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It was only natural, he assumed, to feel this way after being crammed in a van for a near-eternity with three other dudes. The seething tide of jumbled-together rage, annoyance and a desperate desire for privacy combined into the glare that seemed permanently etched over his brow. A feeling that transformed with ease into violence, making him kick out when poked or jostled. It was why he decided that his headphones were actually his best friend, why he curled against the window on the second-row seat, sandwiched between one of the amps, Joe’s guitar case, and tried to not get his feet twisted in the meticulously-wound bundles of cable under his feet that always ended up getting tangled.
But as the days wore on between the last time he had showered and slept in a position that could be considered as anything other than vertical, Patrick realized that it wasn’t that his ire was focused on his band mates in particular. Sure, it was annoying the way Joe insisted that his guitar had to be laying flat--he was pretty sure that sitting on its side for eight hours or so wouldn’t actually warp the wood--and it was a constant challenge to find something for Andy to eat that qualified as vegan in the vast wasteland called the Midwest. He had learned that a surprising number of foods actually fit that category, including cheetos and Oreos, but that anything even vaguely vegan in a gas station was bound to be the opposite of healthy. He wondered if Andy thought about the fact that the only food he could find in his effort to be kinder to nature was actually so horribly processed that it ceased to be natural anymore.
No, his fury was squarely directed at once Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the Third to be precise. He was the one who rooted around in Patrick’s bag and stole his last pair of dubiously clean boxers, he was the one who seemed incapable of understanding the precise science behind stacking Andy’s drum kit in the back, so they always had to re-do it so the doors would shut and latch. He was the one who always scampered away to the bathroom first when they pulled into a rest stop or gas station, leaving one of the three of them to gas up while the others answered nature’s call. Patrick would grumpily wonder if he had girls strategically stationed throughout Midwest truck stops for a bathroom quickie, considering the way he looked when he came back sometimes. He was the one who had spilled a bottle of Mountain Dew Code Red in their best amp, relegating it to their third best amp because now it made a strange crackling groan whenever Joe hit high notes.
It was more than just his annoyingly inconsiderate van manners, though. Patrick was pretty sure they’d all hated each other for some faux pas at some point or another, and that stuff was easily forgiven after a good tussle or dumping ice down the offenders back. But with Pete...it was more than that, and Patrick was self-aware enough to know exactly what it was. He supposed part of being a band geek in high school meant that he had developed a keen sense of introspection, because it was way easier to talk yourself out of a rough spot than to risk actually speaking to the jock who liked to stuff you into lockers for staring at his ass when he walked by in his tight football gear. Part of it was also probably being the youngest of three, so he was used to being the compassionate sounding board for his older siblings’ heartbreaks and tribulations. But all of that combined into him knowing exactly why his desire to knock Pete’s teeth in was stronger than his feelings on nearly anything else van life brought.
It had started...well, if he was being honest, he really didn’t know how it started. Pete had always just been Pete. Annoyingly affectionate, excessively clingy and totally unaware of the concept of personal space. He did it to everyone, but had quickly learned that Patrick was a prime target for his ministrations because his brand of weirdness usually resulted in a Joe sitting on him or a stern lecture from Andy. But with Patrick, sure, about 50% of the time it ended in him getting a solidly-placed punch to some part of his body that qualified as tender. The other 50% of the time though...Patrick had just learned that letting him cling or nuzzle or lean was just all-around less work for everyone. As long as Pete didn’t disturb his headphones or try to touch his iPod, they had a solid chance of forestalling violence and Bringing Peace to the Van.
But then it became Pete pressing his back to Patrick’s as they played their set, a ten second sealing of their bodies before he was off to spin around the stage like a dervish of old. He had ignored it at first, because it was just Pete. Then it was Pete leaning his head on Patrick’s shoulder, leaving dark smudges of eyeliner in horizon lines that he would try to wash out in venue bathrooms but usually couldn’t. But then it became the press of Pete’s face into his neck until he could feel the hot skitter of his breath over the flushed skin of his neck, and the infuriating way his meticulously-straightened hair would always try to find its way into his mouth. That was just...well, Pete, but infinitely more frustrating. But after every show it was the same, he would whirl away from them in a haze of tight shirts and roll-on glitter he invariably got from a girl in the crowd...a girl that Patrick would always see him slipping into the bathroom with or sliding together into the relative solitude of a dark corner.
