Any Lucky Affection (Pete/Patrick, R)
Any Lucky Affection
by Charli J
Pete/Patrick (Pete/Gabe, implied Pete/Mikey). R. 9,500 words.
The important parts of an 'us' told in a series of anecdotes.
;;
This one time, Joe made a wrong turn and had to pull into some stranger's driveway, reverse, and then head back the way they'd come in order to find the right house number for this dude he wanted Pete to meet. Pete gave him a hard time about it for less than a minute, asking Joe if he really knew where the kid lived after all. Joe told him to shut up and ride shotgun in silence like a good passenger.
"Hey," Pete said, reaching across the divide. "Hey, watch yourself before I take over -- "
"-- don't grab the wheel, fuckmunch!" Joe said, smacking Pete's arm away. Pete dropped back against the seat, his laughter brash.
He asked, "What? Fuck what? What kind of insult was that?"
"The kind that comes from sudden terror," Joe said. "If I crash this car, my parents will kill me."
"I'll defend you," Pete promised, patting his hand over his heart for emphasis. He wasn't actually going to try to wrap the car around a tree, because the impact might kill them first. Still, if they managed to survive, then, "I'd take all the heat."
"Yeah, right." Joe slowed down as the numbers of the house crept higher. It was harder to make out the addresses on some of them, Pete figured, because Joe kept leaning closer to peer across Pete and gaze at the houses. "They'd kill me and hang you by your toes. Have you ever been strung up by your toes, Pete? It isn't fun."
"Like you know what it feels like."
"I don't need to experience it to know it su -- crap, I think I passed the house."
Pete chuckled, glancing back over his shoulder as Joe hit the breaks and set the car in reverse. He asked, "Are his parents here? Are we supposed to just knock?"
"I told him we were on the way," Joe said, easing into a curbside space. "He said just knock. I think he hangs in the basement."
There were no other cars in the driveway, so Pete rang the doorbell a few times once they reached the porch. He pressed it over and over, including when the front door finally opened, and then Pete was met with a face full of little dude in a Dr. Huxtable sweater. He looked unimpressed. Pete rang the bell one more time.
"Dude, my mom's sleeping upstairs," he -- Patrick -- said. His name was Patrick. Pete totally knew that. He had even talked to him on the phone exactly once, and he sounded older on the phone, but now he just seemed short and nerdy and the kind of guy who wore argyle without irony.
Joe pushed Pete's hand away from the bell, apologizing. He said, "Sorry, we're late. And sorry that Pete sucks."
"Pete. Hi, it's cool to meet you," Patrick said, like he was still completely without awe, which was weird, because Joe had said Patrick was into Racetraitor. But Patrick just shook Pete's hand and let them inside, and that made Pete want to --
"Hey. Patrick," he said as Joe stepped in front of him, turning around to see Patrick shut and lock the door.
He looked up at Pete casually, eyebrows raised in inquiry. "Yeah?"
And Pete didn't actually have anything pressing to tell him. He tapped his foot on the floor, angled to the side, inching after and asked, "So, Joe said you play more stuff than what you told me..."
"Oh," Patrick said, and he pointed vaguely out of the room. "Not -- not really well."
"No?"
"I mean, I'm alright. Decent," he said, explaining that, "Everything's downstairs," and Pete let him lead the way.
;;
One time Patrick played drums for Arma Angelus. It was one of their last shows. Joe played guitar during one song while Patrick played drums, and after the set Pete said, "Don't forget that me and these dudes, we have another band. Even if you don't like it, you should still come spend money to see us. Trohman's got a good shimmy."
"I don't shimmy," Joe said, away from the mic so the audience didn't hear, but Pete laughed over the speakers anyway. Joe didn't shimmy, it was true, but he had been working on his spins, and Pete felt confident in describing both with the word "fabulous" at this point.
He got distracted as Patrick tossed drumsticks right over his shoulder and into the audience, one and then the other. Pete said, "We're going to throw a party. Crashing Chris's place. You're not going home, are you?"
Sometimes that was an issue with the kids. Pete generally didn't make an abundance of age jokes, not unless it was two in the morning and somebody's mom suddenly wanted Pete to drive their kid home. He was just an asshole by 2am as a general rule, like polite behavior had business hours, and it was just unfair to change someone's late night plans last minute. Even then Joe or Patrick told Pete to fuck off and grab the keys. They didn't care about Pete's whining. They were a couple of mouthy high school seniors when they wanted to be.
That night, however, everybody was clear to waste time after the Arma show. It was a party mainly full of edge folks, but enough of a different contingent showed up to warrant a nice selection of beer on the porch. Both Joe and Patrick drank, mostly because they could, and Pete didn't necessarily encourage them to chug anything, but he still laughed when they did.
The funniest part was how much Patrick started zoning out once he was truly drunk. He didn't get sloppy or talk louder, just laughed more and then focused intently on conversations around him. Pete found him listening but not contributing to a debate on how important breast milk was for babies, and Pete didn't think anyone needed to be seriously engaged that conversation for any prolonged period of time, so he pulled Patrick away without much warning.
"Hey," Patrick said. He followed though, not tugging his arm away from Pete until Pete stopped in the living room, off to the side of the stereo.
"I was rescuing you from evil," Pete said, shouting over the music. Chris had a more than decent subwoofer.
"I didn't," Patrick started, and then he stopped and smiled, lopsided. "Wow, I don't even remember what they were talking about."
"That's not a bad thing," Pete said, patting his hand against Patrick's face. He stopped as soon he realized that he'd done it, instinctively drawn to the flush in Patrick's cheeks. Alcohol could do that to people sometimes, and Pete was like somebody's nagging aunt when it came to rosy faces. He couldn't help it. Patrick yawned as Pete took a step back.
"Tired?"
"Never," Patrick said, a second yawn exposing him in his lie.
Pete said, "Yeah, uh huh," and they ended up heading to the bedroom less then ten minutes later. It wasn't like the room was unoccupied, a couple people sitting at the foot of the bed and on the floor playing video games, but Pete pushed Patrick forward until he flopped on the mattress and crawled over the pillows.
No one really looked back at them once they got into the room. Patrick had his hand on Pete's jacket, accidentally bringing him onto his knees on the mattress to prevent an awkward fall. Nobody paid attention to it when Pete kept laughing softly at the way Patrick swore he wasn't tired, not at all, and Pete would wake him up before he left, right? Nobody noticed, even, when Pete leaned down to kiss the side of Patrick's head for the hell of it, or the way Patrick surprised him by lifting his head as Pete retreated, catching the corner of Pete's smile. First the corner, then full on the mouth, the two of them kissing slow and lazy for less than any time that really counted.
As they broke, Pete began to ask, "Um, Patrick -- "
"I like this party," Patrick said, interrupting Pete's train of thought. "I liked the show tonight, too. Your band. And our band."
And Pete chuckled again, because Patrick was clearly tipsy and dozing. Pete rubbed the cuff of his sleeve across Patrick's head, messing his hair, and then he let Patrick fall asleep without disturbing the action happening on N64.
;;
There was this one day, outside of the Metro. Pete said to Andy, "Just drop the rest. Drop them like a bad habit."
"Whoa, I haven't heard that one since the nineties," Andy said, narrowing his eyes as he considered it. "Nobody uses that anymore."
"The nineties just ended. It hasn't been that long," Pete said, opening a can of soda and downing half. The carbonation was so strong it burned. He coughed as he pulled the can away from his mouth.
Andy tapped his drumstick against this thigh, saying, "Still."
"Whatever," Pete said. "Quit changing the subject, come on. I'm just gonna fuck with you until you say yes."
"I'm already in your band," Andy said, holding his arm out like he was making some kind of point Pete wasn't already fully aware of or something.
"No, Patrick was just talking to me after practice a couple days ago," Pete said, gesturing more than he needed to as he spoke. "We're thinking -- Joe, too, you know -- "
And he worked on Andy for a solid day and a half. He'd kept him wrapped up in conversation for two hours, and then proceeded to call Andy more than he'd called even some of his ex-girlfriends until he wore the dude down. When Andy finally agreed, he answered his cell phone for about the thousandth time, yelled his surrender and then cut the call before Pete could get any words in edgewise.
"Piece of cake," Pete said to himself and to the silence, and then dialed Patrick's number and told him the same.
"Wow, are you kidding? Don't play, Wentz," Patrick said, his voice jumping from earnest interest for the first sentence and landing on stern for the second. "Are you being for real?"
"Would I lie to you?" Pete asked, and he laughed, but it was because the Eurythmics song popped into his head, not because he was trying to get one over on anybody. Not this time, anyway.
Patrick -- skeptical Patrick -- said, "You didn't get Andy to quit his other projects. You're messing with me -- "
"I'm not!" Pete said, and Patrick cursed under his breath. "Are you amazed? Tell me you love me."
"You're joking, but I'm ready to kiss you now," Patrick said. "You're lucky you weren't here. I might have -- it could have been ugly. This is cool."
"I could be there. Give me ten minutes," Pete offered, and he thought about how long it might really take to get from where he was standing outside downtown back to the north side.
Chuckling, Patrick said, "Yeah, right. Wow, this is -- wow. So, it's Andy. Andy's in for good. I keep thinking about that thing he did. Whatever it was. The fill he did the other day, you saw it, right?"
"Yeah," Pete said, letting go of his idea to make a trip to Patrick's right then. Traffic was probably terrible midday as it was.
;;
This one time Pete sent this text message to Nick that read: Im gonna buy you that brown box car you wanted. Nick replied that he would rather ride sidecar on somebody's ugly motorcycle for the rest of his life first. Pete laughed and typed that he was going to buy it anyway, because he could. He was a fucking big shot with a deal now, and big boys liked big boy toys.
"Is that an EPMD reference?" Patrick asked, suddenly standing at Pete's shoulder. Pete glanced over at with a lopsided smile.
"A what? No, dude, that country song," Pete said, and he affected a terrible accent to sing the song. "'I like big boy toys, motors and lights, knobs and switches, and four-wheel drive.'"
Patrick chuckled saying, "That could still be a rap song."
Pete echoed his amusement, shutting his phone and facing Patrick fully. He had his hat pushed back on his head, eyes too wide to be everyday excitement, and Pete bit down on his own lip as he dammed up his laughter, ducking nearer conspiratorially.
"Man," he says, hushing his voice, and Patrick breathed in shallow puffs right over Pete's shoulder. "Patrick. This means we get to record you in the expensive studio now."
"And eat more than just peanut butter sandwiches every day," Patrick said, with the same kind of mock secrecy. Pete pulled back and he thought the look on their faces might match, Patrick's grin creeping brighter and brighter, and Pete could fucking -- who even knew, really. Something drastic and spontaneous. He had no idea what, though, so he settled for bumping their foreheads together, gritting his teeth against the side of Patrick's face until the adrenaline dulled.
;;
Although, this particular time, instead of taking the curve like a champ, their van darted off the road at 70MPH and into some trees. Careening at high speeds was one of those things that was only impressive in retrospect, because in the moment it was just surreal. Right after the moment, it was fucking terrifying, counting heads and shell-shocked during the short span of time it took to hear everyone speak and confirm consciousness.
But ten minutes later, everyone standing around outside of the wreckage, Andy said, "It's fucking cold."
"You could be knocked out with your brains everywhere right now," Joe said, and then paused, curling his mouth up as if the words were catching up to him after a delay. He frowned.
"That doesn't change the fact that I'm freezing," Andy said, but Pete missed documenting the whole exchange, because they were still trying to figure out where the camera bag rolled.
Once they found the equipment and determined that everything still worked (surprisingly), the first footage Pete caught was of Patrick trying to fish a scarf from underneath a seat. He grit his teeth, breath puffing out white, and then he looped the wide strip of fabric around his neck when it finally came free.
