there was a whole lot of zip then it went boom (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} swear_jar) wrote,@ 2008-10-07 17:15:00 |
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zen and the art of brinkmanship (fob, pete/patrick).
(Oh wise flist, tell me where you crosspost your FOB fic?)
Title: Zen And The Art of Brinkmanship.
Authors:swear_jar (possibly had the higher wordcount) and apiphile (definitely had the higher rate of being amazing).
Fandom: FOB (RPS)
Word Count: 6,100 (ish)
Rating: R
Pairing: Patrick/Pete
Note: Though the timeline is somewhat borked, this is set still-using-the-van early on.
Warnings: Pete is a sick puppy. WE are pure as the driven slush. Honest.
Disclaimer: Um, we can’t actually be sure they haven't done all this, but we don't KNOW, so this is wholly a work of fiction. Probably.
Pete's in the darkness and he's checking his ethics. It's easier to do that when he's too drunk to spell "ethics" anymore, so that's when he does it. Ethics are totally best when you're drunk enough to know that you're going to take off your eyeliner before you pass out, but not too drunk to know that you ought to.
Pete examines his ethics through the bottom of the bottle:
It's alright, it's not weird, because Patrick's asleep, and if he doesn't know about it it didn't really happen. Also, it's not even his dick. So it's alright and it's not weird and Pete never did it. That's right; no witnesses means nothing happened. If a tree falls … on someone's fingers … then it didn't really … come. Yeah.
He's kinda aware that his philosophy could use a little work.
And his ethics.
And probably his morals.
That can wait 'til he's come, though. Patrick's fingers are limper than he wants and he keeps mumbling in his sleep, which is cute rather than hot; Pete's about to give up when he leans further in and one nail touches the back of his throat and, somewhere between gagging and drooling, he gets his own hand on his minime and comes, inside his pants.
His morality could definitely use a little work. Patrick's fingers slide damp and saliva-stringy over his cheek as he backs away, and that's almost enough to set the whole fucking fireworks display in his head off again. Because now his face is wet, and Patrick's hand is going to smell of his half-bile when he wakes up.
So he's done that a few times when he decides to get daring. Live a little, Pete, you're a rock star. Live a little. Lucky Pete, because he kinda dicks around enough that no one thinks it's odd if he just, you know, steals food out of Patrick's wee Patrick-hands with his mouth. Just Pete being Pete, just Pete being a dick. Just Pete explaining why he's been hit in the face so many times.
He doesn't eat it, of course, he just steals it so he can lick the ends of Patrick's fingers while he's doing it, and pretend that Patrick knows what that means. Which he doesn't, because he's asleep, right? So everyone just thinks Pete is being a dick and stealing Patrick's cake for the sake of being obnoxious. Not exactly uncharacteristic. He is kinda also doing it to be obnoxious.
Patrick falls asleep early; his fingers still smell of cake when Pete wriggles down next to him like a dog. Pete's fingers probably smell like asshole. In fact, he's pretty sure they smell like asshole, and there's a very good reason for that. But Patrick's fingers, they smell of cake, and Patrick. Overall Pete prefers the Patrick!smell; he's eaten too much fucking cake, pretext-cake, finger-licking cake, today. Finger-fucking cake. Hah.
Patrick's breathing is shallow and snorty, his hands stiff and cranky in some too-much-cake dream. It takes too long, too long to straighten them out, and Pete's salivating like crazy by the time he gets a brush of fingertip on his lips. Like that guy's dog. The one with the cake name. Pavlov. Too much cake. He's salivating and probably drooling elsewhere too.
He checks. Yeah. Drooling from the dick. Dickspittle.
Maybe if it hadn't taken so fucking fucking long to get Patrick's fingers straight he'd have the patience to rub them on his closed mouth and enjoy that feeling too, but he's got no patience left now. He swallows three of Patrick's fingers like a dick and the scrape of chewed fingernails over his tongue and the roof of his mouth is ... uh, uh, ... almost too much.
He's holding Patrick's wrist steady with one hand and his Little Pete not so steady with the other when Patrick opens one sleepy eye and mumbles something indistinct.
So Patrick’s always sucking on this one fucking sharpie, like it’s his favourite thing in the world, and the thing is, Pete can admit to himself, he’s kind of jealous. Getting Dirty to steal it isn’t hard. Getting Dirty to steal anything isn't hard.
Pete's thumbing the warm plastic all day, wedged into his pocket it's a solid line that bumps against his dick if he shifts just so. He's practically jerked the fucking thing off, rubbed himself off against it. Sniffed his fingers approximately ten times to see if he can smell Patrick on it still (hardly likely, pressed into his skin tight, sweaty jeans). He can just smell solventy, solventy pen, and his own ballsweat.
He gets looks. Looks that aren't curious, almost everyone focussing intensely on not looking curious at all, even while staring at what must look like Pete constantly scratching his balls through his pocket, like he’s got galloping fucking knob-rot. Patrick and Joe and Andy pretty much know not to ask unless they're really, really sure they want to know. Pete's kind of sad they know him so well.
He even gets away with licking his own sweaty palm, then grabbing Patrick's to taste in comparison. Patrick doesn't even swat at his head that hard, distracted by some song or other he's been messing around with for weeks, his glasses opaque with reflections from the computer screen. This is the reward for being a dick all the time; no one notices what kind of dick he's being.
They both taste salty. Patrick's nicer. Pete's hands are starting to taste like an unappetising combination of plastic and balls.
The point is, Pete's pretty worked up by the time he decides he's had enough fucking around and needs to jerk off. Doing it in Patrick's bathroom is probably not the greatest idea he's had, but it is also the greatest idea he's ever had, because it's Patrick's bathroom and that makes it … hot.
But.
The door locks, but you can still open it half an inch, and there is absolutely no soundproofing at all. Pete doesn't even care by the time he shuts the door and flicks the latch locked, hand pressed over his crotch, frustrating himself for a minute because he can't figure out how to pull the sharpie out of his pocket without moving his hand off his dick - after a minute he realises it'll be better if he can undo his fucking pants, which involves moving his hand anyway. He pries his fingers off his dick and pulls the sharpie triumphantly from his pocket.
The bathroom is white on white, and blends into one blur, turning Pete's vision all white. The floor is cold on his feet, and on his ass when he slides down the wall, pants around his knees, hand around his dick and sucking on Patrick’s sharpie like he’s sucking dick. Patrick's sharpie, Patrick's hand, Patrick's dick. All the same.
His legs shake so hard the second he even thinks about shoving the pen past his molars there’s no way he’d have stayed standing, he’s glad to be on the floor, glad for the fucking cold shock of the tile.
It slows him down, slows his dick down (drooling for more, just like him), just enough he might have time to enjoy the hard plastic when it hits his throat. He grabs his dick, hard, the thought of it sending him twitching towards the edge again, oh fuck.
He can’t even reason himself out of moving his hand now, can’t wait, he’s going to come—he pushes the sharpie into his mouth, it’s not fucking thick enough though, so he pushes, pushes further and rolls his tongue under it, drooling and, oh fuck fuck fuck choking again-- fuck, he nearly pitches forward and cracks his head open on the floor, forgetting his pants are still binding his legs, because he’s fucked up this time, and when he pulls the sharpie out of his mouth he gags again and pukes into the toilet, a thick sweet mess of Rockstar energy drink and stomach acid, fizzy sherbet smell tainted with bile, burns his fucking throat and nose, makes his eyes water. He knows the colour without focussing; neon yellow. Puke-yellow.
And he—
--Doesn’t actually move his hand off his dick.
He’s hunched awkwardly over the toilet, can picture himself clearly, dark and dirty surrounded by snow white, hand still around his dick, other hand planted on the tile, slick wet sharpie pressing hard into this palm. He breathes deeply though his mouth, thinks he should stop, at least drag his face away from the open toilet bowl. He shifts, drags his fingers over the tiles, closes them around the sharpie, and his dick. Twitches.
