Fic Vote - Which of these 3 do you want more of?
I was going through some old files on my computer & I came across these unfinished Pete/Patrick stories. So, I figured I’d take a little survey to see which one people want to see finished. We’ll call what’s there the “first chapter” of each of them & I’m asking you to let me know which story deserves a chapter 2.
First: Pete is a student in beauty school; teenage Patrick’s mom brings him for a haircut:
Title: So Good in Blue
Author: Calcium Yeah
Paring: Petrick
Fandom: Fall Out Boy
Rating: PG-13
Summary: AU Patrick’s mom brings him for a haircut. Pete is a student in beauty school.
Disclaimer: The FOB boys own themselves.
A/N: I wanted to write a cute little fetish piece, but my last fic taught me that fluff leaves me kind of unsatisfied. Sorry guys, I had to throw in some angst & some weird.
Hair Professionals Academy
“…they probably won’t be able to do any bleaching, but a red or a bronze-.”
“I’m actually here for my son,” Patrick’s mother interrupted the receptionist who had been talking since they stepped in the door, touting the HPA students’ newly acquired skills in foil highlighting. The woman’s head peeked over as Patrick’s mother indicated the disinterested boy hidden and sulking behind her. “I was hoping to get his haircut.”
“Oh. Well, we really try to keep up with what the students have been learning in class. There’ll be a newer group in on Thursday night-.”
“No, that’s alright, we have to attend a wedding tomorrow morning.”
“Mrs. Way, what about Peter?” Nobody had noticed the tiny girl appear, but there she was, holding a ruptured bottle of “Chestnut” hair dye and looking up at the receptionist. The receptionist seemed baffled for a moment before she comprehended what the girl was saying.
“I think we’re going to let Mr. Wentz stick with mannequins for a while.”
“Would he be able to do my son’s haircut?” Patrick’s mother asked in such a determined manner that Patrick already knew he was getting this done here.
“He’s a little behind, yes, but we have him working on mannequins now-.”
“That’s fine, my son just needs a simple wash and cut. I’m sure it’ll be fine. How much is it?”
“Oh, it’s-for Pete, it’s $5.” The receptionist seemed dumbstruck as Patrick’s mother had somehow turned ‘no’ into ‘yes’ in a matter of seconds.
“Jodie, find Peter please, and tell him he has a wash and…haircut.” The receptionist spoke to the girl who rushed off, leaving Patrick wondering what was with the ruptured bottle of dye still clutched in her hands. He watched as his mother paid in advance, leaving him not just getting a student haircut, but apparently a remedial one. She left him there after paying, off to buy his father a proper pair of dress socks. She’d probably spend $20 on a designer pair of those instead of bringing him to get a full-price haircut.
The sound of shuffling sneakers squeaking against the floor signaled Pete’s arrival. As soon as Patrick saw him, he was scared for his hair. The guy was bouncing up and down with a gigantic smile on his face.
“You’re gonna let me cut on a person?!” He beamed up at the receptionist who, now that Patrick thought about it, was probably the owner of the place or something. When she confirmed his assignment, he looked like an 8 year old who was just told he could eat ice cream for dinner.
The telephone rang and the woman seemed grateful for the distraction as she pointed out Patrick and instructed Pete to bring the boy back to his station. Patrick was somewhat uncomfortable with Pete smiling at him like the experiment that he apparently was. Plus, he had the most unflattering shade of baby blue streaked in his hair-if that was an example of his work then Patrick was worried. Pete didn’t seem to notice Patrick’s wariness as he led him to the back.
“Hehe. Well, I’m Pete and I’ll be your stylist today.” Pete couldn’t seem to keep a straight face as he said it, but he was clearly trying to seem somewhat professional and Patrick realized after a moment that Pete was expecting him to introduce himself as well.
“Uh-Patrick. Your, what am I? Your client?”
“Probably. I don’t know. I’ve been sitting back here with the bowl of candy for 2 hours. All the good stuff’s kind of gone now, but you can see if there’s anything you want.” Pete pointed at an almost empty bowl holding several caramels, mints, butterscotch candies, and Smarties. He must have decimated that thing on his own because his station was tucked away in the middle of nowhere in a back corner next to a supply closet and it was painfully obvious that he’d been designated to get the substandard equipment. Patrick was resigned to his fate though, and when Pete indicated that he should take a seat, Patrick took his hat off and sat down in the chair.
“Wow, you’re um…getting kind of thin up here.” Pete’s said it matter-of-factly, like he knew there was no reason to point it out, but he wanted to anyway.
“I know.” Patrick squirmed slightly because he didn’t like people standing above him when he didn’t have a hat on and Pete’s blatant observation wasn’t helping.
“I think I could probably hide it, if I put a part on the si-.” Pete started flicking the hair on top of Patrick’s head around.
“No comb over!” Patrick refused to believe that things had gotten that bad.
“Okay, okay, so do you just wanna leave it out there?” Pete swirled his hands in circles a few inches above Patrick’s head.
“I’m putting my hat back on as soon as I leave here and I’m not taking it off again until I save up enough for hair plugs.” Patrick pushed himself back in the seat, pouting, and apparently showing his age.
“Wow. That’s just-what are you, 15?”
“16.”
“Hmm.” Pete didn’t seem to be fully paying attention as he’d turned around at some point to root around the bottles scattered around his workspace.
“Did you do your own hair? I mean-the blue…?” Patrick tried to sound mildly curious, and not like he was scared for his hair or anything.
“They won’t let me near the dye yet.” Pete laughed as if he knew the real reason Patrick was asking. Pete leaned over Patrick from above, smiling reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I’m better than they think I am.”
The smile almost gave Patrick a sense of calm-until Pete circled around and Patrick got a glance at his hair again. Patrick was of the opinion that there was more than one reason emo kids should be kept away from sharp objects-one of them being those damn lopsided haircuts. Then again, maybe he was just bitter; his hair probably wouldn’t take to a cut like that too well.
Pete stood in front of him, fingering the hair in the front, bringing a few pieces forward and making them tickle Patrick’s cheeks and nose.
“Okay, I think I’ve got it. I’m gonna give you a wash, start with something for fullness, kind of g-.”
“Okay, I have no idea what you’re talking about so you really can just go ahead.” Patrick put his hands up in what looked like surrender, and Pete smiled, moving to tilt Patrick’s chair back. “Just…nothing crazy.”
Patrick felt the sudden urge to shut up as Pete used his left hand to guide Patrick’s upper body back as he adjusted the seat with his right. Apparently, Pete was having some trouble locking the chair in place, and Patrick was left feeling somewhat awkward as he tried to find an interesting spot on the ceiling so he could focus on that and act like it wasn’t weird having Pete hovering inches above him and wiggling around.
“Alright.” Pete sounded relieved when he finally got the seat in proper position. He pushed himself back slightly to smile down at Patrick…which Patrick finally noticed when his eyes stopped darting around from nothing to nothing. “Now that the complicated stuff is over….”
Pete turned the water on, keeping it directed off to the right as he tested the temperature. He pushed Patrick’s forehead back, indicating it was somewhat satisfactory, and Patrick closed his eyes in response.
“Is that alright?” Pete let a note of nervousness slip through as he brought the stream of water over. Patrick turned into the blasé one as the tepid water hit his hairline. He could only bring himself to mutter an “mmhmm” in response.
The water was warm against Patrick’s forehead, cascading past his ears, and rolling down along his neck. Pete adjusted the knobs, and the water streamed down with more force. Patrick felt himself sinking back into the chair.
As if on cue, Patrick was overwhelmed with the scent of peppermint as Pete opened a bottle of shampoo. He felt the shampoo hit the top of his head in a chilled pile of goo.
“That is so cold.” Patrick giggled through his barely parted lips because he was still mostly relaxed, but the cold was slightly jarring. Patrick could kind of hear Pete’s muffled laugh in response. But, he was too distracted to notice, thanks to the tingling sensation where his head came into contact with the shampoo.
Pete’s hands worked from back to front, spreading the peppermint-scented goo along Patrick’s hair. His fingers dipped down to press into Patrick’s scalp and massage in the tingling substance.
It was one of the greatest sensations Patrick had ever felt. The pads of Pete’s fingers pushing around through his roots, surrounded by this persistent almost stinging sensation. And all the time that minty fragrance invading his senses. He started to wish he’d been coming in for a massage. A full body wet and minty massage.
Patrick could hear Pete’s breathing above him as the other boy leaned over him, fingers pulsing against his scalp. Patrick then realized that he too was breathing kind of loudly. He was suddenly aware of the rest of his body and he knew, even as he hoped against hope that he was wrong, that he’d probably been growing harder by the minute.
As soon as he thought of it, he became painfully aware that yes indeed, he had enough of an erection that it was starting to press up against the front of his jeans. And he couldn’t open his eyes so he could only sit there silently praying that the guy hadn’t noticed. He was suddenly very grateful that they were somewhat isolated where they were.
It was a strange conflict of emotions as he was pulled between worrying about his visible arousal, feeling those hands inside his hair, and wondering how remedial this guy had to be that he didn’t think to put one of those smock things on him.
Of course, if he mentioned that smock thing it would a) be kind of pointless by now, and b) possibly call attention to why he really wanted to be covered up.
Patrick lost his train of thought as Pete’s hand gripped more firmly on his skull, moving it around to rinse the lather from his hair. His hand fingered through the front of Patrick’s hair, palm resting on his eyebrows so that they moved along with his hand.
Patrick let out a moan that he hoped came across as a sigh…then again that wasn’t too flattering either. He squirmed in the chair, pressing his legs together and wishing he could open his eyes.
