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Kangaroos, like possums (both o- and otherwise), bandicoots (like Crash), and Tasmanian devils (which Joe had only recently realized were actual animals to begin with), are marsupials. He didn’t know why he knew that off the top of his head—it was probably lodged in his brain from a plaque at some zoo he’d visited over the years—but he’d remembered it at the right moment to say it aloud.
Well, the right moment for him. Not for Pete, tied with him neck-and-neck, nor for the other two who were further behind.
The interviewer laughed, clapping a hand on Joe’s knee as he told him he’d won their little informal trivia tournament, proving himself the most worthy of anyone in the band to tour Australia. Joe smiled back, politely taking the little gift bag some intern passed him, peering inside to see a variety of snacks and, oddly enough, a little stuffed kangaroo, complete with the joey inside its pouch.
Joe wasn’t brilliant. He hadn’t gone to college, but he’d done well enough in high school and he’d picked up bits and pieces along the way, so he knew he stood a fighting chance when the interviewer’d told them his plan after the normal questions ended. A fun little trivia game, something for the fans that barely got to see them on their continent. A harmless, easy way to end an otherwise well-done interview.
The moment they stepped out of the studio and onto the sidewalk, sweltering in the summer heat, Joe felt an intense spike of regret towards ever learning what a marsupial was in the first place.
“It’s just -, it’s stupid,” Patrick said, a step ahead of him. “We’re here to talk about the album, music, shit that actually matters and instead there’s always some bullshit, fan-baity thing they want us to do instead and -”
Joe felt a bump at his shoulder, pushing him to the side.
Sneakers scraped against the concrete as Pete slowed down, finally caught up to Patrick. “You’re just mad ‘cause you lost, ‘Trick,” he replied. He smiled at him, fondness being the only thing that kept the way his lips twisted from being called a smirk. “By a lot.”
And there was the smirk.
“Pete.” One word, spoken in a low, careful measure courtesy of Andy. A warning that Pete, even after months of caution and compromises and promises to be better, still couldn’t heed.
“Oh, fuck you,” Patrick spat. “You lost, too.”
“Yeah, but at least I came close. You didn’t get a single question right.”
“God fucking forbid I go to an interview without brushing up on my fucking -, my Australia textbook. Should’ve read it on the fucking plane like you guys, right?”
Pete leaned in close, placing his hand between Patrick’s shoulder blades. “You’re acting like it was some uber-obscure shit, and it really wasn’t, ‘Trick.”
Patrick shoved him off. “You guys got easier questions than I did and you know it. They asked me about where people came to like, colonize the fucking place, and Joe got a question about fucking kangaroos.”
“Marsupials.”
Patrick glared at him, the blue of his eyes dark as the rim of his hat shielded them from the setting sun.
“It was about marsupials,” Joe said, weakly. “Like a squares and rectangles thing.”
A frustrated groan ripped its way out of Patrick’s throat. “What the fuck does that even mean?”
“All squares are rectangles, but not all rectangles are squares.”
Ignoring the explanation Joe tried to give, Patrick focused on the road instead. “Where’s the car?”
“We’ve got a reservation for dinner down the street,” Andy said, “which we should probably start walking towards sooner rather than later, since it’s half a mile out.”
Finding a restaurant that catered to all of their dietary needs and still managed to make food good enough to warrant a reservation was a rarity on the road. For the first time since they touched down two days ago, he felt excited, at least slightly. A walk would calm them all down, and a good meal would give them something to focus on that wasn’t each other’s throats.
“Fuck that,” Patrick said. He crossed his arms over his chest, keeping them tight to his sides. It didn’t really hide the sweat stains in his pits, which is what Joe thought he probably wanted, but he kept that to himself. “I’m not walking in this fucking heat.”
“We can get a taxi,” Andy offered, scanning the road. “Or Uber.”
Joe pulled out his phone, opening up Safari. “Is Uber even a thing in Australia?”
“Fuck if I know,” Patrick said. “Thought you would. Joe knows all, right?”
He paused, fingers hovering over the smooth screen of his phone.
Mixed in with the scent of the city, sweat, and body odor (someone would eventually cave and tell Andy the vegan shit he bought didn’t work, but it wouldn't be Joe), he swore he could smell something downright rancid . A milkshake left out in the sun for far too long, curdled beyond belief; a moldy cheesecake forgotten in the back of the fridge. It was brief, but it was there, clogging his nose with the worst thing he’d smelled since -
Pete snorted. “Y’know what, Patrick? You’re right. No one gives a shit about Australia, but they do care about vocabulary. Words,” he clarified. “You need to know more than a handful.”
