FIC: BeWentzed (Part 4/4)
Part Three
They put a block between them and the Olsen house, then two, then three. Patrick pulls up, breathing heavily. There's a stone wall fencing off an apartment building, and he drags Pete around the corner of it into an alley so that they're hidden in darkness, shielded by ivy and towering weeds. He has no plan. It's all instinct, pushing Pete up against the crumbling masonry, diving in to him, kissing hard and fast, his hands on Pete's shoulders, clinging like his life depends on it. Pete moans and wraps his arms around Patrick's back, pulling him even closer. It feels strangely like coming home.
"You were going to do this with that stupid mohawk guy," Patrick says accusingly, biting at Pete's lips.
"Fuck," Pete says breathlessly as Patrick moves on to attack his neck, sucking hard, trying to leave a mark that can be seen from outer space.
Can you actually claim the Devil as your own? Should Patrick even be trying to do that? These are probably good questions, but Patrick doesn't give a fuck. He just. wants.
"You think I do this with everyone?" Pete grates out.
Yes, I think you're hot and gorgeous and the fucking Devil. I think everybody who sees you wants you, and I think you'll fuck anyone who stays still long enough for you to get your hands on them. Or, really, even that probably doesn't get in your way. Because I'm sure you can fucking fly or bend the fabric of space-time or whatever. Patrick doesn't say this, but then, he doesn't have to. This is Pete.
Pete hooks his leg behind Patrick's knee, catching him off guard, and flips them around, so that Patrick is the one shoved up against the wall. The rough stone bites into Patrick's back, and the vines feel rough and scratchy against the bare patches of his skin. Pete swelters all along Patrick's front, an inferno from shoulders to chest, hips to thighs. Patrick can't help rocking into that heat. He's only human.
"You're fucking wrong, Patrick." Pete pushes his face into the curve of Patrick's neck, panting harshly. "I may be the Devil, but I've got rules too. Fuck. I've got quotas. And this isn't anywhere in the play book. I shouldn't--" He slides his hands around Patrick's hips and yanks Patrick hard against him, like he's trying to get inside Patrick's skin. "I'm not supposed to want--" He pushes his mouth onto Patrick's, catching Patrick's lip with his teeth, pushing his tongue roughly into Patrick's mouth.
Patrick curls his fingers into Pete's arms, digging in, holding on. You can do anything to me. He's not sure if he says that out loud, but Pete hears him nonetheless.
"Patrick, Patrick," Pete says breathlessly, rutting against Patrick, driving him back against the stones. "You have no idea what the fuck you're doing, what you're messing with."
No doubt this is true, but Patrick lifts his chin stubbornly, kisses Pete as if he's the one who sold his soul to Patrick. He slowly licks his way inside, exploring Pete's teeth and the roof of his mouth. He kisses until his vision is starting to white out from the lack of oxygen and Pete is trembling and needy against him. Patrick may not know what the fuck he's doing, or what the consequences may be, but he sure as hell knows what he wants.
"What am I going to do with you," Pete says, dragging his lips over Patrick's collarbone, pushing his hands beneath Patrick's t-shirt.
Patrick has some ideas, and he rolls his hips into Pete's to demonstrate.
Pete kisses behind Patrick's ear. "Sing to me."
"What?" Patrick says, almost too turned on to know what those words mean.
"Your voice," Pete says roughly against the side of Patrick's face. "I want-- It does things to me."
Patrick shivers at the thought of doing things to Pete. "What do you want to hear?" He snakes his hands under Pete's t-shirt, stroking warm, sweaty skin, slender muscles.
"Surprise me." He can feel Pete's smile as he kisses Patrick's throat.
Patrick starts to sing "Let's Get It On," his voice husky on the chorus.
Pete pulls back, so he can look Patrick in the eye. "Thank you." He smiles almost sadly and kisses Patrick's mouth, lightly, sweetly.
The next instant, they're standing outside Patrick's house.
"What?" Patrick says, confused at first, and then angry when he realizes what Pete has done. "Why?"
Pete shrugs. "You sang for me, Lunchbox. Wish is over."
"But--" I don't give a shit about the wish. He throws himself messily at Pete, which would be humiliating as all hell if Patrick were just a little bit less desperate to have Pete's body pressed against his again.
"No," Pete tells Patrick firmly, disentangling himself from Patrick's grappling arms. "You really don't want-- Trust me. It's better this way."
Patrick feels his face go violently hot, and if looks could kill, even the Devil wouldn't be safe right now. Fuck Pete, and his fucking condescending bullshit, anyway. Patrick knows exactly what he wants. He doesn't need Pete treating him like he's some stupid kid. He just needs Pete to want him back.
He sifts through whatever vague notions he has about seduction, gleaned from his mother's soap operas and the little bit of soft core porn he's watched. Maybe if he can get Pete somewhere private and then take off all his clothes, a slow striptease, however embarrassing that may be. Maybe if he gets down on his knees right here, in front of old Mrs. Grueberman who is watching nosily from her front window and anyone else who happens past. Maybe. Maybe.
Pete shakes his head, smiling faintly. "You can't tempt the Tempter, baby. Doesn't work like that." He brushes a chaste kiss to Patrick's cheek. "Besides, you're not supposed to trust creepy old guys, remember?"
But the thing is: Patrick does trust Pete. Maybe it's some kind of early onset idiocy or a death wish or something else completely fucked up. But, yeah. He trusts the Prince of Darkness more than just about any other person he can name.
