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If You're Going to Keep Me Here

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Patrick’s house is just on the edge of chilly now that he’s out in the kitchen, his boxers and thin tee not doing much in the way of insulation.  He heads over to the thermostat as Joe goes on about the cruise he’s getting Marie for her birthday and bumps it up with his free hand.  If he’s cold, Pete almost certainly will be.  Patrick resists the urge to go ask him.

“Dude,” Joe is saying in his ear, “earth to Patrick?  Patrick, do you copy?”

“Oh,” says Patrick.  “I, uh, I was cold and I got…sorry.”  He keeps half a mind on the quiet hum of the house, just in case Pete’s trying to get his attention.  Patrick’s spent the last few minutes wracking his brains for an excuse that would allow him to hang up on Joe.  He’s yet to come up with one.  

“You,” says Joe, “are the weirdest guy I know.  You can zone out and write music for hours but one simple phone call has you undone.  Is this your way of telling me you won’t be there?”

“Be where?” says Patrick.  “Sorry.”  

“Birthday dinner,” says Joe, “next week.  You gotta save me from the in-laws, man.”  The tile floors are still a shock against Patrick’s bare feet when he wanders back into the kitchen, but that’s mainly irrelevant.  

“Just tell us where and when,” says Patrick.  “You know we don’t have anything major going on right now.”  

“Oh, Pete’s over?”

“Yeah.”  Over is one word for it, given that he sort of never leaves.  

“Cool,” says Joe.  “That means I don’t have to call him and convince him to clear up an hour or two for old friends.  He’s always too cool for me, you know.”

Patrick absentmindedly scratches the bridge of his nose; it always feels empty when he’s not wearing glasses.  “He just spent an afternoon with you two days ago, Trohman.  Stop lying to us.”

“Spent an afternoon being too cool for me,” says Joe.  “Every second we weren’t talking, I swear, he was on his phone.”

“I’ll tell him no phones,” says Patrick, though the phone probably wasn’t the source of Pete’s distraction.  In Patrick’s defense, he’d told Pete to say hi.  His greeting must have gotten lost somewhere between Pete’s phone and Joe.   

“Good,” says Joe.  “You do that.  Now go ahead and hang up before my ego takes another hit.  I can practically hear Pete distracting you over there.”  Except Pete is silent, hasn’t done a thing to get Patrick’s attention since he answered the phone.   

All the sarcasm Patrick could throw at that comment would be lost without Pete there to hear it and make faces, so he skips it.  “Oh!  Pete says hi,” Patrick remembers.  “And that you still owe him fifty.  I’m not going to ask.”  

“Tell him he’ll get it when he shows up,” says Joe.  “See you.”

“Bye.”  Patrick ends the call and frowns at the 12:41 blinking at him from the screen.  It’s not too long—not unbearable, he doesn’t think.  Not the longest.  Still, he leaves his phone on the counter when he heads back upstairs.  Pete must be able to hear him heading down the hallway, but when he leans against the doorframe he’s still right as Patrick left him, down to the way his eyelids are twitching as he tries to keep them shut.

“Hey,” says Patrick, sinking down on the bed next to Pete and rubbing a hand over his thigh.  “Miss me?”

Pete’s eyes flicker open just in time for him to catch the smile forming on Patrick’s face.  

“You still good?” Patrick asks, when Pete doesn’t say anything.  “Not cold or anything?  Shoulders doing okay?”

“I’m fine,” says Pete.  “Fine, Patrick, I promise, so can we—“  He arches toward Patrick and if he’s good enough to ask, Patrick doesn’t need to worry.  

“Oh,” he says.  “Something you want?”

Pete bites his lip like he does when he has to hold back his sarcasm—though Patrick might let it slide, just this once—and instead says, “Please.”

“You were the one who told me to take the phone call,” Patrick reminds him, hand slipping further and further up Pete’s thigh as he talks.  “I wasn’t going to answer it.”  He feels like he ought to give Pete some sort of real contact as an apology, but it’s not like Pete isn’t still hard for him.  Twelve minutes. Jesus, Patrick loves this.  Pete is too tense under his touch, wound up from waiting.  “Do you need a bit of a break to calm down?  I’m patient.  We can take one.”  

“No,” says Pete, “No, I’m fine, please—“  

Patrick has to admit that he looks fine, spread out on Patrick’s bed, not even the slightest bit of twitching where his hands are tied to the headboard.  It’s his eyes that give it away with the way they can’t stop raking up and down Patrick’s body, fluttering shut as Pete tries to compose himself and then opening again because Pete wants.  

“Okay,” says Patrick, stripping his shirt off and throwing it behind him.  Because Patrick knows Pete wants to touch him, and because he very carefully made sure that Pete can’t touch him, he shifts around to kiss Pete.  He’s not surprised when Pete tries to lean up into him to get more contact, but a bit disappointed nonetheless.  “Stay,” he says, pulling back.  “Patience, Pete.”  Self-restraint isn’t something that comes naturally to Pete, but he’s getting better at it.

Pete doesn’t try to convince Patrick to lean in again but his eyes stray the length of Patrick’s body as Patrick shucks his boxers and grabs the lube from his bedside table.  He’s never been one for showing off, but something about the intensity in Pete’s gaze makes him loud as he starts to prep himself.  Pete’s attention makes him a little desperate, a little reckless, and it’s a feedback loop that leads to him not being able to help going a little faster, a littler harder than he ought.  

