In the middle of their second five-cities-in-six-days shitty van tour - which is amazing and ridiculously awesome and constantly terrifying - Patrick trips on his way out of a venue. Seriously, just falls straight to his knees and tears his jeans and starts to bleed. He can feel the infection from the grimy alley gravel as it spreads, the heat of swelling tightening up and hurting around the scrapes.
And all the equipment’s inside already, Patrick was just coming out for a breath of fresh air before the first band goes on - which, they’re not opening. That, more than the getting paid for gigs or the fans screaming along to the choruses, means that they’re making it, maybe. So Patrick went outside to freak out about it and discipline himself into taking deep breaths to warm up.
Now, instead, Patrick’s sitting on the van’s tailgate and staring at his shoes and humming weakly to himself to keep from crying like a six-year-old. He scraped up his knees. He wants his mommy.
Eventually, the heavy backstage door slams open and closed. The first band is already playing. Patrick needs to go help set up soon.
Pete says, “Whoa, hey, Patrick. Your knees.” He’s really close, hands hovering over the scrapes but not touching, close enough that Patrick can feel the heat in an unseasonably cold summer night.
Patrick says miserably, “I fell. And I know I have to go inside and sing and everything but I’m thinking I might cry first.”
“Patrick,” Pete says. He leans over to hug him, so that he doesn’t have to wedge his way in between Patrick’s legs. Pete always gives really strong hugs, so you know how much he cares about you and wants to help.
Patrick rests his forehead against Pete’s hard collarbone and tries for deeper, slower breaths and holds on too tightly, maybe. “I might be freaking out,” he confesses. “Fuck, I really want my mom.”
“Yeah, I want your mom, too,” Pete says, in the same really serious, sympathetic tone, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.
Patrick starts to giggle hysterically, but he doesn’t want to cry anymore. He buries his face in Pete until he can’t see the world.
When a completely inappropriate amount of time has passed, Pete pulls away and moves his hands to Patrick’s forearms. He searches Patrick’s eyes for something and squeezes, with this very deliberate expression that means he’s memorizing this moment and also resisting the urge to go back in for a hug.
And just like that, Patrick knows that Pete loves him. Not in a best-friends-who-cuddle-a-lot kind of way.
Pete’s eyes crinkle with his smile and he nods at the venue. “Let’s go knock ‘em dead, huh?”
Patrick laughs again and slides out of the van to land on his feet. He makes a face at the scrapes that are starting to itch. He says, “It’s going to look like I just blew you in an alley.”
Pete slings one arm around his shoulders. “I’m okay with that, as long as your mother never gets a picture of it. Might ruin my chances with her.”
why are you so good to me ughhhh. i love how patrick's trying to be mature and disciplined and at the end of the day he's still a kid, and pete realizes that and takes care of him. and how they care about each other as more but they're still best friends and can make your mom jokes. lev ilu ♥♥♥
One night, all through the concert and the screaming and Ashlee’s song and Patrick’s, Pete can’t drag himself away. He drums his fingers against Patrick’s sweat-tacky skin and mouths at the damp cotton over his shoulder. It doesn’t stink or anything; it hasn’t had time to go rank. It’s a cathartic, satisfied kind of sweat. Pete’s falling into it.
Joe’s on the other side of the dressing room, waiting for Andy to finish up with first shower and waggling his eyebrows at Pete like he knows that Pete’s getting poetic about Patrick’s sweat. Whatever, Joe’s a sappy romantic at heart. He can’t stop smiling at Pete and Patrick, reluctant but irrepressible.
All at once, the show tension snaps out of Patrick and he slumps against the arm of the crash couch, agreeably shifting around to pull Pete flat with him. Patrick’s arm draws him in heavily, mashing them together, and Patrick squints at Pete’s face without his glasses. His hat’s all askew, his hair plastered in locks against his scalp.
Patrick whispers, “You want me,” like it’s something new. Something unexpected.
Pete’s gut wrenches, suddenly, knowing that Patrick still doesn’t trust all of this. God, he would put them both in a blender together. Or just Pete, so he could drip-drip-drip through an IV straight under Patrick’s skin. You know, if that didn’t surpass Gabe Saporta levels of creepiness.
Andy comes back with a towel around his neck and says, “It’s a pretty small stall, guys, I recommend you try to do this separately,” but Pete thinks they might just be fused together at the moment.
Joe says, “Well, I’m leaving now. To take a shower. And also, Andy is going to be somewhere else, soon. Like, right now.”
