fic: someday, Glasgow will be so two years ago (bandslash, FOB, Pete/Patrick, 1/1)
So, for my birthday, I’m posting fanfic. It’s my birthday, but *you* get the gift. And the best part? It’s free! And contains smut.
someday, Glasgow will be so two years ago
By Gale
SUMMARY: “So basically, you guys are worried because I was out doing grown-up things that are part of my job title, and my ex-boyfriend got engaged, and I wasn’t out shooting people with paintball guns?”
Glasgow is surprisingly nice this time of year, if you can overlook the fact that it’s ball-freezing cold even at 11:45 in the morning.
Pete does, because - forget it, dude, he’s in *Glasgow*, he’s in fucking *Europe*, and he’s playing concert dates. They’re playing The Barrowlands tonight, and in a couple of days they’re playing *Astoria*, and he cannot even talk about how cool it is. Touring America is great, but there are few things as cool as playing overseas. The only thing cooler than playing Europe is playing Japan, and that’s hard to beat. Seriously, people overcoming language barriers to come out and hear his ass play? Singing songs phonetically? Awesome beyond words.
Three or four times a day he has to fight off the urge to jump up and down and make dolphin noises, and really, the only reason he’s holding off is because Andy has a memory like a fucking elephant. And the camcorder.
The whole time they’ve been over here - a week, so far - Pete’s managed to get away in the mornings and go out exploring by himself. He doesn’t go that far, mostly because it’s surprisingly easy to get twisted and turned around, and if he misses soundcheck he’s dead, but he’s still managed to find interesting stuff. There’s a small graveyard in Belfast that’s still headstones instead of rubble, even if the writing’s been worn away with age; and he’s already made a note to come back to Birmingham in a couple of months and go back to the tattoo place he’d found, get some new ink.
This morning he’s in Glasgow, drinking very strong coffee on top of a hill and looking out at the water. His life could be worse.
Pete wraps his hands around the cup and scoots over, even though it’s sort of unnecessary when there’s a whole hill around him. “Hey,” he says, not looking away from the water.
“Hey,” Patrick says, sitting next to him. “You’re up early.”
”It’s almost noon.” Pete looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “How’d you find me?”
”You asked the concierge where to find a decent cup of coffee within a three-block radius,” Patrick says. “Glasgow is apparently not coffee country.”
“Nope.”
There’s a lull. It’s a little awkward, Pete decides, but it could be worse. They’ve had worse. He still doesn’t like to think about the first month after he’d come back on tour. The two of them had stalked around each other like angry cats - angry, wet cats who didn’t want to say something, so they hadn’t said anything at all.
The analogy falls down, Pete realizes, if you factor in the part about cats not being able to speak.
Finally, Patrick says, “So I guess you’ve heard.”
”Of course I’ve heard,” Pete says. “Mikey called me the day after he proposed, man.”
”And you’re - what, okay with it?”
Pete looks at him. “About what?”
“*Pete*.”
“Yes,” Pete says honestly. Privately, he has doubts about whether or not it’s going to happen, but that’s more because he’s heard about Mikey’s track record with engagements. Mikey loves Alicia; Pete’s heard him talk about her, he knows that tone in Mikey’s voice. Whether or not it works out, it has nothing to do with him. “I’m happy for him. She’s nice.”
“Uh huh.” Patrick’s still staring at him like he’s expecting him to break out in a heartfelt confession of some kind, or possibly a showtune.
Pete lets out a breath. “Patrick,” he says, “if I were freaking out, you guys would have heard about it by now, okay? I mean, you know that. You know *me*. I wear my emotions like they’re Girl Scout badges. Believe me, I’d have said something.”
After a couple of seconds, Patrick says, “If nothing else, it proves Mikey has a thing for bass players.”
Pete smiles. “Nah,” he says. “He just has good taste.”
Patrick looks at him sideways.
”Oh, come on,” Pete says. “You have to give me that one.” He finishes the rest of his coffee and crumples the cup up, puts it in his pocket. No sense littering, especially not in a foreign country. “So, what, you really hiked a mile from the hotel to grill me about Mikey and Alicia getting engaged and how it’s affecting me? Because I call bullshit.”
“Someone has to take care of you,” Patrick says, sounding like he’s a hundred years old instead of a couple months shy of twenty-two.
And okay, it’s true - or sort of true, because he’s an adult, goddammit, but after what happened last time all three of them have been keeping a closer eye on him, like they’re afraid he’s going to snap again. Most of the time it’s weirdly reassuring, knowing his guys have his back, but some days he wants to just scream at them to fucking stop it already, he’s not a bug in a goddamn jar, and if he wants to snap he’ll fucking do it, and there’s not a goddamn thing they could do to stop him if he did.
Except, you know. That’s counterintuitive. Not to mention rude. Those days, he just spends more time than usual writing in his journal.
“You’re not my mom, you know,” Pete says mildly. “You don’t *have* to take care of me.”
”I know,” Patrick says. It sounds rote. Come to think of it, Patrick’s sounded that way a lot lately, like just being *awake* is making him exhausted. It’s not healthy.
“Are *you* okay?” Pete asks. Patrick looks at him. “Because you’ve sounded sort of out of it lately, man.”
”I’m fine,” Patrick says. “I’m tired. It’ll pass.”
“Uh *huh*,” Pete says, eyeing him. “And if you pull the other one, it’ll play Jingle Bells. No, really, why the hell are you so worried about my well-being?”
“Self-defense,” Patrick shoots back. “The last time you freaked out about something, we had to tour with temp bass players and you curled up on your floor under a blanket.”
From anyone else, it’d hurt. But Patrick is about as threatening as a basketful of kittens, and after five years, Pete knows when he’s covering. “No, seriously,” he says, “why would you care? If I freak out, fine, I freak out; we’ll deal with it. We’ve dealt with it before.”
“No, *we* won’t. *I’ll* wind up-“ Patrick closes his mouth suddenly and takes a deep breath, lets it out. “Never mind. Forget I came out here, okay?” He gets up to go. “We have to be at The Barrowlands by five, so you should be back to the hotel by four to get dressed.”
“Ohhh, no.” Pete reaches up and takes hold of Patrick’s arm, tugging him back down. “My God, what is *wrong* with you? You’ve been twitchy for, like, a week now.”
”Nothing’s wrong,” Patrick says. “I’m fine. Let me go.”
”Not until you start making sense again,” Pete says. “God knows I don’t have any plans until four, so I can wait if you can.” He lets go of Patrick’s arm, then, when Patrick doesn’t immediately get up and leave, adds, “Did I do something? Say something? If I did, Trick, just *tell* me so I can apologize and we can get on with it, because this isn’t working. *I’m* the pissy, temperamental one; *you’re* the calm one. This mirror-universe thing isn’t working for me.”
And then it all clicks into place, like something out of a movie:
Patrick has been worried about how he’s doing, especially after the whole Mikey-and-Alicia-got-engaged thing.
Patrick has been quieter than normal, which is saying something.
Patrick is trying to cover for being quiet and worrying about Pete by being a snarky little bitch, which would actually be great cover except that it’s Patrick and not, oh, anyone else ever.
Pete’s known Patrick for almost six years. He’s seen his skills, or lack thereof.
“Oh my God,” he says, sitting up straight and looking at Patrick. “You like me.”
“What?” Patrick asks. He looks startled as all hell. “What are you talking - no. No I don’t.”
”Yes you do.” Seriously, Pete’s a little surprised the clicking’s not audible.
“No, I don’t.”
”Yes, you do. You really, really do.” Pete’s warming up to it, because now it all makes *sense*. Patrick’s been pulling away in tiny increments for weeks now, like he’s preparing himself for something - like, say, Pete getting depressed and hiding under a blanket in his room, again, and shutting him out. Again. “Which - okay, I didn’t see this coming. I mean, sure, it makes sense *now*, but I just thought I’d done something to piss you off over Christmas or whatever, and for the record? Warn a guy next time. Jesus.” He starts waving his hands. “And - oh my God, is this you being *jealous*? Because I have to tell you, it’s very low-key-“
“Shut up,” Patrick says, quiet and a little desperate, and kisses him.
Despite what people think, Pete isn’t the type of guy to go around wondering “what if”. Life’s way too short for that; either do it or don’t, but if you don’t, don’t fucking whine about it. He’s done pretty well with that philosophy, at least this far.
He’s never actually thought about what it would be like to kiss Patrick. Any of them, really, because he’s known Andy entirely too long and Joe is the straightest guy Pete has ever met, but Patrick’s always been off-limits. It’s not really the age thing, because God knows he doesn’t exactly have standards in that department - unless you’re counting “Hey, can you drive legally? Great! No, no, ‘with a permit’ counts” as a standard - and it’s really, *really* not the guy thing. It’s just - it’s *Patrick*, and there’s always been some kind of giant mental “NO” stamped over him in Pete’s head, usually accompanied by someone yelling “Verboten!” in a very strident German accent.
Looking back on it right this second, Pete’s pretty sure he’s just spent the last five years of his life being a giant fucking moron.