"Here." Pete hands Patrick a card, black and glossy and strangely mesmerizing. If Patrick stares at it for too long, he feels like he could get lost in it, could lose time. Spelled out in type the color of blood is:
plkw3
666 Temptation
"When, if you want that last wish, come see me. I'm not going to come to you." Pete meets Patrick's eye meaningfully.
And Patrick gets it. This isn't Pete's business card he has in his hands. It's his own get-out-of-hell-free card. All he has to do to keep his soul is never make that last wish. All he has to do is... Patrick swallows hard. Never see Pete again.
"Goodbye, Patrick." Pete takes a step back, and then another, and then he's gone. Patrick doesn't even get the chance to ask for one last kiss.
He stands there for who knows how long, rooted to the spot, hoping that Pete will change his mind and magically reappear. At last, Patrick lets out his breath and turns and trudges up the front walk to his house.
Inside, his mom calls out from the kitchen, "Hi, honey. How was your day?"
The Devil saved my soul and broke my heart? Patrick doesn't say that, of course. It would just upset his mother, in so many ways.
***
The alarm goes off at ass o'clock on Monday morning. Time to go back to school. Patrick sighs heavily and throws the covers back, not remotely willingly, and trudges off to the shower. He pulls on some clothes and thumps downstairs. He drinks four cups of coffee and pokes half-heartedly at his eggs.
His mother checks his forehead. "You're not sick, are you?"
He shakes his head. "Bad case of the Mondays."
His mom frowns. Pete would totally have gotten the reference.
At school, kids rush past him. Kent Olsen and his gang rough house their way to homeroom, hollering at one another and throwing elbows and incurring the wrath of Mr. Kilpatrick, who's doing hall monitor duty today. Patrick gets jostled by a cluster of girls who have their heads bent together, gossiping like it's a competitive sport. Down the hall, he hears a familiar voice calling out, "Hey, Deenie, wait up." Patrick was a little worried about possible fallout from kissing Pete at the party, but no one gives him a second glance. Because none of that ever happened, Patrick realizes unhappily. He's back to being invisible again.
Classes drone on. Patrick is barely hanging on by his fingernails by the time he gets to sixth period. Mr. Silver has the Civil War battlefield map out again, hanging like a funeral wreath at the front of the classroom.
"Today, we turn our attention to the blockade of the Carolina coast," Mr. Silver starts up. His drab monotone is as painful as fingernails on a chalkboard.
Patrick leans over and bangs his forehead against the wooden top of his desk, but it doesn't knock him unconscious. He's just not that lucky.
Eventually, the torture ends, and Patrick hurries out of school, actually running the last few feet to the door, not caring if Mr. Kilpatrick sees him. He races around the corner, and the parking lot comes into sight, and Patrick slows down to a complete stop. There is his car, and there is its perfectly empty hood, no sign of Pete anywhere. It's only now--now that disappointment is hitting him hard enough to take his breath away--that Patrick can admit to himself he's spent all day secretly hoping for a repeat of recent history.
He goes to Starbucks anyway, because that's just what he does after school. He orders his grande vanilla extra hot latte and doesn't get it made with extra special loving care, because Pete's not there to flirt with the bored-looking barista.
Finally, Patrick heads home, drags his books up to his room and stares uncomprehendingly at parabolas until his eyes cross. He's not entirely sure he hasn't gone into some kind of coma. He lets out a put-upon sigh and trudges downstairs in search of distraction. He finds his mom sitting at the kitchen table, her glasses perched on her nose, a wrinkle between her eyebrows as she works on the monthly bills.
"Hey," Patrick says, sitting down across from her.
"Hi, honey." Her frown deepens as she peruses the electric company statement. "This is why I hate it when I miss the meter reader. Then they estimate it. Like we'd actually use 1100 kilowatt hours in a month." She shakes her head. "Ridiculous."
"So," Patrick says.
His mom looks up from the bill. "What's up?"
"Um." He doesn't even know what to say. He doesn't know what would make him feel better. "Have any errands you need me to do?" he asks, in a fit of desperation.
She glances around, as if trying to jog her memory. "Not that I can think of right off hand." She gives him a strange look. "Are you okay?"
"Yes!" he says huffily. "Can't I offer to help out every once in a while without you thinking there's something wrong with me?"
His mother raises an eyebrow, which Patrick is pretty sure means, "no."
He sighs. "I guess I'll just, you know, go to the mall or something."
"Okay, honey."
Patrick gets to his feet.
"Patrick?" His mom looks up at him, her expression concerned. "If there's something bothering you-- You can tell me anything. You know that, right?"
He swallows hard. "Yeah, Mom. I know."
Patrick grabs his keys and his wallet and drags himself off to D'Vinyls. Dougie looks up from the LPs he's sorting when Patrick comes through the door. He nods, and Patrick nods back.
Dougie asks, "Where's your friend?"
Dejection hits Patrick hard, and all he can do is hang his head.
"Sorry, dude, that fucking sucks," Dougie says, and goes back to sorting records.
***
If Patrick's subconscious had any mercy at all, it wouldn't torment him with pictures of what he can't have. Patrick's subconscious is a fucking bastard.
The carpet is red beneath his feet. He knows because he's staring down at it, trying not to go blind from all the strobe flashes going off in his face. An arm twines around his waist, and he takes in a breath, lets it out, relaxes a little, leaning into the warmth of the body beside him. He turns to smile, because of course it's Pete. Who else would it be?
Pete smiles and says into his ear, "Told you we were going to be epic."
