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Chapter Text

            Patrick wakes up every morning to the sound of his alarm clock belting out Green Day at the best of its ability. He then proceeds to groan and roll around defiantly in bed for three to seven minutes before finally getting up. He trudges to the shower, standing in a zombie like stupor as the water splashes his back. He then walks back to his room naked because the bathroom is attached so he just can.

            He gradually gets dressed, putting on his blocky glasses last because he can hardly stand to look at himself in them. He tops off his look with his mandatory hat, even though kids will repeatedly knock it off of his unsuspecting head for shits and giggles.

            He walks to school, even in the biting cold of February. He has his learner’s permit and is quite the little driver, but has no car to drive, so getting a school permit would be a tad unnecessary.

            He looks like a proper gentleman in his tweed pea coat and dark red scarf. Of course, to his school mates, he just looks like a pretentious faggot.

            He ascends slowly to the fourth floor, taking up as much time as possible. Wasting time means that he has to interact with his peers less.

            He drops off his coat and scarf at his locker, unwinding the scarf and undoing his buttons with freezing, shaky fingers. He can feel the eyes of enemy students burning holes through his back.

            Finally, he sits down in front of his locker, usually reading until his friend Pete shows up.

            Pete is totally the opposite of his friend. He’s actually well-liked by both teachers and students, whereas Patrick is not even respected by students and adored by teachers. Patrick, diligent and polite, is a teacher’s dream. Pete, lazy but respectful, is more of a typical student. When it comes to the other pupils, Patrick, chubby, sensitive and riddled with anxiety, is seen as a pussy and a lost cause. Pete, good looking, outgoing and great with girls, is deserving of actual praise from boys in his grade and crushes from most girls and some boys. Patrick is one of those boys that are desperately tangled in an unrequited love.

            He sees his friend appear, and his heart stutters. Pete has hair cut into these really swishy bangs, which conceals about half of his beautiful face. His big, chocolate brown eyes peer out from below the ebony curtain. He has this permanent glisten in them that just add life to such a commonly boring color.

            “Hey Ricky,” Pete chirps, sitting down laboriously. He flashes Patrick a heart stopping smile that only Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III can successfully deliver.

            “Hi Pete,” Patrick replies dumbly.

            “How was your weekend?” Pete questions.

            “Pretty good,” Patrick lies. He spent most of it wallowing in self-loathing, then self-pity, and then anger, and then self-loathing again. “How was yours?”

            “Really great,” Pete answers, and his eyes light up even brighter as he continues excitedly. “I got invited to play with this band, and guess what?”

            “What?”

            “The oldest guy is like 20!” Pete boasts. “And they think I’m good enough to be their bass player!”

            “That’s great, man! How’d you meet up with them?” Patrick asks.

            “Their youngest member is a junior here. Some kid named Frank Iero, I guess he’s been in bands since he was like eleven,” Pete informs.

            Patrick knows Frank. Real cute kid, with black hair cut in a fringe even more drastic than Pete’s, a lip ring, nose ring, and these crazy hazel eyes bordering on Patrick’s beloved brown. He’s even shorter than Patrick, which is crazy, considering that Patrick is remarkably short. Frank had talked to him once, and the conversation consisted of Frank talking about getting high and Patrick plastering on a smile so he didn’t seem lame.

            Some of Pete’s friends head over. One is Brian, a boy who just can’t seem to keep his mouth shut. Another is Chelsea, who is a grade A bitch to everyone but Pete, as it is common knowledge at the high school that she wants to get in bed with him. Patrick hates both of them.

            “Patrick! Nice clothes…. You look like a librarian,” Brian smirks.

            Patrick looks down at his clothes. He dresses extremely neat, even though the school’s dress code is pretty loose. Today he’s wearing brown corduroys with a white pin striped shirt and a grey sweater vest.

            “Oh yeah and your braces are hardly noticeable,” Chelsea sneers.

            Pete greets the two cheerfully, the subtle insults flying over his head. Pete’s the kind of guy to expect everybody to do no wrong. Patrick always finds himself worrying that one day Pete’s belief of the kindness of human nature will lead him into a dangerous situation.

            Pete talks to those two, trying to engage Patrick in the conversation as well, but having difficulty, since Chelsea and Brian do their best to exclude who they see as a dork and a nobody.

            The bell finally rings, and Patrick is released from his Hell of having to talk to Pete’s empty headed friends. All Brian cares about is tits and getting high, and Chelsea is completely focused on screwing everyone around her over whilst fooling them into believing that she’s this incredibly nice beautiful girl (She’s fooling no one).

            Pete grins at Patrick before leaving for his first class. Patrick sighs, because he won’t see Pete again till lunch after fifth period. Even then, it’s just more opportunity for some more of Pete’s friends to verbally berate Patrick while they make disgusted faces as he eats.

            Patrick knows the unspoken rules, and he abides by them. Fat kids can’t get dessert. Fat kids can’t get seconds. Fat kids can’t get ale carte. Fat kids can’t eat quickly. Fat kids can’t eat slowly. Fat kids can never say they’re hungry.

            Still, everybody at the table besides Pete looks like the mere sight of Patrick carefully cutting up his food and eating quietly with his mouth fully closed is the most revolting thing to ever plague their innocent eyes.

            Patrick goes to P.E., which has its own set of rules for the unfortunate overweight students. No changing in front of others; it must be done in the secrecy of a bathroom stall. No huffing or panting loudly during or after any sort of physical activity. No complaining about running or being tired. No excelling at anything. No doing poorly at anything. Most importantly, absolutely no showering with the other, skinnier boys.

            Patrick changes in the bathroom stall, his elbows touching either side as he bends them to step into his shorts. He removes his hat before pulling his shirt off, replacing it with his gym shirt. The only required school wear besides the athletic uniforms are the P.E. clothes. It wasn’t always that way, but girls were wearing shorts with their butts hanging out the back and boys’ shirts with the sleeves cut down so far you could see them completely shirtless just by standing next to them. The changes came a few years ago, which was unfortunate for Patrick. The guys’ blue shorts were shorter than what he’d prefer; especially because he has yet to hit puberty and his nearly hairless legs are an invitation for teasing from his peers. Not only that, but the complexion of them is as pasty as that of his face, which is pale, seeing as he’s a ginger. Oh, blessed, more reason for unhallowed taunting from the kids who are supposed to be his friends. The shirts are fine, short sleeved white t shirts with blue ribbing and the school’s logo on the left breast. The only problem is, you can kind of see the outline of Patrick’s doughy figure in any sort of white top.

            Patrick spends P.E. standing in the outfield where the ball is repeatedly kicked to him. The kids batting know that Patrick will have to run over at his slow speed and hunch over to pick it up before throwing it “like a girl” back to the pitcher, which takes a total of about thirty seconds and allows the kicker to run two bases.

            Patrick returns to the locker room sweating profusely from the humidity of the gym, hair pasted in strands to his forehead.

            Adam, who happens to be one of Pete’s acquaintances, decides to corner Patrick in the locker room against the back wall. The other boys watch, and some even encourage Adam, as he spins Patrick around, pushing his stomach into the wall. Adam pulls down Patrick’s shorts a tiny bit so he doesn’t have to actually reach into his shorts (cause that’d be GAY) and clutches a tight fist around a bunch of Patrick’s grey briefs.

            He pulls up, and Patrick cries out, wiggling uselessly against his aggressor. His underwear is yanked halfway up his back until Adam finally lets go, letting the underwear snap loudly back onto Patrick.

            Patrick is crimson and so embarrassed that tears are forming in his eyes as he shuffles to his bathroom stall, his gym classmates roaring with laughter.

            The old Patrick, like, fifth grade Patrick, would dress quickly in order to get out of the locker room sooner. But, the wiser and more experienced Patrick knows that that would just land him with another wedgie or something of the sort, so he instead dresses slowly as possible, waiting for the locker room to empty out. When he’s positive that only a few kids are left in there, he leaves.

            So, Patrick’s already been tormented and it’s only first period. Oh, isn’t life full of delightful twists? He goes to his next class, which is art, and located on the fourth floor.

            He climbs up the three flights of steps as fast as he can manage, one reason being that he loves art, and another being that he can’t afford to be late. He has to save his tardies for days when he has to break down and cry in a bathroom of a kid decides to pick on him into the next period.

            He is puffing by the time he reaches the room, seeing as he just climbed up the stairways at Mach speed. His eyes involuntarily scan the room, searching for a teacher. Teachers are his lifelines; without them; he’d never be left alone.

            The teacher isn’t there, so some senior who could give a shit about art and is just taking it his last year for the credits calls,

            “Hey, lardass! You need an ambulance?”

            The class snickers as Patrick scowls and takes his seat. He pushes his glasses further up onto his nose, which is slick with sweat.

             The teacher arrives, and all of the kids shut their mouths as if they were getting paid to. Patrick spends the period silently working while the others talk to their friends. Patrick would think that he would enjoy that; it gets lonely just staring at the same spots, whatever piece he’s currently working on his only companion. But his only friend is Pete, who quote, “Can’t draw or paint for shit.”

            Patrick leaves the class somewhat reluctantly. If he could, he’d spend all day in that same room. He’s walking to Geometry (he took Algebra 1 in eighth grade. Meanwhile, Pete is taking Pre-Algebra), when his books are knocked out of his hands by an upperclassman. He groans, dropping to his knees and stacking the supplies before continuing on to Geometry.

            Geometry is his best class; Patrick is a very logical person, which he finds to be extremely useful in math. Pete, on the other hand, is more willy nilly and whatever works out works out, so math isn’t exactly his forte. He’s amazing at writing though, since it holds no boundaries to his endless creativity.

            Patrick has a very strict, but generally friendly, Geometry teacher, so other than at the end and beginning of class, the students are completely quiet.

            Once that class ends, Patrick has to go down the steps to Biology, a.k.a. Open Season on Patrick Stump. Two of his main tormentors, Adam and Jude, are in that class, along with a lot of girls who constantly tease him over a dumb crush he had on one of them in the fourth grade. Joke’s on them; Patrick’s sexuality developed and he realized he was gay. For all he knows, it’s because of her cruelty and disregard.

