Hush That Beating Heart.
Title: Hush That Beating Heart.
Rating: NC-17 for non-penetrative smuttiness.
Pairing: Patrick/Pete, Patrick/Hushie!Chris
Word-count: 3382 words.
Summary: Patrick loves Pete, Pete loves Patrick... but Pete is a little slutty when they're apart. Patrick likes the Hush Sound, particularly Chris Faller, y'know, a lot. Like, a LOT. The feeling is mutual. Pete thinks Patrick should go for it.
Author's Notes: I started writing this in, no joke, November. I've been waffling over it ever since, uncertain of how to approach such potential hotness, but really, I just blame vanilla_alia for putting the idea in my head in the first place. And by blame I mean owe first-born-children to. ♥
EDIT: Author's Note #2: Apparently some poor, deprived people don't know the supercutewonderboy that is Chris??? After I got over my initial shock: Feast your eyes, ladieees.
It was decidedly un-Patrick-like to cheat.
See, he loved Pete; nothing could or would change that. Even Pete's rampant infidelities didn't hurt him much. At least, not like it had before. It had stung the first time, when Patrick was nineteen and they had only been together for six months; they argued and Patrick had thrown a punch. He knew Pete better now, as a lover as well as a best friend, and it began to make sense to just let Pete be Pete.
Rules were discussed (safety first, of course) and the guidelines were kept. It was an open two-way street, but the traffic only flowed one way, and Patrick was used to it. Pete needed the constant attention to counteract his occasional self-destruction-it only so happened that there was always a warm and willing body there for Pete to turn to when Patrick was busy with the shrinking portion of his life that didn't involve his music, the band or this relationship. But, all of that aside, Patrick knew he was the one who meant something. Pete would always come home again. It was just how things went.
But now, fast forward, and Patrick was the one away from home, finding himself needing, and so conveniently not alone. He'd been away from Pete for several weeks, helping to produce the new Hush Sound record, and discovering there was something very dangerous about Chris. He was too sweet, too charming, too much like Patrick had been when they first had their taste of fame. And Chris had been following Patrick around like a lost puppy, gooey-eyed and silently begging, bursting with nervous energy. He couldn't tell if it was just a musical crush, like it had been with Brendon, or if this was something else entirely.
Patrick didn't typically have to worry about these things.
He smiled into the phone to Pete, stuttering a little as he told him about how well things were going, how receptive everyone was to him, to his ideas. He didn't want to say anything about Chris in particular, and he wasn't sure why. Of course, Patrick supposed there wasn't much to say, exactly. Or perhaps there just wasn't anything he needed Pete to know yet. Chris was Chris. Young and attractive and talented (and there), but certainly not making overt advances.
Patrick said nothing, but even as he listened with love swelling when Pete purred honest, open-hearted "I miss you"s across the miles into his ear, tinny and distant-sounding, something of Chris lingered in his mind. It was something that he needed out of his system, fast, before it started affecting how he acted around the band.
But then, just that quickly, it wasn't just in Patrick's mind anymore. He let himself notice the details, and found that his suspicions were definitely realities. It was as if Chris knew exactly what kind of new thoughts Patrick had been having, knew the aching state in which Patrick had woken up that morning (and what kind of dream, starring him, had caused it.)
When he sat down next to Patrick at breakfast, it was no accident that when their feet happened to collide under the table, socked-toes were gently ghosting, brushing by Patrick's soft ankle, with none of it accompanied with any awkwardness, throat-clearing or pulling away sharply. Just an imperceptible jump from Patrick at the unsolicited contact, and a struggle to keep the blush creeping up his neck from becoming much too apparent.
When Patrick decided then to turn and look Chris in the eye, he had not expected those eyes to be closed, or Chris to be slowly smiling into his coffee mug. Patrick was still staring when he opened them, and let his foot drop to the floor. All Patrick could do then was grin, gulp down the rest of his orange juice, and stand up quickly. Eye contact maintained.
It was also un-Patrick-like to take two showers, cold ones, in one morning. Things change.
###
Damn his affinity for honesty.
After the third day of meaningful glances, electricity popping if they stood just a little bit too close together and a sweaty doubles game of foosball against Bob and Greta after supper, Patrick found himself hiding again in his closet of a temporary bedroom. He needed to hear Pete's voice more than ever.
Unable to hold it in, Patrick spilled to Pete what he suspected, and why. Pete only sounded somewhat jealous as he congratulated his boyfriend on capturing yet another heart and libido. Pete couldn't, however, disguise his tone when he asked Patrick on what he planned on doing about it.
