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It's Raining Somewhere Else

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Living the good life is all nice and well until it accumulates in ceremonies and galas and you spend more money on suits you wear once to impress people than you do on that pool you’ve been dreaming of since you were five.

Being the CEO and sole remaining co-founder of one of the biggest auction-houses in California qualified Pete for the good life (and, in fact, a pool), he felt he deserved it, he’d gone through the trouble and expense of art school, after all, and felt he didn’t deserve the torture that was the annual arthouse gala, back to ruin his January every year. At least the champagne was free and good enough for him to be able to drink so much it made his brain fuzzy. It would be needed if he had to put up with Jordan’s chattering for one minute more.

The Armani suit – or was it Gucci? – hadn’t been tailored correctly. Either that or he’d put on a considerable amount of weight in the last two weeks, enough for his shoulders to be restricted in the tight jacket.

He hated them. He hated their smug faces, their snobbish attitudes, the way one tried to out-do the next. The Dutch impressionists spoke to him in low voices about how Spanish cubism wasn’t art, the Spanish cubists didn’t consider the Italian Renaissance innovative enough and the Italian Renaissance hated the lack of realism the Dutch impressionists so admired.

Pete just liked art. He didn’t care for eras and styles and categories, he liked colours and shapes and brush strokes and carvings and the ideas, hopes and dreams people poured into these reflections of their reality in a seemingly futile attempt to reach out to somebody who might understand.

Unfortunately, the world liked its boxes too much and Pete’s dream of creating a borderless platform for art was cut short when nobody came to open auctions and nobody could appreciate the idea more than the novelty. Maybe that why he was old and bitter despite only being 31.

Pete knocked back the rest of his champagne and pushed past the short, fat, grey-haired man without even trying to excuse himself. His reputation as a person didn’t matter, people would want to work with him whether he was a dick or not.

He wandered over to the canapés, they were elaborate and expensive, a total waste of money when pizza was a thing that existed. Might as well eat what was paid for, though. He stood away from the crowd of people doing their best to crawl up each other’s arses. It was pretty pathetic. The same pathetic scene as every year at this godforsaken party.

“Not one for mingling?” Pete turned to his left in search of the source of the calm, melodic voice. The guy could have been anything between 17 and 27, dark blonde hair parted neatly on the left so it fell across his blue eyes. Or were they green? “Mh…” Pete felt at loss for words. He didn’t know this guy, who he was, what he wanted, he’d never seen him before. “Me neither. Too many wannabe artists who have no talent so turn to making a profit off somebody else’s hard work. Kinda sad if you ask me.” He took a sip of his drink, eyes not leaving the crowd of people in front of them. “I didn’t ask you,” Pete all but snapped, not much in the mood for small-talk or a business deal or whatever else the goal of this cosying-up might be. The guy just shrugged and popped and olive in his mouth, still scanning the room. He didn’t look like your typical art collector, small, skinny, young, sure, there was the expensive suit and the neat hair-do, but he was confident in his appearance, not afraid to openly bad-mouth the flock of sheep he was moving in and not boring Pete with gossip on Flannigan’s latest cock-up at the last Christmas auction. If he had to listen to that story one more time, he might be sick.

“What’s your name?” The blonde raised an eyebrow and with it, his glass to his lips, “are you asking?” he muttered, the accusation not lost on Pete. “Yes.”

He knocked back the rest of his drink before setting it down and turning around so he was facing Pete head-on. He was pretty. Milky white skin, splattered with light freckles. His lips were plump and curved, they looked as well-cared for as his slender hands. Pete still couldn’t quite make out the colour of his eyes though, were they blue? Or more of a green? He extended his hand with a clear, sharp “Martin. Martin Vaughn.” Pete hesitated for a second before taking it. “Pete Wentz.” Vaughn had a firm grip, a good handshake. It was something important to Pete. “Why haven’t I seen you at any of these before? New to the industry?” Vaughn shrugged, “I’m here with somebody.” Oh? “You don’t seem the type.” Pete’s gut clenched when Vaughn almost sneered at him for that, admittedly inappropriate, remark. “The type for what, relationships?”

