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You Can Leave Your Hat On

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"I don't think I can do this." Patrick's hand is painfully tight around Pete's forearm, his knuckles whitening. His eyes are wide, his breath quick, and he's clutching his terry cloth robe to him with his free hand like his life depends on it.

Pete swallows. "You don't have to." It takes some effort to say, when all he wants to do is turn on his most ingratiating smile, lower his voice to a purr and tell Patrick how hot he'll be out there, how much everyone will enjoy seeing him. Especially Pete, who's half hard already with expectation.

Still, Pete likes to think he's a mature, responsible person who's past daring his lead singer slash boyfriend into doing things he's maybe not into. Even if they are crazy hot.

Then Patrick straightens and, with great deliberation, lets go of Pete's arm. "No." He wavers, then visibly steels himself and shrugs off the robe. Underneath it Patrick's wearing red satin boy-cut shorts and nothing else, his growing erection tenting them obscenely. "Time to face the music."

"Fuck yeah." Pete can't control his grin, which is threatening to eat his face. "You show 'em, babe."

Patrick grimaces. "Ugh. Shut up before I change my mind and put my clothes back on."

Pete opens his mouth to reply, shuts it and mimes zipping it.


Figuring out Patrick was into something was easy. It was the what that was hard.

Patrick was closed mouthed about it, guarding his secret interests jealously. He couldn't hide the flush on his face when Pete said or did certain things, though, and that gave Pete a starting point.

Item one: the time Pete wore lacy panties under his skinny jeans, and Patrick's voice broke twice on stage. He forgot the lyrics three times, one of them when Pete stepped up to lay his head on Patrick's shoulder.

When Pete wore them to bed, though, Patrick showed only his usual level of enthusiasm. Which was plenty, thanks, but evidently meant this wasn't what Pete was after.

Item two: the time Gabe walked in on them making out. Discretion was hard enough while on tour, and they've been walked in on by Andy and Joe plenty of times. Patrick's response - shoving Pete away, jamming his hands in his pockets and badly pretending to ignore Gabe's helpful critique - was normal, familiar.

The way Patrick's dick hardened under Pete's hand just as Gabe walked in, so sudden it must have painful, and the pinkness of his skin as Gabe gave him an appreciative look - those weren't.

It all came together for Pete when the band was discussing show theatrics for the next tour. It was idle talk, not really anything to build on when they didn't have the setlist yet, so they were just tossing ideas.

"A stripper pole," Joe said, gesturing. "A whole strip club setup. Pete can go onstage in a g-string. We'll put Patrick in one of those outfits with, like, tassles--"

"Fuck off," Patrick spat, and stormed out.

Joe stared at the door with eyebrows raised. "Jeez, touchy much?"

"I better go after him," Pete said. It was only half self-interest talking.

He didn't bring it up just then. Calming Patrick back down took precedence. But the pieces were fitting themselves together in his mind, helped into place by Patrick's rapid breaths and flushed cheeks when Pete found him.

It wasn't the mention of the stripper pole, since he'd actually seen Patrick pole-dancing - briefly and not that well, but he'd done it without any reluctance. So it must have been the mention of the outfit. Of Patrick in the outfit, because he hadn't reacted to the idea of Pete wearing an outfit.

A tassle fetish wouldn't have been Pete's first thought for Patrick, but he could work with it.


The audience outside the makeshift dressing room is small and painstakingly selected. They had to be friends, of course, and trustworthy. People who wouldn't unthinkingly say something to make Patrick regret this - either to the press, to the internet, or most importantly, to Patrick himself.

True to Pete's instructions, when Patrick comes out, eyeing the crowd nervously, everyone claps. Travie even adds a wolf-whistle for good measure.

"Shut up," Patrick tells him, but his tone is fond. He thaws a little, standing more like he does on stage, hip cocked.

Gabe doesn't clap, but he's watching avidly, eyes roving down Patrick's bare chest to his stomach to what the panties are doing a terrible job of hiding. Pete's torn between finding it heartwarming and sleazy, between proudly displaying Patrick and hiding him from all these hungry gazes.

"You look beautiful," William tells Patrick. There's no tinge of anything but sincerity in his voice. Patrick stiffens a little before relaxing again, smiling at them all in his patented "You're assholes but you're my assholes" way.

Nice enough of Bill to say that. Pete just wishes that Patrick would listen this well when Pete tells him the same thing.


"Friends," Pete said, when they were compiling names. "People we trust."