There was a definite pause before Patrick said "Nothing," to which Pete replied "Why the fuck not?"
Patrick's only answer to that was "You, Pete." He hoped it sounded as obvious as it ought to, as logical.
Even as he'd said it, he knew it was unacceptable. Pete would find that logic ridiculous. "Patrick, if you want to, it's okay. I understand how it feels. It's fine." He was quiet for a moment before he continued. It was still somewhat-shaky ground. "It's like how you understand me, and how you know that it's not because I don't love you or respect you or our relationship." So romantic. "I just get... you know. When we're apart, it can be hard." And despite Pete's fragmented thoughts, Patrick did know. His thoughts wandered briefly to the yellow nicotine-stained fingers brushing lint from his forearm during dinner, slipping over his wrist in a flash. Half a second of fingers on bare skin was enough to have left Patrick craving for the rest of the meal.
And in a way, maybe it would be a good idea. Patrick hated to make Pete feel so guilty about his affairs. Pete was much more fun when he wasn't trying to make up for wrongdoings. If Patrick did this, it would make things equal between them; make life easier, even for just a little while.
"...not that I'd want to share you, or anything." Pete was still rambling, justifying. Pete's flavour of romance. His voice sounded further away than ever before.
"I don't know." How was this honestly becoming a reality? He waffled. "I'm certainly not planning on it. It's a professional situation."
"Fuck, it's music, 'Trick! And he's a friend. Business is bullshit."
"Pete, it's your label. I'm working for you almost as much as for them."
"And I'll be out there next week to see you, so go have some fun. That's a professional order from above to chill the fuck out." So kind. No, really. He could hear Pete smiling from miles and miles away.
"I'll give it my best shot." Patrick didn't know what he even meant by that even as he said it, but the words seemed to satisfy Pete. Was that him saying that he wanted to?
"That's all I wanted to hear." A break. A far-away knock on Pete's hotel-room door. "I've gotta go. Things to do, people to meet." He was keeping busy, at least. Patrick missed him a little less. A small weight lifted. This was not fragile Pete, this was strangely-logical attention-whore Pete, and he would be fine. "Call you later?"
"Yeah, of course. We're done for the day." A slight pause for thought. "I love you, Pete."
"Love you, too, 'Trick. Later."
They hung up. Nothing had been decided, really, but it was only eight o'clock. Early yet.
###
Sharing a small house while the album was being recorded had its advantages. The first, obviously, was the ability to keep the musical process alive even when they weren't in the studio, but also, secondly, was the convenience of close-quarters. Patrick could easily have afforded to stay in a nearby hotel, drop in when necessary, but they wanted him around and gave him his own room, tiny as though it may be. It was nice to be wanted... but Patrick still wasn't sure if he wanted this, or even how he would go about it. Boys were never his strong suit (not that he'd ever been popular with the ladies), and Pete had always just been there. It had required no real effort whatsoever. Things always presented themselves to him, and now, here was Chris.
Literally. Right outside Patrick's just-opened door, hand poised to knock.
"Oh. Hello." Chris was startled with how suddenly the door had opened, how it had swung open with an air of purpose.
"I was just coming to find you."
Chris stepped back half a pace, allowing Patrick to join him in the narrow hallway. "What a coincidence."
"Yeah?" Patrick pushed his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose, a nervous habit.
"Yeah." A shuffling of feet. "Darren and I were going to watch a movie. Thought you might be interested."
If Patrick was anything right then, he was (Survey Says:) Interested! (Ding ding ding!) "What are we watching?"
Chris shrugged, it being Darren's night to choose. Which, naturally, meant that it turned out to be an anime film that hurt Patrick's eyes to watch with too many flashing lights and subtitles in poorly chosen colours ("Dubbing is for assholes and the illiterate," came the consensus). Patrick was left leaning his head against the back of the couch, eyes closed, losing more of the plot with every minute as Japanese voices and explosions filled his ears. He was too polite to leave, to go play Scrabble with Bob and Greta in adjoining the kitchen, and beside him there was Chris, eyes focused on the action, surreptitiously toeing Patrick's Achilles tendon. A true weakness.
This is where Patrick fell asleep.
And this is where Patrick woke up to Chris jostling him awake, Darren already walking out of the room, shaking his head. As the credits (both English and Japanese) rolled past on the screen, Chris grinned wolfishly at him in the near-dark, an expression so like Pete that Patrick felt a stone in his stomach settle. Maybe. Maybe he shouldn't. This was a mistake.
