Title: Hold Off Your Bets Now
By Zee
Summary: Don't you know/how sweet and wonderful life can be?/I'm askin' you, baby/To get it on with me. 29,161 words, NC-17.
Disclaimer: None of this is true.

Notes at the end.



It's raining. Patrick is kind of baffled by this, because--they're driving through *Arizona.* In the summer. And yet--rain, sheets of it, dumping on them since they stopped for dinner (it's two am now) without letting up once. It's Pete's turn to be behind the wheel, and he dislikes driving and hates driving in the rain even *more,* and so Patrick is staying awake to keep him company and make him less miserable. This is not by choice: every time he starts dozing a little, Pete hits him or pinches him or twists his ear or something else annoying and painful. Patrick can't retaliate because Pete's driving, so--he just doesn't get to sleep tonight, apparently.

They stop to get gas and Patrick gets out of the van to get something caffeinated, resigned to staying awake for the next several hours because Pete is. Really, this is fucking annoying, but Pete beams at him when Patrick gets out of the car and hugs his shoulders, leaning against him, and Patrick can't stay mad.

"You're making this up to me later," he says, grumpy for the sake of it, and Pete pecks him on the cheek.

"Of course I will. Don't get your panties in a bunch." Pete squeezes his shoulders before letting go, running into the gas station to avoid getting rained on.

His cheek feels warm where Pete kissed him, even though he didn't slobber on him or anything. Pete just does things like this, utterly clueless of the way it affects Patrick, and Patrick can never decide if he wants him to do it more or stop. Patrick rubs his cheek against his shoulder, aware that he's blushing faintly, and goes in to get his soda.

Pete is leaning against the station wall when he comes out, looking morosely at the van. Patrick joins him. "How long until we get to Albuquerque?"

"Five hours, if I really push it," Pete says. Five more hours of sitting cramped in that front seat with his ass getting numb, five more hours of listening to Pete ramble on about whatever he wants to talk about to keep himself awake, five more hours of listening to the windshield wipers squeak. Patrick rubs his hands over his face, dreading it already.

"Yeah," Pete says glumly, as if Patrick had said out loud how much this sucked, and he was agreeing. "Dude, fuck me, I cannot believe I got stuck with the overnight driving through rain shift. This blows."

"It could be worse. Could be snowing," Patrick says, smiling a little, and Pete groans and theatrically reaches over to cover Patrick's mouth with his hand.

"God, don't *jinx* us."

"It's not going to snow in June in Arizona," Patrick says, muffled and garbled against Pete's hand. Pete's palm tickles his lips, and it makes something warm and nice spark in Patrick's belly.

"I would not put it past Arizona to shit snow on us," Pete says, leaning in close to Patrick's ear, not moving his hand. "She's a *bitch* that way."

"Why is the state's weather female?" Patrick asks, not that his words are actually understandable. He turns his head to face Pete, who is, huh, closer than Patrick had realized.

Pete lets his hand slip from his mouth. "It--fuck, Patrick, it just is." Pete's smile is a little twisted, a lot tired. "I'm operating on like five hours of sleep here, you know?"

"Yeah, I sympathize. I haven't slept, either, because some dick keeps hitting me every time I drift off." Patrick tries to keep his tone light, casual, because Pete is still staring into his eyes and not moving away. If anything, he seems closer. Patrick feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up a little bit.

"That sounds awful. He probably just wants attention, though." Pete props his chin on Patrick's shoulder, smiling at him. Patrick leans in a little bit and so does Pete, and Patrick isn't sure who initiates it, but their lips bump against each other. It's not really a kiss until Pete reaches up and cups the back of Patrick's head, pulls him in, and Patrick parts his lips.

It takes a few seconds to hit him that whoa, whoa, he is kissing his best friend whom he's been infatuated with since Day One. What's going on?

He pulls back a little, most of his brain crying out against no longer kissing Pete. "Um. Pete. Are you serious about this? Or just...?"

"Hm." Pete smacks his lips, looking thoughtful. "I don't know. Let's try it again." He kisses Patrick again, his lips warm and wet.

Which, okay, Patrick can roll with this, even though there are exclamation marks going off behind his eyes and his heart feels like it's going to beat right out of his chest in excitement. He's pretty sure that if he weren't kissing Pete, he'd be hyperventilating. Because what the fuck and also yes.

He loses track of how long they end up making out against the wall; luckily, it being two in the morning, the only other person at the station is the guy at the counter, who can't even see them. When Patrick comes up for air, he realizes that he's pretty much soaked from the rain, so it's probably been a while.

"We should, uh." Pete smiles and bumps Patrick's nose in his. "The sooner we leave, the sooner this stupid drive will be over, right?"

"Right," Patrick says, reluctant. He'd much rather keep kissing Pete than climb back into the *fucking* van.

"We can pick up where we left off later," Pete says, pressing a quick kiss to Patrick's mouth before stepping back. "Promise."

***

Days pass before they get any kind of chance to be alone together again. One night, Patrick jerks awake from what he's sure was a very disturbing dream, but he can't quite remember; the blaring red numbers of the hotel alarm clock on the night stand tell him that it's 3:41 AM.

Across the room, Pete is wide awake, sitting on the edge of the bed he's sharing with Andy (Joe is snoring lightly next to Patrick). He's only wearing his boxers and he's staring right at Patrick, completely unashamed when Patrick catches him looking; he just smiles a little, quirks his mouth, and the effect goes straight to Patrick's pants.

"Hi," Patrick whispers.

"Hi," Pete says back, flashing him a grin. "I can't sleep."

"Neither can I," Patrick says quickly. "I mean--except for how I just was, but--" he stops.

"Yeah," Pete says, and Patrick wishes very very hard that he was next to Pete in that bed instead of Andy. Who was on crack when they made these sleeping arrangements, anyway? He and Pete really should have thought of this.