Soon the door closes and they’re alone and Pete stretches the collar of Patrick’s t-shirt to bite frustrated, possessive marks along it. He can feel the clammy skin turn hot with the rush of blood, and wonders if it hurts Patrick. Wonders if he wants Patrick to hurt.
Patrick makes one of his noises and grabs the meat at back of Pete’s thighs and digs in hard, hurts him back, in the best way.
Pete’s voice is rough and grating out of him. “You know like time zones and mean time and whatever?”
Patrick says, “Uh, I guess?”
“Pretty sure that should reset to Patrick Mean Time,” Pete pants, knocking the bone of his brow on Patrick’s temple.
Patrick smiles, his unreasonably pleased and expectant oh this is one of those conversations smile. “Well, see, that would make it weird whenever I hopped on a plane and brought local time with me. And everyone would have to know what I was doing, all the time.”
“Everyone should know,” Pete swears fiercely. “That’s how much you matter to everything.”
Patrick kisses him, and there’s no room for anything else ever. Patrick says, “I know that’s how you feel, Pete, I know,” and he strokes up and down Pete’s spine, soothing.
Pete says, “I don’t know what feels wrong about this,” and it’s anguished. He’s clawed up and he’s never been so certain that this is right and the thought of losing it scares the shit out of him.
Patrick messes with Pete’s hair and says, “Joe’s back, baby. Time for a shower”
Pete shakes his head, because he can’t leave. He can’t. He’s spun from sugar and hope, and today he’s painfully low on one of those.
Patrick kisses his ear, his face, keeps smiling, keeps being Patrick. He says, “Pete, how do I feel about you?”
The floodgates open and the cold dread sluices through the closeness and the need for Patrick and Pete can’t breathe.
Patrick struggles to sit up without throwing Pete off the couch, says something to Joe, finds a towel. Pete can’t move beyond reflexive grabby curling fingers.
Patrick hugs Pete again before he leaves for his shower, tight and strong. He says, “I love you, Pete, I love you, but for whatever reason, you don’t believe me. But I do.”
He leaves and Pete tries tries tries to believe him. He tries.
pete's pov is just perennially fucking depressing, idek. it's like, sequel! and this time pete and patrick start out loving each other and being adorable all over everyone's faces! and then goes to like OMG CRUSHING DESPERATION places :(
it's sort of like he doesn't want to allow himself to be happy because he's not used to that, which makes me want to squish him and hope that patrick could at least change that way of thinking :(
also! idk if you ever read this snippet:
For whatever reason Patrick ignores Pete’s pissy attitude, moves over in a way that makes him look exhausted, and holds out a headphone and makes a sound that catches in his throat-it’s not so much as a gesture as it is a ‘I forgive you for being a dumbass’.
Pete shuffles into the van, joints aching and head pounding for the sole reason that he’s tired everywhere else, and it only makes sense. He settles on lying down across the seat, head on Patrick’s lap, legs stretched out as much as he can in the small space. It’s times like these when he’s thankful he’s technically a midget. Pete moves around more than he honestly should, being in Patrick’s lap, but once he’s finally comfortable he sees a hint of a smile on Patrick’s face-his eyelids moving slowly, his hands fiddling with the tangled wire before he settles on leaving it that way, and pressing the headphone into Pete’s hand, fingers lingering there for a moment in his sleepy haze.
“What’re we listening to tonight?” Pete asks, throat still scratchy and words sounding rough, even to him.
Patrick sighs softly, breathing more than anything, and rests on hand on his thigh, the fingers playing with Pete’s hair, the other on Pete’s wrist.
They’ve been sharing a crappy MP3 player for the past week or so-a kid had brought it to a show, apologizing over and over again that they’d got it from a pawn shop and that it wasn’t new, but that he’d thought of them and hoped they’d be able to use it. Pete almost kissed the guy, but settled for a gigantic hug-there’d been a graveyard of broken CDs along with those scratched beyond repair in one bag of theirs. It took them another couple of weeks to find a computer to download music, and then they finally had a pair of headphones that they could share that weren’t being held together by duct tape.
“Jazz okay?” Patrick asks, voice low and soft. Pete can barely hear it over the sound of the rain but it still gives him chills.
Patrick’s been the one picking out the songs, from Saves The Day to Michael Franks to something French, with piano, to Bowie. Pete really wouldn’t have it any other way, he thinks, as he leans into Patrick, hoping that trying to get warm is enough of an excuse.
He doesn’t hit play until Pete nods, a small, “yeah,” coming out of his lips.
