Chapter Text
(a perfect soul, a perfect hand to hold, imperfect lonely roads)
Patrick is biting his lip in an attempt to keep quiet; there were people laughing outside his door to drown out the sounds of Pete sucking, but it was more of a warning than it was a relief, always a reminder that someone could hear and grow suspicious (not that Pete had any problems with a little exhibitionism now and then, but well, the situation isn’t so easy). Patrick was squirming underneath Pete, his hips moving in small circles on the bed, but he was silent except for his heavy breathing, which honestly? Only makes Pete try harder to get him to loosen up a little bit. Pete pulls off to swirl his tongue around the sensitive tip of Patrick’s head, tasting salty pre-cum on his tongue. When Pete closes his eyes, he can pretend he and Patrick had run away to a beach in the South and these were salty waves on his lips.
Patrick’s fingers curl around Pete’s hair and they gently urge him down, a small whine finally coming from Patrick’s throat, asking for what he’s unable to say. Panting and sweaty, pale chest blooming pink, lips bitten bloody; this was the wildest Patrick could go, even when Pete’s been trying to drive him reckless for the past fifteen minutes, daring him to make a sound loud enough for the people outside to hear and then gossip about until next weekend (okay, so maybe Pete’s show off tendencies were a little hard to beat, he can admit that).
Pete savors the feel of Patrick filling his mouth, not knowing when he would get this again, if Patrick would still be hot for Pete the next morning in Philosophy 101 or cold until next month when they not so coincidentally run into each other at a house party where they can pretend they’re not there just because they missed each other on their beds. Sometimes, Pete gets this feeling that he’s tired of Patrick being this nasty habit of getting high then going through the withdrawals without him afterwards, but it always seems to fade when there's pounding music in Pete's ears and the smell of smoke and beer and sex in the air, but all Pete can feel is Patrick’s fingers resting themselves on the small of his back, barely even a brush but always a telltale sign, always asking without ever actually saying anything.
But sometimes, it doesn't take a party. Sometimes, all Pete has to do is crawl up the fire escape into Patrick's room, and if the blinds weren't drawn, he'd wait until Patrick let him in so that they could pretend they were something more for around an hour.
“Your hair’s getting long,” Patrick slurs, thrusting up, simultaneously pulling Pete away from his thoughts and pulling Pete’s mouth back into him. Patrick starts a steady rhythm, leaving Pete room to breathe as Pete starts to let Patrick fuck his mouth a little; Patrick’s always this gentle with Pete, always holding him like he’s something important. Pete’s glad for something to fill his mouth just so that he doesn’t have to respond to Patrick. Pete doesn’t want to tell Patrick he’s been growing it out just for him. Pete’s hair is up to his shoulders now and coach hates it, the team’s asked if he were a fag, and Patrick’s called it ridiculous, but Pete knows Patrick likes pulling on it and running his fingers through it when Pete’s mouth is on his; the rest can drown out to background noise.
Pete hears Patrick moan loudly, this sound that rips itself from Patrick’s mouth and Pete looks up to see Patrick looking at him. When their eyes meet, Pete could tell Patrick was close. Patrick’s pink mouth is open in a stuttered, whispered prayer that was only Pete’s name, eyes blown like tiny little explosions, fingers shaking like earthquakes. Pete didn’t now if he was in heaven or a shitty, overpriced university dorm, couldn’t tell the difference, the two places blurring into the same thing when he’s on his knees like this.
Pete doesn’t look away from Patrick’s heavy gaze, he shows off for Patrick; Pete knows he looks good like this: long eyelashes framing deep brown eyes, eyes still shining with tears from when he went down too fast, mouth dark red. Patrick doesn’t back away either, holding Pete’s gaze as he bites down harder on his bottom lip, “Touch yourself, Pete, c’mon, won’t get off until you do.” Patrick manages to whine through his teeth, hips involuntarily pushing up again, his cock briefly hitting the back of Pete’s throat. This time, Pete wasn’t prepared and he chokes a bit. Patrick pulls off and mumbles an apology, gently carding his fingers through Pete’s hair while he mumbled nonsense words Pete couldn’t catch. “Easy, easy.” Patrick says soothingly as Pete begins to suck on the sensitive tip of his head again. “I don’t wanna cum yet.”
Pete shakes his head in a no as much as he can with something in his mouth. Pete pulls off so that his tongue can lick a long trail up and then takes Patrick in again to go faster. To Pete’s disappointment, Patrick’s hands fall away from his hair as he moans and fists the sheets, trying to hold on a little longer. Pete tries to catch his breath, removing his mouth to replace it with his fist so that he could wrap it around Patrick’s cock. When Patrick’s thighs begin to shake underneath Pete, Pete leans forward with his mouth open, tongue hanging out expectantly.