“I know what the fuck ‘vocabulary’ is, dick.”
“You sure? ‘Cause if I had a buck for every ‘fuck’ that came outta your mouth in the past five minutes, I’d pay for everyone’s dinner.”
The scent came back with passion, coating the back of his throat like glue. He opened his mouth to breathe, trying to avoid smelling it any further, but it wouldn’t stop emanating from wherever the fuck it -
“Patrick,” Andy said, slowly, “calm down, man.”
His voice was shrill when he spoke, pitchy in a way Joe knew he rarely was. “Don’t tell me to calm down!”
“It was a joke, ‘Trick,” Pete said, damage control for a disaster too far gone to fix.
“It’s not fucking funny! You’re all acting like I’m -, like I’m fucking stupid or something and I’m not. I’m not! Just ‘cause I didn’t go to college doesn’t mean I’m some fucking idiot who can’t read or write or fucking spell, so stop acting like I am!”
Opening his mouth hadn’t helped; if anything, it made the taste stick to his tongue. He wished he’d kept the water bottle he’d been given during the interview, wanting to wash the taste of it out of his mouth and spit the foulness out.
“I mean,” Pete said, matter-of-fact, “Joe didn’t go to college, either.”
The scent slammed into him at full force. He nearly gagged, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth on the off chance something came up.
Through watery eyes, he managed to see where it came from.
Patrick’s frugality had come back to bite him in the ass. The cheap, stick-on scent blockers he bought, a far cry from the expensive ones Pete used to buy for all four of them, had slipped down, barely covering the gland on the side of his neck closest to Joe. Sweat weakened what little bond it had left, making it clear to anyone within a mile of him how upset he was.
“Fuck you. Fuck all of you. I’m going back to the hotel.”
“No one’s gonna let you in their cab when you reek like that.”
Andy smacked the back of his skull. “Really?”
“Fucking ow, Andy, what the fuck?”
“I’ll walk!”
Patrick spun on his heel, stalking off in the opposite direction.
“Thought you didn’t want to walk anywhere!”
A single middle finger was the only answer Pete got.
The waitress came back with their cards, smiling wide at the three of them. Andy took the stack of small folders from her, smiling right back.
His smile dropped the second she stepped away. “You’ve got to stop antagonizing him,” he said, handing each of them their receipt and card.
Pete rolled his eyes. They’d stayed away from the topic of Patrick for most of dinner, focusing on ironing out whatever it was they were doing tomorrow, but with nothing else to do but go back to the hotel, there was little else to think about. “It was just a fucking joke, Andy.”
“He’s sensitive. You know that. We all know that.”
“Okay, and?” He cracked open his wallet, stuffing his card into the first empty slot he saw. “It’s not my fault he can’t take a joke anymore.”
“There’s a time and a place for jokes, and that wasn’t it.”
“I’m not gonna handle him with kiddie gloves. He hates that, always has.”
Andy sighed. “I’m not saying you need to,” he said, carefully level. “I’m just saying you need to take his feelings into consideration before you make a joke about him.”
“I don’t know what fantasy world you’re living in, but he’s not my fucking wife.”
“No one’s saying he is -”
“Then why are you telling me to act like -”
“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” Joe mumbled, standing up from their table. The two of them didn’t stop, too busy bickering about their missing fourth to take note of him.
Nine times out of ten, Joe was happy to let them take the reins. It wasn’t some beta-submissiveness thing, no matter what his mom had loved to say, moreso that Joe just genuinely didn’t care about winning fights or having his way. If everyone was happy (or at the very least, if Patrick was happy), he would be happy. Simple as that.
Nine times out of ten, he followed what they said. This time, though, was one of the ones where he didn’t.
Halfway down the road, he’d mentioned calling Patrick, seeing if he’d want to join them for dinner after cooling off on his own, and he’d been shot down by both of them. He’d gotten a similar reaction when he’d mentioned calling to see if Patrick wanted anything brought back for him. Andy said it was more likely he’d gone off on his own and gotten dinner, while Pete said that, if Patrick wanted to throw a tantrum and go to bed without dinner, so be it.
That had stopped the Patrick conversation, at least until the checks came back.
