Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/335389.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Bandom, Fall_Out_Boy
  Relationship:
      Patrick_Stump/Pete_Wentz
  Character:
      Pete_Wentz, Patrick_Stump
  Additional Tags:
      dub-con
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-02-08 Words: 7630
****** Eden Burns ******
by coricomile
Summary
     "The girls don't like you, Rick," Pete says around a laugh. Patrick
     winces, gritting his teeth. Pete leans in close, breath hot on
     Patrick's face. His eyes are dilated, pupils wide and dark. "But you
     don't like them, either, do you?" Patrick feels himself go pale, his
     heart thumping in his chest. Pete laughs again. "Do you like boys,
     Patrick?"
Patrick is playing in his mother's garden, digging for dinosaur bones under the
tulips, singing to himself about t-rexes and triceratops and pterodactyls. He
is ten years old, and his mother home schools him because she's lonely. Patrick
misses his friends, but his mother makes him pumpkin squares when he gets A's
on quizzes, so it's okay. So far, he hasn't found any dinosaur bones, but he
keeps digging with the plastic shovel from his old beach kit anyway.
The sun is hot and sticky with the warnings of rain, before dark but after
three, when Mrs. Wentz from next door walks up the driveway. She smiles and
waves. Patrick waves his shovel at her before driving it back into the ground.
He saw something white a few shovelfuls ago. It could be his big discovery.
There are still no bones, but his mother comes outside with Mrs. Wentz and
calls for him. Patrick fills his hole back in with his dirty sneaker sadly
before running up the steps. His mother takes one look at his filthy pants and
sighs. Mrs. Wentz laughs. It's a nice sound.
"Patrick, honey, do you remember Pete?" His mother asks. Patrick scrunches up
his face. The name is familiar, and he can remember flashes of dark hands and
darker hair and a loud laugh better than he can remember a face, but he nods
anyway.
"He's home now," Mrs. Wentz says, like Patrick knew that Pete had gone away in
the first place. "For good," she adds quietly.
"Where'd he go?" Patrick asks, blinking up at her. His stomach grumbles, and he
presses his palm to it, hoping that there's cookies in the kitchen.
"To camp," Mrs. Wentz says. Her voice sounds tight and sad. Patrick recognizes
it from the fights his parents used to think he didn't hear.
"He's going to come over to stay with you on Fridays," his mother says. "Is
that okay, honey?" Patrick nods. Maybe they can be friends.
---
The first Friday, Patrick stands behind his mother and waits by the door. His
mother is dressed up nicely, her hair loose at her shoulders, long and the same
color as his own. She smells like the flowers in her garden. Patrick thinks she
looks very happy for someone going to play cards. The doorbell rings at four
thirty-seven, and Patrick's small life takes a big turn.
Pete has a big mouth and big teeth and very short hair. He's tall enough that
Patrick only comes up to his chest, and his knees are green and dirty. He is
fifteen and plays soccer for school and hugs Patrick's mom as soon as he walks
in the door. She hugs him back, kisses Patrick's cheek, and walks out the door.
"I'm Pete." Pete kneels down on his dirty knees and offers his hand. Patrick
feels very grown up when he takes it into his own much smaller hand and shakes.
"I'm Patrick," he says, like Pete doesn't know. Pete smiles and it shows all of
his big, goofy teeth, and Patrick smiles back. "Are we going to be friends?"
"Best friends, Rick," Pete says. And Patrick believes him.
---
Patrick likes Pete. He's funny and plays fun games and knows all of Patrick's
favorite songs. He tells Patrick stories about high school and treats Patrick
like he's grown up, which is a big plus in Patrick's book. They watch movies
and eat pizza and drink sodas too late at night. Patrick loves Fridays.
When Pete's not around, Patrick chatters non-stop to his mother about him. His
mother laughs and shakes her head, but she seems to like him, too. This is
good, because she agrees to let Patrick go to Pete's soccer games on Thursdays.
Patrick likes Thursdays, too.
Patrick gets to sit with the players on the field because Pete brings him. He
doesn't like the heat or the itch of the grass on his legs, but he does like
watching Pete run with the other boys. After games, even if Pete's team loses,
Pete buys them ice cream sundaes to celebrate with.
One Thursday, Patrick's mother isn't home after a game. There's a note and a
twenty dollar bill taped to the refrigerator, and Pete rolls his eyes a little
but still calls for pizza, jumping on the couch with his sweaty jersey and all
still on. Patrick sits at his feet, spooning a bite of sundae into his mouth as
Pete flips channels.
The pizza still isn't there when Pete pats the spot on the couch next to him.
Patrick scrambles up, crossing his legs up under him the same way Pete has his.
He smiles at Pete, but Pete isn't looking at him, eyes trained somewhere behind
Patrick's head, instead. He looks sad. Patrick wants to hug him, but boys don't
do that. Instead, he offers the last spoonful of his sundae. Pete finally looks
down and laughs.
