(no subject)
"it may be a side effect of the exposure, but i am thinking it's meant to be"
for the fic imitates music prompt challenge
fall out boy, pete/patrick
pg-13, 5,821 words
"it may be a side effect of the exposure, but i am thinking it's meant to be"
by Becs
for the fic imitates music prompt challenge, using fall out boy's "it's not a side effect of the cocaine, i am thinking it must be love".
Recently, Pete has taken to texting Patrick approximately four thousand times a day.
Patrick does not mind this entirely. After all, this is Pete from Arma Angelus, this is Pete fucking Wentz from fucking Racetraitor; Patrick isn’t going to complain if he’s suddenly decided Patrick is the person most worthy of wasting his time on. It’s flattering, actually. And mind-boggling. Very mind-boggling.
So, Patrick is not complaining, mostly. The only problem with the situation is that, for seven hours a day five days a week, Patrick is stuck in school. Strictly speaking, students are not supposed to use cell phones in school-not that it really stops anyone, but Patrick is pretty sure that sooner or later one of his teachers is going to notice that Patrick’s phone is vibrating every two seconds, and that the awkward kid in the back who’s usually too busy scribbling shitty lyrics in his notebook to pay attention is now too busy punching out text messages under his desk to pay attention.
Right now, for example, Mr. Huntley is writing something about habeas corpus on the blackboard, and Patrick is trying to figure out how to respond to Pete’s so do i get to see my one true love today without sounding like a) a douchebag or b) a teenager with a stupid crush. Because he’s not. Well, teenager, yes. But not one with a stupid crush. And okay, maybe he is possibly a douchebag on occasion, but he tries pretty hard not to be one in general.
He decides on maybe if you ask real nice and looks up just in time to pretend to take notes as Mr. Huntley’s gaze sweeps over the classroom.
Pete replies within seconds: pretty plz w/a rickster on top
Patrick sighs loudly. The kid next to him glances over with a raised eyebrow, but Patrick ignores him and instead concentrates on deciphering Pete Wentz’s gift for the maddeningly questionable sexual innuendo. If Patrick were a braver man, he would reply with something super-witty like is that a promise?, but Patrick is kinda really introverted. So he fidgets and fumbles for a few minutes, copies something government-related into his notebook, and sends back a hasty sure ok, after school before the bell rings.
Of course, as soon as he says that, the rest of the school day slows to a snail’s pace, and even the excitement of things like lunch (taco salad day!) and Pete’s subsequent texts (a good cross-section would include: YAY!!!!; you should play me pretty songs tonite; i kinda want a smoothie lets get some; and RICK TA LIFE) make the hours pass more quickly. High school, Patrick thinks. Like the Spanish Inquisition, but with more cheerleaders and less-well. With more cheerleaders.
Pete is sitting on Patrick’s front steps when he gets home. Patrick pulls up to the house in his clunky old car and Pete hops up, grinning and waving.
“That,” Patrick tells him, “is kind of creepy stalkerish.”
“Whatever, you like me creepy stalkerish,” Pete says, and pulls Patrick into a hug/noogie combination that makes Patrick squawk in protest, laughing and shoving Pete away.
“You freak,” he says. He means it lovingly.
“Your mom,” says Pete, beaming.
Patrick’s mother is actually terrifyingly approving of Pete. Of course, Patrick’s mother doesn’t get text messages from Pete at one in the morning full of indecipherable emo or asking if Patrick thinks that having sex in a public bathroom is unclassy-or at least, Patrick really, really hopes she doesn’t-so the Pete Wentz that Patrick’s mom is a fan of is the one who sits at her kitchen table with her son and gives her big smiles and thanks her for the cookies while he listens attentively to Patrick talk about the lack of exciting things that occurred at school today.
That, and she likes to say embarrassing things about Patrick’s social life.
“I’m so glad Patrick’s got a good older friend like you,” she says, laying a hand on top of Pete’s currently-dyed hair. “He never seems like he really fits in with any of the kids from school.” Translation: I’m glad my son isn’t a complete loser. Patrick shoves an entire cookie in his mouth and examines the wood grain on the table.
Pete shrugs, smiling as if Patrick’s mom did not just tell him that his new favorite person basically has no friends. “Well, I don’t really fit in with a lot of the kids at my school, either, so.” He loops an enthusiastic arm around Patrick’s shoulders; Patrick chokes a little on his cookie. “You hear that, Rickster, we’re made for each other!”
“Mmph,” Patrick says, trying to sound agreeable. Pete laughs and eats another cookie.
im dreaming abt monsters in the dark again, Pete sends at 2:27 in the morning, right when Patrick is finally falling asleep to catch a few hours before school. He makes an annoyed noise at his ceiling, but answers, of course, squinting at the glow from his phone’s screen in the dark.
So turn on the lights? he sends back, rolling onto his side but keeping the phone clenched in his fist.
Pete replies: cant sleep with the lights on. cant sleep w/them off. sry i just cant sleep at all lately.
Pete Wentz, Patrick learned pretty quickly, is a pretty fucked up kid. For all the ridiculous horse-teeth grins and the endless onstage energy, he’s got a crazy depressive streak a mile wide and a morbidly acute sense of the pretend.
Is there anything that would help you sleep? Patrick sends, yawning as he hits the button. He doesn’t mind the late-night messages, but sometimes he thinks that Pete’s counseling would be probably better left to a professional. (Pete disagrees. “You’re better for me than any dumbass doctor,” he said when Patrick told him that.)
kinda wish you were here.
Patrick closes his eyes for a moment, almost letting sleep overtake him before drawing a slow breath and typing back quickly, Hug your pillow or something, it’s squishy enough to be me.
There’s a pause of about a minute, then, not warm enough.
Patrick sighs into the dark. Wish I could be there, he sends, and he means it.
The thing about getting text messages from Pete Wentz is, sometimes Patrick wishes he could go up to all the kids at school who always pretend not to see him when they’re at the same shows, shove his phone in their faces and and say something like, “You think you’re so cool, but yeah, that’s the dude from Arma and he thinks I’m basically awesome.” He won’t, of course, because that would most likely only end in minor public humiliation. Patrick likes flying under the radar. He likes his desks in the backs of classrooms, paying just enough attention to keep decent grades, ignoring the jocks when they high-five over his head like he’s not even there.
He’s got more important things to pay attention to, anyway. Like writing shitty lyrics. Preferably with as many John Cusack allusions as possible, because if he’s going to write shitty lyrics, Patrick thinks he may as well make clever pop-culture references.
Anyway, Pete likes Patrick’s shitty lyrics. Well, he admits that they’re shitty, but he likes them anyway. Patrick is okay with this.
What Patrick is not okay with is when someone in one of his classes suddenly decides to take an interest in the geek in the corner and he has to scramble to cover up said shitty lyrics before said person can decipher them.
This time, it’s a pretty brunette cheerleader, complete with uniform-there must be a game today; Patrick never knows-smiling brightly in a way that makes Patrick think of politicians helping the underprivileged. “Hi, what are you doing!” she chirps, and goddamn if she doesn’t actually bounce when she talks.
Patrick shrugs awkwardly, closing his notebook in a failed attempt at subtlety. “Uhm,” he says. “Nothing?”
“Oh,” she says.
“Oh-” Patrick says, squirming suddenly as his phone vibrates in his pocket. He digs it out, glancing carefully up to make sure the teacher’s still at her desk, and flips it open against his knee.
i miss you in the mornings like yr suposde to wake up nxt to me, Pete says.
“Ooooh, girlfriend?” says the cheerleader-Brittany, Patrick recalls, is her name-leaning over to peer at Patrick’s phone.
