New fic: Honey Do, bandslash
Title: Honey Do
Author: giddygeek
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Summary: Why aren't there more stories about their old apartment?
Notes: 2500 words, adult. Many thanks to dsudis for looking it over and to misspamela for not saying 'um, no?' when I volunteered to write again for the bandslashmania tagathon thing. *G*
"Dude," Pete said, while Patrick poked around, attempting to do the things his dad had told him to do--turn on all the lights, test the water pressure, make sure there was an escape route in case of fire, and for God's sake, not electric heat, Patrick, and also check the locks. "Dude," Pete said again, poking him in the side. "Chill, Patrick, this place is perfect."
The building manager jingled the keys. "We pride ourselves on keeping the buildings nice," he said, and was that a smirk? Patrick couldn't tell, but Pete nodded like he was convinced, and so did Joe; of course if Pete believed it, Joe believed it. As far as Joe was concerned, there was no sun, there was only the awesome of Pete Wentz.
Patrick looked warily at the old windows, the thin carpet in the kitchen of all places, at the old wooden floor in the bedrooms and the old tub in the bathroom, then back at Pete and Joe, who were happily arguing over who got what room. And he told the building manager, who was definitely smirking, "Well, I guess we'll take it."
1)
Pete would go two or three days without a shower, because he just did not care. But the second he heard Patrick in the shower, he was all over the bathroom, brushing his teeth, singing through mouthfuls of Listerine, taking a dump and then loudly debating with himself whether it would be kinder to Patrick if he flushed or didn't flush.
At first Patrick tried to take it calmly. He should've known better; that just made Pete worse. Three or four showers in, Pete started poking at him through the shower curtain, saying, "Hurry it up, Stump, we're gonna be late for recording, there's no time for your beauty regime today," and the third time a finger got him in the shoulder, Patrick fucking lost it.
He snapped the curtain back far enough to stick his head out and this time almost got Pete's finger in his eye. "What the fuck, Pete?" he asked, holding the shower curtain with one hand and punching out at Pete with the other. "Have you stopped to think that I'd be out of here faster if you'd just get lost?"
Pete was beaming at him, hand wrapping around Patrick's wrist to keep him from hitting. "Actually, I was just concerned about my share of the hot water." Pete's eyes were wide and sincere, and then his free hand was suddenly on Patrick's shoulder, his arm pushing back the curtain a little, his fingers brushing lightly over Patrick's wet skin. "You take the hottest showers," he said, eyes on his hand as he cupped his palm against the side of Patrick's neck.
Patrick took a startled breath, jerked backwards, and slipped on the wet shower floor.
He went down hard, one flailing hand wrapped in the shower curtain, the other reaching for something to stop his fall. He ended up on the floor, the shower curtain half pulled down around him, Pete underneath him, laughing hysterically.
"Dude, you should have seen your face," he crowed, and Patrick took half a second to assure himself that he didn't have any broken bones and wasn't bleeding from anywhere, then went for Pete's skinny throat.
"I fucking hate you," he was hissing through gritted teeth, slippery hands failing to get any purchase as Pete laughed and laughed and wriggled. "No, seriously, Pete. You suck!"
"Um," Joe said from the doorway. "Am I, like, should I go out for a while or something?"
"I'm going to kill him," Patrick said, turning to look at Joe, and in the instant that he met Joe's wide eyes, awareness set in. He was naked, a corner of the shower curtain the only thing between his dick and Pete's jeans, their thighs pressed together, Pete's hands on his sides, slipping through the soapsuds that were trickling down from Patrick's back. His ass was bare to the world.
"Fuck," he said, and jumped to the side; Pete still laughing as he followed, rolling Patrick underneath him on the rapidly soaking bathmat, the shower curtain coming down from more hooks with a ragged pop pop pop.
"You are so my favorite," Pete told him, kissing his cheek while Patrick shifted from attempting to strangle him to attempting to smack him. His hands were still on Patrick's sides, firm and hot. "Seriously, I love you."
"Die," Patrick said, but stopped fighting, sighing instead as Pete kissed his other cheek.
"You taste like shampoo," Pete said, then rested his cheek against Patrick's and sighed too, breath warm and smelling like Crest.
"Seriously," Joe said. "I could go into the studio by myself if you guys need a couple hours. Or whatever."
Pete lifted his head and grinned at Joe, then climbed off Patrick. He shook his head, spraying water everywhere, then reached into the shower and turned it off, saying, "Nah, we're good now, right, Patrick?"
