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On principle, Patrick doesn’t interfere with Pete’s bullshit. As far as he’s concerned, Pete is an adult—albeit a childish one—and he can live his life however he wants. And if Pete wants to hurt and humiliate himself in front of their friends? Well, that’s just not Patrick’s business.
Even though he’s committed to letting Pete make his own stupid decisions, Patrick can’t help but watch these stupid decisions pan out with a kind of helpless fascination. Usually, Pete goads someone—Chris or Joe or any number of hardcore guys who seem to hang around Pete like flies on shit—into hurting him. Then, he’ll pop a boner and seemingly do everything in his power to make everyone notice he popped a boner just so he can loudly deny said boner. It’s amusing to watch, really.
So, here Patrick is, having blown off work for the day, hanging out with his band and Pete’s random assortment of hangers-on in the basement of Patrick’s mom’s house. They really should be practicing, especially since Patrick skipped work for this, but Pete’s in a less-than-productive state of mind right now.
“Drinking piss probably isn’t even that bad,” Pete says between laughs. Patrick hasn’t been paying close enough attention to the conversation to know how they ended up here of all places, but he dutifully curls his lip at Pete anyway.
“Maybe not, like, normal piss, sure,” Joe says, his face twisted in disgust, “But your piss? You’d have to get your stomach pumped.”
“Hey!” Pete exclaims, offended, “My piss is totally normal, thank you very much.” Patrick snorts, and all eyes turn to him. Pete, for his part, has a shit-eating grin on his face.
“What, you don’t agree, Pattycakes?” he asks faux-innocently.
See, this is what Pete does. He’s very obviously angling for a specific outcome—has been for the entirety of the piss-drinking conversation. And Patrick would confidently put money on that outcome being Pete drinking piss for no purpose other than his own poorly-concealed desire. If Patrick were smart, he wouldn’t engage. He wouldn’t interfere with Pete’s stupid bullshit.
But. Well. It really is amusing to watch Pete put himself in these situations. So, Patrick engages.
“No, I don’t agree. Your piss is rancid. It looks like motor oil and smells like death. I think it’s probably a health hazard that you use public utilities. I don’t think any water you have ever pissed in can be treated,” he says. Everyone laughs, including Pete, who laughs hardest of all.
“I think you’re all just being dramatic. It can’t be that bad, or it would cause some kind of damage to my body,” Pete retorts. There’s a sparkle in his eyes that Patrick doesn’t really like.
“I’m not convinced it hasn’t,” Chris chimes in, “You’re, like, weird, dude. It might be those piss toxins.” Pete rolls his eyes and aims a halfhearted punch at Chris’ shoulder.
“Well, there’s only one way to find out. Guess I’ll have to drink some,” Pete says, hauling himself up from the ratty couch. There’s a collective groan and Patrick sees several disgusted faces from the assembled group.
“I fucking knew this was going to happen. He’s always gotta do some gross shit for attention,” Andy says. Pete flips him off before turning to the assembled crowd.
“Well,” Pete says, clapping his hands once, “Who wants to watch?”
Unsurprisingly, most people don’t want to watch. In fact, it seems like only Joe and Chris are interested. Patrick wouldn’t say he necessarily wants to watch, but he finds himself intrigued anyway. It’s always fun to watch Pete do fucked up shit, and as Pete’s best friend, isn’t it his duty to be by his side for everything—even the disgusting, self-inflicted bullshit? Patrick heaves a sigh and gets to his feet. Pete raises an eyebrow at him, his grin taking a slightly sharper edge.
Pete leads the trek up to Patrick’s bathroom on the second floor, bypassing the ground floor in case Patrick’s mom returns from her errands while Pete is drinking his own piss. Patrick can respect that Pete at least has the decency to spare his mother from his antics.
Patrick’s bathroom was not built to accommodate four grown men—even if two of them are abnormally small—and it’s cramped enough that Patrick’s chest is nearly pressed against Pete’s back as Pete takes his position in front of the toilet.
“I need a cup or something,” Pete says, one hand resting on his still-zipped fly. His tone is contemplative, like he actually thinks this might go well.
“Joe can grab one from the kitchen,” Patrick says, nodding at Joe where he’s leaning against the doorframe. Joe straightens up and offers a mock salute, but before he can exit the bathroom, Chris grabs his wrist and pulls him back.
“Hell no, dude, there’s a cup right here,” Chris says, grabbing the plastic cup Patrick uses to rinse his mouth when he brushes his teeth. He tosses it to Pete without warning and Pete fumbles it, almost dropping it into the open toilet. Joe, Chris, and Pete are all laughing, but there’s an odd feeling in Patrick’s gut—somewhere between anger and…something else.
“Pete, no—” he tries, but Pete waves him off.
“This is easier than going back downstairs.”
“But I drink out of that cup,” Patrick whines. Pete grins and waves him off again.
“We’ll wash it. It’ll be fine.”
“But your piss… I’m gonna have to throw the cup away.”
Pete’s not listening anymore. He pops the button on his too-tight jeans, fishing his cock out of his underwear. Patrick huffs and crosses his arms. He knows he looks like a pouting child, and he’s kinda glad Pete is facing away from him, or he would be teased. But he thinks he’s justified; he doesn’t want Pete’s drain cleaner piss anywhere near something that’s supposed to touch his mouth.
Pete’s piss is loud against the hard bottom of the cup, but not loud enough to cover up the breathy noise Pete makes. From his position looking over his shoulder, Patrick can see Pete’s cock twitch in his hand, starting to chub up. The something in Patrick’s gut intensifies.
And then the smell hits.
