[fic] trade baby blues for wide-eyed browns
trade baby blues for wide-eyed browns
pete+patrick, pg13. 3055 words.
because it's not a gen bodyswap fic unless someone gets a blowjob.
also i have a super-awesome project in the works which you may or may not dig if you like having things to hold on to. just wanted to throw that out there.
Patrick wakes up on the wrong side of the plane, sitting next to Joe, and he was with Andy when the flight started. He rubs at his eyes and yawns before saying, "Guys, that's lame."
His vision focuses and is very, very clear, which is weird because he knows he took his glasses off before he let himself fall asleep, and his hands are still in front of his face because his nose itches and he was going to scratch it but gets distracted by the sheer amount of ink on his skin. Also, the fact that his skin's a shade or two darker, and he doesn't have a jacket on anymore, and he's lost weight or something, and. And on the other side of the plane, which has only just landed, apparently he's still sitting next to Andy.
"What?" Joe says.
Patrick says, "I had this dream you were all, like, ... well, Andy, you were a clock. A singing, dancing clock. It was all Disney, you know, just with more eyeliner." He's making this up off the top of his head. Why Beauty and the Beast is the first thing that comes to mind, he's not sure. He's even less sure why he seems to be Pete Wentz.
He's not usually Pete Wentz. He's pretty sure he's still Patrick Stump, really, is quite sure of that, but he's also Pete Wentz today. Apparently. "So where are we?"
"Brasil," Andy says, from across the aisle, and he says it like anyone else but Patrick knows Andy's the kind of guy to spell it with an 's.' "Three days. Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Patrick says. "Yeah, dude, totally." He nods and grins and this being-Pete thing is weird. He's going to have to talk to himself, or to Pete, or something. He blinks, hard, not so used to contacts. "Is Patrick awake?"
"Oh, you're not waking him up, no," Andy says. He shakes Patrick's shoulder. The other Patrick. Actual-Patrick, awkward sleeping hat-wearing chubby Patrick, not the Patrick who's currently Pete. "Hey Patrick, hey, wake up."
"What are you, good morning, I'm awake. Are we in Brazil yet?" and Pete definitely spells Brazil with a 'z.' "Wasn't I next to Joe? Did I drool on you, Joe?"
"What?" Joe says. He's got this deer-in-headlights look; Patrick thinks probably he needs sleep. Joe looks tired, too. "Uhm, no? You've been sitting next to Andy this whole tour."
"Huh? I, oh, shit, right," Pete-in-Patrick's-body says. He seems bemused to hear this, and is tapping his fingers together. "I don't know what I was thinking. Weird dreams, man."
"Hm," Andy says.
*
They don't get time together until after the show, and even before that Andy says, "Wow, Pete, you've really improved, were you practicing or something?"
Patrick shrugs. "What do you mean?"
"You were really on tonight, on bass and all." Andy's eyes go narrow then normal again.
Patrick has more energy than usual, and he shifts his weight and circles around and leans off Andy's shoulder. He feels like he's being worse than Brendon Urie, maybe. "I'm just that awesome," he says, trying to act like Pete. He's not really sure what Pete would say here. "I mean, it's not like I did anything, you know, I don't know. I guess I crossed a plateau, like, yeah. A plateau."
"A plateau," Andy repeats.
"Yes?"
"Uh-huh."
*
So, finally:
"Hi, Pete," Patrick says to himself. Pete laughs. "Why are you me, exactly?"
"How should I know?" Pete says. "Dude, dude, we should -- there's not really anything awesome to do like this, is there. We could mess with people's heads. Oh, man, go talk to Joe about music stuff I don't know."
"Andy wants to know if you practiced bass or something," Patrick says. "This could get bad. When we turn back and you start sucking again."
"Hey, now, I don't suck," Pete says. "Oh, man, how about when we turn back and you can sing again."
"You didn't ruin my voice," Patrick says. "It sounds fine. I. When we -- if we, what if we don't turn back?"
"They always do in movies."