"Patrick, have you ever kissed anyone?" Pete asks. Patrick crinkles his nose
up. He's seen his mother and father kissing, and people on TV, but he's never
done it himself. It looks a little gross. He shakes his head. Pete's smile is
sharp enough to make him hunch in on himself, like he answered wrong. "It's
okay." Pete ducks his head down to catch Patrick's eye. "Do you want to kiss
someone?" Patrick shrugs because he doesn't want to, not really, but he doesn't
want Pete to think he's a baby, either.
Pete's quiet for a minute and, then, he turns Patrick's head with his thumb and
leans forward. His mouth is hot and sticky and closed, light against Patrick's.
Patrick knows boys don't kiss, but he doesn't push Pete away. He doesn't want
to lose his only friend. Pete smells like grass and sweat, and there's
something funny going on in Patrick's stomach. Pete sits back again, and
Patrick wants to wipe his hand over his mouth because it's wet, but he doesn't.
Pete grins, big and toothy, and tousles Patrick's hair.
"Our secret, okay?" Pete says, and Patrick nods. He's good at keeping secrets.
---
Patrick blows a strand of hair out of his eyes, staring resolutely at his math
homework. He is thirteen, and his brand new glasses are starting to hurt the
bridge of his nose and the soft spots behind his ears. His hair falls back into
his eyes and he puffs another burst of air at it vainly. The sound of the TV in
the living room is distracting as he glares again at his worksheet.
"Y before X, except after C," Pete singsongs, pulling a soda from the
refrigerator. He's a senior in high school, now, and his bangs are red striped.
He doesn't play soccer anymore and has to wear a knee brace more often than
not. Patrick's mom pays him to tutor, even though he says he'll do it for free.
Patrick doesn't think he really would.
"That's not really helpful," Patrick says, scratching in an answer for question
ten. The soda in the can sloshes onto the table as Pete flops into the chair
next to him. He smells like sweat from his physical therapy and the lotion
Patrick had rubbed onto his knee an hour before. Patrick's palms are still
greasy with it, clinical and stale scented.
"I am extremely helpful, Stumph." Pete prods a finger at problem twenty-six,
tapping it against his sloppily written note. He's hot up against Patrick's
side, pressed in too close. Patrick feels the familiar flutter in his stomach,
the tightening in his chest, and moves away.
He's gotten used to kissing Pete, used to the taste of Pete's tongue in his
mouth. Used to the guilt low in his belly. The whisper of our secret against
his hair has never changed, even through the dark rooms have. Patrick doesn't
tell a soul, and Pete keeps smiling at him like they're best friends. Patrick
thinks that maybe they are.
Pete's phone rings in his pocket, vibrating up against Patrick's thigh. Patrick
tightens his fingers around his pencil until Pete answers, letting out a sigh
when his side goes cold again. There's the tinny voice of a girl on the other
side of the line, and something in Patrick feels weakened when Pete walks back
into the living room.
Patrick finishes his homework before Pete hangs up. His head hurts, a steady
pounding behind his eyelids. He sits on the floor in front of Pete, a habit he
never really grew out of, and waits. It's only a few minutes later that Pete
snaps his phone shut. He's silent for a moment, banging his busted knee against
Patrick's shoulder. Patrick closes his eyes and waits for it.
"You should come to Morgan's party," Pete says. "It'll be fun."
"Sure," Patrick answers, heart in his throat.
---
Patrick hates parties. He doesn't know any of Pete's friends, and they all
treat him like he's below them. If they're not sneering at them, they're being
too friendly, fake, to keep Pete laughing. Everyone loves Pete. It's impossible
not to. Patrick wonders why Pete keeps him so close when the entire world would
pay to take his spot. He never asks, and Pete never tells.
Someone shoves a red plastic cup into his hand. Patrick grimaces as it sloshes
onto his shirt, the smell making him queasy. He's about to let the cup drop,
fuck the carpet, when an arm slings around his shoulders, yanking him against a
chest so hard it hurts his shoulder. Pete's breath is sour against Patrick's
cheek, his smile all teeth.
"Patrick," he says. "Patrick, we should find you some company." Patrick wants
to say no. Say that he's okay in the corner, reading through old stacks of
newspapers. But Pete drags him around from girl to girl, laughing at each
rejection. Patrick feels sick, too hot under Pete's arm, face and ears red with
embarrassment.
They're upstairs, Pete heavy against Patrick's shoulders as he leads them to
the bathroom. Patrick doesn't fight when Pete yanks him in, when he pulls the
door shut and clicks the lock. Patrick's grown a lot since he was ten, but
Pete's still a head taller than him, and when Pete presses him into the door
with one hand, Patrick can't get away.
"The girls don't like you, Rick," Pete says around a laugh. Patrick winces,
gritting his teeth. Pete leans in close, breath hot on Patrick's face. His eyes
are dilated, pupils wide and dark. "But you don't like them, either, do you?"
Patrick feels himself go pale, his heart thumping in his chest. Pete laughs
again. "Do you like boys, Patrick?"
"No," Patrick whispers, closing his eyes. His stomach twists, Pete's hand
burning into his skin.
