Chord Change, bandslash
Title: Chord Change
Author: giddygeek
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Summary: Try this instead.
Notes: 3600 words, adult. Many thanks to misspamela for the beta! :)
Pete signs his newest band, and then takes a casual, informal survey.
"So," he says, spinning his chair a little, cross-legged; we're all friends here, "You dudes all straight?"
The guys in Haven look at each other. "Uh, yes?" says Roger, the lead singer.
"No handjobs, blowjobs, tongue kisses?" Pete asks, eyebrows raised.
Jamie the drummer frowns. "Look," he says, "We've all read about you and we've all read about Decaydance, and if being gay is a requirement, you probably should've mentioned it before we signed the contracts."
"Totally not a requirement," Pete says. "Just call it curiosity. Or call me an asshole, right? Haha."
No one does. They're too new to the label for that, Pete thinks, which is fine.
They'll learn.
~~
He lets Patrick loose on Haven right away. The band is good but like almost all the other bands Pete could name, Haven needs some of Patrick's polish.
"How's it going?" he asks every now and then. Patrick always says, "Good!" and tells him all about how far along Jamie has come, or how Roger's really expanding his range, or how Tyrone is amazing, blah blah blah.
Haven's first single is a song called 'Serenade (Surrender)'. Pete listens to it about 40 times, then calls Ryan and makes him listen too.
"Another whole band bites the dust?" Ryan asks, and Pete laughs a little.
"I added 'em to the list like three months ago," he says.
"Dude, sorry."
"It's actually hilarious," Pete says, hitting play again. "Some day I'll find a band that doesn't go gay for Patrick in an hour or less. Somewhere. Maybe I'll try a redneck country band or something."
Ryan scoffs. "You do remember that night in Tennessee, right?"
"Fuck, I'd blocked it out until now," Pete says, remembering with a shudder. "Damn it, Ross, I hate you."
"I know," Ryan says, not caring. "So, you think Patrick gets it this time?"
"Ha." Pete leans back on the couch and closes his eyes as the guitars wail into the chorus, Roger's voice sharp and aching above them; Patrick's a fucking genius. And a moron. "No, I guarantee he still doesn't have a clue."
"Tragic," Ryan says. "But I love the song, I have to--oh, gotta go, Brendon just bit Spencer's ankle--Spence, no!"
Pete rolls his eyes and closes his phone. Of course Ryan loves the damn song. Pete loves the damn song. That doesn't mean he isn't a little mad at fucking Roger and his idiot crush. He's not going to ruin the guy's career over it or anything, so he figures he's allowed to sit around and be miserable for a while, anyway.
And maybe he should write his own song, about idiots who can't see the writing on the wall, and the other idiots who spend their time sitting around being miserable about it. He could call it 'Hell if I Know (and Damned if I Don't)' and then make Patrick sing it.
Pleased with that plan, Pete pulls his hood up, presses play for the 43rd repeat of Haven's single, and gets to work.
~~
A couple weeks later 'Serenade (Surrender)', another love song about Patrick Stump produced by Patrick Stump, becomes a hit.
Big surprise.
~~
Pete's list of dudes who were straight before they met Patrick has 52 names on it, including about half the dudes on Decaydance. Most of the other half don't count because they'd been pretty gay already, like Ryan, Spencer, William, and Pete himself.
Pete's spent so much time talking seriously to guys who were freaking out a little and/or thinking about going for it that he deserves a degree in Unrequited Loveology, and maybe his own psychiatrist's couch.
He's also considered a pamphlet for Decaydance newbies titled 'Music, Business, Love: no, Patrick doesn't know and isn't doing it on purpose' but. Well, love songs about Patrick Stump produced by Patrick Stump are like, half his label's biggest hits.
And it's not like anyone's heart gets really crushed (more importantly, Patrick's heart doesn't even get dented) so Pete mostly keeps his mouth shut until the dudes come crying to him, and that's just the way it is.
~~
Haven goes out on tour with The Academy Is... and Cobra Starship, because Pete knows from experience that parties and insanity are the best cure for a heart (or four or five) that's all dinged up with unrequited love. Guaranteed one or two of the guys in the band will sleep with William--smart money's on Tyrone and Jamie, with Roger in Gabe's clutches by the third show.
Pete finally gets Patrick back to working on their own music and promptly schedules a trip out to Chicago. The worst part of bringing in new people is losing Patrick for a while, but since Pete has a pretty strong feeling that a bored Patrick could maybe be a gone Patrick, he signs bands and copes. Patiently. Politely, even.
"Dude," Patrick says as Pete drops his bags in Patrick's foyer and wraps him up in a hip-bumping, arm-twining, face-in-neck serious kind of hug, "Did you really have to call that much?"
