FoB fic -- This Seed Burst and Grown -- Pete/Patrick -- NC-17

[sneaky_sena]

Title: This Seed Burst and Grown
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Word Count: 11,500
Warnings: Patrick's underage in this, and Pete's not, so yeah.
Summary: Nobody's in a band, but Pete and Patrick meet in the Chicago music scene, anyway. Patrick's sixteen and mostly innocent and kind of confused and Pete's older and cooler and fucked up in ways that just make Patrick like him more.



It all starts with Joe. Or, rather, it all starts with this girl that agrees to go out with Joe if he can get them into a club the next weekend. She wants to see this band that Patrick's never even heard of, and they're playing somewhere in the Near Westside and Joe says, "Patrick, Patrick I need your help."

Patrick doesn't know how he's supposed to help. He can't even grow facial hair, unlike Joe, whose facial hair is prodigious. He thinks if anyone could pass for an actual adult old enough to get into a club, it would be Joe.

Of course, what Joe probably means is that he needs Patrick's car. Patrick doesn't have his own car, but his mom lets him drive hers all the time. She doesn't let him drive into the city or even out of Glenview unless he tells her exactly where he's going, but he thinks maybe what she doesn't know won't hurt her, so he tells her he and Joe are going to have a video game marathon, because that's pretty much what they do every weekend, anyway, and he asks if he can have the car so he and Joe can go to the Steak and Shake in Rosemont, and she agrees.

Patrick's pretty impressed with himself for finding the club and not even getting lost once. He's not that in love with the neighborhood and he tells Joe that if somebody steals the hubcaps off his mom's car, he's going to hold Joe personally responsible.

"Nobody actually steals hubcaps," Joe tells him. "The whole car, maybe, but not hubcaps."

That doesn't make Patrick feel any better.

Katie, Joe's date, darts into an all-night diner and says she has to get ready. Once she's gone, Joe says, "So what's the plan?"

"What do you mean?" Patrick asks.

"Patrick. You said you'd help me."

"I drove you here."

"Yeah, but, that's not. We have to get in. Go talk to the bouncer."

"I'm not talking to the bouncer," Patrick snaps.

"Please?" Joe asks. "Please, please, please? Dude. I'll owe you, like, my firstborn."

Patrick hates what a pushover he is sometimes. He leaves Joe at the diner down the block and walks towards the club. There's one guy dressed in black outside the door, sitting on a wooden stool with a clipboard in his hands. He's not as burly as Patrick had always assumed bouncers would be. He's got the tattoos Patrick expected, but he's not giant and hulking. He's actually only maybe an inch taller than Patrick is, which means he's not very tall at all.

Patrick says, "I thought bouncers were supposed to be huge."

The guy laughs, looks at Patrick, and says, "Pot, kettle."

"Um," says Patrick. He looks at the door to the club. He looks at his feet. "So, okay."

"Nope," says the guy at the door.

Patrick looks up at him.

"You want to know if you can get in. I'm not actually the bouncer, but I am filling in for him while he takes a piss, and the answer is no. What are you, fourteen?"

"Sixteen," says Patrick. He sounds kind of pissy, but it's not his fault he looks like he's in middle school. "And I'm not even asking if I can get in. It's for a friend."

"It's for a girl," the guy says.

"It's for a friend so he can get a girl," Patrick says.

"Hmm," says the guy, like he's thinking about it.

"He's crazy about her. She's all he's been talking about for months, and she finally agreed to go out with him but she wants to see this band and if he can't get her in to see it, he's pretty much shit out of luck. My friend, Joe, he looks a lot older than me. Like, if he got in, people wouldn't even think that you let a high school kid in. I promise. He has facial hair and everything."

The guy says, "What's Joe's last name?"

"Trohman."

The guy flips through the pages on his clipboard and pencils in Joe's name. The not-bouncer says, "I can't guarantee that he won't get carded, but I'm a sucker for the stupid shit people do in the name of love."

Patrick lets out a shaky laugh. He hadn't thought it would work. He says, "Thanks. Thank you," and turns to run back to the diner.

"You're on the list," he whispers in Joe's ear as he slides into the booth where Joe's sitting alone.

Joe looks at him, surprised. "What? Really? Dude. How?"

Patrick shrugs. "The bouncer said he's a sucker for love."

Joe says, "That is so freaking awesome."

Patrick hardly recognizes Katie when she gets out of the bathroom. He's used to seeing her in jeans and t-shirts, not a mini-skirt and a ripped top with her hair giant and tons of black shit around her eyes.

"So," Patrick says to Joe. "I'll just, um, be here, I guess."

"You're not coming?" Joe asks.

Patrick says, "No, I'm not coming along on your date, dude. Seriously."

Joe nods and looks over at Katie nervously, then he raps on the tabletop once and strides towards her. Patrick waits for the bored looking waitress to come around to his booth and he orders a cup of coffee and wonders how long the show is going to be.

He drinks two cups of coffee in half an hour, then realizes he's going to have to pace himself.

"So, let me get this straight," someone says, and when Patrick looks up, the not-bouncer from the club is sliding into the booth across from him. "You do all the dirty work, your friend gets the girl, and you sit in a diner all night long?"

"I guess," Patrick says. "Is the show over already?"

"Just started," says the guy. "But there are only, like, thirty people there, not enough for a second bartender, so I got sent home early. You're just getting coffee?"

"Oh, um," Patrick looks down at his half-empty coffee cup. "I kind of didn't bring a lot of cash, and I still have to put gas in the car, so." He shrugs.

"Hey, Jody," the guy says as the waitress passes their table. "Can I get another cup of coffee and--" He looks at Patrick. "Are you vegan?" he asks.

"Vegetarian," Patrick says, surprised. Nobody's ever asked him that before.

"Two of 'em," says the guy. He doesn't tell the waitress two of what, but she seems to understand.

"You don't have to--" Patrick says.

The guy says, "I'm Pete," and sticks his hand across the table.

"Patrick," he says, shaking Pete's hand.

"I hate to tell you this, but your friend's probably not going to score. The band's really bad."

"She's the one who wanted to see them," Patrick says.

"Then your friend has bad taste in girls. Or good taste in girls with bad taste in bands. Hey," he says as the waitress sets a mug down on the table in front of him. "Jody. I said coffee."

"You need coffee like I need another ex-husband," says the waitress, walking away.

Pete pokes at the tea bag floating in the mug. He says, "I hate chamomile."

Their food arrives in what feels like another minute, but when Patrick looks at the clock he sees that he and Pete have been talking for nearly half an hour. They're not even really talking about anything, just talking.

Pete says, "This is going to be the best fucking avocado griller you've ever had, I promise."

Patrick's never actually had an avocado griller, but it is delicious. It's thick toasted bread and melted cheese and creamy avocado and cold, ripe tomatoes.

"Good, right?" Pete asks, mouth full, as Patrick eats.

Patrick nods and takes another bite.

"Most people give me shit for being a vegetarian," Patrick says once they're mostly done eating. "At my school it's just me and this one other girl who cries a lot."

