(no subject)
The summer passes in a rush of shows and noise and colors. Patrick finds his place on stage and loves it, revels in the way his guitar feels and his voice sounds. They may only be the opener, but there's kids in the front row that scream for them and sing the words to a few of their songs.
Pete slides up to him on the last night of tour, bass half out of tune from being dropped, and leans in against him. He's heavy enough that Patrick stumbles, mouth bumping against his microphone. There's a moment when Patrick thinks he's going down, legs almost giving out when he feels Pete's lips brush his throat.
A few kids cheer. Patrick laughs, breathless at the end of a verse, and feels like he's on top of the world. This is his life and these are his people.
After the show, Tony gives him a Miller Light. Patrick has to hide it away from the security guard, the x on the back of his dark and bold, but it tastes like victory when he finally sucks down his first drink. (He coughs a little when Jeremiah slaps him on the back, unaware of how small Patrick is next to his bulk. All three bands laugh at him. Patrick doesn't even care.)
"You're a rock star," Pete says. He's got a bottle of Sprite in one hand, too full of chemicals to drink anything even like alcohol.
"Maybe," Patrick says.
He spends the night tacked to Pete's side, one hand on his beer, the other in Pete's, watching him schmooze and woo fans. He signs seven autographs and one pair of shapely tits, and calls Martin from the bathroom right before they get kicked out.
"I think this is going somewhere," Patrick shouts into the receiver. He's two hours behind Chicago, and it's already one o'clock here.
"Good luck," Martin mumbles. He sounds sleep thick but proud. "See you tomorrow, rock star."
"Tomorrow," Patrick repeats.
This is only the beginning.
---
Pete kisses him long and hard and messy when they drop Patrick off at his house. It's almost midnight, a long drive made longer by their unwillingness to admit that everything is over. Patrick hangs on to Pete's hoodie until Joe starts making rude comments from the front seat.
“Fuck off, Trohman,” Pete says cheerfully, pressing one last kiss to Patrick’s forehead. “Rest up. We have a record to make.”
Patrick watches the van drive off down the street, his little dented home on wheels. When he can’t see the taillights any longer he fishes his keys out of his pocket and lets himself inside. He’s surprised at how sharply he feels home in his chest.
There’s a note on the fridge from his mother, written in her curly cue handwriting. She’s left a plate in the microwave for him. Patrick grins and heads over. When he peeks in, he sees a thick cut of lasagna. He hasn’t had real food in over a month.
He eats his dinner cold, dropping his duffel bag off in the laundry room. The house smells like lemons, like his mother’s perfume. There’s no trace of unwashed boy or molding food or dirty socks anywhere. If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend that he never left at all. Above him, the ceiling creaks. Martin’s awake.
Patrick stuffs his plate into the dishwasher dutifully before making his way up the stairs. He can hear music coming from their bedroom, faint but definitely his own. Patrick grins to himself. Somehow, he’s still not sick of any of it. If he could, he’d play a show right now, into his empty living room.
“Hey,” he says softly, pushing the door open. Martin is laying on the floor in his boxers, flipping through a notebook. Patrick’s own voice breaks on the recording.
“Hey,” Martin replies. He’s got a smudge of ink on his chin, messed in with his stubble. He’s been writing.
“How’s the novel coming?” Patrick asks. He sinks down onto the carpet next to his brother. The exhaustion from tour is finally catching up to him.
“Shittily,” Martin answers. He tucks the notebook away. He looks just as tired as Patrick is, dark circles starting up under his eyes. There’s a red patch on his chest from the floor, matching spots on his elbows. “I had this big coming home plan for you but-” He breaks off on a yawn, jaw cracking and eyes squinting shut. Patrick can’t help mirroring him.
“Yeah, me too.”
They crawl into Patrick’s bed, flopping down on top of the covers in a heap. Martin is warm and familiar and good, and Patrick falls asleep caught up in him, right where he belongs.
Patrick’s woken up by the smell of bacon. His stomach rumbles, even as his eyes protest opening. He knows without question that his mother has made a feast downstairs. Martin’s breathing softly against his throat, leg thrown over Patrick’s hips. He groans when Patrick shoves at his shoulder, burying his face into Patrick’s chest.
“Breakfast,” Patrick says. He rolls Martin against the wall. His arm is asleep, pins tingling down into his wrist when he tries to wriggle it out from under his brother’s head. “Wake up or I’m eating yours too.”
“Dick,” Martin mumbles, reluctantly rolling to the other side of the bed.
“Jackass.” Patrick kisses the sleepy corner of Martin’s mouth. “Not kidding about eating your breakfast. I’m starving.”
Patrick stumbles downstairs in his boxers and tour damaged t-shirt. He’s only halfway into the kitchen when he’s scooped up into his mother’s arms. The embarrassment of it is pushed out of the way by the part of him that’s always going to be a homebody.
“Hey, mom,” he says, hugging her back.
“You look starved,” she says, holding him at arm’s length. “Were you eating out there? Sit down.” Patrick laughs and lets himself be dragged to the dining room table. He was right about the feast. It’s covered from end to end, way too much for the three of them to eat in one sitting. He winces when his mother shouts up the stairs for Martin. "I swear, that boy hasn't left that room since he's come home."
Martin's still yawning when he shows up in the doorway, rubbing at his eyes like a sleepy child. Their mother sighs, but Patrick can see how happy she is to have both of them under the same roof. She piles food onto their plates in heaps, chattering about their Uncle Dave's adventures in gardening.
"How was your trip?" His mother asks when she finally sits down. Across the table from him, Martin snickers.
"Great," Patrick answers sincerely. He tells them stories about Joe's unending quest for Pizza flavored Doritos and Andy's network of basements and bedrooms. His mother looks a little horrified, but Patrick can see her holding back, trying to encourage him. "It was the best time of my life."
"I'm happy for you, baby," she says. She pats his hand with hers, cool and dry and laden with rings she's had his entire life.
“Thanks,” he says sheepishly.
After breakfast, Patrick washes the dishes, listening to the stories Martin tells about classes while he dries. They keep bumping into each other, soap slick hands sliding up under shirts and over bare arms. They excuse themselves when the last dish is done, scampering up the stairs like they've always done
Patrick stretches out onto his bed, full and content. He’s not really tired, but the idea of laying around all day is too awesome to pass up. It’s even better when Martin lays next to him, scrunching in on the edge of the mattress. They’re getting too big for it, but Patrick can’t imagine not being this close.
“When do you start recording?” Martin asks.
“Next week.” Patrick doesn’t really want to think about it. Pete’s been reassuring him that the songs are good and that their producer is great, but Patrick’s got the everlasting doubt in the back of his mind that he just can’t shut off. “When do you go back to school?”
“Two days.” Martin tucks his hand into Patrick's, twisting their fingers together. Patrick's fingertips look grey next to his, rough from nonstop playing. Different.
Patrick hasn't really thought about the ways they're becoming different. Martin's always just been there, his mirror and his brother and his baseline. In two days Martin will leave him alone in the bedroom they've always shared. In a month, Patrick will move into a shitty little apartment in the city with Pete and Joe and officially leave everything of his childhood behind.
"I can hear you thinking," Martin says. He raises up on his elbows, looking down at Patrick. Patrick shrugs.
"We won't really see each other much soon, will we?" He asks.
He can feel Martin’s heartbeat under his hand, slow and steady. When they release the album, there will be another tour, and maybe a headlining one after that, and- and-
"Hey," Martin says gently. "Stop. You're panicking." He throws a leg over Patrick's thighs, shoving himself up. "We'll see each other. I'll, I don't know, go see your shows when you're close. And we can hang out on the weekends when you're home, and --"
"It's never going to be the same, is it?" Patrick asks.
"Stop it," Martin says. He kisses Patrick, soft and easy. "Hey, I have a present for you."
"What?" Patrick cranes his neck up, looking over Martin's shoulder. He hadn't seen anything last night, but he'd also been halfway to falling over. Martin grins. Patrick doesn't think he's ever managed to make his own face look quite that sly.
"Has Pete let you fuck him?" Martin asks bluntly. He tucks his fingers into the waistband of Patrick’s boxers, familiar and easy. Patrick stops short. He’d been so caught up in actually having sex at all that he’d never considered the other way around.
“I never asked,” he eventually says. He’s got a pretty good idea of where this is going, but he still sucks in a shallow breath when Martin crawls off of him to slide out of his underwear. He grins, more comfortable naked than Patrick ever has been. “Are you --”
“Don’t question it, little brother,” Martin says.
“Oh god. Don’t say that when you’re naked.” Patrick knows what they do is wrong. He doesn’t really need to be reminded about exactly why. Martin stretches up on his toes, patting the top bunk down. There’s a weak pattern of freckles across his ribs, a tiny patch of growing hair on his chest. Patrick wonders if this is what Pete sees, if the details of Martin are the same ones that make him up.
“Be gentle,” Martin says. He’s got a bottle of lube in his hands. He sounds calm, but the pinkness that’s spreading from his cheeks down across his chest says otherwise.
Patrick shimmies out of his own underwear, shirt balling up under the small of his back. When Martin settles back onto his thighs, bare skin sliding against bare skin, Patrick swallows back a surge of nervousness. He remembers how gentle Pete had been with him, how he'd talked him through it and laughed and kissed him.
(He remembers every detail like it's been burned into him. Pete's hands and Pete's mouth and Pete's name tripping off his tongue like he couldn't hold it in.)
"I trust you," Martin says, pressing the lube into Patrick's hand. He leans in, mouth brushing Patrick's ear, and says, "I tried some things while you were away."
Patrick does not think about Martin slicking his fingers and sliding them into himself. He doesn't ask if he did it on the phone that time Patrick had called him from the relative privacy of the Safeway bathroom, both of them breathless and laughing as they played at talking dirty to one another. He just spreads lube on his own fingers and slips his hand between Martin's legs, hoping he can keep it together long enough for both of them to enjoy it.
Patrick shivers right along with Martin when he presses the first finger in slowly. He's tight and soft and warm, and Patrick's dick jerks a little at the thought of being there. Martin squirms impatiently over him, setting the pace. (Patrick is too horny to think about how there's some great symbolism in that. Later, he'll wonder how much of his life Martin has influenced. Later, he still won't really care.)
"Two," Martin says. He bites his lip when Patrick nudges a second fingertip into him, breathing out a slow, shallow moan. "Be rough if you want." Fuck. Fuck. Patrick squeezes his eyes shut.
"I don't want to hurt you," he says tightly, hand shaking against Martin's skin. Martin laughs.
"What if I want you to?" He asks, rocking into Patrick's touch. "Maybe I want to feel it when I'm alone in class and you're off living happily ever after with Pete."
Patrick clenches his teeth and refuses to rise to the bait, ignoring the sting. He twists his wrist, feeling a little vicious when Martin groans. He won't feel guilty for falling in love. He won't.
Martin bats Patrick's hand away, settling himself over Patrick's hips. It's probably too soon, probably too much when Martin sinks slowly down onto Patrick's dick, but all Patrick can think about is how good it feels.
"Fuck," Martin hisses. He's biting his lip, hands thumping down onto Patrick's shoulders, pinning him in place. "Fuck." Patrick can feel every inch of him, skin buzzing where they’re touching. When Martin rocks his hips slowly, Patrick swears under his breath.
Martin’s thighs shake a little when he lifts himself up, a slow drag that makes Patrick’s toes curl. The blush across his skin hasn’t faded. Patrick touches what he can, tries to distract himself from the coil of urgency already pulsing under his skin.
There isn't enough room for Martin to sit up, but he grinds his hips against Patrick's, his dick dragging wetly over Patrick's stomach, and it's one of the most amazing things Patrick has ever felt. The pressure of Martin's palms against his shoulders is shifting into something almost painful. Patrick latches on to it, even as he tries to thrust his hips up into him.
It's almost embarrassingly short. Patrick stutters out a weak warning before he's coming into Martin, biting down on the moan in the back of his throat. Martin rides him through it, letting go with one hand to jerk himself off. The feel of him is almost too much around Patrick's softening cock. His body goes tight when he comes, his nails digging into Patrick's skin, mouth open and eyes closed.
(Patrick knows he looks like that after Pete's fucked him. Pete's shown him in mirrors and in darkened phone screens and in dirty pictures Patrick tries to pretend don't exist. It's got to be narcissism that tells him Martin's beautiful.)
"Holy shit." Patrick winces when Martin moves away from him. He feels like a fucking rag doll.
"Yeah." Martin flops down on him, sweaty and a little gross, and buries his face into Patrick's neck. "You should tell him."