"Yes," Pete says into Patrick's neck. "I thought they weren't going to give you back."
"You think that every time, and I always come back," Patrick says. He has his arms wrapped around Pete and isn't bothering with the back patting or wriggling away that other people might have attempted; he might not be the snuggler that Pete is, but he knows a good hug when he sees one. He probably also knows a slightly freaked-out Pete when he sees one. Whatever.
"There's a first time for everything," Pete says, finally letting go. He raises his eyebrows at Patrick. "I heard that Haven asked you to leave your band and ride off into the sunset with them."
Patrick snorts, shoves his hands in his pockets. "Hardly," he says, like he doesn't know Pete knows Roger said exactly that on their last day of recording. But then, he also acts like Pete never heard Travis say he wants to carry Patrick around on his tour bus and take him out for shows and blowjobs, and like Pete never heard Brendon Urie, of all people, daydream out loud about keeping Patrick tied to a bed somewhere, naked except for a guitar.
Patrick, Pete thinks, is kind of dense.
"You want to go store your stuff in your room?" Patrick asks. "I was making sandwiches, I can get you one, unless you want a nap or something first."
"Sandwiches," Pete says, with all the enthusiasm of a guy who doesn't eat well when his lead singer is locked away with another band intent on seducing him. He grabs his bags, plants a kiss on Patrick's cheek, and heads for the guest bedroom.
His toothbrush and flat-iron go in Patrick's bathroom, though. Pete hates for his toiletries to be alone.
~~
Patrick is singing the chorus of Serenade while he bops around the island in his kitchen. Pete rolls his eyes and boosts himself up on the counter, making gimme hands at Patrick until he has little scraps of Patrick's monumental sandwiches to tide him over while Patrick gets out chips, drinks, paper towels for napkins.
"It's a good song," Pete says almost reluctantly, rolling bread around a piece of pickle, cheese around the bread, lettuce over everything.
"They didn't even want it on the album, can you believe that?" Patrick shakes his head, slices the sandwiches. "I don't know about these bands sometimes, Pete."
"It is kind of, you know." Pete shrugs, waves his hand, eats his mini-sandwich in one crunching bite. "Revealing," he says, mouth full.
"Huh," Patrick says. "Revealing?" He smiles slow and playful, looking at Pete through his lashes as he considers, and if he'd turned that look on any other dude in the world, that dude would've been in love before he blinked.
Pete just takes his sandwich from Patrick's hand, feeds Patrick a chip, and says, "Hell yeah. You just didn't realize it because you're too used to me putting it all out there for everyone to hear."
Patrick looks at him, thoughtful, chewing the chip. "Maybe," he says, after a moment. "Yeah, maybe I'm just used to you."
~~
Writing an album goes like this: Pete sends Patrick a million lines of poetry, journal entries, lyric fragments, and stupid things that he writes down before he's fully awake, like hair like sunshine eyes like fire or that damn monkey ate my hat or the warmest hug that didn't involve my dog involved three smelly dudes in a crashed van Patrick had snowflakes in his eyelashes and he was bleeding and sometimes things even more random than that.
Patrick works at all those words like they're part of a jig-saw and he has the shape of it, the music, in his head already. He sings for Pete over the phone if they're apart, over his guitar in quiet hotel rooms if they're not. Pete listens to him, watches him, and feels endlessly grateful that he was given someone who could find the sense in all his nonsense, and make it awesome.
Then he pokes his nose in with a million suggestions, gets punched at least once, makes Patrick laugh until he's breathless at least a dozen times. After that they bring in Andy and Joe for frills and cleanup, and it's done.
It's kind of easy.
Pete used to get a little suspicious, sometimes even a lot distressed by how easy it was. It couldn't last, he thought. Patrick couldn't possibly find the music in Pete's words time after time. He worried that he'd send the writing over and there'd be a long silence from Patrick, and then an admission that it was over, that Patrick didn't understand. He assumed that every new song was the last, and sending things to Patrick made him frantic sometimes, left him feeling that much closer to being the broken asshole he'd become when Patrick finally gave up on him.
But Patrick always finds the music. Even though he still gets nervous, and he still worries a little about Patrick's work with other bands, Pete's starting to really believe he always will.
~~
At four in the morning, they finally take a break.
"Can I come sleep with you?" Pete asks. He's slumped against Patrick's back, face pressed against his shoulder. He'd crawled behind Patrick with the excuse of these chords, try these instead and his hands guiding Patrick's fingers, but the truth was that Patrick had written him a snowflake song and Pete had felt just as overwhelmed as the first time he'd heard Hum Hallelujah. He'd needed to feel Patrick sing it as much as he'd needed to hear it.
