Fic: Reprise (FOB, Pete and Patrick, gen)
Reprise
Fall Out Boy -- Pete and Patrick -- gen -- ~1880 words
many thanks to
tempore for the beta
and to
angelgazing who introduced me to Fall Out Boy and showed me the door in
-----------------------
When Pete heard the new Four Year Strong album, which was awesome, he put his hand in his pocket for his phone. Then he remembered Patrick had asked him not to call.
They had had a brief but explicit conversation about it, the day after Pete accidentally told his Twitter followers his personal opinion on the hiatus. When Pete thought about it-something he always seemed to do after rather than before-he realized it was too explicit, if not for the feelings of certain band members than at least too explicit to be a good publicity move. But what could you do? Pete didn't believe in deleting things. It was a crucial bit of his image, the unfiltered spontaneity.
Instead, Pete pressed Patrick's number on his phone's speed dial. He wanted to smooth things over, maybe apologize, but didn't get around to it fast enough.
“Look,” Patrick said abruptly, “You can't keep calling me like nothing's happened, like everything's still the same. It-” He paused. Pete heard him swallow. “It makes it hard, okay? A little space would be nice.”
So Pete figured he should give Patrick about a week, to let him calm down a little.
Later that night, Pete called back to see if Patrick was watching Survivor and seeing this guy roll cigars out of banana leaves, which was hilarious, but also to find out if Patrick was serious.
Patrick was quiet while Pete babbled on about the banana leaves, before saying tightly, “Look, I don't have a lot of time right now, Pete. I'm really focusing on my music.”
“Oh,” said Pete. “Sure. Your music.”
The next day, he found out that Patrick had shared his personal opinion on the hiatus with Spin Magazine. Pete read the article. Then he took Patrick's number off speed dial.
And then, finally, Patrick was playing a show. A solo show, all by himself. Pete tried not to think about it. It was like when Bronx started walking, and would push Pete's hands away instead of reaching for Pete's thumbs to pull himself up. Who did Patrick have in the green room to tease him so he didn't get too nervous? Who did he have to make fun of the ridiculous contortions he went through to warm up his voice? Pete didn't know.
What if the show was good? Pete didn't want to think about it. What if it was bad? Even worse. What if no one came? Had Patrick bothered to tell anyone it was happening? Patrick forgot things like that sometimes. It was like like he believed people, those fickle creatures, would just come to him of their own accord, like he thought someone was keeping score and would reward him if he rehearsed enough and had heart. Patrick would have been content to sit behind a drum set forever. He never would have sang if Pete hadn't pushed him, if Pete hadn't dreamed it for him.
Also, the dude was internet-incompetent, he could hardly write a Twitter update. It was like he just didn't think about how he looked to other people. The SXSW announcement, when it finally came, was in 3rd person, like an article from a tiny reporter, an elf who followed Patrick around and wrote sentence-long news bulletins for the big people. It infuriated Pete. Somewhere, Patrick still believed the show went to the talented, not just to the savvy and the sexy. How could he have failed to learn better in his time with Fall Out Boy, standing all those years right next to Pete, watching Pete dress and schmooze and pose?
Pete re-tweeted the announcement anyway. He figured it was the least he could do, considering his Twitter account had better circulation than Rolling Stone. He didn't say anything else. Didn't reply to wish Patrick luck, didn't call, didn't even text. If Patrick remembered anything about him, which Pete was starting to doubt, he would recognize that this silence was restraint, and it meant Pete was making an effort.
And when he said incompetent, Pete clarified with himself, on one of the many occasions he hashed it all out in his head again, he didn't mean that Patrick didn't have ideas, that wasn't it at all. Sometimes Pete thought it was Patrick who'd had all the ideas-or all the ones worth keeping, at least. There was something naïve and sweet about the purity of his vision. When he had first described the song that became What A Catch, Donnie, Pete had seen the vision too. Even when Patrick thought he wasn't listening, Pete had still caught the vision, even if he understood too late what it meant.
“I want it slow, but epic,” Patrick had said, which sounded ridiculous compared to how tight his voice got when he was this annoyed.
They were walking downtown. He was ahead of Pete, walking too fast. He was mad because Pete had just taken a phone call from Ashlee when they were supposed to be working. Patrick would never say a word about the call, of course. He just focused more doggedly on the songs and his voice got a bitter edge to it.
“Think Let It Be,” Patrick said toward the sidewalk ahead of them, without turning around. “Or Hey Jude, with some na nas at the end, maybe. Anyway, think McCartney on piano, but then it grows, to include a whole . . . orchestra or something.”
Pete snickered. He imagined Patrick at a piano in a bar, dark and smoky, spotlight hugging him, the rest of the stage in velvety darkness.
