Fic: A Common Understanding (2/3)

[joyfulseeker]

Fandom: Fall Out Boy
Part 1


4.

Patrick found that time lay heavily on his shoulders these days. Walking the streets of Angelia City quickly began to tire, but the apartment closed in narrowly around him some days, even after Pete began sending over rugs, wall hangings, cushions for the couches. Pete didn't know anything about him, Patrick thought, didn't know that Patrick would have preferred an armchair to a sofa, white walls to yellow, and didn't really care about any of that as long as he had something to do throughout the day. Patrick hadn't loved his work, but he had like having something to get up for in the morning.

He watched hours of holovids on the shiny, new projector Pete brought over. The first time Pete had stayed to watch one with him, he'd curled close on the sofa, feeling obligated. Pete gave him a slanted smile, and Patrick wondered if Pete saw his discomfort, then wondered how he couldn't. The holo was a subtle faeton shadow play, though, and Patrick quickly lost himself in the intricacies of gesture and double-barbed dialogue until Pete's hand came down and brushed at his hip, fingers rubbing idly over the sensitive skin. Pete didn't do anything else, though, his eyes still fixed on the holo when Patrick tilted his head to look. He didn't touch with intent until the program had ended, and then he tumbled Patrick onto his back on the couch and kissed him, Patrick's arms pressed to the cushions above his head, their hips undulating together until Patrick was panting, and he said, "Please, come on," hand jerking against Pete's hold on his wrist.

Pete liked kissing, Patrick discovered, would do it longer than any lover Patrick had ever had, and he sometimes said things like, "God, your mouth," before biting at Patrick's lower lip. He liked Patrick's mouth on him, liked when Patrick took initiative and pushed him back against the headboard and unbuttoned his trousers, stroked him hard and blew him. His hands would come down, grasping at Patrick's hair, stroking down his own thigh and stomach, clenching at the sheets. It undid him more than anything, more, even than fucking, or perhaps Patrick just had more attention to spare this way. Regardless, he liked watching Pete Wentz come unwoven. He was always a little unguarded afterwards, would watch Patrick with sleepy eyes, hand moving softly over Patrick's cock as he jerked him off, and sometimes would ask Patrick to fuck him, pliable from his orgasm and easily directed.

Pete varied his visits according to no schedule Patrick anticipate. Sometimes he would come by four nights in a row, unannounced by anything other than the scrape of his shoes across the floor, staying through the night and into the morning so that Patrick grew accustomed to waking up and finding him there, tapping at his portable vidder. Then he would let days drift past between visits, and Patrick would sleep poorly for a few nights before settling back into the solitary patterns he'd lived his life in before.

They ate at an outdoor cafe one morning for breakfast. Pete was in an expansive mood upon arousing and forced him up and out of bed despite Patrick's grumbles, throwing clothes at him and chivvying him through his morning ablutions. He settled once they arrived at the cafe, seeming content to read the daily folio while Patrick sipped sleepily on a cup of tea and picked at a scone, avoiding the currants, reading the shifting news headlines upside down as Pete scrolled through the sections that interested him. Business, cosmological events, entertainment.

"Why get the currants if you shan't eat them?" Pete asked, stealing one from Patrick's plate. "You could have gotten a plain one."

Patrick yawned, then said from behind his hand, "I didn't know I didn't like them."

"Just get another," Pete said.

"I don't want another one," Patrick said. "I can pick these out, it's fine."

Pete opened his mouth to say something, then shrugged, looking back at the news. "Oh, listen. That holo star you like was in a racing accident."

"I don't like her," Patrick said, flushing. "I said she did a good job with a challenging role." He leaned forward to look. "Was it bad?"

"Doesn't say," Pete said absently. He frowned, lips moving silently.

"What," Patrick said, but Pete appeared to be looking at an article about changes in Angelian rules governing data tracking.

"Nothing," Pete said, not looking up, and Patrick sat back in his chair, turning to look at the foot traffic passing by on the street.

"Pete," Patrick began after a moment of silent debate. Pete looked away from the folio. "Is there anything I can...be doing?"

"I'm sorry," Pete said blankly.

Patrick opened his hands. "I'm not...accustomed to having this much free time. Is there anything I should be doing?"

"What, like a job?" Pete asked. His mouth quirked at the corners.

"Well, I mean," Patrick said. "I guess. Yes."

"As long as you're there when I want you, I don't care what you do," Pete said, and went back to his folio.

Patrick grimaced, his appetite vanishing. He pushed his plate with its half-finished scone away.

"Oh, what," Pete said, setting down the folio.

"Nothing," Patrick said, disgusted at himself forgetting what he was, what they both were. Pete made it easy sometimes, to pretend. "What else is new today?"

Pete read him the newest headline, and Patrick stared out at the street. A little girl with a Cosmo the Cosmic Space Dust Dragon coverall was playing at the table next to theirs, crouched down on the cobbled pavement with a little robot toy, making it climb imaginary hills. He smiled a little, remembering mornings spent elbowing Brendon for the best spot under their shaky holovid player.

