Work Text:
When Pete uses the spare key that Patrick totally knows he owns and bounds unannounced into Patrick's house, he falls over a shopping bag in the doorway. It spills groceries all over the floor and Pete stuffs them back in without looking at what they were, hoping he hadn't crushed anything.
"Rick?"
There's no reply, but he can hear talking and scuffling in the living room and follows it: Patrick is curled up on the couch, watching Forrest Gump, and crying. He's eating a huge tub of ice cream, clutching it protectively in his arms as he sobs. When he looks up from licking the spoon clean to see Pete stood in front of him, he pales.
"Hey, Pete," he mutters, with tears still actively flowing down his cheeks.
"Um. What hap- Are you okay? Did you break up with someone? I didn't even know you were dating anyone. Can I do anything to help? Damn, you look like shit."
There is a drawn out silence.
"What the fuck," Patrick says eventually, sounding like he would be yelling if he had the energy, "What the fuck, Pete. Did you just come into my house to tell me I'm ugly and leave? I'm trying to watch a movie. Fuck off."
Pete sighs. "Come on, Trick, don't be bitchy," He tries, seeing Patrick tense even further instead of relaxing. "Please? I came over here just to see you. Tell me what's wrong?"
Patrick sighs, flopping back against the couch with a fuzzy blanket clutched around his torso like it's protecting him and the ice cream from Pete. "'M not allowed to be sad when I watch a sad movie?"
Pete stares. "Yeah but, dude... Forest Gump isn't even that sad, and you're literally crying your eyes out. You're acting pretty PMS-y, man," he teases, nudging Patrick in a desperate attempt to stop his crying. It's nothing that hasn't worked before, poking fun at Patrick's shitty initials and bad temper; Pete thinks it worked for a second when Patrick suddenly goes very quiet - then he flinches, staring at Pete with huge eyes and a pale face, throws a cushion at him, and storms in a fury to his room. When he stands up, a box of Midol falls from the folds of his blanket. Amazed at the strange things that turned inside blankets - and wishing he didn't have that weird bit of information about Patrick's mom - Pete picks it up and puts it carefully back on the side.
He hovers awkwardly, unsure, until the end credits start to roll and trigger him to action, at which point he sprints up the stairs to knock desperately at Patrick's door. "Patrick, I'm sorry, please open the door? What did I do?"
"That was super misogynistic and gross of you, Pete," comes a muffled voice from inside.
Leaning into the door Pete replies, "Little guy uses big words." He nearly falls onto Patrick when it opens. Patrick's changed his shirt, but still holds the blanket around his shoulders.
"My mom's a feminist."
"Right." Pete's mouth quirks. "I guess that was kind of dickish of me, I'm sorry."
The door opens further, and Patrick steps aside to let Pete in. His shoulders are slumped and he looks sick, paler than usual and with a slight grimace like he's in pain.
"Are you okay, dude?" Pete asks as he settles on Patrick's bed. Reclined in the desk chair opposite, Patrick notices a square blue package, that reminds Pete of the few experiences he's had with sanitary napkins, on the floor and kicks it frantically under the desk before looking back up. "I'm fine, okay? Flu, or something. I was gonna-" he starts, then stops, biting his lip like he's forcibly stopping himself saying anything.
Earnestly, Pete leans forward, forcing Patrick to make eye contact by sheer proximity. "'Trick. What the fuck is up with you today, dude?" Genuine concern bleeds through his voice, something Pete doesn't often express between self pity and questionable optimism. It makes Patrick look up. Wringing his hands tersely, he makes an unsettled noise, opens his mouth to speak, and makes another frustrated sound.
"I was- I wanted to do something, but I'm not really in a good frame of mind to right now, and it would be impulsive and dumb, and I'd regret it later. It's- never mind."
Pete blinks, can't help thinking this is some kind of obvious hint directed at him, but equally has no idea what it is. "Is it to do with me? You can- you can tell me."
Patrick laughs lightly, seeing the look in Pete's eyes. "It's not that I'm in love with you, you egotist. It's a p-personal thing, about myself."
"You're gay?" Pete suggests blankly. A look crosses Patrick's face like he doesn't know whether to laugh and he lets out a noncommittal sound. "You're so one-track, Pete. Warmer, I guess."
"Warmer?" Pete splutters. "Warmer?! What the fuck does that mean? You got me confused now, Stump. What's warmer to gay? You're bi?"
Patrick laughs but it's more uncertain than happy, and doesn't deny it. Pete's frown deepens.
"It's not about attraction, dude. It's the other letter," he says cryptically, before slamming a hand over his mouth in horror, like he'd given away something he really didn't want to and not just said something Pete doesn't understand at all.
Until he does. Patrick has said gay and bi, and clearly isn't a lesbian; LGBT, leaving the final letter, T. Only, Pete doesn't exactly know what that letter stood for. He has little more than an inkling.
"Tranny?"
