Chapter Text
It isn’t that Patrick doesn’t know sneaking out of the house is a bad idea. He does. He absolutely does. But, standing in the cold drizzle of a late April night in his leather jacket - stiff under the arms and around the collar with newness, fake ID burning a hole in his pocket - he sparks with excitement. His fingers sting from the countless times he's jabbed the pins into the tender skin trying his best to secure the Dead Kennedys patch to the back. His mom had freaked. A brand new jacket - a brand new expensive jacket - and he’s poked holes in it.
His toes are pinched in the unyielding vice of his shiny new Doc Martens and the fabric of his plaid pants is bright and slightly slick, fresh from the store. His suspenders are a little too loose, slipping off his shoulders under his jacket and pressing uncomfortably against his upper arms. He’s wearing a Sex Pistols shirt but no one else is - it’s all Black Flag and Minor Threat - it’s badly judged and badly timed, real punk is dead and he… He wants to stamp his feet at the unfairness of it because he wasn’t old enough to enjoy it at the right time.
He looks - he knows - every inch the poser. But… every pair of boots needs to be worn for the first time at some point, right? Every leather jacket was new once. At least he’d drawn the line by refusing to buy one of the pre-patched numbers from the ridiculous store in the mall. It had to be real, had to be authentic, bought from a tiny little store off Milwaukee where his mom had complained about the smell of joss sticks - drugs she'd sniffed - and the cooler teens had snickered behind their Social Distortion albums.
“We’re never fucking getting in,” Will hisses into his ear, breath hot and sharply scented with the wine coolers they’ve shared behind the gas station, we need to be buzzed but like… nicely buzzed, you know?
“Shut the fuck up,” Patrick whispers back, all slightly drunk fire and fury as the guy in front with the foot-high mohawk sneers at them over his studded shoulder. If anyone’s going to stop them getting in it will absolutely be Will with his stupid black duster and ridiculous, feathery hair all back combed and hair-sprayed away from his face. This is VOID, and while it’s not Exit - well, this is fucking Glenview after all - Patrick will take what he can get and what he can get is an almost-famous band in a semi-cool club in the least cool suburb of Chicago.
The line shuffles forward, rain dropping diamonds in hair coloured like rainbows as eyeliner bleeds into chalk white foundation. Punk paint, street art, raw and beautiful and Patrick can’t really take it in because, come on, he wasn’t going to wear his fucking glasses to an Arma show. The flyer - handwritten, scrawled in marker on cheap, porous paper, the edges of each letter leeching into one another - is scrunched in his pocket. It’s bright with the promise of the final sentence - minors are encouraged to attend.
The doorman is fucking huge. Terrifyingly huge. Solid muscle and a shaved head that’s damp and shining under the street lights. Patrick sort of half planned his argument, how he was going to show the flyer to any asshole security guard that tried to turn him away, how he’d say something clever and cutting and the others waiting in line would cheer at his sparkling wit.
But Patrick’s good at daydreams and bad at life so instead - the thing that actually happens - is he holds out his ID all meek compliance, eyes lowered as it’s plucked from his grasp and inspected with a dark chuckle, before that motherfucker tosses it straight into the trash can to his right. Does he argue? Of course he doesn’t, though there’s ridiculous heat behind his eyes as he waits to be kicked out of line. Instead, miracle of fucking miracles, he’s waved through, into the smoke and heat and the low red light just without a stamp on his hand that would entitle him to drink.
“You look fucking ridiculous,” he informs Will, as conspicuously out of place as he’s ever seen someone look. Okay, he’s not exactly blending in with his Camden chic when it’s all hardcore sxe and wall-to-fucking-wall ripped jeans but at least he’s vaguely genre-appropriate. “I told you there’d be none of your fucking goth bullshit here. This is fucking VOID, you asshole…”
“You say that likes it’s fucking CBGB,” Will sneers, smoothing the front of his shirt, “and anyway, don’t act like your record collection doesn’t have The goddamn Cure.”