"You like it," Pete says. He's closer, lips brushing against Patrick's cheek as
he talks. "You like this." And then he's pressed up against Patrick, trapping
him against the door, mouth mashed against his. And Patrick hates himself
because he closes his eyes and lets it happen, rests his hands on Pete's chest
and kisses back. He hates Pete because he does like it and there's nothing he
can do to stop it.
Pete forces his knee between Patrick's, presses his thigh up into Patrick's
crotch. It almost hurts, but Pete's mouth is wet and hot and Patrick feels
himself getting hard. He wants to yell, wants to rip the guilt out of his gut
and shove it down Pete's throat, but he can't find it in himself to push Pete
away. When Pete shoves a hand down Patrick's jeans, Patrick squeezes his eyes
closed tighter and tries not to cry.
---
Patrick picks through the vinyl bin like he's looking for gold. He is sweet
sixteen and on the hunt for an original press of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders
From Mars. He's got a pocketful of lawn mowing money from a long summer and he
intends on using it to the fullest extent. There's a promising flash of cover
near the back, and Patrick's about to be rewarded for his patience when a hand
slaps down on his back. Patrick jerks, nearly falling over backward. He hears
Pete's loud, obnoxious donkey laugh and his face heats up.
When he turns around, Pete has another boy Patrick's age with him. Patrick's
heart drops, and he wonders if he's finally being replaced. It was always too
good to be true, being Pete's best friend. He's surprised that it took this
long.
"This is Joe," Pete says, hand on Joe's bony shoulder. "He's starting a band. I
said we'd be in."
"It'll be awesome," Joe says, and Patrick nods, mouth dry. Pete has a band, a
good band, but Patrick already knows that he's asking, and he never says no.
The practices are weird, but nice. Patrick loves music and Pete stares at him
with big eyes every time he sings, like Patrick’s important. It makes
Patrick feel like he is. Joe is a pretty cool guy, and TJ and Chris are, too.
They’re not great, but it’s fun. It’s something to keep
him occupied.
Pete still tutors him, working on his homework at the kitchen table as
Patrick’s mother works swing shift after swing shift. He doesn’t
talk as much, which is nice in some ways, horrible in others. Patrick misses
him sometimes.
They are sitting outside, Pete with his Ethics book and Patrick with his
History book, sprawled out on the grass. Pete is shirtless, his tattoos dark
against his skin, sweat at his temples and hips. Patrick is at the age of self-
consciousness, unable to take his shirt off outdoors anymore, even though
it’s boiling outside. He sees bruises on Pete’s wrists but he
doesn’t ask. The sun shines down, and Pete rolls onto his stomach,
tossing his book to the side.
“Let’s do something,” he says, restless. Patrick looks
back at the empty house. He’s supposed to clean before his mother gets
home, but Pete’s looking at him expectantly. Patrick shrugs and sets his
book next to Pete’s.
Pete grins, big and stupid, and scrambles up, grabbing Patrick’s hand
and pulling him down the street. Patrick’s surprised when they end up at
Joe’s place. Joe seems surprised to see them too, but he leads them to
the back yard when Pete asks to use the pool, waving them off and heading back
inside.
“Swimming?” Patrick asks, squirming. Pete grins at him again,
stripping down to his underwear.
“Come on, Stump. Live a little.” He hops in, splashing Patrick
over the side. It’s not a question.
A little uncomfortable, Patrick toes his shoes off, glancing over his shoulder
at the back door. Joe doesn’t come back out, and Pete doesn’t
look away. Patrick wears his shirt into the pool and Pete laughs at him.
It’s becoming a familiar pattern.
---
Patrick is still sixteen, and he has a girlfriend. She's small and cute and a
little flat chested, and her name is Anna. He likes her like he likes music and
summer, and Pete hates her more than that.
Pete says she's ugly, that she looks like a dyke. He calls her a whore and
Patrick gets mad every time because Pete doesn't know her and hasn't made an
effort to know her. It isn't fair, and he feels like he has to apologize to
Anna for him, but he can't find it in himself to actually say anything.
The band is doing well, and they've managed to make a CD, even if it's only
okay. Patrick has never been happier. They have a crappy little van and play
shows every other weekend, and Anna goes to all of them and cheers even if no
one else does.
Anna kisses differently than Pete does, tender and soft, and she usually tastes
sticky and sweet, her lip gloss smearing over Patrick's mouth and chin. He
likes it though, and he wants to say, see, Pete? You were wrong about me. He
doesn't, but he feels victorious every time he pulls back and sees Anna's round
face instead of Pete's.
They have been together for three months, and they haven't done anything but
make out in Patrick's basement and in clubs. It's okay. Patrick's a gentleman,
and when Anna shakes her head as he tries to slide a hand up her shirt, he
stops. He knows that no means no.
He is sitting in the van, half way asleep, when Pete flops down on top of him,
legs across the rest of the seats, kicking the door with his dirty sneakers. He
looks tired, his eyes dark, the lines around his mouth deep. His knee has been
acting up, and Patrick can tell it's swollen without looking.