Patrick sits up, swinging his feet to the floor. "So, um. We should, maybe. Talk about the other day?" He winces at how wishy-washy and shy that came out. He knows that Pete already has a tendency to view him as a fumbling little brother; he doesn't need to make that *worse.*

"Yeah, sure." Pete stands, jerking his head towards the (tiny) hotel bathroom, and Patrick heart skips a little when he follows Pete inside, closing the door behind them. Andy and Joe sleep on, oblivious.

"So," Pete says when Patrick turns to face him, "I really like kissing you."

Patrick flushes and grins. "Yeah, the feeling's kind of mutual." A knot in his stomach that he didn't even realize was there starts to ease, because--this is Pete. Years-old crush or no, this is Pete, and it's easy and natural, and Patrick feels silly to ever feel intimidated or nervous by this.

Pete nods, and looks like he wants to say something else. Patrick waits.

Pete says, "So is there anything else about it that needs discussing?"

"Uh. Not that I can... think of?"

"Oh, good." A flash of Pete Wentz smile, and then Pete's crossing the tiny bathroom, his hand curling against Patrick's cheek, and he's kissing Patrick, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth.

And kissing Pete is still really, really nice. Patrick leans back against the sink and lets his hands settle on Pete's waist, humming softly when Pete licks his way into Patrick's mouth. Pete is good at this, his tongue rubbing against Patrick's and along his teeth, sucking lightly before pulling back. He's slow, sensual instead of just immediately trying to shove his tongue down Patrick's throat. And Pete makes these satisfied sounds when Patrick rubs his hands up and down his sides, over his skin.

Pete's hands aren't really doing anything: his one hand has moved to cup the back of Patrick's head, fingers sliding through his hair, and his other hand is resting lightly on Patrick's hip. Patrick can feel all of this coiled energy through Pete, almost vibrating off of him, but he's barely moving except for his tongue, oh, his tongue. It makes Patrick want to melt into him, *move* against him. He whimpers slightly when Pete shifts just enough to barely bump the front of his thigh against Patrick's leg.

Pete pulls back a little at that, nipping lightly at Patrick's lip. "Man." He laughs, and it comes out a little hoarse and shaky, and that gives Patrick kind of a thrill--*he* got Pete worked up. "Why haven't we ever done this before?"

"I have *no* idea," Patrick says fervently. He tugs Pete closer, kissing him again, hungry and open. Patrick lets his hands wander, his left hand moving up to brush over Pete's nipple and his right hand moving down to slide over Pete's ass.

Pete tenses up at that, all the lazy energy Patrick could feel in his body coiling up. He moves away from the kiss, from Patrick's hands. "Um."

Patrick swallows, tries to make his breathing even out. "What? What is it?"

Pete meets his eyes, giving him one of those long intense Pete looks. He opens--shuts his mouth, says "Nothing." Patrick gets kissed again, almost chastely, Pete's tongue snaking out over his lips before Pete pulls back again, rests his forehead against Patrick's. "We need to get some sleep."

And--what? Patrick laughs. "Pete, you're an insomniac."

"Maybe I was up for a while before you woke up, sleeping beauty," Pete says, rolling his eyes. "Anyway, you have to be singing tomorrow night, you need your rest."

"Fuck you," Patrick laughs, pulling Pete in for another kiss.

He feels Pete grin against his mouth, kissing back, and Pete's leg bumps his again. Patrick rubs his hand over Pete's chest, his thumb circling Pete's nipple, and Pete takes his wrist, hand, entwining their fingers in a really girly way.

"Seriously," Pete breathes against Patrick's mouth. "You need your beauty sleep."

Patrick shakes his head, smiles. "Pete, you know I've performed great shows on zero hours of sleep. Plus, I'm wide awake. I want to keep kissing you."

Pete arches an eyebrow. "Just kissing?"

Patrick opens his mouth and then stops, slightly flummoxed. "Um. Preferably not? I mean." What good way is there to handle this? He knows Pete can feel Patrick's growing hard-on. "I just. Don't want to stop."

Pete smirks. "I just don't want to deflower you, that's all."

Patrick raises an eyebrow. "You deflower people just by looking at them. Anyway, as touched as I am that you're protecting my virtue, I don't really have much virtue to protect."

"Are you kidding, Patrick Stump? You're 99% Virtue." Pete grins, and nuzzles Patrick's neck. "99% Virtue, 1% sugar and spice."

Patrick rolls his eyes. Pete needs to not treat him like a kid brother when they're necking. "Pete. Come on."

"Mmm." Pete leans against him, his nose pressed against Patrick's neck. "Not yet, Patrick, okay?"

And Patrick blinks, because--that was really honest and upfront, coming from Pete. He finds himself saying, "Okay," even though wait, what, no.

Pete presses a dry kiss just underneath Patrick's jaw and squeezes his hand before leaning back, letting go. "'night." And then he carefully opens the bathroom door and walks out.

Patrick shuts it behind him, because he needs a minute to calm his body down before going back to sharing a twin bed with Joe. Not to mention--thinking, yeah, that might be good.

Kissing Pete, but no sex with Pete. Yet. Which Patrick was fine with really, it was just... unexpected? It wouldn't be unexpected if he were hooking up with a girl, and Patrick feels a twinge of politically-correct guilt at that.

It's not really because of that, though. It's because of *Pete,* and the way he was looking at Patrick, and... Patrick has a feeling they're not done talking about this.

***

Touring is touring, a timeless blur of highways and stages and tune-ups and not-enough-sleep, and the night in the hotel bathroom turns out to be the last opportunity for privacy they get in a while. Money is tight and so is time, and Patrick loses track of the nights they spend in the van instead of in hotel rooms that don't have much more space. He grabs Pete for quick make-out sessions before shows, in the bathrooms of diners, quick kisses when everyone else is otherwise occupied. Nothing in front of Andy and Joe or any of the other guys, because...because. They're not keeping this *secret,* it's just-well, what if it made things weird? Patrick doesn't particularly want to cross that bridge until he has to.