Pete’s hands moved to the sides of Patrick’s head, pushing back from his face and curling around Patrick’s ears, tracing just above his jaw line, quickly ghosting over his lips and chin before whipping down to his neck and pushing the straggling hair back.
Pete’s hands disappeared, and next thing Patrick knew he felt a rough towel being placed across his face. He sat there for a moment before realizing that Pete wasn’t going to dry his face off for him. As he was rubbing the towel across his face, he could hear something clanking around behind him. He sat up, wrapping the towel around his entire head and when his face was dry he turned his head to find Pete staring into the blowing end of a blow-dryer and flicking a switch up and down.
“Should you be staring into it?” Patrick thought about not saying anything, but he halfway expected to see flames start shooting out of that thing. Pete tilted his head slightly, but didn’t look away as he smiled.
“This thing’s gonna be pointed at your head in about 2 seconds, so we’re just gonna make sure it doesn’t start up on scalding.”
“Alright.” Patrick still didn’t think he needed to be staring down into the thing, but he turned back around. Eventually, he heard a “whoa” as the blow-dryer turned on. When Pete pointed it towards Patrick’s head, the thing must have been still set on blazing because Patrick felt like he’d stuck his head in an oven-and why did people kill themselves like that? It seemed really unpleasant, I mean gas doesn’t smell very good….
“Crap.” Pete brought Patrick out of his reverie in one of the worst ways possible. There are some things you just don’t want to hear from someone doing your hair. “I think I was supposed to do the cut while it was wet.”
Patrick wasn’t facing the mirror, but he knew his hair was almost dry after being scalded for the last few minutes.
“Okay, wait, I’ve got it.” Pete turned the blow-dryer off and before Patrick’s skin could be relieved, he was assaulted with an army of bristles. Pete began running the brush over Patrick’s hair, trying to distribute the remaining moisture and lay Patrick’s hair down flat. When he was satisfied (and when Patrick’s vision was thoroughly blocked), he picked up the scissors.
Patrick wanted to find out what he was doing-he really wanted to know-but he was scared to ask. He sat there nervously as he heard snipping and felt hair hitting his neck. Finally, Pete ran his fingers through the front of Patrick’s hair.
“You’re doing bangs, aren’t you?” Whenever Patrick actually went out for ‘real’ haircuts, they always gave him bangs.
“You’ll look good in bangs.” Pete sounded a little bit too amused for Patrick’s liking. “I so wish I wasn’t being supervised with this one.”
“Why?”
“Because you’d look good in blue too.”
“Um, I’m not too big on blue.” Patrick was worried that Pete was somehow going to talk him into walking out of here with some weirdo dye job. Pete just laughed and brushed off Patrick’s face and shoulders.
Patrick felt himself spun around, and when he got a look at himself in the mirror he saw a surprisingly normal, decent haircut.
“I told you I was better than they think.”
“So, are you gonna get to cut on people now?”
“No, because you’re not gonna let them see you when you leave and I’m going to dip out early.”
“I’m not even gonna ask.”
“Yeah, it’s one of those stories.” Pete was busy putting things away so Patrick couldn’t see his face, but he could see a bit of cheek poking out that indicated Pete was smiling. Patrick was still sitting in the chair and he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to just get up and leave. Pete closed the cabinet he was crouching in front of and grinned as he looked over his shoulder and up at Patrick. “Are you gonna wait for me to get off?”
What? Patrick wasn’t sure if that was teasing or a proposition. He looked at Pete blankly.
“Meet me out by the soda machine in 5 minutes.” Pete wasn’t whispering or anything, but he still sounded like he was trying to be sneaky and Patrick was wondering what the hell the guy wanted with him. Maybe he wanted to go get something to eat or kill some time or something. There probably wasn’t much to do around here.
The whole time Patrick stood waiting out in the corridor, he felt like he was a second from walking away, even as he attempted to distract himself by counting how many slots had been designated to each sub-brand of Pepsi in the soda machine.
He wasn’t really paying attention until Pete face floated into view. He’d put on a small black hoodie with pink bats or something on it and he had a seemingly empty book bag in his hand.
“I need to run into the dollar store for a second, d’you feel like helping me pick out a new notebook?” Pete asked as he grabbed Patrick’s hand and started pulling him in the direction of the store in what Patrick thought was a very presumptuous and straightforward manner.
The beauty school inhabited the second floor of an old mall that hadn’t been popular since the early eighties. Its immediate neighbors on the second floor were a dollar store and a locksmith. So it wasn’t exactly an active area, which is why Patrick was surprised to see the boy that had Pete suddenly shoving him behind his new friend, the soda machine near the parking lot exit.
“That’s my-um-I th-that’s my…roommate. Andy.” Pete took a little too long to get the sentence out as he pressed himself up against a plotted plant in an obvious attempt not to be spotted by the long-haired boy.
As Patrick stood there as still as possible behind the soda machine, looking over at Pete crouched behind the plant, he thought that he wouldn’t mind his mother showing up right now. Of course, that wasn’t going to happen. He was in walking distance to his neighborhood (and if he was really lazy-to a bus station) and his mother was long gone off to a more populated area of town. I just needed a stupid haircut. Patrick watched Pete peeking through the leaves of the plant and remembered that aside from the hotness, this guy had seemed kind of deficient from the beginning.
“You look like an idiot.” The voice was clearly directed at Pete, and if Patrick hadn’t still been so focused on hiding, he’d have laughed at the truth of that statement. Pete ambled out from behind the plant and headed in the direction of the voice. He was smiling, but it looked blatantly nervous and as he disappeared from Patrick’s view, he got a queasy feeling in his stomach.
As the two other boys spoke, Patrick could hear pieces of their conversation.
“What are you doing?” Andy’s voice was softer than Patrick expected from his look.
“Doing with what?”
“Don’t be a dick, you know what I mean. That kid, what are you doing with him?”
“Kid?” Pete laughed.
“Yeah, the one you stuffed behind a soda machine when you saw me coming.”
Pete didn’t respond and Patrick straightened up nervously, feeling like an idiot for hiding when the guy knew he was there. Unfortunately he didn’t know how to step out from hiding without it being weird. Plus, Pete had asked him to stay back there and this didn’t sound like something he wanted to get involved in anyway. Especially when Andy sounding so disgusted when he spoke again.
“Ah, come on, Pete, man, that’s gross. The kid is like twelve.”
“Ugh, what’s wrong with you? Twelve?” Pete sounded like he thought his friend was an being absurd and Patrick agreed because, what the hell? Twelve?
“Okay, I’m exaggerating, but seriously what the hell are you doing?”
“Nothing, okay, nothing. I’m just hanging out with him, that’s all.”
“I don’t know, man. I don’t know.”
“What’s there to ‘know’ about?” Pete was starting to sound irritated.
“It’s just-you kind of have a problem.” Andy sounded apologetic, and from Patrick’s limited experience irritated and apologetic don’t blend well.
“A pro-what? Since when do I have a problem?” See? Because Pete’s irritation was now evident and Patrick was stashed behind a soda machine, listening to a conversation that was clearly headed downhill.
“Like I said, I don’t know. I jus-I…no, you know, what? I’m not making excuses for it. That kid Joe, he was fucking 15, and there’s something wrong with that.” Andy had apparently been holding onto some unspoken feelings and the resolution in his voice made it perfectly clear to Patrick what the situation had been.
“I didn’t know how old he was.”
“Yeah, but finding out didn’t stop you from screwing him. You’d still be doing it if his parents hadn’t found out.” If Patrick had any doubts about what they were talking about, that just erased them.
“So I must be after every underage boy in the greater Chicago area, huh? Don’t start that homophobic shit with me.” Pete was almost whispering. Patrick figured that Pete had to know he was in hearing range, but that whispering and the whole direction this argument just took made this feel like something that Patrick was really not supposed to hear.
“Oh, don’t you dare turn this into that, because I’m no bigot and you’re no victim. We’re not talking dramatics here, we’re talking about reality, and the reality is that I just can’t bring myself to believe that your intentions in this situation are-out of nowhere-just suddenly pure.”
“Well, then it’s a good thing that my life choices don’t rest on your interpretation of my intentions.”
“Don’t try to sound intelligent with me, you’re pissed because you know you’re wrong.”
“I’m not wrong about anything. You are the one here with half truths and misinformation.”
“Oh, am I?”
“You are. And what I had with Joe-when I-you don’t just throw a relationship away when you find out everything wasn’t as it seemed.” And now Patrick could hear a weariness in Pete’s tone that he hadn’t noticed before. It was tired. And it was stressed. But, Andy must not have seen that as sufficient reason to leave him alone.
“When you found out he was 15 years old?! You don’t see anything wrong with that?!”
“Of course I see something wrong! But I’m supposed to just cut my feelings off just like that? I’m supposed to tell the man I’ve been with for months-the first man I even kissed, the man I have been talking about building a future with, I’m just supposed to end it?” Patrick couldn’t help himself, he peeked around the machine, wanting to get a visual glimpse of the emotion he heard. He needed to see Pete’s face. But, as far as he knew it was buried in his hands, because he couldn’t see anything of the pair besides Andy’s back.
“Yes, yes, fuck, do you hear yourself, you’re calling this boy a ‘man’, talking about a future together and he was fif-fucking-teen.”
“But, I didn’t know that!” Pete’s voice was straining in an attempt to make Andy understand.
“This is endless; this is just endless.” Andy threw his arms up in exasperation.
“Well, hey, you know, I think I’ll just go ahead and end it.” Pete’s sneakers hitting the mall floor didn’t really make for a striking exit, but they served their purpose in getting him the hell away from Andy as quickly as possible.
