"So, you think I'd make a hot woman?"
Patrick nearly chokes on his after-taping donut.
"I mean, you know," Pete waves his hand, "if I were a chick, would you want to do me?" His eyes are bright and fastened on Patrick.
Patrick takes a moment to process this. "Why?" he says slowly. "Is there something you need to tell me?"
Pete shakes his head.
"Are you sure?" Because if there are going to be tabloids blaring Fall Out Girl? at the checkout counter of the local Stop and Shop, Patrick kind of needs to know about it.
Pete rolls his eyes, as if he's been listening in on Patrick's inner monologue. "Dude, can you just answer the question?"
"Yeah. No. I can't." Patrick shrugs. "I've seen your dick kind of too many times to imagine you as a woman, you know?"
This should be the end of it. Asked and answered. But Pete keeps directing these big, speculative glances in Patrick's direction.
"What?" Patrick demands at last.
"I bet you do have gentle hands," Pete says, with worrying earnestness.
Patrick catches the eye of one of the PA's, who has obviously been eavesdropping. The guy is totally smirking.
***
"I'll be back," Pete says, as soon as they get back to his house.
The plan had been to hang out after the taping, but Patrick isn't really in the mood to spend the afternoon contemplating Pete with a vagina, and he can feel the subject still lurking. The hairs are practically standing up on the back of his neck. He hasn't had warning bells go off like this since Bedussey.
"I'm gonna take off," he says.
"No, you're not." Pete points to the living room. "Super Smash Bros. Brawl. I'll be right back."
"Seriously. I've got work--"
But Pete is already thumping up the steps, pretending not to hear him. Patrick sighs. So. Yeah. Then. Super Smash Bros. Brawl.
He throws himself onto the sofa and starts up a game. There's a loud thud upstairs, followed by a crash and a fairly serious sounding clatter. Patrick thinks about calling out, "What the hell are you doing up there?" But then doesn't. With Pete, sometimes it's just better not to know.
Soon enough, the addictive power of the Wii takes over, and Patrick barely remembers that Pete exists. He's too busy trying to fend off invading creatures from Subspace and practically giving himself a hyperextended wrist in the process.
He doesn't realize he's not alone until a voice calls out, "Hey, lover, come here often?" It's Pete. More significantly, it's Pete's sex voice, low and rough around the edges.
Patrick turns to look, and his eyebrows lift all the way up to his hairline. "Um. You--" He doesn't make it any farther into the sentence than that.
Pete is leaning against the doorframe, hip cocked, a pose that Patrick guesses is meant to be seductive, in a 1970s-movie-about-hookers kind of way. Pete's outfit is in much the same spirit. He's wearing a leather skirt so short it's a little alarming, all the more so since Patrick is pretty sure Pete doesn't have any underwear on under there. There's a hot pink halter top, because Pete is nothing if not a halter top kind of guy-pretending-to-be-a-girl, and black stilettos with straps that crisscross over his ankles. Worst of all is the platinum blonde pageboy wig that makes him look like a too-tan, tattooed Carol Channing.
Patrick can only hope that this getup is some ghost of Halloween past and not, like, an actual hobby or something. The fact that Patrick can reel off Pete's costumes for the past eight years--and this isn't one of them--is something he works very hard to ignore.
"What's your name, baby?" Pete takes a step toward him, teetering dangerously on his towering heels.
Patrick has to resist the urge to jump up and grab him by the elbow to keep him from breaking his neck. Near the top of the long, long list of "Rules For Being Pete Wentz's Best Friend Without Going Absolutely Insane" is: Don't run to the rescue every time Pete pulls some stupid stunt, because that's totally a full-time job, and Pete's stupid stunts are his own stupid problem.
Pete bats his eyes and sashays to the kitchen island. Or at least he sashays as much as a person can when they're dangerously close to turning an ankle. He slides onto a barstool and crosses his legs, making the skirt hike up even farther. And wow, that is some serious thigh action he's showing off. Patrick quickly looks away and busies himself straightening his hat. He wasn't just checking out Pete's legs. He totally, totally wasn't.
"Aren't you going to buy me a drink?" Pete makes a pouty face. His idea of feminine wiles is really kind of scary.
"You want to tell me what this is all about?"
Pete tilts his head coquettishly. "Come over here, and I will."
"Seriously."
"Seriously," Pete insists.
