[fic] (many things lacking names)
(many things lacking names)
pete/will, pete/patrick; r. 11,513 words.
Some stuff inspired by the webcomic Minus. Cheers to dreamofthem and disarm-d for being kickin' rad and helping out with this mess.
(there's now a side-story about the summer league, one summer last fall. if you were wondering about that kind of thing.)
Pete doesn't pay a lot of attention to it, at first. He first notices at five AM, when light is coming through the windows at just the right angle to cast long shadows in front of every object and the carpet in front of him is still bright. The hallway, he walks down it and there's no shadow on the wall. Pete shrugs and falls into bed, ignoring Hemingway's whine at the disturbance. The dog settles down soon enough.
In the morning, he's opening a can of dog food and Hemingway comes running and skids to a stop in the doorway, too-big paws going every which way. Even stripped of dignity the dog manages a growl. "Hey, hey, calm down," Pete says. He pours the food into the dish and crouches down, holding it out to Hemingway as a peace offering. Hemingway backs up, claws clicking on the linoleum floor, still growling low. "Hemmy?"
Pete sets the dish down, and Hemingway turns with his tail between his legs and bolts.
--
Pete doesn't figure it out until halfway through his morning cup of coffee, which is at about noon. He's drinking his grande nonfat extra foam caramel macchiato, an iced quad venti breve latte waiting for attention just inches away from his hands, and he realizes that his fingers are casting absolutely no shadow on the little cardboard holder. Under his arm, on the table, there's no shadow.
There's a girl sitting across from him, head buried in a newspaper. "Hey," he says. "Hey, hey, you, newspaper-girl. Oh, New York Times, good, I was gonna be upset if you were reading USA Today or something."
She ignores him. Probably thinks he's flirting. He tries to get to the point. "Do I have a shadow?"
"Uhm?" She looks up, blinking slowly. "Of c -- ourse not? Wow, that's weird. How do you do that?"
"I don't know, but my dog doesn't like it."
"It is kind of creepy," she says, interested enough now that she folds up her newspaper. "So hi, I'm Chloe."
"That's nice. Thanks," he says, and gets up and throws out the last dirty dregs of his espresso concoction and leaves, taking his untouched latte with him. He never sees Chloe again, for what it's worth.
--
Two dollars gets Pete onto the subway, and he takes the L train into Manhattan. He doesn't get off at his stop, or the next one; he rides the trains for hours for want of something better to do. At one point he pulls out his phone and thinks about calling in sick, calling in shadowless because what the fuck is that about? That's got to be a good reason not to go in, could be contagious, but decides it's more fun just to disappear. He's relieved to find he still has a reflection, at least in train windows.
He takes the A and watches a little kid dance while the kid's father plays bad music on a boombox and begs for money. On the R a couple fights over if making out after one's eaten meat and the other's had milk is kosher or not; the 4, a homeless woman rants about the end of the world and Pete tells her that she's right.
The doors try to close on Pete when he finally gets off at his home stop, hours later, with the sun half-down. The city smells like rain though the sky is clear. On the stairs out of the station, he's going up and almost gets run into by someone going down who doesn't bother with a sorry.
--
Pete goes in to the office the next day and is greeted by a "Oh, so you decided to show up? Hey, are you okay?" from one of his coworkers.
Pete says, "Nice to see you too." His desk is piled high with unread memos, with receipts and notes to self. There's scattered pieces of research for at least six different articles. Even the keyboard is obscured by a light dusting of papers. Pete moves the stuff on his keyboard aside. He says, "Yeah, sure, just."
"You look different. Did you get a haircut?"
Pete actually likes the girl in the cubicle next to his; she's nice enough. She has the same smile as Jeanae. He leans over the top of his cubicle, peering down at her. "What? Yeah, no. Just lost my shadow, is all."
"Oh, it looks good," she says, then, "Huh?"
"Yeah, I have no idea. I figured not having a shadow was an okay reason to miss work."
He's leaving the office for the day, has Gabe on his cell phone, when someone runs into him. This is getting annoying. He doesn't get a sorry this time, either.
--
"Whoa, hey," Gabe says. "You get a haircut?"
"No."
"New girlpants? No? New girlfriend? Lost a family member? What?"
"I lost my shadow," Pete says.
Gabe doesn't seem surprised. "Where'd you put it?"
"I don't know, but Hemingway hates me."
"Cause and effect, dude," Gabe says. "Be nicer to your dog and maybe he'll give it back. I bet he hid it somewhere."
"He's a dog. Plus he didn't hate me until after it was gone."
"Oh, right," Gabe says. "Scratch that, then. It's not like it's a big deal, is it?"
"Automatic doors won't open for me. I gotta time it so there's other people going in at the same time as me. And, like. Automatic sinks? Nope."
"Eh, you don't need to wash your hands that bad. Just be careful when you pee."
"Dude, ew." Pete says, "Whatever, I'm going to forget about that part. Animals are avoiding me, too." Pete gestures at the city sidewalk, which is utterly devoid of pigeons. There are none to be seen in the sky or on the ground, even though he and Gabe are in the middle of a park. "I mean, I guess that's not too big a deal, it's just kind of annoying."
They're wandering -- Gabe says he found some thrift store he wanted to go to or something, and Pete's tagging along -- and Pete almost gets run into. People don't seem to be noticing him much, which isn't that weird for New York, but the near-collisions on almost empty Brooklyn sidewalks are strange. One guy -- who's familiar, though Pete can't say why -- actually does run into him, and this time Pete's acknowledged with a surprised stare and an actual "sorry." He figures that's good enough.
"Seriously, this is weird as shit," Pete says.
"Dude, I know, right." Gabe nods. "Maybe you're gonna ascend to heaven. Maybe it's the rapture."
"I don't really see that being an option, with all the sinning I do."
"Oh, come on. What sinning? You don't do drugs, I don't know if I've ever seen you drink. You are so not a sinner."
"Hey, now. I could be. I do a lot of random making out. Kissing before marriage, that's got to be a sin, right? Whatever. Pretty sure that ascension's not the answer here."
"No?"
"No."
"This," Gabe says, stopping suddenly, "is a matter for the cobra."
"Oh, dude, no, I am not going to do mesc with you."
"Hey. The cobra is pure. Don't implicate the cobra in that."
"Sure. Just because every time you've seen it, you've been drugged seven ways to Sunday, that doesn't mean the drugs have anything to do with it."
"Exactly. C'mon, let's get this party started."
--
Pete has to wait outside Gabe's apartment for twenty minutes while Gabe gets ready. A light rain has started falling, and the few cyclists who were pedaling past have started going faster. As far as Pete knows, visions of the cobra just happen and can't be brought on, but he's not going to claim to be an expert. If nothing else this'll make for a hilarious story later.
The door opens, and Gabe just barely pokes his head out, beckoning Pete to come in. The room is dark when Pete enters, lit only by candles. "Wait, wait," Pete says. "Strawberry-scented candles?"
"They were all I had, shut up. My ex-girlfriend left them. This is serious business, Wentz."
"Okay, dude, okay, sure, fine."
"Here, put this on," Gabe says, holding out a silk robe. It's a bathrobe, it turns out, pale blue and covered in smiling clouds. Gabe himself is wearing a terrycloth bathrobe with cats, and has a fluffy pink towel piled incoherently atop his head.
"What the hell," Pete says.
"Ceremonial robes and garb," Gabe says. "It's cool. It's totally necessary."
"You don't mind if I set up my camera, do you, because this is pretty much awesome."
"Sure, whatever."
So Pete digs in his messenger bag and pulls out his digital camera, which, thank god, has enough memory for a pretty long video. He sets it on a shelf and hits record. He cinches the robe around his waist and sits down cross-legged at Gabe's coffee table, where Gabe is already waiting. "Okay, okay."
Gabe says, "This is gonna take a little bit," and gets out a bowl and stuffs it with weed. He lights it, breathes in deep and holds his breath for a while. He holds the bowl out -- "You want a hit? It might help."
"No, still keeping edge," Pete says. He holds his sleeve up to his nose and tries to breathe through his mouth. "For now, at least."
