violacea | fic: just to know you're alive (4/4)

part one
part two
part three

The burns were both better and worse than Pete expected them to be. Better, because after Patrick's mom arrived with a tub full of some nasty looking yellow shit, the bubbling sores stopped oozing grossness, and Patrick seemed to be better able to lay with sheets touching his skin. Pete had ended up with the goop, with a terse admonition to "help him every few hours, and don't let him avoid it." After a few days, the bubbles disappeared entirely, as did the sunburn effect on his torso. He was left with angry red welts crossing his hands, arms and face. Those, he told Pete, would fade eventually.

It was worse, though, because Patrick didn't get out of bed, not even after his burns began to heal. He slept all day and half the night, only emerging from his room to occasionally visit the bathroom. When Pete saw him walking, he looked like an old man, hunched over and shuffling. Pete brought him food and water and blood from the refrigerator, but Patrick talked to him only intermittently. "I guess I don't have a job any more," he said one night, pulling himself up to sit as Pete handed him a mug full of blood.

"You don't need to work for assholes like that anyway."

"Yeah, easy for you to say, you're still earning money."

"We'll find you something."

"Will we?" Patrick took a small drink of blood. He didn't speak again.

A day or so later, something occurred to Pete. He walked into Patrick's bedroom before he left for the show he was helping promote that night. "How long since you've fed?"

"You gave me blood an hour ago."

"That's not what I meant."

Patrick, staring at the TV in the corner of his room, rolled his eyes. "I don't know. A while."

It had been at least five days, Pete knew, because that was how long Patrick had been holed up in his bedroom. "You probably need to feed."

"No shit?" Patrick looked over at him. "And how am I supposed to do that, exactly, when I can barely walk and I look like this?" He gestured to his face, which was still half covered in red welts.

"So, what? You're going to waste away and die or something?"

"Fuck off," Patrick muttered. "I'll think of something."

Pete left the room, but came back a few minutes later. "I can bring someone home for you."

"What?" Patrick scowled. "Whammy one of my friends and take their blood? Not happening."

"Not one of our friends, then. You're not the only one who can score strangers, you know."

"Even worse."

"Why?"

"It just is."

"You need blood."

"I know." Patrick closed his eyes and turned off the TV. "Go. Leave me alone."

Pete wanted to argue, but he was already late to the show. He had promised to watch Nick's friends play that night, and if he missed it, Nick would never forgive him.

At the show, Pete grabbed a spot at the bar in the back of the room. It was a shitty club, falling apart around their ears, but the hardcore kids liked it. Pete absently pulled a loose nail out of the bar and turned it over and over in his fingers while he talked to band members and the club's manager. His mind was only half on the show at hand; he heard the conversations, heard the music, but when he blinked, all he could see was Patrick's too-pale face. He thought about just bringing someone home, but if Patrick wouldn't use his little mind power thing on them, what good would it do? He couldn't force Patrick to feed. Or could he? Pete suddenly could hear his own pulse pounding in his ears.

"Dude," Nick said, waving a hand in front of his face. "Earth to Pete. What the fuck are you doing?"

Pete blinked and looked down. Without realizing it, he'd pressed the tip of the nail into the skin of his wrist, hard enough that a droplet of blood had formed around the rusty metal. He dropped the nail onto the bar and stared at the tiny wound. "It stings," he muttered.

"Pete." Nick looked worried. "You okay, man?"

"Yeah." He pressed his thumb over the injury, and felt his heartbeat just underneath his skin. "Yeah, I'm not the one who's fucked up."

When he walked in the door of the apartment a few hours later, he stepped on a pile of junk mail that had been on the table next to the door when he left. To his left, the table was overturned. He frowned. "Patrick?"

"In here."

In his bedroom, Patrick sat on the floor, his back against his bed. He was dressed in jeans and a clean t-shirt for the first time since Pete had brought him home, but his face was sweaty and his shoulders shook as he pushed a wet strand of hair out of his eyes. "What happened?" Pete asked.

"I need to go out. But I can't. Jesus, I can't." He looked up at Pete, eyes wide. "I tried. Almost made it to the door, but then I fell. My muscles won't work right. I need blood. Real blood, not the dead stuff. I don't know what the fuck to do."

"Take mine." The words were out of Pete's mouth before he could think.