"What?" Patrick knows Martin can hear his heart beating, knows he probably felt the skip. He wraps a limp arm around Martin's back, skin sticking where they're both sweating.
"You should tell Pete about me," Martin says. He kisses Patrick's cheek, lips dry and soft. "Think about it. I know you, Patrick. Lying to him is killing you."
"Martin --"
"It's Pete. He'll jump at the chance for a threesome." Martin pulls back, grinning. "He loves you. Maybe he can love me, too." It's as melodramatic as Martin always is, but it still settles into Patrick's chest like poison, making him feel a little sick and a little sad. Sometimes, he hates how well Martin knows him. "We can be happy together. All three of us."
"I don't --" Patrick squirms until he can sit up. The post sex looseness has left him. "Why do you always have to do this? Why can't we just lay here and fucking cuddle like normal people?"
"When have we ever been normal?" Martin asks sharply. "Trust me. Just tell him. We could be happy." For the first time Patrick can remember, he looks desperate. He's always been the rock, always been steady and sure and in charge. "Please." Patrick does the only thing he knows how to.
He says yes.
---
Patrick can barely breathe. He kisses Pete gently, lips brushing over the wry smile Pete’s been wearing for days. Martin’s just outside the room, waiting for Patrick to come get him. Patrick’s been stalling, mouth on Pete’s skin and hands shaking against Pete’s hips. It had seemed like such a good idea the day before, when everything had just been words.
“I have something I need to show you,” Patrick says, teeth sinking into the soft, tender skin of Pete’s throat. He tastes like salt, like sweat, familiar and good. Patrick can smell the cologne sticking to him, can taste the chemical residue left behind.
“Yeah?” Pete grins, lewd. He sits up on his elbows, eyebrows raised. He wriggles his hips under Patrick’s, hard on digging into Patrick’s thigh.
“Yeah, I just --” Patrick crawls off of him, heartbeat thundering in his ears. This is it. He swallows when he reaches for the door handle, slick palm skidding off it the first time he tries to turn it.
Patrick’s back is turned to Pete when Martin walks in. He doesn’t know what the reaction is, isn’t really sure he wants to know. He brushes his fingers over Martin’s hand, trying to steady himself. Now that he’s here, it doesn’t seem like such a great idea at all.
“Pete, I uh.” Patrick turns, head down. He can’t bring himself to look up. “You’ve already met, but this is Martin.” My twin is left off, too obvious and tacky and weird in Patrick’s mouth anytime he says it. They’re something else, and everyone they’ve ever met has known, and Pete isn’t saying anything.
“Hey,” Martin says, just as uncertain. The bravado he's been wearing all day is fading away almost visibly, leaving him shrunken in on himself.
“What do you mean we’ve met?” Pete asks slowly. He looks overwhelmed, like he can't tell what to do with them. He hasn't moved from the bed, legs still spread, bare chest a little slick. Patrick can see the spots his mouth left, dark and already bruising. He doesn't want to share either of them.
(He's rarely greedy, but both of them are his and it's not fair.)
“Martin, uh. He pretended to be me sometimes.” It sounds stupid as soon as Patrick says it. Fuck, they’ve been doing this their whole lives, flipping themselves sideways and back until no one could tell the difference. Blessing and curse, Martinnpatrick, a whole in the end even if they didn’t want it that way.
Pete sits up slowly, running slow fingers through his hair. He stares at Patrick, confused. Maybe a little hurt. Patrick drops his head. He's tired of making people upset.
"So, what, you've been --" Pete waves a hand between them and himself.
"We share everything," Martin says. It sounds a little sharp. Patrick won't realize for years that he was the one with the most to lose.
"I'm not a fucking Lunchable," Pete snaps. "I'm a person, and it's fucked up that you guys could fucking -- could use me like that."
"It's fucked up that you couldn't tell it wasn't always me," Patrick says quietly.
Patrick reaches for his discarded shirt on the floor. He's not really sure how he'd expected this to go, but in his head things always went better. He doesn't think Pete will call off the band, but he's already waiting for their hesitant relationship to crumble.
"Stop," Pete says, reaching for him. He doesn't quite grab on, but Patrick can feel the heat from him. "Just. Give me a minute." Patrick pulls his shirt on, backing away. He doesn’t quite lean against Martin, but he can feel himself inching towards him. "Who -- "
“I’m older,” Martin says, cutting Pete off. There’s color in his cheeks, dark and getting angry. “Yes, we’re completely identical. Patrick was with you first.” Patrick can see where Martin’s going, can feel coldness creeping up into his skin. “We’ve been fucking around since we were thirteen. No. You don’t get just one of us.”
Martin lets out a shaky breath. There’s a moment of silence, thick and uneasy. Patrick can see his future leaving him already, flashes of shows and shared beds going up in smoke. He’ll always have Martin. Always. But, man, he’s in love with Pete in a way he's never felt before. Martin takes his hand, curling their fingers together when Patrick makes no move to.
“I --” Pete closes his eyes. He looks tired. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”
“Are we too fucked up for you?” Patrick asks. He’s sat up for nights with Pete, keeping him company while he’d clawed at his skin, unable to do anything but hang on. If anyone could understand fucked up, it's Pete. He'd been relying on it.
“Fuck, can you just shut up?” Pete shoves up off the bed, getting into their faces. “Can I get five fucking seconds to process that you’ve been lying to me about having a twin for the entire time I’ve known you?” He shoves Patrick’s shoulder, and Martin stumbles back with him. “I thought we were together, but you’ve been fucking someone else the entire time. Fuck you for making me the bad guy here. Fuck you.”
Patrick feels like he’s been punched in the chest. This close, he can almost feel the rage pulsing in Pete’s temple. He hadn’t thought -- Martin isn’t another person like that. They’re a whole, have always been a whole even when they’ve tried to peel themselves apart.
“Get out,” Pete says. His jaw ticks, clenched down tight, one arm thrown toward the door.
“Pete --”
“Both of you, get the fuck out.” Pete shoves them again, one hand on each of them. They nearly topple over each other, feet tangling up.
“Pete --” Patrick lets go of Martin’s hand, trying to catch Pete’s wrist. Pete punches him in the mouth. He feels his teeth cut into his lip, feels blood against his tongue even as his hands rise up to test it.
There’s an explosion of sound, Pete and Martin shouting, the sound of fists against skin. Patrick stands stunned in the middle of the room, hand pressed to his bleeding mouth. Time feels like it’s slowed down, stuck into the middle spaces of his heartbeats. He watches Martin bang gracelessly at Pete’s shoulders and jaw, watches Pete’s lip curl up in a sneer. He can’t move.
Pete rolls them over and cocks his fist back, the muscles in his back and bicep bunching. Martin looks small under him, struggling but weak. This isn’t how it was supposed to happen.
“We’ll go,” Patrick says, words stumbling out. They hurt, drag across his split lip like salt. “We’ll go.” Pete doesn’t look at them when they leave. Patrick feels like his heart’s a stone in his chest, sinking with each step.
"I'm sorry," Martin says when they get home. Patrick jerks away from him. It had been stupid to listen to him, and he'd known it.
"Just stop," Patrick says. "Just. Stop." He crawls into bed, ignoring the sunlight filtering in through the window. To his credit, Martin leaves him alone. Patrick closes his eyes and hopes that Pete won't destroy them.
---
Patrick hasn't left his bed in two days. His stomach hurts and his head feels dizzy but he can't make himself move. Martin checks on him every few hours, silent but there. Patrick wants him to go away, wants to sleep, wants to - to --
"You're being pathetic," Martin says on the last time, quiet enough that Patrick barely hears him.
"Fuck. You." Patrick curls up around his stomach. He thinks of the album and the vague tour outline on the calendar in Joe's room and Pete -- He's as good as lost it all. "Get out."
"This is my room too," Martin says.
"Like Pete was your boyfriend too? Like my life is your life too?" Patrick yanks his blanket up higher. He can smell himself. It's fucking disgusting. "I'm done. I tried to keep everything and I got fucking nothing. So fuck you and fuck off."
"That's not fair --"
"Fuck. You." Patrick closes his eyes. "I'm done." It doesn't even hurt when Martin walks out.
---
Pete doesn't show up for the first day of recording. The tension in the room stretches them all thin, bleeds into the music. Patrick's voice sounds weak over the playback. Tired. He takes his headphones off before he can hear everything. This isn't going to work.
Andy leaves with the producer, apologizing for Pete. Patrick's head hurts. He can remember Pete going on in spirals about how the band was the only thing keeping him together, angst drunk and desperate for meaning. Patrick can't imagine him giving it up for anything.
"You look like shit," Joe says. His guitar is still out, placed carefully against the wall. He's upgraded from the tour, found a guitar that actually suits him. "Come on, Patrick. What happened?"
There's a lot Patrick could say, but nothing comes out. He can't tell anyone. He can't ask for help. It's him and him and him, and he hates it. Joe hugs him. It's not enough at all, but Patrick clings to it hopelessly. He feels young and stupid. Weak.
"It's okay, dude," Joe says softly. He pulls Patrick in tighter, squeezing him until he can barely breathe. Patrick feels like he's going to break the second Joe lets go of him, just fly into useless pieces. "Breathe, man. Breathe."
"Pete broke up with me," Patrick says, words sharp over his tongue. It makes his chest hurt. "I hurt him pretty bad." Joe squeezes him tighter.
"It's Pete," he says, chest rumbling against Patrick's. "He'll come back for you." Patrick laughs, pressing his face to Joe's shoulder. He smells like weed and worn down cologne, familiar from so many nights stuffed together in the van together.
"Not this time," Patrick says.
"I think you're wrong," Joe says. He ruffles Patrick's hair as he pulls away, smiling. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"
He walks past Pete on his way out.
"How long have you been there?" Patrick asks. He can't meet Pete's eyes. Instead he stares at the dark skin across Pete's cheek, the bruises on his arms. His lip is split down the center like Patrick's, fresh enough that it's still bleeding down his chin. Pete shrugs.
"Long enough," he mumbles. He's leaning against the door, head down. Patrick wonders what wall he got into a fight with, wonders if he's been sleeping or taking his meds or driving himself into the ground. He feels guilty.
Neither of them moves. Patrick can't feel his hands, can't move, can barely breathe. The equipment around them is still buzzing with the sound of their recordings, drum beats and half laid guitars and his own voice cycling over the same verse. It sounds hollow coming out of the headphones on the table, barely recognizable. It's annoying but Patrick can't move to switch it off.
When the silence has stretched on for too long, Patrick manages to clear his throat and ask, "What happened?"
"Martin came over this morning," Pete says. He touches his fingertips to the bruised skin under his eye and winces. "He has a shorter fuse than even you."
"Yeah." Patrick laughs despite himself. He can see Martin shoving himself inside Pete's mom's house; he can see him taking the first swing without prompting. "He's always been like that."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Pete asks. He finally pushes off the door, letting it swing shut behind him. The rest of the building is going dark, people going home for the day. Someone will probably kick them out soon.
"I --" Patrick sinks down onto the couch, rubbing weak hands over his eyes. He's so damn tired. "You were the first person who ever saw me as just Patrick."
Pete slides down next to him. He's wearing a beaten down hoodie even though the studio is overheated. Patrick stares at their grass stained sneakers, thinks about last year when everything was coming together, thinks about Pete kissing him in the backseat like it was something important.
"We love you," Patrick says. He pauses, the words stuck in his throat. As tired as he is of saying we, he couldn't imagine being anywhere but at his side. "I love you."
"Sometimes that's not enough," Pete says slowly. Still, he turns his hand palm up where it's resting on his thigh. His skin is smooth and warm under Patrick's fingertips, tense. Patrick hangs on, eyes slipping closed.
"Where do we go from here?" He asks. There's nowhere left to go but up. Pete squeezes Patrick's hand, tight enough to grind his knuckles together.
"Tomorrow, we come back here and work on the album," Pete says after a long moment. "Then we go sign the lease for the apartment." Patrick can hear him swallow, can feel him moving, but still can't look at him.
"And tonight?"
"Tonight we go tell Joe that he's going to have to move somewhere else," Pete says. Patrick breathes out a long sigh of relief. The band that's been tightening around his chest snaps. "Martin wants to meet them officially. He kind of insisted."
"Yeah," Patrick says again. He laughs until it hurts, his stomach aching and his lungs sore, until Pete pulls him into a hug that hurts almost just as much.
"Breathe," Pete says. He rubs his hand over Patrick's back gently, shushing him. It's usually the other way around. "Come on, get your shit together. We're going home."
