Chapter Text
“Wentz!” Coach’s voice barks from behind Pete, and Pete takes a split second to compose himself. The unforgiving sun on the back of Pete’s neck is getting to his head, leaves him dizzy and everything else around him blurred around the edges and oversaturated. It’s like in the daylight, Pete has to face the cruel reality of everything, there are no shadows and secret places to hide from. Pete isn’t quite sure why this is still news to him, waiting on midnight and moonlight to be the person he wants to be, like he’s made of the stars and space dust instead of copper burning underneath sunlight, this was something he knew when he was with Patrick. “Wentz,” Coach repeats, louder this time, his voice violently pulling Pete back here into the field instead of bedsheets and noisy, squeaking, mattresses.
Pete finally turns around, and when he does, there is that instinctive reflex to flinch underneath coach’s unscathing glare or for Pete’s lips to twist into a charming smile to worm his way out of this one, but suddenly, Pete realizes that he isn’t like that anymore, or rather, he doesn’t want to pretend to be that guy anymore. Pete doesn’t see the point of it when he knows that it won’t be long until coach and the rest of the team will start to show their biting edges around Pete again in too sharp accidental movements and barbed words. Even if Pete had given up everything (i.e. everything being synonymous with Patrick in this situation) for them to treat him like a normal fucking human being, it won’t ever be enough for them.
“Yeah?” Pete says, and he can feel the heat in that one word as well, there has been a cruel summer underneath Pete’s skin lately, itching to be scratched open for a wound where all his anger can exit.
Coach’s eyes narrow, and what Pete had mistaken for a twinkle in his eyes in the past were now menacingly blinking back at him, or maybe there was nothing there but the sunlight; either way, Pete doesn’t back away. “You’ve been late or absent to training the past month. The game is next week, would you mind explaining to me why.” It’s not a question and coach wasn’t really looking for an answer, what he really wanted was an apology and for Pete to fall to his knees and beg.
“I just didn’t feel like it,” Pete says a beat too late, and he had hesitated, yeah, but it was to make sure that he means these words when he’s said them. Pete doesn’t want that feeling where his words and his mouth get the better of him, he wants to mean for something to happen for once. There is nothing accidental about this moment, there is no fury and bitterness spreading like a forest fire, this is anger distilled into the best parts, controlled and calculated, aimed at this ending Pete isn’t exactly sure of. And maybe he’s a little afraid according to the wild beating of his heart slamming into his chest right now, but then more than that is the anger at what this team— this small group of people stitched together with sweat and bitterness and the ugliest part of Pete and boyhood— had taken away from Pete, all of the what-could-have-beens and what-if’s. They aren’t fully to blame, but Pete had already accepted the blame for his own wrongdoings, has come to terms and peace with his own self, and this is the only loose end that Pete has to cut left, this bridge that he has to burn. “I’ve been thinking lately, I don’t think that I want to be a part of the team anymore.”
Coach is silent, but not speechless, the way he’s looking at Pete reminds him of his father, faraway in Chicago suburbs; it’s the torn lip from biting too hard to stop from saying words he fully means, nostrils flaring, the way he keeps clenching and unclenching his fists. Pete feels six years old again, small, and there’s this part where he wants to back away and apologize, take the words back, but then Pete remembers all that he’s lost and all that he’s hurt, and he doesn’t want to. Pete is ready for the bad things to come.
“I hate it here.” Pete says, words heavy, his tongue feeling like lead, throat closing in on itself as he says it like his body was trying to stop him. “I’m quitting.”
“You’ll come back,” coach says calmly, without hesitation, like this was fact, like this was true, but Pete can feel the senseless rage underneath it, “you’ll come back when you don’t get what you want. And I’ll accept you back, because I’m that kind of guy.”
Pete would beg to differ, coach will definitely not take him back, if all it took was for a couple of offhand rumors told to him by the rest of the team to turn him into who he was, Pete was sure coach wasn’t going to take him back. And coach was wrong there too, Pete wouldn’t want to anyway; Pete’s outgrown the weird warmth he thought he felt here, and Pete will be left cold and confused, but he’ll light this bridge to keep him warm, use it as light to bring him to where he has to be next.
“I won’t. And no, you won’t.” Pete says, and there is no tremble in his voice, his voice coming out stronger than he thought they would; he has never felt more sure about anything in his life.
“You’re not special, you know.” Coach says, turning like it was difficult for him to look at Pete right now, but still wanting the last word, “I can just grab whoever the fuck off the benches anyway. Whatever you think you’re giving up for this team, this scholarship, this fucking opportunity, it’s not fucking worth losing all of this. You say you hate this team now, but you’re just like the rest of us, when you’re out there, you’ll realize you don’t really fit in with anyone else, nobody else is going to want you. You’re never going to get any better than you are now.”
And the words hit too close to home, too tender there where it’s still a little raw by Pete’s heart, but thinks that the fact he didn’t dislocate coach’s jaw with a fucking punch meant something. Pete only watches coach’s back, and he makes sure that this image, this memory, has been burned into his brain before he turns his back too. Pete doesn’t only want to remember this exact moment, he also wants to remember the feeling of finally being bigger than what he thought he could be.
And then Pete runs, runs until he’s out of university grounds, getting himself lost into the city. It’s daylight, just a bit afternoon, barely even near the evening, but Pete loves this, he has never explored the city in the daylight and everything looks new, he has found something new to love about this place when he thought there was nothing left. Pete is breathless, almost in tears as his heart squeezes, constricts in his chest at the sight of small things like the busy sidewalk, the details of the graffiti piece he always passes by, the people here; Pete is lost, but he chooses to be, knows he can find himself, the way out, when he wants.
Pete knows the news of him quitting the team will spread fast, knows that by the time he gets back to his room, almost everyone would know or would have at least heard about it; he knows because that’s how university drama works. The Fall of the College Running Back; it’s already got a butchered version of a Mountain Goats song titled after it; it’s snappy, it’s dramatic, people eat it up and then spit it out to the next person they see; doesn’t matter if they know Pete or if they even watch the football games.
Pete doesn’t care though, because there’s this small, almost childish, part inside of him that hopes it reaches Patrick. Pete thinks about it, when he’s walking home, walking the path that he and Patrick had walked a week ago, when Patrick had said guys like you like he knew who Pete was. And yeah, Patrick did, knew that version of Pete, knew him down to his skin and bones, but this person Pete feels like right now, he feels like a whole different person. Pete keeps checking his phone, just hoping, waiting, wanting, wondering, for anything. Pete thinks of Patrick too much, hard to get him out of his brain now, Pete probably thinks of Patrick more than he thinks about himself.
When Pete gets to his room and opens his door, Andy and Joe are there, and there are no words said between them, they don’t even have to look at Pete. Andy and Joe wrap Pete in their arms, in their familiar smell, familiar warmth, familiar shape, and Pete thinks that the cold he thought he would feel after leaving the team wasn’t really there; he didn’t need car crash fumes and burning bridges to keep him warm when he had this to come home to.
It’s now been a week since Pete had quit. There were two things happening tonight and one that hasn’t happened yet. The first of the former being the stupid football game. Even though leaving was something that Pete had wanted to do, it’s still difficult to lose something; this thing that gave Pete this sense of knowing who he was, this thing that was familiar to him. But then whatever, it doesn’t matter, Pete tells himself. He likes who he is right now, or well, mostly, he can acknowledge this as some sort of weird transition period. Pete’s back is on the floor of his room and he hasn’t done anything but stared at the ceiling and ignored the calls on his phone; he’s listening to this Spotify playlist he made and if it was about hitching a ride from a falling star and disappearing into the sun, only he would know; there are fragments of poetry and thoughts written out with purple marker on Pete’s skin like he bled love and ultraviolet—and this guy isn’t ideal, but it’s Pete.
And okay, this sort of image of heartbreak is rooted in the second of the former, that being the prom that Pete was desparetaly not thinking about. How he’s missing this second chance too— and seriously, Pete doesn’t want to think about a better universe where he can rest his forehead on Patrick’s shoulder and just breathe as Patrick gives a melody to these words on Pete’s skin, no, Pete isn’t going to think about that—him— Patrick .
Patrick .
