BS: P/P: Adult: Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'
Title: Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’
Author: gibson_fic
Fandom: Bandslash, Fall Out Boy
Characters/Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: Adult for language and themes
Word Count: ~1600
Warning: None
Disclaimer: This is a fictional story about characters based, in part, on the images and histories of real people. If that bothers you and/or you are one of those people, you probably don't want to read this. No harm is intended; no profit is being made.
Summary: "This is it? This is where we’re going to have this conversation?."
Author's Notes: This was written for megyal’s Quickficfest
“Reaching out to touch a stranger
electric eyes Are ev'rywhere..."
(Human Nature)
It wasn’t like this before. It might have been for Pete, but not for Patrick. He hadn’t had to wonder, to think about it, to deal with it. He hadn’t felt like there were eyes on him every moment of the day, hadn’t had think about what he was wearing or how things would look ,or whether his Mom would be calling him later and asking him if everything was okay or what was going on with Pete.
He has an appreciation now for the bullet that Pete took, took for them all, when he stepped up and into the light, into view. Joe and Andy didn’t want it, still didn’t want it and Patrick didn’t either, but someone had to be the one to be the media darling and someone had to be the media badboy and Pete had just, somehow, effortlessly, combined the two.
Until now. Because now Pete couldn’t do it, wouldn’t do it, would barely leave his bedroom. And Patrick had moved in, because someone was going to have to be there, was going to have keep an eye on him. And so he was the one coming and going and holding up a hand to the cameras pressed against the gate. He was the one wondering how he was going to buy groceries when they eventually ran out without getting hounded through the store. And he didn’t mind, not exactly, but he wasn’t used to it, didn’t know how to handle it, but Pete had needed him and that was, is more important. But maybe they hadn’t thought all the way through because now the cover of People was speculating about their relationship, about how close they were, about long it might have been going on and despite Patrick’s best efforts, no one believed that nothing happened before the divorce, that nothing was happening now.
Well, maybe it might be now, but in this exact moment now, not the this-morning-now, or last-night-now, or even last-week-now.
Part of it was the maid. Pete had forgotten to cancel the service, and Patrick hadn’t thought about it, and there was way more money in being a tabloid source than in cleaning Pete Wentz’s bathroom. So she’d found them in bed together, asleep, and it was platonic and innocent, but no one would believe that. Well, no one but the people who weren’t likely to listen to that stuff anyway. And the picture was grainy and bad and sort of blown out in the way that cell phone pics always were, but it was obviously them. Perez had had it on his site before they’d even woken up and Pete’s blearly, “huh?” into the phone hadn’t been very useful when Ashlee had called.
Pete’d had the phone on speaker, probably by accident but they’d both heard her say, “I know you’re not sleeping together, not like that; but you know I’m right Pete. The problem is that you’re always going to have been in love with him first, and that’s okay. Really. It was time for me to move on and I did. I think you should talk to him.”
Patrick had blushed, had known he’d blushed and fumbled for his hat and muttered about coffee and scuttled from the room. His clothes were rumpled, his t-shirt stretched out where Pete had gripped a handful of it in his fist when he’d finally, finally fallen asleep. Patrick knows it looks suggestive, but they really were sleeping, which is good, which is exactly what they both needed.
Pete had been getting crazy, too much time alone in his own head, too much time alone on the internet and too little sleeping, something had had to give. It’d taken Patrick most of the day to argue, bicker, fight and ultimately sing it out of him and, when he’d hauled Pete to the bedroom and forced him into the bed, he hadn’t had the heart to tell Pete no when he asked him to stay.
So it was his fault too, but how was he to know? It was Pete’s own fucking house, how could he have known that even there they weren’t safe, so many prying eyes, the magic of the telephoto lens, the speed of digital.
They hadn’t even had a chance to realize what was going on. Fucking cameras. Fucking press.
Patrick was stomping around the kitchen, grinding the coffee beans a little finer than strictly necessary, starting the water and wondering if Pete had any decaf, because they were going to have to sleep again sometime, when Pete came in, his hair a wreck and sleep crust still in his eyes. He stopped in the doorway, watching as Patrick put two cups on the counter using more force than was necessary.
“So, you know she’s right.” Pete’s voice was flat, and he kept looking at Patrick calmly.
Patrick stopped, his hands hovering in the air over the cups and thought, “This is it? This is where we’re going to have this conversation? In Pete’s kitchen three weeks after he got served and four hours after Perez Hilton broke the shocking story of the Come Out Boys? Okay then.”
“Yeah.” Patrick didn’t look up but he set his hands down on the counter, carefully placing them flat against the marble. He could feel Pete standing, not moving, not doing anything to escalate the situation, but somehow the room seemed smaller, Pete seemed bigger, Patrick's skin was too tight, too warm.
“So, maybe we should do something about it then?” Pete said it like a statement, but the lilt at the end made it a question.
Should they do something about it? Should they do something about ten years of standing too close, of heads on shoulders and kisses on necks, of in-jokes and out-jokes and not-at-all-subtle insinuations? Did he even want that? At all? With Pete?