“You could do that,” he said toward Patrick's back. “You're good at slow and profound.”
“We'd start simple, and then layer it.” Patrick slowed down a little, inadvertently letting Pete catch up, but still not looking at him. “We could dub in a lot at the end. It'd be the kind of song where you'd put everything iconic in it, mix it all up together.”
“Yeah,” Pete said, brightening, catching the word 'iconic.' That was something he could work with. “It could be like, a reprise. Of everything.” Patrick got over things; that's what Pete liked about him. That's why he kept taking Ashlee's calls, because he knew Patrick would get over it.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
“Shit, hold on-” Pete took it out to check the number, which was Ashlee's.
“Whatever.” Patrick rolled his eyes and veered into the nearest doorway, the Starbucks they'd been half-heartedly aiming for since they turned up LaSalle.
Later, they sat for a little bit with their empty paper cups, Patrick writing on napkins and humming to himself, Pete watching people on the street through the big window, and both of them pretty sure they had managed to pull together the beginnings of a song, again.
'The Reprise,' Patrick kept calling it and in Pete's mind, that was already the working title. If Pete had been thinking at the time, he would have remembered that reprises were things you only did at the end, when the only direction to look was back. And if he had realized, what would he have done? Scrapped the song right there? Forbidden Patrick from writing it? Or would Pete have gone ahead and done what he did anyway, which was send Ashlee another text under the table, because he was pretty sure Patrick couldn't see the phone?
“You're a real bitch to work with, you know that?” Patrick said as soon as Pete hit send.
“And you're just a bitch,” Pete responded, snapping his phone shut. He shrugged. “No one has it easy. Look at Morrissey and Marr. Or the Replacements, man, they were crazy. They got into a fist fight their last night on stage.” Pete started to collect up the debris on the table, the wooden stirring stick and the napkins, the plastic lid to his cup. “McCartney and Lennon, and the Apple Sessions? Even Simon and Garfunkel eventually broke up.”
Patrick snorted despite himself. “Yeah, right, we're just like that. You're McCartney and I'm Lennon.”
“Bullshit you are. I'm Lennon. You're the one who can sing.” And I'm the one married to Yoko Ono, Pete added silently, feeling for his phone. He thought about turning it off, but didn't. “Or think about Roberta Flack and Donny Hathaway. Donny Hathaway-now that was someone who was a bitch to work with.”
“Damn straight,” said Patrick. “He was lucky she put up with him.”
“Lucky? Him?” It was Pete's turn to snort, but with less humor than Patrick had had. “He wrote their songs. She was lucky.”
“I don't know about that.” Patrick stood up and put on his coat. “I mean, what are you gonna do with songs if you can't sing them yourself?” He swept the pile of trash Pete had collected neatly off the table, leaving Pete empty-handed.
Outside of Starbucks, back on the windy street, they walked for a while in silence. But then Patrick leaned into Pete's shoulder, giving him a friendly nudge.
“I'm Abbott and you're Costello,” he said in a low, confiding voice, so only Pete could hear it.
“I'm dumb and you're dumber,” Pete said sulkily, but in a little voice that matched Patrick's, like he was telling him a secret.
“Batman and Robin,” Patrick said happily.
“Sid and Nancy,” Pete said.
“Big Bird and Snuffleupagus.” Patrick started to giggle.
“Thelma and Louise,” countered Pete, smiling just a little.
“Peter Pan and Tinkerbell,” Patrick said, laughing out loud, which broke Pete's resolve to stay angry. It had felt so good to laugh like that, together. That was the last time Pete remembered it happening.
After the SXSW show, Pete could have called up a friend in Austin to hear how it had gone, but he didn't think he could tolerate anyone doubting his motives, trying to decide if Pete was calling because he wanted to know the truth or because he was a bitter stalker who wasn't working. Pete himself didn't know which he was, anyway. So instead, he contented himself with reading reviews with titles like “A Fallout Boy Untethered” (at least Patrick was getting some press, thank jesus) and watching the video clips he found online. God, Patrick looked different. He was so thin. It was like no one was feeding him. Pete stifled the impulse to worry.
Patrick looked older. Pete guessed they probably both did.
Later that night, after he had watched the video clips each about fifteen more times, Pete got out his phone and scrolled through his contacts to find Patrick's name. He typed a text and sent it quickly, like swallowing a shot of tequila.
your sxsw set was awesome, you rocked it
I can't wait for the next show; I know you'll be amazing
Pete thought for a minute, then typed another message.
I was always the lucky one, do you know that? xo, peter
He sent it before he could second-guess himself. It had been a while. He figured Patrick could tolerate an extra text from him, if only for old times' sake.