Patrick knew he looked guilty for overhearing the conversation, and he saw Pete’s face twitch from pissed to a reflection of Patrick’s guilt. Not for long though, because Patrick felt himself yanked from behind the machine and pulled along. Pete turned to face Andy and threw his middle finger up at him before dragging Patrick along into the dollar store. Patrick was panicking inside, wondering what he’d just been brought into, what Pete wanted from him, and why Pete didn’t see anything wrong with manhandling a boy he’d just met.
Second: Pete finally gets around to washing clothes & he meets Patrick in the laundry room.
Title: Filth & Happiness
Author: Calcium Yeah
Paring: Pete/Patrick
Fandom: Fall Out Boy
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The FOB boys own themselves.
Summary: AU Pete meets Patrick in the building’s laundry room.
A/N: I came across this fic that I had started for the PxP laundry challenge like forever ago.
You know that day where you finally take a shower? The day when for some reason or another you decide to make the effort of taking your clothes off, going to the bathroom, turning some knobs to get the temperature just right, and pick up that sliver of soap that’s been the same size for 2 months?
You don’t? Well, you’re just the picture of fucking cleanliness, aren’t you?
Sorry. Let me start over. I get defensive sometimes when it comes to things that people see as a big deal that really don’t seem so big to me. Things like daily showering. I mean, what the hell? It’s not like it’s really so horrible to let things go for a few weeks. So I wake up and go to the store in the clothes I’ve slept in all night-the clothes I’ve been wearing since the last time I left the house-the clothes I won’t change until I have a damn good reason.
And my mother wonders why I never do my laundry. I’ve only worn 5 outfits this month. Okay, wait that’s a lie-two hoodies, 7 shirts, and 3 pairs of pants. Whatever, I think it averages out. Maybe 4 pairs of socks, two pairs of underwear-but it’s not as bad as it sounds because I only wore underwear when I really needed to, like if I was going to have to run or something.
And yeah, my mother would complain about it, ask me when I was going to wash/change my clothes, when I was going to wash myself, cut my hair, remove the thin strips of black polish still clinging to my nails. I told her I’d done it all yesterday.
My mom’s not too happy with me.
Of course my father’s the problem solver, so he thinks he’s solved the “problem”. Things like this, they’re signs of depression. What do I have to be depressed about? Life is going great. He thought maybe it was about my band breaking up, and I think that no band means no performing means no sweating through my clothes everynight means no filthy fabric clingy to my pores and making me want to wash. So maybe he’s right, I’m not washing because I’m not in a band, but it’s not because I’m depressed.
That’s not how I get when I’m depressed. How can I be depressed when I’m still going out almost every night? How can I be depressed when I’m 1-2-3 months away from the maturity date on one bitch of a trust fund? How can I be depressed when I’m able to sit around in the same clothes everyday because I don’t need to get a job? How can I be depressed when I’m enjoying everything about my life? Hell, I’m glad I’m not in a band right now; I don’t know how I would write without a head full of angst.
Do you know what I do all day? I wake up around 1pm, watch cartoons & eat cereal, pick up my bass, call Andy to find out if he’s found anyone for our next band, call Dirty when Andy says no, arrange to meet up with Dirty at the park at 7, watch a movie, eat whatever junk food is laying around my room, lay on my bed & toss a soccer ball in the air, show up at the park at 8, wait for Dirty until 8:15, wander around the city trying to find something to do, go to a midnight show if there’s one happening, get home before daylight, realize I haven’t eaten in hours and stand at the open refrigerator wasting energy as I pick at cold leftovers from my family’s dinner, then go to sleep.
What’s not to love about that?
Nothing I tell you, nothing. The only thing that threw a wrench in my routine was the desire to change my hair. I’d dyed it pink a few months ago and it was not growing out well-which is to say that it was actually starting to look good.
See, I’d dyed it originally with the best of intentions, I thought the color would look good on me. Unfortunately the color seemed to make my skin look green and I just looked sick constantly, the dark circles under my eyes from staying up all night were emphasized, and the cut I had at the time made my face look disproportionately round.
I think I kind of liked it. See, because before I’d dyed it I’d started to reap the results of being the front man of a well-known local band. I basically had ass coming at me from all sides-which annoyed my then-girlfriend to no end and seriously got to be too much for me at one point. It was one of those stupid I’m-an-artist moments where I decided I wanted to be appreciated for my music, and not my looks so when my hair turned out so bad I kind of embraced it.
As it grew out, the pink wasn’t as close to my face and it started looking pretty cool. I started to find myself attractive again, which is never a good sign. It’s not good when I have too much confidence in my appearance because I tend to turn into a bit of an asshole. This is of course the speech I got when my girlfriend of two years left me for someone who was actually still in a band.
And no, don’t think that had anything to do with my depression. I was pretty much over her a year ago, but the consistent company is nice sometimes. Although I’ve pretty much replaced her with Dirty, at least as far as company goes. Maybe that’s part of what got me into the whole unwashed state-spending too much time with a guy called Dirty. I don’t know, but I don’t really care enough to read into it.
But yeah, there was my hair. I wanted to change my hair. The first logical thing was to just go all black, but that would do nothing for my I’m-not-depressed argument. So, I went for a kind of dark-bright compromise-black with purple. For the first time in 5 days I took my Joy Division shirt off, along with the jeans that had become an almost daily part of my life.
Maybe that’s what made it easier-actually being in the bathroom with my clothes off, with the shower right there. That and the fact that I’ve never been a person who enjoyed trying to lean over a sink or bathtub and straining my neck to get the dye out.
So that’s how it happened that after who knows how long, I’d almost inadvertently ended up taking a shower. And it was during that shower that I remembered how great they are. That’s the thing about putting off something you see as a chore, it’s never as bad as you make it out to be and in this case it was pretty awesome. I had forgotten how good my soap smelled and how refreshing it was to just let the water pour over me.
Who knows, maybe I really had been depressed and I’d just entered manic, but after stepping out of that shower and drying my newly dyed hair off, I had this sudden surge of wanting to be clean.
I wanted to wake up in the morning and actually see sunshine again, to go to my closet and think about what I wanted to put on that day and spend a half an hour changing my mind. I wanted to put on some eyeliner, find something clean to put on, and be hot again.
But see, that’s where I had a problem.
When you wear the same thing for days in a row, you always feel like you’re not really getting anything dirty. Of course if you do this long enough, and get too lazy to separate the dirty from the clean, you’re going to end up with a pile of dirty clothes anyway.
That’s what left me so annoyed. Everything I thought I wanted to wear, I realized it was dirty. I saw that it was 9pm, which meant I still had time to catch a show with Dirty. But first I actually had to wash some frickin clothes so once I found a laundry bag stuck underneath the doorframe, I stuffed it full of all the clothes I’d been disappointed to find dirty.
I think that if we had a washer and dryer in our apartment that I would do laundry all the time. As it stood though, we only had the building’s laundry room down in the basement. It’s better than most though, at least it’s open all day-probably because it’s a pretty nice building and they don’t expect random miscreants and vagrants to start loitering on the folding table in the middle of the night.
Honestly, I didn’t even expect anybody to be down there and I was surprised to see a bright baby blue sneaker kicking back and forth in front of the doorway. I paused at the open entry way, waiting for who ever it was to sense my presence and stop flailing their feet around long enough for me to pass through.
When the kicking didn’t stop, I leaned my upper body in and I saw that the boy inside was too engrossed in the book he was reading to notice I was there. I dipped my head a bit and saw that he was reading The Smiths: Songs That Saved Your Life”.
“You ever read The Severed Alliance?” I expected my voice to startle him, but it was almost like he’d known I was there the whole time and had just chosen to keep kicking away. His top lip curled slightly up on the left side and he peeked over the top of his glasses. “Morrissey & Marr: The Severed Alliance, it’s a little older.”
“A little bit, yeah.” He sounded amused and he finally stopped kicking and pulled himself back on the folding table he was sitting on, leaving room for me to walk through. I wasn’t sure whether he was agreeing with me that the book was old or if he was saying he’d read some of it, but he’d already returned to his reading so I chose to concentrate on loading the washing machine up.
I barely managed to stuff in the Misery Signals hoodie that Andy had surrendered into my possession after leaving it at my place about 3 months earlier and I hoped that the clothes would take up less space when they got wet because otherwise I’d end up with a big circle of clothes that were only clean on the parts that ended up on the edge.
I dug in my pocket and found the two dollars in quarters I’d scrounged up before coming downstairs. Lining up 6 of the 8 coins, I selected ‘permanent press’, then realized I hadn’t brought any detergent down. 50 cents wouldn’t even get me one of the little powdered boxes for sale in the dispenser beside the dryers. I enviously eyed the pale one I’ll call Mr. Smith’s economy sized tub of Tide.
“Hey, uh, Mr. Smith,” I don’t know why I called him that out loud, but it caught his attention and once again he seemed amused. “Do you think I can borrow some of that?” I circled my finger around as I pointed in the general direction of the bright orange container.
He laid his palm out, presenting the container to me in a ‘go ahead’ gesture and I flashed him that big smile ‘your special’ smile that I’ve been told…well, makes people feel special.
“Totally pay you back.” I over-enunciated this incomplete promise as I hauled the still mostly full bottle over to my machine and poured it in. After I’d gotten the cycle started and saw clean water hit my clothes for the first time in forever, I returned the Tide to his side. As I was about to turn and head for the folding chair across the room, I saw him close his book from the corner of my eye, slipping off his plastic frames and using them as a really delicate bookmark.
“You really live here?” He looked like he didn’t believe it.
“Yeah,” I laughed, “Do you think this building gets a lot of people wandering in off the streets to do laundry?”
“We used to do that at my old apartment-always used the washers in the complex around the block. Or, I don’t know, you could be visiting somebody.”
