Fic: A Common Understanding (1/3)

[joyfulseeker]

Fandom: Fall Out Boy
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Size: 25,000 words
Notes: For damnyouwentz's Romance Novel Cliche Challenge. Beta by callsigns
Summary: Patrick has one chance to save his brother, but will he pay the price?


1.

Patrick put his hand out and touched the shuddering glass of the porthole window as the shuttle began its descent planetward. Overhead, the heat shields slid into place, obscuring the view of the stars, while a programmed digital voice counted mellifluously back from twenty. Patrick found himself sing-songing the planetfall routine in his mind, a throwback to his primary schooling days and the space travel mnemonic children recited in the schoolyard during games of cross-tag and asteroid-mine.

"--and the i-on-o-sphere," Patrick muttered, then caught an amused glance from his seatmate, an older woman wearing a conservative flounced suit with two buttons on the lapel, indicating her position as a scholar. Patrick flushed and shut his mouth, turning toward the window. Outside, the curve of the planet fell away and the window polarized against the light as the shuttle hit atmosphere and flared up. Patrick had seen innumerable shuttles make planetfall from the surface, but this was the first time he'd actually been in one.

Okay, he thought, okay, taking deliberate, even breaths. A couple of other people in the shuttle were staring out the window, too, but most were tapping at hand-held displays, and a handful had the fixed-eyes look that meant they were paying through the nose for the shuttle's VR network. For the fiftieth time, Patrick reached out to make a vid-call, then put his hand back on his armrest. PlanetHopper Transportation was the cheapest shuttle service between New Trier and Angelia, but that wasn't saying much, and they squeezed the credits out their passengers by charging triple on their auxiliary services. He could wait to call Brendon until he hit dirt, especially if he just got Brendon's away-vid again.

"It's all right, dear," his seatmate said, leaning over and patting his arm. "This landing is going perfectly well, such a fine pilot."

Patrick glanced down at his hand and stilled his tapping fingers. "Quite," he muttered.

"First time flying?" she asked, giving a maternal smile.

"Oh, no," Patrick said. "I mean, rather. My first interplanetary trip. I've taken intraplanetary." Once, he added mentally. He caught himself beginning to fidget again and forcibly stopped himself.

"Oh, excellent!" the woman exclaimed. "Oh, my dear, you will love Angelia. Quite a change from New Trier, I assure you."

Patrick nodded and tried to smile as she went on to describe the sights crucial to his enjoyment of the planet, though she stalled briefly on his answer of, "Business--well, family. Family business," when asked if he was coming for business or pleasure.

Beyond her earnestly nodding head, the horizon pin-wheeled, and Patrick caught a brief, kaleidoscopic view of the city, brilliantly lit in the dark. Angelia City, he thought, and despite the nerves in his stomach, he found himself looking forward to it, wondering what it would be like. Maybe. Maybe Brendon wouldn't be in too much trouble. Maybe the trouble on the vid-call would turn out to have all been a misunderstanding, and Brendon would laugh at his worries and call him a protective older brother. Perhaps he would get to see the sights before he returned home.

The shuttle slid smoothly into port, as advertised, and Patrick exchanged polite farewells with his seatmate before stopping at one of the coat check slots to retrieve his minimal luggage, shabby coat, and cap. The spaceport hummed around him when he stepped out the hatch of the shuttle and stopped, disoriented by the plethora of floating arrows pointing out the sights. "Ah, pardon," he murmured, moving aside as other passengers jostled him from behind.

An orange arrow on black background pulsed toward the right-hand tramway option, indicating public transportation tubes. Patrick took a breath and followed it, holding tight to the railway as the tramway lifted him off the ground and snaked down to a lower level, spitting him out onto cracked and blackened pavement somewhere in the depths of the spaceport. There was a public vid drop set in the far wall, and Patrick went to it and muttered, "Brendon Urie," into the pickup. The screen beeped, asking for payment, and Patrick keyed in his credit code.

The screen went directly to another damned away message, a recorded automated avatar telling him the recipient wasn't available. Patrick swore and thumped his fist against the side of the screen, then looked over his shoulder guiltily, but the platform was still empty.

"Message unclear," the computer said. "Please repeat."

"Right," Patrick sighed. "Right, right, sorry, Brendon? This is. This is Patrick. Please, your last call alarmed us. Mother asked me to--I'm at the spaceport now, I'm coming over. Um. I'll see you soon."

"Patrick Stump," the computer said.

"Yes." Patrick looked up from searching through his satchel for Brendon's dorm's address.

"Secondary message for group: friends and family."

"Ah. Uh. Display."

The computerized face disintegrated, replaced by Brendon's own face grimacing in a wide smile from the screen. Face paint swirled across his brow and down one side of his temples, but didn't manage to obscure the large bruise that glowered across his right eye, or his split lower lip.

"Hel-lo chaps," he said.

"Brendon," Patrick said, but Brendon's mouth moved on, heedless.

"We're all gathering at 329-356 for a bit of fun before our doom arrives; come join the cake-eaters!"

Cake-eaters, Patrick mouthed, trying to reconcile his brother's smiling face with the shaky horror-footage he'd seen a day earlier, the loud crash that had sent Brendon reeling away from the screen, leaving his frozen, terror-filled face hanging on the screen for a moment before vid-lag cut in and sent everything into chaos, followed by Brendon screaming, high and sharp, like the time he'd broken his leg trying to scale a building when he was eight. The screen had gone blank while Patrick was still shouting, fingers scrambling against the keypad for an emergency contact, and every time Patrick had called back, he'd gotten shunted to an away message. No one called from the university until Patrick couldn't wait anymore and booked passage on the next trip out.

Patrick pinched the bridge of his nose, then sighed. "Replay message," he said, and began trying to find out where his errant, though apparently still living, brother had gone.

The public transportation system spit him out in a darkened, grey area of the city and instructed him to walk three blocks. Patrick looked around uneasily, and gathered his satchel closer to his chest, tugging his coat around him. The only building with any sign of life in the area was a brightly lit club with a line of people snaking out the door, all dressed in brilliant colors and flamboyant body paint for a night out.

He stopped across the street, painfully aware of his drab, travel-wrinkled clothing. An androgynous quartet showing a scandalous amount of skin sauntered up to the front of the line as he watched. The leader of the group leaned up and whispered something to the doorman, light winking off his glittering hair, hand trailing up the large man's arm and wrapping around his beefy neck to bring him down in a kiss. Patrick, shocked, looked away, but no one else seemed alarmed by the display at the front door and when Patrick looked back, the doorman was laughing and stepping aside.

Patrick skirted around a man leaning against the wall, scowling down at a portable vidder, and made to cross the street, then backtracked. "Excuse me," he said, reaching out a hand. The man's eyes snapped up, unwelcoming, and Patrick let his hand drop, backing away with a muttered, "Sorry."

