Fade Like Evening: gift for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
moku_youbi
Dec. 23rd, 2011 02:50 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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bandomstuffsitTitle: Fade Like Evening
Author:namebrandtongue
Pairing(s): Pete/Patrick
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Word count: 1764
Summary: Patrick doesn't know what’s worse- being a sucker, or knowing that he’s a sucker. If it were anyone but Pete Wentz, he’d have thrown them out already and gone back to sleep.
Pete's been self diagnosing again.
Patrick touches the curve of his cheek, feels the hot skin under his fingers like a fire. There's a box of over the counter sleeping pills on Patrick's nightstand, some generic offshoot the only thing they could afford at the all night Walgreens. He's sweating, a slick line down his back and temple, the heat bleeding in through Patrick's clothes.
Downstairs, Patrick's brother is just getting home from a date, his tiptoe soft steps up the stairs like branches cracking in the quiet house. The clock on the VCR reads ten after three. Patrick's too tired to sleep, eyes heavy and dry, head pounding. He wonders if this is how Pete feels all the time.
They haven't known each other long. Not really. Patrick opens the door for band practice- which is usually just him and Joe fucking around while Pete watches earnestly, scribbling in his notebook across the room- and Pete treats him like some kind of kid brother. Patrick's not really sure he likes the trade off. He's getting tired of Pete waking him up at all hours of the morning by falling in the window like some fucked up Peter Pan.
"You're kind of fucked up," Patrick says out loud, his voice hiccuping over itself. Pete doesn't so much as budge. He's drooling on Patrick's sleep pants, his big, stupid mouth open against Patrick's knee. His breath is so hot, makes Patrick feel like he's sitting under the furnace.
Somewhere outside, someone’s car alarm is going off. Patrick listens to the distant sound, thinks about exactly how long it’s been since he’s done anything but sat in his room and played the good fiddle to Pete’s issues. He’s too young to feel this washed out.
“I don’t think I like you anymore,” Patrick says. It sounds like a lie, bouncing off the walls of his room.
He’s got a geometry test in a handful of hours. He hasn’t studied, hasn’t looked at the notes since he wrote them down. His head aches. Pete grumbles into his leg, turns his head until his nose is pressed flat. It kind of hurts, but at least he’s not drooling anymore.
Patrick closes his eyes, leans back against the wall. His leg is asleep but he can’t move it under Pete’s weight. It’s stupid to let Pete get like this, but it’s stupider to try to snap him out of it. Patrick doesn’t know what’s worse- being a sucker, or knowing that he’s a sucker. If it were anyone but Pete Wentz, he’d have thrown them out already and gone back to sleep.
“I really don’t like you anymore.”
Pete grunts. Patrick stares at the ceiling and tries to fall asleep.
---
“Fuck off,” Patrick says, face half in his pillow. There’s the warm, heavy heat of Pete- of course it’s Pete, who else would it be?- on top of him, wiggling around like a puppy. He’s going to wind up dead one day, so used to Pete breaking in that he won’t remember to be afraid that it could be anyone else.
“That’s no way to talk to your best friend,” Pete says, shoving himself under the covers. His feet are like ice. His breath smells like liquor.
“It’s a good thing you aren’t my best friend then.” Patrick punches his pillow and tries not to fall off the bed as Pete tries to get comfortable.
“You wound me deeply.” Pete throws an arm over Patrick’s waist, too familiar to be comfortable. The sleep Patrick’s been chasing after bends a corner that he can’t and slips away from him.
“I hate you,” Patrick says.
“You’ve really got to stop lying to yourself,” Pete mumbles. He presses a sleepy kiss to Patrick’s cheek, damp and sloppy, and promptly passes out. This isn’t what Patrick expected when Joe had told him he’d be playing in a band with Pete Wentz.
Patrick does his best to not think about the way his skin buzzes where Pete had kissed him, tries not to think about how he feels too hot everywhere Pete’s latched on. It’s a failed mission, but he’s always been stubborn.
---
Tonight it’s NyQuil. Pete’s breath smells like mint, his fingers sticky where he didn’t bother to wash his hand off. Half the bottle is empty, bleeding green onto Patrick’s nightstand. He wants to clean it up before it can eat the stain, but Pete’s half on top of him, mumbling about the stars.
“Why do you keep coming here?” Patrick asks.
