Current mood:	satisfied
Entry tags:	bandslash, fic, real people fic

Fic: Clothes Off! (Bandslash, various Pete-related pairings)
Title: Clothes Off!
Fandom: Fall Out Boy/MCR/P!ATD/TAI
Pairings: Pete/Mikey, Pete/William, Pete/Ryan, Pete/Jeanae, Pete/Patrick.
Summary: Pete had kind of given up on the cock thing.
Author's Note: Non-cultverse porn! OMG, I seriously can't believe I actually finished it. So, this fic is kind of the deformed zombie baby of ficbyzee's virgin!Pete fic and imogenics' and gigantic's gymnophobic fics, I think. Regardless, if it sucks, the blame is all on me.



What’s the closest you’ve ever come to taking the boy-on-boy action to the next level?

I haven’t really ever gotten that close, ’cause honestly, I’m not a real big fan of penises. Like my own, whenever I look at it, I just don’t find anything attractive about it. I can’t believe girls are into it. It blows my mind a little bit. So that’s the biggest problem. I’d love to share clothes with a dude and have all those benefits, but I just can’t get past that thing. It’s just weird-lookin’.
--Pete Wentz in The Advocate

1 Wishing to be the friction in your jeans

It’s not that Pete wasn’t attracted to guys. He definitely, definitely was—lips and arms and flat nipples and sharp hipbones and round asses, and really, he could go on about this for a while, generally until Joe or Patrick or even, on occasion, Gabe, tells him to shut the fuck up. And Gabe, well, that guy never gets tired of talking about asses, so that should tell you something about Pete’s ability to run on.

It was just the dick thing that he couldn’t get over. Like, literally, he couldn’t get over it, not with his hands, or his mouth, or anything else that he could rub over a naked cock, but mostly with his eyes. Because seriously—they look weird. When they’re erect they’re fucking awkward and veiny and red, and balls are even weirder, all hanging there, and just, he doesn’t see the appeal. When they’re limp they’re just kind of sad, and he can deal, because limp dicks generally occur in a nonsexual context so there’s no pressure on him to do anything, except maybe clamp it in a straight iron or cover it with Mace.

“You know, maybe if you hadn’t spent so much time doing fucked-up shit to other guys’ junk, you’d be able to see a dick without getting grossed out,” Patrick said once. He’d sounded annoyed, but as he’d been trying to button up his jeans over his erection at the time, Pete couldn’t really blame him. Pete’s own erection had subsided as soon as Patrick’s had come out, so he had no problem zipping his own jeans.

“We could just make out?” Pete offered with a wince. It sounded pretty pathetic even to him, the sort of thing girls said to him when they didn’t want to fuck him but did want him to stop whining. He couldn’t help it, though. The making out Pete had no problem with, even the parts where Patrick’s dick rubbed against his own through their pants. That part was hot, actually, with the kissing and licking and touching, and even the part where they slipped their hands into each other’s jeans and stroked each other, stifled by the close press of denim, was pretty fucking sexy. Pete jerked himself off all the time, so touching another dick didn’t really bother him too much, and Patrick panting in his ear definitely made up for any weirdness he might have felt with his hand wrapped around someone else’s cock. It was just when it went beyond touching, when the jeans became too tight and the dicks came out that—well. When Pete saw a dick, it kind of defeated the whole point of taking his pants off in the first place.

“No thanks,” Patrick said, rolling his eyes. “I pretty much got over coming in my pants in high school, so instead I think I’m going to go jerk off in your guest room and reassure my dick that it’s still attractive. See you later.”

When Pete got up a few minutes later to get a soda, he heard Patrick moan from behind the closed door, high and breathy and fucking muffled from the goddam locked door that was between them (and it was definitely locked, because Pete tried the knob. Twice). Sharing hotel rooms and tour buses drilled the importance of quiet into everyone’s brain pretty damn fast, and Pete had even managed to make Patrick come a few times (before he got over coming in his pants, which had actually happened just a few weeks ago, not in high school), so he knew damn well that Patrick wasn’t usually that loud, and was probably amping up the noise to drive Pete nuts.

Successfully, as it turned out, because Pete turned his back against the door and unbuttoned his pants, jerking himself hard and fast and cursing his stupid fucking brain and it’s stupid fucking sexual dysfunction. He didn’t look down at his dick until after he came. It looked sad, and not particularly attractive.

So yeah. Pete was attracted to guys, except for the actual, you know, part that makes them a guy. Really, for a long time it wasn’t even an issue: girls were for having sex with and getting all romantic with, and dudes were for hanging out with and occasionally kissing if it was part of a bet or if some girl wanted to see it. He’d gotten a few blowjobs, sure, from pretty scene boys in eyeliner who just wanted to suck off Pete From Fall Out Boy, but those weren’t the sort of deals that usually required reciprocation.

And then he met Mikey Way.

2 Happily ever after below the waist

The thing about Mikey is—okay, wait. There are two things about Mikey Way.

