Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/346998.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Bandom, Fall_Out_Boy
  Relationship:
      Patrick_Stump/Pete_Wentz
  Character:
      Patrick_Stump, Pete_Wentz
  Additional Tags:
      Trichotillomania, Mental_Illness
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-02-26 Words: 3867
****** couldn't come around ******
by coricomile
Summary
     "You know," Patrick says slowly, "you getting off on my weird impulse
     control thing is kind of fucked up."
Patrick stares at his desk and tries to listen to Mrs. Lawson talk about the
tragedy of the Roman Empire. He's half asleep, eyes heavy and drooping, chin
dropping against his chest. Two hours until final bell and then it's off to
Pete's place for some quality writing time, with the bonus of the giant Wentz
family television to sweeten the deal.
Patrick blinks down at his desk, trying to clear the sleep from his eyes. There
are twelve red blonde hairs lined up neatly on the faux wood, their roots tiny
and white against the polish. Patrick feels his face go hot and he brushes them
away, onto the floor, glancing up at the people around him. No one's watching
him, but he feels like he's on camera anyway, shame barreling up through his
belly.
History seems to go on for approximately forever. When Patrick's phone vibrates
in his pocket halfway through class, he knows without looking that it's Pete.
He types an automatic no without reading the message. No, he will not skip last
class. No, he will not bring Pete dinner. No, he will not run off to Vegas for
the weekend.
At final bell, Patrick shoves his things into his bookbag and nearly sprints to
his car. His phone buzzes as soon as he slides into the freezing driver's seat,
keys already en route to the ignition.
bring coffee
Patrick rolls his eyes, but when he pulls out of the student lot, he aims his
car at Starbucks instead of Pete's neighborhood. Coffee first, then. It's not
like he's in a rush.
Pete's house is big and full of family photos and awards from all three kids.
Pete's room is in the attic, but he sleeps on the plushy couch in the living
room, away from the creaks of the floorboards and the sound of the wind in the
rafters. Patrick's got his own key to the place dangling next to the keys to
his parents' places, which he thinks is weird, but Pete refuses to take it back
every time Patrick brings it up.
Pete's like some sort of coffee bloodhound, his nose leading him through the
house to where Patrick is struggling out of his multitude of jackets. He scoops
the cup up from the table and offers no help as Patrick knocks his glasses to
the ground in the final battle with the smallest hoodie.
Patrick glowers at him as he kicks his wet sneakers off. There's enough snow
outside to climb up past his ankles, and when he walks through the living room,
he leaves a damp trail on the hardwood floor.
"Took you long enough," Pete says cheerfully.
"Some asshole made me make a pit stop for coffee at rush hour," Patrick says
dryly. It speaks on Pete's credit that he at least attempts to look
sympathetic.
"If you would have cut class like all the other delinquents, you wouldn't have
had that problem," he points out. Patrick has the grace to ignore him. It's
becoming a finely honed talent.
---
Writing becomes pizza becomes marathonning Romero flicks in the living room.
Patrick's stuffed in the corner of the couch, his legs tucked up under himself.
Pete's head is pillowed on his calves, pressing them into the tops Patrick's
feet uncomfortably. They're starting to go numb, but Patrick can't be bothered
to shove him off.
On screen, a shuffling, moaning hoard of zombies are overtaking the mall. One
rides up the escalator, the camera panning after him, and Pete laughs. They've
watched this movie a handful of times already, but it never seems to get old.
Patrick has one hand in his hair, fingers carefully picking through the fine
strands at the crown of his head. He finds one that feels alien- strange,
unfamiliar, doesn't belong, doesn't belong, doesn't belong-, locks his
fingertips around it, and tugs. He lays it on the arm of the couch and reaches
up, searching again. He finds another and plucks it out easily, mouthing along
to the characters on screen.
When he realizes what he's doing, Patrick goes stiff. He shoves his hands
between his thighs and glances down at Pete, nervous. Had Pete seen him? Does
he know? Pete, to his credit, isn't paying any attention to him, his eyes
trained instead mindlessly on the television, glassy. In the dark, Patrick
counts the numbers of hairs on the arm of the off white couch. There's twenty-
two and a half. And a half. Shit.
