Archive of Our Own ^beta

Blinking awake on an unfamiliar floor is honestly pretty par for the course at this point in Pete's life. He's even got kind of this mental classification system, based on empirical factors like softness of carpet and/or stickiness of linoleum judged against more qualitative ideas like whether any given unidentifiable stain is truly worrying or if it's just a flavor of Gatorade he doesn't recognize, and by those metrics, he's doing pretty great right now: nice plush carpet, but not shag that should have been left in the '70s, and no stains whatsoever when he looks around. That only seems cool for as long as it takes to sink in that it's fucking insane, like, never in his life has he slept on a floor this clean, not even at his parents' house, and that's when he starts to sit up and try to actually, earnestly figure out where the hell he is—and that's when he starts to realize something is seriously, seriously up, because. Well.

"...Pete?" says a strange-familiar voice, in the unmistakable cadence of someone who thinks they might be losing their mind, and Pete nods dumbly back. First, because... well, yeah, positive ID and all that. But second, because...

Well, Pete thinks with a bright edge of hysteria, this—whatever this is—is definitely his own damn fault, if there was any doubt of that, because he'd totally thought to himself the other day that there was no way he could get any more embarrassing with his whatever-the-fuck about Patrick, and clearly that had been tempting fate or something, because. Because.

"You're supposed to be, like, way littler," he says, and faints dead away.

—

There's important stuff being said, probably, but the only thought Pete's brain is capable of processing right now is this one: Oh my God, he's such a fucking DILF.

Well, okay, that's not exactly true, because as soon as that thought slides through his psyche, it butts right up against the answering one that shouts Patrick! That fucking DILF is fucking PATRICK!, and then he gets sort of stuck in that loop for a little while, until at last the DILF thing overpowers the shrieking confusion of the fact that up until a couple of minutes ago, he'd only known Patrick Stump as a sort of sweaty, scowl-y, angel-voiced teenager, and the whole thing starts over again with the urge to drool dramatically over the glasses and the beard and the fucking build of him, Jesus fucking Christ.

Suffice to say, it's been a challenging few minutes.

"No, seriously, what's the last thing you remember?" someone insists in a grating, all-too-familiar voice, and Pete scowls instinctively as his attention is torn at last from Patrick Stump, Weirdly Hot Old Guy Edition so that he can instead turn and focus on... well, Pete Wentz, Thank-God-He's-Not-Dead-At-Least Old Guy Edition. (The hair is kind of interesting, at least, Pete will give him that much, but—c'mon, what is he wearing? Why is his hoodie so big? It looks like a fucking tent. What has happened to fashion in the future?)

It's just—really weird to come face to face with your future self. Probably anyone would find it weird, but Pete will admit he finds it maybe a little weirder than most, even, because he... well, he actually genuinely wasn't sure he'd make it to whatever the fuck age this guy is. Definitely made it past the 27 club, that's for fucking sure. A version of Pete Wentz with fucking…gray hairs at his temples and crow's feet and the whole goddamn shebang is not something he ever really managed to picture.

On the other hand, he keeps asking the same question over and over, and it is super fucking annoying.

"I don't know, dude, like I told you already," Pete tells himself pointedly, "I don’t remember anything in particular, like, just—falling asleep in the van. Nothing crazy. No, I didn't take anything, and no, I didn't hit my head, and no, as far as I know, I didn't get cursed by a witch, which isn't even a thing that can happen, by the way—"

"—okay, well, neither is time travel, so let's not jump to conclusions, all right—"

"We're just trying to help," Patrick interjects, holding both hands up in a placating sort of gesture, and, oh, God, his voice, it's all... like... it's the same, except sort of... worn-in? Definitely not a teenage-boy voice, which makes sense and all, but still. Damn. "I know this has got to be totally weird for you, uh, Pete. But if we can figure out what happened, maybe we can figure out how to... you know, undo it."

Pete supposes that makes sense—that's how it usually works in movies, right?—but still, future him could chill out about it a little bit. And maybe stop staring at him like he's a fucking zoo animal, that would be great too.

"I appreciate that, it's just, I don't know how much else I can tell you," he says, and Patrick nods, offering him a little smile.

"I get that." Of course he does, he's basically perfect. Like, Patrick as Pete has known him thus far, eighteen years old and all full of piss and vinegar or whatever, was already basically perfect, and this version, who's, like... older, and apparently mellower, and with a much better haircut, and smiling at Pete sweetly and shit? Perfect barely seems like a strong enough word.

"But—" Old Pete starts to say, and Patrick swats at his arm. Pete has to stifle an urge to sigh dreamily. See? Perfect.

"Why don't we take a step back for now," Patrick says, and narrows his eyes at Old Pete until he huffs a little and visibly gives up. "We'll figure out what's going on, we will, but first let's just—uh, can we like, get you anything?"

Pete shrugs, a little sheepish. "I mean, now that you mention it, I could really use a drink right now, honestly."

Edge is for people who haven’t time-traveled recently.

Patrick nods, but it's Old Pete who uncoils and pads off in the direction of, presumably, some form of beverage. Hopefully a strong one. Pete hasn't exactly had much chance to explore or look around, but there's got to be a kitchen around here somewhere, and life experience has taught him that kitchens contain booze. If that's the thing that's, like, totally different here in the future, he's going to be so fucking tragic about it.

The fainting thing had been bad and all, but coming to for the second time in, apparently, the future had been even worse than the first time, because there'd been no floor and nothing even close to a slow acclimation; Pete had instead woken up propped up on an unreasonably comfy couch, staring directly into DILF Patrick's DILFy, DILFy eyes. Something about the glasses he wears in—what fucking year is it, even? That seems important to know—just makes his eyes look bigger, which is fucking criminal, seriously, it was already hard enough with him shining those things at everyone when they were obscured behind little rectangular frames (and a scowl, half the time). Seriously, what the fuck.

"So—uh—what year is it?" Pete asks, because distracting himself is probably the better part of valor, and if he has to just sit here and stare into Patrick's ginormous baby blues while Old Pete digs around in the fridge for whatever old people drink, he's going to die for real.

"Uh, right, good question," Patrick says. "2023. Which... Jesus, so much has happened, probably, I don't even know where to start, or like, maybe we shouldn't tell you things? I don't know what time travel rules we're operating under, here. But you've gotta be from... '03, right? It's just such a long gap, I don't know..."

"Wow, good guess," Pete half-laughs, unaccountably touched that Patrick can apparently take one look at him and nail down the year. Then again, he guesses, maybe there's some big obvious sign that he just doesn't quite know enough to get, like maybe future him decided to grow out his hair in 2004 and so any short-haired Pete is automatically an '03 model or older. Like carbon dating. (A voice in his head that sounds disturbingly like Patrick—that is, his Patrick—tells him he's pretty sure that's not what carbon dating actually is.) Patrick doesn't clarify, doesn't say yeah, it's the hair or well, you had this weird phase after the album came out where...

Oh, fuck, Pete is an idiot—blinded by his lust for Patrick Stump, what else is new, but seriously. He leans forward eagerly, all up in Patrick's space without thinking about it or meaning to but really needing to be, because how could he not think of that?

"Shit, right, the album!" he blurts. "You said—twenty years, right, shit, how did everything—" Pieces start to click into place in his mind all at once, definitely later than he feels like they should have but, hey, at least it's happening. "Hey, and if the two of you are here, like, still hangin' out, and this place is pretty fucking swanky, then does that mean—"

"Oh, man, did Grave just drop where you were?" Patrick interrupts, which is fine a) because Pete's thoughts were getting kinda rambly and disjointed there anyway and b) because the smile that breaks over Patrick's face when he says it, holy shit, if Pete could bottle that shit he'd never have another bad day in his fucking life.

"No, no, not quite, just about, we were—" Pete shakes his head, trying to clear his train of thought Etch-A-Sketch style. "Doesn't matter, doesn't matter, dude, you gotta tell me, don't hold out—I was totally right, wasn't I? We totally fucking make it, don't we?"

And Patrick—oh, he is so goddamn precious, all smug and kind of bashful all at once, so soft, so fucking giddy with it. Pete feels the full brunt of that look hit him like a baseball bat to the head; it's like he's swimming in it, like he's falling in slow-motion through an endless loop of the answering pull in his chest, like as long as Patrick keeps looking at him like that, the world will always be perfect, preserved in amber or inscribed in diamond.

Then Patrick looks away, and somehow that's worse. Better? Worse.

"I mean, I guess you could say we made it," he says to someone over Pete's shoulder, lips tipping up in this shit-eating little grin, and the answering scoff (way, way too familiar) is like a bucket of ice water.

"Yeah, laugh it up," Old Pete says, setting down three cans of something Pete doesn't recognize on the coffee table. "Jesus, Trick, don't tease the kid."

Pete's definitely not sure how much he likes getting called kid by, like, himself—never mind that this version of him is old enough to very nearly be his father, Jesus Christ—but Patrick's cheeky little smile makes up for it.

"You were always so confident about it, though!" he says, definitely teasing now. He's looking back and forth between Pete and Old Pete when he does it, too, which makes Pete's insides feel kind of warm and melty. It's nice to be included, that's all. "It was always, Don't worry, Patrick, rock stars don't need college degrees—"

"Was I wrong?"

"But that's what I'm saying, if you were so sure, then why the need for reassurance, huh?"

This time Old Pete is the one turns to look at Pete, with this sort of eye-rolling solidarity, a can you believe this guy? look. And, well, all right, Pete's still not totally sold on this future version of himself—sue him; he spends a lot of time in his own head, okay, he's naturally wary of anyone who's had two more decades to marinate in that hellhole than he has—but, he figures magnanimously, he can't be all bad if Patrick's still hanging around him, and apparently he really was right about the band and everything, so, okay, fine, Pete grins back at his older self and shakes his head a little bit. Because no, he's never really been able to believe this guy—that's the magic of Patrick Stump, or whatever. At least that clearly hasn't changed.

But then there's another one of those little moments, the ones where Patrick and Old Pete have an entire silent conversation in microexpressions—Pete whips his head from one to the other, trying to follow it and mostly failing—that ends with Old Pete clearing his throat meaningfully until Pete turns around to give him his full attention again.

"Listen, though," he says, and Pete's eyes narrow on impulse, a little bit, because there's something way off in the faux-casualness of his voice. Again, if anyone is capable of seeing through Pete's own bullshit, he figures it's, well, himself. "There is one other thing we should update you on if you're gonna be, you know, hanging around..."

"Come on, Pete, seriously?" Patrick sighs from the other side of the couch, but Old Pete isn't swayed. And for once Pete isn't either.

"Like hell am I gonna pretend around him," Old Pete scoffs. "Like, he's me. If anyone's gonna get it—"

"Oh my God," Pete blurts, frustrated. "Dude, what? Spit it out if you're going to! What, am I married?"

Wrong thing to say. Definitely the wrong thing to say. It's far too late now that he's realized that, though. You really could hear a pin drop, even with all that nice carpet under their feet to cushion it. And while nobody's saying anything, Old Pete is grinning this stupid big grin at him, one that's familiar on his own face from only his best, stupidest ideas, which—yeah, okay, Pete sort of suspects he's about to be the butt of the joke somehow, and he's not thrilled about it.

"Pete," Patrick groans, and for a half-second Pete thinks he might be coming to the rescue, except then there's a blur of motion in his peripheral, and—

He doesn't actually, like, scream or anything, which frankly he thinks is an accomplishment. He sort of gasps, yeah, but that's easy enough to write off as plain surprise, even though in reality it's maybe only one part shock to about twelve parts confused lust, because they are kissing. Him—old him—and Patrick. Kissing. Like, not dry and chaste, but not so sloppy and goofy it's clearly a joke, either. This is... like... this is a long-term-boyfriends (boyfriends?!?!) kiss. A we-alternate-holidays-with-our-families kiss. A fucking oh-god-maybe-they-actually-are-married???? kiss. Pete's going to check for rings he might somehow have missed just as soon as he gets the chance, but right now their hands are out of sight and anyway he kind of can't look away from what's currently happening, and Jesus Christ, who could blame him?

