Patricksitting (Call It A Love Song) (Peterick) [by adellyna]

Tuesday

Patrick wakes up to a dry mouth and a clock that says 3:18, complete with the mocking red dot that indicates AM. He closes his eyes and tries, for at least three hours, to go back to sleep. When he opens them again, the numbers glow 3:20. He tries to argue that this is impossible, but the clock is resolute. His mouth, even drier.

Stumbling out of bed is familiar. The silent trip down the hallway is as well. Skipping the squeaky eighth, third, and bottom steps is second nature by now, and Patrick even steps over where his dad's briefcase is usually leaning against the wall, even though there's nothing there tonight.

All of that, moving toward the kitchen without making a sound, trying not to wake his parents, is normal. Commonplace. Routine, even.

What's not routine is the gay porn stretched in wide-screen across the TV. Patrick freezes just outside the arch that leads into the living room and rubs his eyes, hard enough to see spots, but when he pries them open, there are still three guys fucking each other. In high definition.

No, wait, Patrick's wrong. Two guys fucking each other. The third appears to be doing something with his tongue in the vicinity of someone else's ass. Which is--well, it's something Patrick isn't really going to think about, not right now. They seem to be enjoying it, but he can't really tell, because the TV is muted. Three men, mouths open, rutting silently.

It's another long minute before he notices Pete on the couch.

Pete, on the couch, with his eyes shut, making little muffled noises, not even as loud as the slick sound of skin on skin, his wrist moving steadily, pumping hard and fast.

With his eyes shut, though. Patrick doesn't understand; why have 52 inches of gay porn, mute it, and then shut your eyes? He blinks, shifts his gaze to the TV again, and when he looks back at Pete, he notices for the first time that Pete's pressed his mouth against his forearm. It's an awkward angle, the way he has his elbow twisted up, arm held out to the side, but he's mouthing the patch of skin just above his tendons, his wrist bent far back so they stand out, raised up like a highway.

It's not until Pete licks his own skin and jerks his hand a little faster, erratic, moans "fuck," that Patrick realizes where Pete's mouth is. It's--unless he's mistaken, it's the same spot where Patrick bit him, like, hours ago. Pete moans again, stretches his mouth wide over his skin. His eyes are still scrunched shut.

Patrick's ears are hot, and his stomach is upside down, burning; he can't quite breathe, but he edges to the side, chances five silent steps until he can fully see Pete, with his jeans open and shoved down a little, fisting his dick. He pumps, twists, thumbs the head, and arches into it, moans again. Patrick can only hear the undertones of it, the lower, scratchy parts, but he sees the way Pete's lips pull away from his teeth when he does it and. God. Pete just looksdesperate, like he's trying to taste Patrick's mouth through his skin, through hours-old contact.

Out of the corner of his eye, Patrick can see pornstars coming on the screen - face shots and jerking off onto stomachs and into hair - but he can't take his eyes off the way Pete's chest is straining up, the frenzied stroke of his hand, the stream of single syllable words that all seem to end in "-ck," and then he freezes, hips off the cushion, and comes on his hand, pumping through it. From where he is, all Patrick sees isshiny. Shiny on Pete's knuckles and shiny dotting Pete's stomach where his shirt is pushed up, and shiny on the head of his cock when his hand slides down to the base.

It finally occurs to him that Pete's done, could have his eyes open, could be watching Patrick watch him, but when he jerks his eyes back to Pete's face it's still smooth, slack, closed eyes and open mouth, his head angled back. Patrick tries to remember every time he's ever jerked off, how long he left his eyes shut after. Or, fuck, just how long he's been standing here since Pete came.