Work Text:
July 2004
Andy says “He treats you like shit” and Joe really can't argue with good, sound logic.
They're in the bathroom of a Walmart somewhere outside Atlanta, and Andy's got his fingers in Joe's hair, trying to wash out the crusted orange and green paint from where Pete had decided to chase him around the parking lot shooting him with a paintball gun. The floor's linoleum, and grimy as fuck, and Andy's not wearing shoes because his converse are in the van and when he walked in nobody called him out on it.
Joe shrugs.
“Kinda.”
“Definitely.” He can't see Andy's face, but he can feel the judgy-eyes boring into his skull, and his voice isn't as light as it usually is.
“Yeah, but, like.” Joe shrugs, and Andy removes his hands, which he takes to mean he can get up. He looks in the mirror, and his hair is blessedly just shitty blonde, not shitty blonde with like four other colors in it to boot. “It's worth it, man. You know?”
Andy's eyes meet his in the mirror, as he hands him his shirt.
“Not really, no.” He says, and Joe shrugs, again.
“Whatever, dude. Let's grab some shitty Walmart food.”
Andy drops it, but he doesn't smile for a little longer than usual, after they leave the bathroom, and Joe wishes there was a way for him to explain.
Telling one of your best friends that you've got a huge stupid maybe-in-love crush on your other best friend just never ends well.
When they get back outside, Pete's by the van with Dirty, Jack, and Charlie, trying to get Dirty to eat one of the paintballs.
“It'll taste good, dude, listen, it's gonna taste good.” He insists through his stupid donkey laughs, and Dirty plucks the little pink ball out of his hand, and pops it into his mouth in one smooth movement. Andy grins, and shakes his head.
“That stuff's bad for you, you know.” Dirty rolls his eyes, and bites down, eyes widening as the paint fills his mouth. Joe laughs, and as he climbs back into the van, Dirty starts spitting it out onto the pavement, pink paint and spit creating a truly gorgeous viscous mixture on the ground. Pete shoves his paintball shit into the back, and crawls in that way, slamming the hatch shut behind him. Dirty keeps retching outside, but Patrick starts the van up anyway, after a few words with Charlie about meeting once they hit Texas.
Joe pulls the door shut, and with that, they're off, careening out of the parking lot as fast as their piece of shit vehicle will fucking move. He pulls out one of the apple strudel things he got inside and tosses one back to Pete before he can grab this one out of Joe's mouth, and Pete responds by vaulting up over the seat to sit next to him, elbowing him in the ribs and hooking his stupid skinny legs up over Joe's lap.
September 2004
When the summer tour ends, and Joe has to go back to school, it's hard. There's no van, and no Pete, and very little Patrick, and absolutely no Andy, because Andy lives even farther away than Pete and Patrick do.
It's harder to sleep, now, because he'd gotten so used to sharing rooms and beds and backs of shitty vans with a bunch of sweaty assholes, so the silence of his own room is disconcerting, to say the least.
He didn't think he'd miss being in a thousand-degree van twelve hours a day until he started missing it.
He's in the middle of freaking out about classes, and about how everyone stares at him in the hallways because he's got a stupid bleach-blonde dye job that only he could be stupid enough to go around wearing, and about how he's only really got like three friends at school, one day, when Andy calls him, out of nowhere.
He jumps, and scrambles around with his shitty-ass flip phone until he can get it open, and almost falls out of his seat, but manages not to dump himself all over the floor, somehow.
“H-hello?”
“Hey.”
“Andy?”
“No, Gandhi.” Joe laughs, for the first time that day, and sinks back into his chair, already feeling the tension in his chest starting to unravel.
“Hey, so, I've been wondering, what's the weather like in India? Like, is it hotter than here?” Andy's chuckle resonates through the phone, and Joe's so happy he feels like he might die. “How are you, dude?”
“I'm alright. Tour kinda ruined real life.” Well, at least it's not just him.
