19nicotine

So, in my time zone, it'a Patrick's birthday. so here I am posting a story. Enjoy. 

19nicotine

Pairing: Patrick/Pete

Rating: R for violence, dark humor and foul mouthed monologues. AU, too.

Summary: Boy & boy break up, boy & boy meet date other people, boy & boy go homicidal

Disclaimer: Ain’t true, don’t sue

A/N: First fic, unbeta-d, don’t kill….

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Patrick thinks it’s too much. Too much touching, too much kissing, too much fucking and maybe, the sound of Patrick clearing his throat is still fresh and raw in Pete’s head, they ought to take a break. From each other. Pete thinks that it’s just some dream because well, those are really superficial reasons to take a break. Besides, a world that tolerates a celibate Patrick Stump is cruel, cruel world.

Patrick is with his date, Bony guy, two tables away laughing and the laughter makes Pete wish he could pull out his heart and show to Patrick that it’s his name tattooed on it. Pete is not stalking Patrick, he just follows Patrick around and kisses random people when ‘Trick notices him to show that yeah, he’s doing fine without him. Pete turns his head and sees the look on Patrick’s face and he fights back a moan. Fucking Nirvana, the man pulls off the look of a sacred sexual experience. The fact that that look isn’t aimed at Pete pisses him off and makes the tightening knots in Pete’s stomach tighten like unforgiving assholes.  

                Pete is not jealous. Well, Pete smirks while drinking up his Coke, not for long. Pete wishes he can cackle to finish up the thought but it would make him choke on the Coke and besides, he likes to believe that he’s the hero, fine, anti-hero.  

Bony guy, Pete’s spur of the moment codename for Patrick’s skinny date, leaves the table and struts to the men’s room. Pete finishes his drink and follows.

Through the mirror, Bony guy’s pretty and fuckable but Pete isn’t surprised since this is Patrick we’re talking about, he has taste.  Bony guy’s eyes meet Pete and he sees it all and the dirtiest words can’t describe what Pete sees in Bony guy’s eyes. He sees Patrick, pale and naked on a bed, face flushing and covered in sweat as his head hits the headboard hard again and again and again, hazel eyes rolling to the back of his head and hot mouth moist and open. And Pete is pissed that it won’t be him doing that to Patrick.

Pete compensates, though.

Bony guys lips make an ‘o’ and his eyes widen when a shiny switchblade stabs his skin again and again.  He’s in shock, he can’t scream but he looks like that painting where some oddly painted person was screaming. Pete twists the knife and makes sure that there’s an organ dying inside Bony guy because frankly that’s what Pete feels for the whole duration of the time off.

 Pete is not, his ego repeats, jealous; it’s just that Patrick belongs with him.

Bony guys drops to the floor, dead and unable to fuck Patrick. For Pete, the universe has reached equilibrium and a smile cuts his face.

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Pepperoni feels funny to the fingers and William Beckett is still not back from the bathroom. Patrick remembers that even though Pete is a possessive nympho psycho, he is quite prompt when it concerns—

Oh shit, don’t go there, Patrick tells himself as he lets go of the pepperoni. But still, his eyes imitate china blue plates when they widen because somewhere deep, deep inside, he feels like the kid who told some vulnerable kid that the Easter bunny does not exist. Patrick’s conscience pats him on the back like a consoling dad and reminds him that Easter bunny does not exist and there’s nothing to be guilty about. 

He’s going back to thinking about how he will not go out with Beckett again when a callused finger comes from behind and traces a jagged line across the nape of his neck. Patrick looks up and there’s Pete staring down at him, a smile on his face, looking like the Chesire cat from Alice in Wonderland.

Patrick doesn’t ask but his eyes do, they widen along with his lips. His head rests against Pete’s clothed stomach and Patrick’s eyes ask in their brightest, bluest hue, where the hell is William Beckett.

  A finger, Pete’s, goes inside Pete’s mouth. Patrick does not want to admit he’s mesmerized. A spit  soaked finger traces a line across Patrick’s throat. Shit, it feels like a dull knife skating along his skin, tickling him, leaving a slick trail, making him shiver and telling him something that he so won’t like. Beckett's dead.

Pete breathes into his ear and Patrick’s eyes meet Pete’s. Then, he’s gone.