Exactly Where You'd Like Me (1/1) | Brendon/Patrick | NC-17

[behindthec]

Title: Exactly Where You'd Like Me [1/1]
Author: lolab 
Pairing: Patrick/Brendon (Brendrick!)
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Q: "What's the most ridiculous thing you ever bought?" Pete: "Ryan Ross." So yeah. Pete's. Not mine. Fictional as far as I know.
Warnings: Seduction via piano playing. Use of really tasteless music in sexual situations.
Summary: "So there really isn't anything you can't -- or won't -- do."
Author's Notes: How the hell did I end up shipping these two? And yet it works. This employs a history I created for 13 Degree Fever (not yet posted, as it is part of the clan_collective), in which Brendon once held a, ahem, second job to supplement his Smoothie Hut income. ;) The lyric prompt is below.
Dedications: For falling_words , as usual, for demanding Patrick/Brendon as soon as the lap dance image came to us both. I hope this adequately shows my gratitude for the Pete/Ryan she wrote so indulgently and beautifully for me, occurring (as you will notice here, if you look closely ;) at this very same bachelor party.

Blame typos on my new kitten, Pete Wentz IV, who likes to keymash. <3




Exactly Where You'd Like Me



The arch in your eyebrows can tell the truth
Just imagine what your back can do...

--CIWWAF




Contrary to popular belief, Patrick Stump is not in love with Pete Wentz.

He has learned this slowly, sometimes painfully, sometimes hilariously, over many years. Where the general trend is to start out friends and suddenly wake up one day to realize, BAM, you're in love, Patrick has essentially lived the opposite of this.

As he watches Pete from what he hopes is a safe corner (the first two weren't, but third time's a charm), he remembers the day he met him and how, for two years, Patrick was quite adamantly convinced he was in love with this complex, tortured musician (as though there's any other kind, which Patrick had not yet learned), that they were soulmates and that was that. A year later he was over it, but as it turns out, he was right about one thing: they kind of were soulmates. A year after that, they got a little drunk (just a little, but they'll swear up and down they were shitfaced), and kissed. A lot. While laughing. A lot. And fell around on furniture. A lot. Lamps were broken. Sex was attempted and overruled by fits of giggles. At a certain point, Bill Beckett stumbled into the room and attempted to join in. That's when Patrick almost blacked out from laughing and Pete almost blacked out from hitting his head on an end table. (From laughing.)

Patrick figured out a lot of things that night: for one, that Bill's hipbones are weapons of mass destruction. Also, that as sexually incompatible as they are, Patrick loves Pete more than anyone in the world.

This is what he valiantly tries to keep in mind now, still shuddering every time he remembers the last three lapdances Pete had genially ordered for him, an overwhelming assault of fake boobs, fake tans, and fake blondes.

His eyes scan the room for something real, landing somewhat predictably on Brendon, who is across the room, attempting to recruit an ensemble and choreograph a dance to a song he has entitled "Happy Bachelor Party Pete," from what Patrick can gather, very originally set to the tune of "Happy Birthday." So far the only recruit he has managed to sustain is Gabe, and that's because a) Gabe is drunk off his fucking ass, and b) William is otherwise occupied in giving Pete piggy-back rides. Brendon, for his part, is merely riding out a couple shots of god knows what, barely tipsy, neither needing nor desiring any excuse of intoxication for his behavior.

Patrick genuinely loves the predictable unpredictability of the Decaydance family.

There's a part of him, though, that occasionally craves a bit of... maybe... unpredictable unpredictability.

So it's almost eerily like magic when Brendon catches his eye.

Regressing fifteen or so years with drunk Brendon is more or less disastrous and tends to end in unprecedented amounts of nudity (Decaydance Rule Number... nineteen, Patrick thinks). But when Brendon's sober, it's pretty safe, and with that in mind, Patrick can't help grinning at the boy as he lifts one finger to the side of his head and rotates it in circles, oldschool universal code for psychosis (okay, in like, third grade, but still).

Brendon points to himself with questioning eyebrows; Patrick affirms with mock exasperation, shrugging and holding his hands out to say, "Do you see any other idiots named Brendon?"

Brendon only grins, his teeth bright and disturbingly fluorescent in the room's light (or lack thereof), shakes his head and points to Gabe beside him, who is attempting to do shots off William's chest and seems to have forgotten that William does not have breasts.

Patrick laughs, almost spitting out his drink, and Brendon laughs too, big and carefree and Patrick wishes for the eighteen hundredth time that evening that the room weren't so loud, and mostly that they weren't so far apart, because he knows what that laugh sounds like -- beautiful and clear like notes and colors, and it would be enough to erase most of the evening thus far.

Patrick's eyes finally wander only out of fucking necessity, unable not to notice Pete heading into the restroom followed shortly by Ryan, who, it pains Patrick to quote so blatantly, has never been less surreptitious.

