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A big wet kiss is planted right on the side of Patrick’s face. At least he thinks it’s wet? He can’t really tell underneath the thick sheen of sweat coating basically, like—his whole body. “Fucking awesome show, Trick. You nailed it out there.” Right.
They’ve been on tour for about a week or two, he thinks. It all gets a little fuzzy when you’re seeing nothing more than a sliver of a crowd and you’re singing the same songs almost every night. That’s not what’s important right now though, no, it’s the fact that Pete’s been all over him on stage.
It’s not like it makes his stomach-turning stage fright any better, if anything it just makes it worse.
Sure he... doesn’t exactly mind Pete wrapping a loose arm over his shoulder, or—or breathing hot on his neck between lyrics. But he knows it can’t be helping. He’s had to’ve messed up at least a dozen lyrics, right? Total distraction. Even when he’s looking at him from across the cramped stages, he feels a little extra sweaty under the collar.
“Patrick?”
And he’s back to reality.
“Ah! Um--no, yeah, sorry. Thanks, Pete.”
He adjusts his glasses, and the other, noticeably less sweaty, boy looks at him with a hint of worry in his eyes, “You feeling alright, man?” He asks, followed by an outstretched hand that feels like a hot iron when it lands on Patrick's shoulder.
“Totally! Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Absolutely,” He chokes out of a painfully dry mouth. When did his mouth get so dry?
“Better not be getting a fever on us. You’re looking super red,” his hand has now migrated to Patrick's forehead, and he's not shocked that he's visibly burning up, especially underneath Pete's touch. He gently bats away his hand, "That venue was just really fuckin' hot, dude, don't worry about it." He responds, punctuated by him pulling his hat down over his eyes.
The band makes the rest of their way to the van and loads up all their equipment. They're back on the road for what feels like the millionth time. He's bored of all the carsickness and their communal dirty socks lining the rows of seats. As he's shuffling in, Pete hops in the same row and announces, maybe a bit too loudly, "Guess who was able to book us somewhere to stay for tonight!" It's like a tidal wave of relief swept over Patrick. It's been far too long since he's slept in an actual bed, he thinks, clicking the (likely hazardous) seatbelt into place and melting into his spot.
He's awakened by a barrage of short nudges and little "Trick”s from Pete, "Wake up, dude. Already brought in our shit, c'mon," Patrick blinks the rest of his sleep away and scooches out of the side Pete leaned in from. As he does, he catches a glimpse of writing on his arm, 'always late' it reads.
In sharpie.
Immediately, he jumps out and begins chasing Pete all the way to their room, "Asshole!"
The two scramble up the stairs in succession. He swings weakly before they breach the door and Pete's hopping on the first bed and giggling like a douchebag. Patrick immediately gets up onto the bed and shoves at Pete a few times, who's still laughing like a madman. Has to be the adrenaline, cause it's seriously not that funny. He rolls his eyes before examining the rest of the room, "Aw come on, only one room? I call dibs on this bed."
Pete finally recovers from his gigglefit and sits up, "No you don't! You either gotta bunk with me or like, sleep in the tub." He says, cheeky grin prickling up, "I can't sleep with Joe or something?" Patrick whines in response. "Too late. Andy and I already got our stink on this bed," the aforementioned chimes in, wiggling his socked toes, which is met with a grimace, "Fine. I call dibs on the first shower though."
Damn sharpie didn’t wash off.
---
Patrick had grabbed an armful of clothes from the van before showering, and now he's rummaging through them to see if any of it is clean, or at least wearable. After a few bad apples, his hand makes its way to a worn-out band tee, hoping this one doesn't smell as bad as the others.
He sniffs it once.
And then again.
And again.
Jesus Christ this is gross, he thinks. He knows what the smell is though. It's Pete.
It's his, or he at least had it last. It won't kill him to wear it, right? He throws it on and hopes Pete doesn't notice.
But he notices. Almost instantly as he focused his attention to the opening and closing bathroom door. Something in his expression changes, and Patrick tries to ignore it, taking a seat on the bed and looking at the nonsense of whatever is playing on the shitty TV.