"What," the man said, straightening up from his slouch. He was short--hardly taller than Patrick--and looked young, with his hair dressed in thick, black and red spikes and covered in an iridescent sheen.

"No, never mind, sorry to--to bother you," Patrick said.

"You have my attention, you might as well ask," the man said, and Patrick realized that despite the man's dandied appearance, his accent was as common as Patrick's own.

"I just, ah, wondered if you knew if this was three twenty-nine, three fifty-six."

The man's eyes opened wide before he laughed suddenly, face smoothing into attractiveness with a smile shiny like a vid-star's, shaking his head. "Oh, well," he said, sauntering towards Patrick. "Who are you?"

"Um," Patrick said, holding on tighter to his satchel. "Patrick. My. I'm Patrick Stump. I'm looking for my brother, Brendon? Do you...?"

"Well. Patrick," the man said, speaking with deliberate precision. "Nice to meet you."

"You as well," Patrick said, though that seemed very much in doubt. He glanced toward the door, where the bouncer was letting in another crowd of people right as a group of five was staggering out. Patrick scanned their faces, but none of them looked like Brendon. Assuming, of course, that he could still recognize Brendon in whatever ungodly outfit he would be wearing to fit in at a place like this.

He was supposed to be studying xenobotany, Patrick thought despairingly. Staying inside the bounds of University campus and spending all his time with his plants, like his vid-calls had implied.

"Pete," the man said, suddenly rather closer.

"No," Patrick said absently. "Patrick." The man laughed, practically in Patrick's ear, and Patrick flinched away, then flushed. "Oh," he said. "You're. Right. All right. Um. Hello."

"You want in?" the man--Pete--said.

No, Patrick thought, but turned and looked at him. Pete had his hands in his tight pockets and was looking at Patrick, a faint smile on his face. "Actually," Patrick said reluctantly. "Actually, yes, that would be fantastic."

Pete, strange, unpredictable man, extended his arm. Patrick stared at it, clothed in soft, tight fabric. "Ah," he hesitated.

"If you're with me," Pete said, "they'll let you in."

"Oh," Patrick said, and put his hand gingerly into the crook of Pete's elbow. They started across the street, promenading like this dingy back alley road was a lane in one of Angelia City's's famed gardens, and Patrick's fingers tightened involuntarily on Pete's arm as they walked along the line of people toward the door.

The doorman, however, simply nodded and stepped aside, saying, "Mr Wentz, back so soon?"

"I found a new diversion, Charlie," Pete said, fingers smoothing over Patrick's hand, tightening when Patrick tried to jerk his hand away.

Patrick hissed out a breath, but Charlie was already drawing back the beaded, shimmering curtain at the doorway, and when Patrick shot a look at Pete, he had a small close-mouthed smile on his face.

"That wasn't necessary," Patrick whispered as they passed over the threshold. His skin tingled briefly, and he stiffened.

"It's the weapons scan," Pete muttered, then said more loudly, "Why? I wasn't lying."

Patrick opened his mouth, and then closed it again, deliberately removing his hand from Pete's arm. "Well. As flattering as that is. I thank you, sir, for, for helping me."

"Oh, my pleasure," Pete said, letting him go easily. Flashing light from the interior of the club illuminated his face in the dark, highlighting the smooth, polished planes of his face, his quizzically raised eyebrow.

"Yes," Patrick said. "Well. If you'll excuse me."

"Ah, no," Pete said. "I think I'll come along. I have an investment, after all."

"I don't think that's necessary," Patrick said.

"No?" Pete shrugged. "Maybe you're right. The staff might not mistake you for a maintenance worker and throw you out. It's possible."

Patrick bit his lip, before smiling thinly at Pete. "Well. That's...kind of you."

"Yes," Pete said, and put a hand under Patrick's elbow, pushing him forward down the hall. "I know."

The club was quite loud when they got inside, and the booths extended around the perimeter of the room in all directions, Patrick was dismayed to note, including vertically. The main attraction was a zero-g dance space in the center of the room, which looked to be a flailing mass of humanity to Patrick's bemused eye, and below it was a circular bar.

"Don't they worry?" Patrick asked. Pete leaned close and tapped his ear. Patrick repeated, "Don't they worry? At the bar? About people falling on their heads?"

Pete's teeth were a white flash in the shadows of his face as he reared his head back and laughed loudly, slapping Patrick on the back. Patrick smiled uncertainly, and after a moment Pete leaned in again and said, "They're protected by the same field that maintains the zero-g." He chuckled and shook his head, and Patrick could barely make out him repeating, "Falling on their heads," to himself.

Patrick muttered an acknowledgment and turned away to start searching the booths for his brother, fighting his way through the crowd with Pete a slim, brightly dressed shadow at his elbow. Their progress was slow as Patrick avoided stepping on flounced skirts and ducked around headdresses shaped like exotic plants, like flocks of birds, like nebulae rotating around people's heads. The slow pace didn't appear to hamper Pete, who collected and lost people in no pattern Patrick could see, though he often paused to exchange words Patrick couldn't hear, and, Patrick noticed, a long kiss with a tall, thin, beautiful boy with thick brown hair that fell in easy waves down to his shoulder. Patrick looked away quickly at that, kept walking, unsettled by this stranger who had decided to involve himself in Patrick's life, unsettled by this entire situation, this club, the pounding beat of the music driving though out of his head after his long flight.

Pete reappeared alone as Patrick was rounding another booth.

"Don't you have enough diversions here?" Patrick snapped at the sight of him hovering over Patrick's shoulder.

"What, you don't like my company?" Pete donned a hurt expression that even Patrick, in the dim light of the club, could see was false. "Here it is, though. A secret, Mr Patrick Stump." Pete leaned in, face sharp with amusement, and Patrick tilted is head to listen, almost despite himself. "I think you're interesting."

"I'm not," Patrick said positively, thinking of the factory job he'd left to come here, and stepped backwards, accidentally knocking into a man holding a glass of green liquor. "Sorry," he muttered, turning away from Pete's laughing eyes.

After that, it felt as though every eye in the club was on him, and he hunched his shoulders against the persistent prickle of awareness on the back of his neck of Pete looking at him.

"He's not here," Patrick said, frustrated, when he'd made a full circuit of the room.

"No," Pete said. "He's upstairs." Patrick stopped. "Oh," Pete said. "Did I forget to mention? Huh." He shrugged. "My memory. It gets worse and worse. Sisky whispered in my ear."

"That's. All right, thank you, that's fantastic," Patrick said. "I'm glad I'm so entertaining." He turned and started pushing through the crowd toward the lifts at the end of the line of booths.

