Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy

We Won't Sleep For Days

by asenselessmind 1 review

Pete's cold, and drunk. Patrick's just tired.

Category: Fall Out Boy - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Humor - Published: 2016-02-12 - 1916 words

Disclaimer: this isn’t real, this never happened, I don’t own these people and if I did I wouldn’t be here writing this. Don’t google yourself.

Pure fluff, reworked from a fic I wrote ages ago for a different fandom, this is hopefully my re-launch into writing! An R&R, and constructive criticism, are much appreciated!

After several weeks of being stuck on the cramped bus near constantly, it was wonderful to stretch out in a hotel room. The band were currently staying in particularly luxurious suites, courtesy of a string of sell-out shows. That thought made Patrick feel a little bit giddy. Were they finally making it? However, they still couldn’t exactly afford four separate rooms, so they were forced to pair up. Joe and Andy had taken one room, Andy liked the quiet he was afforded when he had a baked and usually sleepy roommate. Which meant he was stuck with Pete. Shit. He had wanted to spend this night relaxing, escaping from the hustle and bustle of touring. But Patrick had ended up rooming with the human equivalent of the Duracell bunny. On speed.

Thankfully, Pete had disappeared to the hotel bar almost instantaneously after dropping his bag, which meant he had the immense suite to himself. They didn’t have a show that night, so he was afforded the luxury of having plenty of time to unwind. Well, he had until the diminutive bassist reappeared, possibly with several women in tow, and definitely inebriated. Patrick sighed as he unlaced his sneakers, tired fingers struggling with the laces. He kicked them off, and fell back onto the cold bed he was forced to occupy as Pete had immediately pounced on the one next to the radiator. Asshole. He briefly considered just crawling under the covers as he was and falling into a happy oblivion, but after only having five minutes to shower in grubby venue showers recently, his self-respect was beginning to get the better of him and he dragged himself from the comfortable mattress to run a bath.

The bathroom was huge, comically so, and a large clawed tub sat in the middle. How elegant. The singer flicked the hot tap on, the soft roar of the water soothing his ears after many nights of shrieking guitars and thumping bass pounding his eardrums. He poured all of the little vials on the tub’s edge into the bath, a veritable mountain of scented foam growing in front of him. He cooled the water slightly, undressed, and stepped in, the still-scalding water swirling around his ankles, flushing them scarlet. Heaven. Patrick slid down into the water, hissing quietly as the burning heat slid across his skin, but he quickly acclimated and let the warmth protect him from the biting chill of the air and sooth his aching muscles. He may have scoffed at the size of the tub before, but now he was grateful. He’s not as such a tall man, but most tubs still necessitate him folding his legs uncomfortably in order to fit.

He lay in his soapy cocoon until the bubbles had long dissolved into fading scum and he had begun to shiver in the cooling water. He hauled himself out, and grabbed the bathrobe hanging on the back of the door. It was very soft and very fluffy, and Patrick made a mental note to persuade their manager to let them stay in hotels much more often. He padded back into the main room, flopped down into a damask armchair, and switched on the TV. Some loud, late-night talk show was on. He let the meaningless chatter lull him into a gentle snooze. He was content as could be.

Sadly, his peaceful little bubble was violently burst as an intoxicated bundle of energy and noise slammed against the door, and failed multiple times at opening it, before stumbling in. Pete had a deluded grin etched across his face, and was giggling as he drunkenly slapped a finger to his lips, shushing himself. Until he realised that Patrick was not in bed.

“Triiiiick! You spoilsport bastard, you missed all the fun!”, he slurred, faltering over in Patrick’s general direction. Patrick groaned, the bassist had only been gone for about four hours and he was already trashed beyond belief. Groggy and disoriented from his nap, the vocalist was not in the mood for him sober, never mind his current state.

“Pete, please go away. I’m tired.” he yawned and stretched, as if to prove his point. Pete was not, however, sympathetic to his plight.

“You’re always tired. And boring. You’re boooooooring, Pattycakes.” Pete laughed away to himself, the joke lost on Patrick’s unaddled mind. He wandered into the bathroom. Patrick got up, dragged some underwear and a loose shirt on quickly, as a pale blush climbed his cheeks, threw himself onto his bed, and wedged himself beneath the frigid covers (damn winter touring, at least it was slightly warmer than the bus). He tried to block out the loud, irritating presence. It worked, and finally he heard the light click off and bedsprings groaning slightly across the room under the addition of an insubstantial weight. He curled up, toes cold, and tried to sleep. His efforts proved futile however, despite his exhaustion, and he was left staring at the ceiling, listening to Pete’s soft snores and bouts of incoherent muttering. Patrick rolled onto his side to look at him.

