Fall Out Boy Ficlet: You Know
Fandom: Fall Out Boy
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Size: 1200 words
Note: Thank you to Jj for being nice enough to share her prompt with me. This was a chat-bunny fed by circuity and callsigns many many months ago.
"I'm going to get punched," Patrick said.
"It's a kissing booth," Andy said. "You won't, 'cause that's like the whole point of it."
"No, but," Patrick said, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans, "I'm gonna get punched."
"Well..." Andy tilted his head. "I mean, whatever, if you want to back out on your dare."
"Shut up," Patrick muttered. "This is so stupid, man, seriously." He turned and squinted across the fair at the folding banquet table with the big paper sign reading: $1.00 = 1 kiss--Help Raise Money for AIDS Prevention, and then at the short, dark-haired, tan-skinned guy sitting at the table with his legs kicked up, reading a book. Patrick had seen him around before, a friend of a friend of a friend, and vaguely remembered hearing he was a grad student in the Communications department. An attractive guy with a predilection for hoodies and tight t-shirts, but they'd never talked.
Well, they'd talked once. The guy had handed Patrick a flyer advertising an anti-war march. Patrick had said, "Thank you."
Andy shrugged, face clearly saying, whatever, not my lips, also, I dared you, so give me my fifty bucks.
"Fine," Patrick said, and started walking across the grass. He dug into his front pocket and pulled out a crumpled twenty. Andy started giggling behind him, and he turned and glared over his shoulder.
He turned back, swerving to avoid a group of girls making a beeline for the stuffed animal toss, and then he was in front of the table. The guy had a on a short-sleeved t-shirt that showed off muscled, tattooed arms, and Patrick really hoped he wasn't going to get punched. But, anti-war activists were inherently non-violent, right? He was also wearing a nametag that said, MY NAME IS: PETE in black block print sharpie, with you know you wanna hit this written hastily underneath.
Patrick swallowed and put the twenty down on the table.
"You want nineteen dollars back?" Pete said, looking up from his book briefly. "I don't think we have that much change in the box. Just handed it over, sorry."
Patrick flushed, feeling himself turn red as a tomato. He hunched his shoulders. "I, uh. I don't want any change back."
Pete looked up, then, and Patrick flushed redder, hand closing and releasing in his pocket. Pete grinned, his bangs hanging over one eye, and he was seriously hotter in person than Patrick remembered. Patrick's relief at not getting punched only lasted a second before he remembered the rest of the dare.
"Well," Pete said, putting his book face-down on the table. "Dude, you have to come closer if I'm going to kiss you."
"Uh huh," Patrick said, not moving any closer.
"So," Pete said, quirking his eyebrow, and Patrick took his hand out of his pocket, leaning forward to brace himself awkwardly against the table, narrowly missing the book.
"Okay," Patrick said, and leaned further forward when Pete did, and, seriously, he was going to kill Andy, because he'd never been so embarrassed in his life.
But then Pete was kissing him lightly, lips brushing for a moment. Patrick automatically closed his eyes, and when Pete pulled away and said, softly, "One," Patrick could feel the whisper of breath against his lips.
Patrick opened his eyes, because this wasn't, it wasn't a thing, it was a dare, a kissing booth, and Pete moved in again, two, and Patrick was the one leaning forward, saying, "Three."
Pete's hand slid forward on the fourth, thumb bumping against the outside of Patrick's wrist, and by the sixth, Patrick had caught the scent of Pete's hair gel and the way he licked his lips between kisses, a quick dash of tongue over his lower lip. He was just, wow, really attractive, and Patrick still couldn't quite believe he was doing this. The fair dinned loudly around them, but Patrick could still hear his own breath, the noise ragged in his ears.
At eight, Pete pulled away, laughing, saying, "Fuck, my back," and clambered up carefully on the table to sit with his legs dangling over the side, bracketing Patrick's thighs. "This was not meant to be done all in a row," he confided, wrinkling his forehead.
"No," Patrick said. "Sorry. I. It's." He could feel himself starting to blush again, or maybe he never really stopped, maybe this would be the first case of honest-to-god spontaneous human combustion, right here on the college campus. "We can finish it later, if you want," he said, already leaning in again, but he paused and Pete caught him around the wrist and pulled him in closer.