"Die," Patrick said, not moving, all too aware of his pale legs and arms stretched out on the floor, his bare stomach right there in the open under Pete's warm eyes.
"You're going to give Joe the wrong idea about us," Pete said, and smiled down at him before slapping Joe on the back and leading him out of the bathroom.
"I have no ideas," Joe said, earnest. "None. Although my mom told me that's where babies--"
"Let me teach you about anatomy," Pete said, and then they were gone, laughing in the living room while Patrick climbed to his feet, hating his life, and very, very hard.
2)
"If those kids don't stop screaming, I will kill us all," Patrick said, stumbling into Pete's room at the ungodly hour of eight AM. He crawled into Pete's bed, under the covers. Pete had his head underneath the pillow, too, so Patrick tugged it loose then stuck his head under, eyeing him.
Pete eyed him back, awake and alert; he probably hadn't even managed to fall asleep at all. "I hate them," Patrick said, and yawned in Pete's face, ignoring Pete's totally fake gagging noises. "Hate."
"Poor Patrick," Pete whispered, quiet like it was midnight and silent inside their little nest, not morning, with the screaming idiot kids upstairs running around like elephants. "Did the neighbor kids forget to ask you to come play?"
"And they won't share their cookies," Patrick said, to make Pete smile. Then he yawned again and stretched out, getting comfortable while Pete shifted to give him room so he could settle in. It was a little darker in Pete's room, where the sun never seemed to shine through the narrow window, and quieter, and warm under the covers with him. Much better than Patrick's room, which was totally why it seemed like a good idea to share.
"I'm staying here with you until they leave for school," Patrick said. Pete nodded, draped an arm over him, curled closer and said, "Stay until they go to college, Patrick," and Patrick laughed a little, sleepy, then closed his eyes and promised that he would.
3)
"I'll protect you," Pete said, whirling his plastic grocery bags around like nunchucks.
"I think you have the eggs in one of those bags," Patrick said. "Also you've noticed that you're like, short, right?"
"But made of iron," Pete argued. He stopped walking and started looking through the bags in his hands for the eggs, then handed them over to Patrick, and started off again with the kind of martial arts moves you could only learn from really bad movies.
The problem was that there were flashing lights at the corner, the bad corner, where there were arrests almost every night--like people on their street never learned. Pete came back to walk beside him, eyeing the cop cars as dubiously as Patrick did.
"The thing is, when we're millionaires, it'll all be the same," he said. "We're all just dumb kids with too much time and not enough love. Everyone bad to the boner and looking for attention."
"Or something," Patrick said, switching a few bags from one hand to the other as they passed the cop cars; the handles were digging in uncomfortably, and Pete didn't have his key, anyway, so Patrick would need to dig his out of his pocket.
The lights faded behind them and they walked quietly, even Pete's crazy energy flagging. He kept slanting glances at Patrick, biting his lip, and Patrick ignored him--he'd been trying to teach himself how.
At the top of their front stairs, he put down his bags, aware of Pete doing the same. He started fishing for his key but it took a while, and then a longer while to find the lock; their porch light had been out forever. He fumbled, cursing, and had just heard the key snick in the lock when he felt Pete's hand on him, on his hip.
Patrick turned his head, wary, and Pete smiled at him. "We won't be like that," he said, and leaned in.
They kissed for a long time on the dark porch, gentle, shallow, even though Pete's hand slid warm over Patrick's hip to his ass, pressed them closer together until Pete pulled back, kissed Patrick's nose. Patrick opened his eyes, wondering blearily how long they'd been out there, when he'd dropped all his bags, when he'd lost his mind.
And then he didn't care, because Pete was still smiling at him, still leaning against him, warm and solid and he sounded like he really meant it when he said, "We're gonna be something else."
4)
Jerking off was no easier when you lived with two dudes than when you lived with your mom, Patrick had discovered. Maybe especially if one of those dudes was Pete, who seemed to have a radar for that kind of thing, and could always be counted on to be loud and obnoxious right ouside the door when Patrick was just settling into one of the three fantasies he had that didn't involve Pete's mouth.
It didn't help that Patrick's door never really shut right. The wood was warped, swollen from roughly a million years of Chicago summers, and nothing he did made it close all the way, let alone lock.
