DISCLAIMER: I don't own Fall Out Boy in any way at all. This is just a short one-shot about how Patrick really did want to quiet the band back in 2007. Warnings for language and smut.
They're at the airport in Australia, and even inside it's unnaturally hot and dusty. Patrick can feel layers and layers of sweat and dust caked on his clothes, his skin, just from the drive to the airport from their hotel.
He feels the same end-of-the-tour jitters swooping low in his belly, all jangled nerves and that bated-breath feeling of the prospect of time off, his own bed and condo. A new feeling, though, is the clench and burn of anger.
Anger at the months upon months of straight touring and promotion. He knows, knew back when he was fifteen and starry-eyed at his dreams somehow just coming true, that this would be expected someday. He just didn't expect "someday" to come already.
Truthfully, Patrick's fucking sick of Europe, Australia where there haven't been any fond memories the past few days. He wants home; Chicago, L.A., wherever he ends up when they step back into America.
He sees Andy sitting a few seats down from him, enamored in his own book, lost in his own world, and Patrick's rightfully jealous. He's never been good at ignoring problems, can't stick them on the backburner for later, and now is definitely no exception.
Joe's right next to him, flipping through a guitar magazine, eyes absentmindedly trailing along the glossy pages of state-of-the-art guitars, reviews from other musicians. Patrick knows he just wants to get home to Marie. Patrick's eyes shift to the row across from them.
As he looks at him, sitting in a seat across from Patrick and Joe, listening to his headphones, stupid hoodie on and hood pulled up despite the heat, Patrick feels his blood boil. Anger bites at the lining of his stomach and carries on up to his mouth, giving him a coppery taste of bile.
Anger because Patrick just fucking hates Pete Wentz.
He does the same thing every tour; he fucks over at least one of them, and it's almost always Patrick. Because Patrick cares too goddamn much for his own good, and he's been there for years now to pick up Pete's messes, talk him down from ledges and tear his hands away from prescription bottles. Tell him stay the fuck off the internet, asshole, it only ever depresses you.
Patrick's too nice, always has been, and this time, he can't stand it. He gets up, walks away, and doesn't say a word. Leaves his bags, his friends, and walks until he steps back into the too-hot Australian sunshine, walks down streets until even more dust covers his glasses, his skin, coats his lungs.
Maybe, just maybe, he can walk off the ends of the earth.
Patrick maybe feels a bit like Pete when he walks off, if not because he's doing something stupidly irrational but because he's leaving them to pick up his own mess.
He still doesn't know why he went outside with the temperature hovering steadily in the upper nineties. His lungs feel sluggish and heavy, like too much dirt has caked inside there. He thinks ironically that he'll die from suffocation or lung cancer.
Dramatics, he thinks, I'm becoming more like Pete everyday. His phone buzzes in his pocket a half-dozen times, a dozen, fuck knows how many times within the span of a half-hour. Answering it will just expend too much energy, he thinks. Why waste it?
He finally answers Joe's sixth phone call and once Joe's done yelling at him, he tells him he needs to get his stupid ass back to the hotel because Pete's re-checked them all back in.
"Because," Joe says, sighing, "Pete doesn't want to leave you behind, asshole."
Patrick really doesn't want to be back at this hotel, not with Pete. He wishes he'd gone and gotten a different flight, not told the guys and just disappeared. But, he figures, they'd find out pretty quickly and then he'd be in worse shit.
As it is, he's still allowed to sulk, and that's what he does while Pete stands, unsure, by the bathroom.
And that's where it begins.
"Pete, I can't fucking do this anymore."
Pete's eyes widen and he steps back like he's been burned. "You're not serious." His voice wavers and goes up a pitch, while Patrick just crosses his arms over his chest and does his best to look impassive.
"You're making decisions without consulting us again, Pete. I've tolerated it before, but this time… I just don't want to deal with it. Too many times I've let you walk over me and too many times you've done the same thing to Joe and Andy." He pauses and clenches his fists, biting back tears. "I—it's too much for me to deal with."
He turns his back on Pete, grabbing his suitcase from the floor of their new hotel room. This hurt him more than he thought it would, but he's been putting up with Pete's shit since he was fifteen, and even Patrick has to draw the line somewhere, nice or not.