"Come on, man, that's so Chicago, and Chicago is so two years ago."
Pete gives a hollow laugh at that. He thinks, how strange for Gabe to know the title of a song he wrote that long ago. The song came just before the end and never made it onto an album or even a live show. In his head, the song is always going to be eight hundred miles away. "Shut up, I'm staying true to my roots."
"The roots you ran away from, yeah," Gabe says. He gives himself another hit. "This is good shit."
"I can tell, it smells like it's good." His voice is a little muffled by the sleeve, and Gabe has to lean forward to hear him. Then Gabe leans back and sits straight. Gabe goes quiet and his pupils get huge, and Pete asks, "Hey, are you okay?"
Gabe doesn't say anything.
"Shit, dude, seriously, what did you take?"
Gabe's voice, when he talks again, is really weird. "You'll lose more of yourself if you don't take control of your life and resolve your coincidences." There's kind of an echo, kind of a weird sibilant quality to some syllables.
"My coincidences, the fuck."
"You have one more chance before your shadow is lost forever."
"Oh, sure, okay," Pete says. "The fuck, Gabe. What coincidences are you even talking about? I didn't mention any coincidences, just the shadow thing."
"You have one more chance to make the right decision. It's up to you to determine what that will be. You stand to lose far more."
"Dude, okay, Gabe, Gabe, hello. This is kind of creepy."
Gabe slouches again, and his pupils go back to normal. He's kind of spaced for a moment, and he shakes his head quickly. "Whoa, whoa, that was intense. What just, I just talked to the cobra, dude."
"Shit," Pete says. "I think I did too." Usually, he's willing enough to believe that Gabe sees something, even if it is purely drug-inspired. He's not willing to believe, usually, that it's any kind of mystical messenger or omen, like Gabe says. Right now, with his shadow missing and his life going to hell, he's a little more willing to believe.
"Oh, sweet. Did you get a cure for the shadow thing?"
"No, yes, I'm not sure. I don't know if it made sense. There was some crazy I ♥ Huckabees bullshit about coincidences."
"But that was the cobra, dude, not -- you didn't even mention any coincidences. What coincidences? Do you have to get an existentialist detective?"
"No, I think I'm good on that. I don't know. I've gotta figure it out, and apparently I've only got one more chance or something. This is fucked up, dude."
Gabe says, "And anyway, it wasn't coincidences that were the issue in Huckabees, that was all the existential bullshit. Do you actually watch movies, or just read reviews?"
"Sure, okay, so I ♥ Huckabees wasn't the best comparison. It's what came to mind first, okay? I didn't know I had any coincidences." Pete gets up to turn off his camera and put it back in its case.
Gabe takes another hit before answering again. Smoke trickles out of his nose as he attempts to keep it in. He starts coughing, but once he's done, says, "Hey, you'll figure it out."
"I hope so. I think I'm screwed, otherwise."
"Try not to worry. It's chill, man, it's cool. You'll be fine."
"Yeah. You're probably right."
--
A week later it's really warm out, so Pete orders an iced triple grande low fat whipped cream caramel macchiato and waits around for his drink to be served up. This isn't his usual Starbucks -- usually he goes to the one three blocks from home instead of the one two blocks from work, just because it gets him awake earlier. The guy behind him in line, he orders a twelve ounce cup of coffee, doesn't bother with sizing or anything. The barista seems horrified at first, and has to make absolutely sure the guy means drip and not espresso, and Pete's trying not to laugh at the ensuing debate.
Then he realizes the drip coffee guy is the same guy who ran onto him on the stairs at the Bedford subway stop, and down around 8th Street in Manhattan, and in that little Brooklyn park. And he thinks to himself, huh, what a weird coincidence. He says, "Whoa, whoa, hey."
From the counter -- "Grande caramel macchiato?"
Pete says, "Low-fat whipped cream?"
"Yeah."
He grabs his drink and turns back to the guy. Right before he can say anything, his order's called, too. Pete figures, why not, and grabs it. He hands it off. "Hey, I keep running into you. Or you keep running into me, technically, but this time it's not as literal I guess."
"Thanks," the guy says. "Have I seriously run into you before? It was probably a subconscious thing, you look like you're worth it."
"You've run into me like three times now. I figure that's reason enough to say hi."
"Oh, wow, it is you. What a weird -- that's such a weird coincidence."
"I know, right," Pete says. He holds out his hand. "Pete."
"No, I'm not Pete. I'm Will."
Pete laughs a little. "Right, sure, good to meet you." Pete says, "So what's with the drip coffee?"
"Because it's more fun that way? It's like, half the baristas have forgotten what regular coffee is or something."
"That's because, like, half the point is getting weird shit. You go somewhere else if you just want straight coffee."
"That's no good. No. They expect that." Will widens his eyes. "I don't get the point of all the other shit Starbucks has, but that doesn't mean it's not awesome screwing with them."
"I could teach you things," Pete says. "Introduce you to wonders you have never before known. Espresso, my good man. Caramel macchiatos with extra foam. Espresso Frappu-motherfucking-ccinos with four shots of espresso. Although, okay, you probably wouldn't want that much caffeine, most people don't. Still."
"I shall be but your humble student. Learn me real good." Will grins, giving a bow and a flourish. He's tall. Really, really tall.
"Of course," Pete says. He nods his head toward a table with a clear view of the menu, and they sit down. A disproportionate amount of time is spent going over the Starbucks menu, but the conversation eventually derails. They end up there long enough that Will buys another drink ("seriously, we've been using up their space long enough. It's like I owe them now or something."), making a completely obnoxious call involving half-2% and half-soy milk. Pete ignores the part where he should be at work. He's pretty sure he's not going to get fired anyway; he can just claim he was doing research for an article.
--
As far as Pete can tell, the running-into-Will thing is his main coincidence, and he's pretty proud of himself for realizing it. With this sorted, everything should be okay. Days keep going by, though, and he and Will meet up at Starbucks a few more times and absolutely nothing happens. Pete goes back to Will's place, and nothing happens. They watch a movie -- some foreign thing with a lot of nudity -- and Pete still doesn't have his shadow.
Nothing is fixed.
He feels like, slowly but surely, the world is forgetting he exists. His debit card's started periodically not working. He goes in to the bank to get cash and try to get things fixed, but they can't find anything wrong. "You'll just have to come in if you keep having problems, sir," the teller tells him. "Your account's in good standing and everything."
Pete calls up Will, after, and says, "Do you want to come over?" and Will says yeah, sure, and he does. And it's nice, it really is, even if Will is a little tipsy before he even shows up. Will's energetic and affectionate and knows what he's doing. He's good at it.
Later, when Pete next wakes up, his bed is empty and he's been sleeping on the wet spot.
---
Pete's tired and cold and doesn't want to walk as far as home. He worked late today. Will's apartment is three blocks closer to the subway than Pete's is, and he figures, it's after work. It's cold and damp out. Will takes a little while to get the door, and says, "Come in, come in. My friend Patrick's here somewhere, but you're free to seek shelter from the, you know, the elements."
"That's cool, okay," Pete says.
"So hi," Will says. He flops down on the couch, picking up a magazine that was spread open on the cushion. "I was learning. This right here, this is important to know," he says. He reads something out loud -- "So apparently, 'espadrille-inspired flats are a perfect match for shorts, jeans, or dresses!' With an exclamation point," he says.
"Uh-huh," Pete says. "No skirts?"
"Oh," Will says. He wrinkles his nose. "Do you think those'd qualify under dresses? I don't know, I mean, there's fundamental differences in style there. Though, if you can wear them with shorts -- no. I think it's better to play it safe."
"Yeah, well," Pete says. "I don't even know what esper-drill flats are, so I guess I'm already protected."
"And thank god for that," Will says, apparently done with the conversation. Cosmo Girl has his full attention. Pete thinks about sitting next to him, either feeling him up or reading over his shoulder, but remembers that Will's apparently got some friend over. The balcony door is open, and there's a kid out there in a military jacket and hat, blowing bubbles.
Pete goes out. He says, "Hi." The kid looks up, nods, and dips the wand back into the bubble mix. He blows a few more. One drifts in front of Pete's face and he looks at it, at the tiny shimmering world inside.
