Fic: Nightwatch, Bandslash (RPS), adult, non-gen.
Title: Nightwatch
Author:jamjar
Fandom: Bandslash (RPS). Fall Out Boy/Gym Class Heroes
Person ultimately responsible: Ficbyzee. She said things and she wrote things and she posted pictures and music and then she beta-read.
Notes: Fair warning, this is RPS, Patrick/Travis+Pete, with sexual content so avoid if that's not your cup of tea.
Disclaimer: Utterly fictional.
Pete approves of Patrick getting laid, for reasons that are not entirely altruistic. Patrick doesn't do the decent thing and share explicit details with helpful pictures and/or diagrams, like some of Pete's friends, but he is generally happier. Less inclined to temper, more likely to tolerate random physical affection. It's all good, really. And Pete likes Travis, too, doesn't spend nearly enough time with him. Travis is there, Patrick's there, Pete's there.
Random disappearances into the back of the bus or a hotel room aside, it's less like Patrick having someone, and more like Pete having one of his guys from another band hanging around. Someone to talk shit with, bitch about early morning interviews and late night flights, someone that's got a sufficiently twisted sense of humour to make the grade. If it wasn't for the bit where Travis and Patrick are plainly fucking (and this with the qualifier that Travis tends to give the impression that he's fucking just about anyone he spends more than ten minutes with, and Patrick's a little more reserved), Pete would just think of Travis as his friend, his guy on tour with them.
Which is better than good, really --it royally sucks when your friends date lousy people-- since it means Pete gets to have relaxed, happy Patrick, and someone he likes to hang with too.
That's pretty much it, occasional jerking-off random speculative fantasies aside.
Speculative, because as well as failing to provide details more explicit than, "he stayed at mine last night", Patrick also tends to avoid the making-out in public that give the rest of the world something nice to look at. Patrick isn't generous that way.
Off stage, on the bus or at the hotel, they're affectionate, arms across the shoulder and leaning in, but nothing spectacular. Right now, they're sitting next to each other on the couch in the hotel suite, and Travis has his arm across the back of the couch. Patrick's sitting next to him, but if you didn't know Patrick, you wouldn't know he was hooking up with Travis. And if you knew *Travis*, you'd assume he was just being himself, no extra meaning attached.
There's always something to watch on the tour, Amazon.com DVDs being both a blessing and a curse, but they always default back to the same couple dozen movies and shows, the ones no-one really objects to watching. Dragged along on every tour, going from bus to hotel to plane and back again.
Three Amigos, My Life As A Dog, Buffy Seasons 1 to 3, Green Wing--
nothing that, by this point, requires too much attention, but provides the perfect whitenoise to block out the endless sounds of the road. Tonight it's Three Amigos, which they can recite, word perfect, off by heart.
Joe and Andy disappear round about the time Dusty shot the invisible swordsman, leaving Pete enough space to lie down, fall asleep somewhere a little more human than his room in the hotel suite.
He's not actually sleeping as such, but not specifically awake, either. At that point where you're not quite sure if you did watch the movie, or if you're just remembering that bit from the last time you saw it, but he's pretty sure he stirs when Lucky tries to get the lever for his chains, because when he looks over, he sees Patrick and Travis more sprawled across each other than they were when he last looked.
Nothing more than they'd do on stage, really, but they're talking low, probably to keep from waking him up. Heads together, ignoring Lucky's desperate attempts at escape.
Pete's not looking, not really. He's just checking. Travis is a good guy and Patrick isn't a kid, but. But. There are a lot of ways something can be not-good, without it actually being specifically bad, and Pete knows most of them by heart. If anyone should benefit from his mistakes, it's Patrick.
When Patrick shifts slightly, pulling Travis down just a little, pulling himself up, kissing Travis, Pete's not watching, just watching out for him.
Seriously, if he was planning on getting off on this, he'd be calling out suggestions instead of keeping still, watching them make out, Travis pulling Patrick over a little. Lazy, slow kisses, Travis's hands on Patrick's waist. Pete would've told him to move them, Patrick being overly conscious about his stomach, but he's not watching them for that, to offer advice. He's just waiting to see if Travis knows this, if he's ignorant of it or ignoring it or whatever.