            He’s flicked, fish hooked, and given a pressure point whenever the teacher’s back is turned. When she’s facing them, Adam whispers threats in his ear whilst smiling, so the teacher automatically assumes that it’s just two friends having an innocent laugh. Little does she know, Adam is currently hissing,

            “Why don’t you go jump out on the freeway, you worthless fat ass?”

            Patrick has become more and more immune to their comments. Sure, it still hurts, but he no longer breaks into tears like he did when he was younger. Because of the fact that he stopped crying, the school district thought that the constant bullying had stopped, when, in fact, Patrick had just learnt to cope with their verbal abuse. As far as the physical abuse goes, there’s not much Patrick can do about being beaten to a pulp or having his own underpants rammed up his ass. He could learn Jujitsu or some other form of self-defense, but that would involve effort and money, which Patrick just doesn’t have.

            Patrick leaves the class feeling a little better, knowing that in the period after fifth that he will get to see Pete again. Pete is literally the only reason he gets up in the morning, which is probably sad to a lot of people, including Patrick.

            Fifth period is Spanish, which Patrick is also good at. He was already bilingual before signing up for the class, speaking fluent French. If one were to consider Pete as bilingual, they’d have to count sarcasm to be a language.

            In Spanish, he sits next to a fellow loser. He figures that they could really hit it off; what with both of them having a horrifyingly small amount of friends and being seen as a punching bag by boys and a perverted loser by girls. That’s another rule to being fat, or even ugly (Patrick considers himself lucky enough to be both): You can’t have a crush on anyone. Even admitting that someone is physically attractive is a big neon sign for you to be laughed at.

            Patrick speeds his way through Spanish, and when the bell rings, he swings his backpack over his shoulder and practically sprints out the door, eager to see Pete again.

            He’s going down the one of the hallways to drop off his books when Adam appears, smirking. He grabs Patrick by the collar and shoves him against the locker, sniggering,

            “Hey, piggy. Can you squeal for me?”

            Patrick shakes his head. Adam takes Patrick’s hat and throws it to the floor, stomping on it once before glaring at Patrick again.

            “Squeal.”

            Patrick again, shakes his head. His knees are trembling now. Although Adam’s words may be almost harmless, his fists certainly aren’t.

            Adam takes Patrick’s arm, twisting it behind his back. Patrick remains quiet throughout the ordeal, not wanting to give Adam the satisfaction. When Adam finally pushes Patrick’s arm so far in the wrong way that it feels as though it’s about to snap, Patrick yelps.

            “Good piggy!” Adam laughs. He then shoves Patrick to the floor, kicking his hat across the hall before leaving.

            Patrick mumbles choice words under his breath as he stands, brushing himself off. He collects his hat on the other side of the hall, placing it back onto his head as he heads off in the opposite direction, God forbid he run into Adam again.       

            When he reaches the lunch room, he sits down at the usual table Pete and his friends sit. It’s a table far from the hood rats, but close to the door. It’s perfect.

            “Hey, Patrick!” Pete tells.

            “Hey kiddo,” Patrick replies, ruffling Pete’s hair.

            Patrick lightly tunes into the table’s intense conversation about American Eagle. He does own a pair of underwear from that store, so maybe he should be more invested, but he isn’t. Again, Pete has numerous failed attempts at including Patrick in their group.

            Patrick just kind of drifts off and stares at Pete the entire time. God, is he beautiful. Patrick could look at him for days.

            The bell snaps Patrick from his paradise, and signals that it’s time for him to go to English. He stands and bolts out the door, head down.

            In the hallways, an older girl sneers at him, “You’re disgusting.”

            Patrick had found that even comments these nasty were easy to shake off.

            He sits in English class in the back of the room, which he really likes, because it means that the teacher trusts him and believes that he’s well enough behaved to be further away from her line of view. He also likes to gaze out the window, and, on the warmer days, stick a hand out into the chilling winter air.

            He then goes to Geography, which he enjoys mostly because the teacher is a cutie pie. There’s been a few unfortunate occasions when Patrick had gotten a boner in class just by looking at him. On one, which was actually just a few months ago, another student saw and immediately pointed it out to the rest of the class. The kid got a detention, but that doesn’t change the fact that everyone had seen Patrick’s hard dick, including the teacher.

            Ever since then, things between him and that teacher have been a bit tense. It’s almost as if he had read Patrick’s mind and knew that he was to blame for Patrick’s erection that day.

            Patrick can’t get out of that class soon enough; every time that he glances towards the front of the room he is reminded of the entire incident.

            His last class is vocal, which puts him on the spot for even more taunting from other pupils. Even worst, Patrick sang with the girls as a soprano in grade school because his voice was too high for any of the boys’ parts. Now that his voice has matured a bit, he’s able to handle being a tenor, even though he secretly misses being a soprano. Not the ass whuppings and teasing over it, but the better parts in songs and the higher notes, which are so much more fun to hit than the lower ones.

            Vocal is alright, except there’s a lot of opportunities for other boys to pick on him. He counts his hat being swatted off four times, his glasses taken twice, and his pants pulled down to his ankles once. He turns beet red at his pants being pulled down, especially because he’s wearing briefs. On the plus side, he does have pretty good legs, besides the fact that they’re pale and hairless.

            The day finally ends, and Patrick walks home swiftly to avoid bullies on his way out.

            That night, he’ll go home, do his homework, eat supper, read, contemplate his life, and then go to sleep, just to endure all of the same shit tomorrow. 

Chapter Text

            Pete rolls out of bed at 11:00 in the morning, his phone chiming loudly. His hand gropes blindly for it, finally closing around cool metal. He checks it, to see that Brian is calling him.

            He ignores the call. Fuck him. Sure, it’s been seven years, but he still can’t forgive him for what he did to Patrick senior year. It was terrible, disgusting, uncalled for, and just plain mean.

            Pete goes to the mirror, examining himself. He got rid of that fucking emo haircut that he’d had for years, and instead replaced it with moderately long bangs that he styles up into a faux hawk with water.

            He rubs his chin, the stubble prickly against his palm. He should shave today. Or  are the whiskers more attractive? He lifts his chin, examining the small hairs growing on his neck. Those he’ll shave, but the rest will stay.

            He walks over to his dresser, stumbling slightly. He shouldn’t have gotten so plastered last night, especially because he knew that his class reunion was the next night. His headache is pounding in his temples, resonating painfully.

            He slips on a pair of sweatpants over his black and grey striped boxer briefs. He remains shirtless, going downstairs.

            He takes two caplets of Aspirin, and his every day doses of Abilify, and Pristiq. He takes some Xanax as well, which he bought off the streets and could be laced with, well, anything. He doesn’t care though; he just needs something for his nerves. Both of his antidepressants were supposed to help out with his anxiety, but he didn’t feel any different, so he decided to take matters into his own hands and self-medicate. He’ll be seeing Patrick again tonight, which he was sure was something he’d never be able to do.

            Pete wants to talk to Patrick. Not only that, but he has to. He hasn’t talked to the guy in ten years. Patrick’s an English teacher now, which seems appropriate; Patrick was always extremely good at the technical side of the subject. Pete wasn’t, but was an incredible creative writer. Who knew that one day his measly high school poems scribbled on the backs of notebooks would one day become lyrics to chart topping singles.

            Patrick is also single, just like Pete. Pete recently got out of a bad relationship; it happened just a month ago, and was part of the reason why he had gotten drunk last night in hopes of getting laid. Instead, he had been walked home and put to bed by his concerned friend, Frank. He vaguely remembers Frank throwing Pete, fully clothed, into the shower, and starting the water, hoping, and succeeding, in reviving him from his drunken state.

             Why was his past relationship bad, you’re wondering? Oh, no big deal, but she constantly mentally and verbally abused Pete, tearing him down so much that he was diagnosed with severe depression and anxiety.

            Pete remembered turning 28, and all of his band and crew members calling each other and celebrating because they never thought he’d live that long. His mother cried tears of joy as she hugged him, and his father himself got choked up as he gave his son a pat on the back and a ruffling of the hair.

            Pete sits down at his table, pouring three shots of rum into a glass (he likes his drinks strong) and then filling it to the brim with Coke. He has made himself a flawless Rum and Coke. He adds a lime to the side of the glass, and it magically becomes a Cuba Libre.

            He knows that he probably shouldn’t be drinking at roughly eleven in the morning, but in all honesty, he could give a fuck. He was at the point of his alcoholism where he accepted drinking to excess and in the morning as normal behavior. He knew that he should probably get help for his drinking problem, but that depressed part of him didn’t want to be saved.

            He scrolls through the contacts in his phone, and his finger hovers over Patrick’s name. He closes his eyes as he exits out, not even brave enough to face Patrick’s contact picture.

            Patrick also has a kid now, a cute little stinker named Levi. He has Patrick’s face structure, but his mom’s blond hair and brown eyes. What Pete doesn’t know is that every time Patrick looks into his son’s eyes, he is reminded of Pete, and it’s a lingering blow to the gut.

            Patrick is single though; the mom split without a goodbye, leaving Patrick a teacher with a two year old son to support and no partner to help him. Pete wonders why the fuck Patrick ever even had a kid, with a girl anyways. He was supposed to be gay. Maybe he’s bisexual? Pete really doesn’t know anymore, but who can blame him? A supposedly gay man had sex with a girl and made a kid. It just doesn’t make any sense.

            Pete feels bad for Patrick; he’s so sweet, so it makes sense that someone would abuse that and take advantage of him.

            Pete mentally prepares himself for what will surely be a rough night by drinking all day. His body has built somewhat of an immunity towards alcohol; as long as he spaces out his drinks, he won’t get drunk. Last night, he wanted to be drunk, so he consecutively chugged shot after shot, not even tasting the bitter drinks, but just downing them, taking no pleasure, but only drinking because he felt he had to.

            Patrick does the complete opposite. He drops his son off at the local babysitter’s at 11:00 that morning. The girl is one of Patrick’s students, and has a crush on him, which Patrick finds adorable.

            Patrick walks back to his house; he has no car. He lives in a moderately nice apartment, which is well furnished and allows his son to have his own room. His loafers clap against the pavement chirpily, the noise the only sound on the silent street.

