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It's a sex pollen story... ABOUT PETER LEWIS KINGSTON WENTZ AND PATRICK MARTIN STUMPH

There's really nothing about Texas to like, as far as Patrick can tell. He doesn't do well in extreme heat or dryness, and when they get to Austin they're running late and everyone is sleep-deprived and snappish. It feels like hell inside the venue, the temperature in the 90's with crappy A/C and way too many screaming kids crammed in to the club. Patrick's throat feels parched no matter how much water he gulps down; he's worried that it's affecting his singing, no matter how many times Pete, Joe, and Andy assure him that he sounds fine.
The show itself is good, once they get into the rhythm of it. The crowd is great and Pete is very much on tonight, making people laugh and scream and captivating everyone's attention. Patrick ends up having a blast despite it being Texas, but he still feels utterly drained as soon as he finishes his last note. He's already fantasizing about faceplanting onto his crappy hotel bed and passing out as they walk off the stage.
So of course they get fucking mobbed as soon as they step out of the venue, teenagers screaming and swarming them as one body, and Patrick's first instinct is to turn around and go back inside, hide there until morning.
But there are cameras there, too, and Pete's arm is clamped down around his shoulders. Pete is grinning and waving and taking this in stride, scribbling autographs on whatever gets handed to him, even though they both look like shit and there's no way he could possibly sign something for every single person out here. Good old Pete Wentz, so loyal to the fans. Dammit.
He can see Andy and Joe out the corner of his eyes, grinning politely and signing autographs, inching back to try and keep at least some distance between them and the mob. So Patrick pastes a smile on his face and scribbles signatures on album artwork, t-shirts, random pieces of paper, tries to say 'thank you so much' every time he hears someone scream out how much they love him. He even hears his own name, specifically, a few times, and he's still not used to that--girls screaming about the band or about Pete, sure, but not him by himself.
And then there's water spraying in his face, really a lot of it and Patrick jerks back, stumbling. Not just water, actually, because he's got some in his eyes and it fucking stings, and he really wants to strangle whichever bastard decided that he wanted to spend his Saturday night shooting the lead singer of Fall Out Boy with a high-pressure super soaker.
Of course, that's what their security people are for--Patrick had completely forgotten about them. And apparently Pete had, too, because he's yelling and wading into the crowd to defend Patrick's honor, or something, but Charlie yanks him back, depositing him next to Patrick. Charlie and the rest of their security team seem to have the situation under control, and the crowd is breaking up, although from where Patrick's standing--sitting, huh, when did he sink to the ground?--he can't see whether or not they've grabbed the asshole with the water gun.
"Motherfucker," he hears Pete snarl, and then just like that he's kneeling next to Patrick, his hand on Patrick's shoulder, his eyes wide and concerned. "Dude, you okay?"
Patrick takes his glasses off and tries to wipe off his face, blinks a lot to try and get the crap out of his eyes. It seriously stings. "I'm fucking soaked."
"I knew we shouldn't've come to Texas. Fucking hicks." Pete's hand squeezes and his thumb touches Patrick's neck, briefly. It's warm and tingly. "Come on, let's get back to the hotel and you can dry off."
"Holy shit," says Andy. He and Joe are hovering above them, looking angry and concerned. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," Patrick says, standing up to prove his point. "It was just some dick with a water gun, no big deal." Except that he really doesn't know what was in that gun: his eyes have stopped stinging, but everywhere he's wet feels tingly and prickly, and things smell... funny. Different. Not in a bad way, just--
Pete's arm slides over his shoulder to hug his back, protectively. "You've been attacked by a crazy fan. That makes you officially a rock star, Patrick Stump."
"As you can see, it's very glamorous," Joe pipes up from his other side. They appear to be flanking him and herding him back to the van, which Patrick is okay with, because he can't see all that well. Pete's arm tightens, and Patrick is suddenly very aware that if he turned his head slightly, his lips would brush Pete's ear, or neck. And Joe--if he tilted his head to the left he could put his head on Joe's shoulder, see how he smelled.
Patrick jams his glasses back on his face and shakes his head to clear it. Since when does he want to know what Joe smells like? He smells Joe all the time, and he just smells like Joe. Nothing exciting.
Except Patrick feels like it would be exciting, tonight. Joe's shoulder is right there and really, it's a nice shoulder, muscular from all his crazy guitar antics, and the worn material of his t-shirt is stretched thin over his skin. Patrick feels himself turning and leaning like he's being magnetically drawn--
"Ew, dude, no fair trying to get me wet, too!" Joe says, laughing and shoving him away when Patrick rubs his nose against his shoulder. Patrick grins and makes a joke out of it, shaking his hair vigorously to splash them; Joe and Andy yelp and scamper out of the way, but Pete just laughs and pulls Patrick in tighter.
Closer. Patrick can feel Pete's ribs through his shirt, and his bony hip is pressing into Patrick's side. Normally Patrick would find it annoying; right now he doesn't know what he finds it.
Patrick shakes Pete off when they get into the van, ignoring the way he'd really rather cling to him, curl up with him. He shoves himself into the window seat and leans his forehead against the glass. He's started to shake, slightly, without Pete's body heat near, and that's--that really can't be good, right? (Pete is sprawling in the seat next to him, but that's still too fucking far.)
Patrick sits on his hands and bites his lip. It's just the combination of being cold, wet, plus jittery and tired from days of touring and too much caffeine. He really just wants to get back to the hotel room, dry off and go to sleep.
Correction. He wants to get back to the hotel room, shower and take care of his erection, and then go to sleep.
He shifts and turns so his legs are curled away from Pete, hoping to god he won't notice and make some crack about it. Of course, Pete being Pete, that's like asking Texas weather not to be disgusting, but miraculously he doesn't even glance at Patrick's crotch. Instead he's leaning forward and laughing at something Joe was saying, and Patrick feels pathetically grateful to be left out of the joke. His tongue feels kind of thick and his mouth is tacky, reminiscent of the drymouth he got the one time he ever smoked pot, and he has no idea what would come out if he tried to talk right now.
By the time they actually get back to the hotel he's so hard it's somewhat painful, and he waits until everyone else has clambered out to awkwardly step out of the van himself. Oh, god, he feels like a twelve-year-old boy who has to carry around extra large textbooks to hold over his crotch whenever hormones strike. What he wouldn't give for his old algebra book right now.
He's practically fucking bowlegged by the time he gets to his room, and this is weird and wrong, because what the fuck? Why is he--no one's even touched him--well, except for Pete, but if Pete's arm around his shoulders made him this hard all the time then Patrick's life would be pretty miserable.
Patrick gets out a rushed goodnight to his bandmates, and Pete looks like he wants to give Patrick a hug or towel him off or something, but Patrick gives him a forced smile and ducks into his room before Pete can do anything. Thank god they're famous enough to finally have separate hotel rooms.
Patrick stumbles a couple feet into his room before sinking to his knees. Fuck. It's not just that he's hard, his body feels like it's on fucking fire, pinpricks of feeling skittering over his skin and making his eyes water. His hand is down his pants before he can stop himself and he comes immediately with a sob, messy and almost painful and it's not even a release. He's still hard and he wants more than this, than his own hand, his whole body is begging to be touched by someone else. He curls up on the floor clutching his dick, shower forgotten, realizing dazedly that it's not so much a want as a need.
"Yo, Patrick?" And that would be the door opening--separate hotel rooms but they're all in one master suite, and Pete has the key, thank god.
Wait, no, not thank god--it's bad, very bad for Pete to see him like this, Patrick should really try to hide or something, and ignore the way his whole body is clamoring for Pete to come closer.
Patrick pushes himself up on his elbow and opens his mouth to say "Pete, get the hell out of here," but what comes out is "Nnngh."
"Whoa," Pete says, and kneels on the floor next to Patrick, instead of yelling "Gross!" and getting out of the room like anyone sane would do. "Dude, you couldn't even make it to the bed?"
Patrick pulls himself upright and someone--surely not him--is yanking Pete forward by his hoodie and Patrick's vision is kind of fuzzy but he can see Pete's neck and his collarbone and then all he sees is Pete's skin because his face is pressed against Pete's pulse. And it's just sweat and old cologne, Pete shouldn't smell this good but oh, fuck--
"Whoa," Pete says again, sounding slightly breathless. His hand comes up to cautiously touch Patrick's shoulder, and something inside Patrick twists hard. Because Pete is going to push him away, of course he is, and Patrick should be grateful for that, because--as he's told himself a million times before tonight--their friendship is far more important than pursuing any kind of physical thing.
Even if Patrick wants this so much he thinks his bones might shatter if he doesn't get it. "Pete," he says against Pete's neck, and his voice sounds absolutely nothing like his.
"Yeah," Pete says, and he doesn't push Patrick away--his hand tightens, squeezes on Patrick's shoulder. "Patrick, not that I don't--but are you okay? You seem kind of..."
Pete's voice trails off, and Patrick realizes he's kind of crawled into Pete's lap. Which should be weird and gross, he's still wearing the jeans he just came in, but all Patrick can think about is getting closer. He'd wrap Pete around himself if he could, nothing else could possibly be enough, but he'll settle for Pete's skin on his tongue, the salty stubble of his jaw against his lips.
"Oh my god," Pete says, sounding more surprised than anything else. His voice makes Patrick moan and suck harder on his neck and grind against him, and--and Patrick is really not the kind of boy who sucks on necks and grinds against the sharp skinny hips of his bassist. But nevertheless, that's what he's doing, and he doesn't appear to have any control left. Maybe Pete's sense of self-preservation will kick in and he'll sedate Patrick before anything else happens.
