Back with an epic fic :) First Son (1/?)
The crowds at Willmette High couldn’t get any more cliché. There were the traditional math geeks who were currently at war with the more liberal computer nerds, the depressed skateboarders turned school band members in an attempt to get in touch with their creative side, the suddenly witty cheerleaders that owe their newfound sarcasm to the countless TV dramas dedicated to them and the growing number of ‘drifters’ who barely fit in one category, thus reducing them to constantly flitting in between the groups.
Patrick reclined his head on the rusty vending machine, breathing in the assortment of smells that ranged from moldy food to body odor. He belonged to the last set, along with the rest of his close friends.
There was Ryan Ross, the astoundingly profound writer of the group who he had gotten into a slight tussle with when the latter was insulted by Patrick’s comment that his works might just be the slightest bit too angry for the New York Times’ taste. He wasn’t what one would call muscular or intimidating but the kid could really bruise the hell out of anyone.
A Ryan just has to come with a Spencer Smith; they’d been best friends since the discovery of fire and will apparently remain so until the sun dies out. They literally do everything together; eating, writing, sleepless nights over Xbox marathons and, if you believe the rumors that the Service keeps spreading, something entirely inappropriate at the back of the old shower room after Gym class.
Patrick was closest with William Beckett, his wisest choice being the one to never call him by that name. The name he had always used was Bill, probably because he wanted to get the whole ‘alliterating name effect’ that Ryan and Spencer had. He was the most feminine-looking out of all of them and that is saying a lot, since the whole lot of them had been mistaken for sorority sisters when they visited the local college last summer. He tended to be flighty and had his head in the clouds often but he was always there when Patrick needed him and that was all that mattered to him.
The newest in the bunch were the Way Twins, they had just moved there all the way from some secluded country in Northern Europe that no one dared to try to pronounce. They were surprisingly nice, constantly trying to improve their English while completely entertaining the others with their honest attempts.
The twins were like a legal version of Ryan and Spencer, Patrick originally thought. He looked around the room once again, checking if any one of his friends showed up. Sighing, he went back to his recollecting and suddenly recalled a very memorable incident.
Gerard, the older twin between him and Mikey, asked Spencer if he had had the pleasure of ‘consummating the karmic union with his goat’. He had been pointing at Ryan at the time, who kept sputtering noiselessly at the mention of consummation and his comparison with a farm animal. The brief flash in Ryan’s eyes signaled the start of what should have been a very dreadful scene but both Patrick and Bill managed to restrain him.
Mikey was trying to explain to them that in their country, being compared to animals was the same as the modern way of giving endearing nicknames and had not meant to offend anyone. A befuddled Gerard thoroughly apologized even though he had no recollection of ever wronging Ryan and then everything was fine. Patrick couldn’t help chuckling at the memory, especially at the priceless expressions on Ryan and Spencer’s faces when Gerard was in between his rambling about ‘mystical impregnations’ and ‘the joy of abnormal childbirth.’
Patrick glanced at the ancient wall clock by the door. It read 11:40, giving him only twenty minutes left to eat through his breakfast, lunch and maybe even midnight snack but his friends weren’t anywhere in sight. Grumbling, he eased himself off his comfortable position on the vending machine and peeked out the huge doorway.
He hadn’t even gotten through one look around the hall when a swarm of people announced their grand entrance by sharply pushing Patrick to the side. With a slight groan, he stumbled and collided with the vending machine, sending a brief jolt of pain to his back.
By his observations, there were about five Neanderthal-like men in custom-made suits, spotless firearms glinting menacingly in the dingy cafeteria light. They wore something that resembled a snarl on their faces, presumably to protect whoever it was in the middle of their human barricade.
“Out of the way, Stumph! You’re blocking my spotlight,” someone from behind the fortress of brawn and metal hollered out to him. He didn’t need to look closer to see who it was, there was no doubt that it was Gabe Saporta, most commonly known with his nickname, ‘G’.