Then he kisses Patrick, slow and sweet, right on the mouth, right there in front of all those pushy paparazzi waving their cameras in the air. The flashes go off more furiously, excitement rippling the crowd, because something unexpected just happened, and when was the last time anybody could say that?
Voices are shouting: Pete, Patrick, over here, do that again, does this mean you're officially a couple?
Pete smiles softly, and it's just for Patrick. "You and me forever, baby."
Patrick wakes up feeling even worse than when he went to sleep.
***
Only Tuesday, and Patrick just can't handle doing the whole getting-up-going-to-school-being-bored-out-of-his-mind thing all over again. It's too depressing. He pulls the covers up over his head and hits the snooze button a grand total of eleven times. He probably wouldn't bother getting out of bed at all if his mother didn't yell up the stairs at him, "Patrick? Are you dressed yet? You're going to be late."
He flops onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. He desperately roots around in his imagination, trying to come up with something to look forward to today. He can't think of a single damned thing. Finally, he heaves a sigh and stumbles out of bed. He takes his time in the shower and lingers at his dresser, staring at his band t-shirts half in a daze. He can't decide whether he's more in an angry punk rock mood or a slit-your-wrists blues mood. Possibly the music hasn't been written yet that goes with missing the Devil.
Patrick's mom is waiting at the bottom of the stairs. She hands him his backpack, a granola bar and a folded up sheet of her note paper. "I wrote that you're late because you had a dentist appointment. Not that I'm trying to teach you to lie your way out of things." She gives him a stern look.
Patrick smiles at her crookedly. "I'll do as you say, not as you do, Mom. Promise."
He drags his feet out to his car and takes the long way to school. He's never given hell much thought, or heaven either for that matter. Even when he was busily making wishes, he never thought that he was actually bartering his soul, never truly considered the consequences. Yeah, yeah, fire and brimstone and an eternity of torment, but what does that even mean? What does it look like? Patrick can't imagine. It's all an abstraction to him.
The school comes into sight, and Patrick slows down. A horn blares angrily from the car behind him. Patrick pulls off to the shoulder. He digs Pete's card out of his jeans pocket. It's a little smudgy with fingerprints. He's taken it out to look at it once or twice or a few thousand times since Pete gave it to him. The strange, glossy blackness pulls him in, as it always does. If he stops to think about it, there's a warning there, about how a person can get in over his head and never find a way out.
Patrick doesn't stop to think. He peels away from the curb and stomps on the gas and shoots past the entrance to the school. He doesn't want to waste any more time, not when hell is just an abstract notion, and Pete is so very, very real.
Patrick has a vague idea where Temptation is, and after a couple of wrong turns, he stumbles onto the right block. #666 is a high-rise, all cool, modern glass and steel. It looks like it was picked up from somewhere else and plunked down amidst the prairie-style homes and the stone-faced row houses. This may actually be the case. Pete is the Devil after all, and Patrick can't imagine this building meets the zoning requirements.
He gets lucky and finds a parking spot on the street, locks up and heads inside. The walls look like clouds. The floor is made of some kind of weird transparent tiles. It's like walking on nothing. A doorman sits behind the concierge desk. He's wearing a scarlet coat with gold braided trim and a miner's cap with a headlamp that's turned on.
Patrick wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans as discreetly as he can and goes over to announce himself. "Um, hi. I'm here to see--"
"Top floor," the doorman tells him, nodding toward an elevator bank.
Patrick blinks at him in surprise.
The doorman shrugs. "Heard you might be stopping by." For just a second, Patrick could swear he sees orange-red flames flare in the man's eyes. "Make sure you hold the button down for two or three seconds. Thing sticks."
For a minion of hell, he's surprisingly helpful, Patrick thinks.
He gets on the elevator and pushes the button, making sure to hold it down. The elevator shoots upward, so fast it nearly pitches Patrick off his feet. It slams to a stop, and the doors spring open. Patrick goes flying off, nearly ending up on his face. He takes a shaky breath and straightens his hat. Leave it to Pete to live in a building where even the elevator is a misadventure.
Patrick finds himself in a little vestibule. There's only one door, and he knocks. He waits and waits and waits some more, practicing some deep breathing exercises that do nothing to help him relax. It's quiet inside, and Patrick considers pressing his ear to the door to see if he can hear anything. But then he imagines Pete opening up abruptly and Patrick falling on his face at Pete's feet. He manages to tamp down his nosy impulses. Maybe Pete's not even home, although probably the doorman would have mentioned that, right?
Finally, the door whips open, and there stands Pete. Patrick's mouth goes instantly dry. Pete's wearing low-slung leather pants and a well-laundered white shirt that looks impossibly soft to the touch, unbuttoned, leaving Pete's bare chest on display. Nipples the color of dark pennies, the inky necklace of thorns that Patrick feels like he already knows so well, strong flat muscles of his belly, a bat-heart-skull thing that he's only caught a glimpse of before...Patrick has to curl his hands into fists to keep from reaching out to touch all that skin.
Pete gives Patrick a dark look from beneath his bangs. "I wasn't expecting to see you so soon." Or ever hangs unsaid in the air.
'Uh. Yeah." Patrick shifts his weight awkwardly.
Pete turns and walks away without a word, and Patrick doesn't have any idea what that means. Is he supposed to follow? Is he supposed to fuck off and die? Finally, he feels too stupid just loitering out in the vestibule, so he steps inside and closes the door. The room is enormous, all white, high-ceilinged and empty enough to echo. The only piece of furniture sits in the curve of a floor-to-ceiling bay window, a fainting couch, with contours as shapely as a body, covered in red satin the shade of, well, sin. Patrick stands stock still a good ten seconds just staring at it.
