Roxanne (1/3); Patrick/Brendon; R
Title: Roxanne
Author: eleanor_lavish
Pairing: Patrick/Brendon
Rating: R
Word Count: ~22,000
Disclaimer: Totally fictional, which should be obvious from the whole AU thing. No offense intended, no money made.
Summary: Brendon is young and pretty and full of talent and Patrick's a pudgy, cranky truck driver. Brendon belongs in New York, and Patrick is going to get him there, and then get back to his easy, one-man existence, free from Brendon's relentless chatter and the frustrating buzzing under Patrick's skin that seems to crop up when Brendon is around.
Notes: This is a sequel to my Trucker AU Maxine and takes place in the same universe. (Or, to be fair, Maxine was the prequel to this.) No need to read one without the other, but it might help. Blame Patrick Stump's addiction to Trucker caps and Brendon Urie's mouth. Written for sirynn99 (I won't even say "for her birthday" since this is so woefully late), and beta'd by the lovely schuyler. Thanks to both of them for the encouragement. And by encouragement, I of course mean hounding. &heart;
The Midlands Diner isn't really busy this time of year, just a handful of locals and truckers who know the route and appreciate the food. Patrick focuses on the piece of pretty decent lemon meringue pie in front of him. He's just past Vegas on the way to St. George, and if he plays his cards right, he can make it to the Colorado border by just after midnight before he has to pull off for some sleep and a quick shower at the mega truck stop near Grand Junction. He makes a quick mental to-do list - check in with Ray and Bob who should be a state ahead with their load, stop and pick up some vinyl he pre-ordered the last time he was through Denver - and motions Lois over to pay his tab.
"You want some fries to go, babe?" She asks, because Patrick's been coming here for nearly three years now, and it's no secret he comes back just for Dave's fries - thick and double fried, "just like over in Europe," Dave always beams, pushing his lank hair back off his creased face.
"Sure, why not," he tells her with a smile, and she taps her pen once on her notepad and hands over his check. The fries are already listed. Patrick mock-glares at her, but she's not paying attention.
"You know those two, right?" Lois asks, her voice light, but low enough that Patrick knows she's trying not to be overheard. Gabe is sitting over by the window, Bill pressed to his side. They're turned so they can't see Patrick, and he's surprised he missed them coming in. Not too upset - he wanted a quiet meal, and Gabe Saporta was never good for a quiet anything. All for the best anyway, he thinks, since they seem to already have a dinner companion - some barely legal kid with dark hair that falls over darker eyes, and a wide, inviting mouth. He's wearing nice jeans and a decent jacket, and his backpack has his initials sewn into it - B.B.U. - so Patrick's pretty sure the kid's not a junkie, or a hustler.
Patrick smirks a little and nods. "Yeah, I know them."
Lois frowns, glancing from her notepad to the booth where they're all sitting and back again, like she has something to say but isn't sure it's her place to say it. "Just," she starts, and Patrick gets the little flutter in his stomach that always comes right before he's thrust into something that isn't any of his fucking business. "That boy's been here most of the day, looking for a long-haul ride east. I think your friends are gonna give him a lift." Patrick doesn't need her to spell out the rest. She wants to know if Gabe can be trusted with a kid with a mouth like that. If the way Bill is twisting up his napkin, tearing it into tiny, even pieces with barely shaking fingers, signifies a nervous tick or a few too many hits of something guaranteed to keep him awake.
Patrick's known them a long time, but not well enough to know how to answer her. Maybe they're just being nice. But Gabe's smile has always been a little predatory and the kid is biting at his lower lip, still clutching his backpack with one hand, and god damn it. He hands Lois a twenty and stands up, gathering his messenger bag and his jacket. It's warm outside now, but by the time it hits midnight, the temperature is sure to drop twenty degrees. He thinks of the kid in Gabe and Bill's big rig cab, where there's nowhere to sleep but one big bed, and some bullshit line they'd feed him about "cuddling for warmth."
"Hey, kid," he says, loud enough to interrupt. Gabe might be pissed, but Patrick's never really cared what other people think of him. "Lois says you need a ride. I'm heading out now toward Denver, if you want in." The kid looks up, startled, and opens his mouth before closing it quickly and blinking up at him.
Gabe furrows his brow a little in confusion. "Hey, dude," he says with a lopsided grin. "It's cool. Brendon was just going to ride with us."
"Whatever, man," Patrick shrugs, but his eyes cut to the kid - Brendon - when he adds, "I'm just heading out now, and I know you and Bill usually like to get in a little Vegas action when you're in town." Brendon stays silent, looking back and forth between them like he's missing something.
"Fuck, I love Vegas," Bill says, eyes all pupil, and Patrick nods his head toward the door. He doesn't really want a fucking passenger, especially one who appears to possibly be functionally retarded, but he rides alone so it's easy to mention to the kid that he's got an extra seat.
"Yeah, okay, t-thank you," Brendon says, not visibly relieved. Patrick realizes the kid doesn't know him from Adam, so who's to say he's still not going to get molested in his sleep. Whatever, Patrick thinks. At least he knows Brendon's not going to be getting his first lesson in truck stop hustler economics this evening. Brendon follows him to the door, clutching his backpack to his chest.
Lois hands him a big paper bag on the way out, and it's heavier than normal. "Plenty in there for two," she says with a nod. Lois knows him way too fucking well.
*
Brendon's quiet for the first hour or so, edgy, his knee bouncing so fast that it's distracting. "Hey, kid," he says, glancing at Brendon's knee but trying to keep his voice from sounding too sharp.
"Sorry," Brendon says and stops immediately, but his fingers fold over his knee, digging in hard as a reminder. "Hey, so," Brendon says a moment later, clearing his throat. "What's your name?
"What?" Patrick asks, because he had to have introduced himself. His people skills aren't that rusty. But no, when he thinks about it, he realizes Brendon came along without even shaking Patrick's hand. "Whoa, sorry," he says, and he genuinely is. "Patrick. Patrick Stumph, out of Chicago," he adds, because that's the question he usually gets next. He holds out his right hand, the left still wrapped firmly around the steering wheel, and Brendon shakes it. He's smiling now, a warm, wide grin that Patrick can't help but mimic.
"Brendon Urie," the kid says. "And thanks for the ride."
"No problem," Patrick nods, eyes focusing back on the road. They'll hit Colorado in a few hours, and Patrick isn't sure what happens then. "Hey, how far are you headed?" he asks, and Brendon looks quickly out the passenger window, into the darkness.
"Don't know," he says. "New York, I think."
Patrick clenches his jaw. He had a feeling the kid was a runaway, but it sucks to have it confirmed. It's none of his business, though, unless... "Hey, how old are you?" Patrick asks. The kid looks young, but Patrick is nearly twenty-three and still gets carded at R-rated movies, so he isn't going to assume anything.
"Just turned eighteen," Brendon replies, and there's an undercurrent of bitterness in his voice that Patrick doesn't mention. Sometimes a guy has his own shit going on, and Patrick can respect that. Patrick's not sure Brendon's telling the truth, either, but he doesn't seem like the kind of kid who will get him in trouble. He lets it go.
"New York's a cool town," Patrick says, even though he'll always prefer Chicago. Brendon nods. The iPod shuffles up some early Prince, and Patrick smiles out the windshield. He sings along absently to the first few lines, not really realizing he's doing it until Brendon joins in, his voice quiet but clear, taking the low parts when Patrick goes high. Patrick grins over at him, and Brendon shrugs.
"I like music," he says, and Patrick nods.
"Me too." Pete would probably laugh himself stupid at the understatement; Patrick's got four 80-gig iPods in his center console, and a laptop full of his own remixes, plus a few original songs that Patrick hasn't shown a soul, save Pete. But Brendon's fingers move along his thigh like he's picking out phantom piano chords and Patrick thinks maybe Brendon gets it.
When they get to the truck stop, Patrick pulls into a spot and Brendon bites his lip, unsure. He's pretty, Patrick thinks, and pretty will get Brendon to New York, but it might also get him into trouble. "I don't usually get a room--" Patrick starts, and Brendon shakes his head, eyes wide.
"No, that's. I'll be fine," he says. "Thank you--"
"But," Patrick cuts in, already sighing at his own internal nice guy, "you can crash in here if you want. That seat reclines pretty much all the way." Brendon just blinks at him for a second. "I can get you to Chicago, at least," Patrick adds, and Brendon swallows hard.
"That's. Wow, thank you. That would be great," he says quietly, polite, like he was raised up with real manners. Patrick just tugs on the rim of his hat and climbs down from the cab, grabbing his duffel.
"Taking a quick shower," he says, and doesn't give Brendon a chance to reply. "I'll pick up some snacks."
By the time he gets back, Brendon is already asleep, knees curled up in the soft leather seat, his fingers still curled around the straps of his backpack. He doesn't look old enough to be out of high school, and Patrick frowns a little, trying to turn off his need for more answers about this kid, about why he's letting Brendon get under his skin. He's met a dozen Brendons in the last few years - some find their way home, some not, but Patrick's no one's babysitter and he can't let them all be his problem. He does toss a blanket over Brendon before climbing in the back and passing out in his small bed.
