New: Carry the Two, Pete/Patrick
Apr. 27th, 2008 09:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
giddygeekTitle: Carry the Two (Gas Math for Dummies)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
giddygeek
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Notes: 3800 words. Rated R. Fortrixiesfic. A couple weeks ago, she requested a story with Pete/Patrick, 4:25am, and a broken-down van. Hey, here you go, something not totally unlike what you asked for! *grins* And thanks to misspamela and bayleaf for looking it over!
There was a piece of newspaper stuck under a vent on the dash with the number 147338 written on it in huge, red letters. When the odometer ticked quietly past 147330, Patrick started to worry a little--it was 4 A.M. and most of the exits he'd passed had led into dark, quiet-looking rural areas. He didn't want to pull off for gas somewhere it might take an hour to find a place that was open, but if he didn't see a sign for gas in the next couple miles, he was going to have to risk it.
147335, and yes, finally, signs for a service area. It was too many miles away--five, and if Pete had done the math right, he only had three miles of gas left in the tank. It was okay so long as Pete had padded the number by ten miles for safety the way he was supposed to do, but. Well, normally, gas mileage was Andy's job.
"Because I actually took math classes in college, Poli-Sci," he'd said to Pete as he scribbled away at the usage formula that had actually worked out pretty well ever since unexpectedly running out of gas in Austin had taught them that the gauge was broken.
Pete had been the last one to fill the tank though; he'd sulked against the side of the van in the rain, hoodie pulled down low over his face, while Patrick slumped behind the wheel and the guys snored noisily in the back.
"You know, you could drive," Patrick had said when Pete clambered into the van, bags of chips and some cupcakes in hand--no coffee. Patrick had specifically sent him for coffee; Patrick had given Pete the fucking last of his cash and Pete had come back with cupcakes--
Oh. And coffee. Patrick had taken the cup when Pete raised an eyebrow at him, rage instantly defusing, leaving him feeling guilty again on top of tired.
"I'm not driving another fucking mile until we're in Illinois," Pete said, withdrawing into his hood like a turtle into its shell, settling against the passenger side door.
"So you're just going to boycott for a week?" Patrick asked. "Nice. You know, if you're going to be such a--"
"Eat your cupcake and watch your mouth," Pete said, closing his eyes and tipping his head against the window. "Don't make me call your mom, dude. You know I will. I'll wake her up and tell her you're cursing and you've still got yesterday's hangover, and you punched me in the face earlier, and now you want me to drive even though it's your turn and I brought you cupcakes. You really want that?"
"Fucking douche," Patrick said, but quietly, because Pete would do it, and his mom would either take Pete's side or yank Patrick back to Chicago so fast his head spun. So he opened some cupcakes and shut his mouth, and Pete sat up long enough to do the gas math before slumping against the window, and they hit the road again. Hours and miles passed, silent, except the occasional crinkle of cellophane, and somebody, probably Andy, farting in their sleep in the back.
147338. Patrick tensed. Two more miles to the service area--two more miles--he'd never punch Pete again in his life if only they got two more miles.
147339.
Relieved, Patrick looked sideways at Pete, who was looking back at him, eyes glittering in the darkness. Patrick smiled, ready to make peace, and--
And the wheel shuddered in his hands, locked up, and even as he tapped the brakes, he knew--
"Oops," Pete said, cold and sulky.
"You are fucking dead," Patrick said, aiming the van for the emergency lane; no traffic, which was good, and Pete was fucking dead.
The rest of the guys woke up as the van jostled to the right. They grumbled and Andy poked his head between the front seats just as Patrick finally got the van over to the side. He took in the situation pretty quick and groaned, flopping backwards into the pile of sleepy dudes, prompting more angry noises and Joe's weak, "Oww, my balls, oww."
"Guess you're walking, Patrick," Andy said, ignoring everyone and getting comfortable again. "Should've been paying attention, huh?"
"Me? What about him?" Patrick flailed, caught Pete in the arm with his fist mostly by accident. "It's his fucking fault, he didn't pad the numbers!"
"Then he goes with you," Andy said. "Matt, c'mere,"and there was more rustling around, Joe's quiet, "Oww, my eyes, oww, oww," and Patrick jumped out of the van, slammed the door, and started the goddamned 4 A.M. death march in the middle of nowhere to a service station that was probably manned by cannibals. He'd get killed and eaten in the men's room when he tried to hide, and his last fucking words would be, "Eat my fucking friends, they're like sardines in a can a mile back."
He was pissed off enough to not hear the passenger door slam or the crunch of Pete's sneakers on the wet gravel as he jogged to catch up, and Pete didn't say anything, just tapped Patrick on the shoulder.
"What the fuck, do you want another punch to the face?" Patrick asked, whirling around in surprise, and Pete laughed a little meanly.
"Your mom'll be too sad to be any good in bed if you get murdered in the woods," he said. "Fucking chill, Patrick, okay? I'm just--I'm coming with you."
"Fine," Patrick said. He stomped off down the road, aware of Pete following a step behind him, trailing him like a fucking puppy, and probably looking all sad and hurt like he'd done all day, but it wasn't like Patrick was just an asshole. It wasn't like he'd liked hitting his best friend, but what else was a guy going to do when--
"Why'd you do it, Pete?" he asked, not looking behind him, not sure he wanted to see Pete's face; not if Pete wasn't looking sad, not if he was laughing at Patrick.
