Not A Landmine, Not A Goldmine (No You're Not Mine At All)
Title: Not A Landmine, Not A Goldmine (No You're Not Mine At All)
Rating: PG
Fandom: FOB (Pete/Ashlee, Pete/Patrick-implied).
Shamelessly unbeta'd.
“I could stay here forever,” Pete whispers, and he’s smiling, this honest and just, this genuine thing that sprawls over his face, reaches for his ears. “I could like, I could give it up, everything, if you asked me to.”
Thing is though, thing is he wouldn’t, he’s not, he can’t. Pete, he has trouble sitting still at the best of times, energy of someone over dosing on ecstasy, cocaine, caffeine and Ashlee, she knows this, recognises the jittery hands and the way his lips twitch over the lies he doesn’t know he’s spinning. Ashlee, she’s been here before, just it’s never not hurt like this.
Pete leans back on the bed, rests his head against the wall and he’s still grinning, just it’s gentle now, sweetness that blurs the edges. Ashlee, she reckons it’s probably a choice not to reply, to not say anything, but she does lean in close, tucks herself beneath Pete’s arm and rests her forehead against his neck. She breathes him in, inhales the ugly cotton of his hoodie, the musky aftershave and the smothered sweat, she breathes in Pete and wonders if she’ll remember this in thirty years.
Because the thing is, (and Ashlee, she can never convey this well enough, she’s not a poet, not Pete and her tongue can’t always twist itself around the words properly) but the thing is, Ashlee isn’t in this for forever. She isn’t signing any contracts, tracking her career, she’s not doing this for love and she’s not doing this for the sake of dating a rock star.
She’s doing this because when Pete smiles at her, really smiles, he means it, and that, it’s more than she ever could have asked for.
*
Pete, he tells Rolling Stone that this is his first functional relationship. That this, whatever it is, it’s the first time he’s been with someone who hasn’t been a step on a downward ladder, a cog in a train wreck. It’s the first time that anyone he’s dated hasn’t been some wayward missile in the ‘War on Pete‘, hasn’t been that hand grenade set to blow him, first time that the girl hasn’t been willing to fuck herself over in the process of fucking him up.
Ashlee, she thinks shithouse is a matter of opinion, because sure, she’s had pretty crap relationships before, but it’s nothing like Pete’s crap. Ashlee, she’s had Ryan Cabrera and Wilmer Valderrama and maybe they were sorta functional, sorta generic and really fucking normal in comparison to Jeanae and Morgan and fuck, Ashlee‘s only heard bits and pieces. All she knows is that when Jeanae was throwing lamps, Ryan was giving Ashlee his coat, when Morgan was sleeping around, Wilmer was forgetting dateanniversarypartybirthday.
Point is, where Ashlee’s relationships have all been so fucking chick-flick, hot bodies, roses, jocks, nerds, parties, dresses, Pete’s have been those art-house, indie films made to fuck with your head.
This is important because Ashlee, she’s used to dating guys, used to hanging off broad arms and lacing sweaty fingers, is used to sex and making-out and dinner dates. She’s used to dating guys she could fall in love with and she’s used to having all his mates hate her.
The thing is though, it isn’t supposed to hurt like this.
“You don’t like me,” she says and she shifts on her feet, not enough weight, she’s little, but it hurts her heels, the balls of her feet.
Patrick doesn’t reply, he’s sitting at his computer, fingers tapping too heavily on the keys and she wishes this didn’t ache, didn‘t cut her in places she‘d thought were protected, armoured, invulnerable. She’s never wanted everyone to like her, isn’t that conceited (just a little, not as much as everyone thinks), it’s just that this guy, this short, podgy guy, with his hat and his glasses and his fucking talent that drips from his fingers, nose, voice, this guy that means so much to Pete, he hates her.
“For the record,” she says, “I give a fuck.”
“About what?” he says, and it’s been seconds, minutes, hours. “About Pete or about how nice he looks on your arm?”
Ashlee, she doesn’t quite know how to answer that, but slams her hand on her head, pushes her hat further down over her eyes and turns to leave. She pretends not to hear when Patrick leans over around his laptop, calls out a “He’s not a thing”.
