Work Text:
“Fucking hell!”
Pete looked up from his phone, mid-scroll in his Twitter feed, over to the where the shout had originated from. He carefully pockets his phone before walking over to the other end of their hotel suite to where Patrick was sitting, laptop opened in front of him, opened to Garageband and headphones perched neatly over his cap…
Well, at least they were until the singer violently ripped them off his head the threw them down forcefully on the desk he was working on, the sound of the headphones landing rather harshly on the keyboard was enough to make Pete worry that Patrick might have actually damaged them this time— they’ve been through their fair share of tosses whenever Patrick was particularly pissy or in a general bad mood. Such as in this exact moment.
“Careful with those,” the bassist chuckled softly as he approached, “We only packed one pair for the road.” But Patrick didn’t take the bait, instead, exhaled loudly as he then removed his thick-rimmed glasses and threw them down onto the keyboard as well. The younger boy brought up his hands over his face, running them roughly along the length of his face until he could push the heel of his palms into his eyes with enough force, that Pete could assume, could cause dots to dance in his vision. Patrick blew out another heavy breathe as his elbows settled on the furnished wood the desk.
“Babe, talk to me,” Pete coaxed gently, his hands coming to rest over his shoulders, thumbs beginning to dig into the knots that he knew all too well were practically embedded into his boyfriend’s shoulders. When Pete began to rub against a practically tense spot between his neck and his shoulder, the strawberry blonde let out a low groan as the tension slowly ebbed from his body, Pete continuing to work expertly on the knot.
“Fuck, that hurts,” Patrick groans before he winces as his hands fall from his face, but his eyes were still shut, taking a sharp inhale as Pete continues his ministrations.
“Like ‘hurts’ as in bad?”
“Hurts as in good,” Patrick clarified, which caused Pete to hum contently as he finished working on releasing that single knot. When Pete could no longer feel the ball of tension under his skin, he carefully wrapped his arms around the singer’s shoulder, feeling the tension that was still present.
The tanned-bassist pressed a kiss to Patrick’s temple, before resting his head on his shoulder. “What’s got you pissed off?”
Patrick gestured strongly at the apparent offensive piece of equipment in front of him. “This shit!”
Pete only raised a single eyebrow at the now dark laptop screen. “The laptop?’
“No, not the laptop, just…it’s the—” Patrick stopped himself, pinching the bridge of his nose between his eyes. “The stupid song. It’ doesn’t sound right.”
Oh, it was one of those, Pete thought to himself as he felt the tension build back up again. He knew Patrick was working on a song, actually, several songs for that matter, and a lot of them had been in the ‘Work in Progress/Brainstorming’ phase. And Patrick, as Pete has come to known for that last so-many-years, likes to have a personal timeline for when things would be done, whether they be realistic or not. If Patrick wanted to have a song done by the end of next week in order to show it to they guys, they damnit, he was going to have it ready by next week, come hell or high-water. The singer had explained to Pete that having a timeline for when he should have things done helps keep him on task and focused, and honestly, Pete never really questioned it, that is until Patrick started getting frustrated with himself.
Just like now.
“It doesn’t fucking sound decent. I have all these damn ideas,” Patrick begins to explain, taking off his cap to run his fingers through messy hair, tugging at cinnamon locks by the handful, “ I have everything in my head, I swear it’s there, I know where I want it to go, what I want it to sound like, but when I try to transfer what’s in my head to Garageband or to even freakin’ paper, it all goes to shit, and it’s pissing me off.”
Pete could see the way his jaw tenses from where his head is resting on his shoulder, he could also almost see the veins threatening to bulge from his neck or his forehead due to the frustration. Pete’s silent as Patrick continues on. “I wanted to have these done by last week, but every time I would sit down and work on them, nothing comes up! I’ve got new rhythms and song ideas that work with the lyrics you gave me last week, and I’ve jotted those down, but when it comes to finishing these song, it’s like, nothing is right, and I just want to scrap what I have completely and say fuck it, and screw everything!”
“Hey now,” Pete starts, voice sweet and soothing as warm honey, “Don’t think like that. You’ve had a rough week.” Which is true, they’ve been bouncing between the East and the West coasts for the last five days doing interviews and promoting the new album (which wasn’t finished, hence Patrick’s frustration with the songs, but Pete wasn’t about to bring that up right now) on top of other business meetings that came with being in a rock band. “You’ve got a lot on your plate, and that musically genius mind of yours already runs a million miles a minute, if something doesn’t get done when you want it too, it’s not the end of the world.”
“But these songs are for the album!”
“And they’ll get done when they get done,” Pete counters calmly, “I know you want to finish them, but you’re stressing yourself out with something that should come naturally to you. You’re over-thinking it, and then you’re overanalyzing it on top of everything.”
