fic: a five-letter word meaning ardor (FOB, Pete/Patrick, 1/1)
Did you know that Patrick joined the band when he was fifteen? I mean, sources argue as to whether it was fifteen or sixteen, but yeah. Fifteen. Fifteen years old, with the accompanying hormones and drives, and in a band with Pete Wentz, Statistically Proven Man-Whore.
...Look, don’t act all surprised. Y’all should’ve seen this coming after the GSF, okay?
Totally jossed by the whole “Patrick played drums at the last Arma Angelus show” thing, but then, I don’t know anyone who’s found conclusive evidence of that, so what the hell. (And if you have got conclusive evidence, feel free to bust it out here.)
a five-letter word meaning ardor
by Gale
SUMMARY: Oh, like you've never had a crush on someone you work with?
The entire thing, Patrick tells himself, is stupid.
It's not the first time he's had a crush on someone; that's been pretty much his entire romantic history, except for the two months he dated Julia Heller when he was fifteen. It isn't even the first time he's had a crush on a guy -- Ben Morgan, the end of eighth grade and the start of freshman year, which was ridiculous for about a hundred reasons above and beyond Ben, you know, being a guy. That one hadn't even had anything to do with sex, not really, nothing like the ones he gets on girls.
This is different.
Pete's smart -- not just smart, crazy-smart, the kind that can make Simpsons jokes one minute and analyze Sharon Olds' poetry the next. He's funny, and a little crazy, and sometimes he can be kind of a dick, but he's not actually *trying* to be. He just...doesn't always think about what he says before he says it. And that's fine.
Part of it -- a tiny part, but a part nonetheless -- is a lingering hint of fanboy, Patrick can admit: seeing Pete as Pete from Racetraitor, not just Pete, That Guy Who Owes Me Twenty Bucks. But it's a tiny part, and it gets smaller the longer Patrick knows him, so that's all right. That's fine, too.
No, Patrick thinks, the real problem is that he's started wondering what it would be like to kiss Pete.
And that, he *knows*, is going to be a problem.
*
He hadn't even meant anything by it, that day in Borders. He was over by Sci-Fi/Fantasy, trying to figure out where they'd moved the music section -- because Borders re-organized itself, like, every three months, and God helped you if you didn't come in during the two-week changeover and find out, because boy were you in for a surprise -- and he'd overheard someone talking about Neurosis.
He'd stood there for maybe two minutes, listening to the guy talk about it, before he'd busted in with, "Hey, are you guys talking about Neurosis?"
The taller of the two guys ignored him, but the other one -- maybe half an inch shorter than his friend, brown hair -- frowned and looked at him. "Yeah," he said, as if it wasn't the strangest thing in the world for a total stranger to break in on his private conversation. "Why?"
And that was how he met Joe.
*
He knows Pete likes guys. He knows this.
Not in the sense of "Patrick, there's something I need to tell you," but when a guy brings girls to rehearsal and introduces them as his "friend", and you see them once or twice and never again after that, that's one thing. But when the same guy brings guys to rehearsal -- typically slim guys a year or two older than him, with t-shirts that rode up an inch or three when they stretched and girls' jeans -- that was like holding up a big sign saying, Hi, I'm Not Entirely Straight. He'd never made out with any of them where Patrick could see, but there'd been a lot of standing too close and fingers hooked through belt loops.
Patrick isn't stupid. According to his SAT Prep classes, he's actually pretty good at context clues.
*
He'd talked to Joe in Borders for maybe 45 minutes. The conversation had drifted from Neurosis to Saves the Day, and meandered around to Joe telling him he'd been thinking of starting a band, and did Patrick want in. Patrick had said yes, though at that point he was pretty sure he'd been humoring him. They'd traded phone numbers, and he'd had given Joe his address, and he'd gone back to looking for the music section. No big deal.
The big deal was the next day, after dinner, when he'd opened the front door and seen a guy standing there, wearing a Lifetime t-shirt and faded jeans, his arms covered in tattoos. He'd been standing there, hand poised to knock again, when Patrick had opened the door.
They'd stared at each other.
Finally, the guy said, "Please tell me you're kidding with that sweater."
And that was how he met Pete.
*
It isn't even about sex, Patrick tells himself. Okay, so maybe he's spent the better part of the last two weeks in economics thinking about what it would be like to be one of those guys Pete brings to practice, to have Pete's finger hooked through the belt loop on his jeans and feel him stand too close, but so what? It's economics. Before that, he'd spent the better part of a week teaching himself how to make an origami swan.
It isn't a big deal. Just because he's spent the last couple of weeks -- okay, *three*, but still -- wondering what it would be like to kiss Pete, that doesn't automatically make it a big deal. The health class they'd taken last year had been very clear in emphasizing that thinking about people of the same gender didn't mean you were gay; it meant you were a teenager, and curious, and having that many hormones suddenly polluting your brain was bound to make anyone go hinky for a while.
So he wanted to kiss Pete. So what? Just because he's thought about it every day for the last, like, month, and wondered what it would be like to feel Pete's mouth against his own, and whether or not Pete would rest his hands on waist or grab hold of his shoulders, and if he could actually taste the thorns on Pete's neck, the ink that went into them, or just the heat of Pete's skin--
--okay, so maybe it's about sex just a little.
*
Pete had been kind of a dick, at first.
Okay, not really. But he'd been a little standoffish and aloof, and his body language had been terrible, all crossed arms and unreadable expression. He'd been very polite, though, and followed Patrick down to the basement where he kept his guitar and his drum kit. He'd perched on the edge of the sofa they kept down there and listened to Patrick run through on both, nodding his head absently and occasionally mouthing words if he recognized the song.
Then Patrick had put his guitar down, and Pete had said, "Hey, can you sing?"
Patrick had looked at him like he was nuts, because. Well. "I've never tried," he'd said, completely honest. "I didn't -- in my old band I played drums. They didn't need another vocalist."
"Uh huh. Want to try?"
"Not really," he'd said, still being completely honest. He didn't -- he wasn't afraid of it, exactly, but just the idea of being out in front made his stomach drop. "You and Joe were looking for a drummer, I thought."
"Yeah," Pete had said, "and another guitarist, and a singer. Technically, one guy on rhythm and one guy on bass is not a band. You know Saves the Day?"
"Yeah, but--"
"You know 'Through Being Cool'?"
"Yes, but again, that's not the--"
"Patrick." Pete had climbed off the sofa and walked over to him, clapped his hands on Patrick's shoulders. "Humor me."
Patrick had looked at him for a minute, then squared his shoulders and sighed. He closed his eyes, and started to sing.
Even now, he doesn't know how he sounded. He hadn't been listening to himself -- God, he hadn't even had his eyes open. He'd just tried to remember the lyrics as best he could, hoped he was on-key, and gotten through it. When he'd finished, he'd opened his eyes.
Pete had been staring at him like he'd just seen a unicorn.
Patrick had stared back for a minute, then said, "So was that okay? Because I think I might have messed up a little on that last verse, but--"
"You can do that?" Pete had asked, still staring at him. "Like, all the time?"
Patrick had shrugged. "I guess."
"And you've never had, like, voice lessons."
Patrick had shaken his head.
"Okay," Pete had said, and stopped cold. "Okay. You're -- seriously? No voice lessons? Nothing at all? You're not in the chorus at school or whatever?" Another head shake. "Okay. Okay, then that's. Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ. Where's your phone?"
*
It is almost impossible to get Pete to focus when he's got someone hanging around.
"We really need a drummer," Joe points out one afternoon. They're in his garage, and the entire Chicago area is experiencing a heat wave bad enough to make all of them sweaty and irritated, even with the garage door open so they catch the thin threads of breeze that occasionally pass by. Joe and Pete are stripped down to skin and jeans; Patrick would've considered it, except Pete brought a "friend" along -- a pretty girl with dyed blonde hair and a tank top that shows off the tattoos on her shoulders.
"No shit we need a drummer," Pete says, looking at him. He rolls his neck back and forth, cracking it. His bass is on his lap, mostly untouched. "And another guitar player."
Patrick looks at him. "I already said--"
"I know what you said," Pete says, "but it would probably be better if you didn't try to split your focus."
