A/N: Many thanks to sarren for the speedy, super-helpful beta and to for listening to me panic about the deadline and looking the fic over for me when I desperately needed reassurance.



Three weeks until the album was going to drop, and Pete was a nervous wreck.

Of course, everyone was nervous. Joe was smoking one hell of a lot of weed even for him, Andy was walking around with a pinched expression and hardly talking to anyone anymore, and Patrick sometimes lay awake at night, hyperventilating himself right up to the edge of a panic attack.

But they were handling it, at least. Pete… wasn't. He'd always been the one to whom the crowd reaction mattered the most. Of course Patrick cared what people thought of his music. A lot of time and work and love went into those songs, a lot of his soul, and of course it sucked when people hated it. But in the end, he first and foremost made those albums for himself and the guys, and if everyone else didn't like it, well, fuck them.

But Pete… he'd always been desperate to be loved by the fans. He thrived on their attention, shone so fucking bright in the spotlight, while their hurtful words cut him to the bone. It always made Patrick's chest clench to think that Pete, gorgeous smart loyal Pete, must have a core of insecurity running so deep inside that it needed the love of strangers to fill it.

If the album flopped, if there was going to be a shitstorm of criticism from the fan base or the critics, Patrick knew it would be Pete who'd suffer most of all, just like he knew that Pete was driving himself insane fearing that very thing.

Patrick had been watching him pace around the bus for two hours now, throwing himself into couch corners and on benches only to jump up again ten seconds later, as if he was afraid something was going to catch up with him if he stayed still for any length of time. There were dark bruises under his eyes and his skin looked sallow; the only reason Patrick knew he'd slept at all those past couple of days was that he sometimes heard him waking up from nightmares.


*********


On Friday night, Pete went out dancing with Gabe and his guys. Patrick was glad to see him get out of the bus and work off some of that nervous energy, but he ended up completely unable to sleep while Pete was gone. He shook his head at himself – like someone's mom, for god's sake – but still, Pete did crazy shit when he was in this sort of mood, and Gabe was a great guy, but you sure as fuck couldn't trust him to provide the common sense.

It was four am by the time he finally heard Pete stumble onto the bus. He made himself stay in bed instead of meeting him in the front lounge like he really wanted to – seriously, not his mom – but when Pete still hadn't come back to the bunks after half an hour, he sighed and gave in to the worried voice in the back of his mind.

He found Pete curled up on the couch, wrapped in a thick blanket and the oversized hoodie Patrick had dropped there when he'd gone to bed, staring at nothing. Patrick sat down next to him and carefully put an arm around his shoulders. Pete immediately curled into the embrace, leaning his head on Patrick's shoulder and fisting a hand in the thin t-shirt he'd worn to bed.

"Hey," Patrick said gently. "You okay?"

"Yeah, sure," Pete said. Patrick didn't bother protesting. You couldn't get anything out of Pete when he didn't want to talk, and he'd only end up pissing him off if he tried.

"I really fucking want a shower," Pete finally said, and yeah, he smelled like someone who'd spent the entire night dancing, but somehow Patrick just didn't think that was the problem here. He drew Pete in a little closer and let him fall asleep like that, curled up half in Patrick's lap.

Unsurprisingly, Patrick woke up a couple of hours later with his neck horribly cricked, but Pete slept through the night, and of the two of them, he was the one who really fucking needed it. On the whole, Patrick was calling it a win.


*********


It took Pete exactly three hours of restless pacing to undo what little good the sleep had done him. Patrick went out with him that night. He didn't really like dance clubs all that much, but he liked the memory of half a sleepless night and the flat, far-away look Pete had returned home with even less.

It didn't take him more than a couple of minutes to realize that he shouldn't have come. Pete was dancing with a wild, desperate intensity that Patrick had no hopes of keeping up with, and the sharks were smelling blood in the water. He placed himself bodily between Pete and the creepiest of the guys who surrounded him almost immediately, chased a couple of them off with a glare, but there wasn't much he could do but watch Pete grinding up against one of the bolder ones, baring his throat and making it very clear what he was looking for.

Patrick didn't try to follow as the two of them disappeared out the back entrance.

Pete came back to the bus around three, smelling clean like someone else's shampoo, with his hair still dripping wet. He hesitated in front of Patrick's bunk for a long time. Patrick could hear him shifting on the balls of his feet, naked toes scuffling against the carpet. He gave up on pretending to be asleep and pushed the curtain back.

"You wanna sleep here?" he offered.

Pete was in his bunk before he'd even finished the sentence, curling up tight around him, his face buried in Patrick's shoulder.

