A/N: Thanks to sarren for the beta!

When I started writing this story, I was convinced Pete and Patrick were two years apart in age. As it turned out, it's actually almost five years, but this particular story would have been slightly creepy with that age difference, so I didn't edit that in. I'm sorry for the inaccuracy. This is why I should really get into the habit of doing my research before I start writing…

Theater class was long over by the time Patrick finally lifted his head from the soundboard, but he didn't mind being the last one to leave. As the designated soundguy, he had a lot less work than the others anyway, and fixing the levels had been worth the overtime. The sound had been off just enough to drive him completely crazy for the last couple practices.

Backstage was the usual chaos, clothes and supplies strewn everywhere. It took him a moment to locate his bag, hanging from a clothes rack under a dress from an old show. God knew how it had gotten there.

He meant to grab his bag, honestly he did, but his fingers lingered on the soft satin of the dress, and somehow he ended up with that in his hands instead. It was beautiful, with a pink bodice and a thigh-length skirt, both hemmed with black lace.

This was a bad idea, he knew that; he couldn't even lock the door. But school had been out hours ago, the only ones who'd even be on the grounds anymore at this time of evening were the soccer team, and the theater cellar was a long way off from the locker rooms. No one was going to come here.

He slipped his shirt off and let it drop carelessly to the floor. The dress rustled a little as he pulled it down over his head, the fabric sliding smoothly over his naked skin. He was already hard, just from this.

The skirt bunched awkwardly over his jeans. After a second's hesitation he pulled those off, too, and then turned to the huge floor-length mirror, sucking in a shaky breath at the sight of his reflection.

The dress didn't even fit him that well; the top had clearly been designed for someone with big breasts, so it was hanging loosely around his flat chest, and the color was clashing with his reddish hair. But there was something about the sight of the black lace against his skin, the skirt swishing gently around his pale thighs, that hit him like a fist to the chest.

He pressed his hand to his cock through the skirt, hissing a little. God, this felt fucking amazing. He wished he could take his boxers off, too, but it wasn't his dress. And anyway, he wasn't going to let himself jerk off in the theater club's backstage area, for god's sake. Enough was enough.

When the door banged open, he was already reaching for the hem of the dress, about to take it off. Patrick felt himself freeze, every muscle just locking into place without consulting his brain. Panic swamped over him, thick and stifling. He was all but praying when he looked up at the mirror. Let it be a teacher, please, please be a teacher… It would be awkward and horrifying beyond words to be caught like this by Miss Miller, their fragile, white-haired theater teacher, but at least she'd be discreet about it. If it was another student…

It was another student. It was, in fact, pretty much the worst-case scenario, staring back at him in the mirror with wide, shocked brown eyes. Pete fucking Wentz. Fucking perfect.

Patrick's brain was still pretty much paralyzed with shock. He couldn't have come up with something to say to save his life. Wentz was staring at him, obviously also at a loss for words. Patrick could see his eyes flicking down over his body in the mirror. He was brutally conscious of how he must look to Wentz – his hairy legs sticking out of the lacy dress, the ridiculous way the fabric bunched over his lack of breasts, the thin material perfectly outlining the soft pudge of his belly and the curve of his erection under his boxers.

Heat flooded his face in a dizzying rush. For a long moment he was almost sure he was going to pass out or throw up.

Wentz finally seemed to get over the shock. "Fuck. Um. Whoa. I'll just fuck off now," he said, and then the door slammed shut behind him.

Patrick tore the dress over his head and put his street clothes back on with numb, shaking fingers. He was bathed in sweat, and the room seemed to be spinning around him.

Of all the people to find him. He didn't actually know Wentz beyond the things that were common knowledge in the school – captain of the soccer team, played bass in a local band, popular with all the jocks – but the guy was famous for a whole bunch of vicious pranks. He'd probably get the kick of his life out of this. By tomorrow, everyone was going to know that he'd found Patrick dressed up in a pink dress, jerking off.

Actually, maybe he was going to throw up after all.

Patrick finally stumbled out of the room ten minutes later, the dress stuffed into the bottom of his bag. He didn't need that lying around for proof. Not that it was going to matter at this point.

He'd just barely managed to hang on to his lunch, but he still felt hot and shaky all over, his eyes burning. All he wanted was to go home and hide out in his room for the rest of his life, not that his parents were going to let him. God, his parents. They were going to hear, too, no doubt about it; his mom was eerily good at picking up gossip.

Wentz was sitting in the corridor.

He had his knees pulled to his chest, fiddling with the drawstring of his hoodie. When he saw Patrick, frozen with his back to the door, he jumped to his feet in one fluid motion, blocking the corridor.

Patrick took a deep, shaky breath. So he wasn't even going to get a reprieve on the humiliation until tomorrow. Okay then. He'd just. Keep breathing and not cry, those were the important things to remember, and at some point it would be over all by itself. Jocks never had all that much of an attention span.

"Hey!" Wentz said with transparently false cheer. "So, that was awkward, huh?" He forced a chuckle, a fake, braying sound that grated on Patrick's nerves like sharp metal edges. Yeah, of course this was fucking funny to him. He just. He couldn't fucking do this.

"Is there anything, anything at all that I can do to get you to keep quiet about this? Please?" He totally wasn't above begging. He knew he was setting himself up for, at the very least, being blackmailed out of his entire spending money for the rest of his school life; compared with the thought of being outed to his parents and the entire fucking school as a ridiculous perverted freak, that seemed a perfectly wonderful deal.

Wentz shook his head emphatically. "No, hey, no. That's exactly why I stayed. Sit down, we need to talk – no, seriously, man, sit the fuck down, you look like you're about to keel over any second now." He dropped down again, patting the floor invitingly.

