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bandomstuffsitHeader and Part One
"Z needed to see you in editing ten minutes ago," Brian says, as soon as Patrick steps into Clandestine's front office. He doesn't sound particularly upset about that fact, although there's a hint of steel in his voice that suggests that if Patrick does not get his ass over to editing the minute he steps out of Brian's door, there will be hell to pay. "Go there first, then you need to see Gee or Lindsey in Wardrobe for your fitting and Spencer for a run-through, in that order. You start shooting at 3 if everything works out right."
Brian flips through a stack of papers on his desk, frowning. There's a red post-it note with the words STUMP!!!!!! on the top sheet in black sharpie. Patrick doesn't think he's ever seen a red post-it note before. He wonders if Brian dyes them in the blood of his enemies before going to work in the morning.
"Sure," Patrick says, and edges out of Brian's office before anything else can go wrong.
—
"Here," Z says, thumping several pieces of paper against Patrick's chest as soon as he walks into her office. Ryan's sitting at a desk with his back to the door, flipping through a series of close-ups of Gabe's dick and frowning in concentration. Patrick decides immediately not to ask. "Memorize that, okay? I didn't give you a lot of lines, we need to see how you are on camera before I try and make you interact with your fake mom or something."
"Fake mom?" Patrick says. He grimaces.
"Schoolboy porn," Z says. "Fake mom's part of the deal. We'll get Gee's mom to do it. She loves being on camera."
"What," Patrick says weakly.
"You'll be clothed when she's around," Z says, pushing him out the door. "Just read that, okay? And go see Gerard and Linds. They need you real fast in case they have to tailor your costume."
—
"That's a baby," Patrick says weakly, once he walks into what the helpful hallway signs have told him is THE ART DEPARTMENT! with a smiling death's head placed next to the jagged letters. His morning just keeps getting weirder and weirder. "Should there be a baby in a porn studio?"
"She's still little," a blond-haired woman says to him, winking. "We've got a few more years before we'll have to pay for a daycare." She's pretty and she's wearing extremely red lipstick and she's holding a lot of very long and very large sewing pins in one hand as she mocks up what looks like a ruffled corset on to a tiny mannequin. Patrick immediately decides to do whatever she says. Those things hurt like a bitch when you get stuck with them.
"Right," Patrick says. "Absolutely. Um. So this is Art and Wardrobe, right? Because I had a lot of people yelling at me this morning telling me to go here."
"Damn straight," the woman says, still smiling sunnily at him. "You're Patrick, right? I'm Lindsey. Gee's my co-director; he's out running errands right now. And this is Bandit," Lindsey says, gesturing to the baby, who is munching happily on a pile of cheerios in her high-chair.
"Yeah," Patrick says. "Uh. Hi baby." He holds his finger out gently, and the baby takes it, looking solemn. She has very large eyes.
"So I need you to strip for me," Lindsey says pleasantly. "We need to measure everything real fast and get you sized up for this afternoon. I think you'll fit into what we have, I just need to tailor it a bit."
"Strip," Patrick says weakly. "You mean. Strip as in everything?"
"You can leave your underwear on," Lindsey says, shrugging. "If you want to. I don't need to measure the package. Unless it's huge." She pauses. "Is it huge? Am I going to have to tailor your inseam like I have to do for Ray and Travis?"
"Oh god," Patrick says. "Uh. No. You don't need to do that. My dick usually fits in normal pants just fine."
"Good," Lindsey says. "I hate inseams. Pain in my fucking ass. Can you—what are you waiting for?" She gives Patrick a quizzical look, one perfect eyebrow raised high. "Come on, we don't have all day."
"Right," Patrick says, and ignores the twist in his stomach and the way his face flames when he starts tugging his clothing off. He wonders if he can ask her to lock the door. That would be weird, right? Because this is a porn company. Except the thought of someone walking in kind of makes Patrick want to throw up, which doesn't bode well for the rest of Patrick's afternoon.
"Oh, yeah," Lindsey says, watching him undress. "This is workable. We can work with this. Actually, you know what, leave the T-shirt on? I'll just give you a white undershirt. I think Z said you're leaving that on anyway." Patrick tries not to sigh in obvious relief. He doesn't like standing around in his socks and boxers and t-shirt in front of a stranger, but he can handle it. Lindsey's rummaging around on a nearby rack full of men's clothing, suits and coats and pants of every imaginable occupation and measurement all shoved together. She's pulling out jacket after jacket, tossing them on to the wide table in the middle of the room that's littered with empty paint cups, open markers and half-full coffee mugs.
"Start with those," she calls over her shoulder, pointing to a pile of dark-blue suit jackets with red piping. Patrick grits his teeth and does as he's told.
—
Patrick doesn't escape from Wardrobe until almost 2pm, after Lindsey had pulled and tucked and nipped everything into place with a speed and artistry that felt slightly unnerving. His stomach rumbles as he's slipping out the door, and he thinks sadly of Joe, sitting at the studio and probably ordering take-out with the Hush Sound right now as Patrick starves to death on his first day on the job. Maybe he can ask someone if there's a sandwich shop nearby.
"Hey," someone calls out, as Patrick pushes his way into the tiny "Studio 4" that Brian had indicated was where he should meet Spencer. "Hurry up, dude. Lo mein's almost gone."
"Oh thank fuck," Patrick says, walking over to the card table that's been set up in a corner of the studio. There's an empty folding chair for him, and a paper plate with a plastic napkin, and Patrick is so hungry and grateful he kind of wants to cry.
"Welcome to Clandestine," Spencer says, chasing a tiny shrimp across his paper plate with a fork. Patrick's seen him before, but now that he's gotten a good look at him he thinks that Spencer really is very lanky and very beardy and looks nothing like a porn director. His socks have mustaches on them. Patrick can see them from where Spencer's got one ankle kicked up on his opposite thigh. "Food's on us. Shooting your first video sucks."
"Oh," Patrick says, his heart jumping back up to lodge in his windpipe again.
"But this lo mein is fucking ace," Spencer continues. "So eat some."
"Thanks," Patrick says. "Yeah. Thank you, seriously. I forgot lunch today. I'm starving."
"Yeah," Spencer says. He looks over at Patrick. "So. You excited about this? Or you freaked out and want some advice?"
"Uh," Patrick lies. "Little of column A, little of column B?"
"Okay," Spencer says. "That's about where you should be, in my opinion." He gives Patrick a considering look. "Take your pants off," Spencer says, after a moment. "You'll feel better."
"What?" Patrick says, his fork frozen above his plate.
"Well," Spencer says. "In a few hours you're going to get naked in front of us, right? Like that's part of your job. You're going to get naked and jerk off on camera, and we're going to film it. And the guys and I—" Spencer gestures to the crew that's milling around, adjusting lights and fixing the fake curtains on Patrick's fake bedroom window and checking to make sure that the cardboard that's propping Patrick's pillows up doesn't show—"we don't give a shit. We've seen it all before. But me telling you that isn't going to make much of a difference, is it."
"Uh," Patrick says.
"Right," Spencer says. "So try it. Just whip your dick out. Right here. And then I will continue to not give a shit, and you'll feel better about your life choices."
"You do this a lot, don't you," Patrick says. Spencer shrugs. "Shane's more touchy feely," Spencer says, taking a long slug of his soda. "He likes to reassure people. I just point out that I don't care, and then everyone's day is a lot easier in the long run."
Patrick lets his fork finally connect with his plate. He's not sure he's actually ready to sit here and eat lunch with Spencer with his dick hanging out, but he has to admit that Spencer's attitude is kind of refreshing.
"So why did you go into directing gay porn if you're straight?" Patrick asks, honestly curious about the answer. "Does it pay better?"
Spencer blinks at him. "What?" Spencer says, frowning.
"You said—" Patrick falters slightly. "You. Oh. I thought."
"Oh," Spencer says. "Uh. Yeah. Sure. That works." He looks away, dropping eye contact for the first time, and Patrick wonders if there's another level to this conversation that he's not picking up on.
"Okay," Patrick says.
"Anyway, the point is, I don't care about your dick," Spencer says helpfully, burping a little. "I mean, I'm sure it's great! I'm sure it's great." He pats Patrick on the shoulder. "I'll make it look great on film. But straight or not, you don't need to worry about me."
"Right," Patrick says. "I appreciate that."
"Glad to help," Spencer says, standing up and burping again. "I'm gonna go talk to the guys. Hit me up when you're ready to run through the scene, okay? We need to wait for Wardrobe and then I'll introduce you to everyone, but we should also block the scene out real quick before we start."
"Got it," Patrick says again, and concentrates on wolfing down the free Chinese food before someone else does.
—
"Go stand over there," Spencer says, looking at Patrick through the camera. He's drinking a beer as he works, setting it down precariously on various items of very expensive equipment as he wanders around the room moving things and tugging on things and telling Patrick who to look at for each little scene. Patrick wants a beer. Patrick also wants this to not be his life right now.
"Great," Spencer says, nodding at him when Patrick shuffles over to the window. "Do me a favor, take it out, okay? Like we talked about. You're a little tense. You need to relax."
"Fuck," Patrick says.
"Just do it," Spencer says. "Like ripping a band-aid off. You want a beer? You can have a beer if you want." He looks over at his assistant, who also has a beard and is also drinking a beer. Patrick feels like he's stumbled into a twilight zone of trendy gay lumberjacks with cameras.
"Get him a beer," Spencer says, to Beardy Guy No. 2, and he nods sagely and wanders off to grab Patrick a Miller Lite.
"I'm not—fuck," Patrick says. "I can't. You do realize I'm not like. Excited, right? Not even a little bit. There isn't going to be anything impressive about this. I'm just going to look stupid."
"You'll get a dressing room before we start," Second Beardy Guy assures him, handing him a cold one. Patrick takes it with slightly shaking fingers. "Lots of porn in there. Privacy. And Frank, too, if you want him." He points over his shoulder at a tiny tattooed guy standing in the corner, holding a pair of studio headphones and gesturing wildly at Mikey. There's a cigarette tucked in between two of his tattooed knuckles, and Mikey ducks easily every time the lit cherry waves a little too close to his face. Patrick has a feeling they've known each other for a while.
"What do you mean, I 'get Frank,' " Patrick says, making air quotes with one hand as he pops open his beer with the other.
"He technically works in the sound studio," Beardy Guy says. "But Pete needed a fluffer who was already married to avoid the sexual harassment stuff and Frank volunteered. So if you can't keep it up, just call him in. He's used to it. Says it's the best part of his day."
"I didn't think that actually happened in real life," Patrick says, staring at Frank. "People actually do that? You can actually be a fluffer. As a job."
"It's only part-time," Beardy Guy says solemnly. "Sometimes you just need a helping hand." He wanders off again, and Patrick swallows and decides to do everything in his power to avoid Frank the Jerk Off Guy. It's not that he isn't cute—everyone who works for this damn company is hot, apparently—but Patrick doesn't think he can handle a strange guy touching his dick today. It's just. There's an upper limit of weird shit that is allowed to happen to him in any given 24-hour period, and Patrick is almost at that line.
"Patrick," Spencer says, giving him a significant look from behind the camera rig. "You got your beer. Come on. Let's do this. Five minutes, and then you've passed my test and I'll believe you're really cut out for this line of work."
"Jesus fucking Christ," Patrick says. His stomach is rolling over and over, twisting itself up in knots. He thinks his cheeks might be on fire. But no one's looking at him except Spencer, and maybe he's right—maybe this is the way to get over it. Patrick thinks very firmly about every single person who works here that he's already seen naked, and then he unzips his fly and lets everything hang out.
"Well done," Spencer mouths, giving him a thumbs-up from behind the camera. "Good job, bro."
Patrick tries to smile. He also tries not to throw up.
"A little to the left," Spencer says. "Patrick, can you turn to the left? Lights—" Spencer mutters, frowning and looking the room. "Who's doing lights for me today? Is it—where the fuck is Tom? Someone find Tom and tell him to get his ass in here and fix the the third spot," Spencer says.
"I need to go," Patrick says, to everyone and no one in particular. His heart feels like it's beating double-time in his chest. There's a wave of sick, rolling nausea in his stomach.
"Tom's on lunch," someone else says, the tall blond guy from earlier. "What's wrong with the spot?" He walks over to stand behind the camera, peering through the viewfinder as Spencer gestures and points.
"You see what I mean?" Spencer says, and the blond guy nods.
"No, seriously, I need to not be here," Patrick says. He reaches down and tucks himself back in with shaking fingers. Fuck. He's going to throw up. Fuck.
He can't do this.
"Wardrobe just called," someone says, to Patrick's left. "Suit's in dressing room C. Patrick, can you head over there and get dressed?"
"Yes," Patrick says, desperately. "Yes, yes I can."
He doesn't run out of Studio 4, but it's close.