Patrick woke up long before him, sunlight creeping in through the half-open curtain and lighting up a pale golden stripe on the arm Pete had flung over his chest. There was a ring of bruises around Pete's wrist, pale and barely visible. They didn't look like much, but Patrick had spent a lot of time watching Pete fling himself from, into and against things like a madman on stage, and he knew exactly how easily Pete didn't bruise. Someone had squeezed far past the point of pain.

"Pete, what the hell are you doing," he said softly. Pete snuffled into his shoulder, but didn't wake up. Patrick laced his hands behind Pete's back, holding him tighter.

He would have let it go - interventions of any kind never did anything but piss Pete off - but the next morning, Pete came back to their shared hotel room with faint dark smudges across his neck, someone's fingertips pressed into soft skin above veins and arteries, and that wasn't playing safe, that wasn't any kind of playing at all.


***********


He had Pete by the shoulders and up against the wall before he could even finish the thought. "Have you lost your mind?" he hissed. "Do you have any idea, any idea at all how dangerous breathplay is? Especially with someone you don't even know? Go fuck sleazy guys in clubs and risk your reputation if you have to, I don't care –" and oh, that was a huge fucking lie, but in any case, he wouldn't have interfered – "but for god's sake, don't go risking your life!"

Pete twitched irritably in his grip, made a half-hearted attempt at getting away. Patrick was holding on pretty firmly, though. He'd let Pete slip through his fingers one too many times. That damn well wasn't happening to him again.

"It's none of your business, okay," Pete said flatly, and Patrick felt a momentary, almost overwhelming urge to punch him in his stupid face. He didn't. He thought it was probably what Pete was trying to provoke.

"Yeah, no, we've had that discussion before, I think. If you have some kind of death wish, again, that is very much my business, okay?" he said, fingers digging into the solid muscle of Pete's shoulders.

It was a bit of a risk, bringing that up, and he half expected to get shoved away, but he needed Pete to fucking listen to what he was saying. He got lucky. He could feel the fight drain out of Pete, felt him give in. He leaned into Patrick's grip and buried his face in Patrick's shoulder. Patrick wrapped his arms around him and hung on tight. "Fucking stupid," he muttered, the words muffled into the heavy fabric of Pete's hoodie.

"I'm sorry," Pete whispered. "Fuck, I'm sorry, that was stupid. I don't want to die, okay? I don't. I just wanted it all to stop for a bit."

Patrick knew he meant the words to be reassuring. He still couldn't quite help the shudder of remembered terror. He'd heard that explanation before, and Pete had been worse then, he knew, a lot worse, but he didn't ever want things getting to that point again. Ever.

Pete must have felt his reaction. "Oh, hell, no," he said quickly, tightening his arms around Patrick. "Not, like, taking a bunch of sleeping pills worth wanting it to stop, I promise. Just. I didn't even mean to go that far, but that guy was pretty, uh... Yeah. It wasn't even that good, but it was intense, you know? Made my brain switch off for a bit. I guess I just got carried away."

"Come to me next time, okay?" Patrick said, tilting Pete's head back a little with a hand on his jaw so he could look at him. "If it ever gets that bad again. We'll deal with it together."

Pete evaded his eyes, shuffling his feet a little. "Patrick, you can't – I mean. I love you, man, but I wasn't out looking for hugs and cuddles, you know? This isn't something you can-"

"Yeah, I can," Patrick said. "You wanted intense, right? A distraction? I can do that." Oh god, this was such a fucking bad idea. He was risking their friendship even if this did work out, but god, the thought of Pete going home with strangers, rough strangers from some dive bar to work through this, it made him want to scream. Even beyond the part where it scared the shit out of him.

He slid his hand around to the back of Pete's neck, tilted his head up a little and pressed his lips to Pete's. Pete froze. They'd kissed before, of course, on the mouth, even, but never like this: no audience, Patrick's thumb stroking gently along the side of Pete's neck. He could feel goosebumps rising under his light touch. Pete was vibrating with tension, holding his body stiffly away from Patrick's - not resisting, not pulling back, not doing anything to indicate that he didn't want this, but clearly not quite trusting the situation, either.

Patrick pulled back a little. "Hey. Work with me here, okay? This doesn't have to mean anything-" if you don't want it to, he'd planned to say, but he never got that far, because suddenly Pete was kissing him, and fuck, fuck, this was good.

Pete was holding on to his shoulders like Patrick was the only thing keeping him upright, melting into him. It didn't come as a surprise that Pete was a good kisser – he did it often enough, and with pretty much anyone who'd hold still, after all. He smelled warm and familiar, comforting, like entire days spent cuddled together in a bunk, and Patrick knew without even looking that his hand was covering the thorns around Pete's neck, and it was this familiarity that made all the new details so much more intense: Pete sighing into his mouth, Pete's thigh slipping between his legs, pressing up just so, feeling Pete's erection hard and urgent against his leg.

