Overheard ("Less Talk, More Rock"), Part 1/4
Overheard ("Less Talk, More Rock")
Pairing(s): Patrick/Spencer (Patrick/Panic), Pete/Ashlee, Pete/Patrick
Word Count: ~35,000 (!)
Rating/Warnings: NC-17 (um, of course, it's me). Dirty talk, blatant violations of canon, casual sex, phone sex, and exhibition/voyeurism; roughly 50% porn, no nutritional value.
Disclaimer: This is a work of (epic) fiction and I don't mean any harm by it. If you're reading about yourself or your friends, please don't tell anyone you were here.
Author's Notes under the cut.
Summary: Pete probably shouldn't have told the world that Patrick Stump had no game, and he *definitely* shouldn't have told Panic at the Disco. When he overhears Patrick doing damage control by the most efficient and evil method, his brain veers straight into the gutter. In typical Pete fashion, he is totally unable to conceal his... distraction from Patrick, and as a result, ends up doing a lot of flailing, panting, and beelining towards his room. Because Patrick Stump is an evil mastermind, and he knows exactly how to make Pete admit the error of his ways.
A/N: Oh wow, it's done. I can has victory! Big thanks to nafs and in_decisions for serious hand-holding. They're like the betas for my life. whoyouinvent and kaizoku were awesomely patient and betaed this with amazing speed and clarity, and wicked senses of humour. Thank you to thesamefire and ubixtiz for maintaining epic patience in the face of my wailing, and for helping me maintain some semblance of hope. I cannot thank you all enough.
PS: nafs, one day I hope to write the epilogue you suggested, since the very concept was hot enough to stop me in my tracks in the middle of traffic. Finally, I'd like to thank/blame hardly_happy, who mentioned months ago that maybe I should write a phone sex fic. Here you go!
Overheard ("Less Talk, More Rock")
"Do you and Pete Wentz sit home and play checkers instead of going out partying, now that you have real significant others?"
Pete threw a piece of popcorn at the bus lounge TV. "Those assholes. I do not play checkers. Now Uno, that's a man's game."
"Pick that up, Pete, would you?" Joe called.
"Hemmy, go get it, boy," Pete said, nudging the dog, who obligingly vacuumed that section of linoleum while coating it thoroughly with doggie spit.
"Shh," said Patrick, "you're the one who wanted to watch."
Onscreen, Ryan leaned in to the TRL host's outstretched mic and said evenly, "Well, Brendon's our only single band member right now-" The screams took a moment to die out, and Brendon did an excellent job of not turning bright red.
"-so sometimes we send him out to play wingman to Patrick from Fall Out Boy, 'cause he has terrible luck picking up at parties and clubs or whatever."
"He's on tour right now, but he's totally nursing his wounds from his last round of unsuccessful attempts to charm the ladies," Brendon chimed in happily. There was more screaming.
Patrick turned the exact shade of red he'd been so happy that Brendon had avoided and turned slowly to face Pete on the couch.
"Uh?" Pete said. "Dunno where they would've gotten that idea."
"Pete, we just went out for drinks, I didn't realize you were basing my whole reputation on it." Patrick said. "I told you, I wasn't even looking to pick up."
Pete knew enough at that point to keep his mouth shut and look innocent.
"Don't look at me in that tone of voice," Patrick said. "I will cut you with your own deck of Uno cards, bitch."
Pete broke down into giggles, a full-on crying fit which lasted through most of the ensuing barrage of obscenity and projectiles.
"How many people did you tell that I had no game, you lousy motherfucker?" Patrick grunted, kicking Pete's shins as he made a good attempt at smothering Pete with a filthy sofa cushion.
Over the next few weeks, Patrick's phone rang kind of a lot, and his email volume increased by fifty percent at least. He figured Pete must have told everyone in the world, but most people were pretty well-behaved about it. Except Panic. Mocking Patrick privately was one thing, but taking it to TRL? That was war, right there.
-----
Patrick didn't let it slip to Pete or his entourage that Panic were probably just bitter because they were still embarrassed about losing the last round of bets. Patrick had beaten those kids pretty severely. The whole point of the game was that when you won, instead of getting money, you got to pick the forfeit for everyone else - or, at least, that had been the original idea. Patrick had happened on Panic one morning a million years ago, sprawled across their front lounge and idly betting small change on what song would come up next on Spencer's ipod.
"Why gamble in nickels?" Patrick said.
"We gamble all the time," Ryan shrugged. "Betting hundreds seemed unwise."
"Why not bet for first shower?" Patrick had asked, not even thinking, and all four of them had gone wide-eyed with the possibilities. He'd created something terrible.
Spencer had given the tradition an official name ("Win Friends and Influence People", but they never called it that; it was usually just "so hey, the next round?") and they started betting money on the side. As the stakes rose, the bets started to grow in scope. Needless to say, things spiraled out of control pretty quickly, with dares becoming ridiculously epic and dumb even for a gang of teenage boys, and dares eventually settling into a long history of grudge matches, hasty alliances and petty betrayals.
Patrick didn't feel bad about their forfeit either. When they'd challenged Patrick to take pictures of Gabe kissing his feet, Patrick put up a big show of telling them how hard it was going to be, but he knew it'd be as simple as asking him for a light. The kids should've known that, Patrick reasoned, which is why it was totally not mean of him to make them perform "I Wanna Sex You Up" in four-part harmony in front of their entire bus lineup after the show. It was a lesson. Patrick had laughed until he cried and had to hang up when he heard the deafening screaming applause from the kids in line. Then he called back later and laughed some more.
-----
Some people (Patrick will not name names, Panic, because he's bigger than that, okay, but he will totally murder Pete's protégés. Happily, even.) called him to further his misery, like trashing him on TRL wasn't enough. He scowled at his phone as Panic cackled in four-part harmony - harsh dissonant major sevenths, augmented fourths. Patrick had no way to tell, but he was pretty sure they were all actually pointing at the phone as they laughed at him.
"Listen," he said after the first three minutes. "It's not that funny."
"Au contraire!" Jon Walker yelled. "Au contraire, mon frère! It's even funnier!" He giggled.
"I am not your frère, Jon Walker," Patrick said.
"Don't sell out your wingman, Patrick," Brendon advised, painfully sincere as ever. "You need your wingmen to help you pick up girls, you know. Or guys, whatever, the point is, you totally need your backup crew, if you suffer from, you know--" Brendon collapsed in giggles.
"From what, fits of normality?" Patrick hissed.
"I think the phrase Brendon's looking for is 'performance anxiety,'" Ryan said. "Brendon?"
There were some giggles and snorting noises. They were not dignified.
"Boys," said Jon Walker, "You're losing sight of the goal."
"What goal?" Patrick said.
"You know, your goal of picking up," Jon backtracked. "And our, uh, concern about it."
"But it's not even my goal!" Patrick protested, even though he knew full well that it was a lost cause. "Listen, don't think I won't release you kids from your contract, okay? It's like a snowboard, there are all kinds of safety latches that just stop holding on if you so much as look at them funny."
"You can't fire us, Patrick," said Ryan.
"Damn right I can't, because you're not even hired, you giggling flowery shortbus pixies." Patrick heard Brendon making even less dignified noises. "Hey, Brendon, man, you're one to talk. Er, laugh. Whatever. How are things coming with little Sisky Business, huh? Don't you have less than a week running on that bet? Have you picked him up yet?"
"I picked him up," Jon volunteered. "Carried him all the way to our bus, but then when I came back Brendon was giving the kid a makeover."
"Sounds like I'm not the one who has problems with their game," Patrick said. "Don't fuck this up for me, Brendon, I've totally got my whole turn riding on you."
"Yeah, me too," Spencer chimed in. "What the fuck have you been doing all this time, anyway? You have a round of Stupid Dares on your hands!"
Patrick grinned. "Kid clearly needs a priority adjustment." He excused himself before the boys could turn the conversation back to him. He figured they could probably spend several days picking on Brendon before everybody got bored and they called him again.
-----
"What's this about you pulling rank on Panic, Patrick? You're not usually such a bully," Pete said, ambushing Patrick in the green room with a cup of tea and a shit-eating grin.
"They are fired. I hope they like open mic night at the Buttfuck, Nowhere Roadhouse and Flea Market," Patrick said meanly. "Thank you for the tea."
"You're welcome. Hey, didn't we play there that one time, with the guy with no teeth tending bar?"
"Oh, my god, that guy," Patrick said, horrified. "You were never supposed to bring him up ever again, Pete."
Patrick's Big Talk about Pete Trashing His Rep and How It Was Not Cool, Seriously would have to wait for another day; Patrick set down his tea and took off running as Pete chased him, toothless-bartender imitation in full swing, lips stretched over teeth, threatening to gum him to death at a completely inappropriate volume.
-----
Later that night, Patrick was refining his masterful world-weary sigh as he pressed "send" and tucked the phone under his ear. He wondered briefly and not for the first time if he maybe should've told Pete what was going on, and decided again that no, Pete most definitely did not need to know what Patrick had gotten himself into this time.
"Why hello, Patrick," Spencer said. His voice was breathy and for reasons Patrick could not even begin to fathom, he was affecting a vaguely Southern accent.
"...hi," Patrick sighed. "Um. Spencer. Hi."
"What are you wearing, Patrick Stump?" Jon catcalled in the background, and there was a flurry of giggles. No, thought Patrick meanly. That? Was tittering.
"Tell your band they're not allowed to direct, okay?" Patrick muttered.
"Oh, Patrick, it's so sweet that you want me to enjoy my reward to the fullest."
"Listen, how was I supposed to know that Sisky was actually straight?" Patrick tried not to flail. "I thought for sure William would have at least given him a test run!"
"The fact remains, Mr. Stump," and Spencer was kind of... purring, a little, and Patrick fought off bizarre flashes of Spencer in a cat costume, twirling his tail and plotting world destruction. "You overestimated our dear Brendon, he failed in his task, and now Ryan collects on his bet. You are going to come through for us, aren't you?" he asked, and there was another round of titters in the background.
"Tell Ryan if he's so intent on collecting that he should own up like a man and get on the phone," Patrick insisted, to a wave of scandalized "oooOOOOH"s.
"Oh, no," Ryan called, sounding smug-- okay, more smug than usual, even. "Spencer bet on Brendon too, you know. But don't think of it as losing. Think of it as being united in your wrongness. And, you know, in sin."
"Sin?" Patrick boggled a little. "Listen, I'm booked for a command performance here. What are you guys doing with Spencer, or do I even want to know? Spencer! Are they violating you?"
"Wouldn't you like to know."
"Shut up, Brendon, if you were sexier I wouldn't be in this mess."
"If I were any sexier they wouldn't let me on TV," Brendon called back. "Spencer, don't cross your legs, that's cheating."
"...cheating?" Patrick pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Yes," Spencer said, and for a minute he was just Spencer again and Patrick breathed a little easier. "The deal for me is I'm, uh," and there was a brief flurry of noise in the background. Spencer held the phone away and yelled, "Shut up, you never said I couldn't tell him," then came back to inform Patrick that "Yeah, I'm not allowed to... you know."
"I really don't. What?"
"They bet me I wouldn't be able to, like, not get into it, you know? But they didn't say anything about you, so I think it's okay, just, uh. They might be-- checking. To make sure." Patrick could just see Spencer waving a hand nonchalantly, like it was totally normal for Patrick to finish that thought himself.
"ROSS," Patrick said, "You have a lot to answer for." He tried not to grin in case it translated into his speech. Spencer didn't need to know that he'd already bet Jon Walker a hundred dollars on the side that Spencer would be hard within fifteen minutes. One-fifty if Patrick could get him off in under twenty.
"And you're stalling," Ryan called back, barely audible over Spencer's agonized groaning. "Get to the good stuff, Patrick, we're waiting."
Patrick grumbled a little. "Spencer, seriously. Do you need me to call an adult for you? Because you don't, uh, you don't have to, you know, if it's a real thing. If you really don't want to."
There was a moment of terrifying silence.
"Aren't you an adult, Patrick?" Spencer was using that breathy voice again. Patrick shifted on the bed and wondered if the rest of the band could hear him moving, and if they'd know what was going on. Fuck, never mind. They asked him for a performance, and that's what they were going to get, dammit. Patrick was not going to pussy out on this bet. Panic would join forces with Pete and continue to announce to the world that he was devoid of game until he was forced to move to a cabin in the arctic fucking tundra from the humiliation of it all. He took a long moment to compose himself and relax his voice.
"And aren't you jailbait, Spencer?" He drew out Spencer's name, dropping down to a solid baritone, nice and easy. He breathed out slowly, leaning back a little against his headboard. His laptop whirred gently to his left, forgotten for the moment.
