Fic: In the Hall of the Mountain King (1/1)
Title: In the Hall of the Mountain King
Author: heyginger
Prompt: Pete/Patrick, being spit on
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3500-ish
Summary: Pete never tells anyone, no one, never.
To be one's self is to slay one's self.
14.
There's this kid, Christian, he's one of the kids who's fucked in the head for real, more than Pete is, and he sleeps in the bunk bed across from Pete's, washes dishes while Pete dries, runs at Pete's shoulder when they do laps around the track. In the yard after dinners Christian bounces the basketball off of kids' heads, tackles boys, knees them in the stomach, spits on them. Pete sits under a tree, pretending to read City of Light, City of Dark, and watches.
On Pete's sixth night at boot camp, he wakes up because he's sweltering. Pushing the blanket down helps, even though the sheets still stick to his side and back. He flips his pillow to the cool side and rolls over and that's when his eyes meet Christian's. Christian's tongue is poking out between his teeth, and in his peripheral vision, Pete can see his hand moving under the sheet. He doesn't have to turn his head to know what he's doing.
Pete closes his eyes and tucks his chin down; he's going to go back to sleep, he is. But then he hears Christian laugh, quietly, once, and his eyes snap back open. Christian is looking at the ceiling now, smirking like it was a fucking dare. Like Pete failed.
For a moment, Pete doesn't do anything, just holds his breath and watches.
He should roll over and go back to sleep.
Instead, he shifts his legs carefully and the sheets rustle. It's silent for a moment, and then he moves again, picks up his shoulders and resettles them with a soft thump. Christian turns his head, making eye contact again, still smirking.
Pete smirks back.
He keeps his breathing even when he slides his hand between his legs, and he squeezes as steadily as he can manage. Just before he comes, when he can feel his lip start to curl, he tucks his head back into the shadow cast by the bunk above him.
The next afternoon, Christian trips him on the soccer field. He straddles Pete's waist and holds his arms down just long enough to spit-and-suck, letting his drool hang inches from Pete's cheek before slurping it back up again. He calls Pete a faggot, casually, while the other boys laugh, and knees him in the gut when he scrambles off. Pete doubles over and tries to get his air back.
Two days later, his mom comes to pick him up. She kisses his temple, his forehead, hugs him. In the parking lot, he throws his duffel into the back of her silver Infiniti, then opens the passenger door and looks up. Christian's standing at the side of the administration building, watching. When he sees Pete looking back, he flips him off. Pete gets in the car and closes the door, and through the window he sees Christian spit on the dirt and walk away.
---
In his head, Pete is unflinchingly honest. He collects self-truths like bugs--grotesque, chitinous things. He unfurls their wings, pins them down, studies them until the line between ugliness and beauty blurs.
He keeps them.
20.
Pete has two shots of cheap tequila, and it's rough. It burns all the way down his throat and into his belly and he waves away the lime. He looks around, and it's college kids everywhere, girls in black pants and tight tops and guys in white baseball caps.
He never picks up girls in bars like this; there would be no point.
Tonight the guy's name is Austin or Dallas or some other Texas city and he's very, very drunk. Pete thinks he's probably in a frat; he probably plays intramural Frisbee and fucks his girlfriend in her twin extra long dorm bed; he probably doesn't, in his right mind, in his sober mind, even know what he wants. He probably doesn't know that he's watching the gap between Pete's waistband and Pete's ass when Pete bends over the bar to hail the bartender, but Pete knows.
Pete has sympathy for bottled shame, he wants to touch every dark, raw thought this kid has made himself swallow, and so his hand is gentle when he catches the guy's wrist.
Out back, Pete tugs him onto the sidewalk and down a staircase to the unlit front stoop of a basement shoe-repair shop. The brick is cold against Pete's back and the air smells like wet leaves, and if Pete isn't hard, the frat boy is enough so for both of them, riding Pete's thigh, panting into his temple, drunken clumsy and groping.
When the condom is on and Pete is braced hands first on the the brick wall, Pete finally gets what he wants, what he came for. His arms are shaking and his bangs are in his eyes. "Fuck--use spit," he says, looking down his own body, watching his dick get hard. "I-I like it rough." It's a lie, it's Pete's usual lie, though the frat boy is too drunk and horny to need it, maybe too far gone to even hear it.
Pete closes his eyes and strains to hear him spit over the sounds of traffic above them. He definitely feels it, cooling quickly on his skin before the guy's dick skids over him, spreading it around. He bites his lip against the pain, but it's worth it for the wetness, for the knowledge. Frat boy is barely together enough to thrust, way too far gone to catch a rhythm, staccato clumsy jerks and open-mouthed grunts against Pete's neck. Pete wraps his hand around his own dick and concentrates on the slickness behind his balls.