"What," Pete asked. "What's amusing?"

Patrick shook his head, then jerked his chin toward the little girl, and watched Pete's face soften slightly.

"You know, everyone always liked Cosmo, but I loved his sidekick, Solar Flare," Pete said, turning back and grinning. Patrick's eyebrows rose, and Pete snorted. "Even I watched children's programs, Stump."

"No, I know," Patrick said, but it was a hard thing to imagine, still. Even now, spending every night in his bed, Patrick knew so little about him that it was hard not to think of Pete as having simply appeared from the Angelian earth, full-grown.

"He had that attack," Pete said. "He never needed saving. Ever."

"No," Patrick agreed. "Still. I liked Cosmo, though. He was noble."

"He was a dragon," Pete said, sounding disgusted.

"Exactly," Patrick said, and left it at that.

He went back to Greta's stall often during the day. Since he had no set schedule, he was free to make his hours of his own choosing, and so he frequently visited during the late afternoon, when business was slow and heading toward the end of the day, and he could help her break down the booth, packing away the fragile portrait cubes and landscapes for travel back to her family's studio.

"Angelia City's treating you well," she said, stopping him at one point and putting her hand on his sleeve. Patrick glanced down. He was wearing a green jacket Pete had picked out for him. It was made of soft, expensive fabric and shimmered under the fading sun.

"Oh," Patrick said, flushing. "It was a gift."

"You have a generous friend," Greta said, looking at him for a long moment. She had, Patrick was reminded, lived on Angelia her entire life and was infinitely more familiar with its ways than he.

"Yes," Patrick said. "Ah. Where do you want this?" He hefted a case.

"Put it with the other full-body portraits," she said, turning away and tapping at her lower lip. "I think...tomorrow, I think I bring more animals. The children love them, and I nearly sold out today."

"Animals," Patrick agreed. "Universally beloved, I believe."

"Did you ever have any pets?" Greta asked. Her hands moved busily, packing away her machine. "I never did. So expensive."

"No," Patrick said. "New Trier doesn't allow them, too much of a strain on settlement resources. I did find and keep a ground lizard for a few weeks when I was little, though."

"Ground lizard?" Greta raised an eyebrow.

"They're pests," Patrick supplied. He shook his head, laughing. "It caused such an infestation. I thought my mother would never forgive me."

"Pests, pets." Greta weighed the two options out in her hands. "I'm sure you just became confused."

"Would you believe, I tried explaining that?" Patrick said. "And yet, somehow."

"A hellion," Greta murmured. They loaded the last crate onto her floating pallet and began walking slowly down the street, side by side with the pallet. Patrick crooked his arm with a little duck of his head, and Greta placed her hand in it, smiling at him. They walked in comfortable silence for a little while, and then she said, "Angelia City is treating you well, but you don't look happy."

"I'm not...unhappy," Patrick said cautiously.

"Patrick," she said. "Do you know what you're doing?"

Patrick huffed out a laugh. "Oh, yes."

"Does your brother?"

Patrick didn't say anything.

"I wish I'd never let him stay at the booth," Greta muttered, scowling blackly at the ground.

"Oh, Greta, no," Patrick said.

"Well, I do," she insisted.

"He isn't a bad man," Patrick said, thinking of the care with which Pete touched him.

"He isn't a good one," Greta said.

"No," Patrick agreed. He shook his head. "I'm not unhappy, Greta."

"All right," she said, but her eyes were troubled when she looked at him.

"Enough of that," Patrick said. He patted her hand. "Tell me about Joe."

"He took me out dancing the other night," Greta said, face lightening. "Did I tell you that?"

"Why, no, I don't think you did," Patrick said. "Can he dance? I'm all feet when I try."

"He tries," Greta said. She laughed. "That's all I ask, really. The place we went, it was all formal, and I got to wear my mother's dress. She did up my hair and everything. You should have seen his face when he saw me."

"So I shan't have to call him out, then," Patrick said.

"Patrick!" Greta hit him on the shoulder with her hard little fist. "In fact, I think you would like him if you met him."

They had arrived at the Salpeter compound. Patrick stepped back, disengaging, and let her go past him to the gate.

"Patrick," she called, turning toward him in a whirl of skirts. "Come out with us tonight! Dinner and the Pretian Dancing Conservatory."

"Oh," Patrick said. "I'm not sure--"

"Please," she coaxed, drawing the word out. "He won't begrudge you that, surely?"

"No, of course not," Patrick said with greater surety than he felt.

"Well, then," Greta said. "Here, your vid code, I'll send you the restaurant later."

"No, here," Patrick said, taking his portable vidder out of his pocket. He bent his head, ignoring her look, and created a memo. She gave the address without further commentary, and he took his leave.

He stood for a long moment in front of his vid port that evening. It rankled, the thought of calling Pete and asking permission to have a night out. It made him feel like a-a whore. In the end, he left his rooms without calling, arriving at the restaurant just short of being late.