"You look like you've been through a car crash," Pete said, zooming in on Patrick's face and pulling back again slowly.
Patrick said, "Interesting that you'd mention that," and then took a moment to gesture to the heap he was standing beside. He grabbed his coat from where it was sitting on one of the benches and shrugged into it. "Were you awake?"
"Yeah, man. I even had my seatbelt on," Pete said, and Patrick took a moment to sigh and drop his hands to his sides once his coat was zipped up. He waved to the camera, a small, quick gesture as he gazed into the lens briefly before raising his eyes to look at Pete's face instead.
"Good," he said, and then stood there, waiting before he cleared his throat. "I think I lost my hat. My ears are icy."
"We'll get a new one," Pete said, and then he got distracted as a couple of the other guys came over to ask about Pete's documentary endeavors. "Hey, more survivors! I was just doing Patrick's exclusive interview."
"What did you have to say about it, Patrick?"
Pete swung the camera back to Patrick as he shrugged. He said, "Maybe we should slow down."
;;
For this one week, Joe sent Pete an email every night and told him if he didn't reply, he would spam him with terrifying clips of '70s gay porn full of bears and dudes in leather. It took Pete a couple days to see the first ones, because he'd slept a lot right out of the hospital. He'd talked to Andy for half a minute while he was still a patient, but then he spent a lot of time in one of his beds at his parents' house, drooling onto his pillowcase. When he saw the emails from Joe, though, Pete replied, challenging him to do it, to which Joe responded, Maybe I will...
maybe I'd like it.... Pete replied again, within the same day, and then twenty minutes later his mother said the call to the house phone was for him.
"Do you think I could pull off a mustache like that?" Joe asked, and Pete laughed for a good minute while Joe tried to explain that, no, for real. For real, he thought he might be able to make it work.
"If you did, I'd buy a blimp and put your picture on it, declaring my devotion to you."
Joe said, "Even if you just got the blimp, that would be cool. Hey, how are you feeling? You sound good."
"Tired," Pete said, scratching his hair and lying back again, pointing his toes in his efforts to feel a stretch from top to bottom. "But also bored. Tell TJ he can quit now. I'm gonna show up tomorrow."
"You're not," Joe said. "You better not, as cool as that would be. Dude, I'm gonna let you go then."
"Okay -- wait, are you with everybody?"
"Yeah, um. Hold on, hold on," Joe said, and then Pete listened to the faint sounds coming from the other end, unable to decipher what Joe might've been doing. "Okay, sorry. I was gonna put Patrick on, but he's sleeping too. He was up crazy late, I don't -- I think he'd been up like that the past few nights or something. I'll tell him to call you later. Andy went out to be a tourist."
"Oh. Yeah, okay," Pete said, wondering if he could fly out. Maybe. He didn't think he actually felt up to even walking around the block a couple times right then, but it would be better to fly. He'd rather be in Europe, he thought. Even just to watch. "I expect a porn mustache when you get back."
"Just have my blimp ready, man. Like Goodyear or something. They always have blimps; I could be on the other side."
Laughing, Pete said, "I'll look into it."
"Alright," Joe said. "Go back to sleep or whatever. Keep checking your email; I'll give you pictures. And write us a script for what we're supposed to say up there while you're just hanging in bed, dude. Patrick made this joke -- it was so bad. I wanted you to be there so bad to let him off the hook."
"You don't need me," Pete said.
"We kind of do," Joe said, and then, "I mean -- I don't know, I'm glad this is only a few weeks. Anyway, later, Wentz. Mustache updates coming soon."
"Looking forward to them." Pete smiled as he spoke into the receiver. "Later, Joe."
;;
This one time, Pete met the rest of his band in O'Hare, sitting on the edge of the baggage carousel much to his father's dismay. Pete slid to the floor only to get up a moment later when he spotted Andy, Patrick, and then Joe bringing up the rear in a conversation with Dre. It felt so fucking weird to receive them like that, the three of them back from an extended trip without him, but they sped up a little when they noticed Pete too.
Although he started out one of the last in the bunch, Joe managed to get the first hug. Pete got passed around a lot, shouting when Dre picked him up and cracked his back. He whined, asking to be let down, and Patrick met him once his feet touched the ground again, Pete wrapping his arms over Patrick's shoulder to avoid his bulky backpack.
"Hello, hi," Pete said, and Patrick muttered, "I don't want to have to tell another anecdote segue ever again," which made Pete chuckle low near Patrick's ear and tighten his stomach.
Okay, Pete thought. Anythinganythingokay.
;;
This one time Pete pressed his hand to his mouth because he couldn't stop laughing, rocking back on his heels, and when he lost his balance, Gabe caught him. He laughed with Pete, bracing his shoulder and back with wide palms, bumping his chin against Pete's head as Pete tilted his face upward and looked back reflexively.
"Sorry, sorry," Pete said without too much conviction, because the mirth was still rolling off him in waves. Gabe's teeth were really white as he smiled, and Pete couldn't figure out why he was noticing that.
"Dude," Gabe said, nudging Pete forward to help him stand squarely again. It wasn't really working though, Pete supposed, because he continued to bump his shoulders back into Gabe's chest until Gabe finally just braced his arms around Pete from behind. "Did somebody spike your punch or something? I feel like I just found the accidental drunk girl at prom."
"Did you even go to your prom?" Pete asked, bending his head back despite the futility of the action. He got a pretty nice eyeful of Gabe's jaw.
Shaking his head, Gabe said, "Nah. But I did find the accidental drunk girl once everybody went to after-prom parties."
"I'm not drunk," Pete said resolutely, but he was feeling out of sorts. Although, he didn't feel bad. It was the exact opposite in fact, the kind of deep pulse in him that made him want to sway back and forth and reach out until he found another person to feel it with him, and. He felt good, just a little outside of himself, and it was a pleasant sensation he'd fallen out of touch with for a while. "But we can party."
"That was a pretty shitty line," Gabe informed him, frowning to really drive the point home. Pete laughed and apologized, but it wasn't entirely necessary, because cheesy lines or not, Gabe still closed the short distance to catch Pete's mouth as Pete pushed his head back a bit farther.
He was only half aware of the flash of a camera in his periphery, squinting at light that had already come and gone as he pulled away from Gabe. Instead of staying braced by the curves of his arms, Pete let Gabe's grip move down to hold onto one of wrists, pausing to look him in the eye as they maneuvered.
They were already on the move before Pete actually made the effort to angle toward him and suggest, "We could hang somewhere else."
"You give the cues, and I'll follow." Gabe moved his other hand to Pete's hip, trailing close, and when Pete looked forward again, he almost ran right into Patrick.
"Whoa," Patrick said, but he didn't seem angry. Pete had just side-swiped him after all, and it was the funniest thing watching Patrick readjust himself to what was going on around him. "You in a hurry?"
"Dude, watch where we're going," Pete said, not even serious enough to pull off any sort of gag. Still attached to Gabe, Pete took a moment to invade Patrick's space and kiss his face, smiling at the way Patrick stuck his tongue out and wiped away the kiss as Pete ducked back.
He said, "That was a wet one," surveying his palms like he might find visible evidence.
"What, you don't like my gifts for you?"
"Gifts, I'm for," Patrick said. "It's your slobber that I'm cool without."
He smeared his hand across his stomach, twisting his fingers in his t-shirt quickly. Pete said, "Well, give me a minute, and I'll bring you more where that came from -- good ones. I have to go get something with this guy first though."
He wasn't at his most discreet, but Patrick didn't call him on it. Gabe stopped to give Patrick a hug, and then Pete tugged him along.
It was easy to slip off to Gabe's place. He didn't live too far from the club. Pete kept fidgeting in the cab, and then as soon as they got upstairs, they barely made it to Gabe's couch, Pete's thigh hitched over Gabe's hip and feeling his back press into the cushions. They fumbled around in the dark, all hands and lips and sliding against one another. Pete sucked in a breath as Gabe got his pants open and reached to palm Pete's cock, choking on the exhale and swearing to himself that any wet kisses weren't sending his mind elsewhere.
In the morning, Gabe let Pete eat the last of his pop tarts. They were slow to leave the apartment, but Pete eventually made it across town, back to the hotel. He found the others sharing room service breakfast in the double he was supposed to be sharing with Joe.
"Good night?" Andy asked, and Pete sat down on the bed next to Patrick, shrugging.
He stole a slice of toast from Patrick's plate, focusing on the dry crunch and meeting Patrick's hard stare at having been the victim of thievery. Patrick didn't scold Pete though, so Pete finished the bread, and then he rested his head on Patrick's shoulder, opting to stick to silence until Patrick made him move. Pete counted. It took four minutes and twenty-three Mississippis before he had to hold his own head up again.
;;
This one summer Pete had a whole series of good nights, and he fell in love with about three people, and they all dumped him by September. That was an unfair way to look at it, he knew, but it also wasn't as if it wasn't ultimately true as well, so he called himself a draw and moved on at least temporarily.
He called Patrick. Pete asked him to take a road trip to New York, but they really only made it into Indiana for a day. As far as amusement parks went, especially in comparison to Great America, Indiana Beach was pretty fucking subpar. It had only a couple real, somewhat worthwhile roller coasters and a lame, half-size version of Supreme Scream, but they did everything in the park at least twice until Patrick swore he was going to throw up. He spent ten minutes after their fifth time on the Hoosier Hurricane standing in the bathroom with his hand on the sink, and then he didn't even puke no matter how many gross verbal combinations of food and non-food items Pete tried to tempt him with while he sat on the counter and watched.
"Why do you want me to suffer? Why?" Patrick asked, and it seemed like the question was directed at the sink, but Pete knew better. He rubbed Patrick's shoulder.
Pete said, "We should get milkshakes after this? Maybe you want a chili dog?"
Patrick groaned, and then Pete laughed, trying to hug him awkwardly. Patrick pushed him away, shunning Pete for a whole ten minutes until Pete begged him to go check out the 3D motion theater. He talked Patrick into it by emphasizing that it was mostly simulation, and they eventually went from there back to the more exciting rides until Patrick was practically passing out on his feet.
Pete drove the whole way back to Chicago, Patrick sleeping in the passenger seat. They hadn't gotten out of town quite the way Pete first imagined, but leaving had been satisfactory all the same. The two of them crashing in Pete's room when they got back to his parent's place after two in the morning and slept in the next afternoon, Pete watching cartoons on Nick GAS when he just couldn't sleep anymore, looking over to smirk at Patrick every time he snored loud enough to wake himself up.
;;
Once -- one time he and Mikey stayed up all night, because Mikey kept saying he had to go home early when day finally hit. Alicia had gotten sick the night before and opted to head out of the city an evening earlier than planned, but she told Mikey to hang around. Pete had made a couple bad jokes about partying too hard in old age taking a toll on the health, and Mikey laughed lightly to humor him, promising Alicia he would come back the next afternoon and bring her medicine if she still felt like shit. And Pete thanked her for coming out, but also (to himself) for leaving Mikey behind, because it had only been a few months since they last really found time to chill, but it all added up.
So they wasted hours wide awake in Pete's hotel room. He had one good night in him, and he didn't want to waste it, although he told Mikey he just wanted to watch the Indiana Jones marathon on television, edging closer as the minutes passed. Mikey didn't try to get away. He never tried to get away, and that encouraged Pete in spite of the private mental lecture he'd given himself in the lobby and in the bathroom while he washed his hands earlier.
"Careful," Mikey said, like there was any way Pete had let his hand accidentally end up here, fingertips hidden under the hem of his t-shirt. "Man, your hands are cold."
Pete responded with added pressure, pushing the pads of his fingers into Mikey's skin and imagining that the flesh brightened in neat round circles he couldn't see through fabric. He mumbled an apology, shoved his hand higher, and said, "They're warming up."