"Yeah," Joe says, rolling his eyes, "because singing and playing guitar at the same time, that's fucking brain surgery."
"Fuck off," Pete says, but he's smiling a little. "That's not what I'm--" he starts, and stops when Dyed Blonde Tank Top comes back in from the house. "Hey," he says, and his whole face changes: opens up, at least on the surface. The grin looks realistic enough, if you just glance at it, but it doesn't quite meet his eyes. Patrick's seen that look on his face enough times already; he's going to try to get laid tonight. And it's Pete, so he'll probably succeed.
Days like this, Patrick thinks Pete should probably keep his mouth shut about people splitting focus.
*
Their first actual gig is for a friend of Joe's. They've got a temporary drummer, a friend of Pete's, and Pete gives in enough to agree that yes, fine, Patrick can play guitar for tonight. He looks almost relaxed, which makes sense; he's done this before. Joe looks a little green, but mostly okay. Patrick feels like he's going to throw up.
"Hey," Pete says, coming over to him. "You okay?"
"'m fine," Patrick says. He's trying not to talk more than he has to. "Just, you know, freaked out." He cracks his knuckles. "Do you have, like, a bag I could breathe into?"
Pete rolls his eyes. "You don't need a bag," he says. "You'll be fine."
"Oh, of course," Patrick shoots back. "It's not like this is the first time I've ever sung in front of an audience, or the first time we've ever actually played together as a band, or -- oh, wait, no, it's both." He takes a deep breath and turns to head back to the bathroom. He hasn't managed to actually throw up, but maybe this time will be the charm.
Pete puts a hand on his shoulder and tugs him back. "Patrick," he says seriously, pressing their foreheads together. It's sort of an awkward angle, but right now a crick in his neck is the least of Patrick's worries. "This isn't the Roxy, okay? It isn't even Hollister. This isn't anything you haven't done a hundred times already."
Yeah, he thinks, in someone’s *garage*. But it makes the knot in his stomach start to loosen. "That's not the point," he mutters. "What if--"
"Fuck 'what if'." Pete's voice sounds weirdly, unexpectedly tender. The rest of the knot in Patrick's stomach dissolves. "I've got your back, man. So does Joe."
Patrick lets out a long breath, then pulls away. "Screw it," he mutters. "Let's go. If we're gonna bomb, might as well get it over with, right?"
"That's my man." Pete hooks an arm around his neck and kisses the top of Patrick's head. "Always thinking positive."
*
The show sort of sucks. But then, Joe's quick to point out, it's their first, and it's not like they're playing with their actual drummer, since they don't have one yet. "Besides," he adds, "everyone sucks at first. Dude, ten bucks says The Who sucked rocks at *their* first show."
"The Who never sucked rocks," Patrick argues. He's sweaty and still sort of nauseous, and he's pretty sure he's never going to stop grinning. It's very odd, and nothing at all like the way the rest of his life works, where he's quiet and keeps to himself and messes around with music programs on his computer.
"The Who never sucked rocks," Pete agrees. He has to lean over to be heard, and he has to yell on top of that, but he's grinning like a madman. "We did, sort of. But that's cool! Hardly anyone ever sounds great, like, right off." He hooks an arm around Patrick's neck, the ninth time in less than an hour, and noisily kisses his temple. "It'll sound great when we talk to Spin in a couple years," he says, right in Patrick's ear.
Patrick tells himself it's just patter, or post-show energy, or something. For God's sake, Pete leaned over and kissed him during the show. Just on the cheek, and only for a second, but still.
"Hey," someone says from Joe's right -- eighteen or nineteen, with a blond streak in his black hair and too much eyeliner even for a scene kid. But he's pretty enough, and if there's one thing Patrick's managed to figure out so far, it's that Pete likes them pretty. The kid smiles at Pete. "Ready to go?"
Pete smiles back at him, but doesn't move away from Patrick's side. "No, man, I'm wiped. I'm just gonna go back home and crash."
"Oh." The kid's face falls. "No, that's. I mean, that's cool. I just figured you'd want to do something, you know?"
"Hey," Pete says gently. "Call me tomorrow, okay? I'm just -- seriously, I just want to go home and pass out." He squeezes the kid's arm.
"Yeah," the kid says, "okay." He manages a smile and leans in to kiss Pete's cheek, then disappears back into the crowd.
Joe watches it all, shakes his head when the back of the kid's shirt vanishes from sight entirely. "I'm never going to understand how you do that, dude."
"Well, Joseph," Pete says, completely straight-faced, "when two boys like each other very much--"
"Fuck off," Joe says, grinning. "I'm going to get another water. You guys want anything?"
"I'm good," Pete says. Patrick shakes his head.
"I'll be back." Joe heads for the bar.
Pete tilts his head against Patrick's. "Just you and me now, baby," he says, and Patrick's never heard him sound so self-satisfied.
Patrick tries not to read anything into it.
*
Pete drops Joe off back at his house. "My mom's used to it," Joe says offhandedly, like him coming home at three in the morning on a Saturday isn't a huge deal. And maybe it isn't, because Joe's parents are, if possible, even more laid back than he is. They don't see anything weird about him being a junior in high school and playing in a band, let alone in a band with a guy who's five years older than he is and goes to DePaul.
Patrick isn't so lucky. His mom is still half-convinced Pete's going to lure him into a van and sell him to white slavers in Thailand or something. "He's very nice," she'd said after the first time she'd met him, "but I can't say I'm thrilled about him being twenty and hanging out with fifteen-year-old boys." Patrick still isn't sure how he talked her into letting him be in the band, though he thinks it has a lot to do with how much he wants it. He's never been one of those kids who wants things, not really. But he wants this, wants it so much it makes something in him ache, and part of that must have come through in his eyes because she'd caved after maybe 12 hours of arguing, which was some kind of record.
But no way is she cool with him coming home at oh my God in the morning, so he's spending the night at Pete's. "It's fine," Pete had said when he'd asked for the hundredth time if it was okay. "There's three of us kids, plus any assorted friends we have over. One extra person means my parents practically have the night off."
"We have to be quiet," Pete says when they get to the basement. They'd taken their shoes off at the front door and tiptoed through to the kitchen and down the basement steps, which apparently squeak even when you walk on them in sock feet. "I mean, not like mice or something, but picking up instruments would be a bad idea. My parents had it soundproofed when I was in junior high, but the guy who did it did kind of a shitty job, so sometimes stuff bleeds through." He flicks the light on.
"It's fine," Patrick says. "I'm probably just going to go straight to bed anyway."
Pete looks at him. "What are you, kidding? It's not even daylight yet."
"No, because it's three in the morning."
"Yeah, on a weekend." Pete drops to sit on the sofa, leaning his head against one arm and letting his feet dangle over the other one. It's not a very long couch. "You're not even a little wound up?"
The question's innocuous enough, but Patrick feels himself flush. He's actually still on his second wind, truthfully, and he knows he probably won't get to sleep right away in a strange place, but he's just wired enough from the show, from the energy the crowd gave back to him in spades, that having Pete this close, not to mention sweaty and just as wired, is dangerous.
It'd be fine if the stupid crush he has would just *go*, but it's not; if anything, seeing Pete stretched out on the sofa, bare feet dangling over the leg and shirt rucked up enough to see the flat planes of his stomach, is making Patrick's stomach get twisted up all over again. And if his stomach's going, he knows, he just knows that his dick is next.
"Not really," he lies, shrugging. He scratches the back of his neck. "Um, bathroom?"
Pete raises an eyebrow at him, but points to the other end of the room.
"Thanks," Patrick says, and tells himself that if he runs for it it'll give it away.
*
He comes out ten minutes later, changed into sweatpants and an ancient Return of the Jedi shirt. His face is damp, his glasses are clean, he's brushed his teeth--
--and holy shit, Pete is standing with his back to him, unzipping his jeans and shoving them down to his ankles, kicking them off.
