Fic: Polaris. (Patrick/Frank) R.
Title: Polaris
Pairing: Patrick Stump/Frank Iero, random others in the background
Rating: R
Summary: Have you ever seen the movie 'Sliding Doors'? Yeah, this is that, only with boys in the Chicago emo/hardcore scene. Set in 2003; just tilt the scene a little one way or another, and you could very well have had this.
Disclaimer: However, its clearly an AU.
Notes: For the damnyouwentz "These Teen Hearts" Fic Exhange. Written with love for jenish, beta by schuyler
“Son of a bitch,” Patrick kicked the doorframe a few more times for emphasis.
“I’m really sorry about this, guys,” Tom said from the doorway. He was already half-outside. “I just. I can’t afford to not do what they tell me. They let me take a year off, but we still aren’t there, and. Look, my parents made it pretty clear that I’m on my own otherwise and I just can’t make it work.”
“That’s bullshit,” Bill whined from where he was still sitting on the sofa.
The sofa in Patrick’s Mom’s house. Where he still lived. As much as he wanted to beat the crap out of something right now, Patrick knew when he couldn’t throw stones. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“It’s not. He has to do what he has to do, and if that means school in Pennsylvania, then. That’s it.” Nick nodded in agreement and Jon sighed heavily.
“Thanks, man,” Tom said quietly. “I’ll see you guys around, okay?” And he was gone, down the driveway in his beat up sedan and off to college.
“Now what?” Jon asked from the rocking chair by the window. The four remaining members of Polaris looked at each other blankly.
Patrick kicked the doorframe again and then slid down it and rested his head in his hands. “I guess we find a new guitarist.”
*
“It’s not like its going to grow new numbers, Patrick,” Nick said with a laugh. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat down at the stained kitchen table. It wobbled a bit and he didn’t even have to look when he kicked the book holding up the leg back into place.
Patrick had been staring at his phone for ten minutes. He’d called everyone he knew who could play, or who used to play, or who might know a kid who played. No one could fill in long-term and Patrick was loathe to just start working with subs. They’d had a rickety start with Bill on guitar and Patrick had already had to re-teach all the lead parts to Nick. Which had been easy as hell, but still. There weren’t a lot of guitarists in the world as easy to work with as Nick Fucking Wheeler.
“Did you talk to Pete?” Nick asked. Patrick stared at him.
“No. I’ve been freaking out about this for days, and I didn’t think to call the one guy who knows the whole fucking Chicago scene,” he replied sarcastically. Nick didn’t even flinch.
“And?”
“And what? And he doesn’t have any bright ideas, other than the kid who bought Pete’s old guitar from him two months ago. But I’m pretty sure he just uses it to jack off and pretend Pete’s there, so.”
Nick grimaced and put his beer down on the table with a thump. ‘Oh, fuck, that’s. You could have said ‘He doesn’t know anyone’ and left it at that. That’s disgusting.”
“Like guys don’t jack off to pictures of your boyfriend on a daily basis?” Patrick ducked reflexively as Nick swung at his shoulder. Nick’s boyfriend had just started modeling in New York and it was quickly becoming the best joke in the band. Nick was less than thrilled, but he still stuck photos from Tyson’s Abercrombie shoot all over their fridge.
When Patrick was out of the line of fire and Nick had gone back to his beer, he looked up and said “Pete thinks we should quit looking for guitarists and try to find a drummer.”
It was a solid ten seconds before Nick answered, confused, “But. We have a drummer. You are our drummer.”
“Yeah, well.” It was a long-standing argument between Patrick and Pete. Pete thought it was outrageous that Patrick didn’t play guitar with Polaris. “You write the songs, dude! Bill’s good, but you should be out there playing them, and singing them! Its fucked up,” he’d said again at lunch the day before. But Patrick was happy on drums. He was happy to let Bill prance around the stage and let Nick be the guitar god and sit in the back with his kit firmly planted between him and the fans. There was a long career in Patrick the Drummer.
But desperate times called for desperate measures.
“If we can’t find a guitarist, we need to find a drummer. I can play rhythm no problem.”
He picked up his phone and re-started his mental list.
*
Bryar laughed at him until Patrick told him to go fuck himself.
*
“I wish I could, really,” Darren said, blushing. “But I’ve kind of been working on a new band with some people from school.” Darren was cute in a gangly seventeen-year-old way and was on his way to being a great drummer.
“This is a chance to really get out there,” Patrick pushed. Darren had been coming to Polaris shows for months now and Patrick thought for sure he could press him into service.
“Right, well, this one seems like it might go somewhere. And Chris is in it, so.” Patrick shook his head and couldn’t help but smile. ‘Chris the senior’, as Jon had taken to calling him, was all Darren generally talked about. “If you’d only asked me a few months ago,” he moaned, actually holding his head in his hands.
“I’m sure you guys are great,” Patrick patted him on the shoulder. He knew a lost cause when he saw one.
“You have no idea,” Darren started. “We have this girl who is amazing, it’s crazy…” Patrick nodded through the conversation, already shuffling through his list.
*
Andy was a little busy at the moment. Also, “I will rip your dick off with my bare hands if you steal my drummer,” Pete had growled when Patrick approached Andy after an Arma Angelus show that weekend.
Butcher was backing both a jazz band and a ska band, and also he scared Patrick, but just a little bit.
College. Jail. Shitty drummer when sober. The list just kept getting more depressing.
*
“You know you miss it, Bob,” Patrick pleaded. Patrick had cornered him teching a particularly lame band from Ohio at a local venue. “You know you can play better than that guy!” The band’s drummer was still on stage hitting on a girl who was clearly underage and underdressed.
Bryar snorted and recoiled an amp wire. “How many times am I going to have to turn you down, little man?” Patrick grunted and shoved him a little. “Do you have any idea how much I’m making right now?” Patrick glared and crossed his arms. Bob appreciated a good glare. “Enough to keep me sleeping in a bed that’s mine, and not on people’s sofas. Enough to stop eating pop tarts for good. NO.”
Patrick turned to leave before he put a foot through one of Bob’s precious speakers in frustration.
“If you’re still looking for a guitarist, I might have a lead though.”
Bob was grinning when Patrick turned around. “You can lead with that next time, motherfucker.”
Bob smiled. “You remember Pencey Prep?”
Patrick’s internal music encyclopedia was extensive, but it still took him a while to land on the obscure Jersey band. “They had a big song last summer, right? Something about waves? I think the bridge had this chord change -“
“Most people would just say ‘oh, yeah, the guys who looked like trailer trash in ties’, but yeah. They broke up. I teched a few Midwest shows for their tour and keep in touch with some of them. I think the guitarist moved out here. Could be something.”
Leave it to Bob Bryar to vague it up, Patrick thought. “Is he any good?”
“He’s a fucking madman on stage, but if you need solid rhythm guitar, he’s a good bet.”
“Yeah, okay,” Patrick nodded. “Worth a shot.”
“Cool,” Bob hoisted the speakers onto his dolly and carefully laid the cords around it. “I’ll try and dig up a number for you.”
“Thanks.” Patrick was probably counting his chickens, but he was already relived. “What’s his name anyway?”
“Frank… something with a lot of vowels.”
*
“You think he’ll work out?” Jon was sprawled on the ratty couch in the apartment he shared with Nick and, for all intents and purposes, Bill. Patrick sighed and clicked past MTV2 and stopped at a medical show on some Discovery channel. They were removing a ninety-pound tumor from some poor guy’s abdomen and Jon and Patrick both winced, then watched another fifteen minutes of the show in silence.
“I hope so,” Patrick said at the commercial break and Jon nodded. “I mean, I didn’t actually meet him. We just emailed a few songs to each other. The Pencey stuff is -” He shrugged. “I mean, they aren’t great, but his playing seems really solid.”
“Which songs did you send him?” The coffee table creaked menacingly when Jon swung his feet onto it.
“Dead Away, Francine, some of the new ones.”
“You mean ‘I’m Fucked, You’re Fucked, Let’s Get Fucked Up and Fuck’? ”
Patrick glared at him. “For the four hundredth time, we are not calling it that.”
“But it’s so catchy!” Nick called from his room and Jon laughed.
“We are not doing long-ass song titles on this record!” Patrick snapped back. “It’s lame!”
“What’s lame?” Bill wandered in from Jon’s bedroom in nothing but his threadbare jeans.
“You,” Jon and Patrick replied in unison and Bill sniffed.
“Whatever. You meet the new guy yet?” He sat on the sofa and tucked his feet under him. Patrick could see a faint bruise on his shoulder and another peeking out from where his jeans lay dangerously low on his hips. He wondered if they were from a show, or from Jon. Not even Nick could figure out when the two of them hooked up, or how often. But from the way Bill winced a little when he shifted and Jon blushed and stood up, collecting beer bottles and bringing them into the kitchen, Patrick was pretty sure he could place those bruises squarely in the ‘hook-up’ column. He grinned into his cup.
“Not yet,” Nick said from his doorway, grinning knowingly at Patrick. “He’s coming to rehearsal Thursday, and we’ll see.”
“I hope he’s hot. I looked online but there aren’t a lot of pictures of the band. And I think he had dreads in one,” Bill wrinkled his nose in distaste and flopped back on the couch. Jon kicked at him as he walked back in, missing Bill’s leg by inches. “What?” Bill grinned up at him. “I like hot, sue me.”
Jon shook his head, but he was smiling. “Shallow motherfucker, aren’t you?”
“Look,” Patrick stood up and grabbed his bag from the floor. “I don’t care if the guy looks like Meatloaf. If he can play and he’s not a dick, he’s in. We have four shows booked starting in August and if we don’t,”
“Hey, whoa.” Nick caught his flailing arm and tucked him into a loose headlock. Patrick struggled for a second before going limp with a heavy sigh. “We’re fine, Mr. Negative,” Nick whispered in his ear. “Just chill out, or you’ll freak out the kids.” Patrick could almost feel Bill and Jon rolling their eyes.
“Fine, just let me go fucker.” Nick gave him a smacking kiss to the top of the head and Patrick stood up looking rumpled and resigned.
“We’ll find out Thursday.” Nick walked him to the door. “Try not to have a heart attack before then, okay?”
“I’ll do my best,” Patrick muttered and headed home for family dinner night.
*
Patrick showed up to Bill’s parents’ house an hour early for practice. Mrs. Beckett let him in with a smile and offered him vegan cookies and a beer. Patrick said yes to both. Bill got home from the apartment fifteen minutes later and dragged Patrick upstairs while he changed.
“You nervous?” he asked, tugging on a threadbare t-shirt while Patrick studiously picked at his guitar.
“No,” Patrick lied. A chord caught him, melody tingling from his fingers down his spine, and he played it a few more times until he had it committed to memory. He grabbed a notebook from Bill’s desk and scribbled a few bass lines to try out when he had time, then a possible bridge. When he looked back up, Bill was grinning at him, book open on his lap.
“That’ll be something by next rehearsal.”
Patrick snorted. “Probably not.”
“Well, you just spent thirty minutes on it.” Patrick blinked at his watch and Bill laughed. “It kept you from worrying at least,” he tugged Patrick into the hall and down to the basement where Jon and Nick were already setting up.
They made it through a few fixes from the last show before there were footsteps on the stairs. “I think this belongs to you?” Mrs. Beckett smiled and Patrick looked up to see a boy scuffing his foot on the carpeting. His dark hair fell across light eyes and his smile was nervous but real. Patrick’s eyes were drawn to his mouth where his tongue flicked against a small lip ring. He was beautiful. Patrick’s mouth went dry.
“Hey,” the guy said. “I’m, um.”
“Hey, Frank,” Nick slung his guitar behind his back and stepped forward to shake Frank’s hand. “Nick Wheeler. Thanks for coming.”
Frank relaxed a fraction and propped his battered guitar case against a worn easy chair. “We’ll see, I guess. I haven’t played in three months.”
“Miss it?” Nick grinned and Frank laughed.
“Fuck yeah.” Frank was dressed almost entirely in black-combat boots, jeans, long sleeve t-shirt under a Midtown hoodie. His nails were black too. He was the archetypal rockstar and Patrick instantly regretted his choice of polo shirt and khakis.
“Good to hear,” Bill chimed in. “I’m Bill, vocals.” He turned to Patrick with wide eyes. He’s fucking gorgeous, Bill’s eyes said, head nodding to where Frank was peeling out of his hoodie and strapping his guitar on. Yes, thank you, I’m not blind, Patrick tried to telepath back at the same time Nick said “This is Jon, on bass, and the dude making bizarre faces back there on the drums is Patrick.”
Patrick flushed. “Hey, yeah. Good to meet you.”