Travis leans back on the couch, taking Patrick with him, and Pete can only see one hand, holding on to Patrick's hip. Patrick says something that could be laughing, too low for Pete to hear clearly. He's got one hand braced on one side of the couch, one on the back. Holding himself up a little.
Travis's hand spreads wide, half disappears under Patrick's shirt. He says something, then leans up to kiss Patrick. Lazy, still, but Pete can recognise intent, just as easily as he can recognise convince-me in Patrick. He's not surprised when Patrick's legs spread out, just a little more. His own body tries to imitate it, that little roll of motion, but he stops himself. Doesn't want to disturb them, doesn't want to let Patrick get embarrassed about this.
Travis is a big guy, which isn't something Pete was ever oblivious of, not the sort of thing he can hide, but he never really took it in to account either. It wasn't a thing. Now, though, there's a difference in perspective. Pete's used to thinking of Patrick as solid, something to lean against, hold on to. He doesn't always think that Patrick's only average compared to the rest of the band.
They're obviously familiar with each other, Travis's hands on Patrick's hips -his kink, rather than Patrick's- but not holding him still, which Pete knows Patrick hates.
He could unzip his jeans, take his cock out, and the only thing that's stopping him is that Pete's never been the quiet type, he thinks, never been able to manage a discreet jerk-off and then a second later, tries to swallow back the thought. It's too late, he thought it, knows he thought it, watching them together for his own sake, not Patrick's.
It's wrong now, in a way that it wasn't before. He's looking for himself, selfish. Greedy. And now that he knows that, he has to stop, because it's not fair on them, on Patrick, if he doesn't.
He doesn't want to, but he stretches, fakes a sleepy mutter. His eyes are closed and turned away, but he can hear them stop moving.
"Pete?" Patrick says, sounding two seconds away from freaked out.
He stirs a little more, raises his head. "Hmm? Movie over?" He opens his eyes and blinks. "What'd I miss?" And, because he knows exactly what he would say, waking up to this, he lets himself grin at them, Travis's frustration, Patrick's quick internal debate over whether it's worse to be caught like this or to move back and let Pete know that he knows Pete caught them. "Huh. Looks like I missed the porn scene."
Patrick rolls his eyes and sits up, getting off Travis and pushing his feet to one side so he can sit down properly, tugging his T-shirt down.
Travis groans dramatically, then turns more on to his side. "You think that was the porn scene, you must have the tamest porn out there. PG-13 porn. Maybe if you'd given us a little more time..."
"I could pretend to fall asleep?" Pete offers.
"You two could both shut the fuck up," Patrick suggests, quietly muttering in to his T-shirt, before he looks at Pete. "You just woke up?"
"Think so. I wasn't really--" Pete shrugs and lets his head fall back down to the couch, settling in again. "You know me and that whole conscious thing." He turns to look at the screen. "Aw, I missed the raping the horses and riding off on the women. I love that bit."
He keeps his eyes on the screen --Sew, little grandmother! Sew like the wind!-- and gives Patrick the chance to take a few deep breaths, calm down.
"Sorry," Patrick says, suddenly. "I didn't-- we didn't mean to wake you."
"It's nothing," Pete says, looking at the screen. "Probably shouldn't go to sleep on the sofa anyway. Besides, as irresistible as Travis is..." He turns his head to smile at Travis. "You're a bad influence, leading our Patrick astray. One day, it's making out on couches with hot rappers, next it's TVs through hotel windows and a cautionary tale on VH1."
"Oh, fuck you," Patrick says, sounding pissy, normal. "Seriously, feel free to--"
And the thing is, Pete's still hard, and for a moment he thinks about saying something like, "Hey, I will if you will," but it's too close to the truth, so he just flips Patrick off. "Exhibitionist," he says. He meets Travis's eyes, with exaggerated nostalgia. "They grow up so fast."
"You must be proud," Travis says. He moves his legs up so Patrick can sit down more comfortably, then lays them over his lap. Patrick rests one hand on his calf, casual, companionable. Pete wonders if the fact that it seems like a wall or a safety bar or something is just in his head. Something to give a little bit more shelter, and he wonders --doesn't mean to, but he does-- if Patrick is hard.