The light spilling in through the unclosed curtains from the streetlights outside illuminated the room enough to see, without being obtrusive. In the glow, Patrick could see Pete’s soft expression, eyes lightly closed, lips parted ever so slightly. He looked childlike, adorable even. Happy. The singer’s mind wandered back to days, years ago, back when they first started all this, when the four of them slept in the back of a beaten up van together. Days when Patrick was barely eighteen, and every lingering glace, every tiny brush of hands with his older bandmate left him a blushing mess. Days when Patrick bolted to filthy rest-stop bathrooms after a long night drive to the next city, Pete’s name on his lips as he whimpered alone. The intensity of his crush (“Crush?” Patrick though with disdain. Was he a twelve year old girl?) had died down as they spent more time together. Yet, as much as they fought over riffs and hooks and broken melodies, as much as Patrick wanted to punch Pete’s lights out on regular occasion, whether he was being poked in the stomach or having his hat stolen, he still had a rather large soft spot for him. Even after years of Pete’s proclamations of how good a friend he was, years of watching Pete slip into dressing rooms and motel rooms and club restrooms with beautiful girls and even more beautiful boys, it never went away, an annoying little niggle in the back of his mind. Much like Pete himself, really.

Pete’s face suddenly contorted and he twitched, nonsense spilling from his mouth. Patrick smiled to himself in the semi-light. He was dreaming. How cute. Patrick loved to watch Pete dream, loved when his subconscious was painting sweetness instead of nightmares. He rolled over again, sleep finally beginning to tug his eyelids down and blurring his thoughts. He slipped into dreams of his own, filled with the taller man. Innocent dreams, might he add. He was finally sliding into restful sleep, when he felt a hand on his shoulder, gently but insistently shaking him awake. All fondness was suddenly thrown out the window and replaced with thoughts of murder when Pete’s face appeared in his line of sight.

“Pete, I’m exhausted, it’s the middle of the night, what the fuck do you want?” Hurt flashed across brown eyes, but at that moment Patrick really didn’t care.

“I’m cold.”

“You’re beside a radiator. Go to sleep and leave me alone.” He tried to keep his front of anger, but Pete’s breath was hot on Patrick’s face and his pleading expression was boring into his soul.

“It’s not working. Patrick, please do something. I’m really, really cold. It’s horrible. I’m going to get pneumonia and die.” He’d obviously sobered up a bit, as his ability to send people on sudden guilt trips and use words such pneumonia had returned. Patrick sighed, realising that it would be easier to comply with Pete’s stupid demands than to fight them.

“What do you want me to do about it?” Pete’s eyes lit up.


“Wha-?” The younger man could only manage half a syllable before Pete had swung the covers up into the air, letting an icy draft attack his barely clothed skin, and dived in beside him. He wasn’t kidding about being cold. It was as if an iceberg had decided to invade Patrick’s bed.

“Pete, what the actual fuck?” he spluttered. His discomfort was clearly amusing the bassist, who chose to ignore the vulgar question.

“Mmm, Trick, you’re so warm. Maybe I won’t die prematurely now.” He giggled to himself. How could he laugh in a situation like this?! Patrick’s mind was doing gymnastics. The object of several years’ worth of affection was occupying his bed. Pete. Was in. His bed. His head was pressed against Patrick’s chest, his hair itching and his warm breath tickling his stomach. Patrick could smell his shampoo. An era of buried desires were quickly resurfacing, and manifesting themselves in a rather embarrassing manner. He swore mentally, and rolled over quickly, which resulted in Pete laughing at him yet again. He blamed his youth, although he was getting a little bit old to keep placating himself with that excuse.

“Quit fucking laughing, or I’ll throw you out and you can freeze solid for all I care.” He was embarrassed and panicked more than irritated, but thankfully Pete didn’t seem to notice. He just whispered an apology and lay on his back silently. Patrick felt somewhat bad then. The other was really cold. Maybe he was just lonely, too. Pete’s girlfriend had recently decided that his lack of presence at home and stories of his tour promiscuity were too much for her. When he’d managed to adequately calm down and redirect his blood flow, Patrick sighed for the umpteenth time that night and turned over to look at him again. To his surprise, Pete was also laying on his side now, which meant his face was inches from Patrick’s. The vocalist felt his breath catch in his throat as he looked into the chestnut-dark eyes. There was an implacable emotion in them. He threw his arm around him, and pulled him close. Patrick felt him relax as he cuddled closer, forehead pressed into the curve of his neck.

“Better?” Patrick whispered. He felt Pete smile as he slid a glacial hand over his side, to curl around Patrick’s soft hip. Patrick closed his eyes, late-night daydreams of holding Pete like this forever lulling his weary mind into the best sleep he’d had in years.

this was originally written in the first person, and with different names, if you catch any mistakes, let me know! title shamelessly stolen from w.a.m.s, by Fall Out Boy.

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