Patrick muttered a few curses before continuing to stare at the mutated blob of limbs and muscle that was passing. He made out another familiar face, that of Brendon Urie, the transfer student from Vegas that gained instant fame due to having a father that owned the famous chain of nightclubs that littered the States.
Together with Gabe, they formed the infamous Service. They were the ones responsible for the nasty rumor about Spencer and Ryan but looking at them for a few seconds, no one would question their involvement in getting their kicks out of making other people’s lives miserable.
“Hey, G, now you’re blocking Three’s spotlight,” Ryan laughed loudly, shoving Gabe’s shoulder out of the way. Gabe shrugged before cocking his shoulders back and striding his way back into the group.
They were almost out of Patrick’s range of hearing when he heard a laugh that he could recognize even if he were partly deaf. “Shut up, Brendon,” the voice had been light and playful yet Patrick was sure that something was weighing it down like a sack of stones.
A flash of wide grin, a glimpse of eyes that crinkled up when amused; Patrick was right with his initial guess as to whom the distracting, horse-like laugh belonged to. It came from the guy the Service called ‘Three’, this was because he was the third most prioritized person to protect, after his father and mother. Only his parents called him Pete, Patrick had known that due to the highly publicized visit to the school where his father spoke on stage and heaped undeserving accolades on him. Most adults, even the teachers at Wilmette High, called him ‘Mr. Wentz’. For those who didn’t know him at all, he was just known by one epithet; the only son of the President of the United States of America.
--
Patrick had stood there for what felt like ten minutes, a long while after the atypical company moved on and settled into an exclusive little spot by the corner of the room. He had always felt a morbid curiosity for that group, sort of how a bystander wonders how it must feel to be trapped in a burning building but without the actual desire to experience the slow and painful death that accompanied it.
The sound of the cafeteria doors opening snapped him out of his dazed musing. He turned around and saw his friends, a sparse sound of conversation coming from them. A pang of irritation swept through him, where had they gone and why the hell wasn’t he invited?
Patrick strode up to meet them, hands clenched into tight fists. If he had been a character from one of the cheesy, low-budget cartoons that he loved as a kid, he was sure to be exhaling smoke out of his nose and ears by now.
“Where the hell have you guys been?” he stopped in front of them with his hands on hips. Bill was at the front of the group and surprisingly had a look that could rival Patrick’s own death glare.
“We should be asking you that exact same question,” it was Ryan who piped up, he was carrying what looked like a home-made burger, fresh off the grill, in one hand and a sickly colored ice cream cone in the other.
Patrick’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and before he could speak, he was interrupted by Bill.
“It’s Thursday, Patrick. Don’t you remember where we go for lunch on Thursdays?”
Patrick visibly flinched as he suddenly realized the reason why his friends had every right to be pissed off at him. It was ‘Veggie Van Thursday’.
All of them ate at Andy’s ‘rollin’ vehicle of nutrition and wellness’ during that day. Andy was their counselor from the Band Camp that most of them had been to when they were younger. He had what Ryan liked to call ‘a fatal addiction to health’ so as their way for paying back his kindness to them during their camping days, they promised to visit weekly.
Andy’s place was simply an old van that had its windows taken out and it served as the kitchen-slash-cashier. They normally ate their fare while leaning against the van but after Spencer nearly tore a hole into it when he propped himself up with his elbow, they’ve settled with plainly standing up.
He gave an apologetic grin; he didn’t understand how he could’ve forgotten it. It must’ve been the effect of first period Physics class and skipping breakfast for the nth time, he thought.
“Don’t worry, Patrick,” Gerard peeked his head out from the very back. He was grasping a pack of overly pale looking French fries and had that same, silly grin that he had on all the time.
“We brought you one of Andy’s special Soya Fries in case you forgot to eat again. It tastes like my Great Auntie’s third kidney stone,” Gerard offered the fries to him, poking his arm out in between Spencer and Ryan’s heads.