—
"Okay," Brendon says. "Okay. So maybe this is a bad time?"
"It's fine," Patrick mumbles, into the circle of his own arms. He's face down on the dressing room table, trying to get his breathing under control. Patrick can do this. He can. Lots of people do this every day for a living. People like Brendon.
"Doesn't look that fine to me," Brendon says. There's the sound of metal chair legs scraping across the floor, and then a hand on Patrick's shoulder. Patrick looks up, blinking. Brendon's face is very close, and very concerned.
"Stage fright?" Brendon says, and Patrick grimaces and nods.
"It's stupid," Patrick says. "This is stupid, right? Everyone who works here does this every day. I should be able to do this."
"Most of us are exhibitionists," Brendon points out.
"Right," Patrick says. "Yeah. I'm not."
"I know," Brendon says.
"Yeah," Patrick says. "So. I'm fucked." He takes a deep breath. "This was such a dumb idea."
Brendon gives him a sympathetic look. "When I was first getting into this, Pete gave me some advice one time," Brendon says. "I was freaking out about being on camera, and I couldn't relax, even though I thought the whole idea of it was super hot. And he told me to try and think back to a really good sexual experience, like someone you used to hook up with where everything just worked." Brendon grins. "Of course, I was like seventeen at the time, so it's not like I had any of those to fall back on."
"In the future," Patrick says, resting his chin on his arm. "Can you edit those stories and lie to me and say you were eighteen? Because that would be nice."
"Sure," Brendon says. "As long as you know it's a lie. But anyway, I don't know. It stuck with me. And so when I'm having an off day I just think about that, and I imagine that that person is the only person in the room. "
"But I don't want anyone to watch me," Patrick says. "If I'm having sex with someone, preferably they're not watching me. Because we're having sex."
"So think about that," Brendon says. "Close your eyes and jerk off and think about whatever makes you feel good. It doesn't matter. You just have to get through the scene, and then you'll know you can do it."
"Yeah," Patrick says. He lets his head fall back down onto the table, cradled in the circle of his arms. "Okay."
"You'll be great," Brendon says, patting Patrick's shoulder again. "And Spencer's awesome. Shane's great too, but Spencer's more fun. See if you can get him to blush. That's my favorite thing to do when I'm shooting a scene with him. The louder and more shameless you are, the more he blushes. It's awesome."
"Is he straight?" Patrick says, raising his head again. "Like, not that it's any of my business, but he was weird about it when I asked."
"Spencer's complicated," Brendon says. He looks wistful for a moment, and Patrick spares a few seconds to wonder just how many employee assignations are going on behind the scenes at Clandestine Boys.
"Okay," Patrick says. "That's cool, I just wondered."
"It's kind of a long story, " Brendon says. "Anyway. The point is. You can do this. You'll be awesome."
"Yeah," Patrick whispers, his heart sinking even further. He pushes his face back into his arms, and tries to breathe deep and even. It's just—he can't do this. He can't. And maybe he's known that all along, but he wanted so badly to believe that he was capable of doing the one thing that's going to save his studio.
Patrick needed himself to be capable of this—and he isn't.
—
The flimsy walls dividing up Clandestine's warehouse-like interior seem to loom over Patrick as he walks down to Pete's office. It's not quite as bad as that time Patrick spilled ketchup all over his crotch in the 7th grade and then had to walk past the entire lunchroom to clean himself up, but it's close. His stomach feels roughly the same.
He knocks on Pete's closed office door, and a few seconds later he hears a mumbled "Yup!" Patrick pushes open the door to see Pete frowning at the screen of his MacBook as he scribbles something down on a pad of paper. The logo at the top of his pad of paper reads, Clandestine Boys Never Say Never, in a scrawly font with a complex logo that incorporates, among other things, bats and hearts into the design. The whole image manages to convey concepts like sex and dangerosity and nerddom and lots of other made-up words, and Patrick thinks it's really too bad he's not going to be working here anymore. Clandestine industries is kind of awesome.
"Pete, I can't do this," Patrick says firmly, without waiting for pleasantries. Pete looks up, greeting dying on his lips. "I just—I'm sorry. I can't. I thought I could, and I can't. There's no way I can just—I can't do this."
Pete is silent for a long moment, and then he sighs. "You know, I was going to come find you," Pete says eventually, leaning forward and crumpling the mess of papers on his desk in the process. He steeples his fingers, pressing them into his lower lip for a moment before pulling them away. "Patrick, can you - can you sit for a moment? Because we need to talk. I ran into Joe this weekend and we caught up for a while."
"Huh," Patrick says, his heart sinking even further as he sits down on the leather drumstool that doubles as Pete's office chair for guests. "How about that."
Pete gives him a level look. "How far under is Soul Punk Studios?" Pete asks, and Patrick tries not to grimace. This whole thing had to come out some time, and fuck, it might as well be now, when Patrick's already grovelling.
"Pretty far," Patrick says. "Uh. Yeah. You know, the music business—" he waves his hand around. He doesn't know what to say. Yeah, we're about to tank. Or maybe, we've got three months left before I have to shut the doors for good. Both would be honest answers, and neither of them are anything Patrick wants to say out loud.
"See, from what I hear, it's not the music business," Pete says slowly. "Joe seems to think it's because you keep taking chances on talented kids who can't afford to record their albums anywhere else."
"Listen, it's not charity," Patrick snaps, because he doesn't need Pete's pity and neither do any of his clients. "I'm not going around picking up strays. I'm not that stupid."
"I didn't say you were," Pete says carefully. His expression is unreadable. "I think what you're doing is awesome, and I want to figure out a way to help you keep doing it, that's all. Joe seems to think really highly of you. Says your one of the most talented producers he's ever worked for."
"It's—I appreciate that," Patrick says, with difficulty. He stands up, brushing himself off, because if Pete's about to offer him money than this conversation is officially over. "Thank you. But if I need to break my contract, I need to break the contract. My other career doesn't really come into play. I'll pay whatever penalties I need to—"
"Patrick, sit down," Pete says calmly. He rests his chin on his folded arms, looking disarmingly innocent for someone in charge of a very successful porn company. "We're not done. I don't think you need to break your contract with Clandestine Industries."
"No, I told you," Patrick says brokenly, trying to keep his voice level. Fuck. This was his last chance, literally, and all he wants is to leave Pete's office and go feel like shit about himself in peace. "Like, I wish I was cut out for this stuff? But I'm not. I can't do it."
"And that's okay," Pete says, flashing him a smile. He's wearing eyeliner today. The whole effect is distracting. "What, do you think you're the first person that's ever signed up to make a video and then realized they couldn't go through with it?"
Patrick pauses. "...yes?" He says hesitantly.
"Not by a long shot," Pete says. "And if you'd read your contract, there's a no-fee no penalty clause if either of us decides to back out before shooting starts. But your situation is a little...unusual. Because if I understand this right—you stop working for me, and you lose the studio."
"Yeah," Patrick says, with difficulty. "That's—yeah. That's about the long and short of it."
"But on the other hand, you have your own recording studio," Pete says. "A recording studio that you personally run, maintain, and operate, and that Joe tells me is better than the one we've managed to cobble together here."
Pete gives him a level look, chin still tucked into the crook of his folded arms on the tabletop. Patrick is struck by the sudden and absurd thought that if Pete wore glasses, he'd be peering over the tops of them right now.
"So?" Patrick says.
"So Clandestine Industries would like to express it's interest in hiring Soul Punk Studios on as a contracting firm," Pete says, sitting back and stretching out in the process, long and lean. "As an alternate recording studio for our stars and staff."
"I don't need your charity," Patrick says, standing up again and shaking his head. It hurts to say it, it really does, but as hot as Pete is, and as kind as he obviously is, Patrick's never taken anything from anyone and that's not going to start today. If he's going to go down, it's going to be on his own terms. "I appreciate that, but no thanks. I'm not taking your hand-outs."
"It's not a hand-out," Pete says, smile fading. "Because the thing is, Frank's wife is having twins sometime in the next two weeks, and then he's on paternity leave for six months. I'm going to be down a sound engineer and a part-time fluffer, but I'm also going to need someone to record Ray's voice-overs for his internal monologue stuff, and we need someone to help Gabe and Travis track all of their shoots, since they don't make much noise when they're working. And," Pete says, holding up a hand when Patrick tries to interrupt. "And, Ashlee keeps sending me pissed-off emails about our stars and her stars getting double-booked into the same recording slots, so having another studio would mean a lot less headaches for both of us," Pete says. "Trust me, this isn't a hand-out. I'm going to need your studio almost full-time some weeks, and you're going to be working just as much as you normally do. But if your bands are willing to work with some schedule changes, the studio is going to end up making double. Is that enough to put you back in the black?"
"I—yeah," Patrick says, skimming through numbers in his head. It's just enough, actually, and if he can count on that kind of income from Pete's sources he could move some things around until they're technically free and clear again. The studio could be out of debt in six, maybe eight months. Patrick doesn't know whether to laugh or to cry. "Yeah. Yeah, that would—that would work."
"No one should do this job if they don't love it," Pete says, shaking his head at Patrick. "Yeah, the money's good, but there's no point if you're going to be throwing up from nerves every day. Who wants to live like that?"
"Not me," Patrick agrees awkwardly, looking away.
"Right," Pete says, very earnestly. "You need to be someone like me or Brendon or Travie. Or Gabe. Someone who gets hard just thinking about having sex in front of all those cameras," Pete says. "In front of all those people. You have to love it."
"I really don't love it like that," Patrick says.
"I know," Pete says. "But that's okay, because you have exactly what I need right now."
Patrick tries not to blush. "A studio?" He hazards, keeping his voice as level as possible.
"A studio," Pete agrees. "And someone I can trust to run it. Someone who isn't going to freak out when I sent people in there to moan by themselves all day. Someone who's going to do a good job with the tracks and keep everything professional."
"They will be," Patrick promises, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that it's true. "Trust me. If there's one thing I can do, it's record."
"So everyone keeps telling me," Pete says, with a ghost of a smile. "So—today's cancelled then. Don't worry about it. The crew guys will be pissed, but what can you do? Maybe we'll get someone else to fill in and use your set," Pete says. "But you should go home and have a beer or something. Relax. Breathe a little. And then when you've done that for oh, I don't know, say maybe six hours or so, then you can meet me downtown at the Salvation Cafe for some awesome nachos," Pete says, and Patrick blinks.
"What?" Patrick says, in case he didn't parse that correctly.
"Nachos," Pete says. "I usually finish up late, but if we're not shooting your scene today I should be out by 9pm. And then we're going to go eat nachos."
"You and me and—" Patrick trails off. Pete smiles—a new smile, one that Patrick hasn't seen before. Patrick doesn't like to think about how he's been cataloging and memorizing Pete's smiles, but this one is definitely new.
"You and me and no one," Pete says. "If that's cool with you."
"Uh," Patrick says. "Okay. For—work stuff, right?"
"For nachos," Pete says. "And work stuff. If you want. I guess. Like, I guess we could talk about work."
"Right," Patrick says. "Okay."
"Awesome," Pete says.
—
The Salvation Cafe is small and vaguely vegan and vaguely hipstery, which would normally entail Patrick avoiding it like the plague. Andy's an old friend from way back, though, and Patrick makes exceptions for his homies.
"Bro," Patrick says solemnly, fist-bumping Andy as he leans, elbows down, on the polished stone countertop at the end of the busy juice bar. "Bro," Andy says, just as solemnly, and then the joke stretches on a moment too long and Andy laughs, leaning over the counter to give Patrick a hug.
"Sup," Andy says, squeezing tight. "You never come to see me anymore. What, you suddenly decide you hate wheat grass?"
"I always hated wheat grass," Patrick says, taking a seat at the counter. Pete's not here yet, so there's no sense in getting a table. "There was never a point in my life where I didn't hate wheat grass. You have a selective memory."
"I just always hope for the best," Andy says. "Your body is a temple, bro."
"Your face is a temple," Patrick says. "Can I get one of those pear-mango-peach things? Those are awesome."
"It's called a Skinny Villain," Andy says pedantically, and Patrick rolls his eyes. "Forgive me for not memorizing your stupid names for fruit juice drinks," Patrick says.
"Forgive me for not serving you my stupid fruit drinks until you can remember what they're called," Andy says, but he waves at one of his waiters and calls out Patrick's order. Patrick watches as the kid nods, and then gets to work on the juicer. He can't be older than sixteen. Patrick suddenly feels disturbingly old.
"So, you just missed my juice and my handsome face?" Andy says, flicking at Patrick's hands. "What's the occasion."
"Oh," Patrick says. "Um. I—-ah. I'm meeting someone."
"Heyyyy," Andy says, his face breaking out into a wide smile. "Heyyy, look at you! Rickster, all grown up and going on dates. At the vegan cafe." His voice is sing-song, gently teasing. Patrick punches him in the arm. "Shut up," Patrick says. "It's like—you wouldn't believe you if I told you, honestly. It's this whole ridiculous story."
