Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/522666.
  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:
      Dubious_Consent, Stockholm_Syndrome, Kidnapping
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-09-27 Words: 8216
****** We Are Nowhere And It's Now ******
by coricomile
Summary
     Pete unlocked his front door with the boy pressed up against it,
     thighs slipping down Pete's sides. The boy snuffled in his sleep and
     slapped weakly at Pete's shoulder, face scrunching up. Bad dream.
     Pete soothed a hand over his damp forehead, brushing his bangs away,
     and let himself finally look at what might have been his best steal
     ever.
Pete stared up at the house, eying the dark windows warily. The cars that
usually cluttered up the driveway were gone, the front porch light off. Pete
drummed his fingers against the steering wheel nervously, tapping his foot down
on the brake. The radio played static as the clock flashed at him.
12:41
12:42
He’d been watching the Stump house for a week. It was big enough to have
valuables, small enough to not have security. There were three people inside-
mother and father and son, all hustling around each other in their own orbits.
Pete felt like he knew them. Like he knew the scripts inside their heads. Not
for much longer. Not after tonight.
Pete stepped out of the car and pulled his backpack from the passenger side
seat. He closed the door quietly and glanced down the street, looking for any
signs of life. No one came running. No one stopped him, or shouted criminal.
Thief. He took deep breaths, walking calmly towards the front door, lock pick
kit bouncing off his thigh with each step.
The front porch was shaded, rocking chairs at each end, the wood faded by time
and wear. A board creaked under Pete’s weight as he knelt by the door. He
sucked in a breath, hands frozen on his pockets. The air burned in his lungs as
he held it, waiting for someone to see him, to point him out. When he realized
no one was coming, he shook his hands, shook his head.
This is the last house, he told himself. One last house, and you’re set.
It didn’t calm his nerves, but it gave him the strength to keep his hands
steady as he unfolded his lock pick kit, as he slid the hook into the lock and
pressed his ear to the door. The tumblers groaned, but, one by one, they popped
open until, finally, the lock clicked. Pete let out a long breath through his
nose. He was in.
The Stumps were making it too easy. There was a wallet clip on the living room
table, a laptop on an armchair. Jewelry in the dining room. Pete slid his
backpack off his shoulders and began shoving what he could inside. He searched
the kitchen for cash stores, pumping his fist when he found a stack of fifties
at the bottom of a cookie jar. He slipped two laptops into his bag, eyed the
gaming consoles in the living room.
The bulk of the laptops were filling the largest spaces in his bag, already
weighing him down. Pete gave the DVD players and game consoles a sad look
before heading up the stairs. He ducked into the first bedroom and grinned to
himself. Jackpot.
Mrs. Stump’s jewelry box was filled with rings and necklaces and trinkets that
sparkled enough to catch a pretty penny at the pawnshop, if not a real
jeweler’s. Pete upturned the entire box into his bag, listening to the rattle
as it went down. He checked under the mattress for another cash store,
disappointed when all he found was porn. The closet produced collector’s coins
and an army pocket watch. The dresser coughed out a handful of crumpled tens.
Pete did a second round of the room before ducking into the next one.
He slid open the top drawer of the dresser closest to the door, shoving boxers
and undershirts out of the way to feel at the smooth grain of the wood. He was
about to shove it in and go for the second drawer when a soft snore rose from
the behind him. Pete stiffened, hand tightening on the strap of his book bag.
Slowly, he turned and dared a glance at the bed.
There was a lump in the middle, bundled up in plaid covers, head covered to the
top. On the nightstand, there were dozens of crumpled tissues, spilling out
into a pile on the floor, curling around a toxic green, half-empty bottle of
Nyquil. Pete took a step forward. Another. The figure in the bed coughed, the
covers sliding down to his chest as he turned from one side to the other, legs
tangling in the under sheets.
This was not the boy Pete had seen. He was too young, too small. Pete bit the
inside of his cheek to keep from cursing, one foot sliding back behind the
other, ready to escape. The boy in the bed coughed again, his thick, pink lips
open against his pillowcase. Pete stilled.
The boy’s face was round, pink-cheeked around his pallor. His hair was red,
messy around his head, greasy with the sweat that stuck it to his temples. He
pressed his thumb to his lower lip in his sleep, the memory of thumbsucking
from his past. The sleep shirt he wore had risen up over his hip, showing the
faintest traces of babyfat sticking to his middle. He had to be no more than
sixteen, sweet and ripe.
Pete wanted to take him.
Pete grit his teeth and pressed his thumbnail into his palm. There was a
difference between stealing things and stealing kids. He couldn’t- stealing
this kid wouldn’t bring him any closer to Paris. He needed to get to Paris.
That was the whole point of turning breaking-and-entering into a new sport.
Carefully, Pete inched forward until he was next to the bed. He held his
breath, leaned down to look closer. The boy sniffled. Something beat hard in
Pete’s chest, and his hands slid from backpack to bed sheets to soft, hot skin.
The boy turned his cheek into Pete’s touch, Pete caved.
The plastic dose cup on the nightstand was still wet around the sides, Nyquil
bleeding down into a sticky puddle at the bottom. Pete held his breath and
hoped that the kid was a heavy sleeper. Slowly, carefully, he pulled back the
sheet, breath held until it made him lightheaded. When the boy was bared on the
bed, curled in around a pillow, Pete let his breath out in a rush.
