First Son (7/7)
Title: First Son (7/7)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Patrick/Pete, Patrick/Jon, Spencer/Ryan, Ryan/Brendon, Gabe/William, Gerard & Mikey (no pairing)
Word Count: 8,622
A/N: Final Chapter. I will not comment because I don't want to cry on you guys yet. :(
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six |
Asking his mother for permission was the dumbest thing Patrick did today.
After the first half hour of high-pitched nagging and serial arms-flailing, Patrick’s mom had calmed down enough for him to be able to use his potent puppy dog pout and everything was supposed to end happily ever after. The thing was, his mom just had to have that one last try at being the token wicked stepmother.
“You tell that Peter Wentz that I’m expecting him the night before you leave,” Patrick was afraid that his mom would shatter the dishes she was currently doing so he wordlessly nodded and ran away to call Pete with the hopes that he had an idea on how to prevent the potential catastrophe.
Calling Pete was the second dumbest thing Patrick did today.
“Fuck you, Stump, of course I’m going to meet your mom!” Pete’s voice was uncharacteristically cheery over the phone. Patrick was used to Pete being generally upbeat but this time was different, he was positively thrilled.
Patrick tried to negotiate with Pete; it even came to the point where he had to resort to his rarely used whiny voice but to no avail. He hung up the phone with a squeak and mindlessly flopped back down on his bed; his glasses all skewed in the process.
‘What have I done,’ Patrick thought, as the image of a delighted Pete and his mother poring over home movies or crappy attempts at lyrics flew by his eyes. The only consolation left was that he had just enough time to hide the baby pictures of him singing naked in front of the television set.
*
Fate was a bully and Patrick was the sniveling, buck-toothed drip who wore checkered suspenders over high socks.
Dinner with his mom and Pete wasn’t uncomfortable at all. In fact, the two hit it so well that Patrick had to excuse himself from the table just to attempt to drown himself in tap water from his bathroom.
He came back to a slightly hushed conversation punctuated by random smiles and giggles. They were obviously talking about him because the conversation somewhat stopped when he returned, face dripping with water and all.
Of course, he never expected Pete to be anything but charismatic and captivating. This was the anti-Patrick who never failed to disappoint.
Patrick glumly slid down on the chair next to Pete, inching it back a tad so he could shove his face onto the table in comfort.
“Mrs. Stump,” Patrick was surprised when Pete addressed his mother so formally, “I-umm-don’t know if Patrick told you about-”
Patrick pushed himself off the table so fast that he almost toppled over backwards by the force. Was Pete about to give his mother The Talk? They both always discussed it between themselves as if the words were really spelled that way, with capital letters that show its significance. It was far too early for Patrick’s comfort, he hadn’t even gotten around to telling his mother that he wasn’t straight and now Pete wanted to go all out and say he was the President’s son’s boyfriend?
“He didn’t need to,” his mother said naturally, not once pausing between taking sips of her soup. And it was left at that, with Patrick’s eyes forming a perfect circle and his ears flaming red. Sometimes, Patrick thought, he loved his mother just a bit too much.
*
It wasn’t a secret that Patrick had never been on an airplane before.
At least, it didn’t remain a secret once Pete saw him try to go through the metal detector with about ten pounds of metal on.
Patrick wasn’t usually this forgetful; of course he knew it was a metal detector, but the nervousness of flying for the first time made him forget the simple stuff, like how much metal he wore and why the fuck he agreed to fly to the fucking White House for a fucking dinner with the fucking President.
His first time had proved to be a privileged one, however. As he was flying with a dignitary, the whole process was seamless and quick and Patrick felt sorry for the visibly aggravated people who had to wait in line for hours just to see that their flights were delayed.
He never got used to Pete being famous. But seeing his influence in action right now had an awe-inspiring effect on him, it was unbelievable.
People opened new pathways, allowed them to go first in line, and some even brought them coffee. It was mind-boggling enough for Patrick to stand still amidst the busy airport lobby and gape at them while he carried three cups of coffee, presumably just for himself.
That was a while ago, a considerable amount of time had passed and he could now say that he was too indifferent to all the special treatment. It sometimes bordered on the idiotic, actually. Especially when people, like those suspicious-looking flight attendants, both male and female, would casually stop by their seats and offer them some more food. Well, it was mostly for Pete and not for him but they always had the decency to flick their gazes over to him while they asked.
Patrick gave up at trying to calm himself down and opted to pull his hat even lower. It covered his eyes, one thing that always soothed him, so he dragged out his iPod and chose to listen to the Best of David Bowie, only to be interrupted by Pete a few minutes later.
“I just had to ask,” Patrick couldn’t believe how Pete’s voice overpowered his earphones; he could clearly hear him despite them, “why aren’t you wearing a formal?”
Patrick pulled off his headphones and asked Pete to repeat his question; he couldn’t have possibly heard that one right.
When Pete asked him again, at a retarded pace, and eventually heard the same thing, Patrick figured it was a form of code language like the one the Secret Service used around him.
“You didn’t ask me to-” he sputtered, he was already starting to panic because Pete was never particular with clothing so this meant it was serious, funeral serious, even.