It probably doesn't last half as long as it seems like it does in his head, but Pete would swear in a court of law that he watches Patrick kiss Old Pete for at least an hour. They pull apart with a soft, wet noise and these little matching hums of pleasure that—okay, if Pete starts to actually think about his dick even a little bit right now, like, if he so much as acknowledges that he even has one, something very serious is going to transpire, and so he determinedly does not recognize the effect that those noises have on him anywhere south of his heart, which is pounding fit to burst.

"God, and you call me the dramatic one?" he blurts, staring wide-eyed at Patrick in particular, because—because—because it's Patrick, damn it; if anyone is going to have an actual explanation for this situation, surely it'll be him?

"Eh," Patrick answers, taking that hope down smoothly and efficiently, and with a downright evil little smirk as he does it, too. "Guess you kinda rubbed off on me over the years."

Old Pete starts cackling at that, and sure, yeah, on an abstract level Pete can recognize that it's funny—rubbed off, ha ha, these two old dudes are clearly fucking and Patrick made a sex joke about it, isn't that just charming—but mostly his brain is kind of melting, so, like, laughter isn't exactly on the menu right now. Breathing barely seems possible.

Eventually Patrick and Old Pete seem to notice that he's, you know, losing it; it takes them longer than he'd honestly expect, given he's sure he's making some kind of awful dying-fish face, but they're all sort of wrapped up in each other's attention, which he loves and hates simultaneously and in equal measure. Old Pete sort of nudges him on the shoulder after a minute, though, quirking a brow with this look that says don't front, I know exactly how much you wanted that to be you—rude, but accurate, but rude—and grinning at him like the happiest fox in the entire damn henhouse.

"You good, man?"

"Great," Pete wheezes. "Great—yeah—no—uh—how. How long—have you—?"

"It's actually sort of complicated," Patrick hedges. "But, well. Little more than ten years now."

Pete really does almost choke and die at that. Ten years? Ten fucking years. A literal decade. He really does check their hands for rings this time, figuring, hell, he doesn't know how the legal situation might have evolved in 202-fucking-3 but he figures he's always good for a showy party even if he had to go to Canada or something to do the legally binding part, but no—no dice, just bare skin. It makes him narrow his eyes accusingly at Old Pete a little bit; seriously, he's somehow convinced Patrick to stick with him all this time but he hasn't popped the question? Bullshit. Bullshit.

And Old Pete clearly gets what the look is about, too, because he actually laughs, the fucker. "Oh, this is great," he says earnestly, to Patrick, before turning back to Pete and adding, "Don't worry, little dude, I'm workin' on it."

"What?" Patrick asks, and Pete glares at Old Him a little, not quite sure he trusts working on it, but also, he gets it, it's Patrick, everything should be perfect for him, and he doesn't want to be the asshole who ruins that. So fine, whatever, he's not gonna shoot Old Pete in the foot; he just shakes his head and shrugs a little, like oh nothing, don't worry about it, and searches around for something else to ask about instead.

Luckily, there's plenty.

"So we're, I mean, you two are," he gestures between Patrick and Old Pete, who both look sort of amused in a way that does weird things to his chest, "and the band, like, Fall Out Boy is good—it's still us and Joe and Andy, right?"

"Oh, yeah," Old Pete says immediately. "Yeah, man, definitely."

"Well, there was—" Patrick starts to say, but Old Pete hits him on the arm, and he clams up immediately.

"What?" Pete asks suspiciously, and the two of them have another one of those silent conversations. Then Patrick shrugs apologetically at him.

"Probably is some stuff we shouldn't tell you," he says. "Even though I do kind of want to. But, like... Everything happens for a reason, or whatever, and it all works out."

That's not foreboding or anything. Still, Pete reassures himself, they are here, and apparently closer than he'd ever even really dreamed he and Patrick could be, and with the band and everything... Okay, so maybe he doesn't love the idea that they're keeping something back, especially when he's pretty sure the only reason they'd do that is if it's something not so great, but whatever. There are probably ultimately more and larger time-travel fish to fry.

"Ugh, I guess," he says, relenting. He gets a great big buttery-soft smile from Patrick for that, at least, so that's... hey, that's definitely, definitely something.

Old Pete not-so-subtly nudges forward one of the cans he'd brought in earlier, and yes, right, a drink actually does still sound so good. Pete cracks one without bothering to really figure out what it is, and wrinkles his nose a little when he takes a swig—it's, like, aggressively carbonated soda water? But it's definitely got booze in it, so that's fine. Patrick and Old Pete don't take the other two cans, but that's fine; hell, Pete figures he can finish all three of them if he needs to.

Actually, addendum, he thinks as he takes a hearty second sip: if he's going to spend the next God-only-knows-how-long around older, DILFy Patrick who smiles at him like he's something precious with the knowledge that said Patrick has been fucking (some version of) him for literally ten years, he is going to need all three of these... whatever these things are.

At a minimum.

—

So, here's the thing. Pete has actually spent a fair amount of time thinking about what he might say to his younger self if he got the chance.

That's, like, a classic therapy move, yeah? Writing letters to or imagining conversations with your future self, and your past self, and all of it in the service of making peace with the present, blah blah blah. But all of that is hypothetical, obviously, and hypotheticals generally don't involve his actual twenty-three-year-old self in his actual living room, making eyes at his actual Patrick.

The Patrick bit pretty much goes without saying, to be fair—Patrick's hot, and if there's one thing Pete will give himself credit for, it's that he's always known that and even managed to be fairly honest with himself about it, if not always about what that meant for him; and, if anything, Patrick's only gotten hotter with time, so Pete totally gets how it's taking baby-him out at the knees—but the rest of it is taking some serious mental gymnastics to wrap his mind around. This feels like the kind of thing where you should be able to phone a friend who conveniently has a degree in theoretical physics or something, but unfortunately Pete doesn't have any of those, and he's pretty sure Patrick doesn't either, so they're kind of stuck with Baby Pete for the time being.

Hopefully just the time being. If this goes on indefinitely, there's definitely a nonzero chance of something or someone exploding.

It's just—even though he gets it, which he really does, it's kind of a trip to watch Baby Pete watch Patrick. Take, for instance, the way the kid (which is a whole other thing, by the way: Pete kind of forgets a lot of the time these days that he'd ever been quite that young) is currently perched on the kitchen island, watching Patrick put together dinner from their meal delivery service du jour with a wide-eyed awe that implies he thinks this is on par with some haute cuisine sort of bullshit, like he expects Patrick to turn around and casually mention he picked up a Michelin star somewhere in the past two decades. Which, like, Patrick's obviously pretty great at a whole lot of things, but cooking is not one of them, okay, they are both of them passable in the kitchen at best.

But then again, at twenty-three Pete had mostly been living off of Doritos and venue pizza and occasional trips back to his parents' house, so yes, the difference is stark. And when Pete was twenty-three, Patrick had been barely adjusting to living on his own for the first time; Pete's not sure any of them ever used the oven in their apartment for anything more complicated than pizza rolls, and here in 2023 Patrick is sliding walnut-crusted tofu into their oven. Their smart oven, because the future is fucked up. He reminds himself, again, that anything Baby Pete is feeling and thinking in this insane situation is valid.

He clocks the way the kid's eyes linger on Patrick's ass as Patrick bends at the waist to slide the sheet pan into the oven, and... yeah. Totally, incredibly valid.

Honestly, though, he's almost a little surprised by it? Not the latching on to Patrick thing, that's exactly what he'd expect of any version of him—it's what he fucking did the first time he met Patrick, after all. No, it's more the... Pete remembers being twenty-three, okay, he remembers being this version of himself, and yes, he'd been fully aware and willing to acknowledge that Patrick at the time, eighteen and awkward and self-conscious and with a serious temper issue, had also been unspeakably hot; he'd even had the wet dreams to prove it. But. He also knows, knows, he hadn't been this... open about it. This clued in.

Maybe it's just a situational thing. Maybe it's just... stepping foot into a reality where Patrick is not only still hot, but arguably even hotter, but also confident and so much more settled in his own skin and, most critically of all, Pete's. Maybe it's just seeing that he really can have this, if he lets himself—seeing that it's possible.

More than possible, actually; Pete kind of thinks it's inevitable, but that's all the true love-soulmates-halves of a whole stuff that makes Patrick's eyes go all soft and melty and probably isn't the starting place for figuring out how to address the whole thing of their relationship with Baby Pete.

"Can I help with anything?" Baby Pete asks, and blushes when Patrick smiles at him. Blushes! God, Pete really hopes the kid is at least a little self-aware about all this, because from the outside it's all almost painfully transparent.

(Not to Patrick, evidently, who's busily explaining what bits are meant to go where in the side dish and showing Baby Pete where the bowls live, but that's another issue entirely, and Pete's trying to handle one at a time right now.)

"Hey, Wentz," Patrick says, and then giggles a little when both of them look up at him. "Uh, sorry—you," he says, pointing at Pete with a little grin, "you wanna pitch in too, bud?"

"Jeeze, didn't realize we were all being put to work tonight," Pete teases back on reflex, but he's already falling into the familiar rhythm of Making Dinner With Patrick—getting drinks and silverware and shit, grabbing the half a loaf of bread left over from earlier that week and putting it on the table, popping the pre-cooked rice in the microwave (seriously, these meal kits really are just the slightly grown-up version of the way they used to eat as kids in a lot of ways). It pulls his thoughts away from Baby Pete for just long enough that Pete's surprised when he turns around to face back towards the kid and Patrick and realizes: Baby Pete isn't just watching Patrick. He's watching Pete, too.

He freezes in place for half a second, processing, and then slides back into motion, hopefully before anyone has a chance to think he's acting weird. This makes sense too, doesn't it? It's like he was thinking before—it's all about the context, not just seeing Patrick but seeing Patrick be with Pete, seeing them together. God knows he'd be wondering about it, if it was him. The little bit they'd told him earlier (and Patrick just up and planting one on him in front of the kid will never not be kind of hilarious, if Pete's honest) wouldn't be nearly enough to satisfy if it was him, and... well... it is him. So.

It's all too easy to imagine the sorts of questions that are no doubt running through Baby Pete's head right now: how did it start? Who started it? How long have they been living together, if they've been together a decade? And, of course, what's the sex like? How does Patrick like it? He'd been such a firecracker back in the day, and that version of him will be fresh in Baby Pete's mind, but Pete is still 100% confident the kid has no idea how fucking insane Patrick is in bed, especially because—

Oh, shit.

"Oh, shit," Pete says—out loud, unfortunately, fuck. Patrick and Baby Pete both turn to look at him, one a half-second later than the other, and he pastes a grin on his face at Patrick's questioning eyebrow. "Uh, sorry, nevermind, just—thought of something."

Patrick accepts that easily enough, used to the not-always-logical way Pete's brain works; Baby Pete watches him a second longer, eyes slightly narrowed, even more used to Pete's brain and therefore, rightfully, more inclined to be suspicious. But he looks away too, as always more interested in Patrick (valid), leaving Pete to turn slightly to hide his expression and then reel at the implications of the thought he just had.

Holy shit, how did he not think about this before? He knows everything there is to know about being that version of Pete Wentz, the one who's making cow eyes at his partner while sitting on their kitchen island, and as a part of that he knows everything there is to know about that Pete Wentz's romantic and sexual history, including, notably, the fact that that version of Pete hasn't just not slept with Patrick yet; he hasn't slept with fucking anyone.

It's honestly even kind of visible from the outside. It's not painfully obvious, no, but... there's something about the way Baby Pete watches Patrick. Something that's not just hungry and not just curious and not just thoughtful, but also kind of nervous.