“It’s mathematically fucking perfect pop music,” Patrick argues back, because it’s way too much fun to fuck with Will, “so fuck you.”
“Pop music?” Will is outraged which just looks fucking stupid with his thick eyeliner and frilled shirt. “It’s… Fuck you!” Patrick snickers as he looks around - VOID, they fucking did it.
Jackets are abandoned at the cloakroom, they head into the depths of the club and it’s everything he hoped it would be whilst simultaneously not being anything like he imagined at all. The walls are monochrome with pasted on posters of bands that have come and gone through the stage doors, the air is thick with a musk of sweat, Kuoros, cigarette smoke and teenage anger. They’re rushed, pressed into the crush as they barely make it into the room before Arma take the stage.
For Patrick, crushed in the crowd at his first show, it’s euphoric. It’s passion and fury as he descends into the pit, a sense of screaming, raging oneness with everyone around him as they shout out the lyrics like a fucking war cry. It’s shoving and pushing and desperate, needing movement to dissonant guitars and thrashing drums. Someone slams into him - hard - and he shoves back, feels the catch of fists in his back, the crush of bodies everywhere and he’s soaring, fucking weightless, above it all as the music bleeds into his veins and thrums through him, as his pulse picks the line of the drums and rings in his ears. He’ll be bloody with battle wounds by the end of the set, he knows it, there’ll be bruises and cuts and muscles that ache but the studs on his wrists and the chains looped from his waist will have left their own marks on other bodies in a beautiful kind of symmetry.
This, Patrick has already decided, this is how he wants to live. How he wants to die. How he wants to draw each breath into his lungs from now until they give out.
When the set closes the floor calms a little. Patrick gulps down a glass of water just in time for the DJ to take over and it’s fun, pogoing with Will, but it’s not the same. It’s not the depth of fire in his belly, not the electric charge that had scorched through his veins with the angry guitars and clashing drums and desperate, screamed lyrics that spoke of all of the hopeless teenage rage that Patrick feels at the world around him. Of the politicians that don’t listen and the teachers that don’t care and the parents that don’t get it.
But he’s having a good time, bouncing around in the crowd until someone, very deliberately - or at least if feels pretty fucking deliberate - slams into him hard enough to send him sprawling forward into Will.
“Get out of my fucking way,” a voice admonishes sharply, a few others laugh, mocking and jeering. “Fucking baby punks…”
Patrick considers himself many things. He’s a good son who loves his mom very much, he’s a pretty solid student with a nice line of B+ and A- grades to his name, he’s a great friend which Will would attest to in a heartbeat, always shares his records and his far too generous allowance. But one thing he’s not blessed with is a particularly long fuse. Passionate is what he’d call himself, if he was asked. Bad-tempered asshole is probably the term Will would use to describe him, if anyone asked him the same question. So - here’s the thing - he could have overlooked the shove, it’s a pit after all, he could have shrugged it off and carried on having a good night. But the sneering? The attitude? The giggling from the friends? Baby fucking punk?
Nope. No fucking way.
He’s already swinging as he turns, knuckles connecting with something hard - a nose? A jaw? He just isn’t sure - a satisfying starburst of pain rippling from the point of impact. He starts to swing again, his arm snagged from behind as he’s dragged back into a solid chest, more arms joining them, pinning him, holding him as he hisses fury and useless threats, “Let the fuck go of me, motherfuckers, you want some? Try me, fucking try me!”
He’s snarling - spitting fire - as he glares at the prick that shoved him, scowls right back at mocking amber eyes and a mouth that’s set like it’s always frowning, the full lower lip slashed with red that matches the crimson streaked across Patrick’s knuckles. The other guy is shirtless and sweating, skin honey-gold swirled with ink and scattered with fine, dark hair. He’s lithe and slim, suspenders stretched up and over his bare shoulders and hooked to painted-on Levi’s as he dabs at his lip with his discarded shirt. He’s assessing Patrick, judging him, critical and scornful and Patrick - Patrick’s already decided he hates his fucking guts.
