Fic: Like a Stove I'll Turn My Love Down
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: NC-17
Length: 2785 words
Beta: Thanks to megyal
Warnings: somnophilia consent issues (can a sleeping person consent?) and disordered eating.
Disclaimer: These are non-profit, non-commercial works of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. These fictional stories are not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Summary: From anon_lovefest, a prompt of "Patrick starts sleepwalking and eating all the food on the bus every night. Finally Pete locks the two of them into the back room one night, and Patrick acts on a different subconscious desire."
The sound of Andy and Patrick having an epic blowout drifted through the open windows of Pete and Joe's bus over the crunch of gravel as the tour entered the parking lot.
The thing about their band was, three of them had truly awful tempers. Pete and Andy were two of a kind; loyalty bred into them by the scene in a way that meant that the slightest threat to anyone they loved was met with instant, unthinking violence. Patrick had a much slower burning fuse. Once it was ignited, though, buildings were going to explode, and innocent bystanders had better take cover.
Pete spared a fond glance in Joe's direction. Joe, the one person in the band who could be calmed down easily, who could be counted on not to throw shit or piss on you. Joe, who was passed out on the couch with an open container of Cheez-Its trailing their disgusting orange dust across his chest, and so was probably not going to be the one to defuse the other bus's ragefest.
Pete changed into a hoodie he wasn't overly fond of and headed to the other bus. The good news was that nothing had been thrown yet. The bad news was that Andy was screaming and gesturing with a jar of peanut butter, and that fucker was going to hurt when he did throw it. Pete pulled it out of his hand and darted back towards the doorway. Andy didn't follow, though, just pointed at Patrick and commanded Pete to "Take that fucker with you!"
Patrick handled that in typical Patrick fashion, a "Fuck you, motherfucker!" as he marched off the bus with Pete. He wasn't really at the exploding point though, and he managed to explain what he could after a relatively small number of parking lot laps.
It was the peanut butter, of course. Andy got the natural stuff, the nasty-ass stuff with no sugar that you had to stir forever to get the oil mixed in. Andy had accused Patrick of drinking the oil off the top, so now the whole jar was too thick to spread, leaving Andy with no breakfast. Andy wasn't much fun with no breakfast.
Pete bit back a chuckle. "Patrick, dude, I know the diet is rough, but even Andy can't think you're that hard up, can he?"
Pete knew Patrick been stressing out over this latest diet, the newest trendy thing: a week of low-carb followed by a week of low-fat, supposedly guaranteed to keep cravings in check. Since for Pete, every week had less carbs and fat than the 'low' of either week, he didn't get the point. But then, diets weren't really designed for people like Pete, whose goal with every bite was to prove just how precisely he could control his body and its needs. Patrick felt like his eating was a little out of control lately, and he'd really pinned his hopes on this diet to help.
Pete hadn't noticed Patrick losing any weight, but of course he wasn't stupid enough to mention that. He'd gone down that road before, and his brand of crazy eating and Patrick's sensitivity weren't compatible at all.
Patrick stared down at his shoes. "That's actually what pissed me off so bad. I think he might be right. You know how I do weird shit in my sleep?"
Pete knew, had known since the first tour. When Patrick's mom had told him to watch out for sleepwalking, Pete had assumed cartoonish, zombie-arms-out-in-front sleepwalking. Instead, the band got used to the occasional late night where Patrick randomly interjected into conversations, picked up a set of sticks and practiced fills for an hour or so, or, once, took a shower complete with washing his hair and scrubbing under his nails, all with his eyes open but completely unfocused.
But he had gotten better with time, and he'd never eaten in his sleep before.
"Last week? It was a low-carb week. And on the last day, I was so glad to think I'd be able to put honey in my tea again, I figured I dreamed about it. But in the morning the honey container was empty. And last night, I dreamed about pouring salad dressing on my salad that actually tasted like dressing, not that stupid fat-free stuff, you know? And Andy swears I was fucking slurping the oil from his peanut butter. I feel so stupid! I lost like 3 pounds last week, and then gained them right back the last day, and today I'm up even higher than I was last week! Pete, I'm so fucking tired of trying to squeeze into my stage clothes and hoping fucking Perez's next post isn't comparing me to sausage or something." Patrick kicked at gravel, making a low frustrated noise.