“Yeah, kinda.” Joe picks at a hole in his jeans. “Why are you calling me, dude? You hate the phone.” He can literally hear Andy's shrug through the phone.
“I wanted to hear your voice.” He says, and Joe's stomach does backflips.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
By the time they hang up, Joe's face hurts from smiling so much, but he feels infinitely better about his shitty-ass highschool and how long it is till they try touring again over winter break.
Pete calls him a couple of hours later, and Joe's a little confused, because it's not even dark out, yet, so why is Pete--
“Do you have a passport?”
“Um.”
“Answer the question, Trohman.”
“Yes?”
“Good. Ask your mom if you can go to Japan.” Joe's halfway out of his seat before he stops and shakes his head.
“Wait—explain.”
“That guy from that label I was talking to wants us to go to Japan for Warped Tour, for like, four shows.”
“Holy fucking shit.”
“Yeah, man, holy fucking shit. Ask mommy if you can go to Japan.”
Joe, like the stupid puppy he is, does as he's told.
December 2004
There are parts of Pete that are broken. Joe knows this. Joe knows this better than most anyone because Joe's the one who sees Pete, not when he's out with Dirty and Charlie and Jack doing god-knows-what with his own bodily fluids, but when he comes home.
Joe's the one who gets the calls at four AM, on school nights, and takes them because he's an idiot but so is Pete.
“You okay?”
“Kinda.”
“Kinda?”
“No.”
It's never about what's actually wrong, and the only insight Joe gets into Pete's magnanimously fucked-up psyche is what he reads in the lyrics, passed down through a layer of Patrick before he really gets a good look, but honestly, it's not something Pete needs to say.
No-one who feels okay about themselves, or where they're at, would do the shit Pete does. No-one. Dirty is at least fucked up and admits it. Charlie admits that he's there for Dirty. Chris is an asshole.
But Pete just pushes it further down and screws his eyes shut and keeps going back to Jenae and pretending it's okay and pretending he's not hurting, and Joe's not sure how to fix it.
The day they leave for Japan, Pete crawls into the van and curls up in a ball in the corner with his hood up and his fingers in his hair, and Joe sits down next to him, arms pressed together, but nothing else.
“Hey, man.” It's lame, but Joe's also lame, so he figures it's okay.
“Hey.” Pete croaks, and his voice sounds like sandpaper.
“What's up?” Also lame, but you gotta pick your battles.
“We broke up again.” Joe nods, slowly, and after another minute, Pete shifts, and leans into him, head tilting to rest on Joe's shoulder.
“You're gonna be okay, dude.” Joe says, even though it's probably a lie. “Promise.”
Pete doesn't say anything the entire ride to the airport, or for the plane ride itself, and Joe hates it when he's quiet, because at least when he's being a fucking idiot, there's something there. He's got enough to hold onto that he's at least doing something.
But like this, there's nothing, and when they get to the hotel he just goes straight to his room and turns the lights off and gets in bed. Joe's stomach churns.
But around midnight, Pete runs across the two beds in Jack and Charlie's room with his dick hanging out shouting “PORN NINJA!” at the top of his fucking lungs, and Joe figures everything's normal again.
–
Japan is fucking incredible, and the fans are fucking incredible, right up until the second to last day, when Janae calls Pete, and he holes himself up in his room for an hour, intermittently crying and screaming at her.
Dirty goes in after everything's quieted down, and when he leaves, it's with Pete following behind him, head bowed and clouds in his eyes. They grab Charlie and Juan, who bring along Jack and Mike, and with that, they're off.
Joe watches them walk away and ignores the sinking feeling in his stomach in favor of playing Mario Kart with Andy until two AM and then going to bed.
He wakes up at four in the morning, when the door opens, and he rolls over, expecting Charlie, but it's not Charlie.
It's Pete, shutting it behind him, and stripping out of his shirt and jeans in the semidarkness of the room, and it feels surreal, as Pete stalks toward him, eyes set where they're shining in the light from the streets, and crawls into his bed, pushing at Joe's shoulder until he rolls onto his side, and clamping his left hand over his mouth in one smooth movement.