"Well, I suppose that depends on whether you want me to be," Spencer said. "Or what state we're in. What state are we in, guys?"
"Don't talk to them," Patrick cut in, smooth and firm. "Don't look at them, Spencer. You're talking to me."
"Uh-huh," said Spencer. He sounded bored.
-----
Pete dug through Andy's bunk. "Dude, seriously, I cannot find my hoody. See if I lend you anything again."
There was no reply from the front lounge.
"Andy?"
The bus door closed quietly. Pete caught a glimpse of Andy out the window, headed over to where Joe was talking to a few crazy fans who were surely freezing their asses off. He was just about to embark on a major fit of self-loathing for not pulling his weight with the fans when he heard a tiny noise from Patrick's room. Anyone would've listened closer, he told himself, even though he already had the distinct feeling that he maybe should not listen to anything Patrick was getting up to alone in his room at three o'clock in the morning. But-- Patrick could be in trouble! He could be dealing with a psycho stalker fan, or stuck under the bed or something, or maybe choking on his own tongue! Pete stuck around, just in case, to make sure he was okay. Just until you're sure he's not in trouble, he admonished himself, but didn't move from his spot outside Patrick's room.
-----
"Tell me yes," Patrick said. "Come on, let's do this."
"...Yes," said Spencer, and his voice sounded a little thinner. "Fuck, fine."
"It's better than fine," Patrick said. "It's going to be, anyway. Are you going to co-operate with me, Spencer? Are you going to do this with me?"
"Yes," said Spencer again, and Patrick thought maybe it was a tiny bit breathier that time round.
"Good," he said, soothing and low, taking his time with it. "You're going to be so good at this, I can tell."
"How do you know?" asked Spencer, smooth and cool, still removed, but Patrick was still just getting started. He had a lot of time, and he could be very convincing.
"Well, Spencer, I'm sure you're a good listener. I don't know if you're a good talker, but you know what? You don't really have to be. Just stay with me, here. Don't look at the guys, okay? You can look at them later, if you want to," he added, smirking. "But right now? Just focus on me."
"Okay," Spencer said dubiously.
"Are you sitting down somewhere comfortable?" Patrick asked. He shifted a little as he said it, starting to spread out on the bed a little. He reached out and closed his laptop, rolled over a little and set it down on the tiny shelf beside the bed. "Do you have room to move? Or are you crammed into a tiny spot, somewhere cramped and crowded?" He let himself exhale through his mouth, just enough into the phone that Spencer was sure to hear it.
"I'm in the back lounge," Spencer said. "It's a little more private than the front. Or it would be, if everybody weren't crammed in here with me." Patrick didn't need to see him to feel the glare Spencer was leveling at his bandmates.
Patrick cut it off before they could start bickering again. "And where are you sitting?"
"In the side seat, the smaller one. Everybody else is on the big couch."
"Spencer?"
"Yes?" He was sounding a little more relaxed now, and he sounded closer to the phone. Patrick thought about how easy this would be if he didn't have to share Spencer with his whole damn band, and then cut off the second half of that thought and stuck with how easily he was going to get Spencer off. He'd do better if he psyched himself up, got into the mindset, just like playing a show. Contrary to Pete's (very loud) opinion, he did have game, and this was something about which Patrick had no false modesty. He was good at this, and he knew it, and he wasn't above abusing his power.
"Stop looking at them. Stop thinking about them. They're not involved. You know who's involved here? You and me. That's it. I don't want you to have another thought that isn't about the two of us," Patrick instructed, lazily, easily. "So tell me what you're thinking about."
Spencer stalled a little. "Um-- I'm--"
"Right now. Don't stop to think up an excuse, just tell me. What's on your mind?" Patrick was hedging his bets, trying to figure out if Spencer would get off faster if Patrick let him take control. It was somehow less weird for Patrick to direct the performance himself, but even through his power-of-positive thinking determination, a small worried voice at the back of his mind wondered what would happen if he put himself out there like that and failed. He squashed the voice flat, and Spencer's next sentence went a long way to reassure him.
"I'm wondering if I'm going to make it," Spencer said. "I mean, I'm okay now, but-- you're, like, serious, and I'm kind of nervous." There were some derisive laughs in the background, but at least it seemed mostly good-natured. Patrick gave the others two minutes before they started talking back again.
"Last chance, Spencer. Back out now and call it off, or I'm going to keep going and assume that it's okay," Patrick warned, but he wasn't playing fair. He was kind of crooning, kind of husky, and getting entirely too ahead of himself, he thought sternly.
"No, it's--" Spencer broke off to swallow and take a deep breath. "No. Keep going."
"Ask me nicely," Patrick told him, and Spencer was much quicker this time, his breath catching a little as he said "Keep going, please," his voice just a little thinner.
"I thought you might say that," Patrick said. "Because, you know, I'm really getting into things myself, and I was hoping you'd be getting into them with me." He shifted around, tugging a little at his jeans, making enough noise that Spencer couldn't mistake what he was doing. "Are you all folded up in your chair, Spencer? You should stretch out a little, get comfortable. That's what I'm doing."
"Okay," Spencer said, unsure. "Yeah, I had my legs all folded up under me, but now I'm just letting them stretch out. And I'm slouching a little. But - it doesn't - I don't really feel like that's super-hot information, Patrick."
"That's not true at all," Patrick told him, celebrating the small victory of Spencer's confidence in him. "It's not, Spencer, you have to think about what that information is going to do to me."
"Do to you?" Spencer asked quietly. His voice was much huskier now, and Patrick had to strain to hear the buzzing whispers and rustling of Brendon and Ryan and Jon on the couch, just a touch louder than regular speakerphone static. They were behaving, and Patrick disguised his sigh of relief as a soft, soft breathy moan.
"Yes. Thinking about your legs, now, and you have such gorgeous long legs. Probably strong, too. Are you ticklish? Or would you like it if I kissed them? Bit them?"
Spencer's sharp inhale was clearly audible. Patrick focused on it and disregarded the spike of background noise, but when Spencer muttered "Shut up or get out" at someone who was definitely not him, he figured Spencer was all set to lose his end of the bet. Patrick grinned, alone in his room, and let his hand stray to his own belt loops, wriggling a little and running his fingers idly over the waist of his jeans, giving a small satisfied sigh.
"You like it when I talk about you? Or do you want to hear about me?" Patrick offered. He figured it was a generous choice, even if it did lead to a lose-lose situation for Spencer and Jon.
"Want to hear about you," Spencer said, and damned if he didn't sound almost shy there for a minute. Patrick hummed a little.
"Does it turn you on when I talk about myself?" Patrick had no idea how this would play out, but he was delighted with the reply.
"Yes," and that was almost a moan. Spencer Smith was definitely almost-moaning, and Patrick heard him moving again.
"I'll tell you what I'm doing, Spencer. I'm lying back against my pillows, here, and I'm thinking about opening up my jeans, but I think I want to hear you talking a little more before I get into it. So I'm just playing around with the button and the belt loops and leaning back, pushing my shirt up a little bit." He breathed easily and smoothly. "Are you doing the same thing?"
"I'm - not yet, no," Spencer said.
"Okay, that's fine," said Patrick, "take your time. But move around a little. I bet your tight jeans are getting to be kind of uncomfortable, they must be."
"Well, they're not that tight," Spencer said, sounding almost apologetic. "But I, uh, I took off my button-down shirt, and now I just have my thin T-shirt on?"
"Mmm," Patrick said, not quite moaning, but certainly humming his approval in a lower register than usual, his voice gaining strength and a breathy edge that was really not easy for him to fake. He ran a hand down his stomach and over his jeans, letting out a tiny, soft "oh".
"I want you to enjoy yourself, Spencer," Patrick said, knowing that he was being cruel and evil and slowly becoming too turned on to care.
"I am?"
"You don't sound so sure. You know, if I were there, I'd make you a lot more comfortable," Patrick threw out, and there-- he could finally hear it, the unmistakable moan; a real turned-on, half-frustrated voice with a deep, solid undercurrent and a bright ring.
"Want to know what I'd do?" Patrick wasn't exactly purring. He was murmuring, though, and he'd kind of reached a point of no return - if he was going to continue, he was going to need a little more encouragement. "I want to tell you, but first I need to know what you want, whatever it is. What would you want me to do?"
Spencer choked out a noise that was somewhere between a surprised "me?" and a deep, excited "mm-hmm."
"Oh, god, yeah," Patrick said, "don't hold back, I want to hear it. Would you want me to touch you? Want to touch me, Spencer? Because you can, if you want to. Come on, tell me what you want." He wasn't so much giving orders anymore as moaning wantonly (and starting to get hard, too, but Spencer didn't need to know that part was for real); he thought briefly that he probably could be a touch less shameless about the whole thing, but he wasn't incredibly surprised when Spencer finally signed on and started forming sentences of his own.
"I want -- I want you to," Spencer said. He was starting to breathe heavy enough that it was almost panting. "I mean. Will you? Or-- would you?"
"You have to say it," Patrick said, kindly but with no room for debate.
"Touch me, please. Patrick," said Spencer in one rushed breath, the words tumbling over each other like he wasn't sure he could get them out if he stopped to think about them.
"Yes," said Patrick, "Yes. I'd probably go just a little rough on you, Spencer - would you like that, if I pushed you back with one hand and undid your jeans with the other?"
"Nngh," was Spencer's reply.
"Stay with me, Spencer. Should I slow down and take it easy on you?"
"No," and Spencer took another deep breath. "No."
"Good, good. I wouldn't want to, either. I'd want to shove you a little, push your jeans down but maybe not take them off." Patrick reached for the button of his jeans; they were officially too tight for him now, and he was anxious to move it along. He had a lot of timing issues to deal with, and he wanted to come, too, since he was already so far into it.
"Would I find you hard for me when I did that?" For a moment he didn't think Spencer was listening, and he frowned, thinking maybe he was cheating by not paying attention. Then he heard a frustrated, strangled noise and got a clearer picture. "Why don't you undo your jeans, now, and tell me?"
"Fuck," Spencer groaned. "I'm not supposed to--"
"Spencer," Patrick said, and it's clear and sharp and loud all of a sudden. "Listen. Fuck what you're supposed to do. Are you going to let me get you off? Because I have a feeling that you've already lost your bet, and you fucking know I'll make it worth your while, and it won't be the first fucking time you've jerked off in a room with your band, am I right?"
"Yes," and Spencer was a little louder, now, a little more sure, and a little less worried, but just as tense. "You are. Right."
"Tell me what I'll find, then," Patrick demanded. "What's going to happen, Spencer? You tell me."
"Fuck, okay, yes, I'm hard. Jesus, Patrick, of course I'm hard. I want more," Spencer said, and Patrick wondered if that counted as begging, because that would be worth an extra fifty bucks right there.
"Good," Patrick growled, really growled, "because I'm undoing my own jeans, now, and I'm not done with you yet."
He listened for Spencer's breath, loud and clear, speeding up and building momentum. "Fuck, if I were there, I'd just shove my hand into your jeans and start jerking you, whether you were ready for it or not. Dry and just a little rough, just a little bit too hard, but not quite fast enough."
Spencer stammered out his agreement.
"Do it," Patrick ordered. "Do it now." He didn't stop to listen for Spencer following his instructions, he just popped the button on his jeans and worked his fly down. He paused before shimmying the jeans down and off his hips, hearing a little bit of movement.
"Spencer? Are you doing what I told you?"
"I'm just - I'm a little nervous about --"
"Okay, yeah, that's fine. Just imagine it, then. My hand on your dick. Imagine that I'm leaning in close so you can feel my breath on your face. Gripping you hard, until you have to hiss air in through your teeth."
On the other end of the phone, Spencer did just that. Patrick grinned and rubbed the heel of his hand down to the base of his own dick, pressing down hard and letting his quick, uneven gasp travel cleanly through the phone.
"I'm - okay, okay," Spencer said, "Yeah, okay. I'm doing it."
Something proud and sharp burned in Patrick's chest. Just like when he was onstage, he knew his audience could tell if he was truly enjoying it or if he was faking, and right now, curling his fingers and starting to move in earnest, he was definitely enjoying himself. He was pretty sure it was paying off in spades, too.
"Oh, yeah, yeah," he said, not panting or anything, just signaling that he was still breathing, still moving. "Tell me what it's like."
"It's, uh, it's a little uncomfortable, like this. But it's not bad, it's just, you know."
"A little exposed? It's just like being onstage, you know." Patrick's voice was getting a little rougher, and he was careful to keep it deep and his diction very clear, so the whole damn band could hear him. "But you can't hide behind your kit, now, this is you front and center, starring in this show for me. Just for me," Patrick said.
Spencer, breathy, echoed him right away. "For you."
"Fucking right," Patrick told him. "Do you like this? What we're doing now?"