"What?" Patrick's shocked expression would have been funny, if he didn't also look half-dead. "Take ... feed from you? But I can't!"

"Why not?"

"I can't ... whammy you. I can't make it feel good for you. It would hurt."

"So?"

"So, I don't know how much it'd hurt. A lot, I guess. I don't want to hurt you."

"I don't care." Pete knelt on the floor next to Patrick. "Seriously, what other option do you have? You can't go out by yourself, you won't let me bring anyone back here for you. No one knows about your vampire thing but me and your family. Who the hell else are you going to get blood from?"

Patrick stared at him. Pete watched a droplet of sweat roll down his temple. Instinctively, he reached over and caught it with his thumb when it reached Patrick's jawline. Patrick froze at the feather-light touch. Pete watched him breathe open-mouthed for a long minute. Then, he scooted back from Pete's hand. "I can't," he muttered, grabbing blindly for the edge of the bed. "I can't, I just can't, I can't." He pulled himself back up onto the bed with great effort. "Go away," Patrick said desperately. "Oh, god, please go away, Pete."

He curled up on the bed, facing away from Pete. Pete sat on the floor, staring at Patrick's back, which vibrated with each shaky breath he took. "So," Pete said slowly. His voice sounded curiously calm to his ears. "You're just going to lay there and waste away to nothing because ... I'd get hurt a little bit? That is the biggest bunch of bullshit I've ever heard."

He stood up and rested his hands on the bed. Patrick turned over to look at him. "Do you know what it would feel like to have my teeth rip into your artery? Tearing through skin and nerves?"

"Do you?" Pete cocked his head. "I mean, have you ever had anyone rip into your skin?"

"No."

"Then you don't know how much it hurts, either. So the excuse is crap. I'm offering you the chance to get healthy enough to get out of that damned bed. Unless you're too scared."

"Fuck off."

"That's a yes, then."

Patrick flipped back over to stare at the wall. Pete grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. "What's the real reason, huh? Forget that cowardly martyred bullshit. Why would you rather die than take anything from me?"

"I'm not dying, you overdramatic fuck."

"Oh yeah? What happens if you keep going like this? You can't even walk to the front door without falling. Are you just going to be bedridden? Never go anywhere? Be too weak to even make it to the bathroom - or hold a guitar?" Pete watched Patrick's eyes narrow, as the point hit home. "Don't tell me that's not as good as dying."

"I don't know, Pete! Fuck!" Patrick covered his face with his hands. "Why won't you just leave me alone? I can't fucking think right now."

"What's to think about? You need fresh blood. I happen to have a whole lot of it."

"It's not that simple!"

"Sure it is. It seems to be that simple every damned week. Unless you have some other secret criteria for your victims other than 'warm and willing'."

At that, Patrick sat up and pushed Pete hard enough that he stumbled backwards into the dresser. "You asshole. Get out."

Pete rubbed his back where the edge had jammed into his spine. "Wow, that's some energy for someone who can't even get dressed without face-planting."

Patrick's face was red. Pete couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment, anger, or exertion. All three, most likely. "Get out," he repeated. "I don't want your fucking blood. Leave me alone."

"Yeah, I'm getting that." Pete walked back to the edge of the bed and climbed up. He sat on his knees, inches away from Patrick. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, like the roar of the ocean, but he leaned forward until Patrick was forced to scoot back to the other edge of the bed. "If it's the sex thing, I don't fucking care. You get an erection, you jerk off, not a big enough fucking deal to sit here and starve yourself."

“What? That's not what it's about.” But the panic on Patrick's face told Pete that was a lie.

“Bullshit.” Pete took a deep breath. “It doesn't have to mean anything. This isn't about the sex, it's just about getting you healthy enough to get out of this fucking bed and take care of yourself.”

“Fuck.” Patrick's voice was barely a whisper. He scooted up to lean against the headboard and covered his face with his hands. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Pete could feel his legs shaking. He took a deep breath and ignored it as he crawled up far enough to throw a leg over Patrick's legs and sit on his thighs. Patrick dropped his hands from his face and stared, eyes wide and mouth open. Pete watched as Patrick's chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm. He grabbed Pete's t-shirt with both hands – to push him away, maybe, but Pete grabbed his forearms. “Stop being a coward and do it,” he said, his own voice rougher than he expected. “Please.”

