Archive of Our Own

Stockholm Syndrome. That's the only explanation for it, Patrick feels certain. The back seat of the limo is like a form of captivity. It's an enclosed space—if you don't count the doors and, okay, the sun roof. The privacy screen is closed, anyway. And, all right, so it's nicer than most cells, with its leather seats and tiny little TV and, fine, an actual wet bar. A gilded cage is still a cage! And, hey, the wedding reception had been pretty confining too, what with groups of people standing around chatting, blocking the exits.

Stockholm Syndrome.

That has to be why Patrick is splayed across the seat, his back sweaty, sticking to the leather even through the layers of his clothes, with Pete on top of him, making a different kind of swelter all along Patrick's front. Patrick's hands fist in Pete's jacket, trying to draw him closer, trying to get more of that heat. Pete nudges Patrick's legs farther apart, and Patrick's body goes with it, all your wish is my command. Pete grinds down, the sharp press of hipbones, the slow drag of his cock against Patrick's. Patrick sucks in a shaky breath and throws his head back, practically begging Pete to suck on his neck, suck harder, use his teeth, leave a mark. There's a very good possibility that Patrick is about to lose what's left of his virginity before they even make it back to Pete's place.

Stockholm Syndrome. Definitely.

Pete is restless, everywhere, strange and familiar all at the same time, skimming his hands up Patrick's arms, over his chest, dragging his thumb along Patrick's jaw, carefully, as if trying to learn the Braille of Patrick's skin. Patrick's lungs feel shallow. They burn. He's not getting enough air. Pete is taking his air. But when Pete breaks away from the kiss to gulp down a needy breath, Patrick follows him, lips wet and ready, trying to get Pete's mouth back.

"Yeah, yeah." Pete swirls his tongue in Patrick's ear, and that should be gross, is kind of gross really, but Patrick shivers anyway. "Fuck, you're amazing," Pete tells him.

Patrick grabs for Pete just as Pete swoops in for another kiss, and the resulting collision sends Patrick's hat flying into the floorboard. He makes a half-hearted grab for it, too focused on the way Pete's hands are advancing up his chest to really care. About his hat. If that isn't clear proof of a psychiatric condition, Patrick doesn't know what is.

"Leave it," Pete says, sifting his fingers through Patrick's hair. His mouth is next to Patrick's ear, teeth worrying the lobe. He says something else, something that might be: "No secrets. We're going to be husbands."

"What?" Patrick blinks. He didn't know Stockholm Syndrome affected your hearing.

Pete licks Patrick's neck, and then Patrick doesn't really care what Pete said or that he himself might be having aural hallucinations. Pete arches over him, the slow of undulation of hips, and fuck, fuck, fuck, that's hot. Pete has one button open on his shirt, revealing a teasing glimpse of tanned skin, an almost delicate collarbone and black ink. Patrick runs his hands up and down Pete's body, feeling slim muscles, compact strength. He didn't get to see Pete naked before, and he wants that. He wants to see Pete's body now.

Somehow, these words come spilling out of his mouth. He blinks, startled by the sound of his own voice.

"Fuck." Pete's body jerks, and he bites his lip, his teeth so sharp and white, his mouth so soft and pink. Pete's eyes are suddenly darker than dark, the pupils completely blown. Then he's grinding down, and Patrick is arching up, and Patrick may not even last long enough to get fucked in the back seat of the limo. He may not last long enough to get his pants open.

Pete nuzzles Patrick's neck. "Mmmm. God. If you were any more perfect—" His head snaps up. "Hey, wait, I forgot to ask before. You don't sing, do you?"

"Everyone sings," Patrick says, pawing at Pete's shoulders trying to pull him back down.

"No, no, I mean— Sing for me."

Which is possibly the most ludicrous request anyone has ever made in the middle of smoking hot sex since the beginning of ever, but Pete is braced on his arms, looking expectant, apparently perfectly serious. Most of everything Patrick has learned in life fell right of his head the moment Pete climbed on top of him. The only song he can remember is "She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain," which they used to sing back in the fourth grade. Also, it's kind of hard to breathe with Pete lying on him. But whatever. If this is the only way to get Pete to go back to sucking on his neck…

Pete's entire body shudders halfway into the first line. "Don't stop, don't stop," he pants when Patrick's voice falters. Patrick keeps going. Pete cries out wildly, and then there's the feeling of hot-wet on Patrick's leg.

"Shit, shit, fuck, sorry!" Pete says breathily, scrambling off Patrick. He yanks his Blackberry out of his jacket pocket and bends his head over it, his thumbs flying.

Patrick pushes up onto his elbows, frowning. "What are you doing?"

"Googling leafy Iowa hamlets," Pete says, concentrating intently.

"What?" Patrick's voice rises.

Pete darts a glance over at him, and his eyes go wide at the sight of Patrick's cock tenting his pants. "Oh. Oh. Right. Sorry."

He's apparently a genius of multi-tasking, which he demonstrates by opening Patrick's pants, taking out his cock and working him over with quick, bone-melting pulls, all the while clicking away at the Blackberry.

"I've got it!" Pete declares excitedly. "The perfect place for us to get married!"

It's purely coincidence, purely, that Patrick comes in Pete's hand at this precise moment.

"Huh?" Patrick says, when the speech centers of his brain start functioning again.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" Pete asks brightly. "Any plans? Because you're going to need to cancel them."

"Huh?" Patrick says again, more urgently.

"I've always wanted to see Iowa," Pete says thoughtfully. He knocks on the divider, which slides open. "Hey, Charlie, change of plans. We're going to the airport instead."

"HUH?" Patrick practically screams.

Pete gives him a worried look. "You're not having trouble with your hearing, are you?"

I'm having trouble with the fact that you're a crazy person. But Patrick's beleaguered brain can't quite manage the miracle of speech right at the moment, and all he can do is stare.

"I'll put 'take Trick to the ear doc' on the to-do list, just in case." This is what Pete concludes from Patrick's silence and once again bends over his Blackberry.

