FOB: Salvage

Title: Salvage
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: The skeleton is, I'm told, actually true... but the details are all FALSECAKES.
Summary: “That was like Hamlet,” Joe says afterward. Pete presses himself to the wall, kicking backward in a slow rhythm. Left. Left right. He does this until Patrick storms in, and then he pushes off as fast as he can and hides behind Joe. “I’ll fucking kill you, Wentz,” Patrick snaps.
A/N: Written for adellyna because at some point or another she wanted this fic. Thank you to maleyka for looking over the dirty bits for me and adding her brilliance. Thank you to likealocket for not being mad at me for posting this bish without giving her time to beta. (And also for listening to me talk about it and letting me write it because initially she was writing it.) 3,013 words



They arrive in Montreal about forty-five minutes behind schedule, which puts everybody on edge except for Pete – who wants a tour of the backstage facilities – and Joe – who wants to take a stab at translating all of the French signs into English. “I come from a long line of French Jews,” he insists though Patrick is about 99.9% sure this is nothing even close to the truth. “It’s in my blood.”

The local venue staffer looks entirely unimpressed with her charges as she walks them through the building, pointing out rapidly in her thick accent the lavatories, the dressing rooms, and rooms in which they “shall not enter.” Pete keeps trying to walk into those.

“Don’t go in there,” Joe hisses. “That’s the sodomy room.” He points to a door that the staffer had just moments before told them led to the lighting booth. “Unless you want to take it up the ass.” Pete just giggles and Patrick presses his face into his hands. Pete would be interested in that shit. Andy actually does look mildly interested, but keeps his response to a minimal smirk in Joe’s direction, who quickly moves on to the next door, which is – he informs them – “The fisting room.”

“That is not,” Patrick starts at the same time Pete’s eyes widen. “Let’s go in there,” he insists, grabbing onto the sleeve of Patrick’s hoodie and tugging. “Please? Please? Let’s go check it out.”

Patrick tugs the fabric out of Pete’s grip and glares at him. “It’s my birthday,” he says. “And I’ll fucking kill you.”

Nobody doubts this; so Pete scoots forward and walks beside Joe, leaving Andy to keep an eye on the grumbling Patrick.

“Sixty-nine, room,” Joe whispers about a room clearly labeled ‘lavatory.’ “That’s my favorite room. I have a plaque in there with my name engraved on it.” Pete giggles again in response. Patrick’s clawed hands can almost reach Joe’s throat to throttle him as they walk; but Andy holds him back with one finger hooked into the folds of his hood.

---

The show is.

Well. It is what it is.

“That was like Hamlet,” Joe says afterward. He bounces on the balls of his feet while Andy watches him, and then cracks his neck and finally settles down. Pete presses himself to the wall, kicking backward in a slow rhythm. Left. Left right. Left. Left right. Left. Left right.

He does this until Patrick storms in, and then he pushes off as fast as he can and hides behind Joe. “I’ll fucking kill you, Wentz,” Patrick snaps. Joe tries to slide out of the way, toward safety and not between Pete and Patrick, but Pete has a grip like a fucking grippy thing and won’t let him do anything more than whirl around until their sides are to Patrick. Who kicks. Hard.

“Ow!” Joe tugs his foot away and gets it tangled with Pete’s. “Guys,” he says, still trying to get out of the way. He glances at Andy, giving him a pleading look, but Andy puts his hands up, as if to say, What can I do? “Guys,” Joe tries again. “I don’t want to get in the middle of this.” He turns again, manages to press Pete against Patrick for a fast moment, and yet somehow it’s his shin that gets kicked again. “Ow!”

“Guys,” Andy says. He puts his arms out, but he’s at least five feet away and clearly isn’t planning on helping out with the situation at all. “Guys, you should diffuse.”

Joe whimpers and turns again, takes another sharp kick to the ankle and lets his entire body go slack so that they both fall to the ground. He lands hard on Patrick’s foot and though he now has a Van up his ass, it’s still better than the alternative. “Geroffame,” Patrick growls and Joe happily obliges. He crawls to the safety of Andy’s feet and leans against the wall.