Pete could feel Patrick roll his eyes, but he’s not fighting back, which typically means that he actually agrees to what’s being said. “Don’t worry. I believe in you,” he kisses his shoulder tenderly, feeling Patrick shoulders relax ever so slightly, “You’ll get it done, but don’t be so hard on yourself. And remember, we make music for the sake of music, not for anyone else. If the fans love it, great, if they don’t, it’s okay.”
“I just…” Patrick sighs as he pushes away his laptop carefully, his hand patting the desk softly, motioning for Pete to sit in front of him. Pete does so gracefully, sitting so that he’s directly in front of the singer, close enough to reach out and touch him. Patrick stands from his chair so that he’s between Pete’s legs, moving just the slightest so that his own pale , guitar calloused fingers can card through the longish part of Pete’s fairly new haircut, his fingertips running along his neck and around until the warmth of his palm rested firmly against the side of his neck, his thumb fondly stroking the sensitive skin behind his ear where he knows Pete loves to be kissed because of the airy little sigh that escapes his lips every single fucking time Patrick does so. The cinnamon-haired singer pauses for another moment before speaking, taking in the image of his longtime boyfriend, the love of his life, the muse that fuels every bit of music that has flowed from him since the moment they’ve met. He’s looking at Pete like he’s the most precious thing in the world, because he is, and he still cannot fathom what he did to deserve this beautiful human-begin that has brought so much joy, and grief, and love into his life. “I feel like I’m letting people down,” Patrick confesses. “I feel like all these ideas and chords and music is all going to waste because I can’t them out. Damnit Pete, I feel like a failure because I’m supposed to be able to create these songs, this is supposed to be the one thing I’m good at, and because nothing’s coming out, it’s like, like…I don’t know, I guess like I’m lost. I know what I want, I know how to get it, but for some reason, I can’t for the life of me get there and It’s frustrating me to hell. I-,” he swallows as he looks into the warm amber-brown eyes, seeing them filled with something Patrick can’t exactly place. “God, Pete. I feel like I’m failing everyone, the fans, the band…you…”
“Patrick, you’re not failing anyone,” Pete says softly, his own hands coming to rest on his shoulders before sliding down to his chest, his right hand placed firmly over the singer’s heart; relishing, if only for a moment, the warm, steady beating he can feel through Patrick’s shirt. “And you’re sure as hell not letting me down. It’s going to come to you, and it’s going to flow. But don’t beat up yourself just because you can’t get anything out right now.”
The cinnamon-blonde singer closes his eyes and exhales, allowing himself to lead against Pete, resting his forehead against the older boy’s, his baseball cap mused in the process but neither could bring themselves to care. “It just sucks,” Patrick sighs heavily, once more, not yet feeling brave enough to open his eyes.
Pete nods in understanding, leaning in to kiss Patrick’s lips, soft and slow with nothing but unadulterated love. It’s not one of the desperate before-show kisses, or the adrenaline-filled ones that are overflowing with love and heat from a post-concert performance. No, this was something tender as Patrick’s lips moved against Pete’s own, his hand reaching up to cup the back of the bassist’s neck as he returned the kiss with fervor. It’s something beautifully private and undeniably theirs, like the way they can make a song without so much as uttering a single word, or the moments that they sit together on their bed, their sofa, their bunk, and read over the words Pete penned, turning hidden thoughts, long-time fears, newfound worries , and cryptic secrets in songs, turning misery into music and music in hope. That was theirs, just like this.
There’s no one in the world that could feel it, could understand each other like they did, who knew exactly what to say or where to touch, or even what buttons to push. They knew each other like the back of their hands, and yet every time they touched, every time they kissed, it was like discovering each other all over again, and it was gorgeously addictive; they could never get enough, and that only made them want more.
Pete was the first to move away, lungs burning for breath as Patrick tried to follow, but instead, leaned in to kiss the sensitive skin of his throat, trailing kisses down his neck, pausing to nip at a particular ticklish spot, which caused the older boy to flinch away with a giggle.
“No fair!” Pete chided, the tone cause Patrick to grin ever so slightly. When he pulled away he noticed the dark-circles and bags decorating Patrick’s eyes, the way his smile or his grin didn’t exactly reach all the way to his eyes , both signs of Patrick’s fatigue and his stress. “You trust me?” the dark-haired man asked faintly.
“You know I do.”
Pete smiled at the adoring tone in Patrick’s reply, his heart fluttering at just the sound of his voice, like it did every day since the moment they met on his front porch what seems like a lifetime ago.
“Forget the laptop and come to bed,” Pete starts, sliding off the desk. “But take off your shirt, slip into comfy sweats, and then lay on your front.”