Patrick took it sheepishly, knowing Gerard he thought that it must’ve been meant as a compliment towards Andy’s cooking but it paid to be sure.
“Umm-thanks Gerard-uh-thanks to you guys too-I’m really sorry I-” Oddly enough, Patrick was shushed by the act of Mikey Way tip-toeing to Patrick’s side and giving him a bear hug. Patrick’s muffled protests were left unheard and the next thing he knew, Mikey put him down and they had all started walking to their table by the other side, a few snickers heard from the various members.
Ryan wordlessly handed him the burger, fully understanding the dire health risks he faced by eating the pseudo-fries. Taking a hearty bite, he hummed in content and tried to listen in on the continued conversations. He was both shocked and pleased to notice that it was about Pete.
“So,” Spencer was absently fiddling with a stray lock of his hair while vaguely rattling off a list with his fingers using the other hand, “the clothes. C’mon. How can a man be strictly heterosexual with that ghastly amount of clothing he has? I mean, it’s impossible! I’m as gay as a doorknob and even I don’t have a quarter of what that dude owns.”
Bill gave a slight giggle before turning to face Spencer, “Well you aren’t exactly the flesh and blood of the most powerful man in America, Spence.”
An obscene gesture was flashed between them. Ryan couldn’t resist interrupting, “And I think the phrase is ‘straight as a doorknob’.”
They had reached their table when Spencer gave the equivalent of a very glamorous eye roll.
Patrick sat at the chair next to the wall; beside him were Bill and a serene Gerard. Across from him was a still standing Spencer and a smirking Ryan. Mikey was next to them and was already catching up on the ice cream cone that Ryan offered him on the way.
Spencer tapped his foot impatiently as if he was shocked at the lack of interest over Pete Wentz’ sexual preference. Patrick kept devouring the burger in his hands, silently straining his ear to hear every bit of the conversation while putting on his best bored front. He didn’t know why he was interested either but the fact remained that he dearly wished that Spencer give some concrete evidence to prove which way Pete swung.
The conversation was punctuated by the unwelcome sound of the school bell signaling the end of lunch break. Patrick sighed and crumpled the piece of foil that was left and stood up quickly, to the surprise of his friends who were all taking their time.
He walked over to the trash bin next to their table, threw away the foil and walked towards the door in another of his dazed moments. He had a feeling that this day would be different and his nerves wouldn’t make him rest for a single moment.
--
The rest of the day passed by in a literal blur. Patrick couldn’t remember what his teachers had talked about or what he had written down but he knew that he wasn’t called on by anyone so he must’ve been doing a good impression of intense concentration.
This was partly true because Patrick couldn’t help thinking about his earlier almost-collision with Pete. He didn’t have any classes with him because Patrick was in an advanced class and was younger than most people in their Senior year. His grades have been starting to slip though, with all the distractions in his life plus his after-school job that he absolutely loved.
He said goodbye to his friends as he turned the corner on the way to work. He was assisting in a Barnes and Noble store near his house and he couldn’t be any happier. Books were second on his list of luxuries in life, landing second only to music, which had been his first love since he first touched his dad’s rusty old Les Paul.
On the way to work, he kept replaying the earlier moment in his head. The way Pete gave grins so easily when the sincerity of them differed even though its appearance didn’t his casual banter with his friends as if he wasn’t a target for enemies of the state and the lack of egocentric air around him puzzled Patrick. Sure, he admitted that Pete thought highly of himself but not at the height he expected from one of the recently named People Magazine’s Most Eligible Teenagers.
The crisp August air comforted him, giving him a refreshing jolt every time a breeze picks up. Finally reaching the store, he let slide all of his thoughts of Pete and shifted to strictly-work mode. This was, after all, serious business.
--
The clock gave a shrill ring, telling the whole store that it was half past 6 and the start of their new company marketing promotion.
