Overheard ("Less Talk, More Rock"), Part 2/4
Part 1
-----
After the show, two rounds of local media, a quick sprint to the last of the catering before it disappeared for the night, several fruitless phone calls that were promptly dropped because he was apparently in the Cellular Signal Black Hole Stadium somewhere, a quick conversation with Andy about how glad they were they had never adopted a dog and also about how he finally had the bus to himself for a night ("Just stay out of my underwear drawer." "Patrick, your whole room is your underwear drawer." "Well, then, stay out of my room."), and an even quicker conversation with Mark in which he did, in fact, remember to use the words "a thing of wonder and beauty," and a trip to his bus to grab his laptop case and his toothbrush - after all that, Patrick finally stepped, exhausted, onto Joe's bus. They still wouldn't be rolling for another hour or so, and Patrick scrubbed at his eyes and dropped onto the couch.
"I was going to ask you to play Halo," Joe said, "but it would be like beating on my bubbie when she's asleep. Let's watch something instead."
"Wicked," said Patrick. "We should hang out all the time, you're obviously a walking party."
"Look who's talking, bro," said Joe. "Here. This one has" - he peered at the DVD cover - " Manhattan being blown up, and this one - this one has Paris being blown up."
Patrick gestured at Manhattan. "Sound good?"
Joe grinned. "It all sounds good."
"You know what sounds good?" asked Pete as he pulled himself up the bus steps. "Patrick Martin Stump on my bus."
"Patrick and I were just wondering how much money we can get from Decaydance for a sexual harassment suit," Joe said very seriously. "No, really, quit giggling."
"No judge in the world, Joe, no way. He'd sentence Patrick and me to a happy marriage and throw everyone out of court." Pete stopped on his way to the back. "Sorry, man, didn't mean to get to you or anything, you know."
Patrick raised an eyebrow at him. "Have to try a little harder than that to get to me, Pete, I've kind of built up a tolerance."
"I'm not going to start picking on you now, you're obviously too tired to fight back, and then it's no fun," Pete said, waving the whole idea away with one hand like a fruit fly.
"Watching things?" He sent his puffy vest sailing into the back, and Hemmy came trotting out, carrying it in his teeth. "Hey, good boy! Way to fetch!" Pete leaned down, lost in conversation with his dog for a few minutes. Patrick watched Pete fondly as he chewed on Hemmy's ear.
"Millions, probably," said Joe. "Maybe like, tens of millions. Pete, how much is Decaydance worth?"
Pete cradled Hemmy and told Joe, "You're lucky Hemmy's my favorite bus mate otherwise I'd totally throw him at you, right now."
-----
Forty-five minutes later, they'd worked out the most pressing of their issues and nobody was being threatened by projectile dogs, and Joe had finally started the movie. Joe was snuggled happily into Patrick's left side, and Pete was snuggled happily into his right. Hemmy was snoring lightly in his lap, which was going to be hell on his eyes and his throat, but Patrick was so happy at being the center of this little love-fest that he wasn't even going to move for that. He was mostly watching the movie, all three of them firing stupid comebacks and running commentary at the screen and losing the plot every three minutes from talking too much and failing to notice what was going on.
The tour manager's assistant poked her head in to do the nightly half-hour-to-bus-call warning. "Patrick? You here too?"
"Yeah, I'm staying," he called. "Thanks."
Joe extricated himself from the couch. "Okay, Hemmy and I are going out."
"Oh, thanks, Joe," Pete said. "I'd take him, but you know, I think I'm catching a chill?"
"All you have is a case of lazy, you dink," said Joe. "It's fine, but I'm going to need a lighter if I'm going out there. And a Sharpie."
Pete stuck his hands into the couch cushion under Patrick's ass and found both while Patrick was still jumping from the shock. "PETE! BATHING SUIT AREA!"
Joe chuckled and fumbled to catch the flying Sharpie and lighter. "Back in a bit." The door closed and Pete chuckled a little, then turned back to face Patrick.
"You're okay, though? About tonight?"
"About--" Pete stared meaningfully at Patrick's neck. "Oh. Pete. Yeah, it's - just - don't make a habit of it, okay?"
Pete pouted. Patrick tried to look pained.
"But I got you so bad," Pete finally said, dissolving helplessly into giggles. "You couldn't even sing, dude."
"Why do you try so hard to render me unable to do my job?" Patrick asked, poking at Pete's ribs to get him to stop laughing. Pete only laughed harder.
"Oh, man, it was awesome, you were all--" Pete gasped out some noises that sounded like a mango hitting an industrial fan. "--and then, it, you, I," and that was as far as he got.
"You're lucky I love you so much," Patrick said. "Try not to push it," but he was laughing a little too. "I'm going to get Joe to give you a hickey on your forehead when you're sleeping."
"Hemmy will stop him."
"Hemmy will not. Hemmy loves Joe. Aren't you worried about Joe exposing him to second-hand smoke?"
"Oh, you know, kids, they grow up so fast these days," Pete said breezily, then turned all the way around on the couch, draping his legs awkwardly across Patrick's lap. "Kind of like you, Patrick. What's this I hear about you making out with men?"
"Seriously, I just hate you," Patrick said, but it wasn't true and they both knew it.
When Joe returned, he went straight to Patrick and checked his neck for new hickeys, giving him half an involuntary contact high in the process and glaring suspiciously at Pete the whole time.
-----
When the movie ended, Joe stretched and got up. "I've got more, dude, but I'm out for the night. You want a bunk?"
