Fic: First, Second, Third
FIRST, SECOND, THIRD
by thesamefire
Pete/Patrick, R/NC-17 (NSFW, at any rate)
Word Count: 2152
Summary: Wherein the happy ending Patrick gets is not exactly the one he wants. Moderately belated VMA07!fic.
Notes: So you know how you swear you'll never write something, and then you get the plotbunny that won't be denied? This is how I wrote Pete/Patrick. With ANGST. I don't even know who I am anymore. ignazwisdom is a saint for taking my crappy drafts and prodding me to make them better, and then saying the most wonderful things when I do! This song goes out to air_crash, who loves her some angst and helped me keep the ball rolling on this one.
Pete is drunk. Borderline wasted, even. Patrick isn't sure how he feels about this, but he knows without a doubt what he's feeling: Pete's hand down the front of his pants, which are unbuttoned and unzipped as of several moments ago--Pete's doing.
Pete had kissed him, unexpected and sloppy, tasting of chapstick and champagne, after their award was announced and after the live cameras had moved on. And sure, Pete had kissed him before, that wasn't the issue. The issue was that this kiss was different, somehow both more and less than previous kisses for previous wins (or previous losses, or previous good-mornings, or previous no-reason-at-alls, a lot of the time), and Patrick couldn't quite figure it out. Patrick was hoping that this was maybe Pete's return to form, the first step on the road back to How Things Used To Be. Pete and Patrick, peteandpatrick, out to conquer the world one ridiculous awards show at a time.
There had been a time when Patrick could remember each and every kiss Pete had pressed into his skin with a laugh or a smile or, a couple times, through tears. He can still remember a lot of them, but the rest have slowly blurred together and faded into a single warm glow at the edge of his memory. The best memories are the ones he pulls up late at night, when he's lying in the dark staring at the ceiling, tired but full of nervous energy. He takes them out, replays them over and over from every angle, and puts them carefully back later when he's done. He has fewer new kisses to hold onto now, too, and he can't really put his finger on the when, but it hasn't been very long, all things considered. A matter of months.
And Patrick was thrown for a loop (a brain-freezing, stomach-clenching, knuckle-whitening loop) when Pete had grabbed Patrick's dick through his pants and held it for a moment before wandering off and disappearing in the crowd of people. So Patrick was very busy trying not to visibly freak out about what the fuck had Pete meant? when Pete tracked him down maybe a couple hours later, seemingly intent on finishing what he had started.
Fingers are now fumbling to slip through the gap in the front of his boxers, grabbing at his dick which is just starting to show the first signs of interest again after hours of intent repression. His back is pressing against the door into the bathroom and he stumbles as it gives way behind him, coughs as a cloud of smoke wafts out. Pete pushes him through the door, one hand now on his shoulder as the other continues to touch him, gripping and pulling at a horribly awkward angle. Patrick hears the noise of the door shutting tight behind them, the little metallic click of the lock turning to hold the door closed.
"Um, should we leave?" A familiar voice cuts through the the roar in Patrick's ears (too much noise, too much to drink, too much Pete, too many bad ideas) and he blinks his eyes open, waiting patiently for them to focus on--well, on anything, really.
Bill and Jon are sitting on the massive marble counter stretching the length of the bathroom, leaning in towards each other. Bill's endless legs are tucked beneath him, knobby knees pointing at Jon, who is bent over something he's holding close to his chest. At the sound of Bill's voice, Jon looks up, breathes smoke out his nose. He hands the small pipe to Bill and hefts the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's sitting next to the sink between them. They look at each other, and then at Patrick and Pete, and then at the floor, before looking down at their hands, eerily in sync.
Pete hasn't answered the question yet, ignoring the spectators (willfully or obliviously, Patrick isn't sure) as he pushes Patrick into the middle of the room, his arm still flexing and squeezing and pulling at Patrick's dick. He finally hits a rhythm and pressure that make it twitch to full attention and Patrick gasps softly, one arm rising quickly to grab at Pete's shoulder to steady himself.