Patrick was in charge of handling the album department of Barnes and Noble so he was naturally assigned to take care of their new ploy to bring in more customers.
Every 6:30 to 7:00 in the evening on select weekdays, all records were slashed to half their original price. This drew in a horde of new customers and gave Patrick a whole new batch of problems to take care of.
This weeknight was different, however. There were only about four people in the store, Patrick included. So naturally, he jumped at the chance to put his customer relations skills to the test when he heard the soft bell signaling a new customer.
His face fell and his heart began to race when he rushed forward to see who it was. It was Pete Wentz. Even more unusual, it was an unaccompanied Pete Wentz.
He was wearing simple skinny jeans that matched the jet black of his hair and a plain, green hoodie over the shirt he wore to school earlier. Patrick couldn’t resist peering behind the guy to see if his bodyguards were hiding behind him and waiting to dismember any person who tried touching Pete. They weren’t there.
“Hey, Patrick, right?” Patrick jumped at the surprise of Pete talking to him and actually knowing his name. He was simply standing there with his hands in his jeans and grinning at Patrick, as if they were best friends and were delighted at the chance encounter.
“Uh-yeah-you’re Pete?” A split-second had passed when he wished he could bang his head on the cash register. That had been the most inane question he had asked, even more embarrassing than the time when he asked his parents why he heard strange noises from the neighbor’s bedroom window.
Pete grinned even wider, his eyes giving a slight sparkle due to the bright lights of the bookstore.
“Yeah, that’s me,” Pete inched closer, sending Patrick’s pulse to record speeds as every second passed.
He breathed a sigh of relief when Pete passed him and continued on to the racks of CDs on display. Remembering his job description, he put on his ‘Work Face’ and stepped beside Pete.
“So, need any help with-”
“Nah, I’m good.” Pete cut him short, absently sliding his fingers over the various albums in front of him. Pausing on a CD by Prince, he picked it up and glossed over the track listing.
Patrick felt stung by the quick brush off, mentally berating himself for ever thinking that Mr. Pete ‘Three’ Wentz would ever be interested in being his friend.
“Alright, I’ll just-” he turned his back and walked over to the History section of the bookstore, “-be right here,” he whispered with a tone of embarrassment.
He tried to distract himself by staring up at the highest shelf, noting the books he wanted to read after all the customers leave. Byzantine, Greek, Roman, Medieval; his interest in history rivaled his love for music and he took pride in his knowledge of the glorious past.
There was a small man next to him, even smaller than he was, and he was acting very peculiarly. He was browsing through the complete works of Edgar Allan Poe and kept twitching oddly while supposedly reading the heavy publication.
Patrick quirked an eyebrow and continued to observe the man. He had stopped quite a few shoplifters during his short stay and he was doing his best to prevent them even further.
There was definitely something wrong with the little man. He began pacing up and down the small aisle and whenever he reached the edge of it, he peered towards the album department, where Pete was still idly looking through records. There was a quick movement made by the man and he threw down the biography to reveal a seemingly cocked pistol, aimed straight at Pete’s back.
Patrick wasn’t one to have a death wish. In fact, he was one of the most careful people in the neighborhood. But whatever it was that compelled him to face immediate death, he didn’t know. What he did know was that he had to get that gun out of the way and quick.
“Pete!” he yelled as loud as his voice could carry, startling the man and immediately turning the gun towards Patrick. Grabbing the first book within reach, one of Julius Caesar’s countless biographies, he threw it as hard as he could at the man.
It hit him squarely on the face, its sharp edges poking him in the eye and causing him to scream and fire the gun at the ceiling. Reflex and adrenaline conspired, making Patrick run and tackle the criminal below the knees, remembering the one session of Gym class where they were forced to play football.
They tumbled towards the floor, the man hitting his head on one of the metal stands that housed all the postcards. This caused his arm to drop down on impulse, banging the gun hard on Patrick’s temple.