Because *oh my God*, this is the best idea *ever*. There won’t be any awkward Getting to Know You discussions, except maybe about sex, because he honestly can’t think of anything Patrick doesn’t already know about him, or vice versa. There won’t have to be any grand dramatic gestures, because Patrick absolutely hates those; Pete knows, because the last time they’d done a 24-hour drive, Patrick and Andy had spent the better part of Utah going through every grand gesture Pete had ever made and Mystery Science Theater’ing them, complete with hand gestures and accompanying sound effects. Christ, there won’t even be any games of I Can’t Believe You Talked Me Into This, because with the exception of Bedussey, Pete cannot talk Patrick into *anything*; if Patrick doesn’t want to do it, he just doesn’t do it.
(Pete still isn’t sure how the hell he’d gotten Patrick to agree to Bedussey in the first place, but he suspected it had something to do with A) asking him at 2:30 in the morning in B) an IHOP when C) Patrick was exhausted and punchy and in a very vulnerable place.)
He gets to keep his best friend, only now there’s going to be sex. This rules.
Pete pulls back enough to ask, “Just so we’re clear - this isn’t, like, friends with benefits, right?”
Patrick just looks at him.
”Right, right,” Pete says, “thought I’d check,” and kisses him again.
*
They almost don’t make it back to the hotel, because Pete asks, “God, where’d you learn all this?” as Patrick’s unbuttoning his belt.
Really, he means it rhetorically, but Patrick doesn’t miss a beat when he answers, “Last year on Warped.”
Pete shoves himself up on one elbow. “Shut up,” he says, hoping that sounds less snarky and possessive out loud and more genuinely pleased. He is not going to be jealous that Patrick has had sex with other guys. No. Nope. No way. “Who?”
“Um.” Patrick winces and looks at him, then mutters something that sounds remarkably like, “gerund.”
“What?”
“With Gerard, okay?” Patrick says, and there’s this weird moment where Pete tries to match the name up because it *sounds* familiar, but it can’t be, because--
”Oh my God,” he yells, “*Gerard*? As in Mikey’s older brother Gerard?”
“No,” Patrick says, “that *other* Gerard we know.” He sounds like he’s trying not to laugh.
Pete falls on his back and looks up at the sky. Then he starts giggling.
A couple of seconds later, Patrick appears in his field of vision looking concerned. He just giggles harder.
“Okay,” Patrick says, “either you stop laughing or I’m going to assume you snapped some vertebrae or something and carting you off to the nearest hospital, which means no one’s getting laid tonight.”
That shuts Pete up. “No, it’s just - you and Gerard, me and Mikey. That’s a little fucked up, dude.”
Patrick falls next to him on the ground. “Shut up,” he says again, but he’s trying not to laugh.
”No, come on,” Pete says, giggling again, “that’s funny. I didn’t even *know*.”
”No wonder,” Patrick says. He’s snickering, now. “You were locked away with Mikey every time we weren’t performing.”
Pete turns his head to look at him. “You sound like you’re jealous.” And he kind of does, a little. It’s awesome; Patrick never shows his cards, so this is already some kind of tiny miracle.
“I can’t be jealous,” Patrick says, and oh my God he’s *smirking*. It’s doing wonders for Pete’s dick. “You know how bruised my knees got those two weeks?”
“Patrick
, band slut,” Pete says, laughing. Then he stops and replays what Patrick just said. “Wait, two weeks? That’s it?”
Patrick shrugs. “It wasn’t a big deal,” he says, “just, you know. Him and Frank.”
”Ohhh, God, do I.” To hear Mikey tell it, Gerard and Frank were the grand love of an age or something. Pete was reserving judgment, mostly because he hadn’t actually had a chance to see Gerard and Frank as anything other than, you know, Gerard and Frank. Of course, he was biased, since he’d wanted to fuck Frank since the first time he’d laid eyes on him. “But everything’s okay, right? I don’t have to kick anyone’s ass.”
“You aren’t *actually* my older brother, you know,” Patrick says. He sounds amused. “Anyway, like you have room to talk. You’ll bend over for anyone in eyeliner.”
”Not anymore,” Pete says. He smiles. “Didn’t I tell you? I converted.”
”Really.” Patrick arching an eyebrow at him should not be hot. Patrick doing anything, really, should not be hot; and yet, here they are, and Pete’s just cranky no one’s naked.
“Really,” he says. He rolls onto his side to look at Patrick and props his head up on his hand. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking eyeliner. But I hear redheads are in this year.”
“*Really.*”
“Yeah,” Pete says, and snakes his free hand down to slide up under Patrick’s shirt and touch his stomach. He closes his eyes. Christ, his dick is going to break free of his jeans if they don’t cut this shit out. “Only can we go back to the hotel now? Because I don’t really want to get arrested for public indecency, and my ass is getting wet. And not in the good way, either.”
“Fine,” Patrick says. He gets to his feet and helps Pete up, starts brushing his ass off. “Just keep your hands to yourself on the way back. I don’t want you to think I’m that kind of guy.”
*
No one’s around when they get back, which is - not good, exactly, but Pete breathes a little easier. He gives it maybe three days before Joe figures out something’s different, maybe 36 hours after that before he mentions something to Andy, and maybe they’re low-key on their own, but Andy and Joe together are worse than the fucking Hardy Boys. The last thing Pete wants right now is for them to get clues ahead of time.
It’s just past noon now; they don’t have to be at The Barrowlands until five. Shit. Totally not enough time.
“It’s okay,” Patrick says, and Pete starts. Patrick’s voice is low, which is good, because using outdoor voices to have a conversation about the sex they’re going to have while walking through the lobby of a fairly swank hotel in Glasgow is not the best idea ever. “Think of it as round one.”
Pete blinks at him. “Round one?”
”We share a hotel room,” Patrick reminds him. He pushes the up button on the elevator. “Did you have any plans after the show tonight?”
”Not really,” Pete says. “Andy and I were going to-“
“You should probably cancel them,” Patrick says innocently. “We’re going to be busy.”
Wow. Okay. Nice thoughts. Pete reaches down and adjusts himself. Really, *really* nice thoughts.
The elevator dings; the doors open; they walk inside. Stand next to each other like they’re strangers. It’s a little weird, in light of the last hour.
Pete waits for the doors to close before he leans over and says, “Think the cameras would notice if I leaned over and started working your belt right now?”
“Probably,” Patrick says, but he reaches a hand over and links his fingers with Pete’s.
*
They hit the door kissing, break away long enough to get the door open, and go back to kissing. It’s sort of desperate mixed in with laughter, like it’s all so unbelievable and strange and *good* that it doesn’t quite seem real.
“Should I-“ Pete starts, letting his jacket drop to the floor. “I mean, I don’t know what you like.”
“I like everything,” Patrick says.
Pete looks at him. “Really.”
”No,” Patrick admits. He looks a little sheepish. “But there’s this whole learning curve I have to get over.”
”Learning cur-“ The implications of that hit Pete just as he’s getting his shirt up and over. It makes his toss go a little more to the right than he’d been aiming for, but really, had anyone even *used* that lamp? “Jesus. Really?”
“No,” Patrick says, taking his own jacket off, “I just said that to watch your eyes bug out.” Sarcasm, Pete is learning, looks great on him.
”No, but - *really*?” God, that’s weird. And hot. Really, really hot. Most of Pete’s still in the moment, but a little part of him is already off and running, trying to figure out what’s completely off the table and what he can ask for with big pleading eyes. Not that those have ever worked on Patrick before, but hey, up until forty-five minutes ago, Pete hadn’t known Patrick had spent a decent amount of time last summer hooking up with Gerard. Today, anything’s possible.
“Oh!” Pete kicks his shoes off and sits on the edge of the bed, starts pulling his socks off. “We need condoms. And lube.” Shit, had he even thought to *bring* any? Condoms, sure, but it’s entirely possible the lube’s back on the bus, and just thinking about getting dressed and going downstairs to the hotel parking lot to get it is making his eyes cross.
“No we don’t.”
Pete stops and looks at him. “Yeah, we do,” he says.
“We don’t have *time* for that,” Patrick says. “There’s - everything we’re doing-“ and Patrick needs to get over any kind of embarrassment he has about talking about sex in the next ten seconds, because *hi* “-and showering, and getting changed for the show, and there’ll probably be naps. We really don’t have time to have sex.”
Pete does the math in his head. “Shit,” he mutters, and lets himself fall back onto the mattress. He closes his eyes for a second-
-- and promptly re-opens them when he feels Patrick’s hand on his ankle, steadying them both while he gets Pete’s other sock off. Pete pushes himself up on one elbow. “Probably just blowjobs,” he says matter-of-factly, and Pete goggles at him.
“I’m not trying to be rude,” Pete says, “seriously, I’m not, but - what, were you in a pod or something for five years? Because I’ve known you the entire time, and you’ve never been like this before.”
Patrick looks at him steadily. “You’ve never seen me when I’m with someone,” he says.
Pete opens his mouth to argue, then thinks: --huh.
Because he hasn’t, not really. He’s seen Patrick single, he’s seen Patrick after a breakup; he’s even, a couple of times, seen Patrick when he’s with someone. But that’s when he’s with someone *else*, which is really the big difference. He’s never been the one with all that focus fixated on him. It’s sort of scary.