Patrick added, "They'd also have to like looking at me in panties. Or at least not mind."

Pete snorted. "Yeah, like that's gonna be a problem."

He was vindicated, too - despite Patrick's misgivings, nobody on the list seemed to mind the concept of seeing Patrick stripped down into pretty, fancy lingerie.

Travie actually fistpumped when Pete approached him. Then he paused. "Uh, Patrick does know you're going to do that, right? If this is a prank, count me out."

"No, no, totally his idea." In all honesty it was more Pete's idea that he cajoled and coaxed Patrick into admitting he wanted, but there was no use in dwelling on the details. "He wants to."

"Damn," Travie said, dreamily staring at the air. "That is gonna be one fine display."

Pete could barely contain his glee. "I know, right?" Patrick would be so pretty. Pete always thought Patrick should let himself shine more, be the center of attention.

Travie wasn't done asking questions, though. "Why isn't he with you? I want to check it with him."

Pete paused. This was going to be tricky. "He doesn't want to talk about it," he said, which was true. He barely agreed to speak to Pete about this; if anyone else tried to bring Patrick's little exhibitionist streak up, they'd probably end up with a black eye. "How about you come anyway, and if it turns out I dragged him into it, you can be his knight in shining armor and help him find his clothes. Or hold me down while he punches me, I guess."

"I do like watching people pound you." Travie offered Pete a hand. "Deal."


The underwear sets are laid out from least to most likely to make Patrick balk, as far as Pete can judge that. Once the initial reluctance went down, Pete thought they'd be argument-free until the fifth pair at least.

No such luck. Patrick's holding up the second set. "What the hell is this?" It doesn't look like he's referring to the panties, skimpy though they are. Patrick's looking at the matching scrap of lace like it's a dead rat.

"A bra," Pete says, helpfully. "It goes on your chest."

"Like hell it does." Patrick's going redder, in a way that could be from arousal, embarrassment, or anger. Pete's betting on all three.

He shrugs. "Fine. Don't. Next set?"

Patrick eyes him suspiciously. "What, that's it? I don't want to wear it, next set? No convincing?"

Pete stares him squarely in the eye. "Do you want to be convinced?"

Patrick doesn't answer, but the vivid red on his face fades to persistent pink.

Pete grins and comes closer. "You'll look so good in it," he whispers, right in Patrick's ear. "So pretty." There they go. The flush intensifies again, goosebumps rising on Patrick's arms. "Your nipples all perky through the lace, right where everyone can see them."

That's it. Pete knows it's a done deal the minute he sees the look Patrick gets when he hears Pete talking about Patrick being seen. He still doesn't move, so Pete presses on.

"I picked the color to complement your skin." He traces his thumb above Patrick's hipbone, right above the hem of the silky shorts he still hasn't taken off. "I went through the store thinking of how gorgeous you'll look wearing this, how good it'll feel to touch you through these--"

Before Pete can finish the sentence, Patrick shimmies out of his briefs and into the lacy underwear. He takes a deep breath. "I have no idea how to wear this." He indicates the bra.

"Not a problem." Pete grins. "Just let me help. Here, put your arms through the straps...."


Getting Patrick's actual wants out of him was like pulling teeth. Luckily, while Pete fought dirty, he didn't have to resort to actual physical violence. He had a subtler arsenal.

"Pete, I swear to God," Patrick groaned under him.

Pete remained crouching on his knees, the tip of Patrick's cock - and only the tip - inside him. "You know what you gotta do first."

"What?" Patrick squirmed, to no avail, panting. Pete had teased him mercilessly today, licking his dick and refusing to suck, pinching Patrick's nipples just hard enough to make Patrick want more. "You want me to say uncle? Uncle. I said it. Now let me fuck you, you--" His words were cut off with a weak moan as Pete allowed his dick another fraction of an inch inside, holding Patrick down when he tried to thrust the rest of the way in.

"Ah ah ah." Pete leaned forward, knowing full well that the change of angle would pull Patrick out a little bit, relishing Patrick's whimper. "Tell me what you want," he whispers in Patrick's ears. "What you really, really want."

When he was back to his previous position, Patrick was glaring daggers at him. "Spice Girls? Really?"

Pete shrugged. "It’s a classic for a reason, man." He looked down at Patrick. "Seriously, though. This is the deal. You tell me your deep, dark fantasy, the one you pretend you don't have, or you don't get to come."

