Bandslash Ficlet: Sketch the Sky

[kat_lair]

pushkin666 already got this birthday ficlet on Wednesday.

Bandslash – Fall Out Boy – Patrick/Pete – PG-13 – 438 words

Sketch the Sky
(prompt: starry nights)

 

Patrick is drunk. Pete is not.

Patrick thinks this is decidedly unfair. 

Pete thinks it’s pretty fucking funny. “This is pretty fucking funny, Trick,” he says, looming over Patrick who is currently on his back on the floor.

Pete’s smile is wide and dorky and he’s showing a lot of teeth. Patrick maybe finds this adorable. That doesn’t stop him yelping in surprise when Pete starts shoving Patrick’s t-shirt out of the way. 

“Stop it, Pete!” Patrick means it, he does, but he’s also giggling too much to do anything but bat at Pete’s shoulders ineffectually.

Pete doesn’t dodge away, but instead leans into the touch, pushing his head under Patrick’s hands. “Stay still.” He pops the first two buttons of Patrick’s jeans, tugging them down just enough to expose a wide strip of skin. 

“Pete?” Patrick doesn’t even know what he’s asking, just that neither of them is laughing anymore.

Pete hums, uncorking a thin marker. “Stay still,” he repeats and then he’s drawing, harsh chemical smell of the ink spreading between them. 

It tickles and Patrick’s grip tightens in an effort not to squirm, his nails digging into Pete’s scalp and the back of his neck.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that; silent and unmoving except for the sharp scratch of the pen, Patrick’s fingers combing through Pete’s hair in a slow steady rhythm of his heartbeat. 

Finally Pete stops and pulls away enough for Patrick to see. There’s a cluster of stars on his skin, dark shapes spanning the pale flesh of his hip, trailing down to the top of his thigh in a gentle curve like a reverse Milky Way.

“It’s…” Patrick reaches out to touch, smudging the lines a little and shivering unexpectedly. 

“Not enough,” Pete says. His eyes are black like the stars on Patrick’s skin. “We need more.”

“Yeah.” Patrick’s voice cracks, syllables crumbling into the space between their bodies. “Yeah, okay.” 

Pete crawls up until he’s on all fours above him, watching Patrick like he wants to map every inch of him. “Where?” he asks.

“Here,” Patrick says, fitting a thumb over the swell of bone on his other hip. “Here.” He lays his arms flat, exposing the soft inside of his elbows, of his wrists. “Here.” He turns his head to the side, as far as it goes, pulse hammering rapidly against the straining tendons. 

“Everywhere,” Pete whispers, his mouth warm and sure, tongue tracing invisible patterns around the curve of Patrick’s jaw, the seam of his lips.

The pen clatters to the floor, the sound like the sky cracking open, like a galaxy being born.

Fin.