And really fucking hot.
“No,” Pete says quietly, “I haven’t.” He scoots backward to prop himself up on the pillows and starts working at his belt. “So, is this all the time, or do you just bust it out for special occasions? Have you been secretly kinky the entire time I’ve known you, or is this new?”
“You’re such an ass,” Patrick says, but he’s laughing.
Pete gets his belt undone and slides it through and around, tossing it across the room. He undoes the button on his jeans and eases the zipper open. He’s already so hard, and all they’ve actually done is kiss. All he needs is one hand on his dick and he’s going to come; it doesn’t really matter whose hand it is.
Patrick’s still looking at him. “Such an ass,” he says again, but there’s no laughter now. He moves his hand and splays it over Pete’s belly, turning it so his fingers dip under the waistband of his jeans.
Pete bites his lip and closes his eyes. His whole body’s singing: make me come, make me come, I want to come. It’s in Patrick’s voice, which only makes it better.
“Do it,” Pete says faintly. “Do it, God, do whatever you want, just do *something*.”
“I’m going to,” Patrick says just as faintly. He doesn’t move, though, just stays there with his hand on Pete’s stomach. Pete can hear him breathing deep and even, and hates him for a second.
But just for a second, because then Patrick’s voice is in his ear again, murmuring “lift up for a second?” and Pete does. One little shimmy and Patrick’s hands are pulling his jeans down, bringing his boxers with them.
Patrick just looks at him. Pete resists the urge to strike some kind of pose. It’s what he’d do with anyone else, but this is Patrick. It just seems - rude.
Finally, Patrick says, “Just so you know, I’m a little rusty.”
“Wh-“ is all Pete has time to think before it hits him: he’s naked, Patrick isn’t, Patrick’s still touching his stomach.
“If you gag me,” Patrick says seriously, “I will kill you.”
Pete nods.
“Just so we’re clear,” Patrick says, and lowers his head.
Pete sucks in a deep breath between his teeth. He’s had his share of blowjobs, and this is - okay, no, he’s had better, but those were, like, *prodigies*; people who had their Masters’ degree in oral sex. This is good, though. A couple more months’ steady practice, and - God, no, don’t think about that now, moron, Pete tells himself, or you’re not even going to have a chance to *enjoy it*.
Except that he’s trying *not* to think about it, which means he’s *going* to think about it. Which means suddenly all he can think about is six months from now, back in the States - God, back in his *parents’ house*, his fucking evil brain supplies - and the two of them on his bed in his room, trying to keep quiet so no one comes investigating. Knowing that it’s just a matter of time before his mom calls them both to dinner, and he’s going to be so goddamn hard, because there’s something wrongwronghot about having sex in the bed you slept in in the seventh grade with your parents downstairs, and Patrick’s mouth on him, going down, down, all the way down and one hand sliding behind to stroke his balls, and holy Christ that’s it, game *over* and Pete comes with a noise that they can probably hear two floors up.
Jesus. Jesus God.
“Um,” he says, when he remembers he can talk, “are you okay?”
Patrick waves a hand at him. Pete has approximately three seconds’ worth of “oh my God, he can’t breathe” before he realizes Patrick’s just looking for a polite way to ask for something to spit into.
”Oh,” he says, “shit. Sorry.” He rolls into his side - carefully, because he’s still thrumming with the aftershocks - and gets a couple of Kleenex, hands them over. Patrick turns his head away for a second; when he turns back, he can talk again.
“Thanks.” Patrick sounds a little raspy. Boyfriend Pete thinks that’s really fucking hot; Bass Player Pete, who’s been around longer, hopes that wears off before five. “It’s just-“ He looks a little concerned.
”It’s fine,” Pete says, waving it off. “It’s not - seriously, I don’t usually swallow.” He doesn’t. It’d probably be more polite, but the truth is, usually he just doesn’t want to. He can count on one hand the number of guys he’s gone down on without spitting afterwards, and he’ll still have fingers leftover.
“It seems a little rude.”
“There are plenty of ruder things than spitting after somebody comes in your mouth,” Pete says, “believe me. I could tell you stories-“
”You don’t have to,” Patrick says. He really should not look that amused, Pete thinks. Snarky, yes; amused, no. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you have a habit of sleeping with people who have very big mouths.”
“I *did*,” Pete corrects him. “That’s old news, though.” He sits up in bed and wraps his arms around Patrick’s neck. He isn’t surprised when Patrick “casually” tosses the sheet over his hips; Patrick can get a little weirded out by people being naked around him. Porn Ninja always works best on him, Pete remembers, but it’s usually followed by at least 12 hours of the silent treatment.
“So,” he asks, “what *really* sent you out there?”
Pete feels Patrick reach up and pinch the bridge of his nose more than he sees it. Seeing it would require moving back, after all, and he’s practically in Patrick’s lap.
“Come on,” Pete says, “tell me.”
”No,” Patrick says. “Because as soon as I tell you, you’re going to get pissed off and start waving your around and ranting, and you’ll do it until it’s time to leave. And you’ll sit there fuming the entire way to the venue, and as soon as we’re behind closed doors, you’ll do it all over again for Joe and Andy, which means I get to hear it *twice*, counting the practice run that’ll start in about thirty seconds.” He glances at his watch. “Yeah, thirty seconds.”
“Exactly,” Pete says. From anyone else, he’d probably be a little offended, but it’s Patrick. He can’t stay mad at Patrick; it’s like a rule. Besides, it’s not like he’s wrong. “So you might as well tell me now, so I don’t pester you the entire way over there. I’ll do it, too.”
Patrick shoots him a look that translates, roughly, as “I know that, dumbass”. Pete takes it as an agreement and moves to sit back against the headboard.
“Fine,” Patrick says, sighing. “But if you start yelling now, I’m not listening to you when we get backstage.” He draws himself up - as much as he can, because it’s hard to look calm and unruffled when you’re next to someone who’s naked and barely covered by a sheet - and says, “You’ve been doing a lot lately.”
Pete waits for him to say something else, but apparently that’s it. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. And we didn’t actually see you for, like, a week-and-a-half until we all ended up on the same flight over here, and you slept most of the flight. You were in New York until Thursday doing stuff for Decaydance.” Patrick pauses, and adds, “And the last time we were in Europe, you know. It didn’t end well. And between all that, and Mikey getting engaged - the timing seemed weird. And we worry.”
Pete’s quiet for a minute.
“So basically,” he finally says, “you guys are worried because I was out doing grown-up things that are part of my job title, and my ex-boyfriend got engaged, and I wasn’t out shooting people with paintball guns?”
”And you dyed your hair,” Patrick adds.
”I dyed my-“ Pete closes his eyes and presses his fingertips against his eyelids. “Oh my God. Oh my *God*, I love you guys but you’re all fucking morons. All three of you.”
Next to him, Pete feels Patrick stiffen. And not in the good way, either. He takes his fingers away and opens his eyes.
”Look,” he says, and stops for a second. “I - can I talk now? Please? For two minutes?”
Patrick looks at him steadily. “Yes,” he says. Pete winces; he’s heard that voice before, and it never ends well.
“Okay.” He ticks things off on his fingers as he talks. “One: Doing label stuff is my *job*, okay? I signed bands, I have to take care of them. I don’t want to wind up being one of those assholes who signs a band and never talks to them again. I don’t want to be that guy. And don’t tell me you haven’t been doing the same thing, sort of, Mr. I Can’t Take a Call Now, I’m in the Studio Producing.”
”Because you *asked me to*--“ Patrick starts, but Pete rolls onto his side and clamps his free hand over Patrick’s mouth.
”Two,” Pete says, holding up a second finger, “I - really, I don’t know how I can get this through to you without getting a shirt made or something, but I’m *happy* for Mikey. I want him to be happy. And if being married to Alicia makes him happy, great. Although if they register some place like Bed, Bath and Beyond, they can fucking forget it. You could not pay me to go in there of my own free will.” He looks at Patrick for a second, then takes his hand away. “With me so far?”
“Yeah.” Patrick still sounds a little pissed off, but he’s not using the voice anymore, which means Pete can ease up a little. Seriously, he hates that goddamn thing. He’s heard it three times in five years, and it makes him want to beat the shit out of something every time.
“Three: just because I snapped last time doesn’t mean I’m going to snap *this* time. I’m not the same guy I was back then, and I’d like to think you guys - that *you* - know that. If I started feeling twitchy, I’d say something. I’m not well, but I’m better, you know?”
Patrick nods. Pete takes his hand and squeezes it.
”Four,” he says, “I felt like dyeing my bangs. It doesn’t mean I’m going crazy; it just means I wanted bright red bangs. You know, for the holidays. And I didn’t feel like having green hair for the new year, so red won out.” Patrick’s trying not to smile now.
“Fifth - and this is the really important one, so pay attention - if what just happened was your way of calming me down before you give me bad news or whatever, I’m going to punch you in the kidneys.”
”Pete.”
”Seriously. I’ll go pee on your stuff again right now.”
”It wasn’t letdown sex!” Patrick yells, and Pete sits back against the headboard. He hadn’t actually expected *yelling*. Patrick doesn’t yell. “I wasn’t going to *say anything*, because you convinced me you were okay out there in-between all the making out, but no, you had to drag it out of me.”