Sometimes when they're all crashing in the van, Pete will maneuver the sleeping arrangements until he has the back with Patrick. They'll be laying down behind the seats, roughly hidden from everyone, and Pete will roll into Patrick's side and fall asleep with his arm thrown lazily over Patrick's chest, his leg sliding in between Patrick's legs. Sometimes they'll kiss for a while before falling asleep, and it's almost like sharing a bed.

Usually if they fall asleep like that Patrick will wake up the next morning (or in a few hours, when someone needs him to drive) with morning wood and most of his body cramped and in pain. Usually he's woken up by Andy thumping his shoulder and grunting something (probably "Get the fuck up," but Patrick can never parse it immediately upon waking up), and there's never time or opportunity to get a hand down his pants. It's just get out of the van, stretch gratefully, accept the cup of coffee someone usually shoves into his hands or head into the shitty diner/shitty gas station/shitty rest stop to get a cup himself, and hope that his body calms down. Sometimes he can snag bathroom time, and he hates that jerking himself off in a public bathroom that smells like old sweat and cigarette smoke and has misspelled grafitti on the walls has become a luxury. It doesn't bear much resemblance to the fantasies he used to have of waking up next to Pete, lazily kissing and touching each other in the morning on a bed somewhere, having Pete do this *for* him.

If he really thinks about it, he guesses that it's kind of nice, that they're not having sex yet. Most of Patrick's past relationships got physical on some level very early on, especially the few things he's had with other guys; it makes sense that getting together with Pete would be different, considering--well, everything. Part of Patrick is convinced that this is going to blow up in his face and he'll end up losing his best friend *and* his band and have to go back to Chicago with his tail between his legs, broke and homeless. So if he keeps his sense of perspective, his blue balls could be a good thing, could be keeping them from rushing into anything disastrous.

It's just that he's seen Pete naked, he knows what he's missing, and christ, he's wanted him since he was fucking sixteen. Patrick has had more wet dreams about Pete than pretty much anyone else on the planet, and knowing that he could actually have the *reality* if their opportunities didn't keep getting botched is driving Patrick a little nuts.

After two months pass, it becomes apparent that it's not just botched opportunities, it's also Pete. They'll be kissing, groping a little, things getting kind of hot and heavy, and Patrick will reach for Pete's belt, saying "Can I...?" more as a courtesy than anything else, because 99.9 times out of ten, when Patrick asks that of someone in his lap, the answer is an enthusiastic 'fuck yes'.

But Pete will usually maneuver away or take Patrick's hand in his own, diffusing his refusal by saying something like, "I don't want to stop *this,*" and well. Patrick never wants to stop making out, either, and it's not like the making out is dissatisfying. He never quite realizes until later that he just missed yet another opportunity to make Pete come, which saddens him, deeply.

This happens often enough that Patrick's really beginning to find it strange. He's aware that plenty of people have relationships that don't focus on sex, plenty of people wait long periods of time before making that plunge, it's just that Patrick never expected that of *Pete.* Pete, who wouldn't know modesty or decorum if it stuck its hand down his pants, who has more one-night stands on the road than any musician Patrick knows, whose every movement seems to be sexual.

Patrick would really like to fuck him. Or blow him, maybe, or give him a handjob, just--something that results in orgasms for both of them. He's getting impatient.

When he confronts Pete about it, it's not exactly a well-thought-out decision--the words just sort of fall gracelessly out of his mouth one day.

"I really want to jerk you off," he says, as Pete slides his tongue out of Patrick's mouth.

Pete pauses and leans back, frowning a little; Patrick forces himself to stay calm, keep his eyes on Pete, wait for whatever reaction Pete is going to give to that. He's curious to see if his hypothesis is correct (hypothesis: there's a reason they're not having sex yet, and that reason is all on Pete, and it's *weird*) or if Pete will just say something along the lines of, "Like I'm gonna say *no*" and let Patrick go to town.

But instead Pete gives him a quirked half-smile and says, "It's nice to want things."

And that kind of kills the moment. Patrick sighs and moves his arm from where it was around Pete's waist. "Pete. Why aren't we fucking yet?"

Pete rolls his eyes. "Well, geez. Tell me how you really feel, Patrick."

"We're best friends, in case you've forgotten," Patrick snaps, his temper rising. "I don't need to mince words with you, and you shouldn't feel like you can fucking *hide* things from me."

"Whoa, hey," Pete says, some of his nonchalance gone. "Since when am I hiding anything? And I haven't forgotten you're my best friend, dickweed. Excuse me for thinking that because you're my best friend, not to mention the singer of my *band* and all, we should maybe take it slow."

"Right, okay," Patrick says. "We have been taking it slow. I'd like to speed it up."

Pete hooks a finger in one of Patrick's belt-loops and Patrick thinks, yes, but then Pete shakes his head, his expression rueful. "It doesn't work that way."

"So show me how it works," Patrick says, scooting closer, and Pete stops fidgeting with his belt. He doesn't move away and Patrick takes that as a good sign, leaning to nuzzle at Pete's neck, kiss that spot beneath his jaw that he likes so much, the one that always makes Pete sigh and tilt his head back.

"Patrick." Pete's voice sounds strained, and Patrick wants to wrap his arms around him, tight as he can stand, get closer and closer until they merge. "This is--look, I can't *do* this with you."

And now he doesn't want to be in the same room as Pete. Patrick sits up carefully, crosses his arms. "With me."

Pete meets his stare, almost defiant. "Yeah. It's too soon, okay?"

"That's--" Patrick breaks eye contact first, looking away. "Okay, fine, I'm trying not to be a dick here, but how am I not supposed to be insulted by that? I've seen how many girls *and* guys you've had one-night-stands with on this tour."

"Right," Pete says, "*One night.* And then there's you, okay? And you're my best friend, and I've been hot for you since I met you, which let me refresh your memory, was when you were sixteen. And I don't want to be that guy. I don't trust myself with you."

Patrick shakes his head, incredulous. "You're kidding. This is about my age?"

Pete grins. "What can I say, Patrick?" He grins and puts his head on Patrick's shoulder, tucking his nose into the crook of Patrick's neck and shoulder. "Lo. Lee. Ta."