Pete thought it over. "We could tie you to the bunk?" he suggested.
Patrick snarled, "Are you cleaning it up when I piss on myself? I've never learned how to wake up to pee, you know. There is an advantage to sleepwalking."
Shit, Patrick did still sleepwalk to the bathroom a few times a night. On the van they'd made him not have anything to drink after shows, but it was terrible on his voice and even then there had been some close calls and a few unplanned roadside stops.
"Why don't you stay in my room tonight, then? I'll skip my sleeping pills, if I see you head anywhere but the bathroom I can pull you back to bed." Patrick looked pissed off at the thought, and Pete figured that ended that.
That night, though, Patrick showed up, pillow in hand. Pete got him set up in bed, then went back out to the lounge to watch the rest of his movie and check his email. A few hours later, he heard Patrick in the bathroom. Pete poked his head in.
"Three is the cube root of 27," Patrick said. Yup, sleepwalking. Patrick headed for the kitchen. Pete blocked his path, then walked toward him, forcing Patrick to back up in the narrow hallway. "64," he mumbled. Pete pushed him onto the bed, using his entire body as a ram. Patrick collapsed onto the bed awkwardly, one arm flailing out and catching around Pete's waist. Pete fell half on top of him, Patrick's mumbling now tickling wetly against Pete's neck. Patrick's eyes closed, and he turned his head more firmly into Pete's hair, taking in deep breaths that had to be getting Pete's hair product up his nostrils.
Patrick's mom really should have warned them about his weird smell thing too, Pete thought. Patrick seemed to calm right down into deep sleep if he sniffed someone, and swore in the morning he could recognize them all by smell, and would dream about whoever he'd been sniffing. Patrick's wuffling noises were very soothing. Pete closed his eyes for a minute.
He woke up to a melted Hershey's kiss ground into his hair, the stupid little wrappers a trail from the kitchen to Patrick's sleeping form.
Pete cleaned up the mess guiltily, hoping Patrick wouldn't realize what had happened. Hershey's kisses were his least favorite candy, the one thing Joe could keep in the bus and not worry about Pete binging out on, so Joe always had a bag stashed. Patrick knew exactly where they were kept, a remnant of the years the band had only one bus, and had subconsciously headed straight for them. And Pete had been so lulled by the cuddling that he hadn't even stirred.
His hopes that Patrick wouldn't notice were dashed when Patrick spat out a little paper ribbon into his tea mug in the morning from where it had been caught in his teeth.
Joe laughed and said, "Your problem is you both try to control everything, and you can't. You've got to get what you want sometimes, or it's going to blow up on you."
Patrick's hand squeezed his mug hard enough that his knuckles turned white. Pete was pretty sure Joe meant "blow up' more like the explosion Patrick was about to let loose and not the fat joke Patrick was no doubt hearing, but Pete couldn't think of a way to make that clear.
"Handcuffs!" he blurted.
Joe and Patrick stopped staring at each other to look at him. "Um, tonight, you can handcuff yourself to me. You need to pee, I'll get up with you, but you won't get into the kitchen without me waking up."
Joe wandered out, muttering, "Or you could have a cookie before bed once in a while, so you aren't always dying for something sweet." Pete thought that too much pot had really warped Joe's eating habits.
Having Patrick in his bed seemed to be better than anything Pete's doctor prescribed for his insomnia. He woke up in the middle of the night having actually fallen asleep for the second night in a row, and took a minute to get the coordination not to fall down as Patrick shuffled to the toilet. Patrick didn't seem phased by the extra hand to be washed attached to his usual two , but did pull back when Pete steered them away from the kitchen, back to the bedroom. Pete finally bear-hugged him, then pushed him backwards down the hall to the bed. The position locked Patrick's face against Pete's neck, and like he'd hoped, the smell thing calmed Patrick right down.