Sweat slid slick down Pete’s back under his backpack as he wrapped wary fingers
around the boy’s wrist. He moved gently, pulling the pillow away, fitting his
hands under the curve of the boy’s arms to heft him up. The kid coughed weakly,
but his eyes were shut when Pete looked up at them.
The kid was heavy, the firm lines of his arms and roundness of his stomach a
little less tempting when faced with the added weight. Pete slid one arm under
the bare crook of the boy’s knees, the other under his back. He steeled
himself, planting his feet on the carpet, and lifted.
If things were going to go wrong, Pete hoped it would happen then, when he
could still hightail it out without injury. If the kid woke up while Pete was
putting him in the car, things could get messy, fast. Pete closed his eyes and
swallowed down the fear. He wanted this boy, and he was going to have him.
Gingerly, he took small, even steps across the room, trying to balance himself
between the kid’s weight at his front and the weight of his backpack on his
shoulders. When he reached the stairs, he sent up a little prayer and stepped
down, one minute step after another. The kid squirmed when they reached the
bottom platform, his hot forehead pressing into Pete’s throat.
“Shh,” Pete whispered hoarsely. “I’ve got you.” The boy sniffled, but he held
still, legs and arms hanging limply down.
The walk from stairs to living room to front door seemed to take longer than it
had before, each footstep louder. Pete hefted the kid up higher in his arms as
he reached for the doorknob, twisting it open awkwardly. The night was colder.
The boy squirmed again, turning, nearly falling out of Pete’s hold. Pete
scrambled to catch him, cursing under his breath as he fell back against the
porch wall.
“Jesus, kid,” Pete huffed out, shoving himself forward. His arms were getting
sore, shaking a little under the boy’s weight. It took most of Pete’s willpower
to walk to the car instead of attempt, and most likely fail, to jog there.
It was harder to open the backdoor of the car, and his hands fumbled blindly
caught in the bunch of the kid’s underwear stuck on his thumb. Pete breathed a
sigh of relief when the door clicked. Carefully, he bent, ducking into the car,
nearly on top of the kid as he laid him out as gently as he could.
“Shit. You’ve got to be freezing.” Pete slid his backpack off his shoulders,
tossing it onto the floor, and unzipped his hoodie. He tucked it around the
boy’s thighs, fingers skimming over the soft skin, nails scratching through the
thin, soft hair there. “I am going to jail, and then I’m going to Hell.”
Pete shook his head and closed the door before sliding behind the wheel.
---
Getting the kid into his apartment was surprisingly easy. Somewhere between the
car to the front door, he’d managed to prop the boy up enough to hold him like
an oversized toddler, one arm under his ass, the other around his back. His
heels thumped against the backs of Pete’s thighs as he walked, and his head
rolled on Pete’s shoulder, but he slept peacefully enough.
The apartment was really one half of a duplex, the house cut into an even
split. Pete had the right side, and was pretty sure the left side was only used
once or twice a month by a man and his mistress. He’s broken into it a few
times, disappointed to find almost nothing each time. The heat vents rattled,
and there was never enough hot water, but rent was cheap, the neighborhood was
quiet, and the landlord never bothered him.
Pete unlocked his front door with the boy pressed up against it, thighs
slipping down Pete’s sides. For the first time since entering the Stump house,
Pete stopped and let himself look at what might have been his best steal ever.
The kid snuffled and slapped weakly at Pete’s shoulder, face scrunching up. Bad
dream. Pete soothed a hand over the boy’s forehead, brushing his bangs away.
Pete had never been happier to have a ground floor bedroom. He kicked his way
through the clutter of wires and clothes on the floor until he reached his
unmade bed. Slowly, he lowered the kid down onto it, covering him all the way
up to his chin.
---
The kid didn’t scream when he woke up, which Pete appreciated, but he did
curse. A lot. Pete rubbed the sleep from his eyes, yawning into his hand. His
back ached from sleeping on the couch, and his mouth felt too dry. He shuffled
his way to the bedroom where he could hear the boy trying to yank the door
open.
“Hey,” Pete said through the door. “Calm down, dude.”
“Where am I?” The kid asked.
“With me?” Pete plopped himself down on the floor, crossing his legs. “So,
first of all, you sleep like the dead, kid. Seriously.”
“Let me go.”
“I’m not holding on to you,” Pete pointed out. “Look, I’m Pete, and I, uh,
stole you.” There was a brief silence on the other side of the door, and then
the flurry of curses and pounding on the door reached a fever pitch. “You’re
gonna hurt yourself. Calm down.” Pete winced when the kid coughed, wet and
loud. “That sounds pretty gruesome. Oh, hey. What’s your name? I can’t just
keep calling you kid.”
“I want to go home.” The boy hit the door one more time before settling down
next to it. Pete pressed his palm flat against it. He could feel the kid’s heat
through the wood.
“I’m fun, really. And if you stay here? You won’t have to go to school, or do
chores- well, maybe help cook, can you cook?- or work or whatever.” Pete pulled
his hand back and wrapped his arms around his legs. His jeans were dirty and
creased. “Just. Be my friend?”
“Are you going to hurt me?” The boy asked quietly. Pete winced.
“No, no. I don’t-“ He sighed and pushed himself up onto his knees. “Hey, if I
open the door don’t, like, hit me or anything, okay?” There wasn’t a reply, but
Pete took the chance anyway. He took the block off the lock and turned the
doorknob carefully.
Inside, the kid was curled up in a ball in a corner, head on his arms. He
sniffled, and Pete’s heart hurt when he realized it wasn't because of his cold.