*
"Come in, Honky Tonk Man, this is the Thin White Duke!" The CB crackles to life around Sterling, and Patrick rolls his eyes.
"No fucking way," he says into the receiver, and notices Brendon watching him curiously. "You do NOT get to be Bowie. In no actual universe will that ever happen, Pete."
Brendon stifles a laugh. "Aw, come on," Pete cajoles. "It's either that or you get to be DJ Jazzy Patrick and I'm the Fresh Prince of Wilmette."
Patrick snorts. "Way more fitting. I'm about to enter the wide expanse of Nebraska, man. Am I passing you soon?"
"Yep," Pete voice jumps through the speakers. "Just hit the border, but it's a quickie to Denver. Ray said you were in the area, so I figured I could bother you while you were around." He can hear the slight tinge of mania in Pete's voice, and knows Pete hasn't slept in a day or so. Patrick has stopped worrying about him, but he doesn't have the energy needed to keep up with Pete when he's in this kind of mood.
"Here," he says without thinking. "Talk to Brendon. I'm giving him a ride to Chicago this run."
Brendon startles a little when Patrick hands him the receiver. "Press to talk, release to listen," Patrick says. "With Pete, mostly it's release to listen."
Brendon presses the button down. "Hi?" he says tentatively, and when he releases, Pete's reply is instant and excited.
"Oh, wow, Patrick never brings boys home!" he says with an evil cackle and Patrick groans. "You must be really hot, or else give really great head."
"Ignore him," Patrick mutters, and Brendon bites his lip.
"Both, actually," he replies. Patrick laughs, loud and surprised. "But Patrick's wooing me with his best of Al Green playlist. We're taking it slow." Brendon sings a few lines of 'Simply Beautiful' and Patrick turns the music down a little, suddenly embarrassed.
"Patrick always takes it slow," Pete says. "He's got no sense of when to shut up and put out. If your face is as hot has your voice, though, he's a total moron for not following through already."
Patrick's eyes flick over to see a blush high on Brendon's cheeks. "Well, too bad you'll only get to see me at 55 miles an hour."
Pete whoops. "That's a shame. Maybe Patrick can take some pictures. I know the boys in Jersey need some jerk off material."
"Hey, Patrick's a gentleman," Brendon says, voice full of mock-annoyance. "Besides, porn would ruin my modeling career."
"Oh, I will take your headshots any time," Pete drawls, and Patrick is laughing hard enough that he almost misses Pete's distinctive yellow cab coming his way. "Smile, baby!" Pete says through the CB and Brendon waves as Patrick and Pete honk at each other. Brendon and Pete flirt shamelessly until Pete's out of range, and Brendon puts the receiver back, still blushing faintly, smiling at his hands.
"Sorry about that," he says, shrugging sheepishly, and Patrick just shakes his head.
"Hey, don't apologize. It's not often Pete can find someone who can keep up with his randomness. I think he's in love already. Seriously, he'll be all over you if we catch him in Chicago." Brendon laughs. "So," he says a second later. Brendon is quiet again, and Patrick is in the mood to talk for once. "Modeling, huh?"
"Oh, God, no," Brendon laughs, burying his face in his hands. "I'm not model material, obviously." Patrick doesn't say anything, but he thinks Brendon is totally model material. Though maybe more for the kinds of magazines Patrick picks up on lonely evenings, and less for real, actual modeling. Or maybe Patrick's just a little too focused on Brendon's mouth, on his lean fingers. "I figure I can get a job at Starbucks or something, and see what happens."
"Hmm," Patrick replies, and he stops himself from asking about Brendon's past, about why he's in such a damn hurry to leave Vegas. "You play piano?" he asks instead, because music is something he knows is common ground already, something he can talk about for hours without worrying about his conscience interfering.
"Ten years," Brendon says. "Drums too, and guitar, trumpet, a little sax."
"You're a one-man jazz band," Patrick laughs, impressed. He never got much past drums and guitar, a little keyboard, but he's always wanted to try. "I wish I'd taken the time to learn the brass section," he says wistfully, and they're off and running for nearly an hour about the importance of a decent horn section in jazz, and why ska failed as a genre. By the time Patrick pulls over at the stop in Lexington, they've moved on to the relative douchiness of playing an upright bass in a non-jazz setting. Brendon sees some room for growth; Patrick thinks you should just learn the damn bass guitar.
"This is the best diner in Nebraska," Patrick tells Brendon sagely as they walk toward the doors.
"Hey, I'll meet you in there?" Brendon says, distracted, and Patrick watches as he jogs toward a mailbox and rifles through his backpack, pulling out a postcard and dropping it in. Patrick smiles a little, glad the kid is keeping contact with someone, somewhere, but then Brendon doesn't turn around right away, takes a deep breath, then another one, and Patrick's stomach tightens again with the thought that he knows next to nothing about this kid, other than his genius musical IQ. He'd be a waste at Starbucks, Patrick thinks, but he can hear Pete's voice telling him the same thing about himself, stuck day in and day out in his truck, composing songs in his head that no one will ever hear. He pushes the thought away and walks into the cool air conditioning of the restaurant.
*
Brendon pays for his own meals. Patrick isn't above wondering where he got it, but Brendon always orders the cheapest thing on the menu and pays for it from a roll of bills he keeps tucked deep in his front pocket. The roll isn't huge, made up of some twenties and a bunch of tens, and Patrick starts ordering more than he needs and foisting half of it on Brendon. Patrick's had enough lean months to know what rationing looks like, and he's grateful that the only objection he ever gets from Brendon is a flush on his cheeks when Patrick says "Seriously, the portions here are just stupid," and shovels half his fries onto Brendon's plate, next to his single fried egg.
Susan, the waitress in Avoca, coos over Brendon like he's a baby animal of some sort, some rare species that Patrick's discovered on the road. "Where'd you get this one?" she says to Patrick, a sly lilt to her voice, and Patrick tugs his hat lower and tries not to glare at either of them.
"Mail order, all the way from Ukraine," Brendon says with a ridiculous accent, and slides his arm around Patrick's shoulders, leaning in close. Susan makes a shocked little sound and Patrick puts his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.
"His English isn't great," he manages, and Brendon just bites his lip and blinks at him. "But he really loves pancakes."
"Pancake is food, da? Or is dat another sex thing?" he says, and Patrick loses it, laughing hard enough that Susan huffs and wanders off. She doesn't bring them coffee, but it's totally worth it.
"Great, now she's going to add me to 'no fly' list. There goes any chance of getting into that apron," Patrick says, still grinning, because Brendon is kind of hilarious and random and adorable, and Patrick finds himself grinning around him a lot.
"I-I'm... that's. I'm sorry?" Brendon says, eyes wide, like he suddenly remembered something awful. "I'll totally apologize to her --"
"God, kid, don't even worry about it. Susan is most definitely not my type." Patrick leans back in the booth and Brendon bites his lip, a slight worried frown creasing his forehead. He catches the kid watching him a few times as they eat, eyes darting from his hands to his throat to the top of his head. Patrick tugs at the brim of his cap and frowns at his plate. "Seriously, Bren, relax. You're giving me a complex."
Brendon's cheeks flush and his eyes dart back to his own plate. "Sorry," he breathes, but Patrick can feel the tension radiating off of him. He reaches over to squeeze Brendon's knee. The gesture was supposed to be soothing, reassuring, but Brendon jumps a little at the touch and Patrick catches his eyes for a long moment. There's something there Patrick can't quite pinpoint - it could be fear, or confusion, or... something else, something Patrick hasn't seen in a long fucking time. He pulls his hand away and clears his throat.
"Finish your hot dog," he says, forcing a smile, and Brendon finally eats.
Patrick wishes he could push on through to Chicago that night but his log is full, and Brendon has to make two bathroom stops along the way, Patrick tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel while he waits. One time, he comes back just a little flushed and Patrick wonders if he was doing more than just using the bathroom. No one else came out before him, Patrick's pretty sure, and maybe... Patrick remembers being eighteen, and horny all the time (as opposed to the solid seventy percent he's used to these days), and figures he can't blame the kid, not really, but he hasn't jerked off in three days either, and the least Brendon could do was give him a heads up and twenty minutes of alone time. Usually Patrick doesn't need to jerk off every day, but usually there isn't a pretty boy with a knowledge of acoustics and a wide, wet mouth sitting three feet from him.
Not that Patrick would be jerking off to Brendon. Just. It's hard, being around him. He sighs at his own pun.
Patrick usually gets a hotel room at this place near Des Moines - they're cheap and have decent showers and clean-ish linens - but he's afraid Brendon will insist on chipping in for half the room. They spend another night in the cab, Brendon curled up in the passenger seat. Brendon's only been in his truck for two days, but his stuff is littered across the dash, his iPod and flip-flops and a mystery paperback he'd found in a truckstop bathroom. Patrick frowns a little as he slides off his shirt and jeans, pulling on a t-shirt to sleep in and glancing over his shoulder to make sure Brendon is still asleep. Patrick isn't used to people being in his space - he's been doing this for a long time, all by himself, and he knows he's better off that way. He's grumpy already, and Brendon is a generally good kid, but Patrick's glad they hit Chicago tomorrow.