Holy shit, that kid is a virgin.

Well—all right, if Pete's memory serves (and he's pretty damn sure it does), it's not like he had no experience at that age. There was plenty of making out with hot people at parties, some dry humping, some grinding, but he'd never... He'd bet everything in this house right now that by whatever specific date Baby Pete was whisked from, he hadn't actually gotten his dick out with another human being in the room. Or, like, gotten out another human's dick, or pussy, or whatever. He's almost entirely untouched, not just by the version of the social concept of virginity or whatever that involves dicks specifically going in holes, but like, at all.

Pete remembers that. He remembers what that felt like. And he remembers...

God, he's so so so glad he made the decision to turn away to where Patrick and Baby Pete can't see him. You could probably fry an egg on his face right now.

He'd had this fantasy. Even back when he was still kinda-sorta pretending he wasn't sure about liking dudes, when he was all "yeah sure Patrick's super hot and has perfect kissable blowjob lips and thighs that look incredibly biteable and hair that would be perfect to sink your fingers into, but that's all just an objective collection of facts, it doesn't have anything to do with me," he'd had this stupid ridiculous fantasy where Patrick found out, somehow, that he was a virgin, even though he went to great lengths to make sure nobody fucking knew that about him. But in the fantasy, right, Patrick would find out somehow, and then he'd—he'd admit that he was a virgin too, obviously, and they'd make, like, a deal, a pact or whatever, to lose their virginity to each other so that neither of them had to be loser virgins anymore. They'd be able to experiment together, and try things out, and it would be safe because it was them. And, hey, maybe once wouldn't be enough; maybe they'd need to try more things, and—

Yeah, okay, in hindsight, Pete doesn't know how he thought he would fool anyone with that, least of all himself. And, anyway, not too long after Grave dropped, when they were touring it, he'd found out that Patrick was, in fact, not a virgin at all. That Patrick Stump kinda had game—a fact with which he is now delightfully and intimately acquainted, but it'd come as a bit of a shock at the time. And then eventually Pete had been talking to some girl at a house party and hadn't quite gotten around to saying no when she'd wanted to go beyond his usual repertoire of over-the-clothes stuff and sloppy kissing, and then after that the floodgates had sort of opened for him and eventually his dick had ended up on the internet, and by the time he and Patrick did finally get together they'd each been pretty damn far from each other's firsts (though Pete remains certain they'll be each others' lasts, which is way more important anyway). But. None of that is actually the point right now.

The point is—the point is, some ridiculous science fiction bullshit is happening and things are suddenly looking very different for Baby Pete than they had for Pete himself. He actually feels a little bit guilty for even considering it, because his first time with Patrick had been so goddamn incredible, once they'd finally gotten their heads out of their asses enough to make it happen, and part of him doesn't want to rob the kid of that, doesn't want to, like, do anything that might risk throwing him off the path to that eventual situation. But on the other hand, well. Missing out on that first time with Patrick would suck, that's true, but having his first time ever be Patrick, just like he used to fantasize about, that would be...

Pete can be generous. He can be magnanimous. He may not have gotten to give his virginity to Patrick Stump, but by god he's going to make it happen for Baby Pete if it's the last thing he fucking does.

—

Pete hasn't actually, like, said anything to Patrick, but if Patrick needed to wait for Pete to tell him things in order for him to figure out when something was up, both their band and their relationship would have probably ended sometime around 2005.

In Pete's defense, Patrick is pretty sure whatever's going on in that head of his isn't anything bad. There is also, of course, the very obvious twenty-something elephant in the room, but he's pretty sure that's not what it is—or, at least, not all of what it is. The odds that it's related to Baby Pete in some form or fashion seem pretty high, but Patrick doesn't have enough information yet to figure out exactly how, and, anyway, the energy whenever the three of them are in the room together is... it's tense, in a way, but it's not worrying, he doesn't think. Just a bit weird, and, really, how couldn't it be?

They’re pretty much stuck here in the house together, isolated from the rest of the world—in a weird way, it’s a little bit like 2020 all over again, except this time around they can at least theoretically leave if they want to. But every time they leave Baby Pete alone, Patrick feels like a total heel, so they… haven’t been, mostly. Whether or not to tell anyone else he was here, namely Andy and Joe, had been a tough call, and they’ll have to revisit it if Baby Pete hasn’t… dematerialized or whatever by the time they need to go back on tour, but for now, everyone had agreed the better part of valor was keeping his existence on a need-to-know basis. Even Baby Pete, though he hadn't been thrilled about it, had agreed that society at large probably wasn't ready to have a second, de-aged copy of Pete Wentz running around in public, where he would very definitely be recognized, and that’s meant pretty much keeping Patrick and Pete in the house, too.

Accordingly, they’ve been watching a lot of fucking Netflix. So really, it is 2020 all over again, just with marginally less constant terror.

There had been an animated and marginally heated discussion over what media it's OK for them to be sharing with Baby Pete. More specifically, Patrick had put his foot down hard over the idea of sharing any music with him—he's not even willing to risk anything from 2003, it's all going to be 2002 or earlier in this house for however long the kid is with them. It's not like that's particularly hard for Patrick to stomach; "pre-2002" is like... a solid portion of what he listens to anyway, but Pete had been a little less thrilled. But what if Baby Pete hears something and then takes it back or is influenced by it, maybe without even meaning to be, and then it changes something? It's like telling him about the hiatus, or too much about their relationship—it just doesn't seem worth the risk.

Movies and TV, though—well, Fall Out Boy doesn't make movies and TV, so that seems fine. Sure, Patrick's ready with his finger on the mute button in case a modern song starts to play for too long, but he's more willing to relax into this.

Currently, they're curled up in the living room watching Drag Race. That had been Pete's suggestion, and, while it admittedly requires Patrick to be a little more active with that mute button than some other shows might, and he feels like Baby Pete is definitely not getting the full experience by having to watch an awful lot of the performances on mute, Patrick had won the whole not-just-sitting-down-and-playing-him-every-half-decent-song-from-the-past-twenty-years debate, so he figures he can give a little on this one. Pete's leaned into Patrick's side, under his non-remote bearing arm, pointing out his favorite queens and occasionally trying to explain jokes or references that rely a bit too much on modern culture; Baby Pete, down at the other end of the couch with his toes tucked under his thighs, is adorably into the show, even though Pete's attempts to explain half of the current events and pop culture of the past 20 years all at once seem to be doing more harm than good.

This is pretty much par for the course with whatever the hell it is that Pete's getting up to and not telling Patrick about: a lot of hanging out with Baby Pete, a lot of drawing him into the things that the two of them usually do together. Since they’re all in agreement about not leaving the house, Pete's making a point of bringing Baby Pete into pretty much everything else, everything they'd usually do. Which is interesting to Patrick not in so much as that he minds—he'd have been doing it himself if Pete weren't beating him to it half the time—but because of how determined Pete seems about it. It's... fascinating.

Then, too, there are the times when the three of them hanging out all together goes by the wayside, and Pete instead leaves Baby Pete alone with Patrick. The first couple of times, Patrick had been willing to accept this as just needing some space while not wanting to abandon the kid entirely—God knows he wouldn't want to be around a twenty-years-younger version of himself all the time; actually, Patrick would probably have strangled the hypothetical Baby Patrick by now, so he can hardly blame Pete for needing a break now and then—but the more Pete does it, and the more obvious he is about it, the more Patrick thinks there's something else at play.

Case in point: as the credits roll at the end of their current episode, Pete stops himself literally mid-sentence in an explanation of the Obama administration (Patrick genuinely has no fucking clue how he's deciding what's "too much" versus okay to share with Baby Pete, because seriously, what?) to say, "Okay, I feel like we need popcorn. Do you guys feel like we need popcorn? I'm going to go make some popcorn."

Patrick, not for the first time in his middle age, wonders how he'd ever thought Pete was, like, some sort of master of charisma.

"Bring the Lao Gan Ma," he calls after Pete's retreating back, and gets an over-the-shoulder hand flap in response.

"The what?" Baby Pete asks. Thinking of hot Cheetos and cream cheese, Patrick glances over at him and grins.

"You'll like it," he says. "I mean—like, he likes it, so the odds are good, but also I just think you'll like it in general. You know?"

The way Baby Pete laughs at him a little for that sentence is probably-definitely deserved, and Patrick rolls his eyes and grins back at him good-naturedly.

"I'm just trying to acknowledge your individuality or whatever, cut me some slack," Patrick teases. And—Baby Pete laughs again, shakes his head a little, but he lights up, too, in this way where Patrick thinks maybe he thinks no one else is gonna notice. But it's Pete—still Pete, despite everything that's different—so of course Patrick notices.

It's hard not to notice Baby Pete noticing him in general, really. The kid looks at him sometimes like... like Patrick is a puzzle he's trying to solve. Patrick will admit he hasn't 100% figured out what's going on there, the same way he hasn't 100% figured out what his Pete is up to at the moment, but he thinks he has a pretty fucking solid idea. Come on, he knows exactly how weird he and Pete were about each other since the very beginning; how could he not recognize it on Baby Pete's face? He lived this one already too, after all.

Pete comes bustling back in a minute later, his reappearance heralded by the distant ding of the microwave and some cursing that probably correlates to him trying to grab the bag at the hot end. He's got the Lao Gan Ma, too, which he hands over to Patrick with a flourish, though the dramatics don't quite mask the way he's looking between Patrick and Baby Pete in a way he clearly thinks is subtle.

Admittedly, it probably would be pretty subtle if he were facing anyone who knows him even a shade less well than Patrick does. Out of respect for that if nothing else, Patrick pretends not to notice Pete looking—pretends not to notice the way it almost seems like Pete is waiting for him to notice something, even as he starts the process of spooning chili crisp into their bag of popcorn and shaking it up real good.

Just as soon as Patrick figures out what the hell Pete is waiting for him to notice, he'll jump on it. In the meantime, even if he doesn't know exactly what's going on, he figures there are two things he does know for certain.

One: whatever it is, it'll work itself out in time. That's always been true for them before; he can't imagine why it wouldn't be now.

And, two: he trusts Pete. He trusts Pete enough to not doubt even a little bit that, whatever the hell is going on inside that pretty head, it's gotta be with everyone's best interests in mind. Patrick has no doubt whatsoever that Pete would sooner walk into traffic than get up to something that he thought would fuck up his 23-year-old self's psyche, or whatever, to say nothing of the lengths he'd go to in order to avoid knowingly hurting Patrick.

So, Patrick figures, with a resigned sort of fondness that's grown in him over years of exposure to the patented brand of Pete Wentz Schemes and Antics, he'll just have to wait and see how it plays out. It'll definitely be something ridiculous, but that's half the fun, isn't it?

He grins at Baby Pete's excited noise at the first taste of Lao Gan Ma and hits play on their next episode of Drag Race. All things in time, or whatever. It's not like Patrick has anywhere else to be but right here.

—

"Okay," Old Pete says, wrapping a giant fluffy blanket around himself and snuggling back into the couch with gusto. "So, like, call me biased or whatever, but I really think you're gonna like this one."

Pete cocks an eyebrow at him, and then he and Patrick groan in unison when the little loading bubble stops—it's been days, and Pete will admit he still doesn't really know how their fucking TV works, but it can pretty much generate any movie out of thin air, so that's pretty cool—and the theme music for Back to the Future starts to play. Old Pete cackles happily from his spot on Patrick's other side, and Pete slumps back into the couch trying to pretend he's not amused even a little bit. Ha ha, yeah, time travel joke, so funny, but hey, it is a good movie. Not like he's gonna complain.

Patrick seems to have more or less the same opinion, 'cause he elbows Old Pete in the side a little but then settles down easily enough, apparently to content to enjoy the movie. Hey, at least no one can complain this one is anything that's gonna give Pete any information about the future he shouldn't have, seeing as he's already seen it, like, a dozen times.

