Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/150881.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      Gen, M/M
  Fandom:
      Fall_Out_Boy, Panic!_at_the_Disco
  Relationship:
      Patrick_Stump/Brendon_Urie, Brendon_Urie/Pete_Wentz
  Character:
      Brendon_Urie, Patrick_Stump, Pete_Wentz, Ryan_Ross, Spencer_Smith
  Additional Tags:
      Flashback, Blow_Jobs, Break_Up, Casual_Sex, Workplace, Workplace_Sex,
      Fights, POV_Outsider
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-01-10 Words: 1972
****** See the cost is more than what you get paid (do it anyway) ******
by azurejay_(andchimeras)
Summary
     "Them's the breaks, and ain't it always the way: it takes you back to
     from where it is you came." Flashback 2008. Everybody grows up.
Notes
     Title/summary from "Road Regrets" by Dan Mangan. I've had this off/on
     craving for NSA Patrick/Brendon studio-related shenanigans, and
     eventually I just started writing some myself. I've also wanted FAD
     recording tiems Pete'n'Patrick angst, so. Convergence, whoo. Also,
     okay, I love Patrick Vaughn Stump. A lot. He's my favourite. Even
     favourites get to be something like villains sometimes. Thank you to
     lalejandra and northern for beta assistance in time of great need!
The spraypaint on Pete's t-shirt was crusty, plasticky, coming up under
Brendon's nails like a scab. Pete's stubble harsh on his chin, cheeks, the
smell of Pete's hair dye and sweat colluding with the taste of beer and Pizza
Pops and the scent of Spencer's mom's detergent coming from baskets of clean
laundry in the corner of the basement. Brendon felt starry and sparkling and
spinny, like a pinwheel in high wind and bright sun.
It was the second time Pete came to Vegas, and the first time he kissed
Brendon, though Brendon thought he might have kissed or been kissed by Ryan
after that--they've never talked about it, and never will. It was just one
kiss, no nudity--nothing below the waist, in fact--a very long, involved,
sticky, brilliant kiss, but just one, all the same. They didn't do it again,
ever, not yet, and as Brendon lets himself sink in to the warm leather nest of
the chair in Patrick's dressing room at the studio, he doesn't think it very
likely they'll ever get back to it, because this--this is more than a little
better than a weird, sweaty make-out in someone else's basement.
Brendon pets Patrick affectionately on the head, and Patrick looks up at him,
eyes crinkled and happily focused, cheeks flushed. Brendon smiles at him and
gasps as Patrick squints up to the right and does something ridiculous with his
tongue, the head of Brendon's cock pressed against the living, liquid velvet
inside Patrick's cheek. The gasp trails off into a groan, low, from the still-
echoing pit of his stomach. He feels the sound rubbing against sweet spots in
his throat, thrumming from the recording session they just finished, the back
of his mouth a little raw from putting the growl on.
Patrick pulls off with a pop, lazily sliding his hand up and down Brendon's
cock instead, twisting his palm roughly over the head the end of each stroke.
Brendon never bothers with that on his own, even though it always looks fun
when he sees it in porn, and the tough skin of Patrick's hand feels amazing.
Patrick smiles at the rosy slickness of Brendon's cock, his free hand moving
from Brendon's thigh to his own lap. Brendon breathes in deep when he hears the
zipper, and moans as he watches Patrick tilt his head back and close his eyes
and sigh.
"Oh, shit," Patrick pants, rubbing Brendon's cock against his cheek, spit
shining on his flushed skin and slicking the edge of his sideburn. "Shit, man,
do that again."
Brendon obligingly moans again, pressing his hips up and his hands to his
chest, a good, hot pressure through his t-shirt, against his nipples.
Patrick presses his face to Brendon's balls, giving a long, hitching groan,
obviously coming. The vibration and the moist rush of Patrick's breath and the
noise itself sets Brendon off; he can feel his come squishing through Patrick's
fingers, out of the firm grip of his fist, like some kind of fantastical
combination of coming inside someone and coming in your pants.
