Pete Wentz vs the World (1/2): Gift for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sweetnovicane
Dec. 22nd, 2010 09:21 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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bandomstuffsitTitle: Pete Wentz vs the World
Author:coricomile
Pairing(s): Pete/Patrick, mentions of Patrick/Various
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Violence
Word count: 12,000
Summary: “So, if we’re going to do this whole-“ Patrick waves his fork idly, staring down at his plate- “dating thing, you might, uh. Have to defeat my four evil exes?”
Pete Wentz is dating a seventeen-year-old.
"So you're, what? Thirty now?" Joe shoves a spoonful of cereal into his mouth and raises his eyebrows. Pink milk dribbles down his chin and onto his bare chest, rolling down to rest on his stomach. It's sort of really gross. "Are you gonna give him diapers for your anniversary?"
"I'm twenty-two, dickbag, and you're seventeen, too," Pete points out. "But you could totally use a bib."
"I'm seventeen for two more days," Joe replies, wiping his arm across his mouth. Still gross, but cleaner. "Also I don't, like, wave my wang around you on a regular basis." Pete thinks and neither does Brendon, but he doesn't say that out loud.
"Tell me you haven't slept with this kid," Andy says from the other side of the table. He looks like he's going to start on a rant. Pete really doesn't want him to start on a rant.
Pete hops onto the counter and clutches his delicious cup of coffee to his chest. It's three in the afternoon, but he's out at his place and Greta won't buy him any because she's a selfish, selfish bitch. It tastes like heaven.
"He’s Mormon,” Pete finally says. “We've, like, held hands and shit. Totally PG, pops."
"Right." Andy's face says he's not buying it, but Pete's balls are blue enough to paint with, so. "Look, are you sure this isn't about Ash-"
"Oh, hey, doorbell. I should get that." Pete nearly topples over in his mad dash to the front door, but it's worth it to not hear Hurley finish his sentenced is a skinny little dude in too much purple. He’s kind of a train wreck, but so is Pete, so it works out pretty well in the end. Under his hoodie, he’s wearing a dress shirt and black slacks.
“I’m supposed to be following my brother door-to-door,” he says as way of greeting. In the doorway of the kitchen, Andy and Joe snicker. They’re terrible friends.
Brendon bounces to them anyway and follows the procession to the basement like he belongs. He’s got confidence. Pete likes that.
In the basement, Ryan’s plucking away at Joe’s guitar. He startles when he sees them, hastily shoving the guitar back onto its stand. The place belongs to Ryan’s dad, but he lets Arma practice there pretty regularly. It’s a good deal; they get a place to play and Ryan gets to fawn over them like the weirdo fanboy that he is.
“Wow,” Brendon says as he looks over Andy’s drum kit. “You guys really play here?”
“Constantly,” Andy says dryly.
“Ready to be amazed?” Pete asks as he slings his bass on. It’s old, the strap worn down to dangerously thin, but it’s his and he loves it more than most things. Brendon flops onto the couch and leans forward, mouth open in rapt attention. Ryan blinks at him.
They play through a couple songs, fudging around the spots that haven’t actually been completed yet. Pete forgets half the words, but that doesn’t really matter because he’s screaming anyway. His mic’s been broken for a week. No one seems to notice.
When they stop, Brendon’s staring at him slack jawed, eyes wide. Pete rocks on his heels and waits for it, leaning into the space between them.
“That,” Brendon says, breathless, “was awesome.” Pete beams.
---
Pete’s in a bar.
He doesn’t remember coming to the bar, but here he is, sitting on the edge of a stage and staring out at the empty dance floor. The whole place stinks like spilled booze and sweat, the stage lights pulsing faintly overhead in an even pattern of blue-red-blue. There’s something familiar about this place, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. Crushed cans litter the floor like leaves in autumn, Budweiser red and Busch blue and Heineken green.
No one is behind the bar. No one’s anywhere, really, which is really creepy. He feels like he’s the busty blonde in very slasher flick he’s ever seen, just waiting for the killer to stab him through the back. It’s not a pleasant feeling.
After a check of the bathrooms and a tour of the back room, Pete grabs himself a bottle of Crown Royal and sets himself down on the edge of the stage again. The oppressing silence is crushing down around him, taking his breath away.
“So alone,” he mutters into the mouth of the bottle.
From somewhere far away, he thinks he hears someone say, you’re not alone.
“What?” Maybe he wasn’t wrong about the killer thing after all. He swills down another gulp of liquor and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. If he’s going to die, he wants to be drunk.
“I said you’re not alone.”
At the bar, climbing over the broken security gate, is the most beautiful boy Pete’s ever seen. His sweater is ugly, yes, and he’s wearing his socks like Pete’s grandpa, but Pete’s heart stutters in his chest as he watches. The boy’s messenger bag gets snagged as he ambles over, nearly yanking him back over to the other side. He curses and tugs it free viciously, glaring at Pete. He’s got the greenest eyes Pete’s ever seen.
“You’re just having a stupid dream,” he says, and promptly heads out the door.
---
Pete wakes up next to Greta, heart racing, breath caught in his throat. The dream lingers at the edges of his mind, the wood paneling of the bar fading to grey, the lights dropping out. He’s nearly forgotten everything by the time he opens his eyes, but the image of the boy’s face is burned into the front of his brain like a brand.
Greta’s watching him through the mess of her hair, blinking sleepily at him. On the far side of the bed, Greta’s girlfriend Peyton is snoring, her bra slipping to one side. Like the psychic she is, Greta yanks the sheets up and glares.
“I had a dream,” Pete says. Greta blinks at him again, yawning.
Pete’s been living with Greta since he dropped out of college. They’d taken a few psych courses together, and when Pete found himself losing sight of who he was, Greta had talked him off his cliff. It had started with crashing at her apartment and turned into living there, sharing all her goodies, including her queen sized mattress.
“There was this guy,” Pete starts, laying back against the pillows.
“Wentz, I don’t want to hear your sex dreams.” Peyton glowers sleepily over Greta’s shoulder, her short, dark hair sticking up in weird angles. She’s kind of a bitch, but in a way Pete can totally stand behind.
“It wasn’t a sex dream,” Pete clarifies. He closes his eyes and goes over the details of the boy’s hat and sweater and wonderfully magical sideburns. “But he was beautiful. I could write books about it.”
“Speaking of books,” Greta says, snuggling back down into the covers, “weren’t you supposed to pick your fake high school boyfriend up at the library a half hour ago?”
Whoops.
Pete yanks on the closest pair of jeans- Peyton’s, according to the scribbles on the knees- and shimmies into as many hoodies as he can. Greta’s already asleep again, sprawled on Pete’s half of the bed. It’s all very unfair. After a quick check for keys, wallet, and bus fare, Pete’s off.
Chicago winter is both great and awful. Great because the city looks like some sort of post-apocalyptic aftermath, covered in snow like ash, the streets empty except for the few downtown stragglers. Terrible because even though he’s wearing roughly ten layers, his fingers still feel like they’re going to fall off at any second.
Brendon’s sitting on the library’s stairs, waiting in a bunched up ball of choppy hair and unicorn hoodie. He lights up when he sees Pete, bounding off the steps and straight into Pete’s arms like an over excited puppy. Pete laughs and ignores that he just got kneecapped by a half ton of library books.
Brendon holds his hand as they walk through the neighborhood, jabbering about his siblings and school and how exciting it is to be a deviant. Pete hums in the right places and steers them toward his favorite CD shop. He’s feeling like something bluesy.
“I don’t really know what to look for,” Brendon admits as he thumbs through the Eagles section. “Secular music isn’t really big on my parents’ list, you know?” He shuffles his way across the store to the pop section and picks through, humming along with the song that’s playing over the store speakers. It’s cute. “Oh, hey. 33 Gate. Aren’t they supposed to be really good?”
“No. They suck.” Pete jerks the CD out of Brendon’s hand and tosses it into the fifty-cent bin. Ashlee’s face stares up at him through dyed hair, and Pete feels both stupidly angry and stupidly hungry, or something. His stomach hurts. “Try this.” He reaches for a Lifetime CD on the other side of the rack and tucks into Brendon’s open hands.
Obediently, Brendon treks over to the headphones attached to the wall and plugs himself in. It’s nice being with someone who doesn’t have to fight about everything. Soothing, even.
Pete putters around the store for a while, occasionally checking in on Brendon’s bopping head to make sure he hasn’t wandered off. There are a grand total of six CDs in his hand, and if he’s done his math right, he’ll even have enough to buy lunch for the both of them. As he’s rounding the jazz section, Pete looks up and sees the man of his dreams.
Literally.
The outfit’s different, but the hat and the face are the same, the boy’s cheeks stained pink from the wind. He’s pulling records out of his messenger bag and handing them over to the clerk, one after another, like his bag's bottomless. Spellbound by the soft, bright sound of the boy's laughter, Pete takes a step forward and-
“Ready?” Brendon asks, shoving himself under Pete’s arm. Pete jerks, surprised to see him, and turns back just in time to watch his dream man leave.
Pete checks out sullenly and waits for Brendon to buy most of the Lifetime discography. He buys them both hot chocolates and brownies from the coffee shop at the end of the street, but his drink goes cold before he’s even half way through it. It’s not as good as he thought it would be.
---
Pete loves parties. It’s something about the inevitable chaos that comes with too many drunks in one place, or maybe about the never-ending supply of gossip and drama. Either way, he’s roaming around Bob’s place with a red cup of Pepsi, ears open for anything interesting.
Last night he’d dreamt about the boy again. It’s sitting on his chest like a bomb, and he just really wants to know what’s going on inside his head. He wanders through Bob’s living room, and finds himself on Jon Walker’s lap, describing his dreams in great detail.
“Yo,” Pete says, and alleviate Jon’s rum and Coke from him. It tastes like shit, but Pete’s never been one to turn down a free drink. Jon frowns at him. “Do you know who I’m talking about? My height, wears a hat, awesome facial hair?”
“What, Patrick?” Jon says, and grabs for his cup. Pete holds it out of reach. Jon, that god damn Indian giver. “He just moved in from California. Works for Amazon.com. I think Tom said he was around here somewhere.”
“Patrick,” Pete says to himself. It’s the best sound he’s ever heard. He says it again, just to taste it. Jon takes his cup back.