Patrick is the thing that isn’t happening tonight. Pete’s inbox had remained empty. Pete doesn’t know why he thought Pete would find Patrick there. At best Pete is hopeful, and at worst he’s narcissistic to even think that. Pete can admit his faults, can admit when he knows all his dreams are just wishful thinking, but it’s still hard to let all of them go. Pete doesn’t want his whole life to revolve around Patrick, but it’s hard when he never really thought of his life farther than that time when Patrick had said later. When all Pete had thought about in his Management Law class that morning before it all ended had been of being in Patrick’s arms and tasting the skin of Patrick’s neck. But now that that the chance for that moment has passed, Pete doesn’t really know where he’s going now.
Pete is barely comprehending the music coming from his phone as anything more than transmitted sound waves when all of a sudden there is the very real sound of fists against his door, to be followed by excited voices arguing with each other, and then the sound of keys slotting into the lock. Before Pete could hide under his bed from whatever intruder was about to murder him for playing cheesy power ballads on his phone speaker, the door opens and reveals Joe and Andy, with Joe halfway dressed in his football uniform while Andy was in complete gear. They are both sweaty and out of breath, chests heaving as if they had just ran all the way here to the dorms from the football field— which Pete assumes is too close to the truth.
“Why aren’t you guys at the game?” Pete asks, confused, staring at the upside down shape of the two of them until it gives him a headache he hopes will kill him so that he could avoid wherever this was going— he does not like the determined set of both of Andy and Joe’s jaws.
“Why weren’t you answering your phone?” Andy asks, not answering Pete’s question, eyes bugging out when he saw Pete’s form on the floor but that could be the Whitney song that was spilling into the hallway, probably the whole building knew what Pete was listening to by now.
“Why are you dressed like that?” Joe asks at the same time Andy spoke, he’s looking at Pete in a way like he was expecting Pete to somehow not be in his high school gym shirt and underwear on a Saturday night.
“What do you mean? I don’t have to be at the game. I quit the team, remember?” Pete said incredulously, sitting up but not leaving his spot.
There is a short pause where the three of them look at each other with varying combinations of horror, confusion, and on Joe’s end, frustration. “Oh my God, Andy, we have a dumbass on our hands. I can’t believe I quit the team and you’re missing the game tonight for him.” Joe says, running his hands through his curls, throwing Andy a look wherein Andy responded with nothing more than wide eyes, this mix of who me and how is this my fault that’s a familiar sight to Pete. “You deal with this.” Joe said, turning to leave the room as fast as he had entered, “He probably doesn’t own a dress polo, I’m going to look for one of mine. I’m not letting him go to the prom in a tuxedo shirt.”
“Joe, what? Quit the team? What ?” Joe left the room in a flurry, before Pete could process the latter part of what Joe had said. Pete turns to Andy who stills looks confused as him. “Did Joe say— did Joe say the prom?”
Andy looks towards the door that Joe had left through, and then at Pete, a long silence falling between the two of them before Andy finally says, “I’m going to kill Joe.”
“Andy— what do you guys— what’s happening?”
Andy crosses his arms on his chest and his face smooths into a stern expression, “Pete, you’re going to that stupid prom.”
“Why?” Pete asks, way too fast, way too obvious, his brain short circuiting.
Andy doesn’t hesitate, but his voice is both cautious and gentle,, “Joe and I know, okay? You weren’t subtle. I’m your roommate. I notice things. I won’t say his name, but we know who it was you were pining over and sleeping around with, and Jesus, we thought you’d have figured it out that you needed to fix it by now, but you haven’t so we’re taking control now.” Andy says in one breath, and then his nose wrinkles and he frowns at Pete, “Have you even showered today?”
Pete’s head is dizzy, this can’t be real life, “You know who it is?” Pete asks softly.
Andy stops rifling through Pete’s sneakers for a second, this mess of converse and combat boots, presumably looking for the one with the least scuff marks and edged out soles, and he raises his head to look at Pete this look on his face, but he remains quiet. Joe returns at just that exact second, an armful of polo shirts in his hands that he tosses to Pete’s bed. “We aren’t saying his name, I know you didn’t want us to know, but this can be a cheap cop out. Now, go. Take a shower.” Joe says briskly, pulling Pete off the floor from the wrist and pushing him towards the door. “We’re trying to help you.”
“Help me do what? What’s the plan? What am I doing at the prom?” Pete asks and then he turns to look at Andy and Joe to which they both gave a long look at each other. Pete hears the mental click between both their brains just as they face Pete again.
“We can’t give you all the ideas,” Andy finally says, a little defensively. “I think it’s enough that we’re bringing you to the prom.”
“You’re the king of dramatics and romance here,” Joe adds, “we thought you would have at least fantasized about something . It’s you , you’ve probably dreamt of a million ways of winning him back already.”
“I have,” Pete says defensively, “that’s all I do. But--” and then Pete pauses, looks down on the floor at his feet where he’s wearing only one sock, too lazy to remove the other one earlier. There is fear crawling up his throat, freezing him from the insides. The past few minutes have felt like an 80’s movie montage, this climax where the hero is throwing on suits and dressing himself up for his friends, but now, all Pete feels is scared, the type of anxious overthinking that he knows is because of his brain, reality violently pulling him out of whatever movie theatre was unfortunate enough to show Pete’s life if it were a movie. “What if he doesn’t want to take me back?” Pete asks, voice breaking a little bit, eyes refusing to leave the floor.
“Pete,” Andy’s gentle voice says, pulling him to look up. Andy and Joe are standing there right in front of him, this soft look in both of their eyes, and just their look alone makes it easier for Pete to breathe, “it’s alright if he doesn’t. You still have to try.”
“If it doesn’t work out, I always have my gay cousin.” Joe says, this small smile on his face, and it makes Pete laugh even though his eyes threaten to spill some tears. “You can’t try unless you make it to the prom though, so go , shower.”
There is another silence but this time Andy and Joe are both expectantly looking at Pete, eyes wide, and there is this vibration in the air, of magic and being in your twenties, this mix of bravery and stupidity and blind hope, and maybe a little bit of love. Pete’s palms are burning, feels like the purple ink staining them has dug deep into his skin and turned into a tattoo.
Pete’s going to come out (think like cheesy teen coming out in an afterschool special that made it straight to late night TV on the nights where nobody watches— but this is scary, this is real), or well, he sort of does.
Pete’s standing in front of a crowd, admittedly large if he was going to be objective, he should congratulate Patrick for the turnout, that is, if Patrick would want to speak to him after this. Pete sees Winona, standing by the walls of the dance floor, she’s dressed in her cheer uniform and she sticks out from the crowd who are all actually pretty well dressed and taking this seriously, (and this gets Pete think that maybe Pete isn’t alone in here, in the way that there are other people like him looking for another shot at the life he deserved). The thought is comforting but it also leaves Pete’s knees feeling a little weak as people begin to take notice of the sweaty guy in the too big rented suit (there was only one dress shop that was open that late and affordable) on the stage that he definitely should not be on. For a second, Pete thinks of backing out, that there are other ways of apologizing, it doesn’t have to be the one Pete’s imagined in his head every night before he slept. Pete is frantically looking for Joe or Andy to tell them that he can’t actually do this when he catches Winona flashing him an encouraging smile, like she could possibly know what he was about to do, and all hesitation and most of the fear drains out of Pete.
Pete coughs into the mic and more people turn to look at him, and he’s never been nervous before a show, he loves the spotlight, loves eyes on him, but this time was different, there was no script for this. This time, Pete isn’t Pete Wentz from Arma Angelus or Pete Wentz from Racetraitor, or Pete Wentz Current Shit Boy of the Scene, king of breaking hearts in his stupid badly drawn on eyeliner and black Sharpie nail polish. This time, he was just Pete Wentz, where the skin on the left side of his chest is patched up from all the times he’s opened it up, only to put his heart on his sleeve.
If this was a Taylor Swift music video, Pete would have the whole band playing behind him, trumpets and drums coming in crescendo and climax when Pete finally admits to the school he liked boys too. Winona would have invited the whole cheer team and they would have done an interpretative dance synchronized to Pete’s heartbeat and thoughts. At the end of everything, Pete will have Patrick in his arms and coach will appear and offer Pete a spot back on the team.
