Archive of Our Own

Pete's on his absolute best behavior.

That's bullet number one, proving he's not the douchebag Patrick thinks he is. Best behavior is kind of a nebulous concept at the moment, Pete's more than slightly drunk, but he's worked out that it definitely means no casual vandalism, no petty theft, and absolutely no touching of Patrick's guitars while intoxicated. Patrick had been pretty strong on that point and Pete can respect that. He’s got this, he’s bringing his A-game.

Pete has a plan, okay. He's going to Make Patrick Stump Like Him.

It's a really good plan, it's got bullet points and a proper title and everything. He'd found the notebook with the fewest questionable stains and written the whole thing out. He'd shown Andy, to get a second opinion on the plan. After calling him a borderline stalker Andy had agreed that it was a very good plan. He'd even ruffled Pete's hair like an asshole.

Pete really likes Andy.

The whole thing's going pretty well, Pete thinks. Patrick had grudgingly invited Pete to his party, ostensibly to prove to Joe that he existed, but Pete thought he’d detected a little bit of a grin in Patrick’s voice even though the phone. That's a good sign in Pete's books.

It's not so much a party, exactly, not the way Pete's used the word. Pete's idea is bigger and louder, dark and full of people he doesn't know. That's not Patrick's scene though, Pete knows that. It's more of... a get-together, Pete guesses. People Patrick knows and their friends, much more laid back. None of them recognize him, or they don't bother making a big deal out of him if they do. It's nice.

There's no coke but that's probably for the best. Pete doesn't need to give Patrick any more reasons to hate him, not when he's made so much progress in his brilliant plan.

He'd going to make Patrick Stump, the world's grumpiest, cutest, and most introverted genius guitarist, his best friend.

In the meanwhile he finishes rolling his joint and laughs when Joe Trohman notices and stares at it hopefully. Patrick had introduced them with a desultory 'this is Joe, I told you I knew Wentz you motherfucker, I need a drink' and Pete had promptly decided Joe was his new third best friend behind Patrick, duh, and Andy because Pete had loyalties. Joe hasn't proven him wrong yet.

“You're gonna share, right Pete?” Joe asks, leaning into Pete's space and sneaking greedy fingers in the joint's direction. Pete narrows his eyes in fake distrust. It's a really pretty blunt, if Pete says say so himself. He's had plenty of practice.

“No,” he declares and holds the finished joint close to his chest, away from Joe's freaky-soulful eyes. “This is for me and Pattycakes only. It's a friendship joint.”

Joe laughs until he snorts at that.

It gets Patrick's attention and he blinks at them owlishly from where he's perched on the arm of a couch across the room. He's a few beers into the evening and more than a little buzzed. It makes him slower and softer, and there's a high blush on his cheekbones that Pete just wants to lick.

He ignores that thought and holds up the joint for examination.

“What do you say, Patty?” he asks hopefully. Patrick blinks at him a few times and narrows his eyes.

“Will you stop calling me that?” he asks and Pete laughs because no, Patrick's name was made for nicknames.

Patrick sighs and heaves himself off the couch. Pete stares questioningly. He's kind of buzzed himself, standing isn't exactly in the cards as a fruitful activity.

“We gotta go somewhere else or Trohman'll find a way to smoke it all himself, selfish motherfucker,” Patrick explains with a sigh that's obviously hiding affection. Joe nods agreement with a stoned giggle and Pete suddenly feels his chest ache.

He wants that.

“Well then!” he covers with a giggle and bounces to his feet. It comes easier than he thought it would, he's pretty far gone. “By all means, Tricky, lead the way!”

Patrick grins at him. A real one, real and shy and lovely. Pete commits it to memory and is suddenly horribly grateful there's no coke in his system. There's something about that smile that itches under his skin. It's a buzz in the back of his brain and something warm and delicious in the back of his throat.

He's drunk as shit, he thinks, snorting at himself.

It takes effort but he refocuses when Patrick stops at a closed door, knocking and listening. No one answers and it's empty when Patrick opens the door. He gestures inside grandly, grin a little slack and vacant but still shy and sweet. The itch in Pete's head subsides to a pleasant tingle.

“After you,” Patrick says, all drunk chivalry.

It turns out to be some sort of guest bedroom/storage room combination, boxes stacked up to the ceiling in one corner and a slightly dusty futon pushed up against the wall. Patrick collapses on it, ignoring the dust that clouds around him, and beckons for where Pete’s lingering by the door. He’s sitting in a loose sprawl, looks ridiculously comfortable, and Pete gives in to his urge to snuggle with exactly zero fight.

Patrick doesn’t shove him off when he tucks himself into Patrick’s side, just shoves him around a little until all his pointy bits are away from his ribs. It’s the best snuggle Pete’s had since the last time Andy let him ride around on his back for half an hour.

“You’re the best thing ever,” he informs Patrick solemnly, peering at him upside-down.

Patrick’s face twists at that, something cold and unhappy shifting in his expression, but before Pete can twist himself right-side-up to make sense of it he’s grinning again and grabbing for the joint forgotten in Pete’s hand.

