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You Know Where I'm Headed; I Know Where You've Been

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    It’s amazing how much has changed since last time. It’s even more amazing how much has stayed the same. There are the same boys in bands, same sweat smell on everything they wear, same nameless Something hanging in the air. Last time they spoke in person had been in a dirty motel that Pete couldn't be caught dead in now. Keith left a hole in the flimsy wall with Pete's head before he bit with the intention of breaking skin.

    Pete's thinking about that now as he watches Keith and Jordan joke with each other about scaring the Fall Out Boy fans. Keith looks good. He's thinner now, and it makes him look taller. He's grown his beard out, wears his hair longer, has those bits of grey hair that make him look wise and experienced, but Pete can see he's still nervous. He saw it in the widening of his eyes when he saw the arena, in the unsteadiness of his palms as he gestures in conversation. Keith is going in stone cold sober for this show, and Pete knows how hard that is on him.

    Andy-- Pete's Andy-- finds the group where Pete's showing them his jerry-rigged flamethrower-bass. Hurley claps both brothers in a solid bro hug one after the other and gives Andy Williams the dumbest secret handshake imaginable. “Every Andrew knows it,” Williams insists with a grin that's so large it makes his cheeks raise the edges of his glasses. Clayton introduces himself to Hurley, and Pete abandons them to talk their Drummer Shit. He knows it'll be impossible to pry other conversation from Andy for a good while, anyway.

    He carefully stows the bass in its proper storage and tells Keith he should come see the view from the stage. Patrick has materialized and is talking guitar riffs with Jordan, and Steve and Andy Williams have mutually decided to go find the “Fancy, big time sellout snacks in this place.” Keith follows Pete, and Pete feels like this isn't real life he's living right now.

    Pete steps on stage, and Keith slowly follows him out. The endless rows of potential eyes have lost a bit of their intimidation over the years for Pete, but he sees the way Keith is looking at it sideways, not quite ready to take it all in. He's not even stepped to the middle of the stage with Pete. “C'mon,” Pete insists. He grabs Keith loosely by the wrist and tells himself the way Keith curls his fingers around Pete's own wrist is an inconsequential product of the other man's anxiety. He plants Keith in the dead center of the stage and steps behind him to not block the view. “Take it all in,” he says, leaning against Keith’s back. “You’re gonna fucking rock it tonight.”

    “But does it want to be rocked?” is Keith’s response. Pete huffs a laugh. He’s brave for a moment and puts his hands on Keith’s hips, just to see what happens.

    “What’re you doing, Pete?” Keith asks quietly. There are people all around them. Techs setting up speakers and security doing rundowns and the venue staff setting up the runway. People are everywhere around them, but no one’s paying attention to them.

    Pete’s full of words; they overflow and spill out of him, cascading onto a page or a blog post or the margins of a book. He is full of words, but anything he has to say to the public is wrapped in about thirteen different layers of metaphor and hyperbole because their meaning is only for those in the know. In private, he is much more concise. “I thought you might wanna beat me up and then fuck me again,” he says low against the back of Keith’s neck. “In a nicer hotel this time.”

    Keith sucks in a sharp breath. “Pete, that was almost ten years ago,” he says. “I’m married now.” He pulls Pete’s hands off his hips and turns to face him.

    “You were engaged then,” Pete counters. Hell, Pete was married then. Technically he’s less committed this time around, if you don’t count the three kids. “Big deal.”

    “We were on a break,” he says, sounding like a petulant teenager. High school sweethearts is such a romantic notion, and Pete knows Keith wouldn’t leave Lindsay for the world , but there were things they both wanted that the other couldn’t give.

    “Meagan said it’s fine,” Pete offers, like it means anything. Pete would be doing the same thing if he hadn’t asked, hell, Pete would be doing the same thing if he’d been flat out forbidden. Keith knows this for a fact. There are some character flaws that never get polished away, and Pete’s need to be manhandled by someone with big hands and a rough voice is one of them. “You should ask Lindsay about it.”