"Yeah, thanks," Patrick said. "That one in the back still good?"
"If Pete's asleep," Joe said, grimacing, "but yeah, she's gone back, so it's fine now."
"You use our present?" Patrick asked. He and Andy had given Joe an economy-sized pack of cheap foam earplugs when Ashlee first arrived.
"Box is almost empty, dude, I don't want to talk about it," Joe said, and then Patrick was the one grimacing. "Except for the bunch that Hemmy ate by mistake. That was fun times, once we were sure he wasn't gonna die. You're stronger than that, aren't you, dude?" Joe asked, and Patrick could have sworn he heard the dog snuffle back from the recently vacated but still warm couch.
"Thanks, man," Patrick said. "That was good."
"We should get Andy, so he doesn't feel left out."
"Next time," Patrick agreed. "It's good to have a bus to yourself once in a while, though."
Joe nodded fervently. "I hear you so very clearly." Patrick laughed and ducked into the middle bunk in the back. Joe swung up and into the top bunk on the other side, both of them still smiling.
-----
Patrick knew intellectually that he'd been spoiled by having his own actual bed, but he hadn't been forced to deal with it lately, and sleeping on the cot mattress of the bunk, luxurious and spacious as it was, was way more difficult than he would have guessed. He turned over a little more, flopping onto his stomach and huffing at the pillow, and glared at Pete's closed bedroom door. His head was less than two feet away, and he briefly entertained the thought of pushing his way into Pete's room and kicking him out of his own bed, for no other reason than Patrick's comfort, because he knew that Pete would just let him, would sleep on a bunk, and worst of all, probably really wouldn't be mad.
Patrick sighed and almost missed the murmur coming from behind the door. It was faint, but he was sure it had just begun. Pete was probably talking to Hemmy.
Hemmy snuffled again from the living room couch. Patrick's suspicion grew. He was coming to be pretty damn sure that that dog was not only way smarter than he let on, okay, he was most probably psychic, too.
Another murmur. Not Hemmy, then, he was probably on the phone. At this time of night? Whatever time it was, it was too late for an interview, and -
Oh. Patrick pushed his face into his pillow. Of course. And now, now Patrick's hearing was all sharpened up like it got when he was listening to a rough mix, picking out sibilants and plosives in Pete's speech and meshing them with the general cadence of his voice, the length and tone of the vowels. It was the same way he'd isolate small noises in a track - computer keyboard clicks on a rough track, sometimes background bleed or extra spikes on a final studio take. Except Patrick had no urge to eavesdrop on Pete's highly personal phone calls - late-night phone calls, even - to his girlfriend. He should just - just stop listening, he told himself. That's what a good friend would do.
"Hey, babe, it's okay, I'm still here on the phone," Pete said, and Patrick groaned inwardly. He cursed himself and his stupid ears for being trained to pick up noise, apparently whether or not his brain was interested in hearing it in the first place.
"It's not the same," Pete said, "it's like skiing and snowboarding, it's-- what do you mean you've never been snowboarding?!"
Patrick turned over, again. He tried as hard as he could to block out the noises coming from the bedroom just past his head. Unfortunately his brain and his ears didn't get the message, so he had no choice but to hear the rest of the exchange. Who gives a fuck about snowboarding, Pete, Patrick thought furiously at him. It's god-knows-when in the morning and we have a job to do tomorrow and just go to bed already, okay?
"Me?" asked Pete from inside his room. "I'm already in bed, mostly."
Patrick stopped breathing. He could deal with a lot, but if Pete could read his mind, he was going to march straight up to the front of the bus and demand a stop so he could buy some tinfoil or something to wrap his head in and block the signals. No way, no possible way, nuh-uh, not happening.
"You don't have to be, but it makes it better, you know? You can just close your eyes and - and pretend that I've turned into a cell phone."
Patrick's sense of frantic dread at the possibility of a psychic link was instantly replaced by a smaller seed of much colder, much more immediate dread at what was about to go on right next to his head. He wasn't dumb, okay, and also, there was that summer on Warped when they hadn't had two buses, and Patrick had faked sleep through two or three very, very awkward involuntary-eavesdropping situations.
"No, look, I was just trying to lighten it up. There is nothing stupid about it." Pete's voice was quieter now, rougher, but not obnoxiously so, not his over-the-top I-am-seducing-you-now voice (the lack of a phony accent was a dead giveaway).
Patrick fought down the urge to freak out and focused instead on keeping his breathing calm, steady, and sleep-like. He tried not to think about what had happened with Spencer the night before and definitely tried not to think about how satisfying it had been to jerk off to it that morning, too. Pete was just the kind of recklessly adventurous guy to think this up on his own, and besides, Patrick would've heard about it by now if Pete had somehow found out what he'd done, right? Probably the whole tour would've found out about it by now. Probably the whole world. Maybe Pete just picked up on the idea because it would make Patrick uncomfortable, he was good at that; but the thought of Pete doing this just so Patrick would hear him was another dangerous place for his mind to go, and Patrick did his best to keep fucking breathing and stop thinking before he got himself into real trouble. Inhale, exhale, inhale, and then Patrick was holding his breath again, the better to hear Pete's rough rasp.
"Okay, yeah, tell me where you are and what you're doing," Pete coaxed, encouraging Ashlee, talking her through her awkwardness and unwittingly bringing complexes to life that Patrick usually kept carefully embalmed and preserved in airtight compartments in his brain. "Tell me more about it. The little hot things. Are your nails painted? Is your hair up or down? Is your light on or maybe just the bedside lamp?"