"Yeah, that's okay," Patrick says, yawning, but instead of getting up, he settles back more comfortably, like he's already half-asleep. "You did bring pajamas, right?"
"No," Pete says, smiling. "Tonight you're getting the full Wentzy."
"Awesome," Patrick says. "So just like every other sleepover, huh?"
"Why mess with what's working?" Pete asks, then he pushes Patrick up and climbs off the couch after him. "C'mon, c'mon," he says, "Before we end up asleep down here like freaky workaholics." He drags Patrick after him, both of them stumbling tired, Pete bumping into things in the darkness between Patrick's little studio in the basement and his bedroom on the second floor. "Hey, you can sing me to sleep."
"Yay," Patrick says, deadpan.
"We could try it the other way around," Pete says, grinning at Patrick's half-horrified, "Uh, no," before finally finding his big, messy room, and closing the door behind them.
~~
Patrick brushes his teeth, then nags until Pete crawls up from where he'd belly-flopped on the bed and wrapped himself in the blankets. Pete brushes his teeth too, then strips himself down to boxers, turns out the bathroom light when he's done. He wanders back into the bedroom, where the lights are already off and Patrick is a sprawling, snuffling lump under the covers.
Those other guys are only half in love with you, he thinks, standing by the bed and watching Patrick's eyelashes flutter as he drifts off. He crawls onto the bed and under the covers and smiles a little when Patrick turns toward him. He thinks, they're half in love, but I'm a whole. I'm a whole in love with you.
Then Pete closes his eyes, curls up with only inches between them, and falls fast asleep.
~~
Patrick is usually up before him--Pete's used to crawling out of beds and bunks to find Patrick already at work. So he's surprised to wake up and find Patrick still in the bed, lying on his side, knees to Pete's knees. The soft skin of his inner arm is pale but warm under Pete's hand, which had curled over it entirely without Pete's permission at some point during the night.
Pete had written a poem years ago, when Patrick was living with Bob Bryar and coming to the studio with beard burn and fingertip bruises and smug smiles, full of lines about how much he hated marks that aren't mine on that white skin of yours. He'd been sure that'd end up in a song, and wondered for years why it hadn't, if maybe it was such an obvious love song that Patrick Stump, who'd produce goddamn Serenade, thought it was too much.
"You didn't sing me to sleep," he says, yawning, stretching and curling his fingers against Patrick's skin.
"Sorry," Patrick says, smiling at him, and then he leans forward and kisses Pete mid-yawn, morning breath and all.
There's a moment where Pete doesn't know what to do. He's spent a lot of time telling other people that Patrick doesn't really swing that way (ignoring the months of Bob Bryar because that would only get dudes' hopes up, because Bob and Patrick are assholes). He's spent even more time pretending he's just Patrick's jerk of a best friend. His brain just can't click over, stuck on what for long enough that Patrick starts to pull back, and it's the kiss ending that flips Pete's brain over into yes.
"Wait wait wait," he says, following Patrick as Patrick leans back away. "Oh my God, you can't just do that to a guy who thinks you're straight, and then run away!"
"A, not straight and you knew that," Patrick says, voice cold and bitchy as he wriggles; Pete's collapsing over his chest, pinning him down. "B, not exactly running away, am I?"
"You would be. You totally would be!" Pete wraps his hands over Patrick's arms and braces himself up. He feels wild-eyed and frantic and if it were anyone but Patrick under him, they'd probably be scared; fuck, he'd probably be scared of himself, but Patrick is just glaring up at him, pissed off.
"Get off me," Patrick says, and Pete stares down at him, gaping, then starts to smile.
"Oh no," he says, settling a little closer. "You kissed me!"
"You've kissed me a hundred times," Patrick says. He twists, trying to buck Pete off, but Pete's dug in, he is not going anywhere for anything.
"I buddy-kissed you because otherwise I'd give in and tongue kiss you," Pete says. "Hey, no biting. Hey!"
"Didn't it ever occur to you that I wanted you to tongue kiss me?" Patrick asks, flopping back after Pete evades his attempt to bite his arm. He's flushed with sudden fury and exertion, and Pete loves his stupid, red, sweaty face more than anything.
"No," he says, "because that would have been too good. Did it ever occur to you that I don't think I'm supposed to have good things?"
"No," Patrick says, almost spitting the word, he's so mad. "Because I love you, so I kind of want you to have good things."
Pete freezes, and for a moment all he can feel is Patrick's belly where his shirt is rucked up, the inside of Patrick's thighs against the outside of his, Patrick panting and mad and warm underneath him. He says, wondering, "What the fuck, Patrick, I totally didn't think I'd be stupider than you about this," and leans down to kiss Patrick, kiss him with tongue, and biting, and hips pushed up tight together to show Patrick that he means it.