"What movies," Patrick says. "What movies, Pete, what movies where the lead singer and bassist of a band switch places for no reason? Where are these movies you're talking about, because I haven't seen them."
"Hey, now."
"You're making up fictional movies."
"No, I'm making up factual movies. Oh. Oh. What? Yeah," and Patrick thinks this probably looks really weird; Pete Wentz giving Patrick a long-suffering look as Patrick laughs and hits him in the shoulder.
"So should we tell the other guys?"
"We'll be fine tomorrow," Pete says.
*
Tomorrow, Patrick wakes up and is not fine. He feels alright physically, but the problem is that he's still Pete Wentz. The first thing Pete says to him, from the other bed in their little hotel suite, is, "Hey, have you jacked off yet?"
"What?"
"I so have. Took a shower already, by the way, the shower's free so you can do that if you want, but shit, dude, I don't even know, you make awesome noises."
"Okay, that's gross." Patrick says, and it takes him a while to think of how to say it without sounding too creepy, "Don't ... jerk my body off. Just don't."
Pete shrugs. "You gots needs."
"I gots?"
"You gots," Pete nods. He's not even wearing a shirt, just boxers, and he looks a lot more comfortable in Patrick's body than Patrick himself ever has been. He manages to make Patrick look almost not bad, and Patrick is irrationally jealous of Pete's ability to be marginally comfortable in -- well, in somebody else's skin, really. Patrick's been trying to ignore Pete's body as best he can, but he's missing his hat, even though he knows he's got enough hair it doesn't matter, and he wishes it weren't so warm here and that he could plausibly put on another few layers. "Hey, so photoshoot today, right, we're gonna be under lights. And outside. And it's summer."
"Yeah," Patrick says.
"I'm not going to be wearing a shirt. Or you're not. Like, my body is not going to be, because no way in hell would I be," Pete says. Patrick's getting weirded out, watching himself talk. "Not when it's like a hundred degrees already without the lights."
"Oh," Patrick says. "So hey, no, I'm serious, I'm not going to -- don't -- seriously. Seriously."
Pete shrugs. "I make no promises and tell no lies."
*
"Hey guys," Patrick hears himself saying, and he's watching himself make grand sweeping energetic gestures -- "let's do some shouting. Shouty songs. Brazil wants shouting. The people need it in their bones."
"And in their ears," Joe says.
Patrick says, "Dude." He pauses, keeping himself from hitting Pete for the suggestion. The problem is, he's supposed to be Pete, and actual-Pete would like the idea. Does, since actual-Pete is the one suggesting it. Patrick's getting a headache. "Definitely."
Andy's eyes go narrow then normal again. "Two more nights in Brasil, guys," he says. He twirls his drumsticks.
The photographer says, "Pete?" He says, "Keep your pants on," and laughs. His English is heavily accented but not hesitant. "I want all of you together. Come on. Come on. Yes. Yes, that is good." He takes a picture and he says, "How about all of you are on the surfboard?" and Patrick has to remind himself to look at the camera, that he can't hide under his layers and his hat. Has to remind himself that, right now, he's actually pretty hot, is totally worthwhile since right now he's Pete. He's not overweight and balding right now.
He pulls a face, pulls his lips up over his teeth in an uneven snarl and tries to keep his eyes open, and it's easier this way. Not having to try to smile. Not having to see the cameraman fiddle with settings because everything's blurry through squinted eyelashes. He thinks, maybe there's a reason Pete does this stupid face so often.
*
Patrick sees the proofs of this photoshoot later, and when he looks at himself he's smiling, has the brim of his hat a little to the side and slanted on a diagonal; sees Pete wearing his body like one of those stupid hoodies he's always wearing. Like it was made for him.
*
"We should have sex," Pete says. "I want to know what it's like to have sex with me."
"It wouldn't be the same, and no, just, no," Patrick says. He's still Pete. He wrinkles his nose. "How often do you usually brush your teeth? Your gums don't seem to like the daily treatment, they were bleeding. Oh, man, have you been brushing mine?"