He found his way to the front of the restaurant, meeting the hostess that’d shown them back an hour ago, and pasted on his best smile. “Hi,” he said, “I’m sorry if it’s a hassle, but could I order something to-go?”
The door locked behind him, a welcome barrier between the rest of the world and his own room.
He’d told himself that he’d hand the food to Patrick in person, he’d make sure he got it, but he’d been three steps from the door and could still smell the sickeningly saccharine stench coming from his glands leaking through the gap between the floor and door.
Cowardice as self-preservation, a tried and true tactic, told him to leave the food with a simple knock. He couldn’t even wait to see the door open, too scared of what he might see or smell when it did.
It wasn’t fair to Patrick, Joe knew it wasn’t, but he couldn’t stop the way every single strand of hair on his body stood straight when he smelled like that.
It didn’t matter how many times over a decade that he told himself that Patrick’s soured scent, that any omega’s scent wasn’t -
The minifridge opened easily under his hand, boasting a variety of shooters. He chose one at random and cracked the seal.
Patrick was allowed to be upset. He was allowed to be sad and angry and mad and pissy and bitchy and mean and all of the synonyms there were. He didn’t need to stifle his emotions and buy better blockers just because Joe couldn’t handle the scent of a single irritated omega without ducking his head and feeling nauseous.
Patrick was allowed to be upset. That wasn’t the problem.
The problem was, as rare as they were, the moments when Patrick got upset with Joe.
The second opened as easily as the first, but slid down worse, causing him to sputter in surprise.
He wasn’t like Pete—in many, many ways—he couldn’t sit there and justify to himself that the way he viewed Patrick was normal. He couldn’t -, he wouldn’t lie to himself and pretend it was. For the longest time, Patrick was something safe, something sweet to smell and soft to hold and yeah, he was a spitfire, but Joe never got burnt. He sat on the sidelines, watching others run water under their wounds while Patrick came back to him, smoldering sugar that didn’t send Joe running because the smoke in it never wafted his way.
Patrick made him feel special, that way. Even if an odd, misplaced comment or joke happened, he knew Joe never meant to hurt him and so, he never hurt Joe. If worst came to worst, he’d just tell Joe what made him upset, and Joe could apologize, knowing what not to do in the future. What he and Patrick had was special, a bond that he didn’t have with anyone else. He trusted Patrick more than anyone else.
But this passive-aggressive streak he’d gone on, one that’d started during Folie, he -, Joe hated it. He fucking hated it, hated how it made him walk on eggshells around the one person he could depend on for comfort, and it wasn’t Patrick’s job to provide comfort, but he did, he was a soft place to land when everything turned bad until he wasn’t, and Joe wasn’t special anymore, when it seemed like he pissed Patrick off just as much as fucking Pete did, and the comments got snarkier, angrier, his scent soured, and he was mad at Joe for the stupidest reasons, reasons Joe couldn’t help, and it wasn’t his fucking fault if he knew what a marsupial was, he just blurted it out because it was a trivia show, that’s what he was supposed to do, he was following the rules, he didn’t mean to make Patrick feel stupid, he never would, he didn’t want to make him upset but he did, he did, he did , he did and now M-, Patrick didn’t want him anymore, didn’t love him anymore, and -
He didn’t know what time it was.
Bare feet met carpet as he left the bathroom, tracking water into the fiber as he searched for his phone, but not even his phone held the answer ‘cause he’d never unpacked his charger to begin with, had left it unplugged before he’d hopped in the shower with his boxers still on.
“Stupid,” he muttered, shaking his head. Beads of water escaped curls he hadn’t bothered to properly dry, dotting the glass and running into one another. “Fuckin’ -,” he hiccupped, “stupid, ‘s so stupid.”
He wasn’t stupid. Joe knew he did stupid things, but he wasn’t stupid, not like Pete.
He sniffled, snot that he’d thought he’d gotten rid of in the shower dripping out once more.
If anyone in the band was stupid, it was Pete. He pushed and pushed and pushed until people broke, until they snapped and exploded, and Joe constantly found himself as casualty, caught in the crossfire of an argument he had no part in.
He was sick of it, sick of Pete. Sick and tired of him breaking a band that wasn’t just his every chance he got.
