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"D'you think it's contagious?" Pete says to the bathroom mirror, thoughtfully.
Behind him, Patrick squeaks. He's determinedly looking everywhere except for at Pete. It's kind of adorable, actually. He's even taken his hat off, running his hand through his hair as if he was going to find any kind of answers in there. Pete almost believes he will. There's a lot hidden in Patrick's head. Total genius.
But, that's not the point.
"Do you?" Pete prods. He's being a little shit, he knows, but it's either this or completely freak out and he likes to think he's made a little bit of progress in therapy.
"Jesus, Pete, I don't know," Patrick whisper-screams. Pete admires the dedication to not waking up Andy and Joe. He hadn't had the brainpower to take the same kind of precautions this morning. Afternoon. Was past 12pm still afternoon if he hadn't had coffee yet?
Pete hums, squinting at the mirror. The girl in the mirror stares back, laugh lines crinkling at the edges of his- her?- eyes. Goosebumps start to rise on his chest and arms from the cool interior of the van, and he absentmindedly rubs his hands across them. His hands instead meet a pair of really sweet breasts, the necklace of thorns dipping to a point right above them like a pendant, skin soft, smooth and malleable.
Besides the tits - which, once again, fuck yeah - his whole frame is smaller, slighter. He might actually meet Patrick's height, now, he thinks idly, smirking internally at that. He's fit, lean muscles from running and tennis still evident, but in a slimmer way, and with a layer of softness added to his waist, hips, ass. It's not enough to discourage his sweats, though, from slipping down his hips dangerously, letting the bartskull tattoo peek out and treading the edge of exposing someplace he hasn't dared to look yet. His hair hasn't seemed to change length at all, still hanging in corn-silk softness around his shoulders, but it looks longer framing his face. That, also, hasn't changed - much. There's something, though, something rounded, dusky-soft, that he can't put his finger on. Feminine, like, in the way that he hasn't been able to touch yet, no matter what he wears on stage.
He finally tears his gaze away from the mirror and looks directly at Patrick, who's blushing right down to his neck.
"Dude," he says emphatically. "This is awesome ."
And that's when Patrick throws up his hands and leaves the bathroom.
"Oh shit," Pete says, chasing him down and grabbing the back of his shirt with ease. There's not a lot of places to run on a tour bus, especially when you're trying not to be loud about it. Pete's very glad at this moment that Patrick is choosing to act like an adult about this one thing, since he didn't, y'know, about the leaving.
"C'mon, don't walk away," Pete says, grinning. "Tell me this isn't the coolest thing ever ."
Patrick's face is carefully neutral, but his red ears are giving him away. "I- what. What. How, Pete. We're on tour ."
And, well, he hadn't thought of that, but he files it away carefully into the brain folder of "accept the things I cannot change," and then when that folder explodes into a cloud of fiery mental dust, into the "I'll freak out about it later" one. Nothing's ruining this for him right now. He has boobs now. What the fuck.
"Maybe it'll only last a little while," he shrugs. "Maybe I have to learn a lesson first, or something. Like Freaky Friday! But I'm a chick now!"
Patrick's got that look on his face again, that Pete has become very, very accustomed to in the twenty-odd years they've known each other. It's his oh-my-god-Pete-what-did-you-do-why-am-I-cleaning-it-up face, and it's the last step before acceptance. Pete loves him so much it hurts.
And then, because his traitorous little brain is determined to screw him over at any point, he says, "Hey, do you think I have the rest of the equipment too?"
Patrick chokes on his own spit and there's a tiny little part of Pete that's guiltily satisfied that he can still get that kind of reaction out of him. Mostly, though, he's laughing. This is so bizarre, he almost wants to post topless pics on Instagram just to see if everyone else can see what he does.
As if Patrick can read his mind, he shakes his head, still coughing and red in the face. "Where's your phone? You're not texting anybody right now. We don't need a repeat of last time just cause you think you're hot again."
"Okay, rude ," Pete snarks. That one still smarted. He hands over his phone from the front pocket of his sweats dutifully and marvels at how different the fit is. And then, because it's just him and Patrick and he can, he sticks his hand back in the front pocket and feels and wow, holy shit, it's the full girl package. Or. No package, as it goes.