    “I’m not calling my wife to ask her if I can fuck Pete Wentz,” Keith says firmly.

    “Text her, then. Hell, I’ll do it,” Pete says. He chews on his bottom lip for a moment and looks Keith up and down. “Do you still think about it?”

    Keith feels exposed, all his sins and shortcoming laid bare on this stage for the world to see. He wants to say no and have it be true, but there have been nights where it’s crossed his mind. Pete got his shit together after they recorded in that studio, after the last time, but before then there had been other times. Pete showing up at the door of wherever Keith was staying and pissing him off until Keith ordained to grab him by the hair and make him shut up was not an uncommon occurrence. The calls at two in the morning after Pete’s been off his meds for a few days had stopped years ago, but Keith knows Pete just found a different outlet. Keith, on the other hand, never did. He loves his wife, and she loves him, and he doesn’t want to hurt her . He just wants to hurt something . Keith says nothing to answer Pete’s question.

    “I thought so,” Pete says after a few moments of silence. He takes a step back from Keith. “Think about it, and don’t worry too much. You guys are gonna kill it tonight.”

    At six, when Keith spies the waves of people being admitted, he starts texting his wife. Pete knows that he’s texting his wife because he has that big dumb grin on his face that men only get for their wives or their children. Pete sees Keith’s eyes dart toward him, and he quickly pretends that he hadn’t been watching. He does pull out his phone and tap out a message himself, though.

    Pete knows exactly when Keith gets it because he looks up from his phone and glares daggers at Pete. The image attached wasn’t strictly necessary, yeah, but it gets Pete’s point across. Before they go on stage, Keith casually tells Pete that he's calling Lindsay after the show. Pete sends a silent thanks to whoever’s been watching out for his sex life all these years.

    Keith’s shaking when he comes off stage. The adrenaline of too many people watching them and not enough of them enjoying it. If he were ten years younger he’d already be reaching for a cigarette to steady himself, but instead he’s pulling his phone out and calling his wife. He thinks this might be what personal growth is. Nevermind the fact that he’s got this feeling like he wants to wrap his hands around something and squeeze until it breaks. That’s what he’s calling his wife about, after all.

    At eight, while Pete is watching Andy do calf stretches, Keith walks by the couch and says, nonchalantly,” She's okay with it.” Pete's fingers start to buzz, and his toes curl in his shoes. It's been so long. Not since he’s gotten fucked, not even since he’s been with another guy, but Keith was always something a little wilder than he could ever get anyone else.

    When Keith smokes three cigarettes in quick succession and his hands still don't stop shaking, he calls it quits and goes back inside. He can't believe he asked for that. He can't believe she said yes and not I want a divorce immediately. He calls her again as he walks, to make extra sure he's understanding her correctly. She huffs at him through the mic.

    “I know you're faithful in the ways that matter. You wrote an entire album from the hurt you felt about my pain,” she says. “You love me.” She pauses. “Just don't get anybody else pregnant, okay?”

    Keith snorts. “If Pete could get pregnant I'd have a different firstborn,” he says, mostly without thinking, and then immediately regrets it.

    “Pete? Wentz? That's this old fling who wants to have another go?”

    “Yeah,” Keith says sheepishly.

    “He is still going to be able to walk tomorrow, right? And play? If you make them cancel a cross country arena tour because you tied him up too tight and cut off circulation to his toes or something you're gonna make a lot of people very angry.”

    Keith grins despite the situation. “I doubt there will be actual tying involved,” he says. “I don't know that I came prepared for that sort of thing.”

    “He might've,” she says, conspiratorially. “Let me know how it goes.”

    “Yeah,” Keith agrees.

    “I love you.”

    “I love you too.”