“I guess it would be visiting, wouldn’t it? With me down here doing laundry-or else one bitch of a one night stand.” I watched for a flinch when I cursed-it’s this thing I do when I meet new people sometimes, test out certain subject matter, certain words-he didn’t miss a beat before smirking at me and responding.
“Especially if you’re still here at 9:30 the next night.”
“9:30? I don’t get in until 5. I should be eating breakfast right now.” As I spoke, I saw his head tilt in what looked like recognition and I tilted my head in the opposite direction, not to mock him, but wondering if maybe we’d met before.
“You don’t live on the 4th floor do you?” He lifted the brim of his baseball cap, leaning in a few inches and I smiled nervously at the inspection, mostly because I was still in dirty-boy mode.
“I don’t know, you might end up knocking on my door or something.” I joked.
“Well if I don’t know, then how am I gonna get my borrowed detergent back?” He scratched one of his ultra-furry sideburns as he spoke and he reminded me of a little chipmunk or something-it was kind of adorable.
“Touché-and I meant what I said, a cup full of detergent, anytime you ask…4E”
“That’s the new neighborly gesture, huh? Is sugar so yesterday?”
“Yeah…” I stood there with my mouth open in an exaggerated expression of expectation, but he just laughed nervously. “So, you’re just gonna let me keep calling you Mr. Smith, apartment unknown?”
“I like it. And then I’ll just get your last name off of the directory later, and call you Mr. That.”
“What about first names?” I leaned my elbows down on the folding table beside him and looked up at him.
“Why don’t we do that strangers in the night thing? Where we don’t reveal our identities.”
“Like, I tell you my name is Andy or something.”
“Well, unless your name’s really Andy.”
“Do I look like an Andy?”
“Okay, well than nice to meet you, Andy.”
“That it is. And who, may I ask, are you?”
“I’m the bad twin.” He moved his brim back to its lower position.
“You’re the bad twin?” I laughed, “Is that what you want me to call you? Bad Twin?”
“Ah, okay, you can call me…Marty.”
“Hi, Marty. But, see it’s still not fair because you know more about me, you know what apartment I’m in-how’d you know that I’m on the 4th floor anyway.”
“What you said about coming in at 5am? You don’t exactly do it quietly.”
Suddenly in one of those sitcom moments, as soon as he said ‘quietly’, the washer closest to us started buzzing and indicating that it had entered some cycle where you’re supposed to add fabric softener or bleach or something.
“Sometimes I feel bad for the poor machine, all wanting something that I’m just not giving.” Marty sounded like he wanted to laugh as he spoke, but I couldn’t see the expression on his face because I was busy noticing that there was a very lacy, very pink, very feminine garment being twirled around the front of the machine like it had been plastered up against the little door window.
The smile on my face when I looked back at him must’ve made him curious because he turned to see what I’d been looking at.
“Is that yours?” I asked teasingly.
“Ah, I think I’d have a little problem filling that out-A-cup though I may be.”
“So you’re doing your girlfriend’s laundry?”
“Mother’s.”
“See, I don’t do laundry nearly often enough for anyone to trust their clothes to touch mine.”
“You mean that giant hoodie you stuffed in there was actually yours?”
“Well, no, that’s Andy’s, I’ve just been wearing it since he left it-” I was still rambling on for a moment before my brain reminded me that I was supposed to be Andy. “Ugh, I’m not good at this.”
“Clearly.” Marty laughed, “Entertaining though…My name is Patrick. 4B. With my mother. Never had a girlfriend.”
“Pete, not Andy, and…I’ve had a lot of different friends.”
Third: Pete hates Patrick because he feels like he Patrick isn’t the type of guy he should have a crush on-and yet he’s crushing away. I think it’s leading to non-con, but that’s not written in stone.
Way Away
Author: Calcium Yeah
Paring: Petrick
Fandom: Fall Out Boy
Rating: R
Summary: Pete thinks he should have better taste than he does.
Disclaimer: The FOB boys own themselves.
You know how there are people you dislike for no reason whatsoever? And you know how there are also people who you dislike because you’re really just unhappy about what you’re doing with your own life and you’re basically just jealous? And you know how there are people you dislike because they make you think about things that you’d rather ignore? Well, I’m very familiar with that-the last one the most, but all three of them really.
Actually, I’m usually more familiar with the second one because I’m a self-conscious, insecure person. But lately the last one has been stepping in and making itself known.
Patrick was a nice guy and a fucking hated him for it. There’s nothing that’ll make you feel like crap about yourself like standing in a room with someone who’s making everyone think ‘wow, what a nice guy’. Especially when you’re basically known as an enjoyable asshole and beneath the surface you wonder why anyone puts up with you.
Then you remember that they’re all complete assholes too and Patrick is the odd one out, but of course that’s why they find him special.
That sounds like the second problem though, it doesn’t sound like the third. And admittedly when Joe first showed up to hang out behind the Dairy Queen with some chubby kid with a bad haircut and glasses, it wasn’t even that. But as time went by that second dislike developed and as time went by you had to admit to yourself that it was really more of a third problem thing.
See because Patrick made you think things that you didn’t want to think about, and it frustrated the hell out of you.
I’m sorry, I have a habit of doing that-of saying “you” when I should be saying “me”. But doesn’t it sound much worse to say that Patrick makes me think things that I don’t want to think about? That hits way too close to home.
I just can’t understand it, I mean why him?
I’ve had guys hitting on me since seventh grade, girls since fourth or fifth. I’ve been called ‘pretty’ and ‘handsome’ and ‘hot’ and by now I take it for granted. I’ve slept with five girls, gotten oral from more-and that one’s not restricted by gender. I’ve been scared, as far as boys go, to ‘go all the way’ and I think that’s what pisses me off even more.
It’s those movies, all of them, the stupid loser-transformation movies like She’s All That where someone you wouldn’t look at twice turns out to be the definition of hot. Why else would I have looked at him, in that hideous David Bowie shirt (that was so something Joe would wear), in that ugly corduroy blazer (that was so something I would wear better), in that…ugh, why do I even know what he’s been wearing?! See, that’s what the point is, I shouldn’t be looking at him, I shouldn’t be wondering what it would be like….
No. Not thinking it. I could have someone so way hotter, what the hell is wrong with me? Why am I so obsessed with potentially slumming? Uck, I sound like such a horrible person, and that’s another reason why he makes me mad. He would never even think about someone like this, much less say it-he wouldn’t think about being out of someone’s league. I mean, if he ever was.
I wonder what he thinks about me-I’d like to think he had no idea just how much I hate everything that he is. So that’s yet another thing to add to the ever-growing list of what pisses me off about him. It’s that I shouldn’t care what someone like him thinks about me.
He probably thinks I’m an obnoxious jackass-someone without depth, without perspective-I’ll bet he looks down on me. Right through his stupid scenester glasses.
Okay, I’m all over the place and I think I need to stop being so emotional and sort things out. We start out at the beginning and I’m working this dead-end job and feeling bad about myself. But I don’t feel bad for too long because I’ll always meet someone at a show and things always go…well. Then one day Joe brings this nerdy, funny, weird, cute kid around and everyone just accepts him instantly and he doesn’t even have to do all the disgusting, idiotic, demeaning things that I’ve had to do over the years to keep these fuckers entertained.
Yeah. So, then he tells these stories about playing guitar and playing drums and when we’re singing along to Joy Division he actually sounds good. And he talks about studying in Amsterdam and how he wasn’t tempted by drugs at all and I think it’s at this point that I just want to start stabbing him in the head with a safety pin.
Today, he was contemplating a conservation trip to Brazil and I was thinking about shoving my tongue down his throat just to shut him up. A bunch of us were at Joe’s house, trying to take advantage of his parents’ absence by being as loud and sloppy as possible. We had the music blasting, a couple guys playing classic Mario Brothers games on an ancient Nintendo, and Skittles flying back and forth across the room.
I leaned over the back of the couch where Patrick was sitting. He was mid-sentence when the guy he’s talking to started snorting up what I’m guessing was cocaine, but which could’ve very well been powdered sugar for all I knew. I hadn’t expected to laugh, but the fact that I did so right in Patrick’s ear made it even better.
“Are you on that stuff too?” Patrick looked irritated and I felt offended because I hadn’t touched anything but sugar.
“Yeah, I am,” I leaned over the couch a little further, sliding my left arm over his shoulder, “But I wouldn’t mind sniffing some more off of something softer.” I slipped my hand over his chest and squeezed a little, and he jumped up from the couch. I stayed leaning over the couch, trying to laugh like I really was high or something, but I could see that cokehead on the couch was still looking at me laughing at me like I was a loser who had really tried to make a move and had just gotten rejected
.
“I’m just fucking around, calm down.” I straightened up quickly, discarding any pretense of being under the influence.
“Well it’s not funny.” He crossed his arms and now I was irritated too-do you know how many people would’ve loved for me to get stoned and feel them up? He should’ve been looking at this as his lucky day.
“Sorry.” I tried to sound sincere, but I’m sure it didn’t work. I really wanted to ask him what his problem was, but that would just invite him to tell me that he’s never liked me and I needed to take my super-gay come-ons to one of the scene whores who actually wants me.
He just looked around uncomfortably like he just realized who he’d been hanging out with for all these months and that he couldn’t understand how he’d missed it. He didn’t even acknowledge my apology and that’s just rude and I really felt like we needed to talk about the problems I had with him, and we needed to have that talk somewhere private where people couldn’t hear how much of a dick I was about to be.
“I really was just kidding…I’m not a big fan of that whole scene. I was gonna go upstairs and watch some TV until everyone calmed down and I guess…you looked like you didn’t want to be around it either.” It’s a funny thing being nice to someone who I hate, there’s always a part of me feeling like my true feelings are shining right through.
