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Pete hasn't slept in five days.
He's got a cocktail of pills leaking through his blood, slow poison spreading down his spine. What a funny kind of straight-edge boy to have this many drugs in his system...It sing-songs in the back of Pete's brain and he tilts his head back against the wall, bricks cold along his bones. Laughs into the night air, totally humorless.
"You okay, dude?" Someone's shimmering at the periphery of his vision - Pete can't see for shit, everything's in double these days like fucking Fight Club or something. - Andy? Joe? Not Patrick, he always knows when it's Patrick, just knows somehow - Catching the faint whiff of shitty weed, so. Joe, then. A good kid, Joe Troh. Pete thinks, Stay back. Rather not infect you with the crazy. He gets this feeling sometimes (all the time) that there's something toxic about the whole essence of him, like anyone spending too much time in the general Pete vicinity might catch it too, groupie chicks and pretty boys all wrecked wrecked wrecked by him, bands and girlfriends and fans and family and everyone, everyone he's ever known -
"Spec-fucking-tacular." Pete stretches his face into a Cheshire Cat grin, so wide it hurts. He can almost feel the skin splitting at the corners. If this were a horror movie, right about now it'd be peeling back to reveal something awful beneath. Pete's life might be simpler if it were a horror movie.
Shit, and isn't that a sweet bit of self-pity right there?
Joe eyes him uneasily, like he's going to say something, and then apparently thinks better of it. You can see everything on the faces of the stoned, it's like the power to read minds. Pete wishes he could really read other people's minds. Pete wishes he could read his own.
"Snap out of it, man," Joe says finally, "try to get some sleep or something." He turns toward the gas station. Pete watches the white parts of his Converse disappear into the darkness. "You look like hell."
The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a Hell of Heaven, a Heaven of Hell? Pete laughs again, and it sounds more like a sob in his own ears.
They've stopped to refuel in the middle of buttfuck nowhere, van parked by the pump out in front of a run-down gas station. Andy's holding them all up, trying to find something vegan in the crummy little food section. Good luck with that, Pete thinks viciously, we're in fucking beef country, idiot, and then winces at his own pettiness. Inspirational sonofabitch, he is. Wentz the wannabe rockstar, small-souled, shoddy-hearted.
He's just working himself into a nice morass of self-loathing when he catches a flash of jean jacket, redgold hair under the cheerless glow of the sodium lights. Patrick's ambling out of the gas station, sipping from a bottle of juice.
On some objective intellectual level Pete knows that this person's supposed to mean something to him, but everything's so flat and faraway and when Patrick clears his throat and says, "C'mon, Pete, let's go, everyone's already in the van" it sounds cold and distant in Pete's ears, dissociated like Patrick is never supposed to be.
He looks around and fuck, everyone else is already in the van. When the fuck did that happen? He just lost another fifteen minutes somewhere in there; sleeplessness and pills will contract and dilate your whole sense of space-time in the oddest ways. The world moves on as Pete Wentz flails, stuck like a moth on a pin, inside his own useless little brain.
If he gets back in the van (the stuffy sweaty claustrophobic people space of the van) his chest will explode. Pete knows this. Patrick should fucking know it, too, if he knows anything at all about Pete by now; but he doesn't, and Pete feels the prickle of growing irritation under his skin. "No."
Patrick looks momentarily nonplussed, then frowns. "Pete, don't do this tonight. Please. Come the fuck on."
"No," Pete repeats, louder, one sneaker tapping a spastic beat on the ground.
"Pete." And that kid may look like a cherub and sing like an angel, but he's got a temper on him. "Get your ass in the fucking van."
Pete is suddenly angry. Fucking furious, because what is this bright-cheeked bright-eyed just-a-fucking-teenager doing anywhere near Pete anyway, what is he doing in Pete's life, why the music, why the jokes, why the casual caresses, doesn't he fucking know how Pete will fuck him over in the end, doesn't he get it, stupid - Patrick's close, closer, closest up in his face now, all arched brows and arched upper lip. Pete's backed up against the wall, caged and trapped and he wants a fight tonight, anything to feel alive. What he does not want is to get his ass in the fucking van, so "No."
He hates the sound of his own voice, whiny, bratty as a three-year-old, Pete Wentz, poster child for arrested development. Patrick doesn't hear a lot of flat refusals from Pete, certainly not after multiple requests; his eyes shutter and he's yanking on Pete's arm, voice rising, "Dammit, Pete," unwanted hand on his body, just another conduit for the venom that's in him, that is him, and the stars are wheeling above the Texaco sign - "I am so fucking sick of you and your Issues," nasty spin on the word, oh, nothing hurts him like that voice of Patrick's can - "it's fucking selfish and you know it. For one night in your life can you maybe just, just give a goddamn thought to other people once in awhile and just lay off being so fucking crazy and get in the fucking van -"
Pete's hands go for Patrick's throat.