He wasn't being smooth really, but Mikey would see through that too, so there was little point in pretending. Mikey coughed once, short and light. He said, "We're not going to."
"Yeah, I know," Pete said, lying, because he might have been hoping. Maybe. His fingers felt caged. "Happy home and all. I'm aware. You like her more than --"
"It's weird that you still do that," Mikey interrupted, and he shifted to the left, Pete's hand falling from his shirt and skin.
"Do what?"
"You rank things. Better than, not good enough -- you did it all the time."
"That's not what I do," Pete said, but it sort of made sense.
He couldn't help it. The behavior was kind of ingrained in him: which songs worked better on the album, which medicines made him feel more crazy than others, the oldest brother his parents used a model for how not to fuck up his younger siblings. Pete doubted that he was alone in dividing up things around him like that, but when it came to factoring himself into situations, Pete was just used to being an example for a certain end of the spectrum.
"Don't make it about who's better," Mikey said, not looking away from television, soft-voiced like he might have honestly believed that didn't have to be the case. Pete wanted to tell him otherwise, just so he'd know, but then Mikey pointed to the television, announcing that they were seeing Gerard's least favorite part.
He nudged Pete in his stomach, amused and mildly excited. Pete kept his hands to himself.
When the sun began to cut across the bed, shining from the window over their feet, Mikey grabbed Pete's hand and dragged him out of bed. From the hallway down to the lobby took almost no time at all, the two of them strolling silently and Mikey letting himself lean into Pete's arm, but he might've just been tired. Pete turned him inward outside of the elevator, hugged him as he pressed upward on the balls of his feet and sank again, dragging Mikey a little lower. He felt just short of silly like that, holding onto Mikey in the early morning, but Mikey never said anything about it, just told Pete to let him know when they could meet up again.
Back upstairs, Pete stepped off the elevator and tried to rub the fatigue from his eyes to no avail, only to find Patrick knocking at his door. He was in his socks, sweats and a t-shirt, face sleep puffy, and his fist slid down the door absently when he noticed Pete walking toward him.
"I fell asleep in Joe's room," he said groggily.
Pete said, "You didn't have to."
"It wasn't on purpose," Patrick said, shaking his head. Pete swiped his key card, letting them back into the room, and he took off his hoodie and draped it over the chair in the corner, watching Patrick flop onto the nearest bed, Pete's own.
"That's my spot," Pete said, tapping Patrick's foot where it dangled off the edge of the mattress.
"So," Patrick said, voice flat. Pete was almost surprised he hadn't managed to pass out again immediately, knocking his knee into Patrick's foot now and getting no reaction.
"So," Pete echoed, more airily, and he climbed onto the comforters alongside Patrick. There was enough space for two. Pete found a groove in the space next to Patrick, peering at his face with his nose scrunched up and waiting for Patrick to open his eyes, but when he did, Pete still didn't get him to jump.
Instead, Patrick asked, "Where were you coming from just now?"
"Seeing Mikey out," Pete told him, burrowing into the covers and cushion as much as possible without getting under them. "We didn't sleep."
"I don't want to know. No nightmares."
"Not like that," Pete said, smirking at the way Patrick's forehead creased as he frowned. "Just. Up. I don't know."
"Well, I'm not going anywhere," Patrick mumbled, voice softened against the blankets underneath him. "You're welcome to join."
"Thanks for the permission." Pete pat Patrick's shoulder blade, dragging his hand down lower and twisting around so that he could see Patrick easily while lying on his side.
"Anytime," Patrick said, and his eyes fluttered open again. He watched Pete, expression relaxed, and Pete felt like closing the space between them more. He sought out the extra warm, letting the weariness overcome his muscles and cataloguing the way Patrick's breath evened once he was really out.
;;
This one time Pete stood in front of Patrick and said, "What? No, what? What," over and over, stepping closer with each repeated word, cutting into Patrick's sentences until Patrick hit him in the mouth. It wasn't movie-perfect. Not one good slug to the jaw but more like Patrick reached out to push Pete's head, and then Pete shoved him back a bit, just enough, and Patrick angled a half-assed punch to Pete's chin. Even though the knuckles skid across the skin more than they connected, it still hurt like a motherfucker, and Pete cursed around a mouthful of spit as he sucked on the inside of his cheek after.
"Did you just hit me -- "
Patrick wavered noticeably. He was still angry and frustrated, but he cursed under his breath in the next moment, deflating. "Sorry -- that's -- "
And Pete didn't hit Patrick back so much as push him over. They scuffled, that was really the only word Pete could come up with for it. It was the kind of aimless rough and tumble disagreements they hadn't gotten into since being cramped in vans and sleeping on top of their own merch, Patrick immediately trying aim a blow at Pete's thighs, coming down over the muscle because he knew from experience Pete liked to have the advantage of holding people in place when he could. At the same time, Pete tried to lean into Patrick's arms, restricting the movement, because if Pete's strategy was to vice grip someone to death then Patrick just threw aimless punches until he got the upper hand.
The energy between them wasn't what it used to be during their fights, tempered by the familiarity of the situation, the way Pete knew Patrick's next move and presumably vice versa. Two minutes into it, Pete didn't even know what the fucking problem was with the song anyway, couldn't understand why Patrick wouldn't just say what he meant, and they eventually froze with Pete half-twisted around Patrick, almost on his side with his shoulder grinding into Patrick's chest and one of Patrick's wrists caught in both of Pete's hands.
"Get off," Patrick said, and Pete had to quickly stifle a laugh because -- because. He snorted, coughing on his own misplaced amusement, and Patrick voice seemed a little lighter too when he repeated himself and tried to dump Pete to the side completely.
"Okay, just," Pete said, letting Patrick's wrist free. "One to ten, how serious is your hatred for that last part?"
"Six hundred."
"That little, huh?"
"Don't be cute, dude. I'm not a fan of you right now," Patrick said, nudging Pete with his elbow sharply.
Rolling his eyes, Pete said, "Sing it then. Sing it how you want it."
He kept his ankles hooked around Patrick's left knee just to be annoying. He half expected Patrick to try to shake him off and give another excuse, trying to talk Pete in circles, but Patrick said, "Well, then get -- alright -- " and explained the change before singing it from the floor. It didn't sound bad, really. Pete still didn't like it better than his way, but he paid close attention, listening quietly and tapping out the rhythm on Patrick's ankle with his heel by the end of the second repeat.
After he stopped, Patrick concluded by saying, "So that. With the extra line instead of, I don't know. Your thing."
"It sucks," Pete said, and he suffered the blow when Patrick elbowed him harder. "Okay -- fuck, stop, okay. One to ten, dude, how dedicated to abusing me are you to get this chorus?"
"I didn't abuse you."
"Listen to me! I have a speech impediment now," Pete insisted as he untangled himself from Patrick entirely. He stood, hiking up his pants and watching Patrick sprawled on the floor. "Fine, do it your way. Let's wrap it up, so we can get out of here tonight. You probably have a dinner date with Bob."
"P.F. Chang's as a matter of fact," Patrick said, taking his turn to place an ill-timed laugh at the expression that crossed Pete's face. "Are you mad because you didn't get an invitation? You want to come? I think he wants to check out The Jazz Bakery after."
Pete said, "Ooh, date to The Jazz Bakery," holding out a hand to help Patrick to his feet. "No, I have other friends who'd actually like to hang out with me tonight. Don't do me any favors."
"It's not a date," Patrick said, brushing off his clothes as he stand in front of Pete, and then matching his gaze easily. "So we're doing the end of the song with the added part?"
"What can I say, dude? You're just so fucking irresistible when you're trying to kick my ass," Pete said, grinning at Patrick's sour face.
;;
This one time Pete stood in a jewelry store for half an hour, looking at engagement rings and pretending he was only there for the watches. The next day, he asked Jeanae if she would say yes should he ask her to marry him someday, and she said yes, then no, and settled on a slight grimace. Pete thought that summed it up relatively well.
Taking her to Europe didn't feel like a farewell tour until she went back to Chicago. Things weren't tied off nicely, but they felt final again, or maybe for the first time, and Pete let reporters sit up front with him on the couch to do interviews day after day to avoid thinking about empty space.
During flights, the four of them spent a lot of time sleeping or ignoring each other to make up for the rest of the time spent in each other's faces. Pete watched at least six in-flight movies but liked maybe two, which he made sure to mention as he recounted the plots of all of them for Patrick on the flight back to the States. Patrick rarely watched the in-flight movies. At best, he'd occasionally catch the second half of something whenever his laptop battery died mid-travel.
"Wait, wait," Patrick said. "So, who did it? Some guy?"
"No, dude, it was aliens," Pete explained again. "It was terrible. All that build up for this cop out. Fucking aliens? Terrible."
"Did you even get to see what they looked like?"
"No, they were just voices! Can you believe that?"
"It was probably a budget thing," Patrick said.
Pete shook his head. "No, I honestly bet not showing them was somebody's idea of being clever."
Patrick laughed, staring at the the screen. They were playing the informational safety video first.
Patrick turned to Pete and asked, "Are you doing more interviews during the layover in New York?"
"Nope. I don't think so," Pete said, crossing his ankles and switching the order of the Sharpie designs on the toes of his sneakers. "I think I'm done."
"Hm," Patrick said, nodding. He look down at his iPod, messing with the settings, and then asked, "Did they already say what other movies they're going to show?"
Pete smiled lightly. "Part two of the alien movie, actually."
"Oh, yeah?" Patrick said, laughing again. He glanced up at the flight attendant on the video showing him how to inflate his life vest. "You should tap me when it starts."
"It's going to be terrible, dude. I think it's one of those where the whole cast is different -- different characters who don't know it's aliens."
"Yeah, but I kind of want to see just how bad now," Patrick said, and Pete laughed. He promised that, sure, he'd nudge Patrick. He could see the disaster on film for himself and confirm Pete's review of the whole concept. That is, if he could tear himself away from Garageband long enough.
Patrick said, "No, I want to. You and me. I'll watch and you can compare it to the first one for me."
;;
And then once -- one time, Pete frowned as he craned forward, the expression painted across his eyes and brow more than his mouth as he reached Patrick. He knew, to some extent, how it would go and still found himself inconveniently pleased when Patrick kissed him back. It was calm, maybe even sweet, and Pete's hand had somehow made its way to Patrick's side during the commotion.
Pulling back, Pete cleared his throat, and Patrick licked his lips. His voice wasn't really measured or careful as he said, "Mm -- don't. I, uh. I need to buy milk."
"Yeah," Pete said, because that was -- Patrick had the right idea. There were bad moves, and then there was kissing Patrick in the freezer section at Vons just because it felt easier, somehow. It was easier than getting into arguments with exes, easier than having to reassure a new girlfriend that the ex wasn't an issue, and easier than most of the relationships he'd had. Easier.
"I should also get -- oh, did I tell you about how I'm going to teach myself how to make pies?" Patrick said, walking around the store and looking over his shoulder to engage Pete directly. "My mom decided she wasn't down with giving me care packages anymore."
"That's -- for real? That's kind of depressing," Pete said.
Patrick nodded. "I know. She said it's because if I'd actually gone to college, I'd have graduated by now. I've outgrown the privilege. So I'm just having her give me all my grandfather's recipes."
"I'll bake for you."
Patrick snorted, then stopped to look at Pete seriously and say, "I mean. Not that I don't appreciate your act of selflessness on my behalf. Actually, I'm probably going to set myself on fire without your help."
"I'll buy you a flame retardant apron for your birthday," Pete said, and Patrick shut his eyes when he laughed. "I like my Stump original not -- "
"If you make a KFC joke right now, dude, I don't -- "
Pete zipped his lips, pushing up on his heels and then holding his arms out as if clueless to anything Patrick might've been suggesting. "Yeah, right, KFC joke. Since when am I ever that lame?"
"Let me think," Patrick said, looking up and squinting overhead as if in thought. "How long have I known you?"
