Risky Business, part 5/6

[claire_debonair]

 

Part IV


Pete slams into the studio he's sure Patrick is meant to be working in, only to get an eyeful of Frankie Iero using her slightly rough voice to gasp out Gerard's name, not sing. "Shit, sorry, sorry!" he turns to go, then stops. "Hey, do you guys know where Patrick is?"

"No- god- clue, sorry." Huh, thinks Pete as he moves down the corridors checking rooms, even during sex Gerard is polite. Then the surreal moment passes on and the righteous anger come flooding back as he swings open the door to studio Four and his eyes find Patrick, headphones on, fingers flying over the keys of his laptop as he works, and totally ignoring Pete.

Well, not so much any of that after Pete pulls the 'phones off with one sharp tug, glaring at Patrick as he spins round, startled. Pete has to take a steadying breath, making Patrick a little wary of the state of mind he must be in to need to do that.

"Pete? What the hell, I'm working." Pete takes a few angry steps, ending up directly in front of Patrick's chair. His voice shakes, his sudden desire to shout barely suppressed.

"Ryan told me what happened last night." It's his attitude, so overbearing, that makes Patrick want to wind him up even more.

"Last night....we went to a club, had a few drinks; nothing special." Unconsciously he spins his chair a little from side to side, but keeps his eyes fixed on Pete's face.

"Fuck, Patrick, you know what I'm talking about!"

"You mean a specific event?" Patrick knows from past experience that Pete's expression and loosely clenching fists mean they're heading for an all-out screaming match, but for some reason, he just can't give a fuck. "There was that thing with the beer bottle, I guess. Or the Butcher and that broken chair, maybe. Either of them?"

Between them, they only really remember three things about the next five minutes. One, Pete gives in and shouts that he knows about the three-way make-out. Two, Patrick somehow manages to keep his voice ridiculously even as he replies; saying things like Pete's in no position to tell him what he can and can't do outside of work. Three, Patrick keeps spinning gently around in the stupid chair, full circles that mean Pete gets a pang in his chest every time he's presented with the back of it.

Patrick can see something snap inside Pete when he says, very calmly, "I don't see why you're making a big deal out of it. It was just a kiss." He expects to be punched, or fired, not for his chair to be grabbed and spun roughly around so that he's facing Pete and motionless. The sudden jarring movement makes him flail and grasp on to the armrests, which gives Pete time to step in closer than Patrick really feels like letting him.

He leans down, lips just brushing Patrick's ear as he speaks. "It fucking matters to me, asshole." Patrick has the irrelevant and intrusive thought that Ryan was, annoyingly, right, and then realizes that Pete is about to lean out and probably leave. He twists a hand in Pete's shirt almost viscously, keeping him close.

He growls out, "You don't get to cut and run from this, Pete," and then kisses him. It's not a soft, sweet first kiss, not even remotely. It's rough, messy and wet, with too much anger still coursing through them to be anything more than an admittance of what's been between them for so many months.

Patrick can feel Pete resisting, his body staying a few crucial inches away from Patrick's own even as his mouth opens hungrily, biting just the right side of too hard for the atmosphere at Patrick's bottom lip. He uses his other hand to anchor Pete in place, curling his fingers around the back of his neck and through the short hair there.

Patrick can guess at what's going through Pete's head that's making him hold back, a litany of bestfriendemployeebestfriendemployee that Pete has to decide to listen to or ignore on his own. Patrick slides his tongue along Pete's lips, slipping it between them to Pete's muffled gasp.

The taste of Pete's mouth is something Patrick had never thought he'd get to know, coffee-bitter and hot, tongue soft against Patrick's own as they endeavor to learn each other with a single minded intensity that leaves Patrick breathless much sooner than he expected. That, and the way Pete suddenly melts against him, is more than enough to have him hard against his jeans, arching up as Pete tries to get a knee each side of his thighs on the stupid chair.

It spins slightly, throwing Pete off-balance so he ends up mostly in Patrick's lap. He pulls back and grins at the producer, eyes gleaming in the dim light. "Fucking hell, Patrick, I do not want to know where you learned to kiss like that."

Patrick smiles darkly, making Pete shiver. "Then you really won't wanna know where I learned this," and just like that he gets Pete's pants open, fingers deft on the button and zipper even though Pete is angled away from him. His hand works under the waistband and down, his chuckle at Pete's lack of underwear melding with Pete's moan as Patrick's hand curls tight around his dick.

