Fic: While You're Waiting - 1

Jul 13, 2007 15:34

I have been happily writing this with the talented and lovely padawanhilary for ...uh, awhile now, and when we hit around 10 pieces of writing I was like, maybe I ought to post this? I dunno. I'm enjoying it.

Title: While You're Waiting (1/?; work in progress)
Authors: verapermendacia and padawanhilary
Pairing: Pete Wentz of Fall Out Boy and Christian Bale (of "American Psycho," "Batman Begins," etc.)
Rating: Oh-so-very NC-17.
Length: 5,181 words ~ 10 pages.
Notes: Takes place roughly around the end of the Honda Civic Tour, dates approximate and possibly effed up. It's fiction, which means we made all of this up.



Bale's nursing a sparkling water tonight. There's no one here of interest-though he has noticed one particular boy, a sulky, almost Goth-looking kid who tends to go for the doms Bale considers to be largely over-the-top. Your kink is okay, he thinks, watching the boy case the joint like it's his own personal toybox of red delights. Bale thinks he could teach the kid a few things-no, he knows he could-but right now, this is good enough, just watching.

The kid in question is just a week shy of his 28th birthday and is, at the moment, nursing an honest-to-God iced tea, no Long Island involved. Pete might've opened his own bar in New York, but anyone who knows him would guess instantly it's just because he loves the atmosphere of crappy clubs and bars so much he wanted one of his very own, not because he knows the first fucking thing about drinking. He's been straight edge way too long for the habit to break easily. Pete rubs a healing bruise at the curve of his hip, fingers mindlessly probing the sore spot as he scans the crowd looking for someone who might be halfway promising without taking Pete out with the trash.

Fixing his gaze on those fingers, Bale sets his water down before he even realizes he's going to do it. He goes over, giving the boy a confident, quiet smile.

"I'm Christian," he greets immediately without sticking his hand out.

Pete's eyes flicker up to the stranger's face, realizing almost immediately that he's no stranger; or at least, not completely unknown. "I'm Pete," he offers in response, along with a hesitant half-smile, trying to quell the automatic gesture of sticking out his hand to shake a hand that isn't there. But then his inner geek gets the better of him, and the smile flushes full as Pete shifts his weight to the other foot. "I would've worn my Robin t-shirt if I'd known I was gonna be meeting Batman tonight," he says cheekily, trying not to sound like an idiot.

Giving Pete an amused smile, Bale shakes his head. "Clever. Do your tops tend to go for that sort of thing?"

"Uh, some of them. I mean." Pete flushes and laughs, taking another drink of his iced tea. "Usually it's not my t-shirts they're interested in." Oh, someone needs to teach him how to shut up, but every time he opens his mouth something new and stupid just kind of falls out.

God, Pete is priceless. Sidling closer, Christian slips a hand up Pete's arm and over his shoulder -- and then he grips the back of Pete's neck sharply, leaning in tight. "And what are they interested in? Your smart mouth? Your made-up eyes? Have you got an especially huge prick?"

It's all Pete can do to not squeak like a damn girl who's 17 years old today when Christian grabs him like that, and his eyes pop open like he's been slapped, gut wrenching violently. "I-I know how to get my ass kicked," he blurts, barely managing to keep eye contact.

"Oh really?" What Christian's seen has him wanting to beg to differ, but that's immaterial now. "And how is that, exactly? Have you been tied to a cross and single-tailed, strapped down and caned, or are we talking about pussy leather floggers and paddles?" None of this is a wrong answer -- even "pussy" floggers -- but how Pete responds will tell Christian everything he needs to know. He's holding Pete's gaze closely, fingers still gripping the back of that slender neck.

"Fuck!" Pete can't help but squirm under that gaze, feeling heat creep up his neck, and he's glad it's dark in here, glad he has perpetually darker skin that doesn't show color like Patrick's does. "I can't say I've ever been crucified like that but I'm pretty sure I can take anything you can throw at me," he says stubbornly, surliness creeping into his voice a bit.