Except for how Pete doesn't really have a sense of self-preservation. "Patrick," he gasps, and his hand is sort of petting Patrick's back, sort of clinging to him. "Are you--hang on--" And Patrick's whole body screams no when Pete yanks him off, pulls him back enough to look him in the eye.
"This really isn't like you. Are you on some--" his eyes widen, and Patrick can see the 'aha' moment. "Holy shit. That asshole with the water gun, you got sprayed with something--"
"I--" Patrick licks his lips, tastes Pete. "Yes. Pete, I, I need--" he gives up on talking because Pete's mouth is right there and he's leaning forward, a little, and Patrick has no impulse control whatsoever right now. Pete's lips are soft and he opens his mouth for Patrick's tongue, groans when Patrick licks his teeth.
Pete wobbles and Patrick pushes, and then they're both tumbling backwards onto the floor. "Oof," Pete says into Patrick's mouth.
"Shouldn't we--mmm--get you to--mmf--a doctor or something?" Pete pants out between kisses. "I mean, if whatever you got sprayed with has you all--I mean, chemicals."
Patrick doesn't understand what Pete's suggesting and he really, really doesn't care. He pushes Pete's shirt up to lick at the skin of his chest, and he can hear himself talking but he's just murmuring stupid shit, "need you" and "want you"and mostly just Pete's name, over and over.
Him and Pete. This is big and dangerous and wrong, and Patrick's terrified of how it's taking him over. The part of him that knows how to control himself, that has any kind of common sense whatsoever, has apparently crawled into a corner and died.
There's so much skin and Patrick wants all of it, it's not enough to just taste, he. He's kind of sucking on Pete's nipple and moaning, he realizes. He might be drooling a bit, and Pete is definitely arching up against his face. His ribcage is poking Patrick's ear.
"Patrick, you're, jesus," Pete whines, and his hand brushes Patrick's hair, his jaw. Patrick turns into his touch and breathes, tries to--focus or stop, just for one very dignified. And Pete seems to want to help, he's tugging Patrick's shirt up, and for once Patrick doesn't even hesitate before stripping.
Patrick gets a look at Pete's face, his eyes wide and his eyeliner smeared, his lips forming a perfect 'O'. He looks overwhelmed and turned on, and Patrick would never in a million years have guessed that he could make Pete Wentz look like that. And even now, it's not him: it's whatever's making him feverish and hard and out-of-control, it's this weird drug in his system--whoever he is right now, he's not Patrick Stump.
Pete's shirt is bunched up under his pits, exposing his chest, but he still has his pants on. Patrick fumbles with his belt and god, this is the most uncoordinated he's ever been, this is fucking with his hands. Pete bats his fingers away and unbuckles his belt and shoves his pants down in one smooth motion. He's not wearing any underwear, of course, and Patrick knows--knows--that at one point in his life he had the self-control to keep himself from sucking as much of Pete's cock as he can into his mouth immediately. But right now he just--doesn't.
It fills up his mouth and bumps the back of his throat and Patrick lets his eyes slide shut. It makes whatever's going on in his body calm down, a little (not enough). He sucks hard and he can barely hear the sputtering noises Pete is making; all his senses are focused on this, the taste of Pete on his tongue, stretching his lips. Pete's hips are bucking into Patrick's mouth and Patrick is touching him all over without realizing it--he just, his fingers want to be everywhere, on Pete's Bartskull tattoo and on the jut of his hip and his bellybutton and his ass.
And it's probably the drug talking (and this is why Patrick doesn't do drugs, because he's petrified of not knowing himself, of letting something like this happen), but he feels like he's taking a breath of fresh air after a whole life without oxygen, feels like one of Pete's melodramatic emo stanzas, larger and more out-of-control than real life could be. Pete's cock in his mouth and his fingers in Pete's ass and--fuck, he's going to come again, soon. He reaches down blindly to squeeze himself, and pulls off of Pete's dick just to breathe--
"Please let me fuck you, Pete, I need--please." That can't be his voice, doesn't sound like him at all, but nonetheless. He twists his fingers inside Pete and Pete moans high and shrill, almost a cry.
"Yes, I--" Pete's hands flail then clench on Patrick's shoulders, bringing him down hard for a kiss. Patrick can still taste Pete's pre-come, and then he can taste Pete's tongue shoving into his mouth, Pete's teeth on his lip.
Pete spreads his legs and Patrick kneels up and then Pete says "Wait, lube" and Patrick seriously wants to cry. He can't wait, and he's afraid that's not hyperbole. He feels shaky and hot all over and it's way fucking worse than just being horny. He doesn't know--he doesn't want to find out if he can stop himself or not.
"Pete," he says, and hopes that Pete can get all of that from just his name, because Patrick can't really speak in sentences right now.
Pete's eyes widen and he licks his lips and Patrick catches himself leaning down, biting down hard on Pete's bottom lip. He makes himself stop, strains to stay still for just one second, for Pete--
"Okay," Pete says, and that's it.
Patrick still has two fingers up Pete's ass, and when he pulls them out Pete clutches at him and kisses him. Patrick feels more than hears Pete mutter something into his mouth, but he doesn't know what it is; all he knows is that Pete's spreading his thighs and scooting forward, ready for him, and when Patrick pushes in Pete lets his head fall back, an invitation in every way imaginable.
Patrick can't even think about how this is everything he's wanted for the past five years, every fantasy he's jerked off to--if he lets himself think about what any of it means he's going to want to run. So he doesn't think, just focuses on pushing in, in until Pete groans and growls low in his chest, his long fingers clenching on Patrick's shoulders. In until Pete wraps his legs around around Patrick's hips and pulls, and if Patrick ever had any semblance of control (doubtful), he loses it then.
It's like singing, sort of, the part of a song when he lets loose and just screams into the mic for the crowd, and maybe he's singing Pete's lyrics and maybe he's just flooding the stage with sound. He has no idea if this is good sex, if he's keeping up a rhythm or hitting the right spots or doing any of those things you're supposed to to make it enjoyable for the other person (although of course he wants it to be good, this is Pete), he's simply--moving, erratically and with no sense of anything, just the tight heat of Pete's body and his hips and his hands scrabbling over Patrick's back and ass.
His orgasm hits mid-thrust, a release that leaves him shaking, his fingers gripping Pete's thigh hard enough to leave pink & white marks. Patrick can't even open his eyes, can't move or do anything but shudder over and over. Fucking hell, he's never dealt with post-orgasm after-shocks.
He pulls out and collapses, and beside him Pete grunts. His hand is on his dick, jacking himself quickly, eyes closed, and Patrick rolls closer, pressing a kiss to Pete's neck and reaching down to help him. Pete sighs and it only takes a few strokes for him to come, arching up into Patrick's hand and making a soft sound, not quite a word.
Patrick's hard-on of doom is gone, but his body still feels shaky and his bones are buzzing and when he looks up, the ceiling is blurry and sort of--swimming. Moving in waves, and that's not--ceilings shouldn't do that. "Pete," he says, and his voice still doesn't sound right. "I think I should maybe go see a doctor."
Pete props himself up on his elbow, looking at Patrick. "Yeah, you don't really look your best. And you seem kind of out of it."
"I don't usually have a physical need to jump your bones to keep myself from going crazy, so yeah, I'd say that's fair," Patrick manages to get out. He's beginning to feel nauseous, partly from the drug and partly from the realization of what the hell he's just done.
"Right, right." Pete pauses. "Okay." He pauses again. "So I guess we can talk about--you know, this--afterwards."
Patrick groans and reaches out to clutch at Pete's arm. "Right, sure. Help me stand up?"
"Um, yeah." Pete stands and pulls Patrick up after him, and Patrick does a spectacularly bad job of not leaning all his weight on Pete.
"Damn, Patrick," and Pete actually sounds worried now, a little too fucking late. "What the hell did you get sprayed with?"
"I don't know," moans Patrick into Pete's shoulder. "I just--can I go get my stomach pumped or something? Please?"
"I'm going to find the jackass that did this to you and beat the shit out of him," Pete says angrily, but he wraps an arm around Patrick's waist and they start walking. "Come on, we can take the crew's van."
The doctor actually scratches his head, which Patrick doesn't find encouraging. "Well, whatever it is should be flushed out of your system in 24 hours, at most."
Patrick waits for more, but the doctor is just looking at Patrick's test results and biting his lip. "Wait, that's it?"
The doctor looks up, a rueful expression on his face. "Essentially. I'm afraid there's just not much we can do: the drug heightened your sensitivity to pheromones, to put it simply, and your body is adjusting to that. The effects should be temporary."
Patrick groans. That's way too many 'should's. "Can't you sedate me or something until it passes?"
"We're too unfamiliar with the drug in your system to take that risk," the doctor says apologetically. "This isn't something we've really dealt with before. Mixing it with a sedative could have an adverse effect."
Patrick buries his head in his hands. On the way to the hospital he'd gotten hard again, desperate and painful like before, and the only reason he can think straight now is because Pete had jerked him off in the car before they came inside. But his skin is still buzzing and prickly, and he's still sweating and slightly dizzy, and he can feel his dick twitching to life again already.
Pete isn't helping by putting his hand on Patrick's shoulder any time Patrick looks distressed. Patrick knows he's just trying to be comforting, but anything tactile right now is just--too much.
Patrick ducks away from Pete's hand, which was moving to pet his arm. He knows his face is bright red. "Okay. Fine. Let's just--go, then."
Pete asks him if he's okay roughly ten times on the drive back to the hotel. Which, the answer to that is definitely 'no,' but saying that won't help anything. So Patrick just nods and rests his forehead against the window and crosses his legs, and tries to think about anything but the memory of Pete's cock in his mouth, or the way Pete's ass felt clenched around him, or the long line of his neck when he tilted his head back to moan.