"I totally just forgot to carry the two," Pete said, and he was laughing, he was--
Patrick went supernova, turned and shoved in what felt like the same instant, but then it took Pete a really long time to fall, to topple right the fuck over the guard rail between them and a steep embankment, his eyes wide and shocked on Patrick's as he disappeared. The clatter of rocks and Pete yelling seemed to last forever, and then--silence.
Patrick scrambled down the hill in a panic, mind flashing through possibilities. Pete with his brains dashed out on a rock, his neck twisted all wrong, a giant piece of trashed metal sticking out through his rib cage, fuck, fuck.
The hill was muddy with the rain that had poured down earlier and Patrick sort of mostly bounced down on his ass, trying to control his descent but just barely managing to stay upright and okay, okay, there was Pete. His head looked fine, everything looked fine, internal bleeding wasn't likely from a little roll down a hill, right?
The last of the hill crumbled under Patrick as he slid down it. He went sprawling half across Pete, both of them gasping breathlessly as he landed.
It only took a second for Patrick to gather himself, and then he tried to push up off Pete's chest, but the mud sent him sprawling back down. Even as he was babbling desperate apologies and struggling to get a steady handhold, Pete said, "Stop! Just--fucking--stop moving, Patrick. Just for a second, could you--" and Patrick froze.
"Oh shit, did I make it worse?" he asked, managing to get up on an elbow, pushing his hat back to search Pete's face. "Are you okay? Is anything broken?"
Pete pushed his hood down and rolled his eyes. "Shut up and let me figure that out, okay?" and Patrick held very still, miserable with guilt, muddy, feeling his own palms burn and throb, and Pete took his sweet time before he finally said, "Nothing broken. I think I'm okay."
Patrick dropped his head down and Pete said, "Oww, now you broke my collarbone, asshole," but he clearly didn't mean it. He put his hand on the back of Patrick's neck, tangling his fingers in Patrick's hair.
They stayed still in the mud for a long, quiet moment, then Patrick sniffed. He shifted and carefully pushed himself up to his hands and knees. When he seemed steady, he climbed to his feet and sank deep in the mud. The little gully they'd landed in--shit, so close to the woods, Patrick thought, eyeing the dark expanse of trees nervously, it was the forest from every fucking horror movie ever--it was a mess. An inch of still water soaked a mound of dead leaves; mud, pebbles, bad footing. Bad smelling. He wrinkled his nose and then held a hand out for Pete.
"Are you going to punch me again?" Pete asked, looking at him. "Throw me off another cliff?"
"No," Patrick said. "It's the wild dogs next time."
"Okay, good, I like dogs," Pete said, then he took Patrick's hand and pulled himself up. He slung an arm over Patrick's shoulder, tucked him close against his side even though Patrick stood stiffly and didn't lean into him, and he looked up the hill they'd come down.
"Well," he said after a while. "At least we can't really get muddier, right?" Then he let go of Patrick and flung himself at the hill like a monkey at a tree, climbing to the top in a few mud-flung seconds.
Patrick watched him, wide-eyed, then followed slow and careful, slipping and sliding messily along the way. When he got to the top of the hill, Pete was trying to wring out the sleeves of his hoodie, slapping at them to get some of the stinking mud off. Patrick hopped over the guard rail and skidded, muddy sneakers on wet grass, and Pete steadied him, hand gripping his shoulder hard, eyes intent on his. It wasn't like he was just helping Patrick keep from going back down the hill, and Patrick had to look away, flushed.
"Thanks," he said, and he knew he was so red that he was probably glowing in the dark; what was going on with Pete? He swiped his cheeks with his smelly sleeves, like that was going to help anything, and then shook himself like a dog. Pete took a step back and dragged his hoodie off over his head and tied it around his shoulders like some preppy kid from a John Hughes movie.
"C'mon," Pete said, limping a little up the highway. He was at least 95% putting it on to make Patrick feel bad--he'd seen Pete climb back up the hill--but Patrick winced anyway. He hurried to catch up and let Pete drape an arm over his shoulder, lean some weight on him while they walked through the dark in the middle of fucking nowhere.
There weren't any lights. Patrick had been too mad to think of it, but Pete should've been smart enough to grab a flashlight before getting out of the van; fuck that, Pete had forgotten to carry the two in gas math. No lights, and they hadn't even been passed by a single car yet, but now the quiet was full of sounds; their wet jeans scraping against each other at the hip sometimes, their squelching shoes, Pete snickering every time Patrick's sneakers made a particularly gross noise.
Patrick was committed to a life free of violence against Pete Wentz from there on out, but the snickering--he was just glad to round a curve in the road and see the off ramp for the service station, was all.
"Bathroom," Pete said when they hit the manicured lawn at the end of the lot. "C'mon, I'll race you," and he took off across the pavement, ducking behind trash cans and light poles like a ninja practicing how not to be stealthy. Patrick rolled his eyes but followed Pete into the bright, warm bathroom.