Patrick just stares, because he can't not. Pete is -- oh God, he's tan all over, which is just making him have dangerous thoughts about Pete being stretched out on the roof, bare-ass naked and listening to The Headstones, flipping over every twenty minutes to make sure it's even. Which is wildly improbable, because after maybe ten minutes of that someone would call the cops to report a naked guy sunbathing, and Pete's parents have already given him the For the Love of God, Try Not to Get Arrested *Again* lecture. But it's a really nice image.
Just as nice: Pete's ass. Patrick isn't one to stare at other guys' butts, mostly because if you do that in high school you run a pretty good chance of not making it to graduation, but come on. It's smooth and looks like it'd be firm to the touch, and God, if he could just get close enough--
Patrick presses his lips together and quietly backs into the bathroom. He counts to fifty to give Pete time to get changed, then to three hundred to give himself time to think about baseball scores and images from horror movies to get his erection under control.
"Hey," he says, coming back out. He glances over, then realizes that Pete's dressed again and lets himself actually look at him.
"Hey," Pete says. If he thinks Patrick's acting strange, he doesn't show it. He sits on the edge of the futon. "You still want go to bed?"
Not really. But saying so out loud won't end well, he just knows it. "Sort of, yeah," Patrick says. "It's just...it's been a long day, you know?"
"Not really," Pete says. "But I remember what it was like." He stretches out on his half of the futon. Patrick asks himself why Pete doesn't just go upstairs and sleep in his own bed, but Pete raises his eyebrows at him and glances at the other half, so he shelves the thought for the moment.
He's just settled in, careful to stay on his side and eyes already closed, when he feels Pete reach out and squeeze his hand under the blanket. "Patrick?"
He doesn't open his eyes. "Hmn?"
"You were really good tonight." Pete sounds serious, which is odd enough to make him open his eyes and look over at him. "I know you were freaked out before, wondering if you were going to suck."
"I was okay," Patrick allows. He thinks about it and frowns. "I was off on a couple of the bridges, and that last song--"
"Trick." Pete scoots over and claps a hand over his mouth. "That was a compliment, okay? You say thank you and you let it go. You don't demure or play it off, okay?" He waits for Patrick to nod, then takes his hand away. "Good. Okay."
Patrick waits a second, then says, "Uh, you're on my side."
"Yeah," Pete says, sounding a little drowsy. "I spoon. Just kick me if I start to push you out of bed, okay?"
That makes the knot of tension in his stomach dissolve just as it's forming. "I'll keep that in mind," he murmurs, and closes his eyes again.
*
It's pitch-black, but that doesn't matter; there's someone curled against him from behind, someone with flushed skin and hot breath on the back of his neck, hands settled comfortably at his waist. It's not a woman, he can tell, because there's an erection pressed between them, and from that angle it clearly isn't his own.
That someone is whispering in his ear. The voice isn't familiar -- it's almost genderless, really, soothing and sexy without any real inflection -- but he likes what it's saying: I want you, I need you, you're so beautiful, let me touch you. It's everything he's ever wanted to hear, deep down in the part of himself that feels sort of girly and stupid for wanting to hear that kind of thing.
I can't, he hears himself say, even though it's wordless. I don't know who you are.
It doesn't matter, the voice says back. One hand leaves his waist, strokes his hip reassuringly. It's just the right amount of pressure and strength to be a man, which sort of makes sense when you factor in the erection still hard against his back. Who do you want me to be?
No one, Patrick says, and hopes that for once, he isn't the worst liar in the history of the world.
But that isn't ever going to be the case, because the next thing he knows he's got Pete's hand around his waist, Pete's fingers stroking his hip. His legs are tucked under Patrick's, feet flat against Patrick's calves. The angle's awkward as all hell, but Pete's got his head on Patrick's shoulder.
You think this is a dream, Pete tells him, sounding like he's smiling. Patrick doesn't turn his head to check; they're tucked too close together, and moving would require untangling himself. It doesn't seem that important, suddenly. You think -- what, I just see you as some stupid kid with a crush?
Which -- Well, Patrick hears himself say, yeah, sort of.
Moron, Pete says fondly, kissing the back of his neck. I haven't seen you like that for a long time, if I ever did.
What, says, you don't remember? He means it to be sarcastic, because they've barely known each other a month; and outside of extremely trite movies, things like that just don't happen. Patrick can't be sure, but he honestly doesn't think anyone has ever uttered the phrase "I don't remember what my life was like before I met you" in real life.
Of course I remember, Pete says. Patrick can almost hear him roll his eyes. But we just -- fit. Like puzzle pieces or something. He slides his hand away from Patrick's hip and into his sweatpants, wrapping it around his dick.
Patrick gasps.
Lock and key, Pete says, voice sly. Patrick can hear him grin, feel the flash of teeth against the too-warm skin on the back of his neck.
It's still dark, but Patrick's pretty sure that his blush could light up the room if he'd stop pressing his face into the futon pillow. But he can't, because Pete's jerking him off like he's done this a hundred times, and he's pressed right up against Patrick's ass and rocking himself in slow steady movements, like clockwork. He's whispering in Patrick's ear -- never thought you'd let me, oh God, God, want this, want it, want you -- and bites his shoulder.
Patrick lets out a low moan and arches into his touch, spreading his legs as wide as their position will let him; and because God hates him, that's how he wakes up, hard and dangerously close to coming, with Pete practically sitting on top of him, one hand shaking his shoulder, face concerned.
Oh. Oh, fuck.
"Hey," Pete says quietly, not quite whispering. His face is all planes and angles in the dim streetlights coming in the far window. "You okay? I got up to take a piss, and you were making noise, so I thought you might--" He shifts his weight, and his expression changes subtly. He blinks, looks down.
"--be having...not a nightmare, so much," he finishes slowly, eyes widening a little.
Oh. Fuck.
"I'm fine," Patrick says quickly. His hands are sweaty fists in the blanket, his dick wants to know what the hell's with the loss of signal, and Pete's staring at him like he's a science experiment. There are not enough curse words in the *world* for this.
"Yeah, no, I get that." Pete's voice is faint.
"Okay." He wants a couple of seconds, then adds, "Um, you can get off me now."
Pete stares at him for a long time. "You said my name," he finally says. "In all the -- you know, moaning. You said my name. A couple of times."
Patrick gapes at him for a second, then unballs his fists and starts trying to shove Pete off him. "Okay, move," he says desperately.
But Pete's a flexible son-of-a-bitch, in addition to being stubborn, and all he really manages to do is shift them so that Pete's straddling his lower legs instead of half-leaning against him. Patrick takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.
"Patrick," Pete says. He doesn't open his eyes. "Patrick, hey. Hey."
"Please move," Patrick says quietly. He wants to scream at Pete, wants to yell whatever is necessary to get him to move, but -- seriously, stubborn. Also, it might wake up his parents, and that is not a conversation Patrick ever needs to have, ever.
"*Hey*," Pete says again, and something in his voice makes Patrick look at him. He's expecting Pete to look -- he's not sure. Confused, probably, or awkward, maybe just as embarrassed as Patrick feels. Maybe even amused, and he's pretty sure that'll kill him.
But no, Pete's just looking at him, head cocked a little to one side. Patrick's never seen this expression on his face before, like he's surprised and weirdly happy, but doesn't want to admit it. Of course, that could just be his subconscious projecting, but he doesn't think so.
"I'm not going to laugh," Pete says. He rests his hand on Patrick's stomach, fingers hooking just under the waistband of his sweatpants. His hand is as warm as it felt in his dream. He looks at Patrick for a long time, then moves his other hand to join the first and slides the sweatpants down to Patrick's knees. "Here," Pete says, raising up enough to push them down to his ankles, and resettles himself in place.
He closes his eyes. He doesn't dare open them; he doesn't want to see Pete's expression again, doesn't want to glance down and see himself flushed clear past where Pete's sitting. His brain's practically blue with embarrassment, but his dick's perfectly happy.
He is never going to be able to look Pete in the eyes again, he just knows it.
Pete's voice is still quiet. "You haven't done this before," he says. It isn't a question.
Patrick doesn't know if he means having sex with a guy or having sex with a friend, but the answer's the same. He shakes his head.
Pete makes a soft noise, then shifts again; this time Patrick ends up with his legs spread and Pete kneeling between them. He takes deep breaths and stares at the ceiling when he feels Pete wrap his hand around his dick, and wishes, stupidly, that he was anywhere else.
