fic: i know you will, i know you well
i know you will, i know you well by Beezus
Pete/Patrick | NC-17 | 3,600+ words
Patrick's hands scrabble uselessly on the slick material of Pete's jeans. The threads are rough, almost abrasive on the pads of his fingertips as he tries to get a firm enough grip to thrust up into Pete's body. On his part, Pete has braced his hands on the roof of Patrick's mom's car and he twists his hips down, but it's not right, not enough to get either of them off.
"Fuck," Pete exhales sharply through his nose. Patrick abandons his mission for a sure grip and attempts to pry Pete's jacket from his shoulders. He doesn't notice the cuff links are buttoned until Pete's sleeves are halfway down his arms and Pete's shoulders are forced at an uncomfortable angle while Patrick tries to free him from his new jacket-prison.
It's October and they've already steamed the windshield in the cool night. Beads of condensation slide down the windows. Patrick's glad his glasses, safe in the cup holder by the front seat, won't suffer the same fate.
Pete's body is a tense wire beneath his roaming hands. He shoves them up Pete's t-shirt with the faded soccer logo, and Patrick can feel the steady thrum of electricity arcing up beneath his palms. Pete's skin is smooth and hot and smells like soap and sweat and boy; all things that make Patrick stupidly and uselessly hard in his too-tight pants.
Pete must sense Patrick's growing frustration; he worms a hand between their bodies and rakes his nails lightly over the hard line of Patrick's erection, fingers firm and searching at the head of Patrick's cock. Oh god.
"Oh god," he says, muffled in Pete's shoulder. He can feel the vibrations of Pete's laughter against his cheek. "Fucker," he mumbles, and that has Pete laughing outright, setting Patrick off as well.
"I wish," Pete says, still laughing. They sit panting, struggling for air in the confines of the car. It takes a long moment for Pete's words to register, but Patrick's dick twitches when he realizes Pete's intent. He feels more than a bit hysterical. Trapped. Patrick wants to get Pete someplace where he can spread him out and map Pete's hot skin with his mouth. Useless frustration bubbles in his chest while he imagines having Pete like he wants him (like Patrick's never had him), maybe in Patrick's bed, dark skin against the faded pale of his sheets.
"Hey," Pete murmurs. "You still with me?" Pete smoothes his hand across Patrick's sternum, the ragged edge of his nail catching a loose thread.
"Sometimes," Patrick grits out. "I really hate my parents."
Pete asks, "How come?" angling his head in curiosity.
"Because they prevent me from taking you home," Patrick admits. He's not sure if he's ever seen Pete blush, didn't even know it was possible, but he swears he can see the flush of Pete's cheeks illuminated by the dim glow of the sodium lights in the lot where they're parked.
"Well then. You must love my parents."
"Why's that?"
Pete grins at him. "Because they're with my mom's sister for the weekend, and they took Andrew along with them."
Patrick stares up at Pete dumbly, mind overloaded with all the possibilities. Finally his brain kicks into gear, and he asks, "How long did you plan on waiting to tell me that?"
"I didn't think you'd care." He can barely get through the words, mirth bleeding from his tone. Patrick growls, flipping Pete over and pinning him to the seatback. Pete squirms, and while he could easily break free of Patrick's playful hold, he shakes and wiggles. Pete whispers uncle into the well of his ear.
The Wentz kitchen is dark where they walk in through the garage door. Pete doesn't bother with the lights, instead backing Patrick against to the marble countertop and pressing their bodies together. Pete's jacket still lies abandoned in the backseat of the car, and his skin is alternately hot and cold depending on where Patrick touches him. Pete's mouth tastes clean and sweet as always.
The first time they kissed, Patrick harbored the naive expectation that it would be different, somehow, a muskier flavor than girl spit. Patrick had anticipated a lot of differences, some bad (many good), but mostly he thought he'd like this less than he does; Pete's stubble scraping against his skin and setting Patrick's hands shaking, clutching at Pete's forearms where they wind tight around his hips.
It feels like ages until they make it all the way upstairs to Pete's room. There's a brief, terrifying detour through the living room, and Patrick fears they aren't going to make it. Visions of fucking Pete on the Wentz family couch flash before his eyes, but -- with more than a little coaxing on Patrick's part -- they eventually reach the stairs leading up to Pete's bedroom.
The door clicks shut with an air of finality. Patrick has absolutely no idea what to do next. No matter how many times he's played this very scenario out in his mind, nothing could have prepared him for how this feels, sitting on the edge of the twin bed farthest from the door with Pete standing, waiting, between the vee of his thighs.
"I'm going to have my wicked way with you," Pete informs him solemnly.