He’s still on edge, shifts around to lean his back against the toilet, every shift of his hand making his thighs twitch, his dick throb. No way he can stop.
"Fuck," he mangles the curse, spits it out raspy and tasting of acid. He’s careful – sort of careful - when he shoves the sharpie back in his mouth. He moves and gags too loud over it. Moves it one last time, and comes all over Patrick’s white floor. White on white.
When his hand on his cock slows to a stop, he turns to spit into the toilet again. Bile-flavoured saliva drips off his chin, the soggy sharpie back in his fist. His soggy cock in the other.
It’s fucking disgusting. He smiles.
He’s too relaxed to even care.
He manages to pull his pants up over his cold ass a second before the door slides open and bangs to a stop, half an inch gap filling up with a line of Patrick’s concerned face, eyebrows tilted in, his eyes wide, and the corner of his mouth twitched down.
"Pete? Sorry, I knocked. I knocked. Are you okay?" Patrick sounds more worried than sorry.
"No." Pete says. “Come in.” He’s not exactly lying. He was sick. There's evidence right there in the bowl. He pushes his foot out and grimaces as it slides over his own come: it’s barely noticeable, but he doesn’t particularly want Patrick to stand it in and track it though his house—hilarious as that would actually be.
"Hey, what's the matter?" Patrick asks, sticking his finger through the gap in the door and flipping the latch over.
Pete just lets himself breathe. Doesn’t bother to move himself and flush the toilet, just lets the smell in the room speak for him—the puke overpowers the smell of sex. Pete turns around and spits into the toilet again.
“You want water?” Patrick says, leaning back against the sink and looking down at Pete.
Pete doesn’t say anything, just puts his arms out like a fussy toddler who wants to be picked up, makes gimme hands at Patrick and smiles a little. Patrick grabs his hands and pulls him up, hugs Pete and rubs his back, soothing. Patrick hugging Pete first is rare and special and Pete doesn’t even deserve it. All of Patrick’s attention focussed on him, just like that.
Snuggling in the afterglow is one of Pete’s favourite things. So Pete’s the only person who was there for the sex part; apparently it doesn’t matter to his brain, which is settling into sleep quickly.
“Can I—“ Patrick starts, pulling away from Pete a little.
“No,” Pete says quickly, holding onto Patrick tightly. “I’m good.”
Patrick doesn't actually even notice it's missing. It pisses Pete off -- why isn't Patrick noticing? He practically fellated the fucking thing twenty times a day, but Patrick’s head was off in clouds of sound. Patrick should notice when Pete's … deliberately … getting rid of the competition.
Even to him that sounds fucked up.
Pete cocks his head to the side and looks down at Patrick's sleep soft face. They're on the couch and Patrick's gradually slipped sideways as he'd nodded off, top of his head against the outside of Pete's thigh, legs bent in so he fits snugly squeezed into soft leather like bills into a wallet. It's three a.m. and they're watching "Uncle Buck". For the millionth time. On screen Miles is interrogating Buck, and Pete still snickers a little at "I'm a kid, it's my job". Patrick would laugh there if he was awake, would have talked along with the whole scene.
Patrick doesn't even wake up when Pete shifts sideways, nudges him in the top of the head with his knee, gently caving in the top of Patrick's skew-whiff hat, bumping his head lightly.
Pete holds his breath a moment, then pops the cap off Patrick's sharpie, brushes Patrick's hat off his head, so it tumbles lightly onto the carpet. Pete's hand stays on Patrick's forehead, brushing stray hair back gently, so he can see what he's doing.
Pete writes in capital letters across Patrick's forehead, first and last letter touching Patrick's hairline: "MINE".
Pete wakes up on the couch, fingers clenched around air, legs totally numb from pins and needles he knows are going to be a complete bitch to walk off. He's curled up into the corner of the couch, taking up as little space as possible, as if Patrick were still actually here to accommodate. He rubs at the sleep in his eyes and pushes his legs straight out in front of himself. Groans the aches and sleepiness out into the air.
When he turns his head, Joe is there, eating Froot Loops out of the packet with his fingers and smiling alternately at Pete and the TV, amused at Pete sleeping on the couch like an idiot, and at early morning cartoons.
"Morning," Pete manages, half way to intelligible. It's a victory. His head feels like a lead balloon.
Joe just laughs.
"What?" Pete asks, curling his sock covered toes and wincing at the pins and needles. Hemmingway click-clicks into the room and sniffs at his socks for a minute and then wiggles his stumpy tailed butt, wuffs in excitement when Pete pushes him away and stands up.
"Go back to bed," Joe says.
"Hemmy needs to whizz," Pete mumbles, stamping his feet.
"I got it," Joe stands up and spills colourful Froot Loop dust over the floor, Hemmy licks at it happily. Joe laughs down at him, then looks back at Pete and laughs again, waving Pete towards his bed.
Pete doesn't like to look a gift dog walker in his giggly mouth (it's way too early to smoke up, but it's Joe, so maybe), he just blinks and turns around to stumbles to his bed. He falls back asleep.
The next time Pete wakes up, it's still sunrise. He has a moment of deep confusion, before he realises that no, the dim light coming through the curtains is actually sunset.
He'd needed the sleep, but he feels like shit for having it. Of course.
Stumbling to the bathroom to splash water on his face, he catches a look at himself in the mirror. Pete feels his pocket for the black sharpie. It's not there.
Patrick has scrawled "DICK" on Pete's face, running from D at the corner of his mouth to the K curling up to nearly touch his ear.
Pete bursts into laughter, and then remembers Joe's face that morning, and laughs harder. Well.
If Patrick wants to play, Pete can play. He leaves "DICK" where it is, bold and beautiful, brushes his teeth and draws black thickly around his eyes, smearing it and turning the dead tired smudges under his eyes into something dangerous and purposeful looking. He smiles at himself in the mirror.
His sidekick buzzes and Dirty's on the phone, telling him he'll be there in five minutes, and his pre-gig adrenaline starts to kick in just like that. Pete flicks the on switch on his flat iron.
It takes Pete blinking innocently and asking "what? What?" the fifth or sixth time someone busts up laughing as they catch a look at his face, before Patrick's guilty conscience goes into overdrive. He's half laughing, half cringing by the time they get the fifteen minute call to go on. Patrick can't stop glancing at Pete and Pete can tell he wants to say something, but he doesn't quite, just keeps singing his warm-up and stealing glances. Pete loves this shit. It's so worth having DICK scrawled over his cheek.
Joe's guitar tech pops her head in and nearly drops Joe's guitar laughing when she catches sight of Pete.
"What? Why is everyone picking on me?" Pete whines and knows he's pushed it too far when Patrick cuts himself off mid-note.
"Why didn't you wash it off?" Patrick asks, half laughing. And the game's up.
"I just want your dick on my face, is that so bad?" Pete makes a kissyface at Patrick. And Patrick turns endearingly pink and red, laughs sharp and quick.
"Showtime!" Dirty sings from the doorway. Patrick's eyes go from Pete’s to the ground.
"Aren't you gonna?" Patrick gestures, and Pete just shakes his head, grins, and picks up his bass.
So when he finishes screaming on "Saturday", he doesn't go and grab his bass back from their tech, he falls on his knees in front of Patrick, mic tapping against the back of his teeth, letting it slip out of his hand for just a second so the rough mesh scratches across the top of the mouth and his tongue and hits the back of his throat enough he gags, coughs, pulls the mic out with both hands as showy as he can, twisting his wrist over the black plastic like he's jerking it off into his mouth.