He breathes as shallowly as he can, crouching down to watch the bubble drift to the ground. There are plants inside, and a tiny stream; a few tiny deer are staring back at him from atop a hillside. The bubble falls to the ground and pops.
Patrick looks down, then meets Pete's eyes again. Patrick lets one shoulder rise and fall in a lazy shrug. The ground is clean, if pocked with damp marks.
"Can you," Pete says. "Don't just -- what if there were," he says. "Wow. Why don't you save them? Do you ever?"
Patrick doesn't answer, just looks at him.
"You don't talk much, huh." Another shrug. "So it wouldn't be worth it to ask how those are possible, right. Has the world always been this crazy, or is it only now things are going insane? I don't know. I don't even know what I want the answer to be."
Patrick leans on the railing and points up at the sky. Pete follows his gaze. The stars are almost invisible, and on the horizon is the bright perma-glow of Manhattan. The sky is dark, but greyed, run through the wash a few too many times. Pete looks up for a while, then says, "I don't know if that was an answer. I'm gonna go back inside now and hope I figure it out later. Thanks, though."
Will's still reading, inside. There's a movie frozen on the TV. Pete puts his hands on Will's shoulder and leans in to nibble at his ear. "That kid's kind of weird," Pete says. He presses his hands down, giving a half-hearted massage.
"He still doing the bubble thing?" Will says, and Pete breathes an mmhm into the back of his neck. Will laughs. "You don't know the half of it."
"You know the weirdest people," Pete says.
"You mean the best people."
"Not arguing that," Pete says. "I wouldn't know. So are you two, you know? I can leave. I was just tired, figured it was better to rest then waste money on taking a cab three blocks."
"What? Oh, if only. No. Patrick's old-fashioned or something. I've tried. It's better not to."
"Huh," Pete says.
Patrick wanders back in, disappears into another room, then comes back with a fishbowl he sets down in front of Will's feet. Inside is a strange, patchwork ecosystem, water sloshing around the edges. Desert bumps up against rainforest bumps up against prairie. He puts the bubble mix away in a backpack by the door, then looks up at Pete. He looks startled, like he hasn't seen Pete before now. "Your shadow's missing?" he asks.
Will's shoulders tense up again under Pete's hands. Pete pushes down with his knuckles and says, "Yeah. Got it in one, dude. First person to notice without me having to point it out."
Patrick's quiet for a long time, long enough that Pete's starting to think he's not going to say anything else. Pete's about to say something, though he's not sure what or to whom, but Patrick says, finally, hesitantly, "You'll get it back, don't worry."
Will says, "Dude. Oh, dude."
Pete says, "What? Thanks. I hope so."
"You will," Patrick says. He nods, and then pulls his hat down further, ducking his head. He raises his hand in a wave, pulling the door open.
"See you at practice," Will says. "Later."
Pete says, "Bye?" He says to Will, "What's that about?"
"Nothing," Will says. He tilts his head to the side, and Pete brushes his hair away to kiss the back of his neck. "'Sup?"
"Just been feeling kind of disconnected." Pete says, "The usual. Doesn't matter, right?" and turns Will's head so they can kiss over the back of the sofa. He says, "Practice?"
"He's my drummer, for my band, I mean. He's from Chicago, too, actually."
"Another expat," Pete laughs. He crawls over the back of the sofa awkwardly, falling off the back and, almost, almost, into Will's lap. "Whatever. Chicago kids are the coolest kids. You have a band?"
Will says, "Mmhm." He shifts, pushing Pete down on the couch. "I do, I admit it. You wanna be my very first groupie?"
"Oh, I already am," Pete says. "Use me, baby."
--
Pete does a little footwork, turns into a temporary Internet detective, to find out the name of Will's band. Why he doesn't just ask Will, he's not sure. He doesn't know if he actually wants to see them, and the only reason he's heard anything of theirs is because he accidentally lets the player on their Myspace start up. They're patchy, some parts better than others, but Will's got a good voice on him, and.
And Pete finds himself listening close to the percussion. He's never quite understood the drums, never quite been able to form a proper opinion on technique -- like, he can tell if a drummer sucks or doesn't suck, if they're holding the rhythm together or just falling apart, but that's about it. Even Pete can tell that this kid, the drummer for The Academy, even with the shitty recording quality, is incredible.
Pete ends up asking Will. "Hey, can I come to a show sometime? I want to get back into the music scene, I guess, it's kind of been a while."
Will says, "Yeah, sure."
And live, it's the same thing. Everyone's competent, but no one's too impressive save for the drummer. Will's voice is pretty good but could use a little polish. Pete figures better production values could help with that, on an album. Otherwise it's just a matter of experience, just a matter of time. He thinks, maybe this is a little like what that band with Joe would have sounded like if they'd ever got that off the ground. If he hadn't left.
The crowd is fairly sedate; Will's band are the second openers, and there's scattered groups here and there obviously there for them, but nothing like a pit gets started up. Just some pretentious head-bobbing, a few people sort of bouncing but not getting off the ground, and a lot of blank stares. For the headliner, Pete doesn't even listen to them, just flails around in the pit like a total jackass.
He's covered in bruises and has a black eye by the time the show's over, and he's not entirely sure what Will's band was doing opening for a hardcore band, but he's not complaining. He's missed this.
--
After a few weeks, Pete figures out that Patrick isn't anywhere near as close to mute as he thought. He doesn't talk much, and what he says is always very careful and measured -- and short, and often indecisive, which makes all the thinking seem pretty weird. Mostly he'll just say things like, "Yeah, maybe," or "not right now" or whatever, a few stock phrases and the occasional question.
Pete asks Will about it. He fiddles with the sheets, looking down. "So hey, is Patrick autistic, or what? I mean, that's fine, not like I'd get down on him for it or anything because he's a really great guy, but. What's with him?"
Will stares at him for a second before speaking. "I can't tell you. Like, literally, I can't, I'm sorry. He's not, though, what the fuck? Where'd you get that idea from?"
"Haha, you can't, what? Just say if you don't know or whatever, dude, I don't care. Shut up, it was a theory. C'mon, tell me."
Will winces, curling in on himself. "No, like, I can't. Stop, okay?"
"Uhm, okay," Pete says. He puts a hand on Will's shoulder. "Are you -- like, are you okay?"
Will says, "I'll be fine. I'm resilient."
"Okay," Pete says, rubbing Will's back for a second before leaning over to grab his jeans off the floor. "So I've got to run."
"That's cool," Will says. "That's fine." He rubs at his temples before curling up in the warm space Pete left on the bed. Pete hops into his jeans, then pulls his shirt on. "Go, shoo. Have some adventures."
"Oh, I will."
--
Pete's pretty sure that, by this point, he's obsessed. Hanging out and watching The Academy practice is innocent in and of itself, because he does like Will's voice and he is pretty sure they could go somewhere. The part where he's there just to hear Patrick talk -- which he hardly ever does -- is what starts to take away the innocence. The part where he has to force himself not to stare at Patrick the whole time seals the deal.
The thing is, even though Pete's had a few chances to talk at Patrick -- and he has, for hours, and Patrick's just listened and nodded and not said much of anything -- he wants to hear Patrick talk back. He's curious. He wants to know, feels like maybe he has to. Back in high school, Pete learned sign language, and he can hardly remember anything but he can manage what he hopes is Will you talk to me?
Patrick smiles, kind of, and shakes his head.
Siska breaks his leg at one point, trying to beat up a mannequin, so Pete fills for the last leg of a quick east coast tour. It's only a few dates, and since the magazine he writes for is small and infrequent, because he's finished his article for the month, he can get enough time off for it.
The tourbus is nice. Pete's missed this, touring, playing shows, and even though this is only part of an incredibly short tour Pete's in heaven. He basks in it. He wants it back. Mostly, he's impressed at himself for not being total shit on bass even though he hasn't practiced for a few months.
