Fic: This story's going somewhere, bandom, RPS, non-gen 4/5

[jamjar]

Previous part
It's different with the band after Patrick gets back. Andy stops flirting with quite so many bands (and the fact that Pete and Joe followed him around to all his other rehearsals and shows and made sad Oliver Twist faces through windows and backstage had nothing to do with this) and Patrick gets pushier about pretty much everything. Music, but also Pete and Joe's school stuff because "I have plans for this summer and they do not involve you two going to summer school."

Pete spends most of the next month talking his parents into letting him drop soccer and then spend two months in a van with two strange men and Joe. Soccer is hard, since it means dropping the possibility of scholarships, but he uses the argument that if spending the summer in a van with the guys doesn't put him off music as a career then he'll start playing again in the fall.

That only works because he gets them to agree to the tour by the cunning use of Patrick and Andy. For reasons Pete's not quite sure he understands, his parents seem to be working on the theory that Andy is a mature, sensible young man, who may or may not rescue injured puppies in his spare time between balancing taxes and paying rent the week before it's due. He's not quite sure how they came to this conclusion, but he's willing to work with it. The tattoos, piercings and occasional statement that the world will probably be better off post Armageddon "Except for us, of course" don't seem to shake this belief one bit.

Less surprising is the fact that Patrick's mother may have to rescue him from the Wentz household one day. He's pretty sure his mom is trying to adopt him by stealth and he obviously gets his general inability to say no to Patrick from them. When he cleverly gets Patrick to ask them for permission to take their favourite eldest son to strange places for a month, neither of them actually manage to look at him when they're trying to find reasons why it's a bad idea.

"It's not that we don't think the band is good for him," Pete's dad says. "It's been great for him, and we appreciate you and Andy spending so much time with the boys."

"Really, we're just happy that we got the chance," Patrick says, his hands around the mug of coffee they insisted he drink, open pack of cookies in front of him. "This is for us, you know? It's-- sorry, Pete-- but you know, it's not like this is a gift for you, we want this for ourselves. I want this." He smiles at them, looking vaguely guilty at the confession and Pete tries to beam "Give him everything he wants!" into his parents' brains. He can tell that his mom is only not looking at Patrick so she won't crumble, and yeah, definitely one of his better ideas to get Patrick here to do the negotiating for him.

"I promise Andy and I won't let Pete do anything-- uh, we'll try really hard to stop Pete from doing anything any more stupid or dangerous than he'd do at home." He dodges Pete's kick so it only just connects and Pete's mom gives out a little huffed laugh and looks at his dad and that, right there, is the moment they give in.

Andy sells his van and gets one with the seats ripped out and spends several hours trying to work out the best way to pack it. Pete leaves him with his delusion that the relatively neat storage will last longer than it takes to get out of Pete's driveway and goes back to listening to Patrick discuss the itinerary with his parents and looking up tattoo designs on line. He should have something, something to celebrate that's cool and rockstar and at least 20% as awesome as Andy's back.

The van is-- well, it'll get them places. Probably. It managed to be cramped and claustrophobic even before they start loading it, and once they have, Pete's ready to lay money down on who's going to snap first. At least with the mattresses down, there's enough space to set out cards and Joe and Pete, recent veterans of family holidays, make sure one of their first detours is to Toys R us to pick up travel boardgames.

"No monopoly or Risk," Andy says.

"You don't like Risk?"

Andy looks almost embarrassed. "I don’t like myself when play it," he says. "Travel scrabble?"

The van looks better by the time they leave the store, messier but more like it's theirs with the addition of two bright pink waterguns and Joe's new tiara, Andy driving in the front while the rest of them try to cheat at trivial pursuit.

The days stop being days pretty quickly. Pete's always lost track of time in summer and the band starts marking time by places instead. The bar in Ohio, graduation party in Sevilla, the truck stop where that guy tried to pick up Andy figuratively and the one where the trucker tried to pick up Andy literally, the place Pete slept with girl dressed up as Marilyn Monroe, the one where Joe had to be rescued from someone wearing way too much PVC.

The first night Pete spends sleeping on the roof in a sleeping bag because he just had to go for the extra garlic teaches him a valuable lesson about social harmony and sacrifice. He learns about the importance of sticking to your guns when he fights a sleeping Andy, all elbows and grip like a crocodile's jaw, for possession of his half of the blanket. Valuable life lessons, ones he tells his family about when they call.

After the first week, the "No sex in the van, and yes, that includes solo" gets put into place, which sucks, even though Pete's young, flexible and with a slight kink for sex in public places. His argument, that sex is like eating garlic on a date ("It's okay if everyone does it!") comes up against Andy's "How often do you think we can clean the sheets?" and Joe's lingering bitterness at being locked outside the van for thirty minutes. It's kind of strange, not having his room or Patrick's apartment or something to go back to, but it also makes Pete feel more like they're really doing this, touring, sex back stage like that's normal. Patrick says something about Pete getting a groupie habit, but it's not like that, it's just that there's nothing better after a show than finding someone that felt that too, in the band or on the dance floor, continuation of the music by another means.

He sleeps as badly as ever, but it's different when they're on the road. Staring out the window at the half-reflections of him and whoever's driving, road passing underneath them and not asleep, but not really awake either. It's like floating or something, disconnected and in limbo. The way Patrick will sing a little, quietly and to himself when he drives and they can sit side by side in the front for hours without talking or even really seeing each other. It's like being outside of time, outside of everything. Floating in a bubble made up of the walls of the van.

It gives him the chance to think, even if not so much thinking as letting his thoughts drift, until every now and then they crash in to each other like icebergs. Even the usual frustration when he can't sleep and needs to is better when he can concentrate on the sound of other people breathing instead of the endless ticking of the clock. It's like meditation, but he's concentrating on their breathing instead of his own.