Tonight Pete had tumbled in early. Patrick, hand down his shorts, eyes closed, had nearly fell off the bed. Pete had laughed him off, told him to go on and finish before climbing on in with him. Patrick's kind of pissed about it, kind of worried. He's known Pete a little over six weeks, watched him destruct for most of it, and still has no idea of what to do with him. He's not the adult in this situation. He shouldn't have to be the one figuring this shit out.
"You help me sleep," Pete says, face smashed into the soft roundness of Patrick's stomach, words winding up together.
"Can't you go to your girlfriend's house instead?" Patrick asks. It sounds harsh out loud, cruel. Patrick tries not to wince. Pete huffs into his shirt.
"She's not as pretty as you, Rick." Pete raises a lazy hand and pats Patrick's cheek, nails scraping softly down the side of his face. "You'll learn to love me."
Patrick doubts this. Still, he stays still against his wall, stares at the posters tacked up on his door, and thinks about the music in his head.
---
"You okay ?" Joe asks, prodding at Patrick's side. Patrick bats weakly at his hand and tries to wake himself up.
"Just tired," he answers.
They're waiting for the movie to start, feet propped up on the backs of the theatre seats in front of them, hands locked securely around boxes of buttery, overpriced popcorn. Patrick hasn't left his bedroom in what feels like ages, and now that he's out he can barely focus.
"What's up?"
"Pete." Patrick kicks the seat in front of him idly, the sound of it creaking enough to startle him into stopping. "He keeps waking me up in the middle of the night, and I just- I don't know, man. I'm kind of sick of him."
Joe doesn't say anything, which pisses Patrick off more than it probably should. He's ready to lock himself up and sleep for a god damn week. Alone. He passes out halfway through the movie, face to the hard press of the seat, mouth open and sucking in dry, cold theatre air. He's only kind of surprised when he wakes up with Pete next to him instead of Joe.
Pete leans over the seat, kisses him in the empty theatre. Things don’t make sense anymore. Patrick punches him, feels his knuckles crack against Pete’s chest. Pain shoots up into his wrist. Pete's hand wraps around his, holds it tight between their chests. When Pete kisses him again, Patrick doesn't bother fighting.
For the first time, Patrick takes him home, leads him into his room. Lets him lay on the bed without fighting. His stomach feels like it's in knots, his chest pulling too tight over his lungs and stealing all his breath away. He doesn't understand what's going on beyond Pete's hand in his hair and Pete's warm body under his.
"Why are you here?" Patrick asks, his shirt dropping off his fingertips.
"Do you want me to leave?" Pete asks back. He's stretched over the sheets like he owns them, hand on his belly, jeans undone.
Patrick doesn't have an answer for him.
Pete smiles, corner of his mouth barely moving, and says, "this is where everyone wants me." He lifts his hips, wiggles his jeans down. Patrick stares at the hard lines of his thighs, the swell of his dick in his boxers. "So, here I am."
Patrick closes his eyes, counts to three, and walks out of the room. Pete doesn't follow him.
---
"I hate you sometimes," Patrick says to the lump on his bed. Pete's been out for a while, still on top of the covers in his underwear.
He touches the curve of Pete's hip, slides his fingers over Pete's damp, open mouth. Part of him aches, somewhere inside. He could have had this tonight, could have spent hours wrapped up in and around and under Pete, the center of his world for as long as he could stand it. Pete's skin is soft and warm, his stomach flat under the heel of Patrick's hand.
"Why are you so fucked up?" Patrick asks. He lays on his side, tucks his knee carefully between Pete's.
"People like me when I'm a fuck up," Pete says, voice thick like gravel. Patrick wraps a hand around the swell of Pete's bicep, traces the bare skin with his thumb.
"I'd like you more if you would just be yourself," Patrick says. He lays his head carefully on Pete's chest. He can hear the skip beat of Pete's heart under him.
The car alarm down the street goes off again, the soft sound of music from Kevin's room filters in under the door. Something clicks in his chest, breaks apart the bands around his lungs. He can breathe again, here with Pete laying quiet and still under him.
"What do you want from me, Pete?" He asks. He curls his fingers around Pete's neck, matches his thumb up to the line of Pete's Adam's apple to feel him answer.
Pete's quiet, hands tucked under his head, eyes closed. He could almost be asleep. Patrick rubs at his throat, probably harder than is really necessary.
"You help me sleep," Pete says. He swallows, tilts his head away from Patrick's touch. "You don't treat me like everyone else does."
Patrick closes his own eyes and curls up around him. He's going to break Pete of this bullshit, and he's going to teach him how to talk about his issues like a fucking adult.
