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so, I guess youtube killed my writer's block?
Well, hurrah, I guess.
My accomplice decided what I needed to do last night was watch really ridic youtube vids of...yeah, FOB. I watched and was appalled at my reaction! Who knew I could go crazier?
This fic (which I wrote after knocking off from WORK today--my fingers hurt) is brought to you by "Take This To Your Grave," which I think I've listened to about seventy-three trillion times in the last couple days. Move over TBP, you have been trumped!
The reason I spent all the time I could have been laying in the bathtub reading Vanity Fair writing this madness is that Jenn would. not. stop. enabling. She also betaed it. She also linked me to those Fuse clips. She also did a bunch of the background research for the story. She also wanted it to be LOOOOOOOONGER, which is bananas.
There's A Light On In Chicago
Snow crunches under Patrick’s soles as he walks up the sidewalk to Pete’s house. Shoveling is a periodic event at the Wentz’s, so he slips on a couple icy patches and has to yank his hands out of the pockets of his jeans to cartwheel his arms to keep from toppling over into the snowbanks on either side of the walkway. The handle of the glass door almost adheres to his skin when he swings it open. The front door’s unlocked, decked out in a harvest-themed wreath of plastic pumpkins and gourds. Patrick stomps the snow off his sneakers and rubs his hands together to try to get the circulation back, hoping to avoid PINS AND NEEDLES arrggggg!
“Shit!” His fingernails are verging on blue, maybe. He blows on his hands as Pete pops into the foyer with his hood down for once and a pair of knitted mittens in his hand. He dangles the mittens in front of Patrick’s face and bounces on his heels.
“Why won’t you wear gloves?” He sounds so…earnest. It’s really sort of funny. Patrick can’t help but laugh. Right in Pete’s earnest face. Pete tilts his head to the side and snatches at Patrick’s hands. He maintains eye contact in that creepy way he has. Patrick lets him shove the mittens on him. The wool is multicolored, purple and green and blue, like the yarn was rainbow. The heavy smell of lanolin drifts off them up to his face. As the feeling comes back to his fingers, the wool is rough against his callouses and cuts from steel guitar strings. Pete crowds up too close, bumping his elbow and knee and staring.
“You’re a creep.”
Pete cracks a wide smile. “I keep telling people that, dude, but they just laugh. I’m creepy!” He grabs Patrick’s elbow and steers him towards the kitchen. “Have you eaten?” He tilts his head up and calls out “MOM! Patrick’s living on PopTarts!”
“I HOPE IT’S AT LEAST FRUIT FLAVORED ONES FOR THE VITAMINS!” Echoes back to them. Patrick smiles.
The warm smell of cheese floats through the house. “Mac and cheese?” Patrick’s day is looking up.
“Yeah, she left the ham out because you’re one of those weirdo scene kids who is all ‘I’m a vegetarian this week to overcome the stranglehold on the international economy by, like, Perdue Incorporated and shit.”
“PETE!”
“Busted!” Patrick shoves Pete off of him as they cross into the kitchen and the dogs jump all over them.
Mama Wentz waves a wooden spoon in Pete’s general direction with an exaggerated scowl. “What have I told you about that language?”
“I’m a grown up, mom!”
Patrick knows this tactic is doomed to failure. He takes the scratchy mittens off and sets them on the island counter top.
“Do you live on your own?”
“Technically, yes.” This is a real weasel answer.
“Do you pay your own rent or buy your own groceries?”
Pete raises his eyebrows and blows his hair off his face. Pete doesn’t even buy his own clothes—he either steals them from Good Will or steals them off someone he knows.
Pete tries again. “I’m a rock and roll dude, mom, I use questionable language.”
At this point, the conversation is just a big, scripted joke. Both Wentzes smiling at each other with affection. Patrick loves the Wentzes and that doesn’t have anything to do with the band, really. If there was no band, like, if Andy went crazy and Joe moved to New Jersey and it was just Pete and Patrick kicking it at Pete’s, yeah, that would be ok. Not that Pete would be happy with that plan, so, unlikely turn of events.
The matron with the spoon turns to Patrick. “You don’t talk like that, do you?” She’s smiling, that weird look parents usually give him. Patrick is loved universally by parents. This would be handy if he was out deflowering virgins and snorting crushed up Ritalin, as it stands he’s mostly sitting around Pete’s room mooning over guitars he can’t afford.
“Patrick’s a potty mouth, mom.” Pete smacks him on the back of the head dislodging his hat and races towards the stairs.
Patrick shrugs at Mama Wentz and throws up a hand. “It’s sad but true.”
“Fuck, it’s our secret, then!” She tosses off and goes back to the stove. Patrick laughs as he snatches his hat off the floor and chases after Pete.
“You’re dead, bastard!” He shouts up the stairs. He trips over a pile of laundry Pete probably tipped over to obstruct him and bangs his chin on the tattered carpet. “You’re so screwed!” He yells as he clamors to his feet, wildly swinging his hands out to smack against a banister, a riser, the wall, to get his feet under himself. One of his shoes is untied and on the next couple stairs he trips himself.
Pete’s peering around the corner watching. His hood’s up now and he’s grinning like a comic book character, all teeth and ridiculous hair. One of his hands grips the wall and Patrick can see the bitten nails and cracked black nail polish starkly against the white wall.
“I’m gonna sit on your head, motherfucker!” Patrick’s taunts aren’t always that threatening in the heat of the moment. Pete sticks his tongue out and runs into his room as Patrick makes the landing. Patrick leaps on his back and gets him in a chokehold to administer a brutal noogie as Pete flails to dislodge him. They land on the floor between the twin beds and Pete takes a bedspread with him. They both end up cocooned in the blanket, tangled together, breathing raggedly and snort-giggling.
Pete manages to get his arms around Patrick and clings to him like a lemur on a tree branch. “You’re my favorite color, Patrick.”
He’s so used to shit like that that all he says is “What color am I?” Pete’s belt buckle is digging into his side.
“The reddish black when I turn my face towards a bright light when my eyes are closed.” The answer comes too fast, like maybe Pete’s not making this one up on the fly.
“You’ve thought about that before?” Why is he ever surprised anymore? He shouldn’t be surprised anymore. “I shouldn’t be surprised anymore.”
“I think about you all the time. I’m creepy like that.” He clings harder, his leg coming up and over Patrick’s thighs.
“You’re not creepy stop fucking saying that!” Sometimes Patrick has to be indignant for Pete because Pete spends half his time putting himself down before anyone else can get to it. It grates on Patrick’s nerves. “You’re just intense.”
“I never really thought of either of you being autistic.” Patrick stills when the voice filters through the walls of the blanket. Moments like this make his stomach roll, like he’s getting busted doing something really illicit.
“Nonlinear commentary, mom!” Pete answers without even attempting to untangle their limbs.
“One of the therapies for autism is snuggle therapy and another is wrapping autistic people in blankets really tight to simulate an all over embrace.”
“That’s cool!” Pete squirms around a bit, getting more comfortable. The belt buckle scrapes over Patrick’s skin. “Hug therapy! Awesome!”
