Bandslash: Joe/Patrick/Pete
exorcise was bemoaning the lack of Joe love, so. Then this happened.
Title: Perfect Triple
Rating: PG-13 for language
Pairing: Joe/Pete/Patrick, (Pete/Patrick)
Summary: Andy asked, “If I join, is it mandatory that I get into this polyamory thing you have going?” -- "No, man. That's just me."
So, Joe met Patrick. Patrick needed to express a musical opinion, and the fact that he didn’t know Joe from Adam wasn’t going to stand in the way.
After that, Joe gave Patrick his number and then totally didn’t sit next to the phone just in case Patrick called.
And, okay, he knew that Patrick was probably straight, but - shit, friend or fuck, Joe wanted in on that. The inside of this guy’s brain was like candyland. Joe could shred, but that couldn’t take him far without a guy like Patrick telling him how to fit that in on a stage. They had an hour-long conversation in a bookstore and Patrick gave Joe some pointers without a guitar within two miles.
Bitch of it was, Patrick did call, and all he really got out was, “Uh, Joe? It’s Patrick. Um, from Borders.”
And then Joe said, “Dude, shit yeah, I’ve been wanting to rock out or something. Dinner at my house, bring your own awesome.”
And then Patrick had had no choice but to fall for Joe’s charms. (Well, okay, he had a choice, and he choose the friendship route, but whatever.)
--
Joe met Pete Wentz by accident. By Pete’s accident, actually, since Joe staked out the bathrooms at almost every show he went to. Sooner or later, even rock stars had to use the bathrooms, right?
Joe saw Pete go in, but he didn’t pursue, because - just, no, too creepy. When Pete came back out, though, Joe sort of fell into step next to him and said, “So, you’re Pete fucking Wentz.”
(Which wasn’t the first thing that Joe had planned to say, but it would have eventually have been said no matter what, because some things can be averted and others can’t.)
Pete looked Joe over - short, bottle-blonde hair, wide blue eyes, taller than Pete but not by much. Pete said, “Am I in Chicago?”
“Yeah, man,” Joe said, over the crashing of the next set on stage.
Pete nodded. “That means consent is seventeen. Come back later, kid.”
Joe said, “Making out doesn’t take consent.”
So, five minutes later, the bass beating in his ears and his throat, Joe jerked Pete Wentz off around back of the venue.
--
He told Patrick about, too, the next day. He said, “You know Arma?”
Patrick snorted and strummed a seventh, which meant it was a stupid question, and also Joe should finish the song.
“And. Uh, Pete Wentz?” Joe said. He shrugged. “Met him last night.”
“Cool. Sorry I couldn’t go.”
“No, babysitting’s a completely respectable source of income, Mr. Manny,” Joe sniggered. When it was obvious that Patrick wasn’t going to keep asking, Joe got back on track. “Anyway. Yeah. Pete Wentz, and me, and…uh, handjobs against Arma’s van?”
Patrick’s notes stopped. “You what?” He openly stared, mouth open. His hat didn’t hide the dark flush.
Joe shrugged again, sort of guiltily. “Jerked him off. Good times.”
Patrick said, “No, it’s not even that. You like guys? I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t know?” Joe laughed, a little hysterically. “Oh my god, you didn’t know. Patrick. Patrick. I gave you my number. You called and I asked you out.”
Patrick was blushing a whole lot more, now. “Shut up, I have shitty gaydar.”
“That sucks - most of the girls on the scene are so les!” Joe poked Patrick’s soft stomach. “Hey, hey! Patrick! If they make out with each other, stop trying for pussy!”
“Fuck off,” Patrick grumbled, but he put up with Joe’s shit for a whole thirty seconds more before tackling him to the ground and sort-of-accidentally smacking Joe’s head on the concrete of the basement floor.
--
Three weeks later, Arma Angelus played within bussing distance of Joe’s house. Patrick couldn’t go, because he was drumming as a substitute in another gig.
