Author's Note: Written as a prompt-request by Kassi: Pete spanking Patrick. There is a distinct lack of smut and I didn't follow the exact premise of the prompt but I hope it still works.
In about four or five years, Patrick will be fairly mellow and his phenomenal temper will be something to laugh over in interviews. They'll chuckle about that one time Patrick tried a jump-kick right in Pete's chest over something fairly trivial, like a guitar-pick.
Right now, though, Patrick is eighteen and he's just about the hugest bitch Pete has ever come across; and Pete has known a lot of bitches. He's one himself, but Patrick has him cold. Patrick's tantrums flare up out of nowhere; he seems to have a crazy meltdown over anything. For example:
Where's his hat? Nobody knows. Crazy meltdown.
Who touched his apple pie? It must have been Joe. Crazy meltdown.
But Pete, Pete seems to be the ultimate trigger. Pete could be standing there, his thumbs hooked in his belt-loops, talking to that tech-dude with the long pretty black hair and the eyeliner (with mascara! This is a cool dude) and he'll hear this banging and that's Patrick kicking at something, maybe the bass-drum or it could be an actual someone. Joe is tall enough and blasé enough to be a target.
Or that one time, oh God, that one time when Patrick was sixteen or so and they had been sitting on the carpet in the musty basement of Wentz house, backs resting on the sofa and eating fries at about one in the morning and Pete forgot, okay? He completely fucking forgot, but all he said was "Yow, Pat, it's too early to eat these fries," and Patrick clipped him a fast left jab under his ear, drummed his legs on the floor and snarled, "Oh fuck, I told you I hate it when people call me Pat!"
Pete thought, I'm going to kill this kid when he falls asleep.
Patrick did fall asleep, curled against Pete like five feet of adorable on the sofa and Pete ran a hand through the soft fall of hair and thought I'll kill him tomorrow after he sings. Jesus, what a bitch.
But today, today seems to be like Mount Vesuvius-Patrick. He's finding something to complain about in every corner; and when Patrick is in a bad mood, the whole world needs to suffer with him. Patrick is the sort of person who believes in extremes: all or nothing. Pete simply does not know where this current bad mood is coming from. It appears to have started right after Pete had been doing some meaningless flirting with a guy from another band they were touring with (and touring is applicable only in its most basic form here. God. Their bus is hot and not in a sexy way) and when he gets back to where they are waiting on him, Joe and Andy have stormy glares on their faces and Patrick is glaring right back at them...and winning.
Holy shit, no, Pete thinks and he may have said this out loud because all three of them swivel their heads to look at him. The furious looks that Joe and Andy wear immediately melt into disgruntled relief and Pete can practically read what they're thinking: Good. Pete is here to take up the slack.
But the dark expression on Patrick's face doesn't slide away at all and those full lips are pulled into a taut white line and Pete knows that the kid is angry over something but what? Someone, please, tell him what. He'll fix it. He'll do anything to prevent the explosion but no one is saying a word when they climb into the tiny white bus and then Patrick sits in one of Andy's cupcakes.
"Okay," Patrick says coolly. "Yeah. Which motherfucker left this on the seat?"
"Leave my mother out of this," Andy says mildly, trying to start the engine. It always takes a few tries. "Sorry."
"Sorry?!" And Patrick throws the crushed brown remains of the cupcake at Andy. Even though Andy ducks, the cupcake still leaves a crumbly mass in his dark hair and Pete realizes that it looks a lot like the shit that is currently hitting the fan; because Andy is the most easygoing person on the planet until he tries to murder you. "Why the fuck did you leave them there? Are you stupid? These were my last fucking pair of jeans, asshole!"
Patrick is yelling more but Pete is busy trying to prevent Andy from climbing over the seat and Joe is helping. Patrick, that little fiery shit, is coming forward like a fighting pit-bull, ready and rearing to go and it's all these legs and arms and someone is pulling on his hair (it might have been Joe, who can be opportunistic) and he manages to tumble them all out of the bus and shoves Patrick to one side and gets Joe to hold onto Andy. The night is crisply cool and Andy is spitting out something hot about he can be cool sometimes but fuck he is a pain and Pete decides that no one is driving anywhere now. They're going to stay at the shabby motel they were in last night, and it's going to be a little stretch on Joe's dad's credit card but he'll have to put Andy in one room with Joe and stay in another with the Tiny Dragon.
Of course, he has to say something, because Andy demands it. Patrick is slamming the bathroom door as he comes out of it, dressed for bed and Pete grabs onto his arm and shakes him a little and shouts a little more.
"What the fuck is your problem?"
He sees something like hurt flare up in Patrick's eyes and then scornful anger barrels up over it, so he's not too sure. Patrick snatches his arm away and shoves him and Pete knows in that very same second that as much as he thinks this kid walks on sunshine, he could cheerfully throttle him right now. Then something filters into his mind, something he once heard his mother say to his father: I love you, but right now I don't like you at all.
Suddenly, Pete knows exactly how she feels.
"You can't be throwing stuff like that at Andy," he says lamely and Patrick scoffs.