“Eugh!” Chris gags. He and Joe have matching expressions of fascinated disgust on their faces, their eyes glued to the putrid stream of brown liquid flowing from Pete’s cock. Patrick’s sure his own face betrays his revulsion, but he doubts it’s as intense as theirs. He’s had a long time to get used to Pete’s piss.
Regardless, Pete’s piss isn’t necessarily a pleasant experience. The urine smell is multiplied tenfold and there’s a distinctly nasty sweet undertone akin to rotted fruit. They really need to have another discussion about adequate hydration, Patrick thinks, because Pete’s kidneys must be working overtime.
The stream peters out when the cup is around halfway full. Patrick thinks Pete probably has more piss left inside him, but he’s just too hard to keep going. Pete’s cock twitches in his hand, and a few last droplets fall into the cup.
“Ew, dude, are you hard?!” Joe exclaims, incredulous. Patrick rolls his eyes. Surely Joe has recognized this pattern of Pete’s behavior before now.
“No,” Pete denies. His cock twitches again. Joe makes an exasperated noise and gestures wildly to where Pete is, in fact, extremely hard.
“Shut up,” Pete says petulantly, raising the cup toward his face. Alarm bells start going off in Patrick’s head, even as heat rolls through his stomach. There’s no way Pete’s actually gonna drink this, right? Patrick should stop him—that’s what a good best friend would do.
“You should probably hold your nose,” is what Patrick says. Pete makes a dissatisfied noise.
“Smell is a big part of taste,” he says. Patrick scoffs in surprise, while Joe and Chris groan loudly.
“You want to taste that?” Chris asks disbelievingly, nodding toward the cup of still-hot piss in Pete’s hand. Pete just shrugs and brings the cup to his lips, tilting his head back as he chugs its contents.
Several things happen very quickly. Joe and Chris make all sorts of disgusted noises, and Chris goes as far as to gag. Patrick, notably, does not join their chorus. It’s disgusting, for sure, but he’s more interested in Pete’s response to drinking his own piss. As Pete’s throat works, Patrick watches his cock jump and bob against his stomach through the open fly of his jeans. With a kind of detached acknowledgment, Patrick feels his own cock take interest. His eyes snap to Pete’s face as he pulls the cup away from his mouth and a pitiful little whimper escapes his lips. Then, Pete bends over the toilet, putting his ass directly in contact with Patrick’s hardening cock, and vomits into the toilet.
“What the fuck?!” Joe yells at the same time Chris yells, “Jesus!”
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Patrick notices that Chris and Joe both scramble to flee the bathroom, apparently not willing to stick around for the consequences of Pete’s piss drinking. Patrick, however, simply cannot care about them because his cock is harder than it has ever been in his relatively short life.
In front of him, Pete has folded himself to the floor, sitting cross-legged in front of the toilet. He retches again, and a weaker wave of vomit cascades out of his mouth and into the bowl. Patrick’s cock pulses painfully.
“Fuck,” Pete says, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth and slumping against the tub next to him. He’s panting heavily, and his now-flaccid cock is still hanging out of the open fly of his jeans. His cheeks are dark from the exertion of vomiting, sweat beading his hairline. Patrick licks his lips and swallows hard.
“You alright, dude?” he asks. His voice is hoarse. Pete’s eyes snap to his face, then quickly slide down his body to where Patrick knows he’s very obviously erect.
“Dude,” Pete rasps, his throat raw. His eyebrows are raised incredulously, his gaze locked on the tent in Patrick’s jeans. Patrick wants to hide. He wants to cover his crotch with his hands, but he thinks that would just make the embarrassment worse. He swallows again.
“Sorry,” he says lamely. He’s mortified, but he can’t think of anything else to say. Frustratingly, Patrick’s dick doesn’t take the hint that he’s too embarrassed to be hard.
“I’ve gotta admit, Trick. I’m not sure how I feel about—” Pete gestures toward Patrick’s groin, “that.”
Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad if Pete’s soft dick weren’t still out. Maybe then, Patrick’s dick would get with the program and chill out. As it is, though, Patrick is still rock-hard and his mind keeps replaying clips of Pete drinking his own piss and then emptying the contents of his stomach into the toilet. Patrick really doesn’t know what to say to Pete to make him feel better about this whole situation. He should probably make sure Pete’s okay, that he’s not going to throw up again. Maybe he should get him some water, but he’d have to get a cup from the kitchen, now that the only cup in the bathroom has been defiled by the very thing that made Pete puke, and the thought of encountering Joe or Chris while sporting a raging boner minutes after watching Pete vomit makes Patrick want to kill himself.
“Sorry,” he says again, “I’ll just—go.”
Patrick flees, hardly sparing another glance toward Pete. Hopefully, Pete can take care of himself long enough for Patrick to furiously jerk off. And then, if Pete actually cares about him, they’ll never talk about this again and Patrick can relegate Pete vomiting to the darkest corner of his most shameful spank bank material.
Patrick slams his bedroom door behind him, collapsing against the wood. He doesn’t bother undressing—doesn’t even bother undoing his fly—he just shoves his hand under the waistband of his jeans, the unforgiving hem constricting his wrist. He fondles himself roughly through his boxers, his head thrown back against the door. His eyes are screwed closed as he replays Pete retching on a loop in his brain.
It takes embarrassingly little for Patrick to finish. Less than a minute of squeezing his dick, and Patrick is shooting off into his underwear with a strangled cry, Pete’s vomit hitting the water echoing in his ears. Patrick feels his face heat, ashamed, as he cringes at the feeling of wet fabric against his palm.
This is what he gets for interfering with Pete’s bullshit.