Patrick flinches, but Pete ploughs on, regardless, thinking it's just out of embarrassment at his own confession. "So you... wanted to tell me that you like dressing up like a woman? Dude, have you met me at all - I'll fucking steal your girl clothes. I didn't have you pegged as the type, but-"
"Pete," Patrick says quietly, but he is red with what could have been fury, or embarrassment. "It's- it's not like that. That word isn't..." His eyes are scrunched up and he looks like he regrets his actions right now, and Pete hates making Patrick feel like that.
"I don't get it," Pete confesses. "You're acting bitchy all week, I come into your house and you're crying on your couch with ice cream, but not because of any tangible cause for sadnes - and I found Midol on your couch... A-and now you say you like to dress up like a girl, and all this- it doesn't make a ton of sense to me, like I'm missing something? This, this is sort of seeming like something else, but that only happens to girls, y'know... I'm confused, Trick. You gotta help me, I'm..."
Patrick shifts in his seat and fuck, there are tears brimming in his eyes. He looks exhausted. "Girls, Pete," He sighs weakly, "Or people with female bodies?"
And that, what? Pete's struggle to process the statement must have shown, because a noise comes out of Patrick like he's choking back a sob.
"Listen, Pete, I need- you need to tell me right now if you're going to be okay with this. If you hate me right now, and you want to just leave my house and never come back, do it right now. If you just need time to figure it and stuff explaining, then fucking stay," He gasps the last two words and it sounds like he's begging, making Pete's gut twist, "Then fucking stay, but if you're ever gonna talk to me again, and maybe if you're not, please don't use that word again."
Pete grimaces. "I'm sorry, I didn't realise it was... Please, Rick, I've only just heard of this thing, you have to explain it to me. So you... used to be a girl?" He tries to look earnestly at Patrick, tries to show that even if he doesn't understand yet, he could - wants to. He's said the wrong thing again, though, because Patrick flinches again and goes white with silent fury.
"I didn't used to be a girl, Pete," Patrick growls. "If you're going to get this at all, you have to understand that I was never a girl. When I was born, I had a female body, but I've always been a boy." He's so hard and defensive, and Pete wants his Patrick right about now, not this heavily armoured version that Pete can't get anywhere near to.
"Patrick, please," he tries with a wholly naked expression, trying to convey I want to understand and you're still my best friend and I'm sorry.
It works: Patrick scrubs a hand across his face and reappears looking like Pete's Patrick again.
"I just- I don't know if you can, but I just want you to treat me the same as before."
Pete nods eagerly. "But then why tell me at all?"
"Because," Patrick replies slowly, "I don't want to be in a band that I lie to - I don't want to lie to you. Also, I'm apparently not very good at hiding it, and I want you to find out from me if you have to find out." This time, there's even a small smile. Maybe they could get back the way they were before.
"So you're telling Andy and Joe, too?"
Patrick nods, and then his smile widens even further and Pete's heart clenches. "Although, this whole experience is kind of making me not want to come out to any one else ever again."
"I'm truly flattered. It's okay, though. I'm okay with it. It's... I dunno. It's just you."
"I- That means a lot to me. But if- I just need you to understand that I'm not... I'm not just some girl who's kidding myself for attention or something. If you're not going to be able to accept that then I can't be treated like that, and I'd rather you just tell me now than try and pretend if you're not going to believe me. I'm just... I'm just a guy, like you, except I d- wasn't born with a dick," he adds quietly, blushing a fascinating shade of maroon red.
"Patrick, never. You're Patrick," Pete dismisses firmly, watching the fragility drain away and replace itself with tentative happiness.
"Okay," Patrick breathes. His grin is blinding. "Okay."
***
"Stop it!" Patrick growls, shifting on the couch to glare at Pete, who puts his hands up in perplexed surrender.
"What?"
"You're- you're staring at me," He blusters, unfairly: Pete doesn't think he was staring at Patrick - or any more than usual, although that was pretty much all the time, so there isn't much margin for increase.
"I always stare at you," he teases, improvising a terrifying leer, which he drops when Patrick grunts frustratedly and slaps at him.
"No, I mean," he huffs, "I mean like... you're looking at me. Trying to see if I look like I- if I look like I used to look more like a girl. It's fine, everyone does it when they know. Just, don't? Or, try not to. It makes me really, um. I don't like it."
Hurt, Pete draws back. "Rick, I'm really not. I promise. You just look like Patrick to me, I know your face too well to try and contextualise it like that."
Looking slightly appeased, Patrick turns back to the TV, but Pete changes the subject carefully.
"You don't look like a girl," he mumbles delicately, not wanting to say the wrong thing more times than he already has and come off like an asshole, "Is that- How do you-"
Wrong thing alert. Patrick's arms fold again and he mutes the TV, turning back to Pete.
"I was on testosterone for like, a year, a bit more maybe. I don't take it any more because of the side effects that I didn't like, but it's mostly permanent." He doesn't miss Pete's eyes flickering to his chest in confusion and away again as Pete catches himself and tries to look away before Patrick notices him, feeling guilty for even thinking about it.