“Yeah, I totally agree. Very awesome. I put some food aside for you guys. Your brother already ate the weight of his head in macaroni.”
Patrick is tangled inside a blanket cocoon with Pete Wentz while he and his mother discuss autism and dinner plans. This is Patrick’s life.
“We can eat vegan tacos with Andy or something.”
“Remember what we talked about.” Her voice has turned stern, and Patrick tenses up all over. Pete holds him in place.
“I’m not manorexic, mom! Give me a break! Ask Patrick. I eat, don’t I, Patrick?”
Oh no, put on the spot. Patrick has been trying to pretend that he’s invisible under the blanket. Now he’s been name-checked and recognized. Shit. Pete sucks so hard. Why is he embarrassed anyway? Patrick screams in the black void that is his mind.
“Yeah, he eats. Mostly whatever’s on my plate.”
Pete chuckles warmly next to his ear. Patrick’s stomach flips again.
“Patrick, this is serious. Pete is Pete, you know? We worry.” When did Patrick become part of the family? Sometimes this really weirds him out and makes him really proud of himself at the same time, like he’s accomplished something.
“Dale, I promise.” He uses her name and tries to sound solemn. Calling people’s parents by their first names is still freaky. Patrick isn’t old enough to do that, is he? Patrick is wrapped in a blanket with Pete undergoing family drama!
Pete relaxes around him. “Patrick looks out for me, mom.” He sighs the words.
“Yeah, I know.” She sighs it back. And there’s way more going on there than Patrick can pick up on. “Well, carry on, rock and roll dudes.” There’s laughter in her voice and her footsteps are heavy on the floor, shaking the boards under the carpet. Patrick feels the vibration now that he’s not totally focused on Pete.
“She thinks you’re not eating?” Pete’s breath is warm against his neck. It’s made the collar of Patrick’s shirt damp.
“Maybe that happened before.” Pete’s fingers curl around one of the metal buttons on Patrick’s jacket.
“So, this hypothetical eating disorder, when was that?” Patrick brushes a hand against Pete’s back in encouragement.
“B.P.” Which is so not an answer.
“Like two days before Patrick or like two years?”
“Both. Neither. It’s periodic.” And Patrick can hear the self-loathing in those words. He hates himself so he starves himself then he hates himself for starving himself. Loop endlessly.
“We’re so having cheese fries and ice cream for dinner tonight.”
Pete smiles against his neck. Patrick knows it because he can feel the warm slippery enamel against his skin.
Patrick shuffles around and dislodges Pete. He knows that if Pete were left alone he wouldn’t move until he had to pee so bad he’s grabbing his crotch whining. That’s experience talking.
Outside of the blanket, the world is cool against Patrick’s sweaty skin, too bright, the edges sharp. Pete sits up with his hair sticking out all over like a porcupine. His smile’s still there, the half-lidded, eyelid fluttery smile that Patrick recognizes for what it is—a leer, a fucking leer--but that he still doesn’t understand when applied to himself. Patrick lies to himself about a lot of things, but what he’d do if Pete went there is not one of them. He’s not a coward, though, so he stares right back. Everything with Pete’s a competition or a dare. Patrick’s just not sure what the ground rules are in this contest.
“Don’t let your pretty pretty face write checks your ass can’t cash, Patrick.” The smile dips lower, his eyes turn unreadable. This is the Pete that freaks the fuck out of kids in clubs and girls who thought he was just a nice fixer-upper with suicidal tendencies.
“Bring it, you bitch.” Patrick crab walks to shake the blanket off and climbs to his feet. He rearranges his jacket and watches Pete watch him.
“You’re supposed to look out for me, not get me into serious trouble.”
Now they’re talking about this? Patrick tilts his head a bit, shrugs. Pete hands him his hat and looks up at him from his knees, eyelashes flickering like humming bird wings. Patrick knows sometimes that Pete doesn’t have all the power between them. That’s really fucking weird, considering. Considering everything--their age difference, the fact that Pete is universally known (if not loved) in the scene, that Pete is a fucking force of nature that makes things happen just by existing (dude got them studio time with double talk and schmoozing). Sometimes, Pete seems like he really means all the shit about Patrick being the only reason he goes on. Patrick just doesn’t get it. He also knows maybe he’s never going to because there’s nothing to get. Pete is a freak.
Pete pulls himself to his feet and wraps an arm around Patrick’s shoulders. He pulls the hat out of Patrick’s hand and wrestles it onto his head. “Mom probably left twenty bucks on the counter. How much ice cream and cheese fries will that buy?”
*
Pete ‘s fucking sulking and Patrick can feel the full-on rage creeping up. He hasn’t eaten anything with nutritional value in days—he’s living off fat, sugar, and caffeine. Pete’s such a fucking pain in his ass sometimes. What the fuck is Patrick supposed to do about the fact that he can’t understand Pete’s cryptic “thrum, thrum, eeeeeeeee, boom!” into an actual line of music? What’s he supposed to do about the fact that he’s clearly tone deaf and a drama queen about it?
The advance has given Patrick an ulcer. Actually, his ulcer has an ulcer and a kidney-shaped swimming pool in the Hollywood Hills.
“We’re going in the studio soon,” the anger in his voice just pisses him off more. He has no control over the rage monster sitting on his head.
“Dude, dial it down to eleven.” Joe’s rolling eyes are in his voice. “You gonna be cool for the show tonight or should I just call them and be all ‘hey, mommy and daddy got into it again over a bridge, and they’re sleeping in separate beds tonight”?
“Being cute doesn’t make me any less full of motherfucking rage, motherfucker.” The seething tips into a shout. He clutches the handset tighter, shuffling out of the living room and down the hall so he can have his bitch fit in the bathroom with the door locked. He’s doing laundry at his mom’s and is dressed in holey Purdue sweat pants, tube socks, and a Bears jersey. He kicks the bathroom door shut with his foot and the sock on that foot slides down so that he has a big flap of ratty sock flopping around his foot.
“Count to ten backwards and think of your calming place. Your calming place isn’t allowed to be Pete run over by an ice cream truck.”
Patrick shouldn’t have ever told Joe about that ice cream truck thing.
“FUCK OFF!” That feels good. Screaming profanities actually is Patrick’s major calming place.
“Hey, dude, you called me to work my charm and chill you out. Let it wash over you.”
While true, the dickhead could be less smug about it. “What does thrum, thrum, eeeeeeeee, boom mean to you, translated into say a chart?”
Joe laughs in big whoops that end in a wheeze. “Nice try. Patrick Stump for the Gold in the Passive Aggressive Olympics. No fucking way am I getting involved.”
“FINE!” Patrick hears the front door open and he immediately panics that his mom’s going to start in about college. Again. He’s so not above taking his rage out on his mom, and he can’t deal with the guilt. He counts to ten backwards and imagines Pete’s stupid hair sticking out from underneath the front tire of an ice cream truck.
“Your mom get home?” Joe’s eating something. Doritos probably.
“Yeah.” Patrick’s a lot calmer.
“Don’t take it out on her,” he mumbles around a mouthful of toxic, salty tastiness.