*
Pete kisses like he’s got something to prove. He’s all teeth, aggression and desperation that burns in his mouth (hers) and he pins his hands to the back of her head, buries his fingers in her hair and Ashlee, she can relate to this.
“Jesus,” he mumbles and it goes unheard, buries somewhere deep between her lips, trails down her throat, straight through to her belly.
Ashlee, she whispers nothings into the moment, slow and languid and it makes Pete kiss deeper, longer and yes, Ashlee thinks, this is what I want.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, “Like, genuinely.” and this, it’s not the first time she’s heard this, not the first time boyspaparazzifamilyfriendsstrangers have whispered this to her, yelled it, splurged it in bold, yellow print across laser paper. She thinks it could just be the moment, could just be Pete and his hands and his mouth and his eyes, but this is the first time she’s ever believed it.
The first time she’s ever felt it.
*
Somewhere along the lines, a drifting point between the shows and the press and the interviews, between camera flashes and microphones, instruments and venues, Ashlee makes a decision.
“Hey,” she says, but she only says it when they’re alone, when everyone else has trailed off to their rooms, to friends, to family and games and it’s just her, just him.
Joe, he glances up from the video game, all hair and eyes and pasty skin that sprawls above the bone, above muscle and cells; he shoots her a fleeting glance. “Hey,” he replies, “I think Pete’s gone out.”
“Yeah,” she says, but she moves closer, flops down onto the sofa beside him. “I don’t actually want to talk to Pete right now.”
“Did he fuck up again?” And Joe, he doesn’t take his eyes off the screen, doesn‘t even cast Ashlee a backwards glance and seriously, she sort of admires the guy‘s concentration. “Coz he does that sometimes, you just gotta roll with it.”
“He didn’t fuck up,” she says. “He’s been great and I just, actually, I wanted to talk to you.”
“Talk away, but, oh,” he pauses the game, moves his hand over to the table beside the sofa and grabs a can of Red Bull. “Like, I’ve gotta say, I have a girlfriend and she’s, well, she’s a sassy chick.” Joe, he takes a swig, “you’re hot, but if this was like, if we’re talking cat fight, she’d win. And anyway, I‘m totally committed, like Thelma and Louise committed, not fucking, fucking Breakfast Club committed. Everyone knows they didn‘t talk the day after.”
Ashlee laughs, leans back on the sofa and watches as Joe unpauses the game, chops some heads off and yeah, Star Wars.
“Tell your girlfriend she’s got nothing to worry about,” she says. “It’s like, it’s,” she takes a breath, “I want us to get a long. Like, I really…I really like Pete and I kinda get this vibe that you guys really don’t like me and I know it shouldn’t matter, but-”
“Hey,” Joe says, and he nods his head, grins a little, eyes still on the screen. “Yeah, chill, we just, like, we get overprotective. Pete’s an angsty little dude, he needs looking after sometimes.”
The lightsaber is going insane on the screen and Ashlee, she can’t take her eyes off the colours, off Joe’s swiping motions on the screen, at his too-fast fingers on the handset. She’s glad she’s not epileptic.
“Anyway,” he says, “You actually like, like Pete and that’s more than any of the other chick’s he’s dated have felt.”
“They didn’t like him?”
“They had a burning rage for him as opposed to like,” he takes a gulp of Red Bull, “burning desire.”
“Right,” she says, right. “I don’t…This won’t last.”
Joe shrugs, but Ashlee can see his pupils dart beneath half-lids, can see the flesh across his cheekbones flinch over the muscle, the tissue.
“I think we’re both happy right now though, so maybe it doesn’t matter so much.”
Joe, he nods again, but he’s still staring at the television, clicking furiously at the controller in his hand. “Can do two player if you want?”
Ashlee, she’s taken aback, but the grin, it creeps across her jaw line. “Yeah, sounds cool.”
*
She doesn’t know a lot about Andy, but she buys a box of tofu and vegan ice-cream and writes in glitter pens Let’s Be Friends on a piece of pink cardboard. She leaves it in his bunk before worrying that maybe he’ll think it’s from Pete, from William or Brendon, but he sort of half-smiles at her later on and she thinks that maybe the sentiment is appreciated.