Oh, that's going to have to change. Bale steps back, abruptly letting go. "What's your safeword?" he asks, looking toward an open St. Andrew's and thinking it needs a boy strapped to it pretty badly.

Pete feels suddenly like he's been dropped on his ass by his ex, again, and it takes him a few seconds to realize what Christian's asking him for. He panics momentarily; having never done this before, he doesn't even have a safeword. Quick asshole, what's a word you'd never use in sex? "Hemingway," he says without thinking, and is relieved to recognize that, yeah, that works okay.

Shooting Pete a look, Christian nods. "Fine. See that?" And he points to the massive St. Andrew's Cross near the far wall. "Go get on it." Without so much as another word, he strides to his bag, sitting by itself by a barstool untouched.

Oh, shit. Pete has the appalling luck to ask for something and then get exactly what he signed up for, in spades. He looks over at the piece of black wood and metal with something akin to terror, and then steals a glance at Christian, wondering what the hell to do. "Fake it till you make it," he mutters, and tries to summon the balls he came here with tonight as he moves slowly to the St. Andrew's cross. God, he hadn't figured on this being public...

Bale watches, taking in the sudden rush of nerves the kid is wearing all over him. "This is going to hurt like hell if you don't relax," he breathes, leaning in to brush his lips over the kid's ear.

"Yeah? Thought that was the idea." Pete sounds less convincing than he did, not sure what to do. He could just walk away, say he's changed his mind. Pete shivers at the warmth kissing his skin, the soft shell of his ear a direct nerve to his brain.

At once, Bale realizes what this is. "You have no idea what you're doing," he growls. "And rather than embarrass us both by walking away like I should, I'm going to show you how this is done -- now get your ass up on that cross so I can beat it properly."

Shit shit shit shiiiiiiiiiii- Pete winces, shoulders hunching for just a moment. "Yes, sir," he says, voice carefully, embarrassedly neutral, and reaches for the hem of his shirt, wondering if he needs to take off his pants too.

"Take it all off," Bale confirms. "I want you naked." If nothing else, he's going to teach this brat that you just don't walk into a place cold and start acting like you're hard-core, and nothing accomplishes that like a little public humiliation.

"Yes, sir." Pete pales, very slightly, but nods, stripping out of first his shirt and then his shoes, pants and boxers with seemingly no hesitation. Oh, but he is about to get his ass handed to him, isn't he, and maybe he even deserves it, but there's still a tiny part of him that can't help but want to show off.

"Now get up there. Grab the handles." Bale straps Pete up there once he's situated, spread out and on display. "We'll see if you can actually take anything I can 'dish out,'" he mutters in Pete's ear again, sliding one finger down Pete's spine to his ass in an oblique threat.

Pete swallows, pressing his face to his bicep, the first stab of real fear making his stomach twist into about 8 complicated knots, and he sends up a prayer that Christian Bale is not as psychotic as some of his more memorable characters. The path Bale's finger traces is exciting as it is scary, though, and that's the reason Pete keeps his trap shut to see what happens next. "Yes, sir," he murmurs, turning dark eyes over his shoulder at Bale.

Those eyes could drag Bale down into dark places, but he's not going to go there-not yet. He needs a flogger, first-no, of course he isn't going to cane the brat in the first scene, no matter how desperately he seems to need it. Opening his bag, he pulls out a heavy calfskin flogger, definitely scary-looking but certainly not as dangerous as it looks.

Patrick's going to be wondering about a few of Pete's lyrics next time they sit down for a song-writing session, because Pete's already writing them in his head, but then Bale yanks him right off course by taking out what seriously appears to be a movie prop out of a bad pirate film, like maybe something the first mate would use on the recalcitrant stowaway. Pete can't do much except stand where he is, strapped to the cross, just waiting for what's going to happen next. What the hell is he supposed to be doing right now anyway? Focusing on his breathing? Shit. He tries that, taking a few slow, deep breaths, and it actually helps, a little.

Bale's frankly surprised Pete even knows that much. He can read the tension in those lines, all taut muscle and skin still bruised in places, abraded in others. What the hell are you letting people do to you? He feels a twinge of remorse on Pete's behalf and shakes it off. Pity isn't going to do anybody any good, especially when he's about to take a flogging.