"Oh, goody." Patrick tries for deadpan, but it comes out more breathless than intended. Pete dislodges Patrick's hat and traces his fingers across the red line where the sweatband marked his forehead. He tries not to shiver visibly when Pete scratches the dull edges of his fingernails against his scalp, perfect friction that has Patrick humming low in his throat.
"You're like a cat, man. It's so fucking cute." Pete rubs softly at Patrick's earlobes, thumbs applying firm pressure at the tips like Patrick's a dog that needs quieting. He would protest to such treatment, but it feels pretty good. Enough that his eyes fall shut, and Pete must think he's nodding off, 'cause he's cupping Patrick's face now, tilting his chin. "Hey," Pete whispers. Patrick wants to ask why he's whispering, but Pete leans down to kiss him softly. Patrick's question is lost in the slide of their lips.
Pete pulls back, "Do you want...?" his fingers toying with the edges of his shirt.
"Yes, I want. Pete--" Patrick wants so much. He surges forward and crushes their mouths together. They exchange fleeting, fumbling kisses while Patrick pulls Pete onto the bed, Pete's knees landing on either side of Patrick's hips so Pete is a dark shape above him. He leans back to watch Pete remove the shirt.
Pete's nipples are hard, and his piercing glints in the dark room, metal stark and obvious against his skin. Patrick runs his fingers tentatively over the gage to watch Pete's back bow, pushing further into Patrick's hand. The buds feel stiff and aroused underneath the tips of Patrick's fingers while he takes one between his forefinger and his thumb, pinching to feel where metal meets flesh.
"Ahhh," Pete shudders. His body convulses against Patrick's in a wave, hands twisting in the buttons on his shirt, and Pete's shaking enough that his fingers are useless on the smooth plastic.
It's overwhelming to see him like this - so different from anything Patrick ever imagined. He has to admit that a small, romantic part of his brain thought that somehow their bond as musicians would carry over to this, but. The noises they're making sound nothing like music. Patrick would know. If anything, this is more like their songwriting process; chaotic back and forth calling to mind nights spent arguing over reams of notebook paper, each of them fighting to give each other enough to work with. It's frustrating, and it's fucking clumsy as hell. Patrick wouldn't have it any other way.
Belatedly, he realizes that he's never said, I love you. Patrick has felt it, of course he has, but he's never said the words. Pete has. Pete has grabbed him close and whispered, I fucking love you, against the thin, sweaty skin of Patrick's neck, post-show and flying high. Pete has told him with his hands and with his lips and scribbles in journals Pete has only recently started to bring out when they sit down to write. Patrick is afraid that the notes, the melodies that he's given Pete, can't ever adequately express what this feels like.
He rolls them so that Pete is heavy beneath him on the bed. Pete's eyes are wide, black pools, all iris, like they were the first time Patrick put is hands Pete and meant it. "Pete, I--"
Pete kisses him silent, and Patrick pretends what he's feeling is relief. He doesn't know if he's ready to say the words, but, more importantly, he's not sure Pete is ready to hear them. He thinks Pete might be scared. Words will make this real in a way that it has yet to be. Tonight goes beyond goofing off in his mom's car, or knuckles scraping metal studded belts in the anonymity of a house show. This is them in bed, alone in Pete's house, and they're going to fuck. The enormity of the situation is not lost on Patrick.
"Let's--" Pete breaks off and pushes him away to catch his breath. "Do you want to make a bed fort?" his voice sounds strained.
Patrick knows enough not to ask why, but, "How?"
Pete angles them both to the top of the bed so he can tuck the sheet behind the headboard. The streetlight outside his window is bright enough that light filters weakly through the blankets. Patrick is careful not to disturb the sheet when he puts all his weight on his arms and his knees, bracing himself over Pete while he wiggles out of his tight pants.
This is closer to what Patrick imagined, the few -- many -- times he let his thoughts drift this far; Pete balanced on his shoulders and heels, hands disappearing in the dark fabric of his jeans. Patrick would try to help, but he doesn't trust himself in this moment.
Pete's kicks his pants and boxers to the end of the bed, and Patrick tries not to openly stare. He's not doing a very good job. Patrick's mental dialogue is caught in a litany of, PETE! and NAKED! while Pete stretches out under him, back arching obviously in an invitation to be touched - something that Patrick wants to do. Badly. He just... doesn't know how to start this. Caught in a moment of panic, he doesn't notice Pete's hands on his belt until the sound of metal scraping metal sounds in his ears.
Pete's face is screwed up in concentration, and he's seemed to have missed Patrick's mini freak-out, or maybe he's just willfully ignoring it. Patrick is overwhelmingly, pathetically relieved at Pete's ability to be the most selectively single-minded person Patrick knows.
