BS: P/P: Adult: On The Necks Of Best Friends 2/6
Title: On The Necks Of Best Friends
Author: Gibson_fic
Fandom: Bandslash, Fall Out Boy
Characters/Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: Adult for language and situations
Word Count: ~55,000
Disclaimer: This is a fictional story about characters based, in part, on the images and histories of real people. If that bothers you and/or you are one of those people, you probably don't want to read this. (If you chose to read it; I'm not responsible for subsequent unstoppable slashy thoughts). No harm is intended; no profit is being made.
Summary: "If he could say it, if he could tell them how it works, it might go something like this."
For full header information and author’s notes, go here
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A lot of bands break up before they even start touring, sometimes before they even play a single show. A successful band is a one-in-a-million sort of thing.
The fact is that even in the most conservative of circumstances you’re trying to mesh your sound and your vision with at least one other person, usually three or four. That’s a lot of room for the ubiquitous artistic-differences problem to arise.
So you have to find people who can play and hopefully play well, and then you have find people who want to play the same kind of music you do, and they have to play instruments that you need (it’s no good to find the perfect drummer if you’ve already got a perfect drummer and you really need a perfect bassist), and on top of all that you have be able to work together to make the music you want to make.
If you can get all those elements right, in the right proportion and order, then you have to start mixing them (and there’s that whole adding wet to dry thing), and really there’s a science to it. But if you get it all together and mix it just right, then you might find yourself in a band, a real band, maybe even a good one.
Only sometimes, you can really work as a band, but not as people.
So the music is great and you work onstage, but you can’t stand to see the guy next to you if he doesn’t have a guitar in his hands, and that’s a problem because the fact is that you have to be able to spend time together when you’re not making music.
And that’s before you literally start spending every single day together for months at a time.
Lots of bands make it to the touring stage, make it to the four (or five) guys in a busted-up van with too few seats and too many amps, and the smell of feet and spilled beer (and no amount of Febreeze ever really gets rid of that combination) stage.
But when you’re literally eating, sleeping, and playing with the same three or four people every day for months at a time, even the best relationships start to feel the pressure. The only real difference between van days and bus days for most bands is the length of the tour. Seems like when you’re in a bus they assume that because you sleep horizontally again you can tour for twice as long (and, actually, that’s true, for the most part), whereas when you’re sleeping slumped against (or over) each other, you generally only go out for a month at a time at worst.
But that doesn’t mean that you aren’t still eating across from the same people each day, and sleeping stacked on top of one another at night-so there’s still plenty of room for the little shit to get out of hand.
There’s a lot of room for error in the equation, and that’s why so many bands that make it to touring break up anyway.
It took them three lineup changes before they found Andy--or rather Andy was finally available because, really, he was Pete’s first choice anyway.
And then there’s recording, and nothing frays tempers like playing the same damn song forty times and having the producer tell you that you’ve got to do it one more time and, this time, to try it a little faster or louder or softer or with more treble.
Even Andy, who’s one of the biggest perfectionists that Patrick’s ever met, has been known to lay his sticks down in that careful way that says it’s lay them down or throw them and walk out of the studio for a couple of minutes.
So Patrick knows that there are just going to be days where every single thing that every single member of your band does is going to aggravate the piss out of you. He knows this because it’s a regular part of the whole band and touring gig, and they’ve all had to deal with it at one point or another.
Knowing doesn’t make it better.
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It’s a combination of things that sets him off: the tech didn’t mic him right last night, they had to scramble to get the levels sorted out and that never makes for a good show, and then Joe, who was trying to make up for the slow start, knocked into him, and it was an accident, but he’s still got a blue and purple bruise on his arm that won’t stop throbbing.
And, Pete wanted to be all in his space after the show, and normally that’s fine and he deals with it, but really he just needed twenty fucking minutes alone to put the whole thing behind him and decompress, and he couldn’t get them.
Which, of course, was when he snapped at Pete and shoved his way free of Pete’s legs and arms and hair, and seriously, was the fucker an octopus or what, and stomped to his bunk. It would have been better if he could have gotten off the bus, but they had another show the next day and were already rolling, so his bunk and his headphones were his best chance for privacy.
And that pissed him off too because the only way to get some privacy was to have the headphones on, but he didn’t actually want to listen to anything. He just wanted some quiet and there wasn’t going to be any on the bus.
So he lay in his bed and he stewed and, eventually, he fell asleep.
Patrick’s pretty good at knowing his own limits so he doesn’t normally snap like that, normally he manages to get away before the show, or after the show, or sometime when they’re not fucking rolling down the highway and get some time to himself, but it’s been a long tour and they’re in the Midwest, and that means long drives between the venues and less time off the bus.
Still, he’s done it before, they all have, and it’s not like the guys will hold it against him or anything. That doesn’t change the fact that he wakes up too early, feeling a little bit guilty, and that’s never a good way to start the day.
So, when he rolls out of his bunk and into the lounge, he’s not in the best of moods, but he’s trying, and then he sees Pete.
He’s sitting on the couch, his cheek pressed against the glass of the window and his headphones on, and, although his hood is up and his eyes are closed, Patrick knows he’s not sleeping. And, if the shoes on his feet are any proof, he’s never even tried to go to bed.
The thing is that Pete is moody and unpredictable and sometimes volatile, and they all know that. Patrick’s the steady one, the good-humoured one. He gets angry, and he’ll fight with them, but he doesn’t normally get bitchy and snap that way.
And, this is the first time it’s happened since this touching thing became something a little more serious.
Patrick probably knows Pete better than anyone else, and he knows that Pete’s been sitting here all night: stewing over things, and wondering what he did wrong, and also wondering if Patrick was trying to tell him that he didn’t want Pete to touch him ever instead of just in that moment.
Patrick knows all this, and he knew it last night, when he was stewing in his own bunk, and that’s the reason he’s felt guilty since he woke up.
So he does the only thing he can, the only thing that will make either of them feel better. He sits next to Pete, curls up next to him almost, and puts his head on Pete’s shoulder, his hand covering Pete’s where it rests on his thigh.
Pete doesn’t do anything at first, and Patrick doesn’t mind; he’s content to be here and be close, be comfortable. That’s what started all this between them in the first place--how good it felt to be together.
Slowly, he realizes that there’s no sound bleeding out from Pete’s headphones, something he’s taken to listening for almost instinctually. So Pete’s not only been sitting here, but he’s been doing it in silence.
That’s actually not a good thing.
Still, it makes the next part easier.
“I don’t think you’re an octopus. Well, you might be an octopus, but I like it. It’s just sometimes I need a little space. Sometimes we all need a little space. I was pissed about the show and the fact that I’ve got sea legs on land.” Patrick doesn’t move as he says all this, if Pete wants him to move, he’s perfectly capable of shoving him off, and he hasn’t shown any inclination to do that yet.
“It wasn’t about you and it definitely wasn’t about us. It was…” Patrick pauses as Pete turns his head just slightly, his eyes barely open, “It was just touring you know.”
Pete’s still not saying anything, and Patrick knows that the worst part is actually what’s coming next, “The thing is Pete, whatever we’re doing here,” and he lifts his right hand briefly, pulling Pete’s with it, “it’s not about the band, it’s about us. And, the crap that happens because we’re in a band can’t be separated from it. I know that, but you have to be able to see that when I’m pissy, I’m pissy, I’m not pissy with you.”
Pete’s eyes are dark, and Patrick’s sure this is the longest speech he’s ever given on this topic, and he wouldn’t do it if he didn’t have to, but some things have to be spelled out.
He looks down, and he can feel the flush creeping up and heating his ears, and dammit why didn’t he put a hat on when he got out of the bunk?--because he’s sure this would be easier with his fucking hat on, “’Cause the thing is I love you, and you know that, but maybe I’m kind of in love with you too, and I don’t want to fuck that up because I’m trapped in this bus with the three of you all the time and I just want twenty minutes of quiet and maybe some trees and fresh air. Because I’d give up the trees and shit if it meant I didn’t lose you.”
Patrick clamps his mouth shut. He is absolutely not going to say another word because he’s obviously done his share here and if Pete didn’t get all that then he doesn’t have any other way to say it anyway.
He looks up when he feels Pete shift and sees him pull off his headphones and shove his hood back. Then Pete pulls his hand out of Patrick’s and wraps his arm around him instead. Patrick feels the soft brush of Pete’s lips against the top of his head and normally he’d be freaking out about the fact that someone’s kissing his balding spot, but it’s okay because it’s Pete, and he’s seen it anyway.
They sit like that for a while: quiet, calm, and then Pete says, “I think I’m kind of in love with you too.” It’s Patrick’s turn to sit motionless as Pete continues, “and you can keep your trees and shit. I get it. It’s just new sometimes, you know? It’s just like I don’t want to lose this and you know I fuck up everything, and I really, really don’t want to fuck this up.”
Patrick turns his head, looking directly at Pete, and says, “You’re not going to fuck it up. I won’t let you.” And then, without really thinking about it, he leans forward and kisses Pete. It’s slow and chaste and sweet, and it’s everything they both needed and the right time to do this.
They sit there quietly for a while, and then, Patrick stands, pulling Pete up. It’s still early, and Pete didn’t get any sleep, and he didn’t sleep well, and they’ve got some time. They hug just outside the bunks, and Pete presses a kiss into the side of his neck, and Patrick follows suit.
The good thing about being in love with your best friend is that if you accidentally break them, at least you know how to put them back together.
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When they get to the venue, Pete pulls one of the local security people aside and talks to him. Whatever they’re talking about, Pete’s gesturing wildly and looking very intent, and Patrick sincerely hopes that there isn’t going to be another super soaker incident because he hates getting ambushed.
So, it comes as a surprise when, after sound check, Pete pulls him aside and pulls off his hoodie-handing it to Patrick.
“Here, take this.”
Patrick does, but his confusion is apparent because Pete adds, “you don’t want to be recognized. Jeff says there aren’t really any parks around here, but there’s a café down the street a few blocks that way,” he gestures to the right, “there’s some trees and they’ve got an outdoor patio.”
Patrick just stares at him, surprised at himself for being surprised at Pete’s thoughtfulness.
“Go on now Patrick Von Stump, you and your air’ve only got an hour or so.”
Pete smiles, kisses him swiftly on the forehead and pulls away with a grin, yelling at the guys as he goes, “Patrick has to go talk to some trees or shit. Don’t mess with him.”
After that, Pete manages to get him some time alone and away from the venue on an almost regular basis, not that Patrick couldn’t do it himself, he has all this time, but it’s nice that Pete wants to, tries to.
It’s not every city or even every week, but it’s enough, and even though he’s not really alone (they actually get recognized sometimes so he’s got Worm or someone with him most of the time) they still leave him alone, and it’s nice.
Almost as nice as the kisses that they share on an also frequent but irregular basis.
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Maybe that’s the turning point. Although Patrick’s not sure that there’s ever really a turning point-there’s never a point at which they stop being one thing and become another, or when they leave one thing behind to start another.
They never stop being friends, and they never stop picking at each other, and they never stop putting each other back together. Whatever else they’re adding to them, they don’t take anything else away.
But, if he’s ever asked about when they stopped being Pete and Patrick and became Pete and Patrick (and that’s a difference that lies entirely in inflection), then he thinks he’ll choose that one. ‘Course, he’s not going to tell anyone all that, the fact is that whatever moves them from the one to the other, or rather through the one to the other, it’s no one else’s business. But he thinks he’ll say something like, “He gave me trees and air.”
It’ll be the truth and it’ll be wrapped enough in private meaning to be meaningful, while still sounding appropriately sappy. It’s a good line. He’s keeping it ready.
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So, in the way that they’ve always had, they can have a fight over the last of the Lucky Charms in the morning and ignore each other all day, but Pete will still come at Patrick onstage that night, and Patrick will still be waiting for him.
And maybe sometimes now they kiss instead of hug on their way onstage, but that’s really just semantics. It’s still just the swift press of skin to skin, a reassurance that they’re both real and both in this moment and both together. It’s just them.
It’s about the fact that there’s even a them or a show or a moment to have together-even if it’s difficult to categorize.
And, sure, he loves Pete, and Pete loves him, and they’ve said it out loud, once, but that doesn’t change the fact that still have to negotiate the territory between what they are and what they’re becoming, and they’re both still nervous and being very careful.
So it’s hard to talk about how they navigate that territory, because in one way it’s something they’ve been doing since that first moment in Patrick’s house on the first day that they met, and in another way this is new and different and fraught with the kind of danger that means you’re changing the single most important relationship in your life.
