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Patrick had, of course, known that doing the When We Were Young festival would bring back some old memories. They had even planned a whole thing around it, and it was more fun than expected to dress in his old clothes and reminisce. It was nice to remember all the good times the band had had, especially before hiatus, where sometimes his recollections get overwhelmed with bad memories of them.
Nonetheless, he’s pretty sure it wasn’t ever supposed to be taken this literally. Faced now with a much younger Pete Wentz, still with his cropped hair and smudged eye makeup, this probably takes the cake for nostalgia.
One minute, he had been talking with Pete as normal. They had been having fun and discussing the show, and then his Pete was gone and replaced with a version that he hadn’t seen in years.
“Patrick?” Pete’s eyes trailed down and up. Patrick tried not to read too much into that, which wasn’t hard considering how much shock he was still in.
When Pete had shaved his hair off, effectively ending the era of emo, Patrick hadn’t really felt much of anything other than relief. A ‘good riddance’ kind of thing, ignoring how it marked their official ‘end’ of doing music together for years. He had felt nostalgic then too, seeing the shorn-short curls on Pete’s head afterwards, bringing back a picture of Pete from years ago, when he had still felt a little starry-eyed interacting with him. Pete Wentz instead of Pete.
Even years after when the band was tentatively back together he didn’t miss it. Pete was ten times happier now, and so was the band. He didn’t really need old Pete back, who struggled endlessly day after day while Patrick had no idea how to help. That Pete, who always seemed a little out of reach no matter how close they touched, didn’t really inspire much longing in him.
Seeing that Pete now, however, seems to have unearthed some buried pining inside. Then, he had tried very hard not to notice Pete’s looks, or let that affect how he treated Pete, lest he become just like every asshole who interviewed their band. Yeah, Pete was attractive, and yeah, he was throwing himself at Patrick daily, but what did that really have to do with him anyway? (Yeah, he’s very aware of how much denial he was in).
If there’s one good thing about this situation, it’s that he now gets to see Pete away from the view of being his younger best friend to realize, yeah, Pete was actually pretty hot.
There’s something about having him here now, with the dark smudges around his eyes and too-small shirt rising up to reveal his bartskull and the young, eager-to-please nature that’s a lot more pungent than he remembers that is making him regret his supposed straightness and years of obliviousness. What the hell was he thinking about all those times Pete was rubbing up against him, fucking balloon animals? Patrick is stubborn to a fault normally, but now he’s cursing his younger self to hell and back.
All the stuff he had said decades before to stubbornly hold himself back, reminders about how it’s just Pete and he’s his best friend and seriously, the guy just drank his own piss seem to have evaporated. He hasn’t needed to cling to that stuff in a long time, and he’s not really eager to dredge them up again.
“Hi.” It suddenly becomes very clear to Patrick that they are still in view of, well, everyone else at the festival. If even one person were to turn around and pay a bit more attention to the walking phantom in front of him, Fall Out Boy would probably get more coverage than they’ve gotten in years. “So, this is kind of hard to explain.. but we should probably do it away from here? Preferably, now?”
Pete is still gawking, but lets Patrick tug his denim jacket around him (seriously, ignore how that makes you feel Patrick, now is not the time) and drag him back to the band’s buses. Patrick sincerely hopes he doesn’t look like some kind of creep, toting around some young pretty groupie, because that’s kind of what he feels like.
Andy and Joe are still out, like Patrick would’ve been if this whole situation hadn’t happened, so there’s no one to witness an old ghost stumble into their bus and clutch Patrick’s jacket tighter around him. Patrick really wishes they were here, because he has no idea how to begin explaining this to Pete (and to stop him from doing something he really shouldn’t).
“Okay, so, I don’t know what year this is for you, but it’s 2024 right now. You’re kind of in the future?”
“That’s funny, Patrick,” Pete shook his head, stepping back. “You’re a comedian. Let me guess, Andy’s a monk and Joe is CGI Gollum, right?”