If Pete hadn’t run his fucking mouth, if he hadn’t acted like Patrick didn’t know his left from his right or how to tie his own shoes, they could’ve had a nice night. All four of them could’ve gone out for drinks or -, or something, maybe a movie, maybe they could’ve hung out in one of their rooms or the hotel pool or anything but ending the night by sitting in their own rooms, alone.
They would’ve had dinner together.
He wondered if Patrick got his dinner, if he liked what Joe chose for him. He probably took it inside his room and ate it, happy that someone thought of him, cared about him enough to make sure he ate. Someone had to.
A cold feeling spread down his spine, a chill that wasn’t from the water still cooling on his skin.
Patrick could’ve been in the shower, or had his headphones in when Joe knocked. He never heard Patrick respond, hadn’t heard any footsteps or the door open.
Patrick might’ve missed his knock.
Joe lurched towards his door, wrenching it open. Light from the hallway spilled inside, straining his eyes as he stepped out.
Patrick was two doors down, Andy sandwiched between their rooms, and it took all of three steps and ten seconds for Joe to confirm that the box was gone.
Relief washed over him, and he turned, reaching for the handle to his door. He wasn’t confident that he’d get a full eight hours, but knowing that Patrick had gotten his gift might actually help him sleep that night.
The handle swung, but the door didn’t budge, and only then did Joe realize that he hadn’t thought to grab his keycard before barreling out the door.
He swore, whatever word he chose coming out slurred beyond identification. There was no scenario in which he went down to the desk, barefoot and half-soaked, to beg for another card. He didn’t have an ID on him anyways, he doubted they’d give him one even if he tried.
Joe blinked.
The numbers on his door changed, adding two.
He slid down, plopping on the floor crisscross applesauce like a kid on the reading mat. The back of his head thumped against the door, a low noise that he hoped wouldn’t wake its occupant up, and he closed his eyes tight. The last thing he needed was another reason for Patrick to be pissed with him, compounding anger he already had and carrying it into the next day, making Joe wake up to a world where he was still a fuck-up, still making M-, making Patrick angry.
The door scratched against his back, which didn’t make any sense. Wood wasn’t scratchy, not once it’d been processed into a door. Wood doors were smooth, cool to the touch, something he could lean against when he didn’t want to stand on his own but had no one to hold him up.
“Joe?”
His eyes snapped open, locking onto Patrick’s.
As if there was anywhere else they’d go.
“Why -, what’re you doing?”
Joe opened his mouth to respond, took a breath, and -
Patrick had showered. Patrick had showered and eaten and calmed down, but most important of all, he’d taken his blockers off, and sweetness, real sweetness, engulfed him for the first time all day, sticking between his teeth like candy he never wanted to brush out.
He’d take all the cavities in the world if it meant he got to taste that scent forever.
It was better than sex, better than any drug he ever got his hands on. It was vanilla contentment with a layer of white chocolate worry and creamy care, all pointed towards Joe because Patrick worried about him, cared about him, and he wouldn’t care about him if he hated him or thought he was bad, he’d only care about Joe if he thought he was good enough to warrant care in the first place.
“Are you drunk?”
Joe smiled up at him. “Yeah.”
“It’s like, barely ten, dude.”
Another mystery solved. “Yeah.”
“You gonna say anything other than ‘yeah’?”
“Nah,” Joe replied.
Patrick chuckled, and it was music to Joe’s ears. He squatted down, heels lifting off the ground as he wedged small hands under Joe’s armpits. “Come on, Joe,” he said, pulling him to his feet, “up, get up -”
Standing on unsteady feet meant swaying on unsteady feet, leaning against Patrick’s body. An arm snaked around his waist, pulling him through the threshold, and he stumbled through.
“Why’d you get drunk? Did you guys like, hit the bars or something?”
“Just the minibar,” he chirped, loose limbs completely uncooperative as Patrick dragged him towards the bed. He spotted an empty takeout container in the trash, nearly hidden under what looked like half a box of tissues. “Just me.”
His hair dripped onto Patrick’s shoulder as he rested his head on it, his nose a precious few inches from Patrick’s gland. This close, it smelled better than it ever had before, but he was self-aware enough to know that it was probably something in his brain telling him that. Patrick always smelled best to him when Joe took care of him.
It looked like Patrick’s suitcase had exploded at some point, laptop and all of its accessories on the desk while more hoodies than Joe assumed anyone would pack to go to Australia in October were thrown on the bed, no real order to their spread.
“Hoodies?”
