Fall Out Boy Fic: Loose Change
So, uh. I wrote this little fic a little while ago and posted it locked at damnyouwentz, because that comm's a little high-profile, and the lingering untidiness has been bothering me ever since. But I figure my own journal's a quiet little backwater, and I'm going to stop talking now before I descend further into inanity. Did I mention that I went to the airport today, even though I wasn't flying anywhere or picking anyone up? Rebooking ticket. Stupidity. yes.
Fandom: Fall Out Boy
Recipient: zoemargaret
Size: 1194 words
Note: Thank you to callsigns for being my partner in crime at 4am, to darkseaglass for telling me to chill, and deliberatehips for being my last set of eyes.
Summary: It's metaphorical.
The battered coffee table Patrick had perched his laptop on was set back in the corner, almost hidden behind two amp cases. He'd wandered away for some quality time where he didn't need to worry about running into excited radio contest winners every three minutes. As a hiding place it was pretty much perfect, right up until two of the teenagers working venue security walked into the room.
"They're such fucking posers," the pimply-faced guy on the left said, swinging his arms.
Posers? Patrick snorted in his head. Who even said posers anymore?
"Fucking yeah," said the guy on the right, picking up a pile of concert posters. "I mean, whatever, their lives are so hard, right?"
"So fucking gay," Pimples snorted.
"Yeah." The other guy laughed.
Patrick had just about decided to stop listening, because he didn't need to justify his existence to people who probably couldn't even play Heart and Soul on the piano when Pimples said, "They're such fucking jokes," dismissively, a carefully calculated balance of snide and superior that Patrick remembered from high school, and they wandered back out of the room, off to incompetently take tickets or clean bathrooms or something.
Fuck you, Patrick thought. Motherfucking fuck you, assholes.
It didn't make him feel better.
If it had been Pete, he would have mocked the guys unmercifully until they were apologizing for being born. Hell, Joe would have started swinging.
Patrick slumped lower in the kitchenette booth and curled his arms over his chest. Whatever, the guys were fucking assholes. He picked at the gap where the worn yellow formica was peeling away from the particle-board table.
"S'up," Pete yawned, stumbling in shirtless from the bunks. He had traces of eyeliner smeared on his eyelids and under his eyes, and Patrick found himself ridiculously aware of the shape of Pete, the slide of ink across his chest. It was just. A lot of naked.
"Nothin'," Patrick said.
Pete slouched into a seat on the other side of the booth and collapsed facedown, forehead pressed into the tabletop. His hair fanned out around his head, catching lighter brown highlights in the morning sunshine.
"You look wrecked," Patrick said. He put out a hand, fingers grazing Pete's hair. It felt greasy, which was gross and reassuringly Pete.
"Fuck off," Pete muttered to the table.
Patrick tilted his head back to feel the sun on his eyelids, and smiled. Beneath him, the bus rattled and sang.
"Okay, follow me," one of the radio interns chirped. The rest of the band trailed after like tired and surly chicks. Pete had pulled his hoodie over his head, and Joe was flat-out sleep walking. Patrick paused for a moment, watching Andy surreptitiously reach out and steer Joe away from a bulletin board.
In the studio, the DJs were loud and obnoxious, asking rapid-fire questions and not waiting for answers, and after fifteen minutes even Pete looked like he was getting sick of it.
"It's, like, you know, we're just always trying to keep doing interesting stuff--" Patrick said, trying to answer a question about the next album.
One of the DJs, a guy with balding brown hair and a potbelly, laughed loudly. "Yeah, you said the last one was, and I quote, 'danceable.'"
Patrick gritted his teeth in a smile.
"What," Pete broke in. "You don't find punk-pop danceable?"
"It's right in the title of the song," Andy muttered. The female DJ mercifully broke in to ask about "Dance, Dance," and they stopped to perform the pre-scheduled impromptu acoustic version.
"Best Jennifer Garner movie," Pete said from where he was lying on his back in the middle of the aisle. The rest of the bus was two-am-quiet.
"Someone's going to step on your head," Patrick said. "Elektra."
Pete sat up. "Elektra sucked ass."
"Oh, come on." Patrick kicked out his foot, missing Pete by an inch. "I mean, Jennifer Garner?"
"You picked Elektra over Dude Where's My Car," Pete said.
Patrick frowned. "Jennifer Garner was in Dude Where's My Car?"
"Shyeah." Pete lay back down.
"I'm sorry, I don't have an encyclopedic knowledge of that work of cinematic genius," Patrick said. He looked down. Pete had his eyes half-open, a thin sliver of iris staring up him. "Do you think," Patrick started to say, then stopped himself.
"What." Pete's sidekick buzzed once, making him jump and sit up.