Thing number one: from certain angles and in certain lights, he totally looks like a girl. Kind of an awkward, geeky girl, sure, but a girl nonetheless. In fact, Pete is pretty sure that it was Mikey’s girliness that prompted him to initiate his first non-bet, non-turning-girls-on, actually-gay kiss (in his bunk, in the dark, where the shadows accentuated Mikey’s sharp cheekbones and softened the line of his jaw). It didn’t take Pete long to remember that Mikey wasn’t actually a girl, of course; his big, calloused hands and his low grunts in Pete’s ear were pretty convincing evidence that he was actually a dude, but that didn’t stop Pete from kissing him and kissing him and kissing him some more, rubbing his hands up and down Mikey’s biceps to feel the muscles flex. But the point is, maybe Pete had subconsciously been expecting pussy, and maybe that caused him to freak out a little when there was no pussy to be found.

Thing number two: other than a couple of aborted, apparently not-so-great drunken kisses in college, Pete was Mikey’s first non-bet, non-turning-girls-on, actually-gay first kiss, too, so they were both a little new to the whole dude-on-dude thing. They sort of mutually decided to take it slow, sticking to long make-out sessions in their bunks, hand-holding whenever there were no fans around, and draping themselves all over each other whenever they could get away with it, which was surprisingly often. Thank god for the new emo demographic.

It took a while for either of them to want more; in fact, it was at least a whole week before Pete was rubbing his dick against Mikey’s thigh and begging him to get him off. And Mikey did, slipping his hand into Pete’s jeans and eventually pushing the jeans down his thighs to jerk him off, eyes slipping down shyly to watch his own hand around Pete’s cock, which, fuck, was really hot, that Mikey wanted to watch him like that. Mikey ground his cock against Pete’s thigh while he jerked Pete off, leg slipping over Pete’s own, and after Pete came, when he offered to return the favor, Mikey had nudged his hips against Pete, letting him feel the damp front of his pants. “Not really necessary,” he said, laughing and panting at the same time, and Pete had kissed him hard, biting at his lips, because fuck. Mikey fucking Way had come in his pants, just from watching Pete come.

Really, if Mikey had just been satisfied with that, they could have stayed together forever.

But of course Mikey couldn’t be satisfied with just that, and really, Pete couldn’t blame him. Besides, back then Pete thought that he wanted it too, the whole fucking deal—sucking and fucking and groping and getting each other off, lying naked in bed and staring at each other for hours and hours and showering together, and all of it, everything. So they spent a lot of time crammed into too-dark, too-small bunks, jerking each other off beneath the sheets, waiting anxiously until the next time they were somewhere long enough to get a motel room.

At first they just laid on the bed together, just kissing, making it last the way they couldn’t on the bus, and then Mikey sat up, biting his lip before saying, “I want to see you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Pete said. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded low and hoarse, like after a show when his throat was sore from screaming and his veins pumping with adrenaline. “You too.”

“You first,” Mikey said, smiling, leaning over Pete to unbuckle his belt.

Everything was pretty much great, wonderful, Pete’s pants gone, shirt gone, Mikey’s shirt on the floor, and then Pete reached for the button on Mikey’s pants. He grinned and Mikey grinned and it felt just like being back in high school, that fumbling ‘holy shit, I can’t believe we’re doing this but it’s fucking wonderful’ feeling of first times. And then Pete pulled Mikey’s pants down to his thighs, saw his cock, and jerked away on instinct, hitting his head on the headboard.

“Ow.”

“What? Pete, are you—” Mikey reached out to him, tried to touch his arm, but his dick was still hanging out of his pants, and for some reason, Pete wasn’t hard anymore.

Fuck.

“It’s—you have a cock,” Pete said dumbly.

Mikey just stared at him, eyes flat and disbelieving behind his glasses. “What? I—yeah, I do. Because I’m a guy. Which you already knew.” The way he said it implied that Mikey had maybe been with people who didn’t know that he was a guy, at least at first.

“It’s just—it just surprised me, is all,” and oh, that had been a mistake. Mikey’s eyes widened and then narrowed, and he’d stood up, tucking himself back into his pants and zipping up. “That it’s so big!” Pete added quickly. “It surprised me that it’s so big.” Because really, no guy got offended at being told that he had a surprisingly large dick, right?

Except, apparently, Mikey Way. “Bullshit,” he said, crossing his arms. “I know exactly how big my dick is, Pete. It’s good, yeah, it’s fine, but it’s no Ray Toro cock.”

Pete thought about asking about that, because huh, really? The look on Mikey’s face convinced him otherwise. “No, look, I’m sorry, okay?” Pete said, grasping Mikey’s arms. He kissed him once, then again, feeling the tension slowly melt out of Mikey’s body. “I’m just new to this, all right? It’s just new. I’ll get over it.” And at that point, Pete really, really thought that he could. He at least wanted to try.

They made a few more attempts, interspersing kisses in the dark with pants off in the light, but it was pretty much more of the same. Pete didn’t freak out again, but he didn’t keep a hard-on, either, and he couldn’t really bring himself to touch Mikey while he could see it. A cock in his hand was fine in the dark, but a lot of things were different in the light.

After a week or two of trying, Mikey came up to him before a show and told him that they were over. Just like that, “We’re over,” with his eyes on the floor and his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “Look, it’s not because I don’t…” Mikey trailed off. “I just…you don’t want me.”