They wait for the end of the movie, then Patrick yawns and says, "It's late, so--" and pushes Travis's legs off. They hit the floor with a thump, kind of forcing Travis to sit up as well. "We're just gonna get some sleep or something," he says.
Pete laughs. "My grandmother-- okay, bad example, my grandmother was kind of wild. Your grandmother wouldn't believe that."
"Hey, embrace the plausible deniability," Travis says. He stands up, offering Patrick a hand, and Pete's hit again with that weird sense of perspective: that Patrick is actually, short, that Travis is actually tall, and that matters less when you're lying down, but the logistics of it crosses his mind, against a wall, managing in the cramped bunk space on the bus.
"You two go ahead," he says. "I'm gonna watch the movie again, since I missed most of it. With the sound up, even. My gift to you."
He can see Travis bite some automatic remark back, like he was going to say something about vocalists and noise or banging and rhythm, but then stopped, weighed his odds of actually getting some tonight if he said it, and decided that scoring a point off Pete was not worth not-scoring with Patrick.
"We appreciate that," is what he says instead.
Pete waves dismissively. "No problem. You got the remote?"
Patrick finds it on the couch and comes over. Pete is again grateful that he's lying face down, that the cushions are soft and that it's perfectly natural for him not to get up, to just reach out a hand for the remote, the other hand tucked under his head.
The TV gives a weird light, changing too much to let your eyes adjust, and it makes Patrick's skin change colour in it, blueish, then orange, then whiter. Smooth, a blank canvas. The light's behind him, leaving most of him in relative shadows. For a second, Pete's brain almost disconnects --there's Patrick's hand, which he knows as well as he knows his own, shape and ability and the callouses and one note written in ballpoint on the back about needing more soy milk, and it's holding out the remote to him, and he's not quite sure what it means or what he's supposed to do. Patrick looks taller, solid and immoveable as a wall or a mountain, familiar and utterly foreign and Pete blanks on *everything*.
And then he remembers, and it fits back in to place. Remote control, he can hold it, and of course, Patrick can move, he's not a statue, and Pete's hand can move--that's what hands do. He must be more tired than he thought. So he takes the remote and Patrick says, "Try not to leave it running all night," and then he goes, taking Travis with him. Disappearing behind one the doors that lead off the suite's centre to the bedrooms.
Pete gets the DVD playing again, skipping past the first scene, starting with the amigos in Hollywood. Waits for the scene to get going properly, carefully turns on to his side, turns the volume up and closes his eyes. It's not the best camouflage sound, not noisy enough for that, but Pete can be pretty quiet. He unzips his jeans, takes his cock out, closes his eyes and for a moment, contemplates trying one of the regular fantasies, but he knows himself well enough to know that that's not going to work.
Not the first time he's fantasised about Patrick or Travis, but it's different, because it's not-- it's--
It's not about something imaginary, it's about picturing what they're doing right now. Not generic and forgivable and *meaningless*, but more like speculative voyeurism.
And jesus, effective, because he's hard and he's actually having to force himself to drag it out before he realises that no, he should do this quickly and get back to repressing. So he lets himself think about it -that flash of skin when Travis put his hands under Patrick's T-shirt, if they'd have time to actually fuck, or if they'd go for something with less prep, hands, mouths, slow and easy rolls of the body, Patrick more comfortable in the dark bunk, Travis *appreciative*, telling him things, whispering against his mouth, his neck, lower, and--
And that's it, that's all it takes, and Pete's grateful he's wearing a T-shirt so he can catch most of it, even more grateful that he doesn't have to do his own washing. He stays there for a moment, not thinking about anything, looking up at the hotel ceiling. White paint and plaster mouldings.
Not thinking only ever works for a limited time, but he can transition from that to distractions, focus on practicalities until he's ready to deal or repress more permanently. He can't lie here like this. Joe sleeps badly in hotels, might wander in. Patrick might come back, Travis might need to make a late-night drugstore run. Anything.
He gets up quietly, cleans himself off as much as he can. Contemplates dragging his case to his room, but settles for chucking his T-shirt in dirty clothes bag and grabbing a clean one to sleep in. He freezes when he hears a noise from one of the bedrooms, then looks for the remote, turning the volume up a little louder.