He kicks his pants to the end of the bed after Pete has finished with the zipper. His boxers got caught halfway down his hips, and Pete's hands migrate to the exposed skin that's bracketed between his briefs and his shirt. Patrick's gut twists low and hard when Pete drags his fingernails over the trail of hair at his belly, following the downward path to the coarse hair that surrounds his cock.
Pete makes an amused sound and Patrick can practically see what Pete is thinking, like a perverse thought bubble above Pete's head, a marquee of bad innuendo.
"If you say one thing about curtains or drapes, so help me god..."
Pete throws his head back, laughing his stupid donkey laugh, and Patrick can't help but reach out and touch him. Pete gasps, and his dick twitches in Patrick's sweaty palm.
Swift, even strokes have Pete arching off the bed. They continue like that for a time; Pete's fist balled low on Patrick's belly, and Patrick jerking Pete hard. Sweat is forming in the corners of Patrick's eyelids, making his eyes sting. Blinking would probably be a good idea, or maybe stopping long enough to wipe his brow, but neither of those things seem in any was feasible when he has Pete's undivided attention. It's a rare occurrence. He doesn't want to miss a second of it.
"Patrick," Pete's tone implies, stop, and he isn't ready for that quite yet. Tightening his fingers, he ducks down to kiss Pete's shoulder, pulsing his grip.
Pete makes a choking noise. "Seriously. You're gonna have to. Patrick. You're going to have to stop if you want--"
Patrick reluctantly slows his motions, rolling over to lay next to Pete on the bed.
Pete keeps his eyes closed and breathes. Patrick may have stopped, but he can't stop touching Pete altogether, running his fingers over the cleave of Pete's ribcage when he inhales. About a minute passes, and Pete turns his head on the pillow to smile at Patrick.
He bridges the small gap between them, leaning forward to lick Pete's chapped lips. Breathes in as Pete exhales, and he imagines the two of them laying here all night exchanging oxygen. A small voice in the back of Patrick's brain niggles, lectures from freshman Health about carbon monoxide ringing loudly in his ears.
Eventually, Pete breaks the kiss and wedges his hand between his mattress and the wall, arms straining while his fingers grasp for an unseen object. Other people might wonder what Pete is doing, but Patrick knows that's where he stashes his lube. Pete extracts the bottle triumphantly, flipping the cap and squeezing some on his palm as he lies back on the bed, spreading his legs to accommodate his hand. The tendons in his arm flex with the small movements, and Patrick watches Pete's face, can see it when Pete gives himself two fingers, then three; small creases forming on his forehead.
"C'mere" Pete says when he's ready.
Patrick sheds his remaining garments quickly and thoughtlessly. He eagerly resumes his position between Pete's thighs, lines his cock up and thinks; This isn't going to work. How can-- Pete hooks his legs around Patrick's back, forcing Patrick forward, letting him in.
Oh.
Patrick's brain feels feverish. Pete's thighs are hot against his waist, and under the blanket the air is humid, their skins slippery with sweat. Everything is hot and hazy, beginning and ending with the unbelievable tight heat give of Pete's body. Pete wraps his arms around his bare shoulders, and Patrick pretends he can feel the ink from Pete's arms bleeding into his own skin.
Pete shifts under him, like he's uncomfortable, or--
"Pete, is this o-okay?" Patrick trips on the last word, sliding in faster than he expected.
"I need, ah--" Pete's fingers tighten on his biceps. "Maybe if we-- here, lift up." Pete pushes on Patrick's shoulders and he backs off enough to let Pete flip over onto his hands and knees
Oh my god, Patrick thinks. Oh my god.
He can feel the raised mark of Pete's tattoo against the thin skin of his wrist, following Pete's vertebrae with his knuckles, circling the round bones down the smooth skin of Pete's back to where Pete is slick and spread open from Patrick's cock. Holy shit.
"Patrick," Pete's voice is open, bare. His muscles are overflexed and trembling in his new position.
Patrick doesn't need help with the next thrust. He fucks into Pete hard and unsteady, and he'd hate himself for his lack of care, but Pete just moans and moves with him on the bed, working himself back on Patrick's cock just as much as Patrick is shoving into him. Their rhythm is awkward and stilted for another few beats, but they hit a stride that has Pete making small, wrecked noises in the back of his throat every time Patrick drives in. Goosebumps rise on the back of Patrick's neck because this feels, it's so--
Arousal burns bright in his belly, and the rest of his body goes numb with pleasure. Pete gasps, "Can you touch me?" grabbing blindly for Patrick's hand and guiding him to his leaking cock. He braces both hands on the bed while Patrick strokes him roughly in the rhythm they've established. The shift in movement presses Patrick along Pete's back now, and he leans forward to ask, "Are you good? Is this good? You need to tell me. I don't know--"
Pete moans, "Yes," says, "Please. Don't stop."