At last, he uproots himself and wanders further into the apartment. He expects to come across Pete any moment now. And doesn't. Rooms open onto more rooms, Tardis-like, defying the laws of physics. It feels like getting lost in the forest, only instead of trees there is the occasional white leather couch and enormous Andy-Warhol-style portrait of Pete smirking down from the walls.
He stumbles across the kitchen eventually. Pete is there, leaning against the counter, an impatient furrow between his eyebrows, as if he's been kept waiting too long. Everything shines aggressively, chrome and steel and freshly Windexed glass. Patrick fights the urge to squint. He can see himself in the high polish of the stainless appliances, a confused blur who's in way over his head.
Pete takes a bottle of mineral water out of the refrigerator and pours himself a glass. "You want?"
Patrick nods. His mouth is so dry.
Pete grabs another glass from the cabinet. The delicate slosh of water sounds enormous in the overwhelming hush of the place. Pete pushes the glass into Patrick's hand. Patrick downs half of it in one gulp. Pete stays stonily silent, sipping his water, regarding Patrick with hooded eyes.
"I, uh, I came to--" Patrick stumbles over his words. "I know what I want."
Pete still doesn't say anything. His expression is as empty as the rooms of his apartment.
"I want to lose my virginity," Patrick blurts out.
At last, Pete reacts, only it's not what Patrick had hoped for. His mouth presses into a thin line, and the dark light in his eyes flares, hard and displeased, a bottomless inferno. This isn't Patrick's Pete. This is pure King of Hell stuff.
Patrick continues anyway, flustered and maybe even a little afraid, but it's too late to turn back now. "I want to lose my virginity to you. With you. I mean, only if-- You don't have to." He trails off feebly.
Pete stares at him. Patrick twists his hands in the hem of his t-shirt pathetically. Then Pete is suddenly in motion, two long strides, and he's forcing Patrick back against the counter, taking Patrick's face between his hands, kissing like he wants to devour him.
"Pete." Patrick grabs at Pete's shoulders, trying to hang on. Pete's body burns like brimstone, sweltering everywhere they touch. Patrick pushes his elbows against the counter for leverage, trying to get more of it.
Pete presses his face into the curve of Patrick's neck, breathing in. "I thought you were asking me to-- I thought you wanted someone else." His fingers curl uncomfortably tightly around Patrick's hip.
Patrick shakes his head. "You're all I want. You've all I've been wanting."
"Patrick." Pete shoves his knee between Patrick's thighs, bites and licks his way into Patrick's mouth. "'s good you weren't asking me to give you to someone else." He drags his teeth along Patrick's neck, his hands possessive on Patrick's waist. "Because I couldn't have--" His voice sounds like gravel scraping gravel. "I would have fucked up that someone else so bad. So bad, Patrick."
Patrick shudders, and it should probably be because he's scared out of his mind by the Devil with a bad case of jealousy, but that's not it at all. He presses closer and kisses frantically, his hands in Pete's hair. Time and everything else spirals away. The only thing Patrick is aware of is the press of their lips, Pete's fingers inching under his t-shirt, the buzz in his own brain from the lack of air. He imagines Pete pushing him down onto the hard, cold tile floor, stripping his clothes off, pushing his legs back to his chest… He shudders harder.
"Please, please," he says, knowing, or at least suspecting, that Pete can see into his thoughts.
Apparently, he's right, but it doesn't have the effect he'd hoped. Pete freezes. "Wait. No. Hold on a second." Pete disentangles himself from Patrick's demanding grasp.
Patrick lunges, trying to get him back.
Pete plants his palm firmly against Patrick's chest. "No. Listen. I want you to be sure. Because you can still take it back. Still walk out of here. I'll...let you." It clearly costs him to say this.
"I know what you were trying to do when you gave me the card, okay?" Patrick says in a rush. "And I appreciate it. But I've thought about it, and I know what's going to happen to me, but I still want-- " He leans in and kisses Pete on the lips.
Pete runs his thumb thoughtfully along the curve of Patrick's cheek, and after a moment, his expression sets. Pete hooks his fingers in Patrick's belt loops and draws him closer, kissing him deeply. "Nothing's going to happen to you."
Patrick frowns, frustrated. "Don't mindfuck me, okay? Just--" He shoves his hips against Pete's.
Pete licks his ear. "I totally lied before, Lunchbox. You tempt the hell out of me. I'm going to have to break every rule there is to keep you."
Patrick's heart thuds against his ribs. Pete wants to keep him. Patrick is going to get kept. Pete breaks into a smile, all big teeth and unlikely sweetness, and here is the Pete that Patrick knows and...well, kind of, yeah.
"We're just going to skip over the preliminaries, okay?" Pete says.
Patrick's forehead scrunches up in confusion, but before he can get out a word, he's lying flat on his back, on a bed that is as white as clouds and seemingly endless. Pete is braced on his arms over him. Beneath the sheet, they're both naked. Patrick's cheeks color spectacularly, he can feel it. He goes from half hard to painfully turned on in 0.6 seconds.
Pete slides his body against Patrick's, and Patrick moans roughly. All that skin. Shit. All that skin touching him.
"You know you weren't very specific with your wish-making, Pattycakes." Pete kisses his throat. "I could do anything to you." He raises his head, and his eyes flash darkly.
