“I wouldn’t do that,” Pete says, leaning back against the railing. Below him, the water crashes against the bow of the ship. “Might get your suit dirty.” The boy straddling the railing, no more than a pretty sixteen, looks down at him. Pete’s guessing he’s got a lot of practice doing that.
“Why not?” He asks. His voice is smooth and sure.
“First off,” Pete says, staring at the ocean, “you can’t tell me it’s tragic being a nancy rich boy. Got enough money to buy an island, yet here you are, about to jump into the sea.” He can feel the way the boy’s breathing, hard and nervous. If Pete thought he really wanted to jump, he’d be more proactive. “Second, it means I’d have to jump in after you. Don’t do that to me. I barely got on this boat. Don’t want to get off it again.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” the boy says. His fingers wind tighter around the rail. The bowtie around his neck is wilted. Must have been a long night up on the top deck.
“That could be changed.” Pete grins at him, toothy and wide. “What’s your name?” The boy hesitates, the windburn on his cheeks making him look so, so young.
“Patrick,” he says, eventually.
“Good to meet you, Patrick. The name’s Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz.” Pete holds his hand out, waiting patiently. When Patrick finally takes it, carefully, he tugs him down onto the solid ground of the deck. Their chests bump. “The third. Us poor folk can have fancy numbers, too.”
“Why are you here?” Patrick’s eyes are bright. He doesn’t try to shake Pete’s hand off.
“Adventure, sweetheart.” Pete puts a careful hand on Patrick’s waist, feeling the expensive wool of his jacket. When Patrick doesn’t back away, Pete leads him into a gentle, swaying dance. “We’re on the biggest ship in the world. Unsinkable, they say. Greatest joy on the sea. Can’t be more adventurous than that. How about you? What makes you so desperate to jump into the sea?”
“I’m engaged,” Patrick says. It’s a jumble of letters and sounds, more surprise than anything else.
“Not usually a reason for a person to go off the deep end.” Pete spins him, fingers dancing along the smooth grooves of Patrick’s palm. When their fronts settle together again, Patrick’s closer than before.
“I’m not in love with her.” The way he says it, quiet and just off, makes Pete hum. He knows all about not being in love with the people he’s supposed to love.
“Not in love with her,” he says, “or not attracted to her? They’re very different reasons.” This close, Pete can feel the way Patrick’s pulse picks up. Yeah, he knows exactly what that’s like. “Ain’t a reason to off yourself.”
“What would you know about it?” Patrick asks, the stiffness of his voice part uppercrust aristocrat, part nerves. He stops their swaying, but doesn’t step away. His hands, too big for the rest of him, feel cool.
“Come with me,” Pete says. He doesn’t know why. Not really. He should leave this kid to deal with his poor, sad fiancee now that he’s out of immediate danger. “I can show you.” Patrick hesitates, looking over his shoulder at the stairs to the upper deck. “Do you trust me?”
“Why would I trust you?” Patrick asks, head whipping around fast enough to muss his gelled hair. “I’ve only known you for minutes.”
“Ah,” Pete says, leaning in close. “But you’ve already told me your secrets.” He slips his fingers into the spaces between Patrick’s and tugs. “It’s my face. People love telling this face secrets.” Patrick laughs abruptly, a short thing that startles both of them. Oh, Pete is so in. “Come with me.”
Pete leads him down, down, down into the depths of the ship. The damn thing is gigantic, easy to get lost in. Pete’s miles away from his terrible little bunk with the rest of the rats, probably won’t see it again until tomorrow night. He’d rather be out anyway, mingling with the uppercrust and relieving them of their wallets. The view doesn’t hurt, either.
The cargo hold is just as sprawling as the rest of the ship, full of boxes and precious packages. It’s almost as ugly as the lower decks. Almost. Even here there’s carvings on the walls and gold flecks in the paint. Pete will never be rich enough to stay in a place like this, even if it is only the place to store things.
“What are we doing here?” Patrick asks. He sounds wary.
“No one comes here,” Pete says. He leads Patrick around a corner, dragging him in close. “We won’t get caught.”
“Caught doing what?”
“This.” Pete wraps a hand around the back of Patrick’s head and pulls him in. He tastes a little like champagne, rich and bubbly and soft. Pete wants to tear him apart and knock him down a notch. He wants to own this rich boy, all the way down to his pampered little soul.
