fic: The Million Things We Never Were
Title The Million Things We Never Were
Authors adellyna & txtequilanights
Pairing Pete/Patrick
Rating PG
Word Count 2500ish
Summary Sometimes your suddenly sentient action figures need to teach you valuable life lessons. Just saying.
Disclaimer If this were real, we would already own a set. Two sets. Each.
Authors' Notes This is what happens at 4am when you can't stop talking about how much you love Pete Wentz. Seriously. Shameless, giddy, unabashedly fluffy crack.
Pete has Fall Out Boy action figures. He has Fall Out Boy action figures despite Patrick's best efforts to repossess them, efforts which are totally unfair, since the action figure porn went up under a private Flickr account, so it's not like everyone could see it. Just a few dozen of Pete's closest friends. And besides, Patrick looks good tiny, plastic, and face-down in Pete's crotch. This is a fact of life.
Still, he's never actually posed his action figure in Patrick's lap, nuzzling, and he wasn't aware that his tiny plastic arm articulated in quite that manner, and hey, are they moving?
"No," he assures himself, out loud, and plucks his tiny plastic self out of tiny plastic Patrick's lap.
Promptly, his tiny plastic self kicks at his palm.
Pete says, “Dude!” and drops his tiny self back on the shelf, where it instantly scrambles over to Patrick’s action figure and crawls back into it’s lap.
Pete blinks. Then he goes to call Patrick, because he really does not have the time to be insane right now.
It takes Patrick twenty minutes to show up, and Pete spends all of it staring at the action figures. Tiny Patrick spends the first five blushing a tiny, adorable pink blush and trying to wiggle out of Tiny Pete’s grasp, but after that he gives up and spends the next fifteen minutes looking resigned as Tiny Pete lays his head on Tiny Patrick’s shoulder and stares at him in adoration.
It’s nothing Pete hasn’t seen a million times before, except usually it’s life-sized.
“I am not insane,” is the first thing he says to Patrick when he shows up, before he even lets him in the door.
Patrick looks skeptical.
"Well, not about this anyway." Pete drags Patrick into the next room and points to where Tiny Pete is still in Tiny Patrick's lap, trying to get Tiny Patrick to let him wear the glasses Pete bought separately, after weeks of searching for just the right pair. Much like real Patrick, Tiny Patrick is resisting.
Patrick sighs. "You brought me over here to show me the stupid action figures? Really, Pete?"
"No, dude." Pete pushes Patrick closer to the shelf. "They're alive!"
"Ok, Pete," Patrick sighs. He takes off his glasses and rubs at the bridge of his nose.
Pete takes this opportunity to try and snag Tiny Pete from the shelf, but Tiny Pete just flips him off and wiggles deeper into Tiny Patrick's lap. This is where he is when Patrick puts his glasses back on and fixes Pete with A Look.
"I was working on some music," he says, with the tone Pete long ago labeled Patrick's Very Patient Voice. "But seriously, if you were bored, you could have just-"
"I am not," Pete emphasizes, "insane. Go ahead. Try to pick Tiny Pete up."
Patrick bites his lip, like he maybe doesn't know which Pete qualifies as Tiny, so Pete takes a page from his littler self's book and flips him off.
"The action figure, jackass."
But when Patrick reaches for Tiny Pete, Tiny Pete just wraps both arms and legs around Patrick's finger and presses his cheek to Patrick's knuckle. Fucking traitor.
He mutters, "Traitor," under his breath. Tiny Pete's expression is frozen in defiant plastic lines when Patrick lifts him up to his face.
Patrick's response is more along the lines of: "Holy fucking shit."
Huh. Pete bends and checks out Tiny Patrick, but he's frozen, too, biting his tiny plastic lip at Tiny Pete's distant back.
"They can't get too far apart," Pete breathes, epiphany-struck. "They have to be near each other to be anything."
Patrick sighs again, but his hands are careful on Tiny Pete, sliding him off of his finger and placing him gently in his palm.
"This is just weird," Patrick says. "I mean. They're toys."
“Um, yeah.” Pete nods, still looking back and forth between the immobile figures. “But, most importantly, I’m not insane. Here, try this.”
He picks Tiny Patrick up and sets him gently next to Tiny Pete in the palm of Patrick’s hand. Both toys spring to life instantly, Tiny Patrick scrambles to his feet, pulling at the hem of his tiny jacket, and Tiny Pete throws himself full tilt into Tiny Patrick’s arms.