The gathering was large and convivial, being made up of not only the infamous Joe, but a wide variety of Greta's acquaintances and intimates. He wondered how many others of Greta's strays were at the table that night. Patrick found himself debating the merits of bodyart with Greta's cousin Chris, a fair, slight boy scarcely older than Greta herself, with a head of dark flyaway hair.

"I simply think it can be gaudy when overused," Patrick argued.

"Well, yes," Chris said scathingly, a spark of good humor taking the sting from his words. "That's the nature of color. So too with clothing, but I don't see you wearing black."

"I don't precisely need to look paler," Patrick said.

Chris took hold of Patrick's sleeve, pulling it back to reveal his wrist. "You'd be a lovely canvas," he said.

Patrick looked at him, imagining Chris's thin, expressive face painted like some of the club goers he'd seen, made exotic and startling. "I think I prefer the classic look," he said lightly.

"I have some designs. Subtle, almost conservative," Chris wheedled.

"Are you trying to talk Patrick into modeling for you?" Greta asked, hanging over Chris's chair back. "It took me forever to get him to sit for me."

"But look at him," Chris said, and they swiveled in unison to stare at Patrick, Patrick quailing a bit under their combined regard.

"No," he said firmly. "Thank you, but no."

"It's hardly like being naked at all," Greta began, and laughed at Patrick's appalled expression.

"You should come and see my work sometime," Chris said after Greta had returned to her spot. "I have a shop in the arts district, near the parks."

"I, yes," Patrick said, conscious of Chris's hand still on his wrist, a polite, subtle invitation that he might once have taken advantage of. He slipped his hand discreetly away, then reached for the wine pitcher. "I shall, thank you."

Chris looked disappointed for a moment, but not upset, and merely asked, "But you, what do you do in Angelia City?"

"Oh," Patrick said, stumbling over his words. "I, ah. I'm on an-an extended holiday, I suppose. The fine arts, you know."

"Angelia's famous for them," Chris said. "And rightly so, by the way."

"Yes," Patrick said. "My brother. He studies at the University."

"Oh, in what?" Chris asked, appearing genuinely interested, and didn't seem to notice that Patrick spent the rest of the meal discussing Brendon's scholastic career.

When Patrick returned to his rooms in the early hours of the morning, he found them empty and dark, the bed undisturbed, and he couldn't decide if he was relieved or disappointed that Pete hadn't appeared to notice his absence.

5.

Brendon had accepted the news that Patrick was staying in Angelia City placidly after the great relief of finding out about his reprieve. Patrick had lied and said he'd found a connection with influence on the magistrate, who had then invalidated Brendon's debt, and Brendon hadn't pressed for details. Patrick had hinged his own further stay on Angelia on meeting up with an old friend. He allowed Brendon to visit the apartment only once, instead encouraging Brendon to simply call his vid when he wanted to meet for an afternoon.

"This is a fine place," Brendon said, standing in the main room. He turned in a circle, moving to the bookshelves to scan the lines of holovids and folios.

"It's, yes," Patrick muttered, coming out of the bedroom and closing the door quickly, hoping Brendon wouldn't notice the way the suite didn't have another bedroom. "It's a lease arrangement only," which wasn't precisely a lie. "Come, we're going to overrun our reservation."

Brendon let him shuffle him out the door with only one curious backwards glance. At lunch, Patrick asked questions about xenobotany, and listened to Brendon's litany of complaints about his villainous professors and their heinous deadlines. Patrick nodded and picked his way through a frankly disappointing salad with real tomatoes and a purple vegetable native to one of the outer planets that had a strange, fishy taste.

"...And, anyway, you don't really care, do you?" Brendon finished, grinning across the table at him. He stabbed at one of the purple vegetables on Patrick's plate with his fork and ate it, then made a face, and Patrick laughed. "Sometimes, this food," he said mournfully.

"You miss Mother's home-cooked insta-meals," Patrick said.

"At least then we knew what we were eating," Brendon pointed out, and Patrick opened his hand, conceding the point.

Behind Brendon's back, the door to the restaurant opened, and Patrick jerked in his chair as Pete walked in. He hadn't expected to see him, would have steered Brendon wide of the entire neighborhood if he'd known Pete frequented the place, but Pete had never mentioned it.

"What," Brendon asked, craning his head over his shoulder.

"Nothing, I just, I see someone I know," Patrick said.

Pete had seen them, Patrick knew, and raised his hand in greeting, hoping Pete would be kind enough to show discretion.

"Pete," Patrick said when he had gotten close enough. He extended a hand, and Pete took it with a quizzical expression, shaking it. "I'm not sure you've ever been properly introduced. Brendon, Pete Wentz. Pete, may I introduce you to my brother, Brendon Urie?"

"Pleased to meet you," Brendon said stiffly, shaking Pete's hand.

"The same," Pete said, looking deeply amused.

"Are you here for tea?" Patrick asked, feeling artificial and as though every word he said shouted his deception.