Patrick kicks at Pete’s shins but misses. “Use your words!” Joe says from the wall.

“You’re an asshole!” Patrick snaps at Pete.

“Thank you,” Joe says. Andy nudges him with his foot and Joe glares until they both smile.

“How could you do that?” Patrick asks and Pete may have several years on Patrick but he still looks like a puppy caught stealing dinner from the table. “I mean seriously! It’s my birthday!”

There’s a moment in which there is no sound at all, in which the wheels are clearly moving in Pete’s brain and everybody else in the room just wants to know how Pete can possibly answer for himself. “I always do that,” he says.

Patrick would roar, but Dan interrupts, announcing it’s time to get the hell on the bus like five minutes ago, what the fuck is going on?

“Patrick’s lost his mind,” Joe murmurs. But as he passes doors clearly labeled in English, he still points them out to Andy: “Dungeon.” “Hot oil.” “Suffocation.” “Teletubbies.”

---

They have a hostess cupcake for him, with a match shoved into it and Joe is ready with his lighter; but Patrick is clearly not in the mood. He pushes past all of them in the lounge and practically throws himself into his bunk.

Pete goes to the bunks while Joe eats the cupcake. Andy spends ten minutes approximating how many toxins Joe puts into his body every day, but Joe gives him a chocolatey smile because he’s young and doesn’t care.

In Patrick’s bunk, Pete curls up behind the birthday boy and runs a hand over his cheek. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I always do it. And they always let me back onstage.”

“But they didn’t,” Patrick says. He faces the wall, holding his pillow tightly under his head. It hasn’t been the worst birthday on record but Patrick was really hoping for an awesome show to be the icing on the cake and instead he got a show stopped in the middle, a brawl and a Hostess cupcake. Pete paws at Patrick’s shoulder but Patrick rebuffs him, curling up tighter around the pillow, the only one in the bunk.

If Pete’s going to insist on infiltrating Patrick’s personal space, Patrick isn’t going to let him do it in any sort of comfort.

“Because they’re dumb Canuck assholes Patrick…” Pete presses his face into Patrick’s neck and nuzzles and dammit Patrick hates when Pete does that because, really, he loves when Pete does that. He whimpers a little, one arm moving back to push Pete off of him. “C’mon Patrick…” his voice now a soft whisper, the tones moving slowly through Patrick until he shivers and clutches the pillow tighter. “Let me in…” Pete’s lips brush against the sensitive skin of Patrick’s ear and he shuts his eyes, thinks of unsexy things like his parents and cheese and the venue security. He loosens up a little.

“Fuck off,” he murmurs, pulling away.

“I’d rather fuck you.”

Patrick becomes unhinged at this point, because that’s the effect that Pete has on him. He calls to mind the diminishing rain forest, the puppies being hit by cars, his eighth grade science teacher; but his brain doesn’t cooperate and he just sees Pete, Pete, Pete.

Pete pressing him against a tree.

Pete making him see other galaxies in the back of Patrick’s mom’s car.

Pete bending him over the desks at school (which never actually happened but the thought of it had gotten Patrick through plenty of boring lectures).

Patrick loosens enough for Pete to be able to wrap an arm around him, pulling them closer. “I’m sorry,” Pete says and this time the words seem more sincere.

There’s no way Patrick can’t forgive Pete; no way in general and not right now. Melting, Patrick lets go of the pillow and pulls away from Pete only long enough to turn, carefully rolling – a difficult maneuver because he doesn’t want to knock Pete out of the bunk (much) – and then he smiles at Pete. It’s a careful, concise smile; not at all similar to the one that glows on him afterward.

Actually saying the words ‘I forgive you’ are unnecessary. Instead their lips meet, knees knocking together in the process and Pete’s hungry in his movements.

In the bunk they make out like teenagers and Patrick’s one big cliché because he doesn’t need alcohol to get drunk – he’s perfectly happy getting drunk on this moment, on Pete. He ignores the sounds of the highway as they travel to their hotel for the night, of Andy and Joe playing Halo in the lounge, even of the rustling of the blankets as they move against each other until Patrick thinks he might just come right there in his jeans.