Patrick shoves him away, annoyed. "Now *you're* being a dick. So what if you met me when I was sixteen? I'm nineteen now."

"And I'm still a dirty year old man. And--" Pete waves his hand, frustrated. "Let me put it this way: any relationship I get into has a high chance of miserable failure. I haven't done a scientific study, but a good estimate would be 85%. And I really like you, and I'd rather this *didn't* fail miserably, and if we take this slow and carefully then that 85% will go down. It's that simple."

"You are *still* being a dick. It's never that simple," Patrick says. "But all right, fine. I want this to work out, too," because wow is the band fucked if Pete ends up hating Patrick as much as he hates some of his exes, "just. Don't treat me like a kid, okay?"

Pete nods and leans forward quickly; Patrick feels Pete's lips brushing against his before his eyes even register the movement. It's almost not a kiss, at first, so much as Pete's lips moving over his mouth, dry and questioning, exploring. And then Patrick opens his mouth and Pete adds pressure, tilts his head and touches Patrick, fingers threading through his hair. Patrick lets himself close his eyes. It's good, this is good, and it makes Patrick's stomach stupidly jumpy and fluttery just to remember that he has this. It's enough.

"I'll keep that in mind," Pete says against Patrick's mouth. Patrick bites Pete's lip to keep himself from saying something sharp and bitchy, because if he knows Pete that's *not* a definite answer. But he's probably not going to get anything better, so Patrick clenches his hand in Pete's t-shirt instead, pulls him closer, rubs his leg against Pete's and smiles when Pete makes a surprised little groan.

If Pete is bound and determined to resist Patrick's charms, Patrick certainly isn't going to make it *easy* for him.

***

When they get the money to enable them to stay in hotels again, it feels like such a fucking luxury. The last three weeks they've been sleeping in the van or not at all, and it's not like this motel is anything fancy, but it has lukewarm running water and a bed. A bed and a fold-out couch, and Patrick isn't sure whether it happens because Joe and Andy have both clued in to The Thing between Pete and Patrick and aren't making a big deal out of it, or just because Joe and Andy have no qualms over grabbing the most comfortable sleeping spot for themselves, but he and Pete get stuck with the fold-out couch.

Patrick has no idea how this is even possible, but it's actually less comfortable than the van. Pete is awed by this: he wants to conduct a study.

"No, seriously," he says, bouncing on the edge. "Seatbelt buckles digging into your ribs vs. old springs, the buckles should be worse, right? And *yet.* There's something to this, Patrick, I'm telling you."

Andy is in the shower; Joe stretches all the way out on the hotel bed, sighing in satisfaction and grinning at them. Patrick flips him off.

That night Patrick is honestly too exhausted to even think about the fact that he's spending the night in the same bed with his--well, with Pete. He just strips down to his boxers and rolls to the far side of the couch, falling asleep as soon as his cheek hits the slightly smelly, brown-ish hotel pillow that he's pretty sure is made of paper.

It's not until he wakes up at three in the morning with Pete spooning against him--like, *right* up against him--that it really occurs to him.

Patrick shifts, because with Pete this close, he's going to get turned on and won't get back to sleep. But the movement wakes Pete, and he makes a sleepy "mm" noise in Patrick's ear.

Patrick stops moving. "Pete?" he whispers.

"Mmyeah?" Pete doesn't move away--instead his arm pulls Patrick even closer.

"I was just wondering if you were awake," Patrick says, because he can't think of what else to say. Doesn't want to betray how much he likes the warmth of Pete's body behind him; doesn't want to come out and say that, oh hey, you're totally giving me a boner here, because he's pretty sure that part is obvious.

Pete laughs softly and turns so that his lips are brushing Patrick's ear. "I am now. I *was* dreaming that we were fishermen in a Scottish village."

Patrick smiles. "Fishermen?"

"Yeah. Or maybe somewhere in New England, or Nova Scotia--somewhere that has, like, a really bleak gray coastline. With no sunshine."

"How do you know Scotland is bleak and gray? Have you ever been?" Patrick twists around to look Pete in the eye.

"Their beaches are. Someday we'll tour Scotland, and I'll show you." Patrick snorts and Pete scowls, shakes him slightly. "Seriously! I will bet you, dude. A hundred bucks. And then when we tour the UK I will take you to the coastline and you'll see that it looks just like it did in my dream."

"I won't take that bet. You could just lie and say that it looked like your dream, and I wouldn't know."

"You don't trust me?" Pete actually sounds hurt, and Patrick's mind is still too fuzzy from sleep to tell if he's actually that sensitive right now, or if he's just play-acting.

Patrick turns all the way over so that he's facing Pete and props himself up on his elbow. "I trust you plenty. It's Scotland I find kind of sketchy."

That makes Pete grin, and his hand settles on Patrick's waist. "Yeah, man. Any country that eats sheep stomachs isn't to be trusted."

Patrick smiles and leans in, and the kiss is sleepy, lazy, warm and nice. He closes his eyes and Pete makes a soft noise into Patrick's mouth. Their teeth knock lightly together, and Patrick feels Pete's lips stretch into a smile.

Pete's hand shifts and clenches in the fabric of Patrick's t-shirt, rubbing over his hip, and Patrick wraps an arm around Pete's back, pulling him in. He's still sleepy, part of his mind not quite awake, and their legs seem tangled together of their own volition.

Pete's hand is moving on Patrick's hip in the same rhythm as his tongue in Patrick's mouth, and Patrick wants to write a song about this. Something with a fast, staccato chorus and slow, bass-heavy verses; something that begins and ends with soft piano chords. It wouldn't be a Fall Out Boy song, nothing pop-punk--it would be a Patrick Stump original, something only to be played at low volume at three am, when you're trying to grope someone as much as possible without waking up your bandmates.

When they come up for air, Patrick realizes that his hips are moving against Pete's. And Pete is moving back, grinding and rubbing against him, and oh, oh fuck. Patrick is hard and dangerously close and they've barely even touched each other.