He didn’t care, he really didn’t. He had actually paid attention in health class, thank you very much, that kind of shit was how you ended up with an STD that made your dick fall off or something. Besides, there was always someone who would come up and ask one of them a question about the gear or the instruments or the sound and the other three guys would always point them Patrick’s way so they could yammer away in their own little world of music. The other unintended benefit was that he could move one of the amps back to Pete’s bench seat in the back and stretch out with only his guitar case impeding his glorious repose, and that was worth more than gold most times. Van rules dictated that you couldn’t move the gear if you didn’t help load it in, and while that meant Pete would generally grouse loudly about how it was cramped like a fucking sardine camp in the back seat, he wouldn’t actually do anything. So Patrick was left to drown out his bitching with the expensive headphones his mom had bought him for Christmas and recline like a fucking king until the next day when gear could legally be shuffled around.
Sure, sometimes Pete would crawl up to his bench with him and demand that he share his acres of real estate, getting the lipstick that was smudged on his cheek on Patrick’s hoodie. He would grouse and sometimes punch him...but it wasn’t like he didn’t already have multiple stains of dubious origins on his hoodies anyways--what was one more? But he would yell at him for positively reeking of girl; like cheap perfume that smelled like cinnamon rolls or some tropical nonsense, with his eyeliner running and a smudge of blue eyeshadow on his fingertips that left glitter everywhere. Pete would mumble an apology or he would singsong in his blindingly-off tune way that it was just because none of the boys were as pretty as his Patty-Cakes was. He would roll his eyes and huff--he had guessed all of Pete’s talk of gay above the waist was just for show. So he would elbow him in the ribs or stick a just-licked finger in his ear in retribution, but he would let Pete fall asleep twined around him because the window by his seat didn’t seal properly and body heat was cheaper than running the dying van’s heaters.
But all that changed in some tiny, shitty town in Wisconsin or Idaho or Iowa with a name he couldn’t remember. They were playing in a bar that had a disturbing number of animal heads on the walls and a concerning scoreboard titled “Squirrel Tally.” The audience that was half made up of the usual kids who came to scream their words back at them, and the other half were people who would fit in a remake of a John Wayne flick. In typical Pete-fashion, he had made his way over during Saturday to press his body against Patrick’s like he was the last solid object in a tornado...but this time, he had slung his bass behind him, so when Pete sealed himself to his back Patrick realized that he was hard--not just the half-masted chubby of excitement that he had jokingly told Joe would happen sometimes when the crowd was fucking wild (which had also resulted in Joe shoving his head into a gas station trash bin). This was a full erection, pulsing and rock-hard against Patrick’s ass and damn if it had been a while since he’d felt anything that solid that wasn’t his own cock in the hurried privacy of a single-occupancy bathroom.
Then he fucking rolled his hips against Patrick’s in a dirty parody of the actions that Patrick was not thinking about as his mouth moved out of sheer habit, and pressed a sloppy-wet kiss to the back of his neck. Patrick was damn close to whirling around and pinning Pete to the grimy floor and screaming at him but then he was gone, jumping away like it was the greatest day of his life and screaming the words that Patrick suddenly found it hard to remember.
As they packed the gear into the van--Pete had actually stuck around to help this time, miracle of all miracles--Patrick seethed. He had been achingly hard and completely furious all night, and promised himself that he was going kick the other two out of the room for an hour tonight and fucking nail Pete’s ass to the wall...or just nail his ass. Whatever.
~//~
Shockingly, the stars had seemed to take pity on him as he fumed through Pete’s endless yammering as they drove to the next town over, post-show high doing nothing to brighten his mood. They pulled into the hotel and Andy and Joe both didn’t pile out of the van, because apparently they had friends in this middle-of-nowhere hovel and had been invited to dinner. Pete had shrugged and shouted I call first shower before barreling towards the sketchy-looking registration desk, and Patrick had given a wordless thumbs up before hefting his backpack over his shoulder and following his vibrating bassist. He shoved Pete out of the way and checked them in, handing the bored-looking guy behind the counter two crumpled twenties and a ten supplied by Pete with much moaning, and took the offered key card. He had to slide it into the lock three times to get the door to open, all the while gritting his teeth and trying to ignore Pete’s stream-of-consciousness prattling as they moved into the room.