“I heard some stuff, dude,” Jon says. He licks the rim of his glass, like it’s going to make a difference. “He just got out of a thing with some dude named Mark. It’s all he talks about.”
“I,” Pete says decisively, “will change that.” He shoves himself up and downs the last of his Pepsi. Jon doesn’t say anything, but Pete doesn’t need his encouragement. He can do it all his own.
It takes an hour of searching and asking around, but Pete eventually sees a familiar hat at the base of the stairs. He nearly trips over himself trying to get to Patrick’s side, bumping into people as he foes. One or two cups drop to the carpet, and the overwhelming smell of booze gets stronger. There’s some on his shoes, sinking into the canvas of his shoes and into his socks, squelching with each step.
He smells like beet and his hair is standing up weirdly on his head, and he’s been wearing the same shirt for the last three days because he hasn’t been bothered to do laundry. Not ideal conditions, true, but Pete’s optimistic at best. He puts on his best love me face and marches over.
“Hi,” he shouts over the pulsing Pink track playing on the stereo. Patrick blinks at him over the rim of his glass. Okay, not the best reaction, but Pete’s had worse. He can totally make a come back. “You’ve been in my dreams all week.”
Or not.
“That’s possibly the shittiest pick-up line I’ve ever heard,” Patrick says. His breath smells like screwdrivers, citrusy and sweet. Pete leans into his space and smiles wide. He likes vodka. He’d like even more to lick it out of Patrick’s mouth.
“I’m speaking only the truth,” he says. From this close, Patrick’s sideburns are even more impressive. “There’s a bar, a stage and you, all to myself.”
“Oh. Oh, Jesus. That’s you?” Patrick takes a swig from his cup and leans against the wall. Pete shimmies in next to him, pressing their shoulders together. Patrick doesn’t move away, and Pete takes it as a good sign. “Look, your head’s in the middle of a few of my delivery routes. Don’t get excited about it.”
“Wait, what?”
“I can do this thing.” Patrick shrugs and picks at the lip of his cup. He’s staring at his shoes, which are the shiniest shade of purple in existence. “There’s these portals through space, right? Kind of like shortcuts through the world. I can kind of see the doors.”
“And there’s a portal in my head?” Pete’s trying not to validate his own level of awesome right now, no matter how hard that may be. Patrick rolls his eyes.
“Unfortunately,” he mutters. “You’ve got a lot of room in there.”
“You know, if you weren’t so damn cute, I might be offended.” Pete gives his best charming smile and waits for one in return. It doesn’t come.
“This is my cue to leave.” Patrick hands his cup to Pete and pushes off the wall. “Nice to meet you, or whatever.” He squirms his way through the crowd and disappears when he hits the kitchen. Pete drinks down the last of the screwdriver and pretends he can taste Patrick’s mouth off the plastic.
---
“That’s kind of unhealthy,” Greta says from the bed, flipping through a J-14 magazine. She pops her gum and flips a page. “Like, don’t you think this is going a little far?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Pete answers, eyeing the wishlist he’s made for himself. He wants to buy something that says he’s cool, but not pretentious. Something that says he knows his stuff, but isn’t too showy. It’s proving to be pretty difficult.
“Shouldn’t you, I don’t know, break up with your fake high school boyfriend before you start stalking this guy?” Greta asks. She looks up from her reading and Pete shrugs, chewing his thumbnail He adds Darkside of the Moon to his cart and clicks the checkout button.
“I will,” he says as he fills in the shipping form. “I just- what’s this?”
There’s an e-mail on his screen, written in obnoxious neat grammar. It’s really fucking long. Like, he has to press the down arrow more than twice to reach the end of it. He skims over it, humming under his breath.
Dear Mr. Wentz,My name is William Beckett and it’s come to my attention we’ll be fighting soon-Patrick Stump’s fragile and special heart-Battle to the death-
“Blah, blah, blah,” Pete says and hits delete. He needs to update his spam filters. Behind him, he hears Greta pulling on her shoes, leaving her magazine abandoned on the bed.
“Peyton and I are going out for smoothlies,” she says. “Want to come?”
“Nah. I’m just going to wait for my package.” Pete hops onto the bed and sprawls out over the mattress. Greta shakes her head and grabs her keys.
“Whatever, Pete,” she says. “Try not to burn the apartment down.”
Pete spends the next few hours watching the door, and falls asleep before Greta gets back.
---
There’s a knock on the door. Pete’s up and across the room before the echo dies away, ripping it open and letting in the winter wind. Patrick’s on the doorsteps, a package in one hand and a clipboard in the other. His hat is crooked and his jacket is an offensive shade of orange. It's entirely too awesome.
“Hi,” Pete says cheerfully. “I wanted to ask you out at the party, but you totally ran away.” He smiles widely and leans on the doorframe. “So, you want to go out?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Patrick holds the clipboard out impatiently. The wind blows at the hair sticking out from under his hat, and Pete feels his stomach do something weird and flippy.
"I don’t kid about things as serious as dates," Pete says. He's fucking freezing, and Patrick's not playing along to the proper script.
"Look, can you just sign this so I can get back to work?" Patrick waves the clipboard at him, frowning.
"No," Pete says. Patrick takes a visibly deep breath, the exhale turning to a cloud of steam as it passes back out. Pete leans in, and he can feel it against his chest, pulsing and warm. "If I sign that, you'll leave."
"Yes," Patrick says tightly. "It's how they wrote it in my contract." Pete stares at him sadly. Patrick sighs. "If I agree to go out with you, will you sign the fucking receipt?"
Pete has never signed anything faster in his life.
"Meet me at Lincoln Park tonight at eight," he says. He takes his package from Patrick, brushing their hands together. Patrick looks wholly unimpressed.
"Yeah, sure, whatever." Patrick turns and hops off the porch. When he's at the corner, he looks back and raises his eyebrows. "That CD blows, by the way."
Pete thinks he's in love.
---
“I got us a gig,” Joe says, picking at his guitar. He grins at all of them, eyebrows raised and skinny arms pointing out at weird angles. “Chicago Battle of the Bands, motherfuckers. “ From the couch, Brendon’s eyes go wide. He clutches Pete’s hand and leans in. “And best of all? The Hop’s gonna be there.”
“The Hop?” Pete asks. He shakes out of Brendon’s hold, reaching for his bass so they can start. “What, like a fifties diner?” Joe, Andy and Brendon stare his down with big eyes. “What?”
“You don’t know the Hop?” Brendon asks, incredulous. He’s wearing a handmade Arma shirt, glittery letters across his skinny chest. His hair looks more wild than usual, his attempt at being cool.
“Dude,” Ryan says from the stairway. He’s holding the biggest plate of nachos Pete’s ever seen. “The Hop’s the biggest producer of the century. If he likes you, you’re guaranteed to be bigger than, what, Madonna or something.”
“Oh.” Pete thumbs the ‘e’ string and stares at the clock. “Cool.”
They practice to the tune of Brendon’s excited rambling, and Pete does his best not to run out the door at exactly seven.
“Where are you going?” Brendon asks. His eyes are huge, his mouth open and pink.
Pete shrugs. His stomach does something weird. He must be hungry again.
“Out,” he says. “Stuff to do, you know?” Brendon’s face falls.
“Oh,” he says. “I guess I’ll see you at the show.”
“Yeah, sure.” Pete checks his watch and shrugs into his hoodie. He smiles awkwardly when Brendon kisses his cheek, then books it to Lincoln Park. He’s running late.
Patrick’s sitting on a flower box, tapping his fingers against the rotting wood. He’s still wearing his neon orange jacket, sticking out against the blanket of snow like a traffic cone. Pete’s heart stutters as he climbs up to the gardens.
“Hey,” he says. Patrick looks up, cheeks pink from the cold. Pete’s surprised he came at all, and he can’t even preen about it because he feels so stupidly relieved. “You’re here.”
“I said I would be,” Patrick says. He takes the hand Pete offers and lets himself be pulled up, wiping the dirt off his jeans when he’s on his feet.
They stroll through the wilting gardens, shoulders bumping. Fat, cold flakes of snow are falling in droves, melting on Pete’s face and in his hair, thick enough to make the park look white washed.
“So what brings you to Chicago?” He asks. He’s got his pinky twisted around Patrick’s, and Patrick isn’t pulling away. It’s really fucking awesome.
“The music,” Patrick says. His breath clouds, shaped by the form of his words. He stumbles in a snow drift, and when he rights himself, he’s holding all of Pete’s hand, fingers laced and all. “Mark always said Chicago was the center of the music scene.”
“Mark,” Pete echoes, remembering Jonny Walker mentioning the same name. “Is he your boyfriend?” Patrick tilts his head toward the falling snow, the sharp line of his jaw lit by the street lights.
“He’s a friend,” Patrick says after a moment. The line of his mouth tells Pete to drop it, and reluctantly, Pete does. Really, it doesn’t matter. Patrick could have twenty boyfriends and Pete would still be into him.
“So what kind of music are you into?” Pete asks as they round out of the gardens and back towards the street.
“Everything,” Patrick says simply. He looks over at Pete, his eyelashes damp from the snow, the tip of his nose gone red, and smiles like the sun. “Absolutely everything.”
By the time Patrick’s told him everything he knows about David Bowie’s transformation from child to rock god, Pete can’t feel his fingers or his face. The snow fall’s gotten thicker, crawling up past Pete’s ankles, his jeans wet all the way up to the back of his knees. His shoes are totally soaked, and so are his socks, but Patrick’s hand is warm in his, and the sound of his voice is the best thing in the world.
“So, I can’t feel my toes,” Patrick says when they reach the street. He looks around, eyes narrowed to see through the downfall. “I think there’s a door around here somewhere.” He pulls Pete around a parked truck and tightens his hand around Pete’s. “Hang on.”
Like he’s got to be told twice.
Travelling through subspace sucks. Pete’s stomach rockets towards his feet, the world blurring around him. The only constant is Patrick in front of him, focused and sure, navigating corners like he’s done it his whole life. Pete can barely breathe when they come to a halt at Patrick’s front porch.
“Sorry about that,” Patrick says as he unlocks the door. “It takes a while to get used to.”
The apartment is small and a little cluttered, shoes piled up by the door and a familiar line of hats hanging neatly above them. Patrick locks the door and toes off his sneakers before he leads Pete into the kitchen.
“I don’t have much to eat, but I can make a pretty awesome cup of hot chocolate,” he says as he rummages through the cupboards. His shirt clings to his shoulders, and Pete traces the line of them with his eyes as he sinks into a chair.