He can’t help but touch himself by the end, a quick few strokes of his cock to take the edge off.  Pete takes a deep, shaky breath when Patrick’s eyes slip closed and Patrick pulls himself back to task.

“C’mere,” he says, even though Pete won’t be moving much of anywhere.  “Gotta get you ready.”  On another day, he might take some more time to tease Pete, make him really beg for it before giving him anything good, but he figures Pete’s already paid his dues.  To Pete’s credit, he doesn’t even make a sound as Patrick lubes him up.  Hardly even moves aside from a slight twitch into Patrick’s grip, and that’s probably because Patrick took him by surprise.  

“You good?” Patrick asks.

Pete nods, says “yes, yeah, Patrick please,” closes his eyes, says, “c’mon,” bites his lip.  

“Good,” says Patrick, moving to straddle Pete and sinking down onto him.  “Then—Oh.”

Pete holds himself still as Patrick adjusts, already breathing hard with the effort of it.  Not until Patrick taps his hip does Pete thrust into him slowly.  “Oh, fuck,” says Patrick, speeding up their rhythm.  “Fuck, Pete, yes.”  He fucking loves the way it feels to have Pete underneath him, inside him, fucking him just so because he knows what Patrick likes.  Loves the way Pete’s fists are clenching and unclenching above his head as he thrusts, loves the way Pete never stops staring at him.

“Let me,” Pete begs Patrick, “Let me see.”  

Patrick wraps a hand around himself and it’s torture to keep it slow, in time with Pete’s thrusts, but he does.  Works himself slowly under Pete’s gaze and tries to focus on something, anything else to keep himself in check.  It’s going to be a losing battle.  “Pete,” Patrick gasps out, steadying himself with a hand splayed across Pete’s chest, “oh, babe you, god, you feel so good.”  Pete’s only response is to thrust harder until Patrick can’t do anything but speed up the tempo, hand working his dick until he’s right on the edge.  

“Patrick,” says Pete, who’s as good at reading Patrick as he is at fucking him, “c’mon, for me, show me—“

It takes two strokes for Patrick to finish himself off and then he loses track of time; later he’ll blush at the thought of how loud he got but there’s more important concerns at the moment (Pete gasping out Patrick’s name, coming inside him, trying to reach for Patrick because he forgets for a second that he can’t) and they’re all so worth it.  Patrick takes a moment afterward to admire how wrecked Pete looks before he shifts forward enough to press his mouth to Pete’s.  Pete is all teeth and no finesse, which means that it was good.

“Trick,” says Pete, once he’s started to catch his breath.  “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” says Patrick, sitting back up.  “I’ll—gimme a moment.”  He really needs to clean them up and untie Pete soon but it’s difficult to walk away when he has Pete like this.  

“S fine,” says Pete.  “I’m good.  I just.”

“Yeah?”  Patrick’s brain always works a few seconds slower after orgasm so he runs his thumb over Pete’s lower lip, swollen and shiny, as he tries to catch up with the conversation.  “You just?”  

Pete’s tongue flicks out to catch the pad of Patrick’s thumb.  “Love you,” he breathes out.  

“Yeah,” says Patrick, suddenly feeling breathless himself.  “Hang on, wait.”  Pete needs to be a hundred times closer to him than he is now.

“Patrick,” says Pete, arms tensing against the ties as he loses Patrick’s weight on top of him.  

“Right back,” Patrick promises, like he always does.  Practice has taught him that it’s messier to untie Pete before cleaning them up.  

“I love you,” Pete says again.  Patrick hums in agreement as he cleans them both off before tossing his washcloth in the general direction of the bathroom.  Pete immediately stills as Patrick moves to untie him.

The knots are too tight under Patrick’s fingers; he can’t find the space he needs to get them loose.  “Dammit,” he mutters, reaching toward the bedside table for his glasses.  He’s suggested to Pete before that they use something that doesn’t require Patrick to be fully functional after sex, but Pete had replied that he liked it this way so they’ve yet to change methods.  It probably wouldn’t be a concern if Pete could leave anything alone, but he always tugs on the knots too much as he’s testing them.  Eventually Patrick loosens the knots, frees Pete’s arms.  Pete stretches out carefully as soon as Patrick’s out of the way.

“Shoulders okay?” Patrick asks out of habit as he settles down next to Pete.  

Pete throws an arm over Patrick’s hips.  “All good,” he replies.  Out of habit, Patrick tries to give him a massage even though there’s no way he can apply enough pressure from this position.  Pete’s going to be feeling this tomorrow, but then again, so is Patrick, and that’s exactly what he wants.  

“Good,” says Patrick.  In response, Pete’s nips a short exclamation into Patrick’s neck.  He’s allowed to because they’re not on tour and not in the studio, and therefore Patrick doesn’t really have to see anyone who would ask awkward questions.  

“Love you,” Patrick adds, “Pete, love you.”  

Pete’s only reaction is to wrap tighter around him.  “Shh,” he says, running a hand through Patrick’s hair.  “Sleep, I know you wanna.”  

“You too?” asks Patrick, and Pete yawns, nods as best he can with his cheek pressed to Patrick’s chest.  Pete removes Patrick’s glasses and settles back in, more on top of him than anything, as Patrick’s eyes flutter shut.  “Thanks,” Patrick whispers.  Pete tangles their fingers together between them and holds tight, as if his grip is the only thing keeping Patrick there.  They fall asleep tangled together, never to be pulled apart.