zeegoeshere

Continued from Part One

*

"You have to let me hear it," Pete says, putting his chin on Patrick's shoulder and wrapping his arms tightly around Patrick's waist. "You have to, come on. You can't just, like, hide yourself away all fucking day and refuse sex in order to be a freakish workaholic and then not show me."

Patrick laughs and half-heartedly tries to pry Pete off him. "I just think we should wait until we're all in the studio tomorrow. Let's go out and do something, come on."

"You have the start of a groundbreaking, platinum album in your hands and you refuse to show me," Pete says dramatically, blowing a raspberry on Patrick's neck when Patrick tries to move forward. "That is the deepest betrayal."

"I don't have--man, what if you don't like it?" Patrick says, but he's laughing. "And I haven't fine-tuned anything yet, it's all just rough ideas."

"You've slaved away over these demos for the last two days and you seriously think I won't like it? Paaaatrick."

"No whining," Patrick says, reaching over his shoulder to cuff Pete lightly on the head. His hand gets mostly just hair. "Any more whining and no blowjobs for you."

"I'll trade blowjobs for getting to hear your shit," Pete says, fast enough that it startles Patrick and makes him question his talents at giving head. "Seriously, like, you don't even need to show me the whole thing, just give me a sneak preview before showing the guys tomorrow! Please? Pretty please?"

Patrick hesitates. He had really wanted to keep the record out of their home life when he agreed to move in, and he still thinks that's the best idea, but he also knows that even if he gets Pete to give up now, Pete will be nagging him the next time he knows Patrick is working on something for the album. It's a battle he's already lost.

"Fine," he says eventually, and Pete whoops and buries his face in the crook of Patrick's neck, and then tries to kiss him, only Pete's still behind him so he mostly gets Patrick's nose and cheek.

Pete bounces slightly sitting next to him as Patrick pulls up garage band on his laptop, but he stills when Patrick plays what he has. He doesn't say anything as Patrick plays every sample and demo he's made in the past week, and when Patrick finishes and looks over, Pete's head is tilted to the side and there's a faint line between his eyebrows.

"Well?" Patrick says. "Does it live up to the crazed amounts of hype you had in your freaky little head?"

Pete glances at Patrick and then quickly away, giving a short burst of laughter. "Yeah, I mean, damn, it's good, it's great. You're amazing, man."

Pete doesn't like it. Patrick feels himself sag with disappointment, because fuck, he knows he's stretching the boundaries with these demos, but somehow it hadn't occurred to him that Pete wouldn't be on the same page. "And...?"

Pete meets his eyes again, cringing a bit. "It just--they don't really sound like Fall Out Boy songs."

"That can be a good thing. People expect bands to grow with new material, Pete." Patrick's lips are pressed into a thin line, and he can already feel his temper flaring up.

"No, I know," Pete says. "I agree, but--but I mean, don't you think that this sound is a little off with the lyrics?"

"We can work on that, the lyrics aren't set in stone," Patrick says, and Pete frowns a little. "Uh, neither is the music, obviously," he adds hurriedly when Pete scowls.

"I hope it isn't. No offense, man, but this is a straight-up funk beat. It's a *good* funk beat, but--"

"So you just want to make something that's cookie-cutter and boring and exactly what people expect?" Patrick snaps. "I thought we agreed we wanted to branch out from Cork Tree."

"We do," Pete says. "But this is you and, like, Prince, it's not our band. And it doesn't work with the words."

"God, try to see beyond that for a fucking second!"

"You're not even acknowledging that it's a conflict!" Pete says, voice rising to meet Patrick's. "It sounds like an unintentional mash-up, man, they just don't go together!"

"I'm trying to develop something new, it's not my fault that the lyrics are stale," Patrick snaps, and immediately regrets it.

Pete's eyebrows go up and his jaw drops. "Sorry I haven't grown enough as a fucking artist for you," he says, standing with his fists at his sides.

"That--that came out wrong," Patrick tries, but Pete is already stalking out the front door, letting it slam behind him.

Patrick sits for a couple moments, then reaches out and carefully shuts his laptop. He twists around and punches the couch hard, several times before letting out a frustrated yell and flopping back down.

He needs to get out of this fucking house. He's out the door by the time he remembers the text message from earlier today, one that he'd ignored because he was working. My Chemical Romance are apparently in town, Frank apparently still has his number, and meeting him and his girlfriend and Bob for dinner beats driving around L.A. by himself while fuming about Pete.

It's a vegan place in Hollywood, and when Patrick enters he sees Frank jump up out of his seat and start waving manically as Bob rubs his palm over his face and Jamia giggles. Frank laughs, too, and makes his way over to them.

"Where's Pete?" is the first thing Frank says. "According to Mikey you guys're all joined at the hip and shit."

"Yeah, I was counting on being the fifth wheel. Way to let me down," Bob says, flat enough that Patrick laughs even though the mention of Pete makes his gut twist up.

"He's off in some meeting for the label," Patrick says. "I'm a free man tonight."

"Exciting," Frank says. "Dude, you have to try the steak portabello here, it will make you see God."

Chatting with them is fun. Patrick hasn't kept in touch with this band the way Pete's kept in touch with Mikey, but there've been emails and the occasional phone call, and he's excited that they're in the same place at the same time again. It makes LA feel less alien, makes it feel just a little bit like Warped.