This lasts all of four seconds.
Four seconds, maybe five, because then Pete's hand is stroking him in a firm, smooth rhythm, close enough that what he usually uses that it makes his thighs shake. He's still primed from a couple minutes ago, and he's learning really fast that though he hasn't had someone else's weight on top of him before, it's the kind of thing he already likes more than he probably should. Pete's fingers are callused from playing bass, and the difference in texture -- and pressure, and the way he strokes out chords on his cock while his thumb keeps smoothing feather-light circles on the head, using his own wetness against him -- get him off in just over a minute, arching his hips and biting his lip to keep from making a noise.
For a long time, all he can hear is himself, panting in the darkness. He makes himself look at Pete, trying to gauge how weird this is going to be from now on.
Pete's just staring at him, smiling a little. It's a lot like the way he'd looked that afternoon in Patrick's bedroom, actually. "It's weird, the first time," he says matter-of-factly. "You're thinking I'm going to freak out and never talk to you again, or that *you're* going to freak out and quit the band, or that the sky's going to come crashing down tomorrow. Am I close?"
After a couple of seconds, Patrick nods.
"I thought everyone would be able to tell just by looking at me." Pete sounds thoughtful. "But they couldn't tell the morning after I lost my virginity, and they couldn't tell with this, either." He rises up and steps over Patrick's legs, falls next to him on the futon. Patrick takes a second to wipe himself off with his jeans, then turns onto his side and looks at Pete, propping himself up on his elbow, his head in his hand; next to him, Pete's a mirror of the position.
"Admit it," Pete says quietly. "You've got a little crush."
"No I don't," Patrick says automatically.
Pete just looks at him.
"--have much of one," he finishes in a mutter, staring at the arm of the sofa. "It's not a big deal, okay? It'll just. Go away or whatever."
"Jesus, I hope not," Pete says. "I haven't even had a chance to state my case, man. That's not cool."
That takes a little while to register; when it does, Patrick whips his gaze back to Pete, blinking at him.
"You never said anything," he finally says.
That earns him an eyeroll. "I don't know if you know this, Trick, but when you get a little older you stop writing out those little notes that read 'do you like me, check yes or n--'"
"Fuck you," Patrick says, but he's smiling a little. "Seriously."
"Seriously," Pete says, "I wasn't going to be the one to make the first move, because you're my friend and if you give that a shot sometimes it completely explodes in your face. I have the shells of shattered bands around my feet to prove it. And no," he adds when Patrick opens his mouth to ask, "that wasn't just from me being free and easy with my affections, okay?"
"Of course not," Patrick says, though that's sort of what he was thinking. Pete isn't slutty, exactly, but he -- actually, "free and easy with my affections" is a really good way to put it. "Also, I'm still in high school."
Pete snorts. "Yeah," he says, looking amused, "that's not a sticking point for me, so much." He scoots a little closer and puts his hand on Patrick's jaw, stroking more firmly than he's used to. But it's like the man's-weight-on-top-of-him thing: surprisingly awesome.
"You know," Patrick says, "I'm starting to get th--" but then Pete's kissing him, hand holding his jaw steady and tongue slipping into his mouth like he's done it a thousand times before instead of, oh, never, so Patrick stops talking.
*
"Honestly," Pete says a little while later, "I didn't even know you liked guys." He's sprawled on his stomach under the blanket, which is currently shoved down to just under his waist. His ass doesn't have much of a swell to it, but the top of *that* part is peeking out.
Kissing had led to more kissing, which led to Pete getting naked (without any prompting, which didn't really surprise Patrick) and getting the rest of the way naked (after a brief struggle that consisted of Pete grabbing his shirt and trying to yank it off, Patrick trying to smack his hands away, and both of them saying "fuck" more than was completely necessary), followed by one abortive blowjob, which ended with Patrick finding out that hey, what do you know, he A) had a gag reflex; and B) it strenuously objected to things like Pete shouting and thrusting down his throat with no prior warning. Pete had apologized a couple dozen times, laughing during all of them, before he'd stopped Patrick's coughing fit with more making out and a very acceptable offer to "Christ, Pete, just let me jerk you off already, I'm pretty sure I see daylight."
"It's been mostly theoretical," Patrick admits. "Until now, I mean." He's on his back next to Pete, squinting at him. Pete had stolen his glasses a couple orgasms back, promising to give them back before they went back upstairs for breakfast. "And I wasn't about to say anything because it's just a stupid crush, and it'll probably pass in another couple of weeks."
Pete leans over and gently bites his upper arm. "I hate to tell you this, Trick," he says, laughing, "but I think that ship's sailed."
"*Besides*," Patrick adds, "you were surrounded by hot-and-cold running groupies."
"Groupies?" Pete blinks at him. "I don't have groupies."
"Okay, then, people you bring to band practice before you fuck them."
"Patrick," Pete says, looking horrified. "That is a gross misrepresentation. I am hurt." He looks wounded. "Sometimes I brought them by *after* we had sex, you know, on the way home."
"*Pete*."
Pete sighs and looks at him. "I'm used to dating girls," he says. "You woo them, you write them poetry, you scream at them outside their houses at 4 AM until the cops drag you off. Girls are good, girls are wonderful, yippee. What I am *not* used to is dating guys. Exchanging blowjobs, yes; fucking them, sure. Actual relationships? Like, with conversation and feelings? No. No cubed."
"Well, then what--"
"That is," Pete interrupts, glaring at him, "until I was waylaid by a 15-year-old with a voice that sounds like God reached into my chest, yanked my heart out, and shoved it into his vocal cords. That fucked me right up."
Patrick's known him just long enough to know that from Pete, that's practically a declaration of love. Or of intent, anyway, which is fairly close.
"Okay," he says after a minute, "that's...weirdly reassuring. But what if it all goes to shit? If we, like, start dating, and it goes horribly and we break up, what does that mean for the band? Or for us, because God forbid we stop talking and start hating each other, which is the last thing in the world I want, even beyond the band. I like what we're doing, I *love* what we're doing, but if I have to choose between the band and you--"
Pete leans in and kisses him. Patrick shuts up.
"Okay," Pete says after a minute, pulling back, "this is where we both admit that you are not allowed to make major decisions about this relationship."
"That's not--"
"Patrick," he says, "when we first met, you thought you couldn't sing."
Patrick blinks at him. "Okay," he says after a second, "fair point. But--"
"No. No buts." Pete leans over and kisses him again. If this is going to be how he shuts Patrick up from now on, he's all for it, but he's pretty sure it'll give Joe an aneurism if they don't warn him first. "Do you *really* want to talk yourself right out of this? Because that's where you're headed." He pulls back to look at him, smiling a little. "You can't go around stressing about what's going to happen, okay? You get spastic enough stressing about what's happening *now*."
"Fuck off," Patrick says, but he’s smiling again. “I’m a worrier.”
"Yeah, and I should be more of one, but I'm not." Pete takes his hand and squeezes it. It's the same thing he did a couple of hours ago, but things are different now; the motion sends heat through him, pooling in his stomach and his spine. "Good boys with 3.7 GPAs and a fondness for David Bowie are a nice change of pace from crazy girls who cheat on me."
Patrick smiles again, then looks down at their hands. "What do we do now?"
Pete's silent for a long time. "I think," he finally says, "we should try to get some sleep before we get dressed and go upstairs and have breakfast."
He waits for Pete to finish, then realizes that that's it. "That's it?"
"What, did you want a speech?" Pete curls against him, sounding drowsy again. "Okay: I think we should get some sleep, then get dressed, go upstairs and have breakfast. *Then* we're going over to Joe's for practice, and we're finding a fucking drummer. Then you're going home, and I'm going home, and we're meeting up after dinner at, oh, around eight to rent a movie and come back here and not watch it while we make out in my bedroom, and at some point I'd sort of like to talk your mom into letting you stay over another night."
Patrick relaxes against him. "Okay." It's definitely not how he expected the night to go, that's for sure. And he's still worried about what the hell they're going to do later today, when they have to--
Pete cracks one eye open. "If you overthink this, I will kill you," he adds.