---
"Huh," Joe says. He looks from Martin to Patrick and back again. When he reaches up to prod at Martin's face, Patrick bats his hand away irritably.
"He's not an alien," Patrick huffs.
"Dude, there's two of you," Joe says. The waitress stops for a moment before passing them by. Patrick sighs. He's starving. "It's weird."
"Technically, we're still separate people," Martin says. He's got a shiner and a cut on the inside of his shirt collar. No one has mentioned how fucked up he and Pete look, and Patrick's grateful for it. "What with the egg splitting and all."
"Semantics." Joe waves a hand between them before narrowing his eyes at Pete. "How are you not having spasms about two Patricks?"
"Martin isn't Patrick," Pete says sharply. He's hunched down next to Patrick, staring at his menu. They've been here hundreds of times and get the same thing every time. As cool as he'd been about it in the studio, the hesitant way he reaches for Patrick means it's not really over. On Patrick's other side, Martin tenses.
"Stop being a jackass," Andy says. It isn't really clear who he's talking to. All of them, maybe. "It's nice to officially meet you." He offers his hand, but doesn't seem that surprised when Martin doesn't reach for him.
"You knew?" Joe asks, mouth hanging open. Andy shrugs.
"Martin writes better lyrics," he answers. Patrick wants to protest, but it's true. "You could have just said something, though."
"It's complicated," Patrick mumbles. He picks at the crumpled straw wrapper on the table in front of him. He feels like a little kid, sulking in the corner after being found out. "It's a twin thing."
"So, can you, like, read each other's minds?" Joe asks. He's making that stupid face that he always makes when he's trying not to laugh. Patrick kicks him under the table.
"I'm fucking hungry," he says, scowling. "Shut the fuck up so the waitress can take our order." Andy coughs into his hand, eyes bright behind his glasses. Patrick's band is full of assholes.
Half an hour later, they've moved on from twin talk to band talk. Pete's warming up in slow increments, cracking jokes at Joe's expense when the opportunity arises, putting in his opinion on the sound they're aiming for. He doesn't hold himself as tightly when his thigh bumps against Patrick's. When Martin excuses himself to the bathroom, Patrick fights the urge to follow him out.
"We could probably sell the twin thing," Joe says around a mouthful of pizza. "Dueling vocalists."
"Martin doesn't sing," Patrick says. This, he thinks, is why he didn't want to introduce them. "He doesn't know much about music at all, actually." Andy's watching him in that creepy way that means he knows more than he's letting on.
"Spoil sport," Joe grumbles.
"Your mom," Patrick says mildly. He starts to press against Pete when he sees Martin coming back, trying to slide them out of the booth, but Pete holds fast. Martin slips in next to him without a word.
"A Patrick sandwich," Joe sing-songs, waving a soggy, ketchup smeared fry at them. "Your dream come true."
"I'm going to punch you in the nuts if you call me Patrick again," Martin threatens. For the first time all day, Pete laughs.
(Sometime later, when Andy's talking about his roommates and Joe's eyes have glossed over with boredom, Pete slides his hand into Patrick's. Patrick knows, knows, without looking that he's done the same to Martin. Maybe, just maybe, things will actually work out.)
---
Recording is hell.
Patrick gets a sore throat halfway through and has to sing around it for three tracks. He can hear the rasp in his voice on the playback and winces every time it loops over. They've been living on the studio floor and off donated food, too tired to go home at night and quickly running out of funds. Even Joe who has an unlimited source of energy and enthusiasm is lagging.
Martin's been staying with them, huddled up in the corner with Pete. They've been passing Pete's notebook back and forth for days, writing and rewriting lyrics. Patrick wants to strangle them both. If he has to rerecord one damn note, he's going to burn the studio down. Andy, who has been doing this longer than all of them combined, doesn't seem to care at all.
It's all worth it, every last ounce of effort and hunger pain, when they listen to the finished album for the very first time, all huddled around the sound booth like a pack of exhausted puppies. The producer hits play and sits back, smiling at them proudly. Patrick's breath is taken away. All this hard work, every thing they've done, is right here in front of him sounding awesome and real and all theirs. Pete squeezes his hand like he knows what Patrick's thinking.
They listen to every damn song right there.
---
Martin has most of their room packed up. Patrick sidesteps the boxes carefully, trying not to let the sadness of finally, really leaving their mother's house settle in. She's got her own box of kitchen supplies packed up for them in the living room, labeled carefully in her delicate handwriting.
"Eric's going to bring my stuff from the dorm," Martin says, taping another box shut. He's shirtless, arms and shoulders tensing as he rearranges things around the room. There's sweat at the small of his back, sinking into a pair of sweats that used to be Patrick's.
"Is this weird?" Patrick asks. He climbs over a stack to flop down onto his bed. He hasn't really slept since they finished the album, too nervous about printing and circulation and reception.
"Yeah," Martin says. He kicks a box of shoes into the big pile. One of them must have scratched him. There's a long line across his stomach, red and a little raised. "But what's new there?"
Patrick scoots over enough to let Martin in with him. This is the last time they'll lay in this bed. Pete's bringing in his queen sized bed from his own parents' house. It's almost too much to think about, let alone talk about.
"Stop worrying," Martin says. He kisses Patrick slow and soft, tugs his hat off. "You take care of Pete, and I'll take care of you." Patrick sighs, letting his eyes slip closed. "It'll be okay."
As he drifts off, Patrick thinks that he might actually believe it this time.
---
The bed is huge.
Patrick touches the military tight corners, looks at the three sets of pillows against the headboard. Pete’s stuff is already out and unpacked, tucked away in the closets and cupboards and rooms. He’s out signing papers for a new van, nothing left of him but a note on the fridge about ordering pizza for dinner. Patrick can hear Martin unpacking in the living room, swearing at the packing tape.
Patrick’s supposed to be putting their laundry away, but he can’t make himself look away from the bed. The part of him that’s terrified about becoming an adult and learning how to balance Pete and Martin and himself is stuck on how badly this could go, how easy it would be to tip this newfound delicate stability. The part of him that’s all teenage boy can’t stop himself from imagining breaking in the mattress with all three of them breathless and sweating on the plaid sheets.
The CD is due out in two months. Patrick’s got a calendar already hung up on the back of the bedroom door, dates highlighted and marked with doctors appointments and Martin’s class schedule and future tour dates. Martin’s blocked out the day of the release party with neon green highlighter.
Something crashes in the kitchen. Patrick winces, winding his way down the hall to check the damage. Martin’s throwing pans across the room, shouting. Patrick’s anger has always been on a hair trigger, but Martin’s comes almost without prompting. Patrick doesn’t ask.
“Maybe you should take a break,” Patrick says, picking the pots up from their heap in the corner.
“I just want to get this shit put away,” Martin snaps, shoving a cookie sheet into the drawer under the stove. Patrick leads him away from the kitchen dutifully, shoving him down onto the couch before he can break anything.
“I’m going to order pizza, and we’re going to watch a movie when Pete gets home,” Patrick says. “We have time to finish.” Martin slumps against the couch obediently.
Pete beats the pizza home by five minutes. He’s got a stack of papers in one hand, an overflowing cup of coffee in the other. His phone is shoved between his shoulder and his cheek, the tinny sound of someone’s voice on the other side leaking through. There’s a moment where Patrick thinks he’s going to go flying over a stack of broken down boxes, but he does a weird little hop that only spills a little of his coffee onto the hallway floor.
"No, no, yeah," Pete mutters, letting the papers fall onto the dining room table. Patrick's name is at the top of one of them, followed up by Joe's and Andy's. "We're available in October. Totally."
Patrick cleans up after him, shoving the papers into the lockbox under the kitchen cabinet and swiping a towel over the trail of lukewarm coffee he's left behind. On the couch, Martin flips the television from cable to DVD.
"Thanks," Pete says into the phone before clicking it shut. "I," he announces, "am the best fucking tour manager we'll ever have." He flops down onto the cushion next to Martin, landing half on top of him. After a moment, he seems to realize what he's done and slides toward the other arm.
"Do I want to ask why?" Patrick sees Martin flinch, can track the way Pete's eyes fall to the floor. Things have been getting more comfortable, but there are still tense spots that haven't been worked out yet. Patrick tries to ignore them, hopes they'll smooth out eventually.
"We've got our very first headlining tour in October," Pete says. He puffs his chest out, scrawny and thin under his bleached t-shirt. "It's only four stops so far, but I just started." Patrick laughs.
"Pete fucking Wentz," he says, grinning. He thinks about recording Pete's adventures in self-destruction, knows for sure that Pete really can do anything he sets his sites on. Pete grins back.
They watch Return of the Jedi and devour their pizza, Pete pressed in the middle of them. It's nice. Patrick rests his head on Pete's shoulder, hat tipping sideways. It digs into his temple, but he's too comfortable to move it.
He doesn't realize he's fallen asleep until Pete's shaking him awake, talking in a low whisper to Martin. The credits are playing, the music familiar enough that Patrick hums along without really thinking about it. There's laughter, Pete's or Martin's Patrick can't tell, and then Patrick's tipping sideways onto Martin's lap, Pete sliding out from under him easily.
"Bedtime," Martin says. He grins, eyebrows raised. Patrick knows what he's thinking, can see the dirty thoughts rolling through his mind without having to ask any questions. The sound of Pete locking up seals everything.
"Play nice," Patrick whispers. Martin laughs, low in his throat, and shoves Patrick off the couch.
They follow Pete into the bedroom, bumping into each other in the hall. The easy, sleepy weight in Patrick's limbs has faded away, replaced by anticipation. He can't take his eyes off of Pete.
"Can I kiss him?" Martin asks when they've shut the door.
Patrick knows Martin's talking to him, knows that he's been dying to get his hands on Pete for months, but Pete thumps down on the bed, eyes wide and mouth open and says, "Yeah." He looks between them, lingers on their mouths, and then repeats himself. "Yeah. Go for it."
Let it be said that Martin never says no to a challenge.
He slips out of his shirt, letting it drop to the floor, comfortable in his skin in a way Patrick's never been able to catch. There's a bruise on his shoulder that's almost healed, left over from the fight that brought them all together. Patrick feels its edges when Martin closes in on him, listens to soft sound of Pete getting comfortable on the bed.
"Relax," Martin whispers, breath sliding hot against Patrick's mouth. "He thinks we're hot." Martin's fingers tuck into the waistband of Patrick's sweats, pull him in until their bodies crash together. "He's going to love it."
Kissing Martin is like coming home. Patrick knows all his corners, knows the spots to touch him to make him squirm. He feels like they should be putting on a show, like they should be doing something more than making out. Something more interesting. He thinks about shoving Martin against a wall or maybe down into the bed, but then Martin bites his lip and he forgets all about having an audience.
Martin's skin is smooth and warm, his hands soft when they slip under Patrick's shirt. He tucks his knee between Martin's legs and groans when he feels Martin's dick hard and hot against him. His own jerks in his boxers. It's been too long since any of them have been laid. It's going to be a good night.
There's a thud from the bed, Pete's elbow smacking into the headboard. Patrick laughs, tucking his face into the curve of Martin's shoulder. When he bites down, just to taste there's matching gasps.
"How far do you want us to go?" Patrick asks. He sucks at the red spot low on Martin's throat, grinding his hips against Martin's. The look on Pete's face, the slack jaw and the dark eyes, makes something come loose in Patrick's chest. He likes it. He really does think they're hot together.
"Get naked," Pete says. He pops the button on his jeans, legs spread and shirt rucked up. "Fuck, I want you naked."
"Let's play a game," Martin says. He steps back from Patrick, hand shaking a little as it falls away from Patrick's hip. Patrick knows already where this is going, tries not to laugh. "Close your eyes."
"What are you doing?" Pete asks. There's a moment where Patrick thinks he's not going to go for it, but then Pete does as he's told, frowning.
"Playing a game," Martin answers simply.
"We'll get naked if you can tell us apart," Patrick says. He crawls onto the bed, dropping down to lie between Pete's thighs.
"If you can't," Martin says, resting a hand low on Patrick's back, "we'll make you keep your eyes shut."
"So pick carefully." Patrick runs his hands up Pete's thighs, feeling the muscles tense under his palms.
Patrick watches Martin lean in, slow and steady and sure, his heart thumping against his ribs. He wants Pete to know who he is, wants Pete to be able to see them as Patrick and Martin, even when they’re tangled up like this. Martin presses his lips to Pete’s, gentle and sweet and trying to mimic the way he knows Patrick kisses.
“He’s good, right?” Patrick asks, fingers slipping into the waist of Pete’s jeans.