"No offence, Pete, but the rest is kind of private, and I'm not really willing to talk about it with you. Nothing personal, I just don't really discuss it with people I'm not going to sleep with. You can google transgender when you get home if you want to know shit like that, but you won't hear it from me."
Wincing, Pete apologises, and tries to suppress the wave of curiosity Patrick triggered with his comment, but Patrick sees something in Pete's face and knows. "What?"
"I just, ah. How'd you - I mean, not physically, I get that's private, but... you only just told me so I mean, who?"
Patrick hadn't had any girlfriends - or boyfriends - during the time Pete's known him, but he's not an almost-eighteen year old virgin, from what Pete understood in drunken games of truth or dare.
"One night stands mainly," Patrick admits, folding his hands in his lap. "There was a girl I knew from school, but it didn't work out. People don't... I'm not something that people want a relationship with, I'm not someone it's easy to do that with. There's places I can meet people who are cool with it. Guys like- looking for a gay experience but without... y'know. I'm like a convenient... fucktoy for all sort of people. I prefer girls, honestly, but most of them aren't into me... Hey, don't look like that," he protests at Pete's horrified expression.
"Patrick- don't call yourself a fucktoy, that's..." Pete flaps his hands wildly, "Who are these people that treat you like that, 'cause I'll... I dunno, but fucking- they're not older guys, right?"
Patrick slams shut. "I shouldn't have said anything. I'm not willing to talk about it, Pete, please."
Pete frowns at Patrick until he relents slightly, adding, "I haven't even done it that many times, and I'm just grateful anyone wants me like this, and when I've got more money I'm going to get it all sorted and find a girlfriend who can accept me. It's not like I'm writing myself off, I'm just being realistic."
Pete can't imagine having to go to all that effort for sex. Usually, he just walks into a bar and flutters his eyelashes a little. Patrick's not wanting to be sexless throughout his teens and twenties is understandable, but Pete feels sick that it happens like that. "I'm sorry," he mumbles helplessly.
"Don't be. I've got it so much easier than some people, I mean, like, even the fact that Mom is fine with me, I could be homeless or something right now. Dad... he's Dad, but he calls me the right name, so. And my brother is a fucking bully but he bullies me about normal shit like making me do chores for him and me being short, and my sister's just disappointed that she won't get to steal my clothes, or something."
For almost a minute, Pete can't even bring himself to speak, but he looks up and hears a sniffle that calls his attention back. "Woah, are you crying? Dude," There's a louder snuffle when Pete refers to Patrick as 'dude', which means Pete sort of figures out what's going on. He shuffles Patrick half into his lap and pulls him into a tight hug, letting him cry into Pete's shoulder for a bit until he looks up with red eyes and a little smile.
"It's just general emotion tears, I guess. Fuck, I'm so- fuck. I wasn't expecting you'd... be anywhere near as cool as you have been- I know that's not fair of me to think that, don't take it personally. And just, my family is so good to me, and you get it, cause I thought maybe you wouldn't be a dick to my face about it but you wouldn't really... y'know, be properly okay. It's like two years' worth of relief. And also, there is a fuckton of hormones fucking me up right now, and you don't know how hard this is because I'm a boy and this isn't meant to happen to boys and you don't know how shitty it is, every month just a little reminder that I'm not really-"
Pete sighs.
"Hey, you are really. Come here," he soothes, stroking Patrick's hair gently. "You are. Shhh, it's okay. It's okay. You are."
Patrick buries his face back in Pete's shoulder, sobbing, "It's hard, Pete, it's so hard." At some point, Pete doesn't know when, the little curl of Patrick's mouth like he's in pain had returned. It makes more sense now, though.
Still petting Patrick's head, he reaches behind himself and finds the packet of Midol he'd placed there earlier.
"Does it hurt, Trick?"
Patrick nods. "I hate it, Pete, Ihateit Ihateit," he whines, clutching his stomach like if he squeezes it hard enough his uterus would just pop out and he wouldn't have to worry about it anymore. When his face turns worryingly red, Pete coaxes his hands away and hands him a pill, which Patrick swallows dry, blinking away tears.
***
01:46am, Friday. Pete's phone is ringing. Patrick. "Patrick?"
"Pete, Pete fuck, listen, I'm sorry. Pete, I couldn't sleep so I looked at my calendar, and I know this is gross and you probably don't want to talk about it because your body doesn't fuck you over like mine, but I think it just fucked me over even worse-" Patrick screeches into Pete's ear in a panic.
"Woah, slow down, what?"
There are a few harsh breaths, and then a sound like Patrick screaming with his mouth closed.
"Pete, I can't fucking slow down, you don't- I'm late," he hisses pointedly. And, oh. Pete's eyes widen to double their original size and he feels his blood drain to his toes.
"What, Patrick, you- okay. Okay, how long?"
"I just, it's been five days now, and I'm really freaking out," Patrick pants; Pete's got the feeling that Patrick is yanking on his hair in terror, not that Pete would know over the phone, but he feels these things sometimes, with Patrick.