Patrick lets out a long, aggrieved sigh. He feels like ten years have fallen off his shoulders. “Thanks, dad. Soundcheck’s at seven—you know, be there by eight fifteen.”
Patrick walks out of the bathroom clicking the phone off and flinging his sock out in front of his foot so he doesn’t step on it. His mom’s in the kitchen pulling her coat off and flinging it on the dinette table. Her smile and arm out for a hug makes Patrick feel like a total asshole.
“Hey, mom.”
“You have a show tonight, right? Can I come?”
He presses his face into her familiar hair smell and smiles. “No way. I’m already the lamest guy in the band.”
They both laugh. Patrick’s still going to kill Pete later.
*
Pete’s got his hood pulled down low on his forehead, almost obscuring his eyes, when Patrick crosses the room. He ducks his head and pushes away from the wall where he was talking to Chris. Oh, perfection on a cracker! Patrick’s already keyed up to deal with the replacement sound tech and now Pete’s going to avoid him at their show. Ice cream truck, ice cream truck!
Here Patrick was all set to be magnanimous and forgive Pete for going all artistic genius about “Reinventing the Wheel” but fucker is going to up the ante and slither away into the crowd. Patrick lurches forward to follow after, but a hand lands on his elbow.
“Hey there.” Andy smiles brightly and holds onto Patrick’s arm. “How’s it going?”
Now he’s being managed. Patrick opens his mouth to let of a stream of “fuck yous” but Andy raises his eyebrows. “Pete thinks you’re mad at him.”
The DJ’s playing Green Day, and Patrick can feel himself wanting to sway along with the familiar melody. His mood shifts. Andy and Billy Joe bring Patrick back to ground zero. These days Patrick’s ground zero is probably everyone else’s Def Con 5, but you know, different strokes.
“I am mad at him.” That’s nothing more than the truth, but it suddenly feels like some kind of major betrayal.
“He gets intense. We don’t get a lot of time apart. You have to compartmentalize and set goals.” Andy’s meddling is always of the variety that Patrick can’t find a way to hate the guy for it. Yes, of course all that is true. But Patrick enjoys a good rage fest from time to time. Just like Pete enjoys sulking. Suddenly, Patrick remembers (again) how much is must suck to be stuck on the verge of collapse/making it in a band with two prima donas who treat each other like the gingham dog and calico cat half the time and sit in each other’s laps the other half of the time.
Patrick nods. “Yeah,” he says and Andy’s hand falls away. Patrick sidles off to talk to fill-in sound guy (someone’s cousin).
The sound guy literally is the cousin of the owner. He seems almost knowledgeable, so Patrick shrugs and heads back to the car for his gear. Pete’s leaning against the trunk of Patrick's car with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slumped. He looks up through his bangs at Patrick when he approaches.
“How mad are you?” Pete can be direct like that when it suits him.
“Five minutes ago, I was pretty pissed. Right this minute, I’m over it.” And he is.
Pete smiles and reaches out to pull the collar of Patrick’s coat closed. He’s wearing red fingerless gloves Patrick’s never seen before. “Want help?” He stands all the way up and leans his torso against Patrick and wraps his arms around Patrick across his biceps and around his back so that Patrick is holding up all of Pete’s weight but can’t return the hug. “I’m sorry I’m too stupid to know how to explain myself. I wish I had one zillionth of your talent so it was easier for you.”
And Patrick has to reach out as little as he can. His palms lay flat on the small of Pete’s back and they rock back and forth a bit, steady. Patrick is now deeply morose. He hates this Pete. He wants to banish this Pete into a deep ocean rift to live among weird dangly fish and creepy, glow in the dark sulfur-eating shrimp.
“I love you, ok, you don’t have to feel like that. I…I got carried away and forgot.” What Patrick forgot is how fragile Pete can be. Pete turns his head and kisses the side of Patrick’s neck. Everything in Patrick seesaws from his guilt to shock. Pete does it again, higher up, right under Patrick’s jaw. There’s no mistake in the way his chapped lips drag across Patrick’s cold skin as he pulls away.
Pete releases him and pulls his hood down and slumps his shoulders. “Love’s a shitty word, you know? I wish people would stop using it.”
So, Pete’s real problem is HER. Patrick refuses to even think the name.
“Love is a great word, some people are shitty,” the edge is back in Patrick’s voice and the pre-show adrenaline is blooming in his blood stream. Patrick can feel the fight coming on, the desire to release all the really shitty parts of himself all over HER. Patrick remembers when his absolutes included never drinking Mad Dog or hitting a chick, but Pete’s sort of been a whirlwind of rock bottoms all around.
Pete looks up with a smile and fishes Patrick’s keys out of his pocket. He pops the trunk. “You’d fight for my honor?”
“No, but I’d pay someone else to.” Patrick lets Pete grab the amp and reaches for his guitar case.
“With what? A linty lollypop and a cute smile?” Pete slams the trunks closed with a laugh.
“Your part of the advance and a blowjob maybe.” Hahaha! He really said that! Patrick laughs loud and huge into the frosty Chicago nightscape. Adrenaline is no one’s friend. Oh fuck it! Patrick’s high as fuck on endorphins and he’s going to enjoy Pete’s lifted eyebrow and the scandalized look of the idiot scene kid on the curb.
Andy’s talking to the sound guy when they stomp onto the stage for the soundcheck. He looks like he’s deep into 9/11 conspiracy mumbo-jumbo.
*
The first few days in the studio are fucking brutal. They have no real idea what the hell they’re doing. Making a shitty indy record on scraped together 15 minute, freebie intervals isn’t even in the same language as making a professional album in a real studio with real producers. Patrick doesn’t like not knowing everything. Madison’s full of hippies and Andy-types. Patrick feels out of his element on every level. The self-doubt is really settling in as he and Pete sit on a artsy-fartsy café eating grilled cheese with bean sprouts and avocado and all sort of shit grilled cheese was invented to circumvent. Pete watches people riding their bikes through the big window-wall as Patrick picks the sprouts off his sandwich.
“Fuck,” Pete moans. “Are we going to fuck this up?”
Patrick is in no mood for Pete to abandon the rah-rah “it’s me and you, kid, against the world!” attitude he’s been radiating since they got to Wisconsin. “Seriously, today is my day.” He glares at Pete. Pete swings his head around slowly.
“You don’t get a day, Patrick. It’s all you, man. We’re dead weight in pretty packages.” Pete’s not kidding about this today. Sometimes he slags himself off in a joking way, but this time, he means it. Patrick just can’t take that sort of expectation.
“Dude, while I appreciate your whole second coming bullshit from time to time, right now I’m really freaking the fuck out.” His fingers are cold from stress and he stuffs them between his thighs to warm them up.
Pete pulls a bottle out of his hoody pocket and rolls it across the table. Patrick catches it before it rolls off into his lap. He twists off the cap maintaining eye contact with Pete the entire time. He shakes out two and swallows them with his crap tisane stuff.
“You’ll feel…like your skin isn’t about to crack open to spill your guts out all over the ground.”
“Oh, great. So when do I pass out in my sprout sandwich?”
