Summary: "And that's why Jon Walker is coming over in like, twenty minutes with his camera."
Author's Notes: So yesterday megyal was all "Bad day! Boo! Write me a drabble!" And I was all "K, what pairing?" And she was all "Pete/anyone". ~2900 words later, here we are. Pfft, drabble. I scoff.
Patrick knows without looking up from his plucking and pressing at frets, without even seeing Pete's face yet, just from the tone of his name in Pete's voice, that this is a serious inquiry.
"Yeah," he replies flatly, setting his guitar on the floor, leaning it beside him on the sofa, and then finally looking up to where Pete is standing before him. For some reason he's kind of dressed up; he's put on a decent shirt, the button-down sort with long sleeves rolled up halfway, and a pair of dark pants. Patrick grows immediately suspicious.
"So, do you remember…" Pete trails off, staring down at his hands, fidgety. He steps in and sits down next to Patrick on the sofa. "That one thing we talked about doing, once?"
"What thing?" Patrick asks blankly.
"You know," Pete shrugs, his gaze wandering a bit. "That thing about… with the pictures?"
Patrick pauses, presuming there's more explanation to it than that, but Pete is staring at him expectantly, his lips pulled into a thin, serious line. "What do you mean, pictures?" Patrick asks. "There's a million pictures of us." Patrick begins to wonder if Pete has lost his mind completely.
"No, yeah, I know," Pete concedes, running a hand into the back of his hair. "But," he continues, gnawing slightly on his lower lip, his eyes narrowing a bit, contemplative. "I mean, like, special ones. Just for us."
"Oh," is all the answer Patrick can manage at the moment, his battered memory cranking along, trying in vain to recall any previous conversation related to photography. "I dunno," he adds, "isn't that kind of weird?" And he doesn't honestly mean anything by it, nothing more than the fact there's no point in arranging specific photos, when they have so many already. Then a tiny glimmer of recognition surfaces, just as Pete inhales to continue.
"But it would be really cool, you know? Because of how you're so photogenic, and besides, you already told me you would, once."
"I never said that, Pete," Patrick states firmly, defensive, and he's on the right page now finally. He knows precisely the sorts of photos Pete means, but he still can't ever remember discussing this before.
"You totally did though," Pete insists, and now he's suppressing a grin, and it's spilling out through his eyes. "And that's why Jon Walker is coming over in like, twenty minutes with his camera."
"Peter!" Patrick snaps, full of indignation and flying to his feet.
"Relax, it'll be fun," Pete tries, his voice disaffected and nonchalant, but he grasps hard at Patrick's wrist, anchoring him from fleeing.
"No, just. No," Patrick argues harshly, trying to wrench his arm from Pete's hold. "I did not agree to this, you call him. You call him right now and you tell him to forget it."
"Come on, Trick," Pete says, employing that honeyed quality to his voice that Patrick loathes, because he's powerless against it. "They won't be, like, public or anything."
Pete flashes a no-big-deal grin. Patrick shoots him a death glare.
"Please?" Pete adds, soft and quick.
"No, they certainly won't," Patrick argues, "Because they're not even being taken. No. Fucking… let go of my arm."
Pete complies immediately, and Patrick sighs, and then the room goes quiet, awkward tension unresolved. Pete is staring up at him, hands resting in his lap, his wide, pooling eyes full of pleading. Against every decent judgment Patrick feels himself soften, the band of his wrist still tingling in the absence of Pete's grasp.
"Quit it," Patrick mutters, folding his arms across his chest.
"It would mean a lot to me," Pete states with soft-serious conviction, gaze unwavering, as if he's asking for something along the lines of a life-saving organ all of a sudden. "Like… you have no idea how much."
"Pete, stop it." Patrick looks away, but still can't bring himself to move from where he's stood.
"Just a few, then?" Pete negotiates. "Normal pictures, I mean. Not even... nothing explicit, okay? They don't even have to be more than kissing, just... kissing."
Patrick unwinds his arms, slipping his hands into his pockets as Pete continues, and Patrick swears there's some sort of magic, something enchanting in the exact timbre of Pete's voice, some spell that binds him time and time again. He's basically cursed for all eternity.