Pete tries to calm his breathing, set an example for Patrick. He has to be there for him, be the level-headed, in control one for once. "Rick, I'm not going to tell you to calm down because, yeah, but try and breathe, and stop pulling your hair. Okay, is there even a possibility that you could've, you know?"
The breaths on the other end slow even more, and Patrick sounds gradually less hysterical, just small and scared, but Pete doesn't really know which is worse. All he says is, "Yeah." And Pete knows Patrick doesn't like to talk about these things, but it stabs a little that he won't even go into more detail than that.
"And you used protection?" he asks urgently.
"Well... not exactly," Patrick hedges, and Pete feels his blood pressure rise a few points.
"He," Patrick continues, "He said that he'd had the, you know. The operation, and he was clean,"
Patrick's hesitant admission is barely out before Pete screams
at him down the phone, glad he lives alone, "Patrick you idiot! You stupid fuck, I can't believe you would be that dumb! You fucking, fucking... you don't just take the word of some sleazy guy that hooks up with teenagers and treats them like a, fuck- a fucktoy," Pete snarls, stuttering angrily over the last words. Patrick's flinch is almost audible, and the sound of crying follows after a few moments.
"Trick?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm sorry I shouted at you," Pete lets out a rush of air, left hand nervously picking at the skin around his thumbnail. "You just- that was really dumb, Stump. A-and I'm just worried for you. Look, it'll be okay. I'll get a test, and then we can talk about... uh."
Patrick's voice is nervous. "We?"
Confidently, Pete nods. "Yeah, we. I'm not gonna leave you to this alone, you're seventeen, fuck. Can you sleep, or do you wanna talk?"
"Talk?" Patrick suggests. "You can- I know I haven't really been the most, uh, I haven't really been willing to talk about it, but if you want, if you want to, um, know anything?"
Pete allows himself to smile slightly, settling back under the comforter. "I'm just curious about, like, school? I mean, what's that like? Sorry if that's, like, out of line."
"No, it's, it's fine. I've been passing since I was fourteen, actually, and when I started high school I made sure it was one where no one would know."
"Oh. That's good then, I guess. I mean like, it can't be fun to have to-"
"Go as a girl?" Patrick interrupts, "Yeah. That- I did that in middle school and it sucked. I tried to- uh. I was out at home since I was kind of young, actually, and I always had short hair and wore clothes that were like, for boys, or whatever, not that clothes are really for anyone - I was as boyish as I could get away with without actually. But at home I was always Patrick, yeah. That was kind of worse though, I was so confused that whole time. And I'd come home and it was just, so... and then I'd go to school and have to walk into the wrong changing room, and." He swallows thickly and Pete decides to step in, telling him to stop if he needs.
"To be honest, it's good. I never really had anyone to talk it out with, and I have some stuff that I should probably talk about. I still have dreams, a lot, of being back there, and everyone's calling me the wrong name-"
"What was it?"
"What?"
"Your name. What was it? If you don't want to tell me..."
Pete can hear Patrick's mouth working, figuring out what he's going to say.
"I don't like to talk about it. But you've been awesome to me, and you deserve to know one word, I guess. It's not that different, really. I know a lot of people change it completely, but I guess... I guess it's like, I was still the same person inside, I was just changing to be more like me outside, but I wasn't a different person, so I didn't want to change my name. I hated hearing a girl's name aimed at me, but it was my name, you know?"
Pete nods, not feeling any different about Patrick after hearing it, can't even imagine him as a Patricia. "So that's why you don't like being called Pat? Shit, I'm sorry."
"I don't mind as much anymore. I try and save my dysphoria for the important things like possibly being pregnant."
***
Pete had promised Patrick that he would be at his house with a pregnancy test as soon as the stores were open, which is how he ends up in Patrick's house at seven thirty, with three heavy grocery bags.
He hears snuffling again, and maybe the sound of ice cream being eaten, or maybe that's just craziness, but as soon as he enters the living room he feels relief wash through him at the sight of Patrick, face smushed against the sofa cushions with what looks like the god of all ice cream tubs in his grasp. Pete can also see Ferris Bueller's undeniably attractive face on the television, and hear crying.
Pete drops his bags with a groan. "Did I just waste fifty dollars?"
Patrick jumps and sits up, making a vague attempt at wiping his tears, but he's beaming with relief. "Dude, who spends fifty dollars on pregnancy tests?"
Pete holds up the three bags so that Patrick can see them, and sighs. "I panicked and I didn't know which ones were good or which ones you'd like-"
"So you bought them all," Patrick manages an exasperated grin.
"Well, yeah," Pete agrees, "But that's like basic shit- I freaked out again so I bought, um, diapers? And then I got you some ice cream in case it was bad news and there was crying, but I guess you already have that monster tub which is like, the size of me but less snuggly. What else? Kleenex, pacifiers, painkillers, pregnancy vitamins, more diapers, baby shampoo, two packs of diapers," Pete names the items as he dumps them out on the floor, and when he gets to a bar of chocolate, Patrick snatches it away and tears it open, munching loudly and spooning ice cream into his mouth to mix with it.
