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The fire exit closes with a dull click. Patrick wishes, childishly, that he could swing it hard enough to rattle the building, leave everyone inside reverberating with the bang of his frustration, the way he could slam the door of his childhood bedroom to get Kevin’s bookshelf to rattle and the plates in the kitchen cabinet to shake.
It shouldn't get to him so bad. It’s not like they haven't been through worse. Spend the whole day driving to a shithole venue hundreds of miles from Chicago. Get turned away by the flaky asshole manager, beg their way into an opening slot. Playing to a crowd of stone-faced punks who pour sticky beer on Patrick two minutes after he steps off of what passes for a stage. Normally, whatever, but the van broke down on the way there and Patrick had the misfortune of being in the driver's seat. He hasn’t slept a wink in what must be over twenty-four hours, they’ve been on the road for even longer, and his GameBoy died yesterday. The injustice of it all has put him in that sort of mood, when everything’s a problem and he feels like he’s made of lighter fluid.
Normally, they can pick things up as a band, but weeks into a DIY tour, things are flagging. So yeah, everyone is crabby right now, but especially Patrick. He hasn’t even had the chance to nap in the back of the van like everyone else. Call him a baby, whatever, he’s so fucking pissed off. And like, it’s not anyone's fault, he knows that, but it’s hard to care when he’s dead on his feet and even the dull sound of the other band playing through the walls is too loud and his hair is greasy and his eyes burn and his weeks-old jeans are starting to feel all scratchy and unpleasant against his skin and too much - yeah, it’s a lot.
So Pete choosing that moment to slink through the door, following Patrick into the gritty back alley behind the venue, is the icing on the Walmart cake. Right now, Patrick can’t even tell if the company is a good thing. Pete’s his best friend, sure, but he’s also a pain in the ass. Especially now. Times like these make Pete think the band is going to break up before it takes off and he’s going to die alone in a ditch, which is stupid, but Patrick can’t do much about it when Pete gets in his moods. Well, he can try, to varying degrees of success, but right now he’s not feeling very charitable. So when Pete stands next to him and drops his chin on Patrick’s shoulder, all Patrick does is huff an angry puff of air out of his nose and shove his hands into his pockets.
Patrick knows what’s going on. Pete hasn’t been sleeping, which means he’s just spending all his time thinking, and when he can’t get himself to turn off, Pete gets all wound up. There’s a fifty-fifty chance he draws in and locks it all up, or lashes out and makes it someone else's problem, and Pete’s been pretty quiet lately, so Patrick knows they’re overdue for a something.
All that said, it’s not that surprising when Pete turns his nose to sniff at the sweaty crook of Patrick’s neck, running his fingers up Patrick’s back like a spider. Patrick shudders, tries to shoulder Pete off him, but he remains fixed to Patrick like a barnacle. Patrick doesn’t get this part of Pete, the part where he gets mean and bitter but still can’t stand to be apart from someone else, so he calls his girlfriend just to argue or wakes Patrick up to nag at him in the middle of the night.
Usually, Patrick can laugh or shrug this sort of thing off. Not today. Patrick is just so over it, he’s rolling his eyes and huffing at Pete trying to communicate leave off without words because if he does talk he’s going to say something really mean and he still cares just enough to try being a halfway decent person. Unfortunately, Pete doesn’t care about being nice and knows how to press all his buttons. He knows Patrick’s not very inclined to talking right now (he’s more a man of action), so Pete digs his fingers into his ribs, just on the side of too much, and Patrick shoves Pete off him, roughly, biting out a “Fuck off dude, I seriously cannot deal with you right now.”
Pete frowns at Patrick, eyes red and dark from smudged liner and days without sleep and whatever-the-fuck else is going on in that head of his. He looks horrible. He looks vulnerable. “Fuck is your problem?” he says, which might as well be a rhetorical question because Pete already knows the answer.
“Right now, my problem is you,” Patrick grits out, pinching the bridge of his nose because he’s heard that helps with headaches (it doesn’t, when your headache is Pete-shaped). Pete leans closer, warm shitty-smelling breath coasting over the shell of Patrick’s ear. “That’s not very nice.”