Patrick puts his other hand up to keep his tiny self from stumbling right off the edge of his fingers at the impact. Not that the action figures notice, Tiny Pete is too busy pushing his face into the curve of Tiny Patrick’s neck and Tiny Patrick is blushing again and trying to jam his little hat further down on his head.
“Awww,” Patrick says, and Pete looks up to see him watching the action figures with his head tilted and a tiny smile on his face. It’s really fucking cute. But.
"What do you mean awww?" Pete demands. "My action figures are alive!" It's neat and all, sure, but what the fuck? It's like fucking Toy Story, right in Pete's living room.
Tiny Pete has both arms wrapped around Tiny Patrick waist, holding on for his tiny plastic life, and Tiny Patrick is patting him on the back, looking impossibly small, and bemused. “I guess it is pretty sweet,” Pete admits.
“Your action figures are cute,” Patrick says. They both watch as Tiny Pete shoves his hands into the back pockets of Tiny Patrick’s jeans. Pete even thinks he sees a little pink tongue come out and lick Tiny Patrick’s neck. It’s the same thing he’s done to Patrick more times than he can count, and that’s when it hits him. Of course.
“Dude,” he says. “My action figures are in love.”
Tiny Pete beams at a beaming Tiny Patrick, and seriously, Pete has never seen two life-sized people more in love than their tiny selves, which is why he's a maybe a little irritated when Patrick says, laughing, "At least they can't have tiny plastic babies, right?"
Which is. Like. "Wait, what?"
"What?"
"I I said they're in love," Pete says. "You think they're fucking?"
"Um."
They both turn at look at the tiny plastic people cradled in Patrick's palm. Patrick's hair is poking out from under his hat, a little messy, too long, the ends of it brush Pete's cheek when they bow their heads to see better. Tiny Pete has Tiny Patrick's jacket off, tossed up over Patrick's thumb, and he's tugging at the hem of Tiny Patrick's shirt. Tiny Patrick is shaking his head vigorously, hands clamped tight over the brim of his hat.
They're having some sort of exchange; Tiny Pete leans in and whispers something to Tiny Patrick, who nods, and then Tiny Pete is scrunching his eyes shut. Tiny Patrick balls his hat up in one hand and straightens his arms above his head. Tiny Pete blindly yanks the shirt up, free of Tiny Patrick's arms, and Tiny Patrick shoves his hat back on his head in a blur of smooth, pale, plastic skin.
"Do you really do that?" Pete asks. He eyes Patrick's shirt, the loose, stretched-comfortable neckline, the hint of pale collarbone peeking out of it. "Seriously?"
Patrick grimaces, wiggling Tiny Patrick's tiny jacket over his thumb. "No. Maybe sometimes. Blow me."
Pete shrugs. “Okay, but do you want to put them down first?” Because,really, there are some offers he cannot actually resist.
“Don’t be a dick,” Patrick says, but he’s blushing the normal sized version of Tiny Patrick’s pink cheeks.
“Well.” Pete frowns. “I just don’t want you to drop them. Or squish them.”
Patrick stares at him.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
Patrick points at their tiny selves. Tiny Pete’s hoodie is lying at his feet and he and Tiny Patrick both look like they’re struggling to get Tiny Patrick’s giant red belt undone. “That’s not us,” Patrick says slowly, like he thinks Pete might actually be functionally retarded. “We don’t do that. With the.” He waves his fingers at where the action figures have triumphed over the belt. “Doing that,” Patrick finishes helplessly.
He looks pretty confused. Clearly, Pete is going to have to be a lot more specific about his intentions. He eyes Patrick for a second, the way his forehead is all creased up under the brim of his hat, and the way he’s biting his lip. Which, really, Pete could be doing that for him.
Pete scoops the - almost totally naked now, Jesus Christ - action figures out of Patrick’s hand. Tiny Pete flails wildly, grabs at one of Pete’s fingers for support, and bites down. Hard.
“Motherfucker!” Pete yelps, and almost drops them. He’d kind of like to feed his tiny self to Hemmy. But Tiny Patrick looks wide-eyed and scared, and is reaching out to clutch Tiny Pete’s hand, so Pete is gentle when he sets them back on the shelf. Mostly. They clutch each other determinedly, like they think Pete is going to try and separate them and make them go all dead and still again.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’m just trying to get Patrick to make out with me here.”
The look Tiny Pete gives him is understanding, and Pete thinks he’s just been given the blessing of an action figure. This is the kind of shit that only happens to him.
Pete tuns back to Patrick; out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Tiny Pete drag Tiny Patrick to the edge of the shelf.