Pete slid down next to him, ignoring the wince that he was met with when he
rubbed the boy’s tense shoulders.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Pete said softly. “What’s your name?” The boy mumbled
something into his knees. “Come on, it’s okay.”
“Patrick.”
“Hey, Patrick,” Pete said quietly. “I. I steal a lot of things. But I like you
best.”
“I’m not a thing,” Patrick said, lifting his head. His eyes were red, the edges
of tears in the corners of his eyes. “I’m a person, and you kidnapped me.”
“I wanted you,” Pete said, scratching at the back of his head. “I don’t want to
hurt you, okay? I won’t. Promise. I just want. You.”
Patrick stared at him, eyes narrowed. Pete smiled wide, trying to be disarming.
It came as a shock, then, when Patrick cocked his fist and smashed it across
Pete’s jaw. Pete nearly toppled back, hands flying to his face.
“Ow, dude. Ow.” Pete rubbed at his face, peeking out through his fingers.
Patrick was looking at him, tensed like he was waiting for retaliation. “Okay,
I might have deserved it, but still. Look, I just want your company, okay? I’ll
give you anything you want for it.”
“I want to go home.”
“Try me on for size,” Pete said, pushing himself up. He offered his hand.
Patrick glared at it, pulling his knees closer to his chest. “Come on. I’ll
make you pancakes.” Pete kept his smile in place, arm outstretched until it
hurt. Timidly, like he was reaching for a rabid dog, Patrick placed his hand in
Pete's. Pete's grin felt more real. "That's the spirit."
Patrick let Pete help him up, pulling his hand back when he was on his feet.
There were goosebumps on his arms, the fine hairs standing on end. Pete
grimaced.
"I forgot clothes." He scratched the back of his head, eying Patrick's waist.
The chunk was a good look on him, but it ruled out Pete's pants at least.
"Shit. Um." He turned to his closet, yanking out hangers and tossing them on
the bed. Finally, he found his old soccer sweats, and he crowed, feeling
accomplished.
Patrick hadn't moved, which Pete was thankful for, but he seemed to be taking
in his surroundings, eying the posters on the walls, the photographs of friends
Pete hadn't seen in years. He jumped when Pete tossed him the sweats.
"I'll have to find you something else later," Pete said sheepishly.
"Pete," Patrick said softly as he pulled on the sweats. There were tight around
his hips and thighs, a little long. He looked like he belonged. Pete's heart
swelled. "Why did you take me?"
"Dude, don't do the slow you're-an-idiot thing on me," Pete replied, clicking
his tongue. "I told you. I wanted you." Pete took Patrick's hand again and
tugged him toward the kitchen.
Patrick sat at the table, silent while Pete busied himself with the pancakes
he'd promised. His heart was thudding in his chest, his mind racing. He was so
stupid. He'd taken this kid, and he- No. It would be okay. He'd ask Joe if he
could spare a little cash, sell what he'd taken from the Stump house, and buy
tickets to Paris. It would be okay.
"You can, like, watch cartoons or something," Pete said over his shoulder,
spooning the first of the batter onto the griddle.
"I. Can you understand why I'm upset right now?" Patrick asked, dropping his
head to the table. He ran a hand through his hair before looking up. "Do you,
like, have lack of, shit, what is it? Empathy? Like, do you not connect?"
"I am extremely empathetic," Pete answered. He flipped the pancakes and tapped
the spatula against his thigh. "I'm lonely, Rick. I don't want to hurt you,
y'know? I swear, seriously. I just want to make you breakfast in the mornings,
and watch TV with you at night, and maybe kiss you somewhere in between."
Patrick's shoulders went rigid, the flush from his cheeks fading rapidly. Pete
swore. He flipped the burner off and sat across the table from Patrick, trying
not to notice the way the boy flinched back.
"I'm sorry. That. That didn't come out the way it was supposed to."
"I'm not- I want to go home." Patrick sucked on his lower lip, snuffling. Pete
touched the back of his hand gently.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he said again. "Just. Let me have you for a while,
okay?" Patrick’s fingers closed as he couched. Pete scrambled to grab him a
glass of orange juice. When he turned around, Patrick was holding his head in
his hands, fingers in his hair.
“If I. If I stay here, how long until you let me go home?” Patrick didn’t look
up when Pete sat the orange juice next to him. Pete grinned and turned back to
his pancakes.
“A week. Just give me a week.” Pete placed a stack of pancakes proudly in front
of Patrick. Patrick stared up at him, and Pete’s heart sunk. “If you don’t want
to stay after a week, I can bring you home.”
“And never take me again?”
“…And never take you again.”
---
Pete sat at one end of the couch, Patrick on the other. There was a small pile
of balled up toilet paper on the floor in front of Patrick’s feet, the rest of
the orange juice carton at his side. Even with his cherry-red nose and watery
eyes, Pete couldn’t stop staring at him. He couldn’t stop the voice in the back
of his head saying this is the best thing you’ve ever stolen. Pete scooted
closer, lifting the edge of the quilt over Patrick’s lap to cover his own.
Patrick leaned into the arm of the couch.
“Why do you steal?” Patrick asked, still staring at the television. Pete
thumbed his nose and inched closer.
“Dude, you can’t laugh, but.” Pete pulled his legs onto the couch, listing
sideways to rest his shoulder against the boy’s. He pretended not to notice how
tense it was. “I’m going to Paris to be a fashion designer.” There was a pause.
Patrick looked over at him, nose bumping against Pete’s forehead, and, then, he
laughed. It was a little bitter, but Pete fell in love with the sound
instantly.