Whatever the fuck that just was, Patrick knows disaster has already struck.

He doesn't know this through some kind of Stumpian Intuition (as Pete had once called it -- only once, due to the guitar strap that Patrick had consequently flung at him), but rather from the roughly annual conversations he tended to have with Pete that pretty much consisted of, "Are you in love with Ryan?" and "Fuck off."

Until the most recent time, four months ago, when Pete had finally come back with a playful sneer and an undertoned declaration of "Last week, when Brendon smiled at you after the show, you blushed like a Catholic schoolgirl."

At this somewhat disturbing memory, Patrick turns back to Brendon's direction, only to find the bright-eyed boy now two feet in front of him, grin intact and eyes sparkling in a way that makes Patrick wonder how anything else, even PeteandRyanohmyfuckinggod, could've stolen his attention.

Pete's accusation echoing in his head does nothing to stop the blush rising, and he thanks all higher powers for the room's crap lighting.

Brendon plops down on the barstool next to him, swiveling to face Patrick, hands propped on the seat between his legs. "You okay?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Your face is all red."

Oh for Christ's sake.

"Um." Patrick turns his eyes back to the stage, the rest of the room, anything. "It's hot in here, I think."

"Ah, that's just me."

Patrick's head jerks back around, and Brendon's smiling.

Yeah. That smile. Like he knows its power. Fuck; he must. He uses it often enough. On fucking everyone, Patrick reminds himself, so don't get any ideas.

Patrick grins back, but manages to roll his eyes. "Yeah, that must be it."

"It's Pete, isn't it?"

"...What?"

Brendon shrugs, eyes darting around not from interest, but nerves. "Y'know. I mean. He's getting married."

"...Yes, yes he is, Brendon. Hence the bachelor party." Patrick punctuates the sarcasm by gesturing slowly and carefully around the room.

"And, I mean, you know, you're like. In love with him."

Patrick feels an overwhelming surge of gratitude for the fact that he'd already swallowed his drink, because god knows it would have ended up spewing from his mouth. "I'm what?!"

"You." Brendon's face falls, flushing to match Patrick's. "You're not?"

"Dude! No." The giggles have overrun him now, and his mind scans the drinks he's had this evening, searching for one to blame it on. (Two beers and a vodka tonic; no such luck.) "I. No."

"Oh." Brendon's face is unreadable, which is quite a feat for him, but if Patrick had to guess, he might dare to think there's almost something akin to... relief in his features. "Well. That's. That's cool then. I mean. Oh. 'Cause I was thinking, y'know, maybe that was why you looked like you wanted to sort of puke every time he tried to buy you a lap dance. Not that I blame you, I mean, for one thing, those girls are doing it all wrong, man, first of all they picked the wrong songs, y'know, if it's too slow it won't turn you on, and if it's too fast they can't match the rhythm, and plus they just jumped right into it, thrusting and groping, almost like they've never been taught a damn thing about reading their clients, or else they'd know you'd--"

"Jesus, Bren!" Patrick's giggling again, but he knows he can't blame the drink. "Did you like, take a class in lap dancing?"

And this is the part where Brendon goes giggly and tells him to shut up -- only that doesn't happen. At all.

What happens is Brendon's face going stoic and stony and really kind of freakishly pale, before stumbling into a nervous smile. "Uh, no. I just. Y'know. It's obvious."

Patrick tells him with a raise of an eyebrow that he's not buying it, but lets it go. "Well, maybe someday I'll actually get a lap dance that doesn't make me want to go completely gay for the rest of my life."

Brendon actually stares at the floor through his grin. "Remind me never to give you one, then."

This time Patrick has no one to thank, because his drink spurts out of his mouth like a fucking water gun.

Brendon reacts only in the form of flushed cheeks, not daring to look up.

"Excuse me?" Patrick demands wide-eyed, swiping a sleeve over his mouth.

Brendon's eyes lift but his head remains lowered and his smile intact, creating a really dangerous coquettish effect, only intensified by how fucking unintentional it is.

"I'm... maybe not so bad at them," he admits.

Patrick wills himself into equanimity, remembering that this is hardly a surprise, really; Brendon's ass in tandem with his shameless exhibitionism could hardly produce any negative results. It's just the problem now, see, is that Patrick's got the image of it, right there in his fucking head, with Brendon's voice, that low, unusually shy admission ringing in his ears, and all that in itself would be bad enough but to make things worse, Brendon is fucking right here, less than two feet away, and there's the fantasy blurring with the reality and, wait, shit, when did this just become a fantasy.

So Patrick does the only thing he can think of not to do right then: he looks Brendon straight in the eye.

The corners of Brendon's mouth twitch, and it's kind of over for Patrick.

