Capitol Voice (2/7)
Performing in front of a hundred or so High School Seniors just doesn’t feel the same as doing it with an audience of a handful of four to seven year olds.
One clear difference that Patrick notices is that he is yet to encounter someone of his age trying to poke the guitar strings that he’s playing on, just like how one of the more curious boys is doing right now. The oldest person in the room stops in mid-strum to try and think of a way to politely ask the kid for some distance without scaring him off but it was too late.
As soon as Patrick sopped playing, the raven-haired boy crawls backward and stares apprehensively from the guitar, to Patrick, and then back to the wooden instrument he so desperately covets.
Patrick stares at his shoes as he scratches the side of his ear, internally reprimanding himself for adding another point to his reputation as one of the mean old adults who say they can’t see faeries anymore and that they never, ever existed.
A knock on the door brings Hanna, one of the president’s personal assistants, and Patrick is sorely tempted to give her a bear hug for her more than perfect timing. She briefly whispers that Patrick is needed on one of the secure phone lines and leaves as quickly as she entered.
The guitar is gently lain down on the floor and Patrick mumbles a quick pardon to the children who are already barreling towards the shiny instruments lined up along the walls. He peeks his head out the door only to be startled by Hanna’s arm in front of his face, a sleek cellphone in hand.
Patrick takes it without question, knowing only one person who would contact him through Hanna and not by his personal number.
“Hello?”
“Patrick, how is everything?”The voice of Pete’s father cuts across the phone line so crisply that Patrick feels as if he was talking with him face-to-face.
“No one’s dead yet so things are pretty alright,” he doesn’t bother to mask the irritation in his voice, too infuriated to care about the effects of his rudeness.
Tunes for Tots isn’t just a daycare center located somewhere along H Street, a few blocks away from the White House. It doubles as an orphanage of sorts where talented yet abandoned children are brought so they can be trained to play in places other than streets and alleys.
It is a modest building, miniscule compared to the towering residences and commercial centers that surround the adjacent streets. One floor is all they have and the interiors resemble a clinic, with a plain reception area, five activity rooms and separate restrooms by a discreet corridor
A small group of press people and local benefactors greet the Presidential group when they arrived. Contrary to Patrick’s assumption, Pete’s father stayed for not more than ten minutes, leaving due to previous commitments that he forgot to inform Patrick about.
That was last night, the grand opening of the center, and Patrick had done nothing then but to pose for pictures and give a hurried, impromptu speech about how wonderful it is to be a part of the whole project. Right now, Patrick is required to actually meet the children he would impart his highly questionable knowledge and wisdom to. He can honestly say that this sits right on top of his first press conference in his list of Almost-Kinda Nervous Breakdowns.
“Son, are you quite alright? You sound troubled,” Patrick winces when he hears the genuine concern in the man’s voice. The immediate thought that he should be saying that to Pete and not to a boy he knows for less than a year runs across his consciousness. He feels sorry for Pete straightaway, knowing the underlying efforts of the First Son to live up to the impossible expectations that his dad puts down in front of him.
“I am, sir, just a bit tired,” he tells the truth, part of it, at least. Patrick rubs a hand along the nape of his neck, stretching it back to attempt to relax the knots that are building up at its base.
The president advises him to sleep early and Patrick notes that the man probably forgot about Panic’s launch later in the night, a sure cause of the dark circles that are waiting to bury themselves under his eyes. A polite ‘thank you’ ends their conversation and Patrick is left to find something to do to pass the time.
The confused teenager stays because he is asked to show the few children a sample of what he will supposedly teach them in a few days. It is only after an hour that he realizes it is also because he has yet to meet the most wonderful girl in the most unexpected of places.
Patrick presently wanders around the center, the flood of activity dizzying him somewhat and prompting him to look for the restroom. He has one foot inside the men’s room charming voice reminiscent of the endearing girl from that Annie movie resonates from the small crack in the door that separates them and Patrick’s curiosity is hooked.
He side-steps a few inches and knocks softly on the blindingly pink door. The entrancing tone of muffled lyrics halts and the doorknob is slowly turned to reveal a very young girl, with eyes as round as cymbal and hair with a copper hue just like it. She doesn’t look a minute older than six, her demeanor when it comes to getting caught loitering in the bathroom being enough evidence for it.