"Exhale," Bale orders tersely, and when he sees that breath leave, sees Pete's back relax for just that instant, he brings the flogger down. It's not a sharp blow, not even enough to make the tails pull together, but he draws back, knowing Pete's got himself psyched up enough-Pete's brain is going to be Bale's greatest weapon in this scene.

Sure enough, Pete jerks, keeping his noise mostly to himself. The blow wasn't even that bad, but Pete's doing all he can to keep from having a full-fledged freak-out. You're naked, everyone can see you, it's going to get out, he's going to kick your ass so bad! Pete shuts his eyes and sucks in another breath, forcing himself to keep his fingers unclenched.

It's plain that Pete's in over his head, but Bale isn't going to let up-neither is he going to do whatever horrible things Pete's probably imagining. He knows what a huge responsibility this is, and he has just enough hubris to know he can pull it off.

"Breathe," he orders again, bringing the flogger down harder this time, right across the other shoulder.

Pete does as he's told, awkwardly, keeping his eyes shut to focus on his breathing and the sound of his own heartbeat. It's only partly successful. He's having less luck shutting out the roar inside his head, and the next strike is almost welcome, getting another soft noise from Pete.

That's good, but Bale isn't going to tell Pete that. Not yet. He levies another strike, then another, keeping them slow and steady as Pete's shoulders start to pinken.

Pete starts to calm down a little as Bale's slow, even rhythm washes through him, and the muscles in his upper back are starting to get warm, like someone's laid a heating pad just under his skin. He's acutely aware of every injury he's already sustained, like all his blood has been charged with nervous energy, and at the same time he's starting to get just a little dizzy, which makes it a good thing that he's strapped to this cross thingie.

Bale keeps on with the strikes, pausing only to switch hands and shake out his right arm. He starts in with the left, same pace, same intensity. He's going to push this boy right outside of himself, that's for damned sure.

Pete's more than a little embarrassed (but not that surprised) to feel himself getting hard as his beating continues. His face is red (though nothing compared to his back, feels like) and he's so dizzy by now that he would most certainly fall right on his ass if he weren't being held up by the restraints. Pete's noises are getting louder, too, though he's still a far cry from the man who was screaming on stage when he came in here tonight.

Bale counts out strikes, making sure everything's symmetrical, and then he stops, swinging the flogger by his side as he paces around Pete to make eye contact. "Is this what you had in mind, smartass?"

Pete blinks through his fog at Bale, looking small and disoriented, but when he answers it's with a big fresh grin. "Kind of, sir."

"Good," Bale says without missing a beat. He gives Pete's erection-a very good sign, actually-a careless swat. "We're nowhere near finished."

The swat gets a yelp from Pete, whose eyes just went wide at the news that they aren't even done. "Yes, sir," he says valiantly, flexing and unflexing his fingers, and wondering what the fuck he's gotten himself into this time.

Going back to his bag, Bale pulls out a long, vicious-looking braided cat. He holds it up for Pete to see. "This hurts more," he warns with a savage grin.

Pete stares at the cat like it's a viper that's about to wind itself around his neck. He's not even going to be able to move tomorrow. "Yes, sir," he says stupidly, because he doesn't know what else he ought to say. Oh, shit seems rude, if apt.

There's no missing the look of shock, and Bale relishes it as he drapes the cat over Pete's shoulder and drags it around to the other side. "Clearly you've been honing your pain tolerance, and it's clear you don't mind marks. Do you have a problem with blood?" That seems obvious, too, but wherever Pete's been getting his play, Bale wouldn't put it past someone to pull something nonconsensual. Not with these bruises.

Holy fucking shit, blood? "Just not on my face, sir," Pete falters, kind of missing the fact that if he says "no" to blood, then Bale won't draw blood. Pete's still in the frame of mind that if he signs up for this shit, he has to take whatever the other person is giving him. "I can't have any marks on my face."

"But they're okay on your ass. On your hips. That one on the back of your thigh." Bale is deliberately being intimidating now, he knows it. Pete's plainly terrified, and it doesn't matter that Bale's not going to do half of what he's hinting at.