When Patrick asks how their recording is going, Frank puts his fork down, Jamia makes a face and pushes her hair behind her ears, and Bob frowns into his salad.

“It’s going okay,” Frank says. “There are always, you know, bumps in the road. And stuff.”

“It’s gonna go better now,” Bob adds, staring at Frank. “We just had to figure some issues out, that’s all.”

Patrick wishes he hadn’t asked. They both suck at covering up for whatever it is they’re trying to cover, and Patrick feels like he intruded on something private.

Jamia looks between them and then looks at Patrick. “There’s just been some drama-rama,” she says. “Because these boys have lived in vans for three years and don’t know how to be actual human beings.”

Patrick laughs, and Frank digs an elbow into Jamia’s side, making her yelp. The tension is broken, but there’s still an uncharacteristic tightness around Frank’s mouth. When Patrick meets Bob’s eyes, Bob lifts an eyebrow and quirks his lips, a silent acknowledgement that yeah, things are a little weird.

“There’s always drama when you’re in studio,” Patrick says lightly. “I’m sure Fall Out Boy is in for some of its own.”

“Yeah,” Frank says, perking up. “How’s your record going, anyway?”

Patrick doesn’t know if it’s just because he feels awkward after seeing that weird display of My Chemical Romance’s vulnerability, but he spills. “Frustrating already. Pete is—“ he stops and takes a bite to shut himself up.

He wipes his mouth; the other three are still looking at him expectantly. “There’s friction, you know?”

“Lovers spats or music spats?” Frank says, then “Ow!” when Bob kicks him, obviously, under the table.

Patrick smiles, because somehow he can’t mind the nosiness, coming from Frank. “Neither? Or both, I don’t know. Mostly, I just really think I need to not be living in the same house with my main collaborator.”

And he hadn’t realized he thought that until he said it, but wow, yeah, it’s totally true. Living with Pete in his big new house in L.A. is totally different from living with him in vans and buses, and the fight today only increased concerns that Patrick had already had about this album. He doesn’t want to negotiate writing songs for Pete’s lyrics while living with him.

Frank and Bob look at each other again, and Patrick feels that weird shadow of uneasiness come back. “Yeah,” Frank says. “Yeah, it can be not such a great idea to live with your band while you’re trying to make an album together.”

Patrick doesn’t really know what to say to that. He shrugs and goes back to his sandwich, and then Frank nudges him.

“Do you have any other place to stay aside from Pete’s house?” Frank’s speaking to Patrick, but waggling his eyebrows at Bob, and he yelps when Bob kicks him again.

“Uh, I’m kind of a rock star, I’m sure I can manage to get myself an apartment somewhere,” Patrick says, but Frank is already going on.

“You should live with Bob. You should *totally* live with Bob,” Frank says, ducking to avoid a swat from Bob. “He just moved into this new place and it’s huuuuge, and it would be perfect if you guys were roomies, it’d be like our bands are married or something!”

“No, sweetie, it really wouldn’t be,” Jamia says laughing, but Frank is sitting up and beaming around at all of them like he’s just solved world peace or something.

“Um, that’s okay, I wouldn’t want to invade Bob’s space like that,” Patrick says, while Bob says “Why the hell would he want to live with me when he can choose any ritzy place in L.A.?” to Frank.

“He’d want to live with you because it would be awesome! Don’t you think it would be awesome, Patrick?” Frank demands.

“Uh,” Patrick says through laughter, and Bob buries his face in his hands, and Jamia says “You *have* been complaining about how it’s more space than you need,” and Patrick knows they’re fucked: he could maybe defend himself against just Frank, but not against the two of them.

“It’s settled, then,” Frank says, and Bob actually growls.

“You are such a little asshole,” he says. “I’m not going to make someone live with me against their will just because you’re feeling like a real estate matchmaker—“

“It’s not against my will, I’d be cool with it,” Patrick says quickly, mostly to be polite but—but actually, yeah, he would be cool with it. “I just don’t want to, uh, foist myself on you, that’s all.”

Bob looks at him in surprise. “I really was going to look for a roommate. It’s too much space for just me,” he says slowly, and Frank crows in victory.

The more Patrick thinks about it, the more he likes the idea, and he can tell that Bob is pleased as well. He has a small smile on his face for the rest of the dinner, and every time Patrick meets Bob’s eyes they grin at each other. For the first time, Patrick feels optimistic about the summer beyond just the new album; he feels like he could actually have some fun.

***

It’s pretty shitty of him, probably, to be excited about moving in with a cool friend for the summer, considering that he’s moving out of his boyfriend’s house to do it. He feels too relieved to be guilty, but he does feel guilty about not feeling guilty, and the guilt increases and twists in his stomach once he says goodbye to Frank, Jamia and Bob (Bob says he can start moving his stuff in tomorrow if he wants; the futon is ready to go) and starts driving back to Pete’s house.

He takes the long way back, circling around blocks and stopping at yellow lights until he can’t put it off any longer, and pulls in to Pete’s driveway. It’s still weird for him to think of Pete living here, in this giant house with a pool and a locked gate and a tight security system. Patrick’s house in Chicago is similar, but this is in L.A., and—and things have changed for them, that’s all.

The house is totally dark when Patrick lets himself in, but Pete is sitting on the couch in the living room, and he stands as soon as he sees Patrick.

“Where the hell have you been?” he says in a ragged voice.

