Pete/Patrick, NC-17, 1667 words.
early FOB motel wankfic. for alchemywow who helped me to chat-write it.
endless thanks to flimsy for priceless beta duty & general awesomeness.
As motel accommodations go, their room is one of the best they’ve had yet this tour. Patrick holds the heavy door with one foot and fumbles around for the light switch, finally finding the round knob and twisting it uselessly before giving it a decent smack. The two lamps, one in the center and one on the far side of the room, suddenly come alive and bathe everything in a lackluster glow.
Patrick squints, and as he works out that the knob is actually a dimmer, turning it first down then up, the light going bright to the point of harsh, Pete pushes past him and claims the far bed for himself. He tosses his black duffel onto the brown and orange floral-patterned comforter, glancing around appraisingly.
“Oh sweet, do it again,” Pete exclaims, falling beside his bag and gesturing toward Patrick, craning his neck to gaze back at the lamp.
“Do it yourself,” Patrick mutters, begrudgingly dropping his backpack onto the remaining bed and ripping the zipper open, grabbing his last pair of clean boxers. “I’m showering.”
The carpet in the room is forest green, and the bathroom is covered ceiling to floor in cotton candy pink tiles. At least the towels are white and seem to be clean, save the permanent marker block letters on the edge of each one that reads “FRESH LAKE MOTEL”. The water is hot and the pressure is decent, and Patrick emerges into the room again in his boxers, towel over his shoulders, feeling marginally more charitable and a little more human. Pete has the lights dimmed and is already down to his underwear, sprawled on the half of his bed not containing the contents of his bag, flipping through channels on the ancient television set.
“How’s the shower?”
Patrick reclines in the middle of his own bed, pulling a pillow out, leaning back against it. “Pink.”
“Nice,” Pete says absently, and then, “oh hey, check it out.”
Patrick waits for a moment, looking over as Pete repeatedly pushes his thumb into the remote with no result, extending his arm and waving it in the air, frustration spreading over his face.
“Hang on… fuckin’ thing,” Pete mutters, and then smacks the back of it hard, the resounding slap louder than Patrick expects.
When Pete tries again, the channel changes, and Patrick turns to the TV, where suddenly there’s a whole mess of writhing, naked flesh and a chorus of insincere sounds of heterosexual ecstasy.
“Free porn,” Pete declares in awe.
“Come on, Pete,” Patrick says immediately, annoyed. “I don’t wanna watch that.” He shifts restlessly, sliding down further on the bed, pulling the towel off his shoulders and setting it aside.
“Yes you do,” Pete argues, and Patrick can hear Pete’s grin in his voice. “You so do.”
“Shut up, change it,” Patrick replies, less demanding than he intends as his dick twitches in his boxers. He mentally berates himself for not thinking to jerk off while he was in the shower.
Pete doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but he doesn’t comply with Patrick’s request either, and the badly-soundtracked scene changes, the television glow shifting a bit brighter. Patrick tries to no avail to avert his gaze, to look anywhere but at the screen, where an ample-chested blonde is being turned over onto her hands and knees on the bed by her boyfriend. As porn goes, it’s pretty vanilla and not all that good, but Patrick can’t seem to look away and curls his hands into fists in the bedcovers anyway, the twinge in his lower stomach amplifying rapidly. It’s been weeks since he’s seen Anna, he remembers suddenly, wistful, and about that long until he will again.
The painful awareness of Pete’s presence in the room does nothing to deter him from getting hard either. Patrick flushes deeply, heat flaring at his face, his pulse thrumming under his skin. He inhales to protest again when Pete speaks softly.
“See,” he says knowingly, his voice low. Patrick exhales audibly. “I knew you did,” Pete finishes, and begins to sit up.
Patrick closes his eyes and goes very still, like if he doesn’t look and doesn’t move then he won’t have to acknowledge the fact that Pete is standing up, fluid and quickly and shifting over to join Patrick, settling close beside him.
“Pete,” Patrick says weakly, almost a plea, his skin blooming in warmth and then shivers at his shoulder and his thigh where Pete is pressed against him. He inhales, slow and deep, knowing as he does so that Pete’s strong, familiar scent will only excite him further.
“It’s okay, I won’t touch you,” Pete whispers quickly. “It doesn’t count if I’m not touching you.”
What Patrick doesn’t say as he slides his hand into his boxers, nearly whimpering in relief at the contact, is you already are. What he doesn’t think about is how he will have to convince Anna yet again exactly why it doesn’t count, and watch as Pete collects Jeanae into his arms, knowing he’ll never tell her at all.