Patrick makes an ambiguous noise in his throat, tries to pretend that he didn’t just feel his cheeks flush pink, and texts back, Did you sleep at all?
like an hr, Pete says, then, skip class today, i missyou
“Awww,” Brittany coos. Patrick feels his ears go red.
Can’t, have a test later, he sends reluctantly, fingers awkward over the keypad with the unfamiliar gaze reading over his shoulder.
c’mon patty boy we can get married after lunch
“That’s so sweet,” Brittany says, clasping her hands together. “Aw, you should totally go.”
“Uhm,” says Patrick, trying to think of a way to bring up the fact that his mom will murder him without sounding like a complete loser.
please, says Pete.
Patrick sighs.
“You know, I can’t just skip class every time you miss me,” Patrick says as he climbs out of his car to meet Pete at the local Jamba Juice. Pete is leaning against the wall next to the door, looking sullen, but he brightens when he sees Patrick pull up.
“Just this once, I promise,” Pete says, and wraps Patrick into a tight hug, his nose pressing hard into the top of Patrick’s head. “I just really missed you, okay?”
“Mkay,” Patrick mumbles, muffled into Pete’s shoulder.
There are not many days in Patrick’s high school career that he would classify as “really entirely completely awesome,” but this one, with the skipping school and the smoothies and the walking around aimlessly for hours while Pete rambles on about his bands and this girl he thought he loved last week and how Patrick is gonna make them all famous one day-this one comes pretty much as close as possible.
They get the smoothies instead of lunch-mango for Pete, peach for Patrick (“Because you’re such a peach,” Pete says in a bad southern accent as he insists on paying)-and sip them in companionable silence as they walk. When Pete gets to the bottom of his, he slurps loudly and obnoxiously at the last quarter-inch of drink until Patrick caves and gives him some of his.
“Mmm, Patrick-germs,” Pete says happily, chewing on Patrick’s straw. “Delicious.”
“You,” Patrick says, then just laughs and shakes his head.
“No. You, man, Patrick Stumph,” Pete says. He spins around suddenly on the sidewalk ahead of Patrick like he’s in a musical or something, jabbing a finger at Patrick’s chest. “You’re the fucking golden ticket, man, like. Sometimes I think I dreamt you up, for real.”
“I dunno, I was here for a while before you found me,” Patrick says, spreading his arms out palms-up, like offering proof of his existence.
“I know! All that lost time. Man.” Pete falls back into step, latches onto Patrick’s arm. “This isn’t the way we plaaanned!” he sings/shouts to oncoming traffic.
“I wasn’t supposed to forget your taste, like nights spent figuring all the ways that we came to this place,” Patrick chimes in, grinning like an idiot.
“God, man.” Pete presses a sloppy kiss to Patrick’s cheek. “Your fucking voice, I’m going to fucking marry you.”
Patrick’s not really old enough to get married, though, so instead he calls his mom and tells her he’s gonna be home late and eventually they head back to Pete’s apartment, Patrick does his homework and Pete pretends to help, and at eight o’clock they curl up on the couch to watch Survivor (Patrick roots for the tribe Pete doesn’t like, just to get him all indignant), followed by Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? (Pete answers a lot of questions wrong and Patrick laughs at him), followed by E.R. (Pete clutches at Patrick and watches the surgeries with wide eyes), and then Pete starts dozing off against Patrick’s shoulder and Patrick has to have a moment of serious grappling with his morals.
“Pete,” he says, sighing, poking his index finger into Pete’s bicep. “Pete, get up, I’ve got to go.”
“Nooooo, whyyyy,” Pete mumbles sleepily, drooling on Patrick’s sleeve.
“Ugh, because I have school tomorrow?”
“Noooooo.” For a little guy, Pete’s got a really strong grip.
Patrick sighs. “Pete.”
“Mmmph, fine.” Pete wriggles around to kiss to the corner of Patrick’s mouth, then rearranges himself so he’s using actual pillows as pillows instead of Patrick. “Now leave before I wake up and realize you’re gone and can’t sleep.”
Patrick closes the door as quietly as possible on his way out.
Joe explains it like this:
“I just really honestly don’t get it,” Patrick had said, with “it” referring to the ridiculous crazy faith Pete has in Patrick’s musical abilities to make their little makeshfit punk-pop gig into something huge. They’re standing in Joe’s driveway and it’s almost dark out; Joe is shooting hoops, kind of, in a way where he keeps half-heartedly throwing the ball at the hoop and it keeps bouncing back near him, and Patrick is just really hoping it doesn’t bounce near him.
“It’s just you, dude,” Joe says, squinting in the failing light. “It’s like, okay, not that you’re not brilliant, ‘cause you’re pretty dope, dude, but.” He hefts the basketball in the general direction of the hoop; it hits the rain gutter on his garage instead, knocking it crooked. “Shit. Oh, well, I was saying. It’s not just that you’re his little musical genius buddy-thing whatever, it’s that. He wants our thing to be big, he doesn’t want to get big with someone else. He wouldn’t mind, I bet, but he’d rather it be our thing, you and him, us.”
“Joe,” says Patrick. “He’s Pete fucking Wentz.”
Joe has retrieved the basketball from where it rolled into the lawn. “And I’m Joe fucking Trohman. Hey, catch.”
Patrick makes an embarrassing squeaky noise when he ducks out of the way of Joe’s pass. “Hey! You fucker,” he says, indignant, and Joe sits down on the ground laughing.
joe sez u like basketball??? pete texts him later that night, when Patrick’s just crawled into bed.
Joe’s a motherfucking liar, he replies, rolling his eyes.
oh good i dont think i could love a jock, Pete says.
Patrick’s pretty sure his ears go a little pink, and his fingers feel sweaty and awkward. He has to stop twice to wipe them off on his pajamas before he finishes his reply. Linebackers not your type?
nope. i like em short n squishy.
Patrick grins so hard his face hurts.
Pete is true to his word and doesn’t ask Patrick to skip class anymore, but he does continue to text him incessantly, to the point where sometimes Patrick gets out of school and feels like his fingers are going to fall off, even though he didn’t take a single note that day. Patrick is generally okay with this. The i found you the most awesomest hat todays make him smile so much he’s afraid his teachers will think something’s wrong. The i miss you i miss you i miss yous make his heart do these ridiculous stupid flip-flops in his chest, and he really wishes Brittany the cheerleader and her friends would stop trying to catch his eye and give him knowing smiles every time he checks his phone and turns pink.
its lunchtime, lets get sammiches and then get married, Pete sends during fifth period. Patrick jumps a little at the vibration against his hip, and then sits very still when Ms. Hernandez gives him an odd look.
I’m at school, dumbass, I can’t marry you right now. Also, lunch was an hour ago, he sends back a minute later.
Pete says, all the time is lunchtime with you, lunchbox.
Patrick snorts, tries to disguise it as a sniffle/cough, and says, What kind of sense does that even make?
the kind of sense where we are made for each other, patrick stumph, Pete says. Patrick can practically hear the words murmured low through a big, dumb grin; he smiles stupidly down at his notebook and doesn’t even pretend he cares about the laws of thermodynamics. Before he can collect himself enough to respond, his phone buzzes again.
had a dream last nite that you disapeared. woke up and i almsot coudnt find myself.
“Mr. Stumph,” Ms. Hernandez says loudly, mid-lecture. Patrick’s head jerks up on reflex to blink at her. She’s frowning. “You can hand over that cell phone,” she says, holding out her hand expectantly. Patrick shuffles forward to give it to her without looking at anyone-the distance to the front of the room and back seems ridiculously far; he swears he hears a giggle somewhere off to the left, and he hopes to god he’s not blushing or anything stupid like that. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Brittany the cheerleader giving him a sympathetic pouty look.
The phone vibrates in Ms. Hernandez’s hand. She turns it off and slides it into a desk drawer. Patrick bites his lip and stares hard at his notebook.