“It’s not right,” Patrick breathes. His cheeks are pink, lips slick. The bits of his hair between Pete’s fingers crunch satisfactorily whenever Pete moves his hand.
“That’s what makes it fun.” Pete kisses him again, holding him in tight.
There’s little finesse in it- Pete’s too eager and Patrick’s too inexperienced- but, for the life of him, Pete can’t make himself slow down. Patrick’s warm in his arms, buried underneath too many layers of cloth and proprietary. He’s nothing like the French boys Pete’s had before.
When he reaches for the buttons holding Patrick’s jacket closed, Patrick sucks in a sharp breath. Pete wonders, for a moment, if this will be it for him. If he’ll go to his properly pretty fiancee and marry her and have proper, snooty children and be miserable. Maybe he deserves it. Maybe he doesn’t. For now, it doesn’t really matter.
Patrick shrugs his jacket off, letting it crumple to the ground. It’s nicer than everything Pete owns. His dress shirt, starched and pressed, is damp with sweat. A combination of champagne, heat, and arousal. That last one Pete can feel pressing against him.
“You ever let anyone get under all these clothes?” Pete asks, tugging the shirt out of Patrick’s slacks. “Get a little dirty?”
“It’s not proper,” Patrick says. His voice is higher than it was, strained. He undoes his bowtie with a quick tug, letting the ends hang loose around his neck. It’s a good look for him.
“Easy to say that when the girls aren’t what get you going.” Pete rocks against him, groaning at the contact. He hasn’t been with anyone in so long.
“You talk so much,” Patrick says. He pushes Pete’s suspenders off one after the other with swift, sharp movements. “Is that how they do it where you’re from?” Pete laughs.
“Only the really good ones.” He scruffs his shirt off, carefully stashing it on top of a crate. Even down here, the chill sinks into his bones. Patrick looks at him, slow and unsure, his lip trapped between his teeth. Pete puffs out his chest.
“Exactly how promiscuous are you?” Patrick asks. Carefully, like he’s afraid of being bitten, he lays a cool, large hand on Pete’s stomach. Pete’s cock twitches.
“I like to think of it as intensive study. Can’t be too prepared.” He presses his hand over Patrick’s, stealing the coolness of it until he wants to shake. “Are you nervous?”
“No,” Patrick answers. He looks up, the corner of his mouth curled into a smile. “Put your hands on me, Peter.”
Pete doesn’t need to be told again. He tugs open the buttons of Patrick’s shirt and shoves it open. No matter how much he wants to get him naked, he knows it isn’t smart. Not now, not here. Even if he hasn’t seen someone check in before, it doesn’t mean there won’t be anyone tonight. It would be his luck.
The smooth, pale skin in front of him is freckled and soft. Pete wants to bruise him, leave a mark to remind him of his night slumming. He wonders what Patrick’s fiancee would think of it. Though it’s doubtful she would ever get to see it.
Pete slides down to his knees. The rat in him, the part that pickpocketed his ship ticket in the alley, cringes. He should be throwing this brat down and making him work, but instead he’s bowing and offering his services, just like the little prince is used to.
On the other hand, Patrick looks down at him with wide, shocked eyes, pink mouth open and chest heaving. He reaches a tentative hand out to touch Pete’s face, fingers barely brushing across his cheek. He looks- scared. He looks scared.
“Why are you doing this?” Patrick asks, so soft Pete barely hears it. His bowtie slips to the ground, a flutter of silk.
“Adventure,” Pete says. He thumbs open the buttons of Patrick’s slacks, feeling the warmth of his under his hand. “I’m always here for the adventure.”
“That must be nice,” Patrick says, voice breaking when Pete finally gets a hand around him. He’s so hard, so full in Pete’s hand.
“You really want to talk about how nice sucking dick is, or do you want a sample?” Pete strokes him, slow and sure. He can feel Patrick’s knees shake.
“Sorry, I- Sorry.” Patrick clutches at the crate. “Sorry.”
“That’s nice,” Pete says, leaning in to press a kiss to the hot side of Patrick’s cock. It jerks, a tiny bubble of liquid sliding over the head. “Rich boy apologizing to the rats.”
Before Patrick can reply, Pete licks a line up the underside of Patrick’s dick. It’s warm and salty and so, so responsive. Pete’s been on his knees for more men than he can remember, but none of them have been as vocal as Patrick, none have been as eager.