Patrick's more solid than Pete is but not so prone to fighting, and Pete's got the element of surprise. His hands close abrupt and horrifying around Patrick's neck, so soft and white and pretty and he's slamming Patrick's shoulders back into the van, hard enough to dent plastic, bruise flesh...The heavy thud is intensely satisfying, like a reminder that he's here, here with Patrick, that physical reality can feel the push and pull of their bodies.
Patrick's nerveless fingers drop the bottle he's holding. It bounces once before spilling over the oily asphalt around their feet, splashing shoes and the hems of jeans, wet red stain creeping up Pete's ankle. The tendons in Patrick's neck stand out under Pete's hands as he squeezes, marks, PETE WENTZ WAS HERE. He can see the blood come and go around the press of his fingers, red and white and Patrick's gasping for breath, and this, Pete thinks, this is why people hurt each other. This is why people love, fight, fuck, hate each other, just to feel that impact on someone: creative or destructive or any kind at all -
Andy and Joe must have heard them by now, shouting and jarring against the van. But they've waited out a fair few of Pete and Patrick's fights before, and it looks like they won't be interfering tonight. Good. This is just ours, Pete thinks, and there's a strange excitement rising in his blood as he shoves up against Patrick again, tightens his grip.
Patrick's hat, too, hits the ground. His fingers are scrabbling over Pete's, desperately seeking any kind of purchase; his eyes are squeezed shut, teeth sunk in his lip, cheeks blooming. His body's thrashing up against Pete's, movements steadily more frantic, which, what - oh, no way. No way.
Pete grinds back into him, just to make sure, and yeah.
Patrick's completely, undeniably hard.
Pete can't hear breathing other than his own, too fast. This - as he realizes after a second - is because Patrick isn't, in fact, breathing. Can't breathe.
"You're totally - You're getting off on this," he says disbelievingly.
Random accidental hard-ons call for mocking; that's normal straight-dude code. But Pete seriously can't seem to do it, and with every minute that goes by this is feeling less and less like something that can be laughed off. Not when Patrick's dick is damn near drilling a hole in his hip and Pete's own dick is stiffening with blood so fast he can feel his head going light...He shifts, unthinking, just trying to get his erection away from the uncomfortable bind of his jeans seam. Except that shoves his crotch right up against Patrick's and that rips a harsh sound out of Pete that he doesn't even recognize as his own for a minute.
He just barely has time to register the deep hard twist of what (under ordinary circumstances) he'd call desire, before Patrick's thumbnails sink deep into his wrists, right at that sensitive place in the nexus of blue veins. Pete yelps; his hands loosen reflexively around Patrick's neck, and he snatches them back, stares in confusion at the half-moons gouged into his skin. Blood wells up over the tracery of veins as Patrick's body heaves between Pete's chest and the van, as he draws in great ragged, tearing gasps of air. His eyelids flutter for a moment, delicate; but when Pete jerks his head up to stare at him, Patrick's face is a red, slit-eyed mask of rage in the nanosecond before he lashes out.
Hands on Pete's shoulders, now, and Patrick's grip is like a vise. He's shaking Pete, pushing him, crowding him back into the rusty old gas pump. One hand digging cruelly into Pete's hip, the other one pressed flat against Pete's throat, and now he's actually got Pete hoisted up against the cold metal side, feet not even touching the concrete. He's strong as fuck when he's angry. Pete struggles, hard, adrenaline joining the frantic dance of chemicals through his bloodstream, hands flailing out wildly. Flashbulbs are popping behind his eyes, he's running out of oxygen, and Patrick's hissing like electricity, hot against Pete's ear. "You stupid lunatic, what the fuck are you thinking - you want to fuck up my voice too, jagoff, so we can all be really screwed? See how you like it, see -"
Pete's vision is going gray at the edges. It's kind of nice, but he also feels like maybe his body needs to breathe at some point, so he sinks both his fists into Patrick's soft stomach (thinks of pillowing his head there and sleeping, like he's done so many times, oh god if he could only sleep). Patrick grunts like it hurts, and then he's aiming for the place Pete's t-shirt is twisted down to expose the curve of neck and collarbone and fucking biting right where the skin's stretched thinnest. Not a friendly nip. Hard, and Pete bets he'll bleed there, too.
But the punch made Patrick's fingers relax on Pete's throat a little, anyway, and Pete takes the opportunity to wrench his head loose. He swears, stumbles, choking for breath, and then curls his fingers into the long hair at the back of Patrick's head and pulls viciously. No finesse now, just intent to harm. Patrick swears and slams Pete back against the pump, again, this time with just his body. His hands find Pete's wrists and he jerks Pete's arms up, traps Pete's wrists over his head at the same time as his knee comes up between Pete's legs.
