jamjar

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He starts testing things. Carefully at first, until he realises how much he has to do for it to be more than they are already, because Pete's already the kind of friend that licks Patrick's neck on occasion, Patrick's already the kind of guy that accepts it when someone rolls on to him when he's in bed. It's not just Pete, it's Joe and Andy once, but Pete's watching for it now, and now he's stopped being careful, he keeps coming up against the places where Patrick *is*.

Patrick lets Pete crawl all over him, and then he's careful when he touches Pete. His hands don't rest anywhere that should be personal. He lets Pete hug him, he hugs him back (and Pete knows that Patrick thinks Pete needs it, and he does, just maybe not as much as he lets Patrick think) and his hands are on his back, around his waist but sticking to the sides. He rubs out the knots in Pete's back once when Pete misjudged a stage dive ("There has to be people there, Pete! Look before you hurl yourself off the speakers!"), and they stayed on his shoulders, his back. Pressing down hard and never lingering.

He leans against Pete in the van and Pete can feel him all along his side, breathing syncing up the way it does when you're that close to someone, and Patrick--

It's not that he doesn't look, or that he looks too much. It's just that he's so precise, so utterly natural and casual that Pete knows it has to be deliberate. People aren't like that, there's always moments where a strip of skin catches your eye or you're randomly horny or drifting and you just-- and Patrick doesn't, he's so careful and so perfectly natural and it's almost like how he was with Bill, except Patrick has so much more practice at this with Pete.

He wants this so much it makes him hurt, and it's like even if he had it, even if was able to just do this, it wouldn't ease that. He's not sure that anything would, not even having everything he wants. It's like how he doesn't stop wanting the weight of Patrick's arm across his shoulders when he gets it.

He catches himself watching Patrick on stage one night and for a moment his hands shake, and he has to go up to Patrick, press against him and lean on him, breathing in and feeling the rise and fall of his lungs. Close his eyes and inhale.

He's not sure how much longer he can keep this up.

He's not sure how much longer he can get away with it, because Patrick is looking at him, and it's the same way he looked at Bill. Pete keeps pushing anyway, so he's not surprised when Andy grabs him one night after a show, pulls him away from following Patrick to the bar and says, "What are you doing?"

"What?" Pete says, stalling.

"Do you need me to spell it out for you?"

"I'm not--"

"Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz, what the *fuck* do you think you're doing?"

Pete stops trying to stall. Andy has his arms folded and the light hits his glasses turning them into flat white panes of reflected glare and it's Andy, who is scary as fuck even when he doesn't have fate doing his special effects. "I'm just--" he starts to say.

"You're making Patrick uncomfortable," Andy says, and he sounds way too precise. "You're freaking him out, Pete."

"I don't want him to," Pete says. "I just-- I can't help it?"

The look Andy gives him has him flinching, has him shifting his weight like he's bracing for taking a hit or giving one. "Don't give me that. You can help it, you're just--"

"I really can't, even if--"

"You helped it just fine up til now," Andy says. "What changed?"

Pete laughs. It sounds weird to his own ears, too much humour and not bitter enough, but fuck, it actually is kind of funny. "Andy. I can just be really, really dumb about things."

He's actually managed to surprise him, because Andy steps back and thank god, out of the lights so at least Pete can see his actual eyes again. "Wait, you mean you didn't--"

"Ignorance is the best defence," Pete says. "Especially from personally fucking things up for yourself. But I can't not know it now, I can't just-- I can't pretend, not like before, and I'm not-- it's different now. Andy, I'm not a kid."

"You're not winning any prizes for maturity," Andy says.

"Yeah, ha ha, very funny, but seriously. I'm not--" Pete shrugs, folds his arms across himself shoulders up and hunched in. "I'm not saying that Patrick was wrong, like, at the beginning, maybe. I'm not saying he was right, but I can see, you know, why he might think I was a bad idea. Romantically or whatever. But it's different now, I'm not the same person I was then."

"Because twelve months makes so much--"

"Twelve months is a fucking lifetime and you know it," Pete says.