Patrick gives his best smile and crouches down to be of equal height to the visibly terrified child. He admits to himself that hers is a voice that he rarely finds in people five times her age and believes that she should perform in front of crowds instead of cubicles and moldy sinks.
“Hi, I’m Patrick,” he says, his tone soft and welcoming. She stares right back at him and the older of the two opens his mouth to speak when the little girl tugs on the loose basketball jersey she wears over floor-length pajama bottoms and squeaks out a reply.
“Hi Pachick,” her speaking voice is just as adorable as the one she uses for singing and Patrick almost forgets the slight mispronunciation of his name.
“It’s-never mind,” he decides, pulling on the rim of his hat before offering another smile, “I like your clothes, they look comfy.”
The little girl drops her gaze, playing with a frayed edge by the bottom of the jersey.
“T’anks,” she whispers, refusing to look Patrick in the eye, “my papa gave this to me.”
“Where’s your-“
“Papa died a month ago,” she interrupts, probably used to hearing the question often. The volume of her voice falls a few notches and Patrick’s self-respect is once again used as a wet dish rag.
A sinking feeling threatens to topple Patrick’s balance and causes him to sink to the floor. He anxiously re-adjusts his glasses before clearing his throat nervously
“I’m sorry,” he says in equal apology and sympathy, “mine-mine left, when I was about your age.”
The subject of Patrick’s father never comes up, especially with his friends. They know all too well that Patrick deeply resents the man for abandoning him and his mother, respecting his decision to ignore any reference to the person deserted them without a second look.
The fleeting memory of his mom drags a dead weight down his gut even lower and he gives up, resorting to sitting flat on the cold, linoleum floor. Patrick makes a mental note to call her after working hours; he can’t believe how much he suddenly misses her even if not more than two days had passed since he last saw her.
He jumps at the feeling of a palm on his shoulder, the little girl wearing a look of concern and pity in her suddenly mature eyes.
“Pachick misses his papa too?” She asks him in a somber tone, her lips in a sad frown as she pats her new friend’s shoulder.
“I-well-I guess I do, maybe,” Patrick concedes, lifting his hat to quickly run a hand across his hair, the sweat making the loose strands stick haphazardly onto the nearest patch of skin.
He has never thought about his father like he does now, not even during the multiple times he is in contact with any of his friend’s dads. Patrick never thought it possible to miss someone you barely remember and the fact that someone like this child, who still hasn’t said her name, can prove it to him is very incredible.
His mouth is slightly open as he lifts his head to look at the kid, a third of his own age, and Patrick thinks he wants to keep her.
*
“You’re pretty,” whispers Copper-locks, the private nickname Patrick gives the little girl that he has yet to ask for her real name.
Patrick blushes and stumbles on his words, almost hitting his head on the wall behind him. He and his unofficial daughter are leaning on the wall across the restroom doors, too lazy to get up and find a more comfortable spot.
“Boy’s can’t be pretty,” Patrick stares at the uneven shape of his nails, doing his best to sound sincere yet light at the same time. If ever he would call himself a hypocrite, it would be now. There is just no denying that if boys can be called pretty, he would paint up an arrow pointing to Pete right away.
“T’ats what I thunk too,” she nods vigorously, pulling on a random strand of hair, “but you’re pretty.” Her firm tone makes Patrick shut up, not daring to contradict her the second time. Instead, he smiles and says a quiet ‘okay’ before poking her arm and causing her to give a surprised giggle.
Patrick notices the way she keeps tugging on all objects within reach, remembering the one time she pulled down on Patrick’s hat when he did it by reflex a few minutes ago. It’s a cute habit, Patrick thinks, and oddly recalls the way Pete blows on his fringe whenever he’s bored. He sighs, biting his lip to stop himself from blurting out a curse.
“Hey, what’s your name?” Patrick can’t restrain a laugh at the silly timing, only remembering to ask something as important as the word you would call someone for probably the rest of your lives.
“Tinkerbell,” she dead-pans, not even bothering to look up from the drawing of a kitten that she made with the use of the dust on the floor.
Patrick laughs loud enough to incite a few heads to peer out at them from most of the rooms and he puts a hand up in apology, sucking in his lips to stifle the leftover giggles.
“Very funny, kid, you remind me of one of my best friends,” Patrick decides on calling Pete his ‘best friend’ for now. He still isn’t sure if the little girl is old enough to grasp the concept of boys not having cooties so he sets it aside for later. “So, what’s your real name?”