Patrick half laughs, half groans, because god. He couldn't stop if he wanted to, not with Pete like a vice around him, urging Patrick deeper into the tight bind of his body
Closing his eyes, Patrick focuses on the tempo of Pete's breathing, and what movements cause a change in the pattern. Patrick finds an angle that stops Pete's breath in his lungs, and Patrick tries his best to keep his thrusts solid like Pete needs, hitting that same spot over and over until Pete comes shuddering and silent, his muscles drawing tight around Patrick.
He pulls out and Pete rolls slowly onto his back and welcomes Patrick into the circle of his arms. "Hey. You could have finished," he tells Patrick gently.
There's no ready response for that - he doesn't have words for this feeling that lives big and bright between the curved bones of his ribcage and the frantic beating of his heart. Patick buries his head in Pete's neck and breathes in and out, spicy sting of sweat against his lips.
Maybe Pete understands, though, without Patrick having to tell him, because he doesn't say anything more, just jerks Patrick's cock firmly and kisses Patrick's shoulder, his neck, anywhere Pete can reach with his lips.
He's so close and, and-- Pete bites his cheek and Patrick comes involuntarily, balls drawing up tight in shock. Holy Fuck. Pete licks Patrick’s stinging skin in apology, but once Patrick collects himself enough to form words, he spits out incredulously, “You bit me!” because it's better than the words that were previously pounding through his head, unbidden and frenetic.
Pete shrugs, smirk firmly in place. Pete reaches out and Patrick is so very confused until he realizes that Pete is trying to pick his nose.
“Oh my god,” he says, horrified. “You are so gross.”
"You love me anyway," Pete points out.
"I do." The words come tumbling out without thought, so he chases them with a kiss.
When they finally break for air, Pete face is arranged in a careful expression, one corner of his mouth turned down in a frown. He looks at Patrick for a long time, searching, before he says, "Fuck, Patrick. Don't-- Fuck."
Patrick feels his body hunch up defensively. "You can't make me take it back," he says, voice angrier than he means. "You can't make me."
"No, hey." Pete sounds alarmed, and Patrick didn't realize he'd been fisting the sheets until Pete reaches down and untwines his stiffened fingers from the cotton.
"Patrick--" Pete starts talking and Patrick can already tell from his tone that it's nothing good, nothing that needs to be said.
"Shut up," he says, pushing Pete down and kissing him breathless. "Shut up," Patrick spits out between kisses. "You are the most fucking self-destructive person I've ever met, so shut the fuck up now unless you mean it."
Pete laughs like a sob, wet and torn sounding, and more than a bit hysterical. Patrick has a half second of being terrified out of his mind that Pete is going to say something else, but Pete seems to quiet after that, interspersed with small bursts of laughter like he can't help himself.
Pete says, "I'm really fucking in love with you, did you know that?"
All the anger leaves Patrick's body in a flood, as he's hit with an unexpected rush of possessiveness. Some of the crushing pressure in his chest eases off as well, and Patrick takes his first real breath of air in what feels like ages. He did know, but he was afraid that maybe Pete didn't, or he had forgotten, or had rationalized himself out of it in a spectacular Wentzian moment of emotional retardation.
"That's a good thing, you asshole. Maybe you can act like it." Maybe Patrick is still just a little bit angry.
Pete starts laughing again, and Patrick is relieved to note that there's some joy mixed in with the self-deprecating quality of the sound.
"I might fuck us up spectacularly," Pete admits.
Which is true, but, "You might not."
Pete looks at him seriously. "I can't promise you that."
"You could promise to try."
Pete seems like he still wants to argue, but something stops him. Patrick watches him reel the words in, pressing his lips together for a moment before nodding. "Okay."
Patrick is tired of talking about this. He wants to kiss Pete again so he does just that - traces Pete's lower lip with his tongue and resists the urge to bite hard, even if Pete kind of deserves it.
Pete rolls them onto their sides, yanking the blanket down around them. There is a moment of disorientation where Patrick can't see a fucking thing, but the blanket settles, and Pete is close and naked and warm in his arms. They make out sloppily, and Pete won't stop touching him, running his hands up and down Patrick back, the curve of his ass, his arms, like a question. Like he's reassuring himself that Patrick really there.
Patrick for his part arches into the touch and presses Pete down. He does whatever he can to tell Pete with his body that, yes I'm here, yes I love you, yes yes yes. It feels inadequate, but Patrick can accept the fact that sometimes in life you have to do what you can and hope it's enough.