He doesn't want Brendon to remember him as the dick who yelled at him about keeping his half-eaten candy bars away from the gear shift.
But that's really gross.
*
They pull into Chicago around noon the next day. Patrick's been hauling high end furniture for a place out of LA this trip. He doesn't really want to drop Brendon at the nearest bus station, even though that's probably the best idea. Instead, when Brendon offers to help him with the unload, he accepts. It takes them three hours, Brendon and Patrick gently hauling huge cedar cabinets to the lift before handing them off to the guys hired by the design firm to move them into the showroom. They're union guys, so they won't touch anything until it's off the truck; instead they stand in the parking lot with their arms crossed, bitching about how long it's taking Brendon and Patrick to get everything unloaded. Brendon's stronger than he looks, and by the end, Patrick's really grateful he had the help.
They sit on the ramp, feet dangling off the ground, and watch the union guys struggle with the last piece - an armoire with built in shelves that has to weigh four hundred pounds. One of the guys slips a little and Brendon barely holds back a snort of amusement as the piece nearly topples onto him. Patrick bumps their shoulders together and grins. "You ready to head out?" he asks, and Brendon's smile slips a little.
"Yeah, sure," Brendon replies, his voice laced with forced cheer. "Bet you're ready to get home."
"Yeah," Patrick says. He is - he hasn't been back through Chicago in three weeks, and he knows his mom is probably already cooking- chicken and dumplings, or beef stew, something warm and hearty, destined to put more meat on his already ample bones. He thinks about Brendon at the diner this morning, the way he dug into Patrick's leftover pancakes, the roll of twenties in his pocket that has to last him for god only knows how long. "You want to come to dinner at my mom's?" he asks before he can over-think it. "Nothing fancy, just-"
"I don't want to impose," Brendon says, but he's biting his lip in a way that Patrick has already come to know means he's only being polite.
"Don't be an idiot," Patrick says more gruffly than he means to, and Brendon blinks at him.
"Sure," he says softly. "Thanks."
They close up the truck and climb back in the cab. Brendon stays quiet for the whole ride, through Patrick's phone call to his mom, and another to Gerard to tell him he's done for the day. When they pull up in front of Patrick's house, Brendon says "After dinner you can just -"
"After dinner I can just stick you in the guest room and go to bed. We'll check the bus schedule in the morning," Patrick pulls his seat belt off and grabs his duffel bag from behind his seat. "Unless you're in a hurry to go tonight?"
Brendon swallows and Patrick pretends not to notice the way he sniffles a little. "No, that sounds like a plan," he says.
"Good," Patrick says brusquely, and doesn't wait for Brendon as he walks up the driveway. His mom is already opening the door, arms crossed and smiling.
"You know the neighbors hate it when you park that thing there," she says with a shake of her head, and Patrick hugs her tight.
"Yeah, well, you refuse to let me knock down the garage and extend the driveway, so," he replies and she rolls her eyes and laughs. He can tell when she catches sight of Brendon behind him, walking slowly up the drive with his backpack slung over his shoulder.
"This must be Brendon?" His mom cuts her eyes over to him, narrowed enough that Patrick knows he'll have some explaining to do later, but when she looks at Brendon she just smiles. "Come on, dinner's almost ready."
*
Patrick doesn't really live at his mom's. Well, he does, but he mostly thinks of his truck as home - his bed is there, his clothes, his life. His routine centers around living in a eight-by-ten foot box, eating microwave meals and watching movies on his laptop. He's got friends and family, but he's better at living on his own. That way no one has to put up with his random taste in music, or his short temper. He can wear whatever stupid hats he wants, and sing along to his ipod as loud as he likes.
He likes that he can come back here, though, to his childhood home in Chicago, and have his mom serve him beef stew with potatoes, but no gross cooked carrots, and that he can fall asleep staring at his old Bowie posters. He guesses this is kind of what college kids feel like when they come home for breaks, and Patrick certainly brings enough dirty laundry with him that his mom makes the comparison too. Patrick wasn't ever college-bound, though. He's too restless, too argumentative. His parents didn't have the money to send him when he graduated from high school, and Patrick took a quick local trucking course for fast summer cash when he was eighteen. That was almost five years ago. He makes enough now that he owns his own truck, and he could start putting away money for school if he wanted to. Ray and Pete both take college classes online, and Patrick's thought about it. There just isn't anything else he can think of that he'd rather be doing, other than playing music, and he's pretty sure you can't get a degree in that online.
"Why don't you show Brendon where he's sleeping?" his mom says as they're clearing the table. She was cool enough not to ask too many questions of Brendon during dinner. He clammed up when she asked about his parents, but visibly relaxed when he talked about turning eighteen last month, and the small party he'd had at one of the older casinos, how anticlimactic it was to just be able to walk through the blinking machines on the floor. She wants more answers, Patrick can tell, but he isn't sure what to tell her.
Brendon follows him down the stairs to the finished basement. There's a futon against the back wall, and the room is warm from the big heater in the corner. Patrick flicks the lights on and goes puttering through the clean laundry pile for some sheets and a blanket, but when he turns around, Brendon's eyes are wide, sweeping over the other side of the room. "Oh, hey, you wanna play?" Patrick asks, because he sometimes forgets they're there. Patrick has a few small Taylors and a Gibson acoustic he found for a steal in Milwaukee. His Fender is hanging on the wall, the body beat up like someone had loved it for a long time before Patrick found it in a small shop in North Carolina. He has a full drum kit set up too, and a small keyboard he uses mainly for hooking up to his laptop to test out ideas. His record collection lines the wall, some spilling out onto piles on the floor. He used to dream about this room when he was on the road, when he still missed playing music like he was missing a limb. He feels that less these days, and he's not sure he likes it any better this way.
"What?" Brendon says, turning around. "No, that's. It's cool."
Patrick grins at him and dumps the clean linens on the bed. "Seriously, let me hear you play, hotshot," he goads, and Brendon picks up one of the Taylors carefully, tunes it by ear while Patrick settles behind the kit. He never has anyone to jam with unless he and Joe are home at the same time, or he's willing to sit through Pete butchering hits of the 90's.
"What do you want to try?" Brendon asks, almost shy, but Patrick can see his fingers already itching on the strings, eager to play even if Brendon isn't sure.
"Al Green?" Patrick tries, because Brendon's told him he knows the guitar part to Let's Stay Together, and Brendon gets the opening riff off before Patrick can even think to count them in. It's the Pixies after that, and some early Morrissey, and then Stix, and a little Matchbox 20. ("But only because I like you," Patrick gripes.). Brendon stumbles, laughing, through some Johnny Cash, and Patrick manages to keep up when Brendon decides to sing some Dolly Parton. ("Who doesn't love Dolly, come on!" he'd chided when Patrick complained.) By the time they get tired enough to take a break, it's past midnight. Patrick is sweaty and gross, and Brendon isn't much better off, and they collapse on the futon, still arguing about whether Dolly was more bluegrass than country.
Patrick wakes up a few hours later and Brendon is curled on his side, his fingers brushing the inside of Patrick's arm. He should get up and go upstairs, get into his own bed, but he's so tired that all he can manage is the ten feet to the door where he flips off the light. He climbs back on the futon and pulls the blanket over both of them. Brendon makes a noise and shifts closer. His lips are parted slightly, and his eyelashes lay dark across his cheeks. Patrick closes his eyes, but he doesn't get back to sleep for a while, wondering where Brendon came from, what made him leave behind everything he'd ever known and trust a stranger to drive him to a city he's never seen outside of television. It must have been something bad, Patrick thinks, something big enough that Patrick feels guilty even thinking about it. It's his own shit, he'll tell you if he wants to, he tells himself firmly, but he reaches his arm out a little, just so he can feel the press of Brendon's shoulder nearby, and it makes him feel a little better.
*
Patrick's mom is reading on the living room couch when he drags himself upstairs the next morning. Brendon is still passed out cold. His mom gives him a look and Patrick rolls his eyes and waves his hands, too tired to manage the words it's not what you think. His mom shakes her head, but she's smiling. "Andy called," she says. "Pete's back tonight, and there's a party. You want me to make cookies?"
"Mom," Patrick grins, because cookies, but then his stomach rumbles. His mom's cookies are pretty amazing. "If you want to," he says noncommittally, and she laughs.
"I can make breakfast, but I figured you'd want to take your new friend to Glenn's for brunch." She looks up from her book, eyes questioning, and Patrick leans in to kiss her cheek.
"I'm going to shower, then I'll get the kid up and make sure he's fed. I don't need you to take care of my strays."
She looks at him, quiet and serious for a moment. "He looks like he could use a little taking care of," she says quietly.