There was a pause in which Ashlee presumably described her surroundings, and then Pete's breath caught and a tiny noise made its way out of his room. Patrick's back arched just a tiny bit, and he thought, I am so fucked.
"Keep doing that, babe, don't stop, don't stop. I'm hard just listening to you, just from hearing you talk about it."
Patrick was stubbornly insisting to himself (and his dick) that he was too mad at Pete for this to be at all interesting. Certainly not sexy. Really it was just kind of tedious. Patrick had been proven kind of a champion at phone sex the day before. Pete was just a pretender to the throne, and Patrick was not interested.
"No, I'm still - okay, hang on, I'm taking off my shirt, now." A rustle and slide of fabric. "And I'm undoing my jeans, I'm not taking them off, though." A pause. "No, I'm laying back against the wall, but I'm still sitting up."
Patrick closed his eyes and tried unsuccessfully to think of anything else. Anything other than Pete, half-naked, hard and describing himself in loving detail as he coaxed his girlfriend through what was quickly shaping up to be an actual round of phone sex.
For all Patrick knew, Pete and Ashlee did this every night. Every single night. Maybe when they were together, they locked themselves in separate rooms and called each other. Maybe Patrick had been the one stealing Pete's idea. It's possible, he reasoned with himself, that phone sex was actually a widespread phenomenon that he just never really came up against. Maybe he was the one with the skewed perspective. In any case, there's no way Pete could've heard him, they hadn't even been on the same bus, never mind in the same room.
But fuck, he could still hear Pete.
"I'm just touching, not anything serious, yet. Tell me what you're doing to yourself." A long pause, and Patrick stopped thinking about the conversation that was going on. His brain fixated for a few minutes on the just touching part instead. Ashlee, on her end, didn't seem to be having any trouble keeping up the conversation.
"Oh, fuck, babe, yeah," Pete groaned, full-on groaned, and Patrick just barely refrained from echoing him. He clenched his fists at his side, unwilling to cede even this much, even though he was flushed hot and half-hard, and this was not his bus, not his room, he reminded himself, he could just leave it all until tomorrow and--
--and the thought that he was planning jerking off to Pete's rough, soft rasp, to the thought of Pete getting himself off, the realization that he didn't even think about it, that of course he wanted to -- his dick jumped inside his sweatpants and Patrick concentrated on breathing, again, before he came all over himself.
"You're so fucking hot, babe," Pete said, and Patrick kept breathing.
"I want to be there. Yes, yes, I want you to suck me, yeah, I fucking want your mouth on my cock, holy shit," Pete said, getting more frantic.
"I'm just - I'm just reaching down, now, into my jeans. No, they're wide open, just --" and then another rustle of fabric. Patrick gave up; he silently cursed himself and then Pete soundly, and took advantage of the noise Pete was making to reach down to his bag and slowly, slowly, retrieve a pack of Kleenex, making as little noise as possible. He was banking on Pete's being entirely too distracted to notice any tiny noises outside his door. Like the noise of Patrick being a creepy horrible voyeur that got off on his best friend having phone sex with his girlfriend. Fuck.
"Yeah, it's just me, now. Fuck, yeah, I've got my legs spread nice and wide, you know, so I can just take my time and touch, nice and light, until you're ready for me. I'm so hard right now." Pete's whispers were turning into gasps.
"You tell me, babe," he choked out, high and mostly voiceless. Patrick could hear him squirming on the bed, thought I'd never let him get away with moving that much, and thrust his hips involuntarily up into nothing. He relented and slid his hand down his stomach, slipping it under the waistband of his sweatpants and down to the base of his cock, but not moving, not yet. He squeezed though his boxer briefs, fighting the urge to hiss through his teeth at the pressure.
"Yeah? You want that?" Pete's voice was suddenly low and a fraction louder, and Patrick tensed, stilling himself, but kept his hand on his cock, still pulsing tight, unable to let go.
"Okay, babe," Pete said, and Patrick didn't know whether to be grateful that he couldn't hear Ashlee's side of this very private, not-for-Patrick conversation, or to be frustrated that he couldn't hear what Ashlee was asking Pete to do. He couldn't help thinking that she probably wasn't talking to Pete exactly how he wanted it. Patrick wanted to do it himself, to do it right. To look down at Pete's twisting body and fucking tell him, like he knew Pete would want it.
"Fuck," Pete said, sounding pained. "Fuck, use two, come on. I want to hear you, that's-" Pete cut himself off with a muffled grunt. "Yes, Jesus, yes, just like that. Thinking about you, spread out like that - I love watching you like that - you're so fucking gorgeous, all flushed red and touching yourself, waiting, doing it for me."
A gasp and a few quick breaths from Pete gave Patrick the noise cover he needed to ease his sweatpants and boxer briefs down before he had to do a full-on Walk of Shame back to his bus the next morning in come-stained pajamas, and then he gave up resisting and moved up a little in the bunk, so his head was just a little closer to Pete's door when he started talking again.
He wondered, suddenly, whether he could last as long as Pete, and whether Pete was going to cheat, do something different than he was saying. Patrick knew as soon as he thought it that he'd be able to hear it in Pete's voice, if he wasn't telling the truth, if he was touching himself harder or faster or if he was holding off so he wouldn't come, or if he was going to try to come and then keep talking. Patrick knew Pete wasn't above getting himself off quick and dirty, holding the phone away and breathing slowly, then going on to talk his way through a spectacular show, lying with every word and not even touching his dick, but still so fucking sexy that Ashlee would never know.