"Hey -- hey, screw that, I'm funny. You thought I was hilarious when you were seventeen," Pete said, bumping into Patrick to fully express his indignation. Patrick laughed, holding his hand out to brace Pete's back as he turned his attention to the refrigerators.
He said, "Well, see, that was my problem right there."
"You're on a roll today, hating on me."
"No," Patrick said, and he stepped in a bit nearer, tilting his head inward. He didn't go so far as to lie on Pete's shoulder, but he kept his head at an angle until Pete met him partway, the side his face on Patrick's head as they stared at milk curtains.
Humming idly, Patrick tapped out a dull rhythm on Pete's back through his shirt, then finally said, "Is there really that big a difference between organic and non-organic milk?"
;;
There was this other time where Pete's bright idea of the moment was to jump from a speaker stack, landing hard on his ankle. He got right back up, ignoring the awkward pain that shot through his foot, but two songs later, he leaned over to Patrick after he finished the last line of the last chorus and said, "Dude, I feel like I broke my foot."
And that was funny, because afterward he found out that that was exactly what he'd done. The adrenaline of performance had kept him from really focusing on any damage, but his foot and ankle felt like they were on fire once he'd left the stage. They fetched ice for Pete's ankle until they could get a doctor, and then the question became whether or not it was probably best for Pete to go home instead of touring.
"This could be pretty serious," Pete said to the room as he clicked through pages on Google. The number of bodies in the room had dwindled to essential people by the time the doctor had left. "What if this stunts my growth? According to the internet, all kinds of random shit stunts your growth, and a broken bone seems, I don't know, at least more legitimate than coffee."
Joe couldn't stop laughing. "Are you implying that you think you are still growing?"
"I want to be 5'10" like Cindy Crawford," Pete said, raising his chin haughtily.
"And the internet told you it might not happen?" Andy asked.
Pete said, smirking between the words, "As someone with a little more experience with the information superhighway, I'm going to ask you not to talk to me like you don't think everything on the internet is absolutely factual -- look, this site says lifting weights even stunts your growth."
Laughing at his screen took his mind of his leg for a second. The medicine he'd gotten was also probably helping with that, although Pete's mind was tugged back to full attention when Patrick asked, "So, what did the doctor say about touring? Are you -- do you think maybe you won't?"
"Um," Pete said, looking down to where an ice pack was still draped over his angle. "He wants to wait a couple days. See how I feel about the cast."
"Because I'm thinking -- I mean, if you can't do it, I'd rather cancel or something," Patrick said, looking at Pete and shaking his clasped hands between his legs where they hung heavy as he rested his elbows on his thighs.
And that wasn't the best decision, Pete thought. If they really needed to, they could get a temporary bassist or postpone again. Canceling the tour would definitely be worse case scenario, but Pete looked at Patrick, taking in the calmness of his expression and -- okay. That was his only thought.
"Well," he said. "The doctor said give it a couple days. I doubt I'll -- I can do it, I think."
;;
One time, Travis retaliated against Pete putting green paint in his hair by shoving his hand, covered in blue, right into Pete's face. They spent the next ten minutes reading up on potential toxicity of the product because Pete accidentally got some in his mouth and swallowed.
"You're such a fucking child," Travis said, laughing as Pete debated calling poison control and leaning in to draw something on Pete's neck with a magic marker.
"I could die! Right here, you don't know," Pete said, shrugging repeatedly and trying to get away until Travis told to hold the fuck still. Pete sucked it up and took Travis's doodle without too much flinching then. "What are you writing?"
"My name," Travis said. "In sick-ass block letters."
"On my neck?"
Travis finished up his scribbling and stepped back. He nudged Pete's chin, getting him to look up and then tip his head to the side, exposing the skin more. He said, "Yeah, chill out. I look good on you."
"Was that intentional? Did you intend for that to come out that gay?" Pete asked, smiling before he even heard Travis whine, "Man," and then he pushed Pete to the right. Pete sometimes forgot he was like a foot shorter than Travis, stumbling aside but immediately rocking closer again once he recovered.
He liked hanging out with Travie. Travis was different enough that it wasn't like hanging out with himself but familiar enough that they understood one another on most levels. They crafted nearly a hundred pieces in seven days and still didn't feel as if they'd managed to cover all of their ideas. That was the thing about LA, it had plenty of both the genuine and the vapid to be inspirational in equal proportions. Full on ironic images and creativity, he and Travis spent a sunrise break in plain sight of the HOLLYWOOD sign pretending they weren't having intellectual conversations about things like how much the forecast and the degree of their own skepticism on a given day went hand in hand.
The point of their art, really, was to prove that nothing ever made as much sense as it should. That was another conclusion they came to, leaning against Pete's car. Travis had had cousins die, gotten hooked on pills at one point in his life, had fallen out and then reconciled with his parents, and after all of that he still had enough to keep him more than happy -- okay. Pete had experienced plenty of his own milestone events, things that people wrote novels about later on, and he always came out on the other side. They had the same knack for stubborn perseverance, which just happened to be the concluding point of one of their last conversations before getting back in the car.
"Yo, who's out here?" Travis asked. "Let's crash somebody's party. Is Patrick at his apartment?"
"No, I think he's somewhere with Elisa. They're traveling or visiting his parents or something," Pete said, because actually, Pete wasn't sure. He and Patrick communicated through text messages more than phone calls during off periods. It was their best version of keeping distance and getting individual perspective when they've spent so much time being halves of a creative whole. Something like that.
Travis asked, "You don't know?"
"Not -- I haven't actually talked to him," Pete said. It didn't seem that out of the ordinary until he started to say it aloud.
"Call him."
Pete said, "No I'm gonna -- let's leave him alone. He sees my ugly mug all the time."
"Which is why I'm shocked you're refusing now," Travis said, and Pete laughed, using the burst of sound to roll-off continuing the discussion.
;;
Because truthfully, this one time they flew to Russia in the middle of January, and they were there for a reason, they were. It was just easy to forget what that reason might have been when they spent the first day landed lounging in the hotel. The television was huge, flat and wide, and Pete watched from the foot of the bed, looking back every time Hemingway moved on the bed to get away from Patrick's toes.
"What are you doing to my dog?" Pete asked.
"He's warm," Patrick said, scooting down on the bed. "And he just happens to be in line with where my legs are. He's invading my space."
"Your legs aren't that long. Nice try."
Patrick inched his way down the bed more anyway, making Hemingway try to crawl away on his belly. Pete reached out to catch Patrick's ankle, pinching his fingers around the bone.
"Stop," Patrick said, sitting upright to reach over his legs and swat at Pete's hand. "Hey -- quit it."
"What, this is just where my arm happens to go. When I stretched back, this is where I landed," Pete said, holding onto Patrick even though Patrick tried to kick him loose without hitting Hemingway. He could've done better if it wasn't for the way he also kept giggling despite himself. Pete had accidentally discovered that Patrick was unnaturally ticklish around the ankles when Patrick was nineteen, and he didn't remember exactly how anymore, but it was still something Pete appreciated whenever he remembered to exploit it.
"Okay," Patrick said, trying to hold onto Pete's wrist. "Okay, okay."
Pete relented, letting up enough that he wasn't restraining Patrick's leg. Patrick took the opportunity to scramble back toward the top of the bed.
Pete watched him make his distance, slumping against the headboard, and then he said, "I feel like I'm on a honeymoon, or, uh. Something where you're isolated in other countries -- locales or whatever."
"Nobody honeymoons in Russia," Patrick said. He looked to his side, pushing his laptop away from him a bit more and sliding down on the comforters until he was lying out fully. If Pete reached out again, he might be able to flick Patrick's toes.
"If people were smart, they'd honeymoon here," Pete said. "In warm places, you want to go out and chill on the beach and stuff. Places like this, especially if it's cold -- that's more excuse to stay inside and, you know."
"Oh, I know. I still wouldn't honeymoon in Moscow," Patrick said, pawing around his side and squirming. Pete watched him pull a phone from under himself -- Pete's own iPhone. Patrick held it above himself, messing with the screen and then aimed it at Pete. "Be still for a second."
Pete wasn't moving already, so he disobeyed Patrick and pushed his face closer to Hemingway. The second after Patrick made a small noise in his throat and set the camera aside, signaling Pete's freedom again, Pete said, "You'd honeymoon in Chicago."
"You remember that time we went downtown for the air show?" Patrick asked suddenly, lifting his head to catch Pete's eyes. When Pete nodded, Patrick flopped back again, and Pete pushed himself onto the bed completely, making his way higher until he sat on his knees at Patrick's side.
They'd gone downtown a couple different years to watch the planes fly overhead since Pete had known Patrick, but one trip was a much bigger disaster than the other. One year they never even made it the actual air & water show. The whole incident had been aggravating, but that morning, before everything had gotten blown to hell, Patrick had kissed Pete hello in the doorway to Pete's bedroom. Pete hadn't known if it was because Patrick had spent all night trying to figure out some song and was still more wired than rested, or if he was just feeling affectionate, or whatever else, but it had been the best part of Pete's day. He still preferred that year over the one where they actually saw the air show.
It had been the best worst day, Pete thought, and smirked to himself. Situations like that were sort of typical of them in a way too. They tended to keep one another on their toes. It wasn't that they couldn't be together, Pete remembered sometimes, it was that -- that. He tended to get stuck figuring out the second portion of the logic. That probably said something about them as well.
"Or pretty much any time I've done 4th of July on the lake," Patrick said now. "I'm just pointing out that Chicago has plenty of things that could be cheesy honeymoon activities."
Pete laughed, bumping his hand on Patrick hip as he said, "Dude, if you try to keep whoever you marry downtown for a week or whatever, we really can't be friends anymore. I'll take whoever on a honeymoon for you if I have to."
"I'm kidding! Mostly. All jokes for the most part," Patrick said, and Pete uncurled himself so he could lie down next to Patrick, his face easily pressed into Patrick's warm side when he edged his head closer. "I do really like the air shows though. We should go this year."
"Mhm," Pete said, and he felt unexpectedly sleepy. Days spent in Moscow hotel rooms, man. Lazy days spent. They wore him out.
Patrick turned up the television, then set down the remote on Pete's arm, balancing it carefully. As it settled, he slid his arm up, letting it fall against Pete's neck, fingertips grazing his shoulder, and Pete inhaled.
;;
This one time, thirty minutes before a show, Patrick stopped in front of Pete where he sat pulling on his socks and said, "You know, when I met you I thought you'd be taller?"
"Is that why you seemed less than impressed?" Pete said, taking a moment to then tug on his shoes.
Patrick shrugged, completely abandoning the song he'd been singing to warm up. He said, "That and you were annoying. No, I think I expected some dude with huge guns. Some tough dude who got into fights with people for looking at him crazy, I don't know why. Sometimes people talked about you like you were intense."
"I could've been that guy," Pete said, missing whatever expression crossed Patrick's face in reaction as he bent down to lace his sneakers.
Above him, Patrick said, "No, it's fine. I didn't really want to meet that guy anyway."
"Whatever, you stuck around," Pete said. "Even without tickets to the gun show."
Patrick laughed, tugging his shirt down. He picked up the song he'd been singing mid-verse, and then briefly paused again to say, "Okay, true. More than a few years later even."
"Yeah, you probably want me," Pete said, and he laughed as Patrick rolled his eyes. Patrick called him absurd, and then a couple other less classic adjectives, and Pete just held onto his smile all through the rest of their backstage wait, right into performance.
Thanks, as always, to the people I harass online with the things I write, particularly teaspoon and jadziadrgnrdr. The EPMD song Patrick references is "The Fan," while Pete references Aaron Tippin's "Big Boy Toys" and then later quotes a line from Clueless. Remaining mistakes are all my fault as usual, and feeding the animals is always cool. Inspired by this prompt from warmingweather.
by Charli J
Pete/Patrick (Pete/Gabe, implied Pete/Mikey). R. 9,500 words.