“You really think people are going to dress like you?” Patrick wasn’t smiling,
but Pete could feel some of the tension edge off. Pete scrunched his nose.
“I am a fantastic designer,” he said. “I just don’t have the cash on my own.”
“…Get a job?”
“Three hours at the coffee house a week does not a plane ticket make,” Pete
said. When he turned his face into Patrick’s neck, Patrick’s arms went tight,
but he didn’t move away. Pete smiled.
---
The pile of tissues was bigger, and the empty orange juice container had been
replaced with a two empty bowls of what had been tomato soup. Patrick had
stopped tensing every time Pete touched him, but the one time Pete had tried to
hold his hand, he’d jerked away hard enough to nearly knock himself off the
couch. Pete took it in stride, camping out on Patrick’s lap, prodding at the
kid’s stomach until he turned Mythbusters on.
Patrick was nearly asleep, head nodding down and jerking back up every few
minutes. Pete yawned and looked up at the clock. It was nearly midnight. An
entire day spent with Patrick. Pete grinned to himself and rolled to the floor.
“Wake up,” he said quietly, shaking Patrick’s thigh. He fell over backwards
when Patrick’s knee jerked up, hitting him in the chest. Patrick didn’t
apologize. Pete laughed. Patrick looked terrified as Pete led him into the
bedroom, clutching the quilt to his chest. “Hey, dude, it’s okay.”
“Are you- Do I have to-“
“No! No!” Pete held his hands up, trying to be as unassuming as possible. “I
mean, if you want to-“
“Not really,” Patrick said flatly.
“Oh.” Pete felt his shoulders hunch. He crinkled his nose and shucked his jeans
off. Patrick’s eyes got wide, his shuffling steps backwards a kick to Pete’s
gut. “Hey, I just want to sleep next to you, okay? You’re skittish.”
“I wonder why,” Patrick replied. He waited until Pete was under the covers to
step forward. His eyes closed, he slipped in as far away from Pete as he could,
curling in on himself. Pete flipped the light off.
The silence hurt. Pete stared at the back of the boy’s head, listening to his
stuttered breathing. Eventually, the tightness in Patrick's back faded, his
curl around his stomach loosened.
Pete raised one hand, pressing it flat against Patrick's back. He could feel
the last of the boy's fever fading out through his shirt, could feel the hitch
of his breath as he dreamed. Pete hoped it was about him.
---
Sometime, in the middle of the night, Patrick had turned in his sleep,
burrowing up against Pete’s chest. Pete woke to his warmth and a mouthful of
dirty hair. He smiled and tilted his head up, wrapping one arm around Patrick’s
waist. Things were going better. This was proof.
The sunlight filtering in through the window kept Pete from falling back into
sleep. He rubbed his hand over the soft curve of Patrick’s side before slipping
out of the bed quietly, heading towards the kitchen.
By time he’d made eggs and toast, he heard Patrick’s soft cough, the creak of
the bed as he rolled out of it. Six footsteps later, he could see Patrick's
pink face above the quilt he'd wrapped himself in. Pete smiled brightly at him.
Patrick scrunched his nose and shuffled to the table, yawning without bothering
to cover it.
"Morning, sunshine." Pete placed a plate in front of him, settling down across
from him. Patrick grunted something that could have been a greeting. "Is your
cold any better?"
Patrick sniffled once, but it sounded clearer. Pete sat up straighter in his
chair. This meant he could take Patrick outside, maybe buy him something. Pete
winced, thinking about his Paris stash. He could afford to spend some of it. It
just meant prolonging trip, was all. Patrick, with his pink nose and messy
hair, was worth that.
After breakfast, Pete dug through his closet again until he found a pair of his
brother's old jeans and a t-shirt that Joe had left over. He handed them and a
towel to Patrick and marched him to the bathroom.
"Pete," Patrick said when he stepped past the door. "Can I call my mom today?"
Pete's heart dropped. Patrick must have seen something in his face, because he
started to reach out before thinking better of it, leaving his hand dangling in
midair. "I won't tell her what happened. I just want to let her know I'm okay."
"Yeah," Pete replied finally. He dropped his chin against his chest, feeling
young and chastened. “Um, hey, I don't really have a lot of clothes that you
can wear so. I was. Do you want to go to the mall?"
Patrick stared at him over the pile of clothes in his hands, blinking. Pete
scratched the back of his neck self-consciously. He was ready to turn and go
back to the living room, but Patrick cleared his throat.
"Aren't you, like, worried I'll run away, or whatever?" He asked.
"Not really," Pete answered honestly. "I mean, I haven't done anything to make
you want to run, have I?"
"...You kidnapped me."
"Stole you," Pete corrected, waving a hand. "It's different."
"Right," Patrick said slowly, blinking.
"So. Do you want to go?"
"Um. Sure." Patrick took a step back. "I'm gonna..." He waved a hand at the
shower. Pete nodded, heading back to the kitchen when he heard the lock click.
Pete was watching an old episode of The Powerpuff Girls when Patrick walked
into the living room. The jeans were long, covering Patrick's bare feet as he
shuffled forward. They hugged the curve of his thighs and hips, though, tight
as anything Pete wore. The shirt was tight across Patrick's broad shoulders,
the faded logo clinging to the little swell of his belly. His hair was ruffled
and wild, still wet, and his cheeks were pink and clean. Pete wanted to keep
him forever.