“I just went out to dinner with friends,” he says, crossing the room to Pete. "Look, I'm really sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean what I said, at *all,* I was just pissed off.”

“I thought you were gone for good,” Pete says, taking a step towards Patrick. “I thought you had just fucking—left me, moved out. It’s fucking midnight, man, you couldn’t have called or texted me or—do you know what it’s *felt* like, the past few hours?”

"Oh, geez. I'm sorry, Pete, I wouldn't do that, I wouldn't just walk out on you." You are going to be so furious when I tell you what I decided tonight. “I didn't know you'd be that worried and I didn't know I'd be out so late."

Pete lets out a little strangled sound, and it’s still too dark for Patrick to see the look on his face. But he steps into Patrick’s space and cups Patrick’s jaw, pulling him in for a kiss, and it’s hot and sweet and bruising and Patrick pulls Pete in closer.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Pete whispers, a desperate edge to his voice. “Or we could just—do it on the couch, come on—“

He’s already dragging Patrick towards the couch, kissing down his lips and jaw and neck, and Patrick wants to; he wants to leave what he has to say until morning, he wants makeup sex, he wants to fall asleep with Pete in his arms.

They fall onto the cushions and Pete buries his face in Patrick’s shoulder, mouthing at the skin there and tugging Patrick’s jacket off. His hands move over Patrick’s chest and torso like they’re pushing for something, demanding and searching, and Patrick grasps his wrists and holds him off and back.

“I need,” he says, panting, and swallows. “I need to talk to you about something, actually.”

“Tell me later,” Pete says, squirming closer to Patrick, and Patrick puts a hand on Pete’s knee.

“No,” he says. “No, I—the thing is, Pete, um. I am moving out.”

Pete goes completely still, and Patrick cringes. He could possibly look like more of an asshole right now if he really tried, but it’s unlikely. Pete yanks his wrist out of Patrick’s hand.

“What?” he says. “What do you mean, you’re…”

And Patrick feels the twist of guilt again, because the childlike confusion is much, much worse than Pete raging at him.

“I’m not leaving *us,*” Patrick says. “I just think that it would be best if I didn’t live here while we’re recording.”

“I can’t believe this,” Pete says, pushing himself further away from Patrick. “You’re ready to bail after one fight?”

As if that was the first fight they’ve had since they got together, as if that was the first fight they’ve had this week. “No! No, jesus, I’m not bailing, I don’t want a break-up, I just. I just need to live somewhere else for a few months, just while we’re recording.”

“Bullshit,” Pete snarls. “Oh, right, it’s got everything to do with the fucking album and nothing to do with you being sick of me—“

“Fuck, Pete, how could you even—I’m not sick of you!” Patrick splutters. “That’s not how I feel, that’s not what this is about!”

“Oh, don’t try to pretend,” Pete says, sneering at him now and standing up. “You’ve been avoiding me, you’ve been totally distant—“

‘I’m working on three albums.”

“—you never want to be around me outside the studio or here, and you’re irritated by me all the time!” Pete finishes and glares, crossing his arms over his chest.

Not for the first time, Patrick wishes that he didn’t have a boyfriend who started fights like it was a competitive sport. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” he says, eventually. “I disagree with your notion that I hate you or something. I think that’s a faulty conclusion.”

Pete glares at him for a little longer, and then his shoulder slump. He crosses the living room with his back to Patrick, looking out the window at his driveway.

“This is stupid,” he says. “I don’t see why—I mean, fuck, we’ve been living together in a bus for like three years.”

“That’s way different from moving in together,” Patrick says. “I really—I don’t feel like one means we’re ready for the other.”

“We’ve shared an apartment before!”

“Yeah, with Joe when I was nineteen. And anyway, dude, I’m serious about this getting in the way of the album. Today’s not gonna be the first time we clash over studio stuff, and I don’t want it to get in the way of, you know, us.”

“What can I do to change your mind?” Pete says, turning back around to face him. “We can sleep in different bedrooms, we can have that rule about no studio crap in the house—“

“My mind’s made up,” Patrick says, and feels like an asshole. “I’m serious, Pete. I think this is for the best, just while we’re recording.”

Pete rocks back on his heels. “Fine,” he snaps. “Fine, but if you’re moving out you can fucking sleep in the guest room tonight.” He leaves the room, and Patrick’s exhaustion hits him all at once. He wants to just pass out where he’s sitting, doesn’t even want to make the effort to get to the guest room, but he drags himself upstairs and faceplants onto the bed, falling asleep immediately.

***

Pete is still grumpy the next day, but when Patrick hesitantly asks if he understands where Patrick is coming from, Pete reluctantly says he does. It's not okay yet, not exactly, but Pete does help him move his stuff into Bob's place. He's standoffish to Bob and he kisses Patrick slow and lewd in the doorway when he has to leave for an interview.

"See you tomorrow, in the studio," Pete says pointedly, glancing at Bob, and Patrick smiles and hugs Pete a little bit.

"Of course," he says. "Love you."

"You too," Pete says, squeezing Patrick's hand and then going.

Patrick turns to Bob, who is eating potato chips and has a mild, somewhat amused look on his face. “He still mad?”

Patrick scratches at the back of his neck. "A little. I'm mostly out of the doghouse, though."

Bob finishes his chips and crumples the bag. “Sorry.”

Patrick shrugs. “He said he understood. We just both need to be focused on work right now.”