“Sure.” Now that his jacket’s off, Pete’s got goosebumps crawling up his arms, a chill thick over him. “Actually, a towel or a blanket would be great.”
“Yeah. Just. Hang on. The heater’s broken.” Patrick abandons the teapot on the counter and heads down the hall, ducking into what Pete assumes is his room.
Pete’s jeans are sticking to his calves uncomfortably, cooling rapidly in the frigid air. It seems like a logical plan to follow Patrick to his room, but he stumbles to a halt when he reaches the doorway.
Patrick’s wet shirt is in a heap on the floor, a puddle forming under it, curled around his even wetter jeans. There’s an endless stretch of pale skin on display, orange freckles over his shoulders and a soft shadow at the dip of his back. His boxers are blue, clinging to his thighs and the curve of his ass like a second skin.
“Hey,” Pete says dumbly. Patrick holds the towel in his hands up, awkwardly covering himself. His hat is off, hair hanging loosely around his face. He looks gorgeous. “I got cold.”
“Yeah?” Patrick steps closer, closer, until he’s pressing the towel to Pete’s chest. He’s hot like a furnace, hands burning into Pete’s skin. Pete runs his palms over the chilled curves of his shoulders, fingertips pressing into the soft give of them. “I think I can fix that.”
Patrick tastes like peppermint, his lips soft and warm against Pete’s. Somewhere between the door and the bed, they lose the towel and Pete loses his shirt, bare skin pressed against Patrick’s. They fall against the mattress, and all thoughts of the cold flee from Pete’s mind.
When Patrick’s hand slides into Pete’s pants, Pete forgets about everything else, too.
---
In the morning, Pete puts his still damp pants back on and kisses Patrick awake. Patrick hums into his mouth, a little furnace under the sheets. It's late afternoon already, and Joe will literally kill him if he's late.
"You should come to the battle of the bands tonight," Pete says into the warm skin of Patrick's throat. Patrick stretches against the sheets, and Pete's pretty sure he can deal with being dead if it means getting more familiar with that body.
"Sure," Patrick says through a yawn. "I have to make a few deliveries today, but yeah. Where's it going to be?"
"The Rex at eight." Pete steals another kiss and Patrick grins sleepily at him.
"Lock the door on your way out," he says before curling up again to go back to sleep.
Pete smiles the whole way to Joe's house.
---
Joe is freaking out. He's young and hasn't been in nearly half the numb of bands Pete and Andy have been in, and it's a little hilarious. He's pale under the glow of the fluorescent lights, hands shaking. Pete laughs and shoves him, eager to start playing.
"Hey." Patrick's standing nearby, hands shoved into his pockets, hat on sideways. Like the night before, Pete's surprised to see that he showed, and it makes him feel light all the way up to his hair, his grin big enough to ache. Next to him, Greta coughs delicately.
"Guys, this is Patrick," Pete says, still staring. He can see the tiniest trace of hickey under Patrick's collar, and it makes his fingers tingle. "Patrick, this is Greta, my roommate, and that's Joe and little RyRo over there with the vest." Ryan scowls from the edge of the bar, plucking at the flower in his buttonhole.
"And that's Brendon," Greta says sweetly.
Pete sees Brendon come at him in slow motion, a flash of purple hoodie and choppy hair, and he nearly falls over when Brendon's arms wrap around his shoulders eagerly. He tastes bubblegum for the split second that Brendon's mouth is against his.
"We have to go," Pete says as he pulls away, nearly tumbling ass over face in his haste. He grabs Joe's arm and damn near runs backstage, yanking his reluctant guitarist with him.
"Smooth," Joe pants once they're safely hidden. "Really smooth." Pete flips him off before doubling over, lungs burning.
"I don't want to know," Andy says from the couch. He's reading a paperback, hunched over in a corner. Man of steel. Pete appreciates that about him.
He can hear Madina Lake starting up on the stage, but that is totally not his biggest concern right now. His biggest concern is currently sitting on the balcony, his mouth running at approximately three hundred miles an hour, bouncing next to Greta and Peyton. Pete knew there was something he'd forgotten to do.
"You're an asshole, for the record," Andy says from his corner. He hasn't looked up from his book, so Pete assumes he's talking to a character. Weird.
Madina Lake plays great. Joe looks like he's going to hurl as they play through their last song, his fist locked around the neck of his guitar like a vice.
"We'll do fine," Pete shouts. He's got one eye on the balcony, bouncing nervously in place. He's only so lucky, and he has a feeling that his reserve is going to run out sooner rather than later.
As soon as Madina Lake is off, Pete runs onto stage, carting Joe along after him. He nearly trips over baby Ross, who is setting up their amps, and collides into his mic stand with a clash of reverb.
He introduces them as Andy settles in at his kit. Brendon's the only one that cheers, but Pete has faith. He rocks, and his band rocks, and together they can totally do this.
They play pretty fucking awesome. Pete's throat feels like it's being clawed inside pout as he yells into his microphone, but the feedback in his earpiece sounds great and the kids in the front are nodding along. Up in the balcony, Patrick's watching him, a little half smile across his lips. Brendon, on the floor, one arm dangling through the rails, seems to have passed out.
They're launching into their second song when Pete's mic cuts off with a screech. When he looks to the PA, he finds a tall, skinny kid holding the cable up, whipping it around lazily.
"Pete Wentz," he (apparently) shouts. "I'm here for our fight!"
"Wait, what?" Pete dodges the cable when if flies towards his head, one hand held up to his face. His mic stand goes down with a crash, landing in front of the stage in a heap. "Who are you?"
"William Beckett," the boy says. It sounds familiar, somehow. "I'm here to fight you for the honor of Patrick's heart." Up in the balcony, Patrick buries his face in his hands. That- that's not really a good sign.
"Dude, what?" Pete asks again. He eyes the bandana tied around William's bony knee and takes a cautious step to the side. Andy and Joe watch from the side, amused. Pete needs to get better friends. Behind his long, girly hair, William's face goes red.
"Didn't you get my e-mail?" He asks. It looks like he's seconds away from exploding. "I'm the first evil ex? In the League of Evil Exes? Out for the right to control Patrick's love life?"
"Maybe? Was it the long, boring one?"
The first punch lands solidly across Pete’s jaw. For being a scrawny dude, William hits hard. Pete’s head snaps to the side, his ears ringing. Pete drops his bass and lashes back out, the screech of the strings deafening.
Pete’s more a lover than a fighter, but he’s been in enough brawls to know how to throw a good punch. William’s quick on his feet though, and he lands a few more hits before Pete gets one in on him.
“You don’t deserve him,” William says, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the stage. He bounces side to side, doubling over when Pete gets a solid punch in to his middle. “Give it up,” he wheezes.
“Go Pete,” Greta shouts from the balcony. She’s small and looks sweet, but Pete’s never met anyone more bloodthirsty. He rounds a kick to William’s chest and falls backward with the force of it. His shoulders hit the stage, shocks buzzing under his skin.
“Dude, I don’t know what your problem is, but you need to get over it.” Pete wobbles to his feet and staggers over to where William’s sprawled on the ground, stupid bandana torn into scraps across the floor.
“This isn’t the last you heard from us,” William says. His eyes close, and Pete’s pretty sure he’s not actually unconscious, but the fight, at least, is done.
“And Arma is tonight’s winner,” the confused DJ says side stage. Greta cheers. Most of the crowd is stunned silent. Patrick, red faced and hiding under his cap, claps politely.
Later, at the diner near the venue, Pete picks at his French fries and tries not to chew on the busted inside of his lip. Patrick prods at his pancakes with his fork, leg jittering under the table.
“So,” Pete says.
“Yeah.” Patrick stabs an egg and yolk bleeds out of it yellow and greasy across the plate.
“You really dated that guy?” Pete asks. Patrick shrugs. Pete’s going to take that as a yes.
“We were in middle school,” Patrick says. His leg stops bobbing up and down, which is nice. Pete was starting to get a little motion sick. “We did a few kid bands together, and you know. Made out sometimes.” Pete raises his eyebrows, curious, and Patrick flushes. “We were thirteen.”
“Dude.” Pete scrunches in closer, the bruise that’s forming under his rib aching as he moves.
“Sorry,” Patrick mumbles. He carves little hatch marks into his pancake with his fork. “So, if we’re going to do this whole-“ he waves his fork idly- “dating thing, you might, uh. Have to defeat my four evil exes?”
“You have four evil ex-boyfriends?”
“Exes,” Patrick corrects.
“And I have to fight them?” Pete asks. “Because we’re dating?”
“Um,” Patrick agrees.“Awesome.”
“I can always kiss it better after,” Patrick says, grinning.
“Yes, please,” Pete says.
And when they get back to Patrick’s place? He totally does.
---
Pete feels like a douchebag.
“Because you are,” Greta says from the bed. She’s feeding something sweet and gooey to Peyton, fingertips dipping into Peyton’s mouth. Sometimes, Pete loves living with lesbians. Like a mind reader, Peyton scowls at him.
“Stop being a perv, Wentz,” she says. The syrup makes her lips shiny. It’s awesome.
“Our conditions are as follows,” Greta starts. “One: you will not have sex in this bed. Two: you will not eat our Chex Mix. Three: you will break up with that adorable Brendon boy before he finds out about your cheating, bastard ways.”
“But it’s so hard,” Pete moans. “And it’s cold out there.” Greta glares.
“Do you want your date tonight?” She asks. Pete nods reluctantly. “Meet our terms, and we’ll make ourselves scarce.” Pete narrows his eyes. He doesn’t always trust her.
“Where, exactly, are you going to go?” He asks.“We’re going to play paparazzi at the new Saporta primer,” Peyton answers. She flicks a flyer at him, and Pete has to scramble to grab it.
“Cobras Never Say Die?” Pete glances over the shiny purple text. It looks kind of corny.
“Don’t diss it,” Greta scolds. “Now, go say goodbye to your fake boyfriend.”
Reluctantly, Pete forces himself outside into the cold and trudges to the music store. He was supposed to meet Brendon earlier, but- Stuff had come up. It’s not that he’s avoiding it or anything. He’s just. Been busy is all.
Brendon is inside, bouncing across the store like a madman, headphones around his neck and hands full of CDs. He smiles when he sees Pete, tossing the CDs into a bin and throwing the full force of himself into Pete’s chest.