Pete hardly has time to close his eyes against the anticipation of brutal pain.
But it doesn't come, it stops just short of agony - instead he gets the overwhelming sensation of Patrick's thigh pressed up into his balls, hard. Pete can feel the flex of the muscles there, the borderline-painful rub of his own zipper. Just a twitch and Patrick could have him writhing on the ground. They're panting at each other, eyes locked, and Pete's splayed and helpless and it's been a long long time since he's felt such raw animal fury.
...Or, come to think of it, such raw animal arousal.
It's almost refreshing, actually: something so simple and straightforward. Primal. If this were the Discovery Channel, he thinks absurdly, they'd be circling each other right now in whatever kind of psycho mating dance - and is that what this is? - all poised and taut and maintaining eye contact and dammit, now he's got that stupid novelty song in his head. Sweat baby sweat baby sex is a Texas drought, me and you do the kind of stuff that only Prince would sing about, which brings his runaway train of thought right back to Patrick. Who's currently between Pete's spread legs holding his wrists over his head, hey, look at that. Pete gathers his strength to jerk away, but only succeeds in grinding his crotch down on Patrick's jean-clad knee; and fuck, fuck, he's so fucking turned on. Patrick's cheeks are red and his eyes are almost black, and he knows he's got Pete, he knows it; and the son of a bitch is smirking as Pete jerks ineffectually again.
"Oh," he says, voice a low purr in Pete's ear, "so that's how it is."
Something about Patrick speaking triggers a fresh wave of adrenaline. Pete thrashes and snarls, snaps his head forward blindly at Patrick’s face. Next thing he knows, Patrick's got his teeth deep in Pete's lower lip. It's not a kiss. Pete tastes his own blood.
His brain's a red wash of pure, regressive, gonna-kill-him rage, and his mouth meets Patrick’s again in a clash of tongues and teeth and coppery taste, the satisfying give of soft flesh, pressure just this side of painful. Patrick curses into Pete’s mouth and bangs him back yet again, bites down on Pete’s neck. It shouldn’t be hot, really shouldn't be, the way Patrick’s mouth on his skin is all saliva and sweat and bruising suction and the way Patrick’s thigh is rocking up between his legs. When Patrick finally gets his tongue between Pete's lips it's like violation, forced penetration, and that shouldn't be remotely hot either but it is; there's the bright hot tang of blood inside Pete's mouth again, and whatever Patrick's doing, whatever they're doing here, it's finally starting to blow the fog out of Pete's stupid brain.
“’Trick,” he grits out, and Patrick raises his head, still with that fucking smirk on his face, and his lower lip looks red and swollen and sinful in the cold sodium glow.
“What, Pete,” he says, tightening and twisting his grip on Pete’s wrists, pressing him back; “what,” and his knee’s sliding down and his hips are jerking up up up into Pete’s and they're both so hard, oh, god. Grinding fast and dirty, filthier than Pete's ever had it, pressed up against flat unyielding metal and Pete’s arms are held fast and he can’t stop gasping.
“God,” he bites out, "do something. ‘Trick, please,” and his hips stutter up into Patrick’s, needy, back arching like a bow about to snap.
Patrick laughs, and the sound of it makes Pete shiver. He pushes back, thrusts up against Pete's leg and drags his tongue up the side of Pete’s neck, over the bitemarks there. “No.”
- "The fuck's going on out there?" comes Joe's voice from inside the van.
Patrick calmly shoves two fingers into Pete's mouth (Pete tastes dirty cuticles and the residual stickiness of cranberry juice) and turns his head enough to call back over his shoulder, "Beating the shit out of your bassist! Be done in a sec."
His voice remains impressively steady considering he's rutting shamelessly against Pete the entire time. Pete knows he couldn't pull that off. Hell, he doubts he even has the breath to speak right now.
He doesn't catch Joe's reply (though from the inflection he'd guess something along the lines of "oh, okay" and maybe also "just hurry it up," and wow, apparently he's been even more insufferable lately than he realized); mostly he's distracted by the feel of Patrick's callused fingers on his tongue. Also, by the hazy thought that it's kind of impressive how Patrick hasn't, you know, come or anything. Considering that he's nineteen, for god's sake, and his dick's hard as rocks against Pete's inner thigh, and they've been full-on dry-humping for like ten minutes now, seriously. Pete only really realizes that Patrick's trying to make him come first - no, fighting to make him come first, and moreover that it's kind of working - about two seconds before Patrick drops his head and whispers, "Pull this shit again and I'll fuck the crazy right out of you, Wentz, whether you want it or not," and his voice is thick with exertion and his lips are brushing that hypersensitive spot on Pete's earlobe and Pete can feel an inexorable ache building steadily in his balls.
