fic: after midnight (FOB GSF, 1/1)
This is for addictedkitten, in the way that all GSF is, essentially, for Sara. And Rae. And Chloe. And Lah. --Screw it, show of hands who doesn’t like GSF.
Set TTTYG-era. Four boys + one van = FUN FOR EVERYONE.
after midnight
by Gale
SUMMARY: Leaving stuff out of Behind the Music: it's the new black.
The problem was, the van was not particularly large.
Okay, no, that was one of the problems. Patrick had compiled a list over the last couple of years, which went something like: tiny van + lots of people + no money for hotel = privacy = HAHAHA.
The actual list had more words, but that was it in a nutshell. There were four of them, plus Dan and Dirty and whoever else was along this weekend -- week, month, whatever -- in a van that was not actually meant to carry something like 15 people. Even with the trailer, it was -- oh, God, screw it. It sucked. They didn't have money for a hotel, so they had no place to shower, and really, sink baths at the venue didn't count (and honestly, some of the places they played weren't even safe for sink baths. Patrick always left that part out when his mom asked how touring was going; she already had one eyebrow skeptically cocked over the whole "I'm gonna sing in a band" thing, and the last thing he needed was a twenty-minute lecture on cleanliness and germs and "my God, honey, you don't even know what goes on there", when really, he actually did).
But it was the last night of the tour, and Pete had declared band privilege and kicked everyone but the four of them out, which meant...okay, which didn't mean a lot, because Andy and Pete were, like, half leg, but it was still kind of nice.
Patrick rolled onto his back as quietly as he could and stared up at the ceiling of the van.
Except.
--except he was nineteen, goddammit, and this was the first opportunity he'd had to jerk off in *weeks*.
No, wait, not really true; he could have just done what Pete did and do it whenever, except...except he really, really couldn't. He wasn't a prude and he wasn't a virgin, but nineteen years of living with his mom had pretty much carved "only when you're alone, and there's white noise so people outside can't hear you" into his brain. Like, right up front. In very large letters.
He wasn't alone; he was in the back of the van, body curled into a neat, tight line to make up for Pete's expansive sprawl, while Joe and Andy curled themselves into seat-shaped piles up in the front. Pete had even barricaded the back doors, on the off chance anyone wanted to try and sneak in, though Patrick thought that was unlikely; he'd been two feet away when Dirty had said they were all going out for a while, and they'd be back later. He'd figured that'd be Pete's cue -- and Andy's, depending on what mood he was in -- to go with them, but Pete had begged off, pleading that he wanted to get one fucking night of sleep in before they headed back to Chicago the day after tomorrow.
So, not alone, but the best he was going to get until he was home, and really, that was a whole host of different problems right there.
Of course, the biggest problem was about six inches from his head, breathing deep and even, one arm flung out on top of the scratchy comforter they were using as a blanket. Patrick shifted again and tried to ignore the hard-on pressed against his boxers.
And really, that was the hell of it: he was stuck here with his three best friends, all of whom were ridiculously hot and who he'd had crushes on at one point or another. Pete and Morgan were off-again -- last time he'd checked, anyway, but that had been a week ago so maybe not, by now -- Andy got narrow-eyed whenever someone mentioned the word "girlfriend" around him, and Joe was...fuck it, Joe was the straightest person Patrick had ever met in his entire life.
But. God knew Pete had hooked up with enough guys; so did Andy, occasionally, though if you asked him for details he got narrow-eyed over *that*, too. And Joe, while the straightest person Patrick had ever met in his entire life, had gotten drunk exactly once and confessed that he used to jerk off listening to Arma Angelus. It wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibility, a little voice in his brain whispered. Maybe--
--okay, no, screw maybe. It had been six weeks of locking himself in tiny venue bathrooms and trying to break land speed records. Andy and Joe could sleep through bombs going off, and so could Pete, if he'd actually decided to sleep. He could take five goddamn minutes for himself and get off, then actually go to sleep.
Patrick turned onto his side for good measure, away from Pete, then unsnapped the button on his jeans and undid the zipper. Slid a hand inside and skimmed it down his stomach, then curled it around his dick to stroke it idly while he started paging through his mental rolodex. He closed his eyes.
Speed! Speed was key, not quality of fantasy, so the long, drawn-out one where he was a student at an English boarding school submitting to punishment from headmaster David Bowie was right out. Goddammit. And the one where he was watching his ex-girlfriend Lauren and Joe's ex-girlfriend Sara was right out -- and again, dammit, because completely inappropriate lesbians usually worked. Pulled over by sexy motorcycle cop, no; visit to Doctor Hugh Jackman's office for a physical, same.
Patrick sighed, more a breath than an actual noise. If this didn't work soon, he might actually have to stop. Stupid brain, he told it, picking now to have some kind of goddamn fight with the libido. He took a breath and went to try again, opening his eyes for a second to orient himself--
--and found Pete staring at him.
He didn't yelp, but it was close. He did, however, punch him in the throat.
Pete fell back, flailing a little, and automatically brought his foot up and nailed Patrick in the thigh. "Ow!" he whispered, coughing a little. "What the hell, Trick?"
"Don't scare me," Patrick whispered back, rolling to sit up and yanking his hand out of his jeans in what he hoped was one smooth motion, "and I won't have to *do* that. Fuck, I thought Dirty had gotten back in somehow." He rubbed at his thigh.
"It's propped closed with a board," Pete said, still whispering. He coughed a couple more times, kept glaring at Patrick. "What are you doing up, anyway?"
"What am I -- what are *you* doing up?"
"It's called insomnia," Pete said. "Remember? Three, four hours of sleep a day, spread out over 24 hours, and I'm good to go?" He waved a hand in Patrick's face; Patrick could see it through the overhead lights from the Wal-Mart parking lot, coming in through the windows. "Patrick? How many fingers?"
"Fuck off," Patrick muttered, keeping his voice low. "I was just--"
"Dude, I know what you were just," Pete said, eyes flicking down below Patrick's waist. Patrick glanced down, zipped his jeans closed and re-buttoned them. "Which, whatever, just tell me you're jerking off and I'll turn back around, okay? No need to punch anyone in the throat, jeez."
"Good to know," Patrick said, and curled onto his side, facing away from Pete. "Good night."
There was silence. For all of thirty seconds, which, considering that Pete was involved, was a very tiny miracle.
"...So, what, you're just going to not do it now?" Oh, God, he honestly sounded confused.
"Uh." Patrick rolled his eyes. It seemed safe enough; he was facing away, after all. "Yeah?"
"Why?" Pete asked -- and yes, that was honest-to-God confusion he was hearing.