I'd know, thought Patrick. I'd fucking know if he was telling the truth.
Telling Ashlee, telling his girlfriend, yelled a voice somewhere in his mind. He's not talking to you.
Patrick made a conscious decision to stop caring.
"I'm not touching the head, yet, no, because - oh, fuck," Pete moaned, getting louder again, and Patrick bit down on his lip but didn't stop his soft, short strokes. His other hand wandered up his chest, then pulled out from under his shirt and found the mark Pete had left during the show. It was mostly surface bruising, just red broken blood vessels, but there was enough of a proper bruise there that Patrick could find it by touch alone. Not that he'd need the bruise. Patrick was certain he'd be able to identify exactly where Pete's teeth had sunk into his neck, probably for months to come, from the clarity of the memory. Just thinking about it now was probably dangerous.
"Stroking, yeah, and I'm reaching down to my balls, too, just a little." Patrick wondered whether Pete would let a finger stray towards his asshole. He was pretty sure Pete wouldn't be able to keep the phone still enough to work his fingers inside at the same time that he jacked himself off. He thought fleetingly about Pete putting Ashlee on speakerphone, which he wouldn't mind, and then thought about Spencer's choked-off gasps, and then Patrick had to put a temporary hold on all thoughts related to phones in any way so as not to get ahead of himself.
"Yeah, I'm fucking wet, there's pre-come just sliding down the side, so it's just enough to use. It's good, I can go a little faster," Pete said in a rough whisper that raised goosebumps on Patrick's arms and thighs. He was breathing audibly, and Patrick slowed down to his pace without thinking. He wondered whether he was stroking faster than Pete or slower, and how hard Pete was holding himself. Focusing on breathing in sync gave Patrick an idea of how Pete was moving, and he tried to match the pattern.
"You want me to - okay babe, I'm just getting my hand nice and wet, just moving it around--" Pete grunted and moaned with his mouth closed. Patrick could feel the tension in his jaw.
"No, I'm so fucking ready, babe, you have no idea how ready I am. So hard, I'm so hard for you, I'm fucking working my cock so fast, all nice and wet around the head, yeah." Patrick's fingers moved again, stroking over the head of his cock. He pressed down harder, imagining Pete spread out for the taking just a few feet away, giving in to the image of Pete spread out like that for him.
"Are you - are you fucking close?" Pete asked, and Patrick nodded. Shit.
"Are you fucking slippery wet and panting for me, baby?" asked Pete, sounding like he was in charge but with an undercurrent of desperation in his voice that Patrick could hear so clearly. Patrick latched onto the desperation, to the extra skidding slide of Pete's breath, to the faint movements of his sheets and legs, imagined Pete holding on and breathing slow. He tried to ignore the words, the meaning, the implications and the big fucking picture. He did a damn good job.
"Yeah," Pete breathed, "yeah, go for it, fucking come for me, I want to hear you, God, I can fucking see it. Your hands, working like that - you're so beautiful - you're so gorgeous - making me so hard, thinking about it."
It's not like Patrick was new to denial and repression. He could just do this, have this, and then think of it as an advanced, master course. He knew even as he thought it that he would.
"I want to hear you," Pete breathed. "I want to hear you breathing and moaning. Come on."
Patrick did not answer.
"I can fucking hear it in your breath," Pete said, "You're so close, come on, a little bit harder, I want to hear you come, honey."
Patrick's hand tightened and he moved it a little more firmly. He was not, not, not going to come yet. Pete would get himself off eventually.
"God," Pete moaned, low and uneven, doing the world's worst job of staying quiet, "I want to fuck you so bad, I can't - I, fuck, baby, can't wait to touch you, to put my hands on you, hear you making those noises. I'm gonna fuck you hard, baby, gonna make you come so hard for me, come apart under me-"
There was silence from Pete's room, no talking, just loud breath and a few murmured "yeah"s. Patrick could hear Pete's quick movements, jerky, and thought Pete was close to coming, listening for it, when Pete started talking again.
"See? See, it's not gross. I told you."
Patrick's grip loosened on his cock. He didn't know what Pete was doing, now, and the lack of control made him nervous, made him remember all the things he was doing wrong. Guilt crept in even as his hand refused to leave his dick, a black curl of pain in his stomach from wanting so bad and knowing he couldn't just let it go. Knowing he'd be fucking wrapped up like this in Pete for the rest of his life.
"No, you go," Pete was telling Ashlee. "Go to bed, now, it's got to be past your bedtime. I don't know what time it is there, just - yeah. No, it's fine," Pete soothed. "I'll talk to you soon, okay? We'll do this again, soon. Yeah. I have to - uh - yeah, you know how it is. Yeah," and Pete laughed. His voice was softer when he wished her a good night and told her he loved her, and Patrick gritted his teeth, still wanting to finish but losing motivation by the second. He finally withdrew his hand, wondering idly whether he should wait for more noise to cover him so he could pull his pants back up, or what.
He heard Pete hanging up and moving around on the bed and breathed a sigh of relief. Patrick must have missed Pete's orgasm when he was so focused on his own he couldn't hear straight. He wasn't expecting to hear anything else from Pete, maybe some rustling, some getting-ready-for-bed noises. He certainly wasn't expecting to hear another moan. A loud moan and an unmistakable, obscene, slippery noise.
Pete wasn't done, and suddenly, neither was Patrick, not by a long shot.