“But I do,” Pete said. He felt kind of like he’d been hit over the head with a hammer, because for some reason? He’d just assumed that shitty, seemingly out-of-nowhere breakups were a girl thing, conveniently ignoring his own participation in said breakups.

“Well, it doesn’t feel like it.” Mikey finally raised his eyes to meet Pete’s. “Look, it’s fine. It’s not like either of us are really into guys, right? It was just…you know, whatever. A phase. Something.”

“It wasn’t—”

“Look, I’m just telling you this because…” Mikey looked back down at the floor. “Me and Alicia have been hanging out a lot lately, and I just wanted you to know from me. Okay?”

“Okay,” Pete said. “Okay, sure. Fuck you too,” and went to pick up his bass. Alicia didn’t meet his eyes when she handed it over.

This was pretty near the end of Warped, so they only had to avoid each other for a few weeks—Pete had one of the other techs tune his bass after that. The next thing Pete heard, Mikey was engaged to Alicia, and then he was cuddling up to Chris on the internet, mocking pretty much every feeling they’d ever had for each other.

Now he and Mikey are friends again, totally fine, really. A few awkward ‘hey, how are you doing’ text messages, a few genuine hugs at events in front of Alicia’s carefully nonchalant eyes, and a total avoidance of discussing their two-and-a-half-month long relationship, and they’re fine.

Pete wants to tell Mikey, Just because I couldn’t stay hard when I saw your dick, just because the sex part didn’t work out, it doesn’t mean that the feelings weren’t real. It doesn’t mean that we weren’t real. But Pete’s learned not to rock the boat, to keep his friendships where he can (although since they’re already not speaking anyway, fuck you very much, Chris), so he doesn’t say any of that to Mikey, just hugs him whenever he sees him and sends him a congratulatory text after the wedding.

3 Kisses on the necks of ‘just friends’

William Beckett blew him off (literally. There was a parting blowjob, which was nice of William) for Gabe and Travis because, “Seriously, man, occasionally I like to have my dick touched. It’s this weird thing I have.” Pete tried to protest that he did touch William’s dick, he totally did, often, but William countered that with, “I also occasionally like to take my pants off during sex. It’s this other weird thing I have,” in that dry and slightly mocking William-tone, and really, Pete had no defense against that. They were never anything serious, anyway, so it’s not like it’s that big a deal.

Besides, occasionally William will give him a handjob, in the bathroom at a party or backstage after a show, “for old time’s sakes.” Only with both of their pants on, though, because “fair’s fair, man.” Generally the sticky pants are worth it.

4 He tastes like you only sweeter

With Ryan, it was actually Pete who ended it. Ryan was eighteen and not as experienced as he tried to come off, and he still looked at Pete with that “holy shit, I’m actually talking to Pete From Fall Out Boy” look in his eyes on occasion, so he had no problem with sucking Pete off and getting fucked on his stomach or his knees and getting jerked off through his boxers with his pants still on. He never asked for more, never asked Pete why he didn’t want to see him naked, and that was what made Pete end it—he didn’t even ask, just like those scene boys who used to suck him off after shows, never expecting anything more than what they got.

When Pete made that connection in his head, it actually made him a little sick to his stomach, because this was Ryan fucking Ross, a rock star in his own right and one of the best kids Pete knows. He deserved to get his dick touched—no, more than that, he deserved to believe that he deserved to get his dick touched. He was fucking eighteen years old, and if that isn’t an age where you should be taking your pants off at every opportunity, than Pete doesn’t know what is. And Pete is an asshole, so Ryan was never gonna get those opportunities with him.

When Pete told him they were over, Ryan’s reaction was exactly the same as the first time Pete said that he wanted to fuck him: he looked at Pete for a long moment, then shrugged and said, “Yeah, okay,” in that flat voice that made it sound like he would be okay with it either way, like nothing really affected him much.

And really, it didn’t seem to affect him that much. They’re still friends, they still hang out, and Ryan even puts up with Pete’s nostalgic three a.m. text messages. Pete’s pretty sure he’ll be getting a sarcastic song with a twelve-word title dedicated to him on the next album, but other than that, they’re good.

At first Pete was worried that Ryan would pull a Mikey; that Pete’s fucking hang-ups would fuck him up for relationships with guys for the foreseeable future and he’d run off and get engaged or something (to someone who’s cool, don’t get him wrong; he likes Alicia, but really, that whole thing happened a little fucking fast for it to be all about their deep and abiding love). Then he walked in on Ryan and Brendon fucking in their dressing room, Ryan’s bare legs wrapped around Brendon’s back, the two of them so wrapped up in each other that they didn’t notice Pete enter or leave.

So he figures Ryan will probably be fine.

5 To calm your nerves I’m feeling for my clothes in the dark

He and Jeanae never had any problems in the bedroom; all of their problems were usually elsewhere.