Patrick’s had no doubts on that score for several years now. Sometimes he wonders if he knew right away, knew the moment that Pete wrapped his arms around him and Patrick, despite his natural instincts, accepted it, that Pete was going to be the one.
Not The One but, the one. There’s a difference in the two. The One is the great love of your life, but sometimes that love is a trick of the light, or the situation, and it doesn’t last, but you also never feel that way about anyone else. The thing about the one is that it’s more monumental and important because, while you might know right away that this person will be important, it takes a while to know that they’re going to change your life. That they’re going to be the one that you’re going to get bald and paunchy with, the one that’s going to look at what you’ve become and always see what you were. That’s a special, lasting kind of love, and you rarely find it where you expect to, and it’s not always with the person that you’re dating (or even married to).
So Patrick doesn’t really know if he’s always somehow known, but now he thinks that maybe Pete is the one, and it’s possible that he’s also The One. That could be. Patrick knows that what he feels for Pete is love, but it’s also so much more than any love he’s ever experienced or heard about.
When they’re together he doesn’t hear the sweeping music of Hollywood, and, sure, sometimes his stomach flutters, but that’s more from trying to repress the laughter than any sort of winged creature. He doesn’t look at Pete with stars in his eyes or his mouth hanging open. They know each other too well and too completely for that.
He does hear music when they’re together and mostly it’s just the music they’re making. And when it’s not their music, or at least not the music they’re recording (because sometimes he hears other music they’ve worked on, or will work on, but it’s not there yet, and Pete generally defers to him on that front), it’s still not the overly-orchestrated, symphonic pieces that tradition dictates; it’s the raw intensity and honesty of a singer-songwriter stripped down to his words, his voice, and his instrument.
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Maybe that’s part of why it took him so long to get it.
He thinks sometimes that Pete got it first; in his own way, Pete’s always been very perceptive.
What he does know is that all the parts of his brain that deal with relationships and love and those things stopped creating elaborate fantasies or idly wondering if the blond woman that smiled at him across the concourse would smile at him the same way over coffee the morning after (not that he actually wanted to have a morning after or even really wanted her, but somehow your brain is always sizing people up as potential mates-whether you want it to or not), and instead focused entirely on his skinny, tattooed, slightly taller frontman.
The nice thing about that is that he doesn’t have to wonder what Pete will look at him like over coffee, because by now he’s seen almost every expression Pete’s capable of and, even if they weren’t all directed at him, he can extrapolate. So, yeah, he’s got a pretty good idea what Pete’s bed head looks like, and how demanding he gets when he’s sick, and the way that he can be self-absorbed and morose, and when it’s time to leave him be, and when it’s time to haul him out of his bunk whether he likes it or not.
And the thing about knowing all that stuff is that he learned it because Pete’s his fucking best friend, and he’s dedicated a fair portion of his life to figuring it out (even if most of it came pretty easy to him) because that’s how they’ve always worked.
So, yeah, the slide from Pete and Patrick to Pete and Patrick is a bit hard to see.
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There’s this place where you’re not just friends, but you’re not quite lovers, and Pete and Patrick have been living there for a long time now. The landscape changes, but the location doesn’t.
So while they kiss now, and that’s a difference from when it was just cuddling or just Pete kissing Patrick, it’s still not a new place for them.
They’re a little more obvious now, maybe, but only if you’re looking, and the truth is that they’ve been some variation of whatever they are for so long now that most people aren’t.
It’s kind of nice.
It’s also amusing that they’re slowly, so slowly (but not in an excruciating way, more savoring if anything) becoming what everyone’s always suspected, but they’ve suspected for so long that no one is watching. The irony of it all doesn’t escape any of them, and Andy and Joe have been getting all sorts of amusement out of the proceedings.
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Their coming together is glacial in so many ways. After that first step, after the first chaste kiss and awkward admissions of love, they both seem content to wait-neither pushing the status quo. So their coming together is slow, ever so slow, but it’s also inexorable and has the power to change the face of the world. At least the face of their worlds.
So they take a while to take the next step, a step so tiny that it’s the difference between an exhale and a held breath, just the slightest thing, but also one that can change everything.
It’s the difference between the regular steady rhythm of the heart and the smallest stutter between beats.
It’s the difference between the press of two lips together and the smallest gap between them.
It’s the difference between friends and maybe lovers.
It’s the moment when they pass the last exit ramp and there’s no getting off the highway now.
They’re in the bus and it’s late and everyone but the two of them (and the driver up front) is asleep, and they’re watching off-market Kung-Fu movies, when Pete turns and looks down.
(This time, it’s Patrick cuddled close against Pete, Pete pressed into the corner of the couch, Patrick’s head on his bicep and the T.V. volume turned down low.)
So Pete turns and looks at him and, in the half-light of the T.V., the regular beat of Patrick’s heart stutters for just a measure, stutters just as Pete’s head descends towards his for one of their now-comfortable, quick kisses.
Only this time Patrick’s just expelling the small huff of air that he held for a second too long and instead of his closed lips meeting Pete’s, his are slightly open and moist and it’s as though some permission has been given because, before he can even return the pressure, Pete’s opening his mouth and moving his lips against Patrick’s, and they’re no more than sharing breath and moving the already exhausted air back and forth between them, but it’s more intimate than any kiss Patrick’s ever had before.
So, it’s tiny, it’s the smallest of variations on the familiar, but it’s also the difference between friends and lovers and that’s not such a small thing.
They keep breathing into each other until Patrick, who never got his breath back anyway, has to break free or pass out (and there’s no call to give Pete more reason to crown himself a Makeout King).
So he reluctantly pulls back and begrudgingly inserts a scant inch of space between them as he tries to restore his blood and oxygen percentages. Once the lightheadedness dissipates, but long before his heart rhythm returns to its normal, steady pace, he leans back in to kiss Pete. This time he takes the initiative and, after a quick press of their lips together, he parts his own and gently runs his tongue along the seam of Pete’s lips.
Almost instantaneously Pete parts his lips, and Patrick slides his tongue between them, tasting and teasing him. Pete’s patience is swiftly exhausted and his hands come to rest against Patrick’s arms as his tongue begins to move.
They stay like that, kissing, until the need for air drives them apart, and then waiting only long enough to catch their breath, before they’re kissing again. They do little else, don’t cross any other lines, confining their touches to areas that have already been approved: Pete’s almost magnetically drawn to Patrick’s neck, and there’s rarely a moment when he’s not got at least one hand cupping or tracing it; Patrick, for his part, spends a fair bit of time on Pete’s neck as well, but more than that he explores the firm, golden planes of his back.
It’s only when the bus hits a rough patch of road and the bouncing forces them apart that they separate, entwining their hands without consulting one another.
Patrick doesn’t know what to say, but it seems like someone should say something. They’ve had the whole declarations of love moment, and maybe they’re doing things backwards-declaring their love and then getting to making out-but it makes sense for them. It does make this moment a bit awkward, though. Not to mention, they’ve passed the just friends line and even the lines they drew for themselves, and now they’re in completely unfamiliar territory.
“The thing about not caring what anyone else thinks is that there’s no script for this moment.” Pete’s voice is husky and deep, and Patrick feels a shiver across the back of his neck. “We’re forging a new road, our own road. Gonna be want we want to be. I’m good with whatever, ‘s long as it’s with you.” Pete’s not looking at Patrick, but Patrick understands, and at least this time it’s not him fumbling for the words.
“Me too.” Patrick stops there and then thinks better of it, adds, “still love you” in a low voice, but he doesn’t mumble.
“Me too.” Pete says and squeezes his hand.
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They start to pick up some momentum after that. Nothing too drastic, but they’ve chosen each other and committed to this, so there’s no real sense in crawling along any longer.
They’ve never hidden anything about who and what they are, so they don’t hide this, but like so much else, this is for them, about them, and so they don’t broadcast it either.
So now sometimes they kiss, really kiss, before going onstage (if they can find a quiet moment to themselves, because for all that they’re not hiding, they don’t really want to share).
And they might kiss coming off stage-although it’s not as important to be alone after the show, because Pete’s got a reputation for getting a little high off the crowd and doing crazy things afterwards, and Patrick’s always been one of his favorite targets, so there’s really no need to explain anything because no one thinks to ask.
So, far easier than he would have thought possible even knowing how easy everything else was, the lingering touches and sweet kisses, and the occasional quick clasp of their hands, become a regular part of them and who they are.
The stage guys don’t even really seem to notice the difference and though Joe and Andy do know, they don’t care, and they’re certainly not surprised; so, while everything is changing between them-at the same time nothing is changing.
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It’s just a fact of life and touring that Patrick has slept with every single one of his bandmates. For a long time beds were just too few and too far between, no one cared who was in it with you as long as you had your own pillow and were horizontal.
For that matter he’s slept on pretty much all of his bandmates while they were sitting, strapped in vans and cars and planes over the years.
So sleeping with a bandmate is nothing new, nothing that has any particular weight or significance.
And that’s before you factor in Pete Wentz and his penchant for snuggling, or cuddling, or in some other way invading the personal space of anyone within twenty feet of him, and his loudly and repeatedly stated preference for sleeping on Patrick.
Even if Patrick had been inclined to deny him, Pete generally didn’t bother him when he was asleep. It was when he was awake you had to worry about him shoving Twinkies in your pants and putting salt in your tea. Pete didn’t get enough sleep as it was, and it seemed cruel somehow to deny him one of the things that helped.
So it’s not in any way new when Pete, hoodie-clad as usual, falls asleep slumped against Patrick on the couch. What is new, maybe, is that when Patrick wakes up (and he doesn’t even remember falling asleep) Pete’s got one of his hands and is slowly tracing the shape of it.
Patrick doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything, but Pete still knows that he’s awake.
“Wanna sleep with you.” Pete’s words are low; it’s dark outside and Patrick’s Mac has gone to sleep, so there’s not much in the way of illumination save the occasional spike of headlights flickering through the tinted windows.
“We won’t fit.” Patrick’s not really surprised at the regret he hears in his own voice. He wants to feel Pete against him, wants to feel Pete boneless and comfortable, sleeping the way he rarely does.
“Here.” Pete looks up at him then and in the dark Patrick can’t see his expression, but Patrick can feel the pressure of his gaze all the same.
Pete’s got a point. The bunks are too shallow to accommodate them both but the couch, while not much wider, doesn’t have the height limitation that the bunks do.
“Okay.”
Patrick’s not truly surprised when Pete gets up and pads out of the room. He’s back in a moment, trailing a blanket and holding a wad of something against his chest. A modern-day Linus. Patrick’s chest gets unexpectedly tight, but he says nothing, just waiting for Pete to tell him how this is going to work.
Pete hands him the fabric, and Patrick’s only a little surprised to find one of his own hoodies wrapped around a pillow.
It’s not unusual for one of them to crash out on the couch for some reason or another, but it does mean waking up to scrutiny of anyone who gets up first-trust Pete to think of him in this.
He takes the hat off his head and shrugs into the jacket, pulling the hood up over his head and pulling the strings to tighten it around his face. Pete’s busy putting a pillow down on the couch and shaking out the blanket he’d pilfered, from the scent, from Patrick’s bunk as well.
They don’t talk about it, but Patrick is the first to lie back, opening his arms and waiting for Pete to fill them. When they’re both comfortable, they use their free arms to pull the blanket up over them; Patrick falls asleep, not for the first time, to Pete’s rhythmic breathing, but for the first time he can feel the press of Pete's abdomen against his own as he inhales and the subtle twitch of Pete’s fingers against his neck.
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When he awakens in the morning, Patrick half expects to find himself sporting a toothpaste mustache or at the very least a roomful of snickering people. Instead he finds they’ve been covered by another blanket and the lounge is conspicuously deserted, especially for the time of day. Pete’s still asleep, and this must be the longest he’s slept in the whole time Patrick’s known him, without the aid of modern medicine.
He’s lying there, just feeling the pressure and warmth of Pete against him, when Andy comes through the door.
He’s being careful, quiet and Patrick just watches him, not wanting to disturb Pete against him; then Andy turns and sees that he’s awake.
“You’ve got about another hour,” he says and then, without another word, grabs something off the table and slides back out.
Patrick just tightens his arms around Pete and closes his eyes. He can stand another hour of this.
%^%^%^%^
Pete’s the one with all the grand dramatic gestures-it’s one of his trademarks.