"Fuck you," Patrick said viciously. Pete decided to be a bigger person, just this once, and ignore the potential pun. "What if I don't have a fantasy? Have you thought of that?"

"Yeah, but you totally do," Pete said. "Here, I'll help you out. It's something involving women's underwear."

Patrick froze under him, as good as confirmation.

Pete wasn't sure he liked the look in Patrick's eyes, though, going past wariness and trepidation, skirting dangerously close to actual panic. "Hey, no," Pete said, trying for soothing. It came out a little growl-like - Patrick wasn't the only one frustrated at the lack of fucking going on - but it distracted Patrick, which was good enough for Pete. "It's okay if you do," Pete continues in that same low tone. "I won't make you or anything. You'd just look so hot like that, you know?"

"Pete." Patrick's voice was breathy and a little choked, and it was only long familiarity with that voice which prevented Pete from coming untouched like a teenager. "Please."

Focus, Pete told himself sternly, though at the moment he wanted nothing more than to fuck down on Patrick till they both came. He was so close, in more ways than one. "You have this, this goody-two-shoes thing going on," he carried on doggedly. "In little silk panties you'd look obscene. I could see your dick through them, and I could touch you and it'd feel so soft..." Pete trailed off, licking his lips. "Should I tell you more?"

Patrick's nod was the smallest thing, but his eyes were desperate on Pete's, his every muscle quivering.

"I could suck you off through them," Pete said. "Taste you on the fabric, it would be thin enough that I'd feel just how hot your skin is, how hot you are for me...."

Normally at this point Patrick would roll his eyes or sock Pete in the shoulder. Now he was staring up wide eyed and panting, and Pete got the impression he better hurry things along before Patrick came without getting more than the head of his cock inside Pete.

"Tell me," Pete urged him. "Just say it and we could do it, anything you wanted, just say."

"I." Patrick's voice was small. "Pete, I want."

Pete pulled off his cock entirely, snuggling by Patrick's side instead, holding him close. "Tell me."

Patrick's cock was hard and straining against Pete's thigh, but both of them ignored it for a little while as Patrick confessed his desires in short bursts of words, strung hastily together, as though Patrick had to shove the words out before they ran away from him.


The bra-and-panties combo gets even more applause than the previous panties. Pete lets himself feel smug for a moment.

Patrick's getting into it more, too, laughing at something Gabe said. He's even shaking his ass a little, barely perceptible movement except for how it calls out to Pete like a mating signal.

If the others pick up on it, they don't say. Not explicitly, anyway. Travie's trying to convince Patrick to sit in his lap. "No, not even a lapdance," he's saying.

"Like you'd say no," Bill says, smirking.

Travie snorts. "Of course I wouldn't, do I look like an idiot?" He turns his winningest smile at Patrick. "But you don't have to do that, baby. Just come sit here in Uncle Travie's lap."

Patrick makes a face. "Uh, can we get an ix-nay on the cest-nay?" He pauses. "Wait, is that the way to say it? Ncest-yay?"

"No yay," Vicky-T says solemnly. "I mean, unless you're Gabe and you want people to call you Papi."

Gabe scowls. "I told you that in confidence!"

Not much of a confidence, since this comes as no surprise to Pete, or - according to their reactions - to anyone else in the room except maybe Patrick. Pete decides to cut the discussion short. "No touching the Patrick," he says. "The Patrick is strictly for your visual enjoyment."

"Does that mean he can't sing for us?" Travie says, a little plaintively.

"Dressed like this?" Patrick looks down at himself, wrinkling his nose adorably. "What would I even sing?"

"Anything," Travie says with great feeling.

"Singing later," Pete says, herding Patrick back towards their makeshift curtain. "More outfits now."


Practically the first thing Patrick told him, when Pete tried to discuss the panties notion out of bed, was, "I don't want you springing this on anyone by surprise."

Pete raised his hands. "Hey, c'mon, would I shove you into a room full of strangers wearing only ladies’ underwear?" He paused. "On second thought, don't answer that."

Patrick ground his jaw. "I'm not talking about me," he said. "If you show Joe, or, or Andy...."

Pete grimaced. "Definitely not. The last thing this band needs is a prank war." And the last thing Patrick needed, Pete was pretty sure, was to think of his own awesome nakedness as a prank when clearly it should be seen as a gift.

Patrick breathed out. "Good. Since that's settled...."

"What about Gabe?"

Patrick froze. "What?"

"Gabe." Pete said again patiently. "You know him, tall guy, fond of snakes..."