"Wow," He says eventually, with a mouth full of tempting disgustingness. "That's, um. That's. Wow. Thank you?"
"Are diapers refundable?" Pete replies miserably.
Patrick throws his head back and laughs. "Pete! I'm not pregnant! I love you."
"Yeah," Pete says softly, resenting Patrick's happiness for playing with him like this. He wishes he'd have said something to Patrick before he knew, because anything he comes out with now will seem like it's the result of it. Pete doesn't want Patrick that Pete just has some kind of kink for people like him; the thought of Patrick being treated that way makes Pete's blood boil.
"I could fuck you," Pete says suddenly, instead of any of the logical, sensible options he'd considered. "I don't think of you as like-" He couldn't bring himself to say the word, "And I hate that probably all you've had is bad fucks with people who don't care about you. I could-"
"Pete." Fuck, fuck, Pete fucked everything up, Patrick's mad at him and creeped out and hates him. "Pete, I- I don't- I really appreciate, um, the offer... really. But, I'm not. How I am, it's weird and- I'm really just a f-f - I don't want my friends to see me like that. I really, um. But I really don't want to demean myself in front of... you, like that. That's not the me that I want people to see, it's... well, you know."
Well aware of his resemblance to a fish, Pete gapes a little. A sick feeling makes his stomach turn, and he wants to fight Patrick on this, make him see that he deserves to be treated well and not cast around like a blow-up doll, but he just nods, "S'okay, I get it. Forget I said anything." No! Why is he being so understanding? He doesn't understand, doesn't understand at all why Patrick thinks that existing as he is would be 'demeaning himself', why Patrick - or anyone else - thinks it's okay to treat him as anything less than a pretty cool human.
Patrick looks queasy, is tinted green and white and has his subtle pained expression again. "Rick, you okay?"
Patrick, alarmingly, gags into his ice cream tub before he shrugs it off and nods. "I have- I mean, probably most of the people you know that have periods aren't... as weird as me. I don't mean in general, although maybe that too, I mean, like, about it."
"Most of the gi- people with periods that I know don't spend the whole time watching eighties movies and crying, eating tubs of ice cream bigger than them and sort of seeming like they're in some totally exaggerated shitty rom-com? Dude, I wasn't going to say anything but. Yeah, I mean, most of the people I know, you wouldn't even notice it and they just, like. But it's fine, shit, sorry for even saying that, it was out of line. I get that it's way harder for you, or whatever, so I'm not judging you or anything."
Patrick needs to stop smiling like that, looking so hopeful and endearing Pete forgets that he punched him in the face just last week, but every time Pete says the right thing and earns a smile like that, it seems irrelevant. "Okay. But I just wanted to- ugh, you have to tell me if I go into too much detail and gross you out. But I get really heavy periods, when I was younger I used to black out a lot and throw up and stuff. Just so you know I'm not like, being a whiny baby, or whatever."
"Rick," Pete insists, "It's fine. If a shit ton of blood started coming out of my ass, I'd be in the same position. And, I wish someone had told me this when I was a teenager, emotional issues are just as important as physical ones. Just 'cause you're not physically sick, doesn't mean you're being a whiny baby."
Patrick nods silently and pats the couch next to him, snuggling back into his blanket. When Pete sits next to him, he lays his head in Pete's lap and blinks up at him, daring him to say something. Pete doesn't, just strokes Patrick's hair idly.
***
Pete wakes up one sleepy morning later, to Patrick's face above his with a plate of bacon, and he stares at Patrick's bed-head and thinks he's still dreaming until he hears Patrick call him a string of things that the unrealistically angelic Patrick of Pete's dreams would never even think of saying.
He always forgets how pissy the real one is, and how much cuter, because his brain just sees that pale skin with the smattering of teenage acne just fading from his forehead and his voice, level and deep until he gets excited and squeaks like nobody's business, and assumes it's an angel and not the bacon-toting human who is now staring slightly cross-eyed with anger at Pete; it has been minutes since Pete first woke up and his being lost in dreamlike intensity is probably growing annoying to Patrick.
"I love you," Pete mumbles, because who can look at that face leaning over them with the perfect opportunity to make it blush, and not say it? It is possible that his judgement is skewed because of the bacon, but.
"No you don't," Patrick sighs, fiddling with his glasses. "Sit up. Eat your bacon."
"I might do," Pete grumbles through a mouthful of bacon. "How would you know?"
Patrick's brow creases like he's containing his fury - not a skill of Patrick's, but he manages. "You don't," he replies, looking sincere and confident in his statement in a way that irritates Pete no end.
"How?" Pete presses, almost choking on his bacon in his earnestness. "How do you know, for sure?" He doesn't know why he's arguing with Patrick about this, because even though he does, he's gone so far without saying anything and it's not like his big romantic come out to Patrick will be in his mom's living room with a mouth full of bacon.
