oxygen_4_losers (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} oxygen_losers) wrote,@ 2007-03-19 13:19:00 |
|
Title: Point Me To The Sky Above (I Can't Get There On My Own)
Author: oxygen_losers
Rating: R
Pairing: Patrick/Pete/youngerPete
Summary: Based off 'The Time Traveler's Wife.' Because knowing the future never really does anyone any good. And in the end, it's just about love.
The first time Patrick meets both of them—and my God, my God, both of them--the only thing he can think is that yes, this explains a lot about Pete.
Not everything. It doesn’t explain why he thinks jumping off buildings is a good idea, or why he hasn’t slashed Chris’s tires yet or why he’ll eat the most godawful things on a dare but refuses to even try anything Andy cooks.
But the pill bottles and the sleepless nights and the way sometimes he seems a little more crazy then he does sane, Patrick thinks this maybe explains those.
“Patrick.”
The problem is, though, that out of the two of them, Patrick only recognizes one, the one on the left, that’s the Pete that he knows. Tattoos and scars and those faint little laugh-lines at the corners of his eyes that mean he should be well past calling himself ‘kid’ and Jesus Christ, who is the other one?
“Patrick.”
Because he’s got the same face, doesn’t he, and Patrick knows that expression, he’s been memorizing it since he was sixteen—shocked and paralyzed and maybe a bit embarrassed, like that time on Warped Tour with the broken bathroom lock and Mikey Way—but it’s the body he doesn’t know.
It’s skinny in all the wrong places, awkward-skinny, like this kid’s not even out of high school, skinny like Ryan Ross. And the skin’s darker than he’s used to—except Pete used to look like that, didn’t he, back before he became nocturnal—and there’s no tattoos at all, not even the one low between his hips that Patrick saw before he ever saw Pete’s face.
And the kid’s hair is off too, short and spiky and sticking up at all the wrong angles and Patrick wants to write the boy off as a fan—and God, how fucked up is this that he’s hoping Pete into pedophilia—but there’s something too familiar about this for that to be true.
“What’s going on?” And how can Pete explain this away, really, the fact that he’s naked, all smooth skin and muscle against his tiny little reflection?
Pete just smiles, not a camera-smile but his awkward ‘I-don’t-know-what-else-to-do-with-my-fa
The boy grins, a half-cocked assholey sort of grin fans are going to love in his future, nudges Pete and mumbles something a lot like, “He’s cute,” and Patrick wants to scream or maybe just crawl into his bunk and sleep for the next, you know, ten years, because yeah.
That’s Pete.
``````````````
Pete tries to explain it but Patrick doesn’t listen partially because his brain just can’t handle more than one Pete and also maybe because oh my God, of all things to walk in on, oh my God.
Because okay, fine. He’s lived in way-the-fuck-too-close quarters with these guys for six years, right? He’s heard them jerk off, he’s heard them fuck, he’s heard them in pretty much every state of mental breakdown, but he just walked in on his best friend fucking a fifteen-year-old version of himself and the best part is that Pete really doesn’t seem to understand why he’s so freaked out about that.
“It’s no different from jacking off,” is the way Pete tries to justify it and Patrick has. Had. It.
The boy-Pete, fuck, Patrick doesn’t even want to know where he went because it’s been three days and he hasn’t seen him and surely someone would have noticed a tiny clone of Pete walking around.
…actually, considering some of the people on this tour, maybe not.
Patrick slams the pan down in the sink and little bits of scrambled egg go flying but he doesn’t care because Pete’s all wide-eyed at the table—maybe actually seeing Patrick angry shirt-circuited his brain. “It is not like jacking off, you idiot,” he snaps and it’s the first thing he’s said to Pete in three days and Pete actually grimaces.
“Patrick, it’s just…I was fifteen, man, I was confused.”
“That explains him. What about you? You’re twenty-fucking-seven and you can’t be sleeping with fifteen-year-olds and—“ Wait. “And you know what, this isn’t even about the moral issues, it’s…how the hell can you do that?”
“I time-travel,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world and Patrick just stares.
“You time-travel. Since when?”
Pete shrugs and reaches for Patrick’s toast and Patrick, more out of habit than anything, slaps his hand away. Pete scowls. “Since I can remember. It doesn’t happen that much. It’s like…stress-related. Like epilepsy. It was worse when I was little.” Patrick’s not responding and Pete arches an eyebrow. “This wasn’t how I meant to tell you, but I guess it’s how I was supposed to.”
And wait, what?