And that, Patrick decides, is pretty much the best argument he’s heard on the subject so far, even in his own head. So he closes his eyes and goes to sleep, and lets Saturday take care of itself.
...Look, don’t act all surprised. Y’all should’ve seen this coming after the GSF, okay?
Totally jossed by the whole “Patrick played drums at the last Arma Angelus show” thing, but then, I don’t know anyone who’s found conclusive evidence of that, so what the hell. (And if you have got conclusive evidence, feel free to bust it out here.)
a five-letter word meaning ardor
by Gale
SUMMARY: Oh, like you've never had a crush on someone you work with?
The entire thing, Patrick tells himself, is stupid.
It's not the first time he's had a crush on someone; that's been pretty much his entire romantic history, except for the two months he dated Julia Heller when he was fifteen. It isn't even the first time he's had a crush on a guy -- Ben Morgan, the end of eighth grade and the start of freshman year, which was ridiculous for about a hundred reasons above and beyond Ben, you know, being a guy. That one hadn't even had anything to do with sex, not really, nothing like the ones he gets on girls.
This is different.
Pete's smart -- not just smart, crazy-smart, the kind that can make Simpsons jokes one minute and analyze Sharon Olds' poetry the next. He's funny, and a little crazy, and sometimes he can be kind of a dick, but he's not actually *trying* to be. He just...doesn't always think about what he says before he says it. And that's fine.
Part of it -- a tiny part, but a part nonetheless -- is a lingering hint of fanboy, Patrick can admit: seeing Pete as Pete from Racetraitor, not just Pete, That Guy Who Owes Me Twenty Bucks. But it's a tiny part, and it gets smaller the longer Patrick knows him, so that's all right. That's fine, too.
No, Patrick thinks, the real problem is that he's started wondering what it would be like to kiss Pete.
And that, he *knows*, is going to be a problem.
*
He hadn't even meant anything by it, that day in Borders. He was over by Sci-Fi/Fantasy, trying to figure out where they'd moved the music section -- because Borders re-organized itself, like, every three months, and God helped you if you didn't come in during the two-week changeover and find out, because boy were you in for a surprise -- and he'd overheard someone talking about Neurosis.
He'd stood there for maybe two minutes, listening to the guy talk about it, before he'd busted in with, "Hey, are you guys talking about Neurosis?"
The taller of the two guys ignored him, but the other one -- maybe half an inch shorter than his friend, brown hair -- frowned and looked at him. "Yeah," he said, as if it wasn't the strangest thing in the world for a total stranger to break in on his private conversation. "Why?"
And that was how he met Joe.
*
He knows Pete likes guys. He knows this.
Not in the sense of "Patrick, there's something I need to tell you," but when a guy brings girls to rehearsal and introduces them as his "friend", and you see them once or twice and never again after that, that's one thing. But when the same guy brings guys to rehearsal -- typically slim guys a year or two older than him, with t-shirts that rode up an inch or three when they stretched and girls' jeans -- that was like holding up a big sign saying, Hi, I'm Not Entirely Straight. He'd never made out with any of them where Patrick could see, but there'd been a lot of standing too close and fingers hooked through belt loops.
Patrick isn't stupid. According to his SAT Prep classes, he's actually pretty good at context clues.
*
He'd talked to Joe in Borders for maybe 45 minutes. The conversation had drifted from Neurosis to Saves the Day, and meandered around to Joe telling him he'd been thinking of starting a band, and did Patrick want in. Patrick had said yes, though at that point he was pretty sure he'd been humoring him. They'd traded phone numbers, and he'd had given Joe his address, and he'd gone back to looking for the music section. No big deal.
The big deal was the next day, after dinner, when he'd opened the front door and seen a guy standing there, wearing a Lifetime t-shirt and faded jeans, his arms covered in tattoos. He'd been standing there, hand poised to knock again, when Patrick had opened the door.
They'd stared at each other.
Finally, the guy said, "Please tell me you're kidding with that sweater."
And that was how he met Pete.
*
It isn't even about sex, Patrick tells himself. Okay, so maybe he's spent the better part of the last two weeks in economics thinking about what it would be like to be one of those guys Pete brings to practice, to have Pete's finger hooked through the belt loop on his jeans and feel him stand too close, but so what? It's economics. Before that, he'd spent the better part of a week teaching himself how to make an origami swan.
It isn't a big deal. Just because he's spent the last couple of weeks -- okay, *three*, but still -- wondering what it would be like to kiss Pete, that doesn't automatically make it a big deal. The health class they'd taken last year had been very clear in emphasizing that thinking about people of the same gender didn't mean you were gay; it meant you were a teenager, and curious, and having that many hormones suddenly polluting your brain was bound to make anyone go hinky for a while.
So he wanted to kiss Pete. So what? Just because he's thought about it every day for the last, like, month, and wondered what it would be like to feel Pete's mouth against his own, and whether or not Pete would rest his hands on waist or grab hold of his shoulders, and if he could actually taste the thorns on Pete's neck, the ink that went into them, or just the heat of Pete's skin--
--okay, so maybe it's about sex just a little.
*
Pete had been kind of a dick, at first.
Okay, not really. But he'd been a little standoffish and aloof, and his body language had been terrible, all crossed arms and unreadable expression. He'd been very polite, though, and followed Patrick down to the basement where he kept his guitar and his drum kit. He'd perched on the edge of the sofa they kept down there and listened to Patrick run through on both, nodding his head absently and occasionally mouthing words if he recognized the song.
Then Patrick had put his guitar down, and Pete had said, "Hey, can you sing?"
Patrick had looked at him like he was nuts, because. Well. "I've never tried," he'd said, completely honest. "I didn't -- in my old band I played drums. They didn't need another vocalist."
"Uh huh. Want to try?"
"Not really," he'd said, still being completely honest. He didn't -- he wasn't afraid of it, exactly, but just the idea of being out in front made his stomach drop. "You and Joe were looking for a drummer, I thought."
"Yeah," Pete had said, "and another guitarist, and a singer. Technically, one guy on rhythm and one guy on bass is not a band. You know Saves the Day?"
"Yeah, but--"
"You know 'Through Being Cool'?"
"Yes, but again, that's not the--"
"Patrick." Pete had climbed off the sofa and walked over to him, clapped his hands on Patrick's shoulders. "Humor me."
Patrick had looked at him for a minute, then squared his shoulders and sighed. He closed his eyes, and started to sing.
Even now, he doesn't know how he sounded. He hadn't been listening to himself -- God, he hadn't even had his eyes open. He'd just tried to remember the lyrics as best he could, hoped he was on-key, and gotten through it. When he'd finished, he'd opened his eyes.
Pete had been staring at him like he'd just seen a unicorn.
Patrick had stared back for a minute, then said, "So was that okay? Because I think I might have messed up a little on that last verse, but--"
"You can do that?" Pete had asked, still staring at him. "Like, all the time?"
Patrick had shrugged. "I guess."
"And you've never had, like, voice lessons."
Patrick had shaken his head.
"Okay," Pete had said, and stopped cold. "Okay. You're -- seriously? No voice lessons? Nothing at all? You're not in the chorus at school or whatever?" Another head shake. "Okay. Okay, then that's. Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ. Where's your phone?"
*
It is almost impossible to get Pete to focus when he's got someone hanging around.
"We really need a drummer," Joe points out one afternoon. They're in his garage, and the entire Chicago area is experiencing a heat wave bad enough to make all of them sweaty and irritated, even with the garage door open so they catch the thin threads of breeze that occasionally pass by. Joe and Pete are stripped down to skin and jeans; Patrick would've considered it, except Pete brought a "friend" along -- a pretty girl with dyed blonde hair and a tank top that shows off the tattoos on her shoulders.
"No shit we need a drummer," Pete says, looking at him. He rolls his neck back and forth, cracking it. His bass is on his lap, mostly untouched. "And another guitar player."
Patrick looks at him. "I already said--"
"I know what you said," Pete says, "but it would probably be better if you didn't try to split your focus."
"Yeah," Joe says, rolling his eyes, "because singing and playing guitar at the same time, that's fucking brain surgery."