"No, it's nothing." Patrick tucked in his chin. He turned to look out the window at Pete's reflection texting whoever was on the other end. "I just get tired of dealing with assholes sometimes."
Pete hummed in agreement, and flipped the phone open.
"Hey, it's Pete," he said.
The air was arid and hot, and Patrick could feel a line of sweat already starting under the band of his trucker hat. He scuffed his foot in the dirt on the side of the road, thinking longing thoughts about air conditioning and buses that actually ran.
"Karmically speaking," Joe said from where he was perched on one of the concrete dividers that ran the length of the freeway, "we should totally be due a hassle-free trip somewhere."
"Can it be a trip to, I don't know, Hawaii?" Patrick gave up and took off his sweater.
"Statistics, man," Andy said unexpectedly from where he stood watching the driver poke at the engine.
"What?" Patrick raised an eyebrow. Andy and Joe were already shirtless, Andy's still winter-pale skin contrasting with his bright tattoos.
"Oh, yeah." Andy nodded. "We spend more time traveling so it's statistically more likely that bad shit'll happen."
"Huh." Patrick kicked at a bottle cap.
"You're going to fucking jinx us," Joe said, punching Andy.
"Ow, I'm just pointing out a fact," Andy said, "stop it, violence doesn't change science!"
On the other side of the divider, where asphalt gave way to scorched knee-length grass, Pete was pacing back and forth, talking on his cell phone. He hung up when Patrick got close. "Fucking sucks," he said, drawing the last word out.
"I mean," Patrick said. "No air conditioning."
"Oh, Patrick," Pete sang in a high falsetto. "Showing some skin."
"Shut up," Patrick said, knocking Pete with his elbow. "I do wear tee-shirts. Like, all the time."
"And you look dead sexy," Pete said, not meaning it. Pete never meant it when he flirted with Patrick.
"I look dead sexy," Patrick said in his best Fat Bastard Scottish accent.
Pete laughed, then wiped across his forehead with the back of his arm. "Fuck, it's hot," he said, squinting at the sky.
Hot on his chest from the spotlight, cold on the back of his neck from Pete dumping a bottle of water down his shirt, Patrick pounded on Pete's shoulder over the sound of the crowd screaming for the encore. "Fuck yeah!" he shouted. "Fuck! Yeah!"
Pete sent him a flashbulb smile over his shoulder, pulling him in with a hand on the back of his neck to land a smacking kiss on his sweaty forehead before spinning around to leap on Andy's shoulders.
Patrick pushed his hat back down over his eyes and thought, I motherfucking love this job.
Fandom: Fall Out Boy
Recipient: zoemargaret
Size: 1194 words
Note: Thank you to callsigns for being my partner in crime at 4am, to darkseaglass for telling me to chill, and deliberatehips for being my last set of eyes.
Summary: It's metaphorical.
The battered coffee table Patrick had perched his laptop on was set back in the corner, almost hidden behind two amp cases. He'd wandered away for some quality time where he didn't need to worry about running into excited radio contest winners every three minutes. As a hiding place it was pretty much perfect, right up until two of the teenagers working venue security walked into the room.
"They're such fucking posers," the pimply-faced guy on the left said, swinging his arms.
Posers? Patrick snorted in his head. Who even said posers anymore?
"Fucking yeah," said the guy on the right, picking up a pile of concert posters. "I mean, whatever, their lives are so hard, right?"
"So fucking gay," Pimples snorted.
"Yeah." The other guy laughed.
Patrick had just about decided to stop listening, because he didn't need to justify his existence to people who probably couldn't even play Heart and Soul on the piano when Pimples said, "They're such fucking jokes," dismissively, a carefully calculated balance of snide and superior that Patrick remembered from high school, and they wandered back out of the room, off to incompetently take tickets or clean bathrooms or something.
Fuck you, Patrick thought. Motherfucking fuck you, assholes.
It didn't make him feel better.
If it had been Pete, he would have mocked the guys unmercifully until they were apologizing for being born. Hell, Joe would have started swinging.
Patrick slumped lower in the kitchenette booth and curled his arms over his chest. Whatever, the guys were fucking assholes. He picked at the gap where the worn yellow formica was peeling away from the particle-board table.
"S'up," Pete yawned, stumbling in shirtless from the bunks. He had traces of eyeliner smeared on his eyelids and under his eyes, and Patrick found himself ridiculously aware of the shape of Pete, the slide of ink across his chest. It was just. A lot of naked.
"Nothin'," Patrick said.
Pete slouched into a seat on the other side of the booth and collapsed facedown, forehead pressed into the tabletop. His hair fanned out around his head, catching lighter brown highlights in the morning sunshine.