Behind him, Pete said, "You're welcome," before Patrick was swept upward along with an obviously inebriated couple who laughed raucously loudly as the lift floated them up to the second-floor tier. The girl staggered backwards into Patrick, almost falling over him when they were safely on the ground, tilting dangerously on her high spiked sandals, and Patrick had to take her arm to keep her upright.

"Excuse me," he muttered. The girl laughed in his ear, making him jerk away, and then she was touching him familiarly, pupils dilated, painted lips and cheeks stretched wide in a smile.

"Soft," she said, fingers running over his hair, and she was stroking his head. "He's soft, Marcus, can we keep him?"

"I beg your pardon," Patrick stammered, catching at her hands, trying to push her off without oversetting her. "That's--no, thank you. No." His last word came out on a squeak as the girl's hand skated close to his groin. Her partner curled a lazy arm around her waist and peered at Patrick with heavy-lidded eyes.

The lift whooshed to life again behind Patrick, and he was actually relieved to see Pete out of the corner of his eye. "Pete!" he said. "This young lady--"

When he looked over, she was stepping back, pouting, tossing her head. "Always the way it is!" she was whining in an undertone to her partner as she tottered away.

"Ah. Nothing," Patrick finished lamely, watching the pair's meandering progress.

"No," Pete said. "I can see that."

Patrick flushed, but didn't back away from Pete's hand on the small of his back, guiding him down the narrow aisle between the tables and the railing of the balcony. "Here," Pete said in his ear, pressing him left, and Patrick ducked his head. The second floor was less crowded than the main floor, but made up for it by being dimly lit. He had to squint to see faces in the booths, some of which were privacy-screened against him.

His brother was sitting with his back to Patrick in a booth nearly at the end of the balcony, and at the sight of his familiar lanky silhouette, Patrick felt a knot of tension in his chest relax finally. "Oh."

"There," Pete said, still intimately close. "Are you grateful? Do you thank me? Are you grateful?"

"Yes," Patrick said, swallowing. "Yes."

"Good," Pete said, and let him go. When Patrick looked back at the table, Brendon's shocked face stared back at him, mouth flapping, shaping words Patrick couldn't hear. He had his face covered with the same fashionably gaudy paint as the other club denizens, but still looked like the brother Patrick had farewelled at the space port in New Trier eight months ago, and Patrick took two steps, bridging the distance between them, hands coming down to grip Brendon's shoulder and upper arm.

"Brendon," he said, unable to sort his emotions between anger and relief.

"Patrick!" Brendon shouted, jumping up from the table. He clasped Patrick's arm, and Patrick saw a brief, guilty shadow cross Brendon's face. "What--how are you here?"

"We were worried!" Patrick yelled, patience fraying. "You can't just--just leave a call, and, and your vid--we worried!"

Brendon cast a brief, anxious glance over his shoulder at his table, full of young people who were staring curiously at them. He dragged Patrick two steps away, closer to the balcony. Pete, Patrick noticed, was leaning on the railing with his arms folded across his chest, looking fascinated.

"Look, I'm sorry," Brendon said, eyes flickering between Patrick's face and the crowded dance space. "I should have called back, I know, but the vid got broken, and it took days to get it fixed, and I didn't want to charge another account."

"How did it get broken?" Patrick demanded. Closer, he could see marks on Brendon's face, poorly hidden by the paint. A split lip, a red gash across his nose, a black eye.

"Just horseplay," Brendon said, scowling. "A joke from my classmates. How did you get in here? You're not dressed for it."

"You're. Are you lying to me?" Patrick said incredulously.

Brendon jerked his head, looking all of five years old. "I'm not."

"I flew all this way," Patrick said, "I followed you into this-this-place. You should at least tell me the truth."

"I'm not lying!" Brendon's face crumpled.

Patrick looked at him for a long moment, not saying anything, then looked down. They were making a public spectacle.

"Fine, look," he said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--I'm just--it's been a long evening."

"I'm so amazed," Brendon said, face easing, though a thread of tension still ran through his voice. "Coming all this way. Can you. Are you staying long?"

"I never use my sick days," Patrick said.

"Where are you staying? Do you have luggage? It's amazing that you were able to find me," Brendon said, words falling over each other in a hurried rush. "Come, come, meet my friends, now that you're no longer bellowing."

"I wasn't bellowing," Patrick said. "I was enunciating." He let Brendon lead him back to the table, then paused halfway there. "Wait, I need to thank the gentleman that got me in. An odd sort of person, I think, but. He did a kindness."

"Oh, yes," Brendon said vaguely. "I had wondered. You look like a janitor, you know."

Patrick hunched his shoulders. "I didn't realize I'd be dressing for society," he muttered, then added, "if this even is. Brendon, it's so loud."

"I know, isn't it exciting?" Brendon looked around. "Who is this man who got you in?"

"Pete Wentz, I think was his name." Patrick glanced toward the balcony. "He was right over there...No," Patrick said. "He must have gone. He seemed to know a lot of people."

Brendon's hand clamped on Patrick's arm. "Pete Wentz."

"Ow." Patrick peeled Brendon's hand off. "What

"Pete Wentz?" Brendon hissed. "What did he want? Why did he let you in?"

"Ow! Stop it. Nothing, I don't know--it looked like a whim." Patrick shrugged. "He's gone now."

Brendon's eyes darted around the room. He leaned in and said, "Did he ask you for anything? I've heard he's trouble, Patrick."

Patrick knit his brow, feeling oddly defensive. "He wasn't trouble for me." He thought about the deception with the second floor and added, "Much. In any case, it doesn't signify, I doubt we'll meet again, unless you two run in similar circles."

"No," Brendon said. Shifting lights from the dance space cast shadows on his face, lingering in the hollows under his eyes. He looked tired, Patrick thought. "But no one in this city does for free." He bit his lip, and Patrick found that he was doing the same in unconscious mimicry, infected by his brother's worry. Brendon sighed, and shook his head. "Never mind. I'm sure it's fine. Come! Meet my friends!" He smiled, fever-bright, and led Patrick toward the table. "You'll enjoy Angelia."

Brendon was gone when Patrick awoke the next morning, suspended in the float-bed Brendon had borrowed from a friend and set up in his dormitory room in the upper level of the University complex. Patrick squinted at the bright sunlight sheeting in through the windows and groaned. One brightly colored drink had led to another, and that, on top of the fatigue from the trip to Angelia had put an effective end to Patrick asking Brendon any more questions.

He shuffled up out of the bed and stumbled over to the vid, which did indeed sport several nasty-looking dents in the casing. He yawned loudly, bracing his hand on the top corner, then jumped a foot when the screen flickered on and started playing a recording Brendon had left him.

"Sorry old boy, had to go to class and you're still out," Brendon whispered. His vid-double looked none the worse for their late night, aside from the bruising on his face, clearer now in daylight and not obscured by face paint. Patrick glowered. The double looked over his shoulder, where Patrick could see his own feet sticking out into the pickup window. "I'll be done at three. I programmed the door to let you in, so please, um. Enjoy the city. Bye!"