Pete angled his neck towards Patrick and closed his eyes. For an interminably long moment, there was silence, but then Pete heard a low groan, and felt Patrick's thumb rub a path along his neck. “Oh, god,” he heard Patrick breathe, and then, a bit louder, “Closer,” as he tugged on Pete's shirt. Pete scooted up Patrick's legs, dangerously close, until their groins were pressed together. Pete felt the contact like an electric shock, and grabbed Patrick's shoulders to steady himself. He could feel Patrick stirring underneath him already. “I'm sorry,” Patrick whispered.

“Do it,” Pete said, digging his fingers into Patrick's skin. “Just do it.”

He felt Patrick's breath whisper on his neck. Then, sharp teeth punctured his skin, and light exploded behind Pete's eyelids.

It hurt. Oh, fuck, did it hurt. Pete had to brace one hand on the headboard behind Patrick and remind himself not to pull away. He made a strangled sound as he felt Patrick's sharp teeth sink lower, the sensation making him squirm enough that Patrick grabbed his torso to keep him still. And the, he ripped further into the skin – the twin wounds may have only been a half an inch long, but Pete felt every millimeter of his skin ripping apart. By the time Patrick pulled his mouth away, Pete no longer recognized the sounds coming out of his own mouth.

There was a brief moment of silence, a moment in which Pete could feel the blood leaking from his neck, the air stinging the torn skin. Then, he felt Patrick's tongue swipe lightly against his skin, licking the stray trails of blood until he reached the wounds. There, he paused for the briefest of moments before he fastened his mouth over the skin and began to suck.

If anyone ever asked, Pete wouldn't have been able to describe the sensation. His own gasps were all he could hear, shallow gasps that didn't bring enough oxygen to keep the room from spinning. He couldn't hear any noise coming from Patrick. When he opened his eyes, he couldn't see Patrick's face - all he saw was a mass of red hair pressed against his neck, his arms encircling Pete's body. But, he felt - god, he felt everything. He felt the gentle suction against his skin, Patrick's tongue swiping lightly against his skin at odd intervals. He felt the blood flowing, an odd feeling that seemed to originate somewhere in his groin and shoot straight up through his body. Later, when his brain was his own again, he'd wonder about the fact that his dick hardened at the suction; if the blood was flowing elsewhere in his body, wasn't that illogical? But biology was never his strong suit, and in the moment, all he could think about was Patrick and his mouth and the uncomfortable press of his erection against his jeans.

Pete couldn't tell how long they sat there like that, pressed together in an obscene embrace. It might have been two minutes, it might have been two hours. But, eventually, Patrick lifted his mouth from Pete's skin. Pete made a tiny, involuntary noise at the loss. Patrick contemplated Pete's skin for a moment, and then bent his head again and began to lick the sticky blood from around the wound. Pete stared in fascination. It almost reminded him of a cat, Patrick's tongue swiping in quick passes, cleaning the remaining mess away.

When Patrick finally looked up, Pete saw color in his cheeks and white appearing around the edges of his unnaturally green eyes. His mouth was stained dark red - stained with Pete's blood, and damn if that didn't make Pete's cock jump. As Pete stared, Patrick wiped his mouth with his hand and leaned his head back against the headboard, eyes closed. Pete could feel Patrick's erection pressing against his own. His skin buzzed; with Patrick hot and ready underneath him, he could barely remember their earlier conversation. He leaned forward until he could feel Patrick's breath on his face. He stared at Patrick's mouth, but a remaining smear of blood made him rethink his initial impulse. Instead, he ghosted his mouth over Patrick's jawline. He felt Patrick stiffen. When he pulled back, Patrick's eyes were open, his expression wavering between shock and desire. “Let me,” Pete begged, resting a hand against the bulging zipper of Patrick's jeans. “Please, let me, I want to … want to watch you, please.”

“Oh, god.” Patrick's voice was high and desperate. “Oh, god … please, Pete.”

Pete didn't need any more encouragement. He wiggled until he had enough room to undo Patrick's jeans and tug them down far enough that he could push his boxers out of the way and grasp his cock. The noise Patrick made when Pete's thumb swiped over the head was, Pete thought, worth every bit of pain he'd been through. Sweat and precome lubricated his hand enough that it was easy to slide his hand up and down, so Pete let himself fall into a rhythm and concentrated on Patrick's face. Patrick's eyes were fixed on the ceiling, his mouth open and gasping for air. “Look at me,” Pete chanted softly. “Look at me, Patrick, please look at me.”

