Fic: Lines On Palms
Title: Lines On Palms (4/4)
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: FOB (Patrick/Pete)
If Pete didn’t want Patrick around at all, he’d never have shown him where his apartment was. This, it’s petty and probably stupid but it’s all Patrick has, the only justification, reasoning that he can think of and he’ll cling to it until he gets something better.
The apartment complex doesn’t look any better, any worse in the middle of the afternoon, just maybe people haven’t turned the lights on. There’s bottles of milk on doorsteps, newspapers over the mats, ants across the carpet. It’s the silence that’s disturbing, obscure and too blatant in an active complex with as many patrons as Patrick knows there are living here, forced between the cracks in the plaster walls, crouched beneath the gaps in the floorboards.
Pete lives on the third floor, in a compact space that sprawls in between a garbage chute and another apartment, one that’s stretching in comparison. Patrick, he doesn’t knock so much as he jiggles the handle like Pete did a few nights before, is relieved that the door gives way so easily, too easily and lets Patrick in, lets him thrust forwards enough to dodge too many sleeping bodies.
Pete’s room is unlocked and Patrick takes a deep breath before entering, prays to a God he doesn’t believe in that Pete’s not fucking someone, that he’s not jacking off or dead or halfway through suicide.
He’s not, like, at all actually, and when Patrick tiptoes in, Pete’s sitting up in the bed, writing too quickly into some ugly notebook, scattering letters over the page with nimble fingers and he doesn’t see Patrick right away, is too absorbed in whatever the hell it is he’s doing.
“Pete?” Patrick mumbles, and the guy’s head darts up, stares with wide eyes at Patrick and he’s too gorgeous right here, beautiful and frail and the sort of shell-shocked that’s tentative, delicate and Patrick can’t stop himself from staggering over and kissing him.
Pete’s lips are hot underneath and Patrick can hear the dull thud of the notebook and pen hitting the floor, can feel Pete’s fingers on his sides, against his hips.
“I shouldn’t,” Pete says, chokes out, but he kisses Patrick again, hard and fast and his fingers are in Patrick’s hair this time, clenching over the back of his head. He moves off, just to breathe, just to say, “Really.”
And Patrick, he can relate, because this is wrong, this isn’t for real, can’t be, but his hands are running races down Pete’s sides, clenching too hard over his hips, across his arse and nothing in him is thinking straight, nothing in him isn’t scoffing at the voice that’s saying nonono.
Pete’s hands are clingy and desperate, grabbing at too much of Patrick, at all of him, pulling at his neck and his head, dragging him down over him and onto the bed until they both fall back like waves on the coastline, like both of their resolves.
Patrick’s shirt is off and on the floor beside them before either can blink and Jesus, Pete’s good at this, brilliant, has had lifetimes of practice and Patrick’s not sure what he is in comparison, if he’s any good, if he’s useless, but Pete, he’s desperate enough, still goinggoinggoing and it’s all Patrick needs to keep moving, kissing, groping. Pete pulls his own shirt off, rips it over his neck and head whilst Patrick fumbles with Pete’s fly, with his pants, these jeans that wouldn’t even have fit Anna and they cling over Pete’s thighs, across his arse and dick and Patrick takes too long pulling them down, could cry with relief when he finally wraps them around Pete’s knees.
Pete’s lips are on his neck, cheeks, jaw and they’re warm and chapped, wet and Patrick can feel them more in the moments between the kisses, can feel the saliva burn as Pete backs off, as he leans further into the bed. “Are we-” and he stops, hesitates, stumbles over the words like a kid in the dark and Patrick sinks his face into Pete’s neck, mouthing at the skin, hands digging at the sheets.
Before Patrick can see the signs though, Pete’s shoving him off, pushing him away and throwing himself bodily over the edge of the bed, groping beneath for whatever, fingers brushing pill bottles, shadows, monsters, protection and he comes back up like he’s resurfacing, hands gripping a condom and a near empty tube of lube. He drops them beside him and doesn’t fumble in ridding Patrick of his jeans as much as he rips them off with a practised expertise (of course, Patrick thinks, of course) and they’re both shivering into the moment, Pete naked as hell and Patrick, he’s still got his boxers on, plaid things that are half-off with his jeans.
Pete’s nimble fingers are against Patrick’s waist, tracing the flesh of his belly, the line of his boxers before he slips them under, down, and they’re around Patrick cock now, calloused and heavy and Patrick thrusts, moans. His world blacks out as Pete runs fingers over the head and there are spots behind his eyelids that won’t go away, words on his tongue that he could never say and he just cries out instead, crashes down to press his lips tight against Pete’s until neither of them can make a real sound, can’t even shape their mouths to force out dictionary-words.
Pete’s other hand is fumbling in the sheets, reaching for the condom and he pushes Patrick’s mouth away just enough so that he can force the wrapper in between his own lips, can rip the metallic material with white teeth. He’s got the condom loose, the sterile plastic tight in his fingers and he moves them back down to join his other hand beneath Patrick’s boxers and he’s slipping it over Patrick’s cock with the sort of expertise that Patrick expects.
They’re kissing again, lips on lips and Patrick can feel Pete’s teeth gnawing at his bottom lip, his tongue prying and suddenly it’s all wet, desperate (hasn’t it all been?), open-mouthed and open-hearted and Patrick can hear music, can hear Elvis and Aretha singing in his head.
