Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Patrick rouses from his bunk it’s way past noon and the bus is almost empty. 

Empty but for Pete, who’s lounging in the living area, watching The Nightmare Before Christmas for what must be the sixtieth time this month. It’s October, so it’s necessary, according to him. Patrick isn’t so sure.

As Jack starts to sing of the magic of Christmas on the TV, Patrick wanders to the kitchenette, eager for coffee. 

“You in a better mood today?” asks Pete as he lies back on the sofa, socked feet resting against the arm rest.

Patrick mumbles some affirmative, guilt curling his insides. He has to admit he was a bit short with the guys last night. Utterly exhausted, convinced the show they put on wasn’t great and tired of being near people, he’d told them all to leave him the fuck alone before climbing into his bunk. Maybe he could’ve handled it better. He feels kind of shitty about it now.

Which is probably why when Pete asks, “Hey, can you pass me some chips while you’re up there?” Patrick grabs a packet of Lays from one of the cupboards — Joe’s, Patrick is pretty sure, but if you put something in a cupboard on this bus you know it’s a free for all, so it’s his own fault — and throws it at Pete without a word. He’s just about to turn back to the fridge and his hunt for milk when something about Pete catches his eye. More specifically, something about Pete’s clothes.

“Is that… my shirt?” That’s definitely Patrick’s shirt Pete’s wearing. Nothing particularly special, a black Bowie shirt he probably wears far too often than might be strictly healthy. But Pete definitely doesn’t own a shirt like that.  

Pete glances down at his t-shirt, looking almost surprised to see Ziggy Stardust staring back up at him. “I’ve got nothing clean,” he says with a shrug. “All my clothes smell like ass.”

Patrick is sure that his shirt won’t smell much better; he’s been wearing it for several days, prior to today at least. “Okay...” he says instead of addressing that, and tries to get back to his coffee. 

It’s strange though. He finds his eyes drawn back to Pete, lying back and staring at the TV in his jeans and Patrick’s Bowie shirt. It reminds Patrick, with a stab of something too bitter to be apathy and too sad to be anger, of last summer when Pete used to come back from the MCR bus wearing one of Mikey’s shirts. Patrick’s shirt looks a little more baggy on Pete; unsurprisingly, since he’s a bigger size than either Pete or Mikey.  

But more than that, it looks… good on him? It looks good, for reasons Patrick can’t quite identify. Not because it’s an especially fashionable or snazzy looking shirt, just because… because of reasons. Because Patrick likes seeing Pete wearing a shirt he owns. For reasons. It sets off a strange sort of spark deep in his chest.

“Scooch,” he mutters, nudging Pete’s legs as he wanders next to the sofa, coffee in hand. Pete pulls his legs back, allowing Patrick room on the sofa, then immediately rests his feet on Patrick’s lap. Patrick lets him, trying desperately not to let his eyes move from the TV to Pete. Pete, who’s eating chips and wearing Patrick’s shirt like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

This is so stupid; it’s not like Pete hasn’t worn one of Patrick’s shirts before. It’s not like Patrick hasn’t worn one of Pete’s shirts before. Back when they shared an apartment with Joe, and therefore threw all their clothes in the same washing machine, they used to mix up their shirts all the time. Patrick had often grabbed any shirt that would fit from the pile of clean laundry none of them bothered to put away.

Patrick’s not sure what feels so different here, but something definitely does feel different.

“Why didn’t you borrow one of Andy’s shirts?” Patrick asks suddenly, unable to keep his stupid, useless thoughts to himself for some reason.

“Huh?” Pete blinks away from the movie, frowning. “Why would I borrow one of Andy’s shirts?”

“Because… you’re the same size.” Also, Andy’s shirts are probably cleaner, he doesn’t say.

Pete stills Patrick with an odd, curious sort of look. “Does it bother you?”

Patrick feels his face heat up somewhat. What the hell is wrong with him? Why is this bothering him? “No… No. Why would it bother me? Just don’t... destroy it somehow. It’s… whatever.” 

There’s a small titter of laughter before Pete simply shrugs and says, “This shirt smells like you,” as he turns back to the TV. 

Well. That seems kind of seems like an odd thing to say. Probably just one of those Pete things, right? Pete says things like that sometimes, things he doesn’t really mean. At least, he doesn’t mean them as they sound.  

