Work Text:
Patrick calls the house a 'fixer-upper'. Pete calls the house 'a piece of shit'. The devil's in the details.
The realator sells it to them for half cost, even though Pete's pretty sure they could have paid for it in full three times over. Patrick ignores him when he says it, taking the time instead to run his fingers over the cracked, peeling paint on the living room wall, his eyes far off. The house is shitty, but it's theirs now, and that makes something warm flutter in Pete's chest every time he thinks about it.
Pete catalogs the major damages during the walkthrough, frowning. The floorboards in the bathroom are rotting through, the plaster on the walls in the bedroom chipped and cracked. The wood shelves hanging in the dining room and living room are warped, crooked. There's carpet in the kitchen that's stained a weird yellow, the baseboards all a little faded. Thankfully, the stairs are all sound and sturdy, and the pipelines and electric have just been redone, which means they don't have to worry about leaking sewage or being electrocuted, which is nice. Still. Pete's leery as he signs the check and hands it over.
"I want to fix it up," Patrick says later. They're laying in bed, staring up at their new ceiling, pressed together under the covers. Pete hums into Patrick's chest, rubbing his nose through the soft hair there. Patrick flicks his ear.
"I'm listening," he mumbles. He is, too, it's just. Well. New bed, new house. He's got plans, and Patrick's talking.
"You gonna help?" Patrick asks, his hand sliding down the flat of Pete's back. It's warm and rough and familiar, and Pete presses up against it shamelessly.
"If by 'help' you mean 'hire a carpenter', then yes." Pete's delicate. Maybe he can wrangle Dirty into painting something, if he's nice for a couple of days. Patrick rolls his eyes.
"You're useless," he mutters. Still, his fingers are creeping steadily down, and Pete can feel his budding erection through the soft cotton of his shorts. Pete grins.
"I'm totally useful," he says, wriggling under the sheets.
"Yeah?"
"Totally," Pete says into the soft skin of Patrick's thigh before proving just how useful he can be.
---
Being off the road does not equate to having free time. Pete's got meetings for the new Clan store opening, meetings with new bands for the label, and an endless stream of people demanding his face for their club or party or whatever. It's exhausting and stupid and all he really wants to do is stay at home and get familiar with it.
When he makes it home after day three of running across the city, he finds plaster dust on the dining room floor and a pile of raw, unpolished oak in the kitchen. The ungodly carpet has been torn up to reveal a pretty decent hardwood floor beneath, dirty and littered with loose carpet staples. The shelves have been pulled down, revealing old wallpaper where they had been. It looks like a tornado has run through. Pete shrugs and follows the soft sound of jazz through the house until he finds Patrick in their bedroom.
Patrick's hair is damp, curling around his jaw, his skin a fresh pink under the towel wrapped around his shoulders. His laptop is open but instead of the familiar GarageBand interface, there's a window of DIY construction up.
"I thought you didn't do the internet," Pete says as he crawls onto the bed. Patrick hums and clicks to the next site, letting Pete lay across his lap. His fingers brush through Pete's hair idly as he reads over a page about sanding.
"Can I retire?" Pete asks. He closes his eyes and presses his face to the bare skin of Patrick's stomach, breathing in the soft smell of his soap. It smells like sandalwood, musky and strong. Pete presses closer.
"I've gotten used to being a kept man," Patrick says, amused. "I expect to continue living the lifestyle that I've become accustomed to." Pete grins and toes his shoes off onto the mattress. If he curls up a little more, he'll nearly be entirely on Patrick's lap.
"Spoiled rotten," Pete agrees. Patrick's fingers in his hair feel like heaven, rubbing soothing circles into his scalp. Pete hums along with the saxophone and tries not to fall asleep.
---
Parties are tedious, and Pete would like to stop going to them. He smiles for the cameras, puts his arm around a fan’s shoulders, and thinks about Patrick at home, wishing he was there instead. The fan hugs him, and Pete feels guilt coil in his stomach.
“I think I’m gonna head out,” Pete shouts to the manager. He’s filled his part of the deal. Check in the bank, promotion over. The man nods, hands him a drink for the road. Pete smiles tightly and dumps the drink onto the sidewalk once he’s outside again.
The city pulses like Chicago never did, and Pete wishes he’d listened to Patrick, wishes he would have agreed to live in the house three streets away from where he’d grown up instead. Too late now, he supposes, starting the engine of his SUV. Home is where the heart is, and his heart is probably singing in the shower right now.