There are certain things that a person of Patrick’s social stature has resigned to belonging in other people’s lives. These are things like: hot dates, pool parties, being voted prom queen and/or king. Then there are also things that people of any social stature have resigned to belonging in bad teen movies. These are things like: stumbling out into the parking lot after school into one of the ten people who actually know you by face and name and being greeted with, “Dude, dude, that dude from Arma Angelus is standing on your car!”
Patrick, who had been in the proces of digging through his bookbag for a hat, finds one extra-fast and jams it low over his head to hide the inevitable bright flush of his cheeks.
“Dude, seriously-” says the guy, and Patrick mumbles something to reassure him that he believes him, ducks out of the way of the streams of students pouring from the school, and digs the phone he just got back from Ms. Hernandez out of his pocket. He turns it back on and waits a minute.
18 NEW MESSAGES, it tells him.
“Fucking fuck,” he says,
i wanted to call youbut i didnt want to wake you up. bc i knew if i was there id just want to watch you sleep. so i jus thouht abt you existingand it was ok for awhile, is the first one.
so dont ever disapear ok, is the second.
And then there’s a gap of about an hour, and they start up again. Patrick scrolls through them, skimming, his fingers tight around the phone.
hey hey hey rickster pete says, and then, hows the education thing goin?
dont think too hard abt leanrning and forget abt me
hey dont be an asshole, talk to me
hey rickster?
patrick?
im sorry, are you ok
look patrick im sorry plz msg me
And the last one is, you are not alowed to disapear on me patrick stumph.
And yeah, that dude from Arma Angelus is standing on the hood of Patrick’s car. The hood of his hoodie is up, snug around his face, and he’s got a half-dozen sad-looking daffodils clutched in one hand, the remains of roots and dirt still clinging to their ends. He’s shifting restlessly from foot to foot as he chats with Brittany the cheerleader and Brittany’s football-playing boyfriend.
“Seriously, we’re fuckin’ awesome,” Pete is saying when Patrick comes within earshot. “You guys should totally come see us play.”
“If you pulled those from your mom’s flowerbeds, she’s going to murder you,” Patrick says.
“Patrick!” Pete and Brittany the cheerleader exclaim at the same time, Brittany clapping her hands together happily and Pete vaulting off the car to envelop Patrick in a hug. “Don’t ever leave me again, Patrick Stumph,” he mumbles into Patrick’s hair. Patrick blinks at Brittany and her boyfriend through the gap between Pete’s shoulder and Patrick’s hat. Brittany giggles and pulls her boy away by the hand, off toward their own cars.
“What th’fuck, Pete,” Patrick says, muffled into Pete’s shoulder. “I was just in school, my teacher took my phone away.”
He feels rather than sees Pete pause and blink. “Wait, what,” says Pete, pulling away to hold Patrick at arm’s length. “You weren’t ignoring me?”
Patrick rolls his eyes. “No, Pete.”
Pete looks so genuinely relieved that Patrick actually laughs out loud.
Patrick’s house is always empty when he gets home from school, because his parents work longer than he learns. When Patrick explains this (for the third time since he’s met Pete), Pete declares it the greatest arrangement ever and helps himself to the cookie jar. Today it’s filled with chocolate chip, and Pete balances a dozen cookies in his hands, munching, the chocolate melting and smearing on his fingers.
“You’re really not mad at me?” he asks, mouth full, following Patrick as he wanders around the house, feeding the fish in the living room, gathering stray sneakers to take back upstairs-everyday chores.
“Why would I be mad at you?” He rescues a hoodie from behind the sofa and adds it to the pile in his arms.
Pete shrugs and somehow fits another cookie in his mouth. “Iunno. ‘Cause I’m kind of a douchebag sometimes?”
“That’s true,” Patrick says thoughtfully, then laughs when Pete’s face falls. “Dude, don’t worry, I probably wouldn’t like you if you weren’t.”
“Oh,” says Pete. He pulls a thoughtful face, wipes his hands free of crumbs and chocolate on his jeans, and hooks a finger into Patrick’s back beltloop as he follows him up the stairs. “But seriously, it’s okay if you’re mad at me. Just don’t ignore me, okay?”
Patrick pauses at the top of the stairs, turning to look over his shoulder at Pete, a step below him. He grins, because the reversed height difference is too much to resist, and, in a bold move of heart-stopping bravery, leans down to press the quickest kiss in history to the crown of Pete’s head. “Of course.”
Pete blinks up at him for about three seconds before surging forward, barrelling into him so they both stumble down the hallway. “Quick, Von Stump!” he declares, shoving Patrick along. “To the bedroom, so I can molest you properly!”
Patrick would have not disagreed with this course of action even if he had a chance, between the dropping his armload of clothes and shoes on the floor, tumbling to the bed and getting kissed more thoroughly than he’s even been in his life. Pete crawls right up on top of him and kisses him grinning, hands pressed firm to Patrick’s chest, and he tastes like chocolate chip cookies.
In retrospect, that will be pretty gross, because it basically means that Patrick is licking the remains of masticated food out of Pete’s mouth, but. At the moment, Patrick does not care. He tangles his fingers in Pete’s hair and pulls him down close to catch Pete’s lip between his teeth and suck on it; Pete, straddling Patrick’s hips now, grinds down against him and groans.
“Your fucking mouth, man,” he mumbles without pulling away, eyes half-closed, “do you have any idea how much time I waste thinking about your fucking mouth?”
“As much time as you waste thinking about your dick?” Patrick teases, even though it’s probably hypocritical considering he’s got half a mind on his own dick right now-specifically, the way Pete is rocking down against it through layers of denim.
Pete laughs, low in his throat. “What does it count as if I’m thinking about them both at the same time?”
“It counts as-ohh, um.” Patrick licks his lips, momentarily distracted. “It’s-” Okay, maybe he’s lost that train of thought entirely. Pete’s fault. Pete is distracting, what with the hips pressing down and the hands up his shirt and the tongue in his mouth, which Patrick assumes exempts him from answering the question. So instead, he pushes Pete’s shirt up, splays his fingers over Pete’s bare ribs, and lets his eyes fall closed.
The front door slams closed; Patrick jumps, bites Pete’s lip, and Pete curses loudly.
“Fucking fuck ow,” he says, sitting up and lifting a hand to his mouth.
“Um,” says Patrick, feeling himself turn pink, “it’s only bleeding a little bit?”
“Patrick!” his mom calls from downstairs. “I have groceries, come help!”
Pete grins, the smear of blood bright red on his lower lip. “Let’s go help your mom.”
Patrick considers sinking into the mattress and dying.
my lip hurts, kiss it better, Pete texts him later, once it’s become apparent that Patrick’s mom has got the rest of Patrick’s night booked and he’s headed back home.
Patrick grins. Yeah, sure, whatever you want, he replies.
in that case my dick hurts, Pete says.
Patrick laughs and rolls his eyes. Goodnight, Pete.
It seems that all of the teachers in Patrick’s school are intertwined in an elaborate web of evil, so now Patrick has to turn his cell phone off during school to escape their hawkish eyes, watching closely for any attempts at text messaging. Patrick doesn’t actually mind too much-he just goes back to writing shitty lyrics and doesn’t pay any more attention, anyway, but Pete is more than a little displeased with this situation. After a several days of turning his phone on after class to find 20+ new messages, Patrick gives up trying to type replies and just calls.
“Why don’t you just, like, wait until I get out of school to text me?” he asks when Pete picks up, sliding into his car to sit in the traffic that the post-school exodus inevitably creates. “I mean, not that I don’t like getting messages, but you know I can’t answer you until after class, right?”
