Chapter Text
Patrick is not a spontaneous man. He likes his routines - he eats the same breakfast and lunch every day with a rotating dinner menu. He works from his home studio from 8 am to 5 pm, communicating with co-workers almost exclusively via email. He walks his Pomeranian around the block every Saturday morning and goes to the grocery store afterwards. Sunday afternoons are subject to change. Usually, he sees his mom or at least talks to her on the phone.
All of this - Patrick is fine with. It wasn’t easy getting used to being alone after his divorce, but after a few years, he figured it out. He has friends and his dog and a job he likes, so he doesn’t mind being alone. He hasn’t so much as gone on a date with someone in longer than he can remember, but that’s fine. Patrick sort of enjoys only worrying about himself.
He doesn’t acknowledge the lonely ache in his chest when he drinks, a habit that he’s worked hard to moderate. It usually goes away when he drinks more.
But earlier that day at the store, he saw a flier for a punk show. It only caught his eye because the venue was one he remembered drumming in so many years ago and wondered what it looked like now. The show was for that night, so Patrick took the flier and folded it up in his pocket.
He spent far too long getting ready before deciding on the same thing he always wears - tee shirt, hat and his denim jacket. Then, when he got to the venue and parked in the lot, he sat in his car and stared at the people walking in. They were all so young, all tight jeans and exposed midriffs, overly styled hair and piercings.
Patrick isn’t even in the line, and he sticks out like a sore thumb, but he got this far. He fights the anxiety and finds himself inside without memory of even paying the bored man at the door $20 cash.
The opening band is fine. A metalcore band called Arma, according to the flier. He doesn’t pay very much attention to them, noting only that their… well, fine. The passion is there, but Patrick can’t imagine them going very far. The frontman screams technically well, but that’s about it. When the set ends, the frontman tells them to get ready for the headliner and the crowd erupts louder than they had the whole time, then he disappears.
Sitting at the bar with a beer bottle in hand and a little bored waiting for the band to come on, Patrick feels someone aggressively bump into his side, sending him jolting forward that he almost hits his tooth in the glass. He turns, whipping his head around to snap, “Hey, watch it,” but he bites his tongue when he sees who’s halfway leaning on him to get to the bar.
Patrick is face to face with a man - kid? - he recognizes from the show he just watched. He’s so much younger than Patrick expected, clean shaven with a tight buzz cut and a small silver hoop hanging from his ear. His white ribbed tank top is soaked with sweat and Patrick can see nipple piercings underneath the fabric. Lower, his black jeans are being held up by a belt with a gaudy buckle but still sag around his hips.
His eyes look brown, but Patrick can’t really tell in the awful lighting. Either way, he looks fit, masculine despite softer features. His arms are thick too, and if Patrick were 17 again, he would probably try to follow him to the bathroom.
He eyes Patrick top to bottom and scoffs, “You watch it, old man,” but then, in the same breath, nods at Patrick’s jacket, “Cool patches.”
Patrick looks at the sleeves of his denim jacket and the countless patches he’s sewn on over the years. Pins decorate the front, all meticulously arranged to his liking.
“Uh, thanks.”
There’s a moment of silence between them in the otherwise extremely loud room as the kid tries to flag down the bartender. He curses under his breath, his fist coming down on the bar when he goes unnoticed. Patrick looks at him again and sees the faded, scrubbed off black X on the back of his hand.
Patrick reaches for his wallet, retrieving a twenty to hold up to get acknowledged. It works almost immediately and the blue haired mohawked bartender comes to them, looking at Patrick first before he points to the guy beside him.
He orders a beer, but the bartender gives him an exasperated look, like he’s done this already with him. He can’t really hear over the music, but Patrick has a feeling he knows what it’s about. Lead singer of the opening band at an underground punk show cannot often afford beer, Patrick has learned the hard way. He clears his throat and puts the twenty down, leaning over to say, “It’s on me. Make it two.”
They both look at him, but the bartender just shrugs, mumbled that he doesn’t give a shit and puts two open bottles in front of them. He takes the twenty and disappears.
“Why’d you do that?” He asks loudly in Patrick’s ear.
“‘Cause I know there’s no way you guys are getting paid tonight.”
He gives Patrick a dirty look. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Patrick is a grown man. He’s probably got a good 60 pounds on this kid, if not more, but he doesn’t have the strength to back that up while he clearly does. It’s embarrassing to be intimidated by such a skinny guy, but the hair in the back of Patrick’s neck stands up straight. It kinda reminds him of being in high school, snapping at one of the big kids who shove him around like it was a game.