Once in the bedroom, though, Patrick started whining and figiting. Pete didn't think he'd make it back to sleep in any case, and the tossing and turning was getting annoying, so he decided to take off the cuffs. When he switched on the bedside lamp, though, he realized Patrick's problem. Patrick was hard, and Pete's hand was attached to his jerking-off hand, and his subconscious couldn't work around that.
Fuck, Patrick hard, the line of his dick poking through the flap of his boxers, his hips rocking up and his lip wet and pink from being bitten. Pete thought he was really just being a good friend, to help him out, since waking him up would just be awkward and embarrassing for both of them. He eased the waistband of Patrick's boxers down under his balls, and took a moment to enjoy the sight, Patrick's cock standing straight up as he tried to push into any friction he could find. Pete started slow, just a fingertip trailing lightly along the shaft, but those thighs pushing at him were too much to resist. He spit in his palm and took a firm grip, let Patrick fuck into his hand until the snuffling noises at Pete's neck turned into rough grunts and open-mouthed panting.
Patrick's come, Pete reflected as he licked his hand clean, was probably a good source of protein.
The next night, Pete nearly suggested that they switch up hands, but then figured that it wasn't likely Patrick would have the same problem two nights in a row, and Pete was too selfish to give up his own right hand.
Pete's luck with sleep didn't hold out for a third night in a row and having his left hand trapped against Patrick's made typing problematic. He watched Patrick sleep instead, Patrick's rosebud mouth slightly open and glistening. Pete ran his hand lightly down the side of Patrick's face. Patrick never let him touch gently when he was awake, rough hugs and noogies and even smacking kisses, but any time Pete tried to explore Patrick's soft skin, his self-consciousness would kick in and he would slap Pete's hand away. So this was a golden opportunity for Pete, and he took advantage by gently tracing the line of Patrick's nipple through the threadbare cotton of his sleep shirt. In a few minutes, Patrick was making the same whining noises from the night before, and Pete tried hard to pretend that hadn't been his intention all along.
Pete moved to get his neck closer to Patrick's nose, thinking that it totally counted as Patrick knowing who he was sleeping with, considering how many times Patrick had insisted he could tell that way. He moved too quickly and banged into Patrick's face. Patrick made an unhappy noise, and Pete froze. Patrick made another whimper, and Pete had a horrible thought. He'd been running low on deodorant. Had he just grabbed Joe's this morning, or had he used his own even though it was low enough to scrape him? Because if he'd used Joe's, then maybe Patrick thought Joe was the one touching him, and. Crap.
Pete unlocked the handcuffs and backed off a minute, then came up with a new plan. He hadn't showered in days, even if his pits smelled like Joe, the rest of him didn't. He got naked and got back into bed, this time turned so he could watch Patrick's dick up close, looping his ankles over the headboard. Patrick started sniffing again, close to his pubic hair this time, and Pete shivered at the feeling of hot breath against his skin. He went to free Patrick's dick, but never finished the move. The world ended, and he was sucked into heaven. Or at least it felt that way, Patrick's mouth so warm and a little sleep-dry, sucking him in, while he buried his nose against the base of Pete's dick.
Patrick's eyes were still peacefully closed, and wow, Pete should really stop this but. Not fucking possible. Patrick's full, soft, fuckable mouth, now slurping at him, while those long graceful hands cupped his ass and pulled into Patrick's every swallow. Pete swung over closer, not having much choice with the way Patrick was pulling him in, and his hips snapped forward without his giving them permission. Patrick's throat was relaxed by sleep, though, and Pete got all the way down it.
Pete wanted it to last, wanted to savor every moment of Patrick's pink cheeks hollowing out to suck Pete's dick. He lasted about a minute, pulling out to come only to have Patrick's mouth follow him and Patrick's hands keep him in place until every drop was swallowed.
