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“Get him ready,” Pete commands.
So Joe definitely doesn’t feel ready. He’s laying back over a soft feather pillows in Pete’s disgustingly expensive suite in the Four Seasons and watching Patrick crawl between his legs.
Which should, obviously, be very fine with him.
Patrick’s leather jacket was shed and placed carefully over the armchair Pete was sitting on at the foot of the bed. Joe could see that Patrick’s eyes were slightly glassy from the few drinks they had at the hotel bar, but still so eager against the ambient yellow of the room. He looks so different from the last time they all met up with Andy — the reddish blonde of his hair was now bleached, almost blindingly. It was a good look on Patrick.
And this is the same Patrick, hunched on his knees when he undoes the belt of Joe’s jeans. There’s a twinge of guilt that hits Joe, and he’s surprised it bypasses the lowered inhibition he’s achieved after the few glasses of draft he’d had.
Patrick has always been Pete’s. Even though he was the one who met Patrick in the very first place, Pete had claimed him from day one during his audition. Pete and Patrick who became PeteandPatrick long before they got their heads out of their asses sometime between Grave and Cork Tree, and eventually fucked each other up enough to have them all call it quits, with each other and the band, around Folie.
Their discography might as well detail some sort of foreshadowing to the downfall.
(Joe idly wonders if they’ll ever have their Rumours.)
But when Patrick unzips his jeans and lowers his pants enough to reveal dark gray boxer briefs with a thoughtful swipe of his tongue between lips before his eyes flick up over Joe’s own, he feels a strange sense of what almost feels like ours when he finds Pete staring back with the same intensity.
It’s something he’s only maybe felt on stage, Pete pressing his forehead against his own with echoes of our song, our band, our fucking world, let’s rule it, Trohman.
The world stopped being theirs two years ago so Joe is almost okay with this compromise: Patrick’s hand warm over his hip bone while his thumb presses firmly against the vein of the side of the bulge in his pants. He smiles softly at Joe — the kind he’d throw show-fatigued back in the day.
Joe wonders why he’s being too careful. Maybe he’s as nervous Joe thinks he should be.
“Suck him off,” Pete says, in a volume Joe’s surprised he could hear, almost surprised he didn’t personally craft a frequency only Patrick can decipher.
Joe chews on his bottom lip at this, as he’s watching Patrick scoot back on his knees. It hits him that Patrick’s only doing what Pete tells him to do. Submitting to him. It’s hot in the way that Joe feels like he’s watching them through blinds, almost wrong with him witnessing Pete commanding Patrick like this. It runs deeper than some sex thing. It always runs deeper with them.
It makes Joe think almost spitefully about how it was their very tremors that broke the surface, pulled them all apart in ways Joe felt too young for.
As Patrick’s pulling him out of soft cotton, he focuses on the familiar, friendly way Pete had said “Come up with us,” and Patrick’s “He’s got the good scotch up there” earlier in the night. Instead, three hearts ended up racing in an elevator. They never did get to the scotch.
Patrick licks his hand before he’s stroking Joe slowly, with a soft lick to the head, causing Joe’s hips to buck up. He leaves a shiny trail of spit and precome on his cheek that only Joe can see. Patrick laughs and pins Joe’s hips down. Fuck, this was really happening.
“What did I say, Patrick?” Pete says almost coldly. From where Joe’s laying back, he can see Pete has a hand over the tented seam of his pants. He wonders why and how he’s holding back so well.
His thoughts are interrupted when Patrick has his mouth covering Joe’s length, tongue curled wide on the underside. Joe tips his head back but part of him wants to watch Patrick’s head where it bobs against his cock, as much of a show for Pete as it is to him. Patrick really knows how to fucking do this, the head brushing against the ridges on the roof of his mouth before he hits the back of his throat, soft and hot and tight when he swallows around Joe.
It doesn’t last because Patrick pulls off, gasping slightly, jaw slack and lips swollen. Hey, it’s flattering that he feels the need to take a break, but fuck, if that wasn’t insanely good. Patrick’s hot breath hits the damp skin of his dick, and it makes Joe’s fist twist against the sheets.
“You can take it,” Pete says but he’s looking at Joe. His face is close to expressionless but there’s the flush that runs down his neck, all the way under the collar of his shirt. It makes words he hasn’t chosen catch in his throat before a tentative hand reaches over to touch the back of Patrick’s head.
“Really?” Joe whispers down at Patrick, fingers curling almost protectively over his hair.
Patrick nods at the same time Pete says “Show him.”
This night couldn’t be real. It has to be, because the way Patrick sinks down, getting used to the length of Joe, moaning against his skin is a sensation he doesn’t want to forget soon.
Pete’s right, Patrick can take it. His head bounces, causing the hand around Patrick’s hair to tighten and pull. Patrick exhales sharply through his nose, fingers digging into the skin of Joe’s hips. They trail down before they shuck his underwear and jeans down lower so Patrick can dip a hand between his legs, cupping his balls with gentle fingers. Joe pants, open-mouthed, locking eyes with Patrick when he keeps his lips low, close to the base of his cock while his thumb massages the sensitive, spit-slick skin below the base. The focused breaths turn labored and Patrick squirms between his knees.