Right then. Negotiating it was. Just, fuck, he hoped he could afford Wentz's terms. He carefully lowered himself to sit against the wall – and, huh, yeah, his legs were really shaking kind of a lot there, maybe it was for the best he got off them.

"So what do you want?" he asked, swallowing harshly. The words tasted like bile in his mouth. God, how could he have been so fucking stupid.

Wentz shook his head again. "You don't need to give me anything, dude. That's what I stuck around to say, even though, hello, awkward. Just – I figured you'd be freaking out, and, like, seriously, you don't need to be. I can keep my mouth shut."

"Suuure," Patrick said, disbelieving. Fuck, that asshole better come out with it soon, or he was going to punch him in the face, for real. Not that it was going to do him much good, considering that Wentz was bigger, fitter and armed with all the good blackmail material, but god, how he wanted to. "So what's the catch?"

"No catch, I swear. I'm not gonna say anything. Just forget I ever saw you."

Patrick narrowed his eyes. Right. This from the guy who'd dared one of his best friends into drinking half a bottle of piss and then shared the video around, and they'd both seemed to find the whole thing hilarious. Wentz just really didn't strike him as the kind of guy who'd let the opportunity pass to make Patrick the butt of a joke that everyone would enjoy as much as this.

"So what's in it for you?" It wasn't even like Patrick had all that much the guy could possible want. Oh, hell. Maybe that was it, and Wentz was planning to wait around until he did need a favor Patrick could provide. It wasn't like gossip like this ever really went stale.

Wentz sat up, looking directly at Patrick, totally earnest. "I swear I'm not going to tell, okay? Seriously, relax." Patrick had to give it to him, he was kind of a convincing liar.

Wentz sighed. "You totally don't believe me, do you." It wasn't a question. Wentz tapped a quick, unsteady rhythm with the tips of his fingers on the floor next to him, contemplating Patrick, and then he said, "Okay, how's this. I'm gay. Completely, totally, one hundred percent gay. I suck cock for fun." He took a deep breath, and then gave Patrick a small, lopsided smile. "See? Now you know my deepest darkest secret, too. I tell yours, you can tell mine. Sound fair to you?"

It wasn't, actually. Wentz was the captain of the soccer team, handsome, popular and friends with half the school. Probably, no one would even believe Patrick except for his small handful of friends, and even if they did, hell, Wentz already got away with wearing eyeliner and girl jeans. There'd been rumors about his sexuality all along, and no one really cared all that much. But the emotion behind the offer had seemed genuine.

For the first time, Patrick allowed himself to maybe believe him a little. "You really won't say anything?" He couldn't quite keep the tentative beginnings of hope from his voice.

Wentz grinned at him, a broad, sincere expression, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. It made him look a lot less like an asshole and more like someone who could maybe be trusted. "I swear, dude. Us sexual deviants got to stick together, right?"

Patrick didn't actually think being gay was all that terribly similar to his kink for cross-dressing, but if Wentz wanted to draw parallels, Patrick sure as hell wasn't going to stop him. "Right," he said.

His body felt curiously light when he levered himself to his feet. He reached out to support himself against the wall for a moment, dizzy. It was going to be okay. It was. Wentz wouldn't… oh god, please let him keep his word.

"Whoa, dude, you okay?" Patrick flinched a little at the hand on his arm, but all Wentz did was brace him with a gentle grip above his elbow. "You look kinda green."

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Patrick said, pulling his arm out of reach. He'd humiliated himself plenty enough already in front of Wentz.

"Great, then," Wentz said. "In that case, I better run, the last – Never mind. Fuck," he interrupted himself after checking the time on his cell phone. "Missed the last bus. Fucking awesome, mom is going to be so thrilled to come get me right in the middle of dinner time." He rolled his eyes and flipped his phone open again.

"Need a ride?" Patrick offered before he could think better of it. Fuck it. He'd really, really like to get away from Wentz and hide out under his bed until he stopped wanting to throw up with embarrassment, and, oh, if he never had to look the guy in the face again, that would be even better - but Wentz had been more than decent about the whole thing, and anyway Patrick really needed his goodwill.

"Dude, would you? That would be awesome." Wentz beamed at him, all crinkly eyes and broad white teeth, and Patrick was suddenly glad that he'd thought to offer.

"Oh, hey, I almost forgot. Just a sec," Wentz said and darted back into the theater room. He came out again clutching an Ipod. "My little brother, he called me to say that he'd forgotten it here during practice, and if I could pick it up on the way home. Which is why I, uh. Was down here to walk in on you. Anyway!" He took one look at Patrick's face and mercifully changed the topic. "Let's go, yeah?"

Patrick's car was a beat-up brown Camaro, the floor covered in take-out containers and empty cans, but Wentz didn't even seem to notice the chaos. He sprawled across the passenger seat and immediately began flipping through Patrick's tape collection. "Oh, hey, Prince!" he said, holding it up as triumphantly as if he'd just recorded the music himself. "You mind if I put that one in?"

"Sure, go ahead," Patrick said. "That's a fucking awesome album, isn't it?"

"Man, Prince is the best. Although David Bowie is hotter," he added, and that, Patrick was pretty sure, was a test, at least judging by the cautious look Pete slanted at him from under his bangs.

Patrick wasn't quite sure where Pete thought he would get off judging Pete at this point, but in any case he didn't care who the guy like to have sex with. "Well, obviously", he said, because you didn't exactly have to be all that gay to be able to appreciate the way Bowie looked in eyeliner. You also didn't really have to be all that gay to appreciate the relieved smile Pete gave him in return.