Pete says, "Really? That's how people describe her? The vegetarian girl who cries a lot?"

"Mostly she's just the girl who cries a lot," Patrick admits. "I don't think most people know she's a vegetarian. She came up to me after school one day to tell me she'd heard that I was a vegetarian and she started talking about slaughterhouses and then, well."

"She cried?" Pete asks.

"Yeah."

"Wow," says Pete. "Are you dating her?"

"Because we're both vegetarians?"

"Because she cries a lot. That's totally the kind of girl I would have dated when I was your age."

Patrick says, "I don’t really, um. Date."

"Are you one of those kids who includes sex when it comes to being edge?" Pete asks. "Because, yeah, okay, no drugs, no booze, no meat, yeah, I'm down, but no sex? I get the movement, I get the cause, but that's taking it too far."

"I'm not edge or anything," Patrick says. "Girls just don't like me."

Pete says, "Yeah, no, I'm not buying it."

Patrick's about to tell Pete that, seriously, girls have never been interested and will most likely never be interested in him when Joe walks into the diner looking terrible.

"Hey," Joe says, sitting next to Patrick in the booth. He picks up one of Patrick's fries but doesn't eat it, just looks at it for a while before setting it down.

"Where's Katie?" Patrick asks.

"Um. Turns out she's actually dating the drummer in that band, only her mom's forbidden her from seeing him again, so she had to figure out a way to get a ride down here and make her mom think she was on a date with another guy at the same time."

"Holy shit," says Pete.

Joe sighs and looks miserable.

Pete says, "I have never seen two guys more in need of a party in my life. You're heading back to Glenview anyway, right?"

Which is how Patrick ends up driving Joe and a complete stranger to a college party in Evanston.

It is, Patrick realizes halfway through, a night of historic firsts. His first time driving into the city alone. His first time almost in a bar. His first house party. His first beer. It's even his first prank call, and he's giggly and loose limbed from the beer as Pete leans against the counter in the kitchen and flips through a Glenview phonebook and says, "Wait, so what's Katie's last name?"

"Jacovelli," Patrick says. "Pete, you're not, you can't."

Pete points to something in the phone book and grins at Patrick and picks up the house phone.

Patrick presses his hands over his mouth as Pete says, "Hi, Mrs. Jacovelli? I'm really sorry to wake you up, but you're Katie's mom, right? Look, no, she's okay, she's not hurt or anything, I just. She's such a nice girl, Mrs. Jacovelli, and her boyfriend's such a creep. I feel like a total jerk right now for ratting on her, but I didn't know if you knew or not, what a jerk Trevor is. He's seriously creepy, Mrs. Jacovelli, and I know Katie has this idea that she can save him or whatever, but I don't think even a girl like Katie can save a guy that does that much coke."

Patrick closes his eyes and slides down the wall and tries so hard not to laugh.

Pete hangs up the phone and his laugh is loud and braying and he says, "Fuck, I almost feel bad for waking that lady up. She sounded nice."

"You're insane," Patrick says.

Pete grins and holds his hand out towards Patrick and says, "You want another beer?"

Later that night, early in the morning, Patrick slips his shoes off and sneaks into his house and he's still a little drunk so he climbs up the steps on his hands and knees and crawls into his bed where he falls asleep in his clothes.

His head feels too big for his body and his mouth is fuzzy when his mom wakes him up the next afternoon to tell him Joe's on the phone.

"How late did you boys stay up last night playing video games?" his mom asks him as he shuffles into the hall to pick up the extension at the top of the stairs.

"We beat, like, all the levels," Patrick tells her, taking the phone from her hand. "Joe?" he asks.

"Nope, Pete," says the voice on the other end of the line. "Whatcha doing?"

"Sleeping," Patrick says, walking past his mom and taking the phone and its extra long cord with him back into his room. "Did you tell my mom you were Joe or did she just assume that you were Joe because I only have one friend?"

"One friend's better than none," Pete says. "Besides, now you have two. How do you feel about Thai food?"

Pete spends a lot of weekends at his parents' house in Wilmette so Patrick doesn't even have to drive into the city to hang out with him. They don't do anything in particular. They listen to music and Joe and Pete geek out over science fiction and Pete always gives Patrick books to read.

Patrick doesn't read a lot, but he reads the books Pete gives him. The Things They Carried makes him just sit there for hours, afterwards, awed and thinking. He doesn't really like Watership Down, and Pete teases him and says it's because Patrick doesn't like rabbits, but really it's because it's kind of creepy. He expects to hate To Kill a Mockingbird, too, but he ends up loving it so much that he calls Pete as soon as he's finished with it, even though it's the middle of the night.

"I didn't know it was so late," Patrick says once he sees that it's nearly two in the morning.

Pete says, "Come on. You know I never sleep. You wanna come hang out?"

Patrick wants to so, so much, but it's two o'clock in the morning and it's a school night and he can't explain that all to Pete. He doesn't want to draw the fact that he's still just a kid to Pete's attention. He says, "Not tonight, I'm gonna sleep. This weekend, though?"

Pete wants to go to a party in Deerfield that Friday because there's supposed to be a really good band playing.

Patrick's curfew is eleven o'clock on the weekends. He's too embarrassed to admit that to anybody and he knows he'll never make it to Deerfield and back in time. So he lies. He asks his mom if it's okay if he spends the weekend at Joe's. He says they're going to watch all the Star Wars movies, tells her there's a theatre in Skokie playing them all on the big screen on Saturday afternoon and he wants to know if he can borrow the car. His mother looks amused and says yes and tells him to fill the tank up with gas.

Patrick has started wondering if he looks okay. It's never anything that had really occurred to him before; he'd always just pulled on jeans and a t-shirt and assumed he looked fine. But now he's started wondering if he's wearing the right jeans, if he's wearing the right t-shirt. He's trying to decide between his AC/DC Hells Bells tour shirt or his super soft Captain America ringer when his mom leans against his door and smiles at him.

"What?" Patrick asks.

"Will there be girls there tomorrow?" his mom asks.

It takes Patrick half a second to remember that she thinks he's going to a movie marathon in Skokie. Then he says, "Yeah, I, um. Probably."

"Mmm-hmm," she says with a nod. She looks knowing. "Any girl in particular?"

Patrick hates that he blushes, that he thinks about Pete right there in front of his mom. He says, "No." He says, "Can I get dressed now?" and goes to close his door and lock her on the other side of it.

Patrick's overnight bag is hidden in the trunk of his mom's sedan because he can't tell Pete the truth, can't say that he had to ask permission from his mother to take the car and then make up an elaborate lie just to go to some stupid house party in Deerfield. He doesn't know where he's going to sleep after the party and he doesn't know what he's going to do on Saturday, but it doesn't matter; Pete wants to go so Patrick's going to take him.

He knows it's kind of pathetic. He does know that. But it doesn't change anything.

