The Emo Mafia

•More than you think•

"I can't go home like this." Patrick says, exiting the bathroom after checking out the hickey clashing against his pale skin.

And really he couldn't. Brendon was really observant for some reason, to where it was on the verge of annoying. He also didn't get to spend a whole lot of time with him because of work, but Patrick's never been gone overnight. He's going to be in so much trouble later.

Pete is sitting on the edge of his bed waiting patiently, leaning back on his hands. "Without your clothes? Yeah you might wanna grab 'em."

"No, smartass. I mean with this thing on my neck."

Pete shrugs then chuckles. "I don't own any foundation, Princess. You should pick your drinkin' buddies more wisely."

"What? How was I supposed to know you'd put your mouth on me?"

"Hey, let's not forget who's mouth got awfully close to my-"

"Okay, okay!" Patrick interrupts, sighing in frustration. "I really don't need you to remind me of that."

"If I remembered anything else I'd brag about it."

Pete gets to his feet then walks past Patrick, who stares at his retreating back, annoyed. He crosses his arms and is about to turn away to grab his clothes when he catches sight of something, doing a double take.

"What happened to your back?" He asks.

Pete halts mid-step and looks over his shoulder at Patrick. "What are you talkin' about?"

Stepping closer for a better look, Patrick notices that what his eyes caught a glimpse of were scratch marks. They peek out the edge of Pete's tank top and the skin is slightly risen and red. They looked fresh for the most part. But where'd they come from?

"There are scratches on your back."

"You shittin' me?" Pete says amused, walking into the bathroom and lifting the back of his shirt. It's hard to get a good view and he has to twist around awkwardly but he's able to see enough of it. He mentally counts them. "Red, come look at this."

"I don't think I want to."

"Just get your ass in here."

Patrick rolls his eyes and does as the man asks, walking back into the bathroom and sitting down on the toilet lid. He looks at the red lines streaking up from Pete's waist to his should blades, they look kind of painful. But Pete couldn't wipe the stupid grin off his face, switching his gaze over to Patrick.

"Where do ya think these came from, huh?"

Patrick doesn't answer, too distracted by the other man's back. He reaches up and gently touches one of the scratches, watching as Pete's muscles flex beneath his fingers. And Patrick's touch actually triggers something, a memory or maybe some fantasy in Pete's brain.

There's a flash of pale thighs and dark hands pressed against them, a few flashes of lips on skin, glimpses of a great number of hickeys and really, really sinful sounds. It's not much to go on and it's so blurry in his mind that he could've just been remembering some wet dream, but it seems too... real.

Patrick retracts his fingers and Pete immediately puts his shirt back down, turning to face the younger man. He doesn't bother asking or warning Patrick before he's kneeling on the floor in from if him, grabbing Patrick's thighs and trying to roll up the hem of his boxers.

"Dude, what the fuck-" Patrick squirms and begins to shout before he realizes what Pete is looking for.

Pete rolls the shorts up until the rest of Patrick's thighs are visible, then he pauses, staring in awe and disbelief. Even more love bites littering the surface of Patrick's upper thighs, dangerously close to... well, you know.