Patrick hasn't answered the question yet either and he doesn't know what to say. He might prefer if they weren't there, but he realizes he doesn't actually want to insist that they leave. It might be nice to have a witness to this, in a way; the awkwardness and avoided eye contact later will be evidence that this actually happened. He settles on shrugging it off like he doesn't care, an awkward, lopsided movement. He sees Bill and Jon exchange another look, eyes saying more than lips ever could in the way that close friends have, but the only other move either makes is for Bill to pass the bottle to Jon.
Pete moves his hands around Patrick's hips for a moment, and Patrick feels his pants and boxers getting tugged down a little further to bunch around the tops of his thighs. He's not sure what exactly Bill and Jon can see, doesn't know if Pete's body is completely between them or if Bill can see over Pete's shoulder or what. And then he stops wondering completely when Pete's hot damp hand wraps around his dick again, at a much better angle now, too, and he sets his feet a little further apart to brace himself upright as Pete sets to jerking him off properly.
Patrick isn't sure if Pete is even turned on, can't see if he's hard or not, doesn't feel like he can read Pete's mind and figure out why this or why now (or maybe more importantly, why me when your girlfriend is in the other room). But Patrick's body is reacting anyway despite his brain's fuzz and fog, responding to the hot points of contact cutting through the buzzing in his ears, and he bucks his hips into Pete's grip as best he can without falling over. He squeezes Pete's shoulder (thin and bony between his fingers) and brings his other hand up to settle on the flattened curve of Pete's hip just where it swells into ass.
After a few minutes, Patrick tucks his fingers under the waist of Pete's pants and isn't surprised to find that Pete isn't wearing underwear. He slides his hand around to the front, trying to reach Pete's dick (because it's only fair to reciprocate, and he has manners, even now, even in this) but Pete manages to twist his body, to shrug Patrick off and push his hand away without using either of his own hands, which are still firmly on Patrick's skin, moving hotly, always moving. Patrick moves his hand back to its previous spot on Pete's hip, but slowly, like he's sneaking back, tripping lightly around the edges of awareness.
Pete leans in, murmurs something into Patrick's neck like he does on stage, except they aren't on stage now (or are they? Patrick thinks, bemused, as he glances over at Bill and Jon to check if they still exist) and Patrick wonders briefly if he should re-evaluate how he's been choosing to interpret Pete's more public affections. But as for here, as for now, Patrick can't make out Pete's words against his skin and can't help but wonder if that's even the point. Pete's lips are hot on his skin but it isn't even close to a kiss.
Pete keeps shifting his grip as his arm pumps away, and Patrick squeezes his eyes shut, bites his lip. His balance is off and he takes a step backwards to try to keep his footing, stay upright, not just crumple at the knees and drop to the floor, curl up on the plush bath mat and press his cheek to the cold tile floor. He takes another step, and then a third. He feels his centre of gravity settle for the moment as he plants his feet, toes rubbing roughly together in his shoes, bought new just for tonight. He breathes out through his nose and tilts his hips back up towards Pete. His eyelids flutter as he feels a familiar warmth start to creep up his thighs.
Patrick's vision slips in and out of focus, and once when he draws the world back from blurry colours into sharp edges and shapes, he finds himself staring at his own reflection in the mirror between Jon and Bill. He can see them, too: they're gaping, a little. They're both flushed in the face and their knees are touching and Patrick can see the bulges in their jeans. But the two of them just sit and stare, making no move to do anything about it, to themselves or each other. He looks past them at his own reflected face. Its rounded lines are heated, red. His hat is still at the same angle he spent ten minutes getting just right earlier that night. Drops of sweat glisten from his sideburns. He doesn't recognize the eyes behind his glasses.
Pete's hand hasn't slowed down and Patrick is sure that in spite of everything he's going to come soon, and hard. He tries to shove his pants down a little further--he doesn't want to leave the bathroom wearing a wet, white billboard for what just happened, despite the fact that half the people in the suite will probably either figure it out or hear about it later, anyway. He likes these pants, too, and doesn't want to wreck them. And he doesn't want a reminder of this moment clinging to his skin for the rest of the night while Pete goes off to do shiny exciting Pete things and leaves Patrick to do whatever, floating around the party as Pete drifts further away.