Gas station laundromat was not a new experience. Pete had his hoodie in a basin at the sink, covered in soap, before Patrick even shut the door behind him. While it was soaking, he stripped off his shoes, socks and jeans, dumped all of that into another basin. Pete had never had any problem hanging out in the men's restroom at a service station in nothing but his underwear, but the addition of three days worth of eyeliner wet and smudged around his eyes and bright yellow girl's t-shirt made the gray boxer-briefs seem--different.
Patrick felt awkward. He stripped off his own stinking hoodie and dumped it in warm, soapy water, but left the rest of his clothes on. He filled another basin with warm water and started doing his best to scrape mud and wet, sticky leaves off himself.
Pete finished his own sponge bath and hopped up on the counter, close to the dryer. He held his soaking wet jeans up underneath it and hit the button.
Patrick stared at him. "They're never gonna dry like that, Pete," he yelled over the noise.
"What?" Pete yelled back, tapping his ear.
"I said, they're never going to dry like that, idiot," and of course the dryer powered off right at the last word; of course it did, and Pete's twinkling eyes and booming laugh were almost more than Patrick could handle.
No more Wentz-related violence, no more Wentz-related violence--well, maybe a little more, Patrick thought as Pete leaned over to helpfully pick through his hair, studying each chunk he sifted like he was looking for microscopic leaves--no, no more Wentz-related violence.
The dryer shut off again just in time to prevent Patrick from doing something Wentz-related and violent. Pete leaned back, felt his wet jeans, shrugged, then went to work on his socks.
"I'm not putting those back on," he yelled over the dryer, nodding at his jeans. "So unless you want me testing the limits of no shirt, no shoes, no service in these parts, you'd better get the gas."
For a moment, looking at his cleaner but still tired, wired, red face in the mirror, Patrick was tempted. But Pete, in his clinging, wet underwear and t-shirt; well, no. He probably wouldn't last too long in a jail cell, so Patrick sucked it up and said, "Meet me out front in ten," and headed for the pumps.
He filled a plastic gas can with as much as it could hold under the watchful, paranoid eyes of the middle-aged lady manning the station. It was probably just enough gas to get their hog of a van to the service area for a fill-up, which was depressing but whatever. He nodded at the lady, who glared back at him, and then he went to meet Pete at the end of the ramp.
Pete, who was loitering like a parody of a truck stop hooker, hoodie tied around his waist, athletic socks pulled up to his knees, the tongues of his sneakers bulging up out of his laces, his yellow t-shirt gleaming in the not-quite-as-dark. He was smiling, hand on a cocked hip, as Patrick approached.
"Think we'll make it back before the guys decide on cannibalism?" he asked, and Patrick was grateful to be thinking guilty thoughts about wishing cannibals on his friends twice in a night instead of thinking stupid thoughts about Pete's thighs, so he said, "Yeah, no, Andy's totally a goner already."
Pete nodded, considering. "Yeah, good point. You'd have to eat the vegan first, wouldn't you?" and he slung his arm back over Patrick's shoulder and walked beside him, saying, "This is why I keep you around even though you're a bitch, Patrick. Good head on your shoulders. You'll make excellent eating when the time comes."
They spent the rest of the walk back to the van arguing about who'd be the last guy standing at cannibal time, like they were just Patrick and his friend again. Patrick and his boxer-briefs and thin t-shirt wearing friend, with strong arms and muscled legs, eyeliner, a filthy mouth, dark eyes, dark tattoos. Patrick and his best friend.
What the fuck.
The van was where they'd left it, parked crooked on the shoulder. It was quiet, still, which either meant that everyone was sleeping again or the flesh-eating was over; Pete opened the driver's side door and whipped his wet jeans at the back, yelled, "Hurray, motherfuckers, your heroes have returned." Then he slammed the door again before any of their groaning and pissed-off friends got coordinated enough to find something to throw back at him.
Patrick rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help grinning a little as he unscrewed the gas cap and started carefully filling the tank. Pete followed him and leaned against the side of the van, just in Patrick's line of sight, his hips tilted forward and his foot braced against the side of the van so that Patrick got the awesome triple whammy of thigh muscles, dick, and wet cotton. He ignored Pete as best as he could and focused on pouring the gas, slow and careful, trying not to waste a drop.
Pete was quiet for a second, then said, "You know why I did it, Patrick?"
"To piss me off for punching you?
"No, no, no. Do you know why I did the thing that led to the punching?"
Patrick felt his face go glow-in-the-dark red again. "Because you're an asshole? Oh wait, that's why you do everything you do. So, because you're a fucking jerk?"
"Because I really like you," Pete said, and his quiet, almost shy tone made Patrick jerk his head up, shocked.
Pete had his head tipped back against the side of the van, and he was smiling a little, looking at Patrick out of the corner of his eye. He shrugged. "That's all. Because I wanted to kiss you, I guess. Because I kind of throught you wanted me to kiss you. You're spilling the gas."
"Shit!" Patrick yelled, and he dropped the gas can on the ground; there wasn't enough left in it to spill anymore. He took a step towards Pete, hands fisted. "Are you fucking kidding?"
"I can be if it means I won't get punched again," Pete said as Patrick got right in his space and uncurled one hand to poke him in the center of his chest.