The angle is a little awkward, so Pete shifts so that his back is pressed flush against Patrick's chest, their body temperatures rising until Pete can feel the sweat on his neck and down his back, his shirt getting damp as he presses back and gasps. Patrick twists his hand on the upstroke, keeping a fast and ruthless rhythm that makes Pete's blood thrum as he gets closer and closer, fingers scrabbling at Patrick's thighs in vain for something to clutch.

Pete raises a hand to his mouth and presses his lips tightly around a knuckle to stop the embarrassing sounds he can feel in his throat from being pulled out of him, but he can't prevent a strangled whimper from escaping. Patrick nips at his earlobe, teeth oh-so teasing on the sensitive flesh. His breath is chill on Pete's sweat-slick skin, yet another sensation he can barely process amongst the others. "Wan-wanna fuck you in th'studio, so you can make all the noises you want."

Well, isn't that just a nice image? Pete's brain thinks so, providing him in the many ways that it could happen. Will be happening. He owns the place, damnit, and what's the point of that if he can't let Patrick fuck him on his hands and knees, legs apart and arms shaking from the effort of holding himself up, or maybe Pete against the wall of one of the isolation booths, legs tight around Patrick's waist and arms around his neck, yes.

He cries out brokenly and comes hard when Patrick makes his grip even tighter, his other hand so fucking hot against Pete's lowest tattoo as he digs his neat nails into the dark lines of ink. Pete has the fleeting thought that there will be marks there, marks made by Patrick, and he's gone. He can't get enough of his mind to fit together to say anything for a good two minutes, which makes Patrick snigger.

"If I'd known having an orgasm would make you shut up, I would've done that ages ago."

Pete shudders at the feel of Patrick's breath against his slick neck, pulling Patrick's hand out of his pants and raising it to his mouth, he lets his lips play over Patrick's fingers as he speaks, knowing his smile at Patrick's own shiver is more than obvious. "Sure about that?"

He feels Patrick choke back words when he sucks a pale finger into his mouth, closing his eyes at the mix of flavors, himself and Patrick. Pete works his way down each knuckle, savoring the taste in his mouth, loving the feel of Patrick's thighs trembling ever so slightly underneath him. He licks his lips when finished, before biting gently at the ball of Patrick's hand.

The gasp he makes is music to Pete's ears, even as Patrick untangles his hand from Pete's and places it firmly on his leg. "I'd've done that weeks ago, just so I didn't have to listen to you make fun of Ziggy Stardust."

Pete gets his body to cooperate enough for him to half turn around, still grinning as he catches Patrick's mouth in another kiss. It's as deep as before, just as intense, but this time because of lust and not anger. Patrick's hands dig into Pete's hips, mirroring the hard press of his mouth. Pete nips at Patrick's lip before leaning back, letting himself drink in the sight beneath him for a moment. Patrick is flushed, mouth stained red and spit-shiny, his hair a tangle of gold-tinted red strands that Pete longs to run his fingers through, but, first things first.

"You're a bitch, and I'm going to blow you now." He slides off Patrick's lap as he says it, fingers already working at Patrick's jeans. He means to go slowly, make Patrick wait so he can savor every tiny moment, but his control is shattered to hell as soon as he manages to free Patrick's cock, thick and slick with pre-come already.

He wants nothing more to slide his mouth as far down as he can, and then further, to use his tongue and fingers so Patrick will make more of the gorgeous moans and gasps Pete is rapidly becoming addicted to. He wants to hollow his cheeks to suck and fucking drag the sounds out of Patrick, the small noises he tries to bottle up but escape anyway as he gets too wrapped up in sensations to care.

So he does. And then some.

It's still too soon for him to get hard again by the time Patrick is twisting his fingers though Pete's hair and choking out "Pete, I'm gonna, Pete," but fuck he wishes it wasn't. He tightens his grip around the base of Patrick's dick, curls his tongue wickedly around the head, and then lets his eyes flutter shut in pleasure as Patrick lets out a rough approximation of Pete's name and comes over his tongue.

Pete feels Patrick shudder again as he laps up what he didn't catch with his mouth, quick little flicks with the tip of his tongue that make him wonder what Patrick would think if he did the same thing a couple of inches lower. He leans up further, presses a soft kiss to the soft skin visible where Patrick's shirt had risen up, and licks Patrick's palm when he curves it along his jaw.