Patrick shivers. "Yes. Please. Please."
Pete groans softly. Patrick scrabbles at Pete's shoulders, kissing frantically.
"I’m going to take such good care of you," Pete whispers against Patrick's mouth.
Patrick skims his fingers over Pete's chest, reverently, tracing muscles, following the outlines of tattoos. His dream, the first one he ever had about Pete, blooms vividly behind his eyes, and he wants, he needs. Patrick angles his head and gets his tongue on the necklace of thorns, memorizing the shape on his tongue, so he can think about it later when he's…
"I'm really going to hell," he says in a small voice against Pete's collarbone.
"Sh, sh." Pete brushes back Patrick's hair and tenderly kisses his forehead. "It's going to be all right." He moves against Patrick, pressing their bodies together.
Patrick's cock slides against Pete's thigh, and he gasps. His fingers curl around Pete's shoulders, everything else forgotten. Maybe hell is exactly where he belongs if the Devil turns him on this much.
Pete smiles at him softly. He kisses Patrick on the tip of his nose and then starts moving downward. He presses his lips almost solemnly to Patrick's Adam's apple. Connects the freckles scattered across Patrick's shoulder with his tongue.
"Pretty skin," he murmurs, dragging his lips down Patrick's sternum. "Pretty pink nipples." He rests his chin on Patrick's rib and grins up at him, his eyes bright with mischief. Then he pounces, his mouth closing wetly, hotly around Patrick's nipple.
"Shit!" Patrick arches his back, coming off the mattress.
All his sexual fantasies have been pretty dick-centric, imaging what it would feel like to have someone touch him, suck him, jerk him off. He's never really thought about this, never considered in his wildest, filthiest imagination that someone licking his nipple could burn an electric path straight to his cock.
Pete brings his hand up to rub at Patrick's other nipple. Patrick shudders deeply, squeezes his eyes tightly shut and gulps for breath. If he comes just from this, he might actually die of humiliation.
Pete laughs softly, his breath tickling Patrick's skin. "Not yet, baby. But soon."
He continues licking and sucking a trail south, his tongue dipping into Patrick's belly button, his teeth grazing Patrick's hipbone. Patrick pushes at Pete's shoulders, trying to hurry progress, not even caring if this is a total breach of blowjob etiquette. Pete is driving him fucking crazy.
Pete turns his head to press a kiss to the inside of Patrick's thigh. His hair brushes Patrick's cock.
"Please, please," Patrick says, barely able to breathe.
He feels Pete's smile on his skin. "Well, since you ask so nicely…"
Pete bends his head, and then Patrick is grasping at the sheets, kicking out his feet. Pete licks a hot stripe from the base to the tip of Patrick's cock.
Patrick trembles. "Oh my God."
Pete huffs a laugh at that, the shivery puff of his breath nearly making Patrick's eyes roll back in his head. Pete pulls back to suckle at the head of Patrick's cock, and that's it, all Patrick can take. He whimpers and comes in Pete's mouth. Shortest blowjob in the whole, long history of getting head.
Pete smoothes his hand over Patrick's hip and smiles up at him, with a touch of smugness.
Patrick rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, you made me come. I'm sixteen. It's not like it's that hard to do."
Pete snorts. "Mouthy with the Devil. Still love that about you, Cupcake."
Patrick blushes fiercely at the mention of the l-word. Pete smiles, like this was exactly what he intended, and stretches up Patrick's body, kissing him soundly on his mouthy mouth.
"Mmm," Patrick murmurs, a little dazed, hooking his hand behind Pete's neck to hold him there. This is what Patrick tastes like. What he tastes like in Pete's mouth.
"Can I," Patrick stammers.
"Anything." Pete strings soft little kisses up Patrick's neck.
"I want to look at you," he says shyly.
'Oh, hey. Why didn't you say so?" Pete kicks off the sheet, completely shamelessly, twisting this way and that, showing off. For good reason. He's utterly gorgeous.
Patrick runs his thumb along the outline of thorns, strokes his fingers over Pete's nipples, wondering if he'll like that as much as Patrick does. From the way Pete throws his head back and pushes his chest into Patrick's hands, the answer is yes. Patrick smiles and slides his palm down Pete's side, captivated by the feel of warm skin. He brushes his knuckles against Pete's belly, the taut muscles quivering at his touch. He hesitates only a second before reaching out, hand shaking, to run a finger lightly along the length of Pete's cock.
"You're so beautiful," Patrick whispers.
He curls his hand loosely around Pete's cock and pumps. Pete moans and stretches out next to Patrick. He tilts Patrick's chin with his fingers and kisses him and makes encouraging noises as Patrick strokes his cock more firmly.
"Pete," Patrick says, his voice shaky.
"Turn over for me," Pete whispers in his ear.
Patrick's breath stutters in his lungs as he flips onto his stomach. "You can-- You can. He spreads his legs, his heart doing cartwheels in his chest.
Pete kisses Patrick's shoulder. "Next time," he says. "Right now, I just want to touch you." His voice drops down to a husky whisper. "Everywhere."
Patrick makes a desperate sound in the back of his throat and clutches at the pillow. Pete rubs his cheek against Patrick's shoulder blade. He slides his hands up Patrick's sides and brushes his lips down Patrick's spine. He draws his tongue, slow as torture, along the dip at the small of Patrick's back. Patrick moans and pushes his hips into the mattress. He's already getting hard again.
Pete kisses the swell of Patrick's ass, and Patrick draws in a startled breath. Pete drags his tongue along Patrick's cleft.