"Hey," he says, blinking down at him. Pete grins, the lines going deeper.
"You good?" Pete asks. Patrick shrugs. Yes, no, maybe. He's not really sure,
and there's no reason for any one of them. Pete's grin fades, but he stares up
at Patrick still, serious, and Patrick goes a little cold. He hasn't seen that
look for a long time, but he knows what it means.
"Pete-"
"We're still on, right? Best friends forever?" Pete cuts in. It's like a stab
in the gut, and Patrick nods, staring at the dirty headrest of the driver's
seat. He wishes they were moving, that TJ and Joe and Chris were in the van,
too, instead of rolling around in the park.
Pete touches his stomach, hot and firm, and Patrick feels himself go too tight.
He doesn't let Anna touch him there, bats off her hand and kisses her instead,
but he can't move, can't make himself push Pete away. Pete's fingers slide
under his shirt, tracing the red lines where his pants are too tight. He hears
the locks click distantly, but he's so wrapped up in the pound of his heart
that he can't register what that means.
"Pete, I don't- I have Anna," he says, but it's weak and he knows it. Pete
turns onto his side, rucking Patrick's shirt up higher, cheek resting on his
thigh. His hair is dirty and he's got chipped purple nail polish on the hand
Patrick can still see, but he's still Pete, the guy that took him to soccer
games when he was ten.
"Does she do this?" Pete asks, moving forward to mouth at the soft skin of
Patrick's belly. Patrick feels instantly mortified, recoiling back, trying to
cover himself. Pete is stronger though, and he pins Patrick to the seat with
his weight, one hand on the seat, one hand pressed to Patrick's chest, holding
him in place.
Pete noses at him, tongue sliding out to skim over Patrick's skin. It's hot and
wet, and Patrick's getting hard in his jeans. He's like one of Pavlov's dogs;
Pete touches him, he gets off on it, even if he's telling himself not to. Pete
bites down, and it hurts, and he's going to have a mouth sized bruise.
"Have you gotten her top off?" Pete asks, moving to mouth at Patrick's belly
button. He presses his tongue in and pulls back out before Patrick can think
about how that makes him feel. His mouth is dry, and he wouldn't answer the
question if he could. "You see her little tits, Stump?"
"Don't talk about her like that," Patrick says, angry and guilty. It's always
she and her to Pete, never Anna.
"You're such a sucker," Pete says into his skin. His fingers slide from
Patrick's stomach to his belt, undoing the clasp one handed. "You get into her
pants yet?" He jerks Patrick's jeans open, suddenly rough, biting Patrick's
stomach again. Patrick whimpers.
"I don't-"
"You get your fingers wet, Stump?" Pete asks, and it's vicious, as painful as
the pinch of his fingers on Patrick's thigh. "Finally touch a pussy? Did she
come for you?"
Pete wraps his fingers around the head of Patrick's cock, squeezing. It stings,
and Patrick doesn't want this. Not like this. Not. He's not even sure about it
anymore. His hips are weighted down by Pete's chest across his thighs, but
they're straining against it.
"You fuck her? Lose your precious little virginity with rose petals and
Prince?" Pete pumps his hand, too dry and too tight, rough from punching walls
and people and cars. Patrick swallows, closing his eyes. "Come on, Stump. We're
friends. Tell me." It's not a question.
"No," Patrick says, and Pete doesn't have to ask what he's saying no to.
"Weak." Pete moves to sit up, still jerking Patrick off with his too tight
fist. He sits on Patrick's thighs, heavy, and leans in, mouthing at the soft
spot behind Patrick's ear. "I fucked her last night," he whispers, nipping at
Patrick's earlobe.
Patrick hates him so fucking much. He bucks up, trying to throw him off, hands
in tight fists, chest filled with anger and sorrow and sick. Pete laughs,
rocking up with it, hard against Patrick's belly. He twists his wrist, and
lights go off behind Patrick's eyes. He feels like everything inside him is
being spilled out onto Pete's hand, like he's nothing.
Pete wipes his hand off on the seat, kneeling up, unbuckling his belt. His dick
is level with Patrick's face, familiar and unfamiliar at once, and Patrick
turns away when Pete touches the damp head to his lips. It leaves a smear of
precome across his cheek, and he's not sure which thing is more humiliating.
"Suck me off," Pete says, knocking Patrick's hat off to grab a handful of his
hair. "Taste your girlfriend's pussy on my dick." He turns Patrick's head,
staring down at him with dark eyes, and Patrick opens his mouth. He doesn't
know how to say no.
It's a weird feeling, his lips stretched too far open as Pete slides slowly in,
his tongue weighted down by the heaviness of Pete's cock. It tastes salty and
strong, bitter. Patrick can't swallow the saliva building up in his mouth, and
he feels drool creep out of the corners.
"I always thought you were a cocksucker," Pete says, breathless as he thrusts
his hips. Patrick closes his eyes and tries not to choke as he feels the tip
hit the back of his throat. "I bet you'd beg me to let you suck my dick."