"Hey." Pete's voice is soft and his hand is on Patrick's knee, making every nerve in Patrick's body jump to attention. He looks really concerned, and Patrick realizes that he's biting down on his lip and practically whimpering.
"I'm fine," Patrick says. He uncrosses his legs, and crosses them again.
Pete takes his hand off of Patrick's leg like it just occurred to him that maybe touching Patrick isn't good for his condition. "Okay, um. We'll be back at the hotel soon, okay? And then you can just--" get Pete naked and kneeling, fuck his mouth, make him scream-- "--lie down and sleep it off. Or something."
"Right," Patrick mutters, and tries to squish his face against the window. He's fully hard again, and can't think about anything but the way Pete is less than a foot away. He wants to die.
He lasts until the next red light, and then--his lips are against Pete's jaw, sliding down when Pete jumps in surprise, and Patrick finds himself climbing into Pete's lap, even though "I'm sorry, Pete, oh god I'm sorry--"
"Hey, it's--" Pete's words get muffled by Patrick's mouth, and it feels like the hardest thing Patrick's ever done to wrench himself away from Pete's mouth and press his face against Pete's shoulder.
"It's okay," Pete says, sounding breathless and alarmed. He's petting Patrick's back cautiously, and Patrick can feel the tension in his body. "But just--can you make it back to the hotel? And then--I swear, I'll do whatever you need."
Of course he will, because he's Pete, and Pete has never been anything but Patrick's best and most loyal friend, and now Patrick is taking advantage of that. Oh, god. Patrick opens his mouth to say yes, he can wait, but what comes out is, "I need this now" and he sounds like the worst kind of asshole.
Pete groans and Patrick's hand clenches in Pete's t-shirt. "I--okay, hang on, let me pull over," and Patrick makes himself move and the light turns green and it feels like forever as Pete pulls to the side, parking the van half on the sidewalk. And then he has Pete in his arms again, and Pete is clambering into his lap and oh, thank god, pulling the lever to push the seat back, because there's no way Patrick has the dexterity for that right now.
Pete straddles him, looking down at him and panting slightly. "What do you want?"
Patrick ignores the drug-addled part of his brain that's going into XXX-rated loving detail about what exactly he wants. "I just--just make me come, then we can get out of here and I'll just--leave you alone, I swear," he manages.
Pete's face changes at that, almost into a scowl, but he scoots back and, thank god, unzips Patrick's jeans and wraps a hand around Patrick's dick. Patrick arches and clutches at Pete's shoulder, fuck, he probably looks ridiculous and he can't even care. Pete's touching him, stroking him and it's so fucking good and this. This is going to kill him, that doctor was totally lying about it all being all right.
Pete leans down to kiss him, his tongue sliding along Patrick's lips and into his mouth. "I'm sorry," Patrick says when Pete moves to kiss his cheek and jaw, because maybe if he says it enough times it'll make up for the fact that he's making his best friend have sex with him for medical reasons.
Pete barks out a laugh at Patrick's apology, and Patrick can feel Pete's own erection pressing against his thigh, and at the very least he can reciprocate. Pete sighs against Patrick's neck when Patrick strokes him, and he pumps his hips to the same fast rhythm that he's jerking Patrick off with. They get in tandem, and Patrick comes embarrassingly soon, pulling Pete's head up to kiss him again and muffling his noises into Pete's mouth.
It's the fourth orgasm he's had today, and at this point coming is just a necessary relief. Patrick's kind of horrified by that.
Pete groans and leans back and Patrick wants to blow him so badly, but. But this is already more than Pete signed on for, and it's going to be awkward enough as it is when the crap in his system wears off--Patrick shouldn't make it any worse. So he just squeezes Pete's dick and strokes him and curls his hand around Pete's neck, fingers in his hair, and Pete closes his eyes when he comes.
They're both incredibly sticky. Patrick really, really hopes that no one needs to use the van before they have a chance to clean it.
Pete slumps down on top of him, resting his head on Patrick's shoulder. "God, Patrick," he murmurs.
Patrick thumps his head back against the seat. "Maybe you can hit me really hard and knock me out," he says.
"I'm not going to hit you, Stump." Pete says the words against Patrick's throat, and Patrick can feel the sound vibrations against his skin. His dick twitches. Motherfuck.
"You'll jerk me off in the name of friendship but you won't punch me? Weak."
Pete pushes himself up on his elbow, glaring. "What the fuck? Patrick, you don't think--" Pete shakes his head and sits up, still straddling Patrick. "Tell me that you know that this--" he gestures at the mess of semen and sweat and unzipped flies between them-- "has nothing to do with us being BFF."
Patrick blinks. "What?"
Pete shakes his head incredulously. "Patrick, I did not let you fuck me because I was trying to be a good friend."
Patrick stiffens. "Pete, don't--please don't turn this into some--thing."
Pete's eyes widen and then narrow, and his jaw clenches, and oh, Patrick knows this look. It's never a good look. "Oh, I get it. We've had sex three times in the last three hours, but heaven fucking forbid I turn this into a thing. We're still completely fucking platonic, right?"
Patrick wishes he hadn't said anything. He wishes he could just erase this entire night, even if that meant never getting to kiss Pete in the first place. He wishes that Pete straddling his lap wasn't making him feel feverish. "This isn't real! This isn't me, I would never actually do this to you, it's just fucking chemicals, okay? This isn't a basis for--anything." Patrick stares, horrified, as his traitorous hand inches its way up Pete's thigh even as he's yelling. He snatches it back.
Pete glances at Patrick groping his thigh, then looks back up to meet Patrick's eyes. "Okay. Then if you don't feel anything for me and I just happened to be the closest warm body when you got drugged, fine. I can respect that, even if I don't really believe it. But--" Pete braces his hands on Patrick's shoulders and leans in quickly so that they're face-to-face, close enough to kiss. "I'm doing this because I've wanted you to fuck me for years now, and I want you to fuck me again after all this is over, and you know me, Patrick: I don't give up easily."
Patrick can barely think with Pete so close, which dammit, is probably what Pete intended. He starts to shake, and Pete's hand moves to carefully cup his cheek. He leans in for a kiss and Patrick jerks back, shoving him off. He does it too hard and Pete hits the steering wheel, and that probably hurt and Patrick is an asshole but all he can think is that he can't, can't touch Pete anymore.
"Can you just take me back to the fucking hotel?!" And Pete's face goes completely blank at that, and he only looks like that when he's actually feeling hurt. Which--fuck, Patrick hates himself for that, because of course Pete's right not to believe him when he says that he doesn't want this, that his feelings for Pete have nothing to do with sex drugs. Patrick doesn't think it's possible for him to exist on this planet and not want Pete. It's something he's just gotten used to wanting and never having, an old comfortable ache under his skin.
But as much as he had wanted Pete, he'd wanted him under his own free fucking will. Not like this, when he can't even control himself, when the whole thing is a disaster.
Pete stares at him, that blank look on his face, then nods and gets back in the driver's seat, does up his pants and buckles himself in. His movements are sharp and jerky, and Patrick can tell that he's so, so pissed off. Patrick opens his mouth to say something, but he can't even think of the right words to say, because Pete is still right there and his shirt is riding up, exposing skin, and Patrick really doesn't want to have to touch Pete again--he doesn't even think Pete would let him again. He swallows and looks out the window, hunches himself up to try and keep as much space as humanly possible between him and Pete.
They drive back in silence. Andy and Joe are up and about when they get back to the hotel, and want to know what the hell happened and why they had to take the van somewhere at three in the morning; Patrick just ducks his head and heads straight for his room, lets Pete field their questions. Either Pete will tell them the truth or he'll make up a good lie, and right now Patrick doesn't really care which.
He shuts the door behind him and heads for the shower, peeling off his clothes. He's sweaty and there's dried come in his pants and maybe hot water and his own hand will make up for not having anyone else to touch him. Because there's no way he's going to let himself get anywhere near Pete again, not like this.
He gets in when the water's cold, hoping that that will calm things down somewhat, but it's mostly just uncomfortableand miserable and does nothing to tamp down the arousal or the dizziness, so he turns the water to hot and wraps a hand around his dick.
There's a soft knock on the bathroom door, and Patrick groans, because of course he knows who it is. Pete defeats the purpose of knocking by coming in before Patrick has a chance to tell him to go away.
He shuts the door behind him, leaning against it and looking at Patrick like it's completely normal for him to be watching Patrick shower. Which, Patrick guesses it's not that weird, compared to the rest of their night. "Are you feeling any better?"
Patrick grits his teeth and forces himself to let go of his cock, bracing his hands against the tile wall. He's not going to jerk off in front of Pete. "Not especially."
Pete's hands are clasped behind his back, like he's making a point of not touching Patrick--which he probably is. God dammit. "Can I get you anything? Is there anything you--need?"
Patrick is fairly certain that that question only sounds lewd because of his current state. "No," he makes himself say, instead of Yes, come in, I want to see you naked and wet on your knees your lips around my cock. He ducks his head under the water, feels hot droplets roll down his neck. He can't look at Pete.
Pete is quiet, like he knows what Patrick is thinking. "I don't want to leave you by yourself. You could get sicker."
"I'll be fine," Patrick manages to get out. The effort of not touching himself is killing him, a little bit. "Just--go. Please?" He tries and fails to make that come out without sounding like an asshole. Although really, who cares--Pete's probably going to be too mad to speak to him after this, anyway.
He hears Pete swear softly from behind him--he still can't look up--and for a second he's terrified that Pete is going to do something wild and impulsive like get into the shower with him, clothes and all, but instead he he hears the door open and close and when he looks up, Pete's gone.
Patrick makes himself fall asleep after his shower through sheer force of will, and when he wakes up the next day he feels hungover and sore but blissfully un-horny. Back to normal. It almost makes him cry, how grateful he is not to have morning wood.