“No, but do you think that a hippopotamus would let me sit on top of it if I wore a bird costume? That would be fuckin’ rad, ‘cause I’m pretty sure that they’re actually one of the top three predators in Africa ‘cause they tip canoes and you know that the Indians actually would burn logs out in the middle to make--oomph!” The endless flow of words stopped abruptly as Patrick slammed him to the floor. While Pete had an inch or two on him, he had the distinct advantage of being stockier--or delightfully curvy as Pete was likely to call him--and had no issues immobilizing his fucking annoying best friend with his legs bracketing his hips and his hands holding his wrists to the ground by the side of his head.
“You’re really fucking annoying, you know that?” Patrick growled out, hanging on for dear life as Pete bucked like one of those stupid mechanical bulls at the rodeo Andy had made them go to last year. “All that big talk about the girls you’ve fucked and the pussy you’ve eaten, but that wasn’t just stage gay during Saturday was it, asshole?” Pete had gone rigid underneath him, eyes wide and dark and unreadable, and Patrick couldn’t help but smirk as he felt the telltale way Pete’s dick was taking an unmistakable interest in their position. He had decided this was the best way to tackle the problem on the drive over--if Pete wasn’t actually into guys, hey he’d beaten his face in while in this position many times before and it probably wouldn’t be the last. If not...well...he had decided to cross that bridge when he got to it. But now he could feel that it wasn’t just stage gay, it wasn’t just the adrenaline of the show or the euphoria of the roomful of kids singing their own words back at them…looked like the bridge was closer than he thought.
“What--” Pete started but then his eyelids flickered, groaning high and reedy through a suddenly-open mouth as Patrick rolled his hips against him just like Pete had during the show.
“Yeah? What Pete.” Patrick grinned down at him as he did it again, suddenly noticing the way Pete had gone lax and loose-limbed beneath him. Compliant. “Tell me you’re gonna go find a girl to make scream, tell me you’re not just a little gay below the waist, tell me you only want her cause there weren’t any guys as pretty as my Patty-Cakes.” He parroted Pete’s familiar words back to him and he was satisfied to see his eyes widen and he watched as his chest heaved as he sucked in a shuddering breath. “Well?”
A slow smile bloomed across Pete’s face, though his eyes were still wide with shock as he seemed to settle more deeply into Patrick’s grip. “Well…” The corner of his mouth tucked up in a smirk with just a hint of challenge leaking into his eyes. “There’s a bed right there. Unless you’d rather do it on the floor.”
With a growl, Patrick hauled him off the floor and pushed him down to the hideous comforter that looked like a Monet had gotten in a car crash with a Jackson Pollock. “You’re a shit, you know that?” He hissed as he straddled Pete’s hips once more, the hard length of his cock clearly outlined through his stupid girl jeans. “A fucking hot little shit.” But then he was grabbing Pete’s face even as Pete was reaching up to haul him down by a fistful of his t-shirt and their mouths crashed together in a desperate, hungry, biting kiss. He smiled as he felt Pete start to grind against his hips, seeking friction as tongues slid against each other and teeth clacked like duelists. Pulling back when his lungs informed him that it was either breathe or pass out, stupid, he looked down at Pete, noting the way the familiar ring of hazel looked eclipsed by the midnight blackness of his pupil and the sheen of sweat that glimmered in the hollow of his throat. He realized he hadn’t really planned for this moment, he had only thought this through to the moment he finished yelling at Pete his diatribe. Oh, of course he had condoms and lube stashed in the inner pocket of his backpack, but that had been for an abstract reality, a whisper of daydreamed possibility not the reality of Pete underneath him hard and wanting...