“You’re the guy who sent me the songs?” Frank tucked a pick into his fret and stuck a hand out to shake Patrick’s. His grip was warm and tight and Patrick stuttered a bit on his reply.
“Yeah, I’m. You got them okay?” He spun his sticks absently and Frank nodded.
“They’re really good. A little less screaming than the stuff I usually back,” he said with a wry grin. “But really good.”
Bill slid up behind Frank and Patrick could tell by the height difference that Frank was about his height, if that. Not that Bill will care, he thought with a grin as Bill noted with uncharacteristic modesty that the songs were much better now than on the old recording. “Nick is far better technically,” he noted. “And I found that I’m much closer to the audience now that I don’t have the burden of the guitar standing between me and the fans.”
Jon snorted and Nick hid a grin by busying himself setting up an amp for Frank’s guitar. Patrick just shook his head and smiled. “We’re okay. Is there one you wanted to start on?”
Frank plugged in and bit his lip thoughtfully. Patrick’s stomach fluttered and he blinked, surprised. “Dead Away, I guess? If I can’t do the hard one, no sense wasting your time.”
“Cool,” Patrick collected himself enough to count out the opening. Halfway through the song, Patrick was convinced that not only could Frank play well enough to do in a pinch, he was possibly one of the best players on the scene. He played through the song without a hitch until the last verse when he switched up two progressions and ended the song a third down from Nick, giving the song a startling, haunting final tone.
“Sorry,” he was a little flushed, his hair curling around his ear. “Is that okay? I mean, I don’t know how you guys work collaborations, but I came up with it a few days ago and thought it added something…” He was looking at Bill and Nick expectantly.
Nick shook his head and smiled. “Hey, I though it was fucking brilliant, but you’d have to ask the maestro over there.” He pointed to Patrick and Frank turned, surprised.
“You wrote this?”
Jon picked idly at his bass. “Patrick writes everything. Bill helps with lyrics and we all, you know, tweak. But its Trick’s show.”
Frank stared at him. “How old are you?” he blurted and Bill laughed.
“Nineteen,” Patrick swallowed and rubbed his hands on his pants. “Bill and Jonny won’t be nineteen until fall,” he started defensively, “so I don’t see -“
“Hey, no, that’s.” Frank waved his hand like it didn’t matter. “I was just surprised. Not many teenaged drummer/songwriters where I come from.”
“Oh.”
Frank smiled at him. “So?” He paused and Patrick furrowed his brow in question. “Was that okay? The change?”
“Yeah, no. That was really good.” Frank beamed and Nick hooted.
Jon stomped his foot to get their attention. “That’s excellent,” he noted wryly, looking at his watch, “but some of us have grownup jobs to get to after this.” Patrick threw a drumstick at him and Nick flipped him off. Frank laughed.
“Okay, New Guy. Let’s see what else you’ve got.” Nick winked and the next two hours flew by so fast Patrick barely registered anything but the intensity Frank brought to each song, and the way he tended to bend over to get as much reach as he could with each chord.
We’ve got a new guitarist, the practical half of his brain sighed in relief. Well, shit, the half still staring at Frank’s ass replied.
*
Nick invited Frank and Patrick back to the apartment after rehearsal, Nick jotting directions on the back of a take-out menu. They spent a few minutes hanging around in the kitchen talking favorite albums when Nick asked, “Can I get you something, Frank? A beer? I think I have enough ham for a sandwich.” Nick was unfailingly polite in all situations.
“I’m a vegetarian,” Frank said, blushing. “But a beer would be cool.”
Nick groaned and got up to grab a beer for Frank. “Honestly, how can you people survive?” he groused from behind the door.
“It’s not.” Frank stammered. “I mean, its cool, right? I’m not all Nazi about it, it’s just something I feel like,”
“Relax,” Patrick grinned at him. “Nick’s just pissed he’s still the only carnivore in the band.” Frank blinked for a second and beamed at him. “Seriously, take a look.” Frank peered around Nick’s shoulder and laughed.
The fridge at Jon and Nick’s was perpetually full of beer and veggie pizza and boca burgers except for one shelf labeled “Meat is Murder”. Nick had adamantly refused to stop eating steak when he moved in and kept his offensive cold cuts and leftover chicken and penne separate. The shelf had been labeled by Andy on a visit about three months after Nick moved in. It tickled Nick so much he’d left it. “Keeps your grubby hands off my bacon more than anything else,” he’d laughed when Jon asked him.
“At least my food is still safe,” Nick grumbled and sat back down.
*
It was a little over two weeks later when Patrick looked up to find Frank standing in the doorway to his bedroom. It was a Sunday afternoon and Patrick hadn’t slept in about twenty-nine hours thanks to a song with a fucked up bridge that Patrick only recently realized needed either a good sparse rap (which was a bad plan, especially in relation to Bill Beckett) or a glockenspiel (which none of them knew how to play).
So when Frank appeared, dressed in his ratty black jeans and a green t-shirt that made his eyes look gold, Patrick was fully prepared to accept it as a hallucination.
“Hey,” Maybe-Frank said from the doorway with a shy smile. “Your mom let me in.”
“Right,” Patrick blinked back at him.
“You said it would be cool if we went over some of those key changes today? I have a job interview tomorrow, so I won’t have time before practice...” He was still standing in the doorway, eyes glancing off surfaces in the room, and Patrick stood abruptly and shifted a pile of junk off of his bed.
“Sure, yeah,” he kicked a pile of comics and half written songs under his desk. “Come on in,” he finished, but Frank was already sitting on Patrick’s bed, kicking off his sneakers and tucking his feet under his knees.
Frank gestured at Patrick’s open laptop. “Working on something new?”
“More like its working on me,” Patrick sighed and saved the song, closing the computer with a click. “Been up for hours trying to figure it out.” He rubbed his eyes. “You ever get the idea a song is mocking you?”
“Dude, if songs ever talk to me like they talk to you, I’ll count myself lucky.” Frank smiled widely at him and Patrick flushed.
“I thought you wrote a bunch of stuff with Pencey?” he asked. He’d bought the album when Bob gave him Frank’s number a month ago, and Frank’s name dotted the liner notes.
Frank snorted and tucked his guitar strap over his shoulder. “Yeah, that’s one way of putting it. It was like pulling fucking teeth, man. Every note. Trust me, I’m much happier having a musical genius do all the work. Then I can just show up and get laid.”
Patrick laughed, still blushing. “Genius is a little strong, I think.”
“Not if you ask Nick,” Frank noted seriously, and started on the chorus of one of their newer songs. Patrick picked up his acoustic and started playing the lead part along with him and Frank nodded while Patrick filled in the vocals. When they got to the end of the song, Frank was staring at him openly.
“What?”
“Jesus.” Frank shook his head. “You can sing too? I mean seriously. You’re bad at something, right? ‘Cause otherwise you’re gonna give me a complex.”
“I’m not-”
“Shut up,” Frank said, but he was smiling. His hands were still moving on his fret and Patrick watched, fascinated by the way his tattoos blurred as he played.
“Why Halloween?” Patrick asked curiously.
“It’s my birthday!” Frank smiled. “Check this one out.” He tugged his shirt up his back and turned until Patrick could see the eerie lines of a jack-o-lantern between his shoulder blades.
“Cool,” Patrick replied and slipped his hands under his thighs to keep from tracing the lines with his fingers. “You like Nightmare Before Christmas?” he asked and Frank’s face lit up.
“Duh. I fucking love Tim Burton.”
“You should meet my best friend,” Patrick grinned. “He’s got an arm devoted entirely to Jack Skellington.”
“Sounds like you’ve got decent taste in best friends.”
“Yeah,” Patrick rolled his eyes. “Just do me a favor and never tell him that. His ego doesn’t need it.”
“No problem.” Frank leaned forward and repositioned his guitar. “Back to work, Boy Genius. I’ve still got to figure out what the hell to wear to this thing tomorrow so they’ll think I’m a productive member of society.”
“Gloves?” Patrick suggested sarcastically and Frank stuck his tongue out.
They played so long that Patrick’s mom invited Frank to stay for dinner, talking at the table about Frank’s family back in Jersey and funny tour stories, and good vegetarian restaurants in Chicago and their favorite hip-hop albums. By the time Frank pulled down the Stumph’s driveway at nine o’clock, Patrick was in love.
“I’m going to bed, Mom,” he yelled morosely as he climbed the stairs to his room.
*
“Fuck,” Frank stood in the dim hallway next to the club bathroom. His hands tapped out a random rhythm on his thigh and his eyes were wide. “I’m not sure if. Maybe we should have given it another few weeks,” he whispered harshly to Patrick. The opening band was tearing down and Patrick was half watching through the side door to the stage, making sure they didn’t touch his kit.
“You’ll be fine,” he replied absently and winced as one of the kids onstage almost tripped over a cable.
“But Patrick,” Frank sounded pretty freaked and Patrick turned and placed a hand on his arm.
“You’ll be fine. You know the music. I know you do. You get lost anywhere, you just turn and play to me until you’re back, okay?” He smiled, forcing down his own normal bout of pre-show jitters.
Frank pulled a thin smile in return and nodded in thanks and Patrick’s stomach twisted. Yeah, ‘cause Frank playing directly at you is a great idea, he thought stupidly.
“Hey,” Frank leaned against the wall and took a drag off his cigarette. (“You can’t fuck with a pre-show ritual,” he’d grinned when Bill had glared at him and moved further down the hall.) “If this goes okay, I think I should warn you...” he blushed a little and Patrick leaned on the wall next to him to avoid staring at Frank’s lip ring.
“Yeah?” he prompted and pulled his feet out of the way as the openers rolled their equipment past.
“When I get into a song, like click into it? I kind of,”
“Yeah, Bryar told me you might need to be sedated.” Patrick laughed and Frank kicked him with a scuffed Van.
“No, for real. Rehearsals aren’t that big a deal, but there’s something about audiences. I just,” he looked up at Patrick through dark lashes. “Don’t judge me,” he grinned. Patrick just nodded seriously.
“I’ll do my best.”
Five songs in, Patrick wasn’t sure Frank was the same person anymore. Jon had fled to the edge of the stage and Nick kept laughing and looking back at Patrick with a what the fuck? expression. Patrick missed most of the looks. He was fixated on Frank who was currently on his knees in front of Bill, looking up through sweat soaked hair, lips parted, eyes black. He was basically playing the bridge directly at Bill’s cock as Bill reached down and tugged on his hair. Bill was loving every minute of it. The crowd was too.
More than that, Frank had yet to hit a single wrong chord, even after almost decapitating Nick with his fret as he spun his guitar all the way around his body.
Patrick was still making sure Nick was okay when the audience roared and Frank was right there, hovering over Patrick, playing down at him from the top of Patrick’s bass drum. He smiled when Patrick looked up, and Patrick totally missed a snare part. Then he was gone, down at the front of the stage, the audience tugging at his jeans and screaming.
“Best fucking show ever,” Bill yelled at Patrick when they were finally offstage. Nick had picked Frank up in a bear hug, grinning.
“Crazy motherfucker!” Jon laughed at Frank and smacked him on the back as Nick set him down.
Frank just blushed and grinned like an idiot. They were loading up the van when he tugged Patrick aside. “It was okay, though, right?” he asked, still smiling but serious. “I mean, I know I freaked you out a little --”
“No,” Patrick cut in. “It was perfect.” They grinned at each other until Jon hooked an arm around Frank’s shoulders and hauled him off.
“Time to meet your adoring public, Iero.”
*
Pete threw an end-of-summer party at his house and the entire Chicago hardcore scene showed up. Patrick was sure, once again, that the Wentzes were going to have their own special section in heaven based on the shit they let Pete get away with. There were enough straightedge kids that the drunken antics were pretty minimal, but Pete’s friends didn’t need to be drunk to be stupid.
“Trick!” Pete called out when Patrick walked in, Frank in tow. Frank had met most of them already, but parties at Pete’s were still a little intimidating and he held back by the fridge with his Heineken. “You have to see this. Dirty is going to eat this entire jar of mayo.”
Patrick stared at him for a minute before turning around and heading to the living room, Frank following at his elbow. “That happen often?” he asked.
“Too often,” Patrick sighed. “All’s fun and games until someone’s pubic hair catches fire.” Frank laughed, coughing as he choked on a sip of beer. “Here, let me introduce you to some not crazy people.”
An hour later, Patrick was sprawled out on the floor of the basement with Joe in a heated argument about nihilism and grunge. Considering Joe was stoned, Patrick was at a clear disadvantage. Frank was on the sofa across the room in an intense conversation with Pete. Every time Patrick glanced over Pete was a fraction closer. Frank caught Patrick’s eye at one point but looked away quickly when Pete rested a hand on his thigh, leaning in to whisper in his ear. Patrick was pretty sure he imagined the blush that crept up Frank’s neck, but when he turned back ten minutes later and the sofa was empty, he thought maybe he was right the first time.
