Don't Get Caught [pete/brendon][s/a]
Don't Get Caught || Pete Wentz/Brendon Urie || NC-17 || The one where Pete is a famous journalist and Brendon has a knack for hiding from the press so Pete google searches him. || Warnings: Boy sex. Pete/Brendon sex is weird, to be quite honest. || no beta || 6,684 words || From this prompt post - Pete Wentz AU prompts! I obviously picked the journalist one. It was totally fun and took a little longer than I had hoped, but yay, it's done! I haven't written Pete/Brendon in a couple of months, so it was kind of exciting.
A/N: I haven't read this over completely yet. Ignore stupid typos.
“You’ll never be able to do it, Pete.”
Leaning back in his chair and arching a questioning eyebrow, Pete smirks. He crosses his arms over his chest and lifts his legs, crossing them over the table at the ankle. The man across him makes a disapproving face, blanching a bit, but doesn’t reprimand him. No one reprimands Pete Wentz - they’re all too afraid of what he can (and most certainly will) do.
“What makes you so sure?” Pete drawls, looking at his nails - his expression is bored, but the man sitting across from him can tell he’s interested. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t even ask.
The man across the table is actually relatively close to Pete - his manager, in a way of speaking. “Look, Pete,” he begins, rubbing his temple slowly. “This guy…he doesn’t…you can do as many simple google searches as you want, and you won’t get a thing.”
“Oh, come on, you think I’m gonna believe that, Trick?” Pete laughs. “What, are you personally friends with the dude? You just don’t want me to dig up dirt on him? Come on, Patrick, this is what I do - it’s my job! You don’t get paid if I don’t get paid.”
Sighing heavily, the man called Patrick leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest almost identical to Pete. “No, Pete,” he begins, “I’m not friends with him. At all. Never spoken to the man. Look, all I can tell you is that…he doesn’t want to be seen.”
Pete is scowling now, getting frustrated. He stands, nearly slamming his hands down on the table - Patrick can tell he’s getting seriously impatient now. “What the fuck are you talking about, Patrick? He’s in so many movies, he’s a freaking super star, he’s even a god damn model and no one’s ever gotten dirt on him? No paparazzi pictures?”
Patrick stares Pete straight in the eyes, and Pete knows that what Patrick says next won’t be a lie. “All I know is his name. Brendon Urie - I don’t even know his middle name. He lives in LA and that’s about the most of it. He has a couple of close friends who play music with him, but honestly, that’s all. And he’s not a super star, Pete, he does small roles in movie - most people don’t even realize it until the credits roll, and even then…”
“You’ve got to…” Pete is about to snap at Patrick, tell him he must be lying, but Patrick’s eyes are completely honest, still a little hard. “What the fuck…?” Pete mumbles, falling back down in his seat. Suddenly, a rush of determination floods through him and he’s giving Patrick a shit eating grin. “All the more reason for me to find out more about him, right?” he snickers. “This will make me…well, I don’t know, but if I’m not already filthy rich, I will be!”
With a short laugh, Pete stands out and walks out of the conference room, leaving Patrick sighing and nervous because who knows what kind of shit Pete’s going to get himself into?
--
“You don’t know where the dude lives?”
“If you don’t know, what makes you think I would know?”
Pete frowns and puts a hand on his hip, beginning to tap his foot impatiently. “Come on, Gabe, you’re in the music industry, you must know something about him?”
The taller, slightly tanned man turns, scowling at Pete. “You know, you’re like, my best friend ever, Pete, which is good for me, but seriously, why are you so stuck up on this guy?”
Pete twitches with a realization. “You do know him, then,” he says with a smirk, confidence returning. “You’re too easy!”
Gabe frowns, but doesn’t deny it. “I’ve talked to the guy. He’s nice. I’m not going to let you ruin his rep.”
Pete scoffs. “Come on, Gabe, I’m your best friend, not this Branden dude.”
“It’s Brendon, Pete. The least you can do is get his fucking name right.”
Pete frowns again. “You lied to me,” he points out, pouting slightly. “Maybe I will pull some dirt on you.”
Gabe’s eyes roll way up. “The ceiling ain’t gonna change my mind,” Pete mumbles darkly, his arms across his chest again.
Gabe turns back to Pete. “I didn’t lie to you, not completely. I don’t know where he lives. I’ve talked to him a couple of times. He’s kind of shy, he smiles a lot and makes bad jokes, but he’s very good at hiding, let me tell you that. It took me a while to get him to trust me - I’m not going to break that trust by turning him into your claws. Love you, Pete, really do, but there are better ways to make money.”
“But this is what I do, Gabe! I’m not going to give up…he must have something hidden - otherwise he wouldn’t be trying to hide so bad!”
Again, Gabe sighs. “Whatever you think, Pete, but seriously. He’s just a nice guy who likes his privacy.”
“Sure,” Pete scoffs again, and then he leaves Gabe back to sorting his records.
--
“Wait. Wait a god damn minute. You know the dude? You know him well?”
Ryan looks up lazily from his issue of Rolling Stone. “How did you not know this, Pete? I play guitar with him every other day.”
Pete is grinning again, and Ryan narrows his eyes. “No way,” he says sharply, closing the magazine and shaking his head. “I’m not helping you get dirt on him, Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III,” Ryan mutters darkly. “He’s my good friend, too. He of all people doesn’t deserve to have you ruining his reputation.”
Pete frowns. “That’s what Gabe told me, too, but he said he only talked to the guy a couple of times. Oh, come on, Ry, let me just hook up with him for like…half an hour. Fifteen minutes? Dude, come on, this will skyrocket my career.”
“Your career is based on sneaky lying and making people look bad! I love you, Pete, really, I do - you’re the reason I know Brendon so damn well - but I’m not going to ruin one friendship to get you more money. Take some candid shots of Lady Gaga and I’m sure you’ll get another couple grand.”
“Ugh! Lady Gaga is old news, though, don’t you get it, Ross? People will suck this shit up! Brendon Urie - revealed! Just a paragraph about the dude, a good photo, it’ll make people go crazy.”
Ryan seems to be considering for a moment, and Pete can feel his heart thumping in his chest. “Could I make you swear for it not to be dirt?”
Pete is frowning again, and he leans back on his heels, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I dunno, Ry, I mean, dirt is just what I do. Honest dirt, but still, dirt. It’s what people wanna read.”
Ryan smiles vaguely and shakes his head. “But isn’t something new going to be something people wanna read, anyway? Come on…if you promise me, I’ll introduce you.”
Pete sighs and then sticks out his hand. “I will shake on it. I will shake on being completely honest about Brandon Urie and to not say anything mean about him as long as I get a very sexual shot.”
Ryan laughs lightly and rolls his eyes, smacking Pete’s hand away. “Get rid of the last part about sexual photographs and we’ve got ourselves a deal. And it’s Brendon, you idiot.”
Pete takes this deal.
--
Ryan tells Pete that Brendon doesn’t go by his name for his music - which explains why google image searching his name only came up with some stuff for the company he models for (though apparently he’s never done headshots) and a couple of bad screen shots from movies where he’d played short parts. “Stupid kid,” Pete mutters as he enters ‘Panic at the Disco’ (which he totally thinks is retarded - he can’t believe Ryan actually lets himself go by that kind of name) into google image search.
Suddenly, there’s three pages of relevant (or so Pete hopes) photos.
Pete clicks the first one and enlarges it - and now he’s grinning again.
“Damn,” he says, whistling low under his breath. The shot is a little blurry, definitely not shot by a professional, but it depicts who Pete assumes is Brendon (he recognizes the back of Ryan’s head a couple of feet away) sitting on a stool on a small stage. His eyes are closed and his mouth is open as he sings into the microphone. He has an acoustic guitar strapped over his shoulder, which he appears to be playing as he sings - and Pete notices something. A piano is tattooed onto his arm, surrounded by colorful flowers. “Interesting,” Pete mutters to himself as he saves the picture to his files and then goes back to the search. “This will be fun.”
--
“He’s kind of nervous, okay, Pete? You may not have really known who he is, but he knows who you are. You’re just lucky he trusts me so much.”
Pete just nods slowly, holding his notebook and pen tightly (he’s got another tucked inside his messenger bag, ready in case the first runs out of ink). He can feel the excitement welling in his chest, and it won’t seem to calm.
Ryan pulls into a driveway that looks just like anyone else’s on the street - Pete is dumbfounded. He should have known, considering what Patrick, Gabe, and Ryan have told him, but he’s still surprised, because it’s just a small place with a small backyard. It looks like any old person’s house, yet he knows this guy has money, money, and more money.