There are fingers around Patrick’s cock again, (he hadn‘t even realised they‘d been gone, too caught up in Pete‘s mouth, face, lips), and there are no prizes as to whose they are, but Patrick, he can’t help looking down, can see the short, tanned things, slick with lube twisting around his dick and his boxers are down properly now, tangled around his ankles along with his jeans. Pete’s pulling him closer, tugging him into place and apparently, apparently he’s been fingering himself, has a self-administered method of preparation and that’s not -- Patrick, he, he would’ve done that, would have, but Pete, he’s practiced, too used to looking after himself.
“Ready?” Pete whispers, breathes into Patrick’s open lips and no, no coz Patrick thinks, this wasn’t, isn’t, but he thrusts in before he can stop himself, too hard, too deep and Pete groans blindly, thrusts up and lets his legs, thighs-through-to-ankles spasm around Patrick’s waist.
And they both cry out, some sort of perfect duet, one great romance, Romeo and Juliet, Robin and Marian, Jesus and Mary Magdalene.
Pete’s blunt nails are digging into Patrick’s shoulders, deep enough to leave marks and Patrick’s fingers are curled in the sheets and he needs them there for balance, but needs them on Pete even more, needs to touchfeelmove.
He clenches his eyes shut and thrusts out, in and Pete groans again, murmurs something off the end of his tongue that sounds too much like, “Patrick,” and somewhere on the road to orgasm there’s a blockage, barricade and Patrick’s eyelids spring apart and he’s staring wide-eyed at Pete’s tight-wound body.
Somewhere, somehow, something’s stopped.
Pete’s skin is liquid carob, coffee, hot chocolate, it’s honey and it spills over Patrick like a blanket, contrasts with his paper, milk, with his whitewhitewhite skin. He has tattoos, rows of thorns around his neck and characters up his arms, some heart, bat, thing at his lower stomach and they almost ruin him, break the idea of liquid, they make Pete solid, make him real and not like, not the fantasies, not a wet-dream or a mirage, is firm and taut beneath him because Patrick couldn’t imagine something like this.
His eyes, Pete’s, they’re clenched shut and Patrick just wishes he could pry apart the lids, wishes Pete would look at him. “Come on,” Pete mumbles, “Keep going,” and it’s enough to spark Patrick back to life, the words some sort of emotional catalyst, sexual enzyme and Patrick sees red, black, blue, thrusts and goes and goes until Pete’s crying out and Patrick’s coming in a burst of sound, movement, emotion.
Pete’s only seconds later, going off like someone’s flipped a switch, turned off a light and he comes with a breathy sigh that echoes through Patrick’s ears, catches against his eyelashes. Patrick collapses into the moment, over Pete and he pulls out as gently as he can, slow and careful and he’s kissing Pete again, his cheeks, eyelids, jaw and he moves over, doesn’t want to crush Pete who suddenly looks so small, frail, eyes still shut and his come’s sticky against Patrick’s belly, across Pete’s.
Heavy breathing fills the room and Patrick leans on his side, stares at Pete’s profile, sketches it to memory, records it. “You’re so beautiful,” Patrick whispers, slurs out between the seconds and he can see Pete’s shoulders tense, can see them curl in on themselves and tighten all down his spine and across his thin neck.
“Shut the fuck up,” Pete replies, and he rolls away, leaves Patrick with a skinny back and a bare arse.
“Hey,” Patrick whispers, “Hey, no, don’t-” and the post-coital glow is ruining itself, tainted with Pete’s antagonism and Patrick moves a hand to turn Pete over, to roll him back and Pete, he, just, he lashes out, kicks at Patrick, hits him with wayward fists and dark eyes and just, Jesus. “Get the fuck out,” Pete whispers, and he’s kicking Patrick out still, pushing him out of the bed.
“Fuck you,” Patrick chokes out, breathes, when a fist connects with his ribs and he tumbles off the side, pulls himself off the mattress. “Fuck you.”
And Pete, he lets loose a bitter smile, one that hurts more than Pete’s fists and legs. “You just did.”
Patrick glares something fierce and he reaches down, pulls off the used condom and reaches to jerk up his boxers. He can’t say anything, not right now, not with the way his fingers are shaking, the way his head is full of sparks and flares and an anger he can’t quite control. He pulls his jeans on too quickly, tugs them up over his ankles and he reaches over to grab his t-shirt from the floor, doesn’t look at Pete who sits naked on the bed, glowering at the sheets beneath him.
“Here, take your fucking money, payment for your services!“ Patrick reaches a hand deep into the pockets of his jeans, pulls out a handful of bills and throws them onto the bed, over Pete’s legs. His head, Pete’s, it darts up too quickly, eyes a diptych of rage, of anger and madness and his lips curl into a grimace, a growl. He’s leaping off the bed, pulling on a pair of boxers before turning on Patrick, fisting the notes in tanned fingers. “I don’t need your pity,” and he shoves Patrick, thrusts him backwards with angry hands. “I don’t need anything from you, not your money, your dick, I don’t need you!”
And Pete’s still growling, a choking noise that vibrates in his chest, off the walls of Patrick’s head. “I’m not useless and I’m not, I’m not here to be fucking, to be fucked. I have, I think, y’know? I’m not an object, not a toy, I’m not something to be looked at and I’m not something to be fucked around with, to be fucked over.”