When they didn’t come back ten minutes later, Patrick was antsy. After thirty, he was nauseous. After an hour he blew past Jon and Bill’s drunken greetings in the kitchen and drove home fast enough to scare the shit out of any pedestrian that dare stand between him and the quiet safety of his room.
He wallowed. He cursed Pete and his perfect smile and his tattoos and his flat stomach. He cursed Frank for falling for it. He cursed himself for being stupid enough to fall for someone in his own fucking band.
When Frank showed up thirty minutes late to rehearsal the next day, claiming that he got lost (“All the streets out here are fucking circles, man!”) and sporting a hickey the size of a walnut on his neck, Patrick flew past wallowing into blind rage.
Fucking PETE and his fucking MOUTH, he thought. “Nice of you to join us,” he said icily. Fine, if he wants to be a WHORE, he thought. “We’re on the new piece, if you care.”
Frank blinked at him. “Yeah, okay. Sorry.”
Patrick glared at everyone through the next song and the one after, and when Frank and then Jon messed up the bridge to Song of Sam, Patrick threw his drumsticks against the wall. “Look, if no one gives a shit about this band, just let me know,” he yelled and Nick shot Bill a look. “What, Wheeler? What the fuck?”
“Maybe.” He sighed and bit his lip. “Maybe we should call it a day. You seem like-“
“Fine, you want to fucking make this my fault, we can,” Patrick said, standing up and grabbing his bag from the floor. When he turned around, the hem of his hoodie caught on a cymbal and sent it tumbling to the floor with a crash. Frank winced and Patrick’s stomach turned. “Fuck it,” he mumbled to himself and sped up the stairs.
*
He didn’t pick it up the first three times, but when Frank’s number blinked on his cell phone for the fourth time in as many hours, Patrick sighed and flipped it open. “Yeah?” he asked, quiet and hopefully contrite. He’d been sitting in his room for a day and a half ignoring the calls from his band and feeling worse and worse about the scene he’d caused at practice.
“…Hey,” Frank said tentatively. “I had my next voicemail all planned out and now I’m a little thrown, sorry.” His laugh was nervous and Patrick tucked himself into a tighter ball on his bed.
“If you want I can hang up and let you-“
“Don’t even think about it,” Frank growled and Patrick held his breath.
“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it when I said,” he started, but Frank cut him off.
“I’m sorry, about the Pete thing.” Patrick blinked at his ceiling and clicked his mouth shut. When he didn’t say anything, Frank barreled on. “I mean, I didn’t know, and I don’t. What I mean is, I’ve made some shitty life decisions in the past and I was pretty sure I was a one-hit-wonder has-been at 22, and then I found you guys and I think. Look,” he continued and Patrick was getting dizzy. “This band is already the best thing I’ve ever done, and it’s going somewhere because of you. And if it doesn’t, your next band will, or the one after, and you bet your ass I’m going to be there. I’m riding your coattails to the top, Stumph.”
“I’m not that good Frankie,” he said quietly.
“Yes, you are. You’re brilliant. In twenty years when we’re all selling cars and insurance, you’ll be in LA or New York making great music. I just want to get as close to that as I can. And I’m not about to jeopardize that, or my friendship with you, for a random hookup. Okay?”
“Okay,” Patrick replied after a moment and he could hear Frank exhale slowly. “Just. What did you mean, you didn’t know?”
“What?”
“You said you were sorry about Pete, because you didn’t know,” he repeated, heart pounding.
“About you and Pete,” Frank’s voice was a little strained and Patrick sat up fast, shaking his head.
“Me and Pete what?”
“Bill and Joe told me,” Frank said quietly. “That you and Pete are, you know, soulmates or whatever. That’s cool, I just. I’m not gonna be the guy in the way of that, okay? I like you too much.”
“Right,” Patrick managed around the tightness in his chest. Tell him its bullshit, his cock screamed. Don’t you dare let him know why you really freaked out, his heart screamed back. “See you at practice tomorrow, okay Frankie?”
“We’re cool?” Frank sounded actually worried and Patrick forced a smile.
“Yeah, we’re cool.”
*
“So,” Pete said, sliding into the booth across from Patrick with a tray of fries and a Sprite.
“So, you’re late,” Patrick groused. He was already halfway through his pancakes.
“So,” Pete replied, not missing a beat. “I’m not sleeping with your guitarist anymore, apparently.”
Patrick choked on a bite of pancake and looked up, face flushing. “Um, okay?”
“Don’t ‘um, okay’ me, dickwad.” Pete threw a fry at him. “He called me up with some shit about not wanting to fuck things up with Polaris and that he thinks we shouldn’t hook up again, and I can only assume it’s because you went postal at rehearsal.”
“I didn’t --”
“Bill called me, freaking out by the way.” Pete chewed thoughtfully and kicked Patrick’s shins under the table. Patrick made a mental note - again - to kill Bill Beckett.
“It wasn’t a big deal. I had a bad day.” Patrick ducked his head.
“Yeah, well. The last time you had a bad day like that was the day after you saw Joe making out with Cindy Greenburg before you could ask her to prom.” Pete sat back in his seat and Patrick closed his eyes.
“Do you have a point, Wentz?” he asked tightly.
“I’m just thinking there might be some Frank/Cindy similarities, with me in the possible Joe role -”
“It’s not,” Patrick looked up sharply and shook his head, but he was already blushing to his toes and Pete’s eyes got wider. “No.”
“Oh, man. You have it so bad for this kid.” Pete grinned like a Cheshire cat and Patrick threw a plastic spoon at him.
“Fuck off. I just don’t want you to fuck with him and break his heart and have him take off back to Jersey. I have a band to think about.”
“You have your dick to think about,” Pete replied and easily dodged the projected fork. “Come on - don’t lie to me, Trick. You have, like, Bowie levels of feeling for him. Frankie is like Ziggy Stardust, Grace Jones and Joey Ramone rolled into one.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.” Patrick stared at him.
“They’re three people you wanted to bang as a kid, so yes it does, asshole.” Pete threw the spoon back and somehow managed to have it whing off the side of Patrick’s glasses - thus ensuring the most flinching and the least real bodily damage. It was a true gift of Pete’s. Patrick glared at the spoon’s betrayal.
“You like him,” Pete said, totally matter of fact.
“No.” Patrick wished he had more flatware in reach, or at least that he could be the kind of guy to chuck a knife at his best friend.”
“You do, and it’s cool. He’s a good guy.”
“Pete-”
“He’s hot, too, right? I mean, in that compact, tattooed way. Which, by the way, if that is your type, why the hell-”
“Because I don’t date guys who pay their sycophants to kick each other in the balls.” Patrick looked Pete square in the eye and they both cracked up.
“Point.”
They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Pete pushed his plate away and leaned back in his seat. “So, what are we going to do about this ‘Patrick is in love with Frank’ thing?”
“Jesus Christ,” Patrick groaned and looked around reflexively. He didn’t recognize anyone, but that didn’t mean-
“I mean, if we wait for you to make a move, you’ll be a virgin until you die.”
“I’m not a virgin, Pete.” Patrick sighed, and Pete waved his hand dismissively.
“It’s been over a year. That shit grows back, you know.” Patrick suppressed a grin with years of practice. “What you should do is, like, write him a song,” Pete said, eyes bright.
“Right, because I’m a fucking emo lame-ass, like you.” He crossed his arms.
“Okay, you could lure him to some isolated spot out by the lake.”
“Is this your date-rape fantasy, ‘cause I don’t want to know.”
“…I was going to say, and surprise him with a picnic! You are a sick motherfucker, Stumph.” Pete shook his head in mock disbelief.
Patrick groaned and thumped his head on the table, a strand of hair falling into the pool of syrup on his plate.
“’Trick. Hey, come on.”
When he looked up, Pete was smiling. “He talked about you.”
Patrick looked at him blankly.
“That night. At the party. That’s what we were talking about most of the time. You and the band and how he can’t believe you wrote all those songs. I told him you ghost wrote a bunch of mine and he said he totally doesn’t get why you’re not famous yet.”
“Have you seen me,” Patrick mumbled out his standard reply and Pete’s smile slipped a little.
“Yeah, man. I have. And I told him I don’t get it either. You’ve got to stop selling yourself -“
“Look, can we drop it? Talk about normal guy stuff for a change?” Patrick crossed his arms to keep from dumping his tray in Pete’s lap. Pete and his smile and his skin and his tiny girl jeans. Pete looked at him hard for a minute.
“Yeah, okay,” he said finally. “How about them Cubs?”
*
The band plus equipment plus Jaime plus Mike plus random other dudes plus all the merch did not all fit into Mike’s old van. They’d tried it once, for a two-week tour in Ohio, and never again. So for a Missouri tour in October, Polaris took the van and Nick’s old beat-up Chevy two door, all the merch in the back and one lucky bastard riding shotgun while Nick drove.
For the stretch of godforsaken highway from St. Charles to Columbia, MO, the lucky bastard was Patrick. They spent an hour just sitting in silence and flipping through Nick’s eighties CDs.
“So,” Nick said after they’d stopped for gas and snack food. “You and Frank.”
Patrick nearly choked on his Sprite. “So me and Frank what?” he asked cautiously.
“That’s the question, kid,” Nick glanced sideway at him and Patrick looked studiously out his window.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he lied and imagined all the ways he could kill Nick with a Slim Jim.
Nick sighed in that annoying put-upon way. “I’m saying, things have been a little weird since the whole Pete thing.”
“Look, I don’t-“ but Nick just kept talking.
“I mean, I wondered about it for a while, why were you so mad when Pete slept with Frank,”
“I’m not. Pete’s slept with most of the greater Chicago area, and I haven’t cared at all, you might remember,” Patrick said through clenched teeth.
Nick paused. “Yeah, I’d noticed that too. So the only logical conclusion is that you weren’t mad at Frank for sleeping with Pete. You were mad at Pete for sleeping with Frank.”
“That’s just,” Patrick started, blushing to his toes. But Nick pulled into the parking lot of a dingy bar with a happy “Here we are!” and hopped out of the car. By the time Patrick had untangled himself from the seatbelt and his lap of junk food, the van was there too, Frank and Bill tumbling out of the back seat laughing.
The show itself was fine, pretty good actually, and Patrick had all but forgotten his conversation with Nick when he stumbled into the cheap motel room across from the bar, exhausted and a little tipsy. Bill came along (“I’m resting my voice,” he’d screamed over the jukebox after his third Corona), leaving the rest of the band to take more advantage of the “band drinks free” policy at the bar. They each changed into clean boxers and t-shirts in the tiny bathroom and claimed one of the old double beds, Patrick falling asleep almost the second his head hit the pillow.
He woke to someone stumbling in the dark over the luggage scattered at the foot of his bed, the weight of a body hitting the mattress with a curse and then climbing up toward the headboard. Patrick was still groggy when the body shimmied under the covers and pressed up against him with a sigh.
“’lo Patrick,” Frank rumbled low in his ear, arm slung across Patrick’s chest. Patrick could hear Jon shoving Bill over and climbing into the next bed, Bill’s muffled happy noises as Jon… and Patrick really didn’t want to think about that, especially when Frank’s thumb was rubbing a tiny circle on Patrick’s hip where the cotton of his t-shirt rode up.
“Hey, Frankie,” Patrick whispered back, the words fuzzy and light. Frank sighed and rested his cheek on Patrick’s shoulder.
“I love this fucking band,” he slurred, his breath hot on Patrick’s neck. “I mean, it’s just made of awesome.”
Patrick couldn’t help a small smile even though his heart was beating a million miles an hour. “We like you too,” he said and Frank laughed.
“’s like I was supposed to find you,” he said a few minutes later, quieter this time. His arm pinned Patrick like a dead weight and if Patrick dared to turn his head, Frank’s mouth would be right there, inches away. Patrick pictured himself doing just that, tugging lightly on Frank’s lip ring with his teeth, Frank’s calloused hands sliding up the inside of his thigh…
“Yeah,” Patrick choked out and turned his head the other way. He was half-hard and Frank’s hand was six inches from his cock, which was probably a large part of the problem. He took deep, even breaths through his nose until he was pretty sure Frank was asleep and slowly rolled out of bed and slipped into the bathroom.
“Fuck,” he mouthed at his reflection in the mirror. He couldn’t risk jacking off with most of his band on the other side of the flimsy door. Jon had a nasty habit of needing the bathroom at odd hours. He sat on the toilet for a few long minutes before sneaking back into the room.