They switch places a lot, preferences for right side/left side, front seats, warring with who has to sit next to Joe (occasional kicks, frequent affection), Pete (What? He's a teenager, health class and Judy Blum both tell him it's perfectly normal), the fact that Patrick sometimes runs through songs when he's hovering between consciousness (not as cute as you might think, especially when he's playing imaginary drums) or that Andy steals blankets and space without even a trace of guilt.

The shows blend in to each other and some are good -better than good, better than great, perfect for that moment right there- and some of them suck, the audience facing away, no-one dancing or mouthing the words, like they're playing in to a black hole, and they end to nothing, not even a pity clap, tired and exhausted and they've got a show booked for the next day and they have to keep going, not even time to take advantage of the few interested looks and--

And then the next show will be just as bad, and the one after that, but the one after that, oh, it's back to being perfect again. It feels like they just started doing this yesterday and like they've been doing this forever and as much as Pete hates the van and everyone in it sometimes, just the thought of that makes him grin.

"What?" Joe says, looking at him suspiciously.

"Nothing," Pete says, lifting his head up from the window.

"No, seriously, have you put chilipowder in my underwear again? Because that's not funny, not when you do it to me. Patrick or Andy maybe, but..."

Pete lets his grin turn evil, sees Joe weigh the odds and then sigh and check his bag for signs of tampering. "Shit, we need to find a Laundromat," Joe mutters. "This is getting-- wow, this is getting scary." He stares into it, then closes it and rears back. "Nearest college?"

This is an old routine by now, find a college, find the dorms and laundry room and the showers. Scissors paper stone for whose turn it is to do the laundry, trying to look like they belong. Smaller colleges are harder, but Pete does a good line in "thinking about attending" and "my cousin goes here," enough to get people warning them off or showing a bit of college pride. Joe fakes being a college student best, with an unerring gift at finding the single group of people least likely to notice someone using their shower.

Pete convinces a guy on a sports scholarship that he's thinking about pledging in to his frat when he joins and Andy fails at convincing a girl that no really, he's been there all year, he's just less memorable when he has his arms covered, but they invite them all back to the dorm, all incense and throwovers and posters of Escher and Klimt, something low and vaguely ethnic-lite playing in the background. Pete's mellowed, maybe, because he thinks this, but he doesn't think less of them, like he would have last year or even six months ago. It's like they're trying to find something else, something other and more interesting, and they're trying to do it from what they can get hold of, which is mostly Ikea and the local Fair Trade store. It's not capital-R *Real*, not hardcore or deep or anything, but it's... it's something.

Joe and some random guy announce that they're going to brave the laundry room together. "We can do this," random guy says. "How hard can it be, right?"

"Right," Joe says.

"I'm fed up with that look my mom gives me every time I get back home. I'm not a kid, I can wash my own sheets!" Joe pats him on the back and Pete thinks about saying that maybe they should have saved the mind-altering intoxicants for after, but he joins everyone else in the crowded dorm room in cheering them on.

Andy's girl turns out to be from some sorority, which leaves Pete feeling vaguely cheated. She looks smart and sincere and she's talking about vegan stuff and the ethics of soya and isn't in, like, a pink miniskirt or being bitchy, nothing like the movies. It leaves Pete and Patrick talking to the others about nothing, sitting in a circle on the floor of someone else's room and faking knowledge of student politics while trying to argue music in a way that doesn't fall back on, "because I'm right!" as a final argument. It's comfortable, and Pete thinks about going to college not just because it's automatic or a way of putting off real life, but for things like this. It'd be good, he thinks, and then a moment later, thinks, but how'm I gonna fit that in with touring? Because he can imagine going to college, but he can't imagine not doing this.

"Seriously, Catch 22," the guy opposite Pete says, leaning forwards. "You've got to read it, it's just... and it doesn't even make sense until the last page, and then you've got --"

"Micky, you've got to stop pushing that fucking overrated, yeah, I said it, book on everyone you meet," the girl next to him says.

"It's not overrated! If you actually paid attention in your motherfucking American Lit lectures--"

"My motherfucking American Lit, huh?" Teasingly.

"That's what I said, your motherfucking--" and he leans over and kisses her, "American --mmm-- Lit." And they're sitting across, making out until someone else shoves them and says, "Get a room, you exhibitionists."

Patrick meets Pete's eyes, rolls them a little and grins, shared moment of amusement and vague approval at couples being cute. It's one of those moments where the natural thing, the obvious thing, would be to kiss him and for a second he can't think why he can't do it, because it's Patrick and Patrick is his, and because Patrick is smiling and open and anyone could touch him right now, anyone at all, and Pete is right there, and then he thinks, Patrick and remembers that it's not that he can't, it's that he shouldn't.

So he leans in, crawls under Patrick's arm and leans against him, sleepy and affectionate, then shuffles down so his head's resting on Patrick's thigh. Patrick barely looks at him, just a quick glance and Pete looks up and grins before Patrick's hand on his head pets through his hair idly, casually. It's the best argument against too much product Pete knows, and he turns his head away, eyes half-closing.

It's good and it makes him feel better, feel right in the way that thinking don't-kiss-him makes him feel wrong inside. He can hear his breathing steady, matching the shift of Patrick's body, Patrick's own breathing, even as he listens to him talk.

The conversation goes on above him and he can sort of detach the sound of it from the meaning, just let it wrap over him like white noise, only occasionally chiming in with a comment. He's not tired exactly, but he's got no desire to move, just stay there with his head on Patrick's leg, his hand there as well for comfort, feeling Patrick trying not to move, not to disturb him.

"But then how do you define it?" Andy's girl is saying. "By country? By continent?" She leans in and for a second her eyes meet Pete's and she's almost sympathetic before she goes back to saving the world or possibly flirting with Andy.

Pete wakes up the next day to Patrick pushing at his shoulder. His body aches. Floors really aren't any better for sleeping in than vans, and at least in the van there are mattresses. Patrick has his hand over Pete's mouth, his finger making a shush sign on his own, so Pete licks Patrick's hand, smiling and preparing to go back to sleep when Patrick makes a face and rubs his hand on his jeans. Patrick leans back and whispers, "Quiet, don't want to wake up the hosts."