The kitchen floor has been sanded into something much, much nicer, shiny and almost new. Pete admires it from the doorway, keys in hand. Through the sliding glass doors, he can see freshly stained doors for the cupboards drying in the backyard on wooden sawhorses. A handful of brass knobs are spread out on the counter by size.
Patrick's in the bedroom, dry and half asleep, curled up in the middle of the bed. There's a smear of brown across his cheek, fading off at his temple. Pete smiles and sets his keys on the dresser, crawling into bed next to him. The first rays of sunlight are filtering through the curtains, pale and soft against the sheets.
"Hey," Pete says, throwing a leg over Patrick's hips.
"Hey," Patrick replies sleepily. He yawns and tucks his head under Pete's chin. His breath is sluggish against Pete's throat, just this side of awake. Pete presses a kiss to the top of his head.
"The kitchen's looking good," he says. Patrick mumbles something that sounds like not done. Pete grins and wraps his arms around Patrick's chest. The house is quiet around them, the beginning of morning sinking into it. It's starting to feel like home.
---
Pete manages to beg out of his last meeting on Saturday. He's cheery on the ride home, singing along with the radio as he breezes through the weak traffic downtown. Maybe he can take Patrick out, go somewhere that isn't the house. It's been a week off tour, and Pete's getting antsy. He misses the sound of pavement under bus tires already.
From outside, the house looks beautiful. It's a soft green, two stories surrounded by trees. Pete can see movement through one of the windows, a brief flash of white crossing through the living room to the dining room. A warm rush of home and right and Patrick settles into his chest, and Pete has to take a breath to slow his heartbeat.
Once he's inside, he hears a grunt and a swear, followed closely by a loud clatter of something hitting the wall. It's coming from upstairs, echoing down the staircase into the foyer. Pete follows the sounds of Patrick's muttered curses, amused. He hasn't actually seen Patrick at work yet, and he figures it's probably going to be hilarious.
A board flies through the hall from the bathroom, hitting the wall and clattering down to join the others in the pile. Pete cautiously pokes his head in and surveys the scene.
The rotted floorboards have been, for the most part, yanked out, leaving bare spaces where they had been. Patrick’s knelt on the floor, his white t-shirt sticking to the damp small of his back. The hat he’s wearing is old enough to have gone faded, tipped back over the crown of his head. His jeans are old and loose, the ones that are torn at the knees, held up by goodwill and an ancient toolbelt that Pete’s never seen before. Pete bites back a laugh.
Patrick fits the claw end of the hammer in his hand under a board and grips the handle, yanking up. The muscles in his back bunch under the tight cotton of his shirt, his arms straining as he knocks the board loose, and suddenly it's not so funny anymore.
Pete steps out of the way as Patrick tosses the board over his shoulder, the smack of it against the wall echoing. Patrick wipes the back of his wrist over his forehead, hammer still in hand, smearing dust across his skin. Pete swallows and watches him shove the claw under the next board with a strong swing.
This one is, apparently, stuck in harder. Patrick fights with it, jerking the handle in sharp, strong pulls. Pete keeps his mouth shut, watching from the doorway as Patrick sits back on his heels. Pete can almost feel his frown. With an annoyed huff, Patrick reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it up and off, wrapping it around the grip of the hammer.
And, wow. Pete never gets tired of Patrick being unintentionally sexy. A bead of sweat runs between Patrick's shoulder blades, slipping down, down, down to be absorbed by the toolbelt. His skin is a rosy pink, his shoulders tight as he yanks once, twice, three times the charm. The board rips free with a hinged, rusty sound. Pete steps away again as the board flies out to join the rest.
Patrick pulls a fresh board from the bathtub and lines it up in one of the freed spaces. Pete sucks in a breath as Patrick lines up a nail and lifts the hammer. Part of it is in horror- Pete remembers smashing his hand one time and would like to not see the same thing happen to Patrick, thanks- part of it in admiration of the way Patrick's bicep flexes.
There's no finger smashing, just the sound of the hammer on the head of the nail, driving it halfway through the board. Pete reaches down and adjusts himself. He's trying not to make bad porn puns in his head about Patrick nailing him, but they're going through his head at super speed like he can't help it.
Patrick hits the nail again, the solid sound of the hammer hitting the wood loud in the quiet of the house. He shifts, reaches for another nail, and starts again. Pete bites his lip and steps into the bathroom. He waits until Patrick’s finished before placing a flat hand on his back, sliding up the slick skin to wrap his fingers loosely around the back of Patrick’s neck.