    To say that Pete never gets tired of the stage would be a lie. He got tired of it ten years ago, and he gets tired of it when he misses his kids. Right now, at this moment, thinking about Keith and him after the show, he's tired of this stage and these people and those lights, and there are still three songs left plus the encore. Pete's entire body is humming with anticipation. He wants to lie down and forget his own name and face and persona, not forever, just for a while. Patrick’s at the piano for Young and Menace, and Pete takes a moment to calm himself down. Soon, he tells himself.

    The drive to the hotel is nerve-wracking. It's a halfway point so they won't have to drive as long in the morning, and Pete insisted that they got to stay in the same hotel as Fall Out Boy, threatened the label to cancel the shows and everything. Keith's glad to know that little bastard diva that he used to slap around in house pits and on stained mattresses is still in there somewhere.

    Fall Out Boy gets there first, ostensibly because they have a whole crew of people who deal with their instruments for them, and ETID had been watching the show instead of loading up. Texting Keith a room number and a smiley face is Pete's way of saying he got there already. Keith isn't sure if he should bring his bag to Pete's room or drop it off at his and Jordan's room. He'd like to shower. Should he shower before he gets to Pete? Is that too much effort? Does Pete want him dirty? He always said he liked the way Keith smelled like violence, but Keith was never really sure what that meant.

    He finally settles on just brushing his teeth and leaving his bag in his room. The sweat on his body has mostly dried. He runs his fingers through his hair as he walks back out the door. Jordan raises an eyebrow at him, but Keith's too preoccupied to spare him an explanation. After he knocks on Pete's door he catches a not entirely unpleasant yet not pleasing smell of something, realizes it's him. Maybe he should've put on more deodorant.

    Before Keith has time to turn tail and do some last minute hygiene, delay the inevitable, the door swings open. Pete's there in the doorway wearing a pair of boxer briefs and a T-shirt. It takes Keith a second to looks away from Pete's thighs and notice that it's a maroon Nothing Visible, Oceans Empty shirt. Somehow he's not surprised that Pete has a tour exclusive shirt without having been at the tour.

    “You like it?” Pete asks. “Thought it might make you feel a little possessive.” He laughs his stupid bullshit laugh when Keith just cocks an eyebrow at him.

    “Can I come in, or are we doing this in the hallway?”

    “Like I need more dick pics in the world,” Pete says. He steps aside and ushers Keith into the room. Even having already seen his own room, Keith is struck by how massive this hotel room is. They're only staying one night, and he can’t fathom the need for this. There's a couch in here. Who needs a couch in a hotel?

    “You really are a sellout,” Keith says, mostly joking, as he takes in the room around him. Pete laughs. “I mean it!” Keith says, grinning. “Those angry internet users are right.”

    “Shut up,” Pete says, thumping him on the back. He's so much stronger now than when they used to do this. Keith's eyes linger on his arms, the way his chest is defined through the thin fabric of the T-shirt. Pete catches him. “Like what you see?”

    Keith is in such a state that he can only respond with the truth, a resounding,” Yes, of course.” Pete reaches out, gently grabs Keith's hand and and presses it to his chest. “I'd like it better if the rings were still here,” Keith admits, sweeping one thumb gently over Pete's nipple.

    “I guess I grew out of them,” Pete says, stepping closer. He's looking at Keith's mouth, trying to decide who's going to make the first move.

    “Grew into the hair though,” Keith murmurs. The fingers of his other hand fiddle with the straightener-fried ends of Pete's long hair. Pete hums in answer. Keith's picking back up where they left off. He runs his fingers up, up, up, till he can grab a fistful of Pete's hair and tug slightly. Pete's mouth pops open around a little moan. “I like it.”

    “Kiss me,” Pete gasps. He grabs the front of Keith's (dirty, sweaty) shirt and drags him down enough that their lips meet. Keith bites his bottom lip immediately, and Pete wraps his arms around Keith's neck. He tastes like cigarettes, and Pete wonders how many he smoked to calm his nerves before he came here, how long he stood outside the hotel lobby with shaking hands.