Patrick throws back the covers. "I'm never going to have an orgasm ever again!" he shouts happily at the ceiling.
"Uh, damn, that's depressing," says Joe, who Patrick can now see is sitting in the armchair across the room, reading a magazine. He looks like he's torn between being amused and disturbed.
Patrick just shakes his head and grins. After the previous night, this ranks very low on his embarrassment scale. "What are you doing in here?"
Joe tosses the magazine (it looks like Twist) to the floor. "Pete made us take shifts to watch you sleep."
Patrick stares, then promptly decides not to think about that. "Okay. Well--I'm awake now. Are you supposed to watch me when I'm awake, too?"
Joe looks thoughtful. "Well, he didn't say. But I really don't feel like watching you get dressed, so I'm just going to, you know. Leave."
Patrick doesn't have much time to wallow in his newfound celibacy--as soon as he gets showered and dressed, it's time to check out of the hotel and pile into the tour bus. On to Arizona. More hot and dry, more sleep deprivation. Now with the added bonus of painful guilt and awkwardness any time he so much looks at Pete.
Patrick waits until they're on the highway and everyone's settled down, Joe and Andy watching Mean Girls on TBS and Pete in his bunk, before he goes to make his apology.
He knocks on the wall beside Pete's bunk before hesitantly pushing the curtain open. "Um. Hi."
Pete raises an eyebrow, his expression not giving anything away; Patrick feels his stomach lurch uncomfortably. "Hi yourself."
"Can I come in?" It sounds stupid to say that considering that it's, well, a bed, but Pete knows what Patrick means. He doesn't move for a moment, but then he nods and sits up, making room for Patrick on the mattress.
Patrick sits down and hugs his knees. "So. You know I can be kind of an asshole when I get upset."
Pete rolls his eyes. "Yeah, of course I do. Is that what this is about? The things you said while under the influence?"
Patrick frowns, taken slightly aback. "Um, yeah. I just wanted to apologize--"
"Fucking save it."
Patrick shuts his mouth.
Pete shakes his head angrily, moving so that he's up on his knees. "I don't give two shits about what you said when you were drugged, okay? All I want to know is whether that whole thing, you and me, whether that was genuine on your part or if you've always thought of me completely platonically and that was just an aberration. And if that's not what you want to talk about, then I'd prefer you just leave me the fuck alone right now."
Patrick stiffens. "I--I don't--"
"Patrick, just answer the fucking question," and Pete's dead serious, his voice anxious and his hand heavy on Patrick's knee.
"It was genuine," Patrick says without thinking. Lying to Pete right now, like this, that's not even a possibility.
"Oh, thank fuck," Pete says, and leans in to kiss Patrick hard, tongue snaking into Patrick's mouth when Patrick opens his mouth to protest.
"Mmph--christ, Pete," Patrick pants, pushing him back. "Did you strain something, jumping to all those conclusions?"
"For fuck's sake," Pete groans, but he sits back. "What now?"
Patrick scoots backwards until he's pressed against the wall. "I can't do this. Us," he says, and he can hear the desperate whine in his voice. "Yesterday was--that wasn't me, I never would have. I'm not like this."
Pete shakes his head, incredulous. "You think too much, Stump. Of course I know that you're not actually a sex fiend who needs dick 24/7. I like you better that way, actually."
Patrick feels something catch in his throat. "You're my best friend. I can't fuck that up more than I already have, and anything--different, or more, would just never work. Can we please just forget about yesterday?"
"Like hell I'm going to forget about your dick in my ass." Patrick feels himself turn red. "Or you blowing me, for that matter."
"You don't get it." Patrick wishes that Pete weren't so close--wishes that Pete understood the concept of personal space. "I never wanted it to happen like that! I mean, I never wanted it to happen at all because it would fuck up the band, but." Patrick stares at his knees. "I couldn't control myself, Pete. At all. I was lucky that you were there, because yesterday I would have fucked anyone within a three-foot radius of me."
"Okay, so then I will forget about yesterday and we can just start over," Pete says quickly. "Anything, Patrick, you just gotta work with me here."
"I don't want to work with you," Patrick says, and winces because that came out a lot harsher than he intended. It makes Pete lean back, that blank look on his face again. "We're friends, okay? And this is pretty much the best friendshipI've had in my whole fucking life, and--"
"--and you're just pussying out on anything else because of that?" Pete interrupts, angry.
"Yes! Yes, I'm pussying out, I'm terrified, okay?" That came out almost a yell, and oh god, there's no way Andy and Joe can not hear them. Patrick's going to die of mortification. "I'm not like you, I can't just jump into any situation willfully ignorant of all the ways it could go wrong. And trust me, any kind of relationship between me and you will go wrong, and it will fuck up everything when it does."
Patrick had expected that to make Pete start yelling, or storm off, or do something else dramatic and Pete-like, but he just opens his mouth and then shuts it, blinking. "Huh. You really are scared, aren't you?"
"Congratulations, you can comprehend the english language!" Patrick's aware that he's edging on the hysterical.
Pete shakes his head. "No, it's not--you're not scared of dating me, you're scared of what happened yesterday. Like, big time."
Patrick wishes the bus would stop. He wants to get off. He'll hitch-hike back home if he has to. "I can't be scared of both?"
But Pete's on a roll. "Your body was completely out of your control. You're so reserved all the time, right? You're the Shy One and I'm the Loud One and that's just how it works, but yesterday you couldn't hold anything back and you were totally dependent on me--"
"Stop trying to be my fucking therapist."
"You couldn't hide anything. I've seen way more of you than you ever wanted me to see, god, you must have felt so fucking helpless."
Patrick twists away from Pete and jerks open the curtain, moves to get the hell out but Pete grabs his shoulder, pulling him back onto the bed. And Patrick's elbow whips up behind him on instinct, clocking Pete in the nose, and Pete yells and shoves him and then they're both falling back on to the bed, grappling as best they can in the limited space. Patrick isn't the best fighter but he's fucking pissed, and--
"Um." Andy. When Patrick looks up, he and Joe are standing a few feet away, looking perturbed. "Please don't try to choke each other again?"
Patrick blinks, and realizes that he's on top of Pete, with his forearm pressed against Pete's throat; Pete's hand is clutching Patrick's shoulder. Patrick lets go, sheepish, and Pete starts coughing. Hacking really, and it's not like Patrick was applying that much pressure. Drama queen.
Patrick stands up, avoiding everyone's eyes. Pete stays sitting on the bed and doesn't look at him. Joe shifts his weight awkwardly from foot to foot.
"So--uh," Joe says. "Is this about last night?"
"Yeah," Patrick says. And, shit, he still has no idea what Pete told them.
"Okay." Joe says, and looks like he wants to say something else but can't quite figure out what. Andy keeps looking from Patrick to Pete back to Patrick like he's wondering if he'll have to come in and break them up.
"It's just stress," Pete says, sounding tired. "Both of us are still pissed about the asshole drugging Patrick last night, and--" he scrubs a hand through his hair. "...yeah."
It's a deeply lame excuse that doesn't explain anything, and Joe and Andy both get that. They stare at Pete, waiting for something else, but Pete stays silent, staring at the floor.
"Um, all right, whatever," Joe says. "Just, you know. Kiss and make up before we have to perform, I guess." And wow is that ever not funny.
Joe and Andy go back to Mean Girls. Patrick focuses on looking anywhere but Pete.
"I think your control issues are what's fucking you up here, not anything to do with a relationship with me," Pete says. Well, at least he waited until Joe and Andy were out of earshot to start psychoanalyzing Patrick again.
Patrick grits his teeth. "Does it matter? I'm not dating you. It would be disastrous."
"Fuck you." Patrick looks down at that, surprised; Pete is glaring up at him. He stands. "I've been your best friend for five years, you've taken every risk on me there is to take, the same way I have on you. I know you inside and out, and, especially after last night, there's nothing about you that I haven't seen." Pete has Patrick backed up against the wall by now, and Patrick is just pathetically grateful that Joe and Andy appear to be willfully ignoring them. "Christ, Patrick, I've let you see the ugly insides of my twisted little psyche more times than I can count."
Patrick tries to look away, but Pete touches his cheek, makes him meet his eyes. "It's incredibly insulting that you, the one person who knows me better than anyone else on the planet, isn't willing to even give me a chance."
Patrick's throat goes dry. "Oh, god, Pete it's not that, it's--" he will not say 'it's not you, it's me,' no matter how true that is. He buries his face against Pete's neck, instead.
Pete sighs against him, body relaxing. "Don't make me serenade you with 'Take A Chance On Me,' okay? I'm not the singer here."
Patrick doesn't know why he's clinging to Pete instead of running like hell in the opposite direction, or why he's laughing instead of freaking out. But his arms are around Pete and Pete is sort of petting Patrick's hair, and. "You're such a passive-agressive, melodramatic bastard," he mutters against Pete's shoulder.
"Yeah, but you're used to it," Pete says, which is pretty much the truth. Patrick doesn't resist when Pete pulls back to kiss him, chastely on the cheek. "This is going to be awesome. You'll see."
"That's what you said about 'Bedussey,'" Patrick says, and now it's Pete's turn to laugh. And Patrick isn't drugged anymore, but he still can't stop himself from leaning forward and capturing Pete's laughter in his mouth, catching it between them. It raises and snaps off as Pete responds automatically, kissing back, and then it's gone too quickly when he pulls back, lips parted.
"Yeah?" Pete says. It doesn't come out entirely as a question, but Patrick nods, and Pete grins wide and repeats "Yeah," for both of them before Patrick leans in again, kissing him open-mouthed with his eyes wide open.