It's too fast, and he's too tired to understand, really, what's going on, but he knows that Pete's tugging down his boxers and pressing a slicked finger in between his cheeks, and he knows that Pete's breath smells like gin and his chest is pressed against Joe's back and that he doesn't care what happens as long as Pete doesn't fucking stop.
And then the hand that was stretching him open is curled around his hip and Pete fucks into him in one harsh, fast movement, and holy fucking shit, he's fucking Pete. He's fucking Pete. Joe's been waiting for this moment since he was fucking sixteen, and now it's happening. There's no preamble, no kissing or touching or any of the ten thousand things Joe had imagined, hoped, prayed Pete would do when he fucked him.
The hand stays firmly over his mouth, and Joe realizes that it's to keep him quiet, which is good, because if it weren't there he'd probably be making a whole fuck of a lot more noise. It burns, each time Pete thrusts his hips, and there's no slow start, or careful figuring out of how fast they should go. Pete fucks him like he's got something to prove, the same way he plays on stage and the same way he fights, quick, and hard, and almost violent in the press of his fingers over Joe's cheek. Joe can feel tears prickling at his eyes, because it fucking hurts, but he refuses to fucking stop, because in tandem with hurting it feels fucking incredible, so he squeezes them shut and arches back into Pete as best he can, reaching back to grip at Pete's forearm.
Pete doesn't touch Joe's dick, at all, and when he comes, he shudders to a stop, and Joe can feel it flowing up into him. He's not sure if that's hot or kind of gross, but it doesn't matter, because immediately afterward Pete pulls out, and rolls out of bed, and leaves. There's a rustle of him pulling his jeans on, and the sound of the door clicking open and then shut again, and then Joe's alone.
Joe lies there in shock, for a minute, because a) he just got fucked for the first time ever and b) he just got fucked for the first time ever by Pete .
His ass stings and he's pretty sure his whole body's shaking, and he should probably get up, and take a shower in the shitty motel bathroom, or at least like, do something to clean himself up, but he can't.
He lays perfectly still, and listens to his own breathing as it echoes around the room, shaky and uncertain. He's too out of his head to even jerk off, too shell-shocked to move.
When Joe eventually falls asleep, it's with a sinking feeling in his stomach, and the ghost memory of Pete's arm where it had wrapped around his chest.
The next morning they leave for their last show, about seventy miles away. They take a cab, one of those big ones that's more of a minivan than anything else, and Pete waits for Joe to get inside before doing the same, sitting as far away from him as possible.
Joe looks at Pete, but Pete pointedly doesn't look at Joe, and Joe sits in the back, pressed against Andy's backpack, and calls his mom, like he'd promised he would.
His voice shakes a little, as he tells her where he is, and when he's coming home, and what he had for breakfast, but he's being quiet enough that he's pretty sure nobody but Andy hears.
Andy shifts closer, and wraps an arm around his shoulder, a warm, comforting weight, and Joe curls into him, ignoring the look Patrick gives them.
–
Pete welcomes himself back to Chicago in the same fashion most people welcome themselves home, by chasing Chris down on the street pelting him with paintballs. Joe goes home, like, home home, and even though it's way past midnight, his mom's still awake, waiting up for him.
He hugs her as tight as he possibly can, and doesn't cry. Her fingers on the back of his neck are definitely making it hard, though.
“Joe?” She asks, and he presses his nose into her sweater, even though he has to duck to do it. “Joe, baby, are you okay?”
“Yeah.” He lies through gritted teeth, but it's better than telling her 'my best friend took my ass-virginity three nights ago and won't look at me, now'. “Just missed you.” Her laugh resonates through his chest, and she pulls away to walk toward the bedrooms.
“And here I thought my littlest boy had grown up.” She says, and Joe hitches his backpack up on his shoulder and follows her, wondering absently if he cleared his bed off before he left, or not.
“Not yet, ma.”