"Hey." Quiet, languid and so beautiful that Pete wants to hear it every day until he dies. Patrick sounds exactly what he is, post-coital. But, ever a realist, his next words scatter Pete's rapidly forming hopes of a round two. "We need to get cleaned up, I've gotta be in studio One with Gym Class in ten minutes."

Pete drapes himself over Patrick's lap again, shaking his head pathetically and looking down at him through messy bangs. "Nuh-uh." He presses closer and licks Patrick's cheek, smiling at his noise of disgust and protest.

"Yes, Pete." His breath is hot against Pete's ear, words a seductive promise. "But invite me over for music, contracts and take-out and you might get something extra." Oh, fuck, Pete is never going to think of their inside joke for late night 'work' sessions in the same way again, not a chance. His eyes are dark, pupils wide as he rests his hands on Patrick's shoulders and bestows one last, lingering kiss before standing and refastening his pants.

Patrick does his own up, smiling as Pete's gaze follows his every movement, then stands as well. Pete reaches out and catches his elbow, eyes intent on Patrick's as he lets his hand slip down to circle his wrist and pull him closer. Pete's fingers trace patterns as intricate as lace over Patrick's face, the pale skin darkening with a rosy flush as he learns every curve and shadow of skin and bone. His fingers dip to brush along the clean line of Patrick's jaw, feathering over his neck and down to trace the shapes of his collarbones underneath worn cotton.

"You're so beautiful, Trick." Pete words hang between them, hushed in the dim room, and Patrick ducks his head. "No, don't. You are." Pete's fingers move down, tilt his chin up so he can see Patrick's eyes again. They sparkle at him even as Patrick sounds hesitant, his seductive tone banished, much to Pete's disappointment.

"Can we, y'know, talk, later?"

"Yeah. I mean, you might not get anything coherent out of me, but sure. We can talk." Pete closes the gap between them and lets his body language belie his flippant words.

As they share a final, mind-numbing kiss and separate to make as good an attempt at working as they possibly can, given the circumstances, Patrick wonders momentarily if they're always going to have to fight to make their relationship get better.

It's a worrying thought, but what is even more worrying to Patrick is Travis's apparent lack of regard for the no smoking signs - smoking of any form, no matter his protests - and the flood of Pete-thoughts in his head that are going to be very distracting indeed.

——

If Patrick or Pete had entertained thoughts of being able to leave early and "talk" (Enough with the air quotes, Ryan, there will be “talking“ at some point!), it quickly becomes clear that just because most of the Decaydance employees are off nursing hangovers and staying away from loud noises, that doesn't mean that the studios are going to be any be slower.

As soon as they're settled down to their appointed jobs - Patrick to saving Travis from getting kicked out by an irate janitor who'd found him smoking up in one of the storage closets, and Pete to trying to persuade Ashlee that more plastic surgery was a no-no; people wanted to see her actual face, not the one Daddy had paid for - other stuff happens.

Patrick's barely gotten Travis back into the right room, joint-free and mostly sober, when Gabe flings the door open, strikes a dramatic pose and pronounces his undying love for Bill. Patrick lifts an eyebrow, decides he's had his share of shocks for the day and says calmly, "Congratulations. Travis, what's this bit here meant to say?"

Gabe looks scandalized. "Patrick, dude! That's it?! 'Congratulations'?" He presses a hand to his heart and the other to his brow, affecting a wounded tone. "Alas, I am hurt to the very core by your callousness."

Patrick stifles a laugh. "Really."

"The core, Patrick, the core."

"Right. Look, I'm in the middle of something, can you stick a band-aid on it until I have time to heal the wound I've caused by not giving your slutty love my full attention?"

"Patrick! This is serious!" Gabe grabs Patrick's arm and drags him out into the corridor, ignoring his protests and Travis's half-hearted pleas for Gabe to leave their producer where he is. Patrick revises his assessment of the rapper as 'mostly sober' to 'mostly high'. He must've been in the storage closet longer than the janitor had thought.

Gabe looks at him, and something in his posture, or maybe the set of his jaw, makes Patrick stop and revise his opinion of the singer's announcement as well. "Bill? Seriously?"

"Yeah. I know he's not exactly what my mother has in mind when she talks about me getting married, but I don't care."

"Were you drunk?"

"No. And damn, he still looked good." Patrick holds out for a beat, then can't help himself and starts laughing. "Stop screwing with your own lyrics, for god's sake."