But Pete and Joe weren't home. Pete had taken his intense looks and his random bouts of making out and freaking out and gone to a club without offering to sneak Patrick in, and Joe had gone home for the weekend. So. There was time, Patrick thought, and the kind of privacy that meant shoving back the blankets, letting himself be naked, letting himself make noise in the privacy of his room with the door that never closed.
The kind of privacy that meant letting himself think about Pete's mouth.
Patrick hadn't been a virgin for a while--had gotten a few good blowjobs, he thought, although who knew. Maybe they'd been awful and he just couldn't tell. There hadn't been that many anyway, not what he'd call enough, but he had an idea what he liked.
And he knew what Pete liked, from too many nights spent talking in the dark, too many overheard conversations, too many little glimpses into Pete's mind at play. Fast, wet, hot, and Pete liked whatever was most off-limits, so fingers too, maybe a couple of them, reaching deep inside. If they--he'd smile at Patrick, smile around his dick and watch him all the way through until he came, gasping, and maybe letting himself moan.
Pete would swallow, and then want to kiss him, Patrick thought, and it would be weird, but the idea didn't help him keep his legs from shifting restlessly against his sheets, didn't stop him from pushing his hips up against his own hand, because he'd let Pete do it; it was Pete--
"Patrick," Pete said, thick, quiet, and oh, fuck.
"You're home," Patrick said. He didn't open his eyes. He didn't move.
"Just in time, it looks like," Pete said, and Patrick swallowed so hard that it clicked in his throat. Pete pushed the door the rest of the way open, crossed the creaking old floor, and stood beside the bed. "Patrick," he said again. "Can I--"
"Yes," Patrick said, opening his eyes, looking at Pete fast, to make sure he didn't take it back. "Please, come on." And Pete crawled over him, moved against him; Patrick opened his mouth when Pete kissed him and spread his legs so Pete would fit tight against him, and he blessed the stupid door that never closed.
5)
When winter hit, they kept the heat low--all their money was going to recording, and besides, it wasn't that bad. They just wore a lot of crazy old sweaters (Patrick) or walked around draped in blankets all the time (Joe) or climbed on top of the nearest warm body (Pete).
But at night, when they were headed for Pete's room and closed his door, it was dark and smelled like them under the covers, and it was always warm.
Patrick would shed his sweater before climbing into bed, then his turtleneck, then the t-shirts he wore under all that, his sweatpants, his socks--slowly, not all at once unless Pete was rushing him along. But Pete never bothered and just climbed into the bed naked and impatient, not good at waiting for Patrick to join him.
"It's warmer like this," he said, smirking, faking earnest. "Body heat, you know. They taught us that in Scouts."
He was a liar, about the Scouts anyway, but Patrick had to admit that he remembered nights spent shivering in his old bed at home, trying to get warm, but not at their apartment. Not since he'd started climbing in with Pete.
Some nights, they just went to sleep. It could be almost dawn by the time they got home, or dawn when they needed to leave, so they'd just curl up and pass out. But most nights they experimented, figuring out what Patrick secretly thought had to be a whole encyclopedia of things that other people couldn't know about touching each other; about blowjobs and thrusting hips and restless hands, sweating even though it was cold outside their nest of blankets, pillows, and Patrick's old t-shirts.
The night it snowed so hard that Patrick's mom made him promise to fill bottles with fresh water, run the faucets, fix sandwiches before bed and cook the hamburger she'd left in their freezer even though she knew they were all vegetarians, that was the night Pete's slick fingers opened Patrick up. They'd done that before, but Pete had always stopped, mostly just going for an extra thrill while he sucked Patrick, but never asking for more.
It was ice cold in their apartment, but Patrick was sweating when Pete slid inside him, careful, panting in his ear while Patrick bit at the pillowcase and pushed his hips up, thrilled and shocked by the way he felt, what he wanted. His sides were damp, his back, and Pete was sweating too, and shaking, and Patrick didn't think he was going to come until he was coming, so hard he thought he'd pass out, easy like his body was saying, "yes, finally."
Afterwards, Pete pulled out as carefully as he'd pushed inside, and one of Patrick's shirts was sacrificed to clean them both up, and then Pete laid back down with him, surprisingly heavy arm thrown over his back, skin almost too warm.
"Let's live here forever," Pete said in his ear. "I think we can get away with never leaving. We'll just take this apartment with us everywhere and keep it for our mansion," and Patrick snorted as he curled carefully against Pete's side, shook his head, told Pete he was an idiot--
But knew deep down that in a way, they would.