Well, not in this universe. “I’m not joking, Pete. Before you showed up, I was talking to my Pete about the festival we’re at, which Fall Out Boy just headlined for.”
There’s a complicated scramble of emotions that zip across Pete’s face. Slowly, his shoulders drop from their guarded position, instead moving to take note of the bus. “..We’re still a band? With..me?”
“Yeah, man. We managed to stick together. You’ve written lyrics for eight of our albums now.” Patrick can’t hold himself back from stepping closer. Pete is still taller than him, but it’s weird to see the contrast now, especially considering how much leaner Pete is than he remembers.
“Huh..” Pete smiles, and Patrick smiles back, and for a moment it feels like nothing has changed at all.
“Where are the guys?” Pete looks around once more, like Andy and Joe will pop out from underneath the couch.
“They’re still out. There’s actually some pretty great bands playing here, I was gonna see some of them.” Patrick didn’t mean to imply that Pete was kind of ruining his day, but by the way Pete winces, it’s clear that’s how he took it. “That’s not.. listen, it doesn’t really matter to me. They’re not as important as you.”
His words, the casual comfort and easy admission of his affection, seem to stall Pete. He bites his lip, eyes trailing up and down Patrick once more, but slower, the intention now blaring. Patrick can feel himself blush, even though he’s become a lot more confident in how he looks. He tries not to compare himself to the Patrick that this Pete is probably used to or wonder if that’s how Pete was always looking at him.
“You’ve definitely changed.” Pete eyes the jacket still tugged around him and the visible patches Patrick sewed on himself. “And not.”
Patrick gives himself a chance to look more as well. And.. well, he can’t say the sight of Pete, pretty and small in comparison to the larger drape of his jacket, isn’t doing something for him. He wants to feel ashamed, but it’s still Pete. Oh god, it’s still Pete.
“Well, it’s been years.” It has been, and yet he’s still blushing because of Pete-from-the-past who’s into him. And look at that, he was right about Pete’s sexuality. Knew it. “I’m older.”
Exactly, older. Meaning he should not be thinking salacious thoughts about this Pete, who’s still in his 20s and very much looks it. But like, it’s not creepy if they’re actually just stuff he’s been repressing for years, right?
Pete hums, eyes still lidded, then glances behind him and lights up. “Oh wow, is that supposed to be a phone?”
Pete skips past him and Patrick happily collapses onto the couch, willing for his half-hard dick to go down. As if his morals aren’t conflicting him enough. Jesus, he is definitely glad Joe and Andy aren’t here.
“Here, smile,” says a voice suddenly behind him, way too close to his ear. He has no idea how he managed to lose track of Pete, but the warm breaths against the skin of his neck is giving him goosebumps and also not helping his situation.
Patrick looks back to the phone, which Pete has figured out how to put into camera mode. Leave it to him.
The whiplash he gets from seeing the both of them together is unreal. It’s like being next to a fragment of the past, a complete trip down memory lane. Still, he manages a smile, and Pete presses closer, and the camera makes a fake shutter sound as it takes the picture.
Just like that, Pete pulls back, thumbing through the phone. “This is way better quality than my Sidekick. What else has changed? We don’t have flying cars, right?”
Patrick doesn’t answer. He’s glaring accusingly at his crotch and wishing his life was simpler. He’s fairly sure the festival’s name was just supposed to be a theme, not reality. Anyway, he’s never coming to this fest again.
“Oh.”
Patrick whips his head around. Pete is not looking anywhere at his face, gaze trained down. Patrick just manages to resist the urge to hide, if only because that’d be a little redundant now.
“Do you, heh, need help with that?” Pete is laughing, but then he’s licking his lips, eyes dark and suggestive.
When Pete steps around the couch, he flinches away. When Pete crawls into his lap and applies friction, Patrick has to physically grab him by the hips and dig in to keep control. Holy shit.
“Pete, this is a very bad idea,” Patrick’s fingers flex, mapping the curve of Pete’s waist. “I mean, we haven’t even done this now, and I know you and I didn’t back then.”