"Jesus fuck, I needed that," Patrick sighs after a time, and Brendon can only
nod floppily, head leaned over the back of the leather chair.
Patrick braces himself on Brendon's thighs when he gets up, and Brendon
grumbles unhappily. Patrick laughs and kicks his foot lightly, reaching for his
half-melted iced coffee.
"Back to work, slackass," he says, and takes a long drink.
Brendon hooks his sneaker around the back of Patrick's calf and tugs him back
to the chair, and then closer, until Patrick leans one knee on the seat between
Brendon's knees and bends down to kiss him: sweat smell and cold, weak coffee
taste, and salt behind that.
There's a soft knock on the door and Patrick steps away, reaching for his hat
while Brendon scrambles to tuck himself in and pull his shirt over his fly.
Pete sticks his head in to the room and blinks at them, tentative smile fading,
eyes narrowing. "Neal's ready," he says finally, flatly.
"Okay," Patrick says, pulling his jacket back on, giving Pete a dismissive nod.
Pete crooks his mouth sardonically at Brendon and walks away from the door,
leaving it open.
Brendon tugs on the hem of his shirt, unsure what to say, what to do, his
tongue still cool and coffee-flavoured from Patrick's mouth.
"So thanks for helping out today," Patrick says. He slides his glasses back on
and smiles happily at Brendon. "It's good to see you."
"Yeah," Brendon says, putting on an enthusiastic smile, nodding busily. "It was
good to be here. I'm really, you know, I'm glad you guys asked me. Flashback
2005." He forces a laugh and winces at himself.
Patrick doesn't seem to notice Brendon's discomfort, wiping his hands with a
wetnap from the box on the vanity. "I'm looking forward to hearing something
new from you guys."
"Me too." And it's true, so his laugh is less forced. Patrick smirks back, an
understanding smirk--a smirk of recognition.
"Well," Patrick says, slipping his cell phone in his pocket. He steps back up
to Brendon and grabs him in a hug. Brendon closes his eyes and kisses Patrick's
ear, since he can't reach his cheek.
"Have a safe drive home," Patrick says into Brendon's shoulder, and gives him a
brief extra squeeze, fingers pressing into his back.
"Yeah, 'kay." Brendon nods and pats Patrick's back.
Patrick lets go and turns away without looking up at Brendon. He picks up his
guitar and leaves the room, head bowed a little, mouth set in a grim line.
Brendon puts his coat on, listening to the indistinct voices down the hall
outside. He stands near the door, bouncing on his toes a little, flexing his
fingers, unsure if he should wait until things grow quiet. He cocks his head
and cranes his neck and peeks out the gap between the door and its frame.
Pete is standing directly in the gap, across and about ten feet down the hall,
outside the studio door. Patrick is beside him, hand on the doorknob, shaking
his head.
Pete says something low and indistinct, and Patrick says, "I said it's none of
your business."
"He's my business, I'm his fucking boss, Patrick," Pete says, and Patrick
laughs meanly.
"So am I," he says. Brendon flinches; it wasn't like that; he knows all about
saying the worst possible thing, just to hurt someone, no matter if it's true
or not.
Pete's face turns to stone and he looks down at the floor, blinking rapidly.
Brendon presses his fingers into the wall to remind himself he's here,
watching, and wonders why he had to see this. What happened to living room jam
sessions?
Pete's fingers clench, claw-like, around his elbows. "We're trying to work,
here, and you--"
"We are working," Patrick says. "I'm trying to get back to work, in fact, and
I--"
"This isn't fucking Fleetwood Mac," Pete grits out. "You can't just--"
"Fuck you," Patrick spits, and Pete shuts up. "Fuck you and fuck your knocked
up fucking girlfriend and your cowardly fucking shotgun wedding and your
goddamn concept album, you fucking douchebag." He stabs his finger into Pete's
chest and Pete's hands drop, fisted, to his sides, his eyes wide and his mouth
twisted. "We're gonna go back in this fucking studio, and we're gonna finish
this shit, and we're gonna tour until Joe and Andy are as sick of your bullshit
as I am, and then we are done, do you understand what I'm saying, Wentz?"