Fall Out Boy -- Pete and Patrick -- gen -- ~1880 words
many thanks to
tempore for the beta
and to
angelgazing who introduced me to Fall Out Boy and showed me the door in
-----------------------
When Pete heard the new Four Year Strong album, which was awesome, he put his hand in his pocket for his phone. Then he remembered Patrick had asked him not to call.
They had had a brief but explicit conversation about it, the day after Pete accidentally told his Twitter followers his personal opinion on the hiatus. When Pete thought about it-something he always seemed to do after rather than before-he realized it was too explicit, if not for the feelings of certain band members than at least too explicit to be a good publicity move. But what could you do? Pete didn't believe in deleting things. It was a crucial bit of his image, the unfiltered spontaneity.
Instead, Pete pressed Patrick's number on his phone's speed dial. He wanted to smooth things over, maybe apologize, but didn't get around to it fast enough.
“Look,” Patrick said abruptly, “You can't keep calling me like nothing's happened, like everything's still the same. It-” He paused. Pete heard him swallow. “It makes it hard, okay? A little space would be nice.”
So Pete figured he should give Patrick about a week, to let him calm down a little.
Later that night, Pete called back to see if Patrick was watching Survivor and seeing this guy roll cigars out of banana leaves, which was hilarious, but also to find out if Patrick was serious.
Patrick was quiet while Pete babbled on about the banana leaves, before saying tightly, “Look, I don't have a lot of time right now, Pete. I'm really focusing on my music.”
“Oh,” said Pete. “Sure. Your music.”
The next day, he found out that Patrick had shared his personal opinion on the hiatus with Spin Magazine. Pete read the article. Then he took Patrick's number off speed dial.
And then, finally, Patrick was playing a show. A solo show, all by himself. Pete tried not to think about it. It was like when Bronx started walking, and would push Pete's hands away instead of reaching for Pete's thumbs to pull himself up. Who did Patrick have in the green room to tease him so he didn't get too nervous? Who did he have to make fun of the ridiculous contortions he went through to warm up his voice? Pete didn't know.
What if the show was good? Pete didn't want to think about it. What if it was bad? Even worse. What if no one came? Had Patrick bothered to tell anyone it was happening? Patrick forgot things like that sometimes. It was like like he believed people, those fickle creatures, would just come to him of their own accord, like he thought someone was keeping score and would reward him if he rehearsed enough and had heart. Patrick would have been content to sit behind a drum set forever. He never would have sang if Pete hadn't pushed him, if Pete hadn't dreamed it for him.
Also, the dude was internet-incompetent, he could hardly write a Twitter update. It was like he just didn't think about how he looked to other people. The SXSW announcement, when it finally came, was in 3rd person, like an article from a tiny reporter, an elf who followed Patrick around and wrote sentence-long news bulletins for the big people. It infuriated Pete. Somewhere, Patrick still believed the show went to the talented, not just to the savvy and the sexy. How could he have failed to learn better in his time with Fall Out Boy, standing all those years right next to Pete, watching Pete dress and schmooze and pose?
Pete re-tweeted the announcement anyway. He figured it was the least he could do, considering his Twitter account had better circulation than Rolling Stone. He didn't say anything else. Didn't reply to wish Patrick luck, didn't call, didn't even text. If Patrick remembered anything about him, which Pete was starting to doubt, he would recognize that this silence was restraint, and it meant Pete was making an effort.
And when he said incompetent, Pete clarified with himself, on one of the many occasions he hashed it all out in his head again, he didn't mean that Patrick didn't have ideas, that wasn't it at all. Sometimes Pete thought it was Patrick who'd had all the ideas-or all the ones worth keeping, at least. There was something naïve and sweet about the purity of his vision. When he had first described the song that became What A Catch, Donnie, Pete had seen the vision too. Even when Patrick thought he wasn't listening, Pete had still caught the vision, even if he understood too late what it meant.
“I want it slow, but epic,” Patrick had said, which sounded ridiculous compared to how tight his voice got when he was this annoyed.
They were walking downtown. He was ahead of Pete, walking too fast. He was mad because Pete had just taken a phone call from Ashlee when they were supposed to be working. Patrick would never say a word about the call, of course. He just focused more doggedly on the songs and his voice got a bitter edge to it.
“Think Let It Be,” Patrick said toward the sidewalk ahead of them, without turning around. “Or Hey Jude, with some na nas at the end, maybe. Anyway, think McCartney on piano, but then it grows, to include a whole . . . orchestra or something.”
Pete snickered. He imagined Patrick at a piano in a bar, dark and smoky, spotlight hugging him, the rest of the stage in velvety darkness.