He juggles a few choice responses in his head, Well that's cool -- overcompensatingly apathetic, he thinks;I don't even want to know -- a lie, outright and far from white. Everything he can think to say sounds wrong, so frankly, he thinks, why not go for the kill?

"Where are you staying tonight?"

So. so. much better in his head, and even there it sucked.

Brendon smiles, he smiles like he knows, the little fucker, isn't he too young to know? "With the guys, at Pete's."

"Well that sucks."

"Why's that?"

"I just got a new piano last month, you should really see it."

Score one for Patrick; it's the fucking truth, and Brendon should see it, because he plays, and Patrick remembers how much Brendon flipped when Ryan got that new one; wouldn't leave the bench for days, not until Ryan removed him bodily from it with the help of Spencer and the promise of a lifetime supply of Pixie Stix.

True to form, Brendon's eyes widen. "Really?"

"Yeah, man, it's a grand. The sound's fucking amazing."

"Dude, can I? Serious?"

Patrick smiles. "Get your jacket."





Patrick is really not prepared for this. Largely, perhaps, because he really has no idea what this is, now that he's got Brendon Urie at his front door and he's struggling to stuff the key in the lock and it keeps getting stuck and oh, seriously, what the fuck did he think he was getting himself into? What if Brendon really just plants himself at the piano for the rest of the night and (oh god, painful flashback to Ryan's) refuses to play anything but showtunes? Worse still, what if he doesn't? What if he actually isn't the seventeen-year-old kid Patrick met four years ago, what if he just saw through it all back at the strip club and starts rummaging through Patrick's CD collection for good stripper music the second they get through the door? What if --

"Dude, I think that's... maybe not the right key."

Brendon smirks, closing his hand over Patrick's and easing Patrick's fingers off the keys. Patrick's stomach jumps at the contact, and seriously, when did that start happening? How many times has Brendon touched him, and he's never --

Well. Okay. Maybe once or twice. Maybe when he remembered the way those fingers looked against the piano keys, soft peach against white and black.

"I think I know my own house key," Patrick huffs, almost grinning, but the words are barely out before Brendon's eased a different, nearly identical key into the slot, slipped it in like butter, gently pushing the door open and smiling up at Patrick, a smile that puts all thoughts of seventeen-year-old Brendon out of his mind, maybe permanently.

Patrick merely sighs. "Cocksucker."

"Later," Brendon winks. "I want to see this piano."

...Well, that settles that, only totally not.

"You do have it, right?" Brendon's voice echoes off the walls as he strolls through the house, while Patrick turns to the door, locking it and dropping his keys and jacket on the table. "This wasn't just some ruse to get me in your house, Patrick Stump, now was it? Or maybe you just -- "

Patrick follows the sudden silence to find Brendon in his living room, standing unusually still as his eyes scan over the instrument some ten feet away. It really is beautiful, Patrick has to admit, all elegant curves in crisp, silky white; he's had it for two weeks but it still kind of takes his breath away every time he walks into the room, especially now.

Or maybe that's just the look on Brendon's face, awestruck and elated.

Patrick thinks he could really get used to that look.

"Pat," Brendon starts. "It's. Fuck."

"I know, right?"

Brendon shoots him an entirely indulgent grin before heading over and plopping himself down on the bench, eyes skimming the keys as his hands hover above them, not quite touching, just scanning... like he's trying to read it, communicate with it... and Patrick just leans against the wall, watching him, stupidly entranced. Emphasis on stupidly because, really. It's not like he's never seen Brendon play before. But that was different. That was auditions and muddled rehearsals and then the rushed, manic notes of Fever, cramped into the bench in front of an electric Yamaha on stage and it was nothing like this, nothing.

"Favorite composer?" Brendon asks quietly, not looking up.

"I -- I don't know. I like Debussy."

And he doesn't miss one fucking beat, just steps softly onto the left pedal and launches right into Clair de Lune, eyes closed and fingers spread wide, and Patrick knows this is not the alcohol, this is genuinely and suddenly the most beautiful fucking thing he's ever seen in his life.

Brendon's about a minute and a half into it when Patrick finds himself inching forward, like some bizarrely horizontal force of gravity is pulling him toward the piano, toward the figure coaxing life from it, and it's not until Brendon snaps back into focus, eyes opening and fingers trailing off in the middle of a measure, that Patrick realizes he's right in front of him, mouth slightly open and for Christ's sake, probably only a few more notes away from drooling.

"Sorry," Brendon smiles, sheepish and flushed. "I haven't played that in like, three years, it kinda sucked."

"Oh dude, don't -- don't even. You know it was amazing."

Brendon's smile widens as he slides to one side of the bench, patting the wooden surface beside him. Patrick consents against his better judgment (that, he will admit, is indeed the alcohol), slipping onto the seat, his hip pressed warmly against Brendon's.