The three of them all sharing a couch like they are is kinda new, one step away from curling up on various parts of the ridiculous sectional thing in Patrick and Old Pete's living room. But it's definitely easier to share movie snacks this way, and it's cozy as hell, so no way is Pete complaining—far from it. Actually, it's kind of perfect, the closeness, because it's gonna make it all that much easier for him to enact his master plan.

Tonight, Pete has decided, is The Night. Not for any particular reason, just—he has to do something eventually or he's going to go insane, and tonight seems like as good a night as any. It's kind of funny and all to see how far he can push it with Patrick before he actually notices something, but also it's driving him fucking insane, a little, and like—why the hell not, right? It's not like he doesn't know for a fact that Patrick is attracted to him. Like, Old Him, sure, but Pete's still relatively sure he's not gonna get decked or strangled with a gas pump or whatever.

He'd been trying to hide it at first, and well aware that he was probably about as subtle as a brick to the head, except... Patrick hadn't seemed to notice? Old Pete definitely has, Pete has gotten incredibly used to fielding amused looks and elbow nudges from his older self at this point, but Patrick has, seemingly, remained oblivious to Pete making embarrassing fucking cow eyes at him all the time. So, you know, a couple days into that, he'd thought, what the hell, maybe he'd try something a little more purposeful, just to see, since he'd been sure it was safe even if Patrick did notice, and... nope. Nothing.

And, well, there's no way he was ever gonna let that sleeping dog lie.

If he was interested in justifying it to anyone but himself, he'd call it a science experiment—an observation of Patrick Stump in his natural habitat, seeing just how long it takes him to notice that Pete is literally gagging for him at all times. He'd really thought Patrick would be a bit quicker on the uptake, given that this version of him is basically fucking married to a Pete, but evidently not. Well, apparently they only got together ten years in; maybe it just takes ten years for any given Patrick to notice that any given Pete wants him? Jesus, that's a depressing thought.

As Marty and Doc power up the DeLorean, Pete sneaks a glance over at Patrick, seated next to him with Old Pete on his other side. He must be slightly more obvious than he thought, because while Patrick stays looking straight ahead, smiling slightly at the screen as he mouths along with the dialogue, Old Pete turns his head slightly, catches Pete's eye, and grins.

And then wiggles his fucking eyebrows, because he, too, has the subtlety of a brick to the head. Good to know Pete's not going to be expected to grow out of that, or whatever. He widens his eyes slightly in faux innocence, all what? me?, and then ducks his head to grin when Old Pete visibly bites back a laugh. Yeah, he is definitely in on Pete's little flirting-with-Patrick game, if Pete had ever doubted it. Which is good, he wouldn't want to end up in a duel with his older self for Patrick's honor or something. Definitely better if they're on the same side—Pete Wentz on his own side, what a novel idea.

Then again, Pete figures it's only fair; if there's anyone around who's going to know exactly what effect Patrick is having on him, it's obviously gonna be Old Pete. Least the guy can do is let Pete flirt with his boyfriend, or whatever, especially since he hasn't even put a ring on it yet and Pete now knows for sure that's legal in the US—that's one of the things they were happy to tell him all about. So there.

He waits a little longer before making his move. Can't seem too eager, right? But at the same time, there's only so much anticipation Pete can fucking take, and by about the thirty minute mark, he's starting to get antsy.

So he takes a deep breath in, holds it, and—plants a hand on Patrick's thigh.

Patrick jumps, whipping around to look at him, and Pete blinks innocently at him while leaning in a little, like he'd just been trying to get Patrick's attention.

"Did you ever think Biff and Marty's dad had, like, a thing?" he asks, the first dumb comment that pops into his mind. He grins his triumph when Patrick laughs, easily distracted from the hand that Pete is very definitely not taking off of his leg.

"I could kind of see it," Patrick muses. "Maybe, like, a real Don't-Ask-Don't-Tell thing."

"Hate sex under the bleachers," Old Pete chimes in from Patrick's other side, and Patrick turns a little to grin at him, scrunching up his nose in mock horror.

"How do you think of this stuff?"

"Hey, he thought of it!"

"He's you!"

"We don't have a fucking mind meld, Patrick, c'mon, you know this by now."

"That would kind of rule, though, if we did," Pete's forced to admit, and not just because it gives him a chance to sneak his hand just a little higher up Patrick's thigh, fingers curling around his inseam just slightly. He leans in, too, crowding up against Patrick's side, and when he and Old Pete make eye contact, there's a distinct glee there on both ends.

"We could use it for so much," Old Pete muses. In the background, Marty is—actually, Pete has no idea, he's basically completely stopped paying attention to the movie at this point. "Like, we could freak people out so bad."

"Oh, totally," Pete agrees, inching his hand further north. He's well out of safe territory now, and still climbing, and Patrick takes a deep, sharp breath in but doesn't say anything yet.

"I mean, just imagine the, like, look on people's faces." Old Pete is definitely playing along for the sake of watching Pete's hand crawl up Patrick's leg, but he's also getting kind of seriously into this idea, if Pete were to hazard a guess. "Oh! And! If one of us was like, upstairs, and needed something from the kitchen or whatever, we wouldn't have to yell or text or go get it, we could just—"

"Pete?" Patrick interrupts.

Pete turns to him, and sees Old Pete do the same in his peripheral vision. It couldn't be clearer who Patrick is talking to, though, not with the way his hand has shot out to grab Pete's and prevent it from going any further.

It's so, so hard not to grin, but Pete manages. Barely. Finally they're getting somewhere.

"Yeah, Patrick?" he says, as innocently as he can manage. Old Pete shakes with a silent giggle.

"What, uh." A flash of tongue as Patrick wets his lower lip. "What are you doing?"

And, well.

Pete has rarely in his life had an opening quite that good.

He still takes one more glance at Old Pete, though, eyes flickering away from Patrick for the briefest possible moment, just enough to make eye contact. Old Pete is waiting for him, though, and jerks his chin up a little with a grin, this, like, fuck yeah, go for it look. And that's enough—more than enough.

So Pete turns back to Patrick and says, "I seriously don't know how much more obvious I can be here."

And then, before he can lose his nerve or start to doubt how far it's really OK to go to prove a point to himself, he leans up and in and slots his lips to Patrick's.

For a split second, Patrick's frozen in shock, and Pete gets to shut his eyes and enjoy it, pressing against him as much as possible—nearly climbing into his damn lap—and squeezing with the hand still high up on Patrick's leg. Then, in the space of a heartbeat, Patrick freaks the fuck out.

"P-Pete!" he says, scrambling to push Pete away—but not too far away, Pete notes with some satisfaction even as he bites down on a grin that threatens to take over his entire face. Patrick is approximately the color of a stop sign, which is great. He's holding Pete in place by the shoulders, and leaning back to put a bit more space between them—but then that means he leans back against Old Pete, and when their shoulders bump Patrick jumps and panics all over again, leaning back towards Pete for just a second before evidently deciding to try and phase backwards straight through the back of the couch.

"What," Patrick says, speaking again before Pete can figure out what he should say, and then again with feeling, "what."

He keeps looking back and forth between Pete and Old Pete, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging slightly open. There's something about the way he looks at Old Pete, particularly, that makes Pete think maybe he's kind of nervous, but he clearly doesn't need to be; Old Pete is grinning wide and bright, even laughing a little.

"You should go with this, Trick," Old Pete says earnestly, which makes Patrick's attention snap fully to him for a minute. Pete focuses on him too, both brows raised. "Seriously, trust me, you're gonna make this kid's life."

Jesus, what does that mean? Pete kind of thought they were all just joking around here, but that sounds... not entirely like a joke. Then again, he's not exactly going to turn down a voice of support, so...

Patrick narrows his eyes, finally taking one hand off of Pete's shoulders to point accusingly at Old Pete instead. "I knew you were hiding something!"

"I mean, hey," Pete adds, grinning. "I knew at least one of you had to have noticed me making an idiot of myself around him."

"Wait. What?" Patrick spins back around to look at Pete. "What are you talking about?"

He's so fucking cute. That certainly doesn't seem like it's ever gonna change where any version of Patrick is concerned. Pete makes eye contact with Old Pete, and they exchange a grin and an eyeroll, because—well, seriously.

"C'mon, Patrick, it's you," Old Pete says. "Obviously he's been crazy about you, he's me."

With Patrick looking back and forth between them like he expects someone to drop a punchline, Pete just shrugs. What? It's the complete and total fucking truth. At least someone gets it.

Patrick's still decidedly flushed, but with Pete and Old Pete both staring him down, it seems like maybe he's starting to get it, too. His eyes flicker over Pete, head to toe, and the hand still holding onto Pete's shoulder squeezes tight for just a second. Then he smiles a little—smirks, really, and that is fucking devastating, because a pleased and cocky Patrick Stump is, like, basically a weapon of mass destruction.

"Crazy about me, huh?" he says, but he's not meeting Pete's eyes when he says it; he's looking at his mouth instead.

Fuck, that's lethal. "Yeah," Pete breathes. "I mean—fuck, yeah. Really thought I was being pretty hard to miss."

Patrick huffs a little laugh at that, and his eyes drift back up to meet Pete's. Pete can't help but notice, though, that there's a distinct lack of, like, leaning over and ripping his clothes off, or kissing him again, or, like, anything—and then after a second something in Patrick's eyes seems to shutter slightly, and he leans back a little bit more and takes a deep breath in.

"Look," he says, and he doesn't sound upset, per se, but he also doesn't sound like he had a second ago, and there's a part of Pete that is very much pouting and whining about the loss. "I get it—I know what I'd be like in your shoes, okay, that's mutual—and I'm flattered, and you have to know how much I care about you. Like, you're Pete."

The but could not be more obviously forthcoming. Pete doesn't bother providing it for him, just raises his eyebrows a little.

"But," Patrick continues, "you're also, what, twenty-three? And from the past?"

"Twenty-three is very above the age of consent," Old Pete points out. Thank god he's still on Pete's side, at least. "And if we start thinking about, like, time travel physics and paradoxes or whatever, we're just gonna get confused anyway. Like, he's here, and I don't remember this ever happening to me when I was his age, so if something was gonna get fucked up, either it already has, or it won't."

It's proof of exactly how well these two know each other that Patrick seems totally convinced by that—at least as far as that part of things goes. He still frowns and bites his lip, though, as his eyes trip between Pete's eyes and lips. "I don't know, you're still... So young, you know?"

That's when something very dangerous glitters in Old Pete's eyes, and a warning bell starts to sound off in Pete's head. Shit. He begins to consider that maybe he looked in the wrong place for an ally.

"Well," Old Pete says, drawing the word out about four times as long as is strictly necessary, "here's the thing about him being the age he is, Patrick."

Oh, fuck.

Patrick frowns. "What are you talking about?"

"I mean," Old Pete drawls, looking back and forth between Pete and Patrick with an incredibly self-satisfied smirk, "I guess there's a chance I'm wrong, if he's not, like, actually the same as me when I was his age, but assuming he is..."

Oh. Fuck.

"I don't know if I ever actually told you this," Old Pete continues, and then, before Pete has the chance to do something in self-defense, like dive across the couch to tackle him or scream so loud Patrick won't be able to hear another word, he says, "but when I was twenty-three, I was still a virgin."

—

Somewhere, distantly, Patrick is aware of Baby Pete spluttering, "There's a fucking reason I don't tell people that, dude, what the fuck!", but it's very difficult to hear over the ringing in his ears and the buzzing in his head.

