Summary: Two boys, one cold basement mattress.
Rating: NC-17, 1900 words.
Author's Note: My best friend wanted Pete/Patrick wank!fic, and how could I say no? This is set early days, and the song referenced at the end is “Third Engine” by Saves the Day.
Patrick is in the last throes of fleeting consciousness, drifting through that fuzzy, grey area between awake and asleep, when Pete shifts and turns yet again on the impossibly small mattress they’re sharing. Patrick blinks a couple of times and inhales deeply, hoping that the loud exhale conveys even a fraction of his annoyance.
“Patrick?” Pete breathes.
Patrick stays still, curled on his side with his knees bent slightly, and evens his breathing. He holds his eyes shut too, even though he’s turned toward the wall and Pete can’t see his face.
He’s not going to answer. He has to drive tomorrow, and he needs some fucking sleep.
Pete doesn’t say anything else, thank Christ. Patrick shouldn’t be so annoyed, really; after all, they could be out in the van with Joe and Andy, instead of here in this basement on the thinnest mattress known to man (and Patrick swears he can feel the cold curling up from the cement floor beneath them, like relentless icy fingers), buried together under a scratchy blanket. Their hospitality for the evening is so kindly and generously provided by the cousin of a roommate (or was it the other way around?) of a kid who came to the show; her name is Samantha, or Amanda, Patrick didn’t quite catch it. She’s pretty though, with wide green eyes and numerous facial piercings, and Pete followed her around like a puppy after they were introduced, grinning like the idiot he is, blatant with his agenda. Yet he still seemed slightly bewildered when, after she offered the accommodation and they drove back here, he was in no uncertain terms politely relegated to the basement, while Samanth-amanda went to bed. With her girlfriend.
Patrick couldn’t muster the energy to even comment on the matter, just turned over silently as Pete pushed his jeans off and slid under the blanket.
Now he’s nearly asleep again, the insistent weight of fatigue winning out over the discomfort of the cold and the lack of space, when the blanket twitches slightly, barely perceptible. Pete has settled on his back behind him on the mattress, but his body is pressed against Patrick’s somewhat; the faint brush of his leg and hip, his arm and shoulder flush against Patrick’s back. They’re sharing a pillow, too, Patrick’s cheek claiming the lower corner of his half. The blanket randomly twitches again, a couple of times.
Pete’s a restless bastard who has trouble sleeping, this isn’t new, and generally on most days Patrick can be sympathetic. But he seriously doesn’t need to fidget so goddamn much when there’s blatantly no room for it. Patrick is about to comment along these lines when a tiny little sound escapes from Pete’s mouth, a warm, pleasured noise, almost a sigh, and the twitching of the blanket falls into a pattern. Suddenly in Patrick’s weary brain, it all clicks, sharp as the snap of a guitar string.
The realization that Pete is, in fact, masturbating right next to him (the inconsiderate, shameless bastard) causes instant and utter chaos to run rampant throughout Patrick’s body. His eyes fly open and his heart rate immediately soars, and before he can even think about what to say in protest, he’s half-hard in his track pants, keenly aware of the places their bodies are touching, and holding his breath, afraid of making a sound.
For a long minute, Patrick is stunned, immobile in his disbelief.
Then he closes his eyes again, even though it’s dark, because he can listen better that way, to distinguish the increasing shallowness of Pete’s breathing, the soft rustle of movement against the covers. He also ignores the insistent protest of his rational mind, the part that screams at him to speak up, to tell Pete to knock it the fuck off already, or to at least cough and pretend to wake up. He briefly considers being dramatic about it, throwing off the blanket, climbing over Pete and storming out to the van. But he can’t, because all he can think about is what Pete must look like, stretched out on this ratty mattress, his underwear pushed down over the rise of his slender hips, his fist wrapped tight around his cock, pulling in quick, stifled little movements.
Oh god. This is sick.
Patrick’s so hard it hurts, and his nearest hand – attached to the arm he’s laying on – is a good six inches from his dick, with two layers of fabric inbetween. He bends that arm slightly, then pauses, waiting for a reaction, but nothing happens; Pete just keeps going, breathing through his nose in a short, quiet rhythm. He hums softly, swallowing a moan, and Patrick bites hard on his own lower lip not to moan in return.
It doesn’t take all that much effort for Patrick to slip his hand inside his waistband, but the restraint of moving so slowly has him squeezing his eyes shut, seeing stars when his fingers finally make contact. It’s almost too much, the warm curl of his hand around his dick, the hesitation to test how much he can move and remain undetected, the slow circle of his thumb over the head, smearing at the drop of pre-come.
He dares a slight couple of strokes, concentrating on moving only his wrist, careful not to let his hips shift at all. There’s no apparent pause in Pete’s efforts; in fact, he’s only breathing harder, Patrick is sure of it. The in-and-out rushes of air provoke his imagination and he thinks of Pete’s mouth, parted and wanton as his face contorts in pleasure, and in Patrick’s mind now, it’s Pete’s dick in his own hand; Pete’s hand on Patrick.
