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“I think we’re done!” Sean says. “Let’s get the hell out of here. For tonight,” he adds, because they still have another song that needs vocals, but it’s four a.m. and Patrick’s not sure that he physically can sing anymore, so he nods in Sean’s direction and takes a few grateful swigs out of the water bottle he’s kept crunched in his pocket.
“Nice work, Stump,” Pete says, slapping his shoulder as he slips out of the recording booth. Patrick pulls his scarf up to his nose to ward off the chill. Joe, sitting huddled by the door, rockets to his feet. “Finally. I thought I was gonna lose a few toes there.”
“You didn’t even do anything,” Patrick grouses hoarsely. Joe helps Sean gather up his equipment, jerking his head furtively in the direction of the exit. They pad, quiet as mice through the dark hallways of the studio. Because they’re not supposed to be in this studio.
“I still can’t believe we had to commit breaking and entering to finish the album,” Patrick whispers. Pete rolls his eyes. “It’s not breaking and entering. We have a key! This is what's called, ‘using our resources’.”
Sean flashes the little key fob at Patrick. “He’s right. I think.” Sean’s probably got the most riding on this thing, since he was the one who suggested the whole scheme. If anyone realizes he’s kept a key and is using it to sneak into the studio and record on one of their mics, he can probably say goodbye to any sort of recommendation note from his old supervisor.
If they actually finish the album, Patrick will write him an excellent recommendation, because he was willing to break into another studio in the middle of the night for them. How many producers can say that?
“This is what happens when you spend all your Bar Mitzvah money,” Joe mutters as they push the door open, shivering at the gust of frosty air that blows in. “You can’t afford a good mic. You have to freeze your balls off in the dark.”
Speaking of freezing in the dark, the sad shape huddled outside of the van perks up at the sound of the door swinging shut. “Thank god,” Andy says as they rustle towards him, scrambling back into the van. “I can’t feel my balls anymore. If the Hurley line ends here, I know who to blame.”
Another problem that comes from spending all your Bar Mitzvah money - you can’t afford to fix the broken locks on the van you bought with said money, which means someone has to stand outside in the negative-degree weather to make sure no one steals anything. Not that they have much worth stealing - but you never know. The other guys have been taking watch in shifts, but Patrick suspects that Andy’s vegan constitution has given him poor circulation - he’s shaking like a leaf.
Well, he doesn’t have to wait outside anymore. Pete gets in the driver's seat, Patrick slipping in the passenger side. The rest of the guys tumble in the back, worming their way around the equipment and huddling for warmth, teeth chattering.
“Let’s get out of here,” Joe groans, kicking the back of Pete’s seat. “Don’t talk to your father that way,” Pete shoots back, fumbling to get the key in the ignition through the dark. He manages to slot it in just as a light flashes from the studio.
“Who’s there?”
The van goes deathly quiet. The light wavers, closer.
Patrick twitches his head ever so slightly. Out of the corner of his eye he sees it. A guy in some sort of uniform is walking closer, flashlight held out and pointing right in their direction. Some kind of cop? Security guard? Whatever he is, he’s on a fast track towards the van, which means he’s on fast track to ruining their first (real) album!
“You’re not supposed to park here at night,” the man calls. Patrick flashes a panicked look at Pete, but he’s paralyzed, white knuckle grip on the steering wheel. The guys in the back are frozen, doing their best to blend in with the equipment.
The footsteps get closer. “If you don’t work here, you’ll be fined for loitering on the property.”
Patrick’s body moves before his brain registers what it’s doing. He’s leaning towards Pete, grabbing his face between two mittened hands. Pete looks at him with big eyes. Patrick smashes their lips together.
Patrick swears he hears Joe choke from the back before the flashlight is beaming right through the window. He barely has time to register Pete’s chapped lips or the damp open of his mouth before a knock sounds from the passenger side. “Hey, can you hear me - oh.”
Patrick keeps his eyes squeezed shut and a death grip on Pete’s face. He manages to hear the guy’s sigh through the window.
“Hey. Kids!” he calls. Patrick finally deems it appropriate to pull back. Pete blinks at him, eyes wide. Then he leans to the side, flashing a smile at the man with some sort of law enforcement uniform. “Sorry officer. We didn’t notice you there.”