"Yeah, sure," Pete says, but he uses the hat to hide; Patrick recognises the move. "But no," he says, looking up again. "Seriously."
"Pete, I do not know your moves. You wouldn't get the full Pete Wentz experience. I mean, that's completely ignoring the part where I don't want to sleep with you, and where that's gross."
"But what if, what if," Pete says. "What if like. We have to have sex to exchange life-forces? What if it's the only way?"
"We didn't have sex to get this way in the first place."
"Well, no."
"So no. Pete. No."
*
Patrick says, "Dude, stop talking to the ladies, we need you backstage," and Pete laughs and puts his hand on a girl's arm and tells her he'll be right back, honest.
Patrick says, "Come on, he says that to all the chicks. If you wanted to see me, though, eh, eh," and winks, sleazy as he can manage. He's stopped feeling quite so awkward. He's pretty sure only one of the three girls has any idea what he's saying, and her only barely. She takes a moment then smiles and nods.
Pete says, "Come on, dude, I was going to score." He says, "You never try on tour. I figured I'd change the record; you deserve it."
"Those girls were hot, no way they want to sleep with me. It was just because I'm famous."
"It's just because you're awesome, you mean? Maybe if you didn't always pretend you were ugly," Pete says. He says, "Someone is going to listen to us and think we're insane." He says, "By the way, find a dude to make out with."
"I don't -- Hey. What?"
"There haven't been enough rumors of me making out with dudes lately. I want more. I mean, just because I say in interviews, whatever. Let's prove it."
"Oh god," Patrick says, covering his face with a hand. "I'm not gay from the waist up like you, Pete Wentz."
"Someone is going to listen and, seriously," Pete says again. "Pete, you're slipping, dude. Getting better at bass has made you shit with the dudes."
"That doesn't even make sense, man," Patrick says, and he's aware that Andy's not far off. He can see him out of the corner of his eye. "I still have the skills. Let's prove it. Let's find a groupie," he says, then, "You, I like your hair."
"What is that? Lame. That's lame. Your moves have lost their sharpness."
The kid he's talking to has big, sleepy eyes, all dark and lined in black. He shrugs and says, maybe, that he doesn't speak English.
"You don't even have to talk," Pete says, tone kind of weird. "See. I'm just gonna leave you to it."
This night is the first night Patrick has ever made out with a Brasilian boy who can't speak English. Patrick's gots his needs, as Pete would say. He gets them taken care of.
Getting off as Pete, with a clever Brasilian mouth around Pete's dick (with Pete's skinny girl jeans down around his ankles and his back against a cold tile bathroom wall) feels kind of different, more visceral but the afterglow is gone faster. Patrick suspects Pete's got an admirable refractory period for a twenty seven year old, but he doesn't experiment to find out. He feels weirded out enough as it is.
That, and Patrick's wondering if getting a blowjob counts as below-the-waist gay or not, and who exactly it would count as below-the-waist gay for, anyway, since it's his mind and Pete's body.
*
Patrick finds Pete, later, and all he says is, "Hey, you should probably actually practice."
"Everyone's gonna wonder when you started sucking so bad."
"I can teach you."
"And that won't look weird?"
"Hey."
*
Third day of being Pete and Patrick's really pretty used to it. Andy keeps looking at him, though, and there's people commenting on how much more outgoing than usual Patrick is being, which is annoying -- Pete's moods are mercurial enough that a temporary shift isn't noteworthy.
Andy says, "Are you for real?"
Patrick blinks at him. "What? He wanted advice."
Andy stares at Pete-as-Patrick and the bass guitar on his lap. A soft hum radiates from the amp, the tone golden and honeysweet. "You wanted advice," he repeats. He's been repeating a lot of things Patrick's said lately. "On what?"
"Energy," Pete says blithely. He plays a quick, stupid little riff on the bass. "He's going to teach me his moves."
"I've got moves like no motherfucker knows," Patrick says.
"Sure, Patrick," Andy says. "Of course you do."
"Oh," Patrick says. "So uh. Hey. You know what made this happen?"