It's not that it doesn't make sense. Actually, it kind of makes a lot of sense, in its own weird sort of way. Memories from back in the day, when his Pete was twenty-three, are suddenly flipped around and reversed, but some of them fit just a little bit better now with added context that Patrick hadn't had at the time. And, of course, there's this twenty-three-year-old Pete, whose wide-eyed staring suddenly makes sense. The way he'd looked at Patrick, the way he'd watched every time Pete and Patrick shared so much as a chaste peck on the cheek in front of him... Patrick had thought he was just, like, adjusting, but maybe that was a little—yeah, okay, maybe that was a little dumb.

If nothing else, anyway, the kid being a virgin definitely helps explain why he'd just up and planted one on Patrick in the middle of goddamn Back to the Future, possibly one of the least sexy movies of all time. It also... well.

Patrick squeezes his eyes shut tight for just a second and desperately tries for a calming breath.

It's kind of fucking hot, all right? He feels at least a little gross for even thinking it, but holy fucking Christ, the idea of deflowering a younger Pete Wentz is like half of all his wet dreams for the past twenty years concentrated into one and come to life.

But that's exactly why he can't just—dive in with both feet. He has to be sure. Really fucking sure. This is Pete, this is the most important person in Patrick's entire fucking universe; he's not going to fuck this up, fuck him up, just to get his dick wet. He's going to—he's going to keep them from diving face-first into this by the skin of his teeth if he has to.

He levels Baby Pete with the most serious look he can manage, and it seems to work, at least a little, because the kid goes stock-still, deer-in-the-headlights still.

"You're really sure you want this?" Patrick asks, quiet and low and measured. He's expecting the huff and the eye-roll, so he doesn't waver when he gets them, just keeps on looking steadily, waiting the kid out.

"Come on, it's not that big of a deal," Baby Pete says. "It's all bullshit anyway, right? Virginity? Not like I care that much about wearing white to my fucking wedding. It's just some big societal—"

Patrick interrupts sharply, with his own eye-roll. "Please remember that I've known you for over two decades, Peter. I didn't ask what you thought about virginity as a social construct, I asked if you were sure. So are you sure?"

Baby Pete clams up real fucking quick at that. He opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, not a single sound coming out, and blushes stronger than Patrick thinks he's maybe ever seen any version of Pete blush before. His skin tone doesn't show it super strongly, but it's unmistakable if you know what to look for, and oh, Patrick knows.

He's fidgeting with the cuffs of his hoodie—the one he'd arrived in, since he hasn't loved borrowing any of Pete's oversized modern ones—and he won't meet Patrick's eyes at all. He just stares down at the couch cushion instead, brows a little furrowed, while Patrick waits him out.

On Patrick's other side, he can feel Pete waiting too, an unnatural stillness that betrays him. He doesn't look behind to check, but he's pretty sure both of their eyes are trained on the kid, ready to pounce.

Nearly a full minute later, Baby Pete takes a deep breath in and lets it out real slow. Then, managing to look up from under his eyelashes, he meets Patrick head-on and nods, sharp and shallow.

"Yeah," he mumbles. "Yeah, 'm sure."

Patrick has to take a deep breath of his own at that, because Jesus Christ. He's not going to throw everything he and Pete get up to at this kid—not even a fraction of it; they've had a decade now to explore their own and one another's kinks, and that’s not the kind of thing you can just throw at a person all at once—but it turns something in him liquid and molten to see Baby Pete acting like this, just a hint of perfect submission paired with that iron core. And this is a version of him that has basically zero experience. He's like that naturally. It's like... ingrained at the source.

Goddamn.

He all but forces himself to turn away, looking over his shoulder to find Pete already watching him. Patrick widens his eyes at him a little, kicking off a brief little eye-contact conversation:

Oh, I'm going to fucking eat him up.

Yeah, man, that's what I've been telling you. Go nuts.

You're sure you're okay with this?

How much more okay with this do you need me to be? Can't you see how hard I am right now?

Pete indicates the last point with a sharp glance down at his own lap, which, well. Yes. Actually, now that he points it out, Patrick can see that Pete's sweatpants are hiding extremely little, besides which there's sweat beading at his hairline. And he's in a similar state, obviously, though he's doing his best not to think too much about his own dick right now, not when there's so much else at stake. But. If he's into it, and Pete's into it, and Baby Pete is definitely into it...

Okay. It's... okay.

He takes another deep breath in, a nice square one: in for four, hold for four, out for four. Rhythmic and comforting.

Then he gets to his feet as fast as he can manage without actually falling over, hopefully maintaining at least a thin illusion of being in control but honestly more concerned with getting to a bed as fast as possible. From the couch, two sets of Pete Wentz eyes stare up at him: one crinkled up and grinning, one wide and trying not to look nervous.

"C'mon," Patrick says. He reaches down to grab Baby Pete by the wrist and tug him to his feet, trusting that his Pete will be right behind without needing encouragement. "We can do better than the couch for your first time."

There's a soft choking noise at the mention of Baby Pete's impending deflowering, but he follows easily enough when Patrick leads him toward the main bedroom with one hand loosely circled around his wrist. Pete's familiar tread follows behind without Patrick needing to grab him or even look at him, and they travel in a little caravan out of the living room and up the stairs, one after the other.

They pass the guest bedroom on their way, and for a second Patrick feels Baby Pete start to hesitate in front of the door, just the tiniest bit of pull against Patrick's grip on him, like he thinks maybe that’s their destination. Patrick doesn't let up, though, just tugs a little harder, and Baby Pete unsticks easily enough, following him the rest of the way down the hall until they reach the main bedroom—his and Pete's bedroom—and Patrick can shoulder open the door and gently pull Baby Pete far enough into the room that he can spin him around and shove him towards the bed.

Baby Pete goes easily enough at that point, even peeling his hoodie and t-shirt off before flopping back onto the bed, grinning wide and toothy and so damn Pete that Patrick is struck all over again by the desire to eat him right up. "Where d'you want me?" he says, fingering the button of his jeans, and—that's a good question, actually. Patrick stops to consider.

This was all thrown at him sort of suddenly, okay? He hasn't had time to really think about the mechanics yet, the reality of it, which fantasies are both pressing enough and possible enough to make real. He hums, considering, and props his hands on his hips to look Baby Pete over, a long head-to-toe once over that has the kid squirming a bit even through his bravado.

Lingering in the doorway, at Patrick's back, Pete says, "We have so much to teach you, young padawan."

And—well, thank God for cryptophasia or whatever, because that's fucking perfect, actually. Patrick hums approvingly, shooting Pete a little look and a smile, and he says, "You know, that's a great point..."

Patrick advances across the room, this time hitting the perfect confident saunter without even trying, because, oh yes, this is the kind of thing he's gotten pretty good at with time—absolutely turning Pete inside out, that is. And sure enough, Baby Pete seems to have realized he's in some kind of danger, because his eyes are wide (and so are his legs) and he's frozen in place, breathing shallowly.

"I want this to be about you," Patrick explains as he comes to stand between Baby Pete's spread legs, where he's perched at the foot of the bed. He runs the back of his hand gently across Baby Pete's face, delights in the way he shivers. "But, also... I mean, there's a lot we could show you, you know? Teach you what's good. Teach you how to make someone feel good. You want that, right? Wanna make people feel good?"

Baby Pete—well. He squeaks. It was probably supposed to be a word, probably supposed to be yes if Patrick knows him at all (and oh, he does, he really does), so he smiles encouragingly.

"Yeah, you do," he says, like it's obvious, because it is obvious; if he's ever met someone more desperate to please than Pete, well, he doesn't know who. "So I'm gonna show you how, okay? It's easier with someone to let you know what's good instead of trying to just—" He waves a hand. "—figure it all out on your own."

"Right," Baby Pete says very faintly, nodding. "Right. Yeah. Okay. That—yeah."

"Hey, I can be helpful too!" Pete says from somewhere behind Patrick, and then he's practically skipping around the side of the bed to throw himself onto the mattress with a bounce, wiggling until he can prop himself up against the headboard, grinning an absolutely maniacal grin. "Peanut galleries are always helpful, right? Pretty sure I read that somewhere."

Patrick shoots him a Look—this time one that says, Go at least a little easy on him—and Pete rolls his eyes before waving it away.

"Seriously, dude," Pete says, directed very much at Baby Pete this time, and Baby Pete actually manages to turn around a little to look at him in response, "if anyone in the world knows how to make Patrick feel good better than Patrick, well. I don't mean to brag, but..."

"You do so mean to brag," Patrick counters, but inside he's thinking more along the lines of, well, isn't that interesting, how easily Pete slipped the conversation from making someone feel good to making Patrick feel good. He wonders if Baby Pete noticed, too, if he's thinking even now about what learning to make Patrick feel good might mean, about whether or not those skills would be backwards-transferrable to his Patrick... Patrick thinks they would be. Patrick thinks, even if he wasn't very fucking excited about all of this for his own sake, he now has some sort of duty to whatever alternate-universe-past version of himself is going to benefit from this in the future, as confusing as that sentiment is to puzzle his way through.

As if he needed more reason to want to rock Baby Pete's world.

"All right, maybe I mean to brag a little," Pete is saying from the head of the bed, but Patrick doesn't bother replying other than to roll his eyes. He's focused entirely on Baby Pete, and Baby Pete's focus seems to have returned entirely to him, too, those wide whiskey eyes blinking up at him. Patrick pets his face again, this time leaving his hand cupping the kid's jaw, and smiles when Baby Pete leans into the touch.

It's impossible not to kiss him, really—not that Patrick's trying particularly hard. Since this time he's initiating the kiss, controlling it, it's significantly different: none of the half-embarrassed, half-joking desperation, the awkward misalignment that comes from taking someone by surprise. This time, Patrick leans forward with intent and Baby Pete leans in to meet him, melts forward into him; his mouth falls open almost immediately, and Patrick hums approvingly into the soft warmth of him but still takes it slow, doesn't lick into him until he's good and ready to, until Baby Pete is gasping and gagging for it.

Art by Sprout!

When he pulls back, Baby Pete's eyes are glazed, and his jeans are tenting so obscenely that Patrick doesn't even try to stop his smug little smile. He hears his Pete huff a laugh and flips him off without looking, pressing another, much shorter, kiss to Baby Pete's slack mouth—and then another, because he really can't help himself—before putting a little space between them again.

"You asked how I wanted you," he murmurs, his voice rumbling in his chest. Baby Pete nods, silent, wide-eyed. "Well. It's your decision—I really mean that, you have to be honest with me—but, for your first time, it's usually easier to top, so..."

"You'd let me do that?"

"Hey, it's not about letting you," Patrick informs him. "I happen to like getting fucked. Like fucking you, too, but..."

"Don't talk yourself out of this one, kid," Pete pipes up from the head of the bed. "Seriously."

"Yeah," Baby Pete breathes, his eyes huge and round and tracing over every part of Patrick's face. Then, more confidently, "Yeah, I mean—I just wanted to—you know, to check."

"Very sweet of you," Patrick says, and means it, even though he knows the way he grins and pats Baby Pete on the thigh will mostly come across as teasing, maybe a bit condescending. Okay, maybe more than a bit, but Baby Pete doesn't seem to mind; he just glares playfully back, pouting an exaggerated bratty pout and tilting his head to the side, all me? You're being mean to me?

Patrick chuckles at the expression, then looks back at his Pete, who's still sprawled easily. Looks like he's definitely still hard—those sweatpants really don't hide shit; they seem to emphasize it, if anything—but he doesn't seem all that interested in doing anything about it yet. It makes Patrick feel warm and proud, though, seeing him enjoying himself like that. It feels like putting on a show for him. That's... not something they usually get much of a chance to do, and certainly not like this, but it's a really good feeling, as it turns out. He quirks an eyebrow at Pete and tilts his head in the direction of the bedside table where they keep their supplies, and Pete leans over immediately to paw through the drawer, then tosses a bottle of lube and a strip of condoms down the bed.