“Attaching yourself to old, boring men to get into exclusive parties. Come on, you can do better than that.” Why was he flirting with this guy? “How did you know it was Jordan?” Oh god, he was picking up on it, what had he got himself into? “Well, I could have been talking about 80% of this room.”

“Oh, yeah, my bad!” Vaughn winked, he fucking winked at Pete. “So, tell me, Pete,” first-name basis, eh? “What are you doing surrounded by old, boring men?” Nice one. Stepping carefully, he let a smirk draw across his face. “Well, Martin, seeing as I own the auction house these old, boring men are trying to get their shit into, it’s expected of me to be here.” The unsubtlety with which he let his eyes glide over Martin’s body was not an accident. “Besides, it’s not only old, boring men.” The uncharacteristically flirtatious comment earned him a suggestive wiggle of eyebrows and Pete watched Martin’s teeth sink into his bottom lip. He knew what he was doing. His right elbow was propping him up against the trimming along the wall, his hands interlocked in front of his black button-down shirt. The suit he was wearing looked smarter than it really was, Pete suspected, although, if Jordan had bought it for him… he tried to ignore the pang of envy he felt at the thought that the sleazy rat had got his dick sucked for it. Those lips would look perfect wrapped around a nice, hard-

“So how did you end up here?” Completely startled out of his fantasy, Pete’s eyes shot back up to Martin’s face, decidedly away from the area he’d subconsciously been staring at. If he had noticed the brown eyes fixed on his crotch, the guy sure as hell wasn’t showing it. Maybe he had got away with it. “Car.” Which, strictly speaking, was true. It had been in a car. He just hadn’t been driving it.

The little laugh Pete got in response shot right down his spine, making him shift uncomfortably. “No, I mean… how did somebody so young” had he moved closer? He seemed closer, “end up in such an important position?” His voice was low now. Yes, the distance between them had definitely lessened. When had he moved closer? “O-oh…” just act like he’s another guy trying to sell you his art “Umh, got lucky, I guess.” Again, strictly speaking true.

“’Got lucky’ is usually a different way of saying ‘nepotism’” wow, was he still moving closer? “Uh, well, not in this case. My dad’s a teacher and my mom’s a vet’s assistant. Just me.”

“Impressive. Are you going to let me into your secret to success?” Pete’s mind was working frantically to bring them back onto level ground, he wasn’t used to the power-imbalance swaying this way. A smirk spread across his features. “I guess it’s somewhat of a longer story and one I don’t necessarily want to discuss around potential competition.” A glint of something mischievous shot through Martin’s eyes, his smile widening. “Well,” he glanced towards the mass of people, “my date seems to have… found some other form of company,” Pete pointedly didn’t look to see whose arse Jordan was currently creeping up, “so as far as I can tell… I’m free to do as I please.” Pete would be lying if he said the near-growl didn’t shoot straight to his dick.

“Well,” he managed to keep his exterior calm, despite his insides desperately knotting, “we wouldn’t want to anger Jordan now, would we? He is, after all, my best client.” Martin just shrugged it off, “he said it would only take three hours. It’s been five now. Can’t keep a guy waiting that long, especially not when there’s a better offer in the room.” Their exchange could no longer be described as flirting really, it was too intense, too obviously heading towards a specific destination with both passengers having made their minds up that they were headed to the same station.

What harm could it do?

Pete held out his elbow and Martin wrapped his arm around it without hesitation, hand loosely hanging down, occasionally brushing against the expensive suit.

 

 

 

Pete’s hands slammed against the white wall, caging in the man pressed against him as their tongues collided with a shared desperation. Martin’s hands were tugging at Pete’s tie, undoing it step-by step before pulling it out from underneath the white collar. Ugh, the things Pete could do with that tie. With no time to waste, he rid Martin of his bowtie and unbuttoned his shirt enough for him to be able to bite down his neck. As Pete sunk his teeth into the pale skin above his pulse point, the most delicious sound escaped Martin, it rang around Pete’s head, leaving him dizzy and delirious as he sucked a mark into his flesh. Martin’s fingers were tangling in his gelled, black hair, getting caught in it, tugging lightly at the glued strands, egging him on, urging him to go further.