But... no. His body and mind worked separately, hands moving of their own volition. Patrick felt himself push the heel of his hand from Chris's knee up his thigh, dragging it back down, up, down. Kneading. Needing.
He tried to swallow, couldn't. The living room of this tiny house felt too large, too exposed, the laughter that floated in from the kitchen too loud. Patrick pulled back, but not from uncertainty. Patrick stood up, but wasn't escaping. "Come on," he said, keeping his voice low. This didn't need to be advertised; the others would likely notice quickly enough, besides.
Chris stood, unfolding his limbs, smelling of cigarette smoke and orange soda when he leaned in closely to murmur "Yes, sir, Mr. Stump" into Patrick's ear. Patrick hoped he tasted like he smelled. Pete never tasted exactly the same, even if he'd just brushed his teeth. A freak of nature, in more ways than one. Patrick couldn't get sentimental about it if he'd wanted to.
Patrick watched as Chris crouched down to put the disc back in its case, shut off the DVD player and television, snap off a low lamp. Chris was all sharp hips and coy eyes behind long hair, but nothing about his plaid shirt rolled to the elbows or his faint smirk said "scene kid," and Patrick was relishing every moment. No eyeliner smudges, just Ivory soap. Someone that didn't get a label, didn't need one to defy. Chris wasn't pretending, wasn't trying hard to be something so different that he wound up back at the beginning, still looking like everyone else. Chris was suddenly the closest thing to normal that Patrick had been this close to in years.
Patrick wanted to devour him.
He tried to look casual as he herded Chris down the hall, past the kitchen, and through his bedroom door. Nobody had said anything to them, deep in their own conversation. Patrick shut the door and heard it click behind them. Safe. He turned to Chris, pressing him to the wall. Thumbs dragging along his waistline, slipping under his belt. Testing, testing, one, two. Chris was saying something, chattering in hushed tones about how he was glad Patrick had come to his senses, had finally noticed him. Hadn't Patrick noticed how much Chris had wanted this to happen? Ever since they'd been introduced, he'd had a bit of a crush, but couldn't get him away from Pete long enough.
Patrick felt his teeth clench at Pete's name, but only for a moment. He relaxed, leaned into Chris's neck, breathing in, confirming that he wanted to be here. Pete wanted him to, even. It was okay, to take what was being dangled before him. He leaned closer, almost on his toes to reach, and bit the soft skin. Just a nibble. Experimentally. Chris threaded his fingers through the long hair at the back of Patrick's head, his hat tossed to the floor. Patrick tried not to cringe at the sudden exposure. Chris pulled him back, very gently.
"Hey, hey. Patrick. I can't... I want to kiss you." Patrick lifted his head. "Can I?"
He was asking. Actually asking. How long had it been since someone had asked Patrick's permission for anything? He licked his lips once and went for it. Chris's nose bumped against Patrick's glasses. Oh. A new angle. There.
Oh. There.
Chris didn't taste like cigarettes, but Patrick was addicted all the same. He could kiss this boy for hours. Chris seemed to feel likewise, moaning quietly when Patrick pressed him closer to the wall, holding him there. This was happening now. There was no escape.
Patrick's ankles and calves began to ache from standing on his toes, and he grabbed Chris by the collar, settling back on his heels and letting the taller boy lean down to avoid breaking the kiss. Now Chris was leading, pushing Patrick backwards, indicating clearly that there was a perfectly good bed not a few feet away and no foreseeable reason why Patrick shouldn't be on his back, peeling clothes off Chris's slight frame. These thoughts led Patrick's hands down, knuckles rolling over an enviably flat stomach and down, down further, dragging the back of his hand over the zipper of Chris's jeans and the stiff bulge already straining beneath it.
Belt buckles undone in a flash, buttons popped, pants slid over hips and pooled at the floor. Patrick stepped out of his jeans, steadying himself against Chris as he pulled off his socks. Wriggling out of his shirt, Chris was already pressing on Patrick's shoulder, mumbling "lie down, lie down."
A suggestion, not an order.
Patrick lay back, pulling Chris with him. More soft tongues, wet kisses but not sloppy, both engrossed in the feeling of friction between their bodies. Patrick slid a hand just beneath the waistband of Chris's boxers and gripped his warm hip, grinding himself upwards. Again, again. Patrick lifting his hips, Chris pressing down with his own, grunting softly. Words weren't necessary. It was all Patrick could do to keep from holding his breath. Chris pulled at Patrick's lower lip with his teeth, smiling, sucking, biting. Dizzy from the sensation.