Patrick winces when Pete yanks on his hair, opening his eyes because he knows
it's what Pete wants. What Pete wants, Pete gets. Patrick's jaw is sore, and
the corners of his mouth feel like they're going to crack open and bleed. Pete
thrusts in again, and Patrick does gag at the taste of his come, choking around
Pete's dick.
When Pete pulls out, Patrick feels the come and spit that's built up in his
mouth go out with it, thick and sticky on his chin and neck. Pete wipes it away
with the collar of Patrick's shirt before tucking himself back into his jeans.
"Told you she was a slut," Pete says, kicking the locks back open. Joe and TJ
and Chris tumble in, shooting them dirty looks, whining about being outside in
the sudden rain. Patrick's mouth feels swollen, and he's afraid that they'll
know just by looking at him.
Miles later, Pete's asleep in his lap, drooling on his thigh. It's the first
sleep he's gotten in days, and Patrick can't push him off, even though he feels
disgusting and dirty. Joe's staring at him through the rearview mirror.
"What?" Patrick snaps, hands hovering awkwardly over Pete's side and shoulder.
"You okay?" Joe asks. Patrick looks away and shrugs. Yes, no, maybe. He's not
sure.
He breaks up with Anna when they get back to Chicago.
---
The sky is somewhere between pink and blue, filled with stars and the big,
swollen moon, clouds floating by lazily. Patrick is seventeen and they are on
their first headlining tour. It's scary and awesome, and Patrick thinks they
might really make it.
He kicks his feet idly on the bumper, watching a cloud drift past. It looks
like a heart, or maybe a rabbit. They are in Utah, parked in an abandoned lot
behind a cornfield. Andy and Joe are spread out on the ground in sleeping bags,
talking to one another about the merch sales. It's quiet chatter that makes
Patrick feel like he's home.
Pete is next to him, silent. He's been on the phone all day, yelling, fighting,
spitting words that'll become songs later. Patrick can't think of what
girlfriend it is this time, and he doesn't really care. Pete's hurting and it's
his own fault, and Patrick still feels the urge to hold him and tell him it'll
be okay.
He grabs Pete's wrist and tugs, sliding off the hood of the van. Pete follows
him, kicking at the dirt with his beaten sneakers, hunched in on himself.
Patrick doesn't know where he's going, but there's a neon sign glowing in the
distance, and he changes course to follow after it.
They wind up at an ice cream parlor. It's like a scene out of the fifties, all
checkered floor and baby blue vinyl booths. Patrick orders them both cones and
pays with his dwindling savings. Pete slides into the back booth, tearing a
napkin into bits, staring out into the distance.
Patrick feels the urge to sit at his feet, and he does, right on the diner
floor, holding Pete's cone up to him. He feels like he's ten again, looking up
at the coolest person ever, ready to be best friends for life. Pete seems to
get it because a small smile curls at the edges of his mouth. He taps his foot
against Patrick's, sucking at the already melting ice cream.
"I never loved her," Pete says when he's eaten most of his cone, mouth stained
pink from it. Patrick doesn't reply, but he doesn't need to. "I never love any
of them."
Patrick hasn't dated since Anna, hasn't even looked. It doesn't seem right
somehow, like it'll just be taken from him as quickly as he gets it. Pete
either hasn't noticed or doesn't care, too wrapped up in himself. Patrick holds
up his chocolate ice cream and Pete smiles again, bigger.
"Remember when I used to take you to games?" He asks, taking a mouthful of
Patrick's cone. Patrick nods. He can almost smell the grass and sweat. "It was
easier then." Patrick doesn't know which part of it was, but he agrees.
"I never love them," Pete says again while they're cleaning up in the bathroom,
scrubbing at their faces. He meets Patrick's eyes in the mirror, and he looks
almost normal again. "You'll never love them, either." He sounds sad for a
moment, like he knows something Patrick doesn't.
---
Patrick's never gotten over the stage fright. It eats at him as he waits side
stage, guitar clutched in his hand, strings biting into his palm. He is
eighteen and they are playing live on national TV for the first time.
Joe is next to him, vibrating with the energy Patrick can feel around them, his
shoulders and elbows bumping into Patrick's every time he moves. Andy keeps
tapping his drumsticks against his thighs, a rhythm Patrick doesn't recognize.
Even Pete's antsy, swaying in place, knocking into Patrick to avoid hitting
people rushing by.
They're called, and Patrick swallows his nerves as Pete leads them out, jogging
onto the stage, waving at the audience as Andy taps a count onto his snare.
They play great, fantastic. Patrick sings until he feels like he's going to
pop, arms gone numb, lights making him sweat.
Pete's nearby, and Patrick's happy he's not singing when Pete presses his
forehead to the wet curve of his neck, breath too hot against his already
overheated skin. His fingers fumble on the strings, and Joe scrambles to fix
it, and Pete laughs as he moves away, spinning, bright.
Afterwards, the make-up girl stops him, smiling as she hands him a towel. She's
sweet, round faced and thin hipped and quiet. It's easy to talk to her as she
leads him on an impromptu tour of the backstage area, leaving his band to
someone else's care.