The next morning, Patrick seemed to have slept well, eating his egg white and vegetable omelette with good humor and teasing Pete about his bruised wrist. Hell, he was practically whistling at the breakfast table, so Pete figured he can't have had any Joe-related nightmares, at least.
Pete carefully measured out his own omelette and grabbed a diet soda, while Joe yammered about the sausage and cheese monstrosity that he was gorging on. He gestured with his fork. "It's not the sausage, or the cheese, you know? It's that sometimes, I want both at once. And if I want something that bad, I figure that means my body must need it for some reason."
He filled his fork carefully, balancing the ratio of sausage and cheese to egg, then dipped the bite in the little puddle of sausage grease left on his plate before swallowing the forkful with delight. Pete caught Patrick's eyes following the movements of Joe’s fork just as closely. Pete shot him a wan grin, then lifted his forkful of egg white in a silent toast.
The plates on the bus were plastic, of course. This was more of a traveling issue than a plate-throwing consideration, but it seemed like the latter was the more important, because Patrick's omelette got a good amount of altitude before the plate hit the door at the end of the hallway into Pete's room.
Patrick grabbed Pete's plate next, and threw it after his, screaming, "This is ridiculous, Pete! I shouldn't need handcuffs to keep me away from what I want! And you! Why the fuck I’d come to you for help, I have no idea! You don't know how to help, you never fucking take what you really want!" Patrick took his fork and stabbed into Joe's sausage, then gestured toward Pete aggressively, ready to force-feed Pete the greasy bite.
Pete slapped the fork out of Patrick’s hand. "Fuck you, you don't know what I want!"
Patrick got into his face. "So fucking tell me!"
Pete grabbed his sideburns and pulled him into a rough kiss, Patrick's mouth still open to scream at Pete some more. Patrick stayed stock-still, and Pete backed off.
"Oh," Patrick said, with a little frown between his eyebrows. Pete began backing up carefully, giving Patrick his space. Pete felt so stupid, he knew better than to lose control like that, what had he been thinking?
But then Patrick continued, "It's everything I dreamed of.'
Rating: NC-17
Length: 2785 words
Beta: Thanks to megyal
Warnings: somnophilia consent issues (can a sleeping person consent?) and disordered eating.
Disclaimer: These are non-profit, non-commercial works of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. These fictional stories are not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Summary: From anon_lovefest, a prompt of "Patrick starts sleepwalking and eating all the food on the bus every night. Finally Pete locks the two of them into the back room one night, and Patrick acts on a different subconscious desire."
The sound of Andy and Patrick having an epic blowout drifted through the open windows of Pete and Joe's bus over the crunch of gravel as the tour entered the parking lot.
The thing about their band was, three of them had truly awful tempers. Pete and Andy were two of a kind; loyalty bred into them by the scene in a way that meant that the slightest threat to anyone they loved was met with instant, unthinking violence. Patrick had a much slower burning fuse. Once it was ignited, though, buildings were going to explode, and innocent bystanders had better take cover.
Pete spared a fond glance in Joe's direction. Joe, the one person in the band who could be calmed down easily, who could be counted on not to throw shit or piss on you. Joe, who was passed out on the couch with an open container of Cheez-Its trailing their disgusting orange dust across his chest, and so was probably not going to be the one to defuse the other bus's ragefest.
Pete changed into a hoodie he wasn't overly fond of and headed to the other bus. The good news was that nothing had been thrown yet. The bad news was that Andy was screaming and gesturing with a jar of peanut butter, and that fucker was going to hurt when he did throw it. Pete pulled it out of his hand and darted back towards the doorway. Andy didn't follow, though, just pointed at Patrick and commanded Pete to "Take that fucker with you!"
Patrick handled that in typical Patrick fashion, a "Fuck you, motherfucker!" as he marched off the bus with Pete. He wasn't really at the exploding point though, and he managed to explain what he could after a relatively small number of parking lot laps.