Patrick stays put, and Pete turns big eyes on him, and there's a standoff for, oh, about five seconds. Then Patrick makes a grumpy noise and pulls himself to his feet. This is the entire history of their friendship right here. This is how Bedussey happened. Those warning bells in Patrick's head are going off even louder than before. He sighs unhappily as he settles onto a barstool next to Pete.
Pete runs a hand up Patrick's arm and squeezes his biceps. "Nice." He gives Patrick a look through his lashes. "What about you, baby? Like what you see?"
It goes against every survival instinct, but Patrick finds himself giving Pete the once-over anyway. Pete apparently took the time to shave, and he's wearing makeup, not just his usual eyeliner, but the entire Maybelline experience, foundation, powder, mascara. His lips are the same shocking fuchsia as his halter top, wet looking like he's slathered on the lip gloss, and Patrick has to force himself not to stare. Because Pete's mouth. Wet. Shit.
As for the wig...well, that's just disturbing. Patrick tosses it away and brushes out Pete's bangs with his fingers. Then it occurs to him that touching Pete is maybe not the way to go here. He pulls his hand back, not too quickly, trying not to make it look like...a thing.
Pete leans close and says against Patrick's ear, "I like you, baby. You want to take me home?"
"You are home, dickhead," Patrick tells him with a roll of his eyes.
Pete, however, is rarely deterred by mere facts. He grabs Patrick's hand, pulls him off the barstool and marches him over to the couch. He pushes Patrick down onto the cushions and climbs on top of him, his knees on either side of Patrick's thighs. He leans forward and kisses Patrick's neck. When he pulls back, his eyes are big and soulful and serious.
Patrick has been on the receiving end of these little games of Pete's since...well, pretty much ever. So you'd think he'd have figured it all out by now, but the rules are as quicksilvery as Pete himself. Any moment now Pete could scramble up from his lap and let out one of those braying laughs of his. Dude, I knew it! You so want to hit this. And then disappear back upstairs. Game over.
So Patrick is determined to beat him to the punch. "Are we done with this little experiment yet? I mean, you've proved you're easy and don't know how to take no for an answer. Not so different from you as a dude, really."
Pete doesn't answer. He just stares, deep and long into Patrick's eyes, stroking his thumb along one of Patrick's sideburns. Then he's leaning in, closer, closer, the warmth of breath, and then his mouth on Patrick's. It's not their first kiss. It's probably not even in the first thousand. Pete has been pecking Patrick on the cheek, shoving his tongue down Patrick's throat since Patrick still had one foot in puberty. Making Patrick blush and sputter and wipe his mouth with his sleeve is practically Pete's favorite sport.
This kiss isn't anything like those other ones. It's slow, exploratory, just Pete's lips at first, softly, getting to know Patrick's, then Pete's tongue, gently, tracing the line of Patrick's mouth, slipping inside, stroking sweetly.
There is no such thing as a still Pete Wentz. Patrick doubts he has the gene for it. Even when he sleeps, he thrashes. Patrick knows this from one too many elbows to the face during their days of living out of the van. Pete's not still when he kisses either, humming softly in the back of his throat, moving restlessly on Patrick's lap, pressing into the kiss and then pulling back and then surging forward again. Patrick tries to ignore what that's doing to him. Tries and fails. The only part of Pete that isn't bony is his ass, which is round and firm and pressed snugly against Patrick's cock.
"That's enough." Patrick grabs Pete firmly by the wrists. "I'm not in the mood." He does his best to bodily remove Pete from his lap, but Pete has spent the last twenty plus years turning clinging into an art form. Patrick shoves harder, but Pete is all wiry strength and stubbornness, holding on for all he's worth.
"Are you going to get rough with me?" Pete's voice in low, sultry, like he really wouldn't mind that at all.
Patrick has never gotten rough with a girl in his life. Pete isn't a girl, of course, but the fact that Patrick gets harder thinking about getting rough with him is confusing nonetheless.
Pete gives Patrick a look through his lashes. "Touch me."
Giving Pete what he wants is just the fastest way to make him lose interest. That's what Patrick tells himself. He settles a hand on Patrick's knee, figuring that's safe, right? He slides his palm down Pete's leg, feeling the warmth of skin, the soft hairs, slender muscles. He curls his hand around Pete's calf and strokes his thumb along the delicate ankle bone.
"There. Are you satisfied now?" he asks.
Pete tilts his head. "Don't you think I'm pretty?"
Patrick stares up at him helplessly. Jesus. Everybody thinks Pete is pretty, a fact that Pete is perfectly well aware of, and what the fuck does he want from Patrick anyway? A soft little smirk breaks out on Pete's face, as if he can read all this in Patrick's expression. He kisses Patrick again, wetter and dirtier than the last time.