They get, up get their stuff-- laundry looks cleaner than it did and still wearable, which is something- collect Joe from the hallway and meet up with Andy looking almost chipper and his sorority girl. Andy is noticeably not complaining about having to lie on the floor or rubbing his neck from not having a pillow and Pete upgrades chipper to smug.

Andy's girl buys them goodbye coffee and grabs Pete while they're packing up, pulling to one side.

"Hey, if you do come here," she says quietly, "We have a great LBGT group." She looks across at where Patrick is gesturing at the map with Andy, then back at Pete sympathetically. "High school can be a pretty bad place for figuring some stuff out."

"I'm not--" worried about that, he starts to say, and, "Patrick's--" just my friend. But he can't get either of them out, so he just says, "Thanks," because she obviously means it in a good way, even if she's wrong on all the details.

He gets used to waking up with Patrick next to him, for a definition of "get used to" which is less like building up a resistance and more like getting used to looking forward to the *anticipation* of it. It means when he goes to sleep next to Patrick there's a kind of buzz because he knows what that means in the morning, and it's a bonus, a perk of being in the band.

Part of it is that Pete kind of likes the feeling of wanting to roll over on to Patrick and not doing it. It makes him feel-- something, mature or noble or better than he was a year ago, because he could do that and he isn’t, he's sacrificing himself for the band, sex for friendship, and that's got to be a step in emotional development or something.

He likes to think about it like that, like he could just wake up one morning and jerk Patrick off (Joe and Andy disappear into the background or just sleep really soundly when he pictures this), but no, he's being good, he's being better, and he doesn't think about Patrick's response, Patrick pushing him away or saying, sleepily, "Huh, Pete? Stop humping me in your sleep." Or worse. He doesn't have to think about that because it's irrelevant, because Pete is being good and mature and it's almost a shame he can't explain this to the others, so they could appreciate him.

And Pete's proud of himself, because it's something that could be an issue but he has it under control, right up until they're in Ohio and he sees some guy put his hand on Patrick's shoulder and lean down to say something to him, talking right in his ear against the noise from the band playing on stage.

He's pushing through the crowds and he's halfway there before he comes back to himself enough to stop and think, and he's not sure how he got there, because he just saw that guy and Patrick and-- and that shouldn't be anything, people touch Patrick all the time and you kind of have to shout in someone's ear to be heard here, music so loud you can feel it more than hear it, and he shouldn't have his hands clenched in to fists. And then he sees them and the guy is still there and Pete knows that kind of smile, that kind of body language and Patrick is smiling at him like--

Like how he smiles at Pete in the morning when he's woken up naturally, then gone back to sleep for half an hour before actually getting up, or like he does after a show sometimes or before one or during and it's Pete's smile, it's the one for him and maybe Joe or Andy, maybe, but not like that, not with that extra little smirk, that little bit of angling his body in and tilting his head up.

Someone pushes in to him and he shoves back and breathes deeply, calming himself enough to be able to force his way out and look for them. There they are at the bar, Patrick sitting on a stool and the other guy leaning on the bar, drink in front of him. The back of Pete's hand itches from the under-18 stamp and he rubs it hard with his thumb before stopping himself. Patrick and the guy are angled away from the crowd, in and together, creating that tiny little bit of personal space you pretend you have in a place like this.

His urge, his instinct, is to charge in there and shove the guy over the bar, but he goes for the next best option, pushing himself between them, almost falling on the bar with his back to the guy like he didn't even see him. "It's fucking insane out there, Patrick," he says. "You've got to join us."

He hears the guy swear behind him, and it's possible Pete shoved him against the bar a little when he landed, but he tosses a, "Sorry, dude, didn't see you," over his shoulder before grabbing Patrick's hand and saying, "Come on, please? It's lonely there with just me and Andy and Joe and two hundred kids."

"Pete! Watch it, you're-- fuck, Gabe, are you all right?" Patrick says, pulling Pete out the way. He slides off his stool and pushes Pete out of their space and his hands hover over the guy before he shoots Pete an angry glance. "Pete, for-- moshing is for the pit, you freak, not the bar."

Pete holds up his hands. "What! I just didn't see him there. Hey, guy, I'm really sorry. You just-- I guess I just didn't notice you, you know? Still kind of hyped from there," he adds, nodding his head at the mass of people.

"I'm-- actually, no, that really kind of hurts." The guy shakes his hand out and Pete rolls his eyes at the overacting, but Patrick doesn't seem to notice, just hisses between his teeth and says, "here, let me," topping the ice out from his drink on to a napkin and holding it against the guy's hand. The guy stares at it for a moment, then says, "You know it's a bruise, not a burn, right?"

Patrick gives the guy the finger with his free hand and the guy smiles at him, then Patrick says, "So this isn't the best first impression, but Gabe, this is Pete Wentz, my bassist. Pete, Gabe Saporta, Midtown."

Gabe waves at him with the hand Patrick's not holding ice to. "Hey."

Pete looks at him blankly for a moment, because Patrick is making it sound like Pete should know who this guy is, and then it clicks. "Gabe! You're the guy that gave Patrick the black eye!" It's just chance that the bartender is refilling Gabe's drink when Pete says that, but Pete's kind of happy when she doubletakes and then gives Gabe a nasty look.

Gabe winces and says, "He did tell you that was an accident, right?"

"Right," Pete says. He shrugs. "I'm just saying if we're comparing bad first impressions--"

"Then we're probably pretty even," Gabe says, like he's agreeing with what Pete said, which is stupid. Giving Patrick a black eye isn't the same as getting pushed out the way a little.

"Sure," is what Pete says, non-committal. "Patrick didn't say anything about you being here."