Brendon leans against the wall beside the door, mouth dry and eyes smarting
from the fury in Patrick's face, in Patrick's voice. He looks down at his
sneakers and hears Patrick say, "Well?" and Pete say, "Yeah, fucking--fine,
okay, Jesus," tired and cracked. Brendon hadn't known it was this bad. His
chest hurts; his throat aches.
The soundproof studio door thunks open and closed.
Brendon wipes his damp palms on his jeans and remembers Pete in Vegas again,
sitting in the middle of the back seat of Spencer's mom's car: squished between
Ryan and Brent, Spencer driving, Brendon in the passenger seat.
"I'm a motherfucking mogul in the making," Pete said. "You think Jay-Z sits in
the goddamn front seat? Gimme some fucking room, here." And Ryan didn't exactly
laugh, staring at Pete with his hands tucked between his knees, and Brent
rolled his eyes and shifted over when Pete elbowed him with his sharp, sharp
elbows.
Spencer's hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel, but he didn't look
nervous. He didn't sound nervous when he barked at Ryan to move over, Jesus
Christ, dude. Brendon was sitting half turned around in the seat and one of his
hands was just sort of dangling between the seats, over the console, almost
touching the ripped knee of Pete's tight, tight jeans.
Pete shifted his knees farther apart and grinned at Brendon under $3 sunglasses
from the 7-11 by his school. "Patrick's gonna fucking love you, dude.
Seriously." He made a heart shape with his hands in front of his chest and
Brendon's fingers itched to replicate it. "Love."
Brendon smiled back and didn't look when Ryan scowled, didn't notice Brent
staring blankly out the window, and didn't wonder where they were going, or
why.
 
He puts his coat on and picks up his bag and his guitar before he opens the
door. Pete is still in the hallway, face tilted towards the floor, hands in his
hoodie pockets.
"Hey," Brendon says. He smiles a half-smile and shrugs with one shoulder when
Pete looks up.
"Hey, um," Pete says. His face screws up and he looks down the hall. "It's
fine, don't tell anybody about that, okay. Patrick and me--the band is fine."
Brendon blinks. "You guys fight all the time."
"Yeah," Pete says. "All the time." He looks at the floor some more. "You were
sixteen when I met you," Pete says, wonderingly.
"Seventeen," Brendon says.
Pete scrubs at his face and fists his hands in his hair, looking up at Brendon.
"Seventeen. Jesus Christ. How does that happen?" he says. "You were a kid when
I met you. Six years ago. You were, like, short."
"You were younger, too," Brendon says gently. Pete shakes his head.
"I'm not--I'm always the same. Everybody else, though--you keep getting, like."
He squeezes his eyes shut and sighs, heart-heavy. "Ryan and Spencer. Andy and
Joe were fifteen--"
"Pete, dude," Brendon says. He drops his stuff and steps across the hall to put
his hands on Pete's shoulders. This falling apart is too familiar; it's not
right. "You and Andy are the same age, man, come on."
"Patrick was fifteen," Pete says quietly. "You guys--you were kids." Brendon
breathes out slowly; this is the real thing, here. Pete lets go of his hair,
clumps sticking up, stiff with product, and puts his hands around Brendon's
wrists. Brendon steps closer and tilts his head down and kisses Pete on the
cheek, because Pete is married now, and this isn't like that, anyway. He can
feel Pete smile against his lips; Pete flexes his fingers around Brendon's
wrists once, lifts Brendon's hands off of him, and steps to the side.
Brendon looks at their hands between them, and at Pete. "You can't change it,"
Brendon says.
"No, I can't change it," Pete says. "I wouldn't. I mean. I wouldn't change it.
I'm going to be a dad."
Brendon feels like his face might crack when he smiles at that. "Yeah, pretty
soon, even."
Pete smiles back, sadly, and lets go of Brendon. "You just keep growing up."
"And up and up," Brendon agrees.
"Yeah," Pete says. He looks at the studio door, face undreadable. "Up and up
and away."
 
End.
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