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The first time, Pete says nothing. Only watches, wide eyes obscured by the messy fall of hair, tangled from too much movement.
The shows have been getting better — getting bigger, and so have the crowds. They've started to earn being called 'crowds' now as opposed to a handful of curious or lost souls that happened to find their way into Fall Out Boy's current venue. Part of that, a big part of it, is Patrick. Kid doesn't have much of a stage presence yet but he can sing and Pete plans to make that take him somewhere. How to work a crowd can be learned. A voice you've either got or you don't, and Pete isn't blessed with one. Not one people'd pay to hear, anyway.
Of course, before he can learn to properly front a band, Patrick needs to get over the intense stage fright and general shyness that can paralyse him at times. Pete's seen singers who puke before shows; who have elaborate warm-up rituals and turn into screaming assholes if they're interrupted; even ones who have to bolt to the toilet before climbing onstage.
Patrick's the only one he's even heard of who wets the bed.
Pete tries to rationalise it by citing Patrick's youth. The kid really is a kid, still a minor even; that's why Pete's sacked out on the floor in the first place. He could see how twitchy and nervous Patrick'd been all day knowing they have a bigger show scheduled tomorrow. Jumping whenever someone touched his shoulder. Guzzling soda like it's going out of style. He figured that his usual unconscious, persistent efforts to plaster himself against the other person in the bed might not be too appreciated in Patrick's state of mind. He's careful about touching Patrick, aware that it makes him uncomfortable, and not wanting to jeopardise his meal ticket by either overloading the shy boy or getting accusations thrown at him.
Though not from Joe and Andy, not tonight; they're dead to the world. Joe's probably too stoned to wake up any time before sunrise and Andy's little earplugs render him immune to the weed-enhanced rumble of his bed-sharer's snoring. Pete's just trying to sleep in a pile of blankets on the shitty carpet when they're already splurging on this cheap motel for the night. Fair? Hell no. A calculated decision made in the hopes that it would ease Patrick's nerves to get a good night's sleep in a real bed with no one in his personal space for a change.
Apparently he miscalculated. Pete watches him gather up the sheets, wadding them into a tight ball and putting them in the bottom of the closet. No one else will see them there; Patrick is the only one who wears anything that needs to be hung up. The rest of them have wardrobes that respond well to being rolled up and stuffed in a duffel bag.
He listens to the faint splash of water in the bathroom, barely audible over the obnoxious fan. When Patrick emerges he's a bit damp yet, a white towel wrapped around his waist and boxers dangling from one hand. Pete can't help but notice that there's little delineation between the bleach-bright terrycloth and the pale expanse of skin. Only the texture differentiates them. It fascinates him, how amazingly milk-coloured and smooth Patrick is. The few times he's seen more than his forearms, anyway: Patrick is seriously body shy on top of every other kind of shy.
Pete continues to watch surreptitiously as Patrick changes into clean shorts and crawls under the ugly floral bedspread. Patrick is ten years and then some past the age where this kind of thing is normal, but then, he's in a band, on tour, constantly being placed into situations that stress him out. It's not a normal existence and Pete thinks that as weird as this particular reaction is, it doesn't seem unwarranted exactly. And the kid cleans up after himself.
He burrows down farther into the blankets once he's sure Patrick is asleep in an attempt to get warm. His last thought before finally drifting off is that bunking on the floor might be less comfortable than the bed but at least he stayed dry.
* * *
It's not until much later that anyone else notices. By then it's an infrequent thing — an old habit making a guest appearance. But Joe catches Patrick disposing of his sheets one morning and when Patrick freezes, Pete jumps in.
"Fuck, Joe, you must sleep like a fucking log not to hear this one doing the five-fingered shuffle all the time." He jerks a thumb at Patrick and then continues the motion suggestively, grinning when Joe sniggers. "Shoots like a champion."
Satisfied with that explanation, Joe wanders off while Patrick stands there, round eyes betraying his confused shock. Pete's grin doesn't waver at all. The singer owes him one now and they both know it.
Pete saunters over and cups Patrick's cheek, leaning in to press a brief kiss to his mouth. It's more than he's dared before and less than he wants but it's all he takes. For now.
"I'll go get coffee while you shower, hm? Want food, too?"
The blushing stammer he gets in response uncurls something in his gut, predatory tendrils snaking through him. Not yet, Pete tells the feeling before it can swamp him. It isn't time yet.
He brushes another light kiss over those lips and feels Patrick kiss back with the barest amount of pressure. For a split second Pete considers forging ahead with this right here but he reins himself in and backs off, heading for the door instead, grin intact.