"No. Glad my guess was right, though."
"What guess? If you know what --"
"Nah, just my guess that you're not actually Pete."
"Oh," Patrick says.
"Oh," Pete says, at the same time.
"Though I guess you could secretly be the same person," Andy concedes. "Or psychic."
Pete looks like he's concentrating really hard, furrows his brow and all, and Patrick makes a mental note to never make that expression when he's himself again -- "Nah, I don't think so. Patrick, can you read my mind?"
"No."
"Okay, sweet, because I don't want you to know what I was thinking."
"You were thinking having sex would fix this, weren't you."
"Yes," Pete says. "You are psychic, you little bitch."
"Well, no."
"At least the bass lessons make sense," Andy says. "You really do need to learn more anyway," and he's looking at Patrick-as-Pete when he says it. "I mean, not you. You know what I mean."
"It's weird, huh," Pete says. "I get all confused in the mirror, now that I'm this total hottie."
"Shut up," Patrick says. Andy gives him -- his body, gives Pete, really -- a look. Pete cowers.
"I thought so," Andy says.
"You have any ideas?"
"Just because I'm vegan," Andy says. "Just because I'm vegan does not mean I know magic."
"Okay, granted," Pete says, "but still."
"Did you piss somebody off?"
"No!"
"Okay," Patrick says. "That means yes; who was it? Not J -- your ex, pretty sure she doesn't know magic either."
"Well, no."
"Shit," Patrick says. "We're never gonna figure this out."
*
They get on the plane, and Pete's saying, "No, no, really, I don't know. I -- newspaper. Okay." He's been trying to talk his way into getting a book for the plane, trying to talk around the thinking-in-music problem that he doesn't have. Patrick's been trying not to think too hard about how the plane ride's going to go. Pete insisted they sit together.
Pete says, when they're on the plane and their carry-on baggage is stowed, "Mile-high club, dude."
"No."
"Come on."
"Pete, I don't know your moves."
"Oh, right."
"Seriously."
"When else am I going to have a chance to sleep with myself? I want to know if I'm any good, but you're right, you're right, I'd only find out if you're any good I guess. Or if you're any good when you're me. Or if I -- shit, I don't know, I can't use logic."
Joe says, "What on earth are you guys talking about?"
Patrick says, "Nothing." He says, "I'm gonna take a nap, meds kicking in and all." He's been feeling weird and the medicine cocktail Pete's body is used to is weirder, but at least he hasn't thrown up because of it. He thinks he knows Pete's official medication schedule a little too well. Maybe he should bother Pete about it more, if they get back to normal ever.
He stares out the window instead of trying to read, and presses his forehead against the cold cold glass. His nose leaves a round blossom of steam that grows and shrinks with every breath. Then there's a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He looks up and Pete looks back at him. The plane is over ocean. Patrick's head hurts, and he's dizzy and --
and he pulls his hat off and rubs at his temples, his vision going blurry then clear then blurry again, the world buzzing back and forth in front of him like hummingbird wings. "Ow, fuck," he hears himself say, and hears Pete say, both of them at once like radio static. Then the world goes still again and Patrick stumbles to his feet and throws up in the tiny cramped bathroom, in the sink because there's no room otherwise. He rinses his face off. In the mirror he sees himself again. He bites his lip then straightens up again, washes his hands off.
On the way back to his seat, Andy says, "You okay?" and Patrick nods, says, "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." And he thinks maybe he is. For a second he's thinking, he's not walking right, is standing too tall and too self-confident, then thinks, no, that's alright. If even Pete can manage to make his body look good, he's probably got a fighting chance.
He sits down again and Pete grins over at him, says, "So what's it like to be you, Patrick Stump?" and brushes his thumb against Patrick's jaw.
"Oh, I dunno, pretty alright," Patrick says. "At least I'm not a loser."
"Hey, now." And Pete's balled his hand up into a fist and fake-punched the side of Patrick's face.
"Oh, no, don't make me," Patrick says. "I could take you. I could so take you."