When the frat boy drools on his shoulder he shoots on the brick wall.
---
It becomes one of a catalog of things he has told Patrick in tiny jigsaw puzzle pieces, but these specific pieces are buried in a box with the wrong picture on the cover and he can't tell if Patrick has put them together.
23.
Pete runs and Patrick finds him, although it's more that Patrick follows him, five yards behind, pushing past a few gawkers. The van is parked a block away in front of two expired meters, but the doors are locked, so Pete just stops there, looking in the tinted window, and listens as Patrick catches up to him.
"Go away, Patrick," he says, voice wet and nasal.
"Jesus," Patrick says. "Christ." He's hanging back somewhere over Pete's right shoulder. "Your nose broken?"
Pete shakes his head and he has to work to stop shaking it, has to work to keep his skin still because his insides are shivering, eyes shaking in his head, blood vibrating.
"Good," Patrick says, "stupid fucker," and Pete knows he means the douche bag who shoved Pete, punched him. Spit on him.
Pete's still hard in his jeans.
Patrick steps forward, two steps, and Pete presses his palms to the van's door panel. His fingers stay still and that's how knows he's okay to turn around, steady enough to look at Patrick. Patrick's eyes are big and solemn, and Pete presses his shoulder blades to the van where his hands had been and crosses his arms over his chest, scraping his bitten-down thumbnails over his own collarbone.
There are high, red blotches on Patrick's cheeks, probably from the damp, chilly air. His eyes are rapt on Pete's face.
"Jesus Christ, Pete," he says, and his voice is shaky. From the chill, Pete thinks, high and reedy even in his own head. It's chilly.
It was dark, in front of the club. Patrick didn't see anything. *Anything*.
Patrick studies Pete's swollen cheek, the blood smeared high on his upper lip. Pete clenches his teeth. "I'm fine," he tries.
"You've got--" Patrick makes an abortive gesture toward Pete's neck. "You--" He takes one careful step and swipes his hand below Pete's ear. His fingers are three points of ice on Pete's neck, and when he pulls them away, they're shiny. "Spit."
Pete closes his eyes because he has to, because it's his last line of defense.
"Hey," Patrick breathes, tentative, maybe exhilarated. "You sure you're okay?" He reaches out and wraps his fingers around Pete's wrist and his skin is damp over Pete's pulse point. Pete bites his lip, but he's afraid the sound makes it out anyway.
Patrick shifts even closer, so that Pete's hand is trapped between their bodies, Patrick's fingers still snug over his wrist bone. "Pete--" he says, and Pete shakes his head no, but before Patrick can continue, the van doors unlock under Pete's back and they both jump. Andy and Joe are two car-lengths away, carrying the last of their shit and the keys. Patrick bites his lip and looks back at Pete. He smiles a little and squeezes Pete's wrist, hard, before he pulls away, and Pete can't do anything but pant, can't do anything but climb in the van, limbs jerky and slow, can't do anything but curl up in the corner. Can't do anything but not look and not look and not look at Patrick.
---
He doesn't think about it too much when he's fucking, not too much, just a little, when it creeps in.
When he's jerking off, he tries to think about threesomes, about lesbians or Jessica Biel or handjobs in public places. It's always on the edges, though, inescapable, sharp and hot, waiting for him to close his eyes. Sometimes Patrick is there, too.
24.
Andy and Joe are in the front of the van playing some modified version of Circle of Death with a deck of NASCAR cards. 7's are Truth Or Dare and 2's are I Never and Pete lost track of the rest somewhere around New Buffalo. He's got headphones on but it's mostly for privacy; his playlist ended 20 minutes ago. Patrick is dozing on the opposite side of the bench, head lolling against the window.
Pete pops out an earbud when the conversation turns to kinky sex; whipped cream is not really kinky and he feels that it's his duty to back Andy up about that.
Five minutes later and the conversation is still going, mostly due to Joe, who's saying, "I can't imagine letting someone piss on me."
Pete snorts. "I've pissed on you, dude."
"Yeah, and it didn't turn me on."
"Well, that's good to know," Pete says, getting ready to start the music again, but then Andy's looking thoughtful, saying, "It might be interesting."
Joe wrinkles his nose. "That's totally your fetish, isn't it? You're all into golden showers."
Andy just rolls his eyes and says, "Nope. Diapers."
Joe starts laughing, almost the squeaky giggle they tease him about. Pete bites his lip, calculating.