            He gets home and looks at himself in the mirror, sighing heavily. He wears khaki pants, a white button up and a blazer. Of course, he wears the same blocky glasses that he had as a kid, only now he has come to terms with them. His braces are gone, and his impeccable teeth show no indication that he ever wore them. He wears a grey hat that reminds him of a detective from the forties. If you asked anybody who went to school with him (besides Pete) what the main difference in Patrick Stump is, it’d be the fact that he is now slender.

            His chubby cheeks and stomach had stayed throughout the younger years of adulthood; it wasn’t until about twenty five that with diet and exercise he started to lose the extra weight. Two years later, he’s at 148 pounds, a weight he hadn’t even been as a high schooler.

            He has a slight beard, in the sense that it’s made of stubble rather than bunches of thick hair. He decides to leave it, wanting to almost brag that he has hit puberty, since, in high school, he didn’t hit it until age 16, junior year.

            He goes to his bathroom, smiling at the tub which is already filled with bubbles, candles placed on each ledge of the tub. Pete’s band plays in the background, one of their softer tunes. It’s one of Patrick’s favorites, even though it breaks his heart because it’s obviously about what happened between them all those years ago that put an almost permanent riff in their previously closely knit relationship. Patrick slips out of his pants, folding them neatly and setting them on the sink. He pulls off his blazer, and slowly unbuttons his shirt, revealing his pale, but clear skin. He stands in his black boxer briefs, hat, socks and glasses, looking almost like a Calvin Klein model. He takes off his hat, removes his stockings, and steps out of his underwear last, piling them all meticulously on the sink’s edge.

            He slowly sinks into the warm water, letting out a sigh of relief. He leans his head back, allowing the water to flow into his ears even. He completely submerges himself, ducking his head under for as long as he can hold his breath. God, does it feel amazing.

            When he resurfaces, the song is almost over. It’s at the part Patrick had forgotten all about, the part where both Pete and Frank are moaning together, Frank taking the higher register and Pete doing the echoes.

            Fuck, that’s hot. Patrick snakes a hand down his stomach, his breath catching as he closes it around the head of his cock. He strokes the shaft, then rubbing his thumb over the head.

            He works it easily, reaching a hand up to his chest. He pinches his nipple between his thumb and forefinger, whispering,

            “Fuck!”

            God, he hadn’t masturbated since he was a teenager. Why did he ever stop?

            He continues to listen to Pete and Frank’s moans, trying to picture the two having sex in his head. Frank’s the bottom, and Pete’s the top. He grips Frank’s hipbones, digging his nails into the skin. He grinds his hips, and reaches below Frank’s raised stomach, grabbing the smaller man’s dick.

            Pete finally begins to come, and he moans out,

            “Fuck, Ricky.”

            Patrick’s eyes snap open as he comes. He stands in the shin high water, disgusted at the matter floating around. What the fuck? Why did imaginary sexy Pete say Patrick’s name? Sure, Patrick knew Pete was hot, but he didn’t love him. Did he? No! He didn’t, for sure. Pete had left him, and he was a piece of trash that could go to Hell as far as Patrick’s concerned. A really sexy piece of trash…

            Patrick splashes cold water onto his face, slapping himself on the cheek. “Get a hold of yourself!” he barks at his reflection, who looks back with wide blue green eyes.

            He slaps himself again. “You do not like Pete!”

            His reflection suddenly transforms into Pete, who winks at blows a kiss.

            Patrick screams and stumbles back, almost falling over. He quickly pulls on his boxer briefs, heading out to the living room.

            Maybe some TV will take his mind off of the whole thing. Patrick turns it on, to see Pete’s face. He clutches a hand to his chest. Shit! He’s going crazy!

            “The band has reportedly broken up. We asked Pete Wentz for a comment, but he had no reply,” the newscaster reports. “The reason why the band’s 13 year long career was ended remains unspoken.”

            Patrick stoops forward. Pete’s…. Pete’s band is over? Shit… that was Pete’s everything. Patrick still remembers how excited Pete was when he was first going to play with them, the lilt in his voice, the sparks in his eyes.

            Patrick really hopes he’s okay. He considers calling Pete; he even begins to dial the number. He then throws his phone across the room.   

            “No,” he says to himself. “If Pete doesn’t show up to the reunion…. then you’ll call him. If that happens, it doesn’t mean you like him. You’re just making sure he’s okay. After all, the last time you saw him he was crying;  you have a right to be worried.”

            Patrick flips off the TV, and rubs his temples. God, does he hope that Pete makes it tonight. 

Chapter Text

           Patrick leaves for the reunion, even though he’s practically seeing spots he’s so nervous and is in no condition to drive. He feels lightheaded, going back to his old school. What if nothing’s changed? What if kids still make fun of him, if they still hate him? His heart stops as he wonders if they’ll take a chance to humiliate him like they had in the past.

            He drives slowly, prolonging the inevitable torture of the ten year reunion. After fifteen minutes of driving on an empty country road at a mere, 20 mph, he decides,

            “You know what? Fuck them.”

            With that, his speed climbs to 40, to 60, to 70.

            “Fuck them! I’ll show them, show them how different I am now,” Patrick boasts. “I’m skinny now. I don’t have braces. They have no reason to make fun of me.”

            Pete takes off for the road as well, taking his Xanax along with him in case of sudden panic attacks. His last episode of one was over a month ago, but it sure wasn’t pretty. Basically, he thought he was dying.

            He looks at himself in the mirror, fixing his hair and straightening his jeans. He wears black skinny jeans with white Converses and a black V neck. He feels like the V neck might’ve been a mistake, but he could give a fuck.

            He stops at Frank’s house on the way, asking if he wants to come.

            Frank answers the door in nothing but a towel wrapped around his tiny hips. As a side effect of the sudden sexiness, Pete has to cross his legs to try to hide his boner.

            “S-s-sorry! I should’ve… um…. I could’ve called before h-hand,” Pete stutters, staring at Frank’s chest.

            Frank giggles his high pitched laugh that’s so Goddamn adorable. “It’s fine, man. What are you here for?”

            “I was wondering if you wanted to go to my class reunion with me,” Pete offers.

            Frank bites his lip and then shakes his head. “Nah, it’s not my class, ya know?”

            “Yeah but…” Pete stretches the truth slightly, adding, “I’m just really afraid I’ll have a panic episode. What if no one helps me?” Pete gives his best puppy eyes, crooking his eyebrows up slightly as he pleads, “Please come, Frankie.”

            Frank sighs, and replies, “Okay, yeah, if you’re worried about that. Just give me a few minutes to get dressed, and then I’ll be out.”

            “Alright, cool,” Pete agrees.

            He sits in the car, drumming his fingers restlessly on the dashboard as he waits for Frank to come out. Frank finally reappears, dressed in jeans so tight they could be painted on, a checkered shirt, a black blazer, and dark Risky Business-esque sunglasses. God, he looks hot. The weird thing is, with his paler skin and raven locks, he sort of looks like Gerard, a kid who was another victim of bullying at their school. According to Patrick, he sat next to him freshman year in Spanish. They never really talked, but both being picked on and overweight, had an unspoken agreement to always be polite to and look out for each other.

            Pete shows up to the reunion fashionably late, by about half an hour. He figures that Patrick was probably there ten to seven minutes early, knowing his friend.

            Pete goes straight to the bar. He sits down heavily, as Frank stands next to him, tugging on the sleeve of his shirt. “Peter, um… I don’t think this is a good idea.”

            “I need something to calm me down,” Pete mutters. He orders a beer, and swigs it as though his life depended on it.

            “Pete, please stop,” Frank begs. “I’ve seen what alcohol can do to people.”

            “I’m good,” Pete agrees, standing and wiping his mouth. Across the room, he sees a really hot guy. The guy’s wearing a blazer with a white shirt underneath, a hat, and black framed glasses. Pete heads over, Frank tailing him.

            “Hey, what’s your name?” Pete asks.

            “Oh my god is that…. Pete?” the man replies, dumbfounded.

            “Yeah, who are you?” Pete demands. He doesn’t like being left out of anything, even if it’s something as simple as not remembering who someone is while the other person does.

            “It’s me, Patrick!” Patrick chuckles. “You… gosh… you look great! And… Frank?”

            Frank grins as he nods, holding out his hand. Patrick shakes it, patting Frank on the shoulder as he compliments, “Hey, look at you! All tatted up!”

            “You should see me in a sleeveless,” Frank responds.

            “So, how have you two been?” Patrick questions.

            “Oh, good,” Pete replies. “You’re a teacher now?”

            Patrick nods, answering, “Kids are my life, man. I teach high school level English.”

            “That’s great,” Pete lies, a tad jealous. He wishes he cared about something that much. It used to be that way with music, but now that the band was broken up…. “So you changed a lot.”

            “What can I say? Lost weight, lost braces,” Patrick trails off. He taps his glasses. “Still blind as a bat.”

            “And you have a kid?” Frank asks, engaging himself in the conversation. He takes a cracker off of a nearby tray and stuffs it into his mouth whole.

            Patrick nods. “Yeah, I have Levi.”

            Frank, like the proper gentleman he is, brushes his hands off on his pants, continuing, “So you’re married?”

            “Actually, no,” Patrick replies. He shrugs, mumbling, “You know, that crazy bitch left me with a kid but….” Patrick adjusts his glasses anxiously, suggesting, “Do you want to go get some drinks?”

            “Pete doesn’t drink,” Frank cuts in. “But he’d love to have a water.”

            “Alright, sounds fine,” Patrick agrees, starting towards the bar.

            Frank follows, and Pete behind Frank. He flicks Frank in the ear, demanding,

            “Why the fuck did you say that?!”

            “Um, sorry, but….” Frank begins hotly. He takes a deep breath, then calmly continues, “I know you like Patrick. If you end up with him, I want you to remember tonight.”

            Pete smiles at Frank, patting his arm. “Thanks, man.”

            “Hey!” Patrick calls. He’s sitting at the bar, grinning. “You guys coming or what?”

            Pete and Frank hurry over, Frank allowing Pete to sit next to Patrick.         

Chapter Text

            Patrick orders an appletini, prompting the bartender to insult,

            “Hey, can I get you a Cosmo with that, faggot?”