Andy takes off his glasses and cleans them on the edge of his T-shirt. Pete lets him have the moment to think. Andy sighs, puts his glasses back on, and says, "I don't want you to hurt yourself and I don't want you to hurt Patrick either."

"I won--" Pete starts to say, then stops. "You know, I'm not gonna say that'll never happen, because it happens now sometimes. But I won't let this hurt us, the group. You guys are pretty much the best thing that's ever gonna happen to me and I'm not going to fuck that up irredeemably, ever. Any more than you would."

"Always leave us with enough to fix, huh?"

"Stick a needle in my eye, promise," Pete says.

Andy flinches at the image and Pete grins. "So we're good?" He says after a moment.

Andy shakes his head then his arms around Pete, pulling him in for a quick hug, just hard enough to hurt. "We're pretty amazing, or so I hear," Andy says. "I'm taking you at your word, you know. Whatever happens. Even if nothing happens."

"Yeah," Pete says. "Okay."

He finds Patrick in the club, slides through the crowd and against him, putting his arm around him and leaning in. Patrick glances at him and grins, post-show happy, and goes back to talking to the two girls in front of him and Pete rolls his eyes, because what is Patrick thinking? They're not that pretty and they look kind of bored and one of them, the shorter one, is looking at Patrick with the kind of mild social contempt they should have grown out of when they left high school and they're clearly not pretty enough to warrant it. Not cool enough either, based on the clothes. Not smart enough either, because they're not crawling all over Patrick even though he's right there in front of them. Not that he wants them to, just that it's stupid not to.

"Pete," Patrick says. "This is, uh, Kay and Em."

"Cute names," Pete says. Patrick elbows him and Pete adjusts his sincerity levels.

"Hey, you were in the band! Love your tattoo," Kay says, straightening up and looking interested, not looking at Patrick at all.

"Uh, yeah," Pete says. He can't actually lean any more in to Patrick, so he just rests his hand on Patrick's stomach and tilts his hips a little. It's such a chick move, marking territory, but Pete believes in learning from the experts. "So was Patrick." He adds, smiling wide and closed-mouthed.

"Really? I didn't see you," she says. To Patrick, completely ignoring Pete draping himself all over Patrick. It's pretty impressive.

"He's the singer," Pete says, slowly because she's obviously not exactly smart. "He was the one in the middle of the stage. Singing."

"You were?" And now she's leaning in to Patrick and Patrick's face is sliding in to blank and hits it when she says, "That's so cool!"

"That's me," Patrick says. "Cool."

Pete switches between thinking it's cute and dumb that Patrick doesn't like it when the lead singer thing works for him, and thinking it makes perfect sense, because who wouldn't want Patrick just for being Patrick? Either way, it's clearly making Patrick uncomfortable that the girls are getting their groupie on, so Pete has to help out.

"Ladies, I've got to steal my singer away for a moment," Pete says, dragging Patrick off. Patrick does struggle until Pete has them safely away. Pete looks at him for a second, arms crossed, channelling his mom or Andy on a bad day.

"What?" Patrick says.

"What do you mean, what? What about you!"

The look Patrick gives him as flat as Pete singing Wuthering Heights. "I do, occasionally, like to talk to other people, hard as that is for you to accept."

"You didn't want to talk to them," Pete says.

"I'm so lucky I have you to tell me these things about myself," Patrick says, folding his arms. His mouth's tight but Pete's happy to ignore it.

"Don't be a bitch, I'm just... You know what, it's not even about me," Pete says.

"For once."

Pete ignores Patrick's comment and keeps talking. "Even Gabe Saporta was better. I'm not saying it's wrong to sleep with groupies," Pete says. "You shouldn't do it, but I'm not saying it's wrong generally--"

"You're sure? Because it sounds a lot like that's exactly what you're saying." Patrick sounds pissy. "And I didn’t think they were groupies, they're just girls, women, in a club. For once, I just wanted--"

"To get laid?" Pete says. "You know you could have pretty much-- you could do better."

"You've got an inflated opinion of me."

"Patrick," Pete says. "You could do better."