With a sense of urgency heavy in the pit of his stomach, Patrick's hand flies
back up, feeling through his hair again. He has to find that other half. He has
to get it out. It doesn't belong, and it'll infect him if he lets it stay. He
just needs to get that one out, and then he'll stop. He can stop it any time he
wants. He can.
It takes the rest of the movie to find the short hair, and by that time, ten
more shiny strands have joined the rest.
---
Pete's bed is big and soft and smells like fabric softener. He only sleeps in
it with company, and the sheets are military tight at the corners, unused. The
pillows are big and downy and smell like Pete's shampoo, even though Pete
hasn't used them for nearly a week.
Six days ago, Patrick had laid in this bed and let Pete kiss him stupid. Six
days ago, he'd felt the soft, cold covers against his bare skin and felt Pete's
hands slide over his through the silky sheets, slow and soft. Part of him wants
to look for evidence that they'd been there; the rest of him of him goes hot at
the memory, and he feels suddenly awkward, stuck in the middle of the room with
nowhere to go.
"We can do it again," Pete says, hot breath in Patrick's ear. Patrick startles,
fighting down the blush that's crawling over his cheeks. Pete laughs and wraps
his hands over Patrick's hips, his chest warm and damp from his shower, solid
at Patrick's back.
"You're sort of shameless," Patrick says, trying for glib. His voice comes out
shaky instead. Pete laughs again. It's rough and low, already familiar against
Patrick's skin.
"Dude. Just shut up and take your pants off," he says, and Patrick. Patrick can
do that.
Pete's hands skitter under Patrick's shirt as Patrick reaches for his belt, his
fingers crooking into the soft give of Patrick's sides. They're hot and rough
and Pete's, and Patrick raises his arms long enough for Pete to yank his t-
shirt off. When it's laying on the floor in a little green heap, Patrick
reaches forward and yanks Pete in, catching his mouth in a messy kiss.
Pete tastes like the cinnamon of his toothpaste, his tongue slick against
Patrick's.Pete's chest is hot and smooth against his, the coolness of his
nipple ring leaving an imprint in Patrick's skin. It's hot in a way Patrick
only used to dream about, Pete all over him and waiting for it, the hard line
of his cock digging into Patrick's hip.
Patrick jerks when Pete's hand slides into his jeans, open but still hanging at
his hips, too tight to fall off on their own. Pete's thumb rubs at the damp
crease of Patrick's thigh, enough pressure to keep it from tickling, and he
swallows the moan that creeps up from Patrick's throat, grinning against
Patrick's mouth.
Pete's fingers scratch through the curls at the base of Patrick's dick, blunt
nails scraping against his skin. Patrick rocks towards him like he can't help
it, breath coming up short. He's aching for it, head going dizzy with the buzz
of arousal in the pit of his stomach. Pete's mouth trials hot and wet across
his jaw, his stupid big teeth nipping at the tender spot under Patrick's ear as
his hand finally wraps around Patrick's dick.
It feels fucking fantastic, and Patrick closes his eyes and fucks up into
Pete's fist like it's the last thing he'll ever do . His jeans are too tight
around his thighs, cutting off his movements, but it's enough. Fuck it's
enough. His heart's in his throat, bullying his air away, and Pete's at his
front solid and broad and hot, and all thought flees from him as he comes.
It's embarrassing, but he's all of sixteen years old and Pete's the sort of hot
he's only ever dreamed about. Pete grins at him, smug, and Patrick takes it as
a challenge. Fuck Pete if he thinks he's got the advantage here.
It's easy to slip down, his knees cracking against the floor as he crash lands,
and the look on Pete's face is enough to make the dull ache worth it. His jeans
are still open, the insides sticky and wet and uncomfortable as he tucks his
fingers into the loose folds of the towel around Pete's waist and yanks it
down.