            Patrick turns red and shakes his head, quietly sipping his drink. Pete, being more exposed to assholes as he grew up, recognizes the act of abashment. He barks,

            “Hey, douchebag, who said you can talk to my friend like that?”

            “I didn’t know I needed permission from Edward Cullen,” the bartender smirks.

            “Fuck you! You’re acting like a homophobic twat!” Frank curses.

            “What can I get you, midget?” the bartender scowls.

            Frank contemplates before answering, “Get me a screwdriver.”

            The bartender nods, turning.

            “Oh, yeah, one more thing,” Frank adds. The bartender turns around expectantly. “Go fuck yourself, hon.”

            The bartender smiles as he flips Frank off before storming towards the other side of the bar.

            “God, can you believe that guy?” Pete scoffs.

            “Th-thanks for sticking up for me,” Patrick mumbles, playing with his hands. He looks up at Pete through his thick rimmed glasses, adding, “Really. And you too, Frank.”

            Pete beams, and Frank flaps his hand, replying,

            “Oh, it was nothing.”

            There’s a pause, which is ended by Frank loudly asking,

            “So I’m not getting my screwdriver?”

            The three men all laugh, Pete slamming his head down on the counter, and Patrick doing the classic knee slap.

            Frank does end up getting his screwdriver, but only by asking a different bartender for one. It’s a girl, and she starts to flirt with Frank.

            “Wow, cool tattoos,” she gushes, noticing the ones on Frank’s hands.

            Frank grins as he takes a drink, setting it back down heavily. “You wanna see one of my favorites?”

            The girl eagerly nods so Frank takes off his blazer and rolls up a sleeve to his shirt. He, with a little difficulty, gets the sleeve all the way up to his shoulder, and points at the man smiling while using a drum set.

            “That’s my grandpa,” Frank explains. “He means everything to me.”

            “Aw, that’s so sweet,” the girl coos.

            Pete tunes out, while Patrick listens in with a small smile on his face. Patrick notices Pete’s bored expression, and nudges him, whispering,

            “Come on, you’ve got to admit it’s cute.”

            Pete shrugs. “I’m not much of a romance guy.”

            “Yeah, you were always like that,” Patrick agrees.

            Frank turns to the two, showing them a strip of paper. “Got her number. I know what I’m doing tonight.”

            “Apparently a Puerto Rican girl named Katy with a slamming butt,” Pete replies.

            Frank nods boastingly. “I think we’re actually leaving now.” Frank gets up, and so does Pete, grabbing Frank’s sleeve and hissing,

            “You can’t leave me! What do I do, what do I say? Do you think Patrick likes me?”

            “I’m doing this for you, Pete. I was a cockblock. Now, you can just hang out with him alone,” Frank responds, his voice low so Patrick can’t overhear.

            “I’m not ready!” Pete replies.

            “Look, he used to be your best friend. You have to know how to talk to the kid,” Frank points out. He waves goodbye to Patrick, who waves back, before telling Pete, “I’m leaving now.”

            Pete takes his seat, and watches Frank leave, hot Puerto Rican girl in tote.

            “What was all that about?” Patrick asks, gesturing at Frank.

            “Oh, nothing,” Pete assures, taking a drink of his water. God, he’d kill for a whiskey right now.

            “So, Pete,” Patrick begins tentatively. How in the Hell is he supposed to bring this up? “It’s nice to see you and Frank still getting along, because of the break up and all…”

            “Yeah,” Pete sighs. Why they ever broke up, Pete still can’t figure it out.

            “So, if you don’t mind me asking, what happened?” Patrick asks.

            “Oh, I don’t know,” Pete answers. He begins to pick at the part of the label on his water bottle where the ends meet each other. He peels the label off absently, muttering, “I wish I did.”

            “So, you had no say in the matter?” Patrick concludes, brows knitted.

            “Pretty much,” Pete exhales.

            “So, Pete,” Patrick begins. “I know we’ve been through a lot, I mean, a whole lot….”

            Pete nods vigorously. Yeah, a whole lot.

            “I’m not mad anymore,” Patrick tells. “And, I should know better but….”

            Pete looks at Patrick with wide eyes, on the edge of his seat with eagerness.

            “I want you, Peter.”

            *Senior Year*

            Patrick hits update, and there is the paragraph long status for everyone to see.

            “Dear everyone,

                        I know that a lot of people won’t care enough to read this, so I’m going to make it as long as I find necessary. My spiritual advisor admonished that I abstain from telling you what I’m about to, but I’ve had enough hiding. I’m gay, bitches. I’ve known ever since I was a child. I know that this likely won’t help my situation at school, but here’s what I have to say about all of the years of torment I’ve been through. Here’s to all my aggressors, ahem: I forgive you. You don’t like me, but I care about you. Don’t do something stupid after reading this that could get you suspended, expelled, or even taken to jail for a hate crime.

                                                            From,

                                                                        Patrick Stump”

            Ten minutes later, there’s 30 likes and at least 20 comments, most being support from his family, and a few kind messages from girls at his school who had previously treated him like dirt.

            Just the next day, Patrick’s bullying is tripled. Although it seems like there was nothing but support, thirty people is a small percentage in a school of over 3,000.

            Patrick’s just getting into the school when a trio of older boys corner him. He recognizes one of them from his English class, a boy named Henry.

            “Hey, faggot,” one of them sneers.

            Patrick realizes that they’re all juniors. Fuck, he’s screwed.

            “Nice sweater vest. Very gay,” another mocks.

            “Suck any good dick lately?” Henry laughs.

            The biggest one starts to shove Patrick, catching him on the rebound from the wall just to slam him into it again. His hat is knocked off, and his glasses taken.

            “Please stop!” Patrick begs, his vision blurred to the point he can hardly see. He squints, looking from person to person to see who has his glasses. He finally sees that Henry is holding them over his head. Patrick jumps for them, and all of the boys uproar with laughter as Henry yanks them just out of his reach.

            “Look at the fatass jump!” one of them snickers.

            “Here! Throw me the glasses!” the other orders.

            Henry does as he’s told, carelessly tossing them to the boy.

            Patrick runs over to the boy, just in time to make out the fuzzy motion of him snapping the glasses in two. He drops them on the floor, shattering the lens with the heel of his shoe.

            Patrick stares at the remains, blinking furiously to focus his sight.

            “Want a closer look?” one asks, and with that, he pulls Patrick by the shoulders onto the broken glass.

            Luckily, his hands protect his face from getting seriously hurt. He feels the warm trickle of blood run down his wrists, and sees the crimson river flowing heavily from his palms. The boys all leave, shoving each other and stumbling as they retreat.

            Patrick hears the first bell ring, and groans. Great, now he’s going to be late. Maybe the nurse will excuse him. He gets up slowly, unable to use his hands to push off from the ground. He walks over to the nurse, lies that he had broken the glasses himself and tried to pick it up, cutting his hands in the act, and returns to P.E. with bandages wrapped around his hands and his even geekier backup glasses on his face.

            After P.E., Adam catches up to him in the locker room. He looks concerned, asking,

            “What happened to your hands?”

            “Why would you care?” Patrick growls.

            “Just let me see,” Adam responds. “Please?”

            Patrick sighs before holding out his palms. Adam holds them, inspecting the blood stained bandages closely.

            There’s a flicker of malice in his eyes as he swiftly lifts his thumbs, pressing them deep into Patrick’s wounds.

             Patrick cries out loudly, and his eyes tear up as the rest of the locker room quietly observes. He starts to sob, and Adam finally releases him, hissing,

            “You’re pathetic, you fag.”

            Patrick runs to his stall, tears rushing down his face and blurring his vision. He slams the door behind him, sitting on the closed toilet seat and stringing his hands through his hair. He goes into his backpack, withdrawing a pair of scissors.

            He cuts his hair, hacking off clump by clump until it’s uneven, choppy, and above his ears. He puts his hat back on, covering the whole mess, and changes in time to catch the bell, leaving a pile of orange locks on the floor.

            Biology is the same Hell it usually is, but instead of being called a lard ass by Adam and Jude, he is called a faggot, pillow-biter, cocksucker, and every other gay slur on the earth. Patrick’s almost in tears again by the end of the class.

            He sits down heavily in Spanish class. He has hardly been sitting a minute when his hat is knocked off, revealing his crude self-haircut.

            “Oh my god!” exclaims the boy who knocked of his hat.

            Patrick turns beat red and begins to sweat with nerves as he fumbles to put his hat back on. He sits, his heart racing.

            He’s nudged, to see a piece of notebook paper in front of him. On it, scrawled sloppily is the words: Are you okay?

            Patrick looks over at his neighbor, that kid whose name he doesn’t know, but they’re both fat losers. “I’m fine.”

            The boy furrows his brows and frowns a little as if he doesn’t quite believe Patrick. But he nods, turning his attention back to the front of the room just as the bell rings.

            At lunch, Patrick sits down, not having gotten any food. He’s sick to his stomach; he doesn’t want to eat.

            “What’s wrong?” Pete asks. He dips a chicken nugget in barbeque sauce before cramming the entire thing in his mouth, brushing his hands off on each other.

            “Nothing,” Patrick lies, not wanting Pete to worry about him. “Just tired.”

            “So um, I saw your whole thing on Facebook,” Pete tells.

            “Oh yeah?” Patrick asks, his voice showing no indication of how anxious he really is.

            “Yeah,” Pete replies. “Can I talk to you later about it?”

            Fuck. Pete is going to stop being his friend. Well, Patrick kept him as long as he could. “Yeah, sure.”

            “Great,” Pete responds, grinning at Patrick.

            Patrick is going home from school that day when a car pulls up next to him. He recognizes Brian in the front seat, smiling portentously. Patrick begins to run, and he glances over his shoulder to see Brian get out of his car. Brian sprints towards him, easily catching up with the slow and out of shape Patrick.

            “Help!” Patrick cries as Brian grabs him. He slaps a hand harshly over Patrick’s mouth, dragging him into a back alley.

            He shoves him against the brick wall, punching him on the bridge of his nose and knocking his glasses off. Patrick can hardly see as he is beaten to a pulp, but he can definitely feel a steady stream of blood gush from the top of his nose.

