So yeah, Pete and Patrick were fucking.
And it wasn't a big thing, which was really kind of a weird thing, itself. But one minute Pete was poking Patrick and saying “Hey, hey, it's Saint Patty's Day and I'm Irish” and the next he was climbing into Patrick's lap, and Patrick kissed him like he had a few times before, except this time Pete's mouth was soft and open and they were alone, and somehow Patrick wound up fucking Pete in their shitty van in the middle of Idaho.
“Which is awesome,” Pete mumbled against Patrick's neck when they were finished, warm and sticky and dead fucking tired, “because you're legal here.”
Patrick was sixteen.
Joe and Andy didn't seem to really care. Well, Joe high-fived him and said “Nice one, man,” and Patrick wondered, not for the first time, exactly how Joe had convinced Pete Wentz from Racetraitor to start a band with him. Andy, though, just gave him thumbs up.
Sex with guys, it turned out, was just as addictive as sex with girls. They fucked in Kentucky, West Virginia, Ohio, giggling and acting as goofy as two horny teenagers instead of just one. They skipped a day when they overnighted in Tennessee; Pete pulled him close and said, “Let's cuddle,” and that was an offer Patrick was pretty much never going to turn down.
It got weird when they were driving, though. They finally got into Illinois, 3 AM and Joe was sleeping next to Andy while Pete played with Patrick's hair in the very back of the van. The seats made them almost invisible to Andy, so Patrick grinned and reached for Pete's crotch.
Pete froze. “Patrick, no.”
“Come on, man,” Patrick whispered, rolling his eyes, “I know it takes you forever to get hard when you're tired. And you know I don't care.”
“It's not that,” Pete said, voice strained. “It's really not—Patrick. Patrick, we're in Illinois and you're sixteen.”
“You handcuffed me and spent half the night making me beg you to fuck me yesterday. It's a little late to be having a crisis of conscience.”
Pete rolled his eyes. “Right, because I could give you up so easily. The age of consent in Illinois is seventeen.”
Patrick stared.
“Jeanae's parents threatened to get me for statutory,” Pete said defensively, “and I like your mom.”
Patrick stared.
“We'll be in Michigan tomorrow,” Pete said. “It's 16 there.”
Would his eyes stick this way? Patrick thought he might be about to find out.
Pete sighed. “The band is important. You're important. I don't want to fuck this up because of weird laws.”
“You peed on a biker last night,” Patrick said.
“But that wasn't sexy.”
Patrick didn't mention how much he liked seeing Pete fight.
“What about when we stop touring?” Patrick said. “Are we going to, what, just not fuck?”
Pete looked shifty.
“...shit,” Patrick said.
Illinois wasn't that bad, at first. They got there a few hours before the gig, and the four of them spent it fucking around at Chuck E Cheese's. Pete kept winning tickets and giving them out to the most pathetic-looking kids, which was annoying because it made Patrick think thoughts about his hot generous boyfriend that, if the world wasn't a cold and cruel place, would lead to lots of sex.
He finally wound up jerking off in a bathroom and, when he came out, pointedly ignoring the way Pete stared at his ass. It was incredibly annoying in a Wentzian way, but not some kind of unbearable tragedy.
Then came the show.
Pete played. Pete fucking played and he messed with Andy and twirled with Joe and kissed Patrick's neck. Patrick wasn't massively egotistical. He wasn't even as in love with attention as Pete. But the crowd screamed and Patrick was achingly, blindingly hard.
He wanted to kill Pete. Or fuck him. Or both, God, wrap his hands around Pete's neck and squeeze until Pete was gasping, begging him—on his knees, red and wide-eyed and Patrick would say no, would make him wait—
The show ended; he didn't come in his pants. But he ran to the bathroom as soon as they got backstage, moaning too loudly and not caring who heard, spilling into his hand, wishing desperately that it could be Pete's mouth instead.
“Patrick?”
Before Patrick had the chance to tell him to fuck off, Pete stuck his head over the top of the bathroom stall. “Did you puke, 'cause I'm not...”
Patrick didn't bother letting go of his dick, instead just wiping the head, still gasping. Pete's eyes followed every movement.
“What the fuck?” he said. “That's cheating!”
Maybe it was, but Pete's face was bright red, his breathing short: Patrick had an edge. “Didn't know it was a game,” he said, licking his lips slowly.
“You fucking—if you drown in the toilet or something, I'm not saving you,” Pete said, and his face disappeared. Patrick expected him to leave, but he heard the heavy thump of Pete's body against the stall, and then a long, loud moan.
Shit. Shit.
“Patrick,” Pete said in the same breathy voice Patrick had memorized from so many nights in the van, “Patrick, you have no idea.”
He'd like to have one, and he was about to tell Pete exactly that, but Pete groaned, the sound of hands moving frantically against skin making Patrick sweat. And he knew that sound, too, the keening noise Pete made when he came.
He wanted to make fun of Pete, but Pete would just make jokes about pots and kettles for weeks. Instead he said, “Your rules are fucking stupid.”
“It's all in the name or survival,” Pete said. Patrick heard him zip up his pants. “Conjugal visits just wouldn't cut it.”
“My mom wouldn't have you sent to jail, freak.”
“I only take risks when it's not my heart on the line,” Pete said lightly.
“Liar,” Patrick said.
“Whatever.” The slide-clank of an unlocking door. “You got off, didn't you?”
That wasn't the point. Pete's tone said he knew it, but the asking meant he needed to hear it anyway. “Not like I would have with you.”
“Next state, maybe,” Pete said, and left the bathroom.
Patrick kicked the side of the stall, telling himself sternly that murder was illegal in all states, and counterproductive anyway.
