Chapter Text
Sometimes, Pete feels like a robot – A machine with metallic memories, wires for hair, and a rusted spine. Not a cool robot like Terminator, or R2D2 – something more like Wall-E.
Lonely and constantly searching for companionship in a wasteland. Sure, he had a handful of college girlfriends and quickies with groupies. But, none of them have ever seen him. Not really, no. Pete began to wonder if maybe he had been searching in the wrong place. The wrong sex. So, he slid on sunglasses, the skinniest jeans he could find, and entered a gay bar.
Wading through muscular tank-top clad statues and bodies glued together on the dance floor and plopping on uncomfortable bar stools, he ordered a drink and scanned the room until someone approached him. He pinned on a friendly smile with his fingers curled around the glass and made small talk. Small talk led to being guided through a crowd by a firm hand and making out in bathroom stalls with a forgettable face. Even with two warm hands trailing over his skin, touching, and grabbing whatever, wherever it could -- he felt nothing.
So, Pete decided that maybe his model was defective. It's the only logical thing that could explain his malfunctioning robot brain.
Pete had spent most of his life trying to pick apart the pink mound in his head. He’d try anything to fill the strange gaping emptiness in his beating chest. He first tried therapy, this was back in '91 when doctors handed out drugs like candy (they still do if you play the right cards, Pete later found out). It was nice to have someone to speak to at first. Until the feeling of being studied on a cold lab table began to settle in. He was now Patient Wentz, jotted on dotted lines, and filed away with the rest of the crazy-not crazy enough for the looney bin people. Therapy felt more like speaking to a talking pull-string doll. He'd dump all of this personal shit and the doctor would respond with a cold "mhmm" or "how does that make you feel?" every time. After a few sessions, he started to make up stories or recite the plots of movies to see if the therapist would catch on, only to get the expected programmed response.
Next, Pete quit therapy and picked up a bass instead. He was never really amazing at it, but good enough to play in a band. His first-ever band was ironically named First Born. He felt alive when he played those four thick strings. More alive than he felt in his childhood bedroom curled up in bed for days on end instead of being in college still like the rest of his peers. Political science wasn’t his thing, not like music was. It gave him a purpose greater than being a fuck-up.
He immediately threw himself into the Chicago music scene, cycling in and out of bands, until he started Arma Angelus which is how he met Joe. He started working at a record shop and spent every other night performing for a crowd of 10 or 15 sweaty Chicago punks in basements screaming gutturals into a microphone. Eventually, the band made it to bar stage status. Being in a band also meant having a better shot at wooing girls he had no chance with before. Pete’d mention off-hand in a conversation that he played in a totally cool hardcore band as the lead singer (because no one cares about bass players), snake an arm around a pretty shoulder, give some eye contact, flash a smile, and hook-line-and-sinker – he got himself laid for the night.
Sex was good. Really good. Pete liked making out pressed against janitor closets to the pulsing of terrible club music outside the door. He liked the drunken tango to the bed, or couch (or floor). He loved the static friction in denim, bodies tangled – breath hitching, grinding for more, more and more with no strings tying them. His stomach turning into a puddle of want, doing anything he could to get them off. Skin on skin, heartbeat to heartbeat. Sex made him feel wanted. Even if it was just for the night or a 5-minute handy in the backseat of a car. Pete was wanted and being wanted was enough to fill the void.
In reality, it was more like those filler styrofoam peanuts in a cardboard box. A damned good filler, at that. So, every other weekend morning he’d find himself peeling off blankets, reaching for his clothes in the unfamiliarity of a messy bedroom, and stumbling his way out of an apartment with a headache that felt like wasps swarming around his frontal lobe and nestling in his brain synapses. Fuck to forget. Fuck to remember.
It was fun. Until it wasn’t and Pete started to feel that creeping disgust on his tongue that the taste of a whiskey sour couldn’t mask. Meaningless sex was no longer enough to distract him from the meaninglessness of everything else in his life. He was left once again as hollow as the empty bottles scattered around his room.