He picks Pete up at the train station and when they stop for food, Patrick has to explain to the girl taking their order that no, he's not kidding when he says he doesn't want a burger on his cheeseburger, that yes, he wants cheese and all the vegetables and everything else, just not the meat and, yes, he knows he still has to pay full price.

Pete's still giggling about it when they get into Deerfield, slurping at his soda and doing an impression of the girl over and over again. "But...but if you don't get a burger on your burger then it's not a cheeseburger," he says in a high-pitched, stupid voice.

Patrick ends up reaching out and smacking Pete in the arm to make him stop, and Pete does, but he's still snickering and slurping too loud through his straw.

Patrick doesn't know anyone at the party, and he's okay with that. He sort of knows people Pete knows, knows to nod at people he and Pete have hung out with before. He knows people well enough to have conversations with them, to talk about music. There's a skinny guy with a lot of facial piercings who's surprisingly passionate about The Temptations, and Patrick heads over to talk to him after Pete slips away.

At the third or fourth house party Patrick had been to, some dark-haired girl with rows and rows of cuts on her arms had cornered him and said, "You know he's fucking Therese right now."

And Patrick had said, "What's your point?"

And the girl had seemed disappointed in his response and turned away. Patrick really hadn't known what her point was. It's not like the fact that Pete got laid a lot was a surprise to him.

Well, Patrick assumes that Pete gets laid a lot. Pete never actually talks about it, never gives Patrick salacious details or talks about the hot piece of ass he scored or whatever. Patrick's thankful for that, since the very idea of actually having that kind of stereotypical macho conversation is embarrassing and weird.

Instead, Patrick just notices when Pete slips away with various girls. He doesn't seem to have a type except for how the girls are all beautiful in different ways. Once or twice, he's pretty sure Pete's slipped away with a guy. He's not actually sure, though, doesn't know if maybe the guy thing is just wishful thinking.

At the party in Deerfield, though, Pete stays by his side. They crowd into the basement where the band's set up, and it's a decent show. Patrick's seen a lot of shitty bands at a lot of shitty house parties since he started hanging out with Pete, and the band that night is one of the best. The basement is hot and packed with people and after ten minutes or so Patrick stops trying to have control over where he's standing or who he's crushed up against and he just lets the crowd take him.

After the show Patrick heads outside into the cool autumn air along with everybody else, tipping his head up to the sky and breathing in slow. He's still overheated even though his skin is damp with sweat and the outside air is cool and he drinks a beer just because it's cold and wet even though he'd rather have water.

Pete slings one arm over Patrick's shoulders and takes the beer from him and finishes the last gulp that Patrick didn't want anyway. He says, "I thought I lost you."

Patrick just shrugs. He likes how tactile Pete is, especially after a show. He likes the way he's so casual even when he's draped over half of Patrick's body.

"A bunch of us are going to go get pancakes," Pete says. "You wanna come, right? You don't have to be home yet, right?"

Patrick doesn't even know what time it is, but he guesses it's already past his curfew. He says, "I love pancakes."

Pete drags Patrick over to a group of people he sort of recognizes, people Pete knows from work and going to shows and not the more respectable people he knows from school.

A guy in a blue jacket pushes past them, gives Pete a harder shove than necessary and it happens so quickly, Pete there one moment, then surging forward the next second. There's scuffling and shouts and Patrick just stands there, just watches in shock, doesn't even have time to realize that he's watching a fight until it's almost over, some heavily tattooed guy shoving Pete back and away and shouting, "Calm your shit down!" in Pete's face as Pete tries to lunge forward again.

"I'll fuck you up!" Pete's screaming. He's doing everything he can to get out of the tattooed guy's hold, twisting and shoving and jerking his body back hard.

The other guy, the guy in the blue jacket, is screaming back at Pete with even more curses, and people are holding him back, too. He's screaming, "Come on, you little bitch, I'll fucking kill you!"

Pete goes limp in the tattooed guy's arms and Patrick breathes for the first time in minutes. He takes deep breaths and he's about to ask what the hell is going on when Pete tries to lunge forward again. The tattooed guy seems to have been expecting it, though, since his arms are strong around Pete's waist and he doesn't let him go.

"Fucking don't," Pete says, shoving at the tattooed guy. "Just fucking let me--"

"Calm your motherfucking shit down," the guy snarls at him. He's walking Pete backwards, away from the fight, and when Pete struggles some more, Patrick slides his arm around Pete's shoulders and pulls.

"We're walking," Patrick says, not surprised when Pete shoves against him, too. "Fight me all you want," he says. "But we're not going back there and you're not going to fight that guy."

Pete leans hard into Patrick's side, and the tattooed guy sighs heavily and releases him. They keep walking, away from the fight, away from the party, through the dark streets. They end up on some elementary school's playground and Pete leans against the jungle gym with his shoulders hunched.

"Are you calm?" the tattooed guy asks.

"No," Pete admits. "But I'm cool. I'm okay." Even with his head down and the way he's curled in on himself, Patrick can see that he's hurt.

"You're bleeding," Patrick says, putting his hand on Pete's chin. He tries to tip Pete's face up, but he turns away.

"I'm fine," Pete says. He pushes away from the jungle gym and walks away from them.

"Don't be a jerk," says the guy.

"Just. Just leave me here. I'll get home on my own," Pete tells them.

The guy rolls his eyes. "I said don't be a jerk."

Patrick says, "I'm sure as hell not going back to the party. I'll drive you home."

"You don't have to," Pete says.

"Yeah. I know. But I'm going to drive you home anyway."

Pete and Patrick are climbing into Patrick's mom's sedan when Pete breaks away and calls out, "Andy!" He jogs towards the tattooed guy and Patrick watches in the rearview mirror as they hug. It's a tight hug, full body, not a manly guy hug at all. Patrick watches at Pete fists his hands in the back of the guy's shirt, watches the guy drop a kiss on the top of Pete's head.

Patrick makes himself look away for two, maybe three seconds, then he can't stand it anymore and he looks back up, terrified that he's going to see them kissing. They're not, though. They're just hugging. And then they part and then Pete turns towards the car and Patrick watches until Pete's too close, until he can't watch without being caught.

Patrick says, "We could still go get pancakes if you want."

Pete shakes his head. "I'm not hungry."

It's a long drive from Deerfield to Old Town, and Pete plays with the radio for a while, but he gives up and turns it off and they ride in silence.

Patrick says, "You wanna talk about it?" Then he feels stupid, because of course Pete doesn't want to talk about it.

Pete's leaning against the door, staring out the window, but he turns and rests his shoulder against the window as he speaks. "That guy, Evan. He and I. We used to go out."

Patrick almost says, You used to go out where? but he catches himself at the last moment. He says, "Oh."

Pete turns back towards the window. He says, "I'm working on this theory that you can't ever really hate someone until they've seen you naked."

Patrick turns the radio up.

Patrick hates getting to Pete's apartment. He hates driving into the city and he hates the way the streets in Pete's neighborhood start and stop and angle with no rhyme or reason. He really hates parking because he has to do it on the street, and there's usually not a big enough spot for him to just pull into, he has to actually parallel park, which makes him tense and nervous.

