Joe/Pete, the early years
You Never Know How Your Offering Will Be Received
Joe/Pete
PG-ish, plus language
~1000 words
Thanks to schuyler for the beta and to Trohman for bringing the gay. It's amazing how easy this was, after Friday.
“Hey,” Pete caught his arm on at the foot of the stairs, and Joe turned a little, looking at the way Pete’s fingers were curled around his forearm, a little cold like they always were. Even after he played, Pete’s hands were like ice. “Hey, man.” It was quietly concerned, and Joe tried not to flinch. “You okay?”
“’M cool,” was Joe’s standard reply.
“It’s just… you seemed really. Are you mad at me or something?”
And Joe couldn’t figure out why Pete was asking this now, after this band meeting. As far as Joe could tell, it was the same meeting they’d been having for months now, where Pete would ask them if they were cool with him booking some gigs in Iowa, or Michigan, and they’d say “sure, okay Pete” and he’d smile and say “good, because I already booked them”. And then Pete and Patrick would talk for twenty minutes, or thirty, or more, all in code as far as Joe could tell. Ever since the band became, like, a band, Pete and Patrick had formed some sort of Vulcan mind meld thing. They didn’t need to talk half the time, and Patrick could make Pete smile with half a phrase, and Pete had already taken to calling Patrick “my best friend, ever” and “the other half of my brain”.
So yeah, it was a normal meeting, and by the end Joe was itching and aching to get out of the room. He pulled his arm away not quite gently and stared up the steps. “No, its fine.”
“Joe.”
And Pete had this look on his face, like he was the grown-up, like he knew better, and Joe curled his hand into a fist and uncurled it fast, before he hit something. “It’s nothing, all right? God.” And Pete opened his mouth to say something again, something asinine about being his friend, and he would invariably reference Patrick in some offhand way, and Joe was so not in the mood. Joe had had brought him Patrick, had left him on Pete’s doorstep like some offering, and now they were a gang of two and Joe was... God. When he thought about it like that, Joe was pretty sure he was crazy. Pete Wentz had driven him completely insane. “Don’t.”
Pete shut his mouth with a snap and furrowed his eyebrow at him. “Don’t what, man?”
“Don’t tell me I can talk to you. I can’t talk to you, okay? I couldn’t ever talk to you, and now you don’t need me to talk to anyway, so just drop it.”
Pete actually looked hurt at that. He let go of his arm and Joe slumped against the wall, torn between apologizing and running. But he heard Patrick outside, laughing at something Andy said, and felt a spike of hot anger. He had no reason to apologize. It was his band, his idea. And Pete was his too, until Patrick had come along and fucked it all up.
“You could always talk to me, Troh,” Pete said quietly, staring intently at his face.
Joe exhaled with a sharp laugh. “Right.” Because when Joe was fifteen and he’d seen Pete play for the first time, he’d totally been able to tell Pete that he was awesome and they should be in a band, and do you think we should play it this way, and wasn’t that guy in the third row an idiot. But it was two years later, and Joe had still never been able to talk to Pete about the feeling he got in his stomach before every show that was connected more to the fact that he was playing with Pete than the nerves, or that the summer he spent driving Pete’s ass around Chicago had been the best time of his life, or that he was really, really worried he was… something, queer, whatever, and it was totally Pete’s fault.
They didn’t talk about any of that, ever.
“Come on, Joe,” and Pete’s hand was back, squeezing his shoulder lightly, almost a caress under his ear, and Joe wanted to pull back but he was already at the wall. And besides, Pete’s hands were already warming from the heat of Joe’s skin. Joe was always warm. “Please.”
Pete was almost never this serious, eyes fixed on Joe like a hawk. It was disconcerting, and sexy, and awful. Patrick laughed again and Joe blinked up the stairs, swallowing all the words that threatened to come. Pete’s hand stilled on his arm and when Joe looked back, he was wide eyed.
“Joe.” His lips were parted as he tried to find his next word, and Joe felt himself flush to his fingertips. This was so not the way Pete was supposed to figure this out. Joe was supposed to have some control here, and maybe not be skinny and seventeen and certainly not have a zit on his chin. And Pete wasn’t supposed to look this lost.
“It’s fine, just… I’ll get over it, okay? It’s no big deal.” He scuffed his sneakers against the carpet and the words came like a rush. “I just thought it would be something special, you know? For you and me. And it’s not, and that’s fine. I’ll get over it. And Patrick’s really good, I know that, and I’m happy for you. That you’re happy.”
“That I’m happy…” Pete repeated it back blankly for a second before flicking his eyes to the stairs. He shook his head, smiling slowly. “Oh, man, Joe. Me and Trick?”
“It’s fine!” Joe cut him off, because he didn’t want Pete to think he was a crazy jealous asshole, even if he was. “I didn’t want you to know, and maybe I’m an idiot, and now you and Patrick are… whatever, and its cool. It just kinda sucks. So yeah. Sorry if I’ve been a dick at the meetings.” He managed a half smile before Pete started laughing.
Joe clenched his jaw. “Look, its not...” And Pete’s hand was suddenly, actually caressing his neck, fingers tangling in the hair at Joe’s neck as Pete kissed him softly. Pete’s mouth was surprisingly hot, and he tasted like Red Bull and SweetTarts. He sighed as Pete’s other hand rested on his hip, pinning him against the wall.
“Hey,” Pete whispered, close enough that his lips ghosted over Joe’s. “Patrick and I aren’t whatever.”
And Joe was done with talking then; done with everything but the feeling of Pete’s tongue against his bottom lip, his hands warming fast as they ran under the hem of Joe’s shirt.