When Patrick finally looked down and met Pete's eyes, something in Pete's stomach jumped. A few strokes later, Patrick came, eyes wide and fixed on Pete. Pete watched him wordlessly, until Patrick stopped shaking and hung his head down, his chin resting on his chest.

When Pete brought his hand back up, he frowned and pulled his own shirt off to wipe the mess away. He wiped Patrick's stomach, then tossed the shirt on the floor. The touch drew Patrick's attention again. He started to look up at Pete, but his gaze stopped at Pete's torso. Or, more accurately, his crotch, as Patrick's fingers reached out tentatively to touch the button on Pete's jeans. “You're ...”

Pete groaned at the feather-light touch. He grabbed Patrick's wrist and held it a couple of inches away from his body. Patrick looked up at him. “You don't have to,” Pete said.

“Do you want me to?”

“If you don't want-”

“That's not what I asked.” Patrick's voice was low. Pete could feel the sound of it dancing across his skin. “Do you want me to?”

Pete was still. Then, slowly, he released Patrick's wrist and leaned forward until his forehead rested against Patrick's. From that close, Patrick's eyes were his entire world. “Yes,” he breathed, his voice shaky.

Patrick laid his hand flat against Pete's stomach. Pete's muscles trembled at the touch. “God,” Patrick whispered. “Seriously.”

“Seriously,” Pete repeated, “if you're going to do something, do it now, because I'm dying here.”

Pete felt more than heard Patrick's soft laugh. He reached down with both hands and undid Pete's jeans. Then, he stopped. “You and your fucking tight jeans. You're gonna have to help me here.”

“Oh. Right.” Pete climbed off of his lap and wiggled out of his jeans and boxers. When he looked back at the bed, Patrick was sprawled obscenely, his jeans still around his thighs and a red smear at the corner of his mouth. “Holy fuck,” Pete said, loudly enough that the sound echoed around the room.

He crawled back onto the bed. Patrick watched him silently until he was straddling Patrick's legs again. “I can't believe ...” Patrick murmured.

“What?”

“Never mind.” Patrick spit into his hand and wrapped it around Pete's dick. Pete braced himself on the headboard, his arms stretched on either side of Patrick's head. The wound on his neck still throbbed with a dull pain; somehow, the rhythm Patrick set with his hand seemed to match the beat underneath Pete's skin. Patrick kept his eyes steady on Pete's face. The combination was too much – Patrick's eyes, his hand, the pulse that seemed timed to the rhythm of Patrick's breath. Pete closed his eyes. He couldn't watch, not without breaking into tiny little pieces.

And then Patrick leaned forward and brushed his lips against the wound on Pete's neck.

Pete broke.

When he finally opened his eyes again, Patrick was using a corner of his blanket to wipe his hand. “I have to do laundry anyway,” he muttered, not looking Pete in the eye.

Pete opened his mouth to speak, but all his words stuck in his throat each time he tried to take a breath. He ended up panting for air and staring at Patrick as he sat back up and looked at the ceiling. Finally, Patrick looked back down and shoved Pete half-heartedly. "Get off me. It's late."

"What?"

Patrick began to wriggle his legs out from under Pete, until Pete took the hint and climbed over to the edge of the bed. Patrick shoved his jeans all the way off and pulled his boxers back up. "I'm tired. I need to sleep."

"Um. Okay ..."

When Patrick started to pull the blanket from underneath him, Pete was forced to stand up. He picked up his jeans. When he stood back up, Patrick had laid down and curled up, facing the wall on the opposite side of the room. Pete frowned. "Patrick?"

"Go away." Patrick's voice was muffled by the pillow.

Pete stood there for a minute more, staring at the hunched curve of Patrick's back. The trembling that hadn't ended with his orgasm slowly ceased, leaving a numbness that made Pete feel like he was floating somewhere an inch or so above his own body. "Right," he heard himself say, somewhere outside of his body. "You're welcome."

He turned and walked out of the room before he could see if Patrick reacted.

Sleep didn't visit that night, not until Pete had downed four sleeping pills and a shot of Jack Daniels. Afterwards, he drifted in and out of restless dreams that always ended with the sound of his own pulse pounding in his throat.