“Come on,” Ryan grunts as he gets out of the car, which looks oddly obnoxious in this plain driveway (a Mercedes Benz should seem normal considering the situation, but it’s not). Pete follows Ryan, his knuckles white, holding onto the paper almost enough to rip it. Ryan is the one to knock on the door, waiting patiently even though Pete is basically bouncing up and down.
The door opens - “Oh,” Pete says, not meaning to. The man is about his height (he had expected him to be tall, at least taller than Pete, who’s at least two inches shorter than Ryan, who is just under average male height), maybe an inch taller, which slight stubble on his chin. He has very deep brown eyes and large lips which Pete hadn’t noticed in the six photos he had found, and a half smile which looks a little weak.
“Come on in,” Brendon says softly, stepping back and gesturing for the two to enter. Pete suddenly realizes he forgot his camera and curses loudly. Brendon jumps but Ryan ignores him, stepping into the threshold of Brendon’s house and then pulling him into a tight hug.
Pete watches the two hugging with a frown - in the back of his head, he’s thinking ‘Ryan Ross and Brendon Urie are close friends - as I step into Brendon’s small house the two are wrapped up in an intimate embrace…’ but he doesn’t take out his pen and start scribbling like he might normally. He pushes the thought out of his head and tries to excuse himself from his job by saying he doesn’t want anyone thinking badly about Ryan.
“So, Pete, let’s get started, huh?” Brendon says and Pete blinks his way out of his distraction, grinning at Brendon.
“All right,” he agrees, and then he stretches his hand out. “Pete Wentz, journalist.”
“Brendon Urie, uh…guy.” Brendon takes Pete’s hand and grasps it tightly - Pete blinks because his hand is damn warm - and then laughs lightly. They both drop the hold at the same time.
“Is it okay if I go?” Ryan asks hastily, glancing at his watch. “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment and if I don’t go down I’m going to be late.” He gives Brendon an apologetic smile, but now that Brendon is regaining his confidence, he just smiles and waves his hand.
“Go ahead, Ryan, we’ll be fine. He made you a promise, didn’t he?” Brendon looks back at Pete, still looking a bit suspicious, but both Ryan and Pete are nodding in unison now. “Good,” Brendon adds. “You can go.”
Ryan gives a quick good bye and turns, heading out the door. It’s then that Pete realizes he won’t have a ride home. He frowns. He’s stuck here until Ryan gets out of his appointment - he might even have to use Brendon’s home phone, he realizes, because he forgot his cell phone.
“Why don’t we go into the living room?” Brendon asks, still smiling, though only barely as he turns a bit, beginning to walk through a narrow hallway. Pete hurries after him, not quite understanding his scatter-brained-ness, and finds himself looking at Brendon’s backside.
“Nice ass,” he blurts, without meaning it, and suddenly he’s the one blushing, flustered, trying to compose himself when normally that’s what he’s doing with the biggest stars, models, everything.
Brendon twists his head over his shoulder and Pete’s jaw drops because he’s smirking. “Thank you,” Brendon replies nonchalantly, and maybe, Pete thinks as he snaps his teeth together, maybe the actor-musician-model begins to swing his hips just a little.
Fucking tease, Pete thinks, narrowing his eyes as they continue down the surprisingly long hallway.
“Take a seat,” Brendon offers once they reach a small room - a loveseat and a rocking chair are the only pieces of furniture, and then a television set, a grandfather clock next to it. The clock is the first sign of Brendon’s fortune - it’s large and looks incredibly antique. Pete really wishes he hadn’t forgotten his camera.
“Where’d you get the clock?” he asks as he sits down on the loveseat (part of him is definitely not hoping Brendon will join him), still staring at the large piece, ticking almost loudly in the nearly silent room.
“The antique mall about eight miles away. Ninety bucks, it was a great deal.”
Pete resists the urge to narrow his eyes again and huffs a little under his breath. “Aren’t you going to take a seat?” he asks, putting on his polite smile. Brendon smiles back and chooses the rocker a couple of feet from Pete. “So,” Pete starts as he flips open his notebook and pops his pen, letting himself sink into the familiarity of this situation. He pretends this is like any other super star, rock star, movie star - but somehow it’s not. His stomach clenches uncomfortably. “How should we start?”
As Pete looks up, he sees that Brendon is smirking again, just barely. “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to ask you?” he half drawls, but it’s not enough - it’s too innocent, and too correct of a question. Pete resists the urge to frown and presses the tip of his pen against the paper.
“Hardly anyone really knows who you are - but we all know who you are, Mr. Urie,” Pete begins, like he would with anyone else.
“Call me Brendon.”
“All right, then, Brendon,” Pete restates, and right now he should be jotting down notes, making himself seem suave and collected, but his pen is just stuck against the paper, unmoving. “Do you write all of your music?”
“Of course,” Brendon begins, fluent. “Besides the lyrics. That’s Ryan’s job. Well, let me restate that - I help write the music, but that’s to be expected. We all do it - Spencer, Jon, Ryan and I. We’re a band - I’m not a solo artist, despite what people seem to believe.”
Pete is yelling at himself in his mind - this is great, this is smooth and just how it should be - but he’s not writing a word down. Brendon is telling him things that people wants to hear, but his hand isn’t moving. Brendon is watching him, almost curiously, probably waiting for him to start scribbling.
“Do you…have a girlfriend, Brendon?” Pete finds himself asking - Shit, he thinks, I let another one slip. People don’t really now that Pete’s gay (which is funny, because he’s always making people believe that the people he interviews are gay) and he’s pretty much giving himself away to Brendon - but he just can’t help it. He might be the most attractive guy Pete’s ever seen - or it might just be the fact that his smile could probably produce fucking rainbows.
“I don’t, Mr. Wentz,” Brendon laughs. “That was a bit of a change of subject.” The atmosphere is almost uncomfortably light (Pete can hardly stand it - he’s so used to the people sitting across from him being the ones sweating, regretting and now it’s him) and it feels more like a casual conference then what should kind of be an interrogation. “How about you?”
“P-Pete,” he manages, almost choked, swallowing. “Call me Pete. And…and no. She…kind of left a couple of months ago. Didn’t like my job.” Pete frowns, remembering how Ashlee had cussed him out when he (accidentally, he swears) wrote a very rude article about her sister. Then again, they shared the same last name. He probably should have noticed.
Brendon chuckles, and Pete is about to melt into a puddle of fucking mush, and it’s killing him. “That’s too bad. You seem like a nice guy, besides what you seem to normally write about completely nice people. But Ryan seems to trust you…I guess that’s why I let you over. But it seems like you’re not writing anything. Am I just not that interesting?”
Pete stutters, trying to find words. He ends up just closing his eyes, shaking his head. “You’re very interesting, Brendon,” Pete mumbles, running a hand through his short hair. “That’s the…the issue. God, what the hell, this is completely the opposite of how things are supposed to go!”
Suddenly, Pete finds himself jumping up, glaring at Brendon. “God, how do you do that? You…you’re a terrible person, aren’t you!?” Pete snaps, surprising himself, but he doesn’t stop. “You just want to make me feel like shit! Dammit, Gabe and Ryan were so wrong about you.”
Brendon blinks up at him, his expression blank. “Excuse me,” he begins, almost coldly. “Who are you to judge me?”
Pete’s turn to blink. “I…” He falls back onto the loveseat, burying his face in his hands. “What the fuck, seriously?” he mutters, staring at the notebook and pen, now scattered on Brendon’s carpet, which he notices is a light green. “I’m sorry, Mr. Urie,” Pete says as he snaps back into a sitting position. “I’m going to go now. You won’t have to worry about any horrible articles anytime soon. Stay hidden - you seem to be damn good at it, and with good reason, I’ll bet. You’ve got something you’re trying to hide, but if you’ve already got my head in a mess, I can’t even imagine who could figure it out.”
Pete bends down and picks up his pen and paper, turning back towards the hall.
Before he stands, he realizes that Brendon has bent down next to him - his hand is over Pete’s, just barely hovering, but Pete can feel his body warmth. “Are you okay?” Brendon murmurs, his other hand reaching up and touching Pete’s cheek. He’s blushing now, his heart thumping in his chest. “D-do you need like…some kind of medication or something?”
“Shit!” Pete suddenly curses, burying his face in his hands again. “That’s…” He looks up again, grinning, though his eyes are wild. “So you’re not anything special! It’s just that I haven’t taken those fucking pills.” He knows he’s half-lying, though. Yeah, maybe the lack of medication has made him nervous and that’s why he’s sweating - but it’s not why his heart is speeding up. There’s always a real reason for that when it comes to Pete.
“Hey, come on, we can go out and get you whatever you need,” Brendon murmurs, not moving his hand from Pete’s cheek.