Patrick ground his heels in his eye sockets and then pushed his fingers through his hair, trying to wake up. Brendon's tightly wound energy just made him feel more tired and made it hard to think clearly. "Right," he muttered. "Right." He coughed into his hand. "Um. Outgoing call. Interplanetary. New Trier. Bob Bryar. Primary number, residence."

The vid chimed, then said, "Accessing," before the screen filled with the familiar logo of the Interplanetary Access Network. "Vid-lag is thirty seconds."

"Thank you," Patrick muttered unnecessarily. A minute later, the screen cleared, leaving Bob and his barbaric blond beard beaming at Patrick.

"How goes your brother?" Bob asked, and waited.

"Hello," Patrick said. "I think I'll be here longer than I expected. I found him. He's at class now."

Thirty seconds later, Bob's eyebrows raised, and he nodded. "Everything's fine, then? Big brother running out for nothing?"

"I...don't know," Patrick said, kneading the back of his neck, remembering the strain in Brendon's face. "I think--I don't know. I wanted to tell you not to worry if I'm not back in a couple days."

Bob nodded, and didn't press for details. "I'll tell the company you've taken personal leave." He paused. "Though, don't expect your cactus to be alive when you return. Some things are beyond my roommate perview."

"I've hardly used any of my personal days," Patrick said. "Also, and may I point out that it is, in fact, a cactus?"

Bob waved a dismissive hand, then leaned forward. "So," he said. "Is Angelia City everything the vids claim?"

Patrick hesitated, remembering the previous evening. "It's very odd," he admitted. "And fine. I'm finding it hard to find my footing. Brendon is...very different here." He thought of Pete Wentz. "The people are very different here as well. But interesting."
"Interesting?" Bob asked, voice edging toward innuendo.

Patrick waved his hand, flushing, and spent the rest of the call telling Bob of the more flamboyant holograms he'd seen the night before, until his time ran out and he had to cut the call.

2.

Patrick met Greta his first morning in Angelia City, while wandering alone in search of breakfast. It was a beautiful city in the sunlight, Patrick could admit. Broad, tree-lined lanes and crowded with small shops and eateries dominated the area around the University. Air vehicle travel was prohibited in that district, so the sky stretched blue overhead, unmarred by anything but clouds and the occasional white, dart-tailed track of a shuttle coming or going through the atmosphere. Patrick strolled down the street peering into shops and skirting the knots of pedestrians, their chatter and the hawking cries of street vendors loud in his ears. It made a nice change from the whine of airbuses and helos that would have filled the sky at home.

"Portrait, sir?" a female voice called to his left. Patrick turned. A young woman smiled at him from behind a booth, surrounded by shimmering pictures. "Just a single strand of hair, and it'll incorporate not only your physical appearance, but your very genetic code. A true portrait, sir, and only on Angelia!" She was pretty and finely made up, blond hair curling over her shoulder and down the low neckline of her dress, but she smiled with a sunny innocence when Patrick met her eyes.

"Oh." Patrick stopped automatically. "I'm not really one for pictures," he said, smiling apologetically.

"Look," she urged, and Patrick examined one of the small plastic squares, pressing a button to make the picture spring to life. They mostly looked like ordinary holos, dignified men and beautiful girls either glaring or smiling blankly into space, but when Patrick tilted his head, they gained a certain abstraction, the hint of a repeated motif underlying the figures.

"I'm sorry," Patrick said regretfully. "I'm afraid I'm not in the market. But you wouldn't happen to know a restaurant in the area?"

She laughed and introduced herself as Greta, her hand small and surprisingly hard against his palm when he shook it, and directed him to a cafe two shops over. "The best Angelian breakfast credits can buy, I promise you."

"I'll take your word for it," Patrick said, and gave a polite goodbye, warmed by the first unalloyed friendliness he'd seen since arriving on-planet.

She was an artist by trade, Patrick found out, and only a few years younger than him. She liked bright, strappy dresses and often wore flowers in her hair, either real or clever holograms of her own construction. She always greeted him by name whenever he wandered by her booth, and it made the city, imposing in its bulk, feel a little smaller. She liked to laugh, and Patrick grew adept at finding stories to tell that provoked her to helpless giggles, and that sound made the long, frustrating days better.

"Come, Patrick," she said one morning, after Patrick had spent a particularly fruitless evening trying to press Brendon on the source of his difficulty. Her hands slid busily across her digital pad. A young couple was sitting together in front of her, gazing into each other's eyes and giggling. "I feel it. Today is the day you're going to let me make you a portrait."

Patrick shook his, grinning. He pressed a button on one of her portrait blocks, and the holo sprang up to hang in the air with ghostly elegance. "You wouldn't want my face in there. It would ruin your display."

"Lies, all lies and falsehoods, Mister Modesty," Greta said. The couple looked up, startled. "No, no, not you two. You look gorgeous."

The young man whispered something in the girl's ear, and they giggled.

Young love, Greta mouthed at Patrick, who smirked, then covered it by reaching up to tug his cap over his eyes. "There!" she pronounced. "You're finished." Her fabricator beeped and spat out a cube, and the two lovers walked away with it, leaning excitedly into each other. Greta turned to Patrick, eying him evilly. "Look at that." She waved her hand, indicating the empty stall. "No customers. Why, I think I might have a slot free."

"Greta," Patrick said.

"For free, Patrick?" Greta said, batting her eyelashes ridiculously. "Just because I want your lovely face captured in my art forever."

"I--" Patrick winced, and she grinned. "Oh dear. Ah. How long does it take?" he asked, feeling his resolve melt.

"Ten minutes," she promised. "Come round! Sit, sit. Yes, exactly," she said as he entered the booth and took a seat on a small padded stool. "Exactly like that." She picked up a digital pad and stylus. "Now, Patrick. Tell me. Who was your first lover?"

"Greta!" Patrick said.

"Ooh, that was a good one," Greta said, and her stylus started clicking happily across her tablet.

Half an hour later, Patrick was rocking back and forth on the stool, shaking with laughter. "No," he choked out. "That can't be true! No one would have that bad of taste! You have to be making that up."

Greta put her hand to her heart. "I swear!" she declaimed. "Ribbons and everything." She looked back at her screen and smiled. "There. That's better."

"What?" Patrick asked.

"I like it better when you smile," she said. "You don't look so nervous like you did when we first met, like I was going to eat you."

"Well, no, but you see, you might have had cannibalistic tendencies," Patrick said. "I didn't have all the information."

She laughed and shook her head, and Patrick admired the way the sunlight called lighter highlights out to gild the curls and the waves caught back from her face in a clip at the back of her head. She was pretty like one of her works of art, he thought, but earthier.