“Yeah, I know,” says Pete, “but. I dunno, sometimes I just get too full of thoughts about you and I have to text you so I don’t explode with joy out of the sheer fact that you exist.”
Patrick tries not to grin, then gives up trying because Pete can’t see him anyway. “Oh,” he says. “Well, in that case.”
“You’re grinning, you little fucker,” Pete says happily. “I just made you grin, admit it.”
“Not on your life,” Patrick says. “I’ll see you at practice tonight.”
At practice, Pete tells everyone that he and Patrick are getting married. Patrick turns a few funny colors; Mike and TJ lift eyebrows, and Joe nods approvingly and goes back to his cigarette.
After practice, they go to Pete’s house, Pete still sucks at Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?, and they turn off ER five minutes in to make out instead.
It is an overall good night.
patrick, Pete sends at 3:42 in the morning. Patrick’s phone vibrates loudly against his bedside table, and he gropes blindly for it, flips it open to blink through sleep at the too-bright screen.
what, he replies, too tired to care about grammar at the moment.
Patrick almost falls asleep before Pete responds, but the vibration of his phone in his hand jerks him awake again. just wanted to make sure youre still here. sorry if i woke you., Pete says.
Patrick sighs, rubs his eyes, and hits 3 on speed dial.
“Sorry if I woke you up,” Pete mumbles as greeting, and Patrick can just imagine him curled into himself in the dark, his nightmares closing in around him. It makes it really hard to be annoyed.
“It’s okay,” Patrick says quietly. “I’d rather be awake than you be alone.”
“Thank you,” says Pete. There’s a minute of quiet.
Patrick says, “Are you okay?”
On the other line, Pete takes a sharp breath. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. I’m okay. Sorry, I just like knowing you’re there.”
“M’not going anywhere, Pete,” Patrick mumbles around a yawn.
“Good,” Pete breathes, then, “hey, this might seem a little weird, but will you sing me something?”
Patrick rolls onto his back, closing his eyes. “I can try?”
“Or-” Pete’s breath hitches, and he clears his throat. “Or if you’re too tired to sing, you can just talk.”
There’s another minute of quiet, puctuated only by Pete’s heavy breathing.
“Pete,” says Patrick.
“Yeah?” Pete says, breathless.
“You are totally jacking off right now, aren’t you?”
“I-” Pete gasps, maybe groans a little. “Yeah.”
“Well,” says Patrick, “how about I don’t talk, because if I was actually there, I’d probably be sucking your dick, and that would make talking pretty hard.” It only occurs to Patrick after he’s said this that it probably counts as dirty-talking, not just logic, and his cheeks go hot.
Pete says, “Jesus Christ-”
The next minute is not silent at all, because Pete’s breathing is very heavy and loud. Patrick listens and touches himself tentatively through his pajamas-he’s half-hard, but too tired to really do anything about it. He figures Pete will just owe him one. When Pete finally comes back down to earth, Patrick tells him this.
“Jesus Christ,” Pete says again, still panting a little. “Patrick Stumph, you have a dirty, dirty mouth. Geez.” He sounds a little awed. Patrick is pretty sure he’s still blushing even when he falls asleep.
Pete doesn’t call or text for two whole days. Patrick freaks out a little, until Joe explains it like this:
“I just don’t get it,” Patrick had said, “it” being the fact that Pete has apparently disappeared off the face of the planet.
“It’s like this,” Joe says, tweaking the strings on his guitar. They’re sitting on Patrick’s bedroom floor, kind of jamming and kind of talking about relationships like girls. “Pete, you know, he’s pretty fucked up, yeah? I mean, he’s an awesome dude, and we love him, but he’s fucked up. And then he’s also basically in love with you, and so he’s probably off freaking out and trying to figure out how to keep you from ever leaving him short of locking you in his basement.”
“He… doesn’t actually have to try that hard,” Patrick says, rolling his eyes.
“Well, yeah.” Joe bites a pick between his teeth and talks around it while he tunes. “But, like. It’s important to him.”
“Yeah,” says Patrick. “Yeah, I guess so.”
The next night Patrick is awoken first by his phone and then by the clatter of pebbles against his window.
hey sleeping beauty yr prince is here.
Patrick yawns, rubs his eyes, and sends back, If you break my window I will break your nose.
just please come down here ok, Pete says.
So Patrick pulls on a hoodie and a hat, slips on some shoes, and shuffles out into the chilly night air to find Pete sitting on the curb outside his house, chin on his knees, dark sleepless circles under his eyes.
“Hey,” says Patrick, shoving his hands in his hoodie’s front pocket. “I’m glad you’re alive, asshole.” There’s no malice to his words, though.
“Hey,” says Pete, and unfolds to get to his feet, stretching. He looks at Patrick for a long minute, thoughtful; Patrick shifts from foot to foot, looks down at the ground, then back up at Pete. Pete reaches out to grab Patrick’s hand. “C’mon, let’s go.”
Patrick is still half-asleep, and he crawls into Pete’s passenger seat without question. Pete hops in the opposite side, cranks up Lifetime on the stereo and drives them off into the night. Or, off into Chicago, out of the suburbs and into the city. Patrick’s pretty good at navigating his hometown, so he lets Pete drive and just watches the scenery roll by.
Eventually, when they’re somewhere near the lakeshore, Pete parks along the street-he adjusts his parallel parking job about three times before he gets it right, and Patrick blinks the sleep from his eyes.
“Where’re we?” he asks, yawning.
“I know this place,” Pete says. He punches Patrick lightly in the shoulder. “C’mon, get out, follow me.”
Pete leads him just a block or two away to a high-rising apartment building, but he skips the front door and instead goes around the side to the fire escape, tugging the ladder down, turning to give Patrick a significant look.
“Pete,” Patrick says. “Why are we climbing up buildings in the middle of the night?”
Pete checks his watch, then squints up at the sky. “It’s almost not night anymore, dummy. Come on.”
Gym has never been Patrick’s favorite class, but somehow he manages to follow Pete as he scrambles up far too many stories. Pete is probably part monkey, Patrick thinks, because he’s not even winded when they stop, not quite at the top, but high enough that their view of the city and lake stretching out from it aren’t obstructed.
Patrick plops down next to Pete on the escape platform, their feet dangling into the dozens of feet nothingness below them. He leans his head on Pete’s shoulder, and Pete leans his head on top of Patrick’s.
“You know I have class in like two hours,” Patrick says.
Pete turns to press his nose into Patrick’s hair. “Skip. Just this once.”
Patrick feels him grin, and laughs quietly. “Okay. Just this once.”
“One of the best things about Chicago is we’re on the west side of the lake,” Pete says.
When the sun rises, Patrick sees what he means.
“Why’d you bring me here?” he asks, after what seems like hours, when there are barely any traces of night left in the sky. Pete is still warm against his side, and he’s still sleepy, but he doesn’t want to close his eyes and miss anything.
“Because,” Pete says. He shifts a little, hands curling around the metal of the fire escape. “It makes me feel alive, I guess. And you make me feel alive, so, I thought you’d like it? And you said I owed you one, so.”
“Oh,” says Patrick, and looks down at their swinging feet and the miles of nothing between their soles and the ground. He grins, his cheeks warm in a way that has nothing to do with embarrassment. “I’m not sure if that’s an even trade.”
“I’ll still give you a blowjob later if you want-” Pete starts quickly, but Patrick laughs, waving a dismissive hand.
“I meant the other way around, stupid,” he says.
“Oh,” says Pete. “Oh, okay,” he says, and grins ridiculously, knocking one dangling foot against Patrick’s.
“But if you really want to give me a blowjob, I won’t argue,” Patrick says. “Just, you know. Later.”
“I- good plan,” Pete says. “Blowjobs later. But I can still kiss you now, right?”