Pete woke up sometime mid-afternoon with a head full of cotton and a need to be anywhere that wasn't the apartment. He got in his car and drove - first to Joe's apartment, where he sat in the parking lot and stared blankly at the windows on the first floor for about twenty minutes before putting the car in reverse and driving away. He drove past Nick's place, his parents' house, even Sabrina's apartment, but eventually parked in a busy mall parking lot and leaned his head against the steering wheel. He sat like that for a long time, listening to a sports talk radio station without understanding a word. When a mall security guard tapped on his window, the sun glimmered rosily on the far western horizon. "It's probably time to move on, son," the guard said kindly. "Maybe you should go inside and get something to eat first, though."

Pete raised his head and stared at his hands. They were trembling. He hadn't eaten anything since the previous night, before ... "Yeah," he said, opening his car door. "Maybe I should."

Eating made the world come into clearer focus. At the very least, being full muffled the sound of his heartbeat, which continued to echo in his ears, and gave him enough energy to drive back home. He sat in his own parking lot for a while, though, and stared at the blacked-out basement window that led to Patrick's bedroom. By the time he walked into the building, dusk had fallen around him like a blanket.

Inside, he found Patrick in the kitchen, putting away dishes from a meal. Pete stood in the living room and watched him for a minute. Then, he cleared his throat. "Feeling better?"

Patrick didn't turn around. "Yeah. Much better."

"Good." When Patrick continued to put dishes in the dishwasher - something he rarely did even when he was well - Pete scowled and flopped down on the couch. He grabbed the remote and flipped the TV on, to an old sitcom rerun. The laugh track and an actress's high-pitched shriek filled the silence. Pete curled his legs underneath him and rested his head on the arm of the couch.

He heard dishes clanking until the commercial break. Then, as some local news celebrity tried to convince him to come to some kind of charity dinner, the other end of the couch dipped. He glanced over at Patrick, whose eyes were closed as he smoothed damp hair off of his forehead. When Pete realized he was staring at Patrick's mouth, he immediately looked back at the television. The commercial advertised a medication for erectile dysfunction. Suddenly, Pete started laughing, his body shaking until he had to bury his face in the pillow next to him. "What?" he heard Patrick ask, irritation plain in his voice.

"Nothing," he said into the pillow. He lifted his head to take a breath. "Jesus."

He looked back at the television. Next to him, Patrick took a deep breath. "Pete." Pete didn't look at him. "Pete. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Pete answered without taking his eyes off the sitcom.

"Seriously, Pete, I ..." Patrick paused. "I don't know. I don't ... just, thank you, I guess."

"I told you, no big deal." After a moment, out of the corner of his eye, Pete saw Patrick stand and walk back towards his bedroom. "Are you going out tonight?" he asked.

"I don't know," Patrick said. "Maybe."

Patrick disappeared into his room. Pete continued to watch bad sitcoms, as one flowed into another, all sounding exactly the same.

An hour or so later, Patrick's bedroom door opened again. Pete glanced over. Patrick still wore his sweatpants and old high school t-shirt, his glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose. He shoved them back up as he looked at Pete. "Okay," he said, as if continuing a conversation that Pete hadn't been a part of, "I need to say this. Tell me you'll listen without interrupting me."

"Say what?"

"Just promise."

"Fine. What?"

"Shit." As Pete watched, the determined look in Patrick's eyes crumpled to uncertainty. But he set his jaw and paced across the room, behind the couch. Pete sat up straight and watched him walk to the opposite wall, then turn around and look at Pete again. "Okay, so. Last night. I said ... you said, no big deal, the sex part wouldn't mean anything to you. But it did. To me, I mean." Patrick's cheeks blazed red, but his gaze remained steady on Pete's face. "I've, um ... okay, I've wanted you for a while, all right? And I know that's probably going to make things really awkward, but I couldn't ... I freaked out last night, after, and you didn't deserve that, so I'm sorry. I just ... it was a lot for me. And you remember it all. I'm not used to anybody remembering. And the fact that it was you ..." Patrick closed his eyes and rubbed his face. "God, I want ... I just want ... fuck, I'm sorry, I'm not making any sense."

Pete reminded himself to breathe. "Are you done?" he asked softly.