    The skin on Pete's bottom lip tears a little when Keith drags his teeth down it. Pete tongues the new wound, tasting the copper of open flesh. “I want to suck your dick,” is the first coherent thought he can articulate.

    “I'd better sit down,” Keith says.

    Pete drags him over to the ridiculously plush bed and pushes him down onto it. “Too many clothes,” is the only warning Keith gets before Pete starts tugging at Keith's shirts. Keith lifts his arms to make it easier, and momentarily he's sitting on the bed, chest and tattoos on full display. “I love this,” Pete runs his fingers over the blackwork on Keith's right side. “When’d you get it?”

    “2016, I think,” Keith replies. Pete presses him back to lie down on the bed. “What happened to you being the one who needs held down?”

    “I wanna taste you,” Pete says. He clambers on to the bed, straddles Keith's hips. He starts with Keith's mouth again, runs his fingers through Keith's beard. Keith rests one hand on the warm skin of Pete’s back, under the shirt. He bites again, and Pete bites back this time, leaves a quickly fading imprint of teeth on Keith's neck. He licks the dried sweat off Keith's collarbone and follows the curve of his chest down to his armpit. Pete nuzzles there for a moment, breathes the smell of Keith's sweat. After a few seconds, Pete actually licks a stripe from the bottom of Keith's armpit up to his neck.

    Keith pets Pete's hair for a moment before he grabs it his fist and pulls Pete's head up. “What happened to you sucking my dick?” Pete's eyes light up like he'd forgotten that's an option.

    “Right, yeah.” Keith keeps his hand in Pete's hair, not guiding, just holding. Pete starts nosing his way down Keith's torso, stopping every now and then to kiss or bite or trace a tattoo with his tongue. Eventually he gets to the waistband of Keith's jeans and pops the button. Keith helps him get them down far enough to where Pete can pull the band of his boxers down.

    Keith knows it has to smell at least a little bit rank down there. He sweats a lot on stage. The lights are hot, and the eyes on him are hotter, and he's not going to sacrifice the flannel plus leather jacket aesthetic just to be cooler. Pete either doesn't mind or actively enjoys it, because he shoves his face into the crease of Keith's thigh and breathes deeply before he starts mouthing at Keith's dick.

    Pete's a little bit out of practice, but he’s enthusiastic enough to make up for it. Keith’s not fully hard yet. His cock is still lying against his thigh, and Pete groans when he feels it twitch as soon as his mouth’s around it. There's something undeniably hot about feeling a cock get hard inside his mouth. There’s something even hotter about Keith’s groan and the way he grabs Pete’s hair tighter til it hurts.

    “God, you’re still good at that,” Keith says. Pete basks in the praise, like he always does. When Keith is fully hard, Pete stops sucking his dick, moves down to play with his balls instead. “Fuck, Pete. Come here, you bastard.”

    Keith hauls him up by the hair, and Pete lets him. They kiss again, sloppy, angry. Pete's hard in his boxers, and he grinds down against Keith's wet dick. Keith's hand is big and warm when he grabs Pete's ass. Pete whines and presses back into the touch, arches his back. Keith is pulling, spreading him open without even really trying.

    “I'm going to wreck you,” Keith says against tattoos on Pete's neck. He brings one hand between them to wrap around Pete's throat, and there's the Keith Pete was looking for. He’d been starting to worry that the man who used to bruise his hips every time they met had been lost to the kindness of fatherhood. “Leave you limping on stage tomorrow.” Keith bites at the edge of Pete's jaw. “Won’t be any way you can stand that won't leave you aching.”

    Pete whines. Keith moves his hand under the waistband of Pete's underwear so he can get a hold of skin. He presses one dry finger against Pete's hole, not trying to do anything more than rile him up. It works. Pete moans and fists his hands in the comforter under Keith's head. “What do you want?” Keith asks. The thumb of his right hand--the one resting comfortably around Pete's throat--is petting the skin right under Pete's ear. Pete's eyes are closed. If he could pur, he would be.