Pete/Patrick | NC-17 | 3,600+ words
Patrick's hands scrabble uselessly on the slick material of Pete's jeans. The threads are rough, almost abrasive on the pads of his fingertips as he tries to get a firm enough grip to thrust up into Pete's body. On his part, Pete has braced his hands on the roof of Patrick's mom's car and he twists his hips down, but it's not right, not enough to get either of them off.
"Fuck," Pete exhales sharply through his nose. Patrick abandons his mission for a sure grip and attempts to pry Pete's jacket from his shoulders. He doesn't notice the cuff links are buttoned until Pete's sleeves are halfway down his arms and Pete's shoulders are forced at an uncomfortable angle while Patrick tries to free him from his new jacket-prison.
It's October and they've already steamed the windshield in the cool night. Beads of condensation slide down the windows. Patrick's glad his glasses, safe in the cup holder by the front seat, won't suffer the same fate.
Pete's body is a tense wire beneath his roaming hands. He shoves them up Pete's t-shirt with the faded soccer logo, and Patrick can feel the steady thrum of electricity arcing up beneath his palms. Pete's skin is smooth and hot and smells like soap and sweat and boy; all things that make Patrick stupidly and uselessly hard in his too-tight pants.
Pete must sense Patrick's growing frustration; he worms a hand between their bodies and rakes his nails lightly over the hard line of Patrick's erection, fingers firm and searching at the head of Patrick's cock. Oh god.
"Oh god," he says, muffled in Pete's shoulder. He can feel the vibrations of Pete's laughter against his cheek. "Fucker," he mumbles, and that has Pete laughing outright, setting Patrick off as well.
"I wish," Pete says, still laughing. They sit panting, struggling for air in the confines of the car. It takes a long moment for Pete's words to register, but Patrick's dick twitches when he realizes Pete's intent. He feels more than a bit hysterical. Trapped. Patrick wants to get Pete someplace where he can spread him out and map Pete's hot skin with his mouth. Useless frustration bubbles in his chest while he imagines having Pete like he wants him (like Patrick's never had him), maybe in Patrick's bed, dark skin against the faded pale of his sheets.
"Hey," Pete murmurs. "You still with me?" Pete smoothes his hand across Patrick's sternum, the ragged edge of his nail catching a loose thread.
"Sometimes," Patrick grits out. "I really hate my parents."
Pete asks, "How come?" angling his head in curiosity.
"Because they prevent me from taking you home," Patrick admits. He's not sure if he's ever seen Pete blush, didn't even know it was possible, but he swears he can see the flush of Pete's cheeks illuminated by the dim glow of the sodium lights in the lot where they're parked.
"Well then. You must love my parents."
"Why's that?"
Pete grins at him. "Because they're with my mom's sister for the weekend, and they took Andrew along with them."
Patrick stares up at Pete dumbly, mind overloaded with all the possibilities. Finally his brain kicks into gear, and he asks, "How long did you plan on waiting to tell me that?"
"I didn't think you'd care." He can barely get through the words, mirth bleeding from his tone. Patrick growls, flipping Pete over and pinning him to the seatback. Pete squirms, and while he could easily break free of Patrick's playful hold, he shakes and wiggles. Pete whispers uncle into the well of his ear.
The Wentz kitchen is dark where they walk in through the garage door. Pete doesn't bother with the lights, instead backing Patrick against to the marble countertop and pressing their bodies together. Pete's jacket still lies abandoned in the backseat of the car, and his skin is alternately hot and cold depending on where Patrick touches him. Pete's mouth tastes clean and sweet as always.
The first time they kissed, Patrick harbored the naive expectation that it would be different, somehow, a muskier flavor than girl spit. Patrick had anticipated a lot of differences, some bad (many good), but mostly he thought he'd like this less than he does; Pete's stubble scraping against his skin and setting Patrick's hands shaking, clutching at Pete's forearms where they wind tight around his hips.
It feels like ages until they make it all the way upstairs to Pete's room. There's a brief, terrifying detour through the living room, and Patrick fears they aren't going to make it. Visions of fucking Pete on the Wentz family couch flash before his eyes, but -- with more than a little coaxing on Patrick's part -- they eventually reach the stairs leading up to Pete's bedroom.
The door clicks shut with an air of finality. Patrick has absolutely no idea what to do next. No matter how many times he's played this very scenario out in his mind, nothing could have prepared him for how this feels, sitting on the edge of the twin bed farthest from the door with Pete standing, waiting, between the vee of his thighs.
"I'm going to have my wicked way with you," Pete informs him solemnly.