"I kind of want to fuck a dog," Pete says, keeping his eyes on the tiny screen of his iPod.
Andy purses his lips against a smile and nods wisely. "I've always suspected you had some kind of traumatic formative psychosexual experience with your Pound Puppies," he says.
Joe giggles. "I thought maybe Teddy Ruxpin."
"No, really," Pete insists. "I want to put my dick in a real female dog. Maybe a German Shepherd." He loses the battle and laughter makes his next words shaky. "A pretty one."
Andy laughs and Joe starts choking on his Mountain Dew, shoulders shaking.
"Pete, dude," Andy says, reproving through the laughter, "you're gonna make Joe choke to death. Or spit soda all over me." He reaches over to thump Joe on the back soundly.
Without looking up, Pete can tell that Patrick's awake, watching him. Joe is giggling now, kind of coughing, and Pete smirks because he knows how to play to a crowd. Then he meets Patrick's eyes, and Patrick isn't laughing. Patrick's gaze is serious, deliberate. For a moment, Pete's mind is blank; he just meets Patrick's stare. Then, like the van hit a speed bump, everything in Pete's brain bounces and tumbles and lands different, clicks into place, and he thinks Patrick knows.
Pete's heart starts beating so hard he's sure it's jerking his shoulders in rhythm. It's the craziest fight or flight response he's ever had, a tsunami of adrenaline, like someone has reached inside him and yanked all the air out of his lungs and then kept yanking, wrenching his chest inside out, exposed, control gone.
He sits perfectly still, doesn't let himself inhale because he knows it will be a wet, shaky gasp. Patrick says nothing, eyes assessing.
Right as Pete's lungs start screaming, Patrick rolls his forehead back onto the window pane and closes his eyes.
Joe and Andy are talking about handcuffs in the front seat, have moved on, and some asshole honks at them and passes on the right.
Pete curls forward as casually as he can. He brings his hands to his mouth and sucks air desperately between his fingers.
---
Patrick doesn't mention it in Detroit and doesn't mention it in Toledo. His eyes are normal again--not knowing, not heavy.
After 11 days on pins and needles Pete convinces himself that Patrick doesn't know anything, never knew, it was a fluke, and he breathes and breathes until he's dizzy and finally sleeps.
26.
Pete never tells anyone, no one, never. He's never said the words and he can't imagine saying it, asking for it. Just the thought makes him tremble, flush, sick. Sometimes, lying in the dark, watching Jeanae sleep, he thinks about telling her. He practices in his head, "I want you to spit on me." But no, that's wrong, too easy, too plain. Not honest enough. "I want to be naked and I want you to spit on me. On my cock. On my...". Face, face face face his brain finishes, but it's a whisper even in his fantasy, he can't imagine saying it.
Face, he thinks, looking at Jeanae, on her stomach next to him. He edges one shaky hand under the back of her wife beater and her eyebrows twitch in her sleep.
Do it, please, on me.
She'd do it, he knows, probably even like it. He flattens his hand against the small of her back and feels her breathe.
He'll never ask her. Even the thought has him trembling and breathing quick, heat sliding down from his sick bitter stomach, halfway between hard and throwing up.
28.
Jeanae is gone and back and gone again, and when he's sure it's for real and for good, Pete asks Patrick to collect Hemingway in Chicago and bring him out to LA.
Patrick lets Pete lie on the couch watching Dog the Bounty Hunter for two days before he starts kicking Pete's ass, sympathy for this particular break-up exhausted long ago.
He bitches at Pete to clean up the dog shit in the laundry room and he bitches at Pete for leaving his dirty socks on the couch and when he bitches at Pete to do the damn dishes already, Pete gets up from the couch and goes into his kitchen and takes every dish out of every cupboard. He spreads them over every available inch of counter, and then he goes to the fridge and gets the Nesquik syrup and the mustard and starts systematically squirting them over each plate, glass, and spoon.
Patrick leans against the pocket door and watches, lips a tight line.
After that, for a week, they're fighting all the time, everywhere. Yelling in the studio, quiet hard words on the phone, bitchy smirks in the living room and in the bedroom and in the foyer until Wednesday when Patrick smiles coldly at Pete from across the kitchen and says, "So is this the part where I spit on you and call you a dirty whore?"
It's wrong, it's all wrong, but it's hot, too, excitement shaky and sick in Pete's stomach.
When Patrick leaves the room, Pete slides to the floor and shakes.
28.