"No, I've business with the manager," Pete said, sounding perfectly at ease. "Patrick, lovely to see you as always. Mr Urie. Enjoy your meal, gentlemen." He clapped Patrick's shoulder in parting, perfectly proper except for the finger he stroked over Patrick's shoulder blade, and wandered off, leaving Patrick trying not to blush noticeably.

As soon as he'd disappeared into the back room with the head waiter, Brendon leaned over his plate, hissing, "I didn't realize you'd stayed in touch!"

Only a little, Patrick wanted to say, but even he couldn't quite frame the lie, and so said, "He's an intriguing person," which was, at least, true. Patrick, feeling the meal had been rather ruined, and might as well end on as much of a high note as was left, called over their server, asking for the check.

"Oh, it's been taken care of," she said, drawing her curly black hair over her shoulder. "Mr Wentz said that he hopes you enjoyed the food."

"Ah," Patrick said. He pressed his lips in a thin line. It was, he supposed, more efficient than Patrick paying with the line of credit Pete had extended for him. "Give him my thanks. Thank you."

"Sir," she said, bobbing her head.

"I don't like it," Brendon muttered as they collected their hats and jackets, walking out into the street.

"It's fine," Patrick said shortly.

"Why does he take special notice of you?" Brendon asked, and Patrick wondered how much he'd seen. If he'd heard.

"He's a powerful man," Patrick said. "Powerful men like to show it."

"I wouldn't want him as my friend," Brendon said.

"Brendon," Patrick said, and Brendon subsided.

Later that night, as they lay in bed, Patrick asked Pete about it. The lights were already off, and Pete told him in a drowsy voice about the many businesses he invested in, the art galleries, cafes, and clubs he had a silent share in. "That's what I was asking your friend Greta about," Pete said into his pillow. "That first morning."

Patrick painted absent patterns on Pete's stomach, thinking. "You wanted her for one of your galleries?"

"She has talent," Pete muttered.

"She doesn't like you," Patrick confessed.

Pete turned in his arms so that he was flat on his back with Patrick's hand spread across his side. Patrick could see his smile dimly in the light from the window. "I know. She doesn't need to."

"You like that," Patrick accused. "You like that she dislikes you."

"She doesn't dislike me for my sake," Pete pointed out. "It's for yours. She's loyal. I like that." He covered his mouth, yawning. "I'm sure she'd like me for my sake." He brought his other hand up, covering Patrick's hand and interlacing their fingers. "I'm charming. Admit it."

"Occasionally," Patrick said, tugging his hand away. Pete held on, and Patrick set his hand flat again, feeling Pete's skin warm against his palm.

"Yes," Pete said, sounding on the edge of sleep. He sighed, and his breath settled into a slow rhythm under their joined hands.

Patrick lay awake for a little while longer, listening to it. His cheek sank into the pillow, his mind wandering towards sleep. In the darkness, it felt safe, and so he whispered, "Why did you do it?" The question he'd been wondering for ages.

Pete, asleep, didn't say anything, his breath fanning over Patrick's cheek. Patrick closed his eyes. Right before he fell asleep, he thought he heard Pete say, "I couldn't not," but it didn't seem connected to anything, just a random collection of sounds, and his mind drifted and then slid away into the dark.

Patrick missed New Trier more than he had expected. Angelia City was in perpetual summer, lush and decadent, and he would sometimes ride the public transport tubes long distances to where they would arch up over the city in shining filaments. He would look out the panoramic windows at the rolling green hills, Angelia City set in them like a brilliant jewel, and find himself wishing for New Trier's harsh barren landscape, that particular quality of light only found from New Trier's brighter sun filtered through the settlement polarizers. Greta's friends were amiable, and he'd gone to visit Chris and seen his portfolio of bodyart in all its dazzling and in some cases physiologically-defying glory, but he missed Bob's blunt speech and calm manner. He disliked having to measure each word against the possibility of being found out. Brendon appeared to see his discontent, but couldn't fathom the reason behind it.

"If you hate Angelia, go home," he said logically, lying on the floor on his stomach with a text and a workpad in front of him.

"I don't hate it," Patrick said. He sat on the bed in the sunshine, toying with Brendon's jar of colored data stones, spreading them into patterns on the coverlet and watching the way the translucent stones warped the lines of the blankets. "I simply, isn't there anything you miss, coming here?" He held a red stone up to the light.

"No," Brendon said, not looking up. He made a note on his pad. "Home was deadly dull."

"I see," Patrick said. "So you came here and found the most excitement you could."

"It wasn't like that," Brendon muttered.

Patrick scooped the data stones back in the jar and capped it, setting it on its shelf again, and rolled over onto his back, head on Brendon's pillow. He wasn't, truly, interested in rehashing old arguments. He'd made a point to ask Pete if Brendon had continued gaming, but he'd apparently lost his taste for it after his brush with disaster, and restricted himself to dance clubs instead. In any case, the late nights appeared to leave him none the worse for wear, and thus Patrick was content. He closed his eyes against the glare, stretching his arms and shoulders. Pete had been energetic the night before, leaving Patrick feeling slightly overused today.

