Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4183341.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      No_Archive_Warnings_Apply, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Bandom, Fall_Out_Boy
  Relationship:
      Patrick_Stump/Pete_Wentz
  Character:
      Patrick_Stump, Pete_Wentz
  Additional Tags:
      Van_Days, Mental_Health_Issues, Light_BDSM, Biting
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-06-22 Words: 2564
****** I've Got Headaches (Heartaches to Heartbeat) ******
by coricomile
Summary
     Somewhere in the back of his head, he's counting seconds and
     heartbeats and anything that moves. OCD, bipolar, sleepless in
     seventeen, eighteen, nineteen states. He's trying to go cold turkey,
     but he's been a chemical plant since he was thirteen and his teeth
     ache with the want.
The rooms all look the same anymore, a blur of double beds and flower print
wallpaper that never really registers until after he's fallen into bed, eyes
glued shut by exhaustion. The beds feel like static. Cold sheets and hard
pillows, and Pete usually passes out on top of it all, shoes still on.
He doesn't know how long they've been on the road, but he can't remember
anything but the rumble of tires under him and the endless stretch of road,
road, road, lying across the world like a black ribbon, taking him far away
from home. He hates to drive, gets carsick when he doesn't. The music in his
veins pulses with each state line like a reminder. I'm still here. Don't
forget.
The nights he can't sleep, he stares at the ceiling of his motel room, eyes dry
and stinging until he can trick his body into falling off the edge. He sleeps
better in the van, arms and legs cramped, face pressed to Patrick's stomach or
thigh or hip, too hot to fight.
He hasn't had his drugs in weeks.
Somewhere in the back of his head, he's counting seconds and heartbeats and
anything that moves. OCD, bipolar, sleepless in seventeen, eighteen, nineteen
states. He's trying to go cold turkey, but he's been a chemical plant since he
was thirteen and his teeth ache with the want. The headaches stumble around
behind his eyes and kick at the insides of his skull in pulses and waves.
They're in Jersey or Rhode Island or New York. Somewhere with a lot of trees
and a lot of roads and a lot of highway. The van hops over potholes in the
pavement, sure and safe in Joe's hands at the front. Pete's gut rumbles, bile
rising up in his throat. He'll be sick if they keep going, but they'll be late
if he makes them pull over.
"Open your eyes," Patrick says, one warm hand resting low on Pete's stomach.
His fingers rub circles across the skin there, rough and cool and dry. "Watch
the trees."
Pete cracks open an eye and does as he's told. The nausea fades into the
background as he watches the blur of leaves through the window.
"Car sickness is when your ears know you're moving, but your eyes think you're
sitting still," Patrick says. He always falls asleep during the ride, no matter
how short, and his voice is thick with the tiredness. His eyes are narrowed
behind the crooked frames of his glasses, lips cracked and chapped at the
corners.
"Your useless trivia is impressive," Pete says, voice a croak. He hasn't spoken
all day and it feels like giving up to do it now. They're twenty, nineteen,
eighteen miles from the motel, getting closer with each second.
Patrick rubs the side of his thumb against the side of Pete's belly button and
nods back off.
They have two rooms. Andy helps Joe haul Patrick out of the van while Pete
heaves against the side of it, the sugar of his coffee coming up for a second
taste. He stumbles along after them, keys jangling in his hand as they make
their way to the check-in counter.
"Two rooms for Trohman," Joe tells the clerk. The clerk gives them a once over,
and Pete just manages to keep himself from pulling a face out of spite. They're
haggard and tired and probably smell like they've been driving for thirty-six
hours in close quarters.
Patrick's awake when they reach room two-twenty-two. He's got their overnight
bag over his shoulder, the room keys in his hand. Pete's not allowed to carry
them anymore, not after losing them at a show in Kentucky. Patrick's got a
memory like an elephant; it's usually more curse than blessing.
"Get undressed," Patrick says once he's shut the door. He drops their bag and
heads for the bed closest to the door, kicking his shoes off on the way. They
bounce off the wall, double thuds that echo in the silence. It's only seven o'
clock, but the sky outside the window is dark.
Pete gets undressed.
The sheets are cold on his skin, Patrick a fire next to him. The fuzz behind
his eyes dies down a little as Patrick curls around him, small and soft and
good. Pete presses his face to the cotton of his shirt and breathes him in. He
can taste pavement on the back of his tongue.
"One to ten," Patrick says, fingers curling in the dirty strands of Pete's
hair. "How's your head?"
Pete presses his nose into the give of Patrick's stomach until it feels flat,
pressed down against his face. Patrick tugs at his hair lightly. It's not a
warning, but Pete takes it like one.