And then once he actually is parked, they have to walk a couple of blocks because of course there's never a spot in front of Pete's actual building. And then there's this little, creaky doorway right between a hair salon and a bookstore that Pete has to jiggle his key in and kick a few times before it opens. And then they have to go up rickety wooden stairs so narrow that you can't pass another person on them. And at the top of the stairs is a hallway with threadbare gray carpet that always seems to be damp and there's only one bare light bulb and Pete's door is at the far end.

Once he's in Pete's apartment, though, Patrick loves it. He forgets all about the parallel parking and the too-narrow stairs and the chemical smell from the salon that always gets stuck in the back of his throat.

Pete's apartment is chaotic, crammed with books stacked in plastic milk crates and in the corners and falling off tables. Pete's bookshelves are filled with CDs and record albums, and over pretty much everything, though concentrated on the far side of the room where there's a tiny closet and a narrow dresser, are Pete's clothes.

The first time Patrick had ever been there, Pete had looked around and said, "I don't usually have people over. Sorry." And it was a mess, and there really wasn't anywhere for Patrick to sit, but he didn't care. He didn't care because the lack of chairs just meant that he got to sit on Pete's bed. And the mess just meant that he got to see all of Pete's stuff right out there in the open, see the way Pete was on the inside, not the way he was for show in front of the world.

"I'm gonna wash up," says Pete. He's got dried blood on the side of his mouth and on his chin and his left eye is starting to swell and bruise.

Patrick goes into the kitchen, which is really just five square feet of linoleum not separated at all from the rest of the apartment. He opens Pete's mustard-yellow fridge and stares inside, not sure what he's looking for. He knows you're supposed to put raw steak on black eyes, but Pete's not just going to have steak sitting around in his fridge. Patrick opens the freezer and he can barely see the contents, there's so much frost around the edges. In the end, he breaks off pieces of ice clinging to the freezer walls and wraps it in a mostly clean dishtowel.

"Here," he says, holding it out towards Pete once he's out of the bathroom, the blood washed away. "For your face."

"Thanks," says Pete. He holds the ice pack to his lip, not his eye. Patrick wonders if a split lip hurts more than a black eye. He wonders if he'll ever have to find out.

"You don't have to babysit me," Pete says.

"I'm not," Patrick tells him and turns on the TV.

They watch reruns of Roseanne and Night Court until Patrick's sagging against the wall.

Pete moves them around, tugs the covers up over their shoulders. Patrick can't sleep with his jeans on and he feels a little weird taking them off, but he's under the covers and he's got boxers on, anyway. He takes off his jeans and his socks and tosses them to the floor. Pete's jeans are rough against his bare legs. Patrick closes his eyes and tries to think about something else.

Pete's voice is quiet and sleepy when he says, "Do you ever think that there's a better version of you out there? Like, a you that would make all the right decisions instead of the shitty ones you make?"

Patrick says, "Um. No?"

Pete says, "I know what the shitty version of me wants to do. I think maybe that's the key, realizing that and then not giving in."

"I think you're already the best version of yourself," Patrick tells him.

Pete's quiet for a long moment, and what he says before he falls asleep is, "I'm really not."

Patrick sleeps hard, doesn't even dream. He wakes up a couple times during the night, just long enough to think about how good it feels to have Pete sleeping next to him before he drops back to sleep. When he wakes up in the morning, it's to Pete sitting on his legs and breathing foul morning breath into his face.

"I think something's rotting in your mouth," Patrick says, shoving him off.

Pete laughs and says, "Come on, let's go get food."

Pete's apartment might be crappy, but the neighborhood is not. The salon he lives above is upscale, as are all the other shops and boutiques on his street. Pete and Patrick are unwashed and rumpled and they stick out. People give them strange looks and Pete laughs and slings his arm over Patrick's shoulder, and Patrick feels a warm glow spreading through his belly. He feels cooler than he is, tougher, hopes that people think Pete's his boyfriend. He imagines that Pete really is his boyfriend, lets himself pretend as they walk around window-shopping.

Pete seems to know every diner in Chicago, and he finds them one that's cozy and warm with red vinyl booths and shiny black tabletops. While they're eating, Patrick pretends they're on a date. He pretends that they've been on tons of dates before so they're just relaxed and casual with each other. He pretends that they both go to DePaul and they've got their own apartment and that they're thinking about getting a cat even though it says they're not allowed to have pets on the lease.

He knows it's a weird thing to do. He wonders how Pete would react if he ever found out. He imagines Pete being horrified and storming out of the diner. Then he imagines Pete laughing so hard for so long that everyone starts to stare.

Pete says, "You look serious. What's on your mind?"

Patrick shrugs and says, "Nothing."

Pete kicks him under the table.

"Ow, fucker," Patrick snaps.

Pete grins at him. "If something's got you worried or stressed, it's not nothing, Trick."

"I'm not stressed," Patrick says. "I was just. It's school stuff. I'm a little stressed, I guess, but it's nothing that I have to, like, spill my guts about."

"Okay," says Pete. "You wanna help me shave my head, later?"

"Um," says Patrick. He rubs at his shin. He's pretty sure it's going to bruise.

"Not all of it. Just the sides, I think. You can help make sure it's even in the back."

He helps Pete shave the sides and back of his head, then watches as Pete picks out strands of the longer hair on top to first bleach, then dye bright red. It feels so intimate and domestic that Patrick doesn't even feel guilty when he goes back to imagining that they're dating.

Pete plays records by bands Patrick's never heard of and eventually cracks open a book called, The Craft of Political Research. Patrick watches for a while as Pete takes notes, then goes to Pete's bookshelf and reads the back covers and first few pages of fifteen or twenty different books. When he looks back over, Pete's poking at his black eye.

"Does it hurt?" Patrick asks.

"Only when I press on it."

"So don't press on it, idiot."

Pete grins at him. "Yeah, I'm never going to be able to resist pressing on a bruise."

They watch TV for a while, stupid sitcoms that would normally bore Patrick to tears. He's not bored, though. It's one of the best days of his entire life. It actually hurts a little bit when he finally admits that it's late and he should be getting home.

Pete walks him out to his car and says, "Call me so I know you got home all right."

"I will," Patrick says, but he doesn't call right away. When he gets home, his mom and her boyfriend are watching a movie in the family room. His mom has her feet in Mark's lap. Patrick has the completely unwanted realization that his mom and Mark have sex and it makes him grimace.

His mother catches the look and laughs. "How was Star Wars?" she asks, reaching for the remote to turn the TV down.

"Good," says Patrick. "It was, um. Good."

Mark raises his hand in the Vulcan salute.

Patrick rolls his eyes and heads upstairs. He takes a shower and he's hungry, but he waits until he hears Mark's car pull out of the driveway before he heads down to the kitchen.

He's halfway through his sandwich when his mom comes in and pours herself a glass of water. She sits down across from him and says, "So...the movie was good?"

Patrick nods, chews and swallows. "Yeah."