He looks up at Patrick through uncontrollably watering eyes, blurred vision and blood pumping nowhere directly to a hard-on he could fuck through walls with. Watching Patrick's fingers, beautiful and quick over guitar strings, genius fingers with ragged short nails and harsh touring calluses that had brushed along Pete's tongue all salty and rough and made his mouth water. Patrick's hands are right there and where Pete is Patrick’s dick is right there too, under too tight pants pulled even more by Patrick’s legs apart, feet planted one back, one forward, rock-god pose.
Pete has to stand up and grab his bass back like a lifeline as the song winds up, falls on his back in the middle of the floor, unable to stop himself pushing his hips into the back of his bass as he plays, fingers sliding over strings and imagining the textures of Patrick's hands again and again. Joe spins right over the top of him, barely missing Pete’s head with the tip of his shoe.
No one says anything, when they come off stage. Patrick smiles at him. Pete had choked himself on a mic in front of hundreds of people and practically fucked his bass until he nearly came. It was a good show. They were on.
Of course Pete wants to see how far he can take it before anyone notices. Before Patrick notices.
Because he's Pete fucking Wentz and he loves to torture himself.
Between songs, Pete gets down on his knees and takes Patrick’s hands. In the front row, girls scream and some dude with a shaved head yells something about marriage.
Patrick is open mouthed, flushed. He shakes his head, lifts his hat up quickly pushing his sweaty hair back, and jams it back down. He blinks and mouths “what?” at Pete.
Pete pulls his hand forward and rubs Patrick’s fingers over his lips, doesn’t take his eyes off Patrick’s, everything’s actually quiet, until Joe or Andy or someone starts the next song and Pete bounces up off his knees grinning and smacking into Joe.
In the sweaty gauntlet of close pressed well-done hugs in corridors and shouted invites to after-parties, Pete’s got Dirty’s arm around his neck in a headlock one second, and the next he’s upright fast enough his head is spinning, Patrick’s voice in his ear: "Not exactly a kiss on the neck."
"I heard some dude yell out faggots or some shit," Pete says, distracted by his dick (like always) and his tingling lips and how all he can see of Patrick is Patrick's fucking guitar callused, bitten nailed, fingers clasped over his naked upper arm, pressing white into his tan. Patrick’s standing necessarily close behind him, no room to move with people going back and forth, some carrying bulky equipment. Pete can’t even manage to make himself sound convincing, with Patrick practically breathing in his ear. Pete feels goosebumps rise with a shiver over his body.
"... Fair enough," Patrick says mildly, after a pause. Pete turns to look at him, but all he gets is the back of Patrick’s hat disappearing, eclipsed by Joe’s curls.
Joe barrels past spinning like he's still on stage and laughs as Pete completely fails to meet his high five.
It's still easy, even though Pete’s not quite sure how much he got away with this time.
It’s fine outside the van, spring breeze floating through and pushing a soda can clink-clinking hollowly across the asphalt. The weather has inconveniently refused to match Pete’s mood all day. It’s harder to hate himself and everyone else and the fact that he can’t sleep, feels like he’ll never fucking sleep again, when even the middle of the night is calm and comfortably warm. With his head in Patrick’s lap, it’s harder again.
Patrick has fallen asleep with Pete's head in his lap, because Pete was feeling clingy. He wasn’t sleeping, had taken too many pills today already, and had pinned him to the seat and pretended to be asleep when Patrick had complained about his legs being dead, because he fucking wanted Patrick to stay. Just stay. And he wasn't above faking a comfortable sleepy mumble and milking Patrick's (and everyone else's) concern about him not sleeping to get it.
So Patrick's asleep, head resting precariously on the taught grey seatbelt, slipping a little with each heavy breath and righting himself without waking, snuffling a little. Carpark lights flicker through the window, trees moving in the breeze flashing the streetlights coyly every heartbeat or so. It's late, really late. Pete has no idea where Andy and Joe are. If they've found non-van accommodation and Patrick has missed out on a real bed so Pete can sleep in his lap-- Patrick's going to be pissed.
Pete wriggles a bit, hard plastic seat belt clasp digging into his hip, and he doesn’t want to move enough to wake up Patrick.
Patrick's hand is curled over Pete's shoulder and his fingers are dangling softly curled right in front of Pete's face. Patrick's dick is right there, too, if Pete just turns his head he could have his mouth on it through Patrick's tour-dirty jeans. He's surrounded by Patrick-smell, this close. If he breathes deeply enough he can almost drown out the van's stench (it's mostly mouldy cupcakes and pot this week).
So when he shifts and grabs Patrick's fingers with his, gently testing how deeply Patrick's sleeping, he tells himself he's just going to taste a little.
He knows he's lying, but he's always thought that if he tells himself something enough, it might make it true. ("I am going to go to sleep" "I will not cheat on them" "I am a good person" "this band will fucking make us all stars").
His dick is hard. It's Pavlovian; that fucking cake guy again. He only has to look at Patrick's fingers, now, only has to smell him.
And he runs Patrick's fingers over his lips again. His mouth waters.
The thing is, Pete tells himself, is that this is really the safe option. It could be so, so much worse.
Pulling Patrick's fingers in over his tongue, shifting his head forward and holding his free hand over his hard on. Pressing down with the heel of his hands over his jeans, tight and digging into his cock with the seams and the zipper nearly hurting. His hips are moving without his permission, stuttering and humping against his hand every time he sucks gently on Patrick’s fingers. He's restraining himself. He forces himself not to let a frustrated noise past his throat.
This is the safe option, because what he really wants to do right now is turn his head to the side, rip Patrick's fly open and choke himself of Patrick's dick.
Getting a rattling cough is the worst nightmare for anyone whose livelihood involves singing, and sulking - while enticing - is not a medically proven cure for mono.
Nor, Pete is quick to remind everyone, is making fun of him for having caught mono from a teenager he shouldn't have made out with in the first place.
He spends a lot of time sucking cough sweets over the next week, and a lot of time on the internet. It's amazing the specific sex toys one can buy, and amazing how simple it is to assuage a sore throat with the use of a credit card. Particularly if the credit card is not your own, but actually Patrick's. (Oh, Patrick won't mind. It's for Pete's health. Everyone cares about Pete's health. They really do. Pete's health is vital to the success of the band.)
Other than that the only entertainment he has for nearly two fucking weeks is:
(It’s hard, because he can’t risk Patrick getting sick, which means no sucking on any part of him, and it’s just fucking terrible).
And then the fucking mono clears up and he stops having to write down what he wants to say to people. Which is kinda good because his handwriting is … but at the same time … cough sweets …
So it's kind of hard to explain that no, he's not still sick, seriously, he's fine now-- it's just he's been ramming rubber dick down his throat repeatedly, hand down his pants pant-choke-jerking-convulsing all over. You know, like you do if you're fucking obsessed with something you can't fucking have.
Not that he says that to anyone.
Well, he does. Kinda. But it's not like Patrick believed him.
"Pete, you sound like shit, have you really been sleeping? If you get sick again--" it's that unfinished sentence that's half threat, half mother hen. Patrick actually really sounds worried.
And Pete sidles over and takes Patrick's very new, very expensive guitar out of his hands and drops it to the floor with a heavy wooden crash that reverberates through Patrick's entire body as a wave of tenseness.
"I'm. Not. Sick," Pete says, his legs pressed up against Patrick's inner thighs as he steps in and his nose against Patrick's hair, skewing his hat. "I've been practicing deep-throating," Pete rasps and exaggerates it maybe just a little.
"My fucking guitar, Peter, you fucking fuck," and of course Patrick doesn't believe him, dismisses him, and it's probably wrong that Pete gets a bit of a thrill at that, even more than he usually does when he pisses Patrick off enough that he snaps. At least Patrick isn't concerned about Pete being sick anymore, and Pete laughs when Patrick makes a grab for him just a little too slow, whoops and vaults the couch with Patrick hot on his heels.