He puts the suitcase down, next to the door, and stops. A part of him doesn't want to leave at all, says he needs to be Pete's rock, just like he's always been. Patrick sighs and puts the suitcase back down.
Pete's mouth opens but no sound comes out. Patrick avoids looking up as he walks to the hotel room's TV, stops, contemplates picking up the remote just so they can have some background noise to cut the tension that used to not be there. He's just picking up the remote when Pete's hand grips his bicep hard.
Patrick spins around and glares daggers at Pete. "What the fuck are you doing?"
Pete stares at him, hazel eyes smoldering and Patrick shrinks back under their intensity. He opens his mouth to argue more at the same time Pete surges forward and captures Patrick's mouth in his own.
"Mph!" Patrick tries to squirm away but Pete presses closer like the static cling he is and presses his tongue at the seam of Patrick's now-closed mouth. His grip tightens ever-so slightly on Patrick's arm, as if telling him that this is my apology. I'm trying to change, if only you'll stay.
Patrick caves, and the hand that's not locked in Pete's grip comes up and presses into the back of Pete's head, remote clattering to the carpeted floor. He opens his mouth and Pete pushes his tongue forward, licking at Patrick's teeth, the roof of his mouth, rubbing against his own tongue like Patrick's wanted for years now.
Pete's grip gradually loosens on Patrick's arm, and when he's free Patrick anchors both hands on Pete's shoulders, steering him toward the closest bed—which happens to be Patrick's—while they take turns biting at each other's lips. Pete's hand knocks off Patrick's hat as he threads his fingers in the coppery strands of hair, and for once Patrick isn't self-conscious.
"Why'd you wait until now?" Patrick asks huskily before Pete's knees hit the side of the bed and they topple down onto the comforter, Patrick between Pete's legs.
He's not sure if he wants Pete to leave or not. He's always had a sort-of crush on Pete, and saying that he's never wanted this to happen would be close to a complete and utter lie.
Patrick can still taste the anger in his mouth, even as his tongue's currently fighting with Pete's. His muscles are still tense with it, even as Pete's hand runs up his thigh, cups Patrick's dick in his palm.
The anger's still there even as Patrick moans and thrusts forward shamelessly.
"Didn't want you to leave," Pete mutters, slipping his hands up Patrick's shirt, circling around the small of his back, giving little pressure as he cants his hips up to meet Patrick's. They both gasp and Patrick moves from Pete's mouth to his jaw, biting at the light stubble he finds there.
He sucks at Pete's neck, feeling the vibrations from Pete's moans run through his body. "It takes me getting so pissed at you that I decide to leave the band for you to finally want to fuck me?" he asks against Pete's skin.
Pete shivers. "I've wanted to fuck you since you were eighteen." He stops like he knows Patrick's raising his eyebrows in that are you serious? way he saves especially for Pete.
Pete laughs after Patrick gives a disbelieving snort. "Okay, sixteen. But I didn't want to fuck this up."
Patrick almost, almost says you nearly did, but then he thinks better of it when he sees Pete's eyes, wide and so vulnerable the way he only ever is when he truly means what he's saying. Patrick maybe believes him.
But, just to be sure, he moves down the length of Pete's body, stopping once he's eye-level with Pete's crotch. Pete watches him expectantly, biting down hard on his lower lip, and Patrick leans down, nuzzles Pete's dick, mouthing at the hot denim.
The unabashed moan that slips past Pete's bitten lips is the sweetest Patrick's ever heard.
"You wouldn't have," Patrick says as he straightens back up, unzipping Pete's stupid fucking hoodie. He pulls him up and strips off his shirt. As soon as it's tossed to the floor he slides his own off, clutching Pete as tight to his chest as he can.
In their upright position, for some reason, Patrick feels as exposed as ever. Their chests are pressing together, hard enough to make it difficult for Patrick's lungs to expand for air, and he imagines it's the same for Pete.
Here Patrick is eye-to-eye with Pete, blue-green into hazel, and Pete presses their foreheads together until the colors blur and the lines of their faces soften. Pete begins to say I'm sorry, but Patrick cuts off his stupid apology with a hard, bruising kiss that leaves both pairs of hands clenching and scraping against skin.
Patrick's eyelashes flutter against Pete's cheekbone as he leans down, mouth halfway open, to say "No one has to be sorry," before he's pressing Pete down into the comforter, warm weight straddling Pete's razor-thin hips. Their pants are still on, and Patrick has plans in the immediate future to change that.