“…Tinkerbell.”
The poor girl bites her bottom lip as her eyes grow wide and a glassy sheen envelopes the dark browns. She instantly looks down after staring at Patrick with small drops of tears that begin to form at the crinkles in her eyes.
Patrick shuts up immediately, wanting to hide his head inside the hole of his guitar. ‘This is why you were made gay, fucktard,’ Patrick mentally screams at himself. He isn’t known for his tact, that’s for sure, but being the reason why a little girl would cry is an all time low that deserves a space in his tombstone.
“Hey, hey,” Patrick turns to face her and easily swoops her up in his arms, placing her snugly on his lap, “I didn’t mean to make you sad, Tink, can I call you Tink?”
She hesitates before nodding her head, still tugging on a small lock of hair. Patrick takes this time to observe how small Tink really is; she doesn’t weigh enough to need a considerable effort to carry her and Patrick instantly wants to stuff her with gummy worms and cotton candy. Sure, Andy would pluck out his hair piece by piece but Patrick wanted to spoil the girl with all the sweets in the world, sure as he is that she hasn’t even tried much of them.
“Know what,” Patrick doesn’t continue until Tink looks up and asks ‘what?’ in the tiniest voice, “I wish my name was Tinkerbell.”
This earns him a solid glare that almost makes him want to put his hands up in defeat but Patrick pushes on. If he’s destined to be on every preschooler’s Most Wanted list, then he’s going down with as much grace as he could muster.
“I’m serious, Tink,” he pushes the tangled curls off her shoulders and gently places his hands on her shoulders, “you wouldn’t want a name that everyone has. Do you imagine what it would be like if you had a name like Patrick and when someone calls you, three people turn around?” He manages to squeeze in a little truth to his words, he really does find it irritating to have a name that everyone’s heard of at least four times.
Patrick worries that his last effort to prevent an onslaught of waterworks is a failure because the skeptical child still refuses to look up at him. It’s only after a few seconds that the faintest smile appears on her face and Patrick audibly breathes a sigh of relief.
“See, I told you Tink’s a good name, it’s a great name, actually! I love it, best name ever-if I could name my daughter-” Patrick rambles, confident at the way he foiled the potential bawling from Tink and the neurotic panic attack from himself.
“Don’t push it, Pachick,” Tink rolls her eyes and bops him on the elevated part of his hat. The older boy raises both eyebrows and his jaw drops just barely, praising the inner Spencer that this kid could channel.
Patrick stands up with a slight difficulty, his legs aching due to all the time he spent on the floor. He offers his hand to Tinkerbell’s tiny one and he smiles the smallest smile when her whole fist fits in half of Patrick’s palm. They reach the main activity room when Patrick’s pocket buzzes with a jolt, causing Tink to giggle as a muffled snippet of Britney Spears’ latest single fills the corridor.
He lightly pushes on her back to guide her towards the nearest room, turning around to wrestle his phone free from the tight pockets of his jeans. Checking who it was, he relishes the bounce of delight inside him when he sees Bill’s name on the screen.
“Bill?” Patrick really misses the kid, this is the longest time that they haven’t talked to each other and it feels like withdrawal symptoms are starting to make themselves known.
“No papi, it’s Eduardo.”
Patrick rolls his eyes at the heavy Spanish accent that Gabe uses whenever he tries to pick up girls in front of Bill. It’s a pretty sick way of trying to make the guy jealous but if that’s what keeps their relationship strong, Patrick has no right to knock it.
“Hey Gabe, how’s the-“
“PATRICK!”
A drawn out shriek that couldn’t come from anyone but Bill drowns out the rest of Patrick’s sentence, taking his sense of hearing with it too.
“Hi to you too, Bill,” Patrick groans out as he extends the arm holding his phone, “pretty sure I lost an eardrum or two, you know.”
“Gabe’s mom-wait, what?” Patrick hears several hands muffle the speakerphone on the other line, distinct rapid-fire speech from none other than Gabe’s feisty mother towering above everyone else’s, “Gabe’s mom hopes you and your mom are well and that you stopped your habit of wiping snot under furniture.”