”Okay,” Pete says. “I’m sorry. Now let go of my hand before you permanently cut off the blood supply.”
“What?” Patrick looks down at his hand - the one he’s unconsciously been squeezing while he yells - and lets go. “Crap. Sorry.” He looks at it and grimaces. “Are you okay?”
”I’m fine.” Pete wiggles his fingers experimentally. “They aren’t even numb. Just, you know, *ow*.” He stops wiggling his fingers and looks at Patrick. “You know,” he says solemnly, “if you really feel bad, you could always make it up to me.”
”Uh huh,” Patrick says, eyeing him. “How?”
Pete reaches out and puts his hands on Patrick’s shoulders, letting himself fall forward and knock them both against the bed. He sits up; when Patrick goes to follow, Pete pushes him back down with one hand.
“Well, for starters,” Pete says, “you could get naked. You know, for parity.”
“You know,” Patrick says, glancing at the clock on the nightstand, “we probably don’t have time for both of us to-“
”I’ll skip the nap.” He starts unbuttoning Patrick’s shirt with his good hand. “You get the pants, okay? My fingers are still a little stupid.”
It’s sort of a fumble; button-up shirts are a lot less sexy than most people think they are, Pete decides, especially when you’re trying to get them off someone - say, your best friend - with your one good hand while he’s trying to get his pants off and dive under the covers at the same time. It would be very endearing if they were both in high school.
It’s okay, though, because finally, *finally*, Patrick’s naked and in Pete’s bed, and Patrick’s kissing him like a fucking crazy man, and it’s so hot it distracts Pete from oral sex for all of ten minutes. He kisses like he means it, and not just on the mouth.
Patrick, apparently, has some kind of fetish for Pete’s tattoos. Today just keeps getting better, like, exponentially.
“Jesus,” he gasps. Patrick’s biting him - *biting him*, holy *shit* - and touching him all over, restlessly. “Okay, remind me to call every girl who’s ever dumped you and laugh at them for a very long time.”
Patrick stops biting and looks at him. Pete isn’t sure when Patrick took his glasses off, but he’s just glad. His eyes are very blue, this close up. “You know,” he says, “you could be doing something else with that mouth.”
“God, you’re pushy when you’re getting laid,” Pete mutters, or tries to; he’s grinning too hard. He kisses Patrick again and shoves him back against the bed, then falls to his knees.
“And you’re not the only one who’s out of practice,” he adds, “so, you know, benefit of the doubt, here.”
”Out of practice, my-“ Patrick starts, and then Pete’s sucking his cock, so he just moans and lets his head fall back.
And that’s how it is, Pete kissing Patrick’s mouth and sliding down to kiss his cock, back and forth. It’s a tease, Pete knows, but it’s not like he’s doing it to be cruel; more like “look what you get to have later, not to mention all the other stuff I can’t do right now because we have a show in a couple of hours.”
Pete’s not sure how long he keeps it up - feels like an hour, which in sex time means it’s probably, like, five minutes - before Patrick’s breathing deep and ragged in Pete’s ear when he goes to kiss his mouth again. “You’re such a pain in the ass,” Patrick says, laughing and moaning it at the same time. Pete’s never heard that tone in his voice before. “Just - God, fucking *do* something already, all right?”
Pete’s never heard Patrick sound that desperate, either. He kisses him again, once, twice, because he can’t not, and pulls back enough to look at him. Patrick has his eyes closed. Pete understands the impulse, but it’s all wrong for what he has in mind.
“Patrick,” he says, flicking him in the thigh. “Trick. Hey. Look at me for a second, okay?”
Pete waits ‘til he’s sure Patrick’s looking at him, then ducks his head and takes Patrick as deep as he can.
It’s been a while since he’s done this, and deep-throating’s always been kind of an endurance sport anyway, but he could be doing worse, and if the sounds Patrick’s trying to stifle are any indication, there won’t be any complaints. It kills Pete a little to know Patrick’s still trying to be quiet, but it’s okay; he’ll break Patrick of that sooner or later.
Sooner, he thinks, please God sooner, and hums in the back of his throat as he pulls back and sucks hard on the head.
He doesn’t move away, even when Patrick makes a noise and comes. It’s soft, like Patrick doesn’t really want to be making any noise at all but he just couldn’t help it, and that’s enough for Pete to keep humming all the way through it. He slides one hand up and strokes the inside of Patrick’s thigh and waits for him to come most of the way down before he pulls off, keeping his mouth tightly closed.
Patrick opens his eyes and looks at him. “Do you.” Deep, shuddery breath. “Do you need any-“
Pete waves him off and swallows, making a face for a second. He’s been having sex with guys for about as long as he’s been having sex, and the taste is never good. It’s *different*, if you ignore the parts where it’s salty and bitter, but swallowing’s never going to be his first impulse. That’s not the point, though.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Patrick says. He sounds a little sheepish.
”Yeah I did,” Pete says. He climbs back into bed and curls onto his side, sliding one leg between Patrick’s. “More importantly, I wanted to, so shut up and start thinking about what you want to do later.”
“You’re making a list, aren’t you.” Patrick doesn’t phrase it as a question.
“No,” Pete lies. “I mean. Not formally.” He’s a little distracted by Patrick blushing. Turns out it *does* go most of the way down. Huh.
Patrick just sighs, sounding totally put-upon and not like the guy who’d tried to blow him outside in the middle of a foreign country an hour ago - Jesus, that’s it? - and kisses him again. Pete makes a mental note to come back to this later, because *God*. It’s still hitting him that he gets to do this, now - he can touch Patrick, hook their fingers together where Joe and Andy can’t see (and eventually where they *can* see - seriously, about three-and-a-half days, four at the most), lose himself in Patrick’s skin when they’re alone.
He wants to do that. He really, really wants to do that. He’s *going* to do that.
“We could just do it like this, if you want,” Patrick murmurs into Patrick’s ear, breaking the kiss. “Tonight, we could just. Move. Just like this.” He arches once, experimentally, and grins when he feels Patrick shudder. Yeah, that’s a winner. And the fact that it feeds into whatever fetish he’s developing about Patrick’s skin is completely coincidental.
He arches again, letting one hand slide down Patrick’s side to stroke his hip. “So. Any ideas yet?”
“Not right now,” Patrick says. He wraps his fingers around Pete’s wrist and tries to tug it away. “And stop petting me. I’m still twitching.”
Pete quits with the half-assed lap dance and settles against him instead. Pete guesses Patrick counts that as a win, because he stops tugging and lets Pete leave his hand there. That one, Pete counts as win-win, because - no shit, he’s getting *issues*. He rubs his thumb along the side of Patrick’s hip and lets the motion bring him back down to normal.
There’s a very long silence. Pete glances over at Patrick and figures he’s fallen asleep.
He’s just closing his own eyes, relaxing a little, when he hears Patrick say, very quietly, “…I wasn’t obvious, right?”
Pete turns and looks at him. Patrick’s eyes are still closed, but he’s tense; Pete can feel it up and down his arm, his leg, his hip. He knows why, of course; if there’s one thing Patrick hates, it’s being obvious. Even after all this time, there are days Pete’s astonished he sings in a band. Or performs in a band. Or gets within fifty feet of a stage.
“No,” he says, just as quiet. “If you hadn’t said anything today, I wouldn’t have known, and I don’t think someone who doesn’t know you as well as I do would be able to tell, though I *do* think Andy and Joe are gonna figure something’s up pretty soon.”
“Fucking Hardy Boys,” Patrick mutters. Pete grins.
“Besides,” he adds, “I think they’re going to figure it out when they come by the room to see if we want to do something tonight, and we both answer the door half-naked and telling shitty cover stories, and when Joe asks what we’re doing in here, we say ‘songwriting.’”
Patrick starts laughing and covers his face with his hand. “Oh, God,” he says, still laughing. “We’re gonna have to do that now, just to mess with them.”
And that’s how Pete knows they’re going to be fine, because maybe he can’t really talk Patrick into anything, but they’ve been feeding off each other for years. It’s just - okay, “mutating” sounds rude, not to mention it’s the wrong word choice, and goddammit, that’s gonna *bug* him - but maybe Bedussey was Pete’s idea, Pete’s baby, but it had been *Patrick’s* idea to add professional credits and main titles.
Bad short film conceived at an IHOP; good relationship. Same difference, really.
”Hey,” Pete says, leaning up on one elbow and grinning at him. “You want to tell my mom first or yours?”
*
-Was this supposed to be porny? Yes. Duh. But it wasn’t supposed to be, like, an essay on blowjobs, let alone an essay on blowjobs with Bedussey-related parenthetical asides. Don’t even ask me how that happened.
-Yes, FOB really played The Barrowlands in Glasgow on January 25, 2006. I know that because I checked tour dates. Yes, I really am that sad.
-The idea of Bedussey being storyboarded on napkins is kosher_pareve’s; I stole it, because I am a bad, rude girl, and also because it is awesome. The part about the IHOP is mine. IHOP: go there and scare a waitress today!