Patrick rolled over to face him. "Because," he said, "you're awake, and you'd know what I was doing."
"So?" Pete was sitting up now, his back propped against the wall of the van, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle. "It's not like you guys haven't heard me do it a couple hundred times by now."
"That's--" Patrick fumbled a little. "It's different," he said after a couple of seconds. "It's not a big deal, I can wait 'til I get home. It's fine."
Pete looked at him. "Home," he said flatly. "Where your mom lives. Yeah, no, that's stupid." He waved a hand. "Just get it over with."
Patrick looked at him for a long time, mentally willing Pete to shut up about it and let them both get some sleep.
"Seriously," Pete said, "are you still hard? Because I'll just listen to a CD or something and you can pretend I'm not even here. Or that I'm asleep. Whatever works for you."
Oh my God, he did not want to have this conversation ever. "Pete," he said, careful to keep his voice quiet. "It's. not. a big. deal. Okay?"
There was another silence, this one not quite as long as the first one.
Finally, Pete said, "Would it help if I did it, too?"
Patrick looked at him, gaped for a second, then burst out laughing. It was quiet, and way too close to hysterical giggles for his taste, but it was still laughter. And it was going to wake Andy and Joe up any second, and oh God they'd want to know what was so funny, and Pete would tell them, and--
Pete was across the back of the van and clamping a hand over his mouth in something less than a second. The part of Patrick's brain that wasn't stuck in a loop of "oh my God, this is my life" was more than a little impressed. He was like a cheetah. A not-terribly-tall, tattooed, eyeliner-and-Vans wearing cheetah.
"Okay," Pete whispered, carefully, "I thought we'd established that if one of us is eventually going to have a nervous breakdown, it's going to be me. Don't go stealing my trope, Trick."
They waited for the giggles to die down before Pete let him go. Patrick coughed a couple times, then said, "You're not serious."
"Well, we didn't have a meeting or anything, but you're way more stable than I am, and God knows Joe and Andy are, so if it's going to be one of us--"
"Not *that*," he said. "The other thing."
"The other--" Pete blinked. "Um. Yeah?"
"No! You can't just." Patrick stopped and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Pete," he said. "You can't just *do* that, okay? You can't just offer to jerk off so someone *else* will be comfortable doing it, okay? That's not -- that's not what people do, you know? That's how bad porn starts."
"No," Pete said, "bad porn starts with a badly dubbed soundtrack composed entirely on a Casio keyboard from 1991 and, depending on the year it was made, someone with a handlebar moustache offering to fix your radiator." He shrugged and uncrossed his legs, spreading them a little and bending one leg at the knee, hand sliding down to his belt. "And even bad porn gets the job done, in a pinch."
"Pete--" Patrick said, and oh my God, Pete was unbuttoning his jeans. And unzipping them. And -- Patrick glanced away, feeling himself flush.
Of course he wasn't wearing underwear. Of course not. This was Pete, for God's sake.
He tried again. "Pete--"
"You can wait 'til you get home, if you want." Pete's voice sounded different, somehow, when he spoke this quietly: lower, almost sinuous. "Lock yourself in your room, wash your hands after, run the risk of your mom coming in anyhow, because it's not like she won't knock on the door with shitty mom timing just as you're getting to the good part -- and she's your *mom*, Trick, she'll know what you're doing alone in the room with your door locked." He shrugged. "Or you can just do it here." He lowered his voice a little. "You don't have to look at me, if you don't want."
Patrick didn't look over yet. Yet. "And if I wanted to?" he murmured, feeling himself flush harder.
He didn't need to look at Pete to see him grin; he could *hear* it. "Then," Pete said quietly, "I'd feel a hell of a lot less weird when I watched you while I did it." He paused, then added, "And I am going to do it. I can't not, man. You got me too worked up." He grinned again. "Cocktease."
"I am n--" Patrick let out a breath and clenched his fingers against his thigh, then looked over.
Pete was still sitting with his back to the wall, but now his jeans were pooled around his ankles, one hand wrapped firmly around his dick, eyes lidded and firmly fixed on Patrick's. "What," he said, "you thought I was kidding?"
Patrick stared at him for maybe a minute, watching Pete stroke himself slowly, eyes still lidded, like he was savoring it. Or waiting.
"Goddammit," he muttered, and slipped his fingers under the waistband of his jeans. This was stupid, this was crazy, but something about it was ricocheting around in his chest, mentally cheering when he got his jeans down to his ankles and started in on his boxers.
He got those down, too, and spread his legs as wide as he could, looked up at Pete -- Pete, who was still looking at him; except now the grin was gone, replaced with a faint, knowing smile.
"I knew it," he said softly. Patrick wasn't even surprised when Pete scooted forward, close enough that their legs touched, now. If he reached out with his free hand and tried, he could reach out and stroke Pete's thigh. "Knew you'd like this. I knew it."
"God," Patrick muttered, "don't talk." He could do this, he could even maybe look at Pete and not lose it in less than a minute, but not if Pete started talking. Pete's voice was his fucking kryptonite.
Pete laughed. "What are you gonna do, stop me?" His voice was a low murmur, but it reached in and yanked at something loose in Patrick's chest, making him lean forward a little to hear him better. "You could, you know. You could throw yourself against me and make me stop, but that'd just get me worked up even faster."
"You don't look like you need the help," Patrick said, his teeth gritted. Pete was still hard, his hand still stroking, but he didn't look anywhere near as panting and ready as Patrick *felt*. It was so goddamn unfair.
"Not with that, no." And then -- oh, God, and then Pete reached out with his free hand and stroked 's thigh, fucking stroked it, firm touch and damp fingers, and shuddered and spread his legs a little wider. "But other things, fuck, yeah."
"Other--" Patrick shook his head. "I don't know what you -- what do you mean?" He hardly sounded like himself, but he didn't really care; Pete was still stroking him, touching his thigh like he'd done it a hundred times before. When he slid his hand further down and softly rubbed the inside of his thigh, Patrick moaned.
Pete froze, looking at him for a long second. Then he pulled his hand back.
Patrick's eyes widened. "I'm sorry," he said quickly, "I didn't mean to -- we'll just pretend I didn't do that, okay?" All Pete had done was touch his thigh, but that abscence now was like a physical pain.
"No, God, are you kidding?" Pete babbled, and stripped his t-shirt off. He kicked his jeans free of his legs, bringing his sneakers with them, and started in on Patrick's. Patrick was so startled he let him. "That was -- fuck, I want to hear that again."
"So--" Patrick stopped. "Wait, what are you--"
"I mean," Pete said, and kissed him. On the mouth. Hard.