Patrick frantically reviews the crash course in kinky sex terminology he got at the escort service. Maybe "go to Iowa and get married" means "naughty shenanigans with sheep" or something. Maybe that wouldn't actually be an improvement.

There's no chance for escape while the car is doing sixty on the Loop, but Patrick resolves to refuse to get out at the airport. This will be his last stand, his line in the sand, the proverbial straw that will break the proverbial camel's back. He will not step foot in that airport, huh-uh, no way.

Except...then they arrive at the terminal, the one for private planes, rather than the main terminal that Patrick is used to. Perhaps it's this element of surprise or the flurry of activity that Pete goes in to that knocks Patrick off his line-drawing game. The next thing he knows, he's blinking in the perky glare of airport fluorescent lighting.

This has to be some roleplaying thing, right? Patrick thinks desperately. Because someone who actually intends to marry the escort he's known for a matter of hours would have to be pathetic or a raving lunatic, and Pete isn't either of those things. He casts a sidelong glance at Pete, just to confirm this analysis. Pete catches him looking and breaks into a smile that's utterly demented with happiness. Patrick quickly revises his opinion: Well, at least he isn't pathetic.

"Oh hey, there's my assistant Sue. She got here fast." Pete waves to a pixieish blond weighed down by overnight bags and steers Patrick over to her.

"Hi ya, Mr. Wentz," Sue says. "I got the stuff you wanted. Here." She hands one bag to Pete. "And this is for—" She looks inquiringly at Patrick.

He supplies his name, takes the bag and asks, "What—"

"Clothes," Pete tells him. "I figured we could use them after...you know." His mouth curves into a lewd grin.

"Oh, God." Patrick ducks his head, his cheeks burning.

Sue shoots him a consoling look that seems to mean: Don't worry about it, people are always having indiscriminate sex in the back seat of limos with my boss. Or at least that's how Patrick interprets it.

"So," Sue says to Pete, "should I cancel your meetings for Monday? Will you still be, um...on vacation?" From her expression, it's clear she's trying to be delicate and not suggest: You know, when you're finished having hot monkey sex in America's heartland.

"Actually, we're getting married," Pete tells her, with a big, goofy grin.

Sue blinks very deliberately, at least a half dozen times. "Um…good luck?" Her voice lilts up uncertainly.

She and Pete go over some business stuff. Patrick doesn't pay attention. He's too busy panicking. Sue wishes them a good trip and gives Patrick a smile, of the shifty-eyed variety, that practically screams: I'd like to be reassuring here, but you're running off to marry Pete Wentz.

It is clearly time to flee.

But before Patrick can take off for freedom, Pete says, "Let's go get cleaned up."

In the restroom, Patrick gets another shock when he opens the overnight bag Sue brought him. "These are my clothes." He stares at them, half hoping it's a mirage.

"Yeah?" Pete's expression is blank; clearly, he has no idea why this is an issue.

Patrick takes a breath and lets it out. "How did you get my clothes?" he asks, as patiently as he can.

"Oh." Pete's face lights with understanding. "I had Sue go by your place. The super let her in."

Patrick makes a mental note to yell at his super, really fucking loudly. "But how did you know where I live? How do you even know my last name?"

Pete waves his hand. "Just did a little research. Checked the music departments of the local colleges. There are fewer Patricks than you'd expect."

Some of Katie's comments at the wedding are starting to make a lot more sense. Patrick carefully bolts the stall door while he changes clothes.

It has to be Stockholm Syndrome. There's no other way to explain why Patrick lets Pete sling an arm over his shoulders as they leave the bathroom. Why he passes a handful of TSA agents without whispering to one of them that he's traveling with a dude who's crazy and possibly dangerous. Why he doesn't bolt for freedom when Pete beams at the woman on janitorial detail, declaring for everyone in the very small lounge to hear, "Hey, guess what? We're on our way to get married."

There's no other explanation for why Patrick doesn't even pull away when they settle onto seats—"just until the plane's gassed up," Pete says—and Pete insists on holding hands like they're in junior high school, rubbing speculatively at the third finger on Patrick's left hand, wondering aloud: "What size ring do you wear?"

It's just roleplaying, Patrick tells himself, in a doomed attempt to fight off a panic attack.

"Hey, I'm thinking candy for the plane. You want?"

Patrick shakes his head numbly, and Pete traipses off in search of sugar and artificial flavoring. It would be so easy, Patrick realizes, to just get the hell out of there. He visualizes the steps in his head : stand up, put one foot in front of the other all the way out the door, flag a cab, go home, move to a new apartment, quit the escort service, get a perfectly uneventful job working at McDonald's, and live the rest of his life entirely Pete-Wentz-free.

Somehow none of this intricate planning translates into actual action, and he's sitting in exactly the same spot when Pete returns from his candy-buying expedition with a plastic bag dangling from his wrist. He roots around in it, comes up with a familiar red package and presses it into Patrick's hand.

Patrick blinks. "I love Skittles."

Pete beams. "I had a feeling." And then with fondness, "We are so meant to be."

Just like that, not only is Patrick not getting the hell out of there, but he's tilting his chin up for a kiss.

Stockholm Syndrome, a voice whispers in his head.

Patrick doesn't think much about the fact that they're traveling by private plane until they board. He expects it will be like the small plane he took once when he went to visit his Aunt Agnes in Wabasha, utilitarian, the kind of plane that might spend time crop dusting when it was between passengers.

Pete's plane is not like this at all. It's bigger than Patrick's studio apartment, with wide leather seats and a big screen TV.

"What do you do for a living?" Patrick asks.

"I run a company," Pete says breezily. "It's cool. Here. Sit here." He steers Patrick over to one of the plush seats. "I have a surprise. I'll be right back."

As if there haven't been enough surprises already, Patrick thinks. But he sits there, and he waits, and when Pete comes back, he's carrying an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne. There are strawberries, too. Of course there are. Patrick doesn't bother to mention that he really doesn't drink. He just accepts the flute and chinks glasses and takes a gulp. The dry bubbles make his throat burn, not unpleasantly. Pete leans in for a kiss, and Patrick licks the taste of booze from his mouth. He's already maybe a little light-headed.

