Eyes Like Neon Signs (flashing open open)
By Zee
Summary: "I promise we won't let him perform in the nude until he's at least sixteen."
Pete/Patrick, PG. 4,263 words.
Disclaimer: Never happened.

Notes: Written for ghoti_fish for the DYW Live Free Or Die fic exchange. I didn't get in as many of the things you wanted as I was originally trying for, but I hope you still enjoy this. Many thanks to gigantic and starstillwonder for looking this over and letting me flail about it.


"Fuck, shit, ow!"

Patrick cursed and hopped/limped on one foot, glaring at the malicious amp that had gotten in the way of his toe. His eyes watered and he felt momentarily enraged at the pain, because god *damn.* It wasn't even seven AM yet and Pete and Joe were gonna be here any second and he hadn't had coffee and he'd barely *slept* and he still had to pack and his toe motherfucking *hurt.*

He only barely managed to hold back the damaging urge to kick the amp, and settled for going back to throwing clothes that seemed clean into his duffel, muttering under his breath. Except that, shit, he really needed to get his equipment together and he didn't have enough clean clothes *anyway*; maybe he could just take a bag of dirty laundry and find a laundromat in the first town they stopped at? Would the other guys be doing that? Would there be time for laundromats?

"Sweetie? Don't you think this would be easier if your things were a little more organized?" His mother is in the doorway, the look on her face plainly stating that no way was she going to miss this opportunity to offer support for and warning to her son on this important occasion, but damned if she had to be entirely awake or pleasant for it. Her arms are crossed over her robe and she's eyeing his bedroom with the critical eye Patrick knows well, stepping disdainfully over a box of microphone wires in the threshold to one of the few bare spots of floor left.

"The guys are gonna be here any minute, there's no time to *organize* shit," Patrick snaps, sorting through a pile in his closet. A scarf, he needs a scarf and a hat and other winter gear because it's November and they're in the midwest and really, it would be his luck to get an early blizzard on his first tour ever, so he might as well plan for it. And his denim jacket's in the dirty laundry pile, fuck, he could have sworn that got washed just last week--

"Preparing for a trip goes much faster if you take just a few minutes out to get yourself organized," his mother says, going through her own pile across the room and frowning at cracked jewel cases mixed in with his video games and dvds. Why she thinks Patrick might want to take any of that stuff with him, he has no idea.

"Mom, I'm going on a tour with three other dudes in a *van,* not catching a plane to the Bahamas or something!" His voice comes out whiny and immature, higher than usual because he stands up too fast, going up on his tip-toes to reach the shelves at the top of his closet. Maybe his scarf is up here?

He can feel the start of a 'Don't you take that tone with me, young man' rebuke brewing behind him when he hears the front door open and a familiar "Yo!" shouted up the stairs. Patrick stops flailing his hand in the corners of the top shelf, hoping to feel wool and not spiders, and feels a smile spread over his features. Seconds later Pete is in the doorway to Patrick's bedroom, hoodie pulled up over his head and--thank *god*--a large styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand and a bag that, Patrick guesses, contains pastries of some sort in the other.

"Morning, Mrs. Stump," Pete says, overly polite, before turning to Patrick again and waving the cup enticingly in front of him. "Dude, move your ass, Joe is in the driver's seat outside and we've gotta go, like, now."

"I'm not done packing yet!" Shit, *shit,* he had tried to get up earlier this morning to give himself time, but he'd slept through the alarm, and now--

"You don't need half this stuff," Pete says, waving the hand still holding the coffee cup at Patrick's amp and other equipment. "We already have enough amps and crap, and anyway, there's no room in the van. Just grab your guitar and your crap and let's hit the road."

"I, okay, okay, um," Patrick finds himself saying, lack of caffeine making his brain feel ten steps behind. He's still sort of hopping from bare spot on the floor to bare spot, trying to grab things that he thinks he might need, looking around for warmer clothes, shit, where's his Discman?

Pete chuckles and his mom sighs fondly at the same time, and it makes Patrick feel defensive, because what's so funny? "Here, I've got this," Pete says, grabbing Patrick's half-packed duffel of clothes.