"Oh, goody." Patrick tries for deadpan, but it comes out more breathless than intended. Pete dislodges Patrick's hat and traces his fingers across the red line where the sweatband marked his forehead. He tries not to shiver visibly when Pete scratches the dull edges of his fingernails against his scalp, perfect friction that has Patrick humming low in his throat.
"You're like a cat, man. It's so fucking cute." Pete rubs softly at Patrick's earlobes, thumbs applying firm pressure at the tips like Patrick's a dog that needs quieting. He would protest to such treatment, but it feels pretty good. Enough that his eyes fall shut, and Pete must think he's nodding off, 'cause he's cupping Patrick's face now, tilting his chin. "Hey," Pete whispers. Patrick wants to ask why he's whispering, but Pete leans down to kiss him softly. Patrick's question is lost in the slide of their lips.
Pete pulls back, "Do you want...?" his fingers toying with the edges of his shirt.
"Yes, I want. Pete--" Patrick wants so much. He surges forward and crushes their mouths together. They exchange fleeting, fumbling kisses while Patrick pulls Pete onto the bed, Pete's knees landing on either side of Patrick's hips so Pete is a dark shape above him. He leans back to watch Pete remove the shirt.
Pete's nipples are hard, and his piercing glints in the dark room, metal stark and obvious against his skin. Patrick runs his fingers tentatively over the gage to watch Pete's back bow, pushing further into Patrick's hand. The buds feel stiff and aroused underneath the tips of Patrick's fingers while he takes one between his forefinger and his thumb, pinching to feel where metal meets flesh.
"Ahhh," Pete shudders. His body convulses against Patrick's in a wave, hands twisting in the buttons on his shirt, and Pete's shaking enough that his fingers are useless on the smooth plastic.
It's overwhelming to see him like this - so different from anything Patrick ever imagined. He has to admit that a small, romantic part of his brain thought that somehow their bond as musicians would carry over to this, but. The noises they're making sound nothing like music. Patrick would know. If anything, this is more like their songwriting process; chaotic back and forth calling to mind nights spent arguing over reams of notebook paper, each of them fighting to give each other enough to work with. It's frustrating, and it's fucking clumsy as hell. Patrick wouldn't have it any other way.
Belatedly, he realizes that he's never said, I love you. Patrick has felt it, of course he has, but he's never said the words. Pete has. Pete has grabbed him close and whispered, I fucking love you, against the thin, sweaty skin of Patrick's neck, post-show and flying high. Pete has told him with his hands and with his lips and scribbles in journals Pete has only recently started to bring out when they sit down to write. Patrick is afraid that the notes, the melodies that he's given Pete, can't ever adequately express what this feels like.
He rolls them so that Pete is heavy beneath him on the bed. Pete's eyes are wide, black pools, all iris, like they were the first time Patrick put is hands Pete and meant it. "Pete, I--"
Pete kisses him silent, and Patrick pretends what he's feeling is relief. He doesn't know if he's ready to say the words, but, more importantly, he's not sure Pete is ready to hear them. He thinks Pete might be scared. Words will make this real in a way that it has yet to be. Tonight goes beyond goofing off in his mom's car, or knuckles scraping metal studded belts in the anonymity of a house show. This is them in bed, alone in Pete's house, and they're going to fuck. The enormity of the situation is not lost on Patrick.
"Let's--" Pete breaks off and pushes him away to catch his breath. "Do you want to make a bed fort?" his voice sounds strained.
Patrick knows enough not to ask why, but, "How?"
Pete angles them both to the top of the bed so he can tuck the sheet behind the headboard. The streetlight outside his window is bright enough that light filters weakly through the blankets. Patrick is careful not to disturb the sheet when he puts all his weight on his arms and his knees, bracing himself over Pete while he wiggles out of his tight pants.
This is closer to what Patrick imagined, the few -- many -- times he let his thoughts drift this far; Pete balanced on his shoulders and heels, hands disappearing in the dark fabric of his jeans. Patrick would try to help, but he doesn't trust himself in this moment.
Pete's kicks his pants and boxers to the end of the bed, and Patrick tries not to openly stare. He's not doing a very good job. Patrick's mental dialogue is caught in a litany of, PETE! and NAKED! while Pete stretches out under him, back arching obviously in an invitation to be touched - something that Patrick wants to do. Badly. He just... doesn't know how to start this. Caught in a moment of panic, he doesn't notice Pete's hands on his belt until the sound of metal scraping metal sounds in his ears.
Pete's face is screwed up in concentration, and he's seemed to have missed Patrick's mini freak-out, or maybe he's just willfully ignoring it. Patrick is overwhelmingly, pathetically relieved at Pete's ability to be the most selectively single-minded person Patrick knows.