Pete turned in his seat to properly face Patrick, a small frown on his face. This wasn’t helping Patrick’s nerves at all.
“I told you to dress nice,” Pete said in a wistful voice, his mouth bunched up to the side in deep thought. He looked like he was trying to remember his back-up plan, a miracle if he had one, that is.
“Pete, I thought nice meant a pair of pants that weren’t torn, faded or yours,” Patrick was starting to get annoyed by Pete’s lack of clarification or concern. If it was so important for him to be in formal attire, Pete should’ve told him or at least started to reprimand him, not just sit there and look constipated.
“Never mind, I have one in my backpack-,” Pete stood up abruptly and opened the luggage compartment overhead, “-c’mon.” He motioned for Patrick to stand up, his other hand casually holding onto the top of the chair’s headrest.
Patrick was intelligent for his age, everyone told him so. But he didn’t why his IQ dropped thirty points whenever he was with Pete, he couldn’t even understand simple orders or anything.
He just sat there and stared at Pete with confused brows bunched up in the middle, his mouth forming an unspoken ‘uhh’ sound. Pete rolled his eyes before he grabbed Patrick’s wrist and hauled him up.
“Hey, wait-where are we-” Patrick really needed to work on his assertiveness, or lack thereof; it wouldn’t feel all that great if he was ninety and Pete was still able to drag him around places. That is, if he was able to live ‘till ninety with someone like Pete, a person who hops along airplane corridors to the chagrin of passengers and attendants alike.
“Bathroom,” it was one word yet when he heard Pete say it so casually, Patrick wanted to shove open the main door of the plane and jump to join some birds or at least get sucked into one of those gigantic engines.
Patrick knew a lot about bathrooms. He especially knew about bathrooms in airplanes. He did see all those movies, after all. This particular fact didn’t help relieve the worm-infested bowl of gelatin that was wriggling around in his gut.
Pete slid open the thin door and Patrick would give anyone fifty dollars to prove that two people could actually fit in there. It looked so tiny that he wasn’t even sure if he could get in there by himself, let alone a Pete Wentz for company.
He was promptly shoved in and before he could even catch his balance, Pete entered and quickly shut the door. It was cramped at the maximum and if possible, even smaller than the supply closet that he and Pete shared during prom night.
Patrick had his legs stuck on either side of the toilet, a very awkward pose since Pete’s back was flat against the bathroom door.
“Hi,” Pete whispered, his nose was just a short distance away from Patrick’s.
Patrick cursed the fact he was wearing his lucky red shirt today. Now his entire face matched his shirt and he was absolutely sure Pete noticed it.
Pete didn’t comment, however, he just slipped off the backpack and zipped it open to reveal a handful of clothes. Patrick could spy a blazing red pair of those infamous devil boxers and immediately chose to admire the wonderful ceiling instead of peeking through Pete’s underwear.
“Aha, found it,” Pete grabbed a neatly folded set of black formal clothes. Patrick raised an eyebrow, he was pretty sure that any of Pete’s clothes wouldn’t fit him and he said that particular sentiment out loud.
An exhaled breath from Pete surprisingly made Patrick shiver due to their lack of proper personal space. Pete held the clothes in between them and quirked his head to the side, his expression all too serious.
Patrick bit down an impulsive gulp, this was Pete’s ‘fuck you Stump, you’re either wearing this shit or I’m going to turn this plane around myself’ face and he knew at once that this battle was lost.
He rubbed at one of his eyes and dejectedly took the formal in his hands.
“Umm-how am I going to-” Patrick wanted to change as quickly as possible and forget the whole incident of them being stuck inside an airplane bathroom ever happened. He was already imagining the looks on other people’s faces when they see the both of them exiting the single cubicle.
Pete’s grin was back and it came with an added touch of impishness that worried Patrick deeply.
“That’s why I’m here, silly, I’ll help you change.”
Patrick had a bad habit of shoving Pete away whenever he would say the most absurd things. He felt he deserved a medal of restraint or something equally important for the extremely hard act he did of refraining from throwing Pete out of the bathroom.
“I don’t need help in changing, Pete!” Patrick was holding his arms up to his chest in a defensive manner. He had to admit that it looked quite ridiculous for he hardly had anything to protect up there at all.
Pete sagely shook his head and placed a warm hand on top of Patrick’s shoulder. The latter flinched on impulse and almost fell on the toilet as his balance went off for a few seconds.
“My clothes are very, very expensive, Patrick,” Pete elaborated with a mocking tone, all the same, Patrick knew what he was saying was absolutely true, “even I can’t afford them. That’s why my father pays for some thin, old, gay dude to make them for me.”
“If it’s made for you then I definitely won’t fit into that thing,” Patrick saw a bright light at the top of the well he was currently stuck in. It was tiny as hell but it was there and damn if he wasn’t going to grab onto that image.
This was an anticipated question, Patrick thought it was so because Pete’s smirk grew even wider as he placed his other hand on Patrick’s. Now he had both hands gripping Patrick and the guy was effectively trapped.
“I had one made for you and father agreed on account of you saving me and sparing him from having to ask his secretary to write up another eulogy.” Pete added in a quick wink for good measure, the smile on his face not shrinking a bit.