“Y-yeah,” Pete agrees slowly, taking deep breaths. “I think…I was nervous, I guess. I forgot my camera and my cell phone, and I must have just forgotten to take my pills.”
“Don’t worry,” Brendon tells him softly, holding his hand loosely and rubbing circles into his knuckles. “I’ll drive you home and you can take your medication, and if you’re up for it, we can do this interview later, maybe just another day?” Brendon smiles at Pete, like Pete never said a rude thing to him and Pete feels himself flushing again.
“O-okay,” he agrees quietly and Brendon helps Pete stand, still holding his hand just barely.
“You’re gonna have to give me directions to your house, all right?” Brendon says, still smiling as he leads Pete back down the long hall and into the front room. They step outside and Pete nods, still a little dazed. His notebook and pen are still on Brendon’s living room floor - and Pete knows that he’s got other shit written in there. This means he’ll have to go back to Brendon’s house someday.
“Buckle your seatbelt,” Brendon says in a monotone as they enter his car and Pete blinks, glancing over at Brendon who’s already backing out of the driveway.
“Okay,” he agrees easily as they head down the street, pulling the belt over his chest. It actually does make him feel safer, but he thinks maybe he just trusts Brendon. Which makes absolutely no sense.
Pete gives Brendon the directions to his house - it’s surprisingly easy, because it’s actually been in this part of LA - he only lives about twenty minutes away from Brendon. It’s hard to believe he lives so close to someone he thought was so damn interesting.
They pull into Pete’s driveway and Brendon whistles under his breath. “You really are filthy, stinking rich, aren’t you?”
Pete laughs, almost nervously. “Probably not as rich as you, though.”
“Maybe,” Brendon agrees and they both get out of the car in unison. Pete notices that his legs are shaking just slightly and he tries to calm himself as he yanks his house keys from his front pocket (at least he remembered them). He fumbles with the lock, noticing now that his hands are quivering too. He curses himself in his head as they step into the front of his house.
“I’ll just go get my meds and then…” Pete trails off with a frown, not sure what’s going to happen after that. “You can go home,” he finally says, but the words fall a little flat. He figures it must just be his nerves. He shakes his head and continues towards the kitchen, until he notices Brendon is still following him.
Pete looks over his shoulder, frowning. “You don’t have to stay. Thanks for dropping me off.”
“I don’t feel like I should leave you alone.” Brendon pauses, looking up at the ceiling. “I kind of feel responsible.”
Pete turns away and begins to rummage through the medicine cabinet above his sink. He ignores the stare into his back as he pops the cap and pulls out two of the capsules, swallowing them dry.
“How old are you?” Brendon asks, and Pete nearly has a heart attack.
“T-twenty nine,” he manages, a hand over his chest as he catches his breath. “And you?”
Brendon chuckles. “Twenty two,” he says, leaning against one of Pete’s counters. “But I’ll be twenty three in a couple of months.”
“You’re young,” Pete points out, a bit surprised.
Brendon just nods, keeping quiet before speaking up again. “Why don’t you become a real author?”
Pete looks up as he rummages through the fridge. “Like, with books and shit?” he asks slowly, a little confused.
“Yeah. You’re a good writer. You know how to work with words.”
Pete frowns and shakes his head. “Because I’m a journalist,” he says, then adding a bit of a laugh. “I went to school for this shit, and look where it’s gotten me. No one wants to mess with me, not even you. Are you afraid of me?” Pete turns, closing the refrigerator door and opening his can of Coke.
Brendon seems to contemplate this. “Not…not afraid, quite. Just a little…intimidated?” he smiles. “Usually people are intimidated by me, though. I mean, hardly anyone recognizes me, but when they do, they usually shy away…because I stay so hidden…they’re afraid I’m something dangerous.”
“You don’t seem dangerous to me,” Pete points out, taking a slug of his soda. “You just seem like a nice guy. Huh.”
Brendon grins again, showing his teeth. “Yeah, that’s what a lot of people say.”
“You know, you’re really good looking.”
Brendon smiles wider and Pete doesn’t even feel embarrassed this time. “Thank you,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Ryan’s told me that a couple of times.”
“What about you? Do you have any hidden dreams?”
“I can trust you?” Brendon asks and Pete laughs. “I guess so. I mean, I always…I kind of want to go into cosmetology, you know? Maybe someday. I guess not now, I’m way too busy. But if I didn’t have music, that’s definitely what I’d do.”
“Huh,” Pete murmurs, looking down at his Coke. “I told you…you can go.”
“I know.”
“Oh. Okay. Then…why don’t you?”
“Like I said, I feel kind of responsible. I’m sorry you won’t be making the big bucks off of me…at least not today.”
Pete is already shaking his head. “I don’t think I can interview you anymore,” he confesses. “You really do have something around you that screams mysterious. If I swear on my…my grandfather’s grave, would you tell me what your biggest secret is?”
Brendon looks taken aback. “Why do you want to know if you’re not going to be telling gossip magazines?”
“I’m just…I’m damn curious. You’re mysterious!” Pete reiterates and then sighs heavily. “But I get it. You shouldn’t want totell me. Even if I did promise Ryan. Like…” He trails off again, coughing quickly. “It’s okay.”
“I’m…gay.”
Pete blinks and looks Brendon straight in the eye. “That was easy.”
Brendon laughs, throwing his head back. “I suppose,” he finally says, out of breath. “Are you happy now?”
“I…I guess so,” Pete manages, still trying to understand his own shock. “I don’t know what I expected, exactly, but it wasn’t that.” He smiles at Brendon and shrugs. “Are you just saying that because that’s usually what I bust people for.”
Brendon chuckles. “Nah, it’s true.” He shrugs. “I’ve never had a boyfriend, though. It kind of sucks. I guess I should probably stop hiding, especially now that you know my biggest secret.”
“I can keep a secret.”
“I’m sure you can,” Pete amends, still smiling. “But for how long?”
Pete shakes his head and steps forward, setting his can of soda onto the kitchen table. He grabs Brendon’s arm, pulling him close (Brendon gasps, his eyes widening with a little surprise), and then wraps his arms around his waist - their lips crush together at some awkward interval and for a moment it feels more like a wreck then like a real kiss.
Pete holds Brendon tight to him for a moment, trying to ignore the fact that he’s struggling (it makes him feel fucking guilty) until suddenly the younger seems to relax, almost falling against Pete. Brendon wraps his arms around Pete’s neck, and the kiss gets wetter and messier, tongues suddenly sliding together (and God, Pete can feel Brendon’s erection already, pressed against his thigh). Brendon makes a low noise in the very back of his mouth and Pete thinks it’s a moan and that’s probably the hottest thing he’s heard in months (years, maybe - God, he needs to get laid).
When they finally pull apart they’re a tangle of limbs. Brendon’s cheeks are flushed (somehow, this makes Pete’s chest swell with pride) and he’s panting, his lips (God, his lips, Pete thinks, unable to tear his eyes from the other’s mouth) parted just slightly.
“Bed,” Pete mutters, dipping his head down to Brendon’s neck and sucking at his pulse without a second thought. His hands are scattering a pattern across Brendon’s skin, underneath his shirt, up his spine. “Couch. Something.”
Brendon nods, whimpering and clinging to Pete - his legs are shaking now, and he feels like his entire body is probably going to collapse.
Pete twines his fingers with Brendon in a surprisingly light manner and together they stumble out of the kitchen. For a moment, Pete forgets where the steps are, but he finds them with a lopsided grin and begins to hurry up them, dragging Brendon behind him.
Pete opens the door to his bedroom hurriedly and nearly pushes Brendon inside.
“Holy…shit.”
They both pause (Pete more out of hesitation and embarrassment, Brendon more because of shock) as Brendon scans the room with a gaping mouth and wide eyes. “Your room is fucking…huge,” he whispers, letting out another whistle.
Both of their eyes turn to the bed in the middle of the room. Pete thinks Brendon is about to ask what he needs a double-king sized bed for, anyway, but Ashlee seemed to like it so Pete just didn’t give it away. But before Brendon can move his tongue, Pete pulls him in for another kiss, dragging his fingers down the fabric of his shirt - Brendon shivers and Pete can’t help but smirk against his mouth before grinding their hips together.
The sensation is shocking, even to Pete, and they both moan in unison, chins touching as Pete leans his head back, pressing against Brendon harder. Brendon whimpers them, squirming just a bit. “C-come on, Pete,” he mutters, and it’s then that Pete realizes he even left his messenger bag at Brendon’s house (he’ll have an even better excuse for a visit now) but it doesn’t really matter at the moment. He half-pushes, half-leads Brendon to the bed, dropping him down before crawling on top of him.
