Tight Grips and Body Holds (1/1)
Title : Tight Grips and Body Holds
Summary: Patrick's in love, and he's not going to give Pete up.
Author:
stumbletongue
Rating: PG-13 at the most?
Author's Notes: It's been a while since I've written some fanfiction, so please bear with me. Secondly, this is relatively short (950 words at the most), so bear with that too. Written forpollution.
It's hard to hate Pete Wentz when his head is lying on your lap and his breathing is even, a true tall-tale sign that he's really asleep. His chest is rising and falling quietly and his mouth is slightly open and you're there, watching him like some kind of freak. He knows you watch him, and he's okay with that, but it still makes you feel like a voyeur because sleep is just so important to him. He doesn't know what you think about though, and it's not like you'd ever tell him, because the mere thought of you speaking about That Subject makes your face heat, and the blood rush up your neck like lava in a volcano.
He's so beautiful, though, so calm and relaxed. His make up is smeared and his hair is flopped all over the place. It's ten at night and all four of you have to be there in the morning, so why not do it now?
You place your hand flatly on his chest and he doesn't move an inch. You smile, because his warmth seeps through your palm, and you're glad for once that you can't see because you don't want Joe or Andy to look back to see what you're doing. It's not talked about between you and Pete, and the others don't know what's happening.
You don't want them to know. Both of you will lose any credibility you've ever gained, that is, if you have any at all between them. You're the best of friends and you still can't tell them you're sleeping together occasionally, or that something in your chest tightens whenever Pete does something remarkable. Like, when he gets up from bed and his back is arched toward you and he groans from the lack of sleep – or the fulfillment of sleep, you're still figuring that out – and the notches of his spine protrude through his skin. Or, how about the time when he's watching TV and his lips are parted and they look moist enough to kiss and you really want to, but you've restrained yourself for so long that it's just a dull, yet constant, ache in your chest that won't go away, but knowing that you could later, just maybe, mend that. There are some times when he's making sandwiches too, either for himself or for you, and he knows exactly how to do it, and you watch him and how his wrists move and it all looks so familiar then.
You know you're in love. It's hard not to be with his head in your lap, so close to you and it's not even sexual, it's intimate, and you find that's what you want more of recently. Take the sex away and you might not have anything, sadly, but you're okay with that. You can stand it. Friendship is good enough for you. This closeness you now share, this trust, it's amazing.
You like to imagine that it'll be a while, it'll probably never happen – you and him, or rather, youandhim. It's still nice to think about, though, that you don't live in such a homophobic world and that everyone would accept hypocrites and turn a blind eye, or you could offer forgiveness and people would take it with a simple shrug.
God, what you would do to him if he were awake – or if no one was there. The things you would do to his body does make your face heat, and the kisses, the small, simple and tender kisses he layers on your face just makes you believe for a split second that there is no one else but him in the world.
You suddenly remember once, not so long ago, the way the both of you were just sitting across from each other in the tour bus and he was tapping your feet with his. You rolled your eyes but then he leaned in and kissed your cheek and you knew it was his way of “calming you down” so that he could later kiss you on the mouth. You're already “calmed down” and he's not so full of surprises anymore but you let him continue to press a kiss against your cheek each time. He'll play his bass, and then he'll lean in and do it again, each time getting closer and closer to your mouth. You won't say a thing though and you smile and shrug and it nearly takes him five minutes and you barely any to turn your head, meet his lips at the next kiss, and you both smile because you locked the tour bus door beforehand.
Someone snores and jerks you back to reality. Andy's asleep in the passenger's seat, and Joe's looking resolute to get there. He's awake on caffeine and determination that he won't stop once until someone asks for a bathroom break. You look down at Pete, still asleep with his head on your lap.
Andy and Joe are crashing in someone else's loft when you get to California. Pete has been nice enough to let you crash in Ashlee's house, probably without asking her, and you almost turned it down. But then he'd know something, and you can't deal with the puppy-dog eyes that he loves to give you. So you accepted and smiled and said, “Great, man.”
As you lean your head back on the cushion, you tighten your fist into Pete's shirt. It's curled there, so securely that nothing will take you away from Pete now. No one can drag you, no one can pull you, no one can torture you to let go because you won't.