“Good,” Patrick snaps. “If I say something worse will you leave me alone? Pete, you’re vain and self-aggrandizing and needy and you can’t even play your fucking instrument-”
Whoever starts it doesn’t matter. In an instant they’re at each other, Patrick digging an elbow into Pete’s bony stomach, Pete twisting Patrick’s arm until he yelps and jerks away. They’re scrapping like - probably something mildly pathetic, if Patrick is being honest. Maybe two shitty alley cats hissing at each other, or something equally grimy and vicious. Whatever, it feels real to him and that’s what matters. His world is just him and Pete, the coarse feel of his hair when he pulls it, the harsh jab of Pete’s shoulder as it rams into Patrick’s side, the tender skin of his neck that Patrick presses at, just for a moment, before pulling away (because even now, he’s not actually trying to kill Pete, you know?).
Patrick doesn’t really get into fights, in general. But the rules are different with Pete, when there isn’t much they haven’t done together, including, yeah, a bit of fisticuffs here-and-there. That rhythm they have on stage happens to translate pretty well to this sort of violence, and Patrick lets himself get lost in it. So when Pete scratches his ragged nails down Patrick’s back under his shirt, Patrick doesn’t hesitate to swing at Pete. He’s actually kind of surprised when it lands and Pete jerks back with a sputtered curse, bringing a hand up to soothe the bruise blooming on his jaw.
Patrick takes it for what it is. He grabs Pete’s wrists in his hands, yanking them above his head and shoving him back against the rough concrete wall of the venue. Pete takes it with a grunt, thrashes like a caught fish, but Patrick shoves a leg between his to keep him from dropping to the floor. Never one to make things easy, Pete fucking bites Patrick’s collarbone, an easy target through the stretched neck of his t-shirt, Patrick supposes. He gasps out a “What the fuck, man?” leaning back, but doesn’t let Pete out of the cage of his limbs. Pete goes to twist out of Patrick’s grip, do something, but he aborts the movement halfway through. Patrick tenses, confused then Pete hits him with something that staggers him more than any blow.
“Dude, are you hard right now?”
Patrick opens his mouth to say something to the effect of what the fuck, no, asshole, then he actually starts paying attention to something other than the way Pete’s bony wrists are clenched in his hand and the slow ache of the bruises Pete gave him and his heart racing about a million miles an hour and the tight and angry feeling in his chest and he realizes, shit, yeah, he is hard, and his stupid boot cut girl jeans are doing very little to disguise something that, frankly, has a hard time staying under the radar on a normal day. Shoved as close together as they are, it’s not hard (haha) for Pete to brush up against the incriminating evidence.
Patrick sputters, “I’m, uh, that’s actually,” trying to shift away from Pete, but somehow they just get closer, and he realizes, “Well - you are too!”
“Yeah,” Pete says, going limp in Patrick’s grasp, “but you, like, knew that already, right?”
Patrick opens his mouth to say, I actually don’t pay that much attention to your dick, get over yourself, Wentz, then he actually thinks about it. He guesses he knows, in the abstract, that Pete gets into fights, and he gets into fights for labyrinth reasons Patrick doesn’t think overmuch about because it pisses him off when he does. So yeah, maybe Pete being a freak isn’t much of a surprise, but Patrick?
Patrick is different. Look, Patrick is a good boy. He’s a nice boy, even when something sets him off and he gets so blindingly angry he can’t see straight, and his fists itch with the urge to slam into something. He snaps and bitches and yells, but he doesn’t hit things, except maybe the walls, sometimes, and then when that fire is gone and he doesn’t even remember what he was mad about in the first place he presses his thumbs to the bruises on his knuckles to remind himself, that’s what happens when you’re a dumbass who punches walls. So he gets angry, but he doesn’t hurt other people.
Well, except for Pete sometimes. But it’s not his fault, ok, because Pete will just come in and start prodding and needling Patrick (holding a camcorder half the time), and just being so annoying, and Pete has this talent for doing it when Patrick’s already pissed off. So yeah, Patrick will hit Pete sometimes, but honestly, Pete kinda brings it upon himself because everyone else knows to leave Patrick alone when he gets in a mood, but not Pete. Pete’s poking the bear, (or chihuahua, if he’s feeling less generous, but fuck it, Patrick feels like a wild animal sometimes and he’s nineteen, he doesn't care how dramatic that sounds) and he's not gonna feel bad about it.