But for the moment, Patrick has lost track of everything in the world that isn't his dick and Pete's hand, and he's surprised when he feels his back touch the wall. He musters enough presence of mind to notice that he's backed up so far that he's pressed to the wall between the toilet and the room's massive shower stall. He lets his head fall back and the thud as it hits the wall, that sudden throb of warm pain, is the grounding he needs to keep his head as his legs tense and his jaw clenches and his stomach turns over and he comes in Pete's hand. His hand falls from Pete's shoulder as he flails about blindly, fingers searching for something to hold onto, something to lean on, something to hold him up and keep him from falling over. He's afraid that if he does, he might never get up. Instead, his hand knocks against some previously unseen button and the toilet flushes loudly, startling everyone.
When the noise stops echoing through the room and silence settles thick and rough, Patrick realizes that Pete is staring at him. He meets Pete's eyes, frowns a little at the way they look glazed, reddened, nested deep in new wrinkles and dark shadows. They're jarringly mismatched with his mouth, which is smooth and smiling and now suddenly pressed against Patrick's own. "Congratulations," Pete mumbles into Patrick's lips, not quite a kiss but not not a kiss, either. Patrick tucks it away with the memories of all the others as he rests his forehead against Pete's and waits for his breath to come back. They breathe together for long minutes. Patrick wonders what Pete will remember tomorrow.
The moment is interrupted by the sudden vibration coming from the pocket of Pete's hoodie. Patrick can feel it against his stomach, and pulls away from Pete as Pete reaches with his clean hand to take out his phone.
"Hello?"
Patrick watches Pete's mouth as it forms the words. He tries not to watch the way Pete's eyes suddenly light up. He ignores the way his stomach twists again. He decides that now would be a good time to put his dick away and do his pants back up.
"Hey, hey baby. No, I'm still here. Of course I didn't. I'm just, like, talking to Patrick in the bathroom." Patrick frowns and Pete turns away, starts pacing the length of the room, blowing past Jon and Bill as if he doesn't even see them. "It's quieter. No, no, okay. Look, I'll just. I'm, like, I'll be right there, okay? VIP, right? Hold on. Just a minute, okay babe? Yeah, you too. I know. See you."
Pete puts his phone away and grabs a towel off the rack nearest him, wipes his hand clean, and throws it into the bathtub. He looks back over his shoulder at Patrick as he slips out the door, his eyes dark again before they disappear completely from sight.
by thesamefire
Pete/Patrick, R/NC-17 (NSFW, at any rate)
Word Count: 2152
Summary: Wherein the happy ending Patrick gets is not exactly the one he wants. Moderately belated VMA07!fic.
Notes: So you know how you swear you'll never write something, and then you get the plotbunny that won't be denied? This is how I wrote Pete/Patrick. With ANGST. I don't even know who I am anymore. ignazwisdom is a saint for taking my crappy drafts and prodding me to make them better, and then saying the most wonderful things when I do! This song goes out to air_crash, who loves her some angst and helped me keep the ball rolling on this one.
Pete is drunk. Borderline wasted, even. Patrick isn't sure how he feels about this, but he knows without a doubt what he's feeling: Pete's hand down the front of his pants, which are unbuttoned and unzipped as of several moments ago--Pete's doing.
Pete had kissed him, unexpected and sloppy, tasting of chapstick and champagne, after their award was announced and after the live cameras had moved on. And sure, Pete had kissed him before, that wasn't the issue. The issue was that this kiss was different, somehow both more and less than previous kisses for previous wins (or previous losses, or previous good-mornings, or previous no-reason-at-alls, a lot of the time), and Patrick couldn't quite figure it out. Patrick was hoping that this was maybe Pete's return to form, the first step on the road back to How Things Used To Be. Pete and Patrick, peteandpatrick, out to conquer the world one ridiculous awards show at a time.
There had been a time when Patrick could remember each and every kiss Pete had pressed into his skin with a laugh or a smile or, a couple times, through tears. He can still remember a lot of them, but the rest have slowly blurred together and faded into a single warm glow at the edge of his memory. The best memories are the ones he pulls up late at night, when he's lying in the dark staring at the ceiling, tired but full of nervous energy. He takes them out, replays them over and over from every angle, and puts them carefully back later when he's done. He has fewer new kisses to hold onto now, too, and he can't really put his finger on the when, but it hasn't been very long, all things considered. A matter of months.
