Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Pete leans in to kiss him, it tickles. Pete's hair, struggling free from its gel hold, is wilting, falling in his eyes. It brushes Patrick's cheek, his nose. The simultaneous urges to laugh, sneeze and sigh fill up Patrick's senses, forming into a slight headache. He almost pulls away—wishes to resets the situation into something simpler, easier. But then Pete's lips cover his—awkwardly, at an angle, so that Patrick can't help but feel oafish and stupid. Pete, all grace and fluid movements, realigns their mouths, pushing and pulling at Patrick's body so that it moulds into his.

"Shh, relax." Pete exhales the words through his teeth, before resuming kissing him. Patrick can't help but find it a little ironic, but over the years he has learned to swallow the bitter comebacks ("me, relax? ME?")—put his head down, lean into the curves, and ride out Pete's mood swings. Pete flicks his tongue inquisitively inside Patrick's mouth, and his thoughts stutter into white noise. The headache amplifies, a giddy pounding of sensation in his brain.

". . . Pete?"

It's a whine that loops inside Patrick's ear. He presses closer to Pete, ignoring it. Pete pulls away slightly, smiling and murmuring, "don't worry" against Patrick's lips. And, again—

"That's"—Patrick pulls back, frowning—"kind of . . ."

The word ironic never makes it out of his mouth. His eyes flicker to the doorway, and he sees the boy standing there. The rest of the sentence—the part where he challenges Pete—it evaporates, and he's left cold with dawning realization.

The boy stands with hands thrust deep in his jeans pockets, radiating a nervous-shaky-fearful kind of courage. Trying and failing to lean nonchalantly, artfully. He's still beautiful, in spite of it all. The kind of youthful beauty that has yet to harden into "handsome" or "Abercrombie model". Patrick knows Pete's type pretty well.

Pete is still very close by. His makeup is smeared and sad, repainting his relaxed, smiling face into sharp angles. As if reading Patrick's thoughts, Pete reaches up, rubbing the heal of his hand across his left eye, like a child wiping away sleep.

"This is Josh," Pete says.

It would be better if Pete didn't remember their names; then maybe Patrick could consider them more transient, less real.

Josh has soft brown curls that frame wide eyes. Josh is wearing a My Chem t-shirt that is crumpled and worn out. Josh's arms are sinewy, his fingers long. Josh is eighteen and intact.

"Hi . . ." Josh drawls, and Patrick hears the false note of would-be boredom in his voice.

"Hi," Patrick echoes blankly.

Josh loses interest in him almost immediately. "Pete," he repeats, sticky threads of petulance weighing heavy in his tone. "Are we . . . ?"

The ellipses leave a devastating incomplete that Patrick's headache-y brain rushes to fill with lurid images. He feels the tentative smile freeze across his face. He realizes he's still touching Pete, hand resting awkwardly against his chest—he forces himself to pull away.

Pete glances over at him. His smile is too bright, dimming into a manic kind of exuberance. "See you later. Okay?" he says. Patrick thinks for a split second that he'll kiss him again, and then hates himself when Pete merely bounds away.

". . . okay."

The room is empty by the time he manages to get the word out.

*

It's a little past 2am when Patrick hears the shouting coming from Pete's hotel room. The argument lasts a few minutes and ends with slammed doors, vicious cursing that echoes through the halls. It could be worse; it had been worse before. In San Francisco the disturbance involved hotel security and a long, long conversation with the manager, where Patrick had to be the adult and explain that no, Pete wasn't going to go on a killing rampage, and yes, even if he did, he would be quiet about it.

Patrick waits, perched on the edge of his bed and slurping absently from his can of coke. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when the money became more than an inconsistent trickle; when they stopped having to pile all four of them into a matchbox of a hotel room. Money, as it turned out, didn't mean power or happiness—it just meant space. But there are some things about being poor that Patrick misses: being able to reach out, so literally, and touch Pete. Blind swipes of his arms in the middle of the night, to check that no, Pete wasn't gone, and yes, he was still breathing.

Eventually, Patrick slips out of his room. He feels dizzy and wide-awake from the sugar and caffeine as he weaves down the hotel corridor. He taps tentatively on Pete's door. From inside, there's a garbled greeting that could be "come in!" or "fuck off!"

Patrick nudges open the door. Pete is sprawled across the bed. He's shirtless and his pants hang low, barely hooked to his body by his hips. He's staring at the ceiling. Not just looking—staring. Patrick almost cranes his neck upward, just to try and see what Pete sees: a flurry of thoughts, tingling in technicolour; projected photographs of The Mind Of Peter Wentz. It's just bumpy white plaster up there, Patrick reminds himself.

The bed is unmade. Patrick doesn't look too closely; he doesn't need to look for the remnants of Josh—it's all there in Pete's expression.

". . . they always leave," Pete says blankly.

Patrick edges closer. "You wanted him to stay?" he asks gently. He doesn't need to be bitter now that Josh is gone; he can just be Patrick again—he can just make things better.