After that, there was nothing but a blurry vision of lights, the sound of Pete shouting instructions to whomever it was that had entered the store and the feel of someone trying to fix his glasses and hold his head up.
And then there was darkness.
- End Chapter One -
Chapter Two's halfway done :) What do you guys think? I really hope you guys like it~
Next Chapter
Patrick reclined his head on the rusty vending machine, breathing in the assortment of smells that ranged from moldy food to body odor. He belonged to the last set, along with the rest of his close friends.
There was Ryan Ross, the astoundingly profound writer of the group who he had gotten into a slight tussle with when the latter was insulted by Patrick’s comment that his works might just be the slightest bit too angry for the New York Times’ taste. He wasn’t what one would call muscular or intimidating but the kid could really bruise the hell out of anyone.
A Ryan just has to come with a Spencer Smith; they’d been best friends since the discovery of fire and will apparently remain so until the sun dies out. They literally do everything together; eating, writing, sleepless nights over Xbox marathons and, if you believe the rumors that the Service keeps spreading, something entirely inappropriate at the back of the old shower room after Gym class.
Patrick was closest with William Beckett, his wisest choice being the one to never call him by that name. The name he had always used was Bill, probably because he wanted to get the whole ‘alliterating name effect’ that Ryan and Spencer had. He was the most feminine-looking out of all of them and that is saying a lot, since the whole lot of them had been mistaken for sorority sisters when they visited the local college last summer. He tended to be flighty and had his head in the clouds often but he was always there when Patrick needed him and that was all that mattered to him.
The newest in the bunch were the Way Twins, they had just moved there all the way from some secluded country in Northern Europe that no one dared to try to pronounce. They were surprisingly nice, constantly trying to improve their English while completely entertaining the others with their honest attempts.
The twins were like a legal version of Ryan and Spencer, Patrick originally thought. He looked around the room once again, checking if any one of his friends showed up. Sighing, he went back to his recollecting and suddenly recalled a very memorable incident.
Gerard, the older twin between him and Mikey, asked Spencer if he had had the pleasure of ‘consummating the karmic union with his goat’. He had been pointing at Ryan at the time, who kept sputtering noiselessly at the mention of consummation and his comparison with a farm animal. The brief flash in Ryan’s eyes signaled the start of what should have been a very dreadful scene but both Patrick and Bill managed to restrain him.
Mikey was trying to explain to them that in their country, being compared to animals was the same as the modern way of giving endearing nicknames and had not meant to offend anyone. A befuddled Gerard thoroughly apologized even though he had no recollection of ever wronging Ryan and then everything was fine. Patrick couldn’t help chuckling at the memory, especially at the priceless expressions on Ryan and Spencer’s faces when Gerard was in between his rambling about ‘mystical impregnations’ and ‘the joy of abnormal childbirth.’
Patrick glanced at the ancient wall clock by the door. It read 11:40, giving him only twenty minutes left to eat through his breakfast, lunch and maybe even midnight snack but his friends weren’t anywhere in sight. Grumbling, he eased himself off his comfortable position on the vending machine and peeked out the huge doorway.
He hadn’t even gotten through one look around the hall when a swarm of people announced their grand entrance by sharply pushing Patrick to the side. With a slight groan, he stumbled and collided with the vending machine, sending a brief jolt of pain to his back.
By his observations, there were about five Neanderthal-like men in custom-made suits, spotless firearms glinting menacingly in the dingy cafeteria light. They wore something that resembled a snarl on their faces, presumably to protect whoever it was in the middle of their human barricade.
“Out of the way, Stumph! You’re blocking my spotlight,” someone from behind the fortress of brawn and metal hollered out to him. He didn’t need to look closer to see who it was, there was no doubt that it was Gabe Saporta, most commonly known with his nickname, ‘G’.
Patrick muttered a few curses before continuing to stare at the mutated blob of limbs and muscle that was passing. He made out another familiar face, that of Brendon Urie, the transfer student from Vegas that gained instant fame due to having a father that owned the famous chain of nightclubs that littered the States.