It wasn't enough. No. Patrick needed to-and suddenly, the room was flooded with sound. Horrible, horrible sound. "I take you to the candy shop; I'll let you lick the lollypop..." Patrick grabbed his cell quickly, flipping it open, and saw Pete's name on the caller ID. Only Pete would have replaced his perfectly-respectable ring tone with that. But-Pete! Calling! Patrick's heart leapt into his throat, his brain panicking, but inspiration took hold. He was already this far in. He hit a button, 50 Cent was silenced. Patrick set the phone back down on the nightstand, immediately feeling more confident than he had all night.
Before Chris could ask about the interruption or the determined expression on Patrick's face, he'd been flipped onto his back with his shorts being pulled halfway to his knees and a blur of strawberry blond between his thighs. Patrick knew his strengths. If singing had taught him anything, it was how to open your throat and control your breathing, not to mention the tongue exercises he'd been doing to learn how to enunciate. These were skills he'd been finding very useful when applied to... other aspects of his career. That and, y'know, lots of practice.
Sliding Chris's cock between his lips, Patrick had to fight the urge to laugh at how great it felt to hear someone new and unfamiliar groaning his name like that. Pulling off a bit, and then sucking harder on the head before taking in as much as he comfortably could, he took pleasure in the noises Chris made, as his moans only increased. Music to his ears.
"Jesus, Patrick," Chris choked out. "Where did you learn to do this?"
Patrick, swirling his tongue around the tip before exchanging his mouth with a fist, replied simply: "I had an excellent teacher. Learned from the best."
Watching his eyes roll back into his head, Patrick suspected that Chris didn't actually care to know who he was talking about, so he didn't elaborate. No, he didn't care as long as he kept doing, OH, yes, that. Still stroking with one hand, Patrick nestled in closer to lick long, broad strokes along the thin skin of Chris's balls.
It made him twitch. Patrick liked twitching.
The results, at least aurally, were extremely satisfying and even more so when Patrick returned his lips to encircle the head, releasing his grip on Chris's hip, letting him buck upwards, fucking Patrick's perfect mouth.
"P-P-P-Patrick! I-I'm-I," Chris tried to stutter out a warning, but words dissolved into a long, drawn out groan. Knowing the signs, Patrick was ready, and swallowed without choking. 'No rookie mistakes here,' he thought with pride.
Chris nudged him with his foot, motioning for Patrick to join him at the pillows end of the bed. They kissed again, sweetly but dirty, Chris pushing a hand between their bodies. Patrick was still hard, and still very much in need. When Chris began stroking him, he couldn't help but bite again at the tender flesh where skin meets shoulder. Patrick didn't intend to leave a mark, but there would be a bruise there in the morning, a nice one.
Chris's hands were strong, with long fingers and calluses in all the right places, true bass player's hands. Patrick idly wondered how Chris's mouth might feel sucking him off, but then reasoned that Pete wouldn't be there for almost a week. There would be plenty of time. Maybe Chris would even let Patrick fuck him, making more of those beautiful sounds. Pete would be so proud.
The thought of this alone is what makes Patrick come.
###
Forty-five minutes and two more orgasms later, Chris quietly shut the bedroom door behind him, creeping back to the room he shared with Darren with hopefully little explaining to do regarding his absence or whatever sounds may have floated down the hall. Patrick sighed and pulled the sheets and blankets up to his chest. Grabbing his cell phone from the bedside table, he cleared his throat.
"Pete? Are you still there?"
A low groan. "That was cruel, ‘Trick." Pete's voice is thick, sleepy. This is the way Pete sounds after he's just gotten off. Maybe more than once.
"I know. Sorry." A lame apology. "I just thought it would, y'know, save me the trouble of telling you later, and you begging for details."
"I don't beg." Sated Pete became Indignant, More-Awake Pete.
Patrick rolled his eyes behind his closed lids, smirking slightly. "I'm sure it could be arranged."
Pete didn't bother to concede the truth behind this statement, just huffed into the phone. A moment of silence is observed. Then:
"So, we're okay?"
"Yeah, of course," Patrick mumbled, beginning to let his tongue feel as lazy as the rest of his body. Sleep. Oh, precious sleep. "Why wouldn't we be?"
Pete is smiling, and just a little relieved. "Just making sure."
"...Mm'kay." Falling further asleep by the second, words running together. "S'wasagoodidea."
"I'm glad you thought so, 'Trick. Sounded like you had fun."
A sleepy grunt of agreement. "MissyouPetey."
"Yeah, I know," said Pete, dropping his voice low, recognizing a fading Patrick when he heard it, letting him drift. "I love you, too."