“Um.” Patrick looks at Pete, then down at where the action figures are staring at them, rapt, and back at Pete again. “Why are they looking at us like that?”
“Because you’re hot,” Pete says seriously. “And also they want to see us do this.” Then he kisses Patrick square on the mouth.
Patrick lets him for about 1.5 seconds before he pushes Pete away. “What? Pete, stop.”
Which is pretty much the exact opposite of what he wants to do, and it's totally fucking annoying that his tiny plastic self is having more luck than he is.
"Why?" he asks, urgently, fingertips sliding into Patrick's back pockets. He can feel his face crumpling, a hot, dull ache starting at his temples and creeping toward his eyes, drying out his throat. "Patrick. I just- Why?"
"What do you mean, why?" Patrick flails. He's bracketed by Pete's arms, though, and he's not pulling away so his knuckles just hit Pete's elbows, the impact muffled by layers of cotton. "I should ask you that. Why?"
"Because I'm in love with you." Saying it is like getting punched in the gut, all of the air whooshing out, adrenaline flooding in to take its place. "I'm so fucking in love with you that tiny plastic versions of us soaked it up and came to life, and now they're half naked on the shelf. And if I know myself, Tiny Pete is playing grab ass with Tiny Patrick, and I'm so fucking jealous of him that you should kiss me right now. To make it up to me."
Patrick scrunches his eyes shut. All Pete can see now is pale eyelashes behind glass, faded freckles scattered across the bridge of Patrick's nose.
"I don't even know where to start with that," Patrick says, his voice strained.
Which. Fuck. "You could start with the part where I declared my undying love? Because that's the part I'm kind of hanging on, here."
"Please." Patrick is scoffing, which is usually both cute and ineffective, but less so when it involves trampling over Pete's heart like so much sod. "You declare your undying love for everyone. You declared it for Gabe last week, and for that girl who made your latte last night."
Pete nods. "Yes," he says reasonably. "But I didn't mean it those times. This time I do."
"You do."
"I really, really do."
"Except," Patrick says slowly, "for how you never have, before."
"Always have," Pete corrects. He's so close, close enough that he can feel the zipper on Patrick's hoodie pressing a seam up his chest every time Patrick inhales, close enough that he can taste Patrick's butterscotch candies on his breath, close enough that he could kiss him with just one quick burst of courage. "Always fucking have."
“Pete,” Patrick says softly, like he’s still trying to object, but there’s none of it in his voice, so Pete thinks, screw it, and closes the tiny distance between them.
Patrick freezes when Pete kisses him, but he doesn’t try to push Pete away again, so Pete stays put. He touches the center of Patrick’s lower lip with his tongue and Patrick relaxes against him, parts his lips and kisses Pete back.
Pete grins into the kiss, wide and happy. He pushes his hands deeper into Patrick’s pockets to tug him closer and press their bodies together.
They kiss for what feels like an eternity, just the slide of their lips together and the occasional wet brush of tongue. It’s fucking amazing, and Pete has wanted this forever, and he finally has it, here, Patrick-taste in his mouth, Patrick-skin just beyond the thin fabric lining Patrick's pockets.
Patrick pulls away first, but it mostly seems to be because he’s run out of air; he doesn’t try to step back and break the contact between them.
“Look,” Patrick says, nodding at the shelf beside them. Tiny Pete has Tiny Patrick bent back on his arms, dipping him down low. Tiny Patrick has a death grip on Tiny Pete’s neck and one leg wrapped around Tiny Pete’s hip, but before they lean in to kiss, Pete can see the giant smile on Tiny Patrick’s face.
“Don’t even think about it,” Patrick says, not taking his eyes off the action figures.
Pete pushes his face into the curve of Patrick’s neck. “Dude,” he says, muffled slightly against Patrick’s skin. “I can think of so many better things to do now that I have you.” He wiggles his fingers in Patrick’s pockets, squeezes Patrick’s ass. When Patrick laughs - a little nervously, like he still isn’t sure this is actually happening - Pete can feel the vibration against his chest, like in concerts, pressed to Patrick's side, but this is just for him.
"Not in front of the kids," Patrick scolds, brushing a kiss over Pete's forehead, the corner of his mouth. "They'll get ideas."
"They had ideas," Pete mumbles, grinning. "I like their ideas."
Patrick nods. His mouth wanders as far south as Pete's chin, soft lips scraping stubble. "They're good ideas."
"I have a better one," Pete says, because he has only so much self control in the Patrick department, and he is quickly losing the little he has stocked up. "Bedroom?"