"Is that my shirt?" It's sudden, almost a whisper, "It was the only clean one." That could be true. He didn't bother to check the rest of the pile, but the likelihood of finding another clean-ish shirt was probably low. The room ends up falling silent except for nonsensical chatter from the show that's on and a few jokes exchanged between Andy and Joe. Patrick goes out of his way not to look at Pete the rest of the night.
Turns out, that's harder than he had expected. Everyone has cycled through the shower and are now watching something about an 'American werewolf', which–he has no idea what's happening in. He's far too distracted by Pete leaned up against him, jaw hooked onto his shoulder. He's been flicking his eyes between the screen and Pete's short curls up against his neck somewhat erratically. He’s pretty sure he's keeping his breathing under control though. Maybe.
It shocks Patrick how fast Pete falls asleep. Usually he’s up for about 2 hours or longer, but the clocks at 11 now, and Patrick’s gotten them both in a laying position without any issue. His hands are uncomfortably empty though. There’s nothing wrong with putting an arm over him, right? They’re already this close and he can’t exactly get a pillow to hold right now. So, he shifts a bit, facing Pete and slowly draping his arm across his still body. Patrick will probably wake up before him, anyways, so it’s not even a big deal.
But of course, with his luck, he wakes up to an empty space by his side, and a tan figure standing over him, threatening to have toothpastey spit fall onto his face, “All rested, sleeping beauty?” He’s so screwed.
He decides to opt for keeping on what he slept in, because for some reason nobody decided to wake him up earlier. Not much use in changing anyways.
And now he can’t decide if that was the right choice or not. Pete’s staring at him like he wants to eat him alive. It’s making him extra nervous on top of preforming. He feels kind of fuzzy and warm, though. Not in like an ‘I’m going to pass out’ way, at least he hopes not; more like in a ‘maybe everything he does isn’t just stage bullshit’ way. He lowers the brim of his knit hat just to make sure he doesn’t see him staring right back.
It feels sort of heavy after the show. It seems like Pete is avoiding him. He tries not to think so, but he specifically asked to ride shotgun, leaving him with Joe. Which would be fine if it weren’t for the fact that he didn’t say a word after their performance, or when they got in the van, or anything during the ride to their next location. Was he pissed at him? That’d go against like, all last night. He pushes everything out his head. Overthinking before bed isn’t his favorite activity.
Apparently, no one cares to wake him for shit anymore because it looks like they’ve stopped at a gas station. They’re lucky they know what he likes to eat, cause if he didn’t get a snack before their next show he’d probably die. He sulks until the guys make it back with their bag of junk food, and to Patrick’s surprise (and delight), Pete’s decided to sit with him again. Though disappointingly, he’s still not talking to him. Instead, he’s just typing away on his sidekick. He takes it as a sign to not bother him either, which Pete must have noticed, because he finally takes the initiative and does something, “I grabbed you a Dr. Pepper,” eye contact still isn’t there, but it’s made up for by the sugary beverage put in his lap.
“Thanks,” he exchanges, “You, uh, doing OK?” “Yeah. Bad dream or whatever.”
It’s silent for a little while. Patrick desperately wishes Andy would turn up the radio, or someone would break the tension in the air. He bites the bullet, “Wanna tell me about it?“ “Nah.” Okay.
He’s not going to figure any of this out, is he?
---
He’s trying to give Pete his space. It’s been annoying how he’ll joke with the other guys but as soon as he tries to join in, he just goes all quiet. So, yeah, he’s stopped doing that. But now they’ve played a couple more shows and Pete hasn’t stopped with his burning-holes-in-the-side-of-Patrick’s-head routine. Seriously, he can feel his eyes stabbing into him. But it’s when they’re packing up again, and Pete pushes past him, he’s basically lost it. He can’t take this anymore. He walks up behind Pete in the back of the venue and hits him in the shoulder. Admittedly that wasn’t the best way to start his confrontation, but it’s too late now, “What the hell?” Pete spins around and prepares to swing back before he realizes who it is, “Patrick-- Fuck was that for?” “What the hell to you! You’ve been avoiding me like all week.” Pete’s expression falls. He opens his mouth to speak, doesn’t, and starts turning away again.