He wants Patrick to come to him.
* * *
They have separate bunks on a real bus now. Pete's tireless marketing strategies and broken verse are married to Patrick's vocals and production capabilities in a partnership that's growing more successful all the time. There are still moments when they slip: when Pete's words or actions are a little too personal to be 'just friends'; when Patrick's nerves get the best of him. And then one night they slip at the same time, and everything changes.
Patrick's coming back from the tiny bathroom, damp skin glistening white in the scant illumination, and he's about to climb into the bunk below when Pete finds himself speaking.
"Patrick. C'mon, c'mere. You don't need to sleep with no blankets."
He says it quietly but he doesn't whisper. Joe's snoring loud enough to raise the roof tonight.
Patrick straightens to look at him, eyes huge and shadowed. Pete can't see well enough to read them. But the tongue darting out to moisten lips, the bob of the Adam's apple as Patrick swallows hard; those he can read. Those send his pulse racing, zero to sixty in a rapid heartbeat.
"Okay."
Pete almost doesn't hear him. He doesn't need to, with Patrick stepping onto the ladder and hoisting himself into Pete's bunk, settling beside him. He smells of soap and shampoo. Pete lifts a hand and watches it as if it were someone else's as his fingers comb through the wet ends of Patrick's hair, dislodging droplets of water that seem as though they should sizzle when they bounce off skin, much like testing the heat of a frying pan.
Patrick shivers and Pete makes a small noise, incoherent. This has happened so very many times in his head that he doesn't know how to deal with the reality. With the coolness on his hand and the tremendous body heat of the boy next to him. With the clean freshness rising to his nostrils.
None of his daydreams were scented.
Patrick seems to get that — get that he needs to make the first move, and he sucks on his bottom lip thoughtfully for a moment until he notices Pete's gaze riveted to the movement. A little laugh comes out with his shining lip and then that mouth is pressed against Pete's, insistent and coercive.
Whoa. All this time he expected he'd have to lead Patrick into this but as Pete's lips part to receive a tongue those expectations dissolve. None of the stolen little kisses, the hugs, nothing that had happened prepared Pete for the taste and feel of Patrick forcing him open. He closes his eyes tightly and lets himself experience it, hand threading through that wet hair to clasp the back of Patrick's head as they get a rhythm going, good and strong and head-spinning.
He doesn't know if the surface his dick's pressed against is Patrick's thigh, hip or stomach but the friction feels incredible and his hips move, thrusting blindly, following the sinful pull of Patrick's lips on his. The towel's been lost and Pete sleeps in the nude anyway. His free hand makes its way down the body pinning him to the mattress and he marvels at how soft Patrick is. He wants to feel more. He wants to taste more.
Patrick grunts as they flip over and his sudden burst of aggression withers into self-consciousness as Pete strokes lightly over his skin, hot kisses trailing behind curious fingers. The younger man's weight fluctuates as much as any woman's and Pete knows he hates it; hates to even be seen without a shirt on some days. He ignores Patrick's squirming and licks along the crease low on his abdomen, hand resting on the soft swell of flesh just above that line. A fretful whimper reaches his ears and Pete bites gently in warning.
"'Trick," he breathes, and bites a little harder, feeling Patrick's skin shimmy at this one. There is no room for shame here. The generous softness of the body under him fascinates Pete, addicting him to the enveloping sensation. Even the girls he's dated have been all hard angles, hipbones in sharp relief. This is different. Patrick feels so smooth against him. So good.
He wriggles down a little farther and licks at Patrick's cock. The strangled moan he gets makes him chuckle and Pete opens his mouth, tongue flickering against the cockhead before his lips close firmly around the erection and he starts to suck, one hand wandering while the other slips underneath to tease at sensitive skin.
Pete's mind streaks in strange directions as he works Patrick over, the impression flitting past that this forms a bizarre sort of parallel to their musical relationship: Pete providing the initial, chaotic stimulation and Patrick both giving voice to and directing it. And Patrick is directing this, fingers clenched in Pete's messy locks, hips thrusting up to meet the tight seal of the bassist's mouth, all thought of protest consumed in the pleasure that rockets through him and right down Pete's throat.
He moves up to kiss Patrick, his own body vibrating, and it doesn't take long for one pale hand to wrap around his cock and jerk him off, come splattering sticky-sweet on both of them as he moans into Patrick's mouth.
Pete's trying to catch his breath still when he notices Patrick's wry smile. He looks down at the mess they've made and he laughs, a little giddy and more content than he's been in a long time.
"Looks like we both need a shower this time."
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