(He’s good at being Martin. Sometimes, he’s better at being Martin than being himself.) The bulge of Pete’s cock is warm under Patrick’s palm, jerks under him when he presses down. Pete chases after Martin when he pulls away. Martin laughs, already moving to switch places with Patrick. They can see Pete trying to listen to them, eyebrows drawn together. When Patrick kisses him, he grins, lips twitching against Patrick’s mouth.
“Patrick,” he says. He opens his eyes, his stupid grin spreading across his face. “You’re Patrick.”
“How do you know?” Patrick asks. He stutters a little, tongue heavy. Pete laughs at him. Behind him, Martin’s gone a little tense. He’s just as surprised as Patrick is.
“I’d know that mouth anywhere,” Pete says. He yanks Patrick in for a kiss that’s wet and dirty and more silly than sexy. “I’m right. I’m totally right, and you just don’t want to admit it.” He looks up at Martin, hand still fisted in Patrick’s shirt.
“Maybe,” Martin admits. Pete tugs at Patrick’s collar, eyes dark.
“I want my prize,” he says. "Naked. Both of you."
This is familiar, Pete helping him out of his shirt, more groping than actual helping. Patrick can hear Martin taking his jeans off, hears when his stupid belt buckle hits the floor, can feel the pressure of him climbing onto the bed with him. There are too many hands and too many legs, and of he doesn't start laughing now he's going to bust from disbelief.
"What do you want?" Patrick asks. He has to shuffle off the side of the bed to get his sweats off. Martin's already naked, knelt at the edge of the mattress like he's waiting for Pete to make up his mind.
(Someway, somehow, Patrick knows Martin's got the whole thing planned out already. Knows he's choreographing every move in his head as Patrick struggles not to fall over himself.)
"I want to watch," Pete says. It's not surprising to either of them.
Patrick fights the urge to cover himself up with a well-placed hand. This is Pete, and this is Martin, and both of them know him better than anyone else ever will. Instead, he presses his knees against the side of the mattress, close enough to touch Pete if he wants, and holds his hand out to Martin.
"Tell me what you want me to do," Martin says, fingers tangling up with Patrick's. His dick bobs between his thighs when he knee-walks over, the mattress squeaking under his shifting weight.
"Suck him off," Pete says, voice rough. He's got a hand in his jeans, stroking himself lazily. It's just like Patrick had imagined, desperate and alone in his bed back when things had first started.
Patrick takes a deep breath, cringing at the way Martin wiggles his eyebrows. He's going to put on a damn good show, and Patrick's just hoping he can keep up. Pete kicks at Martin's thigh after a moment, urging him on.
The thing is, Martin's got just as much experience as Patrick as sucking dick. They've spent long nights together huddled around Patrick's laptop watching porn, laughing at each other's pink faces and taking down mental notes with each red, wet mouth. Pete's said things like savant and genius and natural born cocksucker. Practice, Patrick thinks, really does make perfect.
Martin teases, puts his mouth on Patrick's thighs, nuzzles the patch of hair above Patrick's cock. He wraps his hand around the base of Patrick's dick loosely, licks at the head with broad, gentle strokes. It feels good, makes Patrick's knees go a little weak. He wraps a hand up in Martin's hair to steady himself. Martin goes slow, pokes his tongue out and drags it up, up, up. In his head, Patrick knows that Martin's thinking of popsicles, his grin wry and his eyes dark. Patrick pulls his hair a little meanly.
When he finally wraps his lips around Patrick's cock, Pete's groan is almost as loud as Patrick's. The vibration of Martin's laughter sends shivers up Patrick's spine, sticks in his chest and makes his cock ache. He watches Martin's lips slide down the shaft slow, slow, slow, inching towards the base. That bastard, Patrick thinks, stifling a moan. He's already showing off.
On the other side of the bed, Pete's managed to shove his jeans down to his ankles, his knees bent and his dick a rude red in the spaces between his fingers. He's matching Martin's tempo, slow stroke down, quick jerk up, his chest rising and falling visibly. Patrick doesn't know if he should be watching Martin's mouth or Pete's hand, his brain a jumble stuck on the wet, wet heat that's hitting him in all the right places.
(He loves Pete, but no one will ever know his body the way Martin does.)
One of Martin's hands slide around Patrick's thigh, his fingertips like fire. Each time he ducks his head down, Patrick's knees wobble. He can feel Pete's eyes on them like a weight, steady and constant and heavy. Patrick can't look back, can barely keep his eyes open enough to watch the blur of Martin's hair. Patrick wants to cry a little when Martin backs away with a slick little pop, his mouth red and wet and swollen.
"Do you want me go get him off?" Martin asks. Patrick knees him in the chest. That fucker.
"Yeah," Pete says. He meets Patrick's eyes, his Adams apple bobbing. Patrick's heart stutters. He doesn't look away when Martin goes down on him again, moans unashamedly.
Pete gets off before Patrick does, comes in thick stripes over his fingers and stomach. Heat coils up in Patrick's belly and spills out over his skin, makes him feel like he's going to implode. Fuck, fuck, fuck, Martin is good at this. Patrick's going to have to step up his game to stay on top.
"Come on," Pete says. He touches the curve of Martin's hip, smoothes his palm across Martin's thigh. "Get him off."
Patrick can feel the moment Pete's fingers wrap around Martin's cock. He swears under his breath when Martin moans around him. He's so close, thighs shaking and heart racing. It's sensation overload, the heat of Martin's mouth and the rhythm of Pete's arm and the urgency building up in his spine. They shake apart together, Martin pulling away to moan against Patrick's hip.
They're all going to need showers.
Patrick rests his shaky knees against the mattress and tries to catch his breath. He smiles weakly at Pete, too tired to bother with thinking about consequences and legality and morality. Maybe it's stupid of him, and maybe it'll bite him in the ass but, for now at least, he doesn't care.
Pete laughs at their faces when he wipes at Martin's shoulder with the edge of the sheet. It comes away smeared with some pretty damning evidence. If he wanted to be cruel, Patrick would point out the bit that ended up in Martin's hair, right below his ear.
(It's gross and weird and funny and embarrassing, just like every other part of this little triangle. Patrick's pretty sure he's ready to get used to this being his life.)
There's not a lot of room left in the bed once all of them settle down. Somehow, Pete's managed to squeeze between them, all knees and elbows and sharp hips. His skin is slick and hot where it touches Patrick, the damp hollow of his knee making Patrick sweat. They need a fan for their room, too much body heat and not enough ventilation. One of Martin's arms curl around Pete, his knuckles knocking against Patrick's side.
Pete's always slept like he's fighting, legs jerking and hands drawn up into fists. One of them is going to probably end up on the floor before the night is through. Patrick latches onto Pete like it's going to stop the inevitable. Martin, he doesn't know any better. Patrick doesn't feel mean at all for hoping he's the one that ends up on his ass.
(They may be lovers, but they're still brothers. Patrick's going to use his advanced knowledge of Pete until he absolutely can't.)
"We're good, right?" Patrick asks. He traces the lines of Pete's shoulder blades, taps his thumb anxiously against the smooth skin.
"Shut up," Martin says, muffled against Pete's shoulder. "Sleeping." He yelps when Patrick pinches his stomach, nearly toppling off the bed on his own. "Fuck you."
"Fuck you," Patrick mimics, pitching his voice up. It doesn't have any heat in it. Pete's grinning, the soft look around his eyes enough to shake away some of Patrick's worries.
"Go to sleep," Pete says. He yawns, wide and loud and obnoxious, and tugs Patrick in closer. "We'll talk later." We'll talk later is usually Pete-speak for we'll never speak about this again. This time, Patrick's pretty sure he actually means it. Even if he doesn't, Patrick's stubborn like a bull. They'll talk one way or another.
Patrick sleeps like a fucking baby all night.
---
They have a release party at Andy's place. The entire crew gathers up in the back yard with a keg and the grill, the CD playing on a loop in the background. Patrick ducks his head every time someone compliments it, stuffs chips into his mouth so he won't have to talk. He directs them to Pete instead.
Pete's holding court on the patio, red plastic cup in his hand, gesturing wildly. Martin's sitting with him, laughing right along. Patrick wonders how many people think it's him. He can have the spotlight. Patrick just wants to get drunk and curl up on the sofa bed until next week.
It's good. The CD came out better than he could have hoped, and tour starts in a few weeks, and he and Pete and Martin have been spending night after awesome night curled up in bed together, laughing and touching and learning how to be a whole. Everything is coming together, but the aftermath of stress is exhausting.
"Yo, Stump," Joe calls, waving. He's smoking on the couch, feet propped up on the arm. Andy's going to have a fit when he comes in. Still, Patrick plops down onto the armchair next to him and takes the joint when it's handed to him.
"Which one am I?" Patrick asks, the familiar question almost a greeting. The smoke coils up in his lungs, burns going down. Stress slips out of him with his exhale, bleeds straight out of his skin. He needs to relax and enjoy life.
"No fair," Joe whines. He's the only one who still can't tell them apart. Half the time, Patrick sure he's doing it on purpose. Patrick blows smoke into his face.
"Take a guess, jackass." Patrick hands the joint back and sinks into the armchair. He kind of misses playing switch and bait. The world's always more exciting when he's Martin.
"I refuse to be brought into your fucked up game," Joe says. The hand resting on his hip is playing out the drums, fingers ticking away in time. They all know this music in their sleep, could probably recite each note by name in unison. "Dude, do you do this to Pete?"
"As much as I can," Patrick answers honestly.
Pete's gotten better at telling them apart, has been able to see the tiny cracks in their similarities without looking too hard. It's scary and awesome and exciting, new ground for all of them. One day, he'll know them as well as they know each other. Patrick waves the joint away when Joe tries to hand it back to him. There's been talk about a set at the end of the night and he doesn't want to fuck up his voice before he has to sing.
"Patrick," Joe says, eyes narrowed. Patrick snorts at the triumphant sound Joe makes. "You're way more neurotic."
Before Patrick can tell him to fuck off, there's the sound of the party coming in through the back doors. There's no way to hide the smoke or the smell, but Joe still pinches off his joint and shoves it into his wallet, eyes wide when he hears them. He'll be spraying down the couch with air freshener for weeks.
Martin's the first in. He flops into what little space is left in the armchair, hip digging into Patrick's side, elbow in the small dents between Patrick's ribs. He's got a red cup in one hand and a notebook in the other, waving both of them around as he shout-talks to Pete in the kitchen. His handwriting is tucked in with Pete's, curly and small. They've ignored the lines, switched between pens and Sharpies and pencils, a rainbow of text squeezed onto the page. Patrick isn't really looking forward into deciphering it.
Patrick takes his cup, downs the last of the lukewarm beer inside it. Pete's supposed to drive them home, but the loudness of his voice makes Patrick think they'll be crashing here instead.
(He's kind of bummed. Martin will have to sleep on the couch, away from them for the first time since they've started sleeping together. Pete's an open book, but there's some things that even he isn't allowed to share. One day, maybe they can tell the band. One day, maybe they can let their tense shoulders go and relax into themselves.)
"We," Pete declares when he enters the room, "are in need of a merch boy." He's red in the face, hoodie probably lost in a pile somewhere. They're definitely staying over. "And I know a certain English major that has three months off for winter break."
"Fuck, no," Joe moans. He huffs when Pete sits on his stomach, coughing up smoke. "I'm not playing the which one is Patrick game all tour."
"Guess you'll have to learn how to tell us apart," Martin says, smiling sly and wide. Patrick laughs. "Does this mean I get to sign all of your autographs for you, rock star?"
"Like Pete's going to let me get away with that," Patrick says. Across from him, Pete grins.
"Double vision rock stars." Pete kicks at their knees with his bare foot, nearly falling backward over the back of the couch. "We'll make a fortune."
"Good to see you have your priorities straight," Patrick says. Still, he's glad that they're going to have Martin along with them. They're figure out the details later.
Patrick's half past drunk when Andy collects them for their end of the night set. It's probably going to be terrible, and they're all sick of the music, but they still wobble their way onto the back porch, snagging the acoustic guitars stashed in the hall closet. Fucking Pete is getting out easy, playing announcer instead of bassist, introducing them song by song.
Their friends still cheer at the end of each one, even though they have to be terrible. Patrick sings through the laughter, blushes every time someone calls out his name. He's going to do this for the rest of his life if he has to kill someone.
"We are Fall Out Boy, and we're going to take over the world," Pete shouts.
Later, when the night's wound down and the party's left, the three of them squeeze into the bathroom, exchange goodnight kisses and goodnight gropes, laugh at the way none of them can stand up on their own. Pete holds onto them like they'll run away if he lets go, huddles them up and tries to wrap his arms around them both.