" Stop ," Patrick hisses, and Pete looks up to see Patrick fixing his eyes to the ceiling, bright red spots evident on his cheeks. And wow, that's interesting. Pete kind of wants to lick them. He would, if he wasn't on the far side of forty and trying to keep the impulsive behaviours mostly confined to decisions like putting a giant dog puppet on stage these days.
And of course, this is the moment when Joe slides his bunk curtain back and sticks his head out, eyes bleary. "Can you two keep it the fuck down, some of us need to play later and oh fuck okay I'm still dreaming I guess sorry ma'am-" and with a thunk that sounded exactly like a head hitting a wall, his curtain shot closed.
Pete could just make it to the point of eye contact with Patrick before they're both doubled over, snorting with laughter.
"Okay," Pete gasps. "Bedroom in the back?"
Patrick nods, wiping his eyes. His glasses have fogged up and Pete knows he'll trip at least once on the way to the back of the bus, and even with his imperfect timing, he manages to predict it down to the second. He hears Patrick swear softly behind him as he stubs his toe on the wall and feels another rush of giggles - some things never change.
When they're both collapsed on the bed, privacy curtain drawn in mutual agreement to not scar Andy, Patrick's the first to speak.
"How come you got the back bed this time? This is so comfy. Aren't we millionaires?"
Pete shrugs. "I don't know, man. Pretty privilege."
He feels, rather than hears, Patrick's groan from the other side of the bed, and shakes with silent laughter. He feels giddy. He can't stop running his hands up and down his chest, arms, hips. It's intoxicating. He really, really wants to put his hands other places, too, but that would involve Patrick either leaving or getting really cool with a lot of things really fast, and he feels like he might break apart at the seams if Patrick excuses himself from the room right now, so he contents himself with running his hands through his hair fluidly, marveling at the weight distribution that's so different to what he's used to.
Pete notices Patrick looking at him, eventually.
"What?" he says nervously.
"You're so calm," Patrick says incredulously. "How are you not freaking out? You're, like, the king of freaking out."
Pete shakes hair out of his face. "Don't know. It'll probably hit me when I have to play a show in a hoodie and a mask or some shit."
"That could work," Patrick says. "Maybe. But we don't have to think about that until tomorrow anyway."
Ah, right, it was a hotel night. Pete takes a split second to mourn whatever adventures he could have had exploring this city - although to be fair he had no idea what city they're in. Midwest somewhere? Maybe? - and gleefully revels in the possibilities of hotel night .
"Patrick," he says, looking from the ceiling over to meet him in the eyes. "I am going to have such a good night ."
Patrick turns a watercolour paint spread of blushes. Pete can practically see the images that are crossing Patrick's mind at the implications of that - actually, scratch that, no, he can totally see them, they're mind-melded - and if Pete had to guess, he could see at least a tiny flicker of hunger in Patrick's expression. Which, well. Could be wishful thinking, he tells the flicker of something inside his chest, definitely wishful thinking.
Despite the alarming amount of colours he'd turned in a truly impressively short amount of time, Patrick doesn't leave Pete to his own devices, which he's grateful for. He maneuvers them both to be lying down on their backs, muttering something about needing a nap already, and doesn't complain when Pete grabs his hand between the two of them. Pete wants to cling to Patrick, like he used to before the hiatus when everything got a bit weird and soft around the edges, but, well. They're adults, aren't they? All of that seemed to have died with Folie . He reaches over to gently take off Patrick's glasses and place them on the nightstand, and he tells himself he needs to be grateful for what he gets, no matter what the selfish little monster inside him deems unfair. And if that's Patrick's hand, then he'll cling on to it with his whole heart.
After entirely too long, he's throwing on a hoodie and shaking Patrick awake, vibrating with the excitement of hotel night in a way he hasn't since the days when he lost count of the nights between showers. Patrick takes a moment to squint at him before falling back and groaning.
"It wasn't a dream."
"Shocker. Nobody tell Joe."
"I didn't plan on it, man."