"I, uh, threw my dirty clothes in the hamper," Patrick said, crossing his arms
over his stomach. "Can I call mom now?"
Pete handed over his phone, pressing star-six-seven before Patrick dialed his
home number. Pete could hear the ringing, his heart thundering in his chest.
What if Patrick turned him in? What if Patrick was really calling the police?
The ringing clicked over to a voicemail, and Patrick's shoulders slumped.
"Mom, it's me," he said softly. "I'm sorry I left. I. I needed to help a
friend. I'm okay." He closed his eyes, lower lip wavering a little. "I'll be
home in a few days. I love you."
When Pete pulled him into a hug, Patrick didn't fight it.
---
The mall was busy for a Thursday, filled with kids that were probably skipping
classes. Pete had driven them to the mall farthest from Patrick's neighborhood,
talking nonstop to fill the silence.
Patrick let Pete hold his wrist as he pulled him from store to store, looking
for clothes. Pete thought Patrick was finicky. Patrick told him that he had a
dick, thank you, and it liked breathing room.
Patrick finally broke in JC Penny’s, taking the pile of clothes Pete had filled
his arms with into the dressing room, mumbling darkly to himself.
"You know," he said as he modeled the fourth pair of too-tight jeans, "I don't
really need that many clothes if I'm only going to be with you for five more
days."
"I have absolute faith in my charms, Rick," Pete responded. "You'll be begging
to play sleepover by the week's end."
"I bet." Patrick rolled his eyes and stepped back into the dressing room.
In the end, Pete bought four pairs of jeans, three t-shirts, the ugliest
sweater he'd ever seen, and three hats. Patrick didn't say thank you, but he
did let Pete link their fingers together loosely on the way to the food court.
"So," Pete said around a mouthful of lo mien, "tell me about yourself."
"I'm sixteen and being held hostage?" Patrick raised his eyebrows pointedly as
he bit into his egg roll. "Is that a good start?"
"You're being cherished, not held hostage." Pete tried not to take the
tightening of Patrick's jaw too seriously. "No, really though. Like, what do
you like?"
Patrick was silent for a moment, chewing thoughtfully, chopsticks tapping a
soft staccato beat on the table. Pete tried not to stare too hard.
"Music," Patrick finally said.
"What kind?"
"All of it." Patrick stuffed another bite of egg roll into his mouth. Pete
ignored the signal and kept on.
"Do you play?" He asked, leaning in over his plastic tray. At the table next to
them, a girl threw her soda into the boy's face. Pete hoped it didn't give
Patrick any ideas.
"Yes."
"...Can you elaborate, maybe?" Pete grinned at the touch of pink over Patrick's
cheeks.
"Piano, trumpet, drums, guitar." Patrick ticked them off on his fingers,
frowning for a second. "Violin, if you get me in the right mood." He shrugged.
"Basics."
"...That's kind of astounding, dude," Pete said. His heart beat an agreement.
Best thing he'd stolen, for serious. The blush across Patrick's cheeks
deepened.
"Whatever," he mumbled, dropping his eyes back to his plate. Subject closed.
---
Patrick also liked really cheesy 80s movies. He was camped out on the couch,
changed into a new t-shirt and Pete's old sweats, a knit cap jammed down over
his head, legs folded under him as he mouthed along to Pretty in Pink. Pete
found it ridiculously endearing.
What he didn't find endearing was the small dent in his Paris funds. He stared
down sadly at his checkbook and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.
He glanced back up at Patrick and felt a little of the tension in his shoulders
fade. It was worth it. It would be okay.
Patrick scooted over to make room for Pete on the couch, eyes still locked on
the television. Pete sighed. The youth of today had no imagination.
When bedtime came again, Patrick didn't fight it, or shy away. Pete appreciated
this. He also appreciated the way Patrick seemed to be taking to the apartment,
acting like he owned it. Pete could arrange that, if Patrick wanted. Would like
to arrange it.
Patrick slept with his face pressed flat into the pillow, one hand under his
stomach, the other on the pillow next to his head. His thumb touched his thick
lower lip, twitching every so often as Patrick dreamed. Pete wanted to watch
him for the rest of his life.
---
Again, Pete was greeted in the morning with Patrick pressed up against him,
legs trapped by one of Patrick's, nose itching from strands of errant hair. He.
He could get used to this. Patrick snuffled in his sleep, butting his head up
under Pete's chin and scooting in closer. Pete's grin froze on his face.
Pressed up against his stomach, hard and obvious, was Patrick's morning wood.
Pete swallowed and closed his eyes. Theft was one thing- and he still totally
counted Patrick as a steal- molesting a sleeping boy was another. Even if it
was tempting. Even if Patrick started it.
Reluctantly, Pete wiggled himself free of Patrick's octopus hold, trying to
ignore the soft gasps as he rubbed across Patrick's hard on. With Patrick
covered to the chin in sheets, erection tenting up through them, Pete made a
mad dash to the bathroom and jerked off, coming faster than he had in years.
---
The computer that Pete assumed was Patrick's was loaded with half-finished
GarageBand work files. Pete listened to them, track by track, as he scrounged
in the kitchen for a suitable breakfast.
They were good. Unpolished. Raw. But still promising in a way Pete hadn't heard
for a long time. It made him nostalgic for garages and basements and shitty
bars at three AM. He was nodding along to one track, humming a bass line that
wasn't there, when the music cut off.
Patrick, hair sticking up on one side of his head, t-shirt still rucked up over
one hip, stood at the kitchen table, his hand on the now-closed lid of the
laptop. His eyes were narrowed, mouth in a steady frown. Pete felt like he was
about to be sucker punched.