"Fuck off," Pete says, but he's smiling a little. "That's not what I'm--" he starts, and stops when Dyed Blonde Tank Top comes back in from the house. "Hey," he says, and his whole face changes: opens up, at least on the surface. The grin looks realistic enough, if you just glance at it, but it doesn't quite meet his eyes. Patrick's seen that look on his face enough times already; he's going to try to get laid tonight. And it's Pete, so he'll probably succeed.
Days like this, Patrick thinks Pete should probably keep his mouth shut about people splitting focus.
*
Their first actual gig is for a friend of Joe's. They've got a temporary drummer, a friend of Pete's, and Pete gives in enough to agree that yes, fine, Patrick can play guitar for tonight. He looks almost relaxed, which makes sense; he's done this before. Joe looks a little green, but mostly okay. Patrick feels like he's going to throw up.
"Hey," Pete says, coming over to him. "You okay?"
"'m fine," Patrick says. He's trying not to talk more than he has to. "Just, you know, freaked out." He cracks his knuckles. "Do you have, like, a bag I could breathe into?"
Pete rolls his eyes. "You don't need a bag," he says. "You'll be fine."
"Oh, of course," Patrick shoots back. "It's not like this is the first time I've ever sung in front of an audience, or the first time we've ever actually played together as a band, or -- oh, wait, no, it's both." He takes a deep breath and turns to head back to the bathroom. He hasn't managed to actually throw up, but maybe this time will be the charm.
Pete puts a hand on his shoulder and tugs him back. "Patrick," he says seriously, pressing their foreheads together. It's sort of an awkward angle, but right now a crick in his neck is the least of Patrick's worries. "This isn't the Roxy, okay? It isn't even Hollister. This isn't anything you haven't done a hundred times already."
Yeah, he thinks, in someone’s *garage*. But it makes the knot in his stomach start to loosen. "That's not the point," he mutters. "What if--"
"Fuck 'what if'." Pete's voice sounds weirdly, unexpectedly tender. The rest of the knot in Patrick's stomach dissolves. "I've got your back, man. So does Joe."
Patrick lets out a long breath, then pulls away. "Screw it," he mutters. "Let's go. If we're gonna bomb, might as well get it over with, right?"
"That's my man." Pete hooks an arm around his neck and kisses the top of Patrick's head. "Always thinking positive."
*
The show sort of sucks. But then, Joe's quick to point out, it's their first, and it's not like they're playing with their actual drummer, since they don't have one yet. "Besides," he adds, "everyone sucks at first. Dude, ten bucks says The Who sucked rocks at *their* first show."
"The Who never sucked rocks," Patrick argues. He's sweaty and still sort of nauseous, and he's pretty sure he's never going to stop grinning. It's very odd, and nothing at all like the way the rest of his life works, where he's quiet and keeps to himself and messes around with music programs on his computer.
"The Who never sucked rocks," Pete agrees. He has to lean over to be heard, and he has to yell on top of that, but he's grinning like a madman. "We did, sort of. But that's cool! Hardly anyone ever sounds great, like, right off." He hooks an arm around Patrick's neck, the ninth time in less than an hour, and noisily kisses his temple. "It'll sound great when we talk to Spin in a couple years," he says, right in Patrick's ear.
Patrick tells himself it's just patter, or post-show energy, or something. For God's sake, Pete leaned over and kissed him during the show. Just on the cheek, and only for a second, but still.
"Hey," someone says from Joe's right -- eighteen or nineteen, with a blond streak in his black hair and too much eyeliner even for a scene kid. But he's pretty enough, and if there's one thing Patrick's managed to figure out so far, it's that Pete likes them pretty. The kid smiles at Pete. "Ready to go?"
Pete smiles back at him, but doesn't move away from Patrick's side. "No, man, I'm wiped. I'm just gonna go back home and crash."
"Oh." The kid's face falls. "No, that's. I mean, that's cool. I just figured you'd want to do something, you know?"
"Hey," Pete says gently. "Call me tomorrow, okay? I'm just -- seriously, I just want to go home and pass out." He squeezes the kid's arm.
"Yeah," the kid says, "okay." He manages a smile and leans in to kiss Pete's cheek, then disappears back into the crowd.
Joe watches it all, shakes his head when the back of the kid's shirt vanishes from sight entirely. "I'm never going to understand how you do that, dude."
"Well, Joseph," Pete says, completely straight-faced, "when two boys like each other very much--"
"Fuck off," Joe says, grinning. "I'm going to get another water. You guys want anything?"
"I'm good," Pete says. Patrick shakes his head.
"I'll be back." Joe heads for the bar.
Pete tilts his head against Patrick's. "Just you and me now, baby," he says, and Patrick's never heard him sound so self-satisfied.
Patrick tries not to read anything into it.
*
Pete drops Joe off back at his house. "My mom's used to it," Joe says offhandedly, like him coming home at three in the morning on a Saturday isn't a huge deal. And maybe it isn't, because Joe's parents are, if possible, even more laid back than he is. They don't see anything weird about him being a junior in high school and playing in a band, let alone in a band with a guy who's five years older than he is and goes to DePaul.
Patrick isn't so lucky. His mom is still half-convinced Pete's going to lure him into a van and sell him to white slavers in Thailand or something. "He's very nice," she'd said after the first time she'd met him, "but I can't say I'm thrilled about him being twenty and hanging out with fifteen-year-old boys." Patrick still isn't sure how he talked her into letting him be in the band, though he thinks it has a lot to do with how much he wants it. He's never been one of those kids who wants things, not really. But he wants this, wants it so much it makes something in him ache, and part of that must have come through in his eyes because she'd caved after maybe 12 hours of arguing, which was some kind of record.
But no way is she cool with him coming home at oh my God in the morning, so he's spending the night at Pete's. "It's fine," Pete had said when he'd asked for the hundredth time if it was okay. "There's three of us kids, plus any assorted friends we have over. One extra person means my parents practically have the night off."
"We have to be quiet," Pete says when they get to the basement. They'd taken their shoes off at the front door and tiptoed through to the kitchen and down the basement steps, which apparently squeak even when you walk on them in sock feet. "I mean, not like mice or something, but picking up instruments would be a bad idea. My parents had it soundproofed when I was in junior high, but the guy who did it did kind of a shitty job, so sometimes stuff bleeds through." He flicks the light on.
"It's fine," Patrick says. "I'm probably just going to go straight to bed anyway."
Pete looks at him. "What are you, kidding? It's not even daylight yet."
"No, because it's three in the morning."
"Yeah, on a weekend." Pete drops to sit on the sofa, leaning his head against one arm and letting his feet dangle over the other one. It's not a very long couch. "You're not even a little wound up?"
The question's innocuous enough, but Patrick feels himself flush. He's actually still on his second wind, truthfully, and he knows he probably won't get to sleep right away in a strange place, but he's just wired enough from the show, from the energy the crowd gave back to him in spades, that having Pete this close, not to mention sweaty and just as wired, is dangerous.
It'd be fine if the stupid crush he has would just *go*, but it's not; if anything, seeing Pete stretched out on the sofa, bare feet dangling over the leg and shirt rucked up enough to see the flat planes of his stomach, is making Patrick's stomach get twisted up all over again. And if his stomach's going, he knows, he just knows that his dick is next.
"Not really," he lies, shrugging. He scratches the back of his neck. "Um, bathroom?"
Pete raises an eyebrow at him, but points to the other end of the room.
"Thanks," Patrick says, and tells himself that if he runs for it it'll give it away.
*
He comes out ten minutes later, changed into sweatpants and an ancient Return of the Jedi shirt. His face is damp, his glasses are clean, he's brushed his teeth--
--and holy shit, Pete is standing with his back to him, unzipping his jeans and shoving them down to his ankles, kicking them off.
Patrick just stares, because he can't not. Pete is -- oh God, he's tan all over, which is just making him have dangerous thoughts about Pete being stretched out on the roof, bare-ass naked and listening to The Headstones, flipping over every twenty minutes to make sure it's even. Which is wildly improbable, because after maybe ten minutes of that someone would call the cops to report a naked guy sunbathing, and Pete's parents have already given him the For the Love of God, Try Not to Get Arrested *Again* lecture. But it's a really nice image.