He probably would have but the bus shudders to a halt before Patrick has the opportunity to be embarrassed to death. With the momentum their teeth knock, but they laugh it off and slide out of the bunk, one after the other. “Come on,” Pete says, taking Patrick’s fingers and trying to lead him off the bus, though Patrick is resisting, thinking they have things to carry. “We still have to get you a birthday drink,” Pete says, stopping at the steps and turning back to look at Patrick. “You can’t turn 21 without it.”

“I don’t want it,” Patrick says, and he doesn’t. He wants to get off this damn bus, find a room, get into a satisfactory state of undress and enjoy lots and lots of combination makeup/birthday sex. A drink is something he doesn’t need; he’s already had. He’s never had combination makeup/birthday sex; Patrick would really like to try it. As soon as possible.

“But,” Pete starts and Patrick squeezes his hand, so he turns instead, silently, and hops down the stairs, then waits at the bottom for Patrick to arrive. “No drink,” Pete says once they’re together again, walking into the hotel where Dan is already checking into their rooms for them. “Just us.”

“Just us,” Patrick says, pulling Pete back toward the buses for a moment, just a quick one because it’s his birthday and he wants another kiss.

But Pete breaks it, laughing, and pushes Patrick off of him. “In a minute,” he says. He puts one hand on Patrick’s chest but then brings it down, down, down to the bulge in Patrick’s jeans and smiles, squeezing his hand gently, quickly.

“Fuck,” Patrick whimpers.

“A few minutes after that.”

---

The ride in the elevator is torture; the walk down the hall is even worse. Joe doesn’t help, now pointing out which sin is occurring behind which door.

“Threesome. Water sports. Mutual masturbation. Rimming.”

“What do you know from rimming?” Pete asks, incredulous.

Joe says nothing; but he rolls his eyes upward to gaze at the ceiling as they walk, missing three rooms of debauchery in the process. Andy just laughs.

They’re already bickering before they get into their room – Andy and Joe’s – over whether or not Andy will let Joe back into the room after leaving to go smoke (and whether or not he has any say in the matter) but Pete and Patrick say nothing as they let themselves into their own room, flipping on lights and changing the settings on the heater.

“Patrick,” Pete says from across the room and Patrick stands from crouching in front of the dial and looks at Pete. Smiles. And they’re already crossing the room, meeting by the desk with bodies and mouths colliding, again kissing eagerly like teenagers in the back of a movie theater.

“Patrick,” Pete says again but they’re kissing so it breaks. Patrick leans in, trying to put it together and Pete says it again, “Patrick,” and again, “Patrick,” and again, “Patrick,” until Patrick pulls back, panting, frowning.

“What?”

“Get on the bed,” Pete says. He pushes a hand over his hair, through it a little and then shakes his head out. “And take off your pants.”

For a second Patrick is maybe going to argue. But when Pete tells you to take off your pants you fucking do it. And not only that but… well… boss-of-everybody issues aside, when Pete tells you to take off your pants, you’re an idiot if you refuse.

He takes off his pants and sits on the bed, then pushes himself back a little, spreading his legs at the same time. He’s ready. He’s so ready. Patrick is so fucking ready for this birthday to take a U-turn.

Pete holds a finger in the air and circles it, like whoop-de-doo. Patrick cocks his head to the side, confused. So Pete does it again. Patrick, still confused, isn’t having it. “What?”

“Turn around,” Pete snaps. “Jesus.”

Patrick does, pushing his shirt off in the process so that he’s naked on the bed, his legs spread, hands and knees indenting the covers. “No c’mere,” Pete says, tugging down on Patrick’s hips until his knees are on the floor. He licks his lips, running his hands along Patrick’s ass now, even squeezing it, kneading it and Patrick shifts, trying to find a more comfortable spot for his erection, right now pressed uncomfortably to the hotel comforter.

“What’re you,” Patrick starts, but Pete spreads Patrick open then, leans in and touches his tongue to the top of Patrick’s ass, proceeds to drag it all the way down until Patrick’s balls get a tickle from the tip. “Fuck. Pete.”

“Later,” Pete says, shifting back up to do it again.