Once they've stopped laughing, Patrick gets the full story, and decides that maybe, just maybe, Gabe and Bill were seriously together. "But, I thought he and Travis—well, I got the impression that...Y'know."

Gabe shrugs. "Yeah, well. Turns out Travis? Is fun, but he kinda likes girls more. Vicky T, to be specific."

"Travis and Vicky T?" Patrick's tone couldn't have been more disbelieving if he'd tried. "That's just...that's just wrong." Gabe grins at him.

"I know, right? I've already called first to say I-told-you-so when she breaks him."

Weird conversation aside, Patrick does actually get back into the studio, finding it a little easier to concentrate now that his memory loop about Pete grinding into his lap and gasping has been interrupted.

Pete also has a weird conversation, although it is most definitely bad-weird and not good-weird like Gabe and Patrick's. He sends Ashlee off with instructions to see a stylist, if she's that set on having a brand new look for her new single, and then nearly chokes on the last of his coffee when Mikeyway walks into his office.

"Mikey? What're you doing here? I thought your flight left at nine?" A quick glance at the clock on his desk - that is absolutely not an excuse to look away from the skinny guy leaning against his doorframe - assures Pete that it's just past twelve. Mikey smiles. It's a smile Pete knows well, but wishes he doesn't. That smile hurts.

"It did, but I wanted to talk to you and there wasn't time yesterday." He comes further into the room and folds himself into a chair opposite Pete's desk, crossing one lanky leg over the other in a way Pete can remember from nights on their couch, and he looks down at the papers underneath his hands quickly.

"You did? About what?" Pete gathers up the papers, flicks through and orders them, trying to ignore Mikey's considering gaze as he stands and replaces them in a filing cabinet. Pete almost jumps when Mikey's quiet voice breaks the silence, barely louder than the rustling of contracts.

"About us, and," Pete turns, surprised. There isn't an 'us', not for years, "about maybe us getting back together."

"What the fucking fuck, Mikey." The vehemence in his own voice takes Pete by surprise, for a second, before he remembers how things had ended. The interminable fights, the way they had taken turns to storm out of their little apartment, and most of all the cruel words, barbed and pointed to hit the most vulnerable spots and stay there. "Seriously, what the fuck?"

Mikey looks just the same as when he'd walked in, face calm and smooth. Not that that's anything to go by; blank is his default expression, pretty much. "We were good, Pete. It's a cliché, but we were good together, and I guess I forgot that."

"You forgot that while we were still fucking together, Mikey, that's why we fucking BROKE UP!" Pete can't help the slight scream that colors the last two words, his teenage years in hardcore bands useful for extra expression in his words, if nothing else. Mikey looks ruffled, just a little, and Pete finds it intensely satisfying. Even after three years he can get to Mikey.

"I know, and I'm sorry, I really am. I wasn't mature enough back then, Pete, I couldn't deal with you."

"You make me sound like a pet or something." It comes out sour, more so than he intended, and Mikey blinks. He definitely looks ruffled now.

"Look, I just think that what we had is something we should try and get back, yeah? It was special, and-"

"So special that you decided you couldn't be with someone who had the maturity levels of a six-year-old, the dress sense of a four year-old and who 'couldn't write anything worth reading'?" That last had hurt Pete more than he'd ever cared to admit, even to himself. At the time, the words he scribbled into his journal and made the mistake of showing Mikey had been the only thing standing between him and another parking lot with a bottle of pills. "I think, Mikey, that you should find yourself another flight and get the hell out of LA."

"But-"

"Mikey." Pete makes his voices as cold as he can, "I've moved on, okay, and it's taken me fucking long enough, but I have. I don't think about you any more. Not here, not at home, not in bed. If I do, it's as Gerard's brother, because that's easier. I'm not a fucked-up kid anymore, I'm not waiting around for some guy to come along and make me feel good" I've already found him, sing his thoughts gleefully, "and I'm not interested in getting back with you, not now and not ever. Clear enough?"

It's surprising, really, how fast Mikey can move and still keep his dignity. Pete wants to say something else, some parting shot to dent said dignity visibly, instead of letting his ex-boyfriend walk out of his life looking calm and serene, all hurts hidden, but his thoughts are stalled somewhere around the realization that he really isn't that person anymore.

It's a fucking good feeling that comes with that thought.