Author: giddygeek
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Summary: Why aren't there more stories about their old apartment?
Notes: 2500 words, adult. Many thanks to dsudis for looking it over and to misspamela for not saying 'um, no?' when I volunteered to write again for the bandslashmania tagathon thing. *G*
"Dude," Pete said, while Patrick poked around, attempting to do the things his dad had told him to do--turn on all the lights, test the water pressure, make sure there was an escape route in case of fire, and for God's sake, not electric heat, Patrick, and also check the locks. "Dude," Pete said again, poking him in the side. "Chill, Patrick, this place is perfect."
The building manager jingled the keys. "We pride ourselves on keeping the buildings nice," he said, and was that a smirk? Patrick couldn't tell, but Pete nodded like he was convinced, and so did Joe; of course if Pete believed it, Joe believed it. As far as Joe was concerned, there was no sun, there was only the awesome of Pete Wentz.
Patrick looked warily at the old windows, the thin carpet in the kitchen of all places, at the old wooden floor in the bedrooms and the old tub in the bathroom, then back at Pete and Joe, who were happily arguing over who got what room. And he told the building manager, who was definitely smirking, "Well, I guess we'll take it."
1)
Pete would go two or three days without a shower, because he just did not care. But the second he heard Patrick in the shower, he was all over the bathroom, brushing his teeth, singing through mouthfuls of Listerine, taking a dump and then loudly debating with himself whether it would be kinder to Patrick if he flushed or didn't flush.
At first Patrick tried to take it calmly. He should've known better; that just made Pete worse. Three or four showers in, Pete started poking at him through the shower curtain, saying, "Hurry it up, Stump, we're gonna be late for recording, there's no time for your beauty regime today," and the third time a finger got him in the shoulder, Patrick fucking lost it.
He snapped the curtain back far enough to stick his head out and this time almost got Pete's finger in his eye. "What the fuck, Pete?" he asked, holding the shower curtain with one hand and punching out at Pete with the other. "Have you stopped to think that I'd be out of here faster if you'd just get lost?"
Pete was beaming at him, hand wrapping around Patrick's wrist to keep him from hitting. "Actually, I was just concerned about my share of the hot water." Pete's eyes were wide and sincere, and then his free hand was suddenly on Patrick's shoulder, his arm pushing back the curtain a little, his fingers brushing lightly over Patrick's wet skin. "You take the hottest showers," he said, eyes on his hand as he cupped his palm against the side of Patrick's neck.
Patrick took a startled breath, jerked backwards, and slipped on the wet shower floor.
He went down hard, one flailing hand wrapped in the shower curtain, the other reaching for something to stop his fall. He ended up on the floor, the shower curtain half pulled down around him, Pete underneath him, laughing hysterically.
"Dude, you should have seen your face," he crowed, and Patrick took half a second to assure himself that he didn't have any broken bones and wasn't bleeding from anywhere, then went for Pete's skinny throat.
"I fucking hate you," he was hissing through gritted teeth, slippery hands failing to get any purchase as Pete laughed and laughed and wriggled. "No, seriously, Pete. You suck!"
"Um," Joe said from the doorway. "Am I, like, should I go out for a while or something?"
"I'm going to kill him," Patrick said, turning to look at Joe, and in the instant that he met Joe's wide eyes, awareness set in. He was naked, a corner of the shower curtain the only thing between his dick and Pete's jeans, their thighs pressed together, Pete's hands on his sides, slipping through the soapsuds that were trickling down from Patrick's back. His ass was bare to the world.
"Fuck," he said, and jumped to the side; Pete still laughing as he followed, rolling Patrick underneath him on the rapidly soaking bathmat, the shower curtain coming down from more hooks with a ragged pop pop pop.
"You are so my favorite," Pete told him, kissing his cheek while Patrick shifted from attempting to strangle him to attempting to smack him. His hands were still on Patrick's sides, firm and hot. "Seriously, I love you."
"Die," Patrick said, but stopped fighting, sighing instead as Pete kissed his other cheek.
"You taste like shampoo," Pete said, then rested his cheek against Patrick's and sighed too, breath warm and smelling like Crest.
"Seriously," Joe said. "I could go into the studio by myself if you guys need a couple hours. Or whatever."
Pete lifted his head and grinned at Joe, then climbed off Patrick. He shook his head, spraying water everywhere, then reached into the shower and turned it off, saying, "Nah, we're good now, right, Patrick?"