"Six," Pete answers. He misses his pills. Patrick's fingers loosen, his nails
scritching against Pete's scalp.
"Do you want me to take care of it?" Patrick asks. He always asks, even though
Pete's never said no. Pete nods against him. "Say it."
"Please," Pete says, already falling down into himself. With Patrick, he
doesn't have to be Pete. With Patrick, he doesn't have to be anyone at all.
Patrick slides out from under him, easy as breathing, and rolls Pete to his
front, careful hands and careful fingertips, stuttered breathing like candy.
The sheets are cold, the pillows are flat, and Patrick's skimming his knuckles
over the raised bumps of Pete's spine, playing him like a new instrument.
"Close your eyes," Patrick says, breath hot on the small of Pete's back.
With the world black, everything narrows down to the pressure of Patrick's hips
between Pete's calves, and the rustling sound of Patrick's shirt falling to the
floor. Pete's waiting for it, but he's still surprised when he feels the brush
of Patrick's mouth against his side.
"Let it go," Patrick says. His lips slide across Pete's back, rough edges and
plush softness that Pete dreams about. Pete tries to drop the crazies away,
tries to say goodbye to the sleeplessness and the sickness and the doubt, but
sometimes words aren't enough. Trying isn't enough.
Patrick's tongue curls around the ink at the dip of Pete's back, hot and slick.
It makes Pete ache, makes his blood run hot through him. He's getting hard
against the sheets, trapped. The sharp suddenness of Patrick's teeth digging
into his skin makes him jerk, and the idle thoughts about the bag of blue pills
in Chicago flies away, forgotten like dust.
Eight sharp point fingertips dig into his sides, too hard to be ticklish. They
slot in between his ribs, and Patrick could melt into him, take him over
entirely, and Pete would be fine with it. When Patrick drags him backward Pete
goes, hefting up onto his knees even though they feel weak.
"Think about me," Patrick says. "Think about this." His tongue slides wet and
lewd across Pete's ass, his teeth biting across the fleshiest parts. Pete drops
his chin to his chest and keeps his eyes closed. The blur of color and motion
behind his eyes fades away, and all he can see is dark.
Patrick's hands slide down to his hips, holding him in place. Pete still jerks
when Patrick licks a steady line up his spine, the soft skin of his belly
skidding across Pete's ass. The pressure of his still soft dick is against
Pete's thigh, warm through the worn fabric of his underwear. Pete tries to push
against him, wiggles and thinks enjoy this, please.
"Think about this," Patrick says again, nose trailing a line across the side of
Pete's throat. "Don't think about anything else."
The heavy pressure of Patrick against him is comforting; he's weighed down to
the earth, can't float away into the darkness inside his head. He can feel his
heartbeat echoing back into him through Patrick's fingers, his pulse speeding
up when Patrick nips at his jaw, his throat, his shoulder.
When Patrick's teeth sink into his shoulder, Pete sags into the bed. The pent
up energy stored in his arms and legs surges up into the pain and drains away.
When he presses back again, he can feel Patrick getting hard against him, the
head of his dick poking out of the slit in his boxers to drag across the back
of Pete's thigh.
"Open your mouth," Patrick says. Pete does, unsurprised when he feels the rough
pads of Patrick's fingertips slip over his tongue. "You don't have to talk,"
Patrick says as he slides them back and forth, "but you can, if you want."
He keeps his fingers in Pete's mouth for a moment longer, thrusting them in
almost too far back, letting Pete think. When they drop away, Pete feels
emptied out. Lost.
"Please," he says. "Can I see you?" He doesn't open his eyes, even though they
burn. He feels sick all over again. His eyes think he's standing still when,
really, he's running at light speed. Patrick taps a cool, wet finger against
his collar.
"Will you, you know, be okay?" Patrick asks. Pete wants to laugh. He wants to
say no, but that's not really the point.
"Please," he says instead. "I want to."
So, Patrick rolls him to his back, legs spread wide and slutty over Pete's,
bare chest blotchy pink and white. He looks tired, glasses off and eyes a
little crossed as he tries to focus. Something warm and sharp explodes in
Pete's chest. He flattens his palm over Patrick's bare stomach, fingers splayed
open to show pale patches in between. Patrick bumps it away.
"Don't," he says. Pete wants to turn him over and touch him until he passes
out, wants to curl his fingers around the softness of his stomach, wants to
press his face to the firm lines of his thighs. The slope of Patrick's
shoulders means he's exhausted, and Pete feels guilt well up in his chest,
swarming up the back of his throat like bile.
"You don't have to-"
Patrick's fingers land more in his mouth than on it, salty and warm. He
shuffles down, tucking his knees between Pete's and pushing them open.