Anyway, it was a shitty performance. Most of them were shitfaced, and the bassist and guitarist broke each other’s noses.
Pete jumped off the stage at the end and stormed toward the bar. Joe jogged and elbowed a guy in the balls to keep up. He said, “Wait, wait, aren’t you straightedge?”
“Fuck straightedge, I’m done with this fucking bullshit.” Pete looked at Joe’s face. “And I’m gonna bet that you’re not seventeen this time, either.”
Joe spread his hands, an offer.
Fifteen minutes later, Joe’s jaw was sore and Pete was breathing hard. The street was quiet and it was past eleven. It wasn’t really clear what Arma was going to do with its gear and van, but until then, Joe was fine with making it smell like sex.
Joe said, “If you’re looking for a band, I’ve got a musical genius I want to introduce you to.”
--
Joe hated it do it. So far, he’d managed to play off the bulk of Patrick’s musical genius-ness as, “Oh, he’s just quiet, we’re just best friends jamming together.” Now, he was bringing Pete fucking Wentz over to Patrick’s house with the expressed purpose of revealing Patrick’s awesomeness to the world.
Pete and Patrick disappeared into Patrick’s basement - the PatCave, as Joe called it - and three hours later Joe went down to check on them and found out that a) Patrick could now apparently sing and b) Pete was on board for the band thing.
Also, Patrick liked making out with boys, just not boys named Joe.
--
It was a weirdly Zen way to torture himself, hanging out with Pete and Patrick. Because, okay, Joe had to be there to play for rehearsals, and Patrick was good about not physically touching Pete from start to end of serious band time, but. Beyond that, they were both all into each other, kissing and cuddling.
Which was fine, it was great for them. Joe had never seen a love so pure, and all that bullshit.
Just - it would have been even more fine if Pete didn’t also hang all over Joe sometimes. And if Patrick would stop, like, grinning and having seriously deep discussions about Joe’s technique. And if Pete would stop interrupting with his opinion of Joe’s ‘technique’.
(Because, Jesus fucking Christ the false prophet, anyone with sense would know to shut the fuck up about past fooling around with their current boyfriend’s best friend.)
Anyway. Yeah.
Joe barely even watched them make out anymore.
--
When they got Andy, he smiled quietly and worked through all of their songs with a dogged, steady beat.
Pete and Patrick went off to celebrate with sex. And, just for the record, if Joe never again stumbled over Pete’s stash of condoms and lube and then Patrick’s stash of wipes… that would just be cool. Very very cool.
They left the room, and Andy fucked around on his set some more, until he stopped and asked, “If I join, is it mandatory that I get into this polyamory thing you have going?”
Joe swallowed and smiled, but it was thin and strained. “No, man. That’s just me. And don’t, uh, talk about it? To them, I mean.”
Andy twirled his sticks. He was a skinny motherfucker - parts of him pulled taught under his legitimately badass tattoos. He said, “They’re not as wrapped up in each other as you think.”
--
Pete was the first one to bring it up, even if it didn’t look like it at the time.
They piled off the stage, sticking together and gross. Joe announced, “My sweat is so fucking majestic, you guys.”
Andy pulled himself free first. “Shit, I’m going to mop up. Someone point me to a sink.” Patrick staggered after him, fingers jittery and walking in time to the last song they played.
Pete stretched out on top of Joe, the luxurious stretch of the man who knows that he won’t be sleeping with this much room. He relaxed and sank into Joe’s cracks and crevices.
Joe set his hands on Pete’s hips to push him up and off, but instead his fingers slid along Pete’s curves and touched the small of his back.
Pete’s breathing went heavier, and he buried his face in Joe’s neck. “Hey, Joe,” he said, and his hips moved.
Joe gasped and lifted Pete off him. He got up, and choked out, “We should - pack up. Right now.”
“Yeah, alright.” Pete sighed and rolled to his feet.
--
And then Patrick got in on it, that asshole.