That doesn’t prepare Patrick for his next move.
Pete’s always been tactile on stage, always been in Patrick’s space on stage, so Patrick doesn’t suspect anything when Pete comes over and nuzzles his way to Patrick’s neck.
What Pete does next is what forces Patrick’s breath out of his lungs in an ungraceful whoosh and causes him to fumble the chorus. The good news is that between the screaming and the way that every single pair of eyes in the place seems to be focused on Pete--he doesn’t think anyone notices.
Well, anyone but Pete, because Pete’s attention is solely on Patrick, and that makes this even more intimate because when Pete had lifted his head like always and taken a step back, instead of whirling around and back to his side, he’d sunk ever so gracefully down to the stage, still facing Patrick, still focused on Patrick, and kept playing, his whole body angled to Patrick’s, everything about his posture and expression telegraphing reverence.
Patrick’s grateful that he doesn’t stay there long; it seems to be enough that he’s flustered Patrick because, just a couple of beats later, Pete levers himself up and wanders back to the side, as though nothing interesting has happened.
Patrick finds himself wishing for that same nonchalance because he’s rattled, his hands just slightly shaking, and he still hasn’t gotten his breath back. He recovers though, because he has to and he’s in the middle of a damn song (and didn’t Pete know what this would do to him because it’s completely unfair to expect him to sing when he’s breathless).
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They finish the song and the set. And, in a somewhat uncharacteristic move, Patrick gets to Pete first afterwards, hands their instruments to a somewhat surprised tech, and shoves Pete into the nearest shadowed corner.
It’s only when he’s got his arms around Pete and is breathing heavily into his neck, mouthing the skin there, lightly pulling at it, that he asks, “Do you know what that did to me?”
Pete’s laugh is low and wicked and his eyes are bright when Patrick lifts his head and looks directly at him.
“Alright then,” he says. There’s nothing else to say, and it’s not like he doesn’t want this too, doesn’t want this as much as Pete, doesn’t want to feel and touch and explore and have the right to do all the things that he’s only just begun to let himself imagine (because for the longest time it was only about Pete, only about who Pete was, and now it’s also about what Pete is, and that’s a change, but one that is apparently going to be enjoyable for them both).
Patrick shifts, cants his hips, and slides one leg between Pete’s slightly parted ones, and then descends for a filthy, hot kiss. They can both play this game.
%^%^%^%^
The first hotel night after their first real kiss, Pete claims Patrick as his roommate before anyone has a chance to defer to him.
Patrick’s laughing and shaking his head as Pete pulls him into their room, amused at the way Pete always seems so sure that everyone’s about to fight him for Patrick’s attentions, as though Patrick is so infinitely desirable that no one could resist his charms.
They get in the door after a battle with the infernal swipe card, and Patrick, as always, wishes fondly for the days of actual keys-even though he can’t actually remember them himself.
Still, they get into the room without incident--it’s their first night in the hotel, and they’ve just played a show and done some signing--and really they’re all about ten steps from asleep, and the only thing keeping them upright is the lure of a real, honest shower where they won’t bruise their elbows trying to wash their hair.
Pete gives Patrick the first shower, already plugging in and powering up his laptop. He’s going to get the most use out of the wireless before he succumbs to such things as cleanliness and sleep.
Patrick comes back into the room, clean and feeling like a real person again, only to discover that both of their suitcases are on one of the beds, and Pete has, inexplicably, put their shoes on the pillows.
“Uh, Pete?”
“Can’t sleep in that bed, it’s dirty. Have to sleep with me.” Pete looks almost defiant and Patrick wonders how long he’s been sitting there waiting for Patrick to respond to his handiwork.
“Obviously.” Patrick doesn’t say anything else, just pulls a book out of his suitcase and crawls into the other bed.
When Pete crawls in next to him, later, his hair smelling of the same courtesy shampoo that Patrick used, and wraps himself against Patrick’s side, his head on Patrick’s shoulder, Patrick says, “I would’ve anyway.”
The only sign that Pete hears him is the almost painful tightening of his arms and the huff of breath that he releases.
%^%^%^%^
Pete’s always been the one with boundary issues, specifically crossing other people’s boundaries and the issues that can cause, so it makes sense that he makes most of the drastic moves after that.
It seems to be enough that whenever they do come to a crossroads and it’s Patrick’s turn to choose, he always chooses Pete. Pete doesn’t seem to need much more than that to know that Patrick’s on the same page, wants the same things.
Patrick’s glad of that because he struggles with saying the things they both know.
%^%^%^%^
The first time Pete walks deliberately up to him, lifts his bass and licks a long stripe up the neck of the guitar Patrick nearly chokes.
When Pete leans in and whispers, “Yours tastes better,” he does, just for a moment.
%^%^%^%^
They kiss now, obviously. Actually, they kiss a lot now. It seems as though being given permission to touch and kiss him was all Pete needed.
Patrick’s honestly surprised by it at first--the sheer amount of time and touch Pete seems to need. It’s only now, when Pete feels free to ask for the things he wants, that Patrick realizes how much he’s been holding back all these years.
Patrick thought he was pretty good at reading Pete, and he’s still pretty sure that he’s the best at reading him out of all the people he’s met, but that doesn’t apparently mean as much as he thought it did.
Pete kisses him in the morning before he’s even really awake: sweet, innocent kisses dropped onto his forehead (if Patrick hasn’t put his hat on yet and so that means they’re usually only on his forehead if it’s a hotel night) and cheeks and even, when Patrick’s still too much asleep to smack him, on his nose.
And he kisses him when he is awake, and before breakfast, and after breakfast, and before interviews, and before lunch, and after lunch, and before sound-check, and sometimes during sound-check, and before the show, and after the show, and those are just the sweet kisses, the hello-kisses, and the I-missed-you kisses and the oh-there-you-are kisses and the-I saved-you-some-Mr.Pibb kisses.
All the kisses that say I love you in a thousand different ways on a daily basis.
And all that’s not counting how much Pete touches Patrick. He sits next to him, their thighs pressed firmly together, and rests his hand on Patrick’s thigh, and that’s when they’re not actually doing something together.
For all that Pete touched Patrick in a hundred different ways a hundred times a day before, now that they’re whatever it is that they are-he touches Patrick twice as much and in three times as many ways now.
Patrick isn’t a math-genius, but he knows that makes no logical sense. Still, it’s true, and he can feel the difference between those touches.
So, yeah, Pete touches and kisses Patrick more, and Patrick’s surprised because he’d really thought he knew how much Pete needed, and he’d thought he wasn’t doing a bad job of it, but now he can see just how much more Pete needs.
And, exactly how much more Pete is capable of giving.
%^%^%^%^
Patrick touches Pete more too. It’s more subtle maybe, but it’s still there. He catches Joe’s not-so-subtle nudges at Andy sometimes, when he’s crossing his knee over Pete’s as they sit down to watch The Breakfast Club again-and what is it about being a child of the 80’s that means you've sold your soul for all of time to John Hughes? -, or when he evens out the strings of Pete’s hoodie-and he doesn’t blame Joe or Andy for the endless mocking that is due to him because, seriously, since when is he a twelve-year-old-girl? But he can’t stop himself because they’re really uneven, and the clean and tidy (he refuses to call it OCD-he’s just picky about some things, okay, he’s not pathological and it’s not fair of him to claim otherwise) part of his brain insists that the ends shouldn’t be six inches apart.
For all that Pete’s touching escalates to new and never-before-conceived-of levels, so does Patrick’s, and that surprises him too.
He finds himself wanting to touch Pete all the time. It’s not sexual, or at least it’s not only, not just, sexual; it’s…comfort maybe, or reassurance, or just.
He’s not sure exactly what it is, but he knows that when he’s reaching across Pete to grab his headphones, he always finds his knuckles dragging across Pete’s knee; and when they’re just on the couch reading and he finds Pete’s legs across his own, he rests his free hand on Pete’s bare ankle; and even before his eyes are properly open, he finds his hands traitorously ruffling Pete’s hair.
And, despite the fact that they seem to touch a thousand times a day now, they still don’t spend even close to every minute together. Pete’s up half the night almost every night and Patrick still needs his time and space and, while they might love each other, they still spend more time together on a regular basis than any two people who haven’t taken vows of silence should.
So they still fight and they still shut each other out and Pete sulks and broods and Patrick glowers and that’s all normal and right and comforting in its own way.
%^%^%^%^
It was Patrick’s idea the first time they tried to sleep in the bunks together. That alone should have told him how stupid he was over Pete Wentz, because Patrick knew that they couldn’t fit, or at least it would almost be too tight a squeeze for comfort if they did, and he knew that they’d get mocked for it, but the fact was that he found he was an easy addict and apparently Pete was his drug of choice.
That first time that they’d laid out in the lounge and slept was the first time that Patrick could clearly recall sleeping with Pete, intending to sleep with him, intending to be touching and cuddling and sleeping together.
Maybe that was why he got hooked-because he found himself hyper-aware of every place they touched, and the heat of Pete’s body, and two-inch rise and fall of his chest when he was actually sleeping, and the way his hand curled into the soft fabric of Patrick’s hoodie, and all of those things meant that when he was lying in his own bunk, trying to sleep, he kept listening for the slight wheeze of Pete’s breathing and feeling the phantom twitch of his fingers.
If Pete slept like any other person Patrick might not have been driven to it, but because Pete did so rarely sleep, and it seemed like when the insomnia got bad he even pretty much stopped trying to-figuring when his body was finally ready it would just take him where he was sitting (and he was generally right)-Patrick wasn’t able to listen for his breathing in the dark, snuffling sounds of the bunk area because Pete wasn’t there.
He was in the longue watching T.V. or harassing someone on the internet or getting a snack in the kitchen and generally keeping Patrick up far too long wishing for something that he only had to ask for.
So Patrick laid in his bunk and contemplated grabbing his hoodie and heading for the lounge, he could totally pretend that he couldn’t sleep, curl up against Pete and let the heat and nearness of his body and the regular, steady sound of his breathing send him right off.
But that wasn’t really fair, and Pete had gone the extra mile to ask for what he wanted, and really, it wasn’t fair of them to make the back lounge their bedroom and force the guys to tiptoe around them in the mornings, so he did the only thing that he could and, trying not to think too much about it, he got up and shuffled to the lounge and opened the door-finding Pete with both his computer and the T.V. going. Pete looked tired, the circles under his eyes emphasized by the poor lighting and he looked up when Patrick opened the door.
“Patrick?”
“Come to bed?” Patrick asked.
“Right now? You know I won’t be able to sleep and I hate just lying there.” Pete sounded frustrated at the thought of it.
“Come to bed…with me?” Patrick didn’t meet his eyes.
There was just the hint of amusement in Pete’s voice when he said, “I thought you said we couldn’t fit.”
“Thought we could try it, just to see.” Patrick tried for nonchalance but knew that Pete saw through him.
“Yeah, we could.” Pete stood up, shutting the laptop and turning the T.V. off, then came to the door and caught Patrick by the hand, kissing his cheek quickly.
“Let’s go!”
Patrick crawled into bed first, tilting himself slightly, his back pressed partly against the wall, and Pete crawled in after him.
There wasn’t enough room for two people to lie side by side, even if one of them was Pete-sized, so Pete was forced to lay half on top of Patrick, his shoulder only a couple of inches from the bottom of the upper bunk.
That was okay with Patrick, he didn’t want Pete to move too much anyway; Patrick liked the way Pete felt against him, on him. Patrick was reasonably certain Pete felt the same way if the deep sigh he let out and the way he seemed to go almost limp when they settled down was any indication.
%^%^%^%^
Patrick woke at the thump-before the mumbling and the laughter. He was reasonably certain he would have woken up anyway because it was cold without Pete on top of him and, also, the blood returning to his arm was setting off uncomfortable pins and needles.
The point is that he woke up at the thump.
Or rather, he woke up when the combination of being in one position too long and Pete’s restlessness overcame how comfortable they were being that close together and they moved-rolled really.
And in Patrick’s case that wasn’t so bad because he still had bed to roll in, but Pete ended up in the aisle between the bunks-a bit disoriented and disgruntled.
Andy and Joe laugh at them; Joe even takes a picture, and Patrick is almost tempted to say, “I told you so,” but the fact is that he’s the one that pushed for this and Pete was the one to pay.
Patrick gets out of bed and pulls Pete up and then shoves him at the bunk. This time they lay with Pete against the wall and Patrick on top of him, pining him to the bed.