"You kiss me, like, all the time," Pete argues, still speaking softly. "And it's awesome. And a photograph of it would just be, like..." he pauses, treading carefully. "Like some part of us, kept in a kiss forever."
And that right there is the death knell of Patrick's resolve, he feels it crumble and slip away like sand through a sieve. He brings his eyes up to meet Pete's again.
"One picture." Patrick holds up his index finger for emphasis. "One shot, and that's it. I swear to God… I can't even believe you talked me into this."
* * *
Patrick is wound up tight, sat on the edge of the bed with his hands tucked under his thighs, knee bouncing nervously as he watches Jon Walker bring lamp after lamp into the bedroom, pulling off the shades. "All of this for one photograph?" Patrick asks.
With the lights blaring and scattered about, atop makeshift stacks of books and tables, the room almost resembles a fixtures department at a home improvement store.
"Well," Pete grins, "We only have like, one chance to get it right."
He's the picture of contentment, Pete is, and Patrick flinches when Pete's hand comes to rest at his knee. "Trick," Pete whispers, and waits for Patrick's eyes to quit their vigil of Jon's movements and to find Pete's own again. "Relax."
Pete presses his lips quick to Patrick's, a swift and warm reassurance. Patrick exhales and hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath.
Finally Jon seems to be finished playing with the lighting and picks up his camera, nimble fingers fine-tuning some settings, then gives Pete a small grin, raising his eyebrows. Pete turns to Patrick, twisting his torso and leaning in, but Patrick can't seem to take his eyes off of Jon. Pete stops just shy of his lips meeting Patrick's skin and turns his head.
"Give us a second?" Pete asks, and Jon nods wordlessly, slipping quietly out of the room, closing the door as he goes.
Patrick adjusts his hat and tucks his hair back behind his ears, then looks down to study his hands.
"Yeah?" Patrick replies, a little strained.
There's a definitive pause before Pete goes on. "You could… I mean, we can just forget this whole thing, you know. If that's what you want."
Patrick feels a pang of uncertainty, starting in the lower reaches of his stomach, traveling up to his throat, tickling at his tongue. Against the insistent voice in his head telling him to take the chance to back out, he swallows, willing his hesitation to dissipate. "Nah," he replies. "I'm alright."
"You're like, all modest and shit," Pete teases gently, leaning into Patrick, nudging him a bit.
"Yeah, well." Patrick looks up to catch Pete's gaze, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Pete presses his lips to Patrick's again, quick like before, but a bit firmer this time, pulling back to slide a hand along Patrick's cheek. He looks like he's going to say something else, but then changes his mind and moves in once more, lingering now in the kiss, soft and warm as his fingers curl into the hair at the nape of Patrick's neck.
"The camera," Pete murmurs, keeping close to Patrick, lips brushing as he speaks. "Is totally your friend. It loves you," he adds.
"I dunno," Patrick pulls back a bit as Pete runs a thumb across his cheek. "It's just... it throws me off like this, you know? It's invasive."
"Hey," Pete grins, reassuring. "It's just you and me. Us only, alright?"
"Yeah," Patrick says, and sighs. "Yeah. Okay."
"So maybe just um…" Jon says, cradling his camera in one hand, as Pete and Patrick both look up at him from where they're sat on the edge of the bed. "I don't know. Just talk for a little bit, or something. And pretend I'm not here."
Patrick laughs a bit, nervously. "Right."
"Yeah, alright," Pete says, clearing his throat a little, and turning his head to look at Patrick. "Give us a topic, Trick."
"Why do I have to pick a topic?" Patrick turns to meet Pete's gaze, and the shutter snaps on Jon's camera, and Patrick looks over warily, then back again.
"Because," Pete grins, "you're way smarter than me. Go."
"I am not – " Patrick argues, pausing at more shutter sounds, but resisting the urge to glance over again. "I'm not smarter than you, that's a lie."
"That's a very limited topic," Pete replies. "Considering it's, like, fundamentally untrue, the end."