He and Joe were fucking around with chords, because Patrick was trying to write something new and Joe was trying to make it be like the early days in the PatCave.
Patrick let it twang out on a sour note and leaned across both their guitars to kiss Joe.
Joe pushed forward and a pleading whine happened - 50/50 it was from Joe, but no one could prove it - and then he licked Patrick’s lips and reared back off the couch.
Patrick was blushing like when he found out Joe was gay, tipping his chin to use his hat as a shield.
Joe said, “Goddamnit, Patrick,” and took two steps toward him. Then he took a step back. Then he scrubbed his hand across his mouth and scraped at his stubble and spat, “Fucking damn it, Patrick, what about Pete?”
Patrick met Joe’s eyes and said, “You like me.”
Joe yelled, “And you like him!” and stomped off the bus.
--
Andy hung out with Joe while Joe got drunk.
Joe said, “They’re - they’ve always been made for each other, you know? Touchstone of my, fuck, my entire life. I can’t imagine any of this without them together being the perfect fucking couple.”
“Maybe it’s time to be the perfect fucking triple,” Andy said easily.
“Yeah, right,” Joe huffed morosely. He lifted his drink and said, “Cheers.”
--
It was a concerted effort, in the end.
Pete and Patrick sat down on either side of Joe on the couch. Andy looked up and said, “I believe I will take this magazine into the back.” He stood up and left.
And then it occurred to Joe to worry.
But Pete turned Joe’s head to kiss him, immediately deep and dirty, and Patrick said, “Okay, so we both like you.”
Pete let go and said, “Really like you.”
Patrick kissed Joe next, sucking on his tongue and humming. And Pete said, “And you really like us.”
Joe panted, “Really,” because, what the fuck, in for a penny.
So, Pete said, “Joseph ‘the Fro’ Trohman, will you join us in gay threesome domestic bliss from now until forever.”
And Joe giggled, like, hysterically giggled, until Patrick reached across him to whack Pete upside the head.
Patrick scolded, “You broke him, you asshole.”
But Joe just laughed and laughed.
Title: Perfect Triple
Rating: PG-13 for language
Pairing: Joe/Pete/Patrick, (Pete/Patrick)
Summary: Andy asked, “If I join, is it mandatory that I get into this polyamory thing you have going?” -- "No, man. That's just me."
So, Joe met Patrick. Patrick needed to express a musical opinion, and the fact that he didn’t know Joe from Adam wasn’t going to stand in the way.
After that, Joe gave Patrick his number and then totally didn’t sit next to the phone just in case Patrick called.
And, okay, he knew that Patrick was probably straight, but - shit, friend or fuck, Joe wanted in on that. The inside of this guy’s brain was like candyland. Joe could shred, but that couldn’t take him far without a guy like Patrick telling him how to fit that in on a stage. They had an hour-long conversation in a bookstore and Patrick gave Joe some pointers without a guitar within two miles.
Bitch of it was, Patrick did call, and all he really got out was, “Uh, Joe? It’s Patrick. Um, from Borders.”
And then Joe said, “Dude, shit yeah, I’ve been wanting to rock out or something. Dinner at my house, bring your own awesome.”
And then Patrick had had no choice but to fall for Joe’s charms. (Well, okay, he had a choice, and he choose the friendship route, but whatever.)
--
Joe met Pete Wentz by accident. By Pete’s accident, actually, since Joe staked out the bathrooms at almost every show he went to. Sooner or later, even rock stars had to use the bathrooms, right?
Joe saw Pete go in, but he didn’t pursue, because - just, no, too creepy. When Pete came back out, though, Joe sort of fell into step next to him and said, “So, you’re Pete fucking Wentz.”
(Which wasn’t the first thing that Joe had planned to say, but it would have eventually have been said no matter what, because some things can be averted and others can’t.)
Pete looked Joe over - short, bottle-blonde hair, wide blue eyes, taller than Pete but not by much. Pete said, “Am I in Chicago?”