"Don't you want to take my top off?" Pete whispers against his mouth.
Patrick's cock jerks, and his brain is suddenly scrambling. This isn't a game of gotcha Pete's playing. It's chicken, and that's just...shit, that could get dangerous.
"Go on," Pete coaxes.
If your friends jumped off a cliff, would you? Patrick's mom used to say that to him when he was a kid, and the thing is. Yes. If it's Pete doing the jumping. He glides his hand up Pete's arm, around to the little bow at Pete's neck and pulls. The top falls off, just like that, and, Jesus, Patrick is so, so fucked.
"Touch me," Pete says softly.
Patrick swallows hard. His hands feel huge on Pete's bare back. He rubs his thumb in a circle over a shoulder blade, and Pete makes an appreciative noise. That shouldn't encourage Patrick. That should scare the hell out of him. But apparently, there's not one functioning sense of self-preservation between the two of them today. He slides his hands around to the front, runs them up Pete's sides. Pete's chest rises and falls urgently. Patrick rubs at a nipple to see what will happen. It tightens under his fingers, and Pete lets out a soft, little whimper.
A game of chicken, and Pete isn't the only here who hates to lose. He pulls Pete to him, so abruptly it makes Pete's head snap back. Patrick presses his mouth to the same nipple he was just teasing. He kisses and licks at it, his hands clutching at Pete's hips. Pete arches his back sharply, pushing against Patrick's mouth, shamelessly slutty in his demands. Patrick bites down, a little harder than maybe he should, but Pete just moans and presses closer, loving every minute of it.
Pete is always doing this, always pushing and pushing and counting on Patrick to draw the line. And Patrick always does. Except now apparently. But he's just so sick of being the careful one.
He yanks Pete down into another kiss, hard mash of lips, edge of teeth. He's almost disappointed when he doesn't taste salt and copper. He'd like to make Pete bleed, just a little. Pete stills at the aggressive kiss, which is totally typical. Games are only fun when he's the one in charge. Patrick expects him to pull away, make some stupid joke, and get the hell out of there. But apparently Pete just needs a moment to catch up. He licks his lips and then starts to kiss back, eagerly, his hand curved around the back of Patrick's neck. Patrick kisses Pete's jaw, behind his ear, tips his chin up and licks the soft skin there.
"Trick," Pete murmurs throatily.
Patrick urges him up onto his knees, so he can get at the tattoo. He traces it with his tongue, sucks and bites at it, and God, he's only wanted to do that since fucking forever. He has to have jerked off to thoughts of it...well, a million times is probably a conservative estimate.
"I turn you on," Pete says wonderingly, as if this is some great discovery.
Patrick's head snaps up, ready to take offense, because clearly Pete is mocking him. One look, though, says otherwise. Pete's eyes are wide and bright and filled with happy revelation. Patrick smoothes his hand over Pete's hip thoughtfully. He's always just assumed they were on the same page about sex and the two of them, about how they couldn't ever, ever, never, no matter how much they wanted to, because it was crazy and would blow up in their faces and ruin everything. What do they say about assuming? some superior part of Patrick's brain taunts him. You're totally making an ass out of you and me.
Even worse, Patrick has been trusting that Pete has some plan with this whole crossdressing-lapdance thing. Or if not exactly a plan, at least some tricky Pete logic about how what they're doing doesn't count because Pete is in a skirt, and they're just roleplaying, and this isn't really them. Seriously, how fucking terrifying is it that Patrick has been counting on Pete to have a plan?
Still, this doesn't stop him from running his hands over skin-warmed leather, in more and more provocative circles, until his palm is settled over Pete's hard on.
"Touch me under my skirt," Pete says, his voice cracking a little.
Patrick takes a moment and a deep breath, and then slips his fingers underneath, running them lightly up Pete's thighs.
"Patrick," Pete murmurs, rocking into Patrick's hands, "touch me."
Patrick strokes his hands up farther, curling them around Pete's hips, pressing his thumbs into the hollows of the bones. They fit perfectly.
Pete shifts impatiently. "Come on, come on."
But if Patrick is only going to get to do this once, he's not going to be rushed. (And he's pretty sure that the only thing crazier than doing this at all would be doing it again.) He brushes his fingers against Pete's balls, lightly, exploring, then cups them in his palm, feeling their weight. Pete sucks his breath in through his teeth and tries to lunge, tries to push into Patrick's touch. Patrick tightens his grip on Pete's hip, holding him still.