"You don't have the right to listen to those," Patrick said coolly, chin jutted
up.
"I didn't know you'd have a problem with it," Pete mumbled. "Sorry." He
squirmed under the weight of Patrick's glare, head down like a scolded child.
"They're really good-"
"Don't play them again," Patrick said darkly. Pete nodded. He could do that.
Breakfast was tense, filled with silence that made Pete's skin itch. So far, he
hadn't done such a hot job of making Patrick want to stay. He chewed on his
toast, sighing when Patrick left the table in favor of showering. The laptop
hummed. Pete tucked it back into his backpack.
---
Patrick was in better spirits when he sat carefully on the couch next to Pete,
fresh and damp from the shower. Pete tried not to let his grin show through.
"So, you're not. Normal." Patrick pulled his legs up, timidly setting them on
Pete's lap. Pete wrapped his fingers in the denim of Patrick's jeans, ignoring
the insult. "Like, I never kidnapped-"
"Stole."
"Stole anyone, but I watch, like, cop shows, and usually the kidnapper-"
"Thief."
"Fuck you. The thief has a reason for it." Patrick narrowed his eyes, watching
Pete carefully. Pete fought the urge to wink at him. "So, you're not going to
hurt me." Pete tried not to feel hurt at the small lift at the end of his
sentence. "And you're not trying to get a ransom, or whatever. So. Why did you
take me?"
"Patrick, Rick, Pattycakes-"
"Never call me that again, seriously."
"Rickster, we have been over this." Pete uncurled his fingers and followed the
line of Patrick's shin through his pants, stopping at his knee and reversing
directions. "You were there, dreaming your music dreams, and I fell in love."
"That makes you sound even creepier than you already are," Patrick pointed out.
Pete shrugged.
"It's the truth. I wanted you then because you were a pretty little thing,"
Pete started, smiling at the blush that crept its way across Patrick's cheeks,
"and I still want you because, even though you're kind of pissy, you're pretty
much the most awesome thing ever."
Patrick was silent, his lower lip sucked into his mouth, feet bouncing a little
in Pete's lap. Pete nearly toppled off the couch when Patrick suddenly jerked
forward, pressing his mouth, wet and firm, against Pete's. Before Pete could
kiss back or cheer or pull Patrick closer, Patrick threw himself off the couch
and locked himself in the bedroom.
---
Pete spent most of the day staring at his own bedroom door, pouting to himself
like a child. Between these fits, he cleaned the kitchen, watched four episodes
of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and frowned at a box of brownie mix for a half
hour in consideration.
Pete was pulling the brownies out of the oven with a towel, cursing as he felt
the heat through the thin cotton, when Patrick came out. He looked sheepish,
hat low over his forehead, eyes not-quite meeting Pete's. Pete held up a
brownie as an offering.
They settled onto the couch quietly, the plate of brownies balanced on their
knees. Pete stole glances at the soft profile of Patrick's face, heart thunder
in his chest.
"I'm blaming it on Stockholm Syndrome," Patrick finally said, stuffing the last
of his brownie into his mouth. Pete perked up, hopeful. "Just so you know."
"I am one hundred percent okay with that," Pete replied. The careful look on
Patrick's face broke, a small grin at the corners of his mouth. "Um. Can I kiss
you, then?"
"I guess."
Pete nearly knocked the plate to the floor in his rush to do just that. His
hands curled around Patrick's shoulders, his front pressed a little awkwardly
to Patrick's side. Patrick tasted like chocolate and kissed back hesitantly,
his fingers light on Pete's arms.
When Pete pulled back, Patrick's cheeks were pink, his lips red and slick. Pete
flashed back to the morning, thought about Patrick hard against him, and nearly
doubled over.
"So, not to, uh, worry you? But if you don't want me to, like, get you naked
right now, you might want to go back to the bedroom." Pete kept his eyes closed
tightly, head in his hands. Patrick's hand on his thigh made him jump.
"I, um, maybe wouldn't mind?"
Pete ran to the bathroom and locked himself inside.
---
Patrick was asleep on the couch when Pete finally gathered the courage to go
back to the living room. He was curled under the old afghan that Pete's
grandmother had knit years and years ago, remote in one hand, thumb of the
other just inside his mouth. Pete smiled fondly despite himself.
“Hey,” he said softly, shaking Patrick’s shoulder. He’d learned his lesson the
first time, moving out of the way before Patrick’s arm jerked out, the remote
clattering to the floor. Bleary blue eyes blinked up at him, unfocused. Patrick
looked away from him quickly, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.
Pete stripped down to his underwear and crawled into the bed, keeping to his
side. Patrick followed him in, head down, arms crossed over his stomach. Pete
watched him, berating himself. He wanted Patrick so much it hurt.
“Pete?” Patrick asked after a while. His shoulders were tight, his legs curled
in against his stomach. Pete made a soft noise to let Patrick know he was
listening. “Why- If this is what you wanted, why did you stop?”
“Because I don’t want you to feel like you have to,” Pete said. “I want you to
want me.”
“What if I do?” Patrick curled in tighter, back bowing towards Pete under the
covers. “What if I don’t run away because I think you’re the most interesting
person I’ve ever met? What if I’m happy that you took me?”
“Patrick-”
“What if I like you being fucking creepy?” He asked, voice pitching up. “What
if- what if it makes me feel like I’m special?” Pete scooted forward, wrapping
his arms around Patrick’s waist, and pulled him back. Patrick turned in his
arms, pressing his face to Pete’s chest.