"You are utterly exasperating, you know," Patrick states, but he grins, and Pete grins back, and Jon's camera clicks away.
"We could probably talk about that for awhile," Pete says, his eyes flashing with amusement.
"Shut up," Patrick replies, close to laughing.
Pete stares at him for a moment, smiling big. "Make me."
"You're such an ass," Patrick says, but he leans in anyway, impulsive, the hesitancy of earlier all but disappeared as his lips meet Pete's.
Patrick's eyes drift shut and he's only vaguely aware of the rapid click-fire of Jon's camera, and the soft shuffle of feet on carpet as Jon moves to get a different angle. Pete's mouth opens slightly and the kiss deepens, and Pete's hand is on his face again and their tongues slide together, the friction of contact electrically thrilling.
He moves to pull back but Pete chases him, maintaining the kiss, humming into Patrick's mouth. The snap-snap-snap of Jon's camera becomes a metronome for the pace of Patrick's pulse, and he twists away when he runs out of air, gasping quietly.
"God," Pete whispers desperately, his mouth still smashed against Patrick's skin, right at his jaw line.
He trails kisses down the side of Patrick's neck, shifting closer, hands sliding around Patrick's waist.
"Pete," Patrick whispers, and it comes out lacking the intent he was striving for, sounding utterly wanton instead, and Jon's camera clicks on steadily.
Pete doesn't wait for Patrick to continue, just captures his mouth again in another kiss, more insistent and frantic than before. His hands trail across everywhere he can reach, up Patrick's sides, across his back, down the tops of his thighs, and Patrick clenches Pete's knee, the angle a bit awkward still, sitting side by side on the edge of the bed.
Pete pulls away, lining his mouth up with Patrick's ear, pulling his earlobe in quick between slick lips.
"You're gorgeous," Pete breathes, not even a whisper, and Patrick barely deciphers it over the thunderous roar of his heartbeat.
He intends to respond, or to stop finally, because he agreed to only one photo and there's been like, dozens already. But when he lifts his eyelids halfway and Pete's teeth scrape against the sensitive skin where Patrick's heartbeat hammers at his neck, the click of Jon's camera (so close, right there capturing every detail) sends a spike of desire through him, his cock pulsing hard. Patrick grabs a handful of Pete's shirt, just below the collar, and tugs and turns his head to find Pete's mouth again with his own.
Pete makes a muffled little sound as Patrick reclines, moving back onto the bed, pulling at Pete's shirt, making every effort to keep their mouths sealed together. The pace of the camera clicking falters for a second, and Patrick keeps his eyes closed but he can sense Jon's movement, shifting closer, and then the snap of the shutter resumes in earnest.
Pete's body is a warm, familiar weight on Patrick, and he's just as hard, whimpering deliriously at the friction of their hips as they align and slide together.
"Off," Patrick mutters breathlessly, pushing up on Pete's shirt, fingers trailing across his ribs.
Without pausing, Pete lifts up slightly, tugging the shirt up over his head and slipping out of it, not bothering to deal with the buttons. He lingers for a moment above Patrick, and Patrick's eyes follow the trail of his fingers across Pete's collarbone, down his chest, and back up his arm, the contrast of skin and ink even more vivid in the way the room is flooded with light. Pete's eyes flutter closed at Patrick's touch, his breathing going shallower, quicker, punctuated by the constant click of Jon's camera.
Pete looks over toward Jon, a grin playing on his lips, and then lowers his body to Patrick's again, gently removing Patrick's glasses and setting them aside.
"You okay?" Pete asks softly, near enough that all Patrick can really see are his eyes, their depth and brightness, the flecks of gold in his otherwise dark irises.
Jon's camera clicks once more, and then stops, the room going silent.
Patrick nods, and Pete's gaze holds steady, searching Patrick's own.
"Yeah?" Pete whispers.
"Yeah," Patrick whispers in agreement, confident.
Pete's eyes flicker with intent, then drift shut, and as his lips meet Patrick's again, the camera shutter goes off like fireworks.