“How did this happen?” Brendon asks, his voice cracking, and Pete smiles, amused. He kisses Brendon again, letting it be more romantic - a sensual kiss without tongue or teeth. Brendon doesn’t question him again, locking his arms around his neck and pulling him closer.
Pete pulls them apart, taking in a sharp breath and beginning to unbutton his shirt. “What are you waiting for?” Pete laughs, looking down at Brendon who is staring right back up at him, looking unsure about what he’s supposed to do. Pete pulls off his shirt and suddenly, Brendon seems to realize what’s about to happen.
“Oh,” he murmurs and begins to undo his tie, throwing it across the room where it lands who knows where.
“Good,” Pete whispers, leaning down as Brendon fumbles with his own buttons, licking at the shell of Brendon’s ear. “It’s okay, you know,” Pete murmurs, his breath hot in Brendon’s ear. “I…I can make this all you want it to be.”
Brendon still seems to be shaking, and when Pete looks in his eyes, he looks near tears. “Sh,” Pete soothes, touching his cheek. “It’s all right. You can always say no,” he murmurs, and it makes him feel so dirty because he feels like he’s talking to a fucking kid.
“No,” Brendon mumbles, shaking his head. Pete hesitates and begins to move off, but then Brendon grabs him again. “I don’t want to say no,” Brendon whispers, smiling a little - he still looks shy and too young.
Pete breathes out a sigh, half-relieved, and kisses Brendon again, softer. “Okay,” he says against his lips.
Brendon finally yanks his shirt off, tossing it to the floor along with his tie, and Pete pulls him up closer - their chests touch and Pete hums low in his chest as Brendon gasps. Pete slides his hand down Brendon’s bare chest, tracing his fingers over his hips. Brendon is whining again, his eyes fluttering closed - he bites his lip to try to hold back the noises, and Pete can’t help the smirk. He unbuttons and unzips Brendon’s dress pants, pulling them down his legs slowly. Brendon kicks his legs and now his hands are moving too, working the zipper of Pete’s jeans before he even realizes it.
“You really are beautiful,” Pete mumbles, trailing his fingers slowly over Brendon’s bare chest - they’re both only in their underwear now but Pete can see the way Brendon’s boxers are tenting with his hard-on. “Damn,” Pete whispers, kissing down Brendon’s neck and chest. “I never thought I’d be this close to you.” He reaches over and turns off the light on the bedside table and suddenly the room is completely dark (Pete didn’t realize it was already that late as he glances at the digital clock which reads it’s 7:30 at night). He can’t see Brendon’s face for a moment, so he takes advantage of the situation, slipping his hand past the waistband of his boxers.
Brendon lets out a gasp as Pete’s cold fingers tease his cock, but it’s only momentary. Pete pulls off Brendon’s boxers and he gasps again, his breath catching in his throat - Pete can feel how tense he is, clutching the sheets, his knuckles probably getting white. Pete reaches for his bedside table again, pulling open the drawer with a bit of noise that makes Brendon jump and finding the small tube of lube and condoms hidden under some very unimportant papers.
Pete drops the lube and condom on the sheets and yanks off his own boxers, pressing his hips down against Brendon’s - as their cocks touch Brendon groans, surprisingly dirty (it makes Pete’s cheeks hotter), lifting his hips off of the bed.
“Come on,” Brendon manages, his voice choked. He clings to Pete’s shoulders, his short nails digging into his skin, and Pete knows that he has to comply with his demands.
“Okay,” Pete mumbles, kissing Brendon’s throat quickly before coating his fingers in lube, making sure they’re sufficiently covered. Brendon gasps again as Pete presses a finger past the circle of muscles without hesitation. “Does it hurt?” Pete asks quietly and Brendon just makes another small whimper, shaking his head quickly. “I’m gonna add another, alright?” Pete whispers, stroking Brendon’s cheek with his spare hand.
“Yeah,” Brendon mumbles, and Pete pushes another finger inside, twisting them together as he presses deeper.
“Relax, relax, relax,” Pete coos, pulling his fingers almost all the way out and teasing around the opening with his third finger. “I’m gonna add a third, okay…?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Brendon pants, and Pete pushes all three inside, working on stretching him out. Brendon continues to make quiet, restrained noises, his nails scraping over Pete’s back.
Once Pete’s sure that Brendon is stretched out enough, he pulls his fingers out - Brendon gasp is sharp and expected and he whimpers again; “So empty,” he pants, and Pete thinks his back might be bleeding, that Brendon might actually be leaving open wounds. Maybe this turns him on more than it should, and he moans just a little too loudly.
Pete doesn’t ask this time, quickly wrapping Brendon’s legs around his waist where they hook at his back - Brendon is taking ragged breaths, and now that Pete’s eyes have adjusted to the light, he can recognize how Brendon’s pupils are dilated and his already swollen lips are even redder. Pete suddenly remembers the condom and fumbles for it, ripping the plastic off and then hastily rolling it on. Looking back at Brendon, fully prepared, Pete moans again (how Brendon makes him go crazy he’s not sure, but he does it well) then pushes himself forward, gripping Brendon’s hips in the process.
Brendon is tight, tighter than tight, but it’s so good and Pete just can’t find it in him to actually say anything, to ask Brendon to relax - Brendon is tense as fuck and Pete knows that it would be so much easier on him if he wasn’t.
Brendon is whining (Fuck, is the only coherent thought in Pete’s head - but maybe he still wonders if it’s the same for Brendon) on and off, squirming just a little each time Pete pulls out and then snaps his hips back, hitting bruises (maybe they won’t last too long) into Brendon’s skinny thighs. Pete does find it in him, however, to move one hand from Brendon’s hip (the lack of pressure leaves Brendon arching up again, his back trying to stick to the bed from the sweat but still-), turning its focus to Brendon’s leaking cock (God, Pete thinks, driving me up the fucking wall). His hand is still moist from the lube so he doesn’t bother with more preparation.
Brendon’s whimper catches in his throat again when Pete grabs his cock, twisting his wrist and jerking his fisted hand over it - Pete quickly picks up a rhythm that’s just barely off of the thrusts into Brendon, knowing and seeing that it’s driving him crazy. “Pete,” Brendon chokes, his voice cracking. “I’m gonna-” he whispers, voice raw and rasping. Pete flicks his wrist one final time, sliding his finger over the head of Brendon’s cock until he cries out, coming over both of their stomachs. Pete wasn’t sure that it was possible, but it must be, because Brendon clenches around his own dick and he moans low in his chest, clinging hard to Brendon’s hip (maybe he’ll be the one leaving marks) - somehow, Brendon gets tighter, and Pete’s hips are thrusting erratically, the rhythm he once had long gone as he comes long and hard.
They’re both gasping for breath and all Pete can think of is What the fuck just happened? because it just now starts to really fit together that he just fucked a guy he’s only known for a couple of hours. Pete collapses next to him, and they’re both sweaty heaps.
“You’re a virgin,” Pete says a little pointedly, still trying to catch his breath.
“Not anymore,” Brendon whispers into the dark, and Pete glances over - his chest is heaving as he pants, but he’s smiling. Brendon turns his head and gives Pete a half-grin. “Didn’t expect to get to know me this well, huh, Wentz?”
Pete begins to shake his head but then closes his eyes, already exhausted. “Damn,” he mutters, wiping his hands on the sheets without giving a shit. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“That kind of changes a lot, doesn’t it?” Brendon agrees, chuckling.
“A lot is a bit of an understatement…” Pete murmurs, running a hand through his short hair. “What are we supposed to do about this?”
Brendon rolls onto his side, tugging at the sheets and pulling them over his hips, and then over Pete’s. “I don’t really think it matters right now, does it?” he asks softly, reaching out and touching the side of Pete’s face. Pete hasn’t felt this kind of affection in quite a while (Ashlee always got quiet after sex, she usually fell asleep pretty quickly) and it just feels…it feels fucking nice. “I’m tired. And I’ll bet you are, too. Let’s just…sleep for now? Is that okay?”
“It’s hardly night time…” Pete mumbles, glancing at the clock. Not even nine yet. But he doesn’t argue any further than that, thinking it would be ineffective. “I’ll be right back,” he murmurs, stumbling through the dark bedroom to wear he knows the trash can is near the door - he tosses the used condom inside and then walks back to the bed, crawling under the covers.
For a moment, the two lie perfectly still, trying to keep their breathing as steady as possible. “Can I get closer?” Brendon finally mumbles, almost into the pillow, and Pete thinks he might actually sound embarrassed. This makes him smile - it makes him grin like a fool. He can feel Brendon squirming slightly, inching little by little over the bed, hoping Pete will accept him.