When he sucks the head into his mouth, Patrick groans, slapping a hand over his mouth to stop the sound. It still leaks out between his fingers, sliding down to Pete’s level. He wants to suck them up, hold onto them for later, when he’s in New York and Patrick’s off getting married.
Patrick’s wide, his cock spreading Pete’s mouth apart. Pete’s always liked the feel of it, of having control. He wraps his hands around Patrick’s hips, the starched wool of his slacks scratching against Pete’s palms, and presses him into the crate.
He takes his time. If he’s only going to do this once, he’s going to do it right. Patrick twitches against his hands, holding himself back into the crates as Pete hollows his cheeks. Pete can feel the weight of his gaze, heady and strong.
Below them, the ship rocks. Pete times himself with it, slow ride down with one wave, long drag up with the next. He’s going to tear Patrick apart and put him back together, misshapen and broken but better. He is going to ruin him for anyone else.
He shoves his hand into the bare space in Patrick’s slacks, the buttons catching against his skin. It’s worth it for the way Patrick whines when Pete tugs at his balls. They’re heavy and warm, damp. One of Patrick’s hands land on his shoulder, manicured nails digging into Pete’s skin.
“Oh, god,” Patrick gasps, hips straining forward. “Peter, I’m- stop. Please. I’m going to-”
Pete pulls off, hand slipping back out to jerk over the wet, slick length of Patrick’s cock. When he comes, Patrick doubles over, arms wrapping around Pete’s neck and holding on. Pete breathes out a laugh and topples back onto the concrete, Patrick following after.
“I’m sorry,” Patrick says again, face pressed into the curve of Pete’s neck. He moves just enough to take his weight off of Pete’s chest. He’s heavy, but Pete loves the weight over him.
“Make it up to me,” Pete says. He wraps his fingers around Patrick’s wrist, guiding his hand down to his straining erection. It aches, trapped against his pants.
“Yes you have,” Pete says, undoing his own buttons. It’s not going to take much. He presses his mouth to the mussed bits of Patrick’s hair, breathing in the scent of his gel. “Do it like you do yourself, when you think you won’t get caught.”
“Do you speak this way to everyone you lay with?” Patrick asks. His face feels hot but his hand wriggles it way into Pete’s pants, fingers wrapping around Pete’s cock. It feels so damn good.
“Only the pretty ones,” Pete says. He rocks his hips into it, arching into Patrick’s weight. He can barely move, but he doesn’t really mind. Patrick strokes him slowly, hand wrapped tight. It’s such a nice boy rhythm. “You do it like this at home?” Pete groans, tries to fuck up into it. “Do you make yourself think about your fiancee?”
“Stop talking,” Patrick says, muffled into Pete’s shoulder. He twists his wrist, too hard and too rough. Pete moans. “You talk too much, and don’t listen at all.” He bites at Pete’s neck, just a little vicious. Pete wants to see him. Wants to see him fighting.
Patrick lifts up on his free hand, his sleepy, bright eyes meeting Pete’s. He smiles. It’s crooked and sweet, and Pete’s chest feels suddenly too tight. Patrick kisses him, a gentle press of lips to his, and Pete comes.
They lay there for a long time, Patrick’s head resting over Pete’s chest, and listen to the ship rock. Pete doesn’t want to move.
“What are you doing when we get to New York?” Patrick asks. He presses into the hand Pete lays across the back of his neck.
“I don’t know,” Pete answers honestly. He’s always played it by ear. “Having an adventure.” He curls his other arm around Patrick’s waist, ignoring the way his pants are beginning to stick to him. He thinks about Patrick straddling the rail of the Titanic, about his sweet smile, and laughs. “Want to come?”
“Are you going to teach me how to be a rat?” Patrick asks. He presses a kiss to Pete’s shoulder, his chest.
“You going to teach me to be a nancy rich boy?”
“It wouldn’t look good on you,” Patrick says. He pushes himself up, pawing uselessly at his suit. There’s a stain on him that is perfectly obvious and a mark on his belly, right below the open flap of his shirt. Patrick touches it gingerly, grinning at the floor. “Too stuck up. You would have to learn to hold your tongue.”
“Why do that?” Pete asks, pulling him back down. Patrick laughs, the sound so sharp that it bounces off the crates. “Especially when I can have you do it for me?” Pete kisses him, and kisses him, and doesn’t think about breathing.
Around them, the ship speeds to New York, silent in the ocean.