"What now?" Patrick asked.

Greta bit at the end of her stylus, squinting between him and it. "I'm making you an extra-special picture. Being that it's your first time vacationing in Angelia."

"I could be lying," Patrick said lightly, but Greta looked at him intently, and then shook her head.

"No," she said. "I don't think so."

"It's that obvious?"

She smiled. "A little."

"Yes," Patrick agreed. Greta didn't say anything in return, frowning slightly in concentration and tapping occasionally on her tablet screen, so Patrick just sat, enjoying the slight breeze on his face, watching pedestrians walk by, and turning back to look at Greta every once in a while. He found Greta's company was soothingly straightforward after days spent trying to discover the source of Brendon's worries, and nights spent trailing around after him and his friends, feeling like a crow in a flock of parrots. She simply wanted to make his portrait, and for him to enjoy himself while she did so.

Greta looked up from her worked, and her mouth quirked. She leaned toward him and whispered, "Someone has an admirer."

"Ah?" Patrick raised his eyebrows, leaning toward her. "Really, though, Greta, you must be used to that by now."

"Not me, silly." She tilted her chin, pointing off to the right, behind Patrick's head. "You."

"You artists and your overactive imagination," Patrick said. He glanced over his shoulder involuntarily, only to pause, twisted in his seat. It was Pete Wentz, standing only a short distance away, incongruous in the dappled sunshine, looking at him. Patrick didn't know why he should recognize Pete so readily, because the club had been dimly lit, but he did, immediately and unmistakably. Pete was dressed almost respectably this morning, in a finely cut coat and conservative hat, except for the indecently tight fit of his trousers. Patrick could practically trace the individual muscles of his thighs from hip to knee through the thin fabric, and jerked his eyes away when he realized he was staring, only to meet Pete's amused eyes. Patrick's face grew warm, but he tried to keep his expression blank. Pete obviously wanted to be looked at; Patrick wouldn't apologize for having done what he wanted.

"Mr Wentz," Patrick said, and raised his hand in belated greeting.

"I was Pete the other night," Pete said, walking closer.

"I'm sorry," Patrick said. "Pete. I didn't expect to see you again. Can I introduce you to my friend, Greta Salpeter?"

"Greta." Pete shook her extended hand. "I was just admiring your. Work."

Greta caught Patrick's eye for a second, then said, "Why, thank you! Do you care for holo-pictures, Mr. Wentz?"

"I like a little bit of everything," Pete said, picking up one of the cubes and pressing the button on top, then passing his finger through the resultant holo. "I don't know much about the art form, though."

"If you come round the side, you can watch while I finish Patrick's portrait. You don't mind, do you, Patrick?"

Patrick stared hard at Greta, but she just widened her eyes at him, and he said helplessly, "No, of course not."

The rest of the portrait session was deeply uncomfortable for Patrick. Though Pete engaged Greta in conversation, inquiring about techniques and the holo-drafting program, Patrick was entirely too aware of Pete watching him. He glanced over, meeting Pete's eyes. Though Pete's tone was civil, his gaze was not, mocking and direct, with a faint smile dancing on his lips, like Patrick was an amusing curiosity. Patrick tightened his jaw and didn't look away. Pete was, he thought, a distinctly unsettling person to know, and Patrick was determined not to let it show.

They stayed like that for several minutes in a strange, fixed tableau, while Patrick's ears grew warmer and warmer, and the smile spread from Pete's mouth to his eyes. Conversation dried up between Pete and Greta, leaving the booth a small, silent pocket amid the noise of the thoroughfare.

Finally, Greta said, "There," sounding triumphant, and set down her tablet and stylus. Patrick, startled, broke away and looked at her. He'd almost forgotten there was a point to this.

His expression in the cube, when he got it, was disconcerting, mouth unsmiling, head held high, jaw jutting forward. He looked almost fierce. "Uh, thank you," he said, closing the display and shoving the cube in his coat pocket. "It's. It's very nice. You're quite an artist."

"Yes," Pete said, and Patrick darted a glance at him warily. Pete leaned over and whispered something in Greta's ear that made her laugh. They made a striking picture together, black head against blond, and Patrick swallowed a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Oh," he said, glancing at his timekeeper in feigned surprise. "I'm sorry, it's later than I thought. I have to be moving on. Greta, I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Oh!" Greta said, extending a hand. Pete straightened up and stepped away, and so Patrick approached and kissed her goodbye on the cheek. "Tomorrow," she said, her hand gripping his tightly, then releasing.

Pete fell into step with him as he walked away. "Which direction are you headed?" he asked. "Never mind, come, have lunch with me instead."

"Ah," Patrick said, casting about for an excuse.

Pete raised his eyebrows, huffing a breath through his nose. "You won't eat with me?"

"I...I hardly know you." Patrick worried at the sharp edge of cube in his pocket through the thin fabric of his coat.

"No," Pete mused. "And you don't want to. Do you?"

"I--" Patrick stopped. It wasn't, precisely, true.

"Did your brother tell you about me?" Pete asked, not sounding like he cared one way or the other. He had his hands inelegantly dipped into his tight trouser pockets, shoulders hunched and wrinkling the line of his jacket, like a boy forced into adult clothing.

"No," Patrick said, though he had. Brendon had elaborated in great detail on the trouble associated with Pete Wentz. The stories of dirty wealth, gambling, debauchery, and crime that had seemed so plausible in the dark of Brendon's dorm room on the tail end of a disorienting interplanetary trip seemed much less so in the light of day. "No, I just. Didn't expect to see you again after the other day. Angelia City isn't small."

"Not like...where was it? New Trier?"

"Yes," Patrick said. "And, no. They're not alike at all. New Trier, I mean."

"This way," Pete said, taking Patrick's arm and steering him toward a small restaurant. Patrick stiffened, feeling shadows of their first meeting, but let him, and Pete let go as soon as they entered the door. "Upstairs, I think," he said, and turned to grin at Patrick. "They have a floating balcony. It's a crime to not use it on a day like today."

Patrick made a noncommittal noise and followed him as he spoke quickly and quietly to the waiter, then motioned for Patrick to precede him through the door in the back, where a lift brought them up to a small platform, then to a checkerboard arrangement of tables floating in apparently-empty air twenty feet above a cultivated garden.

"Do you dislike heights?" Pete asked, strolling off the platform. Patrick couldn't quite make himself follow him, and so Pete stopped halfway to one of the tables, turning to look at Patrick.

Patrick licked his lips. "I'm not quite used to them like this," he muttered, and stepped gingerly out, trying not to look at the shrub lurking below his feet. The field he was walking on felt as solid as pavement underneath him, and he took one step, then another, and walked as quickly as he could to the table.

Pete grinned at him when he sat down. "This is one of my favorite places in the city."