“I’m sick of assholes like you who think with your dick and think I’m just a convenient hole,” Pete’s breathing is laboured, angry and he thrusts the money back at Patrick’s chest before going back to collapse on the bed. “Go buy a porn rag and a fucking blow-up doll and get the fuck out.”
*
Patrick doesn’t visit Pete’s apartment again.
*
Vicky’s serving tables when Patrick gets to work and she shoots him a heart-stopping grin and calls out a, “How’d the wooing go?”
He won’t answer then, but at the end of their shift when their both exhausted and dead on their feet, he’ll mumble, “I think I fucked it up,” and Vicky won’t get it, but she’ll understand enough to put her head on his shoulder and wrap her fingers around his.
*
The problem is, and it is a big problem, a massive one - the problem is, he can’t find the strength in him to stay away.
He’s on Thirds again by the next weekend, and Pete’s still too easy to find, too unique, loud, too well-known. All Patrick has to do is follow the line-up of cars, follow the words of pretty young hookers who say PetePetePete like it means something, like he’s too high on that pedestal.
Pete’s on the corner talking to some seedy old fucker, and Patrick up and over there, kissing Pete before the old guy can grab him. The guy is pissed, angry and drunk and he slurs out words that he isn‘t listening to, says, “I didn’t pay for a fucking threesome,”
“You haven’t paid shit yet,” Pete snarls and he lets Patrick drag him away, lets him throw him into the front seat of the car again and he doesn’t try to bolt when Patrick drives away, even when they both know the door‘s unlocked.
Pete’s glowering out the front window, grimacing at the sky, at the road sprawled in front of them and Patrick tries to smile over at him, tries to apologise, says, “I’m sorry I yelled the other night,” but Pete doesn’t reply, doesn’t respond and Patrick cares, but not enough to force it.
It’s a fifteen minute drive to his house and they pull up in silence, Patrick unlocking the doors and pulling himself out quickly, tapping the roof of the car and breathing too deep. He has no idea what he’s doing and opens his mouth to talk but just, he can’t.
Instead, he heads over to the front door, nudges the handle with the keys and turns around in time to see Pete still sitting in the car, door wide open and his legs propped around the side, feet hovering over the grass.
“You coming?” Patrick says, and he holds the door open for Pete who stares with pursed lips and quirked brow. Pete doesn’t answer, doesn’t say a fucking word, but he gets out of the car, slams the door behind him enough to make Patrick jump and he heads over to the house.
Patrick, he lets them both in, sneaks them past the living room and over to the stairs and he’s reaching back, gripping Pete’s hand in his own before he can stop himself, is clenching it between his fingers and he hears Pete’s stilted breath against his neck, feels it like changes in the weather.
Up the hallway, Pete lets loose a snicker that echoes against the corridor and Patrick shoots him a sharp look. Pete shrugs, “Been a while since I was snuck up into some teenager’s bedroom.”
Patrick just sighs, rolls his eyes and drags Pete into his bedroom, tries not to be overly embarrassed by the Motown posters that topple down his wall, the Transformers doll that stands on his desk.
Pete though, Pete’s grinning this bizarre thing that’s half-amusement, half-disbelief and he opens his mouth to talk, to say something that Patrick doesn’t have the patience to wait to hear. He kisses him, open-mouthed and needy and they both fall back onto Patrick’s single bed.
It’s only moments of groping and hard kisses before Pete shoves him off, throws Patrick down onto the floor and sits up, puts his head in his hands and just, he yells. “Fuck!”
“Is this-” and Patrick fumbles with the words, can’t reunite brain with vocal chords fast enough to make sense, but maybe it doesn’t matter, because Pete’s hands are balled into fists, he’s hitting his head, eyes clenched shut and he’s rocking too hard, hissing and Patrick wants to reach over, can’t.
He pulls himself up though, manages to move over to the bed and he tries to reach a hand, put it on Pete’s shoulder, but Pete jerks back like he’s been burnt, like Patrick’s hand is hotter than the stove-top after dinner and he stares at Patrick with wide eyes and a gaping mouth, opens and closes it like a fish out of water.
Silence settles like dew after a storm and they’re just, they’re staring at each other, wide-eyed and Jesus, Patrick hasn’t felt this young since the first time he had sex, all fumbling hands and quaking fingers. Pete sighs, finally, stares at the bed, at the ceiling, wall, desk, Patrick. “I’m not meant to feel anything.”
“What?” and Patrick still stumbles over the wording, can’t control the way his voice goes up an octave half-way through the word.
“I don’t know what this is,” Pete says, and he tries for a smile, a grin that comes out like a shanty house after a natural disaster and Patrick tries to reply in kind, can’t say that he’s successful.
“That makes two of us,” he says instead, mumbles out and Pete’s half-smile becomes a little firmer and maybe the emergency services have arrived, are securing the house.
Pete rubs his eyes with tired fingers. “What do you want it to be?”
Patrick laughs, hard and fast because this question? Getting old. It’s like being in an exam that you don’t know the topic of and he’s sick of fumbling for answers. He says the only thing he can, “Something.”
“No,” Pete says, “You can’t -- you’re not allowed to say that. I need, you can’t just say ‘something’ because it’s too broad and in my line of work I need solid answers. You wanna fuck me, befriend me, go fucking steady, what?”
Patrick rubs at the bridge of his nose, looks at Pete, Pete whose all miles of dark skin and hair and fucking angst. Pete who’s more full of pills than Tim Curry during Rocky Horror, who sells himself for far less than he’s worth and Pete who…Pete who Patrick doesn’t know all that much about.