This doesn't seem like a reason not to finish his champagne and ask for a refill. He's having one of those days, the kind where you roleplay getting married to a hot guy you barely know. Patrick tips back his glass and then reaches for Pete, pulls him in for another long kiss.

When he lays his head on Pete's shoulder, he tells himself he's just going to rest his eyes. The next thing he knows he's jarred awake by a snore, and there's dampness spreading beneath his cheek.

Pete drops a kiss to the top of Patrick's head. "In sickness and in health and even in drool." There's a smile in his voice, a fond smile.

If Patrick didn't have Stockholm Syndrome, he'd be playing armchair psychiatrist about now, trying to diagnose Pete. Or better yet, he'd be formulating a plan of escape for when they get to Iowa. As it is, he's just thinking that Pete smells really good.

The plane lands, and they tramp through the airport to the rental car place. They pass families with babies in strollers and teenaged brothers elbowing one another playfully and businessmen in rumpled suits running to catch the last flight out for the night. The bright, caffeinated smell of coffee hangs over everything. It's all so...normal, like they're just two regular people on their way to Disneyland or something, instead of a crazy man and the hooker he's dragged to Iowa to act out the part of husband-to-be.

"Mustang or Corvette?" Pete asks, as he looks over their options at the rental car counter.

Patrick shrugs. "But I think it should be red."

Pete breaks into a smile, as if this is the right answer.

"So, it's getting kind of late," Pete says when they climb into the car, a red Mustang, as it happens. "The town we're going to is, like, another hour or two. I say we find a hotel and get started early in the morning."

It seems sensible—well, as sensible as any of this can be. Pete pulls into a Doubletree right off the highway. He sends Patrick to scout out their food options while he checks in, and they grab a quick bite in the hotel dining room. Upstairs, Pete slides the card key in the door, holding it open like a gentleman to let Patrick inside. Suddenly Patrick's palms are sweaty enough that he'd like to wipe them on his pants. Pete was going to take him home and fuck him. That was the deal, and Patrick doesn't imagine that's changed just because they've ended up at a hotel in the Hawkeye sate instead of Pete's apartment.

Patrick deals with his anxiety by pulling Pete in for a kiss. It isn't calming, but he does enjoy it very much.

Pete tightens his arm around Patrick's waist. "Mmm," he murmurs into Patrick's mouth.

They stand there kissing for who knows how long until Pete finally pulls away, and Patrick assumes this will be the start of nakedness. Instead, Pete picks up his bag and heads for the room's connecting door.

"What are you doing?" Patrick asks, frowning.

"I'm next door." Pete gestures with his head.

Patrick stares at him. "Huh?"

Pete smiles and leans in to kiss him again. "It's bad luck to sleep together the night before the wedding, Pattycakes. Everybody knows that. You don't want us to have bad luck, do you?"

Patrick's eyebrows draw together in consternation at the Pete-logic. "I think it's seeing the bride in her dress before the wedding that's bad luck, and in case you didn't notice, there's no bride in this equation. Or any dresses. I mean, I'm assuming. Also, we already had sex this evening."

"Yeah, but that was before we knew we were getting married tomorrow," Pete says, as if this makes all the sense in the world. "I take your virginity very seriously, Lunchbox. And I'm going to wait until our wedding night."

Patrick's face goes instantly hot. "I'm not a virgin!" he sputters. "Just because I haven't—"

"Semantics, baby." Pete lays his hand against Patrick's cheek. "Don't make me break out the term 'ass cherry.'" He presses a quick, hard kiss to Patrick's mouth and disappears into the other room, shutting the door firmly before Patrick can marshal another argument.

"That's just fucking fantastic," Patrick says grumpily to his empty hotel room. This is taking roleplaying entirely too far, in his opinion.

He lets out a sigh, making his peace with the fact that he's not going to get laid tonight. He thumps around the room, taking out his pajamas and brushing his teeth, getting ready for bed. He's not going to think about Pete, not going to give him the satisfaction. He slides between the covers, turns off the bedside lamp, rolls over onto his side, determined to sleep. About thirty seconds later, he sighs and flops onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. He's not going to be able to sleep at all, and he's totally thinking about Pete.

Patrick can't help remembering what Pete's body felt like against his, the tight-hot stretch of Pete's mouth around his cock, the fact that Pete really, really did smell incredibly good. His body doesn't care that Pete is crazy. It's not troubled in the least that Pete has dragged Patrick all the way to Iowa to play out some nutty nuptial-fetishizing sex scenario. Patrick's cock is hard, slick against his belly, thrumming demandingly, all Pete, Pete, Pete.

He doesn't want to do it, doesn't want to give in, but...he does. He lets out a little hiccupy groan when he wraps his palm around his dick, closing his eyes, picturing long, tanned fingers. In a fit of exploration, he reaches down with his other hand and rubs at his hole. This isn't something he usually does, and he pushes in a finger slowly, tentatively. He figures he should check it out at least, since tomorrow Pete is going to pretend to marry him and then make believe they're on their wedding night and then... Patrick comes all over himself.

Uh-huh. Stockholm Syndrome.

Morning arrives way too early, with Pete pushing coffee at Patrick and haranguing him to get dressed faster. "Big day, Pattycakes. We've got to get a move on."

They pack up the car and start driving, past stockyards and fields surrounded by white board fences. Patrick stares out the window at the passing blur of heartland. Pete hums tunelessly under his breath. Patrick tries to ignore the fact that what he's humming is the Wedding March.

Almost two hours later, Pete declares, "We're here."

He parks the car, and they get out and look around. There's a definite Rockwellian vibe to the place, with its neatly manicured town square, white steepled churches, and brick courthouse.

"Huh," Pete says. "I thought it'd be leafier."

"It's been a late spring," Patrick offers. "The trees really haven't had a chance to fill in yet."

Pete smiles blindingly. "I'm going to love having a smart husband."