Description
It's a sex pollen story... ABOUT PETER LEWIS KINGSTON WENTZ AND PATRICK MARTIN STUMPH

There's really nothing about Texas to like, as far as Patrick can tell. He doesn't do well in extreme heat or dryness, and when they get to Austin they're running late and everyone is sleep-deprived and snappish. It feels like hell inside the venue, the temperature in the 90's with crappy A/C and way too many screaming kids crammed in to the club. Patrick's throat feels parched no matter how much water he gulps down; he's worried that it's affecting his singing, no matter how many times Pete, Joe, and Andy assure him that he sounds fine.
The show itself is good, once they get into the rhythm of it. The crowd is great and Pete is very much on tonight, making people laugh and scream and captivating everyone's attention. Patrick ends up having a blast despite it being Texas, but he still feels utterly drained as soon as he finishes his last note. He's already fantasizing about faceplanting onto his crappy hotel bed and passing out as they walk off the stage.
So of course they get fucking mobbed as soon as they step out of the venue, teenagers screaming and swarming them as one body, and Patrick's first instinct is to turn around and go back inside, hide there until morning.
But there are cameras there, too, and Pete's arm is clamped down around his shoulders. Pete is grinning and waving and taking this in stride, scribbling autographs on whatever gets handed to him, even though they both look like shit and there's no way he could possibly sign something for every single person out here. Good old Pete Wentz, so loyal to the fans. Dammit.
He can see Andy and Joe out the corner of his eyes, grinning politely and signing autographs, inching back to try and keep at least some distance between them and the mob. So Patrick pastes a smile on his face and scribbles signatures on album artwork, t-shirts, random pieces of paper, tries to say 'thank you so much' every time he hears someone scream out how much they love him. He even hears his own name, specifically, a few times, and he's still not used to that--girls screaming about the band or about Pete, sure, but not him by himself.
And then there's water spraying in his face, really a lot of it and Patrick jerks back, stumbling. Not just water, actually, because he's got some in his eyes and it fucking stings, and he really wants to strangle whichever bastard decided that he wanted to spend his Saturday night shooting the lead singer of Fall Out Boy with a high-pressure super soaker.
Of course, that's what their security people are for--Patrick had completely forgotten about them. And apparently Pete had, too, because he's yelling and wading into the crowd to defend Patrick's honor, or something, but Charlie yanks him back, depositing him next to Patrick. Charlie and the rest of their security team seem to have the situation under control, and the crowd is breaking up, although from where Patrick's standing--sitting, huh, when did he sink to the ground?--he can't see whether or not they've grabbed the asshole with the water gun.
"Motherfucker," he hears Pete snarl, and then just like that he's kneeling next to Patrick, his hand on Patrick's shoulder, his eyes wide and concerned. "Dude, you okay?"
Patrick takes his glasses off and tries to wipe off his face, blinks a lot to try and get the crap out of his eyes. It seriously stings. "I'm fucking soaked."
"I knew we shouldn't've come to Texas. Fucking hicks." Pete's hand squeezes and his thumb touches Patrick's neck, briefly. It's warm and tingly. "Come on, let's get back to the hotel and you can dry off."
"Holy shit," says Andy. He and Joe are hovering above them, looking angry and concerned. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," Patrick says, standing up to prove his point. "It was just some dick with a water gun, no big deal." Except that he really doesn't know what was in that gun: his eyes have stopped stinging, but everywhere he's wet feels tingly and prickly, and things smell... funny. Different. Not in a bad way, just--
Pete's arm slides over his shoulder to hug his back, protectively. "You've been attacked by a crazy fan. That makes you officially a rock star, Patrick Stump."
"As you can see, it's very glamorous," Joe pipes up from his other side. They appear to be flanking him and herding him back to the van, which Patrick is okay with, because he can't see all that well. Pete's arm tightens, and Patrick is suddenly very aware that if he turned his head slightly, his lips would brush Pete's ear, or neck. And Joe--if he tilted his head to the left he could put his head on Joe's shoulder, see how he smelled.
Patrick jams his glasses back on his face and shakes his head to clear it. Since when does he want to know what Joe smells like? He smells Joe all the time, and he just smells like Joe. Nothing exciting.
Except Patrick feels like it would be exciting, tonight. Joe's shoulder is right there and really, it's a nice shoulder, muscular from all his crazy guitar antics, and the worn material of his t-shirt is stretched thin over his skin. Patrick feels himself turning and leaning like he's being magnetically drawn--
"Ew, dude, no fair trying to get me wet, too!" Joe says, laughing and shoving him away when Patrick rubs his nose against his shoulder. Patrick grins and makes a joke out of it, shaking his hair vigorously to splash them; Joe and Andy yelp and scamper out of the way, but Pete just laughs and pulls Patrick in tighter.
Closer. Patrick can feel Pete's ribs through his shirt, and his bony hip is pressing into Patrick's side. Normally Patrick would find it annoying; right now he doesn't know what he finds it.
Patrick shakes Pete off when they get into the van, ignoring the way he'd really rather cling to him, curl up with him. He shoves himself into the window seat and leans his forehead against the glass. He's started to shake, slightly, without Pete's body heat near, and that's--that really can't be good, right? (Pete is sprawling in the seat next to him, but that's still too fucking far.)
Patrick sits on his hands and bites his lip. It's just the combination of being cold, wet, plus jittery and tired from days of touring and too much caffeine. He really just wants to get back to the hotel room, dry off and go to sleep.
Correction. He wants to get back to the hotel room, shower and take care of his erection, and then go to sleep.
He shifts and turns so his legs are curled away from Pete, hoping to god he won't notice and make some crack about it. Of course, Pete being Pete, that's like asking Texas weather not to be disgusting, but miraculously he doesn't even glance at Patrick's crotch. Instead he's leaning forward and laughing at something Joe was saying, and Patrick feels pathetically grateful to be left out of the joke. His tongue feels kind of thick and his mouth is tacky, reminiscent of the drymouth he got the one time he ever smoked pot, and he has no idea what would come out if he tried to talk right now.
By the time they actually get back to the hotel he's so hard it's somewhat painful, and he waits until everyone else has clambered out to awkwardly step out of the van himself. Oh, god, he feels like a twelve-year-old boy who has to carry around extra large textbooks to hold over his crotch whenever hormones strike. What he wouldn't give for his old algebra book right now.
He's practically fucking bowlegged by the time he gets to his room, and this is weird and wrong, because what the fuck? Why is he--no one's even touched him--well, except for Pete, but if Pete's arm around his shoulders made him this hard all the time then Patrick's life would be pretty miserable.
Patrick gets out a rushed goodnight to his bandmates, and Pete looks like he wants to give Patrick a hug or towel him off or something, but Patrick gives him a forced smile and ducks into his room before Pete can do anything. Thank god they're famous enough to finally have separate hotel rooms.
Patrick stumbles a couple feet into his room before sinking to his knees. Fuck. It's not just that he's hard, his body feels like it's on fucking fire, pinpricks of feeling skittering over his skin and making his eyes water. His hand is down his pants before he can stop himself and he comes immediately with a sob, messy and almost painful and it's not even a release. He's still hard and he wants more than this, than his own hand, his whole body is begging to be touched by someone else. He curls up on the floor clutching his dick, shower forgotten, realizing dazedly that it's not so much a want as a need.
"Yo, Patrick?" And that would be the door opening--separate hotel rooms but they're all in one master suite, and Pete has the key, thank god.
Wait, no, not thank god--it's bad, very bad for Pete to see him like this, Patrick should really try to hide or something, and ignore the way his whole body is clamoring for Pete to come closer.
Patrick pushes himself up on his elbow and opens his mouth to say "Pete, get the hell out of here," but what comes out is "Nnngh."
"Whoa," Pete says, and kneels on the floor next to Patrick, instead of yelling "Gross!" and getting out of the room like anyone sane would do. "Dude, you couldn't even make it to the bed?"
Patrick pulls himself upright and someone--surely not him--is yanking Pete forward by his hoodie and Patrick's vision is kind of fuzzy but he can see Pete's neck and his collarbone and then all he sees is Pete's skin because his face is pressed against Pete's pulse. And it's just sweat and old cologne, Pete shouldn't smell this good but oh, fuck--
"Whoa," Pete says again, sounding slightly breathless. His hand comes up to cautiously touch Patrick's shoulder, and something inside Patrick twists hard. Because Pete is going to push him away, of course he is, and Patrick should be grateful for that, because--as he's told himself a million times before tonight--their friendship is far more important than pursuing any kind of physical thing.
Even if Patrick wants this so much he thinks his bones might shatter if he doesn't get it. "Pete," he says against Pete's neck, and his voice sounds absolutely nothing like his.
"Yeah," Pete says, and he doesn't push Patrick away--his hand tightens, squeezes on Patrick's shoulder. "Patrick, not that I don't--but are you okay? You seem kind of..."
Pete's voice trails off, and Patrick realizes he's kind of crawled into Pete's lap. Which should be weird and gross, he's still wearing the jeans he just came in, but all Patrick can think about is getting closer. He'd wrap Pete around himself if he could, nothing else could possibly be enough, but he'll settle for Pete's skin on his tongue, the salty stubble of his jaw against his lips.
"Oh my god," Pete says, sounding more surprised than anything else. His voice makes Patrick moan and suck harder on his neck and grind against him, and--and Patrick is really not the kind of boy who sucks on necks and grinds against the sharp skinny hips of his bassist. But nevertheless, that's what he's doing, and he doesn't appear to have any control left. Maybe Pete's sense of self-preservation will kick in and he'll sedate Patrick before anything else happens.