When they reach the make-up area, she closes the door, blushing and smiling.
Patrick's still sweaty from playing, and he hasn't touched a girl in years.
Pete just- he doesn't need to think about Pete now. Not when there's a pretty
girl stepping up to kiss him.
He kisses her back, and it's like kissing Anna again, slick lip gloss and
fruity perfume a little too strong. She lets him slide a hand up her top, and
he feels her through her bra, feels the flutter of her heartbeat under his
hand. He's hard in his jeans, and if he weren’t a teenager, he'd be
embarrassed. As it is, he just presses his hips to hers and swallows the soft
noise she makes.
She's wearing a skirt, something small and cute, and her leg is smooth and soft
when Patrick touches it, runs his hand up her tiny thigh. Her underwear feels
lacy, and he figures it's probably black. She looks like the kind of girl that
wears black underwear. He moves them to the side, and he can feel that she's
wet against his knuckles. He slides a finger into her, and he hears Pete's
voice in his head. Finally touch a pussy?
Patrick pulls back, flinching. The girl- he doesn't even know her name and that
makes him feel sick- looks up at him, confused. Patrick swallows and shakes his
head.
"I," he starts, backing up, "I have to go back. I'm sorry." He doesn't wait for
her to answer, already jogging toward the parking lot.
"Way to go, Stump," Joe says as Patrick shoves the doors open. Andy in the
driver's seat nods, and Patrick feels himself go hot. They saw him go off with
her. Pete looks at him darkly for a moment before grinning. It's sharp, and
Patrick has to look away.
They each have their own hotel room, and it's weird and nice to have a place
all to himself after all the touring. He turns the television on and shoves his
dirty jeans off and tosses his hat onto the desk. It feels right to walk around
like he is in his own room in Chicago, alone again. He misses it.
He's running a bath when someone knocks on his door. His stomach drops because
he knows that that isn't a someone, that it's Pete, and he swallows down the
feeling he refuses to call fear as he goes to answer.
Pete is leaning on the doorframe, wearing clothes that used to be Patrick's.
They're too big on him, hanging off his skinny hips and skinny shoulders. He
pushes in, knocking Patrick into the door. The bed creaks as Pete bounces onto
it, spreading out like it's his. Patrick doesn't sit next to him. He feels like
he's waiting for punishment and that makes him angry. He doesn't answer to
Pete.
"Have fun, Rick?" Pete asks, reaching for the remote. He flips channels until
he hits the softcore porn playing on Shotime. Patrick looks away.
"Yeah. It was great." He winces at the moaning from the television and turns to
the bathroom. "I was going to take bath."
"Go for it," Pete says without looking up. "I'll chill here."
Patrick doesn't lock the bathroom door, and he doesn't think about why he
chooses not to. The water is too hot, almost to the rim of the tub, sloshing as
he slides in. It feels good against his sore muscles, and he nearly forgets
everything as he relaxes.
It feels like he's been in forever, the tips of his fingers and toes gone
wrinkly, the water cold. He doesn't want to get out though, nervous about
what's outside the door.
Pete is still on Patrick's bed, sat up against the headboard, hand on his
stomach as he watches TV. He looks up, and Patrick feels small, holding his
towel to his chest. Pete spreads his legs, patting the space between them.
Patrick has nowhere else to go. He settles cautiously on the mattress, curling
around his shins, trying to keep them from leaning onto Pete's. He jerks when
Pete yanks him back, elbow smashing into Pete's good knee.
"Your bald spot's blocking the TV," Pete says, shoving Patrick around until
he's happy. Patrick clenches his jaw, letting Pete push his head back until
it's resting on Pete's chest. The first few minutes are tense. Patrick is wound
tight, hands flexing in his lap, but Pete just keeps watching the stupid movie,
breathing evenly against Patrick's temple. Patrick slowly relaxes against him.
He's almost asleep, cheek to Pete's collarbone, when Pete slides a hand up to
his hip, holding on. Patrick stays still. If Pete thinks he's sleeping, he'll
probably leave him alone.
Patrick is wrong. Pete turns them over slowly, cradling Patrick's head as he
puts it onto the flat hotel pillow. His weight is solid on top Patrick,
pressing him into the mattress, and Patrick opens his eyes. He regrets it
immediately.
"You fuck her?" Pete asks, nose to Patrick's jaw, mouth against his throat. He
can probably feel the way Patrick's heartbeat speeds up. "Come on. Tell me."
Pete pulls back, watching him. "Did she pop your cherry?"
"Yes," Patrick lies, swallowing. He's not ready for the way Pete's hands go
tight around his arms, for the way Pete's eyes go so, so dark. It's not fair
and it's not right, and he doesn't belong to Pete, doesn't want Pete. He wishes
he could sting Pete with words, wishes he could make his heart swell and break,
but that's never been his strong suit, and he can only lift his jaw in
defiance.