And Patrick was thrown for a loop (a brain-freezing, stomach-clenching, knuckle-whitening loop) when Pete had grabbed Patrick's dick through his pants and held it for a moment before wandering off and disappearing in the crowd of people. So Patrick was very busy trying not to visibly freak out about what the fuck had Pete meant? when Pete tracked him down maybe a couple hours later, seemingly intent on finishing what he had started.
Fingers are now fumbling to slip through the gap in the front of his boxers, grabbing at his dick which is just starting to show the first signs of interest again after hours of intent repression. His back is pressing against the door into the bathroom and he stumbles as it gives way behind him, coughs as a cloud of smoke wafts out. Pete pushes him through the door, one hand now on his shoulder as the other continues to touch him, gripping and pulling at a horribly awkward angle. Patrick hears the noise of the door shutting tight behind them, the little metallic click of the lock turning to hold the door closed.
"Um, should we leave?" A familiar voice cuts through the the roar in Patrick's ears (too much noise, too much to drink, too much Pete, too many bad ideas) and he blinks his eyes open, waiting patiently for them to focus on--well, on anything, really.
Bill and Jon are sitting on the massive marble counter stretching the length of the bathroom, leaning in towards each other. Bill's endless legs are tucked beneath him, knobby knees pointing at Jon, who is bent over something he's holding close to his chest. At the sound of Bill's voice, Jon looks up, breathes smoke out his nose. He hands the small pipe to Bill and hefts the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's sitting next to the sink between them. They look at each other, and then at Patrick and Pete, and then at the floor, before looking down at their hands, eerily in sync.
Pete hasn't answered the question yet, ignoring the spectators (willfully or obliviously, Patrick isn't sure) as he pushes Patrick into the middle of the room, his arm still flexing and squeezing and pulling at Patrick's dick. He finally hits a rhythm and pressure that make it twitch to full attention and Patrick gasps softly, one arm rising quickly to grab at Pete's shoulder to steady himself.
Patrick hasn't answered the question yet either and he doesn't know what to say. He might prefer if they weren't there, but he realizes he doesn't actually want to insist that they leave. It might be nice to have a witness to this, in a way; the awkwardness and avoided eye contact later will be evidence that this actually happened. He settles on shrugging it off like he doesn't care, an awkward, lopsided movement. He sees Bill and Jon exchange another look, eyes saying more than lips ever could in the way that close friends have, but the only other move either makes is for Bill to pass the bottle to Jon.
Pete moves his hands around Patrick's hips for a moment, and Patrick feels his pants and boxers getting tugged down a little further to bunch around the tops of his thighs. He's not sure what exactly Bill and Jon can see, doesn't know if Pete's body is completely between them or if Bill can see over Pete's shoulder or what. And then he stops wondering completely when Pete's hot damp hand wraps around his dick again, at a much better angle now, too, and he sets his feet a little further apart to brace himself upright as Pete sets to jerking him off properly.
Patrick isn't sure if Pete is even turned on, can't see if he's hard or not, doesn't feel like he can read Pete's mind and figure out why this or why now (or maybe more importantly, why me when your girlfriend is in the other room). But Patrick's body is reacting anyway despite his brain's fuzz and fog, responding to the hot points of contact cutting through the buzzing in his ears, and he bucks his hips into Pete's grip as best he can without falling over. He squeezes Pete's shoulder (thin and bony between his fingers) and brings his other hand up to settle on the flattened curve of Pete's hip just where it swells into ass.
After a few minutes, Patrick tucks his fingers under the waist of Pete's pants and isn't surprised to find that Pete isn't wearing underwear. He slides his hand around to the front, trying to reach Pete's dick (because it's only fair to reciprocate, and he has manners, even now, even in this) but Pete manages to twist his body, to shrug Patrick off and push his hand away without using either of his own hands, which are still firmly on Patrick's skin, moving hotly, always moving. Patrick moves his hand back to its previous spot on Pete's hip, but slowly, like he's sneaking back, tripping lightly around the edges of awareness.
Pete leans in, murmurs something into Patrick's neck like he does on stage, except they aren't on stage now (or are they? Patrick thinks, bemused, as he glances over at Bill and Jon to check if they still exist) and Patrick wonders briefly if he should re-evaluate how he's been choosing to interpret Pete's more public affections. But as for here, as for now, Patrick can't make out Pete's words against his skin and can't help but wonder if that's even the point. Pete's lips are hot on his skin but it isn't even close to a kiss.