No one knows Pete like you do, and you'll be damned if someone thinks you're going to give him away without a fight.
Summary: Patrick's in love, and he's not going to give Pete up.
Author:
stumbletongueRating: PG-13 at the most?
Author's Notes: It's been a while since I've written some fanfiction, so please bear with me. Secondly, this is relatively short (950 words at the most), so bear with that too. Written for
pollution.It's hard to hate Pete Wentz when his head is lying on your lap and his breathing is even, a true tall-tale sign that he's really asleep. His chest is rising and falling quietly and his mouth is slightly open and you're there, watching him like some kind of freak. He knows you watch him, and he's okay with that, but it still makes you feel like a voyeur because sleep is just so important to him. He doesn't know what you think about though, and it's not like you'd ever tell him, because the mere thought of you speaking about That Subject makes your face heat, and the blood rush up your neck like lava in a volcano.
He's so beautiful, though, so calm and relaxed. His make up is smeared and his hair is flopped all over the place. It's ten at night and all four of you have to be there in the morning, so why not do it now?
You place your hand flatly on his chest and he doesn't move an inch. You smile, because his warmth seeps through your palm, and you're glad for once that you can't see because you don't want Joe or Andy to look back to see what you're doing. It's not talked about between you and Pete, and the others don't know what's happening.
You don't want them to know. Both of you will lose any credibility you've ever gained, that is, if you have any at all between them. You're the best of friends and you still can't tell them you're sleeping together occasionally, or that something in your chest tightens whenever Pete does something remarkable. Like, when he gets up from bed and his back is arched toward you and he groans from the lack of sleep – or the fulfillment of sleep, you're still figuring that out – and the notches of his spine protrude through his skin. Or, how about the time when he's watching TV and his lips are parted and they look moist enough to kiss and you really want to, but you've restrained yourself for so long that it's just a dull, yet constant, ache in your chest that won't go away, but knowing that you could later, just maybe, mend that. There are some times when he's making sandwiches too, either for himself or for you, and he knows exactly how to do it, and you watch him and how his wrists move and it all looks so familiar then.
You know you're in love. It's hard not to be with his head in your lap, so close to you and it's not even sexual, it's intimate, and you find that's what you want more of recently. Take the sex away and you might not have anything, sadly, but you're okay with that. You can stand it. Friendship is good enough for you. This closeness you now share, this trust, it's amazing.
You like to imagine that it'll be a while, it'll probably never happen – you and him, or rather, youandhim. It's still nice to think about, though, that you don't live in such a homophobic world and that everyone would accept hypocrites and turn a blind eye, or you could offer forgiveness and people would take it with a simple shrug.
God, what you would do to him if he were awake – or if no one was there. The things you would do to his body does make your face heat, and the kisses, the small, simple and tender kisses he layers on your face just makes you believe for a split second that there is no one else but him in the world.
You suddenly remember once, not so long ago, the way the both of you were just sitting across from each other in the tour bus and he was tapping your feet with his. You rolled your eyes but then he leaned in and kissed your cheek and you knew it was his way of “calming you down” so that he could later kiss you on the mouth. You're already “calmed down” and he's not so full of surprises anymore but you let him continue to press a kiss against your cheek each time. He'll play his bass, and then he'll lean in and do it again, each time getting closer and closer to your mouth. You won't say a thing though and you smile and shrug and it nearly takes him five minutes and you barely any to turn your head, meet his lips at the next kiss, and you both smile because you locked the tour bus door beforehand.
Someone snores and jerks you back to reality. Andy's asleep in the passenger's seat, and Joe's looking resolute to get there. He's awake on caffeine and determination that he won't stop once until someone asks for a bathroom break. You look down at Pete, still asleep with his head on your lap.
Andy and Joe are crashing in someone else's loft when you get to California. Pete has been nice enough to let you crash in Ashlee's house, probably without asking her, and you almost turned it down. But then he'd know something, and you can't deal with the puppy-dog eyes that he loves to give you. So you accepted and smiled and said, “Great, man.”
As you lean your head back on the cushion, you tighten your fist into Pete's shirt. It's curled there, so securely that nothing will take you away from Pete now. No one can drag you, no one can pull you, no one can torture you to let go because you won't.
No one knows Pete like you do, and you'll be damned if someone thinks you're going to give him away without a fight.