Work Text:
The air inside The Joint is a thick, humid soup of clove cigarette smoke, cheap hairspray, and the electric hum of several dozen amplifiers pushed to their breaking point. It’s the tail end of the Young Wild Things tour—and Las Vegas is currently vibrating under the weight of a sold-out crowd. The neon lights of the Strip bleed through the heavy stage doors, but in here, the only thing that matters is the heat of the spotlights and the frantic energy of a band that is both exhausted and exhilarated.
Patrick's fingers are raw, his voice is a rasp of honey and gravel, and his signature fedora is held in place by little more than sweat and sheer willpower. Behind him, Andy is a blur of rhythmic precision, his tattoos slick with sweat as he drives the tempo forward. To Patrick’s left, Joe is a whirlwind of hair and spinning guitars. And then, there's Pete. Pete is a live wire, a man made of eyeliner, kinetic energy, and a desperate need to feel everything all at once.
For four years, he has been Patrick’s anchor and his storm, his husband and his biggest headache. Today, they are celebrating four years of legal, quiet, and occasionally chaotic matrimony—a secret they guard with varying degrees of success. As they slide into the second-to-last song of the night, the opening riff of "Mr. Brightside" tears through the room. It’s a love letter to the city they’re standing in, and the crowd recognizes it instantly, their roar nearly drowning out the feedback.
“And I just can't look, it's killing me / They're taking control...”
Patrick leans into the microphone, his eyes squeezed shut against the glare of the house lights. He’s in the zone, his hand moving in a rhythmic blur against the strings of his guitar. He feels the vibrations of the stage under his feet, the way the floorboards seem to breathe with the audience’s jumping.
“Jealousy, turning saints into the sea / Swimming through sick lullabies, choking on your alibis...”
Suddenly, the space to his right feels smaller. The familiar scent of Pete’s cologne—something expensive mixed with the metallic tang of stage sweat—drifts closer. Patrick doesn't have to look to know that Pete is abandoning his post. He can hear the thrum of the bass getting louder, more insistent, as Pete moves toward the center of the stage.
“But it's just the price I pay, destiny is calling me...”
Through the corner of his eye, Patrick sees the blur of a low-slung bass and a pair of skinny jeans. Pete is closing the distance with a predatory sort of grace, his chin tucked, his bangs falling over his eyes. Patrick’s fingers don't falter, but his mind hitches. Crap, he thinks, a familiar flare of affectionate panic rising in his chest. What is he doing? What is he gonna do this time?
Pete is a creature of impulse. He’s the guy who jumps off balconies and licks microphones. Patrick, the perennial straight man to Pete’s chaos, prepares for a shoulder-check or a playful shove. He braces himself for Pete to lean into his mic and scream something unintelligible.
“Open up my eager eyes, 'cause I'm Mr. Brightside!”
The chorus explodes, a wall of sound that makes the rafters shake. Patrick is belt-singing now, his diaphragm tight, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm that rivals Andy’s double-kick.
“I'm coming out of my cage, and I've been doing just fine / Gotta, gotta be down, because I want it all...”
Pete is right there now. He’s within breathing distance, his shoulder brushing against Patrick’s. He isn't playing his bass anymore; it’s hanging loosely against his hip, forgotten for the moment. There’s a look in Pete’s eyes—that wide, dark, manic glint that usually precedes something that will end up on a tabloid blog tomorrow morning.
“It started out with a kiss; how did it end up like this?”
Patrick watches the lyrics leave his own mouth, and in the split second of silence that follows, Pete moves. He doesn't go for the mic. He doesn't go for a stagedive.
“It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss...”
On the last *kiss*, Pete’s hand shoots out, grabbing the lapel of Patrick’s jacket. He yanks him forward, bridging the gap with the desperation of a man who hasn't seen his husband in years, despite having shared a bunk with him six hours ago. Pete’s lips crash against Patrick’s. It’s messy. It’s salty with sweat and tastes like the Red Bull they both drank backstage.
Normally, this is where Patrick’s professional reflexes would kick in. He’d give Pete a firm, brotherly shove, roll his eyes at the cameras, and keep the song on the rails. He’d play the role of the blushing frontman while Pete played the provocateur. But then, the date clicks into place in the back of Patrick’s mind. December 2nd. The memory of a cold morning four years ago, a quiet ceremony, and the look on Pete’s face when they said “I do” hits him like a freight train. The tour is over. They’re in Vegas. They’re tired, they’re wired, and they’re more in love than they have any right to be.