"You like me, so you couldn't have, like, waited ten more minutes, until I was actually awake, and kissed me instead of shoving your gross morning breath tongue down my throat?" Patrick poked him again, harder; no more Wentz-related violence, yeah right.
"It was a good kiss!" Pete said, grinning a little. Patrick made an inarticulate noise in the back of his throat, took a step closer, planted his hands on Pete's face, and kissed him, crowding close.
Pete promptly shoved his cold hands down the back of Patrick's jeans and pulled him closer, opened his mouth, tilted his hips, and turned Patrick's frustrated, crabby, why did you let us torture each other all damn day kiss into something wet and pornographic in about .3 seconds flat. Patrick moaned into his mouth, leaned his weight against Pete's hips until Pete moaned back at him, rubbing up against him and fuck--Patrick had to move his hands.
He slid them down, getting them on the clean, slick, cool skin of Pete's sides, bumping down his ribs to the waistband of his shorts, dipping his fingers inside and wrapping his palm around Pete's dick, which was hard and straining and wet, hot like it hadn't been trapped behind cold, damp cotton for too long.
Pete's head dropped back and he gasped, licked his lips. His hips were jerking in the tight space between Patrick's hips and the side of the van. "C'mon," he said, rasping and deep, like his scream in Patrick's ear onstage, like how he read his words to Patrick sometimes in the middle of the night, like he'd said, "Good morning," before he'd kissed Patrick, all tongue and heat when Patrick was still half-asleep.
Pete laughed and pulled Patrick closer, his fingers digging into Patrick's hips. "Hey, is that all you got?" he asked, and he bit Patrick's mouth when Patrick kissed him again. They were on the side of the damned road, they had four people sleeping in the back of the van not even three inches away, and Patrick twisted his wrist because no, that wasn't all he had; he would show Pete fucking Wentz what he had. Pete slammed his head against the van when he came, spurting all over Patrick's hand and wrist, groaning loud like he thought they had privacy or he just didn't fucking care who heard.
Everyone heard. Patrick leaned against Pete, panting, feeling wet heat on his hand, which was still trapped in Pete's shorts. The back door of the van slammed open and Andy's head poked out, then immediately disappeared again. He was yelling something incoherent at the rest of the guys and Joe whined, "I need a boyfriend," sadly. "Dirty, will you--"
"No, and get your fucking hand off my ass, Trohman," Dirty yelled, and there was silence for a moment. Patrick was breathless like he'd the one who'd come all over the place and he tried to pant quietly, but Pete was kissing him, little kisses, slow, stealing his breath again. Then Joe said, "Yeah, no, actually that's not my hand," and the van started rocking and people started yelling, and Pete smiled at him, holding him close, rubbing hard little circles on Patrick's ass.
"That was more like what I expected to get this morning," he said, dreamy.
"Yeah, well." Patrick was so hard it hurt, trapped in his wet jeans, but he made himself take a step back. He wiped his hand on Pete's shirt. "Try anything like that before noon again, and you'll get the same reaction," he said, then took another step back, adjusted himself in his jeans; unlike Pete, he didn't think he could get off on the side of the road at fucking dawn in hillbilly country, what the hell had he--they--been thinking. He shuffled towards the driver's side, wincing every step. "Come on, I want to get to the motel. Maybe they'll let us use the pool even if we can't check in yet--"
Pete brushed past him, the keys he must've stolen right out of Patrick's pocket jangling in his hand. He pushed Patrick towards the passenger side. "Go sleep," he said. "Until, like, 12:01 tomorrow. And then I need you to be up, because I have something to do that you're really going to like, okay?"
Patrick raised an eyebrow at him, and Pete smiled, eyes gone dark in the pale dawn light. "Go on, get in, put on your PJs, have a cupcake. Get some sleep." He touched Patrick's mouth, his hand, fingers brushing over the knuckles that were still raw from punching him, and he leaned forward for a kiss, slow and sweet, and said, "I'll drive."
Author:
giddygeekPairing: Pete/Patrick
Notes: 3800 words. Rated R. For
trixiesfic. A couple weeks ago, she requested a story with Pete/Patrick, 4:25am, and a broken-down van. Hey, here you go, something not totally unlike what you asked for! *grins* And thanks to misspamela and bayleaf for looking it over!There was a piece of newspaper stuck under a vent on the dash with the number 147338 written on it in huge, red letters. When the odometer ticked quietly past 147330, Patrick started to worry a little--it was 4 A.M. and most of the exits he'd passed had led into dark, quiet-looking rural areas. He didn't want to pull off for gas somewhere it might take an hour to find a place that was open, but if he didn't see a sign for gas in the next couple miles, he was going to have to risk it.
147335, and yes, finally, signs for a service area. It was too many miles away--five, and if Pete had done the math right, he only had three miles of gas left in the tank. It was okay so long as Pete had padded the number by ten miles for safety the way he was supposed to do, but. Well, normally, gas mileage was Andy's job.
"Because I actually took math classes in college, Poli-Sci," he'd said to Pete as he scribbled away at the usage formula that had actually worked out pretty well ever since unexpectedly running out of gas in Austin had taught them that the gauge was broken.
Pete had been the last one to fill the tank though; he'd sulked against the side of the van in the rain, hoodie pulled down low over his face, while Patrick slumped behind the wheel and the guys snored noisily in the back.