And Patrick lets him; for a moment it's just Patrick letting him. Then he gasps and jerks a little under Pete's hands, and his knees come up, his head tilts back, and he's kissing Pete. That's pretty much like pouring gasoline on a fire; Pete goes fucking nuts and can't seem to help it, getting his hands in all kinds of trouble while trying to strip them both.
He manages to get one of Patrick's arms out of his t-shirt and push their boxers down a few vital inches, and that's good enough for him. That's fucking perfect, except Patrick is turning his face away and laughing breathlessly, saying, "Pete, Pete, could we maybe--oh fuck, yes--no, wait, could we maybe go more than two minutes?"
"No," Pete says, biting his way down to Patrick's nipples; if Patrick's going to be like that about it, Pete will just find another way to occupy his mouth. "Two minutes now. More time later." A quick, sharp bite to his stomach, just below his belly button, and Patrick gasps, moans, and lets Pete do what he wants, which has switched from rubbing off against Patrick to sucking Patrick's dick.
Patrick turns out to be more of a gentleman than Pete would be, but less of one than Pete would have guessed; his hands curl in Pete's hair, gently, and his hips twitch up enough that Pete groans, tempted, before settling an arm across his thighs, holding him down. Patrick retaliates by tightening his grip and making noises that leave Pete twitching, and Pete almost loses his two minutes just like that.
He gets it together at the last possible second, pulls off and bites Patrick's hip, warning, while Patrick laughs again, breathless, and says, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." His hands are insistent and Pete lets them guide him back to Patrick's dick, takes it in again, fast, and does his best to get Patrick off as quick and as unbelievably good as possible.
He swallows when Patrick comes, loving how Patrick twists and falls apart under his hands and mouth. It makes him feel satisfied in an almost ferocious way; he slides back up and buries his face against Patrick's neck, pulls one of his thighs up and feels the other leg bend, shaking against his hip, and grinds down hard. He pushes until he thinks he has to be leaving marks on Patrick, on both of them, until Patrick cups the back of his neck and says, "Pete, Pete, come on--" and that does it, Pete's coming so hard it almost hurts.
"Two minutes," he says when he has his breath back, smug, and Patrick flicks his cheek, says, "C'mon, that was at least five," and Pete will show him five minutes--
Later. Much, much later.
~~
Patrick's bedroom smells like soap and shampoo and steam when Pete wakes up again, sprawled face-down on Patrick's side of the bed. His stomach itches and his jaw aches just a little. He smiles into Patrick's pillow, then gets up and wanders into the bathroom. The tiles are still warm and mirror is fogged, and he wishes Patrick had woken him up but this is good, fine; maybe this way one of them will end up bent over the island in Patrick's sunny kitchen.
He gets himself half hard thinking about it in the shower, then barely wastes time toweling off and pads downstairs in just his boxers with his hair still streaming water down his neck.
"Yeah, Rog," Patrick is saying, his head tilted to keep his phone pinned against his shoulder while he holds a gallon of milk in one hand and fishes through the fridge with the other. "No, I'll run it by him but I'm sure it'll be fine--just get a treatment written up, okay? Uh-huh. I'll call you back when he's up. Okay, bye."
Pete takes the milk for him and Patrick looks over, startled, then smiles and grabs his phone, cracks his neck. "Thanks," he says, casual, no hint of morning-after freakout in his voice. "Did you catch all that? Roger and the guys want me in the video for MTV, they'll send a treatment over for you as soon as they have one."
"Why didn't Roger and the guys call me?" Pete asks, eyes narrowed, hip braced against the counter and arms crossed over his chest.
"Because they have read about you on the internet," Patrick says. "And they'd prefer it if I was not wearing a furry suit."
"I don't--"
"Pete. What happens when I'm in other videos? Oh yeah, I get turned into a robot or put in a furry suit." Patrick glares back, then pulls eggs and cheese out of the fridge and closes the door with his hip, turns to put everything on the island. "You are not subtle," he says. "Cope."
In the minute that he takes to sulk, Pete can see the song lyrics that'd come out of this little argument. Then he looks at Patrick, wearing boxers, a faded, holey red t-shirt and a cap that looks like it was knit out of grass, glaring at him over the island, marks on his neck from their first time together. Pete thinks about exactly how subtle he is and maybe isn't and says, "Yeah, all right. But only if you'll play your guitar naked for me later."
"Brendon Urie gets no pictures," Patrick says, eyes narrowed, and Pete laughs and leans forward to kiss him quick and hard, and seals the deal.