There's a pause where it feels like it should be quiet, instead of just as noisy, music and people as loud, as it was before. Pete holds his breath, waiting for Patrick to say something or not say something, to just ignore it.

"You have an inflated opinion of yourself," Patrick says quietly.

"I don't think so." Pete's voice is just as quiet and he wishes he was touching Patrick right now, even just a little, leaning in instead of standing with more than a foot of air between them.

"Pete, don't. You're--" Patrick looks at him, meets his eyes and says, "You're homesick or lonely or horny or all of the above, but you're not *this*."

"I've stopped fucking other people," Pete says. He can feel his nails digging in to the palms of his hands and he has to force his fingers to relax.

Patrick looks at him, frowning a little like he doesn't get it. "What?"

Pete licks his lips, not as a come on but because they're kind of dry and he sounds weird in his own head, way too aggressive when he says, "So if that's what was worrying you, we should fuck now, because you know I'm not sleeping around."

Patrick blinks at him and Pete can feel his hands curling up again. "Pete, I'm-- you shouldn't not have sex with people because you think that'll get you me. We're not--"

Pete shakes his head and it's weird, it's like picking a fight. Coasting on adrenaline and reckless and feeling your nerves spark with anticipation. "You don't get it. I don't want them, I want you." And he knows he sounds sulky and his *age*, but fuck it.

He can see Patrick's expression soften, see him preparing to be kind. "Pete, I'm sorry, I can't do this with you. I don't feel that way. I love you, but--"

"You want me, I know." Pete crosses and uncrosses his arms. "I'm not that fucking naïve, I know you-- I've seen how you look at me sometimes. Maybe you don't want to let yourself think about me like that, but I know you do." He says it with utter faith, every moment when he's caught Patrick looking, every bit of meaningful distance and unconscious proximity, and he has all of them catalogued.

"I want to, you want to. You don't have to be in love with me if you don't think you can, but I know you want me, and that's all I...." And he feels kind of broken, enough that when he pushes forwards he thinks he might *cut* Patrick, like his skin is shattered glass.

Pete wants to, needs to do this now, before Patrick ends up with someone else.

He's not-- Patrick's not kissing him or anything, but he's not pushing him away, so Pete kisses him, and he makes it as good as he can, because he's planned this, and he's thinking about everything he's learnt, everything he saw Patrick do, just in the small moments when Patrick had someone, everything he's picked up from Bill Beckett and Danielle and the others.

There's a moment where Patrick's there with him, he feels it, knows it like when they're playing on stage. Patrick's mouth opens and there, he's there, and Pete presses forwards and he can feel him and Pete can have it, everything he's ever wanted or needed, and--

Someone knocks in to them and Patrick pushes him away almost at the same time. He looks flushed and panicked and terrified, the flashing lights making his movements stutter even more than usual.

"Hey, watch it!" Some guy says, pushing Pete back at Patrick. Patrick catches him automatically, hands on Pete's upper arms. He freezes and his hands tighten and Pete leans forwards, not because he thinks Patrick will let him, but because he's not going to miss any chance.

"No," Patrick says, stepping back so Pete's at arms length. "We-- I can't do this, I-- I know your mother, Pete! I can't let you--" he drops Pete's arms and turns around.

Pete takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and forces himself not to follow him. He wants to, wants to argue his case and show Patrick. Convince him. But his hands are sweaty and he's not even close to rational about this, and he needs to be. Pushing Patrick when he's not comfortable is never a good idea.

It's not the longest Pete's gone without sex other than the solo kind, he knows. It just feels like it. It's the longest he's gone when he wanted it since he first got laid, though, the longest when he wasn't dating someone. That counts for something. He feels louder and obvious and it's okay. It's easier to focus on that, feeling like every bad cliché about teenage hormones, then it is to think about the rest of what he wants.

He waits until everyone's asleep or faking it, then gets out the van, knocking in to Patrick's legs, being that kind of noisy you are when you're trying to be quiet. Patrick doesn't stir more than a rumble so Pete slams the door shut, probably waking up Andy too, but that's okay as long as Patrick gets the point, then he leans against it to jerk off. Bites his lip and says Patrick's name as loud as he can under his breath, bangs his head against the door.