"My first time with him was different," Pete tells his younger self as Patrick makes quick work of his pants and boxers, then peels his shirt off over his head to boot. He can feel two pairs of Pete Wentz eyes on him as he strips, as he moves, and once upon a time that might have (would have) made him pretty fucking self-conscious, but now he hides a little grin in the action of tossing his balled-up shirt across the room.

"I fucked him our first time," Patrick explains to Baby Pete, climbing up onto the mattress beside him. "I mean, we switch it around a lot, but..."

"We fight over who gets to bottom sometimes," Pete chimes in. Even as Patrick shuffles backward on the bed a little, giving himself room to spread out, Pete's moving forward a bit to match—still far enough away to imply he's on the outside of the action, but definitely close enough to fulfill his self-appointed role as the peanut gallery with aplomb.

"You like it that much?" Baby Pete asks breathlessly—to the room at large, theoretically, but he's looking right at Patrick, who's half behind him now, trying to figure out what position is going to be easiest.

He doesn't bother answering, because he suspects Pete will be happy to pick up that slack while he gets situated, and sure enough, he hears Pete's warm, delighted chuckle as he's flipping over onto his hands and knees, spreading his legs.

"Oh, you're gonna see exactly how much he likes it," Pete says, grin obvious in his voice. Patrick rolls his eyes at that, but then Baby Pete makes a wounded noise, and when Patrick peeks back over his shoulder at him he realizes that all his maneuvering around is giving the kid a great view of his ass; the appreciation is certainly nice, especially as Patrick is under no impression that he has, like, an especially great ass in the grand scheme of things. It's the yearning on Baby Pete's face that tells Patrick it's really and truly time to get this show on the road.

Baby Pete jumps a little when Patrick presses the lube into his hands, and his eyes are wide as dinner plates when Patrick gets back down on his elbows and really spreads his knees, making sure there's plenty of space between his legs. It's really fucking sweet, actually, how vulnerable he's willing to be with Patrick, how young. Patrick remembers his Pete at that age, and sure, he'd always had that soft underbelly that he showed around those he loved and trusted, but it's hard to picture him quite like this. Not during sex, anyway. There's absolutely no artifice to it, and it makes Patrick feel unbelievably lucky—and a little nervous, because he doesn't want to fuck it up somehow, doesn't want to be the one to take that soft sweetness and damage it, make Baby Pete feel like he has to hide it away.

He makes eye contact with his Pete for just a second, and, well, it's hard to say if it's that worry coming through or just a general sense of agreement on how these events should go, but Pete shuffles forward, leaving his position at the head of the bed at long last, and taps Patrick's flank.

"C'mon, get in here," he says to Baby Pete, and makes an encouraging little noise when the kid obligingly gets into position. "Okay, you've done this to yourself, right?"

It doesn't really sound like a question, which Patrick supposes makes sense—Pete would know, after all. Sure enough, Baby Pete nods readily when Patrick glances back to check.

"It's not that different," Pete tells him. "I mean, okay, it is, and Patrick likes different things than we do, but the basic elements are, like, pretty much the same."

"Okay, so I..." Baby Pete says, and Patrick can't quite see it, but he hears the click of the cap and then the wet squirting sound of lube, followed by a slick noise of fingers rubbing together.

"Warm it up a little—yeah, there you go," Pete mutters, and then there's a gentle wet touch at Patrick's hole. He looks back over his shoulder to grin encouragingly at Baby Pete, who's looking back and forth between Patrick's face and his ass. Patrick wonders if he knows his mouth is hanging open.

"Go for it," Patrick tells him. "Start with two."

"Two?"

Pete and Patrick both laugh a little at that, but it's Pete who claps Baby Pete on the shoulder reassuringly and says, "Yeah, seriously, he can take it. We've been doing this a long time, you know?"

Something about that—the long time, if Patrick were to guess, but honestly it could be anything—draws a low groan out of Baby Pete, but he follows instructions way better than Patrick remembers his Pete ever doing at this age. Two of his fingers slide into Patrick easy as anything, and Patrick sighs happily, leaning into the stretch and shifting his hips a little to test it.

"That's good," he says, looking back at Baby Pete again, smiling at his flushed cheeks and wide, glittering eyes. "That's good, Pete, you're doing so well."

Baby Pete makes a little choking noise at that, and Patrick bites back a significantly more evil grin, because, well. That was very much on purpose. He eyes Baby Pete's dick speculatively where it's jumping against his thigh; he can't see it super clearly in this position, but if he cranes his neck, well. This whole situation is clearly working for everyone involved.

Pete is giggling a little, clearly very much also catching his younger self's reaction, but his voice is sympathetic when he says, "Yeah, he pulls that one out a lot. Sorry, it never really gets any less... you know."

"Shit," Baby Pete mutters. He shifts his fingers in Patrick a little—unintentionally, if Patrick to guess, but Patrick makes an encouraging noise nonetheless.

"That's good," he says. "Go on, play a little. Promise I really can take it. I want you to feel where the, like, boundaries are. This is the kind of thing where only hands-on learning really works."

"Hands-on learning," Pete giggles, and Patrick rolls his eyes up at him. Baby Pete hardly seems to notice anything, though; he's getting a little more confident with every second, every stroke, curling and scissoring his fingers and tugging at Patrick's rim. He's a natural, if not at sex on the whole then certainly at Patrick's body, which doesn't really come as a surprise. After all, he's still Pete.

After a minute, Baby Pete makes a small noise, and Patrick cranes his head around to meet his eyes.

"Can I," Baby Pete says, and then there's a third finger prodding at Patrick's rim, not slipping in quite yet but definitely there.

Patrick considers for a second, humming.

"Go for it," he says, nodding. "I don't need much more, though. You're doing really well, so good—we can do this as long as you want, but if you want to fuck me..."

"Oh, that's just cruel," Pete says, which seems to be approximately the same thing Baby Pete is thinking. Kid looks like his soul is leaving his body, and what, just from if you want to fuck me? God, the praise is one thing, but his dirty talk tolerance really grows with age, apparently.

Baby Pete takes a deep, deep breath, shuddering on both the way in and the way out. His eyes flutter shut, which is so disarmingly pretty that Patrick wants to sigh, but he forces himself to stay quiet, lets Baby Pete have his moment of uninterrupted contemplation, no matter how challenging it is when he looks like that.

"He likes the stretch, anyway," Pete murmurs, and Baby Pete quakes at that. "Like, don't go yet if you're not ready, but if you're ready, man..."

Patrick watches the way Baby Pete's dick is kicking a little hungrily. Pete's not wrong, after all, or if he is then it's only by virtue of understatement: Patrick fucking loves the stretch. When Baby Pete's eyes flicker back open, though, he tries to school his face into something comforting and encouraging and not, like, ravenous. This is about him, Patrick reminds himself. About his pleasure and comfort and whatever else.

"Um," Baby Pete says, then clears his throat as his fingers gently slide out of Patrick's ass. "Condom?"

They're on the bed where Pete had set them earlier, a whole strip up by the pillow, and Pete starts to reach for them right away, tearing one off carefully. Patrick bites his lip, hard, but watching Pete hold out his hand to pass the condom to Baby Pete turns out to be too much. Fuck.

"Wait," he says, his hand shooting out to freeze both Petes in place. "Wait. Uh."

They're both staring at him, but the difference between their expressions is enough to send Patrick towards an early grave. Baby Pete looks exactly like he expects—adorably confused, and a little bit like he thinks he might have done something wrong—but Patrick's Pete... It takes about half a second for him to go from blinking in surprise to failing to smother absolutely the most shit-eating grin Patrick has possibly ever seen.

"Oh, boy," he says, cheerfully. "I feel like I should have seen that one coming for sure."

"Shut up," Patrick tells him, then turns back to Baby Pete, smiling in a way that hopefully is reassuring. "So, listen..."

"Good for you for asking for a condom, definitely keep up that energy when you get back to 2003," Pete tells him. Patrick's already reaching out to smack him before he even gets to the next part: "It's just that Patrick's kind of a slut sometimes, so—"

"Shut up," Patrick says, with more feeling this time. He shifts a little bit, sitting down and twisting so that he can look Baby Pete straight in the face for this next part. "Okay. So. Like he said, thank you for asking, and I don't want to like, condescend, but this is definitely a 'do as I say, not as I do' situation. But, well..." He shrugs. "It's not like we don't know you're clean, since this is your first time, and. I mean. I like getting fucked raw, I'm pretty sure you're gonna like getting to do it..."

"And it's not like you can knock him up!" Pete finishes. Patrick doesn't even turn to look, just reaches back to smack him again.

Baby Pete's mouth is hanging so wide open that it's giving Patrick fucking ideas, and only the thinnest little noise has managed to come out. There's practically a string of question marks running behind his eyes. Patrick watches for a second, biting his lip, thinks about coming in with a save—we don't have to, if you're worried, it's fine, are you OK?—but Baby Pete rallies in the nick of time.

"You're—you're sure?" he asks. "I don't wanna..."

"I'm sure," Patrick assures him. Then, in the interest of brutal honesty, and of making sure that the kid knows exactly how wanted he is, he adds a heartfelt, "Really sure. Trust me."

With a slow nod, Baby Pete's gaze slips from Patrick's face back down to his ass—to his hole, really; Patrick can practically feel it like a brand. "So I can..."

"Yeah," Patrick says. "Yeah, baby, go for it."

It's almost disorienting, really, the familiar kiss of Pete's cockhead at his entrance when Patrick is well aware that Pete is in front of him, can feel the familiar shape of him and his body heat as he leans over Patrick a little. The stereo surround of heavy breathing and heartbeats and soft little shuffling noises makes him dizzy, and then before he knows it there's pressure-pressure-pressure and then dick slipping into him, and Patrick sighs feelingly.

Baby Pete's hands are shaking on his hips, and he barely makes it a couple of inches in by Patrick's estimation before he lets out the most ragged little, "Oh, fuck." Patrick, face safely tucked away where the kid can't see, allows himself to smirk a little—look, it's gratifying, all right? Not that his Pete doesn't do a good enough job making him feel appreciated or whatever, he's great at that, Patrick has no complaints whatsoever, but... it's been literally less than 10 seconds and Baby Pete sounds like he's all set to blow. Sue Patrick for finding that a little flattering, even if the kid is a virgin.

Maybe in hindsight they should have gotten Baby Pete off first, actually, so that he'd be able to last longer, enjoy it more. Oh well; next time, maybe. (God, Patrick sort of really hopes there's a next time.) Too late now, though, so they'll have to do the best with what they have, which probably means distracting him.

"Hey, it's okay," Pete murmurs from Patrick's front, so he's on the same page too, evidently; good. There's movement in his peripheral, and when he looks up to take it in, Pete has leaned forward and he's gently stroking Baby Pete's face. He's grinning a little, eyes crinkled and sparkling, and he adds, "It's a lot, right? It's okay. You're doing great."

And oh, Jesus, Patrick somehow wasn't prepared for that. It's fine for him to tease Baby Pete and tell him how good he is and whatever, but somehow when Pete does it, that's... It makes something in him swell and softly pulse, the sight of Pete looking at himself with such fondness, such sweetness. Such gentle words. Touching Baby Pete so softly, stroking his hair back off his forehead and running thumbs over his cheekbones.

"Just focus on me," Pete says, and Patrick and Baby Pete suck in identical sharp breaths. "You're doin' so great. Just focus on me. Just..."

"Shit," Baby Pete says—whines, really. He pitches forward a little, drives his cock a little deeper into Patrick, gasps, nearly sobs. Pete is right there with him the whole time, petting him, shushing him, murmuring to him. Pete is in the action, in the thick of things. Pete, when Patrick cranes his neck a little to see, is leaning forward too, mirroring Baby Pete. Pete is pressed all up against Patrick's front now, the three of them becoming a sweaty, messy Gordian knot of limbs and heat and breath. Pete is gripping Baby Pete by the hair, soft but firm, gentle but intentional. Pete is closing the last of the gap between them. Pete is... Pete is...