“-which brings us back to the fact that I don’t need you helping me change into clothes that probably will fit me if you haven’t screwed up. I don’t even know why you accidentally brought the formal like youaccidentally forgot to tell me that I needed one and that-,” Patrick waved his hands as much as he could in the confined space, this wasn’t on any of the lists of things he wanted to do on his first flight ever and probably never will.
“And I still repeat that even those clothes are unofficially yours, it’s going to be difficult to fix it all yourself and I wouldn’t want you to place the pants or whatever you’re putting on last somewhere dirty. C’mon, ‘Trick, don’t take so long,” that stubborn look on Pete’s face was even better than Patrick’s pleading, desperate expression. A sudden thought popped into Patrick’s semi-conscious mind. What would all those people think if they noticed how long they took in the bathroom? That was even more terrible than them actually being guilty of anything.
Pete took this silence as one of resignation and leaned in to incline the side of his head on Patrick’s, his hands still firmly gripping Patrick’s shoulder.
“Besides, it’s not as if I’m not going to see it all eventually,” Pete hummed dangerously low next to his ear.
Patrick’s head snapped to his side and he knocked cheeks with Pete in his haste to gawk at the guy, scandalized and mortified. Pete chuckled quietly, holding a hand over his mouth to restrain himself.
“Just kidding, ‘Trick, c’mon, strip-” Pete’s last word was muffled by Patrick’s hat on his face, the object wide enough to cover almost all of it.
Patrick dropped the exquisitely soft formal on Pete’s open hands; a dull grumbling sound continuously came from Patrick as he jerkily took of his shirt and successfully knocked his glasses on his nose at an awkward tip.
Pete let out a soft snigger as he reached over to gently arrange Patrick’s glasses properly. His finger settled on a soft spot on his cheek and Patrick could feel it immediately heat up on that particular area, as if his blood was magnetized by Pete’s touch.
He inched back a little before he cleared his throat faintly and cast down his face to stare at Pete’s brand new, leather wing-tipped shoes.
Pete took this as a sign to hand over the first part of Patrick’s custom attire, an impossibly smooth formal undershirt that he openly gaped at for a few seconds before buttoning it on clumsily.
He was glad at the loss of nakedness on his torso; he felt that his whole chest might turn shockingly pink as his body felt it right to broadcast his discomfort at his current position with Pete.
The dinner jacket made Patrick feel that he couldn’t pull off something as first class as that tuxedo. He put it on and he generally felt like someone shoved him in front of a TV camera on one of those generic makeover programs where they grab frumpy people off the street and put them in clothes they could never afford otherwise.
He was too distracted by the tuxedo that he naturally pulled off the pants he was currently wearing. It wasn’t a wise idea to forget that Pete was in the same room and Patrick proved that immediately.
Pete nodded and gave a purr of approval as he looked Patrick up and down once the latter was done taking off his pants. He couldn’t blush any deeper than the current state he was in so Patrick just bit his tongue to refrain from groaning in shame.
Patrick shut his eyes tight when he saw Pete’s gaze flick downwards. Why was it that the experience of his ‘most embarrassing moment’ kept changing and, quite possibly, escalating in degree?
“Pete. Pants. Please,” he held his palms out and nervously tapped his foot on the floor. He just wanted this over with, it didn’t exactly help that Pete was clearly entertained by the whole incident.
A few silent seconds passed and he dared to steal a peek at what Pete could possibly be doing that made him keep quiet for so long. He almost sat down in surprise when he opened his eyes and didn’t find Pete staring at him, or parts of him, to be exact.
“Foot up, ‘Trick, ‘m waiting,” Pete was crouched on the floor, holding the trousers safely above the floor but high enough for Patrick to comfortably put his foot in.
Putting his knees up meant raising his leg in front of Pete and fuck the captain if he felt at all comfortable about doing it. He inhaled a shaky breath and tried his awkward best to angle his leg somewhere where Pete wouldn’t be able to sneak a glance or two. His mumbled curses were met by an increasingly defiant grin on Pete’s face and Patrick had half a mind to lift his knee high enough to dislocate Mr. Happy’s jaw.
The act of putting on the trousers was done at last and Patrick actually exhaled a long breath in relief. He did the top button as he glared at a still grinning Pete. This was definitely going on top of the list of stories he would make sure to never tell his grandchildren.
Pete slid open the door and paused in the hallway to look back at a Patrick who was just about to follow him.
“Fly’s open, Trick,” a grin, a wink, a fast skip back out the corridor and Pete was gone.
Patrick shut the bathroom door again and decided to bang his head on the thin walls as much as he could.
*
A quarter of his optimistic mind expected that he would never even reach Washington.
Granted this, it was pretty much enough to blow his head when he actually did, and he was now sitting as primly as possible in the left-most seat of the dining table in a room of the president’s choice. Across from him sat Pete and beside him, at the head of the table, was his father.
There were three dining rooms in the White House and Patrick was relieved that the president chose to eat in the Family Dining Room. It wasn’t as grand as the one for the State and the table was just large enough for eight people but that was just the way Patrick wanted it.