"Whoa," says Pete, sounding surprised. He shifts, slightly, the movement sending electric sparks up Patrick's spine.

"Yeah," Patrick breathes, and pulls Pete in closer. He rolls his hips and oh--friction, yes, fuck. Patrick groans and leans in again, landing a sloppy wet kiss on Pete's mouth. He pulls Pete's thigh up, around his waist, and that's even better.

"Wait," Pete says, pulling back, sounding more awake than before. Patrick stiffens, and lets go of Pete's leg; Pete unwraps himself from around Patrick.

"What?" Patrick says, hoping against hope that he's reading the situation wrong and Pete doesn't *really* want to stop.

Pete bites down his lip, worrying the skin between his teeth before answering. Patrick holds his breath and doesn't move away.

"We should really go back to sleep," Pete says, finally, and Patrick wants to kick something--namely, Pete.

"I'm not tired," Patrick says, too loud--over on the bed, Joe makes a grunting sound and rolls over.

Pete and Patrick both freeze, turning to look at him, but Joe doesn't move again, and he's still snoring lightly.

"You see? We don't want to wake them up," Pete whispers, and that is just--Patrick tries to communicate all the seething fury in his body through his glare.

"You *jackass,*" he hisses, and rolls over away from Pete, pulling his pillow away to the edge of the couch-bed.

"What? Hey, Patrick, come on--" Pete puts a hand on Patrick's shoulder, tugging, but Patrick jerks away from him. He knows he's acting like a bitch, and he really doesn't care. He's *hard,* and he has too much pride to jerk himself off when his significant other--or whatever the hell Pete is--is actually in the bed with him.

"Fine, let's sleep," Patrick snaps, hunching himself further away. Pete's hand finally slips from his shoulder.

"Fine," Pete huffs, and Patrick feels the bed dip as Pete angrily turns over himself, on the far end of the bed. There's probably a foot of space between them.

Patrick listens to Pete's breathing for a long time, and Pete's still awake by the time Patrick himself drifts off to sleep.


***

"I have eaten every single dish on this menu," Pete announces, staring at the one-page, stained diner menu. Patrick can see the red lines in his eyes.

"This is the first time we've set foot in this place," Patrick points out. He gives the menu a passing glance; he knows he's going to get eggs over-easy and hash browns. You get the protein, and food that's pretty hard to entirely ruin, even by the most inadequate of cooks.

"Yeah, but it's not like this is any different from the last diner we ate at. I have literally tried every single thing on this menu, and I know that the french toast here will not be any different from the french toast at Aunt Fucking Clara's, or whatever the place we ate last was called. I know that it will come with a side of squishy fruit that they'll claim is honeydew." Pete flicks the menu away from him. "I don't want french toast, Patrick."

"So don't order french toast." The monotony of the road, of touring, is beginning to get to all of them, but things will get a whole lot worse for everyone else if Pete starts getting pissy. His moods have been getting worse lately, and Patrick knows he hasn't been sleeping because whenever they're crammed together at night in the van, *Patrick* can't sleep because Pete is up all night fidgeting, tossing and turning. Patrick is trying to think of ways to keep Pete entertained and happy before he makes all their lives miserable.

Touring has sapped any creativity he has, so pretty much all of Patrick's ideas come back to sex.

"I don't want pancakes, either. Or any kind of egg product. Or plasticized bacon." Pete gives him a plaintive look; Patrick has no idea what Pete expects him, Patrick Stump, to do about his breakfast situation.

"You could order off the dinner menu?" he suggests. "You know, for novelty."

"No way. I so don't trust this kind of place not to hopelessly ruin an actual entree." Pete shrugs, sullen. "Whatever, I'm not that hungry anyway."

Patrick considers how to say what he needs to say without sounding like Pete's mother. "You should eat *something.* It would suck if you fainted from hunger onstage," he says finally.

Pete grins, and his foot finds Patrick's under the table. "I'll faint in your arms. It'll be romantic and a great stage trick besides, and all the other bands will copy us."

"Uh-huh," Patrick says. He leans back to shift his legs forward, letting his foot slide in between Pete's. "Do you want to share my eggs?"

"Can I steal your hash browns?" Those would be Pete's flip-flopped toes sneaking up Patrick's pant leg, and--

And Patrick is sick of this, suddenly. Sick of Pete pulling this crap, footsie, cuddling, an arm around Patrick's shoulders or waist or whatever. Patrick knows that Pete doesn't actually want to touch him, so what's the fucking point?

He pulls his feet away, carefully. "You can order your own hash browns, I want mine."

Pete tilts his head, gives Patrick one of those Looks. "I don't want a whole order," he says, voice quiet, and trust Pete Wentz to turn ordering breakfast into a god damn ordeal.

Patrick leans in, close. "Pete. Decide what you want for breakfast so we can order and get out of here. Please?"

Pete leans in, too, and kisses Patrick on the mouth, quick as anything. They get a few looks for that, because this is *Colorado.* "Whatever you say, Lunchbox."

Patrick kicks him under the table for that. "Asshole."

Patrick sees their waitress approaching the table out of the corner of his eye and leans back.

"Ready to order...?" She sounds hesitant, and Patrick isn't sure whether it's because she saw them kiss, or because Pete isn't looking at her at all, his gaze fixed on Patrick.

Patrick's somewhat used to this by now, the way Pete switches gears from playful regular boy to the kind of intensity that comes out in his lyrics; he manages not to blush under Pete's stare as he orders his fried eggs and hash browns.

"I'll have what he's having," Pete says, dismissive, still not looking away. After all that whining, christ.

Patrick makes a face at him. "I thought you didn't want eggs."

Pete shrugs. "I changed my mind." He glances away from Patrick and then looks back at him, licking his lips, and this time Patrick can feel himself flushing, cheeks prickling with heat, and he knows Pete does this on purpose. He bites his lip, and Pete--something in his expression changes, just slightly, and Patrick wonders wildly if he could just grab Pete up out of the diner booth and drag him into the bathroom before their order arrives, if they could just do it, do something if he took Pete by surprise.