"Kind of weird hearing you call me man right now, not gonna lie."
Patrick huffs and gets up, but Pete knows Patrick's anger when he hears it and this is not it. He doesn't really have time to mull anything over anyway. He's had the weirdest emotional day already and it's only about 4pm.
Plus, he's horny as fuck . It's like an itch deep inside him, like a low-simmering flame somewhere in his core, and it isn't made any better when, in the privacy of the bus bathroom, he changes his sweats for a cleaner pair and finally gets a look at what he's working with now. He has to strip naked at that, finally taking a look at his new body in a way that he'd spared Patrick from having to witness, and approving of what he finds, to say the least. He'd even stuck his right hand between his legs for a proper feel - while averting his eyes from the mirror, for why, he doesn't know? It seems silly to be shy now - but was rudely interrupted by a banging on the door and a call to get off the bus. He actually whines at that, but is shocked enough by how high his voice sounds that he gets dressed and stumbles off the bus like a zombie, mask and sunglasses his disguise of choice. And if he'd taken a moment to throw on a touch of lipstick before he'd gone, then, well, that's his business and he was wearing a mask anyway so the world could suck it, this was fun.
Thankfully, in the rush of getting himself situated in his hotel room, he doesn't have enough time to recognize that "freak out later" is rapidly becoming "freak out now" until he's sat on a hotel bed and realizes he has absolutely no idea what to do.
Well, not like that - Pete has had sex with women before, thank you very much, there's even a few little proofs of that running around out there - but more so that he's alone, and it's not sitting well at all.
In the end, though, the curiosity wins out over everything else, and he lies back on the bed. Is it normal for hotel room duvet covers to feel like a thousand tiny orgasms all under his skin, he wonders, but chalks it up to hypersensitivity. It's amazing. His breath is already coming quicker with anticipation and he isn't even naked yet. He pulls his hoodie and shirt up, up, off his head and shakes his hair free from the necklines, impatiently brushing it back from where it wants to fall in a curtain around his face. His fingers brush against his chin and he marvels for a moment at the complete lack of stubble, not remembering the last time his face had felt this smooth. It makes something wild and incredible pulse in his chest, something he doesn't have a name for beyond awesome . And they call him the words guy.
He lifts up his hips, not wanting to get off the bed to get his pants down, and shimmies them off. And then he sits up anyways to take his socks off, because damn, if he's going to do this, he's going to do this properly.
Pete's heart is going a mile a minute when he takes a deep breath and finally, finally touches the tips of a few tentative fingers to the heat between his legs. His inhale is loud in the quiet room because fuck , that's nice. He can already feel how wet he is just from slipping his first two fingers over his clit and down into his folds, and it makes him flush to mentally match the tense-simmering-flame feeling from earlier to the real tangible situation that actually being wet is. Gently, maybe too gently, he slips the tip of his index finger inside himself, whining involuntarily at how strange the feeling is. It's nothing at all like fingering himself when he was a guy, far more pleasure than pain with the amount of natural lubricant he had. His palm bumps against his clit when he twists his finger experimentally and fuck, jesus, yeah, that's so much better.
He gives up on fingering for the time being and concentrates more on his clit, trying one finger, two, three, rubbing in circles and wincing when he accidentally presses too hard trying to get more, better, stimulation. He lets his other hand wander, cupping his own breast and thumbing over the nipple like he's done to girls, and that elicits another one of those gaspy hitching little moans that don't sound like they're coming from him. He licks his thumb and tries it again, dipping the hand still on his pussy down to collect more wetness on his fingertips before clumsily trying to establish a rhythm and pressure that actually does something , and it's almost working, almost, almost, he's panting on the bed and his legs are jerking everywhere almost uncontrollably and he can feel a wave of roiling heat inside him, he's clenching around nothing, and-
There's a knocking at the door.
"Pete?" says a familiar voice.
"Mother fucker ," Pete moans. There goes that . He takes a moment, catalogues his racing heartbeat, and slips on the provided hotel robe lying starch-stiff and folded neatly on the room's wooden table. When he opens the door, he knows he looks like a rumpled mess, hair sticking up at the back and with a bitchy expression, but sue him, he's pissed. That was almost so amazing, he knows it.