            His head is slammed against the concrete, and he feels blood wet the back of his hair as well. His hat falls off, and Brian gasps. “You’re a fucking freak, you fag. Burn in Hell!”

            He kicks Patrick harshly in the stomach a few more times before slinking away.

            Patrick rolls over, knowing something’s not right. He slowly stands, and nearly falls over. He has absolutely no balance, and has to hold onto a dumpster to pull himself to his feet. He grabs his hat, putting it back on his head, and blindly scrambles for his glasses, finding them and putting them back on. The lens is cracked, but other than that, they’re fine. Patrick hurries to the hospital, his head pounding and nose bleeding profusely. 

Chapter Text

            *Senior Year*

            It’s been a three days since Patrick had his ass beaten to a pulp by Brian, and he’s finally well enough to go back to school, after nine stitches in his nose and treatment for a concussion.      

            Pete had visited Patrick in the hospital on the very first night, bringing a box of Patrick’s favorite candy, Crybabies.

            “You remembered,” Patrick tells.

            Pete chuckles lightly, replying, “I’ve got the memory of an elephant.” He sits down on Patrick’s bed, setting the candy on the nightstand. “I’m so sorry about what Brian did. I’ve cut all ties with him-”

            “You don’t have to do that,” Patrick cuts in. “He’s your friend. It’s not like he beat you up.”

            Pete frowns, insisting, “Yes I do. And no, he didn’t beat me up, but he beat up my best friend, which is even worse.”

            Pete runs his hands through his hair. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Ricky. I’m just stressed. I was so worried and….” Pete smiles. “It’s nice to see you doing well.”

            “Thanks,” Patrick responds. He grins at Pete, and then grabs the candy, tearing open the cardboard. “So let’s crack into these bad boys, huh?”

            “Sure,” Pete agrees, holding out his hand.

            Patrick dumps some candy into Pete’s hand. Pete pops one in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “So, you’re not pressing charges?”

            Patrick shakes his head. “My mom really wanted to, but they left the decision up to me, so…”
            “Why aren’t you pressing charges?” Pete asks. “He deserves it.”

            “He’s just a kid,” Patrick replies. “He didn’t know what he was doing.”

            “But Patrick, he just beat you up cause you were gay,” Pete reminds.

            “You wanted to talk to me about that?” Patrick asks, changing the subject.

            “About what?” Pete questions.

            “About how I came out on Facebook? You told me in the lunchroom…” Patrick goes on, trying to jog Pete’s memory.

            “Oh, yeah,” Pete laughs, although he sounds a little nervous. “What I wanted to say was, that….” He turns crimson and ducks his head. “I really like you, Patrick. Like, more than a friend.”

            Patrick takes Pete hand, although he knows his palms are sweaty. Pete’s hand is so freezing that Patrick almost jumps from the touch of it. He tightens his grip, telling Pete softly,

            “I like you, too.”

            Pete smiles, and glances over at the door, which is wide open. He gets up and shuts it, closing it as quietly as he can manage.

            “What are you doing?” Patrick asks.

            Pete draws the curtains on the little window of the door, hurrying over to draw the blinds of the windows on the walls as well. Once he’s sure no one can look in, Pete takes off his shirt.

            “What are you doing?” Patrick demands.

            Pete walks over, ribcage jutting slightly. He straddles Patrick’s legs, leaning over the shorter boy. Pete strokes a hand across Patrick’s cheek. “You’re so sweet.”

            “Pete, I can’t…” Patrick begins.

            “You can do anything you want to,” Pete replies. He grinds on top of Patrick, ducking forward to kiss the boy.

            Patrick lies still for Pete’s lip, allowing himself to be kissed. His heart races with excitement as Pete licks Patrick’s lower lip, asking for permission to Patrick’s mouth, which he grants. Their tongues dance, swapping spit until both of the boys are panting for air.

            Patrick starts to panic as he feels himself go hard, but Pete merely smiles. “Nice to see that you liked it.”

            He gets off of Patrick, finding his shirt and pulling it back on. He rubs Patrick’s forehead, pushing some of his locks from his face. He kisses his forehead, trailing his hand down Patrick’s body as he leaves. “Bye, Ricky.”

            “Bye,” Patrick replies, grinning ear to ear.

            When Patrick returns to school, he has one thing on his mind: Are he and Pete dating now? When he arrives to the school, he sees Pete by himself leaning up against a kid’s locker. He heads up to him, greeting,

            “Hey.”

            “Hey yourself,” Pete replies.

            “So… are we…. What was with that?” Patrick asks.

            Pete tilts his head and furrows his brows. “What?”

            “The whole….” Patrick ducks his head as he blushes, mumbling, “The whole kissing thing in my hospital room….”

            “That…. That was….. look,” Pete sighs. “Two more weeks and senior year is over, right? Can we…. Can we act like that never happened until then?”

            “Oh, I see,” Patrick mutters. “You’re ashamed to be with me.”

            “Ricky, come on, you know that’s not it,” Pete insists. “I’m ashamed of myself, honest.”

            “For what?” Patrick questions. Tears catch in his throat as he responds, “For making a move on a fat ass?”

            Pete is quiet.

            “You know what Peter, it’s bad enough that you made out with a fat loser, but even worse that you actually made the kid feel like he was important, and that for once in his life, somebody loved him,” Patrick continues, crying.

            “Patrick, it’s not like that,” Pete replies softly.

            “Then how is it?” Patrick demands.

             “I….. I just can’t be gay, okay? My dad will never forgive me. You don’t…. you don’t understand….” Pete trails off.

            “Oh, I understand,” Patrick responds, voice cracking. “I understand perfectly fine that, just like everyone else, you want nothing to do with me!” Patrick turns, stomping down the hall. Pete, not wanting to make a scene, just watches him go.

            Pete will, that night and years later, spend hours sobbing and feeling guilty over letting him leave. 

Chapter Text

“You…. You want me?” Pete stammers. “But, Patrick, things are different. We’re not fucking high schoolers anymore.”
“I don’t care,” Patrick replies. He places a hand on Pete’s upper thigh. “I just… fuck… I want you so bad right now.”
Pete swats Patrick’s hand away, looking around to see if anybody’d heard. “For Christ’s sake, keep your voice down and your cock in your pants.”
Patrick looks hurt. “And here, I thought you’d changed.”
Senior Year
Graduation comes, and Pete and Patrick both pass, getting about a million pictures taken of them during the ceremony and after.
Pete asks Patrick, “So, do you want to head down to the Diaz kid’s party?”
Patrick asks in a voice that’s much too childish to his own ears, “Will there be drugs and alcohol there?”
Pete shrugs. “Probably. There usually is.”
Patrick’s never known Pete as the partying type. He knows his friend as the boy who is always nervous. Parties don’t really seem like something he’d enjoy, but apparently, he’s been to one before. “Okay.”
Patrick’s stomach churns with nerves on the way to the house. Pete plays My Chemical Romance, singing along and tapping his hands on the steering wheel. Patrick smiles and sings along to the parts he knows, even though on the inside, he’s panicking. He’s never been to a party before, and this is a drug and alcohol party. There’s going to be drunk kids there, drunk popular kids. Popular kids already hate Patrick enough, what will happen when the big football jocks lose control of their inhibitions? Patrick’s stomach rolls just thinking about it.
They arrive soon, and Patrick follows his friend into the house, wanting to reach out and grab onto his hand. His hands tremble as they enter, loud music surging into Patrick’s ears, the subwoofer bass pumping in his chest.
Pete immediately finds a group of people, and for a split second, Patrick fears Pete will ditch him for the group of kids who are, admittedly, a lot cooler than Patrick. But no, Pete grabs Patrick’s arm and leads him over to the group of kids, introducing Patrick to them.
They get on well, and Pete ends up excusing himself for a drink about ten minutes into the conversation. Patrick follows, and the entire world stops spinning when Pete asks him,
“Patrick, do you want a beer?”
All that zooms through Patrick’s mind is his eighth grade health textbook, the section about drug and alcohol use. It’s bright easy-to-read colors flash in his mind so vividly he’s partially convinced that Pete can see the hues as well.
And what does Patrick do?
He fucking says, “Yeah, thanks.”
He tips the cup to mouth, the cheap plastic tacky against his lips. He tilts it, allowing his first sip of beer to flow into his mouth.
It tastes horrible. He almost spits it out in shock, but manages to choke it down. Pete watches him, taking a swig from his own cup and shuddering from its taste. “I know, it’s fucking gross, Ricky.”
“Then why are you drinking it?” Patrick questions. He dumps his beer out into a nearby artificial plant’s pot.
“Gets me drunk, good enough,” Pete answers, finishing off his cup. He refills his cup, grabbing Patrick and leading him upstairs.
They go to the Diaz kid’s room, lying sprawled out on his bed, Pete sipping from his beer.
Eventually, Patrick breaks the silence, offering, “I’m going to go downstairs, see what else they have to drink. Want me to grab you something while I’m down there?”
Pete wordlessly hands out his cup to Patrick, requesting, “I want two beers, please.”
Patrick makes his way down the steps with the empty cup in hand. He refills that one plus another for Pete, managing to hold one to his chest and tuck the other between his arm and ribs. He searches around, eventually finding a bottle of wine being passed around by a group of hoodrats. He considers getting it from them. That’s how desperate he is to be drunk, desperate enough to accept a Hepatitis A, B, and C positive bottle of wine from a group of hoodrats. His discretion tells him to ask where they got it, and they point over at a cabinet in the kitchen.
Patrick goes to the cabinet, fishing around inside until he locates a bottle of Chardonnay. He holds it in his other hand and goes back upstairs, handing one beer to Pete, setting the other on the nightstand, and pulling the cork out of the previously opened wine bottle.
Patrick takes a cautious sip from the wine, and, upon realizing it tastes nothing like beer, begins to chug it. Pete laughs, and starts to chug his own drink, reaching over Patrick to grab the second.
Pete, 7 beers later, and Patrick, a bottle of wine later, are both fall over drunk. Pete yawns and rolls around in the bed, nestling his head against a pillow like a cat to a leg. He tells,
“I’m so tired! I think I’ll just crash here.”
“What about me?” Patrick slurs.
“Sleep on the floor,” Pete suggests.
“Fine, I’ll sleep on the floor,” Patrick declares, rolling off the bed and landing on the floor. He lays quiet a few moments before adding, “LIKE A DOG.”
Pete laughs, and offers, “I could help you find another room.”
“Okay,” Patrick agrees, laboriously pulling himself up and sauntering clumsily to the door.
Pete giggles, and pats the open spot next to him on the bed. “Come here, you big idiot.”
Patrick grins and takes off his glasses, setting them on the nightstand. He falls onto the bed, crawling over next to Pete and hugging the older boy. Patrick nuzzles his face into Pete’s chest, and Pete drunkenly allows it.
“I’m cold,” Pete mutters.
Patrick sees a blanket at their shins. While the original purpose of his action is to reach the blanket, in his drunken state, his hand winds up on Pete’s crotch.
Patrick snatches his hand back immediately, apologizing, “Oh, I’m so sorry!”
Pete is quiet, looks down at his crotch, and then holds Patrick’s hand. Slowly, he moves his friend’s hand back onto his own crotch, rubbing Patrick’s hands in circles against the harsh denim.
Patrick stares at him, speechless. His mind is racing and his heart thumping as he begins to disrobe, Pete doing so himself. The two make passionate, slow love, and fall asleep with their faces sweaty and limbs carelessly tangled.