Except for how Pete doesn't really have a sense of self-preservation. "Patrick," he gasps, and his hand is sort of petting Patrick's back, sort of clinging to him. "Are you--hang on--" And Patrick's whole body screams no when Pete yanks him off, pulls him back enough to look him in the eye.
"This really isn't like you. Are you on some--" his eyes widen, and Patrick can see the 'aha' moment. "Holy shit. That asshole with the water gun, you got sprayed with something--"
"I--" Patrick licks his lips, tastes Pete. "Yes. Pete, I, I need--" he gives up on talking because Pete's mouth is right there and he's leaning forward, a little, and Patrick has no impulse control whatsoever right now. Pete's lips are soft and he opens his mouth for Patrick's tongue, groans when Patrick licks his teeth.
Pete wobbles and Patrick pushes, and then they're both tumbling backwards onto the floor. "Oof," Pete says into Patrick's mouth.
"Shouldn't we--mmm--get you to--mmf--a doctor or something?" Pete pants out between kisses. "I mean, if whatever you got sprayed with has you all--I mean, chemicals."
Patrick doesn't understand what Pete's suggesting and he really, really doesn't care. He pushes Pete's shirt up to lick at the skin of his chest, and he can hear himself talking but he's just murmuring stupid shit, "need you" and "want you"and mostly just Pete's name, over and over.
Him and Pete. This is big and dangerous and wrong, and Patrick's terrified of how it's taking him over. The part of him that knows how to control himself, that has any kind of common sense whatsoever, has apparently crawled into a corner and died.
There's so much skin and Patrick wants all of it, it's not enough to just taste, he. He's kind of sucking on Pete's nipple and moaning, he realizes. He might be drooling a bit, and Pete is definitely arching up against his face. His ribcage is poking Patrick's ear.
"Patrick, you're, jesus," Pete whines, and his hand brushes Patrick's hair, his jaw. Patrick turns into his touch and breathes, tries to--focus or stop, just for one very dignified. And Pete seems to want to help, he's tugging Patrick's shirt up, and for once Patrick doesn't even hesitate before stripping.
Patrick gets a look at Pete's face, his eyes wide and his eyeliner smeared, his lips forming a perfect 'O'. He looks overwhelmed and turned on, and Patrick would never in a million years have guessed that he could make Pete Wentz look like that. And even now, it's not him: it's whatever's making him feverish and hard and out-of-control, it's this weird drug in his system--whoever he is right now, he's not Patrick Stump.
Pete's shirt is bunched up under his pits, exposing his chest, but he still has his pants on. Patrick fumbles with his belt and god, this is the most uncoordinated he's ever been, this is fucking with his hands. Pete bats his fingers away and unbuckles his belt and shoves his pants down in one smooth motion. He's not wearing any underwear, of course, and Patrick knows--knows--that at one point in his life he had the self-control to keep himself from sucking as much of Pete's cock as he can into his mouth immediately. But right now he just--doesn't.
It fills up his mouth and bumps the back of his throat and Patrick lets his eyes slide shut. It makes whatever's going on in his body calm down, a little (not enough). He sucks hard and he can barely hear the sputtering noises Pete is making; all his senses are focused on this, the taste of Pete on his tongue, stretching his lips. Pete's hips are bucking into Patrick's mouth and Patrick is touching him all over without realizing it--he just, his fingers want to be everywhere, on Pete's Bartskull tattoo and on the jut of his hip and his bellybutton and his ass.
And it's probably the drug talking (and this is why Patrick doesn't do drugs, because he's petrified of not knowing himself, of letting something like this happen), but he feels like he's taking a breath of fresh air after a whole life without oxygen, feels like one of Pete's melodramatic emo stanzas, larger and more out-of-control than real life could be. Pete's cock in his mouth and his fingers in Pete's ass and--fuck, he's going to come again, soon. He reaches down blindly to squeeze himself, and pulls off of Pete's dick just to breathe--
"Please let me fuck you, Pete, I need--please." That can't be his voice, doesn't sound like him at all, but nonetheless. He twists his fingers inside Pete and Pete moans high and shrill, almost a cry.
"Yes, I--" Pete's hands flail then clench on Patrick's shoulders, bringing him down hard for a kiss. Patrick can still taste Pete's pre-come, and then he can taste Pete's tongue shoving into his mouth, Pete's teeth on his lip.
Pete spreads his legs and Patrick kneels up and then Pete says "Wait, lube" and Patrick seriously wants to cry. He can't wait, and he's afraid that's not hyperbole. He feels shaky and hot all over and it's way fucking worse than just being horny. He doesn't know--he doesn't want to find out if he can stop himself or not.
"Pete," he says, and hopes that Pete can get all of that from just his name, because Patrick can't really speak in sentences right now.
Pete's eyes widen and he licks his lips and Patrick catches himself leaning down, biting down hard on Pete's bottom lip. He makes himself stop, strains to stay still for just one second, for Pete--
"Okay," Pete says, and that's it.
Patrick still has two fingers up Pete's ass, and when he pulls them out Pete clutches at him and kisses him. Patrick feels more than hears Pete mutter something into his mouth, but he doesn't know what it is; all he knows is that Pete's spreading his thighs and scooting forward, ready for him, and when Patrick pushes in Pete lets his head fall back, an invitation in every way imaginable.
Patrick can't even think about how this is everything he's wanted for the past five years, every fantasy he's jerked off to--if he lets himself think about what any of it means he's going to want to run. So he doesn't think, just focuses on pushing in, in until Pete groans and growls low in his chest, his long fingers clenching on Patrick's shoulders. In until Pete wraps his legs around around Patrick's hips and pulls, and if Patrick ever had any semblance of control (doubtful), he loses it then.
It's like singing, sort of, the part of a song when he lets loose and just screams into the mic for the crowd, and maybe he's singing Pete's lyrics and maybe he's just flooding the stage with sound. He has no idea if this is good sex, if he's keeping up a rhythm or hitting the right spots or doing any of those things you're supposed to to make it enjoyable for the other person (although of course he wants it to be good, this is Pete), he's simply--moving, erratically and with no sense of anything, just the tight heat of Pete's body and his hips and his hands scrabbling over Patrick's back and ass.
His orgasm hits mid-thrust, a release that leaves him shaking, his fingers gripping Pete's thigh hard enough to leave pink & white marks. Patrick can't even open his eyes, can't move or do anything but shudder over and over. Fucking hell, he's never dealt with post-orgasm after-shocks.
He pulls out and collapses, and beside him Pete grunts. His hand is on his dick, jacking himself quickly, eyes closed, and Patrick rolls closer, pressing a kiss to Pete's neck and reaching down to help him. Pete sighs and it only takes a few strokes for him to come, arching up into Patrick's hand and making a soft sound, not quite a word.
Patrick's hard-on of doom is gone, but his body still feels shaky and his bones are buzzing and when he looks up, the ceiling is blurry and sort of--swimming. Moving in waves, and that's not--ceilings shouldn't do that. "Pete," he says, and his voice still doesn't sound right. "I think I should maybe go see a doctor."
Pete props himself up on his elbow, looking at Patrick. "Yeah, you don't really look your best. And you seem kind of out of it."
"I don't usually have a physical need to jump your bones to keep myself from going crazy, so yeah, I'd say that's fair," Patrick manages to get out. He's beginning to feel nauseous, partly from the drug and partly from the realization of what the hell he's just done.
"Right, right." Pete pauses. "Okay." He pauses again. "So I guess we can talk about--you know, this--afterwards."
Patrick groans and reaches out to clutch at Pete's arm. "Right, sure. Help me stand up?"
"Um, yeah." Pete stands and pulls Patrick up after him, and Patrick does a spectacularly bad job of not leaning all his weight on Pete.
"Damn, Patrick," and Pete actually sounds worried now, a little too fucking late. "What the hell did you get sprayed with?"
"I don't know," moans Patrick into Pete's shoulder. "I just--can I go get my stomach pumped or something? Please?"
"I'm going to find the jackass that did this to you and beat the shit out of him," Pete says angrily, but he wraps an arm around Patrick's waist and they start walking. "Come on, we can take the crew's van."
The doctor actually scratches his head, which Patrick doesn't find encouraging. "Well, whatever it is should be flushed out of your system in 24 hours, at most."
Patrick waits for more, but the doctor is just looking at Patrick's test results and biting his lip. "Wait, that's it?"
The doctor looks up, a rueful expression on his face. "Essentially. I'm afraid there's just not much we can do: the drug heightened your sensitivity to pheromones, to put it simply, and your body is adjusting to that. The effects should be temporary."
Patrick groans. That's way too many 'should's. "Can't you sedate me or something until it passes?"
"We're too unfamiliar with the drug in your system to take that risk," the doctor says apologetically. "This isn't something we've really dealt with before. Mixing it with a sedative could have an adverse effect."
Patrick buries his head in his hands. On the way to the hospital he'd gotten hard again, desperate and painful like before, and the only reason he can think straight now is because Pete had jerked him off in the car before they came inside. But his skin is still buzzing and prickly, and he's still sweating and slightly dizzy, and he can feel his dick twitching to life again already.
Pete isn't helping by putting his hand on Patrick's shoulder any time Patrick looks distressed. Patrick knows he's just trying to be comforting, but anything tactile right now is just--too much.
Patrick ducks away from Pete's hand, which was moving to pet his arm. He knows his face is bright red. "Okay. Fine. Let's just--go, then."
Pete asks him if he's okay roughly ten times on the drive back to the hotel. Which, the answer to that is definitely 'no,' but saying that won't help anything. So Patrick just nods and rests his forehead against the window and crosses his legs, and tries to think about anything but the memory of Pete's cock in his mouth, or the way Pete's ass felt clenched around him, or the long line of his neck when he tilted his head back to moan.