Pete wraps his arms around Brendon without hesitation and pulls him into his grip, enveloping him (he feels it’s like a letter he doesn’t want to send) and burying his face in his hair. Brendon smells kind of like apple orchards and sweat. It’s shockingly pleasant.
Brendon hums against the bare skin of Pete’s chest and locks his arms around his waist.
They sleep like that and do their best to forget about tomorrow.
A/N: I haven't read this over completely yet. Ignore stupid typos.
“You’ll never be able to do it, Pete.”
Leaning back in his chair and arching a questioning eyebrow, Pete smirks. He crosses his arms over his chest and lifts his legs, crossing them over the table at the ankle. The man across him makes a disapproving face, blanching a bit, but doesn’t reprimand him. No one reprimands Pete Wentz - they’re all too afraid of what he can (and most certainly will) do.
“What makes you so sure?” Pete drawls, looking at his nails - his expression is bored, but the man sitting across from him can tell he’s interested. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t even ask.
The man across the table is actually relatively close to Pete - his manager, in a way of speaking. “Look, Pete,” he begins, rubbing his temple slowly. “This guy…he doesn’t…you can do as many simple google searches as you want, and you won’t get a thing.”
“Oh, come on, you think I’m gonna believe that, Trick?” Pete laughs. “What, are you personally friends with the dude? You just don’t want me to dig up dirt on him? Come on, Patrick, this is what I do - it’s my job! You don’t get paid if I don’t get paid.”
Sighing heavily, the man called Patrick leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest almost identical to Pete. “No, Pete,” he begins, “I’m not friends with him. At all. Never spoken to the man. Look, all I can tell you is that…he doesn’t want to be seen.”
Pete is scowling now, getting frustrated. He stands, nearly slamming his hands down on the table - Patrick can tell he’s getting seriously impatient now. “What the fuck are you talking about, Patrick? He’s in so many movies, he’s a freaking super star, he’s even a god damn model and no one’s ever gotten dirt on him? No paparazzi pictures?”
Patrick stares Pete straight in the eyes, and Pete knows that what Patrick says next won’t be a lie. “All I know is his name. Brendon Urie - I don’t even know his middle name. He lives in LA and that’s about the most of it. He has a couple of close friends who play music with him, but honestly, that’s all. And he’s not a super star, Pete, he does small roles in movie - most people don’t even realize it until the credits roll, and even then…”
“You’ve got to…” Pete is about to snap at Patrick, tell him he must be lying, but Patrick’s eyes are completely honest, still a little hard. “What the fuck…?” Pete mumbles, falling back down in his seat. Suddenly, a rush of determination floods through him and he’s giving Patrick a shit eating grin. “All the more reason for me to find out more about him, right?” he snickers. “This will make me…well, I don’t know, but if I’m not already filthy rich, I will be!”
With a short laugh, Pete stands out and walks out of the conference room, leaving Patrick sighing and nervous because who knows what kind of shit Pete’s going to get himself into?
--
“You don’t know where the dude lives?”
“If you don’t know, what makes you think I would know?”
Pete frowns and puts a hand on his hip, beginning to tap his foot impatiently. “Come on, Gabe, you’re in the music industry, you must know something about him?”
The taller, slightly tanned man turns, scowling at Pete. “You know, you’re like, my best friend ever, Pete, which is good for me, but seriously, why are you so stuck up on this guy?”
Pete twitches with a realization. “You do know him, then,” he says with a smirk, confidence returning. “You’re too easy!”
Gabe frowns, but doesn’t deny it. “I’ve talked to the guy. He’s nice. I’m not going to let you ruin his rep.”
Pete scoffs. “Come on, Gabe, I’m your best friend, not this Branden dude.”
“It’s Brendon, Pete. The least you can do is get his fucking name right.”
Pete frowns again. “You lied to me,” he points out, pouting slightly. “Maybe I will pull some dirt on you.”
Gabe’s eyes roll way up. “The ceiling ain’t gonna change my mind,” Pete mumbles darkly, his arms across his chest again.
Gabe turns back to Pete. “I didn’t lie to you, not completely. I don’t know where he lives. I’ve talked to him a couple of times. He’s kind of shy, he smiles a lot and makes bad jokes, but he’s very good at hiding, let me tell you that. It took me a while to get him to trust me - I’m not going to break that trust by turning him into your claws. Love you, Pete, really do, but there are better ways to make money.”
“But this is what I do, Gabe! I’m not going to give up…he must have something hidden - otherwise he wouldn’t be trying to hide so bad!”
Again, Gabe sighs. “Whatever you think, Pete, but seriously. He’s just a nice guy who likes his privacy.”
“Sure,” Pete scoffs again, and then he leaves Gabe back to sorting his records.
--
“Wait. Wait a god damn minute. You know the dude? You know him well?”
Ryan looks up lazily from his issue of Rolling Stone. “How did you not know this, Pete? I play guitar with him every other day.”
Pete is grinning again, and Ryan narrows his eyes. “No way,” he says sharply, closing the magazine and shaking his head. “I’m not helping you get dirt on him, Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III,” Ryan mutters darkly. “He’s my good friend, too. He of all people doesn’t deserve to have you ruining his reputation.”
Pete frowns. “That’s what Gabe told me, too, but he said he only talked to the guy a couple of times. Oh, come on, Ry, let me just hook up with him for like…half an hour. Fifteen minutes? Dude, come on, this will skyrocket my career.”
“Your career is based on sneaky lying and making people look bad! I love you, Pete, really, I do - you’re the reason I know Brendon so damn well - but I’m not going to ruin one friendship to get you more money. Take some candid shots of Lady Gaga and I’m sure you’ll get another couple grand.”
“Ugh! Lady Gaga is old news, though, don’t you get it, Ross? People will suck this shit up! Brendon Urie - revealed! Just a paragraph about the dude, a good photo, it’ll make people go crazy.”
Ryan seems to be considering for a moment, and Pete can feel his heart thumping in his chest. “Could I make you swear for it not to be dirt?”
Pete is frowning again, and he leans back on his heels, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I dunno, Ry, I mean, dirt is just what I do. Honest dirt, but still, dirt. It’s what people wanna read.”
Ryan smiles vaguely and shakes his head. “But isn’t something new going to be something people wanna read, anyway? Come on…if you promise me, I’ll introduce you.”
Pete sighs and then sticks out his hand. “I will shake on it. I will shake on being completely honest about Brandon Urie and to not say anything mean about him as long as I get a very sexual shot.”
Ryan laughs lightly and rolls his eyes, smacking Pete’s hand away. “Get rid of the last part about sexual photographs and we’ve got ourselves a deal. And it’s Brendon, you idiot.”
Pete takes this deal.
--
Ryan tells Pete that Brendon doesn’t go by his name for his music - which explains why google image searching his name only came up with some stuff for the company he models for (though apparently he’s never done headshots) and a couple of bad screen shots from movies where he’d played short parts. “Stupid kid,” Pete mutters as he enters ‘Panic at the Disco’ (which he totally thinks is retarded - he can’t believe Ryan actually lets himself go by that kind of name) into google image search.
Suddenly, there’s three pages of relevant (or so Pete hopes) photos.
Pete clicks the first one and enlarges it - and now he’s grinning again.
“Damn,” he says, whistling low under his breath. The shot is a little blurry, definitely not shot by a professional, but it depicts who Pete assumes is Brendon (he recognizes the back of Ryan’s head a couple of feet away) sitting on a stool on a small stage. His eyes are closed and his mouth is open as he sings into the microphone. He has an acoustic guitar strapped over his shoulder, which he appears to be playing as he sings - and Pete notices something. A piano is tattooed onto his arm, surrounded by colorful flowers. “Interesting,” Pete mutters to himself as he saves the picture to his files and then goes back to the search. “This will be fun.”
--
“He’s kind of nervous, okay, Pete? You may not have really known who he is, but he knows who you are. You’re just lucky he trusts me so much.”
Pete just nods slowly, holding his notebook and pen tightly (he’s got another tucked inside his messenger bag, ready in case the first runs out of ink). He can feel the excitement welling in his chest, and it won’t seem to calm.
Ryan pulls into a driveway that looks just like anyone else’s on the street - Pete is dumbfounded. He should have known, considering what Patrick, Gabe, and Ryan have told him, but he’s still surprised, because it’s just a small place with a small backyard. It looks like any old person’s house, yet he knows this guy has money, money, and more money.
“Come on,” Ryan grunts as he gets out of the car, which looks oddly obnoxious in this plain driveway (a Mercedes Benz should seem normal considering the situation, but it’s not). Pete follows Ryan, his knuckles white, holding onto the paper almost enough to rip it. Ryan is the one to knock on the door, waiting patiently even though Pete is basically bouncing up and down.