"I didn't know," Patrick says, sounding a weird mixture of leftover angry at Pete and cheerful. "Midtown's doing a college thing here tomorrow. Just good luck." He's still holding the ice on Gabe's hand, his hand flat over it. Gabe is tall and kind of skinny and Pete thinks it's a good thing they banned sex in the van, because it couldn't be comfortable in there for Patrick with Gabe. Gabe's kind of the wrong size for sex in the van.

"So you're one of Patrick's New York friends?" Pete says, putting on a smile.

"Right, and you're in Patrick's Chicago band," Gabe says, then hissing a little when Patrick presses too hard.

"Pussy," Patrick says, lifting up the ice to have a look then putting it back.

"Technically, we're a Mid-west and heading east band now," Pete says.

"This is your first real tour though, right? Patrick talked about it a little when he was in the city." Gabe smiles down at the top of Patrick's head and he was probably taller than Bill, which was saying something. "Making plans for the future."

"I'm crazy that way," Patrick says in flattest voice. "I think it's fine, just bruised a little." He lifts up the ice.

"I really am sorry," Pete says. "I'd buy you a drink to apologise, but I'm broke and..." he holds up his hand, the red under-18 stamp, and tries to look apologetic.

"Hey, I'm easy to miss," Gabe says. "Not like you meant to hurt me, right?"

"Right," Pete says. "So you want me to grab Andy and Joe and go somewhere else, where it's easier to talk? And you can find your band," he tells Gabe.

Patrick hesitates and looks a little embarrassed and says, "Actually, I was thinking about maybe meeting up for breakfast. Uh, tomorrow."

Pete puts on a fake-hurt expression. "You don't want to show us off?"

"I'm kind of worried about the damage you might do, yes," Patrick says. He smiles at Pete and it's a good smile, friendly, happy, smug little undertone of I'm-getting-laid, and Pete wants to do something, something with his fists or maybe his mouth, because Patrick shouldn't be using that, the fact that Pete can read him that well, to tell him that's going to go off with someone who's his friend, that Pete's never even met, and then come back the next day looking cheerful and well-laid. It's like the worst bits of Patrick being in New York, which Pete supposes makes sense.

New York, the city, state and all inhabitants, suck.

But what he does is say, "I'll tell Andy and Joe not to wait up."

He goes back to the van, kicks at the tire and gets in, yanking the door open hard enough that it almost swings back and he gets in, slamming it shut behind him, kicking stuff off one of the mattresses so he has space to sit on it, and fuck, because this is, this is--

This is Pete feeling like he's either really unlucky or really fucking stupid, because either this has just happened now or he's felt like this the whole time and just didn't notice.

"Fuck," he says. It sounds empty and stupid in the van with no-one else there to hear it. Just him, no-one else's body there to soak up the sound, just the vague sound of traffic outside. He smells sweaty and like the club and the van smells like all of them, too much time together and it's weird being in here on his own, not even hearing them outside filling up the gas or something. It’s too bright under the streetlights and he can see Patrick smiling at that guy.

Stupid fucking Gabe Saporta and stupid cheating Patrick, giving away Pete's smile like it doesn't even matter and what the fuck's up with that? Like he can't even have known the guy for two months and Patrick's smiling at him like he's Pete? Because what, they fucked and he knows they did, he can see it practically right in front of his eyes, picture it clear as day, and somehow that gets Gabe the same smile that Pete gets, Pete who's his bassist, who gives Patrick his words and is on stage with him and has known him for months, almost a year?

That's just wrong, and Patrick's obviously got some fucked up priorities if he thinks maybe the fact that he fucked the guy -and it can't have been a big deal, because Patrick didn't talk about him, didn't phone Gabe everyday or anything- in any way equates to what Pete is to him.

His face is tight and his teeth are gritted and he knows he's still keeping stuff back from himself, so he relaxes his hold enough to just it come. Patrick with Gabe, the obvious affection and friendship, and then the fact that Patrick didn't stop it there, that he let the rest of it exist as well. For Gabe. Not for Pete.

The van door opens and Pete jumps, tries to look normal. Joe clambers in, noisier than he has to be. "Pete? Thought you'd still be in there."

Pete shrugs. "Just not feeling it." Joe pushes the stuff on his mattress over on to the third mattress and Pete says, "Patrick's not gonna be back tonight." His throat feels tight, but the words come out like normal.

"Yeah? Sweet," Joe says, sounding appropriately impressed and approving. His back's to Pete as he shuffles stuff around.

"Yeah, he met up with this guy he knows from New York, Gabe something. The guy that gave him the black eye with the guitar?"

Joe tugs his T-shirt off, muffling his voice. "Midtown, right? Bass player?"

"Maybe," Pete shrugs. "Anyway, he's staying with him. Said maybe we should all meet up in the morning."

"Cool," Joe says, pulling the sheet up over him. "You gonna be awake long?" He sounds like he's fading, that bit of having all the energy in the world until you lie down.

"No," Pete says, which he knows is a lie. He feels tired all of a sudden, even though he knows he won't be able to sleep.

"Whatever, just don't wake me up if you get restless," Joe says, half-asleep already. Pete hates him for a second, the pure hatred of an insomniac for someone who can fall asleep waiting in line. He waits for Joe's breathing to steady, to start doing that weird little wheezing snore thing he does sometimes. "So it turns out," he tells Joe's sleeping back silently, "that I'm only okay with the idea of Patrick seeing other people when it doesn't happen."

Joe's imaginary "Yeah?" sounds unsurprised.

"I think I'm in love with him," Pete says in his head. "Really, really fucking in love. Which sucks, by the way."

Yeah, imaginary Joe says. It really does. Especially when you know he's out with some guy that he seems to actually like, that he has stuff in common with and who probably has Patrick on his knees or in his bed right now.

Pete gives imaginary Joe a mental finger and the sighs, kicks off his shoes and jeans and crawls under the blanket, pulling it up over his head to block out as much of the ambient city light as possible and tries to sleep.