Author: giddygeek
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Summary: Try this instead.
Notes: 3600 words, adult. Many thanks to misspamela for the beta! :)
Pete signs his newest band, and then takes a casual, informal survey.
"So," he says, spinning his chair a little, cross-legged; we're all friends here, "You dudes all straight?"
The guys in Haven look at each other. "Uh, yes?" says Roger, the lead singer.
"No handjobs, blowjobs, tongue kisses?" Pete asks, eyebrows raised.
Jamie the drummer frowns. "Look," he says, "We've all read about you and we've all read about Decaydance, and if being gay is a requirement, you probably should've mentioned it before we signed the contracts."
"Totally not a requirement," Pete says. "Just call it curiosity. Or call me an asshole, right? Haha."
No one does. They're too new to the label for that, Pete thinks, which is fine.
They'll learn.
~~
He lets Patrick loose on Haven right away. The band is good but like almost all the other bands Pete could name, Haven needs some of Patrick's polish.
"How's it going?" he asks every now and then. Patrick always says, "Good!" and tells him all about how far along Jamie has come, or how Roger's really expanding his range, or how Tyrone is amazing, blah blah blah.
Haven's first single is a song called 'Serenade (Surrender)'. Pete listens to it about 40 times, then calls Ryan and makes him listen too.
"Another whole band bites the dust?" Ryan asks, and Pete laughs a little.
"I added 'em to the list like three months ago," he says.
"Dude, sorry."
"It's actually hilarious," Pete says, hitting play again. "Some day I'll find a band that doesn't go gay for Patrick in an hour or less. Somewhere. Maybe I'll try a redneck country band or something."
Ryan scoffs. "You do remember that night in Tennessee, right?"
"Fuck, I'd blocked it out until now," Pete says, remembering with a shudder. "Damn it, Ross, I hate you."
"I know," Ryan says, not caring. "So, you think Patrick gets it this time?"
"Ha." Pete leans back on the couch and closes his eyes as the guitars wail into the chorus, Roger's voice sharp and aching above them; Patrick's a fucking genius. And a moron. "No, I guarantee he still doesn't have a clue."
"Tragic," Ryan says. "But I love the song, I have to--oh, gotta go, Brendon just bit Spencer's ankle--Spence, no!"
Pete rolls his eyes and closes his phone. Of course Ryan loves the damn song. Pete loves the damn song. That doesn't mean he isn't a little mad at fucking Roger and his idiot crush. He's not going to ruin the guy's career over it or anything, so he figures he's allowed to sit around and be miserable for a while, anyway.
And maybe he should write his own song, about idiots who can't see the writing on the wall, and the other idiots who spend their time sitting around being miserable about it. He could call it 'Hell if I Know (and Damned if I Don't)' and then make Patrick sing it.
Pleased with that plan, Pete pulls his hood up, presses play for the 43rd repeat of Haven's single, and gets to work.
~~
A couple weeks later 'Serenade (Surrender)', another love song about Patrick Stump produced by Patrick Stump, becomes a hit.
Big surprise.
~~
Pete's list of dudes who were straight before they met Patrick has 52 names on it, including about half the dudes on Decaydance. Most of the other half don't count because they'd been pretty gay already, like Ryan, Spencer, William, and Pete himself.
Pete's spent so much time talking seriously to guys who were freaking out a little and/or thinking about going for it that he deserves a degree in Unrequited Loveology, and maybe his own psychiatrist's couch.
He's also considered a pamphlet for Decaydance newbies titled 'Music, Business, Love: no, Patrick doesn't know and isn't doing it on purpose' but. Well, love songs about Patrick Stump produced by Patrick Stump are like, half his label's biggest hits.
And it's not like anyone's heart gets really crushed (more importantly, Patrick's heart doesn't even get dented) so Pete mostly keeps his mouth shut until the dudes come crying to him, and that's just the way it is.
~~
Haven goes out on tour with The Academy Is... and Cobra Starship, because Pete knows from experience that parties and insanity are the best cure for a heart (or four or five) that's all dinged up with unrequited love. Guaranteed one or two of the guys in the band will sleep with William--smart money's on Tyrone and Jamie, with Roger in Gabe's clutches by the third show.
Pete finally gets Patrick back to working on their own music and promptly schedules a trip out to Chicago. The worst part of bringing in new people is losing Patrick for a while, but since Pete has a pretty strong feeling that a bored Patrick could maybe be a gone Patrick, he signs bands and copes. Patiently. Politely, even.
"Dude," Patrick says as Pete drops his bags in Patrick's foyer and wraps him up in a hip-bumping, arm-twining, face-in-neck serious kind of hug, "Did you really have to call that much?"