“Hey,” he says brightly. “I thought you weren’t going to show.”
“Yeah.” Pete squirms away from his octopus hold. “So, I was thinking-”
“I think I’m going to come out to my parents,” Brendon blurts. He looks so earnest, eyes big and mouth stretched into a bright smile. Pete’s stomach rumbles.
“Dude, I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t do that.” Pete rubs the back of his neck with one hand, trying to weight his options. He’s never been good with this whole breaking up thing. “Didn’t you say they’d, like, kick you out?”
“Yeah, but I think I can risk it, you know?” Brendon curls his fingers around Pete’s tapping their knuckles against his hip. “I’m. I think I love you.”
And, well, that’s inconvenient.
“Brendon-” Pete shakes his hand loose and shoves it into his hoodie pocket. Now or never, he guesses. “Look, I think we should break up.” Brendon’s face falls, the stretch elastic it’s made of collapsing. Pete scuffs his sneaker against the tile floor and shrugs.
“Sorry.”Brendon doesn’t try to follow him. Pete takes it as a blessing.
---
“I’m not really sure that grilled cheese is all that romantic,” Peyton says, peering over Pete’s shoulder. Pete scowls down at the pan and hacks at the soggy bread with his spatula. There’s a small pile of sacrifices already in the garbage. On the upside, the house doesn’t smell quite so much like burning toast anymore.
“It’s the thought that counts,” Pete says. He doesn’t actually know what Patrick’s favorite foods are, so he’s improvising. It’s this or soup, and he figures that soup would go over less well.
“Sure.” Greta prods at the gooey center of the sandwich in the pan before patting Pete’s cheek. “Whatever you say.” She’s dressed up, skirt barely reaching her knees. It’s something like three thousand below outside, but all she puts on is a half coat over top of her glittery blouse.
“So, when you blow your date, you can join us at the Mojave to stalk Saporta,” Peyton offers. Pete flips her the finger and sadly tosses another sandwich into the trash.
“I’m not going to blow it,” Pete says as he butters another slice of bread. Peyton smiles at him and opens the door. On the other side, Patrick’s fist is raised, ready to knock. He blinks in mild confusion.
“Whatever you say, Wentz.” Peyton blows him a kiss and drags Greta out the door.
“Have fun,” Greta calls. Patrick peers into the trash can filled with burnt toast and raises his eyebrows.
“So, how do you feel about movie premiers?” Pete asks, tossing his knife into the sink. Before it hits, he’s dragging Patrick back outside, racing after his roommates.
---
Patrick is holding his hand. Pete would like to point this out to the entire world.
They’re pressed up against the barrier separating the crowd from the red carpet. Pete figures it has a lot to do with the sheer amount of thigh Peyton and Greta are flashing. There’s a line of celebrities smiling and waving at the cameras- Greta’s included- and Pete’s actually kind of impressed.
“Not a bad turn out for something called Cobras Never Die,” he says. Patrick laughs. His face is pink from the wind, and his jacket doesn’t really button at the top, but he looks happy enough. Pete chalks it up to his fantastic date routine.
“Hey, Saporta!” Greta calls, raising her camera. The tall, thin man that climbs out of the limo smiles at her. Next to Pete, Patrick goes stiff. “Gabe! Over here!” Greta leans over the barrier, her jacket falling open across her chest. It’s a good tactic if Pete’s ever seen one. “What was it like, directing your first movie?”
“It was-” Gabe stops in front of them, head dropping to his chest as he inspects them. “Patrick.”
“Hey, Gabe,” Patrick says through the hand that’s found itself on his face. “Pete, this is Gabe. We dated in high school.”
“Damn it.” Pete cranes his neck and sighs.
“Pretty much.” Patrick drops Pete’s hand and settles in between the girls. He waves his mittens at Gabe and frowns.
“So, you know what we have to do?” Gabe asks. He shucks off his suit jacket and hands it off to a photographer with a smile. He cracks his knuckles and Pete nods. “Awesome. Sorry about this.”
Pete falls back when Gabe leaps over the barrier, fist first. Gabe hits harder than William. He draws his arm back, elbow crooked, and Pete squeezes his eyes shut. He feels his nose squash in towards his face, which is the strangest feeling ever, and blood seeps down over his mouth. Gabe's straddling him, long arms and legs unnatural as he knees Pete in the ribs.
"So, I miss you," Gabe says. When Pete opens his eyes, Gabe's looking at Patrick, mouth twisted into a sad line. "We totally rocked together."
"Hey," Pete shouts, angry. "Mine now." His knuckles ache as he smashes them into Gabe's face. He feels a tooth sink into the side of his fist, and he hopes it hurts Gabe as much as it's currently stinging him. "You don't talk to my boyfriend like that."
"Aw, he's gotten to the possessive stage," Greta coos from the sidelines. The barrier shakes when Pete bucks Gabe into it. All Pete can taste is the blood in his mouth, his vision red and swimming. Gabe kicks him, but Pete's going to actually explode with rage. He tries not to call himself the jealous type, but if the green eyes fit.
Things blur as he lunges, wrapping an arm around Gabe's throat. It seems right to headbutt him, so Pete does, his teeth clicking together with the force, his knuckles raw against the splintering wood of the barrier. The crowd is cheering and booing in turns, but there's ringing in Pete's ears where Gabe's slapping his open palms.
"You don't mess with what's mine," Pete hisses, and jams his knee into Gabe's crotch, feeling the impact all the way into his chest.
"And I thought you were cool," Gabe groans as he topples over. Breathless, Pete pushes himself to his feet. Two down, two to go.
"Did you see that?" He gasps. When he turns, though, there's a Patrick shaped gap between Greta and Peyton. "You've got to be kidding me. Where'd he go?" Peyton shrugs.
"Sorry honey," Greta offers. She waves her camera and shoots him a half smile."At least I got great shots?"
---
Pete’s been living by the phone.
“I don’t think you can actually make it ring with your brain,” Greta says. She’s gussied up again, yanking her heels on.
Peyton’s taking her out for a nice dinner. Pete was going to take Patrick to one, too, but he hasn’t heard anything from Patrick at all, and it’s starting to really fucking suck.
“Look.” Greta settles on the edge of the bed next to him and cups his cheek. “I know you really like him. You just have to tell him.”
“I already did,” Pete whines.
“Pete, what are Peyton and I?” Greta asks.
“Lesbians?” Pete yelps when Greta punches him.
“Ow. You are.”
“In love,” she hisses. “We’re in love.” She smooths Pete’s hair back and kisses his forehead. “If he means as much to you as I think he does, you need to tell him. Okay?” Pete sighs and reaches for the phone. It rings in his hand, and he nearly brains himself answering it.
“Hello?” He asks, excited. Greta smiles and shoots him a thumbs up.
“Hey, Pete,” the voice says over the line. Pete’s heart drops to his stomach.
“Hey, Ashlee.” Pete’s throat feels dry. He hears it click when he swallows. This- is not how he had pictured today going. “How are... things?” Greta makes a sympathetic face at him before reaching for her coat. She mouths I have to go, and is out the door before Pete can beg her to stay.
“Pretty good,” Ashlee replies. “The band’s going to be back in town. I thought we could catch up.” There’s a tapping sound, and Pete can almost see her clicking her nails against the phone, all of them done in pink and red and yellow. He misses the yellow. “Do you have a new girlfriend?”
“Boyfriend, actually.” Pete’s pretty sure that Patrick running off didn’t mean that they were broken up. He hopes not, anyway. “Patrick. He’s pretty amazing.”
“Oh,” Ashlee says. “So you’re not gay above the waist anymore?”
“Well, yes. But also below the waist now, too.” For Patrick, he’ll find more places to be gay. It has to be possible. “Look, I have to go. So.”
“I’ll see you later,” Ashlee promises, and then the phone goes dead.
Life pretty much, sucks. In times like these, Pete needs music. He grabs his hoodies and his keys and heads to the record store, morose. His band is shitty, and his boyfriend isn’t calling him, and he can’t feel his toes because of the cold. It’s not actually fair.
“Hey.” Patrick’s standing under the awning of the store, hands shoved under his arms for warmth. He looks as bad as Pete feels. “So, sorry about last night. I. Kind of freaked out.”
“Yeah, well.” Pete stares at the neon of Patrick’s sneakers. His feet are actually going to fall off. He’s pretty sure of it. “I’m just not used to the whole,” Patrick waves a pink hand, “possessive thing. The people I’ve dated weren’t really, you know.” He shrugs and shuffles his weight awkwardly. “So, if you don’t, you know, want to date or whatever anymore-”
“No, no, no,” Pete blurts. He rushes into Patrick’s space, knocking him into the wall. “I don’t want that. I never want that.” He shoves his face into Patrick’s neck and just breathes him in.
“Patrick, I assume.” Pete tenses up and squeezes his eyes shut. If he just pretends he didn’t hear her, maybe Ashlee will go away. His luck apparently isn’t all it used to be. When he turns around, she’s standing there in the hoodie he bought her, hair around her face like a halo.
“Yes?” Patrick says, voice tilting up at the edges.
“Pete, you’re being rude.” Ashlee holds out her hand- and there’s the yellow nail polish Pete’s missed so much- and waits for Patrick to take it. “I’m Ashlee. Pete’s ex girlfriend.”
“Oh.” Patrick shakes politely, but his other hand goes tight around Pete’s hood. “Hi?”
“I just wanted to tell you that you’re on the guest list for the show,” Ashlee says to them both. She smiles, and it’s sharp. Pete remembers when her smile used to turn him to mush, melt him from the inside out.
“That’s not actually going to happen,” he says. “I’m not really a 33 Gate kind of guy.” Ashlee’s smile gets even sharper.
“We’ll see,” she tosses over her shoulder as she walks away. “Nice to meet you, Patrick.”
On the way home, Patrick lets Pete hold his hand, and they share a bag of Doritos. Patrick doesn’t ask what happened, and Pete loves him a little for it. It’s been just over a year since he and Ashlee had their big split, and he’s still sore inside from it. She wanted to move to LA, and he couldn’t. She wanted him to be normal, and he couldn’t. He wanted her everything, and she just couldn’t give it to him.
“So,” Patrick says around the last Dorito. “They’re doing a John Hughes marathon at the theatre near my place. Think you’re up for it?”