“Yeah, clearly,” the guy mutters. “Look, I don’t feel like ticketing a few horny teens right now. Next time, pick a different parking lot. Or else. Do you understand?”
Patrick’s face is flaming. He can’t will himself to face the guy, but he nods. Pete does too, babbling assurances and we didn’t know, sorry for the inconvenience, thank you sir, we’ll get going now. He fumbles for the ignition, twisting the key so the van starts up and he can speed out of the parking lot. It isn’t until they’re a few blocks away that the tension breaks, and the posse in the back lurches back into motion, clamoring and shouting.
“I thought I was going to die,” Joe announces. Sean pulls himself over to Patrick’s seat. “So you guys are dating.”
“We’re not!” Patrick wails, burying his face in his hands. “I was just - I don’t even know - I thought we were gonna go to jail-"
“You and Joe are really dramatic,” Pete notes. Patrick glares at him. “You’re not even supposed to be driving right now,” he says. “Didn’t your license get suspended? We just committed, like, at least three actual crimes.”
“Well, you have good reflexes,” Andy says approvingly. “Kissing Pete is really brave. You never know if he’s brushed his teeth or not.”
“We’re too broke to afford toothpaste,” Patrick defends, because that comment has suddenly made him realize the dire state of his own dental hygiene. “Anyways, it wasn’t that bad.”
He realizes his mistake at the ooo that rises up from the back at that.
“Patrick and Pete, sitting in a tree,” Joe warbles. The rest of them join him, a chorus for K-I-S-S-I-N-G. Patrick curses the fact that the passenger seat actually has a seatbelt that works (the only one in the whole van, in fact), because if he wasn’t buckled in Joe Trohman would be a smear on the pavement. He’s never speaking to him again.
“Well? How would you rate me?” Pete asks. Patrick startles. Pete’s been quite longer than Patrick would’ve expected, but when he tilts his head to the side to look, he’s staring at Patrick, steady, and Patrick has to fight the urge to look away. There’s a flush on Pete’s cheeks. That wasn’t there before, Patrick thinks. He wishes it was. Pete had been freezing. Well, his skin was freezing. His mouth was warm. Which Patrick knows now. Because he had Pete’s mouth in his. And he didn’t even have time to figure out how he tasted. Shit! Wait, what?
“Don’t fish, Wentz,” Patrick manages to reply, jerking his head in the other direction. Pete laughs. The rest of the drive passes with Patrick valiantly fending off jabs from all sides. And also trying not to think about Pete’s mouth. This is hard, especially because he has to shove Pete away several times, yelling watch the road! because he keeps trying to plant kisses on Patrick’s cheek. Joe and Andy are mock cuddling in the back (actually, it’s probably at least a little genuine - it’s still cold as balls in the van). That only makes Patrick feel marginally better.
They drop Sean off at his place and then zoom back to the apartment. The pack of them trundles up the stairs, falling gratefully through the door and splitting off to their respective beds or couches. Illicit late-night recording sessions are tiring, with or without any close calls. Patrick is just thinking about how good it will feel to crash into his mattress when Pete snags his arm, stopping him just outside his room.
“Yeah?” Patrick says, trying not to be irritated. He doesn't have time for Pete when his bed is calling a siren song out to him. He almost says so, then he catches the look in Pete’s eyes and the flex of his throat as he swallows.
“You were really good today,” he says. “In the booth. Your voice is crazy. I can tell this record is gonna be amazing.”
“…Thanks?” Patrick says. As much as he appreciates it, he’s not sure why Pete thinks it’s worth keeping him from his sweet, sweet, bed. “Is that all…?”
“Sean thought we were dating,” Pete says abruptly. Patrick coughs. “Alright, ok! I’m sorry for kissing you, I don’t know why I did it, I wasn’t planning on it, it was just instinct, and it worked, so it won’t happen again, but I think we can put it behind us and never speak of it-”
His tirade stops when something presses against his face. Presses against his mouth, actually. Another mouth. That’s Pete’s mouth, on his mouth, his lips on Patrick’s lips, and Patrick makes a confused sound against this surprise attack. Pete wraps himself around Patrick, one hand sliding over Patrick’s shoulder and the other into the warmth of his pocket. His nose bumps against Patrick’s glasses. Patrick stumbles back, thrown. Not thrown enough, though, to not respond. His mouth is opening to Pete’s without any say-so from his brain, and they’re just standing in the hallway. Making out.
