There's a headache twenty minutes from making an appearance setting up early warning signs in Pete's head. They're not, actually, in the studio--they're standing in the lobby-type-room separating the studio from the rest of the building. Blinds are pulled down over the glass windows, though hardly anyone is left in the building to spy on them, and they've been here since eight this morning. Pete didn't finish his last cup of sustaining coffee, leaving three inches of Starbucks house blend to get lukewarm in the bottom of the cup.

Pete has seen these studio walls more than he's seen the sun, this past week. It's getting to the point where every lyric he writes comes out a prison metaphor.

"No, come the fuck on, this line stays in! It's--come on, Patrick, you *know.*" Pete is too tired and incoherent to argue the case for his words, but he shouldn't fucking *have* to with Patrick. Patrick, who's being a stubborn asshole and refusing to give and causing an ache at the back of Pete's teeth, making that part of Pete that's always tempted to just walk the fuck out on this rear its ugly head.

Patrick shakes his head, looking only slightly cross and utterly unmovable. "The lyric flat-out doesn't belong. It's going to weaken the verse, fuck up the flow--"

"You don't *get it,*" Pete snarls, exasperated. They've been edging around this particular fight for the whole day, agreeing to come back to this section of the song later to work out the kinks, and now they can't avoid it anymore, and Patrick is just--being such a dick. He's refusing to *compromise* on this, and he's not even getting that mad, just fucking calmly refusing.

He keeps giving Pete these knowing looks, like he's just waiting for Pete to--something. Pete doesn't know what he's fucking waiting for, in what way he's thinking Pete will snap, but Pete doesn't like it.

Pete just wants him to give him this one god damn line in the chorus. It's like he just can't see what Pete is getting at, at all, which--fuck, it's his *job* to take what Pete wants and turn it into something real, that's just what Patrick *does.*

"No, I get what you want to do just fine," Patrick says, rolling his eyes a little. "I'm just telling you that it's completely not right for this track."

"Fuck *you!*" Pete sputters, and that just makes Patrick sigh and fold his arms like Pete is two years *old* and Pete hasn't gotten more than two hours of sleep a night in more than a week, and they've been in this studio for fourteen hours, and Pete just--he doesn't *mean* to yell, doesn't mean to get up in Patrick's face and scream at him about who-*knows*-what--he doesn't watch his mouth when he's angry, doesn't pay attention to the words coming out of it. But Patrick still looks understanding, patient, compassionate even, until--he doesn't. His hands are suddenly on Pete's shoulders, slamming him up against the studio wall, jarring and hard enough to send a shock through Pete's frame.

He's unsure whether this is going to be fighting or fucking until Patrick kisses him, a collision of teeth more than anything else. Patrick's teeth scraping against the tender inside of Pete's lip, then dragging over the stubble on Pete's jaw, and Pete's still--fuck, who does Patrick think he *is?*

He pushes hard at Patrick's shoulders, grabbing his shirt, yanking his collar to the side. It's gratifying to dig his fingernails into the skin of Patrick's neck and shoulder (a dim part of him notes the aesthetic appeal of his black nail polish against the pale skin of Patrick's throat), and he finally gets enough leverage to push Patrick off of him when Patrick stops mouthing at his neck.

Pete pants and glares. Patrick meets his eyes for a beat, two, before grabbing Pete's wrists and pinning him against the wall above Pete's head.

Pete growls and twists and Patrick gets his thigh between Pete's legs, forcefully spreading him, and when Pete tries to get away it just sends pain through his shoulders.

"You are such a *jackass* sometimes," Patrick hisses, and *now* he actually sounds mad. In a dim corner of his mind, Pete wonders what the fuck he said while yelling.

"Fuck you *twice,*" Pete spits, and manages to wrench one of his hands out of Patrick's grasp, grabbing Patrick's shoulder and pushing. He wriggles out and spins them until Patrick is the one against the wall, making a loud banging sound.

He realizes belatedly that he'd shoved Patrick against the dull edge of a shelf, possibly bruising Patrick a little, and he feels bad about that for a split-second before Patrick tackles him, his shoulder hitting Pete's solar plexus and toppling them both to the ground.

Patrick's on top again, leaning quickly up to straddle Pete, sitting on his waist. Pete reaches up to grab him, push him off, *something* but Patrick slaps his hands away and yanks up Pete's shirt, exposes his skin and Pete, fuck, Pete is arching up into it, he *hates* himself. And then Patrick slides down his body, leaning down to bite his nipple and Pete yells, sound ripped out of him.

Patrick's hand comes up *just* that fast to cover his mouth.

"We're not in the soundproofed room, asshole, do you *really* want Bob or someone to hear you and walk in on this?"

'This' meaning that they're definitely having sex instead of fighting, which means Patrick has won again, dammit.