“Patrick,” Pete shakes his head a little, laughing. “It’s a brilliant idea. I’m wholeheartedly taking advantage of the opportunity given.”
He opens his mouth to protest, but then Pete darts forward, and then they’re kissing.
Patrick has thought about it. God, has he. More and more recently, watching Pete tie his hair up and jump around stage and smile at him, like he’s never been happier. There’s always a considering weight to his looks now, because if not now, when will he ever?
Now, is the answer to that. He will now.
Pete’s a whirlwind, probably as experienced in this department as Patrick is. He crowds close, biting his lip and sucking his tongue and expecting Patrick to follow along. Somehow, he manages. When Pete pulls back, a thin trail of spit connects them, and Patrick seriously has to check whether he’s imagining this all or not.
Pete has a thumb on his lower lip, pressing down lightly, keeping his mouth open. Patrick lets his tongue flick out and Pete laughs, delighted.
“I like the beard,” Pete murmurs, letting his spit-slick thumb join the rest of his fingers as they travel his face. Pete gives him a careful scratch, like he’s some sort of dog. Patrick snaps at his fingers, just to really complete the image. “Oo, down boy.”
“Funny,” Patrick deadpans. Some things never change.
Pete slides sideways off his lap, onto the couch next time. On the way, his knee knocks into his boner, causing Patrick to wince and blink back hasty tears. Maybe Pete is into pain, but he sure as hell is not.
“Oops?” Pete shrugs. Then, he reaches forward, patting his dick through his jeans. “I’m sorry, Stump Jr.”
Pete cackles. Patrick remembers another reason why he hadn’t tried anything with Pete back then was because he was so annoying. I mean, who laughs at their own jokes anyway? Patrick almost goes to push Pete away, but then Pete calms down, reaching out to unzip his jeans.
God, who knew denim was so damn constricting? His cock springs up without the restraint of his jeans and boxers, which get pushed hazardously down his thighs. Patrick vaguely remembers Pete being more squeamish-ish about dicks at this time, but there’s no sign of that hesitance now as Pete grasps his cock, stroking curiously.
Patrick tries to breathe carefully, calming down so this doesn’t end too soon. Patrick always comes too quickly, even now, which would definitely be a detriment to being able to accomplish more than just a couch handjob. Plus, if he had a younger Pete laughing in his face because he blew his load too soon he’d probably die of embarrassment. Wasn’t getting older supposed to come with developing thicker skin?
Pete pulls his hand back to spit in it (holy shit holy shit) then puts it back, the added friction bliss. Pete’s hand doesn’t really manage to wrap around him entirely, but he still tries his best, jerking him off slowly and efficiently.
Patrick’s panting is loud in the otherwise quiet room. Pete tips his head onto his shoulder, nuzzling in without taking his eyes away. Both their gazes are trained on Patrick’s lap, on Pete’s relatively smaller hand bringing him to completion.
Pete’s tempo is all wrong. Patrick didn’t notice it at first, but he’s really got no rhythm, even here. Patrick tolerates it for a moment more then sighs, wrapping his hand around Pete’s, swallowing past how it completely engulfs Pete’s.
“You have to be more consistent than that,” Patrick guides Pete’s hand, forcing him to keep a steady rhythm. Pete doesn’t protest, pressing closer and following his instructions to a T. It’s better like that, bringing Patrick too close to the edge.
It feels better now, almost too good. Patrick’s head thumps against the back of the couch, his hips thrust up off the couch, and he’s almost there-
Pete squeezes too hard, stopping it. Patrick whines, entirely undignified, whipping his head back up.
Pete is smiling, a little sheepish. “Sorry, but I’m not really sure an old guy like you can go multiple rounds.”
He’s right, but the implication is a little insulting. I mean, he’s not that old. Plus, he thinks he could manage to get it up again, if confronted with the reality of what Pete is asking for. This whole situation is inspiring a sort of youthful vigor he normally only gets when playing shows or scoring something successfully.
Patrick takes a breath, then another. His dick is leaking and practically begging to finish, but he manages to hold it back. It’s cool. He can do this. This is worth it. Well, except for the fact that..