An embarrassed chuckle from Bill’s side is met by a pained groan from Patrick’s as the memory of Confessions Night at Gabe’s summer house floods back. Mami Saporta listening from the other room that night isn’t as humiliating as the dirt they uncover on each other so Patrick blindly chooses to look on the bright side. He remembers that from that time onwards, Ryan can never look her in the eye whenever she mentions photographs or asks the group to gather for a picture and Patrick is grateful that the only thing she has on him is a few boogers under beds.
“P-Trick! How’s the midget muffin man lovin’?” Gabe sounds like he grabbed the phone and is now running away; Patrick imagines this due to the jumpy connection and the fading remains of Bill’s whining.
Patrick transfers the phone to his other ear, wanting to kick himself for suddenly missing everyone in his life, from his father to Gabe, and he just wants the hollow log that he calls his stomach to just disappear. Even Tinkerbell isn’t spared from the list of people he wants to seize and hug until his arms go numb or fall off, whichever comes first.
“We’re okay, I guess-” Patrick is distracted by the lack of the next decade’s superstar grabbing his shirt, fingers or shoelaces. He walks over to the small window and brings his attention back to Gabe when he sees Tink rolling around on the mat designed after a piano’s keys.
“-arrive by Petey’s birthday bash.” Patrick takes a asecond to connect the missing pieces and figure out that Gabe was talking about the date when he and Bill would arrive in Washington.
“That’s great! How are-” A clear beeping sound signals another call waiting and Patrick excuses himself to take the call.
“Patrick Stumph, don’t put me on-” The request was cut short as Patrick pressed a button to access the other line and put the sputtering Gabe on hold.
“Where the fuck are you?”
Patrick doesn’t need to ask for the name of the composed caller, instantly recognizing the growl that’s reserved for extremely stressful situations. Apparently, today counted as such and Patrick wonders what could make Pete so grouchy.
“I’m at the daycare-”
“-yeah, yeah, saving the world and children rejoice and whatever else shit, I don’t care.” Patrick pulls back his phone to check if it really is Pete who’s calling him. His brows disappear under his hat when he reads out ‘Aardvark’ and confirms that it is indeed Pete. He once again tries to comprehend the importance of the First Family having codenames that start with the same letter but then remembers that Pete’s still on the line and instantly listens in again.
“-then get yourself out here, Stump. I told the fucking press that I would formally introduce the love of my life but now they think I’m just going to show them a picture of Hemmy. So if you value your life, haul your ass over to Lafayette Park.”
‘Grouchy’ doesn’t even begin to cover the extent of Pete’s seething rant. Patrick knows better than to blame himself for it, having known Pete enough to know that if he really did something to earn the anger, it would’ve stung much more and insults would be shot directly in his face.
“Pete, I just-” Patrick rubs the back of his hand along his nose, struggling to find the right words that would calm Pete down, “-I made a commitment.”
“No, my father made a commitment,” Pete’s voice shifts and Patrick can hear unfamiliar people mumbling in the background, “last time I checked, you’re not the one sworn in so you don’t need to go National Poster Boy on me.”
A door opens and Tinkerbell waddles out, carrying a saxophone more than half her size. Patrick works a sheepish grin and signals her back into the room with a wave of his hand. She sighs knowingly and slowly walks back in reverse, pushing the door open with her back.
“But your dad said this is major important, like, Guitar Hero tournament important, even,” Patrick knows Pete would understand. He plays the game too and no one, Patrick really means no one, would turn down the prospect of a Guitar Hero marathon.
“Screw my father-oh fuck, no-that sounded better in my head-”
Patrick’s blush spreads along his cheek and he clears his throat to ease the awkward silence that follows. With one last glance inside the window, he sees Tink sitting content next to the saxophone, pressing random buttons while trying to balance it with one hand.
“Fine, I’ll-I’ll be there,” Patrick walks over to take a peek out of the main door, seeing not a few taxis rushing along the street, “I love-”
The unwelcome intrusion of a busy signal drops the anvil on Patrick’s head and he shoves his phone back in his pocket, completely forgetting about Gabe on the other line. He says a hurried goodbye to Tink and Hanna, jogging out the street and hailing the first empty cab.
Ryan and Spencer would roast him centerstage for not bothering to freshen up or even grabbing a clean shirt but Patrick would prefer a barrage of last-minute touch ups than a clinging Pete gripping his hipbone so hard that his fingers would leave a permanent dent.