Pete sighs and threads a hand through his hair. “Look, it’s…circular. The logic. Like, I’ve already been here, only as him.” He glances up at Patrick, hopeful. “I’ve met you before, back when I was fifteen. You and my twenty-seven-year-old self and…I mean fuck, man, didn’t you wonder how I knew your name before Joe introduced me? I knew we wound up here.”
Actually, this…this does make a lot of sense. Like how in the beginning Pete seemed to know everything about him, and it wasn’t like he ever said it outright, just. Little things, right, like automatically handing him root beer instead of asking what he wanted to drink, or never inquiring after his father, or buying him hats and oversize hoodies and never, never teasing him about his weight.
Patrick frowns. “This…is where you go when you’re gone?”
Pete nods. “It’s not long anymore. I’d disappear for days back when I was a kid. Drove my mom nuts, she never knew where I was.”
“You didn’t tell her?”
“Would you?”
He’s got a point.
Pete shrugs. “I knew you’d know eventually, I just thought…maybe you figured it out. Or something.” He shifts nervously and oh, oh no. Patrick knows that shift too well, there’s something Pete’s not telling him, and fuck.
“You don’t tell Andy? Or Joe?”
Pete laughs, short and sudden and sharp and Patrick was right, he’s hiding something. “I tried, man, and Joe sorta goes along with it. Andy, though, he wasn’t ever really—shit.”
Was. Andy wasn’t.
“How did it happen?” he says quietly and wants to ask when, wants to know if he can stop it, but it’s like he’s seen this movie before and he knows he won’t be able to.
“I can’t—“ Pete winces. “You don’t want to know things like that, Patrick.”
Except he does, he really does, he’s always hated Pete knowing more than him and oh God, Andy. “Just…is it soon?”
Pete shakes his head. “Ten years,” and Patrick can breathe again.
“You were there?” Pete nods abruptly and his eyes flick down and it’s all Patrick can do to move his arm and touch Pete’s hand because Pete’s breathing like he’s about to freak out, and didn’t he say it was stress-related? This day’s been so strange he’s not sure he can handle watching Pete disappear. Patrick bites his lip when Pete’s fingers curl around his, hesitant, and he wonders, not for the first time, if this is going to happen.
Except then Pete says in this tiny, tiny voice that doesn’t belong to him, “You’re going to love me,” and okay.
Okay.
`````````````````
The first time Patrick sees it happen, he just thanks God Pete made it offstage.
It’s not as showy as he was expecting, honestly, no flashes of light or sparkles or sounds of the time-space continuum being ripped apart, just Pete, sweaty and bright-eyed and panting like he always was after a show and now he’s clutching at Patrick’s arm, fevered, whispering, “Hold on to me, hold on, don’t let me—“
And then nothing, a pile of empty clothing where his best friend was and Patrick, standing there staring at the hoodie in his hands and, irrationally, irritated that there’s an empty pill bottle in the pocket because Pete promised he was cutting back.
No one notices, Patrick makes some bullshit excuse about Pete having one of his episodes again, and that’s enough to keep Joe and Andy and Dirty and all inquisitive friends away from the bus for a while.
Patrick sits on Pete’s bunk clutching that hoodie—just because it’s warm and his hands are freezing, not because it smells like Pete, no—and wondering when he’ll be back.
````````````
Pete shows up at about three in the morning—Joe’s snoring and Andy’s well past asleep, but Patrick’s been staring at the ceiling for hours—and Pete’s naked and bleeding and terrified and he’s not back for a full minute before he’s staggering towards the bathroom, and hey. That’s why he’s so skinny.
Patrick doesn’t know what to do because Pete’s the wide-eyed type of scared that means he’s probably going to do something stupid, so he tucks him into his own bunk and when Pete whimpers, Patrick climbs in with him.
“Don’t get used to this,” he says lightly, because he’s sort of accepted the fact that someday he’s going to find Pete’s quirks endearing instead of aggravating, but Pete doesn’t seem in the mood for jokes, just clings to Patrick and shakes like he does during thunderstorms, shakes like he did when Mikey dumped him, when Chris called him a slut, when Joe found him with a stolen bottle of Xanax–and Gerard needed to keep a better eye on his meds, the fucker–and a pint of Jack Daniels and he’s so scared, so scared, Patrick doesn’t know what to do.
“Was it that bad?” he whispers and Pete just cringes, buries himself further in Patrick’s embrace. “The...was it Andy?” he chances and Pete shakes his head furiously and Patrick’s never seen him quite like this, never.