"Why are you so sure that I don't? Why are you so certain that I couldn't possibly harbour any affection towards you, I mean - platonic love, that's love too. You think I'm just here for the free - and fucking delicious, though, shit - bacon, or something? Why the fuck won't you just- Shit." Pete realises why, he's known why since Patrick came out, from the entire way he talks about himself. The beautiful bacon almost makes its way back out of Pete's gut, but he keeps it down.
"You. You don't believe anyone could, do you?" He knows he's right from the way Patrick looks down and won't meet his eyes. "'Trick." Patrick stares determinedly at his own plate of bacon, until Pete raises his voice and takes Patrick's chin in his hand. "Patrick. Listen, I- I might do, y'know, if-"
Patrick's head snaps up then, and his eyes are flashing. "Don't," He growls furiously, "Don't you dare say it. I didn't need your pity fuck and I definitely don't need your, your... pity romance."
Pete jerks back, shocked. "Pity fuck? You think I- Listen. Listen the fuck up, you pissy little asshole. I love you. Not your fucking pity shit, like Pete Wentz loves Patrick Stump; has done since before he knew of anything out of the ordinary that would change the, uh, actual loving. Like, the, making of it."
Patrick goes white and disappears again to his room. Pete hopes this isn't becoming a pattern.
***
After trudging up the stairs, trying to make peace with his mind and give Patrick time to calm down, Pete appears at Patrick's door. He has déjà vu, a little, as he leans into the door and knocks carefully.
The door swings in and Patrick looks pink and breathless, and his eyes are bright but aren't fully shining, like he's holding back in case it goes wrong. "You mean it?" he pants, and it's not what Pete's expecting, so he just nods dumbly and yelps in surprise when Patrick pulls him over the threshold again, but instead of sitting on the chair, Patrick pushes Pete onto the bed and climbs on top of him.
Pete closes his eyes a moment before Patrick's lips are on his, then regrets it, because he thinks that Patrick's face in that moment would've been a sight to behold. The smart part of him, the part that Pete's growing career, and now apparently romance, relies on him pushing down, thinks that they should maybe stop and talk about this, or he should at least think about it, but Patrick's pressed flush against him and now his hands are in Pete's hair and he kisses like he hasn't been in contact with another human in years.
Pete's hand goes to Patrick's hip, and there's a curve there he didn't expect, although he should have, and it feels good, the perfect way Pete's hand fits there, and Patrick whines and shifts at the contact, lifting his shirt enough that Pete can touch the bare skin there but the shirt falls back over and obscures his torso.
Pete moves his hand up slowly, relishing the way Patrick whines and pushes into it, until he goes just above Patrick's navel and Patrick makes an upset sound and pushes him away.
"Not now, not- not yet," He mumbles shyly. "Please."
Pete takes him by the shoulders, trying to look past his kiss-bitten lips and kind of failing.
"Rick. I don't really care what's under your shirt, s'long as its you. I don't mean to be crude but I've fucked a lot of g- people with bodies like yours before. I don't care either way, please."
Patrick peels his hands away from the hem of his shirt slowly, crossing his arms and uncrossing them them a few times in indecision. "Don't- just-" he huffs out a breath. "And nothing else, at least right now, 'cause I'm. Well, um, not pregnant."
That makes Pete loose a startled laugh from his also swollen lips, and Patrick stares incredulously until he swallows, nods and sits back to give Pete access to his shirt. The fact that he squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head away makes Pete pause. "Patrick, are you sure you're okay with it? If you don't want to yet, that's ok. Are you happy with me doing this?" Pete doesn't been know for sure what he's going to find but the fact that Patrick's freaking out is giving him a clue.
"I'm never going to be properly happy until they're- until I get rid, but, yeah, I'm okay with it right now. Just, just do it." He's shaking and so small, and Pete never thought he'd want the drumstick-throwing, grumpy asshole Patrick back, but he does, desperately.
"Relax," he breathes as his fingers brush Patrick's stomach under his shirt.
"I am relaxed," Patrick hisses, sounding anything but. "Take my fucking shirt off before I change my mind!"
"Okay, okay. Just- if you're not comfortable, tell me and I'll stop?"
They end up taking a deep, shaky breath at the exact same time and Pete slides Patrick's shirt over his head. Patrick is wearing a sports bra. Pete has to pause for a moment to equate this with the concept of Patrick that's been forming in his head since they met. Not that he minds it, but it's like a wildcard and he has to edit his mental picture to fit it in. He already guessed, but seeing it is different.
He wants to say something, but doesn't know what would put Patrick at ease without making him think it's a thing for boys with boobs, and not one that's just for Patrick, in whatever form. When he looks up, Patrick is chewing his lip and his eyes are fixed worriedly on Pete's face at his lack of readable response. Seeing the look on Pete's face, flushed with eyes sparkling and an expression of awe, he chews harder and drops his posture like he's grudgingly relaxing.