So Patrick is a good boy, and he doesn’t go picking fights with people (that don’t deserve it). Not like Pete. Patrick knows that Pete has this reputation and everyone thinks that he’s, like, thuggy or whatever, which is funny because Patrick knows what neighborhood Pete lives in and the fact that he always leaves a fight looking about the same as the other guy. Pete is so good at starting shit and not very good at finishing it.
Honestly, sometimes Patrick thinks he does it on purpose, for fun or whatever. He doesn’t know, because Pete seems to take more hits than he dishes out. Except sometimes he goes totally ballistic and it reminds Patrick that he was a jock at some point, and also kind of crazy, which is a killer combo. It’s weird, because it’s not just that Pete can fight, he can be smart too, like, he knows how to not piss other people off, and then he just does it anyways. He does it with strangers at the bar, he’s done it with every single ex-girlfriend, and he does it with Patrick.
It’s different, though. Pete fights strangers so he can get hurt. He fights his girlfriends when he wants to hurt someone else. And when he fights Patrick, it’s so someone will hit him, say sorry, buy him a soda, and forget about it after.
As all this runs through Patrick’s head, Pete gets antsy, starts to shift around impatiently in Patrick’s grip. “If you’re not gonna do anything about it, can you let me go so I can jerk off in the bathroom or whatever?”
Except his squirming brushes the hard line of his dick against Patrick’s own, and they gasp at the same time. Patrick squeezes Pete’s wrists in his hand tighter, huffs “Will you let me think for a second?”
Pete, somewhat surprisingly, complies, and Patrick is left staring at him, the flush that’s risen on his cheeks, his mouth open slightly as he pants into the cool night air, giving Patrick a glimpse of his big white teeth, the ones that carved a raw spot out on his collarbone that throbs in time with his dick.
Patrick’s never thought about boys before. Yeah, he got called a fag sometimes in high school, but every short or nerdy guy did, so he doesn’t think that means much. Guys come onto him sometimes, he doesn’t really care, but he’s never, ever, thought maybe. He’s never slowed down to poke at the guy nudie mags or watched gay porn, even as “a joke” like half the people he tours with. He’s had girlfriends. He likes kissing girls and, yeah, having sex with them, after a slightly prolonged period of courtship. Call him old fashioned, whatever, he’s not a manwhore like some guys.
Like Pete. Jeez. There’s a guy that can’t keep in his pants, or decide whose pants to keep it in. Patrick dodges all the sexual ambiguity of the scene like Jackie Chan. He’s never even felt the need to question his sexuality, thank you very much. Which is hard work when you’re best friends with Pete Wentz, 5’4, and look like a girl. He doesn’t get enough credit for that. He complains about it to Joe all the time. Like, just because Joe can grow a beard and Patrick can’t, that makes Patrick gayer? Please. Patrick can’t help that he’s totally cursed in the body hair department. He thinks he might be starting to go bald, because a patch of hair on the back of his scalp is getting worryingly thin. He tried googling, does wearing hats make you bald?, because he’ll stop if he has to, but the internet says there isn’t a scientific link between hair loss and hat-wearing, so maybe he’s just…
Pete makes another noise. Patrick jolts back to reality. Did he forget about Pete? Whoops.
“Are you done?” Pete asks, glaring at him. He starts to tug himself away from Patrick, but Patrick doesn’t let him. He tries to get his thoughts in order in a split-second. He’s never thought about guys, but in this moment, with Pete hard and wanting, rubbing up against him, it doesn’t feel like a question to Patrick.
He moves himself deliberately now, leaning closer to Pete, nosing at the crease of his jaw. Pete’s breath hitches. Patrick darts his tongue out to taste, and the hollow of Pete’s throat dampens from spit and Patrick’s breath. Pete whines, low in his throat, tilts his head for better access. Patrick knows what to do, bites down, gentler than Pete had, because this spot is so soft, so tender, and Pete chokes out a gasp. Patrick hitches his leg up, on purpose now, grinds his thigh against Pete’s hard on.