“I love you,” is all he says and Patrick doesn’t push, just rubs his back and mumbles soothing little lies–because it’s not alright, and Pete’s not going to be okay–until his shaking stops and he’s fast asleep, curled against Patrick like a little boy.
```````````````
The first time Patrick meets a younger version of Pete, really meets him, Pete’s not there.
It’s just Patrick, alone on the bus with his headphones and a copy of Catcher in the Rye because he never had to read it in high school and it seems like everyone he knows can quote it by heart and he’s tired, kind of, nodding off over page 178 and then all of a sudden there’s a frightened, naked little thing about two feet in front of him, blushing madly and gaping at him.
“Hi, Petey,” Patrick says like it’s natural and he pushes pause, sets his book down and tries not to look threatening because this is the youngest he’s ever seen Pete, and he thinks maybe this is the first time.
“Hi,” he says and oh, his voice hasn’t even broken yet. Patrick can’t believe that Pete ever looked like this, that his face was ever this open, this innocent, except he’s got an enormous bruise over one hip and a day-old split lip and Pete never mentioned getting into fights when he was a kid. “Do you...clothes?”
Patrick offers him Pete’s closet and he actually wrinkles his nose at the girl’s jeans–which means maybe he was a normal boy at some point–and picks out a pair of shorts Pete only keeps around for impromptu soccer games and a nondescript brown T-shirt. And boxers, of course, the baggy kind that Pete only owns two pairs of.
Nothing bright, nothing mismatched, and he seems all too glad to be able to cover himself up. Dark colours, too, dark and earthy and nondescript and Patrick frowns–it’s weird, seeing this version because sure, he looks different, Patrick expected that. But he acts different, too, he doesn’t move right. His head’s slightly ducked, shoulders hunched forward like he’s expecting Patrick to attack, and those wide brown eyes only flick up to him when he thinks Patrick’s not looking.
Correction–he only stares at Patrick’s ass when he thinks Patrick’s not looking, and right, okay, this is Pete back when he was trying to be a normal little boy, back when he was trying so hard to think about girls and soccer and porn and normal things.
“I didn’t, like, come to terms with anything ‘til I was fifteen,” Pete had told him. “After...you know.” He doesn’t seem to want to say ‘after I fucked myself,’ but Patrick understood so he let it go.
And now, watching this Pete fiddle nervously with the hem of his borrowed shirt and stare at his feet, Patrick thinks that maybe it’s a good thing Pete’s the way he is. Because sure, it’s irritating sometimes, but this...this is just sad.
“You hungry?” he says because Pete always is afterwards and the boy nods.
It takes a peanut-butter-and-honey sandwich, a leftover drumstick from Joe’s KFC raid last night, a bagel nicked from Andy’s store and a bowl of Lucky Charms before Petey says anything and it’s just a tiny, mumbled, “You’re Patrick, right?”
“Yeah. How did you...?”
“I told me.” He blinks, looks confused. “I think.”
Pete hadn’t wanted to be here for this–“I’m too fucking gay,” he’d said with a smile, “and I was messed-up enough at fourteen without influencing myself.”
And Patrick had asked what exactly he meant by ‘messed up,’ but with the way Petey won’t meet his eyes, he thinks he kind of knows. “We’re friends,” Patrick says and Petey relaxes a little. “In the here and now. You’ve been my friend since I was sixteen.”
“I’m still alive,” Petey says like he doubted it and Patrick’s uneasy, he’s not sure what Pete was like as a kid, what exactly it was that has him choking down half a pharmacy just to get through the day now.
“Yeah,” Patrick says and Petey actually maybe looks a little disappointed, because he mutters a soft, “Oh,” and goes back to chasing a lone marshmallow through his bowl of milk.
“You, um,” Patrick says awkwardly. “You’re kind of limping. Want me to wrap that ankle...?”
“Can’t take it with me,” Petey mumbles. “Doesn’t really hurt anyways.”
“What happened?”
He shrugs. “Got in a fight,” and then his head snaps up, he looks startled and he whimpers, “Fuck, no, no,” and he’s gone.
``````````````````````
“What happened to you?” Patrick asks that night when his Pete, the twenty-seven-year-old version is curled around him, warm and solid and mostly stable.
“What?”
“You. The little you. He was all...bruised. Scared. What happened to–“ and Pete’s stiffening, rigid, like he doesn’t want to talk about this, so Patrick sighs. “You don’t have to tell me.”