"You know, you could drive," Patrick had said when Pete clambered into the van, bags of chips and some cupcakes in hand--no coffee. Patrick had specifically sent him for coffee; Patrick had given Pete the fucking last of his cash and Pete had come back with cupcakes--
Oh. And coffee. Patrick had taken the cup when Pete raised an eyebrow at him, rage instantly defusing, leaving him feeling guilty again on top of tired.
"I'm not driving another fucking mile until we're in Illinois," Pete said, withdrawing into his hood like a turtle into its shell, settling against the passenger side door.
"So you're just going to boycott for a week?" Patrick asked. "Nice. You know, if you're going to be such a--"
"Eat your cupcake and watch your mouth," Pete said, closing his eyes and tipping his head against the window. "Don't make me call your mom, dude. You know I will. I'll wake her up and tell her you're cursing and you've still got yesterday's hangover, and you punched me in the face earlier, and now you want me to drive even though it's your turn and I brought you cupcakes. You really want that?"
"Fucking douche," Patrick said, but quietly, because Pete would do it, and his mom would either take Pete's side or yank Patrick back to Chicago so fast his head spun. So he opened some cupcakes and shut his mouth, and Pete sat up long enough to do the gas math before slumping against the window, and they hit the road again. Hours and miles passed, silent, except the occasional crinkle of cellophane, and somebody, probably Andy, farting in their sleep in the back.
147338. Patrick tensed. Two more miles to the service area--two more miles--he'd never punch Pete again in his life if only they got two more miles.
147339.
Relieved, Patrick looked sideways at Pete, who was looking back at him, eyes glittering in the darkness. Patrick smiled, ready to make peace, and--
And the wheel shuddered in his hands, locked up, and even as he tapped the brakes, he knew--
"Oops," Pete said, cold and sulky.
"You are fucking dead," Patrick said, aiming the van for the emergency lane; no traffic, which was good, and Pete was fucking dead.
The rest of the guys woke up as the van jostled to the right. They grumbled and Andy poked his head between the front seats just as Patrick finally got the van over to the side. He took in the situation pretty quick and groaned, flopping backwards into the pile of sleepy dudes, prompting more angry noises and Joe's weak, "Oww, my balls, oww."
"Guess you're walking, Patrick," Andy said, ignoring everyone and getting comfortable again. "Should've been paying attention, huh?"
"Me? What about him?" Patrick flailed, caught Pete in the arm with his fist mostly by accident. "It's his fucking fault, he didn't pad the numbers!"
"Then he goes with you," Andy said. "Matt, c'mere,"and there was more rustling around, Joe's quiet, "Oww, my eyes, oww, oww," and Patrick jumped out of the van, slammed the door, and started the goddamned 4 A.M. death march in the middle of nowhere to a service station that was probably manned by cannibals. He'd get killed and eaten in the men's room when he tried to hide, and his last fucking words would be, "Eat my fucking friends, they're like sardines in a can a mile back."
He was pissed off enough to not hear the passenger door slam or the crunch of Pete's sneakers on the wet gravel as he jogged to catch up, and Pete didn't say anything, just tapped Patrick on the shoulder.
"What the fuck, do you want another punch to the face?" Patrick asked, whirling around in surprise, and Pete laughed a little meanly.
"Your mom'll be too sad to be any good in bed if you get murdered in the woods," he said. "Fucking chill, Patrick, okay? I'm just--I'm coming with you."
"Fine," Patrick said. He stomped off down the road, aware of Pete following a step behind him, trailing him like a fucking puppy, and probably looking all sad and hurt like he'd done all day, but it wasn't like Patrick was just an asshole. It wasn't like he'd liked hitting his best friend, but what else was a guy going to do when--
"Why'd you do it, Pete?" he asked, not looking behind him, not sure he wanted to see Pete's face; not if Pete wasn't looking sad, not if he was laughing at Patrick.
"I totally just forgot to carry the two," Pete said, and he was laughing, he was--
Patrick went supernova, turned and shoved in what felt like the same instant, but then it took Pete a really long time to fall, to topple right the fuck over the guard rail between them and a steep embankment, his eyes wide and shocked on Patrick's as he disappeared. The clatter of rocks and Pete yelling seemed to last forever, and then--silence.
Patrick scrambled down the hill in a panic, mind flashing through possibilities. Pete with his brains dashed out on a rock, his neck twisted all wrong, a giant piece of trashed metal sticking out through his rib cage, fuck, fuck.
The hill was muddy with the rain that had poured down earlier and Patrick sort of mostly bounced down on his ass, trying to control his descent but just barely managing to stay upright and okay, okay, there was Pete. His head looked fine, everything looked fine, internal bleeding wasn't likely from a little roll down a hill, right?
The last of the hill crumbled under Patrick as he slid down it. He went sprawling half across Pete, both of them gasping breathlessly as he landed.
It only took a second for Patrick to gather himself, and then he tried to push up off Pete's chest, but the mud sent him sprawling back down. Even as he was babbling desperate apologies and struggling to get a steady handhold, Pete said, "Stop! Just--fucking--stop moving, Patrick. Just for a second, could you--" and Patrick froze.