-The parts you liked, thank beatpropx and xoverau; they keep me honest even when I’m telling lies in fanfic form. The parts you hated are my own fault, and I apologize.
Well, no. But I feel really bad about it.
someday, Glasgow will be so two years ago
By Gale
SUMMARY: “So basically, you guys are worried because I was out doing grown-up things that are part of my job title, and my ex-boyfriend got engaged, and I wasn’t out shooting people with paintball guns?”
Glasgow is surprisingly nice this time of year, if you can overlook the fact that it’s ball-freezing cold even at 11:45 in the morning.
Pete does, because - forget it, dude, he’s in *Glasgow*, he’s in fucking *Europe*, and he’s playing concert dates. They’re playing The Barrowlands tonight, and in a couple of days they’re playing *Astoria*, and he cannot even talk about how cool it is. Touring America is great, but there are few things as cool as playing overseas. The only thing cooler than playing Europe is playing Japan, and that’s hard to beat. Seriously, people overcoming language barriers to come out and hear his ass play? Singing songs phonetically? Awesome beyond words.
Three or four times a day he has to fight off the urge to jump up and down and make dolphin noises, and really, the only reason he’s holding off is because Andy has a memory like a fucking elephant. And the camcorder.
The whole time they’ve been over here - a week, so far - Pete’s managed to get away in the mornings and go out exploring by himself. He doesn’t go that far, mostly because it’s surprisingly easy to get twisted and turned around, and if he misses soundcheck he’s dead, but he’s still managed to find interesting stuff. There’s a small graveyard in Belfast that’s still headstones instead of rubble, even if the writing’s been worn away with age; and he’s already made a note to come back to Birmingham in a couple of months and go back to the tattoo place he’d found, get some new ink.
This morning he’s in Glasgow, drinking very strong coffee on top of a hill and looking out at the water. His life could be worse.
Pete wraps his hands around the cup and scoots over, even though it’s sort of unnecessary when there’s a whole hill around him. “Hey,” he says, not looking away from the water.
“Hey,” Patrick says, sitting next to him. “You’re up early.”
”It’s almost noon.” Pete looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “How’d you find me?”
”You asked the concierge where to find a decent cup of coffee within a three-block radius,” Patrick says. “Glasgow is apparently not coffee country.”
“Nope.”
There’s a lull. It’s a little awkward, Pete decides, but it could be worse. They’ve had worse. He still doesn’t like to think about the first month after he’d come back on tour. The two of them had stalked around each other like angry cats - angry, wet cats who didn’t want to say something, so they hadn’t said anything at all.
The analogy falls down, Pete realizes, if you factor in the part about cats not being able to speak.
Finally, Patrick says, “So I guess you’ve heard.”
”Of course I’ve heard,” Pete says. “Mikey called me the day after he proposed, man.”
”And you’re - what, okay with it?”
Pete looks at him. “About what?”
“*Pete*.”
“Yes,” Pete says honestly. Privately, he has doubts about whether or not it’s going to happen, but that’s more because he’s heard about Mikey’s track record with engagements. Mikey loves Alicia; Pete’s heard him talk about her, he knows that tone in Mikey’s voice. Whether or not it works out, it has nothing to do with him. “I’m happy for him. She’s nice.”
“Uh huh.” Patrick’s still staring at him like he’s expecting him to break out in a heartfelt confession of some kind, or possibly a showtune.
Pete lets out a breath. “Patrick,” he says, “if I were freaking out, you guys would have heard about it by now, okay? I mean, you know that. You know *me*. I wear my emotions like they’re Girl Scout badges. Believe me, I’d have said something.”
After a couple of seconds, Patrick says, “If nothing else, it proves Mikey has a thing for bass players.”
Pete smiles. “Nah,” he says. “He just has good taste.”
Patrick looks at him sideways.
”Oh, come on,” Pete says. “You have to give me that one.” He finishes the rest of his coffee and crumples the cup up, puts it in his pocket. No sense littering, especially not in a foreign country. “So, what, you really hiked a mile from the hotel to grill me about Mikey and Alicia getting engaged and how it’s affecting me? Because I call bullshit.”
“Someone has to take care of you,” Patrick says, sounding like he’s a hundred years old instead of a couple months shy of twenty-two.
And okay, it’s true - or sort of true, because he’s an adult, goddammit, but after what happened last time all three of them have been keeping a closer eye on him, like they’re afraid he’s going to snap again. Most of the time it’s weirdly reassuring, knowing his guys have his back, but some days he wants to just scream at them to fucking stop it already, he’s not a bug in a goddamn jar, and if he wants to snap he’ll fucking do it, and there’s not a goddamn thing they could do to stop him if he did.
Except, you know. That’s counterintuitive. Not to mention rude. Those days, he just spends more time than usual writing in his journal.
“You’re not my mom, you know,” Pete says mildly. “You don’t *have* to take care of me.”
”I know,” Patrick says. It sounds rote. Come to think of it, Patrick’s sounded that way a lot lately, like just being *awake* is making him exhausted. It’s not healthy.
“Are *you* okay?” Pete asks. Patrick looks at him. “Because you’ve sounded sort of out of it lately, man.”
”I’m fine,” Patrick says. “I’m tired. It’ll pass.”
“Uh *huh*,” Pete says, eyeing him. “And if you pull the other one, it’ll play Jingle Bells. No, really, why the hell are you so worried about my well-being?”
“Self-defense,” Patrick shoots back. “The last time you freaked out about something, we had to tour with temp bass players and you curled up on your floor under a blanket.”
From anyone else, it’d hurt. But Patrick is about as threatening as a basketful of kittens, and after five years, Pete knows when he’s covering. “No, seriously,” he says, “why would you care? If I freak out, fine, I freak out; we’ll deal with it. We’ve dealt with it before.”
“No, *we* won’t. *I’ll* wind up-“ Patrick closes his mouth suddenly and takes a deep breath, lets it out. “Never mind. Forget I came out here, okay?” He gets up to go. “We have to be at The Barrowlands by five, so you should be back to the hotel by four to get dressed.”
“Ohhh, no.” Pete reaches up and takes hold of Patrick’s arm, tugging him back down. “My God, what is *wrong* with you? You’ve been twitchy for, like, a week now.”
”Nothing’s wrong,” Patrick says. “I’m fine. Let me go.”
”Not until you start making sense again,” Pete says. “God knows I don’t have any plans until four, so I can wait if you can.” He lets go of Patrick’s arm, then, when Patrick doesn’t immediately get up and leave, adds, “Did I do something? Say something? If I did, Trick, just *tell* me so I can apologize and we can get on with it, because this isn’t working. *I’m* the pissy, temperamental one; *you’re* the calm one. This mirror-universe thing isn’t working for me.”
And then it all clicks into place, like something out of a movie:
Patrick has been worried about how he’s doing, especially after the whole Mikey-and-Alicia-got-engaged thing.
Patrick has been quieter than normal, which is saying something.
Patrick is trying to cover for being quiet and worrying about Pete by being a snarky little bitch, which would actually be great cover except that it’s Patrick and not, oh, anyone else ever.
Pete’s known Patrick for almost six years. He’s seen his skills, or lack thereof.
“Oh my God,” he says, sitting up straight and looking at Patrick. “You like me.”
“What?” Patrick asks. He looks startled as all hell. “What are you talking - no. No I don’t.”
”Yes you do.” Seriously, Pete’s a little surprised the clicking’s not audible.
“No, I don’t.”
”Yes, you do. You really, really do.” Pete’s warming up to it, because now it all makes *sense*. Patrick’s been pulling away in tiny increments for weeks now, like he’s preparing himself for something - like, say, Pete getting depressed and hiding under a blanket in his room, again, and shutting him out. Again. “Which - okay, I didn’t see this coming. I mean, sure, it makes sense *now*, but I just thought I’d done something to piss you off over Christmas or whatever, and for the record? Warn a guy next time. Jesus.” He starts waving his hands. “And - oh my God, is this you being *jealous*? Because I have to tell you, it’s very low-key-“
“Shut up,” Patrick says, quiet and a little desperate, and kisses him.
Despite what people think, Pete isn’t the type of guy to go around wondering “what if”. Life’s way too short for that; either do it or don’t, but if you don’t, don’t fucking whine about it. He’s done pretty well with that philosophy, at least this far.
He’s never actually thought about what it would be like to kiss Patrick. Any of them, really, because he’s known Andy entirely too long and Joe is the straightest guy Pete has ever met, but Patrick’s always been off-limits. It’s not really the age thing, because God knows he doesn’t exactly have standards in that department - unless you’re counting “Hey, can you drive legally? Great! No, no, ‘with a permit’ counts” as a standard - and it’s really, *really* not the guy thing. It’s just - it’s *Patrick*, and there’s always been some kind of giant mental “NO” stamped over him in Pete’s head, usually accompanied by someone yelling “Verboten!” in a very strident German accent.
Looking back on it right this second, Pete’s pretty sure he’s just spent the last five years of his life being a giant fucking moron.