"Yeah, I guess." Patrick turned away.

"Okay." Pete climbed over the back of the couch and grabbed Patrick by the shoulders. When he spun Patrick around, Patrick's eyes were wide. "Say it again."

"Say what again?"

"The part where you want me."

"Pete ..."

"Say it."

"I want you, all right? And I know that you don't-"

Patrick's speech was cut off when Pete captured his mouth with his own. Pete could feel the vibration of the surprised noise Patrick made underneath his skin; a moment later, Patrick brought his hands up to cup Pete's face. His mouth opened slightly underneath Pete's. Pete took the opportunity to nip his bottom lip gently. Patrick shuddered, and Pete broke the kiss to rest his forehead against Patrick's. "Thank fucking Christ," he whispered.

"What?" Patrick asked, his voice just as soft.

"You're a moron." When Patrick began to scowl, Pete just tightened his grip on his waist. "That's okay, so I am I."

He kissed Patrick again, taking advantage of his open-mouthed stare to swipe his tongue along the inside of his mouth. When their tongues touched, Patrick groaned and suddenly slid his fingers into the hair at the back of Pete's head. Suddenly, Pete was no longer in control - he made a surprised noise deep in his chest when Patrick held his head firmly in place and took possession of Pete's mouth. Pete stumbled backward, until his legs met the back of the couch for support. Patrick held him there for a long minute, the kiss slowly changing to a series of light presses of open mouth to open mouth, Patrick's tongue darting out for quick tastes of Pete. When he finally pulled back, Pete felt light-headed. "Fuck."

"That could probably be arranged," Patrick said, his lips curving into a small smirk. His cheeks still blazed pink, though, and his eyes searched Pete's face hopefully.

When images of Patrick on his hands and knees - or of Patrick above Pete, sliding his fingers in and out of his body slowly - flashed across Pete's brain, he was glad for the support of the couch behind his legs. In response, he simply hummed and lowered his mouth to Patrick's neck. He skimmed his lips along Patrick's skin until he found his pulse beating erratically underneath warm skin. It was there that Pete stopped, sucking hard on Patrick's skin in a rhythm that matched the phantom drumbeat that still played on the matching spot on Pete's throat. "Oh, Jesus," Patrick said in a strangled, high-pitched murmur.

Pete pulled away and inspected the dark red mark he'd left on Patrick's throat. He smoothed a thumb over it, and smiled when he felt Patrick shiver. "There," he said. "We're even."

Patrick chuckled weakly. "Not hardly."

"Close enough." Pete straightened up and framed Patrick's face in his hands. "You're not going to freak out on me again, are you?"

Patrick exhaled. A small smile played across his lips. "Not if you're serious about all this."

"As a fucking heart attack, I swear to god." When Patrick's smile widened, Pete shoved him backwards and spun around until Patrick was the one pressed against the couch. Pete dropped to his knees. He heard Patrick suck in a loud breath. Pete just looked up and grinned. "Just so we're clear, you still can't whammy me, right? I'm totally in control of my own mind."

"You're an asshole," Patrick muttered shakily. Pete tugged on his sweatpants until they dropped to bunch around Patrick's ankles. He did the same with the boxers, and was rewarded with Patrick's cock bobbing half-hard in front of his face. "Even if I could, I would never-" Patrick swallowed the sentence with a strangled groan when Pete grabbed his cock by the base and licked all the way from his hand to the tip.

The sound of Patrick's voice made Pete giddy. He took Patrick into his mouth, far enough that he felt the tip brushing against the back of his throat, and was rewarded with the most amazing noise he thought he'd ever heard. He didn't look up; he just concentrated on the task at hand, on the feeling of Patrick's body hot and solid underneath him, on the sounds that vibrated through Patrick's chest and down to the skin of his belly, where Pete pressed down to keep him from bucking forward and choking him. Patrick started repeating Pete's name on every ragged exhale, like a mantra. Pete made a satisfied noise in his throat, his mouth firmly fastened around Patrick's dick, and heard his name choked off into a half-sob. It didn't take long after that. The only warning Pete got was his own name, long and drawn out in a low moan, before Patrick was coming. Pete swallowed some, but pulled off and lightly jerked Patrick until he'd finished, leaving a sticky mess all over Pete's hand.