"Why the fuck aren't you playing this tour, anyway?"

Brendon's eyebrows creep upward, hovering on the edge of mischievous. "Because Ryan rediscovered that I could play the guitar like a motherfuckin' riot and he told me he'd dump my ass from the band if I didn't start milking it."

Patrick laughs. "Jesus, kid."

"What?"

"I mean -- " Patrick gestures helplessly at the air. "Is there anything you can't do? You sing, you play like, four hundred and twenty-one instruments, you can pound back Red Bull like nobody's fuckin' business, you -- you can do a backflip for Christ's sake, you can solve a Rubik's Cube even when you're drunk -- "

"How did you know that?!"

"Bill told me," Patrick smiled.

"Did he tell you why I did it?"

"N-no..."

"Good." Brendon smiles, staring down at the keys with a secret in his eyes.

"Okay seriously, dude, now you have to tell me. Like. I will seriously kick you out without your cell phone or wallet or -- "

"He said if I solved it in less than ten minutes after six shots, he'd give me a blow job."

Patrick literally feels his eyes widening, stretching beyond their capacity into huge orbs shining through black-rimmed glasses and stray strands of hair, and when Brendon finally meets his eyes, the younger boy can't help but laugh.

"I never told him I used to spend entire church services playing with a miniature one behind a hymn book."

There's a giggle in the back of his voice somewhere, devious and guiltless, and it makes something inside Patrick just twitch.

He sighs, hoping it isn't as shaky as his entire body feels. "Brendon, Brendon, Brendon..."

"I know, right?"

"So... uh... what happened??"

OhmygodIdidnotjustaskthat.

But the arch in Brendon's eyebrow and in the corner of his mouth tells him, yes, love... you did.

"Dude..." Brendon's tongue darts out to wet his lips, absently, or so Patrick forces himself to believe. "Beckett's got a mouth like a fucking Hoover."

"Oh my god! Dude, he did it?!"

"Fuckin' yeah he did it, it was a bet! Right in front of his band, too. And Jon."

"OH MY FUCKING GOD. Brendon."

"Except Sisky, he just went wide-eyed and tore the fuck outta there, muttering something about the days when bets involved streaking the parking lot and toilet-papering your tour mates' buses."

And Brendon's giggling now, because Patrick's giggling now, because he's pretty sure if he doesn't let himself go in this manner, he's going to let himself go in some other, far less appropriate manner, and that's just. Yeah. No.

"So yeah." Brendon draws in a deep, proud breath, grinning back at the keys and dancing his fingers over a few in a short, flourishing finish.

Diva right down to the bone, that's for damn sure.

"Yeah," Patrick echoes. "So there really isn't anything you can't -- or won't -- do."

Brendon leans a bit into him, his shoulder nudging Patrick's. "And don't forget the lap dances. My specialty."

Not always known for making spectacular choices, Patrick chooses that second to look up, meet those deep, painfully honest chocolate eyes, crazy powerful from their closeness -- and he knows, knows he'll look back on this fucked-up, surreally driven night, someday, someday in the not so distant future and think, that moment. Right there. That's when.

A smile tweaks at his lips. "Trust me, man. I didn't forget."

The eyebrows are back at work, with a grin to match. "Yeah?"

And before Patrick can respond -- not that he could respond, honestly -- Brendon is off the bench and bouncing over to where Patrick's CD collection spreads across the bottom half of one wall, crouching down to scan the titles as he idly runs his fingers over the rows of jewel cases.

And just. Oh, god. Because. Yeah. Oh god.

"Where's your guilty pleasure music?" Brendon asks the wall.

Patrick chuckles. "Uh, Cobra's on the left. I'm, uh... starting a, uh... 'things I've produced' shelf, so it's -- SHUT UP, Urie!"

Brendon does not shut up at all, keeps laughing himself right through it until he can manage to turn his head to look at Patrick. "You're as bad as Pete."

"Hey, now that's below the belt."

Another eyebrow raise and oh, Jesus. Number sixty-eight of Possible Innuendoes To Avoid In Brendon's Presence.

Brendon grins. "Not just yet, babe." He turns back to the CDs, obnoxiously unaffected by the effects he's having on Patrick's pants. "And that's not what I mean, dickhead. I'm not rubbing up all over you to Gabe Saporta's voice. I'll never be able to look him in the eye again, and neither will you."

"Somebody has high confidence in his abilities," Patrick replies, an automatic, practically involuntary dose of sarcasm for which he's damn grateful, because really his brain kind of stopped functioning at that bit about Brendon rubbing up all over him.

"High," Brendon agrees, turning around again. "But accurate."

"Uh-huh," Patrick wills his voice to remain casual despite the speed of his heartbeat. "Never thought I'd say it, but I think your ego is actually bigger than Ross's."

