Current mood:	tired
Current music:	The Distillers / Open Sky

Prism (1/1)
Title: Prism (1/1)
Pairing: Pete/Patrick (FOB)
Rating: PG-13, for swearing, m/m kissing and sexual imagery.
Summary: Pete and Patrick really have a bad habit of complicating things unnecessarily.
Disclaimer: This is a work of complete friction. I mean fiction.

Snap.

The sound Pete made when he jerked awake was enough to wake Patrick up too, and when he looked over at the bed next to his in their lush New York hotel room Pete's nose was bleeding. "Pete," he said, his voice thick with sleep. "You're bleeding." Really though, Pete could probably feel it even though the room was dark and his blood wasn't really red in this lack of light, more like black - but Patrick knew it was blood. What else could it have possibly been? And Pete raised a trembling hand to touch the wetness oozing across his upper lip. His fingers came away dark and slick, and Patrick could see his eyes go a little wider from where he was even though he didn't have his glasses on.

"Oh," Pete said. Then, "sorry," as though he had something to apologize for.

"No, it's. Here, clean that up," Patrick murmured in response, pushing the box of Kleenex across the nightstand toward him. Lights from cars were flashing from the street below and through the window, across the wall behind Pete's head like dreams. Quick, fleeting bursts of sharp illumination that hurt his eyes now that he was awake, yanked from the comfortable sway of sleep where he was safe from them. An illusion of course, he understood now - it was still dark out, still night. But he was awake, and the lights had been there all along. Just because he'd been asleep didn't mean they'd not been lancing across the walls like knives, and suddenly he understood Pete's world a little more. Pete almost never slept.

The realization was slipping through his groggy, sleep-hazy mind too quickly though, and he could feel it seeping through his fingers as quickly as he was coming. He wished he carried a notebook with him at all times now, like Pete, but his was tucked away inside his luggage. These were the kind of split-second late-night epiphanies that he suddenly understood were more important than anything else when it came to understanding things. Things like your best friends.

Pete was mopping up the blood, sniffling some of it back up into his nose. "No, blow it out," Patrick said a little fussily, waking up a little more. "That's not good for you, blow your nose." Pete did, obediently. Patrick got out of bed to get him a glass of water for some reason, which really had nothing to do with his nose but justified something in his mind. Their fingers brushed when he handed it to him a moment later, and Pete looked away from him.

"I'm sorry I woke you up," he said simply. "I think I'm going to go for a walk or something, I'm not getting any more sleep tonight."

"No, it's okay. Let's...I don't know, we can watch a movie or something."

"Can we not? Could you just lie with me?"

Patrick blinked at Pete, his arm still halfway in the 'handing him the glass' position. Pete still wouldn't look at him, but he was biting down on his lower lip with those oversized teeth, and for all the open sexuality he radiated all the time, he looked for all the world like a nervous teenager in that moment. Asking for something he didn't expect to be granted, like an extra hour on his curfew or a date to the prom with the hottest girl in school. Patrick was fairly sure that it was stupid of him - to think that he was worthy of such esteem, such concern. He could have had anything he wanted of him, after all. More often than not, Patrick was positive that Pete wasn't aware of the power he had over him. Of people in general, actually. Everyone wanted Pete's attention, to be validated by his approval. He was hated by so many because the fact that he wielded that kind of power with such a careless lack of awareness was resented, and rightfully so. At least, this was Patrick's theory. Sometimes, he couldn't help but be a little jealous of Pete himself, despite knowing that he'd never want to know that kind of pressure.

"Patrick?"

"Oh. Um, yeah. I mean, sure."

"You don't--"

But Patrick was already getting into bed with Pete to make up for his hesitation. Rushing, to apologize. Pete made a sound in the back of his throat when Patrick yanked up the covers and slid in beside him, but then things quieted down when they settled in and his heartbeat slowed again. They both grew used to the lights after a few minutes, and somehow Patrick knew that Pete had been thinking the same things about them that he had - that they were a violation somehow, but that it would have been wrong to close the curtains.

Pete rolled over, resting his head against Patrick's chest, tentatively. "Yeah?" he said quietly, and Patrick fought the urge to laugh.