"Oh yeah?" Andy says, bending down to take a sip of the frothy juice concoction resting at his elbow. "I like ridiculous."
"I'm meeting Pete Wentz," Patrick says, and Andy almost chokes on his recycled-plastic straw. He looks up at Patrick.
"No way," Andy says. "No way. You're making gay porn? No way."
"I am not making gay porn," Patrick says severely, and doesn't mention recent events. "Pete's company needs an extra studio for tracking his vocals and things."
"And what, you couldn't meet on company time?" Andy says, raising an eyebrow. He looks like someone's calculating, matchmaking aunt. "He had to ask you out to dinner to pitch the offer?"
"I—I don't know," Patrick admits. "Maybe. Pete's weird. Have you ever met him? He's kind of weird."
"Yeah, I know Pete," Andy says, tilting his head to peer over Patrick's shoulder, towards the door. "And Trick, I'll be honest with you, you might want to reevaluate your idea of the evening's activities, because to me, that looks like our Mr. Wentz dressed up for a date," Andy says. Patrick tells himself to turn around slowly and casually, and then ruins it by whipping his head around anyway.
Pete looks—
—okay, Patrick's not an impartial party or anything, but Pete looks pretty nice. He's wearing a sweater with something weird and complicated going on around the neck, and tight jeans, and he's got the sleeves pushed up to show off his tattoos and—yeah. It's a good look for Pete.
"Andy! Patrick!" Pete crows, and heads over. He repeats the fistbump/hugging ritual with Andy, and then he leans in and kisses Patrick on the cheek and Patrick feels his heart stop entirely for a single brief second.
"Uhm," Patrick manages. Andy is giving him a shit-eating grin, even as he makes friendly small talk with Pete about their respective businesses and the people they both know. Patrick thinks he might be blushing. His face feels hot.
"So," Andy says, after their initial conversation has ambled to a halt. "Would you two lovebirds like a table on the patio?"
"You don't have a patio," Patrick says, before his brain can catch up with his mouth.
"Sometimes I do," Andy says, winking at Patrick. He leans in and whispers. "It's where I take chicks when I want to impress them. Trust me, bro."
"Uh," Patrick says, and Pete grins. "Sure," Pete says. "That would be awesome, thanks dude."
"No problem," Andy says, patting Patrick on the shoulder. "Patrick here's an old friend. Woo him gently, okay? He has a delicate soul."
"You're going to have a delicate face when I'm done with you," Patrick grumbles under his breath."
"You always say the sweetest things," Andy says, before turning to another teenage waiter and speaking to him in a quick, low voice, gesturing all the while. Patrick wonders what he's getting himself into.
"Too forward?" Pete says, into Patrick's ear. Patrick jumps.
"I thought this was—" Patrick says lamely. "I didn't. You surprised me."
"I do that," Pete says thoughtfully.
"Yes," Patrick says. "You do. That's kind of the entire story of our working relationship up until now. Surprises."
"That's like, the best compliment you could have possibly given me," Pete says, smiling widely at Patrick and showing all of his teeth.
"Gentlemen, right this way," Andy says, interrupting Patrick's half-formed response. He leads them through the saloon-style swinging doors and the kitchen, and then all of a sudden they're in the back of Andy's thin city lot, on a tiny brick patio. The fall air is crisp but warm enough, and Patrick thinks they'll be fine sitting at the round wooden table that's been set for them near Andy's garden.
"Whoa," Patrick says, because he's been to the Salvation Cafe lots of times over the years, but he didn't know about Andy's private garden seduction den. There's even Christmas lights strung up between all the trellises.
"Enjoy," Andy says, gesturing to their tiny, tattooed server. Patrick suppresses a snort, and Pete just keeps grinning. "Jamie here will be taking care of you."
"I'm sure we will," Pete says, taking his seat across from Patrick and giving the kid a once-over. Patrick tries not to roll his eyes, because hitting on the teenage waiter is the oldest trick in the book. Granted, the waiter is hot, but Patrick has self control. He is a grown man. He has morals.
"Too young," Pete says sadly, after they've ordered some appetizers and some waters and a juice for Pete to go along with Patrick's as-yet-unseen peach-mango concoction. He eyes the waiter's retreating backside. "Way too young. Couple of years, maybe."
"Why am I not surprised," Patricks says lightly, ignoring the tense feeling in his stomach. You got your hopes up, he thinks. Stupid, stupid. He's Pete Wentz. You know what Joe said. Kissing is his idea of a handshake.
"Oh—for the site," Pete says, shaking his head and grinning. Pete smiles a lot. Patrick's never met anyone who smiles as much. "Oh, not for me, dude. I'm going to be thirty next year. I don't want to fuck around with teenagers. I'm too old for that shit."
"That's—-good?" Patrick says hesitantly. "Good for you. Gold star?"
"Hey," Pete says. "I'm a porn director. For my line of work, that does get a gold star."
"Fair enough," Patrick says, after he thinks about it. "Are other studios really that bad?"
"Some of them are," Pete says, with a dark look that fades away almost as soon as it arrives. "But that's not get-to-know-you conversation," Pete says, leaning in. "And now we're here, and I can spend the next two hours making you tell me everything about you. It's going to be awesome, Patrick Stump. I hear you're a pretty interesting guy."
"Well, now you just sound like a stalker," Patrick points out, but he can feel a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Sometimes that happens," Pete says, shrugging. "It's a thing."
"Stalking people?"
"Little bit."
"You're kidding, right?" Patrick says. Just to make sure.
"Little bit," Pete says, with an impish grin, and Patrick laughs.
—
Pete, as it turns out, is a surprisingly good listener. He's also a lot weirder than Patrick was expecting from their previous interactions in the office. Pete's awkward; he laughs too loud at Patrick's muttered asides, and he bounces from topic to topic at breakneck speeds. He wants to know everything about Patrick, absolutely everything, but the minute Patrick says something that reminds Pete of something else, he's off again, barking out his loud braying laugh and interrupting to tell Patrick about about how no, he's sorry, really, Patrick just has to hear this one story and then Pete will let him continue. It's frustrating and charming in equal measure, made worse by the fact that Pete is a horrible flirt who keeps brushing his foot up the side of Patrick's leg.
"So," Patrick says, as they're splitting the check at the end. "Anyway, that's how Soul Punk got started. And then like six months later Brendon showed up, and—but you know that part."
"I do," Pete says, giving Patrick an appreciative look. "Although I didn't realized until after I'd hired you that you were Brendon's mysterious musical saviour."
"I didn't—" Patrick says. "It wasn't like that," Patrick says, for what seems like the hundredth time this week. He needs to go find Brendon and tell him to start keeping his mouth shut. Patrick doesn't have any interest in being canonized. "He was a talented kid who needed a break," Patrick says, and waves off Pete's attempts to take the subject further.
"Anyway," Patrick says again. He takes a deep breath. "So we were so busy talking and all that we didn't get to...talk much about business," Patrick says, just in case this wasn't a date after all. He's maybe fishing just a little. "Did you still want to....?"
"Business happens in the daytime," Pete says, shaking his head and standing up as he finishes signing his check. "Nighttime is for queers and infidels. Isn't that how the line goes?"
"What line?" Patrick says. "I don't think I know that one."
"Maybe I made that one up," Pete says thoughtfully. "Whatever. But no, Mr. Patrick Martin Vaughn Stump. I didn't bring you here to discuss business."
"Oh," Patrick says. His stomach feels warm. He ducks his head, signing his check without looking at the numbers and leaving a generous tip. Andy always undercharges him and then tries to play the innocent when Patrick points it out. Patrick wonders if he does the same for Pete.
"So, uh. You want to walk me to my stop?" Pete says, shoving his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. His body language screams it's cool if you don't!!!! no big deal!! i'll just be devastated but whatever!! and Patrick is charmed even further. He resolves not to let Pete know how charmed he is, even if they did just go on a date. Patrick is almost 99% certain this was a date. Patrick is also 99% certain there's some sort of conflict-of-interest thing here and that he probably shouldn't be on a date like this but right now, he can't really be bothered. Besides, if he's contracting as Soul Punk Studios, then he and Pete are equals; it's not illegal to date Pete, just ill-advised.
Patrick can live with that.
"Sure," Patrick says. "Um. Did you—maybe want to do this again sometime?"
—
Dating Pete Wentz turns out to include a lot of 4am phone calls, a lot of misspelled emails, and a lot of handholding and cheek-kissing. It's nice. Pete's fun and he's funny and sometimes they go out and sometimes they stay in but Pete's always weird and entertaining either way. Patrick is weirdly enamoured with Pete when he's curled up on the couch in his pajamas with the ducks on them, and Pete seems to be weirdly enamoured with Patrick in general, and honestly Patrick is okay with Pete's glacially slow relationship speed, no matter how much Joe makes fun of them and tells Patrick he's going to die a virgin.
"I'm not going to die a virgin," Patrick points out, listening to Gabe moaning away in the studio with one ear pressed to his headphones. It's weirdly hypnotizing. Patrick doesn't have a video feed running, so he has no idea what Gabe's actually tracking, just that it involves orgasms. Lots of them. "I can't die a virgin, because I'm not a virgin," Patrick says, when the silence after his statement becomes deafening. He looks around to see Joe studiously typing something into his cell phone.
"What are you doing," Patrick says witheringly. Joe ignores him for a moment, and then holds his iPhone up so Patrick can see the screen.
"See?" Joe says, trying to keep a straight face. "You can't get an STD from kissing with tongue. The internet never lies. You guys should try it sometime."
"Oh fuck you," Patrick says, and goes back to listening to Gabe moan. Then he throws the headphones down, because Joe has been insulting his boyfriend's sexual prowess all morning and Patrick needs to defend Pete's honor. "Pete and I are totally going to kiss with tongue," Patrick says. "We will. When we want to. And it will be awesome. It will be—fuck, did I really just say that? Fuck you. We're going to French kiss. Does that sound better? Fuck, that doesn't sound any better," Patrick says, frowning. "Why do I always sound like I'm in fifth grade when we talk about this shit?"
"Because you're dating a porn star who only wants to hold hands," Joe says. He crosses his arms behind his head, kicking his legs up on the corner of the soundboard. Through the glass in front of them, Gabe looks rather bored. He's scrolling through something on his phone as he moans away. "It's like the highlight of my life, seriously."
"Some people like holding hands," Patrick says. "It's nice. You can do it in public and not get arrested. There are lots of reasons to hold hands."
"There are lots of reasons to get your dick sucked, too," Joe says, and then ducks the empty coffee cup that Patrick chucks in his direction.
—
Three days of tracking later, Gabe Saporta is about to shove his fist through Patrick's glass studio dividers. He doesn't, which Patrick appreciates, but it's a close thing.
"I'm just so sick of this shit," Gabe moans, letting his head dangle backwards over the back of his chair. His Subway sandwich rests untouched on his lap. "I don't want to fucking moan into a microphone anymore. I don't want to call out for my Mami and I don't want to track about how Pete's tight little ass can't take my fist, I just want to sit around watch fucking re-runs in my goddamn pajamas," Gabe says. He directs his last sentence to the ceiling. "Pete, can you hear me motherfucker? Because this is all your fault."
"Yeah, God forbid he give you a job with responsibility and shit," Patrick deadpans, and Gabe snorts at the ceiling. Sometimes Patrick thinks it should be weirder, working with the guy who has sex with his boyfriend on camera, but the more time he spends with both Pete and Gabe the more it becomes clear that their affection for each other is primarily that of brothers, not lovers. They've got great chemistry on camera, but as soon as the shot breaks it's back to dick jokes and bro-hugs.
"I don't care about the responsibility," Gabe says, after a moment. "The responsibility is fine. I just don't want to spend another five minutes moaning in that goddamn studio room."
"You want to track something else?" Patrick says, flicking a couple of switches and then tapping at keyboard of the master computer. "We've got time. Ian's not coming by until 5. I'm just as bored of listening to you moan as you are of moaning. We could make some terrible covers."
"Yes," Gabe says, sitting up so fast his lettuce goes everywhere. "Yes, I do want to make some fucking covers. There is nothing in this world that I want more. Michael Jackson?"
"Sure," Patrick says. "Jackson Five? Greatest hits of the 70's? I can bang out most of them."
"Done," Gabe says, racing towards the sound room, sandwich forgotten. Patrick slaps the switch to turn on the intercom system in case Joe needs to yell for him, and then he follows, already humming.
—
"—No, it's here and here—just use this sample and then you won't have to use both registers," Patrick says, reprogramming the keyboard so Gabe can bang out the back-beat to The Way You Make Me Feel. He thinks Ian's probably going to be here soon, and he definitely just wasted about three hours of studio time with Gabe, but Patrick can't remember the last time he'd had so much fun just dicking around in the studio. They'd started from the beginning, going through most of his back catalog, trading off vocals every few songs.