The important parts of an 'us' told in a series of anecdotes.
;;
This one time, Joe made a wrong turn and had to pull into some stranger's driveway, reverse, and then head back the way they'd come in order to find the right house number for this dude he wanted Pete to meet. Pete gave him a hard time about it for less than a minute, asking Joe if he really knew where the kid lived after all. Joe told him to shut up and ride shotgun in silence like a good passenger.
"Hey," Pete said, reaching across the divide. "Hey, watch yourself before I take over -- "
"-- don't grab the wheel, fuckmunch!" Joe said, smacking Pete's arm away. Pete dropped back against the seat, his laughter brash.
He asked, "What? Fuck what? What kind of insult was that?"
"The kind that comes from sudden terror," Joe said. "If I crash this car, my parents will kill me."
"I'll defend you," Pete promised, patting his hand over his heart for emphasis. He wasn't actually going to try to wrap the car around a tree, because the impact might kill them first. Still, if they managed to survive, then, "I'd take all the heat."
"Yeah, right." Joe slowed down as the numbers of the house crept higher. It was harder to make out the addresses on some of them, Pete figured, because Joe kept leaning closer to peer across Pete and gaze at the houses. "They'd kill me and hang you by your toes. Have you ever been strung up by your toes, Pete? It isn't fun."
"Like you know what it feels like."
"I don't need to experience it to know it su -- crap, I think I passed the house."
Pete chuckled, glancing back over his shoulder as Joe hit the breaks and set the car in reverse. He asked, "Are his parents here? Are we supposed to just knock?"
"I told him we were on the way," Joe said, easing into a curbside space. "He said just knock. I think he hangs in the basement."
There were no other cars in the driveway, so Pete rang the doorbell a few times once they reached the porch. He pressed it over and over, including when the front door finally opened, and then Pete was met with a face full of little dude in a Dr. Huxtable sweater. He looked unimpressed. Pete rang the bell one more time.
"Dude, my mom's sleeping upstairs," he -- Patrick -- said. His name was Patrick. Pete totally knew that. He had even talked to him on the phone exactly once, and he sounded older on the phone, but now he just seemed short and nerdy and the kind of guy who wore argyle without irony.
Joe pushed Pete's hand away from the bell, apologizing. He said, "Sorry, we're late. And sorry that Pete sucks."
"Pete. Hi, it's cool to meet you," Patrick said, like he was still completely without awe, which was weird, because Joe had said Patrick was into Racetraitor. But Patrick just shook Pete's hand and let them inside, and that made Pete want to --
"Hey. Patrick," he said as Joe stepped in front of him, turning around to see Patrick shut and lock the door.
He looked up at Pete casually, eyebrows raised in inquiry. "Yeah?"
And Pete didn't actually have anything pressing to tell him. He tapped his foot on the floor, angled to the side, inching after and asked, "So, Joe said you play more stuff than what you told me..."
"Oh," Patrick said, and he pointed vaguely out of the room. "Not -- not really well."
"No?"
"I mean, I'm alright. Decent," he said, explaining that, "Everything's downstairs," and Pete let him lead the way.
;;
One time Patrick played drums for Arma Angelus. It was one of their last shows. Joe played guitar during one song while Patrick played drums, and after the set Pete said, "Don't forget that me and these dudes, we have another band. Even if you don't like it, you should still come spend money to see us. Trohman's got a good shimmy."
"I don't shimmy," Joe said, away from the mic so the audience didn't hear, but Pete laughed over the speakers anyway. Joe didn't shimmy, it was true, but he had been working on his spins, and Pete felt confident in describing both with the word "fabulous" at this point.
He got distracted as Patrick tossed drumsticks right over his shoulder and into the audience, one and then the other. Pete said, "We're going to throw a party. Crashing Chris's place. You're not going home, are you?"
Sometimes that was an issue with the kids. Pete generally didn't make an abundance of age jokes, not unless it was two in the morning and somebody's mom suddenly wanted Pete to drive their kid home. He was just an asshole by 2am as a general rule, like polite behavior had business hours, and it was just unfair to change someone's late night plans last minute. Even then Joe or Patrick told Pete to fuck off and grab the keys. They didn't care about Pete's whining. They were a couple of mouthy high school seniors when they wanted to be.
That night, however, everybody was clear to waste time after the Arma show. It was a party mainly full of edge folks, but enough of a different contingent showed up to warrant a nice selection of beer on the porch. Both Joe and Patrick drank, mostly because they could, and Pete didn't necessarily encourage them to chug anything, but he still laughed when they did.
The funniest part was how much Patrick started zoning out once he was truly drunk. He didn't get sloppy or talk louder, just laughed more and then focused intently on conversations around him. Pete found him listening but not contributing to a debate on how important breast milk was for babies, and Pete didn't think anyone needed to be seriously engaged that conversation for any prolonged period of time, so he pulled Patrick away without much warning.
"Hey," Patrick said. He followed though, not tugging his arm away from Pete until Pete stopped in the living room, off to the side of the stereo.
"I was rescuing you from evil," Pete said, shouting over the music. Chris had a more than decent subwoofer.
"I didn't," Patrick started, and then he stopped and smiled, lopsided. "Wow, I don't even remember what they were talking about."
"That's not a bad thing," Pete said, patting his hand against Patrick's face. He stopped as soon he realized that he'd done it, instinctively drawn to the flush in Patrick's cheeks. Alcohol could do that to people sometimes, and Pete was like somebody's nagging aunt when it came to rosy faces. He couldn't help it. Patrick yawned as Pete took a step back.
"Tired?"
"Never," Patrick said, a second yawn exposing him in his lie.
Pete said, "Yeah, uh huh," and they ended up heading to the bedroom less then ten minutes later. It wasn't like the room was unoccupied, a couple people sitting at the foot of the bed and on the floor playing video games, but Pete pushed Patrick forward until he flopped on the mattress and crawled over the pillows.
No one really looked back at them once they got into the room. Patrick had his hand on Pete's jacket, accidentally bringing him onto his knees on the mattress to prevent an awkward fall. Nobody paid attention to it when Pete kept laughing softly at the way Patrick swore he wasn't tired, not at all, and Pete would wake him up before he left, right? Nobody noticed, even, when Pete leaned down to kiss the side of Patrick's head for the hell of it, or the way Patrick surprised him by lifting his head as Pete retreated, catching the corner of Pete's smile. First the corner, then full on the mouth, the two of them kissing slow and lazy for less than any time that really counted.
As they broke, Pete began to ask, "Um, Patrick -- "
"I like this party," Patrick said, interrupting Pete's train of thought. "I liked the show tonight, too. Your band. And our band."
And Pete chuckled again, because Patrick was clearly tipsy and dozing. Pete rubbed the cuff of his sleeve across Patrick's head, messing his hair, and then he let Patrick fall asleep without disturbing the action happening on N64.
;;
There was this one day, outside of the Metro. Pete said to Andy, "Just drop the rest. Drop them like a bad habit."
"Whoa, I haven't heard that one since the nineties," Andy said, narrowing his eyes as he considered it. "Nobody uses that anymore."
"The nineties just ended. It hasn't been that long," Pete said, opening a can of soda and downing half. The carbonation was so strong it burned. He coughed as he pulled the can away from his mouth.
Andy tapped his drumstick against this thigh, saying, "Still."
"Whatever," Pete said. "Quit changing the subject, come on. I'm just gonna fuck with you until you say yes."
"I'm already in your band," Andy said, holding his arm out like he was making some kind of point Pete wasn't already fully aware of or something.
"No, Patrick was just talking to me after practice a couple days ago," Pete said, gesturing more than he needed to as he spoke. "We're thinking -- Joe, too, you know -- "
And he worked on Andy for a solid day and a half. He'd kept him wrapped up in conversation for two hours, and then proceeded to call Andy more than he'd called even some of his ex-girlfriends until he wore the dude down. When Andy finally agreed, he answered his cell phone for about the thousandth time, yelled his surrender and then cut the call before Pete could get any words in edgewise.
"Piece of cake," Pete said to himself and to the silence, and then dialed Patrick's number and told him the same.
"Wow, are you kidding? Don't play, Wentz," Patrick said, his voice jumping from earnest interest for the first sentence and landing on stern for the second. "Are you being for real?"
"Would I lie to you?" Pete asked, and he laughed, but it was because the Eurythmics song popped into his head, not because he was trying to get one over on anybody. Not this time, anyway.
Patrick -- skeptical Patrick -- said, "You didn't get Andy to quit his other projects. You're messing with me -- "
"I'm not!" Pete said, and Patrick cursed under his breath. "Are you amazed? Tell me you love me."
"You're joking, but I'm ready to kiss you now," Patrick said. "You're lucky you weren't here. I might have -- it could have been ugly. This is cool."
"I could be there. Give me ten minutes," Pete offered, and he thought about how long it might really take to get from where he was standing outside downtown back to the north side.
Chuckling, Patrick said, "Yeah, right. Wow, this is -- wow. So, it's Andy. Andy's in for good. I keep thinking about that thing he did. Whatever it was. The fill he did the other day, you saw it, right?"
"Yeah," Pete said, letting go of his idea to make a trip to Patrick's right then. Traffic was probably terrible midday as it was.
;;
This one time Pete sent this text message to Nick that read: Im gonna buy you that brown box car you wanted. Nick replied that he would rather ride sidecar on somebody's ugly motorcycle for the rest of his life first. Pete laughed and typed that he was going to buy it anyway, because he could. He was a fucking big shot with a deal now, and big boys liked big boy toys.
"Is that an EPMD reference?" Patrick asked, suddenly standing at Pete's shoulder. Pete glanced over at with a lopsided smile.
"A what? No, dude, that country song," Pete said, and he affected a terrible accent to sing the song. "'I like big boy toys, motors and lights, knobs and switches, and four-wheel drive.'"
Patrick chuckled saying, "That could still be a rap song."
Pete echoed his amusement, shutting his phone and facing Patrick fully. He had his hat pushed back on his head, eyes too wide to be everyday excitement, and Pete bit down on his own lip as he dammed up his laughter, ducking nearer conspiratorially.
"Man," he says, hushing his voice, and Patrick breathed in shallow puffs right over Pete's shoulder. "Patrick. This means we get to record you in the expensive studio now."
"And eat more than just peanut butter sandwiches every day," Patrick said, with the same kind of mock secrecy. Pete pulled back and he thought the look on their faces might match, Patrick's grin creeping brighter and brighter, and Pete could fucking -- who even knew, really. Something drastic and spontaneous. He had no idea what, though, so he settled for bumping their foreheads together, gritting his teeth against the side of Patrick's face until the adrenaline dulled.
;;
Although, this particular time, instead of taking the curve like a champ, their van darted off the road at 70MPH and into some trees. Careening at high speeds was one of those things that was only impressive in retrospect, because in the moment it was just surreal. Right after the moment, it was fucking terrifying, counting heads and shell-shocked during the short span of time it took to hear everyone speak and confirm consciousness.
But ten minutes later, everyone standing around outside of the wreckage, Andy said, "It's fucking cold."
"You could be knocked out with your brains everywhere right now," Joe said, and then paused, curling his mouth up as if the words were catching up to him after a delay. He frowned.
"That doesn't change the fact that I'm freezing," Andy said, but Pete missed documenting the whole exchange, because they were still trying to figure out where the camera bag rolled.
Once they found the equipment and determined that everything still worked (surprisingly), the first footage Pete caught was of Patrick trying to fish a scarf from underneath a seat. He grit his teeth, breath puffing out white, and then he looped the wide strip of fabric around his neck when it finally came free.
"You look like you've been through a car crash," Pete said, zooming in on Patrick's face and pulling back again slowly.