"Trick," Pete whines.
Patrick ignores him. He runs his thumb along Pete's cock, just barely touching. It's hot and thrumming with blood and wet at the tip. He circles his thumb around the head, catching the moisture, and rubs it into the shaft.
Pete trembles, and there's a voice in Patrick's head, echoing Pete from before, just as wonderingly, I turn you on. He wraps his hand around Pete's cock, squeezes, and starts to pump. Pete grips Patrick's shoulder, holding on for dear life. His lips are softly parted, his expression intent with pleasure. Patrick runs his other hand up the back of Pete's thigh and over the curve of his ass. He thumbs the crease, half expecting Pete to freak. But Pete's eyes go darker, almost black, and he rocks his hips harder, pushing into one hand and then the other.
Suddenly, it's all so perfectly clear. Patrick wants, has always wanted, to have Pete just like this, naked and willing and totally at his mercy. God, he wants to turn Pete inside out, and he wants Pete to love it, beg for it, thrash and scream and come until he doesn't remember his name from it. Patrick is so very, very fucked.
This only seems more true when Pete suddenly pulls out of Patrick's hands and slides off his lap. Patrick braces himself for a belated "gotcha!", while the practical part of his brain scrambles to calculate the time it will take him to drive home, factoring in traffic on the 405 and the fact that the universe obviously hates him, so he can jerk off in privacy while cursing Pete Wentz all to hell.
But there's no "gotcha!" Pete snatches at Patrick's hand, all grabby urgency, and yanks him up from the couch. "Come on."
Hurrying and heels are not a good combination, and Pete nearly takes a header on the stairs in his haste to drag Patrick off to the bedroom. Patrick catches him around the waist, and Pete cranes his neck to kiss Patrick on the nose, smiling fondly. Patrick can feel his cheeks go warm, and it's sad. It really is. Those "Rules For Being Pete Wentz's Best Friend Without Going Absolutely Insane" are the biggest bunch of bullshit ever. Patrick is going to run to the rescue when Pete needs him for the rest of his damned life, and there's going to be a part of him that's glad (glad!) that he's the one Pete needs. He is so very, very co-dependent. There's probably a picture of him in some twelve-step manual somewhere.
In the bedroom, Pete twines around him like an overly aggressive vine and kisses like he's jealous of the air Patrick needs to breathe. In that twelve-step manual, Patrick's picture will not be alone. Pete attacks the buttons of Patrick's shirt, a little fumbling in his exuberance.
"What the fuck," he says to Patrick's clothes, as if they offend him simply by existing.
Finally, he gets the shirt open. There's a draft of air against Patrick's chest as Pete struggles to tug it off him. The cuffs get stuck around Patrick's hands, and he reacts instinctively, jerking his arm up, fending Pete off. Maybe it's sanity kicking back in at last, or more likely, a sneak attack of shyness.
"Patrick," Pete's breath is hot against Patrick's ear, "let me."
Pete's voice sinks in and twists itself up in Patrick's insides, and he slowly, slowly lowers his arm. Pete strips the rest of Patrick's clothes off like it's a race, like Patrick might change his mind. He's suddenly everywhere, his palm pressed against Patrick's chest like a benediction, his teeth dragging across the skin of Patrick's shoulder, his fingers curled possessively around Patrick's hip.
"Pretty skin." Pete uses his tongue to connect the dots of Patrick's freckles.
Patrick shudders, because it's good. Too fucking good almost. Because it's Pete, and Pete can be overwhelming even from a safe distance. When he's plastered all over Patrick's bare skin, well...Patrick shudders some more.
Pete kisses his way back up to Patrick's mouth and lifts his hand, as if he's going to reach for Patrick's hat. Patrick clutches at it protectively. He can't stand to be any more naked than he already is.
Pete brushes the sweaty hair off Patrick's forehead, grinning. "Don't freak, dude. That's exactly how I want you. Wearing nothing but your fedora."
And just like that, Patrick feels much, much more naked. He knows he must be blushing, because Pete's grin gets wider, more satisfied. Patrick has been putting up with that look since he was sixteen years old, and just once, once in his life, he'd like Pete to be the one off balance. He pulls Pete in by the waist, cups Pete's ass in his hands, yanking him closer, making him stumble. Patrick has never gotten rough with a girl in his life, but maybe he does want to get a little rough with Pete. Maybe he wants to push Pete down onto the bed and spread Pete's thighs as wide apart as they'll go and fuck him until he doesn't know which way is up.