But Patrick does know what it’s like to be a starving musician with no cash for food, let alone beer. He explains as much, saying, “I’ve been you. I played drums on the same stage before you were even born.”
That seems to peak his interests, his eyebrow raising with curiosity. He wiggles closer, putting himself between Patrick’s stool and the next, and leans on the bar. He asks plainly, “What happened?” and it takes Patrick a moment to figure out what his question is.
“Just didn’t work out,” he shrugs, taking a sip, “I was in, like, seven different bands with a revolving group of guys and none of them took off. I had to call it at some point.”
“What do you do now?” Someone bumps into him, and he shoves them away with the same vitriol that he had for Patrick earlier.
“I’m a producer.” As soon as Patrick says it, the kid’s eyes light up. Before he can get ahead of himself, Patrick goes on, “But I have no pull or influence of any kind on who gets signed. Sorry, kid.”
“Lame.” He frowns, visibly deflating. He looks around, and Patrick expects him to disappear into the crowd, but he doesn’t. He just plays with the bottle in his hands and stays put until he asks, “Do you wish you made it? Like, your band.”
Patrick has to think for a moment, trying to imagine where he would be now. Probably not much better off. He shrugs and answers, “Well, yeah sure. It would’ve been cool but there were always too many problems. Besides, my goal was to work in music, and I am. That’s good enough for me.”
“I don’t want ‘good enough,’” he answers like he’s annoyed by the mere idea, “I dropped out of school for this, I have to make this happen.”
“Good luck to you, then.” Patrick tips the bottle to him. “You guys aren’t half bad. A little rough but I’m guessing that’s part of it.”
He huffs and stands a little straighter, his tone defensive. “It’s raw. We have a message to send, how polished can it be?”
“Polished enough to get signed.” Patrick grins at him, pleased by his pouty lips. “But you seem like a smart kid, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
To his surprise, he takes a step closer and presses himself against Patrick’s side. He leans down so his mouth is right next to his ear and snaps, “Stop calling me kid, I’m not a fucking kid.”
Patrick gestures towards the faded marker on his hand and tells him, “That says otherwise.”
He pulls his hand off the bar, letting it hang off the edge instead as he takes a drink and looks away like he’s embarrassed. He scoffs, “Whatever, it’s bullshit. I’m old enough to go shoot down entire fucking villages overseas but I can’t order a fucking beer? Bullshit, man.”
Patrick can’t help his surprise, smiling a little. “Aren’t you opinionated?”
“Are you not?” He shoots back, his tone accusatory. “I got something to say, so I’m gonna fucking say it. Our taxes are paying for millions of fucking bombs, meanwhile our planet is on fucking fire.”
Patrick looks at him again, watching his fervor and rage sort of melt into something a little… helpless. It makes his chest hurt a bit, remembering that same hopelessness when he got old enough to tune into the world around him.
Carefully, Patrick puts a hand on his shoulder, very aware of how his skin is hot and smooth, how he feels slim but still sturdy. He feels a little like a creep thinking about it, but if Patrick were even ten years younger, he probably would have gone for it.
“I appreciate the passion, but there’s no way you pay taxes.” Patrick says and that gets him a laugh. His laugh is loud and sharp, but the smile that follows oozes charm.
“Yeah, fair.” He shrugs, but only one shoulder. He doesn’t move the one Patrick is touching, so he doesn’t take it away. If anything, he seems to lean down a little closer. “I’m fighting the system, man. Raging against the machine.” He pauses, his eyes searching Patrick’s face before he lifts his empty beer. “Buy me another?”
Patrick is absolutely going to but doesn’t answer right away. He’s getting a little hot under the collar, aware of his warm skin as he squeezes his shoulder again. He finally lets him go and takes the empty, saying, “Bold of you to ask after acting like such a brat.”
His hand comes up to Patrick’s shoulder, the same way Patrick did to him, and asks, his voice low in his ear, “What if I say please?”
Patrick, again, is an adult. He is a grown man with a job and a mortgage. Hell, he turned 40 this year. That’s a wonder on its own. He wasn’t sure he’d make it past 21, the age he is assuming he was when the young man hanging on his arm was born.