When Pete pulled back to sit on his heels, Patrick's knees buckled, and he slid down the back of the couch until he was sitting in front of Pete. "Holy shit," he breathed.

"Hold that thought." Pete stood up - on unsteady legs himself - and fetched a towel from the bathroom. When he returned, he finished wiping his hand, tossed the towel on the floor and sat next to Patrick. "You all right?"

Patrick started to laugh. "Never better," he said, leaning against Pete. He reached over and played with the zipper on Pete's jeans. He chuckled even more when he felt Pete's cock twitch underneath his fingers. "You want ..."

Pete raised his eyebrows. "Do I want what?" he asked innocently. "What's the question?"

"Oh, fuck off," Patrick grumbled, but his grin never faded. He squeezed Pete's crotch quickly - prompting Pete's legs to quiver and his head to thud back against the couch - before removing his hand and kneeling next to Pete. "Pete," he said with exaggerated care, folding his hands in front of him, "would you like me to suck your dick?"

"You have no idea how long I've waited to hear you say that," Pete groaned. When Patrick stayed still, he looked sideways at him. "What?"

"That wasn't an answer."

"Jackass," Pete said, but Patrick just grinned at him. "Yes, for the love of god, please suck my dick."

"All you ever had to do was ask," Patrick said as he reached down to undo Pete's jeans.

With jeans out of the way, Patrick slid his mouth around Pete's cock. All Pete could do was rest a hand lightly on the back of Patrick's head and stare at the mess of red hair bobbing up and down in his lap. He knew he wasn't going to last very long when Patrick started to hum. When Patrick pulled off, the sound resolved into a melody, broken up when Patrick paused to do something obscene with his tongue that made Pete babble incoherently. Pete didn't recognize the melody, and didn't care. The only thing his brain buzzed with was the light-headed feeling of an impending orgasm. His hand slid into Patrick's hair; Patrick's melody got louder, and he took Pete entirely into his mouth. "Fuck, Patrick, I'm gonna ..." Patrick replied by speeding up the rhythm of his suction, and moments later, Pete spilled helplessly into his mouth, pulling at Patrick's hair and giving a loud, wordless shout.

When Patrick sat up, he rubbed the back of his head, smoothing the hair that Pete had pulled. "Sorry about that," Pete said between shallow breaths.

"It's okay." Patrick's smile was half sheepish. "I kinda liked it."

"Really? You barely even let anyone look at your hair, much less touch it."

"I don't know, man." Patrick flopped down on the floor, resting his head on Pete's legs. He closed his eyes and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his hand. "You seem to be the exception to every fucking rule I have."

"I am unique," Pete agreed, reaching down to brush his fingers over the hickey on Patrick's neck. Patrick opened his eyes and smiled. Pete, however, turned serious. He pressed gently against the mark, feeling Patrick's heartbeat gradually slow to a regular rhythm. "Are you ..."

"Am I what?"

Pete brought his hand back up to his own neck. There were no marks there, but Pete still felt twin bursts of electricity when he touched the spot where Patrick's teeth had penetrated the skin. He was silent for a long moment, then blurted, "I don't want you to feed from anyone else."

Patrick sat up. He stared at Pete for a minute, then reached over and put his hand over Pete's fingers, holding them against the skin. Pete's pulse skipped a beat. "Did it hurt?" Patrick asked. He stared at their hands, entwined on Pete's throat.

"Yeah. Yeah, it did." Pete looked at Patrick until he looked up to meet Pete's eyes. "But it was totally worth it."

"Are you sure? Because-"

"Shut up," Pete said, pulling their hands away from his neck. He held Patrick's hand tight between them. "I'm a selfish, jealous fuck, and I don't want to have to even think about your mouth on anyone else's skin but mine. Okay?"

A long moment passed, but finally, Patrick squeezed Pete's hand. "If you're really sure ..."

"I am. So shut the fuck up."

"Kiss my ass," Patrick said, smiling. He let go of Pete's hand and leaned back. "It was amazing," he confessed, blushing.

"What was?"

"Having you ... your blood. It was awesome."

"So, what you're saying is that I'm the best you've ever had." Pete pretended to buff his nails on his t-shirt. "I get that a lot."

Patrick laughed and shoved at him. "Are you sure your ego will be able to fit through the front door any more?"

"I'll make it fit."