It was the peanut butter, of course. Andy got the natural stuff, the nasty-ass stuff with no sugar that you had to stir forever to get the oil mixed in. Andy had accused Patrick of drinking the oil off the top, so now the whole jar was too thick to spread, leaving Andy with no breakfast. Andy wasn't much fun with no breakfast.
Pete bit back a chuckle. "Patrick, dude, I know the diet is rough, but even Andy can't think you're that hard up, can he?"
Pete knew Patrick been stressing out over this latest diet, the newest trendy thing: a week of low-carb followed by a week of low-fat, supposedly guaranteed to keep cravings in check. Since for Pete, every week had less carbs and fat than the 'low' of either week, he didn't get the point. But then, diets weren't really designed for people like Pete, whose goal with every bite was to prove just how precisely he could control his body and its needs. Patrick felt like his eating was a little out of control lately, and he'd really pinned his hopes on this diet to help.
Pete hadn't noticed Patrick losing any weight, but of course he wasn't stupid enough to mention that. He'd gone down that road before, and his brand of crazy eating and Patrick's sensitivity weren't compatible at all.
Patrick stared down at his shoes. "That's actually what pissed me off so bad. I think he might be right. You know how I do weird shit in my sleep?"
Pete knew, had known since the first tour. When Patrick's mom had told him to watch out for sleepwalking, Pete had assumed cartoonish, zombie-arms-out-in-front sleepwalking. Instead, the band got used to the occasional late night where Patrick randomly interjected into conversations, picked up a set of sticks and practiced fills for an hour or so, or, once, took a shower complete with washing his hair and scrubbing under his nails, all with his eyes open but completely unfocused.
But he had gotten better with time, and he'd never eaten in his sleep before.
"Last week? It was a low-carb week. And on the last day, I was so glad to think I'd be able to put honey in my tea again, I figured I dreamed about it. But in the morning the honey container was empty. And last night, I dreamed about pouring salad dressing on my salad that actually tasted like dressing, not that stupid fat-free stuff, you know? And Andy swears I was fucking slurping the oil from his peanut butter. I feel so stupid! I lost like 3 pounds last week, and then gained them right back the last day, and today I'm up even higher than I was last week! Pete, I'm so fucking tired of trying to squeeze into my stage clothes and hoping fucking Perez's next post isn't comparing me to sausage or something." Patrick kicked at gravel, making a low frustrated noise.
Pete thought it over. "We could tie you to the bunk?" he suggested.
Patrick snarled, "Are you cleaning it up when I piss on myself? I've never learned how to wake up to pee, you know. There is an advantage to sleepwalking."
Shit, Patrick did still sleepwalk to the bathroom a few times a night. On the van they'd made him not have anything to drink after shows, but it was terrible on his voice and even then there had been some close calls and a few unplanned roadside stops.
"Why don't you stay in my room tonight, then? I'll skip my sleeping pills, if I see you head anywhere but the bathroom I can pull you back to bed." Patrick looked pissed off at the thought, and Pete figured that ended that.
That night, though, Patrick showed up, pillow in hand. Pete got him set up in bed, then went back out to the lounge to watch the rest of his movie and check his email. A few hours later, he heard Patrick in the bathroom. Pete poked his head in.
"Three is the cube root of 27," Patrick said. Yup, sleepwalking. Patrick headed for the kitchen. Pete blocked his path, then walked toward him, forcing Patrick to back up in the narrow hallway. "64," he mumbled. Pete pushed him onto the bed, using his entire body as a ram. Patrick collapsed onto the bed awkwardly, one arm flailing out and catching around Pete's waist. Pete fell half on top of him, Patrick's mumbling now tickling wetly against Pete's neck. Patrick's eyes closed, and he turned his head more firmly into Pete's hair, taking in deep breaths that had to be getting Pete's hair product up his nostrils.
Patrick's mom really should have warned them about his weird smell thing too, Pete thought. Patrick seemed to calm right down into deep sleep if he sniffed someone, and swore in the morning he could recognize them all by smell, and would dream about whoever he'd been sniffing. Patrick's wuffling noises were very soothing. Pete closed his eyes for a minute.