He doesn't even try taking off Patrick's shirt, just pushes it up enough to unfasten his jeans, efficient in the slide of leather through the buckle and the pop of the button, palming Patrick's cock before tugging at the zip. Patrick groans softly, tilting his hips, allowing Pete's hand to slip beneath the denim, into the cotton of his boxers. Above Patrick's shoulder the bed dips suddenly, and he turns his head up to see Jon settling over them, his lips parted in concentration, black and silver camera covering his face, poised to continue shooting.
"Hey," Pete mutters, teeth capturing Patrick's lower lip, reclaiming his attention. "Us only," he whispers, insistent, as his rough fingertips trace the length of Patrick's cock.
Patrick whimpers shamelessly, rewarded with the fold of Pete's hand around him, stroking slowly up and down and thumbing the head and drawing out a deep shudder.
"I wanna fuck you," Pete declares, and Patrick's heart nearly stops, and Jon's camera certainly does, momentarily anyway. "Can I fuck you?" Pete asks, his hand moving a bit faster around Patrick.
Jon exhales raggedly, and Patrick looks up at him again, and the shutter clicks and it makes Patrick's dick jump in Pete's grasp.
"Hey," Pete insists, squeezing hard, waiting on an answer.
"Yes, fuck," Patrick replies, his voice straining with need. "Please."
Patrick's jeans and boxers slide off effortlessly, and Pete wastes no time maneuvering out of his own pants, and the entire time Jon snaps away with his camera, trying to disguise his own shallow breathing. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Patrick's little voice of reason nags at him slightly, about all of this being maybe a supremely bad idea. But by the time Pete nudges his thighs apart and his knees up and swirls the first slick finger into his entrance, eyes locked with Patrick's, that little voice is silenced entirely.
Though Pete does his best to make Patrick forget about the photography, it's the steady clicking and the slight shift of Jon's movement, the mattress sinking around them that makes Patrick go weightless, pliant and desperate. He moans louder at Pete's touch, and even without his glasses he knows there will be pictures later where his gaze is meeting the camera dead on.
When Pete finally slips inside him, he moves excruciatingly slowly, and Patrick can tell from the tension held in Pete's body, and the way his skin is already slick in certain places (like the base of his throat, the dip of his collarbone, and the small of his back) that this won't last very long. Pete trembles and squeezes his eyes shut, working up a rhythm, and the camera clicks away like a countdown.
Pete's hand folds firmly around Patrick's cock and pulls in time to their movement, and Patrick bites back a moan as Pete whimpers.
"Fuck," Pete stammers, and Patrick knows that precise intonation, the frustration of restraint in it, Pete's hips faltering slightly in their pattern. Jon appears over Pete's shoulder, biting his lip, flushed behind the shield of the camera lens.
Pete's hand slides faster around Patrick's cock, and Patrick ceases to be concerned with the noises he makes, but slams his eyes shut at the endless clicking. The lack of visual only makes it seem louder, the bright lights turning the insides of his eyelids red-to-violet, and Pete shifts slightly, leaning in closer.
"Look at me," he says, his voice low and throaty. "Patrick."
Patrick holds his breath and opens his eyes and it's all over, Pete's hand and thrusts syncopated, quick-fast and unrelenting and Patrick comes hard, unraveling in his release, pulling Pete right over after him.
When Patrick's sense of hearing returns (the rush of blood in his ears receding) he registers a final click from Jon's camera, somewhere over his left shoulder. Pete collapses with a soft sigh, his head landing on Patrick's chest, and the bed jostles a bit as Jon climbs off. Patrick watches as he crosses the room, disappearing into the hall, the adjacent bathroom door latching quickly shut.
"Oh man," Pete mutters, catching his breath. He's blissed out and playful, his voice buzzing against Patrick’s body. "Jon Walker is jerking off in our bathroom. Awesome."
Patrick flicks the rim of Pete's ear with his finger, because seriously.
"Do you think he'd let me take pictures?" Pete says, lifting his head slightly. "Also, ow, you hurt me."
"Yeah I did," Patrick replies sarcastically, and flicks Pete's ear again.
"Oww," Pete whines, but he's all grins.