It's been five months since they first hooked up, five months of lips and hands and hints of skin and nothing else, and Patrick can't look at Pete without wanting him. He wonders if Pete gets off on that.

***

This time it's not that they don't have money for a hotel, it's just that there's not enough time between shows to book one. Andy's driving, and he pulls over to the side of the highway at around four am so that they can all sleep for a few hours before going the rest of the way to Philadelphia.

Patrick had been asleep for most of the drive, and he jerks awake momentarily when the engine cuts off, but drifts back to sleep easily enough. But he's woken once more when Pete (sleeping beside him, they're sharing the backseat again) gets up, accidentally elbowing Patrick in the stomach.

He doesn't seem to notice that Patrick's not sleeping anymore; he's clambering out of the van, quietly shutting the door behind him. Patrick stretches out, tries to take advantage of the extra space Pete left behind and fall back asleep, but no such luck. After a while he follows Pete out of the van, moving as quietly as he can so as to not wake Andy and Joe.

Pete is staring up at the stars when Patrick gets out of the van, and he glances over, surprised at the sound of the van door closing, before looking back up at the sky. It's the middle of winter and he's only wearing a t-shirt and jeans; Patrick isn't much better in his denim jacket. He shivers, rubbing his arms.

"Hi," Patrick says quietly. "Do you mind company, or...?"

Pete looks at him again, smiles and holds out his hand for Patrick to hold. "Come on, I always want your company."

And Patrick knows that's not true, that sometimes Pete can't stand being around *anyone,* not even Patrick (especially not Patrick), but he appreciates the sentiment. He takes Pete's hand, stepping closer.

"There's so much light pollution out here," Pete says. "Do you remember the way the sky looked above fucking South Dakota? You could see every star in the galaxy."

Patrick follows Pete's gaze up. "Yeah, but the downside of that is you have to be in fucking South Dakota to see them all."

Pete snorts and squeezes Patrick's hand. Patrick squeezes back. He feels like a gigantic girl, holding hands and looking up at the *stars,* for christ's sake. But it's nice like this, quiet, and besides, sometimes with Pete Wentz you just have to go along with things that make you feel like a gigantic girl.

"Did you ever think about how it comes across that you think sex could possibly ruin this?" And, huh. Patrick really didn't mean to say that right now. He wonders why it came out of his mouth.

Pete looks down from the light-polluted stars and blinks at Patrick, frowning slightly. "Um? I... don't know, Patrick. I'm operating on like two hours of sleep in two days, here. Explain?"

Patrick stamps his feet on the frosted ground. Damn, he's cold. "I'm your best friend, okay? And I always will be, whether or not we happen to be making out at the time. We just click together, you know that. So I just--" Patrick looks back up at the sky, away from Pete. "I don't understand how you could possibly think that anything, sex or other people or *anything,* could fuck this up. I find it a little insulting, actually."

Pete's grip on his hand gets tighter. "I don't..." his voice trails off, which wasn't quite what Patrick was hoping for. A quick emphatic 'No!', maybe, Pete shaking his head in horror and ensuring Patrick that no, he doesn't think anything could possibly come between them, and he'll sleep with Patrick to prove it.

"I hadn't thought of it like that," Pete says, finally. Patrick waits for more, but Pete just looks at him, his expression inscrutable.

"Pete, honestly, what do you think is going to happen? That we're going to have sex and it will be awful and I'll hate you forever? That we'll have sex and this will change to a meaningless physical thing where we're only capable of fucking like rabbits and nothing else? What? Seriously," he says when Pete snickers at Patrick's last question, "Throw me a bone here, because I have no idea what you're thinking."

"Maybe I'm not thinking," Pete says, shrugging. "Maybe I'm just trying to go with my gut and what feels right."

Patrick smiles, and it doesn't feel like a nice smile. "See--you've forgotten that I know you better than anyone, and that you can't actually bullshit me that easily."

"It's not bullshit," Pete says, actually sounding earnest. "Patrick, really, look at me." Pete lets go of Patrick's hand to drape his arms over Patrick's shoulders, leaning forward to bump Patrick's forehead with his own. "This whole thing of having a relationship that's not insanely destructive and bound to blow up in my face is pretty new to me, okay? And so yeah, maybe I'm being a pussy, but I just--I can't--"

He's beginning to really sound agitated, and that wasn't really Patrick's intention. "Hey, hey. I don't really think you're being a pussy." He nips at Pete's lips and settles his hands on Pete's waist, stroking his hip through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. "It's just--okay, think of it like. Like writing songs together, right? When you just have to trust me."

"No, I don't. I yell at you and you yell back until we're exhausted and we just end up compromising," Pete says, and he kind of has a point.

"Okay, well then it's nothing like songwriting," Patrick says, laughing. "It's its own thing." He pushes his hands up underneath Pete's t-shirt, running his fingers over skin and Pete's ink. Pete letting him touch him like this is still rare enough that this feels special, warm. Patrick waits for Pete to pull away, but he stays still and lets Patrick pet him.

"Heh." Pete moves until his face is brushing Patrick's neck, his cheek. "It is, I guess."

They stay like that for a moment, and Pete's body heat helps but Patrick is still getting chilly. He's about to suggest they go back in the van when Pete says, "Hey, so, I have a question."

"Mm? Don't tell me I have to explain the birds and the bees to you."

Pete snorts. "Dick. No, I just... I was wondering. Would you freak out if I told you I loved you?"

Patrick can't see Pete's face; his head is resting on Patrick's shoulders, looking out away from him. "No, I wouldn't. Um. Do you?"

"Yeah. For a while now, man."

Patrick takes a breath and squeezes Pete a little. "Yeah, same. I mean--for me, loving you, not--not myself. Obviously. Um."

Pete laughs. "Yeah, I figured, dumbass."