"Oh," Patrick said. The table's surface was a shining composite alloy, transparent to the eye. Patrick stared down at his own knees, then at his shoes, planted firmly on nothing, and looked up, resolving not to look back down.

"What's it like?" Pete asked.

"Damned unsettling," Patrick muttered, and Pete laughed, rocking back in his chair, forcing a smile out of Patrick.

"I meant your home," he said, smiling.

"New Trier?" Patrick blinked. Pete nodded. "Uh. It's mostly manufacturing facilities. Research labs. Solar farms. It's not tremendously hospitable, really."

Over lunch, Pete asked questions, and Patrick found himself describing about his job as a quality assurance tech in one of the optics factories and telling Pete about the small suite of rooms he shared with his roommate in the housing complex in one of the atmosphere-controlled regions of the planet. He couldn't see why Pete should care, but he did seem to, following up each question with a barrage of others that were almost child-like in their simplicity, touching on such aspects as whether New Trier settlements allowed pets, if it ever rained in the atmosphere-controlled sections, and where their food came from. His curiosity finally petered out toward the end of the meal, and he sat back in his chair, turning to look out at the green rolling hills that housed the University.

"It's interesting to think about, isn't it?" Pete mused, and Patrick, his mouth full, made a wordless noise of inquiry. "How different our lives are in ways we take for granted. I think sometimes humanity is amazing."

"Mm," Patrick said, baffled.

Pete laughed briefly, turning back to Patrick. "And then I wake up and remember."

"We've done amazing things," Patrick said. "The human race has."

"Reached the stars, cured disease, eliminated hunger," Pete listed on his fingers. "And yet, it always comes back to the lowest common denominator."

Patrick shrugged his shoulders. "I think it depends on what one chooses to look at."

"Fair enough," Pete said, losing the distance in his gaze, suddenly and surprisingly present. "It wasn't hard, you know," he said.

"I'm sorry?" Patrick frowned, feeling that he'd missed a sentence.

"Finding you," Pete said. "It wasn't hard. Vid nodes are flexible."

Patrick blinked. "Not usually." He crossed his arms over his chest.

"Oh, well." Pete waved that away with his hand. "In any case, Mr Urie wasn't hard to find. Meeting you today, though. That was fortuitous."

"Why are you telling me this?" Patrick asked, feeling the conversation pitch and yaw away from him. He uncrossed his arms and set his forearms on the table, almost oversetting his water glass, and pulled his hands back awkwardly.

"I'm not sure." Pete tilted his head, looking over Patrick's shoulder. "Full disclosure, perhaps? Are you flattered?"

"No," Patrick said, flushing.

"Hm." Pete looked at him. "Lying to me so soon? At least I'm honest."

Patrick opened his mouth and closed it, then said, "I'm not flattered. I'm. Confused."

Pete raised his eyebrows sardonically, and Patrick pressed his lips into a thin line. Pete stared at him for a moment longer, before glancing down at the ruins of his entree. His voice was casual when he said, "Urie. Is that a double or single relation?"

"Single," Patrick said absently, still several exchanges back. "My mother. His father wanted parent-claim. For religious reasons."

"He's precocious," Pete said, toying with his fork. "I'm impressed."

"What?" Patrick frowned and leaned forward. "I don't understand." Brendon's test scores and scholastic performance had always been strictly average for his age and area of study.

"Why, his gambling. His slap-and-tickle with Lady Fortune." Patrick shook his head, and Pete's eyes grew wide with merriment. "Oh, brilliant!" he said, choking out, "you mean, you mean you didn't know?" between bursts of laughter.

"What," Patrick said with rude abruptness.

Pete shook his head, still laughing, and Patrick clenched his hands on the edge of the table, resisting the urge to stand and leave.

"Oh," Pete said finally. "This has definitely been worth the price of buying you lunch."

"I'm afraid I don't understand what. What are you telling me?" Patrick asked quietly.

"Gambling," Pete said, amusement still written large on his handsome face. "It's been a while since I've seen such spectacular debts from a first-year University student."

"I'm sorry." Patrick groped for his water glass. "How much?"

"One hundred thousand credits," Pete said, and Patrick knocked over his glass.

"How," Patrick said. Brendon sat in front of him on his cot while Patrick paced the length of the room. "Gaming, Brendon? Gaming. I don't understand. How could--Why didn't you tell me?"

"It wasn't your problem," Brendon mumbled.

"I very much beg to differ!" Patrick shouted. "This isn't--Brendon. This isn't like you hiding your broken toys. This is serious. If it's a valid claim, you could get sent to the gaol!"

Brendon hunched his shoulders, staring at the floor.

Patrick shook his head. "One hundred thousand credits. Did you even have a plan for how to pay it back?" Brendon said something inaudible. "No," Patrick said, and ran his hand through his hair. "No, because I don't even know how we're going to pay it back. My God, why did you even start? Was it a mistake?"

"No," Brendon said miserably. "I didn't." He threaded his fingers together, staring blindly at them. "I didn't--I was just having fun, all right? It wasn't supposed to be for stakes, really, I promise you it wasn't. I'm not sure how. I must have--I wasn't in my right mind that night. But it's mine." He glanced up defiantly. "And I'll pay it."

"How," Patrick snapped.

"I don't know! Somehow!" Brendon yelled, a ragged edge of anguish in his voice. He brought his hands up and covered his face.

Patrick looked away. Outside in the hall, footsteps pounded past, and a muffled snatch of conversation filtered into the room.

"Is that how the vid got broken?" Patrick said finally.

"Yes," Brendon said. He dropped his hands. "After. I awoke in my bed in the clothes I'd worn that night, with no memory of going back to my room. I. The credit voucher was in my pocket."

"With your thumb print?" Patrick said quietly.

"Do I look--" Brendon stopped and swallowed, doubtless knowing Patrick's response to that question. "Yes," he said, scarcely audible. "I checked. And then three days later Mr Perola's bullyboys came."

"Can you invalidate it?" Patrick asked. "At home--"

Brendon shook his head. "I tried," he said. "I swear, I did try. The magistrate just laughed at me." He stared down at his hands.

Patrick leaned back against the wall, sliding down until he hit the floor, sitting opposite Brendon with his knees bent, feet flat against the ground.

"What are we going to do?" Brendon whispered.

Patrick shook his head, unable to speak.

3.

Brendon's room felt alien and small around Patrick, too loud with all the words they weren't saying to each other, so Patrick left it, finally, taking his cap and coat with his ID and code cards. He left Brendon behind staring sightlessly into space, still sitting on the cot, his fingers knotting and unknotting around the rumpled sheets.

Patrick walked aimlessly for hours, until his feet were sore and his legs were tired, and then he turned into the first vid-kiosk he saw, an open, airy structure in the center of a manicured garden with the vid-ports arranged in small grottos sculpted and gardened to look like the outside. Privacy screens shimmered discreetly out of the corner of his eye as he turned his head.