Patrick grabs him by the jaw and turns his head until his cheek is against the carpet, holding him there, thumb up over Pete's chin. It's terrifying and exhilarating and Pete squeezes his eyes closed and breathes heavily through his nose. Patrick doesn't do anything, doesn't say anything, and as the silence grows Pete's panic expands until his heart is beating so hard that it hurts his chest. He finally opens his eyes and sees Patrick watching him and he can't do this. He has to rear back, trying to jerk his head up and out of Patrick's hand, but Patrick holds on. When Pete calms down, stops fighting, and Patrick has Pete's face pressed firmly to the carpet fibers again, he finally shifts forward.
Patrick bends down, purses his lips and drools. It's slow and steady and sure and Pete's limbs jerk when it hits his cheek. He tries to suppress the reaction, tries to press himself down into the floor, to hold still.
"That's right," Patrick says, "just take it."
In Pete's fantasies, when someone talks to him like this they always sound like a porn star, stupid and crooning. Patrick just says it, though, matter of fact and smiling, just take it, like he's handing Pete an apple or a birthday card.
It's incendiary. Pete realizes he's twitching, tiny electric shocks under his skin.
"Again?" Patrick asks, still in such a normal voice, shifting his ass over Pete's waist and leaning forward once more. He doesn't wait for a response. This time it's faster, more pressure, closer to Pete's jaw. He can feel it running down under his chin, onto Patrick's hand.
"God, you're a mess," Patrick rasps, and Pete's whole body jerks; he grunts. Patrick presses his fingers in, turning Pete's head, and when Pete opens his eyes there's a smile curling the edges of Patrick's mouth. "You like that," he says, leaning forward. Pete can't move his jaw, can't move his lips right because of the pressure of Patrick's fingers on his cheeks, so when Patrick kisses him it's sloppy.
"Filthy," Patrick whispers, sliding his thumb through the wetness on Pete's cheek, and Pete moans.
28.
"Roll over."
Pete climbs to his hands and knees and hangs his head. He's so exposed, it's all exposed now, and he tenses when Patrick shifts behind him, hard warm hands on his hips and sliding up his back.
Patrick's hands settle on Pete's ass and tug. Pete is panting--desperate, rattling panting, scared and aroused. He's hyper alert, too keyed up to be blissed out, but he can feel the bliss just past the edges of his panic.
"Ready?" Patrick asks, and Pete can't do anything, can't nod, can't speak. Patrick huffs out a sigh that's halfway to amused and the sound is so normal that for a second it's a shock, for a second it's sanity. The spell breaks and Pete sees them both, suddenly--himself (about to get fucked) and Patrick (knowing, Jesus, Patrick knows) and he can't bear it. But then, before Pete can act, Patrick spits.
It's too high, up toward his tailbone, and at first Pete thinks Patrick missed. Then he feels it sliding closer to his asshole, tickling the whole way, almost an itch. Red face pressed to the mattress, Pete holds his breath. Patrick opens him further, thumbs digging in, spreading, and when the spit hits his hole Pete just shakes silently.
"Breathe," Patrick says, reaching one hand up to the hair at Pete's nape, tugging on it lightly. "Come on, Pete, take a breath."
The air in Pete's lungs explodes out and he feels some of the tension leave, although the jitters are still there, creeping under his skin. He gulps a huge breath of air and right as he inhales Patrick spits again. This time it slides much faster, moving over the already wet skin, and Pete cries out. It tickles and his hips shimmy, but Patrick's hands on his ass don't hold him still, just open.
Patrick doesn't fuck him. Instead he holds him open and spits until Pete is fucking back into it, sharp snaps of his hips that make his dick slap against his belly. Pete's lost now, no rational thought left, only electrical impulses making his thighs shake and his cock jerk.
At a certain point he realizes he can't feel what Patrick's doing, even though he can still hear Patrick spitting. He pants at the ground in confusion for a moment before Patrick shifts forward, sliding his hand around Pete's hip to wrap tight around his cock. The hand is sloppy with spit, Pete looks down and sees it running out between Patrick's fingers at the same moment he feels Patrick's cock, hard in his pants, press into the back of his thigh. Patrick leans forward, presses his cheek to Pete's shoulder. "Next time," he says, and his voice is uneven, "next time you're going to tell me all about it, Pete." Pete shakes his head, pushing himself through Patrick's grip harder, and Patrick bites his shoulder, rocking his hips with Pete's. "Yeah," he breathes, "you're gonna tell me everything."
Pete watches the head of his cock poke through Patrick's fist, wet and red, and comes with his stomach clenching, twitching like a seizure, Patrick chuckling into his back.
the end.