Authors adellyna & txtequilanights
Pairing Pete/Patrick
Rating PG
Word Count 2500ish
Summary Sometimes your suddenly sentient action figures need to teach you valuable life lessons. Just saying.
Disclaimer If this were real, we would already own a set. Two sets. Each.
Authors' Notes This is what happens at 4am when you can't stop talking about how much you love Pete Wentz. Seriously. Shameless, giddy, unabashedly fluffy crack.
Pete has Fall Out Boy action figures. He has Fall Out Boy action figures despite Patrick's best efforts to repossess them, efforts which are totally unfair, since the action figure porn went up under a private Flickr account, so it's not like everyone could see it. Just a few dozen of Pete's closest friends. And besides, Patrick looks good tiny, plastic, and face-down in Pete's crotch. This is a fact of life.
Still, he's never actually posed his action figure in Patrick's lap, nuzzling, and he wasn't aware that his tiny plastic arm articulated in quite that manner, and hey, are they moving?
"No," he assures himself, out loud, and plucks his tiny plastic self out of tiny plastic Patrick's lap.
Promptly, his tiny plastic self kicks at his palm.
Pete says, “Dude!” and drops his tiny self back on the shelf, where it instantly scrambles over to Patrick’s action figure and crawls back into it’s lap.
Pete blinks. Then he goes to call Patrick, because he really does not have the time to be insane right now.
It takes Patrick twenty minutes to show up, and Pete spends all of it staring at the action figures. Tiny Patrick spends the first five blushing a tiny, adorable pink blush and trying to wiggle out of Tiny Pete’s grasp, but after that he gives up and spends the next fifteen minutes looking resigned as Tiny Pete lays his head on Tiny Patrick’s shoulder and stares at him in adoration.
It’s nothing Pete hasn’t seen a million times before, except usually it’s life-sized.
“I am not insane,” is the first thing he says to Patrick when he shows up, before he even lets him in the door.
Patrick looks skeptical.
"Well, not about this anyway." Pete drags Patrick into the next room and points to where Tiny Pete is still in Tiny Patrick's lap, trying to get Tiny Patrick to let him wear the glasses Pete bought separately, after weeks of searching for just the right pair. Much like real Patrick, Tiny Patrick is resisting.
Patrick sighs. "You brought me over here to show me the stupid action figures? Really, Pete?"
"No, dude." Pete pushes Patrick closer to the shelf. "They're alive!"
"Ok, Pete," Patrick sighs. He takes off his glasses and rubs at the bridge of his nose.
Pete takes this opportunity to try and snag Tiny Pete from the shelf, but Tiny Pete just flips him off and wiggles deeper into Tiny Patrick's lap. This is where he is when Patrick puts his glasses back on and fixes Pete with A Look.
"I was working on some music," he says, with the tone Pete long ago labeled Patrick's Very Patient Voice. "But seriously, if you were bored, you could have just-"
"I am not," Pete emphasizes, "insane. Go ahead. Try to pick Tiny Pete up."
Patrick bites his lip, like he maybe doesn't know which Pete qualifies as Tiny, so Pete takes a page from his littler self's book and flips him off.
"The action figure, jackass."
But when Patrick reaches for Tiny Pete, Tiny Pete just wraps both arms and legs around Patrick's finger and presses his cheek to Patrick's knuckle. Fucking traitor.
He mutters, "Traitor," under his breath. Tiny Pete's expression is frozen in defiant plastic lines when Patrick lifts him up to his face.
Patrick's response is more along the lines of: "Holy fucking shit."
Huh. Pete bends and checks out Tiny Patrick, but he's frozen, too, biting his tiny plastic lip at Tiny Pete's distant back.
"They can't get too far apart," Pete breathes, epiphany-struck. "They have to be near each other to be anything."
Patrick sighs again, but his hands are careful on Tiny Pete, sliding him off of his finger and placing him gently in his palm.
"This is just weird," Patrick says. "I mean. They're toys."
“Um, yeah.” Pete nods, still looking back and forth between the immobile figures. “But, most importantly, I’m not insane. Here, try this.”
He picks Tiny Patrick up and sets him gently next to Tiny Pete in the palm of Patrick’s hand. Both toys spring to life instantly, Tiny Patrick scrambles to his feet, pulling at the hem of his tiny jacket, and Tiny Pete throws himself full tilt into Tiny Patrick’s arms.