Brendon turns back from the wall one final time, now brandishing an unidentifiable CD in his hand and a smirk on his face that could fucking stop traffic. "That's not the only thing that's bigger."

And with that (that, oh my god), he crawls back over to the piano bench, not bothering to stand up, and kneels in front of Patrick, who pretty much can't even remember his own name by this point, let alone such obviously useless functions like breathing, movement, or speech.

Brendon smiles. "Wait here, 'kay?"

Patrick can only stare at him, hoping wide eyes and a half-open mouth can effectively communicate the essence of are you fucking kidding me?

But Brendon's already at the stereo, fiddling with buttons until Patrick hears the unmistakable hum of the disc sliding into the slot (and when the fuck did that noise become so insanely fucking sexy), as Brendon makes his way back to the piano and plants himself in front of Patrick, using the remote to pause the disc as he looks straight into Patrick's eyes.

"This is... y'know, cool, right?" he asks with a smile.

Patrick actually does manage enough self-possession to roll his eyes then because, okay, seriously.

"No, Brendon, I changed my mind, I do not want a gorgeous twenty-one-year-old rock star writhing up against me, what was I thinking."

But Brendon's elsewhere now, eyes wide and dancing. "You think I'm gorgeous?"

"Oh, Jesus."

"You think I'm gorrrrgeous," he purrs.

"NO." Patrick tries to sound as emphatic as possible, which is hard when he's laughing the way he is. "You are not going to start quoting Miss Congeniality at me, you are not -- "

"You wanna kiiiiiiiss me!"

"Dude, shut up!"

And Patrick reaches out aimlessly, halfheartedly whacking Brendon's hip, when the younger boy jumps back, grinning devilishly.

"Now, now. You know the rules, I trust?"

"...Excuse me?"

"No touching."

"That's one rule. What are the others?"

"That I can touch all I want."

And with that, he presses a button on the remote and tosses it onto the sofa as the stereo comes to life, and -- oh god. He didn't.

"Oh god, you didn't."

But Patrick can't be heard over the Pussycat Dolls, can't even think over the grin that's monopolized Brendon's face as he lip-synchs the first few words of "Dontchya," before slowly beginning to sway his hips, dropping into a soft, teasing rhythm that's damn near hypnosis as he inches closer to Patrick with every beat. And as Patrick stares entranced at those hips, he suddenly thinks Brendon has obviously learned more from William Beckett than how to get smashed.

He's inches from Patrick when he starts backing up, like he fucking knows how close Patrick was to just reaching out and capturing that swaying rhythm with his hands and pinning it to the side of the piano and -- fuck.

So. Apparently Brendon is, maybe... not so bad at this.

He kicks off his shoes while he's backed up, which strangely throws Patrick off even farther because, okay, he wasn't even thinking of clothing, or lack thereof, being involved in this and just -- just -- fuck, because Brendon's back up in front of him again, closer than ever, not just swaying but fucking rolling his hips in circles, his crotch inches from Patrick's face, when Patrick feels two hands clamp down on his shoulders and Brendon bends down, straddling his lap without actually touching, and okay, that's actually worse than touching, and Patrick's long known that anticipation is always more intense than the realization of it, but fuck. Just. Never like this. Ever.

And Patrick realizes he really, really should've gone with that instinct to sit on his hands, because this is probably going to kill him. All those random fears of dying in a car accident or a tornado or even from fucking old age are gone. This, right here. This'll be it for him, he's sure of it.

Brendon, of course, could care less as he lowers himself a little further, grinding into Patrick's lap and running a long, solitary finger down Patrick's chest, gaze locked on those glassy green eyes, and Patrick's so lost he barely registers the hardness between them as their bodies meet, not even sure if it's his or -- oh. Oh, fuck.

And maybe it's his imagination, but as Brendon lifts himself back up, Patrick could swear he feels the younger boy's breath meeting his face a little harder, a little shorter, a little faster -- and somehow he doesn't think it's the exertion that's done it.

Brendon swivels around now, and Patrick wonders how in god's name he'd forgotten that yeah, okay, Brendon has an ass, possibly the greatest fucking ass he's ever seen, and it's right fucking there, and before he can even worry about controlling his hands, Brendon's arching his shoulders back and his suit jacket is sliding off, right onto Patrick's lap -- and all those parts of his brain that stopped working are suddenly jumpstarted back into motion, if only for one split second, just to process what's. just. happened.

Brendon. is stripping.

Brendon Urie. Is in his fucking living room. Giving him a lap dance. And he's stripping.

And with that, and a quick half-there acknowledgment of yeah, okay, his brain shuts back off, leaving him with nothing but his senses.