They didn't speak for a bit, just listened to the music. Pete was fidgeting a little, wrapping the string of his hoodie around his fingers. "So, uh," he finally said, peering at Patrick from under his bangs. "Do you do that a lot? I mean, not, uh, in the school, obviously, just, in general?"

Patrick could feel himself flushing bright crimson again. "No! I - No."

"Hey, it's okay, I'm not, like, trying to be an asshole about it or anything. Just, you know. Curious."

"Yeah, well, that's kind of a personal question, you know? You don't see me asking you how you knew you were gay."

Pete shrugged. "You could, though. I mean, it's kind of a lame story. I was thirteen, watching porn with a couple friends, and there was, like, some blonde chick sucking a guy's cock. All my friends talked about how they wanted to bang her, and I really just wanted to be her. Um. Not like, be her be her, but. You know. Basically, you can't think about cocksucking as much as I do and still think you're straight."

"…Oh." Patrick said, scratching the back of his neck. That had been… honest. He wasn't quite sure what to say to that.

Pete grinned ruefully. "Too much information?"

"Um. Maybe a little? Not really. I've just never met anyone -"

"Gay?"

"Quite so honest," Patrick said.

Pete sighed. "I'm not, usually. I've never actually talked to anyone about this stuff. You make it easy to be brave, I guess." His smile looked a little tentative around the edges, but genuine.

Patrick looked away. He wasn't really sure how he felt about having ended up as Pete's confidante, especially since he was pretty sure he'd landed the position because Pete knew he could always blackmail him into keeping his mouth shut. On the other hand, Pete had put himself pretty far out there. And he'd never had anyone to talk to about this, either, and Pete seemed like maybe he'd understand what Patrick was saying, at least a little. Also? He couldn't possibly get any redder than he was already, and Pete already had all the blackmail material he could ever need in this lifetime.

"It's not a fetish or anything," he said quickly, before the words could get stuck in his throat. It was a bit of a non sequitur, but Pete didn't even blink, just looked at him curiously. "I like normal sex just fine, it's not… I've never even really…" He took a deep breath and tried to stop stammering. Pete made it seem so easy to just talk about this stuff, but Patrick was choking on every word. "My sister had the brilliant idea to dress me up as a girl for Halloween a couple years ago. It was just this ugly skirt and a blouse, and my hair in pigtails, which, ugh, be glad you didn't have to see it, seriously. But I was so fucking hard all evening."

It had been utterly miserable, having to walk beside Carol like nothing was happening while his cock tried to drill a hole through his underwear, so fucking aware of the soft fall of fabric over his legs, the collar of the blouse exposing a pale swath of chest. The only saving grace had been that the skirt's heavy folds and the boxerbriefs he'd worn under it had efficiently disguised his erection. He shrugged, pulling his shoulders up around his neck. "After that, I tried it a couple times, but never really… I mean, I can't just walk into Macy's and buy some lacy girly underwear, right? And I'm not jerking off while wearing my sister's clothes, no way."

"Hell no, I get that," Pete said, shuddering dramatically. He had a younger brother himself, Patrick remembered. "You could walk into Macy's, though. Men buy underwear for their girlfriends all the time."

"Um," Patrick said, not sure how to explain how just the thought of it made his skin crawl, walking up to the counter with something he was going to wear, like everyone would be able to tell. He knew it was irrational, but on the other hand, his right hand and an active fantasy life worked just fine when he was in the mood for that kind of thing, so it wasn't really worth trying to overcome the embarrassment.

Pete smirked. "You're the kind of guy who blushes when he buys condoms, right?"

"Oh, shut the fuck up," Patrick said, punching him lightly in the shoulder.

"Ow! Dude, that is so gonna leave a bruise," Pete whined, clutching his arm and curling up like the deadly wounded.

"Wuss." Patrick grinned.

"You're a bully. Be ashamed." Pete declared, and then spoiled the effect by snickering.

Patrick looked over at him, curled up comfortably into the ratty seat, eyes bright with mirth. Oh hell. He was having a good time with Pete fucking Wentz. Who would have thought.

The Prince cassette ended with a quiet click, and then Patrick's old cassette recorder gave a loud, worrying rattle before he finally managed to spit it out. One of these days the thing was going to eat Patrick's favorite tape, he just knew it. A local radio station came on instead.

"Oh, hey, Deadly Dukes, they're pretty good," Patrick said, fiddling with the knob to get a better reception. "They're playing in the basement of that club out on fifth, what was it called again, uh…" He snapped his fingers, but the name refused to come to him. "You know the place?"

"Yeah, uh, The Sound Machine, or something like that? Something Something Machine, anyway," Pete said, and then gave a weird little snort of a laugh. "You know, the first and only time I ever blew a dude, it was in their men's room after a show."

Patrick groaned. "Geez, Wentz, overshare a little more?"

He pretty much knew Pete would take it as a challenge the second it left his mouth, so he wasn't surprised when Pete gave him a broad, wolfish grin and said, "Weeell, since you asked so nicely. I was with the singer from Seventh Circle, how's that?"

"What, really?" Patrick said, and then rolled his eyes at himself. Way to sound like a starstruck teenie. Seventh Circle weren't internationally famous or anything, but they were a pretty big deal on the Chicago scene. Patrick didn't like their music that much, but he'd seen them a couple times, and he remembered the lead singer, blonde, charismatic, and usually surrounded by droves of adoring girls.

Pete didn't laugh at him, though. "Man, I had such a crush on that guy," he said, giving that weird little snort again. He's, like, a god on bass, too, you know?"