He wakes up in a worse mood than when he went to sleep and aims a kick at whoever just touched him.

"Pete, wake up. Coffee, if you wake up. Coffee, coffee, coffee..." Andy says.

Pete opens his eyes and turns his head to look at him, but Andy's lying, there's no coffee, not even a whiff of it. Evil lying son of a bitch.

"Come on, hot coffee and free refills," Andy says. He pulls the cover off Pete and the doors of the van are wide open and it's sunny, which is just the final insult. Pete whimpers pathetically and tries to grab the blanket back, but Andy is stern, cruel. Sadistic. "I let you sleep on the way here," he says, which makes Pete sit up. They're not parked where they were when he eventually got to sleep.

"Come on, it's ten foot to the booth, and you can have all the coffee you want," Andy says. "All you've got to do is get up and be--" he hesitates. "And be as human as you can."

"I hate you," Pete says, but he reaches around for a cleanish T-shirt and finds one that smells okay and pulls it on, finding his shoes and slipping them on without socks. He doesn't recognise the carpark. It's bright, not hot yet but promising it. Pete squints at Andy against the light. "Joe," he says, because Joe was there when he finally got to sleep, sprawled out like he was taking over the space where Patrick wasn't. "Did you lose him somewhere?"

"Already inside," Andy says. "Come on, let's get you caffeinated."

The diner smells like food, which is good, and coffee, which is better. Pete heads over to the counter in search of it, but Andy grabs him and steers him over to a booth. Joe's leaning against the wall, eyes closed and mouth open, some guy Pete doesn't know sitting opposite, but that's all irrelevant, because Pete's only looking at one thing. There's coffee on the table, and Pete grabs for one. His hands curl around it and someone says, "That's my cup."

"I will kill you if you try to take it from me," Pete says, and takes a sip, then makes a face. "Fuck, how much sugar did you put in this? And it's practically all milk." He drains it, then looks up and around for a refill.

"My coffee," the guy says mournfully.

"You don't deserve coffee," Pete says. "Hi, ma'am, can I get a refill here?" he smiles at the waitress, because you're always nice to people with caffeine. "And a menu too, maybe?"

"Pete, don't be an ass," Andy says.

Pete glares at him. "I haven't had my coffee," he says, biting out the words. "It's-- fuck, it's whatever time it is in the morning and I haven't had my coffee."

"No, but you had mine," the other guy says.

Pete opens his mouth to say something, then rethinks. He did steal the guy's coffee. "Sorry about that," he says. "I'm pretty sure I needed it more than you."

"No excuse for stealing coffee," the guy says. "Not even if your sick dying mother needs it. Some things just go over the line."

Pete grins at him, feeling-- well, not human, but at least within shouting distance of it. "I'm an anti-hero."

"You're a jerk," Joe says, slurring the words and coming awake. "Is there-- oh, food," he says, staring at the waitress like she's all that is good and right in the world.

She smiles at him and slides a plate of eggs, hash browns, fried tomatoes and toast over to him. "Here you go," she says, putting a stack of pancakes in front of the coffee-less guy.

"I love you," Joe says with utter sincerity.

"I'll love you more if you bring me the same, but with scrambled eggs," Pete says. "And more coffee. And-- who's paying for this?"

"Whoever gets here last," coffee-less guy says. "Midtown rules."

"No they don't," Pete says, partly out of morning bitchiness but mostly because he misses having siblings around to wind up.

"Pete, if you can't play nice with the other bands..." Andy says.

"Sorry. I really am," he says, meeting the guy's eyes. "I'm lousy in the mornings and I didn't sleep well last night and also, I'm kind of an asshole sometimes." He shifts in his seat and says, "So we're meeting Patrick here? And your guy, too, I guess."

"Gabe and Heath, Rob was here like, two minutes ago and-- oh, lost him to pinball. We lose more drummers that way."

Joe starts humming pinball wizard and Andy taps it out on the table with one hand and Pete's looking at the doorway so he can see when they come in. Patrick's turning his head back to tell Gabe something, and Gabe looks-- he looks too perky for being up right now, like he should at least have bags under his eyes, because Pete probably looks like hell and he didn't have Patrick keeping him up all night.

He pauses on that sentence, breaks it down and illustrates it for extra masochism in the time it takes them to walk over. "Hey," Patrick says, shoving Pete over so he can squeeze in. He smells clean, in a way that reminds Pete he didn't get a chance to clean up last night and should probably see how much help the restroom can be. Patrick doesn't smell like their soap.

There's not enough space for them and Gabe, so he sits opposite. Pete doesn't really look at him, concentrating on his coffee and his food when it arrives. Patrick's pressed up against him and Pete kind of wants to lean on him because Patrick's always good for that, but Gabe's sitting across from him, Joe and the coffee-less guy and Andy there as well and Pete's not sure he can do it.

Patrick steals one of his tomatoes and he's just-- he's happy, and Pete doesn't want to think it, but he looks well-laid, well-fucked, none of the usual early morning tension and stiffness from sleeping in the van. Gabe probably took him back to his hotel, gave him his bed and bought him fucking dinner or something, giving him stuff and taking care of him and--

And he's being stupid, because it's one night and sleeping in an actual bed and with a real shower can do that. It's not like Patrick and Gabe are being obnoxiously coupley or anything, which really, what's wrong with the guy? Why isn't he all over Patrick?

"So when are we off?" he says. It comes out kind of abrupt, so he says, "Do I have time for pancakes? Since we're not paying."

"We've got--" Patrick grabs Gabe's hand, turns it to look at his watch. "About thirty minutes? It's that late already?"

"I blame you," Gabe says.

"Me? It's my fault you--" and Pete can see everyone else at the table turn to look at Patrick, hear Patrick choke back his words, but only from the corner of his eye because he's looking at Gabe. He doesn't see Patrick's expression, but he can guess, embarrassed but okay with it.

