
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/909641.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Bandom, Fall_Out_Boy
  Relationship:
      Patrick_Stump/Pete_Wentz
  Character:
      Pete_Wentz, Patrick_Stump
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Historical, Alternate_Universe_-_Titanic_Fusion, RMS
      Titanic
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-08-02 Words: 2498
****** The Tears From Their Eyes ******
by coricomile
Summary
     “I wouldn’t do that,” Pete says, leaning back against the railing.
     Below him, the water crashes against the bow of the ship. “Might get
     your suit dirty.” The boy straddling the railing, no more than a
     pretty sixteen, looks down at him. Pete’s guessing he’s got a lot of
     practice doing that.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Pete says, leaning back against the railing. Below him,
the water crashes against the bow of the ship. “Might get your suit dirty.” The
boy straddling the railing, no more than a pretty sixteen, looks down at him.
Pete’s guessing he’s got a lot of practice doing that.
“Why not?” He asks. His voice is smooth and sure.
“First off,” Pete says, staring at the ocean, “you can’t tell me it’s tragic
being a nancy rich boy. Got enough money to buy an island, yet here you are,
about to jump into the sea.” He can feel the way the boy’s breathing, hard and
nervous. If Pete thought he really wanted to jump, he’d be more proactive.
“Second, it means I’d have to jump in after you. Don’t do that to me. I barely
got on this boat. Don’t want to get off it again.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” the boy says. His fingers wind tighter
around the rail. The bowtie around his neck is wilted. Must have been a long
night up on the top deck.
“That could be changed.” Pete grins at him, toothy and wide. “What’s your
name?” The boy hesitates, the windburn on his cheeks making him look so, so
young.
“Patrick,” he says, eventually.
“Good to meet you, Patrick. The name’s Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz.” Pete holds
his hand out, waiting patiently. When Patrick finally takes it, carefully, he
tugs him down onto the solid ground of the deck. Their chests bump. “The third.
Us poor folk can have fancy numbers, too.”
“Why are you here?” Patrick’s eyes are bright. He doesn’t try to shake Pete’s
hand off.
“Adventure, sweetheart.” Pete puts a careful hand on Patrick’s waist, feeling
the expensive wool of his jacket. When Patrick doesn’t back away, Pete leads
him into a gentle, swaying dance. “We’re on the biggest ship in the world.
Unsinkable, they say. Greatest joy on the sea. Can’t be more adventurous than
that. How about you? What makes you so desperate to jump into the sea?”
“I’m engaged,” Patrick says. It’s a jumble of letters and sounds, more surprise
than anything else.
“Not usually a reason for a person to go off the deep end.” Pete spins him,
fingers dancing along the smooth grooves of Patrick’s palm. When their fronts
settle together again, Patrick’s closer than before.
“I’m not in love with her.” The way he says it, quiet and just off, makes Pete
hum. He knows all about not being in love with the people he’s supposed to
love.
“Not in love with her,” he says, “or not attracted to her? They’re very
different reasons.” This close, Pete can feel the way Patrick’s pulse picks up.
Yeah, he knows exactly what that’s like. “Ain’t a reason to off yourself.”
“What would you know about it?” Patrick asks, the stiffness of his voice part
uppercrust aristocrat, part nerves. He stops their swaying, but doesn’t step
away. His hands, too big for the rest of him, feel cool.
“Come with me,” Pete says. He doesn’t know why. Not really. He should leave
this kid to deal with his poor, sad fiancee now that he’s out of immediate
danger. “I can show you.” Patrick hesitates, looking over his shoulder at the
stairs to the upper deck. “Do you trust me?”
“Why would I trust you?” Patrick asks, head whipping around fast enough to muss
his gelled hair. “I’ve only known you for minutes.”
“Ah,” Pete says, leaning in close. “But you’ve already told me your secrets.”
He slips his fingers into the spaces between Patrick’s and tugs. “It’s my face.
People love telling this face secrets.” Patrick laughs abruptly, a short thing
that startles both of them. Oh, Pete is so in. “Come with me.”
Pete leads him down, down, down into the depths of the ship. The damn thing is
gigantic, easy to get lost in. Pete’s miles away from his terrible little bunk
with the rest of the rats, probably won’t see it again until tomorrow night.
He’d rather be out anyway, mingling with the uppercrust and relieving them of
their wallets. The view doesn’t hurt, either.
The cargo hold is just as sprawling as the rest of the ship, full of boxes and
precious packages. It’s almost as ugly as the lower decks. Almost. Even here
there’s carvings on the walls and gold flecks in the paint. Pete will never be
rich enough to stay in a place like this, even if it is only the place to store
things.
“What are we doing here?” Patrick asks. He sounds wary.