"I know who Gabe is," Patrick snapped. "Why are you talking about him?"

Pete met his gaze square on. "Because he likes looking at you," he said, "and you like him looking."

A pink, delicate flush settled on Patrick's cheeks. His mouth straightened into a thin line, but he didn't deny it.

That slid the last of Pete's little assumptions into place, locking together to transform into the beginning of a plan. "Gabe, and Travie," Pete mused. "Bill too, I think. Maybe Vicky-T. Ooh, Brendon!"

"Not Brendon," Patrick said. "Wait. What am I ruling him out of, exactly?"

"Maybe you should check that before you start ruling people out," Pete said loftily. "I'm putting together an audience list."

"An audience for what?" By the set of Patrick's shoulders, though, he already knew. He wanted Pete to spell it out for him.

Far be it from Pete to disappoint him. "For your lingerie runway show," Pete said. "We want people who'd enjoy it and wouldn't be asses. Why not Brendon, though?"

Patrick hunched a little on himself. "He's a good kid and he means well, but I'm not sure I trust him to keep his mouth shut. During the thing or after."

"Ah." Pete nodded. "Point. Well, I'll see if any other names come to mind."

"Pete, I don't know." Patrick was nearly squirming. Pete watched him, fascinated and a little turned on by the naked conflict in Patrick's expression, his longing contrasted with his fear. "I don't see any way this doesn't end up being mortifying."

It was easy to pull Patrick down on the couch, sneaking into his personal space as Pete always did. "I can," Pete told him. "It ends with you stepping into the room looking like sex on legs, and our friends watching you and wishing they could take those clothes off you with their teeth.”

Then Patrick actually did squirm, but not in discomfort, not if Pete was any judge. “That’s how it ends?”

“Well. That’s how it starts.” Pete nibbled the edge of Patrick’s ear. “It ends later, when they’re all gone, and it’s just you and me here….”


The lingerie has gotten skimpier and skimpier as they continued through the show. As fabric covered less of Patrick’s skin, his growing blush covered more of it.

“Take it off!” Vicky-T crowed at his second to last outfit. “We wanna see how far down the blush goes!”

That only made Patrick blush worse, so it was up to Pete to say, “Use your imaginations, for fuck’s sake. It’s not like we left them a lot of work.”

As Patrick walks behind the curtain, he says, “Are you actually having me walk out naked for the last one? Oh, just so you know, I’m not wearing those one-sided guy bikini things.”

“Of course not,” Pete says, even as he files that mental image away for later. If anybody could rock those, Patrick could. “Actually, I kinda went in a different direction for this one.”

“I’ll say,” Patrick says faintly as Pete shakes out the corset.

All the other outfits Pete chose for Patrick were bold colors, dramatic, red and black, navy and emerald. The corset is all white, airy lace with little pink bows lining the top. Next to it there’s a matching set of garterbelt, panties, and garters. It doesn’t expose nearly as much of Patrick.

At least, it gives that impression until Patrick puts them on. The material hides nothing at all, Patrick’s nipples a darker pink shadow behind the cups, the underwire shaping his chest to give him an actual - if small - cleavage. It takes some serious arranging and shuffling for the panties to cover Patrick’s hard, red dick. Even so, it strains against the lace.

He sits down to let Pete help him put on the garters. Pete watches himself work, fascinated by the sight of his own hands moving the sheer fabric up Patrick’s legs, the foreign sensation of the material contrasted with the familiar softness of Patrick’s skin.

Once he’s done, Pete has to clear his throat a couple times before saying, “There you go.”

When Patrick steps out, it’s to a stunned silence.

Pete comes up behind him, ready to break heads if he has to. Patrick’s starting to shrink on himself when someone says, “Wow.”

It’s William, staring at Patrick like he’s never seen him before. “Wow, man,” he says again. “Give us some warning, you can’t just randomly crank the hot up a level. People can faint.”

“I’ll have your smelling salts ready,” Vicky-T says. It doesn’t have much sting since she can’t seem to tear her eyes away from Patrick long enough to glance at Bill.

“Get some for me too,” Travie says fervently.

Patrick laughs at that, his shoulders relaxing, finally standing confident and proud. His face is still pink but there’s a strut in his walk, now.

“Is that the last outfit?” Gabe says. At Pete’s nod, he says, “Now you have to sing for us or Travie will pout.”

“I will, man,” Travie says. “I will pout like nobody’s business.”

Patrick hedges. “I don’t know.”