"Patrick," he says, "Patrick, it has been so long since I played a real show, you do not even know. I -- you heard of Arma Angelus, right? You've got a t-shirt. Of course you have, unless you just like wearing shirts for bands you've never heard of. Hey, don't look at me like that. You could. I wouldn't know. Not like you ever talk about them. But yeah, it's been since then, you know. Since then. I -- you know, it fell apart, and I couldn't, I couldn't deal with any of it anymore, so here I am, right, way out here. I was thinking I could go west, but then I was like, where would I go out there? There's more cities out east. You can get between them quicker if you have to."
Pete's developed this bad habit of rambling when he's talking to Patrick, just saying whatever, not thinking about it at all. Patrick seems to listen, most of the time, which is refreshing. He's a better listener than the Internet, at least.
"What I'm saying," Pete says, "what I mean here is, it's been a while since I've even, like, not all the way since Chicago or anything but it's been a few months since I picked up my bass. So, you know. I'm just hoping I won't. You know."
"You've practiced with us," Patrick says. "Try not to worry about it, if you can. You'll be able to play just fine, it'll be okay."
Pete stares at him. Just for a moment, there's pressure behind his eyes, like he's going to get a headache. Then it's fine.
Patrick breathes out, slow, and closes his eyes. "I said it."
"Okay," Pete says. "Okay. You did."
--
Up on stage sometimes, if Pete's looking at just the right time, he can see Patrick mouthing along to the words. Pete can't help but wonder if he's singing. There's no mic back there, so he'll never know. He only seems to sing along or whatever when the crowd's especially into the song, and even then it's not all the time, not even at all frequently.
Pete still notices.
--
"No, dude, he's not gonna do it," Will says. "Seriously. Patrick's not gonna put out."
"I just want to hear him sing," Pete says. "Shut up. My thoughts are totally pure."
"Your thoughts are pure as the driven, like, acid rain."
Pete says, "I've seen him sing along at shows. Come on. I want to know if he can actually sing or not."
"Shit, really? Shit." Will says, "He does, really?"
"What? Yeah? Yeah, he does."
Will says, "Christ. If that's how he's gonna play it, okay. His choice."
"What, does he suck? Nobody's gonna hear. Now I'm extra-curious."
"No, nothing like that," Will says. "Don't."
"This is weird as shit," Pete declares. He makes a vow to himself to figure out what the hell is going on, because there has to be something. He still doesn't have a shadow, has to go in to the bank every time he wants to withdraw money. His credit cards don't always work. And one night, a few months back, he saw a kid blowing bubbles that held entire worlds inside.
He's pretty sure none of that's normal.
--
Patrick's even stricter about keeping edge than Pete, which makes the plan of getting him drunk impractical. He doesn't go to too many shows and never goes to parties, so Pete only ever sees him at practice and sometimes over at Will's place.
Both of them happen to be at Will's one night -- Pete, because Will has a big HDTV; Patrick, for reasons unknown. There's a movie paused, freeze-framed on screen. Will got up three minutes and eighteen seconds ago, to the sound of his phone blaring Ridin' Dirty. Pete only knows this because Will's got this clock that counts the seconds on its digital display, and he's been staring at it and the screen for the past three minutes and twenty five seconds.
Patrick's got this magazine, so Pete leans over. "Whatcha reading?"
Patrick holds up the magazine, angling the cover towards Pete and pointing at one of the headlines, something about an interview with the guitarist from The Summer League. "Oh, sweet. Article any good?"
Patrick nods, so Pete wriggles in up close next to him and reads over his shoulder. Patrick's tense for a second, and gives Pete this long look, but he doesn't complain or move away or anything, so Pete leans a little, shifts to get more comfortable. Patrick shrugs, sort of, and Pete grins at him before settling down to read.
When Patrick's done with a page, he waits. Pete's confused for a second, then says, "Oh, oh, you can turn the page now. Oh, that's a good picture. I'd go to jail for that."
Pete reads and has to force himself not to miss the touring incarnation of Arma Angelus, not to miss the days on the road in a cramped van with the people who used to be his best friends. He says, "You ever -- you guys gone on a national tour or anything yet?"
"The band went to the UK once," Patrick says. "And we toured the States with Summer League."
"Huh," Pete says. "You ever miss it?"
"Sometimes," Patrick says.
They finish reading the article and Patrick rests his head against Pete's shoulder, still not relaxed. He flips through the magazine a little more, skims some reviews, but doesn't settle on anything for too long. Pete says, "So hey, I know you're with The Academy and all, but how about, like, I'm thinking of doing something, and I was wondering if you'd want to play with me and some guys I know. I've just got some lyrics I wanna do something with, so, you know."
Patrick lifts his head off Pete's shoulder and opens his mouth like he's going to say something, then shuts it again. He nods, instead.
Will wanders back in, says, "I'll be with you guys in a second, sorry. Thursday? Yeah, I'm good with Thursday. Seriously, just a second here. Wait, you mean this Thursday or next?" And with that, he's headed back into the kitchen, phone balanced precariously between his ear and shoulder.
Patrick raises an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth quirking up a little. He cocks his head towards the kitchen and grins.
"He's so," Patrick starts, then stops. He just laughs a little instead.
"Tch, we crash his apartment often enough. He's allowed to ignore us every now and then. Besides, it's cute."
--
Right in the middle of a match, Gabe says, "So I met the guy you're sleeping with."
"Oh," Pete says. "Oh, okay." He frowns, still watching the screen carefully. "Wait, what?"
"Will? I met him at a show."
"Huh," Pete says. "Okay, that's cool."
"I'm just saying," Gabe says. "You've got taste."
"Yeah, I know," Pete says. He yawns, and uses his fingernail to pick some food out from between his teeth. He's only very lazily hitting the directional pad on the controller, and doesn't bother complaining when Gabe shoots his guy down.
Next time Pete goes to Will's place, when he tries to kiss him, Will says, "We're not gonna do anything more than make out today, just so you know."
Pete's been saying this a lot lately, but once again, he says, "Oh, okay."
"I just," Will says. "You know how it is."
"Yeah, no, that's cool," Pete says, and he was expecting something like this, that they'd end their -- not relationship, whatever it was -- eventually. He was just figuring he'd be the one to give it up first, even though Will's taller and more attractive and has a better personality. "Whatever, it's cool."
He'd just been hoping, for once he'd get the chance to end something.
--
After that, Pete asks Patrick if he wants to hang out at his place some. He actually has to show up to practice to ask, and he sticks around for a while after just chilling. The Academy's using this space way uptown that the whole band chips in on, and that they share with a few other bands. Mostly it belongs to The Academy. Patrick doesn't have a phone, is the thing.
So Pete shows up and asks if Patrick wants to hang out and go see a movie sometime or something, and Patrick says, "Okay," like it's some kind of big deal.
By this point, Pete's getting a little frustrated at not knowing. He's been wondering all along, and been obsessed for a while now, but now he's thinking, he's got to figure out what the hell is up with Patrick. It's not just shyness, he doesn't think. He hopes it isn't, at least. He'd feel stupid if it was.
They go right after practice, and it's late enough that the trains aren't too busy and they're able to get seats next to each other. Maybe Patrick rests his hand on Pete's for a little while, but when Pete looks down Patrick's moved his hand and is staring out the window at the tunnel walls.
When they have to switch trains, Patrick keeps his head down and holds onto Pete's first two fingers, just loosely, like he's making sure Pete exists, until they're on the train.
Pete smiles and, the weird thing is, he's more looking forward to watching the movie than any chance he might have of getting laid. He's more looking forward to just spending time with Patrick. He's not even sure what they're going to go see yet.
--
After the movie, Pete says, "So if you -- I don't know, you want to come over to my place, have some coffee? We should totally watch Hook, that one part made me think of it, and, yeah. What? I own it. I do. It was a good movie, okay? Robin Williams is a good actor, shut up. Don't tell me you didn't think Rufio was a fucking bad-ass."
Patrick's trying not to laugh, and his shoulders are shaking with the effort.
"Hey, now."
Patrick rolls his eyes, giving Pete a light punch on the shoulder. Pete shoves him back, grinning.
Patrick says, "I -- not tonight. But later, okay? That's, you know."
"What?"
Patrick is wringing his hands, has gone all tense.
"Okay?" Pete says.
"Yeah," Patrick says. He relaxes, slightly, raises one hand in a little wave.