Neither of them wants to sleep alone, and Patrick’s reasonably certain he can keep Pete in place even if he is asleep.
Everyone settles back down, settles back into sleep and Patrick just burrows a little more into Pete, into the place where his shoulder and chest meet.
This is definitely as good as when Pete’s lying on him. It might even be better.
%^%^%^%^
They don’t really do the bunk thing after. Well, not unless the hotels are really few and far between and the back lounge is occupied, so actually they do the bunk thing more than they should, but it’s always a bad idea, except for the part where neither of them sleeps as well when they’re not sleeping together, and Pete, in particular, rarely sleeps to begin with.
And Patrick can’t argue with himself over the bunk thing when he knows that nothing feels as good as Pete in his arms.
%^%^%^%^
And, in between the cuddles and the sweet, friendly kisses, there are the not-so-sweet and not-so-innocent kisses and those are only slightly less frequent.
Pete, usually, doesn’t start those until after Patrick’s managed to brush his teeth (and Pete’s brushed his own), but Pete will crawl into Patrick’s bunk when he’s reading and start dropping those sweet, fast kisses on his lips until Patrick’s had enough and opens his mouth, pulls Pete against himself and kisses him deeply.
Pete does his share of initiating, but he seems to delight in driving Patrick to do it first. Patrick doesn’t know what it is, but Pete always seems awfully pleased with himself after Patrick’s kissed them both breathless.
So Patrick’s learned to expect these little kissing attacks that always seem to lead to one of them pushed into a corner, or up against a wall, or pressed into the couch and both of them breathless.
%^%^%^%^
And, sometimes, they do other stuff, maybe-boyfriend stuff.
Like, sometimes, they hold hands and it’s not the holding hands where Pete grabs Patrick’s hand after a show and drags him along to the dressing room, or out to meet the fans.
It’s more than that--although that is good--, it’s all of them, Joe and Andy and Pete and Patrick and some of the guys from the crew sitting in the lounge watching a movie and then Patrick feels Pete’s hand grasp his own, intertwining their fingers and just holding steadily.
That’s new and special and it always, always makes Patrick do that stupid smile and blush combination, and he’s always very glad when Pete does it when they’re watching movies because at least then it’s usually dark and they don’t get to tease him about it.
But he’d want to do it even if it wasn’t dark and they could see.
%^%^%^%^
They don’t always room together, a lot of the time Pete rooms with Joe because of Hemmy and the whole smoking thing, and that’s great. Frankly, it doesn’t really matter to Patrick who he rooms with, either way he’s going to have two fewer roommates than usual and that’s the real excitement for him.
It’s not that he doesn’t like them or that there’s anything wrong, but sometimes you want more than a 3x7x3 space to call your own.
The point is that Patrick doesn’t really have a preference and, frankly, by the time they make to whatever hotel they’re staying at, all he wants to do is get horizontal, and he doesn’t even care enough to pay attention to the details.
He’s started to notice that sometimes Pete will run off of the bus when they pull in, yelling “I call Patrick.” At first it just amused him, but he’s noticed lately that Joe and Andy seem to wait to figure out what Pete is going to do before they decide where they’re staying.
It’s late, or early, the clock says 4:17 and it’s dark out so Patrick knows it’s Wednesday and that’s really about as far as he’s gotten when he realizes that he’s standing there with his bag in his hand and Andy’s got a keycard. He doesn’t know why they’re just standing around if there are already keycards to be had and although he’s vaguely aware that there’s some discussion of who’s where, he just doesn’t care. He grabs the card from Andy and mutters, “Let’s go.” He’s almost to the elevator before he realizes that Andy's not with him, that, actually, no one is following him.
He turns back and asks, "What's the problem?"
Andy and Joe don't say anything, but Pete looks like a cranky four-year-old.
"Seriously, I don't care who rooms with me, but I'm going to bed now and I'm not opening the door for anyone until we leave tomorrow so who-the-fuck-ever is sleeping with me should come now." He knows that there's another card to his room, and that the bored desk attendant can surely make another key if there isn't, but, really, he'd like whoever it's going to be to come now so that they can do all the noisy stuff now, together, and he won't have to sleep through banging luggage and long showers later-not that he couldn't, just that he'd rather not.
'Course, if Pete ends up in his room he'll be sleeping through that and more so it really doesn’t matter at all.
He just shrugs and starts to turn back to the elevators when a thought occurs to him, "What is the problem? Seriously, we never have issues over this-have I started snoring or something?"
Joe laughs, "Not like we'd know."
Andy looks between Patrick and Pete and then says, "I'm not getting in the middle of this."
Patrick thinks about that for a minute and, yeah, he's mostly been rooming with Pete for a while now and that's not exactly notable, but it's apparently not random. He looks at Pete, "Is there something I'm not getting here?"
Joe laughs again and bumps gently into Andy's arm and okay, obviously Patrick's not exactly been quick on the uptake here-whatever it is.
"Pete?"
"I just like rooming with you." Pete's practically mumbling and that doesn't really make any sense either, but Patrick seriously does not care at this point. He wants to shower, he wants to put on clothes that are clean or as close as he can find, he wants to stretch out on a bed and be able to roll over twice if he wants to without ending up on the floor, he wants to lie completely still and be completely still without the rocking, shifting, vibrating mass of the bus under him. He wants, seriously, to sleep for at least eight solid hours on clean sheets that he didn't have to wash and on a bed he won't have to make and then he wants to wake up and eat a breakfast that doesn't come out of a box and was cooked by a person on a stove. He doesn't want to stand in this lobby any longer than he has to and he's already been here too long.
"So, what's the problem?" Patrick's not at his best right now, but he's trying to figure out why they're still standing here. He wants to go to bed, Pete apparently wants to room with him, fine, let's go, where is the problem?
Then he remembers the way that Andy and Joe hesitated, unsure, as though they were waiting for something-it clicks suddenly and Patrick's not upset, precisely, but he's a bit confused and seriously, what the fuck?
"Pete, are you managing me? Are you intimidating them?" He waves his hand at Joe and Andy and Joe's giggling now and Patrick feels like the last person to get a joke that wasn't that funny to begin with.
"Why? Does it matter? Don't you want to room with me?" Pete's almost whining and this really doesn't make any sense.
"I told you, I do not care who I room with. Can we just go to bed now?"
Pete still looks unhappy but he comes, dragging his bag with him and the last thing Patrick hears before he gets on the elevator is Joe's almost hysterical laughter and Andy's more subdued but just as amused laugh.
Pete just looks…petulant…and isn't looking at him and that's fine with him, he just wants to get in the room already. Whatever Pete's problem is, it can wait until tomorrow after Patrick's nice, fresh, hot breakfast.
They get into the room without incident and Patrick doesn't even ask before going to shower first-it's not like Pete's actually going to be sleeping anytime soon-he on the other hand fully excepts to be asleep within the hour maybe even the half hour.
Pete's got the T.V. on low, on MTV which is, per usual, not showing any music videos, and he's sitting in the middle of his bed, pillows piled behind him as he scribbles in one of his journals. Patrick feels a twinge for a moment, wants to pull him out, wants to understand, but then decides not to…this really can wait until tomorrow and tomorrow they're not in a hotel with bright white sheets and what are seriously, seriously down comforters.
He says good night to Pete and gets a mumbled 'night in return and shrugging, he crawls into bed and actually sinks his head into the pillow and that's luxury, they can keep the mints and the million thread-count sheets-just give him a decent pillow. He's nearly asleep, his eyes are closed, and his breathing deep, his back to Pete, when he hears him say, "It's just that you're always my first choice."
Patrick opens his mouth, starts to say something, he doesn't know what, that statement doesn't even make sense, but then decides, tomorrow, and finishes falling sleep instead.
%^%^%^%^
The thing about Pete was that even though he didn't, by and large, respect lines, even the ones he drew, he did his best to respect Patrick's.
That was one of the things that Patrick noticed when he started noticing all the ways that Pete treated him just the slightest bit differently.
It wasn't that Pete wouldn't prank him or laugh at him or purposely infuriate him, but if Pete knew that Patrick had a reason--one that he considered good or valid--to protest something, he just didn't do it.
For example, he never considered Patrick's hair situation to be all that tragic, but then again, Patrick reminded himself, Pete had never had to worry about hair loss. But still he didn't push the issue too much. He didn't, generally, take Patrick's hats off of him and, despite the fact that it was obviously an easy target, he never made fun of Patrick's ever-growing bald spot.
The same with Patrick's attachment to clothing and, more specifically, layers. There had been more than one time that, for whatever reason, Patrick was the only one left with any clothes on, but while Pete would coax and cajole, but he wouldn't push any further, wouldn't shame or embarrass Patrick over it--particularly in front of their friends.
The more interesting part of it, to Patrick at least, was the fact that he would actually deflect attention off of Patrick-would make a joke that implied that the Pete had sworn Patrick into a blood pact that insisted that 70% of his body be covered at all times so as to disguise his awesomeness and deter the Patrick-stealers.
Everyone would laugh and the moment would pass and that was actually, in its own way, a kind thing to do. Patrick's only just started to realize that, and also that it wasn't quite true that everyone laughed--he didn't actually recall Pete laughing, just smiling smugly.
%^%^%^%^
It’s not just a hotel night; they’re even pulling in early. Everyone’s in good spirits and, except for Pete, who finally fell asleep about an hour ago, they’re all pretty much awake. Patrick nods at the others to go ahead and stays on the bus with Pete. He rarely sleeps more than a couple of hours at a time on his own and since this is an un-medicated sleep he’ll be up before too long.
Patrick’s got a track he wants to finish laying anyway. Andy comes back and tosses him a couple of keycards and then it’s just Patrick and the laptop. It’s a couple of hours before he finishes the track-nothing special, just a cover he felt like laying down-and pulls the headphones off.
He arches back and stretches, rolling his neck and feeling the bones pop. When he’s done stretching, he goes to get up and get Pete. It’s been a while, definitely longer than he thought Pete would or could sleep, but it’s probably time for them get in there now. He at least wants a shower and he doesn’t want Pete to wake up alone on the bus and not know where he is or where he’s staying-even if he does have his sidekick surgically attached to his right hand.
Except as he begins to stand he notices that Pete’s already up, has been up for a while by all appearances. He’s sitting folded up in the hallway leading to the bunks, his hair all fuzzy and sleep-mussed and his eyes all dark and wide-pupiled.
“Pete?”
When he answers there’s the scratch of sleep in his voice, “Good song, sounds great-better.”
“Thanks, how long have you been up?”
“Don’t know, heard you finish the Waits and start that one though.”
Patrick thinks about it and realizes that Pete’s been up for close to an hour then. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“You were busy, ‘sides, I like listening.”
“We’re at the hotel, everyone else is inside; I’ve got our keys.”
Pete just nods.
Patrick walks over and sticks out his hand, pulling Pete up once he accepts it. “You ready?”
Pete just looks at him, his eyes still dark, and Patrick’s just a little unnerved by his stillness, but sometimes Pete’s just like that. Whatever’s on his mind, he’ll share when he’s ready.
“Come on, you packed?”
Pete nods again and then turns around and grabs a bag from his bunk.
Patrick puts his Mac away and grabs his bag and the keycards.
“Right then, you’re with me you know.”
Pete doesn’t say anything just follows him into the hotel, his hood up and head down.
Patrick keys them into the room and tosses his stuff onto his bed. Pete’s behind him, doing something with his bag and Patrick sits down, turns to face him.
“I don’t think about it most of the time, but I just assume I’m staying with you. I didn’t know that it mattered to you.” Pete just shrugs and Patrick knows that he’s got do something more.
“I like knowing that when you can’t sleep I’ll be here, that I’ll know, that I can try to help.”
Pete looks at him again, and then asks, “Sing me to sleep tonight? We’ll call it even.”
Patrick laughs, “Yeah, sure, whatever you want.”
“I want my very own lullaby-better get cracking.”
%^%^%^%^
Pete doesn’t get his very own lullaby, well not precisely, what he gets is Patrick, the living music player, doing an all-request hour. Patrick won’t promise to do more than that, the fact is that an hour can be a lot, particularly with some of the stuff that Pete asks for.
Still, Pete gets his lullaby and even though he’s not asleep when Patrick finishes, he’s happy. Patrick figures that’s probably worth it.