6 I’m like a lawyer with the way I’m always trying to get you off (me and you)

It didn’t actually occur to Pete to view Patrick in a sexual context until—well, until embarrassingly late in their relationship. Pete had a thousand reasons to mark Patrick with big ‘NO! OFF LIMITS!’ signs in his head, among them that Patrick’s in his band, which is always a bad idea; and Patrick’s his best friend, which is an even worse idea; and Pete had met him when he was freaking fifteen years old, which—well, okay. That last one’s not really a sticking point with Pete, but whatever. Patrick’s mom would totally kill him, regardless, if she suspected that he had even thought about Patrick sexually back then. Besides, he’d spent most of his friendship with Patrick not even realizing that he liked guys, anyway, so it didn’t really occur to him at first to move Patrick from the ‘platonic friend’ spot that he was so firmly established in.

Not to mention, Patrick doesn’t actually look anything like a girl, in any light, from any angle. He’s kind of pretty, yeah, but in a way that’s all boy, solid and muscular and occasionally smelly. He doesn’t even wear girl pants or ruffles, and the sideburns especially mark him pretty firmly in the boy column. (As does the bald spot, when he takes the hat off, and if you’d told Pete a few years ago that looking down at that bare patch of scalp in his lap would turn him on more than any clenched fistful of hair, he would have laughed and laughed and laughed.) So it surprised Pete when he first realized that Patrick was hot, because he was totally unlike every other person Pete had ever been attracted to before.

The first time Pete realized that Patrick was hot in more than a “huh, the kid’s growing up” way was after he broke up with Anna. It’s not like Patrick’s stand-offish or anything, but he doesn’t usually initiate affection; it’s usually Pete sprawling across Patrick’s lap or draping himself over Patrick’s shoulder or pulling Patrick into a hug. That time, though, it was Patrick who sat next to Pete on the small couch, backstage at a venue in CaliforniaArkansasLouisiana, (Pete couldn’t even tell any more, even the states that weren’t anything alike were starting to blend together) and he put his head on Pete’s shoulder, letting out this little sigh.

“Hey, you okay?” Pete asked, shifting Patrick slightly so Pete could lift his arm and put it around Patrick’s shoulder.

“Yeah. Just. Fuck, I miss Chicago,” Patrick said, and Pete knew that he meant Anna, he missed Anna, so he squeezed Patrick’s arm, pulled him tight and close.

“Hey, I’m here. You know I carry Chicago around inside of me. Pull it out for special occasions to keep you entertained,” and Patrick huffed out a laugh, the way he always did when Pete talked like a blog entry. He turned his head slightly, settling himself on Pete’s shoulder and breathing out warm against Pete’s cheek, the bill of his hat digging into Pete’s neck. Pete looked down at him, at this tired kid who’d given up pretty much every hope of a normal life without a thought to ride around the country with Pete, and he was seized with the urge to kiss the pale skin right beneath Patrick’s ear. Not a stage kiss, either, like Pete had been doing for years, his lips on Patrick’s sweaty cheek under the lights, but a real kiss. No bets, no turning on girls, no cameras.

Pete’s not sure if he would have done anything right then, because even though he’s an impulsive guy, he’s not (usually) (publicly) stupid about it, and starting something with Patrick when they were about to go onstage, in a dressing room with people milling in and out and Joe and Charlie wrestling three feet away, would definitely have been stupid. The point was rendered pretty moot, anyway, since Patrick shook himself slightly and said, “Okay, yeah,” and then, ducking his head, “thanks,” and got up to pick up his guitar from the tech. That night, Pete watched Patrick onstage, his throat working as he sang out Pete’s words, and did his best to keep his erection away from Patrick’s ass when he went to sing into his ear during “Dance, Dance.”

Really, Pete had always figured that his onstage erections came from the rush of performing. Now, he’s not so sure.

And then Pete had to admit that maybe he’d been noticing things about Patrick for years, things like the shape of his thighs in his jeans and the shape of his mouth in front of a microphone, things like the way his hands looked on a guitar and the way his body felt pressed against Pete’s during photo shoots and too-close nights in the van. And then he kind of freaked out.

Because really, regardless of what people think, Pete does have the ability to recognize patterns in his personal relationships, and so far with guys it had been ‘Pete is attracted to a guy, Pete decides to get sexy with the guy, Pete and Slightly Littler Pete get freaked out at the sight of dick, guy bails.’ Not a pattern that Pete particularly wanted to repeat, especially with someone he’ll have to see every single day of his life (for all eternity, if he gets any say). Also, it really kind of weirded him out that his subconscious had apparently been attracted to Patrick before his brain could catch up with it, because part of this whole therapy/art thing is being aware of what you’re thinking and feeling, and that? Was a pretty big thing to miss. Not to mention, it was Patrick, who was pretty much straight, as far as Pete could tell.

So he wasn’t going to do anything about it except maybe sulk and blog and stare at Patrick longingly, which wouldn’t be that much different from usual, really. Patrick was not helping with that plan. He was still affectionate, in his weird Patrick way where ‘affectionate’ meant sitting slightly closer to people than normal, and when he wasn’t affectionate he was curled up in a tiny Patrick-ball of misery in front of his laptop so that Pete was forced to go up to him and sit on him until he at least pretended to feel better, or drag him bodily to watch Dirty eat something disgusting. He tried to avoid cuddling and hugging, for his own sake and Patrick’s, but it was kind of difficult when Patrick was sitting on the bus with his arm on the back of the couch, creating a perfect space for Pete to slip into.