    “More,” Pete responds. Keith, faster than Pete can really process, takes the hand off his throat and slaps him across the face. Pete's eyes fly open. His mouth is round in a silent gasp.

    “Try again,” Keith says, gripping Pete's jaw. “What do you want?”

    “You,” Pete tries. Keith's grip tightens. Pete keeps talking. “Your cock. I want your cock, your hands, your mouth. Please , Keith.”

    Keith pulls Pete's head down and kisses him once, violently, before shoving him off his lap. Pete bounces once when he lands on the mattress. Keith's on him then, dragging him by the hair to kiss him, biting hard at the meat of his shoulder, stretching out the collar of his Oceans shirt to do so. Keith gets up on his knees, and Pete's drooling at the sight of his cock standing up out of the folds of his jeans and the thatch of hair there. Keith doesn't even ask before he takes Pete's boxers off, just fists his hands around the waistband and hauls them off, lifting Pete up off the bed to get over the curve of his ass. He leaves the shirt on. He likes seeing Pete in it.

    Pete's hard, obviously. He's already made a wet mess of sweat and precum against his bartskull tattoo. His cock is shiny from it. “God, look at you,” Keith says with his hands splayed across Pete's hipbones. Pete arches his hips up, partly from desperation and partly because he wants to put on a show. Keith presses down, holds him still. His thumbs dig into the hollows of Pete’s hips in a way that Pete prays leaves bruises. “You look like a groupie.” Keith pets the edge of Pete's shirt when he says it. “Begging to get fucked, to suck my dick.”

    “Please,” Pete whines. He wriggles his hips against the hold Keith has on them.

     “Shut up.” Keith rolls Pete's hips till his ass is presented enough for him to land one good smack against it. Pete gasps and writhes with the pain, moans when Keith grabs a handful of his ass. “You get what I give you.” Pete whimpers but doesn't say anything. “Roll over,” Keith says, shoving Pete's hip again.

    Pete rolls onto his stomach. He arches his back, presents himself. He's eager to please, to do whatever Keith tells him. Once, when they did this sort of thing regularly, Keith fingered Pete open till he was ready to come then told him to roll onto his stomach and not move until Keith came back. Keith went to Andy’s room and watched wrestling for an hour and a half. Pete’s thinking about that now, about how he lay there till he’d actually gone soft before Keith came back and fucked him. He can’t decide if he wants that to happen again or not.

    “God, what a fuckin’ view,” Keith says, shoving Pete’s shirt up out of his way. He's on his knees behind Pete, got his hips pressed up against Pete's ass. Pete whines and tries to press back against him. Keith spanks him again. “You're just as much of a bitch as I remember.” He leans back and rubs one dry thumb against Pete's hole. “This what you want?” Pete whines and nods into the mattress. Keith grabs his hair to hold his head up. “Where do you keep your lube? I know you have some. Probably finger yourself every time you jerk off.”

    “The side pocket,” Pet gasps, gesturing to his backpack abandoned on the floor. Keith drops Pete's head, gets off the bed, and digs through the trash lining that pocket until he finds the slick plastic of a lube bottle. “I'm starting with two,” Keith says. Pete nods into his folded arms.

    The lube is cold, but Keith's fingers are warm when they press into Pete. It's been a while, but not as long as Keith thinks. Pete whines happily, presses back against the intrusion. Keith puts one hand on his hip and rocks him back and forth onto his fingers, adds a third one sooner than he would for anyone else. “You could probably take my whole fucking fist,” Keith says slipping his pinky inside Pete. He rubs his thumb along the slick, stretched rim of Pete's ass. He doesn't miss the way Pete's cock twitches at the words.