Frank was laying across the bed on his stomach, naked all the way to his boxers, tattoos dark across his back and arms. The highway rumbled outside, and under that the irregular click, click of the streetlights kept an odd beat. Patrick stared for a long time, just leaning on the wall, before he stepped over his bag and retrieved his guitar case and writing notebook and slipped back into the bathroom.
“Trick? Hey man, time to wake up,” Frank’s voice prodded him out of sleep and Patrick blinked his eyes open to see Frank’s face hovering over him. He turned his head and practically smashed his nose into the fret of his guitar. “Want to tell me why you’re sleeping in the tub?” he smiled.
“Ah, just. Song?” Patrick wasn’t very coherent before coffee and Frank laughed.
“Yeah, I figured,” he gestured to the notebook open on his lap, fully formed chorus and painful, gut-wrenching verses, and a seriously hard rhythm part for Frank. Not that Frank would bat an eye. He hauled himself upright, Frank steadying his arm when he stumbled on the slick tile. “There’s a Dunkin Donuts three doors down. I already did a run.”
“I love you,” Patrick sighed heavily through too little sleep and Frank’s hand tightened just a little. Patrick blinked down at the floor before adding, “You are the Prince of Caffeine.”
Frank let go and led them into the brightness of the motel room, both of them wincing a little. Jon was barely awake and Bill was tucked back under the covers with the remnants of a powdered sugar donut dotting the blanket. “Got you a bagel, since I know you hate sweet stuff first thing,” Frank half-smiled as he pressed the warm bagel into Patrick’s hand along with a steaming cup of coffee.
There was a quick knock and Patrick blinked in surprise when Frank leaned past him to pick up his bag, already packed and ready to go. “Nick wants to get an early start so he can stop at a music store in Springfield before the show. I’m the lucky bastard for the day.”
Bill made a noise of protest but Frank just smiled. “Early bird gets the seat in the car that doesn’t smell like feet,” he sang and slipped out the door. Patrick sighed and sat on the bed heavily. I love you? You are the Prince of Caffeine? He kicked himself the whole ride back, when he wasn’t adding to the song he’d started, bits of melody sticking to the page like gum drops.
*
The song kept him preoccupied for most of the week. He blew off a dinner with Pete and Joe, and was late to his Wednesday rehearsal, running in looking sheepish.
“Jesus, Stumph,” Nick shook his head at Patrick’s bleary eyes. “Did you sleep at all yesterday?”
“Sure,” Patrick nodded absently. “I think so. I mean, I woke up with the imprint of my keyboard on my face, so I’m assuming yes.”
Jon shook his head and laughed, shoving Bill from his lap and grabbing his bass. Frank was looking at him strangely, eyes bright but serious. “What?” Patrick asked, and Frank just shook his head, like he was clearing a thought. Patrick took his seat behind his kit and almost missed the look Frank threw to Nick. Nick just shook his head and shrugged. Patrick was going to say something sarcastic but Frank licked his lips and Patrick’s sleep-fuzzy brain stuttered.
Nick dragged them all back to the apartment for pizza afterwards even though Patrick was itching to get back to his laptop and try out a few more combinations. “You need food,” Nick noted.
“My house has food,” Patrick rolled his eyes and rolled an amp cord.
“You need the joy of human companionship,” Bill sidled up behind him and hugged him tight around the shoulder.
“Shut up,” Patrick said, but he was smiling. He caught Frank looking at him again and blushed as Bill landed a smacking kiss on his ear.
“Bill fucking loves human companionship,” Jon noted with a wink and Bill huffed indignantly.
“You want to be a Unabomber loner, that’s fine Walker. I’ll take a pile of boys any day,” he blew Jon a kiss.
The pizza was good-deep dish and full of mushrooms and peppers and onions. Patrick demolished a third slice and figured it was fine, since they were the only vegetables he’d had in days. Nick disappeared halfway through an episode of CSI to talk quietly to Tyson in his bedroom and when Bill came back from the kitchen with a fresh beer, he crammed himself onto the sofa between Jon and Patrick, climbing half in Jon’s lap and shoving Patrick practically into Frank’s.
“Sorry, sorry,” he muttered as Frank gripped his beer tighter. Bill’s long legs finally settled across Patrick’s thighs and he could feel Frank against his other side, pressed shoulder to knee against Frank’s small frame. They were exactly the same height but when Frank shifted back an inch he lifted his arm and Patrick fell closer against him, Frank’s hand circling his shoulder. Patrick’s heart pounded and he was grateful for the beer that masked his trembly fingers. On Patrick’s other side, Bill kissed Jon’s neck and Jon sighed. None of them took their eyes off the television.
Onscreen, Gil Grissom beat up a dummy with a baseball bat. Offscreen, Patrick tried not to think about the fact that Frank smelled really nice, or about the way his fingers were curled around Patrick’s shoulder blade. Frank was warm, solid and Patrick leaned closer and rested his head on Frank’s shoulder.
“Hey,” Frank’s voice was gentle and Patrick blinked his eyes open.
“What,” he started, then noticed his lap was free and Jon’s bedroom door was closed.
“They slipped in there about half an hour ago,” Frank said with a smile. “I didn’t want to wake you. You looked like you needed the sleep. But I kind of, you know, need my arm.”
“Yeah, okay,” Patrick said, thankful he didn’t sound as mortified as he felt. He leaned away and Frank dropped his arm with a slight wince. He was instantly aware of Frank’s body again, both of them squashed into half the tiny sofa. “Sorry, I should go,” he started, and Frank opened his mouth. Then he shut it quickly. Patrick swallowed hard. “Sorry,” he breathed again, eyes darting to Frank’s mouth.
“Patrick,” Frank said, strained, and Patrick was off the sofa like a shot, grabbing his jacket.
“I should, I mean I didn’t tell anyone I was coming over here, and the song needs some work so I’m gonna get home,” he rambled, scanning the room frantically for his other shoe. He shoved his foot inside it roughly and jerked the door open, leaving Frank staring after him from the sofa.
*
“Hey,” Frank said from Patrick’s doorway and Patrick jumped a foot, almost strangling himself with his headphones. “Sorry,” he added sheepishly, "your mom said-”
Patrick held up a hand to quiet him and quickly erased an errant note from the screen, closing his laptop and sitting up against the pillows on his bed. When he looked back up, Frank was standing with his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Sorry, what?”
“Your mom said to tell you there’s leftover lasagna in the fridge and she’ll be home around eleven.”
“Thanks,” Patrick nodded and Frank came in and closed the door behind him. He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed about foot from Patrick’s knees and cleared his throat. He waited so long, Patrick wondered if he’d missed the spot in the conversation that cued him it was his turn to talk.
“What are you working on?” Frank said suddenly, gaze shifting quickly to the laptop.
“Oh, just. Bill had some lyrics that I thought would go well with the new song-“
“The bathtub song?” Frank asked.
“…Yeah, and remind me to title it so doesn’t get stuck being called that,” he shook his head.
“Too late,” Frank grinned and Patrick sighed dramatically. Frank was staring at him again and Patrick flushed.
“So what,” he started.
“Nick says I’m an idiot.” Frank wasn’t looking at him anymore. He was staring at spot on Patrick’s floor where the wheel from his rolling chair had worn almost through the carpet. Patrick froze.
“Why?” he asked. His mouth had gone dry and he couldn’t stop looking at the way Frank’s fingers were twisting in his blue bedsheets nervously.
“About the Pete thing. You know, about you and Pete. We talked about it on the drive back last week.” And Patrick thought Forget Bill. I am killing Nick Wheeler with my bare fucking hands. But Frank looked at him then, eyes wide and searching, and Patrick couldn’t breathe. “So, I called Pete. And he said ‘Who the hell are you going to believe, Iero? Bill Beckett or Nick Wheeler?’ And then he called me an idiot.” Frank’s mouth quirked up at one side and Patrick felt the whole world tilt a little.
“You’re not,” Patrick started but Frank was tugging his laptop out of his hands and placing it on the desk, nodding seriously.
“I really, really am,” he said quietly as he leaned forward and cupped his fingers around Patrick’s cheek. Patrick couldn’t do anything but sigh when Frank’s lips brushed his gently, then a little firmer. Frank tasted like mint, and a little like menthol-basically perfect, hot and sweet. When Patrick opened his mouth a fraction and felt the scrape of Frank’s lip ring against his bottom lip, they both shivered and Patrick finally reached out and tucked a hand behind Frank’s neck, holding him closer.
“Frank,” he gasped when Frank pressed him backward, kisses tracing his jaw as Patrick’s head hit his pillow. They kissed for a while, Patrick’s hands sliding up under Frank’s shirt. When his hands trailed tentatively lower, Frank pulled away, grinning down at him.
“Such a fucking idiot,” he noted again, shaking his head. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do this?” Patrick blushed furiously and looked away until Frank gently kissed his cheek. His hips were pressed flush against Patrick’s and Patrick could feel the heat of his cock through layers of denim. He pushed up experimentally and Frank let out a choked laugh. “Shit, Trick,” he let his forehead fall to Patrick’s shoulder and Patrick grinned and did it again. Frank rolled his hips in response and Patrick groaned.
“Fuck,” he muttered and slipped his calf over Frank’s, arching up and breathing hard as Frank’s teeth scraped gently along his collarbone. His hips rocked up again and Frank growled low.
“Patrick, God,” he panted and slid his hand down Patrick’s side, gripping his hip and angling himself higher. “Maybe we should-“
“Don’t stop,” Patrick whispered frantically and Frank exhaled sharply and pressed down again, shifting to increase the friction. Patrick rocked against him with a cry and Frank looked down at him with something approaching awe.
“So fucking gorgeous, you have no idea,” he said, almost to himself, and Patrick flushed and tugged him down into another kiss. They were rocking against each other fast enough to shake the headboard and Patrick thought he might die from the sensation. He ran a hand down Frank’s back and over his ass and Frank’s hips jerked as he pulled him closer. “’m close,” he panted against Patrick’s cheek and god, yes. Another snap of Frank’s hips and Patrick was coming, head thrown back on his pillow. The next roll of Frank’s hips was almost too much, shocks of tingling pain following the orgasm through his fingers.
“Frankie,” he whimpered and Frank shook in his arms and gasped, coming with his face pressed in the crook of Patrick’s neck.
They lay in silence for a few longs seconds, Patrick’s fingers tracing over the bright tattoos on Frank’s arm. “That wasn’t,” Frank started, and then laughed. “Not exactly my finest hour,” he finished.
“I thought it was pretty good,” Patrick grinned and Frank kissed the corner of his mouth.
“You’re not the one who has to go home like this,” he noted wryly as he rolled to one side and tucked Patrick against him.
“You don’t have to go home,” Patrick said sleepily and burrowed into the warmth of Frank’s chest. His pants were already a little uncomfortable-sticky and rapidly getting colder. “Should take your pants off,” he mumbled and flicked his tongue under Frank’s ear. “Shirt too.”
Frank laughed. “Doesn’t solve the larger going home problem,” he noted as Patrick reached down and undid the button on his jeans.
Patrick smiled up at him. “Good thing we wear the same size.”
Frank froze and slowly shook his head. “God, you really are a genius,” he smiled.
Patrick slipped the zipper down with a sly grin. “I know.”
***
Author’s Notes: So, I get my exchange person, and its jenish! And I am squeeful because she is awesome. Also, she likes Patrick and AUs so I’m golden. Then, I’m stumped. Then I have a great idea and start to write it, and abandon it when the PROLOGUE is 2000+ words. Then I gripe to everyone I know. THEN Jj starts posting the PUPPY FIC and I am royally screwed. How do you write a fic for the girl who writes RyRo as an adorable puppy who reads!?
Thankfully, iphignia939 dropped this idea in my lap late one night (“why don’t you do a band AU? Like, what if Patrick and Jon and Nick and Frank were all in a band together??”) and it looked at me with big eyes and I had to give in. This one turned out to be more of a bear than originally intended too, and very full of words and plot. So, thanks to Gale for the bunny, and to hetrez, tobyzantium, and marigolde for letting me bounce this fic off them for weeks and weeks and for their encouragement and squee. Insane amounts of love to schuyler for obvious reasons, and also for being my go-to beta.
Hope you enjoy! (If you do, I might be tempted to write more in this AUniverse, like the part when model!Tyson comes to visit, or the bit where Nick joins the band, or the Pete/William backstory, or Brendon Urie’s love of Polaris and also Spencer, or the future!fic where Polaris tours with MCR and Bob techs and meets Gerard and there is hot Frank/Patrick/Gerard/Bob action. If you hate it, I will think about that quietly in my little corner and whimper.)