“I -,” Patrick groaned, ducking his head, “thought it was gonna be cold. Forgot that the seasons switched when you go south.”
Joe broke free from his hold, flopping down onto the mattress. He knew they had the same bed, standard hotel issue sheets and all, but this one seemed softer, molding around his body.
“What,” he continued, surprise coloring his voice, “no joke about me being stupid?”
“You’re not stupid,” Joe said, muffled by the sheets. He picked his head up and reached out, grabbing the hoodie closest to his hand and bundling it up as a pseudo-pillow. “Never said you were. Not stupid. Just pretty.”
“Just -, uh, what?”
He was pretty, whether he wanted to believe it or not. Joe knew it with the same certainty he knew that Patrick was, maybe, on some occasions, when he was tired and not thinking straight, a little stupid. But he’d never say that aloud.
Joe grinned, dropping his face back down to his pillow to breathe in deep. He didn’t stop until he felt the seams of his lungs stretch to their limits, straining to keep everything inside. “Pretty,” he crooned, “pretty, pretty M-,” he hiccupped again, “Patrick.”
“Jesus, you’re drunk,” Patrick muttered. “Go to sleep, Joe.”
“Can’t,” he said. Can’t, or won’t, it was all the same to him. “Don’t have my fuckin’ card. Key. Keycard.”
“I figured, with the whole laying-at-my-door thing. You can sleep here.”
He stilled, the fabric of another hoodie clenched between his fingers. “With you?”
“Yeah.” Patrick shifted on socked feet, looking between Joe and somewhere on the wall. “Unless you don’t want to. I’m sure they’d give you a key if you went down and -”
“I’ll sleep here,” he said, cutting the other man off. “You -, uh, gonna go to bed soon?”
Patrick nodded. “Just have to get all my shit off of it first.”
His arm swept out, collecting the hoodies and shirts off the duvet and dumping them on the floor. As much as he was loath to let go of it, Joe dropped his pillow in the same pile, then scooted to the edge of the bed.
Patrick walked away, though still in his sight, a single finger extended to flick the lights off. In an instant, the room went dark; he must’ve closed the blinds before Joe came in, because he couldn’t see a single star out of the window.
He slipped between the sheets, feeling the thin fabric fall across his body until they were pulled taut as the mattress dipped on the opposite side.
It wasn’t the first time they’d slept in the same bed together—it probably wasn’t even the hundredth, all things considered—but it was the first time they had since everything went to shit. He’d forgotten what it was like to share a bed with him, how much stronger everything smelled when they were under the same sheet.
“Joe?”
He turned, pillowcase rustling as he tried to look for Patrick’s face in the dark. “Yeah?”
Patrick blew a breath, slow and measured, from his lips, the only noise in the quiet room. “I’m sorry for earlier.”
His heart thrummed in his chest, the rare apology sinking into his cells, heading straight for his core. “It’s okay.”
“It’s really not,” Patrick said, softly. He swallowed, then slunk down into the sheets, covering himself further. “I’m trying to not get all -, y’know, again. Bitchy. I don’t want to ruin the band again but I just -, I don’t know. I’m not great about it when it comes to Pete, and -”
Joe rolled his eyes, thankful that the cover of darkness and lack of glasses on Patrick’s end meant he wouldn’t see the gesture. It always came back to Pete, fucking Pete, Pete-this and Pete-that, the only person Patrick had eyes for. It wasn’t fair; he couldn’t compete with an alpha, he never could. Couldn’t be the alpha son his mom wanted, couldn’t be the alpha Patrick needed.
Just a fucking beta, never enough for anyone to be happy with.
“- then I’m just bitchy all around, and I take it out on the wrong people. And you didn’t do anything wrong, Joe. I shouldn’t have gotten mad at you, and I’m sorry.”
A warm palm pressed to his shoulder, breaking him out of his pity party. “Fuck, you never do anything wrong, Joey. You’re too good for me.”
Joey , his mind sang, latching onto the name. Joey.
Patrick rarely called him Joey, never during the day and never in front of the other guys. It was something left over from their teenage years, years that the others didn’t share with them. One little letter added to the end of his name and he was putty in Patrick’s hands.
“Patrick?”
He hummed in response. His hand sat on Joe’s shirt, searing warmth that would surely scorch a hole into the fabric if he kept it there for any longer.
“Can we -,” he cleared his throat, then blinked, “can we cuddle?”