“I’ll get him the fuck outta here,” whoever’s holding him is already dragging him backward and he struggles, kicks and jerks, but it’s hard to fight back with his arms twisted up behind his back and hissing ineffectual assholes and motherfuckers doesn’t seem to actually be doing much.
“Bring him out back,” Shirtless issues instructions like he’s Prince fucking Punk, tongue flicking over his lip and Patrick hopes it stings. “Let him cool off.”
So he’s hauled along, arms aching and ire spitting and bubbling in his chest, Shirtless sauntering ahead. Which is when Patrick sees it - the backstage pass that hangs from a belt loop like a casual accusation. It hits him like he hit Shirtless.
He just punched a member of Arma Angelus. He just punched him - in his ridiculous fucking face - and split his lip.
Patrick is familiar with the concept of his mouth writing checks that his ass can’t cash but this could be his biggest miscalculation yet. Shirtless flicks a smirk over his shoulder as he’s hauled backstage and into a grimy dressing room, tossed onto a ratty couch and surrounded by much larger, much older and much more intimidating guys than him. Shirtless seems amused, lounging back and grinning like it’s the funniest fucking thing in the world, one battered Chuck kicked up against the wall and arms folded across a tattooed chest. Patrick does not regret punching him, not for a second.
“So, baby punk-”
“Patrick,” he interrupts sharply. If he’s going to get his ass kicked he’ll do it with fire in his belly and barbs on his lips. Shirtless quirks an eyebrow in amused query. “My name. It’s fucking Patrick. Fuck you with the baby punk bullshit.”
Shirtless seems to mull this over for a moment as nervous sweat prickles under Patrick’s arms and down his spine. If they’re going to kick the shit out of him they could at least be polite enough to get it over and done with. His hands ball into fists as Shirtless pushes away from the wall and moves towards him, dangerous muscle and intimidating ink. No one else moves, apparently Shirtless is the elected leader and spokesperson, or perhaps it’s a dictatorship but that doesn’t seem in the punk spirit somehow. He pauses, looming over Patrick on the couch, fingers tapping a rhythm against his thigh as he stares down at him with that same infuriating smirk on his face. Patrick’s heart is pounding, a messy hum in his ears, mouth dry as the wine coolers threaten to burn their way back up. Shirtless leans over him, hand braced against the back of the couch, just behind and to the left of Patrick’s ear as he draws out his cat-and-mouse torture.
“If you’re gonna kick my ass,” Patrick snarls, “just fucking do it, pussy.”
Shirtless laughs.
It’s not a pretty laugh - it’s brash and sharp and jolts through Patrick - but it’s genuine and warm, it twinkles up into his eyes and creases their corners, stretches his lips into a wide grin as his mohawk wilts and flops down onto his brow. His free hand cups Patrick’s cheek, pinching soft flesh between fingers tipped with black-painted nails, “Oh man, you’re cute as shit. Chris,” he addresses the dickweed that hauled Patrick through the club, “can we keep him? I’ll name him Baby P and I swear I’ll walk him every day.”
“Bite me,” Patrick snaps, swatting away the hand from his face, humiliation heating his skin as the others laugh like that asswipe is the funniest motherfucker in Chicago.
Shirtless continues to taunt him, “He’ll need obedience classes but look, he’s got this cute little collar,” he slides his finger under the leather and studs resting snugly around Patrick’s throat, “I just need a leash…”
“Go fuck yourself,” somehow Patrick has a loop of suspender in each hand and Shirtless’ nose very close to his as he spits venom into that smug, smirking face, the face that loses just a little of it’s arrogance as he’s yanked off balance, saving himself by bracing a knee between Patrick’s against the couch. “You think you’re hot fucking shit, like you never just started out? What, you fell outta your mom in those jeans?”