Patrick didn't realize he was mostly naked 'til Pete stopped kissing him long enough to start yanking at his t-shirt. "Wait," he said. His brain was fuzzy, mostly from the kissing but almost as much from the fact that for most of the kiss Pete's dick had been warm weight against his thigh, but he had enough presence of mind to know that the last thing he wanted was for Pete to get him totally naked. "That's not -- really, I'm good."
"I'm not," Pete muttered, batting at his hands. "Are you guys good?"
From the front seat, Joe said, "More skin's never a bad--" at the same time Andy said, "No, I'm good."
Patrick froze and turned to the right. He squeezed his eyes closed, then opened them slowly.
Andy and Joe were staring at the two of them from around the corners of the seats, eyes wide in the darkness. Joe was all pupil, but Andy looked slightly more awake. Slightly.
"Fuck," Patrick whispered, and barely realized when Pete got his shirt up and off, tossing it aside.
Oh, God, he'd had nightmares like this. It was the updated version of going to school naked, which, weirdly enough, he'd never actually had. But he was pretty sure it would've been a lot like this, only less personal and with more laughing.
"Seriously," Pete said, "you didn't hear them moving around?" He grinned, a burst of sharp white in the darkness. "That's a compliment, man. Thank you."
Patrick looked at him for a second, then back at Andy and Joe, then started for his shirt.
"Hey," Pete said, touching his arm, "hey, Patrick, no, you don't have to--"
Patrick just stared at him.
And then heard Andy say, as if from a great distance, "No, really. It's okay."
Patrick whipped his head to look at him, eyes going wide, but Andy was just looking at him, expression as unreadable as ever. But his eyes were warm, and he didn't look like he was going to start yelling anytime soon. Or laughing, which would've been worse.
"It's okay," Andy said again, carefully, like he was trying to gentle a startled animal. "It's not -- it's not like we haven't done this before, you know?"
Patrick felt his eyes go wide. This was. Not at all going the way he'd expected, ten minutes ago.
"Just the one time," Pete said. "Okay, maybe twi-- No, wait, Cleveland. So three times." He looked at Andy. "Three, right?" Andy nodded. "So, okay, three times. Three times isn't a lot."
"Isn't a lot?" Patrick gaped for a second, then started fumbling for his shirt again. Pants would probably be better, but he had the sneaking suspicion Pete had taken the opportunity when he'd been staring at Andy to take them and hide them. The shirt, at least, would let him feel somewhat protected. "So, what, you and Andy had *sex*--"
"No," Andy scoffed, as if Patrick was the crazy one in this van. "God, no. That's way too weird. We just got each other off."
"Three times," Pete said helpfully.
"Three ti--" Patrick looked from Pete to Andy and back again. "And you're staring at me like I'm the crazy one. That's just--" He stopped fumbling and closed his eyes, pressed his fingertips to the closed lids. "Never mind," he said, not opening his eyes. "Just. Someone give me my pants, I'm crashing outside."
There was a small pause. No one moved.
"Seriously," Patrick said, "any time now on the pants would be great."
Another little pause.
When Pete spoke, he actually sounded hesitant. "Trick, I don't -- are you afraid this'll make you gay or something? Because it doesn't have to mean--"
"Oh my God," Patrick said despairingly, taking his hand away and opening his eyes. "Okay, you know what? This wasn't supposed to be the kind of night where we sit around like it's a junior high sleepover, but fine: I'm bi." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I mean, theoretically," he added. "In that I find guys hot sometimes and think about them at inappropriate moments, but have never actually -- okay, wait, no, this isn't about me."
"Okay," Pete said, "do you see anyone *else* in this van freaking out? Because I'm pretty sure it's just you."
It was a measure of how weird Patrick's life was these days that having a naked argument with his best friend was not the strangest part of the night. He took a deep breath and started fumbling for his shirt again. His fingers closed on something that was either his or Pete's, and oh my God right now he so didn't care, when--
"Don't," Joe said hoarsely.
Patrick stopped fumbling and looked at him.
It was very easy to forget that he was actually about five months older than Joe. Joe was just so...laid-back about everything, in a way Patrick didn't, for whatever reason, associate with someone his own age. Probably because he'd spent his entire life in his own head, which was familiar but a little stuffy and stubborn and always vaguely tense, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. He wasn't Eeyore, but he wasn't Tigger, either. More like -- okay, Piglet was the obvious choice, but just. No.
But this was what kids were supposed to do, wasn't it? Practice kissing and making out with their friends? He'd been in locker rooms before, he'd heard guys in junior high bust out "we just jerked each other off, man, it doesn't mean we're gay" as soon as the teacher was out of earshot, but he'd skipped that whole section himself. Too much time spent in his room, working on music; too little time working on other people.
And here he was now, with people who understood him and loved him even when he was being sort of a bitch, who maybe thought he was kind of weird for being on GarageBand 17 hours a day but didn't give him too much shit for it.
Patrick thought, that's what love is.
And just like that, he leaned over and tugged Joe's shoulder 'til he moved closer, then kissed him.
It was a nice kiss, really, for all that Patrick had never kissed a guy before -- Pete kissing him on stage didn't count, because A) on stage and B) he was the kissee, not the kisser -- and he was pretty sure Joe hadn't, either. Which was fine, because this was mostly a test run anyway, and he'd rather do it with Joe, who was just as inexperienced as he was.
Joe pulled back after a while and looked at Patrick, eyes wide even in the darkness. The bleach was still growing out, which was just fine with Patrick, who'd woken up to it one morning over breakfast and felt vaguely horrified pretty much every time he looked at it. He looked a lot like the way Patrick felt, actually.
"Don't," Joe said again, less hoarsely this time, more natural and quiet. "It'd be weird without you here, you know?"
Patrick looked at him for a long minute, then reached up and tugged on the collar of his shirt. "This better not be weird," he warned, leaning back, but Joe just grinned and started climbing over the backseat, Andy right behind him.
"See," Pete said, leaning over and taking the shirt out of Patrick's hand, "that's your problem: you keep thinking. You overthink the shit out of everything, Trick. We're gonna break you of that if it fucking kills me." He balled the shirt up and tossed it towards the front seat, grinning when it bounced off the sun cover they'd put up a couple hours earlier.
"Yeah, well, you keep *not* thinking before you do anything," he shot back. He drew one knee up against his chest, mirroring Pete, and watched Andy strip his t-shirt off before turning to help Joe with his belt. His erection was coming back in a hurry; he could tell as much from the hot feeling on the back of his neck as from the way Pete's gaze kept flicking down to his lap.