"Hm," Patrick said, noncommittally. He hadn't been all that impressed, but then maybe they'd had an off day when he'd seen them. Patrick had been in bands, he knew it happened. He couldn't help being curious, though. Patrick wasn't a huge romantic, and he didn't harbor any secret dreams of losing his virginity to the love of his life in a bed strewn with rose petals or anything, but doing it in a men's room for the first time ever...

"Was it fun?" he asked peering at Pete from under his hat. His cheeks felt hot. "Did he, like, do you back?"

"He laughed and called me a greedy little fag," Pete said, sounding perfectly unconcerned, but when Patrick snapped his head around to look at him, he shrugged, something brittle about the smirk on his face. Patrick couldn't help picturing it, Pete on his knees, smiling up at some guy he'd probably had a good dose of hero-worship for; getting called names, maybe shoved around some. The singer had been a lot bigger than Pete was, he remembered.

"Jesus," Patrick muttered. "What did you do?"

"I punched him in the mouth and then took off before his band could find me," Pete said. The smirk got a little more real. "Fucker couldn't sing right for a week, it was awesome."

Patrick felt the corners of his mouth twitch up. "Good on you, man," he said.

They were almost at Pete's house by then. Patrick pulled over in front of their fence, but Pete didn't get out immediately. He fidgeted with the tape he'd been holding, and then finally said, "So, you want to come over this weekend, maybe? Kevin and my parents are going to be at aunt Sarah's for the weekend, but, like, no. I love her and all, but there are only so many pictures of cats a guy should be expected to look at in one lifetime, you know? My dad's got almost every Bowie album on vinyl, and he can't stop us raiding his collection if he's not here. Come on, it'll be awesome," he added, when Patrick hesitated.

On the one hand, Pete Wentz. Pete Wentz, who had seen him in a dress. Patrick did not need to be hanging out with jocks in his spare time, especially not insane ones with no respect for the concept of too much information. On the other hand, well, the drive had been unexpectedly fun, and Pete's stories were interesting at least, even if Patrick didn't really get why he'd felt the need to share them. And he hadn't made fun at all. Also, Bowie on vinyl.

"Yeah, sure, why not," he said. Pete beamed at him, a full-on happy smile with teeth and all, like Patrick's answer had really mattered to him. Patrick blinked in confusion. "So, uh, Saturday, then? Around two?"

"Yeah, just come over whenever," Pete said. "I was just planning to hang around and watch cartoon network, anyway."

"See you, then."

*************

Patrick felt sick with nerves when he got to school the next day. Pete wouldn't have, he told himself, but he still didn't quite trust it until he was sitting in his usual chair at the back of the class, and no one at all gave him any weird looks. Pete gave him a grin and a nod at recess, but he was sitting at the other end of the room on a table already overcrowded with half the soccer team, so Patrick didn't even think about joining him.

He spent all of Friday and half of Saturday so completely immersed in GarageBand he didn't think of Pete once, until he looked up and it was already half past one. He blinked at the clock, and then quickly grabbed his jacket and the car keys, groaning as he noticed how sore his neck was from sitting hunched over the computer for far too long.

It wasn't until he was already halfway to Pete's house that he got nervous. He didn't really know the guy at all. What the hell were they supposed to talk about? Patrick knew he tended to be awkward even around his friends, and the last thing he felt like doing with his Saturday was spend it waiting out a couple hours of uncomfortable silence at Pete's house.

He needn't have worried about it. Pete had barely opened the door when a large dog ran straight into his legs, tackling him down, and then Pete brushed him off and offered him left-over pizza, and he was halfway through the third slice and a long, meandering story Pete was telling about the dog, laughing too hard to swallow, when he remembered that he'd worried about awkward silences.

"Fuck, this is good," he said around the pizza. "I think I totally forgot to eat today. There should be a way to program reminders into GarageBand. Eat! Shower! Sleep! That kind of thing, you know?"

"Oh, hey, what were you doing with GarageBand? Do you play?"

"Yeah, guitar and drums, mostly," Patrick said. "I write songs, too – I mean, kind of, anyway. I'm pretty crap with lyrics."

"Hey, no, that's cool," Pete said. "The internet is full of emo kids who can't write anything but lyrics. Hell, I write lyrics. Actually, you wanna see? Maybe there's something you can use."

"Uh, sure!" Patrick said. He hadn't heard too many good things about Pete's band, although apparently they were pretty popular with the hardcore scene; but then, he was on bass, so maybe he didn't really have much to do with the music. Anyway, it wasn't like he'd actually have to use the lyrics or anything, and Patrick was always up for talking about music.

Pete all but dragged him up the stairs by the wrist like an overenthusiastic puppy. Patrick stuffed the last bit of pizza into his mouth while they went, and then wiped his hands on his jeans before accepting the battered black notebook Pete handed him. They stretched out side by side across one of Pete's twin beds. It felt a little weird, reading Pete's words with Pete watching him intently; only for a little while, though, and then Patrick got distracted enough to all but forget about his audience.

There was a good rhythm to the words, at least the parts that were halfway coherent. He'd have to rearrange some lines, throw out a whole bunch, but it was still a lot better than anything Patrick could come up with, heartfelt and clever and pretty fucking mean in places. He realized he was humming under his breath when he looked up and found Pete smiling at him. "Yeah?" Pete said.

"There's some pretty cool stuff in there. You maybe want to meet up some time and try to write some music?" Patrick said, and then quickly added, "I mean, if you're okay with me using this." Some of the words felt very personal, almost too intimate to be comfortable reading material while Pete was right there, watching him.

"Sure, that's why I showed you," Pete said. He took the notebook back and placed it carefully on the nightstand. They were silent for a moment, Pete looking at him intently for no reason Patrick could figure out. Patrick wasn't quite sure what to say. Pete had just basically allowed him to read his diary, or at least that's what it felt like; some of those lyrics were far too angry to be entirely fictional.