"They'd have to pay me overtime," Pete scoffed. "You'd owe me like $5 more." He ran his thumb over Patrick's knuckles, and Patrick wasn't even thinking about what he was going to say to Andy, because Pete was kissing him again, the edge of the table digging hard into his legs, Pete’s thumb pressing in under his ear, and his eyes slid closed.
Patrick opened his eyes after the twentieth, taking a stumbling step backwards, letting go of Pete's shoulder and almost falling over a tuft of grass. When he looked up, Pete was looking at him, still grinning, running a finger across his lower lip. Patrick stared at it, dazed, for a long second before jerking his eyes away, putting his hand up to his hat.
"Okay,” Patrick said, and shifted on his feet. “Okay. Um. Uh. Thank you." He turned to leave, and Pete snagged his arm, pulling him back.
"Twenty kisses?" Pete said, sounding amused. "Twenty kisses, and you're not going to ask for my number?"
"Um," Patrick said, and Pete snagged his highlighter from under his book, pulling off the cap with his teeth. He wrote something on Patrick's hand, then leaned over and blew on it. "Oh," Patrick said. "So." He stalled on what to say next, staring down at the light blue numbers scrawled across the back of his hand. Pete's fingers were dark against his pale skin, and they tightened, stroking along the inside of his wrist before Pete let go.
"Oh, hey," Pete said, looking over Patrick's shoulder. "Another customer. I think you've started a rush."
"Oh," Patrick said. He felt like that was all he'd said for the last ten minutes. He glanced over his shoulder. Two girls stood behind him, giggling at each other. "I'll just. Uh. Be going now."
Pete smiled at him, squinting against the sun, shaking his bangs out of his eyes, and Patrick backed away, almost running into two people before he turned around to face the front, still sneaking peeks over his shoulder every five feet. He could hear Andy cackling from behind the snow cone machine, and Patrick yelled, "Shut up, Hurley!" slugging him in the shoulder when he got close.
"So," Andy said, once he'd stopped doubling over with laughter. "How did you like. How did you like Pete?"
"I'm going to kill you one of these days," Patrick says. "Just you wait. My revenge will be fast and vicious. Also, you owe me fifty bucks. Don’t think I’ll forget about that." But he was pulling his sleeve down over his blue-dyed skin as he said it, and hey. Hey. Maybe Patrick would call him.
[END] (at AO3)
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Size: 1200 words
Note: Thank you to Jj for being nice enough to share her prompt with me. This was a chat-bunny fed by circuity and callsigns many many months ago.
"I'm going to get punched," Patrick said.
"It's a kissing booth," Andy said. "You won't, 'cause that's like the whole point of it."
"No, but," Patrick said, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans, "I'm gonna get punched."
"Well..." Andy tilted his head. "I mean, whatever, if you want to back out on your dare."
"Shut up," Patrick muttered. "This is so stupid, man, seriously." He turned and squinted across the fair at the folding banquet table with the big paper sign reading: $1.00 = 1 kiss--Help Raise Money for AIDS Prevention, and then at the short, dark-haired, tan-skinned guy sitting at the table with his legs kicked up, reading a book. Patrick had seen him around before, a friend of a friend of a friend, and vaguely remembered hearing he was a grad student in the Communications department. An attractive guy with a predilection for hoodies and tight t-shirts, but they'd never talked.
Well, they'd talked once. The guy had handed Patrick a flyer advertising an anti-war march. Patrick had said, "Thank you."
Andy shrugged, face clearly saying, whatever, not my lips, also, I dared you, so give me my fifty bucks.
"Fine," Patrick said, and started walking across the grass. He dug into his front pocket and pulled out a crumpled twenty. Andy started giggling behind him, and he turned and glared over his shoulder.
He turned back, swerving to avoid a group of girls making a beeline for the stuffed animal toss, and then he was in front of the table. The guy had a on a short-sleeved t-shirt that showed off muscled, tattooed arms, and Patrick really hoped he wasn't going to get punched. But, anti-war activists were inherently non-violent, right? He was also wearing a nametag that said, MY NAME IS: PETE in black block print sharpie, with you know you wanna hit this written hastily underneath.
Patrick swallowed and put the twenty down on the table.
"You want nineteen dollars back?" Pete said, looking up from his book briefly. "I don't think we have that much change in the box. Just handed it over, sorry."
Patrick flushed, feeling himself turn red as a tomato. He hunched his shoulders. "I, uh. I don't want any change back."