###
See original comments here, here and here.
Rating: NC-17 for non-penetrative smuttiness.
Pairing: Patrick/Pete, Patrick/Hushie!Chris
Word-count: 3382 words.
Summary: Patrick loves Pete, Pete loves Patrick... but Pete is a little slutty when they're apart. Patrick likes the Hush Sound, particularly Chris Faller, y'know, a lot. Like, a LOT. The feeling is mutual. Pete thinks Patrick should go for it.
Author's Notes: I started writing this in, no joke, November. I've been waffling over it ever since, uncertain of how to approach such potential hotness, but really, I just blame vanilla_alia for putting the idea in my head in the first place. And by blame I mean owe first-born-children to. ♥
EDIT: Author's Note #2: Apparently some poor, deprived people don't know the supercutewonderboy that is Chris??? After I got over my initial shock: Feast your eyes, ladieees.
It was decidedly un-Patrick-like to cheat.
See, he loved Pete; nothing could or would change that. Even Pete's rampant infidelities didn't hurt him much. At least, not like it had before. It had stung the first time, when Patrick was nineteen and they had only been together for six months; they argued and Patrick had thrown a punch. He knew Pete better now, as a lover as well as a best friend, and it began to make sense to just let Pete be Pete.
Rules were discussed (safety first, of course) and the guidelines were kept. It was an open two-way street, but the traffic only flowed one way, and Patrick was used to it. Pete needed the constant attention to counteract his occasional self-destruction-it only so happened that there was always a warm and willing body there for Pete to turn to when Patrick was busy with the shrinking portion of his life that didn't involve his music, the band or this relationship. But, all of that aside, Patrick knew he was the one who meant something. Pete would always come home again. It was just how things went.
But now, fast forward, and Patrick was the one away from home, finding himself needing, and so conveniently not alone. He'd been away from Pete for several weeks, helping to produce the new Hush Sound record, and discovering there was something very dangerous about Chris. He was too sweet, too charming, too much like Patrick had been when they first had their taste of fame. And Chris had been following Patrick around like a lost puppy, gooey-eyed and silently begging, bursting with nervous energy. He couldn't tell if it was just a musical crush, like it had been with Brendon, or if this was something else entirely.
Patrick didn't typically have to worry about these things.
He smiled into the phone to Pete, stuttering a little as he told him about how well things were going, how receptive everyone was to him, to his ideas. He didn't want to say anything about Chris in particular, and he wasn't sure why. Of course, Patrick supposed there wasn't much to say, exactly. Or perhaps there just wasn't anything he needed Pete to know yet. Chris was Chris. Young and attractive and talented (and there), but certainly not making overt advances.
Patrick said nothing, but even as he listened with love swelling when Pete purred honest, open-hearted "I miss you"s across the miles into his ear, tinny and distant-sounding, something of Chris lingered in his mind. It was something that he needed out of his system, fast, before it started affecting how he acted around the band.
But then, just that quickly, it wasn't just in Patrick's mind anymore. He let himself notice the details, and found that his suspicions were definitely realities. It was as if Chris knew exactly what kind of new thoughts Patrick had been having, knew the aching state in which Patrick had woken up that morning (and what kind of dream, starring him, had caused it.)
When he sat down next to Patrick at breakfast, it was no accident that when their feet happened to collide under the table, socked-toes were gently ghosting, brushing by Patrick's soft ankle, with none of it accompanied with any awkwardness, throat-clearing or pulling away sharply. Just an imperceptible jump from Patrick at the unsolicited contact, and a struggle to keep the blush creeping up his neck from becoming much too apparent.
When Patrick decided then to turn and look Chris in the eye, he had not expected those eyes to be closed, or Chris to be slowly smiling into his coffee mug. Patrick was still staring when he opened them, and let his foot drop to the floor. All Patrick could do then was grin, gulp down the rest of his orange juice, and stand up quickly. Eye contact maintained.
It was also un-Patrick-like to take two showers, cold ones, in one morning. Things change.
###
Damn his affinity for honesty.
After the third day of meaningful glances, electricity popping if they stood just a little bit too close together and a sweaty doubles game of foosball against Bob and Greta after supper, Patrick found himself hiding again in his closet of a temporary bedroom. He needed to hear Pete's voice more than ever.
Unable to hold it in, Patrick spilled to Pete what he suspected, and why. Pete only sounded somewhat jealous as he congratulated his boyfriend on capturing yet another heart and libido. Pete couldn't, however, disguise his tone when he asked Patrick on what he planned on doing about it.