The sounds coming from Pete's mouth and Pete's hand on his dick and Pete's hips on the mattress were all hitting Patrick in a steady, strong, fast rhythm, and Patrick picked it back up like nothing had interrupted him in the first place, and his cock was so hard it ached and he wanted to move but was afraid to make noise, and that was even before Pete started talking again. It was a lot quieter than it had been on the phone, but then, Patrick wasn't sure Pete even knew he was talking out loud. This is, after all, the Pete that had said such filthy things in his sleep when they'd all been stuck in the van that Patrick had once asked Joe, afterwards, if the things Pete had moaned were even physically possible (they weren't).
"Fucking -- oh," Pete said, which wasn't really talking, but the low, absent whisper shot off sparks of something bright behind Patrick's eyes.
"God," and Pete was quiet but that was still a breathy, gravelly moan. "Oh, God, yes, oh, shit."
Fuck it, thought Patrick. His whole body was flushed and oversensitive, the air in the bunk was heavy and his face was hot. Somehow it was easier for him to rationalize his jerking off to Pete's muttering to himself, rather than his careful entertainment of Ashlee. This was just Pete, and Patrick was still a sleazy fucking asshole, but he was only being a sleazy asshole to Pete. That was just Pete's karma, right?
"Fuck me," Pete said, guttural and harsh. "Fuck me, yeah, fucking want it, I'm going to-- " There was some kind of noise as he moved around on the bed. Patrick could hear him kicking at something, probably a hoody or whatever was cluttering up the bed. From there it was a quick leap to imagining Pete spreading his legs, and that was maybe too much for his head, especially when Pete started talking again.
"Fucking hold me down and fuck me, I want you to take it from me. God, bet you're so gorgeous when you're fucking."
Either Pete was no longer talking to an imaginary Ashlee, or Patrick was about to learn a whole lot more about their sex life.
"Or I'd fuck you, if you'd let me - my hands on you and spreading you open for me," and okay, Pete had to be close because he was moving so hard it was interrupting even his own dirty monologue to himself. His voice was guttural, low and lodged in his throat, and all of the smooth sheen he'd had to his words when he was on the phone was gone. These were half-thoughts, muttered like they were being pulled from him.
"My fingers in your mouth, shit, your mouth, I fucking dream about that mouth. The things I want you to say to me. Fuck, thinking about you jacking me off and talking to me, or what you'd say to me when I was sucking your dick and you knew I couldn't talk back -"
Patrick's fingers tightened on his dick and sped up, slippery wet and tight. He shook with the effort of staying still, staying quiet.
"I want you. I want you to hear," said Pete, soft and high, and gasped loud as he came.
Patrick didn't even have time to process what he heard; he was coming as soon as the words left Pete's mouth. He pressed his lips together and swallowed a moan at the thought of Pete sprawled out, wrecked and naked on his bed; for one minute, he allowed himself to think that Pete knew he was listening. At the thought that Pete was talking to him. Coming for him.
Patrick shoved the mess of Kleenex into the outer pocket of his bag. Pete may have been talking about a guy, fine, but that last part had to have been him talking to Ashlee, a mean but rational voice in his brain told him. Saying "I want you here." Because he loves her and misses her.
Fuck Pete if he heard Patrick moving around. Patrick didn't give a shit.
-----
The next morning, though, Pete didn't seem at all unusual, poking his head into Patrick's bunk completely unannounced and ruffling Patrick's hair in a completely obnoxious display of affection.
"Morning!" Pete crowed, looking well-groomed and bright-eyed. Patrick hated him. He rubbed his eyes and checked to see if maybe Pete would disappear, but he had no such luck.
"Mrph," Patrick said. "Hi." He squinted up at Pete's sunny, earnest grin, and couldn't help smiling back, just a little.
"Oh, you're so cute when you're sleepy and pliable," Pete said. "There's coffee. We have a stop in an hour or so, it's only just eleven now."
"What are the chances of you bringing me coffee?" Patrick asked hopefully. Pete's grin softened into something fond and a little heated, and he reached out a hand, rubbing the back of his knuckles against Patrick's cheekbone. Unbidden, all the shame and want of the previous night came rising up and heated his face, and Patrick had to stop himself from pushing up into Pete's touch.
"Depends," Pete said softly, still gently stroking Patrick's face. "What are the chances of me getting a picture of you in bed right now for Buzznet?"
Patrick grunted angrily, sat straight up, and shot out both hands, one towards his hat and the other towards his jeans. He wished he had a third, so he could reach out and flick Pete in the nose at the same time. Pete would never, ever let a picture of Patrick out in public that might be showing more than Patrick was comfortable with, but knowing that was cold comfort when Patrick's mind was still mean and sleep-fuzzy, and Pete was so eager to joke about it.
"Oh, no fair," Pete said, fumbling happily for his Sidekick. "Give a man some warni-OW!"
"No means no, Pete," Patrick warned, yanking his curtain closed long enough to swap his sweatpants for jeans. He swatted deftly at the long fingers that crept in under the curtain and tried not to think about them too hard. "Quit it!"
"Patrick?" Joe's voice drifted back from the front lounge. "What's going on man, want me to come beat up Pete for you?"
"Yes!" yelled Patrick, as Pete pulled the curtain open again. He wriggled frantically, pulling his jeans most of the way up while continuing to bat Pete's hand away.
"We're fine!" yelled Pete, a little louder.
"So business as usual, then," said Joe. "Never mind."
"Joe always takes your side," Patrick said petulantly. "Is it because he's your baby momma?"
"It's because he recognizes my innate superiority," Pete said, inching his hand back into Patrick's bunk and firmly but sweetly rubbing small circles on his left ankle. "You have this problem with respecting your elders."