Pete winces. He supposes that it would be inevitable that Bale would notice his marks, but he's not in a sharing mood so he doesn't mention that not all of those marks were made by other people. "Yes, sir," he says, trying to keep his voice steady and managing not to drop his gaze.

"Fine." Bale grabs Pete's chin in his hand and kisses him hard, driving his tongue into Pete's mouth, biting at his lips, and then he drops his hand to give Pete's cock a slow, twisting stroke. Abruptly he steps back and gives Pete a fond little pat on the cheek. "The pretty face stays pretty."

The implicit lack of that same promise extending to any other part of Pete's body makes him more than a little nervous, but that rough kiss came out of left field with zero warning, and now Pete's cock is harder than ever, to boot. Pete watches Bale circle around again till it cricks his neck, then turns his face back to the front, shutting his eyes again and trying to hold on to the warm haze he was slowly drifting into. Beats panicking.

"Breathe," Bale reminds him, and he loosens the tails of the cat before bringing it down onto a warm spot on Pete's back. It's meant to sting and it raises a row of soft welts, but it's not going to break the skin.

Pete yelps before he can stop himself, stomach pressed to where the beams of the cross make an "X." That fucking stings, Christ. Pete takes another gulp of air and then exhales, slowly.

Counting carefully, Bale levies strokes, one after another as gently as he can. He won't draw blood-the question was largely rhetorical-but he really wants to push Pete hard, mainly because he knows Pete can take it.

The cat hurts. Not as much as Pete was afraid of, but still enough to shock, to disconnect his brain and make him cry and moan and lose track of any dignified behaviour whatsoever. His back is a mess of heat, new strokes laid over old ones, and his cock is a constant throb between his legs that he can't do a damn thing about. His one remaining shred of calm and rational thought hopes that this place's security is as good as advertised.

When Pete's back is striped and red, just this side of bleeding, Bale lets up, shaking out the tails of the cat and packing it away again. He strides around to the front of the Cross and grips the back of Pete's neck. "You're pretty when you lose control," he murmurs.

Pete, for his part, is not sure he would choose "pretty" to describe himself right now, at least not based on appearances: red face smeared with sweat and tears, hair a mess, back worse, and let's not forget the raging hard-on. Honestly, he's not thinking about it much. The blood rushing in his ears is almost deafening, but Christian's voice is perfectly audible. Pete forces his glassy eyes to focus on Christian's face, and summons a real (if rather shaky) smile. "Thank you, sir." It only then occurs to him that it might not have been a compliment.

"How do you feel?" Christian asks; Pete has no idea that he's the one actually driving at this point, so Christian is content to let him control things.

Pete has to think about that question a minute before he can respond. It's not the answer he was expecting to give. "Kind of high, sir," he manages, voice thick and hard to understand.

"Doesn't hurt too much?"

Pete shakes his head. He has the vague feeling that it hurts and he just can't feel it, but he's not thinking too hard about it right now.

"Good." Bale immediately moves around to uncuff Pete's wrists. "You won't give me any shite if you don't want to get fucked in public," he warns.

Holy shit. Pete shivers, slightly horrified by the idea, but it's also so appallingly dangerous that he's opening his mouth before he really has time to think about it, his libido moving before his addled brain can. "That's not fair to say when I can't think of anything smart-ass to come back with, sir," he murmurs.

At once, Christian's dragging Pete over to a mat and shoving him down to his knees, one fist tight in Pete's hair. "Keep going," he breathes in Pete's ear. "Come on. Give me a reason to really hurt you."

Pete chokes off a cry, back throbbing in pain at being moved, and it feels like every stripe Christian laid down is filled with his pounding heartbeat. His mouth's gone dry, and he just shakes his head, blinking back the sudden tears. "N-no, sir, I'm sorry..."

"Good." Bale lets go of Pete's hair and goes back to his bag, dropping it next to Pete on the floor and digging into it for lube and condoms. He backs off completely once he has those, kneeling behind Pete to undo his slacks and unbutton the bottom half of his shirt to get it out of the way. Pete needs a little time to sweat, he thinks.