*
Pete, he has his coffee, his breakfast and he’s happy, wide-eyed and broad-smiled and he tugs Ashlee back into bed, pulls her beneath the sheets and she can name the exact tone of blue that bags beneath his eyes, can read the lines and recite exactly how many hours he hasn’t slept this week.
Just for the record, it’s a lot.
Just for the record, Ashlee woke up at twenty-seven minutes past three to an empty bed and a room that belonged in a Western film, tumbleweed rolling around her head. She knows that when Pete isn’t with her, he’s sleeping with Patrick.
“I was thinking,” Pete says and he holds her hand too tight in his, runs the other through her hair. “Last night I was thinking about y’know, this q and a and it was like, it was ages ago and this fan, she, or he, I don’t know, I can’t even remember the question but-” and Ashlee, she laughs too hard, pecks Pete on the lips and wraps her hands around his waist.
“Point is,” Pete whispers against her, “point is, Patrick’s made of puppy-dogs and sunshine.”
“Yeah,” Ashlee says. Go figure, is what she doesn’t.
She kisses him again, short and shallow and comes up for air too soon, leans back on the edge of the bed and flashes him a slow smile. “What am I made of then?”
“You?” Pete asks, and he grins, kisses her gently, “you are made of skin,” he kisses her again, on the neck, “flesh,” on her collarbone, “heart,” on her chest, “candy canes,” just above her breast, “love.”
“Too good for me, Miss. Simpson,” and he kisses her again, smiles into her mouth, but there’s something just, there’s something missing, so Ashlee, she just kisses back harder.
*
When she actually tries, she’s too quick to discover that Patrick, that he isn’t that hard to find.
“I grew up second-best,” she says, and she’s got this cigarette dangling between her lips, knees that drop off the edge of the sofa like a rag dolls, like the arms of a wet shirt on the line. “It was always Jess Jess Jess.”
Patrick’s casting her half-aware looks over the rim of his laptop, fingers still taptaptapping on the keypad and maybe he’s not listening but right now, in these moments, Ashlee’s finding it hard to care.
“Jess was taller, prettier, curvier. She was the one’s that the boys wanted to date, seduce, marry, I was the one they wanted to screw.” Ashlee sighs, leans back a little further into the sofa, rests her back loosely against pillows, against zips and dog hair. “They’d go out of their way with her, bring her flowers, take her to movies and y’know, it was something straight from a Harlequin Romance. When the boys fucked her it was an achievement, when they fucked me it was like brushing your teeth, having roast for dinner instead of fried chicken. Special, out of the ordinary, only not really.”
Patrick stares at her, really, but it’s just for a second, moment, too fleeting for her to seriously consider. “Does that say more about the guys or you?” he says instead, and Ashlee, she laughs, but the sound is choked out, forced from her ribcage, the space beneath her lungs.
“I dunno,” she replies, “maybe both.”
Ashlee sighs, draws her legs back closer to her chest and rests her chin on her knees. “Point is, Pete’s a douche,” she says, “but when he’s with me, he makes me feel like I’m first, he makes me feel like I’m the most important person in the room, even when he’s running at walls and making Dirty eat shit.”
“And I think,” she says, “I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
Patrick, he stops typing and Ashlee thinks this is an accomplishment, that for the first time in her life, she’s right on the money (spot on).
“Maybe I’m selfish,” she leans back, taps a cigarette on the ash tray by the sofa. “But I just, I’m not in love with him, but he holds the door open for me when we go out, and he laughs at my jokes even when they’re not funny and he…he told me I was beautiful before Hollywood, and he tells me I’m beautiful now and he makes me feel…he makes me feel.”
The silence settles, stifles and Patrick still hasn’t started typing again, hasn’t shifted and she doesn’t think she’s moved him to this, just thinks that she’s given him something to think about. Doesn’t matter, she supposes, she didn’t set out to move, just to talk, just to make herself that much less of a villain because here, now, that seems to be all she’s good for.
“Don’t break his heart,” Patrick says finally, “coz then I’d have to mess you up. I don’t care if you’re a girl.”