He barely moves his wrist at all, stuttered little motions, but he’s so worked up he knows he can come soon just from this, from listening to Pete, and feeling him move like a steady hum all around him. Pete whines, breathy and high in his throat, and he shudders slightly against Patrick’s back. Patrick’s cock jumps, and he’s seriously in danger of biting right through his lip soon, holding back his own noises.
Pete’s body tenses, his legs stretching and shifting the blanket slightly, and for the first time Patrick considers the possibility that Pete will finish and Patrick won’t be able to, not without it being obvious what he’s doing. He lets his mouth fall open, taking in more air, careful to stay quieter as he speeds the back and forth of his wrist. He wonders fleetingly what Pete is thinking about – if the proximity of Patrick’s body does anything for him, the way the press of Pete against his back is sending Patrick reeling with every stroke.
Pete’s breath hitches, twice in quick succession, and his movements go erratic, and Patrick’s heart skips in desperation. He tugs frantically at his cock and exhales, long and ragged, the warm, familiar pull of climax pooling low in his abdomen, and he thinks he can do this, he’s going to do this, he’s going to come – they’re going to come so quietly, together, when Pete goes suddenly and completely still and silent.
Patrick freezes instantly, derailed and gripped with panic. Oh god, no. No, no, please, no.
He opens his eyes, then shuts them, and focuses on his breathing, in slowly, out even slower. His heart thunders so loud he’s certain that it alone will give him away, and his dick aches hard in the grasp of his hand, so close, fuck, and if Pete says anything, anything right now, Patrick thinks he might cry.
Pete swallows, breathing out slow, and in deeply, and back out again, measured and careful. Patrick blushes fiercely, heat flaring in his face and his neck, and he can feel Pete’s body, still tense against him, and oh god. It feels like an eternity, like purgatory with nobody praying, like Patrick will be stuck here on this shitty mattress in some random basement with his hand in his pants, unable to come, forever.
Then slowly, slowly Pete starts to move again, so slight that Patrick can’t be certain that it’s happening at first, and even when he’s sure he doesn’t do anything but blink a couple of times. He shouldn’t, he knows, dare to try it again, but he can still feel Pete pressed right up against him, thrumming with need in the way he stretches and oh god, yes, writhes, and Patrick can see it so clearly, the tension held in all of Pete’s muscles (his thighs, and stomach, and swell of his bicep as he jerks himself off) and fuck, even if Patrick was sleeping he wouldn’t be for long, not with this.
His hand squeezes tight to his dick and his wrist pulses quick, progressing to full strokes before he realizes he’s doing it, sending a soaring thrill of pleasure through him. Pete doesn’t even seem to stifle his breathing anymore, every second or third exhale emerging as a soft moan, the noises landing right at the center of Patrick’s twisted-up ache, causing him to shudder, his throat going tight.
When Pete comes, it’s with a pause in his breath and a rough little grunt, possibly the sexiest thing Patrick has ever heard. Pete pushes his hips up off the mattress, whining as he finishes, and Patrick cannot help but whimper, thrusting into his own hand and breathing hard. Somewhere in his mind, as he trembles and tenses, hurryhurryhurry in his thoughts until he’s spurting onto his fingers and riding out his climax, he knows that Pete knows – has to know, there’s no possible way he just missed that. Patrick pulls his hand out and, fuck it, wipes it on the blanket, trying to regain control of his breathing.
He waits, expecting Pete to say something, to poke him or tease him or open the floodgates for Patrick’s regret in a matter of a comment. But the words never come, there’s just the steady pattern of breathing, Pete’s and his own in the dark.
Patrick’s not so sure he can sleep now, even though it’s usually easier after that; his mind skitters over possibilities, skirts around the edges of worry. He blinks, his eyelashes brushing audibly on his fraction of the pillow, and feels the cold start to creep in again, ghosting over his skin. When the silence settles, Pete turns and curls around him, his arm sliding tentative around Patrick’s middle, nose brushing soft at the back of Patrick’s neck. Pete exhales slowly, the warm shiver rolling down Patrick’s spine, lulling his eyes softly shut.
A few too-short hours later, while Patrick rubs at his weak eyelids and yawns again, speeding along the highway, Pete spends a good fifteen minutes rummaging around on the floor of the van through stacks of CDs. Finally he picks one, and pushes repeatedly at the stereo console to get the track he wants, and Patrick doesn’t even ask, just conserves his precious energy and waits to see if he has to argue this early in the stupid morning.
Pete leans back a bit in his seat, turning his head to the window, and Patrick glances over at his reflection. He’s smiling secretly and mouthing along to the song, the sky grows bigger every day, and by the chorus, did you know my sweet, Patrick can’t help but sing - I rolled over and over, trying to touch your knees…