Eventually Patrick got better about it. He still sighed sadly when he talked about Anna or his cats, but he started smiling and sitting a normal distance from Pete on the couch again, and when he curled up with his laptop it stopped being Patrick-staring-forlornly-at-nothing and started being Patrick-working-normally, which meant that if Pete jumped on him while the headphones were on he’d get smacked in the head.

And he started flirting. Again—in a subtle, weird Patrick way, but he’d starting smirking and tilting his hat up and leaning in close to talk to people. And yeah, Pete means people; guys and girls both, which meant Pete probably had to cross ‘Patrick is mostly straight’ off his list of Reasons Not to Jump Patrick.

And then he found out that Patrick had slept with Chris Faller.

*

Apparently it was just the one time, early on the tour after he and Anna broke up, but it kind of turned Pete’s world upside down, because it meant that a) Patrick had sex with guys, and b) Patrick was apparently not totally averse to the idea of casual sex with his friends. That was totally unfair, because that meant that a) he definitely had to cross ‘Patrick is mostly straight’ off his list, and b) he could sleep with Patrick without fucking up their friendship, and probably get away with not looking at Patrick’s dick, because hey, it’s just a friends thing, right?

That’s really too much for Pete to resist.

At first he wasn’t really sure how to broach the topic. Like, “Hey, I know this is totally out of nowhere, but I kind of want to make out with you, and maybe jerk you off (under your boxers),” isn’t something you just come out and say to someone, especially someone you’ve known for almost six years. So it surprised Pete when not only did he actually did broach the topic that way (it just slipped out! Patrick was all hot and sweaty, and they were both all pumped up on post-show adrenaline! It’s not his fault! Also, he didn’t actually say the ‘you have to keep your pants on’ part) but Patrick said yes.

Or more accurately, “What, really? Okay, okay, wait till we get to the hotel, man, all right?” while laughing and kissing Pete back sloppily, shoving him away as Andy and Joe rounded the corner.

Patrick was really easier than Pete had thought he would be.

He expected it to be awkward—the quick backstage showers; joking around with the guys on the bus ride to the hotel, Patrick sitting two seats away from Pete and laughing at Dirty while Pete tried to pay attention to Joe’s complaints about the sound quality during the show; disembarking at the hotel and putting their stuff in their separate rooms; and most of all going to Patrick’s room, knocking on his door with his hand jammed in his pocket in an attempt to hide his erection, just in case Patrick had changed his mind and Pete had to play it off like a joke.

Patrick didn’t change his mind, though, and it wasn’t awkward. He opened the door, looking as nervous as Pete felt, and Pete kissed him until Patrick said, “Okay, fuck, let me close the door at least, Pete,” while Pete licked him sloppily under the ear, the spot he’d first wanted to kiss what felt like months ago, but was actually only a few weeks. He’d kissed it before, onstage, but as always, away from the audiences, the cameras, the kids, it felt different. More real.

He hadn’t thought that he had anything else to learn about Patrick, not really, but there’s even nonsexual stuff that he didn’t know—that Patrick is ticklish right under his knees and will fucking kick if he feels it’s necessary (okay, the kicking he probably could have predicted); that he likes to have the TV on for background noise but will get distracted if it’s MTV or a music-heavy montage in a movie; that the hat really, really does not come off until the last minute. “I’ve seen you hatless a thousand times, Patrick,” he said, laughing, and Patrick ducked his head, biting at Pete’s shoulder.

“It’s different like this,” he said, muffled by Pete’s skin but unable to hide his red cheeks.

“It’s not different,” Pete said. “We’re not different at all, we’re still us,” drawing Patrick back up to his mouth.

*

They didn’t get around to the jerking off that time—they had an early day, interviews and then back on the bus—but the making out was good, plenty good enough. Pete wasn’t complaining.

When they did get to the jerking off (another night, another hotel), Patrick didn’t complain either. Not about leaving his boxers on, or taking them off but staying beneath the covers from the waist down, Pete’s hand awkwardly reaching beneath while he kissed Patrick above. He didn’t demand the same from Pete, either—the first time he kissed his way down Pete’s chest, clearly heading, you know, there, Pete tried to stop him with a hand on the shoulder, despite all of his instincts screaming at him to just lay back and enjoy the ride. “You don’t have to,” he said, trying to slow his breathing.

Patrick just grinned up at him sunnily. “I want to, you ass,” he said, “I like it,” and Pete’s head kind of spun around, because holy shit, was that not fair. That made him feel like a dick, because he didn’t like it, hadn’t even tried to like it, definitely wouldn’t be returning the favor, but it wasn’t exactly an offer he could turn down.

Patrick did like it, and he let Pete know it the whole time, moaning around his cock, stroking Pete’s thighs and chest with the hand not wrapped around the shaft, and occasionally pulling off to give Pete that grin again, like, “Fuck yeah, this is awesome!” Pete didn’t get it, but he was glad that at least both of them were having fun.