It's not that it's not true; Brendon's clearly lost and trying not to show it. Patrick's just not sure he's the kind of guy who can help. He's not a people person, not really, and his idea of a friendly shoulder is a slap to the back of the head and a 'snap out of it!'. This could be a product of a long friendship with Pete Wentz, but Patrick just doesn't feel much like the caretaker type. "He's heading to New York, mom," he says, just as quiet, his eyes cutting to the door down to the music room. "He's not a minor, and he's a smart kid."
She sighs, but not unkindly. "Do you know why he's not at home? He's barely out of high school, and he clearly comes from some money. People are probably worried sick about him." Patrick knows that she worries sick about him sometimes too, when he's on a long run in bad weather, or when she hasn't seen his face in a while. He squeezes her hand.
"I didn't ask," he says with a sheepish shrug. It's none of his business, he tells himself, but he's also not sure he can handle whatever truth Brendon's carrying around. Right now, it just feels like Patrick's lucked into a friend for his drive. His cab is going to be really quiet once Brendon gets on a bus.
"Don't you have to head to Jersey in a few days?" she asks, like she's reading his mind. "Brendon's welcome to hang out here until you guys have to go." Patrick narrows his eyes at her. She just grins at him, eyes tired, and Patrick knows she spent part of last night awake and worrying too.
"You're a meddlesome woman," he mutters, but she just smiles wider.
"You're not the tough guy you think you are," she retorts, and he sighs.
"Showering now," he says, cutting off the rest of the conversation, but he's damn certain she won't let him take Brendon anywhere near a bus depot. He makes a mental note to call Mikey and see what the time frame is for his check-in. He hasn't spent any time in New York City proper for a while, and maybe Brendon could use a hand finding a place to stay.
*
Brendon looks at him nervously, hands smoothing down the front of his t-shirt as Patrick grins and knocks loudly on the door. They're at Hurley and Mixon's place, and the party is loud enough to be heard down the block. "You sure this is cool?" Brendon asks for the third time and Patrick just snorts.
"You're fine. It's not like this is a frat --"
But he's cut off when the door flies open wide and Pete flings himself at Patrick. He's shirtless and carrying two beers, one of which drips down the back of Patrick's jacket. "PATRICK STUMPH!" Pete yells in his ear. "I MISSED YOU, YOU SAUCY BITCH!" Patrick winces and catches a glimpse of Brendon's face over Pete's shoulder. Brendon's eyes are huge, but he's biting his lip to keep from laughing.
"Fuck you, now I'm deaf," Patrick growls as he shoves Pete mostly off of him. Pete smacks a kiss to his cheek before looking up.
"Oh, shit, you brought your little friend," he says, his grin getting wider as he spots Brendon standing near the railing. "My, my, Brendon. I have to say, if you're really interested in modeling, I seriously have a friend who can take some pictures..." He sidles up to Brendon and hands over one of the beers.
"Oh, I don't," he starts but Patrick tugs his hat down and smacks Pete in the side.
"Don't ever listen to this man," Patrick says with just a hint of 'no seriously, I'm not kidding' in his voice. Their easy banter aside, Pete would eat Brendon alive, and Patrick's not up for dealing with that tonight. Or ever.
"You got it boss." Brendon's tiny smile gets lost as he takes a sip of his beer. Pete looks back and forth between them for a moment, and Patrick doesn't let Pete catch his eyes.
"You want to go meet some people?" Patrick asks, and Brendon shrugs in agreement. Patrick leaves Pete on the porch, still watching them with more interest than Patrick's okay with. It's weird, walking into Andy's place with Brendon. People are looking, he realizes, and Patrick feels just a little self-conscious. He hasn't had a new friend that he didn't meet through Pete, or through WayRo Shipping, in... possibly ever, and it's kind of nice, having Brendon at his side, not having to share him the way he always shares Pete, or Joe. He steers Brendon through the crowd with a hand on the small of his back, making sure he avoids the trick hallways that lead to nowhere, the couple making out under the staircase. Patrick gets himself a drink and introduces Brendon around to Bob Morris and Sean and Ryan and Kage, local boys he keeps in touch with mainly through Andy and Matt and their constant need to have their house filled with friends. Brendon shakes everyone's hand and smiles and jokes, but sticks pretty tight to Patrick's side.
They make it to the den in time to see Pete shotgun a decent hit from a girl with a septum piercing, and Patrick rolls his eyes. He notices Pete nod to Matt, and then sees Mixon whisper in Andy's ear, eyes cutting to Brendon and Patrick across the room. Andy's eyebrows shoot up, and Mix gives Patrick a thumbs up, grin wide and amused. Patrick flips them off.
"What's up?" Andy says when they reach the back wall. Matt leans in and gives Patrick a quick hug.
"Not much. Party's pretty good," Patrick replies. "Guys, this is Brendon. He's from Vegas."
Brendon smiles at them, reaches out to shake their hands. Patrick can feel him at his side, warm and just a little anxious. "Hi," he says shyly. It's reminiscent of the Brendon he met in Nevada, full of a quiet, nervous energy, watchful and distracted all at once.
"Hey, good to meet you," Matt says warmly. Andy just tilts his head to one side, watchful. "You new to town?"
"No, I'm just passing through," Brendon answers. "Heading to New York. Patrick was cool enough to give me a ride this far."
"Ah," Mix says, raising his eyebrows a little at Andy. Andy nods, like they're already in the middle of a conversation. Patrick bristles. Fucking Pete and his fucking big mouth, he thinks. "You've been keeping our Patrick company, huh?"
"Hey, we're going to grab more drinks," Patrick says curtly, and drags Brendon to the keg across the room, fingers warm on his elbow. He's not sure what exactly Pete has been telling his loser friends about Brendon, but clearly they have been drawing really stupid conclusions. Brendon's frowning a little, fingers tight around his red plastic cup. Andy and Mixon are standing closer now, and Patrick glares in their direction once before turning to see Brendon watching them too. He sees when Brendon notices Mix's hand, resting lightly on Andy's lower back, pinky finger slipped discreetly through a belt loop. Brendon's cheeks flush a little, and the corner of his mouth twitches.
"Are they...," he asks, voice low and a little unsure, and Patrick glances back to see Andy grinning at whatever Mixon is saying, eyes crinkling with amusement behind his glasses, fingers light on Matt's wrist.
"Yeah, almost two years," he says with a smile. They're dicks, but they're his dicks, and Patrick can't deny how confusingly perfect they are for each other.
Brendon bites his lip, and Patrick can't help but notice Brendon's eyes following Mix and Andy around the room for the rest of the night.
They stay just long enough for Patrick to see a few people, and for Brendon to have enough warm beer that he's leaning heavily into Patrick's side on the couch. Pete is on Patrick's other side talking a mile a minute about a new band he heard in Seattle. He stops mid-sentence and grins when Brendon's head hits Patrick's shoulder with a small thump. "Kid's all tuckered out," he laughs. "You should get him home to bed," he adds slyly.
Patrick sighs. "It's not like that," he whispers. "He's barely eighteen."
"Yeah, and you're so ancient," Pete scoffs, and Patrick shushes him. Brendon is warm and heavy, pressed into his side, and Patrick tamps down a sudden urge to tuck an arm around him, pull him closer. "He's cute, 'Trick. He likes you."
"It's not going to happen," Patrick says with a heavy certainty. Brendon is young and pretty and full of talent and Patrick's a pudgy, cranky truck driver. Brendon belongs in New York, and Patrick is going to get him there, and then get back to his easy, one-man existence, free from Brendon's relentless chatter and the frustrating buzzing under Patrick's skin that seems to crop up when Brendon is around.
"Patrick--," Pete starts, and Patrick shakes his head.
"What, am I going to build him a puppy crate for my cab? Drive him around until he gets bored to death, or decides he'd rather kill me with his bare hands rather than listen to another three hours of Prince bootlegs?"
"Prince's cool," Brendon mumbles from Patrick's shoulder and Pete laughs. Patrick can feel the blush creep over his cheeks, unsure how much Brendon heard, how much he understood in his tipsy state.
"Hey, let's get out of here," Patrick says, pushing Brendon gently off him. Brendon blinks up at him and smiles. He naps the whole drive back to Patrick's mom's, and then they're both extra quiet, tiptoeing into the house and down the stairs to the basement.
"Your friends are really nice," Brendon says sleepily as Patrick tosses him a few pillows.
"Yeah, they're okay," Patrick says with a shrug and a smile and throws a blanket over Brendon's body, stripped down to nothing but boxers and an Old Navy t-shirt.
"Thanks," Brendon says quietly and Patrick nods. He takes a step toward the door, to turn off the light and head up to fall into his own bed, but Brendon's fingers snag in the fabric of his jeans, curling lightly around his knee. When he looks down, Brendon is looking up at him with wide, earnest eyes. "No, just. Thank you. For all of this."
Patrick runs a hand through Brendon's wild, dark hair and tries to ignore the way his heart is beating quicker in his chest. "You're welcome," he manages, and slips out of Brendon's grasp before he does something monumentally stupid, like let his thumb slide over Brendon's plump lower lip.
Stupid Pete, planting fucking ideas in my head, he thinks, because it's always easiest to blame Pete when Patrick's life threatens to tumble out of control.