Pete bares his teeth. His fingers are pressing hard into Patrick's arms,
digging into the spaces between muscles, and it's going to hurt to play
tomorrow night. Patrick tries not to flinch. He won't give him the
satisfaction. He locks his legs as Pete tries to shove them open, squirming as
Pete pinches him harder. Pete's always been stronger, and he manages to squirm
in, shoving Patrick's thighs open with his knees.
"You're a liar," Pete snarls, face close to Patrick's. "I bet you can't get it
up for a chick. Bet she was ready for it and you ran." That's it. That's the
final straw.
Patrick bucks up, trying to throw Pete off. He's pissed and hurt, and Pete just
keeps laughing, throwing his weight back down. He's hard, dick pressing into
Patrick's belly. That makes Patrick angrier.
"Couldn't get it up, Stump? Is that it?" Pete grinds his hips down, and Patrick
feels himself responding. Pavlov's fucking dog. "Need dick to turn you on?"
"Fuck you," Patrick spits, butting his head against Pete's.
He goes dizzy, vision blurring, but Pete lets go of him enough for Patrick to
roll off the bed, slamming down onto the floor on his knees. He scrambles up,
and he should run for the door, run for Andy or Joe's room, should tell them
everything.
But he doesn't. He turns and stares down at Pete on the bed, at his bloody nose
and bloody lip, and he spits. It's a mistake. It's the biggest fucking mistake
he could ever make, but it's too late to take it back, and Patrick wouldn't if
he could.
He's had enough of Pete fucking with his head. Enough of being lead around like
a fucking dog- Pavlov's motherfucking dog- and he's not going to take it
anymore. Pete's fucked him up to the point he doesn't even know himself
anymore. Did he ever know himself?
"I fucking hate you." Patrick stands his ground even as Pete stumbles up.
"You're so- You're so fucked in the head. Do you fucking-"
The punch catches him in the mouth, and Patrick is afraid for a moment that his
teeth have been knocked loose. Pete hits him again, and his ears ring. Patrick
strikes back, knuckles screaming, mouth bleeding. Pete's head snaps back. It
feels good.
Pete lunges at him, and Patrick goes for his bad knee, kicking it with his bare
foot. It hurts, and his toes go numb, but Pete collapses to the floor
instantly. He knows so much; if only everything could hurt Pete like this.
It doesn't take long for Pete to recover. He grabs at Patrick's calves,
dragging him down. Patrick knees him in the jaw, yelling. He doesn't know what
the words are, but Pete's eyes keep getting darker, and the hands around his
shins are going tight, tight, tight. Once upon a time, Pete had play wrestled
him for hours, letting him win, buying him candies after. This is not then, and
Patrick hates that he can never have that back.
Patrick has rug burn on his elbows, and Pete is biting him, teeth cutting into
his chest through his shirt, grinding his jaw. Patrick grabs a fistful of hair
and yanks. Some comes out between his fingers. Pete lets go, mouth open on a
whine of pain, and he slams a hand into Patrick's gut, knocking him breathless.
Pete is on top of him. Patrick bangs his knees into the backs of Pete's thighs,
punches him in the stomach. Pete pins him down, panting and bleeding, lip
split, left eye swollen. Patrick is stuck and he knows where this is headed.
"You think that you're a fucking big shot now?" Pete hisses, digging the heels
of his palms into Patrick's wrists. "That because some bitch wants to get into
your jeans that you don't need me anymore?"
He tastes like blood. There's no familiar pieces, nothing he's stored up in
memory for the past eight years. Pete's desperate, grating Patrick's arms into
the carpet, biting at Patrick's swollen mouth. Patrick kisses back. It's all he
knows how to do.
"You think you fucking know," Pete says when he pulls back. "You think you have
any fucking clue."
He rips at the collar of Patrick's shirt and it tears, just enough the Pete can
bite down on the sharp piece of Patrick's collar bone. It hurts, and Patrick
tries to pull away. Pete bites down harder, holding him still.
"You're it," Pete says, and he sounds sad and lost. "You're mine, got it? They
touch you, I'll kill them." He's so far away, his hands and mouth leaving
bruises, nails cutting into the soft spaces of Patrick's palm.
And Patrick's stomach drops. He's Pete's, want it or not, and he can't figure
out if he does. Want it, that is. He doesn't, he tells himself, but his heart
is stuttering in his chest. He's always wanted Pete's affection and love, and
the look in eyes when he's proud. Has wanted the smile Pete saves just for him
since he was too young to understand it.
He doesn't know what else he can want.
When Pete kisses him again, he goes still against the floor, arms and legs
going loose. He's not going to fight anymore. There's no point to it. Pete
always wins. Pete holds onto Patrick's wrist with one hand, reaching down with
the other to push Patrick's sweats down. Patrick doesn't help, but he doesn't
struggle, either, eyes closed as he feels Pete's fingers on his thigh.
He lets Pete open his legs wider, bringing up his knees when Pete tells him to.
He feels sick, like he's wrong, like all the parts and pieces that make him up
were mixed up at the factory. Pete spits into his hand, and Patrick squeezes
his eyes shut tighter.