The door opens - “Oh,” Pete says, not meaning to. The man is about his height (he had expected him to be tall, at least taller than Pete, who’s at least two inches shorter than Ryan, who is just under average male height), maybe an inch taller, which slight stubble on his chin. He has very deep brown eyes and large lips which Pete hadn’t noticed in the six photos he had found, and a half smile which looks a little weak.
“Come on in,” Brendon says softly, stepping back and gesturing for the two to enter. Pete suddenly realizes he forgot his camera and curses loudly. Brendon jumps but Ryan ignores him, stepping into the threshold of Brendon’s house and then pulling him into a tight hug.
Pete watches the two hugging with a frown - in the back of his head, he’s thinking ‘Ryan Ross and Brendon Urie are close friends - as I step into Brendon’s small house the two are wrapped up in an intimate embrace…’ but he doesn’t take out his pen and start scribbling like he might normally. He pushes the thought out of his head and tries to excuse himself from his job by saying he doesn’t want anyone thinking badly about Ryan.
“So, Pete, let’s get started, huh?” Brendon says and Pete blinks his way out of his distraction, grinning at Brendon.
“All right,” he agrees, and then he stretches his hand out. “Pete Wentz, journalist.”
“Brendon Urie, uh…guy.” Brendon takes Pete’s hand and grasps it tightly - Pete blinks because his hand is damn warm - and then laughs lightly. They both drop the hold at the same time.
“Is it okay if I go?” Ryan asks hastily, glancing at his watch. “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment and if I don’t go down I’m going to be late.” He gives Brendon an apologetic smile, but now that Brendon is regaining his confidence, he just smiles and waves his hand.
“Go ahead, Ryan, we’ll be fine. He made you a promise, didn’t he?” Brendon looks back at Pete, still looking a bit suspicious, but both Ryan and Pete are nodding in unison now. “Good,” Brendon adds. “You can go.”
Ryan gives a quick good bye and turns, heading out the door. It’s then that Pete realizes he won’t have a ride home. He frowns. He’s stuck here until Ryan gets out of his appointment - he might even have to use Brendon’s home phone, he realizes, because he forgot his cell phone.
“Why don’t we go into the living room?” Brendon asks, still smiling, though only barely as he turns a bit, beginning to walk through a narrow hallway. Pete hurries after him, not quite understanding his scatter-brained-ness, and finds himself looking at Brendon’s backside.
“Nice ass,” he blurts, without meaning it, and suddenly he’s the one blushing, flustered, trying to compose himself when normally that’s what he’s doing with the biggest stars, models, everything.
Brendon twists his head over his shoulder and Pete’s jaw drops because he’s smirking. “Thank you,” Brendon replies nonchalantly, and maybe, Pete thinks as he snaps his teeth together, maybe the actor-musician-model begins to swing his hips just a little.
Fucking tease, Pete thinks, narrowing his eyes as they continue down the surprisingly long hallway.
“Take a seat,” Brendon offers once they reach a small room - a loveseat and a rocking chair are the only pieces of furniture, and then a television set, a grandfather clock next to it. The clock is the first sign of Brendon’s fortune - it’s large and looks incredibly antique. Pete really wishes he hadn’t forgotten his camera.
“Where’d you get the clock?” he asks as he sits down on the loveseat (part of him is definitely not hoping Brendon will join him), still staring at the large piece, ticking almost loudly in the nearly silent room.
“The antique mall about eight miles away. Ninety bucks, it was a great deal.”
Pete resists the urge to narrow his eyes again and huffs a little under his breath. “Aren’t you going to take a seat?” he asks, putting on his polite smile. Brendon smiles back and chooses the rocker a couple of feet from Pete. “So,” Pete starts as he flips open his notebook and pops his pen, letting himself sink into the familiarity of this situation. He pretends this is like any other super star, rock star, movie star - but somehow it’s not. His stomach clenches uncomfortably. “How should we start?”
As Pete looks up, he sees that Brendon is smirking again, just barely. “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to ask you?” he half drawls, but it’s not enough - it’s too innocent, and too correct of a question. Pete resists the urge to frown and presses the tip of his pen against the paper.
“Hardly anyone really knows who you are - but we all know who you are, Mr. Urie,” Pete begins, like he would with anyone else.
“Call me Brendon.”
“All right, then, Brendon,” Pete restates, and right now he should be jotting down notes, making himself seem suave and collected, but his pen is just stuck against the paper, unmoving. “Do you write all of your music?”
“Of course,” Brendon begins, fluent. “Besides the lyrics. That’s Ryan’s job. Well, let me restate that - I help write the music, but that’s to be expected. We all do it - Spencer, Jon, Ryan and I. We’re a band - I’m not a solo artist, despite what people seem to believe.”
Pete is yelling at himself in his mind - this is great, this is smooth and just how it should be - but he’s not writing a word down. Brendon is telling him things that people wants to hear, but his hand isn’t moving. Brendon is watching him, almost curiously, probably waiting for him to start scribbling.
“Do you…have a girlfriend, Brendon?” Pete finds himself asking - Shit, he thinks, I let another one slip. People don’t really now that Pete’s gay (which is funny, because he’s always making people believe that the people he interviews are gay) and he’s pretty much giving himself away to Brendon - but he just can’t help it. He might be the most attractive guy Pete’s ever seen - or it might just be the fact that his smile could probably produce fucking rainbows.
“I don’t, Mr. Wentz,” Brendon laughs. “That was a bit of a change of subject.” The atmosphere is almost uncomfortably light (Pete can hardly stand it - he’s so used to the people sitting across from him being the ones sweating, regretting and now it’s him) and it feels more like a casual conference then what should kind of be an interrogation. “How about you?”
“P-Pete,” he manages, almost choked, swallowing. “Call me Pete. And…and no. She…kind of left a couple of months ago. Didn’t like my job.” Pete frowns, remembering how Ashlee had cussed him out when he (accidentally, he swears) wrote a very rude article about her sister. Then again, they shared the same last name. He probably should have noticed.
Brendon chuckles, and Pete is about to melt into a puddle of fucking mush, and it’s killing him. “That’s too bad. You seem like a nice guy, besides what you seem to normally write about completely nice people. But Ryan seems to trust you…I guess that’s why I let you over. But it seems like you’re not writing anything. Am I just not that interesting?”
Pete stutters, trying to find words. He ends up just closing his eyes, shaking his head. “You’re very interesting, Brendon,” Pete mumbles, running a hand through his short hair. “That’s the…the issue. God, what the hell, this is completely the opposite of how things are supposed to go!”
Suddenly, Pete finds himself jumping up, glaring at Brendon. “God, how do you do that? You…you’re a terrible person, aren’t you!?” Pete snaps, surprising himself, but he doesn’t stop. “You just want to make me feel like shit! Dammit, Gabe and Ryan were so wrong about you.”
Brendon blinks up at him, his expression blank. “Excuse me,” he begins, almost coldly. “Who are you to judge me?”
Pete’s turn to blink. “I…” He falls back onto the loveseat, burying his face in his hands. “What the fuck, seriously?” he mutters, staring at the notebook and pen, now scattered on Brendon’s carpet, which he notices is a light green. “I’m sorry, Mr. Urie,” Pete says as he snaps back into a sitting position. “I’m going to go now. You won’t have to worry about any horrible articles anytime soon. Stay hidden - you seem to be damn good at it, and with good reason, I’ll bet. You’ve got something you’re trying to hide, but if you’ve already got my head in a mess, I can’t even imagine who could figure it out.”
Pete bends down and picks up his pen and paper, turning back towards the hall.
Before he stands, he realizes that Brendon has bent down next to him - his hand is over Pete’s, just barely hovering, but Pete can feel his body warmth. “Are you okay?” Brendon murmurs, his other hand reaching up and touching Pete’s cheek. He’s blushing now, his heart thumping in his chest. “D-do you need like…some kind of medication or something?”
“Shit!” Pete suddenly curses, burying his face in his hands again. “That’s…” He looks up again, grinning, though his eyes are wild. “So you’re not anything special! It’s just that I haven’t taken those fucking pills.” He knows he’s half-lying, though. Yeah, maybe the lack of medication has made him nervous and that’s why he’s sweating - but it’s not why his heart is speeding up. There’s always a real reason for that when it comes to Pete.
“Hey, come on, we can go out and get you whatever you need,” Brendon murmurs, not moving his hand from Pete’s cheek.
“Y-yeah,” Pete agrees slowly, taking deep breaths. “I think…I was nervous, I guess. I forgot my camera and my cell phone, and I must have just forgotten to take my pills.”