Pete's hard for him, his dick thick and shiny wet at the tip, curled up against
his flat stomach. Patrick looks up at him through his eyelashes, hoping it
looks coy rather than ridiculous, and mouths his way across the tops of Pete's
thighs until they shake. It makes him feel powerful; he's doing this. Him.
He's mostly going on what he's seen in porn, wrapping his lips around the fat,
damp head and suckling at it, jaw stretching almost too far open. Tears well up
in he corner of his eyes when Pete's hips jerk, a cough tickling at the back of
his throat. Pete soothes him, one hand wrapping around the base of his dick,
salty and warm against Patrick's mouth as he jerks at what doesn't fit.
"Fuck, you're perfect for this," Pete says above him, choked off and tight.
Patrick hollows his cheeks and thinks of course. He'll be perfect at
moonwalking if that's what Pete wants.
Pete's hand curls into Patrick's hair, sticky with spit, and he tugs as he gets
close, guiding Patrick's face forward and back. Patrick stares up at him,
riding it out as best he can, swallowing down the spit that's building up in
his mouth. The pad of Pete's thumb brushes over a bare patch of scalp and
Patrick jerks, choking on Pete's dick.
He splutters when Pete comes, the thickness of it spilling out over Patrick's
chin in warm rivulets. It's bitter enough to make him cough, and he spits
awkwardly into his hand, wiping it off on the damp towel on the ground.
"Fuck," Pete breathes. He sinks down, his eyes glassy and mouth stretched into
a blissed out grin, stupidly, annoyingly happy. "That's hot." He rubs a smear
of his come into Patrick's jaw, awe written across the darkness of his eyes. It
makes Patrick's heart flutter and his cheeks heat up. There's a few hairs stuck
to Pete's palm, red and thin and familiar.They curl up together in Pete's bed
and Patrick picks out the broken pieces of hair as Pete sleeps against his
chest.
---
There's a tiny bald spot at the crown of his head. It takes the use of two
awkwardly juggled mirrors to see it, but it's there all the same, pale in the
mess of his uncombed hair. Patrick blinks at it and tries to remember if anyone
in his family has a baldness problem.
They don't.
It wouldn't be so much of a problem- okay, yes, it would- if it weren't for
Pete. Pete with his wandering fingers and clingy hands and curious mouth.
They'll be on the couch or the floor or at the kitchen table, and Pete's
fingertips will creep through his hair, slow and unintimidating, until they're
rubbing at the bare spot of skin, rough pads dragging slowly against his scalp
in small circles, tracing the border of it curiously, like it's not weird at
all.
It's infuriating. Really, it's not like Patrick doesn't have enough issues
already, but now Pete's rubbing this in too, and that's just- Jesus, Pete's a
fucking jerk.
That's the thought in his head as he runs his own fingers through his hair,
separating the strands and staring at the chalkboard with glassy eyes. He's
seventeen and has a soft tummy and a growing bald spot and a douchebag for a
best friend. He tugs and two hairs pull loose. He lines them up on his desk
carefully, root to root like a puzzle.
His phone goes off, vibrating against the underside of the desk. Patrick jerks,
scrambling for it before Mrs. Locke can hear it. When his heartbeat finally
levels out, he flips it open, unsurprised when he sees Pete's name on the
screen.
need my musical genius & blowjobs
Patrick rolls his eyes and glances up before typing out a reply.
three hours of class left. give yourself a blowjob.
There's a full minute of silence, which is something like a major feat for
Pete. Patrick bounces his legs under the desk and peeks down at his phone
anxiously until the screen lights up.
not as pretty as u
Patrick's face goes hot as he shoves his phone back into his pocket. Maybe
Pete's not so bad after all.
---
Patrick has a problem.
He can admit it now, sitting in the principal's office, hands between his
thighs as he waits for his name to be called. His problem is that Janie
Brighton is sitting two seats away from him, her cheeks pink and her eyes
averted. She looks guilty and Patrick sneers to himself. She fucking should.