If this was 10 Things I Hate About You Pete would have a mic in his hand, gotten Andy and Joe to hack into the school’s PA system and sang that stupid Elliot Smith song that’s been following him all the time instead of because Pete knew Patrick liked that song, he’s seen that specific vinyl record on top of his desk way too many times, Patrick was pretentious, was a music snob, was a mess, was a slob, but Pete still wanted him so, so bad. Being with Patrick makes Pete fall in love with the world, the same way he loved Patrick the morning after that first time he spent the night.
But this was real life, more Freaks and Geeks, where they should all just grow up and grow apart than Sixteen Candles, where the overly dramatic loser gets the boy of his dreams (Pete’s the loser here in this situation, by the way). Pete is alone and he’s going to sort of come out, it’s the cheesy teen coming out move in every movie but this is scary, this is real. Pete’s standing in front of everyone and he can’t breathe and he feels way too hot and sweaty in the rented suit he’s in, but Pete still doesn’t want that easy Hollywood ending, he doesn’t need it, everything after now is going to come from the heart.
“Hi, I have something to say.” Pete finally says into the mic, wincing when the feedback rattles the room and everyone glares at him, he definitely has the whole room’s attention now. “Sorry about that,”
“I just have a little announcement, um, well, I— sort of, it’s this— I pieced all of this together earlier. Some of it’s from my notes app from a year ago, when I got— when I got drunk and missed someone, and some is from just an hour ago, you can see hints of it on my hand, I tried to scrub it off the shower earlier but Sharpie is a bitch.” Pete isn’t speaking to the crowd anymore, because he’s found Patrick, Patrick and his blue eyes that weren’t looking at him with anger right now, it’s this soft look that Pete feels settle on his skin. “I don’t really— I don’t know how to do this. I— I suck at communicating and talking about my feelings, um, people know that, especially you, but I just needed to get this off my chest if you guys will let me.”
A quarter of the crowd has already began to dissipate in disinterest, choosing to run to the catering while everyone else was distracted. Pete catches a couple begin to make out in a way he was sure would have not been allowed back in high school. Pete coughs and finds his way back to Patrick again and this time, it feels like the world had faded to black, had faded into this thing that doesn’t matter.
The darkness is heavy and familiar, it’s all Pete’s ever known these past few months; in his bedroom with Andy’s arms around him; crying on the bathroom floor with Joe right across him; Winona’s bed as they fell asleep; that walk home with Patrick. But right now, at the end of it all, this long, dark tunnel that Pete thought his life was destined for, Patrick is at the end of it, this bright light that’s shining over Pete— he wasn’t talking about the spotlights, he’s talking about Patrick’s soft gaze, and Pete knows, finally realizes that these words dancing on his tongue, stuck to his teeth, these are the words he didn’t have when he watched Patrick sleep that first time.
Patrick’s eyes meeting his, it feels like Pete can feel music again. Like everything that has happened after that fight in his room was this long silence that didn’t even ring in his ears, this emptiness, the absence of something, but now Patrick was here and it’s like Pete could feel the music. Music sounds a lot like apathetic murmuring, of the faint dad rock playing on the speakers right now, it is Pete breathing heavily into the microphone; it’s ugly and normal, nothing special, but this was the sound of the two of them.
“I call this, um, this thing: I never went to prom, now I’m stuck on the dance floor. But you can call it Empty for short,” Pete laughs nervously above the deafening silence but Patrick smiles at him, this hesitant smile and it’s a start, it’s a fucking start and Pete will take it and it’s enough to calm the wild beating of his heart right now. Words come easily to him, it feels like Pete’s got a whole album inside his brain, everything about Patrick. Pete’s voice gets stronger and it feels like something in him gets lighter with every word out of his mouth and this rejoice, this fucking feeling of euphoria of finally coming out and being honest; Pete doesn’t need other people’s opinions about him, it’s never really mattered, so right now, this is for him.
“And I’ll be, right outside your front door on my twelve speed. I got your emotions tattooed on my sleeve,” Pete says softly, earnestly, his voice growing quiet, this part feels a little too raw, feels a little too open. These words had come that time he was underneath Patrick’s window, but they didn’t start making sense until now. “I think about you all the time, I've waited for you all my life I need you right here by my side,”
Pete takes a step back, forcing himself to look away from Patrick and he laughs again into the mic, mostly due to a combination of nerves and embarrassment. There was barely a crowd by the stage anymore, everyone has grown bored, but Patrick still stood there, in the center of it all, an awed look on his face, and Pete wants to see Patrick look at him like that every time, no matter what he had to do, he needs that look on his face right now. Pete realizes that he would do this whole raw experience that leaves him feeling out of his skin, of being known, of being vulnerable to all these people all over again if it meant that Patrick would look at him like that again.
“No pressure though, um, you know who you are.” Pete adds nervously. “You don’t have to um, you don’t have to like, stand up here next to me right now.
“Also, I don’t— I don’t want to hide behind metaphors this time, I want this one to be real and straight to the point and I uh— well, uh, the truth is I like boys. Me, Pete Wentz, I like girls and boys too, and there’s this boy that I still think about a lot and— yeah, I like them— that is, girls and boys.” Pete keeps talking because well, he’s a little surprised that he has gone this far without lightning striking him down and the crowd in front of him hasn’t even gasped, they’ve barely batted an eye, it’s like it wasn’t even a surprise. Pete might be a little insulted that this wasn’t that big a deal.
“Um. I don’t know how many times I have to say this but I like boys.” Pete says, a little dubiously, he was starting to think that maybe the microphone was broken. “I—”
“Bitch, me too, the fuck.” someone finally shouts from the crowd, and Pete looks to see who had interrupted him, squinting at the crowd but he can’t find the speaker. “You’re not special.”
“Somebody get that man off the stage before he embarasses himself even more.” Another voice says from the other side of the room.
“Do we all get a gold star for coming out and being gay?” This time, a girl’s voice, and Pete can’t see her either.
Pete is a mix of conflicting feelings fighting in his chest and stomach right now. There is confusion, worrying itself into a knot right underneath his throat as the crowd’s murmuring grows louder. But there is also the feeling, this sensation of it slowly untangling with some weird happiness, at how Pete is under the spotlight, under a microscope to be scrutinized, but there is no lightning striking him down, no police sirens, he hasn’t dropped dead yet—that is unless this is actually heaven, but what a poor excuse this is when Pete felt like earlier was a closer feeling to it despite the weird tension. He hears Winona’s voice call his name from the side, but his eyes don’t leave the crowd yet, the small group of people who stare back at him, unimpressed. He has never seen this, has never been under a spotlight where people didn’t care, whether it was back then playing shows or on the football field. This is—this is liberating.
“Thank you?” Pete says into the mic, feedback screaming from the speakers, “have a great night everyone. Thanks for having me.”
Winona’s voice calls him louder this time, and it’s enough to break the spell, Pete finally turns to leave, to the cheers of everyone in the crowd, the cruelest thing that Pete’s been looking for, but it’s still soft, something he barely even notices. Pete walks down the stage towards Joe, Andy, and Winona waiting by the side of the stage, this anxious, twisted look on their face even though Pete doesn’t understand why.
“Sorry, man.” Andy starts, biting his bottom lip, “I liked what you did. I thought it was pretty cool. Sorry about the crowd.”
“I tried everyone to start chanting empty afterwards,” Joe adds, “but it kinda failed.”
“It failed hard,” Winona said apologetically.
“I—It’s alright.” Pete says, a little dizzy, his whole body filled with that pins and needles sensation; adrenaline. “Can we—did any of you bring any alcohol in here? I think I need a drink.”
Pete doesn’t really, he doesn’t need the warmth of cheap shots or bottles of beer, he just wants this: the body warmth of the three of them as they usher Pete to the wall and crowd around him. Pete doesn’t see Patrick between the spaces of their bodies, so he tries not to think what Patrick could have thought about it either.
Pete’s job is done, but he still stays. Pete watches Joe dance with Marie on the dancefloor, his mouth moving so it was hard to mistake that he was singing to her; Andy, after a lot of pressuring from Pete, had finally walked away to catch a better view of the band that wasn’t by the wall; Winona had left immediately after Pete had gotten kicked off the stage, telling Pete she was sorry but she still had to cheer but she had promised him a million slow dances and inappropriate high school grinding in her room any time Pete wanted.
Pete is waiting for something, but then, okay, who is he kidding, he’s waiting for Patrick, So Pete waits and waits, keeps his eyes trained to safe spaces like the stage where the band was inviting Andy to drum for them for some crazy reason, the punch table, the rafters. Pete doesn’t let his eyes wander just in case they’re somehow drawn to Patrick and Pete sees something he doesn’t want to see.