Pete keeps shifting his grip as his arm pumps away, and Patrick squeezes his eyes shut, bites his lip. His balance is off and he takes a step backwards to try to keep his footing, stay upright, not just crumple at the knees and drop to the floor, curl up on the plush bath mat and press his cheek to the cold tile floor. He takes another step, and then a third. He feels his centre of gravity settle for the moment as he plants his feet, toes rubbing roughly together in his shoes, bought new just for tonight. He breathes out through his nose and tilts his hips back up towards Pete. His eyelids flutter as he feels a familiar warmth start to creep up his thighs.
Patrick's vision slips in and out of focus, and once when he draws the world back from blurry colours into sharp edges and shapes, he finds himself staring at his own reflection in the mirror between Jon and Bill. He can see them, too: they're gaping, a little. They're both flushed in the face and their knees are touching and Patrick can see the bulges in their jeans. But the two of them just sit and stare, making no move to do anything about it, to themselves or each other. He looks past them at his own reflected face. Its rounded lines are heated, red. His hat is still at the same angle he spent ten minutes getting just right earlier that night. Drops of sweat glisten from his sideburns. He doesn't recognize the eyes behind his glasses.
Pete's hand hasn't slowed down and Patrick is sure that in spite of everything he's going to come soon, and hard. He tries to shove his pants down a little further--he doesn't want to leave the bathroom wearing a wet, white billboard for what just happened, despite the fact that half the people in the suite will probably either figure it out or hear about it later, anyway. He likes these pants, too, and doesn't want to wreck them. And he doesn't want a reminder of this moment clinging to his skin for the rest of the night while Pete goes off to do shiny exciting Pete things and leaves Patrick to do whatever, floating around the party as Pete drifts further away.
But for the moment, Patrick has lost track of everything in the world that isn't his dick and Pete's hand, and he's surprised when he feels his back touch the wall. He musters enough presence of mind to notice that he's backed up so far that he's pressed to the wall between the toilet and the room's massive shower stall. He lets his head fall back and the thud as it hits the wall, that sudden throb of warm pain, is the grounding he needs to keep his head as his legs tense and his jaw clenches and his stomach turns over and he comes in Pete's hand. His hand falls from Pete's shoulder as he flails about blindly, fingers searching for something to hold onto, something to lean on, something to hold him up and keep him from falling over. He's afraid that if he does, he might never get up. Instead, his hand knocks against some previously unseen button and the toilet flushes loudly, startling everyone.
When the noise stops echoing through the room and silence settles thick and rough, Patrick realizes that Pete is staring at him. He meets Pete's eyes, frowns a little at the way they look glazed, reddened, nested deep in new wrinkles and dark shadows. They're jarringly mismatched with his mouth, which is smooth and smiling and now suddenly pressed against Patrick's own. "Congratulations," Pete mumbles into Patrick's lips, not quite a kiss but not not a kiss, either. Patrick tucks it away with the memories of all the others as he rests his forehead against Pete's and waits for his breath to come back. They breathe together for long minutes. Patrick wonders what Pete will remember tomorrow.
The moment is interrupted by the sudden vibration coming from the pocket of Pete's hoodie. Patrick can feel it against his stomach, and pulls away from Pete as Pete reaches with his clean hand to take out his phone.
"Hello?"
Patrick watches Pete's mouth as it forms the words. He tries not to watch the way Pete's eyes suddenly light up. He ignores the way his stomach twists again. He decides that now would be a good time to put his dick away and do his pants back up.
"Hey, hey baby. No, I'm still here. Of course I didn't. I'm just, like, talking to Patrick in the bathroom." Patrick frowns and Pete turns away, starts pacing the length of the room, blowing past Jon and Bill as if he doesn't even see them. "It's quieter. No, no, okay. Look, I'll just. I'm, like, I'll be right there, okay? VIP, right? Hold on. Just a minute, okay babe? Yeah, you too. I know. See you."
Pete puts his phone away and grabs a towel off the rack nearest him, wipes his hand clean, and throws it into the bathtub. He looks back over his shoulder at Patrick as he slips out the door, his eyes dark again before they disappear completely from sight.