Joe/Pete
PG-ish, plus language
~1000 words
Thanks to schuyler for the beta and to Trohman for bringing the gay. It's amazing how easy this was, after Friday.
“Hey,” Pete caught his arm on at the foot of the stairs, and Joe turned a little, looking at the way Pete’s fingers were curled around his forearm, a little cold like they always were. Even after he played, Pete’s hands were like ice. “Hey, man.” It was quietly concerned, and Joe tried not to flinch. “You okay?”
“’M cool,” was Joe’s standard reply.
“It’s just… you seemed really. Are you mad at me or something?”
And Joe couldn’t figure out why Pete was asking this now, after this band meeting. As far as Joe could tell, it was the same meeting they’d been having for months now, where Pete would ask them if they were cool with him booking some gigs in Iowa, or Michigan, and they’d say “sure, okay Pete” and he’d smile and say “good, because I already booked them”. And then Pete and Patrick would talk for twenty minutes, or thirty, or more, all in code as far as Joe could tell. Ever since the band became, like, a band, Pete and Patrick had formed some sort of Vulcan mind meld thing. They didn’t need to talk half the time, and Patrick could make Pete smile with half a phrase, and Pete had already taken to calling Patrick “my best friend, ever” and “the other half of my brain”.
So yeah, it was a normal meeting, and by the end Joe was itching and aching to get out of the room. He pulled his arm away not quite gently and stared up the steps. “No, its fine.”
“Joe.”
And Pete had this look on his face, like he was the grown-up, like he knew better, and Joe curled his hand into a fist and uncurled it fast, before he hit something. “It’s nothing, all right? God.” And Pete opened his mouth to say something again, something asinine about being his friend, and he would invariably reference Patrick in some offhand way, and Joe was so not in the mood. Joe had had brought him Patrick, had left him on Pete’s doorstep like some offering, and now they were a gang of two and Joe was... God. When he thought about it like that, Joe was pretty sure he was crazy. Pete Wentz had driven him completely insane. “Don’t.”
Pete shut his mouth with a snap and furrowed his eyebrow at him. “Don’t what, man?”
“Don’t tell me I can talk to you. I can’t talk to you, okay? I couldn’t ever talk to you, and now you don’t need me to talk to anyway, so just drop it.”
Pete actually looked hurt at that. He let go of his arm and Joe slumped against the wall, torn between apologizing and running. But he heard Patrick outside, laughing at something Andy said, and felt a spike of hot anger. He had no reason to apologize. It was his band, his idea. And Pete was his too, until Patrick had come along and fucked it all up.
“You could always talk to me, Troh,” Pete said quietly, staring intently at his face.
Joe exhaled with a sharp laugh. “Right.” Because when Joe was fifteen and he’d seen Pete play for the first time, he’d totally been able to tell Pete that he was awesome and they should be in a band, and do you think we should play it this way, and wasn’t that guy in the third row an idiot. But it was two years later, and Joe had still never been able to talk to Pete about the feeling he got in his stomach before every show that was connected more to the fact that he was playing with Pete than the nerves, or that the summer he spent driving Pete’s ass around Chicago had been the best time of his life, or that he was really, really worried he was… something, queer, whatever, and it was totally Pete’s fault.
They didn’t talk about any of that, ever.
“Come on, Joe,” and Pete’s hand was back, squeezing his shoulder lightly, almost a caress under his ear, and Joe wanted to pull back but he was already at the wall. And besides, Pete’s hands were already warming from the heat of Joe’s skin. Joe was always warm. “Please.”
Pete was almost never this serious, eyes fixed on Joe like a hawk. It was disconcerting, and sexy, and awful. Patrick laughed again and Joe blinked up the stairs, swallowing all the words that threatened to come. Pete’s hand stilled on his arm and when Joe looked back, he was wide eyed.
“Joe.” His lips were parted as he tried to find his next word, and Joe felt himself flush to his fingertips. This was so not the way Pete was supposed to figure this out. Joe was supposed to have some control here, and maybe not be skinny and seventeen and certainly not have a zit on his chin. And Pete wasn’t supposed to look this lost.
“It’s fine, just… I’ll get over it, okay? It’s no big deal.” He scuffed his sneakers against the carpet and the words came like a rush. “I just thought it would be something special, you know? For you and me. And it’s not, and that’s fine. I’ll get over it. And Patrick’s really good, I know that, and I’m happy for you. That you’re happy.”
“That I’m happy…” Pete repeated it back blankly for a second before flicking his eyes to the stairs. He shook his head, smiling slowly. “Oh, man, Joe. Me and Trick?”
“It’s fine!” Joe cut him off, because he didn’t want Pete to think he was a crazy jealous asshole, even if he was. “I didn’t want you to know, and maybe I’m an idiot, and now you and Patrick are… whatever, and its cool. It just kinda sucks. So yeah. Sorry if I’ve been a dick at the meetings.” He managed a half smile before Pete started laughing.
Joe clenched his jaw. “Look, its not...” And Pete’s hand was suddenly, actually caressing his neck, fingers tangling in the hair at Joe’s neck as Pete kissed him softly. Pete’s mouth was surprisingly hot, and he tasted like Red Bull and SweetTarts. He sighed as Pete’s other hand rested on his hip, pinning him against the wall.
“Hey,” Pete whispered, close enough that his lips ghosted over Joe’s. “Patrick and I aren’t whatever.”
And Joe was done with talking then; done with everything but the feeling of Pete’s tongue against his bottom lip, his hands warming fast as they ran under the hem of Joe’s shirt.