Pete’s smile is the one that turns Patrick’s stomach into a playground for wild animals. Pete slides out of his seat and round to the table to pluck Patrick out of his. Patrick just follows. Nothing new about that. Pete slides his hand down so that his fingertips are resting on the inside of Patrick’s wrist. The rough pads move over the veins near the surface—its feels wickedly intimate. Patrick blushes a bit, feels his heart rate push towards pre-show levels. What the fuck is going on with Pete, anyway? He’s been even moodier than usual. Patrick assumes it’s his whole selling-out flip out.
Patrick tries to not be in the room when Pete is freaking out about selling out. The stress is just too much. His ulcer with the ulcer can’t take Pete earnestly ripping himself apart about the money from Island. Today is Patrick’s day to earnestly freak out that he’s a talentless asshole who’s about to tank four careers.
Pete’s hand taps on his wrist as they exit the restaurant and wander through college-aged weirdo swirling down the sidewalk. Pete’s hand slides down into Patrick’s palm and his fingers lock into the crevices in between. They’re in Madison, Wi (Midwest Central for freaks of every stripe) and it’s dark, so Patrick’s pretty sure they won’t get beat up when he closes his hand around Pete’s. Pete’s head falls on his shoulder, and walking is suddenly awkward, but Patrick unclenches incrementally. Even if they crash and burn, he has this, right?
The hotel is way nicer than what they’re used to. Advance money being burned by the second, but it’s worth it to have your own room at the end of the day. Patrick knows if they had to shack up in the studio and in the hotel, it would be over quicker than Pete opening a bottle of fingernail polish in an enclosed space. By the time the keycard lets him in his room, he’s feeling…like he doesn’t really give a shit about anything. There’s also a bit of a golden undertone to his not-shit-giving, like he knows there’s stress somewhere, but it’s all too goddamn amusing to not let it go. Pete shuffles in against his back, a molded second body that Patrick’s so used to that he sometimes forgets that he really only has two hands and one head.
Pete shoves Patrick’s clothes off the bed and grabs the remote. He yawns and unzips his hoody in the overly-warm hotel room. Patrick eeks out five inches of space to lay down against Pete’s side.
“Move over, asshole.” He doesn’t really care that his leg’s hanging off the bed, though. Pete scoots over like two inches. Patrick manages to get his leg on the bed, but his apathy extends to not taking his shoes off.
“Patrick, we’re going to be so fucking famous that you’re going to have get plastic surgery to hide from the paparazzi. Like a full face transplant.” Pete surfs through CNN and the Home Shopping Network.
“Sure. I’ve always wanted one of those anyway.” He rubs a hand over his face. When he opens his eyes Pete is glaring down at him with his murder face.
“You know I don’t care you’re mad, right?” It’s all so fucking amusing and whatever.
“Don’t put yourself down. You’re beautiful. You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.” Andy’s voice drifts through Patrick’s mind Pete’s intense. They all say it. Patrick gets a special version of it sometimes. Pete might think he’s more awesome than Patrick’s own mom does. It’s pretty…amusing and whatever.
“Sure.” Patrick reaches up to pat Pete’s hair. Pete grabs it in mid-movement.
“You should’ve only taken one, I guess.” Pete sighs and Patrick feels the hairs around his face shift. Pete smells like Banana Now-N-Laters. “Patrick, what’m I going to do with you?” Pete resettles so he’s pretty much laying on top of Patrick, their legs twisted up and his chest pressing Patrick into the bed. “You know I’m a giant asshole, right? I’m also pretty fucking high right now.”
Patrick thinks he’s also pretty fucking high right now, because he’s not nervous or worried or much of anything except accepting. This is what it is. This is Pete laying on top of him having (another) existentialist crisis about how he’s…yes, about to kiss Patrick on the corner of his mouth.
Patrick drops his legs further apart as he just relaxes completely. His mind shifts so that all he really thinks about is the texture of Pete’s slippery hair between his fingers and Pete’s stubble scuffing around his mouth. Pete kisses him with his mouth barely parted, like it’s something secret. His hair falls around both their faces so that the light from the tv blinks out. Patrick closes his eyes, and when he does, Pete reaches up to cover his closed eyes with his hand. The kiss turns dirtier, Pete opening Patrick’s mouth with his tongue, his free hand pressing against Patrick’s jaw to hold him in place. Patrick slides a hand under Pete’s shirt in the back, rubs the dimples on his lower back.
Pete’s moan causes Patrick’s body to fight against the drugs keeping him calm and complacent. Under the golden nap is a coil of something large and terrible and ready to break out. Pete presses down with his hips and Patrick presses up. The coil fades back beneath the undertow of whatever, and Patrick runs two fingers up Pete’s spine, feeling the vertebrae under the skin—the architecture of Pete right there under his broken nails and cut fingertips.
Time stretches out like it does when you’re fucked up. Patrick moans and rolls with Pete. Pete keeps them in the dark and tries to devour Patrick.
The break apart when sleepiness overwhelms and their kisses trail off into yawns. Pete moves only enough to settle his head on a second pillow after reaching down to pull Patrick’s shoes off.
They wake up to Joe with coffee and doughnuts and the smug look of the well-laid.
*
Patrick’s much calmer in the studio in Chicago. He thinks maybe it’s the city itself—it’s his womb in a way. He’s got a bunch of maternal metaphors for it—apron strings and unconditional love. He loves Chicago. She loves him back. In the studio in his city, he can cope with Pete’s selling out bullshit rants.
“Yes, we sold out. Move on.” Patrick’s at the end of his rope—in his mind he can literally see a fucking rope, on one end he’s holding on like someone bucked off a horse and on the other end is a noose. The noose's shaped like the words "Island Records". He knows Pete’s lurking somewhere right outside of this vision.
“Dude, don’t start enabling him.” Joe rubs his forehead and wanders out into the corridor to beat the vending machine again.
“What happens when the scene turns on us and everyone hates us? Will the money buy us new friends?” It’s the fair weather friends rant today.
“Yes, they will buy us chimpanzee friends. We can buy, like, an army of monkeys to be our friends, and then we can go on MTV and be all ‘fuck you, Chris, now we have chimps!' Patrick cracks his neck from side to side.
“Don’t say that about Chris, man, that’s not right.” Pete’s calmer. He likes chimps. Patrick pulled a fast one there. He’s not above punching below the belt.
“Are chimps vegan?” Pete turns his attention to Andy and Patrick pops his headphones on to listen to the playback of “Chicago Is So Two Years Ago.” This is a damned fine pop song (about stalking) if he does say so himself.
*
Um, if you were really fast on the cuttag, I fucked up the coding, refresh.
My accomplice decided what I needed to do last night was watch really ridic youtube vids of...yeah, FOB. I watched and was appalled at my reaction! Who knew I could go crazier?
This fic (which I wrote after knocking off from WORK today--my fingers hurt) is brought to you by "Take This To Your Grave," which I think I've listened to about seventy-three trillion times in the last couple days. Move over TBP, you have been trumped!