“We don’t have any lube here, though.” Patrick is pretty sure he didn’t pack that. It’s not like he was going to get much action in two days anyway, not with all the bands he had planned to see. Oh, all the bands..
“Well..” Pete turns a little shy, then ducks away, rifling through a bag. Actually, it’s Pete’s bag, full of his personal stuff. Patrick never really cared what was in there, but he becomes a lot more curious when Pete pops back up, a bottle of lube held carefully in his hands.
“How did you..?” Patrick trails off, lost in the thought of his Pete stretched out along the bed, fingering himself open with his long hair fanned out. Nevermind, he’ll wonder about his bandmate’s long-standing anal habits later.
“Come on,” Pete tugs him up, giving him a moment to half-heartedly tug his pants up. He leaves it unbuckled, because c’mon. “Hey, you should carry me.”
Pete is giggling, clearly eyeing his broader shoulders and filled out figure, but he’s not serious. Patrick is still a little sore over the accidental painplay and technical blue balls, so he swoops down and hefts Pete up by his thighs.
“Oh, shit, okay,” Pete says, scrabbling a little at his shoulders until Patrick’s grip gets more secure around his thighs. A pair of legs wrap around his waist, and now they’re about the same height, Pete’s own clothed dick pressing against his stomach for the first time all night. “Don’t throw your back out, big boy.”
Patrick rolls his eyes, and pretends to drop him just to hear him squawk and scramble. Worth the dig of nails into his shoulders.
He carries Pete back to the bed in the back of the bus, then dumps him onto it. Pete sprawls out, but then hurriedly scrambles back up on his knees, trying to tow Patrick onto the bed with him by the loops of his jeans. Patrick allows it, bearing down on Pete and crowding him into the sheets.
“Hey, hold on, man.” Pete pushes back, shimmying out of his pants (which get thrown in the corner). He’s halfway through removing Patrick’s denim jacket when Patrick gets a flash of inspiration and stops him, grasping by the lapels.
“Why don’t you keep that on, okay?”
Pete smiles, a hint of tease at the corner of his lips, but nods. He only removes the jacket to get the shirt off, then it’s right back on. When Pete shifts, it almost covers his bartskull, until he’s back to stretching out across the bed.
He manages to retrieve the bottle of lube that rolled to the side, slicking his fingers up. Patrick watches Pete reach down, more than curious.
“So, you know how to do this?”
Pete nods, gaze fixed up at the ceiling as he starts to prod at his hole. Patrick isn’t opposed to watching, starts to pull the rest of his clothes off as he waits.
“I’ve never actually done it with anyone. I’ve just been.. experimenting.” Pete flushes, closing his eyes and finally twisting his finger in.
Patrick can’t help his mind drifting, even as he drops down, examining every movement of Pete’s fingers (because by then he’s added another one, quicker than he probably should). Back then, when he was still worrying about performing and their insane jump to stardom, Pete was doing this? When? While Patrick was fiddling with beats on GarageBand, was Pete in the other room biting his lip and figuring out how to make himself feel good? When Patrick thought he just ran off with Dirty or something, was this what he was actually doing?
God, when his Pete gets back they’re gonna have a lot to talk about. But, that’s in the future (and ignoring the possibility he can’t get Pete back).
By the time Patrick has refocused, Pete almost has all of his fingers in. He keeps having to stop himself from arching off the bed, teeth dug into his lip to keep quiet. And well, that won’t do.
Patrick leans forward and tongues around Pete’s rim, feeling how it clenches as Pete gasps. A finger slips out, creating just enough room for Patrick to feed his tongue in.
He eats girls out, but that’s a lot different than an asshole. Still, he’s a quick learner. He lets his tongue swirl, saliva easing his glide in and out alongside the bland taste of lube. Pete’s fingers haven’t really left, are still working and stretching him, but Patrick can work around that.