AN: This story just about killed me, and probably would have if it wasn't for icedmaple who read it and told me it was decent and also held my hand while I rewrote the same orgasm 12 13 times. <3
Author: heyginger
Prompt: Pete/Patrick, being spit on
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3500-ish
Summary: Pete never tells anyone, no one, never.
To be one's self is to slay one's self.
14.
There's this kid, Christian, he's one of the kids who's fucked in the head for real, more than Pete is, and he sleeps in the bunk bed across from Pete's, washes dishes while Pete dries, runs at Pete's shoulder when they do laps around the track. In the yard after dinners Christian bounces the basketball off of kids' heads, tackles boys, knees them in the stomach, spits on them. Pete sits under a tree, pretending to read City of Light, City of Dark, and watches.
On Pete's sixth night at boot camp, he wakes up because he's sweltering. Pushing the blanket down helps, even though the sheets still stick to his side and back. He flips his pillow to the cool side and rolls over and that's when his eyes meet Christian's. Christian's tongue is poking out between his teeth, and in his peripheral vision, Pete can see his hand moving under the sheet. He doesn't have to turn his head to know what he's doing.
Pete closes his eyes and tucks his chin down; he's going to go back to sleep, he is. But then he hears Christian laugh, quietly, once, and his eyes snap back open. Christian is looking at the ceiling now, smirking like it was a fucking dare. Like Pete failed.
For a moment, Pete doesn't do anything, just holds his breath and watches.
He should roll over and go back to sleep.
Instead, he shifts his legs carefully and the sheets rustle. It's silent for a moment, and then he moves again, picks up his shoulders and resettles them with a soft thump. Christian turns his head, making eye contact again, still smirking.
Pete smirks back.
He keeps his breathing even when he slides his hand between his legs, and he squeezes as steadily as he can manage. Just before he comes, when he can feel his lip start to curl, he tucks his head back into the shadow cast by the bunk above him.
The next afternoon, Christian trips him on the soccer field. He straddles Pete's waist and holds his arms down just long enough to spit-and-suck, letting his drool hang inches from Pete's cheek before slurping it back up again. He calls Pete a faggot, casually, while the other boys laugh, and knees him in the gut when he scrambles off. Pete doubles over and tries to get his air back.
Two days later, his mom comes to pick him up. She kisses his temple, his forehead, hugs him. In the parking lot, he throws his duffel into the back of her silver Infiniti, then opens the passenger door and looks up. Christian's standing at the side of the administration building, watching. When he sees Pete looking back, he flips him off. Pete gets in the car and closes the door, and through the window he sees Christian spit on the dirt and walk away.
---
In his head, Pete is unflinchingly honest. He collects self-truths like bugs--grotesque, chitinous things. He unfurls their wings, pins them down, studies them until the line between ugliness and beauty blurs.
He keeps them.
20.
Pete has two shots of cheap tequila, and it's rough. It burns all the way down his throat and into his belly and he waves away the lime. He looks around, and it's college kids everywhere, girls in black pants and tight tops and guys in white baseball caps.
He never picks up girls in bars like this; there would be no point.
Tonight the guy's name is Austin or Dallas or some other Texas city and he's very, very drunk. Pete thinks he's probably in a frat; he probably plays intramural Frisbee and fucks his girlfriend in her twin extra long dorm bed; he probably doesn't, in his right mind, in his sober mind, even know what he wants. He probably doesn't know that he's watching the gap between Pete's waistband and Pete's ass when Pete bends over the bar to hail the bartender, but Pete knows.
Pete has sympathy for bottled shame, he wants to touch every dark, raw thought this kid has made himself swallow, and so his hand is gentle when he catches the guy's wrist.
Out back, Pete tugs him onto the sidewalk and down a staircase to the unlit front stoop of a basement shoe-repair shop. The brick is cold against Pete's back and the air smells like wet leaves, and if Pete isn't hard, the frat boy is enough so for both of them, riding Pete's thigh, panting into his temple, drunken clumsy and groping.
When the condom is on and Pete is braced hands first on the the brick wall, Pete finally gets what he wants, what he came for. His arms are shaking and his bangs are in his eyes. "Fuck--use spit," he says, looking down his own body, watching his dick get hard. "I-I like it rough." It's a lie, it's Pete's usual lie, though the frat boy is too drunk and horny to need it, maybe too far gone to even hear it.
Pete closes his eyes and strains to hear him spit over the sounds of traffic above them. He definitely feels it, cooling quickly on his skin before the guy's dick skids over him, spreading it around. He bites his lip against the pain, but it's worth it for the wetness, for the knowledge. Frat boy is barely together enough to thrust, way too far gone to catch a rhythm, staccato clumsy jerks and open-mouthed grunts against Pete's neck. Pete wraps his hand around his own dick and concentrates on the slickness behind his balls.