Pairing: Patrick Stump/Frank Iero, random others in the background
Rating: R
Summary: Have you ever seen the movie 'Sliding Doors'? Yeah, this is that, only with boys in the Chicago emo/hardcore scene. Set in 2003; just tilt the scene a little one way or another, and you could very well have had this.
Disclaimer: However, its clearly an AU.
Notes: For the damnyouwentz "These Teen Hearts" Fic Exhange. Written with love for jenish, beta by schuyler
“Son of a bitch,” Patrick kicked the doorframe a few more times for emphasis.
“I’m really sorry about this, guys,” Tom said from the doorway. He was already half-outside. “I just. I can’t afford to not do what they tell me. They let me take a year off, but we still aren’t there, and. Look, my parents made it pretty clear that I’m on my own otherwise and I just can’t make it work.”
“That’s bullshit,” Bill whined from where he was still sitting on the sofa.
The sofa in Patrick’s Mom’s house. Where he still lived. As much as he wanted to beat the crap out of something right now, Patrick knew when he couldn’t throw stones. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“It’s not. He has to do what he has to do, and if that means school in Pennsylvania, then. That’s it.” Nick nodded in agreement and Jon sighed heavily.
“Thanks, man,” Tom said quietly. “I’ll see you guys around, okay?” And he was gone, down the driveway in his beat up sedan and off to college.
“Now what?” Jon asked from the rocking chair by the window. The four remaining members of Polaris looked at each other blankly.
Patrick kicked the doorframe again and then slid down it and rested his head in his hands. “I guess we find a new guitarist.”
*
“It’s not like its going to grow new numbers, Patrick,” Nick said with a laugh. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat down at the stained kitchen table. It wobbled a bit and he didn’t even have to look when he kicked the book holding up the leg back into place.
Patrick had been staring at his phone for ten minutes. He’d called everyone he knew who could play, or who used to play, or who might know a kid who played. No one could fill in long-term and Patrick was loathe to just start working with subs. They’d had a rickety start with Bill on guitar and Patrick had already had to re-teach all the lead parts to Nick. Which had been easy as hell, but still. There weren’t a lot of guitarists in the world as easy to work with as Nick Fucking Wheeler.
“Did you talk to Pete?” Nick asked. Patrick stared at him.
“No. I’ve been freaking out about this for days, and I didn’t think to call the one guy who knows the whole fucking Chicago scene,” he replied sarcastically. Nick didn’t even flinch.
“And?”
“And what? And he doesn’t have any bright ideas, other than the kid who bought Pete’s old guitar from him two months ago. But I’m pretty sure he just uses it to jack off and pretend Pete’s there, so.”
Nick grimaced and put his beer down on the table with a thump. ‘Oh, fuck, that’s. You could have said ‘He doesn’t know anyone’ and left it at that. That’s disgusting.”
“Like guys don’t jack off to pictures of your boyfriend on a daily basis?” Patrick ducked reflexively as Nick swung at his shoulder. Nick’s boyfriend had just started modeling in New York and it was quickly becoming the best joke in the band. Nick was less than thrilled, but he still stuck photos from Tyson’s Abercrombie shoot all over their fridge.
When Patrick was out of the line of fire and Nick had gone back to his beer, he looked up and said “Pete thinks we should quit looking for guitarists and try to find a drummer.”
It was a solid ten seconds before Nick answered, confused, “But. We have a drummer. You are our drummer.”
“Yeah, well.” It was a long-standing argument between Patrick and Pete. Pete thought it was outrageous that Patrick didn’t play guitar with Polaris. “You write the songs, dude! Bill’s good, but you should be out there playing them, and singing them! Its fucked up,” he’d said again at lunch the day before. But Patrick was happy on drums. He was happy to let Bill prance around the stage and let Nick be the guitar god and sit in the back with his kit firmly planted between him and the fans. There was a long career in Patrick the Drummer.
But desperate times called for desperate measures.
“If we can’t find a guitarist, we need to find a drummer. I can play rhythm no problem.”
He picked up his phone and re-started his mental list.
*
Bryar laughed at him until Patrick told him to go fuck himself.
*
“I wish I could, really,” Darren said, blushing. “But I’ve kind of been working on a new band with some people from school.” Darren was cute in a gangly seventeen-year-old way and was on his way to being a great drummer.
“This is a chance to really get out there,” Patrick pushed. Darren had been coming to Polaris shows for months now and Patrick thought for sure he could press him into service.
“Right, well, this one seems like it might go somewhere. And Chris is in it, so.” Patrick shook his head and couldn’t help but smile. ‘Chris the senior’, as Jon had taken to calling him, was all Darren generally talked about. “If you’d only asked me a few months ago,” he moaned, actually holding his head in his hands.
“I’m sure you guys are great,” Patrick patted him on the shoulder. He knew a lost cause when he saw one.
“You have no idea,” Darren started. “We have this girl who is amazing, it’s crazy…” Patrick nodded through the conversation, already shuffling through his list.
*
Andy was a little busy at the moment. Also, “I will rip your dick off with my bare hands if you steal my drummer,” Pete had growled when Patrick approached Andy after an Arma Angelus show that weekend.
Butcher was backing both a jazz band and a ska band, and also he scared Patrick, but just a little bit.
College. Jail. Shitty drummer when sober. The list just kept getting more depressing.
*
“You know you miss it, Bob,” Patrick pleaded. Patrick had cornered him teching a particularly lame band from Ohio at a local venue. “You know you can play better than that guy!” The band’s drummer was still on stage hitting on a girl who was clearly underage and underdressed.
Bryar snorted and recoiled an amp wire. “How many times am I going to have to turn you down, little man?” Patrick grunted and shoved him a little. “Do you have any idea how much I’m making right now?” Patrick glared and crossed his arms. Bob appreciated a good glare. “Enough to keep me sleeping in a bed that’s mine, and not on people’s sofas. Enough to stop eating pop tarts for good. NO.”
Patrick turned to leave before he put a foot through one of Bob’s precious speakers in frustration.
“If you’re still looking for a guitarist, I might have a lead though.”
Bob was grinning when Patrick turned around. “You can lead with that next time, motherfucker.”
Bob smiled. “You remember Pencey Prep?”
Patrick’s internal music encyclopedia was extensive, but it still took him a while to land on the obscure Jersey band. “They had a big song last summer, right? Something about waves? I think the bridge had this chord change -“
“Most people would just say ‘oh, yeah, the guys who looked like trailer trash in ties’, but yeah. They broke up. I teched a few Midwest shows for their tour and keep in touch with some of them. I think the guitarist moved out here. Could be something.”
Leave it to Bob Bryar to vague it up, Patrick thought. “Is he any good?”
“He’s a fucking madman on stage, but if you need solid rhythm guitar, he’s a good bet.”
“Yeah, okay,” Patrick nodded. “Worth a shot.”
“Cool,” Bob hoisted the speakers onto his dolly and carefully laid the cords around it. “I’ll try and dig up a number for you.”
“Thanks.” Patrick was probably counting his chickens, but he was already relived. “What’s his name anyway?”
“Frank… something with a lot of vowels.”
*
“You think he’ll work out?” Jon was sprawled on the ratty couch in the apartment he shared with Nick and, for all intents and purposes, Bill. Patrick sighed and clicked past MTV2 and stopped at a medical show on some Discovery channel. They were removing a ninety-pound tumor from some poor guy’s abdomen and Jon and Patrick both winced, then watched another fifteen minutes of the show in silence.
“I hope so,” Patrick said at the commercial break and Jon nodded. “I mean, I didn’t actually meet him. We just emailed a few songs to each other. The Pencey stuff is -” He shrugged. “I mean, they aren’t great, but his playing seems really solid.”
“Which songs did you send him?” The coffee table creaked menacingly when Jon swung his feet onto it.
“Dead Away, Francine, some of the new ones.”
“You mean ‘I’m Fucked, You’re Fucked, Let’s Get Fucked Up and Fuck’? ”
Patrick glared at him. “For the four hundredth time, we are not calling it that.”
“But it’s so catchy!” Nick called from his room and Jon laughed.
“We are not doing long-ass song titles on this record!” Patrick snapped back. “It’s lame!”
“What’s lame?” Bill wandered in from Jon’s bedroom in nothing but his threadbare jeans.
“You,” Jon and Patrick replied in unison and Bill sniffed.
“Whatever. You meet the new guy yet?” He sat on the sofa and tucked his feet under him. Patrick could see a faint bruise on his shoulder and another peeking out from where his jeans lay dangerously low on his hips. He wondered if they were from a show, or from Jon. Not even Nick could figure out when the two of them hooked up, or how often. But from the way Bill winced a little when he shifted and Jon blushed and stood up, collecting beer bottles and bringing them into the kitchen, Patrick was pretty sure he could place those bruises squarely in the ‘hook-up’ column. He grinned into his cup.
“Not yet,” Nick said from his doorway, grinning knowingly at Patrick. “He’s coming to rehearsal Thursday, and we’ll see.”
“I hope he’s hot. I looked online but there aren’t a lot of pictures of the band. And I think he had dreads in one,” Bill wrinkled his nose in distaste and flopped back on the couch. Jon kicked at him as he walked back in, missing Bill’s leg by inches. “What?” Bill grinned up at him. “I like hot, sue me.”
Jon shook his head, but he was smiling. “Shallow motherfucker, aren’t you?”
“Look,” Patrick stood up and grabbed his bag from the floor. “I don’t care if the guy looks like Meatloaf. If he can play and he’s not a dick, he’s in. We have four shows booked starting in August and if we don’t,”
“Hey, whoa.” Nick caught his flailing arm and tucked him into a loose headlock. Patrick struggled for a second before going limp with a heavy sigh. “We’re fine, Mr. Negative,” Nick whispered in his ear. “Just chill out, or you’ll freak out the kids.” Patrick could almost feel Bill and Jon rolling their eyes.
“Fine, just let me go fucker.” Nick gave him a smacking kiss to the top of the head and Patrick stood up looking rumpled and resigned.
“We’ll find out Thursday.” Nick walked him to the door. “Try not to have a heart attack before then, okay?”
“I’ll do my best,” Patrick muttered and headed home for family dinner night.
*
Patrick showed up to Bill’s parents’ house an hour early for practice. Mrs. Beckett let him in with a smile and offered him vegan cookies and a beer. Patrick said yes to both. Bill got home from the apartment fifteen minutes later and dragged Patrick upstairs while he changed.
“You nervous?” he asked, tugging on a threadbare t-shirt while Patrick studiously picked at his guitar.
“No,” Patrick lied. A chord caught him, melody tingling from his fingers down his spine, and he played it a few more times until he had it committed to memory. He grabbed a notebook from Bill’s desk and scribbled a few bass lines to try out when he had time, then a possible bridge. When he looked back up, Bill was grinning at him, book open on his lap.
“That’ll be something by next rehearsal.”
Patrick snorted. “Probably not.”
“Well, you just spent thirty minutes on it.” Patrick blinked at his watch and Bill laughed. “It kept you from worrying at least,” he tugged Patrick into the hall and down to the basement where Jon and Nick were already setting up.
They made it through a few fixes from the last show before there were footsteps on the stairs. “I think this belongs to you?” Mrs. Beckett smiled and Patrick looked up to see a boy scuffing his foot on the carpeting. His dark hair fell across light eyes and his smile was nervous but real. Patrick’s eyes were drawn to his mouth where his tongue flicked against a small lip ring. He was beautiful. Patrick’s mouth went dry.
“Hey,” the guy said. “I’m, um.”
“Hey, Frank,” Nick slung his guitar behind his back and stepped forward to shake Frank’s hand. “Nick Wheeler. Thanks for coming.”
Frank relaxed a fraction and propped his battered guitar case against a worn easy chair. “We’ll see, I guess. I haven’t played in three months.”
“Miss it?” Nick grinned and Frank laughed.
“Fuck yeah.” Frank was dressed almost entirely in black-combat boots, jeans, long sleeve t-shirt under a Midtown hoodie. His nails were black too. He was the archetypal rockstar and Patrick instantly regretted his choice of polo shirt and khakis.
“Good to hear,” Bill chimed in. “I’m Bill, vocals.” He turned to Patrick with wide eyes. He’s fucking gorgeous, Bill’s eyes said, head nodding to where Frank was peeling out of his hoodie and strapping his guitar on. Yes, thank you, I’m not blind, Patrick tried to telepath back at the same time Nick said “This is Jon, on bass, and the dude making bizarre faces back there on the drums is Patrick.”
Patrick flushed. “Hey, yeah. Good to meet you.”