They spend the rest of the night like that; neither of them sleeps.
but i'm thinking about expanding on it and possibly writing vandays fic for my nano, or just work on invisible!pete. idk i need assistance on what i'm going to end up doing.
mmmmm letting patrick pick the music and just being close for the sake of it and soaking in everything and being content for a while in the middle of shitty vandays cramped touring, mmmmmmmmmm
if you can make that a nano story, i wil beta the shit out of it for you, ftr
pleaaaase and thank you, even if i just make it like, a fic with length i have an idea in my head and i want to keep it close to canon with the obvious pairing, maybe having it like this and all thinky and describing their relationship for each other, idk if i can do the 60k on just one thing. and i always repeat shit/make stupid typos so <3
and dfsjklsfdsa vandays! if you have ideas you should leave them for me. do you want me to go ahead and make you a filtered post in my journal? and i'll backdate it so it'll be at the top and we can always just talk there since you don't do aim :(
And all the equipment’s inside already, Patrick was just coming out for a breath of fresh air before the first band goes on - which, they’re not opening. That, more than the getting paid for gigs or the fans screaming along to the choruses, means that they’re making it, maybe. So Patrick went outside to freak out about it and discipline himself into taking deep breaths to warm up.
Now, instead, Patrick’s sitting on the van’s tailgate and staring at his shoes and humming weakly to himself to keep from crying like a six-year-old. He scraped up his knees. He wants his mommy.
Eventually, the heavy backstage door slams open and closed. The first band is already playing. Patrick needs to go help set up soon.
Pete says, “Whoa, hey, Patrick. Your knees.” He’s really close, hands hovering over the scrapes but not touching, close enough that Patrick can feel the heat in an unseasonably cold summer night.
Patrick says miserably, “I fell. And I know I have to go inside and sing and everything but I’m thinking I might cry first.”
“Patrick,” Pete says. He leans over to hug him, so that he doesn’t have to wedge his way in between Patrick’s legs. Pete always gives really strong hugs, so you know how much he cares about you and wants to help.
Patrick rests his forehead against Pete’s hard collarbone and tries for deeper, slower breaths and holds on too tightly, maybe. “I might be freaking out,” he confesses. “Fuck, I really want my mom.”
“Yeah, I want your mom, too,” Pete says, in the same really serious, sympathetic tone, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.
Patrick starts to giggle hysterically, but he doesn’t want to cry anymore. He buries his face in Pete until he can’t see the world.
When a completely inappropriate amount of time has passed, Pete pulls away and moves his hands to Patrick’s forearms. He searches Patrick’s eyes for something and squeezes, with this very deliberate expression that means he’s memorizing this moment and also resisting the urge to go back in for a hug.
And just like that, Patrick knows that Pete loves him. Not in a best-friends-who-cuddle-a-lot kind of way.
Pete’s eyes crinkle with his smile and he nods at the venue. “Let’s go knock ‘em dead, huh?”
Patrick laughs again and slides out of the van to land on his feet. He makes a face at the scrapes that are starting to itch. He says, “It’s going to look like I just blew you in an alley.”
Pete slings one arm around his shoulders. “I’m okay with that, as long as your mother never gets a picture of it. Might ruin my chances with her.”
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Joe’s on the other side of the dressing room, waiting for Andy to finish up with first shower and waggling his eyebrows at Pete like he knows that Pete’s getting poetic about Patrick’s sweat. Whatever, Joe’s a sappy romantic at heart. He can’t stop smiling at Pete and Patrick, reluctant but irrepressible.
All at once, the show tension snaps out of Patrick and he slumps against the arm of the crash couch, agreeably shifting around to pull Pete flat with him. Patrick’s arm draws him in heavily, mashing them together, and Patrick squints at Pete’s face without his glasses. His hat’s all askew, his hair plastered in locks against his scalp.
Patrick whispers, “You want me,” like it’s something new. Something unexpected.
Pete’s gut wrenches, suddenly, knowing that Patrick still doesn’t trust all of this. God, he would put them both in a blender together. Or just Pete, so he could drip-drip-drip through an IV straight under Patrick’s skin. You know, if that didn’t surpass Gabe Saporta levels of creepiness.
Andy comes back with a towel around his neck and says, “It’s a pretty small stall, guys, I recommend you try to do this separately,” but Pete thinks they might just be fused together at the moment.
Joe says, “Well, I’m leaving now. To take a shower. And also, Andy is going to be somewhere else, soon. Like, right now.”
Soon the door closes and they’re alone and Pete stretches the collar of Patrick’s t-shirt to bite frustrated, possessive marks along it. He can feel the clammy skin turn hot with the rush of blood, and wonders if it hurts Patrick. Wonders if he wants Patrick to hurt.