***

This is the best night of my life, Patrick thinks as Pete screams into the microphone with him, his sweat smearing on Patrick's ear, his lips brushing Patrick's cheek. It is, for all intents and purposes, a kiss. With the added bonus of screaming.

They're in Chicago, fucking *finally* home, and the crowd is--Patrick can't even believe it. He heard that this show sold out just a few days after tickets went on sale, and he can recognize kids in the crowd that came to their Chicago show last *year,* and there were more kids waiting to get in to the club when he last checked, and it's just--it's fucking unbelievable. They're all screaming, ecstatic, a few people look like they're crying and Patrick can hear himself, knows how good he and Pete sound together, and how is this his life? He's singing Pete's words with Pete beside him, with Joe going fucking insane with a guitar out of the corner of his eye, with the crashing waves of Andy's drums pulsing through him, and--

"Two more weeks, my foot is in the door," he sings into the mic, into Pete, and waits for it all to feel real.

Patrick knows the rest of the band is feeling it, because this is Chicago, it's who they *are,* and they play way past when the show is supposed to end and stumble off the stage, giddy and exhausted and high. Pete has Patrick in a sort of headlock, and Joe is hugging him around the waist, and Pete's other arm is around Andy, and they're stumbling around like some hideous eight-legged smelly sweaty beast.

"We are golden gods!" Pete yells and someone yells something about golden showers and they all crack up. Patrick can hear Joe giggling like a twelve-year-old girl.

Dirty joins them and Joe and Andy peel away--Pete's arm is still locked firmly around Patrick's neck, and Patrick is pretty sure that when your face is smushed against someone's sweaty armpit and you don't want to run screaming, that's love at its finest.

"In the wake of Saturday," Pete is whispering in Patrick's ear, or something like that, something Patrick was singing just minutes ago, as they stumble into the dressing room (which is, for all intents and purposes, a closet). Patrick can hear people laughing behind him but that already feels far away, separate, because Pete's hands are all over him and he just moans into it when Patrick kisses him hard, pushing him up against the wall.

Pete's lips twist against Patrick's teeth and his back arches, pushing his body flush against Patrick's. Patrick's blood is still buzzing from the show, that *fucking* Chicago *show,* and Pete is doing a really fantastic job of shoving his tongue as far as he can into Patrick's open mouth. And Patrick's hands are scrabbling, touching Pete all over, and Pete is just as grabby and all Patrick can think is yes, yes, now and then he's on his knees.

He vaguely registers sudden pain, concrete on his kneecaps, but mostly he's just aware of running shaking hands up over Pete's thighs, of his voice: "Please, Pete, oh god, please let me, I want to--"

And when he looks up Pete looks shaky, tense, not at all Pete-like, and his hands are clenched and held at his sides like he's not sure if he wants to reach out and touch Patrick or not. Patrick is mentally bracing himself to stop touching Pete's thighs, to move away (it would be the hardest thing he's ever done), when Pete licks his lips, swallows visibly and says "Yeah, yeah, okay."

Patrick has never done anything in his life as quickly as he unbuckles Pete's belt, undoes his fly and pulls his cock out of the flap in his boxers. And--he's thought about this so many times, what exactly he would do, where he would lick first and how he'd rub the head against his lips or reach down to roll Pete's balls between his fingers, but the reality of the situation is that Patrick just needs it in his mouth.

Needs to taste Pete right now, the head of his cock heavy on Patrick's tongue and he can't stand how much Pete is giving him. Can't stand the heft of his dick in Patrick's hand, can't stand the feel of his dick nudging the roof of his mouth *so* much that he has to take it in more, has to go down until he chokes and then come back up. His eyes are squeezed shut because if he opened them, if he actually *saw* Pete along with tasting him, hearing him (gurgling sounds, whimpering, Patrick's never heard Pete's voice like this) he's pretty certain he'd faint from sensory overload.

He drags his lips up the shaft, a sloppy sideways kiss, and he can feel the head dragging over his cheek, trailing pre-come, and he wants--he swallows him down again, because he wants to taste *that,* bittersalty on his tongue and then in the back of his throat. Patrick isn't particularly good at this, he's not a porn star, but he can get most of it down and he can suck hard, his fingers clenching in the material of Pete's jeans. Pete's hips are jerking, shoving his dick further down Patrick's throat and Patrick gags a little but doesn't let himself come up for air.

He has to *feel* this, immerse himself in it. He wants to memorize the texture of the large veins on the underside of Pete's dick against his bottom lip, the soft slide of the cockhead and the slit, the girth stretching his lips. He's drooling around it and his throat is beginning to feel raw and he doesn't want this to *end.*

Pete makes a guttural sound, low and harsh, and then his hips are pumping forward and he's coming, spurting down Patrick's throat and Patrick completely chokes. Sputters, comes for air, and gets half of it on his cheek and lips. He blinks; his head and heart are pounding and his mouth feels tingly, far too empty.

Patrick sits back on his heels, letting his palms slide down off of Pete's thighs (wait, is he shaking?). He looks up, meets Pete's wild open eyes for one second--

Pete is yanking his pants back up, zipping his fly with jittery fingers and Patrick frowns, confused, and then Pete almost knocks Patrick over in his rush, moving fast and jerky and walking out, letting the dressing room door slam behind him.

Patrick scrambles to his feet, opening his mouth to say--something, fuck, who knows--but Pete is already gone, and when Patrick opens the door the corridor is empty except for random techies, guys from other bands, a few concert-goers.

And he still has Pete's come on his cheek. Patrick ducks back inside the dressing room, hastily wiping his mouth and his face. Something in his gut is twisting horribly, and he's mad, he's fucking pissed off, and he pretty much has to cling to that to avoid feeling anything else. To avoid thinking things like so I guess I was wrong when I said that nothing could ever fuck us up.

He makes himself lean against the door and close his eyes, focus on his breathing for a few long seconds, tries to--okay, no, he can't be *rational* about this but he can avoid curling up into a miserable ball. He holds on to the anger, focuses on that instead of the miserable sinking sensation all over his body. Fury is better than wondering just what about him is so grotesque that Pete can't even look at him after a blowjob.