"Oh shit, did I make it worse?" he asked, managing to get up on an elbow, pushing his hat back to search Pete's face. "Are you okay? Is anything broken?"
Pete pushed his hood down and rolled his eyes. "Shut up and let me figure that out, okay?" and Patrick held very still, miserable with guilt, muddy, feeling his own palms burn and throb, and Pete took his sweet time before he finally said, "Nothing broken. I think I'm okay."
Patrick dropped his head down and Pete said, "Oww, now you broke my collarbone, asshole," but he clearly didn't mean it. He put his hand on the back of Patrick's neck, tangling his fingers in Patrick's hair.
They stayed still in the mud for a long, quiet moment, then Patrick sniffed. He shifted and carefully pushed himself up to his hands and knees. When he seemed steady, he climbed to his feet and sank deep in the mud. The little gully they'd landed in--shit, so close to the woods, Patrick thought, eyeing the dark expanse of trees nervously, it was the forest from every fucking horror movie ever--it was a mess. An inch of still water soaked a mound of dead leaves; mud, pebbles, bad footing. Bad smelling. He wrinkled his nose and then held a hand out for Pete.
"Are you going to punch me again?" Pete asked, looking at him. "Throw me off another cliff?"
"No," Patrick said. "It's the wild dogs next time."
"Okay, good, I like dogs," Pete said, then he took Patrick's hand and pulled himself up. He slung an arm over Patrick's shoulder, tucked him close against his side even though Patrick stood stiffly and didn't lean into him, and he looked up the hill they'd come down.
"Well," he said after a while. "At least we can't really get muddier, right?" Then he let go of Patrick and flung himself at the hill like a monkey at a tree, climbing to the top in a few mud-flung seconds.
Patrick watched him, wide-eyed, then followed slow and careful, slipping and sliding messily along the way. When he got to the top of the hill, Pete was trying to wring out the sleeves of his hoodie, slapping at them to get some of the stinking mud off. Patrick hopped over the guard rail and skidded, muddy sneakers on wet grass, and Pete steadied him, hand gripping his shoulder hard, eyes intent on his. It wasn't like he was just helping Patrick keep from going back down the hill, and Patrick had to look away, flushed.
"Thanks," he said, and he knew he was so red that he was probably glowing in the dark; what was going on with Pete? He swiped his cheeks with his smelly sleeves, like that was going to help anything, and then shook himself like a dog. Pete took a step back and dragged his hoodie off over his head and tied it around his shoulders like some preppy kid from a John Hughes movie.
"C'mon," Pete said, limping a little up the highway. He was at least 95% putting it on to make Patrick feel bad--he'd seen Pete climb back up the hill--but Patrick winced anyway. He hurried to catch up and let Pete drape an arm over his shoulder, lean some weight on him while they walked through the dark in the middle of fucking nowhere.
There weren't any lights. Patrick had been too mad to think of it, but Pete should've been smart enough to grab a flashlight before getting out of the van; fuck that, Pete had forgotten to carry the two in gas math. No lights, and they hadn't even been passed by a single car yet, but now the quiet was full of sounds; their wet jeans scraping against each other at the hip sometimes, their squelching shoes, Pete snickering every time Patrick's sneakers made a particularly gross noise.
Patrick was committed to a life free of violence against Pete Wentz from there on out, but the snickering--he was just glad to round a curve in the road and see the off ramp for the service station, was all.
"Bathroom," Pete said when they hit the manicured lawn at the end of the lot. "C'mon, I'll race you," and he took off across the pavement, ducking behind trash cans and light poles like a ninja practicing how not to be stealthy. Patrick rolled his eyes but followed Pete into the bright, warm bathroom.
Gas station laundromat was not a new experience. Pete had his hoodie in a basin at the sink, covered in soap, before Patrick even shut the door behind him. While it was soaking, he stripped off his shoes, socks and jeans, dumped all of that into another basin. Pete had never had any problem hanging out in the men's restroom at a service station in nothing but his underwear, but the addition of three days worth of eyeliner wet and smudged around his eyes and bright yellow girl's t-shirt made the gray boxer-briefs seem--different.
Patrick felt awkward. He stripped off his own stinking hoodie and dumped it in warm, soapy water, but left the rest of his clothes on. He filled another basin with warm water and started doing his best to scrape mud and wet, sticky leaves off himself.
Pete finished his own sponge bath and hopped up on the counter, close to the dryer. He held his soaking wet jeans up underneath it and hit the button.
Patrick stared at him. "They're never gonna dry like that, Pete," he yelled over the noise.
"What?" Pete yelled back, tapping his ear.
"I said, they're never going to dry like that, idiot," and of course the dryer powered off right at the last word; of course it did, and Pete's twinkling eyes and booming laugh were almost more than Patrick could handle.
No more Wentz-related violence, no more Wentz-related violence--well, maybe a little more, Patrick thought as Pete leaned over to helpfully pick through his hair, studying each chunk he sifted like he was looking for microscopic leaves--no, no more Wentz-related violence.
The dryer shut off again just in time to prevent Patrick from doing something Wentz-related and violent. Pete leaned back, felt his wet jeans, shrugged, then went to work on his socks.