It feels weird, and Pete's saying things in his ear. He's not listening, not
there at all. Instead, he's thinking about the summer sun on his eleventh
birthday, and the warm smell of the cologne Pete wore in high school, and the
fond smile he hasn't seen in years.
"Ask me for it," Pete says, thrusting his fingers into Patrick. It still feels
weird, but something about it vaguely feels good. "Ask me for it," Pete says
again, breath hot on Patrick's cheek.
"No," Patrick says. He's given up, but he won't beg. Pete can't have that too.
Pete's other hand lets go of his wrist. He could be free now. He could just
shove himself up, yank his sweats back on, and go to Andy or Joe's room. He
knows it and Pete knows it. Patrick doesn't move, and he hates himself for it.
"I won't do it if you say you don't want it," Pete whispers, and he sounds sad,
so far away. When Patrick manages to open his eyes, Pete's watching him. It
hurts somewhere in his chest, somewhere that he can't identify in the mess of
wires and emotions that he didn't put there.
"Please," he says finally, looking away. He feels like he's given up, like
everything he's ever had left of himself is gone.
Pete smiles at him, and it's almost like it used to be.
Pete pulls his fingers out and spits in his hand again, reaching down to jerk
himself off. Patrick squirms away, rolls over and lifts himself up onto his
knees. His back is raw from the carpet, elbows and knees rough red. He doesn't
want to watch.
It hurts when Pete pushes in, but his body one giant, screaming nerve, bruises
and bite marks up and down his legs and arms and chest, and the burn in his ass
is possibly one of the smallest pains he's got right now. Mostly, his heart
aches.
Pete goes slow, and Patrick wants to laugh until he cries. All this, all these
years, and now Pete chooses to be kind.
Patrick braces himself with his forearms on the floor, fingers curling in the
rough fibers of the carpet. Pete touches his back, up to where his shirt is
pushed up, back down to his ass. It feels good obliquely, and when Pete wraps a
hand around Patrick's dick, Patrick rocks back.
Pete gets off first, pulling out, coming hot onto Patrick's back. It stings the
rug burn, but Patrick's too busy being flipped over to notice, face hot, dick
still hard. Pete holds him down with one hand on the soft swell of his belly
and sucks him off for the first time ever.
After, Pete cleans them both of with the same rag Patrick had used during his
bath, silent as he patches up the worst of the damage. His eye has gone purple,
swollen a little. Patrick doesn't want to know what he looks like.
"Our secret, right?" Pete isn't looking at him, but Patrick nods anyway.
Pete climbs into bed with him, and they sleep to the sound of an infomercial on
the television.
---
Patrick is twenty-one, sitting in the parking lot of a Best Buy, holding a
bottle of Ativan. Pete is beside him, leaning back against the shiny finish of
his black SUV, eyes closed, hands shaking.
Patrick doesn't want to know what would have happened if he hadn't come along,
if Pete had been by himself. He passes the bottle between his hands and stares
at the pavement.
The sky is blue black, the light pollution in the city blocking out the stars.
Patrick remembers a night spent at an ice cream parlor in the middle of Utah
and uncaps the Ativan. The pills bounce when he pours them out, a tiny
waterfall of blue tablets.
Patrick has been living with Pete, has been at his side for days and weeks and
years, and he knows nothing. He follows and he tries to be right and he tries
to figure himself out, but all he gets is a mash up of memories starring Pete.
"It was my uncle," Pete says, eyes still closed, head tipped back against the
car. His elbows are on his knees, hands limp. "I was eight the first time. He
was supposed to watch me and Hilary for the weekend while my parents took
Andrew to summer camp."
Patrick feels cold inside. He doesn't answer, but Pete doesn't need him to.
"He told me it was what grown ups did," he said, laughing a little. "Didn't I
want to be a grown up? So he touched me, and I let it happen." Patrick closes
his eyes. "He told me not to tell. That my parents would punish me and make me
go away." He swallows, hands balling into fists. "If I went away, he'd do it to
Hilary or Andrew."
A tear slips down over his cheek, dragging down a black smudge of eyeliner. He
breathes out slowly, the shake in his chest making it rattle. Patrick has never
seen him cry.
"Why me?" Patrick asks. It's selfish, but Pete laughs, a bark of a noise that
seems too loud in the quiet.
"You fucking worshiped the ground I walked on," Pete says, his fists loosening.
"I just. I wanted to make someone hurt like I did." He opens his eyes, and
they're wet, shining in the streetlights. "I'm sorry."
Patrick thinks he should be yelling, thinks that he should be asking questions
and laying blame and hitting. He doesn't though. A part of him knew, the part
that remembers bruises and finger marks on Pete's wrists and neck, the part of
him that remembers the far off look afterwards.
Pete leans into him, and Patrick wraps his arms around him. Pete cries into his
chest, big, silent sobs that make the SUV shake behind them, mumbling apologies
through it. It's not right, and it's not fair, and it doesn't make it better.
Patrick watches the sky go from pink to blue and wonders if anything ever will.
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