Pete doesn’t say ‘thank you,’ doesn’t say anything at all, and Patrick thinks he’s fallen asleep until he whispers, “I got picked on a lot as a kid.”
“Why?” Patrick’s afraid to breathe, afraid if he makes too sudden a move he’ll frighten away Pete’s honestly, and Pete shudders against him, nuzzles at Patrick.
“Small. Weak-looking. Stared at boys too much, fuck, I don’t know.”
“You got beat up for...”
“I kissed a boy in third grade. Everything just kind of...snowballed after that.” He sighs, long and loud, with his whole body and Patrick wants to reach inside his chest and rip out that nasty, dark little place where he kept secrets like this hidden behind pretty metaphors and biting choruses.
“Were you ever...” and he can’t sat it, he can’t, but Pete understands because he chuckles, not like anything’s funny, wry and humourless and cold.
“I gave my fair share of blowjobs I wasn’t really all that into, but no. I was never raped.”
Patrick doesn’t know what to say so he just buries his face in Pete’s hair and mumbles, “Oh.”
`````````````````````
The second time he meets them both, Pete’s clothed and Peter–“I went by Peter in tenth grade, I was trying not to sound so damn faggy, ‘cause seriously, ‘Petey?’”– is very, very naked.
“Hi,” Patrick says awkwardly because yeah, it’s weird seeing his sort-of boyfriend with a smaller version of himself sitting on his lap, but it’s even weirder when that smaller version’s got his hand down the front of Pete’s jeans and is steadily, slowly, jacking him off. “I’ll just, um, leave you–“
“Don’t,” Pete moans, deep and throaty and Peter’s watching him with half-lidded eyes, lazy and catlike and Patrick wonders if his first time with Pete was the same as Pete’s first time with him. “Trick. Mmm, fuck, come here.”
He doesn’t think Pete has a singing kind of voice so much as he has a phone-sex kind of voice and Patrick’s never really been all that good at saying no to Pete. Either of them, not even when he got a visit from shy, scared little fourteen-year-old Petey who, blushing furiously, went up on tiptoe and kissed Patrick square on the mouth like he’d been practicing.
“Um,” is Patrick’s only contribution and fuck, the sex drive of fifteen-year-olds because his flat little stomach is already sticky but he curls into Patrick, biting at his throat and he’s...different than the Pete Patrick’s used to.
Except he’s there too, all rough, calloused hands and he knows Patrick’s body like he knows his own, but Peter’s just learning and Patrick can’t really say he minds when the clothes come off so much because there’s Pete, heavy and solid and familiar and then Peter, all quick, fleeting touches and lithe muscles tensing under his skin.
And Pete must be a good teacher because seriously, fifteen-year-olds should not know how to use their mouths like that.
“Relax,” Pete tells him and he does, half because it’s probably going to hurt less if he does and half because with Pete buried inside him and Peter’s hot, eager mouth on him he doesn’t think he so much wants to relax as he does melt.
``````````````````````````
The morning after’s only slightly awkward and Patrick’s glad they had the sense to do this in the privacy of Pete’s house and not on the tour bus because he really doesn’t feel like explaining this to anyone.
He wakes up happy, though, and warm, nestled between Pete’s muscled bulk and Peter’s long, thin little body all pressed up against his and he’s naked, which normally freaks him the fuck out, but there’s so many other things about this that should freak him out and just...don’t.
He doesn’t have the energy to question why, and when Pete blinks awake and Peter slides down between the sheets, licking and touching and biting at both of them until Pete’s gasping and clawing at Patrick’s back with his teeth sharp against Patrick’s collarbone...
Patrick doesn’t really want to question why.
`````````````````
The first time Patrick realizes there’s going to be an ending, he can’t understand why Pete didn’t tell him.
“I hate you,” is all he says and he doesn’t, oh, he doesn’t, he just can’t see Pete Like This, all small and sad and pale with his arms poked full of IV tubes and his eyes bruised dark.
“It’s not going to be for a long time,” Pete says and that doesn’t make that better, that doesn’t because those words mean there’s going to be a time and he can’t do this. Not now, he can’t go and...and die on Patrick, now that’s he’s finally gotten his head and his heart wrapped round his ‘I love you’s.
“How long?”
Pete shrugs. “We have a while.”
And a while’s not enough, not when that means hospital visits and chemo and tears and planning his own funeral and God, God, Patrick never thought it’d end like this.
“Will I see you again?” he asks and he doesn’t mean now, they have years now.
“I’ve seen you grow old,” is all Pete has to say and it’s not okay.
It never will be.