Pete walks to Patrick, positions himself behind him, kissing Patrick’s neck and his shoulders, moving down to just above the corset’s straps. He doesn’t whisper Whatever you want. Patrick will know he means it, anyway.

He smiles to himself when he feels Patrick shifting into a familiar stance. Pete knows how to move with him like this. It’s even easier without his bass in the way.

“I was feeling done in,” Patrick croons, “couldn’t win…”

Pete can just barely hear him above Travie and Gabe’s gleeful shouts of encouragement, but that’s okay. He’s standing close enough to Patrick that his voice is vibrating in Pete’s bones, and that’s the best place to be. Pete could built a house and live here.


After the audience was decided on, Pete still had two more important duties left in arranging Patrick’s fantasy: location and outfits.

“We can’t just do it on the bus,” he told Patrick, feeling grown up and reasonable. Patrick agreed it was best to avoid that, so all they had to do was pin down the date of the next hotel night and let everyone know when to be there.

Of even greater importance was making sure nobody else would be.

“Hotel night,” Pete told Joe and Andy. “Stay away from Patrick’s and mine room or be emotionally scarred for good.” Possibly physically scarred, as well, if Patrick got pissed enough.

Then there was shopping, which Pete considered doing online for a while. He gave that up after realizing he wanted to see the lingerie with his own eyes before buying him. Touch them with his own hands, get a real sense of how they’d fit on Patrick.

“You really don’t need to go to all this trouble,” Patrick muttered when Pete came back with a bunch of shopping bags.

“I want to,” Pete said, a little surprised at how much he did. Not just for Patrick’s sake, or not exactly.

This fantasy of Patrick’s almost seemed like deliberate cruelty on fate’s behalf. Take the most self-conscious, body-conscious, generally shy guy ever. Make him want to wear pretty undies and be looked at and told he was pretty, even as he believed down to his bones nobody would ever do that for him.

Well, obviously he was mistaken. Lucky Pete, that all he had to do was show Patrick how wrong he was.

Lucky Pete, that he had Patrick trusting and wanting, and all he had to do was not fuck that trust up.


Travie sweet-talks Patrick into doing an encore. “This Ain’t a Scene!” William requests, backed up by Gabe.

Pete grits his teeth and reminds himself that these are his friends, and Patrick’s. Kicking them all in the head because they wouldn’t let him go ravish Patrick in peace would be rude. He’d lasted entire shows with Patrick sweaty and lickable mere inches from him. He can wait for the duration of one song.

The last notes have barely faded when Pete’s up and about, shooing everyone else away.

Vicky-T smirks at them on her way out. “You boys have a good night.”

“We will!” Pete says, bright. “Thanks for coming, don’t let the door hit you on your way out.”

Gabe hangs back just long enough to lean on the wall and purr, “Anytime,” at them, then he vanishes into the night with the rest of the audience.

“Now what?” Patrick says.

Pete pretends to consider. “I don’t know. Parcheesi?” He crowds Patrick into a convenient wall. “Or, here’s a suggestion, I could make you come your brains out.”

“I like that suggestion,” Patrick says, so faint it’s barely audible. He makes for the bed with Pete hot on his heels.

He hangs back as Patrick lies on the bed, though. “Hey, can I ask you for something? You don’t have to.”

Patrick groans. “No pictures.”

“Wasn’t going to ask that.” Pete likes to think he can learn from mistakes, sometimes. “Something else. Do you see another bag next to the bed?”

Patrick looks aside. His eyebrows rise, and he bites his lip before looking at Pete. “Saved something just for us?”

“Sort of.” Pete gestures. “Open it. Take a look.”

In the bag is a cardboard box, tissue paper rustling inside as Patrick opens it and takes out a pair of cream Victorian lace-up boots.

The heel is short enough that Patrick may have been able to walk with them, but Pete didn’t want to take chances on him stumbling. Or, if he’s honest, on the shoes being the straw to break the camel’s back. Nothing in Patrick’s whispered confessions mentioned shoes of any kind: panties, garters, even bras, yes. Shoes, no.

Patrick’s expression is shuttered, but he’s not throwing the boots at Pete’s head, which is something.

“Let me put them on you,” Pete says, drawing a step closer. Patrick hesitates, then nods.

The boots are patterned with lace, matching Patrick’s corset down to the tiny pink bows. They came from an ordinary women’s shoe shop: Patrick’s got small feet. Pete goes to his knees to slide the boot on, feeling like an X-rated retelling of Cinderella.