Pete closes his eyes just as Patrick comes on his tongue; the sound of Patrick’s choked moan washing over Pete like waves. Pete feels cum slip to his bottom lip and he licks it off slowly, still keeping his eyes closed, still wanting to show off for Patrick even though Patrick can’t go again so soon.
Patrick whines and he grabs at Pete’s arms to pull Pete closer, opening Pete’s mouth with his tongue, their teeth shoving against each other in a way that would be painful if Pete didn’t crave for this kind of pleasure-pain as Patrick began to slip his football pads off his shoulders, cold fingers dancing on the heat of Pete’s warm chest.
Pete pulls away from the kiss to breathe on their lips, he can pretend that they can live on each other alone, finding oxygen in the space between where their lips don’t touch. Patrick moves slow as he moves his way down Pete’s neck then chest then stomach, pressing quick kisses and bites, tasting Pete’s sweaty, salty, skin. Pete loves this part, the feeling just before Patrick goes down; it’s this sort of pretend intimacy, where in the dark, they can be more than naked bodies and hands against sweaty skin.
(let the tv roam, while my hands are on you, football pads on you, you let me take them off you, just to get closer to you).
When Pete comes, he lets a loud, broken moan spill out of his mouth and Patrick slips two fingers in there to muffle the sounds while Pete rides his orgasm out. Pete is capable of keeping quiet, he’s had to share a room with his brother for several years, of course he knew how, but he’d take any contact with Patrick he could get. Pete licks Patrick’s fingers, rolling his tongue around his digits like he were still sucking dick and Patrick lets him. With Patrick's fingers in his mouth, Pete bites into it, stopping himself from saying all the words and feelings that got stuck in his throat sometimes when everything got too confusing. It happens when the lights are too dim and Patrick blurred beneath Pete's eyelids.
Patrick pulls away just when the electricity from Pete’s orgasm was about to completely fade away. The only things Pete could feel right now was the cold air from the open window and a tingling sensation on his fingers and toes. Pete’s sleepy now, satisfied, he wants to curl up into a ball and just fall asleep here where it’s safe, warm, and smells like Patrick.
Pete falls with his back on Patrick’s bed and refuses to open his eyes, wanting the moment to last a bit longer. His bones are still rattling, his chest still aching, his mouth still bruised with the shape of Patrick’s mouth. The room is quiet and Pete is half-awake when he dreams that maybe this time he could stay, leave a Pete-shaped indent on Patrick’s mattress, leave the smell of his cologne and sweat on the covers, curl up into Patrick when he grabs the blanket off of him and the night leaves him cold because they’ve forgotten to close the window.
“Pete,” Patrick starts gently, already pulling him away from his thoughts.
Pete opens his eyes and sees Patrick was already dressed again like he was the one who had to leave, like this wasn’t his room, his bed that they’ve just fucked in, his sheets that he would immediately change once Pete’s left. Patrick is in the same clothes he was wearing today in class, a polo t-shirt and khaki pants. The sight was painfully sexy; Patrick's mouth was red and there were a trail of hickies down his chest where his collar was unbuttoned, his hair all messed up, and the blacks in his pupils were still blown; he looked completely fucked and Pete did all of that. But— and there's always going to be a but with Pete, Pete can't ever be satisfied with what he had right now— there's a feeling clawing up his throat, the ache, that Pete wasn’t allowed to see Patrick in something intimate and more, like a threadbare high school PE shirt and boxer shorts with holes and fraying edges; fuck the fact that Pete’s seen Patrick naked and fucked over, Pete wanted something else.
Pete opens his mouth, ready to tell Patrick off, this time, he swears he’s going to put an end to this. This time, Pete’s going to ask if he could stay. This time, Pete was going to make Patrick choose. Pete opens his mouth, but his heart betrays him right before the words come out, or maybe, Pete didn’t never really had a chance at all.
“Another round already?” Pete asks playfully, stretching out on Patrick’s bed, trying to leave his smell there, sweat and football, sun on his back, soap, mixed with university dorm’s free laundry detergent. Pete knows he looks good like this, glittering eyes, tanned skin and tattoos, a body that stretches on like an endless highway. Pete knows Patrick loves exploring the road down his neck to his stomach with his mouth like it were one anyway.
Patrick smiles at him, this sweet smile where Pete can count all of his teeth, it’s not a good smile— Pete doesn’t like it, it looks like Patrick knows something that he shouldn’t know. Pete feels a little stupid for wanting this too much, he feels the smile disappear from his own face as it warms up. “Sorry, man.” Patrick says, still smiling. Pete looks away, unable to deal with the embarrassment, he would rather a hole open up and swallow him alive right now. “I have to plan stuff for this project next month.”