But it's kind of a disastrous time to be reduced to his senses, because by now Brendon's turned back around to face him, eyes sparkling with mischief and mouth twitching with that eternal smirk as nimble fingers slip under his own t-shirt to peel it off over his head, dropping it to the floor in a forgotten heap of bright red fabric.

And he's back, back, sweeping the jacket off Patrick's lap as he straddles one of Patrick's thighs, sliding up so their bodies are almost flush against one another, one of Brendon's hands tangling loosely, teasingly, in Patrick's hair, the other sliding up his other leg, pressing and kneading in all the right spots, spots Patrick didn't even know existed, while steering fully clear of his groin, and as really fucking evil as that is, Patrick honestly can't bring himself to complain about anything at this point.

Even less so, when Brendon drops to knees, spreading Patrick's legs so he can perch between them, sliding both hands up and down those legs with startling, mind-blowing touches that scream professional in ways Patrick can't even fathom. But it's over in a heartbeat, Brendon back on his feet, hips falling back into their hypnotic rhythm as one hand drops, low, slow, then lower and slower still, sliding down his bare stomach (not to mention creating a whole new whirlwind of ohmygodhe'stouchinghimself in Patrick's rapidly dwindling consciousness), before perching at the waistband of his jeans.

And...

...oh.

Patrick swears it must be an hour before Brendon pops the button, lowers the zip, slips one hand into his pants for one painful teasing instant, before removing it and shimmying out of his jeans to leave them twisted and forgotten beside his shirt.

True to form, Patrick's brain leaps back into gear long enough to process a few disjointed keywords -- underwear, black, tight -- before Brendon's vanished the space between them for a final time (not that Patrick knows that yet), straddling his waist again and grinding his hips down, harder now, and this time Patrick's ready for it, ready to gauge it, and -- fuck. Because yeah. It's not just him, and -- Brendon. Brendon, is on his lap, grinding into him, and he's hard.

And Patrick almost misses the gasp that escapes Brendon as their bodies meet, but he looks up in time to see it reflected in Brendon's eyes, and the boy's practically fucking panting, eyes darting from Patrick's down to his lips, and this -- really, suddenly, is not a lap dance anymore at all, because the song's fading and it's the end of the CD so now the only noises meeting their ears are the ones leaving their lips.

And -- yeah. Lips, and that's the last word in Patrick's mind before Brendon presses his to Patrick's mouth, open and wet and exactly right, because Patrick's ready for it, has been since this started, maybe all night or maybe three years, god only knows.

He almost whimpers when Brendon backs off (too soon for whimpering, way too soon), but it's just enough to tease his lips over Patrick's ear. "So, uh, I know this isn't very professional of me..."

Patrick squirms, gasping more out of frustration than anything else, but lips still curling up. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

He isn't sure what effect he was expecting that to have, but Brendon chuckling low and deep in his throat most definitely wasn't it, and okay, because if he wasn't hard before... fuck.

Fuck Brendon, really, and his fucking voice that's reduced Patrick to writhing and groping on the bench of an instrument that is worth more than the average household's annual income, grasping at Brendon's arms, chest, legs, ass, anything, his hips bucking up on instinct.

"I take it you don't mind," Brendon breathes, voice still heavy and liquid in Patrick's ear.

"Brendon." Patrick breathes, deep, using the oxygen to bring back to memory things like his ability to swallow and think, before closing a hand firmly over Brendon's, which is now ghosting along Patrick's hip.

"Mmm... yeah?"

"I'm going to say this once, and only once."

Silence, as a shudder just tears through Brendon's entire body, practically sending Patrick right over every fucking edge they've pushed themselves toward.

Patrick swallows, having finally remembered how. "You'd better shut the fuck up right now or you're gonna find yourself walking back to Pete's house. Pete's house is four miles away. It's dark, it's LA, you're pretty as hell and you've got tight pants. Get it?"

He punctuates those last two sharp words with a tight grip on Brendon's wrist, and despite the desperation flowing between them, there is no way in hell he ever could've anticipated that moan that just spills, drips, from Brendon's mouth, words vanishing as Brendon's hands roughly and frantically locate the button on Patrick's pants and just start clawing away.

"Jesus."

"No, bed."

"Guest room, first door on the left."

And these scarcely stuttered broken sentences should be enough, really, should make it so easy, the instructions are right there, bed, first door, left -- but it doesn't do them a damn bit of good, because by the time they get to their feet, Brendon's hands just kind of land right at Patrick's waist, reminding him of how much Patrick is still really wearing pants, and how much he really shouldn't be, and to remedy this, Brendon just backs him up against the wall, feeling a photo rattle in its frame beside their heads, and gets to work on the top button -- only to discover four more where a zipper should so totally be right now.

"Dude are you kidding me?"

"Shut up, just -- "

"What are these, like your fucking chastity jeans or something -- "

"FOUR MILES, Brendon. Four."