Patrick said, "Interesting that you'd mention that," and then took a moment to gesture to the heap he was standing beside. He grabbed his coat from where it was sitting on one of the benches and shrugged into it. "Were you awake?"
"Yeah, man. I even had my seatbelt on," Pete said, and Patrick took a moment to sigh and drop his hands to his sides once his coat was zipped up. He waved to the camera, a small, quick gesture as he gazed into the lens briefly before raising his eyes to look at Pete's face instead.
"Good," he said, and then stood there, waiting before he cleared his throat. "I think I lost my hat. My ears are icy."
"We'll get a new one," Pete said, and then he got distracted as a couple of the other guys came over to ask about Pete's documentary endeavors. "Hey, more survivors! I was just doing Patrick's exclusive interview."
"What did you have to say about it, Patrick?"
Pete swung the camera back to Patrick as he shrugged. He said, "Maybe we should slow down."
;;
For this one week, Joe sent Pete an email every night and told him if he didn't reply, he would spam him with terrifying clips of '70s gay porn full of bears and dudes in leather. It took Pete a couple days to see the first ones, because he'd slept a lot right out of the hospital. He'd talked to Andy for half a minute while he was still a patient, but then he spent a lot of time in one of his beds at his parents' house, drooling onto his pillowcase. When he saw the emails from Joe, though, Pete replied, challenging him to do it, to which Joe responded, Maybe I will...
maybe I'd like it.... Pete replied again, within the same day, and then twenty minutes later his mother said the call to the house phone was for him.
"Do you think I could pull off a mustache like that?" Joe asked, and Pete laughed for a good minute while Joe tried to explain that, no, for real. For real, he thought he might be able to make it work.
"If you did, I'd buy a blimp and put your picture on it, declaring my devotion to you."
Joe said, "Even if you just got the blimp, that would be cool. Hey, how are you feeling? You sound good."
"Tired," Pete said, scratching his hair and lying back again, pointing his toes in his efforts to feel a stretch from top to bottom. "But also bored. Tell TJ he can quit now. I'm gonna show up tomorrow."
"You're not," Joe said. "You better not, as cool as that would be. Dude, I'm gonna let you go then."
"Okay -- wait, are you with everybody?"
"Yeah, um. Hold on, hold on," Joe said, and then Pete listened to the faint sounds coming from the other end, unable to decipher what Joe might've been doing. "Okay, sorry. I was gonna put Patrick on, but he's sleeping too. He was up crazy late, I don't -- I think he'd been up like that the past few nights or something. I'll tell him to call you later. Andy went out to be a tourist."
"Oh. Yeah, okay," Pete said, wondering if he could fly out. Maybe. He didn't think he actually felt up to even walking around the block a couple times right then, but it would be better to fly. He'd rather be in Europe, he thought. Even just to watch. "I expect a porn mustache when you get back."
"Just have my blimp ready, man. Like Goodyear or something. They always have blimps; I could be on the other side."
Laughing, Pete said, "I'll look into it."
"Alright," Joe said. "Go back to sleep or whatever. Keep checking your email; I'll give you pictures. And write us a script for what we're supposed to say up there while you're just hanging in bed, dude. Patrick made this joke -- it was so bad. I wanted you to be there so bad to let him off the hook."
"You don't need me," Pete said.
"We kind of do," Joe said, and then, "I mean -- I don't know, I'm glad this is only a few weeks. Anyway, later, Wentz. Mustache updates coming soon."
"Looking forward to them." Pete smiled as he spoke into the receiver. "Later, Joe."
;;
This one time, Pete met the rest of his band in O'Hare, sitting on the edge of the baggage carousel much to his father's dismay. Pete slid to the floor only to get up a moment later when he spotted Andy, Patrick, and then Joe bringing up the rear in a conversation with Dre. It felt so fucking weird to receive them like that, the three of them back from an extended trip without him, but they sped up a little when they noticed Pete too.
Although he started out one of the last in the bunch, Joe managed to get the first hug. Pete got passed around a lot, shouting when Dre picked him up and cracked his back. He whined, asking to be let down, and Patrick met him once his feet touched the ground again, Pete wrapping his arms over Patrick's shoulder to avoid his bulky backpack.
"Hello, hi," Pete said, and Patrick muttered, "I don't want to have to tell another anecdote segue ever again," which made Pete chuckle low near Patrick's ear and tighten his stomach.
Okay, Pete thought. Anythinganythingokay.
;;
This one time Pete pressed his hand to his mouth because he couldn't stop laughing, rocking back on his heels, and when he lost his balance, Gabe caught him. He laughed with Pete, bracing his shoulder and back with wide palms, bumping his chin against Pete's head as Pete tilted his face upward and looked back reflexively.
"Sorry, sorry," Pete said without too much conviction, because the mirth was still rolling off him in waves. Gabe's teeth were really white as he smiled, and Pete couldn't figure out why he was noticing that.
"Dude," Gabe said, nudging Pete forward to help him stand squarely again. It wasn't really working though, Pete supposed, because he continued to bump his shoulders back into Gabe's chest until Gabe finally just braced his arms around Pete from behind. "Did somebody spike your punch or something? I feel like I just found the accidental drunk girl at prom."
"Did you even go to your prom?" Pete asked, bending his head back despite the futility of the action. He got a pretty nice eyeful of Gabe's jaw.
Shaking his head, Gabe said, "Nah. But I did find the accidental drunk girl once everybody went to after-prom parties."
"I'm not drunk," Pete said resolutely, but he was feeling out of sorts. Although, he didn't feel bad. It was the exact opposite in fact, the kind of deep pulse in him that made him want to sway back and forth and reach out until he found another person to feel it with him, and. He felt good, just a little outside of himself, and it was a pleasant sensation he'd fallen out of touch with for a while. "But we can party."
"That was a pretty shitty line," Gabe informed him, frowning to really drive the point home. Pete laughed and apologized, but it wasn't entirely necessary, because cheesy lines or not, Gabe still closed the short distance to catch Pete's mouth as Pete pushed his head back a bit farther.
He was only half aware of the flash of a camera in his periphery, squinting at light that had already come and gone as he pulled away from Gabe. Instead of staying braced by the curves of his arms, Pete let Gabe's grip move down to hold onto one of wrists, pausing to look him in the eye as they maneuvered.
They were already on the move before Pete actually made the effort to angle toward him and suggest, "We could hang somewhere else."
"You give the cues, and I'll follow." Gabe moved his other hand to Pete's hip, trailing close, and when Pete looked forward again, he almost ran right into Patrick.
"Whoa," Patrick said, but he didn't seem angry. Pete had just side-swiped him after all, and it was the funniest thing watching Patrick readjust himself to what was going on around him. "You in a hurry?"
"Dude, watch where we're going," Pete said, not even serious enough to pull off any sort of gag. Still attached to Gabe, Pete took a moment to invade Patrick's space and kiss his face, smiling at the way Patrick stuck his tongue out and wiped away the kiss as Pete ducked back.
He said, "That was a wet one," surveying his palms like he might find visible evidence.
"What, you don't like my gifts for you?"
"Gifts, I'm for," Patrick said. "It's your slobber that I'm cool without."
He smeared his hand across his stomach, twisting his fingers in his t-shirt quickly. Pete said, "Well, give me a minute, and I'll bring you more where that came from -- good ones. I have to go get something with this guy first though."
He wasn't at his most discreet, but Patrick didn't call him on it. Gabe stopped to give Patrick a hug, and then Pete tugged him along.
It was easy to slip off to Gabe's place. He didn't live too far from the club. Pete kept fidgeting in the cab, and then as soon as they got upstairs, they barely made it to Gabe's couch, Pete's thigh hitched over Gabe's hip and feeling his back press into the cushions. They fumbled around in the dark, all hands and lips and sliding against one another. Pete sucked in a breath as Gabe got his pants open and reached to palm Pete's cock, choking on the exhale and swearing to himself that any wet kisses weren't sending his mind elsewhere.
In the morning, Gabe let Pete eat the last of his pop tarts. They were slow to leave the apartment, but Pete eventually made it across town, back to the hotel. He found the others sharing room service breakfast in the double he was supposed to be sharing with Joe.
"Good night?" Andy asked, and Pete sat down on the bed next to Patrick, shrugging.
He stole a slice of toast from Patrick's plate, focusing on the dry crunch and meeting Patrick's hard stare at having been the victim of thievery. Patrick didn't scold Pete though, so Pete finished the bread, and then he rested his head on Patrick's shoulder, opting to stick to silence until Patrick made him move. Pete counted. It took four minutes and twenty-three Mississippis before he had to hold his own head up again.
;;
This one summer Pete had a whole series of good nights, and he fell in love with about three people, and they all dumped him by September. That was an unfair way to look at it, he knew, but it also wasn't as if it wasn't ultimately true as well, so he called himself a draw and moved on at least temporarily.
He called Patrick. Pete asked him to take a road trip to New York, but they really only made it into Indiana for a day. As far as amusement parks went, especially in comparison to Great America, Indiana Beach was pretty fucking subpar. It had only a couple real, somewhat worthwhile roller coasters and a lame, half-size version of Supreme Scream, but they did everything in the park at least twice until Patrick swore he was going to throw up. He spent ten minutes after their fifth time on the Hoosier Hurricane standing in the bathroom with his hand on the sink, and then he didn't even puke no matter how many gross verbal combinations of food and non-food items Pete tried to tempt him with while he sat on the counter and watched.
"Why do you want me to suffer? Why?" Patrick asked, and it seemed like the question was directed at the sink, but Pete knew better. He rubbed Patrick's shoulder.
Pete said, "We should get milkshakes after this? Maybe you want a chili dog?"
Patrick groaned, and then Pete laughed, trying to hug him awkwardly. Patrick pushed him away, shunning Pete for a whole ten minutes until Pete begged him to go check out the 3D motion theater. He talked Patrick into it by emphasizing that it was mostly simulation, and they eventually went from there back to the more exciting rides until Patrick was practically passing out on his feet.
Pete drove the whole way back to Chicago, Patrick sleeping in the passenger seat. They hadn't gotten out of town quite the way Pete first imagined, but leaving had been satisfactory all the same. The two of them crashing in Pete's room when they got back to his parent's place after two in the morning and slept in the next afternoon, Pete watching cartoons on Nick GAS when he just couldn't sleep anymore, looking over to smirk at Patrick every time he snored loud enough to wake himself up.
;;
Once -- one time he and Mikey stayed up all night, because Mikey kept saying he had to go home early when day finally hit. Alicia had gotten sick the night before and opted to head out of the city an evening earlier than planned, but she told Mikey to hang around. Pete had made a couple bad jokes about partying too hard in old age taking a toll on the health, and Mikey laughed lightly to humor him, promising Alicia he would come back the next afternoon and bring her medicine if she still felt like shit. And Pete thanked her for coming out, but also (to himself) for leaving Mikey behind, because it had only been a few months since they last really found time to chill, but it all added up.
So they wasted hours wide awake in Pete's hotel room. He had one good night in him, and he didn't want to waste it, although he told Mikey he just wanted to watch the Indiana Jones marathon on television, edging closer as the minutes passed. Mikey didn't try to get away. He never tried to get away, and that encouraged Pete in spite of the private mental lecture he'd given himself in the lobby and in the bathroom while he washed his hands earlier.
"Careful," Mikey said, like there was any way Pete had let his hand accidentally end up here, fingertips hidden under the hem of his t-shirt. "Man, your hands are cold."
Pete responded with added pressure, pushing the pads of his fingers into Mikey's skin and imagining that the flesh brightened in neat round circles he couldn't see through fabric. He mumbled an apology, shoved his hand higher, and said, "They're warming up."
He wasn't being smooth really, but Mikey would see through that too, so there was little point in pretending. Mikey coughed once, short and light. He said, "We're not going to."