"And did the girl you wanted to be there show up?"

Patrick thinks about the way it had felt to run his fingers over Pete's newly shorn hair and he blushes. "It's not like that," he says.

She smiles knowingly at him and says, "Yet."

Patrick sighs and takes another bite of his sandwich and wonders if letting her believe what she wants to is the same thing as lying.

Finally, after he's ready for bed, he pulls the hall phone into his room and calls Pete.

"Sorry I didn't call before," he says.

"Why are we whispering?" Pete asks.

"My mom's asleep."

"Okay," Pete whispers back. Then in his normal voice, he says, "You have to hear this record I just got."

Patrick smiles as he hears the opening bars. Pete plays through the first three songs, then takes the phone away from the speaker and says, "Okay. Name that band."

"The Meters," Patrick says easily.

"Damnit. I thought for sure I'd stump you with that one. You have a weirdly encyclopedic knowledge of funk music. You wanna listen to the rest of it?"

"Yeah," Patrick says. The phone cord won't reach all the way to his bed, but he stretches out on the floor with a couple of pillows and closes his eyes and listens to the music, listens to Pete moving around his apartment.

He's nearly asleep half an hour later when the album ends. He can hear Pete breathing.

"Pete?" he asks after there's nothing but silence stretching out over the line.

"So, um, I don't drive," Pete tells him.

"I noticed."

"I can't drive. I mean, I'm physically able to do it, I know how and everything. But I can't drive anymore because of how this one night I drank too much and took a whole bunch of pills and drove my car into the side of a building."

Patrick doesn't know what to say.

"I didn't hurt anybody and I didn't go to jail. So, you know, that part was good."

"Were you trying to kill yourself?" Patrick asks, twisting the phone cord tight around his fingers.

"I don't know," Pete says.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I don't want you to think I'm somebody I'm not. Most times I just want people to see the parts of me that are good. I want everybody to see the good and the sparkle, but I want you to see the ugly."

"Why?"

"Because that's the part that's real."

Patrick closes his eyes and tries to think of something to say to that. Then his mom picks up another line and says, "Patrick? Are you still awake?"

"Mom, get off the phone."

"Who are you talking to this late?" she demands.

Patrick hears a click and he knows Pete's hung up. He says, "It was Joe, Mom, he's having girl problems. God." And he hangs up, too.

He crawls into bed feeling itchy and too big for his skin. When he jerks off, he tells himself he's not thinking about Pete, even though he knows it's a lie.

He spends the next day helping his mom around the house. He feels guilty for lying to her and getting away with it, guilty for liking Pete the way he does, so he doesn't even complain or drag his feet when she asks him to help her clean out the garage.

The guilt doesn't keep him from jerking off thinking about Pete that night, though.

He feels like a ghost Monday at school. He feels like he's not even there. He can't stop thinking about the way it had felt to touch Pete's skin, his soft stubble. He can't stop thinking about Pete's voice across the telephone line saying, I want you to see the ugly, saying, that's the part that's real.

He calls Pete when he gets home from school and gets Pete's machine. He calls him again after dinner, then again before he goes to bed, but Pete never answers and Patrick never leaves a message.

On Tuesday morning he's four blocks away from school when he turns and heads back the way he came. He waits for the bus to take him to the Metra station. He knows its crazy, but he does it anyway.

Patrick's never taken the train by himself before. He tries not to look around too much, doesn't want anyone to notice him and think maybe he's doing something he shouldn't. He gets a seat and pretends to read, tries to look studious and not at all like he's skipping school. The other commuters just ignore him, and he stares at his book and pretends to read when really he's frantically trying to remember which of the stops will get him closest to Old Town.

He makes it to Pete's neighborhood in a little over an hour, and he only gets lost once. He's pretty proud of himself. Then he stops in front of the door to the narrow staircase and realizes that he can't just knock on Pete's door.

He fishes change out of his pocket and heads down the street to a pay phone. Pete's phone rings and rings and Patrick hopes he's home. Then Pete answers, voice thick with sleep.

"Hey," says Patrick. "So I'm, um, I'm kind of skipping school today. I wanted to know if you wanted to hang out." He closes his eyes and feels stupid.

"What time is it?" Pete asks.

"Nine."

"Come down here later and we'll get lunch or something."

"I'm kind of already on your block," Patrick says.

Pete says. "Yeah. Okay. I'll let you in."

Pete opens the door to the street wearing nothing but skintight jeans that hang low enough to show off his hipbones. He's obviously just woken up, creases on his skin from the sheets. He's obviously not wearing underwear. Patrick tries not to think about that. He follows Pete up the stairs and tries not to look at Pete's bare back, tries not to think about whether or not Pete's tattoos would feel the same as the rest of his skin.

"I can just, um," Pete mumbles, looking around his apartment. "I'll shower and we can do something."

"You don't have to," Patrick says. "I brought my books. I can entertain myself and you can go back to sleep."

Pete looks over at him, and he looks so tired and so hopeful.

"I mean it," Patrick says. "You don't sleep enough. If you're tired now, if you can sleep, you should."

Pete crawls into his bed and tugs the covers over his shoulders. He scoots to the side and pats the foot of the bed, and since Pete doesn't have any chairs in his apartment, Patrick sits and tugs his books out of his backpack and starts to study.

He probably gets more done than he would have at school. He imagines that Pete's his boyfriend. Everything else is the same, he doesn't pretend he's in college, doesn't change anything else, just sits there and works on his homework and pretends that Pete's in love with him the same way he's in love with Pete, and it makes him feel warm all the way down to his bones.

Pete sleeps hard and barely moves. He rolls over a couple of times and once mumbles something that's almost a word, but mostly he just sleeps. Patrick's done his Economics reading, two worksheets for Government, his Spanish homework for the week, and is halfway through the next chapter of The Old Man and the Sea when Pete wakes up.

"Ah," Pete says, voice rough. "The eternal struggle between man and fish."

"It kind of sucks ass," Patrick says.

Pete scrubs his hands over his face. "Maybe not his best work. I've got A Farewell to Arms around here somewhere. That shit'll make you cry like a baby. What time is it?"

"Twelve thirty. Did you work last night?"

"Mmm." Pete nods as he climbs out of bed. Patrick doesn't know how he keeps his jeans up. They're just clinging to his body, riding low on the edges of his thighs.

"How do you keep your pants up?" Patrick asks.

Pete laughs and turns towards him. "What? When I'm bartending?"

"Now," says Patrick. He kneels up on Pete's bed and reaches out, places his hand on Pete's bare hip. "I can't figure out how you're keeping them up right now."

Pete takes a shaky breath. Patrick watches the muscles in his stomach jerk. He's close enough that if he leaned forward, he could press a kiss to the skin right below Pete's navel, so he does.

Pete moves forward, suddenly, hand gripping Patrick's shoulder tight, and then he's gone, skittering backwards and nearly tripping over a pile of dirty clothes.

"Patrick," Pete whispers, shaking his head. "You keep doing shit like that, you're going to wind up with my dick down your throat."