Okay - Patrick is the first to admit it - antagonising him probably isn’t the smartest move he’s ever made. But he’s surviving high school by making sure he takes the first swing; the short poindexter with the face of a nerd but without the ability to do the jocks’ homework. He’s not good at fighting but he’s good at making sure they know he’s not scared. Tanned fingers tense against his collar until it’s uncomfortably tight, enough to sharpen his breathing into a high rasp and he’s close - thisfuckingclose - to slamming his knee up into the crotch inches above it when, just as suddenly, they loosen.
“I like you, Baby P,” he grins, toothy and bright, a stomach-lurching, groin-tingling, blinding-white smile that’s almost enough to distract Patrick from the sharp bite of irritation as Shirtless pats his cheek in a patronising parody of affection. “You’re ballsy.”
The room seems to flood with oxygen as Shirtless straightens and turns to a friend with another of those bulb-bright grins and sharp bray of laughter, like everyone was holding their breath, the anticipation of the sharp salt-copper stench of spilled blood and fighting dispersing with the bunched crowd around the couch. Patrick's not sure if he should stand, if he should leave or if he’s still on some kind of warped time out under the unspoken instruction of Shirtless. He’s awkward and stiff on the couch, exposed without his jacket to hide behind as the cooler, older guys - the type he idolises from a distance - circulate the room with beer and easy conversation. He’s backstage and yes, he knows, it’s only VOID and it’s only a local band but he’s there with the music still ringing in his ears and this could be him, has to be him-
“Beer?” It’s not really a question as a bottle is pressed into his hand, it’s warm and far less sweet than he imagined it would be. He wants to grimace but he forces it down and tries to look nonchalant as Shirtless collapses onto the couch next to him. There’s a clink of glass against glass then half of it is tipped down a golden throat - contracting and pulsing in interesting ways - and Patrick isn’t thinking about anything weird, swear to God he’s not. “You throw a fucking solid punch, Baby P.”
“Call me Baby P one more time and you might just see me throw another,” Patrick threatens without any real weight.
“Maybe the P stands for Patrick,” Shirtless grins, raking a hand through his hair. It’s pointless, his mohawk is fucked and falling, his hair limp and starting to curl.
“Oh, right, because Baby Patrick is so much better,” Patrick rolls his eyes and wishes he’d brought his glasses with him, wishes he had Will with him because it’s easy to feel confident when your best friend is even lower down the cool ladder than you are. “I should get back to my friend…”
“At least finish your beer,” Shirtless gestures to the bottle that’s barely two sips emptier than it was when he pressed it into Patrick’s hand. “You earned it. You start fights in clubs often?”
“Only with the assholes,” Patrick snaps, a weird little thrill of pride sparking in his gut as Shirtless laughs - an explosive little snort that sees him choking on his mouthful of beer - his shoulder a solid thump into Patrick’s as he nudges him sharply in playful reproach. He’s… Okay, he’s cute, Patrick decides, swallowing another mouthful of beer - not so bad now he’s adjusted to the taste, though he’d still say he prefers wine coolers if anyone asks - he’s got nice eyes, whisky-bright framed with thick, dark lashes. Pretty mouth, too, and Patrick’s trying - and failing - not to stare at all of that toffee-and-licorice skin out on display.
He stays, drinking beer with actual - sort of - rock stars. Every time he tries to leave, to head back into the club and find Will, someone snags his suspenders or his sleeve and tugs him back. Someone is usually Shirtless who he learns - from hearing others call his name, not because he has the fucking good sense to do something as normal as introduce himself - is called Pete. Which means he’s that Pete. Pete Wentz. The guy who’s in more bands than Patrick can count on one hand, middle class hardcore darling of the fucking underground Chicago punk scene. And Patrick hit him.