"It's his fucking fault. Now I have to probably go around in my fucking underwear," Patrick says, his voice wrapped in a scowl and Pete runs both hands through his hair, he's that exasperated.
"I don't understand," Pete mutters, more to himself that to Patrick and Patrick shoves past him on his way back to the bathroom, so hard that Pete staggers back.
"You never do," Patrick snarls and pushes him roughly once again; that is really, really just about enough. He grabs onto Patrick and pulls him towards the bed and Patrick instantly struggles. In another four or five years, people with say that Patrick gains weight, which is true, he gets chunky and there will a layer of muscle underneath fat and he will win 95% of all tussles that he and Pete gets into. Right now though, Patrick is no match against a Pete who still finds time to play some soccer and he doesn't stand a chance when Pete sits on the edge of the bed and drags Patrick over his lap.
"What the-" Patrick starts and then thrashes even more when Pete braces a strong forearm in the middle of his back, presses down and smacks him on the ass with his other hand. "Fuck!"
Pete says nothing. All his concentration is bent on holding down this person who is almost as tall (or as short) as he is and he is swinging his entire arm up and down, his palm stinging, the air around them filled with Patrick's curses and the steady, slightly muffled sound of Pete's hand against Patrick's boxers. Patrick is writhing and kicking and promising all sorts of doom when he gets up, but Pete hangs on and keeps at it. He can imagine how the fair skin is blooming red with every contact and his palm feels like it is on fire, but his mother never called him persistent for nothing.
He senses the exact moment when Patrick gives up, because his body becomes limp in Pete's lap and Pete gives him three more for good measure and then checks his hand in the air. Patrick's whole body is shuddering and Pete realizes he's sobbing into the white sheets of the double bed, his fists curled into the material; Pete raises the other hand so that Patrick rolls off him and tumbles to the floor. He feels something wet on his own cheek and it's a couple fucking tears that are rolling down; it's only now that he notices the prickling feeling in his eyes and the lump in his throat.
Patrick is sprawled on the floor, staring at him and breathing hard, his face blotchy and lips red; Pete thinks he looks like someone who's been fucked thoroughly instead of a kid who just got a very strange spanking. Pete covers his face with his hands and groans at the muttering ache in his right shoulder. It will be so sore tomorrow.
"I don't know why I did that," he mutters, flopping back onto the bed and wondering what Patrick will do as retribution. "But I know you deserved it. I hope it hurt you more than it hurt me, because it hurt. And I'm not talking just physically."
There is a long silence and then he hears Patrick shifting slowly. There are a couple of clicks and the sheet is pulled at; the bed dips and Pete moves his hands to see that Patrick has switched off the overhead bulb and turned on the dim light of the bedside lamp; he is now a solid lump under the sheets but as Pete pulls off his t-shirt, he realizes that a fine tremor is still running through Patrick's body. He hesitates and then climbs into bed, spooning gently around Patrick. The kid tries to move away but Pete rests a hand on his hip and stops him.
"Don't do that again." Patrick's voice is dull. "Don't you ever do that again to me."
"Don't give me a reason to," Pete threatens. "You think I wanted to do that? I told you it hurt to do it."
There is another silence and then Patrick speaks again, in a voice so small that Pete moves closer to him on instinct.
"You hurt me. I don't go around punishing you like a five-year-old."
"I don't--" Pete tries and then clears his throat. "I don't do that. Not on purpose."
"But you do. All the time. I want to hurt you and I can't get to you to do it."
"You hurt me when you make me want to hate you," Pete whispers against the soft skin of Patrick's neck. He presses fully against Patrick, who winces and Pete pulls back; but Patrick relaxes against him in increments and then they're touching all the way down, Patrick's bare shoulder-blades resting on the plane of Pete's chest, Patrick's back pressing into Pete's stomach, Patrick's ass now comfortable in the cradle of Pete's groin, legs sandwiched together, cool breath, hot skin and this is the way they sleep sometimes and Pete has a feeling that this is the only way he will ever be content.
He pets Patrick's hip and sighs. Patrick exhales shakily in response.
"I don't want you to hate me. I want..."
"I want..." Pete echoes and presses a brave kiss against Patrick's neck, a promise of his lips and Patrick takes that promise and keeps it in the way he arches his neck and moans a little. "Oh. I don't think you know what I want."
He wants another kiss but he's so exhausted and he's falling asleep and in about a year or so he will get all the kisses he wants and more; but for now, his hand on Patrick's hip and Patrick's fingers laced with his are enough.
"Now I think I do," Pete hears Patrick say sleepily.
Andy is peering at Patrick through the rearview mirror and he's driving carefully but the road they're on is bumpy and Patrick is practically turned sideways and sitting on his thigh, wearing a loose pair of track-pants that Pete had dug out of his duffle-bag.
"Um. Patrick," Andy says and Pete is pretty much elated that Andy agreed to be a part of this weird troupe because he doesn't know anyone else who is as willing to forgive his friends. "Hi. Are you alright?"
"What? Oh. Hi. Yeah." Patrick sneaks his hand into Pete's and Pete squeezes. "I'll be okay."