Part 2
Author: eleanor_lavish
Pairing: Patrick/Brendon
Rating: R
Word Count: ~22,000
Disclaimer: Totally fictional, which should be obvious from the whole AU thing. No offense intended, no money made.
Summary: Brendon is young and pretty and full of talent and Patrick's a pudgy, cranky truck driver. Brendon belongs in New York, and Patrick is going to get him there, and then get back to his easy, one-man existence, free from Brendon's relentless chatter and the frustrating buzzing under Patrick's skin that seems to crop up when Brendon is around.
Notes: This is a sequel to my Trucker AU Maxine and takes place in the same universe. (Or, to be fair, Maxine was the prequel to this.) No need to read one without the other, but it might help. Blame Patrick Stump's addiction to Trucker caps and Brendon Urie's mouth. Written for sirynn99 (I won't even say "for her birthday" since this is so woefully late), and beta'd by the lovely schuyler. Thanks to both of them for the encouragement. And by encouragement, I of course mean hounding. &heart;
The Midlands Diner isn't really busy this time of year, just a handful of locals and truckers who know the route and appreciate the food. Patrick focuses on the piece of pretty decent lemon meringue pie in front of him. He's just past Vegas on the way to St. George, and if he plays his cards right, he can make it to the Colorado border by just after midnight before he has to pull off for some sleep and a quick shower at the mega truck stop near Grand Junction. He makes a quick mental to-do list - check in with Ray and Bob who should be a state ahead with their load, stop and pick up some vinyl he pre-ordered the last time he was through Denver - and motions Lois over to pay his tab.
"You want some fries to go, babe?" She asks, because Patrick's been coming here for nearly three years now, and it's no secret he comes back just for Dave's fries - thick and double fried, "just like over in Europe," Dave always beams, pushing his lank hair back off his creased face.
"Sure, why not," he tells her with a smile, and she taps her pen once on her notepad and hands over his check. The fries are already listed. Patrick mock-glares at her, but she's not paying attention.
"You know those two, right?" Lois asks, her voice light, but low enough that Patrick knows she's trying not to be overheard. Gabe is sitting over by the window, Bill pressed to his side. They're turned so they can't see Patrick, and he's surprised he missed them coming in. Not too upset - he wanted a quiet meal, and Gabe Saporta was never good for a quiet anything. All for the best anyway, he thinks, since they seem to already have a dinner companion - some barely legal kid with dark hair that falls over darker eyes, and a wide, inviting mouth. He's wearing nice jeans and a decent jacket, and his backpack has his initials sewn into it - B.B.U. - so Patrick's pretty sure the kid's not a junkie, or a hustler.
Patrick smirks a little and nods. "Yeah, I know them."
Lois frowns, glancing from her notepad to the booth where they're all sitting and back again, like she has something to say but isn't sure it's her place to say it. "Just," she starts, and Patrick gets the little flutter in his stomach that always comes right before he's thrust into something that isn't any of his fucking business. "That boy's been here most of the day, looking for a long-haul ride east. I think your friends are gonna give him a lift." Patrick doesn't need her to spell out the rest. She wants to know if Gabe can be trusted with a kid with a mouth like that. If the way Bill is twisting up his napkin, tearing it into tiny, even pieces with barely shaking fingers, signifies a nervous tick or a few too many hits of something guaranteed to keep him awake.
Patrick's known them a long time, but not well enough to know how to answer her. Maybe they're just being nice. But Gabe's smile has always been a little predatory and the kid is biting at his lower lip, still clutching his backpack with one hand, and god damn it. He hands Lois a twenty and stands up, gathering his messenger bag and his jacket. It's warm outside now, but by the time it hits midnight, the temperature is sure to drop twenty degrees. He thinks of the kid in Gabe and Bill's big rig cab, where there's nowhere to sleep but one big bed, and some bullshit line they'd feed him about "cuddling for warmth."
"Hey, kid," he says, loud enough to interrupt. Gabe might be pissed, but Patrick's never really cared what other people think of him. "Lois says you need a ride. I'm heading out now toward Denver, if you want in." The kid looks up, startled, and opens his mouth before closing it quickly and blinking up at him.
Gabe furrows his brow a little in confusion. "Hey, dude," he says with a lopsided grin. "It's cool. Brendon was just going to ride with us."
"Whatever, man," Patrick shrugs, but his eyes cut to the kid - Brendon - when he adds, "I'm just heading out now, and I know you and Bill usually like to get in a little Vegas action when you're in town." Brendon stays silent, looking back and forth between them like he's missing something.
"Fuck, I love Vegas," Bill says, eyes all pupil, and Patrick nods his head toward the door. He doesn't really want a fucking passenger, especially one who appears to possibly be functionally retarded, but he rides alone so it's easy to mention to the kid that he's got an extra seat.
"Yeah, okay, t-thank you," Brendon says, not visibly relieved. Patrick realizes the kid doesn't know him from Adam, so who's to say he's still not going to get molested in his sleep. Whatever, Patrick thinks. At least he knows Brendon's not going to be getting his first lesson in truck stop hustler economics this evening. Brendon follows him to the door, clutching his backpack to his chest.
Lois hands him a big paper bag on the way out, and it's heavier than normal. "Plenty in there for two," she says with a nod. Lois knows him way too fucking well.
*
Brendon's quiet for the first hour or so, edgy, his knee bouncing so fast that it's distracting. "Hey, kid," he says, glancing at Brendon's knee but trying to keep his voice from sounding too sharp.
"Sorry," Brendon says and stops immediately, but his fingers fold over his knee, digging in hard as a reminder. "Hey, so," Brendon says a moment later, clearing his throat. "What's your name?
"What?" Patrick asks, because he had to have introduced himself. His people skills aren't that rusty. But no, when he thinks about it, he realizes Brendon came along without even shaking Patrick's hand. "Whoa, sorry," he says, and he genuinely is. "Patrick. Patrick Stumph, out of Chicago," he adds, because that's the question he usually gets next. He holds out his right hand, the left still wrapped firmly around the steering wheel, and Brendon shakes it. He's smiling now, a warm, wide grin that Patrick can't help but mimic.
"Brendon Urie," the kid says. "And thanks for the ride."
"No problem," Patrick nods, eyes focusing back on the road. They'll hit Colorado in a few hours, and Patrick isn't sure what happens then. "Hey, how far are you headed?" he asks, and Brendon looks quickly out the passenger window, into the darkness.
"Don't know," he says. "New York, I think."
Patrick clenches his jaw. He had a feeling the kid was a runaway, but it sucks to have it confirmed. It's none of his business, though, unless... "Hey, how old are you?" Patrick asks. The kid looks young, but Patrick is nearly twenty-three and still gets carded at R-rated movies, so he isn't going to assume anything.
"Just turned eighteen," Brendon replies, and there's an undercurrent of bitterness in his voice that Patrick doesn't mention. Sometimes a guy has his own shit going on, and Patrick can respect that. Patrick's not sure Brendon's telling the truth, either, but he doesn't seem like the kind of kid who will get him in trouble. He lets it go.
"New York's a cool town," Patrick says, even though he'll always prefer Chicago. Brendon nods. The iPod shuffles up some early Prince, and Patrick smiles out the windshield. He sings along absently to the first few lines, not really realizing he's doing it until Brendon joins in, his voice quiet but clear, taking the low parts when Patrick goes high. Patrick grins over at him, and Brendon shrugs.
"I like music," he says, and Patrick nods.
"Me too." Pete would probably laugh himself stupid at the understatement; Patrick's got four 80-gig iPods in his center console, and a laptop full of his own remixes, plus a few original songs that Patrick hasn't shown a soul, save Pete. But Brendon's fingers move along his thigh like he's picking out phantom piano chords and Patrick thinks maybe Brendon gets it.
When they get to the truck stop, Patrick pulls into a spot and Brendon bites his lip, unsure. He's pretty, Patrick thinks, and pretty will get Brendon to New York, but it might also get him into trouble. "I don't usually get a room--" Patrick starts, and Brendon shakes his head, eyes wide.
"No, that's. I'll be fine," he says. "Thank you--"
"But," Patrick cuts in, already sighing at his own internal nice guy, "you can crash in here if you want. That seat reclines pretty much all the way." Brendon just blinks at him for a second. "I can get you to Chicago, at least," Patrick adds, and Brendon swallows hard.
"That's. Wow, thank you. That would be great," he says quietly, polite, like he was raised up with real manners. Patrick just tugs on the rim of his hat and climbs down from the cab, grabbing his duffel.
"Taking a quick shower," he says, and doesn't give Brendon a chance to reply. "I'll pick up some snacks."
By the time he gets back, Brendon is already asleep, knees curled up in the soft leather seat, his fingers still curled around the straps of his backpack. He doesn't look old enough to be out of high school, and Patrick frowns a little, trying to turn off his need for more answers about this kid, about why he's letting Brendon get under his skin. He's met a dozen Brendons in the last few years - some find their way home, some not, but Patrick's no one's babysitter and he can't let them all be his problem. He does toss a blanket over Brendon before climbing in the back and passing out in his small bed.