There was a definite pause before Patrick said "Nothing," to which Pete replied "Why the fuck not?"
Patrick's only answer to that was "You, Pete." He hoped it sounded as obvious as it ought to, as logical.
Even as he'd said it, he knew it was unacceptable. Pete would find that logic ridiculous. "Patrick, if you want to, it's okay. I understand how it feels. It's fine." He was quiet for a moment before he continued. It was still somewhat-shaky ground. "It's like how you understand me, and how you know that it's not because I don't love you or respect you or our relationship." So romantic. "I just get... you know. When we're apart, it can be hard." And despite Pete's fragmented thoughts, Patrick did know. His thoughts wandered briefly to the yellow nicotine-stained fingers brushing lint from his forearm during dinner, slipping over his wrist in a flash. Half a second of fingers on bare skin was enough to have left Patrick craving for the rest of the meal.
And in a way, maybe it would be a good idea. Patrick hated to make Pete feel so guilty about his affairs. Pete was much more fun when he wasn't trying to make up for wrongdoings. If Patrick did this, it would make things equal between them; make life easier, even for just a little while.
"...not that I'd want to share you, or anything." Pete was still rambling, justifying. Pete's flavour of romance. His voice sounded further away than ever before.
"I don't know." How was this honestly becoming a reality? He waffled. "I'm certainly not planning on it. It's a professional situation."
"Fuck, it's music, 'Trick! And he's a friend. Business is bullshit."
"Pete, it's your label. I'm working for you almost as much as for them."
"And I'll be out there next week to see you, so go have some fun. That's a professional order from above to chill the fuck out." So kind. No, really. He could hear Pete smiling from miles and miles away.
"I'll give it my best shot." Patrick didn't know what he even meant by that even as he said it, but the words seemed to satisfy Pete. Was that him saying that he wanted to?
"That's all I wanted to hear." A break. A far-away knock on Pete's hotel-room door. "I've gotta go. Things to do, people to meet." He was keeping busy, at least. Patrick missed him a little less. A small weight lifted. This was not fragile Pete, this was strangely-logical attention-whore Pete, and he would be fine. "Call you later?"
"Yeah, of course. We're done for the day." A slight pause for thought. "I love you, Pete."
"Love you, too, 'Trick. Later."
They hung up. Nothing had been decided, really, but it was only eight o'clock. Early yet.
###
Sharing a small house while the album was being recorded had its advantages. The first, obviously, was the ability to keep the musical process alive even when they weren't in the studio, but also, secondly, was the convenience of close-quarters. Patrick could easily have afforded to stay in a nearby hotel, drop in when necessary, but they wanted him around and gave him his own room, tiny as though it may be. It was nice to be wanted... but Patrick still wasn't sure if he wanted this, or even how he would go about it. Boys were never his strong suit (not that he'd ever been popular with the ladies), and Pete had always just been there. It had required no real effort whatsoever. Things always presented themselves to him, and now, here was Chris.
Literally. Right outside Patrick's just-opened door, hand poised to knock.
"Oh. Hello." Chris was startled with how suddenly the door had opened, how it had swung open with an air of purpose.
"I was just coming to find you."
Chris stepped back half a pace, allowing Patrick to join him in the narrow hallway. "What a coincidence."
"Yeah?" Patrick pushed his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose, a nervous habit.
"Yeah." A shuffling of feet. "Darren and I were going to watch a movie. Thought you might be interested."
If Patrick was anything right then, he was (Survey Says:) Interested! (Ding ding ding!) "What are we watching?"
Chris shrugged, it being Darren's night to choose. Which, naturally, meant that it turned out to be an anime film that hurt Patrick's eyes to watch with too many flashing lights and subtitles in poorly chosen colours ("Dubbing is for assholes and the illiterate," came the consensus). Patrick was left leaning his head against the back of the couch, eyes closed, losing more of the plot with every minute as Japanese voices and explosions filled his ears. He was too polite to leave, to go play Scrabble with Bob and Greta in adjoining the kitchen, and beside him there was Chris, eyes focused on the action, surreptitiously toeing Patrick's Achilles tendon. A true weakness.
This is where Patrick fell asleep.
And this is where Patrick woke up to Chris jostling him awake, Darren already walking out of the room, shaking his head. As the credits (both English and Japanese) rolled past on the screen, Chris grinned wolfishly at him in the near-dark, an expression so like Pete that Patrick felt a stone in his stomach settle. Maybe. Maybe he shouldn't. This was a mistake.