His hand slipped under Pete’s shirt, sliding it up over his shoulders and off and he couldn't help but suck in a quick gasp at what he saw. Of course he'd seen Pete shirtless countless times before, if nothing else Pete seemed to delight in showing off every inch of tanned flesh he could legally display. But this was different...this was for him, this was with Pete’s eyes dark and full of lust and he couldn’t help but trace the necklace of thorns that circled and dipped lazily over his collarbone. Pete just hummed, eyes falling closed as he reached down between them to press the heel of his palm into his cock and Patrick’s head was filled with a burst of static. Working as quickly as he could, considering the item was meant for a girl with distinctly different anatomy, he pushed Pete’s pants off and rolled his eyes. Of course he wasn’t wearing any underwear...this was Pete they were talking about. He could feel Pete’s eyes on him as he pulled his own clothes off, already berating himself for not putting out the light, but it was too late for that now. He cast his mind backwards, and something dark and possessive curled in his gut as he remembered the way Pete had become pliant when he held him down, the shuddering release of tension in his body and he decided he wanted more of that. He palmed his own dick through his boxers and savored the way Pete moaned at the sight. “So, what’s it going to be, Wentz? Are you just gay from the waist up?”
There was something in the lines of Pete’s face, something in his eyes that Patrick couldn’t quite decipher but that looked like something much more than lust. But he smiled wide and bright as he ran soft fingers along Patrick’s cheek and shook his head. “Nope. Definitely from the waist down when you’re in the room.” He wiggled his hips again and they both hissed at the sudden stab of sensation as their cocks slid together only separated by a single layer of cotton. Patrick decided he had enough of playful Pete, of in-control Pete...he wanted Pete to beg, to whimper and shudder under him.
“Have you ever bottomed before?”
Nodding without enthusiasm, Pete’s eyes flicked down to where his thighs were bracketed on either side of his hips before coming back up to meet Patrick’s. “Yeah, it wasn’t very good though. But...I’d try it again with someone who’s good.” The smirk was back on his lips when he spoke again. “Well, ‘Trick? Are you good? Seems like you haven’t had much time to practice…”
“Oh, fuck you.” Patrick bent and pressed his lips to Pete’s pulse point, biting just hard enough to make him yelp and then sigh. “Just because I’m not banging everything that has a pulse doesn’t mean I’m fucking celibate. I just have standards.”
“Should I feel special?” Pete’s eyes were definitely some sort of magic, because Patrick felt pretty sure this is what it felt like to be bewitched. He didn’t respond beyond gritting out I’ll show you special, and slithered down his body to swallow down his cock. Pete arched up into him with a shout, and Patrick couldn't help but smile mentally. He knew he gave fantastic head, he knew all the perfect things to do to reduce Pete to a writhing, gasping mess. He slid two of his fingers in next to the cock in his mouth, coating with them with viscous saliva before moving his arm to lightly tease at Pete’s entrance. His only response was to spread his legs wider, gasping out a huffed ohmygodmore and then it was Patrick’s turn to grin at Pete’s reaction, breaching gently just with one finger, working him open in time with his tongue, with his the movements of his head. By the time he had worked three inside him, Pete was grinding down smoothly in time with the bob of his head, the movements of his mouth and Patrick was feathering that place deep inside him he’d found that made Pete whine his name in the most deliciously high-pitched way. But Pete kept reaching down to try to grab his hair, and he had to keep batting his hands away in annoyance.
Two thoughts occurred to him and he pulled off with an obscenely-slick sound because why the hell not? Pete reached for him, a gasped noise of denial falling from his lips as he sat back. Patrick pushed away his grabbing hands and got off the bed, wincing as his very interested cock reminded him of its neglect as he tried not to grab himself as he went to the door. He locked the deadbolt and turned back to Pete.
“I don’t want them to walk in on us, though I’m pretty sure you’d like that.” He grinned as he moved back to the bed where Pete had his hand fisted around his cock lightly, stroking with feather-light fingers from base to tip. He grabbed his belt from the pile of pants on the ground, pulling it free from the loops and did the same with Pete’s gaudily-studded one before pulling his backpack right next to the bed. “Since you can’t seem to stay still, I’m gonna make you.” He climbed back up and took his hands, before pausing to cock an eyebrow down at his best friend. “Unless I totally fucked up and you weren’t into it earlier.”
Pete shook his head like the speediness of his answer would determine his fate. “Motherfuck, no that’s amazing.” He hummed deep in his chest as he looked up at Patrick as he fastened his own practical brown leather belt around Pete’s wrists before looping the ridiculously-heavy studded one between his bound wrists and around the headboard. Sitting back, he surveyed his work and noticed the way Pete’s eyes had gone even darker, the way his breathing had evened out and deepened.