The reason I spent all the time I could have been laying in the bathtub reading Vanity Fair writing this madness is that Jenn would. not. stop. enabling. She also betaed it. She also linked me to those Fuse clips. She also did a bunch of the background research for the story. She also wanted it to be LOOOOOOOONGER, which is bananas.
There's A Light On In Chicago
Snow crunches under Patrick’s soles as he walks up the sidewalk to Pete’s house. Shoveling is a periodic event at the Wentz’s, so he slips on a couple icy patches and has to yank his hands out of the pockets of his jeans to cartwheel his arms to keep from toppling over into the snowbanks on either side of the walkway. The handle of the glass door almost adheres to his skin when he swings it open. The front door’s unlocked, decked out in a harvest-themed wreath of plastic pumpkins and gourds. Patrick stomps the snow off his sneakers and rubs his hands together to try to get the circulation back, hoping to avoid PINS AND NEEDLES arrggggg!
“Shit!” His fingernails are verging on blue, maybe. He blows on his hands as Pete pops into the foyer with his hood down for once and a pair of knitted mittens in his hand. He dangles the mittens in front of Patrick’s face and bounces on his heels.
“Why won’t you wear gloves?” He sounds so…earnest. It’s really sort of funny. Patrick can’t help but laugh. Right in Pete’s earnest face. Pete tilts his head to the side and snatches at Patrick’s hands. He maintains eye contact in that creepy way he has. Patrick lets him shove the mittens on him. The wool is multicolored, purple and green and blue, like the yarn was rainbow. The heavy smell of lanolin drifts off them up to his face. As the feeling comes back to his fingers, the wool is rough against his callouses and cuts from steel guitar strings. Pete crowds up too close, bumping his elbow and knee and staring.
“You’re a creep.”
Pete cracks a wide smile. “I keep telling people that, dude, but they just laugh. I’m creepy!” He grabs Patrick’s elbow and steers him towards the kitchen. “Have you eaten?” He tilts his head up and calls out “MOM! Patrick’s living on PopTarts!”
“I HOPE IT’S AT LEAST FRUIT FLAVORED ONES FOR THE VITAMINS!” Echoes back to them. Patrick smiles.
The warm smell of cheese floats through the house. “Mac and cheese?” Patrick’s day is looking up.
“Yeah, she left the ham out because you’re one of those weirdo scene kids who is all ‘I’m a vegetarian this week to overcome the stranglehold on the international economy by, like, Perdue Incorporated and shit.”
“PETE!”
“Busted!” Patrick shoves Pete off of him as they cross into the kitchen and the dogs jump all over them.
Mama Wentz waves a wooden spoon in Pete’s general direction with an exaggerated scowl. “What have I told you about that language?”
“I’m a grown up, mom!”
Patrick knows this tactic is doomed to failure. He takes the scratchy mittens off and sets them on the island counter top.
“Do you live on your own?”
“Technically, yes.” This is a real weasel answer.
“Do you pay your own rent or buy your own groceries?”
Pete raises his eyebrows and blows his hair off his face. Pete doesn’t even buy his own clothes—he either steals them from Good Will or steals them off someone he knows.
Pete tries again. “I’m a rock and roll dude, mom, I use questionable language.”
At this point, the conversation is just a big, scripted joke. Both Wentzes smiling at each other with affection. Patrick loves the Wentzes and that doesn’t have anything to do with the band, really. If there was no band, like, if Andy went crazy and Joe moved to New Jersey and it was just Pete and Patrick kicking it at Pete’s, yeah, that would be ok. Not that Pete would be happy with that plan, so, unlikely turn of events.
The matron with the spoon turns to Patrick. “You don’t talk like that, do you?” She’s smiling, that weird look parents usually give him. Patrick is loved universally by parents. This would be handy if he was out deflowering virgins and snorting crushed up Ritalin, as it stands he’s mostly sitting around Pete’s room mooning over guitars he can’t afford.
“Patrick’s a potty mouth, mom.” Pete smacks him on the back of the head dislodging his hat and races towards the stairs.
Patrick shrugs at Mama Wentz and throws up a hand. “It’s sad but true.”
“Fuck, it’s our secret, then!” She tosses off and goes back to the stove. Patrick laughs as he snatches his hat off the floor and chases after Pete.
“You’re dead, bastard!” He shouts up the stairs. He trips over a pile of laundry Pete probably tipped over to obstruct him and bangs his chin on the tattered carpet. “You’re so screwed!” He yells as he clamors to his feet, wildly swinging his hands out to smack against a banister, a riser, the wall, to get his feet under himself. One of his shoes is untied and on the next couple stairs he trips himself.
Pete’s peering around the corner watching. His hood’s up now and he’s grinning like a comic book character, all teeth and ridiculous hair. One of his hands grips the wall and Patrick can see the bitten nails and cracked black nail polish starkly against the white wall.
“I’m gonna sit on your head, motherfucker!” Patrick’s taunts aren’t always that threatening in the heat of the moment. Pete sticks his tongue out and runs into his room as Patrick makes the landing. Patrick leaps on his back and gets him in a chokehold to administer a brutal noogie as Pete flails to dislodge him. They land on the floor between the twin beds and Pete takes a bedspread with him. They both end up cocooned in the blanket, tangled together, breathing raggedly and snort-giggling.
Pete manages to get his arms around Patrick and clings to him like a lemur on a tree branch. “You’re my favorite color, Patrick.”
He’s so used to shit like that that all he says is “What color am I?” Pete’s belt buckle is digging into his side.
“The reddish black when I turn my face towards a bright light when my eyes are closed.” The answer comes too fast, like maybe Pete’s not making this one up on the fly.
“You’ve thought about that before?” Why is he ever surprised anymore? He shouldn’t be surprised anymore. “I shouldn’t be surprised anymore.”
“I think about you all the time. I’m creepy like that.” He clings harder, his leg coming up and over Patrick’s thighs.
“You’re not creepy stop fucking saying that!” Sometimes Patrick has to be indignant for Pete because Pete spends half his time putting himself down before anyone else can get to it. It grates on Patrick’s nerves. “You’re just intense.”
“I never really thought of either of you being autistic.” Patrick stills when the voice filters through the walls of the blanket. Moments like this make his stomach roll, like he’s getting busted doing something really illicit.
“Nonlinear commentary, mom!” Pete answers without even attempting to untangle their limbs.
“One of the therapies for autism is snuggle therapy and another is wrapping autistic people in blankets really tight to simulate an all over embrace.”
“That’s cool!” Pete squirms around a bit, getting more comfortable. The belt buckle scrapes over Patrick’s skin. “Hug therapy! Awesome!”
“Yeah, I totally agree. Very awesome. I put some food aside for you guys. Your brother already ate the weight of his head in macaroni.”
Patrick is tangled inside a blanket cocoon with Pete Wentz while he and his mother discuss autism and dinner plans. This is Patrick’s life.
“We can eat vegan tacos with Andy or something.”
“Remember what we talked about.” Her voice has turned stern, and Patrick tenses up all over. Pete holds him in place.
“I’m not manorexic, mom! Give me a break! Ask Patrick. I eat, don’t I, Patrick?”