–
The thing about loving Pete is that it's difficult.
Loving Pete is like loving a thunderstorm. It's crashing lightning and rain pouring down into places it doesn't belong and it leaves messes places there shouldn't be messes, breaks things without trying to and doesn't think to put them back together. Loving Pete is loving something harsh, and hard, and broken, that needs to be fixed, and not knowing how to fix it.
–
Pete calls him on Christmas morning, and when Joe hears his voice, he almost throws up, because they haven't spoken, haven't looked at each other, since that night.
“Hey, duck hunt.”
“H-hey.” And Joe doesn't know what he's hoping for, for Pete to tell him what the fuck that was, or to tell him he's sorry, or to tell him that it was a mistake and it's never going to happen again, but he sure as hell doesn't get any of it.
“Andy found us a show in Milwaukee this weekend. You in?” Pete's words are clipped, and short, and Joe knows this voice, knows the business voice. He just never expected to be on the other end of it, and Pete called him 'duck hunt' and he only ever does that when he's feeling tired or sad or Joe's feeling tired or sad so it's really, actually throwing him for a loop.
“Uh.” Joe glances at the calendar in his kitchen, and raises his eyebrows. “Isn't that...like...new years eve?” There's a long, thick silence, and then Pete says;
“Yes, genius. It's a new years eve show.” He talks like he's explaining something to a six-year-old, and Joe feels heat flare up in his cheeks. He lets Pete sit with that for a minute, doesn't say anything, until Pete sighs. “Look, are you coming, or do I need to call someone else?” Joe's eyes snap up, and his stomach lurches.
“What?” He squeaks, and Pete's scoff doesn't help.
“Look, call me when you can, like, talk, dude.” He says, and hangs up.
Joe lets his arm drop to his side, and stares at the countertops his mom had put in last year, a soft blue that she says matches his eyes.
He's dialing Andy's number before he even really understands what's going on.
“Hey, what's--”
“I think Pete just tried to kick me out of the band.” The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them, but also, his hands are shaking a little, and his eyes are wide, and he didn't ask for this, he didn't ask Pete to decide he couldn't be around Joe anymore, he didn't ask Pete to be a fucking asshole all the fucking time, and this is his band, that he fucking put together, and he can't do this, he can't--
“Woah, hey, Joe, hey, calm down, it's okay.” It only occurs to Joe once he's stopped talking that he was talking in the first place and just said all of that, out loud, to Andy. He sits down at the counter because his legs feel like they can't really hold him up, anymore, and focuses on Andy's voice, soft, and calm, and sweet, and fucking—fucking Andy. “Nobody's kicking you out of the band. Nobody's kicking anybody out of the band, okay?”
Joe shuts his eyes, and nods, keeling over to rest his forehead against the counter.
“Joe!” Sam shouts from the living room. “You got another one!”
“In a minute!” Joe grits out, and curls his fingers in his hair. He can hear Andy saying something to his mom, and her muffled, concerned tones in the background, and then a door shuts and it's quiet.
“Okay, Joe? Can you tell me what Pete said?”
Joe lets out a shuddering, breath, and nods, again.
“He—he called, and he was wondering if—if I could play the show on new years and I—I got confused for a sec about what day it was and he—started doing that thing he does where he fucking—fucking talks to people like they're fucking children, and then I didn't say anything and he asked if I was coming or if he needed to call someone else, and--”
“Okay, okay, breathe, Joe, okay?” Andy's voice is as gentle as it always is, and Joe bites his lip.
“Okay.”
“I'm gonna call Pete, and talk to him, and then I'll call you back. Okay?”
"Okay."
“Okay. It's gonna be okay. “
“Promise?” It's juvenile, and stupid, and Joe knows he sounds like he's fucking twelve or something, but Andy's Andy, so he doesn't skip a beat.
“Promise.” Andy hangs up, and as Joe sets his phone down on the counter and folds his arms up under his head, it occurs to him that he didn't tell Andy what happened. Might have been useful information. Sam walks in, and pauses at the door, looking at the phone and Joe's fingers in his hair.