Because *oh my God*, this is the best idea *ever*. There won’t be any awkward Getting to Know You discussions, except maybe about sex, because he honestly can’t think of anything Patrick doesn’t already know about him, or vice versa. There won’t have to be any grand dramatic gestures, because Patrick absolutely hates those; Pete knows, because the last time they’d done a 24-hour drive, Patrick and Andy had spent the better part of Utah going through every grand gesture Pete had ever made and Mystery Science Theater’ing them, complete with hand gestures and accompanying sound effects. Christ, there won’t even be any games of I Can’t Believe You Talked Me Into This, because with the exception of Bedussey, Pete cannot talk Patrick into *anything*; if Patrick doesn’t want to do it, he just doesn’t do it.
(Pete still isn’t sure how the hell he’d gotten Patrick to agree to Bedussey in the first place, but he suspected it had something to do with A) asking him at 2:30 in the morning in B) an IHOP when C) Patrick was exhausted and punchy and in a very vulnerable place.)
He gets to keep his best friend, only now there’s going to be sex. This rules.
Pete pulls back enough to ask, “Just so we’re clear - this isn’t, like, friends with benefits, right?”
Patrick just looks at him.
”Right, right,” Pete says, “thought I’d check,” and kisses him again.
*
They almost don’t make it back to the hotel, because Pete asks, “God, where’d you learn all this?” as Patrick’s unbuttoning his belt.
Really, he means it rhetorically, but Patrick doesn’t miss a beat when he answers, “Last year on Warped.”
Pete shoves himself up on one elbow. “Shut up,” he says, hoping that sounds less snarky and possessive out loud and more genuinely pleased. He is not going to be jealous that Patrick has had sex with other guys. No. Nope. No way. “Who?”
“Um.” Patrick winces and looks at him, then mutters something that sounds remarkably like, “gerund.”
“What?”
“With Gerard, okay?” Patrick says, and there’s this weird moment where Pete tries to match the name up because it *sounds* familiar, but it can’t be, because--
”Oh my God,” he yells, “*Gerard*? As in Mikey’s older brother Gerard?”
“No,” Patrick says, “that *other* Gerard we know.” He sounds like he’s trying not to laugh.
Pete falls on his back and looks up at the sky. Then he starts giggling.
A couple of seconds later, Patrick appears in his field of vision looking concerned. He just giggles harder.
“Okay,” Patrick says, “either you stop laughing or I’m going to assume you snapped some vertebrae or something and carting you off to the nearest hospital, which means no one’s getting laid tonight.”
That shuts Pete up. “No, it’s just - you and Gerard, me and Mikey. That’s a little fucked up, dude.”
Patrick falls next to him on the ground. “Shut up,” he says again, but he’s trying not to laugh.
”No, come on,” Pete says, giggling again, “that’s funny. I didn’t even *know*.”
”No wonder,” Patrick says. He’s snickering, now. “You were locked away with Mikey every time we weren’t performing.”
Pete turns his head to look at him. “You sound like you’re jealous.” And he kind of does, a little. It’s awesome; Patrick never shows his cards, so this is already some kind of tiny miracle.
“I can’t be jealous,” Patrick says, and oh my God he’s *smirking*. It’s doing wonders for Pete’s dick. “You know how bruised my knees got those two weeks?”
“Patrick
, band slut,” Pete says, laughing. Then he stops and replays what Patrick just said. “Wait, two weeks? That’s it?”
Patrick shrugs. “It wasn’t a big deal,” he says, “just, you know. Him and Frank.”
”Ohhh, God, do I.” To hear Mikey tell it, Gerard and Frank were the grand love of an age or something. Pete was reserving judgment, mostly because he hadn’t actually had a chance to see Gerard and Frank as anything other than, you know, Gerard and Frank. Of course, he was biased, since he’d wanted to fuck Frank since the first time he’d laid eyes on him. “But everything’s okay, right? I don’t have to kick anyone’s ass.”
“You aren’t *actually* my older brother, you know,” Patrick says. He sounds amused. “Anyway, like you have room to talk. You’ll bend over for anyone in eyeliner.”
”Not anymore,” Pete says. He smiles. “Didn’t I tell you? I converted.”
”Really.” Patrick arching an eyebrow at him should not be hot. Patrick doing anything, really, should not be hot; and yet, here they are, and Pete’s just cranky no one’s naked.
“Really,” he says. He rolls onto his side to look at Patrick and props his head up on his hand. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking eyeliner. But I hear redheads are in this year.”
“*Really.*”
“Yeah,” Pete says, and snakes his free hand down to slide up under Patrick’s shirt and touch his stomach. He closes his eyes. Christ, his dick is going to break free of his jeans if they don’t cut this shit out. “Only can we go back to the hotel now? Because I don’t really want to get arrested for public indecency, and my ass is getting wet. And not in the good way, either.”
“Fine,” Patrick says. He gets to his feet and helps Pete up, starts brushing his ass off. “Just keep your hands to yourself on the way back. I don’t want you to think I’m that kind of guy.”
*
No one’s around when they get back, which is - not good, exactly, but Pete breathes a little easier. He gives it maybe three days before Joe figures out something’s different, maybe 36 hours after that before he mentions something to Andy, and maybe they’re low-key on their own, but Andy and Joe together are worse than the fucking Hardy Boys. The last thing Pete wants right now is for them to get clues ahead of time.
It’s just past noon now; they don’t have to be at The Barrowlands until five. Shit. Totally not enough time.
“It’s okay,” Patrick says, and Pete starts. Patrick’s voice is low, which is good, because using outdoor voices to have a conversation about the sex they’re going to have while walking through the lobby of a fairly swank hotel in Glasgow is not the best idea ever. “Think of it as round one.”
Pete blinks at him. “Round one?”
”We share a hotel room,” Patrick reminds him. He pushes the up button on the elevator. “Did you have any plans after the show tonight?”
”Not really,” Pete says. “Andy and I were going to-“
“You should probably cancel them,” Patrick says innocently. “We’re going to be busy.”
Wow. Okay. Nice thoughts. Pete reaches down and adjusts himself. Really, *really* nice thoughts.
The elevator dings; the doors open; they walk inside. Stand next to each other like they’re strangers. It’s a little weird, in light of the last hour.
Pete waits for the doors to close before he leans over and says, “Think the cameras would notice if I leaned over and started working your belt right now?”
“Probably,” Patrick says, but he reaches a hand over and links his fingers with Pete’s.
*
They hit the door kissing, break away long enough to get the door open, and go back to kissing. It’s sort of desperate mixed in with laughter, like it’s all so unbelievable and strange and *good* that it doesn’t quite seem real.
“Should I-“ Pete starts, letting his jacket drop to the floor. “I mean, I don’t know what you like.”
“I like everything,” Patrick says.
Pete looks at him. “Really.”
”No,” Patrick admits. He looks a little sheepish. “But there’s this whole learning curve I have to get over.”
”Learning cur-“ The implications of that hit Pete just as he’s getting his shirt up and over. It makes his toss go a little more to the right than he’d been aiming for, but really, had anyone even *used* that lamp? “Jesus. Really?”
“No,” Patrick says, taking his own jacket off, “I just said that to watch your eyes bug out.” Sarcasm, Pete is learning, looks great on him.
”No, but - *really*?” God, that’s weird. And hot. Really, really hot. Most of Pete’s still in the moment, but a little part of him is already off and running, trying to figure out what’s completely off the table and what he can ask for with big pleading eyes. Not that those have ever worked on Patrick before, but hey, up until forty-five minutes ago, Pete hadn’t known Patrick had spent a decent amount of time last summer hooking up with Gerard. Today, anything’s possible.
“Oh!” Pete kicks his shoes off and sits on the edge of the bed, starts pulling his socks off. “We need condoms. And lube.” Shit, had he even thought to *bring* any? Condoms, sure, but it’s entirely possible the lube’s back on the bus, and just thinking about getting dressed and going downstairs to the hotel parking lot to get it is making his eyes cross.
“No we don’t.”
Pete stops and looks at him. “Yeah, we do,” he says.
“We don’t have *time* for that,” Patrick says. “There’s - everything we’re doing-“ and Patrick needs to get over any kind of embarrassment he has about talking about sex in the next ten seconds, because *hi* “-and showering, and getting changed for the show, and there’ll probably be naps. We really don’t have time to have sex.”
Pete does the math in his head. “Shit,” he mutters, and lets himself fall back onto the mattress. He closes his eyes for a second-
-- and promptly re-opens them when he feels Patrick’s hand on his ankle, steadying them both while he gets Pete’s other sock off. Pete pushes himself up on one elbow. “Probably just blowjobs,” he says matter-of-factly, and Pete goggles at him.
“I’m not trying to be rude,” Pete says, “seriously, I’m not, but - what, were you in a pod or something for five years? Because I’ve known you the entire time, and you’ve never been like this before.”
Patrick looks at him steadily. “You’ve never seen me when I’m with someone,” he says.
Pete opens his mouth to argue, then thinks: --huh.
Because he hasn’t, not really. He’s seen Patrick single, he’s seen Patrick after a breakup; he’s even, a couple of times, seen Patrick when he’s with someone. But that’s when he’s with someone *else*, which is really the big difference. He’s never been the one with all that focus fixated on him. It’s sort of scary.
And really fucking hot.