"I'm not putting those back on," he yelled over the dryer, nodding at his jeans. "So unless you want me testing the limits of no shirt, no shoes, no service in these parts, you'd better get the gas."
For a moment, looking at his cleaner but still tired, wired, red face in the mirror, Patrick was tempted. But Pete, in his clinging, wet underwear and t-shirt; well, no. He probably wouldn't last too long in a jail cell, so Patrick sucked it up and said, "Meet me out front in ten," and headed for the pumps.
He filled a plastic gas can with as much as it could hold under the watchful, paranoid eyes of the middle-aged lady manning the station. It was probably just enough gas to get their hog of a van to the service area for a fill-up, which was depressing but whatever. He nodded at the lady, who glared back at him, and then he went to meet Pete at the end of the ramp.
Pete, who was loitering like a parody of a truck stop hooker, hoodie tied around his waist, athletic socks pulled up to his knees, the tongues of his sneakers bulging up out of his laces, his yellow t-shirt gleaming in the not-quite-as-dark. He was smiling, hand on a cocked hip, as Patrick approached.
"Think we'll make it back before the guys decide on cannibalism?" he asked, and Patrick was grateful to be thinking guilty thoughts about wishing cannibals on his friends twice in a night instead of thinking stupid thoughts about Pete's thighs, so he said, "Yeah, no, Andy's totally a goner already."
Pete nodded, considering. "Yeah, good point. You'd have to eat the vegan first, wouldn't you?" and he slung his arm back over Patrick's shoulder and walked beside him, saying, "This is why I keep you around even though you're a bitch, Patrick. Good head on your shoulders. You'll make excellent eating when the time comes."
They spent the rest of the walk back to the van arguing about who'd be the last guy standing at cannibal time, like they were just Patrick and his friend again. Patrick and his boxer-briefs and thin t-shirt wearing friend, with strong arms and muscled legs, eyeliner, a filthy mouth, dark eyes, dark tattoos. Patrick and his best friend.
What the fuck.
The van was where they'd left it, parked crooked on the shoulder. It was quiet, still, which either meant that everyone was sleeping again or the flesh-eating was over; Pete opened the driver's side door and whipped his wet jeans at the back, yelled, "Hurray, motherfuckers, your heroes have returned." Then he slammed the door again before any of their groaning and pissed-off friends got coordinated enough to find something to throw back at him.
Patrick rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help grinning a little as he unscrewed the gas cap and started carefully filling the tank. Pete followed him and leaned against the side of the van, just in Patrick's line of sight, his hips tilted forward and his foot braced against the side of the van so that Patrick got the awesome triple whammy of thigh muscles, dick, and wet cotton. He ignored Pete as best as he could and focused on pouring the gas, slow and careful, trying not to waste a drop.
Pete was quiet for a second, then said, "You know why I did it, Patrick?"
"To piss me off for punching you?
"No, no, no. Do you know why I did the thing that led to the punching?"
Patrick felt his face go glow-in-the-dark red again. "Because you're an asshole? Oh wait, that's why you do everything you do. So, because you're a fucking jerk?"
"Because I really like you," Pete said, and his quiet, almost shy tone made Patrick jerk his head up, shocked.
Pete had his head tipped back against the side of the van, and he was smiling a little, looking at Patrick out of the corner of his eye. He shrugged. "That's all. Because I wanted to kiss you, I guess. Because I kind of throught you wanted me to kiss you. You're spilling the gas."
"Shit!" Patrick yelled, and he dropped the gas can on the ground; there wasn't enough left in it to spill anymore. He took a step towards Pete, hands fisted. "Are you fucking kidding?"
"I can be if it means I won't get punched again," Pete said as Patrick got right in his space and uncurled one hand to poke him in the center of his chest.
"You like me, so you couldn't have, like, waited ten more minutes, until I was actually awake, and kissed me instead of shoving your gross morning breath tongue down my throat?" Patrick poked him again, harder; no more Wentz-related violence, yeah right.
"It was a good kiss!" Pete said, grinning a little. Patrick made an inarticulate noise in the back of his throat, took a step closer, planted his hands on Pete's face, and kissed him, crowding close.
Pete promptly shoved his cold hands down the back of Patrick's jeans and pulled him closer, opened his mouth, tilted his hips, and turned Patrick's frustrated, crabby, why did you let us torture each other all damn day kiss into something wet and pornographic in about .3 seconds flat. Patrick moaned into his mouth, leaned his weight against Pete's hips until Pete moaned back at him, rubbing up against him and fuck--Patrick had to move his hands.
He slid them down, getting them on the clean, slick, cool skin of Pete's sides, bumping down his ribs to the waistband of his shorts, dipping his fingers inside and wrapping his palm around Pete's dick, which was hard and straining and wet, hot like it hadn't been trapped behind cold, damp cotton for too long.
Pete's head dropped back and he gasped, licked his lips. His hips were jerking in the tight space between Patrick's hips and the side of the van. "C'mon," he said, rasping and deep, like his scream in Patrick's ear onstage, like how he read his words to Patrick sometimes in the middle of the night, like he'd said, "Good morning," before he'd kissed Patrick, all tongue and heat when Patrick was still half-asleep.