And wow, that was...really not an expression a lot of people got to see. Patrick hoped.
"Exactly," Pete said, shoving his own clothes over closer to the door. Andy climbed across him with a grateful noise, stripped to the waist, and stopped for a second to do something to Pete's thigh. Patrick couldn't see too clearly, but whatever it was made Pete suck in a breath and snap his teeth at him. From Pete, that was a sign of affection. "That's how we fit. Puzzle pieces." He nudged Patrick's foot with his own. "Lock and key," he added, grinning.
It took Patrick a second to get it, but when he did he flushed. "That's not what I--"
"Dude, don't scare him off by being a dick," Andy said, tossing his own jeans at Joe's head. Joe batted them away and tossed his sneaker back, neatly bouncing off the side of the van. "Or worse, by being you."
"Fuck off," Pete said cheerfully, and locked his eyes on Joe, who was scrambling out of his boxers. The look he gave him was heated, more than enough to make Patrick duck his head and flush even brighter red.
"I'm just saying we probably shouldn't do anything crazy," Andy said. He had his boxers down and off in a flash, and Patrick's mouth went dry. "Just, like, what you guys were going to do."
"Jerk off," Joe said helpfully. He sat down and drew his legs up, foot companionably bumping Patrick's. "Watch each other jerk off. But no touching, right?"
"No touching," Andy agreed, and holy God, Patrick could actually feel Andy look at him. "Not right now, anyway."
Not right -- and that's where Patrick's brain stopped, as if he'd run into a wall, because thinking about anything beyond that made his breath catch and his ache, which it didn't really need help with right now, thanks.
He closed his eyes and wrapped a hand around his cock instead.
And that just made it worse, really, because God, the noises. He hadn't watched a lot of porn -- compared to Pete and Joe, really, who had? -- but he'd seen enough to know what he liked, from all the varieties, and the universal constant, for him, was the sound. Not the quality or the volume, but the actual sound. Skin against skin, either that sort-of silky sound of a hand against an arm (or a thigh, or a chest, or sliding down to cup someone's ass) or the slapping noise that kicked in when someone *really* started working it. The van was a nightmare, some nights; even without his glasses on, Patrick could still hear, and that noise always sounded ten times louder in the dark.
And the moans, Jesus *God*. Not even moans, really, because not everyone did that, but there was always *something*. Joe was making little "uh" sounds every couple of seconds, counter-rhythm to the sound of his hand on his dick. Andy was practically silent except for the deep breaths in through his nose, but Patrick could hear his nails scratching against his skin, like he was slowly drawing them down his thigh or something. Pete--
--Pete was the worst, a mix of little shaky breaths out with soft moans and occasionally a growl from the back of his throat. Patrick knew the exact moment he came, because the sound of skin against skin stopped and Pete said "oh, God" in a surprisingly breathy voice, going high and sort of desperate on the last word.
Something about that made Patrick's stomach twist. This was how they sounded, this was them, and even if he wasn't looking he'd been here, he'd heard it; and Andy sucked in a deep breath while Joe said "holy shit" directly next to him, so close his breath was warm on Patrick's skin, and Patrick came like someone had pushed a button.
He sat there for maybe a minute, letting his breath sink back to normal, and opened his eyes.
Andy already had his boxers back on, and was wiping off his chest with one of the tissues they kept near the front. Joe was hunting around for his own boxers, with his shirt back on and apparently already clean.
"Jesus," someone said, and there was Pete, wearing just his jeans -- still unbuttoned, no less, which didn't really surprise Patrick at all -- and reaching out to wipe Patrick's chest off. And his thighs, which was new and slightly embarrassing. "You'd think you'd never jerked off in a group before, man. There's rules to follow, after."
"There are?" And wow, his voice was still about half an octave lower than normal.
"Number One: the sooner you clean up, the sooner you can start repressing and denying." Pete's voice was light, but his eyes were focused on Patrick's. "Leave yourself out like this, you're gonna make me think you want a second round."
"Not in the van," Andy said. He'd already climbed back into the front seat. "Dude, it already smells like we had an orgy back here. That's why people invented hotels."
"That's why people invented basements," Joe added, climbing back into his own seat. "Big, soundproof basements. With overstuffed sofas and parents who know better than to come downstairs for any reason short of something being on fire."
That sounded a lot like Pete's house, actually. Patrick blushed again and fumbled for his clothes, then scooted back over to where he'd been sleeping. Apparently no one was saying goodnight, just going back to sleep; that was fine with him. He was still processing what had just happened. He wasn't in any mood for conversation.
What the hell were they supposed to say tomorrow? Or *do*? He'd never -- they'd never covered this, in any other band he'd been in, or in any article in Spin or Rolling Stone or AP. Patrick was pretty sure he'd remember something subtitled "What to Do The Morning After You Jerk Off In Front of Your Bandmates". Andy and Pete were probably going to be just fine, from what they'd said, but what about him? Or Joe, who was nine-tenths straight on a bad day? Or--
And then Pete curled next to him, slinging one foot between Patrick's as if he'd done it a hundred times -- when, really, it was maybe twenty -- and made him scoot over enough for Pete to plaster himself against him. Patrick stopped thinking.
"Seriously," Pete said, "I can't say hi to your mom tomorrow, man. She'll know. Patty has, like, frighteningly good mom radar."
He thought about telling Pete not to call her that, but he'd given the speech enough times; one more, especially right now, wasn't going to do it. Besides, his mom thought it was irritating yet charming, which was pretty much how she saw Pete in general. And it wasn't like he was wrong. "I really need to move out," he muttered.
"Yeah," Pete said, "you really do." Patrick could practically hear him grin in the darkness. "You know, Joe and I have a free bedroom, if you wanted."
Spare bedroom. Maybe not the biggest beds, but they could all shove over, and he was pretty sure none of them would mind sharing shee-- "Um," he said, and blushed again. "Can I think about it?"
"Don't make me hit you for saying stupid shit," Pete warned, and flung an arm over his chest. It felt weird, because Patrick's skin still felt like it was on too tight, but that could have just been because the van still smelled like sex. He hoped it'd dissipate before morning, or they'd have to come up with a really great story before Dirty pried the doors open. "Yes, you can think about it. Asshole," he added, but fondly.
"This was nice," he whispered, and instantly felt like a tool. "Or. um. Not nice, but--"
"Nice is good," Pete said. He sounded about as awake as Patrick felt, which wasn't very. "Don't knock nice, okay? Nice doesn't cheat on you with two dudes in one weekend and call you and tell you about it."