"Yeah, I know," Pete said, lying, because he might have been hoping. Maybe. His fingers felt caged. "Happy home and all. I'm aware. You like her more than --"
"It's weird that you still do that," Mikey interrupted, and he shifted to the left, Pete's hand falling from his shirt and skin.
"Do what?"
"You rank things. Better than, not good enough -- you did it all the time."
"That's not what I do," Pete said, but it sort of made sense.
He couldn't help it. The behavior was kind of ingrained in him: which songs worked better on the album, which medicines made him feel more crazy than others, the oldest brother his parents used a model for how not to fuck up his younger siblings. Pete doubted that he was alone in dividing up things around him like that, but when it came to factoring himself into situations, Pete was just used to being an example for a certain end of the spectrum.
"Don't make it about who's better," Mikey said, not looking away from television, soft-voiced like he might have honestly believed that didn't have to be the case. Pete wanted to tell him otherwise, just so he'd know, but then Mikey pointed to the television, announcing that they were seeing Gerard's least favorite part.
He nudged Pete in his stomach, amused and mildly excited. Pete kept his hands to himself.
When the sun began to cut across the bed, shining from the window over their feet, Mikey grabbed Pete's hand and dragged him out of bed. From the hallway down to the lobby took almost no time at all, the two of them strolling silently and Mikey letting himself lean into Pete's arm, but he might've just been tired. Pete turned him inward outside of the elevator, hugged him as he pressed upward on the balls of his feet and sank again, dragging Mikey a little lower. He felt just short of silly like that, holding onto Mikey in the early morning, but Mikey never said anything about it, just told Pete to let him know when they could meet up again.
Back upstairs, Pete stepped off the elevator and tried to rub the fatigue from his eyes to no avail, only to find Patrick knocking at his door. He was in his socks, sweats and a t-shirt, face sleep puffy, and his fist slid down the door absently when he noticed Pete walking toward him.
"I fell asleep in Joe's room," he said groggily.
Pete said, "You didn't have to."
"It wasn't on purpose," Patrick said, shaking his head. Pete swiped his key card, letting them back into the room, and he took off his hoodie and draped it over the chair in the corner, watching Patrick flop onto the nearest bed, Pete's own.
"That's my spot," Pete said, tapping Patrick's foot where it dangled off the edge of the mattress.
"So," Patrick said, voice flat. Pete was almost surprised he hadn't managed to pass out again immediately, knocking his knee into Patrick's foot now and getting no reaction.
"So," Pete echoed, more airily, and he climbed onto the comforters alongside Patrick. There was enough space for two. Pete found a groove in the space next to Patrick, peering at his face with his nose scrunched up and waiting for Patrick to open his eyes, but when he did, Pete still didn't get him to jump.
Instead, Patrick asked, "Where were you coming from just now?"
"Seeing Mikey out," Pete told him, burrowing into the covers and cushion as much as possible without getting under them. "We didn't sleep."
"I don't want to know. No nightmares."
"Not like that," Pete said, smirking at the way Patrick's forehead creased as he frowned. "Just. Up. I don't know."
"Well, I'm not going anywhere," Patrick mumbled, voice softened against the blankets underneath him. "You're welcome to join."
"Thanks for the permission." Pete pat Patrick's shoulder blade, dragging his hand down lower and twisting around so that he could see Patrick easily while lying on his side.
"Anytime," Patrick said, and his eyes fluttered open again. He watched Pete, expression relaxed, and Pete felt like closing the space between them more. He sought out the extra warm, letting the weariness overcome his muscles and cataloguing the way Patrick's breath evened once he was really out.
;;
This one time Pete stood in front of Patrick and said, "What? No, what? What," over and over, stepping closer with each repeated word, cutting into Patrick's sentences until Patrick hit him in the mouth. It wasn't movie-perfect. Not one good slug to the jaw but more like Patrick reached out to push Pete's head, and then Pete shoved him back a bit, just enough, and Patrick angled a half-assed punch to Pete's chin. Even though the knuckles skid across the skin more than they connected, it still hurt like a motherfucker, and Pete cursed around a mouthful of spit as he sucked on the inside of his cheek after.
"Did you just hit me -- "
Patrick wavered noticeably. He was still angry and frustrated, but he cursed under his breath in the next moment, deflating. "Sorry -- that's -- "
And Pete didn't hit Patrick back so much as push him over. They scuffled, that was really the only word Pete could come up with for it. It was the kind of aimless rough and tumble disagreements they hadn't gotten into since being cramped in vans and sleeping on top of their own merch, Patrick immediately trying aim a blow at Pete's thighs, coming down over the muscle because he knew from experience Pete liked to have the advantage of holding people in place when he could. At the same time, Pete tried to lean into Patrick's arms, restricting the movement, because if Pete's strategy was to vice grip someone to death then Patrick just threw aimless punches until he got the upper hand.
The energy between them wasn't what it used to be during their fights, tempered by the familiarity of the situation, the way Pete knew Patrick's next move and presumably vice versa. Two minutes into it, Pete didn't even know what the fucking problem was with the song anyway, couldn't understand why Patrick wouldn't just say what he meant, and they eventually froze with Pete half-twisted around Patrick, almost on his side with his shoulder grinding into Patrick's chest and one of Patrick's wrists caught in both of Pete's hands.
"Get off," Patrick said, and Pete had to quickly stifle a laugh because -- because. He snorted, coughing on his own misplaced amusement, and Patrick voice seemed a little lighter too when he repeated himself and tried to dump Pete to the side completely.
"Okay, just," Pete said, letting Patrick's wrist free. "One to ten, how serious is your hatred for that last part?"
"Six hundred."
"That little, huh?"
"Don't be cute, dude. I'm not a fan of you right now," Patrick said, nudging Pete with his elbow sharply.
Rolling his eyes, Pete said, "Sing it then. Sing it how you want it."
He kept his ankles hooked around Patrick's left knee just to be annoying. He half expected Patrick to try to shake him off and give another excuse, trying to talk Pete in circles, but Patrick said, "Well, then get -- alright -- " and explained the change before singing it from the floor. It didn't sound bad, really. Pete still didn't like it better than his way, but he paid close attention, listening quietly and tapping out the rhythm on Patrick's ankle with his heel by the end of the second repeat.
After he stopped, Patrick concluded by saying, "So that. With the extra line instead of, I don't know. Your thing."
"It sucks," Pete said, and he suffered the blow when Patrick elbowed him harder. "Okay -- fuck, stop, okay. One to ten, dude, how dedicated to abusing me are you to get this chorus?"
"I didn't abuse you."
"Listen to me! I have a speech impediment now," Pete insisted as he untangled himself from Patrick entirely. He stood, hiking up his pants and watching Patrick sprawled on the floor. "Fine, do it your way. Let's wrap it up, so we can get out of here tonight. You probably have a dinner date with Bob."
"P.F. Chang's as a matter of fact," Patrick said, taking his turn to place an ill-timed laugh at the expression that crossed Pete's face. "Are you mad because you didn't get an invitation? You want to come? I think he wants to check out The Jazz Bakery after."
Pete said, "Ooh, date to The Jazz Bakery," holding out a hand to help Patrick to his feet. "No, I have other friends who'd actually like to hang out with me tonight. Don't do me any favors."
"It's not a date," Patrick said, brushing off his clothes as he stand in front of Pete, and then matching his gaze easily. "So we're doing the end of the song with the added part?"
"What can I say, dude? You're just so fucking irresistible when you're trying to kick my ass," Pete said, grinning at Patrick's sour face.
;;
This one time Pete stood in a jewelry store for half an hour, looking at engagement rings and pretending he was only there for the watches. The next day, he asked Jeanae if she would say yes should he ask her to marry him someday, and she said yes, then no, and settled on a slight grimace. Pete thought that summed it up relatively well.
Taking her to Europe didn't feel like a farewell tour until she went back to Chicago. Things weren't tied off nicely, but they felt final again, or maybe for the first time, and Pete let reporters sit up front with him on the couch to do interviews day after day to avoid thinking about empty space.
During flights, the four of them spent a lot of time sleeping or ignoring each other to make up for the rest of the time spent in each other's faces. Pete watched at least six in-flight movies but liked maybe two, which he made sure to mention as he recounted the plots of all of them for Patrick on the flight back to the States. Patrick rarely watched the in-flight movies. At best, he'd occasionally catch the second half of something whenever his laptop battery died mid-travel.
"Wait, wait," Patrick said. "So, who did it? Some guy?"
"No, dude, it was aliens," Pete explained again. "It was terrible. All that build up for this cop out. Fucking aliens? Terrible."
"Did you even get to see what they looked like?"
"No, they were just voices! Can you believe that?"
"It was probably a budget thing," Patrick said.
Pete shook his head. "No, I honestly bet not showing them was somebody's idea of being clever."
Patrick laughed, staring at the the screen. They were playing the informational safety video first.
Patrick turned to Pete and asked, "Are you doing more interviews during the layover in New York?"
"Nope. I don't think so," Pete said, crossing his ankles and switching the order of the Sharpie designs on the toes of his sneakers. "I think I'm done."
"Hm," Patrick said, nodding. He look down at his iPod, messing with the settings, and then asked, "Did they already say what other movies they're going to show?"
Pete smiled lightly. "Part two of the alien movie, actually."
"Oh, yeah?" Patrick said, laughing again. He glanced up at the flight attendant on the video showing him how to inflate his life vest. "You should tap me when it starts."
"It's going to be terrible, dude. I think it's one of those where the whole cast is different -- different characters who don't know it's aliens."
"Yeah, but I kind of want to see just how bad now," Patrick said, and Pete laughed. He promised that, sure, he'd nudge Patrick. He could see the disaster on film for himself and confirm Pete's review of the whole concept. That is, if he could tear himself away from Garageband long enough.
Patrick said, "No, I want to. You and me. I'll watch and you can compare it to the first one for me."
;;
And then once -- one time, Pete frowned as he craned forward, the expression painted across his eyes and brow more than his mouth as he reached Patrick. He knew, to some extent, how it would go and still found himself inconveniently pleased when Patrick kissed him back. It was calm, maybe even sweet, and Pete's hand had somehow made its way to Patrick's side during the commotion.
Pulling back, Pete cleared his throat, and Patrick licked his lips. His voice wasn't really measured or careful as he said, "Mm -- don't. I, uh. I need to buy milk."
"Yeah," Pete said, because that was -- Patrick had the right idea. There were bad moves, and then there was kissing Patrick in the freezer section at Vons just because it felt easier, somehow. It was easier than getting into arguments with exes, easier than having to reassure a new girlfriend that the ex wasn't an issue, and easier than most of the relationships he'd had. Easier.
"I should also get -- oh, did I tell you about how I'm going to teach myself how to make pies?" Patrick said, walking around the store and looking over his shoulder to engage Pete directly. "My mom decided she wasn't down with giving me care packages anymore."
"That's -- for real? That's kind of depressing," Pete said.
Patrick nodded. "I know. She said it's because if I'd actually gone to college, I'd have graduated by now. I've outgrown the privilege. So I'm just having her give me all my grandfather's recipes."
"I'll bake for you."
Patrick snorted, then stopped to look at Pete seriously and say, "I mean. Not that I don't appreciate your act of selflessness on my behalf. Actually, I'm probably going to set myself on fire without your help."
"I'll buy you a flame retardant apron for your birthday," Pete said, and Patrick shut his eyes when he laughed. "I like my Stump original not -- "
"If you make a KFC joke right now, dude, I don't -- "
Pete zipped his lips, pushing up on his heels and then holding his arms out as if clueless to anything Patrick might've been suggesting. "Yeah, right, KFC joke. Since when am I ever that lame?"
"Let me think," Patrick said, looking up and squinting overhead as if in thought. "How long have I known you?"