"You look wrecked," Patrick said. He put out a hand, fingers grazing Pete's hair. It felt greasy, which was gross and reassuringly Pete.
"Fuck off," Pete muttered to the table.
Patrick tilted his head back to feel the sun on his eyelids, and smiled. Beneath him, the bus rattled and sang.
"Okay, follow me," one of the radio interns chirped. The rest of the band trailed after like tired and surly chicks. Pete had pulled his hoodie over his head, and Joe was flat-out sleep walking. Patrick paused for a moment, watching Andy surreptitiously reach out and steer Joe away from a bulletin board.
In the studio, the DJs were loud and obnoxious, asking rapid-fire questions and not waiting for answers, and after fifteen minutes even Pete looked like he was getting sick of it.
"It's, like, you know, we're just always trying to keep doing interesting stuff--" Patrick said, trying to answer a question about the next album.
One of the DJs, a guy with balding brown hair and a potbelly, laughed loudly. "Yeah, you said the last one was, and I quote, 'danceable.'"
Patrick gritted his teeth in a smile.
"What," Pete broke in. "You don't find punk-pop danceable?"
"It's right in the title of the song," Andy muttered. The female DJ mercifully broke in to ask about "Dance, Dance," and they stopped to perform the pre-scheduled impromptu acoustic version.
"Best Jennifer Garner movie," Pete said from where he was lying on his back in the middle of the aisle. The rest of the bus was two-am-quiet.
"Someone's going to step on your head," Patrick said. "Elektra."
Pete sat up. "Elektra sucked ass."
"Oh, come on." Patrick kicked out his foot, missing Pete by an inch. "I mean, Jennifer Garner?"
"You picked Elektra over Dude Where's My Car," Pete said.
Patrick frowned. "Jennifer Garner was in Dude Where's My Car?"
"Shyeah." Pete lay back down.
"I'm sorry, I don't have an encyclopedic knowledge of that work of cinematic genius," Patrick said. He looked down. Pete had his eyes half-open, a thin sliver of iris staring up him. "Do you think," Patrick started to say, then stopped himself.
"What." Pete's sidekick buzzed once, making him jump and sit up.
"No, it's nothing." Patrick tucked in his chin. He turned to look out the window at Pete's reflection texting whoever was on the other end. "I just get tired of dealing with assholes sometimes."
Pete hummed in agreement, and flipped the phone open.
"Hey, it's Pete," he said.
The air was arid and hot, and Patrick could feel a line of sweat already starting under the band of his trucker hat. He scuffed his foot in the dirt on the side of the road, thinking longing thoughts about air conditioning and buses that actually ran.
"Karmically speaking," Joe said from where he was perched on one of the concrete dividers that ran the length of the freeway, "we should totally be due a hassle-free trip somewhere."
"Can it be a trip to, I don't know, Hawaii?" Patrick gave up and took off his sweater.
"Statistics, man," Andy said unexpectedly from where he stood watching the driver poke at the engine.
"What?" Patrick raised an eyebrow. Andy and Joe were already shirtless, Andy's still winter-pale skin contrasting with his bright tattoos.
"Oh, yeah." Andy nodded. "We spend more time traveling so it's statistically more likely that bad shit'll happen."
"Huh." Patrick kicked at a bottle cap.
"You're going to fucking jinx us," Joe said, punching Andy.
"Ow, I'm just pointing out a fact," Andy said, "stop it, violence doesn't change science!"
On the other side of the divider, where asphalt gave way to scorched knee-length grass, Pete was pacing back and forth, talking on his cell phone. He hung up when Patrick got close. "Fucking sucks," he said, drawing the last word out.
"I mean," Patrick said. "No air conditioning."
"Oh, Patrick," Pete sang in a high falsetto. "Showing some skin."
"Shut up," Patrick said, knocking Pete with his elbow. "I do wear tee-shirts. Like, all the time."
"And you look dead sexy," Pete said, not meaning it. Pete never meant it when he flirted with Patrick.
"I look dead sexy," Patrick said in his best Fat Bastard Scottish accent.
Pete laughed, then wiped across his forehead with the back of his arm. "Fuck, it's hot," he said, squinting at the sky.
Hot on his chest from the spotlight, cold on the back of his neck from Pete dumping a bottle of water down his shirt, Patrick pounded on Pete's shoulder over the sound of the crowd screaming for the encore. "Fuck yeah!" he shouted. "Fuck! Yeah!"
Pete sent him a flashbulb smile over his shoulder, pulling him in with a hand on the back of his neck to land a smacking kiss on his sweaty forehead before spinning around to leap on Andy's shoulders.
Patrick pushed his hat back down over his eyes and thought, I motherfucking love this job.