Patrick makes one of his noises and grabs the meat at back of Pete’s thighs and digs in hard, hurts him back, in the best way.
Pete’s voice is rough and grating out of him. “You know like time zones and mean time and whatever?”
Patrick says, “Uh, I guess?”
“Pretty sure that should reset to Patrick Mean Time,” Pete pants, knocking the bone of his brow on Patrick’s temple.
Patrick smiles, his unreasonably pleased and expectant oh this is one of those conversations smile. “Well, see, that would make it weird whenever I hopped on a plane and brought local time with me. And everyone would have to know what I was doing, all the time.”
“Everyone should know,” Pete swears fiercely. “That’s how much you matter to everything.”
Patrick kisses him, and there’s no room for anything else ever. Patrick says, “I know that’s how you feel, Pete, I know,” and he strokes up and down Pete’s spine, soothing.
Pete says, “I don’t know what feels wrong about this,” and it’s anguished. He’s clawed up and he’s never been so certain that this is right and the thought of losing it scares the shit out of him.
Patrick messes with Pete’s hair and says, “Joe’s back, baby. Time for a shower”
Pete shakes his head, because he can’t leave. He can’t. He’s spun from sugar and hope, and today he’s painfully low on one of those.
Patrick kisses his ear, his face, keeps smiling, keeps being Patrick. He says, “Pete, how do I feel about you?”
The floodgates open and the cold dread sluices through the closeness and the need for Patrick and Pete can’t breathe.
Patrick struggles to sit up without throwing Pete off the couch, says something to Joe, finds a towel. Pete can’t move beyond reflexive grabby curling fingers.
Patrick hugs Pete again before he leaves for his shower, tight and strong. He says, “I love you, Pete, I love you, but for whatever reason, you don’t believe me. But I do.”
He leaves and Pete tries tries tries to believe him. He tries.
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also! idk if you ever read this snippet:
For whatever reason Patrick ignores Pete’s pissy attitude, moves over in a way that makes him look exhausted, and holds out a headphone and makes a sound that catches in his throat-it’s not so much as a gesture as it is a ‘I forgive you for being a dumbass’.
Pete shuffles into the van, joints aching and head pounding for the sole reason that he’s tired everywhere else, and it only makes sense. He settles on lying down across the seat, head on Patrick’s lap, legs stretched out as much as he can in the small space. It’s times like these when he’s thankful he’s technically a midget. Pete moves around more than he honestly should, being in Patrick’s lap, but once he’s finally comfortable he sees a hint of a smile on Patrick’s face-his eyelids moving slowly, his hands fiddling with the tangled wire before he settles on leaving it that way, and pressing the headphone into Pete’s hand, fingers lingering there for a moment in his sleepy haze.
“What’re we listening to tonight?” Pete asks, throat still scratchy and words sounding rough, even to him.
Patrick sighs softly, breathing more than anything, and rests on hand on his thigh, the fingers playing with Pete’s hair, the other on Pete’s wrist.
They’ve been sharing a crappy MP3 player for the past week or so-a kid had brought it to a show, apologizing over and over again that they’d got it from a pawn shop and that it wasn’t new, but that he’d thought of them and hoped they’d be able to use it. Pete almost kissed the guy, but settled for a gigantic hug-there’d been a graveyard of broken CDs along with those scratched beyond repair in one bag of theirs. It took them another couple of weeks to find a computer to download music, and then they finally had a pair of headphones that they could share that weren’t being held together by duct tape.
“Jazz okay?” Patrick asks, voice low and soft. Pete can barely hear it over the sound of the rain but it still gives him chills.
Patrick’s been the one picking out the songs, from Saves The Day to Michael Franks to something French, with piano, to Bowie. Pete really wouldn’t have it any other way, he thinks, as he leans into Patrick, hoping that trying to get warm is enough of an excuse.
He doesn’t hit play until Pete nods, a small, “yeah,” coming out of his lips.
They spend the rest of the night like that; neither of them sleeps.
but i'm thinking about expanding on it and possibly writing vandays fic for my nano, or just work on invisible!pete. idk i need assistance on what i'm going to end up doing.
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if you can make that a nano story, i wil beta the shit out of it for you, ftr
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and dfsjklsfdsa vandays! if you have ideas you should leave them for me. do you want me to go ahead and make you a filtered post in my journal? and i'll backdate it so it'll be at the top and we can always just talk there since you don't do aim :(
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