Pete, who Patrick thinks he could maybe want to know, wholly, inside, outside, totally. “Can it be all three?”
Pete takes a deep breath, purses his lips and casts Patrick a questioning glance. “I’m a hooker, a whore. My job involves seedy old shits fucking me. Mikey couldn’t handle it, most of my fucking, fucking partners haven‘t been able to, you think you can?”
“No,” Patrick says, and he shrugs loosely, rolls his shoulders in an attempt to lose the tension there. “I’d rather be the only seedy shit doing it.”
Pete almost smiles and Patrick, he counts that as a win, tallies it in his head. “I’m not gonna give up my life to try my hand at a Disney film.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Patrick says, and Pete won’t look at him right now, is palming the sheets, drawing patterns with his fingers. “I said I’d rather be, I didn’t say I have to.”
“Jesus,” and Pete rolls his eyes, flashes them up at Patrick. “You honestly think you wouldn’t mind? Patrick, I’ll give you syphilis, Chlamydia, herpes, whatever STD it is today.”
He sits up straighter, firmer, “You’re gonna wanna fuck me, you will, and it’ll be second, third, eight-fucking-teenth to some bastard who probably plays poker with your dad, and-”
And none of that matters, because Patrick’s eyes are wide, unblinking, he’s staring at Pete, lips parted and he can’t listen to Pete’s tirade because, “You called me Patrick.”
Pete stops, stares over and Patrick‘s grinning. “What?”
Patrick shakes his head. “My Dad doesn’t play poker, and you just called me Patrick.”
Pete‘s tensed, has folded in on himself and is staring sulkily at Patrick. “So what?”
“You’ve never called me Patrick before, not directly, not, not to me.”
“Fuck off,” Pete says, “It’s your name. I can call you red-nut if you want? Mother-fucker? I don’ know, what do you want me to call you?”
“Patrick,” he says, “You should call me ‘Patrick’ and I should call you ‘Pete’ and this should, whatever it is we’re doing, it should matter, because that’s the way life is, and that’s the way music is and that’s what we both deserve.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’ve never seen you smile, not for real and I want to make you, for me.”
Pete casts a disbelieving look, rocks back on the bed and he quirks a brow, stares with bleary eyes. “What?”
“That’s what I want,” Patrick says, and it’s a revelation, a revolution. “Everyone keeps asking me and you asked before and I don’t know if I want to date you or whatever, I know I wouldn’t mind fucking you again, but I don’t want to pay you for that, for the record, but…what I want most is to make you smile and laugh and for you to have something to come back to at the end of the day.”
“I-” and Pete, he stumbles over the words, over the ideas, over the parts of him that’s saying too many different things. He stares down at the bed and glances back up at Patrick too quickly. “I don’t know anything about you.”
“Not true,” Patrick says, “you know that I - I obsess, I’m a gentlemen, I mean, I offer jackets and pay for bus tickets,” and Pete lets out a coarse laugh beneath his breath and Patrick grins. “I give up on all other relationships to stalk a hooker and I’m alright in bed, right?”
Pete laughs and this time it’s humourless, wracking its way out of his throat like a bear out of hibernation. “You got me off, that’s more than I can say for my clients.”
Patrick tries not to smile, stares at the bed. “Look, I… I’m not great with words, I’m no fucking Shakespeare or, whatever, but I want this to be something because I think you’re really, like, genuinely really beautiful and I think I want something out of this that isn’t just sex and I don’t think I can tell you what that is right now and I’m sorry that I can’t.”
Patrick takes a deep breath, tries not to be turned off by the way Pete, the way he won’t look at him. “I’m not saying this is gonna be happily ever after for either of us, but I’m saying that I want to see you in the evenings before I go to sleep and I want to see you in the mornings when I wake up and I want to see you socially, sexually, I want to see you.”
Pete’s still silent, so Patrick, he chokes out a hesitant laugh, says, “I like you, and that sounds so fucking generic, so highschool-bullshit but, really, honestly, I don’t care. I mean, that it sounds like that, I do care that I like you, a lot, and -”
“Do you know how many time’s,” Pete interrupts, and he is looking at Patrick now; deep, dark eyes staring him down. “Someone has genuinely said that to me in my life?”
“What? Well, Mikey and-”
“Nup,” Pete says, “Mikey said it like, he said it with his body, with the way he kissed me, I guess, but he never spoke it, never said it for real.”
Pete rubs at the bridge of his nose, sighs again and lifts his eyes up to meet Patrick’s. “Do you know how many people, other than you, I’ve taken back to my apartment that hasn’t been graciously employed by Thirds? Do you know how many times I’ve come with another person in the last like, in the last five years?”
“I-” and Patrick, he’s still fumbling with the words, choking over oxygen, over Pete.
“You have been so many fucking firsts,” Pete says, “and if that’s not something, then I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
“Good,” Patrick whispers, and he leans over, takes Pete’s hand in his, intertwines their fingers and he’s never wanted to kiss someone more, never felt something so firmly, so strongly and it makes no sense that this is the time he can resist, that he can wait. “As long as we’re on the same page.”
Pete, he smiles, genuinely, and it splits Patrick’s heart in two, divides him, breaks him in all the best ways and he thinks that for a moment, just a fleeting second, time stops.