He really needs some sleep.
end.
Author:jamjar
Fandom: Bandslash (RPS). Fall Out Boy/Gym Class Heroes
Person ultimately responsible: Ficbyzee. She said things and she wrote things and she posted pictures and music and then she beta-read.
Notes: Fair warning, this is RPS, Patrick/Travis+Pete, with sexual content so avoid if that's not your cup of tea.
Disclaimer: Utterly fictional.
Pete approves of Patrick getting laid, for reasons that are not entirely altruistic. Patrick doesn't do the decent thing and share explicit details with helpful pictures and/or diagrams, like some of Pete's friends, but he is generally happier. Less inclined to temper, more likely to tolerate random physical affection. It's all good, really. And Pete likes Travis, too, doesn't spend nearly enough time with him. Travis is there, Patrick's there, Pete's there.
Random disappearances into the back of the bus or a hotel room aside, it's less like Patrick having someone, and more like Pete having one of his guys from another band hanging around. Someone to talk shit with, bitch about early morning interviews and late night flights, someone that's got a sufficiently twisted sense of humour to make the grade. If it wasn't for the bit where Travis and Patrick are plainly fucking (and this with the qualifier that Travis tends to give the impression that he's fucking just about anyone he spends more than ten minutes with, and Patrick's a little more reserved), Pete would just think of Travis as his friend, his guy on tour with them.
Which is better than good, really --it royally sucks when your friends date lousy people-- since it means Pete gets to have relaxed, happy Patrick, and someone he likes to hang with too.
That's pretty much it, occasional jerking-off random speculative fantasies aside.
Speculative, because as well as failing to provide details more explicit than, "he stayed at mine last night", Patrick also tends to avoid the making-out in public that give the rest of the world something nice to look at. Patrick isn't generous that way.
Off stage, on the bus or at the hotel, they're affectionate, arms across the shoulder and leaning in, but nothing spectacular. Right now, they're sitting next to each other on the couch in the hotel suite, and Travis has his arm across the back of the couch. Patrick's sitting next to him, but if you didn't know Patrick, you wouldn't know he was hooking up with Travis. And if you knew *Travis*, you'd assume he was just being himself, no extra meaning attached.
There's always something to watch on the tour, Amazon.com DVDs being both a blessing and a curse, but they always default back to the same couple dozen movies and shows, the ones no-one really objects to watching. Dragged along on every tour, going from bus to hotel to plane and back again.
Three Amigos, My Life As A Dog, Buffy Seasons 1 to 3, Green Wing--
nothing that, by this point, requires too much attention, but provides the perfect whitenoise to block out the endless sounds of the road. Tonight it's Three Amigos, which they can recite, word perfect, off by heart.
Joe and Andy disappear round about the time Dusty shot the invisible swordsman, leaving Pete enough space to lie down, fall asleep somewhere a little more human than his room in the hotel suite.
He's not actually sleeping as such, but not specifically awake, either. At that point where you're not quite sure if you did watch the movie, or if you're just remembering that bit from the last time you saw it, but he's pretty sure he stirs when Lucky tries to get the lever for his chains, because when he looks over, he sees Patrick and Travis more sprawled across each other than they were when he last looked.
Nothing more than they'd do on stage, really, but they're talking low, probably to keep from waking him up. Heads together, ignoring Lucky's desperate attempts at escape.
Pete's not looking, not really. He's just checking. Travis is a good guy and Patrick isn't a kid, but. But. There are a lot of ways something can be not-good, without it actually being specifically bad, and Pete knows most of them by heart. If anyone should benefit from his mistakes, it's Patrick.
When Patrick shifts slightly, pulling Travis down just a little, pulling himself up, kissing Travis, Pete's not watching, just watching out for him.
Seriously, if he was planning on getting off on this, he'd be calling out suggestions instead of keeping still, watching them make out, Travis pulling Patrick over a little. Lazy, slow kisses, Travis's hands on Patrick's waist. Pete would've told him to move them, Patrick being overly conscious about his stomach, but he's not watching them for that, to offer advice. He's just waiting to see if Travis knows this, if he's ignorant of it or ignoring it or whatever.