Patrick looked around like he was weighing his options and I had to fight not to make a disgusted face at his sheer lack of interest in me.
Come on, come on, you indecisive prick.
First: Pete is a student in beauty school; teenage Patrick’s mom brings him for a haircut:
Title: So Good in Blue
Author: Calcium Yeah
Paring: Petrick
Fandom: Fall Out Boy
Rating: PG-13
Summary: AU Patrick’s mom brings him for a haircut. Pete is a student in beauty school.
Disclaimer: The FOB boys own themselves.
A/N: I wanted to write a cute little fetish piece, but my last fic taught me that fluff leaves me kind of unsatisfied. Sorry guys, I had to throw in some angst & some weird.
Hair Professionals Academy
“…they probably won’t be able to do any bleaching, but a red or a bronze-.”
“I’m actually here for my son,” Patrick’s mother interrupted the receptionist who had been talking since they stepped in the door, touting the HPA students’ newly acquired skills in foil highlighting. The woman’s head peeked over as Patrick’s mother indicated the disinterested boy hidden and sulking behind her. “I was hoping to get his haircut.”
“Oh. Well, we really try to keep up with what the students have been learning in class. There’ll be a newer group in on Thursday night-.”
“No, that’s alright, we have to attend a wedding tomorrow morning.”
“Mrs. Way, what about Peter?” Nobody had noticed the tiny girl appear, but there she was, holding a ruptured bottle of “Chestnut” hair dye and looking up at the receptionist. The receptionist seemed baffled for a moment before she comprehended what the girl was saying.
“I think we’re going to let Mr. Wentz stick with mannequins for a while.”
“Would he be able to do my son’s haircut?” Patrick’s mother asked in such a determined manner that Patrick already knew he was getting this done here.
“He’s a little behind, yes, but we have him working on mannequins now-.”
“That’s fine, my son just needs a simple wash and cut. I’m sure it’ll be fine. How much is it?”
“Oh, it’s-for Pete, it’s $5.” The receptionist seemed dumbstruck as Patrick’s mother had somehow turned ‘no’ into ‘yes’ in a matter of seconds.
“Jodie, find Peter please, and tell him he has a wash and…haircut.” The receptionist spoke to the girl who rushed off, leaving Patrick wondering what was with the ruptured bottle of dye still clutched in her hands. He watched as his mother paid in advance, leaving him not just getting a student haircut, but apparently a remedial one. She left him there after paying, off to buy his father a proper pair of dress socks. She’d probably spend $20 on a designer pair of those instead of bringing him to get a full-price haircut.
The sound of shuffling sneakers squeaking against the floor signaled Pete’s arrival. As soon as Patrick saw him, he was scared for his hair. The guy was bouncing up and down with a gigantic smile on his face.
“You’re gonna let me cut on a person?!” He beamed up at the receptionist who, now that Patrick thought about it, was probably the owner of the place or something. When she confirmed his assignment, he looked like an 8 year old who was just told he could eat ice cream for dinner.
The telephone rang and the woman seemed grateful for the distraction as she pointed out Patrick and instructed Pete to bring the boy back to his station. Patrick was somewhat uncomfortable with Pete smiling at him like the experiment that he apparently was. Plus, he had the most unflattering shade of baby blue streaked in his hair-if that was an example of his work then Patrick was worried. Pete didn’t seem to notice Patrick’s wariness as he led him to the back.
“Hehe. Well, I’m Pete and I’ll be your stylist today.” Pete couldn’t seem to keep a straight face as he said it, but he was clearly trying to seem somewhat professional and Patrick realized after a moment that Pete was expecting him to introduce himself as well.
“Uh-Patrick. Your, what am I? Your client?”
“Probably. I don’t know. I’ve been sitting back here with the bowl of candy for 2 hours. All the good stuff’s kind of gone now, but you can see if there’s anything you want.” Pete pointed at an almost empty bowl holding several caramels, mints, butterscotch candies, and Smarties. He must have decimated that thing on his own because his station was tucked away in the middle of nowhere in a back corner next to a supply closet and it was painfully obvious that he’d been designated to get the substandard equipment. Patrick was resigned to his fate though, and when Pete indicated that he should take a seat, Patrick took his hat off and sat down in the chair.
“Wow, you’re um…getting kind of thin up here.” Pete’s said it matter-of-factly, like he knew there was no reason to point it out, but he wanted to anyway.
“I know.” Patrick squirmed slightly because he didn’t like people standing above him when he didn’t have a hat on and Pete’s blatant observation wasn’t helping.
“I think I could probably hide it, if I put a part on the si-.” Pete started flicking the hair on top of Patrick’s head around.
“No comb over!” Patrick refused to believe that things had gotten that bad.
“Okay, okay, so do you just wanna leave it out there?” Pete swirled his hands in circles a few inches above Patrick’s head.
“I’m putting my hat back on as soon as I leave here and I’m not taking it off again until I save up enough for hair plugs.” Patrick pushed himself back in the seat, pouting, and apparently showing his age.
“Wow. That’s just-what are you, 15?”
“16.”
“Hmm.” Pete didn’t seem to be fully paying attention as he’d turned around at some point to root around the bottles scattered around his workspace.
“Did you do your own hair? I mean-the blue…?” Patrick tried to sound mildly curious, and not like he was scared for his hair or anything.
“They won’t let me near the dye yet.” Pete laughed as if he knew the real reason Patrick was asking. Pete leaned over Patrick from above, smiling reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I’m better than they think I am.”
The smile almost gave Patrick a sense of calm-until Pete circled around and Patrick got a glance at his hair again. Patrick was of the opinion that there was more than one reason emo kids should be kept away from sharp objects-one of them being those damn lopsided haircuts. Then again, maybe he was just bitter; his hair probably wouldn’t take to a cut like that too well.
Pete stood in front of him, fingering the hair in the front, bringing a few pieces forward and making them tickle Patrick’s cheeks and nose.
“Okay, I think I’ve got it. I’m gonna give you a wash, start with something for fullness, kind of g-.”
“Okay, I have no idea what you’re talking about so you really can just go ahead.” Patrick put his hands up in what looked like surrender, and Pete smiled, moving to tilt Patrick’s chair back. “Just…nothing crazy.”
Patrick felt the sudden urge to shut up as Pete used his left hand to guide Patrick’s upper body back as he adjusted the seat with his right. Apparently, Pete was having some trouble locking the chair in place, and Patrick was left feeling somewhat awkward as he tried to find an interesting spot on the ceiling so he could focus on that and act like it wasn’t weird having Pete hovering inches above him and wiggling around.
“Alright.” Pete sounded relieved when he finally got the seat in proper position. He pushed himself back slightly to smile down at Patrick…which Patrick finally noticed when his eyes stopped darting around from nothing to nothing. “Now that the complicated stuff is over….”
Pete turned the water on, keeping it directed off to the right as he tested the temperature. He pushed Patrick’s forehead back, indicating it was somewhat satisfactory, and Patrick closed his eyes in response.
“Is that alright?” Pete let a note of nervousness slip through as he brought the stream of water over. Patrick turned into the blasé one as the tepid water hit his hairline. He could only bring himself to mutter an “mmhmm” in response.
The water was warm against Patrick’s forehead, cascading past his ears, and rolling down along his neck. Pete adjusted the knobs, and the water streamed down with more force. Patrick felt himself sinking back into the chair.
As if on cue, Patrick was overwhelmed with the scent of peppermint as Pete opened a bottle of shampoo. He felt the shampoo hit the top of his head in a chilled pile of goo.
“That is so cold.” Patrick giggled through his barely parted lips because he was still mostly relaxed, but the cold was slightly jarring. Patrick could kind of hear Pete’s muffled laugh in response. But, he was too distracted to notice, thanks to the tingling sensation where his head came into contact with the shampoo.
Pete’s hands worked from back to front, spreading the peppermint-scented goo along Patrick’s hair. His fingers dipped down to press into Patrick’s scalp and massage in the tingling substance.
It was one of the greatest sensations Patrick had ever felt. The pads of Pete’s fingers pushing around through his roots, surrounded by this persistent almost stinging sensation. And all the time that minty fragrance invading his senses. He started to wish he’d been coming in for a massage. A full body wet and minty massage.
Patrick could hear Pete’s breathing above him as the other boy leaned over him, fingers pulsing against his scalp. Patrick then realized that he too was breathing kind of loudly. He was suddenly aware of the rest of his body and he knew, even as he hoped against hope that he was wrong, that he’d probably been growing harder by the minute.
As soon as he thought of it, he became painfully aware that yes indeed, he had enough of an erection that it was starting to press up against the front of his jeans. And he couldn’t open his eyes so he could only sit there silently praying that the guy hadn’t noticed. He was suddenly very grateful that they were somewhat isolated where they were.
It was a strange conflict of emotions as he was pulled between worrying about his visible arousal, feeling those hands inside his hair, and wondering how remedial this guy had to be that he didn’t think to put one of those smock things on him.
Of course, if he mentioned that smock thing it would a) be kind of pointless by now, and b) possibly call attention to why he really wanted to be covered up.
Patrick lost his train of thought as Pete’s hand gripped more firmly on his skull, moving it around to rinse the lather from his hair. His hand fingered through the front of Patrick’s hair, palm resting on his eyebrows so that they moved along with his hand.
Patrick let out a moan that he hoped came across as a sigh…then again that wasn’t too flattering either. He squirmed in the chair, pressing his legs together and wishing he could open his eyes.
Pete’s hands moved to the sides of Patrick’s head, pushing back from his face and curling around Patrick’s ears, tracing just above his jaw line, quickly ghosting over his lips and chin before whipping down to his neck and pushing the straggling hair back.