“We gonna smoke that or what?” he asks. Pete lets it go because he’s having trouble with coherent thought and he gets the feeling Patrick doesn’t want to talk about it. Pete can respect that, and besides there’s a friendship joint to smoke.

Patrick takes the first hit because Pete’s a gentleman. He laughs when Pete tells him that, but not in a mean way and he settles his arm across Pete’s stomach easily when he hands the blunt back. He doesn’t try to shift Pete around and Pete feels warm all over with alcohol and pot and affection.

The room is pretty quiet as they pass the joint back and forth, but there’s music and laughter coming through the wall and it’s really nice. It doesn’t feel edged in desperation like Pete’s used to, it feels like normalcy, like something he’d forgotten about because he hadn’t had it in so long.

Pete takes a hit and then realizes there’s barely any of the joint left, the roach almost to his fingertips.

“Just one hit left,” Pete says, crestfallen. He doesn’t want to get up, doesn’t want Patrick to get up. He’d be pretty happy if they just fell asleep there, if he’s honest, but he doesn’t have any excuse for that.

“Huh,” Patrick says, voice distant and incredibly stoned. He doesn’t sound like he’s listening, he sounds like he’s a million miles away. He’s not paying any attention.

The idea seizes Pete and he's climbing into Patrick's lap before he's quite able to process it, wrapping his arms around Patrick's neck, barely remembering to hold the joint away from Patrick's skin. He wants Patrick’s attention, all of it.

“Wanna share?” Pete asks breathlessly, trying to hide the way his heart is kicking at the thought of Patrick leaving. He keeps shifting under Pete's thighs like he's thinking about running away and it's yanking Pete's already tight jeans against his crotch. His dick is twitching and his chest is aching and his head isn't clear enough to separate the two.

“...How?” Patrick asks after a few seconds. He sounds wary, but not angry, the tone he gets when he's not sure if he likes Pete or not. Pete grins, feeling the desperation in it and hoping it's not showing.

“I'll show you,” he breathes and leans back, putting the joint to his lips.

Patrick watches him do it and he's more than a little stoned already, he has to be, for the way he watches Pete suck in smoke.

He dizzily considers asking if Patrick sees something he likes, if there's something better his mouth could be doing, but he just doesn't have the courage. It's not for Pete, the way Patrick's watching his mouth, but it gets to Pete anyway. He's getting hard and hopes Patrick hasn't noticed. He's stopped moving at least, his attention frozen to Pete's joint.

Holding the joint away again, he touches Patrick's chin and guides his face up. Patrick's meeting his eyes now and he looks a little scared but mostly intrigued. It makes Pete's spine tingle, one long wave down to his dick and it feels so good he almost rolls his hips.

Instead he leans forward and puts his mouth over Patrick's.

Patrick makes a noise, a high-pitched, confused sound that Pete echoes before he's really aware of it.

He presses his tongue against the corner of Patrick's mouth. It opens and Pete presses inside, breathing out smoke, stinging and thick into Patrick's mouth. He breathes it in, a soft gasp that seems to pull everything out of Pete's lungs. The ache in Pete's chest goes sharp, sweet, forcing another high-pitched noise from him.

He can't help himself, Patrick's under him with his mouth slack and hot and just so perfectly Patrick. It's too easy to slide the tip of his tongue over Patrick's bottom lip.

It's dry, chapped, tastes like cheap beer and something chocolate and the metallic tang of someone who bites their lip too often. Pete wants to press in farther, wants to bite down and then suck it better, wants and wants and wants.

Patrick's hands are suddenly on his hips, slightly too high to cup his ass but hot and too much anyway. His hips roll and he's really, honestly hard now. His jeans are too tight and it hurts but the pain sparks his hips to roll again. Everything is a confused mess in his head except Patrick, his wet mouth and his hands on his hips and his solid bulk under Pete.

He runs out of air and pulls back with a mindless gasp for breath, panting for air instantly. Patrick stares at him, smoke trickling slowly from his lips.

“Pete...?” he asks and more smoke trickles out with his breath. Pete shudders and tries on a grin.

“Hi,” he offers. Patrick stares at him, eyes glassy and high as fuck.

“I'm really high,” he continues after a beat or so of total silence, quiet like a confessional. He shifts forward a little, not anything more than a balance adjustment.

Patrick makes a noise, deep and unexpectedly desperate and his hands flex on Pete's hips. It's not a grab, not exactly, and it's not an invitation to move either, but.

But Pete is high and on the edge of heartbreak and he's pretty sure he can feel Patrick's dick tenting his jeans under Pete's ass, hard and impossible to miss. Patrick is right there, warm and perfect and Pete has never been more certain he's about to fuck this up.

He gives up anyway and kisses Patrick for real.

For the first moment Patrick’s almost still, just an instinctive press to his lips and his hands moving on Pete’s hips again. Dry skin catches at his tongue again when he presses forward, heady and still damp and real. It’s almost perfect, almost what Pete wants, and he whines wordlessly because it still isn’t quite enough.