Patrick turns and his mom puts his discman and headphones firmly into his hand. Patrick blinks down at it. "Thanks. Hey, are my CDs--"

"I already put them in your duffel, sweetie," his mom says, seizing the opportunity of his momentary confusion to grab the back of his neck and pull him in, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Patrick grits his teeth and turns to Pete, expecting a smirk and a teasing comment, but Pete is just holding his duffel in the same hand as his bag of food and holding the cup of coffee out to Patrick. "I'll take this out to the van, okay? Grab your guitar and anything else you think you just have to have."

"But I'm not finished packing that," Patrick says, desperate. "I don't think I got enough clean clothes, and I can't find my jacket."

"If you run out of clothes you'll just sing naked, no big deal. That was a joke, ma'am," Pete says, turning to Patrick's mom. "I promise we won't let him perform in the nude until he's at least sixteen."

"I feel so reassured," his mom says, her voice dry. "Look, mister." Now she's pointing a finger at Pete's chest, face stern. "I know that we've discussed this before, but I'm well aware of your extensive ability to charm authority figures and how much you've charmed *me.* I hope you understand what it means that I'm entrusting my son to your care. I'm doing this because I support him exploring his musical ambition and I know you both take this band very seriously, but I need both of you to be adults in your behavior, not just in your approach to music."

Patrick feels his cheeks start to turn red; he looks down at his hands, untangling his headphones.

Pete doesn't falter under his mom's formidable mom-ness. "I get that. No one wants Patrick to come out of this intact and unscathed more than me. Really, I'm not trying to be charming here, but this isn't about trying to get him into trouble or partying with him, this is about holding onto my singer and guitarist. And it means a lot that you're trusting a straight-edge bassist with tattoos and dyed hair with your baby boy, and I don't plan on betraying that trust."

Pete cracks a grin at the last line and Patrick flushes further. "Mm," his mom says, still looking skeptical, but Patrick can see a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

"Hurry it up as much as you can, okay?" Pete says, turning to Patrick. "We've still got to grab Andy before blowing out of this city."

Pete leaves and Patrick gulps, forcing horrifying scenarios where he runs out of underwear a week in to the back of his mind. He turns to his mom, who's already enveloping him in a hug.

"I'm sure I've already embarrassed you enough, so I'll just help you carry your musical equipment out and wave you off. It's not as if I won't be seeing you in a few weeks."

"You didn't embarrass me," Patrick says automatically, then backtracks. "Or, well, I don't care if you embarrass me. It's fine, Mom."

She lets him go, laughing. "Don't you dare forget to call me, mister."

When Patrick heaves his guitar into the van and his mom goes back inside to go back to sleep, Pete beckons Patrick into the middle seat of the van, handing him a donut as soon as he sits down.

"We're saving the front seat for Andy," he explains as Joe peels away from the curb. "The first small step in our masterful plan of getting him to stay with us for good."

Patrick's leg settles comfortably next to Pete's, barely touching him through layers of denim, and Patrick grins and bites into the glazed dough.

***

"You've done this before. Dude, seriously, every song on this set you've done before, in front of an audience even."

"I know," Patrick says, snapping before he can help it. "I know, but this, come on Pete. This is different."

"No it's not," Pete says, shrugging. "It's just another performance of songs you can already do--"

"Don't treat me like I'm a little kid, like you have to make light of the situation!" Patrick explodes. "Fuck, Pete, this is the first show of our first real tour! This is like--I don't even *know* what this is like because this is so new for me! We haven't *done* this before!"

Pete's hand comes to his shoulder, squeezes, and he just raises an eyebrow when Patrick shrugs him angrily off. "Okay, yeah, first date of the tour. That's always a little crazy-making. But, Patrick."

Patrick glares at him, both pissed off at Pete and really wanting him to say something reassuring, say the right thing to make everything just fine. But Pete doesn't finish his sentence, just goes 'hm' and presses his lips together. "What?" Patrick says, prompting.

Pete laughs. "You know--no, actually, you know what? I don't care if you're nervous, dude, because you can do these songs and I *know* you can do them, and I don't care if you go out on stage angry or terrified or excited or whatever as long as you go out and sing, and I know that you will, so!" He reaches up to squeeze Patrick's shoulder again, grinning like an asshole. "Have your little freakout, man, I'll see you out there in fifteen."