"I said everywhere." Pete's voice is silky, coaxing, as he urges Patrick's leg up under him.
"Oh God, oh God."
Patrick kind of, sort of knew that people did this. Mostly he thought it only happened in porn. But then, Pete pretty much is porn. He uses his thumbs to spread Patrick's cheeks, and licks teasingly at Patrick's hole, and then curls his tongue deep inside.
"Fuck!" Patrick moans into the pillow.
He squirms violently, trying to get more of Pete's mouth. Pete digs his fingers into Patrick's hips, holding him still, and goes at him, turning him inside out.
"Please, please," Patrick begs, and he doesn't even know what for exactly. Just…more. He humps the mattress desperately, and that's still not enough. He works a hand under his body, trying to get at his cock.
For some crazy reason, this causes Pete to pull away. "No," Pete says sternly. Patrick protests loudly, and he can't even bother to feel embarrassed about it.
Pete turns Patrick onto his side, plastering himself against Patrick's back. "That's mine." He curls his fist around Patrick's cock. "I'm going to be the one who makes you come." He thrusts against Patrick, his cock sliding between Patrick's cheeks, almost, but not quite, like Pete is fucking him. Patrick whimpers at the thought, and Pete kisses Patrick's neck, his hand working faster on Patrick's cock. Patrick bites his lip, pushing into Pete's grip and back against his sweaty chest.
"Come on, come on," Pete chants in his ear.
And Patrick does, eyes flying shut, toes curling, world spiraling away.
"Fuck! So hot." Pete shoves himself against Patrick, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to make Patrick start thinking about the next time. Then there's warm wet spreading between his thighs.
Pete flops onto his back. "Wow." He's breathing hard, and Patrick did that. To the Devil.He smiles up at the ceiling, sticky and pleasantly exhausted.
A washcloth appears out of thin air, one of the benefits of sleeping with Satan. Pete turns toward Patrick, dragging the warm, wet cloth over Patrick's chest and belly and between his legs. Pete perfunctorily dabs at himself and then tosses the washcloth over his shoulder.
"Come here." Pete stretches out his arm.
Patrick scoots over eagerly. Pete wraps him up in his embrace and absently strokes his hand over Patrick's back. Patrick snuggles closer, his head on Pete's chest.
Next time. Pete had said there would be a next time.
"Are you going to fuck me when I'm in hell?" he whispers against Pete's ribs.
Pete's hand goes still, and then after a long moment, he starts stroking once more. "You're not going to hell, Patrick."
"You promised not to mindfuck me," he reminds Pete.
"I'm not fucking with you," Pete says firmly. "It just so happens that there's a teeny tiny, itsy bitsy little loophole in that contract you signed. Deal's off when you make the Devil fall in love with you."
"Pete." Patrick's fingers curl around Pete's arm. "I--"
Pete kisses the top of his head. "Go to sleep, Lunchbox. When you wake up, that shiny, shiny soul will still be all yours."
***
"Patrick!"
He jolts awake with the smell of Pete all around him, the touch of Pete still on his skin, taste on his tongue, but Pete himself is nowhere to be seen. Patrick blinks, and this isn't Pete's half-empty house. This isn't Pete's made-for-sex bed. Patrick is in his own room at home. He frowns. It looks like a tornado trashed the place. Patrick frowns harder. Or like Pete never used his devil powers to clean it up in the first place.
That thought sends him scrambling up from bed, and sure enough, over by the door he finds a telltale crusted-over plate. He stares at it in confusion.
"Patrick," his mother calls out. "I'm making pancakes. Come down if you want breakfast."
The whole thing has a disturbing air of déjà vu hanging over it.
"Pete," he calls out quietly.
Nothing happens. Patrick sighs and heads downstairs.
The kitchen smells like Saturday, and it's supposed to be Wednesday. Patrick helps himself to a cup of coffee, digging into the back of the cabinet for the largest mug they have, the slightly embarrassing "World's Greatest Grandson" one his nana brought back from her trip to Boca. He buries his nose in the mug, slurping his coffee, which is black and too hot.
His mom gives him one of her maternal hawk looks. "Are you okay, honey? You don't look like you slept very well."
Patrick chokes, coffee coming out his nose, scalding his nasal passages. His mom's frown deepens.
"Um. You know?" Patrick says weakly, once he's able to talk again. The whole thing defies explanation. He doesn't even understand it himself.
His mom serves up pancakes for them both and watches Patrick as he eats. Once it's clear that he hasn't lost his appetite or his appreciation for syrup, she relaxes a little.
"So, I realize you were planning to go look at CDs today, but--"
Patrick nods. "Need to clean my room first. Got it. Do you know what the date is?"
He mother raises an eyebrow at him, as if she's thinking about giving him that "just say no" lecture again.
"I'm, uh, you know, just testing you," Patrick tells her feebly.
She mock glares at him, but tells him the date anyway. Patrick sits there, staring. This isn't déjà vu. It's a fucking nightmare! There's no sign of Pete anywhere, and Patrick is going to have to relive more than a week of high school, which is just cruel and unusual by any standards. And oh yeah, hello, apparently he's still a virgin.
"This totally sucks," Patrick mumbles.
Patrick's mom nods. "That's why it's important not to let the mess get so out of control in the first place."
Patrick slumps his head onto his hand. He wonders if it's possible that the American Civil War has actual hallucinogenic properties.
He trudges back upstairs after breakfast to face his superfund-site of a room. "Pete?" he calls out, hoping against hope. "I wish somebody else would clean up all this shit?"