"Maybe that's what I want," Patrick says. The words make his cheeks heat, but he doesn't look away.

"Not like this," Pete says. "Not the way I was just thinking about it. You don't want it like that."

"I do," Patrick says. He can see that Pete's turned on, can see the hard line of his dick pressing against the inside of his jeans.

Pete says, "I'm gonna take a shower."

"Don't."

"I kind of have to." Pete swallows hard. He presses the heel of his hand between his legs.

"Do it here where I can see you," Patrick whispers.

Pete takes a couple more shaky breaths. He says, "Christ, Patrick." Then he turns and heads to the bathroom and shuts the door hard behind him.

Patrick waits until he hears the water start and his hand is down his jeans and he's coming in under a minute. He wipes his hand on the sheets, and then instead of doing his pants back up, he pushes them off. He pushes them off with his boxers and strips off his t-shirt and slides under the covers where he can still feel the warmth of Pete's body against his skin. He stretches out on his belly and waits.

When Pete comes out of the bathroom, he doesn’t say anything. Patrick listens to him moving around the room. Then he feels Pete sit on the edge of the bed. Pete's hand is warm and still damp from the shower as he touches Patrick's shoulder. He says, "You're killing me, Smalls."

Patrick closes his eyes as Pete pushes the sheet down, exposing his bare back.

"You’re ruining my plan," Pete tells him.

Patrick says, "Sorry," and doesn't mean it. He rolls onto his back. His entire torso is bare, and he's never let anybody see him like that before. His hips are still covered by the sheet but the fact that he's hard is obvious. He thinks vaguely that he should be embarrassed, that he should try to hide his arousal, but he's not and he doesn't.

"So if you were me," Pete says, and he's not looking at Patrick even though his hand is resting on Patrick's chest, his fingers stroking Patrick's collarbone. "If you had the devil on one side of you, the deep blue sea on the other, would you sell your soul or would you jump?"

Patrick says, "You're making this way more dramatic than it has to be."

Pete looks at him, then, and smiles. He says, "Yeah. I do that sometimes." Pete's mouth is gentle over his, and he tastes like toothpaste. He kisses Patrick slow and deliberate, like they've got all the time in the world. Patrick kisses back desperately and he clings to Pete's shoulders.

Pete nips at his mouth and whispers, "Slow down."

"I need," Patrick says, but he doesn't finish his sentence because he doesn't know what he needs.

Pete says, "It's okay." He pushes the sheet down and runs his palm over Patrick's cock, and Patrick shivers. "It's okay," Pete says again, and tugs off the towel around his waist and then his naked body is over Patrick's, pressing him into the mattress, and that's what Patrick needed.

Their bodies curl together and Patrick's hands are shaking and he holds on tight. He's dizzy as Pete kisses him, terrified and amazed and he never wants it to end. Pete kisses him so thoroughly and for so long that Patrick even forgets to worry about what he's doing, forgets to be self-conscious at all.

He flips Pete over and kisses his skin, his neck and his chest, feels Pete's muscles moving beneath his mouth and his fingers. The skin over Pete's tattoos is smooth and it doesn't taste any different from the skin anywhere else, but that doesn't stop Patrick from tracing his tongue along the necklace of thorns, kissing and licking at the skin there over and over again.

"Holy shit your mouth," Pete groans.

"My what?" Patrick asks, lifting his head.

Pete grips the back of Patrick's head in one hand and tugs, leans forward until their foreheads are touching. "Gonna tell you a secret," Pete says before kissing him hard. "Actually, it's not a secret. You're the only one who doesn't know. You have a sexy fucking mouth."

Patrick blushes and shakes his head. "Be serious," he says.

Pete grinds his cock against Patrick's hip. "So serious," he says.

Patrick closes his eyes. He says, "That thing you said before. If you still want to do that, um. You can."

"You don't have to," Pete says.

"I want to."

Pete runs his fingers through Patrick's hair. "When it comes to you, I'm never going to say no."

Pete's cock feels strange in his mouth, too heavy on his tongue. He slides forward a bit, fits a little bit more of Pete's cock inside, then slides back. He feels ridiculous. He feels like at any moment, Pete's going to burst out laughing at this ridiculous thing Patrick's doing.

"Here," Pete says, and he doesn't sound at all like he's close to laughter. He takes Patrick's hand and wraps it around the base of his cock. "You have more control this way. And just, God, yeah. Suck on the head. Just like that. Fuck, Patrick, you have no idea how fucking hot you are."

Patrick flushes at the words, then concentrates on not gagging. He has no idea what he's doing so he just fakes it, just focuses on jerking Pete's cock steadily, fitting what he can in his mouth, keeping his lips tight. It doesn't taste as weird as he'd thought it might, but it's wetter than he expected and he's kind of drooling and the first time the suction breaks and there's a loud slurp, he jerks his eyes up and expects Pete to be laughing at him.

Pete's not laughing. Pete's watching him with heavy eyes, chewing on his lower lip. He brushes Patrick's hair out of his eyes and says, "You okay?"

"Yeah," Patrick whispers. His throat is starting to feel a little raw. "Is this, I mean, I don't really know what I'm doing."

Pete's fingers are gentle in his hair. He says, "You're doing so good."

"Yeah?" Patrick asks, and he flicks his tongue against the head of Pete's cock, and Pete's eyes close and his head drops back and he moans and that's...really cool. Patrick does it again, watches Pete's face as he slides his tongue over the slit, then flat against the sensitive underside. Pete moans again, soft and in the back of his throat. He bites his lip as Patrick starts to suck him again, rocks his hips and he looks so needy and so desperate and Patrick gets it, suddenly, how what he's doing is hot.

He'd wanted to do it before just because, because he was curious, because he'd wanted to try. Now, though, it actually is hot, actually turns him on, the taste of Pete on his tongue and the smell and the choked off noises Pete's making. Too soon, Pete's pushing him away, gasping and coming. The thick, sharp scent of semen fills the air and Patrick presses his face to Pete's thigh and comes over his own fingers.

Patrick's shaky as he stretches out next to Pete. Shaky and smiling. Pete's smiling back at him. Their kisses are sleepy slow.

"You should stay here tonight," Pete whispers. "Stay here with me."

Patrick lets himself think about it. He lets Pete kiss him until he's dizzy again. "I want to," he says. "I want to, but I can't."

Pete kisses him again, kisses him in the shower as they clean up, kisses him while Patrick's hair dries, makes sad, protesting sounds when Patrick starts to put his clothes on. He kisses Patrick up against the door of his apartment, then walks him to the Metra station and kisses him again, right there in front of everyone.

Patrick spends the whole ride back to Glenview gazing out the window and smiling. He finds himself reaching up to touch his lips every couple of minutes. They feel swollen and raw. He smiles his way to the bus, then smiles on the walk back home. He only stops smiling when he sees his mom's car in the driveway. He checks his watch, it's only a little after four and she never gets home before six.

Patrick takes a deep breath, straightens his shoulders and his cover story, and walks into the house.