They were the only people to eat, Pete’s mother was out for a night of shopping, as relayed by the president himself, and he still wanted to push through with the intimate dinner.
After a few minutes of formal reintroductions and polite small talk wherein the president praised Patrick’s excellent academics and indirectly asked him to spread a little influence over Pete’s dismal scores, the group had descended into a comfortable silence as the appetizers were served.
They were first given a delicious looking bowl of soup to start with and Patrick dug in as soon as he saw the others do it too. There were circular strips of meat that looked interesting and Patrick took a taste. It was delicious and he had to ask what it was called.
“Ahh, fine Spanish cuisine, señorito-” proclaimed the chef behind him, his nose up in the air as he raved on about the seriously scrumptious meat that Patrick was starting to love, “-huevos del toro, in our local language.”
The Spanish was lost on him, he wished Gabe was here to help him out; it wouldn’t look so good if he tried to ask for a translation and all. Pete must have noticed the puzzled look on his face and decided to inform him of one of the finer gastronomical pleasures in the world.
“That’s bull testicles here, ‘Trick,” Pete muttered light-heartedly, his lips twitching as the owner desperately tried to hold back his imminent laughter.
The blood on his face drained at a snap of a finger. For a split-second, he thought he would be sick but he remembered the company he was in so he casually spit out the testicle he was chewing while the spoon was attached to his mouth and quickly dropped it back.
Patrick was quite sure that no one saw him though because his action was met with no complaint, jeer or public banishing from the dining room. He went back to sipping the soup, albeit a bit more sullenly, and carefully avoided those parts he dare not mention.
A snooty looking chef approached him and dramatically whipped open a silver food platter that carried something slimy looking and much too pink for his tastes. It was time for the next course, he speculated, slightly tense regarding the next meal.
“What’s-” After the whole bull’s balls experience, he wasn’t one to trust the nutjob, no pun intended, who served them food.
“Fish, young master Stump,” the chef didn’t look all too pleased at having to explain his creation to someone like Patrick. He was, after all, the only one talking. Pete and his father were silently eating, the younger occasionally looking up to glance at Patrick with a devilish glint in his eye.
He was on the verge of refusing on account of the stupid title he was being called but he deemed it too rude, for now. Seeing as it was just fish, he cautiously nodded before he gave a soft ‘thanks’ to the chef.
Pete had just finished his soup and was now ready for the fish that was already set onto the table in front of them.
“Father, pass the eel please,” Pete’s tone of voice was unusually amused, something that obviously puzzled his dad. But Patrick understood every unvoiced snort of laughter that was coursing through Pete at the moment.
Patrick took the nearest table napkin and faked a huge yawn, when in truth he just spit the remains of eel from his mouth. The whole of the damn kitchen staff was insane and Patrick was definitely going to think twice about envying all those people who went to stuffy, high society dinners if this was the usual food to be offered.
He nonchalantly inserted the napkin inside the front pocket of the pants he borrowed from Pete, the slick, squishy sound of the meat pressed to his skin made him visibly cringe for a second.
Patrick then excused himself from the table for the reason that he had to make an important phone call and he didn’t want to be impolite and have it at the table. Pete’s father beamed up at him and even praised his graciousness and proper upbringing. He could hear him reprimand Pete for being the exact opposite of his ‘very courteous friend’ as he exited the room into the hallway.
Every room had a member of the Secret Service standing guard. They were actually pretty nice and one of them even pointed out the nearest bathroom when Patrick had asked them. He remembered when he once toured the White House when he was in elementary school. Curiously, the one thing he could remember was that it had 35 bathrooms scattered everywhere along the six floors.
He immediately locked the door once he was able to open the lights to a spacious bathroom that resembled the ones he saw on those celebrity homes that he used to watch on television. It looked like every known toiletry was stocked in it yet they all looked brand new or more realistically, recently replaced.
Patrick walked over to the toilet and slowly pulled out the soiled napkin that held the chewed-up eel. It was too disgusting to look at so he immediately flushed it down without another look. He didn’t know what to do with the table napkin so he placed it under a pile of used linen in a fancy looking laundry container of some sort.
He decided to make use of his bathroom break and try to make himself look more presentable. The clothes were impeccable, as expected by someone like Pete. His hair, however, was another issue entirely. Pete didn’t allow him to wear his hat, Patrick thought it was more out of curiosity and not due to the love of obedience.
A barely audible voice from outside the door distracted Patrick from trying to get his hair to stick in one direction. He didn’t understand what was being said so he put his ear to the door and gave a small ‘excuse me?’ to whoever spoke to him.
“’Trick, I hope you didn’t flush the napkin.”
*
The layer of sweat that was forming on Patrick’s brow was thick enough for him to be able to see it quite visibly on the mirror at the other side of the room.
Patrick quickly opened the door enough to peek his head out and nothing more.
“Napkin? What napkin?” He had to wipe off the sweat on his forehead before he saw Pete with his hands innocently behind his back, standing on the heels of his feet outside the bathroom.
“The napkin you spit all your food in,” Pete said in a sing-song voice, rocking back and forth on his feet. Patrick hated it when Pete was so especially amused when everything was at his expense.