It's even funny when Patrick trips him and he nearly bites through his lip as he hits the floor, and it's still funny when Patrick's expression changes from going-to-kill-you to oh-shit-I-think-I-killed-you. Pete's shiny red shit-eating grin cuts off Patrick's half angry half worried "shit, Pete--" and turns it into Patrick grinning back, ducking his head and shaking it like, look-what-you-do-to-me, and offering Pete his hand to get up.
Pete doesn't take it, lest he find himself doing something inappropriate to Patrick's fingers right now, all coppery tasting pink drool and gagging pushing into Patrick's fingers-- so he just lies on the floor and laughs at the ceiling.
Patrick's angel-baby faced and white-pale in sleep, the thin light coming in under the door is all yellow lines and boxes and blue shadows like the bruised dark places under Pete's eyes. Patrick practically glows.
Pete hasn't been sleeping. If he's honest with himself (and he so rarely is, so it's best that he listens) he still isn't completely well, either. His throat hurts (it won’t stop him, that’s half the problem).
They have to talk about this, even though his stomach turns thinking about looking into Patrick's open eyes, god his stomach really flips-- he should be asleep, but there he goes again. Lies, lies, lies, like sleep is a choice, like his stomach is sick from anything but nerves and creeping guilt-- is he kidding himself? Is guilt the same as the dread feeling that he won't get what he wants? Won't get his own way? Can't keep things as they are? Fucking feels the same in his tired, twisted-up head.
His eyes itch and prickle with sleep, lack of sleep, water when he rubs them like they're crying for it, crying with joy at being fucking closed, water-water everywhere and not a drop to drink.
Fuck, he's scattered. He rubs his damp eyes again. Thinks about little orange and white bottles and magic rattling pills.
He can't tell if he's doing the right thing, or the thing he wants to be right.
What else is new, morning dew.
Fuck.
Patrick stirs. Mumble grumbling. One hand is curled against his face, pale and soft looking in this light, when Pete knows Patrick’s hands aren’t really soft at all. He follows Patrick’s fingers to the back of his hand, which, Pete realises he’s got his finger tracing a circle over it at the same time he realises that part of Patrick’s hand really is soft. Hand to wrist to arm to the shadowed bend of his elbow, arm bone’s connected to the shoulder bone shoulder bone’s connected to the—soft worn Gorilla Biscuits shirt that Patrick’s had since he was fifteen (Pete knows, he gave it to him). Pete follows the loose ribbed neckline of the shirt, stretched beyond help and falling open a little in a scoop against Patrick’s throat. Feels almost as soft as his skin.
Pete had ideas. Ideas and plans and noble intentions, talking about this, admitting, unburdening, sleeping, and they all fly the fuck out the window when Patrick uncurls his sleeping fingers and they brush against Pete’s thigh. He’s braver at midnight but he’s weaker too. Pete’s mouth waters. Fuck noble intentions. Fuck plans and ideas and guilt. And fuck sleep.
His dick is so hard. Has been getting there since he pushed open Patrick’s door and perched on his bed. Hasn't it. That's why he's in here. If he stops deluding himself (because that'll really happen), it's not because he wants to talk.
Pete curls his fingers through Patrick’s, presses their palms together and lifts Patrick's hand with their (his, Patricks') fingers laced together. Softly, softly, turns their hands, lips on the back of Patrick’s. Seriously soft. What he wants is to open his mouth wide and fill it with Patrick’s whole entire hand, his fist, that too full feeling where you know there’s too much, too fast and you’re going to choke because it’s all you can do, can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t spit—Patrick’s fingers bump the back of Pete’s throat once before he realises he’s moved and he stops, eyes squeezed shut. It’s not enough, no where near.
Pete freezes. He’s tugged Patrick’s arm, hard.
Fuckfuckfuck, he wants to move, needs to move Patrick’s hand, fingers resting on his tongue and drool escaping the side of his mouth uncontrollably. Minutes, hours pass—it can’t even be, but Pete feels it in every tense muscle in his body, wanting to move so bad it hurts. Patrick doesn’t stir. Pete shifts his tongue under Patrick’s fingers and leans forwards slowly, falling into them like he’d lean into his own fingers to throw up.
Pete tries to stifle the obscene mix of sound that escapes his throat, as Patrick’s fingers make him choke, gag, moan, worse when he shoves his hand in his pants, scratching over muscle, and gripping his dick. He feels light headed and Jesus Christ it could be the sudden fucking blood loss because there is sure as fuck nothing left anywhere in his body but his dick, head spinning and knuckles burning against the rough denim of the inside of his jeans he’s moving his hand so fast, he’s going to have fucking denim burn on his knuckles.
Pete fucks his face down on Patrick’s hand, nearly has time to set a rhythm that lets him breathe, almost, almost enough every few wet, scraping, full stokes, almost has time to enjoy Patrick’s thick blunt fingers gagging him, shoving into his unwilling throat, in out ininin, before he’s coming inside his jeans, rubbing over the head of his dick, too much—Patrick’s fingers slip out of his mouth before he’s done and he whines at the loss, he can’t coordinate himself enough to get them back and whines again as his dick pulses wetly one last time, can’t stop himself.
"Pete."
Pete scrubs one hand over his mouth, feels spit rub over his cheek, his open lips. His heart is beating a rhythm that feels like panic, but his mind is blissfully blank. When his eyes are open, he finds he’s kneeling, unsteady on the mattress, no recall as to when he’d shifted to his knees, leaning over Patrick, looking down at Patrick’s confused, wide open eyes. His hand is still in his pants, curled sticky over his dick, in the damp confusion of his crotch. He can’t even bring himself to move it.
"Patrick,” he says.
Patrick blinks, hauls back, and punches him in the face.
Pete falls off the bad, flat on his back, grabs at his stinging nose and doesn’t realise until he stands up that he’s not actually bleeding, the sticky wet feeling is just where he’s wiped his own come on his face.
There’s a moment of silence, into which Patrick snuffle-snores, totally asleep again.
Pete manages to stumble out of the room before he bursts out laughing, collapsing against the wall and sliding down so his shirt rucks up to his shoulders, shaking and gasping as cold plaster presses against his lower back, head between his knees and he can’t breathe through the giggling, doesn’t stop laughing until his eyes are watering.
"Pete."
Pete's hypnotised. Patrick is drumming his fingers on the inside of the van window, and Pete's lost in a world of no sleep but plenty of images. Every tap on the glass is a smack into his tonsils; just like fingers down the throats of best friends probably wouldn't have made such a good lyric. He squirms against the seat.
"Pete."
The stoplight seems to have gone on for fucking ever.
"PETE."
"Uh?" is his intelligent and reasoned fucking response. He rubs drool into the leg of his jeans – has he been sleeping? When the fuck did that get there?
"Pete, if you want to, you know …" Patrick's voice trails off but the tapping continues. Tap tap taptaptaptap tap tap.
"What?"
"Talk."
The stoplight changes colour. Pete wonders if he can get away with pretending to be asleep. Probably not, having just answered a fucking question without thinking, stupid, stupid, but maybe if he droops … against the … seat … yeah, that's bringing him closer to the smell of Patrick's jeans. Not a smart plan.
"No," he says eventually, his words indistinct around the knuckles of his own aimless right hand. "Too tired."
And anyway, what would he do, if Patrick actually knew? What then? That was the wrong kind of unfamiliar territory. What next?
"What next?" He hears himself mumble.
"Usually," Patrick says crossly, "you start jerking off at this point."
THE END.
(Oh wise flist, tell me where you crosspost your FOB fic?)
Title: Zen And The Art of Brinkmanship.