He cleans himself up, damaging the environment a little more by throwing the tissue on the ground, and gets back in to the sound of Patrick's undisturbed sleep, the slight whistle he can't fake because he doesn't know he does it. Patrick's never listened to himself sleep the way Pete does.

"Subtle, Pete," Joe says from the front when he crawls back in, making Pete jump.

Pete gives Joe the finger even though there's no way he can see it and finds his mattress. There's Andy between him and Patrick, but he can close his eyes and listen to Patrick breathing and think about how his dick is still hard, because that's easier than thinking about how he wants to sketch lines of poetry across Patrick's back and spread roses on his bed and make him promise to be Pete's forever. Those thoughts make him feel soft, romantic like something from a teen romance novel, and that's no good.

They're in a gas station in Minnesota and Patrick asks Pete if he thinks Tangy Cheese has more or less nutritional value than lime and chilli flavour, shaking the bags of tortilla chips for emphasis. Smiling at Pete like nothing's changed. Pete values that smile, he does, but he can't stop himself from saying, "So what do you think you'll do to me? Seriously, because I don't get it."

"So that's no on tangy cheese?" Patrick says, looking away.

"Worst thing that could happen, you wouldn't be the first person to break my heart," Pete says. "And you're doing it right now anyway."

Patrick puts the tangy cheese back on the shelf. "Gas station guacamole's probably a bad idea, right?" He's reading the back of the bag, concentrating on it. Pete counts it as a victory. Patrick usually does a better job of tuning Pete out.

"You know I jerk off thinking about you, right?" It's too much, but Pete feels raw, exposed. If they were on stage, Patrick would be making his words sound good, turning them in to music, but Pete just needs to get this out now.

Patrick's hand crunches on the bag, almost popping it open and his shoulders are tense. It's maybe a little wrong, but it's easier doing this when Patrick's got his defences up.

Patrick looks at him, meeting his eyes, and saying, "God, that's your idea of romantic, isn't it?" Words coming out like he can't help it.

Pete grins, making Patrick smile back before he shakes his head and says, "Stop, I'm not encouraging you."

Pete's smile widens and he slings his arm across Patrick's shoulders and it's almost like always, and even Pete dropping his hand down Patrick's back to slide down his side, cop a quick feel, that seems normal too. It leaves Pete giddy, thinking this is what it'll be like when they get together, same only different. It's automatic to dip his head, and it's not even a kiss or a hickey or anything, but Patrick goes tense and pulls away.

Pete's stomach goes cold and he digs his hand in a little, not letting Patrick escape before he forces himself to relax. "Not the place for this sort of thing, huh?" he says, and he knows he's failing at casual, but he thinks that's okay. Not like Patrick can't see through it anyway.

"Not the time either," Patrick says. He checks his watch and says, "I think you're a few years early." Pete can hear the tension in his voice, the forced casualness.

"Or you're just running a few years late." Pete raises his eyebrow like a challenge. "You said you were a late-bloomer."

Patrick opens his mouth to say something, closes it again and Pete doesn't push, doesn't take advantage of it even though he wants to. Instead he just lets his fingers drag down Patrick's forearm, across his wrist and the back of his hand, then steps back before Patrick can pull away.

He grabs another bag of chips and joins Joe at the checkout, fighting the urge to look over his shoulder at Patrick.

Every day that passes reminds Pete that they're one day closer to getting home, and when they're there, Patrick will be able to run back to his apartment and his other friends and it'll be so much easier for him to avoid Pete. For Patrick to remember that Pete doesn't automatically share his personal space, and Pete can't have that. Pete gets away with as much as he does because Patrick forgets that he shouldn't let Pete in that close, and Pete can't afford to have him remember.

It's the way Patrick is on edge and frustrated, but he keeps forgetting that Pete's at least half the reason why, so Pete can still lean in, curl around him, Patrick automatically making space and relaxing just enough to let Pete be there.

The van breaks down half a mile from their next show and Pete would feel more upset about that if it didn't mean they had to find somewhere to stay -somewhere with beds- while a mechanic, one of Andy's unending supply of useful friends, tried to keep it from exploding.