    “Not tonight,” Pete says, turning his head away from the mattress to speak. “‘M not ready tonight. Maybe we could--” Keith starts pressing all four of his fingers against Pete's prostate, and whatever Pete was going to say next is lost in a long moan.

    “It always surprised me that you had kids,” Keith says, tone conversational. Pete can barely manage an indistinct questioning noise in response. “Never saw it happen, but I always figured all the women you slept with did this too.” He presses down on Pete's prostate again, then leans forward, drapes himself over Pete to speak close to his ear. “Am I right though, at least sometimes?” he asks, lips and beard moving against Pete's neck. “Does your pretty girlfriend do this for you, too?” He scratches his nails down the exposed skin of Pete's back when he sits back up.”Or maybe you don't need her to. You've been getting bent over backstage by your tourmates for so long, I doubt you've stopped now. You're such a fucking cumrag, Wentz.”

    Keith spanks him again, two hits on the same side. Pete cries out and arches his back, presses back for more. “Keith,” he gasps. “Keith, Keith, please--”

    Keith grabs Pete's hair and pulls hard, yanks until Pete can either get up on just his knees by himself or be dragged. He chooses the former. Keith pulls his head to the side so he can bite at the meat of his neck and shoulder. “Please what?” he snarls against Pete's neck. He thrusts his fingers roughly while Pete searches for words.

    “Please,” Pete gasps again. He doesn't know how far they're going, doesn't know if Keith's fishing for an honorific or just clarification. He really only does know one thing. “Please, I'm gonna come.” Keith's teeth dig into his skin, and Keith's fingers press even deeper inside him somehow. “Please.”

    Keith slides one hand from Pete's ass over to the V of his hips. He splays his hand on the front of Pete’s hip, close enough that Pete's going mad with how he's not being touched. “You're gonna come from just my fingers?” Keith asks. Pete whines and nods an affirmative. “Do it. Fucking come before I even think about touching your cock”

    Pete can't come on command, couldn't when he was twenty and especially can't now he's closer to forty, but Keith's being very convincing. It only takes a few minutes more of Keith kissing his back and biting his shoulder and whispering filth into his ear and stretching him for Pete to feel the tension in his belly start to uncoil. “Oh fuck, oh fuck.” Keith's holding Pete's hips still, pressing his fingers against Pete's prostate again and again and againandagainand--

    Pete's whole body draws bowstring tight and then he collapses onto the mattress, lacking the energy to hold his upper body. Keith’s hand are the only things keeping his hips up. Pete's cock is weakly spilling cum out onto the bedsheets below him, and Keith is still moving his fingers, pressing them in and out and against Pete's prostate just to make him twitch. He gives Pete about thirty seconds of this overstimulation before he abruptly pulls his fingers out.

    “You clean?” Keith asks. He's pressing his cock against Pete's stretched hole but not pushing in. For Pete to be comfortable, he should probably add some more lube. He doesn't. “I don't wanna go home with something i didn't sign up for.”

    “Got tested last month. 'M good.” That's all the information Keith needs to slip his cock into Pete. Keith moans low in his throat, and Pete grabs at the sheets.  It's a little too fast, a little too rough, and a little too dry to be strictly comfortable. It's perfect.

    Pete finds himself relaxing into the rhythm of it. The little noises he makes are forced out of him. The way his thighs shake is uncontrollable. The way his cock starts filling again is inevitable.

     Then there are inked fingers around his neck, and Keith forces him to get up off his elbows, sit upright on his knees. “Get up here,” Keith growls. He's got one hand on Pete's hips and one hand on Pete's throat, keeping him exactly where Keith wants him. His fingers flex around Pete's throat, tightening just enough to make breathing difficult. “How hard do you want it?”

    A million possibilities rattle through Pete's head. How hard does he want it? So far this is the most vanilla sex they've ever had simply by virtue of it taking place entirely on a bed. Does he want to walk out of this room with bruises over his necklace of thorns? Marks down his back? A limp? A black eye? As he pants against Keith's hold, he finds that the answer to all of those questions is a resounding yes, please.