When the frat boy drools on his shoulder he shoots on the brick wall.
---
It becomes one of a catalog of things he has told Patrick in tiny jigsaw puzzle pieces, but these specific pieces are buried in a box with the wrong picture on the cover and he can't tell if Patrick has put them together.
23.
Pete runs and Patrick finds him, although it's more that Patrick follows him, five yards behind, pushing past a few gawkers. The van is parked a block away in front of two expired meters, but the doors are locked, so Pete just stops there, looking in the tinted window, and listens as Patrick catches up to him.
"Go away, Patrick," he says, voice wet and nasal.
"Jesus," Patrick says. "Christ." He's hanging back somewhere over Pete's right shoulder. "Your nose broken?"
Pete shakes his head and he has to work to stop shaking it, has to work to keep his skin still because his insides are shivering, eyes shaking in his head, blood vibrating.
"Good," Patrick says, "stupid fucker," and Pete knows he means the douche bag who shoved Pete, punched him. Spit on him.
Pete's still hard in his jeans.
Patrick steps forward, two steps, and Pete presses his palms to the van's door panel. His fingers stay still and that's how knows he's okay to turn around, steady enough to look at Patrick. Patrick's eyes are big and solemn, and Pete presses his shoulder blades to the van where his hands had been and crosses his arms over his chest, scraping his bitten-down thumbnails over his own collarbone.
There are high, red blotches on Patrick's cheeks, probably from the damp, chilly air. His eyes are rapt on Pete's face.
"Jesus Christ, Pete," he says, and his voice is shaky. From the chill, Pete thinks, high and reedy even in his own head. It's chilly.
It was dark, in front of the club. Patrick didn't see anything. *Anything*.
Patrick studies Pete's swollen cheek, the blood smeared high on his upper lip. Pete clenches his teeth. "I'm fine," he tries.
"You've got--" Patrick makes an abortive gesture toward Pete's neck. "You--" He takes one careful step and swipes his hand below Pete's ear. His fingers are three points of ice on Pete's neck, and when he pulls them away, they're shiny. "Spit."
Pete closes his eyes because he has to, because it's his last line of defense.
"Hey," Patrick breathes, tentative, maybe exhilarated. "You sure you're okay?" He reaches out and wraps his fingers around Pete's wrist and his skin is damp over Pete's pulse point. Pete bites his lip, but he's afraid the sound makes it out anyway.
Patrick shifts even closer, so that Pete's hand is trapped between their bodies, Patrick's fingers still snug over his wrist bone. "Pete--" he says, and Pete shakes his head no, but before Patrick can continue, the van doors unlock under Pete's back and they both jump. Andy and Joe are two car-lengths away, carrying the last of their shit and the keys. Patrick bites his lip and looks back at Pete. He smiles a little and squeezes Pete's wrist, hard, before he pulls away, and Pete can't do anything but pant, can't do anything but climb in the van, limbs jerky and slow, can't do anything but curl up in the corner. Can't do anything but not look and not look and not look at Patrick.
---
He doesn't think about it too much when he's fucking, not too much, just a little, when it creeps in.
When he's jerking off, he tries to think about threesomes, about lesbians or Jessica Biel or handjobs in public places. It's always on the edges, though, inescapable, sharp and hot, waiting for him to close his eyes. Sometimes Patrick is there, too.
24.
Andy and Joe are in the front of the van playing some modified version of Circle of Death with a deck of NASCAR cards. 7's are Truth Or Dare and 2's are I Never and Pete lost track of the rest somewhere around New Buffalo. He's got headphones on but it's mostly for privacy; his playlist ended 20 minutes ago. Patrick is dozing on the opposite side of the bench, head lolling against the window.
Pete pops out an earbud when the conversation turns to kinky sex; whipped cream is not really kinky and he feels that it's his duty to back Andy up about that.
Five minutes later and the conversation is still going, mostly due to Joe, who's saying, "I can't imagine letting someone piss on me."
Pete snorts. "I've pissed on you, dude."
"Yeah, and it didn't turn me on."
"Well, that's good to know," Pete says, getting ready to start the music again, but then Andy's looking thoughtful, saying, "It might be interesting."
Joe wrinkles his nose. "That's totally your fetish, isn't it? You're all into golden showers."
Andy just rolls his eyes and says, "Nope. Diapers."
Joe starts laughing, almost the squeaky giggle they tease him about. Pete bites his lip, calculating.
"I kind of want to fuck a dog," Pete says, keeping his eyes on the tiny screen of his iPod.
