moved. (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} sidereal) wrote,@ 2007-02-07 15:30:00 |
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| Current mood: |  artistic |
| Current music: | Sneaker Pimps | "6 Underground" |
There's Probably a Reason I Love You, I'll Get Back to You On That (1/1)
Title: There's Probably a Reason I Love You, I'll Get Back to You On That
Fandom: FOB slash
Pairing: Pete/Patrick, mentions of Jon/Ryan (P!atD)
Rating: R, for swearing, mentions of m/m sex, and Pete's unbelievable immaturity.
Summary: Just a series of moments that lead to something pretty damn important.
Disclaimer: This is a work of complete friction. I mean fiction.
Because Pete won't stop looking at him with those gold eyes like a hawk's and his lips slightly parted, Patrick gets up and leaves the studio.
He can feel - not see - those lips curling into a smirk, aimed directly at his back, and as soon as he gets outside he kicks the brick wall in front of him and swears. He doesn't smoke either, but then he wishes that he did because it's the perfect time to be taking short, angry little drags on a cigarette. After a few minutes, Joe comes outside to talk with him, and he knows that inside the building Pete is laughing inwardly. And it's like - sometimes he could hate Pete.
"Bullshit!" is the first word to burst from his mouth, jerking past his lips before Joe even says anything. He isn't sure if it's a reaction to Pete's cockiness or his own desperate attempt to convince himself that Pete was hate-able in any way, shape or form. Because in the end he's Pete, with his gold eyes and warm skin like coffee with too much milk in it. He's Pete with his big, loud laugh and oversized teeth and black tattoos curling across his skin like the ink is still fresh, liquid.
Joe is laughing at him, too.
"Dude, get back inside. It's fucking freezing out here. What are you doing?" Joe asks him, and Patrick opens his mouth to deliver what is no doubt a highly indignant response before he realizes that he has no idea what he's doing.
"I'm mad at Pete," he finally concludes, helplessly. Looking away from Joe in the hopes that he'd buy it.
"Why? What did he do?" Joe asks reasonably, craning his neck and leaning to one side, trying to look Patrick in the eye. Which Patrick did not allow.
"We need a reason to be mad at Pete now? He's Pete."
"Patrick, come on. This isn't like you." And fuck if Joe isn't right, and whatever Pete is laughing about, he's probably right too.
"It's bullshit!" Patrick finally says again, but goes limp and obedient when Joe gently takes his arm and leads him back inside.
"I was minding my own business," Patrick says angrily to Pete a day later. He's stretched out on his stomach across a hotel-room bed, the comforter stiff and unfamiliar and smelling of a fabric softener that makes no sense to him. Pete is lying on his stomach as well, draped over Patrick's back as some inane romantic comedy played itself out predictably on the TV screen in front of them.
"I was minding my own business," Patrick tries again. "Just watching this shitty movie, perfectly fine with my existence. And then you just barge in like you live here..."
"You don't live here either, boo. Pass me those Starbursts," Pete says amiably, and Patrick hands him a handful of candy without even thinking about it. When he realizes what he'd done, his irritation rises even further.
"Goddamn it, that is not my point. What if I'd been getting out of the shower or something? You do this shit all the time. Like you're...like you have a right. I need my privacy, you know. Sometimes."
Pete rests his chin against the back of Patrick's neck, and he's pretty sure his anger had all been centered right there in his body and that Pete's chin is some kind of emotional healing salve or something, because in that moment it all melts away and he isn't pissed for no reason anymore.
"Shhh," Pete says. "Julia Roberts is about to find out that her secret admirer has been the man next door all along."
Patrick shuts up, and Pete skims his fingertips along the comforter in front of his face. His fingernails are blunt, with dried blood underneath the cuticles. Patrick closes his eyes, and misses Julia Roberts' sweeping, grand kiss with her leading man.