Together with Gabe, they formed the infamous Service. They were the ones responsible for the nasty rumor about Spencer and Ryan but looking at them for a few seconds, no one would question their involvement in getting their kicks out of making other people’s lives miserable.
“Hey, G, now you’re blocking Three’s spotlight,” Ryan laughed loudly, shoving Gabe’s shoulder out of the way. Gabe shrugged before cocking his shoulders back and striding his way back into the group.
They were almost out of Patrick’s range of hearing when he heard a laugh that he could recognize even if he were partly deaf. “Shut up, Brendon,” the voice had been light and playful yet Patrick was sure that something was weighing it down like a sack of stones.
A flash of wide grin, a glimpse of eyes that crinkled up when amused; Patrick was right with his initial guess as to whom the distracting, horse-like laugh belonged to. It came from the guy the Service called ‘Three’, this was because he was the third most prioritized person to protect, after his father and mother. Only his parents called him Pete, Patrick had known that due to the highly publicized visit to the school where his father spoke on stage and heaped undeserving accolades on him. Most adults, even the teachers at Wilmette High, called him ‘Mr. Wentz’. For those who didn’t know him at all, he was just known by one epithet; the only son of the President of the United States of America.
--
Patrick had stood there for what felt like ten minutes, a long while after the atypical company moved on and settled into an exclusive little spot by the corner of the room. He had always felt a morbid curiosity for that group, sort of how a bystander wonders how it must feel to be trapped in a burning building but without the actual desire to experience the slow and painful death that accompanied it.
The sound of the cafeteria doors opening snapped him out of his dazed musing. He turned around and saw his friends, a sparse sound of conversation coming from them. A pang of irritation swept through him, where had they gone and why the hell wasn’t he invited?
Patrick strode up to meet them, hands clenched into tight fists. If he had been a character from one of the cheesy, low-budget cartoons that he loved as a kid, he was sure to be exhaling smoke out of his nose and ears by now.
“Where the hell have you guys been?” he stopped in front of them with his hands on hips. Bill was at the front of the group and surprisingly had a look that could rival Patrick’s own death glare.
“We should be asking you that exact same question,” it was Ryan who piped up, he was carrying what looked like a home-made burger, fresh off the grill, in one hand and a sickly colored ice cream cone in the other.
Patrick’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and before he could speak, he was interrupted by Bill.
“It’s Thursday, Patrick. Don’t you remember where we go for lunch on Thursdays?”
Patrick visibly flinched as he suddenly realized the reason why his friends had every right to be pissed off at him. It was ‘Veggie Van Thursday’.
All of them ate at Andy’s ‘rollin’ vehicle of nutrition and wellness’ during that day. Andy was their counselor from the Band Camp that most of them had been to when they were younger. He had what Ryan liked to call ‘a fatal addiction to health’ so as their way for paying back his kindness to them during their camping days, they promised to visit weekly.
Andy’s place was simply an old van that had its windows taken out and it served as the kitchen-slash-cashier. They normally ate their fare while leaning against the van but after Spencer nearly tore a hole into it when he propped himself up with his elbow, they’ve settled with plainly standing up.
He gave an apologetic grin; he didn’t understand how he could’ve forgotten it. It must’ve been the effect of first period Physics class and skipping breakfast for the nth time, he thought.
“Don’t worry, Patrick,” Gerard peeked his head out from the very back. He was grasping a pack of overly pale looking French fries and had that same, silly grin that he had on all the time.
“We brought you one of Andy’s special Soya Fries in case you forgot to eat again. It tastes like my Great Auntie’s third kidney stone,” Gerard offered the fries to him, poking his arm out in between Spencer and Ryan’s heads.
Patrick took it sheepishly, knowing Gerard he thought that it must’ve been meant as a compliment towards Andy’s cooking but it paid to be sure.