*
All the best things in life are free.
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: FOB (Patrick/Pete)
If Pete didn’t want Patrick around at all, he’d never have shown him where his apartment was. This, it’s petty and probably stupid but it’s all Patrick has, the only justification, reasoning that he can think of and he’ll cling to it until he gets something better.
The apartment complex doesn’t look any better, any worse in the middle of the afternoon, just maybe people haven’t turned the lights on. There’s bottles of milk on doorsteps, newspapers over the mats, ants across the carpet. It’s the silence that’s disturbing, obscure and too blatant in an active complex with as many patrons as Patrick knows there are living here, forced between the cracks in the plaster walls, crouched beneath the gaps in the floorboards.
Pete lives on the third floor, in a compact space that sprawls in between a garbage chute and another apartment, one that’s stretching in comparison. Patrick, he doesn’t knock so much as he jiggles the handle like Pete did a few nights before, is relieved that the door gives way so easily, too easily and lets Patrick in, lets him thrust forwards enough to dodge too many sleeping bodies.
Pete’s room is unlocked and Patrick takes a deep breath before entering, prays to a God he doesn’t believe in that Pete’s not fucking someone, that he’s not jacking off or dead or halfway through suicide.
He’s not, like, at all actually, and when Patrick tiptoes in, Pete’s sitting up in the bed, writing too quickly into some ugly notebook, scattering letters over the page with nimble fingers and he doesn’t see Patrick right away, is too absorbed in whatever the hell it is he’s doing.
“Pete?” Patrick mumbles, and the guy’s head darts up, stares with wide eyes at Patrick and he’s too gorgeous right here, beautiful and frail and the sort of shell-shocked that’s tentative, delicate and Patrick can’t stop himself from staggering over and kissing him.
Pete’s lips are hot underneath and Patrick can hear the dull thud of the notebook and pen hitting the floor, can feel Pete’s fingers on his sides, against his hips.
“I shouldn’t,” Pete says, chokes out, but he kisses Patrick again, hard and fast and his fingers are in Patrick’s hair this time, clenching over the back of his head. He moves off, just to breathe, just to say, “Really.”
And Patrick, he can relate, because this is wrong, this isn’t for real, can’t be, but his hands are running races down Pete’s sides, clenching too hard over his hips, across his arse and nothing in him is thinking straight, nothing in him isn’t scoffing at the voice that’s saying nonono.
Pete’s hands are clingy and desperate, grabbing at too much of Patrick, at all of him, pulling at his neck and his head, dragging him down over him and onto the bed until they both fall back like waves on the coastline, like both of their resolves.
Patrick’s shirt is off and on the floor beside them before either can blink and Jesus, Pete’s good at this, brilliant, has had lifetimes of practice and Patrick’s not sure what he is in comparison, if he’s any good, if he’s useless, but Pete, he’s desperate enough, still goinggoinggoing and it’s all Patrick needs to keep moving, kissing, groping. Pete pulls his own shirt off, rips it over his neck and head whilst Patrick fumbles with Pete’s fly, with his pants, these jeans that wouldn’t even have fit Anna and they cling over Pete’s thighs, across his arse and dick and Patrick takes too long pulling them down, could cry with relief when he finally wraps them around Pete’s knees.
Pete’s lips are on his neck, cheeks, jaw and they’re warm and chapped, wet and Patrick can feel them more in the moments between the kisses, can feel the saliva burn as Pete backs off, as he leans further into the bed. “Are we-” and he stops, hesitates, stumbles over the words like a kid in the dark and Patrick sinks his face into Pete’s neck, mouthing at the skin, hands digging at the sheets.
Before Patrick can see the signs though, Pete’s shoving him off, pushing him away and throwing himself bodily over the edge of the bed, groping beneath for whatever, fingers brushing pill bottles, shadows, monsters, protection and he comes back up like he’s resurfacing, hands gripping a condom and a near empty tube of lube. He drops them beside him and doesn’t fumble in ridding Patrick of his jeans as much as he rips them off with a practised expertise (of course, Patrick thinks, of course) and they’re both shivering into the moment, Pete naked as hell and Patrick, he’s still got his boxers on, plaid things that are half-off with his jeans.
Pete’s nimble fingers are against Patrick’s waist, tracing the flesh of his belly, the line of his boxers before he slips them under, down, and they’re around Patrick cock now, calloused and heavy and Patrick thrusts, moans. His world blacks out as Pete runs fingers over the head and there are spots behind his eyelids that won’t go away, words on his tongue that he could never say and he just cries out instead, crashes down to press his lips tight against Pete’s until neither of them can make a real sound, can’t even shape their mouths to force out dictionary-words.
Pete’s other hand is fumbling in the sheets, reaching for the condom and he pushes Patrick’s mouth away just enough so that he can force the wrapper in between his own lips, can rip the metallic material with white teeth. He’s got the condom loose, the sterile plastic tight in his fingers and he moves them back down to join his other hand beneath Patrick’s boxers and he’s slipping it over Patrick’s cock with the sort of expertise that Patrick expects.
They’re kissing again, lips on lips and Patrick can feel Pete’s teeth gnawing at his bottom lip, his tongue prying and suddenly it’s all wet, desperate (hasn’t it all been?), open-mouthed and open-hearted and Patrick can hear music, can hear Elvis and Aretha singing in his head.