Bob nods and smiles, and Patrick is struck by how different he looks from last year. It’s not the longer hair and the lost weight, not exactly, he just—he seems different. Maybe it’s the difference between being in a band for two years vs ten months; maybe it’s that they’re not on Warped; maybe it’s because he’s here in his own space, and Patrick’s not just seeing him in the context of the band.

Whatever the reason, Patrick finds that he’s staring. He shakes his head and looks away, and Bob says, “Speaking of work, sorry, but I’m bailing on helping you unpack—gotta head back to the studio for a bit. Rob’s cracking the whip.”

After he moves in, Patrick doesn’t see Bob for three days. Patrick is asleep by the time Bob gets back from the studio, and in the morning Patrick has an early meeting with Disashi to discuss the guitar bridge for Shoot Down The Stars, and he doesn’t see Bob before he has to rush out. Their schedules seem to overlap like that constantly, both of them busy with the boring, exhausting parts of being a rock star. It’s kind of a bummer, but time flies by too fast for Patrick to even really notice.

On Thursday night, around 3am, Patrick blinks awake to the muffled sound of voices and the front door closing. He sits up on his futon and, through the space where his door is open, he can see Bob and Ray. Bob has a hand on Ray’s shoulder and Ray is shaking his head.

“—just have to be patient with them, you know?” Patrick hears Bob say, and Ray snorts loudly before their voices drop back down to whispers. Patrick lies back down and tries to go back to sleep again, but shortly after he hears the front door close again, and when he sits up to look Bob is sitting alone on the couch. Bob is rubbing his hands over his face and his shoulders are slumped, and Patrick feels suddenly awkward and nervous. He has an urge to go out there and ask if anything’s wrong, or how Bob’s doing, or.

Patrick lies back down and rolls on his side so he can’t see the living room at all. He’s not going to be presumptuous; Bob is probably as stressed as Patrick is about recording, that’s all.

Patrick leaves the studio with Pete the next night. In the parking lot, Pete takes Patrick's hand and swings their arms back and forth. It makes Patrick think of elementary school, especially with Pete's big silly grin, and he laughs and bumps their shoulders together.

"Thank god it's Friday, hey. Freedom, right?" Pete says, squeezing Patrick's hand, and Patrick nods emphatically, even though recording an album isn't like a 9-5 job--the weekend is somewhat meaningless. But this weekend in particular is looking pretty blank, actually, like it has the potential to be relaxing.

"Let's hit up some kind of disgusting drive-through fast food on the way to your house, I'm starving." And then there's tonight, of course; Patrick is already thinking about making out with Pete in the entranceway of the huge house, maybe removing articles of clothing as they make their way upstairs to the bedroom, then taking things slow on the actual bed, taking his time with it.

"Actually," Pete says, facing Patrick with a smile that seems strange because his mouth is closed--it's not his big grin, it's not dorky, instead it's a look of intent. "I was thinking we'd head to your place."

"Really?" Patrick can't keep the surprise out of his voice, because the idea hadn't even occurred to him--he's been using the apartment as a place to crash and occasionally eat or play video games with Bob or do work on the album. He hasn't been *living* there, not really. "Sure, but--I mean, I have a futon on the floor, your place would be nicer."

"I've only seen your apartment for, like, ten minutes at a time," Pete says. "I want to spend the night there." Patrick can hear the barely unstated 'I want to fuck you there,' and it's one of those things that he might find exasperating on another day, but right now it starts a spark of arousal in his gut.

"Sure," Patrick says. "Let's just skip the food, then."

Pete doesn't touch Patrick as Patrick lets them into the building and they take the elevator up. He just stands with his hands in his pockets, wearing his usual dorky grin now and looking at Patrick like Patrick is the coolest toy ever. Patrick grins back, and for the time it takes for them to get from the first to the fourth floor, the world feels still and quiet. It feels like this is all there is, the two of them smiling at each other, and it's enough.

And then the floor dings, and Pete follows close behind Patrick to the door, well into his personal space. Patrick leans back against him briefly when he turns the key in the lock, and Bob isn't home, and as soon as the door is shut behind them Pete slips his hand around Patrick's waist and presses his face against Patrick's neck, breathing against his jaw.

It hits Patrick sometimes, that things weren't always like this with them--that in fact, for the vast majority of the time he's known Pete, they haven't had this kind of sexual, physical relationship. When Patrick looks back he can see that there'd been sexual tension, sure, but this ability he has now to turn his head and kiss Pete with this kind of intent, that's still relatively new. It doesn't seem that way at all, though; it seems like the most natural thing in the world, and already Patrick can't picture being around Pete and not having it.

"Mm," Patrick says when Pete pushes Patrick up against the wall, already undoing Patrick's belt. "My room--seriously, my room, I don't want Bob to come home to-- aah," he stutters out when Pete runs his tongue over his collarbone and then up his neck, fast and then slow.

"Never any fun, Stump," Pete says in between pecks to Patrick's mouth. "Fine, fine, lead the way."

Patrick tugs them into his room and they end up making out while kneeling on the futon. Pete has pushed Patrick's t-shirt up to his armpits and Patrick has one hand shoved down the back of Pete's pants to grope his ass. Patrick has always loved this stage, when you haven't gotten to the sex yet because you're so nuts with desire that you can't stop touching the other person long enough to get clothes off. Pete's the one who breaks first, swearing and breaking the kisses to tug Patrick's shirt off of him and then undoing his own fly, pushing his pants down.