"Hey." Pete's voice is soft and his hand is on Patrick's knee, making every nerve in Patrick's body jump to attention. He looks really concerned, and Patrick realizes that he's biting down on his lip and practically whimpering.
"I'm fine," Patrick says. He uncrosses his legs, and crosses them again.
Pete takes his hand off of Patrick's leg like it just occurred to him that maybe touching Patrick isn't good for his condition. "Okay, um. We'll be back at the hotel soon, okay? And then you can just--" get Pete naked and kneeling, fuck his mouth, make him scream-- "--lie down and sleep it off. Or something."
"Right," Patrick mutters, and tries to squish his face against the window. He's fully hard again, and can't think about anything but the way Pete is less than a foot away. He wants to die.
He lasts until the next red light, and then--his lips are against Pete's jaw, sliding down when Pete jumps in surprise, and Patrick finds himself climbing into Pete's lap, even though "I'm sorry, Pete, oh god I'm sorry--"
"Hey, it's--" Pete's words get muffled by Patrick's mouth, and it feels like the hardest thing Patrick's ever done to wrench himself away from Pete's mouth and press his face against Pete's shoulder.
"It's okay," Pete says, sounding breathless and alarmed. He's petting Patrick's back cautiously, and Patrick can feel the tension in his body. "But just--can you make it back to the hotel? And then--I swear, I'll do whatever you need."
Of course he will, because he's Pete, and Pete has never been anything but Patrick's best and most loyal friend, and now Patrick is taking advantage of that. Oh, god. Patrick opens his mouth to say yes, he can wait, but what comes out is, "I need this now" and he sounds like the worst kind of asshole.
Pete groans and Patrick's hand clenches in Pete's t-shirt. "I--okay, hang on, let me pull over," and Patrick makes himself move and the light turns green and it feels like forever as Pete pulls to the side, parking the van half on the sidewalk. And then he has Pete in his arms again, and Pete is clambering into his lap and oh, thank god, pulling the lever to push the seat back, because there's no way Patrick has the dexterity for that right now.
Pete straddles him, looking down at him and panting slightly. "What do you want?"
Patrick ignores the drug-addled part of his brain that's going into XXX-rated loving detail about what exactly he wants. "I just--just make me come, then we can get out of here and I'll just--leave you alone, I swear," he manages.
Pete's face changes at that, almost into a scowl, but he scoots back and, thank god, unzips Patrick's jeans and wraps a hand around Patrick's dick. Patrick arches and clutches at Pete's shoulder, fuck, he probably looks ridiculous and he can't even care. Pete's touching him, stroking him and it's so fucking good and this. This is going to kill him, that doctor was totally lying about it all being all right.
Pete leans down to kiss him, his tongue sliding along Patrick's lips and into his mouth. "I'm sorry," Patrick says when Pete moves to kiss his cheek and jaw, because maybe if he says it enough times it'll make up for the fact that he's making his best friend have sex with him for medical reasons.
Pete barks out a laugh at Patrick's apology, and Patrick can feel Pete's own erection pressing against his thigh, and at the very least he can reciprocate. Pete sighs against Patrick's neck when Patrick strokes him, and he pumps his hips to the same fast rhythm that he's jerking Patrick off with. They get in tandem, and Patrick comes embarrassingly soon, pulling Pete's head up to kiss him again and muffling his noises into Pete's mouth.
It's the fourth orgasm he's had today, and at this point coming is just a necessary relief. Patrick's kind of horrified by that.
Pete groans and leans back and Patrick wants to blow him so badly, but. But this is already more than Pete signed on for, and it's going to be awkward enough as it is when the crap in his system wears off--Patrick shouldn't make it any worse. So he just squeezes Pete's dick and strokes him and curls his hand around Pete's neck, fingers in his hair, and Pete closes his eyes when he comes.
They're both incredibly sticky. Patrick really, really hopes that no one needs to use the van before they have a chance to clean it.
Pete slumps down on top of him, resting his head on Patrick's shoulder. "God, Patrick," he murmurs.
Patrick thumps his head back against the seat. "Maybe you can hit me really hard and knock me out," he says.
"I'm not going to hit you, Stump." Pete says the words against Patrick's throat, and Patrick can feel the sound vibrations against his skin. His dick twitches. Motherfuck.
"You'll jerk me off in the name of friendship but you won't punch me? Weak."
Pete pushes himself up on his elbow, glaring. "What the fuck? Patrick, you don't think--" Pete shakes his head and sits up, still straddling Patrick. "Tell me that you know that this--" he gestures at the mess of semen and sweat and unzipped flies between them-- "has nothing to do with us being BFF."
Patrick blinks. "What?"
Pete shakes his head incredulously. "Patrick, I did not let you fuck me because I was trying to be a good friend."
Patrick stiffens. "Pete, don't--please don't turn this into some--thing."
Pete's eyes widen and then narrow, and his jaw clenches, and oh, Patrick knows this look. It's never a good look. "Oh, I get it. We've had sex three times in the last three hours, but heaven fucking forbid I turn this into a thing. We're still completely fucking platonic, right?"
Patrick wishes he hadn't said anything. He wishes he could just erase this entire night, even if that meant never getting to kiss Pete in the first place. He wishes that Pete straddling his lap wasn't making him feel feverish. "This isn't real! This isn't me, I would never actually do this to you, it's just fucking chemicals, okay? This isn't a basis for--anything." Patrick stares, horrified, as his traitorous hand inches its way up Pete's thigh even as he's yelling. He snatches it back.
Pete glances at Patrick groping his thigh, then looks back up to meet Patrick's eyes. "Okay. Then if you don't feel anything for me and I just happened to be the closest warm body when you got drugged, fine. I can respect that, even if I don't really believe it. But--" Pete braces his hands on Patrick's shoulders and leans in quickly so that they're face-to-face, close enough to kiss. "I'm doing this because I've wanted you to fuck me for years now, and I want you to fuck me again after all this is over, and you know me, Patrick: I don't give up easily."
Patrick can barely think with Pete so close, which dammit, is probably what Pete intended. He starts to shake, and Pete's hand moves to carefully cup his cheek. He leans in for a kiss and Patrick jerks back, shoving him off. He does it too hard and Pete hits the steering wheel, and that probably hurt and Patrick is an asshole but all he can think is that he can't, can't touch Pete anymore.
"Can you just take me back to the fucking hotel?!" And Pete's face goes completely blank at that, and he only looks like that when he's actually feeling hurt. Which--fuck, Patrick hates himself for that, because of course Pete's right not to believe him when he says that he doesn't want this, that his feelings for Pete have nothing to do with sex drugs. Patrick doesn't think it's possible for him to exist on this planet and not want Pete. It's something he's just gotten used to wanting and never having, an old comfortable ache under his skin.
But as much as he had wanted Pete, he'd wanted him under his own free fucking will. Not like this, when he can't even control himself, when the whole thing is a disaster.
Pete stares at him, that blank look on his face, then nods and gets back in the driver's seat, does up his pants and buckles himself in. His movements are sharp and jerky, and Patrick can tell that he's so, so pissed off. Patrick opens his mouth to say something, but he can't even think of the right words to say, because Pete is still right there and his shirt is riding up, exposing skin, and Patrick really doesn't want to have to touch Pete again--he doesn't even think Pete would let him again. He swallows and looks out the window, hunches himself up to try and keep as much space as humanly possible between him and Pete.
They drive back in silence. Andy and Joe are up and about when they get back to the hotel, and want to know what the hell happened and why they had to take the van somewhere at three in the morning; Patrick just ducks his head and heads straight for his room, lets Pete field their questions. Either Pete will tell them the truth or he'll make up a good lie, and right now Patrick doesn't really care which.
He shuts the door behind him and heads for the shower, peeling off his clothes. He's sweaty and there's dried come in his pants and maybe hot water and his own hand will make up for not having anyone else to touch him. Because there's no way he's going to let himself get anywhere near Pete again, not like this.
He gets in when the water's cold, hoping that that will calm things down somewhat, but it's mostly just uncomfortableand miserable and does nothing to tamp down the arousal or the dizziness, so he turns the water to hot and wraps a hand around his dick.
There's a soft knock on the bathroom door, and Patrick groans, because of course he knows who it is. Pete defeats the purpose of knocking by coming in before Patrick has a chance to tell him to go away.
He shuts the door behind him, leaning against it and looking at Patrick like it's completely normal for him to be watching Patrick shower. Which, Patrick guesses it's not that weird, compared to the rest of their night. "Are you feeling any better?"
Patrick grits his teeth and forces himself to let go of his cock, bracing his hands against the tile wall. He's not going to jerk off in front of Pete. "Not especially."
Pete's hands are clasped behind his back, like he's making a point of not touching Patrick--which he probably is. God dammit. "Can I get you anything? Is there anything you--need?"
Patrick is fairly certain that that question only sounds lewd because of his current state. "No," he makes himself say, instead of Yes, come in, I want to see you naked and wet on your knees your lips around my cock. He ducks his head under the water, feels hot droplets roll down his neck. He can't look at Pete.
Pete is quiet, like he knows what Patrick is thinking. "I don't want to leave you by yourself. You could get sicker."
"I'll be fine," Patrick manages to get out. The effort of not touching himself is killing him, a little bit. "Just--go. Please?" He tries and fails to make that come out without sounding like an asshole. Although really, who cares--Pete's probably going to be too mad to speak to him after this, anyway.
He hears Pete swear softly from behind him--he still can't look up--and for a second he's terrified that Pete is going to do something wild and impulsive like get into the shower with him, clothes and all, but instead he he hears the door open and close and when he looks up, Pete's gone.
Patrick makes himself fall asleep after his shower through sheer force of will, and when he wakes up the next day he feels hungover and sore but blissfully un-horny. Back to normal. It almost makes him cry, how grateful he is not to have morning wood.