Oh no, put on the spot. Patrick has been trying to pretend that he’s invisible under the blanket. Now he’s been name-checked and recognized. Shit. Pete sucks so hard. Why is he embarrassed anyway? Patrick screams in the black void that is his mind.
“Yeah, he eats. Mostly whatever’s on my plate.”
Pete chuckles warmly next to his ear. Patrick’s stomach flips again.
“Patrick, this is serious. Pete is Pete, you know? We worry.” When did Patrick become part of the family? Sometimes this really weirds him out and makes him really proud of himself at the same time, like he’s accomplished something.
“Dale, I promise.” He uses her name and tries to sound solemn. Calling people’s parents by their first names is still freaky. Patrick isn’t old enough to do that, is he? Patrick is wrapped in a blanket with Pete undergoing family drama!
Pete relaxes around him. “Patrick looks out for me, mom.” He sighs the words.
“Yeah, I know.” She sighs it back. And there’s way more going on there than Patrick can pick up on. “Well, carry on, rock and roll dudes.” There’s laughter in her voice and her footsteps are heavy on the floor, shaking the boards under the carpet. Patrick feels the vibration now that he’s not totally focused on Pete.
“She thinks you’re not eating?” Pete’s breath is warm against his neck. It’s made the collar of Patrick’s shirt damp.
“Maybe that happened before.” Pete’s fingers curl around one of the metal buttons on Patrick’s jacket.
“So, this hypothetical eating disorder, when was that?” Patrick brushes a hand against Pete’s back in encouragement.
“B.P.” Which is so not an answer.
“Like two days before Patrick or like two years?”
“Both. Neither. It’s periodic.” And Patrick can hear the self-loathing in those words. He hates himself so he starves himself then he hates himself for starving himself. Loop endlessly.
“We’re so having cheese fries and ice cream for dinner tonight.”
Pete smiles against his neck. Patrick knows it because he can feel the warm slippery enamel against his skin.
Patrick shuffles around and dislodges Pete. He knows that if Pete were left alone he wouldn’t move until he had to pee so bad he’s grabbing his crotch whining. That’s experience talking.
Outside of the blanket, the world is cool against Patrick’s sweaty skin, too bright, the edges sharp. Pete sits up with his hair sticking out all over like a porcupine. His smile’s still there, the half-lidded, eyelid fluttery smile that Patrick recognizes for what it is—a leer, a fucking leer--but that he still doesn’t understand when applied to himself. Patrick lies to himself about a lot of things, but what he’d do if Pete went there is not one of them. He’s not a coward, though, so he stares right back. Everything with Pete’s a competition or a dare. Patrick’s just not sure what the ground rules are in this contest.
“Don’t let your pretty pretty face write checks your ass can’t cash, Patrick.” The smile dips lower, his eyes turn unreadable. This is the Pete that freaks the fuck out of kids in clubs and girls who thought he was just a nice fixer-upper with suicidal tendencies.
“Bring it, you bitch.” Patrick crab walks to shake the blanket off and climbs to his feet. He rearranges his jacket and watches Pete watch him.
“You’re supposed to look out for me, not get me into serious trouble.”
Now they’re talking about this? Patrick tilts his head a bit, shrugs. Pete hands him his hat and looks up at him from his knees, eyelashes flickering like humming bird wings. Patrick knows sometimes that Pete doesn’t have all the power between them. That’s really fucking weird, considering. Considering everything--their age difference, the fact that Pete is universally known (if not loved) in the scene, that Pete is a fucking force of nature that makes things happen just by existing (dude got them studio time with double talk and schmoozing). Sometimes, Pete seems like he really means all the shit about Patrick being the only reason he goes on. Patrick just doesn’t get it. He also knows maybe he’s never going to because there’s nothing to get. Pete is a freak.
Pete pulls himself to his feet and wraps an arm around Patrick’s shoulders. He pulls the hat out of Patrick’s hand and wrestles it onto his head. “Mom probably left twenty bucks on the counter. How much ice cream and cheese fries will that buy?”
*
Pete ‘s fucking sulking and Patrick can feel the full-on rage creeping up. He hasn’t eaten anything with nutritional value in days—he’s living off fat, sugar, and caffeine. Pete’s such a fucking pain in his ass sometimes. What the fuck is Patrick supposed to do about the fact that he can’t understand Pete’s cryptic “thrum, thrum, eeeeeeeee, boom!” into an actual line of music? What’s he supposed to do about the fact that he’s clearly tone deaf and a drama queen about it?
The advance has given Patrick an ulcer. Actually, his ulcer has an ulcer and a kidney-shaped swimming pool in the Hollywood Hills.
“We’re going in the studio soon,” the anger in his voice just pisses him off more. He has no control over the rage monster sitting on his head.
“Dude, dial it down to eleven.” Joe’s rolling eyes are in his voice. “You gonna be cool for the show tonight or should I just call them and be all ‘hey, mommy and daddy got into it again over a bridge, and they’re sleeping in separate beds tonight”?
“Being cute doesn’t make me any less full of motherfucking rage, motherfucker.” The seething tips into a shout. He clutches the handset tighter, shuffling out of the living room and down the hall so he can have his bitch fit in the bathroom with the door locked. He’s doing laundry at his mom’s and is dressed in holey Purdue sweat pants, tube socks, and a Bears jersey. He kicks the bathroom door shut with his foot and the sock on that foot slides down so that he has a big flap of ratty sock flopping around his foot.
“Count to ten backwards and think of your calming place. Your calming place isn’t allowed to be Pete run over by an ice cream truck.”
Patrick shouldn’t have ever told Joe about that ice cream truck thing.
“FUCK OFF!” That feels good. Screaming profanities actually is Patrick’s major calming place.
“Hey, dude, you called me to work my charm and chill you out. Let it wash over you.”
While true, the dickhead could be less smug about it. “What does thrum, thrum, eeeeeeeee, boom mean to you, translated into say a chart?”
Joe laughs in big whoops that end in a wheeze. “Nice try. Patrick Stump for the Gold in the Passive Aggressive Olympics. No fucking way am I getting involved.”
“FINE!” Patrick hears the front door open and he immediately panics that his mom’s going to start in about college. Again. He’s so not above taking his rage out on his mom, and he can’t deal with the guilt. He counts to ten backwards and imagines Pete’s stupid hair sticking out from underneath the front tire of an ice cream truck.
“Your mom get home?” Joe’s eating something. Doritos probably.
“Yeah.” Patrick’s a lot calmer.
“Don’t take it out on her,” he mumbles around a mouthful of toxic, salty tastiness.
Patrick lets out a long, aggrieved sigh. He feels like ten years have fallen off his shoulders. “Thanks, dad. Soundcheck’s at seven—you know, be there by eight fifteen.”
Patrick walks out of the bathroom clicking the phone off and flinging his sock out in front of his foot so he doesn’t step on it. His mom’s in the kitchen pulling her coat off and flinging it on the dinette table. Her smile and arm out for a hug makes Patrick feel like a total asshole.
“Hey, mom.”
“You have a show tonight, right? Can I come?”
He presses his face into her familiar hair smell and smiles. “No way. I’m already the lamest guy in the band.”