"Since when are you shy, man? You all but hump my leg on stage all the time. Yeah," he said, sliding both arms around Pete's shoulders and pulling him close to ease the tension of the situation. It was inane of him, though. This wasn't the stage, and something had shifted between them. They could both feel it, but Pete was kind enough to not point out his stupid attempt to laugh off the obvious. Somewhere between the nosebleed and their mutual realization about the way things stayed the same whether you were awake or asleep - that the world remained static even if your eyes were closed - something had changed between them.

It made him feel so fragile, the sudden knowledge that the world kept spinning if he was awake or asleep, alive or dead. He imagined it was akin to the abrupt awareness of the horror of having one's existence reduced to two extremes - survival or death.

But then there was Pete. He was solid and real and not going anywhere no matter who was awake or asleep, and somehow Patrick had the notion that even in death he'd still be there. It was hyper-romantic of him, and more gay than he wanted to deal with right then, particularly considering the fact that they were currently cuddling in bed. But Pete had always been the constant in his life. Even when they were fighting, Pete was always there, always a part of him - there just wasn't Patrick without Pete, and vice versa he liked to think. 'When we're apart for too long, I feel like I'm missing a leg,' Pete had written in a letter to him once when they'd been separated for a month while doing some side projects, and Patrick had related to the feeling more than he'd been able to face at the time. Or hell, even now. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd understood.

"God, I'll never sleep," Pete was mumbling against his collarbone, and then he was out like a light.



Sharp.



Pete was swaying backstage, after everyone was gone, all by himself. His bass was on a chair behind him, and he had the most spacey, dreamy smile on his face. Patrick had to fight to kiss him like Rhett Butler, especially when he started humming softly to himself. For a few moments, he just leaned against the frame of the doorway that led to their dressing room and watched him, smiling faintly. And then he said, "Pete."

Pete opened his eyes, but didn't blush or grin an embarrassed grin. Instead, he held out both hands. "Dance with me."

"The fuck? Come on, we have to go. Everyone's gone."

"Patterns, patterns. Let's dance."

Patrick stared at him. Then, "Of course."

And Pete took both of his pale, soft hands into his own dark, spidery ones, and they danced. The music in their heads was enough to suffice, and somehow they were both aware that it was the same station playing. Patrick wasn't surprised when Pete started humming again - Perry Como's 'Papa Loves Mambo'. It was a silly song, the kind you might clean your house to or dance backstage with your best friend to, or hum as you threaded your fingers through said best friend's fine blonde hair and brushed your lips against the front of his throat - oh.

Patrick's pulse jumped against the tip of Pete's tongue, his breath hitching.

"Angh?" he asked him, and felt the curve of Pete's lips against his heated skin.

"It's just kissing," Pete told him. "It's just kissing Patrick, we're not hurting...it's just kissing, it's okay. It's okay."

And it was okay, pretty much. So Patrick let Pete back him against the wall of their dressing room, pressing him hard against it and holding his head straight by palming the sides of his neck. Those long, rough fingers curled around the back of his head and tilted it up, and Pete whispered hoarsely, "It's okay," one more time before leaning in and kissing him finally. It was clumsy, Patrick analyzed - Pete was fairly new at this despite his bravado. And then there was a tongue slipping into his mouth, over the rounded edges of his teeth and sliding over his tongue. It sent a shock down his spine, made him shiver against Pete's chest and wrap his fists in his shirt. They kissed and kissed and kissed with quiet, wet sounds filling the room, until a familiar hot, itchy stirring started to rise between his thighs and Patrick jerked away.

Pete was panting a little. "Whassa matter?" he asked breathlessly, his pupils slightly dilated. The he looked down and laughed, reaching for the zipper on Patrick's jeans. Patrick slapped his hand away, hard.

"No," he said sharply. Pete blinked at him.

"It's okay, Patrick. I can. It's okay."

"No. That's not okay." Patrick wasn't even sure why it wasn't. You're probably an idiot for letting this happen in the first place. You're probably an idiot for not letting him fuck you. Oh god, he won't close his mouth all the way.

"This doesn't have to be like...gay or anything, Patrick. We're just friends."