Travis leans back on the couch, taking Patrick with him, and Pete can only see one hand, holding on to Patrick's hip. Patrick says something that could be laughing, too low for Pete to hear clearly. He's got one hand braced on one side of the couch, one on the back. Holding himself up a little.
Travis's hand spreads wide, half disappears under Patrick's shirt. He says something, then leans up to kiss Patrick. Lazy, still, but Pete can recognise intent, just as easily as he can recognise convince-me in Patrick. He's not surprised when Patrick's legs spread out, just a little more. His own body tries to imitate it, that little roll of motion, but he stops himself. Doesn't want to disturb them, doesn't want to let Patrick get embarrassed about this.
Travis is a big guy, which isn't something Pete was ever oblivious of, not the sort of thing he can hide, but he never really took it in to account either. It wasn't a thing. Now, though, there's a difference in perspective. Pete's used to thinking of Patrick as solid, something to lean against, hold on to. He doesn't always think that Patrick's only average compared to the rest of the band.
They're obviously familiar with each other, Travis's hands on Patrick's hips -his kink, rather than Patrick's- but not holding him still, which Pete knows Patrick hates.
He could unzip his jeans, take his cock out, and the only thing that's stopping him is that Pete's never been the quiet type, he thinks, never been able to manage a discreet jerk-off and then a second later, tries to swallow back the thought. It's too late, he thought it, knows he thought it, watching them together for his own sake, not Patrick's.
It's wrong now, in a way that it wasn't before. He's looking for himself, selfish. Greedy. And now that he knows that, he has to stop, because it's not fair on them, on Patrick, if he doesn't.
He doesn't want to, but he stretches, fakes a sleepy mutter. His eyes are closed and turned away, but he can hear them stop moving.
"Pete?" Patrick says, sounding two seconds away from freaked out.
He stirs a little more, raises his head. "Hmm? Movie over?" He opens his eyes and blinks. "What'd I miss?" And, because he knows exactly what he would say, waking up to this, he lets himself grin at them, Travis's frustration, Patrick's quick internal debate over whether it's worse to be caught like this or to move back and let Pete know that he knows Pete caught them. "Huh. Looks like I missed the porn scene."
Patrick rolls his eyes and sits up, getting off Travis and pushing his feet to one side so he can sit down properly, tugging his T-shirt down.
Travis groans dramatically, then turns more on to his side. "You think that was the porn scene, you must have the tamest porn out there. PG-13 porn. Maybe if you'd given us a little more time..."
"I could pretend to fall asleep?" Pete offers.
"You two could both shut the fuck up," Patrick suggests, quietly muttering in to his T-shirt, before he looks at Pete. "You just woke up?"
"Think so. I wasn't really--" Pete shrugs and lets his head fall back down to the couch, settling in again. "You know me and that whole conscious thing." He turns to look at the screen. "Aw, I missed the raping the horses and riding off on the women. I love that bit."
He keeps his eyes on the screen --Sew, little grandmother! Sew like the wind!-- and gives Patrick the chance to take a few deep breaths, calm down.
"Sorry," Patrick says, suddenly. "I didn't-- we didn't mean to wake you."
"It's nothing," Pete says, looking at the screen. "Probably shouldn't go to sleep on the sofa anyway. Besides, as irresistible as Travis is..." He turns his head to smile at Travis. "You're a bad influence, leading our Patrick astray. One day, it's making out on couches with hot rappers, next it's TVs through hotel windows and a cautionary tale on VH1."
"Oh, fuck you," Patrick says, sounding pissy, normal. "Seriously, feel free to--"
And the thing is, Pete's still hard, and for a moment he thinks about saying something like, "Hey, I will if you will," but it's too close to the truth, so he just flips Patrick off. "Exhibitionist," he says. He meets Travis's eyes, with exaggerated nostalgia. "They grow up so fast."
"You must be proud," Travis says. He moves his legs up so Patrick can sit down more comfortably, then lays them over his lap. Patrick rests one hand on his calf, casual, companionable. Pete wonders if the fact that it seems like a wall or a safety bar or something is just in his head. Something to give a little bit more shelter, and he wonders --doesn't mean to, but he does-- if Patrick is hard.