"Yeah, probably."
pete+patrick, pg13. 3055 words.
because it's not a gen bodyswap fic unless someone gets a blowjob.
also i have a super-awesome project in the works which you may or may not dig if you like having things to hold on to. just wanted to throw that out there.
Patrick wakes up on the wrong side of the plane, sitting next to Joe, and he was with Andy when the flight started. He rubs at his eyes and yawns before saying, "Guys, that's lame."
His vision focuses and is very, very clear, which is weird because he knows he took his glasses off before he let himself fall asleep, and his hands are still in front of his face because his nose itches and he was going to scratch it but gets distracted by the sheer amount of ink on his skin. Also, the fact that his skin's a shade or two darker, and he doesn't have a jacket on anymore, and he's lost weight or something, and. And on the other side of the plane, which has only just landed, apparently he's still sitting next to Andy.
"What?" Joe says.
Patrick says, "I had this dream you were all, like, ... well, Andy, you were a clock. A singing, dancing clock. It was all Disney, you know, just with more eyeliner." He's making this up off the top of his head. Why Beauty and the Beast is the first thing that comes to mind, he's not sure. He's even less sure why he seems to be Pete Wentz.
He's not usually Pete Wentz. He's pretty sure he's still Patrick Stump, really, is quite sure of that, but he's also Pete Wentz today. Apparently. "So where are we?"
"Brasil," Andy says, from across the aisle, and he says it like anyone else but Patrick knows Andy's the kind of guy to spell it with an 's.' "Three days. Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Patrick says. "Yeah, dude, totally." He nods and grins and this being-Pete thing is weird. He's going to have to talk to himself, or to Pete, or something. He blinks, hard, not so used to contacts. "Is Patrick awake?"
"Oh, you're not waking him up, no," Andy says. He shakes Patrick's shoulder. The other Patrick. Actual-Patrick, awkward sleeping hat-wearing chubby Patrick, not the Patrick who's currently Pete. "Hey Patrick, hey, wake up."
"What are you, good morning, I'm awake. Are we in Brazil yet?" and Pete definitely spells Brazil with a 'z.' "Wasn't I next to Joe? Did I drool on you, Joe?"
"What?" Joe says. He's got this deer-in-headlights look; Patrick thinks probably he needs sleep. Joe looks tired, too. "Uhm, no? You've been sitting next to Andy this whole tour."
"Huh? I, oh, shit, right," Pete-in-Patrick's-body says. He seems bemused to hear this, and is tapping his fingers together. "I don't know what I was thinking. Weird dreams, man."
"Hm," Andy says.
*
They don't get time together until after the show, and even before that Andy says, "Wow, Pete, you've really improved, were you practicing or something?"
Patrick shrugs. "What do you mean?"
"You were really on tonight, on bass and all." Andy's eyes go narrow then normal again.
Patrick has more energy than usual, and he shifts his weight and circles around and leans off Andy's shoulder. He feels like he's being worse than Brendon Urie, maybe. "I'm just that awesome," he says, trying to act like Pete. He's not really sure what Pete would say here. "I mean, it's not like I did anything, you know, I don't know. I guess I crossed a plateau, like, yeah. A plateau."
"A plateau," Andy repeats.
"Yes?"
"Uh-huh."
*
So, finally:
"Hi, Pete," Patrick says to himself. Pete laughs. "Why are you me, exactly?"
"How should I know?" Pete says. "Dude, dude, we should -- there's not really anything awesome to do like this, is there. We could mess with people's heads. Oh, man, go talk to Joe about music stuff I don't know."
"Andy wants to know if you practiced bass or something," Patrick says. "This could get bad. When we turn back and you start sucking again."
"Hey, now, I don't suck," Pete says. "Oh, man, how about when we turn back and you can sing again."
"You didn't ruin my voice," Patrick says. "It sounds fine. I. When we -- if we, what if we don't turn back?"
"They always do in movies."