"Got it," Gabe says, pressing a few more button. "Okay, the effects are set on this. You want to take this one? I'll do the back-ups."
"Yeah, sure," Patrick says distractedly, fiddling with his mic. He looks at Joe through the glass, and Joe gives him a thumbs up as he sips his coffee. He'd wandered in halfway through "I Want You Back," and decided to stay and enjoy the free music and press helpful buttons instead of sitting in Patrick's office waiting for the phone to ring.
"One, two," Patrick counts down, and nods to Joe to start recording. They move through the intro, and Patrick can't help but shimmy a little, cracking a smile as he sees Gabe shaking his hips to the same beat.
"Hey pretty baby, with the high heels on," Patrick sings, not caring too much about his technique. It's been so long since he's sang for someone besides Joe or one of his clients, but as soon as Gabe had gotten over his surprise at Patrick's vocal range, he'd been ecstatic that Patrick was good enough that they could trade off. He sees Gabe nodding at him out of the corner of his eye, and Patrick's feeling sassy enough to give the song some extra swagger.
He pulls the mic off the stand, sashaying to the front of the room and keeping his eyes on the floor so he doesn't trip over any of the chords. He waits a few beats and then tosses his head up to belt out "the way you make me feeeeeel!", expecting to see Joe laughing at antics and instead coming face to face through the glass with...
...Pete?
Patrick blinks, his cheeks reddening as he fumbles the next line. Behind him, he can hear Gabe laughing, but Patrick's world has narrowed down to the very simple task of not dying of shame in front of his new boyfriend. Pete's expression is wide and amazed, and he's making little 'go on' motions with his hands, nodding at Patrick to continue. Patrick swallows, trying to get his mojo back and find the beat.
"You really turn me onnnn," Patrick sings, unable to make eye contact with Pete but rapidly regaining his confidence. Patrick doesn't sing in front of people often, but he's always felt less self-conscious than usual when he's got a mic in his hand. He thinks once he's over the shock, he might not mind singing in front of Pete, whose expression is currently something akin to awe.
Patrick finishes up the song, waiting for the final note to die away before placing the microphone back on the stand. Pete's through the doorway almost before Joe smacks the "RECORDING!" light off and unlocks the studio door from the outside.
"You didn't tell me about that," Pete says accusingly, pointing a finger at him and poking Patrick in the chest. "You didn't. You. Patrick Martin Vaughn Stump, sixteenth in the line of all adorable, pocket-sized Stumps, you should be ashamed—"
"Oh, shut up," Patrick says, laughing, batting away Pete's hand. "I'm the first Patrick Stump and you know it, ass."
"You didn't tell me," Pete says mulishly. "You didn't tell me you had a voice made of sex and sin and debauchery. Me, of all people! I sell sex and debauchery! I'm an expert!"
"That's because I don't," Patrick says. "I have a voice that sometimes can pull off an okay Michael Jackson cover at karaoke night."
"You're tracking all of my videos from now on," Pete says, crossing his arms and leaning up against the wall so he can narrow his eyes at Patrick. "I'm writing it into our contract. Patrick Stump will moan for Pete Wentz on camera." He makes air quotes for emphasis.
"Oh, will he now," Patrick says, winding up an extra cable and stowing it out of the way. He looks around for Gabe, and finds that he's suddenly gone missing, no doubt because he can feel the sexual tension that's pricking the back of Patrick's neck like static electricity. Usually that might be cause for Gabe for stick around, but Patrick's noticed there are a lot of exceptions where Pete is concerned.
"Yep," Pete says, and then abruptly changes track. "Anyway. Speaking of moaning. Is Ian here yet? I need to talk to him about next week's shoot and I was hoping I could catch him on my way back to the studio."
"Not yet," Patrick says, glancing up the at clock. "Maybe he's running late. You want me to give him a message?"
"Nah," Pete says. "I'll call his cell and harass him. It's fine."
"So it was important enough for you to come down here, but not important enough for you to wait for him," Patrick muses. "Interesting."
"There may have been extenuating circumstances," Pete says lightly. "Like seeing your pretty little face. That may have factored into my decision to swing by."
"Pretty little face, my ass," Patrick says, trying not to blush.
"A gentleman never lies," Pete says seriously. "And I am always a gentleman. I mean, except when I'm not. But most of the time."
"I'll keep that in mind," Patrick says seriously, ducking his head again as Pete leans in to brush his lips against Patrick's cheek. His stomach does a swoop-and-dip, a fluttery little pirouette that leaves Patrick slightly breathless at the end. Pete's lips are soft.
"We still on for tonight?" Pete says softly, into Patrick's ear. Patrick nods. His cheeks feel flushed. It's stupid, how much he blushes around Pete fucking Wentz. Patrick has never blushed so much around anyone in his life, and they haven't even graduated to eighth grade-style makeout sessions yet.
"Yeah," Patrick says. "Midnight, right?"
"Right," Pete breathes out, and then kisses him again. "Be there or be square, Patty," Pete says, throwing the words over his shoulder as he walks away.
Patrick frowns.
"Call me Patty again and I'll cut your balls off!" Patrick calls after him. Pete gives a little wave of acknowledgement over his shoulder as he heads out through the studio door, one hand holding his phone up to his ear.
"Dick sucking," Joe says sagely, from his perch near the soundboard where he's been watching the whole scene. "Gonna happen tonight. Awwwwwwwwwww yeah." He mimes a rimshot, and Patrick flicks him off.
—
The text that Patrick receives at nine o'clock reads:
less is more, pattycakes. dont dress up and don't be late. bring your sweet self to the studio and leave your expectations at the door xoxo peter
"The fuck does that mean?" Patrick says aloud, staring down at his phone.
"Pete?" Ian guesses, wandering by with a fresh bottle of water.
"Pete," Patrick confirms, staring down at his phone. "Pete being....very Pete."
"As always," Ian agrees, shrugging and heading back into the studio.
—
"Please tell me this has nothing to do with cameras," Patrick says as Pete opens the door to Clandestine at twenty 'til midnight. "Actually no, scratch that. Promise me this has nothing to do with cameras before I walk through this door."
Pete laughs, loud and braying. "No cameras," Pete says, holding the door wide open. "Cross my heart and hope to die."
"If you're lying, this relationship is over," Patrick says as he walks through the door, but it feels like an empty threat.
"I only lie on Thursdays," Pete says. "Thursdays are okay for lying."
"It's going to be Thursday in fifteen minutes," Patrick says.
"Then chop chop, let's go," Pete says, heading off down the corridor. "I don't want to lie to you by accident."
"What, is this some kind of Pavlovian thing?" Patrick says, trailing behind. "The clock strikes twelve, you turn into a pathological liar?"
"You never know," Pete says, making a left and then a quick right. Patrick frowns; he's been to the studio a fair few times in the last month, but he's never been in this part of the building.
"Dude, where are we going?" Patrick says, and he's rewarded with nothing but silence and a flash of a grin over Pete's shoulder. Patrick sighs to himself and keeps walking. Then he stops, because Pete's climbing up an ancient rickety metal staircase and pulling open an emergency exit door to the roof.
"Okay, no," Patricks says. "No. Not until you prop that fucking door behind you. Have you ever been stuck on a roof? Because I have."
"Variety is the spice of life, dude," Pete says, but he pulls a set of keys off his hip, flicking through them until he reaches the a thick metal one. "Here," Pete says, shoving the push-bar and turning the key in the lock until it clicks. "Now it's really, really, locked open. As in, even if we forget to prop the door, it's not going to lock."
"Good," Patrick says. "I appreciate that."
"Now come on," Pete says, and disappears through the doorway. Patrick climbs up behind him, taking the stairs slowly as they make increasingly terrifying noises under his feet. He wonders if he's going to be on the front page of the news tomorrow—Local Studio Owner Dies in Tragic Staircase Accident at Porn Studio!—and then all of a sudden he's through the door and looking at the entire Chicago skyline.
"Wow," Patrick breathes, because it's been a while since he's seen his city from this angle. His studio is ground floor, and his apartment isn't that much higher; it's rare that he's up high enough to see everything. Patrick's chest fills with that strange, sad sort of longing he always gets when he looks at the city like this, a mixture of feelings like warmth and home and maybe even a little bit of regret that he's still here after all these years.
"I thought, you know, another Chicago boy, born and raised," Pete says quietly, from behind him. "I thought you'd get what it means."
"I do," Patrick says, and it's been a long time since he's meant something as much as he means those two words. "It's—thank you." He breathes in, the crisp fall air rushing through his lungs. The air up here is clear and cold against his skin.
They're silent for a few long minutes, just taking in the view. Patrick watches the play of lights across the great arteries of the city, the rushing of traffic towards the next destination.
"This was supposed to be a grand gesture," Pete says eventually. He's standing next to Patrick, hands tucked in his pockets. "I was going to take you up here and we were going to make out under the stars. Super romantic."
"And...we're not?" Patrick says, trying and failing to hide the disappointment in his voice. It's not that he wants to rush Pete, but he's not going to say no to a few kisses, either.
"Mostly I just want to hear you sing again," Pete admits. "It's kind of hard to do that when you're making out with someone. But I just—fuck, Patrick. Your voice." He turns to look at Patrick, something clear and soft in his gaze. It makes Patrick's breath catch in his throat, and he looks away. "I bet we can split the difference," Patrick says awkwardly. "Um. You know. If you wanted to."
"A kiss for a song?" Pete says, starting to smile.
"We could—yeah," Patrick says lamely. "Um. Yes. Yes, we should do that. Did you—what did you want to hear?" He wonders if he's going to feel stupid standing up here in the middle of the night singing to the stars and Pete, and then Patrick realizes he doesn't care. It's been a crazy past few months, full of ups and downs. The least he can do is sing a song for Pete. It won't be the end of the world if he feels silly.
"Anything," Pete says. "Something for the city. Sing me a song for Chicago, Patrick."
"A song for Chicago," Patrick muses. "You sound like you're asking for a requiem, not a lullaby."
Pete laughs, sharp and sudden, showing all of his teeth. "Not a requiem," Pete says. "We're not dead yet, Patrick. At least I'm not, and I hope you aren't either."
"Not just yet," Patrick agrees. He thinks about the studio almost tanking and then being pulled back from the abyss, about Pete's generosity and then Pete's surprising and wonderful...Pete-ness. He thinks about how Pete's hands are always cold, and how even though they're bigger than Patrick's he likes it when Patrick holds them between his own and rubs them to keep them warm. Patrick thinks about how being around Pete makes him feel warm deep down inside, even if he wants to strangle him sometimes. He thinks about how Pete is stupidly hot, way out of Patrick's league and yet somehow he's still hanging out with Patrick every day and doesn't seem to be getting bored yet.
"You sure you even want a lullaby, then?" Patrick says, starting to grin as he hits on the perfect song. He starts to tap his palm against the concrete lip of the roof, and Pete laughs as soon as he hears the fast, syncopated beat. He watches Patrick's hands for a moment and then he takes over, throwing in a few expertly-timed stamps against the floor once he gets tempo down. Patrick watches the traffic move in rhythm below them, perfectly timed to the beat, and then opens his mouth to sing:
Everyday it's a-gettin' closer
Goin' faster than a roller coaster
He's interrupted by Pete's mouth half-way through the second line, grinning as he kisses Patrick wide and messy. It's only a few seconds, the soft slide of lips against lips, before Pete's pulling back. Patrick tries to remember how to breathe.
"Keep going," Pete whispers, and Patrick nods, tangling his fingers with Pete's as they stare out at the Chicago skyline.
Love like yours will surely come my way.
♥
"Z needed to see you in editing ten minutes ago," Brian says, as soon as Patrick steps into Clandestine's front office. He doesn't sound particularly upset about that fact, although there's a hint of steel in his voice that suggests that if Patrick does not get his ass over to editing the minute he steps out of Brian's door, there will be hell to pay. "Go there first, then you need to see Gee or Lindsey in Wardrobe for your fitting and Spencer for a run-through, in that order. You start shooting at 3 if everything works out right."
Brian flips through a stack of papers on his desk, frowning. There's a red post-it note with the words STUMP!!!!!! on the top sheet in black sharpie. Patrick doesn't think he's ever seen a red post-it note before. He wonders if Brian dyes them in the blood of his enemies before going to work in the morning.
"Sure," Patrick says, and edges out of Brian's office before anything else can go wrong.
—
"Here," Z says, thumping several pieces of paper against Patrick's chest as soon as he walks into her office. Ryan's sitting at a desk with his back to the door, flipping through a series of close-ups of Gabe's dick and frowning in concentration. Patrick decides immediately not to ask. "Memorize that, okay? I didn't give you a lot of lines, we need to see how you are on camera before I try and make you interact with your fake mom or something."