Patrick moaned, made himself pull back. "Get rid of that, will you?" he said, pulling the hem of Pete's hoodie up. Pete took over for him, tossing his hoodie and shirt into a heap in the corner, only hesitating for a second before he skinned jeans and underwear off together, naked and hard, the most beautiful thing Patrick had ever seen.

Patrick made himself undress without getting self-conscious – this was Pete, Pete knew what he looked like and he'd never cared. He gently pushed Pete back onto the bed, made him stretch out with his arms above his head and wrapped the sleeve of one of their hoodies around his wrists.

"Can I?" he asked, cinching the material a little tighter.

"Hell, yeah," Pete said, laughing a little, breathless and eager.

"Close your eyes," Patrick said, and then he let himself sit back and just look for a bit. Pete was fucking gorgeous, tanned skin and stark black tattoos against the white sheets, legs spread and hands bound, open and vulnerable and all Patrick's. Fuck. This better not be a one time thing. He honestly didn't know how he could have this and then give it up.

"God, Pete," he said quietly. When Patrick bent down to kiss him, Pete lifted his head off the pillow, arching towards Patrick a little, eager. Patrick put a hand on the back of his neck, taking the strain off the position, let himself settle in for a bit. He carefully kept his weight off Pete, waited till he started shifting in search of more stimulation, tilting his hips so he could rub up against the inside of Patrick's thigh, and then pulled back, kissed his way down Pete's chest.

He was really just indulging himself, tracing the lines of Pete's tattoos with lips and tongue. Most guys didn't really get anything much out of this kind of foreplay, in his experience, and he needed this to be good for Pete; needed it to be something that would pull him out of his head and, maybe even more importantly, something he'd want to do again. But just for a bit, he wanted to taste, to let himself enjoy. Pete ran around without a shirt on all the damn time, and it probably really should have stopped being anything remarkable years ago, but it had never quite stopped making Patrick want to push him down and lick him.

Pete arched into the touches, though, making a soft, eager noise when Patrick licked his nipples. "God, you're so hot, you have no idea," Patrick said, awed, and then he bent down and took Pete's cock in his mouth, all the way down without warning, smiling a little to himself when Pete bucked up hard against the arm he had over his hips, pinning him down.

But even now, he could feel how tense Pete was, could all but hear him thinking. Pete was crap at relaxing and letting go, and way too good at disengaging from his body. But he wanted, he needed Pete completely here for this.

He pushed one of the spare pillows under Pete's hips and nudged his thighs apart and back, and then really couldn't help taking a moment to appreciate the way Pete looked in that position, spread wide open. He stroked himself with a loose, careful grip, biting his lip against the pleasure of it. God, he was so damn close already, just from watching, from finally getting to touch.

He made himself let go before he ended up coming way too soon, bent down and licked over the sensitive skin behind Pete's balls, then farther back. When he stroked Pete's hole with his tongue, Pete yelped and hooked a leg over his shoulder, keeping him there. He was getting with the program, finally - not quite where Patrick wanted him, not yet, but some of the tension had bled out of his muscles, and his movements had gotten a little smoother, a little less desperate.

Patrick slipped his tongue inside, twisting and pushing against the soft skin, humming contentedly to himself at the sounds Pete was making; high-pitched little moans and half-coherent pleading noises. Yeah, that was more like it.

He pulled away for a moment, petting Pete's side apologetically when he groaned and arched his hips at the loss of contact, and dug the bottle of lube out of his bag.

"Can I do this?" he asked, sliding one slick finger between Pete's legs.

"Oh, yeah, please," Pete groaned, but he wouldn't even have needed to say anything - the way his legs had spread at the first touch, hips tilting up and open, would have been answer enough.

Pete took two fingers easily, greedily, and then a third one with hardly any more trouble. Patrick made himself not think about how often he must have done this before, or with whom. Pete was with him now, and even if this was the only time he got - don't think of that, don't - he was going to make it count.

"You want more?" he asked, twisting his fingers just to feel Pete twitch and groan at the pressure.

"Please," Pete said, breathless, his bound arms flexing over his head, pushing back against Patrick's fingers.

Patrick leaned down and took Pete's cock back into his mouth while he carefully worked a fourth finger in, lapping at the soft wet skin of the head, precome sharp and salty on his tongue. "You taste so good," he said without really pulling away, letting Pete feel the movement of his lips against the sensitive skin. Pete moaned.