“Alright?” He asked because come on, he wasn’t a total asshole.
But Pete just nodded and gave him a dopey, salacious grin. “Fuck yes.” Grinning at the sight below him--Pete laid out with miles of tanned skin on display, gorgeously blood-dark cock laying hard and inviting on his stomach, eyeliner only starting to smudge a bit under his eyes and his hands fucking tied to the bed. This was the greatest day ever. Reaching into the inner pocket of his backpack, Patrick pulled out a strip of condoms and a small tube of lube. He slicked himself up before sliding on the condom, ignoring the way Pete’s eyes followed his every movement and the small hitch in his breathing as Patrick let out a tiny groan in response to the movement of his hand. A minute later, he was slicked and rubbered up, returning to give Pete’s thankfully still hard cock a few strokes. “God ‘Trick that’s--” He was cut off by the lubed fingers of Patrick’s other hand slipping inside him, and once again he was gasping out those high-pitched whines that went straight to Patrick’s cock. He decided he really fucking liked watching Pete like this, writhing and needy as he pulled ineffectually against the belts and groaning when he tried to reach for him but couldn’t.
Deciding that it was really time for him to be balls-deep inside him, Patrick pulled his hands away and just grinned in response to his the noises of protestations. He noted distantly that Pete was a hell of a lot less...talkative like this, and he decided he could really get behind that. Wrapping Pete’s legs around his waist, he lined up and bit his lip in anticipation. “Tell me if it hurts too much and I’ll stop.” Pete nodded and he pressed a deep, searing, searching kiss to his mouth as he pushed inside. They groaned into each other's mouths and Patrick held himself still for a moment, listening to the tempo of Pete’s breaths, the flutter of his pulse where his fingers were pressed to his femoral artery. It was like a drumbeat that was out of sync, the timing not matching up. He waited, biting Pete’s lip before sucking it into his mouth and tried to not just slam home like he really wanted to do. Pete was hot and tight and everything he could have ever imagined and he wanted more than anything else to be buried in to the hilt in that beautiful tightness…but Pete’s earlier admission made him hold back. He wanted this to be good for him, to prove Pete right to have given him his trust to try again. When they came into sync, a tattoo of breathing and heartbeat tapping out a rhythm that made his toes curl, he thrust in slowly, careful inch by careful inch, listening attentively for the beat to fall behind. But Pete was relaxed and humming deep in his chest as he kissed him back sloppily--all tongue and hurried lips like he was trying to catch up. Patrick moved to his neck to press his mouth there, to suck and leave a hickey that he wouldn’t be able to hide with his customary hoodie, determined to leave his mark just like countless other girls had with their eyeshadow and perfume and glitter.
“Jesus, will you fucking move already?” Pete’s voice was strained and held an undertone of arousal and want that was in stark contrast to the bored, unaffected tone he was striving for. Patrick’s head shot up from his neck and he huffed out an amused puff as he smirked down at his willing captive.
“Oh, you want me to move? Like this?” He rolled his hips, not pulling his cock free but just plumbing him with it, thrilled at the way Pete’s eyes rolled back in his head. He knew he had a big dick and it never ceased to make him feel a smoky curl of satisfaction when the other end of his trysts realized it. “Or is this better?” He pulled out a few inches only to slam back in, lifting Pete’s feet from around his waist to hook his ankles over his shoulders, the new angle making the both gasp.
“God yes, just like that.” Pete gasped out as he started to move in earnest, little short half-thrusts punctuated by a deep one every fifth beat that had his hips slamming into Pete’s ass. He could feel the end coming--for Chrissakes he was a nineteen year old--lasting forever definitely wasn’t his strong suit especially when he was basically living out one of his oldest fantasies. But he was determined that for all his youthful vigor, he was going to make Pete come first. Pete--whose eyeliner was now hopelessly smudged and fuck if that wasn’t hot--and who was gasping and mumbling a litany of jumbled curses. Patrick twined his free hand into that meticulously-straightened hair and exposed his throat, leaning forward to push his legs to his chest as he started to pepper the tanned line of his straining neck with bites and nips. Reaching between them, he gasped out what he hoped was the type of dirty talk that Pete whispered into all the nameless girls’ ears as he fucked them against the bathroom stall wall, against the brick wall in the alley, in the dark corner behind the soundbooth.