*
Lafayette Park is a seven-acre public park located directly north of the White House on H Street, bounded by Jackson Place on the west, Madison Place on the east, and Pennsylvania Avenue. Planned as part of the pleasure grounds surrounding the Executive Mansion, this park was originally called "President's Park.” Lafayette Park has been used as a racetrack, a graveyard, a zoo, a slave market, an encampment for soldiers during the War of 1812, and many political…
Patrick stops reading from his handy Washington DC guidebook that his mom gave him a day before his flight out. Random notes and reminders are scribbled in pages, his mother’s attempt at subliminal messages, like ‘brush your teeth twice’ or ‘I better not see you in the newspapers with no underwear,’ and Patrick has to smile.
The driver steps on the brakes abruptly and Patrick pretends that the high-pitched cry that follows is made entirely by the tires on pavement. He regrets the way his rushed actions and worries are in sync, cursing himself later for paying the driver twice than the regular fare.
It comes as a shock that the noise from well inside the park reaches his spot along one of the discreet yet heavily guarded side entrances. Patrick glances at the vintage Mickey Mouse watch that Brendon gave him as a graduation gift, impulsively letting out a groan when he sees Mickey’s hands point at the excruciatingly painful position of 8:45. He is more than two hours late and the idea of calling in sick sounds less painful than braving the crowd to face his friends.
Patrick is easily recognized by the Senior Aides stationed at the gate and he is let in at once, the glares and mumbles of the surrounding by-standers following him in. It takes him a quarter of an hour on what would normally be a two minute walk to the center of the square. The flashing lights and the pungent smell of alcohol, smoke and sweat on the hundreds of damp and humid bodies pressing up to him increases his initial reflex to hide under the vanilla scented covers of the bed he shares with Spencer.
The thought of Spencer makes Patrick search for the predictably dressed-up drummer but he is contented with finally spotting Brendon and Ryan right beside the luminous centerpiece of the park. Patrick yells his apologies to the people he shoves away over the loud mix of intoxicated chatter and Brendon’s voice blasting over the gigantic sound system.
The statue of Andrew Jackson is almost completely covered by the tarpaulin posters of each member of Panic at the Disco, the wind causing the material to give off the deafening sound of plastic snapping against the breeze. The lighting casts an eerie glow over the figure of the horse being ridden on and Patrick squelches up the memories of childhood horror movies and fears.
It is ironic that Panic would choose the place as the location for their launch, seeing as it is now often used as a camp-out site for protesters who want to grab the attention of the White House, or more importantly, the one residing in it. But the venue is just right, given the number of people who attended and the proximity to everyone important, so Patrick thinks he’s just looking into it too much.
Patrick imagines a crude popping sound as he finally breaks free from the crowd and into the relatively spacious VIP area. He fastens his glasses securely on his nose before walking up to the two, obviously too caught up in their heated discussion.
Ryan has his back to him and the face-paint wearing lyricist visibly jumps when Patrick places a hand on his shoulder. Ryan’s head snaps to face him, eyes growing wider by the second, and pulls Brendon’s arm for back-up.
“Patrick!” Ryan is grinning; an entirely new experience for the both of them, and it looks so ill-fitting on him, mostly because it’s rather forced, “Hi! How are you? Have you eaten?”
An equally bright ‘hey, Patrick!’ from Brendon adds to his suspicions, especially when he noticed that just a few seconds ago, the two were frowning deeply over whatever they were talking about.
Patrick looks back, expecting to see something terrifying, a camera man or maybe even a celebrity, anything that could serve as the reason why they aren’t screaming at him for his lack of comprehension on the concept of time management. He isn’t one to invite arguments however, so he chalks it up to finally having some good luck come his way.
“’m alright,” he nods, wiping off the fogged-up lenses of his glasses, “so where’s Spence?”
Brendon takes a step, putting his arm over Patrick’s shoulders and steers him away from the stage, Ryan following behind them.
“Somewhere unimportant,” Brendon declares before grabbing the nearest batch of drinks that one of the waiters is serving, “drink! Get drunk! Be merry and all that jazz, c’mon, let’s go over-”
“I’m fine, thanks,” Patrick graciously pushes away the half-empty wine glass and tries to turn back and ask Ryan about Spencer.