"Fake mom?" Patrick says. He grimaces.
"Schoolboy porn," Z says. "Fake mom's part of the deal. We'll get Gee's mom to do it. She loves being on camera."
"What," Patrick says weakly.
"You'll be clothed when she's around," Z says, pushing him out the door. "Just read that, okay? And go see Gerard and Linds. They need you real fast in case they have to tailor your costume."
—
"That's a baby," Patrick says weakly, once he walks into what the helpful hallway signs have told him is THE ART DEPARTMENT! with a smiling death's head placed next to the jagged letters. His morning just keeps getting weirder and weirder. "Should there be a baby in a porn studio?"
"She's still little," a blond-haired woman says to him, winking. "We've got a few more years before we'll have to pay for a daycare." She's pretty and she's wearing extremely red lipstick and she's holding a lot of very long and very large sewing pins in one hand as she mocks up what looks like a ruffled corset on to a tiny mannequin. Patrick immediately decides to do whatever she says. Those things hurt like a bitch when you get stuck with them.
"Right," Patrick says. "Absolutely. Um. So this is Art and Wardrobe, right? Because I had a lot of people yelling at me this morning telling me to go here."
"Damn straight," the woman says, still smiling sunnily at him. "You're Patrick, right? I'm Lindsey. Gee's my co-director; he's out running errands right now. And this is Bandit," Lindsey says, gesturing to the baby, who is munching happily on a pile of cheerios in her high-chair.
"Yeah," Patrick says. "Uh. Hi baby." He holds his finger out gently, and the baby takes it, looking solemn. She has very large eyes.
"So I need you to strip for me," Lindsey says pleasantly. "We need to measure everything real fast and get you sized up for this afternoon. I think you'll fit into what we have, I just need to tailor it a bit."
"Strip," Patrick says weakly. "You mean. Strip as in everything?"
"You can leave your underwear on," Lindsey says, shrugging. "If you want to. I don't need to measure the package. Unless it's huge." She pauses. "Is it huge? Am I going to have to tailor your inseam like I have to do for Ray and Travis?"
"Oh god," Patrick says. "Uh. No. You don't need to do that. My dick usually fits in normal pants just fine."
"Good," Lindsey says. "I hate inseams. Pain in my fucking ass. Can you—what are you waiting for?" She gives Patrick a quizzical look, one perfect eyebrow raised high. "Come on, we don't have all day."
"Right," Patrick says, and ignores the twist in his stomach and the way his face flames when he starts tugging his clothing off. He wonders if he can ask her to lock the door. That would be weird, right? Because this is a porn company. Except the thought of someone walking in kind of makes Patrick want to throw up, which doesn't bode well for the rest of Patrick's afternoon.
"Oh, yeah," Lindsey says, watching him undress. "This is workable. We can work with this. Actually, you know what, leave the T-shirt on? I'll just give you a white undershirt. I think Z said you're leaving that on anyway." Patrick tries not to sigh in obvious relief. He doesn't like standing around in his socks and boxers and t-shirt in front of a stranger, but he can handle it. Lindsey's rummaging around on a nearby rack full of men's clothing, suits and coats and pants of every imaginable occupation and measurement all shoved together. She's pulling out jacket after jacket, tossing them on to the wide table in the middle of the room that's littered with empty paint cups, open markers and half-full coffee mugs.
"Start with those," she calls over her shoulder, pointing to a pile of dark-blue suit jackets with red piping. Patrick grits his teeth and does as he's told.
—
Patrick doesn't escape from Wardrobe until almost 2pm, after Lindsey had pulled and tucked and nipped everything into place with a speed and artistry that felt slightly unnerving. His stomach rumbles as he's slipping out the door, and he thinks sadly of Joe, sitting at the studio and probably ordering take-out with the Hush Sound right now as Patrick starves to death on his first day on the job. Maybe he can ask someone if there's a sandwich shop nearby.
"Hey," someone calls out, as Patrick pushes his way into the tiny "Studio 4" that Brian had indicated was where he should meet Spencer. "Hurry up, dude. Lo mein's almost gone."
"Oh thank fuck," Patrick says, walking over to the card table that's been set up in a corner of the studio. There's an empty folding chair for him, and a paper plate with a plastic napkin, and Patrick is so hungry and grateful he kind of wants to cry.
"Welcome to Clandestine," Spencer says, chasing a tiny shrimp across his paper plate with a fork. Patrick's seen him before, but now that he's gotten a good look at him he thinks that Spencer really is very lanky and very beardy and looks nothing like a porn director. His socks have mustaches on them. Patrick can see them from where Spencer's got one ankle kicked up on his opposite thigh. "Food's on us. Shooting your first video sucks."
"Oh," Patrick says, his heart jumping back up to lodge in his windpipe again.
"But this lo mein is fucking ace," Spencer continues. "So eat some."
"Thanks," Patrick says. "Yeah. Thank you, seriously. I forgot lunch today. I'm starving."
"Yeah," Spencer says. He looks over at Patrick. "So. You excited about this? Or you freaked out and want some advice?"
"Uh," Patrick lies. "Little of column A, little of column B?"
"Okay," Spencer says. "That's about where you should be, in my opinion." He gives Patrick a considering look. "Take your pants off," Spencer says, after a moment. "You'll feel better."
"What?" Patrick says, his fork frozen above his plate.
"Well," Spencer says. "In a few hours you're going to get naked in front of us, right? Like that's part of your job. You're going to get naked and jerk off on camera, and we're going to film it. And the guys and I—" Spencer gestures to the crew that's milling around, adjusting lights and fixing the fake curtains on Patrick's fake bedroom window and checking to make sure that the cardboard that's propping Patrick's pillows up doesn't show—"we don't give a shit. We've seen it all before. But me telling you that isn't going to make much of a difference, is it."
"Uh," Patrick says.
"Right," Spencer says. "So try it. Just whip your dick out. Right here. And then I will continue to not give a shit, and you'll feel better about your life choices."
"You do this a lot, don't you," Patrick says. Spencer shrugs. "Shane's more touchy feely," Spencer says, taking a long slug of his soda. "He likes to reassure people. I just point out that I don't care, and then everyone's day is a lot easier in the long run."
Patrick lets his fork finally connect with his plate. He's not sure he's actually ready to sit here and eat lunch with Spencer with his dick hanging out, but he has to admit that Spencer's attitude is kind of refreshing.
"So why did you go into directing gay porn if you're straight?" Patrick asks, honestly curious about the answer. "Does it pay better?"
Spencer blinks at him. "What?" Spencer says, frowning.
"You said—" Patrick falters slightly. "You. Oh. I thought."
"Oh," Spencer says. "Uh. Yeah. Sure. That works." He looks away, dropping eye contact for the first time, and Patrick wonders if there's another level to this conversation that he's not picking up on.
"Okay," Patrick says.
"Anyway, the point is, I don't care about your dick," Spencer says helpfully, burping a little. "I mean, I'm sure it's great! I'm sure it's great." He pats Patrick on the shoulder. "I'll make it look great on film. But straight or not, you don't need to worry about me."
"Right," Patrick says. "I appreciate that."
"Glad to help," Spencer says, standing up and burping again. "I'm gonna go talk to the guys. Hit me up when you're ready to run through the scene, okay? We need to wait for Wardrobe and then I'll introduce you to everyone, but we should also block the scene out real quick before we start."
"Got it," Patrick says again, and concentrates on wolfing down the free Chinese food before someone else does.
—
"Go stand over there," Spencer says, looking at Patrick through the camera. He's drinking a beer as he works, setting it down precariously on various items of very expensive equipment as he wanders around the room moving things and tugging on things and telling Patrick who to look at for each little scene. Patrick wants a beer. Patrick also wants this to not be his life right now.
"Great," Spencer says, nodding at him when Patrick shuffles over to the window. "Do me a favor, take it out, okay? Like we talked about. You're a little tense. You need to relax."
"Fuck," Patrick says.
"Just do it," Spencer says. "Like ripping a band-aid off. You want a beer? You can have a beer if you want." He looks over at his assistant, who also has a beard and is also drinking a beer. Patrick feels like he's stumbled into a twilight zone of trendy gay lumberjacks with cameras.
"Get him a beer," Spencer says, to Beardy Guy No. 2, and he nods sagely and wanders off to grab Patrick a Miller Lite.
"I'm not—fuck," Patrick says. "I can't. You do realize I'm not like. Excited, right? Not even a little bit. There isn't going to be anything impressive about this. I'm just going to look stupid."
"You'll get a dressing room before we start," Second Beardy Guy assures him, handing him a cold one. Patrick takes it with slightly shaking fingers. "Lots of porn in there. Privacy. And Frank, too, if you want him." He points over his shoulder at a tiny tattooed guy standing in the corner, holding a pair of studio headphones and gesturing wildly at Mikey. There's a cigarette tucked in between two of his tattooed knuckles, and Mikey ducks easily every time the lit cherry waves a little too close to his face. Patrick has a feeling they've known each other for a while.
"What do you mean, I 'get Frank,' " Patrick says, making air quotes with one hand as he pops open his beer with the other.
"He technically works in the sound studio," Beardy Guy says. "But Pete needed a fluffer who was already married to avoid the sexual harassment stuff and Frank volunteered. So if you can't keep it up, just call him in. He's used to it. Says it's the best part of his day."
"I didn't think that actually happened in real life," Patrick says, staring at Frank. "People actually do that? You can actually be a fluffer. As a job."
"It's only part-time," Beardy Guy says solemnly. "Sometimes you just need a helping hand." He wanders off again, and Patrick swallows and decides to do everything in his power to avoid Frank the Jerk Off Guy. It's not that he isn't cute—everyone who works for this damn company is hot, apparently—but Patrick doesn't think he can handle a strange guy touching his dick today. It's just. There's an upper limit of weird shit that is allowed to happen to him in any given 24-hour period, and Patrick is almost at that line.
"Patrick," Spencer says, giving him a significant look from behind the camera rig. "You got your beer. Come on. Let's do this. Five minutes, and then you've passed my test and I'll believe you're really cut out for this line of work."
"Jesus fucking Christ," Patrick says. His stomach is rolling over and over, twisting itself up in knots. He thinks his cheeks might be on fire. But no one's looking at him except Spencer, and maybe he's right—maybe this is the way to get over it. Patrick thinks very firmly about every single person who works here that he's already seen naked, and then he unzips his fly and lets everything hang out.
"Well done," Spencer mouths, giving him a thumbs-up from behind the camera. "Good job, bro."
Patrick tries to smile. He also tries not to throw up.
"A little to the left," Spencer says. "Patrick, can you turn to the left? Lights—" Spencer mutters, frowning and looking the room. "Who's doing lights for me today? Is it—where the fuck is Tom? Someone find Tom and tell him to get his ass in here and fix the the third spot," Spencer says.
"I need to go," Patrick says, to everyone and no one in particular. His heart feels like it's beating double-time in his chest. There's a wave of sick, rolling nausea in his stomach.
"Tom's on lunch," someone else says, the tall blond guy from earlier. "What's wrong with the spot?" He walks over to stand behind the camera, peering through the viewfinder as Spencer gestures and points.
"You see what I mean?" Spencer says, and the blond guy nods.
"No, seriously, I need to not be here," Patrick says. He reaches down and tucks himself back in with shaking fingers. Fuck. He's going to throw up. Fuck.
He can't do this.
"Wardrobe just called," someone says, to Patrick's left. "Suit's in dressing room C. Patrick, can you head over there and get dressed?"
"Yes," Patrick says, desperately. "Yes, yes I can."
He doesn't run out of Studio 4, but it's close.
—
"Okay," Brendon says. "Okay. So maybe this is a bad time?"
"It's fine," Patrick mumbles, into the circle of his own arms. He's face down on the dressing room table, trying to get his breathing under control. Patrick can do this. He can. Lots of people do this every day for a living. People like Brendon.
"Doesn't look that fine to me," Brendon says. There's the sound of metal chair legs scraping across the floor, and then a hand on Patrick's shoulder. Patrick looks up, blinking. Brendon's face is very close, and very concerned.
"Stage fright?" Brendon says, and Patrick grimaces and nods.
"It's stupid," Patrick says. "This is stupid, right? Everyone who works here does this every day. I should be able to do this."
"Most of us are exhibitionists," Brendon points out.
"Right," Patrick says. "Yeah. I'm not."
"I know," Brendon says.
"Yeah," Patrick says. "So. I'm fucked." He takes a deep breath. "This was such a dumb idea."
Brendon gives him a sympathetic look. "When I was first getting into this, Pete gave me some advice one time," Brendon says. "I was freaking out about being on camera, and I couldn't relax, even though I thought the whole idea of it was super hot. And he told me to try and think back to a really good sexual experience, like someone you used to hook up with where everything just worked." Brendon grins. "Of course, I was like seventeen at the time, so it's not like I had any of those to fall back on."