After Pete came, Patrick slid back up to the top of the bed, and Pete kissed him, hard, tasting bitter salt and saliva as Patrick kissed him back, just as hard and a little desperate. He jerked Patrick off—above the covers, but he’d just come, so it wasn’t a big deal that he was soft, it was expected. The sight of Patrick’s cock didn’t turn him on, but watching him come in Pete’s hand, feeling his breath hot on Pete’s skin as he panted into his neck, didn’t exactly turn him off, either, so he considered that a victory overall.

*

He expected Patrick to ask about it after a while. Everyone, except Ryan, eventually asked why they couldn’t take their pants off, and Patrick wasn’t Ryan—he had no problems calling Pete on his shit if it was interrupting his own shit, especially after the Ativan thing. Patrick didn’t ask, though, and eventually Pete drove himself crazy enough with anticipation that he asked Patrick about it himself.

“Doesn’t it—like, don’t you want to…” Patrick just stared at him patiently, so Pete sighed and said, “Don’t you want to know why I don’t take your pants off?”

“Oh,” Patrick said. “I already know.”

Pete just stared at him. “Huh?”

“I’ve heard about your thing, Pete,” Patrick said, raising an eyebrow significantly. Or at least, it would be significant if Pete knew that they were both actually having the same conversation here. “William told me about it.”

“About what?”

“Your cock thing. Which, it’s fine. I knew what I was getting into. I mean, we’re just screwing around, anyway, right? It’s something to do on tour.”

”I—yeah. Of course.” And it was true—that had even been part of his pitch to himself, that he couldn’t possibly fuck it up because it would just be a friend thing, and he and Patrick had been friends forever despite all of the stupid shit Pete has done, so probably Patrick would put up with his cock thing, too, because they were friends.

‘Friends’ has always been a word with positive associations for Pete, except when it’s attached to the ends of sentences like, “I think of us as” or “Even though we’re breaking up, we can still be.” The thing was, this felt like one of those times.

Patrick was right, though—they were friends, this was just a friend thing, just screwing around. Luckily, Pete had been laying the groundwork for this for years without even knowing it, lying all over Patrick during the day and climbing into Patrick’s bunk at night when he felt lonely, kissing him onstage and off, calling Patrick his other half and gushing about him to whoever will stay still long enough to listen, so no one paid it any attention when he did it now. Business as usual. They were friends, and Pete told himself that he didn’t want anything else, just Patrick’s hand on him, silent in the dark of his bunk, without anybody else noticing or knowing.

*

It wasn’t until the tour was almost over that he kind of freaked out again. Because just a friend thing, just a tour thing, meant that he and Patrick were over as soon as it ended, and Pete really, really wasn’t ready for that.

He spent the last couple of days before the tour ended sulking, deliberately staying away from Patrick and making sure Patrick stayed away from him. He locked himself in the back lounge and blogged about broken contracts and friendly betrayals and undercover love, only coming out for shows and interviews and food. He told himself that he was just preparing for after the tour, getting used to not being with Patrick again, but really? He was probably also secretly a little bit pissed.

Patrick spent the first couple of days throwing concerned looks his way, and then frustrated looks, and then angry looks. He finally confronted him when Pete was on his way to the kitchen at three in the morning in search of potato chips.

“You know,” Patrick said, “it’s pretty fucking shitty to end something without actually telling the other person.”

Pete practically jumped out of his fucking skin, because he hadn’t actually realized anyone else was awake, let alone in the front of the bus. He scowled at Patrick, shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. “It’s pretty fucking shitty to lurk around scaring people in the middle of the night.”

“Shut up,” Patrick said, getting up from the couch. “Come on, Pete, what the hell. You could have told me instead of like, hiding yourself. If you wanted this to be over, you could’ve just said.”

“I don’t,” Pete said, gritting his teeth.

“What?”

“I don’t want it to be over, but you fucking ended it in your head before I even had a chance to fucking tell you!” Pete realized a little too late that he was yelling, but he was too pissed to really care that it was, you know, three in the morning, the time when sane people slept.

Patrick just looked flummoxed. “I—I mean, I just assumed—“

“Well, you know what happens when you assume,” Pete sneered, and Patrick rolled his eyes, grabbing Pete by the arm. Pete was tempted to throw him off and stalk back into the lounge, but Patrick had a good hold on him. Besides, he looked serious, and while Pete can be a dick about the unimportant things, he’s always been willing to listen to Patrick when it’s serious.

“So, okay,” Patrick said slowly. “You don’t want this to be over. You want to keep fooling around once the tour’s done?”

“No,” Pete said. “I want to—I want this to be—”

“You want to try it for real,” Patrick said, “like, a relationship. You and me, for real.”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Patrick said.

Pete just stared at him. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Patrick said, and stepped forward to kiss him.

“I’m really happy that you two are like, in love and shit, but can you be in love quietly so the rest of us can sleep?” Joe called out mournfully from the bunks.

Patrick pulled back, looking pained, but Pete just shrugged. “At least we don’t have to make a big thing of telling them now.”

*

It turned out that Patrick was only easy when it came to sex (and really, who could have expected that?). Not so much when it came to, like, actual relationships. (Okay, maybe Pete could have expected that—the dude had like two girlfriends his entire life, because he was pretty fucking selective when it came to who he was willing to get involved with. Pete had no idea how he made it past the entrance exam.)