Then, he started writing. There was never a clear direction, it was always from his thoughts to a pen on paper. This was greater therapy than anything on earth. Words came easier strung together on blue notebook lines than they did through Pete's teeth. He always considered himself better with a pen than with any hobby he picked up. Better than sex, far better than he ever was at soccer. Sometimes he wrote poetry, lyrics, other times he’d simply vent, or write love letters to girls who never returned the sentiment.
As the years went by, the pen evolved into a primitive machine of wires and data, a computer. Pete never stopped though. Writing kept the screws on his head tightened. It doesn't matter if it's with ink, pencil lead, or a keyboard. The words were just aimless paint strokes on a canvas anyway – until he met Patrick.
Patrick painted a hell of a better picture with words than Pete ever could. And, he did it with his voice.
God, don’t even get Pete started on Patrick's voice. It was like a bandaid on a wound, a shot to the head and, the sweetest thing he has ever heard all at once. He’s a bit more obsessed with it than Pete’d like to admit (out loud at least). How could he not be when his best friend has a voice like that? Sometimes, he’d phone Patrick late at night just to have him sing to him to sleep, to which he would usually complain about the time until Pete pushed enough and sang his lullaby. Or, he’d stay later in the studio to find the blue eyed boy still sitting in the black office chair, pencil tucked behind his ear piecing together melodies to Pete’s fragmented lyrics. He always thought that his words sounded better off Patrick’s lips.
The very first time he heard him sing was at band practice in Chris’s basement. He was humming ‘Without You’ to himself, A Bowie song that Pete didn’t recognize then. He didn’t recognize Patrick then either. Joe said he met him in a record store, found out he was a drummer, and invited him to jam with them. Through the buzz of Patrick’s throat, he would belt a few lyrics under his breath, just low enough for Pete’s ears to hear and for his brain to register it (and Patrick) as the most beautiful thing on earth.
After that day, he kept repeating the moment like a recording tape. He wanted to hear more of Patrick. For the next few days, he brainstormed ways to ask him to sing again until almost like fate, he walked into the dingy room and saw Patrick’s hands wrapped around a microphone instead of the usual drumsticks. Right then and there, he swears that Jawbreaker will never sound better coming off anyone’s lips. Pete set his bass against the peeling wall, sat on the large unplugged amp speaker, and listened in awe like it was his first time hearing Accident Prone and not the thousandth of many covers. He sang:
“Whats the closest you can come to an almost total wreck
And still walk away with all limbs intact?”
The answer to those lyrics wouldn’t hit Pete until seven years had flown by, Arma had long been disbanded, he’d gone through four separate straight-edge phases, three heartbreaks, and started a new band called Fall Out Boy with Joe, Patrick, and two other dudes that turned into just them three, and Andy–
Be in love with Patrick. That’s How.
–
2006.
“There is nothing simply worse than knowing how it ends.”, Pete writes on his LiveJournal. He hits backspace, retypes it, and hits backspace again until the words splatter on the screen like paint.
Call it fate, Call it karma, or desperation. As long as you call me yours, I’m down. I meant everything I said that night, you were too blind to hear it though. Too deaf to see it coming. I’m comfortably confused now, I keep chasing your scent like a dog. You left your shape on my pillow, your secrets in my sheets// Just Friends, Right?
1:13 A.M 08/28/06
–
Pete tilts the bottle two sips from empty and peers into the glass. His free hand taps his fingers on the wrinkled napkin beneath it to the melody of the song playing on the bar speaker, ignoring the number scribbled on it in pen.
-XXX-XXXX ;) Call me
Joe abandoned him at approximately fifteen steps into the small bar, probably to go off and find a girl drunk enough to tolerate his stuttered out one-liners. Pete didn’t mind much, he was more focused on the well stacked bottle rack on the wall surrounded by neon logos and paper garland. They were in one of those run-down, possibly owned by a gun-toting patriot based on the decoration but served a good Ol’ Fashion (two shots too strong) drink type of bar. The type of bar Pete was sure he wouldn't have to worry about meeting an overbearing fan in.