"Have you had any more difficulty with Mr Perola?" he asked.

"No, thank God," Brendon said. "Though I heard a story at the club the other night. Overheard a group of people talking. Apparently he...makes a habit of it. Of what he did to me."

Patrick opened his eyes. "Really," he said carefully.

"It's--what sort of villain does that?" Brendon asked, sounding angry. "I'm not saying that it wasn't my fault, it was, of course it was, but to deliberately--to do that."

"I know," Patrick said. "I'm not--I can't explain it."

"I found out, there was a grand scandal a couple years ago," Brendon said, voice hushing. "Another student fell into arrears and killed himself to evade it."

"My God, Brendon," Patrick said, shaken. He sat up. "You wouldn't have done that, surely."

"No, no, of course not," Brendon said. "Blasted cowardly thing to do, I'd never. No." His voice lacked confidence, though, and Patrick remembered vividly how he'd looked those bare months ago, with his skin stretched taught over his bones, and couldn't be sure.

"Good," Patrick said. "Well, I'm glad you're well out of it." He lay back down on the bed. "What was the fellow's name?"

"Gabe S-something," Brendon said, attention drawn back to his work. "Savosa? Something."

"You're well out of it," Patrick repeated.

At home later, filled with a sort of morbid curiosity, he looked it up on the vid. Gabe Saporta had been a tall young man with short curly brown hair and bright eyes and a gawky sort of grace. Attractive, Patrick thought. He had an accent from one of the outer worlds, and had studied microsociological movements in long-voyage ships' crews, though he'd died before achieving his course of study. He was laughing in most of what Patrick found, eyes blurred with something, either liqueur or a stimulant. In the last shot, though, he was slumped down gracelessly in a tiled room (bathroom? Patrick wondered), legs sprawled across the floor, skin sallow against his dark hair and bright jacket, eyes staring at nothing while all around him forensics officers bustled in their official dark green jackets and masks.

Patrick slipped over to another stream and startled back from the screen, fingers slipping off the controls for a moment before he recovered himself. Pete and this Gabe fellow were everywhere, tangled together like two vines. Here they stumbled with arms around each other out of the doorway of a club, Pete tucked up against Saporta's side and looking incongruously small. There they kissed slowly and lewdly, seemingly unconcerned with onlookers. Pete's head was tilted up with his hand pressed to Saporta's cheek, and he looked happy and younger than Patrick had ever seen him.

Patrick sat back, feeling something small and petty curling in his chest.

"Enough," he muttered, sickened of himself, and switched off the vid.

That night, though, he couldn't stop himself from tracing Pete's face with light fingers, the shape of his mouth and the lines from the corners of his mouth to his nose, until Pete took his hand and kissed the palm, then bit at his finger.

"What do you want?" Patrick asked, feeling suddenly urgent. "Tell me what you want."

Pete's mouth dropped open and he looked momentarily flummoxed, which would have been amusing under other circumstances, but Patrick wanted, he didn't know what he wanted. He wanted Pete to look at him. He reached down, stroking along Pete's side, ghosting over the sensitive spots on his ribs, and curled his hand around Pete's cock, stroking it into hardness. Pete's eyes closed, and then he opened them, looking at Patrick with a dazed hunger in his eyes.

"You, on your back," Pete said, pushing forward and kissing him, biting at his lips with sharp nips that stung when Pete pulled back, and it took an effort of will to remember to roll over. Pete shoved up onto his knees and hovered over him for a moment, not touching. Patrick looked down at his body and ran his hands over his thighs restlessly. Pete bent, rubbing Patrick's cock, mouthing it, soft liquid heat on Patrick's sensitive skin, and Patrick felt himself start to harden, throwing his head back and grasping at Pete's bare thigh.

"How is this?" Pete asked quietly when he moved to kneel between Patrick's spread knees, solicitous of the night before.

"It's fine, yes," Patrick said, the words slurring in his mouth at Pete's fingers brushing against his opening, pressing behind his balls. "Please."

Pete pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Patrick's knee, licking a line down his inner thigh, making his hips buck. His fingers slicked inside, too slowly. Patrick shifted on the bed, toes curling. He ran a hand down his own torso, and Pete choked out a strangled laugh before sliding forward to kiss him, awkward with the angle, and Patrick whined in his throat.

"Now," Patrick said, face flaming, but he didn't want to wait, he wanted this now, and he pushed on Pete's chest.

"Are you sure--" Pete started.

"Yes," Patrick said, and Pete pushed inside.

Look at me, Patrick thought almost mindlessly, riding Pete's thrusts, look at me, but Pete had his head tipped down, eyes closed. He shifted over onto one arm, and the changed angle made Patrick's mouth fall open slackly as his vision fogged around the edges. Pete's hand scraped roughly over Patrick's cock, pulling in time with his thrusts, and Patrick's thoughts unraveled as he came.

Pete was gone the next morning when Patrick woke up.