“You are special, dude,” Pete said into his hair. “Jesus, you made me fall in
love with you while you were asleep.” Patrick snorted, fingers curling around
Pete’s arms.
“That’s so fucking cheesy.”
“It’s a specialty,” Pete said around a grin. “Seriously, though, you’re
amazing. Don’t ever think anything else, okay?”
“This is so fucked up,” Patrick mumbled around a yawn. Pete couldn’t disagree.
---
The first thing Pete noticed when he woke up was that there wasn’t a Patrick
attached to his chest. The second thing he noticed was that, instead, there was
a Patrick kneeling over his legs, touching his stomach with gentle fingertips.
He blinked, opening his mouth. Before he could say anything, though, Patrick’s
hand slid down, down, down, until it rested over Pete’s crotch. Very carefully,
he pressed the heel of his palm down against Pete’s half hard dick.
“Shit.” Pete lifted his hips, rocking up into Patrick’s firm touch. “This is
fighting dirty.” Patrick laughed and shook his head.
“No,” he said, leaning down. He licked a broad stripe over Pete’s tattoo,
grinning. “That’s fighting dirty.” Pete whined. He lifted his hips when Patrick
tugged at his underwear, kicking them off eagerly. Any questions he had about
Patrick wanting it were squashed when Patrick- sweet faced Patrick- bent
forward again and wrapped his mouth carefully around the head of Pete’s cock.
Pete’s eyes widened as he watched Patrick work his way down, as he felt
Patrick’s gag reflex catch. He clenched his hands in the sheets to keep from
grabbing at Patrick’s hair, thighs shaking with the effort to keep still.
Patrick wrapped a hand around what he couldn’t fit in his mouth, bobbing his
head steadily lower.
“You can fuck me,” he said, licking a slow swirl up the underside of Pete’s
dick. Pete thumped his head on the bed, screwing his eyes shut. If he watched
Patrick’s red, wet mouth open up over him again, he was going to explode. “Come
on Pete,” Patrick urged, pulling off with an obscene pop. “I can take it.”
Pete was only human.
He scrambled up, yanking Patrick to his chest. Patrick laughed against Pete's
mouth as they kissed, his hands fluttering across Pete's sides. He tasted like
stale mornings and precome, but Pete didn't care because this. This was the boy
he'd been so moved to steal rubbing up against him. This was his little
treasure moaning against his tongue.
Patrick laughed again when Pete yanked his shirt up, eyes wide and bright and
cheeks pink. Pete helped to ease him onto his back, sucking sweet marks onto
Patrick's chest as he went. He slid his hands under the waistband of Patrick's
sweats, smoothing his hands across the hard, lean muscles of Patrick's thighs
as he pulled them off.
Patrick's dick curled up against his round little belly, thick and blood-dark
against his pale skin. Pete wrapped his hand around it, pumping slowly. Patrick
moaned softly, hips lifting. Pete had never seen anything more perfect.
Patrick whined when Pete stopped, watching with his wide, dark eyes as Pete
reached into his nightstand for lube and a condom. He spread his thighs easily,
sucking on his lower lip as Pete trailed a hand over his hip, adoration written
across his face.
When Pete slid a slick finger inside of him, Patrick arched up, hips leaving
the mattress. Pete pressed him down, laying his forearm over Patrick's hips to
keep him down. He licked a long, wet stripe up the underside of Patrick's cock
as he pressed a second finger in. Patrick squirmed, whining in the back of his
throat.
"Patrick," Pete said against the boy's thigh. "Have you done this before?"
"Not- shit, do it again- not on this side." Patrick bit his lip, staring down
at Pete. He rocked his hips and groaned, dropping his head back against the
mattress.
Pete pinched the thumb and index finger of his free hand carefully around the
base of his dick and tried not to come on the spot. Gently, he slipped a third
finger into Patrick, crooking up until Patrick jerked against him, breath
ragged.
"Come on." Patrick bent his knees, toes digging into the sheets. "I'm ready.
Come on."
Pete rubbed over the soft bump of Patrick's prostate again before pulling his
fingers out, already tearing at the condom wrapper with his other hand. He took
deep, steadying breaths as he rolled it on, taking in the soft flush across
Patrick's chest, the damp curl of his hair against his cheek.
Pete crawled up and cupped the soft hollows of Patrick's knees, leaning forward
to kiss him as he slid slowly inside. He swallowed down Patrick's gasp,
fighting to slow himself down.
Patrick was so tight, squirming and moaning and so fucking responsive. Pete
rolled his hips, groaning as Patrick rocked back against him. Patrick locked
his legs around Pete's back and pulled him in, fingers digging into his
shoulders.
"Fuck." Pete snapped his hips forward. "Fucking. You're so hot, fuck." He
dropped his hand from Patrick's thigh to wrap it around his dick, fingers
getting sticky with precome. Patrick thrust up into it, jerking back down
against Pete. He came messily between them, voice cracking on his low moan.
Pete thrust a handful of times into him, coming deep inside him. He rolled onto
the bed, breathless. Shakily, he tied off the condom and tossed it at the
wastebasket. Patrick curled into him, sweaty and hot and wonderful. Pete
pressed a kiss to his forehead and sighed, smiling to himself.
---
Pete was kind of in heaven. And horribly, horribly sad.