“You okay?” Joe shrugs.
“Maybe?” Sam pats his back as he walks past, grabbing the bottle of eggnog from the fridge before heading back toward the living room.
“You'll work it out, bro.” Joe wonders if Sam would say that if he knew.
Probably.
It's fifteen minutes, before Andy calls him, and this time Joe can hear the sounds of cars around him, and the honking of a horn.
“Are you driving?”
“I'm going to Pete's.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm gonna beat the shit out of him.” Andy says, matter-of-factly, and Joe balks, and shakes his head, incredulously.
“What—why?” There's a long moment where all Joe hears is Andy's breathing, harsh, and ragged, and angry, and yeah, Joe knows Andy gets angry, obviously, but he's never actually experienced it like this.
“Because he's a piece of fucking shit.” Andy finally grits out, and fucking christ, this was not how Joe wanted to spend his christmas.
“Andy, it's not--”
“Do not.” Andy breaks off, and Joe hears him let out a shaky sound that almost sounds like a laugh. “Do not say that this is not a big deal. Don't do it, Joe, I swear to god.”
Joe bites his lip.
“Okay—okay, it's a big deal, but--”
“But nothing.” It's concrete, hard, final, and Joe wraps his free arm around his stomach, propping his feet up on the stool he's on.
“Andy--”
“I'll call you later. Or—come over, maybe, is that okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course, but--”
“Later.” Andy says, final, and absolute, and hangs up, and Joe is left, once again, alone in his kitchen with the phone.
He sits there, quietly for a second, and then shakes his head, shoves it in his pocket and goes up to his room. His friends might be assholes, but his bed has never failed him.
It's not warm, which is exactly the way Joe likes it, and he curls up under the heavy weight of his cool comforter and drifts off to sleep, thinking about the Morrissey album his mom got him, and the brand new telecaster his dad left wrapped at the foot of his bed, and not Pete.
–
It's a similar feeling, this time, when Joe wakes up to the click of his door opening, except this time he's only half-asleep, and instead of pliantly rolling over, he sits the fuck up and turns around.
And also, this time, instead of Pete, it's Andy, with blood on his knuckles, and snow in his hair. His jacket's not zipped, and Joe can see a little blood on his t-shirt, and his eyes are wide, and a little scared, probably of himself, more than anything, and Joe doesn't know what to do other than to reach for him.
Andy stumbles out of his boots, and his coat drops to the floor, and he all but falls into Joe's arms, wraps his own securely around Joe's waist, and buries his face in the crook of his neck, breathing hot and uneven against Joe's skin. Joe slides his hands up, into Andy's hair, stroking his fingers over the back of his neck and presses his nose against Andy's temple, inhaling the soft smell of sweat and conditioner and Andy's mom's perfume.
They lie there like that, for a while, with Andy breathing hard into Joe's shoulder, and Joe doing Andy the favor of being as gentle as Andy usually is with him, sliding his hands up and down his back, and occasionally daring to press a kiss to the side of his head. Andy's hair is wet, because of the melted snow, and there are still a couple of resilient flakes on his collar, but Joe really can't bring himself to care.
Eventually, Andy's shoulders slump, and Joe shifts, lying down on his back with Andy sprawled on top of him, cold nose and cold fingers and totally, completely worth it. It's a few minutes before either of them talk, Joe caught up in thinking about how much blood there was on Andy's shirt, and Andy having whatever thoughts Andys have.
“Why didn't you tell me?” Andy finally asks, his voice muffled against Joe's neck, and Joe bites the inside of his cheek.
“I didn't...know...how.” Joe says slowly, and Andy nods. “Did you guys...”
“We fought.”
“A lot?” Andy shrugs.
“I think I broke his nose.” There's a smile in his voice, and Joe tries to hold his back, because really, he shouldn't laugh at that. There's a beat, and then;
“Did—is he, like--”
“He's an asshole.”