He's not about to take that one lying down (uh, so to speak) from a damn nineteen-year-old, and he grinds back for all he's worth. Not like he would on a hookup or a dancefloor, not slow and sensuous and full of promise; this is more like they're still trying to choke each other out. With their cocks. And oh, he shouldn't have thought about Patrick and cock and choking in the same second, because now his mind's eye is going nuts with the throat-fucking images and Patrick's talking again and Pete's going to come really, really soon. It's not even fair (seriously, nineteen) but Patrick's saying the most unbelievable shit in his ear, the kind of stuff you have weird, guiltyhot wet dreams about and then you wake up feeling vaguely dirty and can't look anyone in the eye over breakfast -
"Suck you till you pass the fuck out if I have to," Patrick breathes against Pete's lips, and Pete's so close that his dick actually jerks. Hard. Jesus, he doesn't know what the fuck kind of porn Patrick's watching these days, but the kid really needs to share.
He opens his mouth to tell Patrick so, but Patrick chooses this moment to move in incrementally, touch his mouth to Pete's and just exhale.
Pete comes so hard he nearly does pass the fuck out.
Mid-orgasm, vision blackening slightly round the edges, he nevertheless manages to pry one hand free from Patrick's death grip (Patrick just lets him, like maybe he's pretty far gone too) and jam it into his own jeans, grabbing himself and groaning as he pulses thick and hot over his hand.
Pete figures that dirtytalk in that voice of Patrick's totally counts as cheating; thus he has absolutely zero qualms about what he's about to do. Namely: as soon as he's got two or three brain cells back in place, he yanks his jizz hand out and slides it around to the small of Patrick's back. He squeezes Patrick's hips, Patrick's cock, even closer up against his own; then he sends up a smug prayer of thanks to the Gods of Loose-Fitting Jeans, and not-so-subtly nudges his fingers down between boxers and skin. Patrick - evidently realizing Pete's intent - bucks violently, but only ends up grinding himself into Pete's leg even harder. This distracts him enough (as gauged by the choked little noises he's making) for Pete to slip a single spunk-slick finger down the cleft of Patrick's ass.
That draws a quick, tense breath and a few soft obscenities from Patrick's lips. Said lips are parted and panting now, though, and Pete takes that as the go-ahead to drag a fingertip roughly across Patrick's asshole. It's fiercely tempting to push inside - just to see what Patrick would do - but the point is moot, because that first touch makes Patrick come with a startled curse, shuddering in Pete's arms.
And then they're just breathing hard together and sort of slumping back against a fucking Texaco gas pump with nasty messes of drying come inside their underwear - which they're gonna have to wear for at least two more days, motherfucker - and a nice collection of livid bruises, scratches, bitemarks and angry-looking hickeys all over the place. But Pete doesn't care, because for the moment his mind is perfectly, beautifully blank.
It's another couple of minutes before Patrick laughs softly - in that slightly higher register that means he's feeling a bit hesitant, Pete notes - and says, "Who the hell said violence never solved anything?"
"And who the hell said you can't fix shit with sex?" Pete agrees after another moment, rubbing spikes of hair back from his sweaty forehead. He's dazed, exhausted, but yeah, he can think again. Feel again, talk again, be again, and maybe this should be the most surreal moment of his life to date - post-rubbing-off-on-his-singer, what? - but nope, instead the world's settling back into the familiar shapes of reality around him. It's like that switchover moment when you're staring at one of those Magic Eye pictures or whatever, that sudden *snap* when the picture comes into the right kind of focus again. Everything feels familiar, even comforting, like something he could write about: the gasoline-reeking air and the spangled spread of the night sky and the warm weight of Patrick against his chest and the increasingly impatient rev of the van's engine -
Andy honks the horn twice and yells through the door, "Christ on the crapper. Aren't you two done working out the testosterone yet?" and then looks kind of bemused when Pete and Patrick finally clamber into the van, hardly able to breathe for laughing.
Back on the road for a few more hours before they stop for a half-night's rest. Patrick leans his head back against the seat. Pete leans his head back against Patrick's shoulder, closes his eyes, inhales.
The air's been cleared.
They'll be able to lie on the hood of the van together tonight, covered in grubby stadium blankets and eating gross, greasy nachos as Pete recites bits of lyrics at Patrick and Patrick hums scraps of melody at Pete. By three a.m. they'll probably have pieced together the beginnings of a song; Pete will scribble it down on crumpled paper napkins nicked from the last diner stop in the insufficient light afforded by flashlights and fireflies while Patrick looks on, squinting through his glasses and hoping aloud that it'll be legible in the morning. By four a.m. they'll have piled sleeping bags over their heads and drifted off somewhere in the middle of a Molly-Ringwald-movie-quotation battle -
"The next screw that falls out will be you."
"Eat my shorts."
- so that the last thing Pete remembers before the gorgeous finally of clean, dark, real sleep will be Patrick's half-conscious murmur.
"You just bought yourself another Saturday."