It was flattering at first to order a drink only to be approached by two tipsy girls asking for a picture for their friend, or for you to sign their lipstick stained coffee cup. Then, it became having to duck into cabs to avoid camera flashes from restaurant bushes. Not cool when you’re trying to make a good impression on a pretty faced nameless 20-something-year-old and you trip and fall running from fangirls. Even more not-cool when the nameless pretty face turns out to be a crazed secret groupie. Pete wanted nothing more than to be loved because he was Pete, Not because he was Pete Wentz from Fall Out Boy.
The more Pete stared, the bottle was starting to look like a well with something floating in the bottom of it, clawing against the walls to get out. Every time it gained momentum, it slid back down into the pit with its head just inches above the water once again. He tilted the bottle again and watched the stray droplets of beer drip down from the rim into the pool of fizzy liquid. A bartender cleaning a foggy glass raised an eyebrow watching Pete.
“Everything alright, Sir?” he questioned, placing the freshly wiped glass on a shelf behind the bar. “I can get you another beer if ‘ya like.”
Pete set the bottle back on the napkin and gave a half-witted smile. “I’m fine, thanks.”
He sighed, half-wishing that Andy wasn’t so committed to staying straight edge, and came along with them to the bar. Joe was a shit tag-along buddy and Patrick decided to stay behind and watch movies on the tour bus with the Panic! boys instead. They were all playing in less than 24 hours and Pete dreaded every second. Being on stage again wasn’t the problem. Seeing other bands meant seeing old friends which meant seeing Mikey. His stomach flipped every time he thought of it, guts churning in a wretched mix of missing the fuck out of him and wanting him dead. Pete decided that drowning his racing thoughts in a sea of alcohol worked better than actually dealing with them. So, he ordered a shot of whisky and chased it with the last gulp of beer left.
When he threw his head back, his eyes fluttered shut and suddenly he was lying on the backyard lawn, jeans stained green and cheeks tinted pink – hand in hand with Mikey.
-
"I think I could love you," Mikey said as they laid side by side day-drunk. The sun was setting, the last bits of summer shining through the gaps of the tree they lay under.
could .
"If things were different, I could but--", He added, plunging the knife deeper into Pete's chest.
Different? I can be different. I can be whatever you want me to be. Just tell me.
"But?"
Mikey's eyes broke their gaze at the sky painted a hazy orange gradient to turn and face Pete. "Your head is elsewhere Pete. It always has been."
My head will be splattered on a wall if you keep speaking. Just kill me and we’ll call it even
"I'm right here with you Mikey. We spent the whole weekend practically inside each other's skin. What the hell are you saying?" Pete scoffed and rested up on his elbows. His face flushed nearly enough to set ablaze to the field beneath them.
"Patrick," Mikey said flatly, mentally wiping his name off his tongue as quickly he tried to wipe away the memory of a sleeping Pete-shaped mound muttering it in his sleep from his mind.
"What does Tric- What does Patrick have to do with us?"
"When you look in my eyes, you look straight through them searching for him. It's not my first time being the second choice sweetheart." Mikey said, his hazel eyes meeting Pete's glossy pair.
"That's not true and we both know that Mikes." he retorted. His painted nails dug into the flesh of his palm forming a loosely curled fist.
"Then look at me. Fucking look at me and tell me it isn't true."
"It isn't..", His eyes drifted and settled on a single small flower beside Mikey instead.
"See, you can't even do that." With that, Mikey peeled away from the grass and stood up crushing the flower, a few green blades still stuck in his flat-ironed-to-hell brown locks. "I'm done, Pete."