%^%^%^%^
Master Post | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 |
Author: Gibson_fic
Fandom: Bandslash, Fall Out Boy
Characters/Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: Adult for language and situations
Word Count: ~55,000
Disclaimer: This is a fictional story about characters based, in part, on the images and histories of real people. If that bothers you and/or you are one of those people, you probably don't want to read this. (If you chose to read it; I'm not responsible for subsequent unstoppable slashy thoughts). No harm is intended; no profit is being made.
Summary: "If he could say it, if he could tell them how it works, it might go something like this."
For full header information and author’s notes, go here
%^%^%^%^
A lot of bands break up before they even start touring, sometimes before they even play a single show. A successful band is a one-in-a-million sort of thing.
The fact is that even in the most conservative of circumstances you’re trying to mesh your sound and your vision with at least one other person, usually three or four. That’s a lot of room for the ubiquitous artistic-differences problem to arise.
So you have to find people who can play and hopefully play well, and then you have find people who want to play the same kind of music you do, and they have to play instruments that you need (it’s no good to find the perfect drummer if you’ve already got a perfect drummer and you really need a perfect bassist), and on top of all that you have be able to work together to make the music you want to make.
If you can get all those elements right, in the right proportion and order, then you have to start mixing them (and there’s that whole adding wet to dry thing), and really there’s a science to it. But if you get it all together and mix it just right, then you might find yourself in a band, a real band, maybe even a good one.
Only sometimes, you can really work as a band, but not as people.
So the music is great and you work onstage, but you can’t stand to see the guy next to you if he doesn’t have a guitar in his hands, and that’s a problem because the fact is that you have to be able to spend time together when you’re not making music.
And that’s before you literally start spending every single day together for months at a time.
Lots of bands make it to the touring stage, make it to the four (or five) guys in a busted-up van with too few seats and too many amps, and the smell of feet and spilled beer (and no amount of Febreeze ever really gets rid of that combination) stage.
But when you’re literally eating, sleeping, and playing with the same three or four people every day for months at a time, even the best relationships start to feel the pressure. The only real difference between van days and bus days for most bands is the length of the tour. Seems like when you’re in a bus they assume that because you sleep horizontally again you can tour for twice as long (and, actually, that’s true, for the most part), whereas when you’re sleeping slumped against (or over) each other, you generally only go out for a month at a time at worst.
But that doesn’t mean that you aren’t still eating across from the same people each day, and sleeping stacked on top of one another at night-so there’s still plenty of room for the little shit to get out of hand.
There’s a lot of room for error in the equation, and that’s why so many bands that make it to touring break up anyway.
It took them three lineup changes before they found Andy--or rather Andy was finally available because, really, he was Pete’s first choice anyway.
And then there’s recording, and nothing frays tempers like playing the same damn song forty times and having the producer tell you that you’ve got to do it one more time and, this time, to try it a little faster or louder or softer or with more treble.
Even Andy, who’s one of the biggest perfectionists that Patrick’s ever met, has been known to lay his sticks down in that careful way that says it’s lay them down or throw them and walk out of the studio for a couple of minutes.
So Patrick knows that there are just going to be days where every single thing that every single member of your band does is going to aggravate the piss out of you. He knows this because it’s a regular part of the whole band and touring gig, and they’ve all had to deal with it at one point or another.
Knowing doesn’t make it better.
%^%^%^%^
It’s a combination of things that sets him off: the tech didn’t mic him right last night, they had to scramble to get the levels sorted out and that never makes for a good show, and then Joe, who was trying to make up for the slow start, knocked into him, and it was an accident, but he’s still got a blue and purple bruise on his arm that won’t stop throbbing.
And, Pete wanted to be all in his space after the show, and normally that’s fine and he deals with it, but really he just needed twenty fucking minutes alone to put the whole thing behind him and decompress, and he couldn’t get them.
Which, of course, was when he snapped at Pete and shoved his way free of Pete’s legs and arms and hair, and seriously, was the fucker an octopus or what, and stomped to his bunk. It would have been better if he could have gotten off the bus, but they had another show the next day and were already rolling, so his bunk and his headphones were his best chance for privacy.
And that pissed him off too because the only way to get some privacy was to have the headphones on, but he didn’t actually want to listen to anything. He just wanted some quiet and there wasn’t going to be any on the bus.
So he lay in his bed and he stewed and, eventually, he fell asleep.
Patrick’s pretty good at knowing his own limits so he doesn’t normally snap like that, normally he manages to get away before the show, or after the show, or sometime when they’re not fucking rolling down the highway and get some time to himself, but it’s been a long tour and they’re in the Midwest, and that means long drives between the venues and less time off the bus.
Still, he’s done it before, they all have, and it’s not like the guys will hold it against him or anything. That doesn’t change the fact that he wakes up too early, feeling a little bit guilty, and that’s never a good way to start the day.
So, when he rolls out of his bunk and into the lounge, he’s not in the best of moods, but he’s trying, and then he sees Pete.
He’s sitting on the couch, his cheek pressed against the glass of the window and his headphones on, and, although his hood is up and his eyes are closed, Patrick knows he’s not sleeping. And, if the shoes on his feet are any proof, he’s never even tried to go to bed.
The thing is that Pete is moody and unpredictable and sometimes volatile, and they all know that. Patrick’s the steady one, the good-humoured one. He gets angry, and he’ll fight with them, but he doesn’t normally get bitchy and snap that way.
And, this is the first time it’s happened since this touching thing became something a little more serious.
Patrick probably knows Pete better than anyone else, and he knows that Pete’s been sitting here all night: stewing over things, and wondering what he did wrong, and also wondering if Patrick was trying to tell him that he didn’t want Pete to touch him ever instead of just in that moment.
Patrick knows all this, and he knew it last night, when he was stewing in his own bunk, and that’s the reason he’s felt guilty since he woke up.
So he does the only thing he can, the only thing that will make either of them feel better. He sits next to Pete, curls up next to him almost, and puts his head on Pete’s shoulder, his hand covering Pete’s where it rests on his thigh.
Pete doesn’t do anything at first, and Patrick doesn’t mind; he’s content to be here and be close, be comfortable. That’s what started all this between them in the first place--how good it felt to be together.
Slowly, he realizes that there’s no sound bleeding out from Pete’s headphones, something he’s taken to listening for almost instinctually. So Pete’s not only been sitting here, but he’s been doing it in silence.
That’s actually not a good thing.
Still, it makes the next part easier.
“I don’t think you’re an octopus. Well, you might be an octopus, but I like it. It’s just sometimes I need a little space. Sometimes we all need a little space. I was pissed about the show and the fact that I’ve got sea legs on land.” Patrick doesn’t move as he says all this, if Pete wants him to move, he’s perfectly capable of shoving him off, and he hasn’t shown any inclination to do that yet.
“It wasn’t about you and it definitely wasn’t about us. It was…” Patrick pauses as Pete turns his head just slightly, his eyes barely open, “It was just touring you know.”
Pete’s still not saying anything, and Patrick knows that the worst part is actually what’s coming next, “The thing is Pete, whatever we’re doing here,” and he lifts his right hand briefly, pulling Pete’s with it, “it’s not about the band, it’s about us. And, the crap that happens because we’re in a band can’t be separated from it. I know that, but you have to be able to see that when I’m pissy, I’m pissy, I’m not pissy with you.”
Pete’s eyes are dark, and Patrick’s sure this is the longest speech he’s ever given on this topic, and he wouldn’t do it if he didn’t have to, but some things have to be spelled out.
He looks down, and he can feel the flush creeping up and heating his ears, and dammit why didn’t he put a hat on when he got out of the bunk?--because he’s sure this would be easier with his fucking hat on, “’Cause the thing is I love you, and you know that, but maybe I’m kind of in love with you too, and I don’t want to fuck that up because I’m trapped in this bus with the three of you all the time and I just want twenty minutes of quiet and maybe some trees and fresh air. Because I’d give up the trees and shit if it meant I didn’t lose you.”
Patrick clamps his mouth shut. He is absolutely not going to say another word because he’s obviously done his share here and if Pete didn’t get all that then he doesn’t have any other way to say it anyway.
He looks up when he feels Pete shift and sees him pull off his headphones and shove his hood back. Then Pete pulls his hand out of Patrick’s and wraps his arm around him instead. Patrick feels the soft brush of Pete’s lips against the top of his head and normally he’d be freaking out about the fact that someone’s kissing his balding spot, but it’s okay because it’s Pete, and he’s seen it anyway.
They sit like that for a while: quiet, calm, and then Pete says, “I think I’m kind of in love with you too.” It’s Patrick’s turn to sit motionless as Pete continues, “and you can keep your trees and shit. I get it. It’s just new sometimes, you know? It’s just like I don’t want to lose this and you know I fuck up everything, and I really, really don’t want to fuck this up.”
Patrick turns his head, looking directly at Pete, and says, “You’re not going to fuck it up. I won’t let you.” And then, without really thinking about it, he leans forward and kisses Pete. It’s slow and chaste and sweet, and it’s everything they both needed and the right time to do this.
They sit there quietly for a while, and then, Patrick stands, pulling Pete up. It’s still early, and Pete didn’t get any sleep, and he didn’t sleep well, and they’ve got some time. They hug just outside the bunks, and Pete presses a kiss into the side of his neck, and Patrick follows suit.
The good thing about being in love with your best friend is that if you accidentally break them, at least you know how to put them back together.
%^%^%^%^
When they get to the venue, Pete pulls one of the local security people aside and talks to him. Whatever they’re talking about, Pete’s gesturing wildly and looking very intent, and Patrick sincerely hopes that there isn’t going to be another super soaker incident because he hates getting ambushed.
So, it comes as a surprise when, after sound check, Pete pulls him aside and pulls off his hoodie-handing it to Patrick.
“Here, take this.”
Patrick does, but his confusion is apparent because Pete adds, “you don’t want to be recognized. Jeff says there aren’t really any parks around here, but there’s a café down the street a few blocks that way,” he gestures to the right, “there’s some trees and they’ve got an outdoor patio.”
Patrick just stares at him, surprised at himself for being surprised at Pete’s thoughtfulness.
“Go on now Patrick Von Stump, you and your air’ve only got an hour or so.”
Pete smiles, kisses him swiftly on the forehead and pulls away with a grin, yelling at the guys as he goes, “Patrick has to go talk to some trees or shit. Don’t mess with him.”
After that, Pete manages to get him some time alone and away from the venue on an almost regular basis, not that Patrick couldn’t do it himself, he has all this time, but it’s nice that Pete wants to, tries to.
It’s not every city or even every week, but it’s enough, and even though he’s not really alone (they actually get recognized sometimes so he’s got Worm or someone with him most of the time) they still leave him alone, and it’s nice.
Almost as nice as the kisses that they share on an also frequent but irregular basis.
%^%^%^%^
Maybe that’s the turning point. Although Patrick’s not sure that there’s ever really a turning point-there’s never a point at which they stop being one thing and become another, or when they leave one thing behind to start another.
They never stop being friends, and they never stop picking at each other, and they never stop putting each other back together. Whatever else they’re adding to them, they don’t take anything else away.
But, if he’s ever asked about when they stopped being Pete and Patrick and became Pete and Patrick (and that’s a difference that lies entirely in inflection), then he thinks he’ll choose that one. ‘Course, he’s not going to tell anyone all that, the fact is that whatever moves them from the one to the other, or rather through the one to the other, it’s no one else’s business. But he thinks he’ll say something like, “He gave me trees and air.”
It’ll be the truth and it’ll be wrapped enough in private meaning to be meaningful, while still sounding appropriately sappy. It’s a good line. He’s keeping it ready.
%^%^%^%^
So, in the way that they’ve always had, they can have a fight over the last of the Lucky Charms in the morning and ignore each other all day, but Pete will still come at Patrick onstage that night, and Patrick will still be waiting for him.
And maybe sometimes now they kiss instead of hug on their way onstage, but that’s really just semantics. It’s still just the swift press of skin to skin, a reassurance that they’re both real and both in this moment and both together. It’s just them.
It’s about the fact that there’s even a them or a show or a moment to have together-even if it’s difficult to categorize.
And, sure, he loves Pete, and Pete loves him, and they’ve said it out loud, once, but that doesn’t change the fact that still have to negotiate the territory between what they are and what they’re becoming, and they’re both still nervous and being very careful.
So it’s hard to talk about how they navigate that territory, because in one way it’s something they’ve been doing since that first moment in Patrick’s house on the first day that they met, and in another way this is new and different and fraught with the kind of danger that means you’re changing the single most important relationship in your life.