But instead, Pete gripped his hips and turned them, slamming his back into the bookshelf against the wall next to them as his fingers fumbled with Martin’s fly, desperate to get it open. A near pathetic whine filled Pete’s ears when he tugged down the blonde’s trousers and boxers down to his thighs and his already fully hardened cock sprang free, hitting the skin above where his shirt had ridden up with an ugly splat.

Pete’s position was non-negotiable, he wouldn’t even waste time explaining it, wouldn’t risk getting involved in an argument. He didn’t have the patience. He pressed himself back against the other body, one hand at the base of his neck, pulling him in for another hungry kiss, the other tugging at the red, hot dick resting against his thigh.

“You wanna be fucked, kid? You wanna be fucked real hard?” Martin’s eyes were screwed shut, his face contorted into something that might be pain if Pete wasn’t aware of the dampness on his fingers. He let out a breathy moan that could either have been “please” or “Pete”, he’d take either gladly. “You got a condom on you?” Martin nodded, his hand shooting to the wallet in his back pocket. Pete moved to take it off him, but retracted his hand when Martin’s face suddenly dropped. It was like he hadn’t just been writhing below Pete’s touch a second ago, like he wasn’t standing in Pete’s apartment with his balls and ass out, like Pete wasn’t jerking him off when the warning look as dark as storm clouds made Pete physically recoil.

And then, just like that, it was as though nothing had happened as he tore the foil open with his teeth and handed it to Pete. He was pretty glad it fit. That was the thing with other people’s condoms, you could never be 100% sure they were right for you, but it sat around his dark cock just nicely. “I don’t have any l-“ the words caught in Pete’s throat when he looked back up to see… to…

Martin had shimmied out of his trousers and boxers and they lay in a heap on the floor. He’d somehow managed to lift his feet – still covered by black socks – up onto one of the shelves, one higher up than the other, so his legs were spread wide at an odd angle without looking anything but… fucking amazing. Pete was chewing his lip again, staring at the man standing in front of him, open and inviting. “It’s fine, I can take it.”

“What?”

“I said I can… I can take, it, please, just…” A hand on his shoulder pulled Pete closer until he felt spit-slick lips against his own again and a tongue pushing for entrance. Martin moaned into his mouth as Pete let his fingers circle his rim, gently pushing against the muscle to open it up an-

“Fuck, just…” before he knew it, Pete’s hand had been pushed away impatiently and his hips had been tugged closer, impossibly close, almost. He felt the head of his cock pressing against Martin’s hole and paused, uncertain of whether just going in dry was really a-

His head snapped up at the sharp hiss that escaped the blonde as he pushed himself down. Somewhere between his desperate expression and his body engulfing Pete, inching down gradually, Pete felt dizzy. He couldn’t help it when his hips snapped forward and provoked a startled yelp, he couldn’t help the way his fingernails dug into that milky white ass and he certainly couldn’t help the low moan he hummed against Martin’s throat. He managed to still himself long enough for the other man to regain his composure, his breathing returning to the same heavy rate it had had before it had shortened into sharp gasps. Pete pulled back slowly, making sure Martin felt every inch of latex-clad skin rub against him until just his head was remained inside. “P-please…” he keened, trying to push himself down onto Pete again, but he just backed away some more. “You want this?” he growled, letting his hips slide forwards a fraction of an inch. Martin whined loudly, hands grabbing at Pete’s waist. “You want this? Say it. Fucking say it.” Their faces were pressed up against each other, noses touching, lips brushing. Pete could catch every single desperate little emotion in his eyes that Pete had decided were blue, though in that moment, they were blown so wide they looked more golden than anything else.

“Fuck me, please.” He was begging. Good. Pete liked begging. “What. Do. You. Want?” Every word was punctuated with a nip at Martin’s pale skin and his plump, red bottom lip. He let his eyes drift upwards again, trying to concentrate on that rather than the need to let his hips surge forwards. But Martin’s expression had darkened, taken on a more serious note, still fucking hot, still obviously into this, still obviously playing along but more… in control. “I want your dick. I want you to fuck me until I’m sore and hurting. I want you to fuck me so I can’t sit for days.” Okay. Okay, that was hot. Pete let out a low, animalistic growl and finally allowed his hips to snap forward, burying himself as deep inside Martin as he possibly could.