“I need to tell Spence about this amazing kid that reminds me of-”
This time, it’s Ryan’s turn to accost him, dragging his arm even further away from the center of the crowd. Brendon stumbles as he is still attached to Patrick’s shoulders, almost falling flat on his face if not for Patrick catching him by the edge of his shirt.
“Spencer’s busy,” Ryan emphasizes before plastering his attempt at a grin back on his face, “why don’t you go find Pete? I’m sure he’s looking for you.”
Patrick is almost distracted by the mention of Pete but he’s too invested in the notion that that Spencer is being hidden from him, not having a single clue as to why the fuck they would do that to him anyway.
He plants the heels of his sneakers firmly on that patch of grass they’re walking on, grimacing at the amount of mud he has to clean off them later on. He waits for the two to give up on trying to move him before calmly stating that if no one tells him why he can’t see Spencer, he would find the nearest megaphone and recite the raunchy love limerick that Ryan wrote for Brendon when he was drunk and called up Patrick at 2 in the morning.
Brendon is all for keeping his mouth shut but this is enough for Ryan to stutter out his defeat.
“He’s with Jon,” Ryan cups a palm over his mouth as Brendon does the same, glaring at the boy who broke under the pressure and maybe because he lost the opportunity to hear the naughty poetry.
Patrick takes a minute to mull it over and just when the guilty duo thinks they’ve filled up the drama quota for the night, Patrick opens his mouth and laughs. He laughs so hard that he bumps into several people passing by, having to grab onto the nearest person to maintain his balance.
When the tears start to form at the edge of his eyes and his stomach downright aches from all the laughing, he wills himself to stop, the flabbergasted stares from Ryan and Brendon causing him to collapse into a giggle fit yet again.
“Did you-did-fuck it-did you think I’d, what, go into a jealous rage or whatever?” Patrick doesn’t know if he should feel amused by the concern or offended at the insinuation, the whole thing being preposterous enough as it is.
“Jon is-no-Jon was a close friend. If he likes Spencer and Spencer likes him back, then I have nothing against them,” he says in all sincerity, looking at both of them in the eye before hastily adding, “but if he even tries to hurt-”
“We gave him the compulsory threat earlier,” Brendon assures him, a solemn nod from Ryan confirming it, “we even introduced him to Big Mick.”
Patrick smiles in approval; Big Mick is one of Pete’s appointed bodyguards, trained in the Sahara and bearing a nickname that need not be explained, so Patrick thinks this is enough for the meantime.
A familiar voice over the speakers catches Patrick’s attention and he instantly tunes out the rest of the world. The characteristic tone of Pete’s voice latches onto Patrick’s ears and he mumbles a quick pardon to the still wary pair before practically running back to the stage.
He has trouble understanding what it is that Pete’s announcing but he gets near enough to see that My Chemical Romance is stationed up on the platform, instruments in place and a bouncy Gerard already waving to the crowd. The performance starts when he arrives at the inner edge of the audience and Patrick resigns to elbowing the people who refuse to budge at his courteous yet mostly unheard requests to move the fuck away.
Patrick spots Big Mick a few feet away and he yells for help. The man has a sense of hearing that put bats to shame and he draws nearer at once. This is the smartest that Patrick has been the whole day, evidence being the sight of everyone clearing out when Big Mick cleared his throat.
He gives a grateful nod and the best smile that his exhausted body can allow, walking over to an empty spot next to the side of stage. Patrick looks up at the stage and sees Pete still on it, the difference being the addition of a bass guitar on his hip.
As expected, he’s unimpressive at best, but Patrick doesn’t even notice the lack of skills in the use of the said instrument or the sheer stupidity of having two bass players in one song. What he does observe is that he’s being horrible at bass right next to Mikey. Not ‘right next to’, Patrick corrects himself, but more of ‘severely attached to’ for that’s exactly what it looks like.
Pete’s back is lined up flat on Mikey’s, his head leaning to rest on the younger twin’s shoulder. The blissful look that Pete wears unmistakably reinforces the vivacious albeit uncoordinated strums on his bass, sweat trickling along the side of his face and down his gold, striped hoodie.
Patrick tries to ignore the way the two look at each other as if they’re back at a Chicago basement, performing for just each other, drowning out anything else aside from them both. He also wants to forget the sight of Pete placing his chest against Mikey’s back, forehead resting against Mikey’s nape, the sharp sound of Pete missing various beats indicating his lack of focus on the music.