“Totally.” Pete squeezes Patrick’s hand, and swears that he’s done thinking about Ashlee Simpson for good.
Part two
Author:
coricomilePairing(s): Pete/Patrick, mentions of Patrick/Various
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Violence
Word count: 12,000
Summary: “So, if we’re going to do this whole-“ Patrick waves his fork idly, staring down at his plate- “dating thing, you might, uh. Have to defeat my four evil exes?”
Pete Wentz is dating a seventeen-year-old.
"So you're, what? Thirty now?" Joe shoves a spoonful of cereal into his mouth and raises his eyebrows. Pink milk dribbles down his chin and onto his bare chest, rolling down to rest on his stomach. It's sort of really gross. "Are you gonna give him diapers for your anniversary?"
"I'm twenty-two, dickbag, and you're seventeen, too," Pete points out. "But you could totally use a bib."
"I'm seventeen for two more days," Joe replies, wiping his arm across his mouth. Still gross, but cleaner. "Also I don't, like, wave my wang around you on a regular basis." Pete thinks and neither does Brendon, but he doesn't say that out loud.
"Tell me you haven't slept with this kid," Andy says from the other side of the table. He looks like he's going to start on a rant. Pete really doesn't want him to start on a rant.
Pete hops onto the counter and clutches his delicious cup of coffee to his chest. It's three in the afternoon, but he's out at his place and Greta won't buy him any because she's a selfish, selfish bitch. It tastes like heaven.
"He’s Mormon,” Pete finally says. “We've, like, held hands and shit. Totally PG, pops."
"Right." Andy's face says he's not buying it, but Pete's balls are blue enough to paint with, so. "Look, are you sure this isn't about Ash-"
"Oh, hey, doorbell. I should get that." Pete nearly topples over in his mad dash to the front door, but it's worth it to not hear Hurley finish his sentenced is a skinny little dude in too much purple. He’s kind of a train wreck, but so is Pete, so it works out pretty well in the end. Under his hoodie, he’s wearing a dress shirt and black slacks.
“I’m supposed to be following my brother door-to-door,” he says as way of greeting. In the doorway of the kitchen, Andy and Joe snicker. They’re terrible friends.
Brendon bounces to them anyway and follows the procession to the basement like he belongs. He’s got confidence. Pete likes that.
In the basement, Ryan’s plucking away at Joe’s guitar. He startles when he sees them, hastily shoving the guitar back onto its stand. The place belongs to Ryan’s dad, but he lets Arma practice there pretty regularly. It’s a good deal; they get a place to play and Ryan gets to fawn over them like the weirdo fanboy that he is.
“Wow,” Brendon says as he looks over Andy’s drum kit. “You guys really play here?”
“Constantly,” Andy says dryly.
“Ready to be amazed?” Pete asks as he slings his bass on. It’s old, the strap worn down to dangerously thin, but it’s his and he loves it more than most things. Brendon flops onto the couch and leans forward, mouth open in rapt attention. Ryan blinks at him.
They play through a couple songs, fudging around the spots that haven’t actually been completed yet. Pete forgets half the words, but that doesn’t really matter because he’s screaming anyway. His mic’s been broken for a week. No one seems to notice.
When they stop, Brendon’s staring at him slack jawed, eyes wide. Pete rocks on his heels and waits for it, leaning into the space between them.
“That,” Brendon says, breathless, “was awesome.” Pete beams.
---
Pete’s in a bar.
He doesn’t remember coming to the bar, but here he is, sitting on the edge of a stage and staring out at the empty dance floor. The whole place stinks like spilled booze and sweat, the stage lights pulsing faintly overhead in an even pattern of blue-red-blue. There’s something familiar about this place, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. Crushed cans litter the floor like leaves in autumn, Budweiser red and Busch blue and Heineken green.
No one is behind the bar. No one’s anywhere, really, which is really creepy. He feels like he’s the busty blonde in very slasher flick he’s ever seen, just waiting for the killer to stab him through the back. It’s not a pleasant feeling.
After a check of the bathrooms and a tour of the back room, Pete grabs himself a bottle of Crown Royal and sets himself down on the edge of the stage again. The oppressing silence is crushing down around him, taking his breath away.
“So alone,” he mutters into the mouth of the bottle.
From somewhere far away, he thinks he hears someone say, you’re not alone.
“What?” Maybe he wasn’t wrong about the killer thing after all. He swills down another gulp of liquor and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. If he’s going to die, he wants to be drunk.
“I said you’re not alone.”
At the bar, climbing over the broken security gate, is the most beautiful boy Pete’s ever seen. His sweater is ugly, yes, and he’s wearing his socks like Pete’s grandpa, but Pete’s heart stutters in his chest as he watches. The boy’s messenger bag gets snagged as he ambles over, nearly yanking him back over to the other side. He curses and tugs it free viciously, glaring at Pete. He’s got the greenest eyes Pete’s ever seen.
“You’re just having a stupid dream,” he says, and promptly heads out the door.
---
Pete wakes up next to Greta, heart racing, breath caught in his throat. The dream lingers at the edges of his mind, the wood paneling of the bar fading to grey, the lights dropping out. He’s nearly forgotten everything by the time he opens his eyes, but the image of the boy’s face is burned into the front of his brain like a brand.
Greta’s watching him through the mess of her hair, blinking sleepily at him. On the far side of the bed, Greta’s girlfriend Peyton is snoring, her bra slipping to one side. Like the psychic she is, Greta yanks the sheets up and glares.
“I had a dream,” Pete says. Greta blinks at him again, yawning.
Pete’s been living with Greta since he dropped out of college. They’d taken a few psych courses together, and when Pete found himself losing sight of who he was, Greta had talked him off his cliff. It had started with crashing at her apartment and turned into living there, sharing all her goodies, including her queen sized mattress.
“There was this guy,” Pete starts, laying back against the pillows.
“Wentz, I don’t want to hear your sex dreams.” Peyton glowers sleepily over Greta’s shoulder, her short, dark hair sticking up in weird angles. She’s kind of a bitch, but in a way Pete can totally stand behind.
“It wasn’t a sex dream,” Pete clarifies. He closes his eyes and goes over the details of the boy’s hat and sweater and wonderfully magical sideburns. “But he was beautiful. I could write books about it.”
“Speaking of books,” Greta says, snuggling back down into the covers, “weren’t you supposed to pick your fake high school boyfriend up at the library a half hour ago?”
Whoops.
Pete yanks on the closest pair of jeans- Peyton’s, according to the scribbles on the knees- and shimmies into as many hoodies as he can. Greta’s already asleep again, sprawled on Pete’s half of the bed. It’s all very unfair. After a quick check for keys, wallet, and bus fare, Pete’s off.
Chicago winter is both great and awful. Great because the city looks like some sort of post-apocalyptic aftermath, covered in snow like ash, the streets empty except for the few downtown stragglers. Terrible because even though he’s wearing roughly ten layers, his fingers still feel like they’re going to fall off at any second.
Brendon’s sitting on the library’s stairs, waiting in a bunched up ball of choppy hair and unicorn hoodie. He lights up when he sees Pete, bounding off the steps and straight into Pete’s arms like an over excited puppy. Pete laughs and ignores that he just got kneecapped by a half ton of library books.
Brendon holds his hand as they walk through the neighborhood, jabbering about his siblings and school and how exciting it is to be a deviant. Pete hums in the right places and steers them toward his favorite CD shop. He’s feeling like something bluesy.
“I don’t really know what to look for,” Brendon admits as he thumbs through the Eagles section. “Secular music isn’t really big on my parents’ list, you know?” He shuffles his way across the store to the pop section and picks through, humming along with the song that’s playing over the store speakers. It’s cute. “Oh, hey. 33 Gate. Aren’t they supposed to be really good?”
“No. They suck.” Pete jerks the CD out of Brendon’s hand and tosses it into the fifty-cent bin. Ashlee’s face stares up at him through dyed hair, and Pete feels both stupidly angry and stupidly hungry, or something. His stomach hurts. “Try this.” He reaches for a Lifetime CD on the other side of the rack and tucks into Brendon’s open hands.
Obediently, Brendon treks over to the headphones attached to the wall and plugs himself in. It’s nice being with someone who doesn’t have to fight about everything. Soothing, even.
Pete putters around the store for a while, occasionally checking in on Brendon’s bopping head to make sure he hasn’t wandered off. There are a grand total of six CDs in his hand, and if he’s done his math right, he’ll even have enough to buy lunch for the both of them. As he’s rounding the jazz section, Pete looks up and sees the man of his dreams.
Literally.
The outfit’s different, but the hat and the face are the same, the boy’s cheeks stained pink from the wind. He’s pulling records out of his messenger bag and handing them over to the clerk, one after another, like his bag's bottomless. Spellbound by the soft, bright sound of the boy's laughter, Pete takes a step forward and-
“Ready?” Brendon asks, shoving himself under Pete’s arm. Pete jerks, surprised to see him, and turns back just in time to watch his dream man leave.
Pete checks out sullenly and waits for Brendon to buy most of the Lifetime discography. He buys them both hot chocolates and brownies from the coffee shop at the end of the street, but his drink goes cold before he’s even half way through it. It’s not as good as he thought it would be.
---
Pete loves parties. It’s something about the inevitable chaos that comes with too many drunks in one place, or maybe about the never-ending supply of gossip and drama. Either way, he’s roaming around Bob’s place with a red cup of Pepsi, ears open for anything interesting.
Last night he’d dreamt about the boy again. It’s sitting on his chest like a bomb, and he just really wants to know what’s going on inside his head. He wanders through Bob’s living room, and finds himself on Jon Walker’s lap, describing his dreams in great detail.
“Yo,” Pete says, and alleviate Jon’s rum and Coke from him. It tastes like shit, but Pete’s never been one to turn down a free drink. Jon frowns at him. “Do you know who I’m talking about? My height, wears a hat, awesome facial hair?”
“What, Patrick?” Jon says, and grabs for his cup. Pete holds it out of reach. Jon, that god damn Indian giver. “He just moved in from California. Works for Amazon.com. I think Tom said he was around here somewhere.”
“Patrick,” Pete says to himself. It’s the best sound he’s ever heard. He says it again, just to taste it. Jon takes his cup back.
“I heard some stuff, dude,” Jon says. He licks the rim of his glass, like it’s going to make a difference. “He just got out of a thing with some dude named Mark. It’s all he talks about.”