"Do you-" Patrick starts, then shifts around on his feet, hands in his pockets in that weird way he does on stage when there's no guitar to occupy them. "I mean. I just-"
"What's wrong?" Pete says. Patrick rarely gets this nervous, these days, what with the way he plans everything down to the minute, gets comfortable on stage more, always relaxes when he's around the rest of the band. Really, the only thing that ruffles Patrick on a regular basis by this point is Pete, and Pete hadn't even done anything. His heartbeat picks up again, and not in the good way this time. "Are you okay?"
"You're still a girl," Patrick says, looking just as dumbfounded as Pete felt at the moment.
"Yeah?" Pete says uncertainly. He's not sure where this is going, but the look on Patrick's face is one that he doesn't think he's seen in a very long time, he's struggling to place it, and that's starting to freak him out real bad.
Patrick's beet red. "Were you- doing what you said on the bus?"
"What I- oh," Pete realizes, at about the same moment that he places the look on Patrick's face. It's a type of hunger he hasn't seen directed at him for a very long time, but when he looks up to Patrick - and isn't that a concept, looking up to Patrick - it clicks into place that he might not have been seeing right for a very long time either.
And in between that breath and the next they're kissing, Patrick's lips finding Pete's in a gentle catch and release, like he's scared to be rejected, and then hot and hungry like he knows now he won't. Pete makes another one of those involuntary little breathy sounds, so foreign and so right, and Patrick catches it with his mouth. The automatic hotel room door slams shut and makes them both jump as Pete pulls Patrick inside the room, making him stumble forward and pin Pete against the wall, and before he can apologize Pete's shuddering against him with the sensation of being so trapped, so lithe against his bulk, it's overwhelming and intoxicating.
Patrick's hand slips into his hair instead, cupping the back of Pete's head, a barrier between it and the wall. There's still only an inch or so of height difference between them but this time Pete's not the taller of them and that's weird and wonderful in its own right, the way that their bodies press together meaning Pete has to tilt his chin up to properly kiss him. He scratches his fingers up Patrick's back, the only place he can reach with Patrick's elbow braced against the wall to hold himself up, trapping Pete in. He kisses Pete like there's something precious and special in him that Patrick's trying to find without damaging it, and make it sing instead. It's so sweet and so quintessentially Patrick that Pete could cry with the joy of it - well, damn, okay, his body actually wants to cry about it. This was so weird . - if he wasn't so turned on it was hard to breathe.
All of a sudden, the kissing turns from being perfect, to being perfect and not enough . Pete breaks the kiss to mouth at Patrick's neck, scraping teeth over the tendons with the promise of a bite, and Patrick moans in a way that he'd tease him about sounding like a porn star if it wasn't sofuckinghot. He takes the opportunity to nudge Pete's head aside with enough taking charge to make something excited flutter in Pete's stomach, and bite down on the collar of thorns like he's trying to plant a lopsided garden of bruise-roses into them. Pete pants and moans into the bites, letting Patrick feel the vibrations in his chest and throat. Patrick's started grinding against Pete in these incredible little circles, quick and jerky like an overexcited teenager, and if that isn't flattering Pete doesn't know what is. Patrick's so hard that Pete can feel it through Patrick's pants and his robe and nope, that's it, clothes need to come off right the fuck now.
He voices this to Patrick, who seems to come back to Earth for a moment, before walking Pete backwards to the bed and fumbling with the tie at the front of the robe, all clumsy fingers and swollen, kiss-ripened lips, until Pete's naked again, on his back, and so wet he can feel it on his thighs .
"You too," Pete gasps. God, he's tingling in the back of his neck, all the way to his scalp, a ghost of where Patrick's hand had grasped so firmly. "Please, Trick."