The rest of the evening had been oddly awkward. Pete had become withdrawn and quiet, rolling over away from Patrick when he'd finished, leaving Patrick to go to the bathroom to clean up in silence, glaring at his reflection in the mirror. When he returned to the bedroom, he stood for a moment next to the bed, weighing out the options for sleeping, feeling unbalanced. He thought Pete would speak then, but the other side of the bed was utterly still, artificially so, and so Patrick slid back under the covers, keeping to his side until he finally fell asleep.

Patrick sat up, leaning against the bare wood of the headboard, and scrubbed at his face. Chris was coming over soon to take him to a garden display, and it wouldn't do for him to find Patrick so disarrayed.

It didn't mean anything, he thought. It didn't mean. Anything.

6.

Pete didn't call on Patrick for over a week. Patrick resolutely kept himself occupied. He let Greta come over an attempt to decorate his apartment, and met up with Greta's Joe and Joe's friend Andy to move an art display of Chris's. Andy was a short, quiet man with brilliant bodymods that lent him a flamboyant appearance, though he said little. He was, Patrick was surprised to learn, a small-container gardener of some skill, and created small ecosystems of delicate beauty.

"You should try it," Andy urged as they shuffled a standing frame into position. "It takes very little space and isn't difficult. Where are you from?"

"New Trier," Patrick said. "Your end, I think. It's a bit uneven."

"Up--" Andy said, "--oh, New Trier, they'll help there. They can balance out the natural and unnatural energies in the home that come from living in such an artificial environment."

"...Ah?" Patrick said, but found himself tickled at the idea, and later persuaded Joe to accompany him on an expedition to purchase supplies and appropriate instructions. They covered Patrick's apartment in a fine gritty layer of blue nutrient powder, and Patrick learned that calm, amiable Joe was an engineer at a local shipyard and spent his days dreaming of the stars.

"I suppose I don't really belong with the rest of Greta's roustabouts," he said easily, then grinned. "But Greta likes me."

"Fair enough, sir," Patrick said, watching his competent hands nestling seedlings into ceramic pots and thinking that his appeal was scarcely a mystery.

Pete came by in the middle of the night three days later, long after Patrick had gone to bed, flinging the door open and the lights on.

"What? Pete?" Patrick said, awoken from a sound sleep. He rolled over, shielding his eyes. Pete stood in the doorway, hip cocked against the frame, eyes dark in his bleached and sallow face.

"Up," Pete said, "get up, we're going out."

"What," Patrick said again, grasping around for his timepiece. Pete took four steps to the bed, and then his hands were there, cold on Patrick's sleep-warmed skin, curving over his shoulder under his sleeve and sliding up his side. Patrick found himself arching into Pete's hands, head lolling to the side, waiting for what would come next. Pete pushed him onto his back, straddling him, and Patrick could feel the humming energy crackling under Pete's skin. He reached up, framing Pete's face with his hands, and Pete sighed once, then pushed off, rolling away from the bed.

"Fuck, you test my self-control," Pete said, and walked over to the wardrobe he'd bought Patrick.

Patrick sat up and scrubbed at his face. Pete was pacing between the wardrobe and the bed, throwing shirts, trousers, and waistcoats right and left, awful things in soft fabric and gaudy colors that Patrick would never wear, shirts that opened low at the neck, and--was that face paint?

"I'm not wearing that," Patrick mumbled into his hand, leaning on his elbow.

"You'll wear what I tell you to," Pete said. "Get dressed."

Patrick closed his eyes, but when he opened them, Pete was still there. He'd turned away, picking up the palette of face paints, and was applying them in Patrick's mirrored vid-screen, the surface silvered and perfectly reflective. Patrick sighed and got out of bed, stumbling over to the bathroom to clean his teeth. His tired face stared back at him, cheek crossed with red wrinkles from the pillow. He grimaced at himself and splashed his face with cold water.

When he came back out, Pete was drawing a red line diagonally down his cheek, vivid and bloody like a wound on his face. Patrick reluctantly peeled his shirt over his head, shedding his trunks before moving quickly to don the striped trousers Pete had laid out for him. He looked up from fastening the waistband to find Pete's eyes on him in the mirror, watching intently. Patrick felt heat stripe his face, and reached hastily for the shirt. Pete set down the paints and took the shirt from his hands, shaking it out and sliding it onto first one arm, then the other, while Patrick stood and let him, feeling Pete's hands wander over his chest, slowly fastening the buttons. Heat grew and prickled at his skin, settling in his groin. Pete didn't move to touch him any more than necessary, though, didn't even try to grope when he tucked the shirt into Patrick's trousers. He seemed to take a perverse delight in the way Patrick sucked in his breath and let it out slowly at the almost-innocent touch of Pete's fingers. Over Pete's shoulder, Patrick's own flushed face stared back at him from the vid screen, eyes half-closed. He looked debauched. He looked like someone Patrick wouldn't recognize if they passed on the street.