Sweating is right. Though "freaking out" might be a better description. The one thing that's going through Pete's brain over and over again is what the fuck was I thinking? but he doesn't even think of moving. At this point, he doesn't even remember he has a safe word. Pete can hear Christian moving around behind him, and he's fairly certain that there are more than a few people watching them, and oh, god, he's, he's just going to keep his head down for the moment.

Without warning, Christian pushes one finger, wet with lube, into Pete. He's hardly gentle, grinding down on Pete's prostate almost immediately, but the lube is generous. There's hurt, and then there's just too much.

"FUCK!!" Pete buries his head immediately in his forearms, gasping as the finger twists inside his ass, sending sparks up his spine to match the ones behind his eyes. His cock is still a heavy, warm ache between his legs, and Pete's fairly sure there's more to come. Unless Christian has just decided that fucking with Pete is the new black.

"Quiet," Bale orders tightly. "You're drawing attention to yourself." It's a lie; really, one more subby boy acting up and getting fucked into the floorboards is nothing new, and every once in a while someone glances over, vaguely interested, but for the most part they're being overlooked. He pushes in with two fingers and gives them a twist just to be perverse.

Pete's response is to whimper, mostly lost in his arm, damn near eating his tongue as Bale corkscrews those fingers inside him. He can't help but push back, a little, feeling his face go hot as he does so, but there's a reason he's on the floor in a public room with his ass in the air, and it's not for his health.

That's so gorgeous that Bale has to bite back his own appreciative moan. He's more than ready to bury himself in this boy; it's been a while since he's so thoroughly enjoyed taking someone down this far.

Pete raises his hand to touch his aching cock, but stops, jerking his hand back as though burned. He's not allowed to do that, he doesn't think, but the reason he stops is less because he wants to be obedient and more because he's afraid of what Christian might do if he did something else wrong. Pete swallows and dares a glance over his shoulder at Christian, eyeliner smeared from sweat and tears and Pete rubbing his stupid face against his stupid arm.

Gaze locking with Pete's, Bale murmurs quietly, "Are you ready for me?" He knows that's a double-edged question; Pete is ready, but he isn't, and either answer is both wrong and right. Nevertheless, as always, it's a way to measure Pete's reactions.

"Yes, god, please..." It's kind of a lie and kind of not; Pete's still halfway terrified at the "public sex" part of this evening, but he's still dizzy and needy from his beating and it's impossible to freak out completely while Christian is hovering over him like an angry angel, no matter how bad a case of nerves Pete has worked up for himself.

Bale pulls his fingers out and wipes them, and then he's lining up and shoving in, no warning, just reaching up to grab Pete's shoulder and drag him back. He groans, tipping his head down. This is good; Pete is all hot tension and need, and Bale can only respond to it.

Pete's body tenses like a wire as Bale shoves in, eyes slamming shut with a groan at the sudden forceful entry. Fuck it feels so good... Pete tips forward again, trying to raise his ass a little, shoving back with his forearms, and it's easier to do when he doesn't have to look anyone in the face, he thinks.

Bale knows what Pete's going for though, and he shoves in harder, gripping Pete's hair and dragging back on it. "Look," he orders, voice utterly cool. "Look what you got yourself into."

The simultaneous yank on his hair and cock in his ass makes tears spring to Pete's eyes again, so that he has to spend a few seconds blinking furiously before he can manage to do as he's told, however reluctantly. Truth is he can't see that much-his view is shit and his eyes aren't focusing well and the room's not exactly well-lit-but that's almost worse, because all the indistinct faces turned even halfway in his direction must obviously be watching Pete get served by one Christian Bale.

Satisfied, Bale fucks Pete sharply, dragging him back with soft grunts and groans. Even Bale couldn't pretend this isn't good, but he can downplay it for the sake of the mindfuck.