"No"—something flickers in Pete's expression; something like a smile—"I wanted him to want to stay—"

Patrick sits down on a corner of the bed. Pete reaches out his arm, swiping across the distance between them. He curls his fingers around Patrick's wrist, trapping him there. "—stay with me," he murmurs. It takes Patrick a moment to realize he's still talking about Josh. Josh or any one of the other NotJoshes—from last night, from the night before, the night before that.

You push them away. You fuck them over. And then you wonder why they leave. The thoughts stammer through Patrick's head. He can't say them out loud; he can't bear what the truth might do to Pete.

In the silence, Pete's breathing has steadied. His eyes have rolled almost shut; his fingers tighten around Patrick's wrist. He looks almost peaceful; the shadows of his face softened by the lamplight.

If Patrick were braver—if he were smarter, better, older, more handsome, more something—he would lean over and kiss Pete. Stop lying to him; stop lying to himself.

"Don't go. Okay?" Pete says. His eyes blink open suddenly. This time he is talking to Patrick. And for now, that's almost enough.

*

Patrick wakes up to flashes of sound in his ear, flares of colour twitching his retina—and for a moment it's difficult to separate these things from his dreams. Before he even opens his eyes, he's aware of his proximity to Pete. He is suddenly embarrassed, at how his unconscious body has craved closeness with Pete, curling around him, fitting them together. Pete seems unconcerned; his left arm is still cast casually over Patrick, his fingers gripping at Patrick as if he were his teddy bear.

"Go back to sleep," Pete commands, before Patrick has even ascertained whether or not he's still dreaming. He flails sleepily, accidentally tangling his limbs further with Pete's. He mutters incoherently.

Pete smiles blankly; his eyes never leave the TV screen. He's channel-surfing with the practised expertise of an insomniac: split-second bursts of shows—less if it's a commercial—more if it's a music video. His thumb is a steady twitch against the remote.

"Three hundred channels and nothing on," Pete says, noting Patrick's gaze. His mouth twists, darkly. "Three hundred different ways to say nothing at all."

Patrick watches the screen for a while, mesmerized. For the briefest second, he sees Pete. It's the Dance, Dance video and it's playing on MTV. Pete doesn't pause. He's replaced with chopped vegetables—diamonds rings with half off—national weather—George Clooney.

Patrick lies back down, suddenly too tired to even think of crawling back to his own room. He stares at Pete's arm, fighting the urge to trace the patterns of the ink. Once he tried to colour them in using a Sharpie, until Pete laughed and pushed him away. Patrick closes his eyes, until he feels a tingling along the side of his face.

The comforter is vibrating.

Pete exchanges the TV remote for his phone, and for the moment they are suspended on an episode of SpongeBob SquarePants.

"Hello," Pete says neutrally. He listens for a moment, and then a slow smile spreads across his face. His voice is smoother, more relaxed as he continues, "yeah, I'm okay." His voice drops with a note of amicable irony, "I'm fucking unbelievable."

Pete reaches over and flips off the TV. The ensuing silence is too loud. Patrick fidgets uncomfortably. It could be anyone on the phone, he reminds himself, trying not to frown. Pete collects friends like baseball cards, and all of them are soon discarded without a second thought. All of them except Patrick.

Pete balances the phone ("it's a sidekick! see all the things it does?" Pete insisted, as Patrick made a face) awkwardly on his shoulder. He scoots away from Patrick, his fingers bouncing against the comforter. He's nodding into the phone, still smiling. Patrick feels as if he might be physically shrinking.

". . . what time is it there? . . . I don't know, like four . . . I don't sleep. Sleep isn't rock and roll enough . . ." Pete bursts into a broad smile. He squabbles briefly about rockstar protocol, and then, apparently feeling he has won, cuts in abruptly with: "so are you having a good time? . . . don't lie . . . you are . . . you have . . ." His voice is darkening, and finally he bites out, "Mikey—"

The conversation resumes, although Pete has stopped smiling. Patrick makes an effort to tune out their conversation. He registers vague embarrassment, as if he is intruding on something private. (Although, in reality, their conversation is all mindless chatter . . . three hundred different ways to say nothing at all.)

Patrick likes Mikey, genuinely cares for him—and that's part of the problem. At the beginning of Warped, as Pete and Gerard stared each other down, ecstatic smiles of antagonism and camaraderie sparking between them, Patrick and Mikey were pushed to the sidelines. Mikey appeared as the gentle, delicate echo of his brother; glasses slipping down his nose and hat pulled low as protection against the world. On cold summer mornings, running on the exhaust fumes of the previous night's adrenaline, Mikey would wordlessly offer Patrick sips of his coffee—long, fragile fingers pushing the warm coffee cup into his hands. They had shy, hesitant conversations, punctuated by long silences that swiftly became affectionate, rather than awkward. Patrick found himself stockpiling things to say to Mikey; things that Pete never stood still long enough to hear. As they retreated to a corner together, Mikey would nod slowly, as if really considering the things Patrick would say (small secrets, insignificant reveals)—and if Patrick was lucky, he would gift him with a brief smile, lower lip caught between his teeth as the smile faded back into a steady, encouraging stare.