Pete’s hands disappeared, and next thing Patrick knew he felt a rough towel being placed across his face. He sat there for a moment before realizing that Pete wasn’t going to dry his face off for him. As he was rubbing the towel across his face, he could hear something clanking around behind him. He sat up, wrapping the towel around his entire head and when his face was dry he turned his head to find Pete staring into the blowing end of a blow-dryer and flicking a switch up and down.
“Should you be staring into it?” Patrick thought about not saying anything, but he halfway expected to see flames start shooting out of that thing. Pete tilted his head slightly, but didn’t look away as he smiled.
“This thing’s gonna be pointed at your head in about 2 seconds, so we’re just gonna make sure it doesn’t start up on scalding.”
“Alright.” Patrick still didn’t think he needed to be staring down into the thing, but he turned back around. Eventually, he heard a “whoa” as the blow-dryer turned on. When Pete pointed it towards Patrick’s head, the thing must have been still set on blazing because Patrick felt like he’d stuck his head in an oven-and why did people kill themselves like that? It seemed really unpleasant, I mean gas doesn’t smell very good….
“Crap.” Pete brought Patrick out of his reverie in one of the worst ways possible. There are some things you just don’t want to hear from someone doing your hair. “I think I was supposed to do the cut while it was wet.”
Patrick wasn’t facing the mirror, but he knew his hair was almost dry after being scalded for the last few minutes.
“Okay, wait, I’ve got it.” Pete turned the blow-dryer off and before Patrick’s skin could be relieved, he was assaulted with an army of bristles. Pete began running the brush over Patrick’s hair, trying to distribute the remaining moisture and lay Patrick’s hair down flat. When he was satisfied (and when Patrick’s vision was thoroughly blocked), he picked up the scissors.
Patrick wanted to find out what he was doing-he really wanted to know-but he was scared to ask. He sat there nervously as he heard snipping and felt hair hitting his neck. Finally, Pete ran his fingers through the front of Patrick’s hair.
“You’re doing bangs, aren’t you?” Whenever Patrick actually went out for ‘real’ haircuts, they always gave him bangs.
“You’ll look good in bangs.” Pete sounded a little bit too amused for Patrick’s liking. “I so wish I wasn’t being supervised with this one.”
“Why?”
“Because you’d look good in blue too.”
“Um, I’m not too big on blue.” Patrick was worried that Pete was somehow going to talk him into walking out of here with some weirdo dye job. Pete just laughed and brushed off Patrick’s face and shoulders.
Patrick felt himself spun around, and when he got a look at himself in the mirror he saw a surprisingly normal, decent haircut.
“I told you I was better than they think.”
“So, are you gonna get to cut on people now?”
“No, because you’re not gonna let them see you when you leave and I’m going to dip out early.”
“I’m not even gonna ask.”
“Yeah, it’s one of those stories.” Pete was busy putting things away so Patrick couldn’t see his face, but he could see a bit of cheek poking out that indicated Pete was smiling. Patrick was still sitting in the chair and he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to just get up and leave. Pete closed the cabinet he was crouching in front of and grinned as he looked over his shoulder and up at Patrick. “Are you gonna wait for me to get off?”
What? Patrick wasn’t sure if that was teasing or a proposition. He looked at Pete blankly.
“Meet me out by the soda machine in 5 minutes.” Pete wasn’t whispering or anything, but he still sounded like he was trying to be sneaky and Patrick was wondering what the hell the guy wanted with him. Maybe he wanted to go get something to eat or kill some time or something. There probably wasn’t much to do around here.
The whole time Patrick stood waiting out in the corridor, he felt like he was a second from walking away, even as he attempted to distract himself by counting how many slots had been designated to each sub-brand of Pepsi in the soda machine.
He wasn’t really paying attention until Pete face floated into view. He’d put on a small black hoodie with pink bats or something on it and he had a seemingly empty book bag in his hand.
“I need to run into the dollar store for a second, d’you feel like helping me pick out a new notebook?” Pete asked as he grabbed Patrick’s hand and started pulling him in the direction of the store in what Patrick thought was a very presumptuous and straightforward manner.
The beauty school inhabited the second floor of an old mall that hadn’t been popular since the early eighties. Its immediate neighbors on the second floor were a dollar store and a locksmith. So it wasn’t exactly an active area, which is why Patrick was surprised to see the boy that had Pete suddenly shoving him behind his new friend, the soda machine near the parking lot exit.
“That’s my-um-I th-that’s my…roommate. Andy.” Pete took a little too long to get the sentence out as he pressed himself up against a plotted plant in an obvious attempt not to be spotted by the long-haired boy.
As Patrick stood there as still as possible behind the soda machine, looking over at Pete crouched behind the plant, he thought that he wouldn’t mind his mother showing up right now. Of course, that wasn’t going to happen. He was in walking distance to his neighborhood (and if he was really lazy-to a bus station) and his mother was long gone off to a more populated area of town. I just needed a stupid haircut. Patrick watched Pete peeking through the leaves of the plant and remembered that aside from the hotness, this guy had seemed kind of deficient from the beginning.
“You look like an idiot.” The voice was clearly directed at Pete, and if Patrick hadn’t still been so focused on hiding, he’d have laughed at the truth of that statement. Pete ambled out from behind the plant and headed in the direction of the voice. He was smiling, but it looked blatantly nervous and as he disappeared from Patrick’s view, he got a queasy feeling in his stomach.
As the two other boys spoke, Patrick could hear pieces of their conversation.
“What are you doing?” Andy’s voice was softer than Patrick expected from his look.
“Doing with what?”
“Don’t be a dick, you know what I mean. That kid, what are you doing with him?”
“Kid?” Pete laughed.
“Yeah, the one you stuffed behind a soda machine when you saw me coming.”
Pete didn’t respond and Patrick straightened up nervously, feeling like an idiot for hiding when the guy knew he was there. Unfortunately he didn’t know how to step out from hiding without it being weird. Plus, Pete had asked him to stay back there and this didn’t sound like something he wanted to get involved in anyway. Especially when Andy sounding so disgusted when he spoke again.
“Ah, come on, Pete, man, that’s gross. The kid is like twelve.”
“Ugh, what’s wrong with you? Twelve?” Pete sounded like he thought his friend was an being absurd and Patrick agreed because, what the hell? Twelve?
“Okay, I’m exaggerating, but seriously what the hell are you doing?”
“Nothing, okay, nothing. I’m just hanging out with him, that’s all.”
“I don’t know, man. I don’t know.”
“What’s there to ‘know’ about?” Pete was starting to sound irritated.
“It’s just-you kind of have a problem.” Andy sounded apologetic, and from Patrick’s limited experience irritated and apologetic don’t blend well.
“A pro-what? Since when do I have a problem?” See? Because Pete’s irritation was now evident and Patrick was stashed behind a soda machine, listening to a conversation that was clearly headed downhill.
“Like I said, I don’t know. I jus-I…no, you know, what? I’m not making excuses for it. That kid Joe, he was fucking 15, and there’s something wrong with that.” Andy had apparently been holding onto some unspoken feelings and the resolution in his voice made it perfectly clear to Patrick what the situation had been.
“I didn’t know how old he was.”
“Yeah, but finding out didn’t stop you from screwing him. You’d still be doing it if his parents hadn’t found out.” If Patrick had any doubts about what they were talking about, that just erased them.
“So I must be after every underage boy in the greater Chicago area, huh? Don’t start that homophobic shit with me.” Pete was almost whispering. Patrick figured that Pete had to know he was in hearing range, but that whispering and the whole direction this argument just took made this feel like something that Patrick was really not supposed to hear.
“Oh, don’t you dare turn this into that, because I’m no bigot and you’re no victim. We’re not talking dramatics here, we’re talking about reality, and the reality is that I just can’t bring myself to believe that your intentions in this situation are-out of nowhere-just suddenly pure.”
“Well, then it’s a good thing that my life choices don’t rest on your interpretation of my intentions.”
“Don’t try to sound intelligent with me, you’re pissed because you know you’re wrong.”
“I’m not wrong about anything. You are the one here with half truths and misinformation.”
“Oh, am I?”
“You are. And what I had with Joe-when I-you don’t just throw a relationship away when you find out everything wasn’t as it seemed.” And now Patrick could hear a weariness in Pete’s tone that he hadn’t noticed before. It was tired. And it was stressed. But, Andy must not have seen that as sufficient reason to leave him alone.
“When you found out he was 15 years old?! You don’t see anything wrong with that?!”
“Of course I see something wrong! But I’m supposed to just cut my feelings off just like that? I’m supposed to tell the man I’ve been with for months-the first man I even kissed, the man I have been talking about building a future with, I’m just supposed to end it?” Patrick couldn’t help himself, he peeked around the machine, wanting to get a visual glimpse of the emotion he heard. He needed to see Pete’s face. But, as far as he knew it was buried in his hands, because he couldn’t see anything of the pair besides Andy’s back.
“Yes, yes, fuck, do you hear yourself, you’re calling this boy a ‘man’, talking about a future together and he was fif-fucking-teen.”
“But, I didn’t know that!” Pete’s voice was straining in an attempt to make Andy understand.
“This is endless; this is just endless.” Andy threw his arms up in exasperation.
“Well, hey, you know, I think I’ll just go ahead and end it.” Pete’s sneakers hitting the mall floor didn’t really make for a striking exit, but they served their purpose in getting him the hell away from Andy as quickly as possible.
Patrick knew he looked guilty for overhearing the conversation, and he saw Pete’s face twitch from pissed to a reflection of Patrick’s guilt. Not for long though, because Patrick felt himself yanked from behind the machine and pulled along. Pete turned to face Andy and threw his middle finger up at him before dragging Patrick along into the dollar store. Patrick was panicking inside, wondering what he’d just been brought into, what Pete wanted from him, and why Pete didn’t see anything wrong with manhandling a boy he’d just met.