Patrick lifts his eyelids a small fraction, his hesitant gaze falling immediately to Pete’s lap. Pete’s underwear is pushed down, the elastic band stretched taut across his upper thighs, and Pete has both of his hands at work, stroking his dick steadily with one and curling his fingers around his balls with the other. Patrick’s seen it before, but it’s been awhile, and he can’t help but move his own hand faster, his stroking stifled by the fabric of his boxers. He glances up at the television, more because he feels like he should than from any true desire to do so.
“Come on,” Pete urges, his voice still low and shaky, pressing harder against Patrick at his arm and thigh. “Lemme see you, c’mon.”
Patrick wriggles a little and tugs his boxers down enough to free himself, pumping his hand faster without the restriction of fabric, and Pete tenses and groans beside him, the sound making Patrick’s toes curl.
“That chick,” Patrick declares, gazing at the television and concentrating deeply on keeping his voice steady, “isn’t even hot.”
“She is if like—” Pete replies, his words suddenly choked, “you don’t look at her.”
Patrick almost laughs at that, but his eyes flutter shut with a soft moan instead at the warm, wet press of Pete’s mouth to his shoulder. He swallows, twitching slightly as his stomach twists, but can’t bring himself to move away.
“It’s okay,” Pete murmurs immediately, because he knows, he has to. “Doesn’t count, it’s okay.”
Patrick’s breathing quickens and shallows, every shudder of Pete’s skin against his own causing the tension in his body to coil tighter. He works himself harder, eyes cast downward to watch Pete do the same, fists jerking quick and in unison, making no attempt to hold back or draw this out. Pete’s heavy breath falls over his skin, warm and insistent as Pete whimpers softly, over and over.
“God—” Pete stammers, his voice strained, and Patrick’s hips jerk up in response. “These bedspreads are fucking ugly,” Pete finishes unexpectedly, the words tumbling breathy from his grinning lips.
Patrick exhales forcefully, then almost gasps, twisting his wrist and squeezing himself a little harder through his stroking. On the screen everything has changed again; there’s a petite brunette now on her back making exaggerated faces. Patrick looks away, returning his gaze to Pete’s hands, to the shiny tip of his cock, the tight grip of his fingers, and wishes the television was off so he could concentrate better on Pete’s breathing, on the small pleasured sounds that rumble in his throat, buzzing against Patrick’s skin.
“Someone actually picked them,” Pete continues, even more tension ringing in his voice. “Can you imagine,” he manages, then cuts off, biting back a groan, “seeing this pattern and thinking, yeah, that’s good, let’s go with that—”
Patrick’s body goes briefly weightless with laughter, the sensation turning over quickly, coiling even tighter with tension again as Pete goes on, his words strained and stretched. “And then they were like—it’ll go great with that dark green carpet—”
Pete’s body jerks suddenly and he cries out softly, and before Patrick can even consciously register that Pete is coming, Patrick shudders with his own climax, throwing his head back. He slams his eyes shut with the intensity, pulsing into his hand and onto his stomach, groaning quietly.
Pete’s teeth graze the over-sensitized skin at Patrick’s shoulder, and Patrick flinches, reaching for the towel from his earlier shower. He offers it first to Pete, still trying to catch his breath, but they’re sitting close enough and the towel is big enough that they end up sharing it, opposite corners to clean themselves up.
It’s Pete who moves away first, standing quick and pulling his underwear up, Patrick’s skin going cold in the absence of contact. Pete hits the ‘off’ button on the television on his way to the light switch at the door, and within seconds the room is dark and silent, save the shuffle of Pete’s footsteps back to his own bed.
Patrick slides under the covers and settles on his pillow, pulling the blankets up, torn between his body’s fatigue and the restlessness of his thoughts. He tries to quiet his mind for a few moments, breathing slow and deep, and then Pete’s voice carries soft through the silence.
“Yeah?” Patrick answers, a little hoarsely.
Pete is quiet for a second, and then mutters his reply. “Nothin’.”
“No, what?” Patrick asks, shifting, kicking at the sheets.
“Nothing, goodnight,” Pete says, almost too softly for Patrick to discern.
Patrick’s hair is still damp from his shower, and it makes the pillowcase cool, a little clammy against his cheek and ear. He blinks in the darkness, twice, three times, and hears Pete turn over to face the wall.
“Nite,” Patrick breathes, though he knows the sound won’t carry, and that sleep is still a long way off for them both.