"Fuck Pete, seriously," The narrow-eyed girl says to Patrick later that week, at some party he was clearly obligated to go to, he was sure. There was no way he would have been there otherwise, though at the moment he can't remember who had told him he needed to be here. Somewhere across the room, Pete is surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and Patrick can hear them laughing appreciatively at some joke he'd just made, all in unison like one of those Gap commercials where all the creepy kids dressed alike and danced like robots.
"Excuse me?" he says to the girl, raising an eyebrow and hoping he looked as cool as Pete did when he did it.
"You know, like. Everyone thinks he's hot shit and all, but I've always liked you best." The girl - he thinks her name is Jenn or Jane - takes a step closer to him with a smile that's all teeth. But not like Pete's endearingly donkeyish grin, and Patrick nearly hisses at her. "Pete thinks he's so cool because all the fangirls think he's the hot one in the band, but everyone knows you're the real talent."
"Listen, that's my best friend you're talking about..." he starts, nervously because he's never good at things like this but it's Pete and he's not about to just stand there and let her shit-talk him.
Across the room, he can hear Joe saying, "You're so fucking lame, man," as he laughs at another of Pete's jokes. And Pete responding with, "Dude, don't make us fucking replace you with a guitar-playing robot, okay? I can make it happen."
"I've got to go," Patrick says to Jenn or Jane, turning away from her to join Pete's crowd right as Pete adds, "I will even have a Jewfro put on that thing, so help me God. Don't test me, man."
"Eat this," Pete demands, pressing something small and soft and yellow against Patrick's lips when he stumbles into the little kitchen of the tour bus the next morning. It's probably unholy that Pete is awake this early, but Patrick opens his mouth anyway. The sweet taste surprises him, burns his tongue.
"The fuck was that?"
"Marigold petals." Pete smiles, hands him a flower. "You can eat them. Pretty to look at and they taste sweet - I thought of you."
Patrick tries to divert attention away from his sudden violent blushing by pointing out, "That was so fucking corny. Besides, how the hell would you know what I taste like?"
And now his endearingly goofy-looking teeth are visible because he's smiling even wider and leaning in, and Patrick can't breathe. Pete presses his lips against the side of Patrick's neck, a kiss like a marigold petal melting in his throat. It only lasts for an achingly sweet moment, warmth spreading out from that one spot like Pete's lips had spilled tingling liquid something all over his body, under the surface of his skin. When Pete pulls away, his eyes are half-lidded and his smile is lazy. "I was right," he says simply. "But then, I usually am."
"Bullshit," Patrick says.
They're in the studio again, and Pete is asleep this time. Ryan is sitting on a barstool that somehow found its way there, his long legs crossed like a girl's. Together, he and Patrick watch Pete's steady breathing. "He never sleeps like this," Patrick says. "Soundly, I mean."
"Nightmares, right?"
"Yeah. They get pretty bad sometimes." But now, Pete is stretched out across the couch, his legs draped over the arm at one end and his head propped up on a pillow, his chest rising and falling slowly.
"He's kind of beautiful like something that shouldn't be beautiful," Ryan says thoughtfully. "I mean, Pete's fucking amazing. But he's also Pete, and that alone should be enough to make all of us hate him. But instead he's just...beautiful."
"I can see why you're the deep one of your band, Ryan."
"Okay, okay. Fuck you, too."
Over the sound board, they share a smile. They've been talking quietly so not to rouse Pete, but now Ryan stands up and reaches for his coat. "I'm going to go, man. Jon's going to wonder where I am."
What's funny is that Brendon and Ryan are the assumed f'real realz gay couple around the FBR crew, something that has been carefully planned out by both boys. But behind the onstage groping, Ryan is so in love with Jon that watching them look into each other's eyes is enough to hurt Patrick's chest. They're so young and intensely devoted, violently protective of each other. He'd watched them kiss backstage after a show once, and had experienced Ryan's pleading moan as they went weak and limp in each other's arms with the force of what they felt for each other. There is an ache happening there, love so much it swells them both to bursting. And they just drink it down, every time.