-
December 2006. That was the last time he saw him. Well, the last time he saw him face to face and not from a car parked across the street from the apartment Mikey and Alicia shared. Pete admits he felt like a massive creep but he couldn't help himself. Mikey never called, he moved all of his clothes out of Pete’s apartment (including Pete’s favorite hoodie to steal), and then, to top it all off – he got fucking engaged. That summer was like gum on the bottom of his shoe, Mikey simply peeled it away and kept on walking. It was like nothing ever happened. Like Pete never happened.
He blamed himself for everything. It was Pete that slipped and fell head over heels not caring about who he hurt on the way down. He let himself go, he deserved the fall. Didn’t act sooner, didn’t say the right things in the right way. To this day, he still can’t understand why he couldn’t look Mikey in the eyes. He concluded that Patrick’s name thrown in the conversation was an ambush, a smoke bomb in the heat of the moment to make Pete’s head all fuzzy, a fucking grenade in a knife fight.
It simply wasn’t fair. Being the sore loser he is, Pete threw everything away from that summer down the drain, he flushed it all down with copious amounts of booze and a pastel rainbow of pills. He cut his hair (Mikey always liked it longer), started going out to more parties (Mikey hated parties), and wrote every day until his fingers were tired (the same fingers that were once intertwined with his). If Mikey could pretend he didn’t exist, so could he. Two could play this game. If anything, Pete knew a thing or two about breaking hearts. He was the goddamn king of it.
The sharp aftertaste of the whiskey burning the back of Pete’s tongue brought him back to the reality of what a discomfort a bar stool was on his ass. He readjusted himself and wiped the remnants of beer on his upper lip stubble with the napkin damp with condensation. His eyes scanned the room for a mop of black curly hair and fell on a smiling blonde woman sitting three stools down instead. She was dressed oddly more casually than most women dressed for a night at a bar, just a pair of bootcut jeans and a tee with a band logo Pete’s eyes couldn’t make out from the distance, but he was sure it was enough to start a conversation. He broke his uncomfortably long stare and ordered two shots, one for courage and another just in case things failed and he made a complete fool out of himself.
Pete Wentz is a seasoned master of flirting, something he prides himself on. He has this sort of heart-throb charm to him that could make even the most stoic people blush. He'd flash his full toothed smile, he'd pull you in without effort and now you're head over heels for a man you just met. It was never overly insistent either, his flirting just came naturally in the form of one-liners, perfectly timed lip bites, and unbroken eye contact. Conversation is just a puzzle game. Make sure the right pieces fit, use the right phrases and a half smile and you can get anything, or anyone you want.
He wasn’t entirely sure what his intentions were with the blonde. It was too late to decide now with his mouth moving faster than his thoughts. Pete gave her the classic “Is this seat taken?” and gentle “definitely not a serial killer” smile. Her lips curled and she returned the smile.
“If you don’t count the permanent ass dent as taken, then no. It isn’t”. She said playfully.
She’s Funny. Noted, Pete thought.
“Eh, I’m sure the chair won’t mind either.” he jokes, sitting down beside her in the uncomfortable wooden bar stool. “I’m Pete, by the way”
“Payton,” the blonde said, blowing a loose strand of hair out of her eyes.
Fuck, they’re blue. Really blue.
The more Pete paid attention to her face, he saw little glimpses of Patrick. Soft rounded cheeks, strawberry blonde locks, kitten curl smile. Holy shit she looks so much like..him.
The conversation loomed on and the pints of beer he ordered them both quickly disappeared. He pretended to care about her pug or yorkie – he wasn’t paying attention, he was busy losing himself in the way the neon light bounced off the specks of olive in her irises to care. They sparkled the same way Patrick’s did when he talked about his favorite sea animal or the newest jazz record he picked up. She eventually leaned in and whispered in his ear, putting a childish grin on his face.
“Wanna have some fun?”, she asked. Her slurred voice was far from seductive but Pete, just as drunk if not more, nodded and pried himself from the dented stool.
Pete was about to bang a chick because she looked like his best friend.
(Maybe Mikey was right.)