Because he couldn't not, Patrick pointed out, "Nice doesn't usually get laid, though."
"Shows what you know," Pete said, and kissed his neck.
Set TTTYG-era. Four boys + one van = FUN FOR EVERYONE.
after midnight
by Gale
SUMMARY: Leaving stuff out of Behind the Music: it's the new black.
The problem was, the van was not particularly large.
Okay, no, that was one of the problems. Patrick had compiled a list over the last couple of years, which went something like: tiny van + lots of people + no money for hotel = privacy = HAHAHA.
The actual list had more words, but that was it in a nutshell. There were four of them, plus Dan and Dirty and whoever else was along this weekend -- week, month, whatever -- in a van that was not actually meant to carry something like 15 people. Even with the trailer, it was -- oh, God, screw it. It sucked. They didn't have money for a hotel, so they had no place to shower, and really, sink baths at the venue didn't count (and honestly, some of the places they played weren't even safe for sink baths. Patrick always left that part out when his mom asked how touring was going; she already had one eyebrow skeptically cocked over the whole "I'm gonna sing in a band" thing, and the last thing he needed was a twenty-minute lecture on cleanliness and germs and "my God, honey, you don't even know what goes on there", when really, he actually did).
But it was the last night of the tour, and Pete had declared band privilege and kicked everyone but the four of them out, which meant...okay, which didn't mean a lot, because Andy and Pete were, like, half leg, but it was still kind of nice.
Patrick rolled onto his back as quietly as he could and stared up at the ceiling of the van.
Except.
--except he was nineteen, goddammit, and this was the first opportunity he'd had to jerk off in *weeks*.
No, wait, not really true; he could have just done what Pete did and do it whenever, except...except he really, really couldn't. He wasn't a prude and he wasn't a virgin, but nineteen years of living with his mom had pretty much carved "only when you're alone, and there's white noise so people outside can't hear you" into his brain. Like, right up front. In very large letters.
He wasn't alone; he was in the back of the van, body curled into a neat, tight line to make up for Pete's expansive sprawl, while Joe and Andy curled themselves into seat-shaped piles up in the front. Pete had even barricaded the back doors, on the off chance anyone wanted to try and sneak in, though Patrick thought that was unlikely; he'd been two feet away when Dirty had said they were all going out for a while, and they'd be back later. He'd figured that'd be Pete's cue -- and Andy's, depending on what mood he was in -- to go with them, but Pete had begged off, pleading that he wanted to get one fucking night of sleep in before they headed back to Chicago the day after tomorrow.
So, not alone, but the best he was going to get until he was home, and really, that was a whole host of different problems right there.
Of course, the biggest problem was about six inches from his head, breathing deep and even, one arm flung out on top of the scratchy comforter they were using as a blanket. Patrick shifted again and tried to ignore the hard-on pressed against his boxers.
And really, that was the hell of it: he was stuck here with his three best friends, all of whom were ridiculously hot and who he'd had crushes on at one point or another. Pete and Morgan were off-again -- last time he'd checked, anyway, but that had been a week ago so maybe not, by now -- Andy got narrow-eyed whenever someone mentioned the word "girlfriend" around him, and Joe was...fuck it, Joe was the straightest person Patrick had ever met in his entire life.
But. God knew Pete had hooked up with enough guys; so did Andy, occasionally, though if you asked him for details he got narrow-eyed over *that*, too. And Joe, while the straightest person Patrick had ever met in his entire life, had gotten drunk exactly once and confessed that he used to jerk off listening to Arma Angelus. It wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibility, a little voice in his brain whispered. Maybe--
--okay, no, screw maybe. It had been six weeks of locking himself in tiny venue bathrooms and trying to break land speed records. Andy and Joe could sleep through bombs going off, and so could Pete, if he'd actually decided to sleep. He could take five goddamn minutes for himself and get off, then actually go to sleep.
Patrick turned onto his side for good measure, away from Pete, then unsnapped the button on his jeans and undid the zipper. Slid a hand inside and skimmed it down his stomach, then curled it around his dick to stroke it idly while he started paging through his mental rolodex. He closed his eyes.
Speed! Speed was key, not quality of fantasy, so the long, drawn-out one where he was a student at an English boarding school submitting to punishment from headmaster David Bowie was right out. Goddammit. And the one where he was watching his ex-girlfriend Lauren and Joe's ex-girlfriend Sara was right out -- and again, dammit, because completely inappropriate lesbians usually worked. Pulled over by sexy motorcycle cop, no; visit to Doctor Hugh Jackman's office for a physical, same.
Patrick sighed, more a breath than an actual noise. If this didn't work soon, he might actually have to stop. Stupid brain, he told it, picking now to have some kind of goddamn fight with the libido. He took a breath and went to try again, opening his eyes for a second to orient himself--
--and found Pete staring at him.
He didn't yelp, but it was close. He did, however, punch him in the throat.
Pete fell back, flailing a little, and automatically brought his foot up and nailed Patrick in the thigh. "Ow!" he whispered, coughing a little. "What the hell, Trick?"
"Don't scare me," Patrick whispered back, rolling to sit up and yanking his hand out of his jeans in what he hoped was one smooth motion, "and I won't have to *do* that. Fuck, I thought Dirty had gotten back in somehow." He rubbed at his thigh.
"It's propped closed with a board," Pete said, still whispering. He coughed a couple more times, kept glaring at Patrick. "What are you doing up, anyway?"
"What am I -- what are *you* doing up?"
"It's called insomnia," Pete said. "Remember? Three, four hours of sleep a day, spread out over 24 hours, and I'm good to go?" He waved a hand in Patrick's face; Patrick could see it through the overhead lights from the Wal-Mart parking lot, coming in through the windows. "Patrick? How many fingers?"
"Fuck off," Patrick muttered, keeping his voice low. "I was just--"
"Dude, I know what you were just," Pete said, eyes flicking down below Patrick's waist. Patrick glanced down, zipped his jeans closed and re-buttoned them. "Which, whatever, just tell me you're jerking off and I'll turn back around, okay? No need to punch anyone in the throat, jeez."
"Good to know," Patrick said, and curled onto his side, facing away from Pete. "Good night."
There was silence. For all of thirty seconds, which, considering that Pete was involved, was a very tiny miracle.
"...So, what, you're just going to not do it now?" Oh, God, he honestly sounded confused.
"Uh." Patrick rolled his eyes. It seemed safe enough; he was facing away, after all. "Yeah?"
"Why?" Pete asked -- and yes, that was honest-to-God confusion he was hearing.
Patrick rolled over to face him. "Because," he said, "you're awake, and you'd know what I was doing."