They both laugh. Patrick’s still going to kill Pete later.
*
Pete’s got his hood pulled down low on his forehead, almost obscuring his eyes, when Patrick crosses the room. He ducks his head and pushes away from the wall where he was talking to Chris. Oh, perfection on a cracker! Patrick’s already keyed up to deal with the replacement sound tech and now Pete’s going to avoid him at their show. Ice cream truck, ice cream truck!
Here Patrick was all set to be magnanimous and forgive Pete for going all artistic genius about “Reinventing the Wheel” but fucker is going to up the ante and slither away into the crowd. Patrick lurches forward to follow after, but a hand lands on his elbow.
“Hey there.” Andy smiles brightly and holds onto Patrick’s arm. “How’s it going?”
Now he’s being managed. Patrick opens his mouth to let of a stream of “fuck yous” but Andy raises his eyebrows. “Pete thinks you’re mad at him.”
The DJ’s playing Green Day, and Patrick can feel himself wanting to sway along with the familiar melody. His mood shifts. Andy and Billy Joe bring Patrick back to ground zero. These days Patrick’s ground zero is probably everyone else’s Def Con 5, but you know, different strokes.
“I am mad at him.” That’s nothing more than the truth, but it suddenly feels like some kind of major betrayal.
“He gets intense. We don’t get a lot of time apart. You have to compartmentalize and set goals.” Andy’s meddling is always of the variety that Patrick can’t find a way to hate the guy for it. Yes, of course all that is true. But Patrick enjoys a good rage fest from time to time. Just like Pete enjoys sulking. Suddenly, Patrick remembers (again) how much is must suck to be stuck on the verge of collapse/making it in a band with two prima donas who treat each other like the gingham dog and calico cat half the time and sit in each other’s laps the other half of the time.
Patrick nods. “Yeah,” he says and Andy’s hand falls away. Patrick sidles off to talk to fill-in sound guy (someone’s cousin).
The sound guy literally is the cousin of the owner. He seems almost knowledgeable, so Patrick shrugs and heads back to the car for his gear. Pete’s leaning against the trunk of Patrick's car with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slumped. He looks up through his bangs at Patrick when he approaches.
“How mad are you?” Pete can be direct like that when it suits him.
“Five minutes ago, I was pretty pissed. Right this minute, I’m over it.” And he is.
Pete smiles and reaches out to pull the collar of Patrick’s coat closed. He’s wearing red fingerless gloves Patrick’s never seen before. “Want help?” He stands all the way up and leans his torso against Patrick and wraps his arms around Patrick across his biceps and around his back so that Patrick is holding up all of Pete’s weight but can’t return the hug. “I’m sorry I’m too stupid to know how to explain myself. I wish I had one zillionth of your talent so it was easier for you.”
And Patrick has to reach out as little as he can. His palms lay flat on the small of Pete’s back and they rock back and forth a bit, steady. Patrick is now deeply morose. He hates this Pete. He wants to banish this Pete into a deep ocean rift to live among weird dangly fish and creepy, glow in the dark sulfur-eating shrimp.
“I love you, ok, you don’t have to feel like that. I…I got carried away and forgot.” What Patrick forgot is how fragile Pete can be. Pete turns his head and kisses the side of Patrick’s neck. Everything in Patrick seesaws from his guilt to shock. Pete does it again, higher up, right under Patrick’s jaw. There’s no mistake in the way his chapped lips drag across Patrick’s cold skin as he pulls away.
Pete releases him and pulls his hood down and slumps his shoulders. “Love’s a shitty word, you know? I wish people would stop using it.”
So, Pete’s real problem is HER. Patrick refuses to even think the name.
“Love is a great word, some people are shitty,” the edge is back in Patrick’s voice and the pre-show adrenaline is blooming in his blood stream. Patrick can feel the fight coming on, the desire to release all the really shitty parts of himself all over HER. Patrick remembers when his absolutes included never drinking Mad Dog or hitting a chick, but Pete’s sort of been a whirlwind of rock bottoms all around.
Pete looks up with a smile and fishes Patrick’s keys out of his pocket. He pops the trunk. “You’d fight for my honor?”
“No, but I’d pay someone else to.” Patrick lets Pete grab the amp and reaches for his guitar case.
“With what? A linty lollypop and a cute smile?” Pete slams the trunks closed with a laugh.
“Your part of the advance and a blowjob maybe.” Hahaha! He really said that! Patrick laughs loud and huge into the frosty Chicago nightscape. Adrenaline is no one’s friend. Oh fuck it! Patrick’s high as fuck on endorphins and he’s going to enjoy Pete’s lifted eyebrow and the scandalized look of the idiot scene kid on the curb.
Andy’s talking to the sound guy when they stomp onto the stage for the soundcheck. He looks like he’s deep into 9/11 conspiracy mumbo-jumbo.
*
The first few days in the studio are fucking brutal. They have no real idea what the hell they’re doing. Making a shitty indy record on scraped together 15 minute, freebie intervals isn’t even in the same language as making a professional album in a real studio with real producers. Patrick doesn’t like not knowing everything. Madison’s full of hippies and Andy-types. Patrick feels out of his element on every level. The self-doubt is really settling in as he and Pete sit on a artsy-fartsy café eating grilled cheese with bean sprouts and avocado and all sort of shit grilled cheese was invented to circumvent. Pete watches people riding their bikes through the big window-wall as Patrick picks the sprouts off his sandwich.
“Fuck,” Pete moans. “Are we going to fuck this up?”
Patrick is in no mood for Pete to abandon the rah-rah “it’s me and you, kid, against the world!” attitude he’s been radiating since they got to Wisconsin. “Seriously, today is my day.” He glares at Pete. Pete swings his head around slowly.
“You don’t get a day, Patrick. It’s all you, man. We’re dead weight in pretty packages.” Pete’s not kidding about this today. Sometimes he slags himself off in a joking way, but this time, he means it. Patrick just can’t take that sort of expectation.
“Dude, while I appreciate your whole second coming bullshit from time to time, right now I’m really freaking the fuck out.” His fingers are cold from stress and he stuffs them between his thighs to warm them up.
Pete pulls a bottle out of his hoody pocket and rolls it across the table. Patrick catches it before it rolls off into his lap. He twists off the cap maintaining eye contact with Pete the entire time. He shakes out two and swallows them with his crap tisane stuff.
“You’ll feel…like your skin isn’t about to crack open to spill your guts out all over the ground.”
“Oh, great. So when do I pass out in my sprout sandwich?”
Pete’s smile is the one that turns Patrick’s stomach into a playground for wild animals. Pete slides out of his seat and round to the table to pluck Patrick out of his. Patrick just follows. Nothing new about that. Pete slides his hand down so that his fingertips are resting on the inside of Patrick’s wrist. The rough pads move over the veins near the surface—its feels wickedly intimate. Patrick blushes a bit, feels his heart rate push towards pre-show levels. What the fuck is going on with Pete, anyway? He’s been even moodier than usual. Patrick assumes it’s his whole selling-out flip out.