Pete's getting the rough, hard fuck he came here for originally, with interest, and while you couldn't say he's exactly had delayed gratification, he's finding it's definitely worth the effort to get here. Pete grunts and cries and moans like a little whore, giving up all pretenses of restraint. Bale doesn't seem terribly impressed with him (actually Bale seems like he wants to wipe the floor with Pete, but okay) and Pete might end up dragging himself home after this so that he can lick his wounds in peace, but right now it's all he can do to stay on all fours and not face-plant into the mat from how hard Bale is fucking him.

Bale watches Pete, keeps track, lets his arousal grow, and then he lets go, dragging up on Pete's hair and groaning as it rips through him. Immediately he's reaching around, wrapping a big hand around Pete's cock and stroking him roughly. "Come for me," he groans, cock still softening in Pete's ass inside the condom.

It doesn't take much. Pete comes, hard, and all it takes are a few heavy passes from Bale's hand for him to be spilling himself everywhere like the mess he is. He starts to cough a bit as he sags, nearly choking when he tries to suck in too much air at once, and it occurs to him, distantly, that he's kind of fucked himself up pretty good, hasn't he.

At once, Bale is pulling out and pulling Pete up, cradling him in his lap. "Breathe," he whispers, stroking Pete's hair. He feels an intense protectiveness now, more than he's felt in a while, simply because this boy is so damned green and yet has taken so damned much.

Pete goes boneless in .35 seconds flat, leaning exhaustedly against Bale's chest for support, merely doing as he's told for once without a word of argument. Stupidly, the first thing to come to his mind is that he wants to know what superpowers Bale has that let him get rid of the condom so damn fast. Pete would still be fumbling to tie it off without spilling come all over himself.

In fact, Bale still has the condom on; he can deal with that momentarily. "Relax," he says, one arm still firmly around Pete's chest. He's working on calming his own breathing right now, aware of the fact that he has to be fully in control of himself to get Pete back properly.

Pete nods in response, shutting his eyes with a shiver. He's starting to come down from whatever strange plateau Bale worked him up to, and it's not honestly very much fun, because now he's starting to hurt. It's reassuring to be held, though, and Pete lets himself fold like a deck of cards, just focusing on breathing and letting his energy start to drift back.

There's something off in the way Pete's handling this, though Bale can't put his finger on it yet. He keeps Pete close, glad when some kind soul brings a blanket over -- one of the benefits of playing in public. He wraps Pete up in it and lays him down on his side, stroking his hair. Only then does he bother with the condom, knotting it and zipping it into a plastic bag to be tossed later.

Wow, they're just... going to stay right here? On the floor? Pete curls towards Bale, opening his eyes again and forcing them to focus, wanting to make eye contact as he reaches up, intending to get Bale's attention in order to say something. What he wants to say, he's not sure, but it doesn't matter because he opens his mouth to speak and manages only another sudden coughing spasm.

That bothers Bale. He beckons for water and it appears; he settles down with the bottle and another blanket appears for him. He nods to the deliverer and cracks the water open, presenting it so that Pete can take it or leave it (though if he leaves it, Bale will have something to say).

Pete's not going to turn down that bottle for love or money, and he takes it and drinks almost half of it in one go, pulling back with a gasp as some of it escapes down his chin. He wipes his mouth and smiles sheepishly at Bale, wondering briefly what he looks like at this moment, what Bale's thinking. Pete's brain is kind of going in every direction at once, though, and he can't keep a thought in his head long enough to pin it down. "Thank you," he says, a little hoarse but sincere.

"You're welcome." Bale is serious, watching Pete as he drinks, and he leaves the water there for Pete's discretion. "Take your time. I have a room booked if you want to go and rest."

"I dunno, sir, I mean I think..." Pete trails off. He was originally planning on going home tonight, if just because of Hemingway, but he honestly doesn't think he can drive. Or, hell, make it to the car. "That would be great, actually," he admits, and again he's finding himself very grateful for Bale's attentions. Pete's still out of it enough to keep from being too self-conscious, thank God.

"All right. Come on." Bale holds down a hand and tugs Pete up, slipping an arm around his waist and keeping him close. He grabs the water and leaves the bag; no one will bother it, and he can come back for it later.