“No one comes here,” Pete says. He leads Patrick around a corner, dragging him
in close. “We won’t get caught.”
“Caught doing what?”
“This.” Pete wraps a hand around the back of Patrick’s head and pulls him in.
He tastes a little like champagne, rich and bubbly and soft. Pete wants to tear
him apart and knock him down a notch. He wants to own this rich boy, all the
way down to his pampered little soul.
“It’s not right,” Patrick breathes. His cheeks are pink, lips slick. The bits
of his hair between Pete’s fingers crunch satisfactorily whenever Pete moves
his hand.
“That’s what makes it fun.” Pete kisses him again, holding him in tight.
There’s little finesse in it- Pete’s too eager and Patrick’s too inexperienced-
but, for the life of him, Pete can’t make himself slow down. Patrick’s warm in
his arms, buried underneath too many layers of cloth and proprietary. He’s
nothing like the French boys Pete’s had before.
When he reaches for the buttons holding Patrick’s jacket closed, Patrick sucks
in a sharp breath. Pete wonders, for a moment, if this will be it for him. If
he’ll go to his properly pretty fiancee and marry her and have proper, snooty
children and be miserable. Maybe he deserves it. Maybe he doesn’t. For now, it
doesn’t really matter.
Patrick shrugs his jacket off, letting it crumple to the ground. It’s nicer
than everything Pete owns. His dress shirt, starched and pressed, is damp with
sweat. A combination of champagne, heat, and arousal. That last one Pete can
feel pressing against him.
“You ever let anyone get under all these clothes?” Pete asks, tugging the shirt
out of Patrick’s slacks. “Get a little dirty?”
“It’s not proper,” Patrick says. His voice is higher than it was, strained. He
undoes his bowtie with a quick tug, letting the ends hang loose around his
neck. It’s a good look for him.
“Easy to say that when the girls aren’t what get you going.” Pete rocks against
him, groaning at the contact. He hasn’t been with anyone in so long.
“You talk so much,” Patrick says. He pushes Pete’s suspenders off one after the
other with swift, sharp movements. “Is that how they do it where you’re from?”
Pete laughs.
“Only the really good ones.” He scruffs his shirt off, carefully stashing it on
top of a crate. Even down here, the chill sinks into his bones. Patrick looks
at him, slow and unsure, his lip trapped between his teeth. Pete puffs out his
chest.
“Exactly how promiscuous are you?” Patrick asks. Carefully, like he’s afraid of
being bitten, he lays a cool, large hand on Pete’s stomach. Pete’s cock
twitches.
“I like to think of it as intensive study. Can’t be too prepared.” He presses
his hand over Patrick’s, stealing the coolness of it until he wants to shake.
“Are you nervous?”
“No,” Patrick answers. He looks up, the corner of his mouth curled into a
smile. “Put your hands on me, Peter.”
Pete doesn’t need to be told again. He tugs open the buttons of Patrick’s shirt
and shoves it open. No matter how much he wants to get him naked, he knows it
isn’t smart. Not now, not here. Even if he hasn’t seen someone check in before,
it doesn’t mean there won’t be anyone tonight. It would be his luck.
The smooth, pale skin in front of him is freckled and soft. Pete wants to
bruise him, leave a mark to remind him of his night slumming. He wonders what
Patrick’s fiancee would think of it. Though it’s doubtful she would ever get to
see it.
Pete slides down to his knees. The rat in him, the part that pickpocketed his
ship ticket in the alley, cringes. He should be throwing this brat down and
making him work, but instead he’s bowing and offering his services, just like
the little prince is used to.
On the other hand, Patrick looks down at him with wide, shocked eyes, pink
mouth open and chest heaving. He reaches a tentative hand out to touch Pete’s
face, fingers barely brushing across his cheek. He looks- scared. He looks
scared.
“Why are you doing this?” Patrick asks, so soft Pete barely hears it. His
bowtie slips to the ground, a flutter of silk.
“Adventure,” Pete says. He thumbs open the buttons of Patrick’s slacks, feeling
the warmth of his under his hand. “I’m always here for the adventure.”
“That must be nice,” Patrick says, voice breaking when Pete finally gets a hand
around him. He’s so hard, so full in Pete’s hand.
“You really want to talk about how nice sucking dick is, or do you want a
sample?” Pete strokes him, slow and sure. He can feel Patrick’s knees shake.
“Sorry, I- Sorry.” Patrick clutches at the crate. “Sorry.”
“That’s nice,” Pete says, leaning in to press a kiss to the hot side of
Patrick’s cock. It jerks, a tiny bubble of liquid sliding over the head. “Rich
boy apologizing to the rats.”
Before Patrick can reply, Pete licks a line up the underside of Patrick’s dick.
