The Ramen Psychosis

Things on tour had been...awkward, since the party. Of course, how could they be anything but awkward? Joe and Andy were blissfully unaware of the uncomfortable vibe, but I sure as hell felt it. It was like me and Pete were actively avoiding the inevitable moment when we'd have to discuss it. Not that I minded, but...still...I'd figured he'd want to talk about it at least a little.

Then again, he seemed to be dealing with the whole thing pretty well. Not in a way I thought particularly healthy, but he was dealing. Pete was officially back with Ashlee, as though their big fight and his big...revelation had never happened. Truth be told, it annoyed me, though I couldn't really place why. It was probably because every third move the son of a bitch made annoyed me, I reasoned. The guys seemed pissed off as well, but it was because we were once again forced to hear that harpy's voice over speakerphone on his Sidekick.

"I'll talk to you later, OK, baby?" Pete cooed at the ridiculous little device on the couch as he sprayed his beloved waterless shampoo on thick. I did my best to avoid rolling my eyes behind my laptop.

"OK, Petey. Kisses and loves!" Oh God, she made me ill...

"Kiss, kiss, baby." He hit the 'end' button and set about searching for a shirt, having already poured himself into an unnecessarily tight pair of jeans. Fangirls, they just love those freaking jeans of his. I enjoy them for the funny moment when he has to jump up and twist like he's imitating a sperm cell to wriggle them on. It's almost cute, in a weird sort of way. Then again, everything about that bastard is almost cute. Emphasis on almost.

I let my eyes move from the screen as he finally zipped on a hoodie. "Why the hell does she call you Petey?" I wondered out loud. "I don't think there's another person you actually know that calls you that."

He simply shrugged and went ferreting in the mess of the front room for his iPod. "I kinda hate it, to be honest, but I haven't got the heart to tell her otherwise. My life is easier when she's happy, I'm sure you've noticed." With a smirk, Pete moved to where I was sitting on the couch and ruffled my hair with my hat. "Besides, it could be worse. I'm the only one that calls you Lunchbox, Lunchbox..."

And then the asshat leaned down and kissed my cheek before turning back and going into the bunks. I was glad Andy and Joe had headed for an arcade three blocks over, so no one saw my angry arm movements when he was out of sight. My face started to burn as I reached up and rubbed at the spot. He just made me want to scream so fucking badly. Shutting everything down quickly, I closed my laptop and grabbed the nearest pair of shoes, sulking off the bus to go have a nice long walk by my fucking self.

As I wandered aimlessly through scenic downtown Bum Fuck Egypt, I mulled things over. And over. And over. It needed to be done, though, there was a whole fat sack of baggage I'd been carrying for about three weeks that desperately needed sorting out. As hard as I'd been trying to push it from my mind, I needed to really consider everything that had happened on those two nights when he'd come to me.

The first time was an...experiment, I'd been telling myself. I had been curious as to what would happen if I just let him suck me off. I'd kept my grip on his hair the whole time as a reminder not to try anything funny. My eyes glued themselves shut when he started bobbing again and I tried my hardest to keep that dream I'd been having in mind, but towards the end, when I felt myself nearing the edge, they opened. Oh God, they were open when I shot off into his mouth, that smug horse-toothed mouth of his. Pete's eyes had been closed, and his forehead was smooth and uncreased for the first time in a very long time. He looked...he looked like he was finally at peace with the universe.

Alright, I'll fucking say it, he looked beautiful. Screw you all. I'm done repressing everything. I'll admit, despite previous argument, I've always been just a little...curious. And fuck, no one has made me want to scratch that itch as much as Pete. When I first met him, I had the most enormous man-crush; it was Pete fucking Wentz, for god's sake, the toast of the Chicago scene, and I wanted nothing more than to impress him.

Over time, though, as I became disenchanted with him, the itch stopped itching. As much as we'd become best friends, a sizable chunk of me wanted to just strangle him at least once a week. That whole ying and yang thing we've got, that makes us such a good music writing team? Yeah, it also makes us disagree on everything. Not to mention his tendency towards dangerous and/or disgusting antics that make me worry about his fool head at every turn. Even if I still felt interest in him, we'd have been that couple that breaks up every other week.

Apparently he'd still been feeling an itch, however. It wasn't that much of a surprise to me that Pete was attracted to men, I mean, he's dry-humped half of Fueled by Ramen's roster. Still, the drunken blowjob and stoned plea for me to fuck him were disarming, to say the least. I was so shocked that I didn't even really contribute anything to the sex, he pretty much just took what he wanted. It had to have been the weirdest gay sex ever.

I don't particularly remember much about what went down, having been completely toasted at the time. What sticks out in my mind is just one moment, one crystal clear still frame that my head chose to snap mid-screw: Pete, shirtless, sweaty, head thrown back, with his pants off just far enough to impale himself on me. Christ, his cock was still straining against the waistband, like in those fucking Sidekick pictures that had leaked. He'd lubed himself with spit, I vaguely recalled, despite my inebriated objections that he'd need something more, but he just sneered and went ahead with it anyway. I guess he wasn't lying when he said he trusted me, since he never seemed to have ripped himself, moving up and down on me almost immediately.