Patrick sat him down two days into them being official and told him, “You have to get over the cock thing. It’s a deal breaker. Like, I’m not even asking for blowjobs, or to fuck you, or anything like that. I just want you to stop looking grossed out whenever you see it.”

“I look grossed out?”

“You always make that face, where you squinch up your nose like you’re looking at raw meat or something. And your dick gets soft; that’s not real easy to miss either.”

“Oh,” Pete said, chagrined. He’d thought that he’d been hiding it better recently.

Pete had kind of given up on the cock thing. Like, it clearly was too much of an issue for him to actually get over—it wasn’t even an issue, really, the kind where he could discuss it with his therapist and work through it and maybe actually get over it. He’d tried, a couple of times, to bring it up, and his therapist was perfectly happy to talk it through with him, but the problem was, there was nothing to talk about. He had no childhood trauma (that he could remember, anyway, and no way in hell was he doing that recovered memory shit; that was how people ended up convinced they’d been abducted by aliens or molested by Satanic kindergarten teachers), no sexual abuse, nothing. He just lost his hard-on around hard-ons because he didn’t find dick attractive. Case closed.

So he’d given up on trying to get over it, because there was nothing there to really get over. Since Mikey, he’d only had casual hookups with friends, and those things never lasted long anyway; or at least not long enough to motivate him to want to get over it.

And now he really, really wanted to, because, Patrick. If they’d been in an actual relationship for longer than two days, it would have been the best of Pete’s life—Patrick already knew all of his bullshit and just didn’t care, or else had worked out ways to cope with it; he got maybe a third of Pete’s jokes and knew all of his stories but was always willing to listen anyway; he was smart and funny and smelled good (when showers were readily available) and touched Pete like he wasn’t breakable, but wasn’t unbreakable, either. He was Patrick.

“Okay,” Pete said. “I’ll try.”

*

Trying didn’t go well at first. They were finally home for a while, finally had a bed of their own in Pete’s (holy shit, he owns a house) own house, and they had time to experiment. Mostly the experiments went badly. (This would be around the time when Patrick got tired of coming in his pants.)

It was during a half-hearted attempt at a handjob (Pete couldn’t stop staring at his own hand around Patrick’s cock and thinking about how fucking surreal the whole situation was) that Patrick finally gave up.

“Okay, stop,” Patrick said, pushing Pete’s hand away from him.

“What?” Pete said defensively. “No, we were totally getting somewhere! I didn’t look away once, and I’m pretty sure I don’t have my raw meat face on!”

Patrick sighed. “It’s just—are you even attracted to guys? I mean, what is this really about?”

“It’s about—I mean, I want you. And of course I’m attracted to guys, what the fuck, Patrick. I just spent half an hour letting you rub your dick against my thigh.”

“Well, then…I mean, do you have some sort of hidden trauma? Did you see your dad’s dick as a kid and it just fucked you up way more than the rest of us who saw our dads’ dicks as kids? Because you don’t seem to have any problem touching me, which is good, but like—fuck, I don’t want to keep my pants on during sex for the rest of my life. And I like handjobs, don’t get me wrong, and I know I said I wouldn’t ask for anything else—even though, god, do I miss getting head—but occasionally I’d at least like to get fucked on my fucking back.”

Patrick sighed, running a hand through his hair. “And I feel like a dick for saying this, dude, because it’s not like this, you and me, is all about sex. And it’s not like I want to make you do something you don’t want to do. If you didn’t want to blow me or let me fuck you for some other reason, it would be—not fine, but I‘d deal. But I don’t think I’m selfish for wanting to be with someone who’s not disgusted by something that’s a pretty fucking important part of me.”

That was a pretty long speech, with a lot of words and a lot of swearing, but Pete was pretty much stuck on the two conflicting parts of it: the ‘for the rest of my life’ part, and the ‘wanting to be with someone who’s not totally fucked up’ part. Because—okay, the first part, it was something that had occurred to Pete, but Pete is romantic and dramatic and thinks about everything in extremes; this or that, black or white, with me or against me, the rest of our lives or not at all, even when life is usually a little more complex than that. It hadn’t occurred to him that Patrick, sensible little Patrick, would be thinking anything remotely the same.

The other part—well, shit. Pete was pretty sure that Patrick’s breaking up with him.

“No!” he said. “No, no. I’ll try. I’ll really, really try, I promise.”

“I thought you were trying,” Patrick said.

“Kind of not really,” Pete admitted. “I’ve been mostly trying to seem pathetic enough that you would give up on the whole idea.”

Patrick muttered ‘asshole’ under his breath and moved to get up off the bed, but Pete grabbed his arm. “But I’ll try this time, okay? Like, really try. I want to.”

Patrick grudgingly sat back down on the bed, and said, “One more try.”


*

They decided to try something that didn’t strictly call for Pete to be turned on, or for him to be looking at cock if he didn’t want to.

“You’ve really never even tried to give a blowjob?” Patrick said incredulously.

“Hey, once guys figure out that I’m not into the cock, they usually don’t try to get me to stick it in my mouth,” Pete said. He didn’t bring up the fact that he’d never exactly volunteered, either.