Okay, so, Patrick isn’t fucking stupid, he knows they’re keeping him there as some kind of joke; the dumb, chubby kid in his brand new DMs that took a swing at Pete fucking Wentz. But at the same time they’re not being actively dickish and they’re giving him free beer so he hasn’t exactly made a huge effort to get away. They talk about politics and ask him his opinion, like he’s an actual fucking bona fide adult, he tells them he thinks Reagan is an asshole and Dixon is a fucking crook. There are cheers and clinking of bottles against his own and Pete is grinning at him in a way that makes his head swim more than the beer swilling down his throat. His pumpkin moment is approaching however as he glances at his Casio - 11:45 - Will’s mom will be here in fifteen minutes.
“I gotta get going,” he tells no one in particular, draining the beer in his bottle and heading for the door back into the club. This time no one objects, too engrossed in a discussion about an upcoming nuclear protest march to pay much attention to a kid in shiny plaid pants and a Sex Pistols shirt. Until a hand slides, deft and sure, into the back of his pants, firm fist catching fabric and belt, warm fingers grazing over the heated flesh of his ass, hot breath, sharp with the smell of hops, against his ear.
“Hey, leaving already?” The hand in his pants turns, palm flat to his back, one finger lazily trailing over the cleft between his - sweaty, probably gross - ass cheeks.
“I…” That’s all Patrick’s got as Pete presses in close, body heat slamming through Patrick’s shirt to scorch his back. Pete slides a tattooed arm around his waist and rolls his hips forward, a filthy parody that even someone as clueless as Patrick can pick up on. He’s fuzzy and slow with indecision, frozen to the ground. No one seems to be paying them any attention but he’s picked up that Pete’s stupid tactile from watching him with his friends, this probably doesn’t mean what Patrick’s big, dumb teenage dick is telling him it-
“You wanna… Go some place a little quieter?” Okay, maybe his big, dumb dick is right this one time. Got to be a first time for everything and Patrick’s pretty fucking stoked that this is it. A quick nod is his reply, a tiny, barely audible squeak accompanying it as Pete’s finger presses in, brushes the tight pucker hidden there. The hand withdraws, rests in the small of his back as warm lips mouth at his neck, move upwards and brush his ear so that whispered words surge electricity straight to his cock. “Good boy, come with me.”
Some place quieter turns out to be the band’s shitty, rusted-and-busted Ford van, parked up close to the back doors of the club. The asphalt slick-shines with the rain, reflecting street lights and car headlights and the sparkling drops against the van windows cast weird shadows on the headliner. Patrick finds himself shoved up against Pete on a bench seat, cock thick and hard and aching in the confines of his pants as Pete stretches out beneath him. It’s cold out and Pete’s still shirtless, nipples pebbled from the chill as he grinds up against Patrick and lips seek out lips. Okay, if he’s being totally honest, Patrick’s never made out with another dude, never really made out with anyone unless he’s counting the clusterfuck that was the Sally Harvey incident at homecoming. Two minutes of sloppy kissing on the dancefloor followed by a similar stretch of time out back of the gym with their hands down one another’s underwear - though she only let him over the bra - until he came with an embarrassing grunt doesn’t really seem comparable to this, however.
This is soft, tan skin that Patrick seems to have permission to touch, fingertips grazing over flat, male nipples as a warm velvet tongue presses to his. Pete’s hand is curved around the back of Patrick’s neck, fingers digging into his hair like a desperate plea as teeth click and lips slick and the van seems to swell and fall with their gasped breathing. Pete’s half hard, Patrick can feel it through his pants and thrusts against him with needy little grunts that pitch to whines as Pete shifts, one foot pulled up flat against the bench seat, the other braced against the floor of the van. Patrick can’t help it, reaches down and presses two fingers, hard, against Pete’s ass, right above where that hole - hot, Patrick imagines, deep and tight - is just waiting to be filled by his cock. Not that he’s done that before but oh, right now, he could imagine it. He doesn’t have a condom but what does it fucking matter, it’s not like he can knock Pete up.
“Can I suck your dick?” The words tumble from him unchecked and he winces at how fucking pathetic they sound, pushes his lips hard against Pete’s once more to hide his embarrassment. Who asks? He admonishes himself sharply.