Pete bites Patrick's palm. Patrick hisses in pain and moves his hand, fingers sliding down Pete's face and over his neck, hovering for a second like Patrick is thinking about grabbing him there, wrapping his fingers around Pete's throat, and Pete thinks yes but Patrick's hand moves away, slides down Pete's side to grip his thigh.

Patrick's weight is all on him, heavy and solid, keeping him down, and Pete has to fight just to get Patrick to lift his hips enough to get at his fly, struggling with the zipper. Patrick's lips are on Pete's collarbone now, letting out sharp sighs against Pete's skin every time Pete earns a little victory: getting the button to open, unzipping, yanking Patrick's jeans down enough to get his cock out. When Pete touches him, fucking *finally,* Patrick bites down on the flesh between Pete's collarbone and his neck. Pete bangs the back of his skull on the floor and grits his teeth against an exclamation.

Patrick rears up, his jeans and boxers around his thighs, panting. Pete pushes his hands up under Patrick's shirt, scrapes at his nipples, but Patrick makes a sound low in his throat and grabs his hands, pinning them above Pete's head again, the carpet rough against the back of his wrists.

Patrick moves up to straddle Pete's chest, Pete's head between his knees, staring down at him.

"Yeah," Pete breathes out. "Fuck, yeah--"

And then Patrick falls forward, and Pete isn't entirely sure he really wants this until he feels Patrick's cock nudge his lips, and then he opens his mouth for it, takes Patrick in like air.

He fucking wants to grab Patrick's hips and pull him *in,* control this, and he tries to twist his wrists out of Patrick's grip. But Patrick just pushes his hands harder against the floor--Pete is going to have the carpet pattern imprinted on his knuckles when they're done.

Pete can move his neck a little, move his head up and down, and he can rub his tongue along the underside of Patrick's cock, but beyond that it's pretty much up to Patrick. And the bitch of it is, he's moving *slow:* sliding himself in and out of Pete's mouth in a deliberate, slow rhythm, going at his own pace and Pete wants to scream.

Pete's used to taking control. Almost every time he's been with guys they've been--bigger, or meaner, or more hardcore, guys who clearly thought they could make him bend, smear his fucking eyeliner or something. Pete only ever bends as much as he wants. Rarely is that a lot, and bottom line? He's used to making people scream. He maybe gets off a little on guys who think they have control because they're six foot tall and as broad across, because they're *edgier* or some shit, making them realize they got topped by the tiny emo fag in girl jeans.

But Patrick... Patrick makes him--

Patrick *makes* him.

Pete's jaw is stretched pretty much as far as he can go and his hips are arching up, humping the air a little, he's so god damn *hard* and the only reason he isn't groaning is because Patrick's cock is stifling any noise he might make. He sucks hard and hears Patrick gasp, and only *then* does the little bitch push all the way in. He finally gets Patrick to fuck his mouth, and feels a little triumphant even though patrick is *using* him, his hips snapping and driving his cock back into Pete's throat.

Patrick comes with this high, shaky sound that's--not his singing voice, not quite, but close enough to be beautiful, something worth savoring. Pete presses his wrists up against Patrick's fingers and swallows, chokes a little but manages to fucking *swallow.* Small victories, once again.

Patrick pulls off, lets go of Pete's wrists and moves so that he's lying next to Pete, at eye level, and reaches down to give Pete's dick a squeeze through his pants. Fuck, Pete doesn't know *how* he isn't naked yet, and he's so fucking turned on that all he can do is groan and cling to Patrick and let Patrick undo his fly, touch his skin oh *god* yes and finally, finally jerk him off.

Quick, strong strokes on Pete's dick, his hand pulling and the friction is *almost* too much. But Pete pushes his hips up into Patrick's hand and it's good, it's so fucking good and Patrick's lips are roaming over Pete's face, kissing his cheek, his ear, mouthing at the underside of Pete's jaw, trailing spit over Pete's skin.

Pete pants and Patrick *squeezes* and that's it, that gets him over, and Patrick presses his tongue against Pete's pulse when he comes.

Patrick lets go of his cock and and rests his hand on Pete's belly, tracing his nails in some vague pattern over Pete's skin. "Mm," he murmurs. "You *liked* that."

Pete snorts. "Fuck off," he says, his voice equally low, hoarse. It's a good thing he's not the singer; his throat's going to be sore for days from this.

Patrick's hand rubs over his ribcage. "We should head home," he says. "We've been in the studio too long, we're not getting anything done."

Pete stares up at the ceiling. "Yeah, no shit," he mutters. And when they come back to the studio tomorrow, he'll probably argue again to keep that lyric in, but Patrick has already won. Dammit.

"Stop sulking," Patrick says against his ear, his voice mild, and Pete rolls his eyes.

''Not sulking." Patrick bites his earlobe, and Pete winces. He grabs Patrick and rolls them over, straddles Patrick and kisses his mouth, pushes his tongue in between Patrick's teeth. Patrick lets him.