Patrick can’t even remember if Pete has a girlfriend right now or not, and future him is going to be appalled, but in this moment, he can’t bring himself to care. Pete’s girlfriend isn’t here right now. Patrick is, and it’s not like Pete doesn’t sleep around anyways. Pete seems to be on the same page as Patrick, if the way he moans and arches up into his touch is any indication. “You gonna be fucking cool now?” Patrick asks, gasps really, because he’s never thought of the way Pete would look desperately rubbing himself against Patrick but now that he is Patrick can’t think about anything else.
“Only if you keep doing that - ah!” Pete yelps when Patrick frees his hands from holding Pete’s wrists to paw at his chest. Patrick twists Pete’s nipples, and he groans and pushes into it, hands scrabbling mindlessly at the wall. Yeah, Patrick had a feeling he would like that. He rubs his thumbs over them, soothing, Pete’s head falling forward to rest against Patrick’s shoulder as he gasps. His hips are moving against Patrick now, stuttering thrusts that can’t be comfortable because Patrick knows Pete’s going commando right now, which means his dick is rubbing right against the inside of his girl jeans, the rough denim and hard-edged teeth of the zipper.
Patrick has a sudden desire to know what exactly Pete’s cock looks like like this. He’s seen it before, obviously, but not like this. Patrick can picture it, blood dark and swollen, chafed red from grinding against denim on denim, wet smeared at the tip…
He pulls his leg away from Pete, who groans in protest, but Patrick ignores him to grope at the bulge in his jeans. Then Pete’s moaning, shamelessly, irregardless of the fact that they’re basically humping each other in public (oh shit, right, they’re in public). Patrick fumbles with his zipper, then he’s drawing it down and Pete junior is in his hand, looking just like Patrick expected. He gives it a squeeze. Pete’s hands fly up to grip Patrick’s shoulders. “C’mon Patrick, quit teasing,” he says, trying to hitch his hips up, fuck into Patrick’s hand. That won’t do. Patrick shoves Pete’s pelvis back with his free hand, pinning Pete to the wall.
“Don’t push it,” Patrick says, squeezing Pete’s dick harder, too hard, in warning. Pete whines, bucking away from Patrick, towards him, like he can’t decide where he wants to be. He twists his head, mouth moving wetly against Patrick’s neck, his shoulder. “Patrick,” he gasps, shaking against him. “Patrick, please.”
Patrick wonders how Pete manages to fuck anyone else when he loses his words so quickly. He lets go of Pete’s dick so he can grip his chin in his hand, taps his thumb against Pete’s bottom lip until he gets the message and drops his jaw open. Patrick presses two fingers down on Pete’s tongue, testing, feeling the soft muscle twitch. It’s a little dry - Pete’s probably dehydrated, Patrick notes disapprovingly, because he almost always is. He’ll have to get him a gatorade or something. Later.
Now, he’s shoving his fingers down Pete’s throat, prodding at the spongy back wall ‘til he starts gagging and wheezing. He doesn’t ask Pete, because Pete can never just say what he wants, and anyways, Patrick already knows the answer. He pulls his fingers out, gives Pete a second to catch his breath, then he’s offering Pete the palm of his hand.
“C’mon. Spit,” he says, raising an eyebrow. Pete frowns at him with watery eyes, but his tongue lolls out obligingly, slobbering over Patrick’s hand like a dog. It won’t be enough. That’s fine. Patrick gets a hand around Pete again, slides along his length a little more easily now. He spends a little time getting to know it, drags his hand down the shaft, rubs his thumb under the head. Patrick can feel Pete’s hips twitching under his other hand, begging for more, and his mouth is doing the same, babbling mindless things. Nothing like the horrible dirty talk Patrick has the misfortune of hearing from the back of the van sometimes. Totally uncomposed. Patrick feels a spark of pride at that, but now isn’t the time to dwell on it.
“Hey. I told you to be fucking patient,” he warns, and digs a nail cruelly into the slit of Pete’s cock, just for a second. For a moment he panics, because that was mean and probably not healthy, oh god, but Pete doesn’t fight it, doesn’t try to pull away, just gasps and thrashes before going still. He looks at Patrick with big, dark eyes, wild and expectant. Patrick feels a white hot shiver run through him and he lets it be. “Good,” he says, “Good job.”