“I won’t,” she says, what she doesn’t say is I think it’s already broken.
Rating: PG
Fandom: FOB (Pete/Ashlee, Pete/Patrick-implied).
Shamelessly unbeta'd.
“I could stay here forever,” Pete whispers, and he’s smiling, this honest and just, this genuine thing that sprawls over his face, reaches for his ears. “I could like, I could give it up, everything, if you asked me to.”
Thing is though, thing is he wouldn’t, he’s not, he can’t. Pete, he has trouble sitting still at the best of times, energy of someone over dosing on ecstasy, cocaine, caffeine and Ashlee, she knows this, recognises the jittery hands and the way his lips twitch over the lies he doesn’t know he’s spinning. Ashlee, she’s been here before, just it’s never not hurt like this.
Pete leans back on the bed, rests his head against the wall and he’s still grinning, just it’s gentle now, sweetness that blurs the edges. Ashlee, she reckons it’s probably a choice not to reply, to not say anything, but she does lean in close, tucks herself beneath Pete’s arm and rests her forehead against his neck. She breathes him in, inhales the ugly cotton of his hoodie, the musky aftershave and the smothered sweat, she breathes in Pete and wonders if she’ll remember this in thirty years.
Because the thing is, (and Ashlee, she can never convey this well enough, she’s not a poet, not Pete and her tongue can’t always twist itself around the words properly) but the thing is, Ashlee isn’t in this for forever. She isn’t signing any contracts, tracking her career, she’s not doing this for love and she’s not doing this for the sake of dating a rock star.
She’s doing this because when Pete smiles at her, really smiles, he means it, and that, it’s more than she ever could have asked for.
*
Pete, he tells Rolling Stone that this is his first functional relationship. That this, whatever it is, it’s the first time he’s been with someone who hasn’t been a step on a downward ladder, a cog in a train wreck. It’s the first time that anyone he’s dated hasn’t been some wayward missile in the ‘War on Pete‘, hasn’t been that hand grenade set to blow him, first time that the girl hasn’t been willing to fuck herself over in the process of fucking him up.
Ashlee, she thinks shithouse is a matter of opinion, because sure, she’s had pretty crap relationships before, but it’s nothing like Pete’s crap. Ashlee, she’s had Ryan Cabrera and Wilmer Valderrama and maybe they were sorta functional, sorta generic and really fucking normal in comparison to Jeanae and Morgan and fuck, Ashlee‘s only heard bits and pieces. All she knows is that when Jeanae was throwing lamps, Ryan was giving Ashlee his coat, when Morgan was sleeping around, Wilmer was forgetting dateanniversarypartybirthday.
Point is, where Ashlee’s relationships have all been so fucking chick-flick, hot bodies, roses, jocks, nerds, parties, dresses, Pete’s have been those art-house, indie films made to fuck with your head.
This is important because Ashlee, she’s used to dating guys, used to hanging off broad arms and lacing sweaty fingers, is used to sex and making-out and dinner dates. She’s used to dating guys she could fall in love with and she’s used to having all his mates hate her.
The thing is though, it isn’t supposed to hurt like this.
“You don’t like me,” she says and she shifts on her feet, not enough weight, she’s little, but it hurts her heels, the balls of her feet.
Patrick doesn’t reply, he’s sitting at his computer, fingers tapping too heavily on the keys and she wishes this didn’t ache, didn‘t cut her in places she‘d thought were protected, armoured, invulnerable. She’s never wanted everyone to like her, isn’t that conceited (just a little, not as much as everyone thinks), it’s just that this guy, this short, podgy guy, with his hat and his glasses and his fucking talent that drips from his fingers, nose, voice, this guy that means so much to Pete, he hates her.
“For the record,” she says, “I give a fuck.”
“About what?” he says, and it’s been seconds, minutes, hours. “About Pete or about how nice he looks on your arm?”
Ashlee, she doesn’t quite know how to answer that, but slams her hand on her head, pushes her hat further down over her eyes and turns to leave. She pretends not to hear when Patrick leans over around his laptop, calls out a “He’s not a thing”.