He kicks his pants to the end of the bed after Pete has finished with the zipper. His boxers got caught halfway down his hips, and Pete's hands migrate to the exposed skin that's bracketed between his briefs and his shirt. Patrick's gut twists low and hard when Pete drags his fingernails over the trail of hair at his belly, following the downward path to the coarse hair that surrounds his cock.
Pete makes an amused sound and Patrick can practically see what Pete is thinking, like a perverse thought bubble above Pete's head, a marquee of bad innuendo.
"If you say one thing about curtains or drapes, so help me god..."
Pete throws his head back, laughing his stupid donkey laugh, and Patrick can't help but reach out and touch him. Pete gasps, and his dick twitches in Patrick's sweaty palm.
Swift, even strokes have Pete arching off the bed. They continue like that for a time; Pete's fist balled low on Patrick's belly, and Patrick jerking Pete hard. Sweat is forming in the corners of Patrick's eyelids, making his eyes sting. Blinking would probably be a good idea, or maybe stopping long enough to wipe his brow, but neither of those things seem in any was feasible when he has Pete's undivided attention. It's a rare occurrence. He doesn't want to miss a second of it.
"Patrick," Pete's tone implies, stop, and he isn't ready for that quite yet. Tightening his fingers, he ducks down to kiss Pete's shoulder, pulsing his grip.
Pete makes a choking noise. "Seriously. You're gonna have to. Patrick. You're going to have to stop if you want--"
Patrick reluctantly slows his motions, rolling over to lay next to Pete on the bed.
Pete keeps his eyes closed and breathes. Patrick may have stopped, but he can't stop touching Pete altogether, running his fingers over the cleave of Pete's ribcage when he inhales. About a minute passes, and Pete turns his head on the pillow to smile at Patrick.
He bridges the small gap between them, leaning forward to lick Pete's chapped lips. Breathes in as Pete exhales, and he imagines the two of them laying here all night exchanging oxygen. A small voice in the back of Patrick's brain niggles, lectures from freshman Health about carbon monoxide ringing loudly in his ears.
Eventually, Pete breaks the kiss and wedges his hand between his mattress and the wall, arms straining while his fingers grasp for an unseen object. Other people might wonder what Pete is doing, but Patrick knows that's where he stashes his lube. Pete extracts the bottle triumphantly, flipping the cap and squeezing some on his palm as he lies back on the bed, spreading his legs to accommodate his hand. The tendons in his arm flex with the small movements, and Patrick watches Pete's face, can see it when Pete gives himself two fingers, then three; small creases forming on his forehead.
"C'mere" Pete says when he's ready.
Patrick sheds his remaining garments quickly and thoughtlessly. He eagerly resumes his position between Pete's thighs, lines his cock up and thinks; This isn't going to work. How can-- Pete hooks his legs around Patrick's back, forcing Patrick forward, letting him in.
Oh.
Patrick's brain feels feverish. Pete's thighs are hot against his waist, and under the blanket the air is humid, their skins slippery with sweat. Everything is hot and hazy, beginning and ending with the unbelievable tight heat give of Pete's body. Pete wraps his arms around his bare shoulders, and Patrick pretends he can feel the ink from Pete's arms bleeding into his own skin.
Pete shifts under him, like he's uncomfortable, or--
"Pete, is this o-okay?" Patrick trips on the last word, sliding in faster than he expected.
"I need, ah--" Pete's fingers tighten on his biceps. "Maybe if we-- here, lift up." Pete pushes on Patrick's shoulders and he backs off enough to let Pete flip over onto his hands and knees
Oh my god, Patrick thinks. Oh my god.
He can feel the raised mark of Pete's tattoo against the thin skin of his wrist, following Pete's vertebrae with his knuckles, circling the round bones down the smooth skin of Pete's back to where Pete is slick and spread open from Patrick's cock. Holy shit.
"Patrick," Pete's voice is open, bare. His muscles are overflexed and trembling in his new position.
Patrick doesn't need help with the next thrust. He fucks into Pete hard and unsteady, and he'd hate himself for his lack of care, but Pete just moans and moves with him on the bed, working himself back on Patrick's cock just as much as Patrick is shoving into him. Their rhythm is awkward and stilted for another few beats, but they hit a stride that has Pete making small, wrecked noises in the back of his throat every time Patrick drives in. Goosebumps rise on the back of Patrick's neck because this feels, it's so--
Arousal burns bright in his belly, and the rest of his body goes numb with pleasure. Pete gasps, "Can you touch me?" grabbing blindly for Patrick's hand and guiding him to his leaking cock. He braces both hands on the bed while Patrick strokes him roughly in the rhythm they've established. The shift in movement presses Patrick along Pete's back now, and he leans forward to ask, "Are you good? Is this good? You need to tell me. I don't know--"
Pete moans, "Yes," says, "Please. Don't stop."