Pete’s forced to mumble his answer around a mouthful of Patrick’s tongue but his frantic nodding is enough, the way his nails sink into Patrick’s ass and he ruts up like a screaming promise, “Fuck yeah, you can.”
He scrambles backwards, biting kisses into the thorns that loop between starkly defined collarbones, pauses to lick at one of those dark nipples, flipping his tongue sloppily over the nub then moving lower. Pete tastes salt-bright with sweat, burning with deliciously vibrant heat as he pulls at Patrick’s hair and yanks at his own zipper, freeing his cock with an ease no doubt borne of the many times that fell before it. Patrick’s on his knees on the van floor, the press of it rough against the tender flesh even through his pants, a quick fumble and his own cock slaps against his palm as he shock-shudders at the sudden contact. He rubs his thumb over the tip, slicks the mess there and swirls it over the head with a shivering sigh. Then, with cautious reverence, he slides his free hand around Pete’s shaft.
It’s thick, he notes, curving up lust-dark and blood-hot, pearl white shining at the head. He smells of hot male skin, of sweat and lust and... Fuck, is what Patrick thinks, but that’s not what he’ll say, he’s sure, as his mouth opens and, “... Fuck.”
“Come on, Baby P,” Pete groans, one hand tangled in his jet black ‘hawk, the other threaded through the golden strands of Patrick’s hair and for a second, Patrick considers biting him. “Don’t be a fucking cock-tease, man.”
Okay, Patrick thinks, eyes sliding between Pete’s desperate, needing face and his twitching, leaking cock and, “Okay,” Patrick says with a brisk, businesslike nod, “yeah, I… Yeah.”
And with that, he does it, presses out his tongue and, with more enthusiasm than finesse, licks a broad stripe from the base of Pete’s cock to the head. Pete shudders, whole body vibrating as Patrick pauses, considers the taste - salt bitter tang that stains his tongue and makes his cock twitch against his flexing fingers - and, heart thrumming as loud and fast as the drums in the club, slides his mouth over the head of Pete’s cock, still fumbling clumsily with his own inside his shorts.
Patrick learns several things over the course of the next few minutes. Patrick learns that sucking dick isn’t as simple as it looked on the grainy porno tape Will had stolen from under his parents’ bed. She made that whole sucking, bobbing, licking thing look fucking simple but he’s kind of starting to suspect this may be a skill that requires at least some level of practice. He’s also quickly discovered that the whole deep throat thing is fucking bullshit as he gagged and spluttered and Pete muttered a faintly alarmed don’t barf on my fucking dick, dude.
His hand is shoved down the front of his pants, sticky and wet with come but he’s still tugging at his still-not-quite-soft dick even though he blew his load at least five minutes ago because - what? - he’s just going to admit that he got off that fast? Besides, there’s nowhere to wipe off aside from his pants or the bench seat and he’s not sure how he feels about that so he just runs his hand through the slick mess and tries not to think about it.
But, he knows he likes giving head, knows there’s a special kind of power in sucking on Pete’s cock, urging moans and soft little yelping cries from a blood-stained mouth with smacking lips and the rough stroke of his palm against tender flesh. Yeah, this is the most erotic thing he’s ever seen - not that he has a huge frame of reference beyond Sally Harvey and the stupid porno - Pete sprawled out and panting, hips straining, cock spit-slick under Patrick’s swollen, fuck-flushed lips. He’s going to be jacking it thinking about this for the next twelve goddamn years, he’s pretty sure.
Pete is yanking at Patrick’s hair and growling low in the back of his throat, hips rocking steadily into Patrick’s mouth as he sucks clumsily, come-slicked fingers of his free hand moving to bite into Pete’s muscular thigh. He can feel the strain of Pete’s cock in his mouth, can run his tongue over the vivid surge of veins that stand out further as Pete tenses below him, as he twitches against Patrick’s tongue and, with a sharp, high noise, taps urgently on the back of Patrick’s head.