"Die," Patrick said, not moving, all too aware of his pale legs and arms stretched out on the floor, his bare stomach right there in the open under Pete's warm eyes.
"You're going to give Joe the wrong idea about us," Pete said, and smiled down at him before slapping Joe on the back and leading him out of the bathroom.
"I have no ideas," Joe said, earnest. "None. Although my mom told me that's where babies--"
"Let me teach you about anatomy," Pete said, and then they were gone, laughing in the living room while Patrick climbed to his feet, hating his life, and very, very hard.
2)
"If those kids don't stop screaming, I will kill us all," Patrick said, stumbling into Pete's room at the ungodly hour of eight AM. He crawled into Pete's bed, under the covers. Pete had his head underneath the pillow, too, so Patrick tugged it loose then stuck his head under, eyeing him.
Pete eyed him back, awake and alert; he probably hadn't even managed to fall asleep at all. "I hate them," Patrick said, and yawned in Pete's face, ignoring Pete's totally fake gagging noises. "Hate."
"Poor Patrick," Pete whispered, quiet like it was midnight and silent inside their little nest, not morning, with the screaming idiot kids upstairs running around like elephants. "Did the neighbor kids forget to ask you to come play?"
"And they won't share their cookies," Patrick said, to make Pete smile. Then he yawned again and stretched out, getting comfortable while Pete shifted to give him room so he could settle in. It was a little darker in Pete's room, where the sun never seemed to shine through the narrow window, and quieter, and warm under the covers with him. Much better than Patrick's room, which was totally why it seemed like a good idea to share.
"I'm staying here with you until they leave for school," Patrick said. Pete nodded, draped an arm over him, curled closer and said, "Stay until they go to college, Patrick," and Patrick laughed a little, sleepy, then closed his eyes and promised that he would.
3)
"I'll protect you," Pete said, whirling his plastic grocery bags around like nunchucks.
"I think you have the eggs in one of those bags," Patrick said. "Also you've noticed that you're like, short, right?"
"But made of iron," Pete argued. He stopped walking and started looking through the bags in his hands for the eggs, then handed them over to Patrick, and started off again with the kind of martial arts moves you could only learn from really bad movies.
The problem was that there were flashing lights at the corner, the bad corner, where there were arrests almost every night--like people on their street never learned. Pete came back to walk beside him, eyeing the cop cars as dubiously as Patrick did.
"The thing is, when we're millionaires, it'll all be the same," he said. "We're all just dumb kids with too much time and not enough love. Everyone bad to the boner and looking for attention."
"Or something," Patrick said, switching a few bags from one hand to the other as they passed the cop cars; the handles were digging in uncomfortably, and Pete didn't have his key, anyway, so Patrick would need to dig his out of his pocket.
The lights faded behind them and they walked quietly, even Pete's crazy energy flagging. He kept slanting glances at Patrick, biting his lip, and Patrick ignored him--he'd been trying to teach himself how.
At the top of their front stairs, he put down his bags, aware of Pete doing the same. He started fishing for his key but it took a while, and then a longer while to find the lock; their porch light had been out forever. He fumbled, cursing, and had just heard the key snick in the lock when he felt Pete's hand on him, on his hip.
Patrick turned his head, wary, and Pete smiled at him. "We won't be like that," he said, and leaned in.
They kissed for a long time on the dark porch, gentle, shallow, even though Pete's hand slid warm over Patrick's hip to his ass, pressed them closer together until Pete pulled back, kissed Patrick's nose. Patrick opened his eyes, wondering blearily how long they'd been out there, when he'd dropped all his bags, when he'd lost his mind.
And then he didn't care, because Pete was still smiling at him, still leaning against him, warm and solid and he sounded like he really meant it when he said, "We're gonna be something else."
4)
Jerking off was no easier when you lived with two dudes than when you lived with your mom, Patrick had discovered. Maybe especially if one of those dudes was Pete, who seemed to have a radar for that kind of thing, and could always be counted on to be loud and obnoxious right ouside the door when Patrick was just settling into one of the three fantasies he had that didn't involve Pete's mouth.
It didn't help that Patrick's door never really shut right. The wood was warped, swollen from roughly a million years of Chicago summers, and nothing he did made it close all the way, let alone lock.