Patrick’s had no doubts on that score for several years now. Sometimes he wonders if he knew right away, knew the moment that Pete wrapped his arms around him and Patrick, despite his natural instincts, accepted it, that Pete was going to be the one.
Not The One but, the one. There’s a difference in the two. The One is the great love of your life, but sometimes that love is a trick of the light, or the situation, and it doesn’t last, but you also never feel that way about anyone else. The thing about the one is that it’s more monumental and important because, while you might know right away that this person will be important, it takes a while to know that they’re going to change your life. That they’re going to be the one that you’re going to get bald and paunchy with, the one that’s going to look at what you’ve become and always see what you were. That’s a special, lasting kind of love, and you rarely find it where you expect to, and it’s not always with the person that you’re dating (or even married to).
So Patrick doesn’t really know if he’s always somehow known, but now he thinks that maybe Pete is the one, and it’s possible that he’s also The One. That could be. Patrick knows that what he feels for Pete is love, but it’s also so much more than any love he’s ever experienced or heard about.
When they’re together he doesn’t hear the sweeping music of Hollywood, and, sure, sometimes his stomach flutters, but that’s more from trying to repress the laughter than any sort of winged creature. He doesn’t look at Pete with stars in his eyes or his mouth hanging open. They know each other too well and too completely for that.
He does hear music when they’re together and mostly it’s just the music they’re making. And when it’s not their music, or at least not the music they’re recording (because sometimes he hears other music they’ve worked on, or will work on, but it’s not there yet, and Pete generally defers to him on that front), it’s still not the overly-orchestrated, symphonic pieces that tradition dictates; it’s the raw intensity and honesty of a singer-songwriter stripped down to his words, his voice, and his instrument.
%^%^%^%^
Maybe that’s part of why it took him so long to get it.
He thinks sometimes that Pete got it first; in his own way, Pete’s always been very perceptive.
What he does know is that all the parts of his brain that deal with relationships and love and those things stopped creating elaborate fantasies or idly wondering if the blond woman that smiled at him across the concourse would smile at him the same way over coffee the morning after (not that he actually wanted to have a morning after or even really wanted her, but somehow your brain is always sizing people up as potential mates-whether you want it to or not), and instead focused entirely on his skinny, tattooed, slightly taller frontman.
The nice thing about that is that he doesn’t have to wonder what Pete will look at him like over coffee, because by now he’s seen almost every expression Pete’s capable of and, even if they weren’t all directed at him, he can extrapolate. So, yeah, he’s got a pretty good idea what Pete’s bed head looks like, and how demanding he gets when he’s sick, and the way that he can be self-absorbed and morose, and when it’s time to leave him be, and when it’s time to haul him out of his bunk whether he likes it or not.
And the thing about knowing all that stuff is that he learned it because Pete’s his fucking best friend, and he’s dedicated a fair portion of his life to figuring it out (even if most of it came pretty easy to him) because that’s how they’ve always worked.
So, yeah, the slide from Pete and Patrick to Pete and Patrick is a bit hard to see.
%^%^%^%^
There’s this place where you’re not just friends, but you’re not quite lovers, and Pete and Patrick have been living there for a long time now. The landscape changes, but the location doesn’t.
So while they kiss now, and that’s a difference from when it was just cuddling or just Pete kissing Patrick, it’s still not a new place for them.
They’re a little more obvious now, maybe, but only if you’re looking, and the truth is that they’ve been some variation of whatever they are for so long now that most people aren’t.
It’s kind of nice.
It’s also amusing that they’re slowly, so slowly (but not in an excruciating way, more savoring if anything) becoming what everyone’s always suspected, but they’ve suspected for so long that no one is watching. The irony of it all doesn’t escape any of them, and Andy and Joe have been getting all sorts of amusement out of the proceedings.
%^%^%^%^
Their coming together is glacial in so many ways. After that first step, after the first chaste kiss and awkward admissions of love, they both seem content to wait-neither pushing the status quo. So their coming together is slow, ever so slow, but it’s also inexorable and has the power to change the face of the world. At least the face of their worlds.
So they take a while to take the next step, a step so tiny that it’s the difference between an exhale and a held breath, just the slightest thing, but also one that can change everything.
It’s the difference between the regular steady rhythm of the heart and the smallest stutter between beats.
It’s the difference between the press of two lips together and the smallest gap between them.
It’s the difference between friends and maybe lovers.
It’s the moment when they pass the last exit ramp and there’s no getting off the highway now.
They’re in the bus and it’s late and everyone but the two of them (and the driver up front) is asleep, and they’re watching off-market Kung-Fu movies, when Pete turns and looks down.
(This time, it’s Patrick cuddled close against Pete, Pete pressed into the corner of the couch, Patrick’s head on his bicep and the T.V. volume turned down low.)
So Pete turns and looks at him and, in the half-light of the T.V., the regular beat of Patrick’s heart stutters for just a measure, stutters just as Pete’s head descends towards his for one of their now-comfortable, quick kisses.
Only this time Patrick’s just expelling the small huff of air that he held for a second too long and instead of his closed lips meeting Pete’s, his are slightly open and moist and it’s as though some permission has been given because, before he can even return the pressure, Pete’s opening his mouth and moving his lips against Patrick’s, and they’re no more than sharing breath and moving the already exhausted air back and forth between them, but it’s more intimate than any kiss Patrick’s ever had before.
So, it’s tiny, it’s the smallest of variations on the familiar, but it’s also the difference between friends and lovers and that’s not such a small thing.
They keep breathing into each other until Patrick, who never got his breath back anyway, has to break free or pass out (and there’s no call to give Pete more reason to crown himself a Makeout King).
So he reluctantly pulls back and begrudgingly inserts a scant inch of space between them as he tries to restore his blood and oxygen percentages. Once the lightheadedness dissipates, but long before his heart rhythm returns to its normal, steady pace, he leans back in to kiss Pete. This time he takes the initiative and, after a quick press of their lips together, he parts his own and gently runs his tongue along the seam of Pete’s lips.
Almost instantaneously Pete parts his lips, and Patrick slides his tongue between them, tasting and teasing him. Pete’s patience is swiftly exhausted and his hands come to rest against Patrick’s arms as his tongue begins to move.
They stay like that, kissing, until the need for air drives them apart, and then waiting only long enough to catch their breath, before they’re kissing again. They do little else, don’t cross any other lines, confining their touches to areas that have already been approved: Pete’s almost magnetically drawn to Patrick’s neck, and there’s rarely a moment when he’s not got at least one hand cupping or tracing it; Patrick, for his part, spends a fair bit of time on Pete’s neck as well, but more than that he explores the firm, golden planes of his back.
It’s only when the bus hits a rough patch of road and the bouncing forces them apart that they separate, entwining their hands without consulting one another.
Patrick doesn’t know what to say, but it seems like someone should say something. They’ve had the whole declarations of love moment, and maybe they’re doing things backwards-declaring their love and then getting to making out-but it makes sense for them. It does make this moment a bit awkward, though. Not to mention, they’ve passed the just friends line and even the lines they drew for themselves, and now they’re in completely unfamiliar territory.
“The thing about not caring what anyone else thinks is that there’s no script for this moment.” Pete’s voice is husky and deep, and Patrick feels a shiver across the back of his neck. “We’re forging a new road, our own road. Gonna be want we want to be. I’m good with whatever, ‘s long as it’s with you.” Pete’s not looking at Patrick, but Patrick understands, and at least this time it’s not him fumbling for the words.
“Me too.” Patrick stops there and then thinks better of it, adds, “still love you” in a low voice, but he doesn’t mumble.
“Me too.” Pete says and squeezes his hand.
%^%^%^%^
They start to pick up some momentum after that. Nothing too drastic, but they’ve chosen each other and committed to this, so there’s no real sense in crawling along any longer.
They’ve never hidden anything about who and what they are, so they don’t hide this, but like so much else, this is for them, about them, and so they don’t broadcast it either.
So now sometimes they kiss, really kiss, before going onstage (if they can find a quiet moment to themselves, because for all that they’re not hiding, they don’t really want to share).
And they might kiss coming off stage-although it’s not as important to be alone after the show, because Pete’s got a reputation for getting a little high off the crowd and doing crazy things afterwards, and Patrick’s always been one of his favorite targets, so there’s really no need to explain anything because no one thinks to ask.
So, far easier than he would have thought possible even knowing how easy everything else was, the lingering touches and sweet kisses, and the occasional quick clasp of their hands, become a regular part of them and who they are.
The stage guys don’t even really seem to notice the difference and though Joe and Andy do know, they don’t care, and they’re certainly not surprised; so, while everything is changing between them-at the same time nothing is changing.
%^%^%^%^
It’s just a fact of life and touring that Patrick has slept with every single one of his bandmates. For a long time beds were just too few and too far between, no one cared who was in it with you as long as you had your own pillow and were horizontal.
For that matter he’s slept on pretty much all of his bandmates while they were sitting, strapped in vans and cars and planes over the years.
So sleeping with a bandmate is nothing new, nothing that has any particular weight or significance.
And that’s before you factor in Pete Wentz and his penchant for snuggling, or cuddling, or in some other way invading the personal space of anyone within twenty feet of him, and his loudly and repeatedly stated preference for sleeping on Patrick.
Even if Patrick had been inclined to deny him, Pete generally didn’t bother him when he was asleep. It was when he was awake you had to worry about him shoving Twinkies in your pants and putting salt in your tea. Pete didn’t get enough sleep as it was, and it seemed cruel somehow to deny him one of the things that helped.
So it’s not in any way new when Pete, hoodie-clad as usual, falls asleep slumped against Patrick on the couch. What is new, maybe, is that when Patrick wakes up (and he doesn’t even remember falling asleep) Pete’s got one of his hands and is slowly tracing the shape of it.
Patrick doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything, but Pete still knows that he’s awake.
“Wanna sleep with you.” Pete’s words are low; it’s dark outside and Patrick’s Mac has gone to sleep, so there’s not much in the way of illumination save the occasional spike of headlights flickering through the tinted windows.
“We won’t fit.” Patrick’s not really surprised at the regret he hears in his own voice. He wants to feel Pete against him, wants to feel Pete boneless and comfortable, sleeping the way he rarely does.
“Here.” Pete looks up at him then and in the dark Patrick can’t see his expression, but Patrick can feel the pressure of his gaze all the same.
Pete’s got a point. The bunks are too shallow to accommodate them both but the couch, while not much wider, doesn’t have the height limitation that the bunks do.
“Okay.”
Patrick’s not truly surprised when Pete gets up and pads out of the room. He’s back in a moment, trailing a blanket and holding a wad of something against his chest. A modern-day Linus. Patrick’s chest gets unexpectedly tight, but he says nothing, just waiting for Pete to tell him how this is going to work.
Pete hands him the fabric, and Patrick’s only a little surprised to find one of his own hoodies wrapped around a pillow.
It’s not unusual for one of them to crash out on the couch for some reason or another, but it does mean waking up to scrutiny of anyone who gets up first-trust Pete to think of him in this.
He takes the hat off his head and shrugs into the jacket, pulling the hood up over his head and pulling the strings to tighten it around his face. Pete’s busy putting a pillow down on the couch and shaking out the blanket he’d pilfered, from the scent, from Patrick’s bunk as well.
They don’t talk about it, but Patrick is the first to lie back, opening his arms and waiting for Pete to fill them. When they’re both comfortable, they use their free arms to pull the blanket up over them; Patrick falls asleep, not for the first time, to Pete’s rhythmic breathing, but for the first time he can feel the press of Pete's abdomen against his own as he inhales and the subtle twitch of Pete’s fingers against his neck.
%^%^%^%^
When he awakens in the morning, Patrick half expects to find himself sporting a toothpaste mustache or at the very least a roomful of snickering people. Instead he finds they’ve been covered by another blanket and the lounge is conspicuously deserted, especially for the time of day. Pete’s still asleep, and this must be the longest he’s slept in the whole time Patrick’s known him, without the aid of modern medicine.
He’s lying there, just feeling the pressure and warmth of Pete against him, when Andy comes through the door.
He’s being careful, quiet and Patrick just watches him, not wanting to disturb Pete against him; then Andy turns and sees that he’s awake.
“You’ve got about another hour,” he says and then, without another word, grabs something off the table and slides back out.
Patrick just tightens his arms around Pete and closes his eyes. He can stand another hour of this.