"I take it back. You're not allowed to talk." He presses down on Pete's tongue
with two fingers . "Suck."
Pete thinks fleetingly about not doing it, about spitting them out and
wrestling Patrick down until he goes to sleep. But then Patrick's mouth falls
hot and slick around the head of his dick, and he remembers that he's always
been more selfish than good, and he does as he's told.
Patrick sucks dick like he does everything else: focused and sure and
unbelievably well. Tonight, he's sloppier than usual, a thick line of spit
running down the edge of his jaw to Pete's hip, sliding down to the back of his
balls. Pete splits Patrick's fingers with his tongue and lifts his hips. He
feels like he's going to fall apart.
The first blunt pressure of Patrick's fingers against his hole makes Pete jerk.
The heavy weight of Patrick's arm over his hips holds him down, and he feels
trapped suddenly, unable to get loose. Panic wells up in him, his legs and arms
going tight.
"Pete," Patrick says against his thigh. "I'm here. Breathe." And he does,
Pavlov's dog addicted to the sound of his name on Patrick's tongue.
Patrick twists his wrist, and Pete can feel his finger wriggling inside him,
strange and familiar, and he forgets about the road and the music and the
pressure.
The second fingers slides in, slick and blunt, and Pete squirms up against
Patrick's arm, fighting the pressure. He's probably going to win, the
sleepiness of Patrick's eyes egging him on. Then, Patrick's teeth dig into the
big part of his thigh, vicious and sharp, and Pete shouts, ignores the pounding
on the wall from the people next to them.
His skin throbs, heartbeat on the surface, and he's so focused on the ache of
it that he doesn't realize Patrick's pulling back and away until he feels the
blunt end of Patrick's dick pressing against him, slick from the condom Pete
never saw him grab.
Patrick inside him feels like home and good and right, blasts away all the
broken pieces inside of him to make room for the whole parts he's been missing
all along. He grabs at Patrick's arms, fingers slipping down to wrap around his
wrists. They strain under his hands, muscles contracting as Patrick slides in
all the way, the heavy weight of his balls pressed up against Pete's ass.
Some nights, Patrick stays like this for what feels like hours, letting Pete
shake around him, taking all of Pete's problems and spitting them away.
Tonight, he draws his hips back quick and shoves in again, too fast and too
hard, scooting Pete up on the sheets. He's going to fuck Pete to sleep, and if
he isn't better than any drug, Pete doesn't know what is.
Patrick's watching him, cheeks pink, mouth red and open. His shoulders jerk
every time he thrusts in, but he doesn't pull his hands away from Pete's, just
links their fingers and tries to brace himself on the mattress. Pete's thigh
slides slick against Patrick's, his calf looping into the bent hollow of
Patrick's knee. It raises his hips, opens him up, and Patrick sinks deep enough
into him that Pete feels like he can taste him in the back of his throat.
Pete's wound tight, toes curling against the curve of Patrick's ankle. The
cotton of Patrick's boxers is bunched up between them, digging into Pete's skin
and getting damp, and Pete wishes he were naked, wishes that they could melt
down into each other. Patrick frees a hand and wraps it around Pete's dick,
jerking him off like it's his only mission.
Pete laughs, hoarse, and Patrick grinds into him, making his breath stutter. He
hiccups back and forth, up into Patrick's damp palm, back onto his dick, trying
to find that place that'll knock him sane. Patrick's knee slips on the sheets
and he comes forward, half collapsed on Pete, and it startles Pete into coming,
his dick stuck between his and Patrick's bellies, spurting helplessly over
Patrick's fingers.
"Shit," he breathes out, hands scrabbling up to wrap around Patrick's
shoulders, nails digging into his skin. He's oversensitive, going soft in the
cradle of Patrick's hand, but Patrick's breathing hot and hard against his
throat, close enough that Pete can feel it. "Come on. Fuck. Come on." And
Patrick never listens to him, but he jerks his hips a half dozen times, short
thrusts that make Pete shake, and bites down on Pete's shoulder again, going
statue still.
For the first time in days, Pete feels safe inside his own skin.
Pete doesn't let Patrick pull out. He flips them over, sore outside and in, and
curls up on Patrick's chest like an oversized cat. He can feel the labored rise
and fall of Patrick's chest, knows he's going to feel filthy in the morning,
and absolutely does not care.
"Go to sleep," Patrick wheezes out, sticky hand landing in Pete's hair.
In the morning Pete climbs behind the wheel, coffee in one hand, keys in the
other, and Patrick sits in the passenger's seat, watching the trees fly by. For
once, Pete knows that he's standing perfectly still.
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