“You’re the guy who sent me the songs?” Frank tucked a pick into his fret and stuck a hand out to shake Patrick’s. His grip was warm and tight and Patrick stuttered a bit on his reply.
“Yeah, I’m. You got them okay?” He spun his sticks absently and Frank nodded.
“They’re really good. A little less screaming than the stuff I usually back,” he said with a wry grin. “But really good.”
Bill slid up behind Frank and Patrick could tell by the height difference that Frank was about his height, if that. Not that Bill will care, he thought with a grin as Bill noted with uncharacteristic modesty that the songs were much better now than on the old recording. “Nick is far better technically,” he noted. “And I found that I’m much closer to the audience now that I don’t have the burden of the guitar standing between me and the fans.”
Jon snorted and Nick hid a grin by busying himself setting up an amp for Frank’s guitar. Patrick just shook his head and smiled. “We’re okay. Is there one you wanted to start on?”
Frank plugged in and bit his lip thoughtfully. Patrick’s stomach fluttered and he blinked, surprised. “Dead Away, I guess? If I can’t do the hard one, no sense wasting your time.”
“Cool,” Patrick collected himself enough to count out the opening. Halfway through the song, Patrick was convinced that not only could Frank play well enough to do in a pinch, he was possibly one of the best players on the scene. He played through the song without a hitch until the last verse when he switched up two progressions and ended the song a third down from Nick, giving the song a startling, haunting final tone.
“Sorry,” he was a little flushed, his hair curling around his ear. “Is that okay? I mean, I don’t know how you guys work collaborations, but I came up with it a few days ago and thought it added something…” He was looking at Bill and Nick expectantly.
Nick shook his head and smiled. “Hey, I though it was fucking brilliant, but you’d have to ask the maestro over there.” He pointed to Patrick and Frank turned, surprised.
“You wrote this?”
Jon picked idly at his bass. “Patrick writes everything. Bill helps with lyrics and we all, you know, tweak. But its Trick’s show.”
Frank stared at him. “How old are you?” he blurted and Bill laughed.
“Nineteen,” Patrick swallowed and rubbed his hands on his pants. “Bill and Jonny won’t be nineteen until fall,” he started defensively, “so I don’t see -“
“Hey, no, that’s.” Frank waved his hand like it didn’t matter. “I was just surprised. Not many teenaged drummer/songwriters where I come from.”
“Oh.”
Frank smiled at him. “So?” He paused and Patrick furrowed his brow in question. “Was that okay? The change?”
“Yeah, no. That was really good.” Frank beamed and Nick hooted.
Jon stomped his foot to get their attention. “That’s excellent,” he noted wryly, looking at his watch, “but some of us have grownup jobs to get to after this.” Patrick threw a drumstick at him and Nick flipped him off. Frank laughed.
“Okay, New Guy. Let’s see what else you’ve got.” Nick winked and the next two hours flew by so fast Patrick barely registered anything but the intensity Frank brought to each song, and the way he tended to bend over to get as much reach as he could with each chord.
We’ve got a new guitarist, the practical half of his brain sighed in relief. Well, shit, the half still staring at Frank’s ass replied.
*
Nick invited Frank and Patrick back to the apartment after rehearsal, Nick jotting directions on the back of a take-out menu. They spent a few minutes hanging around in the kitchen talking favorite albums when Nick asked, “Can I get you something, Frank? A beer? I think I have enough ham for a sandwich.” Nick was unfailingly polite in all situations.
“I’m a vegetarian,” Frank said, blushing. “But a beer would be cool.”
Nick groaned and got up to grab a beer for Frank. “Honestly, how can you people survive?” he groused from behind the door.
“It’s not.” Frank stammered. “I mean, its cool, right? I’m not all Nazi about it, it’s just something I feel like,”
“Relax,” Patrick grinned at him. “Nick’s just pissed he’s still the only carnivore in the band.” Frank blinked for a second and beamed at him. “Seriously, take a look.” Frank peered around Nick’s shoulder and laughed.
The fridge at Jon and Nick’s was perpetually full of beer and veggie pizza and boca burgers except for one shelf labeled “Meat is Murder”. Nick had adamantly refused to stop eating steak when he moved in and kept his offensive cold cuts and leftover chicken and penne separate. The shelf had been labeled by Andy on a visit about three months after Nick moved in. It tickled Nick so much he’d left it. “Keeps your grubby hands off my bacon more than anything else,” he’d laughed when Jon asked him.
“At least my food is still safe,” Nick grumbled and sat back down.
*
It was a little over two weeks later when Patrick looked up to find Frank standing in the doorway to his bedroom. It was a Sunday afternoon and Patrick hadn’t slept in about twenty-nine hours thanks to a song with a fucked up bridge that Patrick only recently realized needed either a good sparse rap (which was a bad plan, especially in relation to Bill Beckett) or a glockenspiel (which none of them knew how to play).
So when Frank appeared, dressed in his ratty black jeans and a green t-shirt that made his eyes look gold, Patrick was fully prepared to accept it as a hallucination.
“Hey,” Maybe-Frank said from the doorway with a shy smile. “Your mom let me in.”
“Right,” Patrick blinked back at him.
“You said it would be cool if we went over some of those key changes today? I have a job interview tomorrow, so I won’t have time before practice...” He was still standing in the doorway, eyes glancing off surfaces in the room, and Patrick stood abruptly and shifted a pile of junk off of his bed.
“Sure, yeah,” he kicked a pile of comics and half written songs under his desk. “Come on in,” he finished, but Frank was already sitting on Patrick’s bed, kicking off his sneakers and tucking his feet under his knees.
Frank gestured at Patrick’s open laptop. “Working on something new?”
“More like its working on me,” Patrick sighed and saved the song, closing the computer with a click. “Been up for hours trying to figure it out.” He rubbed his eyes. “You ever get the idea a song is mocking you?”
“Dude, if songs ever talk to me like they talk to you, I’ll count myself lucky.” Frank smiled widely at him and Patrick flushed.
“I thought you wrote a bunch of stuff with Pencey?” he asked. He’d bought the album when Bob gave him Frank’s number a month ago, and Frank’s name dotted the liner notes.
Frank snorted and tucked his guitar strap over his shoulder. “Yeah, that’s one way of putting it. It was like pulling fucking teeth, man. Every note. Trust me, I’m much happier having a musical genius do all the work. Then I can just show up and get laid.”
Patrick laughed, still blushing. “Genius is a little strong, I think.”
“Not if you ask Nick,” Frank noted seriously, and started on the chorus of one of their newer songs. Patrick picked up his acoustic and started playing the lead part along with him and Frank nodded while Patrick filled in the vocals. When they got to the end of the song, Frank was staring at him openly.
“What?”
“Jesus.” Frank shook his head. “You can sing too? I mean seriously. You’re bad at something, right? ‘Cause otherwise you’re gonna give me a complex.”
“I’m not-”
“Shut up,” Frank said, but he was smiling. His hands were still moving on his fret and Patrick watched, fascinated by the way his tattoos blurred as he played.
“Why Halloween?” Patrick asked curiously.
“It’s my birthday!” Frank smiled. “Check this one out.” He tugged his shirt up his back and turned until Patrick could see the eerie lines of a jack-o-lantern between his shoulder blades.
“Cool,” Patrick replied and slipped his hands under his thighs to keep from tracing the lines with his fingers. “You like Nightmare Before Christmas?” he asked and Frank’s face lit up.
“Duh. I fucking love Tim Burton.”
“You should meet my best friend,” Patrick grinned. “He’s got an arm devoted entirely to Jack Skellington.”
“Sounds like you’ve got decent taste in best friends.”
“Yeah,” Patrick rolled his eyes. “Just do me a favor and never tell him that. His ego doesn’t need it.”
“No problem.” Frank leaned forward and repositioned his guitar. “Back to work, Boy Genius. I’ve still got to figure out what the hell to wear to this thing tomorrow so they’ll think I’m a productive member of society.”
“Gloves?” Patrick suggested sarcastically and Frank stuck his tongue out.
They played so long that Patrick’s mom invited Frank to stay for dinner, talking at the table about Frank’s family back in Jersey and funny tour stories, and good vegetarian restaurants in Chicago and their favorite hip-hop albums. By the time Frank pulled down the Stumph’s driveway at nine o’clock, Patrick was in love.
“I’m going to bed, Mom,” he yelled morosely as he climbed the stairs to his room.
*
“Fuck,” Frank stood in the dim hallway next to the club bathroom. His hands tapped out a random rhythm on his thigh and his eyes were wide. “I’m not sure if. Maybe we should have given it another few weeks,” he whispered harshly to Patrick. The opening band was tearing down and Patrick was half watching through the side door to the stage, making sure they didn’t touch his kit.
“You’ll be fine,” he replied absently and winced as one of the kids onstage almost tripped over a cable.
“But Patrick,” Frank sounded pretty freaked and Patrick turned and placed a hand on his arm.
“You’ll be fine. You know the music. I know you do. You get lost anywhere, you just turn and play to me until you’re back, okay?” He smiled, forcing down his own normal bout of pre-show jitters.
Frank pulled a thin smile in return and nodded in thanks and Patrick’s stomach twisted. Yeah, ‘cause Frank playing directly at you is a great idea, he thought stupidly.
“Hey,” Frank leaned against the wall and took a drag off his cigarette. (“You can’t fuck with a pre-show ritual,” he’d grinned when Bill had glared at him and moved further down the hall.) “If this goes okay, I think I should warn you...” he blushed a little and Patrick leaned on the wall next to him to avoid staring at Frank’s lip ring.
“Yeah?” he prompted and pulled his feet out of the way as the openers rolled their equipment past.
“When I get into a song, like click into it? I kind of,”
“Yeah, Bryar told me you might need to be sedated.” Patrick laughed and Frank kicked him with a scuffed Van.
“No, for real. Rehearsals aren’t that big a deal, but there’s something about audiences. I just,” he looked up at Patrick through dark lashes. “Don’t judge me,” he grinned. Patrick just nodded seriously.
“I’ll do my best.”
Five songs in, Patrick wasn’t sure Frank was the same person anymore. Jon had fled to the edge of the stage and Nick kept laughing and looking back at Patrick with a what the fuck? expression. Patrick missed most of the looks. He was fixated on Frank who was currently on his knees in front of Bill, looking up through sweat soaked hair, lips parted, eyes black. He was basically playing the bridge directly at Bill’s cock as Bill reached down and tugged on his hair. Bill was loving every minute of it. The crowd was too.
More than that, Frank had yet to hit a single wrong chord, even after almost decapitating Nick with his fret as he spun his guitar all the way around his body.
Patrick was still making sure Nick was okay when the audience roared and Frank was right there, hovering over Patrick, playing down at him from the top of Patrick’s bass drum. He smiled when Patrick looked up, and Patrick totally missed a snare part. Then he was gone, down at the front of the stage, the audience tugging at his jeans and screaming.
“Best fucking show ever,” Bill yelled at Patrick when they were finally offstage. Nick had picked Frank up in a bear hug, grinning.
“Crazy motherfucker!” Jon laughed at Frank and smacked him on the back as Nick set him down.
Frank just blushed and grinned like an idiot. They were loading up the van when he tugged Patrick aside. “It was okay, though, right?” he asked, still smiling but serious. “I mean, I know I freaked you out a little --”
“No,” Patrick cut in. “It was perfect.” They grinned at each other until Jon hooked an arm around Frank’s shoulders and hauled him off.
“Time to meet your adoring public, Iero.”
*
Pete threw an end-of-summer party at his house and the entire Chicago hardcore scene showed up. Patrick was sure, once again, that the Wentzes were going to have their own special section in heaven based on the shit they let Pete get away with. There were enough straightedge kids that the drunken antics were pretty minimal, but Pete’s friends didn’t need to be drunk to be stupid.
“Trick!” Pete called out when Patrick walked in, Frank in tow. Frank had met most of them already, but parties at Pete’s were still a little intimidating and he held back by the fridge with his Heineken. “You have to see this. Dirty is going to eat this entire jar of mayo.”
Patrick stared at him for a minute before turning around and heading to the living room, Frank following at his elbow. “That happen often?” he asked.
“Too often,” Patrick sighed. “All’s fun and games until someone’s pubic hair catches fire.” Frank laughed, coughing as he choked on a sip of beer. “Here, let me introduce you to some not crazy people.”
An hour later, Patrick was sprawled out on the floor of the basement with Joe in a heated argument about nihilism and grunge. Considering Joe was stoned, Patrick was at a clear disadvantage. Frank was on the sofa across the room in an intense conversation with Pete. Every time Patrick glanced over Pete was a fraction closer. Frank caught Patrick’s eye at one point but looked away quickly when Pete rested a hand on his thigh, leaning in to whisper in his ear. Patrick was pretty sure he imagined the blush that crept up Frank’s neck, but when he turned back ten minutes later and the sofa was empty, he thought maybe he was right the first time.