"Yes," Spencer said.
"Are you still jerking yourself off?"
"No, I--"
"I didn't tell you to stop," Patrick interrupted, the gravel all but gone from his voice. "You don't stop 'till we're finished. Put your hand back on your cock, right now."
Someone in the background moaned.
"Hear that, Spencer? Who was that, moaning? Can you tell them apart by the way they sound?"
"I can see them, still," said Spencer, and Patrick could hear his eyes rolling. "That was Brendon. He's very excited to be here." Patrick was worried that he'd lose Spencer to the sarcasm if he kept stopping to coddle him, and he only had twelve minutes left.
"Forget about Brendon, man, this has nothing to do with him. Brendon's got the right idea. He knows a good thing when he hears it, and at least he's enjoying himself. I'm waiting for you, Spencer, this is about you. So you should either hang up now, or you should start really, really listening to me, okay? Close your eyes and just listen."
Spencer's reply was much quicker in coming than Patrick had expected. "Jesus," Spencer moaned, "Of course I'm fucking listening to you, do you know what you fucking sound like? Talking dirty to me like that - and you think I'm what, sitting here doing nothing about it?"
"Then let me hear you. Do it," Patrick ordered, and he could hear a thunk that was Spencer's head falling back on the chair. Patrick started moving his own hand a little faster, irregularly but picking up speed.
"Less talk, more rock!" yelled Jon from across the lounge. There was an outburst of giggling - tittering - from the peanut gallery. Patrick clamped down on his own grin, managed not to chuckle, and waited until the worst of it had died down.
"Fuck you, Jon," Patrick called. "Fine, fine, Jesus, so much for being a gentleman. Guys?" He did his best to address the room at large authoritatively, without snapping too far out of it - that would just get Spencer worried that he wasn't into it, and he'd never get anywhere.
"What's Spencer's weak spot?" He asked the rest of the band. "Gimme something here, this kid's moving way too slow for me."
Spencer sputtered, but it was lost under a wave of noise coming from the rest of the band.
"Make with the moaning!"
"He digs the juicy parts," Ryan said, "obviously."
"You're a juicy part."
"The taste is gonna move ya, Jonny," Ryan shot straight back.
"Don't bore him, get to the chorus!"
"Brendon, you dork," Jon said kindly, "That only works if it's 'don't bore us.' "
"Well, he's not boring me," said Brendon, then lowered his voice to do a surprisingly passable Patrick impression. "But this isn't about me. This is about Spencer."
Ryan snickered.
Patrick sighed. This was going nowhere, and fast. Faster than Brendon's smartass motormouth, even.
"Brendon," he cut in, deep and powerful. "Can you hear me?"
"Um," Brendon stuttered, sounding far away. "Isn't that the point?"
"No," Patrick told him, speaking quickly but clearly. "Don't fuck around here, Urie. Quit mouthing off, or I will reach through this fucking phone and shut you up myself. If I were there I'd have fucking gagged you by now, tied your hands behind your back so you couldn't touch yourself, no matter how bad you wanted to, and then left you facing the corner so you could hear everything but you still wouldn't know who was coming up behind you. Do you understand me?" Patrick was a little shocked at his own violence, but he had a reputation to uphold, here.
Brendon's voice was much quieter and more polite. "Yes, Patrick."
"That goes for you two as well. You have no idea how lucky you are, getting a show like this, so just shut up and enjoy it."
"'Kay," said Jon, and Patrick was pretty sure that signaled a major victory. Ryan just said "Mm-hmm," in his same disaffected tone, but it was a fourth higher than usual, and Patrick smiled with teeth.
"Now. Spencer." His voice ran quieter and a little smoother, though not sweeter. "Let me tell you what I want to do to you."
"Unh," said Spencer. "Please."
"Close your eyes, first. Close your eyes, and I want you to undo your jeans, okay?" He waited for Spencer to hum his agreement. "Good. Now you can touch yourself any way you like, but you can't come, not yet." Patrick checked his watch. He had nine minutes. He'd worked with less.
A sudden rise in the background noise made him think otherwise. And he'd just played his trump card with Brendon. Fuck.
"Jon Walker, are you causing trouble?" he asked, not bothering to stop his steady stroking. "Fuck you, man. Do something for me."
"Who's fucking who here?" Jon wondered. "What do you want from me?"
"Turn off the lights,” Patrick told him.
"And turn off the shyness?" Ryan asked, and there was a swift movement and a muttered curse.
"Thank you, whoever hit Ryan for me."
"You're welcome," Brendon said, sounding small and kind of nervous.
"Is it dark, now, Spencer?"
"Yeah," Spencer said, and his voice was quieter now but even lower, not the sweet strong speaking voice Patrick knew but an authoritative rasp. "Yeah, it's easier, fuck."
"It'll be much easier, Spencer, it's like it's just the two of us, okay? Nobody can see what you're doing, so don't hold back."
"Okay," came the small, breathy reply.
"Now, I think I was saying something about backing you into a wall and jerking you off, dry and rough. I think I'd let that go until you started to whimper just a little, because it would probably be too much for you, and eventually you'd speak up, right?"
"Right," Spencer moaned, and Patrick knew he was well on his way.
"So tell me, what would you say to me? Would you say anything? Or would you just keep letting me do it? What would you do when it started to hurt?" Patrick pushed at his jeans and didn't hide his own moans when he finally got his hand back around his cock.
"I'd probably... grab at your wrist," Spencer said, sounding more like he was answering a test question.
"Don't tell me," Patrick spat out. "Say it to me. Make the noise, do what you'd do."
"Oh," said Spencer, more to himself. "I'd--" there was a pause, and then Patrick heard a gorgeous high whine, thin and quiet. His dick jumped at the noise.
Spencer breathed out three more of the sweet, high noises; the fourth was broken in the middle, voice cut off, and replaced by a few pained stutters. Then there was silence.
"...at least I think that's what I'd do," Spencer said.
Patrick groaned. "Fuck's sake, you fucking pant at me like that, I'd even back off for you, Smith. Just for a minute, but I'd make you lick my hand before I grabbed your dick again. I'd leave the door open, too, I want everybody to hear you making that noise for me. And I'd still go rough on you, just a little faster, because it'd be easier now. And you'd be closer, too, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," Spencer said.
"Right now? Are you getting closer? Tell me what I'm missing so I can fill it in while I jack myself off, here."
"Oh, god, really?"
"Of course, really," Patrick panted. "I can fake it if I want, but it's so much fun like this. I'm so fucking hard talking about it, I'm just going steady, kind of slow, waiting for you, really."
"I'm there," Spencer said. His voice was a little shredded, and Patrick felt more than a little proud. "I'm just-- I'm getting started, I just got distracted."
"Are you thinking about it? About me backing you into a wall, taking what I want?"
Spencer groaned, and Patrick could hear his voice shaking in time with his movements. "Maybe I'd like it like that, yeah."
"What would you like more, Spencer?" Patrick's voice was deep and unashamedly sex-rough, surprisingly present even to his own ears without its usual careful sheen of tone and projection. "Want to push me around? Want to tell me what to do? You tell me, this is all about what you want."
"I don't know. I don't. I just, I want." Spencer's voice was almost as low as his, but more husky.
"Maybe I'd let you take over a little, then, if you want it so much," Patrick said, and it was definitely a challenge. "Could you do it?"
"Could I - fuck yes, Patrick, I could do it, Jesus," Spencer said brokenly.
"Yeah? Pin me against the wall, press into me and grab my hip, lean in and make me touch you?"
"Yeah," Spencer moaned. "Back against the wall, maybe into a corner, and then just keep going until you can't move anywhere."
"Oh, shit, yes, Spencer, tell me, I'm so fucking hard --" Patrick broke off to breathe and to jerk himself off without the motion fucking up his speech too badly. Five minutes, five and a half maybe.
Spencer whimpered a little, but he didn't answer. Patrick was pretty much a pro at getting himself off quickly, so at least he wasn't worried about his own orgasm; he was a little distressed at the lack of a status report from Spencer, but he tried not to let it show.
"Don't get quiet on me, okay? Let's give the boys something to listen to while they touch themselves in the dark. Because listening to this, I guarantee you, they'll want to. Fuck, I want to go rough on myself and come now, I want to so bad I'm not even sure I can wait for you, Spencer."
"You have to," Spencer countered, and Patrick celebrated a small victory - Spencer was finally speaking up.
"Why's that?"
"Because this is all about me. You said so. And I don't want you to come yet, I want you to--" Spencer broke off with a stifled grunt and drew a deep breath. "Want you to wait until I'm ready."
"Are you close?" Patrick asked him. "I'm so close, hearing you talk to me. Going light on myself, now."
"Let me hear it," Spencer said, unashamed and without a pause. "God, Patrick."
Patrick didn't hold back then, stroking lightly but steadily, letting his breathing hitch and stutter and gasping out small moans. He started moving a little faster, gripping his dick a little harder and taking an extra half-beat to skim over the head. His gasps turned into low whines, long full tones with a sweet desperate undercurrent. When he was sure the phone wouldn't fall from where his shoulder had pushed it up, he finally let go of it and used his left hand to bat away the rest of his clothing. He reached down to cup his balls and squeeze gently, swearing loudly and talking in a steady, coarse stream.
"Fuck, yes, feels so fucking good. God, it's fucking amazing. Just thinking about your hands, big and warm and perfect, and your strong fingers, and the things they could do to my cock. I'd want to touch you the same way, go just as rough, however you liked it."
"Yes, Patrick, please," Spencer whined, nasal and low and unbroken. He cried out sharply. "Please," he said.
"Are you close? Going to come for me?"
"I'm, I want to, yes, soon," Spencer panted, babbling. Patrick checked his watch. Three minutes.
"Oh, god, Spencer, your face - I bet you're fucking beautiful when you come. Locking up a little and going tight, staring at me, at my fingers on your cock, moving so fast, now. I bet you'd love to watch yourself come all over my hand, feel it hot and wet. Would you like it if I licked it off?" Patrick asked, and now he was the one going farther than he'd thought, but it was okay, something about knowing it was dark and Spencer was so close made it okay.
Spencer wasn't answering.
"Spencer," he demanded. "Tell me."
-----
Pete wobbled to his feet, trying not to stumble into anything, cursing his stupid restricting jeans and his stupid weak-willed brain. In his defense, he reasoned, he didn't know a single human being who could resist that kind of distraction, but the fact remained that he'd done it again, this thing with Patrick that he kept insisting to himself was not a thing, shut up.
He stood up and had to shoot out an arm for something solid when he heard Patrick's rough, husky moan; Pete suppressed a crazy urge to burst into his room and ask him something, anything, stupid questions, just to hear that voice a little longer. Then he heard Patrick's breath catch and his fingers gripped the edge of Andy's bunk so hard the plastic frame creaked.
Pete froze. He gulped in the breath that hitched and swelled in his throat.
Then he heard a rustling noise from Patrick's room and bolted off the fucking bus, snatching a hoody to hold in front of him as he fled. He held the door all the way as it shut and prayed to everything he could think of that Patrick wouldn't hear it. Pete couldn't even conceive of how much trouble he'd be in if Patrick heard it, and his powers of imagination were immense, especially when it came to How Shit Might Go Bad For Him.
It didn't stop him from barreling onto his own bus and straight through the crowd. "Phone call," he panted lamely, not even caring about the group of guys raising havoc in the lounge as he slammed the flimsy door. He scrabbled at his jeans, swearing under his breath, and managed to wrench his shirt off before he grabbed his dick roughly. His mind grabbed wildly onto the few full phrases Patrick had said that he could remember perfectly.
"I bet you're fucking beautiful when you come," he heard Patrick say on the instant replay in his head, and Pete came after a few hard strokes, gasping and twisting and shaking with how good it was and how fucked up. He fell onto the bed, feeling around weakly for his T-shirt and sticking it between him and his covers until he could move enough to clean up.
"Fucking Patrick," he panted into his pillow. He was sure the pillow would agree.
He tugged his jeans up over his ass and wiped off with his T-shirt, drifting off a little with the strains of Patrick's low, urgent voice in his ears. He was sure it would go away, this thing with Patrick. It came in waves and it always died down. This was just a bad patch.
Or maybe it was just the talking thing. Maybe, Pete thought, maybe it wasn't Patrick so much as it was a reaction to how hot phone sex was, like, in general. Pete's experience with phone sex was pretty much limited to cheap jokes about the Sidekick Pictures, but he was pretty sure he could figure it out. He smiled a little, drifted a little, and eventually settled into an early night of almost-sleep.
-----
Patrick didn't have long to wait for Spencer to speak up.
"Yes, God, yes, want to push you hard, make you keep touching me. Want to watch you touch yourself, too," he said, his voice clearing halfway through like he was ready to start being ashamed of what he was saying.
