Fall Out Boy Ficlet: Pink Champagne
For callsigns. Original request here.
Patrick smells jasmine in the air, walking through this dark park in the Hollywood hills at eleven o'clock at night. It reminds him of jasmine green tea and awkward conversations around small porcelain cups with his first high school girlfriend, who had liked exotic teas. She used to take him into overcrowded shops with narrow aisles filled with foreign chocolate and shelves of imported loose-leaf teas with Chinese characters on the boxes. He would try to stay out of the way of the other shoppers, feeling awkward and clumsy around the paper containers of bagged tea, while she browsed and asked whether he though apple-blossom green tea sounded good, or if she should stick with the Sencha Green.
Pete is a dark shape sitting on a picnic table, back hunched over his bent knees. He looks up when Patrick walks over, and Patrick stops at the wild animal wariness he sees in the second before Pete blinks and nods at him.
"Hey," he says tentatively, settling next to Pete on the picnic table. The edge is splintery and rough under his hands, like a thousand elementary school field trips when he was younger.
"Hey," Pete says. "I thought you were," he drops his shoulder, "someone else."
"Bad somebody, or good somebody?" Patrick asks. "Because you looked kind of feral there, man."
"Yeah, I would have gone for your throat," Pete says, looking down at his feet and grinning, teeth flashing white. He looks up again, and the smile isn't quite taped on right in the ambient light from the streetlight on the sidewalk. It doesn't show in his eyes.
"So I should start running now," Patrick says, gathering himself like he's going to jump off the bench, and Pete snorts and laughs.
"No way you could outrun me," he says, and it's true. It's definitely, definitely true. Patrick probably wouldn't even try too hard. One thing Pete doesn't know, and that's a good thing.
He nods instead. Thirty feet away, a car passes, engine loud. Its headlights briefly paint a moving stripe over Pete's face, tipped down again, mouth set in a silent frown.
"What do you want," Pete says suddenly, and Patrick, caught, says,
"Oh. Nothing. I mean."
"Okay," Pete says slowly.
"We were just, you know, you've been spending a lot of time here," Patrick says. He looks around, nodding, at the dim shapes of the trees, the dark lawn of grass.
"Dude." Pete sounds amused. "I'm not going to run off to Mexico, or anything. Chill."
"Oh, no. No, I know," Patrick says quickly, waving his hands. It's just, he wants to say, that we're in California. California makes Pete crazy in ways Patrick doesn't understand but respects.
"Okay." Pete still sounds like he's laughing at Patrick. He waves a mosquito away from his face.
"Right," Patrick says. He has a melody running through his head from before, prior to Pete slamming out the front door of his house, and he could be back working on it right now. "Just."
Pete turns to look at him, a gleam of eye showing briefly from underneath his hat brim.
Patrick sighs. "Don’t make us run after you, okay? We're not as good at it."
Pete doesn't say anything for a long moment. "No," he says slowly, soft and unexpectedly serious. "No, I won't. I swear."
A breath of wind sends the scent of jasmine wafting through the air from the bushes clinging tenaciously to the sandy soil of the sloping hills, and Patrick wants to believe it means something good, something true. Pete has always been the best at lying to himself, though, and Patrick isn't deft enough to navigate his way through the overcrowded aisles of Pete's mind.
"All right," he says, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. Pete lies back on the picnic table, staring up at the light-occluded stars. Patrick joins him a second later, and they stay, elbows touching, until Pete is ready to return to the house.
Patrick smells jasmine in the air, walking through this dark park in the Hollywood hills at eleven o'clock at night. It reminds him of jasmine green tea and awkward conversations around small porcelain cups with his first high school girlfriend, who had liked exotic teas. She used to take him into overcrowded shops with narrow aisles filled with foreign chocolate and shelves of imported loose-leaf teas with Chinese characters on the boxes. He would try to stay out of the way of the other shoppers, feeling awkward and clumsy around the paper containers of bagged tea, while she browsed and asked whether he though apple-blossom green tea sounded good, or if she should stick with the Sencha Green.
Pete is a dark shape sitting on a picnic table, back hunched over his bent knees. He looks up when Patrick walks over, and Patrick stops at the wild animal wariness he sees in the second before Pete blinks and nods at him.
"Hey," he says tentatively, settling next to Pete on the picnic table. The edge is splintery and rough under his hands, like a thousand elementary school field trips when he was younger.
"Hey," Pete says. "I thought you were," he drops his shoulder, "someone else."
"Bad somebody, or good somebody?" Patrick asks. "Because you looked kind of feral there, man."
"Yeah, I would have gone for your throat," Pete says, looking down at his feet and grinning, teeth flashing white. He looks up again, and the smile isn't quite taped on right in the ambient light from the streetlight on the sidewalk. It doesn't show in his eyes.
"So I should start running now," Patrick says, gathering himself like he's going to jump off the bench, and Pete snorts and laughs.
"No way you could outrun me," he says, and it's true. It's definitely, definitely true. Patrick probably wouldn't even try too hard. One thing Pete doesn't know, and that's a good thing.
He nods instead. Thirty feet away, a car passes, engine loud. Its headlights briefly paint a moving stripe over Pete's face, tipped down again, mouth set in a silent frown.
"What do you want," Pete says suddenly, and Patrick, caught, says,
"Oh. Nothing. I mean."
"Okay," Pete says slowly.
"We were just, you know, you've been spending a lot of time here," Patrick says. He looks around, nodding, at the dim shapes of the trees, the dark lawn of grass.
"Dude." Pete sounds amused. "I'm not going to run off to Mexico, or anything. Chill."
"Oh, no. No, I know," Patrick says quickly, waving his hands. It's just, he wants to say, that we're in California. California makes Pete crazy in ways Patrick doesn't understand but respects.
"Okay." Pete still sounds like he's laughing at Patrick. He waves a mosquito away from his face.
"Right," Patrick says. He has a melody running through his head from before, prior to Pete slamming out the front door of his house, and he could be back working on it right now. "Just."
Pete turns to look at him, a gleam of eye showing briefly from underneath his hat brim.
Patrick sighs. "Don’t make us run after you, okay? We're not as good at it."
Pete doesn't say anything for a long moment. "No," he says slowly, soft and unexpectedly serious. "No, I won't. I swear."
A breath of wind sends the scent of jasmine wafting through the air from the bushes clinging tenaciously to the sandy soil of the sloping hills, and Patrick wants to believe it means something good, something true. Pete has always been the best at lying to himself, though, and Patrick isn't deft enough to navigate his way through the overcrowded aisles of Pete's mind.
"All right," he says, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. Pete lies back on the picnic table, staring up at the light-occluded stars. Patrick joins him a second later, and they stay, elbows touching, until Pete is ready to return to the house.