Pete pulls away. Patrick stares at him.
“I just wanted to get a good one in,” Pete says. “I mean, you totally caught me by surprise the first time. I don’t want you walking away thinking Pete Wentz is a mediocre kisser.”
“What the fuck?” Patrick says blankly. “Pete, that was the gayest, most unnecessary thing ever. Do it again.”
“Did I hear that correctly? Did you say do it again?” Pete asks. “So have I proven my skills, or-”
“Don’t even play that game right now,” Patrick warns, fisting his hands into Pete’s coat. “I don’t know what you did. Is there cocaine in your mouth or something? Some addictive substance? I was straight an hour ago. What did you do to me, Pete Wentz?”
“You were straight?” Pete asks, bewildered. “I thought you were bi-curious or something. Those pins are totally gay.”
Patrick slaps a hand over his chest, covering the pins in question. “My pins are gay?”
Pete gives him a pitying look.
Patrick shakes his head. “Whatever. For the record, if I was gay I would just tell you instead of assaulting your mouth on a random Tuesday. But I didn’t. Because I wasn't gay. Until your gay saliva infected me. Shit. Is there a cure? Do I need to kiss someone straight? Where’s Joe? No, Andy?”
“Nothing wrong with being gay,” Pete says disapprovingly. Patrick rolls his eyes. “Obviously not. But if I’m gay, then we’ll start dating, and then we’ll be a gay band and no one will book us shows, even if our EP is actually good this time!”
“So it’s a when not an if for you?” Pete muses. “I knew it. We really are soulmates. Be gay faster. I want to put a ring on your finger like, yesterday.”
“Now wait a second,” Patrick says. “I think we skipped a few steps.”
“No, I think we’re moving at a perfectly acceptable speed,” Pete argues.
“I’m supposed to have a sexuality crisis before I even consider dating you,” Patrick says petulantly. “I’m supposed to paint my nails and cry while watching Paris is Burning. You already do that all the time, you wouldn’t get it. Don’t deprive me of my moment.”
“The only moment you’re being deprived of is the moment where you take me back to your room and ravish me,” Pete says disapprovingly. “You know you want to. Imagine how sexy peeling all these layers off me will be.” He tries to shake his ass at Patrick. It doesn’t really work. Pete’s flat as a wooden board.
“My room has a hole in the door, dumbass,” Patrick says. “You wanna do a striptease for the whole apartment?”
“I’m sure they would appreciate-”
“Can you two assholes just go to Pete’s room and fuck so we can all go to sleep?” Andy calls from the couch.
Patrick pales. “You heard that?”
“We heard everything!” Joe shouts, muffled and far away. “I don’t want to see your ass, Pete!”
“Damn.” Pete purses his lips.
Patrick sighs and starts herding Pete in the direction of his room. “Sorry guys! Fine. You win. I’ll be gay for you. Just so we can get out of this hallway.”
“Seriously? You won’t listen to me, but Andy tells you and suddenly-”
“Let’s continue this discussion. In. Side. Your room. Where there’s marginally more soundproofing.”
“Take note of the ‘marginally’!” Joe hollers. “Pete, I know you like yowling like a cat in heat, so-”
“THANK YOU JOE,” Patrick says. “I’LL TAKE IT FROM HERE. THERE WILL BE NO YOWLING.” He slams the door shut. Pete flops onto the bed, striking a seductive pose. He doesn't even bother taking his shoes off. Patrick is fighting the beast inside him that finds anything about that attractive.
“You’re a total pain,” he says, shedding layers as he goes. Pete grins up at him.
“Wanna try again?” he asks, puckering his lips up. “We’ll both be prepared this time. It’s gonna be amazing.”
“You’re being very presumptuous right now,” Patrick says, but he doesn’t need much convincing because he’s already crawling onto the bed with Pete, and soon enough they’re engaging in an activity that leaves little room for yowling, and lot of room for muffled wet noises.
“Ugh, that’s sick,” Joe says from the other room. By that point, Patrick’s too distracted to care. This gay thing is actually pretty sweet.