"I won't go anywhere if you promise to change," he murmurs, looking directly into Pete's hazel eyes again, this time from a different angle that enhances the surrealistic air of their situation. Pete nods mutely, lips parted. He's looking like a promise, like the Pete Patrick met eons ago, young and eager, a ticket to a life he could have never imagined.
Patrick attacks Pete's mouth, hands clenching onto his shoulder, in his hair as he slips his tongue back into Pete's mouth. He nibbles on Pete's lower lip, jerks forward just enough that Pete whimpers in painful pleasure and scrabbles at the pale planes of Patrick's back, thrusting upward with no hint of actual purpose or finesse.
Patrick reaches between them and pops the button on Pete's jeans. He slips his fingers under the waistband and slowly slides them down, moving to the side so that Pete can lift his hips up to aid Patrick. He leaves the boxers on for now as he goes to unzip his own jeans, pushing them down and kicking them off so that they join Pete's on the floor.
"You won't believe me," Pete says into Patrick's ear when he's lowered himself down, still straddling Pete's hips, "but I love you."
Patrick laughs and nuzzles into Pete's neck. "You've been saying that to me for years. I'd be an idiot if I didn't believe you by now." He punctuates this with a careful roll of his hips.
Pete gasps and digs his head into the pillows, hips involuntarily jerking upward. Patrick follows suit, trying to start up a steady rhythm, arms shaking from holding his body weight up.
"Fuck," Pete groans, pulling Patrick down for a kiss so sloppy their teeth mash together awkwardly. Patrick grunts, pushing downward, pressing the weight of his hips on Pete's thigh as he drags his cock along Pete's leg.
"Shit, come on," Pete gasps, hands frantically pushing at the waistband of Patrick's boxers, pleasure making him uncoordinated as he drags his nails on the soft skin just above Patrick's cock, fingers raking through curls of soft hair. "Let's lose the clothes."
Patrick breathes heavily as he ruts against Pete again, enjoying the rough glide of cotton against the sensitive head, but he obeys Pete's pleas and hooks his fingers under the waistband of Pete's boxers, crooking them as he slides the fabric down Pete's thighs, tossing them to the floor.
He doesn't take the time to soak in the fact that this is Pete Wentz underneath him, begging, before he takes off his own boxers. His thoughts are pretty much wiped out at the first hotslickwet slide of his cock against Pete's.
And fuck, he'd never imagined that it would be this good.
In the back of his mind, Patrick really wants to fuck Pete. Like, really wants to. But he just can't bring himself to get up and actually get lube and a condom, because both are packed safely away in his unpacked bag across the room.
Pete whines at Patrick's hesitation and bucks up against him again, fingers digging into Patrick's hips so hard he knows he's going to have some pretty garish bruises for a little while afterward.
"Shit, fucking impatient," Patrick pants, dropping his head to the crook of Pete's neck. He feels Pete laugh against him, deep and sweet. Pete's pulse races like a Thoroughbred under Patrick's lips.
Pete says, "When am I not?" He says something else, but Patrick's past caring. In fact, he's so far gone that he's staring at caring's ass.
"Just," Patrick begins, and thinks better of it. He doesn't really want to talk right now. His arms are really getting tired from supporting his weight and his dick's aching with the need to get off.
Instead he rocks forward, tight against Pete's hips, and Pete gasps, arches his back. Pete's nails dig crescent moons into Patrick's pale shoulders, probably drawing blood, and Patrick just continues rolling his hips, feeling the sweat gather on his chest and hairline.
He looks down at Pete's face, contorted in pleasure, and he can't bite back the moan or the words "Want to fuck you. Want to so bad," and he means it.
Pete tilts his head back, wrapping his leg around Patrick's back for leverage. Patrick's fingers curl into the comforter, holding like he's trying to keep a hold on reality. He feels like that's possibly true, because what he's feeling is too amazing to even be real.
Patrick drops his head to Pete's neck again, sucks at the salty skin and leaves darkdark marks. "When we get home," he says against the thorns on Pete's collarbone, "I'm going to fuck you against the door because I'm not going to get any further than that."
"Shit," Pete groans, rocking back a little desperately. "Fuck, Patrick. Please."