Pete couldn’t feel the dryness of it, his dick comfortably wrapped, but it was fucking tight and he could almost feel the friction through the way Martin clawed at his suit jacket. He must seem like the epitome of the rich and powerful, fucking a blonde against his rosewood bookshelf in his LA penthouse, fully clothed, save his dick burying itself in a nice, tight ass. The only thing that didn’t quite fit the image was the decisive lack of tits on his partner, but Pete had never been choosy when it came to sex or gender.

Martin would have long bruises across his back tomorrow from where the shelves dug into him, and bruises on his ass that perfectly lined up with the pads of Pete’s fingers, not to mention the red marks leading all the way down to his collarbone. With a bit of luck, his voice would be shredded to, thanks to his cries of “fuck, Pete!”, “harder!” and “Please, fuck, yes!” that all fed right into Pete’s already oversized ego. He bit down hard on Martin’s throat as he came, heat unravelling and shooting through him like fireworks as he filled the condom. He didn’t know if Martin had come, he didn’t really care much, merely glad he hadn’t released his load on his suit. He was going to fuck him and leave him, that was his usual stint, anyway, he didn’t owe the guy anything, he wasn’t his partner or his friend, he was just a hook-up. However, one glance at the fist wrapped around his pink and throbbing cock, one look over that blissfully expressive face and Pete was crossing the room again, walking away from the bin he’d just thrown the used rubber in and towards the man jerking off by the bookcase.

Blue eyes snapped open to meet brown ones when Pete’s hand wrapped back around him and started slowly stroking along the shaft. He let his thumb flick over the slit, spreading the precum with his palm as he increased his speed and hardened his grip, all the while leaning closer so he could meet Martin in a hot kiss. He felt quiet whines against his mouth and teeth digging into his lip, just shy of drawing blood, as Martin panted heavily, his legs shaking so hard Pete had to hold him up with one hand.

He didn’t know what he was doing, he never did this for anybody, but something in Pete made him sink to his knees, never slowing down his right hand steadily pumping along the hard cock it was clasping.

Martin’s dick seemed much bigger from this angle, standing in front of him, heavy, angry red and wet, making sloppy noises against his palm as little beads of white consistently rolled off the tip. He wanted to taste them, he wanted to feel them on his tongue and against the back of his throat, hot and sticky. Pete leaned forward, hand never slowing down, the smell of sex drifting up his nose, deafeningly close. He opened his mouth and extended his tongue, pressing it to the underside, the heavy vein throbbing against him and he drew back to lick a broad stripe alo-

“No, stop!” With a harsh thud, Pete managed to catch himself before his head hit the floor. The second he realized what had happened, his face heated up in shame, burning through him like wildfire. Fuck. He never… Pete never…

“I’m- I’m so sorry, oh God, are you okay?” Martin was standing over him, still half-naked and hands reaching out for him, but not quite daring to touch. Pete stared at him in disbelief. “Did you just push me?” Hopeless gaping was all he got in return. “I go to suck your dick and you shove me away?” Martin took a step back, worrying his lip between his teeth. He looked embarrassed. Good. He deserved it. “I’m- I’m sorry, I really didn’t…” Pete scoffed at the softening cock hanging in front of his face. God, penises were fucking gross. “I should… probably go…”

Whilst Martin pulled on his clothes, Pete demonstratively soaped and washed his hands. Part of him wanted to scrub at them with a brush, just to make a point, but the thought of raw, hot flesh made his stomach clench.

“I, uh… thanks… for the… yeah…” Pete didn’t even turn around, let alone say goodbye, when Martin ducked out of his apartment and pulled the black door shut behind him, the click of the automated lock sealing him out.

 

 

Usually, Pete was in an ecstatically good mood the morning after getting laid. He’d feel energized and re-vitalized and a lot of other things that ended in -ized and equated to him not being a grumpy fuck.

But today, he was exhausted. It kinda started when he woke up with an aching wrist and didn’t get any better when he’d found the hickey on his throat he hadn’t even noticed was being left. It definitely didn’t get any better when he was greeted at the office by a pile of files up to his waist, he’d almost forgotten about the gala and with it about the paperwork that drifted in the day after when every Tom, Dick and Harry he’d come across decided to send him every detail about every damned painting they had in their collections.