And again Patrick squeezes the comforter, rocking his hips into it, into the bed before moaning loudly. He buries his face into the pillow to muffle it, and then picks his head up again, turning around to try and look at Pete. “Pete,” he says and Pete doesn’t respond.

He instead pushes Patrick open more, using his thumbs to brush against the tight ring of muscle, pushing into it a little and Patrick whimpers. “Just getting started,” Pete whispers and Patrick can hear the words against his skin and he shivers, pressing himself against the bed more. “God…”

The first time Patrick feels Pete’s tongue, it’s a tentative touch. It’s, ‘Is this okay? Do you mind that I’m here? Am I interrupting anything?’ But then the second time it’s more along the lines of, ‘Moving in, making roots, picking out paints and making a treehouse.’ Patrick grips the comforter and presses his hands against the bed, his hips too, and Pete laughs – he laughs! – and pulls Patrick’s hips closer again, up a little so that they’re touching Pete’s skin. “Come back here.”

Pete uses teeth, which has got to be cheating (though to be honest, Patrick doesn’t mind) to bite roughly at Patrick’s ass before pushing him open again and leaning in. “God Patrick,” he says again and then nothing else.

Nothing else except for the part where he dips his tongue down and how his palms are flat against Patrick’s ass, squeezing and pulling it apart and now. Now Patrick thinks maybe everything before – the making out and the previous oral sex and everything else that Pete has ever done to him – was a preamble to… to this.

“Pete Pete Pete,” Patrick says into the pillow and Pete squeezes Patrick’s ass again then pulls it open and moans against Patrick’s skin, the noise traveling up through Patrick until his teeth definitely feel it. “Pete,” Patrick says again and he rocks his hips against the bed grinding into it.

“No,” Pete says, grabbing onto Patrick’s hips, holding him still. “No…” He tugs on Patrick, pulling him closer to his face and away from the bed. “Just…” and he runs his tongue along Patrick’s skin before nipping gently at it. “Relax.”

Except Patrick cannot relax. Not now. Not like this. “Fuck,” he says and Pete bites again – those fucking teeth – and then dips his tongue back in and Patrick doesn’t think he can last much longer. This is ridiculous.

Pete moans again and Patrick shivers. He bites the comforter then turns his head and bites his own wrist. “Pete,” he gasps. “I’m.”

“Do it,” Pete snaps before squeezing Patrick’s ass and lapping hungrily until Patrick groans, biting down harder onto his wrist.

Pete waits until Patrick is flushed and boneless, sprawled face-down on the bed and still thrumming from his orgasm. “You’re so fucking hot,” Pete finally says and Patrick is surprised to hear the panting in his voice. But he had just been going overboard with his mouth, so maybe. “I mean seriously,” Pete says, and he shifts until he’s lying on top of Patrick, except still fully clothed. “If we could record your voice when you come and stick it on a CD…” and Pete pauses, like he’s giving Patrick time to burst into flames of red-hot embarrassment. “Fucking Grammies. Everywhere.”

“I gotta get up,” Patrick says and Pete doesn’t move, just wraps his arms around Patrick more, gripping his shoulders. “No, Pete. Seriously. I think my dick’s going to stick to the comforter in a few more seconds. We’re going to have to call the fire department to have them extract me.”

Pete hoots with laughter but he slides off, tugging Patrick with him and okay there are about two really heinous seconds where the top cover does slide with him, but then it stops, stuck to the bed again and Patrick leans back against Pete while Pete runs his hands over Patrick’s chest. “Happy birthday,” Pete says and Patrick smiles because seriously.

Seriously.

“I still hate you,” he finally says. But Patrick’s grinning and Pete surely knows it. And how anybody could actually hate Pete Wentz – anybody who actually knows him – is seriously beyond Patrick.

“I love you birthday boy,” and Pete presses a kiss to Patrick’s cheek and Patrick doesn’t really know if Pete means it like he usually does – the same way he loves Joe and Andy and guitars and Belgian waffles with whipped cream and strawberries – or if he loves Patrick like Patrick actually loves him.

But when Pete’s grip tightens around him, Patrick thinks maybe the birthday is salvageable after all.