"You know what I'd do, if I were there with you?" Patrick's voice went slow and full as he went in for the kill, but his breath was still quick and loud, no mistaking what he was doing.
"No," Spencer said, unsure. Patrick threw in a loud groan and Spencer echoed it. He could hear form the spikes in the groan that Spencer was moving faster and faster. He had to be close, now, he must be.
"I'd take us both," Patrick said, "push my hips up to yours so there'd be room to watch." In his room, his hips arched off the bed, skin flushed pink and hot with the thought of it. "Wrap one of my hands around both of our cocks, let them slide together, wet and hard and hot. Line them up so I can jack us both off at once, so you can feel how close I am, how bad I want to come, and then I'd wrap your hand around mine, so you can tell me how tight to go, how fast. I bet you'd want it pretty hard, now, wouldn't you?"
"Holy shit, Patrick," Spencer said, most of his voice gone, just murmuring now. "So fucking hot, holy shit."
"Like it?" Patrick did. Never mind the game - if he didn't come in the next two minutes his dick would never forgive him.
"Keep going," Spencer said, "I want to hear you."
"Want to hear me come, Spencer?"
"Fuck, yes, yes Patrick, I do," Spencer said, not quite begging, but not far from it. "Keep going."
"Keep stroking you? Both of us? I don't think you'd last, Spencer, I wouldn't last long, and I'd want you to come first, you know. I'd speed up, rubbing our cocks together, probably thrusting up into my hand a little, so you could feel my hand and my cock, both moving against you, hot and perfect, until I could see you start to come apart, and then I'd back off just long enough for you to catch a breath." Patrick didn't wait that long, though; he wasn't interested in stretching this conversation any further.
"I'd tighten my hand and move fast, so tight around you, and I'd move right up close to your ear and let you hear what you were doing to me, how good it felt." Patrick gave Spencer a half-dozen sharp, shallow, gasping breaths. "So fucking hard, now, so close."
Spencer moaned, a short burst of sound like he'd been punched in the stomach. Patrick didn't give him a second to recover.
"And I'd fucking watch as you shuddered and yelled and you bucked your hips up, sliding perfect against my fingers, and I'd squeeze harder, much harder, one last time, so you'd stop breathing for a minute and then come all over both of us, all over our hands, your cock twitching against mine, your hot come landing on my hand. Fuck, and I wouldn't stop stroking either, I wouldn't stop moving till you begged me to."
Spencer wasn't talking any more, but he didn't exactly need to signal Patrick that he was close. Even over the noise Patrick's own hand was making on his dick, he could hear Spencer moving, wet and slippery and unmistakable and very, very fast. He wasn't sure, but he thought he could hear other noises in the background, and for a moment regretted that he couldn't stop to find out what was going on with the other three.
"That would tip me over the edge, too," Patrick told him, steadfastly ignoring the urge to check his watch. "I'd watch your face as you fucking came and called my name, and I'd come, dick jumping and pressing against yours, my hand so fast and hard it's just a second from real pain."
"--Patrick," Spencer gasped, and then there was the noise of him writhing in the chair and starting to let the short, rhythmic moans take over his breathing. "I'm gonna, I'm - don't stop."
"I'm not stopping, I'm so fucking close. I'd stay pressed right up next to you, too, so you could hear me, every second, the two of us locked tight in my hand and coming together, fuck, yes," Patrick moaned, clear and loud and strong. "Don't stop moving, come for me, let me hear you. I'm going to come so fucking hard--"
Spencer called his name; the short gasps turned to long, loud, unsteady moans.
"Fuck, gonna come, God yes," Patrick said, and he let go, feeling it through his whole body. His shoulders pressed down into the mattress as his hips thrust up into the air, into his fist; Patrick came hard and steady over his stomach and hand, streaking his stomach as his muscles stretched taut in his thighs, down his legs.
Spencer wasn't listening any more, he was only calling out in quick bursts, still moving on the other end of the phone.
For a few moments they were working themselves together, moaning, gasping, and Spencer hissed as Patrick felt his body start to go slack, heavy and sated. He scrabbled for the phone at his side.
"Spencer."
"Holy fucking shit, Patrick."
"That good, huh," Patrick said, but it wasn't really a question. "God, that was fucking amazing."
"Um. Yeah. Yeah, it was," Spencer said, a little strained and a lot hoarse. He could hear Spencer shifting, probably grabbing for tissues; Patrick rolled over a little, reached out for the drawer of his bedside table, and did the same. He heard a frantic crescendo of tiny noises, crashes and scratching sweeping noises, and then someone snatching up Spencer's phone.
"Marry me, Patrick," Brendon begged. "Oh, my God, marry me or at least come and do that for me for my birthday present, please, I'll do anything."
"Put down the phone, Brendon, or I'm not saying a damn thing to you," Patrick told him, and added, "Give it back to Spencer, please," before Brendon could drop it.
He could hear Brendon shoving the phone towards Spencer through the static waves of rough noise that came through as it was manhandled. "Here, here, here, take it, where are you Spencer, here, take it from me, thanks."
"So--" started Spencer, and then Ryan and Jon broke in from somewhere behind him, their catcalls still shrill but with a lot less fuel behind them.
"Patrick, you whore," Jon called, "You break our drummer, you've gotta sub in, okay?"
"I'm going to make sure you never -- OW, Jon, watch my foot -- win another round of bets," Ryan said, "that was way too good to pass up."
"Too late," Patrick said. "Check your watch, Jon, but I think I won with about thirty seconds to spare."
Spencer made a shocked choking noise. "WHAT?"
"Worth every second," Jon said. "And worth way more than a hundred and fifty. I should've given you half an hour. And brought a microphone."
"WHAT?" That was Brendon. Spencer hissed at him. "Where are you, in my eardrum? Stop yelling!"
"...maybe night vision goggles," Jon added thoughtfully, and giggled. "Ryan, you're not even close, you're just slapping at my elbow-- OUCH!"
Patrick chuckled, and he could hear Brendon shifting away and apologizing vaguely to Spencer. He let his voice drop right back down to where it had been a few minutes ago, didn't hide the breath rushing through it or slow down his harsh panting. "Sorry, Spencer, but for what it's worth? That was all for you, and every second was a hundred percent real."
Spencer's choking noise was still shocked, but a little more subdued.
"You boys should clean up before you turn the lights on," he added. His voice was a little less sex-rough, but he didn't want Spencer to feel left out and he didn't have the energy or the will to fake it entirely, so it was still raspy as he continued.
"Next round starts in a few days, you know. Don't worry, Spencer, I'll think of something suitable for Jon."
"I owe you a stack of money! That's not suitable?"
"Money doesn't count as a Sweet Prize, Jon, you know that," Ryan told him. Patrick could have sworn he sounded almost gleeful under his usual disaffected drone.
"Right," said Patrick, "I'm going to go, now, while you boys work this one out. The rest of you can email me your suggestions for Jon, okay?"
"Wait, what? Hey!" Jon sounded equal parts indignant and terrified.
"Hope you enjoyed your bedtime story, kids," Patrick laughed, low and raw. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Patrick," Brendon called, Ryan and Spencer echoing close behind, and Patrick hung up to Jon's continued distant protests and Spencer's sweet, rough breath.
-----
The meet and greet had gone well enough - Patrick was more animated than usual, because he thought he had seen Pete hanging back, and he wanted everyone to have some kind of meaningful interaction with the band. It's not like fans were hard to get along with, generally, so it wasn't a big deal for him to make some small talk.
On their way out, he clapped a hand to Pete's shoulder. "All right?"
"Yeah," muttered Pete, the two of them trudging steadily down the mile-long stadium hallway. "Just weird. Back to the - you know. It's me and Joe again, and friends."
"Oh." Ashlee had left a few days before to work on her own album. Patrick had talked to her about it a little while she was around, but didn't get too far into the specifics. He had wondered if Ashlee was trying to get him to work on the album, and whether he was being rude by not at least extending an empty offer - but in either case, the work had to be done, so she had to go. Pete had spent the first night being as rowdy as he could - not like her being there had ever stopped him, but the mild festivities were a good distraction for him.
"Whatever, man, it's no big deal. You're still here," Pete said, and threw an arm around Patrick's shoulders, leaning on him a little as they made their way to the dressing rooms.
"Your wish, my command," Patrick said. "I'm even coming over tonight,"
"Whoa, little guy," Pete said, leaning back a little, bemused. "It's okay, you know, you don't actually have to fill in for her."
Patrick made a face at him and stuck out his tongue.
"Shit, Patrick," and Pete was laughing now, "what exactly are you offering, there? Because I see potential, but maybe your skills could use some work?"
Patrick hip-checked him, lightly, but Pete wouldn't let go, just tugged him in closer, still laughing.
"For your information," Patrick said haughtily, "I'm coming to see Joe, not you."
"Of course you are, sugar bean," Pete said. "Don't worry, I won't rush you, you tell yourself whatever you gotta tell yourself-- OW!" He leaned heavily on Patrick, hopping along and trying to clutch at his big toe where Patrick had stomped it. "You asshole, I need this foot and it's been through a lot, okay?"
"Love you too, sugar bean," Patrick shot back. "Shut up."
Pete did, mostly, save for a few grumbles about his toe and an extensive appeal (ultimately unsuccessful) to Patrick to carry him back to the dressing room.
-----
The show was a lot more demanding for Patrick now that Pete mostly had full mobility again, and tonight especially, it was like he'd been possessed by all of the monkeys from the Memories video at their frolicking, destructive worst. At least he wasn't doing anything too stupid, no high jumps or anything - but Patrick was sure that his luck was ready to give out in the "How Long Can Stump Evade The Flying Headstocks And/Or Bandmates" Sweepstakes, so he played it close to the crowd and did a lot of watching out of the corner of his eye.
During "Gin Joints," Pete was playing on his back, hips working at the air, and winked at Patrick when he saw him watching. Patrick smiled and kept singing.
During the heavy intro riff to "Thriller", Pete came up on his left and they did some synchronized headbanging. Joe got in on it too eventually and Patrick hoped he could find a picture of this later, because this was one of those stupid moments worth catching on film, the three of them headbanging like crazy, in sync, and everyone in the pit probably doing it along with them. Pete kissed him on the cheek and waltzed away just as he was drawing breath for the first line, and Patrick was proud of himself that the twitch of his response was completely absent from his voice.
During the intro to "XO," Pete reached out and grabbed his hand, hoisting it high like he'd just won a boxing match, as he told the crowd "this is me and you" and they screamed their collective heads off. Patrick let it run until the very last second, letting Joe take care of the intro and singing with one hand stuck way up in the air, fingers laced with Pete's.
When they started into "Mr. Brightside", all of Patrick's senses went into overdrive as he tried fruitlessly to sing, play, interact with the crowd, not fall over, and track Pete all at the same time. Pete wasn't dumb, of course, and it was no surprise to Patrick when he launched into the pre-chorus and got a nose to the back of his neck. Pete's face was hot and wet, and Patrick could feel the heat rolling off his body. He tried to stay still, stay steady, but when Pete reached out just a little further and licked the back of his neck, Patrick knew he'd given the game away in his voice when he tried to sing "It's taking control." After that, there was no escaping Pete, who backed up for the chorus but zoomed right back to him for the second verse. Patrick tried to fake left and dodge out of it, but it was a halfhearted move; he knew Pete's affections, once his intentions were set, were nearly impossible to escape. And they weren't usually so terrible, at that.
Patrick saw Pete moving behind him and relented, staying still and even offering up his cheek for a kiss.
Pete grabbed his collar and bit his neck, instead, sucking for a split second and leaving Patrick breathless and burning red in the middle of the stage, a stadium full of fans screaming the end of the line back at him.
-----
After the set, when Patrick came offstage, his tech handed him water and a towel, and he hadn't even gotten the bottle open when Pete came scurrying up, yanked at his collar, and winced at the red mark already forming.
"What are you-- oh, Christ," Patrick groaned, looking down. "You take a class in speed hickeys or what?"
"Natural gift?"
"Can I exchange it for a Pete who doesn't abuse me onstage?"
"Uh," Pete said, "sorry, they're not making any more of me."
"That's probably for the best," Patrick sighed. "It's okay, Pete, just - yeah, it's fine."
"I love you?" Pete tried, throwing his arms around Patrick for a moment before they were forcibly separated by their techs and strapped back into their respective instruments. Patrick mock-scowled at Pete and earned himself a full-on Wentzface in return, and then they were both laughing. Someone - Patrick's tech - tugged at Patrick's collar, pulling it up over the aftermath of Pete's flying molestation. Mark was a thing of wonder and beauty, and Patrick made a mental note to tell him that more often.