“Hey,” Patrick says, looking up. His face is red, hair sticking to his cheeks and forehead. He’s dirty, dust sticking to his arms and hands and forehead. He wipes away the sweat from his jaw with the back of his hand, and that's about all Pete can take.
Pete can taste the dust when he kisses him, and that’s hot in a way he’d never thought about before. Patrick sets the hammer down and wraps his hands around Pete’s hips, pulling him closer by the belt loops, smiling against Pete's mouth. Pete slides his hands over Patrick’s bare shoulders and grins at the confused look Patrick gives him when he pulls back.
“Manual labor is a good look on you,” he says, laughing when Patrick’s fingers press into the hollows of his knees. He wipes away a smear of dirt under Patrick's eye with the cuff of his hoodie. “My little boy’s a man now.”
“Man, huh?” Patrick asks, sliding his hands up Pete’s thighs. Pete laughs again when he finds himself being hoisted up, wrapping his legs around Patrick’s waist to keep balanced. He does his best to keep his puns to himself and curls his fingers around Patrick’s biceps, feeling the muscles work to hold him up.
Patrick carries him down the hall to their bedroom, hands going tighter around Pete's thighs when Pete presses a wet kiss to the curve of his throat. Pete feels kind of ridiculous, kind of like a chick, but Patrick's strong and hot and manly, and Pete will never say out loud that that turns him on.
Patrick pins him against the door, back to the wall, hiking him up higher. Pete leans back against it, crossing his ankles over Patrick's ass. If he presses up, it rubs his dick against Patrick's ridiculous belt, and the dark look Patrick give him makes Pete do it again.
"Don't," Patrick says, low and sharp against his ear. The brush of his lips over Pete's stubble sounds like sandpaper, and Pete thinks about Patrick in the kitchen working on the cupboards, and he has to take a slow breath to keep himself still.
Patrick runs the tip of his nose down the tight line of Pete's throat, his breath a warm tickle against Pete's skin. Even though he's expecting it, Pete jerks forward when Patrick bites down on the tender spot above his collarbone. It aches, a throbbing that matches his rapid heartbeat.
"What do you want?" Patrick asks, pressing his hips forward. The hard line of his cock rubs against Pete's ass, and Pete doesn't try to bite back the whine that climbs up his throat.
"Fuck me," he says. Patrick's eyes go darker, shiny black pupil blocking out the warm, sunny blue.
Pete tightens his thighs around Patrick's hips as Patrick yanks him away from the wall. He knocks Patrick's hat away and fists a hand in the short hairs at the back of his head, reeling him in for a kiss. It's wet, sloppy and too short, and Pete finds himself falling back onto the bed, sprawled out with Patrick standing over him.
"Leave it on," Pete says as Patrick reaches to undo the toolbelt. Patrick raises his eyebrows but says nothing, raising one knee to rest on the mattress instead. Pete's mouth has gone dry. He watches Patrick crawl up to him, the muscles in his shoulders bunching and releasing as he moves, and his dick twitches in his jeans.
"Turn over," Patrick says roughly. Pete rolls immediately, lifting his hips. "Good," Patrick murmurs, pushing Pete's hoodie and t-shirt up. His hand is hot and rough against the small of Pete's back, fingertips dragging slowly across his spine.
His free hand slides over Pete's hip, coming to rest over Pete's crotch. He presses the heel of his palm against the head of Pete's dick, and Pete whimpers, pushing against it. It sends sparks up his spine, makes his chest feel loose and free. There's a shifting sound, and then Patrick's kneeling behind him, the fronts of his thighs flush to the back of Pete's. Pete groans when Patrick grinds against him, dropping his head to his forearms.
"Come on," he says, pushing back against Patrick's hips. "Fuck me, Stump."
"You want it?" Patrick asks. He leans forward, the soft skin of his belly sliding against what's exposed of Pete's back, and Pete nods fast enough to make himself dizzy. Yes, please. With seconds.
Patrick rolls his hips, holding Pete back against him. He groans, the sound rumbling through Pete's chest, down to rest in the pit of his stomach. He thumbs the button of Pete's fly open, his other hand sliding under Pete's shirt to rest between his shoulder blades. It's a warm, familiar weight anchoring him down, and Pete bites his lip, waiting.
Two sharp jerks and Pete's jeans are around his thighs, the soft leather of Patrick's toolbelt rubbing against his bare ass. Patrick's heat leaves him for a brief moment, then the sound of the bedside drawer opening.
"What do you want Pete?" Patrick asks again. Pete can hear the cap of the lube poping open and shoves his ass back. It should be answer enough, but Patrick's a bastard at the best of times, and he just waits, the pressure of his hand on Pete's back steady.