"I have this problem with respecting people that don't respect my need to begin my day unmolested," Patrick groused, trying to find a way to button his jeans while lying down that wasn't totally wanton. He gave up eventually and lay back, arching his back and lifting his hips clear off the mattress as he pulled his jeans over his ass and did them up.
"So it's okay if I go ahead and molest you now," said Pete, "since you've already started your day." He looked less playful than he had a minute ago, but Patrick was used to Pete dropping in and out of conversation. His eyes were dark and unfocused, and yeah, Patrick knew he was probably just recalling tiny details of the night before as they came back to him. Lord knows he was caught off-guard yesterday when he'd been trying to talk to his tech about the possible need for a new pickup on the SG and bam, out of nowhere, Spencer Smith's sex voice had arrived full-volume in his head, informing Patrick that "Maybe I'd like it like that, yeah." And there, he'd probably just done it again, inadvertently zoning out right in front of Pete. Christ, he was probably beet red by now, awesome. No way Pete would ever notice that.
Patrick was a little startled when he looked up and saw Pete making a face almost exactly like the one he'd feared he was making - mouth open, breathing just a touch louder than usual, eyes half-closed and hair in his eyes, looking down at Patrick through a double curtain of bangs and eyelashes. Patrick wondered which snippet of last night's conversation had sparked that face in him, and then got a little lost himself contemplating the possibilities.
"You know, it's going to be hard to earn respect when you go around thrusting at people like that," Pete said, staring at Patrick's crotch. Patrick snapped right back to the present.
"Oh, fuck you," Patrick said without thinking about it, and watched Pete, waiting for him to snap out of whatever probably-highly-inappropriate memory he was going over and say something unexpected, something crass, something funny. Anything to break the increasingly dangerous focus they were building on each other.
Pete smiled, baring his teeth, and shot a hand out to Patrick's hip, where it grabbed him hard.
"Ow, fucking-what, Pete, let go," Patrick grumbled. Pete's fingers curled in and Patrick knew he was about to do something terrible if Pete kept pushing him. He managed to keep his mouth closed when Pete's fingers dug into his muscle; it was just shy of hard enough to bruise, but all that really meant was that Patrick let out a whimper instead of a moan. He blushed, again, and cursed his weak will and pale complexion. Pete wasn't going to see it, though, because he was leaning down fast, coming in towards Patrick's face. Patrick freaked out, wriggling away and towards the wall because what is he doing, is he leaning in to kiss me? Because there's teasing, and then there's kissing your friend and bandmate for no good reason first thing in the morning when neither of you can get off the bus for another hour, when he's lying down, and Patrick wasn't surprised to find that although he certainly welcomed the idea of the second, he was incredibly unprepared to accept the actual action.
He was lucky - kind of. Pete's hand kept its death grip on his left hipbone, and he leaned right down to Patrick, brushing hair back out of his way as he bent his head until his lips were just brushing the outside shell of Patrick's ear. Pete's breath was hot and wet on Patrick's ear and neck and his voice was low and rough and still a little clogged with sleep, and when he started to speak, Patrick was a little slow to catch up.
"Don't let your mouth write cheques your ass can't cash, Stump," Pete whispered clearly into Patrick's ear, lips brushing along his ear. He straightened up and lost his grip on Patrick's hip as quickly as he'd found it. "Careful," he said, back to himself again, and then took off for the front lounge.
"I can't believe you just said that, you walking cliché," Patrick called after him. "How are you the one who writes the lyrics?" He could hear Joe in the front lounge, lazily asking Pete what he had said; "Dude, are you rhapsodizing about the early bird again? Cut that shit out, it doesn't count as waking up early if you never went to sleep."
"Yeah," he called, poking his head out of the bunk and, remembering the fate of his T-shirt, wriggling straight into his hoody, "Also, I don't eat worms, that's gross even for you." He didn't mean to save Pete's ass by agreeing with Joe so much as he was trying to avoid explaining what had just happened to him. To them both.
Pete was heading back towards him already, a cup of probably awful coffee in each hand. "I brought you your coffee, but I expect a picture of your scalp in return, Stump," Pete said, navigating the aisle and handing off to Patrick. "Oh, hey, do you not have anything under-" and just like that Patrick's coffee was gone again, both mugs stashed on the table in Pete's room.
"I-" was as far as Patrick got, but he was at least halfway to indignant already before Pete zipped back to the bunk Patrick was blearily trying to climb out of without kicking anyone. The curtain was pushed back already, so there was nothing to stop Pete's ridiculous long fingers from flashing out and pulling down the zipper of Patrick's hoody. Patrick lay on the edge of the bunk, one leg flailing desperately in the aisle and failing totally to dispel Pete's advances. He struggled to right himself, pull himself back into the bunk, and Pete - moving like the fucking Flash, how much coffee had he had already? - pushed back the sides of his hoody, revealing a lot more flesh than Patrick was ready to.
It was all just Pete having his obnoxious fun, he told himself sternly, and managed to almost completely ignore the strong, cold fingers trailing light across his chest. Well, he wasn't doing that well at ignoring Pete, but things got rapidly worse when he reached up with two fingers and tweaked Patrick's right nipple, harder than anyone who wasn't fucking him at that very moment had any right to.