But it’s Pete and it’s love and for a while they’ll be happy–and that just has to be enough.
Author: oxygen_losers
Rating: R
Pairing: Patrick/Pete/youngerPete
Summary: Based off 'The Time Traveler's Wife.' Because knowing the future never really does anyone any good. And in the end, it's just about love.
The first time Patrick meets both of them—and my God, my God, both of them--the only thing he can think is that yes, this explains a lot about Pete.
Not everything. It doesn’t explain why he thinks jumping off buildings is a good idea, or why he hasn’t slashed Chris’s tires yet or why he’ll eat the most godawful things on a dare but refuses to even try anything Andy cooks.
But the pill bottles and the sleepless nights and the way sometimes he seems a little more crazy then he does sane, Patrick thinks this maybe explains those.
“Patrick.”
The problem is, though, that out of the two of them, Patrick only recognizes one, the one on the left, that’s the Pete that he knows. Tattoos and scars and those faint little laugh-lines at the corners of his eyes that mean he should be well past calling himself ‘kid’ and Jesus Christ, who is the other one?
“Patrick.”
Because he’s got the same face, doesn’t he, and Patrick knows that expression, he’s been memorizing it since he was sixteen—shocked and paralyzed and maybe a bit embarrassed, like that time on Warped Tour with the broken bathroom lock and Mikey Way—but it’s the body he doesn’t know.
It’s skinny in all the wrong places, awkward-skinny, like this kid’s not even out of high school, skinny like Ryan Ross. And the skin’s darker than he’s used to—except Pete used to look like that, didn’t he, back before he became nocturnal—and there’s no tattoos at all, not even the one low between his hips that Patrick saw before he ever saw Pete’s face.
And the kid’s hair is off too, short and spiky and sticking up at all the wrong angles and Patrick wants to write the boy off as a fan—and God, how fucked up is this that he’s hoping Pete into pedophilia—but there’s something too familiar about this for that to be true.
“What’s going on?” And how can Pete explain this away, really, the fact that he’s naked, all smooth skin and muscle against his tiny little reflection?
Pete just smiles, not a camera-smile but his awkward ‘I-don’t-know-what-else-to-do-with-my-fa
The boy grins, a half-cocked assholey sort of grin fans are going to love in his future, nudges Pete and mumbles something a lot like, “He’s cute,” and Patrick wants to scream or maybe just crawl into his bunk and sleep for the next, you know, ten years, because yeah.
That’s Pete.
``````````````
Pete tries to explain it but Patrick doesn’t listen partially because his brain just can’t handle more than one Pete and also maybe because oh my God, of all things to walk in on, oh my God.
Because okay, fine. He’s lived in way-the-fuck-too-close quarters with these guys for six years, right? He’s heard them jerk off, he’s heard them fuck, he’s heard them in pretty much every state of mental breakdown, but he just walked in on his best friend fucking a fifteen-year-old version of himself and the best part is that Pete really doesn’t seem to understand why he’s so freaked out about that.
“It’s no different from jacking off,” is the way Pete tries to justify it and Patrick has. Had. It.
The boy-Pete, fuck, Patrick doesn’t even want to know where he went because it’s been three days and he hasn’t seen him and surely someone would have noticed a tiny clone of Pete walking around.
…actually, considering some of the people on this tour, maybe not.
Patrick slams the pan down in the sink and little bits of scrambled egg go flying but he doesn’t care because Pete’s all wide-eyed at the table—maybe actually seeing Patrick angry shirt-circuited his brain. “It is not like jacking off, you idiot,” he snaps and it’s the first thing he’s said to Pete in three days and Pete actually grimaces.
“Patrick, it’s just…I was fifteen, man, I was confused.”
“That explains him. What about you? You’re twenty-fucking-seven and you can’t be sleeping with fifteen-year-olds and—“ Wait. “And you know what, this isn’t even about the moral issues, it’s…how the hell can you do that?”
“I time-travel,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world and Patrick just stares.
“You time-travel. Since when?”
Pete shrugs and reaches for Patrick’s toast and Patrick, more out of habit than anything, slaps his hand away. Pete scowls. “Since I can remember. It doesn’t happen that much. It’s like…stress-related. Like epilepsy. It was worse when I was little.” Patrick’s not responding and Pete arches an eyebrow. “This wasn’t how I meant to tell you, but I guess it’s how I was supposed to.”
And wait, what?