His mom is in the kitchen, pacing. When he walks in, she turns and demands, "Where the hell have you been?"

"School," he says. "And then I went over to Joe's and--"

She says, "Don't you dare lie to me, Patrick. The school called to tell me you were absent. I want to know where you were."

Patrick can still feel Pete's mouth on his skin. He says, "I just skipped."

"You just skipped? You just skipped? I've spent hours thinking you were kidnapped or dead, and you just skipped?"

"I didn't mean," he says. He can't tell her the truth. She'll never understand. "I didn't think that anyone would notice. I just. I went into the city."

She takes a deep breath, then another.

"I just didn't feel like going so I just. I just sat in a diner. I got a lot of homework done." He unzips his backpack and pulls out his books, holds his Government worksheets out for her to see. "I just...didn't want to go to school today." He can still feel all the places Pete's fingers had been. He can still taste Pete's mouth.

"You're going to go to your room right now," his mother says, in a slow, even voice. It's the voice she uses when she's too angry to yell. "We will talk about this later, but now, go to your room."

Patrick goes. He curls up on his bed and closes his eyes and his heart is beating too hard and out of time. He thinks about going downstairs and telling her about Pete, telling her that he had to go in the city, telling her that he's...what? In love? He thinks he probably is. He thinks about her forbidding him from ever seeing Pete again, and just the thought of it hurts so much he can hardly stand it.

It's nearly seven before she calls him down to dinner. He hasn't eaten since breakfast, but he isn't hungry.

"I'm sorry," he says when he walks into the kitchen. "I'm sorry I made you worry."

"You're grounded for a week," she says. "No phone, no car, no television."

Patrick nods.

"You went into the city to do your homework?" she asks.

"Well, no. I just went to the city. But did my homework when I was there."

She sighs and says, "You're the weirdest kid I know."

Patrick lets out the breath he was holding since when she calls him weird, she means it as a compliment. He knows he's mostly forgiven.

Patrick actually goes to school the next day. He's pretty sure he's done with skipping. When he gets to homeroom, Joe jingles a set of keys at him. "You totally missed Dorothy's debut yesterday," Joe says.

"Dorothy?"

Joe jingles the keys again. "She's a 1987 Buick LeSabre and she's gorgeous."

"When did you get a car?"

"Yesterday. I called to see if you wanted to take her out last night, but your mom said you couldn't come to the phone."

"I'm kind of grounded," Patrick tells him.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I skipped yesterday and went into the city and my mom found out, so, you know." He shrugs. "It's only for a week."

"You went into the city?" Joe asks. "Did you see Pete? Did you guys do anything cool?"

Patrick smiles to himself. He says, "Nah. We just hung out. There's a record store he was telling me about, though. We should check it out when I'm ungrounded. And you can drive."

"Oh," says Joe, shaking his head. "I'm not allowed to drive out of Glenview. My dad was, like, adamant on that point."

"I'm not either," says Patrick, and they both laugh.

He tries to concentrate during class, but all he can think about is Pete. All he can think about is how he's going to have to go an entire week without seeing him, kissing him, touching him.

At lunch, the girls at the next table are talking about a party in Morton Grove on Friday night. He knows the party the girls are talking about because Pete had mentioned it. He takes a deep breath and resigns himself to not going. It's not like it really matters. It's one stupid party, and he's been to dozens.

Only, Pete's going to be there. Patrick knows he's going to be there, and he thinks about all the people Pete could slip away with, all the beautiful girls and the older, more experienced guys and he feels like he might be sick.

"Are you going to that party?" Patrick asks, pushing at the macaroni and cheese on his plate. He's only taken a couple of bites, but thinking about Pete with anybody else makes him feel dangerously close to having it all come back up.

"Probably," says Joe. "Jagged Analogy is gonna be playing and they fucking rock, so." He shrugs.

"Yeah," says Patrick. "Yeah, I think I'm gonna go, too."

"Aren't you grounded?"

"Technically," Patrick says. But he's already decided. He doesn't even care if he gets caught, not when the alternative is doing nothing and letting Pete just slip away. "But now that you have a car, if I just sneak out and nobody knows I'm gone..."

Joe grins at him and says, "Can I have all your albums when your mom kills you?"

Sneaking out isn't even that hard. He just tells his mom and Mark that he's going to bed and locks his bedroom door. He waits an hour in the dark. He climbs out his window onto the roof, and the drop from the roof to the yard is the most perilous part. Getting in will be easier since he left the sliding glass door in the back unlocked.

Joe picks him up at a park a couple of blocks away from his house, and within twenty minutes they're walking into a party in Morton Grove.

When he sees them, Pete jumps on Joe's back and demands piggyback rides around the room. Joe indulges him, then stops short and bends forward hard and everybody howls as Pete falls forward, landing on his upper back and shoulders.

"Motherfucker," Pete says as he rights himself, but he's laughing, too.

Patrick holds out his hand and helps Pete up. He tries to make himself not blush. "Hey," he says.

"Hey, Trick," says Pete. He looks at Patrick for a long moment and Patrick wishes he knew what the look meant.

The band's straightedge, so the party is too, mostly. Patrick doesn't really mind; he likes not having to worry about his clothes smelling like smoke when the night's over. He would like a beer, though, something to take the edge off.

Everything seems normal, like nothing has changed. Patrick sips his water and watches Pete out of the corner of his eye, watches him laugh and bullshit with people and demand more piggyback rides and act like nothing has changed.

The band's set up outside, and they start their sound check and people start heading into the backyard. Pete doesn't say anything, doesn't even really look at Patrick, but as their friends head out, Pete puts his hand on Patrick's arm and holds him back and when most everyone is gone, Pete tugs him by the wrist down the hall, opening doors and looking for someplace private. They end up in somebody's sewing room, piles of fabric on shelves and a long, flat table, a sewing machine at one end.

Pete says, "Hey, I wanted to--"

Patrick stumbles forward and kisses him. He thinks, Don't push me away, please don't push me away, and Pete doesn't. Pete cradles Patrick's head in his hands and kisses him back.

He fumbles with Pete's belt buckle, finally gets it undone, finally unzips Pete's fly and he sinks to his knees at the same time.

Pete says, "Patrick, hey," and touches his hair.

Patrick's hands are shaking as he tugs at Pete's jeans, too tight to just come down. He tugs and he tugs again and he loses his grip and Pete says, "Patrick, hey, what's, ow, okay, we're not doing this right now." And then Pete's on his knees, too, and he's got his arms around Patrick's shoulders and he presses their cheeks together and he says, "Patrick, hey, come on. What's going on right now?"

"I wanna blow you," Patrick gasps. He's turned on but mostly he's just shaky. "You liked it, right? Before? I just, I want to make you feel good. I want to make you come. I want, I can't, Pete. I can't watch you walk away with somebody else so let me do this--"

Pete starts kissing him, kisses his cheekbone and his temple and his ear. He says, "You don't have to prove--"

Patrick says, "I need you and I can't--"

"Trick, come on, I'm stupid about you." He tugs on Patrick's shoulders, pushes him back then tugs him down again, maneuvers them so that Patrick's resting in the cradle of Pete's legs, curled against his chest. Patrick closes his eyes and presses his nose to Pete's t-shirt and breathes in deeply.