Patrick is done. He grabs him by the arm and swings him around to look at him face to face, “Can you quit it?” He’s yelling now, “I just wanna know what’s up with you. You’re like—supposed to be my best friend! We’re supposed to talk to each other…” He’s wipes at his eyes with a sniffle, and tries to keep his breathing somewhat regular, “Goddammit.” He croaks. Pete knows he’s screwed up now. He reaches out to hold Patrick’s face, which in return he weakly tries to move away from, “Shit, dude. I’m really sorry I—we can talk about this, I swear. Let’s just get out of here first, ‘kay?” He’s met with a nod before they go on their way.
The two asked Andy and Joe to wait back for a little bit while they went to the van. Patrick is almost a ball, legs curled up to his chest and head ducked low. Pete looks at him like he’ll shatter from anything louder than a whisper, “Uh, so,” Patrick glares through the slit between his knees and cap, “For one, I’m sorry for acting like a, um, brat and all.” Pete bites his knuckle in thought, “I’m not mad or anything I promise. I’m just kind of like--fucking stupid,” he laughs to himself before cutting it short, Patrick manages a giggle, he doesn’t want to make this long though, “So why are you blowing me off?” He unfurls slightly from his tightly wound limbs, “It’s, like, really complicated I-“ “Pete. I’m seriously going to punch it out of you if you don’t hurry this up.”
“This is harder for me than you think, dude!” Pete lays his head on the seat in front of him, “God. How am I supposed to just say this to you,” he mumbles, mostly to himself, “Whatever you tell me, I’m not going to judge you. You know that” “Barely,” he chuckles half-heartedly before continuing, “You’re just—really important to me, that’s clear,” Patrick gives a knowing nod, “And, well, some dumb switch went off in my head or whatever however long ago.” Patrick tries to follow, he’s not bright when it comes to context clues, “Like I- Fuck, you’re really gonna make me say it, aren’t you?” He’s certainly not bright, is he? “Say what?” he tilts his head, Pete sighs, “I feel like its pretty obvious that I’m like—fucking in love with you, man. And you wearing my shirt on top of that drove me nuts. The cuddling too? Jesus.”
Oh.
He doesn’t know what to say.
Pete really hasn’t been messing with him.
“It’s not even a thing if you don’t like me, I get it. Plus, there’s not much else to do when there’s no chicks around, huh.” He buries his head into his arms, sick-of-himself grin peaking beneath them.
“Pete.” Patrick places an arm on his back, “Look at me,” Pete withdraws his forehead from the crook of his elbow and begrudgingly does so, “I thought you were pulling some oversized prank on me, I didn’t think you--“ He pauses. He could drown in his own embarrassment, but that doesn’t matter right now, “I didn’t think you liked me back.” Pete instantly perks up, ”Did I hear you right?” Patrick covers his face, “You’re totally joking with me.” Then groans, “Patrick!” His wrists are grabbed and pulled away from his face, “You’re being serious, right? Please tell me you are,” He would sock Pete right now if he didn’t love how happy he looked, “Yep. I’m being 100 percent honest with you.”
Pete’s beaming and leans in closer, Patrick is a bundle of nerves, “Wait!” The other stops, “I’ve never, well, kissed a guy before,” “It’s the same as kissing a girl,” Patrick doesn’t respond, “No way. Is this your first kiss?” “Not my first! Just… my first real one?” All he gets is a smirk before Pete cups his cheek, “Come ‘ere.”
It’s short. It’s chaste. Patrick is frozen for a moment, but it isn’t enough. In some weird way, he’s been waiting for this moment, and he wanted more. Maybe the kiss gave him a sort of confidence, but he grasped at the back of Pete’s head and pulled him back in. Their mouths crashed together. Too hard. The two giggled as they readjusted and locked lips. Patrick is sloppy, clearly inexperienced, but it’s authentic. He can feel Pete smiling in between the few clacks of teeth and messy exchanging of tongues.
They’ve both had this desperate want, and it’s all exploding in front of them right here, right now. Patrick couldn’t be happier. When the time comes, their lips part and all they can do afterwards is stare at each other in awe. There was a sliver of moonlight beaming through the window hitting Patrick’s bright blue eyes. Pete could go blind if he looked long enough.
---
Andy and Joe have finally been allowed back into the van. They’re ignoring the bundle of fabric in the back seat behind them, rhythmically rising and falling. Patrick feels so warm, inside and out. He’s got butterflies fluttering around in his stomach, Pete’s breath is tickling his neck, he sighs; It can’t get any better than this.