--
part two
pete/will, pete/patrick; r. 11,513 words.
Some stuff inspired by the webcomic Minus. Cheers to dreamofthem and disarm-d for being kickin' rad and helping out with this mess.
(there's now a side-story about the summer league, one summer last fall. if you were wondering about that kind of thing.)
Pete doesn't pay a lot of attention to it, at first. He first notices at five AM, when light is coming through the windows at just the right angle to cast long shadows in front of every object and the carpet in front of him is still bright. The hallway, he walks down it and there's no shadow on the wall. Pete shrugs and falls into bed, ignoring Hemingway's whine at the disturbance. The dog settles down soon enough.
In the morning, he's opening a can of dog food and Hemingway comes running and skids to a stop in the doorway, too-big paws going every which way. Even stripped of dignity the dog manages a growl. "Hey, hey, calm down," Pete says. He pours the food into the dish and crouches down, holding it out to Hemingway as a peace offering. Hemingway backs up, claws clicking on the linoleum floor, still growling low. "Hemmy?"
Pete sets the dish down, and Hemingway turns with his tail between his legs and bolts.
--
Pete doesn't figure it out until halfway through his morning cup of coffee, which is at about noon. He's drinking his grande nonfat extra foam caramel macchiato, an iced quad venti breve latte waiting for attention just inches away from his hands, and he realizes that his fingers are casting absolutely no shadow on the little cardboard holder. Under his arm, on the table, there's no shadow.
There's a girl sitting across from him, head buried in a newspaper. "Hey," he says. "Hey, hey, you, newspaper-girl. Oh, New York Times, good, I was gonna be upset if you were reading USA Today or something."
She ignores him. Probably thinks he's flirting. He tries to get to the point. "Do I have a shadow?"
"Uhm?" She looks up, blinking slowly. "Of c -- ourse not? Wow, that's weird. How do you do that?"
"I don't know, but my dog doesn't like it."
"It is kind of creepy," she says, interested enough now that she folds up her newspaper. "So hi, I'm Chloe."
"That's nice. Thanks," he says, and gets up and throws out the last dirty dregs of his espresso concoction and leaves, taking his untouched latte with him. He never sees Chloe again, for what it's worth.
--
Two dollars gets Pete onto the subway, and he takes the L train into Manhattan. He doesn't get off at his stop, or the next one; he rides the trains for hours for want of something better to do. At one point he pulls out his phone and thinks about calling in sick, calling in shadowless because what the fuck is that about? That's got to be a good reason not to go in, could be contagious, but decides it's more fun just to disappear. He's relieved to find he still has a reflection, at least in train windows.
He takes the A and watches a little kid dance while the kid's father plays bad music on a boombox and begs for money. On the R a couple fights over if making out after one's eaten meat and the other's had milk is kosher or not; the 4, a homeless woman rants about the end of the world and Pete tells her that she's right.
The doors try to close on Pete when he finally gets off at his home stop, hours later, with the sun half-down. The city smells like rain though the sky is clear. On the stairs out of the station, he's going up and almost gets run into by someone going down who doesn't bother with a sorry.
--
Pete goes in to the office the next day and is greeted by a "Oh, so you decided to show up? Hey, are you okay?" from one of his coworkers.
Pete says, "Nice to see you too." His desk is piled high with unread memos, with receipts and notes to self. There's scattered pieces of research for at least six different articles. Even the keyboard is obscured by a light dusting of papers. Pete moves the stuff on his keyboard aside. He says, "Yeah, sure, just."
"You look different. Did you get a haircut?"
Pete actually likes the girl in the cubicle next to his; she's nice enough. She has the same smile as Jeanae. He leans over the top of his cubicle, peering down at her. "What? Yeah, no. Just lost my shadow, is all."
"Oh, it looks good," she says, then, "Huh?"
"Yeah, I have no idea. I figured not having a shadow was an okay reason to miss work."
He's leaving the office for the day, has Gabe on his cell phone, when someone runs into him. This is getting annoying. He doesn't get a sorry this time, either.
--
"Whoa, hey," Gabe says. "You get a haircut?"
"No."
"New girlpants? No? New girlfriend? Lost a family member? What?"
"I lost my shadow," Pete says.
Gabe doesn't seem surprised. "Where'd you put it?"
"I don't know, but Hemingway hates me."
"Cause and effect, dude," Gabe says. "Be nicer to your dog and maybe he'll give it back. I bet he hid it somewhere."
"He's a dog. Plus he didn't hate me until after it was gone."
"Oh, right," Gabe says. "Scratch that, then. It's not like it's a big deal, is it?"
"Automatic doors won't open for me. I gotta time it so there's other people going in at the same time as me. And, like. Automatic sinks? Nope."
"Eh, you don't need to wash your hands that bad. Just be careful when you pee."
"Dude, ew." Pete says, "Whatever, I'm going to forget about that part. Animals are avoiding me, too." Pete gestures at the city sidewalk, which is utterly devoid of pigeons. There are none to be seen in the sky or on the ground, even though he and Gabe are in the middle of a park. "I mean, I guess that's not too big a deal, it's just kind of annoying."
They're wandering -- Gabe says he found some thrift store he wanted to go to or something, and Pete's tagging along -- and Pete almost gets run into. People don't seem to be noticing him much, which isn't that weird for New York, but the near-collisions on almost empty Brooklyn sidewalks are strange. One guy -- who's familiar, though Pete can't say why -- actually does run into him, and this time Pete's acknowledged with a surprised stare and an actual "sorry." He figures that's good enough.
"Seriously, this is weird as shit," Pete says.
"Dude, I know, right." Gabe nods. "Maybe you're gonna ascend to heaven. Maybe it's the rapture."
"I don't really see that being an option, with all the sinning I do."
"Oh, come on. What sinning? You don't do drugs, I don't know if I've ever seen you drink. You are so not a sinner."
"Hey, now. I could be. I do a lot of random making out. Kissing before marriage, that's got to be a sin, right? Whatever. Pretty sure that ascension's not the answer here."
"No?"
"No."
"This," Gabe says, stopping suddenly, "is a matter for the cobra."
"Oh, dude, no, I am not going to do mesc with you."
"Hey. The cobra is pure. Don't implicate the cobra in that."
"Sure. Just because every time you've seen it, you've been drugged seven ways to Sunday, that doesn't mean the drugs have anything to do with it."
"Exactly. C'mon, let's get this party started."
--
Pete has to wait outside Gabe's apartment for twenty minutes while Gabe gets ready. A light rain has started falling, and the few cyclists who were pedaling past have started going faster. As far as Pete knows, visions of the cobra just happen and can't be brought on, but he's not going to claim to be an expert. If nothing else this'll make for a hilarious story later.
The door opens, and Gabe just barely pokes his head out, beckoning Pete to come in. The room is dark when Pete enters, lit only by candles. "Wait, wait," Pete says. "Strawberry-scented candles?"
"They were all I had, shut up. My ex-girlfriend left them. This is serious business, Wentz."
"Okay, dude, okay, sure, fine."
"Here, put this on," Gabe says, holding out a silk robe. It's a bathrobe, it turns out, pale blue and covered in smiling clouds. Gabe himself is wearing a terrycloth bathrobe with cats, and has a fluffy pink towel piled incoherently atop his head.
"What the hell," Pete says.
"Ceremonial robes and garb," Gabe says. "It's cool. It's totally necessary."
"You don't mind if I set up my camera, do you, because this is pretty much awesome."
"Sure, whatever."
So Pete digs in his messenger bag and pulls out his digital camera, which, thank god, has enough memory for a pretty long video. He sets it on a shelf and hits record. He cinches the robe around his waist and sits down cross-legged at Gabe's coffee table, where Gabe is already waiting. "Okay, okay."
Gabe says, "This is gonna take a little bit," and gets out a bowl and stuffs it with weed. He lights it, breathes in deep and holds his breath for a while. He holds the bowl out -- "You want a hit? It might help."
"No, still keeping edge," Pete says. He holds his sleeve up to his nose and tries to breathe through his mouth. "For now, at least."
"Come on, man, that's so Chicago, and Chicago is so two years ago."