Pete says, "I've been stupid about you forever." He strokes Patrick's hair and kisses the top of his head and it feels so good and Patrick clings to him and feels warm and safe and only a little terrified of how much he loves it. "I thought maybe you didn't, when you never called, I thought maybe you were sorry."

"I'm grounded," Patrick said. "My mom found out I skipped and I'm grounded. That's the only reason I didn't call. I wasn't sorry. I'm not."

"You've never done this before," Pete says. "Not with anyone."

It's not a question, so Patrick just nods.

"We probably should have talked first."

Patrick smiles and touches Pete's forearm, traces his fingers over the designs beneath Pete's skin. He says, "I didn't really give you much of a chance to talk."

Pete laughs, and Patrick can feel it in Pete's chest. He wants to stay like that forever, listen to Pete breathe, feel the rumble when he talks. "I didn't want to talk about it," Pete says. "I had this plan that I'd do the right thing for once. I wanted to be better than I am."

"So, what? Liking me is terrible?"

Pete runs his fingers through Patrick's hair. "No," he says. "Just. You're actual jailbait. They could actually lock me up for the stuff we've done."

Patrick grins and bites at Pete's shoulder. "Also, I think there are still laws against sodomy," he says.

Pete laughs. "Hey, nobody's done any sodomizing."

"Yet," says Patrick, and blushes. "But I'm pretty sure oral sex counts as sodomy."

"Really?"

Patrick nods. "Yeah. I don't think they ever actually enforce it, but legally most places include oral sex in the definition."

Pete says, "That means pretty much every person I've met in my entire life is a sodomite. Holy shit, my parents are probably sodomites. That's awesome."

"Gross," says Patrick.

They're both quiet as the band begins to play. It's muffled and Patrick can't really make it out, can't tell if they're actually as good as everybody says they are.

"You wanna head out to listen?" Pete asks.

"Not really," Patrick admits. He kisses Pete's neck. "I want..."

Pete says, "Yeah," and kisses him. He kisses Patrick over and over again and pushes until Patrick's stretched out on his back, and Pete kneels between his legs and goes down on him and when Patrick comes, he digs his fingertips into the carpet so hard his joints ache.

They go outside to listen eventually, hanging behind most of the crowd, fingers intertwined. After a few songs, though, Pete starts to get antsy. Patrick untangles their fingers and says, "Go."

"I'm good back here," Pete says.

Patrick rolls his eyes. "Go on. I'll still be here when the show's over."

Pete grins at him, kisses him quick, then rushes forward and throws himself into the surging crowd.

After the show's over, he waits outside as most of the crowd either leaves or heads back inside. Pete comes limping up to him, grinning huge and missing a shoe.

"Nice sock," Patrick tells him. Pete's grin is infectious. "I should get going."

"Nope," Pete says. "Andy owes me three dollars, pancakes, and new footwear. He's buying me pancakes tonight, and you're gonna come."

"Pete," he says.

"You should come," Pete says, crowding in close, draping his arms around Patrick's waist. He pulls them close so their bodies are touching. "You should definitely come with us."

"I want to," Patrick says.

Pete kisses him gently. "Good."

"But I can't. I snuck out, and I should probably get back sooner rather than later. If I come out for food and don't get home until dawn my mom's more likely to notice, and I'm already grounded."

Pete presses closer to him. "You're turning into such a juvenile delinquent," he says, leaning in for a kiss.

Patrick clings to Pete's shoulders and kisses back desperately. He thinks that yes, he's going to go wherever Pete wants him to go, even if it means getting caught, even if it means his mom freaking out and grounding him for life.

He doesn't hear the footsteps, but then again he's not really listening. He does hear Joe's voice, though, does hear him saying, "Hey, you ready because my curfew's in like--" and then Joe goes completely silent and Patrick can feel him standing there, maybe four feet away.

Pete pulls back and bites his lower lip and grins at Patrick.

Patrick takes another step away and resists the urge to wipe his lips. He says, "Yeah, um, ready to go."

Joe says, "--fifteen minutes. I. What? Seriously?"

Pete's still smiling at him, and Patrick's smiling back. "So," Pete says, "I'll see you on Wednesday, I guess. When you're ungrounded."

"Wednesday," Patrick says, nodding.

Pete leans in for one more kiss. Joe makes a startled sound. From behind Patrick, one of Pete's friends calls out, "Wentz, seriously, is your jailbait boyfriend coming with us or what? I'm hungry!"

"Hold the fuck on, asshole!" Pete yells back. He rubs his thumb over Patrick's lower lip. "So, um, Wednesday. At the coffee shop near your school. What time do you get out of class?"

"Three fifteen," Patrick says.

"I'll be there by three thirty," Pete says.

"Wentz!" Pete's friend cries.

Pete kisses Patrick one more time, then he's gone.

Patrick doesn't look at Joe the entire walk back to his car. He doesn't look at him and he doesn't say anything. Joe keeps sneaking looks at him, though, and they're three blocks away from Patrick's when Joe pulls the car over to the side of the road.

"Dude, what?" Joe says. "That was...what?"

Patrick sighs and looks out the window.

"You're gay now?" Joe asks.

"I don't know," Patrick says. "I've never, like, sat down and really thought about it or anything. But, yeah, I don't know. Probably."

"And you and Pete are--" Joe waves his hand.

"Sleeping together," says Patrick.

Joe boggles. "Dude. I was going to say dating, I wasn't even. That's just. Information I don't need, don't need to think about you guys, like, seriously? Seriously, you, like, get naked with each other? For real?"

Patrick laughs softly and rubs his forehead. "That's kind of what sex is, Joe."

"But, like, two dudes, that's two dicks, like, touching, and that's just, seriously, Patrick. Dicks touching is, like..."

"Like?" Patrick prompts.

Joe sits back in his seat. He says, "Gay."

"Yeah," says Patrick. "It is."

Joe just shakes his head and sighs.

"It's not a big deal," Patrick says.

Joe says, "No, yeah, I know that. Just. I've never actually, um, known a gay person before."

Patrick rolls his eyes. He says, "You've known me my entire life."

Joe nods.

"Are you going to be weird about this?"

"No," Joe tells him. "Maybe a little bit. But just for, like, a couple of days. Until I can wrap my head around it."

Patrick shrugs. "That's fair."

"You want me to drive you closer to home?"

Patrick opens the passenger door. "This is good," he says. He slinks through the darkness back to his house, crosses his fingers as he slides open the back door, then locks it soundlessly behind him. There's no movement in the house, no sounds, and he climbs the stairs slowly and slips into his room. He breathes a sigh of relief once he's in his bed, thankful that he didn't get caught. And even though he knows he's hours from sleep, he closes his eyes and waits for Wednesday.