Patrick strips to his t-shirt and boxers, letting Pete see the most delicious little strip of pale stomach in the gap between them, before leaning over him again and kissing him breathless. Pete kind of wants to bite it, but he takes the opportunity to at least feel him up, hands under t-shirt exploring that expanse of beautiful skin, running dry-palmed over his nipples. Patrick mimics him, one hand catching Pete's breast and massaging it in a way Pete hadn't thought of doing, or had been brave enough to do, to himself, the rougher pressure of Patrick's hand heavenly. His guitar-callused fingers rub over one pebbled nipple, then the other, and Pete squirms and grinds down on nothing, a fresh pulse of wetness between his thighs.
Patrick's shaking, Pete can feel it, with the effort of something - what, he doesn't know, but he gets the feeling Patrick's gearing up to speak again-
"I wanna go down on you so bad ," Patrick breathes into Pete's ear. "Look at you, look what you're doing to me, you don't even know."
Pete kisses him hard enough that he thinks his lips might bruise, and Patrick, thankfully, takes the physical answer where the verbal one would have been, like, so incoherent. He kisses him over and over, letting his tongue slip into Patrick's mouth until he's rendered Patrick as incoherent as he is, making Patrick rut once, twice, against his hip and feels the delicious shock up his spine when Patrick's thigh brushes against where he's most sensitive.
He shivers into the kiss, and Patrick takes that as his cue to push himself down the bed and situate himself between Pete's legs, propping one up and around his head with his right hand and stabilizing himself with his left hand on Pete's waist. He traces the brand-new curve of it like something incredible and wonderful and Pete shivers with that same urgent feeling of not enough mixed with something euphoric in his chest. He traces his hand down Patrick's arm and when Patrick looks up at him, he gives the most wobbly smirk he can, hoping all he's feeling gets across.
And then Patrick lowers his head again and licks a long, steady swipe up Pete's pussy, and Pete swears at the sky.
"Jesus, God, fuck, Patrick , do that again, holy shit," he cuts off into a moan as Patrick buries his face into Pete again. It comes out high-pitched and if he was still a guy he might be embarrassed but as it is, it feels so right, and Patrick's tongue is flicking at his folds, exploring and curious and overwhelming Pete in rolling tides of sensation.
He seems to be set on finding out exactly what makes Pete scream, alternating kitten-licks of his tongue with long, wet, drawn-out strokes, occasionally making his way down to where Pete's still leaking wetness with every pulse to fuck Pete with his tongue, warm and wet and Pete sobs at that, the way Patrick's nose works with the tip of his thumb to rub out a perfect, maddening rhythm on Pete's clit. He can feel something building inside of him as the way he clenches down around Patrick's tongue becomes more off-kilter, unrhythmic even as Patrick continues to fuck him just so perfectly . Something has to give soon, he thought wildly, realizing he's whining and thrashing against the bed, Patrick's arm holding him down, sweat pouring down Pete's face and glistening off his chest.
"Patrick," he sobs, "I'm so close, it's so good, I-"
Patrick hums, low in his chest, vibration hitting the underside of Pete's clit and that's it, that's exactly right, and the tension inside Pete's core snaps into a writhing, crashing mess of waves that roll over him one by one, pleasure and euphoria making him feel like lightning has made a home in his veins. It feels like no other orgasm he's ever had, god, fuck, he's seeing stars wherever he looks, and Patrick's still fucking going , so he rides the shuddering aftershocks until it's toofuckingmuch and he kicks Patrick in the back, as gently as he can because wow he's not a monster. Patrick presses a kiss to Pete's clit that makes him twitch and eases his head back, rubbing the muscles in Pete's inner thighs like he knows how much they've tensed. Which he probably does. Fucker. Nobody gets that good at eating a girl out without tons of practicing - Pete's not complaining in the slightest, though, obviously .
"You good?" Patrick smiles, the picture of innocence. Pete kicks him again.
"Obviously, fuck, dude. How the fuck did you learn to do that? That shit's magical ."
Patrick laughs at that, free and unselfconscious, and that's almost hotter to Pete than Patrick's inhuman oral skills. Almost. Not quite. But almost.
Pete props himself up on an elbow to see Patrick better, body finally getting with the program and calming down. He still feels that little bit of warmandtingly from where Patrick's tongue had been inside him, but he chalks it up to afterglow, and twitches once again at Patrick seeing him wide and open like that. Patrick smiles, noticing, and wipes his chin.