“Such a cockslut,” Joe hears Pete slur, but Joe knows they’re all breaching sobriety by now. The bed dips, and he watches Pete run his hands over Patrick’s back, over his shoulders before they move to his elbows, pulling Patrick’s arms behind him. “Can you do it like this?”
Patrick makes a noise of affirmation, a muffled moan, and it seems enough for Pete, who holds Patrick’s wrists with one hand against his back while the other reaches to press against the front of Patrick’s throat. His face lights up and he looks at Joe.
“He’s taking you deep, isn’t he?” he says, tinged with dark enjoyment.
“Yeah,” Joe manages to rasp before Pete lets Patrick’s throat go. Patrick seems to gain momentum, head bobbing faster with Pete pinning his hands back. Patrick hollows his cheeks and Joe fucks into the tightwet heat involuntarily.
“Easy,” Pete warns, a glint of protectiveness in his eyes.
Joe almost swallows.
He watches Pete reach over and undo Patrick’s belt and slacks, a fluid movement until he’s only left in his white dress shirt. The pants and belt hit the floor with a soft clink and his hands move back to where Patrick had his wrists obediently crossed low on his back. Pete licks over his palm and places it in between Patrick’s cheeks. He gives a tentative rub over his hole, making Patrick squirm against it, before Joe sees his wrist sink.
“He’s so desperate to get fucked,” Pete declares, tone an out-of-place friendliness “I told him I would only if he gets you off.”
Pete bites his lip, as he turns his wrist. It makes Patrick whimper and move impossibly faster over his cock. Joe’s chest starts to heave as he looks up, eyes falling shut before he says to the ceiling, “I’m close.”
Joe hears a low chuckle.
“Did you hear that?” Pete says, slipping his fingers out and grips the side of Patrick’s thigh, running his nails over it. He squeezes, from where Joe can see. He’s panting hard now, but all Joe can focus is rolling his hips in time with Patrick’s mouth. Pillowy lips drag purposefully at his length, tongue flicking at his frenulum in brisk, firm licks.
Pete mounts his body over Patrick’s, clothed dick rubbing hard against where his hand was. He’s still gripping tight at Patrick’s wrists, whispering what sounds like “I’m going to fuck you so hard right here later. You’re being so good for us. Such a slut.”
“Fuck,” Joe gasps, fucking up, and hearing Patrick choke. Patrick only swallows around him, defiantly or purposefully, he wasn’t sure. “Patrick—”
He comes, crying out as he’s pulling back just enough to feel it shoot into Patrick’s mouth, making his legs shake, making him pull one side of the sheets hard enough to untuck them from the mattress.
He lets go of Patrick’s hair, letting it fall over his own thigh, drifting for something familiar, like the rough denim of his well-worn jeans. He tries to still his breath. He ignores how the air’s changed.
He focuses on how Patrick swallows, sucking in his bottom lip to catch anything that might’ve slipped out.
Joe’s too sober now, eyes too open. Without warning, he puts his underwear back on and clears his throat. Pete gets off Patrick, still very visibly hard under his pants.
“That was fun,” he says dryly as he sees Patrick move at the foot of the bed. He has his head bowed, slipping his slacks back on as well. He doesn’t know if he should say thank you or whatever. He hasn’t exactly found himself in this situation before. Definitely not with these two.
“You’re leaving?” Pete asks. It sounds kind of sad, which Joe frowns at.
What did Pete think this was? A reunion? This was all they wanted, right? To get Joe off in front of the both of them to fuel some sex thing?
Patrick smiles at him, the tiniest quirk of the corners of his mouth.
“I,” Joe starts and realizes he’s scrambling for words to fill an answer to the possibly rhetorical question. “I think I should?”
“Hey, stay,” Patrick speaks up now. In Joe’s ears, he sounds almost commanding, patronizing in its aftertaste. Like he can’t believe Joe even thinks he should.
Joe scowls at both of them. “What the fuck? I don’t think I want to.”
His face heats up, feeling an odd sense of panic when Patrick says those words. He’s heard those before. From their last album together, when he wanted Joe’s feet planted on the ground in the recording studio, fingers close to bleeding when he had to do the same set of riffs over and over again. Patrick’s fist against walls and Andy’s worried looks and Pete’s apathy. A breath catches his throat and he doesn’t even realize he’d scrambled off the bed, hands doing up his pants as fast as possible.
Everything feels like it’s being shot into his arteries, replacing all blood and oxygen under his skin. It’s anger, it’s every “not good enough, Joe,” it’s every stranger that used to be his bandmate.
Patrick’s face contorts into confusion, but Pete’s expression is soft now. He doesn’t know which one pisses him off more.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Joe says too louder than usual at no one, in response to no one. He looks for his wallet and his phone. Nightstand. Door was fifteen, twenty steps away. He had to get out of here.
“Joe,” he thinks he hears Pete say before a firmer “Joe.”
“We’re all on this break for a reason, right?” Joe cuts him off before he could say it one more time. His jaw clenches, wipes away the thin veneer of sweat against his face. “We all fucking need it.”
All they hear is the drip-drip of the faucet and Joe’s angry breathing. His jaw clenches to quiet it. They don’t get it. They don’t fucking get it. Of course they wouldn’t. Joe couldn’t even get a word through them now.
He strides to the door without another word.
Joe has no idea what more he can do at this point.