Yeah, I read Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist Too (NC-17)
Title : Yeah, I read Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist too.
Summary : Pete takes a late night plane ride to alieviate some fears and some sexual tension
Author : miss_reed
Rating : NC-17
Author's Notes : I hope you've all read Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist, because it's amazing. If not, go get it!
Earlier that morning, Pete had finally been asleep. His heavy eyelids had slumped so that his thick lashes had rested heavily on his cheeks and he had begun to dream. He'd dream of Patrick sitting at the piano in the studio, experimentally pressing the keys one after another in no clearly musical order. But Pete was imagining words to describe the curve of his spine as he bent forward to write the notes on the paper. Patrick was humming under his breath, trying to form the melody before he transferred it to the paper with his gnawed on pencil.
Then Pete's dream got irrational. Violently irrational. He couldn't really remember much except the vividness with which Patrick's blood had stained the piano keys. There wasn't a shooter, there weren't gunshots, there was just Patrick laying over the piano with a bullet in his brain.
So Pete was on the earliest (or latest, he got the two confused sometimes) flight he could find to Chicago where Patrick was. He was jittery, nervous, anxious. Pete must have dozed off again, airplanes had that effect on him, because the stewardess (flight attendants was the PC term, right?) was shaking him awake. She had a shockingly red shade of hair and her name-tag said “Ryan.”
“Your last name wouldn't be Ross, would it?” Pete chuckled sleepily.
“Actually, it is. And if you make one smart remark about me and that little boy from Panic! At The Disco I cannot guarantee that I won't throw you headlong off this airplane.” She raised an eyebrow defiantly.
“That would be an interesting way to die,” Pete mused. “But I'm good friends with him.”
“I know.” She smiled and Pete smiled too. She knew exactly who he was and wasn't fawning over him or treating him special or anything. “Now let's get a move on, I want to get my final check done and get to my hotel so I can get a few hours sleep.” Pete reached into his bag and pulled out a book.
“This might help you sleep.”
“Thanks, sugar.” She turned the copy of Peter Pan over in her hands and shook her head. “Now get the fuck off my airplane, please.” Pete walked out. He hated and loved red-eye flights. The airports were so empty and he could hear every one of his footfalls in the hallway. He was thinking about Patrick and the piano and how much he just missed him. Pete stopped at the first available pay-phone, dropped in 50 cents and dialed Patrick's number. Ring... ring... ri-
“Hello?” Patrick's voice was thick with sleep. “Hello? Listen, if you're a telemarketer it is illegal for you to be calling me right now, additionally I'm on the national do not call list. If you're some kind of fangirl this is not the Patrick Stump from Fall Out Boy. Lose this number. I'm going back to sleep now and I hope you can do the same.” Pete smiled. The stewardess (dammit-- Flight Attendant) trudged past him, headphones on and something Pete could distinctly classify as alt rock blaring.
Outside the terminal there was the whoosh of planes taking off and landing and Pete thought of how they reminded him of his thoughts. Here one minute and the next speeding off into the stars and the stratosphere. During the cab ride Pete contemplated the differences in pollution between L.A. And Chicago. L.A. Was worse, he decided, wondering still if Patrick ever noticed the difference. Patrick's apartment seemed forever away, but Pete kept himself entertained trying to remember memories from each street. The place where they'd first kissed. The corner bus stop where Pete had tried to discreetly jerk Patrick off while they waited for the 4:23 bus and that huge bouncer guy sat at the other end of the bench watching them intently. The park where Pete had told Patrick all his dreams. The street where Patrick lived.
Pete paid the taxi-driver and pulled Patrick's extra key out of his pocket. 7th floor, because Patrick had said that the stairs would be good for him. Pete laughed, thinking of the last time they'd been here and Patrick had been cursing seven flights of stairs because of Pete's teasing and his hard-on. And even tonight at 4 AM seven flights seemed like forever.
It feels like Pete is breaking into Patrick's apartment, so late at night. He toes off his shoes and creeps down the hall to Patrick's room. Patrick is half curled across the double mattress, the moonlight hitting the floor on the far side of the bed. Pete steps closer, his breathing shallow. He smiles and Patrick's hand curled around the plush rabbit Pete got him for Easter. Patrick had immediately named it Peterrabbitt (“All double letters, because sometimes I think of you in double letters”). Pete crawled onto the bed, curling himself around Patrick, no part of the touching. The spring bouquet Pete had sent was on the nightstand. Pete could tell the flowers were going bad because of the sickeningly sweet smell.
“Oh fuck!” Pete was startled back into the moment by a flurry of blankets and Patrick scrambling for under the bed. “Listen you sick fuck! I've got the cops on speed dial and a 12 in kitchen knife here. You'd better get the fuck out!” Patrick was still rummaging under the bed, furiously moving slippers and unread books out of the way.