He called his mother first, numbly giving assurances that everything was fine, yes, Brendon was fine, was doing well, that he had decided to stretch out his trip and not to worry.

"I've heard it's beautiful," his mother said, relaxing. "But, Patrick! Where are you calling from? It must be so expensive," and Patrick had to bite his lip hard to keep from falling into hysterical laughter.

"It's fine, Mother," he said. Truly, the cost of a vid call, even at this extravagant location, was hardly a fraction of Brendon's debt. He shook his head sharply. "I thought. You might want to see something nice. It is beautiful here," he said wistfully.

"Good," his mother said, sounding happy, and Patrick ended the call quickly.

He recorded a long, rambling message for Bob and sent it, ignoring the macro that tried to tell him Bob was on and available for conversation. It was unfair to Bob, but Patrick couldn't find it in himself to care. Bob would forgive him.

Finally, reluctantly, he turned to the Angelia node. Pete, he found, was popular but elusive. Trails of search terms and contacts led to dead ends, until it felt like Patrick had seen thousands of holo shots and sentence fragments, pictures of Pete from every angle, but never a location or a vid code. He wasn't in the directory. Patrick had no skill with vid searches, unpracticed at sifting through the detritus of vid traffic to the underlying logic beneath it, but desperation gave him persistence, and after two hours, he tracked the whispers to an unlabeled vid code.

He rolled his shoulders, rubbing at his weary eyes. The afternoon had faded into evening outside the grotto while he worked, and lamps were lighting all over the garden and park, lending it a dreamy air. Patrick shook his head, banishing the thought.

He input the vid code quickly, fingers moving with a decisiveness he didn't share, and wasn't surprised when the vid screen flashed, "Unlisted," at him, before connecting him to a black, unmirrored privacy blocker. He licked his lips and leaned forward. "Hello. Ah. This is Patrick Stump, wishing to contact Mr, ah, I mean, Pete Wentz? If you could relay my, um, greetings, I'd be much obliged." His mouth twitched in a nervous smile, and he clenched his hands at his sides. No one answered, and after a moment, he recited the vid code number from the top of his port, jerked his hand in an aborted salute at his forehead, and ended the call.

Less than a minute passed before the vid screen flashed a text message, meet one hour, 135-09874. -plkw

Patrick arrived early at the address Pete had provided, and was unsurprised to find that it was a small, shabby club. A bar lined one wall, privacy-screened booths the others. The center of the room, Patrick noted with a stab of black humor, was dominated by gaming tables, already populated despite the unfashionably early hour.

He took a seat at the bar, ordering a coffee despite the barman's obvious disgust, and settled in to wait. At first, he turned, head jerking over his shoulder at every new person who walked in the door, but the minutes ticked by, until Patrick was at Pete's hour and more. It was so utterly beyond the pale, Patrick thought wearily, that he had even expected Pete to come. They weren't friends, had only met a handful of times, but Pete had seemed. He'd thought Patrick was interesting, and he was a powerful person, Patrick had found out, powerful and rich. Brendon's rumors had held truth there, despite his other unlikely claims. Patrick had hoped.

He wasn't looking when Pete arrived, playing with the handle on his china cup, and he startled badly when Pete took a seat beside him, almost spilling the last of the coffee out onto the bar.

"So," Pete said, speaking over the music playing in the hall. "Patrick."

"Pete," Patrick said. "I. Thank you for coming."

Pete quirked an eyebrow, smirking. "Your message intrigued me."

"Yes," Patrick said, and hesitated. "Would you care for something to drink?" He waved at the bar.

"Are you offering?" Pete asked. "I tell you what. Why don't I buy my own, yes? I think you may be a little short on funds soon."

Patrick flushed, ducking his head. "You know we can't pay it," he muttered. "The sum is monstrously huge. This debtor, this Mr Perola, he's a villain to let a student bet so high. I can't imagine."

"No," Pete said, grimacing, and Patrick thought he might say something about it, but he swiveled in his seat instead to lean with his back to the bar, not looking at Patrick. His fingers tapped in time to the music, something soft with sweeping notes, as he focused on an exuberant game occurring at one of the tables. He added absently, "Was there anything else?"

"I was hoping for your advice," Patrick said quietly, staring into his coffee cup. "I'm afraid I don't quite know what to do. I'm unfamiliar with Angelia City. He's just a boy, you know."

"He's reached his majority," Pete pointed out. He leaned forward, looking intently at the game. "Ah, I think that one's going to swing," he added, sounding gleeful. "Deadly uncivilized, but." He grinned over his shoulder at Patrick. "We can't all be civilized."

Patrick shook his head. Across the room, two men began shouting, and the table erupted when one of the men punched the other in the face, sending him reeling back into the table behind him. Patrick turned back to the bar, averting his eyes.

"Oh, now," Pete said, clapping his hand on Patrick's shoulder. "It's not so bad, you see? They're being ejected."

"I'm sorry," Patrick said tightly, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "I find myself a bit preoccupied."

"Oh. Yes. That." When Patrick looked up, Pete was looking at him steadily. "What, precisely, did you want me to do?"

"I. I was hoping you might know someone I could talk to," Patrick said. "It-it can't be legal, what they did. There must be some way to invalidate it."

"No," Pete said. "Angelia laws are quite clear, actually. Your brother shouldn't have gambled."

"He was drugged," Patrick said. "Doesn't that matter?"

"And how do you expect to prove it?" Pete asked, sounding only mildly curious. Patrick hunched his shoulders, and Pete said, "No. I didn't think so."

Patrick wetted his dry lips. "Is there a moneylender we could use?"

"None that you'd care to," Pete said. "Slavery isn't legal in Angelia, but that doesn't stop everyone."

Patrick swallowed.

"Of course," Pete said. "There's another option, I suppose." He pressed his fingers to his lower lip. "You would have to be interested, of course."

"What," Patrick said. "What is it?"

Pete shrugged. "Your brother could pass his debt over to me. I could pay it."

Patrick closed his eyes. "Why would you do that?" he asked, his voice barely louder than the music.

Pete leaned into him, trailing his hand up the nape of Patrick's neck. "I can't simply be a philanthropist? Help my fellow man?" His fingers traced circles on Patrick's skin, and Patrick sat very still, trying not to move away.

"You seem to have a singularly low opinion of your fellow man," Patrick said. "I don't think you're a humanitarian."

Pete leaned closer, lips right next to Patrick's ear. "I'm sure you'll be able to think of a way to repay me."

