this has been said so many times --
[friends]
like almost any good story i've ever written, this started with J. and possibly this picture of patrick, demanding the crowd give back every ounce of love he's ever put into an album:
i mean, who does he think he is, pete?
now it's J's (almost-) birthday, and because i've been buried in the accidentally epic brendon/shane story that will never end, this patrick-the-rockstar fic i've been long promising her is still mostly in the notes stage. which is one step up from the oral history format it's been in for even longer.
here you go, honey. the beginning of it, anyway. HAPPY BIRTHDAY.
Fight Song
[Not an AU, but obviously didn't happen. Set vaguely post-Cork Tree, pre-Ashlee.]
Pete ducks, and instead of hitting his smug smile Patrick's knuckles smash into the brick wall behind him. The imploding supernova of pain loses out to a spine-liquefying tsunami of nausea, and he pukes half a veggie sub and two iced coffees on Pete's stupid new shoes. It doesn't make him feel any better.
"Six weeks in a hard cast," the ER nurse says with a lazy drawl. "But it's a good break."
"About time we caught one of those," Pete says, low and pathetic, and the only thing holding back another punch is the painkillers giving everything a dull, detached glaze. Patrick wants to hit Pete, wants to make him hurt worse than Patrick did. He can't remember what they were fighting about, and neither arm is responding to command central. Pete will live to fuck up another day.
Bob talks them into canceling one show, but there's not enough Vicodin in all Pete's secret stashes to make Patrick feel less shitty about letting kids down like that. They all sit around a chipped linoleum table at a diner to talk options. It's a short list.
"I really think Pete's voice has gotten better," Joe says, but it's still not funny, and no one except Pete laughs. Pete is either laughing at everything everyone says or not speaking for hours at a stretch, and he still hasn't fucking apologized for causing this mess.
"We'll go through the set list tonight and pick out which parts you'll take and which can be dropped," Patrick says to Joe. And to Andy, "We might have to swap a few songs out." Andy shrugs amiably. "And I'll just stand there and sing like a douchebag."
Joe and Andy look to Pete, who doesn't laugh.
"If kids want their money back, whatever, they can have it," Patrick says.
Pete knocks his orange soda all over the fucking place as he shoves his way out of the booth. "We should be charging them double," he snaps.
+
def. more where that came from...
like almost any good story i've ever written, this started with J. and possibly this picture of patrick, demanding the crowd give back every ounce of love he's ever put into an album:
i mean, who does he think he is, pete?
now it's J's (almost-) birthday, and because i've been buried in the accidentally epic brendon/shane story that will never end, this patrick-the-rockstar fic i've been long promising her is still mostly in the notes stage. which is one step up from the oral history format it's been in for even longer.
here you go, honey. the beginning of it, anyway. HAPPY BIRTHDAY.
Fight Song
[Not an AU, but obviously didn't happen. Set vaguely post-Cork Tree, pre-Ashlee.]
Pete ducks, and instead of hitting his smug smile Patrick's knuckles smash into the brick wall behind him. The imploding supernova of pain loses out to a spine-liquefying tsunami of nausea, and he pukes half a veggie sub and two iced coffees on Pete's stupid new shoes. It doesn't make him feel any better.
"Six weeks in a hard cast," the ER nurse says with a lazy drawl. "But it's a good break."
"About time we caught one of those," Pete says, low and pathetic, and the only thing holding back another punch is the painkillers giving everything a dull, detached glaze. Patrick wants to hit Pete, wants to make him hurt worse than Patrick did. He can't remember what they were fighting about, and neither arm is responding to command central. Pete will live to fuck up another day.
Bob talks them into canceling one show, but there's not enough Vicodin in all Pete's secret stashes to make Patrick feel less shitty about letting kids down like that. They all sit around a chipped linoleum table at a diner to talk options. It's a short list.
"I really think Pete's voice has gotten better," Joe says, but it's still not funny, and no one except Pete laughs. Pete is either laughing at everything everyone says or not speaking for hours at a stretch, and he still hasn't fucking apologized for causing this mess.
"We'll go through the set list tonight and pick out which parts you'll take and which can be dropped," Patrick says to Joe. And to Andy, "We might have to swap a few songs out." Andy shrugs amiably. "And I'll just stand there and sing like a douchebag."
Joe and Andy look to Pete, who doesn't laugh.
"If kids want their money back, whatever, they can have it," Patrick says.
Pete knocks his orange soda all over the fucking place as he shoves his way out of the booth. "We should be charging them double," he snaps.
+
def. more where that came from...