"Yes," Pete says into Patrick's neck. "I thought they weren't going to give you back."
"You think that every time, and I always come back," Patrick says. He has his arms wrapped around Pete and isn't bothering with the back patting or wriggling away that other people might have attempted; he might not be the snuggler that Pete is, but he knows a good hug when he sees one. He probably also knows a slightly freaked-out Pete when he sees one. Whatever.
"There's a first time for everything," Pete says, finally letting go. He raises his eyebrows at Patrick. "I heard that Haven asked you to leave your band and ride off into the sunset with them."
Patrick snorts, shoves his hands in his pockets. "Hardly," he says, like he doesn't know Pete knows Roger said exactly that on their last day of recording. But then, he also acts like Pete never heard Travis say he wants to carry Patrick around on his tour bus and take him out for shows and blowjobs, and like Pete never heard Brendon Urie, of all people, daydream out loud about keeping Patrick tied to a bed somewhere, naked except for a guitar.
Patrick, Pete thinks, is kind of dense.
"You want to go store your stuff in your room?" Patrick asks. "I was making sandwiches, I can get you one, unless you want a nap or something first."
"Sandwiches," Pete says, with all the enthusiasm of a guy who doesn't eat well when his lead singer is locked away with another band intent on seducing him. He grabs his bags, plants a kiss on Patrick's cheek, and heads for the guest bedroom.
His toothbrush and flat-iron go in Patrick's bathroom, though. Pete hates for his toiletries to be alone.
~~
Patrick is singing the chorus of Serenade while he bops around the island in his kitchen. Pete rolls his eyes and boosts himself up on the counter, making gimme hands at Patrick until he has little scraps of Patrick's monumental sandwiches to tide him over while Patrick gets out chips, drinks, paper towels for napkins.
"It's a good song," Pete says almost reluctantly, rolling bread around a piece of pickle, cheese around the bread, lettuce over everything.
"They didn't even want it on the album, can you believe that?" Patrick shakes his head, slices the sandwiches. "I don't know about these bands sometimes, Pete."
"It is kind of, you know." Pete shrugs, waves his hand, eats his mini-sandwich in one crunching bite. "Revealing," he says, mouth full.
"Huh," Patrick says. "Revealing?" He smiles slow and playful, looking at Pete through his lashes as he considers, and if he'd turned that look on any other dude in the world, that dude would've been in love before he blinked.
Pete just takes his sandwich from Patrick's hand, feeds Patrick a chip, and says, "Hell yeah. You just didn't realize it because you're too used to me putting it all out there for everyone to hear."
Patrick looks at him, thoughtful, chewing the chip. "Maybe," he says, after a moment. "Yeah, maybe I'm just used to you."
~~
Writing an album goes like this: Pete sends Patrick a million lines of poetry, journal entries, lyric fragments, and stupid things that he writes down before he's fully awake, like hair like sunshine eyes like fire or that damn monkey ate my hat or the warmest hug that didn't involve my dog involved three smelly dudes in a crashed van Patrick had snowflakes in his eyelashes and he was bleeding and sometimes things even more random than that.
Patrick works at all those words like they're part of a jig-saw and he has the shape of it, the music, in his head already. He sings for Pete over the phone if they're apart, over his guitar in quiet hotel rooms if they're not. Pete listens to him, watches him, and feels endlessly grateful that he was given someone who could find the sense in all his nonsense, and make it awesome.
Then he pokes his nose in with a million suggestions, gets punched at least once, makes Patrick laugh until he's breathless at least a dozen times. After that they bring in Andy and Joe for frills and cleanup, and it's done.
It's kind of easy.
Pete used to get a little suspicious, sometimes even a lot distressed by how easy it was. It couldn't last, he thought. Patrick couldn't possibly find the music in Pete's words time after time. He worried that he'd send the writing over and there'd be a long silence from Patrick, and then an admission that it was over, that Patrick didn't understand. He assumed that every new song was the last, and sending things to Patrick made him frantic sometimes, left him feeling that much closer to being the broken asshole he'd become when Patrick finally gave up on him.
But Patrick always finds the music. Even though he still gets nervous, and he still worries a little about Patrick's work with other bands, Pete's starting to really believe he always will.
~~
At four in the morning, they finally take a break.
"Can I come sleep with you?" Pete asks. He's slumped against Patrick's back, face pressed against his shoulder. He'd crawled behind Patrick with the excuse of these chords, try these instead and his hands guiding Patrick's fingers, but the truth was that Patrick had written him a snowflake song and Pete had felt just as overwhelmed as the first time he'd heard Hum Hallelujah. He'd needed to feel Patrick sing it as much as he'd needed to hear it.