Pete laughed and pulled Patrick closer, his fingers digging into Patrick's hips. "Hey, is that all you got?" he asked, and he bit Patrick's mouth when Patrick kissed him again. They were on the side of the damned road, they had four people sleeping in the back of the van not even three inches away, and Patrick twisted his wrist because no, that wasn't all he had; he would show Pete fucking Wentz what he had. Pete slammed his head against the van when he came, spurting all over Patrick's hand and wrist, groaning loud like he thought they had privacy or he just didn't fucking care who heard.
Everyone heard. Patrick leaned against Pete, panting, feeling wet heat on his hand, which was still trapped in Pete's shorts. The back door of the van slammed open and Andy's head poked out, then immediately disappeared again. He was yelling something incoherent at the rest of the guys and Joe whined, "I need a boyfriend," sadly. "Dirty, will you--"
"No, and get your fucking hand off my ass, Trohman," Dirty yelled, and there was silence for a moment. Patrick was breathless like he'd the one who'd come all over the place and he tried to pant quietly, but Pete was kissing him, little kisses, slow, stealing his breath again. Then Joe said, "Yeah, no, actually that's not my hand," and the van started rocking and people started yelling, and Pete smiled at him, holding him close, rubbing hard little circles on Patrick's ass.
"That was more like what I expected to get this morning," he said, dreamy.
"Yeah, well." Patrick was so hard it hurt, trapped in his wet jeans, but he made himself take a step back. He wiped his hand on Pete's shirt. "Try anything like that before noon again, and you'll get the same reaction," he said, then took another step back, adjusted himself in his jeans; unlike Pete, he didn't think he could get off on the side of the road at fucking dawn in hillbilly country, what the hell had he--they--been thinking. He shuffled towards the driver's side, wincing every step. "Come on, I want to get to the motel. Maybe they'll let us use the pool even if we can't check in yet--"
Pete brushed past him, the keys he must've stolen right out of Patrick's pocket jangling in his hand. He pushed Patrick towards the passenger side. "Go sleep," he said. "Until, like, 12:01 tomorrow. And then I need you to be up, because I have something to do that you're really going to like, okay?"
Patrick raised an eyebrow at him, and Pete smiled, eyes gone dark in the pale dawn light. "Go on, get in, put on your PJs, have a cupcake. Get some sleep." He touched Patrick's mouth, his hand, fingers brushing over the knuckles that were still raw from punching him, and he leaned forward for a kiss, slow and sweet, and said, "I'll drive."
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Date: 2008-04-28 01:54 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2008-06-02 07:22 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2008-04-28 03:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-28 02:40 am (UTC)Ahem. No, really, I adore this. I have major adoration of pissy, van-days Patrick being constantly pushed too far by Pete. Is that sick and wrong? If it is, I don't want to be right, Giddy.
There were cupcakes! And mud! And Pete walking down the highway in boxer-briefs! And poor Joe, not getting any! And hello, kissing and roadside handjob! can't... stop... using... exclamation....points.... !!!
This is my very favorite line: "Eat my fucking friends, they're like sardines in a can two miles back." Somehow I feel that sums up the entire van touring experience.
I love this, and I love you, darling.
And I'm going to see you this week, right? You're coming down?
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Date: 2008-04-28 03:16 am (UTC)I AM coming down! For the most ridiculous, lightning-fast visit in the history of ever, but still. *grins* It will be VERY good to see you, and only a month before seeing you again at con.txt. So, yes, VERY EXCITED, SEE YOU SOON! :)
etaI have major adoration of pissy, van-days Patrick being constantly pushed too far by Pete
Also, something so right could never be wrong! *grins*
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Date: 2008-04-28 04:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-05 02:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-28 05:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-05 02:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-28 11:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-05 02:51 am (UTC)Probably because it always leads to sex up against the van, in my head. *grins*
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Date: 2008-04-28 06:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-05 02:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-28 07:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-05 03:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-28 08:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-05 03:05 am (UTC)Yeah, I think that Release the Bats has a lot to do with my characterization of Pete Wentz. Although I'm never writing a story where anything gets eaten out of anyone's anywhere! ;-)
And hee, the Princess Bride! No, that wasn't--I've actually only seen that movie once, a couple years ago--but yay for enjoying. *grins* I'm glad you liked it, thank you very much!
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Date: 2008-04-28 08:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-05 03:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-28 10:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-28 11:46 pm (UTC)I loved this. :D
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Date: 2008-04-29 12:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-29 03:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-29 01:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-29 01:43 pm (UTC)♥!
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Date: 2008-04-29 04:25 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2008-05-01 10:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-01 11:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-03 05:13 pm (UTC)I love how your boys are really boys, not some femmed up version of boys. And early van days, pissy!patrick, is one of my all time favs, bb. trufax.
"Eat my fucking friends, they're like sardines in a can a mile back."
omg. How so funny??? *grin*
"I'm not putting those back on," he yelled over the dryer, nodding at his jeans. "So unless you want me testing the limits of no shirt, no shoes, no service in these parts, you'd better get the gas."
Your characterization and dialog is some of the best in the biz! *grin*
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Date: 2008-05-04 06:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-25 03:52 am (UTC)Needless to say, I love it deeply. And Patrick makes me happy :D