Baby Pete is meeting him halfway, and they're kissing, right over Patrick's body where he's pressed between them close and tight. Pete is kissing him, eagerly and wetly, and Baby Pete is all but throwing himself into it, and everything else might as well be happening a thousand miles away, because all of the blood is rushing out of Patrick's brain all at once.

—

"Oh, fuck," Patrick says fervently, but it sounds very, very far away.

Funnily enough, it's not even like Pete's never thought about it before. It's a few steps up from thinking about what to say to the kid, but like, there had been a time a few years back where Joe had sent them all some meme about whether or not it was weird to fuck your clone, and they'd all laughed and had a rollicking four-way debate about it between tour stops somewhere in Middle America. Then again, there's that, and then there's... you know, this. Reality. Reality, where his twenty-three-year-old self's lips are bitten and chapped, and he definitely uses too much tongue but it's clear he's really trying, really into it, and oh, by the way, speaking of into it, Patrick is sandwiched between them and moaning like this is the hottest goddamn thing that's ever happened to him, and it's all just—a lot. This is a lot.

A good lot! Definitely! And Pete's the one who instigated, so it's not like he can really complain! But fucking... wow.

"Holy shit, Pete," Patrick wheezes, from somewhere vaguely in front of him, and Pete pulls back just far enough to get a peek down at him. It's not at all clear which Pete he was talking to, actually, which Pete finds he doesn't really mind, especially not given the way Patrick's eyes are half-closed, half-rolled back into his head. That's a damn good look considering he's only just barely got a dick in him.

"I think he likes that," Pete whispers conspiratorially to his younger self, and grins against the kid's lips when Baby Pete groans.

"Shit," Patrick grunts. It's only when Pete glances down at him that he realizes that reaction isn't coming just from what he's doing; Baby Pete's getting in on the action, too, or more specifically he's rutting desperately into Patrick, little hitching thrusts that he doesn't even seem really aware of.

Okay, so, like, maybe Pete's grand distraction strategy just got all three of them even hotter than they were before and the kid's still about to come super fast. He tried, all right? He tried, and honestly, this seems like a pretty great outcome anyway, so he doesn't think anybody's going to complain too much.

So he leans back in, licks right back into Baby Pete's mouth and tugs at his hair, makes it as good as he possibly can. He's definitely got a home field advantage, so to speak, and it's gratifyingly easy to have the kid moaning into his mouth, crying out when Pete sucks and bites at his lower lip. Pete's moaning into it too, of course, because why wouldn't he, it's fucking amazing, hot as all fuck, how many people can possibly say they've gotten to do this—he's going to wring every little drop of enjoyment and pleasure he can get out of this wild, incredible, unbelievable situation, and that includes drinking down his own moans reversed and fed back to him, panting into Baby Pete's mouth while the kid jerks and shouts and, evidently, comes, hips stuttering, arms shaking.

"There you go," Pete mutters into the kiss, ears ringing, "there you go, it's okay, you're okay." Baby Pete is saying—something, he can't honestly tell what, it's less words and more half-choked gasps, but Patrick is quiet, though not still; he's reaching back and around to gently pet over Baby Pete's flank, soothing strokes that are nevertheless raising visible goose bumps in their wake.

Maybe they're, well, babying the kid a little, but he's shaking like a fucking leaf, and this whole thing has been kind of intense, so Pete figures they're allowed. He presses softer and softer kisses all over Baby Pete's face—chin, nose, forehead, cheek, other cheek, forehead again—and keeps right on whispering all the soothing shit he can think of, everything he can possibly imagine he might have wanted to hear if it were him. Like—actually him, not him-from-the-past him. Fuck.

"—sorry," Baby Pete gasps, the first full word that Pete can really make out. He seems to be putting himself back together, little by little, and once that one word is out, the rest start to make a bit more sense, too. "Sorry, shit, I'm so fucking sorry."

Oh, yeah, he's not taking the quickshot thing well. Pete winces a little in sympathy—safe, since Baby Pete's eyes are screwed shut tight and there's enough space between them that he shouldn't be able to feel the way Pete's face twists.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Patrick says immediately, before Pete can get a chance to jump in himself. "Nobody's upset, I swear. It's completely okay, I promise. I promise, Pete."

It doesn't seem to work. Pete's "Honestly, it was kind of adorable," definitely doesn't seem to work; he gets a glare and a smack to the ribs from Patrick for that, which is fair, honestly. Baby Pete has gotta be starting to go a little soft by now, but he's still frozen in place, eyes shut tight like if he just doesn't look at either of them, maybe he won't have come before he was ready to. It's seriously not that big a deal, and it genuinely was kind of adorable to see just how into it he was, but then again, Pete can imagine all too easily what the kid's feeling right now. And if this whole thing gets derailed and, like, turns into a sour memory for him because of this, he doesn't know what he'll do, other than drown in guilt forever, obviously.

Pete looks back at Patrick, trying to get a read on whether or not he's got a solution in mind. Patrick is a genius in many areas, and understanding Pete Wentz is definitely one of them; honestly, if one of them is going to be able to get things back on track, Pete would bet on Patrick over himself every single time.

Patrick meets his eyes for just a second, then takes a deep, steadying breath and turns his attention fully back to Baby Pete. He taps Pete on the hip, insistent, and Pete scoots back on his knees to give him room, until Patrick's got enough space to lean forward—there's a soft, slick sound as Baby Pete slides out of him—and then turn around, kneeling face-to-face with the kid, his back to Pete.

"Hey," he says softly. "Look at me. Pete? Can you look at me?"

There's a long second, like an indrawn breath, where all three of them are utterly still, and then Baby Pete blinks his eyes open. He looks... chagrined, sort of, like he maybe realizes he's making a bigger deal of this than he really needs to but he also can't manage to stop himself from being upset about it.

Patrick just smiles at him, reassuring and so fucking warm it takes Pete's breath away, and it's not even directed at him—hell, with Patrick facing away he can hardly even see it.

"There you are," Patrick says. "Listen a sec, okay? I guarantee it's fine. But I know you're not gonna be able to believe me. So, if you feel bad about it, you can make it up to me. Okay?"

"Oh." Baby Pete blinks at him, cautiously optimistic. "Yeah. Yeah, I—"

He nods so fast it's almost comical, but Pete shoves his own urge to laugh way down deep, and Patrick only smiles.

"Good boy," Patrick says, a clear tease. Still, no matter how much his voice sparkles with lightness and flippancy, it's impossible to miss the way Baby Pete shivers.

"What d'you want?" the kid asks, which Pete frankly is impressed by. He doesn't know if he'd be speaking in complete sentences right now, if it was him.

Patrick hums, considering, and runs a hand through Baby Pete's hair for just a second. "I think," he says slowly, "I want you to suck me. Is that okay?"

"Yeah," Baby Pete breathes, and Pete hears the answering smile in Patrick's voice far more clearly than he sees it.

"You're so good, Pete." He has no idea if Patrick notices, but from Pete’s point of view, it's obvious the way both of them shiver. "Down on your knees, baby. On the floor."

Baby Pete immediately scrambles for the edge of the bed, and Pete, well. Obviously he knows what Patrick meant, who he was referring to when he said baby, but also... also.

Eh, fuck it. Pete getting himself involved in the proceedings has been relatively successful so far—they probably wouldn't be here in the first place if he hadn't meddled, right? And the making out thing was great right up until Baby Pete got in his head about coming too soon. So, like, it's fine for Pete to slip off the edge of the bed too, right? It's fine and probably even good for him to pad a few steps across the floor and sink to his knees shoulder-to-shoulder with Baby Pete, to shoot the kid a wink, to look up at Patrick with wide, faux-innocent eyes and then smirk when Patrick rolls his eyes at him.

"What?" Pete says. "You didn't, like, specify which Pete."

Patrick, having made his way to the edge of the bed and spread his knees wide enough for Pete and Baby Pete both to fit between them, studies him for a second with raised eyebrows, and Pete looks back steadily. If Patrick's trying to figure out how serious he is about this, well, he's fucking serious; he's not going anywhere. And after a second that must be clear, because Patrick nods and—Jesus Christ—reaches out with both hands, sinks one into Pete's hair and one into Baby Pete's, pulls them both close to him.

"Guess I didn't," he says, and Pete blinks, struggling to follow that back to what he'd said a second ago, his heart thundering in his ears.

He pauses for just a second to look to his right, because yeah, he should make sure Baby Pete's on board with this too—he's sure Patrick's already watching for that, but still—and finds the kid already looking back at him, eyes wide and face flushed, mouth hanging open.

"Figure we can share," Pete says, grinning at him. "Right? I mean, there's plenty of him to go around."

Patrick grumbles a little, like he always does when Pete makes dick-size jokes, because he's never quite accepted that Pete's not just, like, flattering him. (Pete long ago made his peace with the fact that Patrick's not the one who has to get that monster into his body on a regular basis, and therefore he'll probably never appreciate just how big it actually is.) But Pete's doesn't look up; that wasn't for him, anyway, it was for Baby Pete, who blinks at him a second, looks over at Patrick's cock bobbing not all that far away, only marginally softened from this whole little interlude, and then turns back to Pete and nods emphatically.

"I guess, uh," he says. "More hands-on learning? Right?"

Pete chuckles at that, nudging him with one shoulder affectionately. "You got it, man. Hands-on learning." He pauses a moment for emphasis. "And lips, and tongue, and—"

"Okay," Patrick interrupts, with a squeeze of his hands to punctuate; Pete unabashedly leans into the tug on his hair, letting his mouth drop open in a lazy grin. "Either be the peanut gallery or be a participant, but not both, huh?"

"Bossy," Pete sing-songs, and gets another, sharper tug on his hair for it. Baby Pete is sort of side-eyeing him, clearly figuring some things out about their dynamic that he maybe hadn't before. Pete's not actually trying to brat out right now, though, so he leans forward to press an apology kiss to Patrick's dick, soft and wet and open mouthed, right up near the head.

He flicks his eyes over to Baby Pete, finds the kid staring at him with eyes that are all pupil. Pete quirks an eyebrow just slightly, laying down a challenge, and watches as Baby Pete squares his shoulders before leaning in and mirroring him, hesitating for just the barest second before his lips make contact with Patrick's skin.

"There you go," Patrick murmurs from up above them. Pete hums encouragingly, too, and doesn't fight his grin at the way Baby Pete flushes and squirms a little. He doesn't wimp out, though: he laps at Patrick, open-mouthed, with enough determination that Pete feels comfortable leaving him to it after a minute.

It's easier if they're not both trying to crowd in on the same part of Patrick's dick anyway, so Pete makes his way down the shaft, lips meandering smoothly down, and lets Baby Pete have the tip. He likes it down here anyway, loves the familiar sigh and groan when he noses at the crease of Patrick's thigh for a second before ducking down even further, laying butterfly-light kisses across his balls. He takes a deep breath in, savoring the smell of skin and cum and sweat and Patrick, potent and concentrated, and for just a second, he lets himself stop worrying about Baby Pete, or even about Patrick, really, and just seeks his own enjoyment, licking the sweat from Patrick's skin and sliding two fingers up between his legs to find where he's all open and loose and slick with cum, fuck, dripping cum, actually; if Pete had enough room down here, he'd definitely have to do something about that, but he doesn't quite want to beg everyone else to rearrange everything so that he can eat Patrick out, not when the focus right now is ostensibly letting Baby Pete get blowjob practice in.

Damn if he isn't tempted, though.

Still, he's not completely without options, and he's having a great time playing with Patrick's rim and gently fingering Baby Pete's cum back into him, listening to Patrick groan and murmur encouragement: "There you go, just like that," "A little harder, suck—yes," "God, Pete, you're so good, doing so good for me."