"Finally," Pete says when they're both naked, breathless as he pulls Patrick down on top of him. "I haven't touched your dick in, like, days."

"So crazy," Patrick says, smirking. But it really kind of *is* nuts that they go so long without sex these days, when it always feels like on tour, they have their hands in each other's pants for 90% of their waking hours. What's weirder, Patrick thinks a little guiltily, is that the lack of that now hasn't really bothered him: he's been way too preoccupied with the album, with making music.

But he's not preoccupied now, and he still loves the noises Pete makes when Patrick makes his way down his body, biting at Pete's nipples, licking a line over his belly button, kissing *that* tattoo. And Pete always manages to somehow sound surprised at this part, letting out a soft "oh" when Patrick handles his cock and licks the tip.

Patrick grins up at him and Pete just pants, his hand coming up to rest lightly on Patrick's neck and shoulder. Pete groans loud when Patrick goes down, and Patrick works with the motion of his hips, closes his eyes and lets his head bob.

Patrick doesn't suck him until he comes. He pulls off, saying, "God, okay, I want to fuck you now. Or, do you want--?"

But Pete is already shaking his head. "No, yeah, that works, you can fuck me," he says dazedly, already turning over onto his stomach. Patrick sits up, kneels and takes a moment to appreciate the view, the arch of Pete's spine and the spread of his thighs. He fishes around in the pile of miscellaneous crap by his bed until he finds the lotion, and Pete lets out a long sigh and pushes back against him when Patrick pushes a slicked-up finger in.

"Now," Pete says, shortly after Patrick adds a second finger, and Patrick snorts at the bossiness of it.

"Yeah," he says, taking his fingers out and slicking himself up. "Yeah, oh, Pete," and it's so good when he guides himself in, so good when Pete arches up into it, so good when Patrick grabs Pete's hand and holds it down against the sheets.

After the first two thrusts, Pete says, "Fuck, okay, can we--let me up for a second?" Patrick leans up off him and Pete gets on his hands and knees. "Try now," Pete says, craning his neck to speak over his shoulder, and Patrick takes Pete's hips in both hands and thrusts back in, slower this time.

"Better?" he asks, and Pete nods. Patrick shifts until he's got the leverage right on his end, and then they fall into a rhythm. It's slow, it doesn't speed up until after Pete comes, until Patrick is close himself, grunting and fucking him fast and hard enough that he can hear his balls slap against Pete's ass.

"I'm, oh god," Patrick gasps out right before the orgasm hits. He's still holding Pete by the hips, clinging to him like a lifeline, and his grip doesn't loosen till he starts to come down.

Patrick pulls out and flops down next to Pete, face first on the bed. "I want to do that in the studio," he blurts out, and if his face weren't already bright red from the orgasm, he'd be blushing now. He hadn't thought about that, really, until the words just came out.

Pete bursts out laughing. "You and your one-track-mind," he says. "Someday you're going to figure out how to have sex with your GarageBand and you'll have absolutely no use for me anymore."

"Give me some credit, I would include you in that threesome," Patrick shoots back, and Pete giggles and throws an arm around Patrick's back, pulling him closer.

Patrick wakes up in the middle of the night. He extracts himself from Pete's arms, and even still more asleep than awake, it makes him smile to see Pete so unconscious, dead to the world.

Patrick stumbles out of his room, towards the bathroom, and almost collides with Bob. Bob's coming from the kitchen, a mug of tea in his hands, and Patrick wonders idly if Bob has yet to go to sleep, or was asleep and is now awake, like Patrick.

"'scuse me," Patrick mutters, and Bob laughs a little.

"You just had to bring him here, huh?" Bob says, and Patrick can tell that it's the classic 'My roommate had sex tonight only a few walls away from me, and I have to joke about how grossed out I am to take away both our embarrassment.' And maybe it's just Patrick not being quite awake, but it seems like there's an undercurrent of something else, the edge of something rougher in Bob's voice.

And Patrick finds himself saying, "Yeah, I did," answering seriously as if Bob had actually been asking a question. Bob blinks at him and Patrick feels uncomfortable, his skin prickling slightly.

The moment passes; Bob shakes his head and sips his tea. "Just keep it down then, I guess," he says, and Patrick goes back to feeling groggy and needing to pee, the discomfort gone.

"Heh. We'll be considerate," Patrick says, smiling at Bob before moving around him to the bathroom. When he gets back into bed next to Pete, pulling the sheets back over them both, he's almost certain that he just imagined whatever strangeness there might've been, and it's easy to drift back to sleep.

When Patrick gets up in the morning, Pete is still fast asleep, and Patrick's movements getting out of bed don't wake him up. Bob is on the couch in his boxers, eating Trix and watching cartoons. Patrick gets a bowl for himself and joins him.

“On tour, we catch Saturday cartoons if it’s at all humanly possible,” Bob says during the first commercial break. “Gerard gets emotional about them, man. He’s cried at some of the X-men re-runs.”

“Really?” Bob’s cereal is mostly gone, with only a few purple and red pieces floating in multicolored milk in his bowl. “I don’t remember that cartoon as being particularly grim.”

“The Wolverine storylines, the ones about his lost memories and shit? Those were fucking tragic,” Bob says, and Patrick grins.

Pete walks into the room at a commercial break, yawning and rubbing at his eyes. He gives Patrick a sleepy smile and says "Hey," to Bob.