Just as nice: Pete's ass. Patrick isn't one to stare at other guys' butts, mostly because if you do that in high school you run a pretty good chance of not making it to graduation, but come on. It's smooth and looks like it'd be firm to the touch, and God, if he could just get close enough--
Patrick presses his lips together and quietly backs into the bathroom. He counts to fifty to give Pete time to get changed, then to three hundred to give himself time to think about baseball scores and images from horror movies to get his erection under control.
"Hey," he says, coming back out. He glances over, then realizes that Pete's dressed again and lets himself actually look at him.
"Hey," Pete says. If he thinks Patrick's acting strange, he doesn't show it. He sits on the edge of the futon. "You still want go to bed?"
Not really. But saying so out loud won't end well, he just knows it. "Sort of, yeah," Patrick says. "It's just...it's been a long day, you know?"
"Not really," Pete says. "But I remember what it was like." He stretches out on his half of the futon. Patrick asks himself why Pete doesn't just go upstairs and sleep in his own bed, but Pete raises his eyebrows at him and glances at the other half, so he shelves the thought for the moment.
He's just settled in, careful to stay on his side and eyes already closed, when he feels Pete reach out and squeeze his hand under the blanket. "Patrick?"
He doesn't open his eyes. "Hmn?"
"You were really good tonight." Pete sounds serious, which is odd enough to make him open his eyes and look over at him. "I know you were freaked out before, wondering if you were going to suck."
"I was okay," Patrick allows. He thinks about it and frowns. "I was off on a couple of the bridges, and that last song--"
"Trick." Pete scoots over and claps a hand over his mouth. "That was a compliment, okay? You say thank you and you let it go. You don't demure or play it off, okay?" He waits for Patrick to nod, then takes his hand away. "Good. Okay."
Patrick waits a second, then says, "Uh, you're on my side."
"Yeah," Pete says, sounding a little drowsy. "I spoon. Just kick me if I start to push you out of bed, okay?"
That makes the knot of tension in his stomach dissolve just as it's forming. "I'll keep that in mind," he murmurs, and closes his eyes again.
*
It's pitch-black, but that doesn't matter; there's someone curled against him from behind, someone with flushed skin and hot breath on the back of his neck, hands settled comfortably at his waist. It's not a woman, he can tell, because there's an erection pressed between them, and from that angle it clearly isn't his own.
That someone is whispering in his ear. The voice isn't familiar -- it's almost genderless, really, soothing and sexy without any real inflection -- but he likes what it's saying: I want you, I need you, you're so beautiful, let me touch you. It's everything he's ever wanted to hear, deep down in the part of himself that feels sort of girly and stupid for wanting to hear that kind of thing.
I can't, he hears himself say, even though it's wordless. I don't know who you are.
It doesn't matter, the voice says back. One hand leaves his waist, strokes his hip reassuringly. It's just the right amount of pressure and strength to be a man, which sort of makes sense when you factor in the erection still hard against his back. Who do you want me to be?
No one, Patrick says, and hopes that for once, he isn't the worst liar in the history of the world.
But that isn't ever going to be the case, because the next thing he knows he's got Pete's hand around his waist, Pete's fingers stroking his hip. His legs are tucked under Patrick's, feet flat against Patrick's calves. The angle's awkward as all hell, but Pete's got his head on Patrick's shoulder.
You think this is a dream, Pete tells him, sounding like he's smiling. Patrick doesn't turn his head to check; they're tucked too close together, and moving would require untangling himself. It doesn't seem that important, suddenly. You think -- what, I just see you as some stupid kid with a crush?
Which -- Well, Patrick hears himself say, yeah, sort of.
Moron, Pete says fondly, kissing the back of his neck. I haven't seen you like that for a long time, if I ever did.
What, says, you don't remember? He means it to be sarcastic, because they've barely known each other a month; and outside of extremely trite movies, things like that just don't happen. Patrick can't be sure, but he honestly doesn't think anyone has ever uttered the phrase "I don't remember what my life was like before I met you" in real life.
Of course I remember, Pete says. Patrick can almost hear him roll his eyes. But we just -- fit. Like puzzle pieces or something. He slides his hand away from Patrick's hip and into his sweatpants, wrapping it around his dick.
Patrick gasps.
Lock and key, Pete says, voice sly. Patrick can hear him grin, feel the flash of teeth against the too-warm skin on the back of his neck.
It's still dark, but Patrick's pretty sure that his blush could light up the room if he'd stop pressing his face into the futon pillow. But he can't, because Pete's jerking him off like he's done this a hundred times, and he's pressed right up against Patrick's ass and rocking himself in slow steady movements, like clockwork. He's whispering in Patrick's ear -- never thought you'd let me, oh God, God, want this, want it, want you -- and bites his shoulder.
Patrick lets out a low moan and arches into his touch, spreading his legs as wide as their position will let him; and because God hates him, that's how he wakes up, hard and dangerously close to coming, with Pete practically sitting on top of him, one hand shaking his shoulder, face concerned.
Oh. Oh, fuck.
"Hey," Pete says quietly, not quite whispering. His face is all planes and angles in the dim streetlights coming in the far window. "You okay? I got up to take a piss, and you were making noise, so I thought you might--" He shifts his weight, and his expression changes subtly. He blinks, looks down.
"--be having...not a nightmare, so much," he finishes slowly, eyes widening a little.
Oh. Fuck.
"I'm fine," Patrick says quickly. His hands are sweaty fists in the blanket, his dick wants to know what the hell's with the loss of signal, and Pete's staring at him like he's a science experiment. There are not enough curse words in the *world* for this.
"Yeah, no, I get that." Pete's voice is faint.
"Okay." He wants a couple of seconds, then adds, "Um, you can get off me now."
Pete stares at him for a long time. "You said my name," he finally says. "In all the -- you know, moaning. You said my name. A couple of times."
Patrick gapes at him for a second, then unballs his fists and starts trying to shove Pete off him. "Okay, move," he says desperately.
But Pete's a flexible son-of-a-bitch, in addition to being stubborn, and all he really manages to do is shift them so that Pete's straddling his lower legs instead of half-leaning against him. Patrick takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.
"Patrick," Pete says. He doesn't open his eyes. "Patrick, hey. Hey."
"Please move," Patrick says quietly. He wants to scream at Pete, wants to yell whatever is necessary to get him to move, but -- seriously, stubborn. Also, it might wake up his parents, and that is not a conversation Patrick ever needs to have, ever.
"*Hey*," Pete says again, and something in his voice makes Patrick look at him. He's expecting Pete to look -- he's not sure. Confused, probably, or awkward, maybe just as embarrassed as Patrick feels. Maybe even amused, and he's pretty sure that'll kill him.
But no, Pete's just looking at him, head cocked a little to one side. Patrick's never seen this expression on his face before, like he's surprised and weirdly happy, but doesn't want to admit it. Of course, that could just be his subconscious projecting, but he doesn't think so.
"I'm not going to laugh," Pete says. He rests his hand on Patrick's stomach, fingers hooking just under the waistband of his sweatpants. His hand is as warm as it felt in his dream. He looks at Patrick for a long time, then moves his other hand to join the first and slides the sweatpants down to Patrick's knees. "Here," Pete says, raising up enough to push them down to his ankles, and resettles himself in place.
He closes his eyes. He doesn't dare open them; he doesn't want to see Pete's expression again, doesn't want to glance down and see himself flushed clear past where Pete's sitting. His brain's practically blue with embarrassment, but his dick's perfectly happy.
He is never going to be able to look Pete in the eyes again, he just knows it.
Pete's voice is still quiet. "You haven't done this before," he says. It isn't a question.
Patrick doesn't know if he means having sex with a guy or having sex with a friend, but the answer's the same. He shakes his head.
Pete makes a soft noise, then shifts again; this time Patrick ends up with his legs spread and Pete kneeling between them. He takes deep breaths and stares at the ceiling when he feels Pete wrap his hand around his dick, and wishes, stupidly, that he was anywhere else.
This lasts all of four seconds.