Pete gives a hollow laugh at that. He thinks, how strange for Gabe to know the title of a song he wrote that long ago. The song came just before the end and never made it onto an album or even a live show. In his head, the song is always going to be eight hundred miles away. "Shut up, I'm staying true to my roots."
"The roots you ran away from, yeah," Gabe says. He gives himself another hit. "This is good shit."
"I can tell, it smells like it's good." His voice is a little muffled by the sleeve, and Gabe has to lean forward to hear him. Then Gabe leans back and sits straight. Gabe goes quiet and his pupils get huge, and Pete asks, "Hey, are you okay?"
Gabe doesn't say anything.
"Shit, dude, seriously, what did you take?"
Gabe's voice, when he talks again, is really weird. "You'll lose more of yourself if you don't take control of your life and resolve your coincidences." There's kind of an echo, kind of a weird sibilant quality to some syllables.
"My coincidences, the fuck."
"You have one more chance before your shadow is lost forever."
"Oh, sure, okay," Pete says. "The fuck, Gabe. What coincidences are you even talking about? I didn't mention any coincidences, just the shadow thing."
"You have one more chance to make the right decision. It's up to you to determine what that will be. You stand to lose far more."
"Dude, okay, Gabe, Gabe, hello. This is kind of creepy."
Gabe slouches again, and his pupils go back to normal. He's kind of spaced for a moment, and he shakes his head quickly. "Whoa, whoa, that was intense. What just, I just talked to the cobra, dude."
"Shit," Pete says. "I think I did too." Usually, he's willing enough to believe that Gabe sees something, even if it is purely drug-inspired. He's not willing to believe, usually, that it's any kind of mystical messenger or omen, like Gabe says. Right now, with his shadow missing and his life going to hell, he's a little more willing to believe.
"Oh, sweet. Did you get a cure for the shadow thing?"
"No, yes, I'm not sure. I don't know if it made sense. There was some crazy I ♥ Huckabees bullshit about coincidences."
"But that was the cobra, dude, not -- you didn't even mention any coincidences. What coincidences? Do you have to get an existentialist detective?"
"No, I think I'm good on that. I don't know. I've gotta figure it out, and apparently I've only got one more chance or something. This is fucked up, dude."
Gabe says, "And anyway, it wasn't coincidences that were the issue in Huckabees, that was all the existential bullshit. Do you actually watch movies, or just read reviews?"
"Sure, okay, so I ♥ Huckabees wasn't the best comparison. It's what came to mind first, okay? I didn't know I had any coincidences." Pete gets up to turn off his camera and put it back in its case.
Gabe takes another hit before answering again. Smoke trickles out of his nose as he attempts to keep it in. He starts coughing, but once he's done, says, "Hey, you'll figure it out."
"I hope so. I think I'm screwed, otherwise."
"Try not to worry. It's chill, man, it's cool. You'll be fine."
"Yeah. You're probably right."
--
A week later it's really warm out, so Pete orders an iced triple grande low fat whipped cream caramel macchiato and waits around for his drink to be served up. This isn't his usual Starbucks -- usually he goes to the one three blocks from home instead of the one two blocks from work, just because it gets him awake earlier. The guy behind him in line, he orders a twelve ounce cup of coffee, doesn't bother with sizing or anything. The barista seems horrified at first, and has to make absolutely sure the guy means drip and not espresso, and Pete's trying not to laugh at the ensuing debate.
Then he realizes the drip coffee guy is the same guy who ran onto him on the stairs at the Bedford subway stop, and down around 8th Street in Manhattan, and in that little Brooklyn park. And he thinks to himself, huh, what a weird coincidence. He says, "Whoa, whoa, hey."
From the counter -- "Grande caramel macchiato?"
Pete says, "Low-fat whipped cream?"
"Yeah."
He grabs his drink and turns back to the guy. Right before he can say anything, his order's called, too. Pete figures, why not, and grabs it. He hands it off. "Hey, I keep running into you. Or you keep running into me, technically, but this time it's not as literal I guess."
"Thanks," the guy says. "Have I seriously run into you before? It was probably a subconscious thing, you look like you're worth it."
"You've run into me like three times now. I figure that's reason enough to say hi."
"Oh, wow, it is you. What a weird -- that's such a weird coincidence."
"I know, right," Pete says. He holds out his hand. "Pete."
"No, I'm not Pete. I'm Will."
Pete laughs a little. "Right, sure, good to meet you." Pete says, "So what's with the drip coffee?"
"Because it's more fun that way? It's like, half the baristas have forgotten what regular coffee is or something."
"That's because, like, half the point is getting weird shit. You go somewhere else if you just want straight coffee."
"That's no good. No. They expect that." Will widens his eyes. "I don't get the point of all the other shit Starbucks has, but that doesn't mean it's not awesome screwing with them."
"I could teach you things," Pete says. "Introduce you to wonders you have never before known. Espresso, my good man. Caramel macchiatos with extra foam. Espresso Frappu-motherfucking-ccinos with four shots of espresso. Although, okay, you probably wouldn't want that much caffeine, most people don't. Still."
"I shall be but your humble student. Learn me real good." Will grins, giving a bow and a flourish. He's tall. Really, really tall.
"Of course," Pete says. He nods his head toward a table with a clear view of the menu, and they sit down. A disproportionate amount of time is spent going over the Starbucks menu, but the conversation eventually derails. They end up there long enough that Will buys another drink ("seriously, we've been using up their space long enough. It's like I owe them now or something."), making a completely obnoxious call involving half-2% and half-soy milk. Pete ignores the part where he should be at work. He's pretty sure he's not going to get fired anyway; he can just claim he was doing research for an article.
--
As far as Pete can tell, the running-into-Will thing is his main coincidence, and he's pretty proud of himself for realizing it. With this sorted, everything should be okay. Days keep going by, though, and he and Will meet up at Starbucks a few more times and absolutely nothing happens. Pete goes back to Will's place, and nothing happens. They watch a movie -- some foreign thing with a lot of nudity -- and Pete still doesn't have his shadow.
Nothing is fixed.
He feels like, slowly but surely, the world is forgetting he exists. His debit card's started periodically not working. He goes in to the bank to get cash and try to get things fixed, but they can't find anything wrong. "You'll just have to come in if you keep having problems, sir," the teller tells him. "Your account's in good standing and everything."
Pete calls up Will, after, and says, "Do you want to come over?" and Will says yeah, sure, and he does. And it's nice, it really is, even if Will is a little tipsy before he even shows up. Will's energetic and affectionate and knows what he's doing. He's good at it.
Later, when Pete next wakes up, his bed is empty and he's been sleeping on the wet spot.
---
Pete's tired and cold and doesn't want to walk as far as home. He worked late today. Will's apartment is three blocks closer to the subway than Pete's is, and he figures, it's after work. It's cold and damp out. Will takes a little while to get the door, and says, "Come in, come in. My friend Patrick's here somewhere, but you're free to seek shelter from the, you know, the elements."
"That's cool, okay," Pete says.
"So hi," Will says. He flops down on the couch, picking up a magazine that was spread open on the cushion. "I was learning. This right here, this is important to know," he says. He reads something out loud -- "So apparently, 'espadrille-inspired flats are a perfect match for shorts, jeans, or dresses!' With an exclamation point," he says.
"Uh-huh," Pete says. "No skirts?"
"Oh," Will says. He wrinkles his nose. "Do you think those'd qualify under dresses? I don't know, I mean, there's fundamental differences in style there. Though, if you can wear them with shorts -- no. I think it's better to play it safe."
"Yeah, well," Pete says. "I don't even know what esper-drill flats are, so I guess I'm already protected."
"And thank god for that," Will says, apparently done with the conversation. Cosmo Girl has his full attention. Pete thinks about sitting next to him, either feeling him up or reading over his shoulder, but remembers that Will's apparently got some friend over. The balcony door is open, and there's a kid out there in a military jacket and hat, blowing bubbles.
Pete goes out. He says, "Hi." The kid looks up, nods, and dips the wand back into the bubble mix. He blows a few more. One drifts in front of Pete's face and he looks at it, at the tiny shimmering world inside.