Patrick’s letting him, though, thighs spread open, cock still just as hard as Pete gently laces the boots up. He looks Patrick up and down, hungry for the picture he makes. “What?” Patrick says. His ears are the same shade as the bows on the corset.

“You’re so fucking pretty I am in actual pain,” Pete says, with utter honesty.

Patrick laughs and gropes Pete’s dick, making him surge forward into Patrick’s touch. “Yeah, I can tell.”

Fuck, but this sly, cocky confidence looks good on him, this all too fleeting moment where Patrick sees himself as Pete sees him - beautiful, capable of anything, not perfect but better for it because perfect isn’t real.

Patrick’s real. The heat of his skin under Pete, the quick yet even rhythm of his breath, the scent of him, are all better than anything Pete could imagine. He was always better at nightmares than daydreams, anyway. “Fuck,” Pete says, realizing with dismay that, “You look too good to take anything off.”

“I can work with that,” Patrick says, rolling Pete over.

Patrick’s mouth on his dick is something Pete has little to no immunity over on most days. Today he’s not even trying for dignity, twists his hands in the sheets because Patrick will kill him if Pete pulls his hair, bucking up into the tight, gorgeous heat of Patrick’s mouth.

Just as Pete’s nearing completion, Patrick backs off. Pete whines and scrabbles and thrusts up, chasing Patrick’s elusive, beautiful mouth, all to no avail.

Patrick straddles his thighs. The already-thin fabric of the corset has gone completely transparent with the thin sheen of sweat on Patrick’s skin. Patrick grabs Pete’s cock with two sure hands, musician’s hands, tells him, “Come over me,” and strokes the orgasm right out of Pete.

“Oh my fuck,” Pete says weakly once he’s capable of words again. Patrick hasn’t moved, still sitting on Pete’s legs, his dick rubbing against Pete’s thigh every time he breathes. “Let me take care of that for you,” Pete says, pushing Patrick gently down.

They’ve already ruined one piece of the outfit. Nothing to do now but fulfil the promise Pete made him when Patrick first talked to him about wanting this.

He takes his time, first mouthing Patrick’s nipples through the lace, rubbing his dick through the panties as he does, gentle to keep from chafing. “You look so good,” he murmurs when Patrick’s nipple slips from his mouth. “So fucking good.” Then he moves to kiss the other side.

Patrick twists under him, twitching and moaning. “Pete,” he says, like he’s drawing breath for a complaint, but all that comes out on the next exhale is, “Pete,” over and over again.

Pete kisses down his stomach, lingers a little on the seam between Patrick’s belly and his crotch, licking there until Patrick’s squirming becomes distracting. Then, finally, he puts his mouth to the fabric of Patrick’s underwear, drags the hem down with his teeth, captures the head of Patrick’s cock between his lips and sucks.

One drawn breath, that’s all the warning Pete gets before Patrick’s coming in his mouth, a long, steady stream of come. Pete swallows what he can, the rest trickling out of the corners of his mouth. When Patrick’s done, Pete wipes it with the top sheet before going to kiss Patrick.

“You asshole,” Patrick says when they stop for breath. “I want a fucking refund on that orgasm.”

Pete shrugs, unable to help his smug grin. “Hey, I was going to use the rest of my mouth. Not my fault you couldn’t wait another two seconds.”

Patrick makes a dark noise. “You’re lucky I didn’t bend you over and fuck you behind that stupid curtain.”

Pete shuffles closer, laying his head on Patrick’s chest and closing his eyes. “Mm. Maybe next time, don’t hold back.” They’ll have to take the clothes off Patrick before he can sleep, Pete’s pretty sure, but they can cuddle for a little bit first.

Patrick’s gone a little stiff under him, though. Not nearly as comfortable as Patrick can be. It’s a shame. “Next time.”

“We still have the outfits,” Pete points out. “I mean, not that you have to. We can take this stupidly crazy hot thing you love and never do it again. Your choice.”

“I fucking hate you sometimes,” Patrick says, so earnest that Pete could hear the I love you hidden in it from a mile away.

“Just sometimes? Lucky me.” Pete braces for Patrick’s punch, grins when he feels it hit. Barely any force behind it at all. He must really have worn Patrick out. “You, darling Stumpy, are always the light in my fucking life.”

The mocking reply Patrick would normally have ready for this doesn’t come. Instead he squeezes Pete’s hand, mumbles, “I know,” and falls promptly asleep, soiled, uncomfortable clothing and all.