Really, maybe Patrick had been expecting too much from any possible first time with Pete. He'd had chances before: back in the van days, when everyone was in close proximity nearly every night, they'd all had their share of accidentally hearing someone jerk off. More than once Patrick had timed his breaths with Pete's, tried to orgasm the same time Pete did.
But he was sixteen, seventeen, eighteen those days. Nineteen he just let the crush go, because by then he was always just picking up Pete's pieces. Always, always, always. It's hard to be sexually attracted to the person who constantly damages himself.
Now. Now Patrick realizes how different sex—if this can be called that—with a guy is. There's a lot more grunting than moaning going on, and, if Patrick wants to be precise, just the low tones of it are enough alone to get him off.
Patrick moves up, bites at Pete's earlobe none too gently. "The bed will only be the end of things," he whispers, rolling his hips again.
He feels orgasm loom closer and he feels empowered by the way Pete's coming undone underneath him. He says, "I'll blow you in the living room. Or the bathroom, if you want to watch yourself."
Where Patrick's pulling this from, he's not sure. But it's putting a pretty quick end to things as Pete ruts up against him a little rougher, a little faster, and Patrick kisses Pete, wet and dirty and with too much tongue. They don't really care.
"Close," Pete pants, hands carding through Patrick's hair, pulling roughly. Patrick hisses and presses tighter against Pete. He thrusts again, groaning as his dick slides against Pete's, and then he's gone, coming thick and wet between them.
Pete follows almost immediately after, words coming out in garbled clumps of "Patrick," "fuck," and "god." They both move against each other, riding out the aftershocks, before Patrick collapses next to Pete.
There's a semi-awkward silence before Pete rolls onto his side and drapes his arm across Patrick's chest. "You're really not leaving?" he asks quietly, almost like he's afraid Patrick's going to laugh in his face and say that everything was all a joke.
Patrick takes a deep breath and nods. He's aware that the anger never really went away, just ebbed. Now it's almost just like a nipping puppy at his heels, so there's nothing to stop him from squirming closer to Pete. He ends up tangling their legs together and, truthfully, he's never felt safer.
"I'm sorry," Pete whispers, lips hot and apologetic against Patrick's shoulder. "I don't ever want to lose you, 'Trick." The seriousness lacing his words turns them into daggers flying straight into Patrick's heart.
Patrick sighs, doesn't say anything for a few minutes. He doesn't even know what to say other than he's a stupid asshole for pulling this stunt in the first place.
Finally he says, "It's okay, dude," with a carefree air like nothing ever happened. Just Pete and Patrick being each other, hating and loving all at once like some sort of defective puzzle.
Pete says, "No, it's not. You nearly left us." The unspoken left me hangs heavily between them.
"I know," Patrick replies, blinking. "I didn't because of you."
The confusion is evident in Pete's eyes. Patrick smiles, maneuvering in their body-meld to get his hands free. He grasps the sides of Pete's face and leans in. He whispers, "I stayed because you're the reason I did this band in the first place." And he kisses Pete, slow like molasses and probably just as sweet. It's such a surprising turn from their frantic please don't leave me now ones before.
"If there was anything to ever get me to stay, it was you," he explains, lips centimeters from Pete's, breaths ghosting hot across their mouths. "You just needed to show me you fucking cared, asswhore."
Pete laughs, loud and braying. It should seem out of place in such an intimate moment, but Patrick finds himself laughing along with Pete, his fingers still digging into Pete's coarse black hair.
In the middle of his laughing, Pete gets out, "I showed you everyday, and you just never noticed."
Patrick isn't sure if he believes him, but he might, just a little, because now Pete's kissing him and it's just so nice that he lets Pete mutter apologies between kisses and he finds himself muttering them back.
It's late, too late at night when they finally manage to get up and put some clothes on. They grab their bags and trek to Andy and Joe's room down the hall, knocking on their door.
Inside the room they hear Joe curse loudly. Not once does Patrick feel sorry for waking them up, not with Pete's fingers firmly entwined with his, their hips just barely brushing together. Joe answers the door, looking angry and then relieved like he'd expected them to mangle each other.
Joe takes one look at their touching sides and interlocked hands before he says, "Next flight home?"
Pete nods and Patrick smiles sheepishly. "Yeah," he says, voice thick like it's caught in his throat. He looks at Pete and Pete drops a kiss to Patrick's sideburn. "Home sounds really nice."