said whistling and pulling off his hoodie and chucking it at Pete’s head. He headed down the hall to his bunk.
Pete wrinkled his nose and he threw the hoodie back. “Okay. That just smells foul.” He looked up and blinked. “Yo, Trick! The fuck? Why the fuck do you have hickeys on your back? Patrick?”
“Oh, and thanks.”
It was really all Pete’s fault. Patrick picked up his phone. “Hey Ry?”
“Patrick? TELL ME!”
And Pete deserved everything he got in turn.
fin.