Capitol Voice (3/7)
Patrick has to agree wholeheartedly, however. He tries to give it a chance, turning and twisting in place, but each and every angle looks worse than the one before, showing him just one thing: man-slut.
“Maybe it’s the mirror?” Patrick slumps, wrinkling the skin-tight, midriff-baring rag of glitters that Spencer insists is a dress shirt. Whatever it is, it definitely isn’t a shirt. Patrick’s idea of a proper top consists of three inches of fabrics with sleeves up to his palms and something that actually extends to a place below his pelvis.
“Maybe it’s the lighting,” Gerard stands up to stare directly at one of the sickly yellow light bulbs above the dressing room, “or maybe someone’s feeling vengeful towards you. Have you angered a stray spirit today?”
Patrick walks around in the controversial outfit, the fact that he can actually walk around the area says a lot about Spencer’s choice in clothing stores. The latter is somewhere outside along the hundreds of racks of men’s wear and Patrick doesn’t particularly delight at the prospect of having to disagree with his ‘hot picks.’
“Hey, no cameras today?” Patrick flops down on the nearest beanbag, grimacing at the loud, squeaking noise that his pants make on the fabric. The camera, and its equally obtrusive cameraman, has been a constant at Gerard’s side ever since their first day and Patrick is a bit surprised that the lack of a creepily fuzzy boom mike doesn’t catch his attention earlier.
Gerard shakes his head, still staring at the bulb. Patrick worries that he might contract a vision problem, or worse, get hallucinations from all the lights dancing around his eyes.
“They’re with Mikey,” Gerard says as he drops his gaze and blinks rapidly for a long moment, holding his hands up and drawing intricate patterns in front of him.
Patrick nods smartly, forgetting that Gerard probably can’t see him because the one thing that’s most likely in his eyesight is this huge blob of yellow haze. He can’t help but wonder what they’re filming right now, however, and a mischievous little voice pipes up that what Patrick’s most likely to be wondering about is who they’re filming it with.
The dressing room door is shook with impressive force and Patrick stands up to immediately let in the grumbling, grumpy Spencer with a pile of clothes that reach higher than his head.
Spencer walks over to the beanbag that Patrick sat on earlier and plopped down the mountain of shirts and trousers, most of them spilling over to the floor.
“What the shit is that.”
Patrick’s brows reach above his hairline at Spencer’s clear disgust for his current attire. He looks down and agrees entirely with the guy’s statement but it strikes him as mind-boggling that Spencer would say it about his own choices.
“You gave this to me,” Patrick sputters, confounded at the offense that he has caused due to the simple wearing of the flamboyant bodysuit that can double for one of those mascots that the bull fighters use as diversions.
“No,” Spencer’s nose scrunches up as if the foulest smell starts to reek through the airways of the room, “I wouldn’t give that to you. I wouldn’t give that to my dog to use as a piss blanket. How the hell did you think I gave that to you?”
“You handed it over!” Patrick knows that the act of flapping his arms in exasperation wouldn’t improve his overall appearance but he doesn’t know what else to do to express his annoyance at having to subject themselves to the beastly sight.
“I asked you to shove it down the shopkeeper’s throat and demand that she take it out with the tongs that must’ve been blinding her eyes when she agreed to take that garbage in,” Spencer continues sorting the assortment of blinding colors and patterns that Patrick wouldn’t wish on his most hated Gym teacher, ignoring the worried looks on both Patrick and Gerard’s faces.
Spencer finally emerges from the pile with a simple black and white ensemble that allows Patrick to exhale a deep breath in relief. This doesn’t bode well for the ‘shirt’ that doesn’t allow him much breathing space to begin with so the pitiful squeak it gives at the stretching of its fabric makes everyone shudder.
“So, Spence,” Patrick begins as everyone turns around to allow him the privacy of finally changing out of whatever it is he’s wearing, “how’s Jon?”
Patrick might be imagining it but he thinks Gerard is currently humming out the typical, B-movie, horror theme that’s common to all those slasher films worldwide. He rolls his eyes and taps Spencer’s shoulder to ask for the sleek, black undershirt in his hands, a small smile on his face.
“Hey, Queer dude,” Patrick chuckles, squeezing Spencer’s shoulders gently to make the boy face him. The look of guilt is certainly there but Patrick wants to help ease it off by assuring him that things between them are alright.