“No,” Pete says quietly, “I haven’t.” He scoots backward to prop himself up on the pillows and starts working at his belt. “So, is this all the time, or do you just bust it out for special occasions? Have you been secretly kinky the entire time I’ve known you, or is this new?”
“You’re such an ass,” Patrick says, but he’s laughing.
Pete gets his belt undone and slides it through and around, tossing it across the room. He undoes the button on his jeans and eases the zipper open. He’s already so hard, and all they’ve actually done is kiss. All he needs is one hand on his dick and he’s going to come; it doesn’t really matter whose hand it is.
Patrick’s still looking at him. “Such an ass,” he says again, but there’s no laughter now. He moves his hand and splays it over Pete’s belly, turning it so his fingers dip under the waistband of his jeans.
Pete bites his lip and closes his eyes. His whole body’s singing: make me come, make me come, I want to come. It’s in Patrick’s voice, which only makes it better.
“Do it,” Pete says faintly. “Do it, God, do whatever you want, just do *something*.”
“I’m going to,” Patrick says just as faintly. He doesn’t move, though, just stays there with his hand on Pete’s stomach. Pete can hear him breathing deep and even, and hates him for a second.
But just for a second, because then Patrick’s voice is in his ear again, murmuring “lift up for a second?” and Pete does. One little shimmy and Patrick’s hands are pulling his jeans down, bringing his boxers with them.
Patrick just looks at him. Pete resists the urge to strike some kind of pose. It’s what he’d do with anyone else, but this is Patrick. It just seems - rude.
Finally, Patrick says, “Just so you know, I’m a little rusty.”
“Wh-“ is all Pete has time to think before it hits him: he’s naked, Patrick isn’t, Patrick’s still touching his stomach.
“If you gag me,” Patrick says seriously, “I will kill you.”
Pete nods.
“Just so we’re clear,” Patrick says, and lowers his head.
Pete sucks in a deep breath between his teeth. He’s had his share of blowjobs, and this is - okay, no, he’s had better, but those were, like, *prodigies*; people who had their Masters’ degree in oral sex. This is good, though. A couple more months’ steady practice, and - God, no, don’t think about that now, moron, Pete tells himself, or you’re not even going to have a chance to *enjoy it*.
Except that he’s trying *not* to think about it, which means he’s *going* to think about it. Which means suddenly all he can think about is six months from now, back in the States - God, back in his *parents’ house*, his fucking evil brain supplies - and the two of them on his bed in his room, trying to keep quiet so no one comes investigating. Knowing that it’s just a matter of time before his mom calls them both to dinner, and he’s going to be so goddamn hard, because there’s something wrongwronghot about having sex in the bed you slept in in the seventh grade with your parents downstairs, and Patrick’s mouth on him, going down, down, all the way down and one hand sliding behind to stroke his balls, and holy Christ that’s it, game *over* and Pete comes with a noise that they can probably hear two floors up.
Jesus. Jesus God.
“Um,” he says, when he remembers he can talk, “are you okay?”
Patrick waves a hand at him. Pete has approximately three seconds’ worth of “oh my God, he can’t breathe” before he realizes Patrick’s just looking for a polite way to ask for something to spit into.
”Oh,” he says, “shit. Sorry.” He rolls into his side - carefully, because he’s still thrumming with the aftershocks - and gets a couple of Kleenex, hands them over. Patrick turns his head away for a second; when he turns back, he can talk again.
“Thanks.” Patrick sounds a little raspy. Boyfriend Pete thinks that’s really fucking hot; Bass Player Pete, who’s been around longer, hopes that wears off before five. “It’s just-“ He looks a little concerned.
”It’s fine,” Pete says, waving it off. “It’s not - seriously, I don’t usually swallow.” He doesn’t. It’d probably be more polite, but the truth is, usually he just doesn’t want to. He can count on one hand the number of guys he’s gone down on without spitting afterwards, and he’ll still have fingers leftover.
“It seems a little rude.”
“There are plenty of ruder things than spitting after somebody comes in your mouth,” Pete says, “believe me. I could tell you stories-“
”You don’t have to,” Patrick says. He really should not look that amused, Pete thinks. Snarky, yes; amused, no. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you have a habit of sleeping with people who have very big mouths.”
“I *did*,” Pete corrects him. “That’s old news, though.” He sits up in bed and wraps his arms around Patrick’s neck. He isn’t surprised when Patrick “casually” tosses the sheet over his hips; Patrick can get a little weirded out by people being naked around him. Porn Ninja always works best on him, Pete remembers, but it’s usually followed by at least 12 hours of the silent treatment.
“So,” he asks, “what *really* sent you out there?”
Pete feels Patrick reach up and pinch the bridge of his nose more than he sees it. Seeing it would require moving back, after all, and he’s practically in Patrick’s lap.
“Come on,” Pete says, “tell me.”
”No,” Patrick says. “Because as soon as I tell you, you’re going to get pissed off and start waving your around and ranting, and you’ll do it until it’s time to leave. And you’ll sit there fuming the entire way to the venue, and as soon as we’re behind closed doors, you’ll do it all over again for Joe and Andy, which means I get to hear it *twice*, counting the practice run that’ll start in about thirty seconds.” He glances at his watch. “Yeah, thirty seconds.”
“Exactly,” Pete says. From anyone else, he’d probably be a little offended, but it’s Patrick. He can’t stay mad at Patrick; it’s like a rule. Besides, it’s not like he’s wrong. “So you might as well tell me now, so I don’t pester you the entire way over there. I’ll do it, too.”
Patrick shoots him a look that translates, roughly, as “I know that, dumbass”. Pete takes it as an agreement and moves to sit back against the headboard.
“Fine,” Patrick says, sighing. “But if you start yelling now, I’m not listening to you when we get backstage.” He draws himself up - as much as he can, because it’s hard to look calm and unruffled when you’re next to someone who’s naked and barely covered by a sheet - and says, “You’ve been doing a lot lately.”
Pete waits for him to say something else, but apparently that’s it. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. And we didn’t actually see you for, like, a week-and-a-half until we all ended up on the same flight over here, and you slept most of the flight. You were in New York until Thursday doing stuff for Decaydance.” Patrick pauses, and adds, “And the last time we were in Europe, you know. It didn’t end well. And between all that, and Mikey getting engaged - the timing seemed weird. And we worry.”
Pete’s quiet for a minute.
“So basically,” he finally says, “you guys are worried because I was out doing grown-up things that are part of my job title, and my ex-boyfriend got engaged, and I wasn’t out shooting people with paintball guns?”
”And you dyed your hair,” Patrick adds.
”I dyed my-“ Pete closes his eyes and presses his fingertips against his eyelids. “Oh my God. Oh my *God*, I love you guys but you’re all fucking morons. All three of you.”
Next to him, Pete feels Patrick stiffen. And not in the good way, either. He takes his fingers away and opens his eyes.
”Look,” he says, and stops for a second. “I - can I talk now? Please? For two minutes?”
Patrick looks at him steadily. “Yes,” he says. Pete winces; he’s heard that voice before, and it never ends well.
“Okay.” He ticks things off on his fingers as he talks. “One: Doing label stuff is my *job*, okay? I signed bands, I have to take care of them. I don’t want to wind up being one of those assholes who signs a band and never talks to them again. I don’t want to be that guy. And don’t tell me you haven’t been doing the same thing, sort of, Mr. I Can’t Take a Call Now, I’m in the Studio Producing.”
”Because you *asked me to*--“ Patrick starts, but Pete rolls onto his side and clamps his free hand over Patrick’s mouth.
”Two,” Pete says, holding up a second finger, “I - really, I don’t know how I can get this through to you without getting a shirt made or something, but I’m *happy* for Mikey. I want him to be happy. And if being married to Alicia makes him happy, great. Although if they register some place like Bed, Bath and Beyond, they can fucking forget it. You could not pay me to go in there of my own free will.” He looks at Patrick for a second, then takes his hand away. “With me so far?”
“Yeah.” Patrick still sounds a little pissed off, but he’s not using the voice anymore, which means Pete can ease up a little. Seriously, he hates that goddamn thing. He’s heard it three times in five years, and it makes him want to beat the shit out of something every time.
“Three: just because I snapped last time doesn’t mean I’m going to snap *this* time. I’m not the same guy I was back then, and I’d like to think you guys - that *you* - know that. If I started feeling twitchy, I’d say something. I’m not well, but I’m better, you know?”
Patrick nods. Pete takes his hand and squeezes it.
”Four,” he says, “I felt like dyeing my bangs. It doesn’t mean I’m going crazy; it just means I wanted bright red bangs. You know, for the holidays. And I didn’t feel like having green hair for the new year, so red won out.” Patrick’s trying not to smile now.
“Fifth - and this is the really important one, so pay attention - if what just happened was your way of calming me down before you give me bad news or whatever, I’m going to punch you in the kidneys.”
”Pete.”
”Seriously. I’ll go pee on your stuff again right now.”
”It wasn’t letdown sex!” Patrick yells, and Pete sits back against the headboard. He hadn’t actually expected *yelling*. Patrick doesn’t yell. “I wasn’t going to *say anything*, because you convinced me you were okay out there in-between all the making out, but no, you had to drag it out of me.”