Gabe doesn't notice because he's looking at Patrick. He waves a hand at him in explanation. "All on you, Patrick Martin Stump," he says.

"I've got to--" Pete says, standing up and pushing Patrick out, looking for the restroom and locking the door behind him. He rests his hands on the edge of the sink, looking at the limescale around the drain, the soap residue, then he runs the water and cups his hands, bringing them up to take a sip and then slash the water on his face.

He looks at himself in the mirror and winces. The water clumps his lashes together, smudges his eyeliner even more. He has bags under his eyes and they look bigger than usual, open and bruised, T-shirt that doesn't fit and he looks like a thirteen year old runaway, eight hours away from peddling his ass on some street corner. He bends over the sink to wash his hands and he's still got the stamp from the club, not coming off even with soap. Fuck it.

There's a knock on the door and then he hears, "Pete? Tyler's making threatening noises about your pancakes."

Patrick, of course, because realising you've got some stupid doomed, one-sided crush on your best friend isn't bad enough, you've got to get it rubbed in your face that you're going to be spending the next month practically living in each other's skin.

"Yeah, I'm just--" he splashes at the sink. "We don't all get the luxury of hotel showers," he says. "Some of us are suffering for our art."

"If I'm the only one clean in a van with the three of you, I'm pretty sure that makes me the one suffering."

"Says the guy that spent the night in an actual bed." He tries to make his voice sound right, teasing, and he's no idea if he's managed. "But I guess it's not like you were sleeping. Just checking, but you're gonna be okay to drive, right? No problems sitting down or--" Pete stops and then smiles without meaning to. "You know I can actually hear you giving me the finger through the door?"

"Useful talent," Patrick says. "It must come up a lot."

"People love me," Pete says, drying his hands. "They just don't always know it."

He opens the door and almost has to catch Patrick who was leaning on it. His hands are on Patrick's arms, just below the sleeves of his T-shirt and he has to force himself to smile, step back and say something about Patrick not even being able to stand.

Pete calls shotgun when they get in the van because he knows it's Andy's turn to drive and he doesn't want to sit in the back with Patrick when Patrick's still cheerful and smelling of hotel soap, but Joe gets there first. Joe has no respect for the rules of the road, Joe was raised by feral beasts, and Joe laughs when Pete tells him this.

"Fine," Pete says, getting in the back, kicking Joe's jacket off the left mattress while Joe looks back serenely.

"You know cotton doesn't have any nerve cells, right?" Joe says. "So you're not hurting it at all."

"I think it's more like voodoo," Andy says. "Any sudden pains in your left sleeve?"

"Pete," Joe says, leaning over the seat and looking him in the eye with a serious expression. "Are you going to be a moody bitch today?"

"Blow me," Pete says.

"So that's a yes then. If you were a real girl, I'd offer you some chocolate or something." Pete lifts his head and Joe rolls his eyes. "You're not getting my chocolate."

Andy checks his watch and Joe opens the door on his side and yells out, "Patrick! Finish kissing your New York boyfriend goodbye and get your ass in the car!" then giggles, like he said something funny.

Patrick opens the door and gets in the back. Pete steals a glance and Patrick looks ruffled, just a little, just enough that Pete can fill in the blanks.

"Remind me why I like you," Patrick asks Joe. "There's got to be a reason, I just can't think of it right now."

Joe lets his head flop backwards over the seat so his face is upside down and says, "Is it because I'm so cute?"

"You're adorable," Patrick says, leaning forwards on all fours to scratch at Joe's neck like he's a cat, making Joe flinch forwards protectively. It puts Patrick across Pete's feet, even if he's not touching them and it makes Pete's stomach clench, makes him think "I want this" and "I'm never gonna have this" and he knows he's got to work on getting used to that.

Denial is so much better when you don't realise you're doing it. He shifts against the side of the van, knees drawn up and wonders if he can fake motion sickness enough to get moved to the front. Probably not til they start actually driving.

Patrick sits back against the other side of the van, mirroring Pete, looking at him until Pete goes, "What?" defensively.

"Hey," Patrick says, pushing at Pete's foot with one of his own. He smiles, not big, but a little I-like-you smile and Pete smiles back automatically, even if he's still half-frowning.

"Hey," he says back.

Patrick's smile goes a little wider, and Pete thinks yes, that's my smile, like it should be. It’s pure masochism, but he shuffles round so he's leaning against Patrick and rests his head on Patrick's shoulder. The day's already promising to be too hot for human contact soon and it's only just okay now, but he breathes in, and it's a good thing he already does this enough that it's not weird for him to be doing it now.

Patrick hums something under his breath, something vaguely familiar and Pete thinks, I'm never going to get over this. He closes his eyes and lets Patrick shift to make him more comfortable and tries not to be happy that the smell of the hotel soap is already getting eroded by being in the van.

It's pretty much impossible to give someone their space when you're touring, even if you're not sleeping packed into the same van, but the guys manage a pretty good job of it and Pete's stuck behind his invisible wall of stupid realisation, because that's the problem, not that he's dumb enough to be fucking head over heels, death do us part, stay in bed all day and get your name tattooed across my heart in love with Patrick. The problem is that he was stupid enough not to realise it for almost a year, and then he was stupid enough to realise it *now*.

It means that every time he looks back, he just wants to cringe because how could he not realise? Why didn't he think about it, how he didn't just hate Faye because she was irritating and Patrick could do better, how he made Patrick call him every fucking morning when he was in New York, and he can't even think about the thing after Patrick broke up with Faye, because yeah, Pete, of course you just wanted to make him feel better.

He wasn't handling a perfectly normal combination of Patrick being his best friend and him also thinking that Patrick was hot, he was lying to himself and Patrick and everyone and it's so obvious now. He stays like that for a show in someone's basement, one at a college bar and one cancelled due to rats at the club, his mood fuelling his playing, and then Pete sees his dad in the audience in a show in Michigan. His dad's wearing a tie to a punk club without even any irony and Pete loses his place in the song.