“Umm-thanks Gerard-uh-thanks to you guys too-I’m really sorry I-” Oddly enough, Patrick was shushed by the act of Mikey Way tip-toeing to Patrick’s side and giving him a bear hug. Patrick’s muffled protests were left unheard and the next thing he knew, Mikey put him down and they had all started walking to their table by the other side, a few snickers heard from the various members.
Ryan wordlessly handed him the burger, fully understanding the dire health risks he faced by eating the pseudo-fries. Taking a hearty bite, he hummed in content and tried to listen in on the continued conversations. He was both shocked and pleased to notice that it was about Pete.
“So,” Spencer was absently fiddling with a stray lock of his hair while vaguely rattling off a list with his fingers using the other hand, “the clothes. C’mon. How can a man be strictly heterosexual with that ghastly amount of clothing he has? I mean, it’s impossible! I’m as gay as a doorknob and even I don’t have a quarter of what that dude owns.”
Bill gave a slight giggle before turning to face Spencer, “Well you aren’t exactly the flesh and blood of the most powerful man in America, Spence.”
An obscene gesture was flashed between them. Ryan couldn’t resist interrupting, “And I think the phrase is ‘straight as a doorknob’.”
They had reached their table when Spencer gave the equivalent of a very glamorous eye roll.
Patrick sat at the chair next to the wall; beside him were Bill and a serene Gerard. Across from him was a still standing Spencer and a smirking Ryan. Mikey was next to them and was already catching up on the ice cream cone that Ryan offered him on the way.
Spencer tapped his foot impatiently as if he was shocked at the lack of interest over Pete Wentz’ sexual preference. Patrick kept devouring the burger in his hands, silently straining his ear to hear every bit of the conversation while putting on his best bored front. He didn’t know why he was interested either but the fact remained that he dearly wished that Spencer give some concrete evidence to prove which way Pete swung.
The conversation was punctuated by the unwelcome sound of the school bell signaling the end of lunch break. Patrick sighed and crumpled the piece of foil that was left and stood up quickly, to the surprise of his friends who were all taking their time.
He walked over to the trash bin next to their table, threw away the foil and walked towards the door in another of his dazed moments. He had a feeling that this day would be different and his nerves wouldn’t make him rest for a single moment.
--
The rest of the day passed by in a literal blur. Patrick couldn’t remember what his teachers had talked about or what he had written down but he knew that he wasn’t called on by anyone so he must’ve been doing a good impression of intense concentration.
This was partly true because Patrick couldn’t help thinking about his earlier almost-collision with Pete. He didn’t have any classes with him because Patrick was in an advanced class and was younger than most people in their Senior year. His grades have been starting to slip though, with all the distractions in his life plus his after-school job that he absolutely loved.
He said goodbye to his friends as he turned the corner on the way to work. He was assisting in a Barnes and Noble store near his house and he couldn’t be any happier. Books were second on his list of luxuries in life, landing second only to music, which had been his first love since he first touched his dad’s rusty old Les Paul.
On the way to work, he kept replaying the earlier moment in his head. The way Pete gave grins so easily when the sincerity of them differed even though its appearance didn’t his casual banter with his friends as if he wasn’t a target for enemies of the state and the lack of egocentric air around him puzzled Patrick. Sure, he admitted that Pete thought highly of himself but not at the height he expected from one of the recently named People Magazine’s Most Eligible Teenagers.
The crisp August air comforted him, giving him a refreshing jolt every time a breeze picks up. Finally reaching the store, he let slide all of his thoughts of Pete and shifted to strictly-work mode. This was, after all, serious business.
--
The clock gave a shrill ring, telling the whole store that it was half past 6 and the start of their new company marketing promotion.
Patrick was in charge of handling the album department of Barnes and Noble so he was naturally assigned to take care of their new ploy to bring in more customers.
Every 6:30 to 7:00 in the evening on select weekdays, all records were slashed to half their original price. This drew in a horde of new customers and gave Patrick a whole new batch of problems to take care of.