Patrick has no idea what that means, doesn’t understand the unspoken warning, just sucks a little harder, squeezes the solid weight of Pete’s shaft a little more firmly and then, with a desperate moan from above him, he feels the hot pulse of Pete’s come filling his mouth. He freezes, blinks up at Pete in surprise with wide eyes and Pete, eyes half-closed, groans out a desperate, “Shit, Baby P…” in response, holding Patrick’s head steady as he fucks out the last of his orgasm into the warm, willing pull of Patrick’s lips.
He flops back onto the seat with a tremulous sigh, forearm slung over his eyes as he breathes deeply. Patrick pulls off and, after a moment of consideration, swallows down the bitter-sharp flood with a shiver. He’s pretty sure that went okay. Not brilliantly, but okay.
“Well, Baby P,” Pete groans. “That was pretty rad.”
“Don’t fucking call me that,” Patrick objects, braced back against the seat in front of them. It’s half-assed, he thinks he might actually sort of like the nickname.
“C’mere,” Pete murmurs, arm outstretched as he shuffles up against the seat with a groan. His cock is still lolling out of his pants, half hard and still faintly shining in the low light with spit and come. Patrick complies and slides onto the bench next to him, welcomes teasing kisses and a delicate tongue that traces the tender planes of his mouth, that licks against his own and tastes of beer and cigarettes. “Okay, let’s see what we can do for you…”
Pete’s hand is sliding into Patrick’s unfastened pants and, for a second he forgets, doesn’t think to stop him before his fingers find the sticky mess of his shorts. Pete pauses, confused, eyebrows raised and mohawk flopping into his eyes and Patrick, for a heart-pounding second, wants to cry at how fucking ridiculous he feels, humiliation burning his chest, searing across his cheeks as he stares down at Pete’s looping thorns, tracing them with an absent fingertip.
“I… I just…”
“You’re fucking adorable,” Pete cuts him off with another burst of ugly laughter and twinkling eyes.
Patrick’s watch beeps - 12:15 - he’s so late. He shuffles and staggers to his feet, ducking to avoid the roof of the van as he fastens his pants and ignores the wet patch, ignores Pete’s questioning gaze as he rights his clothes and moves towards the doors at the back of the van, “I gotta go… My friend… His mom’s giving us a ride back.”
“His mom?” Pete repeats with a raised eyebrow that makes Patrick’s stomach lurch like the bottom falling out of an elevator. “Baby P… How old are you?”
For a second, Patrick thinks about lying. He could pass for college-age easily enough. But it’s not like he’s going to see Pete again so he shrugs out his answer like it doesn’t matter - because it doesn’t matter, “Seventeen.”
“That’s…” Pete pauses for an uncomfortable second as he shoves his dick back into his jeans. “That’s legal, right?”
“Yeah,” Patrick nods, hand already on the door. “I won’t, like, tell everyone and embarrass you or anything like that.”
Pete doesn’t reply for the longest time, enough time for Patrick to tug furiously at the door until he realises it’s push not pull, enough time for him to descend the steps and be halfway towards closing the door after him, “Hey, Baby P?”
“Yeah?”
“See you around?” It sounds like a fucking Coke advert and Pete’s going to toss him his shirt with a grin. It reads as an invitation though Patrick isn’t sure how that could work. Not that it matters. He’s going to be grounded for the rest of his life when his mom realises he snuck out - and she will realise he snuck out, Patricia Stumph is not a woman to be fucked with - besides, it’s not like he has any way to get in touch with Pete again.
So he smiles, a little burst of pride bright and warm in his chest that Pete would even think to say it, his grin wide and shining as he shrugs and calls over his shoulder, “Not if I see you first.”
As he jogs to the front of the club and slips into Will’s mom’s station wagon, ears burning with her scolding and cheeks burning from Will’s glare, he huddles down into the collar of his jacket and grins. He touches his lips with the tips of two fingers, as though he can conjure up Pete’s mouth against his once more.
It was a good night, he thinks, a really fucking good night.