“How old are you?” Patrick has to ask for his own peace of mind. He’s confident he’s at least legal, but eighteen and twenty are very different in his head.
“Nineteen.” He answers so quickly that Patrick can’t tell if he’s telling the truth or not. “How old are you?”
“Old enough to be your father.” Patrick says, getting the attention of the bartender again with another twenty in hand. Next to him, the guy rubs his shoulder.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Patrick can hear his smile without even looking, his face starting to get warm as he orders two more. He goes on, “I’m Pete, by the way.”
He hands Pete one of the beers. “I’m Patrick.”
“Patrick, huh?” Pete puts his weight on his shoulder as he takes a drink. He’s bold, that’s for sure, and shameless enough to ask, “Do you live nearby?”
“Not really, kinda.” Patrick shakes his head, terrified and thrilled at the time by Pete’s disappointed huff.
“How far?” He presses, and Patrick is starting to think that he isn’t going to give up.
Patrick shrugs. “Twenty minutes.”
Pete lights up, smiling wide and saying, “That’s not that bad. We should hang out and, ya know, talk or whatever. You could show me what the punk shows of old looked like.”
“You really want to come home with me?” Patrick asks, turning in his stool to face him, but still has to lean forward to talk low enough for no one else to hear. “Why would you want to come home with me? I’m - I’m 40 and I live alone with my dog. I’m divorced, for fuck’s sake.” Pete raises his eyebrows but doesn’t interrupt. “I’m not a good time, okay?”
Pete bumps his leg against Patrick’s knee, subtle and below the bar, and just keeps smiling. “I think you should let me decide that for myself. C'mon, I promise I’m not going to rob you.”
Patrick blinks at him warily. “That’s not very reassuring.”
“You’re right.” Pete sighs, long and heavy and sort of out of character to Patrick, based on their singular conversation. He follows it, however, with a sparkling smirk and a coolness that Patrick is almost jealous of, and Pete says, “I might steal your heart, though. I can’t promise that.”
There should be zero part of Patrick that is even susceptible to a line like that. Pete is turning out to be just… effortless. He’s covered in dirt from the show and ugly tattoos, and he’s clearly got a lot of pent-up energy that he can’t get out. He is also, apparently, fucking nineteen. Patrick is an adult, he should not be blushing at a punk show because this person who cannot legally buy alcohol is flirting with him.
The more he talks, the more Patrick wishes he had met Pete when he was sixteen. He would have had lots of fun and probably have a completely different life. He can imagine following him around with the biggest crush on him, letting him do whatever he wants.
Actually, Patrick can do that now.
“Okay, let’s go.” Patrick decides, and Pete straightens like he’s shocked, like he didn’t think he’d agree. Patrick stands up and instantly realizes that Pete is taller than him. “Do you have to get anything?”
“Uh, yeah - yeah, I do.” Pete looks down at him, making a point of the few inches between their height, before he finishes his beer and says, “I’ll meet you outside.”
Patrick gives him quick instructions on where he parked before Pete walks off, disappearing into the crowd. As soon as he steps out into the cool air, the reality of his decision starts to set in. He’s going to bring someone to his house he met at a local punk show. He’s going to bring home someone who he is legitimately more than twice age of. Someone who has the word teen in their age. God, he probably has a vertical ID.
When he sees Pete coming with a hoodie on and a backpack, Patrick stands up from leaning on his car, his mind racing as he waits. He can still back out of this, he can get in his car and simply drive away from him forever. He will never come back to this venue for as long as he lives. Hell, Patrick could move out of Chicago if it means that he won’t have to face facts that he’s shaking in his fucking sneakers.
Pete looks around the mostly empty parking lot before he takes off in a sprint. Patrick can hear his backpack bouncing as he does even with one hand clutching the strap. The other hand, as soon as he’s close enough, plants firm on Patrick’s chest. His open palm shoves him back against the car before curling into a fist, gripping his shirt, and suddenly, Pete is in his space.
Patrick doesn’t get a single word out before Pete’s lips are on his. Sort of - he kisses Patrick open mouthed and aggressive with his tongue. He licks against the roof of his mouth and insides of his cheeks. It’s odd, making Patrick almost forget to reciprocate from the shock. Carefully, he puts a hand on Pete’s waist in a safe spot, still a little terrified he’s going to get, like - arrested or something.
Pete leaves his lips feeling wetter than they were, grinning wide like he’s pleased with himself. “Tell me, Mr. Forty And Divorced.” Patrick gawks at him, but Pete goes on quickly, “When was the last time you got head?”