But... no. His body and mind worked separately, hands moving of their own volition. Patrick felt himself push the heel of his hand from Chris's knee up his thigh, dragging it back down, up, down. Kneading. Needing.
He tried to swallow, couldn't. The living room of this tiny house felt too large, too exposed, the laughter that floated in from the kitchen too loud. Patrick pulled back, but not from uncertainty. Patrick stood up, but wasn't escaping. "Come on," he said, keeping his voice low. This didn't need to be advertised; the others would likely notice quickly enough, besides.
Chris stood, unfolding his limbs, smelling of cigarette smoke and orange soda when he leaned in closely to murmur "Yes, sir, Mr. Stump" into Patrick's ear. Patrick hoped he tasted like he smelled. Pete never tasted exactly the same, even if he'd just brushed his teeth. A freak of nature, in more ways than one. Patrick couldn't get sentimental about it if he'd wanted to.
Patrick watched as Chris crouched down to put the disc back in its case, shut off the DVD player and television, snap off a low lamp. Chris was all sharp hips and coy eyes behind long hair, but nothing about his plaid shirt rolled to the elbows or his faint smirk said "scene kid," and Patrick was relishing every moment. No eyeliner smudges, just Ivory soap. Someone that didn't get a label, didn't need one to defy. Chris wasn't pretending, wasn't trying hard to be something so different that he wound up back at the beginning, still looking like everyone else. Chris was suddenly the closest thing to normal that Patrick had been this close to in years.
Patrick wanted to devour him.
He tried to look casual as he herded Chris down the hall, past the kitchen, and through his bedroom door. Nobody had said anything to them, deep in their own conversation. Patrick shut the door and heard it click behind them. Safe. He turned to Chris, pressing him to the wall. Thumbs dragging along his waistline, slipping under his belt. Testing, testing, one, two. Chris was saying something, chattering in hushed tones about how he was glad Patrick had come to his senses, had finally noticed him. Hadn't Patrick noticed how much Chris had wanted this to happen? Ever since they'd been introduced, he'd had a bit of a crush, but couldn't get him away from Pete long enough.
Patrick felt his teeth clench at Pete's name, but only for a moment. He relaxed, leaned into Chris's neck, breathing in, confirming that he wanted to be here. Pete wanted him to, even. It was okay, to take what was being dangled before him. He leaned closer, almost on his toes to reach, and bit the soft skin. Just a nibble. Experimentally. Chris threaded his fingers through the long hair at the back of Patrick's head, his hat tossed to the floor. Patrick tried not to cringe at the sudden exposure. Chris pulled him back, very gently.
"Hey, hey. Patrick. I can't... I want to kiss you." Patrick lifted his head. "Can I?"
He was asking. Actually asking. How long had it been since someone had asked Patrick's permission for anything? He licked his lips once and went for it. Chris's nose bumped against Patrick's glasses. Oh. A new angle. There.
Oh. There.
Chris didn't taste like cigarettes, but Patrick was addicted all the same. He could kiss this boy for hours. Chris seemed to feel likewise, moaning quietly when Patrick pressed him closer to the wall, holding him there. This was happening now. There was no escape.
Patrick's ankles and calves began to ache from standing on his toes, and he grabbed Chris by the collar, settling back on his heels and letting the taller boy lean down to avoid breaking the kiss. Now Chris was leading, pushing Patrick backwards, indicating clearly that there was a perfectly good bed not a few feet away and no foreseeable reason why Patrick shouldn't be on his back, peeling clothes off Chris's slight frame. These thoughts led Patrick's hands down, knuckles rolling over an enviably flat stomach and down, down further, dragging the back of his hand over the zipper of Chris's jeans and the stiff bulge already straining beneath it.
Belt buckles undone in a flash, buttons popped, pants slid over hips and pooled at the floor. Patrick stepped out of his jeans, steadying himself against Chris as he pulled off his socks. Wriggling out of his shirt, Chris was already pressing on Patrick's shoulder, mumbling "lie down, lie down."
A suggestion, not an order.
Patrick lay back, pulling Chris with him. More soft tongues, wet kisses but not sloppy, both engrossed in the feeling of friction between their bodies. Patrick slid a hand just beneath the waistband of Chris's boxers and gripped his warm hip, grinding himself upwards. Again, again. Patrick lifting his hips, Chris pressing down with his own, grunting softly. Words weren't necessary. It was all Patrick could do to keep from holding his breath. Chris pulled at Patrick's lower lip with his teeth, smiling, sucking, biting. Dizzy from the sensation.