“I didn’t spit my food out on a napkin, Pete!” He was probably spitting all over Pete in his jumpiness though, that was an entirely different matter.
“Oh, okay-my bad then, I was just-” Pete shrugged all too casually, a blank expression on his face, “-worried that the pipes might explode again; happened to me once when I tried to flush my cigs.”
Patrick’s cheeks were sapped of all its color at Pete’s explanation. He had in fact flushed away a considerable amount of food and now that he was faced with the prospect of blowing up White House plumbing, he was pretty sure that he wouldn’t be invited to any of the swanky, black and white galas that they were famous for.
His internal dialogue was interrupted by a sniggering Pete whose eyes were flashing playfully at him. Patrick’s own pair narrowed dangerously, he couldn’t believe that he once again fell for one of Pete’s insanely hilarious excuses for a joke.
He didn’t get a chance to mouth off about it because Pete yanked his hand out from the bathroom and into the hallway. Patrick staggered along and almost lost his balance if Pete wasn’t holding onto him so tightly.
“I need a burger,” Pete stated quite plainly as he continued to lead Patrick along the large hall, “you want one too?”
They entered a hallway that wasn’t too fancy or even carpeted, but it was still larger than any other corridor that a regular house would have.
“I don’t think we’re allowed to leave-” Pete was definitely too kooky for him, how could he expect to leave this place at a snap of the finger?
“Burgers do exist in the White House, ‘Trick,” Pete said matter-of-factly before he turned a corner and pushed open a small door with his shoulder.
At that instant, the wonderful scent of real, genuine steak filled his senses. Patrick stepped into a big kitchen full of people who were busy washing dishes, stuffing them into dishwashers and some were actually cooking.
“Richie, Patrick wants a burger,” Pete was talking to a tall, Italian-looking chef who was preoccupied with artfully spreading sauce over a perfect serving of ribs.
The man called Richie looked up, saw Pete and grinned. His gaze transferred over to Patrick and his grin grew even larger.
“My, my, is this young master Stump? My sincerest gratitude for saving young master Wentz, he is certainly quite a handful,” he chuckled softly in Pete’s direction, “but he is very, very kind. All of us thank you.”
Patrick stuttered out a nervous ‘no problem’ to Richie and all the people who came near to personally thank him. He was still slightly dazed by the old-fashioned titles and he whispered out his question to Pete when Richie immediately set out to prepare their burgers.
“My father wants to pretend we’re of European descent, so,” Pete shrugged in a bored manner, “he likes to play with the titles and stuff. Didn’t you notice that I don’t call him ‘dad’ or anything else?”
Patrick nodded vaguely and sat down on one of the small tables by the corner when Pete motioned over to him from there. Not five minutes had passed when Richie came back with four traditional yet ridiculously mouth-watering burgers.
They took off their tuxedos and Patrick was handed his small backpack by one of the Secret Service agents who had followed them. He cheerfully took out his hat and propped it comfortably on his head. The discomfort of being hat-naked immediately dispelled and he could now charmingly carry on his conversation with Pete about the time he and Spencer were mistaken for newlyweds when Patrick visited the Smith’s home in Nevada last summer.
**
The hallway outside the kitchen was considerably dimmer than when they had last entered it. It was either the Secret Service agent turned down the lights or they were actually as drunk as Gabe on a chocolate binge.
Patrick giggled wholeheartedly at the memory of Gabe doing complicated ballet routines the last time he was given a whole slab of those 1 pound chocolate bars. He was clutching onto one of the end tables next to the door, without which he was sure he would topple over.
Pete crashed into him after he closed the door and they both collapsed onto the carpet in a fit of laughter. They tried to shush each other and stand up but from an outsider’s point of view, they were just two bumbling kids who randomly shoved their palms at the mouths of the other while being dragged back down into a pile of laughing limbs when they tried to stand.
A cupped hand from Pete was thrown over Patrick’s mouth while the other was smashed against his own lip in a shushing gesture. They were both laughing nonetheless, their eyes crinkled up while their bodies shook with unsuppressed amusement.
One of the Secret Service agents stationed at the hall approached and patiently asked them if they needed assistance.
“Oh yes please,” he chirped up and tried to catch his breath, “I think I lost my shoe-”
“It’s over here, ‘Tricky,” Pete’s vowels were overly elongated, a hand shot up to reveal Patrick’s shoe, “it hit me in the back of the head when I fell over you, you klutz.”
“I’m the klutz?” Patrick accepted the hand of the Secret Service agent and added a quick ‘thank you ma’am’ when he realized it was a woman, “you’re the one who stampeded over me, Wentz.”
Pete shoved another clumsy palm onto Patrick’s lips as he was being helped up by the exasperated lady agent.
“Shh, ‘Tricky, don’t use my father’s name in vain around here. He’s gots spies and robots!” As if on cue, Pete jumped back a few inches when he saw the agent behind Patrick’s back. With a theatrical gasp, he then grabbed Patrick’s arm and shook it wildly.