They spend the rest of the morning rushing around doing errands for the fake wedding, even getting a real marriage license. It seems like a lot of trouble to go to for roleplaying, but Patrick supposes that Pete gets off on the authenticity of it or something.

After a quick lunch, Pete pulls Patrick into a jewelry store. "Can't forget the rings, dude." He hustles Patrick up to the counter. "We've got to keep to our schedule, or we're not going to make it to the justice of the peace by four." He turns a big help me, because I'm charming smile on the man behind the counter. "We're here to buy rings."

The man scratches at his ear. If he's moved by Pete's charm, he's a genius at concealing it. "What kind of rings?"

"Wedding rings," Pete declares proudly, his face as bright and shiny as a kid's on Christmas.

The jeweler nods. "We got those." He shuffles off down the counter, stopping, unlocking the case, and taking out a velvet-lined tray.

Pete peruses them, a pinch of concentration between his eyebrows, and then his eyes light up. "This!" He picks up a ring and reaches for Patrick's hand, sliding it onto his finger. He tilts his head appraisingly, stroking his thumb across Patrick's palm, and then glances up, smiling. "It's perfect. Just like you."

Patrick feels a rush of emotion, welling up, threatening to choke him, which is utterly ridiculous considering the circumstances. It's probably just because he really does want to get married someday. That has to be it.

"We'll take these," Pete tells the jeweler. "Can we get them engraved while we wait?"

The jeweler nods. "You know what you want 'em to say?"

"Yes," Pete says, not taking his eyes off Patrick for a moment. "'There's a light on in Chicago.'"

There's that pesky surge of feeling again, and Patrick finds himself leaning in, kissing Pete on his sweet-talking mouth, because, because...Stockholm Syndrome. He's several long seconds into licking Pete's very pretty top lip when he becomes conscious that the jeweler is standing right there, staring at them. Patrick jerks away, embarrassed, and wondering if they're going to have to run for their lives.

The jeweler just shakes his head. "Young love. Enjoy it while it lasts," he tells Patrick. "Before you know it, he'll be making tofu patties for dinner because the doc has some stupid hang up about your cholesterol, and withholding sex because he thinks you watch too much football."

"Uh—" Patrick comes up with absolutely no response to that.

"I'll get your rings." The jeweler shuffles off to the back room.

The moment he's gone, Pete takes Patrick's hand and declares solemnly, "Lunchbox, I promise that I have no idea how to cook anything, and I plan to have sex with you every night of our lives, if not more often than that." He frowns. "Should I sign a pre-nup about that?"

Patrick shakes his head, blushing. "That's okay. I'll take your word for it."

Pete's face lights up. "Trust is really important in a marriage." He kisses Patrick on the nose.

Their next stop is the bed and breakfast where Pete has them booked for the night. "Just so you know, this isn't our official honeymoon," Pete says, as they pull into the parking lot. "I'm totally not cheating you out of Cabo. Or, hey, Hawaii, if that's what you have your heart set on. I just couldn't go jetting off without some notice at work, and, dude, you've totally got school, and you can't miss classes. But soon. Lazing around in the sun and having non-stop sex. Very soon."

Inside, there's an apple-cheeked lady behind the front desk, who looks like her name should be "Gretchen" or "Heidi" or something Alpine like that. She smiles cheerily and says, "Welcome to The Brass Lantern."

"Great to be here," Pete tells her, with a big smile. "We're booked for the honeymoon suite."

Of course they are, Patrick thinks. He's beginning to wonder if Pete's obsession with roleplaying is maybe a tad bit certifiable.

The owner lady beams at them, naturally suspecting none of this. "Yes, yes, you're all set, and may I add, congratulations. You look like a very happy couple."

Pete nuzzles Patrick's temple. "Totally meant to be."

They follow the lady upstairs, and Patrick hisses under his breath, "When did you have time to arrange all this?"

Pete waves his hand airily. "Stuff just comes together when you know what you want." He gives Patrick a meaningful sidelong look.

Pete's powers of make believe are really starting to creep Patrick the fuck out.

The lady shows them to a room at the end of the hall. Pete bounces on inside and calls out, "Hey, Patrick, there's a canopy. How awesome is that?"

Patrick stalls in the hallway, his heart doing this little thump-thump-stutter that might be the beginning of an anxiety attack or possibly an actual heart attack. Still time to get the hell out of here, he thinks wildly. He can hitchhike back to Chicago. That's probably no less crazy-dangerous than staying here with Pete.

The owner lady pats his reassuringly on the arm. "Don't worry," she tells him. "Everybody gets jitters, no matter how in love they are."

Patrick starts to sputter that they're not in love, but then thinks better of it. He doesn't want to have to explain the roleplaying. He's not even sure he understands it himself.

"Oh, hey, we should start getting ready," Pete says, when Patrick joins him in the room. He hoists his overnight bag on his shoulder. "The owner lady's letting me borrow another room to get dressed in." His face twists into a cross between a grin and a leer. "Don't want to take the mystery out of things." He nods at a garment bag hanging on the closet door. "I got your tux cleaned."

"When did you do that?" It comes out shrill and a little hysterical. Patrick doesn't know why this is the thing that pushes him over the edge,. but for whatever reason, Pete taking care of his drycleaning totally crosses the line.

Pete waves his hand. "You know."

No, no, no, a voice raves in Patrick's head. I don't know. I don't know anything anymore.

Patrick says in a panic, "Look, I really can't—"

"Wait?" Pete waggles his eyebrows in the direction of the white-lace-covered confection of a bed. "Yeah, me either. But it'll be worth it on our wedding night."

"Wedding night?" Patrick squeaks. It sounds so much more insane now that's imminent.

Pete smiles. "It's going to be totally awesome." He kisses Patrick quickly on the mouth. "See you in a few."

He heads off, leaving Patrick with nothing to do but get dressed for his so-called wedding. He pulls his clothes on mechanically. He can't really feel his hands. He adjusts his hat, glancing in the mirror. He looks like a dude who's in way over his head.