"Trix is in the kitchen," Patrick says, waving his cereal bowl at Pete to demonstrate. Pete gets his cereal and then squirms in between Patrick and Bob on the couch. He talks on and off throughout the cartoons, complaining about a celebrity party he has to go to tonight, giving Patrick the latest news from Ryan and the latest internet rumors. You probably wouldn't guess he was being unfriendly to Bob unless you knew him well.

Patrick thinks about calling Pete on it, asking him to be nicer, but Pete's coldness is likely because he's still hurt over Patrick moving here. And Patrick can't be angry, because Pete's actually taken the whole thing as well as could be expected, and Patrick still feels apologetic for moving out in the first place. Pete isn't really being at all rude. Patrick figures that he'll warm up to Bob sooner or later, probably sooner.

When Bob gets up to take a phone call, Pete turns to Patrick and waggles his eyebrows and says, “I know you had a crush on him last summer."

Patrick groans. “How many times do I have to tell you that that crush only existed in your own deluded mind?”

“You so did,” Pete insists. “You were always over on their bus-“

“Because *you* were always there, with Mikey,” Patrick says, and he can’t help but laugh. It's okay to laugh, he's pretty sure Pete is joking, but Patrick can still feel a spark of annoyance creep in. For once, he just--he wants Pete to stay out of something.

“You couldn’t resist his manliness!” Pete says with a melodramatic, accusing finger-point. “And now he’s hanging around with you shirtless. I don’t know about this, dude.”

Patrick leans forward to shut Pete up with a kiss, and Pete makes protesting noises against his mouth. “I had a crush on *you* last summer, dumbass,” he murmurs against Pete’s cheek.

“Hmph,” Pete says, mollified as Patrick kisses down his neck. “Just watch out for your virtue, is all I’m sayin’. Oh, oh shit, dude, I have a photoshoot today, I can’t have a hickey.”

“Please don’t be gross on my couch,” Bob calls from his room, and Patrick snorts and pulls off.

“So he’s under strict instructions not to work today,” Pete says to Bob when Bob comes back. “And I’m not gonna be around, so it’s your job to keep him away from that infernal machine.”

“You can count on me,” Bob says, giving Pete a mock salute.

“I most definitely am,” Pete says sternly as he leaves.

Patrick looks at him; Bob has his arms crossed over his chest and a small smirk playing on his lips.

“Should I just block the door to your room? Or would you like me to hide your laptop?”

“I wasn’t planning on working today!” Patrick says defensively. “Honest. Come to Amoeba with me?”

Bob’s face lights up and he says “Hell yeah,” and Patrick thinks man, this guy is cool.

After they spend fortunes at Amoeba, they end up back on Bob's couch, playing Halo for hours, and the whole day is so relaxed it feels sinful to Patrick.

They talk about having a barbecue (they have a patio, but what's more, there's a pool and deck area on the roof of the building, just a floor above them), but Patrick doesn't realize until later that week that they've actually committed themselves to throwing a multi-band 4th of July party. Bob seems to be the one planning it, with the enthusiastic help of Frank and Jamia, and Patrick's fine with that--he doesn't need the distraction from the record.

Later that week Patrick comes home from the studio early, allowing himself a break, and for once Bob is home, too. They break out vodka and Guitar Hero, and Patrick enjoys the threats of ass-kicking and the ordering of pizza and the booze, savors how inconsequential this is. He does his best not to let his mind keep obsessing over the bridge that he can't quite get right, or the opening beats to this track that are still totally off.

It’s kind of weird to see Bob giggle. His cheeks are red and he’s doubled over the plastic guitar, his forehead almost resting on the floor.

“Oh, fuck you,” Patrick says, the alcohol making his own cheeks warm. “You have the advantage, you’ve played more than I have.”

“Uh-huh.” Bob sits up and smirks at him. “You just got booed out on Easy, dude.”

“Whatever,” Patrick says, turning back to the screen with dignity. Bob cracks up at him, and Patrick knee-walks over to him, shoving him down. “I’ve had more to drink than you’ve had! You’re too sober, that’s the problem here.”

Bob opens his mouth to reply, then digs his sidekick out of his pocket when it buzzes. He frowns a little when he sees who’s calling, and answers “Yeah?”

Patrick can’t hear the other line, but he watches Bob’s expression get heavier, and he slumps back on his heels. “Oh, fuck,” he says. “Fuck, but uh. We kinda expected that, right?”

Patrick can hear the other person’s voice rising, and then Bob cuts in again. “No, I’m not saying—right! Right, I didn’t mean to. Sure. Yeah—yeah, but I’m not *that* drunk.” He scowls on the last part, sitting back on his heels.

“Okay. Okay, yeah, of course I’ll be there. Bye.” Bob’s voice is subdued as he flips the phone shut and tosses it to the side. His head is ducked so that Patrick can’t really see his face. Even through the haze of inebriation, Patrick can tell the atmosphere of the room has changed—can tell that wasn’t a happy phone call.

“What’s up? Who was that?” Patrick asks, nosier than he would be sober, but when Bob looks up he doesn’t look mad.

“Brian.” Bob still has the video game guitar in his lap, and his fingers tap out a rhythm on the plastic frets. “Mikey’s not gonna make our meeting with A&R tomorrow, big fucking shock.”

Patrick blinks at the sudden harshness in Bob’s voice. “Um. Has he been flakey or something?”