"I want you to fuck me," Pete grounds out. The sound Patrick makes above him stirs butterflies in Pete's stomach. He's not a girl, and he's been with Patrick for approximately forever, but it still makes him weak, still makes him hard enough to blur his vision.
Pete whines when Patrick presses a finger into him, lifting his hips higher. It burns, too tight, but Pete wants it to, wants to think about this every time he sits down for another meeting, wants a reminder of Patrick with him all the time. A second finger slides in beside the first, a quick twist of Patrick's wrist that makes Pete's cock bounce against his stomach.
"You want my dick in you?" Patrick asks against Pete's jaw, teeth scraping at the soft spot behind his ear. Yes, yes, yes, please.
"Yes," Pete chokes out. "Today, please." Patrick laughs, a soft huff of breath, and then his fingers are gone. The rip of the condom wrapper is loud under Pete's rough breaths, the soft hiss that Patrick makes as he rolls it on louder.
The head of Patrick's slick cock presses against him, and Pete jerks back, forcing it in. It hurts, oh, it hurts, and he'll feel it for days, but that's the entire point. Patrick's hand flies to his hip, gripping it just too hard, slowing him down. Pete whines and tries to work against it, more petulant than pressed, and Patrick digs his fingers in.
"You're an idiot," he says, voice gone breathy, and slides the rest of the way in with one long, smooth stroke.
Pete can feel the soft edges of the toolbelt against his skin, can feel the open edges of Patrick's jeans digging into the back of his thighs. Patrick's hands are rough with grit, the smell of sweat and dust clinging to him, wrapping around Pete and making him dizzy. Patrick's hand fists in Pete's hoodie, grips the hood and hauls him up, and Pete goes, throwing his arms back to wrap them around Patrick's neck. He's on the verge of being too full, rocking back impatiently on Patrick's lap to settle firmly against Patrick's thighs.
Pete chokes on his breath when Patrick thrusts up into him, curling his fingers in Patrick's hair for something to hold on to. It stings, but it's a good sting, and Patrick keeps doing it, hard and quick, holding Pete still against his chest with one arm.
There's a muffled rattle coming from the toolbelt, things clashing together in time to Patrick's sharp thrusts. Pete tips his head back and kisses Patrick's jaw, his throat. Anything he can reach. There's salt on his lips, his skin vibrating. Patrick's talking low and dirty in his ear, voice a constant background to the goodgoodsogood playing in Pete's head.
"I'm going to fuck you in every room of this house," Patrick says. He slides his thighs open further, dragging Pete down, and the angle makes Pete's breathing hitch. He sees a flash of Patrick ripping out the ugly carpet in the kitchen, sees himself laying on his back in the mess that's left over.
He reaches for his cock, fisting himself as Patrick's voice drops out, replaced by the low, deep breaths that means he's getting close. It's nearly too much, his skin oversensitized, the tightness in his gut growing. Something jabs against the back of his thigh- the handle of a screwdriver, blunt and round at the end- and that's it. He jerks against the tight hold Patrick's got him in, coming in hot pulses over his hand.
Patrick's thrusts speed up, the sharp sound of his hips against Pete's ass echoing off the walls. It's too much, and Pete shakes a little through it, holding onto Patrick's shoulders to keep himself up. Patrick's fingers dig into Pete's ribs as he comes, a choked off moan pressed into the hood of Pete's sweatshirt. When his grip loosens, Pete slides bonelessly to the mattress, wiping his hand weakly against the sheets.
"That's gross," Patrick pants, crawling over him to throw the condom away.
"They're dirty anyway," Pete replies, waving his hand at the smudges of sawdust and dirt at the foot of the bed.
"Still gross." Patrick curls up behind, throwing an arm over Pete's waist. Pete's jeans are still down, but he can't be bothered to pull them up. He'll do it when he wakes up.
"Your face is gross," he says through a yawn. "Sleepy time now." He distantly hears Patrick's quiet laugh before the world goes dark.
---
"I figure we can rent it out," Pete says as he walks through the dining room. Patrick raises an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth quirked. Pete flaps a hand at him. "Real Estate is an ever growing market." Patrick's amused smile grows.
The house is positively hideous. Pete had made sure of it before signing the papers. Patrick peels off a bit of tacky wallpaper in the living room, revealing green plaster behind it. He looks over the stained carpet and the leaky ceiling and the uneven widows and presses a kiss to the side of Pete's head.
"I'll see what I can do," he says and reaches for his toolbelt.
Pete loves the housing industry.