No one answers. Nothing moves. The clutter stares back at Patrick as if it's mocking him. He heaves a sigh and reluctantly gets to work, half wishing he had a bulldozer. No heavy machinery appears.
Four hours later, he staggers out of his room and downstairs, a kink in his back from picking up pretty much everything he owns off the floor, his nose running from all the dust kicked up.
His mother gives him the narrow-eyed once-over and must decide he couldn't possibly look that miserable if he hadn't actually been cleaning. "Have fun," she tells him.
It's only once he's in the car, half way to the store, that Patrick realizes he's not even in the mood to shop for CDs anymore. Not after, well…whatever that was with Pete, adventure or dream or the beginning of the nervous breakdown stage of Patrick's life. Still, going to Borders had been the script for the day, and he doesn't actually have anything better to do, now that he's back to being a fucking virgin again. He wheels into the parking lot and honks his horn sharply at some asshole who seems to be contemplating stealing Patrick's space. He's re-virginized and seriously not in the mood for bullshit.
Inside, he comes across a cart of CDs with the sign "Drastically Reduced." He digs through the jewel cases and pulls out "Van Halen," marked down to $3.99. He hangs onto it.
Conversation buzzes all around, and Patrick picks up a familiar thread: Dude, you have to see them perform live. They totally kill. And the visual thing isn't pretentious at all. He look around, and there's the same dark-haired dude from before with his friend.
Patrick strides over to them. "You're talking about Neurosis," he says, because, hey, been there, done this before. "And you're right. They do seriously kill live. I just really wish their fans wouldn't get so down on them for switching up their sound, you know? I mean," he waves his hands, "bands have to, like, evolve, right? They can't stay the same forever. And why would they even want to?"
The dark-haired dude half smiles, as if amused. His friend looks like he's trying to figure out which mental hospital Patrick escaped from.
"Um," Patrick stammers, his cheeks turning hot. "You know, that's how I'd feel about it if I was in a band, anyway."
Dark-haired Dude perks up with interest. "You want to be in a band?"
"Well, yeah," Patrick says. Something besides the marching band. He keeps this part to himself.
"What instruments do you play? I'm Joe, by the way."
"Patrick. And--"
Joe's friend rolls his eyes. "Oh, fuck no. I'm not listening to another one of these conversations. I'll be over at the magazines when you're done." He turns sharply and walks off.
"Um. Sorry?" Patrick says.
Joe shrugs. "Not you, dude. He's just like that. So. Instruments?"
Patrick reels off the list.
"Drums, huh?" Joe gets a calculating look. "So, here's the thing. Me and my friend are starting a new band. You want to audition or something?"
"Audition?" Patrick repeats, not quite trusting that he heard that right. "Um. Yeah. Yeah, I do." For once, his voice doesn't turn up like a question. "When?"
"You busy tonight? We could come to you. You've got your own kit, right?"
Patrick nods. "Okay. Yeah. Tonight would be good." He frantically calculates how much time that will leave him to practice. The short answer is: not nearly enough.
"Here." Joe hands him a Sharpie and holds out his palm. "Hit me with your address and phone number."
Patrick scribbles on Joe's skin.
Joe pulls his hand back and squints at it. "Okay, dude. So, see you sometime after supper."
He rambles off to go catch up with his friend. Patrick throws the Van Halen CD back onto the cart and hustles out of the store. He's got some serious practicing to do.
After dinner, Patrick waits in the living room, perched on the edge of the couch, every nerve in his body straining to catch the sound of the doorbell, every muscle poised to leap up and go answer the door. On a scale from slightly anxious to facing down a firing squad, he's somewhere around a seven. He rubs his palms on his shorts. It doesn't help. His hands are still embarrassingly sweaty, and he just hopes it doesn't interfere with his playing. He has a nightmare image of one of the drumsticks slipping out of his grip, flying across the room and whacking Joe in the head. Probably not the way to worm his way into the band.
Finally, finally, the doorbell rings. Patrick reacts like an overstretched rubber band, sailing across the room in one bound, skidding on the polished floor of the foyer. He throws the door open, and there is Joe. "'s up, dude."
"Um, hey." Patrick steps back to let Joe in. "So you found it okay?"
Duh. Joe is standing right there. Patrick fights the urge to roll his eyes at himself.
"Yeah. No problem." Joe steps into the foyer, and his friend follows. Patrick's mouth falls open wide.
"Hey, so, Patrick, this is--" Joe begins.
"Pete." Patrick stares.
Joe looks from Patrick to Pete and back again. "I'm guessing you recognize him from Arma then?" The corner of his mouth lifts, bemused. Clearly, he mistakes Patrick for some awestruck fan.
Patrick has never actually seen Arma Angelus play, doesn't know too much about them, but it's not as if the Chicago music scene is that large. He and Pete have probably crossed paths at some point, and in fact, the harder he stares, the more vague flashes of memory come rushing back: a slight, dark-haired blur caught out of the corner of his eye, a too-loud laugh carried above the dull roar of a packed club, the buzz of a name in the air. Maybe he's had some dim awareness of Pete Wentz--real, actual human Pete--lurking around in his subconscious. Maybe Patrick's imagination deserves way more credit than he's ever given it.
This Pete gives Patrick a look up and down, and then raises an eyebrow at Joe, as if to say: Seriously? Patrick glances down at himself, and okay, maybe argyle wasn't the way to go. But most of Patrick's wardrobe is in the dirty clothes, so sue him.