Patrick remembers, with sharp spikes of emotion, the day that he went looking for Mikey and found Pete. It was an off-night on the tour and Pete had been at a loss for what to do; short on adrenaline rush and running around driving everyone crazy trying to find it. Mikey was languid in his arms, flattened against the tour bus. His hips arched against Pete, bucking gracefully as Pete's fingers wrapped around his cock. Patrick stumbled away, unseen, chastising himself. Memories tumbling into his mind, he was forced to rewrite the long looks Pete would cast in his—no, Mikey's—direction as the two of them sat huddled together. Patrick suddenly resented the soft, playful way that Mikey would always ask about Pete, and Patrick would unthinkingly betray all their secrets, all of his special moments with Pete—just for a smile from Mikey, languorous and pleased and thinking about—

"—so come back. If you hate it, come back. Come here . . . no, but you just said . . . say what you mean . . . yeah, I fucking miss you. I want you here . . . I want . . . I want . . . fine, fuck you. Go talk to your bullshit European radio hosts!"

Anger sparks off Pete as he tosses the phone aside without saying goodbye. Patrick can't help but recall the image of Pete, as bright in the moonlight as if bathed in a spotlight; focused and energized as his hands brought Mikey to his climax. Pete's eyes are narrowed. He looks more alive than he has since . . . since—Patrick doesn't want to remember when.

"What's up with Mikey?" Patrick mumbles. It is unnerving to have Pete's full attention suddenly shifted to him.

When Pete speaks, there is a taut note in his voice that anyone else might interpret as calm. "Mikey's—" Pete leans closer to Patrick. "Mikey's— in London."

Patrick wants to shout out. Don't! don't do this to me, don't wreck this. Don't wreck—

Pete kisses him before he can say anything. It's a tiny fragment of Mikey, of PeteAndMikey. It's harder, faster than anything before (all those kisses that he knew would never go anywhere), and Pete is pushing him down onto the bed. He's actually straddling Patrick, crawling all over him.

Patrick's thoughts race, a blur of colour and noise, more disorientating than the channel-surfing. SpongeBob and the tinny echo of Mikey 5,000 miles away, trying to say anything but "I love you". Josh—who probably wasn't legal, probably wasn't any older than Patrick feels—and the screaming and the way Pete doesn't know how to have sex and have it end well. It's all fires and burning yourself out; crashing cars and rising from the ashes. These things that Patrick sings every night; pieces of Pete that burrow inside of him. There are parts of him Pete has taken, reached into Patrick's chest and exchanged for bits of himself. The pieces Patrick receives in return feel sad and heavy next to his heart.

Pete exhales close to his ear—it sounds like a sigh—his teeth catch on Patrick's collarbone; his tongue leaves a sticky trail across his throat. Pete struggles with the buttons on Patrick's shirt—his fingers are cold—and for a moment Patrick wonders if he'll rip the fabric. The shirt finally falls open, the Patrick silences the part of himself who wants a vicious, uncontrolled Pete. He chases away the memories: Pete and Mikey would emerge sated and content in each other's company on the many, somany Mornings After — but the way they would fuck was infamous.

Patrick shivers. "Cold?" Pete murmurs, writhing against him. Hot mouth opening against the flesh of Patrick's chest. Pete's hair falls down, tickling the skin, as his mouth moves relentlessly downward. He mutters something that could be, "warm you up," but it is swallowed by the snap of the first button on Patrick's pants.

The phone is vibrating again. For a moment, Pete stops. Patrick is no longer breathing; he's too hard, too desperate, too—

The phone stops, and Pete reaches for the zipper. When, as he's easing down Patrick's boxers, the phone begins to vibrate once more, Pete ignores it.

*

Patrick lies in bed, naked. He is cold; he burrows further beneath the sheets. Beside him, Pete is fidgeting. Patrick wants to tell him to relax, but he can't quite form his voice into that many syllables. Instead he reaches out, skims his fingers across Pete's chest—he forces himself not to find it strange that Pete's body reacts to his touch.

Patrick's mouth finally spits out words. "It was okay . . . wasn't it?" He feels the tremor roll through his body to the very tips of his fingers.

Pete smiles; his restlessness stills. "Yeah . . . " The word is long and lovely, as Pete's eyes flicker almost shut. "It was okay." He nods, tilting his head just slightly. "It was . . ."

Patrick watches his face for a moment as Pete tries to articulate what it was. Then he breaks in with, "I know."

The moment of ensuing silence between them stretches into a minute—and then two, three. Finally, Pete closes his eyes and feigns sleep. (The trouble, Patrick thinks, with knowing someone so well, is that you know when they're faking. It's a double-edged sword.)

Patrick pretends to sleep, too, until finally the faking becomes real. When he wakes up, he doesn't remember his dreams.