"In the future," Patrick says, resting his chin on his arm. "Can you edit those stories and lie to me and say you were eighteen? Because that would be nice."
"Sure," Brendon says. "As long as you know it's a lie. But anyway, I don't know. It stuck with me. And so when I'm having an off day I just think about that, and I imagine that that person is the only person in the room. "
"But I don't want anyone to watch me," Patrick says. "If I'm having sex with someone, preferably they're not watching me. Because we're having sex."
"So think about that," Brendon says. "Close your eyes and jerk off and think about whatever makes you feel good. It doesn't matter. You just have to get through the scene, and then you'll know you can do it."
"Yeah," Patrick says. He lets his head fall back down onto the table, cradled in the circle of his arms. "Okay."
"You'll be great," Brendon says, patting Patrick's shoulder again. "And Spencer's awesome. Shane's great too, but Spencer's more fun. See if you can get him to blush. That's my favorite thing to do when I'm shooting a scene with him. The louder and more shameless you are, the more he blushes. It's awesome."
"Is he straight?" Patrick says, raising his head again. "Like, not that it's any of my business, but he was weird about it when I asked."
"Spencer's complicated," Brendon says. He looks wistful for a moment, and Patrick spares a few seconds to wonder just how many employee assignations are going on behind the scenes at Clandestine Boys.
"Okay," Patrick says. "That's cool, I just wondered."
"It's kind of a long story, " Brendon says. "Anyway. The point is. You can do this. You'll be awesome."
"Yeah," Patrick whispers, his heart sinking even further. He pushes his face back into his arms, and tries to breathe deep and even. It's just—he can't do this. He can't. And maybe he's known that all along, but he wanted so badly to believe that he was capable of doing the one thing that's going to save his studio.
Patrick needed himself to be capable of this—and he isn't.
—
The flimsy walls dividing up Clandestine's warehouse-like interior seem to loom over Patrick as he walks down to Pete's office. It's not quite as bad as that time Patrick spilled ketchup all over his crotch in the 7th grade and then had to walk past the entire lunchroom to clean himself up, but it's close. His stomach feels roughly the same.
He knocks on Pete's closed office door, and a few seconds later he hears a mumbled "Yup!" Patrick pushes open the door to see Pete frowning at the screen of his MacBook as he scribbles something down on a pad of paper. The logo at the top of his pad of paper reads, Clandestine Boys Never Say Never, in a scrawly font with a complex logo that incorporates, among other things, bats and hearts into the design. The whole image manages to convey concepts like sex and dangerosity and nerddom and lots of other made-up words, and Patrick thinks it's really too bad he's not going to be working here anymore. Clandestine industries is kind of awesome.
"Pete, I can't do this," Patrick says firmly, without waiting for pleasantries. Pete looks up, greeting dying on his lips. "I just—I'm sorry. I can't. I thought I could, and I can't. There's no way I can just—I can't do this."
Pete is silent for a long moment, and then he sighs. "You know, I was going to come find you," Pete says eventually, leaning forward and crumpling the mess of papers on his desk in the process. He steeples his fingers, pressing them into his lower lip for a moment before pulling them away. "Patrick, can you - can you sit for a moment? Because we need to talk. I ran into Joe this weekend and we caught up for a while."
"Huh," Patrick says, his heart sinking even further as he sits down on the leather drumstool that doubles as Pete's office chair for guests. "How about that."
Pete gives him a level look. "How far under is Soul Punk Studios?" Pete asks, and Patrick tries not to grimace. This whole thing had to come out some time, and fuck, it might as well be now, when Patrick's already grovelling.
"Pretty far," Patrick says. "Uh. Yeah. You know, the music business—" he waves his hand around. He doesn't know what to say. Yeah, we're about to tank. Or maybe, we've got three months left before I have to shut the doors for good. Both would be honest answers, and neither of them are anything Patrick wants to say out loud.
"See, from what I hear, it's not the music business," Pete says slowly. "Joe seems to think it's because you keep taking chances on talented kids who can't afford to record their albums anywhere else."
"Listen, it's not charity," Patrick snaps, because he doesn't need Pete's pity and neither do any of his clients. "I'm not going around picking up strays. I'm not that stupid."
"I didn't say you were," Pete says carefully. His expression is unreadable. "I think what you're doing is awesome, and I want to figure out a way to help you keep doing it, that's all. Joe seems to think really highly of you. Says your one of the most talented producers he's ever worked for."
"It's—I appreciate that," Patrick says, with difficulty. He stands up, brushing himself off, because if Pete's about to offer him money than this conversation is officially over. "Thank you. But if I need to break my contract, I need to break the contract. My other career doesn't really come into play. I'll pay whatever penalties I need to—"
"Patrick, sit down," Pete says calmly. He rests his chin on his folded arms, looking disarmingly innocent for someone in charge of a very successful porn company. "We're not done. I don't think you need to break your contract with Clandestine Industries."
"No, I told you," Patrick says brokenly, trying to keep his voice level. Fuck. This was his last chance, literally, and all he wants is to leave Pete's office and go feel like shit about himself in peace. "Like, I wish I was cut out for this stuff? But I'm not. I can't do it."
"And that's okay," Pete says, flashing him a smile. He's wearing eyeliner today. The whole effect is distracting. "What, do you think you're the first person that's ever signed up to make a video and then realized they couldn't go through with it?"
Patrick pauses. "...yes?" He says hesitantly.
"Not by a long shot," Pete says. "And if you'd read your contract, there's a no-fee no penalty clause if either of us decides to back out before shooting starts. But your situation is a little...unusual. Because if I understand this right—you stop working for me, and you lose the studio."
"Yeah," Patrick says, with difficulty. "That's—yeah. That's about the long and short of it."
"But on the other hand, you have your own recording studio," Pete says. "A recording studio that you personally run, maintain, and operate, and that Joe tells me is better than the one we've managed to cobble together here."
Pete gives him a level look, chin still tucked into the crook of his folded arms on the tabletop. Patrick is struck by the sudden and absurd thought that if Pete wore glasses, he'd be peering over the tops of them right now.
"So?" Patrick says.
"So Clandestine Industries would like to express it's interest in hiring Soul Punk Studios on as a contracting firm," Pete says, sitting back and stretching out in the process, long and lean. "As an alternate recording studio for our stars and staff."
"I don't need your charity," Patrick says, standing up again and shaking his head. It hurts to say it, it really does, but as hot as Pete is, and as kind as he obviously is, Patrick's never taken anything from anyone and that's not going to start today. If he's going to go down, it's going to be on his own terms. "I appreciate that, but no thanks. I'm not taking your hand-outs."
"It's not a hand-out," Pete says, smile fading. "Because the thing is, Frank's wife is having twins sometime in the next two weeks, and then he's on paternity leave for six months. I'm going to be down a sound engineer and a part-time fluffer, but I'm also going to need someone to record Ray's voice-overs for his internal monologue stuff, and we need someone to help Gabe and Travis track all of their shoots, since they don't make much noise when they're working. And," Pete says, holding up a hand when Patrick tries to interrupt. "And, Ashlee keeps sending me pissed-off emails about our stars and her stars getting double-booked into the same recording slots, so having another studio would mean a lot less headaches for both of us," Pete says. "Trust me, this isn't a hand-out. I'm going to need your studio almost full-time some weeks, and you're going to be working just as much as you normally do. But if your bands are willing to work with some schedule changes, the studio is going to end up making double. Is that enough to put you back in the black?"
"I—yeah," Patrick says, skimming through numbers in his head. It's just enough, actually, and if he can count on that kind of income from Pete's sources he could move some things around until they're technically free and clear again. The studio could be out of debt in six, maybe eight months. Patrick doesn't know whether to laugh or to cry. "Yeah. Yeah, that would—that would work."
"No one should do this job if they don't love it," Pete says, shaking his head at Patrick. "Yeah, the money's good, but there's no point if you're going to be throwing up from nerves every day. Who wants to live like that?"
"Not me," Patrick agrees awkwardly, looking away.
"Right," Pete says, very earnestly. "You need to be someone like me or Brendon or Travie. Or Gabe. Someone who gets hard just thinking about having sex in front of all those cameras," Pete says. "In front of all those people. You have to love it."
"I really don't love it like that," Patrick says.
"I know," Pete says. "But that's okay, because you have exactly what I need right now."
Patrick tries not to blush. "A studio?" He hazards, keeping his voice as level as possible.
"A studio," Pete agrees. "And someone I can trust to run it. Someone who isn't going to freak out when I sent people in there to moan by themselves all day. Someone who's going to do a good job with the tracks and keep everything professional."
"They will be," Patrick promises, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that it's true. "Trust me. If there's one thing I can do, it's record."
"So everyone keeps telling me," Pete says, with a ghost of a smile. "So—today's cancelled then. Don't worry about it. The crew guys will be pissed, but what can you do? Maybe we'll get someone else to fill in and use your set," Pete says. "But you should go home and have a beer or something. Relax. Breathe a little. And then when you've done that for oh, I don't know, say maybe six hours or so, then you can meet me downtown at the Salvation Cafe for some awesome nachos," Pete says, and Patrick blinks.
"What?" Patrick says, in case he didn't parse that correctly.
"Nachos," Pete says. "I usually finish up late, but if we're not shooting your scene today I should be out by 9pm. And then we're going to go eat nachos."
"You and me and—" Patrick trails off. Pete smiles—a new smile, one that Patrick hasn't seen before. Patrick doesn't like to think about how he's been cataloging and memorizing Pete's smiles, but this one is definitely new.
"You and me and no one," Pete says. "If that's cool with you."
"Uh," Patrick says. "Okay. For—work stuff, right?"
"For nachos," Pete says. "And work stuff. If you want. I guess. Like, I guess we could talk about work."
"Right," Patrick says. "Okay."
"Awesome," Pete says.
—
The Salvation Cafe is small and vaguely vegan and vaguely hipstery, which would normally entail Patrick avoiding it like the plague. Andy's an old friend from way back, though, and Patrick makes exceptions for his homies.
"Bro," Patrick says solemnly, fist-bumping Andy as he leans, elbows down, on the polished stone countertop at the end of the busy juice bar. "Bro," Andy says, just as solemnly, and then the joke stretches on a moment too long and Andy laughs, leaning over the counter to give Patrick a hug.
"Sup," Andy says, squeezing tight. "You never come to see me anymore. What, you suddenly decide you hate wheat grass?"
"I always hated wheat grass," Patrick says, taking a seat at the counter. Pete's not here yet, so there's no sense in getting a table. "There was never a point in my life where I didn't hate wheat grass. You have a selective memory."
"I just always hope for the best," Andy says. "Your body is a temple, bro."
"Your face is a temple," Patrick says. "Can I get one of those pear-mango-peach things? Those are awesome."
"It's called a Skinny Villain," Andy says pedantically, and Patrick rolls his eyes. "Forgive me for not memorizing your stupid names for fruit juice drinks," Patrick says.
"Forgive me for not serving you my stupid fruit drinks until you can remember what they're called," Andy says, but he waves at one of his waiters and calls out Patrick's order. Patrick watches as the kid nods, and then gets to work on the juicer. He can't be older than sixteen. Patrick suddenly feels disturbingly old.
"So, you just missed my juice and my handsome face?" Andy says, flicking at Patrick's hands. "What's the occasion."
"Oh," Patrick says. "Um. I—-ah. I'm meeting someone."
"Heyyyy," Andy says, his face breaking out into a wide smile. "Heyyy, look at you! Rickster, all grown up and going on dates. At the vegan cafe." His voice is sing-song, gently teasing. Patrick punches him in the arm. "Shut up," Patrick says. "It's like—you wouldn't believe you if I told you, honestly. It's this whole ridiculous story."
"Oh yeah?" Andy says, bending down to take a sip of the frothy juice concoction resting at his elbow. "I like ridiculous."
"I'm meeting Pete Wentz," Patrick says, and Andy almost chokes on his recycled-plastic straw. He looks up at Patrick.
"No way," Andy says. "No way. You're making gay porn? No way."
"I am not making gay porn," Patrick says severely, and doesn't mention recent events. "Pete's company needs an extra studio for tracking his vocals and things."
"And what, you couldn't meet on company time?" Andy says, raising an eyebrow. He looks like someone's calculating, matchmaking aunt. "He had to ask you out to dinner to pitch the offer?"
"I—I don't know," Patrick admits. "Maybe. Pete's weird. Have you ever met him? He's kind of weird."
"Yeah, I know Pete," Andy says, tilting his head to peer over Patrick's shoulder, towards the door. "And Trick, I'll be honest with you, you might want to reevaluate your idea of the evening's activities, because to me, that looks like our Mr. Wentz dressed up for a date," Andy says. Patrick tells himself to turn around slowly and casually, and then ruins it by whipping his head around anyway.