There are fingers around Patrick’s cock again, (he hadn‘t even realised they‘d been gone, too caught up in Pete‘s mouth, face, lips), and there are no prizes as to whose they are, but Patrick, he can’t help looking down, can see the short, tanned things, slick with lube twisting around his dick and his boxers are down properly now, tangled around his ankles along with his jeans. Pete’s pulling him closer, tugging him into place and apparently, apparently he’s been fingering himself, has a self-administered method of preparation and that’s not -- Patrick, he, he would’ve done that, would have, but Pete, he’s practiced, too used to looking after himself.
“Ready?” Pete whispers, breathes into Patrick’s open lips and no, no coz Patrick thinks, this wasn’t, isn’t, but he thrusts in before he can stop himself, too hard, too deep and Pete groans blindly, thrusts up and lets his legs, thighs-through-to-ankles spasm around Patrick’s waist.
And they both cry out, some sort of perfect duet, one great romance, Romeo and Juliet, Robin and Marian, Jesus and Mary Magdalene.
Pete’s blunt nails are digging into Patrick’s shoulders, deep enough to leave marks and Patrick’s fingers are curled in the sheets and he needs them there for balance, but needs them on Pete even more, needs to touchfeelmove.
He clenches his eyes shut and thrusts out, in and Pete groans again, murmurs something off the end of his tongue that sounds too much like, “Patrick,” and somewhere on the road to orgasm there’s a blockage, barricade and Patrick’s eyelids spring apart and he’s staring wide-eyed at Pete’s tight-wound body.
Somewhere, somehow, something’s stopped.
Pete’s skin is liquid carob, coffee, hot chocolate, it’s honey and it spills over Patrick like a blanket, contrasts with his paper, milk, with his whitewhitewhite skin. He has tattoos, rows of thorns around his neck and characters up his arms, some heart, bat, thing at his lower stomach and they almost ruin him, break the idea of liquid, they make Pete solid, make him real and not like, not the fantasies, not a wet-dream or a mirage, is firm and taut beneath him because Patrick couldn’t imagine something like this.
His eyes, Pete’s, they’re clenched shut and Patrick just wishes he could pry apart the lids, wishes Pete would look at him. “Come on,” Pete mumbles, “Keep going,” and it’s enough to spark Patrick back to life, the words some sort of emotional catalyst, sexual enzyme and Patrick sees red, black, blue, thrusts and goes and goes until Pete’s crying out and Patrick’s coming in a burst of sound, movement, emotion.
Pete’s only seconds later, going off like someone’s flipped a switch, turned off a light and he comes with a breathy sigh that echoes through Patrick’s ears, catches against his eyelashes. Patrick collapses into the moment, over Pete and he pulls out as gently as he can, slow and careful and he’s kissing Pete again, his cheeks, eyelids, jaw and he moves over, doesn’t want to crush Pete who suddenly looks so small, frail, eyes still shut and his come’s sticky against Patrick’s belly, across Pete’s.
Heavy breathing fills the room and Patrick leans on his side, stares at Pete’s profile, sketches it to memory, records it. “You’re so beautiful,” Patrick whispers, slurs out between the seconds and he can see Pete’s shoulders tense, can see them curl in on themselves and tighten all down his spine and across his thin neck.
“Shut the fuck up,” Pete replies, and he rolls away, leaves Patrick with a skinny back and a bare arse.
“Hey,” Patrick whispers, “Hey, no, don’t-” and the post-coital glow is ruining itself, tainted with Pete’s antagonism and Patrick moves a hand to turn Pete over, to roll him back and Pete, he, just, he lashes out, kicks at Patrick, hits him with wayward fists and dark eyes and just, Jesus. “Get the fuck out,” Pete whispers, and he’s kicking Patrick out still, pushing him out of the bed.
“Fuck you,” Patrick chokes out, breathes, when a fist connects with his ribs and he tumbles off the side, pulls himself off the mattress. “Fuck you.”
And Pete, he lets loose a bitter smile, one that hurts more than Pete’s fists and legs. “You just did.”
Patrick glares something fierce and he reaches down, pulls off the used condom and reaches to jerk up his boxers. He can’t say anything, not right now, not with the way his fingers are shaking, the way his head is full of sparks and flares and an anger he can’t quite control. He pulls his jeans on too quickly, tugs them up over his ankles and he reaches over to grab his t-shirt from the floor, doesn’t look at Pete who sits naked on the bed, glowering at the sheets beneath him.
“Here, take your fucking money, payment for your services!“ Patrick reaches a hand deep into the pockets of his jeans, pulls out a handful of bills and throws them onto the bed, over Pete’s legs. His head, Pete’s, it darts up too quickly, eyes a diptych of rage, of anger and madness and his lips curl into a grimace, a growl. He’s leaping off the bed, pulling on a pair of boxers before turning on Patrick, fisting the notes in tanned fingers. “I don’t need your pity,” and he shoves Patrick, thrusts him backwards with angry hands. “I don’t need anything from you, not your money, your dick, I don’t need you!”
And Pete’s still growling, a choking noise that vibrates in his chest, off the walls of Patrick’s head. “I’m not useless and I’m not, I’m not here to be fucking, to be fucked. I have, I think, y’know? I’m not an object, not a toy, I’m not something to be looked at and I’m not something to be fucked around with, to be fucked over.”