    “As hard as you can.”

    Keith throws him on the floor. His knees ache where they connect with the carpet. Keith's on him in seconds, pressing his face down, grinding his cheek into the fibers. Keith pushes Pete's shirt halfway up his back.This is familiar. Hotel carpet is all the same when you can taste it, no matter how expensive it is. Keith guides his cock back inside Pete. He's fucking him for real now, Pete's going to have rug burn on his chest tomorrow.

    There's a hand in his hair, holding him facedown while Keith uses him. There are nails digging into his shoulder where Keith is holding for leverage. The zipper of Keith’s jeans is cold and sharp against his ass. He tastes blood where his teeth have pierced his cheek, and he's absolutely helpless against the happy noises he's making about it.

    “Get a fucking hand on your cock. Jerk yourself off,” Keith spits at him. Pete's happy to comply. He wriggles one arm that's trapped underneath him till he can get a fist around his cock. “I know you've wanted that all night.” The first touch is so good that Pete nearly sobs into the carpet. “You gonna come again?” Pete can only whine in answer. “You gonna come all over this expensive carpet? All cause you're getting fucked like a whore? God, you never change.”

    “Can I?” Pete asks. He's so close. All he really needs to come a second time is permission.

    “You fucking better ,” is Keith's response. Pete moans, long and filthy, and it only takes a few more seconds before he's clenching tight around Keith and coming. “Fuck.” Keith stops moving, waits till Pete seems to be wrung out, and then pulls out.

   “Wha--” Pete doesn't have time to be confused before Keith grabs him by the hips and tosses him onto his back. His head cracks painfully against the unpadded floor, and his shirt is bunched up under him. Keith's there again, pressed between Pete's legs. He pushes into Pete again, looks down at him. Pete's face is rubbed red on one side from the carpet. There's snot and tears streaking down his cheeks. He's almost crying from Keith fucking him again.

    “You want it?”

    “Yes. Yes!” Pete babbles. “Please!” Keith growls, bends Pete in half so he can lean down and kiss him again. Pete's doing something between sobbing and screaming into Keith's mouth. It's one of the hottest things Keith ever experienced, and he can't help but sink his teeth into Pete's bottom lip and groan as he comes.

    He slowly pulls out of Pete and collapses seconds later, falling to rest on top of him. He presses his face into the crook of Pete's neck and breathes. He wants a shower, but he has to make sure Pete's okay first. They’ve done rougher things, much rougher, but they were actually fighting then. (It’s easier to be rough with someone when the first punch came before the first kiss.) “How you doing?”

    “I can't feel my legs,” Pete replies in that airheaded voice he's always gotten right after he gets fucked silly. It means he's only about 60% there.

    “Think you can make it to the shower?”

    “Don't wanna.” Pete shakes his head defiantly. His eyes are closed. “'M gonna just,” he yawns,” just sleep. Right here.”

    Keith can't let that happen. They're both old enough that a single night on the floor will fuck their backs for days. “Nah, can't do that.” He forces himself to stand. He's still got his jeans and boxers on, but they've sagged so far down that he just steps out of them. “C'mon, Wentz.” He grabs Pete's arm and drags him upright. “You're sleepin’ in a bed tonight.”

    “Yeah, okay,” Pete agrees. He obediently crawls under the covers when Keith holds them up. There's cum leaking down his leg, but Keith doesn't think he notices. “Where are you going?”

    Keith pauses and turns back to face Pete. “I was gonna go take a piss and shower. That alright with you?”

    “Come back when you're done.”

    When he comes back Pete will be fast asleep, provided he's not having one of his bouts of insomnia. Keith will crawl into bed next to him. Pete will inevitably cling in his sleep, and in the morning Keith will properly tend to whatever damage he's inflicted. He knows this, and, funnily enough, he can't wait. “Yeah, of course.”