It's efficient, really, the fact that the praise can be for both of them at once. Pete wriggles with delight even as he gently sucks Patrick's balls into his mouth, one and then the other.

There's a gentle tug on his hair, and he flicks his eyes up to find Patrick smiling at him, eyelids drooping.

"Give him some room, huh?" he says, and Pete obligingly scoots to the side a little bit, pressing himself fully against Patrick's thigh, so that Baby Pete can start working his way a little further down. Patrick's dick is way too much for a first time BJ, so there's no way he's gonna get far, but he makes a damn good showing, honestly, enough so that Pete feels weirdly proud even though it's not technically his accomplishment. He's able to get about halfway down before he chokes a little and has to pull back, and Pete leans back to smile at the way he keeps right on trying, over and over again, not really ever getting beyond that halfway mark but trying his fucking hardest.

"Hey," Pete says softly, nudging Baby Pete on the shoulder a little to get his attention. When he pulls off Patrick's dick and watery eyes meet Pete's, Pete grins at him. "Need an assist?"

Baby Pete huffs a little, but he's reflecting back Pete's smile.

"Well, I guess if you're offering."

Pete considers bantering back, but in the end, it seems like the easiest way to respond is just to start making his way back up towards the head of Patrick's dick. Baby Pete meets him there, and sure, it's crowded, it's messy, it's not exactly the most elegant and refined blowjob Pete's ever given—but god if everyone involved isn't fucking loving it. Patrick's leaking pre like a faucet, Baby Pete moans wantonly when Pete reaches over to tug him into place so they can sort of make around around Patrick's dick, and it all just—it all just burns in the pit of Pete's stomach, in this pulsing tangle of feeling that tells him he's doing a good job, he's making them happy, he's making them feel so good—

And he feels good too, of course he does, so much so that he'd almost feel guilty if not for all of the aforementioned evidence that Patrick and Baby Pete are each having the time of their fucking lives. Pete's struck suddenly by the realization that he's barely touched or even thought about his dick in, like, ages, but it doesn't even matter, because he's so full of warm fizzy pleasure that he can't think straight, can barely keep his limbs coordinated. He tugs at Baby Pete again, his attention absorbed by the slick slide of lips and tongue, and yeah the whole point is supposed to be the blowjob, but Patrick won't mind if they just make out for a second, right? Kid probably needs a breather. Pete kind of needs a breather.

Patrick, it seems, certainly doesn't mind. Pete's eyes fluttered shut somewhere in there, but the way Patrick's groaning and the rapid, slick sound of skin sliding over skin are more than familiar enough without visual cues. Pete grins into Baby Pete's mouth, can't help it, and apparently after everything, that's all it takes: Patrick's breath hitches, and then there's cum striping their faces, hot and wet and passed between their mouths, their tongues, spread across their skin, and since Pete's not looking it's all too easy to forget that they're really separate at all, all too easy to slide sideways down into a reality where he inhabits both bodies in a great tangled mass of nerve endings, where there's no end and no beginning, only pleasure.

—

Not that the opportunity is likely to present itself all that often, but Patrick nevertheless leaves himself a firm mental note, underlined three times and scrawled in all caps, to remind himself that fucking two Petes at once is more tiring than pretty much anything else he's ever done, and while it's undeniably fucking worth it, he needs to be well prepared for the aftermath.

Seriously, he's more tired than he can remember being in, like... maybe ever. Tired enough, in fact, that he doesn't even feel that guilty about the way he'd basically collapsed as soon as they were done—especially given that Pete and Baby Pete had pretty much done the same thing. Cleanup had been minimal, all three of them clearly more interested in curling up together like a pile of puppies, sated and sleepy, limbs tangled, Patrick in the middle with a Pete on either side...

Patrick's eyes fly open as he sits bolt upright. On his left side, clearly startled awake, Pete shouts and flails and swears. On his right said, where Baby Pete had been when they all fell asleep, the bed is empty.

He could be downstairs, Patrick tells himself, heart racing. Or in the bathroom. Or in the yard, or in the guest room, or, hell, anywhere. But even as he runs through possibilities, there's a cold feeling in his gut that tells him that none of them are right.

"Patrick?" Pete sits up, touches his elbow. His voice is thick with sleep and confusion, and Patrick turns to face him, swallowing.

"He's gone."

Pete blinks. "He—"

It's obvious when the thought sinks in, because his spine goes ramrod straight and he whips his head around, like he's expecting Baby Pete to just be standing in the corner of the room or something. Then he looks at the bathroom door, which is cracked open to reveal nothing but darkness and silence in the ensuite. All around them, the house is quiet and dim; God only knows what time it is or how long they slept, but everything's dark around them now.

"We should check," Pete says after a minute, but his heart isn't in it. It's clear his gut feeling is the same as Patrick's.

They sit in silence; Pete slowly leans in until he's slumped against Patrick's side, warm and familiar, but neither of them speaks. On the one hand, Patrick knows he should be glad—is glad—because what would they have done if Baby Pete had just, like, been stuck here forever? They'd have had to invent a distant Wentz relative who just happens to look exactly like Pete, or something, and somewhere out there in the multiverse, there would have been a Fall Out Boy missing its heart, and just the thought of that is... horrible. If Baby Pete's back where he belongs, and Patrick has to believe he is, then that's a good thing.

But on the other hand...

"Wish we could've said goodbye," Patrick murmurs at length. They're never going to see the kid again. He's just gone, and not in the gradual way that 23-year-old Pete Wentz had left Patrick's life the first go around, one day at a time and replaced every step of the way by all the versions of Pete that had come after; this one's just gone in an instant. It's not the same thing, of course it's not the same thing, but Patrick's... very sensitive to the idea of losing Pete in the blink of an eye, without any warning. He has been for decades, and he always will be.

Pete shifts a little, rubbing his cheek into Patrick's shoulder.

"Well," he says. "I mean... We probably told him goodbye in basically the best way we could have without, like, actually knowing he was leaving. Right?"

It's impossible not to snort a laugh at that. "I mean, I guess that's fair."

He thinks about it for a second longer, mulling over what it'd felt like to go to sleep with his Pete tucked up under one arm, Baby Pete under the other. Thinks about what it's been like, these past few days, to have so very much Pete available to him at all times, in multiple flavors, even. Thinks about the way Baby Pete had looked at him, when he'd first blinked awake on their carpet and every minute afterwards, like he couldn't believe Patrick was real—the same exact way his Pete's been looking at him for twenty incredible years.

Thinks, again, of what a horrible thing it would be for the Patrick—and the Joe and Andy, and dozens of other people besides—wherever Baby Pete originally came from, if he'd just vanished and never came back to them. Thinks of how empty that world would feel.

He turns and wraps his arms around Pete perhaps a little too suddenly, if the way Pete yelps and overbalances is any indication. Being wrapped around him, on top of him where there's no doubt that Pete is right where he should be, is exactly what Patrick needs right now, though.

"God, warn a guy," Pete wheezes, and Patrick shifts a tiny bit to hopefully make it easier for him to breathe, but he sure as hell doesn't get up.

"I'm gonna miss him," he tells the side of Pete's neck. "But—I've got you."

It doesn't feel like enough, barely scratches the surface of everything that's running through his head, but it doesn't matter; Pete gets it anyway, just like Patrick knew he would.

"Yeah," Pete says, squeezing onto Patrick tight. "Yeah, Patrick, you got me."

—

Pete is having an excellent dream right up until the point where someone dumps water on his head.

He splutters awake and rolls over, curling into the fetal position as though that'll somehow protect him from getting wet, his brain spinning out like bare tires on black ice.

"Shit!" he yelps. What did he do to piss Old Pete off? Has to have been him; Patrick would never—

"Wake up, jackass," a glorious, familiar voice says from somewhere far above him, and every one of Pete's atoms freezes in place. "You were making some super weird noises, by the way. What the hell kind of dream were you having?"

"Holy shit, Patrick!" Pete yells, and uncurls in order to throw himself in the direction of that beautiful voice as quickly and as hard as possible.

It's Patrick's turn to splutter. Pete's leaping hug hits him right in his center of gravity, and they both tumble ass over teakettle onto—oh, sweet baby Jesus—the floor of the van, Pete's back, he is back and he's got Patrick and—

"How long was I gone?" he half-yells into Patrick's shirt, even as he clutches tightly to prevent the way Patrick is trying to squirm out of his grip, squawking all the while. No amount of teenage Stump anger is going to dislodge Pete right now, that's for damn sure.

"Gone?" Patrick asks, whacking him over the head; Pete smiles dreamily at the impact. "What the fuck do you mean, gone? Did you—did you, like, take something? We have a show tonight, asshole, you can't just—"

Things are starting to make sense, slowly. The longer Pete thinks about it, the more he remembers—right, right, they have a show. They're in... Michigan, maybe? And, just like he'd told Old Pete right when he first got... wherever he was before he fell asleep, he'd been napping in the van. That's the last thing he remembers, before waking up in 2023. Catching a nap in the van before a show, in 2003, where, apparently, he hasn't been gone for like... days. Maybe not gone at all.

"Haha, sorry," Pete says, interrupting whatever rant Patrick is building himself up to. He loosens his grip on Patrick, somewhat reluctantly, and shoves himself into a sitting position. It's important for Patrick to be able to look him in the eye right now; the last thing Pete wants is for him to doubt that Pete's telling the truth. Patrick sits up quickly himself, putting a little distance between them—though not much, never all that much. "Sorry, no, I swear I didn't—like, I'd never do that, dude, come on. I'm just... wow, I had, like, a weird..."

Patrick is scowling, his mouth twisted up with it, but it doesn't quite hide the worried tilt of his eyebrows. It also super, super does not hide how pink his mouth is, how his bottom lip looks freshly chewed-on; he must've been practicing before he came to get Pete, 'cause when he gets really into nailing down a lick sometimes he gnaws on his lip without realizing. It always makes Pete want to kiss him, and wow, that urge is very much not reduced now that he knows what kissing Patrick's forty-year-old self is like. In fact, the idea of having something to compare against is making Pete feel more than slightly insane.

"...uh, a really, really weird dream," he finishes, licking his own lips without thinking about it. God, if he leaned forward just a little, if he pulled Patrick close again...

"Whatever, dude," Patrick says, rolling his eyes, and Pete pinches himself on the inside of his arm hard, as discreetly as possible. Not the time. So not the time. "Soundcheck's in 20, okay? If you're late, I'll sic Joe on you."

"Don't worry, I'll be there," Pete says quickly—and maybe a little too earnestly, if the way Patrick blinks and frowns at him is any indication.

"Are you sure you're okay? You're acting weird."

"I'm fine, seriously." Fuck, recalibrating to his normal life after nearly a week in soft, sweet future-land is weird and hard. Should he banter more? Should he make a dumb joke? In the end, he gently socks Patrick on the shoulder and tries a grin. "Go on, I'll be right behind you. Just gotta finish waking up."

Patrick narrows his eyes, and for a second it looks like he's going to press the issue. But then he sighs, evidently deciding this is just normal Pete levels of weird and not something to actually worry about, and turns to go.

"I will actually kill you!" he calls over his shoulder, a parting reminder, before slamming the side door behind him, leaving Pete alone in the familiar, cluttered quiet of the van.

Pete stares after him for long seconds, watches through the window as Patrick heads in the direction of the venue until he turns a corner and disappears from sight entirely. Then, and only then, does Pete allow himself to flop back onto the bench seat once more, his heart pounding as everything that happened in the past—however fucking long it's been in reality, or, like, in this reality, or whatever—tries to catch up to him all at once.

It's all fucking insane. He feels insane thinking about any of it even inside the confines of his own head, and he knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that he'll never be able to tell anyone about this. But he also feels... he feels like...

Slowly, with no one else but him around to see, Pete's mouth curls into a grin.