Pete looks—
—okay, Patrick's not an impartial party or anything, but Pete looks pretty nice. He's wearing a sweater with something weird and complicated going on around the neck, and tight jeans, and he's got the sleeves pushed up to show off his tattoos and—yeah. It's a good look for Pete.
"Andy! Patrick!" Pete crows, and heads over. He repeats the fistbump/hugging ritual with Andy, and then he leans in and kisses Patrick on the cheek and Patrick feels his heart stop entirely for a single brief second.
"Uhm," Patrick manages. Andy is giving him a shit-eating grin, even as he makes friendly small talk with Pete about their respective businesses and the people they both know. Patrick thinks he might be blushing. His face feels hot.
"So," Andy says, after their initial conversation has ambled to a halt. "Would you two lovebirds like a table on the patio?"
"You don't have a patio," Patrick says, before his brain can catch up with his mouth.
"Sometimes I do," Andy says, winking at Patrick. He leans in and whispers. "It's where I take chicks when I want to impress them. Trust me, bro."
"Uh," Patrick says, and Pete grins. "Sure," Pete says. "That would be awesome, thanks dude."
"No problem," Andy says, patting Patrick on the shoulder. "Patrick here's an old friend. Woo him gently, okay? He has a delicate soul."
"You're going to have a delicate face when I'm done with you," Patrick grumbles under his breath."
"You always say the sweetest things," Andy says, before turning to another teenage waiter and speaking to him in a quick, low voice, gesturing all the while. Patrick wonders what he's getting himself into.
"Too forward?" Pete says, into Patrick's ear. Patrick jumps.
"I thought this was—" Patrick says lamely. "I didn't. You surprised me."
"I do that," Pete says thoughtfully.
"Yes," Patrick says. "You do. That's kind of the entire story of our working relationship up until now. Surprises."
"That's like, the best compliment you could have possibly given me," Pete says, smiling widely at Patrick and showing all of his teeth.
"Gentlemen, right this way," Andy says, interrupting Patrick's half-formed response. He leads them through the saloon-style swinging doors and the kitchen, and then all of a sudden they're in the back of Andy's thin city lot, on a tiny brick patio. The fall air is crisp but warm enough, and Patrick thinks they'll be fine sitting at the round wooden table that's been set for them near Andy's garden.
"Whoa," Patrick says, because he's been to the Salvation Cafe lots of times over the years, but he didn't know about Andy's private garden seduction den. There's even Christmas lights strung up between all the trellises.
"Enjoy," Andy says, gesturing to their tiny, tattooed server. Patrick suppresses a snort, and Pete just keeps grinning. "Jamie here will be taking care of you."
"I'm sure we will," Pete says, taking his seat across from Patrick and giving the kid a once-over. Patrick tries not to roll his eyes, because hitting on the teenage waiter is the oldest trick in the book. Granted, the waiter is hot, but Patrick has self control. He is a grown man. He has morals.
"Too young," Pete says sadly, after they've ordered some appetizers and some waters and a juice for Pete to go along with Patrick's as-yet-unseen peach-mango concoction. He eyes the waiter's retreating backside. "Way too young. Couple of years, maybe."
"Why am I not surprised," Patricks says lightly, ignoring the tense feeling in his stomach. You got your hopes up, he thinks. Stupid, stupid. He's Pete Wentz. You know what Joe said. Kissing is his idea of a handshake.
"Oh—for the site," Pete says, shaking his head and grinning. Pete smiles a lot. Patrick's never met anyone who smiles as much. "Oh, not for me, dude. I'm going to be thirty next year. I don't want to fuck around with teenagers. I'm too old for that shit."
"That's—-good?" Patrick says hesitantly. "Good for you. Gold star?"
"Hey," Pete says. "I'm a porn director. For my line of work, that does get a gold star."
"Fair enough," Patrick says, after he thinks about it. "Are other studios really that bad?"
"Some of them are," Pete says, with a dark look that fades away almost as soon as it arrives. "But that's not get-to-know-you conversation," Pete says, leaning in. "And now we're here, and I can spend the next two hours making you tell me everything about you. It's going to be awesome, Patrick Stump. I hear you're a pretty interesting guy."
"Well, now you just sound like a stalker," Patrick points out, but he can feel a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Sometimes that happens," Pete says, shrugging. "It's a thing."
"Stalking people?"
"Little bit."
"You're kidding, right?" Patrick says. Just to make sure.
"Little bit," Pete says, with an impish grin, and Patrick laughs.
—
Pete, as it turns out, is a surprisingly good listener. He's also a lot weirder than Patrick was expecting from their previous interactions in the office. Pete's awkward; he laughs too loud at Patrick's muttered asides, and he bounces from topic to topic at breakneck speeds. He wants to know everything about Patrick, absolutely everything, but the minute Patrick says something that reminds Pete of something else, he's off again, barking out his loud braying laugh and interrupting to tell Patrick about about how no, he's sorry, really, Patrick just has to hear this one story and then Pete will let him continue. It's frustrating and charming in equal measure, made worse by the fact that Pete is a horrible flirt who keeps brushing his foot up the side of Patrick's leg.
"So," Patrick says, as they're splitting the check at the end. "Anyway, that's how Soul Punk got started. And then like six months later Brendon showed up, and—but you know that part."
"I do," Pete says, giving Patrick an appreciative look. "Although I didn't realized until after I'd hired you that you were Brendon's mysterious musical saviour."
"I didn't—" Patrick says. "It wasn't like that," Patrick says, for what seems like the hundredth time this week. He needs to go find Brendon and tell him to start keeping his mouth shut. Patrick doesn't have any interest in being canonized. "He was a talented kid who needed a break," Patrick says, and waves off Pete's attempts to take the subject further.
"Anyway," Patrick says again. He takes a deep breath. "So we were so busy talking and all that we didn't get to...talk much about business," Patrick says, just in case this wasn't a date after all. He's maybe fishing just a little. "Did you still want to....?"
"Business happens in the daytime," Pete says, shaking his head and standing up as he finishes signing his check. "Nighttime is for queers and infidels. Isn't that how the line goes?"
"What line?" Patrick says. "I don't think I know that one."
"Maybe I made that one up," Pete says thoughtfully. "Whatever. But no, Mr. Patrick Martin Vaughn Stump. I didn't bring you here to discuss business."
"Oh," Patrick says. His stomach feels warm. He ducks his head, signing his check without looking at the numbers and leaving a generous tip. Andy always undercharges him and then tries to play the innocent when Patrick points it out. Patrick wonders if he does the same for Pete.
"So, uh. You want to walk me to my stop?" Pete says, shoving his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. His body language screams it's cool if you don't!!!! no big deal!! i'll just be devastated but whatever!! and Patrick is charmed even further. He resolves not to let Pete know how charmed he is, even if they did just go on a date. Patrick is almost 99% certain this was a date. Patrick is also 99% certain there's some sort of conflict-of-interest thing here and that he probably shouldn't be on a date like this but right now, he can't really be bothered. Besides, if he's contracting as Soul Punk Studios, then he and Pete are equals; it's not illegal to date Pete, just ill-advised.
Patrick can live with that.
"Sure," Patrick says. "Um. Did you—maybe want to do this again sometime?"
—
Dating Pete Wentz turns out to include a lot of 4am phone calls, a lot of misspelled emails, and a lot of handholding and cheek-kissing. It's nice. Pete's fun and he's funny and sometimes they go out and sometimes they stay in but Pete's always weird and entertaining either way. Patrick is weirdly enamoured with Pete when he's curled up on the couch in his pajamas with the ducks on them, and Pete seems to be weirdly enamoured with Patrick in general, and honestly Patrick is okay with Pete's glacially slow relationship speed, no matter how much Joe makes fun of them and tells Patrick he's going to die a virgin.
"I'm not going to die a virgin," Patrick points out, listening to Gabe moaning away in the studio with one ear pressed to his headphones. It's weirdly hypnotizing. Patrick doesn't have a video feed running, so he has no idea what Gabe's actually tracking, just that it involves orgasms. Lots of them. "I can't die a virgin, because I'm not a virgin," Patrick says, when the silence after his statement becomes deafening. He looks around to see Joe studiously typing something into his cell phone.
"What are you doing," Patrick says witheringly. Joe ignores him for a moment, and then holds his iPhone up so Patrick can see the screen.
"See?" Joe says, trying to keep a straight face. "You can't get an STD from kissing with tongue. The internet never lies. You guys should try it sometime."
"Oh fuck you," Patrick says, and goes back to listening to Gabe moan. Then he throws the headphones down, because Joe has been insulting his boyfriend's sexual prowess all morning and Patrick needs to defend Pete's honor. "Pete and I are totally going to kiss with tongue," Patrick says. "We will. When we want to. And it will be awesome. It will be—fuck, did I really just say that? Fuck you. We're going to French kiss. Does that sound better? Fuck, that doesn't sound any better," Patrick says, frowning. "Why do I always sound like I'm in fifth grade when we talk about this shit?"
"Because you're dating a porn star who only wants to hold hands," Joe says. He crosses his arms behind his head, kicking his legs up on the corner of the soundboard. Through the glass in front of them, Gabe looks rather bored. He's scrolling through something on his phone as he moans away. "It's like the highlight of my life, seriously."
"Some people like holding hands," Patrick says. "It's nice. You can do it in public and not get arrested. There are lots of reasons to hold hands."
"There are lots of reasons to get your dick sucked, too," Joe says, and then ducks the empty coffee cup that Patrick chucks in his direction.
—
Three days of tracking later, Gabe Saporta is about to shove his fist through Patrick's glass studio dividers. He doesn't, which Patrick appreciates, but it's a close thing.
"I'm just so sick of this shit," Gabe moans, letting his head dangle backwards over the back of his chair. His Subway sandwich rests untouched on his lap. "I don't want to fucking moan into a microphone anymore. I don't want to call out for my Mami and I don't want to track about how Pete's tight little ass can't take my fist, I just want to sit around watch fucking re-runs in my goddamn pajamas," Gabe says. He directs his last sentence to the ceiling. "Pete, can you hear me motherfucker? Because this is all your fault."
"Yeah, God forbid he give you a job with responsibility and shit," Patrick deadpans, and Gabe snorts at the ceiling. Sometimes Patrick thinks it should be weirder, working with the guy who has sex with his boyfriend on camera, but the more time he spends with both Pete and Gabe the more it becomes clear that their affection for each other is primarily that of brothers, not lovers. They've got great chemistry on camera, but as soon as the shot breaks it's back to dick jokes and bro-hugs.
"I don't care about the responsibility," Gabe says, after a moment. "The responsibility is fine. I just don't want to spend another five minutes moaning in that goddamn studio room."
"You want to track something else?" Patrick says, flicking a couple of switches and then tapping at keyboard of the master computer. "We've got time. Ian's not coming by until 5. I'm just as bored of listening to you moan as you are of moaning. We could make some terrible covers."
"Yes," Gabe says, sitting up so fast his lettuce goes everywhere. "Yes, I do want to make some fucking covers. There is nothing in this world that I want more. Michael Jackson?"
"Sure," Patrick says. "Jackson Five? Greatest hits of the 70's? I can bang out most of them."
"Done," Gabe says, racing towards the sound room, sandwich forgotten. Patrick slaps the switch to turn on the intercom system in case Joe needs to yell for him, and then he follows, already humming.
—
"—No, it's here and here—just use this sample and then you won't have to use both registers," Patrick says, reprogramming the keyboard so Gabe can bang out the back-beat to The Way You Make Me Feel. He thinks Ian's probably going to be here soon, and he definitely just wasted about three hours of studio time with Gabe, but Patrick can't remember the last time he'd had so much fun just dicking around in the studio. They'd started from the beginning, going through most of his back catalog, trading off vocals every few songs.
"Got it," Gabe says, pressing a few more button. "Okay, the effects are set on this. You want to take this one? I'll do the back-ups."
"Yeah, sure," Patrick says distractedly, fiddling with his mic. He looks at Joe through the glass, and Joe gives him a thumbs up as he sips his coffee. He'd wandered in halfway through "I Want You Back," and decided to stay and enjoy the free music and press helpful buttons instead of sitting in Patrick's office waiting for the phone to ring.
"One, two," Patrick counts down, and nods to Joe to start recording. They move through the intro, and Patrick can't help but shimmy a little, cracking a smile as he sees Gabe shaking his hips to the same beat.
"Hey pretty baby, with the high heels on," Patrick sings, not caring too much about his technique. It's been so long since he's sang for someone besides Joe or one of his clients, but as soon as Gabe had gotten over his surprise at Patrick's vocal range, he'd been ecstatic that Patrick was good enough that they could trade off. He sees Gabe nodding at him out of the corner of his eye, and Patrick's feeling sassy enough to give the song some extra swagger.