"Yeah, that's okay," Patrick says, yawning, but instead of getting up, he settles back more comfortably, like he's already half-asleep. "You did bring pajamas, right?"
"No," Pete says, smiling. "Tonight you're getting the full Wentzy."
"Awesome," Patrick says. "So just like every other sleepover, huh?"
"Why mess with what's working?" Pete asks, then he pushes Patrick up and climbs off the couch after him. "C'mon, c'mon," he says, "Before we end up asleep down here like freaky workaholics." He drags Patrick after him, both of them stumbling tired, Pete bumping into things in the darkness between Patrick's little studio in the basement and his bedroom on the second floor. "Hey, you can sing me to sleep."
"Yay," Patrick says, deadpan.
"We could try it the other way around," Pete says, grinning at Patrick's half-horrified, "Uh, no," before finally finding his big, messy room, and closing the door behind them.
~~
Patrick brushes his teeth, then nags until Pete crawls up from where he'd belly-flopped on the bed and wrapped himself in the blankets. Pete brushes his teeth too, then strips himself down to boxers, turns out the bathroom light when he's done. He wanders back into the bedroom, where the lights are already off and Patrick is a sprawling, snuffling lump under the covers.
Those other guys are only half in love with you, he thinks, standing by the bed and watching Patrick's eyelashes flutter as he drifts off. He crawls onto the bed and under the covers and smiles a little when Patrick turns toward him. He thinks, they're half in love, but I'm a whole. I'm a whole in love with you.
Then Pete closes his eyes, curls up with only inches between them, and falls fast asleep.
~~
Patrick is usually up before him--Pete's used to crawling out of beds and bunks to find Patrick already at work. So he's surprised to wake up and find Patrick still in the bed, lying on his side, knees to Pete's knees. The soft skin of his inner arm is pale but warm under Pete's hand, which had curled over it entirely without Pete's permission at some point during the night.
Pete had written a poem years ago, when Patrick was living with Bob Bryar and coming to the studio with beard burn and fingertip bruises and smug smiles, full of lines about how much he hated marks that aren't mine on that white skin of yours. He'd been sure that'd end up in a song, and wondered for years why it hadn't, if maybe it was such an obvious love song that Patrick Stump, who'd produce goddamn Serenade, thought it was too much.
"You didn't sing me to sleep," he says, yawning, stretching and curling his fingers against Patrick's skin.
"Sorry," Patrick says, smiling at him, and then he leans forward and kisses Pete mid-yawn, morning breath and all.
There's a moment where Pete doesn't know what to do. He's spent a lot of time telling other people that Patrick doesn't really swing that way (ignoring the months of Bob Bryar because that would only get dudes' hopes up, because Bob and Patrick are assholes). He's spent even more time pretending he's just Patrick's jerk of a best friend. His brain just can't click over, stuck on what for long enough that Patrick starts to pull back, and it's the kiss ending that flips Pete's brain over into yes.
"Wait wait wait," he says, following Patrick as Patrick leans back away. "Oh my God, you can't just do that to a guy who thinks you're straight, and then run away!"
"A, not straight and you knew that," Patrick says, voice cold and bitchy as he wriggles; Pete's collapsing over his chest, pinning him down. "B, not exactly running away, am I?"
"You would be. You totally would be!" Pete wraps his hands over Patrick's arms and braces himself up. He feels wild-eyed and frantic and if it were anyone but Patrick under him, they'd probably be scared; fuck, he'd probably be scared of himself, but Patrick is just glaring up at him, pissed off.
"Get off me," Patrick says, and Pete stares down at him, gaping, then starts to smile.
"Oh no," he says, settling a little closer. "You kissed me!"
"You've kissed me a hundred times," Patrick says. He twists, trying to buck Pete off, but Pete's dug in, he is not going anywhere for anything.
"I buddy-kissed you because otherwise I'd give in and tongue kiss you," Pete says. "Hey, no biting. Hey!"
"Didn't it ever occur to you that I wanted you to tongue kiss me?" Patrick asks, flopping back after Pete evades his attempt to bite his arm. He's flushed with sudden fury and exertion, and Pete loves his stupid, red, sweaty face more than anything.
"No," he says, "because that would have been too good. Did it ever occur to you that I don't think I'm supposed to have good things?"
"No," Patrick says, almost spitting the word, he's so mad. "Because I love you, so I kind of want you to have good things."
Pete freezes, and for a moment all he can feel is Patrick's belly where his shirt is rucked up, the inside of Patrick's thighs against the outside of his, Patrick panting and mad and warm underneath him. He says, wondering, "What the fuck, Patrick, I totally didn't think I'd be stupider than you about this," and leans down to kiss Patrick, kiss him with tongue, and biting, and hips pushed up tight together to show Patrick that he means it.
