kalpurna

Aaaand some more. I don't even know. 1300 words of Pete/Patrick drunken kissing, unbetaed again, for ficbyzee's prompt, set at Pete's bar on Patrick's birthday.

Extra-special RPS disclaimer: Pete Wentz, click your back button right the fuck now, I'm not kidding.

Throw Caution to the Wind


Patrick never drinks – except, apparently, on his birthday. It's pretty entertaining, at first. Patrick drunk is just kind of open, and loose-limbed, draping himself over furniture like he owns the damn place, like it's his bar instead of Pete's. He's also friendly – really, really friendly. Friendly enough to actually make Bill Beckett look a little nervous for once, which is truly funny to watch: Patrick leaning in and William leaning back. But William's confusion is apparently only temporary, because after a few minutes he stops trying to defend his personal space at all, and slips neatly onto Patrick's lap, which is Pete's cue to come over and prevent a potential disaster before it happens. It's an unusual role for him, playing Cam to Patrick's Ferris, and he's enjoying the novelty.

By the time he navigates through the crowd, William and Patrick are actually making out, Patrick's hand slipping up inside the back of William's white shirt. Wow, is Patrick ever going to regret this in the morning. At least there's no one but friends in the bar tonight, no reporters or fans. But even so, he's pretty sure Patrick will be bright red if he remembers any of this. He's looking forward to it so much.

"Whoa, Bill, let the man breathe," he laughs. "There's a time and a place, dude."

William pouts a little, but backs off gracefully enough when Pete gives him a pointed look, transferring his attentions to Travis, who looks gratified. Patrick gives up easily, too, although it's debatable how much of this is due to him actually having a clue what's going on. He moves over toward Pete, sliding up right against his body, lips flushed and shiny.

See, this is the hard thing about being in a band with Patrick Stump, if you consider yourself a make-out aficionado, which Pete definitely does (he's used the phrase, even): his fucking mouth. Patrick has a mouth that looks like it would be, god, amazing for kissing. Amazing for other things, too. And when you're in a band with him, you have to look at that damn mouth all the damn time, open wide and singing like an angel.

So Pete thinks he's been pretty fucking reserved, all things considered. He doesn't zone out staring at Patrick much anymore, even when he's singing, and that takes restraint. But none of that practice has fully prepared him for a pliant, intoxicated Patrick, leaning against him in a dimly-lit bar like he's trawling for a number. Patrick blinks up at him tipsily, with a silly smile on his face, and licks his lips.

"Nrrrargh," Pete says.

"Pete," croons Patrick. "Peter Wentz. Petey." He cuddles closer. "You're my best friend, Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz. Very best best best friend." Pete's emotions at this moment aren't very friendly, honestly.

"You've been, we've been friends for such a long time now. Years an' years," Patrick reflects, walking thoughtful fingers up over Pete's tattooed arm. "God, I wanted to fuck you when I was sixteen," he sighs. "Did you want to fuck me? I couldn't tell. Because you were always so, thingy. Petey. Flirting with eb - everybody."

Pete's brain had pretty much shut down at "sixteen," and he's still trying to pull together some sort of response when Patrick sticks his hand down his pants and bites his jaw. Apparently the conversation part of the evening is over.

"Oh my God," he wheezes. He's dimly aware that William and Travis and Gabe are staring at them, but he's very focused right now on where Patrick's hand is going, because Pete's pants are tight, but wow, drunken Patrick is persistent. Stop him, he tells himself, firmly. You do not want to inaugurate your new business venture by letting your best friend give you a handjob in front of all your other friends. No, really. Seriously. With a burst of willpower, he grabs Patrick's wrist and ignores the offended noise he makes.

"I'm going to just take him back to the hotel now, I think," Pete declares breathlessly. Gabe smirks at him.

"Okay," Travis says, agreeably. Too agreeably.

"He's drunk, he should, he needs to sleep it off."

"Yeah, okay. Sure," William nods, eyes wide. Pete narrows his eyes, glaring around the table, because this isn't like that. He's taking care of his friend; he's not going to take advantage of him, or anything. He's just making sure he gets safely back to the hotel.

Patrick licks his neck.

He's pretty sure his voice is an octave too high when he says goodbye to everyone, but clearly the situation is urgent, and he doesn't have time to correct any misunderstandings. Travis gives them a little wave goodbye, and William blows them a kiss.

In the cab, any restraint Patrick had been clinging on to seems to disappear, and he slides into Pete's lap before they've pulled away from the curb. Pete's hands clutch at Patrick's hips, and he leans defensively back into the seat.

"You're going to regret this in the morning," he protests, weakly. Patrick looks at him through his eyelashes.

"I bet I won't," he murmurs, and then he's slanting his soft perfect mouth over Pete's, hot and wet and boozy. His teeth catch on Pete's lip, and Pete opens his mouth helplessly. He loves kissing, there's no way he could be expected to resist this. Patrick has to understand that. He has to.

Oh, and it's just as good as he always knew it would be, Patrick, his lips and tongue and quick shivering breaths warm against his face. He could do this all day for a month and never get tired of it. His hands are full of Patrick, his mouth and senses all wrapped up in him, and there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

Time does a funny little jump, it feels like, the kind of gap that used to happen between June and September, because he can't have been kissing Patrick for longer than a minute when the cab pulls up in front of their hotel. He disentangles himself from Patrick's grip and tips the cabbie extravagantly, praying it'll prevent him from running to the tabloids, if he recognized them.

Getting from the cab to Patrick's room is... eventful, and they lose the hat along the way. Possibly in the elevator, where Pete has to fend Patrick off with dire predictions regarding security cameras. But finally they make it, and Patrick pulls Pete in after him, pushing him insistently toward the bed as the door clicks shut.

He sits down, and instantly gets another lapful of Patrick Martin Stump, drunk and uninhibited and obviously interested in more than kissing. But for once in his life, Pete wants to not screw up something important, and if Patrick doesn't want to kill him tomorrow, he's going to want their first time together to be something more than a drunken fuck. It's not worth it, not for one night. Pete wants more than one night.

So scooting back against the headboard, he captures Patrick's hands in his own and kisses him gently, soothingly, trying to bring both of them down from the peak they're riding. After a bit of struggling, Patrick settles down and collapses against him, warm and heavy. They kiss slowly, sweetly, for minutes or hours, until Patrick's head sinks into the pillow and he passes out with one leg flung over Pete's body.

He knows it's feeding the emo stereotype, that it's just what everyone would expect him to do, making dramatic confessions to a sleeping lover, and he doesn't care.

"Yeah, I did. Yes," he whispers, threading his fingers through the soft hair at the nape of Patrick's neck. "I wanted you when you were sixteen. I've always wanted you, Patrick. I'm going to want you tomorrow morning, and. For the rest of our lives, probably, so I really – hope you don't regret this when you wake up." Patrick makes a snuffling noise, and burrows into Pete's shoulder. Outside, it's starting to get light, dawn in New York, slanting in between the buildings and in through the gap in the hotel curtains.

As morning breaks over the city, Pete falls asleep.