But Patrick can't stop himself echoing Brendon's giggle, try as he might to stay pissed, and just bats Brendon's hands away because pants can fucking wait and kissing just can't. Without even thinking, he flips them so Brendon's the one backed against the wall, and if that little squeak Brendon gives him is any indication of approval, this was a really good fucking move.

"Yeah?" Patrick whispers, feeling his confidence rise now he's in control, mirroring Brendon's ear-tickling whisper.

Brendon nods, either not trusting verbal ability or really not into the idea of those four miles, but he's quiet and that's all that matters as Patrick crashes their mouths back together, Brendon's mouth opening to his like he's just been waiting for this, like he's been waiting since that moment their eyes met across the strip club, like he just knew what he was doing all along and -- and fuck, because that's too much to even think about, and Patrick can't really be bothered with thinking anyway just now.

There's a certain ease in knowing there's no clothing to bother with on Brendon's part, and Patrick just takes it, just basks in that freedom to slide his hands up and down this truly impossibly perfect body, dipping lower to cup Brendon's ass and pull him closer, grind their erections together, pull more of those tiny little noises from Brendon's throat, noises he's finding he could really get used to, get addicted to even... and most undeniably get off on, that's fucking certain.

And for a few moments, it's enough, just to feel Brendon's hands in his hair and gripping tight on his hip, massaging little circles into the skin above his jeans as their mouths slip into a rhythm, a rhythm that's building and reminding Patrick way too much of other rhythms their bodies could form, and that's it, that's the thought that finally pulls his hand down from Brendon's shoulder to cup him, firm and fucking adamant, right through that thin black underwear.

If the growl pushing past Brendon's lips right into Patrick's mouth is any clue, Brendon is right fucking there with him.

"Bed," he repeats, voice coarse and uncompromising. "NOW."

Patrick can't argue as they stumble backwards, Brendon wrestling Patrick's shirt over his head as Patrick deals with those fucking jeans himself, getting them far enough off so that when they finally fall back onto the bed, the distant light from the living room cast over their faces, all Brendon has to do is slide them off and toss them to the floor before leaping -- yes, leaping -- onto the bed beside him.

"Much better," he grins.

Patrick smiles back, pulling Brendon on top of him. "Hi."

"Hello." Brendon's grin expands as he begins fingering the waistband of Patrick's boxers, purposely refusing to inch lower. "I think these need to come off -- sorry, can I talk now?"

"No."

"Okay."

But the grin remains in place as he slides the boxers down and off, long past teasing, and begins to work his way back up Patrick's body when Patrick flips them both over, hovering over the younger boy as he dips his mouth into the crook of Brendon's neck, licking and biting until those little noises begin escalating into full-blown moans.

"Now you can talk," he whispers. "Tell me what you want."

"Oh, god. I. Patrick."

And his name, just his name, in that voice, from those lips, those full, perfect, eternally smiling lips, is enough to just tear him down, make him come this fucking second, but -- no. Just no.

He smiles into Brendon's stomach, having slid himself lower and still moving. "Speechless finally?"

"I... fuck."

"Mmm... is that your answer?"

"Oh, god."

And this is payback, Patrick knows it, Brendon knows it, for all the teasing he's dealt with all night and probably longer, and it's fair and that's the only reason Brendon can't bitch him out, can only lie there, whimpering and arching as Patrick's breath skips across the head of his cock before he takes him full into his mouth, and it's maybe been awhile and maybe Alex was a little smaller, but he remembers well enough how this works, and judging by the noises Brendon's making, he remembers maybe a little more than well enough.

He thinks it's maybe a little ridiculously gay, how hot it gets him to think the fingers tangling gently in his hair are the same ones that had seduced him only minutes ago at the keyboard, or maybe years ago at that first nerve-wracked audition Pete had insisted he attend. And it distracts him so hard, so completely, he almost misses the two whispered syllables of his name.

"Patrick -- I -- I need."

And he stops, looks up, meets those eyes and even in the dark it's clear. As fucking crystal. He crawls back up Brendon's body, his hand replacing his mouth on Brendon's cock, working it slow but steady as their lips meet again in a lazy, sloppy kiss.

"You need what?"

"I'm not spelling out for you, dude, if you can't -- "

Patrick kisses him again because he's too far gone to think up witty remarks about Brendon's obnoxiousness (Ryan's used up most of the best ones anyway), and reluctantly releases the younger boy to roll across the bed, digging around in the bedside table drawer before rolling back over and shoving a condom and a little bottle into Brendon's hand.

Brendon laughs. "You're fuckin' adorable, man."

Patrick stares blankly, because there is nothing else to do at this point of epic confusion.

As explanation, Brendon shoves the items right back into Patrick's hand, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his lips. “Yeah?”