“It’s the robot I was tellin’ you ‘bout, ‘Tricky! Ruuuun!” The deafening echo of braying laughter and mindless tittering could be heard along several corridors as Pete led them to a grand hallway full of portraits of important people.
Patrick oohed and aahed for the most part and even pointed out some gorgeous ones while forgetting that Pete must have gone through this hallway a million times.
They finally paused by a sleek metal doorway which looked highly out of place in the old fashioned hall. Patrick initially thought it was a fridge, of course, so imagine his wonder when it opened to reveal a grand elevator.
“Shit, Pete, it’s an elevator,” Patrick whispered in awe and reverence at the spacious box in front of him.
Pete rolled his eyes and continued to drag the mesmerized boy into the elevator. It was stupid of him to think that people would use the stairs to get to all those six darn floors; he wasn’t as sober as he thought after all.
“It certainly isn’t an escalator, Patrick,” Pete must have thought it to be very witty for he had trouble with trying to contain his giggling for a few seconds.
The metal contraption that Patrick was still staring open-jawed at stopped and slid open its doors to reveal a hallway that was as majestic as the previous one.
A short walk from the main hallway led them to a small, blue sitting room that housed an interesting round table at the center. There was a jewelry box of some kind on top of it and Patrick, due to his drunken state, was intensely curious and motioned to lift the cover. Pete promptly slapped away his hand and tugged at his arm to continue walking.
They finally stopped when Pete opened the door they found next to the sitting room. Pete gently pulled Patrick in and locked the door with a soft click.
“This is the Queen’s Bedroom, where royalty and dignitaries reside in and my own personal lair of sin and indulgence.”
**
Patrick snorted at the sensational description of the room. It was stunning nonetheless, easily four times as large as his own room back in Chicago, with a magnificent four poster bed across a quaint fireplace. It had numerous chairs and couches arranged neatly around the room and a sprawling painting of an imperial looking woman sat above the fireplace. One five-seater lay in between the painting and the bed and looked like it enjoyed numerous snuggles on a particularly chilly day.
“It’s-well-it’s pink,” Patrick stuttered, still trying to memorize every beautiful accent of the suite.
It was truly pink, all around the room. The only exception was the bed, it had green and yellow touches along its canopy and all the linens followed suit. A mini-chandelier hung between the fireplace and the bed, it looked fragile enough for a slight tremor to send it crashing. Whoever resided in this room seemed to be fond of lamps too for numerous ones could be found in various shapes and sizes at scattered corners.
“Being called the Queen’s Bedroom doesn’t give it the neon yellow jumpsuit that practically screams out that fact, don’t you think?” The sardonic tone in Pete’s voice caused Patrick to snap out of his admiring daze and resort to giving Pete a narrowed stare.
Patrick was leaning on one of the corners of the bedroom; he would be satisfied with staring at the fireplace for the whole night but Pete decided to block his view and fluidly place his palms on the walls to each of Patrick’s sides, once again locking him into place.
He wondered if déjà vu could happen more than twice because he was certainly having that same feeling for the nth time. Patrick swallowed audibly before letting a soft ‘umm’ escape from his throat.
Pete responded by moving in and catching the beautiful sound of Patrick’s voice on his mouth. The hum turned into a moan at an instant and Patrick relaxed his shoulders considerably, allowing Pete to lead his movements.
Those rough lips tasted like cherry and honey, too sweet for Patrick’s taste, but the natural taste of Pete balanced it out and everything felt just right. Pete let out a sliver of tongue from his mouth and lightly licked a wet trail from Patrick’s lips to his neck; the pathway from which it came from felt like it was burning through Patrick’s skin.
Patrick’s labored breaths in Pete’s ear caused the latter to grasp Patrick’s arms and lead him out of the corner and into the middle of the room. Light smacks and kisses were shared as they uncoordinatedly walked over, almost tripping over each other’s and their own feet in the process.
Pete stopped when they reached the center and he snaked his arms around the soft fabric of Patrick’s undershirt, holding him tight against his own body. He leaned in to nibble on Patrick’s lower lip as a flash of tongue ran over the edge of Pete’s mouth.
Patrick’s hands leisurely lowered itself from Pete’s hair to his neck and started to rub small circles along his nape. This seemed to be a sensitive part in his body because Pete visibly shivered and let out a loud moan, effectively stopping him from continuing his current conversation with Patrick’s bottom lip.
“Wait,” Pete huffed out a heavy breath, still gripping Patrick in a tight hug.
It was no small relief for Patrick to stop, he wouldn’t have been able to have the presence of mind to do so at all. They were just standing there, grasping each other securely, breathing heavily as if they jogged more kilometers than they could do in two lifetimes.
“Making out in the Queen’s Bedroom? You’re fucking insane, Pete,” Patrick finally croaked out, he was still trying to catch his breath when he said it.
“Well, coming from someone who flushes eel and balls down the toilet, slaps someone in front of a gazillion photographers and throws himself at short, smelly, gun-wielding men, I find that quite comforting,” Pete had to pause a lot during this long monologue but it was still quite a feat to be able to say it all.
Patrick had stood there, dumbfounded by Pete’s statement. And then he couldn’t help it, he began to laugh.