Andy purses his lips against a smile and nods wisely. "I've always suspected you had some kind of traumatic formative psychosexual experience with your Pound Puppies," he says.
Joe giggles. "I thought maybe Teddy Ruxpin."
"No, really," Pete insists. "I want to put my dick in a real female dog. Maybe a German Shepherd." He loses the battle and laughter makes his next words shaky. "A pretty one."
Andy laughs and Joe starts choking on his Mountain Dew, shoulders shaking.
"Pete, dude," Andy says, reproving through the laughter, "you're gonna make Joe choke to death. Or spit soda all over me." He reaches over to thump Joe on the back soundly.
Without looking up, Pete can tell that Patrick's awake, watching him. Joe is giggling now, kind of coughing, and Pete smirks because he knows how to play to a crowd. Then he meets Patrick's eyes, and Patrick isn't laughing. Patrick's gaze is serious, deliberate. For a moment, Pete's mind is blank; he just meets Patrick's stare. Then, like the van hit a speed bump, everything in Pete's brain bounces and tumbles and lands different, clicks into place, and he thinks Patrick knows.
Pete's heart starts beating so hard he's sure it's jerking his shoulders in rhythm. It's the craziest fight or flight response he's ever had, a tsunami of adrenaline, like someone has reached inside him and yanked all the air out of his lungs and then kept yanking, wrenching his chest inside out, exposed, control gone.
He sits perfectly still, doesn't let himself inhale because he knows it will be a wet, shaky gasp. Patrick says nothing, eyes assessing.
Right as Pete's lungs start screaming, Patrick rolls his forehead back onto the window pane and closes his eyes.
Joe and Andy are talking about handcuffs in the front seat, have moved on, and some asshole honks at them and passes on the right.
Pete curls forward as casually as he can. He brings his hands to his mouth and sucks air desperately between his fingers.
---
Patrick doesn't mention it in Detroit and doesn't mention it in Toledo. His eyes are normal again--not knowing, not heavy.
After 11 days on pins and needles Pete convinces himself that Patrick doesn't know anything, never knew, it was a fluke, and he breathes and breathes until he's dizzy and finally sleeps.
26.
Pete never tells anyone, no one, never. He's never said the words and he can't imagine saying it, asking for it. Just the thought makes him tremble, flush, sick. Sometimes, lying in the dark, watching Jeanae sleep, he thinks about telling her. He practices in his head, "I want you to spit on me." But no, that's wrong, too easy, too plain. Not honest enough. "I want to be naked and I want you to spit on me. On my cock. On my...". Face, face face face his brain finishes, but it's a whisper even in his fantasy, he can't imagine saying it.
Face, he thinks, looking at Jeanae, on her stomach next to him. He edges one shaky hand under the back of her wife beater and her eyebrows twitch in her sleep.
Do it, please, on me.
She'd do it, he knows, probably even like it. He flattens his hand against the small of her back and feels her breathe.
He'll never ask her. Even the thought has him trembling and breathing quick, heat sliding down from his sick bitter stomach, halfway between hard and throwing up.
28.
Jeanae is gone and back and gone again, and when he's sure it's for real and for good, Pete asks Patrick to collect Hemingway in Chicago and bring him out to LA.
Patrick lets Pete lie on the couch watching Dog the Bounty Hunter for two days before he starts kicking Pete's ass, sympathy for this particular break-up exhausted long ago.
He bitches at Pete to clean up the dog shit in the laundry room and he bitches at Pete for leaving his dirty socks on the couch and when he bitches at Pete to do the damn dishes already, Pete gets up from the couch and goes into his kitchen and takes every dish out of every cupboard. He spreads them over every available inch of counter, and then he goes to the fridge and gets the Nesquik syrup and the mustard and starts systematically squirting them over each plate, glass, and spoon.
Patrick leans against the pocket door and watches, lips a tight line.
After that, for a week, they're fighting all the time, everywhere. Yelling in the studio, quiet hard words on the phone, bitchy smirks in the living room and in the bedroom and in the foyer until Wednesday when Patrick smiles coldly at Pete from across the kitchen and says, "So is this the part where I spit on you and call you a dirty whore?"
It's wrong, it's all wrong, but it's hot, too, excitement shaky and sick in Pete's stomach.
When Patrick leaves the room, Pete slides to the floor and shakes.
28.