Pete is already waiting for him by the time Patrick makes it downstairs. He also has on the same outfit from the wedding—the other wedding—but still manages to take Patrick's breath away with how amazing he looks. Maybe it's because his face is glowing with happiness, as demented as that is, like an actual groom marrying the actual love of his life on his actual wedding day.

Pete licks his lips at the sight of Patrick. Subtle he is not. "God, I could eat you up." He pulls Patrick in for a quick kiss and a lingering hug.

Patrick clings. "Pete." He presses his nose into the curve of Pete's neck, breathing in. This is the crazy thing about Stockholm Syndrome, the only thing you have to hold on to is the very person who's holding you hostage.

They drive to the courthouse and go inside. There are other couples milling around in the corridor outside the justice of the peace's office. Any moment now, Patrick expects Pete to declare: "Okay, good enough." And spirit Patrick off, back to the bed and breakfast to get down to the sex.

Instead, Pete goes up to the lady in the powder blue suit, who's working the reception desk, hands over the marriage license and says, "We have an appointment to get married at four."

The lady gives them a big, sugary smile. "You and your husband-to-be are all set, Mr. Wentz. We'll be ready to start your ceremony in about five minutes."

Ceremony? Five minutes? The terrifying truth filters into Patrick's shocked brain: This isn't roleplaying. This isn't roleplaying at all!

"Can I speak to you a minute?" Patrick says to Pete, his jaw clenched.

"Oh, yeah, sure, Patty—"

Patrick grabs him by the tuxedo and hauls him off to a private corner. "This— This is—" Words completely fail him. "I can't go through with this."

Pete's eyebrows draw together in concern. "Is this because I didn't get you a bouquet? Because I totally thought about it, but I didn't want to go in for any of that gender stereotyping shit. I mean, I figure we're both the husband and the wife, you know?"

Patrick grabs him by the lapels. "That's not it! We don't even know each other! We have no business getting married. "

"It's perfectly normal to be nervous," Pete says, in a soothing voice that would be appropriate if Patrick were an eight year old or a complete idiot.

"Nothing about this is normal!" Patrick's voice rises hysterically.

Pete just shrugs. "Who wants to be normal?" When Patrick starts to sputter, Pete grabs him by the arm, his grip firm. "No, seriously. Just listen. We have this total connection. Don't lie. I know you feel it. And we could wait and get to know each other better. Or we could get married and get to know each other better. So why wait?"

"That's—" Patrick shakes his head. "I don't even know what that is."

"Dude, it totally makes sense. And getting married is all," Pete waves his hand, "practical and stuff, too. We can live together, cut down on expenses. You can afford to quit your job, which you really, really need to do because something could happen to you. Like violence and diseases and shit. And," Pete makes unhappy eyes at Patrick, "those other dudes might not appreciate you, and that would just be...wrong. And no one will ever appreciate you more than I do."

Patrick mutters, "That's kind of the terrifying part."

"Are you just, like, seriously opposed to marrying me or something?" Pete looks like a puppy that's about to be kicked, which shouldn't matter. Patrick totally shouldn't care.

But he does. "No, it's not— I mean, maybe if I—"

Pete breaks into a huge smile. "Cool. I'm glad we got that settled. I think the justice of the peace dude is ready for us."

He sweeps Patrick back inside, and the next ten minutes are like that scene in The Princess Bride, only the judge doesn't have a lisp and Patrick has a vague memory of saying "I do." The next thing he knows the guy in the black robes is declaring them husbands and Pete is planting a big, smacking kiss on his mouth.

The rest is a blur, people in the courthouse congratulating them, the cool feel of the pen in his hand as he signs the register, the gentle rain of birdseed from well-wishers gathered outside to cheer on gay marriage. The only thing that feels real is Pete's hand holding onto Patrick's, their fingers laced together—which is a total fucking irony, since Pete is the most unreal thing of all.

"I made us a reservation for dinner," Pete says, once they're in the car.

Patrick nods absently, fiddling with the ring on his finger. It feels oddly weighty. He thinks fleetingly of his ill-fated career as a callboy. He had all of three clients, and he managed to end up married to one of them. He totally fails at prostitution.

Dinner is someplace out in the country, farther out in the country anyway. They pass green fields and cows and jaunty red barns, reminders that normal life still exists. The restaurant looks like a doll's house, everything frilly and just so. The food smells incredible, probably tastes good too, but Patrick can only manage a few bites. His stomach is practically doing somersaults.

It's dark by the time they start back to the bed and breakfast. Pete is quiet, lost in his thoughts. Patrick's mouth is too dry to try making conversation. They're going to go back to the inn and have sex. This was why Patrick came along on this crazy ride in the first place, and isn't there an after-school special in that? Patrick had been fine with the sex plan, more than fine. But that was before, before... Patrick twists the ring on his finger. God. Before.

At the bed and breakfast, they head upstairs. It's only when they're alone in their room together that Patrick's brain finally snaps back to full awareness, and then he's too painfully conscious of everything, the touch of clothes on his skin, the sound of Pete's breathing, the fucking bed that someone has oh, so helpfully turned down.

Patrick's legal knowledge is sketchy, based mostly on Law and Order re-runs, but he's pretty sure that if they don't consummate the marriage it isn't legal. Patrick could get an annulment. He could walk back to Chicago if he really had to. He could forget that the words "Pete Wentz" existence in the English language. He could…let himself be reeled in at the first touch of Pete's hand.

"God," Pete moans, taking Patrick's face in his hands, kissing deeply, like he's never going to get enough.

Patrick balls his fists in Pete's suit jacket, holding on, kissing back. He presses closer and runs his hands over Pete's chest, his back. There are too many fucking clothes in his way. Pete's his husband, and he's never even seen him naked.

Apparently, he says this out loud, because Pete's mouth curves into a slow-burning smile. "Anything you want, baby."

He pulls back, just a little, but it feels like all the warmth has been stripped out of the world. Patrick makes grabby hands at Pete, who kisses him, on the mouth and along his jaw and against his ear. "Get your clothes off. I want to see you, too."