“Trick. Knock it off.” Pete kept his voice low and calm. “Honestly Patrick, you act like I've never shown up in your bed at-” he glanced at the clock “4:07 in the morning.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Pete.” Patrick slumped further onto the floor. “You scared the shit out of me.” He crawls onto the bed and Pete reaches out to toy with his hair.
“I had a bad dream.”
“Did you?”
“Yeah.” Pete rolls onto his back staring at the glow-in-the-dark constellations Andy had painted on Patrick's ceiling one Sunday (“Fucking Michaelangelo must have had an amazing chiropractor!” He'd exclaimed afterward as Patrick thanked him profusely). “I dreamed you were shot and you died on the piano and I didn't know who did it.”
“So you got on an airplane and came out here?”
“I was worried.”
“ You're irrational.”
“And you love me and you want to make it up to me by having hot nasty sex.” Pete giggled.
“And if I do?”
“You do?” Pete sat up quickly looking at Patrick who was looking at him from behind a curtain of strawberry-blonde hair.
“Well, I'm awake and it's been a long while...”
“Will you sing?”
“Pardon?” Patrick raised an eyebrow and shook his hair out of his eyes.
“Will you sing?”
“Will I?”
“Just sing to me Patrick. Sing.” Pete started to crawl toward Patrick and laid a rough kiss on Patrick's lips. “Sing,” he growled. Patrick's voice wavered a little before he began to sing the first song that came into his head.
“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens/ Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens/ Brown paper packages tied up with strings/ These are a few of my favorite things. . .” Pete was sucking viciously on three fingers before putting them one after another slowly into Patrick. He sought out Patrick's prostate, making the singer stop the song in favor of a ragged moan when he found it.
“Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes/ Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes/ Silver white winters that melt into springs/ These are a few of my favorite things. . .” Patrick sang as Pete thrust in and out of him in time with the music. Patrick lost words and gasped through the chorus as Pete rammed hard into his prostate over and over. Pete was panting, eye closed, focusing just on the sound of Patrick's voice and the feeling of Patrick tight around him. They both came hard and fast and messy all over Patrick's sheets.
“Great, now I'm gonna get hard thinking about singing nuns in the hills of Austria. Thanks Patrick.” Patrick laughed and wrapped himself around Pete.
“I could sing Climb Ev'ry Mountain next time if you want.”
“Only if you'll dress in a habit.”
“Only if I get to spank you with a ruler.”
“Oh god, deal.”
Summary : Pete takes a late night plane ride to alieviate some fears and some sexual tension
Author : miss_reed
Rating : NC-17
Author's Notes : I hope you've all read Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist, because it's amazing. If not, go get it!
Earlier that morning, Pete had finally been asleep. His heavy eyelids had slumped so that his thick lashes had rested heavily on his cheeks and he had begun to dream. He'd dream of Patrick sitting at the piano in the studio, experimentally pressing the keys one after another in no clearly musical order. But Pete was imagining words to describe the curve of his spine as he bent forward to write the notes on the paper. Patrick was humming under his breath, trying to form the melody before he transferred it to the paper with his gnawed on pencil.
Then Pete's dream got irrational. Violently irrational. He couldn't really remember much except the vividness with which Patrick's blood had stained the piano keys. There wasn't a shooter, there weren't gunshots, there was just Patrick laying over the piano with a bullet in his brain.
So Pete was on the earliest (or latest, he got the two confused sometimes) flight he could find to Chicago where Patrick was. He was jittery, nervous, anxious. Pete must have dozed off again, airplanes had that effect on him, because the stewardess (flight attendants was the PC term, right?) was shaking him awake. She had a shockingly red shade of hair and her name-tag said “Ryan.”
“Your last name wouldn't be Ross, would it?” Pete chuckled sleepily.
“Actually, it is. And if you make one smart remark about me and that little boy from Panic! At The Disco I cannot guarantee that I won't throw you headlong off this airplane.” She raised an eyebrow defiantly.
“That would be an interesting way to die,” Pete mused. “But I'm good friends with him.”
“I know.” She smiled and Pete smiled too. She knew exactly who he was and wasn't fawning over him or treating him special or anything. “Now let's get a move on, I want to get my final check done and get to my hotel so I can get a few hours sleep.” Pete reached into his bag and pulled out a book.
“This might help you sleep.”
“Thanks, sugar.” She turned the copy of Peter Pan over in her hands and shook her head. “Now get the fuck off my airplane, please.” Pete walked out. He hated and loved red-eye flights. The airports were so empty and he could hear every one of his footfalls in the hallway. He was thinking about Patrick and the piano and how much he just missed him. Pete stopped at the first available pay-phone, dropped in 50 cents and dialed Patrick's number. Ring... ring... ri-
“Hello?” Patrick's voice was thick with sleep. “Hello? Listen, if you're a telemarketer it is illegal for you to be calling me right now, additionally I'm on the national do not call list. If you're some kind of fangirl this is not the Patrick Stump from Fall Out Boy. Lose this number. I'm going back to sleep now and I hope you can do the same.” Pete smiled. The stewardess (dammit-- Flight Attendant) trudged past him, headphones on and something Pete could distinctly classify as alt rock blaring.
