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Pete doesn’t even notice how cold the bus is when he first gets up. It’s typical for him to wake slightly overheated from being pressed against Patrick all night, so it isn’t until he’s made a trip to the bathroom and heads for the kitchenette that he realizes Jesus Christ it is freezing in here. He grabs a hoodie off the back of the couch in the lounge and wraps himself in it, but the tiles are shockingly cold under his bare feet and he’s shivering by the time he gets the coffee maker started. He pulls his hood snugly over his head and ears while he examines the thermostat by the door. Fifty-two degrees?! He isn’t just imagining things; it’s fucking cold in here and no wonder - the heat isn’t even on. Pete fiddles with the box, pressing buttons and accidentally turning on the air conditioner for second, before giving up and making his way to the front of the bus.
“Sorry, Pete - heater’s broken,” says Jim, the driver, before Pete can even inquire. “They’re dispatching someone to look at it once we get to the venue.”
“When will that be?” Pete asks, taking turns rubbing his numb toes up the sides of his legs. He can hear the hint of a whine in his voice.
“About another four hours,” Jim replies.
There’s a diva-ish part of Pete that wants to get all huffy and demanding, and start texting everyone from their manager to the head of Island Records to ask how the hell is he expected to survive on a freezing cold tour bus for the next four hours, but these days the sensible, more mature part of him has a stronger presence, and he knows that the only reasonable thing to do is tough it out until they get to their next stop, where a technician will have the time to look at and hopefully repair it. (Having to move to an entirely new bus is mid-tour is no fun at all. Patrick and Pete have personal items strewn every which where, and locating them all and packing in a hurry on the day of a show is incredibly stressful.) He thanks Jim and walks away, although he’s definitely not happy about it. He mutters to himself as he fixes his coffee, finally settling on the couch in the lounge under a throw blanket, tucking his feet under his ass and wrapping his hands around his mug. He sits there for awhile, sipping coffee and idly browsing his phone, before deciding the shorts he’s wearing are not cutting it and he’s really going to have to retrieve a pair of sweatpants from the bedroom he and Patrick share at the back of the bus.
He opens the door cautiously, looking at Patrick’s sleeping form in the bed for any signs of movement. Pete is usually up long before Patrick because, as Patrick puts it, Pete doesn’t sleep like a normal human being. He tiptoes into the room and starts pawing through his luggage, having a specific pair of fleece-lined pants in mind, but he stops in his tracks when Patrick makes a small noise and shifts in his sleep. He watches him for a moment, satisfied he hasn’t woken him up, then starts thinking about all the warmth and coziness that is guaranteed to be under the blanket with Patrick. Really, it’s dumb to sit out in the lounge shivering and alone, when he knows exactly the best way to make himself warm and comfortable. He quietly shuts the door and studies the bed, where Patrick has rolled onto Pete’s side, slightly burritoed in the blankets. Pete approaches the other side and attempts to gently pull the covers out from underneath Patrick - just enough so he can slip under them - but gentle yields no results and he ends up pulling with a mighty yank that already has Patrick grumbling as Pete slides into the bed and presses up against his t-shirt clad back.
“Pete, what the hell are you - holy shit, why are your hands so cold?!” Patrick exclaims, as Pete slithers his arms around Patrick to pull him closer, tucking his hands under Patrick’s warm, warm arms.
“I’m cold. Heat on the bus is broken,” he tells him mournfully, pressing his icy nose into the back of Patrick’s neck, holding him more firmly as he instinctively jerks away from the touch. “I think I have hypothermia.”
“I’m sure you don’t,” Patrick tells him irritably, but raises his socked feet to accept Pete’s between them, rubbing them together. The socks aren’t allowing Pete to leach Patrick’s body heat, however, so Pete really can’t be blamed for -
“Keep those ice blocks off my legs!” Patrick snaps the instant Pete’s feet make contact with his skin, thrashing as much as his Pete-and-blanket restraint will allow.