Patrick flinched away, and the song playing in the hall changed to something with a hard, fast, loud rhythm. He could see Pete's mouth moving, but couldn't make out the words. The room felt suddenly hot, and he sucked in a breath, staring down at the polished surface of the bar, where his own pale face stared back at him, eyes wide and dark under his hat. It was so much money. So much money, and his brother was so young in ways Patrick had never been, crazy dance clubs notwithstanding.

Patrick swallowed. "I." His voice cracked, and he stopped. "The money. I can't--I'll never be able to pay you back."

Pete laughed and took his hand away, leaving the back of Patrick's neck feeling cold and oversensitive. "I think I know that."

"How does this work," Patrick asked softly.

"Get the voucher," Pete said, standing. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a plastic chip, sliding it under Patrick's fingers. "Use this to call me." He touched Patrick's cheek, and Patrick looked up. Pete bent and kissed him, once on the cheek, lightly, then the mouth, lingering there until Patrick found himself kissing back, feeling Pete's fingers tighten slightly against his jaw. Pete broke away, kissing Patrick on the cheek once more, and was gone.

Patrick touched his mouth with the back of his hand. He could still feel the shocking softness of Pete's mouth against his and the treacherous slick slide of Pete's tongue, and when he looked up, he was almost surprised to remember that he was still in the club.

At the center of the room, the gamers played on, oblivious. Patrick tightened his hand around the plastic chip on the bar, scooping it into his palm.

"Sir," the bartender said expressionlessly. "More coffee?"

"Thank you, no," Patrick said, standing up, trying to stop the nerves burning in his stomach. "I'm quite finished. Thank you."

"You can put your bag in here," Pete said, motioning toward a darkened room. "Make yourself at home." He stood in the center of the main room, voucher in hand, poking at it. Brendon had been out when Patrick returned, a small blessing, and Patrick had been able to steal the voucher from where it was hidden in the back of a shelf without answering any awkward question.

"Thank you," Patrick said. The apartment looked like a standard set of living quarters, though sparsely furnished and entirely undecorated. Pete had led him silently to this address, one hand low on Patrick's back, ushering him through the tube system. All the drawers and closets in the bedroom were empty when Patrick checked. Pete didn't live here, though he seemed to own it. Patrick wondered how many of these suites Pete had, then shut that thought down. It was irrelevant. He kept his back to the bed, and set his satchel gently against the wall.

"How will I know that you've paid the debt?" he asked, returning to the main room.

"Well, you could trust me," Pete said, frowning down at the voucher. He pulled a small chip out of his back pocket and jammed it into a port on the side of the voucher. He tapped the screen once, then twice in rapid succession, let out a, "Hah!" and motioned Patrick closer. "See, there." He latched onto Patrick's wrist. Patrick stared down at the screen, feeling Pete's fingers warm against his skin.

"Transaction complete," a cheaply-computerized voice said from the voucher, and it powered down, becoming nothing more than a dull grey square in Pete's hand. On the side, the chip Pete had put in began to pulse arrhythmically.

"There," Pete said. "Believe me?"

"What's that?" Patrick asked, reaching out and tapping the chip.

"Insurance," Pete said, and tossed the dead voucher on a table behind him. "It's a lot of money, after all. We wouldn't want it going to the wrong place."

"Oh, yes," Patrick said. "No."

Pete looked up and smiled, wrinkles crinkling around his eyes and warming them. "Don't look so nervous," he said, running his hand up and down Patrick's arm before linking their fingers.

Patrick cleared his throat. "I am. Grateful for what you've done."

"I know," Pete said, bringing Patrick's hand to his lips. His lips tickled the back of it, and it should have been ridiculous, Patrick having his hand kissed, but Patrick sucked in a breath and didn't feel like laughing.

"Show me," Pete said quietly, watching him.

Patrick dropped his eyes to the floor. His hand tightening on Pete's, and he stepped backwards toward the bedroom, watching their feet move opposite each other, almost like dancing. Pete stopped just inside the door, and so Patrick did as well.

"Show me," Pete repeated. His arm flexed, pulling Patrick in, and Patrick found himself following as smoothly as if he'd been taught the steps to this dance. He put his hand on the strong curve of Pete's shoulder. They stood eye to eye, separated by a bare hand's breadth of space. Pete was his height. Patrick glanced at Pete's mouth, remembering, and it was so much harder than he had anticipated, leaning forward to offer himself to Pete, instead of having his affection taken.

Pete's mouth opened immediately under his, his hand releasing Patrick's hand and sliding up Patrick's back, pressing them closer through their layers of clothing. His mouth was hot, flickering against Patrick's, as they kissed, building a rhythm, and Patrick's hand knotted in Pete's hair at the nape of his neck. Patrick pressed his hand to the wall by Pete's shoulder, leaning in, feeling cool wood against his palm, and then Pete's mouth trailed down, biting at his neck, and he let out a groan, head falling sideways.

They lay in bed together afterward, and Pete pressed his lips to Patrick's shoulder and told him that the door was coded for him, before rolling up to sit on the edge of the bed. Pete had kept the lights on the entire time, and so when Patrick turned to face Pete, he could see clearly the marks he'd made on Pete's neck and side when Pete fucked him, when he'd gasped, rearing up to sink his teeth into Pete's shoulder until Pete had sworn harshly, pinning him down and kissing him, all rough teeth and slick heat.

Pete bent, and Patrick followed the line of his shoulders, the flex of muscles under his skin, and the quick movements of his arms as he dressed. His hair was disarranged from Patrick's hands. Pete stood, buckling his heavy belt and shrugging into his vest, running his hands through his hair until it lay smoothly again. When he turned around, he looked like the man Patrick had met outside the club a bare few days ago, and Patrick lay covered in the sheets, naked.

"That number I gave you," Pete said. "It will reach me anywhere. I'll." He stopped, glancing around. "Get something for this place. It's like a tomb."

"Thank you," Patrick said. Pete looked at him for a long moment, hand moving at his side like he was going to touch him. Patrick took a breath, bracing himself, but Pete let his hand drop, turning away and leaving the room. The outer door slammed a second later.

Patrick waited, unsure of the rules governing his new position, but Pete didn't return, and so Patrick slid out of bed and padded to the bathroom, shivering slightly as he struggled to work the controls for the shower unit.

"He's given me a bathroom I can't use," Patrick muttered, and then had to stop and brace his head on the stall door as he laughed in helpless, hysterical bursts before sliding down to kneel on the cool floor. "Oh God," he said at last, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. He would have to call home. Make arrangements. Quit his job.

"All right," he said, "all right." He got to his feet, showered, and changed into the trunks and undershirt he slept in, stripping the bed of the soiled sheets. The room smelled like sex, and Patrick couldn't find another set of linens or a laundry unit, so he laid the blankets down on the bare mattress, running a wondering hand over it, pressing slightly to feel the give. He turned the light off and lay for a long time in the dark, looking at the ceiling, before finally drifting off to sleep.

Part 2