But if Patrick has to choose just one thing that he could permanently erase from his memory, it would be definitely this: Pete leaning in to whisper something right alongside Mikey’s ear, the hurried rise and fall of his chest brought about by the performance and something else Patrick refuses to name, causing the taller boy to grin like he never does and fully face Pete while playing like a dream.
Patrick doesn’t realize that the song is over until Pete himself shows up right in front of him, running down the stairs three at a time. The rest of the band stays to continue their set and Patrick almost wishes that Pete would go up again, only because of his inability to decide what to do with him.
Pete’s face is one of surprise when he sees Patrick standing immobile by the side of the stage, breathing heavily out of sync and arms moving erratically with post-performance adrenaline. It instantly changes to that of irritation, however, and he approaches Patrick after setting down his bass guitar by one of the posts.
“Where the fuck were you? I’ve been waiting since-”
“You look like you were having fun anyway,” Patrick almost looks back to see if someone else is listening in on their conversation when he realizes that the disembodied voice is his. Void of emotion and attachment, Patrick is fairly surprised that he manages to speak without his voice breaking or making evident any twinge of jealousy.
Pete draws in his eyebrows, the look of uncertainty as genuine as it can get. He pushes back the sleeves of his hoodie that had come undone during his brisk playing, the confused expression still consistent in his gaze.
Patrick sighs and grabs Pete’s arm, chucking all morals and ethics out into the rampant winds that refuse to let up. He drags the unexpectedly yielding boy into the inner parts of the park, away from the mobs of damsels and drunks.
They run into a few people along the way but they’re either too intoxicated or stoned to recognize who they are, if ever they’re able to even when they sober up. Patrick’s nerves fail to act up and some small crook of his brain wishes that ideas like this would always come up because apparently, his stress sensors cower in the face of extreme insanity.
A hundred thoughts crowd along his consciousness, most of which concern the many ways he can make sure Pete doesn’t do anything rash, like run away or scream for help. He isn’t worried though, more determined to convince Pete that there are some things that are better than others.
His breathing picks up, making him have to double up on his stride. Pete’s silence fuels him even more and the thought that this stillness meant something else provoked him into proving that he isn’t just someone you can just set aside when bored. He briefly looks back to check on Pete and upon seeing the worried crinkle in his brows, the strange purpose in his gut flares even brighter.
Patrick finally reaches a spot amidst the handful of trees in one of the far corners of the park, the night deep enough to provide them just a sprinkle of light from the distant stage-lights. He shoves Pete up one of the wider trunks, no questions asked or entertained, and grabs the collar of his hoodie, pressing his mouth up to Pete’s ear and inhaling a sharp breath.
“Missed you,” Patrick mumbles incoherently; his nose grazing the strands of hair next to Pete’s ear. He grabs at the zipper of Pete’s hoodie, sliding it down with no apprehension and running his hands up the shivering body beneath him.
Pete squeaks in reply, his eyes wild and stunned at the sudden change of pace in their conversation. He manages a heady ‘missed you too’ before groaning at the way Patrick squeezes on his hips in newfound interest.
He snakes a hand between themselves and manages to hook a finger on the edge of Patrick’s pants, tugging it down and hopes Patrick gets the idea before he breaks and shoves it down himself.
“In a-oh, there-rush tonight, eh?” Pete huffs, his eyes forced shut at Patrick’s frantic bites to the side of his neck. He presses his other hand to the small of Patrick’s back as he wraps a leg low on the latter’s hips, wanting to get even closer despite the intrusion of fabric on skin.
Patrick grinds down into Pete’s crotch in response and the heel of Pete’s foot kicks him hard in the back of his thigh, causing Patrick’s knees to buckle in an instant.
“Ow, hipbone,” Pete grimaces, opening his eyes and giving off a pained gaze amidst the glazed expression. His muscles contract at the sharp sensation of a branch poking him hard on the hip and he tries to lift himself away without breaking off from Patrick’s touch.
“Oh shit, sorry,” Patrick gasps in between sloppy kisses to Pete’s neck and trails of licks down his throat.
“’s alright,” Pete whispers against Patrick’s neck, pressing rough kisses to every inch of skin he could find, “like you like this.” Pete grins into his neck at the grunt of approval from Patrick’s side, their pants feeling all too warm for anyone’s comfort.