He pulls the mic off the stand, sashaying to the front of the room and keeping his eyes on the floor so he doesn't trip over any of the chords. He waits a few beats and then tosses his head up to belt out "the way you make me feeeeeel!", expecting to see Joe laughing at antics and instead coming face to face through the glass with...
...Pete?
Patrick blinks, his cheeks reddening as he fumbles the next line. Behind him, he can hear Gabe laughing, but Patrick's world has narrowed down to the very simple task of not dying of shame in front of his new boyfriend. Pete's expression is wide and amazed, and he's making little 'go on' motions with his hands, nodding at Patrick to continue. Patrick swallows, trying to get his mojo back and find the beat.
"You really turn me onnnn," Patrick sings, unable to make eye contact with Pete but rapidly regaining his confidence. Patrick doesn't sing in front of people often, but he's always felt less self-conscious than usual when he's got a mic in his hand. He thinks once he's over the shock, he might not mind singing in front of Pete, whose expression is currently something akin to awe.
Patrick finishes up the song, waiting for the final note to die away before placing the microphone back on the stand. Pete's through the doorway almost before Joe smacks the "RECORDING!" light off and unlocks the studio door from the outside.
"You didn't tell me about that," Pete says accusingly, pointing a finger at him and poking Patrick in the chest. "You didn't. You. Patrick Martin Vaughn Stump, sixteenth in the line of all adorable, pocket-sized Stumps, you should be ashamed—"
"Oh, shut up," Patrick says, laughing, batting away Pete's hand. "I'm the first Patrick Stump and you know it, ass."
"You didn't tell me," Pete says mulishly. "You didn't tell me you had a voice made of sex and sin and debauchery. Me, of all people! I sell sex and debauchery! I'm an expert!"
"That's because I don't," Patrick says. "I have a voice that sometimes can pull off an okay Michael Jackson cover at karaoke night."
"You're tracking all of my videos from now on," Pete says, crossing his arms and leaning up against the wall so he can narrow his eyes at Patrick. "I'm writing it into our contract. Patrick Stump will moan for Pete Wentz on camera." He makes air quotes for emphasis.
"Oh, will he now," Patrick says, winding up an extra cable and stowing it out of the way. He looks around for Gabe, and finds that he's suddenly gone missing, no doubt because he can feel the sexual tension that's pricking the back of Patrick's neck like static electricity. Usually that might be cause for Gabe for stick around, but Patrick's noticed there are a lot of exceptions where Pete is concerned.
"Yep," Pete says, and then abruptly changes track. "Anyway. Speaking of moaning. Is Ian here yet? I need to talk to him about next week's shoot and I was hoping I could catch him on my way back to the studio."
"Not yet," Patrick says, glancing up the at clock. "Maybe he's running late. You want me to give him a message?"
"Nah," Pete says. "I'll call his cell and harass him. It's fine."
"So it was important enough for you to come down here, but not important enough for you to wait for him," Patrick muses. "Interesting."
"There may have been extenuating circumstances," Pete says lightly. "Like seeing your pretty little face. That may have factored into my decision to swing by."
"Pretty little face, my ass," Patrick says, trying not to blush.
"A gentleman never lies," Pete says seriously. "And I am always a gentleman. I mean, except when I'm not. But most of the time."
"I'll keep that in mind," Patrick says seriously, ducking his head again as Pete leans in to brush his lips against Patrick's cheek. His stomach does a swoop-and-dip, a fluttery little pirouette that leaves Patrick slightly breathless at the end. Pete's lips are soft.
"We still on for tonight?" Pete says softly, into Patrick's ear. Patrick nods. His cheeks feel flushed. It's stupid, how much he blushes around Pete fucking Wentz. Patrick has never blushed so much around anyone in his life, and they haven't even graduated to eighth grade-style makeout sessions yet.
"Yeah," Patrick says. "Midnight, right?"
"Right," Pete breathes out, and then kisses him again. "Be there or be square, Patty," Pete says, throwing the words over his shoulder as he walks away.
Patrick frowns.
"Call me Patty again and I'll cut your balls off!" Patrick calls after him. Pete gives a little wave of acknowledgement over his shoulder as he heads out through the studio door, one hand holding his phone up to his ear.
"Dick sucking," Joe says sagely, from his perch near the soundboard where he's been watching the whole scene. "Gonna happen tonight. Awwwwwwwwwww yeah." He mimes a rimshot, and Patrick flicks him off.
—
The text that Patrick receives at nine o'clock reads:
less is more, pattycakes. dont dress up and don't be late. bring your sweet self to the studio and leave your expectations at the door xoxo peter
"The fuck does that mean?" Patrick says aloud, staring down at his phone.
"Pete?" Ian guesses, wandering by with a fresh bottle of water.
"Pete," Patrick confirms, staring down at his phone. "Pete being....very Pete."
"As always," Ian agrees, shrugging and heading back into the studio.
—
"Please tell me this has nothing to do with cameras," Patrick says as Pete opens the door to Clandestine at twenty 'til midnight. "Actually no, scratch that. Promise me this has nothing to do with cameras before I walk through this door."
Pete laughs, loud and braying. "No cameras," Pete says, holding the door wide open. "Cross my heart and hope to die."
"If you're lying, this relationship is over," Patrick says as he walks through the door, but it feels like an empty threat.
"I only lie on Thursdays," Pete says. "Thursdays are okay for lying."
"It's going to be Thursday in fifteen minutes," Patrick says.
"Then chop chop, let's go," Pete says, heading off down the corridor. "I don't want to lie to you by accident."
"What, is this some kind of Pavlovian thing?" Patrick says, trailing behind. "The clock strikes twelve, you turn into a pathological liar?"
"You never know," Pete says, making a left and then a quick right. Patrick frowns; he's been to the studio a fair few times in the last month, but he's never been in this part of the building.
"Dude, where are we going?" Patrick says, and he's rewarded with nothing but silence and a flash of a grin over Pete's shoulder. Patrick sighs to himself and keeps walking. Then he stops, because Pete's climbing up an ancient rickety metal staircase and pulling open an emergency exit door to the roof.
"Okay, no," Patricks says. "No. Not until you prop that fucking door behind you. Have you ever been stuck on a roof? Because I have."
"Variety is the spice of life, dude," Pete says, but he pulls a set of keys off his hip, flicking through them until he reaches the a thick metal one. "Here," Pete says, shoving the push-bar and turning the key in the lock until it clicks. "Now it's really, really, locked open. As in, even if we forget to prop the door, it's not going to lock."
"Good," Patrick says. "I appreciate that."
"Now come on," Pete says, and disappears through the doorway. Patrick climbs up behind him, taking the stairs slowly as they make increasingly terrifying noises under his feet. He wonders if he's going to be on the front page of the news tomorrow—Local Studio Owner Dies in Tragic Staircase Accident at Porn Studio!—and then all of a sudden he's through the door and looking at the entire Chicago skyline.
"Wow," Patrick breathes, because it's been a while since he's seen his city from this angle. His studio is ground floor, and his apartment isn't that much higher; it's rare that he's up high enough to see everything. Patrick's chest fills with that strange, sad sort of longing he always gets when he looks at the city like this, a mixture of feelings like warmth and home and maybe even a little bit of regret that he's still here after all these years.
"I thought, you know, another Chicago boy, born and raised," Pete says quietly, from behind him. "I thought you'd get what it means."
"I do," Patrick says, and it's been a long time since he's meant something as much as he means those two words. "It's—thank you." He breathes in, the crisp fall air rushing through his lungs. The air up here is clear and cold against his skin.
They're silent for a few long minutes, just taking in the view. Patrick watches the play of lights across the great arteries of the city, the rushing of traffic towards the next destination.
"This was supposed to be a grand gesture," Pete says eventually. He's standing next to Patrick, hands tucked in his pockets. "I was going to take you up here and we were going to make out under the stars. Super romantic."
"And...we're not?" Patrick says, trying and failing to hide the disappointment in his voice. It's not that he wants to rush Pete, but he's not going to say no to a few kisses, either.
"Mostly I just want to hear you sing again," Pete admits. "It's kind of hard to do that when you're making out with someone. But I just—fuck, Patrick. Your voice." He turns to look at Patrick, something clear and soft in his gaze. It makes Patrick's breath catch in his throat, and he looks away. "I bet we can split the difference," Patrick says awkwardly. "Um. You know. If you wanted to."
"A kiss for a song?" Pete says, starting to smile.
"We could—yeah," Patrick says lamely. "Um. Yes. Yes, we should do that. Did you—what did you want to hear?" He wonders if he's going to feel stupid standing up here in the middle of the night singing to the stars and Pete, and then Patrick realizes he doesn't care. It's been a crazy past few months, full of ups and downs. The least he can do is sing a song for Pete. It won't be the end of the world if he feels silly.
"Anything," Pete says. "Something for the city. Sing me a song for Chicago, Patrick."
"A song for Chicago," Patrick muses. "You sound like you're asking for a requiem, not a lullaby."
Pete laughs, sharp and sudden, showing all of his teeth. "Not a requiem," Pete says. "We're not dead yet, Patrick. At least I'm not, and I hope you aren't either."
"Not just yet," Patrick agrees. He thinks about the studio almost tanking and then being pulled back from the abyss, about Pete's generosity and then Pete's surprising and wonderful...Pete-ness. He thinks about how Pete's hands are always cold, and how even though they're bigger than Patrick's he likes it when Patrick holds them between his own and rubs them to keep them warm. Patrick thinks about how being around Pete makes him feel warm deep down inside, even if he wants to strangle him sometimes. He thinks about how Pete is stupidly hot, way out of Patrick's league and yet somehow he's still hanging out with Patrick every day and doesn't seem to be getting bored yet.
"You sure you even want a lullaby, then?" Patrick says, starting to grin as he hits on the perfect song. He starts to tap his palm against the concrete lip of the roof, and Pete laughs as soon as he hears the fast, syncopated beat. He watches Patrick's hands for a moment and then he takes over, throwing in a few expertly-timed stamps against the floor once he gets tempo down. Patrick watches the traffic move in rhythm below them, perfectly timed to the beat, and then opens his mouth to sing:
Everyday it's a-gettin' closer
Goin' faster than a roller coaster
He's interrupted by Pete's mouth half-way through the second line, grinning as he kisses Patrick wide and messy. It's only a few seconds, the soft slide of lips against lips, before Pete's pulling back. Patrick tries to remember how to breathe.
"Keep going," Pete whispers, and Patrick nods, tangling his fingers with Pete's as they stare out at the Chicago skyline.
Love like yours will surely come my way.
♥
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Date: 2011-12-30 06:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-08 04:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-30 07:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-08 04:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-30 07:55 am (UTC)i want to read this universe forever, seriously. the storyline with spencer and brendon! ian and ray, holy shit, i would never have thought of that but it's ridiculously charming. i just--
okay. i'm incoherent. this was awesome, and i loved it. /jumbled heart-eyes
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Date: 2011-12-30 09:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-30 11:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-30 02:59 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2011-12-30 06:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-30 07:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-30 08:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-30 08:37 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2011-12-31 02:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-31 08:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-31 10:12 pm (UTC)I loved how the sex was never a big deal, just something that happened and the relationships between everyone were amazing.
Loved your Patrick voice, too.
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Date: 2012-01-01 03:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-01 04:26 am (UTC)He wonders if Brian dyes them in the blood of his enemies before going to work in the morning.
And this. THIS Made me laugh SO hard!!
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Date: 2012-01-01 10:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-02 06:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-03 10:43 pm (UTC)So lovely and sweet and AWESOME.
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Date: 2012-01-07 04:28 pm (UTC)Mostly though, this comment is all about how Chicago's skyline is the BEST skyline, and all grand-gesture imagery and ridiculous heart-fluttering, stomach-swooping reactions to the city at night are SO INTENSELY ACCURATE. Yeah, uh. Anyway. BUDDY HOLLY! ♥ ♥ ♥
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Date: 2012-01-08 08:07 am (UTC)And Spencer's moustache socks get a cameo!
Aw! Spencer is complicated and Brendon is wistful! Awww!
Mmm... I love your description of Pete's date clothes... he radiates sex :-)
it's cool if you don't!!!! no big deal!! i'll just be devastated but whatever!! Aw, PETE! I love your stupid face too!
I love Pete and his duck pyjamas!
"You didn't. You. Patrick Martin Vaughn Stump, sixteenth in the line of all adorable, pocket-sized Stumps, you should be ashamed— I lol'd a lot at this line :-)
AND THE ENDING!!! Romantic skylines! Patrick Stumps voice! Kissing at last!! :-D
Ok, all of this was just so lovely. Everyone cared about each other, and were just incredibly adorable, and you just generally made me love everyone :-) Thank you for writing!
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Date: 2012-01-11 04:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-11 10:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-17 07:08 am (UTC)