He breathes as shallowly as he can, crouching down to watch the bubble drift to the ground. There are plants inside, and a tiny stream; a few tiny deer are staring back at him from atop a hillside. The bubble falls to the ground and pops.
Patrick looks down, then meets Pete's eyes again. Patrick lets one shoulder rise and fall in a lazy shrug. The ground is clean, if pocked with damp marks.
"Can you," Pete says. "Don't just -- what if there were," he says. "Wow. Why don't you save them? Do you ever?"
Patrick doesn't answer, just looks at him.
"You don't talk much, huh." Another shrug. "So it wouldn't be worth it to ask how those are possible, right. Has the world always been this crazy, or is it only now things are going insane? I don't know. I don't even know what I want the answer to be."
Patrick leans on the railing and points up at the sky. Pete follows his gaze. The stars are almost invisible, and on the horizon is the bright perma-glow of Manhattan. The sky is dark, but greyed, run through the wash a few too many times. Pete looks up for a while, then says, "I don't know if that was an answer. I'm gonna go back inside now and hope I figure it out later. Thanks, though."
Will's still reading, inside. There's a movie frozen on the TV. Pete puts his hands on Will's shoulder and leans in to nibble at his ear. "That kid's kind of weird," Pete says. He presses his hands down, giving a half-hearted massage.
"He still doing the bubble thing?" Will says, and Pete breathes an mmhm into the back of his neck. Will laughs. "You don't know the half of it."
"You know the weirdest people," Pete says.
"You mean the best people."
"Not arguing that," Pete says. "I wouldn't know. So are you two, you know? I can leave. I was just tired, figured it was better to rest then waste money on taking a cab three blocks."
"What? Oh, if only. No. Patrick's old-fashioned or something. I've tried. It's better not to."
"Huh," Pete says.
Patrick wanders back in, disappears into another room, then comes back with a fishbowl he sets down in front of Will's feet. Inside is a strange, patchwork ecosystem, water sloshing around the edges. Desert bumps up against rainforest bumps up against prairie. He puts the bubble mix away in a backpack by the door, then looks up at Pete. He looks startled, like he hasn't seen Pete before now. "Your shadow's missing?" he asks.
Will's shoulders tense up again under Pete's hands. Pete pushes down with his knuckles and says, "Yeah. Got it in one, dude. First person to notice without me having to point it out."
Patrick's quiet for a long time, long enough that Pete's starting to think he's not going to say anything else. Pete's about to say something, though he's not sure what or to whom, but Patrick says, finally, hesitantly, "You'll get it back, don't worry."
Will says, "Dude. Oh, dude."
Pete says, "What? Thanks. I hope so."
"You will," Patrick says. He nods, and then pulls his hat down further, ducking his head. He raises his hand in a wave, pulling the door open.
"See you at practice," Will says. "Later."
Pete says, "Bye?" He says to Will, "What's that about?"
"Nothing," Will says. He tilts his head to the side, and Pete brushes his hair away to kiss the back of his neck. "'Sup?"
"Just been feeling kind of disconnected." Pete says, "The usual. Doesn't matter, right?" and turns Will's head so they can kiss over the back of the sofa. He says, "Practice?"
"He's my drummer, for my band, I mean. He's from Chicago, too, actually."
"Another expat," Pete laughs. He crawls over the back of the sofa awkwardly, falling off the back and, almost, almost, into Will's lap. "Whatever. Chicago kids are the coolest kids. You have a band?"
Will says, "Mmhm." He shifts, pushing Pete down on the couch. "I do, I admit it. You wanna be my very first groupie?"
"Oh, I already am," Pete says. "Use me, baby."
--
Pete does a little footwork, turns into a temporary Internet detective, to find out the name of Will's band. Why he doesn't just ask Will, he's not sure. He doesn't know if he actually wants to see them, and the only reason he's heard anything of theirs is because he accidentally lets the player on their Myspace start up. They're patchy, some parts better than others, but Will's got a good voice on him, and.
And Pete finds himself listening close to the percussion. He's never quite understood the drums, never quite been able to form a proper opinion on technique -- like, he can tell if a drummer sucks or doesn't suck, if they're holding the rhythm together or just falling apart, but that's about it. Even Pete can tell that this kid, the drummer for The Academy, even with the shitty recording quality, is incredible.
Pete ends up asking Will. "Hey, can I come to a show sometime? I want to get back into the music scene, I guess, it's kind of been a while."
Will says, "Yeah, sure."
And live, it's the same thing. Everyone's competent, but no one's too impressive save for the drummer. Will's voice is pretty good but could use a little polish. Pete figures better production values could help with that, on an album. Otherwise it's just a matter of experience, just a matter of time. He thinks, maybe this is a little like what that band with Joe would have sounded like if they'd ever got that off the ground. If he hadn't left.
The crowd is fairly sedate; Will's band are the second openers, and there's scattered groups here and there obviously there for them, but nothing like a pit gets started up. Just some pretentious head-bobbing, a few people sort of bouncing but not getting off the ground, and a lot of blank stares. For the headliner, Pete doesn't even listen to them, just flails around in the pit like a total jackass.
He's covered in bruises and has a black eye by the time the show's over, and he's not entirely sure what Will's band was doing opening for a hardcore band, but he's not complaining. He's missed this.
--
After a few weeks, Pete figures out that Patrick isn't anywhere near as close to mute as he thought. He doesn't talk much, and what he says is always very careful and measured -- and short, and often indecisive, which makes all the thinking seem pretty weird. Mostly he'll just say things like, "Yeah, maybe," or "not right now" or whatever, a few stock phrases and the occasional question.
Pete asks Will about it. He fiddles with the sheets, looking down. "So hey, is Patrick autistic, or what? I mean, that's fine, not like I'd get down on him for it or anything because he's a really great guy, but. What's with him?"
Will stares at him for a second before speaking. "I can't tell you. Like, literally, I can't, I'm sorry. He's not, though, what the fuck? Where'd you get that idea from?"
"Haha, you can't, what? Just say if you don't know or whatever, dude, I don't care. Shut up, it was a theory. C'mon, tell me."
Will winces, curling in on himself. "No, like, I can't. Stop, okay?"
"Uhm, okay," Pete says. He puts a hand on Will's shoulder. "Are you -- like, are you okay?"
Will says, "I'll be fine. I'm resilient."
"Okay," Pete says, rubbing Will's back for a second before leaning over to grab his jeans off the floor. "So I've got to run."
"That's cool," Will says. "That's fine." He rubs at his temples before curling up in the warm space Pete left on the bed. Pete hops into his jeans, then pulls his shirt on. "Go, shoo. Have some adventures."
"Oh, I will."
--
Pete's pretty sure that, by this point, he's obsessed. Hanging out and watching The Academy practice is innocent in and of itself, because he does like Will's voice and he is pretty sure they could go somewhere. The part where he's there just to hear Patrick talk -- which he hardly ever does -- is what starts to take away the innocence. The part where he has to force himself not to stare at Patrick the whole time seals the deal.
The thing is, even though Pete's had a few chances to talk at Patrick -- and he has, for hours, and Patrick's just listened and nodded and not said much of anything -- he wants to hear Patrick talk back. He's curious. He wants to know, feels like maybe he has to. Back in high school, Pete learned sign language, and he can hardly remember anything but he can manage what he hopes is Will you talk to me?
Patrick smiles, kind of, and shakes his head.
Siska breaks his leg at one point, trying to beat up a mannequin, so Pete fills for the last leg of a quick east coast tour. It's only a few dates, and since the magazine he writes for is small and infrequent, because he's finished his article for the month, he can get enough time off for it.
The tourbus is nice. Pete's missed this, touring, playing shows, and even though this is only part of an incredibly short tour Pete's in heaven. He basks in it. He wants it back. Mostly, he's impressed at himself for not being total shit on bass even though he hasn't practiced for a few months.