Pete looked up, then, and Patrick flushed redder, hand closing and releasing in his pocket. Pete grinned, his bangs hanging over one eye, and he was seriously hotter in person than Patrick remembered. Patrick's relief at not getting punched only lasted a second before he remembered the rest of the dare.
"Well," Pete said, putting his book face-down on the table. "Dude, you have to come closer if I'm going to kiss you."
"Uh huh," Patrick said, not moving any closer.
"So," Pete said, quirking his eyebrow, and Patrick took his hand out of his pocket, leaning forward to brace himself awkwardly against the table, narrowly missing the book.
"Okay," Patrick said, and leaned further forward when Pete did, and, seriously, he was going to kill Andy, because he'd never been so embarrassed in his life.
But then Pete was kissing him lightly, lips brushing for a moment. Patrick automatically closed his eyes, and when Pete pulled away and said, softly, "One," Patrick could feel the whisper of breath against his lips.
Patrick opened his eyes, because this wasn't, it wasn't a thing, it was a dare, a kissing booth, and Pete moved in again, two, and Patrick was the one leaning forward, saying, "Three."
Pete's hand slid forward on the fourth, thumb bumping against the outside of Patrick's wrist, and by the sixth, Patrick had caught the scent of Pete's hair gel and the way he licked his lips between kisses, a quick dash of tongue over his lower lip. He was just, wow, really attractive, and Patrick still couldn't quite believe he was doing this. The fair dinned loudly around them, but Patrick could still hear his own breath, the noise ragged in his ears.
At eight, Pete pulled away, laughing, saying, "Fuck, my back," and clambered up carefully on the table to sit with his legs dangling over the side, bracketing Patrick's thighs. "This was not meant to be done all in a row," he confided, wrinkling his forehead.
"No," Patrick said. "Sorry. I. It's." He could feel himself starting to blush again, or maybe he never really stopped, maybe this would be the first case of honest-to-god spontaneous human combustion, right here on the college campus. "We can finish it later, if you want," he said, already leaning in again, but he paused and Pete caught him around the wrist and pulled him in closer.
"They'd have to pay me overtime," Pete scoffed. "You'd owe me like $5 more." He ran his thumb over Patrick's knuckles, and Patrick wasn't even thinking about what he was going to say to Andy, because Pete was kissing him again, the edge of the table digging hard into his legs, Pete’s thumb pressing in under his ear, and his eyes slid closed.
Patrick opened his eyes after the twentieth, taking a stumbling step backwards, letting go of Pete's shoulder and almost falling over a tuft of grass. When he looked up, Pete was looking at him, still grinning, running a finger across his lower lip. Patrick stared at it, dazed, for a long second before jerking his eyes away, putting his hand up to his hat.
"Okay,” Patrick said, and shifted on his feet. “Okay. Um. Uh. Thank you." He turned to leave, and Pete snagged his arm, pulling him back.
"Twenty kisses?" Pete said, sounding amused. "Twenty kisses, and you're not going to ask for my number?"
"Um," Patrick said, and Pete snagged his highlighter from under his book, pulling off the cap with his teeth. He wrote something on Patrick's hand, then leaned over and blew on it. "Oh," Patrick said. "So." He stalled on what to say next, staring down at the light blue numbers scrawled across the back of his hand. Pete's fingers were dark against his pale skin, and they tightened, stroking along the inside of his wrist before Pete let go.
"Oh, hey," Pete said, looking over Patrick's shoulder. "Another customer. I think you've started a rush."
"Oh," Patrick said. He felt like that was all he'd said for the last ten minutes. He glanced over his shoulder. Two girls stood behind him, giggling at each other. "I'll just. Uh. Be going now."
Pete smiled at him, squinting against the sun, shaking his bangs out of his eyes, and Patrick backed away, almost running into two people before he turned around to face the front, still sneaking peeks over his shoulder every five feet. He could hear Andy cackling from behind the snow cone machine, and Patrick yelled, "Shut up, Hurley!" slugging him in the shoulder when he got close.
"So," Andy said, once he'd stopped doubling over with laughter. "How did you like. How did you like Pete?"
"I'm going to kill you one of these days," Patrick says. "Just you wait. My revenge will be fast and vicious. Also, you owe me fifty bucks. Don’t think I’ll forget about that." But he was pulling his sleeve down over his blue-dyed skin as he said it, and hey. Hey. Maybe Patrick would call him.
[END] (at AO3)