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Bonus Tracks/Enhanced Content
Made-of-win Fanmix by 26days
Pairing(s): Patrick/Spencer (Patrick/Panic), Pete/Ashlee, Pete/Patrick
Word Count: ~35,000 (!)
Rating/Warnings: NC-17 (um, of course, it's me). Dirty talk, blatant violations of canon, casual sex, phone sex, and exhibition/voyeurism; roughly 50% porn, no nutritional value.
Disclaimer: This is a work of (epic) fiction and I don't mean any harm by it. If you're reading about yourself or your friends, please don't tell anyone you were here.
Author's Notes under the cut.
Summary: Pete probably shouldn't have told the world that Patrick Stump had no game, and he *definitely* shouldn't have told Panic at the Disco. When he overhears Patrick doing damage control by the most efficient and evil method, his brain veers straight into the gutter. In typical Pete fashion, he is totally unable to conceal his... distraction from Patrick, and as a result, ends up doing a lot of flailing, panting, and beelining towards his room. Because Patrick Stump is an evil mastermind, and he knows exactly how to make Pete admit the error of his ways.
A/N: Oh wow, it's done. I can has victory! Big thanks to nafs and in_decisions for serious hand-holding. They're like the betas for my life. whoyouinvent and kaizoku were awesomely patient and betaed this with amazing speed and clarity, and wicked senses of humour. Thank you to thesamefire and ubixtiz for maintaining epic patience in the face of my wailing, and for helping me maintain some semblance of hope. I cannot thank you all enough.
PS: nafs, one day I hope to write the epilogue you suggested, since the very concept was hot enough to stop me in my tracks in the middle of traffic. Finally, I'd like to thank/blame hardly_happy, who mentioned months ago that maybe I should write a phone sex fic. Here you go!
Overheard ("Less Talk, More Rock")
"Do you and Pete Wentz sit home and play checkers instead of going out partying, now that you have real significant others?"
Pete threw a piece of popcorn at the bus lounge TV. "Those assholes. I do not play checkers. Now Uno, that's a man's game."
"Pick that up, Pete, would you?" Joe called.
"Hemmy, go get it, boy," Pete said, nudging the dog, who obligingly vacuumed that section of linoleum while coating it thoroughly with doggie spit.
"Shh," said Patrick, "you're the one who wanted to watch."
Onscreen, Ryan leaned in to the TRL host's outstretched mic and said evenly, "Well, Brendon's our only single band member right now-" The screams took a moment to die out, and Brendon did an excellent job of not turning bright red.
"-so sometimes we send him out to play wingman to Patrick from Fall Out Boy, 'cause he has terrible luck picking up at parties and clubs or whatever."
"He's on tour right now, but he's totally nursing his wounds from his last round of unsuccessful attempts to charm the ladies," Brendon chimed in happily. There was more screaming.
Patrick turned the exact shade of red he'd been so happy that Brendon had avoided and turned slowly to face Pete on the couch.
"Uh?" Pete said. "Dunno where they would've gotten that idea."
"Pete, we just went out for drinks, I didn't realize you were basing my whole reputation on it." Patrick said. "I told you, I wasn't even looking to pick up."
Pete knew enough at that point to keep his mouth shut and look innocent.
"Don't look at me in that tone of voice," Patrick said. "I will cut you with your own deck of Uno cards, bitch."
Pete broke down into giggles, a full-on crying fit which lasted through most of the ensuing barrage of obscenity and projectiles.
"How many people did you tell that I had no game, you lousy motherfucker?" Patrick grunted, kicking Pete's shins as he made a good attempt at smothering Pete with a filthy sofa cushion.
Over the next few weeks, Patrick's phone rang kind of a lot, and his email volume increased by fifty percent at least. He figured Pete must have told everyone in the world, but most people were pretty well-behaved about it. Except Panic. Mocking Patrick privately was one thing, but taking it to TRL? That was war, right there.
-----
Patrick didn't let it slip to Pete or his entourage that Panic were probably just bitter because they were still embarrassed about losing the last round of bets. Patrick had beaten those kids pretty severely. The whole point of the game was that when you won, instead of getting money, you got to pick the forfeit for everyone else - or, at least, that had been the original idea. Patrick had happened on Panic one morning a million years ago, sprawled across their front lounge and idly betting small change on what song would come up next on Spencer's ipod.
"Why gamble in nickels?" Patrick said.
"We gamble all the time," Ryan shrugged. "Betting hundreds seemed unwise."
"Why not bet for first shower?" Patrick had asked, not even thinking, and all four of them had gone wide-eyed with the possibilities. He'd created something terrible.
Spencer had given the tradition an official name ("Win Friends and Influence People", but they never called it that; it was usually just "so hey, the next round?") and they started betting money on the side. As the stakes rose, the bets started to grow in scope. Needless to say, things spiraled out of control pretty quickly, with dares becoming ridiculously epic and dumb even for a gang of teenage boys, and dares eventually settling into a long history of grudge matches, hasty alliances and petty betrayals.
Patrick didn't feel bad about their forfeit either. When they'd challenged Patrick to take pictures of Gabe kissing his feet, Patrick put up a big show of telling them how hard it was going to be, but he knew it'd be as simple as asking him for a light. The kids should've known that, Patrick reasoned, which is why it was totally not mean of him to make them perform "I Wanna Sex You Up" in four-part harmony in front of their entire bus lineup after the show. It was a lesson. Patrick had laughed until he cried and had to hang up when he heard the deafening screaming applause from the kids in line. Then he called back later and laughed some more.
-----
Some people (Patrick will not name names, Panic, because he's bigger than that, okay, but he will totally murder Pete's protégés. Happily, even.) called him to further his misery, like trashing him on TRL wasn't enough. He scowled at his phone as Panic cackled in four-part harmony - harsh dissonant major sevenths, augmented fourths. Patrick had no way to tell, but he was pretty sure they were all actually pointing at the phone as they laughed at him.
"Listen," he said after the first three minutes. "It's not that funny."
"Au contraire!" Jon Walker yelled. "Au contraire, mon frère! It's even funnier!" He giggled.
"I am not your frère, Jon Walker," Patrick said.
"Don't sell out your wingman, Patrick," Brendon advised, painfully sincere as ever. "You need your wingmen to help you pick up girls, you know. Or guys, whatever, the point is, you totally need your backup crew, if you suffer from, you know--" Brendon collapsed in giggles.
"From what, fits of normality?" Patrick hissed.
"I think the phrase Brendon's looking for is 'performance anxiety,'" Ryan said. "Brendon?"
There were some giggles and snorting noises. They were not dignified.
"Boys," said Jon Walker, "You're losing sight of the goal."
"What goal?" Patrick said.
"You know, your goal of picking up," Jon backtracked. "And our, uh, concern about it."
"But it's not even my goal!" Patrick protested, even though he knew full well that it was a lost cause. "Listen, don't think I won't release you kids from your contract, okay? It's like a snowboard, there are all kinds of safety latches that just stop holding on if you so much as look at them funny."
"You can't fire us, Patrick," said Ryan.
"Damn right I can't, because you're not even hired, you giggling flowery shortbus pixies." Patrick heard Brendon making even less dignified noises. "Hey, Brendon, man, you're one to talk. Er, laugh. Whatever. How are things coming with little Sisky Business, huh? Don't you have less than a week running on that bet? Have you picked him up yet?"
"I picked him up," Jon volunteered. "Carried him all the way to our bus, but then when I came back Brendon was giving the kid a makeover."
"Sounds like I'm not the one who has problems with their game," Patrick said. "Don't fuck this up for me, Brendon, I've totally got my whole turn riding on you."
"Yeah, me too," Spencer chimed in. "What the fuck have you been doing all this time, anyway? You have a round of Stupid Dares on your hands!"
Patrick grinned. "Kid clearly needs a priority adjustment." He excused himself before the boys could turn the conversation back to him. He figured they could probably spend several days picking on Brendon before everybody got bored and they called him again.
-----
"What's this about you pulling rank on Panic, Patrick? You're not usually such a bully," Pete said, ambushing Patrick in the green room with a cup of tea and a shit-eating grin.
"They are fired. I hope they like open mic night at the Buttfuck, Nowhere Roadhouse and Flea Market," Patrick said meanly. "Thank you for the tea."
"You're welcome. Hey, didn't we play there that one time, with the guy with no teeth tending bar?"
"Oh, my god, that guy," Patrick said, horrified. "You were never supposed to bring him up ever again, Pete."
Patrick's Big Talk about Pete Trashing His Rep and How It Was Not Cool, Seriously would have to wait for another day; Patrick set down his tea and took off running as Pete chased him, toothless-bartender imitation in full swing, lips stretched over teeth, threatening to gum him to death at a completely inappropriate volume.
-----
Later that night, Patrick was refining his masterful world-weary sigh as he pressed "send" and tucked the phone under his ear. He wondered briefly and not for the first time if he maybe should've told Pete what was going on, and decided again that no, Pete most definitely did not need to know what Patrick had gotten himself into this time.
"Why hello, Patrick," Spencer said. His voice was breathy and for reasons Patrick could not even begin to fathom, he was affecting a vaguely Southern accent.
"...hi," Patrick sighed. "Um. Spencer. Hi."
"What are you wearing, Patrick Stump?" Jon catcalled in the background, and there was a flurry of giggles. No, thought Patrick meanly. That? Was tittering.
"Tell your band they're not allowed to direct, okay?" Patrick muttered.
"Oh, Patrick, it's so sweet that you want me to enjoy my reward to the fullest."
"Listen, how was I supposed to know that Sisky was actually straight?" Patrick tried not to flail. "I thought for sure William would have at least given him a test run!"
"The fact remains, Mr. Stump," and Spencer was kind of... purring, a little, and Patrick fought off bizarre flashes of Spencer in a cat costume, twirling his tail and plotting world destruction. "You overestimated our dear Brendon, he failed in his task, and now Ryan collects on his bet. You are going to come through for us, aren't you?" he asked, and there was another round of titters in the background.
"Tell Ryan if he's so intent on collecting that he should own up like a man and get on the phone," Patrick insisted, to a wave of scandalized "oooOOOOH"s.
"Oh, no," Ryan called, sounding smug-- okay, more smug than usual, even. "Spencer bet on Brendon too, you know. But don't think of it as losing. Think of it as being united in your wrongness. And, you know, in sin."
"Sin?" Patrick boggled a little. "Listen, I'm booked for a command performance here. What are you guys doing with Spencer, or do I even want to know? Spencer! Are they violating you?"
"Wouldn't you like to know."
"Shut up, Brendon, if you were sexier I wouldn't be in this mess."
"If I were any sexier they wouldn't let me on TV," Brendon called back. "Spencer, don't cross your legs, that's cheating."
"...cheating?" Patrick pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Yes," Spencer said, and for a minute he was just Spencer again and Patrick breathed a little easier. "The deal for me is I'm, uh," and there was a brief flurry of noise in the background. Spencer held the phone away and yelled, "Shut up, you never said I couldn't tell him," then came back to inform Patrick that "Yeah, I'm not allowed to... you know."
"I really don't. What?"
"They bet me I wouldn't be able to, like, not get into it, you know? But they didn't say anything about you, so I think it's okay, just, uh. They might be-- checking. To make sure." Patrick could just see Spencer waving a hand nonchalantly, like it was totally normal for Patrick to finish that thought himself.
"ROSS," Patrick said, "You have a lot to answer for." He tried not to grin in case it translated into his speech. Spencer didn't need to know that he'd already bet Jon Walker a hundred dollars on the side that Spencer would be hard within fifteen minutes. One-fifty if Patrick could get him off in under twenty.
"And you're stalling," Ryan called back, barely audible over Spencer's agonized groaning. "Get to the good stuff, Patrick, we're waiting."
Patrick grumbled a little. "Spencer, seriously. Do you need me to call an adult for you? Because you don't, uh, you don't have to, you know, if it's a real thing. If you really don't want to."
There was a moment of terrifying silence.
"Aren't you an adult, Patrick?" Spencer was using that breathy voice again. Patrick shifted on the bed and wondered if the rest of the band could hear him moving, and if they'd know what was going on. Fuck, never mind. They asked him for a performance, and that's what they were going to get, dammit. Patrick was not going to pussy out on this bet. Panic would join forces with Pete and continue to announce to the world that he was devoid of game until he was forced to move to a cabin in the arctic fucking tundra from the humiliation of it all. He took a long moment to compose himself and relax his voice.
"And aren't you jailbait, Spencer?" He drew out Spencer's name, dropping down to a solid baritone, nice and easy. He breathed out slowly, leaning back a little against his headboard. His laptop whirred gently to his left, forgotten for the moment.
"Well, I suppose that depends on whether you want me to be," Spencer said. "Or what state we're in. What state are we in, guys?"