Patrick's head fell back entirely without his permission, and he let out a high, quiet, surprised "oh" cut off by a sharp intake of air that only served to push further into Pete's touch. He tried to ask Pete what he was doing, tell him to stop, but he only got as far as whispering "Pete," and when Pete's fingers tightened again, he stopped trying to talk and closed his eyes. It occurred to him that he must look like a total slut, but this wasn't a playful attack; Pete wasn't braying with laughter or shouting for Dirty, or doing anything really. When his fingers finally let go, he kept his hands on Patrick. His right hand was stroking in light, short passes over and around Patrick's nipple where, Patrick was sure, it was turning red; his left rested gently at the top of Patrick's ribcage, hand flat to Patrick's skin just above where it met the mattress.
Oh. So that's what Pete was playing at. This wasn't a new set for the two of them to fall into. They'd always had periods of time where their onstage tension spilled into their offstage selves, but it was unusual for both of them to be so intense about it at the same time; it felt stronger than it had before. Dangerously strong, even, if Patrick was going to get melodramatic about things.
"Pete," Patrick breathed, "What-" His voice came out all wrong, thin and hoarse and whispery. He cleared his throat to try again, but Pete was already talking.
"I, uh," Pete muttered, the last of a grin fading quickly from his face. "Sorry, I'm playing too hard again," and he turned away, leaned back into his room and brought out Patrick's mug. "I'm sorry, I forget that you do that." He took Patrick's hand where Patrick was flapping it ineffectually in mid-air and gently wrapped it around the handle of the mug, slowly transferring the weight and letting go carefully.
"Do what?" Patrick was embarrassed and bewildered and more than a little bit turned on by everything that had happened to him already this morning (never mind last night). "What the fuck do I do?"
"That thing where you wake up cranky," Pete tried.
"Pete."
"Sorry, sorry," Pete said. "Okay? You okay?"
"God, yes, I'm fine," Patrick said, exasperated. "But-"
"Good." Pete beamed at him, all sunshine again, and Patrick sighed; he'd never get anything useful out of Pete now. Pete took several huge gulps of coffee and promptly made the most hideous gacking noise he'd ever heard that didn't come from a cat with a furball.
"Oh, ew, ew, this one has no sugar," Pete informed him dramatically. "Oh, gross, here, gimme that."
"Gimme that," Patrick echoed, and they swapped mugs. Pete gulped again and sighed a ridiculously exaggerated contented sigh. Patrick looked down at what was left of his coffee sadly. There was something about a half cup of coffee that just never quite satisfied.
"So, now that you're up, you wanna-"
"Oh, no, who said I was up?" Patrick eyed Pete's open door. "You know, it's imperative that I get my beauty sleep. For my voice and all."
"You know how he's got such a delicate constitution," Joe chimed in, ambling towards his "storage bunk" and riffling through its assorted contents. "Whoa, hey, did I miss the floor show?"
"Joe, quit perving on our singer."
"Hey, I'm just saying, if there's an exhibition going down on my bus, I want to kno-" Joe's eyes widened comically and he clapped a hand over his mouth, shaking his head frantically. "No! No, wait, that's not what I meant!" He fled from the bunks as Pete gave chase, hand on his fly already, shouting after him, "I'll give you a show, you perv!"
Patrick perked up immediately and made for Pete's open door. He meant to do up his hoody on the way, but as he swung out of the bunk, the open zipper brushed against his still-hard nipples, and he thought fuck it, I'm just going to sleep anyway, who's going to see?
He could be so stupid in the mornings. Seriously, it was like his brain missed bus call every single night and then spent half the day on a Greyhound trying to catch up.
Pete's room was cluttered and dark and smelled like Pete. Patrick didn't love it like he loved his own room, but a bed was a bed, and he had no problem indulging his diva tendencies once in a while, especially since he didn't have to demote any of his friends to a bunk in order to do it.
In the not-quite-dark, Patrick watched as one of the pillows huffed and flopped over.
"Hey, boy," he said quietly. The dog took no notice; he didn't tend to listen to people who spoke too quietly. Patrick knew Hemmy was a hundred percent friendly, but that was no reason to chance startling a ball of muscle that weighed, like, forty or fifty pounds. Maybe sixty. He put a hand out to Hemmy's sleeping, panting snout, and waited for a minute. Hemmy perked up an ear, and Patrick murmured another hello; Hemmy licked his hand, and Patrick scratched him behind the ears, and they were old friends again. Patrick crawled in the other side of the bed, but Hemmy was having none of it, staggering upright long enough to put his front paws up on Patrick, crushing the right side of his ribcage in the most adorable way possible, and then settling back down, ignoring Patrick's pained oof and subsequent mutters about being abused from all sides.
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Pete checked on Patrick's bunk on the way back to his room; he hadn't heard anything, so probably Patrick was conked back out, like he should be. Except, uh-oh, there was no Patrick to be found in the bunk. And his door was ajar in a doggie-friendly fashion, where Pete usually left it wide open during the day (the better for fetch, running tackles, and anything else that needed as long a stretch of space as you could get on a bus).
If Pete were a nicer, more considerate person, he would've simply retreated to the front lounge and left Patrick to sleep unmolested. But then, as he often reasoned with himself, if Patrick had wanted to spend his youth hanging out with nicer, more considerate people, he would've joined an easy-listening light pop band and had a much more sensible life. Pete pushed open the door and nudged it back behind him, then took a moment to appreciate his two best friends curled up asleep together.
"Pounce and die," Patrick grumbled, and okay, maybe they weren't both of them asleep.
"Just joining the party," Pete whispered mildly, not even smiling, being as careful as he could not to upset the still of the room.
"Your wish, dude." Patrick said, "It is your bed, after all."