“The show was named Queer Eye, Patrick,” Spencer can’t help a grin as he scratches his forehead with a neat fingernail, “if you think you’ll make things better by trying to prove that you can be both gay and ignorant, it’s not working.”
“Spence, it’s alright,” Patrick smiles softly, instantly regretting the way he tries to mess up Spencer’s hair in a joking manner, “Jon and I are-were-well, that’s pretty much it.”
“I know,” Spencer whispers uncharacteristically, the chaos that is his hair left forgotten and his gaze flicking towards the elegantly carpeted floor, “it’s just that I-”
“No explanations, alright?” Patrick says firmly, pulling on the fitted dress shirt that he knows is much too expensive for the night but insists on wearing anyway just because it feels like the silky blanket he used to have as a kid.
He finishes putting on the whole outfit in silence and has to stand very still in front of the floor length mirror for Spencer to make sure that everything is in its proper place. He doesn’t have trouble with that, actually, because the whole get-up looks utterly unlike his usual; dashing, neat and prim and proper. Patrick likes it, surprisingly, and groans inwardly at the squeal of delight his mother is bound to have when she sees it in his luggage.
“He wants to talk to you, though,” Spencer slips in as Patrick starts to take off the formal that he agrees to get, both for the amazing fit and the fact that he’s really, really tired and just wants to rest after the long day of doing things that aren’t even remotely connected to music.
“I don’t see why but, well, sure,” Patrick smiles, readjusting his hat after he puts on his old, more comfortable clothes on, “just for you Spence, okay?”
“Now can we please pay for these things? It’s almost midnight and I don’t think buying out the store’s a good enough reason for management to pay for all the overtime you’re giving the staff here.”
“Patrick Stump, always the caring, gentle one. The man of the masses, even,” Spencer rolls his eyes as he orders Gerard to pick up the pile of clothes in a huff, “no wonder why Wentz wants to rape you and lock you up in his hidden chamber with nothing but a spiked choker and a di-”
Patrick would have to remember to buy Gerard that expensive set of paintbrushes that he’s always wanted, especially after the way he casually trips and sends all the clothes flying on top of Spencer’s head.
**
The crisp, low notes that could only come from a bass guitar surrounds Patrick’s senses as he pushes open the door of the Executive Mansion’s music room on the day of Pete’s party. For a split second, he dreads it to be Pete because he’s caught unawares and lacking preparation for what might be their first private conversation ever since the failed night at the park,
He never gets to be alone with Pete after that, someone either interrupts or one of them comes up with the initiative to continue whatever important act of ‘duty’ they’re doing at the time.
Until this moment, Patrick never truly realizes the possibility of missing someone you live in the same house with, even knock elbows with at the dinner table. It is most ironic to note that each hurried glance in between conversations with separate people loses a distinct glint. If their looks toward each other had once contained so much palpable knowing, so much of that comfortable familiarity, Patrick has no idea what they have right now.
He knows that they both expect the same thing whenever lingering gazes are present: who’s going to give in? Who would let go of the pride, the fear and the hundreds of questions that are sure to crop up once the barrier of polite, disconnected small talk falls out?
Patrick has never experienced the loss of family, friend or loved one, aside from his estranged father and the short misunderstanding with Gabe. But he feels that a sudden cut-off would be much better than the drawn out act of drifting away that he’s currently sharing with Pete.
*
Once he notices the sheer lack of shortness on the person by the far end, still laboriously picking at his bass, he’s absolutely positive that it isn’t Pete yet Patrick doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or to run out the door when he finds out who it is.
He’s already by the middle of the room and the sole inhabitant already notices him there when he decides to take the coward’s route out, his turn in place cut short by the abrupt pause in the practicing.
“Oh, hi there!” Mikey’s grin of pleasant surprise provides the humorous contrast to Patrick’s pained grimace. He puts down his bass guitar to jog over and give Patrick a tight bearhug, knocking the breath out of the bespectacled boy while being lifted a few inches in the air.
Patrick feebly pats the taller one’s shoulder, a heavy, guilt-laden weight sinking towards his stomach. He doesn’t know what to feel, the hook of jealousy tearing holes into his long-established trust in Mikey.
“Hey, Mikey,” he wheezes out after being dropped firmly on the floor, “you rehearsing?” He runs a hand over the hair at the back of his head, gripping it quite harshly in an attempt to bring him to the reality that everything he’s going to say would have an effect on his friendship with the guy.