Okay, he was definitely right. But, in that moment Pete didn’t care. Right now he was laser focused on the giggling woman guiding him to the women’s bathroom. Their lips smashed together before the door could fully shut. She tasted like cherry lip gloss mixed with the last puff of her cigarette, a weirdly familiar taste that made him wince into the kiss. The alcohol was making all of the decisions now, he told himself.
He pulled away, breath heaving. Payton took no hint to his winded face and attacked his neck with lipstick smeared kisses. Trailing down his throat to his collarbone, she whispered something into his skin. Whatever muffled praise she said, vibrated against his skin and Pete let out a girlish noise. The blonde laughed, sank to her knees, and unbuckled his studded belt, eager greenish-blue eyes peering up at Pete for a go-ahead. With his eyes squeezed shut, he nodded profusely and sighed at the friction of her hand on his bulge. She pressed small kisses to the wet spot on his boxers before slipping them down to his thighs. He let himself melt into the pleasure, imagining foggy glasses and stubble against his skin instead of thin makeup stained lips. The music playing could still be heard outside the bathroom door under heavy breaths and gasps. Her lips sunk down in a way that forced a croak out of Pete’s throat, his hands flew to the mess of blonde hair beneath him.
“Ah, Patrick- Fuck”, he groaned.
The blonde immediately stopped and looked up at him confused. “Who the hell is Patrick?” she questioned, wiping the spit from her chin.
“Payton.., Sorry I meant Payton.”, Pete quickly apologized. “I’m a bit tipsy, Um- Can we continue?”
A knock on the door made both of them jump. Pete pulled his pants and underwear back up and Payton steadied to her feet, lipstick smeared and hair jumbled.
“H-hello?” Payton called out while trying to fix herself to look mildly presentable.
“Hey Pete, It’s me your friend Joe. You know, the one in your cool rock band. I know you’re probably in there getting blown or somethin’ but, Pat called and said we should head back soon. Just letting you know, love ya buddy!” Joe shouted drunkenly outside the door.
Pete cursed under his breath and looked wide-eyed at Payton, she only laughed and pulled a cigarette from the crumpled box in her pocket. “You should get goin’ then, babe. Your boyfriends’ waiting for you,” she said, exhaling the thick smoke through her smiling lips. He opened his lips to form a line of protest or a classic smart-assed-Pete comeback but instead, he gave her one last stare and left without a word. “Bye!” Payton shouted from inside the bathroom.
Joe was standing there waving with an idiotic grin. He noticed Pete’s defeated puppy-eyed face and frowned. “Did I cock-block you just now? I’m sorry man,” he said, leaning down to pat his shoulder.
“Fuck off,” Pete muttered. He brushed his hand off his shoulder and tucked his own into his pocket. “Can we just go?”
Twirling the pull tab from a beer can around his finger, Joe pouted and motioned towards the bar’s exit. “By the way, Andys’ driving,” he mentioned as they walked, completely oblivious to the anxiety working its way through Pete’s nerves.
No amount of alcohol in the world would be able to excuse his actions in that bathroom. Guilt pooled in his stomach with every sobering step toward the door. How the hell could he face Patrick after tonight? He can’t ever look at him the same. That kid is his closest friend in the entire world and he just moaned his name with a girl who just so happened to resemble him.
They’ve spent seven years glued together – Hell, Pete’s mom refers to Patrick as her son. They’re friends. Best friends and that’s what they’ll be when they make it back to that tour bus and he sees his smiling face Pete concludes. He just has to store this night in a box with several locks and a huge “DO NOT OPEN OR ELSE” sign taped to it. How hard could that be?
-
After a car ride that consisted of Joe giving way too much detail of his *almost* sexual encounter with a 50 something year old woman at the bar and Pete cringing so hard he felt his body fold into itself like a turtle in its shell, they returned from the bar. Andy mumbled something that sounded like “goodnight” and disappeared into his bunk and shut the curtain while Joe stumbled his way over shoes and bags in the dark to the bathroom. Besides the noise from an action movie playing on the TV and the snoring of their tour manager, the bus was mostly quiet.