The mechanic has a house with a garden and everything, and maybe a pull out sofabed isn't the same as the real thing, but fuck, it's a bed that doesn't move, in a room without metal walls and Pete can actually stretch his arms and legs out wide without touching anything except mattress and sheets and oh, he could kiss the guy, seriously, because the sheets are even clean, or cleaner than anything Pete's slept on for the last too-many miles.

Sheets. Bed. The others are still upstairs talking, and Pete should join them, should at least say something to the mechanic -learn his name, maybe- but he's tired and he actually thinks he might be able to sleep, really sleep, and he can't jinx that, so he just closes his eyes and lets himself go.

The feel of the bed dipping wakes him up, the sound of someone very quietly trying to take off their shoes. He opens his eyes and can see Patrick in the leftover light spilling out from the doorway. Patrick's back is hunched over and he's sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling off his shoes and it's familiar, beautiful, the outline of his shoulders, his back, like something carved into Pete's mind forever. He doesn't move, keeps his breathing steady and even.

Patrick gives an end of the day sigh and Pete bites his lip. His eyes are open wide, even if the rest of him is still, and if Patrick looked over, he'd see that Pete was awake and do-- something. Leave, most likely.

He doesn't look over. Patrick just lies back, his eyes closed. Gathering his strength enough to actually get under the covers, maybe, or to finish getting undressed. Patrick's hands go his jeans and he pops the top button and Pete -maybe he makes a sound or stops breathing or something, something to make Patrick's eyes snap open and look at Pete.

Patrick swallows and Pete feels wide awake, like the bone-deep exhaustion of just a few minutes ago never happened. "Pete," Patrick says. "I thought you were asleep." His voice is still rough from the show and almost two months of touring, like even talking quietly is more strain than it should be.

"I was," Pete says. His throat is dry and his skin feels oversensitive, like he can feel every thread in the sheets. Patrick swallows again, his tongue darting out to his lick his lips and Pete rolls on to his side, angling in without meaning to, until Patrick freezes.

"I. I should--"

And Pete doesn't know what he was going to say, doesn't care, because he's not thinking, he's moving, his body rolling over on to Patrick before his mind realises what its doing, and then he's pressing Patrick's hands against the bed and kissing him. He's gripping Patrick's wrists too hard, waiting for him to struggle, to push him away and Pete can't let that happen.

"Let me," he says, and it doesn't come out like a request, more like a demand, so he tries again, "Please, Patrick." And that didn't come out right either, but he's just got to-- Patrick's mouth is there and it opens up and he moans like he can't help it and Pete's name is in there somewhere and fuck, but that does something to Pete.

He crawls down the bed, and it's all fast and he can't give Patrick time to think, time to prepare and think up reasons to say no. He blows Patrick and he jerks himself off -- he's not even thinking about waiting for Patrick to return the favour, not thinking about anything else except this, how much he wants it, the feel of Patrick in his mouth, his skin, his bitten-back groans. Pete comes first, and then he groans around Patrick and that sets Patrick off. He's sitting there, on his knees and he can only think, Patrick.

Patrick looks down at him breathing hard and his eyes are wide and dark and he's still wearing his glasses and Pete thinks, good, he can see me clearly. He knows he looks good, so he licks his lips and then his hand and it's bitter and worth it, for the way Patrick looks at him. Like he's in shock, and not moving away.

And Patrick says, "Pete," like he's not sure of it.

Pete gets to his hands and feet, moves up the bed and kisses him, fast and hard, just for a second before this memory flickers in of watching Patrick and Faye on one of the few times Patrick was late to practise, kissing as slow and lazy as a cat in the sun, so he slows it down.

And he stops, leans his forehead against Patrick, and says, "I have no fucking clue how not to be in love with you. It doesn't-- even when I'm in love with someone else, it doesn't stop. Please, you don't have to-- just let me?" They're so close it's like they're sharing the same breath, too close for Pete to see Patrick's expression and his heart's in his throat, so that's probably a good thing.