Pete pays him no mind, sighing in relief and happily wiggling his feet, trying to warm both the tops and bottoms. Patrick’s skin is so warm it almost feels like it's burning. Patrick stills after a moment, relaxing as the temperature of Pete’s appendages evens out. Pete, however, is craving more warmth, and the thick hoodie he’s wearing is only preventing him from receiving more of Patrick’s heat...
Braving the chill, Pete sits up (prompting another noise of complaint from Patrick), yanks his hoodie with his shirt still inside over his head as quickly as possible, and dives back under the covers, pressing into Patrick’s back once again. The thin cotton of Patrick’s t-shirt is allowing some of his body heat to seep through, but not nearly enough for Pete’s liking.
“Hey!” Patrick protests, as Pete starts pushing his shirt up his back.
“Skin-to-skin contact is the best way!” Pete insists, pressing his torso up against the warm, broad expanse of skin that he has now exposed.
“But now you’re making me cold,” Patrick complains.
“We’ll keep each other warm,” Pete tells him earnestly. “C’mon, turn over.”
Patrick lets out a deep sigh that turns into a yawn before rolling over to face Pete. He’s obviously tired, but he doesn’t look angry, nor does he have the semi-amused, long-suffering expression he so often has with Pete. Right now he simply looks resigned, much like a pet cat that has gone limp in the arms of an overly enthusiastic child. The front side of Patrick brings a new gust of heat that seems to radiate off of him.
Pete pulls the covers all the way up to Patrick’s neck and burrows down under them, sliding down Patrick’s body until his head is level with his chest. “Oh my god, you’re like the human version of a hot tub,” Pete murmurs, sliding his hands up under Patrick’s shirt so he can pull it up on this side, too. He thaws his cheeks against Patrick’s bare chest, wraps the arm he’s not lying on around Patrick’s waist, and entangles their legs together, soothed by the feeling and scent of all that delicious, sleepwarm skin.
“And you’re some kind of heat-sucking vampire,” Patrick mutters, but it’s good-natured grumbling.
Pete continues to nuzzle Patrick’s chest, slowly rubbing his face all over it, the light smattering of chest hair like butterfly kisses against his skin. It’s not before long Pete’s lips brush a nipple and Patrick gasps softly. Pete smirks to himself and does it again on purpose, keeping his mouth closed while he teases it with the seam of his lips over and over again, until Patrick’s nipple is hard and perky and his breathing is heavy and irregular.
Pete shifts so that he can tuck Patrick’s thigh between his own, and Patrick slides it up, encouraging the erection Pete is already forming. Pete ruts against Patrick’s thigh as he opens his mouth over his nipple, bringing himself to full hardness while he makes broad, firm strokes with his tongue. Patrick is heating up - his chest is damp all over, not just where Pete’s mouth has been - and underneath the blanket it smells like fresh sweat, but Pete keeps his head under, snug in the humid air that encloses him. He makes sure both of Patrick’s nipples get equal attention as Patrick arches his back and makes sleep roughened moans deep in his throat.
When it feels like there isn’t any oxygen left under the blanket, Pete has to come up for air. The cool air is a shock but refreshing when he pokes out his head. Patrick is gazing at him with dilated pupils, his nostrils slightly flaring with each heavy breath. He thrusts his hard-on into Pete’s belly pointedly. Before Patrick can nudge him back under the blanket, Pete straightens himself so that he and Patrick are belly-to-belly, pressing the hot, silky skin of their cocks together. When Pete reaches down and bundles Patrick’s cock with his own, Patrick makes an interested sound.
Pete strokes them both together, slowly at first, experimenting with the best grip to allow maximum contact since his hand can’t wrap all the way around them both. It’s a little wet down there already from Patrick’s sweat, but it’s still too dry to get a good slide going, so after a few strokes Pete swipes his fingers over their leaking heads to gather up a bit more moisture. Pete is content to continue to writhe against each other like this, enjoying the closeness of each other’s bodies, moaning into each other’s necks until they both come, but Patrick begins making tiny noises of frustration and arches and squirms, trying to get more.