“Yeah,” Pete laughs, it feels hollow and too loud in the room, the voices behind the door suddenly going quiet, he suddenly, but understandably, does not want anyone to hear this conversation anymore. “Yeah, I was just— I have some other, uh, stuff to do anyway.”
Pete begins to wear his sweatpants and Patrick politely pretends to clean his room, turning around to give Pete privacy, even though there’s not much he can do in his tiny little studio that was more of a wide hallway than a room. Pete puts his hoodie on and hopes that he doesn’t come out of it crying. Jesus, that would be lame even for him.
“Hey,” Pete taps Patrick’s back and he holds back a smile as Patrick jump a little. “I, uh, lost one of my socks.”
Patrick blinks at him and Pete might be a little hypnotized, feeling a lot like a deer in the headlights. “I,” Pete starts, not knowing how he’s managing to talk when he feels like he’s drowning in the blue of Patrick’s eyes right now. “Just a little heads up when you find one singular smelly sock.”
Patrick laughs at that, this loud laugh that sounds real. It’s this laugh where he throws his head back and his eyes close and there are little laughter lines around his eyes. The first time Pete heard it, when Patrick shoved him against his bedroom wall and all the books on his shelf were knocked off, Pete swore he heard wedding bells in the distance (Pete falls in love way too fast, always ending up with band aids on his knees when he falls into concrete instead of someone’s arms).
“Yeah, I’ll make sure to get back to you on that.” Patrick said with a shrug, gesturing at the mess of clothes littering his floor.
The idea of a future, another time, that this won’t be the last time, makes Pete smile and his insides shift to make more space for the fucking relief that was filling up his chest right now. “Thanks, man.”
(I'm so imperfect, I'm so aware of the fact, that I'll never in this lifetime get the chance to be with you)
Pete begins to climb out of Patrick’s window, blindly looking for the fire escape with his foot because he just wanted to look at Patrick a little longer. When his feet finally land on solid ground, Pete feels himself sink a little, suddenly wishing for those few seconds where he was lost; that’s what being with Patrick felt like. “Tonight was fun.” Pete says, with a grin. This one is the one he reserves just for Patrick, it’s different from the ones he gives to the girls on the cheer team, this one isn’t dark and smooth, this one bares all his teeth and is too big for his face, but he knows Patrick likes it, he’s seen the way his eyes would soften around the edges when Pete smiled at him like this— his eyes are doing the same thing right now. “We should do it again sometime.”
Patrick smiles, pretending like he didn’t know that Pete was going to say that exact line just like he always does, like this was the first time again. “Goodnight, Pete.” is all Patrick says, just like he always does. If Pete could go back to that first time, he’d tell himself to save himself from a year of really good sort of sex and half a year of heartache.
When Pete sneaks into his own room through the window, Andy looks up from his Sociology book to stare at Pete. Andy’s never asked where Pete went sometimes, he must know Pete’s sleeping with someone, but the flicker of interest in his blue eyes shows that he doesn’t know yet.
“Fun time?” Andy asks with a grin, flipping the next page.
“My heart’s broken.” Pete announces dramatically and falls to his bed. Andy just scoffs and shakes his head, his attention already drawn back to the Anarchy, Rebellion, and Revolution in some European country Pete doesn’t know how to spell or pronounce. Pete’s glad that he’s stuck with Hurley as his roommate and not anyone else on the team, the others would have asked for details and Pete’s always been a bad liar.
Pete dreams too much; he’s dreamt of hearing millions of people shouting his thoughts back to him and hearing his own thoughts on the radio, dreamt of Midwestern white-picket fences or pink Los Angeles skies depending on the particular fantasy. It’s because Pete dreams too much that he’s still stuck here in University a couple of years too late, studying with the kids who used to watch his shows, while the rest of his band got actual jobs or got married.
Pete dreams of a world where dreams are the currency, and he’s a millionaire in it, up to his hips with dreams and just making more of it for the sake of it like a selfish, little capitalist machine. But he lives in this one and there’s a drought for them, not just the water which his Environmental Law and Policy professor had talked about earlier today, but on dreams too, though it probably doesn’t matter to anyone but Pete.
This drought on dreams doesn’t stop Pete from dreaming a lot about Patrick Stump though, he could probably power a tiny little city with this energy.