Patrick's hands shake as he strips away his jacket, the fabric tangling around his wrists, making him spit curses under his breath. His fingers slip and slide on the fussy buttons of his dress shirt. His stupid clothes obviously have it in for him. The pants, at least, go easily, falling to his ankles along with his underwear. It takes a moment for it to sink in that he's naked. Naked with Pete.

Pete, who is gorgeous, with his compact muscles, golden skin, dark ink. "I want—" Patrick traces the outline of the tattoo low on Pete's belly. It's all his to touch. That's what he wants, he realizes with a start.

Maybe this whole marriage thing hasn't been quite as accidental as he's wanted to believe. Maybe that's something he'll think about later. Much, much later.

"Patrick." All the easy playfulness is gone from Pete's expression. The planes of his face look stark in the low light. His eyes are endlessly dark, glittering, intently focused on Patrick. This is mine shines out of them. Maybe that should be terrifying, but it's not. It's the hottest fucking thing Patrick has ever seen.

Pete pushes Patrick back against the wall. "You're my husband," he says in a gravelly voice. He cups Patrick's jaw, fingers pressing in, and kisses him possessively.

Patrick's cock gets harder, pressed hotly against Pete's thigh. He arches up, pulling at Pete's shoulders, kissing back just as frantically. He wonders if it makes him the most vanilla person in the world that married sex is what really turns him on.

Pete peels himself off of Patrick, and before Patrick can protest, Pete is hustling him over to the bed, pushing him down onto the fluffy down mattress, and climbing on top of him.

"Yeah, yeah, good," Patrick says, approving whole-heartedly of the way things are going.

He hooks a hand around the back of Pete's neck and pulls him into a kiss, licking at Pete's top lip, so full and soft and pretty that Patrick could spend the rest of his life getting to know it properly. Which, come to think of it, he actually can. He lets out a little whimper. God. The rest of his life.

Pete hears only encouragement in the broken little noise, none of the oh fuck, oh fuck, and surges against Patrick, their naked chests sliding together. Patrick moans again, and this time it's all: oh please, oh please.

Pete lifts his head, fixes Patrick with a look, his eyes wide and dark, pupils blown. "Fucking amazing mouth." He rubs his thumb across Patrick's lips.

Patrick bites the soft pad of Pete's thumb, and then it's Pete's turn to groan. "I want to touch you," Patrick tells him.

"Oh, fuck yeah." Pete draws back, breathing heavily, to let Patrick have at him.

Patrick runs his hand up Pete's bare thigh, over soft hair and wiry muscle, presses his thumb into the lovely little indentation made by his hipbone. Pete licks his lips, staring down at Patrick's hand on him. For such a slight guy, Pete's cock is long and thick, and Patrick curls his palm around it greedily. He and Pete both stare as he moves his hand, Pete's cock slipping blood-dark through his fist.

There is nothing like touching someone for the first, heart pounding in your throat, should I do this, will he like that, and oh God, this is Patrick's husband he's touching. He bites his lip, concentrating, trying out one approach and then another. Pete sucks in his breath when Patrick tightens his grip on the down stroke, circles his thumb around the head, rubbing at that little scar on the underside. Patrick does that some more, listening for every little hitch in Pete's breath, letting that be his guide. He strokes faster and harder than he likes it himself, but apparently this is just right to drive Pete wild.

"Patrick, Patrick," Pete says breathlessly, and then he's uncurling Patrick's hand from his cock, lifting it to his mouth, brushing Patrick's fingers with kisses. "If you keep doing that, I'm not going to get to fuck you, and I really, really want to fuck you."

Patrick nods. He wants that, too. He pulls his hand away from Pete and licks curiously at his fingers. That's what Pete tastes like. What his husband tastes like. That's just…God.

Pete watches him with bright, dark eyes, utterly transfixed. When Patrick suck his own fingers into his mouth, Pete actually growls. "You are so fucking hot." He pounces, pushing Patrick back against the pillows, biting him on the neck. "I want to do everything to you."

Patrick nods. He likes this plan. Pete moves down Patrick's body, skimming his thumbs over Patrick's collarbone, mouthing at his nipples, whispering sweet nothings against Patrick's belly. This makes Patrick snort because it tickles and Pete's idea of a sweet nothing is eye-rolling in its goofballery. He sinks his fingers into Pete's thick hair and nudges him lower.

Pete glances up, eyes bright with playfulness. "You know what you want. I like that about you, Lunchbox."

What Patrick likes is Pete's mouth. He rides it, hand curled around Pete's shoulder, fingers digging in, pressing against bone. He vaguely registers Pete reaching for the nightstand, the slide of the drawer, a wet squelchy noise. Pete's mouth feels so good that Patrick doesn't really care what he's doing, just as long as he doesn't stop.

He revises this opinion at the first slick touch to his hole. He tenses, his hands instinctively clenching into fists in the sheets.

Pete rubs Patrick's thigh soothingly. "Gonna be so good. Gonna make you feel so good."

It isn't bad, at least, just weird. Pressure, pressure, and then Patrick's body gives, and Pete's finger slips inside. Pete strokes, searching, crooking his finger, and Patrick comes up off the bed, shouting. Okay, that's way better than just good.

Pete smiles smugly around Patrick's cock and sucks him harder and fingers him until Patrick's thighs are shaking, and he can barely breathe, and the only word he knows is "please."

He makes an embarrassing noise when Pete pulls off his cock. Pete presses an absent kiss to Patrick's knee while he rustles around in the nightstand drawer for condoms. He rolls one on and slicks his cock and asks, "How do you want to do this? On your stomach or your side is easier the first time, but then—"

"No," Patrick says emphatically. "on my back. I want to see you."

"—I wouldn't be able to see your face." Pete swoops in for a kiss, smiling. "So fucking meant to be." He moves between Patrick's thighs, bracing his weight on his arms. "You ready?"

Patrick tightens his hands on Pete's biceps, squeezing too hard. "Stop fucking around."

Pete laughs, bites Patrick lightly on the jaw. "I love it when you're bossy, Pattycakes."