They're small, small enough to be hidden under his disgustingly baggy shirt by a sports bra, so long as you don't look closely, but not under some of the tighter shit he wears, not enough that Pete thinks he wouldn't have noticed just now if he'd looked closely, so he cocks his head in a question. Predictably, Patrick blushes.
"No, I- This is. This is just for sitting around, I mean, it's comfier and I'm lazy, I guess. I have this thing for, like, being around people," Pete doesn't know if he should be flattered that Patrick didn't wear it when he knew Pete was coming over, but he decides to take it. "It's called a binder and it sort of makes me look flat chested, kind of. It's not- anyway, talking about that stuff is kind of a buzz killer, to be honest. Can we just-"
"Shit, sorry, I really want your buzz alive. Can I take this off? Say no if you don't want, it's fine." Pete's fingers linger questioningly at the hem of Patrick's fucking sports bra, which is quickly moving from weird to hot, and Pete's undeniably hard. "You look cute in it," he adds, before he can think not to. He expects Patrick to be mad, or tell him that he hates it and doesn't want to talk about it and can Pete just get to second base and get it over with, but not to blush, giggle and ask, "Really?" with wide-open eyes.
Instead of replying, Pete drags his hand across the black fabric and, embarrassingly, nearly comes in his pants when he feels Patrick's nipples tent under his fingers. He shudders and grunts something incoherent and not safe for work, grinning at the blush spreading form Patrick's cheeks across the bridge of his nose to meet in the middle.
Pete leans in to kiss the flush even deeper and gets pushed away. "Fair's fair," Patrick explains, hurriedly ripping off Pete's shirt. Pete doesn't have his six pack at the moment, and he regrets that, but he's got that lingering structure that suggests that he has recently, which seems to be enough for Patrick, judging by the way his jaw goes slack and he pulls Pete into him again, pushing their bare stomachs together.
"I have something to say," Pete says as he pulls back, mainly to distract Patrick from the hand covertly nudging the strap off his shoulder.
"Mm?" Prompts Patrick, looking wrecked.
"Like, I feel like this is a touchy subject but. I wanted you to know, I'd still do this if you had a dick," Pete says hoarsely. "Just so you know. I'd probably find it really gross, but. I'd still want to."
Patrick smiles. "That's sweet. Touch me now, please?"
Pete hand has just knocked the other strap away as Patrick says this, and Pete is only to happy to oblige. He rolls the remaining clingy spandex down Patrick's torso until it's out of the way at Patrick's hips, and then he stares. Pete's seen amputation scars before, in the bouts of googling he's done since he found out about Patrick - this isn't that, for obvious reasons; and there's only one, and it's in the wrong place, a puckered diagonal red slash.
He trails one finger across its length, feeling Patrick shudder. "What's this?"
"What do you think," Patrick murmurs, and Pete swallows. "Why?"
Patrick sighs. "It was a long time ago, I was young and confused and I didn't like what was happening to me, but I'd never do it again, so can we just..."
"It looks like it hurt." Pete wants to move on and get to the touching, he really does, but he can't shake the image of Patrick, knife, blood, and even the idea of it smarts a little.
"It did," Patrick shrugs nonchalantly. "I passed out, mom found me and had to take me to the hospital. I woke up and we had, um, the talk, and, uh," he gestures to himself. "I thought I was supposed to be the annoying emotional one, but seriously, you've got ten seconds before my shirt goes back on."
"Whh," Pete yelps, launching into Patrick with so much force he falls backwards with Pete on top of him. Pete grinds down desperately, lips pressed hotly against Patrick's and when Patrick whimpers and spreads his legs needily, Pete almost coos, "Slutty," but he doesn't because he's learned enough to consider the words he used towards Patrick and he doesn't know if this would be one he'd like. He makes a note to ask; maybe they could get a list of bedroom words.
"My mom gets back from work soon," Patrick pants as Pete's mouth slides to his neck, biting down as hard as he dares before he gets Patrick's hand pushing him off.
"Only places I can hide with clothes, please."
Smirking, he slides lower until his lips brush the curve of Patrick's breast, the right one which is just slightly smaller, and he grazes the spot with his teeth and feels Patrick's whole body shiver, does it again until Patrick's a trembling mess and then he bites down harder, pressing his fingers into the curve of Patrick's sides and running his tongue along the captured section of skin until he's satisfied with the mark he's left.
"Fuck," Patrick moans, wriggling into Pete's touch when Pete's mouth slides dangerously lower, and his other hand slides up to cup the left, "Fuck, that feels really good, like, just- ugh. No one usually- jesus, shit, - no one usually cares about anything but my - fuckfuckfuck, Pete it feels so fucking amazing, please - but my pussy. Just, all about them, y'know, fuck the boy/girl dude, get off, go."
He's squirming and whining but determinedly keeping a straight face as he complains casually, and at this point Pete wonders if it's even the things Patrick does or if he just finds everything about him undeniably attractive: he thinks of might be a combination of both. Patrick's sentiment is more saddening than anything else but he's got a hand between his legs, rubbing against his pants looking desperately for friction and he seems more irritated than upset.