"What movies," Patrick says. "What movies, Pete, what movies where the lead singer and bassist of a band switch places for no reason? Where are these movies you're talking about, because I haven't seen them."
"Hey, now."
"You're making up fictional movies."
"No, I'm making up factual movies. Oh. Oh. What? Yeah," and Patrick thinks this probably looks really weird; Pete Wentz giving Patrick a long-suffering look as Patrick laughs and hits him in the shoulder.
"So should we tell the other guys?"
"We'll be fine tomorrow," Pete says.
*
Tomorrow, Patrick wakes up and is not fine. He feels alright physically, but the problem is that he's still Pete Wentz. The first thing Pete says to him, from the other bed in their little hotel suite, is, "Hey, have you jacked off yet?"
"What?"
"I so have. Took a shower already, by the way, the shower's free so you can do that if you want, but shit, dude, I don't even know, you make awesome noises."
"Okay, that's gross." Patrick says, and it takes him a while to think of how to say it without sounding too creepy, "Don't ... jerk my body off. Just don't."
Pete shrugs. "You gots needs."
"I gots?"
"You gots," Pete nods. He's not even wearing a shirt, just boxers, and he looks a lot more comfortable in Patrick's body than Patrick himself ever has been. He manages to make Patrick look almost not bad, and Patrick is irrationally jealous of Pete's ability to be marginally comfortable in -- well, in somebody else's skin, really. Patrick's been trying to ignore Pete's body as best he can, but he's missing his hat, even though he knows he's got enough hair it doesn't matter, and he wishes it weren't so warm here and that he could plausibly put on another few layers. "Hey, so photoshoot today, right, we're gonna be under lights. And outside. And it's summer."
"Yeah," Patrick says.
"I'm not going to be wearing a shirt. Or you're not. Like, my body is not going to be, because no way in hell would I be," Pete says. Patrick's getting weirded out, watching himself talk. "Not when it's like a hundred degrees already without the lights."
"Oh," Patrick says. "So hey, no, I'm serious, I'm not going to -- don't -- seriously. Seriously."
Pete shrugs. "I make no promises and tell no lies."
*
"Hey guys," Patrick hears himself saying, and he's watching himself make grand sweeping energetic gestures -- "let's do some shouting. Shouty songs. Brazil wants shouting. The people need it in their bones."
"And in their ears," Joe says.
Patrick says, "Dude." He pauses, keeping himself from hitting Pete for the suggestion. The problem is, he's supposed to be Pete, and actual-Pete would like the idea. Does, since actual-Pete is the one suggesting it. Patrick's getting a headache. "Definitely."
Andy's eyes go narrow then normal again. "Two more nights in Brasil, guys," he says. He twirls his drumsticks.
The photographer says, "Pete?" He says, "Keep your pants on," and laughs. His English is heavily accented but not hesitant. "I want all of you together. Come on. Come on. Yes. Yes, that is good." He takes a picture and he says, "How about all of you are on the surfboard?" and Patrick has to remind himself to look at the camera, that he can't hide under his layers and his hat. Has to remind himself that, right now, he's actually pretty hot, is totally worthwhile since right now he's Pete. He's not overweight and balding right now.
He pulls a face, pulls his lips up over his teeth in an uneven snarl and tries to keep his eyes open, and it's easier this way. Not having to try to smile. Not having to see the cameraman fiddle with settings because everything's blurry through squinted eyelashes. He thinks, maybe there's a reason Pete does this stupid face so often.
*
Patrick sees the proofs of this photoshoot later, and when he looks at himself he's smiling, has the brim of his hat a little to the side and slanted on a diagonal; sees Pete wearing his body like one of those stupid hoodies he's always wearing. Like it was made for him.
*
"We should have sex," Pete says. "I want to know what it's like to have sex with me."
"It wouldn't be the same, and no, just, no," Patrick says. He's still Pete. He wrinkles his nose. "How often do you usually brush your teeth? Your gums don't seem to like the daily treatment, they were bleeding. Oh, man, have you been brushing mine?"