Patrick puts his other hand up to keep his tiny self from stumbling right off the edge of his fingers at the impact. Not that the action figures notice, Tiny Pete is too busy pushing his face into the curve of Tiny Patrick’s neck and Tiny Patrick is blushing again and trying to jam his little hat further down on his head.
“Awww,” Patrick says, and Pete looks up to see him watching the action figures with his head tilted and a tiny smile on his face. It’s really fucking cute. But.
"What do you mean awww?" Pete demands. "My action figures are alive!" It's neat and all, sure, but what the fuck? It's like fucking Toy Story, right in Pete's living room.
Tiny Pete has both arms wrapped around Tiny Patrick waist, holding on for his tiny plastic life, and Tiny Patrick is patting him on the back, looking impossibly small, and bemused. “I guess it is pretty sweet,” Pete admits.
“Your action figures are cute,” Patrick says. They both watch as Tiny Pete shoves his hands into the back pockets of Tiny Patrick’s jeans. Pete even thinks he sees a little pink tongue come out and lick Tiny Patrick’s neck. It’s the same thing he’s done to Patrick more times than he can count, and that’s when it hits him. Of course.
“Dude,” he says. “My action figures are in love.”
Tiny Pete beams at a beaming Tiny Patrick, and seriously, Pete has never seen two life-sized people more in love than their tiny selves, which is why he's a maybe a little irritated when Patrick says, laughing, "At least they can't have tiny plastic babies, right?"
Which is. Like. "Wait, what?"
"What?"
"I I said they're in love," Pete says. "You think they're fucking?"
"Um."
They both turn at look at the tiny plastic people cradled in Patrick's palm. Patrick's hair is poking out from under his hat, a little messy, too long, the ends of it brush Pete's cheek when they bow their heads to see better. Tiny Pete has Tiny Patrick's jacket off, tossed up over Patrick's thumb, and he's tugging at the hem of Tiny Patrick's shirt. Tiny Patrick is shaking his head vigorously, hands clamped tight over the brim of his hat.
They're having some sort of exchange; Tiny Pete leans in and whispers something to Tiny Patrick, who nods, and then Tiny Pete is scrunching his eyes shut. Tiny Patrick balls his hat up in one hand and straightens his arms above his head. Tiny Pete blindly yanks the shirt up, free of Tiny Patrick's arms, and Tiny Patrick shoves his hat back on his head in a blur of smooth, pale, plastic skin.
"Do you really do that?" Pete asks. He eyes Patrick's shirt, the loose, stretched-comfortable neckline, the hint of pale collarbone peeking out of it. "Seriously?"
Patrick grimaces, wiggling Tiny Patrick's tiny jacket over his thumb. "No. Maybe sometimes. Blow me."
Pete shrugs. “Okay, but do you want to put them down first?” Because,really, there are some offers he cannot actually resist.
“Don’t be a dick,” Patrick says, but he’s blushing the normal sized version of Tiny Patrick’s pink cheeks.
“Well.” Pete frowns. “I just don’t want you to drop them. Or squish them.”
Patrick stares at him.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
Patrick points at their tiny selves. Tiny Pete’s hoodie is lying at his feet and he and Tiny Patrick both look like they’re struggling to get Tiny Patrick’s giant red belt undone. “That’s not us,” Patrick says slowly, like he thinks Pete might actually be functionally retarded. “We don’t do that. With the.” He waves his fingers at where the action figures have triumphed over the belt. “Doing that,” Patrick finishes helplessly.
He looks pretty confused. Clearly, Pete is going to have to be a lot more specific about his intentions. He eyes Patrick for a second, the way his forehead is all creased up under the brim of his hat, and the way he’s biting his lip. Which, really, Pete could be doing that for him.
Pete scoops the - almost totally naked now, Jesus Christ - action figures out of Patrick’s hand. Tiny Pete flails wildly, grabs at one of Pete’s fingers for support, and bites down. Hard.
“Motherfucker!” Pete yelps, and almost drops them. He’d kind of like to feed his tiny self to Hemmy. But Tiny Patrick looks wide-eyed and scared, and is reaching out to clutch Tiny Pete’s hand, so Pete is gentle when he sets them back on the shelf. Mostly. They clutch each other determinedly, like they think Pete is going to try and separate them and make them go all dead and still again.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’m just trying to get Patrick to make out with me here.”
The look Tiny Pete gives him is understanding, and Pete thinks he’s just been given the blessing of an action figure. This is the kind of shit that only happens to him.
Pete tuns back to Patrick; out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Tiny Pete drag Tiny Patrick to the edge of the shelf.