For the past year that Pete’s been messing around with Patrick, Pete’s only realized recently that Patrick might be someone that Pete dreamt up; thinking about Patrick feels a lot like how modern rock feels like (that is, basement shows, sweaty clothes sticking to skin, black eyes from too much love, bloody palms), feels like the euphoric dizziness of a comedown (that is, like how all the butterflies in his stomach were stuck in his chest now; stomachaches to become heartaches) feels like, like, like— Pete doesn’t know anymore, but when he thinks about Patrick, he’s dreaming with his eyes open and when he goes to sleep, all he sees is the naked curve of his shoulder, the fading bite mark Pete left on him, the slope of his neck.
Actually, there’s nothing that can stop Pete from dreaming about Patrick. In Pete’s head, it doesn’t matter that his arms are inked black and he’s a little darker than Patrick for reasons other than a good tan he got from spending a summer in Jamaica with his mom’s parents, doesn’t matter that he’s in the football team like some stupid cliche and Patrick is student council president, doesn’t matter that Patrick is straight and has a bunch of groupies who have ladyboners for pretentious and well-spoken blonde boys who can play the drums (Pete can’t blame them, he’s fallen for it too).
Pete likes the thrill that Patrick gives, creeping up his neck and sometimes down to his thighs, the feeling of lightning making his stomach pool with heat and his toes curl up. It doesn’t matter that dreams don’t mean anything in this world, doesn’t matter when there’s the feel of Patrick’s hips pressed close to Pete’s.
Pete drifts off to sleep thinking about Patrick, but he doesn’t dream of anything.
The next morning in Philosophy, Patrick’s cold again, immediately ducking his head down to read his Philosophy book once Pete’s arrived. Pete has to hold back a laugh as he walks through the aisles of seats, finding that it doesn’t really sting like he expected it to. It’s obvious Patrick faking it, they discussed that chapter two weeks ago. Pete shrugs it off and slides into his seat at the back of the room, in between the raging, hot blooded testosterone of Andy and Joe who were both already asleep.
When class starts and Pete’s mind begins to drift, Pete doesn’t think about Patrick. Really, honestly, Pete snaps himself back to the discussion and writes notes, digging his pen deep into his notebook and keeping his head down even though he could see Patrick glancing at him from the corner of his eye. Pete’s actually learned about the Ancient Chinese Philosophy that they have apparently been discussing for the past semester instead of making eyes at Patrick and wondering if the little mark near the collar of his shirt was the hickey Pete gave him or a nasty mosquito bite or if someone else had given him that.
The next week, Patrick doesn’t text either. He used to do it, back when this first started, when Patrick was a sophomore and just a little overeager when it came to academics and Pete. Patrick didn’t do it regularly but he still texted, sometimes telling Pete what he was doing, the song playing on the radio, never any I-miss-you’s because Patrick was never like that. Pete used to find it annoying back then, blowing off Patrick’s texts and even sometimes blocking his number, Pete wishes he could go back to that. This one time Patrick got shit faced and had sent a couple of dirty texts and pictures while Pete was asleep. By the time Pete woke up in the middle of the night with a raging hard-on, sneaking out of his room to Patrick’s window, Patrick was shitfaced and asleep in his own bed. Pete still likes to read from time to time. Patrick has strictly not acknowledged those texts beyond apologizing for them.
Now, Pete’s inbox remains significantly empty of Patrick’s presence and, well, life moves on and Pete doesn’t wait outside Patrick’s dorm room or window, hoping Patrick would let him back in. Pete gets high in Chris’s car, hotboxing in his shitty Jeep. The heat sticks to Pete’s skin and the choking smoke makes it feels like summer in there, like Pete’s in a beat up van again and touring through through all of the shitty basements in the Midwest and sleeping in the living room of strangers.
Pete goes to a couple of parties and he thinks he might have seen Patrick in some of them, but they never seek each other out. Pete doesn’t know what’s changed in him, why he can hold back on seeking Patrick’s touch out, but he hopes this time, for his sake, it remains this way.
Pete makes out with Winona from the cheer team, actually remembering her name and not calling her shit like girl with the nice tits or chick with the septum ring. They stumble into someone’s bedroom, falling to the bed with Winona on top of him. Pete wants to step into her skin, make her bones rattle, but he doesn’t fuck her, he doesn’t want to, his dick isn’t into it. Their clothes remain on, Pete’s back is pressed down the thin mattress, Winona is pressed to his chest; he’s right between the hell of falling right back in love with anyone who gave him the time of the day and the glory of getting over some past fuck (that’s all Patrick is, Pete reminds himself).
Winona is thunder when she laughs and Pete’s the one left shaking. See? Pete can romanticize her too. Maybe Pete hasn’t changed all that much after all, but at least he’s moving on.