Pete broke the silence before it could get weird, sitting up suddenly like he'd come to a decision. "Come on, I wanna show you something," he said, wrapping his fingers around Patrick's wrist again and tugging him to his feet.

He pulled Patrick up a set of narrow steps into an attic crowded almost to the ceiling with boxes and old furniture. "Watch your head," he said automatically, and then laughed. "Wait, no, never mind. You're even shorter than I am, aren't you?"

Patrick straightened up carefully, but the ceiling was indeed a couple of inches above his head. "I might not be done growing," he said, somewhat defensively.

Pete snickered. "Yeah, that's what I kept telling myself, too. You just keep on dreaming."

Patrick reached out to smack him, but Pete was already out of reach, climbing over a stack of boxes and squeezing through a narrow gap between a brown corduroy couch and a rusty bike. Patrick followed him carefully. He hadn't see any spiders yet, but he didn't exactly want to find a web with his face, either. Plus there were about ten billion things to hit your head on.

"We inherited this house from one of mom's aunts. She was, like, the worst packrat ever, we don't even know where half this stuff comes from, it can't all have been hers," Pete said, ducking around the broken legs of a table that has fallen on its side. "Mom keeps swearing she'll go through and get rid of all the stuff we don't need, but then she never actually gets around to it. Anyway, the thing is…" He seemed to have found whatever he was looking for, because he turned around and nudged a little brown cardboard box towards Patrick, gesturing at him to open it – "-no one would ever miss this stuff, if you wanted it."

"What is it?" Patrick asked, confused.

Pete shook his head and sat on the floor next to the box. "Just open it, okay?" he said.

Patrick frowned at him, but he crouched down and reached for the box. The flaps were all tucked underneath each other, so it took him a second to figure out how to get it open. Pete was watching him anxiously, which just made him fumble more.

There was a layer of grey tissue paper over the contents, and then – "Oh," Patrick said softly. It was underwear, thin and lacy and made of something soft and silky – real silk, even, he thought – a red corset top and matching panties with black lace trimming, a black garter belt and stockings. He touched it with a curious finger, and then quickly pulled back when he remembered Pete, who was still watching him intently. "Is this-" he started, but he didn't quite know what he wanted to say: …for me?...a joke?

"Look, I don't want to make you uncomfortable or anything, and if you want, we can just go downstairs and listen to Bowie and forget I ever said anything. But, like I said, I'm pretty sure my parents don't even know this is here, so. You could have it, if you want." Pete was tugging at a loose thread on his jeans, not looking at him at all.

"I. I don't know," Patrick said, completely thrown. He knew his face was bright red, he could feel his cheeks burning with it. Pete wasn't mocking him though, not laughing at all; just waiting, with a patient, guarded expression on his face, like whatever Patrick decided was fine with him. Like Patrick could put the box down and take him up on the offer of Bowie albums and he'd never, ever mention the topic again. It made it easier to decide. "I'd, uh. Yeah. I want it," he said, clearing his throat when his voice broke a little over the words.

Pete smiled at him, big and genuine. "Great," he said, tucking the box closed and pushing it into Patrick's arms. "Come on, let's get out of here before the dust bunnies decide to come out and eat us."

They went back down to Pete's room, but there was a tension hovering between them that hadn't been there before. Patrick couldn't stop thinking of the little brown box sitting next to his jacket on the floor, and he suddenly found himself completely unable to think of anything to talk about. It was exactly the awkward silence he'd been afraid of an hour ago, although possibly magnified by ten. Patrick was pretty sure he was still red in the face.

Pete was fidgeting with his hoodie strings again, bouncing his leg against the bed, clearly just as much at a loss as Patrick was. That was pretty comforting, actually. Pete had been so smooth about the entire thing; it was good to know that Patrick wasn't the only one who felt like a bumbling teenager.

"Do you-" Patrick started, meaning to suggest they go look at the vinyl collection, but at the same time Pete blurted out:

"Do you want to put it on?"

"I. What?" Patrick said, staring at him, completely thrown for a loop once more. "You mean, like, here? Now?"

"Uh. Yeah?" Pete said. He was blushing pretty fiercely himself now, bright red creeping up under his tan. "I mean, you could just lock yourself in my brother's room, if you wanted – at least here you can be sure your parents aren't going to walk in on you, right? But, yeah, I'd like to watch. If you don't mind. I'd love to."

He'd curled in on himself, his bangs hiding half his face and the hood shadowing the rest. It was hard to see the expression on his face, but he looked at least as nervous as Patrick felt.

Patrick hesitated, biting his nails until he realized he was doing it and made himself stop. This was probably a bad idea. He barely even knew Pete, for god's sake! But he was painfully hard, had been hard since he'd first touched that soft red silk, and there was something about the way Pete had been watching him so intently, pupils blown wide, that had made every sensation even more intense. The thought of Pete watching like that while he put the stuff on made his dick twitch sharply. Probably this was one of those things that only ever seemed like a good idea while you were hard and really turned on, but right now, he wanted it with a scary intensity.

"I. Yeah. Okay," he said, ducking his head when his voice came out croaky and rough.

"Wow, really?" Pete said, lifting his head and smiling so widely he ended up looking ten years younger; like a kid that found the pony under the Christmas tree. "Wow. Awesome."

They sat in silence for a minute that felt like a torturously awkward eternity while Patrick tried to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do now. Just strip down right here in front of Pete, in the middle of the room? Go and get changed in the bathroom? Was there some sort of etiquette for wearing women's lingerie in front of a guy you hardly knew? His dick didn't seem to care about the awkwardness at all; it was pressing painfully against the zipper of his pants.