Patrick looks over, follows Pete's gaze and grins. "You fucker, you knew this?" Pete says over the song. Patrick doesn't answer, can't in the middle of his verse, but Pete sees Andy and Joe smile and he's barely waiting for their set to finish before he's jumping off stage.

His dad grabs him into a hug and Pete doesn't even think about fighting it. He hadn't really let himself think about how much he missed his family until his dad's right there, his stupid tie under Pete's nose and for once, Pete feels like he's six years old in a good way. He lets go enough to say, "What are-- why are you-- Dad?"

"Your mother's outside with your brother," his dad says. "Couldn't make it past the bouncer." He pushes Pete back. "Have you lost weight?"

"I don't see how, what with all the junk food and sweets I've been eating," Pete says, trying to keep his expression straight but breaking into a grin before he finishes the sentence. "Andrew's here?"

Andrew and his mom are waiting outside talking to the bouncer. Pete arrives in time to hear his brother say, "Yes, but that's because they suck." He tries to hug his mom and knuckle the top of his brother's head at the same time with mixed success. His mom smells like mom and this is the longest he's been away from seeing her since camp and Andrew looks almost exactly the same as when he left, summer tan and recent haircut aside. It's only been a month, but it feels longer.

"How come you're all here?" he says.

"Just lucky," his mom says. "We're on the way to visit your Aunt Hannah and Andy suggested we meet up here." She squeezes his hand and Andrew rolls his eyes, embarrassed on Pete's behalf but Pete just smiles because he's old enough that he's not embarrassed at his parents treating him like a kid.

"Andy did? He didn't say anything, sneaky little..."

"I think he prefers devious," Joe says from behind him.

"Deviant," Pete says, but Joe's smiling because Pete's smiling, which makes Pete smile more and give his mom a one-armed hug because they're his family and he missed them a lot.

"We're only staying over in town tonight," his mom says. "But we've got you and the boys a couple rooms in the hotel so we can have breakfast together at least."

"You're with me," Andrew says. "I figured the guys would be sick of you by now, so--" he dodges Pete's kick, but that was just a distraction for Pete to sneak-attack a hug.

"That's-- I've got to help the guys pack up," Pete says, "but--"

"We'll do it this time," Joe says. "But only this time, so you can head back to the hotel with your parents. You can tell them about that thing in Marksden."

"Or I could never tell them about that ever," Pete says. "Uh, it's nothing bad," he says at his mom's expression. "Joe just thinks things are funny when they're not."

The drive back is good. Pete's hyper at first, but Andrew falls asleep on him and that forces him to calm down and talk to his parents in a low voice so as not to wake him. He's sure they've heard everything already in phone calls and emails, but they don't complain when he says it again. It feels weird, like coming home from college or something, because he doesn't feel like a kid or anything, but he does feel comforted, better. It's not that he needs them to take care of him, because the last months proven that he's got Andy and Joe and Patrick for that, but he knows that if he did need it, his parents, his family, would be there.

Andrew wakes him up too early in the morning, but Pete doesn't even object too much, because hotel. Shower. Privacy, and he needs that.

Breakfast is good, even if Andy and Patrick keep trying to casually order healthy things for him, which-- his parents know he eats junk, they're not going to take it as a sign that Patrick and Andy are a bad influence. He rolls his eyes and eats the fresh blueberries and yogurt anyway, just to make them relax, but refuses the muesli point blank.

"So your birthday present," his mom says. Pete tries not to look guilty.

"Still in one piece," Pete says, which is true even if the cell-phone's a little more scratched than it was when they gave it to him. "I know I didn't call much lately, but--"

"Oh, honey, that wasn't a present for you, that was for us," his mom says.

"Didn't like you being out of touch for so long," his dad says. "Not that you couldn't call more, but--"

"We're getting you inked," Joe says, too excited to keep it in. "We got-- Andy knows this guy here, and one of your parents has to come in and sign a thing for you because you're still technically a minor, but-- We've been saving up so it's from all of us, and-- yeah. It's gonna look so cool."

"So as a late birthday present, we're going to have you stuck full of needles," Patrick says. "Because that's how much we love you."

"I'm going with you," his mom says. "You know how your father is with needles. He can't even look when I put my earrings in," she explains to Andy.

"I don't-- how'd you know--" and it's not like they don't know what design he wants, because he's been playing around with it for months. He just thought he'd have to wait and get a job that pays real money to pay for it. "Every time I look at it, I'm gonna think of you," he tells them.

"You know how creepy that sounds, right?"

Pete grins and gives him the finger. Patrick's hand shoots out and covers his, forcing it down and he says, "Be nice in front of your parents. We want them to let you stay with us a bit longer."

Patrick's hand is warm and it's just a random tiny moment that makes Pete think, if we were together it wouldn't be much different. He can feel the temptation to brood, the way that thought could be like a fishhook in his heart, but he pushes that away and lets it be something happy, something sweet. It's a good night's sleep for once, or having his family and his other family there, but he just feels good. Cared for. Loved.

Andy drives them to the tattoo place in the van and Andrew is equal parts impressed by it and disgusted. "You're practically sleeping in the same bed as my brother," Pete catches him telling Joe while he strips the mattresses for the Laundromat near the tattoo parlour. "That's not *hygienic*."

It's a nice place, clean but not creepily sterile looking and the guy spends ten minutes talking to Andy about getting his tats touched up while Pete looks at the photos of the guy's work. His dad manages a whole five minutes before Andrew takes pity on him, rolls his eyes and says, "I'm kind of thirsty, can we get a coke?"

His dad looks grateful enough that Pete's mum has to force down the same smile Pete's trying not to give.

The tattooist, Andy's guy, looks at Pete's design and lifts an eyebrow. "It's gonna hurt like fuck."

"I know," Pete says. "It's cool, I can take it."