"So?" Pete was sitting up now, his back propped against the wall of the van, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle. "It's not like you guys haven't heard me do it a couple hundred times by now."
"That's--" Patrick fumbled a little. "It's different," he said after a couple of seconds. "It's not a big deal, I can wait 'til I get home. It's fine."
Pete looked at him. "Home," he said flatly. "Where your mom lives. Yeah, no, that's stupid." He waved a hand. "Just get it over with."
Patrick looked at him for a long time, mentally willing Pete to shut up about it and let them both get some sleep.
"Seriously," Pete said, "are you still hard? Because I'll just listen to a CD or something and you can pretend I'm not even here. Or that I'm asleep. Whatever works for you."
Oh my God, he did not want to have this conversation ever. "Pete," he said, careful to keep his voice quiet. "It's. not. a big. deal. Okay?"
There was another silence, this one not quite as long as the first one.
Finally, Pete said, "Would it help if I did it, too?"
Patrick looked at him, gaped for a second, then burst out laughing. It was quiet, and way too close to hysterical giggles for his taste, but it was still laughter. And it was going to wake Andy and Joe up any second, and oh God they'd want to know what was so funny, and Pete would tell them, and--
Pete was across the back of the van and clamping a hand over his mouth in something less than a second. The part of Patrick's brain that wasn't stuck in a loop of "oh my God, this is my life" was more than a little impressed. He was like a cheetah. A not-terribly-tall, tattooed, eyeliner-and-Vans wearing cheetah.
"Okay," Pete whispered, carefully, "I thought we'd established that if one of us is eventually going to have a nervous breakdown, it's going to be me. Don't go stealing my trope, Trick."
They waited for the giggles to die down before Pete let him go. Patrick coughed a couple times, then said, "You're not serious."
"Well, we didn't have a meeting or anything, but you're way more stable than I am, and God knows Joe and Andy are, so if it's going to be one of us--"
"Not *that*," he said. "The other thing."
"The other--" Pete blinked. "Um. Yeah?"
"No! You can't just." Patrick stopped and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Pete," he said. "You can't just *do* that, okay? You can't just offer to jerk off so someone *else* will be comfortable doing it, okay? That's not -- that's not what people do, you know? That's how bad porn starts."
"No," Pete said, "bad porn starts with a badly dubbed soundtrack composed entirely on a Casio keyboard from 1991 and, depending on the year it was made, someone with a handlebar moustache offering to fix your radiator." He shrugged and uncrossed his legs, spreading them a little and bending one leg at the knee, hand sliding down to his belt. "And even bad porn gets the job done, in a pinch."
"Pete--" Patrick said, and oh my God, Pete was unbuttoning his jeans. And unzipping them. And -- Patrick glanced away, feeling himself flush.
Of course he wasn't wearing underwear. Of course not. This was Pete, for God's sake.
He tried again. "Pete--"
"You can wait 'til you get home, if you want." Pete's voice sounded different, somehow, when he spoke this quietly: lower, almost sinuous. "Lock yourself in your room, wash your hands after, run the risk of your mom coming in anyhow, because it's not like she won't knock on the door with shitty mom timing just as you're getting to the good part -- and she's your *mom*, Trick, she'll know what you're doing alone in the room with your door locked." He shrugged. "Or you can just do it here." He lowered his voice a little. "You don't have to look at me, if you don't want."
Patrick didn't look over yet. Yet. "And if I wanted to?" he murmured, feeling himself flush harder.
He didn't need to look at Pete to see him grin; he could *hear* it. "Then," Pete said quietly, "I'd feel a hell of a lot less weird when I watched you while I did it." He paused, then added, "And I am going to do it. I can't not, man. You got me too worked up." He grinned again. "Cocktease."
"I am n--" Patrick let out a breath and clenched his fingers against his thigh, then looked over.
Pete was still sitting with his back to the wall, but now his jeans were pooled around his ankles, one hand wrapped firmly around his dick, eyes lidded and firmly fixed on Patrick's. "What," he said, "you thought I was kidding?"
Patrick stared at him for maybe a minute, watching Pete stroke himself slowly, eyes still lidded, like he was savoring it. Or waiting.
"Goddammit," he muttered, and slipped his fingers under the waistband of his jeans. This was stupid, this was crazy, but something about it was ricocheting around in his chest, mentally cheering when he got his jeans down to his ankles and started in on his boxers.
He got those down, too, and spread his legs as wide as he could, looked up at Pete -- Pete, who was still looking at him; except now the grin was gone, replaced with a faint, knowing smile.
"I knew it," he said softly. Patrick wasn't even surprised when Pete scooted forward, close enough that their legs touched, now. If he reached out with his free hand and tried, he could reach out and stroke Pete's thigh. "Knew you'd like this. I knew it."
"God," Patrick muttered, "don't talk." He could do this, he could even maybe look at Pete and not lose it in less than a minute, but not if Pete started talking. Pete's voice was his fucking kryptonite.
Pete laughed. "What are you gonna do, stop me?" His voice was a low murmur, but it reached in and yanked at something loose in Patrick's chest, making him lean forward a little to hear him better. "You could, you know. You could throw yourself against me and make me stop, but that'd just get me worked up even faster."
"You don't look like you need the help," Patrick said, his teeth gritted. Pete was still hard, his hand still stroking, but he didn't look anywhere near as panting and ready as Patrick *felt*. It was so goddamn unfair.
"Not with that, no." And then -- oh, God, and then Pete reached out with his free hand and stroked 's thigh, fucking stroked it, firm touch and damp fingers, and shuddered and spread his legs a little wider. "But other things, fuck, yeah."
"Other--" Patrick shook his head. "I don't know what you -- what do you mean?" He hardly sounded like himself, but he didn't really care; Pete was still stroking him, touching his thigh like he'd done it a hundred times before. When he slid his hand further down and softly rubbed the inside of his thigh, Patrick moaned.
Pete froze, looking at him for a long second. Then he pulled his hand back.
Patrick's eyes widened. "I'm sorry," he said quickly, "I didn't mean to -- we'll just pretend I didn't do that, okay?" All Pete had done was touch his thigh, but that abscence now was like a physical pain.
"No, God, are you kidding?" Pete babbled, and stripped his t-shirt off. He kicked his jeans free of his legs, bringing his sneakers with them, and started in on Patrick's. Patrick was so startled he let him. "That was -- fuck, I want to hear that again."
"So--" Patrick stopped. "Wait, what are you--"
"I mean," Pete said, and kissed him. On the mouth. Hard.