Fuck the world, Patrick thinks. This, right here, is all he'll ever need.
Pete slides up to him on the last night of tour, bass half out of tune from being dropped, and leans in against him. He's heavy enough that Patrick stumbles, mouth bumping against his microphone. There's a moment when Patrick thinks he's going down, legs almost giving out when he feels Pete's lips brush his throat.
A few kids cheer. Patrick laughs, breathless at the end of a verse, and feels like he's on top of the world. This is his life and these are his people.
After the show, Tony gives him a Miller Light. Patrick has to hide it away from the security guard, the x on the back of his dark and bold, but it tastes like victory when he finally sucks down his first drink. (He coughs a little when Jeremiah slaps him on the back, unaware of how small Patrick is next to his bulk. All three bands laugh at him. Patrick doesn't even care.)
"You're a rock star," Pete says. He's got a bottle of Sprite in one hand, too full of chemicals to drink anything even like alcohol.
"Maybe," Patrick says.
He spends the night tacked to Pete's side, one hand on his beer, the other in Pete's, watching him schmooze and woo fans. He signs seven autographs and one pair of shapely tits, and calls Martin from the bathroom right before they get kicked out.
"I think this is going somewhere," Patrick shouts into the receiver. He's two hours behind Chicago, and it's already one o'clock here.
"Good luck," Martin mumbles. He sounds sleep thick but proud. "See you tomorrow, rock star."
"Tomorrow," Patrick repeats.
This is only the beginning.
---
Pete kisses him long and hard and messy when they drop Patrick off at his house. It's almost midnight, a long drive made longer by their unwillingness to admit that everything is over. Patrick hangs on to Pete's hoodie until Joe starts making rude comments from the front seat.
“Fuck off, Trohman,” Pete says cheerfully, pressing one last kiss to Patrick’s forehead. “Rest up. We have a record to make.”
Patrick watches the van drive off down the street, his little dented home on wheels. When he can’t see the taillights any longer he fishes his keys out of his pocket and lets himself inside. He’s surprised at how sharply he feels home in his chest.
There’s a note on the fridge from his mother, written in her curly cue handwriting. She’s left a plate in the microwave for him. Patrick grins and heads over. When he peeks in, he sees a thick cut of lasagna. He hasn’t had real food in over a month.
He eats his dinner cold, dropping his duffel bag off in the laundry room. The house smells like lemons, like his mother’s perfume. There’s no trace of unwashed boy or molding food or dirty socks anywhere. If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend that he never left at all. Above him, the ceiling creaks. Martin’s awake.
Patrick stuffs his plate into the dishwasher dutifully before making his way up the stairs. He can hear music coming from their bedroom, faint but definitely his own. Patrick grins to himself. Somehow, he’s still not sick of any of it. If he could, he’d play a show right now, into his empty living room.
“Hey,” he says softly, pushing the door open. Martin is laying on the floor in his boxers, flipping through a notebook. Patrick’s own voice breaks on the recording.
“Hey,” Martin replies. He’s got a smudge of ink on his chin, messed in with his stubble. He’s been writing.
“How’s the novel coming?” Patrick asks. He sinks down onto the carpet next to his brother. The exhaustion from tour is finally catching up to him.
“Shittily,” Martin answers. He tucks the notebook away. He looks just as tired as Patrick is, dark circles starting up under his eyes. There’s a red patch on his chest from the floor, matching spots on his elbows. “I had this big coming home plan for you but-” He breaks off on a yawn, jaw cracking and eyes squinting shut. Patrick can’t help mirroring him.
“Yeah, me too.”
They crawl into Patrick’s bed, flopping down on top of the covers in a heap. Martin is warm and familiar and good, and Patrick falls asleep caught up in him, right where he belongs.
Patrick’s woken up by the smell of bacon. His stomach rumbles, even as his eyes protest opening. He knows without question that his mother has made a feast downstairs. Martin’s breathing softly against his throat, leg thrown over Patrick’s hips. He groans when Patrick shoves at his shoulder, burying his face into Patrick’s chest.
“Breakfast,” Patrick says. He rolls Martin against the wall. His arm is asleep, pins tingling down into his wrist when he tries to wriggle it out from under his brother’s head. “Wake up or I’m eating yours too.”
“Dick,” Martin mumbles, reluctantly rolling to the other side of the bed.
“Jackass.” Patrick kisses the sleepy corner of Martin’s mouth. “Not kidding about eating your breakfast. I’m starving.”
Patrick stumbles downstairs in his boxers and tour damaged t-shirt. He’s only halfway into the kitchen when he’s scooped up into his mother’s arms. The embarrassment of it is pushed out of the way by the part of him that’s always going to be a homebody.
“Hey, mom,” he says, hugging her back.
“You look starved,” she says, holding him at arm’s length. “Were you eating out there? Sit down.” Patrick laughs and lets himself be dragged to the dining room table. He was right about the feast. It’s covered from end to end, way too much for the three of them to eat in one sitting. He winces when his mother shouts up the stairs for Martin. "I swear, that boy hasn't left that room since he's come home."
Martin's still yawning when he shows up in the doorway, rubbing at his eyes like a sleepy child. Their mother sighs, but Patrick can see how happy she is to have both of them under the same roof. She piles food onto their plates in heaps, chattering about their Uncle Dave's adventures in gardening.
"How was your trip?" His mother asks when she finally sits down. Across the table from him, Martin snickers.
"Great," Patrick answers sincerely. He tells them stories about Joe's unending quest for Pizza flavored Doritos and Andy's network of basements and bedrooms. His mother looks a little horrified, but Patrick can see her holding back, trying to encourage him. "It was the best time of my life."
"I'm happy for you, baby," she says. She pats his hand with hers, cool and dry and laden with rings she's had his entire life.
“Thanks,” he says sheepishly.
After breakfast, Patrick washes the dishes, listening to the stories Martin tells about classes while he dries. They keep bumping into each other, soap slick hands sliding up under shirts and over bare arms. They excuse themselves when the last dish is done, scampering up the stairs like they've always done
Patrick stretches out onto his bed, full and content. He’s not really tired, but the idea of laying around all day is too awesome to pass up. It’s even better when Martin lays next to him, scrunching in on the edge of the mattress. They’re getting too big for it, but Patrick can’t imagine not being this close.
“When do you start recording?” Martin asks.
“Next week.” Patrick doesn’t really want to think about it. Pete’s been reassuring him that the songs are good and that their producer is great, but Patrick’s got the everlasting doubt in the back of his mind that he just can’t shut off. “When do you go back to school?”
“Two days.” Martin tucks his hand into Patrick's, twisting their fingers together. Patrick's fingertips look grey next to his, rough from nonstop playing. Different.
Patrick hasn't really thought about the ways they're becoming different. Martin's always just been there, his mirror and his brother and his baseline. In two days Martin will leave him alone in the bedroom they've always shared. In a month, Patrick will move into a shitty little apartment in the city with Pete and Joe and officially leave everything of his childhood behind.
"I can hear you thinking," Martin says. He raises up on his elbows, looking down at Patrick. Patrick shrugs.
"We won't really see each other much soon, will we?" He asks.
He can feel Martin’s heartbeat under his hand, slow and steady. When they release the album, there will be another tour, and maybe a headlining one after that, and- and-
"Hey," Martin says gently. "Stop. You're panicking." He throws a leg over Patrick's thighs, shoving himself up. "We'll see each other. I'll, I don't know, go see your shows when you're close. And we can hang out on the weekends when you're home, and --"
"It's never going to be the same, is it?" Patrick asks.
"Stop it," Martin says. He kisses Patrick, soft and easy. "Hey, I have a present for you."
"What?" Patrick cranes his neck up, looking over Martin's shoulder. He hadn't seen anything last night, but he'd also been halfway to falling over. Martin grins. Patrick doesn't think he's ever managed to make his own face look quite that sly.
"Has Pete let you fuck him?" Martin asks bluntly. He tucks his fingers into the waistband of Patrick’s boxers, familiar and easy. Patrick stops short. He’d been so caught up in actually having sex at all that he’d never considered the other way around.
“I never asked,” he eventually says. He’s got a pretty good idea of where this is going, but he still sucks in a shallow breath when Martin crawls off of him to slide out of his underwear. He grins, more comfortable naked than Patrick ever has been. “Are you --”
“Don’t question it, little brother,” Martin says.
“Oh god. Don’t say that when you’re naked.” Patrick knows what they do is wrong. He doesn’t really need to be reminded about exactly why. Martin stretches up on his toes, patting the top bunk down. There’s a weak pattern of freckles across his ribs, a tiny patch of growing hair on his chest. Patrick wonders if this is what Pete sees, if the details of Martin are the same ones that make him up.
“Be gentle,” Martin says. He’s got a bottle of lube in his hands. He sounds calm, but the pinkness that’s spreading from his cheeks down across his chest says otherwise.
Patrick shimmies out of his own underwear, shirt balling up under the small of his back. When Martin settles back onto his thighs, bare skin sliding against bare skin, Patrick swallows back a surge of nervousness. He remembers how gentle Pete had been with him, how he'd talked him through it and laughed and kissed him.
(He remembers every detail like it's been burned into him. Pete's hands and Pete's mouth and Pete's name tripping off his tongue like he couldn't hold it in.)
"I trust you," Martin says, pressing the lube into Patrick's hand. He leans in, mouth brushing Patrick's ear, and says, "I tried some things while you were away."
Patrick does not think about Martin slicking his fingers and sliding them into himself. He doesn't ask if he did it on the phone that time Patrick had called him from the relative privacy of the Safeway bathroom, both of them breathless and laughing as they played at talking dirty to one another. He just spreads lube on his own fingers and slips his hand between Martin's legs, hoping he can keep it together long enough for both of them to enjoy it.
Patrick shivers right along with Martin when he presses the first finger in slowly. He's tight and soft and warm, and Patrick's dick jerks a little at the thought of being there. Martin squirms impatiently over him, setting the pace. (Patrick is too horny to think about how there's some great symbolism in that. Later, he'll wonder how much of his life Martin has influenced. Later, he still won't really care.)
"Two," Martin says. He bites his lip when Patrick nudges a second fingertip into him, breathing out a slow, shallow moan. "Be rough if you want." Fuck. Fuck. Patrick squeezes his eyes shut.
"I don't want to hurt you," he says tightly, hand shaking against Martin's skin. Martin laughs.
"What if I want you to?" He asks, rocking into Patrick's touch. "Maybe I want to feel it when I'm alone in class and you're off living happily ever after with Pete."
Patrick clenches his teeth and refuses to rise to the bait, ignoring the sting. He twists his wrist, feeling a little vicious when Martin groans. He won't feel guilty for falling in love. He won't.
Martin bats Patrick's hand away, settling himself over Patrick's hips. It's probably too soon, probably too much when Martin sinks slowly down onto Patrick's dick, but all Patrick can think about is how good it feels.
"Fuck," Martin hisses. He's biting his lip, hands thumping down onto Patrick's shoulders, pinning him in place. "Fuck." Patrick can feel every inch of him, skin buzzing where they’re touching. When Martin rocks his hips slowly, Patrick swears under his breath.
Martin’s thighs shake a little when he lifts himself up, a slow drag that makes Patrick’s toes curl. The blush across his skin hasn’t faded. Patrick touches what he can, tries to distract himself from the coil of urgency already pulsing under his skin.
There isn't enough room for Martin to sit up, but he grinds his hips against Patrick's, his dick dragging wetly over Patrick's stomach, and it's one of the most amazing things Patrick has ever felt. The pressure of Martin's palms against his shoulders is shifting into something almost painful. Patrick latches on to it, even as he tries to thrust his hips up into him.
It's almost embarrassingly short. Patrick stutters out a weak warning before he's coming into Martin, biting down on the moan in the back of his throat. Martin rides him through it, letting go with one hand to jerk himself off. The feel of him is almost too much around Patrick's softening cock. His body goes tight when he comes, his nails digging into Patrick's skin, mouth open and eyes closed.
(Patrick knows he looks like that after Pete's fucked him. Pete's shown him in mirrors and in darkened phone screens and in dirty pictures Patrick tries to pretend don't exist. It's got to be narcissism that tells him Martin's beautiful.)
"Holy shit." Patrick winces when Martin moves away from him. He feels like a fucking rag doll.
"Yeah." Martin flops down on him, sweaty and a little gross, and buries his face into Patrick's neck. "You should tell him."
"What?" Patrick knows Martin can hear his heart beating, knows he probably felt the skip. He wraps a limp arm around Martin's back, skin sticking where they're both sweating.