“Don’t worry,” Brendon tells him softly, holding his hand loosely and rubbing circles into his knuckles. “I’ll drive you home and you can take your medication, and if you’re up for it, we can do this interview later, maybe just another day?” Brendon smiles at Pete, like Pete never said a rude thing to him and Pete feels himself flushing again.
“O-okay,” he agrees quietly and Brendon helps Pete stand, still holding his hand just barely.
“You’re gonna have to give me directions to your house, all right?” Brendon says, still smiling as he leads Pete back down the long hall and into the front room. They step outside and Pete nods, still a little dazed. His notebook and pen are still on Brendon’s living room floor - and Pete knows that he’s got other shit written in there. This means he’ll have to go back to Brendon’s house someday.
“Buckle your seatbelt,” Brendon says in a monotone as they enter his car and Pete blinks, glancing over at Brendon who’s already backing out of the driveway.
“Okay,” he agrees easily as they head down the street, pulling the belt over his chest. It actually does make him feel safer, but he thinks maybe he just trusts Brendon. Which makes absolutely no sense.
Pete gives Brendon the directions to his house - it’s surprisingly easy, because it’s actually been in this part of LA - he only lives about twenty minutes away from Brendon. It’s hard to believe he lives so close to someone he thought was so damn interesting.
They pull into Pete’s driveway and Brendon whistles under his breath. “You really are filthy, stinking rich, aren’t you?”
Pete laughs, almost nervously. “Probably not as rich as you, though.”
“Maybe,” Brendon agrees and they both get out of the car in unison. Pete notices that his legs are shaking just slightly and he tries to calm himself as he yanks his house keys from his front pocket (at least he remembered them). He fumbles with the lock, noticing now that his hands are quivering too. He curses himself in his head as they step into the front of his house.
“I’ll just go get my meds and then…” Pete trails off with a frown, not sure what’s going to happen after that. “You can go home,” he finally says, but the words fall a little flat. He figures it must just be his nerves. He shakes his head and continues towards the kitchen, until he notices Brendon is still following him.
Pete looks over his shoulder, frowning. “You don’t have to stay. Thanks for dropping me off.”
“I don’t feel like I should leave you alone.” Brendon pauses, looking up at the ceiling. “I kind of feel responsible.”
Pete turns away and begins to rummage through the medicine cabinet above his sink. He ignores the stare into his back as he pops the cap and pulls out two of the capsules, swallowing them dry.
“How old are you?” Brendon asks, and Pete nearly has a heart attack.
“T-twenty nine,” he manages, a hand over his chest as he catches his breath. “And you?”
Brendon chuckles. “Twenty two,” he says, leaning against one of Pete’s counters. “But I’ll be twenty three in a couple of months.”
“You’re young,” Pete points out, a bit surprised.
Brendon just nods, keeping quiet before speaking up again. “Why don’t you become a real author?”
Pete looks up as he rummages through the fridge. “Like, with books and shit?” he asks slowly, a little confused.
“Yeah. You’re a good writer. You know how to work with words.”
Pete frowns and shakes his head. “Because I’m a journalist,” he says, then adding a bit of a laugh. “I went to school for this shit, and look where it’s gotten me. No one wants to mess with me, not even you. Are you afraid of me?” Pete turns, closing the refrigerator door and opening his can of Coke.
Brendon seems to contemplate this. “Not…not afraid, quite. Just a little…intimidated?” he smiles. “Usually people are intimidated by me, though. I mean, hardly anyone recognizes me, but when they do, they usually shy away…because I stay so hidden…they’re afraid I’m something dangerous.”
“You don’t seem dangerous to me,” Pete points out, taking a slug of his soda. “You just seem like a nice guy. Huh.”
Brendon grins again, showing his teeth. “Yeah, that’s what a lot of people say.”
“You know, you’re really good looking.”
Brendon smiles wider and Pete doesn’t even feel embarrassed this time. “Thank you,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Ryan’s told me that a couple of times.”
“What about you? Do you have any hidden dreams?”
“I can trust you?” Brendon asks and Pete laughs. “I guess so. I mean, I always…I kind of want to go into cosmetology, you know? Maybe someday. I guess not now, I’m way too busy. But if I didn’t have music, that’s definitely what I’d do.”
“Huh,” Pete murmurs, looking down at his Coke. “I told you…you can go.”
“I know.”
“Oh. Okay. Then…why don’t you?”
“Like I said, I feel kind of responsible. I’m sorry you won’t be making the big bucks off of me…at least not today.”
Pete is already shaking his head. “I don’t think I can interview you anymore,” he confesses. “You really do have something around you that screams mysterious. If I swear on my…my grandfather’s grave, would you tell me what your biggest secret is?”
Brendon looks taken aback. “Why do you want to know if you’re not going to be telling gossip magazines?”
“I’m just…I’m damn curious. You’re mysterious!” Pete reiterates and then sighs heavily. “But I get it. You shouldn’t want totell me. Even if I did promise Ryan. Like…” He trails off again, coughing quickly. “It’s okay.”
“I’m…gay.”
Pete blinks and looks Brendon straight in the eye. “That was easy.”
Brendon laughs, throwing his head back. “I suppose,” he finally says, out of breath. “Are you happy now?”
“I…I guess so,” Pete manages, still trying to understand his own shock. “I don’t know what I expected, exactly, but it wasn’t that.” He smiles at Brendon and shrugs. “Are you just saying that because that’s usually what I bust people for.”
Brendon chuckles. “Nah, it’s true.” He shrugs. “I’ve never had a boyfriend, though. It kind of sucks. I guess I should probably stop hiding, especially now that you know my biggest secret.”
“I can keep a secret.”
“I’m sure you can,” Pete amends, still smiling. “But for how long?”
Pete shakes his head and steps forward, setting his can of soda onto the kitchen table. He grabs Brendon’s arm, pulling him close (Brendon gasps, his eyes widening with a little surprise), and then wraps his arms around his waist - their lips crush together at some awkward interval and for a moment it feels more like a wreck then like a real kiss.
Pete holds Brendon tight to him for a moment, trying to ignore the fact that he’s struggling (it makes him feel fucking guilty) until suddenly the younger seems to relax, almost falling against Pete. Brendon wraps his arms around Pete’s neck, and the kiss gets wetter and messier, tongues suddenly sliding together (and God, Pete can feel Brendon’s erection already, pressed against his thigh). Brendon makes a low noise in the very back of his mouth and Pete thinks it’s a moan and that’s probably the hottest thing he’s heard in months (years, maybe - God, he needs to get laid).
When they finally pull apart they’re a tangle of limbs. Brendon’s cheeks are flushed (somehow, this makes Pete’s chest swell with pride) and he’s panting, his lips (God, his lips, Pete thinks, unable to tear his eyes from the other’s mouth) parted just slightly.
“Bed,” Pete mutters, dipping his head down to Brendon’s neck and sucking at his pulse without a second thought. His hands are scattering a pattern across Brendon’s skin, underneath his shirt, up his spine. “Couch. Something.”
Brendon nods, whimpering and clinging to Pete - his legs are shaking now, and he feels like his entire body is probably going to collapse.
Pete twines his fingers with Brendon in a surprisingly light manner and together they stumble out of the kitchen. For a moment, Pete forgets where the steps are, but he finds them with a lopsided grin and begins to hurry up them, dragging Brendon behind him.
Pete opens the door to his bedroom hurriedly and nearly pushes Brendon inside.
“Holy…shit.”
They both pause (Pete more out of hesitation and embarrassment, Brendon more because of shock) as Brendon scans the room with a gaping mouth and wide eyes. “Your room is fucking…huge,” he whispers, letting out another whistle.
Both of their eyes turn to the bed in the middle of the room. Pete thinks Brendon is about to ask what he needs a double-king sized bed for, anyway, but Ashlee seemed to like it so Pete just didn’t give it away. But before Brendon can move his tongue, Pete pulls him in for another kiss, dragging his fingers down the fabric of his shirt - Brendon shivers and Pete can’t help but smirk against his mouth before grinding their hips together.
The sensation is shocking, even to Pete, and they both moan in unison, chins touching as Pete leans his head back, pressing against Brendon harder. Brendon whimpers them, squirming just a bit. “C-come on, Pete,” he mutters, and it’s then that Pete realizes he even left his messenger bag at Brendon’s house (he’ll have an even better excuse for a visit now) but it doesn’t really matter at the moment. He half-pushes, half-leads Brendon to the bed, dropping him down before crawling on top of him.
“How did this happen?” Brendon asks, his voice cracking, and Pete smiles, amused. He kisses Brendon again, letting it be more romantic - a sensual kiss without tongue or teeth. Brendon doesn’t question him again, locking his arms around his neck and pulling him closer.