“I’m sick of assholes like you who think with your dick and think I’m just a convenient hole,” Pete’s breathing is laboured, angry and he thrusts the money back at Patrick’s chest before going back to collapse on the bed. “Go buy a porn rag and a fucking blow-up doll and get the fuck out.”
*
Patrick doesn’t visit Pete’s apartment again.
*
Vicky’s serving tables when Patrick gets to work and she shoots him a heart-stopping grin and calls out a, “How’d the wooing go?”
He won’t answer then, but at the end of their shift when their both exhausted and dead on their feet, he’ll mumble, “I think I fucked it up,” and Vicky won’t get it, but she’ll understand enough to put her head on his shoulder and wrap her fingers around his.
*
The problem is, and it is a big problem, a massive one - the problem is, he can’t find the strength in him to stay away.
He’s on Thirds again by the next weekend, and Pete’s still too easy to find, too unique, loud, too well-known. All Patrick has to do is follow the line-up of cars, follow the words of pretty young hookers who say PetePetePete like it means something, like he’s too high on that pedestal.
Pete’s on the corner talking to some seedy old fucker, and Patrick up and over there, kissing Pete before the old guy can grab him. The guy is pissed, angry and drunk and he slurs out words that he isn‘t listening to, says, “I didn’t pay for a fucking threesome,”
“You haven’t paid shit yet,” Pete snarls and he lets Patrick drag him away, lets him throw him into the front seat of the car again and he doesn’t try to bolt when Patrick drives away, even when they both know the door‘s unlocked.
Pete’s glowering out the front window, grimacing at the sky, at the road sprawled in front of them and Patrick tries to smile over at him, tries to apologise, says, “I’m sorry I yelled the other night,” but Pete doesn’t reply, doesn’t respond and Patrick cares, but not enough to force it.
It’s a fifteen minute drive to his house and they pull up in silence, Patrick unlocking the doors and pulling himself out quickly, tapping the roof of the car and breathing too deep. He has no idea what he’s doing and opens his mouth to talk but just, he can’t.
Instead, he heads over to the front door, nudges the handle with the keys and turns around in time to see Pete still sitting in the car, door wide open and his legs propped around the side, feet hovering over the grass.
“You coming?” Patrick says, and he holds the door open for Pete who stares with pursed lips and quirked brow. Pete doesn’t answer, doesn’t say a fucking word, but he gets out of the car, slams the door behind him enough to make Patrick jump and he heads over to the house.
Patrick, he lets them both in, sneaks them past the living room and over to the stairs and he’s reaching back, gripping Pete’s hand in his own before he can stop himself, is clenching it between his fingers and he hears Pete’s stilted breath against his neck, feels it like changes in the weather.
Up the hallway, Pete lets loose a snicker that echoes against the corridor and Patrick shoots him a sharp look. Pete shrugs, “Been a while since I was snuck up into some teenager’s bedroom.”
Patrick just sighs, rolls his eyes and drags Pete into his bedroom, tries not to be overly embarrassed by the Motown posters that topple down his wall, the Transformers doll that stands on his desk.
Pete though, Pete’s grinning this bizarre thing that’s half-amusement, half-disbelief and he opens his mouth to talk, to say something that Patrick doesn’t have the patience to wait to hear. He kisses him, open-mouthed and needy and they both fall back onto Patrick’s single bed.
It’s only moments of groping and hard kisses before Pete shoves him off, throws Patrick down onto the floor and sits up, puts his head in his hands and just, he yells. “Fuck!”
“Is this-” and Patrick fumbles with the words, can’t reunite brain with vocal chords fast enough to make sense, but maybe it doesn’t matter, because Pete’s hands are balled into fists, he’s hitting his head, eyes clenched shut and he’s rocking too hard, hissing and Patrick wants to reach over, can’t.
He pulls himself up though, manages to move over to the bed and he tries to reach a hand, put it on Pete’s shoulder, but Pete jerks back like he’s been burnt, like Patrick’s hand is hotter than the stove-top after dinner and he stares at Patrick with wide eyes and a gaping mouth, opens and closes it like a fish out of water.
Silence settles like dew after a storm and they’re just, they’re staring at each other, wide-eyed and Jesus, Patrick hasn’t felt this young since the first time he had sex, all fumbling hands and quaking fingers. Pete sighs, finally, stares at the bed, at the ceiling, wall, desk, Patrick. “I’m not meant to feel anything.”
“What?” and Patrick still stumbles over the wording, can’t control the way his voice goes up an octave half-way through the word.
“I don’t know what this is,” Pete says, and he tries for a smile, a grin that comes out like a shanty house after a natural disaster and Patrick tries to reply in kind, can’t say that he’s successful.
“That makes two of us,” he says instead, mumbles out and Pete’s half-smile becomes a little firmer and maybe the emergency services have arrived, are securing the house.
Pete rubs his eyes with tired fingers. “What do you want it to be?”
Patrick laughs, hard and fast because this question? Getting old. It’s like being in an exam that you don’t know the topic of and he’s sick of fumbling for answers. He says the only thing he can, “Something.”
“No,” Pete says, “You can’t -- you’re not allowed to say that. I need, you can’t just say ‘something’ because it’s too broad and in my line of work I need solid answers. You wanna fuck me, befriend me, go fucking steady, what?”
Patrick rubs at the bridge of his nose, looks at Pete, Pete whose all miles of dark skin and hair and fucking angst. Pete who’s more full of pills than Tim Curry during Rocky Horror, who sells himself for far less than he’s worth and Pete who…Pete who Patrick doesn’t know all that much about.