He reaches for Pete's zipper.
Pete shakes his head. "I want you to fuck me with my skirt on."
It feels a little like being hit by a truck, a short, slinky-hipped sex truck, and okay, fine, so maybe Patrick is always going to be the one off balance here. "You know," he mutters against the side of Pete's face, "if you keep saying shit like that, I'm not going to get to fuck you at all."
Pete lays a hand against Patrick's cheek and kisses him. He pulls away smiling. "I've got faith in your manly prowess."
He clambers onto the bed, flings himself onto his back, and Patrick's heart stutters, like it's trying to prove you're never too young for cardiac arrest. But then, Pete scrambles back up. "Wait. First I want to--" He scoots on his knees back over to Patrick. "Is it okay--"
He doesn't finish that thought or wait for an answer. He bends his head and licks at the head of Patrick's cock. Patrick sucks in a breath and can't seem to get any air. His hand flies to Pete's head. He doesn't mean to pull Pete's hair, but suddenly he doesn't have any coordination in his hands. Needing to fuck Pete this bad doesn't just make Patrick stupid. It makes him clumsy.
"Mmm," Pete hums approvingly in the back of his throat. Of course, he would like getting his hair pulled.
Patrick has long believed that Pete's whole gay-above-the-waist schtick is total bullshit, but as Pete fumbles to get Patrick's cock into his mouth, trying one angle and then another, frowning, like he can't quite do the math, Patrick has to reconsider this opinion. Finally, Pete seems to figure out that he doesn't have to deep throat his first time out. He wraps his hand around the base of Patrick's cock and stretches his lips around the head. He quickly gains confidence, slurping happily, bobbing his head up and down, making up in enthusiasm whatever he lacks in skill. Pete is practically a genius at that.
He's also a fucking tease. Just as Patrick is thinking that he could come if Pete would just keep...Pete pulls off with a wet, obscene smack of his lips.
"Fuck," Patrick mutters, the air burning in his lungs.
"Bedside table. Top drawer," Pete says.
Bite me, Patrick is about to say, but then Pete scoots around on the bed, getting down on his hands and knees, tilting his ass up temptingly.
Patrick actually feels his mouth water. Pete is turning him into the worst kind of cliché. He grabs the condoms and lube from the nightstand and kneels on the bed. He tugs at Pete's skirt. It's tight, and the leather doesn't want to cooperate, and he has to fight the thing up over Pete's hips. It's worth the effort, though, when he finally gets his hands on Pete's bare ass.
He wants to fuck Pete so bad he's shaking, but he has to ask, "Have you even done this before?"
Pete glances around. His lipstick is smeared, and there's a smudge of pre-come on his chin. "Are you asking if I'm a virgin?" He grins.
Patrick instinctively tightens his hold on Pete's hips. His skin feels sweltering, like the blood is set to boil in his veins. He's never had a creepy thing for deflowering virgins. He's always thought guys who did were...well, creepy. But if he's the first one to do this to Pete--the only one, ever, a slightly crazed voice pipes up in his head--then that's just. Shit. Shit.
He flips the cap open on the lube, squeezes a little overzealously, and sticky stuff goes squirting everywhere. Sorry about the bedspread, he mentally apologizes.
Pete doesn't appear to give a shit. "Come on. Fucking do me already."
Patrick's hands shake as he traces the cleft of Pete's ass. He bends forward, presses a kiss to Pete's shoulder blade, and pushes a finger inside. Pete tenses and makes a noise, not pained exactly, but definitely startled, and Jesus. Maybe Pete really hasn't. Ever.
"Easy," Patrick murmurs, stroking Pete's hip.
He slides his finger deeper, slowly, carefully, crooking it, searching, searching, and there. Pete bucks up and makes a wild sound in the back of his throat. Patrick strokes that place, and Pete trembles, and his thighs fall open wider. Patrick adds another finger. Pete is so hot inside, and Patrick wants to be in him now, now, hell, five years ago. He ruts against Pete shamelessly, his cock sliding against Pete's thigh. He can't even bother to feel embarrassed by how desperate he is.
"Do it, Trick," Pete says breathlessly. "Do me. Do me now."
Maybe this is crazy, and maybe they're ruining everything, but Patrick can't care, can't stop. He rolls on a condom and slicks up and spreads Pete's cheeks with his hands. He sinks in slowly, slowly. Pete is so tight. Jesus. Pete Wentz is a tight little virgin. That particular collection of words threatens to blow out the circuitry of Patrick's brain.