"Hey -- hey, screw that, I'm funny. You thought I was hilarious when you were seventeen," Pete said, bumping into Patrick to fully express his indignation. Patrick laughed, holding his hand out to brace Pete's back as he turned his attention to the refrigerators.
He said, "Well, see, that was my problem right there."
"You're on a roll today, hating on me."
"No," Patrick said, and he stepped in a bit nearer, tilting his head inward. He didn't go so far as to lie on Pete's shoulder, but he kept his head at an angle until Pete met him partway, the side his face on Patrick's head as they stared at milk curtains.
Humming idly, Patrick tapped out a dull rhythm on Pete's back through his shirt, then finally said, "Is there really that big a difference between organic and non-organic milk?"
;;
There was this other time where Pete's bright idea of the moment was to jump from a speaker stack, landing hard on his ankle. He got right back up, ignoring the awkward pain that shot through his foot, but two songs later, he leaned over to Patrick after he finished the last line of the last chorus and said, "Dude, I feel like I broke my foot."
And that was funny, because afterward he found out that that was exactly what he'd done. The adrenaline of performance had kept him from really focusing on any damage, but his foot and ankle felt like they were on fire once he'd left the stage. They fetched ice for Pete's ankle until they could get a doctor, and then the question became whether or not it was probably best for Pete to go home instead of touring.
"This could be pretty serious," Pete said to the room as he clicked through pages on Google. The number of bodies in the room had dwindled to essential people by the time the doctor had left. "What if this stunts my growth? According to the internet, all kinds of random shit stunts your growth, and a broken bone seems, I don't know, at least more legitimate than coffee."
Joe couldn't stop laughing. "Are you implying that you think you are still growing?"
"I want to be 5'10" like Cindy Crawford," Pete said, raising his chin haughtily.
"And the internet told you it might not happen?" Andy asked.
Pete said, smirking between the words, "As someone with a little more experience with the information superhighway, I'm going to ask you not to talk to me like you don't think everything on the internet is absolutely factual -- look, this site says lifting weights even stunts your growth."
Laughing at his screen took his mind of his leg for a second. The medicine he'd gotten was also probably helping with that, although Pete's mind was tugged back to full attention when Patrick asked, "So, what did the doctor say about touring? Are you -- do you think maybe you won't?"
"Um," Pete said, looking down to where an ice pack was still draped over his angle. "He wants to wait a couple days. See how I feel about the cast."
"Because I'm thinking -- I mean, if you can't do it, I'd rather cancel or something," Patrick said, looking at Pete and shaking his clasped hands between his legs where they hung heavy as he rested his elbows on his thighs.
And that wasn't the best decision, Pete thought. If they really needed to, they could get a temporary bassist or postpone again. Canceling the tour would definitely be worse case scenario, but Pete looked at Patrick, taking in the calmness of his expression and -- okay. That was his only thought.
"Well," he said. "The doctor said give it a couple days. I doubt I'll -- I can do it, I think."
;;
One time, Travis retaliated against Pete putting green paint in his hair by shoving his hand, covered in blue, right into Pete's face. They spent the next ten minutes reading up on potential toxicity of the product because Pete accidentally got some in his mouth and swallowed.
"You're such a fucking child," Travis said, laughing as Pete debated calling poison control and leaning in to draw something on Pete's neck with a magic marker.
"I could die! Right here, you don't know," Pete said, shrugging repeatedly and trying to get away until Travis told to hold the fuck still. Pete sucked it up and took Travis's doodle without too much flinching then. "What are you writing?"
"My name," Travis said. "In sick-ass block letters."
"On my neck?"
Travis finished up his scribbling and stepped back. He nudged Pete's chin, getting him to look up and then tip his head to the side, exposing the skin more. He said, "Yeah, chill out. I look good on you."
"Was that intentional? Did you intend for that to come out that gay?" Pete asked, smiling before he even heard Travis whine, "Man," and then he pushed Pete to the right. Pete sometimes forgot he was like a foot shorter than Travis, stumbling aside but immediately rocking closer again once he recovered.
He liked hanging out with Travie. Travis was different enough that it wasn't like hanging out with himself but familiar enough that they understood one another on most levels. They crafted nearly a hundred pieces in seven days and still didn't feel as if they'd managed to cover all of their ideas. That was the thing about LA, it had plenty of both the genuine and the vapid to be inspirational in equal proportions. Full on ironic images and creativity, he and Travis spent a sunrise break in plain sight of the HOLLYWOOD sign pretending they weren't having intellectual conversations about things like how much the forecast and the degree of their own skepticism on a given day went hand in hand.
The point of their art, really, was to prove that nothing ever made as much sense as it should. That was another conclusion they came to, leaning against Pete's car. Travis had had cousins die, gotten hooked on pills at one point in his life, had fallen out and then reconciled with his parents, and after all of that he still had enough to keep him more than happy -- okay. Pete had experienced plenty of his own milestone events, things that people wrote novels about later on, and he always came out on the other side. They had the same knack for stubborn perseverance, which just happened to be the concluding point of one of their last conversations before getting back in the car.
"Yo, who's out here?" Travis asked. "Let's crash somebody's party. Is Patrick at his apartment?"
"No, I think he's somewhere with Elisa. They're traveling or visiting his parents or something," Pete said, because actually, Pete wasn't sure. He and Patrick communicated through text messages more than phone calls during off periods. It was their best version of keeping distance and getting individual perspective when they've spent so much time being halves of a creative whole. Something like that.
Travis asked, "You don't know?"
"Not -- I haven't actually talked to him," Pete said. It didn't seem that out of the ordinary until he started to say it aloud.
"Call him."
Pete said, "No I'm gonna -- let's leave him alone. He sees my ugly mug all the time."
"Which is why I'm shocked you're refusing now," Travis said, and Pete laughed, using the burst of sound to roll-off continuing the discussion.
;;
Because truthfully, this one time they flew to Russia in the middle of January, and they were there for a reason, they were. It was just easy to forget what that reason might have been when they spent the first day landed lounging in the hotel. The television was huge, flat and wide, and Pete watched from the foot of the bed, looking back every time Hemingway moved on the bed to get away from Patrick's toes.
"What are you doing to my dog?" Pete asked.
"He's warm," Patrick said, scooting down on the bed. "And he just happens to be in line with where my legs are. He's invading my space."
"Your legs aren't that long. Nice try."
Patrick inched his way down the bed more anyway, making Hemingway try to crawl away on his belly. Pete reached out to catch Patrick's ankle, pinching his fingers around the bone.
"Stop," Patrick said, sitting upright to reach over his legs and swat at Pete's hand. "Hey -- quit it."
"What, this is just where my arm happens to go. When I stretched back, this is where I landed," Pete said, holding onto Patrick even though Patrick tried to kick him loose without hitting Hemingway. He could've done better if it wasn't for the way he also kept giggling despite himself. Pete had accidentally discovered that Patrick was unnaturally ticklish around the ankles when Patrick was nineteen, and he didn't remember exactly how anymore, but it was still something Pete appreciated whenever he remembered to exploit it.
"Okay," Patrick said, trying to hold onto Pete's wrist. "Okay, okay."
Pete relented, letting up enough that he wasn't restraining Patrick's leg. Patrick took the opportunity to scramble back toward the top of the bed.
Pete watched him make his distance, slumping against the headboard, and then he said, "I feel like I'm on a honeymoon, or, uh. Something where you're isolated in other countries -- locales or whatever."
"Nobody honeymoons in Russia," Patrick said. He looked to his side, pushing his laptop away from him a bit more and sliding down on the comforters until he was lying out fully. If Pete reached out again, he might be able to flick Patrick's toes.
"If people were smart, they'd honeymoon here," Pete said. "In warm places, you want to go out and chill on the beach and stuff. Places like this, especially if it's cold -- that's more excuse to stay inside and, you know."
"Oh, I know. I still wouldn't honeymoon in Moscow," Patrick said, pawing around his side and squirming. Pete watched him pull a phone from under himself -- Pete's own iPhone. Patrick held it above himself, messing with the screen and then aimed it at Pete. "Be still for a second."
Pete wasn't moving already, so he disobeyed Patrick and pushed his face closer to Hemingway. The second after Patrick made a small noise in his throat and set the camera aside, signaling Pete's freedom again, Pete said, "You'd honeymoon in Chicago."
"You remember that time we went downtown for the air show?" Patrick asked suddenly, lifting his head to catch Pete's eyes. When Pete nodded, Patrick flopped back again, and Pete pushed himself onto the bed completely, making his way higher until he sat on his knees at Patrick's side.
They'd gone downtown a couple different years to watch the planes fly overhead since Pete had known Patrick, but one trip was a much bigger disaster than the other. One year they never even made it the actual air & water show. The whole incident had been aggravating, but that morning, before everything had gotten blown to hell, Patrick had kissed Pete hello in the doorway to Pete's bedroom. Pete hadn't known if it was because Patrick had spent all night trying to figure out some song and was still more wired than rested, or if he was just feeling affectionate, or whatever else, but it had been the best part of Pete's day. He still preferred that year over the one where they actually saw the air show.
It had been the best worst day, Pete thought, and smirked to himself. Situations like that were sort of typical of them in a way too. They tended to keep one another on their toes. It wasn't that they couldn't be together, Pete remembered sometimes, it was that -- that. He tended to get stuck figuring out the second portion of the logic. That probably said something about them as well.
"Or pretty much any time I've done 4th of July on the lake," Patrick said now. "I'm just pointing out that Chicago has plenty of things that could be cheesy honeymoon activities."
Pete laughed, bumping his hand on Patrick hip as he said, "Dude, if you try to keep whoever you marry downtown for a week or whatever, we really can't be friends anymore. I'll take whoever on a honeymoon for you if I have to."
"I'm kidding! Mostly. All jokes for the most part," Patrick said, and Pete uncurled himself so he could lie down next to Patrick, his face easily pressed into Patrick's warm side when he edged his head closer. "I do really like the air shows though. We should go this year."
"Mhm," Pete said, and he felt unexpectedly sleepy. Days spent in Moscow hotel rooms, man. Lazy days spent. They wore him out.
Patrick turned up the television, then set down the remote on Pete's arm, balancing it carefully. As it settled, he slid his arm up, letting it fall against Pete's neck, fingertips grazing his shoulder, and Pete inhaled.
;;
This one time, thirty minutes before a show, Patrick stopped in front of Pete where he sat pulling on his socks and said, "You know, when I met you I thought you'd be taller?"
"Is that why you seemed less than impressed?" Pete said, taking a moment to then tug on his shoes.
Patrick shrugged, completely abandoning the song he'd been singing to warm up. He said, "That and you were annoying. No, I think I expected some dude with huge guns. Some tough dude who got into fights with people for looking at him crazy, I don't know why. Sometimes people talked about you like you were intense."
"I could've been that guy," Pete said, missing whatever expression crossed Patrick's face in reaction as he bent down to lace his sneakers.
Above him, Patrick said, "No, it's fine. I didn't really want to meet that guy anyway."
"Whatever, you stuck around," Pete said. "Even without tickets to the gun show."
Patrick laughed, tugging his shirt down. He picked up the song he'd been singing mid-verse, and then briefly paused again to say, "Okay, true. More than a few years later even."
"Yeah, you probably want me," Pete said, and he laughed as Patrick rolled his eyes. Patrick called him absurd, and then a couple other less classic adjectives, and Pete just held onto his smile all through the rest of their backstage wait, right into performance.
Thanks, as always, to the people I harass online with the things I write, particularly teaspoon and jadziadrgnrdr. The EPMD song Patrick references is "The Fan," while Pete references Aaron Tippin's "Big Boy Toys" and then later quotes a line from Clueless. Remaining mistakes are all my fault as usual, and feeding the animals is always cool. Inspired by this prompt from warmingweather.