*
"Come in, Honky Tonk Man, this is the Thin White Duke!" The CB crackles to life around Sterling, and Patrick rolls his eyes.
"No fucking way," he says into the receiver, and notices Brendon watching him curiously. "You do NOT get to be Bowie. In no actual universe will that ever happen, Pete."
Brendon stifles a laugh. "Aw, come on," Pete cajoles. "It's either that or you get to be DJ Jazzy Patrick and I'm the Fresh Prince of Wilmette."
Patrick snorts. "Way more fitting. I'm about to enter the wide expanse of Nebraska, man. Am I passing you soon?"
"Yep," Pete voice jumps through the speakers. "Just hit the border, but it's a quickie to Denver. Ray said you were in the area, so I figured I could bother you while you were around." He can hear the slight tinge of mania in Pete's voice, and knows Pete hasn't slept in a day or so. Patrick has stopped worrying about him, but he doesn't have the energy needed to keep up with Pete when he's in this kind of mood.
"Here," he says without thinking. "Talk to Brendon. I'm giving him a ride to Chicago this run."
Brendon startles a little when Patrick hands him the receiver. "Press to talk, release to listen," Patrick says. "With Pete, mostly it's release to listen."
Brendon presses the button down. "Hi?" he says tentatively, and when he releases, Pete's reply is instant and excited.
"Oh, wow, Patrick never brings boys home!" he says with an evil cackle and Patrick groans. "You must be really hot, or else give really great head."
"Ignore him," Patrick mutters, and Brendon bites his lip.
"Both, actually," he replies. Patrick laughs, loud and surprised. "But Patrick's wooing me with his best of Al Green playlist. We're taking it slow." Brendon sings a few lines of 'Simply Beautiful' and Patrick turns the music down a little, suddenly embarrassed.
"Patrick always takes it slow," Pete says. "He's got no sense of when to shut up and put out. If your face is as hot has your voice, though, he's a total moron for not following through already."
Patrick's eyes flick over to see a blush high on Brendon's cheeks. "Well, too bad you'll only get to see me at 55 miles an hour."
Pete whoops. "That's a shame. Maybe Patrick can take some pictures. I know the boys in Jersey need some jerk off material."
"Hey, Patrick's a gentleman," Brendon says, voice full of mock-annoyance. "Besides, porn would ruin my modeling career."
"Oh, I will take your headshots any time," Pete drawls, and Patrick is laughing hard enough that he almost misses Pete's distinctive yellow cab coming his way. "Smile, baby!" Pete says through the CB and Brendon waves as Patrick and Pete honk at each other. Brendon and Pete flirt shamelessly until Pete's out of range, and Brendon puts the receiver back, still blushing faintly, smiling at his hands.
"Sorry about that," he says, shrugging sheepishly, and Patrick just shakes his head.
"Hey, don't apologize. It's not often Pete can find someone who can keep up with his randomness. I think he's in love already. Seriously, he'll be all over you if we catch him in Chicago." Brendon laughs. "So," he says a second later. Brendon is quiet again, and Patrick is in the mood to talk for once. "Modeling, huh?"
"Oh, God, no," Brendon laughs, burying his face in his hands. "I'm not model material, obviously." Patrick doesn't say anything, but he thinks Brendon is totally model material. Though maybe more for the kinds of magazines Patrick picks up on lonely evenings, and less for real, actual modeling. Or maybe Patrick's just a little too focused on Brendon's mouth, on his lean fingers. "I figure I can get a job at Starbucks or something, and see what happens."
"Hmm," Patrick replies, and he stops himself from asking about Brendon's past, about why he's in such a damn hurry to leave Vegas. "You play piano?" he asks instead, because music is something he knows is common ground already, something he can talk about for hours without worrying about his conscience interfering.
"Ten years," Brendon says. "Drums too, and guitar, trumpet, a little sax."
"You're a one-man jazz band," Patrick laughs, impressed. He never got much past drums and guitar, a little keyboard, but he's always wanted to try. "I wish I'd taken the time to learn the brass section," he says wistfully, and they're off and running for nearly an hour about the importance of a decent horn section in jazz, and why ska failed as a genre. By the time Patrick pulls over at the stop in Lexington, they've moved on to the relative douchiness of playing an upright bass in a non-jazz setting. Brendon sees some room for growth; Patrick thinks you should just learn the damn bass guitar.
"This is the best diner in Nebraska," Patrick tells Brendon sagely as they walk toward the doors.
"Hey, I'll meet you in there?" Brendon says, distracted, and Patrick watches as he jogs toward a mailbox and rifles through his backpack, pulling out a postcard and dropping it in. Patrick smiles a little, glad the kid is keeping contact with someone, somewhere, but then Brendon doesn't turn around right away, takes a deep breath, then another one, and Patrick's stomach tightens again with the thought that he knows next to nothing about this kid, other than his genius musical IQ. He'd be a waste at Starbucks, Patrick thinks, but he can hear Pete's voice telling him the same thing about himself, stuck day in and day out in his truck, composing songs in his head that no one will ever hear. He pushes the thought away and walks into the cool air conditioning of the restaurant.
*
Brendon pays for his own meals. Patrick isn't above wondering where he got it, but Brendon always orders the cheapest thing on the menu and pays for it from a roll of bills he keeps tucked deep in his front pocket. The roll isn't huge, made up of some twenties and a bunch of tens, and Patrick starts ordering more than he needs and foisting half of it on Brendon. Patrick's had enough lean months to know what rationing looks like, and he's grateful that the only objection he ever gets from Brendon is a flush on his cheeks when Patrick says "Seriously, the portions here are just stupid," and shovels half his fries onto Brendon's plate, next to his single fried egg.
Susan, the waitress in Avoca, coos over Brendon like he's a baby animal of some sort, some rare species that Patrick's discovered on the road. "Where'd you get this one?" she says to Patrick, a sly lilt to her voice, and Patrick tugs his hat lower and tries not to glare at either of them.
"Mail order, all the way from Ukraine," Brendon says with a ridiculous accent, and slides his arm around Patrick's shoulders, leaning in close. Susan makes a shocked little sound and Patrick puts his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.
"His English isn't great," he manages, and Brendon just bites his lip and blinks at him. "But he really loves pancakes."
"Pancake is food, da? Or is dat another sex thing?" he says, and Patrick loses it, laughing hard enough that Susan huffs and wanders off. She doesn't bring them coffee, but it's totally worth it.
"Great, now she's going to add me to 'no fly' list. There goes any chance of getting into that apron," Patrick says, still grinning, because Brendon is kind of hilarious and random and adorable, and Patrick finds himself grinning around him a lot.
"I-I'm... that's. I'm sorry?" Brendon says, eyes wide, like he suddenly remembered something awful. "I'll totally apologize to her --"
"God, kid, don't even worry about it. Susan is most definitely not my type." Patrick leans back in the booth and Brendon bites his lip, a slight worried frown creasing his forehead. He catches the kid watching him a few times as they eat, eyes darting from his hands to his throat to the top of his head. Patrick tugs at the brim of his cap and frowns at his plate. "Seriously, Bren, relax. You're giving me a complex."
Brendon's cheeks flush and his eyes dart back to his own plate. "Sorry," he breathes, but Patrick can feel the tension radiating off of him. He reaches over to squeeze Brendon's knee. The gesture was supposed to be soothing, reassuring, but Brendon jumps a little at the touch and Patrick catches his eyes for a long moment. There's something there Patrick can't quite pinpoint - it could be fear, or confusion, or... something else, something Patrick hasn't seen in a long fucking time. He pulls his hand away and clears his throat.
"Finish your hot dog," he says, forcing a smile, and Brendon finally eats.
Patrick wishes he could push on through to Chicago that night but his log is full, and Brendon has to make two bathroom stops along the way, Patrick tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel while he waits. One time, he comes back just a little flushed and Patrick wonders if he was doing more than just using the bathroom. No one else came out before him, Patrick's pretty sure, and maybe... Patrick remembers being eighteen, and horny all the time (as opposed to the solid seventy percent he's used to these days), and figures he can't blame the kid, not really, but he hasn't jerked off in three days either, and the least Brendon could do was give him a heads up and twenty minutes of alone time. Usually Patrick doesn't need to jerk off every day, but usually there isn't a pretty boy with a knowledge of acoustics and a wide, wet mouth sitting three feet from him.
Not that Patrick would be jerking off to Brendon. Just. It's hard, being around him. He sighs at his own pun.
Patrick usually gets a hotel room at this place near Des Moines - they're cheap and have decent showers and clean-ish linens - but he's afraid Brendon will insist on chipping in for half the room. They spend another night in the cab, Brendon curled up in the passenger seat. Brendon's only been in his truck for two days, but his stuff is littered across the dash, his iPod and flip-flops and a mystery paperback he'd found in a truckstop bathroom. Patrick frowns a little as he slides off his shirt and jeans, pulling on a t-shirt to sleep in and glancing over his shoulder to make sure Brendon is still asleep. Patrick isn't used to people being in his space - he's been doing this for a long time, all by himself, and he knows he's better off that way. He's grumpy already, and Brendon is a generally good kid, but Patrick's glad they hit Chicago tomorrow.