Patrick was sitting on the kitchen counter, feet swinging back and forth,
typing an e-mail to his mother as Pete made lunch. He hummed softly as he
clicked away on his laptop, all signs of his cold gone. Pete could get used to
having him like this.
Pete's heart ached.
He served Patrick a sad little grilled cheese sandwich, crawling up onto the
counter to sit next to him. Patrick was warm against his side, already
familiar. Pete turned and pressed a kiss to Patrick's temple. He didn't answer
the questioning look Patrick shot him.
"I'm going to take you home," Pete said quietly, sliding off the counter.
"Pete?"
"I. You should be home." Pete dumped his uneaten lunch into the trash and ran
an unsteady hand through his hair. Now or never.
"Pete, why...? What happened?" Patrick stared at him, fingers clenched around
his plate. He tensed his jaw, and, suddenly, the Patrick of three days ago was
back. "Was it not good enough? Not what you thought it was going to be?"
"Patrick-"
"Fuck you." Patrick dropped his plate onto the counter and walked stiffly to
the bedroom. Pete followed after him, unsurprised when the door slammed in his
face.
"Patrick," he said through the wood, thumping his forehead against it.
"Patrick, you're perfect, okay? You're fucking perfect."
"Fuck. You."
"Rick, please." Pete closed his eyes. "If I don't take you home now, I won't
let you go."
There was silence on the other side, and Pete felt like he might fall over. The
choice was taken from him when the door wrenched opened under him, sending him
sprawling to the floor. Patrick glared down at him.
"You don't get to make choices like that," he said. "You've been making choices
for me since I got here." He knelt down next to Pete, hands folded in his lap
nervously. "I want to stay." He touched the brim of his hat, lowered his hand
to tentatively touch Pete's knee. "At least one more day. Please."
"Stockholm Syndrome?" Pete asked, smiling softly at Patrick's laugh.
"Stockholm Syndrome."
---
They were lying on the couch in the living room, watching Hostel, trying to
keep from toppling to the floor. Pete was squished between the back of the
couch and Patrick's solid weight in front of him, one arm wrapped around
Patrick's waist, the other asleep under his head. Patrick's hat- which he
refused to take off- blocked most of the television, and Pete was starting to
worry a little about his arm falling off.
There was no other place he'd rather be.
Patrick squirmed at whatever was on the screen. Pete scrambled to hold him on
the couch as he tried to turn over. Their noses bumped, faces close enough
together that Pete felt himself go a little cross-eyed as he tried to look at
him.
"Hi," he said, rubbing the cold tip of his nose against Patrick.
"Hi." Patrick grinned at him, tangling his legs up in Pete's to keep himself
steady. He tucked his head under Pete's chin. "When are you going to Paris?"
"I don't know," Pete answered, curling his fingers in Patrick's shirt.
"Try not to steal anyone else." Patrick's voice was muffled, even, but Pete
could hear what he meant. Don't replace me. Don't forget me.
"You're my biggest treasure, Rick," he said. "I'm not giving you up that easy."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." Pete traced the soft curve of Patrick's hip with his fingertips,
mapping out the places he'd like to lose himself in. Patrick tilted his head up
and brushed his lips over Pete's, and Pete got his chance to do just that.
---
The drive to the Stump house felt like a funeral march. Pete had tucked all of
the Stump's things- Patrick included- into the car sadly, hanging his head.
Patrick, still dressed in Pete's sweats, curled up on the passenger's side seat
and rested his forehead on his knees as Pete locked the apartment up.
It was still early morning, the sky grey and thick with storm clouds. Patrick
was silent as Pete started the car up, silent as they started back to his
neighborhood. Pete stole long glances at him, heart breaking with each stop
sign. He wrapped his fingers around the bare skin of Patrick's ankle to comfort
himself as much as Patrick.
"I'm going to be grounded until I'm thirty," Patrick said, finally turning his
head to look at Pete. Pete laughed softly, rubbing his thumb against Patrick's
shin.
"I'll know where to look for you then."
Patrick tensed under Pete's hand as the car turned onto his street. He sighed
when Pete pulled into the empty driveway. They sat quietly for a long, silent
moment, staring up at the house. Patrick finally leaned over the center console
and pressed a kiss to Pete's cheek.
"Don't get caught," he said as he pulled Pete's bag over his shoulder. Then, he
was out of the car, walking barefooted to the door.
---
Pete stared up at the Stump house, eying the front door warily. He drummed his
fingers on the steering wheel nervously, foot pumping the brake. With a huff,
he threw himself out of the car determinedly and marched onto the porch. Mrs.
Stump answered the door, her hair tied up in a bun, apron loose around her
waist.
"Hi, I'm Pete. Is Patrick around?"
Before Mrs. Stump could answer, a blur of ugly sweater and familiar hat was at
her side, pulling Pete in. She opened her mouth, probably to remind Patrick
that he was grounded until the next forever, but Patrick cut her off.
"This is my math tutor," he said, fingers going tight around Pete's wrist. "I
needed to catch up." Mrs. Stump narrowed her eyes, looking over Pete's tattoos
skeptically. She shook her head and kissed Patrick's temple.
"No leaving the house," she said softly.
"I know, mom." He waited until she was gone to throw his arms around Pete's
neck. Pete laughed.
"Math?"
"Shut up, dude," Patrick said into his neck. "I thought you were going to
Paris?" Pete shrugged and held Patrick tighter.
"Paris can wait."
"Yeah?"
"Totally." Pete tucked his face into Patrick's neck and grinned. Definitely the
best thing he'd ever stolen.
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