It’s a little sloppy, but Pete keeps thrusting down, panting loud. Patrick works him open and loose, only satisfied when Pete’s whining becomes more urgent than anything else. He’s pretty sure Pete is trying to squeeze his head open with his thighs.
Patrick places a palm on either one of those smooth thighs, wrenching them apart enough to get up. Ow, his knees hurt, what the fuck. He just manages not to broadcast that fact, but Pete isn’t paying attention anyway.
“C’mon, c’mon,” Pete tries to push him forward, and mostly succeeds. Patrick’s laughing by the time he’s back on the bed, hovering above Pete and his necklace of thorns.
“Calm down, I’m not going anywhere.” Patrick places a palm on Pete’s leg, hitching it up onto his waist. Pete keens, wrapping his arms around his neck like he’s going to run away. “Seriously Pete, I’m not gonna get stage fright.”
“Hm, are you sure, because my Patrick..”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s definitely not me anymore.” Patrick leans forward, presses a kiss just below Pete’s eye. He’s still got terrible eyebags, hidden beneath the smudged remnants of his eyeshadow. “Just.. relax.”
Pete’s eyes flutter shut, then halfway open, a flash of hazel looking up at him from beneath a row of dark eyelashes. “Alright, Stumph. Hey, guide me through it, all right?”
Right, he’s technically taking Pete’s backside virginity. Which he’s not gonna focus on too much. Still, this is kind of a first for Patrick as well, so they’re still in the same boat. Never mind that it took time travel magic to get him to reexamine his sexuality.
Patrick guides his dick into Pete’s hole, slowly breaching it. Pete squeezes his eyes shut, nails back to digging into his skin. Patrick coos, turning his face slightly to kiss at the inside of the wrist closest to him.
He kind of understands though, because Pete is tight, even after all the prep. Patrick isn’t exactly small, and trying to push in feels not dissimilar from breaching a tunnel. He rubs gentle circles into Pete’s thigh, which gets him to relax enough to actually slide in more than halfway.
“Alright?” Patrick leans down and whispers into his ear. He’s already sweating from the effort, and they haven’t even started moving yet.
“Yeah,” Pete pants, tentatively thrusting downwards. Patrick sucks in a breath. “Yeah, you can go, just start slow.”
Patrick’s still a little cautious, but he pulls back and thrusts back in gently, trying to feel out a rhythm. Pete gasps, managing to unlatch his nails so they can dig into the too-long hair at the nape of Patrick’s neck, a much better alternative. It’s more pleasurable than painful when he feels fingers tugging at his hair, trying to guide him in their own way into finding a better tempo.
It takes too long, but finally Pete is loose enough that he can thrust in and out evenly, keeping his movements measured and steady. Pete keeps trying to make him go faster, pulling at his hair like he’s the rat from Ratatouille. Nevermind, he doesn’t want to think about that right now.
“Patrick,” Pete glares. “Go faster, come on. This is killing me.”
“Just to note, you told me to go slow,” Patrick responds smugly. He’s stilled inside Pete to further the point, ignoring the quite-painful-now grasp of his hair.
“I said to start slow, stop being a dick. I’m gonna be your age by the time you actually fuck me.”
Patrick scowls, snapping his hips forwards. It jostles Pete, throwing his head back and making a moan spill from his throat. The smug smirk drops from Patrick’s face after a few more thrusts, rougher now but still just as pointed, gaining speed.
Patrick is sweating now like he’s run a marathon, it’s seeping into the hat that he forgot to remove and making every movement between them stick and glide. And the sounds..
“I’ve always wanted to do this,” Patrick pants, because it’s been long enough keeping his mouth shut. He’s always been unable to shut off his rambling, even now. “For so many years, even during.. well, I always figured it’d shut you up. I knew I was right.”
Pete’s head lolls to the side, baring his neck. And well, Patrick can’t resist that, so his next words get lost in the trailing bites he leaves along Pete’s neck. He grasps Pete by the hips, tugging him back more firmly into his thrusts, pinning him down when he starts to writhe.