Patrick stood up. He started to walk towards the bathroom, but paused and turned around. He kicked Pete lightly. "Same goes for you, you know."

"What?"

"I'm a selfish, jealous fuck, too."

Pete smiled up at him. "You've got nothing to worry about."

"Famous last words," Patrick grumbled, but he reached down to ruffle Pete's hair before disappearing into the bathroom.

Later that night, as weak light began to slip in through the cracks in the blacked out windows in the living room, Pete looked over at Patrick, sprawled next to him on the couch, only half conscious. The old Twilight Zone episode on the television made his face glow in a sickly light. He poked Patrick in the cheek. "Bedtime for little boys."

"Fuck off." Patrick swatted his hand away, but pushed himself up and off the couch. He yawned, then looked down at Pete. "Come with me?" he asked tentatively.

"Did you change your sheets after last night?"

"Yes, mom."

"Then, yeah."

In Patrick's bedroom, Pete stripped down to his boxers and sprawled face down on the bed, tossing an arm over Patrick's chest when he lay down next to him. Patrick smiled, his eyes already closing. "I'm glad you're here," he said.

Pete watched Patrick's chest rise and fall until he saw the slow, even rhythm of sleep. "Me, too," he murmured.

It was one of the rare nights out when everyone Pete knew seemed to be shoved into one tiny club. He took over a booth at the back of the room and shouted happily over the music to everyone who piled in around him. Joe and his new girlfriend, Joe's bandmates, the kids in the band Nick had convinced Pete to promote, old friends from back in Pete's band days. He lost track of Patrick, though, halfway through the evening when he disappeared to the bar with Nick.

It was near closing time when Patrick finally wound his way back to the booth, climbing over a couple of people Pete had just met to sit next to Pete. "Hey," Pete said, close to Patrick's ear, "I thought you were dead. Or undead, as the case may be."

"Ha ha, very funny." Patrick slung an arm over Pete's shoulders and leaned in close. "Nick thinks he might have a gig for me."

"What kind of gig?"

"A music gig, dumbass, playing guitar." When Pete just stared at him, Patrick spread his free arm with an upturned palm. "I know, I know, I'm still worried about all the things I've always been worried about, but apparently this is a jazz combo that plays at a bar in Oak Park four nights a week, ten to close. And, well ..." Patrick flicked his gaze back to the bar and took a deep breath before continuing. "I told Nick I have a sun allergy, that I can't go out during the day at all. He said he'd figured there was something weird going on, and smacked me in the back of the head for being so stupid and secretive."

Pete laughed. "I could have told you that would happen."

"Yeah, well." Patrick shrugged. "He said that jazz musicians are very nearly all allergic to sunlight, anyway, so arranging rehearsals and shit for night hours shouldn't be that big of a problem. Which is probably true."

"So ... you're going to be in a band?"

"I'm going to audition for a band," Patrick corrected. "Who knows if I'm even good enough to be a jazz musician?"

"You're good enough." Pete leaned over and pressed a kiss to the corner of Patrick's mouth. The girl sitting next to Patrick stared at them, eyes wide, but Pete just gave her a wide smile before turning his attention back to Patrick. "I can't fucking wait to see you on stage."

"Don't count your chickens, or my chickens, as the case may be." Patrick nuzzled Pete's temple briefly before letting out a sigh that Pete felt against the sensitive skin inside his ear. "I just ... well, I need money, and I might as well make it playing music, right?"

"Absolutely."

Patrick pulled back, tightening the arm around Pete's shoulders until they were pressed thigh to thigh in the booth. Pete watched the writhing crowd on the floor, dancing along to the band playing on stage. Underneath the bass drum and the vibration of the crowd, he felt a beat pulsing against his skin. After a moment, Patrick's fingers began to drum the same beat on the table in front of them. Pete didn't know whose heartbeat it actually was. Not that it really mattered, anyway.

The beat went on. Patrick's body was warm and solid against him.

Pete closed his eyes and lost himself in the rhythm.

~*~

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From:

ohnoscarlett.livejournal.com

Wow. That was fantastic! I've been waiting impatiently, because Lars actually gave me a heads up that this was coming (don't be mad!)... and wow.

Goo Goo Dolls? Judge? Hell, girl, why aren't we friends already?

From:

of breaking through a life overrehearsed

fic: just to know you're alive (4/4)

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