*
Pete kisses like he’s got something to prove. He’s all teeth, aggression and desperation that burns in his mouth (hers) and he pins his hands to the back of her head, buries his fingers in her hair and Ashlee, she can relate to this.
“Jesus,” he mumbles and it goes unheard, buries somewhere deep between her lips, trails down her throat, straight through to her belly.
Ashlee, she whispers nothings into the moment, slow and languid and it makes Pete kiss deeper, longer and yes, Ashlee thinks, this is what I want.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, “Like, genuinely.” and this, it’s not the first time she’s heard this, not the first time boyspaparazzifamilyfriendsstrangers have whispered this to her, yelled it, splurged it in bold, yellow print across laser paper. She thinks it could just be the moment, could just be Pete and his hands and his mouth and his eyes, but this is the first time she’s ever believed it.
The first time she’s ever felt it.
*
Somewhere along the lines, a drifting point between the shows and the press and the interviews, between camera flashes and microphones, instruments and venues, Ashlee makes a decision.
“Hey,” she says, but she only says it when they’re alone, when everyone else has trailed off to their rooms, to friends, to family and games and it’s just her, just him.
Joe, he glances up from the video game, all hair and eyes and pasty skin that sprawls above the bone, above muscle and cells; he shoots her a fleeting glance. “Hey,” he replies, “I think Pete’s gone out.”
“Yeah,” she says, but she moves closer, flops down onto the sofa beside him. “I don’t actually want to talk to Pete right now.”
“Did he fuck up again?” And Joe, he doesn’t take his eyes off the screen, doesn‘t even cast Ashlee a backwards glance and seriously, she sort of admires the guy‘s concentration. “Coz he does that sometimes, you just gotta roll with it.”
“He didn’t fuck up,” she says. “He’s been great and I just, actually, I wanted to talk to you.”
“Talk away, but, oh,” he pauses the game, moves his hand over to the table beside the sofa and grabs a can of Red Bull. “Like, I’ve gotta say, I have a girlfriend and she’s, well, she’s a sassy chick.” Joe, he takes a swig, “you’re hot, but if this was like, if we’re talking cat fight, she’d win. And anyway, I‘m totally committed, like Thelma and Louise committed, not fucking, fucking Breakfast Club committed. Everyone knows they didn‘t talk the day after.”
Ashlee laughs, leans back on the sofa and watches as Joe unpauses the game, chops some heads off and yeah, Star Wars.
“Tell your girlfriend she’s got nothing to worry about,” she says. “It’s like, it’s,” she takes a breath, “I want us to get a long. Like, I really…I really like Pete and I kinda get this vibe that you guys really don’t like me and I know it shouldn’t matter, but-”
“Hey,” Joe says, and he nods his head, grins a little, eyes still on the screen. “Yeah, chill, we just, like, we get overprotective. Pete’s an angsty little dude, he needs looking after sometimes.”
The lightsaber is going insane on the screen and Ashlee, she can’t take her eyes off the colours, off Joe’s swiping motions on the screen, at his too-fast fingers on the handset. She’s glad she’s not epileptic.
“Anyway,” he says, “You actually like, like Pete and that’s more than any of the other chick’s he’s dated have felt.”
“They didn’t like him?”
“They had a burning rage for him as opposed to like,” he takes a gulp of Red Bull, “burning desire.”
“Right,” she says, right. “I don’t…This won’t last.”
Joe shrugs, but Ashlee can see his pupils dart beneath half-lids, can see the flesh across his cheekbones flinch over the muscle, the tissue.
“I think we’re both happy right now though, so maybe it doesn’t matter so much.”
Joe, he nods again, but he’s still staring at the television, clicking furiously at the controller in his hand. “Can do two player if you want?”
Ashlee, she’s taken aback, but the grin, it creeps across her jaw line. “Yeah, sounds cool.”
*
She doesn’t know a lot about Andy, but she buys a box of tofu and vegan ice-cream and writes in glitter pens Let’s Be Friends on a piece of pink cardboard. She leaves it in his bunk before worrying that maybe he’ll think it’s from Pete, from William or Brendon, but he sort of half-smiles at her later on and she thinks that maybe the sentiment is appreciated.