And since this is an honest kind of rant, I'll just say it: tightest fuck I've had in my life.

The next morning, I'll also admit, I panicked the fuck out when I woke up to the motherfucker using my stomach as a pillow. I probably freaked Travis out, too, with the little shell-shocked spectacle I made of myself on the way out. Two days later, we're back on the bus, Ashlee's voice is driving us all insane via speakerphone, and I see a half naked Pete riding my cock every time I close my fucking eyes.

"Something's gotta give," I grumbled to myself as I found my way back to the venue parking lot, my feet carrying me on autopilot up the bus steps. I was just about to speak up and ask if Pete was still onboard, so we could talk, but a very different sort of shout interjected.

"Mmmmm, fuck....."

Of course I knew who it was, and what they must be doing, and the logical thing to have done would've been to back away slowly and give them another ten minutes to wrap it up. But no, that damn "curious" streak of mine just had to kick in and get the visual.

Oh God, it melted the first still frame out of my head completely.

From the doorway to the bunk area, I had the absolute most explicit view of none other than my bandmate, best friend, biggest annoyance, and most recent one-night stand, Peter fucking Lewis Kingston Wentz III, bent over in his bunk and moaning like a rookie porn star. One hand was busy on that famous cock of his, while the other fucked his ass with a chartreuse dildo.

"Were they out of pink sparkly ones when you went to buy it?" I felt compelled to word-vomit, folding my arms and leaning against the doorframe. This was all just too much. An astonished Pete opened his eyes in terror and accidentally rolled out of the bunk with a gasp. He fell out in such a manner that he did a sort of somersault in midair and landed sitting, legs still spread and that fucking chartreuse dildo still jammed up that tantalizing ass of his.

What is a person supposed to do in this situation? They're supposed to laugh.

So after five excruciating seconds of him looking up at me in embarrassment, we started laughing. We laughed like it was the ultimate dead baby joke. We laughed until I couldn't take it any more and fell to my knees, grabbing my sides as they split. As our laughter died, our eyes met again, and I shared a nervous smile with him.

Pete gave a small, sad sigh. "We've been putting off a very important talk for way too long now," he half-whispered, reaching up and pulling his sheet down from his bunk to cover up. I made a mental note of the fact that his cock was still half-hard and that the dildo hadn't been removed.

"Yeah...there's definitely some shit we need to work through..." I picked at my jeans nervously. "I'm...I'm sorry I just left like that the next morning...I was-"

"Don't worry, Lunchbox, I get it." He was smiling slightly when I looked up again. "I didn't think about it until I woke up, that it would've been your first time with...that, too..."

"So...what's the deal then? I know you're back with Ashlee now, but then I catch you fucking yourself with a chartreuse dildo, and-"

"Wait, wait, wait," he giggled. "You were standing there watching me long enough to classify what particular shade of green my rubber sex toy is?"

A hot flush overtook my face as it was my turn to look away in embarrassment. "Let's not change the subject just yet. C'mon, spill."

"I...I panicked," he admitted, tucking the sheet around him tighter. "I was afraid of what would happen if I came out, and what my parents and the media and just everyone would think. So when she called to apologize about the fight...I just.....let her take me back...."

"Pete....that's the most retarded thing I have ever heard you say." He looked up at me with hurt and confusion; poor guy, he'd expected me to sugar coat this. "No one would care if you came out. Not the guys, or your family, or anyone else you care about. And fuck the media, fuck the lot of them, what's important is what you think about you. You are Peter fucking Wentz, you idiot. Since when do you care what people think?"

Those brown eyes just stared at me in wonder. "It-it's not just that simple, Trick," he babbled, gnawing his bottom lip. I missed his lip ring in that moment. "I can't....I don't want anyone to see me that vulnerable..."

"Pete...no more of that kind of talk." I leaned over and brushed my lips gently against his, feeling him tremble slightly as I pulled away again. "You don't have to be a hard-ass all the time. You can let people see your soft side. You're the guy that wrote a song called 'Gay Is Not A Synonym For Shitty,' after all. It's not gonna shock a lot of people."

The tip of his tongue traveled out to wet his lips, swallowing hard. "The fangirls think I wrote that about us, y'know..."

"You don't say? What did you write it about?"

"Them." That little smirk of his returned. "I wrote it about the fact that they're still so hopeful about love, that they write fairy tales about us."

"Well...I think it's time you got your happy ending..."

Our lips met again, but he wasn't shaking anymore. Soon the sheet disappeared, then my clothes disappeared.... Then as a nice little bonus for me, he was already lubed and stretched. There was rug burn in awkward places later, and Joe and Andy are still wondering why me and Pete will just randomly say "chartreuse" now and laugh like it's the end of the world. But hey, it was worth it.

The itch returned, but now it's getting properly scratched.

And this, dear reader, marks the departure in my FBR slash one-shots into straight-up S&M Peterick, which you'll be able to indulge in soon in the Fall Out Boy section. Keep an eye out for a little something called Come Hell or High Water over there.