He doesn't want Brendon to remember him as the dick who yelled at him about keeping his half-eaten candy bars away from the gear shift.
But that's really gross.
*
They pull into Chicago around noon the next day. Patrick's been hauling high end furniture for a place out of LA this trip. He doesn't really want to drop Brendon at the nearest bus station, even though that's probably the best idea. Instead, when Brendon offers to help him with the unload, he accepts. It takes them three hours, Brendon and Patrick gently hauling huge cedar cabinets to the lift before handing them off to the guys hired by the design firm to move them into the showroom. They're union guys, so they won't touch anything until it's off the truck; instead they stand in the parking lot with their arms crossed, bitching about how long it's taking Brendon and Patrick to get everything unloaded. Brendon's stronger than he looks, and by the end, Patrick's really grateful he had the help.
They sit on the ramp, feet dangling off the ground, and watch the union guys struggle with the last piece - an armoire with built in shelves that has to weigh four hundred pounds. One of the guys slips a little and Brendon barely holds back a snort of amusement as the piece nearly topples onto him. Patrick bumps their shoulders together and grins. "You ready to head out?" he asks, and Brendon's smile slips a little.
"Yeah, sure," Brendon replies, his voice laced with forced cheer. "Bet you're ready to get home."
"Yeah," Patrick says. He is - he hasn't been back through Chicago in three weeks, and he knows his mom is probably already cooking- chicken and dumplings, or beef stew, something warm and hearty, destined to put more meat on his already ample bones. He thinks about Brendon at the diner this morning, the way he dug into Patrick's leftover pancakes, the roll of twenties in his pocket that has to last him for god only knows how long. "You want to come to dinner at my mom's?" he asks before he can over-think it. "Nothing fancy, just-"
"I don't want to impose," Brendon says, but he's biting his lip in a way that Patrick has already come to know means he's only being polite.
"Don't be an idiot," Patrick says more gruffly than he means to, and Brendon blinks at him.
"Sure," he says softly. "Thanks."
They close up the truck and climb back in the cab. Brendon stays quiet for the whole ride, through Patrick's phone call to his mom, and another to Gerard to tell him he's done for the day. When they pull up in front of Patrick's house, Brendon says "After dinner you can just -"
"After dinner I can just stick you in the guest room and go to bed. We'll check the bus schedule in the morning," Patrick pulls his seat belt off and grabs his duffel bag from behind his seat. "Unless you're in a hurry to go tonight?"
Brendon swallows and Patrick pretends not to notice the way he sniffles a little. "No, that sounds like a plan," he says.
"Good," Patrick says brusquely, and doesn't wait for Brendon as he walks up the driveway. His mom is already opening the door, arms crossed and smiling.
"You know the neighbors hate it when you park that thing there," she says with a shake of her head, and Patrick hugs her tight.
"Yeah, well, you refuse to let me knock down the garage and extend the driveway, so," he replies and she rolls her eyes and laughs. He can tell when she catches sight of Brendon behind him, walking slowly up the drive with his backpack slung over his shoulder.
"This must be Brendon?" His mom cuts her eyes over to him, narrowed enough that Patrick knows he'll have some explaining to do later, but when she looks at Brendon she just smiles. "Come on, dinner's almost ready."
*
Patrick doesn't really live at his mom's. Well, he does, but he mostly thinks of his truck as home - his bed is there, his clothes, his life. His routine centers around living in a eight-by-ten foot box, eating microwave meals and watching movies on his laptop. He's got friends and family, but he's better at living on his own. That way no one has to put up with his random taste in music, or his short temper. He can wear whatever stupid hats he wants, and sing along to his ipod as loud as he likes.
He likes that he can come back here, though, to his childhood home in Chicago, and have his mom serve him beef stew with potatoes, but no gross cooked carrots, and that he can fall asleep staring at his old Bowie posters. He guesses this is kind of what college kids feel like when they come home for breaks, and Patrick certainly brings enough dirty laundry with him that his mom makes the comparison too. Patrick wasn't ever college-bound, though. He's too restless, too argumentative. His parents didn't have the money to send him when he graduated from high school, and Patrick took a quick local trucking course for fast summer cash when he was eighteen. That was almost five years ago. He makes enough now that he owns his own truck, and he could start putting away money for school if he wanted to. Ray and Pete both take college classes online, and Patrick's thought about it. There just isn't anything else he can think of that he'd rather be doing, other than playing music, and he's pretty sure you can't get a degree in that online.
"Why don't you show Brendon where he's sleeping?" his mom says as they're clearing the table. She was cool enough not to ask too many questions of Brendon during dinner. He clammed up when she asked about his parents, but visibly relaxed when he talked about turning eighteen last month, and the small party he'd had at one of the older casinos, how anticlimactic it was to just be able to walk through the blinking machines on the floor. She wants more answers, Patrick can tell, but he isn't sure what to tell her.
Brendon follows him down the stairs to the finished basement. There's a futon against the back wall, and the room is warm from the big heater in the corner. Patrick flicks the lights on and goes puttering through the clean laundry pile for some sheets and a blanket, but when he turns around, Brendon's eyes are wide, sweeping over the other side of the room. "Oh, hey, you wanna play?" Patrick asks, because he sometimes forgets they're there. Patrick has a few small Taylors and a Gibson acoustic he found for a steal in Milwaukee. His Fender is hanging on the wall, the body beat up like someone had loved it for a long time before Patrick found it in a small shop in North Carolina. He has a full drum kit set up too, and a small keyboard he uses mainly for hooking up to his laptop to test out ideas. His record collection lines the wall, some spilling out onto piles on the floor. He used to dream about this room when he was on the road, when he still missed playing music like he was missing a limb. He feels that less these days, and he's not sure he likes it any better this way.
"What?" Brendon says, turning around. "No, that's. It's cool."
Patrick grins at him and dumps the clean linens on the bed. "Seriously, let me hear you play, hotshot," he goads, and Brendon picks up one of the Taylors carefully, tunes it by ear while Patrick settles behind the kit. He never has anyone to jam with unless he and Joe are home at the same time, or he's willing to sit through Pete butchering hits of the 90's.
"What do you want to try?" Brendon asks, almost shy, but Patrick can see his fingers already itching on the strings, eager to play even if Brendon isn't sure.
"Al Green?" Patrick tries, because Brendon's told him he knows the guitar part to Let's Stay Together, and Brendon gets the opening riff off before Patrick can even think to count them in. It's the Pixies after that, and some early Morrissey, and then Stix, and a little Matchbox 20. ("But only because I like you," Patrick gripes.). Brendon stumbles, laughing, through some Johnny Cash, and Patrick manages to keep up when Brendon decides to sing some Dolly Parton. ("Who doesn't love Dolly, come on!" he'd chided when Patrick complained.) By the time they get tired enough to take a break, it's past midnight. Patrick is sweaty and gross, and Brendon isn't much better off, and they collapse on the futon, still arguing about whether Dolly was more bluegrass than country.
Patrick wakes up a few hours later and Brendon is curled on his side, his fingers brushing the inside of Patrick's arm. He should get up and go upstairs, get into his own bed, but he's so tired that all he can manage is the ten feet to the door where he flips off the light. He climbs back on the futon and pulls the blanket over both of them. Brendon makes a noise and shifts closer. His lips are parted slightly, and his eyelashes lay dark across his cheeks. Patrick closes his eyes, but he doesn't get back to sleep for a while, wondering where Brendon came from, what made him leave behind everything he'd ever known and trust a stranger to drive him to a city he's never seen outside of television. It must have been something bad, Patrick thinks, something big enough that Patrick feels guilty even thinking about it. It's his own shit, he'll tell you if he wants to, he tells himself firmly, but he reaches his arm out a little, just so he can feel the press of Brendon's shoulder nearby, and it makes him feel a little better.
*
Patrick's mom is reading on the living room couch when he drags himself upstairs the next morning. Brendon is still passed out cold. His mom gives him a look and Patrick rolls his eyes and waves his hands, too tired to manage the words it's not what you think. His mom shakes her head, but she's smiling. "Andy called," she says. "Pete's back tonight, and there's a party. You want me to make cookies?"
"Mom," Patrick grins, because cookies, but then his stomach rumbles. His mom's cookies are pretty amazing. "If you want to," he says noncommittally, and she laughs.
"I can make breakfast, but I figured you'd want to take your new friend to Glenn's for brunch." She looks up from her book, eyes questioning, and Patrick leans in to kiss her cheek.
"I'm going to shower, then I'll get the kid up and make sure he's fed. I don't need you to take care of my strays."
She looks at him, quiet and serious for a moment. "He looks like he could use a little taking care of," she says quietly.