"Don't talk to them," Patrick cut in, smooth and firm. "Don't look at them, Spencer. You're talking to me."
"Uh-huh," said Spencer. He sounded bored.
-----
Pete dug through Andy's bunk. "Dude, seriously, I cannot find my hoody. See if I lend you anything again."
There was no reply from the front lounge.
"Andy?"
The bus door closed quietly. Pete caught a glimpse of Andy out the window, headed over to where Joe was talking to a few crazy fans who were surely freezing their asses off. He was just about to embark on a major fit of self-loathing for not pulling his weight with the fans when he heard a tiny noise from Patrick's room. Anyone would've listened closer, he told himself, even though he already had the distinct feeling that he maybe should not listen to anything Patrick was getting up to alone in his room at three o'clock in the morning. But-- Patrick could be in trouble! He could be dealing with a psycho stalker fan, or stuck under the bed or something, or maybe choking on his own tongue! Pete stuck around, just in case, to make sure he was okay. Just until you're sure he's not in trouble, he admonished himself, but didn't move from his spot outside Patrick's room.
-----
"Tell me yes," Patrick said. "Come on, let's do this."
"...Yes," said Spencer, and his voice sounded a little thinner. "Fuck, fine."
"It's better than fine," Patrick said. "It's going to be, anyway. Are you going to co-operate with me, Spencer? Are you going to do this with me?"
"Yes," said Spencer again, and Patrick thought maybe it was a tiny bit breathier that time round.
"Good," he said, soothing and low, taking his time with it. "You're going to be so good at this, I can tell."
"How do you know?" asked Spencer, smooth and cool, still removed, but Patrick was still just getting started. He had a lot of time, and he could be very convincing.
"Well, Spencer, I'm sure you're a good listener. I don't know if you're a good talker, but you know what? You don't really have to be. Just stay with me, here. Don't look at the guys, okay? You can look at them later, if you want to," he added, smirking. "But right now? Just focus on me."
"Okay," Spencer said dubiously.
"Are you sitting down somewhere comfortable?" Patrick asked. He shifted a little as he said it, starting to spread out on the bed a little. He reached out and closed his laptop, rolled over a little and set it down on the tiny shelf beside the bed. "Do you have room to move? Or are you crammed into a tiny spot, somewhere cramped and crowded?" He let himself exhale through his mouth, just enough into the phone that Spencer was sure to hear it.
"I'm in the back lounge," Spencer said. "It's a little more private than the front. Or it would be, if everybody weren't crammed in here with me." Patrick didn't need to see him to feel the glare Spencer was leveling at his bandmates.
Patrick cut it off before they could start bickering again. "And where are you sitting?"
"In the side seat, the smaller one. Everybody else is on the big couch."
"Spencer?"
"Yes?" He was sounding a little more relaxed now, and he sounded closer to the phone. Patrick thought about how easy this would be if he didn't have to share Spencer with his whole damn band, and then cut off the second half of that thought and stuck with how easily he was going to get Spencer off. He'd do better if he psyched himself up, got into the mindset, just like playing a show. Contrary to Pete's (very loud) opinion, he did have game, and this was something about which Patrick had no false modesty. He was good at this, and he knew it, and he wasn't above abusing his power.
"Stop looking at them. Stop thinking about them. They're not involved. You know who's involved here? You and me. That's it. I don't want you to have another thought that isn't about the two of us," Patrick instructed, lazily, easily. "So tell me what you're thinking about."
Spencer stalled a little. "Um-- I'm--"
"Right now. Don't stop to think up an excuse, just tell me. What's on your mind?" Patrick was hedging his bets, trying to figure out if Spencer would get off faster if Patrick let him take control. It was somehow less weird for Patrick to direct the performance himself, but even through his power-of-positive thinking determination, a small worried voice at the back of his mind wondered what would happen if he put himself out there like that and failed. He squashed the voice flat, and Spencer's next sentence went a long way to reassure him.
"I'm wondering if I'm going to make it," Spencer said. "I mean, I'm okay now, but-- you're, like, serious, and I'm kind of nervous." There were some derisive laughs in the background, but at least it seemed mostly good-natured. Patrick gave the others two minutes before they started talking back again.
"Last chance, Spencer. Back out now and call it off, or I'm going to keep going and assume that it's okay," Patrick warned, but he wasn't playing fair. He was kind of crooning, kind of husky, and getting entirely too ahead of himself, he thought sternly.
"No, it's--" Spencer broke off to swallow and take a deep breath. "No. Keep going."
"Ask me nicely," Patrick told him, and Spencer was much quicker this time, his breath catching a little as he said "Keep going, please," his voice just a little thinner.
"I thought you might say that," Patrick said. "Because, you know, I'm really getting into things myself, and I was hoping you'd be getting into them with me." He shifted around, tugging a little at his jeans, making enough noise that Spencer couldn't mistake what he was doing. "Are you all folded up in your chair, Spencer? You should stretch out a little, get comfortable. That's what I'm doing."
"Okay," Spencer said, unsure. "Yeah, I had my legs all folded up under me, but now I'm just letting them stretch out. And I'm slouching a little. But - it doesn't - I don't really feel like that's super-hot information, Patrick."
"That's not true at all," Patrick told him, celebrating the small victory of Spencer's confidence in him. "It's not, Spencer, you have to think about what that information is going to do to me."
"Do to you?" Spencer asked quietly. His voice was much huskier now, and Patrick had to strain to hear the buzzing whispers and rustling of Brendon and Ryan and Jon on the couch, just a touch louder than regular speakerphone static. They were behaving, and Patrick disguised his sigh of relief as a soft, soft breathy moan.
"Yes. Thinking about your legs, now, and you have such gorgeous long legs. Probably strong, too. Are you ticklish? Or would you like it if I kissed them? Bit them?"
Spencer's sharp inhale was clearly audible. Patrick focused on it and disregarded the spike of background noise, but when Spencer muttered "Shut up or get out" at someone who was definitely not him, he figured Spencer was all set to lose his end of the bet. Patrick grinned, alone in his room, and let his hand stray to his own belt loops, wriggling a little and running his fingers idly over the waist of his jeans, giving a small satisfied sigh.
"You like it when I talk about you? Or do you want to hear about me?" Patrick offered. He figured it was a generous choice, even if it did lead to a lose-lose situation for Spencer and Jon.
"Want to hear about you," Spencer said, and damned if he didn't sound almost shy there for a minute. Patrick hummed a little.
"Does it turn you on when I talk about myself?" Patrick had no idea how this would play out, but he was delighted with the reply.
"Yes," and that was almost a moan. Spencer Smith was definitely almost-moaning, and Patrick heard him moving again.
"I'll tell you what I'm doing, Spencer. I'm lying back against my pillows, here, and I'm thinking about opening up my jeans, but I think I want to hear you talking a little more before I get into it. So I'm just playing around with the button and the belt loops and leaning back, pushing my shirt up a little bit." He breathed easily and smoothly. "Are you doing the same thing?"
"I'm - not yet, no," Spencer said.
"Okay, that's fine," said Patrick, "take your time. But move around a little. I bet your tight jeans are getting to be kind of uncomfortable, they must be."
"Well, they're not that tight," Spencer said, sounding almost apologetic. "But I, uh, I took off my button-down shirt, and now I just have my thin T-shirt on?"
"Mmm," Patrick said, not quite moaning, but certainly humming his approval in a lower register than usual, his voice gaining strength and a breathy edge that was really not easy for him to fake. He ran a hand down his stomach and over his jeans, letting out a tiny, soft "oh".
"I want you to enjoy yourself, Spencer," Patrick said, knowing that he was being cruel and evil and slowly becoming too turned on to care.
"I am?"
"You don't sound so sure. You know, if I were there, I'd make you a lot more comfortable," Patrick threw out, and there-- he could finally hear it, the unmistakable moan; a real turned-on, half-frustrated voice with a deep, solid undercurrent and a bright ring.
"Want to know what I'd do?" Patrick wasn't exactly purring. He was murmuring, though, and he'd kind of reached a point of no return - if he was going to continue, he was going to need a little more encouragement. "I want to tell you, but first I need to know what you want, whatever it is. What would you want me to do?"
Spencer choked out a noise that was somewhere between a surprised "me?" and a deep, excited "mm-hmm."
"Oh, god, yeah," Patrick said, "don't hold back, I want to hear it. Would you want me to touch you? Want to touch me, Spencer? Because you can, if you want to. Come on, tell me what you want." He wasn't so much giving orders anymore as moaning wantonly (and starting to get hard, too, but Spencer didn't need to know that part was for real); he thought briefly that he probably could be a touch less shameless about the whole thing, but he wasn't incredibly surprised when Spencer finally signed on and started forming sentences of his own.
"I want -- I want you to," Spencer said. He was starting to breathe heavy enough that it was almost panting. "I mean. Will you? Or-- would you?"
"You have to say it," Patrick said, kindly but with no room for debate.
"Touch me, please. Patrick," said Spencer in one rushed breath, the words tumbling over each other like he wasn't sure he could get them out if he stopped to think about them.
"Yes," said Patrick, "Yes. I'd probably go just a little rough on you, Spencer - would you like that, if I pushed you back with one hand and undid your jeans with the other?"
"Nngh," was Spencer's reply.
"Stay with me, Spencer. Should I slow down and take it easy on you?"
"No," and Spencer took another deep breath. "No."
"Good, good. I wouldn't want to, either. I'd want to shove you a little, push your jeans down but maybe not take them off." Patrick reached for the button of his jeans; they were officially too tight for him now, and he was anxious to move it along. He had a lot of timing issues to deal with, and he wanted to come, too, since he was already so far into it.
"Would I find you hard for me when I did that?" For a moment he didn't think Spencer was listening, and he frowned, thinking maybe he was cheating by not paying attention. Then he heard a frustrated, strangled noise and got a clearer picture. "Why don't you undo your jeans, now, and tell me?"
"Fuck," Spencer groaned. "I'm not supposed to--"
"Spencer," Patrick said, and it's clear and sharp and loud all of a sudden. "Listen. Fuck what you're supposed to do. Are you going to let me get you off? Because I have a feeling that you've already lost your bet, and you fucking know I'll make it worth your while, and it won't be the first fucking time you've jerked off in a room with your band, am I right?"
"Yes," and Spencer was a little louder, now, a little more sure, and a little less worried, but just as tense. "You are. Right."
"Tell me what I'll find, then," Patrick demanded. "What's going to happen, Spencer? You tell me."
"Fuck, okay, yes, I'm hard. Jesus, Patrick, of course I'm hard. I want more," Spencer said, and Patrick wondered if that counted as begging, because that would be worth an extra fifty bucks right there.
"Good," Patrick growled, really growled, "because I'm undoing my own jeans, now, and I'm not done with you yet."
He listened for Spencer's breath, loud and clear, speeding up and building momentum. "Fuck, if I were there, I'd just shove my hand into your jeans and start jerking you, whether you were ready for it or not. Dry and just a little rough, just a little bit too hard, but not quite fast enough."
Spencer stammered out his agreement.
"Do it," Patrick ordered. "Do it now." He didn't stop to listen for Spencer following his instructions, he just popped the button on his jeans and worked his fly down. He paused before shimmying the jeans down and off his hips, hearing a little bit of movement.
"Spencer? Are you doing what I told you?"
"I'm just - I'm a little nervous about --"
"Okay, yeah, that's fine. Just imagine it, then. My hand on your dick. Imagine that I'm leaning in close so you can feel my breath on your face. Gripping you hard, until you have to hiss air in through your teeth."
On the other end of the phone, Spencer did just that. Patrick grinned and rubbed the heel of his hand down to the base of his own dick, pressing down hard and letting his quick, uneven gasp travel cleanly through the phone.
"I'm - okay, okay," Spencer said, "Yeah, okay. I'm doing it."
Something proud and sharp burned in Patrick's chest. Just like when he was onstage, he knew his audience could tell if he was truly enjoying it or if he was faking, and right now, curling his fingers and starting to move in earnest, he was definitely enjoying himself. He was pretty sure it was paying off in spades, too.
"Oh, yeah, yeah," he said, not panting or anything, just signaling that he was still breathing, still moving. "Tell me what it's like."
"It's, uh, it's a little uncomfortable, like this. But it's not bad, it's just, you know."
"A little exposed? It's just like being onstage, you know." Patrick's voice was getting a little rougher, and he was careful to keep it deep and his diction very clear, so the whole damn band could hear him. "But you can't hide behind your kit, now, this is you front and center, starring in this show for me. Just for me," Patrick said.
Spencer, breathy, echoed him right away. "For you."
"Fucking right," Patrick told him. "Do you like this? What we're doing now?"
"Yes," Spencer said.
