Pete/Patrick, QuestionfemmequixoticApril 28 2007, 02:46:01 UTC
There were moments when Patrick wasn't quite certain how all this had happened. Ten years ago, he'd been a kid with a set of drums in his basement and a hand-me-down guitar from his dad. Now he was standing on stage, a $2,000 Gibson in hand, and an entire fucking stadium was singing along with him and nothing, absolutely nothing had ever been better than this very moment.
Until he looked across the stage, and saw Pete, on his back, hips lifted up, his bass clutched in both his hands, an image flashed through his mind of Pete in a position almost exactly like that a few hours ago on the floor of their hotel bathroom, Patrick leaning over him, Pete’s thighs tight around his hips.
Jesus, fuck.
Okay. So that moment might have been better.
Slightly.
And then Pete grinned at him, a lazy, bright flash of teeth, and Patrick flushed but he didn’t look away, and when Pete moved closer, pressing against Patrick’s side, his mouth brushing Patrick’s throat as he whispered feel up to it again tonight?, Patrick nearly stumbled over the words to Hum Hallelujah.
Twice.
They hadn’t meant to fall into this. It’d been a complete accident, but things often were with Pete.
You got used to it after a while.
Pete had kissed him that first night four months ago, in the back booth of a Waffle House in off I-85 in Georgia, Joe had just shrugged and reached for the uneaten toast off Pete’s plate, and Andy had said, about time over the rim of his Mountain Dew.
And when Pete had crawled into his bunk on the bus later that night, after he and Joe had finished watching Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome for the fourth time this week, and had said, head bent, peering at him through his bangs, hey, can I? for the first time ever-he usually just threw himself across Patrick’s mattress like he owned it-Patrick had breathed out slowly and said, yeah, okay.
They hadn’t slept alone since.
Patrick never wanted to again.
Pete’s arm slid around his waist, pulling him back against him, and Patrick let him rest his chin on his shoulder, the bass digging into his hip as he sang.
Love me? Pete murmured into Patrick’s ear, and Patrick’s breath caught, lyrics forgotten. He didn’t need to answer, just looked at Pete with wide, shocked eyes, because damn it how could he just say that like that, here, of all goddamn places, and Pete turned his head, brushing his mouth over Patrick’s cheek.
And this, Patrick thought, this was maybe the best moment, the two of them lost in the music, questions asked and questions answered and questions yet to come.
Until he looked across the stage, and saw Pete, on his back, hips lifted up, his bass clutched in both his hands, an image flashed through his mind of Pete in a position almost exactly like that a few hours ago on the floor of their hotel bathroom, Patrick leaning over him, Pete’s thighs tight around his hips.
Jesus, fuck.
Okay. So that moment might have been better.
Slightly.
And then Pete grinned at him, a lazy, bright flash of teeth, and Patrick flushed but he didn’t look away, and when Pete moved closer, pressing against Patrick’s side, his mouth brushing Patrick’s throat as he whispered feel up to it again tonight?, Patrick nearly stumbled over the words to Hum Hallelujah.
Twice.
They hadn’t meant to fall into this. It’d been a complete accident, but things often were with Pete.
You got used to it after a while.
Pete had kissed him that first night four months ago, in the back booth of a Waffle House in off I-85 in Georgia, Joe had just shrugged and reached for the uneaten toast off Pete’s plate, and Andy had said, about time over the rim of his Mountain Dew.
And when Pete had crawled into his bunk on the bus later that night, after he and Joe had finished watching Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome for the fourth time this week, and had said, head bent, peering at him through his bangs, hey, can I? for the first time ever-he usually just threw himself across Patrick’s mattress like he owned it-Patrick had breathed out slowly and said, yeah, okay.
They hadn’t slept alone since.
Patrick never wanted to again.
Pete’s arm slid around his waist, pulling him back against him, and Patrick let him rest his chin on his shoulder, the bass digging into his hip as he sang.
Love me? Pete murmured into Patrick’s ear, and Patrick’s breath caught, lyrics forgotten. He didn’t need to answer, just looked at Pete with wide, shocked eyes, because damn it how could he just say that like that, here, of all goddamn places, and Pete turned his head, brushing his mouth over Patrick’s cheek.
And this, Patrick thought, this was maybe the best moment, the two of them lost in the music, questions asked and questions answered and questions yet to come.
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