Four seconds, maybe five, because then Pete's hand is stroking him in a firm, smooth rhythm, close enough that what he usually uses that it makes his thighs shake. He's still primed from a couple minutes ago, and he's learning really fast that though he hasn't had someone else's weight on top of him before, it's the kind of thing he already likes more than he probably should. Pete's fingers are callused from playing bass, and the difference in texture -- and pressure, and the way he strokes out chords on his cock while his thumb keeps smoothing feather-light circles on the head, using his own wetness against him -- get him off in just over a minute, arching his hips and biting his lip to keep from making a noise.
For a long time, all he can hear is himself, panting in the darkness. He makes himself look at Pete, trying to gauge how weird this is going to be from now on.
Pete's just staring at him, smiling a little. It's a lot like the way he'd looked that afternoon in Patrick's bedroom, actually. "It's weird, the first time," he says matter-of-factly. "You're thinking I'm going to freak out and never talk to you again, or that *you're* going to freak out and quit the band, or that the sky's going to come crashing down tomorrow. Am I close?"
After a couple of seconds, Patrick nods.
"I thought everyone would be able to tell just by looking at me." Pete sounds thoughtful. "But they couldn't tell the morning after I lost my virginity, and they couldn't tell with this, either." He rises up and steps over Patrick's legs, falls next to him on the futon. Patrick takes a second to wipe himself off with his jeans, then turns onto his side and looks at Pete, propping himself up on his elbow, his head in his hand; next to him, Pete's a mirror of the position.
"Admit it," Pete says quietly. "You've got a little crush."
"No I don't," Patrick says automatically.
Pete just looks at him.
"--have much of one," he finishes in a mutter, staring at the arm of the sofa. "It's not a big deal, okay? It'll just. Go away or whatever."
"Jesus, I hope not," Pete says. "I haven't even had a chance to state my case, man. That's not cool."
That takes a little while to register; when it does, Patrick whips his gaze back to Pete, blinking at him.
"You never said anything," he finally says.
That earns him an eyeroll. "I don't know if you know this, Trick, but when you get a little older you stop writing out those little notes that read 'do you like me, check yes or n--'"
"Fuck you," Patrick says, but he's smiling a little. "Seriously."
"Seriously," Pete says, "I wasn't going to be the one to make the first move, because you're my friend and if you give that a shot sometimes it completely explodes in your face. I have the shells of shattered bands around my feet to prove it. And no," he adds when Patrick opens his mouth to ask, "that wasn't just from me being free and easy with my affections, okay?"
"Of course not," Patrick says, though that's sort of what he was thinking. Pete isn't slutty, exactly, but he -- actually, "free and easy with my affections" is a really good way to put it. "Also, I'm still in high school."
Pete snorts. "Yeah," he says, looking amused, "that's not a sticking point for me, so much." He scoots a little closer and puts his hand on Patrick's jaw, stroking more firmly than he's used to. But it's like the man's-weight-on-top-of-him thing: surprisingly awesome.
"You know," Patrick says, "I'm starting to get th--" but then Pete's kissing him, hand holding his jaw steady and tongue slipping into his mouth like he's done it a thousand times before instead of, oh, never, so Patrick stops talking.
*
"Honestly," Pete says a little while later, "I didn't even know you liked guys." He's sprawled on his stomach under the blanket, which is currently shoved down to just under his waist. His ass doesn't have much of a swell to it, but the top of *that* part is peeking out.
Kissing had led to more kissing, which led to Pete getting naked (without any prompting, which didn't really surprise Patrick) and getting the rest of the way naked (after a brief struggle that consisted of Pete grabbing his shirt and trying to yank it off, Patrick trying to smack his hands away, and both of them saying "fuck" more than was completely necessary), followed by one abortive blowjob, which ended with Patrick finding out that hey, what do you know, he A) had a gag reflex; and B) it strenuously objected to things like Pete shouting and thrusting down his throat with no prior warning. Pete had apologized a couple dozen times, laughing during all of them, before he'd stopped Patrick's coughing fit with more making out and a very acceptable offer to "Christ, Pete, just let me jerk you off already, I'm pretty sure I see daylight."
"It's been mostly theoretical," Patrick admits. "Until now, I mean." He's on his back next to Pete, squinting at him. Pete had stolen his glasses a couple orgasms back, promising to give them back before they went back upstairs for breakfast. "And I wasn't about to say anything because it's just a stupid crush, and it'll probably pass in another couple of weeks."
Pete leans over and gently bites his upper arm. "I hate to tell you this, Trick," he says, laughing, "but I think that ship's sailed."
"*Besides*," Patrick adds, "you were surrounded by hot-and-cold running groupies."
"Groupies?" Pete blinks at him. "I don't have groupies."
"Okay, then, people you bring to band practice before you fuck them."
"Patrick," Pete says, looking horrified. "That is a gross misrepresentation. I am hurt." He looks wounded. "Sometimes I brought them by *after* we had sex, you know, on the way home."
"*Pete*."
Pete sighs and looks at him. "I'm used to dating girls," he says. "You woo them, you write them poetry, you scream at them outside their houses at 4 AM until the cops drag you off. Girls are good, girls are wonderful, yippee. What I am *not* used to is dating guys. Exchanging blowjobs, yes; fucking them, sure. Actual relationships? Like, with conversation and feelings? No. No cubed."
"Well, then what--"
"That is," Pete interrupts, glaring at him, "until I was waylaid by a 15-year-old with a voice that sounds like God reached into my chest, yanked my heart out, and shoved it into his vocal cords. That fucked me right up."
Patrick's known him just long enough to know that from Pete, that's practically a declaration of love. Or of intent, anyway, which is fairly close.
"Okay," he says after a minute, "that's...weirdly reassuring. But what if it all goes to shit? If we, like, start dating, and it goes horribly and we break up, what does that mean for the band? Or for us, because God forbid we stop talking and start hating each other, which is the last thing in the world I want, even beyond the band. I like what we're doing, I *love* what we're doing, but if I have to choose between the band and you--"
Pete leans in and kisses him. Patrick shuts up.
"Okay," Pete says after a minute, pulling back, "this is where we both admit that you are not allowed to make major decisions about this relationship."
"That's not--"
"Patrick," he says, "when we first met, you thought you couldn't sing."
Patrick blinks at him. "Okay," he says after a second, "fair point. But--"
"No. No buts." Pete leans over and kisses him again. If this is going to be how he shuts Patrick up from now on, he's all for it, but he's pretty sure it'll give Joe an aneurism if they don't warn him first. "Do you *really* want to talk yourself right out of this? Because that's where you're headed." He pulls back to look at him, smiling a little. "You can't go around stressing about what's going to happen, okay? You get spastic enough stressing about what's happening *now*."
"Fuck off," Patrick says, but he’s smiling again. “I’m a worrier.”
"Yeah, and I should be more of one, but I'm not." Pete takes his hand and squeezes it. It's the same thing he did a couple of hours ago, but things are different now; the motion sends heat through him, pooling in his stomach and his spine. "Good boys with 3.7 GPAs and a fondness for David Bowie are a nice change of pace from crazy girls who cheat on me."
Patrick smiles again, then looks down at their hands. "What do we do now?"
Pete's silent for a long time. "I think," he finally says, "we should try to get some sleep before we get dressed and go upstairs and have breakfast."
He waits for Pete to finish, then realizes that that's it. "That's it?"
"What, did you want a speech?" Pete curls against him, sounding drowsy again. "Okay: I think we should get some sleep, then get dressed, go upstairs and have breakfast. *Then* we're going over to Joe's for practice, and we're finding a fucking drummer. Then you're going home, and I'm going home, and we're meeting up after dinner at, oh, around eight to rent a movie and come back here and not watch it while we make out in my bedroom, and at some point I'd sort of like to talk your mom into letting you stay over another night."
Patrick relaxes against him. "Okay." It's definitely not how he expected the night to go, that's for sure. And he's still worried about what the hell they're going to do later today, when they have to--
Pete cracks one eye open. "If you overthink this, I will kill you," he adds.
And that, Patrick decides, is pretty much the best argument he’s heard on the subject so far, even in his own head. So he closes his eyes and goes to sleep, and lets Saturday take care of itself.