Patrick's laugh was high and mirthless, a little hysterical. "Pete, you're either the single most manipulative son of a bitch alive, or the stupidest asshole I've ever known. We just made out for..." he paused, raising his arm to check his watch. "For a good twenty minutes, and you just offered to jerk me off. But no, of course it doesn't have to be gay. Of course we're just buddies. Straight buddies do this all the time. Prick."

Pete stared, hurt creeping into those wide amber eyes. "...I'm trying to figure out when this shifted from us kissing to you being pissed off at me."

Patrick stared back for a moment, and then his shoulders slumped. The room was silent, before the air conditioner clicked on, making them both jump a little. "I'm not pissed off at you."

"Really?"

"...Okay, maybe I'm a little pissed off. But I don't think it's your fault you're an idiot."

"Gaw-lee, Pat. Thanks."

Patrick cringed, aware that being called 'Pat' was punishment for being a random asshole. "I guess I should go." Pete was so beautiful - all dark skin and coarse, jet-black hair and gold eyes. And here he was, short and pudgy and pale, with a bald spot that was already coming along nicely at the crown of his soft blond hair at the age of twenty-two, with pale blue eyes that he'd always regarded as bland and an ass that somehow ceased to be at all despite his ever-present weight problem. Really, he had no business being here, with Pete. "I'll bunk with Joe tonight."

"Don't bother," Pete said with a shrug, looking away from him. "I'll crash somewhere, you don't have to change rooms."

"No, it's..."

But Pete was already gone, slipping out of the room like a shadow. And then Patrick was alone, licking the lingering taste of him from the corners of his mouth and making plans to masturbate in the shower later.



Martyrs.



"So basically," Andy said to Patrick three weeks later, laughing at him despite the distress he was in at the moment, "Both you and Pete have been pining over each other but you're both convinced that you're unworthy of the other? So you just put each other through all this bullshit torment because of your own insecurity?"

They were on the tour bus, rumbling along. Patrick's fingers tightened into fists on his knees, and he looked at Andy hard. "Pete's not pining over me. Pete wanted to fuck me. It's me who's stupid, who fell in. Who wants to. Who, uh. Shut up?"

Andy's laughter swelled, bubbling up from his belly as opposed to his throat now. "You're both so stupid. Why do you think Pete goes through all those vapid starlet chicks like so many used Kleenex, huh? Lohan, Ashlee, Michelle, all of 'em? They don't mean anything to him, and the sex can't be all that great because I'm sure he's picturing you the whole time. He feels empty, man. God, this is so fucking cliche I feel like I'm in a Danielle Steele novel or something. I better not be the wise old dad who takes your hands and puts them together at someone's funeral at the end or whatever. Just...give him a blowjob and express your eternal devotion already so the rest of us don't have to watch you mope." Andy was wiping tears from the corners of his eyes now, shaking his head, and Patrick finally stood up.

"Oh, look. There's my ride, it looks like a huff. I think I'll leave in it," he snapped at Andy, turning on his heel and storming off the bus, only to slam into Pete on the way out.

"Hi," Pete said weakly.

"I'm not giving you a blowjob!"

Pete blinked. "...Yeah. 'Kay."

"I mean, uh. Shit, just get out of my way." Pete stepped aside, but Patrick didn't move. Finally, he sighed. "Listen, I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Whatever."

"No, I was an asshole."

"Yeah, but whatever."

"Andy thinks we're pining over each other."

"I don't know about you, but I am."

Pete's blunt confession, delivered like a casual fist to the face, left Patrick reeling, and Pete gave him an apologetic smile and shrug. "Sorry. I kind of love you. Guess I should have said it before I molested you and stuff."

"You didn't molest me," Patrick corrected immediately. "I mean, I wanted it. I mean...shit, you know what I mean. Can we talk?"

"Only if there'll be kissing after."

"Did you seriously just lay down an ultimatum on me?"

"All over your ass, pookie."

Patrick smiled, one hand still on the door of the bus. Somewhere in the distance a bird chirped, and the smell of the honey someone was putting on something inside the bus was correlative to the color of Pete's skin in the dusky late-afternoon light.


End.