It’s warm and salty and so, so responsive. Pete’s been on his knees for more
men than he can remember, but none of them have been as vocal as Patrick, none
have been as eager.
When he sucks the head into his mouth, Patrick groans, slapping a hand over his
mouth to stop the sound. It still leaks out between his fingers, sliding down
to Pete’s level. He wants to suck them up, hold onto them for later, when he’s
in New York and Patrick’s off getting married.
Patrick’s wide, his cock spreading Pete’s mouth apart. Pete’s always liked the
feel of it, of having control. He wraps his hands around Patrick’s hips, the
starched wool of his slacks scratching against Pete’s palms, and presses him
into the crate.
He takes his time. If he’s only going to do this once, he’s going to do it
right. Patrick twitches against his hands, holding himself back into the crates
as Pete hollows his cheeks. Pete can feel the weight of his gaze, heady and
strong.
Below them, the ship rocks. Pete times himself with it, slow ride down with one
wave, long drag up with the next. He’s going to tear Patrick apart and put him
back together, misshapen and broken but better. He is going to ruin him for
anyone else.
He shoves his hand into the bare space in Patrick’s slacks, the buttons
catching against his skin. It’s worth it for the way Patrick whines when Pete
tugs at his balls. They’re heavy and warm, damp. One of Patrick’s hands land on
his shoulder, manicured nails digging into Pete’s skin.
“Oh, god,” Patrick gasps, hips straining forward. “Peter, I’m- stop. Please.
I’m going to-”
Pete pulls off, hand slipping back out to jerk over the wet, slick length of
Patrick’s cock. When he comes, Patrick doubles over, arms wrapping around
Pete’s neck and holding on. Pete breathes out a laugh and topples back onto the
concrete, Patrick following after.
“I’m sorry,” Patrick says again, face pressed into the curve of Pete’s neck. He
moves just enough to take his weight off of Pete’s chest. He’s heavy, but Pete
loves the weight over him.
“Make it up to me,” Pete says. He wraps his fingers around Patrick’s wrist,
guiding his hand down to his straining erection. It aches, trapped against his
pants.
“I’ve never-”
“Yes you have,” Pete says, undoing his own buttons. It’s not going to take
much. He presses his mouth to the mussed bits of Patrick’s hair, breathing in
the scent of his gel. “Do it like you do yourself, when you think you won’t get
caught.”
“Do you speak this way to everyone you lay with?” Patrick asks. His face feels
hot but his hand wriggles it way into Pete’s pants, fingers wrapping around
Pete’s cock. It feels so damn good.
“Only the pretty ones,” Pete says. He rocks his hips into it, arching into
Patrick’s weight. He can barely move, but he doesn’t really mind. Patrick
strokes him slowly, hand wrapped tight. It’s such a nice boy rhythm. “You do it
like this at home?” Pete groans, tries to fuck up into it. “Do you make
yourself think about your fiancee?”
“Stop talking,” Patrick says, muffled into Pete’s shoulder. He twists his
wrist, too hard and too rough. Pete moans. “You talk too much, and don’t listen
at all.” He bites at Pete’s neck, just a little vicious. Pete wants to see him.
Wants to see him fighting.
Patrick lifts up on his free hand, his sleepy, bright eyes meeting Pete’s. He
smiles. It’s crooked and sweet, and Pete’s chest feels suddenly too tight.
Patrick kisses him, a gentle press of lips to his, and Pete comes.
They lay there for a long time, Patrick’s head resting over Pete’s chest, and
listen to the ship rock. Pete doesn’t want to move.
“What are you doing when we get to New York?” Patrick asks. He presses into the
hand Pete lays across the back of his neck.
“I don’t know,” Pete answers honestly. He’s always played it by ear. “Having an
adventure.” He curls his other arm around Patrick’s waist, ignoring the way his
pants are beginning to stick to him. He thinks about Patrick straddling the
rail of the Titanic, about his sweet smile, and laughs. “Want to come?”
“Are you going to teach me how to be a rat?” Patrick asks. He presses a kiss to
Pete’s shoulder, his chest.
“You going to teach me to be a nancy rich boy?”
“It wouldn’t look good on you,” Patrick says. He pushes himself up, pawing
uselessly at his suit. There’s a stain on him that is perfectly obvious and a
mark on his belly, right below the open flap of his shirt. Patrick touches it
gingerly, grinning at the floor. “Too stuck up. You would have to learn to hold
your tongue.”
“Why do that?” Pete asks, pulling him back down. Patrick laughs, the sound so
sharp that it bounces off the crates. “Especially when I can have you do it for
me?” Pete kisses him, and kisses him, and doesn’t think about breathing.
Around them, the ship speeds to New York, silent in the ocean.
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