"Is that better than when you did it yourself?"
"I don't know, considering I got so rudely interrupted."
Patrick doesn't laugh at that the way Pete expected he would, and he worries for a split second that he'd said the wrong thing, but Patrick just looks thoughtful in the way he does when he's working on a project that's taking up all of his attention.
"Could you come again, do you think?" he asks, matter-of-fact.
"I. Um," Pete stutters. Because, fuck, that is a thing that girls can do, right? Awesome . Fuck yeah.
He doesn't realize he'd said that out loud until Patrick nods decisively, hitches Pete's legs further up his shoulders with his hand back as a brace, and dives back in.
Pete actually screams .
"Trick, Patrick , fuck, fuck," and he's babbling nonsense, streams of disembodied consonants and syllables and curses that only serve to make Patrick smile and tease his clit again with those damn little licks to the tip that makes Pete full-body shiver in the best way. He feels alive, like his head is in the clouds but his body is grounded and it's like nothing he's ever felt before, fuck, he's been missing out his whole life .
And then Patrick slips the tips of two fingers into him, where his tongue had opened Pete up so gently, and Pete jerks up off the bed, arm-restraint be damned.
"Good?" Patrick says.
"Fuck, yes. Do it again."
"Good boy," Patrick smiles, and Pete can't help but whine because holy fuck yes .
With a slow drag that would be infuriating if it wasn't so hot, and honestly kind of is anyway, Patrick's fingers move in and out and curl up against Pete's pelvic bone, rubbing at a spot inside that feels rough and ridged and so fucking intense what the fuck. Pete's mouth is dry from the way he's almost hyperventilating with the pleasure, thrashing around like his body's trying to take his mind out of this plane of existence, Patrick's calm and collected hands grounding him back. The tip of Patrick's tongue meets the sensitive tip of Pete's clit and rubs in a slow circle while Patrick's fingers do the same to that spot inside him and that's another snap inside of him, another release of tension that rocks through him even more than before, teeth chattering at the moans escaping from his throat.
When his mind comes back online, Pete's watching Patrick press a round of kisses to his stomach, hips, the crooks of his thighs, and he's shivering pleasantly. Patrick noses into Pete's pussy to lick up where his climax had made him wet down to his thighs, and Pete sighs, blush high on his cheeks, content.
"Oh, this is so much better than a blowjob," he says, feeling comforted and satiated, the spark inside him crooning a quiet melody as it became its rosy glow. "Thanks, man."
Patrick's face isn't visible, but Pete counts the way his ears turn red as a win - until Patrick licks him again, just to be a dick. Pete scowls at the way his body seems to still be able to find new ways to twitch, but there's no bite in it.
"You didn't get off," Pete remembers suddenly, the thought shooting through his afterglow. "Can I - do you want-"
Patrick blushes even more, all the way down the collar of his t-shirt. "I, kinda- did already?"
Pete falls back on the bed, splayed out on his back, laughing. "Wow. I'm flattered, really."
"Shut up, you know you're hot," Patrick mumbles, and climbs up the bed to lay next to him.
Pete laughs again, all the way through covering Patrick's face with kisses. He's smearing the remnants of his lipstick everywhere, he knows, but he can't find it in himself to mind when Patrick is there next to him looking so rosy-sweet and pleased and adorable and everything his heart's never been able to truly handle.
Soon they'll realize they're sticky, and messy, and they'll climb out of their wet spot, and Pete will blow Patrick under the shower spray with his hands gripping his hair, and they'll fall asleep like two parentheses curled in on each other. Sometime, Pete will wake up a guy again, and they'll play their shows and travel and write and still crawl into each other's beds through the wall that's broken down, and it will be everything and more. But for now, Pete lazily kisses his own taste out of Patrick's mouth, and feels Patrick's hands splayed over the curve of his hips and thighs, still rubbing slow shapes and tapping out indistinct melodies. And he feels centered and right and rare, and he smiles all teeth into the kisses. It's worship, somehow, in a way, and poetry in another.
-end