"You wanna shave your legs? You can use my razor, I don't mind," Pete offered into the silence.

"Um, no?" Patrick said, staring at him. "I just really don't want to get beat up in the locker room that badly."

"Hey, we don't have any PE for the next three weeks, remember?" Pete said. "Mr. Franklin's not going to be walking on that leg any time soon, Mrs. Worth is on maternity leave now, and Mr. Dumbee won't be back till the 15th. Your hair's gonna be all grown back by the next time we have to see a locker room."

"Right," Patrick said slowly. Pete was right, he should have remembered. Still… "You think I should, then?" he said hesitantly.

Pete shrugged. "I don't know, man, it's your kink. I think it would be hotter, though."

So that's how Patrick ended up balancing with one leg up on the sink in Pete's bathroom, trying not to fall over and cut his own Achilles tendon, while Pete perched on the toilet seat and tried to be helpful.

"I don't know about this, dude, I think you have to go against the grain when you're doing your legs. Haven't you ever seen any of those commercials?"

Patrick groaned. "They always have a bathtub to brace their legs on in those commercials, too. This stupid angle does not help, you know? And now shut up before I remember that I'm holding a nice sharp blade. Or, like, five of them. What do you have such an ridiculously expensive razor for, anyway?"

"Hey, I have sensitive skin, what can I do!" Pete said, but at least he shut up after that, and Patrick managed to finish without nicking himself more than once.

"Looks good," Pete said, dragging one callused finger across the newly bare skin. Patrick shivered and quickly pulled his leg away. Fuck, he was so hard, all he wanted to do was put his hand around his cock and just let go. But that wasn't the plan.

"You, uh, do you have any make-up?" he asked, clearing his throat. He'd never done more than put on a bit of stolen lipstick, but it felt right, and if he was going to go all-out anyway, why the hell not, right?

"I can get some," Pete said. "Don't go anywhere!"

He ran out and came back with a stick of eyeliner, a miniature tin of light blue eye-shadow of the kind they handed out in drugstores as samples sometimes, still in its original packaging, and a tube of lipstick.

"The lipstick is totally my mom's, but she's never used it, and I can replace it before she gets back, so that's practically completely uncreepy," Pete said with a grin.

Patrick laughed. "Man, you are such a freak, you know that?" he said.

"Oh, look who's talking," Pete said, but it was clearly just automatic banter, with such a complete lack of spite in his voice that Patrick couldn't take it the wrong way.

Pete held up the make-up. "Let me put it on you? I promise I know what I'm doing," he said.

Patrick didn't, not at all, so he shrugged and said, "Sure," and then immediately regretted the answer when Pete pushed him down to sit on the bed and knelt over his lap.

"Here, take your shirt off, or you're gonna end up smudging it later," Pete said, already tugging the shirt up while he talked, so Patrick's protest came out muffled and he was sitting there in just his boxers by the time he'd finished talking. He glared at Pete, but Pete was busy unpacking the eye-shadow and paid him no mind.

It was pretty much impossible to miss how hard Patrick was, sitting there in just his boxers. He had to fight the instinct to cover himself with his hands, but if Pete had noticed – and there was no way he couldn't have, really – he was ignoring it completely.

"Here, close your eyes," he said, pushing at Patrick's shoulder until he was leaning back a little, braced on his arms, and then bent over him, one hand splayed on Patrick's face holding his head still, and carefully started lining his eyes. He wasn't touching Patrick anywhere but his face, but Patrick was painfully aware that Pete's ass hovered just inches above his erection. It wouldn't take much at all to "accidentally" rub up against him. His dick thought that was a fantastic idea. Patrick clenched his teeth a little and concentrated on staying very, very still, breathing a sigh of relief when Pete finally made a satisfied sound and got off his lap.

"That's it – no, wait," he said, when Patrick headed towards the mirror in the bathroom. "Put the stuff on first, okay? That way you can get the full effect."

"Um. Okay," Patrick said, who would have been happy for a chance to stall some more. He opened the box and then just stood there, silky little panties in hand, shifting a little from foot to foot. "Um."

"Here, I'll turn around, is that better?" Pete offered, flopping facedown on his bed and sprawling out like a giant starfish. "No peeking, I promise!"

Patrick laughed a little, both at Pete and at himself – it was a little silly to feel so self-conscious by this point, wasn't it? – but he really did feel better getting changed while Pete's back was turned. He pulled his boxers down and kicked them into a corner, and then carefully slid the panties up his leg. The delicate silk caught a little on the rough skin of his fingertips, but it settled perfectly around his cock, clinging tightly. The fabric covering the tip got wet almost immediately, and Patrick couldn't resist reaching down and stroking himself, just a little bit, silk whispering over the hot skin. He tried to be quiet, but his breath hitched audibly on the inhale. Pete must have heard, could probably guess what he was doing, but he didn't react at all, didn't turn to look.

Patrick pulled the garter belt over his hips. He had to fumble a little until he got it situated the right way, or at least what he hoped was the right way, and then he ended up having to sit down so he could roll the stockings up his legs without falling over. He was intensely glad that Pete wasn't watching him. He didn't think he looked very sexy right then, awkward teenage boy stumbling over his own hands and feet.

The corset was short enough that it must have been meant to go underneath a woman's breasts, so it framed his nipples without any extra material bunching up around his chest. It closed with a row of tiny hooks in the back. No way in hell was he getting it done up on his own. He slowly got to his feet, silk stockings whispering over his legs, corset dangling from his hand; cleared his throat.

"Pete? Come help me with this?" His voice hitched with nervousness.