He woke up to a melted Hershey's kiss ground into his hair, the stupid little wrappers a trail from the kitchen to Patrick's sleeping form.
Pete cleaned up the mess guiltily, hoping Patrick wouldn't realize what had happened. Hershey's kisses were his least favorite candy, the one thing Joe could keep in the bus and not worry about Pete binging out on, so Joe always had a bag stashed. Patrick knew exactly where they were kept, a remnant of the years the band had only one bus, and had subconsciously headed straight for them. And Pete had been so lulled by the cuddling that he hadn't even stirred.
His hopes that Patrick wouldn't notice were dashed when Patrick spat out a little paper ribbon into his tea mug in the morning from where it had been caught in his teeth.
Joe laughed and said, "Your problem is you both try to control everything, and you can't. You've got to get what you want sometimes, or it's going to blow up on you."
Patrick's hand squeezed his mug hard enough that his knuckles turned white. Pete was pretty sure Joe meant "blow up' more like the explosion Patrick was about to let loose and not the fat joke Patrick was no doubt hearing, but Pete couldn't think of a way to make that clear.
"Handcuffs!" he blurted.
Joe and Patrick stopped staring at each other to look at him. "Um, tonight, you can handcuff yourself to me. You need to pee, I'll get up with you, but you won't get into the kitchen without me waking up."
Joe wandered out, muttering, "Or you could have a cookie before bed once in a while, so you aren't always dying for something sweet." Pete thought that too much pot had really warped Joe's eating habits.
Having Patrick in his bed seemed to be better than anything Pete's doctor prescribed for his insomnia. He woke up in the middle of the night having actually fallen asleep for the second night in a row, and took a minute to get the coordination not to fall down as Patrick shuffled to the toilet. Patrick didn't seem phased by the extra hand to be washed attached to his usual two , but did pull back when Pete steered them away from the kitchen, back to the bedroom. Pete finally bear-hugged him, then pushed him backwards down the hall to the bed. The position locked Patrick's face against Pete's neck, and like he'd hoped, the smell thing calmed Patrick right down.
Once in the bedroom, though, Patrick started whining and figiting. Pete didn't think he'd make it back to sleep in any case, and the tossing and turning was getting annoying, so he decided to take off the cuffs. When he switched on the bedside lamp, though, he realized Patrick's problem. Patrick was hard, and Pete's hand was attached to his jerking-off hand, and his subconscious couldn't work around that.
Fuck, Patrick hard, the line of his dick poking through the flap of his boxers, his hips rocking up and his lip wet and pink from being bitten. Pete thought he was really just being a good friend, to help him out, since waking him up would just be awkward and embarrassing for both of them. He eased the waistband of Patrick's boxers down under his balls, and took a moment to enjoy the sight, Patrick's cock standing straight up as he tried to push into any friction he could find. Pete started slow, just a fingertip trailing lightly along the shaft, but those thighs pushing at him were too much to resist. He spit in his palm and took a firm grip, let Patrick fuck into his hand until the snuffling noises at Pete's neck turned into rough grunts and open-mouthed panting.
Patrick's come, Pete reflected as he licked his hand clean, was probably a good source of protein.
The next night, Pete nearly suggested that they switch up hands, but then figured that it wasn't likely Patrick would have the same problem two nights in a row, and Pete was too selfish to give up his own right hand.
Pete's luck with sleep didn't hold out for a third night in a row and having his left hand trapped against Patrick's made typing problematic. He watched Patrick sleep instead, Patrick's rosebud mouth slightly open and glistening. Pete ran his hand lightly down the side of Patrick's face. Patrick never let him touch gently when he was awake, rough hugs and noogies and even smacking kisses, but any time Pete tried to explore Patrick's soft skin, his self-consciousness would kick in and he would slap Pete's hand away. So this was a golden opportunity for Pete, and he took advantage by gently tracing the line of Patrick's nipple through the threadbare cotton of his sleep shirt. In a few minutes, Patrick was making the same whining noises from the night before, and Pete tried hard to pretend that hadn't been his intention all along.