Pete started laughing too and they ended up clutching their stomachs in amusement for a few seconds before they were able to calm down.
A sly grin picked up the edges of Pete’s mouth and he quickly tackled a still-laughing Patrick to the bed. Patrick stopped laughing at once and actually let out a squeal of surprise when Pete shoved him back onto the cushions.
“Besides,” Pete’s voice was uncharacteristically soft, a sleek quality to it awed Patrick to silence, “I’m not just going to make out with you in the Queen’s Bedroom.”
An audible sigh of relief was heard from Patrick’s side. Pete had definitely said so but why did Patrick think that he was still up to something? The guy was still crawling all over him, in any case.
“That’s too boring.”
*
“Pete.”
A small hum of acknowledgement escaped from Pete’s lips, he was too busy trying to reacquaint himself with Patrick’s neck to look up at him properly.
“Pete, I’m serious,” Patrick tried to push Pete away; it was slightly difficult seeing as the older boy was lying on top of him. They had been making out for more than a half-hour now and Patrick was so relieved to see that Pete was just kidding about his earlier claim. He had to admit that those cushions were soft enough to give Pete some competition for his attention.
“What,” Pete jerked his head to face Patrick and gave a second’s pause before leaning in to kiss the outline of his mouth.
“Pete, the fucking painting’s scaring the shit out of me,” Patrick whispered in between Pete’s continuous licks along the edges of his mouth, “I’m serious, Pete, whoever put that there’s a maniac or something.”
Pete turned around to briefly look at the painting of the now sinister-looking old lady before he bent back down to press a light kiss to Patrick’s nose.
“’s all right, old Betsy there likes to watch all the time,” Pete continued to give little bites to Patrick’s jaw, only stopping to lick a small area beneath his earlobe.
Patrick dug the heels of his hands onto his eyes so hard that little blobs of light started to give him his own private fireworks show. ‘Drunk on wine coolers in a royal room of the White House with the First Son; now that’s a perfect murder scene straight out of a board game,’ and Patrick fell asleep amidst Pete’s heavy arm sprawled on his chest.
**
His night at the central house of America was nothing like he expected. He literally slept with Pete, who wasn’t an insomniac at all and actually snored as loud as he laughed, in a bed that was far too big for even four Patrick-sized people. After Patrick threatened to sleep out in the hallway if they didn’t stop making out in front of the creepiest painting in the world, Pete resigned to lying down beneath the crook of Patrick’s arm and asking him to sing him to sleep. Patrick didn’t need to, actually, because after five minutes of tired conversation, Pete doze off.
They left as soon as they woke up because they had to catch an early flight back to Chicago. The Way twins were holding a grand barbeque to celebrate their upcoming reality show and all their close friends were invited.
A Way family barbeque consisted of a Gerard, a Mikey, and a hundred or so relatives that looked exactly alike except for hair length and color. They were all deathly pale, tall and lean with eyes that seemed to leave you with tiny burn marks on your face after they stared at you.
Patrick and Pete arrived to find everyone already there, the expected crowd of people were scattered around the sprawling Way property. They found all their friends in the corner of the backyard, Spencer and Ryan took advantage of the weather and proceeded to sunbathe themselves into a perfect tan. Bill was busy with chasing after the twenty kids who all shockingly looked like Gerard, his mock-roar of terror made the children scream with delight.
“Oh-hello-umm-Way person,” Brendon was still awkward when it came to meeting new people; Gabe had the greatest fun in pointing it out. The two were spotted with Mikey, who was trying to introduce all fifty or so to them.
Patrick chose to walk around the more secluded part of the yard; a comfortable silence with Pete was more than what he needed to be content. Occasionally bumping shoulders accidentally-on purpose, they randomly giggled at everything and nothing, like those cheesy movie characters that Patrick desperately told himself to never believe.
“Hey ’Trick,” Pete’s voice was clear amidst the shouting and screaming of the people-young and old-in the other parts of the property, “you know how people usually have a gap year between graduation and college right?”
Patrick nodded absentmindedly, the wind was truly so relaxing during this time of year, he thought. He never imagined that he would spend his last year of High School in such a state, he usually expected something more on the lines of being dragged to school by his friends on a daily basis.
“See I have this idea-” Pete’s voice picked up into one of his excited tones again and that never meant good news for Patrick. The last time he heard it, Pete was telling him to prepare for his first airplane flight to a place and a person he would never have thought of having dinner with.
“I’m taking you and the guys to Washington for one year; we’d even have some tutors so we wouldn’t get rusty and shit-” Patrick’s walking sped up just a bit. Maybe, just maybe, if he walked fast enough, Pete would get tired and shut up.
“-plus the Ways already agreed to film their reality show there-” ‘Goddamnit,’ Patrick thought, ‘why does he have to be so fucking fast?’ Patrick was half-running now and he wasn’t so sure why Pete wasn’t slowing down either.
“-Panic would record an album somewhere near-” ‘Oh God, it gets better, doesn’t it?’ There was so much that Patrick was thinking about right now, like graduation, college, and eventually hitting Pete in the head with one of the dead branches scattered on the grass.