Patrick tries to not be in the room when Pete is freaking out about selling out. The stress is just too much. His ulcer with the ulcer can’t take Pete earnestly ripping himself apart about the money from Island. Today is Patrick’s day to earnestly freak out that he’s a talentless asshole who’s about to tank four careers.
Pete’s hand taps on his wrist as they exit the restaurant and wander through college-aged weirdo swirling down the sidewalk. Pete’s hand slides down into Patrick’s palm and his fingers lock into the crevices in between. They’re in Madison, Wi (Midwest Central for freaks of every stripe) and it’s dark, so Patrick’s pretty sure they won’t get beat up when he closes his hand around Pete’s. Pete’s head falls on his shoulder, and walking is suddenly awkward, but Patrick unclenches incrementally. Even if they crash and burn, he has this, right?
The hotel is way nicer than what they’re used to. Advance money being burned by the second, but it’s worth it to have your own room at the end of the day. Patrick knows if they had to shack up in the studio and in the hotel, it would be over quicker than Pete opening a bottle of fingernail polish in an enclosed space. By the time the keycard lets him in his room, he’s feeling…like he doesn’t really give a shit about anything. There’s also a bit of a golden undertone to his not-shit-giving, like he knows there’s stress somewhere, but it’s all too goddamn amusing to not let it go. Pete shuffles in against his back, a molded second body that Patrick’s so used to that he sometimes forgets that he really only has two hands and one head.
Pete shoves Patrick’s clothes off the bed and grabs the remote. He yawns and unzips his hoody in the overly-warm hotel room. Patrick eeks out five inches of space to lay down against Pete’s side.
“Move over, asshole.” He doesn’t really care that his leg’s hanging off the bed, though. Pete scoots over like two inches. Patrick manages to get his leg on the bed, but his apathy extends to not taking his shoes off.
“Patrick, we’re going to be so fucking famous that you’re going to have get plastic surgery to hide from the paparazzi. Like a full face transplant.” Pete surfs through CNN and the Home Shopping Network.
“Sure. I’ve always wanted one of those anyway.” He rubs a hand over his face. When he opens his eyes Pete is glaring down at him with his murder face.
“You know I don’t care you’re mad, right?” It’s all so fucking amusing and whatever.
“Don’t put yourself down. You’re beautiful. You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.” Andy’s voice drifts through Patrick’s mind Pete’s intense. They all say it. Patrick gets a special version of it sometimes. Pete might think he’s more awesome than Patrick’s own mom does. It’s pretty…amusing and whatever.
“Sure.” Patrick reaches up to pat Pete’s hair. Pete grabs it in mid-movement.
“You should’ve only taken one, I guess.” Pete sighs and Patrick feels the hairs around his face shift. Pete smells like Banana Now-N-Laters. “Patrick, what’m I going to do with you?” Pete resettles so he’s pretty much laying on top of Patrick, their legs twisted up and his chest pressing Patrick into the bed. “You know I’m a giant asshole, right? I’m also pretty fucking high right now.”
Patrick thinks he’s also pretty fucking high right now, because he’s not nervous or worried or much of anything except accepting. This is what it is. This is Pete laying on top of him having (another) existentialist crisis about how he’s…yes, about to kiss Patrick on the corner of his mouth.
Patrick drops his legs further apart as he just relaxes completely. His mind shifts so that all he really thinks about is the texture of Pete’s slippery hair between his fingers and Pete’s stubble scuffing around his mouth. Pete kisses him with his mouth barely parted, like it’s something secret. His hair falls around both their faces so that the light from the tv blinks out. Patrick closes his eyes, and when he does, Pete reaches up to cover his closed eyes with his hand. The kiss turns dirtier, Pete opening Patrick’s mouth with his tongue, his free hand pressing against Patrick’s jaw to hold him in place. Patrick slides a hand under Pete’s shirt in the back, rubs the dimples on his lower back.
Pete’s moan causes Patrick’s body to fight against the drugs keeping him calm and complacent. Under the golden nap is a coil of something large and terrible and ready to break out. Pete presses down with his hips and Patrick presses up. The coil fades back beneath the undertow of whatever, and Patrick runs two fingers up Pete’s spine, feeling the vertebrae under the skin—the architecture of Pete right there under his broken nails and cut fingertips.
Time stretches out like it does when you’re fucked up. Patrick moans and rolls with Pete. Pete keeps them in the dark and tries to devour Patrick.
The break apart when sleepiness overwhelms and their kisses trail off into yawns. Pete moves only enough to settle his head on a second pillow after reaching down to pull Patrick’s shoes off.
They wake up to Joe with coffee and doughnuts and the smug look of the well-laid.
*
Patrick’s much calmer in the studio in Chicago. He thinks maybe it’s the city itself—it’s his womb in a way. He’s got a bunch of maternal metaphors for it—apron strings and unconditional love. He loves Chicago. She loves him back. In the studio in his city, he can cope with Pete’s selling out bullshit rants.
“Yes, we sold out. Move on.” Patrick’s at the end of his rope—in his mind he can literally see a fucking rope, on one end he’s holding on like someone bucked off a horse and on the other end is a noose. The noose's shaped like the words "Island Records". He knows Pete’s lurking somewhere right outside of this vision.
“Dude, don’t start enabling him.” Joe rubs his forehead and wanders out into the corridor to beat the vending machine again.
“What happens when the scene turns on us and everyone hates us? Will the money buy us new friends?” It’s the fair weather friends rant today.
“Yes, they will buy us chimpanzee friends. We can buy, like, an army of monkeys to be our friends, and then we can go on MTV and be all ‘fuck you, Chris, now we have chimps!' Patrick cracks his neck from side to side.
“Don’t say that about Chris, man, that’s not right.” Pete’s calmer. He likes chimps. Patrick pulled a fast one there. He’s not above punching below the belt.
“Are chimps vegan?” Pete turns his attention to Andy and Patrick pops his headphones on to listen to the playback of “Chicago Is So Two Years Ago.” This is a damned fine pop song (about stalking) if he does say so himself.
*
Um, if you were really fast on the cuttag, I fucked up the coding, refresh.
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ah, that is my favorite part. i love the dare and the leer and patrick falls for it every time, i bet, every time he can manage to do it.
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Hi! Haven't talked to you lately.
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Also, the beginning with Pete's mother was just wonderful. I really liked it. It was cute and fluffy and so very family.
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Pete's mom is great in those vids. You'll see.
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This was so good. Baby Patrick and hug therapy and Pete being an almighty pain in the ass and Andy being simultaneously awesome and kinda tedious and Joe being amaaaazing... FOB BRING ME JOY. Great story.
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This rocks. You had me at ice cream truck.
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I have to admit that Patrick pov cracks me up so hard because of things like ice cream truck. You know, I mean, he's all *rage rage...wait, weeps at footage of african children* It doesn't get better than that.
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Patrick POV freaking rules.
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Chimps. Hee.
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I don't know how much more fic I'll write in the near future, to be honest. BUT. Thank you.
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Great, awesome, fantastic fic.
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I've BEEN there, nice try. Actually, I could have been there the same time as this record was being made, actually.
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♥