#jotrick

☆ When they finally get where their going, both are excited to be able to sleep in a actual bed. They don't even unpack, they just fall into their beds and fall fully clothed on to their bed, and pass out.

Patrick actually likes smoking weed with Joe. He likes the slow feeling in his muscles and the heaviness in his stomach after eating too much. The electric buzz in his fingertips, the mellowness that's just strong enough to ward away the intense amount of sugar in his system from snack cakes and cookies. The way his skin feels abnormally warm, yet is sweat free. He doesn't care anymore about the weight he holds, media be damned. And if he gets turned on by the feeling of heaviness in his stomach, or the slightly too tight fit of his clothing snug across him after a larger meal, well that's his business alone. He glances over at Joe, who's laying across the bed in a diagonal, who's hair looks like a hyperactive puff ball, who's eyes are half lidded and glassy. He looks at Joe over and over, trying to burn the small satisfied smile into his retinas for future reference, trying to soak up the pure feeling of being around him. He can feel his lips turn up into a smile, he shifts and he feels the heaviness settle in his stomach and he sighs and lets his eyes slip close. Maybe, just maybe, smoking weed with Joe was okay. Maybe he could look past the implications of law and health and let himself slide into the comfortable feeling of floating beside Joe. Maybe smoking with Joe was okay. Maybe it was more. Maybe it was a feeling that even Pete's twisted lyrics couldn't convey. Like home and sorrow and love and emptiness and excitement. Like the feeling of a great concert and the nagging feeling of doubt. Like the rise and fall of roman empires. He notices Joe's breathing change from slow and gentle to harsh and greedy, as if Joe is trying to breathe in all the oxygen and suffocate Patrick. He lifts his head only to let it fall back against the pillows, his neck muscle fluid like jello. He hears the movement of fabric and only then does he realize Joe is jacking off beside him, weed smoothing the lines of unacceptability. Patrick doesn't mind. Never really minded anyway, and he lets a loose smile paint his face before counting the number of breaths Joe takes, the number he takes before they stop suddenly, Joe's mouth locked in a silent scream and he falls back onto the bed completely limp. Nothing has changed since the hiatus. Joe still turns on his side afterwards and mumbles a line from a book or movie that somehow relates to the situation, only this time Patrick's mind is like the vanilla pudding his mom used to make and he can't make sense of English anymore. Fatigue and the laziness of pot wash over him and he murmurs Joe's name, to which the man in question grunts slightly in response. Patrick is quiet for a few moments before giggling and whispering "thnks fr th mmrs," sans vowels and all and Joe is laughing and Patrick is grinning and maybe this is okay. Maybe doing this and smoking with Joe is okay. Maybe the world is okay in this fog of white widow and glass bowls. Maybe Patrick can forget the carbs he ingested and the wife waiting at home for him. Maybe he can just fall into the arms of Joe and float away in his foggy state. Maybe smoking weed with Joe is okay. Suddenly they aren't members of Fall Out Boy or responsible citizens. They're just Joe and Patrick, two kids from Chicago that had to mature in a van, in cities across the country. They're the two kids in the record shop. The kids in high school. The kids who just made it by a long shot. They're just Stumph and Trohman, trying to make sense of the world. They fall asleep hugging each other, Joe's nose buried in Patrick's thin hair and Patrick's fingers curled around Joe's tattoos as if he's trying to become as permanent as the ink on Joe's arms. Maybe smoking weed with Joe is okay. Maybe it's only okay because it's with Joe.