He walks away, laughing to himself as Patrick stares, incredulous. "Was that your fucked-up idea of a pep talk?" he calls after him, and Pete looks over his shoulder and blows Patrick a kiss.

***

"How much longer till Toledo?"

"'Are we there yet?'" Pete says in a mimicking tone, rolling his eyes at Patrick, who makes a face back. "A matter of hours, I guess."

"Of course it's a matter of hours. What else would it be?" Patrick has been in the uncomfortable space between napping and staying fully awake for the last--he doesn't know how long. He's been judging time by the number of blurred yellow lines flashing by outside the window. He's grouchy.

Pete pats his knee condescendingly; looking at him, Patrick notices that Pete hasn't shaved in a couple days. "Dude, we'll get there when we get there. We're not gonna be late."

Patrick wasn't worried about lateness so much as the way his ass is going numb, but he bites back that reply. He doesn't want to whine. "You still okay driving?"

Pete glances in the rearview mirror at the back of the van. "Joe and Andy are out cold, and you so aren't getting to drive this with a learner's permit. I'm fine."

Patrick wants to do something to help the hours slide by faster. "Let's play a game," he finds himself saying abruptly, and cringes when Pete gives him an incredulous look. "I don't mean one of those corny roadtrip games. I just meant--like, tell me about the first album you bought with your own money, and I'll.... um, I'll tell you about the first time I heard a song on the radio and looked it up later to get the album."

Pete throws Patrick a look that Patrick can't quite read, though surprise is definitely there. Then he smiles and begins to talk, taking his hand off Patrick's knee--Patrick notices, belatedly, how long Pete had let it rest there.

***

"Hey. Come on. Yo, Patrick."

Pete's fingers snap in front of his face, and Patrick starts, his mouth clicking shut. "Um. Hi."

"Man, you were seriously spacing there." Pete's head is cocked to the side and his mouth is curved up in a smirk.

Patrick shrugs and his fingers automatically go to the neck of his guitar, fighting the temptation to triple-check that it's tuned okay. "I'm just tired." Exhausted and fighting to keep his eyes open.

Pete tsks. "Not getting your required nine hours a night?" His tone is so heavily sarcastic it almost comes out the other side: they were on the road from one in the morning last night to two hours ago when they finally arrived here, and none of them rested well--Pete drove for most of that time. "Teenagers need more sleep than the rest of us, you know, I read a study."

As if Pete's so far from being a teenager himself. "I just spaced out for a second, that's all."

The smirk turns into a grin. "Just keep your eyes open for the show, okay? Or close them for emoting purposes, whatever."

Patrick takes his hand from the frets and wipes his palm on his jeans. "My eyes are open, okay? I'm fine, Pete."

Pete reaches out to Patrick's collar, straightening where it had folded in on itself. "Dude, you take me too seriously."

***

"Oh my god, groupies and alcohol *already?* Fuck, I'm a bad influence."

"Fuck you," Patrick says, laughing. He's barely had more alcohol than what his mom has allowed him to have on special occasions--

"That fanclub, dude! They were about to start asking you to sign their tits, you fucking rock star." Pete is in front of Patrick and walking backwards, turned around to make fun of him.

"Oh, right, yeah, I loved the way they seemed convinced that they could sing our songs better than I can," Patrick says, rolling his eyes. The fanclub equaled four people, three girls and a guy, and all of the girls had been like two feet taller than him. There had been no signing of tits.

"Hey. *Hey.*" Pete stops short and Patrick stumbles into him, nose bumping against Pete's collar bone. "Let's not ruin this moment. It's our first tour and that was your first party as a rock star and those were your first adoring fans." Pete grabs Patrick's shoulders and holds him away, holds him up and shakes him slightly. "Savor this, man!"

"I'm savoring, I'm savoring!" Patrick grips Pete's shoulders the way Pete's gripping his and laughs. "See, watch me savor."

"You are a fake savor-er," Pete says. "No one ever taught you how to savor right, apparently."

Pete lets go. "Apparently not."

***

"I'm mentoring you. No, I am, and shut up and hold still."

"That tickles." But Patrick tries to stop moving as Pete continues to draw on his shoulder, the sleeve of Patrick's t-shirt pushed up to make room. Pete's frowning in concentration, and Patrick has no idea what he's giving Patrick for his 'first tattoo.' He's afraid to ask or try to look.