Pete had a helo-cab waiting outside that took them to a club in a section of town Patrick didn't recognize. Pete stayed on the far side of the car for the ride over after setting the navigator, staring out the window. He didn't attempt to touch Patrick again, and so Patrick settled in his seat, spreading his legs a little to gain room, trying to calm himself. It was a novelty still to ride a helo through the city, and he tried to appreciate it. The city felt different seen from the back of a helo, like Patrick was living in a holovid of the city as opposed to reality.

"What are we doing?" Patrick ventured after a time, uncertain of Pete's mood. He rubbed at the smooth fabric of his trousers.

"I have business," Pete said briefly.

Patrick frowned. "Why bring me?"

"Because it pleases me," Pete said. Patrick opened his mouth, and Pete shot him a look. "Full of questions," he murmured, and Patrick subsided, trying to keep ahold of his temper.

At the club, Patrick felt a sense of deja vu at the sight of the line of people trailing out the door. Pete placed Patrick's hand in the crook of his elbow, and Patrick wondered if Pete was feeling it too, this strange dizzying sense of repetition. If so, he didn't show it, merely walked past the doorman with a nod of his head, and Patrick quickened his pace to keep up with Pete's rapid footsteps. He stopped short when they entered the club proper, until Pete's impatient tug on his hand pulled him back into motion. Girls and boys in all states of undress were writhing on tables and pedestals. The main act appeared to be a trio on another of the invisible floating stages that had so discomfited Patrick when he first arrived in Angelia City. They were doing something that vaguely resembled a Talenei fan dance, though with markedly more nudity than Patrick had seen at the recital he'd attended with Greta.

He frowned. There was a vulgarity here his tired mind found hard to stomach, a crassness that robbed the dancers of their allure. He looked away, concentrating instead on the other patrons in the club. Most showed the unmistakable mark of poverty in their shiny grayish skin from city-supplied sustenance programs, their seedy jackets and dresses, and even in the tumult of the club, eyes followed Pete and Patrick everywhere.

One of the privacy-screened booths dropped its shield as they passed. A man exited, and Patrick caught a brief glimpse of a pretty girl stretched out on the table with a man between her legs, moving in short graceless thrusts. Patrick looked away quickly, the privacy screen flickering back into place in his peripheral vision, but not before he'd seen her unfocused and dilated eyes in her oblivious face. Patrick inhaled sharply.

"See something you like?" Pete asked.

"It's disgusting," Patrick said shortly, and Pete smirked.

"So high and mighty," he said.

Patrick stopped, forcing Pete to turn toward him. "Why have you brought me here?" he asked, holding Pete's eyes. "Is this the humanity you think so amazing?" He flicked his hand at the floor.

Pete's face flushed, or perhaps it was just the lights changing to red, and for a moment, Patrick saw Pete with a curious double vision, face shifting from angry to impassive. Pete caught Patrick's chin in his hand. "This is the humanity I know."

Patrick jerked his head away. "You're wrong, and you know it."

"No," Pete said, dropping his hand and stepping away. "You just think I am." He turned away and kept walking, and Patrick perforce followed him.

Pete stopped at another booth. The screen dropped as they approached, and Patrick scanned the occupants warily before returning to the obvious leader at the table, a dark-haired man with a thick brown beard and dark eyes that jittered around the club before coming to rest on Pete. He was flanked on either side by his two more exotic companions, one with a fine, heavily painted face and large dark eyes lending him an androgynous beauty, the other with a paler unpainted face and softer features. Patrick recognized the casual arrogance with which he touched them.

"Jon Walker," Pete said, breaking into a sharp smile.

"Pete Wentz," Mr Walker said, lifting his arm from the shoulders of the thinner boy on his right. He half-stood, reaching over the table to shake Pete's hand, and Pete clapped him on the shoulder. His eyes drifted, scanning Patrick with lascivious intent. Patrick stiffened, and Mr Walker looked at him for a moment longer before turning back to Pete. "Sit, sit."

"Jon," Pete said genially, sliding into a seat. The privacy screen fell back into place, cutting out the noise of the club. "I hope I don't have to tell you to be a gentleman."

Jon Walker laughed, but Patrick detected an undercurrent of unease in the sound. "I've been hearing rumors of your new friend all over town. You aren't going to blame me for being curious?"

Pete's thigh tensed where it was touching Patrick's, but he said, "Well, I don't know about that, it depends on if you brought me what I asked for," his tone light still, and Patrick glanced down at the table to hide his discomfort.

"Oh, that was an interesting request," Jon said. "Spencer here was quite impressed, weren't you?" He ran his finger down the naked cheek of the boy on his left, who inclined his head into it, a small smile gracing his lips. "Had some difficulty obtaining it."

"I love how you like to make a simple business transaction into a song-and-dance," Pete said, leaning on his elbow. "I find it charming, I truly do."

"If you aren't interested," Jon said, laying his hands flat on the table, and his two companions sat upright, as if readying to leave.

"Sit down," Pete said grumpily. "Do you have it, or don't you?"

"We haven't discussed payment," Jon said.