Patrick stood there, barely awake, in his best friend’s kitchen and wondered about it, a pot of what was definitely going to be too-strong coffee brewing next to him. When Pete and Ashlee had gotten married, Patrick had sort of expected that to be the end of it. Like all the years of jokes and touches and too-personal song lyrics were coming to an end because Pete was committing his life to someone else. And it had been okay because he hadn’t been sure what had been going on anyway. Couldn’t tell anymore what was joking-but-maybe-serious and was just joking. He had thought that they’d still be friends, be close, but that the other stuff, the way things sometimes got a little tense between them, the way that sometimes the jokes didn’t seem all that joking, the way that sometimes he invited Pete closer because it had been too long, would fade away.
Only it hadn’t and he’d laughed at himself for thinking it would have, could have. Pete had always written his own rules and why should his marriage have been any different? Ashlee knew what he was like. Hell, the reason that Patrick liked her was that she knew what Pete was like and didn’t try to change him. She was the first of the girls that Pete had been with that hadn’t and he’d never stopped whatever it was that they were doing before, why would have with her?
But Patrick had thought at first that he would. And then, when he didn’t, he told himself it didn’t matter, it didn’t mean anything because it wasn’t as though they were doing anything. Because they weren’t, they hadn’t, not once. Which, as he thinks about it now, is maybe telling, because Pete’s done something scandalous with pretty much everyone he knows.
But Pete’d been happy with Ashlee. And, when Lisa and Patrick had broken up, he’d been supportive, and Patrick had gotten over it, easier than he probably should have. And if he hadn’t dated anyone else, hadn’t wanted to, that was just because being famous and dating people was hard, right?
But now he’s standing in Pete’s kitchen, his shirt crumpled and wrinkled over his chest where Pete had fisted it in his hand as he slept curled against him, and Patrick's own arm is a little bit sore from being wrapped around Pete for hours, and the whole history of them and all the things that they’ve never been but maybe could be are rushing towards him and it makes him a little bit breathless. And it’s not just about him and Pete, not just about how they fit together or Pete’s swiftly shifting moods. Because it’s never been just about them, it’s about Joe and Andy too, about the band and the music and about his family and expectations and the press, and the fucking cameras, and whether or not he can handle all that. So it’s not just about them, but it mostly is.
This is the moment. The one moment that is going to determine his future, their future and it all depends on him. Does he want this? Does he want to try it?
He shakes his shoulders and squares them, turns to look Pete in the eye and says, “Yeah.”
Author: gibson_fic
Fandom: Bandslash, Fall Out Boy
Characters/Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: Adult for language and themes
Word Count: ~1600
Warning: None
Disclaimer: This is a fictional story about characters based, in part, on the images and histories of real people. If that bothers you and/or you are one of those people, you probably don't want to read this. No harm is intended; no profit is being made.
Summary: "This is it? This is where we’re going to have this conversation?."
Author's Notes: This was written for megyal’s Quickficfest
“Reaching out to touch a stranger
electric eyes Are ev'rywhere..."
(Human Nature)
It wasn’t like this before. It might have been for Pete, but not for Patrick. He hadn’t had to wonder, to think about it, to deal with it. He hadn’t felt like there were eyes on him every moment of the day, hadn’t had think about what he was wearing or how things would look ,or whether his Mom would be calling him later and asking him if everything was okay or what was going on with Pete.
He has an appreciation now for the bullet that Pete took, took for them all, when he stepped up and into the light, into view. Joe and Andy didn’t want it, still didn’t want it and Patrick didn’t either, but someone had to be the one to be the media darling and someone had to be the media badboy and Pete had just, somehow, effortlessly, combined the two.
Until now. Because now Pete couldn’t do it, wouldn’t do it, would barely leave his bedroom. And Patrick had moved in, because someone was going to have to be there, was going to have keep an eye on him. And so he was the one coming and going and holding up a hand to the cameras pressed against the gate. He was the one wondering how he was going to buy groceries when they eventually ran out without getting hounded through the store. And he didn’t mind, not exactly, but he wasn’t used to it, didn’t know how to handle it, but Pete had needed him and that was, is more important. But maybe they hadn’t thought all the way through because now the cover of People was speculating about their relationship, about how close they were, about long it might have been going on and despite Patrick’s best efforts, no one believed that nothing happened before the divorce, that nothing was happening now.
Well, maybe it might be now, but in this exact moment now, not the this-morning-now, or last-night-now, or even last-week-now.
Part of it was the maid. Pete had forgotten to cancel the service, and Patrick hadn’t thought about it, and there was way more money in being a tabloid source than in cleaning Pete Wentz’s bathroom. So she’d found them in bed together, asleep, and it was platonic and innocent, but no one would believe that. Well, no one but the people who weren’t likely to listen to that stuff anyway. And the picture was grainy and bad and sort of blown out in the way that cell phone pics always were, but it was obviously them. Perez had had it on his site before they’d even woken up and Pete’s blearly, “huh?” into the phone hadn’t been very useful when Ashlee had called.