Pete hated them, he hated them for their private collections, keeping art away from the public eye, away from where it should be. Yes, he sold the stuff, he was probably partly to blame but… all he wanted was to curate it. He just wanted to collect it all himself to gift to museums and galleries. That had gone hand-in hand with his dream of creating a borderless platform when he’d first started out, but somehow… the world didn’t work that way. Humanity loved profit too much.

“Morning, Pete.” Pete grumbled at his assistant – Joe – from behind his stack of self-promotions. It was Joe who always printed them out for him, probably because he was tired of the complaints about how much Pete hated staring at a computer screen all day, replying to endless e-mails. A little gratitude probably wouldn’t go amiss, but he’d already upped Joe’s salary. Besides, he wasn’t the type that needed his back patting. “Late night?”

“Not really.” He was faintly aware of the way he was being stared at, he felt like he was back at a job interview as Joe munched his way through the dry cake he always had for breakfast. “What’s his name?” Oh for fuck’s… Pete just rolled his eyes and pointedly bent further over the piece of paper he was trying to focus on, his glasses balanced precariously on the tip of his nose. “Come on, dude, the way you waltzed out, it didn’t look like you were trying to keep it a secret.” The thing about Joe was, he was utterly insufferable if you had something he’d set his sights on. He was a great friend, fiercely loyal to the point where Pete was sometimes scared for the person at the receiving end of one of his defensive outbursts. Good, trustworthy guy, Joe Trohman was, and funny as hell. But fucking insufferable. “Martin.”  He hoped that would shut him up, but alas…

“Was he… any good?” His speech was muffled through the cake and even then, it still had that distinctly annoying Trohman sound to it. “The fuck do you think?” Pete shifted uncomfortably, part of him actually more invested in the conversation than he cared to admit, but he pushed that aside. “Well, going by the fact that you’re Mr. Groucho this morning, I’d say no, but that’s why I’m asking, I’m kinda surprised.” There was something so intensely annoying by how smug Joe seemed to be, like he knew something Pete didn’t but ought to and it really, really got to him. The worst thing was, he knew Joe knew it got to him and he knew exactly that Joe was using that to his advantage. “Are you gonna tell me why you’re surprised some random twink was a bad fuck or not?” Pete was trying so hard to focus on the boring-ass letter he was holding it was giving him a headache.

“Oh, just, y’know, prostitutes are usually known for being good at sex.” Okay, fuck it. Pete slammed the file shut and whipped his glasses off his face in an attempt to look authoritative, but all that it achieved was causing Joe to snort. “What the flying fuck are you on about, Joseph?”

“Well, when you left with Martin hanging from you yesterday, Jordan – not best pleased, might I add, expect a pissy phone call about that painting you auctioned off last week – made a point of telling as many people as he could that Martin is, in fact, a… hooker.”

For some reason, everybody believes jaws dropping open is only something that happens in The Little Mermaid, which is total bullshit, as anybody who has been really, genuinely shocked at any point in their life can confirm. As for Pete, he couldn’t actually close his mouth anymore. He just stared at Joe in disbelief, gaping at him like he’d just shown him proof of a live zebra living in his backyard. “He… he said… Jordan… that?”

The bastard was grinning from ear to fucking ear. “Well, I believe he used the word ‘escort’, but you get the idea. Kinda dumb of him to admit he’d brought a hooker to a gala, almost worse than a sugarbaby, which is what I’d thought until that point.”

“Uuuuuuugh!” Pete dropped his head onto the desk with a loud thump that reminded him a little too much of the pain in his wrist. No. way. This wasn’t happening to him. Not to him, not to Pete Wentz. No way in hell had he fucked a who-

“I didn’t pay for him! He can’t be a whore, I didn’t pay!”

“Do you demand people pay you every time you go to look at art?” Pete scowled at his logic, not because it was flawed, but because it made too much sense for him to like it. The sympathetic pat on the shoulder was the last thing he needed. “Don’t take it too hard, see it this way: You got to have sex with a prostitute for free!”

Pete glared after Joe as he swaggered out of the glass door. As if that was any consolation. He’d fallen for Martin’s tricks, he was a gullible idiot who had flirted with a whore and taken him home with him.

The sex hadn’t even been particularly good.