But then time passes and the night grows longer and his legs have grown a bit tired, and maybe this was the end of Pete’s rope. Maybe things really won’t ever get any better than this; not that it’s a bad thing, Pete’s got some great friends and a lap dance in his future. Pete’s not giving up, maybe he’s just growing up. Either way, Pete hopes for one last time, he closes his eyes and he rests his head on the wall, he thinks, that if he opens them and his gaze lands on Patrick, then Pete is wrong about everything. Pete counts up to five, and then he counts up to fifteen, Pete has closed his eyes for twenty three Mississippi’s when he stops and opens his eyes.
The only thing Pete’s eyes land on is the EXIT glowing red and it’s just as much as a sign than it is a sign , an invitation, that Pete takes. With a heart weighing his chest down and his stomach turning like the punch had been spiked with cheap tequila. Pete walks out, flashing Joe a smile when he passes by him on the dance floor; Pete hopes it had been convincing.
The hallway is empty and dark, the faint sounds of the band still playing, but it’s muddled up. Patrick would have something to say about the bad acoustics— the thought makes Pete choke up a little. Pete’s walking away, looking for somewhere he could breathe easy. Pete can’t hold it together, needs to go outside and look up at the stars or the cityline and feel small; daylight can’t come sooner, Pete has never needed the sunlight than he does now.
There is the sound of the door opening and falling shut behind Pete and Pete turns around immediately, breath still stuck in his chest, heart still beating, mouth still tingling. There is adrenaline rushing in Pete’s veins and there is Patrick standing right in front of him; there is a little truth in every romantic cliche.
“Heard you were kicked out of the team.” is the first thing Patrick says before Pete could say, I had almost given up on you. How did you know that I couldn’t? Pete would have mistaken Patrick’s tone for something biting if he didn’t know Patrick well, if Pete couldn’t recognise the fear and embarssmnt in Patrick’s voice and the way Patrick’s looking at him right now, “Is that why you’re here? Why you— why you went on stage and said that?”
“Is that what people are saying? I quit actually.” Pete said softly, “Not that that’s the part that matters, but it’s important. I gave it up because of all the other things I lost, and I know I’ll keep losing things because of it in the future. I just had to—I had to stop.”
Pete watches Patrick swallow the lump in his throat and his eyes briefly dart to the ceiling, Pete watches the way Patrick’s hands tremble, Pete watches the crooked way Patrick is breathing right now. Pete does not say anything.
“Boys huh,” Patrick finally says after the long silence, voice low and quiet. There is a great deal of space between them but it’s small, it’s small compared to this great distance that’s been between them for months now; Pete can live, “plural? There were others?”
“Yeah,” Pete says swallowing the lump in his throat, this sounded like a test where he knows there are right and wrong answers, but all he wants to say is the truth. “There were a couple— I didn’t do anything with them. Just thought that I would have done something with them, like followed them anywhere. I’m sure there were more if I look back on my past a little bit further and like, unrepress all the things I’ve repressed.”
Pete wants to add that they all made him feel heated, like he was running a fever, felt like the iron in his blood was melting and leaving his knees weak— but it had been different with Patrick. Patrick made him feel cool, comfortable in his skin, like he didn’t have to be anyone else but himself. Pete could say all these things and more, he’s always been good with words, but he doesn’t, he keeps his mouth shut and he waits for Patrick to say something.
Patrick takes one step closer to him but he remains silent, Pete remains where he’s standing, so still just in case movement scares Patrick away. “So I’m not just a one time thing?” Patrick asks, cautiously.
“If you’re asking if I could like another dude, then yeah, but— I want you to be more than a one time thing,” Pete says, feeling a little confused now, unsettling doubt creeping up its way to his mouth, so he presses his lips tightly together. Pete’s not going to beg for Patrick to stay with him. Pete isn’t sure what he would do if Patrick didn’t take him back, Pete figured that felt it too: that there’s something about this space between him and Patrick that he keeps coming back to, feels a pull to, like they’re tied together up until now, even though it’s kind of stretched and fraying. “I thought you— I thought I established that earlier on stage— oof,”
Pete blinks and Patrick has crossed the space between them, has moved into Pete’s space, and then it is his mouth meeting Pete’s, and this is so stupid to think, but this feeling is home, and Patrick is just this thing that brings him there. Patrick’s lips, chapped and dry, feel good on Pete’s. Pete knows what Patrick tastes like when he’s just woken up, knows what it feels like when the sunlight or moonlight is lighting Patrick’s mouth, knows that sometimes Patrick tastes like cherry cola and what he had for lunch; but this— this is just Patrick, Patrick opening up his mouth to him and pushing his tongue into Pete’s mouth.
This is a kiss Hollywood movies dream of. This is: two boys, in rented suits, sweaty and a little broken down in the inside, hearts loud; dreams and movie screens can never capture this, the feeling of their hearts settling down, of falling. The only cliche here is the way Pete’s foot pops, rises from the ground ever so slightly as Patrick pulls him in, his hands squeezing Pete’s waist like he was keeping him there. They break away and the only thing Pete can think of is why they would ever do such a thing, like oxygen is a thing, but it doesn’t matter, not really.
“I—” Patrick says, words getting caught in his throat but Pete can’t really hear him, too lost in the way Patrick’s pupils were blown like little black holes. “I—”
“Let’s take this to your room?” Pete asks, his voice coming out rough.
“Yes,” Patrick says breathlessly, and Pete was about to turn, his hand finding Patrick’s, only for Patrick to let go to bring both his hands to cradle Pete’s face. “Wait a sec,” Patrick says as his thumb gently soothes over Pete’s cheek, touches for Pete’s skin, and Pete feels his eyes close. They just breathe, they inhale and exhale, they just stand there, unmoving, and Pete feels his insides begin to quiet. They weren’t rushing, they’re not running away from the truth anymore. It’s their time now if they wanted it to be— and God, Pete fucking wants , is vibrating with it.
“Okay?” Patrick asks, but it’s more of an exhale, Pete breathes his CO2 in.
“Yeah,” Pete nods, eyes still closed, just so that he can remember every groove on Patrick’s thumb in great detail, for the times when Patrick won’t be at arm’s length. There is the feeling then of Patrick’s lips on his again, and this one is soft and sincere, tentative and shy, like Patrick still finds something new in it; feels a lot like kissing him for the first time.
“Let’s go then,” Patrick says and Pete finally opens his eyes, and Patrick is still there. Patrick’s hands have now fallen to find Pete’s and his thumb was circling Pete’s wrist, in time with the beat of Pete’s pulse point, and this— Pete isn’t dreaming, it just suddenly hits him, that this is happening.
And Pete would follow Patrick anywhere, for his head and for his heart. If there was another life where he needed to cross state lines and oceans, in jet planes and tour buses, in whatever form and shape, Pete would follow Patrick anywhere he wanted to bring Pete to.
There is a lot of shyness when they both reach Patrick’s room, it fills the room in its heavy blue weight, and it makes Pete thinks about a year ago, the first time. Pete blushes at the way he had acted, like he was trying to run after something, like he was chasing after his dreams and time with Patrick. Pete thinks about how that guy was too small in his football uniform, how he can barely recognize him even in his memories. That Pete hadn’t been shy, he hadn’t held Patrick like this was something that he could lose, or was something that he didn’t want to. Pete’s eyes get caught and get stuck on the foot of Patrick’s bed, where that first kiss had happened, the way it had made his whole mouth burn up..
They don’t let go of each other’s hands but they don’t move either, there is a lot of awkward fumbling, neither of them seem to have the script to this. Pete leans down to kiss Patrick, but Patrick turns his head the wrong way and Pete ends up catching his teeth on Patrick’s cheek. “Ouch,” Patrick winces, letting go of Pete’s hand to wipe at his cheek, a frown directed towards Pete.
“Sorry.” Pete says, meekly, his face heating up and his fingers trembling, “Can I try again?”
Patrick breaks into a smile, this huff of laughter that sounded like he didn’t want to let it out. “Okay, come here.” Patrick says, and he reaches over to Pete, resting his hands on Pete’s shoulders like they were about to slow dance here in the middle of his room— Pete wouldn’t be opposed to the idea, he can hear music now everywhere; in the soft footsteps of Patrick walking towards him; of his shallow breathing like he didn’t want to waste it, like Patrick left him breathless; of the way his heart was beating so fast, the beat of it sure and loud, like a drumbeat that will follow him every time he’s with Patrick.