"Ah, so you're lying in wait for me," Pete teased, but there was no real intent behind it. "Can you move over?"
"No. Move your ox of a dog, he weighs nine hundred pounds."
Pete knelt on the bed, climbing in below Hemmy and trying not to look at Patrick's thighs in front of his face. He leaned up and scooped his hands under Hemmy's paws so that Patrick wouldn't get scratched, and maneuvered the dog off Patrick and onto the edge of the bed - with a few extra inches so he wouldn't fall if he started chasing rabbits or whatever in his sleep.
"Patrick?"
"Mmm?" The quiet, low sound of Patrick's voice was gorgeous - raw and so private - and Pete was still all hypersensitive about the voice thing from yesterday. He froze for a moment, wondering for the fiftieth time if Patrick had somehow woken up and heard him - but no, his door was solid, Joe had never actually heard anything, right? And surely, if Patrick had heard him, he would've said something to embarrass Pete by now, right?
"Yeah, Pete?" Patrick asked sleepily, letting his head fall to the side. Pete looked up and saw the line of Patrick's jaw, of his neck, shit, of his chest, he hadn't done his hoody back up. Jesus. He took advantage of his gaping mouth to take in as much breath as he could; he suddenly needed it all. Patrick wasn't shy like he used to be shy, but there was the kind of Patrick-skin Pete saw backstage or wherever, and then there was this. Patrick looked so pale in the blue light coming in through the blinds, and his skin looked smooth and inviting and flawless, and he was in Pete's bed and smiling at him, a tiny, contented smile, like maybe Pete had unexpectedly done something right and made Patrick happy.
Pete put both hands back on Patrick's torso before he could complain. He tried to keep his touch from being a caress, tried to keep Patrick from coming to his senses and drawing away. He smoothed a hand over the top of Patrick's stomach and the other up Patrick's chest, over his collarbone and around the back of his neck. He put his ear to Patrick's heart, smiling at the light hair on Patrick's chest and the way it brushed his cheek, and hugged tight for a moment or two. Patrick went still for a moment, and Pete held his breath; but then Patrick was exhaling smoothly, bringing an arm down around Pete and rubbing his palm over the point of his shoulder blade. Pete made a happy noise and burrowed deeper into the hug, listening to Patrick's heartbeat, and beamed up at his face.
Patrick looked down at him with the fond, bemused smile that made Pete feel like he was a good person, even on his worst days. Surely a really terrible person would never get to see anything so gratifying. It was humbling, kind of, that he'd made someone so important so happy, and he remembered seeing that smile from Patrick when they were just starting out and thinking that the proud, warm feeling must be the unbreakable kind of love, like Patrick was family. That was before he'd gotten his head straight and realized that yes, Patrick was family, but no, it was definitely not the same kind of love. It still made him happy to see that smile, though. He rolled his head down and pressed a kiss into Patrick's chest, loving the feeling of Patrick's hand on his back, of Patrick's body underneath him, and okay, time to back off a little, before he became way too invested in the proceedings.
He pulled his head away slowly and came face to face with the hickey on Patrick's neck. Pete couldn't help but snort out a laugh. "Sorry, man."
"Sorry for -" Patrick tried and failed to look at his own neck. "Oh. Whatever." He settled back down, waiting for Pete to find a comfortable position.
"Really whatever?" Pete grinned expectantly.
"Please don't make a habit of it," Patrick said, but not in the firmest tone he'd ever used. He was still kind of stroking Pete's shoulder and spine, closer to his neck now that Pete had pulled away a little, so he couldn't be all that mad.
Pete could never resist fucking up a good thing. Even as he did something colossally dumb, he knew what he was doing and why he shouldn't be doing it, but he had zero impulse control. If he wanted to do it, he could not stop himself. He blamed his insane fear of someday regretting something he didn't do, even though it was the other kind of regret with which he was far more familiar. Whatever it was, it made him ask Patrick, "What about one for the road, then?"
He didn't wait for an answer, just pushed himself up and into Patrick's side, nuzzling into the side of Patrick's neck where he knew he would fit best and lowering his open mouth down over the bruise that had already turned a dark red-brown. His right hand slid over Patrick's side, down to his hip; he wasn't holding Patrick down, but he was holding on tight, right where he'd grabbed him earlier that morning. Pete could be unpredictable, but once he found something he liked, he tended to come back to it again and again. Like Patrick's neck. He breathed in deep, nose tickling in the hair behind Patrick's ear, and gently licked that same spot with the point of his tongue.
He could hear Patrick breathe in abruptly, holding his breath for a second and breathing out choppily, struggling to find the right thing to say. Pete tried to ignore the foul, familiar feeling of guilt and shame that he got when he did something this stupid and this wrong, and just focus on learning as much as he could about Patrick while he was still here. He was pretty confident that he'd get off with a warning, maybe a couple of verbal low blows, and a few days of the cold shoulder; he'd done worse than this, said stupider things to Patrick before.
Patrick stayed quiet, not yet giving in, but not calling Pete out yet, and that was all the opportunity Pete needed. He forgot about guilt, about shame, about the hurt he might be causing Patrick; everything he had was focused on the feel of Patrick's skin under his mouth as he brought his lips carefully down around the mark and sucked, much more gently than he had last night, at the bruised, tender skin. He could feel Patrick's breathing getting shallower, could feel Patrick's pulse under his tongue and on his lips, and Pete let his teeth drag faintly over his neck, not fully surprised when it netted him the tiniest of suppressed groans.
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Part 3
Part 4
Made-of-win fanmix by 26days