Patrick grins. “Definitely.”
the end
for the fic imitates music prompt challenge
fall out boy, pete/patrick
pg-13, 5,821 words
"it may be a side effect of the exposure, but i am thinking it's meant to be"
by Becs
for the fic imitates music prompt challenge, using fall out boy's "it's not a side effect of the cocaine, i am thinking it must be love".
Recently, Pete has taken to texting Patrick approximately four thousand times a day.
Patrick does not mind this entirely. After all, this is Pete from Arma Angelus, this is Pete fucking Wentz from fucking Racetraitor; Patrick isn’t going to complain if he’s suddenly decided Patrick is the person most worthy of wasting his time on. It’s flattering, actually. And mind-boggling. Very mind-boggling.
So, Patrick is not complaining, mostly. The only problem with the situation is that, for seven hours a day five days a week, Patrick is stuck in school. Strictly speaking, students are not supposed to use cell phones in school-not that it really stops anyone, but Patrick is pretty sure that sooner or later one of his teachers is going to notice that Patrick’s phone is vibrating every two seconds, and that the awkward kid in the back who’s usually too busy scribbling shitty lyrics in his notebook to pay attention is now too busy punching out text messages under his desk to pay attention.
Right now, for example, Mr. Huntley is writing something about habeas corpus on the blackboard, and Patrick is trying to figure out how to respond to Pete’s so do i get to see my one true love today without sounding like a) a douchebag or b) a teenager with a stupid crush. Because he’s not. Well, teenager, yes. But not one with a stupid crush. And okay, maybe he is possibly a douchebag on occasion, but he tries pretty hard not to be one in general.
He decides on maybe if you ask real nice and looks up just in time to pretend to take notes as Mr. Huntley’s gaze sweeps over the classroom.
Pete replies within seconds: pretty plz w/a rickster on top
Patrick sighs loudly. The kid next to him glances over with a raised eyebrow, but Patrick ignores him and instead concentrates on deciphering Pete Wentz’s gift for the maddeningly questionable sexual innuendo. If Patrick were a braver man, he would reply with something super-witty like is that a promise?, but Patrick is kinda really introverted. So he fidgets and fumbles for a few minutes, copies something government-related into his notebook, and sends back a hasty sure ok, after school before the bell rings.
Of course, as soon as he says that, the rest of the school day slows to a snail’s pace, and even the excitement of things like lunch (taco salad day!) and Pete’s subsequent texts (a good cross-section would include: YAY!!!!; you should play me pretty songs tonite; i kinda want a smoothie lets get some; and RICK TA LIFE) make the hours pass more quickly. High school, Patrick thinks. Like the Spanish Inquisition, but with more cheerleaders and less-well. With more cheerleaders.
Pete is sitting on Patrick’s front steps when he gets home. Patrick pulls up to the house in his clunky old car and Pete hops up, grinning and waving.
“That,” Patrick tells him, “is kind of creepy stalkerish.”
“Whatever, you like me creepy stalkerish,” Pete says, and pulls Patrick into a hug/noogie combination that makes Patrick squawk in protest, laughing and shoving Pete away.
“You freak,” he says. He means it lovingly.
“Your mom,” says Pete, beaming.
Patrick’s mother is actually terrifyingly approving of Pete. Of course, Patrick’s mother doesn’t get text messages from Pete at one in the morning full of indecipherable emo or asking if Patrick thinks that having sex in a public bathroom is unclassy-or at least, Patrick really, really hopes she doesn’t-so the Pete Wentz that Patrick’s mom is a fan of is the one who sits at her kitchen table with her son and gives her big smiles and thanks her for the cookies while he listens attentively to Patrick talk about the lack of exciting things that occurred at school today.
That, and she likes to say embarrassing things about Patrick’s social life.
“I’m so glad Patrick’s got a good older friend like you,” she says, laying a hand on top of Pete’s currently-dyed hair. “He never seems like he really fits in with any of the kids from school.” Translation: I’m glad my son isn’t a complete loser. Patrick shoves an entire cookie in his mouth and examines the wood grain on the table.
Pete shrugs, smiling as if Patrick’s mom did not just tell him that his new favorite person basically has no friends. “Well, I don’t really fit in with a lot of the kids at my school, either, so.” He loops an enthusiastic arm around Patrick’s shoulders; Patrick chokes a little on his cookie. “You hear that, Rickster, we’re made for each other!”
“Mmph,” Patrick says, trying to sound agreeable. Pete laughs and eats another cookie.
im dreaming abt monsters in the dark again, Pete sends at 2:27 in the morning, right when Patrick is finally falling asleep to catch a few hours before school. He makes an annoyed noise at his ceiling, but answers, of course, squinting at the glow from his phone’s screen in the dark.
So turn on the lights? he sends back, rolling onto his side but keeping the phone clenched in his fist.
Pete replies: cant sleep with the lights on. cant sleep w/them off. sry i just cant sleep at all lately.
Pete Wentz, Patrick learned pretty quickly, is a pretty fucked up kid. For all the ridiculous horse-teeth grins and the endless onstage energy, he’s got a crazy depressive streak a mile wide and a morbidly acute sense of the pretend.
Is there anything that would help you sleep? Patrick sends, yawning as he hits the button. He doesn’t mind the late-night messages, but sometimes he thinks that Pete’s counseling would be probably better left to a professional. (Pete disagrees. “You’re better for me than any dumbass doctor,” he said when Patrick told him that.)
kinda wish you were here.
Patrick closes his eyes for a moment, almost letting sleep overtake him before drawing a slow breath and typing back quickly, Hug your pillow or something, it’s squishy enough to be me.
There’s a pause of about a minute, then, not warm enough.
Patrick sighs into the dark. Wish I could be there, he sends, and he means it.
The thing about getting text messages from Pete Wentz is, sometimes Patrick wishes he could go up to all the kids at school who always pretend not to see him when they’re at the same shows, shove his phone in their faces and and say something like, “You think you’re so cool, but yeah, that’s the dude from Arma and he thinks I’m basically awesome.” He won’t, of course, because that would most likely only end in minor public humiliation. Patrick likes flying under the radar. He likes his desks in the backs of classrooms, paying just enough attention to keep decent grades, ignoring the jocks when they high-five over his head like he’s not even there.
He’s got more important things to pay attention to, anyway. Like writing shitty lyrics. Preferably with as many John Cusack allusions as possible, because if he’s going to write shitty lyrics, Patrick thinks he may as well make clever pop-culture references.
Anyway, Pete likes Patrick’s shitty lyrics. Well, he admits that they’re shitty, but he likes them anyway. Patrick is okay with this.
What Patrick is not okay with is when someone in one of his classes suddenly decides to take an interest in the geek in the corner and he has to scramble to cover up said shitty lyrics before said person can decipher them.
This time, it’s a pretty brunette cheerleader, complete with uniform-there must be a game today; Patrick never knows-smiling brightly in a way that makes Patrick think of politicians helping the underprivileged. “Hi, what are you doing!” she chirps, and goddamn if she doesn’t actually bounce when she talks.
Patrick shrugs awkwardly, closing his notebook in a failed attempt at subtlety. “Uhm,” he says. “Nothing?”
“Oh,” she says.
“Oh-” Patrick says, squirming suddenly as his phone vibrates in his pocket. He digs it out, glancing carefully up to make sure the teacher’s still at her desk, and flips it open against his knee.
i miss you in the mornings like yr suposde to wake up nxt to me, Pete says.
“Ooooh, girlfriend?” says the cheerleader-Brittany, Patrick recalls, is her name-leaning over to peer at Patrick’s phone.
Patrick makes an ambiguous noise in his throat, tries to pretend that he didn’t just feel his cheeks flush pink, and texts back, Did you sleep at all?
like an hr, Pete says, then, skip class today, i missyou
“Awww,” Brittany coos. Patrick feels his ears go red.