“I mean, yeah, but--” Andy shakes his head.
“No, I mean it. Pete's an asshole.” He shifts, and pushes up on his elbows, hovering over Joe.
“Did he say, like. What. Y'know?” Andy's mouth tightens around the corners for a second, and Joe wonders why.
“I kinda had to beat it out of him, but.” He nods. “He gets that he was a fuckhead. And he's ready to stop being a fuckhead.”
“But why, Andy? Why was he a fuckhead?” Joe presses, his voice a kind of half-dramatic news reporter imitation, and Andy laughs.
“I think you have to ask him that.” He says simply, and reaches up, resting one hand on Joe's cheek, warm, and comforting. “When you're ready.”
Joe nods, and sighs, and Andy moves, again, lying on his side on Joe's bed, and opening his arms for Joe to roll into them.
He falls back asleep with the steady rise-and-fall of Andy's chest under him, and the feeling that maybe things can get fixed.
January 2005
Two days later, he's standing on Pete's front step, with his hands in his pockets, looking at the snow where it's gotten trampled into the Wentz's front step. The door finally opens, and Pete comes out pulling on one of his stupid hoodies that is absolutely not warm enough for this weather, and shutting it behind him.
“Kay. Lets—yeah.”
They head off down Linden avenue, walking with a good amount of distance between them, feet squelching in the January slush.
“So, like.” Pete begins, and then cuts off, biting his lip. “Like, I think I'm in love with you, kind of.” Joe nods, slowly, and scratches his cheek.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Joe nods, again.
“What—why, Pete?” Pete ducks his head, and Joe can see his shiner, bright purple over his eye, and the place where his nose is still bruised. He really did take a beating.
“I guess I like. I got back that night, right? And everything was shit, and I hated—myself, and I hated...y'know, her, and I knew--” He breaks off, and Joe looks at him, eyebrows raised.
“Knew what?”
“Knew you wouldn't say 'no'.” Pete shrugs, and Joe doesn't say anything, and they're both silent for a long, long time, the only sounds the wet slap of Pete's converse and the soft trudge of Joe's boots. Eventually, Pete looks up, and shakes his head. “And—and I kept—telling myself, that—that if I fucked it up bad enough, you wouldn't—you'd get over it.” Joe stops walking, and Pete does the same, finally turning to face him.
“Why did you want me to get over it?” Pete bites the inside of his cheek, and meets Joe's eyes, for the first time in a month.
“Cause I didn't...cause I didn't want to ruin you.” Pete shakes his head, again, and lets out something halfway between a laugh and a sob. “I break shit, Joe. I break...everything I touch, and I didn't—I thought that if I fucked it up, and you didn't—want me anymore, or whatever, then I wouldn't...be able to break you.”
They stand there, like that, for a long time, with Pete's face stiff, like he's trying to hold back tears, and Joe staring at the zipper of his hoodie like it's got all the answers for him. Pete's got darker circles than usual, under his eyes, and his hair looks like it hasn't been washed in a long-ass time, and Joe loves him so much it fucking hurts, loves every bruised, broken inch of him with everything he has.
“I want--” He chokes off, when his voice starts to crack, and he hates it, hates how weak he sounds. “You can't—you can't do this shit, Pete. You can't just—just decide this stuff, for other people. It's not fair.” Joe thinks about washing paint out of his hair, and Pete's stupid horse-laugh, and the time Pete left him on the side of the road in his boxers in July because he thought it would be funny, and shakes his head. “I love you so fucking much.” He ends up blurting out, and keels forward, wrapping his arms around Pete's waist, and tugging him close, and Pete, thankfully, doesn't fuck around, slides his hands up into Joe's hair and presses his nose against his temple and holds him just as tight as Joe's holding him.
They cling to each other, in the middle of the fucking sidewalk for probably about three full minutes, Pete's fingers buried in Joe's hair and something wet rubbing off of his cheek onto Joe's, and Joe never wants to let go.