Chapter Text

Patrick wakes up to see his best friend dozing soundly next to him, sheets tangled around his hips. His bare thighs poke out from beneath the fabric, and they’re inexplicably pale in comparison to the rest of Pete’s body. Most would consider that to be an unattractive tan line, but Patrick regards it as proof that Pete is in no way perfect, and this information strikes him as incredibly comforting and endearing.

Patrick nuzzles up against Pete, stretching a hand over his friend’s back. He shuts his eyes, and he fails to notice Pete blinking himself awake.
Pete, brows furrowed, assesses the situation before him. He’s in bed with his best friend. But he’s not just in bed with him like when they’d share a mattress at sleepovers as children, but he’s like, in bed with him. Pete glances down at himself, to realize that he is completely naked. Seeing Patrick wrapped around him, at least shirtless, he’s not sure whether or not Patrick’s naked, but he can’t help but notice what must be Patrick’s black briefs hooked on the foot of the bed. Pete feels his heart rate increase, and worry rises within him. He slowly, very gradually, pulls himself out from underneath Patrick, succeeding in not waking the boy. Pete searches around, hand cupped protectively over his cock, for his underpants, finally locating his red boxer briefs. He steps into them, then slipping into his jeans and pulling a t shirt over his head.

He closes the door as quietly as he can manage, his hangover prickling in his head like TV static.

Pete distinctly remembers a young Patrick calling TV static snow, and watching it fondly, while Pete would clamp his hands over his ears, afraid of both the noise and the visual.

Pete snaps himself back to the present, and then realizes that, shit, he gave Patrick his ride here. He slinks back into the room silently, locating Patrick’s slacks strewn out on the floor. He rummages through the pockets, finally assuring that Patrick not only has his phone, but also that he has two bars of reception and three out of four battery life bars. He tucks the phone back into Patrick’s pants, and leaves the room once more, this time, leaving for good.

*PRESENT*

“Thought I’d changed?” Pete questions.

“Yeah,” Patrick retorts. “I thought that you were actually caring now.”

“Don’t you say that,” Pete growls. “I clearly remember me visiting you in the hospital, so it is so unfair of you to say that I don’t give a damn.”

Patrick challenges, “If you cared, then why the fuck did you leave me there? No explanation, no letters, no visits, no phone calls, not even a fucking email or text. That was cold as hell. You went fucking AWOL.”

“I left because I was scared,” Pete insists, biting back tears. “I thought that you of all people would understand what it’s like to be afraid.”

“Yeah, but the thing about being afraid is that you don’t mess with someone else to try to fix your own personal crisis shit,” Patrick responds. “I needed you.”

“Well do you know what I needed?” Pete asks.

“What?” Patrick hisses. “What, what was it that you needed so badly?”

“It sure wasn’t a boyfriend,” Pete spits. “I needed one of those like I need cancer in my bones.”

Patrick’s jaw drops open in shock. He turns his back to Pete, muttering, “Fuck you.”

“Fuck me? You wish,” Pete scoffs.

Patrick snaps his head back to face Pete, tears falling from his blue eyes. “If you didn’t need a boyfriend, then why the fuck did you take my virginity?” He sobs, “That was really fucking selfish of you, Pete. I looked up to you as a freshman. But by the time I was in college, I couldn’t even stand the sound of your fucking name.”

Pete struggles for words, but Patrick has raised an outstanding point. What Pete did was selfish. Pete could make up as many pitiful excuses as he wanted about being afraid or whatever, but when it boiled down to the hard facts, the truth was that he took advantage of Patrick. He got what he wanted from the younger teen, and then left when he was tired with his decision, like a child with a toy that they had once so desperately wanted.

It doesn’t matter that he was drunk, it doesn’t matter that he didn’t mean for it to happen. What he did was awful, and this evil was only amplified by Pete never making contact with Patrick.

“You left me there,” Patrick cries, streams of tears running down his cheeks. “You never cared for me at all.”

“That’s not true,” Pete mumbles. “I made sure that your cell was charged and everything so you had a ride out-”

“Doesn’t change the fact that you fucking left me alone. You got me to open up to you, to share my darkest shit with you, and just when I’m at my most vulnerable, you played me out as a fool,” Patrick continues. “Do you know what happened when you left?”

Pete shakes his head, answering honestly, “N-no, I don’t.”

“Those kids, they found me in there, naked, by myself. So what do you think they did?” Patrick questions.

Pete shrugs.

“They fucking took my clothes, including my cell phone, and locked me out of the house. Yeah,” Patrick responds. “I had to fucking walk my naked ass to the city, where I had to dart around in my gross, disgusting fatass body trying not to be seen-”

“You are not, or never were, disgusting,” Pete cuts in.

“You sure seemed to think so; you couldn’t wait to get out of there and forget about your little mistake,” Patrick snarls. “That’s all I was, all I am to you, isn’t it? Some little misstep that the great, famous Pete Wentz cannot afford and therefore had to cut all connections with. That’s why, oh my God, it makes sense now. You wouldn’t call me because you didn’t want it to jeopardize your future with your band.”

Pete is speechless. He mutters, “That’s not true.”

“A lot of evidence says otherwise,” Patrick remarks. “You know what, fuck you, Pete. Just fuck off, leave me alone.” He stands and leaves the room in a huff, out into the city night.

Chapter Text

Patrick storms down the street, the brisk air snipping away at his cheeks. He takes a turn out to an alley, waning to be away from the cars and lights and buzzing noise of the city.

He spends a while pacing in the small space, murmuring to himself furiously. “Pete’s such an asshole. Fuck him, I don’t need him. I don’t even want him anymore.”

Patrick is so wrapped up in his own emotions that he fails to notice the four dark figures turning into the alley. Patrick feels something hard and cold pressed against his temple, and when his eyes turn to the limit of his peripheral vision, he sees that it’s the barrel of a gun.

Patrick lets out an involuntary whimper of fear, and a hand is slapped harshly over his mouth.

“You fucking make a noise and your brains will be all over the wall, faggot,” a man threatens.

Patrick nods, tears of fright squeezing out from his eyes.

“I’m going to take your wallet, I’m going to take your cellphone and clothes, and you’re not going to do a thing about it,” he continues. He pauses, and decides to add for good measure, “If you try, your dead body will hit the ground so fast that you won’t know what happened. If you move, if you scream, if you try to run away, you’re fucking dead.”

Patrick nods once more, tears rushing down his face.

“Take his glasses so he can’t identify us,” another man suggests.

He does as he’s told, removing Patrick’s glasses. Patrick can’t see, but he can hear the familiar sound of his glasses being thrown to the floor and then stomped on, the noise of the lens shattering resonating in his ears.

“Take your pants off,” one of the muggers orders.

Patrick does as he’s told very slowly. His fingers are shaking and he can’t see, so simply unbuttoning his trosoeurs is a difficult task. He slips them down his legs slowly, and he can’t help but thank God that he’s wearing solid black boxer briefs instead of his Marvel Comics ones (which he had considered wearing for Pete). It’s not until the pants are snatched from the ground that Patrick feels the warm stream of fluid pooling around his crotch and running down his legs.

“He fucking pissed himself!” one of the criminals laugh, and the others all join in the cackling.

“Take off your shirt, fucking freak,” another instructs.

The gun remains pressed to Patrick’s head as he slowly removes his shirt, which is stolen from his hands. His hat must’ve fallen off at some other point, because there was no obstacle as he pulled the clothing over his head.

“Now shoes, and then you’re free to go,” demands another.

Patrick gradually bends down, and he can feel the gun adjust to the height difference against his skull. He removes his shoes, not bothering to untie them. Those are finally taken, and then his Hell is over. The feeling of the gun against his head disappears, and he can hear the men scatter off into the night.

Patrick falls to his knees, and begins to wail. Another occurrence of bullies has left him completely helpless. He tucks his legs up to his chest, and sobs loudly. This shit wasn’t supposed to happen. Not at this age, no.

Pete rushes down the street in search for Patrick. He’s only been searching for about five minutes, but already he is extremely worried. Patrick wasn’t by his car, which was parked not too far from the reunion building. Suddenly, the sound of cries brings Pete sprinting to where he had come from, his lungs heavy in his chest as he runs.

He makes a sharp turn into the alley, and the weeping doesn’t cease, but only grows louder. Pete stops, panting loudly. He slowly makes his way down the alley, to see a man curled up against the wall crying. This grown man, blubbering like a baby. It isn’t even recognizable as Patrick until Pete notices the scar on the man’s left hand, which is a scar that Patrick had worn since he was a small child.

“Oh my God, Patrick? Are you okay?” Pete asks.

Patrick manages a shake of the head, and whispers, “Don’t look at me, please.”

Pete only now realizes in the shadows of the dimly lit alleyway that Patrick is stripped down to his underwear. “Are you hurt? What happened?”

“I’m not injured,” Patrick answers. “I got fucking mugged.”