%^%^%^%^
Pete’s the one with all the grand dramatic gestures-it’s one of his trademarks.
That doesn’t prepare Patrick for his next move.
Pete’s always been tactile on stage, always been in Patrick’s space on stage, so Patrick doesn’t suspect anything when Pete comes over and nuzzles his way to Patrick’s neck.
What Pete does next is what forces Patrick’s breath out of his lungs in an ungraceful whoosh and causes him to fumble the chorus. The good news is that between the screaming and the way that every single pair of eyes in the place seems to be focused on Pete--he doesn’t think anyone notices.
Well, anyone but Pete, because Pete’s attention is solely on Patrick, and that makes this even more intimate because when Pete had lifted his head like always and taken a step back, instead of whirling around and back to his side, he’d sunk ever so gracefully down to the stage, still facing Patrick, still focused on Patrick, and kept playing, his whole body angled to Patrick’s, everything about his posture and expression telegraphing reverence.
Patrick’s grateful that he doesn’t stay there long; it seems to be enough that he’s flustered Patrick because, just a couple of beats later, Pete levers himself up and wanders back to the side, as though nothing interesting has happened.
Patrick finds himself wishing for that same nonchalance because he’s rattled, his hands just slightly shaking, and he still hasn’t gotten his breath back. He recovers though, because he has to and he’s in the middle of a damn song (and didn’t Pete know what this would do to him because it’s completely unfair to expect him to sing when he’s breathless).
%^%^%^%^
They finish the song and the set. And, in a somewhat uncharacteristic move, Patrick gets to Pete first afterwards, hands their instruments to a somewhat surprised tech, and shoves Pete into the nearest shadowed corner.
It’s only when he’s got his arms around Pete and is breathing heavily into his neck, mouthing the skin there, lightly pulling at it, that he asks, “Do you know what that did to me?”
Pete’s laugh is low and wicked and his eyes are bright when Patrick lifts his head and looks directly at him.
“Alright then,” he says. There’s nothing else to say, and it’s not like he doesn’t want this too, doesn’t want this as much as Pete, doesn’t want to feel and touch and explore and have the right to do all the things that he’s only just begun to let himself imagine (because for the longest time it was only about Pete, only about who Pete was, and now it’s also about what Pete is, and that’s a change, but one that is apparently going to be enjoyable for them both).
Patrick shifts, cants his hips, and slides one leg between Pete’s slightly parted ones, and then descends for a filthy, hot kiss. They can both play this game.
%^%^%^%^
The first hotel night after their first real kiss, Pete claims Patrick as his roommate before anyone has a chance to defer to him.
Patrick’s laughing and shaking his head as Pete pulls him into their room, amused at the way Pete always seems so sure that everyone’s about to fight him for Patrick’s attentions, as though Patrick is so infinitely desirable that no one could resist his charms.
They get in the door after a battle with the infernal swipe card, and Patrick, as always, wishes fondly for the days of actual keys-even though he can’t actually remember them himself.
Still, they get into the room without incident--it’s their first night in the hotel, and they’ve just played a show and done some signing--and really they’re all about ten steps from asleep, and the only thing keeping them upright is the lure of a real, honest shower where they won’t bruise their elbows trying to wash their hair.
Pete gives Patrick the first shower, already plugging in and powering up his laptop. He’s going to get the most use out of the wireless before he succumbs to such things as cleanliness and sleep.
Patrick comes back into the room, clean and feeling like a real person again, only to discover that both of their suitcases are on one of the beds, and Pete has, inexplicably, put their shoes on the pillows.
“Uh, Pete?”
“Can’t sleep in that bed, it’s dirty. Have to sleep with me.” Pete looks almost defiant and Patrick wonders how long he’s been sitting there waiting for Patrick to respond to his handiwork.
“Obviously.” Patrick doesn’t say anything else, just pulls a book out of his suitcase and crawls into the other bed.
When Pete crawls in next to him, later, his hair smelling of the same courtesy shampoo that Patrick used, and wraps himself against Patrick’s side, his head on Patrick’s shoulder, Patrick says, “I would’ve anyway.”
The only sign that Pete hears him is the almost painful tightening of his arms and the huff of breath that he releases.
%^%^%^%^
Pete’s always been the one with boundary issues, specifically crossing other people’s boundaries and the issues that can cause, so it makes sense that he makes most of the drastic moves after that.
It seems to be enough that whenever they do come to a crossroads and it’s Patrick’s turn to choose, he always chooses Pete. Pete doesn’t seem to need much more than that to know that Patrick’s on the same page, wants the same things.
Patrick’s glad of that because he struggles with saying the things they both know.
%^%^%^%^
The first time Pete walks deliberately up to him, lifts his bass and licks a long stripe up the neck of the guitar Patrick nearly chokes.
When Pete leans in and whispers, “Yours tastes better,” he does, just for a moment.
%^%^%^%^
They kiss now, obviously. Actually, they kiss a lot now. It seems as though being given permission to touch and kiss him was all Pete needed.
Patrick’s honestly surprised by it at first--the sheer amount of time and touch Pete seems to need. It’s only now, when Pete feels free to ask for the things he wants, that Patrick realizes how much he’s been holding back all these years.
Patrick thought he was pretty good at reading Pete, and he’s still pretty sure that he’s the best at reading him out of all the people he’s met, but that doesn’t apparently mean as much as he thought it did.
Pete kisses him in the morning before he’s even really awake: sweet, innocent kisses dropped onto his forehead (if Patrick hasn’t put his hat on yet and so that means they’re usually only on his forehead if it’s a hotel night) and cheeks and even, when Patrick’s still too much asleep to smack him, on his nose.
And he kisses him when he is awake, and before breakfast, and after breakfast, and before interviews, and before lunch, and after lunch, and before sound-check, and sometimes during sound-check, and before the show, and after the show, and those are just the sweet kisses, the hello-kisses, and the I-missed-you kisses and the oh-there-you-are kisses and the-I saved-you-some-Mr.Pibb kisses.
All the kisses that say I love you in a thousand different ways on a daily basis.
And all that’s not counting how much Pete touches Patrick. He sits next to him, their thighs pressed firmly together, and rests his hand on Patrick’s thigh, and that’s when they’re not actually doing something together.
For all that Pete touched Patrick in a hundred different ways a hundred times a day before, now that they’re whatever it is that they are-he touches Patrick twice as much and in three times as many ways now.
Patrick isn’t a math-genius, but he knows that makes no logical sense. Still, it’s true, and he can feel the difference between those touches.
So, yeah, Pete touches and kisses Patrick more, and Patrick’s surprised because he’d really thought he knew how much Pete needed, and he’d thought he wasn’t doing a bad job of it, but now he can see just how much more Pete needs.
And, exactly how much more Pete is capable of giving.
%^%^%^%^
Patrick touches Pete more too. It’s more subtle maybe, but it’s still there. He catches Joe’s not-so-subtle nudges at Andy sometimes, when he’s crossing his knee over Pete’s as they sit down to watch The Breakfast Club again-and what is it about being a child of the 80’s that means you've sold your soul for all of time to John Hughes? -, or when he evens out the strings of Pete’s hoodie-and he doesn’t blame Joe or Andy for the endless mocking that is due to him because, seriously, since when is he a twelve-year-old-girl? But he can’t stop himself because they’re really uneven, and the clean and tidy (he refuses to call it OCD-he’s just picky about some things, okay, he’s not pathological and it’s not fair of him to claim otherwise) part of his brain insists that the ends shouldn’t be six inches apart.
For all that Pete’s touching escalates to new and never-before-conceived-of levels, so does Patrick’s, and that surprises him too.
He finds himself wanting to touch Pete all the time. It’s not sexual, or at least it’s not only, not just, sexual; it’s…comfort maybe, or reassurance, or just.
He’s not sure exactly what it is, but he knows that when he’s reaching across Pete to grab his headphones, he always finds his knuckles dragging across Pete’s knee; and when they’re just on the couch reading and he finds Pete’s legs across his own, he rests his free hand on Pete’s bare ankle; and even before his eyes are properly open, he finds his hands traitorously ruffling Pete’s hair.
And, despite the fact that they seem to touch a thousand times a day now, they still don’t spend even close to every minute together. Pete’s up half the night almost every night and Patrick still needs his time and space and, while they might love each other, they still spend more time together on a regular basis than any two people who haven’t taken vows of silence should.
So they still fight and they still shut each other out and Pete sulks and broods and Patrick glowers and that’s all normal and right and comforting in its own way.
%^%^%^%^
It was Patrick’s idea the first time they tried to sleep in the bunks together. That alone should have told him how stupid he was over Pete Wentz, because Patrick knew that they couldn’t fit, or at least it would almost be too tight a squeeze for comfort if they did, and he knew that they’d get mocked for it, but the fact was that he found he was an easy addict and apparently Pete was his drug of choice.
That first time that they’d laid out in the lounge and slept was the first time that Patrick could clearly recall sleeping with Pete, intending to sleep with him, intending to be touching and cuddling and sleeping together.
Maybe that was why he got hooked-because he found himself hyper-aware of every place they touched, and the heat of Pete’s body, and two-inch rise and fall of his chest when he was actually sleeping, and the way his hand curled into the soft fabric of Patrick’s hoodie, and all of those things meant that when he was lying in his own bunk, trying to sleep, he kept listening for the slight wheeze of Pete’s breathing and feeling the phantom twitch of his fingers.
If Pete slept like any other person Patrick might not have been driven to it, but because Pete did so rarely sleep, and it seemed like when the insomnia got bad he even pretty much stopped trying to-figuring when his body was finally ready it would just take him where he was sitting (and he was generally right)-Patrick wasn’t able to listen for his breathing in the dark, snuffling sounds of the bunk area because Pete wasn’t there.
He was in the longue watching T.V. or harassing someone on the internet or getting a snack in the kitchen and generally keeping Patrick up far too long wishing for something that he only had to ask for.
So Patrick laid in his bunk and contemplated grabbing his hoodie and heading for the lounge, he could totally pretend that he couldn’t sleep, curl up against Pete and let the heat and nearness of his body and the regular, steady sound of his breathing send him right off.
But that wasn’t really fair, and Pete had gone the extra mile to ask for what he wanted, and really, it wasn’t fair of them to make the back lounge their bedroom and force the guys to tiptoe around them in the mornings, so he did the only thing that he could and, trying not to think too much about it, he got up and shuffled to the lounge and opened the door-finding Pete with both his computer and the T.V. going. Pete looked tired, the circles under his eyes emphasized by the poor lighting and he looked up when Patrick opened the door.
“Patrick?”
“Come to bed?” Patrick asked.
“Right now? You know I won’t be able to sleep and I hate just lying there.” Pete sounded frustrated at the thought of it.
“Come to bed…with me?” Patrick didn’t meet his eyes.
There was just the hint of amusement in Pete’s voice when he said, “I thought you said we couldn’t fit.”
“Thought we could try it, just to see.” Patrick tried for nonchalance but knew that Pete saw through him.
“Yeah, we could.” Pete stood up, shutting the laptop and turning the T.V. off, then came to the door and caught Patrick by the hand, kissing his cheek quickly.
“Let’s go!”
Patrick crawled into bed first, tilting himself slightly, his back pressed partly against the wall, and Pete crawled in after him.
There wasn’t enough room for two people to lie side by side, even if one of them was Pete-sized, so Pete was forced to lay half on top of Patrick, his shoulder only a couple of inches from the bottom of the upper bunk.
That was okay with Patrick, he didn’t want Pete to move too much anyway; Patrick liked the way Pete felt against him, on him. Patrick was reasonably certain Pete felt the same way if the deep sigh he let out and the way he seemed to go almost limp when they settled down was any indication.
%^%^%^%^
Patrick woke at the thump-before the mumbling and the laughter. He was reasonably certain he would have woken up anyway because it was cold without Pete on top of him and, also, the blood returning to his arm was setting off uncomfortable pins and needles.
The point is that he woke up at the thump.
Or rather, he woke up when the combination of being in one position too long and Pete’s restlessness overcame how comfortable they were being that close together and they moved-rolled really.
And in Patrick’s case that wasn’t so bad because he still had bed to roll in, but Pete ended up in the aisle between the bunks-a bit disoriented and disgruntled.
Andy and Joe laugh at them; Joe even takes a picture, and Patrick is almost tempted to say, “I told you so,” but the fact is that he’s the one that pushed for this and Pete was the one to pay.