“I'm sorry.” And Pete's definitely crying now, sobs wracking his shoulders and shaking his insubstantial frame, and it strikes Joe that he's bonier, now, than he was when they got home, like he's been eating even less, and he presses his face into the crook of Pete's neck. “Don't hate me, Joe, please don't hate me, I can't--” He swallows, hard. “I can't do it, if you hate me, I can't.”
Joe shakes his head, and pulls back, moves his hands up to frame Pete's cold cheeks with cold fingers and kisses him, long, and hard, and pleading, and it occurs to him only after he's done it that this is their first kiss.
Pete pulls back, and sniffs, hard, and Joe tries to wipe away his tears, but it's hard when they're still coming.
“I fucking—I can't fucking believe I fucking—took your virginity and never fucking kissed you.” The last word comes out as half a laugh, and Joe can feel his own eyes starting to sting, too, and presses his lips tightly together against it, fingers sliding up into Pete's slightly-slimy hair.
“Just—don't do it again.” He leans forward, and Pete's arms move down, looping around his waist, and holding on for dear life. Joe kisses Pete's split lip, and his purple eye, and his stupid probably-not-healed nose, and shakes his head. “Don't—we can do this, okay? But you can't—do that.”
Pete nods, and sniffs, and kisses Joe, softer, this time, like soft rain and sunsets, and his hands curl into fists in Joe's jacket.
“Andy says I treat you like shit.” Pete mumbles, and Joe waits while his eyes roam over the ground, and his shirt, and Joe's face. “I think he's right.”
“Yeah, but.” Joe shrugs, and rests their foreheads together, hands framing either side of Pete's neck. “It's worth it, man. Just—don't--” He shakes his head, and kisses Pete again, and fuck, every time it feels better. “Don't pull this shit, again, and we'll—we'll be fine.”
Pete squeezes his eyes shut, and takes a deep breath, letting it out, slow, and shaking, but Joe kisses his cheek, and he smiles, a little.
“Sounds—sounds like a plan.”
February 2013
“Babe.”
“Nnnf.”
“Babe.”
“Fuck off.”
Joe groans when Pete straddles his back, letting all of his weight rest on Joe's middle, and leans over him, face pressed right up against his neck.
“What, Pete.” He mumbles into the pillow, and Pete bounces, slightly.
“Guess what day it is?” He hisses, like there's more people there than them, which there fucking aren't.
“Your birthday.” That earns him a flick in the ear, but it was worth it.
“It's February fourth, babe. February fourth!” Joe reaches back, blindly, and hooks his arm around Pete's waist, pulling until he loses his balance and falls down onto their bed in a heap, grinning like a fucking idiot the whole time.
Joe tugs him closer, slides his hand up until he can rest it between Pete's shoulders, feel the pull of the muscles as Pete lays an arm around his hips, squeezing gently.
“February fourth.” He says again, and Joe cracks his eyes open, takes in the bright, sunny grin Pete's giving him and the look of sheer, unadulterated joy that's gracing his features, and decides that today isn't a day to be a grumpy old asshole.
“Song drops today.” He murmurs, and Pete nods elatedly, like a fucking puppy, but, like, not either of their puppies, because frenchies are not known for their elation.
“Today, babe.” Pete reiterates, and Joe shifts closer, so he can press his lips to his forehead.
“They're gonna love it.” Joe says softly, and Pete kisses him, long, and slow, and sure, fingers of his free hand coming up to tangle in Joe's hair, arm tightening around his waist.
“As much as I love you?” He asks, and then laughs when Joe kicks him. They're quiet, for a while, Joe just breathing in the smell of Pete while Pete's fingertips trace over his back and shoulders, and then Joe looks up.
"You okay?" He's still not over asking it all the fucking time, but Pete assures him on a semi-daily basis that he doesn't need to feel bad about it, so. Pete smirks.
"Kinda." Joe raises his eyebrows.
"Kinda?" Pete grins, bright, and shining, and nods.
"Definitely."