“What’d they take?” Pete questions.

“Cellphone, wallet, clothing, you know,” Patrick lists, tears still in his voice. “Not really anything important.”

Pete sighs, and offers his hand for Patrick. “Come on, you’re coming to my hotel room with me.”

Patrick takes his friend’s hand, and is helped to his feet. Pete’s eyes flick down to the wet spot on the front of Patrick’s underwear, but then flash away, and Patrick can’t help but notice him doing this.

“They had a gun,” Patrick explains hastily. “It was pretty scary.”

Pete nods. “Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

They take Pete’s car, and drive out to the hotel. Once in the car, Pete tells, “My bags are already in the hotel room, so I don’t have any extra pants or anything, but you can wear mine.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Patrick responds.

“I know,” Pete replies. “I want to.” With that, he pulls off his shirt, handing it to Patrick, and then slips out of his pants, handing these to Patrick, leaving Pete merely in white boxer briefs.

Patrick gingerly wriggles into the pants, which are really fucking tight. “How do you wear these jeans?”
Pete shrugs. “They kind of squash your balls, but you get used to them.”

Patrick giggles and shakes his head, working the pants up to his hips. He puts on the shirt as well, and only once he’s fully clothed does the redness in his cheeks and embarrassment in his voice fade.

“Thanks so much, Pete,” Patrick thanks. “I feel a lot better now.”

Pete shrugs. “It’s no problem. The people at the hotel will look at me like I’m crazy, though.”

Patrick laughs, agreeing, “Yeah, I don’t think it’s too often that they have hot boys walking around in their underwear.”

Pete raises an eyebrow. “ ‘Hot?’”

Patrick blushes once more, stammering, “W-well I mean y-you were in a band so I-I’m sure that a- a lot of people think that you’re good l-looking.”

Pete chuckles, saying, “No need to get all flustered, Ricky.”

Now it’s Patrick’s turn to raise a brow. “Ricky? That’s something I haven’t heard in a while.”

Pete now reddens, mumbling,

“Well, yeah, not really. I don’t know if you know this Patrick but, I really missed you.”

“Me too,” Patrick admits.

They spend the rest of the trip in stoic silence.

Chapter Text

Once they get to the hotel (Pete certainly got some strange looks parading around in his underpants), Pete dresses, and grabs a new pair of underwear for Patrick, dark blue Calvin Klein boxer briefs.

“You can shower if you want,” Pete suggests. “You can just wear the clothes I already gave you.”

Patrick nods. “Okay. I’ll see you in like fifteen minutes.”

As the water hits Patrick, he contemplates tonight’s events, and the events to come. It certainly was unlucky to get fucking mugged, but perhaps there was a reason behind it.

Patrick changes into the new clothes quickly, and he stumbles into the living room, his glasses still being broken.

Pete frowns at him, and gets up, dismissing, “I have to check with the front desk for something.”

“Okay,” Patrick calls as the door is shut. He sits quietly and watches the program Pete was watching on TV, something about this little transgendered boy.  

Pete returns within minutes, declaring loudly, “Good news!”

“Oh?” Patrick responds.

“Yeah. The front desk did have contacts,” Pete tells. “I’m sure it sucked not being able to see very well.” He tosses a small stapled paper bag to Patrick, which he tears open, to find contacts and solution inside.

“That was nice of you,” Patrick mumbles. He puts in his contacts, not bothering to use the solution. He blinks them in place, and finally, he can actually see ten feet in front of him.

Pete hangs in the doorway, biting his lip. “So, there’s only one bed.”

“We can share,” Patrick suggests. “I mean, it’s no big deal, really. We did it all the time when we were younger.”

Pete nods, the painful memory of his own betrayal striking him suddenly. Patrick’s words fail to bring up any happy sleepover nostalgia, only painful one night stand memories.

That night, Pete goes to bed in his mismatched frog pajama bottoms with a striped top, and Patrick wears what Pete had given him, which is just a pair of sweatpants along with a worn Rolling Stones t shirt.

Pete rolls onto his stomach, turning his head away from Patrick to breathe. “Goodnight, Ricky.”

“Night,” Patrick replies. He curls up on his side, and he tries his hardest to sleep, he really does, but he can’t get a wink with Pete resting soundly just a few centimeters away.

Little does Patrick know, Pete cannot sleep with Patrick in the same room, let alone bed.

The two eventually fall asleep in the early hours of the morning, and so they don’t rise until about 1:00 in the afternoon.

Pete yawns, and after checking the alarm clock, declares, “Wow, we slept the whole day away, it seems.”

Patrick nods. “I’m a school teacher, I mean; I’m used to being up at 6:30. 8:30 on the weekends.”

Pete’s features are distorted in horror. “I haven’t been up that early in years. 11:00 is my morning.”

Patrick laughs, and points out, “Well, one hour isn’t much of a morning, now is it?”
Pete chuckles as well, agreeing, “I suppose not.”

“So, do you want to go grab lunch or something?” Patrick suggests.

“That actually sounds really good right now,” Pete decides. He steps out of bed and begins to rummage through his suitcase, searching for a change of clothes not only for him, but for Patrick as well.

He manages to toss together a pair of skinnies and a tee for Patrick, and Pete wears his jeans and a sweatshirt with money signs on it that no adult in the right mind would wear.

They go to a nice little café they spot on their wandering downtown, and they quickly park and go inside.

“Pick a table,” Pete instructs as they walk in. The café is fairly full, so Patrick picks the most isolated table in the joint he can find.

Pete rolls his eyes and follows, smirking.

They are waited on promptly, which is good, because both are still sleepy and not in the best mood for light, forced conversation.

Patrick orders a chicken fried steak meal, and Pete just gets a chocolate shake with French fries. Patrick smirks at this, and Pete slurps from his ice cream, asking with his mouth full,

“What?”

“Your diet hasn’t changed since you were sixteen,” Patrick answers. “I actually watch what I eat.”

“Why?” Pete asks, and he looks genuinely curious. He dips a fry in his ice cream, and devours it with no remorse. “Why diet? My body is a work of art, not a color by number activity.”

“That was… profound,” Patrick admits. “Should… I don’t know. I haven’t eaten fatty foods in forever.”

“Dude, go for it,” Pete encourages. “My logic is that if you don’t have any health problems with your weight, then no matter how heavy or light or average you are, you should be able to eat what you want. You’ve got one life, enjoy it.”

Patrick calls the waitress over and scratches the actual food and instead orders fried onion rings with a strawberry malt. When Patrick digs into his food, Pete grins, and questions,

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Patrick nods. “I can’t remember the last time I had 80% calories from fat. It feels great.”

Pete laughs, and the two finish their meals in comfortable silence.

Once they go back to the hotel, Patrick tells Pete as they sit in the living room watching TV,

“You know, I’ve got to get back later tonight. Like, at 4:00 or something.”

It strikes Pete’s heart that Patrick has to go. “Huh.”

“My car’s still at where we had the reunion,” Patrick continues, thumbing the lip to his beer bottle. “Would you mind driving me over around then so I can take it home?”

“Sure,” Pete replies.

“Oh, shit, what am I supposed to do about your clothes?” Patrick realizes. “I don’t have anything clean; I wasn’t planning on staying.”

“Keep ‘em, don’t worry about it,” Pete answers.

“Thanks,” Patrick responds.

“So… wow,” Pete mumbles after a while. “You’re… really leaving.”

“Yeah,” Patrick agrees. “Weird, isn’t it?”

Pete polishes off his beer, and gets up to dispose of the can. On his way back into the living room, he makes what he will later regard as the best decision of his life.

He decides to sneak up behind Patrick’s chair, grab the man’s shoulders, and plant a soft kiss at the nape of his neck.

Chapter Text

Patrick pulls away from Pete’s kiss, and asks,

“W-what are you doing?”

Pete stands, mouth agape. It wasn’t the reaction he was expecting. “I’m… I want to be with you, Patrick.”

“After that whole scene at the reunion?” Patrick retorts. “ ‘Things are different, we’re not fucking high schoolers anymore.’ Sound familiar?”

Pete cringes at his own words. “I know; that was rude. I’m sorry. But Patrick, when I saw you at the reunion…” Pete takes a deep breath as he confesses, “I was trying to block you out.”

“Block me out? After what you did to me, you’re the one blocking me out,” Patrick scoffs.

Pete again apologizes, “I know, it’s ridiculous. I… but it wasn’t for me, if that makes you feel any better. It was for your own good.”

Patrick responds, “How is denying me the only thing I want ‘for my own good?’”

Pete looks down, and mumbles in a barely audible voice, “I didn’t want to hurt you again. I wouldn’t- I won’t let myself do that.”

Patrick stands, and slowly saunters over to Pete. He places the back of his hand against Pete’s face, and rubs at his stubble. “Then don’t. Don’t hurt me. But honey, ignoring all of your problems won’t make this go away. You won’t do that to me again, Peter. I know you won’t. I trust you.”

Pete gazes gradually into Patrick’s eyes, and his friend offers a grin. Pete slowly moves in for a kiss, taking several glances to make sure that Patrick wants to be kissed. He presses his lips gently against Patrick’s, and threads a hand through his hair. He grabs Patrick’s shoulder with his other hand, and by now, Patrick is biting Pete’s bottom lip and tugging at the skin softly. He licks the inner part to his bottom lip, and Pete opens his mouth, and Patrick does as well. Their tongues merge together, and their bodies do as well. They become completely tangled in each other, and both of them love it.

They break the kiss, and Patrick extends his hand, which Pete gingerly takes. He leads the way to the bedroom, which is dimly lit in the mid afternoon sunlight.

Patrick drops Pete’s hand, and guides him silently to the bed, which Pete lays down on. Patrick pulls off his t shirt, and whips it across the room. Pete undoes his pants, and squirms his way out of them, kicking the offending clothing to the floor.

Patrick struts over, straddling Pete’s hips. Patrick ducks towards Pete, kissing him gently. Pete’s breath stutters as Patrick massages his bottom lip, and Pete blushes, causing Patrick to smirk.

Patrick grinds his hips against Pete’s, seeming to push down as far as he possibly can. He unbuttons his jeans, and brings down the zipper, revealing a v of underpants.