It's not that it's not true; Brendon's clearly lost and trying not to show it. Patrick's just not sure he's the kind of guy who can help. He's not a people person, not really, and his idea of a friendly shoulder is a slap to the back of the head and a 'snap out of it!'. This could be a product of a long friendship with Pete Wentz, but Patrick just doesn't feel much like the caretaker type. "He's heading to New York, mom," he says, just as quiet, his eyes cutting to the door down to the music room. "He's not a minor, and he's a smart kid."
She sighs, but not unkindly. "Do you know why he's not at home? He's barely out of high school, and he clearly comes from some money. People are probably worried sick about him." Patrick knows that she worries sick about him sometimes too, when he's on a long run in bad weather, or when she hasn't seen his face in a while. He squeezes her hand.
"I didn't ask," he says with a sheepish shrug. It's none of his business, he tells himself, but he's also not sure he can handle whatever truth Brendon's carrying around. Right now, it just feels like Patrick's lucked into a friend for his drive. His cab is going to be really quiet once Brendon gets on a bus.
"Don't you have to head to Jersey in a few days?" she asks, like she's reading his mind. "Brendon's welcome to hang out here until you guys have to go." Patrick narrows his eyes at her. She just grins at him, eyes tired, and Patrick knows she spent part of last night awake and worrying too.
"You're a meddlesome woman," he mutters, but she just smiles wider.
"You're not the tough guy you think you are," she retorts, and he sighs.
"Showering now," he says, cutting off the rest of the conversation, but he's damn certain she won't let him take Brendon anywhere near a bus depot. He makes a mental note to call Mikey and see what the time frame is for his check-in. He hasn't spent any time in New York City proper for a while, and maybe Brendon could use a hand finding a place to stay.
*
Brendon looks at him nervously, hands smoothing down the front of his t-shirt as Patrick grins and knocks loudly on the door. They're at Hurley and Mixon's place, and the party is loud enough to be heard down the block. "You sure this is cool?" Brendon asks for the third time and Patrick just snorts.
"You're fine. It's not like this is a frat --"
But he's cut off when the door flies open wide and Pete flings himself at Patrick. He's shirtless and carrying two beers, one of which drips down the back of Patrick's jacket. "PATRICK STUMPH!" Pete yells in his ear. "I MISSED YOU, YOU SAUCY BITCH!" Patrick winces and catches a glimpse of Brendon's face over Pete's shoulder. Brendon's eyes are huge, but he's biting his lip to keep from laughing.
"Fuck you, now I'm deaf," Patrick growls as he shoves Pete mostly off of him. Pete smacks a kiss to his cheek before looking up.
"Oh, shit, you brought your little friend," he says, his grin getting wider as he spots Brendon standing near the railing. "My, my, Brendon. I have to say, if you're really interested in modeling, I seriously have a friend who can take some pictures..." He sidles up to Brendon and hands over one of the beers.
"Oh, I don't," he starts but Patrick tugs his hat down and smacks Pete in the side.
"Don't ever listen to this man," Patrick says with just a hint of 'no seriously, I'm not kidding' in his voice. Their easy banter aside, Pete would eat Brendon alive, and Patrick's not up for dealing with that tonight. Or ever.
"You got it boss." Brendon's tiny smile gets lost as he takes a sip of his beer. Pete looks back and forth between them for a moment, and Patrick doesn't let Pete catch his eyes.
"You want to go meet some people?" Patrick asks, and Brendon shrugs in agreement. Patrick leaves Pete on the porch, still watching them with more interest than Patrick's okay with. It's weird, walking into Andy's place with Brendon. People are looking, he realizes, and Patrick feels just a little self-conscious. He hasn't had a new friend that he didn't meet through Pete, or through WayRo Shipping, in... possibly ever, and it's kind of nice, having Brendon at his side, not having to share him the way he always shares Pete, or Joe. He steers Brendon through the crowd with a hand on the small of his back, making sure he avoids the trick hallways that lead to nowhere, the couple making out under the staircase. Patrick gets himself a drink and introduces Brendon around to Bob Morris and Sean and Ryan and Kage, local boys he keeps in touch with mainly through Andy and Matt and their constant need to have their house filled with friends. Brendon shakes everyone's hand and smiles and jokes, but sticks pretty tight to Patrick's side.
They make it to the den in time to see Pete shotgun a decent hit from a girl with a septum piercing, and Patrick rolls his eyes. He notices Pete nod to Matt, and then sees Mixon whisper in Andy's ear, eyes cutting to Brendon and Patrick across the room. Andy's eyebrows shoot up, and Mix gives Patrick a thumbs up, grin wide and amused. Patrick flips them off.
"What's up?" Andy says when they reach the back wall. Matt leans in and gives Patrick a quick hug.
"Not much. Party's pretty good," Patrick replies. "Guys, this is Brendon. He's from Vegas."
Brendon smiles at them, reaches out to shake their hands. Patrick can feel him at his side, warm and just a little anxious. "Hi," he says shyly. It's reminiscent of the Brendon he met in Nevada, full of a quiet, nervous energy, watchful and distracted all at once.
"Hey, good to meet you," Matt says warmly. Andy just tilts his head to one side, watchful. "You new to town?"
"No, I'm just passing through," Brendon answers. "Heading to New York. Patrick was cool enough to give me a ride this far."
"Ah," Mix says, raising his eyebrows a little at Andy. Andy nods, like they're already in the middle of a conversation. Patrick bristles. Fucking Pete and his fucking big mouth, he thinks. "You've been keeping our Patrick company, huh?"
"Hey, we're going to grab more drinks," Patrick says curtly, and drags Brendon to the keg across the room, fingers warm on his elbow. He's not sure what exactly Pete has been telling his loser friends about Brendon, but clearly they have been drawing really stupid conclusions. Brendon's frowning a little, fingers tight around his red plastic cup. Andy and Mixon are standing closer now, and Patrick glares in their direction once before turning to see Brendon watching them too. He sees when Brendon notices Mix's hand, resting lightly on Andy's lower back, pinky finger slipped discreetly through a belt loop. Brendon's cheeks flush a little, and the corner of his mouth twitches.
"Are they...," he asks, voice low and a little unsure, and Patrick glances back to see Andy grinning at whatever Mixon is saying, eyes crinkling with amusement behind his glasses, fingers light on Matt's wrist.
"Yeah, almost two years," he says with a smile. They're dicks, but they're his dicks, and Patrick can't deny how confusingly perfect they are for each other.
Brendon bites his lip, and Patrick can't help but notice Brendon's eyes following Mix and Andy around the room for the rest of the night.
They stay just long enough for Patrick to see a few people, and for Brendon to have enough warm beer that he's leaning heavily into Patrick's side on the couch. Pete is on Patrick's other side talking a mile a minute about a new band he heard in Seattle. He stops mid-sentence and grins when Brendon's head hits Patrick's shoulder with a small thump. "Kid's all tuckered out," he laughs. "You should get him home to bed," he adds slyly.
Patrick sighs. "It's not like that," he whispers. "He's barely eighteen."
"Yeah, and you're so ancient," Pete scoffs, and Patrick shushes him. Brendon is warm and heavy, pressed into his side, and Patrick tamps down a sudden urge to tuck an arm around him, pull him closer. "He's cute, 'Trick. He likes you."
"It's not going to happen," Patrick says with a heavy certainty. Brendon is young and pretty and full of talent and Patrick's a pudgy, cranky truck driver. Brendon belongs in New York, and Patrick is going to get him there, and then get back to his easy, one-man existence, free from Brendon's relentless chatter and the frustrating buzzing under Patrick's skin that seems to crop up when Brendon is around.
"Patrick--," Pete starts, and Patrick shakes his head.
"What, am I going to build him a puppy crate for my cab? Drive him around until he gets bored to death, or decides he'd rather kill me with his bare hands rather than listen to another three hours of Prince bootlegs?"
"Prince's cool," Brendon mumbles from Patrick's shoulder and Pete laughs. Patrick can feel the blush creep over his cheeks, unsure how much Brendon heard, how much he understood in his tipsy state.
"Hey, let's get out of here," Patrick says, pushing Brendon gently off him. Brendon blinks up at him and smiles. He naps the whole drive back to Patrick's mom's, and then they're both extra quiet, tiptoeing into the house and down the stairs to the basement.
"Your friends are really nice," Brendon says sleepily as Patrick tosses him a few pillows.
"Yeah, they're okay," Patrick says with a shrug and a smile and throws a blanket over Brendon's body, stripped down to nothing but boxers and an Old Navy t-shirt.
"Thanks," Brendon says quietly and Patrick nods. He takes a step toward the door, to turn off the light and head up to fall into his own bed, but Brendon's fingers snag in the fabric of his jeans, curling lightly around his knee. When he looks down, Brendon is looking up at him with wide, earnest eyes. "No, just. Thank you. For all of this."
Patrick runs a hand through Brendon's wild, dark hair and tries to ignore the way his heart is beating quicker in his chest. "You're welcome," he manages, and slips out of Brendon's grasp before he does something monumentally stupid, like let his thumb slide over Brendon's plump lower lip.
Stupid Pete, planting fucking ideas in my head, he thinks, because it's always easiest to blame Pete when Patrick's life threatens to tumble out of control.
Part 2