Patrick slowly, carefully pressed his hand in all the way up to the knuckles. It felt completely amazing, hot-wet-tight stretch of skin around his fingers, completely indescribable.

"Think you can take my entire hand?" he asked quietly, and then quickly leaned down and pressed his lips to Pete, stopping the automatic response that he knew was coming. Pete was pretty far gone, flexing mindlessly against Patrick's fingers, and Patrick knew he'd say yes to anything just then. "No. Think about it before you say anything. I'm not going to hurt you, I'm not, don't be stupid about this, okay? Think you can take it?" He didn't pull his hand back, but he kept it still and leaned the free arm on Pete's hip to hold him down, trying to keep the distractions to a minimum. Still, it took Pete a moment to work up to any sort of coherent reply.

"I. Yeah. I can - Please," he finally said.

Patrick smiled, he couldn't help it. "Good," he said, low and satisfied.

It was a pretty insane stretch, and even with Patrick's fingers tucked as tightly together as he could manage, even with patience and Pete's eager participation, there was a long moment where he thought for sure it wasn't going to work at all. Pete's breathing changed pitch, quick and strained. Patrick almost pulled back, but Pete pressed a foot against his back, kept him where he was. "Keep going, keep going," he said, urgently, and then he took a deep, shaky breath and the widest part of Patrick's hand slipped through, letting him push in all the way to the wrist.

"Oh," Pete breathed, sounding awed. He'd gone completely limp, more relaxed than Patrick had ever seen him, every muscle seemingly turned to jelly except for the ones flexing carefully around Patrick's wrist. "Oh fuck, Patrick, Patrick…"

"Yeah," Patrick said, just as quietly. He twisted his hand a little bit, carefully, and that was all it took. Pete yelped and arched up as much as he could, coming without Patrick even touching his cock.

He collapsed into a heap, eyes half-closed, glistening streaks of come all over his stomach. "Oh god, Pete," Patrick said shakily, his free hand clenching around his own cock, getting in three rough strokes before he was coming, too.

Pete hissed a little as Patrick carefully pulled his hand out, but didn't move from where he'd collapsed, let Patrick clean him up and roll him away from the wet spot without moving a muscle, all but humming with contentment.

So it came as a bit of a surprise when Patrick returned from the bathroom to find him curled up on his side away from Patrick, all the tension back in his shoulders plus an extra defensive hunch. Not that he'd expected the afterglow to last forever, but this sudden unhappiness had come out of nowhere.

Patrick stretched out on the bed behind him, keeping a careful distance but letting himself put a hand on Pete's shoulder. "Hey, what is it?" he said, squeezing the tense muscles.

"I'm fine," Pete said, a lot more aggressively than the statement merited. "I'm great, you fixed me. Your bed's the one over there, if I remember correctly."

"Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz," Patrick said sharply. Pete had the best name ever to use in a reproving way. "Please don't be a fucking emo and tell me what the hell is bothering you now, will you?"

Pete shoved himself over to glare at Patrick. That was progress, at least. Half the trouble with Pete's moods was how hard it was to get through to him at all when he got like this.

"Look, it's not that I don't appreciate the comfort fuck," Pete said. "It helped a lot, even. And now I'd like some time on my own to wallow in my own patheticness, so if you could just get off my bed, that would be awesome."

Oh, for god's sake. "That wasn't some sort of pity fuck - Pete, would you please look at me, here? Do you really think I would - Okay, I would, actually." There wasn't a lot he wouldn't do, if it meant that he could keep Pete safe. But that wasn't what this had been about at all. "Pete, that wasn't a pity fuck, I swear it wasn't, okay? God, will you look at yourself, you really think I didn't enjoy this as much as you did? Hey, come on," he said, pulling Pete closer.

Pete came reluctantly, leaning his forehead against Patrick's shoulder but holding the rest of his body stiffly away. "So what is this, a relationship? True fucking love?" he asked. Patrick could hear him rolling his eyes.

He bit his lip and took a deep breath. "I'd like it to be, yeah," he said. He kept his arms around Pete, even though he wanted to pull away, maybe run out of the room while he was at it.

"Oh," Pete said, in a small, surprised voice. Patrick's hands were clenching with nerves. "I. Oh. Okay then," Pete said, which was maybe the lamest response to a declaration of love Patrick had ever even heard. But then, it had been a pretty lame declaration of love. He let his breath out in a whoosh and wrapped his arms tighter around Pete.

Pete fell asleep sprawled half on top of him, limp and happy and smiling. Patrick couldn't really breathe in the position, and his left arm was already numb. He wouldn't have moved away for the world.


The End

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