"...Oh. ...Yeah. Yeah. Okay. I just." Fucking shit, he's blushing, why is he blushing -- "I just -- I always, y'know, pictured you as a top, and -- " Aaand, yeah, that would be why.

"You ’pictured’?!"

"Shut the fuck up! It's -- your personality, you're -- you're so -- so fucking manic and, like, and there's just no way you could -- and I just figured -- "

"Patrick."

Patrick stops, breath short now from both arousal and embarrassment, and the combination is making his head spin into oblivion.

Brendon grins, wicked as ever. "Four miles."

Patrick shakes his head, hissing "You little shit" as a grin spreads across his lips and he closes the space between their mouths, kissing Brendon like he deserves it -- hard and aggressive and somehow, ridiculously, affectionate.

When they break, there's no more play, no more teasing, no time wasted as Patrick unscrews the cap and spills some lube over his fingers, slipping between Brendon's legs and sliding one into him as slowly and carefully as he can when everything in his mind is screaming at him to just fucking lose it. But Brendon's siding with his mind, it seems, pressing down against his finger before Patrick gets the hint and adds a second one, working them in and twisting as best he remembers, but slow, still gentle, and --

"Dude, I've done this before," Brendon half-chokes, half-laughs, dizzy from the sensation yet desperate for more.

"Well so have I, and how the hell was I supposed to know that?"

The smirk, the damn fucking smirk: "You think Bill wasn't hard as a fucking rock by the time we finished in the bus? He kicked everyone else out and had me on my back before Jon and Butcher had finished catcalling us from outside!"

"Oh my god, you are not talking about William Beckett while I've got my fingers -- "

"Shut up, it's turning you on, admit it."

"I swear to god, Brendon..." And that's all he can manage, because Brendon's right, but he will most certainly not admit it thank you very much, as he's got both a) pride, and b) far more important things to do at the moment.

Brendon acquiesces, shutting his mouth as he should but unable to wipe off the smirk until Patrick slips a third finger inside, and now nothing is funny anymore because fuck and oh god, yes.

"Fuck."

That was Patrick, because, yeah, the look on Brendon's face just then.

And the boy beneath him nods, ready as he'll ever be.

And finally, finally, words have escaped them, allowing their bodies to speak for them, and there isn't a beat missed (except in heartbeats) as they move together, trading gasps and smiles and testing their limits with little bites, nail marks, increased tempos, before Patrick makes a very valuable discovery: that Brendon can talk all he fucking wants to right now, especially when he's fisting his hands in Patrick's hair and pulling him down so he can whisper You feel so fucking good right in his ear, and it only takes two or three comments of that caliber before Patrick's gone, his hand on Brendon's cock quickening its pace as he spills into the younger boy before he knows what's hit him, and he's so far gone it takes him several seconds till he even registers the hot liquid dripping down the hand he'd nestled between their bodies.

He feels Brendon smile into his neck as they come down, and he knows, that's what started it all. Those lips and all the beautiful words they've spilled, even the unbidden ones, over the years. It's that voice, those words, those lips that Patrick remembers now, that he never wants to forget, even if this is all they ever have.

They lie on their sides, face to face, in a few more welcome moments of silence, before Patrick surprises them both by being the one to break it.

"So."

"So." Brendon smiles as big as ever, drawing circles across that baby-soft skin of Patrick's back.

"You gonna tell me where you learned to give a lap dance like that?"

Brendon laughs, a little shyly, and drops his eyes to Patrick's chest. "Um. I... don't. Really talk about it."

"What, you were a stripper before we found you?" Patrick smiles.

Brendon meets his eyes, wide and sober and -- oh.

Oh.

"...Oh my god, seriously?"

Brendon shrugs, averting his eyes. "After my parents kicked me out, it just wasn't enough on minimum wage. I needed more, a lot more."

"Oh my god. Bren."

"It's okay." He's smiling again, and it's not as big, but it's there. "I just... it wasn't the best time in my life, y’know? I... haven't really felt like giving a lot of lap dances since then."

"Bad memories?"

"Kind of, yeah."

Patrick reaches up, tracing a finger over the fine angles of Brendon's face. "You looked like you were having fun at the club tonight, though."

The smile's back, and it's real. "I was trying to make new ones."

And that -- that's it. That's what got him here, crushing on this tiny, crazy little boy who couldn't sit still for five minutes or go five hours without a sugar fix. It's that optimism, that endurance, that perseverance, that Patrick fell in love with. No matter how many times Brendon is beaten down, he'll get up, smiling, try again until he’s got it right or got it better.

Patrick leans in, dropping a gentle kiss onto his forehead. "You're amazing, you know that?"

A warm, soft chuckle. "So you're not gonna make me walk four miles in the dark in my skinny jeans?"

Their lips meet again, stronger this time, and Patrick smiles. "You're not going anywhere tonight."

 

[fin.]