When they didn’t come back ten minutes later, Patrick was antsy. After thirty, he was nauseous. After an hour he blew past Jon and Bill’s drunken greetings in the kitchen and drove home fast enough to scare the shit out of any pedestrian that dare stand between him and the quiet safety of his room.
He wallowed. He cursed Pete and his perfect smile and his tattoos and his flat stomach. He cursed Frank for falling for it. He cursed himself for being stupid enough to fall for someone in his own fucking band.
When Frank showed up thirty minutes late to rehearsal the next day, claiming that he got lost (“All the streets out here are fucking circles, man!”) and sporting a hickey the size of a walnut on his neck, Patrick flew past wallowing into blind rage.
Fucking PETE and his fucking MOUTH, he thought. “Nice of you to join us,” he said icily. Fine, if he wants to be a WHORE, he thought. “We’re on the new piece, if you care.”
Frank blinked at him. “Yeah, okay. Sorry.”
Patrick glared at everyone through the next song and the one after, and when Frank and then Jon messed up the bridge to Song of Sam, Patrick threw his drumsticks against the wall. “Look, if no one gives a shit about this band, just let me know,” he yelled and Nick shot Bill a look. “What, Wheeler? What the fuck?”
“Maybe.” He sighed and bit his lip. “Maybe we should call it a day. You seem like-“
“Fine, you want to fucking make this my fault, we can,” Patrick said, standing up and grabbing his bag from the floor. When he turned around, the hem of his hoodie caught on a cymbal and sent it tumbling to the floor with a crash. Frank winced and Patrick’s stomach turned. “Fuck it,” he mumbled to himself and sped up the stairs.
*
He didn’t pick it up the first three times, but when Frank’s number blinked on his cell phone for the fourth time in as many hours, Patrick sighed and flipped it open. “Yeah?” he asked, quiet and hopefully contrite. He’d been sitting in his room for a day and a half ignoring the calls from his band and feeling worse and worse about the scene he’d caused at practice.
“…Hey,” Frank said tentatively. “I had my next voicemail all planned out and now I’m a little thrown, sorry.” His laugh was nervous and Patrick tucked himself into a tighter ball on his bed.
“If you want I can hang up and let you-“
“Don’t even think about it,” Frank growled and Patrick held his breath.
“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it when I said,” he started, but Frank cut him off.
“I’m sorry, about the Pete thing.” Patrick blinked at his ceiling and clicked his mouth shut. When he didn’t say anything, Frank barreled on. “I mean, I didn’t know, and I don’t. What I mean is, I’ve made some shitty life decisions in the past and I was pretty sure I was a one-hit-wonder has-been at 22, and then I found you guys and I think. Look,” he continued and Patrick was getting dizzy. “This band is already the best thing I’ve ever done, and it’s going somewhere because of you. And if it doesn’t, your next band will, or the one after, and you bet your ass I’m going to be there. I’m riding your coattails to the top, Stumph.”
“I’m not that good Frankie,” he said quietly.
“Yes, you are. You’re brilliant. In twenty years when we’re all selling cars and insurance, you’ll be in LA or New York making great music. I just want to get as close to that as I can. And I’m not about to jeopardize that, or my friendship with you, for a random hookup. Okay?”
“Okay,” Patrick replied after a moment and he could hear Frank exhale slowly. “Just. What did you mean, you didn’t know?”
“What?”
“You said you were sorry about Pete, because you didn’t know,” he repeated, heart pounding.
“About you and Pete,” Frank’s voice was a little strained and Patrick sat up fast, shaking his head.
“Me and Pete what?”
“Bill and Joe told me,” Frank said quietly. “That you and Pete are, you know, soulmates or whatever. That’s cool, I just. I’m not gonna be the guy in the way of that, okay? I like you too much.”
“Right,” Patrick managed around the tightness in his chest. Tell him its bullshit, his cock screamed. Don’t you dare let him know why you really freaked out, his heart screamed back. “See you at practice tomorrow, okay Frankie?”
“We’re cool?” Frank sounded actually worried and Patrick forced a smile.
“Yeah, we’re cool.”
*
“So,” Pete said, sliding into the booth across from Patrick with a tray of fries and a Sprite.
“So, you’re late,” Patrick groused. He was already halfway through his pancakes.
“So,” Pete replied, not missing a beat. “I’m not sleeping with your guitarist anymore, apparently.”
Patrick choked on a bite of pancake and looked up, face flushing. “Um, okay?”
“Don’t ‘um, okay’ me, dickwad.” Pete threw a fry at him. “He called me up with some shit about not wanting to fuck things up with Polaris and that he thinks we shouldn’t hook up again, and I can only assume it’s because you went postal at rehearsal.”
“I didn’t --”
“Bill called me, freaking out by the way.” Pete chewed thoughtfully and kicked Patrick’s shins under the table. Patrick made a mental note - again - to kill Bill Beckett.
“It wasn’t a big deal. I had a bad day.” Patrick ducked his head.
“Yeah, well. The last time you had a bad day like that was the day after you saw Joe making out with Cindy Greenburg before you could ask her to prom.” Pete sat back in his seat and Patrick closed his eyes.
“Do you have a point, Wentz?” he asked tightly.
“I’m just thinking there might be some Frank/Cindy similarities, with me in the possible Joe role -”
“It’s not,” Patrick looked up sharply and shook his head, but he was already blushing to his toes and Pete’s eyes got wider. “No.”
“Oh, man. You have it so bad for this kid.” Pete grinned like a Cheshire cat and Patrick threw a plastic spoon at him.
“Fuck off. I just don’t want you to fuck with him and break his heart and have him take off back to Jersey. I have a band to think about.”
“You have your dick to think about,” Pete replied and easily dodged the projected fork. “Come on - don’t lie to me, Trick. You have, like, Bowie levels of feeling for him. Frankie is like Ziggy Stardust, Grace Jones and Joey Ramone rolled into one.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.” Patrick stared at him.
“They’re three people you wanted to bang as a kid, so yes it does, asshole.” Pete threw the spoon back and somehow managed to have it whing off the side of Patrick’s glasses - thus ensuring the most flinching and the least real bodily damage. It was a true gift of Pete’s. Patrick glared at the spoon’s betrayal.
“You like him,” Pete said, totally matter of fact.
“No.” Patrick wished he had more flatware in reach, or at least that he could be the kind of guy to chuck a knife at his best friend.”
“You do, and it’s cool. He’s a good guy.”
“Pete-”
“He’s hot, too, right? I mean, in that compact, tattooed way. Which, by the way, if that is your type, why the hell-”
“Because I don’t date guys who pay their sycophants to kick each other in the balls.” Patrick looked Pete square in the eye and they both cracked up.
“Point.”
They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Pete pushed his plate away and leaned back in his seat. “So, what are we going to do about this ‘Patrick is in love with Frank’ thing?”
“Jesus Christ,” Patrick groaned and looked around reflexively. He didn’t recognize anyone, but that didn’t mean-
“I mean, if we wait for you to make a move, you’ll be a virgin until you die.”
“I’m not a virgin, Pete.” Patrick sighed, and Pete waved his hand dismissively.
“It’s been over a year. That shit grows back, you know.” Patrick suppressed a grin with years of practice. “What you should do is, like, write him a song,” Pete said, eyes bright.
“Right, because I’m a fucking emo lame-ass, like you.” He crossed his arms.
“Okay, you could lure him to some isolated spot out by the lake.”
“Is this your date-rape fantasy, ‘cause I don’t want to know.”
“…I was going to say, and surprise him with a picnic! You are a sick motherfucker, Stumph.” Pete shook his head in mock disbelief.
Patrick groaned and thumped his head on the table, a strand of hair falling into the pool of syrup on his plate.
“’Trick. Hey, come on.”
When he looked up, Pete was smiling. “He talked about you.”
Patrick looked at him blankly.
“That night. At the party. That’s what we were talking about most of the time. You and the band and how he can’t believe you wrote all those songs. I told him you ghost wrote a bunch of mine and he said he totally doesn’t get why you’re not famous yet.”
“Have you seen me,” Patrick mumbled out his standard reply and Pete’s smile slipped a little.
“Yeah, man. I have. And I told him I don’t get it either. You’ve got to stop selling yourself -“
“Look, can we drop it? Talk about normal guy stuff for a change?” Patrick crossed his arms to keep from dumping his tray in Pete’s lap. Pete and his smile and his skin and his tiny girl jeans. Pete looked at him hard for a minute.
“Yeah, okay,” he said finally. “How about them Cubs?”
*
The band plus equipment plus Jaime plus Mike plus random other dudes plus all the merch did not all fit into Mike’s old van. They’d tried it once, for a two-week tour in Ohio, and never again. So for a Missouri tour in October, Polaris took the van and Nick’s old beat-up Chevy two door, all the merch in the back and one lucky bastard riding shotgun while Nick drove.
For the stretch of godforsaken highway from St. Charles to Columbia, MO, the lucky bastard was Patrick. They spent an hour just sitting in silence and flipping through Nick’s eighties CDs.
“So,” Nick said after they’d stopped for gas and snack food. “You and Frank.”
Patrick nearly choked on his Sprite. “So me and Frank what?” he asked cautiously.
“That’s the question, kid,” Nick glanced sideway at him and Patrick looked studiously out his window.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he lied and imagined all the ways he could kill Nick with a Slim Jim.
Nick sighed in that annoying put-upon way. “I’m saying, things have been a little weird since the whole Pete thing.”
“Look, I don’t-“ but Nick just kept talking.
“I mean, I wondered about it for a while, why were you so mad when Pete slept with Frank,”
“I’m not. Pete’s slept with most of the greater Chicago area, and I haven’t cared at all, you might remember,” Patrick said through clenched teeth.
Nick paused. “Yeah, I’d noticed that too. So the only logical conclusion is that you weren’t mad at Frank for sleeping with Pete. You were mad at Pete for sleeping with Frank.”
“That’s just,” Patrick started, blushing to his toes. But Nick pulled into the parking lot of a dingy bar with a happy “Here we are!” and hopped out of the car. By the time Patrick had untangled himself from the seatbelt and his lap of junk food, the van was there too, Frank and Bill tumbling out of the back seat laughing.
The show itself was fine, pretty good actually, and Patrick had all but forgotten his conversation with Nick when he stumbled into the cheap motel room across from the bar, exhausted and a little tipsy. Bill came along (“I’m resting my voice,” he’d screamed over the jukebox after his third Corona), leaving the rest of the band to take more advantage of the “band drinks free” policy at the bar. They each changed into clean boxers and t-shirts in the tiny bathroom and claimed one of the old double beds, Patrick falling asleep almost the second his head hit the pillow.
He woke to someone stumbling in the dark over the luggage scattered at the foot of his bed, the weight of a body hitting the mattress with a curse and then climbing up toward the headboard. Patrick was still groggy when the body shimmied under the covers and pressed up against him with a sigh.
“’lo Patrick,” Frank rumbled low in his ear, arm slung across Patrick’s chest. Patrick could hear Jon shoving Bill over and climbing into the next bed, Bill’s muffled happy noises as Jon… and Patrick really didn’t want to think about that, especially when Frank’s thumb was rubbing a tiny circle on Patrick’s hip where the cotton of his t-shirt rode up.
“Hey, Frankie,” Patrick whispered back, the words fuzzy and light. Frank sighed and rested his cheek on Patrick’s shoulder.
“I love this fucking band,” he slurred, his breath hot on Patrick’s neck. “I mean, it’s just made of awesome.”
Patrick couldn’t help a small smile even though his heart was beating a million miles an hour. “We like you too,” he said and Frank laughed.
“’s like I was supposed to find you,” he said a few minutes later, quieter this time. His arm pinned Patrick like a dead weight and if Patrick dared to turn his head, Frank’s mouth would be right there, inches away. Patrick pictured himself doing just that, tugging lightly on Frank’s lip ring with his teeth, Frank’s calloused hands sliding up the inside of his thigh…
“Yeah,” Patrick choked out and turned his head the other way. He was half-hard and Frank’s hand was six inches from his cock, which was probably a large part of the problem. He took deep, even breaths through his nose until he was pretty sure Frank was asleep and slowly rolled out of bed and slipped into the bathroom.
“Fuck,” he mouthed at his reflection in the mirror. He couldn’t risk jacking off with most of his band on the other side of the flimsy door. Jon had a nasty habit of needing the bathroom at odd hours. He sat on the toilet for a few long minutes before sneaking back into the room.