Mikey nods with a bounce, racing over to grab his sheet music and showing it to an uncomfortable Patrick. The latter skims through it, noting something familiar with the flow and tone of the words, and hums out an approving note at both the melody and the lyrics accompanying it.
“It’s a new song, Pete wrote the lyrics for us,” Mikey grins, expecting Patrick to take pride at the show of Pete’s talent. Problem is, Patrick doesn’t know about Pete’s foray into lyric writing. As far as Patrick knows, Pete just writes poetry and nothing like the impressive show of metaphors and allusion that he’s reading right now. Sure, poetry and songs are close relatives, but still, the twisting, gripping contortions that he feels fails to recognize it.
Pete hasn’t offered his words to Patrick’s music before and the feeling of betrayal reflexively makes him take several steps backward. He tangles his fingers inside the layered fabrics of his sweater, trying to inconspicuously free his throat from the lump that’s blocking his airway.
“That’s-that’s nice,” Patrick says in an overly cheery manner, a squeak of a voice overtaking him, “you guys going to perform it later?” He can’t resist clearing his throat, the tightness too much for his own fingers to massage down, the phrase ‘better off as lovers, not the other way around’ creating permanent space in his awareness.
“Yup, I’m a bit nervous, there’s going to be people from the music industry and all,” Mikey tilts his head, waggling his eyebrows at the prospect. Patrick drums his fingers on his pants leg, struggling to put into words his confusion. He forces a cough and settles for the blunt truth.
“But Mikey, you’re already signed up with a record label, right?” In other days, this would be funny, but Patrick blames his dour mood on what apparently happened behind his back and his humor trickled straight out of his brain when he saw the words clearly written in Pete’s handwriting.
“Oh.” Mikey shrugs and returns to the bass guitar he left on the stand, picking it up to continue plucking out the string of notes that distract Patrick for a second.
“Hey, Patrick, how are you and-“
“There you are.”
Patrick, more often than not, thinks of Ryan’s knack for finding him no matter where he goes as an infuriating talent. Today is quite the exception and he practically jumps into the lanky boy’s arms.
“Ryan! How’d you know I was-”
“Only one room has a complete drum set and actual, working, amplifiers next to a hundred or so guitars, Patrick. Not that hard to find you," Ryan rolls his eyes and sneaks a look at the cellphone in his hand. Whatever it is that he sees, it mustn’t be pleasant for the sour look on his face tells Patrick that he should proceed with utmost caution.
“Anyway,” Ryan continues, a frown set and ready to terrorize the first person to do him wrong, “I’ve come to steal you away for a Spencer-approved hair and makeup session. That is,” he points to Mikey with a lazy hand, “if you aren’t busy-”
“No, not at all,” Patrick briskly walks over to Ryan’s side, shaking his head vigorously, “I was just catching up.”
“But I haven’t even-”
“It’s alright, Mikey,” Patrick forces a grin, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops, “you go practice your song.”
Patrick doesn’t hear the explanation that Pete wrote the whole thing for him. He doesn’t even hear the request to get to the party early for Pete’s one shot at performing the surprise song. Actually, he doesn’t hear anything at all because Patrick’s too busy shutting the door and dashing away to the nearest guest room, Ryan in tow.
*
“Have I been spending too much time with him or is Gerard hiding under the bed, chanting ‘baby prostitute’ in his chipmunk voice?”
Ryan slams the porcelain hair-straightener on the antique dresser, glaring at Patrick for making the unspeakable comment.
“You know, I actually thought Spencer was just being a bastard when he said you’re the pickiest son of a bitch that he’s ever worked on,” Ryan fixes the stray fringe that lands near his eyes and would most probably forget the iron still plugged in if not for Patrick coughing out loud when a burning smell reaches his nose.
“What’s wrong with wanting to be sure with things?” Patrick complains, grimacing as Ryan continues tugging at his already straight hair with the iron. Despite his explanations, Ryan still insists on using it even through Patrick’s lectures on the connection between hair thinning and the glorified steamer in his hand.
“That’s different than whining over every stupid wrinkle that you think makes you look fat,” Ryan retorts, giving up on the hair-straightener and moving over to knock Patrick’s hat off.
“It’s because I am!” He nags, nearly jumping off the seat to chase after the precious piece of headgear. He pats off the invisible layer of dust on it and props it lovingly on the dresser, a distinct frown still on his face at the current discussion of his weight.