Luckily, he's got a pretty little ball of snark manning the front desk. "Pete, wait a second. Patrick says he thinks he can get rid of Travis and the rest in ten minutes, so he's ready to go when you are. And he says what do you want for dinner, Chinese, Thai, or him?" Ohh, it's beautifully timed. Mikey, turning for one last attempt, hears Ryan's words and his eyes flick to Pete's face at exactly the right moment. Pete can't stop the way his face lights up at the mention of Patrick's name, nor the way he half turns towards the studio doors.

Mikey leaves, dignity sufficiently damaged, and Pete has the fleeting thought that he might have Gerard yelling at him for turning his baby brother down before Ryan coughs politely. "Can I say something?" Pete hums an affirmative, eyes fixed on Mikey as he drives his rental out of the parking lot as fast as he can.

"I really don't like him."

Pete tears his eyes away from Mikey's rapidly diminishing tailgate and steps around Ryan's desk, catching the slim receptionist by the shoulders and presses a sloppy kiss right on his lips. "You, you amazing person, are allowed to dislike who you fucking want. Thank you."

"Ugh, Pete, please. I don't want to have to wash my mouth out before I kiss Spencer." Ryan's words are offset by the smile creeping in at the corner of his mouth, and by the not-entirely unhappy squeak he makes when Pete wraps him in a hug.

"Seriously, you are an awesome person. Did Patrick actually give you that message?"

"Yes, of course. Well, except the bit about dinner. That was more implied than explicitly said, but I thought Mikey might appreciate it."

"Who gives a fuck about Mikey, I appreciated it. Put me down for something expensive on your wedding gift list, alright?"

"What makes you think we haven't already?"

"True. Well, then, I promise I won't complain when the invitation comes through, 'kay?" Ryan laughs, waving Pete off with a hand encased in an embroidered, fingerless glove. Pete's almost at the door to his office before something occurs to him. "Oh, Ryan? Lipgloss?"

"Fuck off, it tastes nice. For me and for Spencer."

Pete wonders how adventurous Patrick is.

——
Getting back to Pete's early isn't the hard bit, in the end. Travis and the rest of Gym Class Heroes are more than happy to cut their session short; none of them are in the right frame of mind, so Patrick left the studio feeling very little guilt for not pushing them the way he normally would've. He shuts everything down, lets a tech know he's done and then makes his way out front.

"Patrick, hey. Are you leaving now?" Ryan looks worried, twisting his hands together in a way that's sure too wreck the smooth lines of his gloves if he isn't careful. Patrick feels it's his duty as a good friend to point this out.

"Um, Ryan, your gloves are-"

Ryan's eyes shoot to his fingers, hastily untangling them and placing his hands carefully on the counter above his desk. "Oh, right. Thanks. Listen, about Pete. Something just happened."

"Oh? What kind of somethi- have you been meddling, Ryan, because-" Ryan doesn't tell Patrick so much as blurt it out, worry marring his pixie-like features.

"Mikey came here, and told Pete he wanted them to get back together." Patrick is stunned. Of all the days for him to pick, Mikey had certainly chosen the worst one possible. Patrick takes a deep breath, willing his racing thoughts to slow down and give him a moment to get things sorted.

"What did Pete yell at Mikey?"

"That he never wanted so see him again, let alone get back together, duh." Ryan waves a dismissive hand, before taking a closer look at Patrick. "Oh my god, you thought that Pete might actually want to- dude, if the fact that Pete's been crazy about you since the day you met wasn't enough, I'd've thought that what Gerard told you would've made it pretty fucking clear that they're over. Like, dead, cremated and scattered to the winds over."

That was...comforting, actually. "Okay, I'm not even going to- I'm just gonna go to Pete's. I mean, should I still...?"

Ryan gives him a pitying look. "If you don't, I'll make Gabe my best man instead, and do you really want my wedding to become some sort of celebration of the cobra, Patrick, do you want that?" Patrick can't help laughing at Ryan's seriousness, and at the thought of Gabe giving the Best Man's speech, hands twisting into a fanged cobra.

"It doesn't bear thinking about, Ryan. Of course I'd never let that happen. So, Pete's. I'll see you tomorrow."

"'kay. Oh, hey, Spencer says thank you for a great party." Ryan smiles innocently when Patrick shoots him a suspicious look over his shoulder, but his desire to get to Pete's and find out what's going on overrides any interest in finding out exactly what the glint in Ryan's eyes had meant when he said that.


Part VI