He wiggles the jeans down only partway, just enough to get his crotch out. He slips a hand in the pocket to his borrowed underwear, stroking himself slowly.

Pete watches, jaw open, eyes wide, as Patrick touches himself. Pete absorbs every second of it; the small sound of Patrick’s whimpers, the curve of his pale neck as his head tilts back in ecstasy, his full and lush eyelashes, drooped low over his eyes. Pete cannot tear his eyes away for a second, and takes a while to realize that he has a hard on himself.

Patrick teases himself, tickling his thumb across the head. He wraps his hand around the base of it, and slips it up and down the shaft, making more muffled sounds.

Pete eventually brings himself to pull Patrick’s hand from inside his underwear. Patrick raises an eyebrow, and Pete scolds,

“You’re going to wear yourself out. Are we doing this, or what?”

Patrick smiles, a mischievous glint in his eyes that says yes for him. He leans forward and bites Pete’s earlobe, growling lowly,

“Do you want to be my sub?”

Pete nods, and Patrick grins, purring,

“Good boy.”

Patrick gets off of Pete, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He wrestles his jeans to his ankles, finally completely getting them off. He rolls off his underwear as well, and Pete can feel his cheeks flushing.

“Got a condom?” Patrick asks.

Pete nods vehemently. He trips over his own words, stuttering, “Y-yeah, in the top-top drawer of that nightstand.”

Patrick opens the adjacent nightstand, and pulls out a single condom, along with a small bottle of lube.

Pete quickly squirms out of his underwear, balling them and tossing them to the floor. His heart pounds in his chest as he rolls over onto his stomach, placing pillows strategically beneath his hips and lower abs to support and prop himself up. Patrick grins, and remarks,

“So you remember a lot from last time?”

Pete nods, and admits, “Well, yeah. That was my only time having sex with a guy. You’re… special to me, Patrick. You always were, and always will be.”

Pete can’t see Patrick’s expression, but he sure wishes he could, see Patrick actually feel good about himself for once.

Pete feels hands grasping his hipbones, followed by a slick gel being spread across him. He shivers, and feels a finger press its way in. Then two, and finally three. It’s a careful process, and Patrick is tightly gripping Pete by now. He finds Pete’s prostrate, and gives it a stroke, which makes Pete’s hips stammer with pleasure.

Patrick smirks and pulls out, now preparing himself. He moves the lube around the length of himself, and can’t help but feel nervous as he pushes himself into Pete.

At first, they’re both as quiet as mice, too afraid to make noise. But, it’s not long before Pete starts to masturbate to further his pleasure, and he accidently lets a moan slip out from between his lips.

Patrick blushes, and decides to let go of his anxieties. He lets his head fall back, and lets a soft humming noise out. He grabs Pete’s hipbones, and digs his nails in, almost breaking the skin.

Pete bites his lip to suppress his whine; not wanting Patrick to think he’s hurting Pete. He is, but he doesn’t want him to know; it feels to damn good, and only adds to the spontaneity and intensity of the sex.

Patrick comes, and he can’t help but let out a low groan. Pete comes just a few moments later, and a guttural growl escapes.

Patrick flops over onto his back, and Pete rolls over as well. Patrick crawls up so he’s lying next to Pete, threads their fingers together, and kisses him on the cheek.

Chapter Text

Patrick pulls away from Pete’s kiss, and asks,

“W-what are you doing?”

Pete stands, mouth agape. It wasn’t the reaction he was expecting. “I’m… I want to be with you, Patrick.”

“After that whole scene at the reunion?” Patrick retorts. “ ‘Things are different, we’re not fucking high schoolers anymore.’ Sound familiar?”

Pete cringes at his own words. “I know; that was rude. I’m sorry. But Patrick, when I saw you at the reunion…” Pete takes a deep breath as he confesses, “I was trying to block you out.”

“Block me out? After what you did to me, you’re the one blocking me out,” Patrick scoffs.

Pete again apologizes, “I know, it’s ridiculous. I… but it wasn’t for me, if that makes you feel any better. It was for your own good.”

Patrick responds, “How is denying me the only thing I want ‘for my own good?’”

Pete looks down, and mumbles in a barely audible voice, “I didn’t want to hurt you again. I wouldn’t- I won’t let myself do that.”

Patrick stands, and slowly saunters over to Pete. He places the back of his hand against Pete’s face, and rubs at his stubble. “Then don’t. Don’t hurt me. But honey, ignoring all of your problems won’t make this go away. You won’t do that to me again, Peter. I know you won’t. I trust you.”

Pete gazes gradually into Patrick’s eyes, and his friend offers a grin. Pete slowly moves in for a kiss, taking several glances to make sure that Patrick wants to be kissed. He presses his lips gently against Patrick’s, and threads a hand through his hair. He grabs Patrick’s shoulder with his other hand, and by now, Patrick is biting Pete’s bottom lip and tugging at the skin softly. He licks the inner part to his bottom lip, and Pete opens his mouth, and Patrick does as well. Their tongues merge together, and their bodies do as well. They become completely tangled in each other, and both of them love it.

They break the kiss, and Patrick extends his hand, which Pete gingerly takes. He leads the way to the bedroom, which is dimly lit in the mid afternoon sunlight.

Patrick drops Pete’s hand, and guides him silently to the bed, which Pete lays down on. Patrick pulls off his t shirt, and whips it across the room. Pete undoes his pants, and squirms his way out of them, kicking the offending clothing to the floor.

Patrick struts over, straddling Pete’s hips. Patrick ducks towards Pete, kissing him gently. Pete’s breath stutters as Patrick massages his bottom lip, and Pete blushes, causing Patrick to smirk.

Patrick grinds his hips against Pete’s, seeming to push down as far as he possibly can. He unbuttons his jeans, and brings down the zipper, revealing a v of underpants.

He wiggles the jeans down only partway, just enough to get his crotch out. He slips a hand in the pocket to his borrowed underwear, stroking himself slowly.

Pete watches, jaw open, eyes wide, as Patrick touches himself. Pete absorbs every second of it; the small sound of Patrick’s whimpers, the curve of his pale neck as his head tilts back in ecstasy, his full and lush eyelashes, drooped low over his eyes. Pete cannot tear his eyes away for a second, and takes a while to realize that he has a hard on himself.

Patrick teases himself, tickling his thumb across the head. He wraps his hand around the base of it, and slips it up and down the shaft, making more muffled sounds.

Pete eventually brings himself to pull Patrick’s hand from inside his underwear. Patrick raises an eyebrow, and Pete scolds,

“You’re going to wear yourself out. Are we doing this, or what?”

Patrick smiles, a mischievous glint in his eyes that says yes for him. He leans forward and bites Pete’s earlobe, growling lowly,

“Do you want to be my sub?”

Pete nods, and Patrick grins, purring,

“Good boy.”

Patrick gets off of Pete, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He wrestles his jeans to his ankles, finally completely getting them off. He rolls off his underwear as well, and Pete can feel his cheeks flushing.

“Got a condom?” Patrick asks.

Pete nods vehemently. He trips over his own words, stuttering, “Y-yeah, in the top-top drawer of that nightstand.”

Patrick opens the adjacent nightstand, and pulls out a single condom, along with a small bottle of lube. He rolls on the condom, and begins to spread lube across himself. He tugs Pete’s underwear roughly to his ankles, yanking them off. Pete becomes even redder, and grips the headboard, burying his flushed face into the pillows.

 Patrick brings himself close behind Pete, and slowly enters the man. He reaches a hand forward, stringing it into Pete’s hair.

Pete’s whimpers and groans are muffled into the pillowcases, which he is thankful for. That is, until Patrick pulls his head back and Pete’s small moan is the only audible sound in the entire room.

Pete blushes to the degree that he’s afraid he’s getting burnt by how hot his cheeks are. Patrick drops Pete’s head, letting it fall back into the pillows, and grabs on just below Pete’s ribcage.

Patrick finishes within moments, but being the considerate person he is, he keeps going, despite the aching in his thighs. He continues until Pete orgasms as well, and only exits once he’s sure that his partner has come down.

Patrick rolls over, and crawls up next to Pete, panting lightly. He lay next to the sweaty man, and locks his fingers with his.

Pete manages to breathe, “That was amazing.”

Patrick nods vehemently in enthusiastic agreement. “Yeah.”

The two stay in the same position, star struck by the afternoon’s events. Finally, after about twenty minutes Patrick rises, pulling on pants.

“I should really get going.”

Pete props his head up with his fist, looking up at Patrick with his fawn eyes. “But… don’t you want to stay?”

Patrick gives a deep sigh, and admits in a small voice, “Yes, I want nothing more than to stay.”

“Then why don’t you?” Pete challenges, his voice low.

“I have to work, Pete. You know this,” Patrick replies calmly. “If you’d drive me to my car?”

Pete pouts, but stands, stepping into underwear and jeans, and slipping on a t shirt. He grabs the keys, gripping the cold metal so tightly that the pointed end digs painfully into his palm.

Pete drops Patrick off by his car, but gets out as well, lingering as Patrick rummages through his suitcase. Patrick gets in, rolling down a window. Pete doesn’t bother to look, just mopes and stares out at the street.

Suddenly, a pair of pants is flung at Pete, followed by a shirt. Pete clutches the garments, and recognizes it as his own. He tosses them into his car, and watches with interest as Patrick squirms into his own clothes in the limited space of the backseat.

Finally, Patrick emerges. He strokes Pete’s jaw with the back of his hand, and places a soft kiss at the top of his cheekbone. Patrick grins, and hugs Pete, whispering,

“You make sure you call me. Maybe you can come out sometime.”

Pete’s eyes widen, and he gives Patrick a dumbfounded look, searching for some reassurance that he’s welcome in his friend’s life.

Patrick reads his mind, giving a nod. “We can get dinner or something. You know, I bet Levi’s wishing he had a second parent.”

Pete breaks out into a smile, and Patrick hops into his car, revving up the engine. He sticks his head out the window, calling,

“Peter!”

Pete raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“I think you’d love the little guy,” Patrick tells. With that, he drives off, a smile on his face, and his eyes fixed on Pete’s waving silhouette in the rearview mirror.