"Your first tattoo is very important," Pete says, and swears loudly as Andy drives the van over a bump and the pen almost skids. "It's like, I don't know, initiation? Ritual? Something." He leans back, examining his handiwork, and Patrick still can't quite see what it is. "And as your mentor, it's my duty to prepare you for it."

"Dude, I hate needles and I'm not into pain. And I don't need or want a mentor. And I don't get why you'd be my mentor, anyway."

"Someone needs to do it," Pete says, shrugs, and leans back again. "There, it's done."

Patrick eyes his shoulder. It's a shakily drawn treble clef, with some vines and flowers drawn winding around it. "This is pretty girly."

"Your mom's pretty girly," Pete retorts, and jabs Patrick's cheek with the permanent marker.

"Ack!" Patrick's hand goes immediately to his face while Pete laughs. Patrick knows without looking in the mirror that there's a black smudge there that won't come off easily, and he glares at Pete. "Asshole!"

The van rattles and Patrick grabs the armrest next to him as they swerve to keep from losing his balance. Pete is still cackling to himself like a fucking hyena.

***

"It's going to rain."

"No, it's not."

Patrick squints up at the dark, clouded sky and leans back against the van. It's two in the morning and he's so tired he thinks he might fall asleep standing. The Illinois air is humid and heavy and it is definitely to rain. "It *is.* You're so wrong."

"You're so tired you're practically slurring your words, how would you know?" Pete takes advantage of Patrick's exhausted state to reach out and tug down hard on the brim of Patrick's hat, pulling it down over Patrick's eyes. He dances out of reach when Patrick snarls and throws a half-hearted punch.

"Fuck you," Patrick grouses and Pete just giggles. "Andy and Joe need to hurry up getting the rest of their shit out of the club, it's gonna rain on us."

"They'll be out eventually." Pete's palm is suddenly warm on Patrick's shoulder and lightly touching his neck, as well. Patrick closes his eyes and sways into it, and the touch turns into a grip as Patrick steadies him. "It's really past your bedtime, huh?"

"I repeat: fuck you." Patrick opens his eyes and looks up and the sky is murky, a would-be dark purple fucked up by gray cloud cover so that it's just muddled.

Pete lets go suddenly, but Patrick catches his hand. Pete squeezes their hands together and Patrick yanks him in and kisses him.

He misses Pete's lips and glances off the corner of his mouth and his cheek, the kiss brushing Pete's jaw for a moment before Patrick pulls himself back, his heart making distressed and affronted noises in his throat. "I, shit," he says, preparing himself for mortification and apologies, but Pete hasn't moved away.

Patrick figures he's already made this what it is and pushes himself forward again. It's a real kiss this time, lips against lips and Pete returns pressure against Patrick's mouth, his hand still in Patrick's and tugging Patrick slightly closer.

The first and only time Patrick kissed anyone--or more accurately, the first time anyone kissed him--was a year ago, his cousin Amanda's best friend at a family dinner party when they had managed to ditch the grown-ups and Patrick's other, more annoying, cousins. She had kissed him for a little bit and Patrick had sat there, and then she'd gone home with her parents.

This is good. This is better. Even with nothing to compare it to, Patrick feels utterly convinced that Pete is a good kisser, excellent, because this is making him go up on his toes and every place Pete's tongue touches in Patrick's mouth sets off little sparks and that's not just every day, that's not just Amanda's friend
in a secluded corner of the backyard. This is something else, something important.

Pete breaks the kiss off as suddenly as it had started, stepping back so quickly that Patrick stumbles. "Um," he says.

"Um?"

Pete laughs again, and Patrick knows it's not at him. But it's not with him, either. "Um, wow, I can't believe I just did that. I think I'm pretty tired, too."

Patrick has no idea what to say to that or what Pete's getting at, so he says nothing.

"Look, Patrick. I--I'm not going to let this happen," Pete says in a gentle voice, like he thinks he's letting Patrick down easy. "I can't."

"What. What do you think--" Patrick takes a deep breath. "You just kissed me back. You did, you--you fucking like me."