Patrick makes a choice. He doesn't shove. Instead, he lets his hand fall away from the strings. He reaches into his pocket, sliding his guitar pick safely away, and lets his instrument drop against its strap. The guitar clatters against his thighs, forgotten. Patrick reaches up, his palms framing Pete’s face, his fingers tangling in the messy, sweat-dampened hair at the nape of Pete’s neck. He cradles Pete’s head like it’s the most precious thing in the world, and he kisses him back.
It isn't a stage kiss. It isn't a stunt for the fans in the front row who are currently screaming loud enough to break glass. It’s a slow, deep, grounded reconnection. Patrick’s eyes flutter shut, and he leans into it, his tongue tracing the seam of Pete’s lips until Pete’s mouth falls open in genuine, unscripted shock. For a second, the world outside their two-inch radius ceases to exist. The flashing lights of The Joint fade into a dull pulse. The roar of the crowd becomes white noise. Patrick deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against Pete’s, claiming him in front of three thousand people and a dozen digital cameras.
Pete’s hands, which had been frozen in surprise, suddenly find purchase on Patrick’s waist, squeezing the fabric of his vest as his senses finally return. Pete melts into him, his bass thumping uselessly against Patrick’s leg as he returns the heat with a soft, muffled sound of surprise. The song is still happening around them. Andy, ever the professional, hasn't missed a beat, though there is a visible grin on his face as he hammers away at the cymbals. He catches Joe’s eye across the stage. Joe, meanwhile, has completely stopped playing his own part to lean over his guitar, letting out a piercing, high-pitched catcall that carries even over the PA system.
“Get some, Stump!” Joe yells, laughing as he kicks a stray balloon off the stage.
Andy shakes his head, tossing a drumstick into the air and catching it without looking. He and Pete go way back—to the days of vegan straight-edge hardcore and shared vans. Their brief time as friends-with-benefits is a lifetime ago, an amicable footnote in the band's history. Seeing Pete this happy, this grounded by the man in the fedora, just makes Andy hit the snare harder.
“About time you remembered what day it is, Wentz!” Andy shouts, though only Joe can hear him over the music.
The song reaches its final, crashing crescendo. Patrick and Pete finally break apart, though they stay in each other's space, foreheads resting against one another. Pete’s eyeliner is smeared, his lips are red and swollen, and he looks like he just woke up from a dream he doesn't want to leave.
“Happy anniversary,” Patrick breathes, his voice barely a whisper, audible only because their microphones are currently picking up the feedback of the crowd.
Pete laughs—a real, breathless sound—and swipes a thumb across Patrick’s lower lip. “You’re full of surprises, Stump. I thought I was the one who was supposed to be the drama queen.”
“You are,” Patrick quips, finally reclaiming his guitar. “I’m just the one who has to keep you in line.”
The crowd is in a state of absolute delirium. The Petrick shippers in the front row look like they’re about to ascend to another plane of existence. The flashbulbs are constant, a staccato rhythm of silver light that illuminates the joy on the band's faces. Pete steps back, his chest heaving, a massive, goofy grin plastered on his face. He slings his bass back into playing position, his fingers find the frets, and he looks over at Andy, who gives him a sharp, single nod.
“Alright, Vegas!” Pete screams into his own mic, his voice crackling with a sudden burst of adrenaline. “This is our last night, and we’re going out with a bang! This one’s for the heartbreakers and the believers!”
The familiar, frantic opening chords of "Saturday" tear through the air. It’s their traditional closer, the song that ends every night, but tonight it feels different. It feels like a victory lap.
Patrick steps back to his mic, his heart still racing from the kiss, a warmth in his chest that has nothing to do with the stage lights. He catches Pete’s eye one last time before the lights dim for the final push. Pete winks, a mischievous, tired, deeply loving look that promises the real celebration will start the moment they get back to the hotel. As the first verse kicks in, Patrick sings with everything he has left. The tour is over, the year is winding down, and he is exactly where he is supposed to be. In a city of gambles, he’s already won the biggest prize there is.