Title: Late Night With
Author: Kasha
Rating: PG-13
Summary: “I kind of maybe have a crush on Conan O’Brien.”
Author’s Notes: All lies. Inspired by the video of the band’s performance on Conan O’Brien, during which it becomes apparent that the man is, in fact, twice the size of all of them (except Joe).






“I kind of maybe have a crush on Conan O’Brien.”

Peter freezes mid-bite, staring at Patrick in shock.

“I was thinking about it, you know, about why I’m so nervous to do the show,” Patrick says, grabbing a napkin from the dispenser and shredding it into ribbons with restless fingers. “And I think it’s because I might have a bit of a thing for Conan.”

Peter continues to stare mutely at his best friend.

“At first I thought maybe it was just, like, a heterosexual mancrush, you know, like in that Seinfeld episode with Keith Hernandez, but as we get closer and closer to the performance, I’m starting to think maybe it’s more like that Seinfeld with George and Elaine’s boyfriend, whatshisface, the rock climber. More like an actual just crush crush.”

Patrick pauses to take a breath and seems to notice, for the first time, the mountain of white scraps in front of his plate. The blush that reddens his fair skin is immediate and fierce, and he downs some of his water like he’s throwing back whiskey before finding the courage to continue.

“It’s, uh. I’ve. I don’t know how to put this, man, but I’ve had…dreams.”

At that, Peter goes from merely wide-eyed to flatout slack-jawed, and Patrick grimaces at the view this shift affords him of Peter’s half-chewed slice of pan crust veggie delite (no olives).

“Well come on,” Patrick begs, still violently red and squirming uncomfortably in his seat. “Say something.”

“Dude,” Peter manages, swallowing with obvious effort. “I didn’t even know you were gay.”

The waitress drops their order of mozzarella sticks and Peter’s refill of Dr. Pepper.


* * *


The next twenty minutes are spent listening to the restaurant manager explain politely but firmly that this is Not That Kind Of Place and won’t you boys please take your business elsewhere, and Patrick pouts the whole way through the fifteen minute walk back to the venue, lamenting the loss of his barely eaten calzone, so it’s not until they’re sitting in the “den” of the parked tour bus that the conversation can continue.

“I’m not gay,” Patrick says without preamble. “It’s just, you know, Conan.”

“So. Bisexual, then?”

“I don’t know! I just, I don’t know, all right? But you’ve been asking me why I’ve been so freaked about the show, and I thought I’d tell you after I figured it out this morning in the, uh. In the hotel shower.”

Patrick’s blush is back with a vengeance, and even Peter’s tanned skin turns a dusky pink when the implications of this statement sink in.

“Dude. Ew. Just, just, seriously, fucking ew, dude! What the hell? Conan O’Brien is a funny motherfucker, I’ll give him that, but he’s, like, transparent pale. And skinnier than me. And his hair is orange—straight up fucking orange. Not to mention that he’s, you know, seven feet tall, which, considering you’re all of five-foot-four with shoes on, I don’t know if you two could even physically have sex.”

“There’s just something about him,” Patrick insists, leaping to the talk show host’s defense. “And just in case you’ve forgotten, your hair was orange for about three months there. At least Conan’s is natural.”

From there, the conversation degenerates into a rehashing of all the less than brilliant fashion moves the two have made over the years, with a brief foray into the horror that was Joe’s bleach job, and by the time their bandmates return from a pre-show grocery run, Peter and Patrick are sprawled out on the couch watching Cartoon Network and snacking on gummy worms, showing no sign of any residual awkwardness.

To prevent the development of any such awkwardness, Peter and Patrick carefully do not mention The Conan Thing to each other again. That is, at least, until Peter shows up outside the door of Patrick’s hotel room one night five days later, dressed in boxers and wrapped in a comforter, knocking loud enough to wake the entire floor.


* * *


Though Peter and Patrick usually share a room whenever the band has the dubious pleasure of spending the night in a hotel, Patrick is coming down with what promises to be a rather nasty case of the flu and, as such, has exiled Peter to Joe and Andy’s floor.

Patrick’s first thought, then, as he is yanked unceremoniously from a deep, satisfying slumber at 4:27 in the morning is that this really can’t be good for his immune system. His second thought has rather more to do with the questionable marital status of Peter’s parents at the time of his conception.

When he opens the door, he is greeted by a mostly naked Peter who looks pale and drawn and vulnerable in the way that only very skinny people wrapped in very bulky pieces of bedding can manage. He also looks as tired as Patrick feels. Mostly, though, he just looks scared.

Patrick opens the door and wordlessly ushers his friend inside.

“Talk,” he says, sitting down on the edge of the bed and gesturing for Peter to do the same.

“Sorry to wake you up,” Peter stammers out. “Sorry, sorry, I know you’re sick and all and—”

“Shut up,” Patrick interrupts. “And talk.”

At that, Peter nods and pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

“I kind of maybe have a crush on you.”

Patrick gapes for a moment before forcing out a nervous laugh.

“Ha fucking ha, Panda. Real funny. Look, I’m sorry I freaked you out with the Conan thing, but that’s no reason for you to wake me up at four in the morning just to play some dumbass joke on me. Now get out of here, ok? I seriously feel like shit, and I just want to go to sleep.”

“No, Patrick. Really. Ever since you told me about your, you know, whatever, that you have for Conan, I haven’t been able to get the idea out of my head. At first I kept imagining the two of you together, I guess out of some morbid curiosity, like how you can’t help but stare at a car wreck—because that’s about how appealing that image was, you and him and his fucking hair, and can you even picture what his body hair looks like? God. But, then, somehow, I don’t know, it turned into me just imagining…you. And then, maybe, you and me.”

Patrick is starting to feel a little light headed. He thinks it’s probably only partly because of the fever.

“So, tonight,” Peter forges on, his wild hair and his wild eyes and that godawful hotel bedspread making him look like a refugee from the world’s worst toga party. “Tonight, I had a dream. About us. That kind of dream. And I just woke up, and I had to come talk to you because this is freaking me the fuck out because you’re my best friend, and I’m not new to the whole guy-guy thing, but you’re Trick, man, you’re Patrick, and it’s just weird.”

Patrick is, by this point, so thrown off by Peter’s uncharacteristic unsure babbling that his first thought when his best friend of five years kisses him is, thank God at least he’s acting like Peter and doing something.

His second thought is, this is disturbingly enjoyable.

His third thought is, fuck, right before he shoves Peter away and proceeds to throw up all over the cheap carpet.

“Wow,” Peter says, smiling. “I’ve never gotten that reaction before.”

“I hope I’m terribly contagious,” Patrick responds, trying to sound angry and not in the least amused and possibly a bit violated.

To his horror, he just sounds kind of flirtatious.


* * *


The next morning, Patrick wakes up and stumbles into the bathroom for a glass of water only to find Peter perched on the edge of the tub dying his hair orange.

Patrick manages to hold out exactly two minutes and thirty-seven seconds—just long enough to brush the rancid aftertaste of being sick out of his mouth—before pushing Peter back against the cold, off-white tile and kissing him silly.