“Yeah, man,” Joe said, over the crashing of the next set on stage.
Pete nodded. “That means consent is seventeen. Come back later, kid.”
Joe said, “Making out doesn’t take consent.”
So, five minutes later, the bass beating in his ears and his throat, Joe jerked Pete Wentz off around back of the venue.
--
He told Patrick about, too, the next day. He said, “You know Arma?”
Patrick snorted and strummed a seventh, which meant it was a stupid question, and also Joe should finish the song.
“And. Uh, Pete Wentz?” Joe said. He shrugged. “Met him last night.”
“Cool. Sorry I couldn’t go.”
“No, babysitting’s a completely respectable source of income, Mr. Manny,” Joe sniggered. When it was obvious that Patrick wasn’t going to keep asking, Joe got back on track. “Anyway. Yeah. Pete Wentz, and me, and…uh, handjobs against Arma’s van?”
Patrick’s notes stopped. “You what?” He openly stared, mouth open. His hat didn’t hide the dark flush.
Joe shrugged again, sort of guiltily. “Jerked him off. Good times.”
Patrick said, “No, it’s not even that. You like guys? I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t know?” Joe laughed, a little hysterically. “Oh my god, you didn’t know. Patrick. Patrick. I gave you my number. You called and I asked you out.”
Patrick was blushing a whole lot more, now. “Shut up, I have shitty gaydar.”
“That sucks - most of the girls on the scene are so les!” Joe poked Patrick’s soft stomach. “Hey, hey! Patrick! If they make out with each other, stop trying for pussy!”
“Fuck off,” Patrick grumbled, but he put up with Joe’s shit for a whole thirty seconds more before tackling him to the ground and sort-of-accidentally smacking Joe’s head on the concrete of the basement floor.
--
Three weeks later, Arma Angelus played within bussing distance of Joe’s house. Patrick couldn’t go, because he was drumming as a substitute in another gig.
Anyway, it was a shitty performance. Most of them were shitfaced, and the bassist and guitarist broke each other’s noses.
Pete jumped off the stage at the end and stormed toward the bar. Joe jogged and elbowed a guy in the balls to keep up. He said, “Wait, wait, aren’t you straightedge?”
“Fuck straightedge, I’m done with this fucking bullshit.” Pete looked at Joe’s face. “And I’m gonna bet that you’re not seventeen this time, either.”
Joe spread his hands, an offer.
Fifteen minutes later, Joe’s jaw was sore and Pete was breathing hard. The street was quiet and it was past eleven. It wasn’t really clear what Arma was going to do with its gear and van, but until then, Joe was fine with making it smell like sex.
Joe said, “If you’re looking for a band, I’ve got a musical genius I want to introduce you to.”
--
Joe hated it do it. So far, he’d managed to play off the bulk of Patrick’s musical genius-ness as, “Oh, he’s just quiet, we’re just best friends jamming together.” Now, he was bringing Pete fucking Wentz over to Patrick’s house with the expressed purpose of revealing Patrick’s awesomeness to the world.
Pete and Patrick disappeared into Patrick’s basement - the PatCave, as Joe called it - and three hours later Joe went down to check on them and found out that a) Patrick could now apparently sing and b) Pete was on board for the band thing.
Also, Patrick liked making out with boys, just not boys named Joe.
--
It was a weirdly Zen way to torture himself, hanging out with Pete and Patrick. Because, okay, Joe had to be there to play for rehearsals, and Patrick was good about not physically touching Pete from start to end of serious band time, but. Beyond that, they were both all into each other, kissing and cuddling.
Which was fine, it was great for them. Joe had never seen a love so pure, and all that bullshit.
Just - it would have been even more fine if Pete didn’t also hang all over Joe sometimes. And if Patrick would stop, like, grinning and having seriously deep discussions about Joe’s technique. And if Pete would stop interrupting with his opinion of Joe’s ‘technique’.