When he gets himself more together he goes in search of Pete, and it only takes him a few minutes to find him--Pete is fairly predictable in his tantrums. He's leaning against the fence behind the building next door, his elbows resting against the fence and his head in his arms like a fucking stereotypical emo portrait. Patrick's pace quickens as he gets closer, rage buzzing between his ears.

"What the fucking fuck?" Patrick snarls, lets himself be as loud as he wants because there's no one around--and anyway, Pete would probably love it if they made a scene, became screaming drama queens in public. He could write lyrics about it for Patrick to sing and the crowd would fucking go wild.

Pete looks up, and the look on his face--is really not a Pete Wentz look. Wide shocky eyes and a half-formed grimace and it makes something in Patrick stop and hesitate, but the rest of him barrels on.

"Is that the way you treated all the women that have left you? Because, you know, the endings to those relationships make more sense to me now in retrospect." The words feel sharp and good coming out of his mouth, vindicated and ugly.

Pete flinches back at that. He opens his mouth, but doesn't say anything, and it just makes Patrick *angrier,* because how dare Pete act the fucking victim?

"If you didn't want me you could've said no, that's why I fucking *asked* you--" Patrick is moving closer, gesticulating wildly, and Pete seems to retreat into himself.

"I--" it comes out quiet and Pete coughs, clears his throat. "I *did* want you--"

"No, just fuck off with that," Patrick says fiercely. "You are going to be *honest* with me, okay? Tell me what the hell is actually going *on* in your brain, because the impression I got from the blowjob I just gave you was not that you wanted me."

Pete freezes for a moment, and then his face twists into an ugly sneer. "Well, I tried, you know? Because you seemed to want it so much, but I guess when push comes to shove, you're just not--"

"Go to *hell.*"

Pete snorts and holds up his hands in a 'dude, chill' gesture. "Geez, sorry. I'm just not that fucking in to you, you know? It was like fucking my sister. Kind of repulsive, really."

That hurts, just the way Pete intended it to. Patrick grits his teeth. "Uh-huh. Tell me the fucking truth, Pete."

Pete opens his mouth, then shuts it. "I--need to go," he says in a rush, moving and shouldering past Patrick with his head down.

Patrick grabs his arm, yanking him back. "You're staying right *here,* motherfucker."

"Get off me," Pete snarls, twisting his arm hard out of Patrick's hand and shoving him away. "Just--fuck *off*--"

"No!" Patrick grabs Pete's t-shirt and almost gets Pete's fist in his face. They struggle for a while until Patrick gets the upper hand, using Pete's flailing momentum to shove him up against the fence. "Tell me. Tell me what the hell is *up* with you, and the *truth* this time, or I swear to fucking god--" he cuts himself off and glares.

Pete pants and stares at Patrick; his eyes are wide enough that Patrick can see the whites around his pupils. He swallows and slumps, sliding a little down the fence.

"Okay. Okay, I--I." He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes. "Okay. I've never--done that. Before."

Patrick snorts. "Yeah, I know we've never had sex before. I hadn't managed to *miss* that little fact--"

"No, I mean." Pete moves his hands, meets Patrick's eyes. "No one's ever done that to me, ever."

"You--" Patrick frowns. "No one's given you a blowjob before?"

"No one's given me *anything* before," and whoa, Pete's voice is actually tinged with hysteria. His hands are clutching at the fence, his knuckles white.

It takes a moment for Patrick to get it, and then he shakes his head in disbelief. "No way. No fucking way, I've *seen* you have one-night-stands with people--"

"I never slept with any of them, ever." Pete is staring into the space to the left of Patrick's head, no discernible expression on his face. "Any time that I've talked about having sex with anyone has been a lie. I lied to you about why I didn't want us to fuck. I lied about ever wanting us to fuck, period."

"Pete, you." Patrick doesn't know where he was going with that sentence. He doesn't know what to say. Pete isn't *looking* at him. "--never? Seriously, never anything with anyone?"

He probably shouldn't have said *that.* Pete still doesn't look at him, but his mouth twists into an angry line. "No. That's what I just said."

"Okay." Patrick makes himself close his mouth, tries to--fucking process this. "And you--just did. With me."

He can see Pete's chest rise and fall with the breath he takes. "Yes." And Pete not being verbose is not a good sign. At all.

"Okay." Patrick is aware he's sounding like a shell-shocked moron. "Okay, why? Why me tonight, why no sex ever, why *lie* about it? I don't understand, Pete, I--" He moves closer and stops when Pete lets go of the fence and crosses his arms over his chest. Now he's staring at the ground.

"I can't--you wouldn't understand. I just. I don't have sex, ever. Or I haven't, I guess. Tonight was--" Pete looks up at him, grimacing, looking sick. "I lost control, I didn't think, I--no one could look at you, like that, and *not* want to, it--it was a mistake."

Patrick feels his stomach drop. "God, Pete, I--you should've told me. I wouldn't have pushed, I wouldn't have--fuck, I'm such an asshole."

"Makes two of us." Pete's jaw works, and he doesn't look away, holds Patrick's gaze, and oh, god, Patrick can't believe he let this happen.

"I'm sorry," Patrick says helplessly, because he has no idea what else he *can* say. He moves forward to touch Pete before he thinks it through, just his hand on Pete's shoulder, and for a few seconds Pete tenses like he's going to punch him--Patrick kind of wishes he would--but he doesn't pull away. "Can we--talk about this, maybe?"

"Maybe." Pete is back to staring at that space to the left of Patrick's head. "But you--I need to--I'm going to go. For a while."

Patrick lets his hand drop. "Okay." He wants to say something else, fucking--anything. Something to make this right.

Pete pushes away from the fence and walks away, and Patrick still can't think of anything more to say so he stays silent, lets Pete go, leans his forehead against the fence and feels the cold metal digging into the skin above his eyebrows. His lips are still sore, and he can still taste Pete at the back of his throat.




Continued here.