And then Patrick is too close to him now, and he’s looking up at Pete, eyelashes fluttering and his face flushed; he looks like everything Pete never knew he wanted. So Pete kisses him, and he kisses him, and he kisses him; a thousand times Pete kisses him. Pete doesn’t stop, if this had to stop, he doesn’t want it to be because of him, so it’s Patrick who stops it, who pulls away to grasp Pete’s wrists in his fists and pull them to his bed. They fall but Patrick pulls them to sit on the edge, and the past and present blur together and Pete wants to redo that first kiss all over again. Pete leans in, because now it feels like he can’t live unless he has Patrick’s lips on his own, but Patrick firmly pushes his chest back, a rueful smile on his face.
“I just— wait— I need to tell you something. We need to talk about this.” Patrick says, and his voice is apologetic and maybe there’s just a hint of sadness, and Pete’s heart suddenly aches with it, at the sudden fear that he might wish that this movie had ended after the kiss, that they didn’t have to return back to reality in the end of it all.
“Okay,” is what Pete says instead, when he actually wanted to say wait, let me live out my dreams a little bit more, just give me a minute . It’s all he can say, everything else makes his throat close up. Pete doesn’t want to lose Patrick already, he’s waiting for the but that’s going to happen, and he knows he can’t hate Patrick for it when it comes.
“I’m glad you came out, I really am,” Patrick says, and his voice is proud and his eyes are wet, “I know like— it was an easy coming out, everyone was really accepting and— you know, you get it. I am so proud of you Pete,” Patrick continues, his voice soft, and Pete knows Patrick means it, that this is genuine, this is real. “But you know you didn’t have to do that, you know?” Patrick says, and then adds quickly “like I appreciate what you did for me, but like, really, what matters more is you being safe and I didn’t want to pressure you into doing something you didn’t want to do.”
There’s this soft look in Patrick’s eyes, this awed look on his face just like it was in the crowd earlier, like Pete was made of the limelight of the spotlight and this golden future that they were both dreaming of. The look in Patrick’s eyes makes Pete ache; nobody’s looked at him like this, like he was something they wanted for tomorrow, and for the next week, next month, forever.
“I wanted to,” Pete says, after a pause, “I’d do it again. I— I just don’t want to hide who I am anymore.”
Patrick smiles at him, just a little watery, the corners of it shaking a bit as he tried to hold back his tears. Pete gently brushes at Patrick’s, feeling his thumb come back wet. “I’m sorry, Pete.” Patrick says, and Pete prepares himself for what Patrick is going to say next, the downward swoop of his stomach, “I just— I can’t do that. I can’t be brave like you. I— my family and— I—”
“Patrick,” Pete says, and then he exhales, releases the breath that he’s been holding, “Patrick, Patrick, Patrick. I don’t care. You don’t have to say sorry. You— Patrick. I’m in this with you.”
“We’re usually so bad at talking to each other.” Patrick laughs a little, but he pulls away from Pete, making the space between them larger and Pete imagines that if he lets Patrick continue with this, Pete won’t ever be able to cross back into the space where he’ll be near enough to count every color in Patrick’s eyes, “It makes me wonder if I still want to do this, I don’t want to lose you, Pete. I don’t want the heartache and heartbreak of that happening.”
“I’m good at listening though.” Pete tells him, just a little short of desperate, pulling at Patrick to move back into him, back into their space, “I’ll listen to you. I listen to you. I already do. The words just get messed up a lot of the time. You make my brain feel fried.
“And— and it doesn’t matter if we can only keep everything under the covers, I don’t care. Patrick, I just want to be with you. You need to know— I’m in this for real. It’s not always going to be easy, but I know how to say the word sorry now and I— I realized that I love you and I want to be able to show it to you this time.”
“You really mean that?” Patrick asks him, his voice was small, and he sounds convinced, but there’s still disbelief that Pete hates to hear. Patrick doesn’t move away, the space between them is frozen.
“You’re one of the only things that I’m sure of.” Pete says, meaning it, “It doesn’t matter what I have to do for you. I love you and I want to be with you whatever I have to do.”
“It’s not going to be easy, I need you to know what you’re getting into,” Patrick tells him, but it’s half-hearted, his face already growing closer to Pete as he leans in without realizing it. “I don’t want you to resent me for what the world is going to do to me, to us.”
“Patrick, I’ve already forgiven the world,” Pete says, moving his own face closer and closer for his breath to blow on Patrick’s mouth, “I’ve forgiven the world because it has you.”
“You’re so fucking dramatic and cheesy,” Patrick mumbles, his mouth catching on Pete’s, “but I love you too. Think I forgot to mention that.”
Pete thinks that it doesn’t matter if Patrick didn’t say it, he can feel it in the way Patrick’s lips move, it’s like they’re saying the four words over and over again. Pete can taste it on Patrick’s tongue, it’s stuck there in Patrick’s teeth, Pete imagines this is what tasting a dream would taste like.
“I’m sorry that the crowd didn’t appreciate your surprise spoken word performance earlier.” Patrick teases, but Pete knows he’s sincere.
“Winona said the same thing earlier,” Pete laughs, “But I’m actually okay with it? I—I’m lucky and I don’t know. I was always so worried that people weren’t going to react well to it, I keep waiting for someone to react that way I expected them to, but—nobody has—everybody’s been okay with it.” Pete explains, “I never thought that it would be that easy to come out.
“Like, I get that I’m lucky but I realize—it was just the team and a couple other fucking assholes who are still homophobic in their fucking twenties. There’s a bigger world out of here to be afraid of, but I don’t know, everyone’s reactions have just—they just make me feel less ashamed of who I am. It makes me a little braver.”
Patrick reaches out to cup Pete’s face and Pete leans into the touch, “I’m so proud of you,” Patrick repeats sincerely, “I—I’ll remember this, you, standing on that stage, opening up yourself to the world, when the time comes, when I’m ready.”
Patrick’s hand then moves to the back of Pete’s neck and brings him down for their mouths to meet. They make out and make up, pull apart to pull each other in again, they hold tight and then loose on each other’s faces. The two of them were a mix of everything messy like the clothes on the floor, of all the good and the bad. This kiss is turning the hurt into hope, into something gentle, something kind, something made for summer days underneath the covers and it doesn’t sound so bad anymore. They can hide this from the world, before the world sees it and wants something of a piece of it for itself; here in this bedroom, on this mattress, it can be just for them.
“Pete can you— I— you,” Patrick gasps when Pete pulls away to press kisses on Patrick’s neck, licking his skin to wipe it clean of everything that’s happened. “I can’t think when I’m around you.”
Pete pulls away, takes this sight in: Patrick, back against the headboard, breathing heavily, chest rising up and down; Patrick, eyes blown and cheeks this pink color that’s borrowed from all of Pete’s favorite sunsets; Patrick, the silver of his skin burning in the dark against of Patrick’s melted gold arms around him.
“Let’s slow down,” Patrick says just as Pete thinks it. “Sorry I’m so— sorry for rushing I’m still…” Patrick lets the sentence hang, and there was fear, self-doubt, vulnerability in his voice, but Pete kisses him, briefly, until he feels Patrick relax, melting from his muscles to his bones. Pete is unable to shield Patrick from the past, from the hurt, from the anxiety, but he tries to give everything that he feels for Patrick, this one distilled feeling, into that kiss.
They both pull away and Pete’s fingers linger on the bottom of Patrick’s polo; Pete’s fingers tremble as he tries to keep still, as his eyes meet Patrick’s and he loses all sense of thought.
“Can I?” Pete asks Patrick, softly. Pete has never felt more nervous than he has now, has never wanted for something to be so perfect, has never wanted to give something to someone more than receive it.
“Only if you do,” Patrick replies, a smile on his face, and so Pete smiles back.
Pete pushes Patrick to sit up against the headboard and he begins to unbutton Patrick’s polo, slowly, from the bottom, there is the softness of Patrick’s stomach, and then there are the faint speed bumps of his ribs, and then the expanse of his chest where Pete knows Patrick’s heart is. Patrick is a rosy pink, the blush spreading all over from his face to his collarbone to his all over his torso and the color makes Pete think of bringing Patrick flowers for the next time, because there will be one, a next time.