Second: Pete finally gets around to washing clothes & he meets Patrick in the laundry room.
Title: Filth & Happiness
Author: Calcium Yeah
Paring: Pete/Patrick
Fandom: Fall Out Boy
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: The FOB boys own themselves.
Summary: AU Pete meets Patrick in the building’s laundry room.
A/N: I came across this fic that I had started for the PxP laundry challenge like forever ago.
You know that day where you finally take a shower? The day when for some reason or another you decide to make the effort of taking your clothes off, going to the bathroom, turning some knobs to get the temperature just right, and pick up that sliver of soap that’s been the same size for 2 months?
You don’t? Well, you’re just the picture of fucking cleanliness, aren’t you?
Sorry. Let me start over. I get defensive sometimes when it comes to things that people see as a big deal that really don’t seem so big to me. Things like daily showering. I mean, what the hell? It’s not like it’s really so horrible to let things go for a few weeks. So I wake up and go to the store in the clothes I’ve slept in all night-the clothes I’ve been wearing since the last time I left the house-the clothes I won’t change until I have a damn good reason.
And my mother wonders why I never do my laundry. I’ve only worn 5 outfits this month. Okay, wait that’s a lie-two hoodies, 7 shirts, and 3 pairs of pants. Whatever, I think it averages out. Maybe 4 pairs of socks, two pairs of underwear-but it’s not as bad as it sounds because I only wore underwear when I really needed to, like if I was going to have to run or something.
And yeah, my mother would complain about it, ask me when I was going to wash/change my clothes, when I was going to wash myself, cut my hair, remove the thin strips of black polish still clinging to my nails. I told her I’d done it all yesterday.
My mom’s not too happy with me.
Of course my father’s the problem solver, so he thinks he’s solved the “problem”. Things like this, they’re signs of depression. What do I have to be depressed about? Life is going great. He thought maybe it was about my band breaking up, and I think that no band means no performing means no sweating through my clothes everynight means no filthy fabric clingy to my pores and making me want to wash. So maybe he’s right, I’m not washing because I’m not in a band, but it’s not because I’m depressed.
That’s not how I get when I’m depressed. How can I be depressed when I’m still going out almost every night? How can I be depressed when I’m 1-2-3 months away from the maturity date on one bitch of a trust fund? How can I be depressed when I’m able to sit around in the same clothes everyday because I don’t need to get a job? How can I be depressed when I’m enjoying everything about my life? Hell, I’m glad I’m not in a band right now; I don’t know how I would write without a head full of angst.
Do you know what I do all day? I wake up around 1pm, watch cartoons & eat cereal, pick up my bass, call Andy to find out if he’s found anyone for our next band, call Dirty when Andy says no, arrange to meet up with Dirty at the park at 7, watch a movie, eat whatever junk food is laying around my room, lay on my bed & toss a soccer ball in the air, show up at the park at 8, wait for Dirty until 8:15, wander around the city trying to find something to do, go to a midnight show if there’s one happening, get home before daylight, realize I haven’t eaten in hours and stand at the open refrigerator wasting energy as I pick at cold leftovers from my family’s dinner, then go to sleep.
What’s not to love about that?
Nothing I tell you, nothing. The only thing that threw a wrench in my routine was the desire to change my hair. I’d dyed it pink a few months ago and it was not growing out well-which is to say that it was actually starting to look good.
See, I’d dyed it originally with the best of intentions, I thought the color would look good on me. Unfortunately the color seemed to make my skin look green and I just looked sick constantly, the dark circles under my eyes from staying up all night were emphasized, and the cut I had at the time made my face look disproportionately round.
I think I kind of liked it. See, because before I’d dyed it I’d started to reap the results of being the front man of a well-known local band. I basically had ass coming at me from all sides-which annoyed my then-girlfriend to no end and seriously got to be too much for me at one point. It was one of those stupid I’m-an-artist moments where I decided I wanted to be appreciated for my music, and not my looks so when my hair turned out so bad I kind of embraced it.
As it grew out, the pink wasn’t as close to my face and it started looking pretty cool. I started to find myself attractive again, which is never a good sign. It’s not good when I have too much confidence in my appearance because I tend to turn into a bit of an asshole. This is of course the speech I got when my girlfriend of two years left me for someone who was actually still in a band.
And no, don’t think that had anything to do with my depression. I was pretty much over her a year ago, but the consistent company is nice sometimes. Although I’ve pretty much replaced her with Dirty, at least as far as company goes. Maybe that’s part of what got me into the whole unwashed state-spending too much time with a guy called Dirty. I don’t know, but I don’t really care enough to read into it.
But yeah, there was my hair. I wanted to change my hair. The first logical thing was to just go all black, but that would do nothing for my I’m-not-depressed argument. So, I went for a kind of dark-bright compromise-black with purple. For the first time in 5 days I took my Joy Division shirt off, along with the jeans that had become an almost daily part of my life.
Maybe that’s what made it easier-actually being in the bathroom with my clothes off, with the shower right there. That and the fact that I’ve never been a person who enjoyed trying to lean over a sink or bathtub and straining my neck to get the dye out.
So that’s how it happened that after who knows how long, I’d almost inadvertently ended up taking a shower. And it was during that shower that I remembered how great they are. That’s the thing about putting off something you see as a chore, it’s never as bad as you make it out to be and in this case it was pretty awesome. I had forgotten how good my soap smelled and how refreshing it was to just let the water pour over me.
Who knows, maybe I really had been depressed and I’d just entered manic, but after stepping out of that shower and drying my newly dyed hair off, I had this sudden surge of wanting to be clean.
I wanted to wake up in the morning and actually see sunshine again, to go to my closet and think about what I wanted to put on that day and spend a half an hour changing my mind. I wanted to put on some eyeliner, find something clean to put on, and be hot again.
But see, that’s where I had a problem.
When you wear the same thing for days in a row, you always feel like you’re not really getting anything dirty. Of course if you do this long enough, and get too lazy to separate the dirty from the clean, you’re going to end up with a pile of dirty clothes anyway.
That’s what left me so annoyed. Everything I thought I wanted to wear, I realized it was dirty. I saw that it was 9pm, which meant I still had time to catch a show with Dirty. But first I actually had to wash some frickin clothes so once I found a laundry bag stuck underneath the doorframe, I stuffed it full of all the clothes I’d been disappointed to find dirty.
I think that if we had a washer and dryer in our apartment that I would do laundry all the time. As it stood though, we only had the building’s laundry room down in the basement. It’s better than most though, at least it’s open all day-probably because it’s a pretty nice building and they don’t expect random miscreants and vagrants to start loitering on the folding table in the middle of the night.
Honestly, I didn’t even expect anybody to be down there and I was surprised to see a bright baby blue sneaker kicking back and forth in front of the doorway. I paused at the open entry way, waiting for who ever it was to sense my presence and stop flailing their feet around long enough for me to pass through.
When the kicking didn’t stop, I leaned my upper body in and I saw that the boy inside was too engrossed in the book he was reading to notice I was there. I dipped my head a bit and saw that he was reading The Smiths: Songs That Saved Your Life”.
“You ever read The Severed Alliance?” I expected my voice to startle him, but it was almost like he’d known I was there the whole time and had just chosen to keep kicking away. His top lip curled slightly up on the left side and he peeked over the top of his glasses. “Morrissey & Marr: The Severed Alliance, it’s a little older.”
“A little bit, yeah.” He sounded amused and he finally stopped kicking and pulled himself back on the folding table he was sitting on, leaving room for me to walk through. I wasn’t sure whether he was agreeing with me that the book was old or if he was saying he’d read some of it, but he’d already returned to his reading so I chose to concentrate on loading the washing machine up.
I barely managed to stuff in the Misery Signals hoodie that Andy had surrendered into my possession after leaving it at my place about 3 months earlier and I hoped that the clothes would take up less space when they got wet because otherwise I’d end up with a big circle of clothes that were only clean on the parts that ended up on the edge.
I dug in my pocket and found the two dollars in quarters I’d scrounged up before coming downstairs. Lining up 6 of the 8 coins, I selected ‘permanent press’, then realized I hadn’t brought any detergent down. 50 cents wouldn’t even get me one of the little powdered boxes for sale in the dispenser beside the dryers. I enviously eyed the pale one I’ll call Mr. Smith’s economy sized tub of Tide.
“Hey, uh, Mr. Smith,” I don’t know why I called him that out loud, but it caught his attention and once again he seemed amused. “Do you think I can borrow some of that?” I circled my finger around as I pointed in the general direction of the bright orange container.
He laid his palm out, presenting the container to me in a ‘go ahead’ gesture and I flashed him that big smile ‘your special’ smile that I’ve been told…well, makes people feel special.
“Totally pay you back.” I over-enunciated this incomplete promise as I hauled the still mostly full bottle over to my machine and poured it in. After I’d gotten the cycle started and saw clean water hit my clothes for the first time in forever, I returned the Tide to his side. As I was about to turn and head for the folding chair across the room, I saw him close his book from the corner of my eye, slipping off his plastic frames and using them as a really delicate bookmark.
“You really live here?” He looked like he didn’t believe it.
“Yeah,” I laughed, “Do you think this building gets a lot of people wandering in off the streets to do laundry?”
“We used to do that at my old apartment-always used the washers in the complex around the block. Or, I don’t know, you could be visiting somebody.”
“I guess it would be visiting, wouldn’t it? With me down here doing laundry-or else one bitch of a one night stand.” I watched for a flinch when I cursed-it’s this thing I do when I meet new people sometimes, test out certain subject matter, certain words-he didn’t miss a beat before smirking at me and responding.