Patrick didn't realize he was mostly naked 'til Pete stopped kissing him long enough to start yanking at his t-shirt. "Wait," he said. His brain was fuzzy, mostly from the kissing but almost as much from the fact that for most of the kiss Pete's dick had been warm weight against his thigh, but he had enough presence of mind to know that the last thing he wanted was for Pete to get him totally naked. "That's not -- really, I'm good."
"I'm not," Pete muttered, batting at his hands. "Are you guys good?"
From the front seat, Joe said, "More skin's never a bad--" at the same time Andy said, "No, I'm good."
Patrick froze and turned to the right. He squeezed his eyes closed, then opened them slowly.
Andy and Joe were staring at the two of them from around the corners of the seats, eyes wide in the darkness. Joe was all pupil, but Andy looked slightly more awake. Slightly.
"Fuck," Patrick whispered, and barely realized when Pete got his shirt up and off, tossing it aside.
Oh, God, he'd had nightmares like this. It was the updated version of going to school naked, which, weirdly enough, he'd never actually had. But he was pretty sure it would've been a lot like this, only less personal and with more laughing.
"Seriously," Pete said, "you didn't hear them moving around?" He grinned, a burst of sharp white in the darkness. "That's a compliment, man. Thank you."
Patrick looked at him for a second, then back at Andy and Joe, then started for his shirt.
"Hey," Pete said, touching his arm, "hey, Patrick, no, you don't have to--"
Patrick just stared at him.
And then heard Andy say, as if from a great distance, "No, really. It's okay."
Patrick whipped his head to look at him, eyes going wide, but Andy was just looking at him, expression as unreadable as ever. But his eyes were warm, and he didn't look like he was going to start yelling anytime soon. Or laughing, which would've been worse.
"It's okay," Andy said again, carefully, like he was trying to gentle a startled animal. "It's not -- it's not like we haven't done this before, you know?"
Patrick felt his eyes go wide. This was. Not at all going the way he'd expected, ten minutes ago.
"Just the one time," Pete said. "Okay, maybe twi-- No, wait, Cleveland. So three times." He looked at Andy. "Three, right?" Andy nodded. "So, okay, three times. Three times isn't a lot."
"Isn't a lot?" Patrick gaped for a second, then started fumbling for his shirt again. Pants would probably be better, but he had the sneaking suspicion Pete had taken the opportunity when he'd been staring at Andy to take them and hide them. The shirt, at least, would let him feel somewhat protected. "So, what, you and Andy had *sex*--"
"No," Andy scoffed, as if Patrick was the crazy one in this van. "God, no. That's way too weird. We just got each other off."
"Three times," Pete said helpfully.
"Three ti--" Patrick looked from Pete to Andy and back again. "And you're staring at me like I'm the crazy one. That's just--" He stopped fumbling and closed his eyes, pressed his fingertips to the closed lids. "Never mind," he said, not opening his eyes. "Just. Someone give me my pants, I'm crashing outside."
There was a small pause. No one moved.
"Seriously," Patrick said, "any time now on the pants would be great."
Another little pause.
When Pete spoke, he actually sounded hesitant. "Trick, I don't -- are you afraid this'll make you gay or something? Because it doesn't have to mean--"
"Oh my God," Patrick said despairingly, taking his hand away and opening his eyes. "Okay, you know what? This wasn't supposed to be the kind of night where we sit around like it's a junior high sleepover, but fine: I'm bi." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I mean, theoretically," he added. "In that I find guys hot sometimes and think about them at inappropriate moments, but have never actually -- okay, wait, no, this isn't about me."
"Okay," Pete said, "do you see anyone *else* in this van freaking out? Because I'm pretty sure it's just you."
It was a measure of how weird Patrick's life was these days that having a naked argument with his best friend was not the strangest part of the night. He took a deep breath and started fumbling for his shirt again. His fingers closed on something that was either his or Pete's, and oh my God right now he so didn't care, when--
"Don't," Joe said hoarsely.
Patrick stopped fumbling and looked at him.
It was very easy to forget that he was actually about five months older than Joe. Joe was just so...laid-back about everything, in a way Patrick didn't, for whatever reason, associate with someone his own age. Probably because he'd spent his entire life in his own head, which was familiar but a little stuffy and stubborn and always vaguely tense, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. He wasn't Eeyore, but he wasn't Tigger, either. More like -- okay, Piglet was the obvious choice, but just. No.
But this was what kids were supposed to do, wasn't it? Practice kissing and making out with their friends? He'd been in locker rooms before, he'd heard guys in junior high bust out "we just jerked each other off, man, it doesn't mean we're gay" as soon as the teacher was out of earshot, but he'd skipped that whole section himself. Too much time spent in his room, working on music; too little time working on other people.
And here he was now, with people who understood him and loved him even when he was being sort of a bitch, who maybe thought he was kind of weird for being on GarageBand 17 hours a day but didn't give him too much shit for it.
Patrick thought, that's what love is.
And just like that, he leaned over and tugged Joe's shoulder 'til he moved closer, then kissed him.
It was a nice kiss, really, for all that Patrick had never kissed a guy before -- Pete kissing him on stage didn't count, because A) on stage and B) he was the kissee, not the kisser -- and he was pretty sure Joe hadn't, either. Which was fine, because this was mostly a test run anyway, and he'd rather do it with Joe, who was just as inexperienced as he was.
Joe pulled back after a while and looked at Patrick, eyes wide even in the darkness. The bleach was still growing out, which was just fine with Patrick, who'd woken up to it one morning over breakfast and felt vaguely horrified pretty much every time he looked at it. He looked a lot like the way Patrick felt, actually.
"Don't," Joe said again, less hoarsely this time, more natural and quiet. "It'd be weird without you here, you know?"
Patrick looked at him for a long minute, then reached up and tugged on the collar of his shirt. "This better not be weird," he warned, leaning back, but Joe just grinned and started climbing over the backseat, Andy right behind him.
"See," Pete said, leaning over and taking the shirt out of Patrick's hand, "that's your problem: you keep thinking. You overthink the shit out of everything, Trick. We're gonna break you of that if it fucking kills me." He balled the shirt up and tossed it towards the front seat, grinning when it bounced off the sun cover they'd put up a couple hours earlier.
"Yeah, well, you keep *not* thinking before you do anything," he shot back. He drew one knee up against his chest, mirroring Pete, and watched Andy strip his t-shirt off before turning to help Joe with his belt. His erection was coming back in a hurry; he could tell as much from the hot feeling on the back of his neck as from the way Pete's gaze kept flicking down to his lap.
And wow, that was...really not an expression a lot of people got to see. Patrick hoped.