Patrick’s fingers are not so careful as they pull at Pete’s polo, his fingers trembling just like Pete’s did earlier, “Careful, this is Joe’s,” Pete says, trying to not laugh as Patrick’s fingers stumble to unbutton his polo.
“Oh my God, of course you don’t have a dress polo, but you have a million stupid basketball jerseys.”
“Would you have wanted me to go to prom with you wearing a basketball jersey?”
“Shut the fuck up and help me out already,” Patrick says, just as fingers slip the first of many buttons off.
Pete wraps his fingers around Patrick’s and they unbutton him together; it was a lot clumsier and slower because of the extra set of hands, but the comfort of the warmth of Patrick’s skin, the rush of blood travelling down Pete felt; this is desire, he is electric, he has discovered a new feeling right now and he knows nobody has ever felt this before, Pete surely hasn’t.
They’re both finally naked from the waist up and as Pete throws his polo to the floor, there is Patrick staring at him with a soft look on his face. Patrick rests his hands on Pete’s face and Pete allows himself to be pulled into Patrick’s space, Patrick kisses him, opening his mouth up for Pete, and Pete kisses him back. “Needed a short break, that was hard work,” Patrick explained softly when they pull apart.
Pete grins, heart growing ten sizes too big with fondness. Pete hopes Patrick will never get tired of kissing him. “Let’s get back to business then, shall we?”
Patrick’s hands fall to Pete’s belt and he begins to unbuckle and unbutton Pete’s trousers; this softness and care in the way he moved like Pete was something holy. Once Pete is only in his boxers, he returns the favor to Patrick, skimming his fingers on Patrick’s lower stomach, making him shiver, tracing his nails around the soft skin of Patrick’s inner thighs as he pulls his trousers down. They stare at each other, down to their boxers, the room is quiet it feels like the world has been reduced this one thing: PeteAndPatrick , and all the messiness of the past and their feelings, doesn’t exist here in the spaces between their chests.
Patrick reaches over to rest his hand on Pete’s chest, on the left side, and the room doesn’t sound as quiet, Pete is acutely aware of the way his heart is beating fast and loud, but he’s not ashamed of it, he’d broadcast the way it sings and screams against his chest if Patrick asked him to.
“Nervous?” Patrick asks, this mischievous smile on his face, “first time?
Pete laughs, it’s easy to, and he pulls Patrick down from his previous position sitting up against the headboard for his back to rest on the mattress. Pete rests on his elbows, slotting to Patrick’s sides, shielding him from everything, and he leans in close. “How can you tell?”
“I’m just as nervous as you,” Patrick replies softly, blue eyes glowing, touching Pete’s face, ”it’s my first time too.”
“You— the others? I’m not judging but—”
Patrick shakes his head, “Never went that far with them. I was never comfortable enough. It’s kinda cheesy and it’s old-fashioned— you can laugh— but this always felt like giving up a part of myself. I’ve always wanted to give it to someone who didn’t think this was dirty.”
Pete doesn’t laugh; instead he leans down and the distance between them closes as their mouths meet, “I love you,” is all Pete says.
Patrick smiles at him, this pure smile that pulls at Pete’s heartstrings, and again, Pete is filled with this want to protect him from all the rejection, shame, hurt, that Patrick has felt, but also there is this feeling of awe, of wonder, that Patrick had still chosen him, how he smiles Pete. Pete tells Patrick as much.
“It’s because I love you too.” Patrick says simply, and then he adds, a little embarrassed, “now what’s the logistics of this? Do you prefer to uh--”
Pete laughs at the look on Patrick’s face, this cross between embarrassment and indignation, “You’re too precious,” Pete says, pinching Patrick’s cheek, “but uh, remember that time when we—in the shower?”
Patrick nods, “Yeah, that time I said--?”
“Yeah,”
“Looking back now, we were both pretty gay.”
“You didn’t call me out on it, so I didn’t call you out on it.”
Patrick just laughs at that and Pete thinks everything that comes out of Patrick is music. “Okay, okay, so I’ll be the one on top?”
“Yeah, go slow and be gentle with me, okay?” Pete says with a leer that makes Patrick roll his eyes.
“On your back, Pete.” Patrick replies, eyes not leaving Pete’s face as he stretches to rummage around his desk drawer, pulling out a tube of lube and condoms. And then there is awkward fumbling with Pete copping feels at Patrick’s semi through his boxers and Patrick almost twisting a few limbs as they try to fit into his tiny mattress. They’re breathless with laughter and a hint of desire and want by the time Pete is finally on his back with his legs open for Patrick to sit in between.
“I’ve wanted this so bad,” Pete says before Patrick moves any closer, before Pete could stop his heart from using his mouth, “I want you so, so bad.”
Patrick smiles at him, this sweet smile where his eyes go soft like he understands what Pete’s trying to say underneath arguably cheap and sleazy porn lines. Pete feels fireworks explode over and over in his chest, like something was being broken down to be reborn somewhere there, deep in his ribcage. “You have me now.” is all Patrick says quietly, brushing hair off Pete’s forehead, and the touch cools the fever Pete feels throughout his body.
Patrick uncaps the lube and is about to drizzle some on his fingertips when Pete reaches for Patrick’s hand, “Can I?” Pete asks, voice growing thin with need he didn’t know he was capable of.
Patrick grins and this one doesn’t feel as sweet—it’s still there, but there is something softly dirty about the way Patrick is appraising him right now, Pete thinks he must look like a mess, “Okay, baby.”
The baby sounds tacked on like an afterthought, exhaled like Patrick was still too afraid to use it and so he had slurred it in hopes Pete may or may not understand, sounded like Patrick was still trying it out, the taste and feel of it on his tongue, but Pete’s dick jumps at it anyway, and Patrick only laughs, silly and musical, relieved, when he notices. Pete throws him a halfhearted glare before taking the lube from Patrick’s fingers and pulling at Patrick’s boxers, enough to expose the rosy pink head of Patrick’s dick; the sight is something that Pete knows shouldn’t make his heart feel a pull towards to, but whatever, it’s been a while and Pete never thought he was going to see Patrick, in front of him and waiting, ever again, he can let this weird attraction pass. Pete generously slathers lube across his fingers, drizzling some on Patrick’s dick, and begins to run a loose fist around the length of Patrick’s cock. The angle isn’t so ideal with Patrick on his knees in front of Pete, Pete’s wrist is angled weirdly and he knows that his fist isn’t as tight as it could be, but Patrick still sighs softly, falling forward to rest both his hands on Pete’s shoulders.
“You’re so good at this. Missed you.” Patrick says, letting their foreheads meet as he sighs again, tight and needy, bucking his hips forwards to chase the feeling, grinding the head of his cock on Pete’s lower stomach, the hot skin right above his boxers, leaving it sticky and wet with precum. Pete twists his wrists and he thumbs over Patrick’s head, Patrick whines in response and Pete catches the way his soft thighs shake under the attention of Pete’s fist. Patrick’s head clumsily falls to Pete’s shoulder and begins to press soft, open-mouthed kisses there, his teeth occasionally catching on the more sensitive parts like where his neck and collarbone meet but it is soothed by Patrick’s tongue. Pete is unable to do anything except breathe in the smell of Patrick’s shampoo, Pete thinks he can get off like this, it is not entirely impossible; the friction of his boxers catching on his dick, Patrick’s thigh grinding on his dick every few seconds or so, combined with the cycle of Patrick’s mouthteethtongue and repeat leaves him uncomfortably hard and on the edge already.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Patrick mutters with a short, out of breath laugh and Pete realizes that he had said that aloud.
“You’re so just fucking beautiful, the sounds you make, the way you look right now, the way you feel in my fist.” Pete says to the nearest real estate of skin which just so happens to be Patrick’s temple, throbbing in rhythm to the way Pete was slowly quickening his pace—and yes, it’s an oxymoron, polar opposites from each other, but literary and universal rules don’t exist right now in this moment, as Pete’s fist begins to speed up and Patrick moans in response, so deep that Pete feels the vibrations on it on his chest.
“You gotta— stop,” Patrick’s voice hitches and Pete’s fist begins to slow down, “I might cum and then I’ll feel like a fucking loser for cumming.”