”Okay,” Pete says. “I’m sorry. Now let go of my hand before you permanently cut off the blood supply.”
“What?” Patrick looks down at his hand - the one he’s unconsciously been squeezing while he yells - and lets go. “Crap. Sorry.” He looks at it and grimaces. “Are you okay?”
”I’m fine.” Pete wiggles his fingers experimentally. “They aren’t even numb. Just, you know, *ow*.” He stops wiggling his fingers and looks at Patrick. “You know,” he says solemnly, “if you really feel bad, you could always make it up to me.”
”Uh huh,” Patrick says, eyeing him. “How?”
Pete reaches out and puts his hands on Patrick’s shoulders, letting himself fall forward and knock them both against the bed. He sits up; when Patrick goes to follow, Pete pushes him back down with one hand.
“Well, for starters,” Pete says, “you could get naked. You know, for parity.”
“You know,” Patrick says, glancing at the clock on the nightstand, “we probably don’t have time for both of us to-“
”I’ll skip the nap.” He starts unbuttoning Patrick’s shirt with his good hand. “You get the pants, okay? My fingers are still a little stupid.”
It’s sort of a fumble; button-up shirts are a lot less sexy than most people think they are, Pete decides, especially when you’re trying to get them off someone - say, your best friend - with your one good hand while he’s trying to get his pants off and dive under the covers at the same time. It would be very endearing if they were both in high school.
It’s okay, though, because finally, *finally*, Patrick’s naked and in Pete’s bed, and Patrick’s kissing him like a fucking crazy man, and it’s so hot it distracts Pete from oral sex for all of ten minutes. He kisses like he means it, and not just on the mouth.
Patrick, apparently, has some kind of fetish for Pete’s tattoos. Today just keeps getting better, like, exponentially.
“Jesus,” he gasps. Patrick’s biting him - *biting him*, holy *shit* - and touching him all over, restlessly. “Okay, remind me to call every girl who’s ever dumped you and laugh at them for a very long time.”
Patrick stops biting and looks at him. Pete isn’t sure when Patrick took his glasses off, but he’s just glad. His eyes are very blue, this close up. “You know,” he says, “you could be doing something else with that mouth.”
“God, you’re pushy when you’re getting laid,” Pete mutters, or tries to; he’s grinning too hard. He kisses Patrick again and shoves him back against the bed, then falls to his knees.
“And you’re not the only one who’s out of practice,” he adds, “so, you know, benefit of the doubt, here.”
”Out of practice, my-“ Patrick starts, and then Pete’s sucking his cock, so he just moans and lets his head fall back.
And that’s how it is, Pete kissing Patrick’s mouth and sliding down to kiss his cock, back and forth. It’s a tease, Pete knows, but it’s not like he’s doing it to be cruel; more like “look what you get to have later, not to mention all the other stuff I can’t do right now because we have a show in a couple of hours.”
Pete’s not sure how long he keeps it up - feels like an hour, which in sex time means it’s probably, like, five minutes - before Patrick’s breathing deep and ragged in Pete’s ear when he goes to kiss his mouth again. “You’re such a pain in the ass,” Patrick says, laughing and moaning it at the same time. Pete’s never heard that tone in his voice before. “Just - God, fucking *do* something already, all right?”
Pete’s never heard Patrick sound that desperate, either. He kisses him again, once, twice, because he can’t not, and pulls back enough to look at him. Patrick has his eyes closed. Pete understands the impulse, but it’s all wrong for what he has in mind.
“Patrick,” he says, flicking him in the thigh. “Trick. Hey. Look at me for a second, okay?”
Pete waits ‘til he’s sure Patrick’s looking at him, then ducks his head and takes Patrick as deep as he can.
It’s been a while since he’s done this, and deep-throating’s always been kind of an endurance sport anyway, but he could be doing worse, and if the sounds Patrick’s trying to stifle are any indication, there won’t be any complaints. It kills Pete a little to know Patrick’s still trying to be quiet, but it’s okay; he’ll break Patrick of that sooner or later.
Sooner, he thinks, please God sooner, and hums in the back of his throat as he pulls back and sucks hard on the head.
He doesn’t move away, even when Patrick makes a noise and comes. It’s soft, like Patrick doesn’t really want to be making any noise at all but he just couldn’t help it, and that’s enough for Pete to keep humming all the way through it. He slides one hand up and strokes the inside of Patrick’s thigh and waits for him to come most of the way down before he pulls off, keeping his mouth tightly closed.
Patrick opens his eyes and looks at him. “Do you.” Deep, shuddery breath. “Do you need any-“
Pete waves him off and swallows, making a face for a second. He’s been having sex with guys for about as long as he’s been having sex, and the taste is never good. It’s *different*, if you ignore the parts where it’s salty and bitter, but swallowing’s never going to be his first impulse. That’s not the point, though.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Patrick says. He sounds a little sheepish.
”Yeah I did,” Pete says. He climbs back into bed and curls onto his side, sliding one leg between Patrick’s. “More importantly, I wanted to, so shut up and start thinking about what you want to do later.”
“You’re making a list, aren’t you.” Patrick doesn’t phrase it as a question.
“No,” Pete lies. “I mean. Not formally.” He’s a little distracted by Patrick blushing. Turns out it *does* go most of the way down. Huh.
Patrick just sighs, sounding totally put-upon and not like the guy who’d tried to blow him outside in the middle of a foreign country an hour ago - Jesus, that’s it? - and kisses him again. Pete makes a mental note to come back to this later, because *God*. It’s still hitting him that he gets to do this, now - he can touch Patrick, hook their fingers together where Joe and Andy can’t see (and eventually where they *can* see - seriously, about three-and-a-half days, four at the most), lose himself in Patrick’s skin when they’re alone.
He wants to do that. He really, really wants to do that. He’s *going* to do that.
“We could just do it like this, if you want,” Patrick murmurs into Patrick’s ear, breaking the kiss. “Tonight, we could just. Move. Just like this.” He arches once, experimentally, and grins when he feels Patrick shudder. Yeah, that’s a winner. And the fact that it feeds into whatever fetish he’s developing about Patrick’s skin is completely coincidental.
He arches again, letting one hand slide down Patrick’s side to stroke his hip. “So. Any ideas yet?”
“Not right now,” Patrick says. He wraps his fingers around Pete’s wrist and tries to tug it away. “And stop petting me. I’m still twitching.”
Pete quits with the half-assed lap dance and settles against him instead. Pete guesses Patrick counts that as a win, because he stops tugging and lets Pete leave his hand there. That one, Pete counts as win-win, because - no shit, he’s getting *issues*. He rubs his thumb along the side of Patrick’s hip and lets the motion bring him back down to normal.
There’s a very long silence. Pete glances over at Patrick and figures he’s fallen asleep.
He’s just closing his own eyes, relaxing a little, when he hears Patrick say, very quietly, “…I wasn’t obvious, right?”
Pete turns and looks at him. Patrick’s eyes are still closed, but he’s tense; Pete can feel it up and down his arm, his leg, his hip. He knows why, of course; if there’s one thing Patrick hates, it’s being obvious. Even after all this time, there are days Pete’s astonished he sings in a band. Or performs in a band. Or gets within fifty feet of a stage.
“No,” he says, just as quiet. “If you hadn’t said anything today, I wouldn’t have known, and I don’t think someone who doesn’t know you as well as I do would be able to tell, though I *do* think Andy and Joe are gonna figure something’s up pretty soon.”
“Fucking Hardy Boys,” Patrick mutters. Pete grins.
“Besides,” he adds, “I think they’re going to figure it out when they come by the room to see if we want to do something tonight, and we both answer the door half-naked and telling shitty cover stories, and when Joe asks what we’re doing in here, we say ‘songwriting.’”
Patrick starts laughing and covers his face with his hand. “Oh, God,” he says, still laughing. “We’re gonna have to do that now, just to mess with them.”
And that’s how Pete knows they’re going to be fine, because maybe he can’t really talk Patrick into anything, but they’ve been feeding off each other for years. It’s just - okay, “mutating” sounds rude, not to mention it’s the wrong word choice, and goddammit, that’s gonna *bug* him - but maybe Bedussey was Pete’s idea, Pete’s baby, but it had been *Patrick’s* idea to add professional credits and main titles.
Bad short film conceived at an IHOP; good relationship. Same difference, really.
”Hey,” Pete says, leaning up on one elbow and grinning at him. “You want to tell my mom first or yours?”
*
-Was this supposed to be porny? Yes. Duh. But it wasn’t supposed to be, like, an essay on blowjobs, let alone an essay on blowjobs with Bedussey-related parenthetical asides. Don’t even ask me how that happened.
-Yes, FOB really played The Barrowlands in Glasgow on January 25, 2006. I know that because I checked tour dates. Yes, I really am that sad.
-The idea of Bedussey being storyboarded on napkins is kosher_pareve’s; I stole it, because I am a bad, rude girl, and also because it is awesome. The part about the IHOP is mine. IHOP: go there and scare a waitress today!
-The parts you liked, thank beatpropx and xoverau; they keep me honest even when I’m telling lies in fanfic form. The parts you hated are my own fault, and I apologize.
Well, no. But I feel really bad about it.