Pete was staring at him when he got up, eyes wide and very dark, but he didn't say anything, just gestured for Patrick to turn around. Pete's fingers were a little clumsy on the tiny hooks, but he got it done quickly enough. The corset closed tight around Patrick's waist, but thankfully not tight enough to restrict his breathing or cut into his skin.

"All done," Pete said, brushing his fingers over Patrick's shoulder for a moment. His palm was sweaty. "Here, there's a mirror on the inside of the closet door –" He opened it until Patrick could see his reflection. His breath caught.

"Look at you, you're fucking gorgeous," Pete said in a low, rough voice. He touched a finger to the startling red on Patrick's lips, and then hesitantly reached out, brushing the silk on Patrick's hip, careful, like he was half waiting for Patrick to smack his hand away. Patrick stood very still, muscles quivering a little with tension. It was too much and not enough all at once; he wanted to push into Pete's touch, shove Pete's hand down and wrap it around his cock. At the same time, all his nerves were quivering with tension already, overstimulated.

He'd known where this was going, of course, ever since Pete had asked to watch. On some level, he'd probably suspected it when he'd accepted Pete's invitation in the first place. Still, this was so far from everything he could possibly have imagined his first time would be like, and he felt suddenly at a loss, paralyzed with nerves. He wanted to touch Pete, touch himself, but he wasn't sure what he was allowed to do, how far Pete wanted him to go, if Pete wanted him to do anything at all. Maybe he just wanted to watch, maybe -

"I really want to suck you off," Pete said, two fingers slipping underneath the garter belt to stroke over naked skin, dispelling Patrick's misgivings like so much fog. "Please, can I-"

"Oh god, yes please," Patrick said, dimly aware that he probably sounded way too desperate. He didn't really care. He felt desperate, like he'd happily beg for it if Pete wanted to make him.

But Pete was sliding to his knees already, tilting Patrick back towards the mirror with a hand on his hip. "Here, watch yourself, you wanna see this," he murmured, and then he bent down and nuzzled the naked skin between the stockings and the straps connecting them to the garter belt. Patrick gasped, steadying himself with a hand on Pete's shoulder. Pete was still fully dressed, and the thick material of his hoodie felt completely incongruous under Patrick's hand in the middle of sex.

"Hey, can you take off your hoodie?" he asked, his voice trailing off into a moan somewhere in the middle when Pete tilted his head and rubbed his cheek against Patrick's balls through the panties. "Oh fuck. Ohfuck, don't stop, don't-" Pete chuckled against his skin, pulled back just long enough to skin out of his hoodie and t-shirt, and then went right back to it, breathing hotly through the material, licking with long strokes until the thin silk was so soaked he might as well have been touching Patrick's bare skin.

Patrick scrabbled for purchase on the smooth, sweat-slick skin of his back and ended up with his hand threaded through the thick black hair at the back of Pete's neck, trying very hard not to pull. He was still staring at them in the mirror, Pete's muscular back, the tattoo winding around his neck, and himself, soft pale skin framed by silk and lace. Pete seemed perfectly happy to settle in and keep on teasing, pink tongue darting out against the base of Patrick's cock, occasionally turning his head a little to watch the two of them in the mirror, making low happy noises against Patrick's skin.

Patrick's hand was clenching in his hair, trying to tug him up higher. He was pretty sure that was a violation of blowjob etiquette, but Pete really needed to stop teasing him now or he was going to die, just fall over and drop dead right here in front of Pete's mirror. "Please," he said, breathless, "Pete, come on, please-"

Pete didn't complain, though; he just went with the insistent tug in his hair, placing a sucking kiss on the tip of Patrick's cock through the silk. "Shh, relax, I got you," he said, his lips just brushing Patrick's skin, and then he tugged the panties down enough to free Patrick's cock and swallowed him down, almost to the base in one go. Patrick made an utterly ridiculous noise and folded to his knees. Pete kept his hand on his hips, balancing him until he'd settled down, and then bent down and started sucking again.

There was a hot stab of embarrassment somewhere in the back of Patrick's mind, the uncomfortable knowledge that he probably looked ridiculous right now, red-faced and panting and in a heap on the floor, but there wasn't anything he could do about it right now. All coherent thoughts were graying out into static under the rush of pleasure. It was all he could do to hang on and not make himself look like any more of an inexperienced loser by coming after five seconds; and then Pete found a quick, perfect rhythm, one hand cradling Patrick's balls, tongue flicking against that sensitive spot just under the head on every upstroke, and even that became impossible.

"Pete, Pete," he said urgently, trying to pull Pete off, but Pete made a sound in the back of his throat, batted Patrick's hand away and swallowed around him until Patrick got too sensitive to stand even the light touch of his tongue.

Patrick let himself collapse the rest of the way, sprawling on his back and blinking up at Pete, who was scraping his tongue against his teeth and making a face. "Fuck, sorry," he said, suddenly embarrassed again. "I tried to warn you, you just wouldn't-"

"Nah, it's fine," Pete said. "I'd just never… You liked it, though, right?" he interrupted whatever he'd been about to say. "It was good?"

He was looking at Patrick as intently as if the answer to that question could possible be anything but completely obvious; he'd just come in Pete's mouth. Amazing didn't begin to cover it. "It was really good," he said, a little confused, and something in Pete's face relaxed as if he'd actually been worried. He was too tired to think much about it, though, still floating on a cloud of post-orgasm endorphins. All he wanted right now was to lie sprawled on the carpet for a little longer.

He opened his eyes at a soft touch on his stomach. Pete was wiping at the trails of come with his discarded t-shirt. "Oh, hey, I can do that," he said, reaching for the t-shirt, but Pete didn't let go.

"Let me?" he said. "You can sleep some more or whatever."