Pete sighs and threads a hand through his hair. “Look, it’s…circular. The logic. Like, I’ve already been here, only as him.” He glances up at Patrick, hopeful. “I’ve met you before, back when I was fifteen. You and my twenty-seven-year-old self and…I mean fuck, man, didn’t you wonder how I knew your name before Joe introduced me? I knew we wound up here.”
Actually, this…this does make a lot of sense. Like how in the beginning Pete seemed to know everything about him, and it wasn’t like he ever said it outright, just. Little things, right, like automatically handing him root beer instead of asking what he wanted to drink, or never inquiring after his father, or buying him hats and oversize hoodies and never, never teasing him about his weight.
Patrick frowns. “This…is where you go when you’re gone?”
Pete nods. “It’s not long anymore. I’d disappear for days back when I was a kid. Drove my mom nuts, she never knew where I was.”
“You didn’t tell her?”
“Would you?”
He’s got a point.
Pete shrugs. “I knew you’d know eventually, I just thought…maybe you figured it out. Or something.” He shifts nervously and oh, oh no. Patrick knows that shift too well, there’s something Pete’s not telling him, and fuck.
“You don’t tell Andy? Or Joe?”
Pete laughs, short and sudden and sharp and Patrick was right, he’s hiding something. “I tried, man, and Joe sorta goes along with it. Andy, though, he wasn’t ever really—shit.”
Was. Andy wasn’t.
“How did it happen?” he says quietly and wants to ask when, wants to know if he can stop it, but it’s like he’s seen this movie before and he knows he won’t be able to.
“I can’t—“ Pete winces. “You don’t want to know things like that, Patrick.”
Except he does, he really does, he’s always hated Pete knowing more than him and oh God, Andy. “Just…is it soon?”
Pete shakes his head. “Ten years,” and Patrick can breathe again.
“You were there?” Pete nods abruptly and his eyes flick down and it’s all Patrick can do to move his arm and touch Pete’s hand because Pete’s breathing like he’s about to freak out, and didn’t he say it was stress-related? This day’s been so strange he’s not sure he can handle watching Pete disappear. Patrick bites his lip when Pete’s fingers curl around his, hesitant, and he wonders, not for the first time, if this is going to happen.
Except then Pete says in this tiny, tiny voice that doesn’t belong to him, “You’re going to love me,” and okay.
Okay.
`````````````````
The first time Patrick sees it happen, he just thanks God Pete made it offstage.
It’s not as showy as he was expecting, honestly, no flashes of light or sparkles or sounds of the time-space continuum being ripped apart, just Pete, sweaty and bright-eyed and panting like he always was after a show and now he’s clutching at Patrick’s arm, fevered, whispering, “Hold on to me, hold on, don’t let me—“
And then nothing, a pile of empty clothing where his best friend was and Patrick, standing there staring at the hoodie in his hands and, irrationally, irritated that there’s an empty pill bottle in the pocket because Pete promised he was cutting back.
No one notices, Patrick makes some bullshit excuse about Pete having one of his episodes again, and that’s enough to keep Joe and Andy and Dirty and all inquisitive friends away from the bus for a while.
Patrick sits on Pete’s bunk clutching that hoodie—just because it’s warm and his hands are freezing, not because it smells like Pete, no—and wondering when he’ll be back.
````````````
Pete shows up at about three in the morning—Joe’s snoring and Andy’s well past asleep, but Patrick’s been staring at the ceiling for hours—and Pete’s naked and bleeding and terrified and he’s not back for a full minute before he’s staggering towards the bathroom, and hey. That’s why he’s so skinny.
Patrick doesn’t know what to do because Pete’s the wide-eyed type of scared that means he’s probably going to do something stupid, so he tucks him into his own bunk and when Pete whimpers, Patrick climbs in with him.
“Don’t get used to this,” he says lightly, because he’s sort of accepted the fact that someday he’s going to find Pete’s quirks endearing instead of aggravating, but Pete doesn’t seem in the mood for jokes, just clings to Patrick and shakes like he does during thunderstorms, shakes like he did when Mikey dumped him, when Chris called him a slut, when Joe found him with a stolen bottle of Xanax–and Gerard needed to keep a better eye on his meds, the fucker–and a pint of Jack Daniels and he’s so scared, so scared, Patrick doesn’t know what to do.
“Was it that bad?” he whispers and Pete just cringes, buries himself further in Patrick’s embrace. “The...was it Andy?” he chances and Pete shakes his head furiously and Patrick’s never seen him quite like this, never.