“You’re gonna.. in me, right?” Pete manages to say, but he’s speaking like he can barely manage it, starting to get pushed up the bed (and then subsequently pulled back down) by Patrick’s movements. They’re getting rougher, still pent-up from the earlier handjob. Pete can’t move far anyway, not while still wearing his jacket, with the denim restricting any escape.
“Mhm, of course I will. I won’t deprive you, baby,” Patrick says into Pete’s cheek, peppering kisses along his tan skin. Pete doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t need him to.
Patrick’s carefully formulated rhythm is starting to fall apart as he chases his release, rutting in more like an animal than anything else, the wet smacking filling the air of him moving only egging him on. Pete’s drooling a bit, eyes fluttering like he’s struggling to keep them open.
“Good boy,” Patrick murmurs, licking up the spit trailing down his chin. Pete keens, nails leaving scratches down his back that he can barely feel. “Yeah, that’s you. So good for me, you don’t even know, but I do. So beautiful, so eager to please, I know you.”
“Patrick,” Pete whines, then lunges up, catching his lips in a messy kiss. Patrick can control it a lot more than earlier, but he’s starting to get uncoordinated. The combination of Pete writhing and groaning in his mouth with the extra sensation of pounding away into his tight heat finally has Patrick coming, whole body stilling as he buries himself deep inside Pete.
After a moment, Patrick grinds his release a little deeper, curious, but Pete visibly shudders, groaning low. “Don’t- don’t, Patrick-”
“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay. I got you, hold on.” Patrick manages to get a hand between them, even with Pete trying to basically crush them together. When he wraps a hand around Pete, he groans and bucks up, dislodging Patrick’s cock enough for some cum to leak out.
“Be still,” Patrick commands, jerking his hand hard and quick, the way he knows Pete likes it. They’ve been sharing a bus for way too long.
Pete nods, still panting, but he’s no longer wriggling around anymore. It doesn’t take long, Pete’s probably been on edge for a while. When Patrick thumbs over his head, Pete finally comes, twitching and shuddering his way through it. Some of it ends up covering the bartskull, which Patrick debates cleaning up, until he realizes that there’s no way he’s going to lick up cum. That’s a disgusting experience, no matter what gender.
Slowly, Patrick slides out. The sheets are definitely ruined now, but Pete doesn’t seem keen to move away from the mess, still coming down clearly. Aw, his jacket is definitely gonna need some thorough scrubbing now.
“Pete, you need a shower,” Patrick tries to coax. Eventually, he manages to support Pete upwards and into the bus shower. It’s way too small for the both of them, but somehow they manage.
By the time they get back out, Pete’s cleaner than he probably has been for a while (he distinctly remembers sharing a space with him back then) and his hair is wet and already starting to curl (oh, the days before keratin treatments). He stands by the bed, blinking blearily and swaying as Patrick does the rest of the work and strips the bed and replaces the sheet. In contrast to Pete, he’s feeling more energetic than ever, but he also didn’t get fucked through the mattress, so.
Pete climbs in swiftly, burrowing deep under the covers. Patrick would join him, but he could probably use this extra energy for something more worthwhile, like all those songs he’s been neglecting.
Then, a thought occurs to him. “Hey, how’d you get here anyway?”
Pete yawns, smushing his face into the pillow. His next words are muffled, but so unbelievable Patrick almost thinks he’s hearing wrong. “Magic eight ball.”
“What?” But Pete’s already asleep, which he knows for a fact was hard to do for him back then. So, Patrick leaves him be, even though he’s brimming with more questions than ever before. What are the odds that Pete’s weird set design would bring something like.. this?
Yeah, he needs Pete back. His Pete (no offense to the one dozing in his bed). At least so he could have some company to stew over what this means.
He’s just sitting down with his laptop (dressed in whatever he could find, he’s not a nudist) to work on some songs when Andy and Joe burst back in, chatting happily.
“Oh,” Joe stops short at the sight of him. “I thought you were watching some bands? And where’s Pete?”
Patrick winces. It’s probably good that the other room has a door. “Yeah, about that..”