“Gonna make you come, gonna make you fucking scream.” He twisted his hand around Pete’s cock, thumb sliding slickly over the head where pre-come was leaking like a promise. “You’re so fucking hot and I’m gonna make you come if I have to fuck you all goddamn night ‘cause you feel so goddamned good--”
With a final precisely angled thrust and a last pump of Patrick’s hand, Pete threw his head and arched up, arms shaking as he pulled against the belts holding his hands in place. He shouted out a startled fuckfuckfuckPatrickjesusFUCK! before shooting hot and messily between them, shuddering and contracting around him in the most delicious way. One, two more thrusts and Patrick was coming his brains out, emptying deep inside him with a low moan as he bit into Pete’s shoulder in retribution for all the fucking shit he had pulled and knew he would pull in the years to come.
Collapsing on top of him with a totally undignified noise, he rolled off and winced at the cooling mess left behind. Pulling off the condom, he tied it and dropped it off the side of the bed, promising himself he’d pick it up in just a few minutes.
“Think you could maybe untie me?” Pete half-whispered, hoarse voice sounding just as wrecked as Patrick felt.
“Shit, yeah my bad.” He rolled over and reached up to unbuckle the belts, first detaching him from the headboard and then unwrapping the twists from around his wrists. As soon as he was free, Pete launched himself at him, sealing his body against him and making Patrick yelp out a startled dude, gross! Pete shrugged and snagged his boxers from the foot of the bed--and Patrick noted distantly that those were probably his last cleanish pair--and wiped them both down.
“Happy now, princess?” He sing-songed as he twisted his arms and legs around Patrick in a strange parody of a starfish and tucked his head under Patrick’s chin, his rapidly-curling hair trying to land in his mouth like always. The most Patrick decided that warranted was a sharp pinch to Pete’s ass and a grumbled hmph. Pete just laughed and pulled the comforter up over them as they both came down, bodies cooling and sweat evaporating from flushed, heated skin. His voice was devoid of anything that could be qualified as mocking, and Patrick realized this was the most serious he thought he’d ever heard him when he said, “You know, I’ve been waiting for you to do that for months.”
Pulling away slightly so he could see his face, Patrick squinted down at him--he’d lost his glasses along the way somewhere between screaming on the floor and one of the best fucks of his life. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Pete shrugged. “I mean, I thought it was fairly obvious what with the way I was practically grinding on you with my bass, but you’re kinda oblivious sometimes to anything that you can’t play.”
“Pretty sure I just played you like a fuckin’ song, asshole.” He laughed and realized how much the way Pete’s eyes crinkled at the corners felt like home, how having him wrapped up in his arms felt right. Pressing a sloppy-wet to his forehead, Patrick pulled him back in and decided to think about that later.
They lay in easy silence for awhile, the only noise in the room the rattle of the ancient air conditioning unit in the window that sounded like it had truly seen better days.
“No but seriously...when did you learn to fuck like that? That was incredible.” Pete mumbled into his chest, and Patrick scowled even though he could feel himself blushing.
“Some of us prefer quality over quantity, asshole.” He snarked back, resisting the urge to run his hands through Pete’s hair, and instead settled for smoothing it down under his chin. Last thing they needed was to get his hair tangled in Patrick’s sideburns.
“Pretty brazen, calling me that considering what you just did.”
“I think it’s pretty appropriate, actually.” Patrick replied, wrapping his arms just a little tighter around Pete for a few more minutes. A twinge of guilt poked at him, and he sighed before giving in and swirling soothing circles in the skin of Pete’s back. “Was...was that okay? Like, with the belts and shit?”
“Are you kidding?” Pete laughed out brightly before nodding. “That was the best thing that’s happened this whole tour. You’re a fuckin’ tiger in the sack, dude.”
Humming an acknowledgement, Patrick traced the slightly raised lines of ink that wound in unending patterns across Pete’s back and sighed. “We’d better clean up, in case they come back.” He pursed his lips as a thought struck him. “And maybe burn this comforter.”
“Nah.” Pete wiggled against him. “I’m pretty sure this thing was a walking biohazard anyways, we just took forensic countermeasures for our crime of passion.”
“You seriously need to quit watching Law and Order, I swear.”