“I,” Pete says decisively, “will change that.” He shoves himself up and downs the last of his Pepsi. Jon doesn’t say anything, but Pete doesn’t need his encouragement. He can do it all his own.
It takes an hour of searching and asking around, but Pete eventually sees a familiar hat at the base of the stairs. He nearly trips over himself trying to get to Patrick’s side, bumping into people as he foes. One or two cups drop to the carpet, and the overwhelming smell of booze gets stronger. There’s some on his shoes, sinking into the canvas of his shoes and into his socks, squelching with each step.
He smells like beet and his hair is standing up weirdly on his head, and he’s been wearing the same shirt for the last three days because he hasn’t been bothered to do laundry. Not ideal conditions, true, but Pete’s optimistic at best. He puts on his best love me face and marches over.
“Hi,” he shouts over the pulsing Pink track playing on the stereo. Patrick blinks at him over the rim of his glass. Okay, not the best reaction, but Pete’s had worse. He can totally make a come back. “You’ve been in my dreams all week.”
Or not.
“That’s possibly the shittiest pick-up line I’ve ever heard,” Patrick says. His breath smells like screwdrivers, citrusy and sweet. Pete leans into his space and smiles wide. He likes vodka. He’d like even more to lick it out of Patrick’s mouth.
“I’m speaking only the truth,” he says. From this close, Patrick’s sideburns are even more impressive. “There’s a bar, a stage and you, all to myself.”
“Oh. Oh, Jesus. That’s you?” Patrick takes a swig from his cup and leans against the wall. Pete shimmies in next to him, pressing their shoulders together. Patrick doesn’t move away, and Pete takes it as a good sign. “Look, your head’s in the middle of a few of my delivery routes. Don’t get excited about it.”
“Wait, what?”
“I can do this thing.” Patrick shrugs and picks at the lip of his cup. He’s staring at his shoes, which are the shiniest shade of purple in existence. “There’s these portals through space, right? Kind of like shortcuts through the world. I can kind of see the doors.”
“And there’s a portal in my head?” Pete’s trying not to validate his own level of awesome right now, no matter how hard that may be. Patrick rolls his eyes.
“Unfortunately,” he mutters. “You’ve got a lot of room in there.”
“You know, if you weren’t so damn cute, I might be offended.” Pete gives his best charming smile and waits for one in return. It doesn’t come.
“This is my cue to leave.” Patrick hands his cup to Pete and pushes off the wall. “Nice to meet you, or whatever.” He squirms his way through the crowd and disappears when he hits the kitchen. Pete drinks down the last of the screwdriver and pretends he can taste Patrick’s mouth off the plastic.
---
“That’s kind of unhealthy,” Greta says from the bed, flipping through a J-14 magazine. She pops her gum and flips a page. “Like, don’t you think this is going a little far?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Pete answers, eyeing the wishlist he’s made for himself. He wants to buy something that says he’s cool, but not pretentious. Something that says he knows his stuff, but isn’t too showy. It’s proving to be pretty difficult.
“Shouldn’t you, I don’t know, break up with your fake high school boyfriend before you start stalking this guy?” Greta asks. She looks up from her reading and Pete shrugs, chewing his thumbnail He adds Darkside of the Moon to his cart and clicks the checkout button.
“I will,” he says as he fills in the shipping form. “I just- what’s this?”
There’s an e-mail on his screen, written in obnoxious neat grammar. It’s really fucking long. Like, he has to press the down arrow more than twice to reach the end of it. He skims over it, humming under his breath.
Dear Mr. Wentz,My name is William Beckett and it’s come to my attention we’ll be fighting soon-Patrick Stump’s fragile and special heart-Battle to the death-
“Blah, blah, blah,” Pete says and hits delete. He needs to update his spam filters. Behind him, he hears Greta pulling on her shoes, leaving her magazine abandoned on the bed.
“Peyton and I are going out for smoothlies,” she says. “Want to come?”
“Nah. I’m just going to wait for my package.” Pete hops onto the bed and sprawls out over the mattress. Greta shakes her head and grabs her keys.
“Whatever, Pete,” she says. “Try not to burn the apartment down.”
Pete spends the next few hours watching the door, and falls asleep before Greta gets back.
---
There’s a knock on the door. Pete’s up and across the room before the echo dies away, ripping it open and letting in the winter wind. Patrick’s on the doorsteps, a package in one hand and a clipboard in the other. His hat is crooked and his jacket is an offensive shade of orange. It's entirely too awesome.
“Hi,” Pete says cheerfully. “I wanted to ask you out at the party, but you totally ran away.” He smiles widely and leans on the doorframe. “So, you want to go out?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Patrick holds the clipboard out impatiently. The wind blows at the hair sticking out from under his hat, and Pete feels his stomach do something weird and flippy.
"I don’t kid about things as serious as dates," Pete says. He's fucking freezing, and Patrick's not playing along to the proper script.
"Look, can you just sign this so I can get back to work?" Patrick waves the clipboard at him, frowning.
"No," Pete says. Patrick takes a visibly deep breath, the exhale turning to a cloud of steam as it passes back out. Pete leans in, and he can feel it against his chest, pulsing and warm. "If I sign that, you'll leave."
"Yes," Patrick says tightly. "It's how they wrote it in my contract." Pete stares at him sadly. Patrick sighs. "If I agree to go out with you, will you sign the fucking receipt?"
Pete has never signed anything faster in his life.
"Meet me at Lincoln Park tonight at eight," he says. He takes his package from Patrick, brushing their hands together. Patrick looks wholly unimpressed.
"Yeah, sure, whatever." Patrick turns and hops off the porch. When he's at the corner, he looks back and raises his eyebrows. "That CD blows, by the way."
Pete thinks he's in love.
---
“I got us a gig,” Joe says, picking at his guitar. He grins at all of them, eyebrows raised and skinny arms pointing out at weird angles. “Chicago Battle of the Bands, motherfuckers. “ From the couch, Brendon’s eyes go wide. He clutches Pete’s hand and leans in. “And best of all? The Hop’s gonna be there.”
“The Hop?” Pete asks. He shakes out of Brendon’s hold, reaching for his bass so they can start. “What, like a fifties diner?” Joe, Andy and Brendon stare his down with big eyes. “What?”
“You don’t know the Hop?” Brendon asks, incredulous. He’s wearing a handmade Arma shirt, glittery letters across his skinny chest. His hair looks more wild than usual, his attempt at being cool.
“Dude,” Ryan says from the stairway. He’s holding the biggest plate of nachos Pete’s ever seen. “The Hop’s the biggest producer of the century. If he likes you, you’re guaranteed to be bigger than, what, Madonna or something.”
“Oh.” Pete thumbs the ‘e’ string and stares at the clock. “Cool.”
They practice to the tune of Brendon’s excited rambling, and Pete does his best not to run out the door at exactly seven.
“Where are you going?” Brendon asks. His eyes are huge, his mouth open and pink.
Pete shrugs. His stomach does something weird. He must be hungry again.
“Out,” he says. “Stuff to do, you know?” Brendon’s face falls.
“Oh,” he says. “I guess I’ll see you at the show.”
“Yeah, sure.” Pete checks his watch and shrugs into his hoodie. He smiles awkwardly when Brendon kisses his cheek, then books it to Lincoln Park. He’s running late.
Patrick’s sitting on a flower box, tapping his fingers against the rotting wood. He’s still wearing his neon orange jacket, sticking out against the blanket of snow like a traffic cone. Pete’s heart stutters as he climbs up to the gardens.
“Hey,” he says. Patrick looks up, cheeks pink from the cold. Pete’s surprised he came at all, and he can’t even preen about it because he feels so stupidly relieved. “You’re here.”
“I said I would be,” Patrick says. He takes the hand Pete offers and lets himself be pulled up, wiping the dirt off his jeans when he’s on his feet.
They stroll through the wilting gardens, shoulders bumping. Fat, cold flakes of snow are falling in droves, melting on Pete’s face and in his hair, thick enough to make the park look white washed.
“So what brings you to Chicago?” He asks. He’s got his pinky twisted around Patrick’s, and Patrick isn’t pulling away. It’s really fucking awesome.
“The music,” Patrick says. His breath clouds, shaped by the form of his words. He stumbles in a snow drift, and when he rights himself, he’s holding all of Pete’s hand, fingers laced and all. “Mark always said Chicago was the center of the music scene.”
“Mark,” Pete echoes, remembering Jonny Walker mentioning the same name. “Is he your boyfriend?” Patrick tilts his head toward the falling snow, the sharp line of his jaw lit by the street lights.
“He’s a friend,” Patrick says after a moment. The line of his mouth tells Pete to drop it, and reluctantly, Pete does. Really, it doesn’t matter. Patrick could have twenty boyfriends and Pete would still be into him.
“So what kind of music are you into?” Pete asks as they round out of the gardens and back towards the street.
“Everything,” Patrick says simply. He looks over at Pete, his eyelashes damp from the snow, the tip of his nose gone red, and smiles like the sun. “Absolutely everything.”
By the time Patrick’s told him everything he knows about David Bowie’s transformation from child to rock god, Pete can’t feel his fingers or his face. The snow fall’s gotten thicker, crawling up past Pete’s ankles, his jeans wet all the way up to the back of his knees. His shoes are totally soaked, and so are his socks, but Patrick’s hand is warm in his, and the sound of his voice is the best thing in the world.
“So, I can’t feel my toes,” Patrick says when they reach the street. He looks around, eyes narrowed to see through the downfall. “I think there’s a door around here somewhere.” He pulls Pete around a parked truck and tightens his hand around Pete’s. “Hang on.”
Like he’s got to be told twice.
Travelling through subspace sucks. Pete’s stomach rockets towards his feet, the world blurring around him. The only constant is Patrick in front of him, focused and sure, navigating corners like he’s done it his whole life. Pete can barely breathe when they come to a halt at Patrick’s front porch.
“Sorry about that,” Patrick says as he unlocks the door. “It takes a while to get used to.”
The apartment is small and a little cluttered, shoes piled up by the door and a familiar line of hats hanging neatly above them. Patrick locks the door and toes off his sneakers before he leads Pete into the kitchen.
“I don’t have much to eat, but I can make a pretty awesome cup of hot chocolate,” he says as he rummages through the cupboards. His shirt clings to his shoulders, and Pete traces the line of them with his eyes as he sinks into a chair.