Pete makes a broken noise at that, his hands flying up to tug at his hair. Patrick realizes that the last time Pete touched him was when he hit him. He stops holding him down for a second, guides his hands so they’re wrapped around Patrick. Pete follows gladly, grips Patrick tight, his nails digging into his back, different than they had before. They’re close now, so close, the planes of their bodies pressed right up against each other. Patrick barely has any room to work but he manages, because this way he can feel Pete squirming underneath him, catch his mouth in his own as he works a hand over him. Pete’s lips slide over his, sloppy and uncoordinated and gasping, as if Patrick’s doing more than a handjob, so he leans down, sucks a matching bruise onto Pete’s collarbone. He times it with a particularly rough twist of his hand, basically dry by now, feels skin tug uncomfortably, feels the way Pete thrashes under Patrick, the way his breath hitches and his cock blurts out precome at the motion.
Patrick would worry that it’s too much, too rough, but everything just seems to make Pete hotter. It’s definitely doing something for Patrick, and he’s still got that energy thrumming under his skin, the want to hit and tear and feel something come apart under his hands. So he makes his way up the column of Pete’s throat, tests the skin with his tongue and marks it with his teeth, makes things that’ll definitely bruise in the morning. He thinks about what Chris told him. He drops a hand to wrestle with Pete’s jeans, tugging them further down, then he’s stroking over his balls and pressing at the skin behind them. Pete gasps. Patrick rests his head on Pete’s shoulder. “Yeah? You want it?” he breathes into Pete’s ear, teasing a thumb around his rim. Patrick's only done this once before, with a girl, and he didn't care for it much. But Pete's different, obviously. Getting his hand there is a tight squeeze, between Pete's jeans halfway down his thighs and the rough wall behind them, but he doesn’t seem to care, whining and canting himself towards Patrick’s hand.
“Yeah, do it,” he gasps. “I want - I’ve always wanted - with you…” he trails off on a groan when Patrick licks a stripe over the pad of his finger, swipes it over the weeping slit of Pete’s cock. Then it’s down, curving his hand around Pete’s ass and nudging a finger into his hole. He’s tight, and Patrick worries for a second, but Pete just gasps and draws Patrick even closer, crushing them together. Patrick works his finger inside Pete, testing, and then Pete’s fucking himself down onto Patrick’s hand. Patrick lets him, spends a bit of time there, feeling things out, seeing the ways he can get Pete to gasp or squeeze Patrick tighter. It’s a little inconvenient like this, the way he has to reach down, and it’s hard to see Pete’s face, but he can mumble encouragement into his ear, can drag his teeth along the line of Pete’s jaw and catch the bit of stubble there.
Eventually Pete gets bored, starts squirming around. “Another one,” he says, “I’m ready, c’mon-”
He grits his teeth as Patrick nudges another finger against him, not inside yet, just pressing. “Hey. Don’t be greedy.”
“I’m not being greedy,” Pete argues, “You’re being slow - oh!”
He stutters out a gasp as Patrick slides a second finger in him, twisting inside Pete and scissoring him open, just a bit too much, but that’s what Pete asked for. He squirms, trying to adjust, and Patrick gives him a moment before he’s prodding deeper, finding the place that makes Pete moan. Patrick doesn’t let up, massaging that spot until he’s whining and bucking away, or trying to. Patrick keeps a firm hand on his hip, holds him there and works his insides, feels Pete clench around him until his words have left him and he’s reduced to shaky gasps and whines.
Eventually Patrick takes pity on him, draws his fingers out, ignoring Pete’s disgruntled huff. “I was close, dude.”
“You wanna come?” Patrick asks. Pete finds it in him to roll his eyes, even though his legs are still shaking. “What kind of question is that? You got my dick all hard for nothing?”
Patrick pinches Pete’s side. He yelps. “Yeah! Yeah, I wanna come, jesus, if I don’t blow my load like, right now, my dick is probably gonna fall off and you’re never gonna get your hands on it again, god…”
He shuts up as Patrick tugs him forwards. “Next time you can just say yes Patrick, thank you. Now c’mon. Like this.” Patrick manhandles Pete demonstrably, hitching his leg up and getting his hands around the backs of Pete’s thighs so he can pull him forwards, drag his cock along his denim-clothed thigh. Pete gets the memo, starts grinding himself on Patrick’s leg. He buries his face in Patrick’s throat, nibbling at the hollow of his shoulder as his thrusts get more frantic. Patrick keeps his hands on him, stops him from rutting like a puppy and finishing too quick. He presses his leg forwards, crushes Pete’s dick between their bodies, feels the way he hiccups against Patrick’s neck.