Patrick gets out of bed and pulls Pete up and then shoves him at the bunk. This time they lay with Pete against the wall and Patrick on top of him, pining him to the bed.
Neither of them wants to sleep alone, and Patrick’s reasonably certain he can keep Pete in place even if he is asleep.
Everyone settles back down, settles back into sleep and Patrick just burrows a little more into Pete, into the place where his shoulder and chest meet.
This is definitely as good as when Pete’s lying on him. It might even be better.
%^%^%^%^
They don’t really do the bunk thing after. Well, not unless the hotels are really few and far between and the back lounge is occupied, so actually they do the bunk thing more than they should, but it’s always a bad idea, except for the part where neither of them sleeps as well when they’re not sleeping together, and Pete, in particular, rarely sleeps to begin with.
And Patrick can’t argue with himself over the bunk thing when he knows that nothing feels as good as Pete in his arms.
%^%^%^%^
And, in between the cuddles and the sweet, friendly kisses, there are the not-so-sweet and not-so-innocent kisses and those are only slightly less frequent.
Pete, usually, doesn’t start those until after Patrick’s managed to brush his teeth (and Pete’s brushed his own), but Pete will crawl into Patrick’s bunk when he’s reading and start dropping those sweet, fast kisses on his lips until Patrick’s had enough and opens his mouth, pulls Pete against himself and kisses him deeply.
Pete does his share of initiating, but he seems to delight in driving Patrick to do it first. Patrick doesn’t know what it is, but Pete always seems awfully pleased with himself after Patrick’s kissed them both breathless.
So Patrick’s learned to expect these little kissing attacks that always seem to lead to one of them pushed into a corner, or up against a wall, or pressed into the couch and both of them breathless.
%^%^%^%^
And, sometimes, they do other stuff, maybe-boyfriend stuff.
Like, sometimes, they hold hands and it’s not the holding hands where Pete grabs Patrick’s hand after a show and drags him along to the dressing room, or out to meet the fans.
It’s more than that--although that is good--, it’s all of them, Joe and Andy and Pete and Patrick and some of the guys from the crew sitting in the lounge watching a movie and then Patrick feels Pete’s hand grasp his own, intertwining their fingers and just holding steadily.
That’s new and special and it always, always makes Patrick do that stupid smile and blush combination, and he’s always very glad when Pete does it when they’re watching movies because at least then it’s usually dark and they don’t get to tease him about it.
But he’d want to do it even if it wasn’t dark and they could see.
%^%^%^%^
They don’t always room together, a lot of the time Pete rooms with Joe because of Hemmy and the whole smoking thing, and that’s great. Frankly, it doesn’t really matter to Patrick who he rooms with, either way he’s going to have two fewer roommates than usual and that’s the real excitement for him.
It’s not that he doesn’t like them or that there’s anything wrong, but sometimes you want more than a 3x7x3 space to call your own.
The point is that Patrick doesn’t really have a preference and, frankly, by the time they make to whatever hotel they’re staying at, all he wants to do is get horizontal, and he doesn’t even care enough to pay attention to the details.
He’s started to notice that sometimes Pete will run off of the bus when they pull in, yelling “I call Patrick.” At first it just amused him, but he’s noticed lately that Joe and Andy seem to wait to figure out what Pete is going to do before they decide where they’re staying.
It’s late, or early, the clock says 4:17 and it’s dark out so Patrick knows it’s Wednesday and that’s really about as far as he’s gotten when he realizes that he’s standing there with his bag in his hand and Andy’s got a keycard. He doesn’t know why they’re just standing around if there are already keycards to be had and although he’s vaguely aware that there’s some discussion of who’s where, he just doesn’t care. He grabs the card from Andy and mutters, “Let’s go.” He’s almost to the elevator before he realizes that Andy's not with him, that, actually, no one is following him.
He turns back and asks, "What's the problem?"
Andy and Joe don't say anything, but Pete looks like a cranky four-year-old.
"Seriously, I don't care who rooms with me, but I'm going to bed now and I'm not opening the door for anyone until we leave tomorrow so who-the-fuck-ever is sleeping with me should come now." He knows that there's another card to his room, and that the bored desk attendant can surely make another key if there isn't, but, really, he'd like whoever it's going to be to come now so that they can do all the noisy stuff now, together, and he won't have to sleep through banging luggage and long showers later-not that he couldn't, just that he'd rather not.
'Course, if Pete ends up in his room he'll be sleeping through that and more so it really doesn’t matter at all.
He just shrugs and starts to turn back to the elevators when a thought occurs to him, "What is the problem? Seriously, we never have issues over this-have I started snoring or something?"
Joe laughs, "Not like we'd know."
Andy looks between Patrick and Pete and then says, "I'm not getting in the middle of this."
Patrick thinks about that for a minute and, yeah, he's mostly been rooming with Pete for a while now and that's not exactly notable, but it's apparently not random. He looks at Pete, "Is there something I'm not getting here?"
Joe laughs again and bumps gently into Andy's arm and okay, obviously Patrick's not exactly been quick on the uptake here-whatever it is.
"Pete?"
"I just like rooming with you." Pete's practically mumbling and that doesn't really make any sense either, but Patrick seriously does not care at this point. He wants to shower, he wants to put on clothes that are clean or as close as he can find, he wants to stretch out on a bed and be able to roll over twice if he wants to without ending up on the floor, he wants to lie completely still and be completely still without the rocking, shifting, vibrating mass of the bus under him. He wants, seriously, to sleep for at least eight solid hours on clean sheets that he didn't have to wash and on a bed he won't have to make and then he wants to wake up and eat a breakfast that doesn't come out of a box and was cooked by a person on a stove. He doesn't want to stand in this lobby any longer than he has to and he's already been here too long.
"So, what's the problem?" Patrick's not at his best right now, but he's trying to figure out why they're still standing here. He wants to go to bed, Pete apparently wants to room with him, fine, let's go, where is the problem?
Then he remembers the way that Andy and Joe hesitated, unsure, as though they were waiting for something-it clicks suddenly and Patrick's not upset, precisely, but he's a bit confused and seriously, what the fuck?
"Pete, are you managing me? Are you intimidating them?" He waves his hand at Joe and Andy and Joe's giggling now and Patrick feels like the last person to get a joke that wasn't that funny to begin with.
"Why? Does it matter? Don't you want to room with me?" Pete's almost whining and this really doesn't make any sense.
"I told you, I do not care who I room with. Can we just go to bed now?"
Pete still looks unhappy but he comes, dragging his bag with him and the last thing Patrick hears before he gets on the elevator is Joe's almost hysterical laughter and Andy's more subdued but just as amused laugh.
Pete just looks…petulant…and isn't looking at him and that's fine with him, he just wants to get in the room already. Whatever Pete's problem is, it can wait until tomorrow after Patrick's nice, fresh, hot breakfast.
They get into the room without incident and Patrick doesn't even ask before going to shower first-it's not like Pete's actually going to be sleeping anytime soon-he on the other hand fully excepts to be asleep within the hour maybe even the half hour.
Pete's got the T.V. on low, on MTV which is, per usual, not showing any music videos, and he's sitting in the middle of his bed, pillows piled behind him as he scribbles in one of his journals. Patrick feels a twinge for a moment, wants to pull him out, wants to understand, but then decides not to…this really can wait until tomorrow and tomorrow they're not in a hotel with bright white sheets and what are seriously, seriously down comforters.
He says good night to Pete and gets a mumbled 'night in return and shrugging, he crawls into bed and actually sinks his head into the pillow and that's luxury, they can keep the mints and the million thread-count sheets-just give him a decent pillow. He's nearly asleep, his eyes are closed, and his breathing deep, his back to Pete, when he hears him say, "It's just that you're always my first choice."
Patrick opens his mouth, starts to say something, he doesn't know what, that statement doesn't even make sense, but then decides, tomorrow, and finishes falling sleep instead.
%^%^%^%^
The thing about Pete was that even though he didn't, by and large, respect lines, even the ones he drew, he did his best to respect Patrick's.
That was one of the things that Patrick noticed when he started noticing all the ways that Pete treated him just the slightest bit differently.
It wasn't that Pete wouldn't prank him or laugh at him or purposely infuriate him, but if Pete knew that Patrick had a reason--one that he considered good or valid--to protest something, he just didn't do it.
For example, he never considered Patrick's hair situation to be all that tragic, but then again, Patrick reminded himself, Pete had never had to worry about hair loss. But still he didn't push the issue too much. He didn't, generally, take Patrick's hats off of him and, despite the fact that it was obviously an easy target, he never made fun of Patrick's ever-growing bald spot.
The same with Patrick's attachment to clothing and, more specifically, layers. There had been more than one time that, for whatever reason, Patrick was the only one left with any clothes on, but while Pete would coax and cajole, but he wouldn't push any further, wouldn't shame or embarrass Patrick over it--particularly in front of their friends.
The more interesting part of it, to Patrick at least, was the fact that he would actually deflect attention off of Patrick-would make a joke that implied that the Pete had sworn Patrick into a blood pact that insisted that 70% of his body be covered at all times so as to disguise his awesomeness and deter the Patrick-stealers.
Everyone would laugh and the moment would pass and that was actually, in its own way, a kind thing to do. Patrick's only just started to realize that, and also that it wasn't quite true that everyone laughed--he didn't actually recall Pete laughing, just smiling smugly.
%^%^%^%^
It’s not just a hotel night; they’re even pulling in early. Everyone’s in good spirits and, except for Pete, who finally fell asleep about an hour ago, they’re all pretty much awake. Patrick nods at the others to go ahead and stays on the bus with Pete. He rarely sleeps more than a couple of hours at a time on his own and since this is an un-medicated sleep he’ll be up before too long.
Patrick’s got a track he wants to finish laying anyway. Andy comes back and tosses him a couple of keycards and then it’s just Patrick and the laptop. It’s a couple of hours before he finishes the track-nothing special, just a cover he felt like laying down-and pulls the headphones off.
He arches back and stretches, rolling his neck and feeling the bones pop. When he’s done stretching, he goes to get up and get Pete. It’s been a while, definitely longer than he thought Pete would or could sleep, but it’s probably time for them get in there now. He at least wants a shower and he doesn’t want Pete to wake up alone on the bus and not know where he is or where he’s staying-even if he does have his sidekick surgically attached to his right hand.
Except as he begins to stand he notices that Pete’s already up, has been up for a while by all appearances. He’s sitting folded up in the hallway leading to the bunks, his hair all fuzzy and sleep-mussed and his eyes all dark and wide-pupiled.
“Pete?”
When he answers there’s the scratch of sleep in his voice, “Good song, sounds great-better.”
“Thanks, how long have you been up?”
“Don’t know, heard you finish the Waits and start that one though.”
Patrick thinks about it and realizes that Pete’s been up for close to an hour then. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“You were busy, ‘sides, I like listening.”
“We’re at the hotel, everyone else is inside; I’ve got our keys.”
Pete just nods.
Patrick walks over and sticks out his hand, pulling Pete up once he accepts it. “You ready?”
Pete just looks at him, his eyes still dark, and Patrick’s just a little unnerved by his stillness, but sometimes Pete’s just like that. Whatever’s on his mind, he’ll share when he’s ready.
“Come on, you packed?”
Pete nods again and then turns around and grabs a bag from his bunk.
Patrick puts his Mac away and grabs his bag and the keycards.
“Right then, you’re with me you know.”
Pete doesn’t say anything just follows him into the hotel, his hood up and head down.
Patrick keys them into the room and tosses his stuff onto his bed. Pete’s behind him, doing something with his bag and Patrick sits down, turns to face him.
“I don’t think about it most of the time, but I just assume I’m staying with you. I didn’t know that it mattered to you.” Pete just shrugs and Patrick knows that he’s got do something more.
“I like knowing that when you can’t sleep I’ll be here, that I’ll know, that I can try to help.”
Pete looks at him again, and then asks, “Sing me to sleep tonight? We’ll call it even.”
Patrick laughs, “Yeah, sure, whatever you want.”
“I want my very own lullaby-better get cracking.”
%^%^%^%^
Pete doesn’t get his very own lullaby, well not precisely, what he gets is Patrick, the living music player, doing an all-request hour. Patrick won’t promise to do more than that, the fact is that an hour can be a lot, particularly with some of the stuff that Pete asks for.
Still, Pete gets his lullaby and even though he’s not asleep when Patrick finishes, he’s happy. Patrick figures that’s probably worth it.
%^%^%^%^
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