“-asked Gabe and Bill to host some parties-” ‘Wait a minute,’ Patrick thought, ‘there’s something odd about this.’
Patrick suddenly stopped. He was positively jogging by Pete’s last sentence, he never really noticed that. There was the ultimate anxious expression on Pete’s face when Patrick turned to face him.
“So what you’re saying is that I’m the last person you talked to about this?” He only realized it when Pete mentioned just about all of his friends and their respective approvals to the scheme.
Pete shut up immediately and thought that he made the biggest mistake of his life. He couldn’t afford to lose Patrick for that one year, everything was good to go and the only thing left was, well, Patrick.
“Umm-yeah, ‘cause I figured-well, if they all came along, you’d definitely come along,” this was Pete’s best reason, or at least, the best reason he had come up with. He wasn’t particularly good with all the impromptu reasoning when it came to Patrick.
Patrick’s expression softened when he saw the sheer terror in Pete’s face. It was cute, to be honest, and it was so rare for Pete to expose his vulnerability, even to him. He took one step closer and held both of Pete’s hands in his. With one tight squeeze, he lifted them up and kissed both of them softly before he looked up to speak.
“Even if you didn’t have a single person in your staff, I’d still come with you, Pete, you asshole,” he stuck his tongue out like a pissed off little boy whose sand castle was kicked down by his big brother, “but it’s great that everyone’s coming along. More people to walk in on us, eh?”
If possible, the sun shone even brighter as Pete kissed him full on the lips. They could hear cheers and catcalls and when Patrick would normally pull away or turn around, he did something that made Pete proud. He flashed them some tongue for good measure.
*
Patrick could never forget the night he saved the life of the President’s son.
That was almost a year ago, a time when Patrick was still stuck in the mindset of a jaded replica of a million other people. He was never one to stand out or even dare to try to be someone other than Plain ‘Ol Patrick.
But to say everything changed was an understatement; he now had Pete.
The graduation ceremony had been over for a few hours. He and his friends ran over to one of the nearby fields in their cap and togas to complete one ceremony they would always remember for years and years.
Everyone stood in a line as Gabe finished digging a large enough hole to place in a metal container the size of four shoeboxes. Each of them held a significant item that they would later insert into the container and then dig back into the earth.
Brendon held a picture of him and Ryan kissing after the Battle of the Bands. Ryan tried to hide it but Brendon kept waving it around in front of everyone, to his embarrassment. The blushing boy held a feather that he wore during prom; it was the only one that was left because everyone plucked them off the decorations when they weren’t looking.
Mikey and Gerard were each holding up some used and definitely acrid-smelling tissue. They say it was from the first time they are lunch with the others and ever since, they hid it for posterity.
Spencer chose to bury his first ever photograph of when he won as Prom King. He was one of the few who still had their costumes on by the end of the ceremony but it still prided him to no end that he won.
Bill and Gabe each held a small photo album that had pictures from when they were younger. They wanted to bury it along with the memories of the small feud they had when Pete joined the school, a sure sign that they wanted what they had now to be as clean as the new album they were going to buy later.
Pete was holding a filthy napkin that everyone kept asking about. He never told anyone and neither did Patrick, even though the flush in his cheeks told them a lot.
Patrick’s wouldn’t be all that important if they didn’t know anything about him. He was holding a thick biography of Julius Caesar and upon close inspection, there was this tiny blood stain on the spine of the book. If anyone who dared to dig the capsule up and actually try to read it, they might be surprised to find a neatly folded piece of paper.
Dear person,
I will never be good with words.
That’s why I turn to my music.
I could never grasp the same feeling from a thousand-word speech compared to that of a passionate sonata or a desperate requiem.
But for a Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III, I shall try.
Knowing where to start on someone like him is a daunting task. There is always that obligation to begin with the most beautiful part of one person but you end up discovering something even more wonderful as each minute with him passes. It is frustrating, to say the least.
He is the sixth string to my guitar, without which I cannot play anything at all. He is the base, the root, the foundation of the music that is forever running within me.
To all those who have said my music has improved beyond my talent, I transfer the blame to him, he who will forever drown me with melody after melody of polished riff and broken beat.
I lovehimlovehim Ilove him, with what has passed and what will come.
Dear person, if you’re reading this, find us.
See if we are still alive.
And if we are, ask about our night at the bookstore.
Ask about our dinner with the president.
Ask about our love, life and friends.
For if I am sure about one thing, it is that while there is still breath, we will be breathing it together.
And you would have your answer.
‘Till then,
p.v. stump
p.s. forgive the poetry, petey seems to rub off on me.
~fin
A/N: Is it idiotic to say that I never want to let this (and you guys) go? :’)
I love this fic to death and back mostly because I got to know so many fans of the wonderful, wonderful boys of bandom through it. Allow me to thank all of you for reading this and a HUGE THANK YOU I LOVE YOU SO MUCH to everyone who faithfully commented on the chapters. To all of those who made camp and waited patiently, I’m so pleased to prove that I followed through with the whole fic. I hope you guys enjoyed it as much as I did.
So, last question, I have a sequel in mind and I’m not sure if I should push through. What do you guys think?
Again, thank you, thank you, thank you. :))
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