“You could do that,” he said toward Patrick's back. “You're good at slow and profound.”
“We'd start simple, and then layer it.” Patrick slowed down a little, inadvertently letting Pete catch up, but still not looking at him. “We could dub in a lot at the end. It'd be the kind of song where you'd put everything iconic in it, mix it all up together.”
“Yeah,” Pete said, brightening, catching the word 'iconic.' That was something he could work with. “It could be like, a reprise. Of everything.” Patrick got over things; that's what Pete liked about him. That's why he kept taking Ashlee's calls, because he knew Patrick would get over it.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
“Shit, hold on-” Pete took it out to check the number, which was Ashlee's.
“Whatever.” Patrick rolled his eyes and veered into the nearest doorway, the Starbucks they'd been half-heartedly aiming for since they turned up LaSalle.
Later, they sat for a little bit with their empty paper cups, Patrick writing on napkins and humming to himself, Pete watching people on the street through the big window, and both of them pretty sure they had managed to pull together the beginnings of a song, again.
'The Reprise,' Patrick kept calling it and in Pete's mind, that was already the working title. If Pete had been thinking at the time, he would have remembered that reprises were things you only did at the end, when the only direction to look was back. And if he had realized, what would he have done? Scrapped the song right there? Forbidden Patrick from writing it? Or would Pete have gone ahead and done what he did anyway, which was send Ashlee another text under the table, because he was pretty sure Patrick couldn't see the phone?
“You're a real bitch to work with, you know that?” Patrick said as soon as Pete hit send.
“And you're just a bitch,” Pete responded, snapping his phone shut. He shrugged. “No one has it easy. Look at Morrissey and Marr. Or the Replacements, man, they were crazy. They got into a fist fight their last night on stage.” Pete started to collect up the debris on the table, the wooden stirring stick and the napkins, the plastic lid to his cup. “McCartney and Lennon, and the Apple Sessions? Even Simon and Garfunkel eventually broke up.”
Patrick snorted despite himself. “Yeah, right, we're just like that. You're McCartney and I'm Lennon.”
“Bullshit you are. I'm Lennon. You're the one who can sing.” And I'm the one married to Yoko Ono, Pete added silently, feeling for his phone. He thought about turning it off, but didn't. “Or think about Roberta Flack and Donny Hathaway. Donny Hathaway-now that was someone who was a bitch to work with.”
“Damn straight,” said Patrick. “He was lucky she put up with him.”
“Lucky? Him?” It was Pete's turn to snort, but with less humor than Patrick had had. “He wrote their songs. She was lucky.”
“I don't know about that.” Patrick stood up and put on his coat. “I mean, what are you gonna do with songs if you can't sing them yourself?” He swept the pile of trash Pete had collected neatly off the table, leaving Pete empty-handed.
Outside of Starbucks, back on the windy street, they walked for a while in silence. But then Patrick leaned into Pete's shoulder, giving him a friendly nudge.
“I'm Abbott and you're Costello,” he said in a low, confiding voice, so only Pete could hear it.
“I'm dumb and you're dumber,” Pete said sulkily, but in a little voice that matched Patrick's, like he was telling him a secret.
“Batman and Robin,” Patrick said happily.
“Sid and Nancy,” Pete said.
“Big Bird and Snuffleupagus.” Patrick started to giggle.
“Thelma and Louise,” countered Pete, smiling just a little.
“Peter Pan and Tinkerbell,” Patrick said, laughing out loud, which broke Pete's resolve to stay angry. It had felt so good to laugh like that, together. That was the last time Pete remembered it happening.
After the SXSW show, Pete could have called up a friend in Austin to hear how it had gone, but he didn't think he could tolerate anyone doubting his motives, trying to decide if Pete was calling because he wanted to know the truth or because he was a bitter stalker who wasn't working. Pete himself didn't know which he was, anyway. So instead, he contented himself with reading reviews with titles like “A Fallout Boy Untethered” (at least Patrick was getting some press, thank jesus) and watching the video clips he found online. God, Patrick looked different. He was so thin. It was like no one was feeding him. Pete stifled the impulse to worry.
Patrick looked older. Pete guessed they probably both did.
Later that night, after he had watched the video clips each about fifteen more times, Pete got out his phone and scrolled through his contacts to find Patrick's name. He typed a text and sent it quickly, like swallowing a shot of tequila.
your sxsw set was awesome, you rocked it
I can't wait for the next show; I know you'll be amazing
Pete thought for a minute, then typed another message.
I was always the lucky one, do you know that? xo, peter
He sent it before he could second-guess himself. It had been a while. He figured Patrick could tolerate an extra text from him, if only for old times' sake.