But Pete and Joe weren't home. Pete had taken his intense looks and his random bouts of making out and freaking out and gone to a club without offering to sneak Patrick in, and Joe had gone home for the weekend. So. There was time, Patrick thought, and the kind of privacy that meant shoving back the blankets, letting himself be naked, letting himself make noise in the privacy of his room with the door that never closed.
The kind of privacy that meant letting himself think about Pete's mouth.
Patrick hadn't been a virgin for a while--had gotten a few good blowjobs, he thought, although who knew. Maybe they'd been awful and he just couldn't tell. There hadn't been that many anyway, not what he'd call enough, but he had an idea what he liked.
And he knew what Pete liked, from too many nights spent talking in the dark, too many overheard conversations, too many little glimpses into Pete's mind at play. Fast, wet, hot, and Pete liked whatever was most off-limits, so fingers too, maybe a couple of them, reaching deep inside. If they--he'd smile at Patrick, smile around his dick and watch him all the way through until he came, gasping, and maybe letting himself moan.
Pete would swallow, and then want to kiss him, Patrick thought, and it would be weird, but the idea didn't help him keep his legs from shifting restlessly against his sheets, didn't stop him from pushing his hips up against his own hand, because he'd let Pete do it; it was Pete--
"Patrick," Pete said, thick, quiet, and oh, fuck.
"You're home," Patrick said. He didn't open his eyes. He didn't move.
"Just in time, it looks like," Pete said, and Patrick swallowed so hard that it clicked in his throat. Pete pushed the door the rest of the way open, crossed the creaking old floor, and stood beside the bed. "Patrick," he said again. "Can I--"
"Yes," Patrick said, opening his eyes, looking at Pete fast, to make sure he didn't take it back. "Please, come on." And Pete crawled over him, moved against him; Patrick opened his mouth when Pete kissed him and spread his legs so Pete would fit tight against him, and he blessed the stupid door that never closed.
5)
When winter hit, they kept the heat low--all their money was going to recording, and besides, it wasn't that bad. They just wore a lot of crazy old sweaters (Patrick) or walked around draped in blankets all the time (Joe) or climbed on top of the nearest warm body (Pete).
But at night, when they were headed for Pete's room and closed his door, it was dark and smelled like them under the covers, and it was always warm.
Patrick would shed his sweater before climbing into bed, then his turtleneck, then the t-shirts he wore under all that, his sweatpants, his socks--slowly, not all at once unless Pete was rushing him along. But Pete never bothered and just climbed into the bed naked and impatient, not good at waiting for Patrick to join him.
"It's warmer like this," he said, smirking, faking earnest. "Body heat, you know. They taught us that in Scouts."
He was a liar, about the Scouts anyway, but Patrick had to admit that he remembered nights spent shivering in his old bed at home, trying to get warm, but not at their apartment. Not since he'd started climbing in with Pete.
Some nights, they just went to sleep. It could be almost dawn by the time they got home, or dawn when they needed to leave, so they'd just curl up and pass out. But most nights they experimented, figuring out what Patrick secretly thought had to be a whole encyclopedia of things that other people couldn't know about touching each other; about blowjobs and thrusting hips and restless hands, sweating even though it was cold outside their nest of blankets, pillows, and Patrick's old t-shirts.
The night it snowed so hard that Patrick's mom made him promise to fill bottles with fresh water, run the faucets, fix sandwiches before bed and cook the hamburger she'd left in their freezer even though she knew they were all vegetarians, that was the night Pete's slick fingers opened Patrick up. They'd done that before, but Pete had always stopped, mostly just going for an extra thrill while he sucked Patrick, but never asking for more.
It was ice cold in their apartment, but Patrick was sweating when Pete slid inside him, careful, panting in his ear while Patrick bit at the pillowcase and pushed his hips up, thrilled and shocked by the way he felt, what he wanted. His sides were damp, his back, and Pete was sweating too, and shaking, and Patrick didn't think he was going to come until he was coming, so hard he thought he'd pass out, easy like his body was saying, "yes, finally."
Afterwards, Pete pulled out as carefully as he'd pushed inside, and one of Patrick's shirts was sacrificed to clean them both up, and then Pete laid back down with him, surprisingly heavy arm thrown over his back, skin almost too warm.
"Let's live here forever," Pete said in his ear. "I think we can get away with never leaving. We'll just take this apartment with us everywhere and keep it for our mansion," and Patrick snorted as he curled carefully against Pete's side, shook his head, told Pete he was an idiot--
But knew deep down that in a way, they would.