Can’t, have a test later, he sends reluctantly, fingers awkward over the keypad with the unfamiliar gaze reading over his shoulder.
c’mon patty boy we can get married after lunch
“That’s so sweet,” Brittany says, clasping her hands together. “Aw, you should totally go.”
“Uhm,” says Patrick, trying to think of a way to bring up the fact that his mom will murder him without sounding like a complete loser.
please, says Pete.
Patrick sighs.
“You know, I can’t just skip class every time you miss me,” Patrick says as he climbs out of his car to meet Pete at the local Jamba Juice. Pete is leaning against the wall next to the door, looking sullen, but he brightens when he sees Patrick pull up.
“Just this once, I promise,” Pete says, and wraps Patrick into a tight hug, his nose pressing hard into the top of Patrick’s head. “I just really missed you, okay?”
“Mkay,” Patrick mumbles, muffled into Pete’s shoulder.
There are not many days in Patrick’s high school career that he would classify as “really entirely completely awesome,” but this one, with the skipping school and the smoothies and the walking around aimlessly for hours while Pete rambles on about his bands and this girl he thought he loved last week and how Patrick is gonna make them all famous one day-this one comes pretty much as close as possible.
They get the smoothies instead of lunch-mango for Pete, peach for Patrick (“Because you’re such a peach,” Pete says in a bad southern accent as he insists on paying)-and sip them in companionable silence as they walk. When Pete gets to the bottom of his, he slurps loudly and obnoxiously at the last quarter-inch of drink until Patrick caves and gives him some of his.
“Mmm, Patrick-germs,” Pete says happily, chewing on Patrick’s straw. “Delicious.”
“You,” Patrick says, then just laughs and shakes his head.
“No. You, man, Patrick Stumph,” Pete says. He spins around suddenly on the sidewalk ahead of Patrick like he’s in a musical or something, jabbing a finger at Patrick’s chest. “You’re the fucking golden ticket, man, like. Sometimes I think I dreamt you up, for real.”
“I dunno, I was here for a while before you found me,” Patrick says, spreading his arms out palms-up, like offering proof of his existence.
“I know! All that lost time. Man.” Pete falls back into step, latches onto Patrick’s arm. “This isn’t the way we plaaanned!” he sings/shouts to oncoming traffic.
“I wasn’t supposed to forget your taste, like nights spent figuring all the ways that we came to this place,” Patrick chimes in, grinning like an idiot.
“God, man.” Pete presses a sloppy kiss to Patrick’s cheek. “Your fucking voice, I’m going to fucking marry you.”
Patrick’s not really old enough to get married, though, so instead he calls his mom and tells her he’s gonna be home late and eventually they head back to Pete’s apartment, Patrick does his homework and Pete pretends to help, and at eight o’clock they curl up on the couch to watch Survivor (Patrick roots for the tribe Pete doesn’t like, just to get him all indignant), followed by Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? (Pete answers a lot of questions wrong and Patrick laughs at him), followed by E.R. (Pete clutches at Patrick and watches the surgeries with wide eyes), and then Pete starts dozing off against Patrick’s shoulder and Patrick has to have a moment of serious grappling with his morals.
“Pete,” he says, sighing, poking his index finger into Pete’s bicep. “Pete, get up, I’ve got to go.”
“Nooooo, whyyyy,” Pete mumbles sleepily, drooling on Patrick’s sleeve.
“Ugh, because I have school tomorrow?”
“Noooooo.” For a little guy, Pete’s got a really strong grip.
Patrick sighs. “Pete.”
“Mmmph, fine.” Pete wriggles around to kiss to the corner of Patrick’s mouth, then rearranges himself so he’s using actual pillows as pillows instead of Patrick. “Now leave before I wake up and realize you’re gone and can’t sleep.”
Patrick closes the door as quietly as possible on his way out.
Joe explains it like this:
“I just really honestly don’t get it,” Patrick had said, with “it” referring to the ridiculous crazy faith Pete has in Patrick’s musical abilities to make their little makeshfit punk-pop gig into something huge. They’re standing in Joe’s driveway and it’s almost dark out; Joe is shooting hoops, kind of, in a way where he keeps half-heartedly throwing the ball at the hoop and it keeps bouncing back near him, and Patrick is just really hoping it doesn’t bounce near him.
“It’s just you, dude,” Joe says, squinting in the failing light. “It’s like, okay, not that you’re not brilliant, ‘cause you’re pretty dope, dude, but.” He hefts the basketball in the general direction of the hoop; it hits the rain gutter on his garage instead, knocking it crooked. “Shit. Oh, well, I was saying. It’s not just that you’re his little musical genius buddy-thing whatever, it’s that. He wants our thing to be big, he doesn’t want to get big with someone else. He wouldn’t mind, I bet, but he’d rather it be our thing, you and him, us.”
“Joe,” says Patrick. “He’s Pete fucking Wentz.”
Joe has retrieved the basketball from where it rolled into the lawn. “And I’m Joe fucking Trohman. Hey, catch.”
Patrick makes an embarrassing squeaky noise when he ducks out of the way of Joe’s pass. “Hey! You fucker,” he says, indignant, and Joe sits down on the ground laughing.
joe sez u like basketball??? pete texts him later that night, when Patrick’s just crawled into bed.
Joe’s a motherfucking liar, he replies, rolling his eyes.
oh good i dont think i could love a jock, Pete says.
Patrick’s pretty sure his ears go a little pink, and his fingers feel sweaty and awkward. He has to stop twice to wipe them off on his pajamas before he finishes his reply. Linebackers not your type?
nope. i like em short n squishy.
Patrick grins so hard his face hurts.
Pete is true to his word and doesn’t ask Patrick to skip class anymore, but he does continue to text him incessantly, to the point where sometimes Patrick gets out of school and feels like his fingers are going to fall off, even though he didn’t take a single note that day. Patrick is generally okay with this. The i found you the most awesomest hat todays make him smile so much he’s afraid his teachers will think something’s wrong. The i miss you i miss you i miss yous make his heart do these ridiculous stupid flip-flops in his chest, and he really wishes Brittany the cheerleader and her friends would stop trying to catch his eye and give him knowing smiles every time he checks his phone and turns pink.
its lunchtime, lets get sammiches and then get married, Pete sends during fifth period. Patrick jumps a little at the vibration against his hip, and then sits very still when Ms. Hernandez gives him an odd look.
I’m at school, dumbass, I can’t marry you right now. Also, lunch was an hour ago, he sends back a minute later.
Pete says, all the time is lunchtime with you, lunchbox.
Patrick snorts, tries to disguise it as a sniffle/cough, and says, What kind of sense does that even make?
the kind of sense where we are made for each other, patrick stumph, Pete says. Patrick can practically hear the words murmured low through a big, dumb grin; he smiles stupidly down at his notebook and doesn’t even pretend he cares about the laws of thermodynamics. Before he can collect himself enough to respond, his phone buzzes again.
had a dream last nite that you disapeared. woke up and i almsot coudnt find myself.
“Mr. Stumph,” Ms. Hernandez says loudly, mid-lecture. Patrick’s head jerks up on reflex to blink at her. She’s frowning. “You can hand over that cell phone,” she says, holding out her hand expectantly. Patrick shuffles forward to give it to her without looking at anyone-the distance to the front of the room and back seems ridiculously far; he swears he hears a giggle somewhere off to the left, and he hopes to god he’s not blushing or anything stupid like that. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Brittany the cheerleader giving him a sympathetic pouty look.
The phone vibrates in Ms. Hernandez’s hand. She turns it off and slides it into a desk drawer. Patrick bites his lip and stares hard at his notebook.