"Patrick," he says, "Patrick, it has been so long since I played a real show, you do not even know. I -- you heard of Arma Angelus, right? You've got a t-shirt. Of course you have, unless you just like wearing shirts for bands you've never heard of. Hey, don't look at me like that. You could. I wouldn't know. Not like you ever talk about them. But yeah, it's been since then, you know. Since then. I -- you know, it fell apart, and I couldn't, I couldn't deal with any of it anymore, so here I am, right, way out here. I was thinking I could go west, but then I was like, where would I go out there? There's more cities out east. You can get between them quicker if you have to."
Pete's developed this bad habit of rambling when he's talking to Patrick, just saying whatever, not thinking about it at all. Patrick seems to listen, most of the time, which is refreshing. He's a better listener than the Internet, at least.
"What I'm saying," Pete says, "what I mean here is, it's been a while since I've even, like, not all the way since Chicago or anything but it's been a few months since I picked up my bass. So, you know. I'm just hoping I won't. You know."
"You've practiced with us," Patrick says. "Try not to worry about it, if you can. You'll be able to play just fine, it'll be okay."
Pete stares at him. Just for a moment, there's pressure behind his eyes, like he's going to get a headache. Then it's fine.
Patrick breathes out, slow, and closes his eyes. "I said it."
"Okay," Pete says. "Okay. You did."
--
Up on stage sometimes, if Pete's looking at just the right time, he can see Patrick mouthing along to the words. Pete can't help but wonder if he's singing. There's no mic back there, so he'll never know. He only seems to sing along or whatever when the crowd's especially into the song, and even then it's not all the time, not even at all frequently.
Pete still notices.
--
"No, dude, he's not gonna do it," Will says. "Seriously. Patrick's not gonna put out."
"I just want to hear him sing," Pete says. "Shut up. My thoughts are totally pure."
"Your thoughts are pure as the driven, like, acid rain."
Pete says, "I've seen him sing along at shows. Come on. I want to know if he can actually sing or not."
"Shit, really? Shit." Will says, "He does, really?"
"What? Yeah? Yeah, he does."
Will says, "Christ. If that's how he's gonna play it, okay. His choice."
"What, does he suck? Nobody's gonna hear. Now I'm extra-curious."
"No, nothing like that," Will says. "Don't."
"This is weird as shit," Pete declares. He makes a vow to himself to figure out what the hell is going on, because there has to be something. He still doesn't have a shadow, has to go in to the bank every time he wants to withdraw money. His credit cards don't always work. And one night, a few months back, he saw a kid blowing bubbles that held entire worlds inside.
He's pretty sure none of that's normal.
--
Patrick's even stricter about keeping edge than Pete, which makes the plan of getting him drunk impractical. He doesn't go to too many shows and never goes to parties, so Pete only ever sees him at practice and sometimes over at Will's place.
Both of them happen to be at Will's one night -- Pete, because Will has a big HDTV; Patrick, for reasons unknown. There's a movie paused, freeze-framed on screen. Will got up three minutes and eighteen seconds ago, to the sound of his phone blaring Ridin' Dirty. Pete only knows this because Will's got this clock that counts the seconds on its digital display, and he's been staring at it and the screen for the past three minutes and twenty five seconds.
Patrick's got this magazine, so Pete leans over. "Whatcha reading?"
Patrick holds up the magazine, angling the cover towards Pete and pointing at one of the headlines, something about an interview with the guitarist from The Summer League. "Oh, sweet. Article any good?"
Patrick nods, so Pete wriggles in up close next to him and reads over his shoulder. Patrick's tense for a second, and gives Pete this long look, but he doesn't complain or move away or anything, so Pete leans a little, shifts to get more comfortable. Patrick shrugs, sort of, and Pete grins at him before settling down to read.
When Patrick's done with a page, he waits. Pete's confused for a second, then says, "Oh, oh, you can turn the page now. Oh, that's a good picture. I'd go to jail for that."
Pete reads and has to force himself not to miss the touring incarnation of Arma Angelus, not to miss the days on the road in a cramped van with the people who used to be his best friends. He says, "You ever -- you guys gone on a national tour or anything yet?"
"The band went to the UK once," Patrick says. "And we toured the States with Summer League."
"Huh," Pete says. "You ever miss it?"
"Sometimes," Patrick says.
They finish reading the article and Patrick rests his head against Pete's shoulder, still not relaxed. He flips through the magazine a little more, skims some reviews, but doesn't settle on anything for too long. Pete says, "So hey, I know you're with The Academy and all, but how about, like, I'm thinking of doing something, and I was wondering if you'd want to play with me and some guys I know. I've just got some lyrics I wanna do something with, so, you know."
Patrick lifts his head off Pete's shoulder and opens his mouth like he's going to say something, then shuts it again. He nods, instead.
Will wanders back in, says, "I'll be with you guys in a second, sorry. Thursday? Yeah, I'm good with Thursday. Seriously, just a second here. Wait, you mean this Thursday or next?" And with that, he's headed back into the kitchen, phone balanced precariously between his ear and shoulder.
Patrick raises an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth quirking up a little. He cocks his head towards the kitchen and grins.
"He's so," Patrick starts, then stops. He just laughs a little instead.
"Tch, we crash his apartment often enough. He's allowed to ignore us every now and then. Besides, it's cute."
--
Right in the middle of a match, Gabe says, "So I met the guy you're sleeping with."
"Oh," Pete says. "Oh, okay." He frowns, still watching the screen carefully. "Wait, what?"
"Will? I met him at a show."
"Huh," Pete says. "Okay, that's cool."
"I'm just saying," Gabe says. "You've got taste."
"Yeah, I know," Pete says. He yawns, and uses his fingernail to pick some food out from between his teeth. He's only very lazily hitting the directional pad on the controller, and doesn't bother complaining when Gabe shoots his guy down.
Next time Pete goes to Will's place, when he tries to kiss him, Will says, "We're not gonna do anything more than make out today, just so you know."
Pete's been saying this a lot lately, but once again, he says, "Oh, okay."
"I just," Will says. "You know how it is."
"Yeah, no, that's cool," Pete says, and he was expecting something like this, that they'd end their -- not relationship, whatever it was -- eventually. He was just figuring he'd be the one to give it up first, even though Will's taller and more attractive and has a better personality. "Whatever, it's cool."
He'd just been hoping, for once he'd get the chance to end something.
--
After that, Pete asks Patrick if he wants to hang out at his place some. He actually has to show up to practice to ask, and he sticks around for a while after just chilling. The Academy's using this space way uptown that the whole band chips in on, and that they share with a few other bands. Mostly it belongs to The Academy. Patrick doesn't have a phone, is the thing.
So Pete shows up and asks if Patrick wants to hang out and go see a movie sometime or something, and Patrick says, "Okay," like it's some kind of big deal.
By this point, Pete's getting a little frustrated at not knowing. He's been wondering all along, and been obsessed for a while now, but now he's thinking, he's got to figure out what the hell is up with Patrick. It's not just shyness, he doesn't think. He hopes it isn't, at least. He'd feel stupid if it was.
They go right after practice, and it's late enough that the trains aren't too busy and they're able to get seats next to each other. Maybe Patrick rests his hand on Pete's for a little while, but when Pete looks down Patrick's moved his hand and is staring out the window at the tunnel walls.
When they have to switch trains, Patrick keeps his head down and holds onto Pete's first two fingers, just loosely, like he's making sure Pete exists, until they're on the train.
Pete smiles and, the weird thing is, he's more looking forward to watching the movie than any chance he might have of getting laid. He's more looking forward to just spending time with Patrick. He's not even sure what they're going to go see yet.
--
After the movie, Pete says, "So if you -- I don't know, you want to come over to my place, have some coffee? We should totally watch Hook, that one part made me think of it, and, yeah. What? I own it. I do. It was a good movie, okay? Robin Williams is a good actor, shut up. Don't tell me you didn't think Rufio was a fucking bad-ass."
Patrick's trying not to laugh, and his shoulders are shaking with the effort.
"Hey, now."
Patrick rolls his eyes, giving Pete a light punch on the shoulder. Pete shoves him back, grinning.
Patrick says, "I -- not tonight. But later, okay? That's, you know."
"What?"
Patrick is wringing his hands, has gone all tense.
"Okay?" Pete says.
"Yeah," Patrick says. He relaxes, slightly, raises one hand in a little wave.
--
part two