Authors:
swear_jar (possibly had the higher wordcount) and apiphile (definitely had the higher rate of being amazing). Fandom: FOB (RPS)
Word Count: 6,100 (ish)
Rating: R
Pairing: Patrick/Pete
Note: Though the timeline is somewhat borked, this is set still-using-the-van early on.
Warnings: Pete is a sick puppy. WE are pure as the driven slush. Honest.
Disclaimer: Um, we can’t actually be sure they haven't done all this, but we don't KNOW, so this is wholly a work of fiction. Probably.
Pete's in the darkness and he's checking his ethics. It's easier to do that when he's too drunk to spell "ethics" anymore, so that's when he does it. Ethics are totally best when you're drunk enough to know that you're going to take off your eyeliner before you pass out, but not too drunk to know that you ought to.
Pete examines his ethics through the bottom of the bottle:
It's alright, it's not weird, because Patrick's asleep, and if he doesn't know about it it didn't really happen. Also, it's not even his dick. So it's alright and it's not weird and Pete never did it. That's right; no witnesses means nothing happened. If a tree falls … on someone's fingers … then it didn't really … come. Yeah.
He's kinda aware that his philosophy could use a little work.
And his ethics.
And probably his morals.
That can wait 'til he's come, though. Patrick's fingers are limper than he wants and he keeps mumbling in his sleep, which is cute rather than hot; Pete's about to give up when he leans further in and one nail touches the back of his throat and, somewhere between gagging and drooling, he gets his own hand on his minime and comes, inside his pants.
His morality could definitely use a little work. Patrick's fingers slide damp and saliva-stringy over his cheek as he backs away, and that's almost enough to set the whole fucking fireworks display in his head off again. Because now his face is wet, and Patrick's hand is going to smell of his half-bile when he wakes up.
So he's done that a few times when he decides to get daring. Live a little, Pete, you're a rock star. Live a little. Lucky Pete, because he kinda dicks around enough that no one thinks it's odd if he just, you know, steals food out of Patrick's wee Patrick-hands with his mouth. Just Pete being Pete, just Pete being a dick. Just Pete explaining why he's been hit in the face so many times.
He doesn't eat it, of course, he just steals it so he can lick the ends of Patrick's fingers while he's doing it, and pretend that Patrick knows what that means. Which he doesn't, because he's asleep, right? So everyone just thinks Pete is being a dick and stealing Patrick's cake for the sake of being obnoxious. Not exactly uncharacteristic. He is kinda also doing it to be obnoxious.
Patrick falls asleep early; his fingers still smell of cake when Pete wriggles down next to him like a dog. Pete's fingers probably smell like asshole. In fact, he's pretty sure they smell like asshole, and there's a very good reason for that. But Patrick's fingers, they smell of cake, and Patrick. Overall Pete prefers the Patrick!smell; he's eaten too much fucking cake, pretext-cake, finger-licking cake, today. Finger-fucking cake. Hah.
Patrick's breathing is shallow and snorty, his hands stiff and cranky in some too-much-cake dream. It takes too long, too long to straighten them out, and Pete's salivating like crazy by the time he gets a brush of fingertip on his lips. Like that guy's dog. The one with the cake name. Pavlov. Too much cake. He's salivating and probably drooling elsewhere too.
He checks. Yeah. Drooling from the dick. Dickspittle.
Maybe if it hadn't taken so fucking fucking long to get Patrick's fingers straight he'd have the patience to rub them on his closed mouth and enjoy that feeling too, but he's got no patience left now. He swallows three of Patrick's fingers like a dick and the scrape of chewed fingernails over his tongue and the roof of his mouth is ... uh, uh, ... almost too much.
He's holding Patrick's wrist steady with one hand and his Little Pete not so steady with the other when Patrick opens one sleepy eye and mumbles something indistinct.
So Patrick’s always sucking on this one fucking sharpie, like it’s his favourite thing in the world, and the thing is, Pete can admit to himself, he’s kind of jealous. Getting Dirty to steal it isn’t hard. Getting Dirty to steal anything isn't hard.
Pete's thumbing the warm plastic all day, wedged into his pocket it's a solid line that bumps against his dick if he shifts just so. He's practically jerked the fucking thing off, rubbed himself off against it. Sniffed his fingers approximately ten times to see if he can smell Patrick on it still (hardly likely, pressed into his skin tight, sweaty jeans). He can just smell solventy, solventy pen, and his own ballsweat.
He gets looks. Looks that aren't curious, almost everyone focussing intensely on not looking curious at all, even while staring at what must look like Pete constantly scratching his balls through his pocket, like he’s got galloping fucking knob-rot. Patrick and Joe and Andy pretty much know not to ask unless they're really, really sure they want to know. Pete's kind of sad they know him so well.
He even gets away with licking his own sweaty palm, then grabbing Patrick's to taste in comparison. Patrick doesn't even swat at his head that hard, distracted by some song or other he's been messing around with for weeks, his glasses opaque with reflections from the computer screen. This is the reward for being a dick all the time; no one notices what kind of dick he's being.
They both taste salty. Patrick's nicer. Pete's hands are starting to taste like an unappetising combination of plastic and balls.
The point is, Pete's pretty worked up by the time he decides he's had enough fucking around and needs to jerk off. Doing it in Patrick's bathroom is probably not the greatest idea he's had, but it is also the greatest idea he's ever had, because it's Patrick's bathroom and that makes it … hot.
But.
The door locks, but you can still open it half an inch, and there is absolutely no soundproofing at all. Pete doesn't even care by the time he shuts the door and flicks the latch locked, hand pressed over his crotch, frustrating himself for a minute because he can't figure out how to pull the sharpie out of his pocket without moving his hand off his dick - after a minute he realises it'll be better if he can undo his fucking pants, which involves moving his hand anyway. He pries his fingers off his dick and pulls the sharpie triumphantly from his pocket.
The bathroom is white on white, and blends into one blur, turning Pete's vision all white. The floor is cold on his feet, and on his ass when he slides down the wall, pants around his knees, hand around his dick and sucking on Patrick’s sharpie like he’s sucking dick. Patrick's sharpie, Patrick's hand, Patrick's dick. All the same.
His legs shake so hard the second he even thinks about shoving the pen past his molars there’s no way he’d have stayed standing, he’s glad to be on the floor, glad for the fucking cold shock of the tile.
It slows him down, slows his dick down (drooling for more, just like him), just enough he might have time to enjoy the hard plastic when it hits his throat. He grabs his dick, hard, the thought of it sending him twitching towards the edge again, oh fuck.
He can’t even reason himself out of moving his hand now, can’t wait, he’s going to come—he pushes the sharpie into his mouth, it’s not fucking thick enough though, so he pushes, pushes further and rolls his tongue under it, drooling and, oh fuck fuck fuck choking again-- fuck, he nearly pitches forward and cracks his head open on the floor, forgetting his pants are still binding his legs, because he’s fucked up this time, and when he pulls the sharpie out of his mouth he gags again and pukes into the toilet, a thick sweet mess of Rockstar energy drink and stomach acid, fizzy sherbet smell tainted with bile, burns his fucking throat and nose, makes his eyes water. He knows the colour without focussing; neon yellow. Puke-yellow.
And he—
--Doesn’t actually move his hand off his dick.
He’s hunched awkwardly over the toilet, can picture himself clearly, dark and dirty surrounded by snow white, hand still around his dick, other hand planted on the tile, slick wet sharpie pressing hard into this palm. He breathes deeply though his mouth, thinks he should stop, at least drag his face away from the open toilet bowl. He shifts, drags his fingers over the tiles, closes them around the sharpie, and his dick. Twitches.
He’s still on edge, shifts around to lean his back against the toilet, every shift of his hand making his thighs twitch, his dick throb. No way he can stop.