"Pete," he says again, and it sounds more solid. He pushes Pete back, but not away. "You're not-- you're seventeen," he says, drawing out the seventeen like it means something.

"I know. It doesn't-- look, you--" Pete pushes himself up on his hands and looks at Patrick. "Even if you don't feel it back, I'm not gonna stop. I'm not going to stop feeling like this, even if you break up with me now, or tomorrow or in sixty years time." He leans his head on Patrick's shoulder, feeling the fabric against his face. "Don't say no. Or you can, but-- it's not going to change anything, not for me."

Patrick kind of sighs, and his hands are on Pete's shoulders, solid, anchoring him. "I don't want to hurt you," he says.

Pete smiles. "Which is a pretty big step up for me in my relationships." Patrick smiles back at him, just a little, and something in Pete just uncurls. "What you are to me isn't going to change," he says, and he's proud of the way that came out, clear, rational.

"You don't think you thinking you're in love with me--"

"Patrick." He stops until Patrick looks at him. "I've been thinking that for years already." He touches the side of Patrick's face, his fingers just under the arm of his glasses. "You don't have to love me back, not like I-- but try? Or at least, don't try not to."

Patrick looks at him and his expression is open, almost hurt, like Pete's said something cruel. "You don't-- you don't have to tell me that," he says, and the last few words are a shouting whisper. "You have no idea what you do to me. You never do."

"I've been in love before," Pete says. "I know what it feels like. I'm not confused or crushing or anything. I'm not new to this." And it's true, but so is it when he says, "I've never felt for anyone else the way I feel for--"

"Stop! I can't--" Patrick's head goes back, pushing in to the mattress like he's trying to get away. He's breathing heavily and Pete kind of hates himself for making Patrick look like that. "I can't do this to you. You're seventeen and I will not be the one to fuck you up."

"You want me," Pete says, because at the moment he knows it like gravity, no doubt.

"One of the things," Patrick says, slowly and not looking at him, "one of the many things that sucks about being older is that you get better at not doing the things you want because you know exactly how much of a bad idea it is."

"This is a great idea," Pete says. "It's up there in the top ten ideas of all time, along with starting this band and having you sing and the internet. I know you love me." He keeps saying that, because it's one of the few things he knows absolutely.

Patrick's head falls forward and he exhales, before looking back up at Pete. His voice is clear, steady when he says, "Maybe I can't take it, when you grow up and realise this was a mistake. When you stop thinking you're in love with me."

It's not a good angle for it, so Pete's punch doesn't have as much force as it should, but he has his knuckles out so it hurts, at least enough to make Patrick groan and go, "Ow! What the fuck, Pete?"

"What the fuck with you! You're fucking turning me down because of something I haven't even done? Did you not listen to one fucking word I said?" Patrick grabs Pete's hand even though Pete wasn't going to punch him again, probably, and the angle of it puts Pete over him, looking down at Patrick and it's not that he's not still angry, but Patrick's there and his expression is open and Pete's maybe gonna break his heart one day, but that means Patrick will let him.

Pete's grinning, he can feel it stretched across his face and it makes Patrick frown like he thinks Pete's laughing at him, but he's not. He just can't help it.

"Get off me," Patrick says.

"No," Pete says, and he twists his wrist around so he's holding on to Patrick's hand instead of Patrick holding his. He's still grinning and he doesn't quite dare to kiss Patrick when he's glaring at Pete like that, but he can duck his head and just rest it against Patrick's, like Patrick can absorb Pete's smile through his skin.

Patrick sighs and it's like going limp in a fight, giving up and giving Pete what he wants, because his free hand is on Pete's shoulder, tracing almost at the healing tattoo. "I'm going to regret this," he says, and he sounds certain.

"You won't," Pete says, promises, and he's still grinning but even more, because Patrick should get everything he wants, and Patrick wants Pete.

Patrick turns his head to the side and his hand is on the side of Pete's face and he's looking Pete in the eye. He's frowning a little like he does when he's concentrating, when he's trying to get something exactly right, the perfect note, the necessary chord. He's biting his lip, just a little and Pete wants to kiss him, but Patrick beats him to it.

end.