"You should tell Pete about me," Martin says. He kisses Patrick's cheek, lips dry and soft. "Think about it. I know you, Patrick. Lying to him is killing you."
"Martin --"
"It's Pete. He'll jump at the chance for a threesome." Martin pulls back, grinning. "He loves you. Maybe he can love me, too." It's as melodramatic as Martin always is, but it still settles into Patrick's chest like poison, making him feel a little sick and a little sad. Sometimes, he hates how well Martin knows him. "We can be happy together. All three of us."
"I don't --" Patrick squirms until he can sit up. The post sex looseness has left him. "Why do you always have to do this? Why can't we just lay here and fucking cuddle like normal people?"
"When have we ever been normal?" Martin asks sharply. "Trust me. Just tell him. We could be happy." For the first time Patrick can remember, he looks desperate. He's always been the rock, always been steady and sure and in charge. "Please." Patrick does the only thing he knows how to.
He says yes.
---
Patrick can barely breathe. He kisses Pete gently, lips brushing over the wry smile Pete’s been wearing for days. Martin’s just outside the room, waiting for Patrick to come get him. Patrick’s been stalling, mouth on Pete’s skin and hands shaking against Pete’s hips. It had seemed like such a good idea the day before, when everything had just been words.
“I have something I need to show you,” Patrick says, teeth sinking into the soft, tender skin of Pete’s throat. He tastes like salt, like sweat, familiar and good. Patrick can smell the cologne sticking to him, can taste the chemical residue left behind.
“Yeah?” Pete grins, lewd. He sits up on his elbows, eyebrows raised. He wriggles his hips under Patrick’s, hard on digging into Patrick’s thigh.
“Yeah, I just --” Patrick crawls off of him, heartbeat thundering in his ears. This is it. He swallows when he reaches for the door handle, slick palm skidding off it the first time he tries to turn it.
Patrick’s back is turned to Pete when Martin walks in. He doesn’t know what the reaction is, isn’t really sure he wants to know. He brushes his fingers over Martin’s hand, trying to steady himself. Now that he’s here, it doesn’t seem like such a great idea at all.
“Pete, I uh.” Patrick turns, head down. He can’t bring himself to look up. “You’ve already met, but this is Martin.” My twin is left off, too obvious and tacky and weird in Patrick’s mouth anytime he says it. They’re something else, and everyone they’ve ever met has known, and Pete isn’t saying anything.
“Hey,” Martin says, just as uncertain. The bravado he's been wearing all day is fading away almost visibly, leaving him shrunken in on himself.
“What do you mean we’ve met?” Pete asks slowly. He looks overwhelmed, like he can't tell what to do with them. He hasn't moved from the bed, legs still spread, bare chest a little slick. Patrick can see the spots his mouth left, dark and already bruising. He doesn't want to share either of them.
(He's rarely greedy, but both of them are his and it's not fair.)
“Martin, uh. He pretended to be me sometimes.” It sounds stupid as soon as Patrick says it. Fuck, they’ve been doing this their whole lives, flipping themselves sideways and back until no one could tell the difference. Blessing and curse, Martinnpatrick, a whole in the end even if they didn’t want it that way.
Pete sits up slowly, running slow fingers through his hair. He stares at Patrick, confused. Maybe a little hurt. Patrick drops his head. He's tired of making people upset.
"So, what, you've been --" Pete waves a hand between them and himself.
"We share everything," Martin says. It sounds a little sharp. Patrick won't realize for years that he was the one with the most to lose.
"I'm not a fucking Lunchable," Pete snaps. "I'm a person, and it's fucked up that you guys could fucking -- could use me like that."
"It's fucked up that you couldn't tell it wasn't always me," Patrick says quietly.
Patrick reaches for his discarded shirt on the floor. He's not really sure how he'd expected this to go, but in his head things always went better. He doesn't think Pete will call off the band, but he's already waiting for their hesitant relationship to crumble.
"Stop," Pete says, reaching for him. He doesn't quite grab on, but Patrick can feel the heat from him. "Just. Give me a minute." Patrick pulls his shirt on, backing away. He doesn’t quite lean against Martin, but he can feel himself inching towards him. "Who -- "
“I’m older,” Martin says, cutting Pete off. There’s color in his cheeks, dark and getting angry. “Yes, we’re completely identical. Patrick was with you first.” Patrick can see where Martin’s going, can feel coldness creeping up into his skin. “We’ve been fucking around since we were thirteen. No. You don’t get just one of us.”
Martin lets out a shaky breath. There’s a moment of silence, thick and uneasy. Patrick can see his future leaving him already, flashes of shows and shared beds going up in smoke. He’ll always have Martin. Always. But, man, he’s in love with Pete in a way he's never felt before. Martin takes his hand, curling their fingers together when Patrick makes no move to.
“I --” Pete closes his eyes. He looks tired. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”
“Are we too fucked up for you?” Patrick asks. He’s sat up for nights with Pete, keeping him company while he’d clawed at his skin, unable to do anything but hang on. If anyone could understand fucked up, it's Pete. He'd been relying on it.
“Fuck, can you just shut up?” Pete shoves up off the bed, getting into their faces. “Can I get five fucking seconds to process that you’ve been lying to me about having a twin for the entire time I’ve known you?” He shoves Patrick’s shoulder, and Martin stumbles back with him. “I thought we were together, but you’ve been fucking someone else the entire time. Fuck you for making me the bad guy here. Fuck you.”
Patrick feels like he’s been punched in the chest. This close, he can almost feel the rage pulsing in Pete’s temple. He hadn’t thought -- Martin isn’t another person like that. They’re a whole, have always been a whole even when they’ve tried to peel themselves apart.
“Get out,” Pete says. His jaw ticks, clenched down tight, one arm thrown toward the door.
“Pete --”
“Both of you, get the fuck out.” Pete shoves them again, one hand on each of them. They nearly topple over each other, feet tangling up.
“Pete --” Patrick lets go of Martin’s hand, trying to catch Pete’s wrist. Pete punches him in the mouth. He feels his teeth cut into his lip, feels blood against his tongue even as his hands rise up to test it.
There’s an explosion of sound, Pete and Martin shouting, the sound of fists against skin. Patrick stands stunned in the middle of the room, hand pressed to his bleeding mouth. Time feels like it’s slowed down, stuck into the middle spaces of his heartbeats. He watches Martin bang gracelessly at Pete’s shoulders and jaw, watches Pete’s lip curl up in a sneer. He can’t move.
Pete rolls them over and cocks his fist back, the muscles in his back and bicep bunching. Martin looks small under him, struggling but weak. This isn’t how it was supposed to happen.
“We’ll go,” Patrick says, words stumbling out. They hurt, drag across his split lip like salt. “We’ll go.” Pete doesn’t look at them when they leave. Patrick feels like his heart’s a stone in his chest, sinking with each step.
"I'm sorry," Martin says when they get home. Patrick jerks away from him. It had been stupid to listen to him, and he'd known it.
"Just stop," Patrick says. "Just. Stop." He crawls into bed, ignoring the sunlight filtering in through the window. To his credit, Martin leaves him alone. Patrick closes his eyes and hopes that Pete won't destroy them.
---
Patrick hasn't left his bed in two days. His stomach hurts and his head feels dizzy but he can't make himself move. Martin checks on him every few hours, silent but there. Patrick wants him to go away, wants to sleep, wants to - to --
"You're being pathetic," Martin says on the last time, quiet enough that Patrick barely hears him.
"Fuck. You." Patrick curls up around his stomach. He thinks of the album and the vague tour outline on the calendar in Joe's room and Pete -- He's as good as lost it all. "Get out."
"This is my room too," Martin says.
"Like Pete was your boyfriend too? Like my life is your life too?" Patrick yanks his blanket up higher. He can smell himself. It's fucking disgusting. "I'm done. I tried to keep everything and I got fucking nothing. So fuck you and fuck off."
"That's not fair --"
"Fuck. You." Patrick closes his eyes. "I'm done." It doesn't even hurt when Martin walks out.
---
Pete doesn't show up for the first day of recording. The tension in the room stretches them all thin, bleeds into the music. Patrick's voice sounds weak over the playback. Tired. He takes his headphones off before he can hear everything. This isn't going to work.
Andy leaves with the producer, apologizing for Pete. Patrick's head hurts. He can remember Pete going on in spirals about how the band was the only thing keeping him together, angst drunk and desperate for meaning. Patrick can't imagine him giving it up for anything.
"You look like shit," Joe says. His guitar is still out, placed carefully against the wall. He's upgraded from the tour, found a guitar that actually suits him. "Come on, Patrick. What happened?"
There's a lot Patrick could say, but nothing comes out. He can't tell anyone. He can't ask for help. It's him and him and him, and he hates it. Joe hugs him. It's not enough at all, but Patrick clings to it hopelessly. He feels young and stupid. Weak.
"It's okay, dude," Joe says softly. He pulls Patrick in tighter, squeezing him until he can barely breathe. Patrick feels like he's going to break the second Joe lets go of him, just fly into useless pieces. "Breathe, man. Breathe."
"Pete broke up with me," Patrick says, words sharp over his tongue. It makes his chest hurt. "I hurt him pretty bad." Joe squeezes him tighter.
"It's Pete," he says, chest rumbling against Patrick's. "He'll come back for you." Patrick laughs, pressing his face to Joe's shoulder. He smells like weed and worn down cologne, familiar from so many nights stuffed together in the van together.
"Not this time," Patrick says.
"I think you're wrong," Joe says. He ruffles Patrick's hair as he pulls away, smiling. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"
He walks past Pete on his way out.
"How long have you been there?" Patrick asks. He can't meet Pete's eyes. Instead he stares at the dark skin across Pete's cheek, the bruises on his arms. His lip is split down the center like Patrick's, fresh enough that it's still bleeding down his chin. Pete shrugs.
"Long enough," he mumbles. He's leaning against the door, head down. Patrick wonders what wall he got into a fight with, wonders if he's been sleeping or taking his meds or driving himself into the ground. He feels guilty.
Neither of them moves. Patrick can't feel his hands, can't move, can barely breathe. The equipment around them is still buzzing with the sound of their recordings, drum beats and half laid guitars and his own voice cycling over the same verse. It sounds hollow coming out of the headphones on the table, barely recognizable. It's annoying but Patrick can't move to switch it off.
When the silence has stretched on for too long, Patrick manages to clear his throat and ask, "What happened?"
"Martin came over this morning," Pete says. He touches his fingertips to the bruised skin under his eye and winces. "He has a shorter fuse than even you."
"Yeah." Patrick laughs despite himself. He can see Martin shoving himself inside Pete's mom's house; he can see him taking the first swing without prompting. "He's always been like that."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Pete asks. He finally pushes off the door, letting it swing shut behind him. The rest of the building is going dark, people going home for the day. Someone will probably kick them out soon.
"I --" Patrick sinks down onto the couch, rubbing weak hands over his eyes. He's so damn tired. "You were the first person who ever saw me as just Patrick."
Pete slides down next to him. He's wearing a beaten down hoodie even though the studio is overheated. Patrick stares at their grass stained sneakers, thinks about last year when everything was coming together, thinks about Pete kissing him in the backseat like it was something important.
"We love you," Patrick says. He pauses, the words stuck in his throat. As tired as he is of saying we, he couldn't imagine being anywhere but at his side. "I love you."
"Sometimes that's not enough," Pete says slowly. Still, he turns his hand palm up where it's resting on his thigh. His skin is smooth and warm under Patrick's fingertips, tense. Patrick hangs on, eyes slipping closed.
"Where do we go from here?" He asks. There's nowhere left to go but up. Pete squeezes Patrick's hand, tight enough to grind his knuckles together.
"Tomorrow, we come back here and work on the album," Pete says after a long moment. "Then we go sign the lease for the apartment." Patrick can hear him swallow, can feel him moving, but still can't look at him.
"And tonight?"
"Tonight we go tell Joe that he's going to have to move somewhere else," Pete says. Patrick breathes out a long sigh of relief. The band that's been tightening around his chest snaps. "Martin wants to meet them officially. He kind of insisted."
"Yeah," Patrick says again. He laughs until it hurts, his stomach aching and his lungs sore, until Pete pulls him into a hug that hurts almost just as much.
"Breathe," Pete says. He rubs his hand over Patrick's back gently, shushing him. It's usually the other way around. "Come on, get your shit together. We're going home."
---
"Huh," Joe says. He looks from Martin to Patrick and back again. When he reaches up to prod at Martin's face, Patrick bats his hand away irritably.
"He's not an alien," Patrick huffs.