Usually at this point Pete would just blow him - Pete is a very oral person - but today he's compelled to see this through. He coaxes Patrick onto his back and Patrick eagerly pushes the blanket down to his thighs, his cock a pretty dark pink that stands out against the flushed but pale skin of his belly. They’re both so overheated, the chill of the room is a welcome relief. Patrick puts his arms behind his head, an absent, blissful smile on his face, fully expecting Pete to go down on him, only to startle when Pete clambers on top of him instead.
Pete gives him a wicked smile as he shoves Patrick’s thighs together, settling himself just at the top and bending his knees in front of him, careful to rest some of his weight on his heels. Their balls are squished together, and for a moment Pete is reminded of the sticky hand toys that cling to glass, but that decidedly unsexy thought leaves his mind as soon as he takes both of their cocks into his hand. Patrick immediately reaches down to assist, but Pete bats him away with his free hand.
“I want to try by myself,” he explains, adjusting his grip. “At least at first.”
Patrick takes a deep breath and nods, shutting his eyes and throwing his head back against the pillow.
“Baby, watch,” Pete implores. “This is so fucking hot.”
Patrick is reluctant a lot of the time to keep his eyes open during sex, especially when he first wakes up, but when he looks down and takes in the scene before him, he’s obviously transfixed. Their cocks look amazing together - Pete’s slightly longer, Patrick’s much thicker; Pete’s a dark tan, Patrick’s almost red in contrast; a dark thatch of closely trimmed hair at the base of Pete’s, a light colored thicket at the bottom of Patrick’s. They’re both beaded with precome, but only Patrick is leaking down the side. Patrick moans when Pete thumbs across their slits to spread the wetness, and starts pumping his hips slowly in time with Pete’s strokes, watching their cock heads poke in and out of the circle of Pete’s hand. Pete applies more pressure with his thumb and the heel of his hand to his own dick, giving himself the extra pressure he prefers, while covering more of Patrick’s shaft with his other four fingers. He’s got them wedged together so that the underside of their cocks rub against each other perfectly in the sensitive spots at the bottom of the heads. Pete brings his other hand to his mouth and spits into it generously, using it to lessen the friction. They use the thrusting of their hips for most of the movement, essentially fucking into Pete’s fist in tandem, both staring at the way their cocks move together.
Patrick has his hands clenched in blankets, obviously longing to touch, but he allows Pete to have his fun. Pete adds more saliva, this time leaving his other hand there for assistance, their cocks sliding against each other as Pete's hands work them. Pete feels his orgasm creeping up, and Patrick's moans are getting louder and louder, so Pete ignores the burning in his thighs and propels his hips faster. When Patrick brokenly moans Pete's name, Pete is done for, catching the come in his hand as it spurts before using it to slick up Patrick. Pete’s come makes Patrick’s cock slip easily against his own and through his fist, and it’s only a few strokes before Patrick’s coming, too, in heavy gushes that run down them both.
Pete strokes them together a few more times, reveling in the slick dirtiness of it, loving the way their half-hard cocks and his hand look covered in a mixture of both their come - Patrick’s thicker and opaque, Pete’s thinner and more pearlescent. When he finally lets go of Patrick, he can’t fight the urge to keep his own dick in his hand to trace the length of Patrick’s one more time, smearing it all together even more. Patrick squirms and lets out a soft, breathless giggle, oversensitive but still riding the euphoria of his orgasm.
Pete dives for the nearest article of dirty clothing he can find on the floor to start the cleanup. “I could really go for a hot shower right now,” Patrick laments.
“I have just the thing.” Pete rifles through his duffel bag and retrieves a package of his trusty baby wipes, holding them aloft in triumph.
“You and your baby wipes,” Patrick remarks, rolling his eyes, but he’s more than happy to accept a couple.
Once they’re cleaned to Patrick’s satisfaction, Pete jumps back into bed and flings the covers over them both.
“Patrick,” Pete says, huddling into his side. “I’m cold.”