“So, like sweat and lucky charms?” he asks, thinking of the cereal he spilled on the bottom of that shirt yesterday.

Pete frowns, still watching the TV, and he’s quiet for so long, Patrick thinks he isn’t going to answer. Then there’s a shift and suddenly Pete’s feet are no longer resting on Patrick’s lap. Patrick allows himself a moment of loss, then wonders why he should feel loss for that. 

Pete’s sitting up now, frowning and apparently still considering Patrick’s question very seriously. “It smells more like... sweat, that sweet deodorant you like, and... your bunk, I guess.”

“My... bunk?”

Pete nods before turning himself round, letting his head rest on Patrick’s lap instead of his feet. Patrick brushes his hand through Pete’s hair almost without thinking.

“And all of that… makes you want to keep wearing my shirt?” says Patrick after a moment, staring at the Jack Skelington running along Pete’s arm rather than the one on TV. 

“Dude, you…” Pete sighs, eyes on the TV. “You smell like... relief, man. I don’t know what to tell you. You smell like being safe after a nightmare. Or like— draining away all the fucked up thoughts. The opposite of anxiety. That’s what this shirt feels like.”  

Pete doesn’t say, I needed that today, but Patrick suddenly feels like he might want to. His gut clenches as he wonders if Pete had wanted — needed — to climb into Patrick’s bunk last night, but decided against it because Patrick had been such a little bitch. Because Patrick knows that’s what Pete usually does when he needs relief. When he needs to stop the anxiety. 

“Oh,” he says softly, fingers moving from Pete’s hair to touch at his jaw. “I— Are you okay?”

Pete smiles up at him. “Right now? I’m awesome.” 

“Sorry, I… I mean, sorry I was kind of an ass last night.”

“You’re an ass sometimes, Rick. So am I.” He grins. “It’s why we’re made for each other.”

Patrick snorts, shaking his head. He feels warm. “You need to stop saying shit like that.”

“Before you believe me?” Pete asks, and something about his tone makes Patrick meet his eyes, silent for a few seconds. There’s a lot to be said about the golden glint in Pete’s eyes, the glint that seems to say a thousand things. “You know,” Pete continues. “I think you kinda like that I’m wearing your shirt.”

Patrick swallows thickly. “You’re... an idiot.”

“Is it because, since I’m wearing your shirt, I’m also labelled property of Patrick Stump?”

“My clothes don’t have labels with my name written on them,” Patrick says immediately. “I’m not five.”

“Is it cause I look hot in this shirt? I know you’d look hot in one of my shirts.”

“I’d look like an overstuffed plushy in one of your shirts,” Patrick replies, because he can’t imagine looking anything resembling hot in a shirt at least two sizes too small. 

“Nah, hot as hell.” Pete scratches absently at his stomach, the Bowie shirt riding up a little and revealing the tight, tanned skin underneath, marred with ink from his bartskull. 

It’s getting very difficult for Patrick to convince himself that he isn’t really, really turned on by Pete wearing his shirt right now. He’s extremely close to getting extremely hard, which is a problem because Pete’s head is on his lap, inches from his dick.

It’s possible Pete already knows this, judging by the golden glint in his eyes as they stare at each other for a few moments. “Patrick?”

Patrick tries to concentrate on something other than how much he wants to kiss Pete right now. He can’t. “Mm?”

“Just so we’re clear…” Pete’s tongue peeks out briefly to wet his lips. “If you wanted to kiss me right now, I’d be totally cool with that.”

Yes, yes, yes! he thinks immediately, even while his mouth contrarily says what it thinks he should probably be thinking, “I don’t— Pete, I don’t know if this—” 

That glint in Pete’s eyes dulls almost immediately and Patrick feels the loss on a visceral level. As Pete tries to sit up, lifting his head from Patrick’s lap, Patrick squeezes his hand against Pete’s shoulder, halting him midway to a sitting position, their faces way too close now. 

Pete frowns. “Look, dude, I—” 

Patrick kisses him.

Pete’s gasp of surprised pleasure seems to vibrate through Patrick’s bones, and he pushes deeper into the kiss, shoving Pete back onto the sofa and almost toppling them both to the floor in the process. 

Pete pulls back briefly, “So, should I keep this shirt on while—”

“Oh my God, stop talking.” Patrick pulls Pete back against him. 

Pete keeps the shirt on.