"If you promise me discretion, I pay you your asking price," Pete said. "If word follows me that I bought this, and I hear more of your 'rumors'..." He opened his hand. "Holo-implants are a dirty business. I may have to tell some rumors of my own."

Patrick blinked, trying not to stare. Jon was an electronics smuggler, which Patrick had previously only heard of in holovids.

Jon shifted in his seat. "No need to get unpleasant," he muttered, and flicked a hand at Spencer, who retrieved a small package from the seat next to him, placing it on the table.

"Ah," Pete said, sounding satisfied. He reached for it, but the other boy moved lightning-fast, no longer lazy-eyed and languid, and caught his wrist in his long, thin hand. His face was impassive behind the paint, and Pete sighed.

"Ah ah ah," Jon said, smiling. "You know how we like to work."

"Picky picky," Pete muttered, fishing out a credit transfer chit out of his pocket with his unbound hand. He slapped it down, and the boy released his hand, taking the chit and handing it to Spencer, who jacked it into a reader, then tilted the screen toward Jon.

Jon glanced down, and Patrick watched his eyebrows rise, then he licked his lips, looking suddenly nervous. "That, ah. That will be fine."

"I'm glad it's to your satisfaction," Pete said. The device, when he unwrapped it, wasn't familiar to Patrick. "It's fast and untraceable?" he asked, not looking up from pressing a combination of buttons.

"The finest of hacking equipment," Jon said. "It'll track and decrypt to your specifications."

"You've tested it," Pete said.

Jon twisted his lips into an offended pout. "We value our products. I wouldn't sell a defective."

"Good," Pete murmured. "Good."

After a moment, Jon coughed. "You know, not too many people need that kind of thing. Really, only--"

"I don't think. Did I ask for speculation?"

Jon gave him an injured look. "I'm your oldest business partner. I simply--"

"Don't," Pete said.

Jon let out a breath. "You're really going to do it."

"I think it wouldn't serve you to know what I'm going to do," Pete said.

"But it'll serve him," Jon said, nodding at Patrick.

Pete's eyes narrowed, and Jon lifted his hands, making an elaborate gesture of looking away.

"You," Pete said quietly, "lost the opportunity to have a say in my affairs three years ago."

"Look," Jon said, sounding heated for the first time. "I liked Gabe, I did, but it would have been nothing less than suicide to have moved against--" His mouth snapped shut a second before Pete said:

"I think you should watch your mouth," low and vicious.

"I-I apologize," Jon said. "I didn't mean, you know. That."

No one said anything for a long minute, and Patrick shifted uneasily on the bench, feeling that he had entered a conversation already in progress, and that Pete and Jon were far from the contents of this booth. Pete put a hand to his thigh, glancing over like he'd forgotten Patrick was there. Pete's mouth was turned down at the corners, and when he looked at Patrick, he looked suddenly weary.

"I think we're done here," he said, hand tightening and releasing. He jerked his head, and Patrick took it as his cue to exit the booth. Pete stood after him. "Gentlemen. A pleasure as always."

"Yes, Pete," Jon said, half-standing. He stretched out a hand. "I, honestly, you know I didn't mean anything. I'm just a stupid trader, what do I know."

"Yes," Pete said, and Patrick noted an element of detachment in his voice. Jon heard it as well, and his hand dropped to his side. "Come," he said, retaking Patrick's arm, and as they walked away, Patrick saw Jon collapse back into his seat, taking a large drink out of the liqueur glass in front of him before the privacy screen obscured his view.

In the helo-cab on the way back, Pete slumped back in his seat, covering his face with one hand.

"You know," he said, taking his hand down. "I started out casing joints like that. In my," he chuckled humorlessly, "misspent youth."

"Ah?" Patrick said. He shifted on the seat until they were touching, shoulder to knee.

Pete looked down, pleating at Patrick's trousers. "Oh, yes. You'd be amazed at how little people watch their pockets when they're distracted. It was." He paused. "Fun." He waved his hand dismissively. "The way many things are when you're too young and stupid to realize."

"Did you love him?" Patrick asked, wanting to reach out and touch.

"Who, Gabe?" Pete asked, looking surprised. "Oh, yes. Young and stupid, but much later." He let his head fall back on the cushioned headrest. "I suppose there isn't a-a time limit on that." He closed his eyes, and Patrick recognized that expression now. Pete, mocking no one other than himself. "Obviously."

"My brother would be the first example, I think," Patrick said, wanting to make him laugh, and he did, painfully, crumpling in slow motion until his face was buried in Patrick's shoulder.

"Oh, God, what I do to you," he said, sounding choked.

Patrick shifted, letting his head fall more comfortably in the hollow of his collarbone. "I don't think you're such a villain, Pete Wentz," he said. "Not nearly so much as you think you are."

"No," Pete said. He huffed out a breath, and didn't say anything more. Patrick found himself yawning, his eyelids drooping despite himself as his body unwound from the tension of the previous half-hour.

"I wish," Pete said finally, sounding half asleep already. "I would that I were more like who you thought I was."

Part 3