Outside the terminal there was the whoosh of planes taking off and landing and Pete thought of how they reminded him of his thoughts. Here one minute and the next speeding off into the stars and the stratosphere. During the cab ride Pete contemplated the differences in pollution between L.A. And Chicago. L.A. Was worse, he decided, wondering still if Patrick ever noticed the difference. Patrick's apartment seemed forever away, but Pete kept himself entertained trying to remember memories from each street. The place where they'd first kissed. The corner bus stop where Pete had tried to discreetly jerk Patrick off while they waited for the 4:23 bus and that huge bouncer guy sat at the other end of the bench watching them intently. The park where Pete had told Patrick all his dreams. The street where Patrick lived.
Pete paid the taxi-driver and pulled Patrick's extra key out of his pocket. 7th floor, because Patrick had said that the stairs would be good for him. Pete laughed, thinking of the last time they'd been here and Patrick had been cursing seven flights of stairs because of Pete's teasing and his hard-on. And even tonight at 4 AM seven flights seemed like forever.
It feels like Pete is breaking into Patrick's apartment, so late at night. He toes off his shoes and creeps down the hall to Patrick's room. Patrick is half curled across the double mattress, the moonlight hitting the floor on the far side of the bed. Pete steps closer, his breathing shallow. He smiles and Patrick's hand curled around the plush rabbit Pete got him for Easter. Patrick had immediately named it Peterrabbitt (“All double letters, because sometimes I think of you in double letters”). Pete crawled onto the bed, curling himself around Patrick, no part of the touching. The spring bouquet Pete had sent was on the nightstand. Pete could tell the flowers were going bad because of the sickeningly sweet smell.
“Oh fuck!” Pete was startled back into the moment by a flurry of blankets and Patrick scrambling for under the bed. “Listen you sick fuck! I've got the cops on speed dial and a 12 in kitchen knife here. You'd better get the fuck out!” Patrick was still rummaging under the bed, furiously moving slippers and unread books out of the way.
“Trick. Knock it off.” Pete kept his voice low and calm. “Honestly Patrick, you act like I've never shown up in your bed at-” he glanced at the clock “4:07 in the morning.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Pete.” Patrick slumped further onto the floor. “You scared the shit out of me.” He crawls onto the bed and Pete reaches out to toy with his hair.
“I had a bad dream.”
“Did you?”
“Yeah.” Pete rolls onto his back staring at the glow-in-the-dark constellations Andy had painted on Patrick's ceiling one Sunday (“Fucking Michaelangelo must have had an amazing chiropractor!” He'd exclaimed afterward as Patrick thanked him profusely). “I dreamed you were shot and you died on the piano and I didn't know who did it.”
“So you got on an airplane and came out here?”
“I was worried.”
“ You're irrational.”
“And you love me and you want to make it up to me by having hot nasty sex.” Pete giggled.
“And if I do?”
“You do?” Pete sat up quickly looking at Patrick who was looking at him from behind a curtain of strawberry-blonde hair.
“Well, I'm awake and it's been a long while...”
“Will you sing?”
“Pardon?” Patrick raised an eyebrow and shook his hair out of his eyes.
“Will you sing?”
“Will I?”
“Just sing to me Patrick. Sing.” Pete started to crawl toward Patrick and laid a rough kiss on Patrick's lips. “Sing,” he growled. Patrick's voice wavered a little before he began to sing the first song that came into his head.
“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens/ Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens/ Brown paper packages tied up with strings/ These are a few of my favorite things. . .” Pete was sucking viciously on three fingers before putting them one after another slowly into Patrick. He sought out Patrick's prostate, making the singer stop the song in favor of a ragged moan when he found it.
“Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes/ Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes/ Silver white winters that melt into springs/ These are a few of my favorite things. . .” Patrick sang as Pete thrust in and out of him in time with the music. Patrick lost words and gasped through the chorus as Pete rammed hard into his prostate over and over. Pete was panting, eye closed, focusing just on the sound of Patrick's voice and the feeling of Patrick tight around him. They both came hard and fast and messy all over Patrick's sheets.
“Great, now I'm gonna get hard thinking about singing nuns in the hills of Austria. Thanks Patrick.” Patrick laughed and wrapped himself around Pete.
“I could sing Climb Ev'ry Mountain next time if you want.”
“Only if you'll dress in a habit.”
“Only if I get to spank you with a ruler.”
“Oh god, deal.”