Patrick’s hand gripped his shirt, dragging him close. “Yeah, we can -, we can cuddle.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. Joe rolled over, worming his way until he was halfway atop Patrick’s chest. His face found its way to Patrick’s gland, but this time, he didn’t keep his distance, shoving his nose right up against it until pure vanilla was all he could smell. Their legs tangled against each other’s, ankles hooked around shins and thighs between thighs without a care in the world.
Patrick’s arms wrapped around his back, holding him tight, and he felt something in the far reaches of his mind finally click into place. This was where he was supposed to be, this was how he was supposed to sleep, cradled close to the omega he loved.
“Goodnight, Joe,” Patrick whispered. “Sleep tight, don’t -,” he laughed, quiet and breathy, “don’t let the hotel bedbugs bite.”
It was rude of him, but he waited, counting the seconds until Patrick’s breathing evened out to respond. It took longer than he expected, knowing Patrick usually fell asleep quickly, but it couldn’t have been more than five minutes before a soft snore started in the back of his throat.
“G’night, Mommy,” he slurred, nuzzling the smooth skin of an unbitten gland. “Love you.”
In his dreams, he didn’t have to wait until Patrick fell asleep.
In his dreams, he said it straight to Patrick’s face, letting each syllable pour from his lips where Patrick could hear them.
In his dreams, Patrick pulled him ever closer when he heard the name Joe called him. He took his face in his hands and smiled that sweet, loving smile Joe would do anything to see directed at him. He would coo at Joe, would say how good of a boy he’d been for him, how happy he was with him. How proud he was of him.
In his favorite dreams, the ones that had him wake up grinning from ear-to-ear, Patrick told him that he’d earned a reward for being such a good boy, and he spread his legs.
Joe didn’t need his imagination to wonder what Patrick’s pussy looked like. They’d walked in on each other changing or showering or fucking enough times to know. He knew the thatch of hair on the front of his cunt was thick, a full, natural bush that he rarely trimmed. It was blond, too, just like the hair on his head, glowing gold in the tour bus lamplight he’d seen it in.
It was so thick that Joe could only remember one time he’d actually seen anything but hair. He didn’t think -, scratch that, he knew Patrick didn’t know about him seeing it that night, but it wasn’t Joe’s fault. He’d gone looking for Patrick after a show during one of the tours for Infinity, he couldn’t remember which one, but he could never forget the way Patrick’s fingers looked as they ground against his clit, whining into the sheets of the bed at the back of the bus.
He’d stood there, staring through the tiny crack between the sliding door and wall, watching as Patrick’s fingers pushed at his rim, disappearing between fat lips. He stood until he couldn’t anymore, until he was convinced Patrick would be able to smell him, and he ran like a coward off of the bus, ignoring every impulse telling him to stay and help his omega, his mommy, in his time of need.
Joe would never, ever run from him again. He’d settle down between thick thighs and suck on his clit like he used to suck his thumb, steady and strong until his mind went quiet. He’d crook his fingers in as he put his mouth to work, feeling the warmth he longed to climb back into surround each digit.
He’d be such a good boy, licking and sucking his mommy’s cunt until his jaw ached and Mommy cried out, spilling syrup all over Joe’s tongue. Fingers would twist his curls until they came loose, ripped from his scalp as Mommy came hard, flooding his mouth because of him.
Good boys got to use more than just their mouths and fingers, Mommy would remind him. Good boys got to fuck their mommies, too, but only if they were big boys, and Joe would whine that he was a big boy, he knew he was. He had five inches on his mommy, he could make him feel small and delicate like he should. His dick wasn’t anywhere close to an alpha’s dick, he had no knot to soothe him with, but it would make do.
If he’d been really good, his mommy might even tell him to sit, to lay his back against the headboard so it wouldn’t hurt too much. Mommy would climb on top of him, would line Joe’s cock up to his hole and sink down, swallowing him whole.
He wouldn’t be able to stop himself from babbling like a fucking lunatic, saying how good his pussy felt, how grateful he was, how much he loved Mommy, until Mommy told him to be quiet. He’d guide Joe’s face to his chest, telling him that he knew how good his Joey was at sucking, that he should put his skills to use on his titties, too.