And then Patrick’s lips part and Pete loses any thread of rational thought he might have had, lost in the rush of heat and wet and Patrick Patrick Patrick. One of his hands goes into Patrick hair, knocking aside Patrick’s hat and threading into it, pulling a little because it’s so soft. Patrick makes a little noise at that and it goes straight to Pete’s dick.

Patrick’s hands shift down the last few inches to truly hold his ass, fingertips digging in just hard enough to hint at pain.

Pete gets a flash of thought, just the image of Patrick’s clever fingers on him, in him, and whimpers. Patrick likes the noise, if the way he grabs tighter is any judge. He’s grinding up against Pete’s ass and making little huffing noises when it’s not quite enough. Pete tries his best to spread his legs wider, offer more friction, but his jeans are fucking tight and the best he manages is aborted little movements that press too hard against his dick, sending up sparks of pain-pleasure behind his eyelids.

Pete runs out of air and breaks the kiss, panting for breath, brain scrambling for something to cling to and Patrick staring at him with blown pupils. His mouth is red and slick, kissed raw. Pete’s fingers ache to touch. He doesn’t.

There’s something nagging in his brain, louder and louder by the second. Words. No, lyrics, there's lyrics going around in his head now. Coming easy, like they haven't in so long Pete's forgotten what easy feels like.

“I need, I need paper,” Pete mutters mindlessly. The lyrics are getting louder and better and more instant and Pete can feel a song there, a really good one. He scrambles off of Patrick and doesn’t feel anything but a distant pang of loss because there’s music in his head, loud and insistent and desperately joyful.

Patrick stares at him in total bemusement but fumbles a piece of junk mail off the coffee table and finds a pen in between the couch cushions. He forks then over and Pete starts to write as fast he can.

The words vomit in the page so fast Pete can't even quite keep up with them. They're a blur and Pete's not sure if they're about Patrick or himself but they feel right. Patrick is watching him quietly but it feels okay to have him there. It doesn't break his focus until the words peter out.

He realizes what he's done when he finally sets the pen down, staring at the messy lines of messy handwriting.

He’s fucked it all up, fucked up his barely-there friendship with Patrick over a stupid fucking crush and ruined his brilliant plan, for a sheet full of lyrics no one but him is ever going to see. Despair settles like black tar in his chest, choking and ugly and familiar.

It takes all he's got to peek up at Patrick and when he does Patrick's not even looking at him, busy examining the words.

“Lyrics?” he asks. Pete nods cautiously. Patrick doesn’t look mad, and Pete has a lot of experience with angry Patrick. Some of the heavy darkness in his chest lifts, cautiously. Enough for Pete to be able to breathe.

Maybe Patrick’s forgiven him, and all he wants to do is ignore that the whole thing happened. Pete can do that, even if he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the way Patrick’s mouth feels when he’s kissing Pete.

“I didn't know you were a lyricist. I guess I never bothered to check,” Patrick continues, tone wondering. Pete looks away, down at his hands.

“Yeah, I did most of Arma's early songs.” he shrugs like it isn't a big deal, like it doesn't still sting like motherfucker that it was his words that made them big but he isn't good enough now. “We've got a shit-ton of ghostwriters now. It's pretty cool, I don't have to do any of the work.”

Patrick's frowning when Pete chances a look his way but he isn't looking at Pete. He's looking at the words, reading them over. The rest of the darkness lifts in the flutter Pete’s heart tries to do when Patrick’s expression slowly turns approving as he reads further.

“That's bullshit, Arma’s early stuff was your best work,” he says absently. Pete’s suddenly really glad that Patrick’s not looking at him because he’s pretty sure his face is doing something horrifying, like tearing up or some bullshit.

“How does this go? It’s got music, right?” Patrick asks finally, glancing up at Pete. His face is back under control, thank god, but he’s got the feeling he’s blushing.

“Yeah, it does,” he finally gets out. “Like this.”

He hums a few notes of the melody he’s still got running through his head, tapping out a rudimentary beat on his knees. It’s not quite right, it’s a little too simple and there are places where the whole things needs to be picked apart to make room for a second guitar part, places where the drums are too simple, but it’s essentially good. The best thing he’s written in a long time.

Patrick is silent for a few moments. Pete can’t look at him, the rhythm he’s tapping out on his knees devolving into nervous, random tapping.

“That’s really good,” Patrick says finally. “But what if it was like-,”

Patrick hums a few bars, a variation that’s got elements of arena rock, a little bit of Patrick’s hip-hop flair, radically different but still fundamentally the same. It hits Pete in the stomach, that this is his music and Patrick’s making it better. A collaboration, something Pete remembers a little from his early bands, Arma’s early days. It’s good.

Pete bounces in place and feels his grin stretch so wide it's threatening to break his face.

“Yes, yes, keep going!” he cheers when Patrick breaks off, suddenly blushing. Patrick hesitates but breaks down when Pete just stares at him expectantly, grinning shyly and pointing at a section of what Pete had written.

“This would make a good chorus, like a-,” he starts to sing wordlessly for a second but picks up the lyrics in seconds, piecing them together on the fly. It's not perfect, the rhythm needs some work and Pete can see where they need a drummer but it's his words, Patrick's singing his words.

He’s really, honestly, truly in love.