"I like you more than probably anyone else I've ever met," Pete says, simply, and Patrick stares. "I haven't felt so good and optimistic about another human being since I was your age."

"Because that was so fucking long ago. Because you're so much older and wiser than me, right?" Patrick grabs the material of Pete's shirt, clenches his fist in it. "You *want* this."

"What I want right now is to fulfill my promise to your mom--"

"Oh, give me a *break*--"

"--and get us both through this tour, and convince Andy to come on permanent, and pass my classes in hopefully the last term of college I'll ever take, and make this band something real and long-lasting. Oh, and not to get involved with a fifteen-year-old."

Patrick looks away. "You're full of shit."

"Yeah, you probably think so," Pete says, sounding rueful. "I know that when I was your age--"

"Fucking fuck you--"

"--I wouldn't have understood the concept of... of." Pete frowns like he's thinking, like he can't articulate himself, and Patrick snorts derisively. "Of delayed gratification. Of choosing not to have something you might really want, because there's more value if you don't let yourself have it."

Patrick can't think of anything to say that doesn't start with 'but'.

Pete leans forward too fast for Patrick to react, kissing him dry and firm and completely platonic on the mouth and then pulling away. He's smiling. "This is going to be the best fucking band ever. You and I, we're both going to be legends, fucking wait and see."

"I don't *get* you," Patrick says finally. "So you're saying, what? You want me to wait until the band makes it? Or until I'm older, and *then?*"

"I don't want you to wait for anything. I'm actually expecting you to figure out what scum I am pretty soon and drop your infatuation. I'm just saying that right now is shitty timing, that your mom would kill me, that I like you too much to take advantage."

Pete rattles off sentences like they all make sense, like it should be perfectly obvious and Patrick just wants to try kissing him again, just wants to *try.*

Joe and Andy come out of the club lugging equipment, yelling at them to come help, and Patrick feels tired again.

***

Patrick figures it out two shows later. There's a loop-hole in most things if you turn them the right way. And he's pretty sure this will, at least, make Pete laugh.

They're resting at a rest stop, Joe and Andy flopped against the grass and Pete leaning against the van, opening the soda he just got from the vending machine. Patrick comes over and kisses him, lingering just long enough before stepping back.

"What--" Pete looks completely, utterly confused for a moment, and Patrick laughs. Then Pete's expression turns sympathetic. "Patrick, I thought we already established..."

Patrick shrugs. "Right, yeah, no jailbait for you. I know. But you didn't say I couldn't have this."

Pete's back to looking confused, and Patrick walks away to join Joe and Andy on the grass. The next day, he slides into the seat next to Pete in the van and presses a kiss to his mouth, catching Pete in mid-conversation with his mouth open. Patrick bites his bottom lip for a second before ending it.

"What the fuck," Pete splutters, wiping at his mouth and glaring at Patrick. "What--seriously, what? This is weird of you. Joe, isn't it weird?"

"Uh," Joe says, and Patrick turns and gives Joe a loud friendly kiss on the cheek. Joe shrugs. Pete slides down in his seat and watches Patrick with narrowed eyes.

"This isn't like you," Pete says as soon as Patrick leans back after the next one. "Seriously, what are you up to? I mean, I am a fan of make-outs, but this isn't going to change my mind."

"I know." This *isn't* like him. Patrick feels like his heart is beating louder these days, like everything is a bit more saturated and like he's someone capable of being much braver and--and much less *himself*--than ever before. He's already been rejected, so what the hell? Why not to *everything?*

Patrick doesn't do it every day, and he always manages to do it when Pete isn't expecting it. He grabs kisses like shoplifted jewelry, a thrill going through him any time Pete kisses back, and always stops before it gets any farther than just a kiss.

As the tour moves on and moves closer to the end, Patrick can see Pete begin to get it. A little bit of understanding dawns in his eyes when Patrick leans in to press mouth against mouth, he sees Pete get it that it's *something.* That it's not much to get a brief kiss every few days, these little pauses in a platonic reality; that it makes you feel suspended halfway between unrequited everything and a real relationship; but it's *something.*

Something worthwhile enough to make the time pass faster, and Patrick keeps doing it until Pete starts kissing him first.


*

Music: Good, Bad, Ugly by Ani Difranco (title song) and Hold by Saves The Day.