giddygeek | (hold me, i'm a) Fermata, Pete/Patrick

Title: (hold me, i'm a) Fermata
Author:

giddygeek
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Notes: 2000 words for

bayleaf, who wanted side projects, and phone calls home. She got a sort of officially unofficial sequel to Chord Change, although you can read this without having read that. :)

Patrick bustles into the studio with Penny dancing at his heels and his phone pressed to his ear. His keys dangle from his other hand; they jingle as he waves his hand around, and Penny is barking. Somehow it's all a little more chaotic than Roger would normally expect from Patrick.

Patrick laughs into his phone, says, "Yeah, you too. No, the part where you're a douche. Well, all right, okay, totally that too. Talk to you later, man," and snaps the phone closed. He shoves it in a pocket of his too-big hoodie, the one with bats and hearts flying across the shoulder, and finally looks up.

He almost seems surprised to see the guys from Haven lounging around his studio and the lounge, like he'd forgotten they were going to be there, although they'd been there every day for almost a month. "Oh, hey guys." He waves again, drops down into a chair, and catches Penny without needing to look at her when she jumps up into his lap. "How's it going?"

"Awesome," Roger says, leaning forward to scratch the dog behind her tiny ears. "What's up with you? Was that the wifey?"

Patrick flushes a little. "Yeah, you know how it is," he says. He tugs at his hair where it waves out from under his hat, long like it hasn't been cut in months. He's grinning. "Gotta check in or like, you're obviously getting head and coke from a hooker out there on Main Street."

Jamie, standing with his legs and arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe, looks over his shoulder at the wide window in the lounge. Main Street stretches out in front of them, bustling, middle-class, totally suburban Illinois. "What hooker? That lady with the poodles?" he asks, turning back to look at Patrick with raised eyebrows.

Patrick shrugs. "Yeah, what can I say?" He grins down at Penny, who rolls over on her back across his thighs, her little tongue hanging out as Roger ruffles the fur on her belly. "Pete's got an...active imagination."

"Too much Desperate Housewives," Tyrone says, smirking.

Patrick doesn't deny it; laughs and says, "Entire seasons in a week, you have no idea, but anyway, you get anything more done after you left?" and they settle down to work.

~

"And I want...pickles," Pete says. He's flat on his back in the grass, legs braced up on the deck, Hemmy tucked under his thighs. His toenails have achieved the perfect ratio of chips to black polish, he notes approvingly, and wishes for the millionth time that his dog would sit still long enough that they could match. Hemmy runs when he sees the little glass bottles coming out; too smart for his own good. "Hey, do we have that, uh, fuck. That stuff I like."

"No," Patrick says. "I think we're out. You want some more?"

"Jesus, dumb questions much?" Pete grins up at the sky, wiggles his toes. It feels good to be out in the sun, much as he'd prefer to be back home with Patrick.

Who is saying, "Fuck you," amiably, then, "Oh, damn it, Pete, you made me swear in front of Jeff Rice's Nana!"

"Dude," Pete says, freaked out all over again by just how many people Patrick knows in Glenview; how he knows them. "Fuck Jeff Rice's Nana--well, not literally--whatever, pervert. I'm just saying, say whatever you want. You're Patrick Stump."

"Patrick Stump at the supermarket," Patrick says. "Whatever, Nutella, got it. You want anything else?"

"Just your sweet, sweet ass," Pete says, grinning. Then he takes a second to ponder that while Patrick laughs, and he rubs his fingertips over his abs, over his tattoo.

He thinks about jerking off to Patrick's voice right there in Travie's yard while everyone else is just inside, feet away, smoking up and getting distracted--fuckers. Pete loves his friends, loves being out in LA, loves this part of his job; he just can't wait to go home.

But Patrick's at the checkout. Pete can hear the scanners beeping and that reminds him, he says, "Oh, and bacon. Bacon. Don't forget the bacon!"

"Dude, chill," Patrick says. "You honestly think I'd forget bacon? You're coming home like, two days from now. I'm not dumb enough to forget the bacon."

"You are, kind of, but I love you anyway," Pete says, and it's too true, he does. He loves Patrick, and even Patrick's crabby, huffy voice makes him want to roll over, bare his belly, shout to the whole world, "You're an asshole but you're awesome, Patrick Stump."

And hey, he's already mostly there, so he does it--just yells the words as loud as he can.

Patrick cracks up laughing in his ear. Up in the house, someone opens a window, tosses a can of beer out without leaning over to look, and still manages to hit Pete in the gut with astonishing accuracy. He feels like an alley cat, abused for expressing his true, horny love, but whatever. At least there's beer.

Beer, and Patrick saying, "Get back to work," barely audible over the sound of everyone in the house laughing raucously; they're totally wasted in there, shit. Travie pops his head out a window and waves, and Pete blows him a kiss.

He tells Patrick, "Dude, they just need my help with this one--this one more. It's pretty sweet already, not gonna lie, but--"

"But everything is sweeter with your help, I know," Patrick says. "No, thank you, Cindy--I've got--great, thank you. Hey, Pete--grocery bags. I've gotta go. I'll talk to you later, all right?"

"Okay," Pete says. "Hey, be good, baby. Have fun with Haven."

"I will," Patrick says, and he hates it when Pete calls him baby, but Pete can get away with murder when they've been apart for a while; Patrick's voice is still warm and sweet in his ear. "Later, dude."

"Later," Pete murmurs, feeling like he could just melt into the grass; fuck, that voice, that Patrick, irresistible.