"We gonna do this thing or what?" Pete says, with an edge of impatience.
His gaze flits from thing to thing to thing, as if it's all too boring to stand. Patrick's heart sinks. More than anything this convinces him that his Pete was just some wishful dream, because his Pete never looked at him like he was anything less than the most important thing in the world.
Still, Patrick does want to be in the band. He pushes aside wistful thoughts of the Devil.
"Let's go down to the basement, huh?" he says.
Pete settles on the ratty old couch, stone-faced, arms crossed over his chest. Joe leans against the wall. Patrick stalls in the middle of the room, as if the ancient and very ugly burnt orange shag is sticking him in place. Pete raises an eyebrow at him.
Patrick swallows hard. "Uh. Yeah. Okay."
He sits down at the drums and starts to play, because, hey, at least that will give him something to do besides standing around awkwardly. He doesn't look at Pete or Joe, not once. For the three and a half minutes it takes to get through the song, his world is all snare and bass and hi-hat.
By the time he's finished, Pete has uncrossed his arms. He's sitting on the edge of the couch, his expression sharp and focused, energy practically vibrating off him.
"Was that okay?" Patrick ventures hopefully.
"Way better than okay, Pat," Pete enthuses.
"Yeah. It's Patrick, actually."
"Sure. Whatever, Pattycakes. Do you sing?"
Patrick stares. "What did you just call me?"
"Sing?" Pete reiterates. "That thing you do with your vocal chords and music comes out?"
Patrick shakes his head. "Not really."
"Not really, huh? I'm guessing that means yes. So go for it, dude. Sing me something."
That eerie sense of déjà vu returns full force, and all Patrick can manage is to stutter, "Um."
"Sing me, sing me, sing me, sing me, sing me," Pete chants, like an obnoxious brat. He's reminding Patrick of hisPete more and more by the second.
This means that there's probably no point in trying to argue with him about singing. Patrick picks up his guitar and launches into the first thing that comes to mind, "Through Being Cool," the song that was playing in Patrick's dream or delusion or whatever that was when he kissed Pete at Kent Olsen's party. He closes his eyes as he sings, because maybe this Pete will have the same reaction to his voice that his Pete did, and maybe he won't, and either way, Patrick just can't stand to watch.
Of course, there's no excuse to keep his eyes closed after he finishes, and reluctantly he opens them up again. Pete is staring, lightning struck. Slowly, slowly his mouth curves up, all big white teeth and crazed enthusiasm. Patrick's stomach does this gravity-what-gravity thing. Just nerves, he tells himself. It has absolutely nothing to do with how much that blinding smile reminds him of his Pete.
"Dude, you are golden." Pete springs up from the couch and bounds over to Patrick, catching him in a hug, mashing Patrick's guitar between their bodies. "Seriously fucking awesome." He looks to Joe. "Am I right?"
"Pretty cool, dude," Joe tells Patrick.
Pete grabs Patrick's arm. "If you tell me you also write music, I will have a spontaneous orgasm right here. No lie."
Patrick's not sure, like, at all what he's supposed to say to that.
Pete squints at him. "You do, don't you? You totally do."
"Well, yeah, actually--"
He's cut off by Pete grabbing him by the jaw and laying a big, smacking kiss on his mouth. Pete's lips that Patrick has had all over his body, in his dreams anyway, and the burnt sugar smell of his skin, and Patrick's face turns so hot, so fast it leaves him a little dizzy.
"Oh, hey. So, yeah," Joe says. "He's, you know, Pete Wentz. He does that. Kisses dudes on the mouth. That's not going to be a problem, is it?"
"Dudes totally dig me kissing them," Pete insists. "Anyway, we were talking about songwriting. So guess what, Trickster? I write lyrics. And you write music. Are we totally meant to be or what?"
Joe makes skeptical eyes at Pete's lyrics-writing claim.
Pete cuts him with a hostile look. "Fuck you, Trohman. I do so write lyrics. I have all this secret man pain that's just waiting to be put to song. Why do all you fuckers doubt that?"
"I think it's mostly the 'secret' part that people are skeptical about." Joe is thoughtful for a moment. "And sometimes when you wear the eyeliner and the girl jeans, you know, possibly also the 'man' part."
"Whatever," Pete says dismissively. "The important thing is that me and Patrick are going to be epic together."
Memory of the first dream Patrick ever had about Pete unfurls in his head in erotic Technicolor, and shit, shit, shit, why did he have to think about that right now?
Pete grins and kisses Patrick on the nose. "Making you turn pink all the time is going to be fucking awesome."
Joe rolls his eyes. "Dude, you think maybe you've traumatized Patrick enough for one day and we should get going?" He directs a never mind Pete, he can't help being an asshole look at Patrick. "We practice Mondays and Thursdays. That cool with you?"
Patrick nods, his heart slamming against his ribs. He made the band! At least…he's 99.99% sure that's what that means.
Pete leans in to kiss Patrick, very sweetly, on the cheek. He whispers in Patrick's ear, "I’m going to keep you if I have to break every rule there is."
For a moment, Patrick can't breathe. At the bottom of the stairs, Pete turns back around and winks. Patrick could swear he sees a flash in Pete's eyes, orange-bright, just like the fires of hell.
Patrick is still standing there, his mouth hanging open, long after Pete has gone. He's not sure what just happened here, whether he has an overactive imagination or Pete actually is the Devil. But there is one thing he knows for absolute certain: his future just got a whole lot more colorful.
THE END