Patrick scrambles to take off the endless layers of clothing on Pete and he mutters strings of curses at the amount of fucking accessories he has to wear for an event that’s based in dark places where no one would be able to see it.
“Why the fuck do you need all this shit anyway-” Patrick stops complaining when Pete strokes at the increasingly tight spot in his pants, instead replacing it with an impatient groan and thrusting down jerkily into Pete’s willing hips.
“Someone has a potty mouth today,” the grin in Pete’s voice is unmistakable and Patrick snaps his eyes open to glare at the clearly excited yet still smirking boy under him. Patrick takes the hand that unbearably teases him to no end and boldly thrusts it down his pants, to the amusement and arousal of the owner of said hand.
“Fuck you-” Patrick wants to bite Pete’s literal head for cutting off his sentences, the older boy keeps increasing the pressure of his hand on Patrick’s crotch whenever he wants to catch his attention. Gnashing his teeth, he pushes down even more, pressing Pete so hard to the rough trunk of the tree that he’s sure that it must hurts.
“Only if you do it.”There is no trace of amusement left in Pete’s voice, all that remains being a reckless craving for more of Patrick’s touch, his hasty grips and intoxicating moans.
“My pleas-”
“Mister Wentz?”
This time, it’s Pete’s turn to shove Patrick away; hard.
Patrick stumbles back and smacks his head against the nearest tree, yelling out a pained groan at the impact. Pete cries out an apology and runs over to check Patrick’s condition, putting to waste the whole act of pushing him away for now he’s the one literally on top of Patrick.
They forget the reason for the whole disturbance and it only rushes back to them when said disturbance clears his throat at a reasonable volume. The flustered pair stops fumbling with injuries and apologies, their chests lying on top of each other and breathing at inconsistent paces.
“Mister Wentz,” the aide takes a tentative step closer and turns off the radio that buzzes to life every other second, “you are needed at home, immediately.”
Pete stares back for a moment before he curls his hands into tight fists, letting out a muttered ‘motherfucker’ before turning to Patrick with an upset glint in his eye. He pushes himself off Patrick with an unsteady hand on the tree below them, running a trembling hand through his disheveled hair.
“We’ll talk later, please?” Pete’s voice is clipped; shallow breathing still rampant and his hands look like they don’t know whether to hug Patrick or throttle the assistant with full force. He settles for thrusting his hands in his pockets, shifting his weight between his feet as he frequently does in frustrating circumstances.
Patrick nods briskly, fixing his gaze on anything other than Pete’s eyes. He tastes the brackish sweat on his lip, not knowing if it is his or Pete’s, and he lets it linger for a moment before smearing it off his mouth. He doesn’t see them leave, but he feels the sharp emptiness; the lack of Pete in his immediate distance always leaves a distasteful trace on his tongue.
t takes Patrick approximately three minutes before he kicks the trunk of the nearest tree, growling out loud with mingled pain in his foot and the unbelievably horrible timing of every single, fucking good thing that happened today. His hat topples to the ground and Patrick forgets about it, turning to find anything that he could break in two and feeling discontent at seeing just a few brittle twigs that easily break off at a touch.
Patrick leans his head on the tree that he blatantly shoved Pete up on, the uncomfortable tightness making him squirm unpleasantly against the rough bark behind him. He lets out a ragged sigh, pulling down his zipper and unabashedly chucking his palm down his pants.
The desolate whine that escapes from him is unheard by anyone, obscured by the deafening music overhead, and Patrick isn’t grateful. If anything, he would give the world for someone to notice him, anyone.
For if the distance between him and the nearest human body is just a few hundred feet, the gap between him and the one person he needs, instead of this wavering hand and unsteady pair of legs, is one that can’t be measured by numbers but by the way he looks back at him. And if tonight could give any indication, Patrick could say that he truly doesn’t know where he is anymore, and ultimately, where to find Pete.
Patrick stays there for the longest time, hoping against all hope, that Pete wants to be found.
~ end chapter two
A/N: I'll be posting after every three days now, mostly because I have two fics for Bandom Big Bang (thank you to megyal for agreeing to co-write on one!) and agreed to beta for some people. :) I thrive on activity though so I'm sure I can keep up with it, haha. ^^; Comments and Concrit fuel me oh so much. :)