They wait for the end of the movie, then Patrick yawns and says, "It's late, so--" and pushes Travis's legs off. They hit the floor with a thump, kind of forcing Travis to sit up as well. "We're just gonna get some sleep or something," he says.
Pete laughs. "My grandmother-- okay, bad example, my grandmother was kind of wild. Your grandmother wouldn't believe that."
"Hey, embrace the plausible deniability," Travis says. He stands up, offering Patrick a hand, and Pete's hit again with that weird sense of perspective: that Patrick is actually, short, that Travis is actually tall, and that matters less when you're lying down, but the logistics of it crosses his mind, against a wall, managing in the cramped bunk space on the bus.
"You two go ahead," he says. "I'm gonna watch the movie again, since I missed most of it. With the sound up, even. My gift to you."
He can see Travis bite some automatic remark back, like he was going to say something about vocalists and noise or banging and rhythm, but then stopped, weighed his odds of actually getting some tonight if he said it, and decided that scoring a point off Pete was not worth not-scoring with Patrick.
"We appreciate that," is what he says instead.
Pete waves dismissively. "No problem. You got the remote?"
Patrick finds it on the couch and comes over. Pete is again grateful that he's lying face down, that the cushions are soft and that it's perfectly natural for him not to get up, to just reach out a hand for the remote, the other hand tucked under his head.
The TV gives a weird light, changing too much to let your eyes adjust, and it makes Patrick's skin change colour in it, blueish, then orange, then whiter. Smooth, a blank canvas. The light's behind him, leaving most of him in relative shadows. For a second, Pete's brain almost disconnects --there's Patrick's hand, which he knows as well as he knows his own, shape and ability and the callouses and one note written in ballpoint on the back about needing more soy milk, and it's holding out the remote to him, and he's not quite sure what it means or what he's supposed to do. Patrick looks taller, solid and immoveable as a wall or a mountain, familiar and utterly foreign and Pete blanks on *everything*.
And then he remembers, and it fits back in to place. Remote control, he can hold it, and of course, Patrick can move, he's not a statue, and Pete's hand can move--that's what hands do. He must be more tired than he thought. So he takes the remote and Patrick says, "Try not to leave it running all night," and then he goes, taking Travis with him. Disappearing behind one the doors that lead off the suite's centre to the bedrooms.
Pete gets the DVD playing again, skipping past the first scene, starting with the amigos in Hollywood. Waits for the scene to get going properly, carefully turns on to his side, turns the volume up and closes his eyes. It's not the best camouflage sound, not noisy enough for that, but Pete can be pretty quiet. He unzips his jeans, takes his cock out, closes his eyes and for a moment, contemplates trying one of the regular fantasies, but he knows himself well enough to know that that's not going to work.
Not the first time he's fantasised about Patrick or Travis, but it's different, because it's not-- it's--
It's not about something imaginary, it's about picturing what they're doing right now. Not generic and forgivable and *meaningless*, but more like speculative voyeurism.
And jesus, effective, because he's hard and he's actually having to force himself to drag it out before he realises that no, he should do this quickly and get back to repressing. So he lets himself think about it -that flash of skin when Travis put his hands under Patrick's T-shirt, if they'd have time to actually fuck, or if they'd go for something with less prep, hands, mouths, slow and easy rolls of the body, Patrick more comfortable in the dark bunk, Travis *appreciative*, telling him things, whispering against his mouth, his neck, lower, and--
And that's it, that's all it takes, and Pete's grateful he's wearing a T-shirt so he can catch most of it, even more grateful that he doesn't have to do his own washing. He stays there for a moment, not thinking about anything, looking up at the hotel ceiling. White paint and plaster mouldings.
Not thinking only ever works for a limited time, but he can transition from that to distractions, focus on practicalities until he's ready to deal or repress more permanently. He can't lie here like this. Joe sleeps badly in hotels, might wander in. Patrick might come back, Travis might need to make a late-night drugstore run. Anything.
He gets up quietly, cleans himself off as much as he can. Contemplates dragging his case to his room, but settles for chucking his T-shirt in dirty clothes bag and grabbing a clean one to sleep in. He freezes when he hears a noise from one of the bedrooms, then looks for the remote, turning the volume up a little louder.
He really needs some sleep.
end.