But first, he's going to sleep.
Author:
namebrandtonguePairing(s): Pete/Patrick
Rating: R
Warnings: None
Word count: 1764
Summary: Patrick doesn't know what’s worse- being a sucker, or knowing that he’s a sucker. If it were anyone but Pete Wentz, he’d have thrown them out already and gone back to sleep.
Pete's been self diagnosing again.
Patrick touches the curve of his cheek, feels the hot skin under his fingers like a fire. There's a box of over the counter sleeping pills on Patrick's nightstand, some generic offshoot the only thing they could afford at the all night Walgreens. He's sweating, a slick line down his back and temple, the heat bleeding in through Patrick's clothes.
Downstairs, Patrick's brother is just getting home from a date, his tiptoe soft steps up the stairs like branches cracking in the quiet house. The clock on the VCR reads ten after three. Patrick's too tired to sleep, eyes heavy and dry, head pounding. He wonders if this is how Pete feels all the time.
They haven't known each other long. Not really. Patrick opens the door for band practice- which is usually just him and Joe fucking around while Pete watches earnestly, scribbling in his notebook across the room- and Pete treats him like some kind of kid brother. Patrick's not really sure he likes the trade off. He's getting tired of Pete waking him up at all hours of the morning by falling in the window like some fucked up Peter Pan.
"You're kind of fucked up," Patrick says out loud, his voice hiccuping over itself. Pete doesn't so much as budge. He's drooling on Patrick's sleep pants, his big, stupid mouth open against Patrick's knee. His breath is so hot, makes Patrick feel like he's sitting under the furnace.
Somewhere outside, someone’s car alarm is going off. Patrick listens to the distant sound, thinks about exactly how long it’s been since he’s done anything but sat in his room and played the good fiddle to Pete’s issues. He’s too young to feel this washed out.
“I don’t think I like you anymore,” Patrick says. It sounds like a lie, bouncing off the walls of his room.
He’s got a geometry test in a handful of hours. He hasn’t studied, hasn’t looked at the notes since he wrote them down. His head aches. Pete grumbles into his leg, turns his head until his nose is pressed flat. It kind of hurts, but at least he’s not drooling anymore.
Patrick closes his eyes, leans back against the wall. His leg is asleep but he can’t move it under Pete’s weight. It’s stupid to let Pete get like this, but it’s stupider to try to snap him out of it. Patrick doesn’t know what’s worse- being a sucker, or knowing that he’s a sucker. If it were anyone but Pete Wentz, he’d have thrown them out already and gone back to sleep.
“I really don’t like you anymore.”
Pete grunts. Patrick stares at the ceiling and tries to fall asleep.
---
“Fuck off,” Patrick says, face half in his pillow. There’s the warm, heavy heat of Pete- of course it’s Pete, who else would it be?- on top of him, wiggling around like a puppy. He’s going to wind up dead one day, so used to Pete breaking in that he won’t remember to be afraid that it could be anyone else.
“That’s no way to talk to your best friend,” Pete says, shoving himself under the covers. His feet are like ice. His breath smells like liquor.
“It’s a good thing you aren’t my best friend then.” Patrick punches his pillow and tries not to fall off the bed as Pete tries to get comfortable.
“You wound me deeply.” Pete throws an arm over Patrick’s waist, too familiar to be comfortable. The sleep Patrick’s been chasing after bends a corner that he can’t and slips away from him.
“I hate you,” Patrick says.
“You’ve really got to stop lying to yourself,” Pete mumbles. He presses a sleepy kiss to Patrick’s cheek, damp and sloppy, and promptly passes out. This isn’t what Patrick expected when Joe had told him he’d be playing in a band with Pete Wentz.
Patrick does his best to not think about the way his skin buzzes where Pete had kissed him, tries not to think about how he feels too hot everywhere Pete’s latched on. It’s a failed mission, but he’s always been stubborn.
---
Tonight it’s NyQuil. Pete’s breath smells like mint, his fingers sticky where he didn’t bother to wash his hand off. Half the bottle is empty, bleeding green onto Patrick’s nightstand. He wants to clean it up before it can eat the stain, but Pete’s half on top of him, mumbling about the stars.
“Why do you keep coming here?” Patrick asks.
Tonight Pete had tumbled in early. Patrick, hand down his shorts, eyes closed, had nearly fell off the bed. Pete had laughed him off, told him to go on and finish before climbing on in with him. Patrick's kind of pissed about it, kind of worried. He's known Pete a little over six weeks, watched him destruct for most of it, and still has no idea of what to do with him. He's not the adult in this situation. He shouldn't have to be the one figuring this shit out.