Pete, who Patrick thinks he could maybe want to know, wholly, inside, outside, totally. “Can it be all three?”
Pete takes a deep breath, purses his lips and casts Patrick a questioning glance. “I’m a hooker, a whore. My job involves seedy old shits fucking me. Mikey couldn’t handle it, most of my fucking, fucking partners haven‘t been able to, you think you can?”
“No,” Patrick says, and he shrugs loosely, rolls his shoulders in an attempt to lose the tension there. “I’d rather be the only seedy shit doing it.”
Pete almost smiles and Patrick, he counts that as a win, tallies it in his head. “I’m not gonna give up my life to try my hand at a Disney film.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Patrick says, and Pete won’t look at him right now, is palming the sheets, drawing patterns with his fingers. “I said I’d rather be, I didn’t say I have to.”
“Jesus,” and Pete rolls his eyes, flashes them up at Patrick. “You honestly think you wouldn’t mind? Patrick, I’ll give you syphilis, Chlamydia, herpes, whatever STD it is today.”
He sits up straighter, firmer, “You’re gonna wanna fuck me, you will, and it’ll be second, third, eight-fucking-teenth to some bastard who probably plays poker with your dad, and-”
And none of that matters, because Patrick’s eyes are wide, unblinking, he’s staring at Pete, lips parted and he can’t listen to Pete’s tirade because, “You called me Patrick.”
Pete stops, stares over and Patrick‘s grinning. “What?”
Patrick shakes his head. “My Dad doesn’t play poker, and you just called me Patrick.”
Pete‘s tensed, has folded in on himself and is staring sulkily at Patrick. “So what?”
“You’ve never called me Patrick before, not directly, not, not to me.”
“Fuck off,” Pete says, “It’s your name. I can call you red-nut if you want? Mother-fucker? I don’ know, what do you want me to call you?”
“Patrick,” he says, “You should call me ‘Patrick’ and I should call you ‘Pete’ and this should, whatever it is we’re doing, it should matter, because that’s the way life is, and that’s the way music is and that’s what we both deserve.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’ve never seen you smile, not for real and I want to make you, for me.”
Pete casts a disbelieving look, rocks back on the bed and he quirks a brow, stares with bleary eyes. “What?”
“That’s what I want,” Patrick says, and it’s a revelation, a revolution. “Everyone keeps asking me and you asked before and I don’t know if I want to date you or whatever, I know I wouldn’t mind fucking you again, but I don’t want to pay you for that, for the record, but…what I want most is to make you smile and laugh and for you to have something to come back to at the end of the day.”
“I-” and Pete, he stumbles over the words, over the ideas, over the parts of him that’s saying too many different things. He stares down at the bed and glances back up at Patrick too quickly. “I don’t know anything about you.”
“Not true,” Patrick says, “you know that I - I obsess, I’m a gentlemen, I mean, I offer jackets and pay for bus tickets,” and Pete lets out a coarse laugh beneath his breath and Patrick grins. “I give up on all other relationships to stalk a hooker and I’m alright in bed, right?”
Pete laughs and this time it’s humourless, wracking its way out of his throat like a bear out of hibernation. “You got me off, that’s more than I can say for my clients.”
Patrick tries not to smile, stares at the bed. “Look, I… I’m not great with words, I’m no fucking Shakespeare or, whatever, but I want this to be something because I think you’re really, like, genuinely really beautiful and I think I want something out of this that isn’t just sex and I don’t think I can tell you what that is right now and I’m sorry that I can’t.”
Patrick takes a deep breath, tries not to be turned off by the way Pete, the way he won’t look at him. “I’m not saying this is gonna be happily ever after for either of us, but I’m saying that I want to see you in the evenings before I go to sleep and I want to see you in the mornings when I wake up and I want to see you socially, sexually, I want to see you.”
Pete’s still silent, so Patrick, he chokes out a hesitant laugh, says, “I like you, and that sounds so fucking generic, so highschool-bullshit but, really, honestly, I don’t care. I mean, that it sounds like that, I do care that I like you, a lot, and -”
“Do you know how many time’s,” Pete interrupts, and he is looking at Patrick now; deep, dark eyes staring him down. “Someone has genuinely said that to me in my life?”
“What? Well, Mikey and-”
“Nup,” Pete says, “Mikey said it like, he said it with his body, with the way he kissed me, I guess, but he never spoke it, never said it for real.”
Pete rubs at the bridge of his nose, sighs again and lifts his eyes up to meet Patrick’s. “Do you know how many people, other than you, I’ve taken back to my apartment that hasn’t been graciously employed by Thirds? Do you know how many times I’ve come with another person in the last like, in the last five years?”
“I-” and Patrick, he’s still fumbling with the words, choking over oxygen, over Pete.
“You have been so many fucking firsts,” Pete says, “and if that’s not something, then I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
“Good,” Patrick whispers, and he leans over, takes Pete’s hand in his, intertwines their fingers and he’s never wanted to kiss someone more, never felt something so firmly, so strongly and it makes no sense that this is the time he can resist, that he can wait. “As long as we’re on the same page.”
Pete, he smiles, genuinely, and it splits Patrick’s heart in two, divides him, breaks him in all the best ways and he thinks that for a moment, just a fleeting second, time stops.
*
All the best things in life are free.