"Fuck," he mangles the curse, spits it out raspy and tasting of acid. He’s careful – sort of careful - when he shoves the sharpie back in his mouth. He moves and gags too loud over it. Moves it one last time, and comes all over Patrick’s white floor. White on white.
When his hand on his cock slows to a stop, he turns to spit into the toilet again. Bile-flavoured saliva drips off his chin, the soggy sharpie back in his fist. His soggy cock in the other.
It’s fucking disgusting. He smiles.
He’s too relaxed to even care.
He manages to pull his pants up over his cold ass a second before the door slides open and bangs to a stop, half an inch gap filling up with a line of Patrick’s concerned face, eyebrows tilted in, his eyes wide, and the corner of his mouth twitched down.
"Pete? Sorry, I knocked. I knocked. Are you okay?" Patrick sounds more worried than sorry.
"No." Pete says. “Come in.” He’s not exactly lying. He was sick. There's evidence right there in the bowl. He pushes his foot out and grimaces as it slides over his own come: it’s barely noticeable, but he doesn’t particularly want Patrick to stand it in and track it though his house—hilarious as that would actually be.
"Hey, what's the matter?" Patrick asks, sticking his finger through the gap in the door and flipping the latch over.
Pete just lets himself breathe. Doesn’t bother to move himself and flush the toilet, just lets the smell in the room speak for him—the puke overpowers the smell of sex. Pete turns around and spits into the toilet again.
“You want water?” Patrick says, leaning back against the sink and looking down at Pete.
Pete doesn’t say anything, just puts his arms out like a fussy toddler who wants to be picked up, makes gimme hands at Patrick and smiles a little. Patrick grabs his hands and pulls him up, hugs Pete and rubs his back, soothing. Patrick hugging Pete first is rare and special and Pete doesn’t even deserve it. All of Patrick’s attention focussed on him, just like that.
Snuggling in the afterglow is one of Pete’s favourite things. So Pete’s the only person who was there for the sex part; apparently it doesn’t matter to his brain, which is settling into sleep quickly.
“Can I—“ Patrick starts, pulling away from Pete a little.
“No,” Pete says quickly, holding onto Patrick tightly. “I’m good.”
Patrick doesn't actually even notice it's missing. It pisses Pete off -- why isn't Patrick noticing? He practically fellated the fucking thing twenty times a day, but Patrick’s head was off in clouds of sound. Patrick should notice when Pete's … deliberately … getting rid of the competition.
Even to him that sounds fucked up.
Pete cocks his head to the side and looks down at Patrick's sleep soft face. They're on the couch and Patrick's gradually slipped sideways as he'd nodded off, top of his head against the outside of Pete's thigh, legs bent in so he fits snugly squeezed into soft leather like bills into a wallet. It's three a.m. and they're watching "Uncle Buck". For the millionth time. On screen Miles is interrogating Buck, and Pete still snickers a little at "I'm a kid, it's my job". Patrick would laugh there if he was awake, would have talked along with the whole scene.
Patrick doesn't even wake up when Pete shifts sideways, nudges him in the top of the head with his knee, gently caving in the top of Patrick's skew-whiff hat, bumping his head lightly.
Pete holds his breath a moment, then pops the cap off Patrick's sharpie, brushes Patrick's hat off his head, so it tumbles lightly onto the carpet. Pete's hand stays on Patrick's forehead, brushing stray hair back gently, so he can see what he's doing.
Pete writes in capital letters across Patrick's forehead, first and last letter touching Patrick's hairline: "MINE".
Pete wakes up on the couch, fingers clenched around air, legs totally numb from pins and needles he knows are going to be a complete bitch to walk off. He's curled up into the corner of the couch, taking up as little space as possible, as if Patrick were still actually here to accommodate. He rubs at the sleep in his eyes and pushes his legs straight out in front of himself. Groans the aches and sleepiness out into the air.
When he turns his head, Joe is there, eating Froot Loops out of the packet with his fingers and smiling alternately at Pete and the TV, amused at Pete sleeping on the couch like an idiot, and at early morning cartoons.
"Morning," Pete manages, half way to intelligible. It's a victory. His head feels like a lead balloon.
Joe just laughs.
"What?" Pete asks, curling his sock covered toes and wincing at the pins and needles. Hemmingway click-clicks into the room and sniffs at his socks for a minute and then wiggles his stumpy tailed butt, wuffs in excitement when Pete pushes him away and stands up.
"Go back to bed," Joe says.
"Hemmy needs to whizz," Pete mumbles, stamping his feet.
"I got it," Joe stands up and spills colourful Froot Loop dust over the floor, Hemmy licks at it happily. Joe laughs down at him, then looks back at Pete and laughs again, waving Pete towards his bed.
Pete doesn't like to look a gift dog walker in his giggly mouth (it's way too early to smoke up, but it's Joe, so maybe), he just blinks and turns around to stumbles to his bed. He falls back asleep.
The next time Pete wakes up, it's still sunrise. He has a moment of deep confusion, before he realises that no, the dim light coming through the curtains is actually sunset.
He'd needed the sleep, but he feels like shit for having it. Of course.
Stumbling to the bathroom to splash water on his face, he catches a look at himself in the mirror. Pete feels his pocket for the black sharpie. It's not there.
Patrick has scrawled "DICK" on Pete's face, running from D at the corner of his mouth to the K curling up to nearly touch his ear.
Pete bursts into laughter, and then remembers Joe's face that morning, and laughs harder. Well.
If Patrick wants to play, Pete can play. He leaves "DICK" where it is, bold and beautiful, brushes his teeth and draws black thickly around his eyes, smearing it and turning the dead tired smudges under his eyes into something dangerous and purposeful looking. He smiles at himself in the mirror.
His sidekick buzzes and Dirty's on the phone, telling him he'll be there in five minutes, and his pre-gig adrenaline starts to kick in just like that. Pete flicks the on switch on his flat iron.
It takes Pete blinking innocently and asking "what? What?" the fifth or sixth time someone busts up laughing as they catch a look at his face, before Patrick's guilty conscience goes into overdrive. He's half laughing, half cringing by the time they get the fifteen minute call to go on. Patrick can't stop glancing at Pete and Pete can tell he wants to say something, but he doesn't quite, just keeps singing his warm-up and stealing glances. Pete loves this shit. It's so worth having DICK scrawled over his cheek.
Joe's guitar tech pops her head in and nearly drops Joe's guitar laughing when she catches sight of Pete.
"What? Why is everyone picking on me?" Pete whines and knows he's pushed it too far when Patrick cuts himself off mid-note.
"Why didn't you wash it off?" Patrick asks, half laughing. And the game's up.
"I just want your dick on my face, is that so bad?" Pete makes a kissyface at Patrick. And Patrick turns endearingly pink and red, laughs sharp and quick.
"Showtime!" Dirty sings from the doorway. Patrick's eyes go from Pete’s to the ground.
"Aren't you gonna?" Patrick gestures, and Pete just shakes his head, grins, and picks up his bass.
So when he finishes screaming on "Saturday", he doesn't go and grab his bass back from their tech, he falls on his knees in front of Patrick, mic tapping against the back of his teeth, letting it slip out of his hand for just a second so the rough mesh scratches across the top of the mouth and his tongue and hits the back of his throat enough he gags, coughs, pulls the mic out with both hands as showy as he can, twisting his wrist over the black plastic like he's jerking it off into his mouth.
He looks up at Patrick through uncontrollably watering eyes, blurred vision and blood pumping nowhere directly to a hard-on he could fuck through walls with. Watching Patrick's fingers, beautiful and quick over guitar strings, genius fingers with ragged short nails and harsh touring calluses that had brushed along Pete's tongue all salty and rough and made his mouth water. Patrick's hands are right there and where Pete is Patrick’s dick is right there too, under too tight pants pulled even more by Patrick’s legs apart, feet planted one back, one forward, rock-god pose.
