FIc: Softer, Softest [1/1]
Quickly, before I go!
violentfires' meme fic! It's tiny.
Softer, Softest
PG
Pete and Ryan, gen.
Ryan is not a morning person
680 words, none of which are true or worth taking legal action over.
For violentfires, with a little help from this prompt.
There was a time when Ryan would have been thrilled to be driving through the desert in Pete Wentz’s convertible. Four a.m. is not that time. Four a.m. is not even in the same zone as that time.
“What are we doing?” he asks, propping his feet on the dash and resting his head against his knees. He will sleep if it kills him.
“We,” Pete grins as he says it, like he’s realised that if Ryan had genuinely objected he’d have refused to get out of bed and so is just being surly on principle, “are going to see if I can drive.”
Ryan lifts his head a little and blinks across at Pete who is, to all outward appearances, driving. “Is there a jack in the trunk?” he says eventually, “because I’m going to need something to bludgeon you with.”
“I mean with my feet. And there’s no cruise control on this thing, so I needed someone to work the pedals and you were the nearest person who I don’t have to share a bus with for most of the next year.”
“Are you on drugs?” Ryan asks hopefully.
Pete rolls his eyes. “Fuck you. I’m your hero. Humour me and enjoy it.”
“You were not my hero.” Ryan’s voice is as sullen as ever, but he lowers his head back onto his knees and doesn’t bother to turn away, so it’s safe to assume he’s defeated.
“I was your idol.”
“You were conveniently well known.”
Pete does mock-hurt well. So well, in fact, that when he hears the first hysterical “I feel so used!” Ryan’s secretly glad there’s nothing nearby to drive off or into. “I mean, I knew I was no Hoppus, but I thought maybe, with time…”
“I’m still pissed at you about that.”
“Come on. It’s not like he thought you were cool to begin with.”
Ryan rolls his eyes. He’s better at it than Pete; something to do with spending so much time around Spencer. It’s a habit he’s contracted, like Jon’s tuneless humming or Brendon’s tendency to mess with his hair when he’s nervous. “You’re the worst hero ever.”
*
They reach a stretch of highway which - to Ryan’s untrained eye, at least - is just as straight and empty as the stretches of highway Pete’s been rejecting for the past hour. Ryan has a sneaking suspicion that it’s because there’s a movie-perfect lone cactus by the side of the road, but he doesn’t say anything. It’s too early in the day for him to deal with confirmation that Pete’s that much of a dick. He’s also not saying anything about the fact that there’s something cool about this - riding recklessly into the sunrise together, like a movie moment backwards, shaking the world with bright noise.
Ryan clamps down on that thought before it can get too metaphorical. He is not enjoying this. He is not.
“Okay, scoot over,” Pete says, climbing up so he can sit on the seat back and reach the wheel with his feet.
“Did you rent a convertible just for this?”
“The convertible is what makes it cool,” he states, with enough confidence to suggest - terrifyingly - that he might have conducted extensive research on this subject. “Now get over here and put the pedal to the metal.”
“I think you might be clinically retarded,” Ryan says as he slides over, “and unfit to drive alone. Which is the only reason I am doing this.”
“Do it faster, dude.”
Ryan settles into the driving seat and clips on his seatbelt.
Pete scoffs. “Where’s your youthful sense of adventure, Ross?”
“Brendon stole it.” Ryan turns the keys in the ignition, revs the engine a little. May as well do this right.
“If we die doing this,” Pete says, “we’ll get to the afterlife and James Dean will laugh in our faces. We’ll have zero credibility.” He spreads his arms and turns his face heavenward like some grubby, beatific imitation of Jesus. “Let us pray for a cooler death.”
He places his feet on the wheel, two and ten.
Ryan drives.