"You help me sleep," Pete says, face smashed into the soft roundness of Patrick's stomach, words winding up together.
"Can't you go to your girlfriend's house instead?" Patrick asks. It sounds harsh out loud, cruel. Patrick tries not to wince. Pete huffs into his shirt.
"She's not as pretty as you, Rick." Pete raises a lazy hand and pats Patrick's cheek, nails scraping softly down the side of his face. "You'll learn to love me."
Patrick doubts this. Still, he stays still against his wall, stares at the posters tacked up on his door, and thinks about the music in his head.
---
"You okay ?" Joe asks, prodding at Patrick's side. Patrick bats weakly at his hand and tries to wake himself up.
"Just tired," he answers.
They're waiting for the movie to start, feet propped up on the backs of the theatre seats in front of them, hands locked securely around boxes of buttery, overpriced popcorn. Patrick hasn't left his bedroom in what feels like ages, and now that he's out he can barely focus.
"What's up?"
"Pete." Patrick kicks the seat in front of him idly, the sound of it creaking enough to startle him into stopping. "He keeps waking me up in the middle of the night, and I just- I don't know, man. I'm kind of sick of him."
Joe doesn't say anything, which pisses Patrick off more than it probably should. He's ready to lock himself up and sleep for a god damn week. Alone. He passes out halfway through the movie, face to the hard press of the seat, mouth open and sucking in dry, cold theatre air. He's only kind of surprised when he wakes up with Pete next to him instead of Joe.
Pete leans over the seat, kisses him in the empty theatre. Things don’t make sense anymore. Patrick punches him, feels his knuckles crack against Pete’s chest. Pain shoots up into his wrist. Pete's hand wraps around his, holds it tight between their chests. When Pete kisses him again, Patrick doesn't bother fighting.
For the first time, Patrick takes him home, leads him into his room. Lets him lay on the bed without fighting. His stomach feels like it's in knots, his chest pulling too tight over his lungs and stealing all his breath away. He doesn't understand what's going on beyond Pete's hand in his hair and Pete's warm body under his.
"Why are you here?" Patrick asks, his shirt dropping off his fingertips.
"Do you want me to leave?" Pete asks back. He's stretched over the sheets like he owns them, hand on his belly, jeans undone.
Patrick doesn't have an answer for him.
Pete smiles, corner of his mouth barely moving, and says, "this is where everyone wants me." He lifts his hips, wiggles his jeans down. Patrick stares at the hard lines of his thighs, the swell of his dick in his boxers. "So, here I am."
Patrick closes his eyes, counts to three, and walks out of the room. Pete doesn't follow him.
---
"I hate you sometimes," Patrick says to the lump on his bed. Pete's been out for a while, still on top of the covers in his underwear.
He touches the curve of Pete's hip, slides his fingers over Pete's damp, open mouth. Part of him aches, somewhere inside. He could have had this tonight, could have spent hours wrapped up in and around and under Pete, the center of his world for as long as he could stand it. Pete's skin is soft and warm, his stomach flat under the heel of Patrick's hand.
"Why are you so fucked up?" Patrick asks. He lays on his side, tucks his knee carefully between Pete's.
"People like me when I'm a fuck up," Pete says, voice thick like gravel. Patrick wraps a hand around the swell of Pete's bicep, traces the bare skin with his thumb.
"I'd like you more if you would just be yourself," Patrick says. He lays his head carefully on Pete's chest. He can hear the skip beat of Pete's heart under him.
The car alarm down the street goes off again, the soft sound of music from Kevin's room filters in under the door. Something clicks in his chest, breaks apart the bands around his lungs. He can breathe again, here with Pete laying quiet and still under him.
"What do you want from me, Pete?" He asks. He curls his fingers around Pete's neck, matches his thumb up to the line of Pete's Adam's apple to feel him answer.
Pete's quiet, hands tucked under his head, eyes closed. He could almost be asleep. Patrick rubs at his throat, probably harder than is really necessary.
"You help me sleep," Pete says. He swallows, tilts his head away from Patrick's touch. "You don't treat me like everyone else does."
Patrick closes his own eyes and curls up around him. He's going to break Pete of this bullshit, and he's going to teach him how to talk about his issues like a fucking adult.
But first, he's going to sleep.
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