Patrick rolled his eyes, and then dropped his head back against the pillow. “I’m not forcing you to do this, you know,” he said. “We can stop any time you want. I mean, you being grossed out doesn’t exactly make me delirious with lust.”

And sure enough, he was softening a bit in Pete’s hand. But Pete knew that he didn’t just mean the blowjob, he meant everything--they’d stop everything if Pete couldn’t get over this, and Pete couldn’t blame him for that, because it’s not something he’d put up with if he were in Patrick’s position. So he just sucked in a determined breath, stroked Patrick a few times, and leaned down to lick the tip of his cock.

Or, more accurately, the tip of the condom over his cock, which was definitely different. For one thing, Pete was pretty sure that cock didn’t taste like latex.

Patrick raised his head from the pillow enough to see Pete’s expression. “We can try a flavored one,” he offered.

Pete considered it, and then shook his head. “No, I can live with it. Besides, I don’t really want to associate the flavor of strawberries with dick. I’ll just…” He leaned down to lick at the head again, and Patrick kind of rumbled, deep in his chest. Pete knew what that was like, the sensation dulled through the condom, so he tried a little harder to make it good, closing his eyes and listening to the sound of Patrick’s hair scraping along the pillow as Patrick shifted above him.

It went on like that for a little while, Pete half-heartedly mouthing at Patrick’s cock while Patrick shifted restlessly, neither of them quite getting there. Finally, Pete pulled his mouth away and sighed.

“Okay, fuck, this isn’t working,” He said. He rolled the condom off of Patrick’s cock and looked up at him. “You’re clean, right? I mean, you’ve been tested since…anyone else?”

“Yeah,” Patrick said, looking kind of uncomfortable. “I just figured this would be easier for you if…”

“No, yeah, it isn’t.”

“Oh,” Patrick said heavily. “Okay, fine. It’s—if you can’t, I mean—”

Pete took a deep breath, and then leaned down again, sucking the tip of Patrick’s cock into his mouth. Patrick shut up.

It really was a lot better like this—hot textured skin instead of eerily smooth latex, and the taste of skin, salty on his tongue. He’d expected it to be a lot weirder—grosser, maybe? Like, he’d sort of expected it to smell worse, or taste worse or something, and wow, does he feel like an asshole for expecting chicks to do something he apparently subconsciously thought was disgusting—but it was actually a lot like eating pussy. Or, okay, not, but the same kind of taste and smell, sweat and salt and good, the same kind of feeling, skin and heat and hair and the triumph of making Patrick moan.

He learned pretty fast to keep Patrick’s hip pressed to the bed, faintly remembered from blowjobs past to keep the hand wrapped around Patrick’s cock moving, so he doesn’t have to take in too much, just enough to make Patrick breathe out, “Oh, god, Pete.” (He also remembered not to snicker around Patrick’s cock, because ow, teeth.) It was like…even though cock itself is not really super-hot or anything, seeing the way he could make Patrick feel by touching it, stroking it and licking it, hearing the sounds Patrick made when Pete did something well—well, that was kind of hot. Hot enough that he started getting hard.

He was pretty sure his therapist would call this a breakthrough.

He switched hands, using his elbow to hold Patrick’s hip and sneaking his free hand down to jerk his own cock, and yeah. This was definitely hot. He even kept his eyes open, watching Patrick jerk his head back and forth on the pillow, watching the red flush work its way down from his face to his chest, watching the head of Patrick’s cock resting on his tongue as he pulled off and then took it in again, even deeper.

When Patrick said, “Okay, okay, stop,” in a desperate voice, Pete almost didn’t want to. But then he remembered the taste of come and decided yeah, maybe save that for another day—the goal here was to not gross him out. He gave the head one final, friendly lick and pulled himself up the bed, over Patrick, brushing their hips together.

Patrick moaned, then said, “Wait, wait—you’re hard.”

“Yeah,” Pete said, panting. He reached a hand between them and grabbed his own cock, enjoying the way his fingers brushed against Patrick as he stroked himself. Patrick lay still for a moment, taking him in, then rolled them over so he was on top, taking Pete’s dick in hand with his own, stroking them together.

After that Pete mostly laid back and moaned, clutching at Patrick’s biceps, but he remembered to look down and watch them both as they came over Patrick’s fingers, him first and then Patrick following soon after.

It was really hot.

*

Afterward, Patrick went and got a washcloth and cleaned them off, and then climbed under the covers with Pete, letting Pete wrap himself around him.

“So I’m over the cock thing,” Pete said, satisfied.

Patrick snorted, closing his eyes and settling in. “Yeah, okay. Not that I’m not happy about this, but I’m withholding my victory dance until it happens more than once. Now it’s time for sleep, we have interviews in the morning.”

“No, really, I totally am. I am a fan of the cock from this day forward. I’m getting a cock tattoo, to prove my devotion.”

“Okay,” Patrick said, already drifting, and then, “Wait. A tattoo on your cock, or a tattoo of—okay, no, I’m not doing this now. Sleep.”

“Now if only we could share each other's clothes,” Pete said dreamily.

“Oh my god, shut the fuck up and go to sleep,” Patrick said muzzily, and rolled over. Pete snuggled up against his back, and obeyed.

END