Pete figured Patrick was still on the bus with Panic since there was none of the usual shuffling from him writhing in his sleep coming from his bunk. He pulled his shirt over his head, unbuckled his belt, peeled off his dirtied skinny jeans, and threw them into the dark. Walking as quietly as possible, he streamlined past a yawning Joe to his bed and pulled back the black curtain. Instead of finding the usual mess of fan letters, empty soda bottles, and sweaty blankets, he saw Patrick sleeping, comfortably curled into himself with the bunk lights still on. To say that Pete’s heart dropped would be the understatement of the century. It was more like free falling from a skyscraper, crashing into a car, and then spontaneously bursting into flames.
Ok, maybe that’s a bit dramatic but, after the events just an hour before the usual sight of his sleeping friend was a shock, to say the least. As silent as he could, he slithered into the tight space beside him limb by limb. He shifted into place until his chest was flush against Patrick’s warm t-shirt covered back. Pete never understood how he could be such a deep sleeper, even with the constant bumpiness of the bus in motion or loud bickering from Brendon and Spencers’ random visits. The world could blow up outside his bunk and he would still be there sleeping soundly, chest rising and falling silently as fire ripped through the sky.
Pete sighed and shimmied closer to keep himself from falling out of the bunk. In the dim light of the bunk, he studied the sleeping face in front of him. Patrick looked…pretty, he thought to himself. Prettier than usual, almost angelic under the glowing light. Pete's eyes trailed from the hair draped on the edges of his cheek to his fluttering brown lashes, all the way down to his lips. He stared at them for longer than he should’ve. They were parted and slightly pursed as his chest rose and fell. While his brown eyes stayed fixated on them, his mind filled with thoughts that were totally not about how soft they would feel pressed against his or wanting to hear what other little noises they could make besides sleepy grunts. He quickly hushed them away and nibbled at the inside of his cheek until he felt a piece of skin rip between his teeth. They’re best friends, remember?
Besides, Patrick was straight. Even if by some divine intervention he wasn’t straight, Pete wouldn’t, no- he couldn’t mess up their friendship like that. Letting messy feelings creep in between them would at best make things complicated and at its worst, could lead to the end of the most important relationship in his life which was the last thing he wanted. If for the sake of the band and his mental sanity, he had to pretend that he wasn’t madly in love with him and his stupidly cute trucker hats until they grew old with ten-inch beards, Pete was more than willing to bite his tongue. As long as he could be by his side through it all, he was happy.
Patrick’s eyes shot open and he jolted awake suddenly, scaring Pete so badly he fell off the bed with a loud thud that earned him a grumpy “What the hell?” from Andy’s bunk and a confused groan from Joe’s.
Pete rubbed his aching side and looked up from the floor half confused and half shaken up by the fall to see Patrick frantically scrambling around feeling for his glasses through the blanket. Once he found them, he looked down at Pete equally confused.
“Why were you-,” He paused for a beat to look around him properly. “Oh, I totally forgot,” Patrick said, hand scratching the back of his neck apologetically.
“I fell asleep in your bunk reading your book, I’m sorry dude,” he explained with a smile, fishing the fantasy book from behind him and holding it up. “ Pretty comfy here too, haha.”
Pete let out a forced nervous laugh and settled back on his feet.
“I can leave if you want, I’ll just go on to min-” Patrick started before Pete interrupted, lips moving before his mind could stop them.
“No, It’s okay you can stay. Wouldn’t be the first time we slept together, right?” Pete assured. He was right, it wasn’t. They’ve spent endless nights together touring out of a single van huddled up for lack of space. Platonically, of course.
“Alright, If you say it’s fine.” he slid the covers back over him and held them open, motioning with his eyes for Pete to come lay in them to which he shakily obliged, sliding right into place shoulder to shoulder with him. The light was still on and he could see a small chuckle escape his friend’s lips as if Patrick was thoroughly pleased with whatever joke he told himself in his head.