“I love you,” is all he says and Patrick doesn’t push, just rubs his back and mumbles soothing little lies–because it’s not alright, and Pete’s not going to be okay–until his shaking stops and he’s fast asleep, curled against Patrick like a little boy.
```````````````
The first time Patrick meets a younger version of Pete, really meets him, Pete’s not there.
It’s just Patrick, alone on the bus with his headphones and a copy of Catcher in the Rye because he never had to read it in high school and it seems like everyone he knows can quote it by heart and he’s tired, kind of, nodding off over page 178 and then all of a sudden there’s a frightened, naked little thing about two feet in front of him, blushing madly and gaping at him.
“Hi, Petey,” Patrick says like it’s natural and he pushes pause, sets his book down and tries not to look threatening because this is the youngest he’s ever seen Pete, and he thinks maybe this is the first time.
“Hi,” he says and oh, his voice hasn’t even broken yet. Patrick can’t believe that Pete ever looked like this, that his face was ever this open, this innocent, except he’s got an enormous bruise over one hip and a day-old split lip and Pete never mentioned getting into fights when he was a kid. “Do you...clothes?”
Patrick offers him Pete’s closet and he actually wrinkles his nose at the girl’s jeans–which means maybe he was a normal boy at some point–and picks out a pair of shorts Pete only keeps around for impromptu soccer games and a nondescript brown T-shirt. And boxers, of course, the baggy kind that Pete only owns two pairs of.
Nothing bright, nothing mismatched, and he seems all too glad to be able to cover himself up. Dark colours, too, dark and earthy and nondescript and Patrick frowns–it’s weird, seeing this version because sure, he looks different, Patrick expected that. But he acts different, too, he doesn’t move right. His head’s slightly ducked, shoulders hunched forward like he’s expecting Patrick to attack, and those wide brown eyes only flick up to him when he thinks Patrick’s not looking.
Correction–he only stares at Patrick’s ass when he thinks Patrick’s not looking, and right, okay, this is Pete back when he was trying to be a normal little boy, back when he was trying so hard to think about girls and soccer and porn and normal things.
“I didn’t, like, come to terms with anything ‘til I was fifteen,” Pete had told him. “After...you know.” He doesn’t seem to want to say ‘after I fucked myself,’ but Patrick understood so he let it go.
And now, watching this Pete fiddle nervously with the hem of his borrowed shirt and stare at his feet, Patrick thinks that maybe it’s a good thing Pete’s the way he is. Because sure, it’s irritating sometimes, but this...this is just sad.
“You hungry?” he says because Pete always is afterwards and the boy nods.
It takes a peanut-butter-and-honey sandwich, a leftover drumstick from Joe’s KFC raid last night, a bagel nicked from Andy’s store and a bowl of Lucky Charms before Petey says anything and it’s just a tiny, mumbled, “You’re Patrick, right?”
“Yeah. How did you...?”
“I told me.” He blinks, looks confused. “I think.”
Pete hadn’t wanted to be here for this–“I’m too fucking gay,” he’d said with a smile, “and I was messed-up enough at fourteen without influencing myself.”
And Patrick had asked what exactly he meant by ‘messed up,’ but with the way Petey won’t meet his eyes, he thinks he kind of knows. “We’re friends,” Patrick says and Petey relaxes a little. “In the here and now. You’ve been my friend since I was sixteen.”
“I’m still alive,” Petey says like he doubted it and Patrick’s uneasy, he’s not sure what Pete was like as a kid, what exactly it was that has him choking down half a pharmacy just to get through the day now.
“Yeah,” Patrick says and Petey actually maybe looks a little disappointed, because he mutters a soft, “Oh,” and goes back to chasing a lone marshmallow through his bowl of milk.
“You, um,” Patrick says awkwardly. “You’re kind of limping. Want me to wrap that ankle...?”
“Can’t take it with me,” Petey mumbles. “Doesn’t really hurt anyways.”
“What happened?”
He shrugs. “Got in a fight,” and then his head snaps up, he looks startled and he whimpers, “Fuck, no, no,” and he’s gone.
``````````````````````
“What happened to you?” Patrick asks that night when his Pete, the twenty-seven-year-old version is curled around him, warm and solid and mostly stable.
“What?”
“You. The little you. He was all...bruised. Scared. What happened to–“ and Pete’s stiffening, rigid, like he doesn’t want to talk about this, so Patrick sighs. “You don’t have to tell me.”
Pete doesn’t say ‘thank you,’ doesn’t say anything at all, and Patrick thinks he’s fallen asleep until he whispers, “I got picked on a lot as a kid.”