Patrick thinks about that for a moment. Really, it’s been probably close to two years, if not more. It’s a depressing reality, even worse when he considers where Pete was when Patrick was going through his divorce.
It makes his skin prickle to think about, but he has a feeling he’s starting to understand Pete. Patrick clears his throat, trying to keep his voice even as he responds to this nineteen-year old’s flirting.
“You were probably still in high school,” Patrick says and immediately feels like the world’s biggest fucking creep.
Pete certainly doesn’t seem to think so, both of his hands sliding up his chest and under his jacket to his shoulders. He says with an enthusiastic smile, “I would love to fix that for you,” and Patrick’s alarm bells start to go off in his head.
Without thinking about it, he spits out, “Are you a hooker?”
Luckily, Pete just laughs. “I mean, if you wanna throw me some cash, I’ll absolutely take it but no, I’m not a hooker.”
Patrick nods, more than a little relieved. The only thing worse than having "hooking up with a nineteen-year-old” hanging over his head is “paying a nineteen-year-old for a blowjob.” That’s a new low that he, thankfully, has not achieved yet. He can only imagine what Joe would say - or what his ex would say. Really, it would just reiterate that she was completely correct to leave.
Pete tugs on the collar of his jacket and says, insistent, “Let’s go, I wanna see where you live,” he leans in to press a quick kiss to his lips, one nothing like the passionate mauling from before, “Show me what you’re made of.”
Patrick can hear his own warning tone, his preemptive acceptance of his disappointment, as he shakes his head. “You’re really getting ahead of yourself, and frankly, I don’t understand why you want me of all people. You’re - you’re like,” he scoffs as he gestures to Pete, looking him up and down again and remembering a time when he wished he looked like that, “You’re hot and young and could probably go home with anyone you wanted. Why me?”
“Because you keep asking.” Pete rolls his eyes, pushing off of him and reaches for the passenger door. As he opens it, he adds, “You’re hot, too, you know. You have this like, I dunno,” he shrugs, “thing about you. Like a teacher who doesn’t rat on the kids who show up stoned. I also have a thing for older guys.”
“You hate your dad,” Patrick asks, watching Pete get in, “don’t you?”
Pete laughs out loud, looking back at him with a big grin. “Do you?”
“I asked first.” Patrick scoffs, but Pete just smiles.
“Well,” Pete says smugly, dragging out the word, “Get in the car and find out.”
Patrick can’t argue with that and, for some reason, blindly does what this kid says. He gets in the driver’s seat, starts the car, and asks again, “You’re actually nineteen right? Like, I know I already asked, but like - I have a career, and I really don’t wanna go down for hooking up with a teenager.”
Pete rolls his eyes but reaches into his backpack at his feet and pulls out a tattered old wallet with a chain. He pulls out an ID, which is vertical like Patrick feared, but the age lines up. Pete is nineteen, like he said. Unless it’s a fake, but that’s going a little too deep into paranoid territory and ultimately, Patrick is still interested in the head he was offered.
He hands it back, saying, “Thanks for humoring me. I don’t, uh, do this, really. Take strangers back to my house, I mean.”
“Well, there’s a first time for everything.” Pete’s grin is accompanied by his hand resting on Patrick’s thigh. His heart racing in his chest, Patrick peels out of the parking lot. “Have you ever been with a guy?”
“Yeah, but it's been years.” Patrick thinks for a moment, then corrects, “Maybe more decades. At least one.”
“What kinda guys did you like?” Pete asks as his hand rubs across his leg. “Guys like me? All tatted and grimy?”
Patrick swallows hard, clearing his throat that turns into a nervous laugh. “Yeah, actually. I thought guys like you were so cool, I wanted to be them.”
“So you got inside them instead?” Pete’s fingers squeeze and knead his leg, getting dangerously close to his dick.
“No, actually,” Patrick glances at him for a moment, smiling back at him, “I got under them.”
He sees Pete's eyebrows raise, letting out a short, surprised laugh. “That’s fun. Maybe we switch it up later - you do me then I’ll do you.”
Patrick doesn’t voice that he’s not sure if he can go back-to-back like that, but he’s going to fucking try. He’s not sure which part of what Pete is saying is his favorite, although it’s all a little overwhelming. When was the last time someone actually wanted to fuck him? Especially someone like Pete.