(Because, Jesus fucking Christ the false prophet, anyone with sense would know to shut the fuck up about past fooling around with their current boyfriend’s best friend.)
Anyway. Yeah.
Joe barely even watched them make out anymore.
--
When they got Andy, he smiled quietly and worked through all of their songs with a dogged, steady beat.
Pete and Patrick went off to celebrate with sex. And, just for the record, if Joe never again stumbled over Pete’s stash of condoms and lube and then Patrick’s stash of wipes… that would just be cool. Very very cool.
They left the room, and Andy fucked around on his set some more, until he stopped and asked, “If I join, is it mandatory that I get into this polyamory thing you have going?”
Joe swallowed and smiled, but it was thin and strained. “No, man. That’s just me. And don’t, uh, talk about it? To them, I mean.”
Andy twirled his sticks. He was a skinny motherfucker - parts of him pulled taught under his legitimately badass tattoos. He said, “They’re not as wrapped up in each other as you think.”
--
Pete was the first one to bring it up, even if it didn’t look like it at the time.
They piled off the stage, sticking together and gross. Joe announced, “My sweat is so fucking majestic, you guys.”
Andy pulled himself free first. “Shit, I’m going to mop up. Someone point me to a sink.” Patrick staggered after him, fingers jittery and walking in time to the last song they played.
Pete stretched out on top of Joe, the luxurious stretch of the man who knows that he won’t be sleeping with this much room. He relaxed and sank into Joe’s cracks and crevices.
Joe set his hands on Pete’s hips to push him up and off, but instead his fingers slid along Pete’s curves and touched the small of his back.
Pete’s breathing went heavier, and he buried his face in Joe’s neck. “Hey, Joe,” he said, and his hips moved.
Joe gasped and lifted Pete off him. He got up, and choked out, “We should - pack up. Right now.”
“Yeah, alright.” Pete sighed and rolled to his feet.
--
And then Patrick got in on it, that asshole.
He and Joe were fucking around with chords, because Patrick was trying to write something new and Joe was trying to make it be like the early days in the PatCave.
Patrick let it twang out on a sour note and leaned across both their guitars to kiss Joe.
Joe pushed forward and a pleading whine happened - 50/50 it was from Joe, but no one could prove it - and then he licked Patrick’s lips and reared back off the couch.
Patrick was blushing like when he found out Joe was gay, tipping his chin to use his hat as a shield.
Joe said, “Goddamnit, Patrick,” and took two steps toward him. Then he took a step back. Then he scrubbed his hand across his mouth and scraped at his stubble and spat, “Fucking damn it, Patrick, what about Pete?”
Patrick met Joe’s eyes and said, “You like me.”
Joe yelled, “And you like him!” and stomped off the bus.
--
Andy hung out with Joe while Joe got drunk.
Joe said, “They’re - they’ve always been made for each other, you know? Touchstone of my, fuck, my entire life. I can’t imagine any of this without them together being the perfect fucking couple.”
“Maybe it’s time to be the perfect fucking triple,” Andy said easily.
“Yeah, right,” Joe huffed morosely. He lifted his drink and said, “Cheers.”
--
It was a concerted effort, in the end.
Pete and Patrick sat down on either side of Joe on the couch. Andy looked up and said, “I believe I will take this magazine into the back.” He stood up and left.
And then it occurred to Joe to worry.
But Pete turned Joe’s head to kiss him, immediately deep and dirty, and Patrick said, “Okay, so we both like you.”
Pete let go and said, “Really like you.”
Patrick kissed Joe next, sucking on his tongue and humming. And Pete said, “And you really like us.”
Joe panted, “Really,” because, what the fuck, in for a penny.
So, Pete said, “Joseph ‘the Fro’ Trohman, will you join us in gay threesome domestic bliss from now until forever.”
And Joe giggled, like, hysterically giggled, until Patrick reached across him to whack Pete upside the head.
Patrick scolded, “You broke him, you asshole.”
But Joe just laughed and laughed.