Bob winces. “Fuck, no. I didn’t mean—“ he looks up at the ceiling and blows a breath out, and when he speaks, Patrick watches the muscles in his neck, his jaw. “I’m not pissed at Mikey. At *all.* It’s just fucked up, you know?”

Patrick doesn’t actually know at all, but he nods. Bob pulls his guitar off and Patrick follows suit, sprawling next to him.

“Mikey got out of this treatment thing a few weeks ago,” Bob says, in a rush, like the words have been pent up.

“What, like rehab?”

Bob makes a face. “No, not, uh. Not really. He’s bipolar, and while we were recording he got—things got really bad.”

Patrick sits and listens as Bob talks about it. The explanation comes hesitant and stilted at first, and then as Bob gets into the issues with Mikey, the old house, and the pressures of the album, his shoulders sag and his voice drops and relaxes. Patrick, on the other hand, starts feeling tighter, as if someone is winding him up inside.

“And it’s all just a big mess now,” Bob finishes, slumping further with his back against the couch. Guitar Hero stays paused on the screen, forgotten. “We’re finally getting somewhere with the album, but Gerard’s having a really hard time of it and Mikey’s barely talking to anyone.” Bob takes a deep breath, shuddering a little, and he doesn’t move away when Patrick puts a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t really know what’s gonna happen. With this album, with the band.”

Patrick remembers that feeling, remembers what it was like when Pete hit bottom and the future of Fall Out Boy was in no way certain. He remembers being so tired of the uncertainty and the drama that he wished they would all just quit already.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick says, and the words don’t convey any of what he means at all. “That really sucks.” He squeezes Bob’s shoulder and hopes that Bob gets it anyway, gets that Patrick’s here.

Bob glances at him, then shrugs. “It’s getting better. Sort of, I think. It’s just—“ Bob picks at a loose thread in the carpet, glancing at Patrick again. “I feel sort of weird about it, you know? Like, the other guys, they’ve all known Mikey since forever, they’re all insanely worried about him. And I am, too, but I. I feel like I’m intruding, like I’m the new guy.”

“No way do your guys see you that way. I mean, I’m not in the band, I don’t know them like you do, but I was around a lot last summer. They were all crazy about you.” Patrick shakes Bob’s shoulder a little bit for emphasis.

The corner of Bob’s mouth lifts in small smile, then drops again. “Thanks. I just fucking wish there was anything I could do to make it better.” He looks incredibly sad for a moment, tired and bleak, and Patrick moves his hand to slide around Bob’s shoulders in a one-armed hug.

“You guys will be okay, I’ll bet,” Patrick says, and lets his cheek fall to rest against Bob’s shoulder. He feels Bob relax further next to him. “Mikey’s a pretty tough little dude.” Tougher than anyone really gives him credit for, Patrick feels, considering the shit he handled from Pete.

Bob laughs and leans in to Patrick. “Yeah. Yeah, well, here’s hoping.” He tilts his head so that he’s looking Patrick in the eye, and Patrick can feel Bob’s liquor-tinged breath slightly on his cheek, and his heart does a stupid skippy thing. It’s a stupid skippy thing that could be blamed on the booze, maybe, except that Patrick knows himself, and this is a familiar sensation.

Patrick should probably look away from Bob now, but he doesn’t. “You’re a good guy,” he says instead. “I’m glad we’re friends.”

“Whatever,” Bob murmurs. “I’m really an asshole,” and Patrick wants to ask if Bob can feel it too, this shimmering thing between them, this thing that should be quashed.

Bob is warm, Patrick can feel how warm he is, and Patrick is drunk enough that it feels like slow motion when he pulls himself back. Bob moves forward just slightly, an aborted motion like he thought better of it, and Patrick tucks his legs under him to sit indian-style, trying for casual and ignoring the way his heart is beating just a little harder.

"Want to go another round?" Bob asks, and Patrick realizes after a second that he means guitar hero. "Or just admit defeat now?"

"Whatever, you're on," Patrick says, turning back to the screen and picking up his guitar again.

He loses track of time and isn't sure when they stumble into bed, the alcohol mostly worn off. Half-asleep in his futon, he can't stop hearing Bob's words repeating in his head, his fumbling explanations of the haunted mansion and Mikey's breakdown and Ray's anger, and "I don't really know what's going to happen." Patrick pushes down the impulse to get out of bed and go to Bob, to talk to him some more, to press him for details.

It's not that he needs to know the details, not that he's dying to know about the personal lives of My Chemical Romance. He just--he wants Bob to know that Patrick's here, willing and available to listen. He wants Bob to feel comfortable telling Patrick whatever he needs to. He just wants Bob, and Patrick feels fucking stupid for not recognizing this before, for thinking that his fascination was just--just finding a new god damn friend or something.

He twists around in the sheets, strangely wide awake despite the booze and the AM hour. His brain can't stop niggling at this, this surprise that shouldn't be surprising at all, and he drifts to sleep imagining scenarios that will never come to pass, first kisses that he knows he doesn't actually want--it's just his imagination, it's just 4am, it's just the first time he's been seriously attracted to someone else since he got together with Pete, that's all.

The next morning Patrick wolfs down a power bar for breakfast and doesn't see Bob before he heads to the studio. It's easy enough to push the whole thing out of his mind once he's in front of the microphone, and it's not like Patrick's never had a crush without acting on it before. This is just something he'll get past.