Pete has to stand up and grab his bass back like a lifeline as the song winds up, falls on his back in the middle of the floor, unable to stop himself pushing his hips into the back of his bass as he plays, fingers sliding over strings and imagining the textures of Patrick's hands again and again. Joe spins right over the top of him, barely missing Pete’s head with the tip of his shoe.
No one says anything, when they come off stage. Patrick smiles at him. Pete had choked himself on a mic in front of hundreds of people and practically fucked his bass until he nearly came. It was a good show. They were on.
Of course Pete wants to see how far he can take it before anyone notices. Before Patrick notices.
Because he's Pete fucking Wentz and he loves to torture himself.
Between songs, Pete gets down on his knees and takes Patrick’s hands. In the front row, girls scream and some dude with a shaved head yells something about marriage.
Patrick is open mouthed, flushed. He shakes his head, lifts his hat up quickly pushing his sweaty hair back, and jams it back down. He blinks and mouths “what?” at Pete.
Pete pulls his hand forward and rubs Patrick’s fingers over his lips, doesn’t take his eyes off Patrick’s, everything’s actually quiet, until Joe or Andy or someone starts the next song and Pete bounces up off his knees grinning and smacking into Joe.
In the sweaty gauntlet of close pressed well-done hugs in corridors and shouted invites to after-parties, Pete’s got Dirty’s arm around his neck in a headlock one second, and the next he’s upright fast enough his head is spinning, Patrick’s voice in his ear: "Not exactly a kiss on the neck."
"I heard some dude yell out faggots or some shit," Pete says, distracted by his dick (like always) and his tingling lips and how all he can see of Patrick is Patrick's fucking guitar callused, bitten nailed, fingers clasped over his naked upper arm, pressing white into his tan. Patrick’s standing necessarily close behind him, no room to move with people going back and forth, some carrying bulky equipment. Pete can’t even manage to make himself sound convincing, with Patrick practically breathing in his ear. Pete feels goosebumps rise with a shiver over his body.
"... Fair enough," Patrick says mildly, after a pause. Pete turns to look at him, but all he gets is the back of Patrick’s hat disappearing, eclipsed by Joe’s curls.
Joe barrels past spinning like he's still on stage and laughs as Pete completely fails to meet his high five.
It's still easy, even though Pete’s not quite sure how much he got away with this time.
It’s fine outside the van, spring breeze floating through and pushing a soda can clink-clinking hollowly across the asphalt. The weather has inconveniently refused to match Pete’s mood all day. It’s harder to hate himself and everyone else and the fact that he can’t sleep, feels like he’ll never fucking sleep again, when even the middle of the night is calm and comfortably warm. With his head in Patrick’s lap, it’s harder again.
Patrick has fallen asleep with Pete's head in his lap, because Pete was feeling clingy. He wasn’t sleeping, had taken too many pills today already, and had pinned him to the seat and pretended to be asleep when Patrick had complained about his legs being dead, because he fucking wanted Patrick to stay. Just stay. And he wasn't above faking a comfortable sleepy mumble and milking Patrick's (and everyone else's) concern about him not sleeping to get it.
So Patrick's asleep, head resting precariously on the taught grey seatbelt, slipping a little with each heavy breath and righting himself without waking, snuffling a little. Carpark lights flicker through the window, trees moving in the breeze flashing the streetlights coyly every heartbeat or so. It's late, really late. Pete has no idea where Andy and Joe are. If they've found non-van accommodation and Patrick has missed out on a real bed so Pete can sleep in his lap-- Patrick's going to be pissed.
Pete wriggles a bit, hard plastic seat belt clasp digging into his hip, and he doesn’t want to move enough to wake up Patrick.
Patrick's hand is curled over Pete's shoulder and his fingers are dangling softly curled right in front of Pete's face. Patrick's dick is right there, too, if Pete just turns his head he could have his mouth on it through Patrick's tour-dirty jeans. He's surrounded by Patrick-smell, this close. If he breathes deeply enough he can almost drown out the van's stench (it's mostly mouldy cupcakes and pot this week).
So when he shifts and grabs Patrick's fingers with his, gently testing how deeply Patrick's sleeping, he tells himself he's just going to taste a little.
He knows he's lying, but he's always thought that if he tells himself something enough, it might make it true. ("I am going to go to sleep" "I will not cheat on them" "I am a good person" "this band will fucking make us all stars").
His dick is hard. It's Pavlovian; that fucking cake guy again. He only has to look at Patrick's fingers, now, only has to smell him.
And he runs Patrick's fingers over his lips again. His mouth waters.
The thing is, Pete tells himself, is that this is really the safe option. It could be so, so much worse.
Pulling Patrick's fingers in over his tongue, shifting his head forward and holding his free hand over his hard on. Pressing down with the heel of his hands over his jeans, tight and digging into his cock with the seams and the zipper nearly hurting. His hips are moving without his permission, stuttering and humping against his hand every time he sucks gently on Patrick’s fingers. He's restraining himself. He forces himself not to let a frustrated noise past his throat.
This is the safe option, because what he really wants to do right now is turn his head to the side, rip Patrick's fly open and choke himself of Patrick's dick.
Getting a rattling cough is the worst nightmare for anyone whose livelihood involves singing, and sulking - while enticing - is not a medically proven cure for mono.
Nor, Pete is quick to remind everyone, is making fun of him for having caught mono from a teenager he shouldn't have made out with in the first place.
He spends a lot of time sucking cough sweets over the next week, and a lot of time on the internet. It's amazing the specific sex toys one can buy, and amazing how simple it is to assuage a sore throat with the use of a credit card. Particularly if the credit card is not your own, but actually Patrick's. (Oh, Patrick won't mind. It's for Pete's health. Everyone cares about Pete's health. They really do. Pete's health is vital to the success of the band.)
Other than that the only entertainment he has for nearly two fucking weeks is:
- Making Dirty stand by the door so he can throw shoes at him. And then making him bring the shoes back. It gets boring after a while. Dirty only dodges if Pete tells him to dodge, and that takes all the fun out of it.
- Discovering that cough sweets, when partially inhaled, smack the back of his throat at just the right speed and angle to give him wood. This leads to;
--2a. Industrial-length masturbation sessions which in turn led in the first place to;
--2b. Using Patrick's "lost" credit card to buy sex toys. Including one which is, he suspects, intended to go up a cunt, not down his throat. - Pete practices deep-throating the WRONG way. It feels better that way.
(It’s hard, because he can’t risk Patrick getting sick, which means no sucking on any part of him, and it’s just fucking terrible).
And then the fucking mono clears up and he stops having to write down what he wants to say to people. Which is kinda good because his handwriting is … but at the same time … cough sweets …
So it's kind of hard to explain that no, he's not still sick, seriously, he's fine now-- it's just he's been ramming rubber dick down his throat repeatedly, hand down his pants pant-choke-jerking-convulsing all over. You know, like you do if you're fucking obsessed with something you can't fucking have.
Not that he says that to anyone.
Well, he does. Kinda. But it's not like Patrick believed him.
"Pete, you sound like shit, have you really been sleeping? If you get sick again--" it's that unfinished sentence that's half threat, half mother hen. Patrick actually really sounds worried.
And Pete sidles over and takes Patrick's very new, very expensive guitar out of his hands and drops it to the floor with a heavy wooden crash that reverberates through Patrick's entire body as a wave of tenseness.
"I'm. Not. Sick," Pete says, his legs pressed up against Patrick's inner thighs as he steps in and his nose against Patrick's hair, skewing his hat. "I've been practicing deep-throating," Pete rasps and exaggerates it maybe just a little.