"Yeah, sure," Pete says, but he uses the hat to hide; Patrick recognises the move. "But no," he says, looking up again. "Seriously."
"Pete, I do not know your moves. You wouldn't get the full Pete Wentz experience. I mean, that's completely ignoring the part where I don't want to sleep with you, and where that's gross."
"But what if, what if," Pete says. "What if like. We have to have sex to exchange life-forces? What if it's the only way?"
"We didn't have sex to get this way in the first place."
"Well, no."
"So no. Pete. No."
*
Patrick says, "Dude, stop talking to the ladies, we need you backstage," and Pete laughs and puts his hand on a girl's arm and tells her he'll be right back, honest.
Patrick says, "Come on, he says that to all the chicks. If you wanted to see me, though, eh, eh," and winks, sleazy as he can manage. He's stopped feeling quite so awkward. He's pretty sure only one of the three girls has any idea what he's saying, and her only barely. She takes a moment then smiles and nods.
Pete says, "Come on, dude, I was going to score." He says, "You never try on tour. I figured I'd change the record; you deserve it."
"Those girls were hot, no way they want to sleep with me. It was just because I'm famous."
"It's just because you're awesome, you mean? Maybe if you didn't always pretend you were ugly," Pete says. He says, "Someone is going to listen to us and think we're insane." He says, "By the way, find a dude to make out with."
"I don't -- Hey. What?"
"There haven't been enough rumors of me making out with dudes lately. I want more. I mean, just because I say in interviews, whatever. Let's prove it."
"Oh god," Patrick says, covering his face with a hand. "I'm not gay from the waist up like you, Pete Wentz."
"Someone is going to listen and, seriously," Pete says again. "Pete, you're slipping, dude. Getting better at bass has made you shit with the dudes."
"That doesn't even make sense, man," Patrick says, and he's aware that Andy's not far off. He can see him out of the corner of his eye. "I still have the skills. Let's prove it. Let's find a groupie," he says, then, "You, I like your hair."
"What is that? Lame. That's lame. Your moves have lost their sharpness."
The kid he's talking to has big, sleepy eyes, all dark and lined in black. He shrugs and says, maybe, that he doesn't speak English.
"You don't even have to talk," Pete says, tone kind of weird. "See. I'm just gonna leave you to it."
This night is the first night Patrick has ever made out with a Brasilian boy who can't speak English. Patrick's gots his needs, as Pete would say. He gets them taken care of.
Getting off as Pete, with a clever Brasilian mouth around Pete's dick (with Pete's skinny girl jeans down around his ankles and his back against a cold tile bathroom wall) feels kind of different, more visceral but the afterglow is gone faster. Patrick suspects Pete's got an admirable refractory period for a twenty seven year old, but he doesn't experiment to find out. He feels weirded out enough as it is.
That, and Patrick's wondering if getting a blowjob counts as below-the-waist gay or not, and who exactly it would count as below-the-waist gay for, anyway, since it's his mind and Pete's body.
*
Patrick finds Pete, later, and all he says is, "Hey, you should probably actually practice."
"Everyone's gonna wonder when you started sucking so bad."
"I can teach you."
"And that won't look weird?"
"Hey."
*
Third day of being Pete and Patrick's really pretty used to it. Andy keeps looking at him, though, and there's people commenting on how much more outgoing than usual Patrick is being, which is annoying -- Pete's moods are mercurial enough that a temporary shift isn't noteworthy.
Andy says, "Are you for real?"
Patrick blinks at him. "What? He wanted advice."
Andy stares at Pete-as-Patrick and the bass guitar on his lap. A soft hum radiates from the amp, the tone golden and honeysweet. "You wanted advice," he repeats. He's been repeating a lot of things Patrick's said lately. "On what?"
"Energy," Pete says blithely. He plays a quick, stupid little riff on the bass. "He's going to teach me his moves."
"I've got moves like no motherfucker knows," Patrick says.
"Sure, Patrick," Andy says. "Of course you do."
"Oh," Patrick says. "So uh. Hey. You know what made this happen?"