“Patrick. You. Aren’t. Fat.” Ryan emphasizes each word with a swipe at his hair with a thin comb and Patrick can’t quiet the groans of pain when the pointed ends strike his scalp.
“I-”
“If you insist you’re fat, I’m sending you on one of those self-help talk shows to have you straightened out,” Ryan snaps, pointing his comb into Patrick’s reflection at the mirror. He has his eyebrows set into a single, thin line, the one that everyone uses to signal volcano eruptions and hurricane arrivals, and Patrick shuts up at once.
“Fine, whatever,” Patrick grumbles, wrinkling his nose at the smell of the hair product that Ryan is applying, “hey, where’s Brendon?” He asks because the sight of them together is a constant and it feels strangely incomplete with just Ryan in the room and no Brendon to constantly hop around with indirect insults and inappropriate responses to the most random questions.
Ryan doesn’t answer, instead reaching into his pocket to check his phone for the nth time since they arrived at the latter’s bedroom. He shoves it back in with a huff and returns to placing some powdery gunk on Patrick’s forehead.
“Somewhere. Not sure.”
Patrick takes this as a signal not to ask more questions or he’d have to answer to a still searing hair iron in his face, focusing on the intense pressure of Ryan’s hand on what looks like a puff of colored chalk on his already sore cheek.
The silence continues for a quarter of an hour at most and Patrick believes that the whole of his face will most likely droop off once he washes off the stuff on it, what’s left of his hair coming along too. He keeps his eyes shut during the process, mostly because Ryan attempts to poke his eyes out more than twice, and feels it safer to be blinded with his eyelids closed.
“There we go,” Ryan announces proudly, just a few minutes before Patrick thinks he can fully doze off and forget about all of the madness that this party has to incorporate even before it starts.
Patrick’s jaw drops as soon as he opens his eyes and shoves his glasses on his nose. If he is allowed to use clichés without fear of Ryan slapping his chin up, he would most likely admit that he doesn’t look anything like he normally does.
The shrieks of ‘you’re ruining your hair!’ isn’t heard until Patrick gratefully tackles Ryan into the thick carpet, the fits of laughter probably making sure that it’s lost somewhere in between the tickle fight and the attempts at low blows.
*
‘A dramatic entrance is better than a disregarded exit.’
Spencer’s ‘words of wisdom’ plague Patrick up till the last minute he spends in his bedroom, checking then re-checking everything he can spot in the mirror even though both Ryan and Spencer’s talented hands had gone through it all earlier.
He checks his watch and is calmed when he sees the time to be half-past eight, an hour later than the official start of the party and the exact time that Spencer asks him to ‘grace the less fortunate peons in the East Room’ with. He shakes his hands forcefully for the final time before walking over to a small table at the corner of the room.
The guest list is short, compared to the hundreds that usually attend the celebrations that the First Family tends to arrange and Patrick finds it even more comforting. Only a select few are granted entrance and it would sound like a snobbish, high-society affair if not for the performances of his friends’ bands and the always present media.
The elegantly wrapped box that Patrick pockets gives him a sense of security over the possible events that are about to take place and he takes multiple sets of deep breaths before opening the door to the sitting room. The heavy weight of the set of gold handcuffs inside the mentioned box doesn’t add to his nerves, it actually gives him a twisted sort of relaxation whenever he remember it’s there.
Regardless of what Pete thinks about his gift, Patrick’s sure of one thing. He may be the nicest, most non-confrontational person in the country, maybe even the whole world, if he could be so self-absorbed as to proclaim it. But there’s this one negative trait of his that he’s pretty sure Pete hasn’t seen yet.
Patrick doesn’t like to share what’s his, especially pretty, pocket-sized boys with a grin that reaches his eyes only for him. When people do try to force him into sharing though, that’s something different altogether. Patrick always says that picking at his guitar strings aren’t the only reason he keeps his fingernails long.
~end chapter three
A/N: I'll be taking a slight break to the Capitol Voice chapters and be uploading some of my other fics in it's place. They're still Pete and Patrick though so it's not much of a stretch, I just felt like providing you guys with some of the other work I've done, if it's alright. ^^;
Comments and Concrit are very, very much loved.
Again, THANK YOU to everyone who helped me with my Bandom Big Bang dilemma. You'll be seeing that fic (plus the others in the list!) soon. ;)