"Dude, there's two of you," Joe says. The waitress stops for a moment before passing them by. Patrick sighs. He's starving. "It's weird."
"Technically, we're still separate people," Martin says. He's got a shiner and a cut on the inside of his shirt collar. No one has mentioned how fucked up he and Pete look, and Patrick's grateful for it. "What with the egg splitting and all."
"Semantics." Joe waves a hand between them before narrowing his eyes at Pete. "How are you not having spasms about two Patricks?"
"Martin isn't Patrick," Pete says sharply. He's hunched down next to Patrick, staring at his menu. They've been here hundreds of times and get the same thing every time. As cool as he'd been about it in the studio, the hesitant way he reaches for Patrick means it's not really over. On Patrick's other side, Martin tenses.
"Stop being a jackass," Andy says. It isn't really clear who he's talking to. All of them, maybe. "It's nice to officially meet you." He offers his hand, but doesn't seem that surprised when Martin doesn't reach for him.
"You knew?" Joe asks, mouth hanging open. Andy shrugs.
"Martin writes better lyrics," he answers. Patrick wants to protest, but it's true. "You could have just said something, though."
"It's complicated," Patrick mumbles. He picks at the crumpled straw wrapper on the table in front of him. He feels like a little kid, sulking in the corner after being found out. "It's a twin thing."
"So, can you, like, read each other's minds?" Joe asks. He's making that stupid face that he always makes when he's trying not to laugh. Patrick kicks him under the table.
"I'm fucking hungry," he says, scowling. "Shut the fuck up so the waitress can take our order." Andy coughs into his hand, eyes bright behind his glasses. Patrick's band is full of assholes.
Half an hour later, they've moved on from twin talk to band talk. Pete's warming up in slow increments, cracking jokes at Joe's expense when the opportunity arises, putting in his opinion on the sound they're aiming for. He doesn't hold himself as tightly when his thigh bumps against Patrick's. When Martin excuses himself to the bathroom, Patrick fights the urge to follow him out.
"We could probably sell the twin thing," Joe says around a mouthful of pizza. "Dueling vocalists."
"Martin doesn't sing," Patrick says. This, he thinks, is why he didn't want to introduce them. "He doesn't know much about music at all, actually." Andy's watching him in that creepy way that means he knows more than he's letting on.
"Spoil sport," Joe grumbles.
"Your mom," Patrick says mildly. He starts to press against Pete when he sees Martin coming back, trying to slide them out of the booth, but Pete holds fast. Martin slips in next to him without a word.
"A Patrick sandwich," Joe sing-songs, waving a soggy, ketchup smeared fry at them. "Your dream come true."
"I'm going to punch you in the nuts if you call me Patrick again," Martin threatens. For the first time all day, Pete laughs.
(Sometime later, when Andy's talking about his roommates and Joe's eyes have glossed over with boredom, Pete slides his hand into Patrick's. Patrick knows, knows, without looking that he's done the same to Martin. Maybe, just maybe, things will actually work out.)
---
Recording is hell.
Patrick gets a sore throat halfway through and has to sing around it for three tracks. He can hear the rasp in his voice on the playback and winces every time it loops over. They've been living on the studio floor and off donated food, too tired to go home at night and quickly running out of funds. Even Joe who has an unlimited source of energy and enthusiasm is lagging.
Martin's been staying with them, huddled up in the corner with Pete. They've been passing Pete's notebook back and forth for days, writing and rewriting lyrics. Patrick wants to strangle them both. If he has to rerecord one damn note, he's going to burn the studio down. Andy, who has been doing this longer than all of them combined, doesn't seem to care at all.
It's all worth it, every last ounce of effort and hunger pain, when they listen to the finished album for the very first time, all huddled around the sound booth like a pack of exhausted puppies. The producer hits play and sits back, smiling at them proudly. Patrick's breath is taken away. All this hard work, every thing they've done, is right here in front of him sounding awesome and real and all theirs. Pete squeezes his hand like he knows what Patrick's thinking.
They listen to every damn song right there.
---
Martin has most of their room packed up. Patrick sidesteps the boxes carefully, trying not to let the sadness of finally, really leaving their mother's house settle in. She's got her own box of kitchen supplies packed up for them in the living room, labeled carefully in her delicate handwriting.
"Eric's going to bring my stuff from the dorm," Martin says, taping another box shut. He's shirtless, arms and shoulders tensing as he rearranges things around the room. There's sweat at the small of his back, sinking into a pair of sweats that used to be Patrick's.
"Is this weird?" Patrick asks. He climbs over a stack to flop down onto his bed. He hasn't really slept since they finished the album, too nervous about printing and circulation and reception.
"Yeah," Martin says. He kicks a box of shoes into the big pile. One of them must have scratched him. There's a long line across his stomach, red and a little raised. "But what's new there?"
Patrick scoots over enough to let Martin in with him. This is the last time they'll lay in this bed. Pete's bringing in his queen sized bed from his own parents' house. It's almost too much to think about, let alone talk about.
"Stop worrying," Martin says. He kisses Patrick slow and soft, tugs his hat off. "You take care of Pete, and I'll take care of you." Patrick sighs, letting his eyes slip closed. "It'll be okay."
As he drifts off, Patrick thinks that he might actually believe it this time.
---
The bed is huge.
Patrick touches the military tight corners, looks at the three sets of pillows against the headboard. Pete’s stuff is already out and unpacked, tucked away in the closets and cupboards and rooms. He’s out signing papers for a new van, nothing left of him but a note on the fridge about ordering pizza for dinner. Patrick can hear Martin unpacking in the living room, swearing at the packing tape.
Patrick’s supposed to be putting their laundry away, but he can’t make himself look away from the bed. The part of him that’s terrified about becoming an adult and learning how to balance Pete and Martin and himself is stuck on how badly this could go, how easy it would be to tip this newfound delicate stability. The part of him that’s all teenage boy can’t stop himself from imagining breaking in the mattress with all three of them breathless and sweating on the plaid sheets.
The CD is due out in two months. Patrick’s got a calendar already hung up on the back of the bedroom door, dates highlighted and marked with doctors appointments and Martin’s class schedule and future tour dates. Martin’s blocked out the day of the release party with neon green highlighter.
Something crashes in the kitchen. Patrick winces, winding his way down the hall to check the damage. Martin’s throwing pans across the room, shouting. Patrick’s anger has always been on a hair trigger, but Martin’s comes almost without prompting. Patrick doesn’t ask.
“Maybe you should take a break,” Patrick says, picking the pots up from their heap in the corner.
“I just want to get this shit put away,” Martin snaps, shoving a cookie sheet into the drawer under the stove. Patrick leads him away from the kitchen dutifully, shoving him down onto the couch before he can break anything.
“I’m going to order pizza, and we’re going to watch a movie when Pete gets home,” Patrick says. “We have time to finish.” Martin slumps against the couch obediently.
Pete beats the pizza home by five minutes. He’s got a stack of papers in one hand, an overflowing cup of coffee in the other. His phone is shoved between his shoulder and his cheek, the tinny sound of someone’s voice on the other side leaking through. There’s a moment where Patrick thinks he’s going to go flying over a stack of broken down boxes, but he does a weird little hop that only spills a little of his coffee onto the hallway floor.
"No, no, yeah," Pete mutters, letting the papers fall onto the dining room table. Patrick's name is at the top of one of them, followed up by Joe's and Andy's. "We're available in October. Totally."
Patrick cleans up after him, shoving the papers into the lockbox under the kitchen cabinet and swiping a towel over the trail of lukewarm coffee he's left behind. On the couch, Martin flips the television from cable to DVD.
"Thanks," Pete says into the phone before clicking it shut. "I," he announces, "am the best fucking tour manager we'll ever have." He flops down onto the cushion next to Martin, landing half on top of him. After a moment, he seems to realize what he's done and slides toward the other arm.
"Do I want to ask why?" Patrick sees Martin flinch, can track the way Pete's eyes fall to the floor. Things have been getting more comfortable, but there are still tense spots that haven't been worked out yet. Patrick tries to ignore them, hopes they'll smooth out eventually.
"We've got our very first headlining tour in October," Pete says. He puffs his chest out, scrawny and thin under his bleached t-shirt. "It's only four stops so far, but I just started." Patrick laughs.
"Pete fucking Wentz," he says, grinning. He thinks about recording Pete's adventures in self-destruction, knows for sure that Pete really can do anything he sets his sites on. Pete grins back.
They watch Return of the Jedi and devour their pizza, Pete pressed in the middle of them. It's nice. Patrick rests his head on Pete's shoulder, hat tipping sideways. It digs into his temple, but he's too comfortable to move it.
He doesn't realize he's fallen asleep until Pete's shaking him awake, talking in a low whisper to Martin. The credits are playing, the music familiar enough that Patrick hums along without really thinking about it. There's laughter, Pete's or Martin's Patrick can't tell, and then Patrick's tipping sideways onto Martin's lap, Pete sliding out from under him easily.
"Bedtime," Martin says. He grins, eyebrows raised. Patrick knows what he's thinking, can see the dirty thoughts rolling through his mind without having to ask any questions. The sound of Pete locking up seals everything.
"Play nice," Patrick whispers. Martin laughs, low in his throat, and shoves Patrick off the couch.
They follow Pete into the bedroom, bumping into each other in the hall. The easy, sleepy weight in Patrick's limbs has faded away, replaced by anticipation. He can't take his eyes off of Pete.
"Can I kiss him?" Martin asks when they've shut the door.
Patrick knows Martin's talking to him, knows that he's been dying to get his hands on Pete for months, but Pete thumps down on the bed, eyes wide and mouth open and says, "Yeah." He looks between them, lingers on their mouths, and then repeats himself. "Yeah. Go for it."
Let it be said that Martin never says no to a challenge.
He slips out of his shirt, letting it drop to the floor, comfortable in his skin in a way Patrick's never been able to catch. There's a bruise on his shoulder that's almost healed, left over from the fight that brought them all together. Patrick feels its edges when Martin closes in on him, listens to soft sound of Pete getting comfortable on the bed.
"Relax," Martin whispers, breath sliding hot against Patrick's mouth. "He thinks we're hot." Martin's fingers tuck into the waistband of Patrick's sweats, pull him in until their bodies crash together. "He's going to love it."
Kissing Martin is like coming home. Patrick knows all his corners, knows the spots to touch him to make him squirm. He feels like they should be putting on a show, like they should be doing something more than making out. Something more interesting. He thinks about shoving Martin against a wall or maybe down into the bed, but then Martin bites his lip and he forgets all about having an audience.
Martin's skin is smooth and warm, his hands soft when they slip under Patrick's shirt. He tucks his knee between Martin's legs and groans when he feels Martin's dick hard and hot against him. His own jerks in his boxers. It's been too long since any of them have been laid. It's going to be a good night.
There's a thud from the bed, Pete's elbow smacking into the headboard. Patrick laughs, tucking his face into the curve of Martin's shoulder. When he bites down, just to taste there's matching gasps.
"How far do you want us to go?" Patrick asks. He sucks at the red spot low on Martin's throat, grinding his hips against Martin's. The look on Pete's face, the slack jaw and the dark eyes, makes something come loose in Patrick's chest. He likes it. He really does think they're hot together.
"Get naked," Pete says. He pops the button on his jeans, legs spread and shirt rucked up. "Fuck, I want you naked."
"Let's play a game," Martin says. He steps back from Patrick, hand shaking a little as it falls away from Patrick's hip. Patrick knows already where this is going, tries not to laugh. "Close your eyes."
"What are you doing?" Pete asks. There's a moment where Patrick thinks he's not going to go for it, but then Pete does as he's told, frowning.
"Playing a game," Martin answers simply.
"We'll get naked if you can tell us apart," Patrick says. He crawls onto the bed, dropping down to lie between Pete's thighs.
"If you can't," Martin says, resting a hand low on Patrick's back, "we'll make you keep your eyes shut."
"So pick carefully." Patrick runs his hands up Pete's thighs, feeling the muscles tense under his palms.
Patrick watches Martin lean in, slow and steady and sure, his heart thumping against his ribs. He wants Pete to know who he is, wants Pete to be able to see them as Patrick and Martin, even when they’re tangled up like this. Martin presses his lips to Pete’s, gentle and sweet and trying to mimic the way he knows Patrick kisses.
“He’s good, right?” Patrick asks, fingers slipping into the waist of Pete’s jeans.