"Are you still jerking yourself off?"
"No, I--"
"I didn't tell you to stop," Patrick interrupted, the gravel all but gone from his voice. "You don't stop 'till we're finished. Put your hand back on your cock, right now."
Someone in the background moaned.
"Hear that, Spencer? Who was that, moaning? Can you tell them apart by the way they sound?"
"I can see them, still," said Spencer, and Patrick could hear his eyes rolling. "That was Brendon. He's very excited to be here." Patrick was worried that he'd lose Spencer to the sarcasm if he kept stopping to coddle him, and he only had twelve minutes left.
"Forget about Brendon, man, this has nothing to do with him. Brendon's got the right idea. He knows a good thing when he hears it, and at least he's enjoying himself. I'm waiting for you, Spencer, this is about you. So you should either hang up now, or you should start really, really listening to me, okay? Close your eyes and just listen."
Spencer's reply was much quicker in coming than Patrick had expected. "Jesus," Spencer moaned, "Of course I'm fucking listening to you, do you know what you fucking sound like? Talking dirty to me like that - and you think I'm what, sitting here doing nothing about it?"
"Then let me hear you. Do it," Patrick ordered, and he could hear a thunk that was Spencer's head falling back on the chair. Patrick started moving his own hand a little faster, irregularly but picking up speed.
"Less talk, more rock!" yelled Jon from across the lounge. There was an outburst of giggling - tittering - from the peanut gallery. Patrick clamped down on his own grin, managed not to chuckle, and waited until the worst of it had died down.
"Fuck you, Jon," Patrick called. "Fine, fine, Jesus, so much for being a gentleman. Guys?" He did his best to address the room at large authoritatively, without snapping too far out of it - that would just get Spencer worried that he wasn't into it, and he'd never get anywhere.
"What's Spencer's weak spot?" He asked the rest of the band. "Gimme something here, this kid's moving way too slow for me."
Spencer sputtered, but it was lost under a wave of noise coming from the rest of the band.
"Make with the moaning!"
"He digs the juicy parts," Ryan said, "obviously."
"You're a juicy part."
"The taste is gonna move ya, Jonny," Ryan shot straight back.
"Don't bore him, get to the chorus!"
"Brendon, you dork," Jon said kindly, "That only works if it's 'don't bore us.' "
"Well, he's not boring me," said Brendon, then lowered his voice to do a surprisingly passable Patrick impression. "But this isn't about me. This is about Spencer."
Ryan snickered.
Patrick sighed. This was going nowhere, and fast. Faster than Brendon's smartass motormouth, even.
"Brendon," he cut in, deep and powerful. "Can you hear me?"
"Um," Brendon stuttered, sounding far away. "Isn't that the point?"
"No," Patrick told him, speaking quickly but clearly. "Don't fuck around here, Urie. Quit mouthing off, or I will reach through this fucking phone and shut you up myself. If I were there I'd have fucking gagged you by now, tied your hands behind your back so you couldn't touch yourself, no matter how bad you wanted to, and then left you facing the corner so you could hear everything but you still wouldn't know who was coming up behind you. Do you understand me?" Patrick was a little shocked at his own violence, but he had a reputation to uphold, here.
Brendon's voice was much quieter and more polite. "Yes, Patrick."
"That goes for you two as well. You have no idea how lucky you are, getting a show like this, so just shut up and enjoy it."
"'Kay," said Jon, and Patrick was pretty sure that signaled a major victory. Ryan just said "Mm-hmm," in his same disaffected tone, but it was a fourth higher than usual, and Patrick smiled with teeth.
"Now. Spencer." His voice ran quieter and a little smoother, though not sweeter. "Let me tell you what I want to do to you."
"Unh," said Spencer. "Please."
"Close your eyes, first. Close your eyes, and I want you to undo your jeans, okay?" He waited for Spencer to hum his agreement. "Good. Now you can touch yourself any way you like, but you can't come, not yet." Patrick checked his watch. He had nine minutes. He'd worked with less.
A sudden rise in the background noise made him think otherwise. And he'd just played his trump card with Brendon. Fuck.
"Jon Walker, are you causing trouble?" he asked, not bothering to stop his steady stroking. "Fuck you, man. Do something for me."
"Who's fucking who here?" Jon wondered. "What do you want from me?"
"Turn off the lights,” Patrick told him.
"And turn off the shyness?" Ryan asked, and there was a swift movement and a muttered curse.
"Thank you, whoever hit Ryan for me."
"You're welcome," Brendon said, sounding small and kind of nervous.
"Is it dark, now, Spencer?"
"Yeah," Spencer said, and his voice was quieter now but even lower, not the sweet strong speaking voice Patrick knew but an authoritative rasp. "Yeah, it's easier, fuck."
"It'll be much easier, Spencer, it's like it's just the two of us, okay? Nobody can see what you're doing, so don't hold back."
"Okay," came the small, breathy reply.
"Now, I think I was saying something about backing you into a wall and jerking you off, dry and rough. I think I'd let that go until you started to whimper just a little, because it would probably be too much for you, and eventually you'd speak up, right?"
"Right," Spencer moaned, and Patrick knew he was well on his way.
"So tell me, what would you say to me? Would you say anything? Or would you just keep letting me do it? What would you do when it started to hurt?" Patrick pushed at his jeans and didn't hide his own moans when he finally got his hand back around his cock.
"I'd probably... grab at your wrist," Spencer said, sounding more like he was answering a test question.
"Don't tell me," Patrick spat out. "Say it to me. Make the noise, do what you'd do."
"Oh," said Spencer, more to himself. "I'd--" there was a pause, and then Patrick heard a gorgeous high whine, thin and quiet. His dick jumped at the noise.
Spencer breathed out three more of the sweet, high noises; the fourth was broken in the middle, voice cut off, and replaced by a few pained stutters. Then there was silence.
"...at least I think that's what I'd do," Spencer said.
Patrick groaned. "Fuck's sake, you fucking pant at me like that, I'd even back off for you, Smith. Just for a minute, but I'd make you lick my hand before I grabbed your dick again. I'd leave the door open, too, I want everybody to hear you making that noise for me. And I'd still go rough on you, just a little faster, because it'd be easier now. And you'd be closer, too, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," Spencer said.
"Right now? Are you getting closer? Tell me what I'm missing so I can fill it in while I jack myself off, here."
"Oh, god, really?"
"Of course, really," Patrick panted. "I can fake it if I want, but it's so much fun like this. I'm so fucking hard talking about it, I'm just going steady, kind of slow, waiting for you, really."
"I'm there," Spencer said. His voice was a little shredded, and Patrick felt more than a little proud. "I'm just-- I'm getting started, I just got distracted."
"Are you thinking about it? About me backing you into a wall, taking what I want?"
Spencer groaned, and Patrick could hear his voice shaking in time with his movements. "Maybe I'd like it like that, yeah."
"What would you like more, Spencer?" Patrick's voice was deep and unashamedly sex-rough, surprisingly present even to his own ears without its usual careful sheen of tone and projection. "Want to push me around? Want to tell me what to do? You tell me, this is all about what you want."
"I don't know. I don't. I just, I want." Spencer's voice was almost as low as his, but more husky.
"Maybe I'd let you take over a little, then, if you want it so much," Patrick said, and it was definitely a challenge. "Could you do it?"
"Could I - fuck yes, Patrick, I could do it, Jesus," Spencer said brokenly.
"Yeah? Pin me against the wall, press into me and grab my hip, lean in and make me touch you?"
"Yeah," Spencer moaned. "Back against the wall, maybe into a corner, and then just keep going until you can't move anywhere."
"Oh, shit, yes, Spencer, tell me, I'm so fucking hard --" Patrick broke off to breathe and to jerk himself off without the motion fucking up his speech too badly. Five minutes, five and a half maybe.
Spencer whimpered a little, but he didn't answer. Patrick was pretty much a pro at getting himself off quickly, so at least he wasn't worried about his own orgasm; he was a little distressed at the lack of a status report from Spencer, but he tried not to let it show.
"Don't get quiet on me, okay? Let's give the boys something to listen to while they touch themselves in the dark. Because listening to this, I guarantee you, they'll want to. Fuck, I want to go rough on myself and come now, I want to so bad I'm not even sure I can wait for you, Spencer."
"You have to," Spencer countered, and Patrick celebrated a small victory - Spencer was finally speaking up.
"Why's that?"
"Because this is all about me. You said so. And I don't want you to come yet, I want you to--" Spencer broke off with a stifled grunt and drew a deep breath. "Want you to wait until I'm ready."
"Are you close?" Patrick asked him. "I'm so close, hearing you talk to me. Going light on myself, now."
"Let me hear it," Spencer said, unashamed and without a pause. "God, Patrick."
Patrick didn't hold back then, stroking lightly but steadily, letting his breathing hitch and stutter and gasping out small moans. He started moving a little faster, gripping his dick a little harder and taking an extra half-beat to skim over the head. His gasps turned into low whines, long full tones with a sweet desperate undercurrent. When he was sure the phone wouldn't fall from where his shoulder had pushed it up, he finally let go of it and used his left hand to bat away the rest of his clothing. He reached down to cup his balls and squeeze gently, swearing loudly and talking in a steady, coarse stream.
"Fuck, yes, feels so fucking good. God, it's fucking amazing. Just thinking about your hands, big and warm and perfect, and your strong fingers, and the things they could do to my cock. I'd want to touch you the same way, go just as rough, however you liked it."
"Yes, Patrick, please," Spencer whined, nasal and low and unbroken. He cried out sharply. "Please," he said.
"Are you close? Going to come for me?"
"I'm, I want to, yes, soon," Spencer panted, babbling. Patrick checked his watch. Three minutes.
"Oh, god, Spencer, your face - I bet you're fucking beautiful when you come. Locking up a little and going tight, staring at me, at my fingers on your cock, moving so fast, now. I bet you'd love to watch yourself come all over my hand, feel it hot and wet. Would you like it if I licked it off?" Patrick asked, and now he was the one going farther than he'd thought, but it was okay, something about knowing it was dark and Spencer was so close made it okay.
Spencer wasn't answering.
"Spencer," he demanded. "Tell me."
-----
Pete wobbled to his feet, trying not to stumble into anything, cursing his stupid restricting jeans and his stupid weak-willed brain. In his defense, he reasoned, he didn't know a single human being who could resist that kind of distraction, but the fact remained that he'd done it again, this thing with Patrick that he kept insisting to himself was not a thing, shut up.
He stood up and had to shoot out an arm for something solid when he heard Patrick's rough, husky moan; Pete suppressed a crazy urge to burst into his room and ask him something, anything, stupid questions, just to hear that voice a little longer. Then he heard Patrick's breath catch and his fingers gripped the edge of Andy's bunk so hard the plastic frame creaked.
Pete froze. He gulped in the breath that hitched and swelled in his throat.
Then he heard a rustling noise from Patrick's room and bolted off the fucking bus, snatching a hoody to hold in front of him as he fled. He held the door all the way as it shut and prayed to everything he could think of that Patrick wouldn't hear it. Pete couldn't even conceive of how much trouble he'd be in if Patrick heard it, and his powers of imagination were immense, especially when it came to How Shit Might Go Bad For Him.
It didn't stop him from barreling onto his own bus and straight through the crowd. "Phone call," he panted lamely, not even caring about the group of guys raising havoc in the lounge as he slammed the flimsy door. He scrabbled at his jeans, swearing under his breath, and managed to wrench his shirt off before he grabbed his dick roughly. His mind grabbed wildly onto the few full phrases Patrick had said that he could remember perfectly.
"I bet you're fucking beautiful when you come," he heard Patrick say on the instant replay in his head, and Pete came after a few hard strokes, gasping and twisting and shaking with how good it was and how fucked up. He fell onto the bed, feeling around weakly for his T-shirt and sticking it between him and his covers until he could move enough to clean up.
"Fucking Patrick," he panted into his pillow. He was sure the pillow would agree.
He tugged his jeans up over his ass and wiped off with his T-shirt, drifting off a little with the strains of Patrick's low, urgent voice in his ears. He was sure it would go away, this thing with Patrick. It came in waves and it always died down. This was just a bad patch.
Or maybe it was just the talking thing. Maybe, Pete thought, maybe it wasn't Patrick so much as it was a reaction to how hot phone sex was, like, in general. Pete's experience with phone sex was pretty much limited to cheap jokes about the Sidekick Pictures, but he was pretty sure he could figure it out. He smiled a little, drifted a little, and eventually settled into an early night of almost-sleep.
-----
Patrick didn't have long to wait for Spencer to speak up.
"Yes, God, yes, want to push you hard, make you keep touching me. Want to watch you touch yourself, too," he said, his voice clearing halfway through like he was ready to start being ashamed of what he was saying.