This weeknight was different, however. There were only about four people in the store, Patrick included. So naturally, he jumped at the chance to put his customer relations skills to the test when he heard the soft bell signaling a new customer.
His face fell and his heart began to race when he rushed forward to see who it was. It was Pete Wentz. Even more unusual, it was an unaccompanied Pete Wentz.
He was wearing simple skinny jeans that matched the jet black of his hair and a plain, green hoodie over the shirt he wore to school earlier. Patrick couldn’t resist peering behind the guy to see if his bodyguards were hiding behind him and waiting to dismember any person who tried touching Pete. They weren’t there.
“Hey, Patrick, right?” Patrick jumped at the surprise of Pete talking to him and actually knowing his name. He was simply standing there with his hands in his jeans and grinning at Patrick, as if they were best friends and were delighted at the chance encounter.
“Uh-yeah-you’re Pete?” A split-second had passed when he wished he could bang his head on the cash register. That had been the most inane question he had asked, even more embarrassing than the time when he asked his parents why he heard strange noises from the neighbor’s bedroom window.
Pete grinned even wider, his eyes giving a slight sparkle due to the bright lights of the bookstore.
“Yeah, that’s me,” Pete inched closer, sending Patrick’s pulse to record speeds as every second passed.
He breathed a sigh of relief when Pete passed him and continued on to the racks of CDs on display. Remembering his job description, he put on his ‘Work Face’ and stepped beside Pete.
“So, need any help with-”
“Nah, I’m good.” Pete cut him short, absently sliding his fingers over the various albums in front of him. Pausing on a CD by Prince, he picked it up and glossed over the track listing.
Patrick felt stung by the quick brush off, mentally berating himself for ever thinking that Mr. Pete ‘Three’ Wentz would ever be interested in being his friend.
“Alright, I’ll just-” he turned his back and walked over to the History section of the bookstore, “-be right here,” he whispered with a tone of embarrassment.
He tried to distract himself by staring up at the highest shelf, noting the books he wanted to read after all the customers leave. Byzantine, Greek, Roman, Medieval; his interest in history rivaled his love for music and he took pride in his knowledge of the glorious past.
There was a small man next to him, even smaller than he was, and he was acting very peculiarly. He was browsing through the complete works of Edgar Allan Poe and kept twitching oddly while supposedly reading the heavy publication.
Patrick quirked an eyebrow and continued to observe the man. He had stopped quite a few shoplifters during his short stay and he was doing his best to prevent them even further.
There was definitely something wrong with the little man. He began pacing up and down the small aisle and whenever he reached the edge of it, he peered towards the album department, where Pete was still idly looking through records. There was a quick movement made by the man and he threw down the biography to reveal a seemingly cocked pistol, aimed straight at Pete’s back.
Patrick wasn’t one to have a death wish. In fact, he was one of the most careful people in the neighborhood. But whatever it was that compelled him to face immediate death, he didn’t know. What he did know was that he had to get that gun out of the way and quick.
“Pete!” he yelled as loud as his voice could carry, startling the man and immediately turning the gun towards Patrick. Grabbing the first book within reach, one of Julius Caesar’s countless biographies, he threw it as hard as he could at the man.
It hit him squarely on the face, its sharp edges poking him in the eye and causing him to scream and fire the gun at the ceiling. Reflex and adrenaline conspired, making Patrick run and tackle the criminal below the knees, remembering the one session of Gym class where they were forced to play football.
They tumbled towards the floor, the man hitting his head on one of the metal stands that housed all the postcards. This caused his arm to drop down on impulse, banging the gun hard on Patrick’s temple.
After that, there was nothing but a blurry vision of lights, the sound of Pete shouting instructions to whomever it was that had entered the store and the feel of someone trying to fix his glasses and hold his head up.
And then there was darkness.
- End Chapter One -
Chapter Two's halfway done :) What do you guys think? I really hope you guys like it~
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