(He’s good at being Martin. Sometimes, he’s better at being Martin than being himself.) The bulge of Pete’s cock is warm under Patrick’s palm, jerks under him when he presses down. Pete chases after Martin when he pulls away. Martin laughs, already moving to switch places with Patrick. They can see Pete trying to listen to them, eyebrows drawn together. When Patrick kisses him, he grins, lips twitching against Patrick’s mouth.
“Patrick,” he says. He opens his eyes, his stupid grin spreading across his face. “You’re Patrick.”
“How do you know?” Patrick asks. He stutters a little, tongue heavy. Pete laughs at him. Behind him, Martin’s gone a little tense. He’s just as surprised as Patrick is.
“I’d know that mouth anywhere,” Pete says. He yanks Patrick in for a kiss that’s wet and dirty and more silly than sexy. “I’m right. I’m totally right, and you just don’t want to admit it.” He looks up at Martin, hand still fisted in Patrick’s shirt.
“Maybe,” Martin admits. Pete tugs at Patrick’s collar, eyes dark.
“I want my prize,” he says. "Naked. Both of you."
This is familiar, Pete helping him out of his shirt, more groping than actual helping. Patrick can hear Martin taking his jeans off, hears when his stupid belt buckle hits the floor, can feel the pressure of him climbing onto the bed with him. There are too many hands and too many legs, and of he doesn't start laughing now he's going to bust from disbelief.
"What do you want?" Patrick asks. He has to shuffle off the side of the bed to get his sweats off. Martin's already naked, knelt at the edge of the mattress like he's waiting for Pete to make up his mind.
(Someway, somehow, Patrick knows Martin's got the whole thing planned out already. Knows he's choreographing every move in his head as Patrick struggles not to fall over himself.)
"I want to watch," Pete says. It's not surprising to either of them.
Patrick fights the urge to cover himself up with a well-placed hand. This is Pete, and this is Martin, and both of them know him better than anyone else ever will. Instead, he presses his knees against the side of the mattress, close enough to touch Pete if he wants, and holds his hand out to Martin.
"Tell me what you want me to do," Martin says, fingers tangling up with Patrick's. His dick bobs between his thighs when he knee-walks over, the mattress squeaking under his shifting weight.
"Suck him off," Pete says, voice rough. He's got a hand in his jeans, stroking himself lazily. It's just like Patrick had imagined, desperate and alone in his bed back when things had first started.
Patrick takes a deep breath, cringing at the way Martin wiggles his eyebrows. He's going to put on a damn good show, and Patrick's just hoping he can keep up. Pete kicks at Martin's thigh after a moment, urging him on.
The thing is, Martin's got just as much experience as Patrick as sucking dick. They've spent long nights together huddled around Patrick's laptop watching porn, laughing at each other's pink faces and taking down mental notes with each red, wet mouth. Pete's said things like savant and genius and natural born cocksucker. Practice, Patrick thinks, really does make perfect.
Martin teases, puts his mouth on Patrick's thighs, nuzzles the patch of hair above Patrick's cock. He wraps his hand around the base of Patrick's dick loosely, licks at the head with broad, gentle strokes. It feels good, makes Patrick's knees go a little weak. He wraps a hand up in Martin's hair to steady himself. Martin goes slow, pokes his tongue out and drags it up, up, up. In his head, Patrick knows that Martin's thinking of popsicles, his grin wry and his eyes dark. Patrick pulls his hair a little meanly.
When he finally wraps his lips around Patrick's cock, Pete's groan is almost as loud as Patrick's. The vibration of Martin's laughter sends shivers up Patrick's spine, sticks in his chest and makes his cock ache. He watches Martin's lips slide down the shaft slow, slow, slow, inching towards the base. That bastard, Patrick thinks, stifling a moan. He's already showing off.
On the other side of the bed, Pete's managed to shove his jeans down to his ankles, his knees bent and his dick a rude red in the spaces between his fingers. He's matching Martin's tempo, slow stroke down, quick jerk up, his chest rising and falling visibly. Patrick doesn't know if he should be watching Martin's mouth or Pete's hand, his brain a jumble stuck on the wet, wet heat that's hitting him in all the right places.
(He loves Pete, but no one will ever know his body the way Martin does.)
One of Martin's hands slide around Patrick's thigh, his fingertips like fire. Each time he ducks his head down, Patrick's knees wobble. He can feel Pete's eyes on them like a weight, steady and constant and heavy. Patrick can't look back, can barely keep his eyes open enough to watch the blur of Martin's hair. Patrick wants to cry a little when Martin backs away with a slick little pop, his mouth red and wet and swollen.
"Do you want me go get him off?" Martin asks. Patrick knees him in the chest. That fucker.
"Yeah," Pete says. He meets Patrick's eyes, his Adams apple bobbing. Patrick's heart stutters. He doesn't look away when Martin goes down on him again, moans unashamedly.
Pete gets off before Patrick does, comes in thick stripes over his fingers and stomach. Heat coils up in Patrick's belly and spills out over his skin, makes him feel like he's going to implode. Fuck, fuck, fuck, Martin is good at this. Patrick's going to have to step up his game to stay on top.
"Come on," Pete says. He touches the curve of Martin's hip, smoothes his palm across Martin's thigh. "Get him off."
Patrick can feel the moment Pete's fingers wrap around Martin's cock. He swears under his breath when Martin moans around him. He's so close, thighs shaking and heart racing. It's sensation overload, the heat of Martin's mouth and the rhythm of Pete's arm and the urgency building up in his spine. They shake apart together, Martin pulling away to moan against Patrick's hip.
They're all going to need showers.
Patrick rests his shaky knees against the mattress and tries to catch his breath. He smiles weakly at Pete, too tired to bother with thinking about consequences and legality and morality. Maybe it's stupid of him, and maybe it'll bite him in the ass but, for now at least, he doesn't care.
Pete laughs at their faces when he wipes at Martin's shoulder with the edge of the sheet. It comes away smeared with some pretty damning evidence. If he wanted to be cruel, Patrick would point out the bit that ended up in Martin's hair, right below his ear.
(It's gross and weird and funny and embarrassing, just like every other part of this little triangle. Patrick's pretty sure he's ready to get used to this being his life.)
There's not a lot of room left in the bed once all of them settle down. Somehow, Pete's managed to squeeze between them, all knees and elbows and sharp hips. His skin is slick and hot where it touches Patrick, the damp hollow of his knee making Patrick sweat. They need a fan for their room, too much body heat and not enough ventilation. One of Martin's arms curl around Pete, his knuckles knocking against Patrick's side.
Pete's always slept like he's fighting, legs jerking and hands drawn up into fists. One of them is going to probably end up on the floor before the night is through. Patrick latches onto Pete like it's going to stop the inevitable. Martin, he doesn't know any better. Patrick doesn't feel mean at all for hoping he's the one that ends up on his ass.
(They may be lovers, but they're still brothers. Patrick's going to use his advanced knowledge of Pete until he absolutely can't.)
"We're good, right?" Patrick asks. He traces the lines of Pete's shoulder blades, taps his thumb anxiously against the smooth skin.
"Shut up," Martin says, muffled against Pete's shoulder. "Sleeping." He yelps when Patrick pinches his stomach, nearly toppling off the bed on his own. "Fuck you."
"Fuck you," Patrick mimics, pitching his voice up. It doesn't have any heat in it. Pete's grinning, the soft look around his eyes enough to shake away some of Patrick's worries.
"Go to sleep," Pete says. He yawns, wide and loud and obnoxious, and tugs Patrick in closer. "We'll talk later." We'll talk later is usually Pete-speak for we'll never speak about this again. This time, Patrick's pretty sure he actually means it. Even if he doesn't, Patrick's stubborn like a bull. They'll talk one way or another.
Patrick sleeps like a fucking baby all night.
---
They have a release party at Andy's place. The entire crew gathers up in the back yard with a keg and the grill, the CD playing on a loop in the background. Patrick ducks his head every time someone compliments it, stuffs chips into his mouth so he won't have to talk. He directs them to Pete instead.
Pete's holding court on the patio, red plastic cup in his hand, gesturing wildly. Martin's sitting with him, laughing right along. Patrick wonders how many people think it's him. He can have the spotlight. Patrick just wants to get drunk and curl up on the sofa bed until next week.
It's good. The CD came out better than he could have hoped, and tour starts in a few weeks, and he and Pete and Martin have been spending night after awesome night curled up in bed together, laughing and touching and learning how to be a whole. Everything is coming together, but the aftermath of stress is exhausting.
"Yo, Stump," Joe calls, waving. He's smoking on the couch, feet propped up on the arm. Andy's going to have a fit when he comes in. Still, Patrick plops down onto the armchair next to him and takes the joint when it's handed to him.
"Which one am I?" Patrick asks, the familiar question almost a greeting. The smoke coils up in his lungs, burns going down. Stress slips out of him with his exhale, bleeds straight out of his skin. He needs to relax and enjoy life.
"No fair," Joe whines. He's the only one who still can't tell them apart. Half the time, Patrick sure he's doing it on purpose. Patrick blows smoke into his face.
"Take a guess, jackass." Patrick hands the joint back and sinks into the armchair. He kind of misses playing switch and bait. The world's always more exciting when he's Martin.
"I refuse to be brought into your fucked up game," Joe says. The hand resting on his hip is playing out the drums, fingers ticking away in time. They all know this music in their sleep, could probably recite each note by name in unison. "Dude, do you do this to Pete?"
"As much as I can," Patrick answers honestly.
Pete's gotten better at telling them apart, has been able to see the tiny cracks in their similarities without looking too hard. It's scary and awesome and exciting, new ground for all of them. One day, he'll know them as well as they know each other. Patrick waves the joint away when Joe tries to hand it back to him. There's been talk about a set at the end of the night and he doesn't want to fuck up his voice before he has to sing.
"Patrick," Joe says, eyes narrowed. Patrick snorts at the triumphant sound Joe makes. "You're way more neurotic."
Before Patrick can tell him to fuck off, there's the sound of the party coming in through the back doors. There's no way to hide the smoke or the smell, but Joe still pinches off his joint and shoves it into his wallet, eyes wide when he hears them. He'll be spraying down the couch with air freshener for weeks.
Martin's the first in. He flops into what little space is left in the armchair, hip digging into Patrick's side, elbow in the small dents between Patrick's ribs. He's got a red cup in one hand and a notebook in the other, waving both of them around as he shout-talks to Pete in the kitchen. His handwriting is tucked in with Pete's, curly and small. They've ignored the lines, switched between pens and Sharpies and pencils, a rainbow of text squeezed onto the page. Patrick isn't really looking forward into deciphering it.
Patrick takes his cup, downs the last of the lukewarm beer inside it. Pete's supposed to drive them home, but the loudness of his voice makes Patrick think they'll be crashing here instead.
(He's kind of bummed. Martin will have to sleep on the couch, away from them for the first time since they've started sleeping together. Pete's an open book, but there's some things that even he isn't allowed to share. One day, maybe they can tell the band. One day, maybe they can let their tense shoulders go and relax into themselves.)
"We," Pete declares when he enters the room, "are in need of a merch boy." He's red in the face, hoodie probably lost in a pile somewhere. They're definitely staying over. "And I know a certain English major that has three months off for winter break."
"Fuck, no," Joe moans. He huffs when Pete sits on his stomach, coughing up smoke. "I'm not playing the which one is Patrick game all tour."
"Guess you'll have to learn how to tell us apart," Martin says, smiling sly and wide. Patrick laughs. "Does this mean I get to sign all of your autographs for you, rock star?"
"Like Pete's going to let me get away with that," Patrick says. Across from him, Pete grins.
"Double vision rock stars." Pete kicks at their knees with his bare foot, nearly falling backward over the back of the couch. "We'll make a fortune."
"Good to see you have your priorities straight," Patrick says. Still, he's glad that they're going to have Martin along with them. They're figure out the details later.
Patrick's half past drunk when Andy collects them for their end of the night set. It's probably going to be terrible, and they're all sick of the music, but they still wobble their way onto the back porch, snagging the acoustic guitars stashed in the hall closet. Fucking Pete is getting out easy, playing announcer instead of bassist, introducing them song by song.
Their friends still cheer at the end of each one, even though they have to be terrible. Patrick sings through the laughter, blushes every time someone calls out his name. He's going to do this for the rest of his life if he has to kill someone.
"We are Fall Out Boy, and we're going to take over the world," Pete shouts.
Later, when the night's wound down and the party's left, the three of them squeeze into the bathroom, exchange goodnight kisses and goodnight gropes, laugh at the way none of them can stand up on their own. Pete holds onto them like they'll run away if he lets go, huddles them up and tries to wrap his arms around them both.
Fuck the world, Patrick thinks. This, right here, is all he'll ever need.