*
Pete, he has his coffee, his breakfast and he’s happy, wide-eyed and broad-smiled and he tugs Ashlee back into bed, pulls her beneath the sheets and she can name the exact tone of blue that bags beneath his eyes, can read the lines and recite exactly how many hours he hasn’t slept this week.
Just for the record, it’s a lot.
Just for the record, Ashlee woke up at twenty-seven minutes past three to an empty bed and a room that belonged in a Western film, tumbleweed rolling around her head. She knows that when Pete isn’t with her, he’s sleeping with Patrick.
“I was thinking,” Pete says and he holds her hand too tight in his, runs the other through her hair. “Last night I was thinking about y’know, this q and a and it was like, it was ages ago and this fan, she, or he, I don’t know, I can’t even remember the question but-” and Ashlee, she laughs too hard, pecks Pete on the lips and wraps her hands around his waist.
“Point is,” Pete whispers against her, “point is, Patrick’s made of puppy-dogs and sunshine.”
“Yeah,” Ashlee says. Go figure, is what she doesn’t.
She kisses him again, short and shallow and comes up for air too soon, leans back on the edge of the bed and flashes him a slow smile. “What am I made of then?”
“You?” Pete asks, and he grins, kisses her gently, “you are made of skin,” he kisses her again, on the neck, “flesh,” on her collarbone, “heart,” on her chest, “candy canes,” just above her breast, “love.”
“Too good for me, Miss. Simpson,” and he kisses her again, smiles into her mouth, but there’s something just, there’s something missing, so Ashlee, she just kisses back harder.
*
When she actually tries, she’s too quick to discover that Patrick, that he isn’t that hard to find.
“I grew up second-best,” she says, and she’s got this cigarette dangling between her lips, knees that drop off the edge of the sofa like a rag dolls, like the arms of a wet shirt on the line. “It was always Jess Jess Jess.”
Patrick’s casting her half-aware looks over the rim of his laptop, fingers still taptaptapping on the keypad and maybe he’s not listening but right now, in these moments, Ashlee’s finding it hard to care.
“Jess was taller, prettier, curvier. She was the one’s that the boys wanted to date, seduce, marry, I was the one they wanted to screw.” Ashlee sighs, leans back a little further into the sofa, rests her back loosely against pillows, against zips and dog hair. “They’d go out of their way with her, bring her flowers, take her to movies and y’know, it was something straight from a Harlequin Romance. When the boys fucked her it was an achievement, when they fucked me it was like brushing your teeth, having roast for dinner instead of fried chicken. Special, out of the ordinary, only not really.”
Patrick stares at her, really, but it’s just for a second, moment, too fleeting for her to seriously consider. “Does that say more about the guys or you?” he says instead, and Ashlee, she laughs, but the sound is choked out, forced from her ribcage, the space beneath her lungs.
“I dunno,” she replies, “maybe both.”
Ashlee sighs, draws her legs back closer to her chest and rests her chin on her knees. “Point is, Pete’s a douche,” she says, “but when he’s with me, he makes me feel like I’m first, he makes me feel like I’m the most important person in the room, even when he’s running at walls and making Dirty eat shit.”
“And I think,” she says, “I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
Patrick, he stops typing and Ashlee thinks this is an accomplishment, that for the first time in her life, she’s right on the money (spot on).
“Maybe I’m selfish,” she leans back, taps a cigarette on the ash tray by the sofa. “But I just, I’m not in love with him, but he holds the door open for me when we go out, and he laughs at my jokes even when they’re not funny and he…he told me I was beautiful before Hollywood, and he tells me I’m beautiful now and he makes me feel…he makes me feel.”
The silence settles, stifles and Patrick still hasn’t started typing again, hasn’t shifted and she doesn’t think she’s moved him to this, just thinks that she’s given him something to think about. Doesn’t matter, she supposes, she didn’t set out to move, just to talk, just to make herself that much less of a villain because here, now, that seems to be all she’s good for.
“Don’t break his heart,” Patrick says finally, “coz then I’d have to mess you up. I don’t care if you’re a girl.”
“I won’t,” she says, what she doesn’t say is I think it’s already broken.