"Exactly," Pete said, shoving his own clothes over closer to the door. Andy climbed across him with a grateful noise, stripped to the waist, and stopped for a second to do something to Pete's thigh. Patrick couldn't see too clearly, but whatever it was made Pete suck in a breath and snap his teeth at him. From Pete, that was a sign of affection. "That's how we fit. Puzzle pieces." He nudged Patrick's foot with his own. "Lock and key," he added, grinning.
It took Patrick a second to get it, but when he did he flushed. "That's not what I--"
"Dude, don't scare him off by being a dick," Andy said, tossing his own jeans at Joe's head. Joe batted them away and tossed his sneaker back, neatly bouncing off the side of the van. "Or worse, by being you."
"Fuck off," Pete said cheerfully, and locked his eyes on Joe, who was scrambling out of his boxers. The look he gave him was heated, more than enough to make Patrick duck his head and flush even brighter red.
"I'm just saying we probably shouldn't do anything crazy," Andy said. He had his boxers down and off in a flash, and Patrick's mouth went dry. "Just, like, what you guys were going to do."
"Jerk off," Joe said helpfully. He sat down and drew his legs up, foot companionably bumping Patrick's. "Watch each other jerk off. But no touching, right?"
"No touching," Andy agreed, and holy God, Patrick could actually feel Andy look at him. "Not right now, anyway."
Not right -- and that's where Patrick's brain stopped, as if he'd run into a wall, because thinking about anything beyond that made his breath catch and his ache, which it didn't really need help with right now, thanks.
He closed his eyes and wrapped a hand around his cock instead.
And that just made it worse, really, because God, the noises. He hadn't watched a lot of porn -- compared to Pete and Joe, really, who had? -- but he'd seen enough to know what he liked, from all the varieties, and the universal constant, for him, was the sound. Not the quality or the volume, but the actual sound. Skin against skin, either that sort-of silky sound of a hand against an arm (or a thigh, or a chest, or sliding down to cup someone's ass) or the slapping noise that kicked in when someone *really* started working it. The van was a nightmare, some nights; even without his glasses on, Patrick could still hear, and that noise always sounded ten times louder in the dark.
And the moans, Jesus *God*. Not even moans, really, because not everyone did that, but there was always *something*. Joe was making little "uh" sounds every couple of seconds, counter-rhythm to the sound of his hand on his dick. Andy was practically silent except for the deep breaths in through his nose, but Patrick could hear his nails scratching against his skin, like he was slowly drawing them down his thigh or something. Pete--
--Pete was the worst, a mix of little shaky breaths out with soft moans and occasionally a growl from the back of his throat. Patrick knew the exact moment he came, because the sound of skin against skin stopped and Pete said "oh, God" in a surprisingly breathy voice, going high and sort of desperate on the last word.
Something about that made Patrick's stomach twist. This was how they sounded, this was them, and even if he wasn't looking he'd been here, he'd heard it; and Andy sucked in a deep breath while Joe said "holy shit" directly next to him, so close his breath was warm on Patrick's skin, and Patrick came like someone had pushed a button.
He sat there for maybe a minute, letting his breath sink back to normal, and opened his eyes.
Andy already had his boxers back on, and was wiping off his chest with one of the tissues they kept near the front. Joe was hunting around for his own boxers, with his shirt back on and apparently already clean.
"Jesus," someone said, and there was Pete, wearing just his jeans -- still unbuttoned, no less, which didn't really surprise Patrick at all -- and reaching out to wipe Patrick's chest off. And his thighs, which was new and slightly embarrassing. "You'd think you'd never jerked off in a group before, man. There's rules to follow, after."
"There are?" And wow, his voice was still about half an octave lower than normal.
"Number One: the sooner you clean up, the sooner you can start repressing and denying." Pete's voice was light, but his eyes were focused on Patrick's. "Leave yourself out like this, you're gonna make me think you want a second round."
"Not in the van," Andy said. He'd already climbed back into the front seat. "Dude, it already smells like we had an orgy back here. That's why people invented hotels."
"That's why people invented basements," Joe added, climbing back into his own seat. "Big, soundproof basements. With overstuffed sofas and parents who know better than to come downstairs for any reason short of something being on fire."
That sounded a lot like Pete's house, actually. Patrick blushed again and fumbled for his clothes, then scooted back over to where he'd been sleeping. Apparently no one was saying goodnight, just going back to sleep; that was fine with him. He was still processing what had just happened. He wasn't in any mood for conversation.
What the hell were they supposed to say tomorrow? Or *do*? He'd never -- they'd never covered this, in any other band he'd been in, or in any article in Spin or Rolling Stone or AP. Patrick was pretty sure he'd remember something subtitled "What to Do The Morning After You Jerk Off In Front of Your Bandmates". Andy and Pete were probably going to be just fine, from what they'd said, but what about him? Or Joe, who was nine-tenths straight on a bad day? Or--
And then Pete curled next to him, slinging one foot between Patrick's as if he'd done it a hundred times -- when, really, it was maybe twenty -- and made him scoot over enough for Pete to plaster himself against him. Patrick stopped thinking.
"Seriously," Pete said, "I can't say hi to your mom tomorrow, man. She'll know. Patty has, like, frighteningly good mom radar."
He thought about telling Pete not to call her that, but he'd given the speech enough times; one more, especially right now, wasn't going to do it. Besides, his mom thought it was irritating yet charming, which was pretty much how she saw Pete in general. And it wasn't like he was wrong. "I really need to move out," he muttered.
"Yeah," Pete said, "you really do." Patrick could practically hear him grin in the darkness. "You know, Joe and I have a free bedroom, if you wanted."
Spare bedroom. Maybe not the biggest beds, but they could all shove over, and he was pretty sure none of them would mind sharing shee-- "Um," he said, and blushed again. "Can I think about it?"
"Don't make me hit you for saying stupid shit," Pete warned, and flung an arm over his chest. It felt weird, because Patrick's skin still felt like it was on too tight, but that could have just been because the van still smelled like sex. He hoped it'd dissipate before morning, or they'd have to come up with a really great story before Dirty pried the doors open. "Yes, you can think about it. Asshole," he added, but fondly.
"This was nice," he whispered, and instantly felt like a tool. "Or. um. Not nice, but--"
"Nice is good," Pete said. He sounded about as awake as Patrick felt, which wasn't very. "Don't knock nice, okay? Nice doesn't cheat on you with two dudes in one weekend and call you and tell you about it."
Because he couldn't not, Patrick pointed out, "Nice doesn't usually get laid, though."
"Shows what you know," Pete said, and kissed his neck.