Patrick half laughs, half groans, because god. He couldn't stop if he wanted to, not with Pete like a vice around him, urging Patrick deeper into the tight bind of his body
Closing his eyes, Patrick focuses on the tempo of Pete's breathing, and what movements cause a change in the pattern. Patrick finds an angle that stops Pete's breath in his lungs, and Patrick tries his best to keep his thrusts solid like Pete needs, hitting that same spot over and over until Pete comes shuddering and silent, his muscles drawing tight around Patrick.
He pulls out and Pete rolls slowly onto his back and welcomes Patrick into the circle of his arms. "Hey. You could have finished," he tells Patrick gently.
There's no ready response for that - he doesn't have words for this feeling that lives big and bright between the curved bones of his ribcage and the frantic beating of his heart. Patick buries his head in Pete's neck and breathes in and out, spicy sting of sweat against his lips.
Maybe Pete understands, though, without Patrick having to tell him, because he doesn't say anything more, just jerks Patrick's cock firmly and kisses Patrick's shoulder, his neck, anywhere Pete can reach with his lips.
He's so close and, and-- Pete bites his cheek and Patrick comes involuntarily, balls drawing up tight in shock. Holy Fuck. Pete licks Patrick’s stinging skin in apology, but once Patrick collects himself enough to form words, he spits out incredulously, “You bit me!” because it's better than the words that were previously pounding through his head, unbidden and frenetic.
Pete shrugs, smirk firmly in place. Pete reaches out and Patrick is so very confused until he realizes that Pete is trying to pick his nose.
“Oh my god,” he says, horrified. “You are so gross.”
"You love me anyway," Pete points out.
"I do." The words come tumbling out without thought, so he chases them with a kiss.
When they finally break for air, Pete face is arranged in a careful expression, one corner of his mouth turned down in a frown. He looks at Patrick for a long time, searching, before he says, "Fuck, Patrick. Don't-- Fuck."
Patrick feels his body hunch up defensively. "You can't make me take it back," he says, voice angrier than he means. "You can't make me."
"No, hey." Pete sounds alarmed, and Patrick didn't realize he'd been fisting the sheets until Pete reaches down and untwines his stiffened fingers from the cotton.
"Patrick--" Pete starts talking and Patrick can already tell from his tone that it's nothing good, nothing that needs to be said.
"Shut up," he says, pushing Pete down and kissing him breathless. "Shut up," Patrick spits out between kisses. "You are the most fucking self-destructive person I've ever met, so shut the fuck up now unless you mean it."
Pete laughs like a sob, wet and torn sounding, and more than a bit hysterical. Patrick has a half second of being terrified out of his mind that Pete is going to say something else, but Pete seems to quiet after that, interspersed with small bursts of laughter like he can't help himself.
Pete says, "I'm really fucking in love with you, did you know that?"
All the anger leaves Patrick's body in a flood, as he's hit with an unexpected rush of possessiveness. Some of the crushing pressure in his chest eases off as well, and Patrick takes his first real breath of air in what feels like ages. He did know, but he was afraid that maybe Pete didn't, or he had forgotten, or had rationalized himself out of it in a spectacular Wentzian moment of emotional retardation.
"That's a good thing, you asshole. Maybe you can act like it." Maybe Patrick is still just a little bit angry.
Pete starts laughing again, and Patrick is relieved to note that there's some joy mixed in with the self-deprecating quality of the sound.
"I might fuck us up spectacularly," Pete admits.
Which is true, but, "You might not."
Pete looks at him seriously. "I can't promise you that."
"You could promise to try."
Pete seems like he still wants to argue, but something stops him. Patrick watches him reel the words in, pressing his lips together for a moment before nodding. "Okay."
Patrick is tired of talking about this. He wants to kiss Pete again so he does just that - traces Pete's lower lip with his tongue and resists the urge to bite hard, even if Pete kind of deserves it.
Pete rolls them onto their sides, yanking the blanket down around them. There is a moment of disorientation where Patrick can't see a fucking thing, but the blanket settles, and Pete is close and naked and warm in his arms. They make out sloppily, and Pete won't stop touching him, running his hands up and down Patrick back, the curve of his ass, his arms, like a question. Like he's reassuring himself that Patrick really there.
Patrick for his part arches into the touch and presses Pete down. He does whatever he can to tell Pete with his body that, yes I'm here, yes I love you, yes yes yes. It feels inadequate, but Patrick can accept the fact that sometimes in life you have to do what you can and hope it's enough.