Patrick simply raises a fine eyebrow, giving his boyfriend a skeptical look. “Leave it to you to think about sex right now, Pete.”
“Not sex, you dirty bastard! A massage,” he explained rather proudly, “You’re tense, and you’ve got more stress and knots than you can shake a stick at. Just…Let me do this for you; you’ve been worn out and I think that’s why nothing flowing—you need to let loose.”
Seeing not point in arguing with Pete at this point, mainly from the amount of exhaustion and stress that these last few days have given them, Patrick only playfully rolls his eyes before stealing another chaste kiss from the brunette, before walking into the bedroom part of their suite and changing out of his t-shirt, cardigan, and cap into threadbare sweatpants without another word.
Pete carefully closes the lid of Patrick’s Macbook, making sure to plug the charger into it’s rightful place, as well as fold the headphones the singer had thrown earlier into a neat, compact size before grabbing his glasses and heading over to where Patrick is lying on the bed.
He sets the glasses on the nightstand, right next to his phone before moving to shimmy out of his own skinny jeans and into his own comfortable pair of sweats. Pete goes over to his bag and reaches in, looking for the bottle of lotion and a small drawstring bag filled with three travel sized essential oils, a gift from Patrick’s mom for when they travel. Pete never really believed the hype until he started looking up oil blends on Pinterest and trying them out on himself whenever he was in a bad mood, or needed to concentrate or just relax. Ever since, he’s been hooked, and Pete rarely travels without them now, every once and a while using some oil on Patrick whether it be to calm his nerves or pick him up.
He fishes out the lavender oil and moves back to the bed, the lotion under his arm. As Pete carefully straddles Patrick’s lower body, careful not to apply to much of his weight, Patrick turns his head to eye glance at the bassist over his shoulder. “Just don’t break me,” the singer playfully jokes as Pete places two drops of lavender oil into his palm before squirting a decent amount of lotion onto his hands.
“Since when have I ever broken you?” Pete chuckles in response, the calming, flora sent of lavender already flowing through the room. He looks down to see that Patrick isn’t shooting back a usual smart-ass remark of “Well, remember that done time during Folie…”, but instead his eyes flutter shut, lashes fanning against his cheeks as he relaxes into the pillow beneath his head. Pete takes the opportunity to gently glide his hands down the cinnamon-blonde’s back, his hands gliding smoothly along the expanse of his back with the help of the lotion. Soon, he starts kneading, working his way from Patrick’s shoulders down to his lower back, expertly working on the knots along his shoulder blades and lower back. With every stress-induced knot that Pete digs his thumbs into, Patrick would tense for a moment, before groaning, Pete asking softly throughout the massage if the pain was too much; Patrick never once stopped him.
Pete could feel the tension in his boyfriend’s body melt away with everyone stroke and knead, all the while the scent of lavender lingering in the room and on Patrick’s skin helping whisk away then tension and stress Pete knew Patrick had been carrying for so long, especially with the damn songs.
When Pete had finished, Patrick melted into the consistency of putty on the bed, body relaxed and tension worked out of his body. Satisfied with his work, Pete carefully stretched himself to cover Patrick’s body, leaning down to place a gentle kiss on the back of his next, vaguely tasting the lavender infused lotion on his lips. The older boy maneuvered himself to gently lay on the empty space of the bed beside the singer. Patrick let out his own content sigh, reaching out for Pete as he automatically seek out the warmth that he knew was his boyfriend.
“Thank you,” Patrick had muttered into his neck, kissing the gentle beating pulse there as he molded himself into Pete.
The bassist wrapped his arms around Patrick in return, kissing the crown of his head as the lavender began to lull them both to sleep. “You’re welcome,” Pete yawned, feeling himself start to fade away into the sea of sleep that had started calling his name, like a siren’s song in the middle of the ocean.
“Love you,” Patrick breathed against warm, honey golden skin, the singer balancing on the cusp of sleep, his body more laxed and loose than it had been in weeks, and God, Pete couldn’t help but think he was beautiful, and how he wished the world could see the singer like he sees him, a perfectionist at fault but the softest, kindest human being to ever grace the planet. Patrick has always said that Pete beautiful, that meeting and loving him was the most amazing, life-altering, insane, most precious thing to happen to him, but Pete would beg to differ-It was Patrick, it always was. He was the inspiration behind his lyrics, his compass, his reason for living, his light at the end of the tunnel, his everything , because God only knows where Pete would be if it weren’t for Patrick saving him every damn day.
And God, or whatever is up there, knows that he would do anything for Patrick in return, even if it means saving the singer from his own thoughts. Pete would fight until his breathing stopped and his lungs gave out to make sure Patrick saw just how golden and amazing he was.
“Love you, always.”
And the drifted into dreams of lavender field and music playing gentle in the wind.