And Joe wouldn’t waste a minute. He’d surge forwards, latching onto a puffy nipple as Mommy began to bounce, shallow little jumps with one hand on the back of his head so Joe wouldn’t have to let go. Joe's hands would kneed the fat of his hips, his waist, his belly, his tits, fat that he’d tried his best to get rid of but slowly began to gain again since the band got back together.
Joe loved his mommy whether he was skinny or fat, but he couldn’t deny that he preferred Mommy the way he knew him best—fat and happy. He loved it when his mommy’s thighs rubbed holes in his jeans, when his belly and hips spilled over the top of his pants, when his tits pressed against his shirts enough to see, clear as day. Fat and happy Mommy was the best Mommy, one whose brain worked right when it got its nutrients, whose pretty face ended in a double chin, who was soft when Joe curled up next to him on the bus or in a chair, a pillow made just for him, for Mommy’s good boy.
His mommy’s milk would taste better than anything else in the world, beading against his tongue as he nursed. Sweet and water-thin, perfect for a growing boy.
He knew he’d come quick, he always did when he thought of his mommy. All it would take would be a clench or two and he’d lose it, spilling inside of his pussy, filling Mommy up the same way his milk filled Joe up. They’d mark each other from the inside out, claiming each other without the need of a bite. Mommies didn’t bite their babies, after all; family was scent, and after this, Joe would reek of his mommy, painted in his fluids, soaked with his sweat, buried in his cunt.
No one would remember what he used to smell like, but Joe didn’t need to have his own scent. He just wanted to smell like Mommy.
Joe came back to consciousness with Mommy on his cock, the sticky warmth of his pussy a welcome wake-up call. He groaned, rocking his hips forward, wanting to bury his soft cock even further inside, when the body underneath him shifted, snuffling in his sleep.
Joe’s eyes snapped open.
Mommy -, Patrick, fucking Patrick wasn’t on his cock, because he hadn't fucked Patrick last night. He hadn’t eaten his cunt, hadn’t came inside him, because it’d been a dream, a fucking dream, a dream like it always was.
His sweatpants clung to his dick, disgustingly tacky with a full load shot into the fabric without any underwear to act as barrier. Between his own thighs, pressed right against his shaft, sat Patrick’s thigh, having not moved an inch since they fell asleep the night before.
“Fuck,” he whimpered.
Good boys didn’t hump their mommies while they slept, and they definitely didn’t come in their pants. He was better than that, or at least, Joe thought he was, but he didn’t know anymore. His head hurt, his heart hurt, everything hurt and he couldn’t cry to Patrick about it because Patrick would just look at him, disgusted and dirty from how Joe used him, and -
Patrick shifted underneath him, blinking slow as his eyes began to focus on Joe.
“Fuck,” he whimpered, louder the second time around. The backs of his eyes burned, a flood ready to release at first blink.
“Joey?” Patrick asked. His voice was gravel-rough with sleep, deeper than usual and wonderfully warm. “You okay?”
The gates opened, the flood surged forward. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, hiding his face in the crook of Patrick’s neck to avoid seeing the disappointment that would kill him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Patrick, I -”
Patrick’s hand went straight to his back, rubbing slow, soothing circles into skin that didn’t deserve them. “What’s wrong? Joe, man, you’ve gotta talk to me.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’ve just had a -, fuck -, I’ve had a really weird few weeks and I was really drunk and I didn’t mean to, Patrick, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to, it just -, it just happened and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Joe,” Patrick said. He moved, trying to sit the two of them up, only to still when his thigh pressed fully against the wet patch of Joe’s sweatpants.
Joe sobbed into his neck, clinging to him for as long as he could before Patrick told him to get out.
He waited for an entire agonizing minute, choking down tears and smearing snot against Patrick’s neck, before Patrick finally responded. “It’s okay, it happens,” he said, though the strain in his voice betrayed how calm he tried to seem. “It happens, Joey, don’t -, don’t look too deep into it.”
Joe sniffled. “You’re not mad?”
“I’m not,” he confirmed. His hand crept towards Joe’s curls, clumsily patting them. “It happens. I mean, if it was Pete, I’d kill him, but you’re you, Joe. I know you didn’t mean to be a creep or anything. It was an accident.”
His heart began to calm down, slowing down from the panic pace it’d been at. “Thank you,” he whispered, still unwilling to meet Patrick’s eyes.
“Don’t sweat it,” he said. His fingers broke free of Joe’s hair, falling back to the bed. “Just, y’know, you might wanna go take a shower.”