There are certain things that a person of Patrick’s social stature has resigned to belonging in other people’s lives. These are things like: hot dates, pool parties, being voted prom queen and/or king. Then there are also things that people of any social stature have resigned to belonging in bad teen movies. These are things like: stumbling out into the parking lot after school into one of the ten people who actually know you by face and name and being greeted with, “Dude, dude, that dude from Arma Angelus is standing on your car!”
Patrick, who had been in the proces of digging through his bookbag for a hat, finds one extra-fast and jams it low over his head to hide the inevitable bright flush of his cheeks.
“Dude, seriously-” says the guy, and Patrick mumbles something to reassure him that he believes him, ducks out of the way of the streams of students pouring from the school, and digs the phone he just got back from Ms. Hernandez out of his pocket. He turns it back on and waits a minute.
18 NEW MESSAGES, it tells him.
“Fucking fuck,” he says,
i wanted to call youbut i didnt want to wake you up. bc i knew if i was there id just want to watch you sleep. so i jus thouht abt you existingand it was ok for awhile, is the first one.
so dont ever disapear ok, is the second.
And then there’s a gap of about an hour, and they start up again. Patrick scrolls through them, skimming, his fingers tight around the phone.
hey hey hey rickster pete says, and then, hows the education thing goin?
dont think too hard abt leanrning and forget abt me
hey dont be an asshole, talk to me
hey rickster?
patrick?
im sorry, are you ok
look patrick im sorry plz msg me
And the last one is, you are not alowed to disapear on me patrick stumph.
And yeah, that dude from Arma Angelus is standing on the hood of Patrick’s car. The hood of his hoodie is up, snug around his face, and he’s got a half-dozen sad-looking daffodils clutched in one hand, the remains of roots and dirt still clinging to their ends. He’s shifting restlessly from foot to foot as he chats with Brittany the cheerleader and Brittany’s football-playing boyfriend.
“Seriously, we’re fuckin’ awesome,” Pete is saying when Patrick comes within earshot. “You guys should totally come see us play.”
“If you pulled those from your mom’s flowerbeds, she’s going to murder you,” Patrick says.
“Patrick!” Pete and Brittany the cheerleader exclaim at the same time, Brittany clapping her hands together happily and Pete vaulting off the car to envelop Patrick in a hug. “Don’t ever leave me again, Patrick Stumph,” he mumbles into Patrick’s hair. Patrick blinks at Brittany and her boyfriend through the gap between Pete’s shoulder and Patrick’s hat. Brittany giggles and pulls her boy away by the hand, off toward their own cars.
“What th’fuck, Pete,” Patrick says, muffled into Pete’s shoulder. “I was just in school, my teacher took my phone away.”
He feels rather than sees Pete pause and blink. “Wait, what,” says Pete, pulling away to hold Patrick at arm’s length. “You weren’t ignoring me?”
Patrick rolls his eyes. “No, Pete.”
Pete looks so genuinely relieved that Patrick actually laughs out loud.
Patrick’s house is always empty when he gets home from school, because his parents work longer than he learns. When Patrick explains this (for the third time since he’s met Pete), Pete declares it the greatest arrangement ever and helps himself to the cookie jar. Today it’s filled with chocolate chip, and Pete balances a dozen cookies in his hands, munching, the chocolate melting and smearing on his fingers.
“You’re really not mad at me?” he asks, mouth full, following Patrick as he wanders around the house, feeding the fish in the living room, gathering stray sneakers to take back upstairs-everyday chores.
“Why would I be mad at you?” He rescues a hoodie from behind the sofa and adds it to the pile in his arms.
Pete shrugs and somehow fits another cookie in his mouth. “Iunno. ‘Cause I’m kind of a douchebag sometimes?”
“That’s true,” Patrick says thoughtfully, then laughs when Pete’s face falls. “Dude, don’t worry, I probably wouldn’t like you if you weren’t.”
“Oh,” says Pete. He pulls a thoughtful face, wipes his hands free of crumbs and chocolate on his jeans, and hooks a finger into Patrick’s back beltloop as he follows him up the stairs. “But seriously, it’s okay if you’re mad at me. Just don’t ignore me, okay?”
Patrick pauses at the top of the stairs, turning to look over his shoulder at Pete, a step below him. He grins, because the reversed height difference is too much to resist, and, in a bold move of heart-stopping bravery, leans down to press the quickest kiss in history to the crown of Pete’s head. “Of course.”
Pete blinks up at him for about three seconds before surging forward, barrelling into him so they both stumble down the hallway. “Quick, Von Stump!” he declares, shoving Patrick along. “To the bedroom, so I can molest you properly!”
Patrick would have not disagreed with this course of action even if he had a chance, between the dropping his armload of clothes and shoes on the floor, tumbling to the bed and getting kissed more thoroughly than he’s even been in his life. Pete crawls right up on top of him and kisses him grinning, hands pressed firm to Patrick’s chest, and he tastes like chocolate chip cookies.
In retrospect, that will be pretty gross, because it basically means that Patrick is licking the remains of masticated food out of Pete’s mouth, but. At the moment, Patrick does not care. He tangles his fingers in Pete’s hair and pulls him down close to catch Pete’s lip between his teeth and suck on it; Pete, straddling Patrick’s hips now, grinds down against him and groans.
“Your fucking mouth, man,” he mumbles without pulling away, eyes half-closed, “do you have any idea how much time I waste thinking about your fucking mouth?”
“As much time as you waste thinking about your dick?” Patrick teases, even though it’s probably hypocritical considering he’s got half a mind on his own dick right now-specifically, the way Pete is rocking down against it through layers of denim.
Pete laughs, low in his throat. “What does it count as if I’m thinking about them both at the same time?”
“It counts as-ohh, um.” Patrick licks his lips, momentarily distracted. “It’s-” Okay, maybe he’s lost that train of thought entirely. Pete’s fault. Pete is distracting, what with the hips pressing down and the hands up his shirt and the tongue in his mouth, which Patrick assumes exempts him from answering the question. So instead, he pushes Pete’s shirt up, splays his fingers over Pete’s bare ribs, and lets his eyes fall closed.
The front door slams closed; Patrick jumps, bites Pete’s lip, and Pete curses loudly.
“Fucking fuck ow,” he says, sitting up and lifting a hand to his mouth.
“Um,” says Patrick, feeling himself turn pink, “it’s only bleeding a little bit?”
“Patrick!” his mom calls from downstairs. “I have groceries, come help!”
Pete grins, the smear of blood bright red on his lower lip. “Let’s go help your mom.”
Patrick considers sinking into the mattress and dying.
my lip hurts, kiss it better, Pete texts him later, once it’s become apparent that Patrick’s mom has got the rest of Patrick’s night booked and he’s headed back home.
Patrick grins. Yeah, sure, whatever you want, he replies.
in that case my dick hurts, Pete says.
Patrick laughs and rolls his eyes. Goodnight, Pete.
It seems that all of the teachers in Patrick’s school are intertwined in an elaborate web of evil, so now Patrick has to turn his cell phone off during school to escape their hawkish eyes, watching closely for any attempts at text messaging. Patrick doesn’t actually mind too much-he just goes back to writing shitty lyrics and doesn’t pay any more attention, anyway, but Pete is more than a little displeased with this situation. After a several days of turning his phone on after class to find 20+ new messages, Patrick gives up trying to type replies and just calls.
“Why don’t you just, like, wait until I get out of school to text me?” he asks when Pete picks up, sliding into his car to sit in the traffic that the post-school exodus inevitably creates. “I mean, not that I don’t like getting messages, but you know I can’t answer you until after class, right?”