“What’s so funny man?” Pete asked seriously, masked by a light-hearted smile.
The gingery-blonde giggled to himself and shook his head. “Nothing, it’s just- it’s not every day that you wake up cuddling with your friend…who happens to be half-naked...and hard.”
Pete sneered in confusion and looked down to see that he was in fact, half naked and hard. His face burned bright red, rivaling the shade of the red sheets beneath them.
“Oh fuck, That’s…that’s not because of you!”, he yelped, hands flying to cover the bulge outlined through the thin fabric of his briefs. “It’s a weird breeze in here, yknow” His explanation sounded much less convincing out loud than in his head.
“Relax Pete, It’s a natural bodily reflex,” Patrick said through giggles. “I’m gonna go to bed now if you and your boner don't mind. We have a show tomorrow, remember?”
Fuck, Pete had completely forgotten about that.
“G’Night dude.” He turned around to flick off the light and curled up under the blanket.
Right then and there Pete wanted nothing more than to float away into space and crystalize from the pressures of the galaxy air out of sheer embarrassment. He cursed himself for not noticing it before Pat did and for lying so close to him in the first place. Now he’s left uncomfortably squished next to him, two seconds away from a screaming fit and of course, still rock-hard under the covers.
Pete laid there for another greuling minute before the sensation became too hard to ignore. He silently slipped from under the blanket and excused himself to the bathroom to go and relieve his “problem”. The journey to the bathroom in the dark was like navigating some sort of secret spy mission. He had to dodge Joe’s tattooed arm hanging from his bunk, avoid slipping on the jeans he threw earlier, and try his best not to crush a stray veggie chip bag left on the ground.
After a stressful dozen steps to the bathroom, he locked the door and sighed. The room was cramped and a mess of damp towels and sweat stained clothes. The mirror was right in front of the toilet which was right next to something resembling a shower. It wasn’t the sexiest setting to jerk off in but Pete had little time and even fewer options. Plus, being already in his underwear cut the work in half. He stared down at his lap hoping to see Pete. Jr standing at attention only to see a flaccid gray shape in the fabric of his briefs.
“Are you fucking kidding me dude.”, Pete mumbled to himself and angrily buried his head in his hands, whisper-screaming into his palms.
He just wasted precious time that could’ve been spent sleeping (well, trying to sleep) pressed up against Patrick’s back. At least he can cross ninja roleplay off of his list of potential kinks. His fingers dug into his temples as a petty attempt to stimulate a better idea than sitting on the tour bus toilet grumpy and half-naked. Nothing seemed worthwhile enough so he unlocked the door and tiptoed back to the bed in defeat. He pulled back the curtain to find the Patrick-shaped figure still snoring softly. Pete sunk into the mattress, warm from residual body heat.
“Lucky fucker”, he thought.” It would be an absolute fucking dream to sleep without a Klonopin or two for once.” As if Patrick heard his thoughts telepathically, or at least Pete thought so, he switched sleep positions so that he was facing him and lazily slung an arm around his stiff shoulders. He practically melted into the sudden touch, pleasantly unsure if Patrick had mistaken him for one of the plushies thrown somewhere in the bunk. An incomprehensible mumble split from his lips and Pete swore he heard him say “Stay”.
So, he did. He laid there wrapped in his embrace trying to ignore his heart beating triple times the usual speed under his warm arm when Patrick shuffled closer and sighed sleepily. Their faces were so close. So close that every thought troubling Pete’s mind fuzzed into dandelion fluff and blew away with every shallow breath against his flushed cheek. He shakily let his muscles relax into the warmth. His eyes had been held open by strings and for the first time in 26 hours, his eyes fell shut like a guillotine being dropped and he drifted asleep.
And at approximately 4:24 A.M, the score is tilted by a landslide:
Pete’s Insomnia - 0 , Patrick - 1 .