They had been in Bio, ten minutes from the bell, and she had raised her hand,
scuttling up to the front desk when she'd been called on. Patrick had ignored
it, focusing instead on the genus chart in front of him. He's aways had a thing
for science, and he was actually interested in the project for what seemed like
the first time ever. The sharp movement of Janie's arm caught his attention,
and when he looked up, Mr. Buroker was watching him.
So. Here he is, hand drifting up to his head and back down nervously, waiting.
When they're called in, Janie tells the principal that she's been noticing
Patrick pulling his hair out for weeks. She's concerned for him and wants him
to get help. Also, it's weird.
Patrick scoots out of his chair and very carefully doesn't run to his car.
---
Pete is- not sympathetic exactly, but he gives Patrick head in the living room
until Patrick forgets about it. Sometimes, Patrick really loves dating a dude.
"It's not so bad," Pete says in the middle of The Craft. On the screen, the
weird Goth chick is stroking a beached shark reverently. Patrick tips his head
back and blinks up at him. There's a dark smear of eyeliner under his left eye
that looks ridiculous. "For, you know. A thing."
"I'm not actually following you." The back of the couch is leaving a thick
indent across Patrick's side from where he's pressed into it, uncomfortably
sticking between his ribs. Pete's thighs on either side of his shoulders are
solid, though, and from his spot on the floor, Patrick's got a pretty awesome
veiw.
"The hair thing." Pete taps a finger against the bare patch at the crown of
Patrick's skull.
It takes Patrick a second to realize that the blood on his hand is also the
blood dripping from Pete's nose. His hand throbs, and, shit-
"Shit. Sorry. Sorry." He scrambles up, fist sore from impact, and tries to
staunch the bleeding with the hem of his shirt. He's sure Pete's saying
something important, but all Patrick can hear is a garble from where Pete's
face is smashed into his stomach, blood seeping through right over his naval.
It takes a few seconds of push and pull, but he ends up bare from the waist up,
ruined Morrisey shirt shoved part way up Pete's nostrils.
"It doesn't count as domestic violence if we're not married, right?" Patrick
tugs at a fistful of hair and tries not to squirm. Pete laughs wetly.
"Dude," he says. He doesn't seem pissed, which is great, because Patrick's
still not really sure of how he got from point A to point knock-Pete-out.
They sit in silence for a long time, Pete's occasional snorting and snuffling
making Patrick wince. Patrick feels vulnerable and naked and very, very young.
He doesn't even try to stop himself when he reaches up to pluck at his hair. It
seems pointless.
When he goes to leave an uncomfortable hour later, Pete makes him stand at the
door, sweating in his bloody shirt while Pete rummages through the downstairs
closet. He comes out triumphantly, a wad of fabric in his fist. Patrick barely
catches sight of the checkered knit pattern before Pete's yanking it onto his
head.
"You don't have to wear it here," Pete says, shifting nervously in front of
Patrick. "But, you know, for school and stuff. So you don't-" He tugs at his
own hair and Patrick feels himself go hot.
"Thanks," he mutters to Pete's chest. It feels like he's running away when he
heads for his car.
---
The hat helps.
Patrick takes his detentions with a muttered apology, head hung as the
principal rails him. His brief stroke of defiance seems weak and immature as he
signs the three slips.
"Patrick," the principal says. He's laying the concern on thick. Patrick
squirms. "You have a problem." Outside the window, two cars drive past. Patrick
tries to pretend he's in one of them. It doesn't work. "I think you should see
someone."
"Is this mandatory?" Patrick asks. When the principal shakes his head, Patrick
gathers his backpack and detention slips. "Then I'll pass."
In Bio, he doesn't look at Janie. At the end of class, he finds fluff on his
desk, but no hair. It feels like an improvement. Like he's getting better.
---
"You know," Patrick says slowly, "you getting off on my weird impulse control
thing is kind of fucked up."
He's sprawled out on the basement floor, one hand on his laptop, the other
tucked up under his chin. The pads of Pete's fingertips itch against his neck,
rubbing back and forth. Pete shrugs and presses his mouth to the top of
Patrick's head.