"My fucking guitar, Peter, you fucking fuck," and of course Patrick doesn't believe him, dismisses him, and it's probably wrong that Pete gets a bit of a thrill at that, even more than he usually does when he pisses Patrick off enough that he snaps. At least Patrick isn't concerned about Pete being sick anymore, and Pete laughs when Patrick makes a grab for him just a little too slow, whoops and vaults the couch with Patrick hot on his heels.
It's even funny when Patrick trips him and he nearly bites through his lip as he hits the floor, and it's still funny when Patrick's expression changes from going-to-kill-you to oh-shit-I-think-I-killed-you. Pete's shiny red shit-eating grin cuts off Patrick's half angry half worried "shit, Pete--" and turns it into Patrick grinning back, ducking his head and shaking it like, look-what-you-do-to-me, and offering Pete his hand to get up.
Pete doesn't take it, lest he find himself doing something inappropriate to Patrick's fingers right now, all coppery tasting pink drool and gagging pushing into Patrick's fingers-- so he just lies on the floor and laughs at the ceiling.
Patrick's angel-baby faced and white-pale in sleep, the thin light coming in under the door is all yellow lines and boxes and blue shadows like the bruised dark places under Pete's eyes. Patrick practically glows.
Pete hasn't been sleeping. If he's honest with himself (and he so rarely is, so it's best that he listens) he still isn't completely well, either. His throat hurts (it won’t stop him, that’s half the problem).
They have to talk about this, even though his stomach turns thinking about looking into Patrick's open eyes, god his stomach really flips-- he should be asleep, but there he goes again. Lies, lies, lies, like sleep is a choice, like his stomach is sick from anything but nerves and creeping guilt-- is he kidding himself? Is guilt the same as the dread feeling that he won't get what he wants? Won't get his own way? Can't keep things as they are? Fucking feels the same in his tired, twisted-up head.
His eyes itch and prickle with sleep, lack of sleep, water when he rubs them like they're crying for it, crying with joy at being fucking closed, water-water everywhere and not a drop to drink.
Fuck, he's scattered. He rubs his damp eyes again. Thinks about little orange and white bottles and magic rattling pills.
He can't tell if he's doing the right thing, or the thing he wants to be right.
What else is new, morning dew.
Fuck.
Patrick stirs. Mumble grumbling. One hand is curled against his face, pale and soft looking in this light, when Pete knows Patrick’s hands aren’t really soft at all. He follows Patrick’s fingers to the back of his hand, which, Pete realises he’s got his finger tracing a circle over it at the same time he realises that part of Patrick’s hand really is soft. Hand to wrist to arm to the shadowed bend of his elbow, arm bone’s connected to the shoulder bone shoulder bone’s connected to the—soft worn Gorilla Biscuits shirt that Patrick’s had since he was fifteen (Pete knows, he gave it to him). Pete follows the loose ribbed neckline of the shirt, stretched beyond help and falling open a little in a scoop against Patrick’s throat. Feels almost as soft as his skin.
Pete had ideas. Ideas and plans and noble intentions, talking about this, admitting, unburdening, sleeping, and they all fly the fuck out the window when Patrick uncurls his sleeping fingers and they brush against Pete’s thigh. He’s braver at midnight but he’s weaker too. Pete’s mouth waters. Fuck noble intentions. Fuck plans and ideas and guilt. And fuck sleep.
His dick is so hard. Has been getting there since he pushed open Patrick’s door and perched on his bed. Hasn't it. That's why he's in here. If he stops deluding himself (because that'll really happen), it's not because he wants to talk.
Pete curls his fingers through Patrick’s, presses their palms together and lifts Patrick's hand with their (his, Patricks') fingers laced together. Softly, softly, turns their hands, lips on the back of Patrick’s. Seriously soft. What he wants is to open his mouth wide and fill it with Patrick’s whole entire hand, his fist, that too full feeling where you know there’s too much, too fast and you’re going to choke because it’s all you can do, can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t spit—Patrick’s fingers bump the back of Pete’s throat once before he realises he’s moved and he stops, eyes squeezed shut. It’s not enough, no where near.
Pete freezes. He’s tugged Patrick’s arm, hard.
Fuckfuckfuck, he wants to move, needs to move Patrick’s hand, fingers resting on his tongue and drool escaping the side of his mouth uncontrollably. Minutes, hours pass—it can’t even be, but Pete feels it in every tense muscle in his body, wanting to move so bad it hurts. Patrick doesn’t stir. Pete shifts his tongue under Patrick’s fingers and leans forwards slowly, falling into them like he’d lean into his own fingers to throw up.
Pete tries to stifle the obscene mix of sound that escapes his throat, as Patrick’s fingers make him choke, gag, moan, worse when he shoves his hand in his pants, scratching over muscle, and gripping his dick. He feels light headed and Jesus Christ it could be the sudden fucking blood loss because there is sure as fuck nothing left anywhere in his body but his dick, head spinning and knuckles burning against the rough denim of the inside of his jeans he’s moving his hand so fast, he’s going to have fucking denim burn on his knuckles.
Pete fucks his face down on Patrick’s hand, nearly has time to set a rhythm that lets him breathe, almost, almost enough every few wet, scraping, full stokes, almost has time to enjoy Patrick’s thick blunt fingers gagging him, shoving into his unwilling throat, in out ininin, before he’s coming inside his jeans, rubbing over the head of his dick, too much—Patrick’s fingers slip out of his mouth before he’s done and he whines at the loss, he can’t coordinate himself enough to get them back and whines again as his dick pulses wetly one last time, can’t stop himself.
"Pete."
Pete scrubs one hand over his mouth, feels spit rub over his cheek, his open lips. His heart is beating a rhythm that feels like panic, but his mind is blissfully blank. When his eyes are open, he finds he’s kneeling, unsteady on the mattress, no recall as to when he’d shifted to his knees, leaning over Patrick, looking down at Patrick’s confused, wide open eyes. His hand is still in his pants, curled sticky over his dick, in the damp confusion of his crotch. He can’t even bring himself to move it.
"Patrick,” he says.
Patrick blinks, hauls back, and punches him in the face.
Pete falls off the bad, flat on his back, grabs at his stinging nose and doesn’t realise until he stands up that he’s not actually bleeding, the sticky wet feeling is just where he’s wiped his own come on his face.
There’s a moment of silence, into which Patrick snuffle-snores, totally asleep again.
Pete manages to stumble out of the room before he bursts out laughing, collapsing against the wall and sliding down so his shirt rucks up to his shoulders, shaking and gasping as cold plaster presses against his lower back, head between his knees and he can’t breathe through the giggling, doesn’t stop laughing until his eyes are watering.
"Pete."
Pete's hypnotised. Patrick is drumming his fingers on the inside of the van window, and Pete's lost in a world of no sleep but plenty of images. Every tap on the glass is a smack into his tonsils; just like fingers down the throats of best friends probably wouldn't have made such a good lyric. He squirms against the seat.
"Pete."
The stoplight seems to have gone on for fucking ever.
"PETE."
"Uh?" is his intelligent and reasoned fucking response. He rubs drool into the leg of his jeans – has he been sleeping? When the fuck did that get there?
"Pete, if you want to, you know …" Patrick's voice trails off but the tapping continues. Tap tap taptaptaptap tap tap.
"What?"
"Talk."
The stoplight changes colour. Pete wonders if he can get away with pretending to be asleep. Probably not, having just answered a fucking question without thinking, stupid, stupid, but maybe if he droops … against the … seat … yeah, that's bringing him closer to the smell of Patrick's jeans. Not a smart plan.
"No," he says eventually, his words indistinct around the knuckles of his own aimless right hand. "Too tired."
And anyway, what would he do, if Patrick actually knew? What then? That was the wrong kind of unfamiliar territory. What next?
"What next?" He hears himself mumble.
"Usually," Patrick says crossly, "you start jerking off at this point."
THE END.