Frank was laying across the bed on his stomach, naked all the way to his boxers, tattoos dark across his back and arms. The highway rumbled outside, and under that the irregular click, click of the streetlights kept an odd beat. Patrick stared for a long time, just leaning on the wall, before he stepped over his bag and retrieved his guitar case and writing notebook and slipped back into the bathroom.
“Trick? Hey man, time to wake up,” Frank’s voice prodded him out of sleep and Patrick blinked his eyes open to see Frank’s face hovering over him. He turned his head and practically smashed his nose into the fret of his guitar. “Want to tell me why you’re sleeping in the tub?” he smiled.
“Ah, just. Song?” Patrick wasn’t very coherent before coffee and Frank laughed.
“Yeah, I figured,” he gestured to the notebook open on his lap, fully formed chorus and painful, gut-wrenching verses, and a seriously hard rhythm part for Frank. Not that Frank would bat an eye. He hauled himself upright, Frank steadying his arm when he stumbled on the slick tile. “There’s a Dunkin Donuts three doors down. I already did a run.”
“I love you,” Patrick sighed heavily through too little sleep and Frank’s hand tightened just a little. Patrick blinked down at the floor before adding, “You are the Prince of Caffeine.”
Frank let go and led them into the brightness of the motel room, both of them wincing a little. Jon was barely awake and Bill was tucked back under the covers with the remnants of a powdered sugar donut dotting the blanket. “Got you a bagel, since I know you hate sweet stuff first thing,” Frank half-smiled as he pressed the warm bagel into Patrick’s hand along with a steaming cup of coffee.
There was a quick knock and Patrick blinked in surprise when Frank leaned past him to pick up his bag, already packed and ready to go. “Nick wants to get an early start so he can stop at a music store in Springfield before the show. I’m the lucky bastard for the day.”
Bill made a noise of protest but Frank just smiled. “Early bird gets the seat in the car that doesn’t smell like feet,” he sang and slipped out the door. Patrick sighed and sat on the bed heavily. I love you? You are the Prince of Caffeine? He kicked himself the whole ride back, when he wasn’t adding to the song he’d started, bits of melody sticking to the page like gum drops.
*
The song kept him preoccupied for most of the week. He blew off a dinner with Pete and Joe, and was late to his Wednesday rehearsal, running in looking sheepish.
“Jesus, Stumph,” Nick shook his head at Patrick’s bleary eyes. “Did you sleep at all yesterday?”
“Sure,” Patrick nodded absently. “I think so. I mean, I woke up with the imprint of my keyboard on my face, so I’m assuming yes.”
Jon shook his head and laughed, shoving Bill from his lap and grabbing his bass. Frank was looking at him strangely, eyes bright but serious. “What?” Patrick asked, and Frank just shook his head, like he was clearing a thought. Patrick took his seat behind his kit and almost missed the look Frank threw to Nick. Nick just shook his head and shrugged. Patrick was going to say something sarcastic but Frank licked his lips and Patrick’s sleep-fuzzy brain stuttered.
Nick dragged them all back to the apartment for pizza afterwards even though Patrick was itching to get back to his laptop and try out a few more combinations. “You need food,” Nick noted.
“My house has food,” Patrick rolled his eyes and rolled an amp cord.
“You need the joy of human companionship,” Bill sidled up behind him and hugged him tight around the shoulder.
“Shut up,” Patrick said, but he was smiling. He caught Frank looking at him again and blushed as Bill landed a smacking kiss on his ear.
“Bill fucking loves human companionship,” Jon noted with a wink and Bill huffed indignantly.
“You want to be a Unabomber loner, that’s fine Walker. I’ll take a pile of boys any day,” he blew Jon a kiss.
The pizza was good-deep dish and full of mushrooms and peppers and onions. Patrick demolished a third slice and figured it was fine, since they were the only vegetables he’d had in days. Nick disappeared halfway through an episode of CSI to talk quietly to Tyson in his bedroom and when Bill came back from the kitchen with a fresh beer, he crammed himself onto the sofa between Jon and Patrick, climbing half in Jon’s lap and shoving Patrick practically into Frank’s.
“Sorry, sorry,” he muttered as Frank gripped his beer tighter. Bill’s long legs finally settled across Patrick’s thighs and he could feel Frank against his other side, pressed shoulder to knee against Frank’s small frame. They were exactly the same height but when Frank shifted back an inch he lifted his arm and Patrick fell closer against him, Frank’s hand circling his shoulder. Patrick’s heart pounded and he was grateful for the beer that masked his trembly fingers. On Patrick’s other side, Bill kissed Jon’s neck and Jon sighed. None of them took their eyes off the television.
Onscreen, Gil Grissom beat up a dummy with a baseball bat. Offscreen, Patrick tried not to think about the fact that Frank smelled really nice, or about the way his fingers were curled around Patrick’s shoulder blade. Frank was warm, solid and Patrick leaned closer and rested his head on Frank’s shoulder.
“Hey,” Frank’s voice was gentle and Patrick blinked his eyes open.
“What,” he started, then noticed his lap was free and Jon’s bedroom door was closed.
“They slipped in there about half an hour ago,” Frank said with a smile. “I didn’t want to wake you. You looked like you needed the sleep. But I kind of, you know, need my arm.”
“Yeah, okay,” Patrick said, thankful he didn’t sound as mortified as he felt. He leaned away and Frank dropped his arm with a slight wince. He was instantly aware of Frank’s body again, both of them squashed into half the tiny sofa. “Sorry, I should go,” he started, and Frank opened his mouth. Then he shut it quickly. Patrick swallowed hard. “Sorry,” he breathed again, eyes darting to Frank’s mouth.
“Patrick,” Frank said, strained, and Patrick was off the sofa like a shot, grabbing his jacket.
“I should, I mean I didn’t tell anyone I was coming over here, and the song needs some work so I’m gonna get home,” he rambled, scanning the room frantically for his other shoe. He shoved his foot inside it roughly and jerked the door open, leaving Frank staring after him from the sofa.
*
“Hey,” Frank said from Patrick’s doorway and Patrick jumped a foot, almost strangling himself with his headphones. “Sorry,” he added sheepishly, "your mom said-”
Patrick held up a hand to quiet him and quickly erased an errant note from the screen, closing his laptop and sitting up against the pillows on his bed. When he looked back up, Frank was standing with his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Sorry, what?”
“Your mom said to tell you there’s leftover lasagna in the fridge and she’ll be home around eleven.”
“Thanks,” Patrick nodded and Frank came in and closed the door behind him. He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed about foot from Patrick’s knees and cleared his throat. He waited so long, Patrick wondered if he’d missed the spot in the conversation that cued him it was his turn to talk.
“What are you working on?” Frank said suddenly, gaze shifting quickly to the laptop.
“Oh, just. Bill had some lyrics that I thought would go well with the new song-“
“The bathtub song?” Frank asked.
“…Yeah, and remind me to title it so doesn’t get stuck being called that,” he shook his head.
“Too late,” Frank grinned and Patrick sighed dramatically. Frank was staring at him again and Patrick flushed.
“So what,” he started.
“Nick says I’m an idiot.” Frank wasn’t looking at him anymore. He was staring at spot on Patrick’s floor where the wheel from his rolling chair had worn almost through the carpet. Patrick froze.
“Why?” he asked. His mouth had gone dry and he couldn’t stop looking at the way Frank’s fingers were twisting in his blue bedsheets nervously.
“About the Pete thing. You know, about you and Pete. We talked about it on the drive back last week.” And Patrick thought Forget Bill. I am killing Nick Wheeler with my bare fucking hands. But Frank looked at him then, eyes wide and searching, and Patrick couldn’t breathe. “So, I called Pete. And he said ‘Who the hell are you going to believe, Iero? Bill Beckett or Nick Wheeler?’ And then he called me an idiot.” Frank’s mouth quirked up at one side and Patrick felt the whole world tilt a little.
“You’re not,” Patrick started but Frank was tugging his laptop out of his hands and placing it on the desk, nodding seriously.
“I really, really am,” he said quietly as he leaned forward and cupped his fingers around Patrick’s cheek. Patrick couldn’t do anything but sigh when Frank’s lips brushed his gently, then a little firmer. Frank tasted like mint, and a little like menthol-basically perfect, hot and sweet. When Patrick opened his mouth a fraction and felt the scrape of Frank’s lip ring against his bottom lip, they both shivered and Patrick finally reached out and tucked a hand behind Frank’s neck, holding him closer.
“Frank,” he gasped when Frank pressed him backward, kisses tracing his jaw as Patrick’s head hit his pillow. They kissed for a while, Patrick’s hands sliding up under Frank’s shirt. When his hands trailed tentatively lower, Frank pulled away, grinning down at him.
“Such a fucking idiot,” he noted again, shaking his head. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do this?” Patrick blushed furiously and looked away until Frank gently kissed his cheek. His hips were pressed flush against Patrick’s and Patrick could feel the heat of his cock through layers of denim. He pushed up experimentally and Frank let out a choked laugh. “Shit, Trick,” he let his forehead fall to Patrick’s shoulder and Patrick grinned and did it again. Frank rolled his hips in response and Patrick groaned.
“Fuck,” he muttered and slipped his calf over Frank’s, arching up and breathing hard as Frank’s teeth scraped gently along his collarbone. His hips rocked up again and Frank growled low.
“Patrick, God,” he panted and slid his hand down Patrick’s side, gripping his hip and angling himself higher. “Maybe we should-“
“Don’t stop,” Patrick whispered frantically and Frank exhaled sharply and pressed down again, shifting to increase the friction. Patrick rocked against him with a cry and Frank looked down at him with something approaching awe.
“So fucking gorgeous, you have no idea,” he said, almost to himself, and Patrick flushed and tugged him down into another kiss. They were rocking against each other fast enough to shake the headboard and Patrick thought he might die from the sensation. He ran a hand down Frank’s back and over his ass and Frank’s hips jerked as he pulled him closer. “’m close,” he panted against Patrick’s cheek and god, yes. Another snap of Frank’s hips and Patrick was coming, head thrown back on his pillow. The next roll of Frank’s hips was almost too much, shocks of tingling pain following the orgasm through his fingers.
“Frankie,” he whimpered and Frank shook in his arms and gasped, coming with his face pressed in the crook of Patrick’s neck.
They lay in silence for a few longs seconds, Patrick’s fingers tracing over the bright tattoos on Frank’s arm. “That wasn’t,” Frank started, and then laughed. “Not exactly my finest hour,” he finished.
“I thought it was pretty good,” Patrick grinned and Frank kissed the corner of his mouth.
“You’re not the one who has to go home like this,” he noted wryly as he rolled to one side and tucked Patrick against him.
“You don’t have to go home,” Patrick said sleepily and burrowed into the warmth of Frank’s chest. His pants were already a little uncomfortable-sticky and rapidly getting colder. “Should take your pants off,” he mumbled and flicked his tongue under Frank’s ear. “Shirt too.”
Frank laughed. “Doesn’t solve the larger going home problem,” he noted as Patrick reached down and undid the button on his jeans.
Patrick smiled up at him. “Good thing we wear the same size.”
Frank froze and slowly shook his head. “God, you really are a genius,” he smiled.
Patrick slipped the zipper down with a sly grin. “I know.”
***
Author’s Notes: So, I get my exchange person, and its jenish! And I am squeeful because she is awesome. Also, she likes Patrick and AUs so I’m golden. Then, I’m stumped. Then I have a great idea and start to write it, and abandon it when the PROLOGUE is 2000+ words. Then I gripe to everyone I know. THEN Jj starts posting the PUPPY FIC and I am royally screwed. How do you write a fic for the girl who writes RyRo as an adorable puppy who reads!?
Thankfully, iphignia939 dropped this idea in my lap late one night (“why don’t you do a band AU? Like, what if Patrick and Jon and Nick and Frank were all in a band together??”) and it looked at me with big eyes and I had to give in. This one turned out to be more of a bear than originally intended too, and very full of words and plot. So, thanks to Gale for the bunny, and to hetrez, tobyzantium, and marigolde for letting me bounce this fic off them for weeks and weeks and for their encouragement and squee. Insane amounts of love to schuyler for obvious reasons, and also for being my go-to beta.
Hope you enjoy! (If you do, I might be tempted to write more in this AUniverse, like the part when model!Tyson comes to visit, or the bit where Nick joins the band, or the Pete/William backstory, or Brendon Urie’s love of Polaris and also Spencer, or the future!fic where Polaris tours with MCR and Bob techs and meets Gerard and there is hot Frank/Patrick/Gerard/Bob action. If you hate it, I will think about that quietly in my little corner and whimper.)