“Why?” Patrick’s afraid to breathe, afraid if he makes too sudden a move he’ll frighten away Pete’s honestly, and Pete shudders against him, nuzzles at Patrick.
“Small. Weak-looking. Stared at boys too much, fuck, I don’t know.”
“You got beat up for...”
“I kissed a boy in third grade. Everything just kind of...snowballed after that.” He sighs, long and loud, with his whole body and Patrick wants to reach inside his chest and rip out that nasty, dark little place where he kept secrets like this hidden behind pretty metaphors and biting choruses.
“Were you ever...” and he can’t sat it, he can’t, but Pete understands because he chuckles, not like anything’s funny, wry and humourless and cold.
“I gave my fair share of blowjobs I wasn’t really all that into, but no. I was never raped.”
Patrick doesn’t know what to say so he just buries his face in Pete’s hair and mumbles, “Oh.”
`````````````````````
The second time he meets them both, Pete’s clothed and Peter–“I went by Peter in tenth grade, I was trying not to sound so damn faggy, ‘cause seriously, ‘Petey?’”– is very, very naked.
“Hi,” Patrick says awkwardly because yeah, it’s weird seeing his sort-of boyfriend with a smaller version of himself sitting on his lap, but it’s even weirder when that smaller version’s got his hand down the front of Pete’s jeans and is steadily, slowly, jacking him off. “I’ll just, um, leave you–“
“Don’t,” Pete moans, deep and throaty and Peter’s watching him with half-lidded eyes, lazy and catlike and Patrick wonders if his first time with Pete was the same as Pete’s first time with him. “Trick. Mmm, fuck, come here.”
He doesn’t think Pete has a singing kind of voice so much as he has a phone-sex kind of voice and Patrick’s never really been all that good at saying no to Pete. Either of them, not even when he got a visit from shy, scared little fourteen-year-old Petey who, blushing furiously, went up on tiptoe and kissed Patrick square on the mouth like he’d been practicing.
“Um,” is Patrick’s only contribution and fuck, the sex drive of fifteen-year-olds because his flat little stomach is already sticky but he curls into Patrick, biting at his throat and he’s...different than the Pete Patrick’s used to.
Except he’s there too, all rough, calloused hands and he knows Patrick’s body like he knows his own, but Peter’s just learning and Patrick can’t really say he minds when the clothes come off so much because there’s Pete, heavy and solid and familiar and then Peter, all quick, fleeting touches and lithe muscles tensing under his skin.
And Pete must be a good teacher because seriously, fifteen-year-olds should not know how to use their mouths like that.
“Relax,” Pete tells him and he does, half because it’s probably going to hurt less if he does and half because with Pete buried inside him and Peter’s hot, eager mouth on him he doesn’t think he so much wants to relax as he does melt.
``````````````````````````
The morning after’s only slightly awkward and Patrick’s glad they had the sense to do this in the privacy of Pete’s house and not on the tour bus because he really doesn’t feel like explaining this to anyone.
He wakes up happy, though, and warm, nestled between Pete’s muscled bulk and Peter’s long, thin little body all pressed up against his and he’s naked, which normally freaks him the fuck out, but there’s so many other things about this that should freak him out and just...don’t.
He doesn’t have the energy to question why, and when Pete blinks awake and Peter slides down between the sheets, licking and touching and biting at both of them until Pete’s gasping and clawing at Patrick’s back with his teeth sharp against Patrick’s collarbone...
Patrick doesn’t really want to question why.
`````````````````
The first time Patrick realizes there’s going to be an ending, he can’t understand why Pete didn’t tell him.
“I hate you,” is all he says and he doesn’t, oh, he doesn’t, he just can’t see Pete Like This, all small and sad and pale with his arms poked full of IV tubes and his eyes bruised dark.
“It’s not going to be for a long time,” Pete says and that doesn’t make that better, that doesn’t because those words mean there’s going to be a time and he can’t do this. Not now, he can’t go and...and die on Patrick, now that’s he’s finally gotten his head and his heart wrapped round his ‘I love you’s.
“How long?”
Pete shrugs. “We have a while.”
And a while’s not enough, not when that means hospital visits and chemo and tears and planning his own funeral and God, God, Patrick never thought it’d end like this.
“Will I see you again?” he asks and he doesn’t mean now, they have years now.
“I’ve seen you grow old,” is all Pete has to say and it’s not okay.
It never will be.
But it’s Pete and it’s love and for a while they’ll be happy–and that just has to be enough.