Pete moved to get his neck closer to Patrick's nose, thinking that it totally counted as Patrick knowing who he was sleeping with, considering how many times Patrick had insisted he could tell that way. He moved too quickly and banged into Patrick's face. Patrick made an unhappy noise, and Pete froze. Patrick made another whimper, and Pete had a horrible thought. He'd been running low on deodorant. Had he just grabbed Joe's this morning, or had he used his own even though it was low enough to scrape him? Because if he'd used Joe's, then maybe Patrick thought Joe was the one touching him, and. Crap.
Pete unlocked the handcuffs and backed off a minute, then came up with a new plan. He hadn't showered in days, even if his pits smelled like Joe, the rest of him didn't. He got naked and got back into bed, this time turned so he could watch Patrick's dick up close, looping his ankles over the headboard. Patrick started sniffing again, close to his pubic hair this time, and Pete shivered at the feeling of hot breath against his skin. He went to free Patrick's dick, but never finished the move. The world ended, and he was sucked into heaven. Or at least it felt that way, Patrick's mouth so warm and a little sleep-dry, sucking him in, while he buried his nose against the base of Pete's dick.
Patrick's eyes were still peacefully closed, and wow, Pete should really stop this but. Not fucking possible. Patrick's full, soft, fuckable mouth, now slurping at him, while those long graceful hands cupped his ass and pulled into Patrick's every swallow. Pete swung over closer, not having much choice with the way Patrick was pulling him in, and his hips snapped forward without his giving them permission. Patrick's throat was relaxed by sleep, though, and Pete got all the way down it.
Pete wanted it to last, wanted to savor every moment of Patrick's pink cheeks hollowing out to suck Pete's dick. He lasted about a minute, pulling out to come only to have Patrick's mouth follow him and Patrick's hands keep him in place until every drop was swallowed.
The next morning, Patrick seemed to have slept well, eating his egg white and vegetable omelette with good humor and teasing Pete about his bruised wrist. Hell, he was practically whistling at the breakfast table, so Pete figured he can't have had any Joe-related nightmares, at least.
Pete carefully measured out his own omelette and grabbed a diet soda, while Joe yammered about the sausage and cheese monstrosity that he was gorging on. He gestured with his fork. "It's not the sausage, or the cheese, you know? It's that sometimes, I want both at once. And if I want something that bad, I figure that means my body must need it for some reason."
He filled his fork carefully, balancing the ratio of sausage and cheese to egg, then dipped the bite in the little puddle of sausage grease left on his plate before swallowing the forkful with delight. Pete caught Patrick's eyes following the movements of Joe’s fork just as closely. Pete shot him a wan grin, then lifted his forkful of egg white in a silent toast.
The plates on the bus were plastic, of course. This was more of a traveling issue than a plate-throwing consideration, but it seemed like the latter was the more important, because Patrick's omelette got a good amount of altitude before the plate hit the door at the end of the hallway into Pete's room.
Patrick grabbed Pete's plate next, and threw it after his, screaming, "This is ridiculous, Pete! I shouldn't need handcuffs to keep me away from what I want! And you! Why the fuck I’d come to you for help, I have no idea! You don't know how to help, you never fucking take what you really want!" Patrick took his fork and stabbed into Joe's sausage, then gestured toward Pete aggressively, ready to force-feed Pete the greasy bite.
Pete slapped the fork out of Patrick’s hand. "Fuck you, you don't know what I want!"
Patrick got into his face. "So fucking tell me!"
Pete grabbed his sideburns and pulled him into a rough kiss, Patrick's mouth still open to scream at Pete some more. Patrick stayed stock-still, and Pete backed off.
"Oh," Patrick said, with a little frown between his eyebrows. Pete began backing up carefully, giving Patrick his space. Pete felt so stupid, he knew better than to lose control like that, what had he been thinking?
But then Patrick continued, "It's everything I dreamed of.'