The l-word throws Patrick a little, even in the relatively innocuous context of "I love X about you." So he's a little distracted when Pete nudges his legs open wider and thrusts into him, which is probably good, because oh shit, oh shit, that hurts. Every muscle in his body tenses, and his lungs are emptied out, burning. He grits his teeth and holds on to Pete even tighter, probably leaving bruises.

"Relax, relax, baby," Pete croons to him.

Which is just really fucking annoying, because Patrick can't relax. Pete is too big. He's fucking huge. I am so not a size queen, Patrick thinks hysterically.

Pete has gone still, and he's stroking Patrick's arm, murmuring comforting-sounding nonsense. Patrick can tell by the set of Pete's jaw that he wants to move, thrust, fuck the hell out of Patrick, that it's practically killing him not to. But it's equally clear that he won't do anything until Patrick is ready. There's something reassuring about that, and Patrick gulps down a big breath and consciously relaxes the tension in his shoulders, his back, his thighs.

At last, he nods shakily. "Okay."

Pete leans in for a quick kiss and then eases a little farther inside. Patrick's body seems to be figuring out how to accommodate him, because the "oh, hell no" feeling is fading. He tentatively moves his hips, meeting Pete's thrust, and it's okay, still okay, still… "Oh fuck!" Patrick lunges, grabbing at Pete, bucking up. It's so electric-hot-oh-my-God-oh-my-God that it almost makes Patrick want to cry. It's almost too much. Almost.

"Sweet spot," Pete says breathlessly, dragging the head of his cock over it, again and again.

There's a dull roar in Patrick's ears, and it takes several long moments to realize that's his voice, babbling away, a decibel or maybe three louder than the walls can probably contain. He doesn't care. He pushes up on his elbows, pulls Pete down into a kiss, or okay, more like a desperate mash of lips and teeth. He's too turned on for anything like finesse.

Pete isn't in much better shape. "Fuck. You're so fucking gorgeous." He slurs his words, and his thrusts are becoming increasingly erratic.

Patrick belatedly thinks to get a hand on his own cock, but it's hardly necessary. One more hard thrust to that place inside him, and he's spilling between their bodies.

"Patrick," Pete says in a wail, like it's torn out of him, like it hurts. He thrusts wildly, once, twice, his arms shaking so hard it's a miracle they can hold him up. He squeezes his eyes shut and goes silent, his mouth soft and round, almost like he's surprised, as he comes inside Patrick.

He's still shaking and wordless when he pulls out, strips off the condom, pitches it into the trashcan. Patrick always feels jangled after an orgasm, every nerve in his body raw. For a second, he's not sure if he wants Pete—who to be fair is both a practical stranger and the cause of the most intense orgasm Patrick has ever had—to touch him. Pete barrels on in anyway, not noticing Patrick's reticence, pressing himself to Patrick's side, slipping his arm around Patrick's shoulders, pulling him close. Pete smells like heat and sex and just really, really damned good. The prickly feeling on Patrick's skin goes away, and he settles his head on Pete's chest and closes his eyes.

He sleeps for a little while, and then they have sex again. And yet again.

In the morning, he wakes up disoriented, no idea where he is. He glances around at the unfamiliar room bleary-eyed, too far away from his glasses to bother reaching for them. He shifts positions and abruptly remembers how he spent last night. As more of his brain shows up for work, he realizes that he's being watched. He turns and blinks. Pete is lying on his side, wide awake, staring adoringly at him.

"Morning." Pete kisses him softly on the lips, smiling like a man who has everything he could possibly want out of life.

No one has ever looked at Patrick like that before. A thought takes shape in his fuzzy brain, something he would not have predicted: I could get used to this.

"Just don't get used to this," Pete tells him in nearly the same instant.

Patrick loses his smile because 1) possibly Pete can read his mind and 2) the magic may be going out of their marriage before they've even celebrated their twenty-four-hour anniversary.

Pete grins dirtily and says, "I can't give it to you all night every night."

Patrick blushes fiercely and swats at Pete, without much intent.

Pete leans in and whispers against Patrick's ear, "Even if I would really like to."

Heat pools low in Patrick's belly, and he takes Pete's hand and guides it to his cock. He sighs softly as Pete demonstrates just how much he likes touching him.

It's nearly noon by the time they stumble, freshly showered, out of the room and go in search of food. The owner lady takes pity on their newlywed-related tardiness and serves them breakfast out on the patio. French toast and bacon and the strongest, most delicious coffee Patrick has ever tasted, and it's when he's on his third cup that his brain helpfully supplies one really important detail that he overlooked in going through with this whole getting-married-to-a-stranger thing.

"Oh, fuck," Patrick says, with a flash of panic. "My mom is going to kill me."

Pete's expression twists with concern. "Dude, she doesn't know you're gay?"

"She knows I'm gay!" Patrick's voice rises, a mix of exasperation and hysteria. "But I got married without her at the wedding, without even telling her what I was doing." To someone I don't know for sure isn't wanted by the authorities in half a dozen states. Patrick keeps this last bit to himself.

"I'm sure she'll be happy that you're happy," Pete says reassuringly. "And hey, you can blame it on me. Tell your mom I couldn't wait and spirited you off to Iowa before you even knew what was happening."

"You mean, I should tell her the truth," Patrick points out.

Pete cheerfully ignores him. "Your mom and me, we're gonna be like that." He twists his fingers together. "I'm totally the kind of guy you can take home to mom."

Yeah, Patrick thinks darkly, if my mother was dead."

Pete leans across the table to kiss Patrick lingeringly on the lips and suddenly Patrick really fucking hopes his mom does like her new son-in-law.

The sound of a throat being cleared startles them apart. The owner lady is standing at their table with a carafe of coffee in hand. "I thought you might like—"

"Last night we had totally legal married intercourse sanctioned by the great state of Iowa," Pete blurts out, like a small child who doesn't know how to keep a secret.

Patrick wants to sink under the table and die.

The owner lady pats Pete on the arm. "I'm pretty sure half the county heard you, dear." She smiles at them kindly, leaves the carafe on the table and heads back in inside.

Patrick wants to die even harder. Pete grins like the happiest lunatic on the planet.