Patrick hadn't been sleeping, but he didn't protest, just lay there with his eyes half-shut as Pete tossed the t-shirt into a corner and kept touching him, trailing his fingertips along the edges of the lace, slipping them just under the waistband just a bit, almost shyly, as if he hadn't just had his hands and mouth all over Patrick.

Patrick wasn't quite sure what to do. Pete was clearly hard, cock pressing visibly against the crotch of his tight jeans, but he didn't say anything, didn't touch himself, just watched his own hands moving over Patrick's skin. Patrick's fingers itched to reach out and touch him, but he didn't know if it would be welcome. For all Patrick knew, Pete got off on watching. He certainly seemed to like having Patrick spread out like this. It wasn't like Pete had been shy about anything else, so far. If he wanted Patrick to do something, he'd say so, right?

On the other hand, it seemed a little impolite not to at least offer. You were supposed to reciprocate in bed after all, right? And, fuck it, he wanted to touch; if Pete would rather have himself a voyeurism fest, he could damn well say so.

He caught one of Pete's wandering hands, and when Pete looked up at him he made himself say "Want me to suck you off?" quickly, before he could lose his nerve.

He needn't have worried. Pete stared at him with wide eyes for a moment and then said "Oh hell yeah." He jumped up to sit on the edge of the bed with his legs spread. "Here, can we do it like this? I wanna see you."

Patrick shrugged. "Sure, I guess," he said, fitting himself between Pete's thighs. Pete made a choked little sound when Patrick started fiddling with the zipper on his jeans, tilting his hips into the touch. Patrick rubbed his fingers over the outline of his cock, curious; he could feel the heat of it even through the thick material. Pete touched a finger to the corner of Patrick's painted mouth. Patrick automatically turned his head to catch it with his tongue, and Pete gasped.

"God, if you could see yourself right now," he said, his voice rough and a little broken, and Patrick felt himself blush fiercely as he realized what he must look like, kneeling in front of Pete in a corset and garters; if he hadn't just come, the image would have had him hard in seconds. As it was, he felt his cock twitch a little.

He ducked his head and busied himself getting Pete naked, fumbling with the button and getting the zipper stuck, feeling terribly self-conscious; he had no real clue what he was doing, and he was pretty sure it showed.

He finally got Pete's jeans and boxers out of the way. Pete's cock was flushed dark red, the tip shining wetly. Patrick let himself hesitate for just a moment, wrapping his hand around the base, licking one careful stripe over the head. It tasted salty, but not at all disgusting.

Pete was restlessly carding his fingers through Patrick's hair, not pushing or directing, but Patrick was pretty sure he was getting impatient. He was strung tight with tension, almost vibrating under Patrick's hand. "This is like the best porn ever, you have no idea," Pete said weakly, and then Patrick took a deep breath and swallowed him down, and Pete let himself fall back on his elbows and gave a moan that sounded more like pain than pleasure, his hips twitching under Patrick's hands.

Apparently, his lack of technique wasn't going to be an issue. Patrick bobbed his head maybe two times, sucking experimentally, and then Pete was pushing him off and curling in on himself, coming all over his own stomach in long spurts.

He collapsed flat on his back when he was done, throwing an arm over his face. "Oh god, sorry. That was, like, not smooth at all, fuck," he said, muffled, from under it. The half of his face that Patrick could see was bright red.

"It's fine!" Patrick said. "I mean, I don't mind or anything." It was sort of amazing, actually, to think that he'd made Pete lose it like that. He sat on the edge of the bed, fidgeting with a thread that had unraveled from the bedspread. He still felt a little tired, and he sort of wanted to curl up next to Pete and – okay, if he was honest with himself, he really kind of wanted to cuddle. Now that the endorphins had worn off there was a weird, hollow feeling in his stomach, and he felt way too aware that he was sitting here in freaking panties with make-up probably smeared all over his face; a hug would just feel really good right now. He wasn't going to be stupid or girly about this, though, no way.

"I should maybe go now?" he said. It came out more questioning than he'd meant.

Pete came out from under his arm fast enough that Patrick could see his face fall before he plastered a big smile all over it. "If you want, I guess?" he said, and then he shook his head like a dog and said "Oh, fuck this. Don't go. Please? Just, stay for a little bit at least. I'll make it worth your while, I promise. We could sleep for a bit, and then I can suck you off in the shower, it's gonna be awesome. Yeah?" He was looking at Patrick hopefully, all wide puppy-dog eyes and pleading smile.

"Yeah, okay," Patrick said, ducking his head a little to hide his smile, and when he looked back up, the expression on Pete's face had softened into something a lot more convincingly happy.

Pete stretched his arm across the bed in obvious invitation, so Patrick crawled up and stretched out with his head pillowed in the crook of Pete's elbow, careful to leave a little space between them. He drifted for a little, half-asleep; every time he opened his eyes again, it seemed Pete had crept a little closer, until Patrick was almost sure he was doing it on purpose. Sure enough, anyway; he faked a yawn and turned onto his side, shuffling back a little until his back was resting against Pete's side, closing the gap between them completely. Pete gave what sounded like a sigh of relief and immediately plastered himself against Patrick's back, resting his forehead against the back of Patrick's neck and a hand on his stomach. Patrick put his hand on top of Pete's and smiled into his pillow.

They lay like that for maybe half an hour, neither of them sleeping, but too comfortable to move. At some point, Pete laced their fingers together, and Patrick squeezed his hand a little. "Stay the night," Pete whispered into the back of his neck, and then laughed a little, that same weird donkey bray but quieter, tickling the hairs at the nape of his neck, and added, "I still owe you those Bowie records."

"Well, if you put it that way," Patrick said, wrapping Pete's arm tighter around himself.

The End