“Sure.” Now that his jacket’s off, Pete’s got goosebumps crawling up his arms, a chill thick over him. “Actually, a towel or a blanket would be great.”
“Yeah. Just. Hang on. The heater’s broken.” Patrick abandons the teapot on the counter and heads down the hall, ducking into what Pete assumes is his room.
Pete’s jeans are sticking to his calves uncomfortably, cooling rapidly in the frigid air. It seems like a logical plan to follow Patrick to his room, but he stumbles to a halt when he reaches the doorway.
Patrick’s wet shirt is in a heap on the floor, a puddle forming under it, curled around his even wetter jeans. There’s an endless stretch of pale skin on display, orange freckles over his shoulders and a soft shadow at the dip of his back. His boxers are blue, clinging to his thighs and the curve of his ass like a second skin.
“Hey,” Pete says dumbly. Patrick holds the towel in his hands up, awkwardly covering himself. His hat is off, hair hanging loosely around his face. He looks gorgeous. “I got cold.”
“Yeah?” Patrick steps closer, closer, until he’s pressing the towel to Pete’s chest. He’s hot like a furnace, hands burning into Pete’s skin. Pete runs his palms over the chilled curves of his shoulders, fingertips pressing into the soft give of them. “I think I can fix that.”
Patrick tastes like peppermint, his lips soft and warm against Pete’s. Somewhere between the door and the bed, they lose the towel and Pete loses his shirt, bare skin pressed against Patrick’s. They fall against the mattress, and all thoughts of the cold flee from Pete’s mind.
When Patrick’s hand slides into Pete’s pants, Pete forgets about everything else, too.
---
In the morning, Pete puts his still damp pants back on and kisses Patrick awake. Patrick hums into his mouth, a little furnace under the sheets. It's late afternoon already, and Joe will literally kill him if he's late.
"You should come to the battle of the bands tonight," Pete says into the warm skin of Patrick's throat. Patrick stretches against the sheets, and Pete's pretty sure he can deal with being dead if it means getting more familiar with that body.
"Sure," Patrick says through a yawn. "I have to make a few deliveries today, but yeah. Where's it going to be?"
"The Rex at eight." Pete steals another kiss and Patrick grins sleepily at him.
"Lock the door on your way out," he says before curling up again to go back to sleep.
Pete smiles the whole way to Joe's house.
---
Joe is freaking out. He's young and hasn't been in nearly half the numb of bands Pete and Andy have been in, and it's a little hilarious. He's pale under the glow of the fluorescent lights, hands shaking. Pete laughs and shoves him, eager to start playing.
"Hey." Patrick's standing nearby, hands shoved into his pockets, hat on sideways. Like the night before, Pete's surprised to see that he showed, and it makes him feel light all the way up to his hair, his grin big enough to ache. Next to him, Greta coughs delicately.
"Guys, this is Patrick," Pete says, still staring. He can see the tiniest trace of hickey under Patrick's collar, and it makes his fingers tingle. "Patrick, this is Greta, my roommate, and that's Joe and little RyRo over there with the vest." Ryan scowls from the edge of the bar, plucking at the flower in his buttonhole.
"And that's Brendon," Greta says sweetly.
Pete sees Brendon come at him in slow motion, a flash of purple hoodie and choppy hair, and he nearly falls over when Brendon's arms wrap around his shoulders eagerly. He tastes bubblegum for the split second that Brendon's mouth is against his.
"We have to go," Pete says as he pulls away, nearly tumbling ass over face in his haste. He grabs Joe's arm and damn near runs backstage, yanking his reluctant guitarist with him.
"Smooth," Joe pants once they're safely hidden. "Really smooth." Pete flips him off before doubling over, lungs burning.
"I don't want to know," Andy says from the couch. He's reading a paperback, hunched over in a corner. Man of steel. Pete appreciates that about him.
He can hear Madina Lake starting up on the stage, but that is totally not his biggest concern right now. His biggest concern is currently sitting on the balcony, his mouth running at approximately three hundred miles an hour, bouncing next to Greta and Peyton. Pete knew there was something he'd forgotten to do.
"You're an asshole, for the record," Andy says from his corner. He hasn't looked up from his book, so Pete assumes he's talking to a character. Weird.
Madina Lake plays great. Joe looks like he's going to hurl as they play through their last song, his fist locked around the neck of his guitar like a vice.
"We'll do fine," Pete shouts. He's got one eye on the balcony, bouncing nervously in place. He's only so lucky, and he has a feeling that his reserve is going to run out sooner rather than later.
As soon as Madina Lake is off, Pete runs onto stage, carting Joe along after him. He nearly trips over baby Ross, who is setting up their amps, and collides into his mic stand with a clash of reverb.
He introduces them as Andy settles in at his kit. Brendon's the only one that cheers, but Pete has faith. He rocks, and his band rocks, and together they can totally do this.
They play pretty fucking awesome. Pete's throat feels like it's being clawed inside pout as he yells into his microphone, but the feedback in his earpiece sounds great and the kids in the front are nodding along. Up in the balcony, Patrick's watching him, a little half smile across his lips. Brendon, on the floor, one arm dangling through the rails, seems to have passed out.
They're launching into their second song when Pete's mic cuts off with a screech. When he looks to the PA, he finds a tall, skinny kid holding the cable up, whipping it around lazily.
"Pete Wentz," he (apparently) shouts. "I'm here for our fight!"
"Wait, what?" Pete dodges the cable when if flies towards his head, one hand held up to his face. His mic stand goes down with a crash, landing in front of the stage in a heap. "Who are you?"
"William Beckett," the boy says. It sounds familiar, somehow. "I'm here to fight you for the honor of Patrick's heart." Up in the balcony, Patrick buries his face in his hands. That- that's not really a good sign.
"Dude, what?" Pete asks again. He eyes the bandana tied around William's bony knee and takes a cautious step to the side. Andy and Joe watch from the side, amused. Pete needs to get better friends. Behind his long, girly hair, William's face goes red.
"Didn't you get my e-mail?" He asks. It looks like he's seconds away from exploding. "I'm the first evil ex? In the League of Evil Exes? Out for the right to control Patrick's love life?"
"Maybe? Was it the long, boring one?"
The first punch lands solidly across Pete’s jaw. For being a scrawny dude, William hits hard. Pete’s head snaps to the side, his ears ringing. Pete drops his bass and lashes back out, the screech of the strings deafening.
Pete’s more a lover than a fighter, but he’s been in enough brawls to know how to throw a good punch. William’s quick on his feet though, and he lands a few more hits before Pete gets one in on him.
“You don’t deserve him,” William says, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the stage. He bounces side to side, doubling over when Pete gets a solid punch in to his middle. “Give it up,” he wheezes.
“Go Pete,” Greta shouts from the balcony. She’s small and looks sweet, but Pete’s never met anyone more bloodthirsty. He rounds a kick to William’s chest and falls backward with the force of it. His shoulders hit the stage, shocks buzzing under his skin.
“Dude, I don’t know what your problem is, but you need to get over it.” Pete wobbles to his feet and staggers over to where William’s sprawled on the ground, stupid bandana torn into scraps across the floor.
“This isn’t the last you heard from us,” William says. His eyes close, and Pete’s pretty sure he’s not actually unconscious, but the fight, at least, is done.
“And Arma is tonight’s winner,” the confused DJ says side stage. Greta cheers. Most of the crowd is stunned silent. Patrick, red faced and hiding under his cap, claps politely.
Later, at the diner near the venue, Pete picks at his French fries and tries not to chew on the busted inside of his lip. Patrick prods at his pancakes with his fork, leg jittering under the table.
“So,” Pete says.
“Yeah.” Patrick stabs an egg and yolk bleeds out of it yellow and greasy across the plate.
“You really dated that guy?” Pete asks. Patrick shrugs. Pete’s going to take that as a yes.
“We were in middle school,” Patrick says. His leg stops bobbing up and down, which is nice. Pete was starting to get a little motion sick. “We did a few kid bands together, and you know. Made out sometimes.” Pete raises his eyebrows, curious, and Patrick flushes. “We were thirteen.”
“Dude.” Pete scrunches in closer, the bruise that’s forming under his rib aching as he moves.
“Sorry,” Patrick mumbles. He carves little hatch marks into his pancake with his fork. “So, if we’re going to do this whole-“ he waves his fork idly- “dating thing, you might, uh. Have to defeat my four evil exes?”
“You have four evil ex-boyfriends?”
“Exes,” Patrick corrects.
“And I have to fight them?” Pete asks. “Because we’re dating?”
“Um,” Patrick agrees.“Awesome.”
“I can always kiss it better after,” Patrick says, grinning.
“Yes, please,” Pete says.
And when they get back to Patrick’s place? He totally does.
---
Pete feels like a douchebag.
“Because you are,” Greta says from the bed. She’s feeding something sweet and gooey to Peyton, fingertips dipping into Peyton’s mouth. Sometimes, Pete loves living with lesbians. Like a mind reader, Peyton scowls at him.
“Stop being a perv, Wentz,” she says. The syrup makes her lips shiny. It’s awesome.
“Our conditions are as follows,” Greta starts. “One: you will not have sex in this bed. Two: you will not eat our Chex Mix. Three: you will break up with that adorable Brendon boy before he finds out about your cheating, bastard ways.”
“But it’s so hard,” Pete moans. “And it’s cold out there.” Greta glares.
“Do you want your date tonight?” She asks. Pete nods reluctantly. “Meet our terms, and we’ll make ourselves scarce.” Pete narrows his eyes. He doesn’t always trust her.
“Where, exactly, are you going to go?” He asks.“We’re going to play paparazzi at the new Saporta primer,” Peyton answers. She flicks a flyer at him, and Pete has to scramble to grab it.
“Cobras Never Say Die?” Pete glances over the shiny purple text. It looks kind of corny.
“Don’t diss it,” Greta scolds. “Now, go say goodbye to your fake boyfriend.”
Reluctantly, Pete forces himself outside into the cold and trudges to the music store. He was supposed to meet Brendon earlier, but- Stuff had come up. It’s not that he’s avoiding it or anything. He’s just. Been busy is all.
Brendon is inside, bouncing across the store like a madman, headphones around his neck and hands full of CDs. He smiles when he sees Pete, tossing the CDs into a bin and throwing the full force of himself into Pete’s chest.
“Hey,” he says brightly. “I thought you weren’t going to show.”