"You know what I'd do, if I were there with you?" Patrick's voice went slow and full as he went in for the kill, but his breath was still quick and loud, no mistaking what he was doing.
"No," Spencer said, unsure. Patrick threw in a loud groan and Spencer echoed it. He could hear form the spikes in the groan that Spencer was moving faster and faster. He had to be close, now, he must be.
"I'd take us both," Patrick said, "push my hips up to yours so there'd be room to watch." In his room, his hips arched off the bed, skin flushed pink and hot with the thought of it. "Wrap one of my hands around both of our cocks, let them slide together, wet and hard and hot. Line them up so I can jack us both off at once, so you can feel how close I am, how bad I want to come, and then I'd wrap your hand around mine, so you can tell me how tight to go, how fast. I bet you'd want it pretty hard, now, wouldn't you?"
"Holy shit, Patrick," Spencer said, most of his voice gone, just murmuring now. "So fucking hot, holy shit."
"Like it?" Patrick did. Never mind the game - if he didn't come in the next two minutes his dick would never forgive him.
"Keep going," Spencer said, "I want to hear you."
"Want to hear me come, Spencer?"
"Fuck, yes, yes Patrick, I do," Spencer said, not quite begging, but not far from it. "Keep going."
"Keep stroking you? Both of us? I don't think you'd last, Spencer, I wouldn't last long, and I'd want you to come first, you know. I'd speed up, rubbing our cocks together, probably thrusting up into my hand a little, so you could feel my hand and my cock, both moving against you, hot and perfect, until I could see you start to come apart, and then I'd back off just long enough for you to catch a breath." Patrick didn't wait that long, though; he wasn't interested in stretching this conversation any further.
"I'd tighten my hand and move fast, so tight around you, and I'd move right up close to your ear and let you hear what you were doing to me, how good it felt." Patrick gave Spencer a half-dozen sharp, shallow, gasping breaths. "So fucking hard, now, so close."
Spencer moaned, a short burst of sound like he'd been punched in the stomach. Patrick didn't give him a second to recover.
"And I'd fucking watch as you shuddered and yelled and you bucked your hips up, sliding perfect against my fingers, and I'd squeeze harder, much harder, one last time, so you'd stop breathing for a minute and then come all over both of us, all over our hands, your cock twitching against mine, your hot come landing on my hand. Fuck, and I wouldn't stop stroking either, I wouldn't stop moving till you begged me to."
Spencer wasn't talking any more, but he didn't exactly need to signal Patrick that he was close. Even over the noise Patrick's own hand was making on his dick, he could hear Spencer moving, wet and slippery and unmistakable and very, very fast. He wasn't sure, but he thought he could hear other noises in the background, and for a moment regretted that he couldn't stop to find out what was going on with the other three.
"That would tip me over the edge, too," Patrick told him, steadfastly ignoring the urge to check his watch. "I'd watch your face as you fucking came and called my name, and I'd come, dick jumping and pressing against yours, my hand so fast and hard it's just a second from real pain."
"--Patrick," Spencer gasped, and then there was the noise of him writhing in the chair and starting to let the short, rhythmic moans take over his breathing. "I'm gonna, I'm - don't stop."
"I'm not stopping, I'm so fucking close. I'd stay pressed right up next to you, too, so you could hear me, every second, the two of us locked tight in my hand and coming together, fuck, yes," Patrick moaned, clear and loud and strong. "Don't stop moving, come for me, let me hear you. I'm going to come so fucking hard--"
Spencer called his name; the short gasps turned to long, loud, unsteady moans.
"Fuck, gonna come, God yes," Patrick said, and he let go, feeling it through his whole body. His shoulders pressed down into the mattress as his hips thrust up into the air, into his fist; Patrick came hard and steady over his stomach and hand, streaking his stomach as his muscles stretched taut in his thighs, down his legs.
Spencer wasn't listening any more, he was only calling out in quick bursts, still moving on the other end of the phone.
For a few moments they were working themselves together, moaning, gasping, and Spencer hissed as Patrick felt his body start to go slack, heavy and sated. He scrabbled for the phone at his side.
"Spencer."
"Holy fucking shit, Patrick."
"That good, huh," Patrick said, but it wasn't really a question. "God, that was fucking amazing."
"Um. Yeah. Yeah, it was," Spencer said, a little strained and a lot hoarse. He could hear Spencer shifting, probably grabbing for tissues; Patrick rolled over a little, reached out for the drawer of his bedside table, and did the same. He heard a frantic crescendo of tiny noises, crashes and scratching sweeping noises, and then someone snatching up Spencer's phone.
"Marry me, Patrick," Brendon begged. "Oh, my God, marry me or at least come and do that for me for my birthday present, please, I'll do anything."
"Put down the phone, Brendon, or I'm not saying a damn thing to you," Patrick told him, and added, "Give it back to Spencer, please," before Brendon could drop it.
He could hear Brendon shoving the phone towards Spencer through the static waves of rough noise that came through as it was manhandled. "Here, here, here, take it, where are you Spencer, here, take it from me, thanks."
"So--" started Spencer, and then Ryan and Jon broke in from somewhere behind him, their catcalls still shrill but with a lot less fuel behind them.
"Patrick, you whore," Jon called, "You break our drummer, you've gotta sub in, okay?"
"I'm going to make sure you never -- OW, Jon, watch my foot -- win another round of bets," Ryan said, "that was way too good to pass up."
"Too late," Patrick said. "Check your watch, Jon, but I think I won with about thirty seconds to spare."
Spencer made a shocked choking noise. "WHAT?"
"Worth every second," Jon said. "And worth way more than a hundred and fifty. I should've given you half an hour. And brought a microphone."
"WHAT?" That was Brendon. Spencer hissed at him. "Where are you, in my eardrum? Stop yelling!"
"...maybe night vision goggles," Jon added thoughtfully, and giggled. "Ryan, you're not even close, you're just slapping at my elbow-- OUCH!"
Patrick chuckled, and he could hear Brendon shifting away and apologizing vaguely to Spencer. He let his voice drop right back down to where it had been a few minutes ago, didn't hide the breath rushing through it or slow down his harsh panting. "Sorry, Spencer, but for what it's worth? That was all for you, and every second was a hundred percent real."
Spencer's choking noise was still shocked, but a little more subdued.
"You boys should clean up before you turn the lights on," he added. His voice was a little less sex-rough, but he didn't want Spencer to feel left out and he didn't have the energy or the will to fake it entirely, so it was still raspy as he continued.
"Next round starts in a few days, you know. Don't worry, Spencer, I'll think of something suitable for Jon."
"I owe you a stack of money! That's not suitable?"
"Money doesn't count as a Sweet Prize, Jon, you know that," Ryan told him. Patrick could have sworn he sounded almost gleeful under his usual disaffected drone.
"Right," said Patrick, "I'm going to go, now, while you boys work this one out. The rest of you can email me your suggestions for Jon, okay?"
"Wait, what? Hey!" Jon sounded equal parts indignant and terrified.
"Hope you enjoyed your bedtime story, kids," Patrick laughed, low and raw. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Patrick," Brendon called, Ryan and Spencer echoing close behind, and Patrick hung up to Jon's continued distant protests and Spencer's sweet, rough breath.
-----
The meet and greet had gone well enough - Patrick was more animated than usual, because he thought he had seen Pete hanging back, and he wanted everyone to have some kind of meaningful interaction with the band. It's not like fans were hard to get along with, generally, so it wasn't a big deal for him to make some small talk.
On their way out, he clapped a hand to Pete's shoulder. "All right?"
"Yeah," muttered Pete, the two of them trudging steadily down the mile-long stadium hallway. "Just weird. Back to the - you know. It's me and Joe again, and friends."
"Oh." Ashlee had left a few days before to work on her own album. Patrick had talked to her about it a little while she was around, but didn't get too far into the specifics. He had wondered if Ashlee was trying to get him to work on the album, and whether he was being rude by not at least extending an empty offer - but in either case, the work had to be done, so she had to go. Pete had spent the first night being as rowdy as he could - not like her being there had ever stopped him, but the mild festivities were a good distraction for him.
"Whatever, man, it's no big deal. You're still here," Pete said, and threw an arm around Patrick's shoulders, leaning on him a little as they made their way to the dressing rooms.
"Your wish, my command," Patrick said. "I'm even coming over tonight,"
"Whoa, little guy," Pete said, leaning back a little, bemused. "It's okay, you know, you don't actually have to fill in for her."
Patrick made a face at him and stuck out his tongue.
"Shit, Patrick," and Pete was laughing now, "what exactly are you offering, there? Because I see potential, but maybe your skills could use some work?"
Patrick hip-checked him, lightly, but Pete wouldn't let go, just tugged him in closer, still laughing.
"For your information," Patrick said haughtily, "I'm coming to see Joe, not you."
"Of course you are, sugar bean," Pete said. "Don't worry, I won't rush you, you tell yourself whatever you gotta tell yourself-- OW!" He leaned heavily on Patrick, hopping along and trying to clutch at his big toe where Patrick had stomped it. "You asshole, I need this foot and it's been through a lot, okay?"
"Love you too, sugar bean," Patrick shot back. "Shut up."
Pete did, mostly, save for a few grumbles about his toe and an extensive appeal (ultimately unsuccessful) to Patrick to carry him back to the dressing room.
-----
The show was a lot more demanding for Patrick now that Pete mostly had full mobility again, and tonight especially, it was like he'd been possessed by all of the monkeys from the Memories video at their frolicking, destructive worst. At least he wasn't doing anything too stupid, no high jumps or anything - but Patrick was sure that his luck was ready to give out in the "How Long Can Stump Evade The Flying Headstocks And/Or Bandmates" Sweepstakes, so he played it close to the crowd and did a lot of watching out of the corner of his eye.
During "Gin Joints," Pete was playing on his back, hips working at the air, and winked at Patrick when he saw him watching. Patrick smiled and kept singing.
During the heavy intro riff to "Thriller", Pete came up on his left and they did some synchronized headbanging. Joe got in on it too eventually and Patrick hoped he could find a picture of this later, because this was one of those stupid moments worth catching on film, the three of them headbanging like crazy, in sync, and everyone in the pit probably doing it along with them. Pete kissed him on the cheek and waltzed away just as he was drawing breath for the first line, and Patrick was proud of himself that the twitch of his response was completely absent from his voice.
During the intro to "XO," Pete reached out and grabbed his hand, hoisting it high like he'd just won a boxing match, as he told the crowd "this is me and you" and they screamed their collective heads off. Patrick let it run until the very last second, letting Joe take care of the intro and singing with one hand stuck way up in the air, fingers laced with Pete's.
When they started into "Mr. Brightside", all of Patrick's senses went into overdrive as he tried fruitlessly to sing, play, interact with the crowd, not fall over, and track Pete all at the same time. Pete wasn't dumb, of course, and it was no surprise to Patrick when he launched into the pre-chorus and got a nose to the back of his neck. Pete's face was hot and wet, and Patrick could feel the heat rolling off his body. He tried to stay still, stay steady, but when Pete reached out just a little further and licked the back of his neck, Patrick knew he'd given the game away in his voice when he tried to sing "It's taking control." After that, there was no escaping Pete, who backed up for the chorus but zoomed right back to him for the second verse. Patrick tried to fake left and dodge out of it, but it was a halfhearted move; he knew Pete's affections, once his intentions were set, were nearly impossible to escape. And they weren't usually so terrible, at that.
Patrick saw Pete moving behind him and relented, staying still and even offering up his cheek for a kiss.
Pete grabbed his collar and bit his neck, instead, sucking for a split second and leaving Patrick breathless and burning red in the middle of the stage, a stadium full of fans screaming the end of the line back at him.
-----
After the set, when Patrick came offstage, his tech handed him water and a towel, and he hadn't even gotten the bottle open when Pete came scurrying up, yanked at his collar, and winced at the red mark already forming.
"What are you-- oh, Christ," Patrick groaned, looking down. "You take a class in speed hickeys or what?"
"Natural gift?"
"Can I exchange it for a Pete who doesn't abuse me onstage?"
"Uh," Pete said, "sorry, they're not making any more of me."
"That's probably for the best," Patrick sighed. "It's okay, Pete, just - yeah, it's fine."
"I love you?" Pete tried, throwing his arms around Patrick for a moment before they were forcibly separated by their techs and strapped back into their respective instruments. Patrick mock-scowled at Pete and earned himself a full-on Wentzface in return, and then they were both laughing. Someone - Patrick's tech - tugged at Patrick's collar, pulling it up over the aftermath of Pete's flying molestation. Mark was a thing of wonder and beauty, and Patrick made a mental note to tell him that more often.
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Bonus Tracks/Enhanced Content
Made-of-win Fanmix by 26days