It wasn't enough. No. Patrick needed to-and suddenly, the room was flooded with sound. Horrible, horrible sound. "I take you to the candy shop; I'll let you lick the lollypop..." Patrick grabbed his cell quickly, flipping it open, and saw Pete's name on the caller ID. Only Pete would have replaced his perfectly-respectable ring tone with that. But-Pete! Calling! Patrick's heart leapt into his throat, his brain panicking, but inspiration took hold. He was already this far in. He hit a button, 50 Cent was silenced. Patrick set the phone back down on the nightstand, immediately feeling more confident than he had all night.
Before Chris could ask about the interruption or the determined expression on Patrick's face, he'd been flipped onto his back with his shorts being pulled halfway to his knees and a blur of strawberry blond between his thighs. Patrick knew his strengths. If singing had taught him anything, it was how to open your throat and control your breathing, not to mention the tongue exercises he'd been doing to learn how to enunciate. These were skills he'd been finding very useful when applied to... other aspects of his career. That and, y'know, lots of practice.
Sliding Chris's cock between his lips, Patrick had to fight the urge to laugh at how great it felt to hear someone new and unfamiliar groaning his name like that. Pulling off a bit, and then sucking harder on the head before taking in as much as he comfortably could, he took pleasure in the noises Chris made, as his moans only increased. Music to his ears.
"Jesus, Patrick," Chris choked out. "Where did you learn to do this?"
Patrick, swirling his tongue around the tip before exchanging his mouth with a fist, replied simply: "I had an excellent teacher. Learned from the best."
Watching his eyes roll back into his head, Patrick suspected that Chris didn't actually care to know who he was talking about, so he didn't elaborate. No, he didn't care as long as he kept doing, OH, yes, that. Still stroking with one hand, Patrick nestled in closer to lick long, broad strokes along the thin skin of Chris's balls.
It made him twitch. Patrick liked twitching.
The results, at least aurally, were extremely satisfying and even more so when Patrick returned his lips to encircle the head, releasing his grip on Chris's hip, letting him buck upwards, fucking Patrick's perfect mouth.
"P-P-P-Patrick! I-I'm-I," Chris tried to stutter out a warning, but words dissolved into a long, drawn out groan. Knowing the signs, Patrick was ready, and swallowed without choking. 'No rookie mistakes here,' he thought with pride.
Chris nudged him with his foot, motioning for Patrick to join him at the pillows end of the bed. They kissed again, sweetly but dirty, Chris pushing a hand between their bodies. Patrick was still hard, and still very much in need. When Chris began stroking him, he couldn't help but bite again at the tender flesh where skin meets shoulder. Patrick didn't intend to leave a mark, but there would be a bruise there in the morning, a nice one.
Chris's hands were strong, with long fingers and calluses in all the right places, true bass player's hands. Patrick idly wondered how Chris's mouth might feel sucking him off, but then reasoned that Pete wouldn't be there for almost a week. There would be plenty of time. Maybe Chris would even let Patrick fuck him, making more of those beautiful sounds. Pete would be so proud.
The thought of this alone is what makes Patrick come.
###
Forty-five minutes and two more orgasms later, Chris quietly shut the bedroom door behind him, creeping back to the room he shared with Darren with hopefully little explaining to do regarding his absence or whatever sounds may have floated down the hall. Patrick sighed and pulled the sheets and blankets up to his chest. Grabbing his cell phone from the bedside table, he cleared his throat.
"Pete? Are you still there?"
A low groan. "That was cruel, ‘Trick." Pete's voice is thick, sleepy. This is the way Pete sounds after he's just gotten off. Maybe more than once.
"I know. Sorry." A lame apology. "I just thought it would, y'know, save me the trouble of telling you later, and you begging for details."
"I don't beg." Sated Pete became Indignant, More-Awake Pete.
Patrick rolled his eyes behind his closed lids, smirking slightly. "I'm sure it could be arranged."
Pete didn't bother to concede the truth behind this statement, just huffed into the phone. A moment of silence is observed. Then:
"So, we're okay?"
"Yeah, of course," Patrick mumbled, beginning to let his tongue feel as lazy as the rest of his body. Sleep. Oh, precious sleep. "Why wouldn't we be?"
Pete is smiling, and just a little relieved. "Just making sure."
"...Mm'kay." Falling further asleep by the second, words running together. "S'wasagoodidea."
"I'm glad you thought so, 'Trick. Sounded like you had fun."
A sleepy grunt of agreement. "MissyouPetey."
"Yeah, I know," said Pete, dropping his voice low, recognizing a fading Patrick when he heard it, letting him drift. "I love you, too."
###
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