"I'm kind of fucked up," he says, voice vibrating into Patrick's skull, lips
dragging over the bare skin there. Patrick can't really argue that point. He
presses play and hums along as the track plays. The urge to jerk away is under
his skin, but the hot pressure of Pete at his back, warm and loose, makes him
stay still.
Pete hates the second verse. Patrick tells him to fuck off. Pete shoves a hand
down Patrick's jeans instead. They forget about the song entirely.
That night, Patrick wakes up sweating. He feels like he's dying, breath coming
in too short, chest crushing in. He can't hear past his heartbeat pounding,
can't see in the dark. He's going to die twisted up in his sheet, three days
away from his first real gig.
He's got Pete's hat on, pulled down low over his ears. Patrick rips it off and
grabs a fistful of hair. It's still there. He tugs and tugs and tugs, and the
pressure in his chest dies away slowly, his heartbeat stuttering.
He spends the rest of the night online, looking up his symptoms.
---
Pete offers Patrick the number to his therapist Saturday night. They're waiting
for Chris and Joe, perched on the stage like they know what they're doing. The
place is empty, but there's a tiny crowd waiting to see the band they're
opening for outside.
"I don't have a problem," Patrick says. He doesn't think about the cold sweats
or the anxiousness that's been eating at him. He tugs on the bill of his cap
and grinds his teeth. He's fine. Pete shrugs and knocks their legs together,
silent.
Their equipment is a mess of patch work brands, old drums and Pete's shitty
bass. Patrick's guitar is still mostly new, but Joe's has a crack up the neck
that makes him a half-step flat more often than not.
They take too long to set up, and kids start filing in as they start
soundchecking. Patrick taps his mic and winces at the static that echoes back
at him. For the first time all night, he feels ill. He's actually getting stage
fright.
"Cool hat," Joe says as they meander back to their holding room. Patrick nods,
but he can't really feel much past the coldness that's settling into his
stomach like a ball of lead.
He has to warm up. If he's shit, everyone'll think they're shit, and that's
not- They're not that bad. Not really. So he has to warm up, just to make sure.
It's easy to slip away. He finds a back room and closes himself in, CD player
in one hand. He feels stupid, singing in a fucking closet, but music's always
calmed him down, and calm is just what he needs.
His hands aren't shaking anymore when he finally steps back into the hallway.
There's still a small army of angry insects in his gut, but he's not going to
barf on Pete or anything, so it should be fine.
Pete drags him on stage and introduces them with a whirlwind of energy, his
voice booming over the mic. The bored kids in the front row blink up at
Patrick, their faces like stone. Patrick taps his mic again and hopes for a
miracle.
They suck. Actually, suck is too generous. Joe's off, and Chris can't keep
beat, and Patrick's voice cracks like it hasn't since he was fourteen. The kids
lose interest faster than Pete can talk them into paying attention, and it's
truly, truly awful.
Patrick nearly runs off stage when it's over, his chest aching. He sets his
guitar against a wall and promptly blacks out.
---
There's a clump of hair in his palm.
It clings to his skin, thin and dark and all his. Some of the roots are red,
and his scalp aches as he catches sight of it. When he reaches up to touch the
back of his head, Patrick feels blood.
The room's dark but familiar. Pete's, with its big bed and soft comforter.
Pete's next to him, anxious face pulled tight and hands jittery. He unwinds
Patrick's fingers very carefully and plucks the hairs off his skin, one by one.
"You wouldn't let go," Pete says tightly. "We couldn't make you stop." Patrick
reaches for Pete's leg with his free hand, but he winds up with the wool cap
instead. He pulls it on, scalp stinging at the contact, and tries not to shake.
Pete's watching him like he's going to bolt. Patrick wants to bolt; wants to
run away and hide under a rock. He's such a god damn screw up. Such a god damn
freak. Pete kisses his wrist and drops the hairball onto the floor.
"I think I need that number again," Patrick says when he can breathe properly.
"Yeah." Pete curls around him and holds his hands when they start shaking.
"Yeah."
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