"Yeah?" The tattooist looks at Andy and Pete's mom, going over Pete's head.

"Well, he's vain, so that should help."

"Mom!"

She waves a hand at him. "I just mean you don't mind hurting to look good. But you're the professional, so if you think he should go for something smaller, something more discreet--"

"Mom, I can take it!" Pete says. "It's fine, seriously."

The tattooist looks at him, then holds up the design. "We start off doing the collar here, and that's gonna hurt like a bitch, and if you're still standing at the end of it, we can do the shoulders, or if not you can come back another time."

"Fine, whatever. This is gonna look so good when it's done," Pete says. He takes off his shirt and the guy shakes his head at the old one.

"Bad work," he says, running his fingers over it. Pete shivers a little, then grins.

"Turns out, skeevy tattooists in ask-no-questions parlours don't always have, like, the best artistic talent," Pete says.

He sits in the chair and the guy cleans his skin, the smell of alcohol giving him a weird déjà vu mash-up, clubs and hospitals, prepares the area and applies the transfer. It's different from the first time because Pete can actually see what the guy's doing. His skin prickles, anticipation of pain and excitement and his grin is wide. Even the transfer looks cool, like purple henna.

"Looks good," Andy says when it's all applied. "You're ready?"

"More than," Pete says. "Come on, let's go."

Which turns out to be a slight miscalculation, because it really is fucking painful and he spends about ten minutes angry at himself because it's not like he can complain now, not when he made such a big deal about how he could take it.

And then he thinks fuck it, and starts bitching and moaning.

"Dad says we have to go pretty soon," Andrew says, staring. "That's what you're getting? That's gotta be killing you. My brother's kind of a wuss," he tells the tattoo artist.

"Respect your-- motherfucking Christ that hurts!" Pete glares at Andrew, trying to keep still. "I'm gonna kick your ass when I get home!"

"Peter, language," his mom says.

"Sorry," he says, and then catches the tattoo guy smirking. Giving him the finger probably isn't a smart move right now, so he settles for a glare.

He sees his family off with careful hugs and a promise to his dad to tell him nothing, no details, about the tattoo. Andrew hugs him tight and he's smaller than Pete, but not by much. Pete hopes he gets a growth spurt before Andrew does, but it's looking less likely by the day.

When the tattoo artist starts up again, it hurts even more, but at least now Pete can be as foulmouthed as he likes. It's kind of fascinating, but also the guy is a fucking sadist and Andy is a twisted son of a bitch for laughing, even though Pete admits it's probably funny from the outside. He's focussed on that and trying to find something creatively obscene to call Andy when Joe and Patrick arrive.

"People are animals--" Patrick says at they come in, just as the tattoo artist starts right on the bone.

"Fuck! Fucking hell, motherfucking--" Pete says, and he sees Patrick flinch, looks over for a second and-- Pete's distracted by the thousands of needles digging in to his skin, but Patrick's eyes drop, just for a second, quick enough that Pete's not sure he didn't just imagine it.

Joe pushes past Patrick. "Whoa. Can I see?" He comes to stand near Pete and he's got exactly the right expression, impressed and a little envious, but he's standing right in front of Pete, blocking his view of Patrick.

"It's not finished yet," Pete says, trying to keep him away while keeping still.

"Yeah, I figured that from the fact that he's still at work," Joe says. "Dude, that looks so good. So much better than you crappy earth thing one."

"What do you think, Patrick?" Pete says.

"I think I'm going to watch from here, away from the needles and the blood," Patrick says. "Uh, no offence," he adds to the tattooist.

"None taken."

Pete pouts and then gives up and looks smug. Patrick is just kind of pussy some times, and it's good to be reminded of that, even if it means Patrick is standing across the room from him. It still hurts like a bitch, but endorphins or something are kicking in, something that makes him say, "Come on, what do you think?"

Patrick edges over, like the needles are gonna jump out of the gun and into his eyes or something, but Andy gives him a little push and he's standing there looking. "It's cool," he says.

"You didn't even look properly," Pete says. "Please, Patrick?" He tries to sound needy and succeeds a little too easily.

Patrick actually looks this time. "Fuck, Pete," he says, breathy and admiring and it's a tone of voice that does something to Pete. That's not new. It's just that he's more aware of it now, it's sharper, stronger.

"Nah, that's what you're getting me for Christmas," he says. It's just bad timing, because it should be a joke, he means it as a joke, but the tattoo artist presses in a little too hard and Pete ends on a gasp and-- oh.

Oh, there, just for a moment, Patrick's eyes dropped to his mouth and then looked back up and Pete wouldn't have noticed it, Patrick's gaze clear and natural, but it was there, just for a second. That moment of appreciation.

"It looks really good," Patrick says sincerely. Openly.

"I really do, don't I?" Pete says, gesturing carefully at his body, wanting Patrick to follow the movement so he can see it again.

He doesn't get it, just Patrick grinning and saying, "It's not fair always leaving Andy to be the pretty one."

It's a disappointment, something that makes his stomach tighten, but he did see it, he knows he did. He just needs to get it again to be sure. He hums out the opening chords of Calm Before the Storm and Patrick picks it up automatically, unthinkingly and only realising what he's doing when Pete grins and leans his head back, closing his eyes and he knows it's a good look on him. He can feel the needles, the ink edging closer to completion and he feels weirdly giddy. Painful as hell, but the endorphins are kicking in or something.

"This is my best seventeenth birthday yet," he says.

"You're planning on having a lot of them?" Patrick says. Hearing him with his eyes closed like this is almost like being in the van, close and intimate even with Joe and Andy and whoever else there.

"Well, next year I'll be eighteen, and that's just crappy. I'll have to vote and care about politics," Pete says. "Seventeen, I can already do all the important things." He grins and for the first time in days, since he realised what a stupid, blind, stupid, juvenile, pathetic and stupid idiot he was, Pete doesn't feel like punching himself.

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