"No. Glad my guess was right, though."
"What guess? If you know what --"
"Nah, just my guess that you're not actually Pete."
"Oh," Patrick says.
"Oh," Pete says, at the same time.
"Though I guess you could secretly be the same person," Andy concedes. "Or psychic."
Pete looks like he's concentrating really hard, furrows his brow and all, and Patrick makes a mental note to never make that expression when he's himself again -- "Nah, I don't think so. Patrick, can you read my mind?"
"No."
"Okay, sweet, because I don't want you to know what I was thinking."
"You were thinking having sex would fix this, weren't you."
"Yes," Pete says. "You are psychic, you little bitch."
"Well, no."
"At least the bass lessons make sense," Andy says. "You really do need to learn more anyway," and he's looking at Patrick-as-Pete when he says it. "I mean, not you. You know what I mean."
"It's weird, huh," Pete says. "I get all confused in the mirror, now that I'm this total hottie."
"Shut up," Patrick says. Andy gives him -- his body, gives Pete, really -- a look. Pete cowers.
"I thought so," Andy says.
"You have any ideas?"
"Just because I'm vegan," Andy says. "Just because I'm vegan does not mean I know magic."
"Okay, granted," Pete says, "but still."
"Did you piss somebody off?"
"No!"
"Okay," Patrick says. "That means yes; who was it? Not J -- your ex, pretty sure she doesn't know magic either."
"Well, no."
"Shit," Patrick says. "We're never gonna figure this out."
*
They get on the plane, and Pete's saying, "No, no, really, I don't know. I -- newspaper. Okay." He's been trying to talk his way into getting a book for the plane, trying to talk around the thinking-in-music problem that he doesn't have. Patrick's been trying not to think too hard about how the plane ride's going to go. Pete insisted they sit together.
Pete says, when they're on the plane and their carry-on baggage is stowed, "Mile-high club, dude."
"No."
"Come on."
"Pete, I don't know your moves."
"Oh, right."
"Seriously."
"When else am I going to have a chance to sleep with myself? I want to know if I'm any good, but you're right, you're right, I'd only find out if you're any good I guess. Or if you're any good when you're me. Or if I -- shit, I don't know, I can't use logic."
Joe says, "What on earth are you guys talking about?"
Patrick says, "Nothing." He says, "I'm gonna take a nap, meds kicking in and all." He's been feeling weird and the medicine cocktail Pete's body is used to is weirder, but at least he hasn't thrown up because of it. He thinks he knows Pete's official medication schedule a little too well. Maybe he should bother Pete about it more, if they get back to normal ever.
He stares out the window instead of trying to read, and presses his forehead against the cold cold glass. His nose leaves a round blossom of steam that grows and shrinks with every breath. Then there's a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He looks up and Pete looks back at him. The plane is over ocean. Patrick's head hurts, and he's dizzy and --
and he pulls his hat off and rubs at his temples, his vision going blurry then clear then blurry again, the world buzzing back and forth in front of him like hummingbird wings. "Ow, fuck," he hears himself say, and hears Pete say, both of them at once like radio static. Then the world goes still again and Patrick stumbles to his feet and throws up in the tiny cramped bathroom, in the sink because there's no room otherwise. He rinses his face off. In the mirror he sees himself again. He bites his lip then straightens up again, washes his hands off.
On the way back to his seat, Andy says, "You okay?" and Patrick nods, says, "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." And he thinks maybe he is. For a second he's thinking, he's not walking right, is standing too tall and too self-confident, then thinks, no, that's alright. If even Pete can manage to make his body look good, he's probably got a fighting chance.
He sits down again and Pete grins over at him, says, "So what's it like to be you, Patrick Stump?" and brushes his thumb against Patrick's jaw.
"Oh, I dunno, pretty alright," Patrick says. "At least I'm not a loser."
"Hey, now." And Pete's balled his hand up into a fist and fake-punched the side of Patrick's face.
"Oh, no, don't make me," Patrick says. "I could take you. I could so take you."
"Yeah, probably."