Pete ducks his head, and his back hitches. Patrick goes still.
"You okay?" He runs a hand soothingly along Pete's side.
Pete takes a breath and lets it out and nods. Patrick eases deeper inside him, just a little bit at a time, because this is Pete, and Patrick wants it to be good, and he tries not think: Because if it's good, maybe he'll want to do it again.
"Come on, come on," Pete says. "I'm not going to break."
But he's still shaking, and Patrick isn't taking any chances. He thrusts shallowly, carefully. Pete makes an insistent little mewling noise, so fucking hot, and Patrick leans forward, licks a trickle of sweat off his neck.
Pete shudders. "Fuck. Trick. Stop." Patrick freezes, ready to pull out even if the idea of not getting to fuck Pete makes him kind of want to cry. But Pete shoves his hips back insistently. "Stop fucking teasing me."
He has always been a bossy little shit, and Patrick has always let him get away with it, and that doesn't change now. He grips Pete's hips, probably leaving bruises, and gives him what he wants.
"Shit!" Pete's hand disappears beneath the skirt, and Patrick can't see, but he knows. Pete is jerking himself off.
Patrick groans and fucks him harder. Because Pete has his hand on his cock, and Patrick is only human.
"Do me, do me, do me," Pete chants.
And Patrick does. Fuck. He really, really does.
"I'm-- Shit. I'm going to--" Pete's voice comes out strained and a little hiccupy, and then his body is clenching around Patrick's cock.
"Fuck, fuck." Patrick clutches at Pete's waist, and his hips surge forward, and he comes deep inside of Pete.
He comes so hard he's dizzy afterwards and slumps heavily on top of Pete. He thinks hazily that he could probably stay right there, just like that forever, but then Pete starts making urgent you're squashing menoises. Patrick pulls out, trying to be careful, but Pete hisses, "Shit!"
"Sorry, sorry." Patrick ties off the condom and pitches it into the trashcan next to the bed.
Now, he expects, is when things will get awkward, when regret will set in, when someone will have a freak out. Because, well, just because. But Patrick roots around inside himself, and he feels nothing but heavy-limbed and satisfied and maybe a little sleepy. Pete mops off his belly with the corner of the sheet, kicks off his heels and starts to slither out of his skirt. If he's having any kind of just got fucked for the first timepanic, it's very...subtle.
"Come on, piece of crap." Pete scowls down at the skirt, which is not going easily.
Patrick stares at Pete's writhing hips as he fights with the leather. Fucking Pete just once, he knows with sudden and absolute certainty, is never going to be enough.
"Fucking finally." Pete kicks the skirt away and scoots over closer to Patrick, making the mattress bounce, making his cock bounce.
Something hot and urgent twists in Patrick's stomach. Shit. Fucking Pete just once today may not even be enough.
Pete plasters himself to Patrick's side and commandeers Patrick's shoulder for a pillow. Patrick wraps his arm around him, idly stroking his hand up and down Pete's arm. Pete dips a kiss to Patrick's chest and bites playfully at a nipple.
"So, I guess what we learned here is that you'd totally do me if I was a woman," Pete says in all seriousness, even with his naked cock pressed against Patrick's naked thigh.
Don't say it, don't say it, Patrick lectures himself. The time for doing stupid shit is over.
But apparently it isn't. "Yeah. No. That's not what we learned. Like, at all."
Pete lifts his head so he can look at Patrick, using one of Patrick's ribs as a chin rest. He searches Patrick's face, a pinch of concentration between his eyebrows. At last, a smile breaks out, so huge and luminous it makes Patrick squint a little, like he's got the sun in his eyes. Pete leans up and takes Patrick's mouth in a kiss. He looks just ridiculously happy--winning the Lotto happy, getting something he never expected to have happy.
Patrick frowns as he considers this. Pete can't really believe that Patrick wanting him is the obstacle to this, to them. Because that's, like, the one thing they don't have to worry about.
"We are so fucked," Patrick declares.
"Naw." Pete kisses him again. "It's going to be awesome. We're going to be awesome."
Pete snuggles closer, and Patrick wraps his arm around him tighter and thinks about hyperventilating, maybe just a little. He's got Pete, and no plan, and...oh hell, fuck it. That's what he's had for the last eight years, and it has mostly been awesome.
"Okay," he says at last.
Pete's smile curves against his skin. "Oh, come on, Pattycakes. It's way better than that."
Patrick doesn't answer. He just threads his fingers through Pete's hair contemplatively. But okay. Yeah. Maybe. Maybe it is.