"Mhm, I dunno why you complaining about other dudes who fuck you is so hot, but you're literally so fucking gorgeous right now," Pete murmurs into the dip of Patrick's collarbone.
He's pushed back on one arm, idly stroking the slight trail of fuzz that leads down Patrick's stomach, genuinely contemplating just going for it and washing himself throughly afterwards - really, there isn't a problem, logically: it's just kind of a gross concept, but it's also Patrick, laid out half naked underneath him looking blissful and smugly telling Pete that he just came, because he's seventeen, but he could probably do it again - when they hear the door opening downstairs.
"Rick, honey? I'm back! I'm going to put dinner on, it'll only be ten minutes, okay, sweetie?"
"shit," Patrick hisses under his breath, "Okay, mom, I'm coming in a minute!"
She shouts back a vague okay and Patrick turns to Pete looking like a panicked animal. "Put your shirt on, we've got ten minutes to look normal." He drags a finger across Pete's bottom lip, bright red and kiss bitten to match Patrick's, and groans. Pete grabs his shirt and hands Patrick his
clothes back, then stops to watch the stretch and curve of Patrick's body as he re-dresses himself. In the act of shifting his bra down slightly, he looks up and catches Pete watching with a slow, adoring smile on his face.
"Pete," he whines, slapping at him self-consciously, "Quit watching! Get your fucking shirt on before mom comes up here to see what I'm doing. Fuck, she's gonna know. She'll totally know, Pete, and it'll be so embarrassing, ughhh, we're going to look so shady, and like, why didn't I tell her you were here when she first came in, shit."
He stops to watch Pete pull his own shirt on, shamelessly ogling his abs, which makes Pete grin and run a hand over his stomach teasingly before he pulls his shirt down. When he starts to stand up, Patrick must see the determined bulge in Pete's jeans that's remained steadfast through the whole exchange, because he wails and falls forward, burying his face in the comforter.
Pete looks down and laughs. "It's fine, 'Trick. You go down there and tell your mom I'm here but I just went to the bathroom, and do that helpful shit, set the table or whatever, to distract her while I jerk off in the bathroom."
Patrick looks hesitant, eying Pete like he wants to ask if he can help, so Pete takes his arms and hauls him up.
"I'm not letting our first proper thing be a rushed handjob we had to do because your mom interrupted us, and anyway I think I'd be too loud then and she'd know. Go." He pulls Patrick close for a slow, longing kiss and then pushes him away and heads to the bathroom.
***
"Hey, Peter, honey!"
"Hi Mrs- Pat." He thinks about telling her for the tenth time that Peter is his dad and call him Pete, please, but doesn't want her to pay so much attention to him that she realises he looks like he just jerked off in a bathroom.
"Patrick's in the kitchen, sweetie," she adds, and Pete thanks her and scurries off.
Patrick is stirring something suspiciously vegetabley and humming to himself in the kitchen when Pete creeps up behind him and latches his arms around his waist, nuzzling his neck. He starts and meeps in surprise before returning to his unruffled demeanour. "Fuck, Pete, you startled me."
"Does your mom know?" Pete says suddenly, ignoring Patrick. He realises that he's probably expected to stay for dinner and doesn't want to sit through a meal where he doesn't know if Patrick's mom expects him to act like he knows, trying to awkwardly hint, act oblivious and act cool with it in a way that doesn't indicate whether or not he knows.
"What, that we were making out in my room?" Patrick asks, confused.
"No, dick, about you!"
"Oh," Patrick realises sheepishly, "Yeah I told her. Sorry if that was out of line but that's like her dream; she's really suspicious of like, teenage boys which, yeah, so she wants me to be out to everyone hypothetically but she also doesn't really think any of my friends would be cool with it. She like, nearly cried. But, um, I told her not to bring it up to you and make you uncomfortable."
Pete protests, "It doesn't make me uncomfortable!"
The corner of Patrick's mouth turns up, but he argues. "Not now. It would if mom was, well, being mom about it, trust me."
"Always." Pete's grin can only be described as shit-eating. "Shit, so like, am I meant to act like I don't know? Or do I casually bring it up so she knows I'm cool?"
"Pete. How often does your gender come up at the dinner table? Just be normal."
"I can do normal!"
"...Right."
***
"So what's your favourite rumour you guys have heard about yourselves?" Asks the interviewer. It's not an original question but they've barely even done that many interviews yet so it's not like they're tired of it. It's not even official, they're sitting on an ugly old sofa while a college student interviews them, but Pete would do a million of these to get Patrick the money for his surgery.
"Well," Pete starts, shuffling closer to Patrick, "I heard one that Patrick used to be a girl, which um," He feels Patrick tense beside him and slips an arm around his shoulder to reassure him. "Yeah, sorry to disappoint everyone, but Patrick has always been a dude."
Patrick beams and has to stop himself from kissing Pete right there.