The room is small, little more than a bed with a miniscule half-bathroom attached to it, but it's all they need. Bale gets Pete sitting on the bed and pets his hair. "Okay?"

"Yeah, I am, thank you." Pete's used to being the one doing the petting, not the other way around, but it's...nice. He grabs for Bale's hand as the other man goes to pull it back, and holds it in both of his own, eyes on Bale's face. "Look, um. I have to ask, why are you being so nice to me? I really....I really appreciate it but I got the feeling you kind of thought I was an asshole." It's might not be a question he should be asking, but dammit, he wants to know.

Bale smiles and sits down. "There are things you approached incorrectly out there, so a lot of that was posturing to teach you something. I don't think you're an 'asshole.' And this is called aftercare. You took a lot out there; it's my job as the one who led you through that to take care of you afterward."

Oh. "Okay," Pete says, and feels vaguely stupid for having asked in the first place. Matt, of course, springs instantly (and unwelcomely) to mind, not to mention a few other people Pete's had, um, relations with lately, and the contrast between that and how Bale-Christian-is acting towards Pete right now is pretty painful. "You're wrong though," he adds, summoning another lop-sided smile. "'Cause I am kind of an asshole."

"Okay then," Bale grins. "I'm wrong." He gestures toward the bottle. "Finish your water. Are you hungry?"

"Uh... yeah, I could eat, please." No reason to be rude. Pete picks up the half-empty bottle and drinks it down obediently, not really having it in him to be more flippant. He's too tired. He kind of hopes Christian sticks around, just because (all pretenses aside) he's not the kind who likes to fuck and run, but Pete's not sure he has the balls to ask that of the man.

"Let me go get my bag. I have snacks in there." Gently, Christian strokes Pete's back, careful to avoid his shoulders. "You'll be all right while I'm gone?"

Pete flashes a grin at Christian. "I'll be fine, yes, thank you." This is fuckin' weird. Pete doesn't really know what to do with himself, but he's almost too tired to care and Christian, at least, seems fully in control of the situation.

"Okay." Bale leaves quickly, making a beeline for his bag. Pete has calmed down a lot, clearly; it could be nervous energy that drives him to act so ridiculous before a scene. He needs it, Bale thinks, and that's always been enough of an explanation for him. Obviously Pete gets that itch the same way Bale does. He's going to have to learn to be careful about how he gets it scratched, though.

Christian's only gone a few minutes, but that brief window is enough time for Pete to flop over on his side on the bed, curled in a loose fetal position for sheer comfort. Fuck, he is tired. He wants to sleep for a day. Two days. No, a week. Pete doesn't realize his eyes have shut till he hears the door open and realizes groggily that he almost fell asleep. He sits hastily up, smiling at Christian again, figuring he better eat something before he checks out, especially since he asked for it.

"Well," Christian smiles. "The $64,000 question: would you rather eat or sleep?" He recognizes that look, and he appreciates how good Pete's trying to be, but it's obvious Pete's endorphin high is tanking on him.

Oh, well, shit. "Honestly, I feel like I'm gonna pass out," Pete confesses, glad that Christian's apparently unsurprised by Pete's sudden inability to man the fuck up. "I mean, do you need me to, uh, is that okay?" Wow, he's a fucking bolt of lightning right now, isn't he.

"Go to sleep." Christian crouches down in front of Pete and cups his face, then kisses him gently. "I'm not going anywhere, and you need the rest."

The kiss was what Pete was really wanting but a little too reluctant to ask for. He kisses back happily, though, much sweeter than such a smart-ass has any right to be. "Thanks," he mumbles gratefully, and that's all the permission he needs to lay back down on the bed and curl up in his former position. Pete manages another smile for Christian before he's out, making a few pained, disconcerting noises before unconsciousness takes him and he goes still.

Christian stays where he is, watching Pete sleep. His standard protectiveness is stronger with this boy; once Pete pulls his head out of his arse, he's actually quite nice. Unable to resist, Christian strokes Pete's hair back from his eyes, and then he curls up behind him, one arm almost possessively around Pete's waist.

rps, while you're waiting, fanfic, bale, fall out boy, pete wentz

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