Pete laughs and Patrick pouts at him, his bottom lip so plump and red from mouthing all over Pete’s neck Pete can’t wait to look at the purple hickies on his neck like it was high school all over again, wearing it like a bruise or black eye, this badge that screams I lost my virginity last night .
“You’re such a dick.” Patrick says without any heat, sitting back, but even if it did, Pete can’t take him seriously with the way his dick was just there, hard and already ready for him. Patrick’s hips were pressing down on the mattress, seeking for friction, without him even noticing, “You won’t be laughing for long though.”
“Is that a threat?” Pete teases, trying to reach for Patrick’s dick only for Patrick to swat his hand away.
“You’re insufferable.” Patrick shoots back, and he begins to apply lube to his fingers, and Pete feels his dick jump again at the sight. “Lie down for me?”
Pete obeys and rests his back on the mattress, stretching his legs wider apart, offering himself to Patrick. Patrick sighs again and Pete watches him palms his cock briefly, “Nice show,” Pete says with a sharp grin, but Jesus, he’d be lying if he didn’t admit that watching Patrick get off at the sight of him, at the thought of what he was about to do, got Pete off too.
“Might have to disagree with you there, I think my view is better,” Patrick replies, cheeks pink.
“You’re so disgusting when you’re in love but I’m just as disgustingly in love with you.”
Patrick only smiles at him, blushing even harder, “Want me to eat you out?”
Pete groans, his dick was painfully hard now and Patrick hasn’t even touched it beyond his thighs grinding it earlier, this was ridiculous. “I have a love boner and it’s so painful. If we don’t start soon, my dick is going to fall off. Your tongue is too—Jesus.” Pete moans out, as Patrick thumb teases at the entrance of his asshole.
“Short answer, Wentz?” Patrick says as his thumb begins to circle it slowly, pressing in ever so slightly.
“You’re going to kill me.” Pete exhales.
Patrick is evil so he just laughs as he finally presses his thumb inside, Pete’s breath hitches, catches in his throat at the sensation; it’s been a while. But Patrick, despite being evil, does take it slow, rhythmically moving his fingers inside and out; drummer’s tempo, Pete was suddenly very much in love with cute boys who majored in audio engineering, or maybe that was just Patrick. Pete falls into a lull, until it’s comfortable enough for Patrick to insert another finger in him; it’s a bit of a stretch and it makes Pete’s thighs shake a little, still unused to the feeling.
Patrick notices the look of discomfort on his face, and before Pete could defend his ego, Patrick removes his fingers and moves down the bed, his face right in front of the heat of Pete’s cock. “Can I?” Patrick murmurs, mouth catching on the suttble of Pete’s shaven pubic hairs.
Pete nods violently, unable to speak, and Patrick only laughs as he slowly inserts his fingers again, but this time he lowers his mouth to Pete’s cock. The wet-hot heat of Patrick’s mouth over his dick and the fingers in his ass left Pete feeling dizzy, spots of static and glitter clouding the edges of his eyesight because of the sensation. By the time Patrick was steadily pushing in three fingers in him, Pete was convinced he could taste color and feeling now; this moment was a color in the shade of blue, borrowed from Patrick’s eyes and the neon signs of the city, and this feeling was desperation, tightness, waiting, wanting, needing, and this all tasted like salt on Pete’s tongue.
“Patrick, Patrick, Patrick,” Pete whines, Patrick’s name has stopped being a word, it was a song now, symphonies, orchestras, Pete was going to scream out loud, “I’m ready, I’m ready. Please.”
“I’ve got you. Easy now, baby.” Patrick says soothingly, pulling his fingers out and hastily putting on a condom before messily pouring lube on his dick before throwing the tube to the floor, “Ready?”
“Please,” Pete has been reduced to one letter syllables, he has been reduced to an electric fever all over his body, he wonders how Patrick doesn’t have burn marks when he touches Pete’s skin.
Patrick kneels over Pete, skin glowing gold from the mixture of stardust and the cheap fluorescent dorm lighting he was made of, and he begins to lead his dick into Pete’s entrance, the thickness of his head feeling more than too much already, but Pete is craving for the new feeling that’s leaving him breathless, speechless. Patrick eases into him slowly, pushing in and then pulling back when Pete breathes out, reduced to sounds like moans and whines because he doesn’t know how to use words anymore. Whenever Patrick moves inside of him, it sparks this jolt of voltage that Pete feels shoot up his spine and makes his toes curl up. Patrick moves and the slide is slow enough for Pete to feel every inch of a drag of Patrick’s cock inside of him.
“How are you, baby?” Patrick asks softly, stilling inside of him after a while.
“You feel good,” Pete chokes out, tightening a little because Jesus, it really does feel good, and they both groan out. “Are you really this big?”
“You flatter me. We’re almost there, baby.”
“Just push the rest in, I can take it.”
Patrick shakes his head and takes both of Pete’s hands into his own, he rests them on opposite sides of Pete’s head and he holds on tight, his hands were sweaty but his grip was warm and comforting. Patrick is near enough for Pete to see the soft way he looks at him, the tiny little explosions of amber against the crystal blue of Patrick’s eyes, there are no words to describe how exactly Patrick is looking at him, but it feels like a quiet declaration of all the love he feels in his body for Pete, the sound of their hearbreats drowned out by the other sounds in the room: of filthy moans, of Patrick’s soothing hushes, of fingers dragging across skin. And maybe this really is too much, Pete is realizing gentler things about himself mid-fuck, but what else could he feel when Patrick is gazing at Pete like Patrick’s been missiong something his whole life and Pete was the car headlights lighting the road back home, back to the world that they both should have existed in from the start.
The realization hits just as Patrick finally bottoms out and Pete feels tiny little sparks where they touch now, it’s too much too much too much and it leaves Pete choking for air all of a sudden, his eyes rolling back.
“Patrick,” Pete stutters, and it wasn’t just Patrick’s name but a confession, it was an anthem, it was a declaration.
“I know, I know, I know,” Patrick says, forehead resting on Pete’s cheek. Pete is afraid to move, scared it will set him off too fast and this moment will be over, but Patrick does know, and he keeps still. They lie still like that, Patrick inside of Pete, barely moving save for the feeble push of his hips like he can’t help himself, and Pete, opening up himself to Patrick.
“Okay,” Pete exhales, “I think--” and Pete groans as Patrick tentatively pushes in, “Jesus, no that felt good,” Pete breathes out when he senses the start of an apology. “Just keep it slow first.”
Patrick nods, teeth gritted, and he begins to pull back, and the slide out, the ride back out, feels way better than it did earlier now that Pete was stretched just right. Patrick pushes in and it still leaves the breath stuck to Pete’s throat, but he wants more. Pete is left in a dizzying state where time and space doesn’t exist except for the feeling of Patrick slowly moving in and out of him until he finally feels loose enough to ask for more.
“Are you sure?” Patrick asks him, and his voice sounds so wrecked, it sounds torn and raw, and Pete feels his dick harden even more and he’s reminded that it’s been forgotten this whole time. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Patrick,” Pete replies, still holding Patrick’s hands so tight he’s sure his knuckles are white by now, “I can take it, I swear. You feel so good and I want you to feel good too.”
Patrick pulls out one last time, leaving the tip in, before pushing in. There is a subtle change in the rhythm Patric moves in, it was heavy and thick, moving fast like honey dripping on Pete’s sweaty, vibrating skin. Pete wraps his legs around Patrick’s waist, which earns a laugh from Patrick and there is a stutter in his movements as he doubles over with laughter.
“You drive me so crazy,” Patrick says, looking at him adoration, and fondness, and every single word Pete never thought he would use to describe the way someone looked at him. Pete stretches up to peck a quick sweet kiss in reply.
The change in angle, of Pete’s raised hips, brings Patrick deeper in him, and when Patrick pushes, he hits something that makes Pete cry out, loud enough that he knows people might hear, but Patrick doesn’t shush him, doesn’t try to cover his mouth to drown out the noises. Patrick has hit that spot in him; and this—this feeling feels like honeyed moons are setting on Pete’s skin leaving him feeling like he was made of galaxy vibrations and tectonic trembling that leaves Pete unsure if they’re still here on top a noisy mattress or have they transcended their physical bodies and they’re living out Pete’s dreams.