Patrick grabs him by the jaw and turns his head until his cheek is against the carpet, holding him there, thumb up over Pete's chin. It's terrifying and exhilarating and Pete squeezes his eyes closed and breathes heavily through his nose. Patrick doesn't do anything, doesn't say anything, and as the silence grows Pete's panic expands until his heart is beating so hard that it hurts his chest. He finally opens his eyes and sees Patrick watching him and he can't do this. He has to rear back, trying to jerk his head up and out of Patrick's hand, but Patrick holds on. When Pete calms down, stops fighting, and Patrick has Pete's face pressed firmly to the carpet fibers again, he finally shifts forward.
Patrick bends down, purses his lips and drools. It's slow and steady and sure and Pete's limbs jerk when it hits his cheek. He tries to suppress the reaction, tries to press himself down into the floor, to hold still.
"That's right," Patrick says, "just take it."
In Pete's fantasies, when someone talks to him like this they always sound like a porn star, stupid and crooning. Patrick just says it, though, matter of fact and smiling, just take it, like he's handing Pete an apple or a birthday card.
It's incendiary. Pete realizes he's twitching, tiny electric shocks under his skin.
"Again?" Patrick asks, still in such a normal voice, shifting his ass over Pete's waist and leaning forward once more. He doesn't wait for a response. This time it's faster, more pressure, closer to Pete's jaw. He can feel it running down under his chin, onto Patrick's hand.
"God, you're a mess," Patrick rasps, and Pete's whole body jerks; he grunts. Patrick presses his fingers in, turning Pete's head, and when Pete opens his eyes there's a smile curling the edges of Patrick's mouth. "You like that," he says, leaning forward. Pete can't move his jaw, can't move his lips right because of the pressure of Patrick's fingers on his cheeks, so when Patrick kisses him it's sloppy.
"Filthy," Patrick whispers, sliding his thumb through the wetness on Pete's cheek, and Pete moans.
28.
"Roll over."
Pete climbs to his hands and knees and hangs his head. He's so exposed, it's all exposed now, and he tenses when Patrick shifts behind him, hard warm hands on his hips and sliding up his back.
Patrick's hands settle on Pete's ass and tug. Pete is panting--desperate, rattling panting, scared and aroused. He's hyper alert, too keyed up to be blissed out, but he can feel the bliss just past the edges of his panic.
"Ready?" Patrick asks, and Pete can't do anything, can't nod, can't speak. Patrick huffs out a sigh that's halfway to amused and the sound is so normal that for a second it's a shock, for a second it's sanity. The spell breaks and Pete sees them both, suddenly--himself (about to get fucked) and Patrick (knowing, Jesus, Patrick knows) and he can't bear it. But then, before Pete can act, Patrick spits.
It's too high, up toward his tailbone, and at first Pete thinks Patrick missed. Then he feels it sliding closer to his asshole, tickling the whole way, almost an itch. Red face pressed to the mattress, Pete holds his breath. Patrick opens him further, thumbs digging in, spreading, and when the spit hits his hole Pete just shakes silently.
"Breathe," Patrick says, reaching one hand up to the hair at Pete's nape, tugging on it lightly. "Come on, Pete, take a breath."
The air in Pete's lungs explodes out and he feels some of the tension leave, although the jitters are still there, creeping under his skin. He gulps a huge breath of air and right as he inhales Patrick spits again. This time it slides much faster, moving over the already wet skin, and Pete cries out. It tickles and his hips shimmy, but Patrick's hands on his ass don't hold him still, just open.
Patrick doesn't fuck him. Instead he holds him open and spits until Pete is fucking back into it, sharp snaps of his hips that make his dick slap against his belly. Pete's lost now, no rational thought left, only electrical impulses making his thighs shake and his cock jerk.
At a certain point he realizes he can't feel what Patrick's doing, even though he can still hear Patrick spitting. He pants at the ground in confusion for a moment before Patrick shifts forward, sliding his hand around Pete's hip to wrap tight around his cock. The hand is sloppy with spit, Pete looks down and sees it running out between Patrick's fingers at the same moment he feels Patrick's cock, hard in his pants, press into the back of his thigh. Patrick leans forward, presses his cheek to Pete's shoulder. "Next time," he says, and his voice is uneven, "next time you're going to tell me all about it, Pete." Pete shakes his head, pushing himself through Patrick's grip harder, and Patrick bites his shoulder, rocking his hips with Pete's. "Yeah," he breathes, "you're gonna tell me everything."
Pete watches the head of his cock poke through Patrick's fist, wet and red, and comes with his stomach clenching, twitching like a seizure, Patrick chuckling into his back.
the end.
AN: This story just about killed me, and probably would have if it wasn't for icedmaple who read it and told me it was decent and also held my hand while I rewrote the same orgasm 12 13 times. <3