And Patrick lets him; for a moment it's just Patrick letting him. Then he gasps and jerks a little under Pete's hands, and his knees come up, his head tilts back, and he's kissing Pete. That's pretty much like pouring gasoline on a fire; Pete goes fucking nuts and can't seem to help it, getting his hands in all kinds of trouble while trying to strip them both.
He manages to get one of Patrick's arms out of his t-shirt and push their boxers down a few vital inches, and that's good enough for him. That's fucking perfect, except Patrick is turning his face away and laughing breathlessly, saying, "Pete, Pete, could we maybe--oh fuck, yes--no, wait, could we maybe go more than two minutes?"
"No," Pete says, biting his way down to Patrick's nipples; if Patrick's going to be like that about it, Pete will just find another way to occupy his mouth. "Two minutes now. More time later." A quick, sharp bite to his stomach, just below his belly button, and Patrick gasps, moans, and lets Pete do what he wants, which has switched from rubbing off against Patrick to sucking Patrick's dick.
Patrick turns out to be more of a gentleman than Pete would be, but less of one than Pete would have guessed; his hands curl in Pete's hair, gently, and his hips twitch up enough that Pete groans, tempted, before settling an arm across his thighs, holding him down. Patrick retaliates by tightening his grip and making noises that leave Pete twitching, and Pete almost loses his two minutes just like that.
He gets it together at the last possible second, pulls off and bites Patrick's hip, warning, while Patrick laughs again, breathless, and says, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." His hands are insistent and Pete lets them guide him back to Patrick's dick, takes it in again, fast, and does his best to get Patrick off as quick and as unbelievably good as possible.
He swallows when Patrick comes, loving how Patrick twists and falls apart under his hands and mouth. It makes him feel satisfied in an almost ferocious way; he slides back up and buries his face against Patrick's neck, pulls one of his thighs up and feels the other leg bend, shaking against his hip, and grinds down hard. He pushes until he thinks he has to be leaving marks on Patrick, on both of them, until Patrick cups the back of his neck and says, "Pete, Pete, come on--" and that does it, Pete's coming so hard it almost hurts.
"Two minutes," he says when he has his breath back, smug, and Patrick flicks his cheek, says, "C'mon, that was at least five," and Pete will show him five minutes--
Later. Much, much later.
~~
Patrick's bedroom smells like soap and shampoo and steam when Pete wakes up again, sprawled face-down on Patrick's side of the bed. His stomach itches and his jaw aches just a little. He smiles into Patrick's pillow, then gets up and wanders into the bathroom. The tiles are still warm and mirror is fogged, and he wishes Patrick had woken him up but this is good, fine; maybe this way one of them will end up bent over the island in Patrick's sunny kitchen.
He gets himself half hard thinking about it in the shower, then barely wastes time toweling off and pads downstairs in just his boxers with his hair still streaming water down his neck.
"Yeah, Rog," Patrick is saying, his head tilted to keep his phone pinned against his shoulder while he holds a gallon of milk in one hand and fishes through the fridge with the other. "No, I'll run it by him but I'm sure it'll be fine--just get a treatment written up, okay? Uh-huh. I'll call you back when he's up. Okay, bye."
Pete takes the milk for him and Patrick looks over, startled, then smiles and grabs his phone, cracks his neck. "Thanks," he says, casual, no hint of morning-after freakout in his voice. "Did you catch all that? Roger and the guys want me in the video for MTV, they'll send a treatment over for you as soon as they have one."
"Why didn't Roger and the guys call me?" Pete asks, eyes narrowed, hip braced against the counter and arms crossed over his chest.
"Because they have read about you on the internet," Patrick says. "And they'd prefer it if I was not wearing a furry suit."
"I don't--"
"Pete. What happens when I'm in other videos? Oh yeah, I get turned into a robot or put in a furry suit." Patrick glares back, then pulls eggs and cheese out of the fridge and closes the door with his hip, turns to put everything on the island. "You are not subtle," he says. "Cope."
In the minute that he takes to sulk, Pete can see the song lyrics that'd come out of this little argument. Then he looks at Patrick, wearing boxers, a faded, holey red t-shirt and a cap that looks like it was knit out of grass, glaring at him over the island, marks on his neck from their first time together. Pete thinks about exactly how subtle he is and maybe isn't and says, "Yeah, all right. But only if you'll play your guitar naked for me later."
"Brendon Urie gets no pictures," Patrick says, eyes narrowed, and Pete laughs and leans forward to kiss him quick and hard, and seals the deal.