“Um.” Patrick looks at Pete, then down at where the action figures are staring at them, rapt, and back at Pete again. “Why are they looking at us like that?”
“Because you’re hot,” Pete says seriously. “And also they want to see us do this.” Then he kisses Patrick square on the mouth.
Patrick lets him for about 1.5 seconds before he pushes Pete away. “What? Pete, stop.”
Which is pretty much the exact opposite of what he wants to do, and it's totally fucking annoying that his tiny plastic self is having more luck than he is.
"Why?" he asks, urgently, fingertips sliding into Patrick's back pockets. He can feel his face crumpling, a hot, dull ache starting at his temples and creeping toward his eyes, drying out his throat. "Patrick. I just- Why?"
"What do you mean, why?" Patrick flails. He's bracketed by Pete's arms, though, and he's not pulling away so his knuckles just hit Pete's elbows, the impact muffled by layers of cotton. "I should ask you that. Why?"
"Because I'm in love with you." Saying it is like getting punched in the gut, all of the air whooshing out, adrenaline flooding in to take its place. "I'm so fucking in love with you that tiny plastic versions of us soaked it up and came to life, and now they're half naked on the shelf. And if I know myself, Tiny Pete is playing grab ass with Tiny Patrick, and I'm so fucking jealous of him that you should kiss me right now. To make it up to me."
Patrick scrunches his eyes shut. All Pete can see now is pale eyelashes behind glass, faded freckles scattered across the bridge of Patrick's nose.
"I don't even know where to start with that," Patrick says, his voice strained.
Which. Fuck. "You could start with the part where I declared my undying love? Because that's the part I'm kind of hanging on, here."
"Please." Patrick is scoffing, which is usually both cute and ineffective, but less so when it involves trampling over Pete's heart like so much sod. "You declare your undying love for everyone. You declared it for Gabe last week, and for that girl who made your latte last night."
Pete nods. "Yes," he says reasonably. "But I didn't mean it those times. This time I do."
"You do."
"I really, really do."
"Except," Patrick says slowly, "for how you never have, before."
"Always have," Pete corrects. He's so close, close enough that he can feel the zipper on Patrick's hoodie pressing a seam up his chest every time Patrick inhales, close enough that he can taste Patrick's butterscotch candies on his breath, close enough that he could kiss him with just one quick burst of courage. "Always fucking have."
“Pete,” Patrick says softly, like he’s still trying to object, but there’s none of it in his voice, so Pete thinks, screw it, and closes the tiny distance between them.
Patrick freezes when Pete kisses him, but he doesn’t try to push Pete away again, so Pete stays put. He touches the center of Patrick’s lower lip with his tongue and Patrick relaxes against him, parts his lips and kisses Pete back.
Pete grins into the kiss, wide and happy. He pushes his hands deeper into Patrick’s pockets to tug him closer and press their bodies together.
They kiss for what feels like an eternity, just the slide of their lips together and the occasional wet brush of tongue. It’s fucking amazing, and Pete has wanted this forever, and he finally has it, here, Patrick-taste in his mouth, Patrick-skin just beyond the thin fabric lining Patrick's pockets.
Patrick pulls away first, but it mostly seems to be because he’s run out of air; he doesn’t try to step back and break the contact between them.
“Look,” Patrick says, nodding at the shelf beside them. Tiny Pete has Tiny Patrick bent back on his arms, dipping him down low. Tiny Patrick has a death grip on Tiny Pete’s neck and one leg wrapped around Tiny Pete’s hip, but before they lean in to kiss, Pete can see the giant smile on Tiny Patrick’s face.
“Don’t even think about it,” Patrick says, not taking his eyes off the action figures.
Pete pushes his face into the curve of Patrick’s neck. “Dude,” he says, muffled slightly against Patrick’s skin. “I can think of so many better things to do now that I have you.” He wiggles his fingers in Patrick’s pockets, squeezes Patrick’s ass. When Patrick laughs - a little nervously, like he still isn’t sure this is actually happening - Pete can feel the vibration against his chest, like in concerts, pressed to Patrick's side, but this is just for him.
"Not in front of the kids," Patrick scolds, brushing a kiss over Pete's forehead, the corner of his mouth. "They'll get ideas."
"They had ideas," Pete mumbles, grinning. "I like their ideas."
Patrick nods. His mouth wanders as far south as Pete's chin, soft lips scraping stubble. "They're good ideas."
"I have a better one," Pete says, because he has only so much self control in the Patrick department, and he is quickly losing the little he has stocked up. "Bedroom?"