Pete’d had the phone on speaker, probably by accident but they’d both heard her say, “I know you’re not sleeping together, not like that; but you know I’m right Pete. The problem is that you’re always going to have been in love with him first, and that’s okay. Really. It was time for me to move on and I did. I think you should talk to him.”
Patrick had blushed, had known he’d blushed and fumbled for his hat and muttered about coffee and scuttled from the room. His clothes were rumpled, his t-shirt stretched out where Pete had gripped a handful of it in his fist when he’d finally, finally fallen asleep. Patrick knows it looks suggestive, but they really were sleeping, which is good, which is exactly what they both needed.
Pete had been getting crazy, too much time alone in his own head, too much time alone on the internet and too little sleeping, something had had to give. It’d taken Patrick most of the day to argue, bicker, fight and ultimately sing it out of him and, when he’d hauled Pete to the bedroom and forced him into the bed, he hadn’t had the heart to tell Pete no when he asked him to stay.
So it was his fault too, but how was he to know? It was Pete’s own fucking house, how could he have known that even there they weren’t safe, so many prying eyes, the magic of the telephoto lens, the speed of digital.
They hadn’t even had a chance to realize what was going on. Fucking cameras. Fucking press.
Patrick was stomping around the kitchen, grinding the coffee beans a little finer than strictly necessary, starting the water and wondering if Pete had any decaf, because they were going to have to sleep again sometime, when Pete came in, his hair a wreck and sleep crust still in his eyes. He stopped in the doorway, watching as Patrick put two cups on the counter using more force than was necessary.
“So, you know she’s right.” Pete’s voice was flat, and he kept looking at Patrick calmly.
Patrick stopped, his hands hovering in the air over the cups and thought, “This is it? This is where we’re going to have this conversation? In Pete’s kitchen three weeks after he got served and four hours after Perez Hilton broke the shocking story of the Come Out Boys? Okay then.”
“Yeah.” Patrick didn’t look up but he set his hands down on the counter, carefully placing them flat against the marble. He could feel Pete standing, not moving, not doing anything to escalate the situation, but somehow the room seemed smaller, Pete seemed bigger, Patrick's skin was too tight, too warm.
“So, maybe we should do something about it then?” Pete said it like a statement, but the lilt at the end made it a question.
Should they do something about it? Should they do something about ten years of standing too close, of heads on shoulders and kisses on necks, of in-jokes and out-jokes and not-at-all-subtle insinuations? Did he even want that? At all? With Pete?
Patrick stood there, barely awake, in his best friend’s kitchen and wondered about it, a pot of what was definitely going to be too-strong coffee brewing next to him. When Pete and Ashlee had gotten married, Patrick had sort of expected that to be the end of it. Like all the years of jokes and touches and too-personal song lyrics were coming to an end because Pete was committing his life to someone else. And it had been okay because he hadn’t been sure what had been going on anyway. Couldn’t tell anymore what was joking-but-maybe-serious and was just joking. He had thought that they’d still be friends, be close, but that the other stuff, the way things sometimes got a little tense between them, the way that sometimes the jokes didn’t seem all that joking, the way that sometimes he invited Pete closer because it had been too long, would fade away.
Only it hadn’t and he’d laughed at himself for thinking it would have, could have. Pete had always written his own rules and why should his marriage have been any different? Ashlee knew what he was like. Hell, the reason that Patrick liked her was that she knew what Pete was like and didn’t try to change him. She was the first of the girls that Pete had been with that hadn’t and he’d never stopped whatever it was that they were doing before, why would have with her?
But Patrick had thought at first that he would. And then, when he didn’t, he told himself it didn’t matter, it didn’t mean anything because it wasn’t as though they were doing anything. Because they weren’t, they hadn’t, not once. Which, as he thinks about it now, is maybe telling, because Pete’s done something scandalous with pretty much everyone he knows.
But Pete’d been happy with Ashlee. And, when Lisa and Patrick had broken up, he’d been supportive, and Patrick had gotten over it, easier than he probably should have. And if he hadn’t dated anyone else, hadn’t wanted to, that was just because being famous and dating people was hard, right?
But now he’s standing in Pete’s kitchen, his shirt crumpled and wrinkled over his chest where Pete had fisted it in his hand as he slept curled against him, and Patrick's own arm is a little bit sore from being wrapped around Pete for hours, and the whole history of them and all the things that they’ve never been but maybe could be are rushing towards him and it makes him a little bit breathless. And it’s not just about him and Pete, not just about how they fit together or Pete’s swiftly shifting moods. Because it’s never been just about them, it’s about Joe and Andy too, about the band and the music and about his family and expectations and the press, and the fucking cameras, and whether or not he can handle all that. So it’s not just about them, but it mostly is.
This is the moment. The one moment that is going to determine his future, their future and it all depends on him. Does he want this? Does he want to try it?
He shakes his shoulders and squares them, turns to look Pete in the eye and says, “Yeah.”