"Tell him I said hi," Patrick says, and Ryan nods as he leaves the studio. Pete stirs in his sleep, and Patrick kneels beside him to touch his face with trembling fingers.
"Sleep again, Pete," he whispers, and Pete mumbles something and rolls over and sleeps again.
Pete somehow manages to sit behind him while he's playing the piano about twelve hours later, after he's driven them both home to the apartment in Chicago that the band uses when they're recording there. And when he slips both arms around his waist from behind and slides his hands up his chest, nuzzling the back of his neck, Patrick can't keep the low moan that sounds like begging from spilling from his throat.
"Marigolds," Pete says, his lips moving against the peach-fuzzy skin, his rough fingers brushing over one of Patrick's nipples through his t-shirt and making him whimper through clenched teeth. "I love you a whole lot, 'Trick. You stayed with me while I slept last night."
"Nngh?" Patrick explains, his head tilting back against Pete's shoulder.
"Nngh," Pete agrees amiably, those fucking horse teeth nipping at his earlobe. "I'm pretty much gay for you, by the way."
"Really, because I heard you did this to Joe last week..." Patrick starts, and yelps despite himself when Pete laughs in his ear and reaches down to pinch his ass. He tries pressing his erection against him, but there's not really enough room on the slick, narrow piano bench. So Pete stands up, taking his hand.
"C'mon. We're gonna fuck," he says cheerfully, and Patrick pauses to raise an eyebrow at him.
"Oh, Pete. Speak your sweet nothings to me some more."
"Dude. We're not chicks."
And Pete is childishly demanding and maybe a little pouty, but he's also right. So Patrick follows him into his bedroom, watching him shed his clothing awfully gracefully for such a short, furious little guy. His skin is brown all over and very lightly freckled in the most random spots - a cluster of them sprinkled across his left hip, a Milky Way of freckles spattered over his right knee like someone had shaken a paintbrush at him. His thick, coarse hair isn't quite as meticulously styled as it usually is, and it makes Patrick feel a little better about his bald spot when he finally takes off his hat.
"Can we keep the lights on?" Pete asks, reaching for him.
"Fucking no?"
"Please?"
"Yes. Wait, shit!"
But it's too late because he's already crumbled for Pete, and it never takes any more than that look, and Patrick might have time to hate himself for it later but not right now because Pete is taking him into his arms and kissing the corner of his mouth so sweetly it burns like marigold petals.
In the morning when Patrick stirs awake, the shower is already running. He's not about to do something cheesy like go join him or anything, even if there might be water running down slick-tan skin and Pete's hair plastered against his wet face as he soaps himself up with both hands or something. Besides, Pete is already emerging from the bathroom in a pillow of steam, toweling his hair dry. "Morning," he says, bouncing onto the bed in nothing but a towel, his skin still wet as he leans over and kisses Patrick's big toe. "I got us breakfast. Wanted to wait for you, to eat," he adds, pointing to the hot chocolate and pastries courtesy of Starbucks on the nightstand.
Patrick presses his fingers to his temples. "Wait, fuck. Is this like...a thing now? You didn't tell me my ass would be sore." He kind of wishes he could articulate his thoughts in order these days, but Pete's scrambled him like an egg. And now, he's offering him that chipmunk-cheeky grin.
"Of course it's a thing, Patrick. Don't be stupid, I love you. Let's be with each other. And that's what you get, for being on the bottom with a monster of cocks such as myself."
"Monster of..."
"You might even say I'm a cock star."
"Wait."
"I do it all for the cock value."
"Pete."
"Cock cock, anyone home?!"
"PETE!"
Pete kisses him, swirling his thick, wet tongue around inside his mouth and over his teeth. And when he pulls away he brushes his fingers tenderly over Patrick's cheek and whispers, "Cock it to me, cock it to me, cock it to me."