“Yeah, I know,” says Pete, “but. I dunno, sometimes I just get too full of thoughts about you and I have to text you so I don’t explode with joy out of the sheer fact that you exist.”
Patrick tries not to grin, then gives up trying because Pete can’t see him anyway. “Oh,” he says. “Well, in that case.”
“You’re grinning, you little fucker,” Pete says happily. “I just made you grin, admit it.”
“Not on your life,” Patrick says. “I’ll see you at practice tonight.”
At practice, Pete tells everyone that he and Patrick are getting married. Patrick turns a few funny colors; Mike and TJ lift eyebrows, and Joe nods approvingly and goes back to his cigarette.
After practice, they go to Pete’s house, Pete still sucks at Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?, and they turn off ER five minutes in to make out instead.
It is an overall good night.
patrick, Pete sends at 3:42 in the morning. Patrick’s phone vibrates loudly against his bedside table, and he gropes blindly for it, flips it open to blink through sleep at the too-bright screen.
what, he replies, too tired to care about grammar at the moment.
Patrick almost falls asleep before Pete responds, but the vibration of his phone in his hand jerks him awake again. just wanted to make sure youre still here. sorry if i woke you., Pete says.
Patrick sighs, rubs his eyes, and hits 3 on speed dial.
“Sorry if I woke you up,” Pete mumbles as greeting, and Patrick can just imagine him curled into himself in the dark, his nightmares closing in around him. It makes it really hard to be annoyed.
“It’s okay,” Patrick says quietly. “I’d rather be awake than you be alone.”
“Thank you,” says Pete. There’s a minute of quiet.
Patrick says, “Are you okay?”
On the other line, Pete takes a sharp breath. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. I’m okay. Sorry, I just like knowing you’re there.”
“M’not going anywhere, Pete,” Patrick mumbles around a yawn.
“Good,” Pete breathes, then, “hey, this might seem a little weird, but will you sing me something?”
Patrick rolls onto his back, closing his eyes. “I can try?”
“Or-” Pete’s breath hitches, and he clears his throat. “Or if you’re too tired to sing, you can just talk.”
There’s another minute of quiet, puctuated only by Pete’s heavy breathing.
“Pete,” says Patrick.
“Yeah?” Pete says, breathless.
“You are totally jacking off right now, aren’t you?”
“I-” Pete gasps, maybe groans a little. “Yeah.”
“Well,” says Patrick, “how about I don’t talk, because if I was actually there, I’d probably be sucking your dick, and that would make talking pretty hard.” It only occurs to Patrick after he’s said this that it probably counts as dirty-talking, not just logic, and his cheeks go hot.
Pete says, “Jesus Christ-”
The next minute is not silent at all, because Pete’s breathing is very heavy and loud. Patrick listens and touches himself tentatively through his pajamas-he’s half-hard, but too tired to really do anything about it. He figures Pete will just owe him one. When Pete finally comes back down to earth, Patrick tells him this.
“Jesus Christ,” Pete says again, still panting a little. “Patrick Stumph, you have a dirty, dirty mouth. Geez.” He sounds a little awed. Patrick is pretty sure he’s still blushing even when he falls asleep.
Pete doesn’t call or text for two whole days. Patrick freaks out a little, until Joe explains it like this:
“I just don’t get it,” Patrick had said, “it” being the fact that Pete has apparently disappeared off the face of the planet.
“It’s like this,” Joe says, tweaking the strings on his guitar. They’re sitting on Patrick’s bedroom floor, kind of jamming and kind of talking about relationships like girls. “Pete, you know, he’s pretty fucked up, yeah? I mean, he’s an awesome dude, and we love him, but he’s fucked up. And then he’s also basically in love with you, and so he’s probably off freaking out and trying to figure out how to keep you from ever leaving him short of locking you in his basement.”
“He… doesn’t actually have to try that hard,” Patrick says, rolling his eyes.
“Well, yeah.” Joe bites a pick between his teeth and talks around it while he tunes. “But, like. It’s important to him.”
“Yeah,” says Patrick. “Yeah, I guess so.”
The next night Patrick is awoken first by his phone and then by the clatter of pebbles against his window.
hey sleeping beauty yr prince is here.
Patrick yawns, rubs his eyes, and sends back, If you break my window I will break your nose.
just please come down here ok, Pete says.
So Patrick pulls on a hoodie and a hat, slips on some shoes, and shuffles out into the chilly night air to find Pete sitting on the curb outside his house, chin on his knees, dark sleepless circles under his eyes.
“Hey,” says Patrick, shoving his hands in his hoodie’s front pocket. “I’m glad you’re alive, asshole.” There’s no malice to his words, though.
“Hey,” says Pete, and unfolds to get to his feet, stretching. He looks at Patrick for a long minute, thoughtful; Patrick shifts from foot to foot, looks down at the ground, then back up at Pete. Pete reaches out to grab Patrick’s hand. “C’mon, let’s go.”
Patrick is still half-asleep, and he crawls into Pete’s passenger seat without question. Pete hops in the opposite side, cranks up Lifetime on the stereo and drives them off into the night. Or, off into Chicago, out of the suburbs and into the city. Patrick’s pretty good at navigating his hometown, so he lets Pete drive and just watches the scenery roll by.
Eventually, when they’re somewhere near the lakeshore, Pete parks along the street-he adjusts his parallel parking job about three times before he gets it right, and Patrick blinks the sleep from his eyes.
“Where’re we?” he asks, yawning.
“I know this place,” Pete says. He punches Patrick lightly in the shoulder. “C’mon, get out, follow me.”
Pete leads him just a block or two away to a high-rising apartment building, but he skips the front door and instead goes around the side to the fire escape, tugging the ladder down, turning to give Patrick a significant look.
“Pete,” Patrick says. “Why are we climbing up buildings in the middle of the night?”
Pete checks his watch, then squints up at the sky. “It’s almost not night anymore, dummy. Come on.”
Gym has never been Patrick’s favorite class, but somehow he manages to follow Pete as he scrambles up far too many stories. Pete is probably part monkey, Patrick thinks, because he’s not even winded when they stop, not quite at the top, but high enough that their view of the city and lake stretching out from it aren’t obstructed.
Patrick plops down next to Pete on the escape platform, their feet dangling into the dozens of feet nothingness below them. He leans his head on Pete’s shoulder, and Pete leans his head on top of Patrick’s.
“You know I have class in like two hours,” Patrick says.
Pete turns to press his nose into Patrick’s hair. “Skip. Just this once.”
Patrick feels him grin, and laughs quietly. “Okay. Just this once.”
“One of the best things about Chicago is we’re on the west side of the lake,” Pete says.
When the sun rises, Patrick sees what he means.
“Why’d you bring me here?” he asks, after what seems like hours, when there are barely any traces of night left in the sky. Pete is still warm against his side, and he’s still sleepy, but he doesn’t want to close his eyes and miss anything.
“Because,” Pete says. He shifts a little, hands curling around the metal of the fire escape. “It makes me feel alive, I guess. And you make me feel alive, so, I thought you’d like it? And you said I owed you one, so.”
“Oh,” says Patrick, and looks down at their swinging feet and the miles of nothing between their soles and the ground. He grins, his cheeks warm in a way that has nothing to do with embarrassment. “I’m not sure if that’s an even trade.”
“I’ll still give you a blowjob later if you want-” Pete starts quickly, but Patrick laughs, waving a dismissive hand.
“I meant the other way around, stupid,” he says.
“Oh,” says Pete. “Oh, okay,” he says, and grins ridiculously, knocking one dangling foot against Patrick’s.
“But if you really want to give me a blowjob, I won’t argue,” Patrick says. “Just, you know. Later.”
“I- good plan,” Pete says. “Blowjobs later. But I can still kiss you now, right?”
Patrick grins. “Definitely.”
the end