“Again, again, there—Patrick, please.” Pete whines, hips moving to meet Patrick halfway and the feeling keeps hitting Pete over and over, Patrick keeps bringing him to that place. Patrick leans over and kisses him and somehow this is better. It feels like Pete has not ever kissed Patrick in this lifetime. Pete opens his mouth for Patrick’s tongue to slip inside, for Patrick’s teeth to sink down on his bottom lip, for Patrick to make all these delicious sounds that Pete drinks up. Pete knows Patrick is close, it’s the way his words are getting softer, this slurred mess of IloveyououaresobeautifulPeteIamsoluckyIcantbelieveyou’rehereyou’remadeofallmydreamsyou’rmydeepblueloveyou’remydeepblueloveyou’remydeepbluelove and Pete doesn’t know how to reply except for kissing Patrick again and again.
Pete feels Patrick’s right hand disappear from his own, fingernails dragging across his skin. Pete is sure there are golden streaks on his skin because every part of him that he feels Patrick touch is like Patrick is carrying sunlight, in even just the tips of his fingers. Slowly, or maybe too fast, Pete isn’t sure time exists right now, but Patrick reaches for Pete’s dick and begins to fist his length. Pete has been wound tightly until that second, now Patrick was slowly unraveling him, slowly untangling the mess that he leaves Pete’s heart strings in. Patrick’s fist is a tight seal around Pete’s cock, and with every curl of his wrist, every thumb across the head of it, spreading precum making it slide smoother, leaving Pete even more sensitive. Pete suddenly feels to close to the edge even though Patrick has barely touched him until now and it would be embarrassing, but Pete feels it, it’s burning through his eyelids every time he blinks, he sees colors that don’t exist, can taste Patrick in the air. “‘Trick, I’m so close,” Pete groans out as Patrick’s fist deliciously slides over his cock.
“Come for me, baby.” Patrick says, and it’s not so much as a command, but a song, Patrick’s voice crooning into Pete’s ear, further cementing how Patrick was made of that golden music Pete can feel deep into his bones.
“ Patrick,” Pete says, and it’s a loaded word. This feeling is water acting as fire, molten lava, passion and heat, melting Pete, leaving him out of his skin, bone-naked raw and vulnerable. This is Patrick’s mouth meeting his and this, his mouth, it is the key unlocking it all, this wave of feelings that have been stuck deep inside Pete’s chest up until this moment, and it’s more than cumming, way more than that, but as Pete spills cum on his stomach and Patrick’s fingers, the feeling spills out of Pete too, all the blue sadness and the mix of sounds that Patrick leaves him in, the same way for Patrick to swallow down into his throat.
“Don’t stop.” Pete manages to pull away from Patrick’s mouth for that brief second to tell him as much, and Patrick only groans in reply but Pete is there to catch the sound. Patrick’s hips stutter fast and unsteady, like a remix of a drumbeat they’re both familiar with, Patrick’s nails leave little crescent moons on whatever part of skin they dug deep into, Patrick is close, Patrick is closer, and this should feel like too much for Pete’s sensitive cock, but the pleasure is still there, summer hot and just as deep, Pete can disappear into it.
Patrick finally comes and Pete feels the vibrations of it inside of him, making him cry out, and this moment, in between these sheets, in between all that Pete has done wrong and all that he’ll do right, it feels like he and Patrick have finally found each other.
“I love you,” Pete says, the realization hitting him and he’s meant it all those other times, but this time, he might mean it more than he does, more than he ever will. When Pete had realized he loved Patrick this time, he felt his heart grow— suddenly, he is not only in love with Patrick, but this blue and cruel world that holds him, this mostly tragic life with the burning, blinding, blooming light at the end that is Patrick; Patrick, the center of the universe.
Patrick doesn’t pull out, instead, he slowly lifts his head to smile dopily at Pete, blind fondness in his eyes, “I love you too,” Patrick says, kissing Pete, and this is the moment all those movies have missed, the kiss right after the big movie screen kiss where the screen fades to black, this is the kiss where there is mess everywhere and there’s some sort of pain because Patrick still hasn’t pulled out, but this is the kiss even bigger than all the other ones because this is theirs to keep.
Pete wants to say it again, I love you, a thousand times I love you, but instead he just kisses Patrick again, sinking his teeth into Patrick’s bottom lip to soothe with his tongue afterwards. Patrick only huffs in pretend annoyance as he pulls away from the kiss. “I’m going to pull out now, okay?” Patrick says, gently.
Pete doesn’t reply with anything more than holding Patrick’s hand, the clean one, not the one still stained with cum, and holds it tight. Patrick begins to pull out of Pete and it’s a lot more painful than he thought it would be, but it’s a fleeting pain, and soon Patrick is throwing the condom into the wastebasket next to his bed and grabbing a sock off the floor to wipe Pete’s stomach clean of the cum.
“Hey, I think that’s my sock,” Pete says, remembering all those months ago, a missing sock, and he thinks, what else has he lost in this room, what he has lost and then found again.
Patrick’s arm was raised, about to throw it to the growing pile of laundry next to his door, “Yeah, sure, Pete. What’s mine is yours.” Patrick replies throwing a fond smile his way just as he throws the sock, not even bothering to see if it shoots, too busy staring at Pete. So Pete doesn’t bother to correct him either, he only smiles back at Patrick, heart finally settling in its right position in his chest.
“We should leave this bed and shower,” Pete says, snuggling up to Patrick’s side and burying his face into the crook of Patrick’s neck. He inhales the smell of Patrick. “We’re fucking disgusting.”
Patrick hums in agreement but he still doesn’t move besides his hand splaying over Pete’s back to draw comforting shapes. “Do you really want to do that?”
“No,” Pete says and wraps his arms and throws his legs over Patrick just in case he tries to move, Pete is going to keep the both of them trapped here. If they stay here, time won’t move any further than it has to. Patrick laughs and bites at the arm near his mouth, but he doesn’t try to move.
“So,” Pete starts, “how did popping your cherry feel like?”
Patrick groans, “You’re gross, really, you are. I am not letting you think it’s okay to call what we did popping my cherry. Or any other sort of weird high school innuendo.”
Pete only smiles and continues like he hadn’t heard Patrick, “I loved it.” Pete says softly. “I love you.”
Patrick’s eyes meet his, and this is gentle, this is sweet, this is love, “I love you too.”
And there is silence, there are no words or sounds between them, they are empty, they are a blank canvas, they don’t exist in this moment; Pete is folding into himself, an explosion inwards, his insides are quiet, his brain isn’t running with a hundred different anxieties fifty times over the speed limit. Pete could die right now and he wouldn’t mind, but then he looks over just as Patrick yawns, sees the sleepy way Patrick blinks at him, his eyelashes fluttering as he fights to stay awake, the soft smile Patrick throws his way, and Pete thinks how he’s so happy he’s alive after all, that he would have missed something as simple and small as that if he did die.
It feels like all this time, Pete’s life ends when he falls asleep, a blank screen, a cut scene, just this jump to the next day, the next week, the next month, the next year, until it becomes the next life. but now, he can’t even fall asleep, mouth tingling of the feeling of Patrick, or excitement of feeling it again. Pete is awake, he doesn’t want to fall asleep. the credits should roll about right now, but this isn’t the ending, not for them anyway— there won’t ever be enough words, never enough time. Pete’s life is now always going to be the downtown movie theatre he’s going to take Patrick to someday soon. Midnight screenings of every single second they’ve spent together, every single time Pete’s thought of Patrick, all those dreams he’s had of Patrick. This isn’t the end, even after the credits roll, the music is still going to play and they’re still going to be laughing here on this bed, where they are safe and where they don’t ever have to leave.
Pete wants to stay this happy forever, for the rest of his life. Here, the warm and smell of Patrick, it’s going to change, it’s going to be background static at some point and Pete won’t think it’s ever going to be special as it does now so he lets this feeling fill him up, wishing he could capture this memory and live in it forever.
“I wish that I could live in this memory,” Pete tells Patrick, “I wish that I could go back to this moment every time I feel sad and just live through it again.”
“You can’t do that, it’s impossible.” Patrick replies, thumbing Pete’s cheek again, humoring him, “But you can be here right now. Stay here with me, Pete.”
Patrick is an anchor that keeps Pete here, keeps his head from losing its way, and so Pete stays in this moment, letting it stretch on until forever, holding it tight in his fist, so that way he can’t ever lose it, won’t ever feel like he’s missing it.