***

Every interaction he has with Pete or Bob seems heightened, and everything else--even the recording--seems dulled. Patrick feels nervous all the time, and he keeps expecting Pete to call him on the desire, to somehow know.

It's not getting better, is the thing. Patrick tries to just ride the crush out and be normal around Bob, but any time their eyes meet he feels it get cranked up. He finds himself staring at the details of Bob's body, at the pale freckles on his forearms, at the scar on his leg from the gangrene, at his gauged ears. He's constantly snapping himself out of it, and he feels like his want must be visible from space.

Sometimes he thinks he's hiding it entirely from Pete, and sometimes he thinks there's no way Pete doesn't know--that Pete is just waiting for the right moment to call him on it.

Even aside from this sudden thing with Bob, Patrick feels like he and Pete are off-kilter, more than they've been since Pete hit bottom. It's more bizarre than Patrick had expected to see Pete throw himself into life in L.A., to court the paparazzi, to pose for GAP ads. Pete is still the same, except for the ways in which he isn't, and it's not anything Patrick can put his finger on. He's withdrawing when he isn't in the public eye, and Patrick is withdrawing, too. They need to talk about things, about them, but Patrick is afraid to start that conversation because he doesn't want to talk about his thing for Bob, not yet.

There have been plenty of periods before where Pete and Patrick snipe at each other more than they like each other, but somehow it feels sharper now, feels like a phase that might not end. It's scary, but Patrick keeps getting distracted from looking at it head-on.

"Let's just come back to this later," Patrick says, one late night at the studio. "We're both fucking drained."

Pete snorts and looks away, but nods. "If you say so," he says. He stands and stretches, and he still has that mulish expression on his face, but he also looks fucking exhausted. Joe and Andy are already gone; they left when this argument started.

Patrick tosses the pages of music to the side and stands with him, yawning. "Where do you wanna get dinner?"

Pete still isn't really looking at him. "I've got to make some calls to the label," he says. "I'm busy tonight."

And suddenly Patrick is pissed off, fuming, and it's not because they're missing dinner together—he doesn't even know what it is, but his fists are clenched and he just wants to shake Pete and yell at him to fucking pay attention. He wants to ask him when they became so fucking stuck, when they stopped being friends, why Pete started changing.

"'kay," Patrick says. "See you back here tomorrow, then."

"Yep, right." Pete gives him a brief flash of a smile over his shoulder before he leaves the studio, and Patrick sits back down in his chair, slumps over and puts his head in his hands.

Not for the first time, he wonders why Pete chose Patrick to attach himself to, out of all the people who'd be so eager to be his best friend—not to mention boyfriend. Why Patrick, when Patrick doesn't even understand him half the time, when Patrick doesn't get where he's coming from, when Patrick just isn't good at this.

When Patrick was eighteen, Pete had told him, "I need you around because you know I'm full of shit." He had grinned when he said it, and Patrick had rolled his eyes, and now Patrick is curious whether Pete still thinks he needs Patrick for the same reasons. Maybe now Pete needs Patrick to reassure himself that he isn't full of shit, or maybe he doesn't need Patrick at all.

Patrick can't stop brooding about Pete's brush-off on his drive back home. Unless it's over something for the album, these days Pete never just comes out and says it when Patrick's done something to piss him off. He just acts cold or mean, leaving it up to Patrick to fumble around and try to fix problems that, half the time, are just in Pete's head.

By the time Patrick is letting himself into the apartment, he's gone over every single instance of Pete being passive-aggressive or needlessly frigid in the past two weeks, and he's in a self-righteous and horrible mood. He resists the urge to slam the door behind him and goes into the kitchen, yanking the fridge door open.

"What did the produce do to you now?" Bob is doing dishes, and Patrick realizes that he's scowling furiously at the contents of the fridge.

"Sorry," Patrick mutters. He grabs a coke and leans against the counter next to Bob. "Just—long day."

Bob gives him a curious look, but he nods and continues rinsing off the silverware. "Studio shit?"

"For starters," Patrick mutters, and gulps his soda to keep himself from saying anything else. He can still feel Bob's eyes on him, and then Bob turns the water off, placing the last few dishes into the dishwasher before turning and facing the wall with Patrick.

As he always is lately, Patrick is acutely aware of Bob's body warmth and how close he's standing. If Patrick moved just slightly to the right, his arm would brush Bob's. Patrick glances at Bob's arms: they're crossed over his chest and he's wearing a t-shirt, his forearms exposed, pale and covered with blond hair, slightly freckled. There's a small scar by his elbow and a light brown birthmark half-covered by his shirt.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Bob says, and Patrick looks back up at his face. There's that lip ring, distracting as always, and Bob's beard is longer than he usually lets it get.

You need to talk to Pete about this, a voice inside Patrick tells him, and he usually listens to that voice, he has all his life, and he knows he needs to now.

"No," he says, answering Bob's question. "No, I'm good. Thanks, though."

Bob shrugs. "Anytime," he says, and Patrick pushes up on his tiptoes and kisses him.

Bob responds immediately, catching Patrick's arms and pulling him closer and bending down. He opens his mouth against Patrick and Patrick can feel the metal of his piercing, he can feel Bob's breaths hot on his mouth, he can feel his beard and he just wants more of this. The soda drops from his fingers and spills out frothy on the kitchen floor, the plastic bottle rolling away from them.

*

Part Three