He hangs up the phone after Patrick's gone, then lies still for a moment, smiling, before scrambling up out of the grass. He startles Hemmy awake and the dog follows him a little stiffly--arthritis, Pete tries not to think about it--and they head back inside to work. Back to Travie's studio, so they can finish this song, so they can finish this record, so they can go back home.

~

Patrick's pretty much useless all morning. He shifts restlessly, paces, rewinds a lot to listen for stuff he just noted. He doesn't even laugh a little when Roger rolls around on the floor, playing like Penny's killing him by licking his chin and nibbling on his ears.

Then his phone rings.

Everyone looks up, surprised; Patrick has a pretty strict policy about cell phones and the studio.

Patrick doesn't look at anyone as he answers, just jumps up and says, "Oh, hey--you landed? Great, so we'll--okay. Uh-huh. Yeah." He laughs a little, low, surprisingly dirty. "Well, I am working," he says, even though he blatantly has not been, not at any point in the day. "But I suppose I could do that, yeah."

Tyrone is making kissy-faces at Roger when Patrick turns around, catches them at it, rolls his eyes. He's grinning. "Pete says you guys need to get the hell our of his house," Patrick says. "He'll be home--" he pauses, laughs, flushes. "He'll be home and naked at like, the same time, so you've got twenty minutes--"

"We're gone now," Jamie says, pulling Roger off the floor, much to Penny's disappointment. "Oh my God, we are so totally gone, tell him thanks for the warning."

Patrick is laughing as Jamie hustles the rest of their band out the door. "They're fleeing," he says to Pete. "Fleeing like rats when the ship is sinking. Sinking and on fire."

"More like the ship just got hit by a huge, phallic asteroid," Tyrone says, letting himself be pushed out the door, still making kissy-faces, now right at Patrick. "Tell the wifey we luff him, tell him--"

"You heard? Yeah, he heard. Well, yeah, me too," Patrick says, obviously talking to Pete again, head ducked, waving as Roger smiles and closes the studio door behind them.

They all tumble outside and down the drive to their van, but Roger is--jealous, maybe? He doesn't know, he doesn't know why, but. He kind of can't deny it to himself, either.

And he sure as fuck can't hide it from Tyrone, who says, "Aww, some day you'll have a wifey too," as they settle into the middle seat. Jamie fires up the engine, and Tyrone presses against Roger's side, kisses his cheek. "The right one will come along and sweep you off your feet just like Pete and Patrick. Never fear, my dear."

"I don't," Roger says, meeting Jamie's gaze in the rearview mirror. "I know."

~

Pete wasn't going to call again, really, he wasn't. But when he turns onto their street, he can't help but reach for his phone again. They've spent plenty of time apart; weeks, months even. But it only gets tougher as time goes by--fuck, he's ready to give up everything, almost, if it means more time in their house, with their dogs, their studio, their bed.

"Five minutes," he says when Patrick answers, although he'll actually be there in two. "You waiting for me?"

"Maybe," Patrick says, husky, teasing. "Maybe not."

Pete laughs. "You totally are," he murmurs. "You're--are you in bed? I bet you are. I bet you're in bed naked, and you're playing with yourself." He knows that tone. Patrick hums, and Pete can hear the rustle of sheets, a slick sound; Patrick is totally waiting for him, fuck.

Pete finally gets to their house, parks crooked in their driveway, slams the car door, darts towards the stairs. Then he remembers Hemmy, goes back, snatches the dog out of the backseat and carries him up to the porch. All this while Patrick is saying, warm and soft, "Maybe I'm just finishing up without you--" and Pete slams their front door closed.

It echoes on the phone line.

Patrick goes quiet for a long moment, then he's laughing sharply, cracking up. "You jerk, you said five minutes."

Pete can't fucking believe the smile he's got on his face; it hurts to smile that hard. But he keeps doing it as he says, "Yeah, I'm a dirty, filthy liar. And I'm not sorry about it, either." He holds the phone against his ear with his shoulder, plops Hemmy down on the other side of the baby gate in the kitchen; Patrick hates having the dogs in the room when they fuck. Pete doesn't give a damn, but sometimes it fucking sucks to have Patrick get out of bed halfway through, put on his pants, bring the dogs downstairs, and come back cranky. Other times it's actually hilarious. Whatever, Pete doesn't want to screw around with distractions, not after being gone so long.

Penny darts around and climbs over Hemmy's back, barking while Hem looks up at Pete, all long-suffering, pleading doggy eyes. "Sorry, puppy," Pete whispers. "Daddy time, you know how it is." He scratches Hemmy's ears and then Penny's before turning to run for the stairs, stripping and tripping as he goes.

"You're gonna break your neck," Patrick says, still cracking up on the phone, an echo from just feet away.

Pete says, "Yeah, well, so long as my dick still works--" then he rounds the corner and skids to a stop in their room, where Patrick is waiting.

Where Patrick is waiting naked, sheets pooled around his thighs.

Pete tosses his phone into the laundry basket, leaps up on the bed, tosses Patrick's phone who the fuck knows where, and leans down to kiss him hard and deep.

"Welcome home," Patrick murmurs when they break apart for a second, his hands warm on Pete's ass, his solid chest and soft belly perfect against Pete's.

Pete smiles, licks Patrick's cheek, and says, "It's good to be here, dude." Then he rolls them over, and gets to work proving exactly how good it is.

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From:

bayleaf.livejournal.com

YOU ARE MY FAVORITE! ILU AND YOUR STUPID FACE! *beam*

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(hold me, i'm a) Fermata, Pete/Patrick

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