By the time Patrick draws away Pete’s dick is red and raw, chafed from the rough treatment. Pete blinks tears out of his eyes, but he keeps moving his hips, cock leaking steadily onto Patrick’s thigh. Patrick drags his tongue up the side of Pete’s neck, bites hard under the sharp line of his jaw. “C’mon, come,” Patrick gasps, and Pete’s voice cracks as he whines, high and sharp, and he does, wet soaking into Patrick’s jeans.
Pete collapses against the wall, face wet with tears and a little drool. His cock hangs soft and spent between his thighs, swollen like a bruise, and Patrick can’t help taking it into his hand again. Pete flinches away, but doesn’t protest, breath shaky as Patrick strokes over the soft skin. He squirms, oversensitive, and Patrick lets him go. Pete makes a noise, paws at Patrick’s pants.
“What?” Patrick says as Pete fumbles with his zipper, trying to ignore the sticky feeling of Pete’s come drying on him.
“You didn’t come,” Pete says, and then he’s pawing at the bulge in Patrick’s pants and Patrick realizes oh yeah, he didn’t, and he’s surprised he can even think with how probably 80% of the blood in his body is in his dick right now. Patrick gently pushes Pete’s hand away, because he’s still kind of shaking, and gets a hand around his own length. He hisses out a breath at how good it feels to finally touch, starts working himself quickly, without finesse. Pete tugs him closer and they’re kissing, Patrick groaning into Pete’s mouth as he comes almost embarrassingly quickly. He briefly pulls away from Pete and wipes his hand off on the wall (gross, but sorry, he doesn’t want to ruin his jeans even more, thank you very much).
They stand there for a bit, just holding each other. Pete’s got his face buried in Patrick’s neck. Patrick rests his cheek on top of Pete’s head, his coarse hair rubbing softly against Patrick’s nose. He runs his hands down Pete’s back and Pete makes a pleased sound, pressing his lips to Patrick’s neck in a messy imitation of a kiss.
Eventually, Patrick clocks in to the fact that they’ve still got their pants down in public. He peels himself away from Pete, who makes grabby hands at Patrick. “Come back,” he whines, tugging at Patrick’s shoulders. “I’m so sleepy now, we should totally just go to sleep, right here.”
“Gonna have to say no to that,” Patrick says dryly, tugging his jeans up, though he’s vaguely surprised he actually managed to wear Pete out. Maybe he shouldn’t be, given that all that anger and frustration from earlier seems to have been bled out of Patrick. Now he feels shaky and strange. Not bad, though. Mostly, he feels like he needs to lie down with Pete for several hours and not move, like how he naps after a good show, and get his head on straight again.
He helps Pete put himself back together, carefully running a hand over the marks on his neck, his chest. Those are gonna be hard to explain. He can’t even imagine how his paper-white skin is gonna look. Pete doesn’t seem bothered by it, pushes a thumb into a bruise on his neck, brushes his hand over one on Patrick’s, and smiles his wide-toothed grin at him. “You really rocked my world,” he says. “Better than any girl.”
Patrick thinks vaguely that Pete doesn’t really seem to like any girl for very long anyways. Then he thinks shit, am I Pete’s girl? and suddenly he isn’t sure what he’s doing. He just - with Pete? Is that - that should be weird. He’s kind of freaking out. Like, he just fucked a dude, but also, his dick got harder than it ever had because of the way Pete looked blinking tears out of his eyes, stuck under Patrick, letting him do whatever he wanted to him, even if it hurt. Because it hurt. It doesn’t make sense. It makes perfect sense. It…
Pete leans forwards, presses one more kiss to his lips, sweet and soft, and Patrick decides not to worry about it. He can freak out later. Now, Pete is warm and wrapped all around him, and that makes more sense than anything else. He grabs Patrick’s hand, drags him around the building. “Lets get Andy and Joe. I’m ready to blow this joint.”
Patrick can’t even remember why he was mad at Pete anymore. He follows.