Pete pulls them apart, taking in a sharp breath and beginning to unbutton his shirt. “What are you waiting for?” Pete laughs, looking down at Brendon who is staring right back up at him, looking unsure about what he’s supposed to do. Pete pulls off his shirt and suddenly, Brendon seems to realize what’s about to happen.
“Oh,” he murmurs and begins to undo his tie, throwing it across the room where it lands who knows where.
“Good,” Pete whispers, leaning down as Brendon fumbles with his own buttons, licking at the shell of Brendon’s ear. “It’s okay, you know,” Pete murmurs, his breath hot in Brendon’s ear. “I…I can make this all you want it to be.”
Brendon still seems to be shaking, and when Pete looks in his eyes, he looks near tears. “Sh,” Pete soothes, touching his cheek. “It’s all right. You can always say no,” he murmurs, and it makes him feel so dirty because he feels like he’s talking to a fucking kid.
“No,” Brendon mumbles, shaking his head. Pete hesitates and begins to move off, but then Brendon grabs him again. “I don’t want to say no,” Brendon whispers, smiling a little - he still looks shy and too young.
Pete breathes out a sigh, half-relieved, and kisses Brendon again, softer. “Okay,” he says against his lips.
Brendon finally yanks his shirt off, tossing it to the floor along with his tie, and Pete pulls him up closer - their chests touch and Pete hums low in his chest as Brendon gasps. Pete slides his hand down Brendon’s bare chest, tracing his fingers over his hips. Brendon is whining again, his eyes fluttering closed - he bites his lip to try to hold back the noises, and Pete can’t help the smirk. He unbuttons and unzips Brendon’s dress pants, pulling them down his legs slowly. Brendon kicks his legs and now his hands are moving too, working the zipper of Pete’s jeans before he even realizes it.
“You really are beautiful,” Pete mumbles, trailing his fingers slowly over Brendon’s bare chest - they’re both only in their underwear now but Pete can see the way Brendon’s boxers are tenting with his hard-on. “Damn,” Pete whispers, kissing down Brendon’s neck and chest. “I never thought I’d be this close to you.” He reaches over and turns off the light on the bedside table and suddenly the room is completely dark (Pete didn’t realize it was already that late as he glances at the digital clock which reads it’s 7:30 at night). He can’t see Brendon’s face for a moment, so he takes advantage of the situation, slipping his hand past the waistband of his boxers.
Brendon lets out a gasp as Pete’s cold fingers tease his cock, but it’s only momentary. Pete pulls off Brendon’s boxers and he gasps again, his breath catching in his throat - Pete can feel how tense he is, clutching the sheets, his knuckles probably getting white. Pete reaches for his bedside table again, pulling open the drawer with a bit of noise that makes Brendon jump and finding the small tube of lube and condoms hidden under some very unimportant papers.
Pete drops the lube and condom on the sheets and yanks off his own boxers, pressing his hips down against Brendon’s - as their cocks touch Brendon groans, surprisingly dirty (it makes Pete’s cheeks hotter), lifting his hips off of the bed.
“Come on,” Brendon manages, his voice choked. He clings to Pete’s shoulders, his short nails digging into his skin, and Pete knows that he has to comply with his demands.
“Okay,” Pete mumbles, kissing Brendon’s throat quickly before coating his fingers in lube, making sure they’re sufficiently covered. Brendon gasps again as Pete presses a finger past the circle of muscles without hesitation. “Does it hurt?” Pete asks quietly and Brendon just makes another small whimper, shaking his head quickly. “I’m gonna add another, alright?” Pete whispers, stroking Brendon’s cheek with his spare hand.
“Yeah,” Brendon mumbles, and Pete pushes another finger inside, twisting them together as he presses deeper.
“Relax, relax, relax,” Pete coos, pulling his fingers almost all the way out and teasing around the opening with his third finger. “I’m gonna add a third, okay…?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Brendon pants, and Pete pushes all three inside, working on stretching him out. Brendon continues to make quiet, restrained noises, his nails scraping over Pete’s back.
Once Pete’s sure that Brendon is stretched out enough, he pulls his fingers out - Brendon gasp is sharp and expected and he whimpers again; “So empty,” he pants, and Pete thinks his back might be bleeding, that Brendon might actually be leaving open wounds. Maybe this turns him on more than it should, and he moans just a little too loudly.
Pete doesn’t ask this time, quickly wrapping Brendon’s legs around his waist where they hook at his back - Brendon is taking ragged breaths, and now that Pete’s eyes have adjusted to the light, he can recognize how Brendon’s pupils are dilated and his already swollen lips are even redder. Pete suddenly remembers the condom and fumbles for it, ripping the plastic off and then hastily rolling it on. Looking back at Brendon, fully prepared, Pete moans again (how Brendon makes him go crazy he’s not sure, but he does it well) then pushes himself forward, gripping Brendon’s hips in the process.
Brendon is tight, tighter than tight, but it’s so good and Pete just can’t find it in him to actually say anything, to ask Brendon to relax - Brendon is tense as fuck and Pete knows that it would be so much easier on him if he wasn’t.
Brendon is whining (Fuck, is the only coherent thought in Pete’s head - but maybe he still wonders if it’s the same for Brendon) on and off, squirming just a little each time Pete pulls out and then snaps his hips back, hitting bruises (maybe they won’t last too long) into Brendon’s skinny thighs. Pete does find it in him, however, to move one hand from Brendon’s hip (the lack of pressure leaves Brendon arching up again, his back trying to stick to the bed from the sweat but still-), turning its focus to Brendon’s leaking cock (God, Pete thinks, driving me up the fucking wall). His hand is still moist from the lube so he doesn’t bother with more preparation.
Brendon’s whimper catches in his throat again when Pete grabs his cock, twisting his wrist and jerking his fisted hand over it - Pete quickly picks up a rhythm that’s just barely off of the thrusts into Brendon, knowing and seeing that it’s driving him crazy. “Pete,” Brendon chokes, his voice cracking. “I’m gonna-” he whispers, voice raw and rasping. Pete flicks his wrist one final time, sliding his finger over the head of Brendon’s cock until he cries out, coming over both of their stomachs. Pete wasn’t sure that it was possible, but it must be, because Brendon clenches around his own dick and he moans low in his chest, clinging hard to Brendon’s hip (maybe he’ll be the one leaving marks) - somehow, Brendon gets tighter, and Pete’s hips are thrusting erratically, the rhythm he once had long gone as he comes long and hard.
They’re both gasping for breath and all Pete can think of is What the fuck just happened? because it just now starts to really fit together that he just fucked a guy he’s only known for a couple of hours. Pete collapses next to him, and they’re both sweaty heaps.
“You’re a virgin,” Pete says a little pointedly, still trying to catch his breath.
“Not anymore,” Brendon whispers into the dark, and Pete glances over - his chest is heaving as he pants, but he’s smiling. Brendon turns his head and gives Pete a half-grin. “Didn’t expect to get to know me this well, huh, Wentz?”
Pete begins to shake his head but then closes his eyes, already exhausted. “Damn,” he mutters, wiping his hands on the sheets without giving a shit. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“That kind of changes a lot, doesn’t it?” Brendon agrees, chuckling.
“A lot is a bit of an understatement…” Pete murmurs, running a hand through his short hair. “What are we supposed to do about this?”
Brendon rolls onto his side, tugging at the sheets and pulling them over his hips, and then over Pete’s. “I don’t really think it matters right now, does it?” he asks softly, reaching out and touching the side of Pete’s face. Pete hasn’t felt this kind of affection in quite a while (Ashlee always got quiet after sex, she usually fell asleep pretty quickly) and it just feels…it feels fucking nice. “I’m tired. And I’ll bet you are, too. Let’s just…sleep for now? Is that okay?”
“It’s hardly night time…” Pete mumbles, glancing at the clock. Not even nine yet. But he doesn’t argue any further than that, thinking it would be ineffective. “I’ll be right back,” he murmurs, stumbling through the dark bedroom to wear he knows the trash can is near the door - he tosses the used condom inside and then walks back to the bed, crawling under the covers.
For a moment, the two lie perfectly still, trying to keep their breathing as steady as possible. “Can I get closer?” Brendon finally mumbles, almost into the pillow, and Pete thinks he might actually sound embarrassed. This makes him smile - it makes him grin like a fool. He can feel Brendon squirming slightly, inching little by little over the bed, hoping Pete will accept him.
Pete wraps his arms around Brendon without hesitation and pulls him into his grip, enveloping him (he feels it’s like a letter he doesn’t want to send) and burying his face in his hair. Brendon smells kind of like apple orchards and sweat. It’s shockingly pleasant.
Brendon hums against the bare skin of Pete’s chest and locks his arms around his waist.
They sleep like that and do their best to forget about tomorrow.