After breakfast, they pack and check out and head back to the airport. The plane is gassed up and ready to go, and they take off for Chicago as soon as they board. It's been an eventful not-quite twenty-four hours, and Patrick slumps in his seat, worn out in that the-adrenaline-finally-wore-off way. Pete clicks away at his Blackberry, and Patrick thinks absently that those rules about turning off your cell phone on planes because it's going to intervene with the navigation system are all a bunch of bullshit.

"Oh, hey." Pete looks up abruptly, his eyes bright in a way that Patrick has already learned in their extremely short marriage to find worrying. "I got you something." He digs around in his bag. "You know, a wedding present."

The neatly stapled stack of papers that Pete comes up with is not exactly what Patrick would have predicted. Then he gets a look at it and blinks in slow motion, as if even his eyelids are stunned. A recording contract with his name on it is totally not what he was expecting. "But— how?"

"I told you I run a company," Pete says, as if Patrick should have realized that meant he was the president of Island fucking Records.

"You can't just do things like this," Patrick says, although the pragmatic part of him really kind of wonders why he's arguing against a fucking recording deal. "You can't just sign me because I'm your—"

"I could really," Pete cuts him off. "That's why it's cool to be in charge. But I'm not signing you because you're my husband. I'm signing you because you're awesome. I love the stuff you have up on your My Space page. And that's a really cute picture of you in that argyle sweater vest, by the way."

Patrick stares at him. "When did you find my My Space page?"

Pete shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe...two minutes after you told me you were a musician? Anyway, so don't worry. I had my people listen to your stuff. They're all excited. No one's going to think you married your way to the top."

Pete's seen me naked, Patrick reminds himself. Hell, he's fucked me. There really is no reason why finding out that Pete has listened to his music should debilitate him with shyness. And yet.

"Um, so, you really like my stuff?" he asks tentatively, even though, hey, kind of a stupid question when Pete just presented him with a recording contract.

"I fucking love it!" Pete gushes. "You are totally my golden ticket, Pattycakes. The only thing I'd say is that the lyrics could use some work."

Patrick nods. "Yeah. I mean, that's not really my thing. I just don't have anybody to work with—"

Pete beams. "Dude, I write lyrics. We can totally keep it in the family."

Patrick struggles to keep a straight face, because it's only polite and Pete is his husband and also kind of his boss. But seriously, what kind of lyrics could a music executive possibly...oh, God. Pete Wentz. Patrick stares at him, wondering how he never placed the name before. "Wait. You played bass for Arma Angelus. Um, you know, before—"

Pete's mouth turns up in amusement. "I turned to the dark side? Hey, do you have a band? 'Cause you're gonna need a band."

Patrick nods. "Well," he qualifies, "I have a drummer and a guitarist. We just need—"

Keep it in the family drifts through Patrick's, but no, that's just crazy. This is not some Lifetime movie where they get married and start a successful band and raise puppies together.

Patrick can't help giving Pete the speculative once-over anyway. "So, do you remember how to play at all?"

In Chicago, Pete's assistant has a car waiting to meet them at the airport. The driver drops them off at Pete's place, which definitely makes more sense than going back to Patrick's rattrap of a studio. Still, t's weird. Patrick lives with his husband now. In a place he's seen exactly once, for about three minutes.

It gets even weirder when Pete ushers him inside. Patrick stands there looking around, at the kitchen cabinets and the leather sofa and the sliding glass doors that lead out onto a deck. It's all perfectly innocuous, just the stuff of everyday life, and that's exactly the problem. From now on, this is where he'll be grumpy over his morning cereal, where he'll slump half dead over his laptop trying to meet a big deadline, where he'll fuck and fight and get old—and he'll do all of that alongside someone who hired him for the evening to make his ex-girlfriend jealous.

Patrick seriously considers the feasibility of running away to Mexico.

"So, you tired?" Pete asks.

"Um," Patrick stammers. If Pete had asked "are you freaked the fuck out," he would have known the answer.

"Because if not," Pete's expression takes a turn for the pornographic, "you could take care of this virginity situation."

Patrick's first impulse is to get indignant. "Hey, I'm not—" But then he notices Pete's confessional smile. "Wait. What?"

Pete shrugs. "I guess you could say that before I met you my interest in cock was more theoretical than..." He waves his hand. "You know, an actual interest in cock. I mean, I fooled around a little with guys, kissing and groping and stuff, but that was pretty much it."

Patrick stares at him. "Wait. What?" His voice rises a little.

Pete is by now full-out grinning. "You're my first, baby."

"So, so." Patrick's synapses are still having trouble keeping up. "What you're saying is that I'm the only guy you've slept with?"

Pete shakes his head, moving closer and winding his arms around Patrick's waist. "What I'm saying is," his voice drops an octave, "you're the only guy I'm ever going to sleep with."

Patrick needs a second to get over the hit-by-truck feeling, and then he grabs Pete by the hand. "Come on. Your bedroom is back here, right?"

"Our bedroom," Pete says happily.

It takes Patrick only a heartbeat to agree. "Ours."

In the middle of the night, Patrick slips out of bed to go to the bathroom, and when he comes back, he stops in his tracks, transfixed by the sight of Pete, naked and turned on his side, softly illuminated by moonlight sifting in through the blinds. It makes him think, oddly enough, of Patty Hearst. He feels himself being taken hostage all over again by the beautiful dip at the small of Pete's back, the vulnerability of shoulder blades, that spot along the curve of his neck that is the most kissable place on Earth. Love, at its most unexpected, might be the most cunning form of captivity there is.

Patrick rolls his eyes at himself. Two day of being married to Pete, and he's started thinking in cheesy song lyrics. Even this doesn't make him want to put on his pants and run away. Patrick pads over to the bed and slides beneath the covers. He presses himself against Pete's back, arm around Pete's waist, cheek against his shoulder. Pete snuffles in his sleep, tangles his fingers with Patrick's, and relaxes back into his weight.

If this is Stockholm Syndrome, Patrick hopes he never comes to his senses.