Patrick throws back the covers. "I'm never going to have an orgasm ever again!" he shouts happily at the ceiling.
"Uh, damn, that's depressing," says Joe, who Patrick can now see is sitting in the armchair across the room, reading a magazine. He looks like he's torn between being amused and disturbed.
Patrick just shakes his head and grins. After the previous night, this ranks very low on his embarrassment scale. "What are you doing in here?"
Joe tosses the magazine (it looks like Twist) to the floor. "Pete made us take shifts to watch you sleep."
Patrick stares, then promptly decides not to think about that. "Okay. Well--I'm awake now. Are you supposed to watch me when I'm awake, too?"
Joe looks thoughtful. "Well, he didn't say. But I really don't feel like watching you get dressed, so I'm just going to, you know. Leave."
Patrick doesn't have much time to wallow in his newfound celibacy--as soon as he gets showered and dressed, it's time to check out of the hotel and pile into the tour bus. On to Arizona. More hot and dry, more sleep deprivation. Now with the added bonus of painful guilt and awkwardness any time he so much looks at Pete.
Patrick waits until they're on the highway and everyone's settled down, Joe and Andy watching Mean Girls on TBS and Pete in his bunk, before he goes to make his apology.
He knocks on the wall beside Pete's bunk before hesitantly pushing the curtain open. "Um. Hi."
Pete raises an eyebrow, his expression not giving anything away; Patrick feels his stomach lurch uncomfortably. "Hi yourself."
"Can I come in?" It sounds stupid to say that considering that it's, well, a bed, but Pete knows what Patrick means. He doesn't move for a moment, but then he nods and sits up, making room for Patrick on the mattress.
Patrick sits down and hugs his knees. "So. You know I can be kind of an asshole when I get upset."
Pete rolls his eyes. "Yeah, of course I do. Is that what this is about? The things you said while under the influence?"
Patrick frowns, taken slightly aback. "Um, yeah. I just wanted to apologize--"
"Fucking save it."
Patrick shuts his mouth.
Pete shakes his head angrily, moving so that he's up on his knees. "I don't give two shits about what you said when you were drugged, okay? All I want to know is whether that whole thing, you and me, whether that was genuine on your part or if you've always thought of me completely platonically and that was just an aberration. And if that's not what you want to talk about, then I'd prefer you just leave me the fuck alone right now."
Patrick stiffens. "I--I don't--"
"Patrick, just answer the fucking question," and Pete's dead serious, his voice anxious and his hand heavy on Patrick's knee.
"It was genuine," Patrick says without thinking. Lying to Pete right now, like this, that's not even a possibility.
"Oh, thank fuck," Pete says, and leans in to kiss Patrick hard, tongue snaking into Patrick's mouth when Patrick opens his mouth to protest.
"Mmph--christ, Pete," Patrick pants, pushing him back. "Did you strain something, jumping to all those conclusions?"
"For fuck's sake," Pete groans, but he sits back. "What now?"
Patrick scoots backwards until he's pressed against the wall. "I can't do this. Us," he says, and he can hear the desperate whine in his voice. "Yesterday was--that wasn't me, I never would have. I'm not like this."
Pete shakes his head, incredulous. "You think too much, Stump. Of course I know that you're not actually a sex fiend who needs dick 24/7. I like you better that way, actually."
Patrick feels something catch in his throat. "You're my best friend. I can't fuck that up more than I already have, and anything--different, or more, would just never work. Can we please just forget about yesterday?"
"Like hell I'm going to forget about your dick in my ass." Patrick feels himself turn red. "Or you blowing me, for that matter."
"You don't get it." Patrick wishes that Pete weren't so close--wishes that Pete understood the concept of personal space. "I never wanted it to happen like that! I mean, I never wanted it to happen at all because it would fuck up the band, but." Patrick stares at his knees. "I couldn't control myself, Pete. At all. I was lucky that you were there, because yesterday I would have fucked anyone within a three-foot radius of me."
"Okay, so then I will forget about yesterday and we can just start over," Pete says quickly. "Anything, Patrick, you just gotta work with me here."
"I don't want to work with you," Patrick says, and winces because that came out a lot harsher than he intended. It makes Pete lean back, that blank look on his face again. "We're friends, okay? And this is pretty much the best friendshipI've had in my whole fucking life, and--"
"--and you're just pussying out on anything else because of that?" Pete interrupts, angry.
"Yes! Yes, I'm pussying out, I'm terrified, okay?" That came out almost a yell, and oh god, there's no way Andy and Joe can not hear them. Patrick's going to die of mortification. "I'm not like you, I can't just jump into any situation willfully ignorant of all the ways it could go wrong. And trust me, any kind of relationship between me and you will go wrong, and it will fuck up everything when it does."
Patrick had expected that to make Pete start yelling, or storm off, or do something else dramatic and Pete-like, but he just opens his mouth and then shuts it, blinking. "Huh. You really are scared, aren't you?"
"Congratulations, you can comprehend the english language!" Patrick's aware that he's edging on the hysterical.
Pete shakes his head. "No, it's not--you're not scared of dating me, you're scared of what happened yesterday. Like, big time."
Patrick wishes the bus would stop. He wants to get off. He'll hitch-hike back home if he has to. "I can't be scared of both?"
But Pete's on a roll. "Your body was completely out of your control. You're so reserved all the time, right? You're the Shy One and I'm the Loud One and that's just how it works, but yesterday you couldn't hold anything back and you were totally dependent on me--"
"Stop trying to be my fucking therapist."
"You couldn't hide anything. I've seen way more of you than you ever wanted me to see, god, you must have felt so fucking helpless."
Patrick twists away from Pete and jerks open the curtain, moves to get the hell out but Pete grabs his shoulder, pulling him back onto the bed. And Patrick's elbow whips up behind him on instinct, clocking Pete in the nose, and Pete yells and shoves him and then they're both falling back on to the bed, grappling as best they can in the limited space. Patrick isn't the best fighter but he's fucking pissed, and--
"Um." Andy. When Patrick looks up, he and Joe are standing a few feet away, looking perturbed. "Please don't try to choke each other again?"
Patrick blinks, and realizes that he's on top of Pete, with his forearm pressed against Pete's throat; Pete's hand is clutching Patrick's shoulder. Patrick lets go, sheepish, and Pete starts coughing. Hacking really, and it's not like Patrick was applying that much pressure. Drama queen.
Patrick stands up, avoiding everyone's eyes. Pete stays sitting on the bed and doesn't look at him. Joe shifts his weight awkwardly from foot to foot.
"So--uh," Joe says. "Is this about last night?"
"Yeah," Patrick says. And, shit, he still has no idea what Pete told them.
"Okay." Joe says, and looks like he wants to say something else but can't quite figure out what. Andy keeps looking from Patrick to Pete back to Patrick like he's wondering if he'll have to come in and break them up.
"It's just stress," Pete says, sounding tired. "Both of us are still pissed about the asshole drugging Patrick last night, and--" he scrubs a hand through his hair. "...yeah."
It's a deeply lame excuse that doesn't explain anything, and Joe and Andy both get that. They stare at Pete, waiting for something else, but Pete stays silent, staring at the floor.
"Um, all right, whatever," Joe says. "Just, you know. Kiss and make up before we have to perform, I guess." And wow is that ever not funny.
Joe and Andy go back to Mean Girls. Patrick focuses on looking anywhere but Pete.
"I think your control issues are what's fucking you up here, not anything to do with a relationship with me," Pete says. Well, at least he waited until Joe and Andy were out of earshot to start psychoanalyzing Patrick again.
Patrick grits his teeth. "Does it matter? I'm not dating you. It would be disastrous."
"Fuck you." Patrick looks down at that, surprised; Pete is glaring up at him. He stands. "I've been your best friend for five years, you've taken every risk on me there is to take, the same way I have on you. I know you inside and out, and, especially after last night, there's nothing about you that I haven't seen." Pete has Patrick backed up against the wall by now, and Patrick is just pathetically grateful that Joe and Andy appear to be willfully ignoring them. "Christ, Patrick, I've let you see the ugly insides of my twisted little psyche more times than I can count."
Patrick tries to look away, but Pete touches his cheek, makes him meet his eyes. "It's incredibly insulting that you, the one person who knows me better than anyone else on the planet, isn't willing to even give me a chance."
Patrick's throat goes dry. "Oh, god, Pete it's not that, it's--" he will not say 'it's not you, it's me,' no matter how true that is. He buries his face against Pete's neck, instead.
Pete sighs against him, body relaxing. "Don't make me serenade you with 'Take A Chance On Me,' okay? I'm not the singer here."
Patrick doesn't know why he's clinging to Pete instead of running like hell in the opposite direction, or why he's laughing instead of freaking out. But his arms are around Pete and Pete is sort of petting Patrick's hair, and. "You're such a passive-agressive, melodramatic bastard," he mutters against Pete's shoulder.
"Yeah, but you're used to it," Pete says, which is pretty much the truth. Patrick doesn't resist when Pete pulls back to kiss him, chastely on the cheek. "This is going to be awesome. You'll see."
"That's what you said about 'Bedussey,'" Patrick says, and now it's Pete's turn to laugh. And Patrick isn't drugged anymore, but he still can't stop himself from leaning forward and capturing Pete's laughter in his mouth, catching it between them. It raises and snaps off as Pete responds automatically, kissing back, and then it's gone too quickly when he pulls back, lips parted.
"Yeah?" Pete says. It doesn't come out entirely as a question, but Patrick nods, and Pete grins wide and repeats "Yeah," for both of them before Patrick leans in again, kissing him open-mouthed with his eyes wide open.