“Especially if you’re still here at 9:30 the next night.”
“9:30? I don’t get in until 5. I should be eating breakfast right now.” As I spoke, I saw his head tilt in what looked like recognition and I tilted my head in the opposite direction, not to mock him, but wondering if maybe we’d met before.
“You don’t live on the 4th floor do you?” He lifted the brim of his baseball cap, leaning in a few inches and I smiled nervously at the inspection, mostly because I was still in dirty-boy mode.
“I don’t know, you might end up knocking on my door or something.” I joked.
“Well if I don’t know, then how am I gonna get my borrowed detergent back?” He scratched one of his ultra-furry sideburns as he spoke and he reminded me of a little chipmunk or something-it was kind of adorable.
“Touché-and I meant what I said, a cup full of detergent, anytime you ask…4E”
“That’s the new neighborly gesture, huh? Is sugar so yesterday?”
“Yeah…” I stood there with my mouth open in an exaggerated expression of expectation, but he just laughed nervously. “So, you’re just gonna let me keep calling you Mr. Smith, apartment unknown?”
“I like it. And then I’ll just get your last name off of the directory later, and call you Mr. That.”
“What about first names?” I leaned my elbows down on the folding table beside him and looked up at him.
“Why don’t we do that strangers in the night thing? Where we don’t reveal our identities.”
“Like, I tell you my name is Andy or something.”
“Well, unless your name’s really Andy.”
“Do I look like an Andy?”
“Okay, well than nice to meet you, Andy.”
“That it is. And who, may I ask, are you?”
“I’m the bad twin.” He moved his brim back to its lower position.
“You’re the bad twin?” I laughed, “Is that what you want me to call you? Bad Twin?”
“Ah, okay, you can call me…Marty.”
“Hi, Marty. But, see it’s still not fair because you know more about me, you know what apartment I’m in-how’d you know that I’m on the 4th floor anyway.”
“What you said about coming in at 5am? You don’t exactly do it quietly.”
Suddenly in one of those sitcom moments, as soon as he said ‘quietly’, the washer closest to us started buzzing and indicating that it had entered some cycle where you’re supposed to add fabric softener or bleach or something.
“Sometimes I feel bad for the poor machine, all wanting something that I’m just not giving.” Marty sounded like he wanted to laugh as he spoke, but I couldn’t see the expression on his face because I was busy noticing that there was a very lacy, very pink, very feminine garment being twirled around the front of the machine like it had been plastered up against the little door window.
The smile on my face when I looked back at him must’ve made him curious because he turned to see what I’d been looking at.
“Is that yours?” I asked teasingly.
“Ah, I think I’d have a little problem filling that out-A-cup though I may be.”
“So you’re doing your girlfriend’s laundry?”
“Mother’s.”
“See, I don’t do laundry nearly often enough for anyone to trust their clothes to touch mine.”
“You mean that giant hoodie you stuffed in there was actually yours?”
“Well, no, that’s Andy’s, I’ve just been wearing it since he left it-” I was still rambling on for a moment before my brain reminded me that I was supposed to be Andy. “Ugh, I’m not good at this.”
“Clearly.” Marty laughed, “Entertaining though…My name is Patrick. 4B. With my mother. Never had a girlfriend.”
“Pete, not Andy, and…I’ve had a lot of different friends.”
Third: Pete hates Patrick because he feels like he Patrick isn’t the type of guy he should have a crush on-and yet he’s crushing away. I think it’s leading to non-con, but that’s not written in stone.
Way Away
Author: Calcium Yeah
Paring: Petrick
Fandom: Fall Out Boy
Rating: R
Summary: Pete thinks he should have better taste than he does.
Disclaimer: The FOB boys own themselves.
You know how there are people you dislike for no reason whatsoever? And you know how there are also people who you dislike because you’re really just unhappy about what you’re doing with your own life and you’re basically just jealous? And you know how there are people you dislike because they make you think about things that you’d rather ignore? Well, I’m very familiar with that-the last one the most, but all three of them really.
Actually, I’m usually more familiar with the second one because I’m a self-conscious, insecure person. But lately the last one has been stepping in and making itself known.
Patrick was a nice guy and a fucking hated him for it. There’s nothing that’ll make you feel like crap about yourself like standing in a room with someone who’s making everyone think ‘wow, what a nice guy’. Especially when you’re basically known as an enjoyable asshole and beneath the surface you wonder why anyone puts up with you.
Then you remember that they’re all complete assholes too and Patrick is the odd one out, but of course that’s why they find him special.
That sounds like the second problem though, it doesn’t sound like the third. And admittedly when Joe first showed up to hang out behind the Dairy Queen with some chubby kid with a bad haircut and glasses, it wasn’t even that. But as time went by that second dislike developed and as time went by you had to admit to yourself that it was really more of a third problem thing.
See because Patrick made you think things that you didn’t want to think about, and it frustrated the hell out of you.
I’m sorry, I have a habit of doing that-of saying “you” when I should be saying “me”. But doesn’t it sound much worse to say that Patrick makes me think things that I don’t want to think about? That hits way too close to home.
I just can’t understand it, I mean why him?
I’ve had guys hitting on me since seventh grade, girls since fourth or fifth. I’ve been called ‘pretty’ and ‘handsome’ and ‘hot’ and by now I take it for granted. I’ve slept with five girls, gotten oral from more-and that one’s not restricted by gender. I’ve been scared, as far as boys go, to ‘go all the way’ and I think that’s what pisses me off even more.
It’s those movies, all of them, the stupid loser-transformation movies like She’s All That where someone you wouldn’t look at twice turns out to be the definition of hot. Why else would I have looked at him, in that hideous David Bowie shirt (that was so something Joe would wear), in that ugly corduroy blazer (that was so something I would wear better), in that…ugh, why do I even know what he’s been wearing?! See, that’s what the point is, I shouldn’t be looking at him, I shouldn’t be wondering what it would be like….
No. Not thinking it. I could have someone so way hotter, what the hell is wrong with me? Why am I so obsessed with potentially slumming? Uck, I sound like such a horrible person, and that’s another reason why he makes me mad. He would never even think about someone like this, much less say it-he wouldn’t think about being out of someone’s league. I mean, if he ever was.
I wonder what he thinks about me-I’d like to think he had no idea just how much I hate everything that he is. So that’s yet another thing to add to the ever-growing list of what pisses me off about him. It’s that I shouldn’t care what someone like him thinks about me.
He probably thinks I’m an obnoxious jackass-someone without depth, without perspective-I’ll bet he looks down on me. Right through his stupid scenester glasses.
Okay, I’m all over the place and I think I need to stop being so emotional and sort things out. We start out at the beginning and I’m working this dead-end job and feeling bad about myself. But I don’t feel bad for too long because I’ll always meet someone at a show and things always go…well. Then one day Joe brings this nerdy, funny, weird, cute kid around and everyone just accepts him instantly and he doesn’t even have to do all the disgusting, idiotic, demeaning things that I’ve had to do over the years to keep these fuckers entertained.
Yeah. So, then he tells these stories about playing guitar and playing drums and when we’re singing along to Joy Division he actually sounds good. And he talks about studying in Amsterdam and how he wasn’t tempted by drugs at all and I think it’s at this point that I just want to start stabbing him in the head with a safety pin.
Today, he was contemplating a conservation trip to Brazil and I was thinking about shoving my tongue down his throat just to shut him up. A bunch of us were at Joe’s house, trying to take advantage of his parents’ absence by being as loud and sloppy as possible. We had the music blasting, a couple guys playing classic Mario Brothers games on an ancient Nintendo, and Skittles flying back and forth across the room.
I leaned over the back of the couch where Patrick was sitting. He was mid-sentence when the guy he’s talking to started snorting up what I’m guessing was cocaine, but which could’ve very well been powdered sugar for all I knew. I hadn’t expected to laugh, but the fact that I did so right in Patrick’s ear made it even better.
“Are you on that stuff too?” Patrick looked irritated and I felt offended because I hadn’t touched anything but sugar.
“Yeah, I am,” I leaned over the couch a little further, sliding my left arm over his shoulder, “But I wouldn’t mind sniffing some more off of something softer.” I slipped my hand over his chest and squeezed a little, and he jumped up from the couch. I stayed leaning over the couch, trying to laugh like I really was high or something, but I could see that cokehead on the couch was still looking at me laughing at me like I was a loser who had really tried to make a move and had just gotten rejected
.
“I’m just fucking around, calm down.” I straightened up quickly, discarding any pretense of being under the influence.
“Well it’s not funny.” He crossed his arms and now I was irritated too-do you know how many people would’ve loved for me to get stoned and feel them up? He should’ve been looking at this as his lucky day.
“Sorry.” I tried to sound sincere, but I’m sure it didn’t work. I really wanted to ask him what his problem was, but that would just invite him to tell me that he’s never liked me and I needed to take my super-gay come-ons to one of the scene whores who actually wants me.
He just looked around uncomfortably like he just realized who he’d been hanging out with for all these months and that he couldn’t understand how he’d missed it. He didn’t even acknowledge my apology and that’s just rude and I really felt like we needed to talk about the problems I had with him, and we needed to have that talk somewhere private where people couldn’t hear how much of a dick I was about to be.
“I really was just kidding…I’m not a big fan of that whole scene. I was gonna go upstairs and watch some TV until everyone calmed down and I guess…you looked like you didn’t want to be around it either.” It’s a funny thing being nice to someone who I hate, there’s always a part of me feeling like my true feelings are shining right through.
Patrick looked around like he was weighing his options and I had to fight not to make a disgusted face at his sheer lack of interest in me.
Come on, come on, you indecisive prick.