“Yeah.” Pete squirms away from his octopus hold. “So, I was thinking-”
“I think I’m going to come out to my parents,” Brendon blurts. He looks so earnest, eyes big and mouth stretched into a bright smile. Pete’s stomach rumbles.
“Dude, I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t do that.” Pete rubs the back of his neck with one hand, trying to weight his options. He’s never been good with this whole breaking up thing. “Didn’t you say they’d, like, kick you out?”
“Yeah, but I think I can risk it, you know?” Brendon curls his fingers around Pete’s tapping their knuckles against his hip. “I’m. I think I love you.”
And, well, that’s inconvenient.
“Brendon-” Pete shakes his hand loose and shoves it into his hoodie pocket. Now or never, he guesses. “Look, I think we should break up.” Brendon’s face falls, the stretch elastic it’s made of collapsing. Pete scuffs his sneaker against the tile floor and shrugs.
“Sorry.”Brendon doesn’t try to follow him. Pete takes it as a blessing.
---
“I’m not really sure that grilled cheese is all that romantic,” Peyton says, peering over Pete’s shoulder. Pete scowls down at the pan and hacks at the soggy bread with his spatula. There’s a small pile of sacrifices already in the garbage. On the upside, the house doesn’t smell quite so much like burning toast anymore.
“It’s the thought that counts,” Pete says. He doesn’t actually know what Patrick’s favorite foods are, so he’s improvising. It’s this or soup, and he figures that soup would go over less well.
“Sure.” Greta prods at the gooey center of the sandwich in the pan before patting Pete’s cheek. “Whatever you say.” She’s dressed up, skirt barely reaching her knees. It’s something like three thousand below outside, but all she puts on is a half coat over top of her glittery blouse.
“So, when you blow your date, you can join us at the Mojave to stalk Saporta,” Peyton offers. Pete flips her the finger and sadly tosses another sandwich into the trash.
“I’m not going to blow it,” Pete says as he butters another slice of bread. Peyton smiles at him and opens the door. On the other side, Patrick’s fist is raised, ready to knock. He blinks in mild confusion.
“Whatever you say, Wentz.” Peyton blows him a kiss and drags Greta out the door.
“Have fun,” Greta calls. Patrick peers into the trash can filled with burnt toast and raises his eyebrows.
“So, how do you feel about movie premiers?” Pete asks, tossing his knife into the sink. Before it hits, he’s dragging Patrick back outside, racing after his roommates.
---
Patrick is holding his hand. Pete would like to point this out to the entire world.
They’re pressed up against the barrier separating the crowd from the red carpet. Pete figures it has a lot to do with the sheer amount of thigh Peyton and Greta are flashing. There’s a line of celebrities smiling and waving at the cameras- Greta’s included- and Pete’s actually kind of impressed.
“Not a bad turn out for something called Cobras Never Die,” he says. Patrick laughs. His face is pink from the wind, and his jacket doesn’t really button at the top, but he looks happy enough. Pete chalks it up to his fantastic date routine.
“Hey, Saporta!” Greta calls, raising her camera. The tall, thin man that climbs out of the limo smiles at her. Next to Pete, Patrick goes stiff. “Gabe! Over here!” Greta leans over the barrier, her jacket falling open across her chest. It’s a good tactic if Pete’s ever seen one. “What was it like, directing your first movie?”
“It was-” Gabe stops in front of them, head dropping to his chest as he inspects them. “Patrick.”
“Hey, Gabe,” Patrick says through the hand that’s found itself on his face. “Pete, this is Gabe. We dated in high school.”
“Damn it.” Pete cranes his neck and sighs.
“Pretty much.” Patrick drops Pete’s hand and settles in between the girls. He waves his mittens at Gabe and frowns.
“So, you know what we have to do?” Gabe asks. He shucks off his suit jacket and hands it off to a photographer with a smile. He cracks his knuckles and Pete nods. “Awesome. Sorry about this.”
Pete falls back when Gabe leaps over the barrier, fist first. Gabe hits harder than William. He draws his arm back, elbow crooked, and Pete squeezes his eyes shut. He feels his nose squash in towards his face, which is the strangest feeling ever, and blood seeps down over his mouth. Gabe's straddling him, long arms and legs unnatural as he knees Pete in the ribs.
"So, I miss you," Gabe says. When Pete opens his eyes, Gabe's looking at Patrick, mouth twisted into a sad line. "We totally rocked together."
"Hey," Pete shouts, angry. "Mine now." His knuckles ache as he smashes them into Gabe's face. He feels a tooth sink into the side of his fist, and he hopes it hurts Gabe as much as it's currently stinging him. "You don't talk to my boyfriend like that."
"Aw, he's gotten to the possessive stage," Greta coos from the sidelines. The barrier shakes when Pete bucks Gabe into it. All Pete can taste is the blood in his mouth, his vision red and swimming. Gabe kicks him, but Pete's going to actually explode with rage. He tries not to call himself the jealous type, but if the green eyes fit.
Things blur as he lunges, wrapping an arm around Gabe's throat. It seems right to headbutt him, so Pete does, his teeth clicking together with the force, his knuckles raw against the splintering wood of the barrier. The crowd is cheering and booing in turns, but there's ringing in Pete's ears where Gabe's slapping his open palms.
"You don't mess with what's mine," Pete hisses, and jams his knee into Gabe's crotch, feeling the impact all the way into his chest.
"And I thought you were cool," Gabe groans as he topples over. Breathless, Pete pushes himself to his feet. Two down, two to go.
"Did you see that?" He gasps. When he turns, though, there's a Patrick shaped gap between Greta and Peyton. "You've got to be kidding me. Where'd he go?" Peyton shrugs.
"Sorry honey," Greta offers. She waves her camera and shoots him a half smile."At least I got great shots?"
---
Pete’s been living by the phone.
“I don’t think you can actually make it ring with your brain,” Greta says. She’s gussied up again, yanking her heels on.
Peyton’s taking her out for a nice dinner. Pete was going to take Patrick to one, too, but he hasn’t heard anything from Patrick at all, and it’s starting to really fucking suck.
“Look.” Greta settles on the edge of the bed next to him and cups his cheek. “I know you really like him. You just have to tell him.”
“I already did,” Pete whines.
“Pete, what are Peyton and I?” Greta asks.
“Lesbians?” Pete yelps when Greta punches him.
“Ow. You are.”
“In love,” she hisses. “We’re in love.” She smooths Pete’s hair back and kisses his forehead. “If he means as much to you as I think he does, you need to tell him. Okay?” Pete sighs and reaches for the phone. It rings in his hand, and he nearly brains himself answering it.
“Hello?” He asks, excited. Greta smiles and shoots him a thumbs up.
“Hey, Pete,” the voice says over the line. Pete’s heart drops to his stomach.
“Hey, Ashlee.” Pete’s throat feels dry. He hears it click when he swallows. This- is not how he had pictured today going. “How are... things?” Greta makes a sympathetic face at him before reaching for her coat. She mouths I have to go, and is out the door before Pete can beg her to stay.
“Pretty good,” Ashlee replies. “The band’s going to be back in town. I thought we could catch up.” There’s a tapping sound, and Pete can almost see her clicking her nails against the phone, all of them done in pink and red and yellow. He misses the yellow. “Do you have a new girlfriend?”
“Boyfriend, actually.” Pete’s pretty sure that Patrick running off didn’t mean that they were broken up. He hopes not, anyway. “Patrick. He’s pretty amazing.”
“Oh,” Ashlee says. “So you’re not gay above the waist anymore?”
“Well, yes. But also below the waist now, too.” For Patrick, he’ll find more places to be gay. It has to be possible. “Look, I have to go. So.”
“I’ll see you later,” Ashlee promises, and then the phone goes dead.
Life pretty much, sucks. In times like these, Pete needs music. He grabs his hoodies and his keys and heads to the record store, morose. His band is shitty, and his boyfriend isn’t calling him, and he can’t feel his toes because of the cold. It’s not actually fair.
“Hey.” Patrick’s standing under the awning of the store, hands shoved under his arms for warmth. He looks as bad as Pete feels. “So, sorry about last night. I. Kind of freaked out.”
“Yeah, well.” Pete stares at the neon of Patrick’s sneakers. His feet are actually going to fall off. He’s pretty sure of it. “I’m just not used to the whole,” Patrick waves a pink hand, “possessive thing. The people I’ve dated weren’t really, you know.” He shrugs and shuffles his weight awkwardly. “So, if you don’t, you know, want to date or whatever anymore-”
“No, no, no,” Pete blurts. He rushes into Patrick’s space, knocking him into the wall. “I don’t want that. I never want that.” He shoves his face into Patrick’s neck and just breathes him in.
“Patrick, I assume.” Pete tenses up and squeezes his eyes shut. If he just pretends he didn’t hear her, maybe Ashlee will go away. His luck apparently isn’t all it used to be. When he turns around, she’s standing there in the hoodie he bought her, hair around her face like a halo.
“Yes?” Patrick says, voice tilting up at the edges.
“Pete, you’re being rude.” Ashlee holds out her hand- and there’s the yellow nail polish Pete’s missed so much- and waits for Patrick to take it. “I’m Ashlee. Pete’s ex girlfriend.”
“Oh.” Patrick shakes politely, but his other hand goes tight around Pete’s hood. “Hi?”
“I just wanted to tell you that you’re on the guest list for the show,” Ashlee says to them both. She smiles, and it’s sharp. Pete remembers when her smile used to turn him to mush, melt him from the inside out.
“That’s not actually going to happen,” he says. “I’m not really a 33 Gate kind of guy.” Ashlee’s smile gets even sharper.
“We’ll see,” she tosses over her shoulder as she walks away. “Nice to meet you, Patrick.”
On the way home, Patrick lets Pete hold his hand, and they share a bag of Doritos. Patrick doesn’t ask what happened, and Pete loves him a little for it. It’s been just over a year since he and Ashlee had their big split, and he’s still sore inside from it. She wanted to move to LA, and he couldn’t. She wanted him to be normal, and he couldn’t. He wanted her everything, and she just couldn’t give it to him.
“So,” Patrick says around the last Dorito. “They’re doing a John Hughes marathon at the theatre near my place. Think you’re up for it?”
“Totally.” Pete squeezes Patrick’s hand, and swears that he’s done thinking about Ashlee Simpson for good.
Part two
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